Free Wiener Wares! (My First Ever Giveaway)

Long before there were food trucks bedazzled with bottle caps, there was the singular gas-powered mobile mecca that spread the good word of wieners, the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.  Currently on the road, it will be making a brief stop in Center City (15th and Market) next Wednesday, July 20, where local artist/hot dog hot shot Hawk Krall will be serving up an assortment of franken-franks of his own creation starting at 11:30 A.M.  In conjunction with this, I'm offering my readers the opportunity to win a bag of goodies that includes:

• T-shirts
• Coupons for Oscar Mayer Selects
• Mini Grill
• Apron
• Grilling Accessories
• Wiener Whistle

To select a winner, I'm going to try a little trivia (please answer in the comments).  The first person that can tell me both the names of the super troopers that pulled the Wienermobile over AND the name of the Texas town where it happened wins.  So get commenting already. Your wiener whistle awaits.

Update: With the first and only response (which means nobody's reading this goddamn thing anymore), Brooklyn-before-Brooklyn-was-cool resident Matthew Imberman takes home the grand prize.  Congratulations!

The Second Annual Pathmark Lobster Special Home Cooking Event

I hate fireworks.  I know that may knock me down a few degrees on the bromometer, but sudden loud noises and the potential for being someone with an awkward handshake after a short fuse mishap keeps me as far away from the rocket's red glare as possible.  So, I've begun a new 4th of July tradition, cooking lobsters.  Last year, I tried my hand at grilling them, and although successful, I wasn't too impressed at the way they turned out.  This year, we are also contending with a very curious and very needy two-year old, so we needed to take the shells out of the equation.  Enter the lobster roll.  Boil and shuck the lobsters the night before, and defer the fruits of your labor until lunchtime the next day.  Mine was a simple preparation, a spoonful of mayonnaise for roughly a pound of meat, a squeeze of lemon, and some salt and pepper.  Not being able to find New England style split-top buns (the ones that look like a piece of Wonder bread folded in half), I opted for Martin's potato rolls, which were buttered and griddled to give them some reinforcement.  Served with corn on the cob, the lobster roll beats the shit out of donning a bib and fighting with your food while being judged by a full dining room.  Buen provecho.

Failure Sounds Like the Crunch of a Lightly Fried Tortilla

View more videos at: http://www.thefeast.com/.

Let us all remind ourselves of the definition of insanity: doing the same goddamn thing over and over again and expecting a different result.  Without getting my head checked, my mental illness and yen for defeat was confrimed as I undertook the Drinker's Taco Challenge for a second time, thinking hard shells and chicken would have been much easier to choke down than the previous choice of soft shells filled with beans.  After the inevitable failure, however, I now realize that no matter how you take your tacos, this is a sucker's bet.  Oh well.  At least I'm a handsome sucker.  Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This? Shanghai Edition

In Shanghai, the Colonel's face is literally everywhere. Peppered in between wet markets and high end retail stores, the unmistakable smell of fried chicken even cuts through the malodorous fog of the diesel fueling the country's endless growth spurt.  Typically, "Why Did I Eat This?" is a result of marketing, but I had a different reason this time around.  I read that Yum! Brands—the fast food behemoth whose weapons in the war against health also include Taco Bell and Pizza Hut—pushed into emerging markets by catering to local tastes, and I was curious to see how these local tastes were interpreted as fast food.  But I fucked up (typical).  Instead of seeing how the classically good KFC meal of a two-piece, mashed potatoes, and a biscuit stacked up to the American version, I wound up ordering the New Orleans Chicken sandwich, a non-breaded breast filet doused in not-very-hot sauce on a sesame seed bun (who orders non-fried chicken at a fried chicken joint?).  As expected, the sandwich was pretty terrible, although the amount of mayo they put on it kind of made up for things.  The videos give you the whole story (if you turn up the volume), plus an awkward interaction with a deaf Chinese panhandler, who, had he not been deaf, would have panhandled himself a faceful of high fructose corn syrup.  Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

Where does a one-legged waitress work?  The same place that my fat ass can't resist ordering country-fried steak and eggs for breakfast: IHOP.  Lowlights of this disaster include:

- The grey leather of overcooked and low quality beef.
- The congealed chalkiness of country gravy subjected to an overdesigned air conditioning system.
- The watery and undercooked hash browns that weren't quite browned.
- The general taste of failure

Stick to the pancakes, but not the ones with all the shit on them, because those are crappy too.  Buen provecho.

Elderly Aspirations: Prime Rib Night at the Windrift in Avalon, New Jersey

I've given up on the idea of being famous when I grow up.  Instead, I have refocused my sights on retirement in Avalon, NJ, where Mrs. Gastro and I can enjoy Prime Rib Mondays followed by endless goblet-sized snifters of somewhere-between-well-and-top shelf whiskey on the rocks, all the while listening to the musical stylings of Jim Bannach, the piano man's piano man. Buen provecho.

Pain is Temporary, Indigestion Lasts a Few Days

View more videos at: http://www.thefeast.com.

"Torture motherfucker" - The Wu-Tang Clan

Hoping to hallucinate a la Homer in what is now an ancient Simpsons episode (and one of the last ones before it started to suck), I stopped by Jake's Sandwich Board with The Feast to try their Ghost Pepper Steak, a cheesesteak topped with 20 drops of a sauce whose main component is 1 Million Scoville Pepper Extract.  I managed to get through most of it (I was three bites shy of finishing), but it was a pain unlike anything I've felt before, and it was even worse once it worked its way through me (gross).  If you like to push the spicy food envelope and/or you have something to prove, you should definitely give it a shot, but make sure you watch the video above to see what it will do to you.  Moving forward, I'll probably just stick to their goddamn delicious roast pork sandwich.  I've had all the discomfort I can take for the rest of 2011.  Buen provecho.

The Best $48.33 (Plus $10 tip) I Ever Spent

My life is essentially complete.  I've got Mrs. Gastro, Baby Gastro (plus another on the way. Yikes!), a phone with a touchscreen that allows me to instantly tell people what I'm thinking (because they care), and a full head of hair that has yet to turn grey.  Shit's pretty damn good, but there's an itch that repeatedly needs scratching, one that only gets the claws sporadically because of geography and other excuses that simply translate to lazy.  Call it chasing the dragon, but I have yet to find a proxy for Lobo, our local Tex-Mex in Brooklyn, where Mrs. Gastro and I would suck back margaritas even faster than we'd devour the complimentary chips and salsa.  We've tried all the greatest hits in the area (Distrito, Cantina Feliz, Xochitl, etc.), and while they are truly great, the oxymoron of high-end Mexican leaves the wallet much lighter than it should be after getting messed up on tequila and refried beans, and the whole point of having a local spot is the fact that it's truly local.  Our closest place, Mi Pueblo in Mt. Airy, sucks the big one (sorry, Mi Pueblo).  Avenida's nice on a special occasion, but it's too much cash for daily degustation.  I could fill the void in Chestnut Hill (investors, I have an amazing business plan if you're interested), but in the meantime, I just want a goddamn margarita and a bowl of chips without having to break the bank.  Enter Plaza Azteca, literally hiding in plain sight across from the Plymouth Meeting Mall.  Purists would shy away from it, but for us purists who also have children, this is the kind of place where you get all the kid-friendly benefits of a chain (plenty of space, high chairs, other like-minded idiots who thought having kids would be a great idea, staff that distracts said kids while you drink more than you should on a Tuesday) without too much of a chainy feel.  The food is good, and the service is even better.  Plus, it's cheap as fuck, especially when you go during happy hour.  For $48.33 plus tip, we both enjoyed tableside guacamole, chips and salsa, fish tacos, fajitas, rice, and beans, and I enjoyed a margarita and a giant beer.  Our only problem now (or at least after Baby Gastro #2 shows up) is figuring out who's going to drive home.  Like I said, my life is essentially complete.  Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

I have wanted to do the Drinker's Pub taco challenge for some time now, but much like going on a diet, at what point do you decide that it's a good idea to do so?  The answer, as expected, is after a few half-priced beers and an unsuccessful quest for a pickleback shot* in Center City.  Thinking that a place like Drinker's would definitely have them, my brother-in-law and I stumbled into their Chestnut Street outpost just as happy hour was ending.  This was supposed to be a brief final stop before catching the regional rail back to Philly's outskirts, but the disappointment of having to do a SoCo and lime shot instead of a pickleback coupled with the giant pitcher of beer that was waiting for me upon my return from the bathroom fueled my competitive spirit stupidity and convinced me that I could eat 33 tacos in 13 minutes.  I love me some tacos, but this was sheer torture, and I'm a little pissed about the fact that I may have been had.  In my drunken stupor, I went with the recommendation to do soft bean tacos in lieu of crunchy chicken tacos.  The latter would have gone down much easier, but the waitress pushed for me to do soft bean, knowing that 13 minutes is barely enough time for a large mammal to take down 33 tacos, let alone my fat ass.  Not surprisingly, amid the cheers and jeers of a packed house and a diminutive Mexican holding up a timer, I barely made it through half of the tacos when the 13th minute ticked by.  Had I been allowed to eat the tacos as I ordered them, I think the story would have had a much happier ending.  Instead, I left Drinker's with my head down, picturing the tacos that remained singing a taunting yet melodic rendition of Busta Rhymes' "Light Ya Ass on Fire."  You won this round, Drinker's Pub, but I shall return.  Buen provecho.

Piss poor video footage of my piss poor decision-making can be seen here (turn up the speakers) and here.

*For the uninitiated, the pickleback (or is it pickelback?) involves a shot of whiskey chased by a shot of pickle juice.  Trust me, it's delicious.

Why Did I Eat This?

With the firm knowledge that every food item produced behind the counter at Dunkin' Donuts comes from a microwave (or a similarly designed cooking box), I should really know better than to get excited about the prospect of a "fried egg" in their Big 'n' Toasty breakfast sandwich.  Unfortunately, curiosity and stupidity are two innate qualities that continue to make me powerless against appetizing pictures of a sandwich most likely prepared in a test kitchen and not in a metal cube, and so here we are discussing the disgusting.

Sandwiched between to giant slices of Texas toast, the "fried egg" was a scrambled egg white with a yellow circle in the middle, presumably the yolk, but probably just some strategically placed food coloring.  The cherrywood smoked bacon was the same shitty bacon they put on all the rest of their sandwiches.  It does the trick, but it gets lost in the size of this sandwich.  The Texas toast dwarfs the rest of the ingredients, and its size makes it so dry that you have to scald your throat gulping coffee so that you don't choke.  This sandwich ruined my Saturday morning, so if you find yourself in the Dunkin' drive-thru on any day of the week, I would stick to coffee and donuts.  Buen provecho.

After 45 Courses, a Winner is Crowned, or, I Had Dinner with Questlove Last Night

Last night, I had the distinguished honor of judging my first cookoff.  While I fully expected my first judges' panel to be for something more along the lines of a Rotary Club Chili Cookoff, this one was certainly more A-list, and I found myself seated among Philly food folks Drew Lazor and Audrey Claire Taichman, as well as Sasha Grey and the host, Ahmir "?uestlove" Thompson.  Inwardly, I thought to myself, "How the fuck did I wind up here?"  Outwardly, I donned my Hill-side tie and (hopefully) held my own with my winning smile and freshly trimmed beard.

The event was intimate, probably no more than 50 people, creating an excellent opportunity to network and/or make jackass comments to Mr. Thompson like, "With a name like Jazzy Jeff, he should probably be on time." (Turns out Jazzy had babysitter issues)  Being on the panel, I got to taste and judge five courses from nine different chefs, including Scott Schroeder from SPTR and Kenny Bush from Bistrot la Minette (Kenny came in first, winning the opportunity to cook backstage at The Roots Picnic).  I haven't eaten that much since the Pastrami Challenge, and while certainly fun, such caloric excess is challenging to say the least.

As an added bonus, I got to meet Top Cheftestant and 10 Arts Chef de Cuisine Jen Carroll, who will be cooking with steely blue-eyed Eric Ripert later this month.  Hopefully this won't be my last judges' panel, but if it is, I can at least check both "Meet ?uestlove" and "Eat fried PB&J" off the bucket list.  Buen provecho.

Meanwhile, Over on The Feast

Not that there's any excuse for my lack of posting, but you can check out what I've been doing in my spare time over at The Feast, NBC's new website dedicated to helping you find the best places to eat (that's me), shop, and play.  Buen provecho.

My Friends Are Cooler Than Your Friends: Paul Bergman of The Freshary

CNNGo totally scooped me on this, but it's still my duty to spread the gospel of Paul Bergman of The Freshary in Shanghai.  I met Paul a little over 10 years ago in college.  Typically, he would either be running to class or in the library, not preparing to take over the world, but to save it.  Starting with food, I think he's on the right track.  The Freshary sells certified organic baked goods and ice cream, and is the first to do so in China.  Their first store is also the only LEED Gold certified retail and food production space in China.

I sampled a vegan chocolate muffin and some soy vanilla ice cream (after Paul donned a lab coat and fixed the machine). If I could live on these two things alone, being vegan wouldn't be a challenge in the least.  The muffin, literally made from scratch (the flour is ground daily from seeds and wheat in house), had none of the shortcomings that typical vegan baked goods possess.  And not being an ice cream person, their soy ice cream is actually something I could scream for (yes I'm ending a sentence with a preposition. Deal with it).  Slightly savory, the vanilla soft serve is more comfort food than dessert (a very good thing), but it's not heavy at all. The Freshary also offers a black sesame-flavored ice cream, something that Paul spent 14 months perfecting.  Clearly, Paul is as passionate about perfection as he is about people, which can be difficult in the Chinese market.
Even with the steep learning curve, Paul has continued to pursue his vision, and will soon be opening a second store.  It's my hope that once they get the China operations off and running that they'll expand to the U.S. and move back, because he's one of the nicest and coolest people you'll ever meet, and sorely missed here in the states.  Buen provecho.

If you find yoursefl in Shanghai, The Freshary is located in the SML Center at 618 Xujiahui Road, B2 Level, T-13. You can get there by Subway Line 9, Dapuqiao Road Stop, Exit 3.

Excuse Me While I Kiss the Ground

View more videos at: http://www.nbcphiladelphia.com.

Here's a recount of my experience in Tokyo last week.  Stay tuned for the food portion of the trip, and please keep everyone still over there in your thoughts and prayers.  Buen provecho.

My Friends Are Cooler Than Your Friends: The Brothers Corsillo

The Hill-Side S/S '11 Preview from The Hill-Side on Vimeo.

As a self-styled wiener, I proudly admit to wearing L.L. Bean wrinkle-free shirts and Dockers on a near-daily basis, but when the time comes to get dressed up, I have Emil and Sandy Corsillo to thank for making me look like the folks in the video above (although typically 100-125 lbs. heavier depending on the season). My former roommates continue to evolve their Hill-Side brand, a brilliant line of neckwear that elevates your stock way above wiener levels.  Their latest collection features floral elements, a reminder that Spring will be springing soon, so all you Jack Torrance types, lose the axe in favor of the computer, and log on to Hickoree's Hard Goods to pick up some new neckwear. Your family will thank you.

My Chefs Are Cooler Than Your Chefs: Philly's Four Contenders and Two Write-Ins for People's Best New Chef Award

Yesterday on The Feast, I put up a list of places to check out in order to make an informed vote in Food & Wine/Eatocracy "People's Best New Chef" award.  Four of the handsome heads above were nominated, and the The Feast Philly editors and I decided to write in a couple more candidates, Marcie Turney of Barbuzzo and Matt Levin of Adsum, two more of our hometown heroes whose names have recently been tattooed into your dome piece by the press.  Buen provecho.
Give these peeps some props by voting your face off here.

Why Did I Eat This?

It should come as no surprise to the sue-happy consumer that Taco Bell's "Taco Meat Filling" contains less than 40% beef in its composition.  I understand the whole "truth in labeling" thing, but c'mon people, you're eating fast food.  You should already know that it is hyper-processed, pregnant with preservatives, and generally contains little to no "food" at all.  But who gives a shit?  It's cheap (and getting cheaper, even with commodity prices on the rise), fast, and convenient.  So what does my fat ass do with the news?  I immediately make a run for the border to try their latest offering (of course), a collaboration with Frito-Lay (that's a bit of a stretch) that is the textural masterpiece known as the Beefy Crunch Burrito.  Simply put, the sum of Flamin' Hot Fritos and their standard "beef" burrito is greater than the parts.  The sour cream eases the hot-for-hot's sake of the Fritos, and to repay the favor, they give the mushy little burrito some structural integrity.  Beef or no beef, these things are small enough and cheap enough that you may want to eat three or four, and I see nothing wrong with that.  Furthermore, for those of you in favor of this whole lawsuit, know this: if you fuck up Taco Bell for the rest of us, I will personally see to it that a laxative will somehow make its way into each and everyone of your meals until you meet your respective makers from a hopefully non-poop-related death (because I don't want you to think I'm making threats here, just promises of discomfort). Buen provecho.

My Bartender is Cooler Than Your Bartender: Ben Miosi of Fork and Barrel

When happy hour gets the best of me, my Friday night typically ends with a poorly chosen movie such as Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson's latest kid-friendly fartfest, Tooth Fairy. As crappy as it was, however, the Rock's washed-up hockey player character said something that stuck with me as I sidled up to Fork and Barrel's upstairs bar on Saturday.  I won't go into detail, but the gist of it was that you may be at the top of your game, but sooner or later, somebody younger and hungrier will emerge in your rear view mirror and eventually overtake you.  In his case, it was a bad thing, but for the ever expanding population of beer geeks in Philadelphia, Fork and Barrel's arrival on the scene is a boon.  In this town of tremendous tap lists, Fork and Barrel pushes the envelope with the most obscure and interesting beers they can source, each one more complex than Google's search algorithm.  With names like Grado Plato Chocarrubica and Liepziger Porticus, even the names seem daunting, but our bartender, General Manager Ben Miosi, was more than happy to ensure our palates were pleased. Above, he gives us a brief monologue on what it takes to become a beer geek, his favorite beer, and his opinion of the home team craft brewers.  Buen provecho.

Fork and Barrel is located at 4213 Ridge Avenue in East Falls. The 1st floor features European food and European craft beer.  Upstairs, you've got casks, peanuts, and hot dogs.  Happy hour runs Tuesday-Friday from 4-6, when all drafts are $6. Like them on Facebook for updates on draft lists and special events. More excellent reviews here and here.

Pumpkin Ale for My Real Friends, Pumpkin Real for My Ale Friends

A very happy new year, dear readers.  In my quest to become a raging alcoholic beer nerd, I have invested a significant amount of time, brain cells, and money on craft beers with neat labels and myriad uses of the word "hops."  I regret none of this, but it's nice to have a bone thrown your way every now and again, so I'd like to give a nod to reader Matt for saving me a bottle of homebrewed pumpkin ale from a batch he and his friends made back in the fall.  Being raised in the good ol' U-S-of-A, I prefer my beers to be ozone-hole-burning cold and soda-pop-fizzy, and this was a great example of that. 

Typically, homebrews err on the side of flatness, making you feel like you're drinking a beer you poured last night but couldn't finish so you put it in the fridge for consumption today because you are too cheap to toss it out.  But this beer, surviving a week in the fridge, was extra cold and nicely carbonated.  You could taste the nutmeg, but it wasn't so overpowering as to remind you of the time you tried to hallucinate/poison yourself by eating a spice jar of it, and it had a malty finish.  Even Bob, a beer nerd before being a beer nerd was cool, gave it the seal of approval.  Buen provecho.

A Very Gastro Christmas

Because you totally care about what I did over the Christmas holiday, here are a few videos of what happens when you drink too much egg nog, including my dear aunt Lynn caroling above, and a 3-part series below I like to call "Christmas Jalapenos":

First, I take a small bite while my unsuspecting brother-in-law eats the whole thing.

Then, after being told I "bitched out," I agree to finish the thing.

 

Then the heat catches up with me.  Hilarity ensues.  And in case you're curious, that is a woman's cardigan with the sleeves removed (but cuffs preserved) over a woman's turtleneck embroidered with Christmas trees.  Buen provecho.

The Worst Shit I Ate All Year

Typically, the best of/worst of lists are published before the year's done, but I'm going to go ahead and call this one better late than never.  Behold, the worst shit I ate all year.

5. Taco Bell's Bacon Club Chalupa: Mexican-American fusion just led to nuclear waste.
4. KFC's Doublicious: A pathetic follow-up to the Double Down gimmickry.
3. The Angus Snackwrap at McDonald's: This thing sat under the heat lamp way too long.  Acrid was an understatement.
2. The one-and-a-half Four Lokos I drank before the ban: File this under "Shit you shouldn't do past the age of 30."
1. One singular bite of a durian fruit that I couldn't even swallow: I dare you to try it, but careful, you may wind up having to wear jean shorts if you can't eat it.

Happy New Year, and as always, buen provecho.

Why Did I Drink This?

I love the fever pitch, especially when it reaches a level where my my curiosity and stupidity can no longer ingore it.  This Wednesday, the FDA is expected to decide on the safety of boozy energy drinks such as Four Loko,  so before my window closed on the opportunity to see what all the fuss was about, I convinced Mrs. Gastro and the Gastro-in-laws to join me in a controlled experiment involving a case of blue raspberry-flavored Four Loko.  The results, not surprisingly, were disastrous.  So disastrous in fact that we can only show you the pre- and post-Four Loko-logues.  In between, we only managed to finish two cans among the four of us, I made my nephew cry (on his birthday. Sorry, Paddy), and I didn't even make it to bed.  Instead, Mrs. Gastro informed me that at the end of the experiment, I passed out on the couch, and like a soldier wounded beyond repair, I simply told her, "I'll be fine here."  The next thing I remember is waking up at 5:30am because I felt like I was getting kicked in the face repeatedly, and I dragged myself up to bed, where this final clip is shot (turn the volume up on this one).

I started the evening against the ban, but after Four Loko dragged me face-first over glass-impregnated gravel, I would be happy to see it removed from the shelves.  Buen provecho.

Lazy-O!

Check out Rachael Ray's awesome recipe for "Late Night Bacon." I can't wait until midnight tonight to fire up the microwave. Buen provecho.

P.S. Rachael Ray, please kill yourself.

Quotable Gastro

So it turns out people actually read this thing AND they value my opinion enough to associate it with their own publications.  Score one for Fidel, and a hat tip and a handshake to Emily Guendelsberger over at the Philadelphia Weekly for including me in their food and drink issue. Check out my quick take on DiNic's roast pork sandwich and Delicatessen's Jubano.

"I Dunno, Where Do You Wanna Eat?" - Philadelphia Weekly

Why Did I Eat This?

Much like drinking can be worth the hangover, fast food gimmicks can sometimes be worth the inevitable intestinal discomfort.  The McRib is ALWAYS worth it.  Finally reintroduced after years of yeti-like existence, I was lucky enough to find one at the McDonald's in Suburban Station prior to their nationwide availability on November 2, which gives me an additional week to eat it for every meal of every day.  As good buddy Matt Cannon* said, "It shouldn't be 'Why Did I Eat This,' it should be 'How Many of These Can I Eat?'"

Perhaps a large part of the attraction is its inherent nostalgia and mystique, but then again, maybe it's just goddamn good.  I've always been a fan of McDonald's BBQ sauce with its err on the side of spicy and not sweet. Slathered all over a patty of mystery meat topped with pickles and onions, you are dealing with some top-notch second-rate sandwich innards that rest nicely between a marshmallow-soft cornmeal-dusted bun. We have a six week window, folks; let's supersize ourselves. Buen Provecho.


*Loser of the Durian Challenge and wearer of jean shorts

Street Legal

Let me tell you about the way I make a purchase.  I'll find out about a product, talk a whole bunch of shit on it (typically, "whoever eats/uses/drinks these is a total douche nozzle and I hope they get scabies"), let a week pass, then buy the damn thing with little to no research, regardless of the cost.  Mrs. Gastro was kind enough and sage enough to point this out when my brother-in-law walked into our living room wearing neoprene and rubber "socks" that made his feet look like Shrek's. By now I'm sure you've all heard about Vibram Five Fingers, quite literally a second skin for your feet that will allow you to essentially run barefoot.  I spent at least two weeks talking shit about my brother-in-law's "freak shoes," laughing heartily at the thought of him stepping on a syringe (because I'm sadistic); then I went and bought a pair (just like Mrs. Gastro predicted).  I've had them now for almost a year, and I'd really like to tell you that they are life changing when it comes to running, but in order for me to do that, I'd actually have to use them. Instead, they've spent much of the past year gathering dust (an unspoken Mrs. Gastro prediction).  Fast forward to now, when these fuckers are on backorder and I don't really know how to use eBay but wouldn't get rid of them even if I did, because what you don't know about these special "freak shoes" is that they allow you to run and drink beer at the same time.  I found this out when our dear friends Dave and Rachel, accompanied by their third and youngest son, Falcon, had inquired about this barefoot running craze while visiting from Salt Lake (side note: Dave is an incredible woodworker and Rachel writes a hilarious blog about food and how hospitable Utah can be when you're not from there).  What you see above is proof that these shoes do indeed have magical powers (and that I am, for all intents and purposes, a fool).  Too bad they couldn't prevent the ensuing hangover.  Buen provecho.

Beginner's (Un)luck

 This is my shitty ass garden.  It was not organic.  It was also not very successful.  Granted, this was my first attempt at channeling Kingsolver/Pollan/hippies in general, but I make no excuse other than I am equal parts lazy and easily distracted.  Plus, gardening is super hard when you're not paid to write about it.  Hopefully either myself or one of you readers will learn from my mistakes.  Here's what not to do when planting a garden:

1. Do not just go to the hardware store and buy a bunch of crap (who really needs two basil plants?).
2. Do not select a location beneath huge black walnut trees that provide lots of shade and danger in the autumn months.
3. Do not just dig up a patch of grass in the backyard on a whim.
4. Do not take weeks off at a time from watering your garden.
5. Do not plant tomatoes within inches of each other.

I don't have any tips for a successful garden, but at a minimum, I would recommend a smidge more planning before your shovel hits the dirt.  Good luck future green thumbs.  Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

More like AngASS SnackCRAP.  Surely I am neither the first nor the last to refer to this Andy Garcia's unfortunate twin of a snack as such.  Following a gameful but foodless visit to Charles Edward Cheese, there was a hunger inside me that could only be satisfied by drive-thru eats.  Unfortunately, there aren't many options along the I-276 and 309 exits (not that we looked all that hard), so we had to settle for McDonald's.  Trying not to be a total fatass, I opted for an Angus Snackwrap.  And you know what?  Fuck McDonald's, especially off-hours McDonald's.  What you see above must have been under the heat lamp since noon, onions, pickles, and all.  The half-patty was about as appetizing as a nerf football that had spent some time with a slobbery dog, and the ketchup tasted like pesticide.  To make matters worse, I order an M&M McFlurry, quite possibly the worst combination of candy and ice cream ever conceived.  If you're in the mood for a snack, order anything but this disaster.  Please. Buen provecho.

My Friends Are Cooler Than Your Friends: Adam Curfew of the Utah Brewers Cooperative

I can say with great confidence that 99.9% of the population who didn't grow up in Utah typically associate it with Mormons, polygamy, Karl Malone (who is dead to me), Sundance, and that Band of Horses song that has nothing to do with the Great Salt Lake.  For myself and others who grew up there, the reality is somewhat different.  True, everybody has blond hair and blue eyes, and yes, Tony Danza did get his ass beat by a snowboarder outside of a nightclub in Park City, but Utah is much more than a bunch of wholesome white folks that wear an extra layer of underwear, and a lot has happened since someone showed Mr. Danza who was really the boss.  Lately, my behated state of rearing has been enjoying a fair amount of food and drink press.  Cristiano Creminelli's artisan salamis and sausages are the latest cure for common cured meat, the High West Distillery is making moonshine from oats, and the Utah Brewers Cooperative (also known as Wasatch and Squatters) took home the hardware for best mid-size brewery at the Great American Beer Festival.  Adam Curfew, good friend and brewer for the UBC, sat down with me after recovering from the week-long hangover associated with celebrating the win.  We discussed his likeness to the 'Hoff, why brewing in Utah makes you a better brewer, and the chances of Wasatch and Squatters making it out here for Philly Beer Week. Check it out after the jump, and next time you find yourself in Salt Lake, head down to the brewery for a tasting.

Moral Dilemma

As the baby becomes increasingly mobile, it becomes increasingly difficult to enjoy a sit-down dinner at the chain restaurant of our choice.  Recently, we've caught a few bad ones at California Pizza Kitchen, where the laid-back California attitude that the name suggests in nonexistent.  You're rushed in, the appetizers and entrées show up at the same time, they take the plates off the table before you're even halfway done, and they fuck up your beer order.  So what do you do if the waitress doesn't take the wrong beer off the table after she replaces it?  Is it okay to drink both?  Let me know in the comments.*  Buen provecho.

*I waited until the check came, then shamelessly chugged the mistake beer

My Friends are Cooler Than Your Friends: Kelvin Natural Slush Co.

Stories about former suits saying "fuck it" to pursue their dreams have become so commonplace these days that it was only a matter of time before the protagonist would turn out to be a long lost college buddy, so it came as no surprise when I found out that Alex Rein was behind the wheel of the recently opened Kelvin Natural Slush Co., a truck dedicated to slanging slushies.  True, he never seemed to be the "company man" type.  In college, we broke bread over cheesesteaks, likely having a profound conversation* that would ring in his ears almost 10 years later, telling him to bag the briefcase in favor of the freeze.  Since July, his big blue truck has been rolling around the streets of Manhattan serving up a refined riff on Slurpees that the rest of us suits would be proud to bring back to the office (or use in concert with the liquor of our choosing to numb the pain of being a suit).  Kelvin's been well received by Manhattanites, and Grub Street announced yesterday that they're up for a Vendy in the category of best dessert.  Amidst the craziness, Alex was kind enough to answer some questions for me.  I've yet to try the slush, but hopefully I'll get up there soon.

*Actual conversation may not have been very profound

Why Did I Eat This?

 Taco Bell is really pushing the menu envelope. First, they almost kill me with a shrimp taco, and now, they've added a Cantina Taco to the menu, a damn near perfect replica of something you'd expect to be fed as an innocent kidnapping victim of narcotraficantes.  Not that it's a hard thing to fuck up (there are 5 ingredients if you count the lime), but it's still fast food. Let's taco 'bout it:

1. A lime actually does come with each taco.  Tucked into the folds of foil, its freshness was debatable (food additives can do wonders for appearance), but it did the trick.
2. The corn tortillas, doubled up just like they do in the cantina, weren't terribly brittle.  Taken at face value, however, even the best corn tortillas have little to offer in the way of flavor.
3. The cilantro bled all over the white onions, giving them an offputting greenish-brown hue like that of guacamole left out too long.  The mixture was also soggy.  More than the flavor of onions, I appreciate their crunch, which was lacking here.
4. The pork was mushy, and as you can see in the picture above, it looks a lot like the "beef" that's ubiquitous in the rest of their offerings.  It really didn't taste too bad, though.  Perhaps a grain too salty, but with sodium levels in fast food being as high as they are, it's a taste that's hard to mask.

I think we paid something like $1.89 for each one.  If you find yourself at Taco Bell for other reasons (Mexican Pizza, maybe), it's cheap enough for you to try, and there's no reason you shouldn't.  Buen provecho.

Why Did They Eat This?

Behold, the durian fruit, an oversized exotic pine cone full of what good pal Mark Novasack called "mayonnaise with hair in it."  Uncut and frozen, there's little evidence of the putrid smell so widely documented (there's even some folklore about your stomach exploding if you combine it with alcohol), but what lies beneath the surface is a deceptive fruity aroma that gives way to a subtle yet gag-inducing fart smell.  At least that's what happened when I got close.  One would think that the need to wear puncture-resistant gloves while handling it would be enough for you to steer clear.  This was not the case for two friends of mine, who, after watching Andrew Zimmern gag on the thing, decided to have a durian fruit showdown.  Whoever can eat the most durian gets to choose a costume that the other has to wear for 24 hours--at work, at home, and more than likely, a happy hour with cheap enough drink specials to make you forget that you lost the bet after subjecting yourself to such gustatory torture.  Dubbing themselves Eva Pierogi and Borscht Yeltsin (damn creative guys), we filmed and photographed the challenge.  And yes, we were drinking, and no, none of our stomachs exploded, although it would have been really cool and really messy to see that happen. Check out the photos and videos after the jump.

Why Did I Eat This?

At the risk of having a trio of douchebags materialize out of thin air, I went ahead and ordered the Bacon Club Chalupa, thus falling off the Taco Bell wagon once again.  Granted, I was in a drive-thru on City Avenue, where the likelihood of a combination stabbing/carjacking is ten times that of getting hit on by a few feathered-hair passersby than it would be in the brightly lit and clearly exclusive club shown in the above commercial, so I wasn't too worried about an onslaught of douchebags.  I'm also a dude.  I also do my best not to carry a clutch, but every now and again, it's unavoidable.  But enough about my fashion sense.  Let's talk about what happens when Taco Bell runs out of ideas thinking outside the bun and goes back to thinking inside the bun.

The Wall Street Journal, master of the obvious, is only now stating what we already know: people love themselves some bacon.  Pork belly prices are up 53% from last year. But my favorite part of the article is the fact that bacon demand coincides with an increased consumption of BLT sandwiches in the summer (if I was one to write "WTF," this would be where I would write it).  Thinking back, I don't recall summer being associated with BLTs, but apparently Taco Bell is hip to the game.  Let's see how it stacks, er, folds up against what the Journal claims to be summer's most popular sandwich:

1. The crunch of the toast, even though it doesn't get its name on the marquee, is one of the most important parts of the BLT.  The chalupa shell, limp from an extended bath in the fry grease, was a terrible proxy for the toast.

2. The lettuce and tomato were minutes away from being rancid.  Even the smoky flavor of the bacon couldn't mask the acrid taste.

3. Speaking of the bacon, it was diced so small that I could have snorted it.

4. The chicken was barely there, maybe a chunk or two, and not worth commenting on.

5. Another key ingredient to the BLT is the gloppy, oozes-out-the-side mayonnaise (a very good thing).  In its stead, Taco Bell substitutes "club sauce," a watery thin condiment that looks and tastes like whitewash.

I think there's a concurrent promotion happening with the cheesy gordita crunch.  If you're going to fall off the wagon, it's really the only thing worth ordering at Taco Bell.  If you don't believe me, ask the other 2,693 people that like it on Facebook.  Yes, the cheesy gordita crunch has more fans than me on Facebook.  Get liking people, and use your disposable income for better things than a bacon club chalupa.  Buen provecho

Why Did I Eat This?

The Doublicious is to the Double Down what Signs (and according to most people, the rest of the M. Night follow-ups) was to the Sixth Sense, but way worse.  Heading home from a party where I ate more than my fair share of slow cooked pork, home grown tomatoes, and self-cubed pepper jack cheese, there was no reason to subject myself to this, but the perfect storm of a drive-thru and a soundly sleeping baby begged a sharp left turn into the KFC house on City Ave, where the intoxicating aroma of the colonel's cologne (two words that make English extremely difficult for non-native speakers) was the lipstick on an awful pig of a sandwich.  Actually, to call this sandwich a pig is insulting to the pig, so let's just call it a failure.  The marketing materials indicate that the "Doublicious" is named for its sweet and savory tastes, but the only taste I got was crap (singlicious? singlawful?).  It had to have spent some time under the heat lamp.  Both breast and (artificially grill-marked sweet Hawaiian bread) bun were chokeworthy, and it didn't help matters that the "colonel's sauce" was little more than a squirt.  Even the bacon grease couldn't bring it back to life.  The meal is five bucks, which isn't a bad deal, but for the same price, you're better off ordering a couple drumsticks and a side order of headache-inducing mashed potatoes and gravy.  Buen provecho.

More Kentucky Fried Coverage:
KFC Can't Stop, Won't Stop - Phoodie.info
Double Down Follow-up Uses "Sweet Hawaiian Bread" - Huffington Post 
Double Down Showdown: KFC's New Doublicious - Serious Eats

Leadership

For business school, I had my managers anonymously provide feedback about my leadership skills. One of the questions was:

"In order for this person to become a better leader, what would you like to see him do LESS of or stop doing altogether?"

These two answers were my favorites:

A: Pay attention to details so that client expectations are met.

A: Become more serious with his career goals

Thank you, managers, for (a) not paying attention to details yourself, and (b) telling me to follow a career path akin to Jeff Spicoli.  Buen Provecho.

Captains of Industry, Take Heed

What better way to give the middle finger to the upper class than to take the epitome of opulence and put it on a bun?  Whether or not this was the intent, PYT's latest Burger of the Week does just that, adding a few ounces to their always-perfectly-cooked patty, then topping it with truffled lobster and a creamy aioli. What the fuck indeed.  It worked on more levels than there might be at the summer home of Juan D. Rockefeller,* but the overarching success was its balance.  The flavor was neither too beefy nor too lobstery, and the texture of the ground beef commingled with the texture of the lobster like old country club friends over one too many old fashioneds.  The chunks of lobster stayed with the sandwich due in large part to a tycoon-sized helping of fresh aioli, which I thought was a great strategy to handle any dreaded lobster leak-out.  The fries, whose portion was also tycoon-sized, spent too much time in the salt mines for my taste, but I was able to cut the saltiness with a can of 21st Amendment Hell or High Watermelon Wheat Beer.  At $14 for the burger, there are very few places where you can get more bang (and lobster) for the buck.  For all you early majority/late majority/laggard types that couldn't make it last week, you're in luck.  According to Tommy Up's twitter feed, it was so popular that he's keeping it on the menu, and since they're currently swimming in lobster, there's even the possibility of a lobster roll special.  Now count how many times I said "lobster" in this post and take a drink for each one.  Lobster.  Buen provecho.

*John D. Rockefeller's Mexican non-union equivalent, also a captain of industry.

No Se Olvide: El Mejor Cocinero

Check out the Top Chef recaps on foobooz, coming at you all season from yours truly.  This week, we learn that some of the cheftestants are doing what sherpas call "sauce making."  Use your imagination.  Buen provecho.

Top Chef Episode 5: Angelo Cheats on Tamesha with a Duck - foobooz

My Friend's Friends are Cooler than Your Friends: Kirsten Henri

I'm definitely not as lucky as your typical toothless lottery winner, but I am rather fortunate when it comes to being in the right place at the right time.  In October of 2009, I shook hands with a dude named Jayson Tonkon, whom I would discover a few weeks later was in my fraternity after a string of "get outta' heres" and "no ways" led to the secret handshake (yes, I was in a fraternity; yes, I paid for my friends; and yes, there was a secret handshake. Commence judgment).  Since he lived a few doors down, we would start to bump into each other on the commuter rail, and as the "getting to know you" evolved, he mentioned casually that he was really good friends with Kirsten Henri, you know, the new food editor of Philly Mag?  I thoroughly enjoy being in the right place at the right time, and after a brief introduction, Kirsten agreed to meet for lunch to discuss roots, (w)riting, and rockstars. What follows is actually an email interview that was equal parts humbling and amusing.

FG: Firstly, congrats on your new gig at Philly Mag.  Great bunch of writers there.  How’s it going so far?

KH: It's going well. Print is so quaint and charming! We use paper and think about things for days at a time! It's fun.

FG: Now let’s ask some tough questions.  What’s the square root of 7?

KH: Please don't ask me math questions. It's painful for everyone involved.

FG: Speaking of roots, which one is your favorite? You can say ?uest Love if you want.  He’s everybody’s favorite root. 

KH: I do like ?uestlove. 

Why Did I Eat This?

 Ladies and gentlemen, we now have a proxy for the unicornwich that is the McRib. Subway is now slanging a pulled pork sandwich that--when toasted and taken for a swim in way too many squeezes of the BBQ sauce bottle--is about the closest you'll get to a McRib sandwich until someone figures out that whole time travel thing.  While there is no substitute for the subtle crunch of the McRib's "bones," the flavors are spot on.  I topped mine with american cheese, red onion, banana peppers, jalapeños, and mayonnaise. The footlong is eight bucks and I can no longer justify spending more than five there, but at that price point, the six inch is a much less depressing alternative when you consider the fact that you just ordered a pulled pork sandwich from Subway.  Buen provecho.

Shameless Self Promotion

My (somewhat) incessant nagging and bleak outlook on life has yielded an opportunity to do Top Chef recaps for Foobooz (Thanks, Art). Please feign interest by making comments.  It keeps me that much further away from the operable window on the 34th floor.  Buen provecho.

An Irreverent Look at Top Chef 

Photo stolen from Bravo website

My Friends are Cooler Than Your Friends: Rachel Chamberlain

Our dear friend Rachel, whose lasagna was documented back in May of 2008, has finally decided to do what we've all been hoping she'd do for a while now.  The answer you're looking for is not "re-up on the pregnancy (although we're stoked that her and Dave are proliferating la raza cosmica), but rather "putting shit down on digital paper,"  so it is with great pleasure and high hopes that I introduce Blog Gras, an account of what happens when a Baltimorean marries a cowboy and decides to settle down in Salt Lake (there are also plans to involve food, home cooking or otherwise).  So far, we've seen a restaurant that looks like a dentist's office that houses a full bath, complete with a pair of socks drying on the shower door. We look forward to more such hilarity that can only come from reality.  Her acerbic wit cuts through life's bullshit like a jagged and rusty saw.  Plus, she's got the mouth of a sailor.  Welcome to the terrordome. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

The Bread Bowl Pasta from Domino's had fallen so far down the to-do list that I almost forgot about it (that's a lie). While I didn't think about it every day, I was nervous that it would be taken off the menu before I could subject myself to such torture.  Unwilling to drive the 20 minutes to pick it up (the slogan's "Get the Door. It's Domino's," not "Get in the Car. It's Domino's."), I was certain that the Bread Bowl Pasta would leave this world before passing my lips.

Fortunately, we found ourselves directly in front of a Domino's on our way home from rug shopping, and it was just late enough that cooking dinner would have been too hectic.  Some curse timing; I champion its crucial role in the instant gratification of rationalization. It's one of the soupiest, hottest, hurts-to-breathe days of the year, and I'm eating penne alfredo out of a bread bowl.  What the hell is wrong with me?  To save yourself the calories (which you should), here's a list of why you shouldn't follow suit:

1. It's not that it tastes bad. It tastes bad for you.  I'm usually fine with this, but when every bite is followed by a stabbing pain in your chest, it takes the fun out of eating.
2. It's summer.
3. Their new crust--which shows up here in bread bowl form--is taken straight from the Pizza Hut playbook: saturated in grease.
4. It's the middle of summer.
5. The pasta was overcooked to the point of being gummy. I expected overcooked, but they went way overboard.

We all know that I'm stupid enough to try this again, but I'll probably (hopefully) wait until it's not 90 degrees out.  I don't recommend it, but it you must, please wait until winter to eat this.  Buen provecho.

Field Trip: Austin, TX

The traditional stag party has given way to opulent jet-setting. In an effort to maintain this new status quo (and to avoid a weekend of unsuccessfully pretending to be the dudes from the Hangover), Las Vegas lost the destination race to Austin, Texas, where opulence is offered at a steep discount.  I showed up with a hundred bucks in my wallet and went home with more than half of it (that's a bit of a lie, but not much).  Here's a list of what we shoved in our face when we weren't too busy knocking back cold ones:

Happy Hour at Hickory Street Bar & Grill: Chili cheese fries and onion rings. My hands were too greasy and cheesy to snap a picture of either, but both provided an excellent Tecate pairing.  The fries looked like they came from a potatoes the size of footballs, while the onion rings were probably the size of basketballs before being sliced.  Among six of us, these two apps plus fifteen beers was a jaw-dropping $40.  Turns out everything's bigger in Texas save for the check.

Dinner at Parkside: Thanks to a heads up from Tasting Table, we ordered nearly everything on this classic yet inventive menu. My personal favorite was the blond pate with strawberry relish (can anyone tell me what makes it blond?).  It tasted like cheetos (a great thing). Once again, food took priority over pictures, so you'll have to check out their website for the food porn.

Breakfast on the go from the Hideout: Waking up with an uncharacteristic burst of energy, I went for a jog (who goes jogging on a bachelor party?), which ended with me scooping up iced coffees and a dozen breakfast tacos.  This is a thing down here that I wish would be a thing everywhere.  Packed with chorizo, eggs, cheese, and refried beans, your hangover will thank you.

Lunch at the Salt Lick: Finally, some footage.  This place is as touristy as it gets, but the giant smoker piled high with assorted meats is truly a sight to behold.  Another example of how cheap things are down here, the all-you-can-eat offering is $18.95, and includes a heart attack's worth of baked beans, potato salad, pork ribs, brisket, and sausage. When you get full (which usually happens after one plate), the leftovers are shoved into a container for you to enjoy over the next few days.  Above is a video sampling of their beef rib, on special for $4.95 each.  It was a toothsome and greasy homage to Flinstonian times.  Something to try, at least for the photo opportunity.

Dinner at Manuel's: The afternoon-to-evening went thusly: I got the shit kicked out of me by a wave runner, the bats decided to stay under the bridge (supposedly thousands of them fly out at dusk to eat people bugs), and I got iced (yes, I am a not-so-secret fan of this douchebaggery). When we could no longer ignore hunger, the group consensus was good Tex-Mex.  Unfortunately, the concierge gave us a bum tip, and the trend of cheap and delicious eats was brought to a screeching halt.  My cousin Orlando has a theory about Mexican food's deliciousness being inversely proportional to price.  This meal further verified the negative correlation. The last thing we wanted was contrived Mexican food, but that's exactly what we got.  It was all brittle tortillas and watered down sauces, and the service was tortuga-slow, even though we were one of only three groups in the dining room.

It was a great trip from start to finish (except for the stupid bats and the stupid Manuel's).  I could have used more time and a bigger stomach, but that would mean me being jobless and fatter than I already am, so I'll just have to plan another trip down there.  Buen provecho.

Acoplamientos

As I write this, an Indonesian and an Irishman are fighting about floor areas.  Sadly, there isn't a punchline to follow.  There's a serious language barrier that may have to be overcome with fisticuffs.  As I await the outcome and then keep it to myself, please enjoy the following links:

- Guess who's a featured luncher over on Midtown Lunch Philadelphia?  I'll give you a hint.  He just typed this.

- Phoodie (plumber) cracks the (crave) case of Where Is This Is Why You're Fat?

- If you happened to attend any events during the delicious amazingness that was Philly Beer Week, taking this quick survey could net you free tickets to next year's Opening Tap imbibery.