Sometimes You Can't Depend on the Kindness of Strangers

Dear New Bartender at Lobo,

Quite frankly, you suck. Please don't quit your day job. Although after last night's performance, I doubt you could be good at anything. In what I consider to be a free country, why are we not allowed to have a $5 happy hour margarita at the bar and then sit at a table for dinner? We would have even been generous with the tippage. Instead, you get zero, which is what you deserved after being such a jerk, and to add insult to injury, your margarita skills are worse than Mr. and Mrs. T. Thank goodness the rest of the staff is consistently stellar. As for you, I hope your days at Lobo are numbered.

Regards,
Fidel

Iced Crappy

Dear Au Bon Pain in Metrotech Center,

Your iced coffee tastes like dirty water. I was dangerously close to vomiting after a single sip. I would think it wise to cease and desist your miserable iced coffee operation and stick to asiago cheese bagels.

Regards,
Fidel

Tailgating

If burgers and budweisers aren't your thing for pre-game eats, Jackson Diner offers a great alternative right off the 7 train. Don't let the name fool you, the cuisine is Indian, and it's worth leaving a bit early to make a pit stop before Shea (although I did find it to be overpriced).

Located in a strip mall that offers everything from cell phones to Saris, Jackson Diner's sprawling dining room seems better fit for a monsoon wedding than a tailgate, but the Taj Mahal beer offers common ground, and even though there were no blue mountains on the label, the beer was just as crisp and refreshing as its rocky mountain alternative. After a few bottles to numb the tongue, start with samosas (classic) and paneer pakora (possibly classic, but nothing I've seen on Indian menus), and don't be shy with the green and brown sauce. The appetizers offer even more common ground due to the fact that they are deep fried. I imagine if we were tailgating at a cricket match, samosas and pakoras would be the snack of choice.

After a few piquant potato pockets and chewy cheese chunks, we ordered lamb korma, malai kofta, and chicken tikka makhanwala. To soak up the extra sauce, we ordered a couple of naan that were graciously divided for us to share (note: the garlic naan sucks unless you are in the vampire business). As much of a meat eater as I am, the clear winner of the three was the malai kofta, but I would have to say that it was all in the sauce. It had the appropriate amount of heat and it didn't stick with you, which allowed me to actually taste the other two dishes instead of giving me a numb tongue and a mouthful of spices that are supposedly exotic (even though I can get them at Met Food across the street). The korma and the tikka makhanwala (which I secretly hoped to be tikka masala with a different name) were both delicious, but definitely not life changing, and the portions were a little off. We had a ton of sauce left over once we finished the naan and the rice.

Overall, in Queens, each of these dishes were much spicier than any Manhattan counterpart, even in curry hill or curry row (although most of those places suck just as much as Jackson Diner's garlic naan). This could create issues once you're at the game, especially since the last place you want to be sitting is a wet seat smeared with muddy air force one footprints in the upper mezzanine toilet. If your stomach was not made for spicy food (i.e. you're a white boy), maybe stick to tailgating. Buen provecho.

Chain Gang

Five Guys is currently at the top of my "Holy Shit That's a Great Burger" list. My recent visit more than makes up for the Burger King idiocy of a couple weeks ago. That's all for today. Buen Provecho.

Memorial Day Highlights

Turns out that it's real easy to grill on my roof. Shame on me for waiting three years to test the theory, especially since it was a piece of cake. The grill came from the Rite-Aid on the first floor, a steal at $7.99. At first glance, it was a true piece of shit, but it wound up making a mean burger and breast of chicken. Added bonus: Even with the wind doing its worst, I didn't set the roof on fire.

Craic That Whip

Wednesday night's guest bartending event taught me two things:

1. Irish folk are wicked philanthopic.

2. I have no friends.

Let this post serve as a "thanks a million" to the proprietors of Ceol Pub on Smith St. in Cobble Hill as well as a "thanks for nothing" to the jerks that didn't show up. You know who you are.

Misteak

If I took this picture, crumpled it up, and then stepped on it, it might resemble what I just ate. Regrettably, I took the subway two stops to the Chinatown outpost of Burger King, and ordered the Steakhouse burger. Now let us deconstruct it from top to bottom:

Bun: Off to a good start. Not smashed into the rest of the sandwich.

Mayo: The usual BK four tablespoons, but enough bun and lettuce to hold it together.

Lettuce: A few shavings, probably a 2 on the 1 to 5 scale.

Tomato: Two small slices. I guess the roma tomatoes were cheaper today.

Breaded and Fried Onions: A soggy mess. Too close to the A1 sauce.

A1 Sauce: A watered down version of the original. Tasted more like sweet and sour sauce.

Cheese: Winner in the "Ingredient That Tastes Most Like What it Should Taste Like" category.

Patty: One and a half times the size of the bun, but thin and dry with leathery edges.

Overall: Fidel, you're a dumbass for thinking this would taste any better because the commercials are funny. Buen provecho.

Timing is Everything

Dear Acne-Riddled Girl that Lives in Our Building,

No matter how much of a hurry you are in to reapply Proactiv solution to your already destroyed face, please refrain from taking our wet laundry from the washer and putting it on top of the dusty dryers. Or, better yet, please readjust your laundry schedule so as to not coincide with ours, because if this continues, there will be two hits: my wife hitting you, and you hitting the filth that we are forced to call a laundry room floor.

Warm Regards,
Mr. and Mrs. Fidel Gastro

Wag, You

Dear Kobe Bryant,

Please kill yourself. I'm sorry, that's too harsh. Please do all you can to get a season ending injury.

Regards,
Fidel

Becha Me Mucho

This is Rachel:





This is Rachel's lasagna:




Pictured above is my second helping. Sausage, bechamel, and homemade sauce worthy of a New York mafioso. And after the second helping, while the rest of the party played "Drink Fifty Tequila Shots in an Hour," I silently peeled back layer after layer of pasta, eating them like savory fruit roll ups. And when the sauce and sausage emerged, I picked out the little chunks of spiced ground pork and popped them like whoppers. I think there's no better compliment to the chef than sneaking more of the main course when you're not supposed to. In fact, I think that even after the lasagna made it into the fridge, I was still picking at it. I hope that nobody was counting on leftovers. Buen provecho.

The State of Stadium Food

Recent developments in my career have allowed me the luxury of attending live sporting events, and I have made the following observations:

1. The closer you are to the field/glass/court, the better the access to chicken fingers. In fact, at field/glass/court level, you can even get sushi. However, my wife is the only person allowed to order sushi without being subject to endless ridicule and dirty looks. Time and place, people, time and place.

2. When other people pay for it, the beer tastes better. But no matter how delicious it may be, it's never a good idea to order 12 beers on someone else's tab, especially if you don't have the aisle seat.

3. This has nothing to do with food, but it should be noted that sporting events are no place for kids, unless your kids are allowed to drop the f-bomb at home and pick fights with people who wear the wrong jersey.

Buen Provecho.

Bad Beer, Worse Food

Dear The Heartland Brewery on 51st and 6th

Boo and double Boo. Your light beer offering tasted like orange juice from concentrate that you get in the tiny cans on the airplane, and your cobb salad had no taste, even with such pungent ingedients like blue cheese. The chicken was definitely chicken flavored meat product, and the boiled eggs were definitely from a jar. Also, guacamole is for chips. Avocados are for cobb salads. If you don't know the difference between guacamole and a plain avocado, please go f**k yourself.

Kind Regards,
Fidel

Nachos Muchacho

Please be advised that Pete's Ale House in Brooklyn has the greatest nachos in the world. You get a perfect balance of cheese, chili, and chips, all of which are made even better when you get a jalapeno thrown in the mix. Pair it with a beer from their extensive draught selection (I recommend the Liberty Ale) and you've got the perfect accompaniment to the Mets-Phillies game, or the angry lady throwing menus across the dining room. Buen Provecho.

French Food Hates Americans

Dear Provence en Boite,
Thank you very much for running out of cassoulet. The steak frites replacement was a real shit show. The cut of meat was way too big and way too greasy. Maybe it's my own fault for already having beef in the form of a pork roll burger for lunch. Regardless, I was disappointed. Furthermore, your service was a big pile of poo. I don't speak French, but I'm pretty sure "Could we get some water?" doesn't translate to "Please ignore us and our entrees presently drying under the heat lamp."

Regards,
Fidel

Roast Beef and Raffles

3rd Annual Claire Finley Memorial Beef and Beer

Warminster, PA

All you Can Eat and Drink: $30

The idea of a fundraiser centered around food is by no means a novelty. There's the pasta dinner, the bake sale, even the occasional young thug on the subway selling Snickers. If I were any sort of food philosopher, I would launch into food being the stuff of community, but I'm more of a glutton and a people watcher. If you're a like-minded individual, you ought to check out Philadelphia's version of last month's Beefsteak Dinner, the Beef and Beer, another tour de force of heavy eating and drinking, but this time with raffles and a disc jockey.

In lieu of butter soaked tenderloin on toast, the Beef and Beer offers chafing dish after chafing dish of slow roasted beef, fresh horseradish, baked ziti (aka "zeets"), and two kinds of potato salad, German, and the kind swimming in mayonnaise. And instead of helping yourself to Bud Light cans in strategically placed coolers, the Beef and Beer offers endless pitchers of Miller Lite, the best light beer ever created.

Once the belly's full (usually two to three plates piled high), one can attempt to burn calories by taking a stroll through the aisles created by the raffle baskets. Or, if the beer's doing what it's supposed to do, one can head straight to the dance floor. After a few songs, a giant candy bar shows up in the hands of the guy running the show (Gene Finely, brother of Claire, a real freakin' awesome dude), and the dance contest begins. Some dude took his shirt off, but it was the Asian breakdancer that walked away with the 5 lb. chocolate monstrosity after a flawlessly executed windmill.

And the evening rolls along. Line dancing, more beer, and finally, the basket raffles. Another year, another beef and beer. Thanks to my mother-in-law, not only did I get to stuff my face, but I was also blessed with having a designated driver. Much more than the raffles, the sense of community one observes at these events has to be the most rewarding take-away, and I hope I'm around next year and the year after that to be a part of it. Buen Provecho.

The Cure

I love The Cease for being from the Midwest. I love his penchant for hard to injure quarterbacks and the irony of his lactardedness as a Wisconsinite. But his most redeeming quality has to be his ability to find an obscure foodstuff in an all too common location. The foodstuff of note this time around being the buzz meat La Quercia, a domestic porker available to purveyors only as a whole hog. Making local prosciutto has to significantly reduce the cured meat's carbon footprint, which is a grand thing for mother earth, but I was upset to see such a huge markup in Manhattan, where the premium (at Otto, natch) was double what I paid at The Jake Walk in Carroll Gardens ($5 for a single there as opposed to $10 in the big city). Granted, the fuel consumed by a refrigerated meat truck idling on 8th Street and 5th Avenue at 5am on a Tuesday might beg the premium, but I would rather Mr. Batali work it into the price of his myriad Italian wines, or any other combination of his non-local ingredients kicked out of the earthy boot that is his Disneyworld. I'm all for paying the premium associated with consuming local foods, but if your entire menu is FOB Italian, you should probably forgo the opportunity to serve domestic prosciutto, especially if you're going to charge and arm and leg (and a shank) for it. Let somebody else benefit from that gimmick. Buen provecho.

You Broke My Heart (Sort of)

Dear Fette Sau,
I am fully disappointed in your latest brisket offering. It was all fat and no lean. Jack Sprat would have died on the spot. Thankfully, your baked beans and pulled pork are the best in NYC (leaps and bounds beyond Hill Country's), and they're even better with a gallon of Liquid Gold. It's fully worth reeking of campfire in the subsequent days after visting. But seriously, you should really do something about that brisket.

Regards,
Fidel

Smoke, Mirrors, and Lots of Herring

I've always been interested (and disappointed) in the lapse between the appetizing graphics on a box of processed meals and the actual food inside. Alas, I am way too lazy for this much documentation. Thankfully, Germans are hyper efficient and this guy Ryan has a lot of time on his hands. Buen provecho.

Good Friday

What's so good about it? Certainly not throwing rotten food at people carrying their crucifixion crosses up the hill, although it is pretty easy to get caught up in the mob mentality. And if you're the guy that has to carry the cross? Sheesh.

On the other hand, if you adhere to the no meat during Lent policy, the one I made mention of in an earlier post, you have a great excuse to eat fish and chips. Unfortunately, the best fish and chips are all the way over in Galway, so I'll probably just have a turkey club. Buen Provecho.

This is the Place

A few notes about Salt Lake City, UT:

1. Holy crap is it easy to get to the slopes. Half an hour door-to-door, no crowds once you're up there, and the cushiest snow imaginable. If you're extreme like me, this is a plus.

2. Holy crap does the beer taste like carbonated water. Ever ordered a coke and it came out clear and tasted just like club soda? Kind of like that, except you feel extra bloated and you can't send it back because that's what it's supposed to taste like. One can only depend on brewer buddy Adam Curfew for quality suds. If you're planning a trip, let me know and I'll make sure he gets you sorted out.

3. There are a whole host of Mexican fast foot joints that kill it: Alberto's, Beto's, Los Betos, Molcasalsa. All open 24 hours a day, so if you've got the drunk munchies and are willing to risk the DUI, the burritos are unbelievable, plentiful, and cheap.

Basically, it's the best place to snowboard, but the worst place to drink.