Oh Shit

Dear Tom Mylan,
Please forgive me and my inability to cook pork. I feel as though it should be me engulfed in flames and not these spare ribs, not these chops.



Again, terribly sorry for thinking I actually knew what I was doing. Buen Provecho.

Kind Regards,
Fidel

Not Roger. Not even close.

Dear Stand-in for Roger the Bartender at Camp,
I understand that every now and again you have to have a cigarette. Smoking is cool. But if it's 6:55 and the 2-for-1 happy hour special ends at 7, you should not hang out post-smoke until 7:15 and screw my darling wife and I out of a free brew doggie. Furthermore, we sat patiently while you bullshitted with a dude that by most people's standards would be considered a douchebag. That in and of itself should qualify us for one on the house. You can have the tip money, but the next time you're behind the bar, we'll keep walking.

Regards,
Mr. and Mrs. Gastro

Looks Like Funny Man

Yo, this dude looks like Andy Samberg. I hate Andy Samberg. Buen provecho.

The Other White Meat

"You know all those assholes that don't get out of the way when you're trying to get on the subway? And all those crowds on the street? And the fucking UPS guy? Every last one of them used to cure meat. It's just how it used to be done."

Or something like that. Tom Mylan is a genius, a history buff, and a goddamned good butcher. By day, the carving artist is behind the scenes at Marlow & Sons, Diner, and Bonita. In the evening, he's a moonlighting educator at The Brooklyn Kitchen, where you can witness the miracle of turning a whole hog (actually a side) into chops, belly, jowls, loin, and yet even more cuts that I am unfortunately ignorant about.



The whole process takes a little under two hours, beginning with an espresso, and finishing with sauteed pork kidney. Along the way, you learn about each cut of meat, the best way to cook it, and trade secrets that you may or may not have read in The Omnivore's Dilemma (I'm certain that all 10 of us in attendance gave it a recent read). For instance, I learned that there's only two hanger steaks to a cow, meaning that if you and your date both get steak frites at your local bistro, you might as well eat the whole cow. Food for thought indeed. It's not only a lesson in butchery, but also sustainability.



What I love about the grassroots approach of programs like this is that the people running the show love what they do, and want nothing more than to share that joy with the masses. It sounds corny, but it's true. I felt like an amateur throughout the process, but in the end I was given all the tips I needed to make sure that the 8 pounds of pork that I walked away with (triple cut chops, belly, and ribs) were put to good use. Buen Provecho.

Dispatch from Philadelphia

Does a cheesesteak taste better when it's prepared in a stainless steel cart by an old man with a glass eye (at this point you should also ask yourself if a bear does you know what where)? Of course it does. But it's not the glass eye that improves the taste. It's actually the care with which the sandwich is prepared and the smiling service. It also helps to be in Philadelphia, where the bread is nothing short of a miracle, and the meat is grilled on a surface that has seen thousands of pounds of meat. Buen provecho.

Try Again Beca

Dear Nancy Whiskey Pub,
Why must you tarnish your perfectly cooked chicken wings with jarbecue sauce (barbecue sauce from a jar)? Please advise.

Regards,
Fidel

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