Pitchers Pub. Really? Yes, Really.

Whether or not you choose to run the 7 miles home from Center City to Manayunk, you should really do yourself the favor of stopping into Pitchers Pub between the hours of 6pm and 8pm.

I am not joking when I say that this is hands down the best happy hour in Philadelphia in terms of value for money. For $3 a pop, you can get at least 75% of what's on their draft list of 27, and it's a serious draft list. I stumbled into the place with my brother-in-law thinking I'd knock back a Miller High Life, and the next thing I know I'm on my fourth pint of Fat Head's Headhunter. Food was an afterthought, but also cheap and surprisingly delicious.

There's a chance you'll walk by this place and think, "Wow, what a shithole," or maybe, "But I'm not wearing a white hat and boat shoes!"

Keep these thoughts to yourself and just walk in. You'll be as surprised as I was. Buen provecho.

Happy Belated Easter!

This is my Easter Ham and I think it's just lovely. That is all. Hope everyone had an Easter full of good news (He is risen) and great food (like the ham pictured above). Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This? Buffalo Wild Wings

They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot. And a Red Robin. And a Buffalo Wild Wings. And some self-service frozen yogurt shop that will be closed in six to nine months. And a PetValu.

But most importantly, a Buffalo Wild Wings, or B Dubs, as it is lazily shortened (because fuck syllables). For some, this is much more of a paradise than the empty field full of snakes and broken bottles (and at one time, deer probably, who are now displaced and confused and inevitably roadkill) it replaced. For me, it was a step just below adequate until the diarrhea kicked in later that evening and lasted most of the day Sunday and I contemplated arson. I don't understand how we as humans choose convenience over intestinal discomfort more often than not. I suppose it's easy to choose the path of excess when it's paved with five thousand times the recommended daily allowance of sodium. Wash it all down with a beer to forget that you're in the suburbs, then yes, it is paradise; a temporary vacation where you're given a "Guest Experience Captain" who will bring you unlimited samples of B Dubs' signature sauces and/or anything on draft (may I please have 100 samples of Miller Lite?).

The disappointing truth is that while you're dying to go there (whether ironically or not), the reason you want do is because of their endless commercials and the fact that it's more socially acceptable than Hooters. Aside from the glut of TVs in the place, it's no different than any other chain.

At least that was my experience. Our server was bummed that we only ordered a sampler platter and a snack size order of bone-in wings (plus two kids' meals), which were undersauced and just a touch past cooked. Raw chicken texture isn't my favorite. The boneless wings that were included in the platter were all bread and also devoid of sauce. The nachos were soggy, topped with mealy tomatoes and a congealed off-yellow queso. The mozzarella sticks held up, but you've got much bigger problems if you're fucking up mozzarella sticks.

Although I wasn't happy paying $60 for 48 hours' worth of intestinal discomfort, there's a 100% chance I'll go again because I hate myself. Plus, I didn't get my nifty cardboard hat this time, so they owe me that (I may also try out the unlimited beer sample scheme). If you can avoid being swayed by their marketing and that stupid winged buffalo logo, you're a better person than I. If not, stick to mozzarella sticks if you get suckered into going. Buen provecho.

March Madness: Five Burning Questions for Duke's Head Coach

One shining moment

1. Why is your last name pronounced "Shuh-shef-skee?" Did you just make that up?
2. Can't we just say, "Kurzizewsky?"
3. Can you tie a Half Windsor instead of that sloppy Four-in-Hand knot?
4. Seriously, what the fuck is up with that last name?
5. Are you a fan of pierogies?
6 (Bonus Question). Why does everybody hate Duke Basketball so much?

Paying the Troll Toll: Andrew Zimmern

Celebrity is fucked. Even more fucked are the expectations of a celebrity's fan base. Of course you can't be all things to all people, but at a minimum, you should be allowed an opinion. Heck, your opinion is what got you in front of the camera in the first place, right? I'm specifically talking about Andrew Zimmern, who replaced his appetite for destruction with an appetite for increasingly strange foodstuffs and became a household name along the way. It's really hard not to like the guy, or at least his media persona. Follow him on Instagram and you'll see that despite enjoying opportunities that many of us won't, he's a humble ass dude and he's truly grateful for his lot in life.

Unfortunately, here's what else you'll see, especially when he uses his personal feed (yes, he's the one posting to Instagram (I think)) for things other than travel and food: his liberal aka tolerant leanings incite a vomitous stream of hatred, whether it's his position on addiction, gay marriage, or most recently, Donald Trump.

It's nothing out of the ordinary in a place where we can all hide in a digital stream of ones and zeroes, but for someone like Zimmern who just seems like a genuinely happy guy who wants other people to be just as happy, it's a shame that we as humans are terrible piles of garbage. Buen provecho.

Snap Judgment: Cleavers

After Spike Mendelsohn unceremoniously opened a Philly outpost of his Good Stuff Eatery in June of 2014 and then closed it a little over a year later, the lights are back on at 108 South 18th Street, this time in the form of a cheesesteak joint called Cleavers.

Although there wasn't much rework needed in the wake of Good Stuff Eatery's gut renovation of the space, the owners were smart enough to repaint and re-wallpaper all of the nonsense left behind by Spike's branding team. Unfortunately, they overcompensated a bit, plastering their namesake all over everything, including the salt and pepper shakers. They even have an actual brand they use to emboss their cheesesteak rolls (this is actually pretty cool but doesn't work as well as it should).


After my first bite, the reason for all this pomp and circumstance became dreadfully apparent.


This was a bad cheesesteak.


It was Upper mezzanine Aramark concession stand bad. Mall food court in Salt Lake City bad. Random country in the European Union trying to make a buck by leveraging Americana bad. Send it into Mikey Il's "This is Not a Cheesesteak" tumblr bad.

The seeded roll was so dense that I felt like a dog tearing at a chew toy in an attempt to extract the plastic squeaker with every bite. Each time, I lost a bit more of the underseasoned meat as it fell to the plate along with glob after glob of cheez whiz (at least they're using actual cheez whiz) until I was eating nothing but (bad) roll. The fries, of the crisscut variety, were also lacking in the salt department and soggy. In what seemed to be somewhat of a social experiment, there was one bottle of ketchup for the entire dining room (I hate ketchup so this didn't really affect me plus this is kind of petty because they just opened a week ago). If it actually were, I'm happy to report that humans, at least when fed, are generally friendly and willing to share their precious ketchup.

This "cowmap" is pretty fresh tho.

I'm not sure how (or if) they'll fix the bread situation, but I'm sure I'll give the place another shot in the near future. Hopefully by the time I go back, they'll have fixed the rest of the kinks as well, provided they don't shutter first. Buen provecho.

A Quick Note on Rare India Pale Ales

For the first time since I rationalized my alcoholism by getting into fancy beers five years ago (and I swear I told that joke before stupid Jimmy Fallon did), I left work early to hunt the rare beer beast known as Pliny the Younger. It helped that Bru--who had a whole Leap Day thing going on with a list of other hoppy-as-fuck limited releases like Hopslam and Nugget Nectar--wasn't tapping their PTY until 4pm (most places will pull the trigger around 11am, which takes a bit more planning).

When I got there (probably 3:55pm), the line was deep, but it didn't look like 100-people deep (there's only so much to go around, like Bitcoin). I queued up, and just before I got to the front, like six people before the front, the well had run dry.

Or did it?

Fortunately for me and the rest of the stragglers who didn't leave work early enough, the guy at the door said that the dregs of the keg can usually kick out a few more pours before actually kicking, so he urged us to hang tight. I had given up at this point, but figured I'd wait since I had nothing better to do, and after about fifteen minutes, he came back out with enough tickets for the last of us. I would finally get to taste five years' worth of hype.

And sadly (but not surprisingly), the hype wasn't justified. Make no mistake, Pliny the Younger is good. Would I say it's 100-on-the-Beer-Advocate-Scale good? Probably not. A convincing 97/98, but for all its rarity, I think I'd rather have a Hopslam, or even a Firestone Walker Double Jack. I'm glad I got to try it, but I think the fact of the matter is this: we now live in a world where pours like Pliny are increasingly common and more accessible than ever. And if big beer continues to gobble up little beer at the pace they're currently going, not only will these high octane hop hippos be readily available, they'll probably be cheap enough to keep in the fridge on the reg. Let's just pray that consistency remains as they scale upward in pursuit of profits. Buen provecho.

Top Five: Lunchtime Lenten Friday Non-Fish Meat Substitutes in Philly

Photo Credit: Who the fuck knows? I found it by Googling "Lent."

In an attempt to reconnect with the religion bestowed upon me by my parents, I gave up drinking for Lent (during the week, except last Wednesday and maybe this Monday for Zahav's Lamb Shack). I'm also trying to hold fast (straight edge reference!) to this whole "no meat on Fridays" thing, even though someone told me that the concept was the result of shilling for the fish industry back in the day. Still, it's a form of sacrifice because I eat meat most days. For example, today's calorie massacre would typically start with a sausage, egg, and cheese burrito, then a fried chicken sandwich for lunch, and probably a burger for dinner (wow, that sounds awful when you put it down on paper). Instead, because it's Lent, I'm gonna eat some dumb instant oatmeal after I type this dumb list about the best things you can eat on Fridays during Lent in Philly that are neither meat nor fish. From worst to first, here are the definitive* rankings:

5. Bullshit Salad, assorted locations: Whether it's SaladWorks, Jake & Max's in the Comcast Food Court, or Devon & Blakely, you can be certain that your lettuce/mixed greens/spinach will be unwashed, your tomatoes will be unripe, and there will be entirely too much dressing all over this cold mess of an attempt to be healthy.

4. Falafel from the dude on the corner of 16th and JFK: Does anyone know how long this guy has been here? He's definitely a relic of the "food carts before food carts were cool" era. He's also super nice and his falafel is cheap and excellent. I recommend getting two because they tend to be small.

3. Grilled Cheese and Tomato Soup from Meltkraft: You can get a three-cheese classic or opt for something more elaborate like their Melter Skelter (raclette, pickled green tomatoes, jalapeno, bbq potato chips, and watercress). The soup is made daily from roasted tomatoes. Doesn't taste like mom's, but then again, it's not wonder bread, pasteurized processed cheese product, and a condensed glob out of a can**.

2. Margherita at Pizzeria Vetri: If the pizza is good enough for Urban Outfitters to back a dump truck full of cash into Marc Vetri's driveway to acquire the company, subsequently causing the termination of some of his undocumented workers due to the parent company's e-verify requirements, then it's good enough for you and your quest to be closer to God. To be honest, eating the pizza sometimes feels like a religious experience because it's so Goddamn good.

1. Hummus at Dizengoff: Everybody's talking about King Georges at the moment, but I'm all about Prince Solomonov. When it first opened, I had my doubts about hummus being a meal in itself. Then we shot an episode of Camila Eats Food there and I was literally full for a good 36 hours after. I also know a dude who eats it exclusively for lunch 5 days a week. It's hale and hearty and impossible to stop eating from the first bite until the bowl is licked clean.

Buen provecho.

*Not Definitive

*Gotta love the nostalgia of the original, however

Revolution Taco's Not-So-Secret Secret Burger

Clip-Art, Yay!

What makes an off-menu item even more desirable? When there's only an allotment of six per day. Such is the case with Revolution Taco's eponymous Revolution Burger, teased out via Instagram yesterday (I also got an insider tip).

In keeping with their mission of "Tacos without Borders," former food truckers Carolyn Nguyen and Michael Sultan top this taco burger, a (many-hyphened) ten-dollar dry-aged rib-eye and t-bone blend from Indian Ridge Provisions, with house-made bacon (Stryker Farms pork belly cured in garlic and cascabel chiles), Cooper cheese, roasted poblano crema and avocado chimichurri sauce. It's like eating a taco and a burger at the same time, and it sounds fucking delicious. Not sure when I'll get to play the burger lottery, but please take note. If you're ahead of me in line and you get the last one for the day, I'll probably punch you in the face or at least kick you in the shins and then run. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This? Taco Bell's Quesalupa

The gold wrapper's a nice touch, at least.

They said it was going to be bigger than man buns, hoverboards, and drones, but here's something to chew on: man buns, hoverboards, and drones don't really exist outside major metropolitan areas. Even with Amazon allowing the world access to anything and everything whenever we'd like it (through the use of what is essentially slave labor), most of our country 'tis of thee could give a shit about newfangled harstyles and methods of transportation (I'm totally speculating here).

So it's fitting that Taco Bell's Quesalupa has fallen flat on its deep fried face (again, speculating here. I live under a rock). I'm all for the innovation. Add more fat in the form of melted cheese to something that already rots your insides in the name of deliciousness. That's a fast food slam dunk. The trouble with cheese, however, is that its melted state is fleeting, especially when subject to below freezing temperatures and a quick stop into church to get some ashes in an attempt to be more Catholic even though you've got a sack of Taco Bell "goodies" tucked under your right arm so you can make the sign of the cross before having dirt smeared all over your face (which actually didn't happen because there was a whole mass to get through before you could get ashes and I was too hungry to wait).

This is what happened to me. I had to try the Quesalupa, but I also had errands to run. By the time I got back to my office, the cheese congealed, so when I ripped it apart, that cool thing where strings of melted cheese hang onto each other until finally yielding to the tension of my weak arms separating their gooey union was non-existent. Instead, the shell crumbled and the cheese tore apart like chicken skin separating from chicken flesh, and you could wring the fryer grease out of the whole assembly. This cheesy surprise that was supposed to be all the rage failed in spectacular fashion. The claim of pepper jack cheese inside the shell was also a lie. No flecks of diced peppers that I could see, and certainly no spice. At $3.99 for the chicken version, you're better off sticking with old faithful, the Cheesy Gordita Crunch (with a Dorito shell). Buen provecho.

On Dining Out and Splitting the Check

Photo: Google image search with an assist from my shitty photoshop skills

Eater, ever my muse, just ran a little blurb on a fake app called "Equipay," which won a comedy hackathon for its ability to "split the cost of a meal in accordance with gender and racial income inequalities." The app, while hilarious, gave me a feeling similar to what would happen if the dude in the picture above came to life and ran his nails across the entire length of that chalkboard.

I'm all for equality, but when it comes to dining out with friends (or anyone, for that matter), as soon as that padded leather folder hits the table, the equation should be:

Individual Contribution = (Total / Number of Diners) + tip

And it should be done without hesitation. Alternatively (as pointed out by a few readers), one person can pick up the whole thing and take a pass the next go-around. The equation should never involve pulling out calculators to determine how much one owes for their half of the one loaded potato skin they ate from the appetizer sampler platter plus the harvest salad with chicken and strawberries plus the bite they had of Steve's burger minus the bite of grilled chicken they gave to Rob.

I understand that money may be tight, or you may not drink, or animal proteins aren't your thing even though you showed up in a leather jacket. But if you're out to have a good time, why ruin it with math? Not to mention the server who has to deal with your bullshit accounting.

Here's how I think of it. It's all about game theory. You approach the situation knowing you're going to split the check evenly, so you do one of two things. Keep the bill at a minimum by not drinking booze and ordering cheap entrees, or maximize your bounty by ordering expensive shit knowing that your portion will be supplemented by your fellow diners. Or, you could not be a dick and just eat and drink like a regular human and not worry about what's happening around the table. And if you happen to feel guilty because you ordered the 96oz. bone-in ribeye topped with a small fishing vessel's worth of lobster meat, then take it upon yourself to offer to pay a smidge more.

But at the end of the day, just split the fucking check evenly. Please. It'll make your friends hate you less and want to dine out with you more often. Buen provecho.

Little Lion Happy Hour Exclusive: Southern Poutine

Just a quick little reminder that poutine is Canada's greatest contribution to modern society (unless Vice is reading this and they want to give me a cool food show even though I'm not a rapper or a chef or really all that cool even though I've got like 4 tattoos. Then you guys are the greatest contribution. Sorry, poutine).

And southern food, currently having a moment (I think), ranks among America's greatest contributions to modern society (and obesity).

Put the two together, and you get The Little Lion's Southern Poutine, available starting tomorrow, February 11th. It's a happy hour exclusive, but since I'm old and like to go to bed early these days, the timing couldn't be more perfect to enjoy French fries tossed in dry rub, short rib jus, pork belly, and cheese sauce. Add a fried egg and some scallions, and you've put the "happy" in happy hour without even trying. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This? KFC's Nashville Hot Chicken

Nashville Hot Chicken is so hot right now. So hot, in fact, that Kentucky Fried Chicken has figured out a way to make the regional and legendary spicy fried bird available nationwide.

If you don't know the story behind hot chicken, Wikipedia is a great place to start. Basically, some scumbag dude's girlfriend wanted to exact revenge on him by dousing his chicken with cayenne pepper (and other secret spices). Unfortunately, the plan backfired when he liked the chicken so much that he developed a recipe for it and opened up a chicken shack of his own. Call it an unhappy accident.

Presently, Nashville touts a couple dozen places to get hot chicken, and plenty of chefs have brought it to their home states, including our local boy and Top Chef winner Kevin Sbraga. At his southern-inspired restaurant The Fat Ham, Sbraga's version is the result of many road trips and tireless research in the days leading up to its opening. And it's really fucking good. I would definitely consider him to be an expert on the subject matter, so it came as no surprise when I saw a picture of KFC's version pop up on his Instagram feed, followed by a lengthy review. His verdict? A failure in all categories. Bad breading, bad sauce, bad meat, bad seasoning.

Of course, none of this would deter me from giving it a go eventually, and I took it as a sign (literally) when the colonel's shit-eating grin kept popping up on the blue service signs on a recent road trip to Maryland. I told myself after the fifth exit advertising a KFC that if there was one at the sixth exit, I'd pull off. Well, you can guess what happened. Here's my opinion of mass produced "Nashville" hot chicken, in a handy dandy list:

1. Kevin's right about the sauce being too much. I watched the lady behind the counter empty almost half the squeeze bottle into the tray of chicken. There was a wading pool of it left over when I was done.

2. The chicken was adequately crispy despite the sauce waterboarding, but that's to be expected because KFC is using their extra tasty crispy chicken. Left dry, you could cut someone with the shards of breading.

3. The meat was fine. I always ask for dark meat so it's typically juicy (fatty) no matter what. I'm not gonna pretend that this wasn't factory farmed and I'm basically eating the fruits of modern food science instead of an actual chicken.

4. Flavorwise, Kevin's right. The chicken isn't hot. At best, it's lukewarm. I suppose naming it "Nashville Lukewarm Chicken" would probably hurt sales, though. My palate for hot chicken is not as refined, so I couldn't pick out anything that was really off balance in the spice blend other than the full court press of sodium.

Kevin says he won't get it again, but I think I would. It could have been a lot spicier, but I didn't mind the overall experience. It certainly wasn't "The Best Spicy Chicken You've Ever Had" (as the warned by the sticker on the box), but it was passable. I was also happy that I didn't get a preservative headache from KFC like I normally do. I certainly wouldn't go out of your way to try it, but if you find yourself finger lickin' for whatever reason, it's probably the best thing on the menu right now. Buen provecho.

We Have Reached Peak "Overhead Time-Lapse Recipe Video"

Take a look at the troll talent of "march_of_the_pigs" above.

Okay okay okay we need to pump the brakes on this whole time-lapse cooking thing. Last night on Instagram, 7-Eleven used the gimmick for what has to be the stupidest recipe I've seen since Rachael Ray's "late night bacon." Using the hashtag #hacksonsnacks, the bodiless arms disassemble everything from a Big Bite hot dog to a taquito and...

Wait a second. You're buying the prepared food just to take it home and unprepare it?

Let me go ahead and stereotype here because I'm an ignorant jerk. I assume that if you're stopping into a 7-Eleven for food, either the meth's wearing off, the weed's kicking in, or you're me. You're not doing so to repurpose their hot dog roller options for gameday snacks. 

Think about it. Chances are that most of the stuff has been sitting on that encased meat treadmill for at least three hours, and even if it hasn't, it still looks as old and shriveled as, well, I'm not gonna go there. And even if you live next door, you still have to wait for the "food" to cool down before slicing it up and topping it with cubes of cheese (because melting cheese is an integral part of every one of these goddamn time-lapse videos). Does 7-Eleven really believe that this stuff is stable enough to reheat? It's barely edible to begin with. 

I understand the need to be creative* in order to move products, but #hacksonsnacks is an insult to the Superbowl snack table. For shame, Sevs.

*Use words like "squad," phrases like "yo frands," and other peoples' ideas like time lapse videos.

The Cadillac Grille is a House of Lies

Part of my day job is letting salesfolks pretend to like me. There are a select few that can pull it off (and some I even consider friends), but for the most part, I think there's a mutual understanding of obligation. I'm sure these dudes actually hate me because I actually hate me. One the easiest ways to pretend to like me (or anyone, really) is sporting events. There's food, booze, and root-root-rooting for the home team. And since it's loud and you need to keep one eye on the action so you can cheer when everybody else does, you only kinda sorta need to pay attention to whatever products or services are being offered underneath that layer of cheese on your free nachos.

Last night was one of these sales calls, and we dined at the Cadillac Grille before the game. There were numerous indicators that this place would be shit: it's in the stadium; it's sponsored by Cadillac; the bartender flat out ignored me when I tried to get a drink; but I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth (what an odd, yet beautiful expression), and I couldn't really pull the plug on it since we were already in the stadium. Plus, I checked out the menu beforehand and it actually looked good.

My first instinct was to get the lamb shank, but the place had this whole steakhouse vibe going and the dude I was with ordered a filet so then I changed my mind and got the 30-day dry-aged bone-in ribeye for $55. I have no problem paying (or letting someone else pay) that much for a steak, so long as it shows up as advertised. Unfortunately, what I got was neither ribeye nor bone-in (I'd bet $55 it was a sirloin), nor did it possess any of the opulent qualities I would expect in a $55 steak. The dude who dropped it off must have seen the disappointment on my face, quickly commenting, "Yeah, these ones showed up without a bone this time." Huh? Typically, when a menu says "bone-in," the goddamn thing shows up with a bone, right? Although Serious Eats has debunked the myth that bones don't actually add flavor, how much more badass does your steak look when it's on the bone? That's really what I'm going for when I order a bone-in ribeye. I'm a motherfucking captain of industry and I have conquered the cow! But nope, not this time. It was cooked to temperature, so it had that going for it, but it was underseasoned and was thinner than something you'd get at Sizzler. The sides were another example of mismanaged expectations. The asparagus was as thin and limp as overcooked vermicelli, and the poor maitake mushrooms were cooked into a rubbery stringy pile of "those are mushrooms?"

It's not that the place is bad. The service was great (except for that bartender. He was a dick), as was the atmosphere (it's a fancy restaurant that overlooks the ice/court/stage). It's just way overpriced. Then again, when I'm with the gen pop, I pay $8 for a shitty beer and another $10 for some bullshit chicken fingers, so I suppose I just need to manage my expectations a little better. If you happen to find yourself there, I'd probably steer clear of the steak, however. Buen provecho.

The Infinite Sadness of the All You Can Eat Buffet

Freedom, loosely translated into anytime breakfast

Of the many things that makes the rest of the world hate us, the All You Can Eat Buffet has to be in the Top 10. What a terrible fucking idea. Steam tables as far as the eye can see housing hotel pans loaded with low margin meats and starches. Another island of cold foods: salad, beets fresh out of the can, cottage cheese, sunflower seeds, and Jell-O salad. Untouched, a still life of excess. An hour into service, an absolute wasteland. The salad dressings have turned into a tie-dye of unholy mixtures, there are bacon bits in the croutons, and a film has settled atop the oversalted and untouched mysteries lying in the hotel pans. The kids have attacked the self-serve soft serve, which now only dispenses a warm cream and sugar mixture slipping hazard.

And for what? Are you really beating the system when you pay twelve bucks to make yourself feel like shit for eating pile after pile of shit?

I remember our local buffet, a place called Chuck-A-Rama. In the late 80s/early 90s, if you were younger than 12, your folks payed 50 cents for every year you've graced the earth. They paid an absurdly low $9.99. There were two separate dining rooms with two separate buffets to maximize the amount of consumption, and we spent many a Friday easily tripling or quadrupling our recommended daily caloric intake. I don't directly blame Chuck-A-Rama for my huskiness, but I'm sure it didn't help. I suppose if you're poor (and boy were we ever), it was (and continues to be) a great deal. But I loathe the concept. That might make me a hyprocrite considering the general tone of this blog. Not sure I really care. Not sure there's even a point to this post. Just felt like complaining, I guess. Buen provecho.

Hiding in Plain Sight: El Poquito's Taco Tuesday

Picture stolen from El Poquito's website

Happy New Year, readers! 2016 should prove to be a lot of the same from me: sporadic posts, a heavy reliance on Twitter and Instagram to maintain some semblance of relevance, and everybody's favorite internet pastime, self-deprecation!

So, while you occupy yourself with time-lapse videos of allegedly super easy recipes that you'll never make, I implore you to stop by once in a while for some actual words, be they hot takes on cold food, cold disses on fast food, the ever popular "let's hate Guy Fieri" mob mentality, and an occasional food review.

First up, a random Tuesday night in Chestnut Hill. Mrs. Gastro and I packed up the kids for a round of tacos and beers at El Poquito, our local fancy Mexican joint. Housed in what was once Solaris Grille (many many years ago at this point) and then CH7 (a terrible waste of money by the City Tap House guys who called me to politely ask that I not pan the place like they were the goddamn Blogger Police), their tenure thus far has been impressive, and they've been a welcome addition to the neighborhood. While not cheap any other day of the week, their Taco Tuesday special is a deal akin to buying Apple stock in the late 90s (shoulda, coulda, woulda). For $4, you get 3 tacos of their choosing, which amounts to 3 or 4 times the tacos you would get at regular menu prices. And while basic when it comes to fancy Mexican, it's really all you need on a Tuesday night, especially when you want a sit-down dining experience without the guilt of spending $100 on dinner at the beginning of the week (yes, this is the going rate for 2 adults and 2 kids and 2 4 drinks). Throw in the fact that it's not crowded, and you've got a damn near perfect family meal without having to do the dishes. I'm sure they'll eventually realize what a scorching deal this is and 86 it, but until then, the Gastros have decided that Tuesday is the new Friday. I recommend you all do the same. Buen provecho.

Mast Brothers: The Artisanal Catch-22

Mast Brothers: Actually Just the Devil?

I'm at my day job right now. I have bills to pay so I can't pursue my life's passion, but then again, I'm not sure what my life's passion is. I used to write this dumb blog a few times a week, then I started to get paid to write for other blogs, then I kind of got bored so I tried my hand at a pop-up restaurant, then I started a beef jerky company, then I tried to make my daughter a YouTube sensation (shameless plugs, every last one of them). None of these make money (and only one has a very minor investor who doesn't meddle), so the decisions I make are solely based on my lazy work ethic and fickle personality. I don't have to answer to anyone holding a sack with a giant dollar sign sewn into its canvas. There are no real revenue targets, no SMART goals, really nothing from the two years I spent getting a part-time MBA. I do it because it makes me happy. I wish like hell that the business side of things was as enjoyable as the creative side of things for me, but it's not the case. In fact, the opposite happens. Money and management dilute my creativity, which is probably why I'll die penniless (sorry, kids).

I'm meandering towards a point here, which is the paradigm shift that happens when small business becomes big business. Last week, DallasFood.org took a big dump on the Mast Brothers. The author claims they're not actually a bean-to-bar chocolate company, their chocolate is worse than an order of fries at In-n-Out Burger (my description, not theirs), and their claim of being artisanal is based solely on being bearded and from Brooklyn. It's the second time they've been called out for having shitty chocolate (the first in a Slate article earlier this year), and the first time for being a total sham. Personally, I love the brand, but their chocolate isn't my favorite (I don't really like sweets to begin with). Flavor aside, however, there's an inherent flaw in the concept of artisanal foods, and that's the ability to scale. I just googled the term artisanal, and the result was "made in a traditional or non-mechanized way."

According to this definition, the only way you can grow your business is with more and more hands, which means more and more money, which means "oh shit, we're broke because of our quest for the way things used to be." Civilization advanced because of industrialization. We also fucked ourselves along the way, but it's a long road back to the barter economy, and nobody wants to put the machine in reverse. All the while, the decision makers have been, and continue to be, the ones holding those dollar-sign-emblazoned bags I mentioned previously. It would be one thing if the Mast Brothers stayed in their hometown of Iowa, where labor and real estate are probably cheap as shit (didn't really do the research to find out) and rents don't spike as soon as Goldman Sachs figures out some complex math to trade on, but they started in Brooklyn. It's the right play because that's where all the cool kids are (and where all the money is), but growth has to be part of the business model. Otherwise, failure is imminent. In order to do so, you need to figure out how make your inputs cheaper so your outputs can yield higher margins, especially if you have someone else footing the bill. Take the case of a $10 chocolate bar with a sexy wrapper. When you figure in raw materials (and getting them from the far reaches of the globe), labor, packaging, rent, etc., you're probably making $2 per bar, which is fine if you're making them in your kitchen and trading at the local farmers' market once a week. But if you want to sustain (not to mention grow) a going concern, you've got to sell a shitload of chocolate bars. This requires a healthy amount of working capital, which usually means outside investors (or a trust fund), which could mean finding yourself on the wrong side of the closed-door meetings where real decisions are made.

Maybe this is what happened to the Mast brothers. A skateboarder whose name I don't remember was once accused of selling out, to which he replied, "You gotta sell out to eat out." It sounds smug, but it's the truth. As much as I want to hang onto the reins of my beef jerky company and tout the virtues of artisanal products, there will (hopefully) come a time when it's just too damn big to be "made in a traditional or non-mechanized way." If and when that happens, I'll be faced with the same difficult decisions. No matter how much you try, you just can't be everything to everybody. Keep it small for a select few, the masses will brand you a snob. Figure out a way to get your product in more hands (so you can ultimately enjoy a bit of success), the early adopters will burn you at the stake like a goddamn Salem witch. My incoherent two cents on the matter.


Read all about the witch trials here.
And here's Mast Brothers' response to all this shade.
And here's a link to buy my beef jerky.

Take a Luke at This: Free Lobster Rolls Today!

If your name's Luke and you live in Philly, you should head to Luke's Lobster for a free lobster roll today. It beats the shit out of going to Tosche Station to pick up some power converters. On a related note, can anyone make me a fake ID in the next couple hours? Buen provecho.

Press Release Translations

Because I'm a hack (and because I don't write all that much anymore), it's rare that press releases show up in my inbox (why should they?). I also seldom read them, but since I'm in the mood to procrastinate today, I donated five minutes that I'll never get back to learn about Urban Farmer Steakhouse, opening at the old Four Seasons/new Logan Hotel on the Parkway (but not sure when because the press release didn't say, so I guess it's already open even though the hotel itself doesn't seem to be finished? I don't know).

I understand that the purpose of a press release (in addition to making yourself known) is to pique the reader's interest, but the verbiage can often be heavy handed and abstract. If you happen to be struggling though this press release or others, here's a quick list of translations for you. That way, you don't have to rely on adjectives to make your dining decision.

"Soul-nurturing sides" - probably macaroni and cheese

"Tailored to the local community" - black and white pictures of Love Park and Rocky

"Originating in Portland" - from Denver

"Rustic ambiance (sp)" - somebody found some old shit, cleaned it up and marked it up 600%

Since I work next door, I'll probably eat and drink there a whole bunch (and the place actually does sound pretty good), but I really couldn't let "soul nurturing sides" lie. Buen provecho.