The Cure for the Summertime Blues

There was some serious backlash regarding the last WhyDIET? post, but that's the intent, people. I eat the heavily marketed crap so you don't have to, thereby saving you both calories and your dignity. However, I have said on more than one occasion that I am an equal opportunity eater, so when I'm not chasing the fast food high, I like to slow things down.

At this other end of the spectrum (the non-shitty end), sweet and spicy takes on a whole new meaning with this barbecue chicken recipe from Serious Eater Joshua Bousel. It turns out that the sauce slathering should be an afterthought, so I focused on creating a zinger of a rub instead, and also made sure that my drumsticks were given at least as much attention as Mrs. Gastro gives to the Jon and Kate saga. Buen provecho.

Rub Ingredients (for 6 lbs of chicken)

2 T Ground black pepper

2 T Chili powder

1 T Brown sugar

1 T Cumin

1 T Dried oregano

1 T Smoked paprika

1 T Salt

1/2 T Granulated garlic

1/2 T Granulated sugar

Cayenne pepper to your heat tolerance

Mix ingredients together and toss with chicken in a couple freezer bags. Refrigerate at least a half hour and up to twenty-four. Follow the recipe in the link above. More pictures can be seen here. Full disclosure: I used Kraft barbecue sauce, but that shit was bangin'.

Why Did I Eat This?

"I'm hot, sticky sweet; from my head to my feet." - Def Leppard

I'm pretty sure the guys from Def Leppard were not referring to Wendy's new Asian Chicken Bites when they wrote "Pour Some Sugar on Me," but I suppose that's neither here nor there. Curious to taste another failure at reinventing the fast food wheel, Mrs. Gastro and I made a small detour on our way to the movies for me to try this drive-thru disaster. Let's break it down like so many stomach acids:

1. I'm pretty sure the acrid taste of the breading was due to the fact that the teens behind the counter would rather smoke marijuana cigarettes than clean the fryer grease, but there's a slight possibility that this whole sauce thing might be Wendy's trying to hide the fact that they're using low(er) quality chicken.

2. The sauce, while not as brown as what you get at the Chinese food carts, had the same corn starchy consistency and stickiness that you pray won't leap from the container onto your hands or clothes (especially if you've got your swag on).

3. More on the sauce: the spice catches up to you, the sweetness makes your teeth hurt, and the red pepper flakes are made of tissue paper.

4. Fries and Sweet & Spicy Asian Chicken is a terrible combination. Sprite doesn't help the cause.

If you've ever put sweet & sour sauce on your chicken nuggets, then these boneless wings are nothing new. The processed chicken is molded a bit differently to replicate breast meat, but that's about it. In addition to the flavors of the Far East, Wendy's also offers Bold Buffalo and Honey BBQ, two flavors that, sadly, I'll be stupid enough to try in the coming weeks. Buen provecho.

Baby Got Back (yes, two rap songs in two posts)

Michael Pollan said that somebody else said that meat will kill you, but as a newly minted Philadelphian, I'm quickly learning a meat bender is the least of my worries. Case in point, the shithead brandishing a lit roman candle amidst the post-fireworks crowd on the Ben Franklin Parkway this past Saturday, or the guy I just heard about on the news that's running around robbing Hispanics at gunpoint. Wading through all this bad news is certainly enough to make you use Pollan's eater's manifesto as kindling for the charcoals and fire up the grill, but since mine's gas and I actually have a profound respect for Mr. Pollan, I'll just open up the valve, pray that my eyebrows remain intact when lighting it, and grill my face off.

After I torched some of Tom Mylan's choicest cuts of pork last summer (sniff), I had to redeem myself. Stumbling upon a Cook's Illustrated recipe a couple weeks back gave me my opportunity. It was your typical gazillion-step process Cook's Illustrated recipe (bad), but it was also the first one I've seen that offered a smoking method for the gas grill (good). Having a Friday at my disposal, I undertook the lengthy process--a brining, a rub, a rest, preparing the wood chips, preparing the grill, and finally, a four hour smoke bath for my baby backs.

The end result was something I want to make every day for the rest of my life. They were quite possibly the most succulent and sumptuous ribs I have ever tasted, and I'm not just saying that because I made them. The brown sugar in the rub gave them a beautiful glaze and sweetness that was the perfect complement to the spice mixture, and the smoky flavor of the meat had me gnawing at each rib for every last piece of protein. If you've got the time and the equipment, I highly recommend using both to make this magical meaty music. Buen provecho.

Barbecued Baby Back Ribs for Gas Grill (stolen from Cook's Illustrated)
Serves 4

Ingredients

Brine
1/2 cup table salt or 1 cup kosher salt
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 racks baby back ribs (about 2 pounds each), or loin back ribs
Spice rub
1 tablespoon sweet paprika plus additional 1/2 teaspoon
1 1/2 teaspoons chili powder
1 3/4 teaspoons ground cumin
1 1/2 teaspoons dark brown sugar
3/4 teaspoon table salt or 1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
3/4 teaspoon dried oregano
3/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
1 teaspoon ground white pepper
1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Instructions
1. To brine the ribs: Dissolve salt and sugar in 4 quarts cold water in stockpot or large plastic container. Submerge ribs in brine and refrigerate 1 hour until fully seasoned. Remove ribs from brine and thoroughly pat dry with paper towels.

2. While ribs are brining, cover two cups wood chips with water and soak 30 minutes, then drain. Combine spice rub ingredients in small bowl. When ribs are out of brine and dried, rub each side of racks with 1 tablespoon spice rub; refrigerate racks 30 minutes.

3. To barbecue the ribs: Place soaked wood chips in small disposable aluminum pan, (or homemade container as illustrated below); set pan on burner that will remain on. Turn all burners to high, close lid, and heat grill until chips smoke heavily, about 20 minutes. (If chips ignite, extinguish flames with water from squirt bottle.) Scrape grill grate clean with wire brush; turn off burner(s) without wood chips.

4. Arrange ribs on cool side of grill and cover (grill temperature should register about 275 degrees on grill thermometer). Cook for 4 hours, until meat easily pulls away from bone, flipping rib racks, switching their position so that rack that was nearest fire is on outside, and turning racks 180 degrees every 30 minutes. Transfer ribs to cutting board, then cut between bones to separate ribs; serve.

The Daddy Mac'll Make You

Pete's Famous was a perfect pit-stop on the way home from the Parkway festivities this past weekend, especially after wading through a crowd of ne'er-do-wells and drunken revelers with two pregnant ladies in tow (no easy feat). We managed to get one of the last tables of the night, and ignoring any sort of physical cues that I should have gone with something a little lighter, I ordered the Mac Daddy Burger Platter, not only because it was called the "Mac Daddy," but also because it was a cheeseburger topped with corned beef and Russian dressing.

Sandwiched between a home-grilled burger dinner and a home-grilled burger brunch, this overachieving middle child of a burger might be more aptly named "The Reuben surprise." I'm left to wonder (and possibly experiment on my own) what it might be like with kraut instead of pickles, but I was very pleased with how the pickles were used here; one lazy cut lengthwise, giving them a thickness that says, "Fuck you people, it's late and I'm sick of cutting pickles." Whether or not that was intentional, the two pickle halves stood up well next to the rest of the burger, which was an opulent mess of surpisingly fresh ingedients. The patty was a little overcooked, but the russian dressing (whether from a jar or house made, it erred on the mayo side, which is certainly preferable) saved the day. And even amidst the chaos of the teenage clientele in the place, the service was excellent. I'd definitely go back for the Mac (Daddy burger Platter). Buen provecho.

Pete's Famous is located at 116 N 21st Street (at Appletree). Mrs. Gastro got the pizza and gave it an OK. I think four of us got stuffed for $44 including beers for the non-pregnant eaters. Ordering the Mac Daddy Burger Platter will probably not make you a Mac Daddy, but it's still pretty damn good.

Why Did I Eat This?

Another relapse with Taco Bell. I needed a fix after finally getting my PA drivers license (it took months to do so, but the story is real boring and makes me look lazy, so forget I even mentioned it). This time I fell victim to a bunch of sweaty groomsmen and a sockeye salmon colored shell, both of which elevated my expectations regarding the heat factor. And since the portion control section of my brain shuts off under such duress, I ordered the Big Box meal, which comes with a Volcano taco, a regular taco, a Volcano burrito, and cinnamon twists.

Unfortunately, the Volcano offerings didn't really erupt with flavor. The mayonnaise that T-Bell tries to pass off as cheese sauce zeroes out any potential heat. There were other eruptions, but we're talking food here, so I'll spare you the details. Buen provecho.

My Friends Are Cooler Than Your Friends: The Hill-Side

As my style continues its downward spiral into weinerdom, I can at least be proud of the fact that I know people like Emil Corsillo, whose quiet confidence and ancient soul gives him the ability to be both masculine and at the forefront of fashion. The combination of the two puts blue collar in the board room with The Hill-Side, a line of stylish alt-haberdashery that would make your father proud (but he wouldn't tell you because he's the strong, silent type).

Constructed of only the most rugged of fabrics (selvedge chambray, waxed canvas) and handmade in Brooklyn, these ties and kerchiefs will be with you from womb to tomb, and since the designs are all such timeless classics, you're looking good under any circumstance. You could even use one of their ties to hang yourself (I can no longer take the weight of the world, but my Hill-Side tie can take the weight of me), although suicide should be the last thing on your mind when you look this good. Buen provecho.

The Hill-Side's available in person at NYC stores The Smile, Smith+Butler, and Steven Alan. You can also fly to Wisconsin and purchase at Context Clothing in Madison. If you want to shop in your pajamas (or if you live nowhere near Madison or NYC), Context also has an online store. For wholesale, contact Emil Corsillo.

Why Did I Eat This?

Admit it. This looks delicious. Maybe not gourmet, but definitely worth a trip down the esophagus. Gooey cheese, an assortment of meats, a crusty and chewy shell, all pre-processed, pre-packaged, frozen, shipped to your nearest Pizza Hut delivery storefront, reheated, and delivered to your doorstep. A second item from the Hut that makes me ponder, "Why did I eat this?" The main reason would have to be that I wanted to check it off the list of things that advertisements tell me to eat. I don't know how on earth they can make this thing so big for so cheap (see photo below for scale), especially with all the meat and cheese inside, but it beats the shit out of a $5 footlong.

I've been trying to get my hands on one of these since Tommy Davidson came out of "retirement" to bounce around on TV and scream "P'zone!" in your face repeatedly (much better than the footlong jingle). Not being anywhere near a pizza hut at the time, I missed my oppotunity, and I figured P'zones had gone the way of the unicorn until my non-DVR TV watching presented me with a second chance. After Mrs. Gastro smacked me out of my Homeresque trance, I grabbed the phone, lowered my expectations, and impatiently waited for about 30-40 minutes.

The verdict? It's actually pretty good, although it's way too much food. If it wasn't so heavy (according to the commercials, over a pound, which feels about right), you could wear it on your head to the Kentucky Derby. The best strategy is to try and stretch it over a couple meals/days if at all possible. Shoving the whole thing in your face will just put you to sleep. It's also really greasy, and I doubt you'd want to shove a paper towel inside of it, so that thing you normally do with really greasy pizza and paper towels doesn't work. If you're a slob like me, this isn't too much of an issue, but you should be mindful of such things as remote controls and couch cushions.

If we're going to call a spade a spade, it's really just a calzone with a clever name, but that's enough to sell me. If you can't find a real pizzeria nearby, or you're just a sucker for marketing like me, I'd give the P'zone a shot. Even if you think it sucks, you're only out six bucks. Buen provecho.

Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 6
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 4
Other: 10.5
Total: 23.5

As of late, I'm either too busy or too boring to maintain this damn blog, but at least I've been able to find the time to eat cheesesteaks (two in the "other" row since last time). The first of the two "other" steaks came from Fiesta Pizza in Chestnut Hill. It didn't suck at all. The movie we watched, "Rachel Getting Married," was a different story. I'd like those two hours back.

"Other" steak number two came by way of an increasingly rare late night run to Chubby's, one which might have been a little safer on foot (although the sub-compact rental car handled great in the Manayunk hills despite the BAC of the driver). Mushrooms (from a can) are starting to make their way into my steaks these days. The brine adds the appropriate amount of saltiness, and since they've been sitting in a can for Jeebus-knows-how-long, the fungus taste is muted (and then further muted by my heavy handed hot sauce/mayonnaise one-two punch) to a volume just above a whisper. That's all for now. Buen provecho.

My Sister-in-Law Found a Dog. Is It Yours?

This little sweetheart was found on Dexter Street in Manayunk. If you are the owner or know the owner of this pooch, please leave me a comment so we can get her back home safely. Unlike my life, this is not a joke.

Chains, Chains, Shackles, and Chains

As twitter increasingly becomes my photoless-in-the-moment medium, I've become neglectful of my non-twitter devotees. My sincerest apologies. Anyhoo, nothing specatacular to report except maybe a post-childbirth class Chili's excursion (I saw one of those giant red chili peppers sitting on a gurney in the hospital, so we had to go). In these economic times (which are still totally going on), the chain gangs are now offering meals under (insert piddly dollar amount that will only serve to make you drink more) bucks. This turns out to be a blessing in disguise, because cheaper chain food means smaller portions means not having to ask, "Why did I eat this?" after eating a giant burger with bacon that looks more like roof shingles than food. In fact, our expectations were so low from the post-it's a girl Chili's excursion that we were pleasantly surprised with our tiny little burgers and buffalo chicken sandwiches (although my Miller Lite was miles away from being crisp and refreshing). Buen provecho.

We went to the Chili's on City Ave. Service was okay. One appetizer, two $7 meals, and a brew doggie came to $33 including tip. I hope Chili's doesn't sue me for using the image above

Chifauxtle

If imitation is the highest form of flattery, then El Fuego must really want to impress Chipotle. Then again, maybe they just want to capitalize on the silent-but-deadly cash cow that is the burrito boom, which, by all accounts, is alive and well in Philadelphia (we took the detour to El Fuego because the Qdoba line was out the door). There were a few missteps, but the next time D-Tron says, "You're coming with me to get burritos. Pick a place," I'll probably pick El Fuego.

Decorated and set up almost exactly like Chipotle, El Fuego has the same spacious and minimalist feel without the "hurry up and eat so others can sit down" vibe. I probably could have stayed there all afternoon (they serve beers, so I may have to make this happen one day). Going down the burrito assembly line, you have your usual suspects: grilled peppers and onions, grilled chicken, grilled beef, stewed beef, chorizo (I suppose they have to separate themselves somehow), and hot, medium, and mild salsa offerings. I went with the chorizo and immerdiately regretted it. I have a very specific idea of chorizo in my head and it's not the kind that looks and tastes like Hillshire Farm smoked sausage. Same foil, same basket, same price (same rice!), but when I peeled back said foil, the damn thing was cold, and the tortilla was brittle. The flavor was as you'd expect from the other guys (a very good thing), but eating a burrito is no fun if it falls apart on its way to your mouth. I'm hoping the next time will yield much better results. Until then, I'm going to tuck into the burrito lethargy that is par for the course with such a huge lunch. Buen provecho.

El Fuego is located at 2104 Chestnut St. and also at 723 Walnut St. I got way too much much food for $7.50. The tap water was free. And yes, that's a crappy picture.

These Economic Times

Looks like McDonald's has scaled back on sesame seeds. Too bad they haven't scaled back on how disgusting their food makes me feel. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

This has been a very long time coming, and it took plenty of whining on my part to convince Mrs. Gastro to give in, but finally, months after the ad where all those (paid) idiots gush over how deliciously non-pizza hutty it tastes, we ordered the Tuscani pasta--one half Bacon Mac 'n' Cheese, one half Chicken Alfredo, one whole piece of shit.

With that, the bad news:

1. The "chicken" is of the hyperprocessed-and-molded-into-strips variety. I'm surprised that it's not breaded, but the release of the Domino's Bread Bowl Pasta may just be the boost Pizza Hut needs to up the ante in the "kill you faster" race.

2. The rest of the Chicken Alfredo mess had a 10:1 ratio of garlic flavor to everything else.

3. The pasta is a bunch of diminutive spirals that are better fit for spooning than forking.

4. You're eating pasta from Pizza Hut.

But there is a silver lining:

1. Bacon (or the bacon flavored chewy chunks of who knows what) truly does make everything better.

2. Since you're getting half portions of each, you feel slightly better about eating the whole thing in one sitting.

3. Delivery means that the work effort involved is reduced to walking from the couch to the door and calculating the tip. Even better, the pasta's congealed enough that you could probably eat it with your hands, eliminating the need to use any utensils whatsoever.

4. I have managed once again to line the pockets of the ad men (good news for them, at least).

If those people really were convinced that this pasta came from a fancy restaurant, I feel sorry for them, but I feel even more sorry for myself. I knew that the pasta was coming from Pizza Hut, and I still ordered it. To my darling Mrs. Gastro, I'm heartily sorry. I should have heeded your warning. Buen provecho.

Cheesesteak Tally

Pat's: 6

Geno's: 0

Delassandro's: 2

Steve's: 1

Street Meat: 4

Other: 8.5

Total: 21.5

One must lower their expectations when it comes to ballpark food. Case in point, the Tony Luke's in left field at Citizens Bank Park. Steak-umm quality meat that tasted boiled, not grilled, and less salt than a sugar factory. I wish I would have opted for "The Heater" over at Campo's (cheesesteak with hot sauce and pepper jack, I think), but by the time I saw the 6'x3' airbrushed sign, the cheesesteak runners were already pretty far up the line and not very patient. It's a very good thing, then, that the night would inevitably lead to multiple cabs to Pat's, where the line wrapped around the building almost twice thanks to the Dead concert (aren't hippies supposed to be vegetarian?). Entirely worth the wait, especially when you're brown bagging Schlitz and discussing with Al Roker's brother whether or not you think touring without Jerry is sacrilege. Buen provecho.

Me and Food Are In a Fight

Dear Food,

Please refrain from being so delicious as to render me incapable of ceasing to shove you in my mouth.

Regards,

Fidel

Dear Metabolism,

Please refrain from being so slow as to render me incapable of enjoying aforementioned food.

Regards,

Fidel

A very uninspired week for me and food. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

If eating healthy is right, I want to be wrong. Dead wrong. Faltering once again on the 5 day fast, I tried to keep it a bit healthier with this disaster of a salad from Orewa Deli in Suburban Station, the Tuscan Tuna (Romaine, tuna, tomatoes, red onions, and chickpeas). It was a plastic clamshell full of disappointment and banality (although the onions are definitely sticking with me). They didn't even give me a piece of bread to soak up the unforkable bits of tuna caught in the clamshell ridges. Why I would buy a salad from one of the dumps in Suburban Station is another one for Robert Stack, and now I'm seven dollars and twenty-seven cents poorer, still hungry, and a little sad. I have managed to completely ruin my afternoon. Shit. Buen provecho.

Come for the Wings, Don't Stay for the Burger

Snug pants wishlist:

1. I wish I could wear them with little to no discomfort.

2. I wish I could fulfill that wish without having to resort to the extreme measure of starvation.

3. I wish I didn't belly flop off the starvation wagon last night, but at least I finally got to try the wings at Union Jack's in North Hills (Glenside).

4. I wish I would have stopped at the wings and not continued on with a burger.

I decided that my suit would fit marginally better if I limited my caloric intake to less than one hundred per day. As an alumnus of the Master Cleanser, I was confident that I could manage a 5 day hunger strike with the occasional bite of steamed spinach or gulp of fruit smoothie. And to be honest, after this past weekend, my body could definitely use some respite from the food abuse. I was doing just fine until Mrs. Gastro and I took a trip to USA Baby to test out a few gliders and pick up a toddler rail. To be more precise, I was doing just fine until I realized that Union Jack's was on the way home a little earlier in the day (although the lousy salesperson did absolutely nothing to take my mind off my mounting hunger with her stupid mouth full of stupid rice cakes and her stupid hard sell and empty threats about glider lead times and her stupid annoying voice. Honestly, who gives a sales pitch with a mouth full of rice cakes?).

Our home inspector let me in on this townie secret of a pub and their magical wings a few weeks earlier. After a gaggle of google results whose main theme was "best wings I've ever had," there was little doubt that this hunger strike had precious few hours left, so after Mrs. Gastro punched the USA Baby salesbitch in the face*, we raced there as fast as the traffic lights and our compact SUV would let us. When we arrived, the first good sign was that the parking lot was full. Even better, when we walked in, there was a booth waiting for us. Brief hiccup with the slow service, but understandable with the bartender doing double duty as the waitress. And then the wings arrived. A brief moment of knuckle cracking and expectations lowering (just in case), and then the gnawing commenced. This wing is classic. No breading, ample hot sauce (we compromised with medium), not the puny kind you get during a 25 cent wing night, and definitely not overcooked (as great as these wings were, some of them had a not-so-appetizing pinkish hue). In addition to the standard, Union Jack's also whips up sauces like honey Caribbean and Mexican jalapeño. Since this place is only 9 minutes from where we live, there's no question we will be back to try these.

But (big but here), we will most certainly not be back for the burgers. It could be guilt for breaking the fast, or it might just be that burgers are not the strong suit at Union Jack's. Feeling adventurous, I ordered the Big Ben, a bacon cheeseburger topped with HP Sauce, the English A-1. The patty was way overcooked and without salt, and because it was left on the grill too long, it was as dry as the kaiser roll it was served on. I am also a fool for thinking that HP Sauce on a burger is a good idea. Looking over at Mrs. Gastro's turkey burger, it was apparent that the same lack of care was taken in its preparation as well. Two huge disappointments. As an afterthought, I looked around to notice that the other tables were full of wings and nothing else. Maybe I should have taken my cue from the townies. Buen provecho.

Union Jack's is located at 2750 Limekiln Pike in Glenside, PA. Without drinking, we were able to get 10 wings and two burgers for $25 including tip. Cash only, but there's an ATM by the Golden Tee machine that you can use for the outrageous price of $2.00 plus whatever your bank fleeces you for.

*Actual punching may not have occurred

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.