Food Bender

If a stray ninja star doesn't kill me, my diet surely will. I spent an entire weekend asking myself not only, "Why did I eat this?" but also, " Why am I unable to stop eating this?" It was a miracle that I could actually get the words out of my mouth with all the food in it. Here's a rundown of the delicious death that was my weekend:

Friday, lunchtime: Ronny's Roadside. The intern at my office swears by the sausage & peppers from this food truck on Temple's campus. So what do I do? Go for the chicken parm and an order of fries. The reason why I would get an order of fries to complement a chicken parm escapes me, especially when I knew the fries had to travel 20 minutes to get here. Wait, I remember now, because I'm a fat ass. Do you ever eat fries so fast that they get stuck in your throat and then it hurts to swallow? Do you ever make it even harder to swallow by taking huge bites of a foot long sandwich that is bready and cheesy to the point where you actually have to chew 30 times to swallow?

Friday, dinner: Uno Pizzeria. Whatever reserves were left in the tank from lunch were completely exhausted by a crazy stroller lady who derailed what would have been a quick registry run to Babies 'R' Us with an inundation of upselling information delivered in the sleepiest of monotones. Waiting to eat is dangerous, because it usually results in ordering too much (or at least eating too much). I went with the parenthetic option, not wasting a single bite of Uno's Shrimp and Crab Fondue, a cheesy and seafoody glop of deliciousness floating in a sea of grease (that's a good thing). I even topped my pizza with it.

Saturday, breakfast: A healthy break from the madness. Mrs. Gastro lovingly prepared a delicious smoothie and pancakes, perfectly portioned and presented.

Saturday, lunch: Four Red Stripes, leftover Uno Pizza.

Saturday, dinner: A pre-Flight of the Conchords meal at Dahlak. I haven't been here since college. Ethiopian (actually Eritrean) food is great, unless your jeans are already snug and you order a third entree to get some vegetables and then when the second round of injera comes you feel bad not eating it even though you're finished. If I were a tad more shameless, I would have unbuttoned the top button of my Levi's.

Saturday, post concert: Having made it home and into bottoms with an elastic waistband, why not eat the rest of the leftover pizza?

Sunday overall was pretty tame. The one item of note is this: It's not the food at Wendy's that makes you fat. It's your inability to resist the 99 cent value menu that makes you fat. Since when do you need to order a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger to supplement your Spicy Chicken combo? Good lord.

I'm not eating this week (we'll see how long that lasts). Buen provecho.

I Am a Mexican Grandmother - The Tamale Marathon

In my formative years, Ma and Pa Gastro spent much of my youth trying to hide my Hispanicity (is that a word?). I'm lucky that it was only on the surface. Behind closed doors, we ate beans and green chile every night, sopping up whatever was left on the plate with freshly made tortillas. Now that it's cool to be Mexican, I've come out of hiding, and my Gastro-in-laws have welcomed me and my culture into their family with open arms. As a gesture of gratitude, I agreed to make tamales, something traditionally reserved for a busy kitchen full of old ladies. Lacking the old lady support, I enlisted the help of a Texan who married into the family, and we began the arduous yet fruitful task.

It all starts with a hefty order of pork and chicken. We used a Boston butt and a whole roaster (6 lbs each) from Haring Brothers, an old school country butcher just outside of Doylestown. The meat preparation is simple. Boil until tender (each took about 2-1/2 hours), cool, debone, and shred (and don't forget to reserve the broth). Mix in some secret spices and corn oil, and you have your tamale meat.

Next, make the masa, a dough made using specially treated cornmeal (sold under the name Maseca in the "ethnic foods" aisle), corn oil, secret spices, and the reserved broth. I mixed this by hand (as a Mexican grandmother should), but next time I may opt for the stand mixer.

The end result will be spread into dehydrated corn husks soaked in water (these are also located in the "ethnic foods" aisle), topped with the meat, and rolled up like one of those herbal cigarettes that the long haired kids used to smoke in high school. This is where things begin to resemble a sweatshop, because you've already logged eight hours, and there's no chance you're going to stop with ingredients begging to meet their tamale destiny. So you roll on and stack up, and just when you think there's a light at the end of the tamale tunnel, you still have to steam them. Another two hours--fueled by Pacifico and Jim Beam--and a silent prayer that your Mexperiment doesn't turn out to be a disaster.

Then, as hour thirteen silently passes, you burn your hands removing the first tamale from its husk, cut into it, and rejoice at your accomplishment. A midnight snack so deliciously addictive that my late abuelita would be proud. One hundred tamales later, I survived, along with my Texan Gastro-in-law, the marathon. Buen provecho.

Special Request

Local Pizza Shop: Hello, Dominick's.
Fidel: Yeah, I haven't ordered it for a while, but a couple months back you guys made me a sandwich that was a cheesesteak with mozzarella sticks, french fries, and marinara sauce.
Local Pizza Shop: Um, I don't think we make that anymore.
Fidel: Well can you make it one more time?
Local Pizza Shop: Hold please. (2 minutes pass. An eternity in this moment) Okay, it's a cheesesteak with what? Mozzarella sticks?
Fidel: And french fries and marin, er, pizza sauce.
Local Pizza Shop: 25 minutes.
Fidel: Thanks.

Believe you me, it's worth the extra effort to get a Fat Knight without having to drive the hour and a half up to New Brunswick. Buen provecho.

Two Out of Three Ain't Bad

Of the many options available to soak up the $3 Bud Light drafts at Drinker's Pub, their Buffalo Fries take the blue ribbon (probably because they were the only option sampled). The perfect storm of fried potatoes, Frank's Red Hot, shredded cheddar, and a blue cheese sauce fit for both sipping AND dipping was an excellent pre-Pub & Kitchen appetizer, but I couldn't tell you the reason why, aside from the fact that it gives me a nice segue into my review of the much buzzed about gastropub. What I can tell you is this: from the bar snacks to the mains, two out of three in each category ain't bad.

Bar Snacks:
Winner: Duck liver on toast. As smooth as meat butter gets. A schmear so perfectly schmeared that you didn't lose any with the inevitable toast crumble after the first enthusiastic bite.
Honorable Mention: White anchovies. Cured to perfection, with a wonderful vinegar finish that was an excellent complement to the Riverhorse beer special.
Loser: Potato pancake topped with smoked salmon and creme fraiche. I know it's passover and all, but much like the angel of death (great Slayer song), I would have been just fine passing over this one.

Appetizers:
Winner (tie): House made French style gnocchi. Everything about this dish (even the hint of mint) made me want to jump in a vat of it and eat my way out. The preparation was brilliant. The little pasta peeps were pan seared and tossed with olive oil and queso fresco, and every bite was a bittersweet reminder that eventually the bowl would be empty.
Winner (tie): Scallops in a rich sauce that made me wish I was at home so I could lick the plate clean (no joke). It's hard to fuck up a scallop, but I think it's even harder to elevate it past being just a scallop. The latter applies here.
Loser: Mussels. Shame on me for thinking, for whatever reason, that the advertised beer and sausage broth did not contain whole links of sausage.

Mains:
Winner: Steak with hotel butter, roasted potatoes, and arugula. I normally don't like to order steak outside of a steakhouse, but this turned out to be a great call. Expertly seasoned and cooked, the melt-in-your-mouth texture was only made richer by topping it with hotel butter.
Honorable Mention: Oysters on the half shell. Rhode Island sent a great batch of oysters over to Pub & Kitchen. As mild as the calm just before Saturday's storm.
Loser: Fluke with roasted asparagus and risotto. The mint from the gnocchi showed up again in the risotto, but it didn't work this time. The fluke needed salt, and the asparagus was a sad few limp spears.

An excellent meal from start to finish. The service was of the "your-water-glass-will-never-be-empty" caliber. The soundtrack was current, loud enough to sing along to (if you're cool enough to know the songs), but not too loud so as to drown out the conversation. Mrs. Gastro would definitely approve, and we plan to eat here in the very near future. Buen Provecho.


Pub & Kitchen, if you don't already know (meaning that you should) is located at 1946 Lombard St. in Philadelphia. Budgetwise, I'd wait until you have an out-of-town guest or other similar occasion where you'd like to show off. If you're still into that whole debt thing, they take major credit cards, but not reservations.

Cocktail Guide

The placemats* at Oscar's Tavern in Philadelphia provide this handy little cocktail guide in case you're in the mood for a Planter's Punch, Gin Rickey, or any other assorted cocktail your father used to drink before he switched to Popov straight from the plastic handle.

*My apologies for the crappy B&W scan. It's the best I can do at my office.

Why Did I Eat This?

I wholeheartedly regret having an egg roll for lunch for the second day in a row. This one was a greasy mess of overcooked cabbage stuffed into a chewy shell (that's a bad thing). Buen provecho.

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.