Qdo(n't)ba

Singular reader, I believe you are well versed on my little Chipotle problem. Not having one within lunching radius, I resort to Qdoba, whose similar burrito stylings I sampled today. The verdict in question form:

Would it kill you to keep an eye on the rice? Every single bite was a soggy and mushy mess. I could swear that it was minute rice, and if I paid a bum $5 to dig through the trash at the end of the day, I wouldn't be surprised if there was a surfeit of empty red boxes intermingled with the avocado skins.

The pork? An arid desert of flavorless flesh. It's doubtful that a grain of salt even made it on the loin.

The salsa? The corn offering's corn component was undercooked, and the spicy offering tasted more like ketchup.

Three strikes, Qdoba, and you're out (but I will likely go there again tomorrow to try out the chicken burrito and cross my fingers that the rice won't be a disaster). Buen Provecho.

Flipping the Script

This is freakin' amazing. I wish Nebraska was a little bit closer.

Dinner in Hell

Google "Rachael Ray is the devil" and you'll come up with pages upon pages of results. Sadly, I couldn't find the original article I was looking for; it had a wonderfully childish picture of Ms. Ray adorned with a goatee, two slits for eyes, and horns (my favorite likeness of the Prince(ss) of darkness). Getting to the point, which is not "Satan lives among us," rather, it's that I bought my wife a subscription to Everyday with Rachael Ray, and I was pleasantly surprised with one of the recipes, the Pita Salad. Don't hate the player, hate the game.

Channeling Alice Waters, the recipe calls for local produce that's available at the end of the summer, tossed with a light dressing of lemon juice, garlic, and olive oil (or EVOO in devilspeak). An added dimension of crunch comes from pita bread that has been baked in the oven for 10 minutes. It's the perfect meal for when you go play squash before the grocery store, then spend too much time at the grocery store because the grocery store's changing from a SuperFresh to a PathMark and you can't find anything, then get in a nonsensical fight that lasts longer than it should, and finally you arrive at dinner way past 9pm. On a weeknight. Buen Provecho (or Yum-O! in devilspeak).

Pita Salad for 2:
1/2 head of romaine lettuce
1/2 red pepper
2 tomatoes
1 cucumber
2 pitas, cut into eighths
Juice of one lemon
1/4 cup olive oil
Small garlic clove, minced
Salt and pepper to taste

Bake the pita in a 350 degree oven for 10 minutes. Whisk the lemon juice, olive oil, and garlic in a big bowl. Chop all the vegetables and toss with dressing. Add pita and toss again. The recipe also called for fresh mint and fresh parsley, but we skipped both because our grocery store's herb selection sucks.

Aqua Fit and LA Fitness Rant

I have nobody to blame but myself for not checking the class schedule, but would it really be that difficult to keep at least one swim lane open during water aerobics? Furthermore, this no towel service thing is a flippin' joke. How can you have a pool and no towel service? It's like starting a fire knowing that there's no water around to put it out. And finally, I understand that demographics require the location to be in a strip mall, but please do not go on and on about making a commitment to fitness and then park yourselves a hundred feet from imminent and slow death by processed foods. LA Fitness, you get a C-. Barely.

How I Spent Last Weekend

Perusing the pits of this year's Red Bull Soap Box Race in Manayunk, I'm kicking myself for my general lack of initiative. On the other hand, spectating from a covered porch doesn't suck too much. I'm nearing the end of my ability to drink for 14 hours straight and then function in the days following, but much like Brett Favre, it's hard to give up the things you love, no matter how much abuse you may have to endure.

Some of the takeaways/highlights:

1. Philadelphians don't fuck around. Even in the midst of a hurricane, the event was chock full of blue collar/white collar/popped collar spectators, most likely in attendance for any potential carnage.

2. If you're bringing beer in your cargo pockets, make sure your shorts have a belt.

3. Emergency rain ponchos are pretty freakin' sweet.

4. My wife is an amazing beer pong player.

5. I'm pretty sure I agreed to an ultimate frisbee league. If you see me on the street, you're totally allowed to punch me.

6. The tie that binds is always John Cusack films. Better Off Dead is my personal favorite.

7. If indeed you decide to make the commitment to a 14 hour drinking day, be sure to end it with a cheesesteak and cheese fries, and if you can't balance on your own, don't be a hero and try to put others to bed.

Wearing Dockers...And Loving Every Minute of It

Flat front and olive in color, everything's coming up Fidel with my new pair of Dockers. Boy, I really need to find myself someplace to eat.

The Aftermath

Instead of eating vegetable soup and maintaining a raw diet, I've gone the way of the kid with the crusty moustaches on the Wendy's commercial and made the personal choice to become a meatatarian. To be more exact, I went on a mild food and liquor marathon, stopping only to refill my plate and/or glass with very bad food (bad in the sense that any cleansing that may have happened is now null and void). Presently, I'm tapering off, but it was hard to say no to the enormous chafing dish filled with corned beef hash this fine morning.

(I promise to get back to better reviews, dear reader. I apologize for this drivel. Stay tuned for something much more interesting than the breakfast buffet at the Rochester Courtyard by Mariott and their offering of made-to-order eggs)

Back to Zero

So I bailed early. Twelve hours early, to be exact, but only because this weekend is Labor Day, which means I'll be called back to the grill to prepare an assortment of perfectly seasoned and seared animal flesh. I want to have enough time to prepare my intestines for the binge that will likely ensue. And what was it like to have something other than sweet lemon on my tastebuds? In a word: glorious. Variety is truly the spice of life. And eating. I also snuck a few bites of the vegetable soup I'll be eating today (and that of which I presently reek).

At the end of it all, I feel amazing, and the added bonus is that I lost 20lbs, so I can put the elastic pants back in the closet. If you can shut the world off AND you can make food your enemy for 10 days, I highly recommend taking the plunge. When you're done, pat yourself on your newly flat tummy and smile. Buen Provecho.

Vegetable Soup Recipe:
1 bunch kale, roughly chopped
2 potatoes, quartered
3 carrots, diced
3 ribs celery, diced
1 medium onion, diced
1 long hot pepper, or any hot pepper, sliced
Salt, pepper, and garlic powder to taste

Sweat the onions, carrots, and celery in olive oil until onions are translucent, about 3 mins. Add the rest of your vegetables and spices, bring to a boil, then cover and simmer the fuck out of it (an hour or so).

Resolve

Take note: traveling and cleansing do not play nice in the sandbox. Yet another test of wills yesterday as I got stuck in the conference room seat directly in front of the bagels, and subsequently, the sandwiches. But today is the last day of this torture. I'm a little disappointed at the amount of weight loss, but I think that's more a function of the fact that I became such a fat shit. Alas, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, right?

Mental status: I'm no longer crazy, but I am a little angry
Tummy status: Ready to eat buffalo wings, tomato pie, cheesesteak, pizza, chicken parm, soup dumplings, and pork fried rice all in one sitting (and wash it down with an assortment of beers, including Miller Lite).
Energy level: Still way up, although it was tough getting out of bed this morning.

Tomorrow I drink orange juice and eat vegetable soup. I'm accelerating the reintroduction of food (which could be bad), but I'm flippin' starving. See you on the other side. Buen provecho.

Numb

Like the frostbitten mountaineers less than one hundred feet from the peak of Everest, I have become devoid of feeling. And poop. The morning hums along and I am literally empty. Last night I played squash for the first time in three months. I was surprised that I didn't pass out from lack of food. I was not surprised that I flailed about the court and generally sucked the big one. No ball control, poor T management, flat feet. It was all wrong. Luckily the new club has no court fees and is seemingly uncrowded (6 courts and 138 members), so I can catch up on much needed practice. Getting back to the cleanse, I'm starting to wonder what will happen in it's wake. Will I submerge myself in a grease-laden sea of fast food? Or will I follow Mr. Burroughs' hippie ass advice and only eat raw? I wish I could subscribe to the Marc McGehan diet: rice and beans and more rice. One thing is for sure. I'm definitely going to get shitfaced. Buen provecho.

Six Down, Four to Go

This weekend was a severe test of wills as I watched my brother-in-law Wii bowl a 300 and had to pass on the congratulatory round of shots. I also had to pass on a pile of grilled burgers, charred hot dogs, red potato salad, soft pretzels with cheese sauce, and about fifty Miller Lites. It was my own personal vision quest, and leaving the party left me with a new resolve to ride this thing out. It also left me really fucking bitter and hungry. But we're getting ever closer to that steamy bowl of vegetable soup, and I feel better than I've felt in a long time. It's good to clean yourself out every now and again, if for nothing else than to reunite with your beloved foodstuffs at the end of your journey.

(You may note that I'm going completely crazy. I could have sworn I was hallucinating the other day. I've had the mouth of a sailor. And I'm even enjoying the musical stylings of Li'l Wayne. God help me)

Road Show

I'm not hungry at all. That's a goddamned lie. There's a bowl of M&Ms sitting on the receptionist's desk less than 12 feet away from me. I'm ready to give it all up for a couple of chocolatey crunches. Seriously. I think this is my first test of willpower, and it's getting mucked up by the fact that I'm back in NYC and I've already thrown back the quart of juice I brought along and I'm 7 hours away from another sip of sweet, sweet lemonade. This must be how bees feel on their way to the flowers, feverishly flapping their ricepaper wings in order to keep their stripey fat asses aloft. That makes no sense at all. Oh well, forget it. I'm going to drink some water and hope that Jesus will give me strength enough to make it through the rest of the workday. Buen Provecho.

Sleepwalking

The evening tea requirement is starting to interfere with my slumber. I was once again jarred from sleep to take care of business, which now resembles boogers. Clearly (no pun), there's little left on my insides. I'm starting to battle hunger, be it the commuter with a sack of McDonald's on the way home, or just the morning walk from the train through a food court, where the smell of bagels braids itself with my nose hairs. In a couple days time, they say the hunger's supposed to subside. I can see it getting worse, especially as we go into the weekend, when drinking all day is not only acceptable but also encouraged (I encourage myself to drink during the day and I find it acceptable). I've a few days to mentally prepare for the temptation, but until then, I raise my glass of lemonade to all you eaters and readers. Buen provecho.

Yellow is the New Brown

I honestly thought that I would be chugging this "lemonade," since it's the only thing I can consume other than water (and Philly water, if you've ever had it, has the faint flavor of cigarette butts), but after a hair past 24 hours, my teeth are starting to hurt. I think I'll have to up the brushing to more than a few times a week.

Moving along to other fun changes my body is going through, the other end is now dispensing liquids instead of solids, although a few did sneak out a 4am this morning as a result of the herbal tea I drank before bed. Surprisingly, there hasn't been much action aside from each morning's "internal bath." The upshot is that I get to catch up on some reading.

No major hunger to speak of, but we're early on. Plus, I'm pretty sure I ate enough to hibernate for most of the winter, so my reserves are pretty full.

Stay tuned for more updates, and enjoy your food, because I can't.

What Goes Up Must Come Down

Today (actually last night) is the beginning of my first foray into the world of "cleansing." Yes, I talked heaps and piles of doggy doo when a friend of my wife went through with it. I couldn't possibly understand why someone other than those shitheads in Hollywood would put themselves through such torture. And then hearing that it was a way to purify the body, well then you might as well blast some Yanni and kick your own ass. Almost a year later, I'm eating my words instead of eating food, and every now and again taking an internal bath (use your imagination), so as to purify my own body. My gustatory excesses over the last few months have left me 20 pounds heavier and quite unhappy with my overall health. So for the next ten days, like it or not dear 2 readers, I'm going to wear out my backside and give you all the clinical details in the most creative way possible. That way we can all hopefully return to the happier days of enjoying the food instead of just cramming it in my piehole and then being pissed off that I ate so much. Wish me luck.

Sapporo Me Another One

The continuation of the caloric onslaught that marks my final days in NYC led me to Go last night, normally a late night beer fueled glutton fest, but this time for dinner a little earlier on. After multiple beers with an old boss and a gallery opening curated by a professional sailor, what better way to end the night than with a plate of octopus balls and dynamite yaki (okonomiyaki with kimchi), and of course some more goddamn beers? Here's what I've learned after multiple visits, including this, the final one:

1. The sushi here sucks, so don't get it. You're better off eating poison straight from the box. In fact, you should only order from the laminated menu with the grill specials. That means octopus balls, any of the pancake options, and fish sausage stuffed with cheese.

2. They're only open at night, but they're open late. I would say that the later you go, the better the food tastes.

3. Drowning whatever's in front of you in mayonnaise is always a good (delicious) idea.

4. The service is pretty crappy, but I probably wouldn't give a shit either if I was serving some drunk round-eye.

5. I'm hung over.

Buen Provecho.

Bookends

As my Brooklyn days dwindle, I am ever eager to cram as much food in my mouth from as many locations as possible. Hovering in between nostalgia and consistency, my lovely wife and I decided on a final meal at Joya, which was actually the first place I dined upon landing in Cobble Hill. Remember that you are Joya, and to Joya you shall return.

The place is an all-around slam dunk. You get cheap ass food, local artwork, the owner's in a band, minimalist decor, and an 8 out of 10 on the service scale. If it weren't for the crowds, we'd probably eat there more often. Unfortunately, last night's food missed the mark. Maybe that's too much of a blanket statement. It was the Pad Thai (white man's Thai) and the warm beer that put the rest of what was on the table in vertigo. There was way too much plum sauce, giving the dish an unbearable sweetness that lingered far too long in your mouth, and the noodles themselves had the rubbery consistency of poorly cooked calamari. Aside from this unfortunate mishap (really the centerpiece of our meal), the rest was delicious, although the whole fish I ordered was filleted such that I spent a lot of time deboning. Moving on to dessert (which put me over the edge and made me want to deliver a food baby), we opted for the fried banana. Take a note, readers, skip the appetizer to save room for this masterpiece. It's a banana spring roll surrounded by neapolitan ice cream. The fried wrapper adds a savory note to the pile of cream and sugar, and it's a perfect ending to what is usually a perfect meal.

Overall, one hell of a goodbye meal. And for $50 all in, including booze, it's still the best value in Cobble Hill when it comes to Thai food. As a pair of bookends, I bid you adieu, Joya. I hope our paths can cross again, and soon. Buen Provecho.

What Do You Want on Yer Tombstone?

Readers (all two of you):

As you may know, I will be relocating to Philadelphia shortly (less than a week to be exact). While I certainly look forward to everything that Stephen Starr has to offer, including his Atlantic City offering of French Onion Soup Dumplings, I leave New York City with a heavy heart. I have started what I hope to be a long string of suggestions for a final meal over on Serious Eats. Nothing's too outlandish, but try and stay within the constraints. Buen Provecho.

Nobody Reads This Anyway

But I'm sorry for the literary lag here. Special updates of note to whet your appetite (for desctruction):

Five Guys still has the best burger. Goodburger (home of the goodburger) has the right idea, but next time I'll refrain from getting "The Works." Ketchup, mustard, and mayo on the same sandwich is like the suicide fountain soda (all the sodas available). It only sounds like a good idea.

I took my wife to Saul for her birthday. Holy shit was it good. The tagliatelle first course had everything I would never think to ask for in a pasta dish: bacon, poached egg, and a silky broth that tasted like a meat smoothie (that's a good thing). Follow that up with sweetbreads atop an Indian-inspired pile of potatoes and pickled cauliflower, a pale ale pairing, and you've got the best meal on Smith Street (sorry, The Grocery).

I've spent the last two weeks eating more than 3,000 calories per day. It's very hard to sustain that much sustenance.

There was a pig roast at 3rd Ward on July 20th. I didn't go.

That's all for a week or so. Buen Provecho.

Oh Shit

Dear Tom Mylan,
Please forgive me and my inability to cook pork. I feel as though it should be me engulfed in flames and not these spare ribs, not these chops.



Again, terribly sorry for thinking I actually knew what I was doing. Buen Provecho.

Kind Regards,
Fidel

Not Roger. Not even close.

Dear Stand-in for Roger the Bartender at Camp,
I understand that every now and again you have to have a cigarette. Smoking is cool. But if it's 6:55 and the 2-for-1 happy hour special ends at 7, you should not hang out post-smoke until 7:15 and screw my darling wife and I out of a free brew doggie. Furthermore, we sat patiently while you bullshitted with a dude that by most people's standards would be considered a douchebag. That in and of itself should qualify us for one on the house. You can have the tip money, but the next time you're behind the bar, we'll keep walking.

Regards,
Mr. and Mrs. Gastro

Looks Like Funny Man

Yo, this dude looks like Andy Samberg. I hate Andy Samberg. Buen provecho.

The Other White Meat

"You know all those assholes that don't get out of the way when you're trying to get on the subway? And all those crowds on the street? And the fucking UPS guy? Every last one of them used to cure meat. It's just how it used to be done."

Or something like that. Tom Mylan is a genius, a history buff, and a goddamned good butcher. By day, the carving artist is behind the scenes at Marlow & Sons, Diner, and Bonita. In the evening, he's a moonlighting educator at The Brooklyn Kitchen, where you can witness the miracle of turning a whole hog (actually a side) into chops, belly, jowls, loin, and yet even more cuts that I am unfortunately ignorant about.



The whole process takes a little under two hours, beginning with an espresso, and finishing with sauteed pork kidney. Along the way, you learn about each cut of meat, the best way to cook it, and trade secrets that you may or may not have read in The Omnivore's Dilemma (I'm certain that all 10 of us in attendance gave it a recent read). For instance, I learned that there's only two hanger steaks to a cow, meaning that if you and your date both get steak frites at your local bistro, you might as well eat the whole cow. Food for thought indeed. It's not only a lesson in butchery, but also sustainability.



What I love about the grassroots approach of programs like this is that the people running the show love what they do, and want nothing more than to share that joy with the masses. It sounds corny, but it's true. I felt like an amateur throughout the process, but in the end I was given all the tips I needed to make sure that the 8 pounds of pork that I walked away with (triple cut chops, belly, and ribs) were put to good use. Buen Provecho.

Dispatch from Philadelphia

Does a cheesesteak taste better when it's prepared in a stainless steel cart by an old man with a glass eye (at this point you should also ask yourself if a bear does you know what where)? Of course it does. But it's not the glass eye that improves the taste. It's actually the care with which the sandwich is prepared and the smiling service. It also helps to be in Philadelphia, where the bread is nothing short of a miracle, and the meat is grilled on a surface that has seen thousands of pounds of meat. Buen provecho.

Try Again Beca

Dear Nancy Whiskey Pub,
Why must you tarnish your perfectly cooked chicken wings with jarbecue sauce (barbecue sauce from a jar)? Please advise.

Regards,
Fidel

Sometimes You Can't Depend on the Kindness of Strangers

Dear New Bartender at Lobo,

Quite frankly, you suck. Please don't quit your day job. Although after last night's performance, I doubt you could be good at anything. In what I consider to be a free country, why are we not allowed to have a $5 happy hour margarita at the bar and then sit at a table for dinner? We would have even been generous with the tippage. Instead, you get zero, which is what you deserved after being such a jerk, and to add insult to injury, your margarita skills are worse than Mr. and Mrs. T. Thank goodness the rest of the staff is consistently stellar. As for you, I hope your days at Lobo are numbered.

Regards,
Fidel

Iced Crappy

Dear Au Bon Pain in Metrotech Center,

Your iced coffee tastes like dirty water. I was dangerously close to vomiting after a single sip. I would think it wise to cease and desist your miserable iced coffee operation and stick to asiago cheese bagels.

Regards,
Fidel

Tailgating

If burgers and budweisers aren't your thing for pre-game eats, Jackson Diner offers a great alternative right off the 7 train. Don't let the name fool you, the cuisine is Indian, and it's worth leaving a bit early to make a pit stop before Shea (although I did find it to be overpriced).

Located in a strip mall that offers everything from cell phones to Saris, Jackson Diner's sprawling dining room seems better fit for a monsoon wedding than a tailgate, but the Taj Mahal beer offers common ground, and even though there were no blue mountains on the label, the beer was just as crisp and refreshing as its rocky mountain alternative. After a few bottles to numb the tongue, start with samosas (classic) and paneer pakora (possibly classic, but nothing I've seen on Indian menus), and don't be shy with the green and brown sauce. The appetizers offer even more common ground due to the fact that they are deep fried. I imagine if we were tailgating at a cricket match, samosas and pakoras would be the snack of choice.

After a few piquant potato pockets and chewy cheese chunks, we ordered lamb korma, malai kofta, and chicken tikka makhanwala. To soak up the extra sauce, we ordered a couple of naan that were graciously divided for us to share (note: the garlic naan sucks unless you are in the vampire business). As much of a meat eater as I am, the clear winner of the three was the malai kofta, but I would have to say that it was all in the sauce. It had the appropriate amount of heat and it didn't stick with you, which allowed me to actually taste the other two dishes instead of giving me a numb tongue and a mouthful of spices that are supposedly exotic (even though I can get them at Met Food across the street). The korma and the tikka makhanwala (which I secretly hoped to be tikka masala with a different name) were both delicious, but definitely not life changing, and the portions were a little off. We had a ton of sauce left over once we finished the naan and the rice.

Overall, in Queens, each of these dishes were much spicier than any Manhattan counterpart, even in curry hill or curry row (although most of those places suck just as much as Jackson Diner's garlic naan). This could create issues once you're at the game, especially since the last place you want to be sitting is a wet seat smeared with muddy air force one footprints in the upper mezzanine toilet. If your stomach was not made for spicy food (i.e. you're a white boy), maybe stick to tailgating. Buen provecho.

Chain Gang

Five Guys is currently at the top of my "Holy Shit That's a Great Burger" list. My recent visit more than makes up for the Burger King idiocy of a couple weeks ago. That's all for today. Buen Provecho.

Memorial Day Highlights

Turns out that it's real easy to grill on my roof. Shame on me for waiting three years to test the theory, especially since it was a piece of cake. The grill came from the Rite-Aid on the first floor, a steal at $7.99. At first glance, it was a true piece of shit, but it wound up making a mean burger and breast of chicken. Added bonus: Even with the wind doing its worst, I didn't set the roof on fire.

Craic That Whip

Wednesday night's guest bartending event taught me two things:

1. Irish folk are wicked philanthopic.

2. I have no friends.

Let this post serve as a "thanks a million" to the proprietors of Ceol Pub on Smith St. in Cobble Hill as well as a "thanks for nothing" to the jerks that didn't show up. You know who you are.

Misteak

If I took this picture, crumpled it up, and then stepped on it, it might resemble what I just ate. Regrettably, I took the subway two stops to the Chinatown outpost of Burger King, and ordered the Steakhouse burger. Now let us deconstruct it from top to bottom:

Bun: Off to a good start. Not smashed into the rest of the sandwich.

Mayo: The usual BK four tablespoons, but enough bun and lettuce to hold it together.

Lettuce: A few shavings, probably a 2 on the 1 to 5 scale.

Tomato: Two small slices. I guess the roma tomatoes were cheaper today.

Breaded and Fried Onions: A soggy mess. Too close to the A1 sauce.

A1 Sauce: A watered down version of the original. Tasted more like sweet and sour sauce.

Cheese: Winner in the "Ingredient That Tastes Most Like What it Should Taste Like" category.

Patty: One and a half times the size of the bun, but thin and dry with leathery edges.

Overall: Fidel, you're a dumbass for thinking this would taste any better because the commercials are funny. Buen provecho.

Timing is Everything

Dear Acne-Riddled Girl that Lives in Our Building,

No matter how much of a hurry you are in to reapply Proactiv solution to your already destroyed face, please refrain from taking our wet laundry from the washer and putting it on top of the dusty dryers. Or, better yet, please readjust your laundry schedule so as to not coincide with ours, because if this continues, there will be two hits: my wife hitting you, and you hitting the filth that we are forced to call a laundry room floor.

Warm Regards,
Mr. and Mrs. Fidel Gastro

Wag, You

Dear Kobe Bryant,

Please kill yourself. I'm sorry, that's too harsh. Please do all you can to get a season ending injury.

Regards,
Fidel

Becha Me Mucho

This is Rachel:





This is Rachel's lasagna:




Pictured above is my second helping. Sausage, bechamel, and homemade sauce worthy of a New York mafioso. And after the second helping, while the rest of the party played "Drink Fifty Tequila Shots in an Hour," I silently peeled back layer after layer of pasta, eating them like savory fruit roll ups. And when the sauce and sausage emerged, I picked out the little chunks of spiced ground pork and popped them like whoppers. I think there's no better compliment to the chef than sneaking more of the main course when you're not supposed to. In fact, I think that even after the lasagna made it into the fridge, I was still picking at it. I hope that nobody was counting on leftovers. Buen provecho.

The State of Stadium Food

Recent developments in my career have allowed me the luxury of attending live sporting events, and I have made the following observations:

1. The closer you are to the field/glass/court, the better the access to chicken fingers. In fact, at field/glass/court level, you can even get sushi. However, my wife is the only person allowed to order sushi without being subject to endless ridicule and dirty looks. Time and place, people, time and place.

2. When other people pay for it, the beer tastes better. But no matter how delicious it may be, it's never a good idea to order 12 beers on someone else's tab, especially if you don't have the aisle seat.

3. This has nothing to do with food, but it should be noted that sporting events are no place for kids, unless your kids are allowed to drop the f-bomb at home and pick fights with people who wear the wrong jersey.

Buen Provecho.

Bad Beer, Worse Food

Dear The Heartland Brewery on 51st and 6th

Boo and double Boo. Your light beer offering tasted like orange juice from concentrate that you get in the tiny cans on the airplane, and your cobb salad had no taste, even with such pungent ingedients like blue cheese. The chicken was definitely chicken flavored meat product, and the boiled eggs were definitely from a jar. Also, guacamole is for chips. Avocados are for cobb salads. If you don't know the difference between guacamole and a plain avocado, please go f**k yourself.

Kind Regards,
Fidel

Nachos Muchacho

Please be advised that Pete's Ale House in Brooklyn has the greatest nachos in the world. You get a perfect balance of cheese, chili, and chips, all of which are made even better when you get a jalapeno thrown in the mix. Pair it with a beer from their extensive draught selection (I recommend the Liberty Ale) and you've got the perfect accompaniment to the Mets-Phillies game, or the angry lady throwing menus across the dining room. Buen Provecho.

French Food Hates Americans

Dear Provence en Boite,
Thank you very much for running out of cassoulet. The steak frites replacement was a real shit show. The cut of meat was way too big and way too greasy. Maybe it's my own fault for already having beef in the form of a pork roll burger for lunch. Regardless, I was disappointed. Furthermore, your service was a big pile of poo. I don't speak French, but I'm pretty sure "Could we get some water?" doesn't translate to "Please ignore us and our entrees presently drying under the heat lamp."

Regards,
Fidel

Roast Beef and Raffles

3rd Annual Claire Finley Memorial Beef and Beer

Warminster, PA

All you Can Eat and Drink: $30

The idea of a fundraiser centered around food is by no means a novelty. There's the pasta dinner, the bake sale, even the occasional young thug on the subway selling Snickers. If I were any sort of food philosopher, I would launch into food being the stuff of community, but I'm more of a glutton and a people watcher. If you're a like-minded individual, you ought to check out Philadelphia's version of last month's Beefsteak Dinner, the Beef and Beer, another tour de force of heavy eating and drinking, but this time with raffles and a disc jockey.

In lieu of butter soaked tenderloin on toast, the Beef and Beer offers chafing dish after chafing dish of slow roasted beef, fresh horseradish, baked ziti (aka "zeets"), and two kinds of potato salad, German, and the kind swimming in mayonnaise. And instead of helping yourself to Bud Light cans in strategically placed coolers, the Beef and Beer offers endless pitchers of Miller Lite, the best light beer ever created.

Once the belly's full (usually two to three plates piled high), one can attempt to burn calories by taking a stroll through the aisles created by the raffle baskets. Or, if the beer's doing what it's supposed to do, one can head straight to the dance floor. After a few songs, a giant candy bar shows up in the hands of the guy running the show (Gene Finely, brother of Claire, a real freakin' awesome dude), and the dance contest begins. Some dude took his shirt off, but it was the Asian breakdancer that walked away with the 5 lb. chocolate monstrosity after a flawlessly executed windmill.

And the evening rolls along. Line dancing, more beer, and finally, the basket raffles. Another year, another beef and beer. Thanks to my mother-in-law, not only did I get to stuff my face, but I was also blessed with having a designated driver. Much more than the raffles, the sense of community one observes at these events has to be the most rewarding take-away, and I hope I'm around next year and the year after that to be a part of it. Buen Provecho.

The Cure

I love The Cease for being from the Midwest. I love his penchant for hard to injure quarterbacks and the irony of his lactardedness as a Wisconsinite. But his most redeeming quality has to be his ability to find an obscure foodstuff in an all too common location. The foodstuff of note this time around being the buzz meat La Quercia, a domestic porker available to purveyors only as a whole hog. Making local prosciutto has to significantly reduce the cured meat's carbon footprint, which is a grand thing for mother earth, but I was upset to see such a huge markup in Manhattan, where the premium (at Otto, natch) was double what I paid at The Jake Walk in Carroll Gardens ($5 for a single there as opposed to $10 in the big city). Granted, the fuel consumed by a refrigerated meat truck idling on 8th Street and 5th Avenue at 5am on a Tuesday might beg the premium, but I would rather Mr. Batali work it into the price of his myriad Italian wines, or any other combination of his non-local ingredients kicked out of the earthy boot that is his Disneyworld. I'm all for paying the premium associated with consuming local foods, but if your entire menu is FOB Italian, you should probably forgo the opportunity to serve domestic prosciutto, especially if you're going to charge and arm and leg (and a shank) for it. Let somebody else benefit from that gimmick. Buen provecho.

You Broke My Heart (Sort of)

Dear Fette Sau,
I am fully disappointed in your latest brisket offering. It was all fat and no lean. Jack Sprat would have died on the spot. Thankfully, your baked beans and pulled pork are the best in NYC (leaps and bounds beyond Hill Country's), and they're even better with a gallon of Liquid Gold. It's fully worth reeking of campfire in the subsequent days after visting. But seriously, you should really do something about that brisket.

Regards,
Fidel

Smoke, Mirrors, and Lots of Herring

I've always been interested (and disappointed) in the lapse between the appetizing graphics on a box of processed meals and the actual food inside. Alas, I am way too lazy for this much documentation. Thankfully, Germans are hyper efficient and this guy Ryan has a lot of time on his hands. Buen provecho.

Good Friday

What's so good about it? Certainly not throwing rotten food at people carrying their crucifixion crosses up the hill, although it is pretty easy to get caught up in the mob mentality. And if you're the guy that has to carry the cross? Sheesh.

On the other hand, if you adhere to the no meat during Lent policy, the one I made mention of in an earlier post, you have a great excuse to eat fish and chips. Unfortunately, the best fish and chips are all the way over in Galway, so I'll probably just have a turkey club. Buen Provecho.

This is the Place

A few notes about Salt Lake City, UT:

1. Holy crap is it easy to get to the slopes. Half an hour door-to-door, no crowds once you're up there, and the cushiest snow imaginable. If you're extreme like me, this is a plus.

2. Holy crap does the beer taste like carbonated water. Ever ordered a coke and it came out clear and tasted just like club soda? Kind of like that, except you feel extra bloated and you can't send it back because that's what it's supposed to taste like. One can only depend on brewer buddy Adam Curfew for quality suds. If you're planning a trip, let me know and I'll make sure he gets you sorted out.

3. There are a whole host of Mexican fast foot joints that kill it: Alberto's, Beto's, Los Betos, Molcasalsa. All open 24 hours a day, so if you've got the drunk munchies and are willing to risk the DUI, the burritos are unbelievable, plentiful, and cheap.

Basically, it's the best place to snowboard, but the worst place to drink.

1,900 Calories of Faith

1. I just ate 1.5 meat laden burritos (no joke), absent-mindedly forgetting about my plans to wear leather pants this evening (joke).

2. The whole thing about no meat on Fridays during Lent came about because the clergy was in cahoots with the fishermen (and not because God is made of meat), so I have no remorse about eating sausage, roast pork, and chicken today.

Buen Provecho.

Paper Covers Rock, Vinny's Beats Carmine's

My darling wife and I were out on the town last night for a Broadway show (thanks again, sweetheart). With its close proximity to the great white way and its "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" consistency, we decided upon the classic one-two punch of Carmine's caesar salad and penne alla vodka with chicken, and while we were not disappointed in the least, we both agreed that Vinny's rendition of the same pasta dish kicks the crap out of Carmine's. Buen provecho.

Blue Collar Bliss

BFTC Annual Beefsteak Dinner
Bergenfield, NJ
All You Can Eat and Drink (and the zipcar): $55

Fellow meathead The Cease does a wonderful job of covering this glorious occasion on To Beet or Not to Beet. Below are some more photos. If you go, don't eat the bread. Also, Leo Chase is a fraud. An hilarious fraud, but a fraud nonetheless. Buen provecho.

Conlon Hall. I bet there's been some mean CYO games played here.

The Cease pre-beef

Some guy claimed that he ate 42 slices of beef. I think I managed half of that. The plates will keep coming if you let them.

James H multi-tasking

Che G. Pre-Hypnosis

The Cease post-beef (note the bread pile)

BK Value Menu

Dear Burger King on 34th St. and 8th Ave,

Thank you for regularly changing out your grease. The cheesy tots were a hair shy of perfection, and the only thing keeping them from such elevated status was my guilt for eating deep fried macaroni and cheese.

Thank you also for the freshly prepared Whopper Jr. I really did get to have it my way.

Regards,
Fidel

P.S. The reggaeton background music was also a nice touch.

Spinning in Memphis

Dear NYSC Spin Class Instructor,

The song "Walking in Memphis" sucks. I don't mind the techno, but Marc Cohn? Please save it for your drive home in your Ford Escort.

Regards,
Fidel

Get the Door

Actually, you've got to pick it up, but for the next hour and a half, you can get a one topping Domino's pizza for $3.99 at the Domino's on Smith and Bergen. I picked up two. Buen Provecho

Its go time!!

Stay tuned for my own harrowing tale of gastronomic importunitiousness (see post below) as I attempt to make a purportedly simple cassoulet to curry the favor of my Valentine.

Already a day late, will Che also be a dollar short???

Stay tuned.

ps- Importunitiousness isn't a word. I made it up.

Home is Where the Heart Is

I have to agree with the rest of the food bloggers that spending 2/14 at a restaurant is best left to those who need help in the romance department. I prefer to spend it without pants and in the kitchen. For me, love is best expressed with food, and not by a silk rose purchased at a gas station counter.

The menu:

Spicy tuna hand roll

Miso Glazed Sea Bass

Flourless chocolate cake

Wine pairing: Domaine Michel Cheveau 2006

With limited time to get home from work, get the supplies, and get cooking, I went ahead and let Hana make the hand rolls (for a little cliche factor, you can arrange the hand rolls on a plate to make a heart shape), and I let Provence en Boite make the flourless chocolate cake.

The bass itself was a breeze. The glaze is a combination of light yellow miso, soy sauce, mirin, and sake. Coat the fish, chill it for an hour, then broil it for 6-8 minutes. I served this on top of yukon gold potatoes whipped with butter and greek yogurt. Finally, I added some color to the dish with a ring of seaweed salad and toasted sesame seeds. You have no idea, but if you want to come over for dinner, I'll gladly make it again.

The end result? A very happy valentine. We got to eat her favorite things from start to finish, and everything I needed for the meal was within a 5 block radius. The sea bass came from Fish Tales, where the fishmonger was happy to place a special order for me. The wine and sake came from Smith & Vine, and the Beaujolais pairing was spot on. And as mentioned above, two local restaurants were also happy to lend a hand. Sometimes, it takes a village. Buen provecho.

Extra Value Meal

Dear McDonald's on 34th and 7th,

Your grease is also dirty (see Wendy's post from 2/7). Your snack wraps are a soggy mess of ranch dressing. Where is the quality control? I'm not lovin' it.

Regards,
Fidel

La Nueva Conquista

There’s a magical place in my neighborhood called La Nueva Conquista. The awning out front states that it is “Spanish/American Food Domincan Style Cooking”. Here’s why its so amazing:

1. Its name is La Nueva Conquista.

2. There is no set menu, and everyday they have a new selection of dishes to choose from. They include more traditional dishes like chicken guisado, beef stew, and baked chicken, but they also have way crazier stuff like goat stew and pigs feet. And everything is served on a giant bed of beans and rice, with your choice of white/yellow or red/pinto, respectively. And, if you get there early enough, you can also get plantains.

3. They offer to put gravy on everything. Think about it. Putting gravy on your beef stew. Just think about it.

4. The dude that works there is wicked fat and has the craziest coke-nail I’ve ever seen. He’s really proud of it. You can tell.

5. They don’t really have set hours, but rather they close shop when they run out of food. This adds an extra level of excitement as you rush home at the end of the night.

6. Its super cheap. Each plate is only $7. You can’t even buy two tacos at La Esquina for $7. That’s the magic of low overhead.

On the downside, there’s very little space to sit and eat (hence the low overhead) and normally when I walk in there, the people (not the employees) look at me like I just walked into their living room and put my feet up on their coffee table. But the folks that work there are ultra-friendly and very accommodating.

Definitely check this place out if you’re in the neighborhood.

Gung Hei Fat Choi

Happy Chinese New Year! Today is probably not the best day to find yourself in Chinatown. No matter how bad the opium withdrawal, you risk losing an eye to gunpowder-laced confetti, or worse, finding yourself at the receiving end of a silly string attack. After mulling over the potential hazards, one finds that the singular pro outweighs the cons. There's nothing quite like the adrenaline rush of navigating the throngs of revelers in search of the culinary jewel that is the soup dumpling, except, of course, the soup dumpling itself.



The concentration of restaurants in Chinatown is such that one might think a soup dumpling is easy to come by. But a delicious soup dumpling? That's a little more difficult. My limited expertise in the field led me straight to New Green Bo on Bayard St. and east of Mott St. It was 15 minutes through the crowds to get there from the Canal St. stop on the 6 train, and once in the vestibule of the restaurant, I knew it would be an hour more. On to plan B, Shanghai Cafe on Mott St. north of Canal. Another crowd sidestep ballet and I was there. Since the parade was focused south of Canal, Shanghai Cafe had yet to be bombarded, and I was seated immediately. Moments later, the first of two orders of soup dumplings arrived, tiny blossoms taunting me in their bamboo sauna. I had to let them cool off, and after doing so, I employed the system of dumpling on spoon, hole in the dumpling, slurp the soup, and pop the remaining deliciousness in your mouth. And once you get the system down, it's hard to restrain yourself from going on a soup dumpling bender. The size and flavor of the soup dumpling tricks your mind into thinking you never have to stop. Thank goodness it's a lunch hour, and not a lunch afternoon. Buen Provecho.

Super Value Menu

Dear Wendy's on 34th and 8th,

Please clean your fryer grease. Your chicken nuggets and french fries have an acrid tinge, and the honey mustard dipping sauce does nothing to mask it.

Regards,
Fidel

Captain Beefheart

Now, I’m not exactly sure what a Head-to-Tail Dinner is, nor do I know who Chris Cosentino is, but one thing I do know is that when a man with frosted tips points a pig’s head at you, you do what he says.

Apparently this is an organized dinner in which they serve offals, which are basically organ meats and entrails. I love how people come up with ambiguous names for these parts of the animals so you think that maybe it’s something delicious. Like sweet breads. As in, “Would you like to try the sweet breads, sir?” and I’d be all like, “Sweet breads?? Sure. That sounds delicious. Is it anything like figgy pudding??”

But for anyone who is an adventurous eater, this sounds like a really interesting event. Especially if you’re as big a fan of candied cockscomb as I am.

LINK

La Esquina

La Esquina is amazing for as many reasons as it is terrible. On the up-side, its open 7 days a week from noon to 5 am. I'm not sure who needs tacos at 5 am on a Tuesday, but apparently somebody does. Now, I'll admit that sometimes that someone is me, and when it is, that someone is wasted. But they don't judge. No way. They'll serve tacos to just about anyone willing to pay three times what a taco should cost.

And there's the rub. Every time I go there, I have to spend just a little more than I wish I had to spend. Not a lot more, but enough to make me long for easier access to a Grilled-Stuffed burrito with a side of Cinnamon Twists. And they have a $15 minimum on credit cards, which is just dumb.

But perhaps the greatest thing about La Esquina is its most unlikely menu item... La Hamburguesa. As many people know, hamburgers have become a big thing in New York these days, which is why I'm so surprised that I've never seen the burger at La Esquina on anyone's list (Fidel just informed me that it did make it on the Chowhound's top 5). I probably never would have ordered it myself had it not been recommended to me by a very hungry man, but I'm glad he did. Here's what good about it:

1. It's grilled and it tastes grilled, like a something you'd cook in your backyard. Its the only hamburger I've had in the city that truly tastes like it was good on a charcoal grill. It has the grill marks and everything.

2. It not only has lettuce, tomato and onions, it also has avocado and some sort of special sauce. I guess this is how they justify calling it La Hamburguesa. I also add ketchup.

3. Its just the right size. Its not a freaky-huge burger like you get at Jackson Hole, or 22 feet tall like Dumont. Its not by any means small, but you won't need a bib to eat it.

But the best part is this- since you can only order take-out, the burger gets kind of banged-up, the way McDonald's burgers do. Sort of smushed and delicious. I'm not sure why that makes it so good, but it just does. And to that end, if you eat at the bistro next door (not the fancy spot downstairs), don't order La Hamburguesa. It's just not the same thing. I'm not sure how they manage to screw it up so bad, especially since I believe its the made in the same kitchen as the take-out counter, but stick with the tacos (and order a Michelada).

Spin Class

Comida. The good stuff is really bad for you. I try my best to exercise, especially since I can't resist the last buffalo wing on the plate (and the requisite bleu cheese dunk). Today was spin class. During one of the many climbs in the 45 minute workout, I noticed my calves in the mirror and thought to myself, "Man, how sweet would it be if I had a tasmanian devil tattoo on my calf?"

There's always tomorrow's lunch break for that. Buen Provecho.

Street Meat

Rafiqi's
9th and Broadway
Lunch, no soda: $5

The aroma that wafts from the corner of 9th and Broadway holds a special place in my heart, right next to pool exhaust. It's comforting and familiar, and it's the siren song Rafiqi's uses to get you in line for a box of meat and rice, salad, hot sauce-white sauce. The general consensus is that street meat will kill you. Your intestines will explode with the fury of a thousand Spartans, and afternoon productivity levels will reach new lows as you spend the rest of your day in your "other" office. Logically speaking, a street vendor is subject to much more scrutiny than that of a storefront, and it's difficult to conceal hygenic shortcomings in a 5' x 5' stainless steel box. In that respect, I trust it. On the other hand, how can you get a healthy portion of chicken, lamb-flavored meat product, and rice for less than five bucks?

The answer is not low overhead. The answer is cut-rate ingredients. The "lamb" is really pressed meat and spices. Texturally, Rafiqi's does the right thing with it. It's cut from the shawarma-tisserie and thrown on the grill until a crunchy shell forms. Nonetheless, it's simply cubes of halal spam. The chicken is just plain wrong. In the age of chicken breasts, I'm not used to eating fatty chicken. It has the consistency of undercooked chicken, and no matter how many spices you rub it with, the texture screams salmonella. The salad is soggy lettuce and one slice of tomato. The rice is overcooked. The sauces are nothing more than mayonnaise and sriracha, and you'll get at least a cup of each squirted all over your platter. Aside from the crispy "lamb," the dish was a major disappointment.

This is one outpost of many Rafiqi's. Quite possibly, the expansion of the operation has diminished the quality of the food. The testimonials printed all over their cart sing their praises, but I have to put them at the bottom of my list of halal food trucks. If you're near 9th and Broadway, spend the extra money and time and make your way over to Chickpea on 3rd Avenue and St. Mark's Place. Buen Provecho.

Restaurant Week Only Sucks a Little

If you know where to go, NYC's restaurant week can be quite pleasant. The McFancy spots owned by culinary keiretsus with serious buying power can afford to be more generous than the likes of the mom and pop joints. We caught a real bad one a couple years back at the '21' Club. The first course was a mixed green salad, the entree was your choice of trout or chicken, and dessert was creme brulee. I think they've stepped it up since, but even a revised menu doesn't help the inferiority complex you get from the captain's accusing eyes. At the other end of the suck-no suck spectrum is Blue Water Grill, where the $35 prix fixe menu doesn't read like a catered event from 1987, and where you don't have to be embarrassed that you're ordering from the restaurant week menu. Granted, we still dropped $150 after wine and tip, but likely would have spent twice that much if we went the a la carte route. If you can still manage to get a reservation, I recommend the spicy salmon maki, the almond crusted black ruff with mushroom risotto, and the chocolate torte. No Meyer lemons on the menu, but that guy Meyer's a douchebag anyway. Buen provecho.

LBF

Today I bid farewell to my LBF (lunch buddy forever). After many a culinary(?) endeavor, including a month long stint at Chipotle, he has informed me that there are greener pastures elsewhere in the city. The overly priced and crappily prepared offerings extending three blocks in all directions from the office will miss you, and so will I. I wish there could be a montage here, but I'm in the middle of some serious paperwork, so instead I will list without spaces the places we frequented in no particular order:

piolachipotlereservoirjohnnyrocketslebasketsilverspursacmestriphousetacobellthesmith

Godspeed, Mr. Henry, and good luck. May your new eyes guide you along a righteous path.

McBurrito

Chipotle
Location: As many as Starbucks
Burrito and a soda: $10



I spent a year refusing to walk into Chipotle. The word alone is nails on a chalkboard, and I can't stand the smokiness of the ubiquitous pepper with the same moniker. But it was neither the name nor the flavor that turned me off. It was a matter of pride. No self respecting Mexican who grew up eating rice and beans should spend money eating a burrito from a fast food chain owned by McDonald's. And even after Chipotle had splintered off from McDonald's, I held fast to my convictions. But then the brown bags were everywhere, and everyone in the employee lounge held my childhood neatly wrapped in foil and tissue paper. It was the silent attack of the burritos. I watched sour cream ooze from their core. I watched the burritos' kaleidoscope change with each bite, and worst of all, I witnessed the voraciousness of each individual as they chewed and swallowed without breathing.

I crumbled. The next day, I walked to the nearest Chipotle. I had them prepare me a burrito with shredded pork, rice, pinto beans, corn salsa, cheese, and sour cream. I found a corner in the already bustling dining room and unwrapped the enemy, the fast food chain burrito. And wouldn't you know, it was amazing. After that first taste, I was there every weekday for a month. The pork was moist and perfectly seasoned, the rice was buttery, and the salsa was not runny. The amalgam of burrito guts harmonized better than Boyz II Men circa 1991. More importantly, the tortilla's ability to stand up to the ingredients was second to none. There's nothing worse than having to fork up the remains of a leaky burrito.

So do yourself a favor and put the "I can" in Mexican. Make your way to the nearest Chipotle and have a burrito. Hell, do what I did and have a burrito for the next 30 days. But be careful, I found out on chipotlefan.com that these things are 1,300 calories a pop. But hey, if you're gonna be a bear, be a grizzly. Buen provecho.

Daily Dick

This is why I hate email:

"Dear Marcos,

Pursuant to your correspondence to the team members below, and your
request for operations to provide direction, it would be helpful to
include operations in your request.
As such, please provide the background on Item # 7 and we will provide
our feedback.
If you have any questions please feel free to contact me directly.
Regards,

Roy L. McLeod, RPA, FMA
Vice President
Corporate Services and Real Estate"

Some random ass dude on the cc list. I don't know who this guy is or what he does. I hope he gets a lump of coal for Christmas. I also hope that he realizes I'm posting this on his company dime.

More than food

I may or may not start waxing poetic on topics other than food. Not that people are reading this to begin with, but in the event that they are, that you are, expect a bit more from Fidel Gastro.

Angus Among Us

I spent 5th through 7th grade without a refrigerator because my parents needed it at the restaurant. During those years, my father's last name was McDonald, my stepsister was Wendy (R.I.P. Dave Thomas), and we were all best friends with Colonel Sanders. Such were the formative adolescent years. Take out was my norm. But instead of burning out on fast food, I grew to love it, and even now at the risk of a sour stomach, I'll stuff my face with it. I look forward to new and exciting sandwich offerings whenever they happen to show up on TV, and as soon as they're available, I'm on the "Order Here" line.

McDonald's latest offering, the Third Pound Angus Burger, has been on my mind for a couple weeks now. Initially, I told myself I didn't need it, that it was going to be terrible, but the commercials broke my will, and finally after bringing lunch for ten consecutive days, I made my way to the closest of the three McDonald's by my office.

No photo documentation, but needless to say, it looks nothing like the commercial. I'm fine with this. I have a very thick skin when it comes to the variation between the ads and the actual. It is rather large as the commercials suggest, but that's the problem. For some reason, the larger sandwich size made for a dry burger. I kept having to drink soda to wash it down, and I was out of Diet Coke before I was even halfway through. Fighting my way through the other half, I made the following mental notes:

1) Angus Shmangus. I think the only way they could call this Angus beef is if the cows they got it from were all named Angus. Even if it was Angus, it tasted exactly like the Quarter Pounder, only more dry. Why is this any better than the rest of the McDonald's sandwiches?

2) I ordered the Deluxe model and got the Bacon and Cheese. Not a bad trade, but premade fast food bacon has the consistency and color of cinnamon bubble gum. I was also disappointed because I was curious to see if there was any improvement on the McDonald's produce since the McDLT.

3) Why am I eating this? Oh yeah, marketing.

4) If only for the french fries, this is totally worth the 8,000 calories I'm consuming.

All in all, a typical value meal from the alleged front runner of the fast food game. Nothing spectacular, but nothing terrible, save for my sour stomach. I challenge anyone to top the Wendy's Monterey Ranch Chicken Sandwich, my personal favorite.

Better Late Than Never

Photo stolen from Rozanne Gold

I believe there was a craze for Korean fried chicken last winter. Chalk it up to laziness or lack of curiosity, but either way, I missed it, and I hadn't thought about it until a recent surfing excursion to Long Beach gave me an excuse to drive through Queens. After a day of failed attempts at hanging ten, Queens native DG and myself figured the best way to cure our "we suck at surfing" blues was a bucket of fried chicken. DG's a whiz at navigating the streets of Queens, so we decided to see how the Koreans stacked up against the Colonel.


I'm a big fan of seeing what I'm about to eat scroll across an LCD monitor. A picture's worth a thousand bites. For whatever reason, I had assumed that the fried chicken was going to be in buffalo wing form, tiny little drumsticks and all, but to my surprise, it was actually big parts and pieces of our poultry pal, just like the Colonel, and the pictures only made me hungrier. Instead of a breaded mess, the chicken has more of a glazed appearance, and when it arrived at our table, it looked like the picture (This is a rarity. See previous Angus post). In addition to the chicken, we ordered a side of cheese sticks, and while delicious, it was definitely nothing new and exotic. Think Applebee's or Friday's. The chicken was another story.


We opened the steaming boxes, one order of original, and one order of spicy, and the conversation ceased. Imagine the scene in Gremlins when Gizmo's spawn gets hold of the fried chicken. I guess it didn't matter what it looked like after all. The masses were correct. Korean fried chicken is addictive. The ginger and soy and spice gave way to a barely audible but extremely satisfying crunch. The meat itself was brined to perfection. If the zipcar wasn't due back at 7, we would have stayed for another round. But is it any different than its domestic counterpart? Honestly, fried chicken in any language is great. Fried anything is great, but there's something about a clucker breaded and cooked in 350 degree oil. I give the edge to KyoChon this time, but in great part to its novelty. The next time you're in a zipcar rolling around Queens, it's definitely worth a stop. Just make sure you have plenty of time to order a second box of chicken. Buen provecho.

KyoChon Chicken
156-50 Northern Blvd
Flushing, NY, 11354
Me and DG, one beer: $35

Brooklyn Style Pizza vs. Brooklyn Style Pizza

Sal's Pizzeria
Court and Degraw
Brooklyn, NY
Small Pie: $15

The delivery boy took two slices from the box before we opened it. For that reason alone, this is the better 'za. Only kidding. Pepperoni on half, fesh basil, and a litle plastic thing in the middle (see bottom left of the box. Does anyone know what that's for?), this pie shows up hot and barely able to fit in the box. Sal's never disappoints. It is a slice of floppy, greasy, and utterly foldable chewiness, with a sauce that has a touch of sweet, but mostly garlic.


Domino's
Smith and Bergen
Brooklyn, NY
Large Pie: $12

I thought everything was bigger in Texas, but it turns out that this is also the case when it comes to the pepperoni on the Domino's offering, and apparently that's what makes a "Brooklyn Style Pizza." Domino's fails miserably with the other characteristics. No fresh basil and no plastic thing, for starters. The crust is soft, but it's also brittle, so folding the slice is out the door. The saving grace, however, comes by way of the garlic sauce. This is essentially margarine and garlic salt (I've made a home version). I also like to butter my bacon.

So who wins the battle? I'm going to go ahead and say the ranch dressing. I drown my pizza in it to the point where it's all I taste. Given the option, however, I have to opt for Sal's. The pepperoni slices on the Domino's are big to the point of being stupid. Buen Provecho.

The Ghost of Restaurants Past

Sapodilla
247 Smith Street
Brooklyn, NY
Couple with booze, one appetizer, and tip: $44

Having lived off the yuppie stops of the F train for 5 plus years now, I've had a chance to witness the culinary dreams of many disemboweled like the empty spaces they leave. The vicious cycle laid out by my least favorite celebrity chef is a depressing one, but it gives us all a chance to try new things without having to travel too far. The space that used to house the New American cuisine of Village 247 is now full of the rhythm of an island beat, and we hope that the beat goes on.

After three days of home cooking (without a dishwasher), Thursday evening is our breaking point, and we'll leave the cooking, plating, and serving to aspiring actors, actresses, and Rachael Flay wannabes. We are consumers, and given the option, we would do this every night, but unlike the only two celebrities that live in our neighborhood, we lack the financial backing that would allow this, which is fine, because then we don't take it for granted.

In the mood for something new, we decided to walk along our neighborhood's famous restaurant row and peruse the menus. French? No. Thai? No. Italian? No. Thai? No. Indian? No. Thai? No. Thai? No. Why are there so many damn Thai rest...wait a minute, what's this? Caribbean? This could be perfect. I'm a jerk for jerk, and for some reason I'm in the mood for a Bahama Mama. After a coin flip to decide whether or not Kelly's palate was ready for a Caribbean feast, we went in. The restaurant was empty up front, but the garden was full of patrons. Being a nice night, we decided to join them, and we were happy that the restauranteurs didn't use us a bait for other passers by.

The menu was not extensive, but when I think Caribbean, I think roti, jerk sauce, and patties, and Sapodilla has all three. They also serve their island concotions in glasses so tall that you can't even taste the booze. Left alone with our huge beverages, we scanned the menu and decided on the jerk tofu puffs for an appetizer, the roti with curry chicken and channa (chickpeas), and the roast duck with jerk barbecue sauce.

Then we waited. Fortunately for us, the atmosphere put us in such a relaxed mood that we felt like we were on vacation, so waiting was not really a point of contention. It's not so much that the waitstaff doesn't care about you as much as it is that the waitstaff is high, which isn't a bad thing. When the food did arrive, it wasn't cold, so maybe it just took a while in the kitchen. The tofu was great. It was spicy in that island spicy sort of way, subtle heat playing second fiddle to the texture and sweetness of the tofu. The menu claimed that it would be "bursting with flava," and boy was it ever.

Then we waited. Again, not a major issue, but something to consider if you're in a hurry. After a few more blocks of fifteen minutes, the main course arrived. Past roti experiences have led me to expect a Caribbean burrito full of curry goodness, but Sapodilla deconstructs the dish, dividing the roti into small wedges served alongside the curry, leaving you to make miniature Caribbean burritos, kind of like moo shu (sp?). This is a welcome change, because the worst part of the giant Caribbean burrito is the fact that any meat inside is left on the bone, so you have to pay close attention to what you're eating in order to keep your esophagus puncture-free. The roti on the side also gets points for presentation, but among all this good press, the unfortunate thing was that the chickpeas were undercooked. So even if you've taken all the meat off the bone, you still run the risk of chipping a tooth.

Laid in front of me was the roast duck which I could have sworn was a chicken. The dish came with rice and peas, but they were on the side, and while delicious, I was done with the meal, "duck" and all, after three bites. The presentation was lacking in this dish, and I was disappointed because it was the most expensive thing on the menu. That's what you get for being a jerk for jerk.

It was bedtime before we could order dessert, so instead, we got the check. Not surprisingly, it took a while even for the bill to arrive. I think they're working out the kinks, however, and would definitely go back for round two. The meal was very relaxing, and for a second I honestly thought that I would walk out onto Smith Street and find a beach. If for nothing else but to unwind, Sapodilla is a welcome change of pace that blew in from the tradewinds, and once the kinks are out, hopefully they'll be jammin'.

Parallel Universe

Bogota Latin Bistro
141 Fifth Avenue
Brooklyn, NY
Couple Amidst Eight Others, Including Mr. and Mrs. Murphy, and multiple mojitos: Free

Eventually, Park Slope and Carroll Gardens will converge onto the region referred to by some as Gowanus (by others, the projects and various rusty buildings), but until then, the two will coexist as parallel universes, each having a Joya, a Lobo, a Mezcal, etc. As a resident of the latter, it is a rare occasion that takes us east, but we're never disappointed. In fact, Smith Street and Fifth Avenue are the furthest thing from any sort of Biggie and 2Pac beef. Every time we make our way up to the numbered blocks, we say, "You know, we should come up here more often." Thank goodness for friends like the Foley-Murphys, who were kind enough to provide the occasion, a 10 person feast that brought friends and family together around a table full of Latin delights.

Bogota is characteristic of many Pan Latin establishments; the walls are painted loudly, arroz con pollo is the signature dish, and the booze claim to fame is the mojito (Bogota's is blue). I recommend having one to start, but then switching to beer in order to avoid being the drunk guy with the mint leaves in his teeth. Make your way past the stock components and you will happen upon the specials list. This particular evening's offering included grilled shrimp skewers and other things we didn't order (clearly the mojitos had been doing their job). Along with the skewers, we ordered say-vee-chay (another Pan Latin favorite) and guacamole (who can resist muddled avocados?). All three were delivered expeditiously. The clear standout was the plate of shrimp skewers, lightly grilled and basted with a spicy barbecue sauce (chee-poat-lay for sure), beautifully plated atop corn freshly shorn from an inedible cob, and if I'm being honest, I went back for seconds without checking to see if the rest of the table had sampled the smoky shellfish. And if I'm still being honest, I shall weigh in on the say-vee-chay. It's not my thing. From a scientific perspective, it's a junior high masterpiece, and if you get it out of the citrus juice at the right moment, the fish actually "cooks" perfectly. Unfortunately, when you're dealing with 20 plus tables, timing gets tough. Last time I checked, the majority of restaurant patrons would rather not wait 3 hours for fresh ceviche. So when you're out, I recommend steering clear of it, no matter the establishment. And if I'm still being honest (God forbid I somehow turn back into that wooden doll), I'll tell you that the guacamole was delicious. No pretentious tableside preparation, enough spice, and the correct chip to dip ratio.

I stole the final shrimp skewer using the "Look! What's that!" tactic, and was chewing it up when the meals came. I wished that the table had decided to share, because I wanted a bite of the pork chops, the lamb chops, and the plantain crusted chicken. Luckily for myself, I ordered the bandeja paisa, a pile of meat, rice, and beans fit for a vaquero coming in from a long day of rustling vacas. The bandeja paisa makes a mockery of portion control. Laid out before me was a steak, chicharron (thick pork skin), arepa (corn tortilla), rice and beans, and avocado, all topped with a fried egg spanning the whole plate. Even if I wanted to eat from everybody else's plate, there was no way I could have without having to leave some food on the plate in front of me, disappointing vaqueros from here to the tip of Argentina, and suffering a similar fate to the poor dude who didn't bring Pace picante sauce to the campsite (get a rope). So I set to work on the hodgepodge. The plate was reminiscent of a summer night in Salt Lake City. I came home drunk, and after stating the obvious and telling me that my breath was horrible, my mother took whatever was in the fridge, put it in a skillet, and created a masterpiece. Bite after bite, I created different combinations of food: rice and beans, chicharron and steak (my favorite), arepa and beans, avocado and fried egg. The possibilities were endless. And then the food ran out. I had conquered the bandeja paisa, and boy was I proud (and drunk). I also managed to sneak a bite of the plantain crusted chicken courtesy of my fiance.

As delicious as the food was, I have to say that the company was the meal's all-star, and I'm not just saying this because Murph's folks paid for dinner. I tried my best to pay attention to the food, but more than a few times during the meal, I had to put my fork down to converse. But this is a beautiful thing about food, gathering around a table to learn about his and hers lake houses, Frank Lloyd Wright, and the organized chaos that is the New York City public school system. With so much talking, my head was as full as my belly. I was 100% satiated, and so I raise a glass full of muddled mint to the new friends I made this evening. Thank you.

Splitsville

Vinny's of Carroll Gardens
295 Smith Street
Brooklyn, NY
Couple with booze: $56*

We stepped out of the pre-Ernesto droplets and waited for a table. The crowd was building, but it was early enough that we didn't have to wait too long. By the time we were seated, the line was at least 5 couples deep. Unfortunately, there's no early bird special, but Vinny's keeps their prices low. Besides, we were hungry. So who cares if it was 6:30pm? Doesn't the early bird get the worm?

Previous visits have taught us a very important lesson: order to split. If you want something for lunch the next day, do not abide by this rule. But take my advice. You will overeat if you decide not to split. You will not be able to put your fork down, and the portions are enough for the entire cast of Celebrity Fit Club. The calamari feeds like the loaves and fishes. A regular order could circulate its way around the restaurant twice before you're left picking crumbs. Granted, Vinny's seats less than 30, but the plate is still huge. As a couple, we got the half order. This was the first of three courses, and the beginning of a restaurant journey that relies on nothing but its delicious food to keep the patrons coming back.

After dunking rings of breaded squid into a chunky marinara, the salad arrived. Iceberg, tomato, red onion, oil, vinegar, and dried oregano. The accompanying loaf of bread didn't make it past this course. We went from dunking to dipping to soaking, leaving a trail of crumbs that would have done Hansel and Gretel proud.

The waitress brought the finale out shortly after we buried ourselves in crumbs: Penne alla Vodka with chicken. We assumed that the chicken would be grilled, but we got a diced chicken cutlet instead. I was in no way upset about this. Such a basic dish, but incredible. Thick sauce perfectly glazing each pasta pipe, not cream heavy, not tomato heavy. It was so perfect that there was little sauce left over for dipping the second loaf of bread brought to us. This was one of 10 or so pasta dishes. Vinny's also offers basic Italian fare. Chicken parmigiana, veal saltimbocca, and eggplant rollatine are among the classics. And to wash it down, Vinny's always has two wines available, Merlot and Chianti. Yet another testament to simplicity. I'm sure they would not be averse to BYO, but we've never tried to do so.

For an early meal on any day of the week, Vinny's will never disappoint. Or if you don't mind waiting, go a little later. I do not recommend going minutes before closing. This meal is meant to be enjoyed, and you will be rushed if you choose to show up late. Buen provecho.