Field Trip: Local West

Dear New York friends, I'm sorry I didn't look every last one of you up when I was there the other day.  I was too busy drinking away the pain of the realization that the douchebags surrounding me at Local West probably make more money than I do.  Submitted for your consideration, Emil Corsillo from Hickoree's shows us the proper way to order a drink there.



And as a follow-up, Mr. Corsillo explains what would happen in a world where swift justice is the norm. Unless you have a sponsor (Pete Bisso's a good choice, and he's not much of a douche), you're better off brown bagging a 40 by the pier. And yes, I'm thirty-one years old. Buen provecho.

Field Trip: McCrady's, Charleston, SC

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Did I Eat This?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Did I Eat This?

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

Sam Sifton is a Biter

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

Pillow Status: Dining On the Slept On

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

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

How Much Is That Birdie in the Window?

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

Green Chile: Worth the Food Miles

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

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

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

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

TGIFAHTTTIICC

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

Why Did I Eat This?

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

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

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

My Friends are Cooler Than Your Friends: Gene Finley

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

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

Picking Up My Slack

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

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

Field Trip: Yakitori Totto

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

 

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

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

Julie & Julia & Julio

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

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

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

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

Field Notes: Chicago Hot Dogs

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


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

Thanks, D-tron.  Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stuck Between Maroc and a Hard Place

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

Why Did I Eat This?

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