Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 5
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 4
Other: 8
Total: 20

Mrs. Gastro and I refilled our culture tank last night by taking in a documentary screening at Philly Cinefest* Being in West Philadelphia, and being that we were a block away from Abner's, the night really wouldn't have been complete without stopping in for my on campus classic from back in the day: cheesesteak with fried onions, American cheese, and mayo (yes, mayo). I don't do whiz here because it's not really whiz. It's a pretty standard steak of the chopped variety, albeit much greasier than others. What used to set this steak apart was the cook manning the flat top. Such a nice (and stoned) guy. I recall one evening when he was willing to deep fry a cheesesteak, saying, "hell, for an extra five bucks, I'll step on it" (too bad we chickened out like a bunch of drunk chickens). Not that I expected him to be there after all these years, but it was still sad to see that the Dave Chappelle look-alike has been replaced with a shorter, rounder, less bald, and more mustachioed steak slinger. At least the cheesesteak hasn't changed, nor have the waffle fries. Buen provecho.

*The documentary was called Heart of Stone and it's about an inner city school with some unconventional but effective ways of dealing with the students. Mrs. Gastro and I loved it. Check it out if you get chance. I think you can watch it on IFC.com on 4/16/09.

Photo Challenge!

Set Dinner Here, a great home cooking blog written a little further down the Atlantic coast, is running a photo challenge. Send in photos of your homemade goods and anxiously await the verdict. The winner gets their photo posted next Friday. If you're not a home cook, it's a great excuse to dust off the pots and pans, especially in these economic times. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

In the future, digital cameras will have a setting called "pocket dust." Not that there's anything wrong with it, but I just can't bring myself to don the hip holster. In any event, I slept in again, breezed by the Fruit Salad cart (I imagine a fleet of these sitting in a parking lot at dusk. Anyone have photos of this?), and opted for bacon, egg, and cheese on a long roll from the cart on 17th and JFK. This is never a bad choice, but my plate-tectonically slow metabolism always makes me feel guilty, so it falls under WhyDIET? And here is your list of reasons why you should/should not follow suit:

1. Lots of bacon, although concentrated at one end of the sandwich and stuck together. One bite and most of it was gone.
2. By the time I got to it (a pre-breakfast phone call held me up), the cheese was nicely melted into the eggs. I like eggs in principle, but egg flavor's not really my favorite. Processed American cheese slice flavor is much better.
3. Sriracha. I like it just as much as D-Tron does.
4. Hoagie roll. Breakfast hoagies are the shit.

I think I ruined lunch, but it was definitely worth it. Buen provecho.

¡Me pasaron por la piedra!

Very loosely translated (or not at all because it's an entirely different term), this means highway robbery. In my native English language, I just say "bullshit." Five bucks for a printer friendly version of a tamale recipe? It's likely that I won't even use the computer version on principle. Buen provecho.

The Funniest Thing I Heard Yesterday

D-Tron sez:

"I want another steak w/Sriracha. Sriarcha goes well on anything. Sometimes I put it on itself and eat it."

Amen, D-Tron. Amen.

Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 5

Geno's: 0

Delassandro's: 2

Steve's: 1

Street Meat: 4

Other: 7

Total: 19

Even after four hours of open bar (with two of those hours dedicated solely to vodka and energy drink. Where do I think I am, studying abroad in the year 2000?), a later dinner at Bar Ferdinand that involved tapas, locating a missing Gastro-in-law (then forgetting he was located and attempting to locate him again), and vomiting in the bathroom (sorry, Barf Erdinand, er, Bar Ferdinand), and an even later show at Johnny Brenda's, it's never too late to hop a cab over to 9th and Passyunk. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

There was a six month period in 2003-2004 when I would buy the Costco version of these by the dozen, relapsing on an old high school habit that my father turned me on to as a replacement for his love (love = love handles = blame your parents for your shortcomings). So with the same tinge of nostalgia the led me back into the arms of Taco Bell, I treated myself to a "Flame Grilled Cheeseburger" aboard the Amtrak train, where seeing actual open flames would probably be a bad thing. Luckily I've been down this road before, and it was no surprise to see it emerge from a commercial grade microwave, piping hot except in the middle, where it's always cold unless you want to chip your teeth on an overwaved bun. I would have been much happier if there were microwave french fries to go with it, but a bag of Utz was just fine.

Tearing back the microwave-safe wrapper, I recognized some old friends: leathery cheese, asphalt patty, cloud white bun. Biting into it, I remembered a time when I would knock out two or three of these in one sitting. Artificial grilled flavor ranks up there with artifical grape flavor. Sometimes, the artificial flavor is what you crave. Without the nostalgia, it probably would have been just as good, but for $5.50, I think I would have rather had 30 chicken nuggets from Wendy's (that's a lie. I just like the 99 cent value menu metric). Buen provecho.

Iron Hill, Take Two

After a successful meal from start to finish the first time around at Iron Hill Brewery, our expectations may have gotten the best of us. Or it could have been that our server, Steve, was just a jerk. In his jerk defense, however, he was also manning a 12-top. Still, I'm a damn good tipper. So what happened? How about another list?

1. Steve completely forgot the cheesesteak eggroll appetizer. It didn't show up on the bill, but there was no apology regarding the forgetfulness. And I was really looking forward to these.
2. No water refills. No check-ins. At least not for us. The 12-top was another story.
3. Fish and chips was probably a mistake after the filet-o-fish meal for lunch. And I already knew about the fries. Thankfully, malt vinegar is quite the cure-all.
4. The dressing on Mrs. Gastro's salad was so bland that all you tasted was the greens. I like greens, but I like delicious dressing much more.
5. Damn you, Steve.

I'll be back (lord knows it's not my last time at Babies 'R' Us), and hopefully the third time will be the charm. If you make it there in the meantime, just be sure you don't get stuck with Steve. Buen provecho.

Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 4
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 4
Other: 7
Total: 18

You gotta love out of town guests. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

Even more upsetting than watching the NY Rangers get creamed on the ice this past Saturday (as best I could see from the top of the house) was the fact that I had to take advantage of the McDonald's "Score for Four" promotion. If the Flyers score four goals, you and your ticket stubs are lovin' it with a free breakfast sandwich the next morning. I suppose that's the answer to "Why did I eat this?" Otherwise, I would have spared myself the abdominal cramping that Spurlock daintily refers to as the "McGurgles." These things are truly shitty, especially when you put one in the fridge for later consumption. This morning, I felt like Thomas (my bitchin' dog), angrily gnawing at the day old disaster like it was a chew toy. If you happen to be at a four goal-scoring Flyers game, do yourself a favor and accidentally lose the ticket stubs. Then go and make a smoothie for breakfast. Buen provecho.

I Am Still an Italian Grandmother: Homemade Pizza, Take Two

This a brag post, not a blog post. I knocked it out of the park on my second attempt. I finally solved the brittle mozzarella mystery (turns out the curds-cum-cheese need to be too hot to handle for best fusing results), and the end result was a shreddable softball*. Instead of slices of garlic and chunks of onions, Mrs. Gastro blended the two into a pastelike substance that imparted flavor to the sauce without being a nuisance to the texture. And the "cup of water in the broiler" trick gave the crust an audible crunch that it lacked in the first attempt. Top the whole thing off with some sweet italian sausage (procured from the Chestnut Hill Farmers' Market), and you're saying "holy shit" all over again. Buen provecho.

*While making fresh mozzarella cheese is wonderful fun, the price of a gallon of milk and the resulting yield is about the same as you would pay for a real Italian grandmother to make it (mozzarella di lehigh valley dairy, not mozzarella di bufala).

Local Celebrity

When you show up at the wrong Beef and Beer, people tend to take notice. When you show up at the wrong Beef and Beer for three years running, you're downright famous. Among the reasons for said fame: a blog post, a conga line, and a raffle winning streak. This year was another success for the Finley family (a bunch of real freakin' awesome people), and from the looks of it, the party is gaining steam.

Once again, I overdid it with the food. I blame the serving spoons. The "zeets" was even better than last year. More cheese, less sauce, less healthy. Exactly how I like it. There was a surprise dish of BBQ beef brisket on the serving line, which was a tender and smoky treat. I could barely move after my third plate. I could also barely drink, but that didn't really stop me. There was less dancing this time around (my dancing partner, Mrs. Gastro, was unable to attend this year), but I did manage to lead a conga line. The initiative netted a Harry Potter train set, which means I will be taking up model trains in my spare time. Immediately following, the giant candy bar dance-off was set to the Electric Slide, and although I sure had the boogie, I was unsuccessful yet again*. I drowned my sorrows in another pitcher of Miller Lite and waited eagerly for the raffles. I put the lion's share of the family tickets in the most popular of the baskets (sorry Gene, no tickets in the "Chicks Dig Gene Finley" basket): a week at the shore, a golf package with greens fees for two courses, and a 42" flatscreen TV.

I have been known to win a flatscreen TV in my day (I won a 40" at a golf outing a few years back), so I figured I would be walking out the door with that. The chances of winning the other two, judging from the heft of the ticket bags, were slim to none. Through the haze brought on by 4 or 5 pitchers, I listened to foreign number combinations, and watched as all three baskets were claimed by others, along with everything else (including a gardening basket won by the Gastro-in-laws). But there's no reason to be a sore loser. I didn't go home empty handed, but even if I did, I had such a blast that it wouldn't have mattered. Gene and the rest of the Finleys, thanks for another great night. Buen provecho.

*Gene pulled me aside, however, and hooked me up with a box of Nestle Crunch.

The Iron Hill Brewery is Neither Made of Iron, Nor is it on a Hill. Discuss.

Perusing the aisles at Babies 'R' Us is great for the appetite, especially knowing that in a few months' time, eating, drinking, and other daily activities will sink to the bottom of the priority list (along with showering and sleeping). Eschewing the national chains for a local one, Mrs. Gastro and I satisfied our hunger (and my thirst) at Iron Hill Brewery's North Wales outpost. The verdict, in convenient (and lazy) list form:

1. Incredible service, to the point where you could get drunk just by asking for a taste of each of the beer offerings.
2. Despite the brownish color, the fish chowder had the most classic of tastes. Subtle and meaty fish, perfectly cooked potatoes, and a portion that was great to split before tucking into our giant sandwiches, speaking of which...
3. Mrs. Gastro's portobello mushroom burger was a bit messy, which caused the loss of the bottom bun, and ultimately led to a fork and knife operation. Even still, a decent take on the pub food vegetarian option.
4. My burger, the Brewsky, was also messy, but I opted to eat with my hands anyway. Topped with both sauteed mushrooms and bacon, it was a bit much. The meat was cooked nicely, however.
5. I'd bet dollars to donuts that the fries showed up earlier that day already julienned and frozen.
6. Pig Iron Porter is almost as good as Polygamy Porter, and Iron Hill's Belgian offering was no slouch either.

I'd go back multiple times, if only to get through their extensive beer list and even more extensive menu. Our food was delicious, and everything we saw on the other tables (even the salads), looked worth a try. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

When the snooze bar wins, I don't get waffles, and by the time the train pulls into Suburban Station, I've convinced myself that the oatmeal in my bottom drawer can suck it, and that a greasy breakfast is in order. Further justification to eat such crap came in the (square) form of turkey sausage and no bread, and the result is the Wawa Breakfast Bowl above. Zero points for presentation (although the lady behind the counter was singing along to "Let's Hear it for the Boy"). The "eggs," which contain cheese, according to the asterisk, didn't taste half bad. A bit powdery, but a hint of black pepper took your mind off that. The turkey sausage patty, which I saved until the end (big mistake), had dried up and become rubbery, but again, the flavors came through (sorta). So, if we're judging on texture, this breakfast bowl can go the way of the oatmeal and suck it. I should have stuck with the heat lamp sandwiches. Buen provecho.

The Fifth Sandwich

In November, I made an attempt at a top 5 list of sandwiches. I could only manage four. There were suggestions from the three people that read this, but not having tasted their suggestions, I left the list untouched. Then, in a flash of genius, nostalgia, or whatever else you'd like to call it, the fifth popped into my head yesterday: the California Chicken Sandwich from Powelton Pizza. How could I forget such a simple and unhealthy creation based around the chicken cutlet? In college, if I ever needed respite from cheesesteaks (seems unlikely, but if you sweated whiz like I did, you'd do the same), this would be the order. Chicken cutlet, spinach, bacon, mozzarella cheese, fresh garlic, and tomato, artfully shoehorned into a hoagie roll. Almost 10 years out of college, I reunited with this magical foodstuff once again, and I am happy to report that it's just as good as it was back then, and that Powelton Pizza, located across the Schuylkill on 37th and Lancaster, will deliver to Center City. Buen provecho.

You can get your own damn California Chicken sandwich (and you should, immediately) by calling 215-387-1213. Alternatively, you can order from campusfood.com or walk yourself over to 3651 Lancaster Ave.

Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 3
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 4
Other: 7
Total: 17

Reason #6 that Mrs. Gastro is without a doubt my soul mate: Her words following a lunchtime suggestion, "I'd love to go to Pat's."

Reason #319 that Pat's is a glorious place: The lunchtime entertainment was a XL-size adult wearing youth-size sweatpants haggling with one of my peoples (a Messican) over a 1993 Ford Contour. Buen provecho.

I Am an Italian Grandmother

Some days, I stand over my food and say, "Holy shit, look what I made." Then I eat it. The pizza pictured above is a great example of this because I managed to make the dough, the sauce, and the cheese from scratch. The dough recipe is courtesy of the Cease, whose pizza making experience includes a day with the big dogs and a subsequent homeschooling, not to mention the many undocumented pies that have graced his pizza peel. The sauce came from Batali, a fragrant and chunky mess that lent a rustic touch to my amateur pizza (I think I went a little heavy on the herbs). The mozzarella cheese was another "almost there" attempt on my part using Ricki Carroll's recipe (I'm hoping that a few more tries will finally yield that stretchy consistency I'm after). The prep ate up most of my Saturday, but knowing exactly where my food came from (almost) makes the time spent in the kitchen totally worth it. Buen provecho.

Before They Were Iron Chef America Chairmen (Double Dragon Edition)

What a pleasant surprise to see the ICA chairman fight alongside the douchebag alcoholic from Party of Five in the 1994 movie adaptation of the video game that helped me squander so many precious hours of my youth and so many quarters intended for Big League Chew. Not as surprising, the movie was a pile of poo.

The 400 Calorie a Day Diet

I had been feeling very virtuous during a moment of reflection last saturday: the week before I had been working out a lot, cooking a ton and I would cap of the week by running a 10-mile race on Sunday. To prepare for my race I had made a healthy amount of pasta with parmesan, butter, black pepper and chives. It's simple and it's delicious. I went to bed at a very reasonable hour, with a self-satisfied grin, basking in how good I was being. Then apparently, while I slumbered, the Karma Fairy came and made me his prison girlfriend, because I woke up at 1:30 AM and preceded to puke for a good couple of hours. Pre-race jitters, right? Wrong, it's the fucking flu.

So, instead of burning off my beer gut the honest way--by giving my kneecaps and feet the kind of pounding that will make me need a HoverRound when I'm older--I dropped weight by puking so much that I cut something in my throat. Every time I eat or drink it feels like I'm trying to swallow glass, but I also fit into some old jeans, so, yay sickness! I think the last time I threw up was in the bathroom of a fancy restaurant while in France with Fidel, a robot, and not-yet-bald-but-getting-there artist. Wait, is fancy the right word?

UPDATE: So it appears that there has been a 1-inch piece of pasta lodged in my throat since Saturday night. I found this out by sticking my fingers down  my throat and pushing it further down. Now it's stuck in the lower portion of my throat. Bets on how long it takes to dissolve?

You Know It's Time for a Career Change When...

Before reading this, please note that I am an equal opportunity eater. Furthermore, a good chunk of what I write about is the crap that passes for food on a daily and large-scale basis. BUT, when this guy swings by the cube and announces (with the same authoritative grin that a Kokomo, Indiana teen would have when referencing the Olive Garden) that the goodbye lunch for another colleague will be at TGI Friday's, you might want to reconsider what you're doing with your life. Buen provecho.

Salmone a la Il Dulce

Thanks to our current economic clusterfuck, money is ultra-crappy and restaurants in my hood are getting shut down like a fat kid on a basketball court. On the positive side, I am continuing to hone my kitchen skills, concentrating on quickly prepared meals, since work has me grinding. Mrs. Mussolini being a pescatarian means I cook a lot of fish. A consistent and easy dish is baked salmon with soy-maple marinade:

1 pound of salmon filet (give or take)

1/4 cup of soy sauce

1/4 of maple syrup

1-2 cloves of garlic, chopped

1-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and chopped

red pepper flake to taste

Mix all ingredients in a shallow bowl or glass pan and marinate fish in mixture for no more than 45 minutes, flipping once. Preheat oven to 400 and bake salmon skin-side down in middle of oven for 20 minutes-25 minutes depending on desired done-ness. You can take the marinade and boil it down with a little sherry or white wine for a sauce and garnish with scallion and sesame seeds.

In the above picture (my Valentine's recession special) I've served it with a cold soba noodle salad which I tinkered with by using 4 instead of 6 tablespoons of vinegar, no radishes, toasted sesame seeds, chopped scallions and a tablespoon of room-temp, smooth peanut butter added to the noodles just after draining them, but before rinsing them off with cool water.

I like to have 2-3 glasses of white wine while making this, because then everything tastes way better than I think it does, and I'm also easier to get into the sack, assuming I don't pass out after dinner, again.

Slumdinner Millionaire

Mrs. Gastro and I have a tendency to get caught up in whatever craze the television tells us to, so in honor of the curry fever sweeping the nation (thanks to an Oscar-sweeping movie neither of us have seen), we ordered Tiffin, reputedly the best Indian food in Philadelphia. Last night's order of Samosas (stole the picture above from Foodaphilia without asking), Butter Chicken (it sounds healthier when called by its real name, Chicken Makhani. Don't judge me), and Naan was particularly glorious. Firstly, ordering in saves us the guilt and glut of two entrees, and the portions are plenty, even without the vegetable side thrown in at no extra charge. Secondly, a fried pyramid of dough stuffed with peas, potatoes, and the right blend of spices rivals a potato skin (if there were a show called Top Appetizer, these two would be in the final), and Tiffin's is the baby bear of samosas. The size and temperature is just right. Lastly, it's called Butter Chicken, but really, it's a milder version of Tiffin's Chicken Tikka Masala (white man's chicken). The tomato cream sauce is like satin sheets* enveloping every grain of rice and every chunk of tandoori chicken. It puts the "comfort" in "comfort food." The whole meal made us feel like a couple of slumdog millionaires, which is good, because otherwise, I'd be upset at the one drawback, which is that Tiffin charges for raita, a delicious cucumber yogurt sauce you can use to cool down your entrees if they get too spicy for you. Buen provecho.

Tiffin's Mt. Airy outpost is located at 7105 Emlen St, Philadelphia, PA. The dining room is cozy and BYO. We usually order take away, and for $22 we can get an appetizer and an entree to split.

*I've never owned satin sheets, but the way people describe them, you can imagine how glorious this texture is.

Why Did I Eat This?

I bade farewell to Taco Bell in August of 2008. Today, I fell off the wagon like a toothless meth addict (pictured above?). I guess I'm still chasing that first bite. The #1 combo, a beef burrito supreme, a crunchy taco supreme, and a large soda was nothing but a burn bag, and yet another example of my powerlessness against fast food. Buen provecho.

Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 2
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 4
Other: 7
Total: 16

I completely forgot about last Friday's dinner with the Gastro-in-laws. Delassandro's is situated a little more than halfway towards their end of Philadelphia, but their lack of cheese fries and a credit card machine once again nudged us across the street to Chubby's, where the fries are kept crispy until you get home by the magic of plastic portion cuppery. Sadly, the processed cheese sauce is not Cheez Whiz (cheap bastards), but I've created a new flavor using a cocktail of processed cheese sauce, ranch dressing, and Tabasco (procheransco). Great for dipping and topping. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

First (and hopefully not the only) installment of Why Did I Eat This? An assessment of the crap that sometimes gets the best of me, even when I'm not all that hungry. The gloriously artistic camera phone picture above shows Dunkin' Donuts' latest breakfast offering, the not-very-creatively named Waffle Breakfast Sandwich. The verdict, in list form:

1. The waffles are nothing more than McGriddle bread pressed with waffle dents, which means this compact foodstuff was worth a full day of calories (thank you very much, Mr. Spurlock).
2. Microwaved egg product is no substitute for the real thing. The consistency of a marshmallow and the taste of an egg is a horrible combination.
3. Dunkin's bacon is so thin that it could moonlight as dental floss. Delicious dental floss.
4. I spent $4.59 on this?
5. Shame on me (as always) for falling victim to food marketing.

Unless you have the metabolism of a hummingbird (or you could give a shit about heart disease), this one's not worth it. I'll let you know if its siren song dupes me again tomorrow morning. Buen provecho.

So Easy, a (Romantic) Caveman Can Do It

Her heart will melt like chocolate in a double boiler. If you're short of cash next Valentine's Day (or you're unable to justify the ungodly prices charged by Godiva), make your own damn chocolate covered strawberries. It's one of the easiest and most delicious things I've ever made. Buen provecho.

6 oz. Dark Chocolate
3 oz. White Chocolate
1 lb. Strawberries, washed and well dried. If you can find them with stems attached, you're a better man than I.

Float two heatproof bowls in two separate saucepans filled with an inch of water. Bring water to just boiling and turn the heat off. Dump dark chocolate into one, white chocolate into the other, and stir to melt. Dip strawberries in dark chocolate and place on wax paper. After all strawberries are dipped, dip a fork in the white chocolate to create neat looking drizzles. Have tissues ready for when she cries at how romantic you are. Remind her during next football season.

Where Was Your Prix Fixe Meal on Valentine's Day?

Alison Two's gushing review in this month's Philadelphia magazine inflated my expectations to a point where I was convinced that Ms. Barshak's (and Bill Lewis') dishes would be nothing short of fireworks on the palate (that's a good thing). I was also happy that I could substitute the lengthy train ride to Center City with a short drive from Chestnut Hill, and that there was an opening for an early table. Besides, a Valentine's night out was in order after Mrs. Gastro and myself had taken turns wearing the chef hat for the past few years. Put in all in the blender and you get a mighty good Valentine's Day smoothie, but make sure you put the lid on. Otherwise, the whole thing will splatter in your face. Did I put the lid on? Oops.

Well, not really (I just like the blender imagery). In fact, the experience was dangerously close to being perfect. Easy drive, incredible ambience, top notch service, excellent cocktails (best old fashioned I've had, probably ever), everything else but the food. More specifically, my food. Like I said, I expected fireworks. Even the descriptions on the menu had me thinking that this would be a transcendent experience. Three courses fit for a last meal. Instead, the fried oyster appetizer was too large. Personally, having to chew an oyster more than a few times really ruins the idea of it being a delicacy (from the word "delicate," yes? As in, please don't use enormous oysters in this dish). Moreover, the horseradish cream lacked bite. I could have gotten more of a kick from an Arby's Horsey Sauce packet. Moving on to the main, my usual MO is to order based on sides, and the porcini risotto accompanying the filet tugged me in that direction until the waitress recommended the harissa rubbed lamb because of its "nice spice," following up with, "If you're feeling adventurous, definitely go for it." Again I'm expecting heat, but this time around, I didn't even get salt. Not on the lamb, not on the white beans, and the yogurt sauce was a drizzle that got lost in the greens. Even though the lamb was cooked well, the lack of seasoning made for a bland and, dare I say, straightforward, dish. Shame on me for not going with my gut. With dessert being their final chance, I was very pleased with the bread pudding, the love of which I attribute to the bread pudding they sporadically serve at the Lucky Dog Saloon. Alison Two's was beautifully presented, exceedingly moist, and perfectly portioned.

I was definitely not turned off by the experience. Given the option, I'd eat there again in a heartbeat, and it might be entirely different on a night without the high expectations, the need for the waitstaff to rush you along, and the automatic 20% gratuity (I hate being presumed a shitty tipper). And who knows, maybe I'll even get some salt on my dish? Buen Provecho.

Alison Two is located at 422 S. Bethlehem Pike, Fort Washington, PA 19034. We got ourselves full and drunk for $197 plus tip.

Aprés Ski

The term "Aprés Ski" is non-existent in Utah, but much like the opium dens of Chinatown and the cockfights of the South Bronx, the evils of booze, billiards, and burgers can be found, provided you know where to look, and I'll give you a hint. You won't find it on the slopes. Besides, it's not the best idea to get shitfaced before heading back down the winding roads of Big Cottonwood Canyon (I knew a dude who hit a moose. Fucked up his hands so bad that he couldn't play bass for a month, and he sucked at the bass, so imagine sucking and then not playing for a month. He quit the bass). If you can manage to stave off the alcohol shakes for another 25 minutes, head to the Cotton Bottom, an unassuming structure on 2820 East and 6200 South (if you're not from Salt Lake, take a right at the mouth of Big Cottonwood and follow the road as it winds left. After the overpass, it's at the next intersection on your left hand side. Alternatively, you can roll down the windows and follow your nose). Here you'll find $8 pitchers and $5 garlic burgers, the latter of which will stay with you for the rest of the evening (that's a good thing), each burp reminding you of perfectly cooked ground sirloin laced with what I would guess to be nothing but granulated garlic and a dash of salt and pepper.

No fries here, but the burger's substantial enough that you won't need them. Plus, the beer's so weak that you really don't want to fill up on fried potatoes (besides, your dumb ass ate a huge plate of chili cheese fries on the mountain). If you're staying in the Salt Lake valley and your winter sports travels send you to Big or Little Cottonwood Canyons, I highly recommend making the Cotton Bottom your aprés ski destination. Buen Provecho.

Extreme!

As my world tour continues (due to bad trip timing), I find myself nestled between the Wasatch and Oquirrh mountains (that's in Utah), where my parents graciously hosted Che Gruyere and myself for three days of threatening to launch off cliffs, hike to fresh powder, and other extreme activities that sound a lot cooler on the chairlift than they do at the top of the mountain. Between it all, one must refuel, because the even the bunny hills are exhausting when you're as old and fat as I am. Behold Ma Gastro's enchiladas, one of the best ways to replace all those spent calories. Flat layers of corn tortillas flash fried in vegetable oil, each topped with beans, red chile, green chile, cheese, and scallions. And if that's not enough, an over-easy egg for a little extra protein (not pictured). Wash it down with a Dr. Pepper, and marvel at the ambience of a kitchen untouched for years, vinyl tablecloth and all. Buen provecho.

Sporadic Suckage

God I suck at consistently posting. With that, you will now be getting the list version of the balance of the Bogota trip:

Day 2: Burgers at Agadon. A self directed menu where you can order burgers by size and trick them out (did I really just type that?) with classic toppings, or a fried egg.

Day 3: Steak at Salto del Angel. The Bogota equivalent of Rosa Mexicano, a behemoth restaurant specializing in local fare, including aguardiente, a digestif that's a lot less syrupy (and a lot more drinkable) than Sambuca.

Day 4: Appetizers at 1492. While the apps were delicious, they couldn't compare to the basil ice cream at the end of this finger food meal.


Day 5: Burgers at Agadon. I still couldn't bring myself to order the fried egg.


Wow, this post is lousy. Buen provecho.

Trial Run: Chocolate Mussolini

The latest addition to Fidel Gastro jumped the posting gun (twice!) before I could give a proper introduction. With Che Gruyere back among the guerrillas (nary a post in years, literally), a new Brooklyn/Manhattan/Home Cook correspondent has risen to the occasion (I could say "like pizza dough," but that's just way too contrived). Welcome aboard, Chocolate Mussolini. And no, he will not be specializing in desserts. Buen Provecho.

These Eggs Be Poached

Breakfast may be my favorite meal of the day. I mostly do quick stuff during the week, but try to make up for it on the weekends. This Saturday I made a variation of Eggs Benedict that were pretty gangster (sorry for the lousy picture). I'm trying to get back into fighting shape, but still wanted the dish to be somewhat creamy, so I put thin slices of ripe avocado on top of the english muffin and used good smoked salmon instead of ham. I  topped the eggs off with some fresh chives, which I also used to flavor the roast potatoes. I'll be fucked if I can figure out how to poach two eggs at once though. Is that even possible? In any case, these eggs be poached.

Like a Rainbow in The Dark...

Recently I visited Stretch, AKA Marfie, in his new hood, next to Greenwood Cemetery (a brief note to Marfie: living next to a cemetery is pretty evil; living with a dude who bakes you cookies is less-so). There aren't many options for the living in this desolate neck of the woods, so we munched up at Toby's Public House, which serves pizza, beer, Metal and hockey. I could give a shit about hockey, but pizza, Guinness and Dio are an impeccable combination.

Let me get the bad stuff out of the way: Toby, your Caesar salad was like an anchovy taking a dump in mouth. There weren't actually any anchovies in the salad, so I'm both impressed and amazed at how you accomplished this. I'm pretty sure the Parmesan was the Kraft, pre-grated variety, which has all the texture and deliciousness of Coney Island sand. Your pizza, however, was spot on. My pie had a bubbly and burnt thin crust, topped with a sweet tomato sauce, creamy buffalo mozzarella, and sopressata. I can forgive the crap Caesar after tasting the special hug of the buffalo mozzarella and the slightly smoky sopressata. I'm also a sucker for exposed brick, so you had me at brick oven.

Dia Uno: In the Atlanta Airport, It's Always Friday

I apologize in advance to anyone who actually thinks Guy Fieri is a cool dude (and also disown you), but I can't seem to get around that mid-90s-Offspring look. I'd like to see him separated (Hey! Come out and play!), you know, like drawn and quartered? Spikey bleachy hair notwithstanding, my options for food and drink in the terminal were limited, but who am I kidding? Even with the spokes-douche* on the cover of the menu, I'm a sucker for chain restaurants.

As my wife and I have learned time and again, chain restaurants are only good for appetizers and desserts. Heeding that sage advice, I went with the pork ravioli bites, stuffed, breaded, and fried pasta with a BBQ dipping sauce (note the impeccable presentation). The pork filling has the texture of Totino's pizza rolls, although possibly a bit more stringy. It's kind of an unknown foodstuff that you take at face value, like babies with baby food. The ravioli shell is almost there, but the hint of freezer burn takes it down a couple notches as well. Thinking it couldn't get much shittier, I was rather rather surprised at the tang and spice of the BBQ sauce, although it had the texture of the assorted sauces slathered atop a styrofoam tray of Chinese fast food (too much corn starch). But I ate every last one. Why the hell not?

*To be perfectly honest, my audition tape for The Next Food Network Star was not well received, and I'm a tad jealous of Guy's meteoric rise, not to mention the fact that he gets to travel cross country and eat shit on camera, aka my dream job.

I Spent a Week in Bogota and All I Got Was This Lousy Blog Post

Stay tuned for an overview of culinary delights from the land of FARC bombings, coffee, and coca. But don't expect much. I wound up eating burgers (hamburguesas, burguers) half the time I was there (but holy shit they were good). I think A Hamburger Today would be quite impressed.

Social Commentary from Way Back When

"What happened to Buzzsaw?" quips Maria Conchita Alonso. "He had to split." Arnold, you're funnier than Neil Patrick Harris v2.0. I hate cable, but when you're able to catch The Running Man from start to finish, you can justify the $180 a month (at least for those 90 minutes). A future where TV shows feature real live people doing crazy shit? Stephen King (author of the book the movie is based on) is a modern day Nostradamus.

Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 2
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 4
Other: 4.5
Total: 13.5

I applaud the testicular fortitude of the cart cooks on the sidewalk today. Anyone that can manage 8 hours in this weather (I'm talking about you, Middle Eastern food cart guy on the southwest corner of 18th and JFK) deserves my patronage. You gotta respect the hustle. I was surprised to find that I wasn't the only one on the lines, but I imagine the rest of the lot was more interested in cheap and quick food, and not so much trying to do right by those that feed us, even in extreme conditions. Sadly, the cheesesteak--which I tucked into the inside pocket of my puffy coat to keep warm until I got back to my cube--was palate punishment. The offenders, in no particular order, were day-old bread, generic hot sauce, generic cheese, and dry meat. Try to do something nice every now and again and it backfires. Stay warm, singular reader. Buen provecho.

North Country

Behold the highlights of my weekend in NYC (just a few days late):

1. Paul Bergman
2. The Indian food place that Paul Bergman suggested. Rich sauces scented with spices I can barely pronounce simmered in copper bowls dotted all over the table. I dipped my spoon in every one I could reach, and rued the moment I ordered a dosa.
3. Harrassment by a dozen Chinese ladies eager to sell me a bus ticket. Sadly, none of them cared to direct me to the local opium den.
4. 50 frozen dumplings for 8 bucks. Fuck yeah.

Buen Provecho.

Yesterday's Qdoba

Chicken queso burrito, no cheese, no sour cream, to go. Followed by coffee straight out the French (freedom) press. Issues of a personal nature ensued.

Cabin Fever

It hasn't been real crappy, but it's still winter. Fighting the doldrums one fisticuff at a time, I think of summer moments, this one in particular:

Che Gruyere: May I have a slow gin fizz

Country Club Teen Waitress: ...?...

Che Gruyere: It's delicious

Taking a Moment to Raise My Head from the Holiday Trough

Eating, drinking, and being merry has left my brain full of holiday mush, so how about a quick list of highlights?

1. Crown pork roast with cranberry apple stuffing. This was the second of my mother-in-law's pork contributions made special for the birth of our savior, the first being a ham fresh from a pastured piggy. Both renditions of the other white meat were incredible.

2. Egg nog. I'm getting really good at making this, and electric mixers procured from wedding registries only increase my awesome power. I've used this recipe for three years running, but I cut down on the booze to please the crowd (and keep booze on hand for those who prefer a little nog with their booze).

3. Buffalo chicken dip. Put the word "buffalo" in front of pretty much anything and I'll eat it. This was no exception.

4. Wii Monopoly. Simply shake the Wii remote and pray you don't land on Boardwalk when there's a hotel there. The game does the rest.

Guest Post: My Lucky Day

D-tron sez:

"I received a beautiful tin of cookies from one Mrs. Fidel Gastro. Chocolate chip and peanut butter with Hershey's kisses. They are delicious. And I mean it. If I had a dollar for every time I said that, I would have one dollar."

Today's Qdoba

Was actually Marathon Grill. In the four months I have been here, this was my first time patronizing the Philadelphia staple. The Cuban burger was a regrettable audible (I went in fully prepared to order chicken salad). The play on the Latin panini doesn't work with a hamburger patty in lieu of roast pork. D-tron's turkey burger with proscuitto was definitely the better option, and I was consumed with food envy.

Fidel: Hey D-tron, would you ever consider using your powers for evil?
D-tron: I don't think I'm programmed that way. Should we hog and jog?
Fidel: You mean dine and dash?
D-tron: Whatever. I'll go to the bathroom first.

Hogging and jogging ensues.*


*Actual events may not have included hogging and jogging. D-tron, thanks for lunch.

Buffalo Chicken Dip

This is a Christmas Miracle.

Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 2
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 3
Other: 4.5
Total: 12.5

Today I am eating a mushroom cheesesteak from a food cart over on 16th Street. I forget the name, but it's on the west side and close to Market. I know that "healthy cheesesteak" is an oxymoron, but this one has a "guiltless" taste to it (not a bad thing). It's almost as if I could eat three of them without filling up. Buen provecho.

Lunchtime stroll highlight: The junkie that stopped me to ask if "Holiday" has one or two "Ls" before he put sharpie to cardboard. Analog spell check. Brilliant.

Naptime, Willpower, and the Job Market

I just got back to the office with some mediocre sesame chicken from the Chinese food truck on the east side of 18th Street between JFK and Market. The dude in the cubicle next to me is enjoying a lunchtime nap, snoring loudly, mouth agape (camera phones: what can't they capture?). Considering the current job market, it's probably a real stupid idea to play chicken pong* with him, but boy is it hard to resist. Buen provecho.

*Chicken chunks are the ping pong balls, his mouth is the cup. If I succeed in making the shot, hilarity ensues.

Gift Baskets

Amidst all the layoffs, party cancellations, and doorbuster stampedes, gift baskets manage to survive. The first of a hopeful many showed up at the office doorstep today, and so far I've eaten a half of a sweet sorpressata link, one eighth of an asiago cheese wheel, and a teeny tiny chocolate and hazelnut truffle. But, since nobody else seems to be interested, it's likely I'll take the whole thing down myself. Buen provecho.

Buffalo Wings?

Although they're dubbed with the same name as the bar food staple, the only thing Coyote Crossing's interpretation shares is the chicken part. The deep fryer is replaced with the slow cooker (or an oven set to low), Frank's Red Hot is replaced with god-knows-what-but-holy-shit-it's-delicious (my first guess would have to be a modified mole sauce), and the blue cheese is replaced with sour cream. The result is a tender treat that requires zero effort to wrest from a stubborn bone. As the chicken melts in your mouth, spice and sweet battle each other until you finally have to swallow. It's enough to make you forget about those other buffalo wings. Buen provecho.

Coyote Crossing is nestled among the blue collar townhomes of Conshohocken, PA. In addition to delicious ass wings, their margaritas and entrees do not disappoint. And if dancing's your thing, DJ Strike spins on Friday nights (but both times we have been there, the place was deserted).

Today's Qdoba

Queso burrito with pork, corn salsa, hot salsa, pico de gallo. It may well have been a Top 25 burrito.

D-tron sez, "Don't put my face on the internets."

I say, "Shut up and eat your burrito. Would you hand me a napkin?"

Fist fighting ensues.*


*Actual fist fighting may not have occurred.

Neat Little Bows

I watched National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets last night (and you can punch me in the face for that). Despite Nic Cage's uncanny resemblance to a burn victim, I enjoyed it. Not so much for the shitty CG and lightning fast puzzle solving, but more for the fact that I knew a happy ending was inevitable, and with it a full update of the characters post-denouement. Way to go, Disney.

Surprise!

I'm 95% sure that the cart guy on 17th and Market put pastrami instead of bacon on my breakfast hoagie. I'm 100% sure that we're on to something here. There's a place in Salt Lake City called Crown Burger whose signature sandwich is a cheeseburger topped with pastrami. If you subscribe to the "everything's better with bacon" maxim (and if you actually put bacon on everything), I recommend spending a week trying this out with pastrami. It will change your life (or kill you). Buen provecho.

Worst Snack Ever

As a man on the move, sometimes life hands me lemons and I'm too busy to make lemonade. Having less than a moment to spare between pointless meetings that didn't require my presence, I grabbed a pretzel hot dog yesterday. Holy shit was it shitty. The dough wasn't fully cooked around the pretzel, so I alternated crunching and chewing a pretzel that literally tasted like cardboard (I took a bite of a cardboard box when I got home just to test the palate). As a young boy, I ate moldy bread thinking that the bluish spores were berries. I'd take the moldy bread any minute of any hour of any day over the pretzel hot dog that's probably still making its way through me now. Buen provecho.

Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 2
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 2
Other: 4.5
Total: 11.5

Having Ma and Pa Gastro in town (stay tuned for a report on all the misadventures) gives just cause to eating Philadelphia's signature sandwich more than once, especially since they decided to stay for an entire week (yes, a whole week). Last night's choice was Chubby's, a place directly across the street from Delassandro's, who happen to be closed Sundays. Great fries, above average steak (the meat has a great seasoning), but the fake Cheez Whiz took it down a couple notches. Buen provecho.

Top Five, er, Four Sandwiches

Today, over crepes at the crepe place next to Giwa, D-tron pulled out a huge gun (like the one in the Clint Eastwood movie), pointed it at my head, and made me name my five favorite sandwiches. Sadly, I could only name four, but since D-tron didn't really have a huge gun, I was still standing after lunch. Any suggestions for number 5?

Top 5:
1. Cheesesteak (duh)
2. Fat Knight (similar to the Fat Darrel, which is now copyrighted by Darrel himself, because he's a paper chaser. Hell, I'd do the same)
3. Croque Monsieur
4. Chicken Parm
5. __________

Oh yeah, the crepe place was the kind of place you'd go with your Rittenhouse Square living grandmother (if you had one). Our waitress, even though (s)he looked like Grace Jones, was about as nice as you can be while still keeping it authentique. My overpriced crepe was topped with an over-fried egg whose yolk was more mealy than oozy. The crepe itself had the right sponginess, but overall, it lacked that certain je ne sais quoi that satiates you. I wanted to order another one, but fearing the wrath of faux-Grace Jones (and realizing my lunch hour was almost up), I left hungry. If you're in the mood for a snack or a light lunch (but not a quick one), I'd say go ahead and give it a try. But if you're hungry, you should opt for one of the top 4 above. Buen provecho.

You Want Fries With That?

With great risk comes great reward (or the loss of your tailored french cuffed Brooks Brothers shirt), and a perfect demonstration of this can be found here. In my case, I think I'm just trying to make my junk food more efficient.

Beefsteak Post Script

Yep, that's vanilla ice cream over tenderloin. A more literal interpretation of the hot beef sundae.

Beefsteak Redux

When the cold winds blow in from the north (or when James googles "beefsteak dinner"), the beefsteak-as-fundraiser season is upon us. Last year's outing left us begging for more, and even the recent move to Philadelphia couldn't prevent me from taking in another beefsteak as soon as I got the chance. With my expectations boiling over, I recruited a fellow glutton to join me on the two hour drive to Verona, NJ, for the Broken Arrow District Boy Scouts of America Annual Beefsteak Dinner. If you think that's a mouthful, have a gander at the (crappy) pictures.

This year proved to be a much more muted affair compared to last, although I'm certain the beer was much more abundant this time around. I imagine this windfall can be blamed on those in attendance, a sparse crowd with a median age of 49. And while the Verona Community Center was a nice facility, the low ceilings and dim lights added to the "4pm dinnertime at the nursing home" ambience. Thankfully, nobody tried to give us the wrong pills or steal our wallets. I'm getting off topic here. Back to the food, which was catered by Nightingale, the original beefsteak catering service since the 1930s. We were running a bit late (Che was even later), and by the time we arrived, the tenderloin was making its final rounds. Thankfully, the two waiters circling the dining room concetrated their efforts on our table, and before we knew it, our plates were piled almost a foot high with buttery tenderloin and crispy freedom fries. It was enough to satisfy, but not enough to make us sick, which was a bit of a disappointment, especially because the final hour of the event did not have a comedy hypnotist to help the food settle. Instead, there were some pretty crappy raffles, made only crappier by DG's preference for statistics over gambling (he put all his tickets into one basket). As the crowd shuffled out, making it awkward for us to stick around and drink, we figured it was time for us to do the same. We were graciously thanked by the organizers for showing up, who were quite surprised that their beefsteak had attendees from both NYC and Philadelphia. We thanked them back by taking beers for the road. Until next year's carnage, buen provecho.

How Dry I Am

The food dehydrator is up and running. The first desiccation? Beef jerky, of course. Sadly, the meat was too thin and I slept too long and I wound up with brittle shards of cure. This was unfortunate until I had my first bite, which was a spicy and salty punch in the face. The marinade concentrated itself into what was left of the meat, providing an intense flavor that whisked me away to my days backpacking through the wilderness*.

The best part? It's so easy to make. A bowl of soy sauce, liquid smoke, red pepper flakes, and any other rugged ingedients you can dream up. The worst part? Waiting the 24 plus 12 hours to get to the finished product, but that beats the old timey days when it took the better part of a week AND you had to worry about wild animals all up in your business, potentially eating not just the jerky, but your face to boot.


*actual backpacking may not have occurred

Double and Possibly Quadruple Standards

Reason 8,037 I'll never move back to Utah.

Cheesesteak Tally

I've decided to tally the number of cheesesteaks I will eat as long for as this blog remains active. If anyone can show me how to install a sidebar graphic, I'll buy you a cheesesteak. Without further ado, here's a rough count broken down by venue:

Pat's: 1
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 2
Other: 3

Total: 9

Today I went with mushroom, american, hot sauce, and ketchup from a cart called "Breakfast N' Lunch" on 18th and Market. Big roll, but not enough meat to fill it, even with the addition of canned mushrooms, which could have already spent a day out of the can. Perfectly acceptable for four bucks. Buen provecho.

Fresh My Ass

Dear Baja Fresh,
Please cook your rice. Please rotate your salsa stock. Please instruct your cashiers not to cough into their hands behind the counter. Please melt the cheese on my "enchilado style" burrito. Please tell your cooks to stop giving me dirty looks through the pick-up window. Please do not ever again serve the pile of crap that I ingested this past Sunday. In other words, please do your best to give a shit about what you serve. If you can't, then please take the word "fresh" out of your name.

Regards,
Fidel

Channeling Victorino

A combination of honeymoon nostalgia, leftover brown rice, and a transplanted Hawaiian World Series champion were all the inspiration I needed to make my own Spam musubi. Hate if you must, but only if you've already tasted it. You will be pleasantly surprised at the richness of the meat and how well it marries with the brick of sushi rice below. I think the secret could be the sauce that the Spam gets hit with at the end of cooking. Soy, mirin, and sugar give it a sweetness that makes you forget you're eating canned meat. Be careful with the sugar, though. I overdid it last night and had a bitch of a time cleaning the molasses out of my egg pan. Also, most recipes call for a musubi maker, a plexiglass box with a plunger used to make these culinary cubes. Lacking this special tool, I went McGuyver on that ass and used the empty Spam can. Buen Provecho.

Spam Musubi

1 small tin of Spam, cut into 1/4 inch slices and then halved
3 cups cooked short grain rice cooled to room temperature (I used brown rice)
1 sheet of nori, cut into inch slices
1/4 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup mirin
1/4 cup sugar (this turned out to be too much. A tablespoon should do)

Combine the soy sauce, mirin, and sugar in a small saucepan. Heat to dissolve the sugar. Meanwhile, fry the Spam (no oil needed) until browned on both sides. At the end of cooking, pour in the soy sauce mixture and use tongs to coat the slices. Remove from heat. If you have a musubi maker, fill with rice, plunge away, top with Spam, and wrap in nori. Repeat until finished with rice and Spam. You can also form the cubes yourself, or use the empty Spam can.

I Sure Do Love a Good Bender

The amazingness that was last week (after pretty much the best weekend of my life):

Monday: A ticket to the World Series. Like a hypoxic mountaineer just steps from the summit of Everest, I deluded myself into the notion that the game would go on. Prior to the cats and dogs, however, I finally had the Schmitter, which I've been meaning to try since I heard some jerk talk about it during the cleanse. It sets itself apart from the ubiquitous cheesesteak by adding fried tomato, salami, and russian dressing, and to rationalize the gluttony, it's served on a kaiser roll. Sadly, my high expectations were met with disappointment, more than likely because it was a windy 40 degrees at the stadium, so the whole thing was cold after the first bite. I refuse to give up, though, and thankfully, the establishment that created the Schmitter just so happens to be in my neighborhood.

Wednesday: After unloading my ticket to a neurotic Indian, Mrs. Gastro and I joined the Gastro-in-laws for cheesesteaks from Delassandro's (my new 2nd favorite cheesesteak) and cheese fries from Chubby's (near and far, nothing compares to Pat's cheese fries, but these are in the ballpark). Unlike Pat's and Geno's, the steak is of the chopped variety, and there's a pile of it three feet high on the grill at any given time of day, so even if you call it in, they don't make it until you show up. Not exactly cooked to order. I think the beef could have used a little more salt, but I numbed my tongue with cherry peppers to cope with this. After dinner, the fightin' Phils won the World Series, which meant a stroll down Manayunk's Main Street, and more whiskey and colas than necessary, partly because of this, but primarily because I turned 30.

Thursday: Visit number four to Qdoba (please don't remind me that I hated the first visit. I know), which I've dubbed the pork burrito visit (and every fourth time from here on out, I will get pork). The assembly line put double of everything on it, and the result was a two pound behemoth that I probably shouldn't have finished. Then again, I probably shouldn't have drank my face off the night before.

Friday: A day off from work and a Wawa hoagie. If you don't know, I feel sorry for you. In the evening, a novelty costume and too much Red Bull. It usually doesn't work, but this time I was screaming at everyone I was with and laughing like a stupid banshee. My apologies to all who were with me.

Saturday: Just like the man upstairs, I saw that it was all good, so I finally got some rest. And some Chinese take-out.

Bender complete. Buen Provecho.

Muchas Gracias

To all those that had a hand in this past weekend's sorpresa, especially Mrs. Gastro, I am thankful to have such great friends and family. It was the best birthday ever. I love you guys.

Buffalo Chicken Shitsteak

Dear Cosimo's Pizza,

You have three options; either replace the hot sauce with something that doesn't taste like apple cider (Frank's Red Hot isn't that difficult to come by), take the damn thing off the menu, or change the name to "dessert steak." And after you've made your decision, bring us the cheese sauce you owe us from last night's botched order of cheese fries. Jerks.

Regards,
Mr. and Mrs. Fidel Gastro

In a Word, Opulence

A dear friend of mine was married this past weekend. I think he outdid everyone I know by having a lobster station at the cocktail hour. A pile four feet high, a professional short order shucker slanging tail and clawmeat by the dishful, and a vat of drawn butter. I haven't eaten that much lobster since, well, ever.

Eatin' Good in the Neighborhood

Rather than seek out new and interesting places to try (last night would have been an ideal night for a sports bar to watch the Phillies jonron their way out of a two run deficit), we settled for Applebee's, which makes sense because it's the halfway point between us and the in-laws, and also where our waiter was kind enough to let us order half price appetizers before 9pm. Problem is, when you're getting such a sweet deal (yes, even if you're eating mounds of heavily salted carcinogens, it's still a sweet deal), you could completely render the deal null and void by ordering way more than you need. This is exactly what my fat ass did, and between four people, we managed to rack up $100 worth of food and drink. At Applebee's. That's like spending more than five bucks at taco bell. Buen provecho.

Forged in the Flames of Cheese Sauce

I think every burrito deserves a second chance, especially when the restaurant queue makes its way out the door. After Qdoba served me a burrito both soggy and dry (in all the wrong places), I lowered my expectations and joined D-tron for another go, this time ordering one of their signature burritos, the Chicken Queso. Professor D opted for the Vegetarian Gumbo.

With long lines at the outset, you're subject to table-lurking. Fortunately for me, D-tron scored us a seat while my receipt printed, most likely by giving someone his signature "ice grill."

So here we were, me tearing the burrito foil back, and he already slurping what appeared to be a delicious bowl of soup and rice. The Chicken Queso burrito is made proprietary by a ladle of cheese sauce (canned or otherwise, cheese sauce is like a warm blanket on a cold day. Sadly, if you dipped yourself in cheese sauce to stay warm, once it congealed, you'd be pretty cold, plus you'd look like a real dumbass). Too bad the ladle was more of a tablespoon, and I couldn't really taste it among the hunk of rice and assorted spoofuls of beans, sour cream, chicken, and salsa. Overall, nothing new and innovative. Then again, with my expectations hovering near "this will be a shitty lunch but what the hell," getting a Chipotle replica turned out to be exactly what I wanted. Admit it, if you couldn't get Pat's for some reason, you'd make your way over to Geno's. Assembly line burritos are just plain good (if you can manage to properly cook the rice), whether they start with a Q, a C, or anything in between. And how was the gumbo? Well, you'll have to ask D-tron, but watch out for the "ice grill." Buen provecho.

Food Cart Take Two

Continuing my "Cart for a Day" themed Thursday, the falafel couple outside the 7-11 on 15th and JFK makes a delicious, albeit messy, falafel burrito (I call it a burrito because the pita is thin like a tortilla). Their falafel balls are not of the crunchy on the outside and dry on the inside variety. They have more of an all around chewy consistency, like a savory munchkin, or a potato croquette from Sal's in Carroll Gardens (Google it and order a few. They're the shit). The hummus is silky smooth, and the vegetables are fresh (unlike a certain food truck I've written about in the past). The only complaint is that it's not really lunch-size, but it's too big to be a snack. At $3.50, it should quell the hunger, no? And I'd overdo it with two, not to mention the fact that I'd be spending seven bucks on a meal from a cart. These things will have to be ironed out in the future, as I'm certain that I will return. Oh yeah, and these guys didn't dump ketchup all over my lunch, like that fucker from this morning. Buen provecho.

Broken Breakfast

Dear Toothless Food Cart Vendor,

The order was "bacon, egg, and cheese; salt, pepper, hot sauce." Please do not presume that I want half a bottle of ketchup as well. The only thing worse than ketchup on eggs is purple ketchup on eggs. That, or maybe eating a tin of skoal.

Regards,
Fidel

Live Strong

Lance coming out of retirement to cycle with a message? Or could it be the fact that li'l Phelpsy-poo stole Armstrong's thunder as the world's greatest athlete? Seven Tours vs. Eight medals. The timing's a bit fishy, no?

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)