Double and Possibly Quadruple Standards

Reason 8,037 I'll never move back to Utah.

Cheesesteak Tally

I've decided to tally the number of cheesesteaks I will eat as long for as this blog remains active. If anyone can show me how to install a sidebar graphic, I'll buy you a cheesesteak. Without further ado, here's a rough count broken down by venue:

Pat's: 1
Geno's: 0
Delassandro's: 2
Steve's: 1
Street Meat: 2
Other: 3

Total: 9

Today I went with mushroom, american, hot sauce, and ketchup from a cart called "Breakfast N' Lunch" on 18th and Market. Big roll, but not enough meat to fill it, even with the addition of canned mushrooms, which could have already spent a day out of the can. Perfectly acceptable for four bucks. Buen provecho.

Fresh My Ass

Dear Baja Fresh,
Please cook your rice. Please rotate your salsa stock. Please instruct your cashiers not to cough into their hands behind the counter. Please melt the cheese on my "enchilado style" burrito. Please tell your cooks to stop giving me dirty looks through the pick-up window. Please do not ever again serve the pile of crap that I ingested this past Sunday. In other words, please do your best to give a shit about what you serve. If you can't, then please take the word "fresh" out of your name.

Regards,
Fidel

Channeling Victorino

A combination of honeymoon nostalgia, leftover brown rice, and a transplanted Hawaiian World Series champion were all the inspiration I needed to make my own Spam musubi. Hate if you must, but only if you've already tasted it. You will be pleasantly surprised at the richness of the meat and how well it marries with the brick of sushi rice below. I think the secret could be the sauce that the Spam gets hit with at the end of cooking. Soy, mirin, and sugar give it a sweetness that makes you forget you're eating canned meat. Be careful with the sugar, though. I overdid it last night and had a bitch of a time cleaning the molasses out of my egg pan. Also, most recipes call for a musubi maker, a plexiglass box with a plunger used to make these culinary cubes. Lacking this special tool, I went McGuyver on that ass and used the empty Spam can. Buen Provecho.

Spam Musubi

1 small tin of Spam, cut into 1/4 inch slices and then halved
3 cups cooked short grain rice cooled to room temperature (I used brown rice)
1 sheet of nori, cut into inch slices
1/4 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup mirin
1/4 cup sugar (this turned out to be too much. A tablespoon should do)

Combine the soy sauce, mirin, and sugar in a small saucepan. Heat to dissolve the sugar. Meanwhile, fry the Spam (no oil needed) until browned on both sides. At the end of cooking, pour in the soy sauce mixture and use tongs to coat the slices. Remove from heat. If you have a musubi maker, fill with rice, plunge away, top with Spam, and wrap in nori. Repeat until finished with rice and Spam. You can also form the cubes yourself, or use the empty Spam can.

I Sure Do Love a Good Bender

The amazingness that was last week (after pretty much the best weekend of my life):

Monday: A ticket to the World Series. Like a hypoxic mountaineer just steps from the summit of Everest, I deluded myself into the notion that the game would go on. Prior to the cats and dogs, however, I finally had the Schmitter, which I've been meaning to try since I heard some jerk talk about it during the cleanse. It sets itself apart from the ubiquitous cheesesteak by adding fried tomato, salami, and russian dressing, and to rationalize the gluttony, it's served on a kaiser roll. Sadly, my high expectations were met with disappointment, more than likely because it was a windy 40 degrees at the stadium, so the whole thing was cold after the first bite. I refuse to give up, though, and thankfully, the establishment that created the Schmitter just so happens to be in my neighborhood.

Wednesday: After unloading my ticket to a neurotic Indian, Mrs. Gastro and I joined the Gastro-in-laws for cheesesteaks from Delassandro's (my new 2nd favorite cheesesteak) and cheese fries from Chubby's (near and far, nothing compares to Pat's cheese fries, but these are in the ballpark). Unlike Pat's and Geno's, the steak is of the chopped variety, and there's a pile of it three feet high on the grill at any given time of day, so even if you call it in, they don't make it until you show up. Not exactly cooked to order. I think the beef could have used a little more salt, but I numbed my tongue with cherry peppers to cope with this. After dinner, the fightin' Phils won the World Series, which meant a stroll down Manayunk's Main Street, and more whiskey and colas than necessary, partly because of this, but primarily because I turned 30.

Thursday: Visit number four to Qdoba (please don't remind me that I hated the first visit. I know), which I've dubbed the pork burrito visit (and every fourth time from here on out, I will get pork). The assembly line put double of everything on it, and the result was a two pound behemoth that I probably shouldn't have finished. Then again, I probably shouldn't have drank my face off the night before.

Friday: A day off from work and a Wawa hoagie. If you don't know, I feel sorry for you. In the evening, a novelty costume and too much Red Bull. It usually doesn't work, but this time I was screaming at everyone I was with and laughing like a stupid banshee. My apologies to all who were with me.

Saturday: Just like the man upstairs, I saw that it was all good, so I finally got some rest. And some Chinese take-out.

Bender complete. Buen Provecho.

Muchas Gracias

To all those that had a hand in this past weekend's sorpresa, especially Mrs. Gastro, I am thankful to have such great friends and family. It was the best birthday ever. I love you guys.

Buffalo Chicken Shitsteak

Dear Cosimo's Pizza,

You have three options; either replace the hot sauce with something that doesn't taste like apple cider (Frank's Red Hot isn't that difficult to come by), take the damn thing off the menu, or change the name to "dessert steak." And after you've made your decision, bring us the cheese sauce you owe us from last night's botched order of cheese fries. Jerks.

Regards,
Mr. and Mrs. Fidel Gastro

In a Word, Opulence

A dear friend of mine was married this past weekend. I think he outdid everyone I know by having a lobster station at the cocktail hour. A pile four feet high, a professional short order shucker slanging tail and clawmeat by the dishful, and a vat of drawn butter. I haven't eaten that much lobster since, well, ever.

Eatin' Good in the Neighborhood

Rather than seek out new and interesting places to try (last night would have been an ideal night for a sports bar to watch the Phillies jonron their way out of a two run deficit), we settled for Applebee's, which makes sense because it's the halfway point between us and the in-laws, and also where our waiter was kind enough to let us order half price appetizers before 9pm. Problem is, when you're getting such a sweet deal (yes, even if you're eating mounds of heavily salted carcinogens, it's still a sweet deal), you could completely render the deal null and void by ordering way more than you need. This is exactly what my fat ass did, and between four people, we managed to rack up $100 worth of food and drink. At Applebee's. That's like spending more than five bucks at taco bell. Buen provecho.

Forged in the Flames of Cheese Sauce

I think every burrito deserves a second chance, especially when the restaurant queue makes its way out the door. After Qdoba served me a burrito both soggy and dry (in all the wrong places), I lowered my expectations and joined D-tron for another go, this time ordering one of their signature burritos, the Chicken Queso. Professor D opted for the Vegetarian Gumbo.

With long lines at the outset, you're subject to table-lurking. Fortunately for me, D-tron scored us a seat while my receipt printed, most likely by giving someone his signature "ice grill."

So here we were, me tearing the burrito foil back, and he already slurping what appeared to be a delicious bowl of soup and rice. The Chicken Queso burrito is made proprietary by a ladle of cheese sauce (canned or otherwise, cheese sauce is like a warm blanket on a cold day. Sadly, if you dipped yourself in cheese sauce to stay warm, once it congealed, you'd be pretty cold, plus you'd look like a real dumbass). Too bad the ladle was more of a tablespoon, and I couldn't really taste it among the hunk of rice and assorted spoofuls of beans, sour cream, chicken, and salsa. Overall, nothing new and innovative. Then again, with my expectations hovering near "this will be a shitty lunch but what the hell," getting a Chipotle replica turned out to be exactly what I wanted. Admit it, if you couldn't get Pat's for some reason, you'd make your way over to Geno's. Assembly line burritos are just plain good (if you can manage to properly cook the rice), whether they start with a Q, a C, or anything in between. And how was the gumbo? Well, you'll have to ask D-tron, but watch out for the "ice grill." Buen provecho.

Food Cart Take Two

Continuing my "Cart for a Day" themed Thursday, the falafel couple outside the 7-11 on 15th and JFK makes a delicious, albeit messy, falafel burrito (I call it a burrito because the pita is thin like a tortilla). Their falafel balls are not of the crunchy on the outside and dry on the inside variety. They have more of an all around chewy consistency, like a savory munchkin, or a potato croquette from Sal's in Carroll Gardens (Google it and order a few. They're the shit). The hummus is silky smooth, and the vegetables are fresh (unlike a certain food truck I've written about in the past). The only complaint is that it's not really lunch-size, but it's too big to be a snack. At $3.50, it should quell the hunger, no? And I'd overdo it with two, not to mention the fact that I'd be spending seven bucks on a meal from a cart. These things will have to be ironed out in the future, as I'm certain that I will return. Oh yeah, and these guys didn't dump ketchup all over my lunch, like that fucker from this morning. Buen provecho.

Broken Breakfast

Dear Toothless Food Cart Vendor,

The order was "bacon, egg, and cheese; salt, pepper, hot sauce." Please do not presume that I want half a bottle of ketchup as well. The only thing worse than ketchup on eggs is purple ketchup on eggs. That, or maybe eating a tin of skoal.

Regards,
Fidel

Live Strong

Lance coming out of retirement to cycle with a message? Or could it be the fact that li'l Phelpsy-poo stole Armstrong's thunder as the world's greatest athlete? Seven Tours vs. Eight medals. The timing's a bit fishy, no?

Qdo(n't)ba

Singular reader, I believe you are well versed on my little Chipotle problem. Not having one within lunching radius, I resort to Qdoba, whose similar burrito stylings I sampled today. The verdict in question form:

Would it kill you to keep an eye on the rice? Every single bite was a soggy and mushy mess. I could swear that it was minute rice, and if I paid a bum $5 to dig through the trash at the end of the day, I wouldn't be surprised if there was a surfeit of empty red boxes intermingled with the avocado skins.

The pork? An arid desert of flavorless flesh. It's doubtful that a grain of salt even made it on the loin.

The salsa? The corn offering's corn component was undercooked, and the spicy offering tasted more like ketchup.

Three strikes, Qdoba, and you're out (but I will likely go there again tomorrow to try out the chicken burrito and cross my fingers that the rice won't be a disaster). Buen Provecho.

Flipping the Script

This is freakin' amazing. I wish Nebraska was a little bit closer.

Dinner in Hell

Google "Rachael Ray is the devil" and you'll come up with pages upon pages of results. Sadly, I couldn't find the original article I was looking for; it had a wonderfully childish picture of Ms. Ray adorned with a goatee, two slits for eyes, and horns (my favorite likeness of the Prince(ss) of darkness). Getting to the point, which is not "Satan lives among us," rather, it's that I bought my wife a subscription to Everyday with Rachael Ray, and I was pleasantly surprised with one of the recipes, the Pita Salad. Don't hate the player, hate the game.

Channeling Alice Waters, the recipe calls for local produce that's available at the end of the summer, tossed with a light dressing of lemon juice, garlic, and olive oil (or EVOO in devilspeak). An added dimension of crunch comes from pita bread that has been baked in the oven for 10 minutes. It's the perfect meal for when you go play squash before the grocery store, then spend too much time at the grocery store because the grocery store's changing from a SuperFresh to a PathMark and you can't find anything, then get in a nonsensical fight that lasts longer than it should, and finally you arrive at dinner way past 9pm. On a weeknight. Buen Provecho (or Yum-O! in devilspeak).

Pita Salad for 2:
1/2 head of romaine lettuce
1/2 red pepper
2 tomatoes
1 cucumber
2 pitas, cut into eighths
Juice of one lemon
1/4 cup olive oil
Small garlic clove, minced
Salt and pepper to taste

Bake the pita in a 350 degree oven for 10 minutes. Whisk the lemon juice, olive oil, and garlic in a big bowl. Chop all the vegetables and toss with dressing. Add pita and toss again. The recipe also called for fresh mint and fresh parsley, but we skipped both because our grocery store's herb selection sucks.

Aqua Fit and LA Fitness Rant

I have nobody to blame but myself for not checking the class schedule, but would it really be that difficult to keep at least one swim lane open during water aerobics? Furthermore, this no towel service thing is a flippin' joke. How can you have a pool and no towel service? It's like starting a fire knowing that there's no water around to put it out. And finally, I understand that demographics require the location to be in a strip mall, but please do not go on and on about making a commitment to fitness and then park yourselves a hundred feet from imminent and slow death by processed foods. LA Fitness, you get a C-. Barely.

How I Spent Last Weekend

Perusing the pits of this year's Red Bull Soap Box Race in Manayunk, I'm kicking myself for my general lack of initiative. On the other hand, spectating from a covered porch doesn't suck too much. I'm nearing the end of my ability to drink for 14 hours straight and then function in the days following, but much like Brett Favre, it's hard to give up the things you love, no matter how much abuse you may have to endure.

Some of the takeaways/highlights:

1. Philadelphians don't fuck around. Even in the midst of a hurricane, the event was chock full of blue collar/white collar/popped collar spectators, most likely in attendance for any potential carnage.

2. If you're bringing beer in your cargo pockets, make sure your shorts have a belt.

3. Emergency rain ponchos are pretty freakin' sweet.

4. My wife is an amazing beer pong player.

5. I'm pretty sure I agreed to an ultimate frisbee league. If you see me on the street, you're totally allowed to punch me.

6. The tie that binds is always John Cusack films. Better Off Dead is my personal favorite.

7. If indeed you decide to make the commitment to a 14 hour drinking day, be sure to end it with a cheesesteak and cheese fries, and if you can't balance on your own, don't be a hero and try to put others to bed.

Wearing Dockers...And Loving Every Minute of It

Flat front and olive in color, everything's coming up Fidel with my new pair of Dockers. Boy, I really need to find myself someplace to eat.

The Aftermath

Instead of eating vegetable soup and maintaining a raw diet, I've gone the way of the kid with the crusty moustaches on the Wendy's commercial and made the personal choice to become a meatatarian. To be more exact, I went on a mild food and liquor marathon, stopping only to refill my plate and/or glass with very bad food (bad in the sense that any cleansing that may have happened is now null and void). Presently, I'm tapering off, but it was hard to say no to the enormous chafing dish filled with corned beef hash this fine morning.

(I promise to get back to better reviews, dear reader. I apologize for this drivel. Stay tuned for something much more interesting than the breakfast buffet at the Rochester Courtyard by Mariott and their offering of made-to-order eggs)