Field Trip: McCrady's, Charleston, SC

There is a distinct possibility that Sean Brock, executive chef of McCrady's in Charleston, SC, may have stumbled into a time machine fashioned by Eli Whitney somewhere around the turn of the century.  Better yet (and capitalizing on recent media trends), perhaps he is a vampire.  That might explain the fact that he never sleeps, which I am guessing there isn't much time to do so as he tackles the dual role of executive chef and gentleman farmer.  Or quite simply, farm-to-table was the norm for his rural upbringing.  Whatever the case may be, he is both an old soul and an innovator.  In the soft-spoken monologue above, he exudes passion for food, stresses the importance of creating a sense of place, and outlines some of his efforts to undo more than a century of agribusiness food fuck-ups.



Upstairs, where I drank way too many bourbon and cola cocktails, I got the pulse on the Charleston wedding scene from Kiah Stone, who was also pivotal in getting me an audience with Mr. Brock (and more importantly, rattling off his many accolades and food philosophy before I sat with him).

Prior to the interview phase of the evening, I ate what could have easily been my last meal. Passed h'ors d'oeuvres included fried green tomatoes--a single bite of brittle cornmeal surrounding tart and juicy flesh--and crab cakes that posessed a subtle crunch and delicate meatiness (that's a good thing).

As an amuse, a perfectly cooked scallop presented with oyster mushrooms (I think) and asparagus (maybe a bit more than an amuse).

For the first course, a charred marshmallow slowly melted into a rustically textured sweet potato soup.

The main course was a standard filet mignon that was anything but. It was perfectly executed, and the flavor of the beef needed little more than salt and pepper.

For dessert, a duo of chocolate mousse cake and something that everyone was calling, "oh my god, did you try the banana cake?" It was perfection from start to finish, and I'll be shocked if Mr. Brock doesn't take home the Beard award in the coming weeks. Given the time and resource, I would go back to Charleston just to eat here. If your travels take you to the dirty south, I recommend you do the same. Buen provecho.

McCrady's is located at 2 Unity Alley in Charleston, SC. All pertinent info regarding reservations, etc. can be found on their website  Some tooling around on the internet helped me locate Sean Brock's blog as well. Much props to both Kiah Stone and Sean Brock for taking the time to talk to me.

Why Did I Eat This?

If cleanliness is godliness, then what is timeliness?  Beats the shit out of me, because I'm overdue in trying the Double Down.  A week late, but certainly not $7.54 short, which appears to be the going rate for heart disease.  That's for the meal, which comes with potato wedges and a soda.  The sandwich itself is $5.38, enough to make the "lady" who ordered behind me taunt the cashier with threats of "It better be good."  If it were any cheaper, I'd be asking myself more than "Why did I eat this?"  Of course, I do my best to eat first and ask questions later, but by the time I'm done eating, I'd rather take a nap, so most questions go out to pasture.  Regarding WhyDIET? however, the answer lies of course in my own stupid curiosity, but also some goading from the in-laws, one of whom even told me I had fans (note to the rest of you readers: tell me my fans want me to do it, and I may even take the milk bet (again)).  Initial reviews of "it's too greasy" and "it's too spicy" (biter Sam Sifton, Hamburger Calculus, and Mikey Il on Unbreaded) lowered my expectations so far that I was more scared than excited to try it, but the franken-wich that I unboxed was neither.  In fact, it was actually kind of dry.  The teaspoon of Colonel's sauce didn't help matters, nor did the one square inch of bacon that was blanketed by a congealed slice of processed American cheese product.  And much like the rest of KFC's menu, the impending headache grew more intense with each bite as the novelty was quickly replaced with depression.  This was no triumph.  I suppose it's like seeing the musical Cats, or so I've heard. 

Slightly unhealthier than the sandwich was the venue I chose (for its proximity to my office), the food court in the Gallery mall in Philadelphia.  Even in the absence of flash mobs, there's no guarantee you won't get stabbed, which is a shame, because it's got an all-star cast of fast food, including a Golden Krust.  Wherever your local KFC might be (if you have a "local KFC," chances are you've eaten one of these per day since their inception), it wouldn't do all that much harm to try it, if for nothing else than to say you did.  You'll feel slightly dirty afterward, but that feeling fades, especially after a few gin & tonics.  Buen provecho.

My Friends are Cooler Than Your Friends: Delicatessen's Michael Spector

Michael Spector surveys his deli and sighs.  "My mother and grandmother used to bring me to places like this for Saturday lunches, usually after a bit of shopping."  This is something I know absolutely nothing about, but it's one of those memories that even a lobotomy couldn't erase.  So vivid, and so formative.  Granted, I didn't meet my first Jew until high school, so it's not like I would know about such things.  But it's a jump-off point, an homage to the old school with a progressive bent, call it Deli 2.0.  Being the diplomat he is, Spector's ultimate goal is to have a deli rooted in tradition that also offers something for everyone.  Judging by the extensive menu (thanks, Meal Ticket), he's off to a great start.  There are traditional offerings such as matzo ball soup and house-smoked pastrami, as well as offerings such as Bubby's Kitchen Sink Pho (rice noodles in matzo ball soup with assorted meats and whatever else is lying around in the kitchen) and a Tuxedo Dog (cheese-stuffed and bacon-wrapped Hebrew National).  Another goal of Spector's is to have fun, and to do so, Delicatessen is currently running a sandwich naming contest on their Facebook page.  Leave your idea on the fan page, and whoever gets the most comments will be able to eat their creation for free the entire month of May.  Next month, they are running a funniest Bar/Bat Mitzvah photo contest.  Clearly, nobody is taking themselves too seriously here (that's a good thing).

So how's the food?  I ordered "Mom Mom's Tuna Fish Salad Melt" and Pastrami Waffle Fries, more than enough for even the likes of me.  The tuna melt was served open-faced on challa bread, with muenster cheese and sliced tomato.  Latkes were served on the side, one of many items you can order as an accompaniment.  The tuna salad was excellently balanced.  It was neither gloppy nor dry, and there was enough celery to add a subtle crunch without overstepping its boundaries.  The latkes were thin and crisp, the grease held in suspension so you got the flavor without the sogginess.  The pastrami waffle fries--well, let's just say that I'm not too proud of how I handled myself after the first bite.  A decadent mess of potatoes, swiss cheese, russian dressing, cole slaw, and pastrami, I couldn't put my fork down.  The pastrami was peppery and chewy and meaty, and I know this may sound disgusting, but it was so good that I might not floss for a few days in the hopes that some of it sneaks out from in between my teeth.  Failing, that, I'll just have to return, and soon.  For drinks, Delicatessen offers micro-brewed sodas from Multi-Flow, a local brand of fizz sweetened with real cane sugar, the requisite Dr. Brown's sodas, and La Colombe coffee.

Spector still considers Delicatessen very much a work in progress.  Although he's been in the game for a number of years, this is his first role as proprietor. He says that right now, there is more that he doesn't know than what he does.  But he's an eager student, constantly looking for ways to improve product and service.  Personally, I think Delicatessen is off to a great start, and not just because I ate for free because we are old friends.  Being there during the lunch rush, I watched a cohesive kitchen and waitstaff expertly handle a full house, including a stroller brigade and an old lady with too much money and time on her hands.  My only recommendation besides getting there as soon as you can?  Go hungry.  Very hungry.  Buen provecho.

Delicatessen is located at 703 Chestnut St. in Philadelphia.  They are open M-F from 8am to 4pm, and Sa-Su from 9am-4pm.  For takeout, call 215-923-4560.  I ate for free, but you can get nice and full for around $12-$15 plus tip. More photos here.

Why Did I Eat This?

While the rest of the world clogs the arteries of the press (here's Unbreaded's take) with tales of clogging their own arteries with KFC's Evel Knievel of a "sandwich," I find myself at Dunkin' Donuts eating a somewhat (but not by much) healthier gimmick, the Bagel Twist.  Currently offered at 3 for $3, what you see above is the cheddar cheese offering in actual and ad form (in the top image, you can see that I asked for mine to be stepped on.  The cashier happily obliged).  You can also get cinnamon raisin, and according to the Dunkin' website, select markets will have jalapeño cheddar and french toast offerings. I will be sampling none of these.  The takeaway here is that a shitty bagel is still a shitty bagel, no matter the shape.  Even with the cheddar cheese product baked into the top, it's hard to get past the rubbery staleness that is the Dunkin' bagel.  They should really stick to donuts.  Buen provecho.

Sam Sifton is a Biter

I know it's a free country and all, and I suppose that it's my own fault for lack of timeliness, but this post by Sam Sifton on the NY Times Diner's Journal blog sounds a lot like "Why Did I Eat This?"  To which I say, in Beat Street parlance, "You're a biter."  Do yourself a favor and stick to the high brow dining in obscurity for the benefit of those with an expense account. I'll scoop the readers on the deadly empty calories.  Otherwise, a breakdance battle will ensue, and I guarantee that you will get burned.  This is not a threat, it's a promise.  Buen provecho.

Pillow Status: Dining On the Slept On

I suppose it's ramen's and pho's fault that Nan Zhou Hand Drawn Noodle House in Philly's Chinatown has reached pillow status, but it's a boon for the likes of us who have limited time for lunching.  Shoehorned into a row of storefronts slanging shrinkwrapped rubber products and dehydrated foodstuffs of questionable USDA status, you might miss it if you blink.  Once inside, you're not greeted by much--a few restaurant depot tables and chairs, but looking back into the open kitchen is a sight to behold.  Just beyond the cash register, you'll see a Chinese dude tossing about an enormous blob of dough that will eventually become your noodles.  Served with your choice of protein in a bowl of broth that tastes like has been simmering since before I was born, the noodles have a just-made-this-second gummy texture (a very good thing).  You can also get them on a plate topped with either peanut sauce or "pork soy sauce," a gingery and salty meat sauce that might just be the Chinese version of bolognese.  It was exactly what I wanted to eat and I had no idea until the first bite.  All in all, a stellar find.  Before comfort food season gives way to lighter fare, it would be in your best interest to forgo the pho and the ramen to give Nan Zhou a whirl.  And if you're not in the mood for soup, just order the noodles straight up.  You won't regret it.  Buen provecho.

Nan Zhou is located at 927 Race St in Philly's Chinatown. It's a tiny hole in the wall, so be careful not to stumble into what might be an opium den behind the wrong door (or try your luck). I got a huge plate of noodles for $6 including tip.

How Much Is That Birdie in the Window?

You learn something new every day, but on the days you have lunch with Ethan, you want to make sure you pay attention.  Case in point: The best English translation for the scallion-tattooed chicken hanging in the windows of many a Chinatown restaurant is "smoothly and fragrant" chicken. Sounds fuckin' weird, but it's the best thing on the menu. The lacquered one hanging right next to it is called soy chicken (not to be confused with the spongy alt-meat reserved for those who want chicken flavor without the moral dilemma), and it's equally delicious. At five bucks a pop, even if the translation is offputting, it's definitely worth the gamble. Buen provecho.

Green Chile: Worth the Food Miles

A recent article posted in the Atlantic's food section gives a nod to Mormon cuisine, an ironically sacreligious mess of processed and highly caloric foods laid atop a jiggly foundation of Jell-O (I suppose procreating at a methamphetamine-addicted rabbit's pace leaves little time for food).  Growing up there as a triple minority (poor, Messican, and Catholic), I was not privy to many of the staples mentioned in the article (although I do reserve a special place in my heart for Cool Whip).  Had I been, I'd probably be a lot fatter than I am now.  Instead, every year just before school began, I was shuffled into the backseat of a car at 4am for a no-stops-allowed-just-pee-in-this-cup drive to New Mexico to pick up enough beans and green chile to last us the whole year.  Bland was not an option in the Gastro household, and neither was anything from a can.*

Years later, there's very little I miss about Salt Lake save for my folks (and their delicious Navajo tacos), and it was their own green chile addiction that has resulted in them now being forced to stuff their suitcases with it every time they visit (not that my father really needs much room for the only things he packs, a ratty Penn sweatshirt and a threadbare t-shirt he's worn since I was 10).  Only now--when I'm even further away from the land of enchantment--do I appreciate my folks' effort of a 13-hour drive and a marathon week of roasting burlap sackfuls of green chile. I suppose being an outsider did have its perks.

On its own, roasted green chile adds a unique flavor and texture that opens your sinuses without making your eyes water.  In a stew prepared with chunks of pork, tomatoes, garlic, and onions, it will warm your soul's soul.  Recently, I had the chance to spread the gospel of green chile to Marc Sanders of Burgatory.  We topped his signature burger and homebaked buns with the stuff, and the results were both mindblowing and tongue-numbing.  Paired with a helping of sweet potato home fries and a few pale ales, it made for a great Sunday afternoon.  If you're ever in New Mexico, make sure to order green chile on everything, and not just because you can.  If you're out here on the east coast, drop me a line, and I might be willing to share some of my stash with you.  Buen provecho.

*Full Disclosure: After my folks opened a restaurant, there was little time for home cooking, so there was a time when I did eat a lot of fast food/processed food/canned food, the same crap I continue to eat to this day.  They still managed to make the trip each year, but I figured it should be known that home cooking was not exactly the norm during my teen years.

TGIFAHTTTIICC

Or, Thank Gaga It's Friday And Honest Tom's Taco Truck Is In Center City. If you think that's a mouthful, wait 'til you get a load of the tacos themselves. Typically reserved for Dragons, Quakers, and the staff that cater to those punk kids in West Philadelphia, Honest Tom's is using the spring break hiatus to bring the truth to Center City. Foobooz says that the truck says (not the actual truck, because talking trucks only exist in the land of make believe) there's a possibility of coming to Center City every Friday and that location suggestions are welcome.  I would be perfectly happy if they stayed put at 18th and Vine, where they are right now, serving up delicately cooked fish tacos topped with a pineapple salsa.  And if you need something to wash them down, they've got cold brewed Stumptown iced coffee by the jugful.  An infinitely better choice than the shrimp taco disaster of last week.  Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

The Butterfly Effect was a really stupid movie. On the contrary, the concept of one event being able to change the outcome of your situation is fascinating. Case in point, the haircut lady I normally go to quit/was fired from the place in Suburban Station, so instead of switching up my look from a fat Justin Bieber to something a little more grown up/professional, the time spent doing so was immediately reallocated to tracking down Taco Bell's latest offering, the Pacific Shrimp taco. Suspending all better judgment in the name of "Why Did I Eat This?", here's a rundown of what surprisingly didn't suck as much as I thought it would (but still sucked pretty bad):

1. The shrimp, which I imagine (hope) comes pre-cooked, were not texturally offputting, and they had a decent kick to them.
2. The sauce, a thinned out mayonnaise with flecks of dehydrated herbs, was bland, and most of it leaked out after a few bites.
3. Three bucks for one taco makes me feel better about the quality of the shrimp, but it also makes me feel stupid for spending three bucks on a single item at Taco Bell.
4. The rest of the composition was standard issue yellowish brown lettuce, mealy tomatoes, and a damaged tortilla to hold it all together.
5.  I didn't eat the thing too long ago, so the possibility of getting really sick from eating shellfish at Taco Bell is still very real and very frightening.

As the impending doom digests, I leave you with this: if you must partake in the unholy union that is seafood and fast food, do yourself a favor and stick with a Filet-o-Fish.  Buen provecho.

My Friends are Cooler Than Your Friends: Gene Finley

There is no better way to capture the essence of the Claire Finley Memorial Beef and Beer than interviewing the man behind the magic, especially when the interview is shot with an iPhone and the audio sucks because neither of us are wearing a mic and the background noise is fueled by endless pitchers of beer.  The camerawork leaves even more to be desired (sorry, Matt, you won't be winning an Oscar for cinematography anytime soon).  Regardless, mistakenly attending this event four years ago has allowed me to watch it grow like a weed, and in case you can't hear the interview that well, Gene's been able to raise some serious cash for scholarships awarded in his sister's honor.  If there were more people like this in the world, I would sleep better at night.  Gene, congrats on another successful year*.  Buen provecho.

*Success limited to the fundraising of the event only. After three years of winning baskets, Team Gastro was shut out this year. The box of Baby Ruth bars was a nice consolation prize, however.

Picking Up My Slack

Consistency is not my strong suit.  Furthermore, depriving myself of modified corn products for the past two weeks--the -ases and the -oses--has given me meat and dairy tunnel vision.  Luckily, the good folks over at Hamburger Calculus have remained in the processed food game, and they have located (and eaten) another one of Herr's snack food science experiments.  Behold, Grilled Cheese Flavored Cheese Curls, housed in another bag unlikely to win any design competitions.  Buen provecho.

Picture used without permission. I hope they don't mind.

Field Trip: Yakitori Totto

 Mrs. Gastro and I are in week two of our throwback diet (no carbohydrates).  At this point, hunger has turned into hanger, and we would give pretty much anything for a pancake or two.  There have been some bright spots (most of them involving steak in a cream sauce), but overall, this diet is for freaks, which I suppose makes us freaks.  Getting to the point of all this, a quick trip to New York City could have unraveled the whole thing, but a dear friend of mine came up with the perfect solution: yakitori.  It's how the Japanese do churrascaria, a much more delicate and intimate experience that I'm assuming can be attributed to the fact that samurai swords are just way too sharp to be carrying meats around a crowded dining room.  Instead, your meats and organs show up on wood skewers, all of which are ordered a la carte.

 

There are too many skewers to mention, but rest assured, we ate everything there is to eat that a chicken has to offer, plus a few vegetables to health it up.  The experience was great, but if you're not careful, your appetite for charcoal-kissed chunks of chicken can really add up.  No matter, it was great to catch up with my NYC crew, even if I left the joint reeking of a Japanese backyard BBQ (I have no idea what that means).  If you find yourself in Midtown Manhattan during a throwback diet, I highly recommend waiting for a table here.  Buen provecho.

We scored our skewers from Yakitori Totto, located on the second floor of 251 West 55th Street. We had what felt like unlimited skewers, shochu, sake, and sapporo for $90 including tip.  Like I said, it can really add up if you don't watch it, but watching it is really no fun, so expect to spend some money here.  Also, expect to wait if you have a party larger than two.  The place is really small.

Julie & Julia & Julio

Last year's Valentine's Day experience, while not a complete disappointment, was still enough to convince us that cooking at home is the better option on amateur night, so when I saw a hunk of shrinkwrapped chuck roast  at Pathmark, I figured I would try my hand at boeuf bourguignon.  If a six-foot tall lady played by Meryl Streep can do it side-by-side with a food blogger-cum-writer from Queens played by Amy Adams in a really crappy movie, then why couldn't I?  Shit, I could blog about it, too, and change my name to Julio (pronounced "JOO-lee-oh" like this Puerto Rican dude I used to know who really should have stuck with "HOO-lee-oh"), and we can all have a laugh at the parody of it all.

And that's exactly what happened, except I didn't execute very well.  The sauce was flavorful, but the meat was leathery, even after a long and leisurely wine jacuzzi.  The snap judgment--something I'm really good at--is that I suck at braising.  If there's anyone out there that can drop some knowledge about how cooking liquid is supposed to look when you're simmering, please do so.  In the meantime, here's some insight based on hindsight:

1. Make this the day before so you have an easier time skimming the fat.  I skipped this step.  I don't think it helped matters.
2. Clear your schedule. This recipe's a time burglar.
3. Attempting to talk in Julia Child's voice while making this dish does not improve the final product.
4. Watching the movie Julie & Julia doesn't make you a good cook. It just makes you wish you had those hours of your life back.

Best of luck if you decide to give it a shot.  I know I didn't sell it well, but in the end, I had a lot of fun screwing up this recipe.  Plus, it was wonderfully comfortable given the shitty weather.  We served it with slow roasted potatoes dusted with a spice bag I brought home from Morocco, and finally opened up the bottle of Pride 2005 Cabernet Franc that we got on our honeymoon.  Mrs. Gastro has taken to baking cakes, and she made my favorite, yellow with chocolate frosting.  It was a perfect ending to a not-so-perfect meal.  Happy belated Valentine's day.  Buen provecho.

Field Notes: Chicago Hot Dogs

A dear friend of mine just relocated to Chicago.  Something about math and markets during the day and impersonating Grant Achatz in the evenings.  He's somewhat reserved, unless there's a skateboard underneath his feet or a microphone being forced into the crowd.  Anyhoo, I'm really hoping that he'll be my Chicago food proxy, especially after receiving this a few days ago:


"I must have sounded like an idiot ordering, I asked so many questions. Like someone who goes to Pat's and asks how the onions are prepared. People put on a lot of toppings. I asked for sauerkraut, and the big homegirl said, 'This ain't New York.' Then I asked if the hot dogs are pork or beef. 'This is beef, honey. The pork's between my legs.'" 

Thanks, D-tron.  Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

There are few places more depressing than family night at Uno Pizzeria (especially when you're one of six diners), but your options are severely limited when your plan to "just go and get the BJ's membership" turns into "Maybe we do need a gallon of mayonnaise," and "Sure, we'll definitely finish this suitcase of mixed greens before it wilts," until you've clocked a few laps around the discount warehouse, you're hungry, and more importantly, the baby is hungry.  Under these circumstances, the best choice is always the closest establishment that serves beer and more than likely just reheats their pre-packaged entrees, thereby ensuring prompt service.  Uno was a no-brainer.

Not wanting pizza and feeling perpetually guilty about eating red meat (I'm almost at the point where I feel guilty eating meat in general, which is a real turnaround for me.  It's also a huge bummer), I opted for "Rattlesnake Pasta," penne and grilled chicken in a cream sauce topped with shredded cheddar cheese and pickled jalapenos.  I rationalize ordering the unhealthiest thing on the menu based on both price and the fact that eating such crap only happens once in a while, even if once in a while sometimes means twice a week. This dish was definitely in that category. 

After a well executed magic trick by a ponytailed magician (and a subsequent awkward moment deciding whether or not I had to tip him and then not tipping him*), the pasta arrived in all its gooey glory.  Except that, as you can see, the combination of cold weather and air conditioning caused the sauce to congeal.  Coupled with a stingy sprinkling of cheddar and jalapenos, I was left with forkful after forkful of bland penne.  Each bit made me more depressed, which made me eat more, which made me more depressed (just like poor Fat Bastard).  Our waiter, a rotund and clearly stoned version of Luke Wilson (who looks a bit hefty himself in the AT&T commercials), said it was his favorite.  In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best idea to take a recommendation from Johnny Blaze, but you live and learn, which is really the essence of Why Did I Eat This?  Buen provecho.

*Steve G, if you're reading this, what's the protocol?

Pick One: Are You Pho Real?; Pho-nally; or, It's About Pho-ckin' Time

In the fall of 2009, I predicted pho would be the next big thing in comfort food.  At that point, I had yet to try it, but its cult following by eaters coast-to-coast indicated that it was at a tipping point.  Even with ramen hot on its heels, I'm confident that pho will enjoy its time in the spotlight in 2010, and I'm happy to say that before this happens and I switch my beverage du jour from pho broth to hater-ade on principle--thereby cutting off my nose to spite my face--I was able to slurp back an Atlantis of noodles resting at the bottom of an oversized bowl of meaty, gingery broth.  I imagine that most of you reading this (if anyone is actually reading this) have enjoyed the experience, but for those who haven't, I recommend the following: order the special, don't question the meat involved, give it a healthy squeeze of sriracha and lime, and see how long you can make your good manners last before ultimately burying your face in the bowl and ruining your freshly laundered J.Crew button-down.  Buen provecho.

I lost my pho-ginity at Pho Cali, which is located on 10th and Arch in Philadelphia's Chinatown.  In addition to a host of mix-and-match pho offerings, they also slang banh mi sandwiches and other Vietnamese fare (stuff I've never had, but would love to try).  I got a so-so summer roll and the bowl of bliss pictured above for $10 including tip.

Stuck Between Maroc and a Hard Place

When you're young and stupid, business travel sounds like a great idea.  Air travel, free food, maybe a neat name tag if you're at a team building or sales convention.  The reality of business travel is that since you're wherever you are to work, all the touristy stuff you had planned to do takes a seat right next to you in the back of the van that's carting you around.  It's still pretty cool that you're considered worth the airfare, lodging, and the name tag, however, and if you can manage some downtime, you may wind up eating something that will never show up on the menu at Applebee's (although I just got an email from Uno Pizza about a Moroccan soup).  You might also get kidnapped.  This past week's sojourn to Morocco was a blitzkreig of interviews, harrowing cab rides, and language barriers.  When we finally hit the pause button to eat, we found a wealth of porkless options that showcased the amalgamation of French and Middle Eastern cuisine typical to the region, a place where a lemon sauce is so sour as to be bitter, veal is actually short ribs, and every meal comes with French fries (a good thing).  More pictures after the jump.

Why Did I Eat This?

This is the carcass of a muffin that cost me $2.43.  I can get a bacon, egg, and cheese from the toothless guy outside for less money.  The worst part?  It tasted like Arm & Hammer and smelled like the cheap lotion they sell in the shrinkwrapped wicker gift baskets at the dollar store that the fat ass dude from Teen Mom would probably buy for his whale of a girlfriend to say sorry for being such a lame and sweaty excuse for a human being.  I suppose that at the end of the day, it could always be worse.  I could be that dude.  Buen provecho.

I Am Your Drunk Uncle: Egg Nog

(Apologies for the lack of timeliness on this one)

"Hey, it's the guy that makes the egg nog!"

If this is what you aspire to, continue reading.  If it's not, enjoy your much less flavorful and definitely less rock 'n' roll carton of the storebought stuff.  For the adventurous and attention-starved, you would be surprised how simple it is to prepare egg nog from a dozen eggs, some heavy cream, milk, sugar, and nutmeg, resulting in applause from all who imbibe.  If you can execute, it's a foolproof way to flex some culinary muscle.  I've been making Cyril Collins' recipe for a couple years now, and according to my monther-in-law, it's the best she's ever had:




Start by separating the eggs.  Whisk the yolks with sugar, beat the whites until stiff (and get your minds out of the gutter), combine with the milk, heavy cream, and the booze of your choosing (I opted for a cup each of Sailor Jerry and Jim Beam), dust with nutmeg, and do your best not to puke all over your gay apparel (man, this would have been so much funnier around Christmastime).  Then forget to write about it until after the New Year.  Then forget that you already (sort of) wrote about it a year ago.  Then wish your reader(s) a merry belated Christmas.  Buen provecho.

Guided Missile versus Kamikaze

Rather than jumping head first into the funeral pyres of processed food like I tend to do, Hamburger Calculus uses a more, er, calculated approach.  Integrate yourselves into their blog this week as they drop some science on Japanese snack foods and where to get them (I stole the photo above from this post).  Buen provecho.

The Worst Shit I Ate All Year

This year marked the introduction of "Why Did I Eat This?" on Fidel Gastro, a low-brow culinary oddyssey of bridging the gap between the food you see in the commercial and what it really looks like when the wrapper comes off, or sometimes just letting hunger get the best of me with no marketing involved.  Behold, another not-very-well-thought-out list of the terrible excuses for food in 2009.

10. Taco Bell's Blackjack Taco: As the unofficial spokesfood for the Phillies' 2nd World Series bid, the photoshopped images were pure comedy, but the actual taste of this thing was more miserable than the entire white sneakered population of gents mourning a loss to goddamned Yankees.
9. Big Ben Burger at Union Jack's: Amazing wings, terrible burger.  I guess you can't be good at everything (Michael Phelps is a great swimmer, but he sucks at not getting busted for smoking pot).
8. Flavia Coffee from my office pantry: Is it that difficult to make single serving coffee not taste like burnt water?  And is a carton of half-and-half really that much more than a squirt bottle of non-dairy creamer?
7. Wawa cheesesteak: Duh.
6. Baja Fresh burritos: We really tried to like these.  Even if you give them odds against the likes of Chipotle and Qdoba, they still can't get past "sucks only a little" status, which makes them a waste of money.
5. Dunkin' Donuts Waffle Breakfast Sandwich: A poor excuse for a McGriddle with waffle marks.
4. Pizza Hut Tuscani Pasta: You're better off making a box of Kraft macaroni & cheese.  Hell, you're better off just opening the packet of cheese powder and dumping it into a glass of water.
3. Herr's Kansas City Prime Steak Flavor Potato Chips: I will forever feel stupid for falling victim to these.
2. Buffalo chicken cheesesteak from Cosimo's Pizza: Last time I checked, hot sauce wasn't supposed to taste sweet.
1. Wendy's Asian Chicken Bites: A high fructose corn syrup-based sauce sloppily glopped over boneless breaded chicken that was obviously fried in grease weeks overdue for a change almost ruined fried chicken for me.

There were two things I couldn't manage to get to that would both be shoo-ins for this list, but you'll just have to wait and see what 2010 brings (aside from another 15-20 lbs on my frame).  Here's to another great year of regrettable eating.  Buen provecho.

The Best Shit I Ate All Year

Disclaimer: I'm rushing this out, so if it sucks, I apologize.

It's been a big year for the Gastro family.  Following a move to Philadelphia (yes, Chestnut Hill is STILL Philadelphia), we managed to cram in a house purchase, a baby, and the beginning of business school.  Through it all, I've been fortunate enough to have the time and inspiration to eat, write, and inflate the spare tire that is my ever expanding midsection.  Without giving it much thought at all (assuming that there are few of you out there who give a rat's posterior), here are the best things I've shoveled into my face in 2009 (a worst list will follow shortly).

10. Nachos at Solaris Grill: The homemade chips and mountain of toppings are a bright spot in an otherwise dim menu at this Chestnut Hill jack of all trades.
9. Wings at Union Jacks: Full of townies (my favorite kind of place), the crispy/spicy/meaty balance of these wings more than makes up for the shitty service.
8. Chicken cutlet sandwich at Shank's: I can only infer from the photos and write-ups eating the wall space in the new Shank's that the old timey location was magical, but for me, having it within walking distance of my office is all the magic I need.  If you don't like broccoli rabe, you will after eating this sandwich.
7. Butcher & Singer burger special: For $5.95, it's worth the derision of a thousand vintage upselling waiters, not just the one that you get stuck with.
6. Veggie burger at Campbell's Place:  It's a samosa on a bun, and the bun is one of best you'll ever eat.
5. Short rib huarache at Distrito: Garces' year kicks the shit out of my year. I'm just happy that I was around to see it all go down.  Even if the Phillies shit the bed, we've always got Garces. The gooey cheese was the highlight of this pizza-esque dish, one option of many on the list of small plates (I also recommend the pork tacos). 
4. Roast pork w/sharp provolone at DiNic's: There are few lines worth standing in.  This is one of them.
3. Short rib and cheddar fries at Village Whiskey: What can I say? The man knows his way around short ribs.  Served in a cast iron skillet and lightly scented with cinnamon, these will warm your soul, even on the coldest of days.
2. Strike Zone and D.P. Dunkers at D.P. Dough: Surprisingly, I preferred this vegetarian zone to any of the meat options I had.  I just supplemented it with a box of boneless and breaded bites of chicken.  Make sure you get a side of bangin' sauce.  You won't be disappointed.
1. Fat boy monster at PYT: The burger that I paid for (this one) was better than the burger I got for free. Go figure.  This burger makes you want to be morbidly obese just so you can have a second or third without making yourself sick.

Stay tuned for the worst.  Because I ate so many awful things, I'll need to think on that one a bit.  Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

In nature, warning signs abound for things you're not supposed to eat. The cactus has thorns, the lobster has claws (but mad props to the guy who figured out a way to get at its delicious meat), and poo smells like, well, poo.  Under the fluorescent lights of a bustling Wawa, the signs are there, but you need to look a little closer. 

After two artificially flavored successes, Herr's suffers a face mangling fall from grace with their Kansas City Prime Steak Flavor potato chips.  If the shittily designed packaging was any indicator of what lurked inside, I should have heeded its warning.  The off-putting "Western" font whose name I can't place (because I'm not well-versed in fonts), the brown-checked background, and a floating steak that looks like it came from an old Sizzler advertisement. Clearly Herr's is paying the flavor fellas more than the graphics guys.  I could have opened a packet of Lipton Onion Soup Mix and gotten the same result, an overly salty and artificial crunch that could only be delicious if I were exiled to the eternal blackness of a space station behind the moon, and there was nothing left to eat after the other dude lost the coin toss.  Space station or no, there's a better use for a dollar.  Buen provecho.

'Twas the Hour Before Lunchtime (An Ode to Chipotle)

An old buddy of mine just composed this Christmas miracle.  Some time ago, we spent a month's worth of business days eating Chipotle burritos (thanks, Hank) :

" 'Twas the hour before lunchtime
And all through the city
Chipotles were starting
To steam rice...not too sticky
The foil was all stacked
By tortillas with care
With the knowing that customers
Would soon be there...

Why Did I Eat This?

It's called "The Gobbler."  Translation? You need to eat this pile of mush lightning fast. Otherwise, call up the IT boys and order a keyboard replacement, because that's where most of the cranberry sauce, stuffing, and gravy will wind up.  There are few better ways to ingest 1,000% of your daily intake of sodium than this mess of a holiday hoagie, especially for $2.99.  Buen provecho.

Available at Wawa for a limited time. You can also forgo the hoagie roll and get the same pile of shit in a plastic bowl.

Why Did I Drink This?

I call this the El Camino.  Equal parts Mountain Dew and Jose Cuervo poured into a stemless wine glass.  Let's put it to a vote.  I am either:

a. Extreme!!!
b. Innovative in the face of adversity, the adversity being that there is no beer, wine, or whiskey in the house
c. A pathetic drunk

If you're curious (which you shouldn't be), it tastes like a sickly sweet hangover reminiscent of the days when you would pour whatever you suspected mom and dad would not miss into a plastic tumbler and hope for the best.  Adults, don't try this at home.  Kids, I'm pretty sure you're already trying it, so I won't tell you to do otherwise, but I don't condone it.  Buen provecho.

M'm M'm Good

All parenthood and no dining out makes Fidel a dull boy.  Thankfully, I've been blessed with a very portable daughter.  Whether or not this spells doom for her teenage years, I can't say, but for now, she is more laid back than a Jamaican in Amsterdam, and that's a beautiful thing when it comes to date night with no babysitter.  Sometimes you just need someone else to pour the wine and cook the food, so we strapped Baby Gastro in the carseat, packed up the sweet diaper backpack, and headed to Campbell's Place for said services this past Friday.

Located at roughly the midpoint of Chestnut Hill's stretch of Germantown Avenue, it's great for both old money and new money (and in our case, no money) Northwest Philadelphians.  The menu reflects the clients, running the spectrum from a burger with your choice of toppings to filet mignon with truffled mashed potatoes.  In between, pub standards such as fish and chips, and a few departures, notably, guava glazed ribs, and a veggie burger that could make me quit meat (well, that might be a bit dramatic). 

Following our noses, we started with a plate of cornmeal dusted calamari.  Fried anything is good, but when it comes to calamari, it's a tad more difficult.  Cook it too long and you find yourself chewing on an assortment of novelty squid pencil erasers.  This was not the case for what came out.  After the initial crunch of cornmeal, each bite melted in my mouth.  There wasn't even a need for the accompanying marinara.

For entrees, we ordered his and hers burgers, mine being a Paulie burger with bacon and bleu cheese, Mrs. Gastro's being a veggie burger.  The his burger, while cooked to my liking, had the opulence one associates with a steak dinner.  A severe helping of blue cheese and bacon--usually something I would gobble up (and I did anyway)--punished the rest of the plate.  To make matters worse, the handful of light-refracting salt crystals strewn all over the fries made my tongue feel like an old nautical rope.  I had to order a second beer to fend off the impending dehydration.  On the other side of the table, however, we found a true gem.  The hers burger is without a doubt the best interpretation of a veggie burger I have ever tasted.  Composed of Indian flavors, it was like eating a samosa on a bun.  Texturally (and just like magic), the makeup of curry rice and vegetables was such that it didn't crumble into a mushy mess that one typically associates with non-processed and frozen veggie burgers.  It was served with a creamy yogurt dill sauce that was not quite as thin as a raita, so it was perfect for dipping both sandwich and fries.

No dessert this time around, but we will be back for sure, undoubtedly to eat this veggie burger of veggie burgers.  The atmosphere is casual and fun, albeit a bit cramped, and the popularity of the place makes it moreso.  The establishment is long and narrow, and I would argue that the best seats in the house are at the bar (hard to sit there with a baby, though).  The hostess service was very accommodating, but our waitress seemed annoyed.  She wasn't exactly a jerk, but she wasn't very nice, either.  If you find yourself in Chestnut Hill and you've already had the Schmitter, grab a table at Campbell's Place and see what makes it so m'm m'm good.*  Buen provecho.

Campbell's Place is located at 8337 Germantown Avenue in Chestnut Hill (that's in Northwest Philly).  We got full and drunk for $55 including tip.  Full disclosure: I have a tall and handsome friend that introduced me to the owners, but they didn't remember who I was when we were there.

*I really hope Campbell's Soup doesn't sue me.

Local Innovators

Another spud success from Herr's.  Cheddar Horseradish flavored Kettle Chips.  Totally worth the calories and nasal discomfort.  Buen provecho.

Squanto Ain't Got Shit On Me: Turkey Day

Holidays kick ass on many levels, but at the top of my list is always the copious amounts of food and spirits, and the way things have gone down in the households I've been a part of, consumption of said food and spirits usually transpires while wearing pants with an elastic waistband.  It puts the comfort in comfort food.  It also saves you from that whole cliche of eating too much and then having to undo buttons that really shouldn't be undone in public.  Even if your family says they don't mind, they're all re-thinking your place setting at next year's table.  Luckily for me, elastic pants or otherwise, my indispensable roles as both stuffing stud and turkey titan (wow, those are both horrible) have hopefully secured me an invite for many years to come, even if I decide to stop wearing pants altogether.

This year I opted for what I'm sure was everybody's alternative to Alton Brown's brining method (which has slayed in the past), the dry-brine (or cure, for all the hair-splitters on Chow.com).  The thought had popped into my head after reading an article by Drew Lazor over at Meal Ticket.  In fact, my man was even the first to respond on Twitter that this has been done before (in Vail, CO, likely sometime between skiing and skiing).  Salting the cumbersome holiday bird and letting it sit in the fridge seemed a lot easier than immersing it in gallons of vegetable stock in a cooler, then balancing it on top of whatever you can find in the garage so the bird will stay submerged for however many hours.  Turns out I wasn't the only one with the idea this year, and the NY Times was gracious enough to both lend me a recipe and make me look like I was jumping on some sort of bandwagon.

So last Saturday, I picked up my naturally raised bird from Fair Food Farmstand and gave it a nice rubdown with salt before throwing it in the fridge for four days (I got stuck with a nineteen lb bird so it needed some time).  I won't bore you with more details, but as you can see, it turned out beautifully, more likely because I got a little nutty with a stick of butter than any method of making the meat more succulent.  Underneath this golden brown dermis resided somewhat of a disappointment, however.  The meat was juicy and flavorful, but nowhere near what I had experienced when I used the same method on the chicken.  Compared to the wet brined turkeys of years past, I prefer this method, but at the end of the day, I didn't taste too much of a difference.  The real game changer was the bird's size.  I just don't like working with such a big bird.  I think next year's festivities will involve two small birds (and perhaps a deep fryer).

On the side should have been a delicious giblet gravy (just look at that stocky goodness), but I really shit the bed on that one.  I need to find some sort of sauce class, or at least get a fat separator.  My attempt at transforming the drippings into something magical and horrible for you ended in Mrs. Gastro saying, "Well, I can taste the grease and the booze from the wine, but that's about it."

My other signature, a pound of sausage intermingled with processed cubes of cornbread and aromatics, came out a tad dry, but still gorgeous and about as Thanksgiving-y as you can get.  And on that note, here's hoping you and yours had a blessed and delicious holiday.  Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

 

With all of the crap I've been eating lately, I may as well just change the name of the blog to "Why Did I Eat This?" or maybe, "How Am I Still Alive?"  I suppose there's the possibility of a spinoff, but nine times out of ten, spinoffs are depressingly unsuccessful (did anyone watch "Joey"?  If you did, please stop reading now because you're making my blog a lot less cooler than it should be).  Speaking of which, I was able to catch the Sixers vs. Jazz* game this past Friday, and in true fat ass fashion, I spent more time back and forth to the vendors than I did watching the Jazz crush the poor Sixers (actually, since there was literally nobody there, the food lines weren't that long, so I think I may have managed to see at least half of it).

I really miss the days when basketball was cool.   Nowadays, the freakishly tall dudes just look bored running up and down the court.  It's kind of sad, but if nothing else, it gives me an excuse to eat arena food, and as written so eloquently in a previous post, it gets better as you get closer to the action.  The poor saps eating hot dogs way up high (even though they could have easily walked down) ain't got nothin' on two of my favorites: chili cheese fries and boneless buffalo wings.  As you can see above, the chips are replaced with french fries in these Irish nachos, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that, especially when you have a fork to do your bidding.  I love the redundancy of cheese and sour cream.  It's like wearing belts and suspenders, or so I've heard.

This last one's a little blurry, but it's still easy to see that this is a chunk of breaded and fried chicken slathered with a gut gouging combination of hot sauce and bleu cheese.  By the time we got to these, I think the beers had made their way to my dome piece, giving them the appearance that they were going out of style (get it? I ate them really fast).  The murderous pairing of all of this processed goodness with upwards of twelve beers racked up a major digestive debt that I was left to settle the next day, and although I enjoyed it at the time, I am once again left wondering why I ate this.  Buen provecho.

*Before you comment on how John Stockton was the cheapest player in the NBA, I already know, and I don't care.  As the all-time assist leader, his generosity with the rock cancels out any cheapness.  Eat it.

Why Did I Eat This?

Maybe it's because I'm Mexican, but I find it very hard to fuck up beans, cheese, grilled chicken, and tortillas.  Not knowing whose concept Baja Fresh belongs to, I'll just assume that it's a bunch of white dudes in suits who say "tor-till-uh" instead of "tor-tee-yah," and then proceed to talk a bunch of shit on their inadequate burritos.  Here goes:

1. When your fresh salsa bar sits out from 11am to 9pm, I question exactly how "fresh" any of it can be at 8pm, hours after the acid in the tomato finally loses the battle to the acid in the lime, and the pico de gallo becomes a mealy mess of sodden produce. The mango salsa suffered a similar fate, and what remained resembled canned peaches in syrup (a bad thing).
2. Don't put the word "fresh" in your menu if you're going to serve the chicken with the artificial grill marks.
3. "Enchilado" is neither a word nor a style.
4. Since you're really not much higher up the food scale than Taco Bell, I strongly recommend not serving fish.
5. Tortillas should be gently warmed, not toasted to the point of crumbling at the slightest bit of pressure.

I imagine we'll eat here again because it's so close, but if you can avoid it, you should do so at all costs.  You're better off just buying a can of beans and a stack of tortillas from the grocery store.  Buen provecho.

Our local Baja Fresh is on Ridge Pike across the way from FWOT in the shopping center where there's an REI.  We wasted $18 on two burritos and two sodas.  The burritos came with chips, but they were soggy and salty and very upsetting to eat.

What Dreams Are Made Of

According to Gabriel Garcia Marquez, unrequited love smells like bitter almonds. Had that love been reciprocated (and I think it finally was at the end of the book), I'm pretty sure the smell of almonds would be replaced with the aroma of D.P. Dough. Why, you ask? Because after six years of waiting, I was finally able to sink my teeth into these pockets of perfection, and now I am whole again.

A late-night (read: drunk) food staple in Ithaca and various other college towns, D.P. Dough makes calzones filled with a dizzying assortment of ingredients, so you're covered whether you need to soak up some of the booze with pepperoni and cheese, or if you find yourself so high that steak, eggplant, and ham sounds like a great idea.

I was able to catch up with the proprietors the other day, and between banking, commuting from NYC, children, and whatever else life can throw at you, they were gracious enough to school me on their version of the American Dream, a three year journey that taught them, in their words, "Everything."

Check out the interview after the jump.

Why Did I Eat This?

As the scale rapidly approaches Philadelphia's area code when I step on it (a very bad thing given my short stature), I can't help but wonder yet again why I'm eating a third and fourth installment of today's dining hall option, "chicken" parm. I am literally defenseless when it comes to breaded and fried chicken. You want to know how bad it is? Here are a few reasons why I am a pathetic lump of lipids:

1. It's 3:19pm. That means this has been sitting and sweating for over three hours, and it's a soggy mess.
2. The food service lady had some serious saran wrap skills, and I had to wrestle with her handiwork.
3. I'm eating this with my hands. In a classroom.
4. It's not even mine. It belongs to the guy next to me. Granted, he offered it to me, but common courtesy requires I say "no" instead of taking it before he actually put out the offer, thereby forcing him to offer it up out of guilt.

Feel free to pass judgement, because if I was reading this about someone else, I'd do the same. Buen provecho.

Give Me a Break

Sometimes I'll while away the days being remarkably unremarkable. Please take advantage of this brief service interruption to check out Hamburger Calculus' magnum opus on Kit Kat bars. It will send your brain into diabetic shock (that's a good thing). The grapefruit sports drink Kit Kat is the hands-down winner in the "would only try it on a bet" category. Buen provecho.

*image stolen from hamburgercalculus.com