I Wish I Liked Flan

Coming soon - Like Next Week - Flan.com!

2012-01-27T14:14:00.000-08:00

Did that title give you a little tickle in your nether regions? Well it did mine!

ON MONDAY JANUARY 30TH I GIVE YOU....

www.iwishilikedflan.com

(hold for applause)

Thank you. You are too kind.

That's right! Flan is now a website! Essays, photos, podcasts, even videos. Everything to fulfill your Flan needs.

I know. I can't wait either.

BE PREPARED TO HAVE YOUR MIND BLOWN*

*not a binding guarantee

Kirk

Chinese By Proxy

2012-01-23T07:58:00.000-08:00

(Note: This is a piece from last spring. But in honor of Chinese New Year - Year of the Dragon, also a damn fine Mickey Rourke film - and in honor of the fact that this summer I am going to China to be in my brother-in-law's wedding where I will be the ONLY white guy in the wedding party, I am posting it again. Enjoy - KP)

A lot of my friends come to me for advice on where to eat good Chinese food. They think because I married a Chinese woman that I have some sort of special insight into what constitutes good Chinese cuisine.

They are absolutely f*#king right.

I do have special knowledge about Chinese food. And if you step to me with some bulls*#t egg foo young I will sarcastically shake my head at you (which is really the only way I know how to shake my head) and say, “Bitch, what is this swill? This Chinese food plays for the JV squad. Get in the business.”

Right or wrong, I think of myself as a specialist on all things tasty and Chinese - yes, that previous sentence includes my wife. I know the good (my mother-in-law's homemade wonton soup – so good it will make you break out into song even if you loathe “Glee”), the bad (Chop Suey – which is not even Chinese but invented by some American guy and sold as authentic to people who have their heads up their asses) and the ugly (egg pie stuffed with fish intestines – I’ll just leave it at that).

It’s nice to have special knowledge that others lack. And being as I am a generous mofo I am only too happy to dispense my knowledge of the food of my people. Am I allowed to say that?

See, nothing pleases me more as when I’m with a friend in a mall and we’ll walk by a Panda Express and my friend will spout off with, “Hey, wanna just eat here?” And I’ll stop, force a single tear out of my eye and say in a whisper, “Why would you dishonor my heritage like that?”*

{*full disclosure: My wife actually likes the orange chicken at Panda Express which I try to mock her for but she always comes back with, “You’re not Chinese, dude.”}

And if we’re at a Chinese restaurant that I have deemed acceptable and someone at my table suggests moo goo gai pan I just shoot them a withering look and a little sigh of disappointment before I gently suggest a menu item that is not so stupid.

I’m providing a public service, really.

I also really enjoy listening to someone rave about some new Chinese restaurant and then just hitting them with one question that destroys their entire non-knowing-Chinese-food-world:

Them: “I just went to this great Chinese place that had the best pea tendrils ever!”
Me: “Were they sautéed in garlic and red chilies?”
Them: “No.”
Me: “That’s a shame. Are you sure you were in a Chinese restaurant?”

Admittedly, sometimes this special knowledge can be a burden. Knowing everything about Chinese food means having to make some tough choices, even ruining some relationships. I want you to know the joys of pigeon whether you like it or not. You need to try steamed crab without drawn butter. And for God’s Sake, you need to stop ordering cream cheese wonton, requesting Chinese Chicken Salad or demanding a Poo Poo Platter when it is more Hawaiian than Chinese (not to mention the name of the dish best describes the taste of it so why order it in the first place). Do it right – aka listen to me – or don’t eat this type of ethnic food. It’s the price I pay for knowing more about Chinese food than anyone…who’s not Chinese that is.

I’m sure to some of you that my belief that I know all about Chinese is offensive. And I could see your point if you were right. But I really do know what I’m talking about. And just to add a little proof to the pudding, we have a "Learn to Speak Chinese" DVD that our kids love to watch. And in the DVD a Chinese woman walks around a grocery store trying to remember words in Chinese. And when she gets stuck and can’t remember whom does she call? Her white husband! I kid you not. Every time she can’t remember a word in Mandarin she would call her white man and ask him and he would respond immediately with the right answer in a flawless dialect. So basically this DVD – educational, teacher approved DVD – proves what I have been saying all along:

White guys know everything.

Goodbye Hostess, You Evil Bitch Goddess

2012-01-12T11:35:00.000-08:00

So last week Hostess declared bankruptcy. Your favorite childhood Hostess Snacks may disappear forever.

It's time.

I have not had a Hostess Snack since Reagan was in office - first term. Like all of us I just grew out of them by the time I reached my teens. By the time I was in high school I had moved on to a combination of Slim Jims, Kudos Bars and Cranapple Juice. In my teenage head I was convinced this was healthier.

But despite the absence of Hostess in my adult life, the concept of Hostess Snacks has haunted me for years. Herein lies the story:

There is a Hostess Outlet Store less than two miles from where I live. Rarely does a few days pass when I do not drive by it. And every time I drive by it I say to myself, "Damn, I should really go in there and check it out." But I never do.

Until about three months ago.

It was a late afternoon and I had some time to kill before I had to pick up my kids from school. And as I drove by the Hostess Outlet Store I thought, "F it. I'm going in."

And inside was a goddamn mecca of tasty, colorful, chemically enhanced treats. Crates upon crates of Twinkies, Ho Hos, Ding Dongs, Fruit Pies, Cupcakes and Snowballs for the eye to see. They had everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. They had Zingers! Are you f-ing kidding me?! Zingers? Has anyone even thought about Zingers since they first had one? I hadn't had a Zinger in so long I was convinced I just imagined the whole concept of Zingers. But there they were piled high upon a shelf at this Hostess Outlet Store.

I was beyond excited as I walked through the store, plotting and planning what I was going to buy. A rush of childhood memories pummeled my brain as I looked at each Hostess Treat:

Ho Hos - I used to pick off the chocolate first, eat it, unroll the cake part, lick the whip cream off and then, only then, would I eat the actual cake. Even then I was a little OCD.

Twinkies - My friend Tommy Ryan (who later nearly burned his leg off trying to set fire to a live fish) once shoved his Twinkie in my face as a joke. I remember totally not caring cause, hey, free Twinkie.

Fruit Pies - For some reason they sold them at our middle school and I always used to get one with lunch. How I got away with that (and didn't balloon up to 900 pounds) is beyond me.

Ding Dongs - I once got into an argument with the kid who lived next door about how I thought Ho Ho's were much better than Ding Dongs. He yelled at me and said that God didn't love me.

Suzy Q's - My personal favorite and what I used to eat when my mom took me to her bowling league (it being a state law that in Ohio everyone must learn how to bowl).

So I picked up a package of my beloved Suzy Q's and was just about to walk up to the counter and pay when I stopped dead in my tracks.

I wasn't sure if I could pull the trigger. I wasn't sure if I could actually bring myself to purchase and consume a Hostess Snack. Why?

Straight up fear.

What if it doesn't taste as good as I remember? What if it tastes too good and I want to keep coming to this outlet store and buy more? What of the guilt I will feel after I eat this? What if I get fat? What do I tell my kids?

No lie, I stood in that store for at least a half an hour, trying to decide if I should buy this one package of Suzy Q's.

Finally I put the Suzy Q back and quickly ran out of the store.

Some of you may say I punked out. I like to think that I dodged a bullet.

So I'm not gonna shed any tears if Hostess no longer makes their "fresh", "wholesome" snacks. There's just too much of a risk having them around. I may even celebrate the next time I drive by and I see a sign on that Hostess Outlet Store that says "Going Out Of Business".

And that celebration may include a Twinkie.

CLEVELAND’S GOT 99 PROBLEMS BUT MUSTARD AIN’T ONE

2012-01-02T08:55:00.000-08:00

Yeah. I know. Cleveland sucks. Its sports teams suck, its weather sucks, and its economy sucks. The river caught on fire, the local government has been either corrupt or stupid and Lebron left (f*#k him). People flee Cleveland like rats fleeing a sinking ship (I include myself as one of those rats, having not lived in Cleveland since I graduated college). Yeah, nothing good comes out of Cleveland.

Except the glorious, golden, delicious spread of Stadium Mustard.

Next to me, Stadium Mustard is the greatest thing to ever have come out of Cleveland. No other mustard compares to it. You can step to me with your spicy brown, your deli style, your gourmet brand - all of that nonsense gets the back of the hand from the mustard of C-town. And if you wanna come at me with some Grey Poupon then I say bring it. My Stadium Mustard will drop kick that crap all the way back to Dijon, France.

Stadium Mustard has been around for over 50 years, longer than the actual first Cleveland Stadium which was torn down to build a newer, better version…unfortunately without a new, better Cleveland Browns team. The ingredients of Stadium Mustard have not changed in that time. Know why? Cause when you are that awesome you don’t change jack s*#t. Water, vinegar, salt, mustard seed and red pepper - those are the only ingredients listed on the label. I’m pretty sure there is some secret ingredient in there somewhere, and if I had to guess my guess would be that it is heroine, cause this mustard is full-on addicting.

How good is it? Well, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration requested special packaging of Stadium Mustard on not one, not two, but three Space Shuttle flights. THREE. Yeah, that’s right, even astronauts crave this amazing condiment. Are you gonna tell me that our nation’s heroes are wrong? Huh? Suck on that Gulden’s!

The thing about Stadium Mustard is that it’s not a nostalgia thing. It’s just a damn fine mustard with our without the reminiscing. Yeah, I loved it as a kid when I went to ball games with my family, but I love it even more today and have my mom mail bottles to me in LA when I run low (and me running low on Stadium Mustard is not a pretty sight). I have even had my non-Cleveland friends try it and they all say the same thing: “Cleveland sucks but goddamn their mustard is good.”

Look, when you come from Cleveland you have very little to cheer about. It’s a hard knock life when you are a Clevelander, present or former. So when something is really special, you grab on tight and don’t let go. Stadium Mustard is that special. It’s that ray of sunshine that peaks through a grey Cleveland day. It’s that glimmer of hope that makes you believe that your hometown team won’t blow chunks this year. It’s that small little reminder that even though people think of your city as a big s*#t sandwich at least you’ve got some kick ass mustard to make it go down easier.

Stadium Mustard, God bless you for making being from Cleveland that much more bearable (and again, Lebron James, f*#k you).

Dear Santa, Quit Your Jaw Jacking And Gimme These

2011-12-13T07:34:00.000-08:00

Below is a list of things I want, nay, require for this holiday season. I’ve been a really good boy and I sure as s**t deserve them. There’s no reason I should not receive at least one of the following:

* A bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough to eat without impunity

* The immediate cancellation of any food competition show where someone says, “There’s no crying in cooking.”

* To have someone introduce me to Padma…then have her make out with my wife while I eat unagi and watch.

* The elimination of the term “gastro pub” from the foodie lexicon.

* The closing of any Chicago deep-dish pizza joint not residing in Chicago.

* A waiter or waitress to listen to me when I say, “no onions of any kind, in any shape or form. Seriously - NO ONIONS.”

* Gwenyth Paltrow saying these words on camera; “I’m so thankful I’m famous otherwise you wouldn’t give a f*#k about what I am cooking”.

* The ability to eat fried chicken without getting a tummy ache.

* Someone to pay for me to go to The French Laundry (travel and accommodations included, of course, you cheap ass bastards).

* For Guy Fieri to once, just once, take his stupid goddamn sunglasses off the back of his stupid goddamn neck.

* To be able to enjoy a piece of friggin’ bacon without thinking about my friggin’ cholesterol.

* The final nail in the coffin of the cupcake fad.

* The ability to travel back in time to my younger self and say, “Pynchon, you should really try to learn to cook more. Also, stop ironing your jeans.”

* A free punch in the snot locker to anyone who drinks flavored water.

* For everyone in the world to stop for a second right before they are about to eat something and think, “Wait. Would Kirk approve?”

* People to stop asking me why I don’t like flan.

Happy Holidays - Kirk

Oh Pho You Didn't!

2011-12-05T07:30:00.000-08:00

Vietnamese food might very well be my number one food. Okay, sushi is really number one but it is so awesome I am forced to put it in its own special “awesomeness” category because saying sushi is your favorite food is like saying your favorite Prince album is “Purple Rain”. But minus that, Vietnamse food is what people in the know call the “bomb diggity”. And there is nothing better in Vietnamese food than the noodle soup known simply as pho.*

[*note: Despite my utterly brilliant word play in the title of this piece, it’s technically pronounced “phuh” as in “duh, this soup kicks ass”.]

Noodles – broth – basil – bean sprouts – a bit of meat – lime juice – hot sauce. There it is. There is your pho. That’s all it is and that’s all you get. Now shut up, take it in your mouth and enjoy it.

As all of you know, I am an expert on three things: dance, basketball and food. So if you are new to the pho game, allow me to take you gently by the hand and show you to a world that you never knew existed before.

To quote the late great Chris Penn in Reservoir Dogs, “First things f*#king last” – it’s all about the broth. Don’t let anyone tell you that it’s about the noodles – though they should be plentiful and not soggy, cause a big ass bowl of soggy noodles is a sure fire way to make me go postal. And do not let anyone try to tell you that it’s all about the meat. Those people are obviously what we call in the industry… dumb. In a real bowl of pho you’d be lucky if that meat is slightly more edible than gristle.

No, it is all about that goddamn broth. That pho broth is liquid gold. Here’s what goes in it.

• Yellow onions
• Ginger
• Marrow-rich beef bones and beef knuckle bones
• Additional beef chunks
• Star anise
• Cloves
• Salt
• Fish sauce
• Yellow rock sugar

Now, separately, these ingredients are a big whatever. In fact, I would go so far as to say that individually these ingredients fall into the “hell no I’m not gonna eat that” category. But together, TOGETHER, they are an unstoppable force of incredible taste. For you comic book nerds, they are The Avengers or The X-Men or The Justice League or some other stupid group. I don’t know – comic books suck. The point is that these ingredients work together to make one kick ass broth. And believe me, if the broth sucks, everything sucks. No amount of noodles or meat or garnishes will improve it. Without a good broth nothing will make that pho dish better…unless it’s served by a stripper.

Aside from the crack addictive quality of the broth, I think one of the best things about eating pho is all the prep work that is required before pummeling an entire bowl of it. You have to put the bean sprouts in. You have to rip up the basil and sprinkle it in. You need to squeeze in lime juice. You must squirt the hot sauce in. The whole thing is kind of a production and setting up my pho dish really pumps my anal retentive nads. Everything has to be done in the right order and in the right way for me to truly enjoy it. If I don’t go through with the whole rigamaroll then I won’t appreciate the pho on its highest level. I LOVE pho prep. I love any prep, really. It’s why I’ve always wanted to try heroine; not because of how the drug will make me feel, but because I love the idea of all that prep working on getting the needle ready (that and I just love the term “smack”.)

And just as a rule of thumb, if you are paying over $7.37 for a bowl of pho, you are being fleeced. Pho is cheap. Dirt cheap. It’s supposed to be cheap. It’s basically street food. It’s meant to be eaten in a dubiously clean hole-in-the-wall where no one speaks English, the menu is a bunch of pictures and it’s a cash only joint. If you are eating pho anywhere else under cleaner, nicer conditions, congratulations – you are a rube. Enjoy the staff mocking you for your idiocy.

I can name on two fingers the things that I find comforting in life: TV and pho. Everything else in life makes me a stress ball. So to be able find something like pho – a big bowl of comfort – is really beneficial to my well being.

Again, unless they f*#k up the broth. Then I just lose my s#*t.

Cut The Crap - Share Your Recipes

2011-11-20T16:43:00.000-08:00

So for Thanksgiving my wife wanted to make a chocolate peanut butter pie. Having never made one she wanted a really good recipe for it. A friend of mine just so happens to make an amazing chocolate peanut butter pie. I emailed my friend asking for the recipe and this is the response I received:

“Um…I normally don’t give out that recipe. I’m pretty protective about it. I guess it’s okay if I give it you. But DO NOT share it with anyone else.”

And this being the time of year where I try really hard to be a better person (unlike the rest of the year where I try really hard to be an unbearable asshole), I emailed back an effusive thank you. But what I really wanted to tell my friend was -

“F*#k you and your f*#king need for secrecy with your stupid f*#king recipe you silly dumb f*#k.”

I mean, seriously, what is that bs? It’s a recipe for a pie, not some top-secret plan for overthrowing the Latvian government (which, if you think about it, really can’t be that hard). I don’t care how good you think your recipe is. That’s still no reason to act like it’s a matter of natural security.

Really, how important is it that any recipe remains a secret? Why the need to get so proprietary? I have two theories. It’s either 1) You really aren’t that confident in your recipes and are afraid that if you give them out and people don’t like them then you’ll look bad or 2) You’re a dick.

This whole not sharing of recipes makes absolutely no sense. And for those of you who say, “Well it’s a special family recipe handed down from generation to generation” I say to you…shut your cornhole. I don’t care if Grammie Martha made you swear on her deathbed not to divulge the recipe. If it’s that kick ass, share it. Besides, Grammie ain’t around anymore so I’m pretty sure you’re golden.

Sharing things that only you can do is a wonderful gift to the world. Why keep it to yourself? I am an amazing dancer and I will dance for anybody any time. Yeah, I’m that awesome of a dancer and have no problem sharing how awesome I am for the world. And if I gave a damn about cooking and actually learned how to do it I would certainly share any recipe I had with anyone who asked. But, hey, that’s me. I’m a giver.

Look, if you are an owner of a restaurant I can totally understand about keeping your recipes under wraps. You gotta make those ducats and if keeping your recipes on the down low means you will make your restaurant even more ducats, then by all means - hush hush. But if you are a REGULAR PERSON and this is a recipe you have in your arsenal of recipes, why the hell do you need to keep it such a secret? What will happen if it gets out? People will start making a dish of yours and…

What?

Exactly. Nothing. So stop trying to big game everyone and share your recipes.

Happy goddamn Thanksgiving.

PB And Get That Goddamn Jelly Out Of My Face

2011-11-15T07:46:00.000-08:00

Nothing wrecks a peanut butter and jelly sandwich more than the jelly.

F*#k jelly.

Yeah, I said, and I’m not afraid. F it with a super-sized F.

[And just for clarification sake, when I say jelly I am also including jam and marmalade. Don’t fool yourself. They are all the same and using the words “jam” or “marmalade” is just a jag off way of making yourself sound cool.]

Why is something that is so wonderful, so perfect, so loving as peanut butter being constantly ruined by the addition of such a worthless food substance as jelly? Why are we tainting “the glory of peanut butter”* with something as unnecessary as fruit spread?

[FYI, this was what Peter Cetera originally titled his hit single from “The Karate Kid Part 2” before he sold out and changed it to “Glory of Love”.]

I love peanut butter. I always have. It’s tasty, full of protein and, more importantly, easy. So with all that P to the B has to offer, why jack it up with all that jelly nonsense? What does jelly have to offer you that peanut butter doesn’t? Unless jelly is going to blow me in the back of my Hyundai, the answer is nothing.

When people say something like “These two things go together like peanut butter and jelly”, I always think, “So you’re telling me that one of these two things is fantastic and the other one sucks ass, right?” Because that’s the relationship that peanut butter and jelly have. Jelly is totally riding on peanut butter’s coattails. It is swimming in peanut butter’s wake. Peanut butter is the George Michael, Darryl Hall and the Nancy Wilson of the relationship, while jelly is obviously John Oates, Andrew Ridgley and whatever the fat one’s name is from Heart.

Doubt me? Try this little experiment. Eat peanut butter with a different food than jelly. Celery, bananas, apples, crackers, chocolate, etc. Good, right? Now try it with jelly. Ha! Can’t do it. Know why? Cause jelly blows, that’s why. Peanut butter can do things jelly can’t. Make a peanut sauce and dip some grilled chicken in it. Killer, huh? Okay, now make a jelly sauce and do the same thing. What’s that you say? Jelly sauce and chicken don’t go together? It won’t taste as good?

Game, set and match to Pynchon.

And here’s further proof that peanut butter is vastly superior to jelly. What’s better, a straight up peanut butter sandwich or a straight up jelly sandwich? It’s so not a contest that that question really shouldn’t be even asked. A jelly sandwich is just plain gross, not to mention that it will rot your teeth. Now a peanut butter sandwich, now that’s a thing of beauty. It’s pure, even, dare I say, virginal. The stank of jelly has not soiled it. And for those of you who are whining, “Well, I need the jelly cause it makes the peanut butter easier to swallow,” I say to you – grow some stones. Use your goddamn esophagus muscles for once in your life. And hey, there’s this new invention out there; it’s called water.

I can honestly say I have never wanted nor enjoyed a dish with jelly in it. On the other hand, if something has even just a whiff of peanut butter in it chances are I’m gonna eat it – happily. Peanut butter just reigns supreme, it always has and it always will. Sorry, jelly, you need to face facts. You’re a second class citizen. You want to big game like PB but you can’t. You want top billing but you don’t deserve it.

Because saying “jelly and peanut butter” just sounds f*#king stupid.

Now Those Are Some Sad Ass Brownies

2011-10-31T14:52:00.000-07:00

Nothing is worse than a jacked up dessert. And the brownies you are witnessing right now just may very well be the jacked up of all jacked up baked goods.

Being a gentleman I will refrain from naming the name of the guilty party, but I will give you a hint: It was my wife. She was trying to make treats for a school Halloween party and this is the atrocity that came out of this supposed good deed. She didn’t just make bad brownies -

She made some sad ass brownies.

Seriously, look at them. I don’t want to mince words but it looks like a grizzly bear took a huge dump on a cutting board and then someone figured out how to scientifically transform it into a giant sponge. You couldn’t make brownies like these ON PURPOSE.

What had happened was that in a rush to get these school brownies done, my wife completely forgot to add eggs (and though it’s not pictured, the forgotten eggs are on the counter just to the right of the cutting board). And being the loving husband that I am, I was compelled to take a picture of the offending treat, post said picture and then blog about it.

I mean, how could I not? Just look at those bad boys. You could literally put that in Webster’s dictionary under the word “depression”. Homeless people would pass on these. If you would have been told that a blind person made these brownies you would probably say, “Wow. That blind person can’t bake for s*#t.” Even my four-year old daughter looked at them and said, “Um, mommy, your brownies look weird.”

Of course my wife was pissed at herself, refused to bring them to the school Halloween party (despite my brilliant idea of “just throw a bunch of chocolate frosting on them and those dumb kids will never know the difference”) and made me immediately run out and get another box of brownies. And of course the second batch of brownies came out just perfect.

And that first batch of sad ass brownies?

Oh, I ate them.

All of them.

Hey, a brownie is a brownie in my book.

Vinegar - Saliva Of The Gods

2011-10-17T16:31:00.000-07:00

Anyone who believes in creationism knows that on the 4th day God hocked a loogie and out came vinegar.

And it was good.

Let’s just all agree that if it weren’t for vinegar life would suck so bad that all the smart people with taste would kill themselves, leaving only the idiots who are into aioli and “Basketball Wives”. And those idiots would eventually kill themselves, leaving only bigger idiots who like no wasabi in their soy sauce and “The Nate Berkus Show”.

So you can see why vinegar is so important to the preservation of mankind.

No other food item is more versatile. Veggies, pastas, meat, chicken, fish, bread – all of these are honored to have vinegar drizzled on them. Even fruit. Ever had a fig with vinegar on it? That’s a damn fine taste sensation and you owe it all to that lovely liquid. There’s nothing vinegar can’t handle. Put it on a dish and – BANG – that dish is immediately better. It’s the Phil Hartman of the food world.

And lest we forget, vinegar is essentially squashed up grapes left to go sour. That’s f-ing brilliant. Someone very long ago stepped on some grapes, thinking he or she was going to make wine, let it sit too long, came back, tasted it and said, “Yuck. This wine sucks…but I bet if I pour it over these leaves I just picked I’d have a nice meal and I wouldn’t have to eat my horse.”

Being the whore that I am, I love all vinegars (and I know deep down in my heart they love me right back). Red wine vinegar was the first vinegar I ever had. It’s almost like I like I lost my virginity to it, only the experience lasted longer and tasted better than the time I actually lost my virginity. And distilled white vinegar should not be hated on. Yes, you can buy a gallon of it for like $1.73 but it goes great with Chinese dumplings and is also a damn fine cleaning solvent. But if I’m forced to pick one I’m obviously going to go with Balsamic.

To paraphrase the Miller High Life, Balsamic really is the champagne of vinegars. There are many unnecessary purchases I would make if I had an endless supply of cash. On top of that list, right next to an original pair of Hammer’s parachute pants, would be a one hundred dollar bottle of high end Balsamic vinegar. It’s just that awesome. First of all, check out that color. Beautiful, isn’t it? I’m not sure what color it is (I once thought crimson meant “creamy beige”) so I’ll just call it black. And to quote a personal hero of mine, Mr. Wesley Snipes, “Always bet on black”. Now smell it. Go ahead, no one is watching. Jam your schnoze in that bottle and take a whiff. You know what you’re smelling? You’re smelling brilliance and if you wanted to dab a little Balsamic on your neck and use it as your own personal scent I certainly wouldn’t hold it against you. Now, finally, taste it. No no, don’t get a cracker or a piece of bread. Drink that balsamic right from the bottle. Get it straight from the source. How’s that grabbing you? Okay, maybe that was a bad idea. Drinking any vinegar straight is never a pleasant experience – one thousand apologies.

I’m not a religious man (I know, I can’t believe it either) but I can safely say that there is some sort of higher power out there that created vinegar and that higher power should be worshipped. And since there is no name for this supreme being that came up with this delicious, haunting liquid I shall come up with a name that we all can worship. So tonight, when you are tossing your salad with red wine vinegar or you are at the stove doing a Balsamic vinegar reduction, I want you to stop and say a little prayer for the God of Vinegar -

Who shall be named Kirk.

In The Tiki Room

2011-10-04T07:36:00.000-07:00

My neighbor Derek just told me that some friends of his are part of a group that are into Tiki drinks. Like REALLY into Tiki drinks. Like more so than Plushies are into having sex with stuffed animals. Apparently there is a sub culture out there that gets together, dresses up in Hawaiian attire and flip flops and drinks round after round of Tiki drinks while listening to Conga music. And as if things couldn’t get weirder, they give each other Hawaiian names and will only address each other as such.

Now, I am all for quirky obsessions…but that sh*t is f*cked up.

I mean, basing a fetish on a a Tiki drink? Come on! Doesn’t everyone know that Tiki drinks suck? Sickly sweet, fruit punch-inspired rum drinks are really bottom of the barrel. They are for kids who have just turned twenty-one, don’t know d*ck about alcohol and just want to get trashed by drinking a Scorpion Bowl. Tiki drinks shouldn’t even be consumed on a tropical vacation let alone be poured down your gullet in someone’s living room while the theme song to “Hawaii Five-O” plays in the background.

I mean that’s a lot of work, right? Who’s got that time? Never mind all of the ingredients you have to get in order to make a Tiki drink, think about all the accoutrements that go into that Tiki night. Who’s going to be in charge of buying the bamboo? Do I have to memorize all of the other guests’ Hawaiian names and if I call someone by their real name will they be insulted? Do you roast a suckling pig on a spit? Will sand be involved? Seriously, there’s a lot to think about for a night where you’re really just going to get drunk.

And if you are going to go to those lengths to create another reality at least make that reality somewhat cool. The whole Tiki vibe just screams lame. There are way cooler alternative drinking realities. Dress up in suits and skinny ties, drink martinis and smoke Pall Malls if you are into “Mad Men”. Or dress up in medieval gear, get drunk off of grog and mead (the two greatest sounding names for any alcoholic drink), fight each other with real swords and then have sex doggie style like “Game of Thrones”. Or better yet, don’t shower for two weeks, put on clothes that haven’t been washed in a month, crouch in an alley and drink rubbing alcohol in front of a fire blazing in a garbage can.

Now that’s a drinking fetish I can give my support whole-heartedly to.

And The Kitchen Sink

2011-09-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

Hey! All of you restaurants out there that have a seven-page menu with fifty-three different food items on it –

Please stop with that f*#king nonsense.

NOW.

You don’t need a menu with fifty-three different food items on it. Hell, you don’t even need a menu with thirty-five different menu items on it. You know why? Because the law of averages says that more than likely half of those food items will taste like barf on a biscuit.

Don’t get mad at me. Get mad at the math.

There is NO WAY you can convince me that a place that serves Chicken Tiki Masala can also serve a respectable Pasta Primavera. Unh Uh. No. Not happening. One of those dishes, if not both, will suck donkey balls.

Fact.

You know, my JV basketball coach, Coach Heinlen, once told me, “Pynchon, don’t try to do more than you can. Play within yourself.” [This was after I stole the ball, tried to run a fast break, realized I wasn’t a point guard and dribbled the ball off of my foot and out of bounds.] Coach was right and this applies to restaurants as well. Cook what you know. If you don’t really specialize in Japanese cooking, then don’t try to spin that you know how to make Katsu Ramen. It’s okay, I won’t hold it against you. Just make me what you KNOW will kick ass, serve it to me and go away.

And for anyone thinking, “Well, maybe they are just trying to cater to the widest range of customers possible in order to make more money,” that’s a good point…if you are living in Reverse Land. That’s a ridiculous concept. That’s like making a romantic comedy/action buddy movie set in WW II with an all disco soundtrack starring The Rock, Jim Belushi, Riahnna and that annoying chick from the “Twilight” movies. Crap ass food is crap ass food regardless of how much variety of food there is.

To prove my point, I give you a case study.

THE CHEESECAKE FACTORY.

I hate this goddamn place. How much do I hate it? Let me put it this way. I would rather pay money to see Dane Cook live in concert than to eat at a Cheesecake Factory. They’re menu is idiotically long. It has twenty-five appetizers. Now, I enjoy a tasty appetizer to whet my pallet. But twenty-five? Come on, Cheesecake-Factory-Corporate-Division-VP-In-Charge-Of-Awful-Tasting-Food, are you telling me that all twenty-five appetizers taste great? Really? Because while I am sure that your Fire-Roasted Fresh Artichoke is perfectly acceptable, I would bet my brother’s left nut that your Vietnamese Summer Spring Rolls are as about as tasty as “a greasy pork sandwich served in a dirty ashtray”*. So stop with the bullsh*t and PARE IT DOWN.

[*First person to get that reference gets a shout out on my FB page!]

Instead of having a restaurant making forty-eight average to below average dishes, how about having a restaurant that makes only one amazing dish? Cause I would got to a joint that serves only tuna tartare if that tuna tartare was so good that it made me wet my pants. Because more sh*t does not make it better.

It just makes more sh*t.

THE BEST FOOD MOMENTS IN CINEMATIC HISTORY

2011-09-06T07:17:00.000-07:00

These are not movie moments where they show a beautiful key lime pie or a comely looking steak (I know “comely” really doesn’t fit but I really wanted to use it so screw you). Those moments are jive. Often times the food isn’t even edible and has been painted on with nail polish or sprayed with hair spray to make it look good, making the food the equivalent of a contestant in the Miss World Beauty Pageant…only much smarter.

No, I’m talking more about a moment in a movie where an actor is eating something and that acting is so good that I want to run up, jump through the screen, snatch the food away and devour it. I love watching people eat on screen, unlike in real life where it’s often foul and disgusting. There’s something about watching trained, professional actors do something so mundane as eat that is both oddly appealing and comforting to me. F*#k the ability to capture a Northern Ireland accent or crying on cue – I wanna see a performer tackle a scene where he or she is eating a big bowl of vanilla pudding. Now that’s acting.

So without further ado, here are the winners:

*Paul Sorvino eating a sausage sandwich in “Goodfellas”: The man doesn’t say s*#t. He just sits there, gnawing on an Italian sausage stuffed in an Italian bread roll, staring off into space. No one knows what he’s thinking. Well, I know. He’s thinking, “This motherf*#king sandwich is so motherf*#king good that it makes me wanna motherf*#king off a motherf*#ker.”

* Meryl Streep eating anything she can get her hands on in “Defending Your Life”: Every scene in this movie where Ms. Streep eats is gold. Look at her work in the linguini scene. Priceless. She should have won another Oscar for this. It’s way better than that bulls*#t “Sophie’s Choice”.

*John Ashton sitting on a sad-looking motel bed eating potato wedges and drinking a can of beer in “Midnight Run”: It’s a tribute to his acting that he can make crappy food look so appetizing. Mr. Ashton also wins the award for “Best Talking With His Mouth Full In An Entire Scene”.

*Bill Murray shoving a slice of pink cake in his mouth in ‘Groundhog’s Day”: He just has this great look on his face that says, “Yeah, I just shoved an entire slice of cake in my mouth, what of it? I’m Bill Murray!”

* Ally Sheedy eating a cereal and sugar sandwich in “The Breakfast Club”: A cute, gothy girl defiantly munching on a ridiculous sandwich? I am a man in love (with the girl and the sandwich).

* Denzel Washington eating an orange in “Malcom X”: He makes the orange seems so juicy and the whole time he’s eating it he’s pointing a gun to his own head and pulling the trigger. He wins for “Greatest Bad Ass Moment in Cinema That Involves Fruit.”

* Steve Martin and Bernadette Peters eating “cup o’ pizza” in “The Jerk”: After all these years why hasn’t anyone invented a real cup o’ pizza? The two of them make it look so goddamn good!

*Honorable mention: Kramer on “Seinfeld”. If you ever catch the show on TV (good luck, it’s only on 9,000 times a day) watch Michael Richards whenever he eats. Whatever he is eating always seems like the best thing he has ever had. Obviously there are the big moments (“The Mackinaw peach, Jerry, the Mackinaw peach!”), but even the smaller moments, like when he’s at Monks sipping a strawberry milkshake, he makes it looks delicious. Next to soft-core porn, Kramer eating might be my favorite thing on TV.

Douchy Ordering in the City of Douches

2011-08-22T14:34:00.000-07:00

Next to the weather and the over-abundance of Trader Joe’s, ordering like a douchebag is one of the best advantages of living in LA. Nowhere else in the country can you go to a restaurant and order a Chicken Caesar Salad, replacing the chicken with tofu, the Caesar Dressing with Balsamic Vinaigrette and the salad with grilled vegetables and not get bludgeoned to death with a bar stool. It’s reason enough to pack up and move here.

And not to brag, but I am pretty damn good and ordering douchy. Pretty, pretty, pretty good. I can omit ingredients with the best of them, I can substitute like nobody’s business and I can order off the menu like a motherf*#ker. I’ll go toe to douchebag toe with any douche that wants to order douchy.

Except for one man – a friend of mine who shall remain nameless (Robert).

About a month ago I’m having lunch Robert. We went to this place in West Hollywood called Hugo’s. Hugo’s is a basically an organic “well being” health food restaurant that is a staple of LA eating. The food is really good, really overpriced and the place is filled with celebrities (Jamie Gertz, anyone?) and the people who want to be near celebrities (unfortunately – moi).

Hugo’s is the culinary hub – the epicurial epicenter if you will – of douchy ordering. Everyone orders like a douche. It’s common practice. In fact it’s more like you’ll receive sh*#tty service if you don’t order like a douche.

So the waiter comes up to us and I order the Kelp Noodle Salad minus the scallions, adding the tofu and replacing the mango-sesame dressing with tahini. Pretty standard douchy ordering for a lunchtime crowd at Hugo’s. The waiter turns to Robert and he orders off the “create a plate” menu, essentially making up an entrée to his own liking (I believe it was the leafy greens, quinoa and steamed veggies with the cilantro-mint chutney).

Now this came as a shock. How the hell does one order like a douche if one is creating a dish from a pre-approved list of food items? That makes the whole process virtually douche- free! Robert, expert douchy orderer that he is, was going against all that is hold sacred in LA dining! Quel horreur!

As we chit chat and look around to see who is dining next to us (no one important) our lunches come out. Mine is prepared exactly as I douchily ordered. But Robert stares at his plate for a moment, stares at the waiter and then says this:

“Hey man. I know this is hot but I need it hotter. Like a lot hotter. Like I need steam. Steam, bro, I need like steam rising into my face! Can you take it back and have them remake it with more steam? Is Carlos back there? Just let him know it’s for Robert. He’ll understand. Thanks, bro. Don’t worry, I’ll hook you up on the tip.”

And with that, Robert’s place in the douchy world of LA eating was fortified. *

[*And just to make sure that his place in the pantheon of douchy orderers was secure, after lunch Robert ordered “The Flower That Never Fades”, a green tea with an actual flower at the bottom of the tea pot, with the specific instructions, “Make sure it’s a nice flower. I don’t want to pour hot water over some bulls*#t.” The man is an artiste in douchery.]

Ten Other Reactions to Food I’d Like to See From TV Food Hosts

2011-08-07T08:22:00.000-07:00

Love food shows. Hate they way TV food hosts react to food. It’s always the same goddamn thing when they try the cuisine of some chef:

Bite-close eyes-roll head side to side-smile-with mouth full of food say, “Oh my god”.

Porn stars have better range.

So, because I’m a giver, I’ve decided to help. Below are the ten reactions that I’d like TV food hosts to do when they eat food. I know you feel me.

10) “JESUS FUCK MY COCK!”

9) “If this food had an ass I would eat the shit out of it.”

8) The host looks at the chef and punches him right in the face.

7) “If my wife cooked liked this I wouldn’t cheat on her.”

6) “Did you just call me fat?”

5) The host looks directly into the camera and says, “No one eat at this prick’s restaurant!”

4) “You know, I actually make this better.”

3) After taking a bite the host throws the food on the ground and proceeds to dryhump the shit out of it

2) “It’s like you shot a load of flavor all over my face.”

1) Bite-close eyes-roll head side to side-smile-with mouth full of food say, “Oh my god…this sucks”.

Keep On Truckin'

2011-07-24T14:26:00.000-07:00

Ooh! Food cooked in a truck! Wow! It’s so dope! And I get to go on Twitter to find out where they are! I’m so f*#king cool!!

I cry bullsh*t.

Food truck – meal wagon – mobile culinary unit – grub bug – chuck wagon– chow van – a scooter where you ride around throwing falafels at people – what ever you want to call it – are all the rage, especially here in Los Angeles, where food and automotives go together like liposuction and calf implants. There was a time when a food truck was called a Roach Coach and you would only eat from one if you were a construction worker. It looked bad, it smelled bad and it tasted bad but you didn’t have much choice. Now all of the sudden it’s THE place to eat your lunch. Now you don’t have to actually search out a funky hole in the wall to experience ethnic food. Just pull out your phone, check Twitter and find a food truck that will charge eleven dollars for a Vietnamese sandwich that would have cost you $4.75.

And just so there is no confusion here, just because it’s cooked on a truck run by guys and gals who are all inked up and who have painted their vehicle to look like a cheeseburger and are blaring Wilco out of Ipod speakers does not mean that it’s good food. And if you spend most of your foodie free time hunting these food trucks down and then registering your praise or disgust all over the Internet - congratulations – you are officially a d-bag. Enjoy eating your ostrich taco with kimchee while wearing your skinny jeans and your stupid f*#king hipster fedora.

Things have gotten so out of hand that the other day I was jogging down Wilshire Blvd. (a busy mid-town LA street) and I saw eleven gourmet food trucks all in a line, ranging from Thai food to Kansas City BBQ.

Eleven.

Eleven food trucks all in a line is not hip. It’s the equivalent of being in a food court in a mall. The trucks might as well have been selling Panda Express, Hot Dog On A Stick, McDonalds and Sbarro’s (which, until about 2 years ago, I thought was called Sharro’s).

When I was in college at the University of New Hampshire we actually had TWO food trucks on campus. One was run by a guy named Fritz. The other was run by a guy named Karl. They were brothers and apparently they absolutely detested each other.

Fritz was on one side of the campus and Karl was on the other. Their paths never crossed because their food trucks never moved. They stayed in the exact location every night to maximize profits. This was the time before cell phones, Twitter and Facebook (I won’t give you exact dates of how long ago that was, so let’s just say it was during a time when MTV actually played nothing BUT music videos). So if they had moved their trucks no one would know where the hell to find them (I mean, can you really trust drunk college kids to go looking for you?) and Fritz and Karl would have been outta the food truck business faster than Guy Fiorie bleaches his hair.

Fritz made nothing but cheese steaks. They were f*#king good, and that’s not just my stupid, drunk, nineteen year-old self saying that. I’d get a large with provolone, peppers, pickles, steak sauce and vinegar. Drunk, stoned or completely sober these cheese steaks always delivered. My two fondest memories from my late night trips to Fritz’s:

1) One drunken night I went there with my college buddy Aggy and he kept telling Fritz, “I love you Fritz! I f*#king love you! Your cheese steaks are the best!” Then Aggy got his cheese steak, walked away, started to eat it, stopped, turned to Fritz and yelled, “Where the f#*k are my pickles?! F*#k you, Fritz! Your cheese steaks suck! C*#ksucker!”

2) Another drunken night (redundant I know) I had just gotten my large cheese steak and was about to dig into it when a guy on my dorm floor ran by and said, “Pynchon, that chick from the 4th floor named Carrie is totally sh*tfaced and keeps talking about you!” I polished off my large cheese steak in three bites, ate a mouthful of toothpaste, sprayed a gallon of Obsession For Men all over me, ran up to the 4th floor and began making out with Carrie.

Three minutes later I passed out on top of her.

But if Fritz was the Jermaine Jackson of food trucks, Karl was Michael. His truck was really the popular one and the true centerpiece of late night munchies at UNH. Everyone ate at Karl’s. No matter your college grade, age, major or social status, you would always go to Karl’s late at night.

What made Karl’s so special was not the food. I mean, come on, it was just burgers and fries served out some dude’s truck that the occasional rat would scurry underneath. What made it special was there was a very specific way to order your food. See, if you wanted a burger you would not say, “I’d like a burger.” You would say, “I’ll have a little guy.” A double burger was “a big guy”. A chocolate milkshake was “a brown cow”, a chili cheese dog was a “sled dog” and cheese fries were given the delectable term, “snotties”.

And if you wanted your big or little guy prepared in a certain way you had to learn this jargon:

With mustard = baby shit
With ketchup = on the rag
With pickles = sneakers
With mayo = with a load
With lettuce and mayo = sex in the garden
The works = abused

Now, the menu never advertised the food in these terms. You just had to know it. And if you didn’t know it you were looked down upon and openly mocked. When I was at UNH there was a friendly upperclassman named Burr who seemed to always be stoned and always to be at Karl’s (I mean the two really do go hand in hand) who was always ready to help a clueless frosh how to order. Burr was like the food ambassador and cultural envoy of greasy foods on campus. I think he stayed in college til he was 30. It was said that eating from Karl’s was the only way to cure a hangover. I even heard that it once cured a girl’s stomach virus. Now that’s a food truck that’s worth following!

To me Karl and Fritz embody all that is good about food trucks; reliable, unpretentious, cheap and healthy (okay not that last one but really, I’m just thankful I never died from eating at Karl’s or Fritz’s). No one thought eating at these two trucks was cool or hip. It was a necessity. There was no pomp and circumstance. When you were waiting in line for your cheese steak or your big guy abused with a side of large snotties you did so not because it was hyped as the thing to do. You did so because you were starving…and drunk… and possibly stoned.

Obviously, I love food. And I have no malice towards trucks as a mode of transportation. I think my problem with this food truck craze is I just hate the people who are waiting in line with me.

Ergo, I hate me.

[Post Script: And for those of you who think that this food truck fad has not gotten out of hand, I just read in the LA Times that there are now doggie treat trucks – trucks that drive to parks and cell you a dog snack for $7.00. What circle of hell does that put us in?]

The Sandwich: More Important than the Wheel

2011-07-12T06:59:00.000-07:00

Fire.
Drinkable water.
Polio shots.
Nuclear fusion.

All of the above pale in comparison to the importance of the sandwich. First comes the sandwich – everything else is second place and of no importance whatsoever (though TV comes pretty close).

I have always loved sandwiches. I grew up on Jewish deli, moved to grinders when I went to college in New Hampshire, fell in love with paninis in Chicago and am now a devoted fan of the Vietnamese sandwich. The sandwich, along with my fantastic moves on the dance floor and my ability to get angry at everything, has been with me for as long as I can remember. If I could eat a sandwich, do The Smurf and yell at someone all at the same time then I would die a very happy man.

Although a sandwich might be made improperly - and that sandwich maker should be taken outside and shot in the kneecaps – a sandwich is never a bad idea. It’s always a great time for a sandwich! Lunch – check. Dinner – check. Snack – check. And despite my utter lack of interest in breakfast, I will almost always happily order a breakfast sandwich at a restaurant (that is, unless I am able to order an actual sandwich at 8:17 in the morning).

When you’re young, sandwich making is really your first experience at being a chef. As a kid, the first time I made a sandwich it was simply prepared, using simple, rustic ingredients in a really unique way: it was a potato chip sandwich. I took a slice of wheat bread, arranged some Lay Potato Chips on it and placed another slice of wheat bread on the chips. BOO YAH! A sandwich was created. A few years later I branched out into more sophisticated sandwich making and created the peanut butter, mayonnaise and lettuce sandwich. Let’s just say it was underappreciated and people didn’t understand the genius of it.

The perfect sandwich has three crucial components that if not properly executed will result in what is known as “The Sh*t Sandwich”. In life, as in sandwich making, it is always best to avoid “The Sh*t Sandwich”. Since this isn’t a self- help blog and I don’t really care about your needs, I am unfortunately unable to help you avoid life’s sh*t sandwiches. I can however help you avoid consuming an actual “Sh*t Sandwich”, which I am only too happy to do for you right…now.

Component One: Bread. To quote my good friend and genius of understatement, Mr. Michael R. Meredith, “It’s the fresh bread that makes it.” Nothing, repeat, nothing will kill a sandwich quicker than stale, old bread. You can have the freshest veggies, the most expensive cheeses and the most perfectly cured meats, but if the bread ain’t fresh it ain’t worth eating. You can use any type of bread you want (though if you enjoy eating Wonder Bread please stop reading and punch yourself in your face) just make sure the bread is fresh.

Component Two: Veggies. You gotta have them. I don’t care if you don’t like them, sack up and put some veggies on your sandwich! First of all, they’re good for you - duh. Secondly, it adds texture to your sandwich. It adds crunch. No veggies equals a soft sandwich and unless you are without teeth you shouldn’t be eating a soft sandwich at your age (yeah, I’m looking right at you). So add some lettuce, add some cucumber, hell, at some pickled carrots! Your taste buds and your colon will thank you.

Component Three: Spreads. Okay, here’s where the controversy starts so go ahead and put your argument pants on (fyi, all my pants are argument pants). Spreads are good on a sandwich. The trick is picking the right spread for the right sandwich. You may love your pesto spread but that doesn’t mean it belongs with black forest ham. And please, for the sake of my sanity, please don’t add a cheese spread to a sandwich that already has cheese. Think of adding a spread to a sandwich like a wine paring or choosing the right belt with your shoes, only more important because we are dealing with the sandwich. You can live with brown shoes and a black belt or a Riesling with a lamb ragu – you can’t live with a hummus spread on a buffalo mozzarella sandwich. You just can’t.

Personally, I’ll make anything into a sandwich. When I lived in Chicago I used to order delivery from a place called Pizza Capri and I would always get their penne arabiata because it always came with two nice sized hunks of fresh Italian bread. I would hollow out the hunks of bread, stuff them with the penne arabiata and then douse them in balsamic vinegar. It was my little pasta sandwich and I freakin’ loved it. And, yes, after I would always eat the rolled up balls of bread that had been hollowed out. It wasn’t so much as carbo loading as it was carbo nuclear meltdown.

I’ve even gotten my kids into my sandwich-making obsession. My six year-old son loves to make sandwiches out of garlic bread and grilled chicken (doused in balsamic vinegar, which nearly makes me weep for joy). My four year-old daughter will make a sandwich out of her cereal. Sure it is just three little Wheat Chex stacked on top of each other, but, hey, it counts!

When you think about it, the sandwich is the perfect meal. You got your meat, your veg, and your grain. It can be uber-healthy or artery clogging. You can eat it at anytime of the day and you can take it with you anywhere. Maybe we shouldn’t treat the sandwich with such casualness. Maybe it needs to be more revered. So the next time you are making a sandwich, stop what you’re doing, go to your desk and pen a little thank you note to the sandwich.

I’m sure the sandwich would appreciate it.

Wine Coolers - Sex in a Bottle

2011-06-28T07:58:00.000-07:00

Call me coo coo for Coco Puffs, but wine coolers are sexy as a motherf*#ker.

They’re overpriced, overcarbonated, they’re too sweet and to be seen drinking one is embarrassing bordering on the humiliating. And yet there’s something about them that really pumps my nads. Throw in a girl with big ass shoulder pads, hair teased out to the goddamn stratosphere and some Poison perfume on her neck and I am a man in love.

I think it has something to do with my love of all things 80’s. Being a teenager in the late 80’s, the height of wine cooler popularity, wine coolers just seemed the ultimate in cool sophistication. I mean, come on, Bruce Willis hawked wine coolers back then. If they’re good enough for Mr. Willis, they’re good enough for me. The man died hard four times for sh*t’s sake!

I guess because I was an impressionable teenager I felt that wine coolers where very adult. And being an adult meant having sex. So it stands to reason that if I drank wine coolers then I would have sex.*

[* It stands to reason. I didn’t say it actually happened.]

Later when I was in college and in a fraternity, wine coolers were around when we had “fancy parties”. See, a regular frat party meant drinking can after can of warm Hamm’s and maybe if you’re lucky a shot of Jager. But when we had a date party where we wore coat and ties, bathed ourselves in Obsession for Men and put Sade on the house stereo, we made sure we had plenty of Bartles and James Premium Peach Flavored Wine Coolers available. Why? Because they were classy. And chicks liked classy drinks. And if they drank enough classy drinks, sex happened. It’s simple math, really.

Even today, married and with kids, I still feel the same way. If I see my wife drinking wine, I think she’s just unwinding after a long day. But if on the very,very rare occasion I see her drinking a wine cooler, I immediately think:

“Damn. She’s horny. She wants it!”

[Note: My wife will deny that she has ever even tried a wine cooler. Trust me, she’s lying. As are all of you who deny ever having sipped from such a glorious liquid. You all have had a wine cooler, and deep, deep down – you’ve f*#king loved it.]

It’s a damn shame that wine coolers aren’t as prevalent as they once were (if you google wine coolers the first few websites that pop up are actual coolers for storing your wine – somewhere Don Johnson is shedding a tear). It’s not so much that I miss the taste of them, rather I miss what they stand for; the promise of sex in a hot tub while a sax solo plays and a dry ice machine is turned on high for a more “erotic” effect. Yeah, that’s cheesy, but so what?

That was the 80’s.

Which Pizza Tastes Least Like Ass?

2011-06-19T18:49:00.000-07:00

“Pizza is kind of like sex. It’s never really bad.” - some anonymous jag off

The person who declared the above statement has obviously never tasted good pizza nor good sex. Luckily I have had both many times, thank you very much. But since this is not a blog about sex (look for my sex blog soon though, entitled This Will Suck And Not in the Good Way) I will have to talk about the pizza.

Not all pizza is created equal. There is bad pizza out there. Really bad. The kind of pizza where if you threw it down a sewer a rat as big as a dog would bring it back, knock on your door and say, “Sir, please take this offensive food item and shove it up your ass. Now if you’ll excuse me I hear a small black child singing a song about me.” Bad pizza is an affront to all mankind and the perpetrators of this heinous crime must be held accountable.

Now, I’m not talking about frozen pizza. Like my beloved Cleveland sports teams, everyone knows frozen pizza is awful so let’s just leave them alone. And I’m also not talking about those scary, hole-in-the-wall pizza joints that look like no one has cleaned it since the Carter administration (in LA there’s this dark, dank pizza joint called Mr. Pizza that I swear is a front for the Russian mob and yet, surprisingly, they serve a good slice of pepperoni and mushroom). No, I’m talking about the nationwide chain pizzas that claim to have “delicious” pizza when in actuality what they give you is the bulls*#t baked in a circular form. All of them are garbage but which of them are the less painful to eat?

To quote The Hardest Working Man in Show Business, allow me to “break it down”.

Little Caesars: Everything about Little Caesar’s – the stores, the ads, the signage, the food – depresses me. The whole business needs to swallow some St. John’s Wart followed by a handful of SAM-e’s. They are just so sad. They should change their slogan to, “Hey…we have pizza…eat it…or not…I don’t care…life sucks.”

And what adds to that depression is the fact that they know their pizza blows chunks. That’s why they give you a second one. It’s like Little Caesar’s feels bad that their food utterly lacks flavor, so to compensate they’ve decided to give you even more of it for free. That is the equivalent of someone kicking you in the nuts and saying, “Hey man, sorry I kicked you on the nuts. My bad. To make up for it, how about I kick you in the nuts?”

Papa John’s: If Papa John was my dad I would go all Oedipal on his ass. He just thinks he’s so f-ing cool doesn’t he, touring the country with his below average za and touting it as “better ingredients, better pizza”. Trust me, it’s the exact same substandard ingredients creating the exact same substandard pizza as everyone else. And stop with your goddamn garlic dipping sauce. Who you think you’re foolin’? You know you’re just hyping your sauce because you know you’re pizza is taste-free. Here’s a good rule of thumb: if you’re pizza needs to be dipped in anything, then it’s not a pizza worth eating. Oh and PS, your garlic dipping sauce is garbage as well, so good job on adding crap with crap – you’re in negative territory now.

Pizza Hut: The Chinese love Pizza Hut. Seriously, look it up or fly to Beijing and ask someone. Pizza Hut is the biggest food chain in the country. The country! That should say something about Pizza Hut.

It says that the Chinese don’t know d*#k about pizza.

Pizza Hut’s pizza is a greasy piece of cardboard topped with toppings that I’m convinced come from my daughter’s fake food play set. It sets a benchmark in all things bad about pizza. How they have achieved a pizza that is doughy and crunchy, sauceless with bad sauce, and salty without flavor is a minor miracle in technological ineptitude (notice I didn’t say “cooking ineptitude”. I wouldn’t insult cooking like that). And don’t get me started on that “stuffed crust” nonsense. No one needs that much goddamn cheese. I love cheese, but my heart doesn’t need any extra stuffed into a crust. And guess what? That same cheese in the crust is the same bad cheese that’s on top of your pizza. So now you have a double dose, a two-fer, a buck shot if you will, of terrible cheese to eat.

Domino’s: Ok, full disclosure, when I was in college I loved Domino’s. Chalk it up to being young and dumb, but I remember really enjoying it. But now, as I have been over the last few years forced to consume it at the too numerous to mention kids’ parties that I have to take my children to, I know loather Domino’s Pizza with the same hate I usually save for the music of Rascal Flats.

And now they’re trying to hype this new recipe for their pizza. And make no mistake, it is a new recipe – a recipe for an even shittier pizza. Note to the execs at Domino’s: making your tomato sauce sweeter and your pizza crust saltier does not make it better. It barely makes it different. You are like the high school lacrosse star who is forced to take Home Ec and wants nothing to do with the class so he just half--asses it for the entire semester in hopes he’ll slide by without getting noticed. Congrats Domino’s – you’re lazy and you can’t make pizza. You have corned the market on stupidity.

And on a related note, the new Domino’s commercials are total lies. Those are actors in those ads. No one is that stupid to all of the sudden be surprised that they’re in a “fake room” right next to a Domino’s kitchen. Are you telling me that they didn’t notice the big giant kitchen before they walked into the “room”? And legally Domino’s can get away with it by putting a caption underneath saying, “real people”. Notice how they didn’t say “non-actors”. They use the term “real people” because actors are technically “real people” - just barely, but they are.

So to answer the question, which ass pizza tastes less like ass? Well, that’s a tough one. They are all ass-worthy in their own unique way. But if I had a gun to my head and was forced to eat one of these brands of pizza (which is really the only way you should be eating these pizzas), I guess I would have to pick…oh hell, I don’t know. They’re all so bad. I guess if I had to I would choose Little Caesar’s. If I’m gonna eat awful pizza then I might as well eat a lot of it…and be sad at the same time.

That’s me – go big or go home.

Food Porn Is...

2011-06-07T16:15:00.000-07:00

Dumb. It’s just dumb.

Searching the Internet for picture after picture of plates of food is lame. I’m sorry, I know I might piss some fellow foodies off, but it is. It serves no function in any facet of a well-lived life. As much as I can certainly understand the importance of time suckage at work, staring at pictures of oso buco is goddamn ridiculous – and I loves me some oso buco.

Why, why, why look at pictures of food? What are you doing? Pull your personal thing together, step away from the computer and eat some Wheat Thins. You are accomplishing nothing by scouring the web in search of that perfect-looking egg frittata.

And please, for s*#t’s sake, don’t give me that “you taste with your eyes” crap. No, I don’t. I’m not some mutant creature from the next universe over on the right who has special powers to taste with my eyes. I’m a human being and I taste with my mouth. Cause guess what? I can’t taste your goddamn food photo so who gives a flying f*#k if it looks good? It’s still a photo!

I honestly think I would be more embarrassed caught looking at food porn than at regular porn (btw, is there really such a thing nowadays as “regular porn”?) just because of its sheer stupidity. At least there is a need being served with looking at regular porn. It fills a void – and I’ll pause here to let the immature of you giggle at “fills a void" – that might be missing in someone’s life. There is an action/reaction:

Problem: I am horny.
Action: I shall look at porn.
Reaction: I am no longer horny.

Not so with food porn:

Problem: I am hungry.
Action: I shall look at food porn.
Reaction: Still goddamn hungry!

There is a reason to look at porn – you can’t get laid. There is no reason to look at food porn. None of us are starving. For almost all of us lucky ones, food is everywhere. It’s pretty accessible, unlike three naked redheads rubbing baby oil all over each other. You need to look at food? Open up your fridge. Problem solved and you’re welcome.

And for the sake of democracy all over the world – STOP TAKING PICTURES OF YOUR FOOD WHILE YOU ARE AT A RESTAURANT! You look ridiculous. Everyone is laughing at you. First of all, this means that you actually had to think of bringing a camera to the restaurant. It is pre-meditated idiocy. Then you had to decide on a meal not based on flavor, but on aesthetics, which means you are stupid and don’t know the purpose of food. And lastly, after you took that picture, you…what? What are you going to do? Show it off? Post it on Facebook? Yes, of course you are – because you are a moron who thinks that a quick digital snap shot of your plate of wildflower salad topped with roasted quail is something EVERYONE is just dying to see.

But what’s even more ridiculous is SUBMITTING your own food photos to food porn websites. Come on, people, you’re better than that. Spending the day shooting pics of your strawberry-upside-down-cake in natural light on your back patio table is not a productive way to spend your time. But then adding insult to injury by submitting said photo to numerous food porn sites in the hope that it might get published? Seriously, you are really truly hoping that your food photo gets selected? Do me a kindness: have some f*#king respect for yourself.

Now, if food porn actually contained nudity then you’d be on to something. That would be worth scouring the Internet. A photo of a naked woman holding a spicy tuna hand roll in one hand, a chocolate peanut butter cake in the other and squeezing a can of Fresca between her legs is not even really porn.

It’s art.

Cookie...Doh!

2011-05-24T12:08:00.000-07:00

Okay, I’m not saying my wife doesn’t like me – I’ll let her say that herself. All I’m saying is that she won’t let me eat raw chocolate chip cookie dough and it’s a bone of contention between us (heh, heh, heh – I said bone).

Every person on the face of the earth knows that eating cookie dough is orgasmically good. It just feels so right. There is nothing better. It’s like having sex with Angelina Jolie on a white fluffy cloud while Luther Vandross serenades you, only better because cookie dough doesn’t blather on about adopting babies in Africa.

I have had a long love affair with eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough. What started out as my mom letting me lick the spoon when I was a kid transformed into me in college buying a tube of dough and just leaving it in the fridge to gorge on throughout the week – stoned or unstoned. For me, eating cookie dough uncooked is comforting, sensual, fun and exhilarating all rolled into one.

But when my wife makes homemade chocolate chip cookies she NEVER lets me eat it. Not even a spoonful. If I berate her enough I may get to lick the bowl, and even then it’s with a look that says, “consider yourself lucky.”

Now for those of you thinking, “Kirk, you ignorant slut. Your wife is just looking out for your well-being. She doesn’t want you to get salmonella. She’s saying no because she loves you!”

Not really.

I’m pretty sure food poisoning is not even close to the reason why my wife won’t let me eat raw chocolate chip cookie dough. How do I know this? Because if I said, ‘Hey honey, let’s go out and eat $200 worth of sushi right now”, she would be in the car honking the horn for me to hurry my ass up before I even got the word “now” out of my mouth. So choke on that argument!

No, as near as I can tell, here are my 3 guesses as to why my wife won’t let me eat what I like to call, “cookie carpacio”.

3) She thinks I’ll eat the whole bowl.

Alright, that’s a valid point. I have the potential and the mindset to pummel an entire bowl of cookie dough. But one, isn’t that an impressive feat in and of itself? Wouldn’t you like to see that? And two, though I could doesn’t mean I will because I love actual baked chocolate chip cookies just as much. I wouldn’t dis my cookies like that! Give me some goddamn credit!

2) It bothers her aesthetically.

Possible. While a dollop of dough (the name of my new cookbook by the way, available in bookstores when hell freezes over) may seem like a snack to me, to her it looks like unfinished business. It’s a piece of art only halfway done. Hey, that’s just wacky talk to me, but she’s the one making the cookies. You can’t bite the hand that feeds you…unless that hand is dipped in hot wing sauce.

1) She enjoys torturing me.

Yeah. This is it. This has got to be the one. I’m convinced my wife takes perverse pleasure in denying me raw cookie dough. What sort of person flaunts cookie dough in another person’s face and then refuses them even the tiniest spoonful? She’s a temptress – a hateful, hateful temptress hell bent on driving me insane.

In the end, I think the “cookie dough situation” will never be resolved. She’ll make it, deny me any and then I’ll end up sneaking some when she’s out of the kitchen. (Yeah, that’s right, honey, I steal cookie dough when you’re not looking. How ya like me now!?) It’s just like that old saying, “if it’s wrong then I don’t want to be right.”

Fortunately, I am rarely right.

YOUR FOOD CONSIGLIERE

2011-05-17T10:55:00.000-07:00

So the other day I was leaving the office when a guy who I work with came up to me and said, “Hey man, can I ask you a question?”

The three knee jerk responses in my head?

1) “ You can’t have a ride home.”
2) “ I won’t help you move.”
3) “I’m not sponsoring your nephew in a fun run.”

And just as I was about to ignore him and walk out the door he continued with, “Know any good restaurants that I could take my girlfriend, too?”

And just like that, I turned into his food consigliere.

I set my bags down, gave him a warm smile and motioned for him to take a seat. For I am the best food consigliere there is. I am here to help your restaurant dilemma. I am here to solve your dining problems. Put your trust in me, for I am your food consigliere. I am a fountain of culinary knowledge and I am ready to spray my food advice all over your face.

I listened patiently to what type of restaurant he was looking for, what vibe he wanted, how much he wanted to spend and, most importantly, what kind of food he and his girlfriend enjoyed. Within seconds I gave him the perfect place to go, complete with web address, location and recommendations on what to order. I ended my advice by looking him dead in the eyes and saying,

“Trust me. You and your girlfriend will not be disappointed.”

I left my very thankful co-worker sitting there in awe of me.

As I drove home all I could keep saying to myself was, “God that guy is lucky to have someone like me around. I wish I was him so I could sit and listen to how smart I am about food.”

That following Monday I went to my co-workers cubicle, ready for him to lavish me with praise and compliments for being so wise and brilliant a man as to choose the greatest restaurant that he had ever experienced.

“Hey,” I said “casually”, “How was the big dinner? Did you enjoy my recommendation?”

Without even looking up from his computer my co-worker said:

“Nah, we didn’t make it. Too much of a hassle. We just went and got a pizza.”

And just like that my co-worker was dead to me.

I mean come on! I gave this dickteeth prime information on where to eat. I was giving him gold. I was giving him the top shelf s*#t. I was spitting hot fire! And to not take my advice, to not use the wisdom I was dispensing to him – for free – was a slap in the face.

Always listen to your food consigliere. Always. Remember in “The Godfather”? Sonny didn’t listen to Tom and because of it he got wacked? Well this is much, much worse because we’re talking about food.

To not take unsolicited advice is one thing. You can chalk that up to ego, hubris, or just plain not liking me (any of the three will do). But to come to me with a specific concern about dining and not taking said advice? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you (metaphorically) asking to get a screwdriver rammed into the back of your head?

Because that’s what happened when my co-worker and his girlfriend ordered that pizza. That pizza was a death sentence. It was a tragic misstep in their culinary experience that could have been easily avoided if they had just listened to a sage and wizened voice.

But they choose to go the other way. They choose to not listen. And what did it get them by not listening to me? I’ll tell you. It got them a scrotum pizza that they probably scarfed down in 5 minutes while watching “The Voice.” Congratulations on your shitty night.

I guess that’s one of the negatives of being a food consigliere. Sometimes your advice is not heeded no matter how smart you are. It is a cross to bear but on the up tick at least I know where to get the best spicy tuna roll.

And as for my co-worker? What ever happened to him? Well, I now snub him on all matters unrelated to work. He does not exist to me. He now sleeps with the fishes and not in the good way where he can grill it with a little lemon and fresh cilantro.

So if you are going to bring up the question of where to eat then you sure as shit better take my advice:

Your life may very well depend on it (okay your food life but you get my point).

If You Must Grub - Grub Here

2011-05-05T15:26:00.000-07:00

OTIS JACKSON’S SOUL DOG

First of all, how can you not like a place that is called “Otis Jackson’s Soul Dog” and find out that it is not owned by anyone remotely named Otis Jackson, but rather a husband and wife team by the name of Don and Rasheedah Scott?* That automatically makes this place cool.

The Soul Dog (http://www.eatsouldog.com/) is a family owned fast casual restaurant located in the Noho Arts District in North Hollywood, CA. Basically their concept is to take hot dogs, take soul food, have them make sweet love to each other (while Anita Baker’s “Sweet Love” plays) and then happily serve it to you. The result is nothing short of kick ass.

I started off with the spicy chicken link with peppers and fried okra on top. All of their sausages have no artificial preservatives, nitrates or antibiotics, which means you can eat it and not have to punch yourself in the face for feeling guilty for not eating a salad instead. And by the way, the peppers where not only jalapeño and pepperocini mixed together – but they were free. Free, I say! The also offer raw onions for free, which as a confirmed onion hater makes me sad but I’ll let it go. But I cannot talk enough about this fried okra. Good lord was it awesome! It was pickled and fried. PICKLED AND FRIED. There’s a term for that. Win-win.

And I have yet to try it, but they have a hot dog called the “Mac Daddy Dog”. That’s mac and cheese topped on a hot dog. Are you kidding me? That is friggin’ genius! And before you start getting all huffy and puffy and say, “that’s no big deal,” I ask you this. Did you come up with it? No, so shut up and bask in the genius of someone at the Soul Dog coming up with the brilliant idea of using mac and cheese as a topping.

Now, let’s talk about their free-range fried chicken. Normally I don’t like fried chicken. I could lie about the reasons but to save time I’ll just tell you the truth:

It gives me a tummy ache.

The Soul Dog’s chicken gave me no such agony. More importantly, it tasted great. Their chicken is dense. No not a dumb chicken, a chicken with a lot of meat on its bone. I have never eaten a heavier chicken in my life. I actually was doing bicep curls with it as I lifted it to my mouth. I figured that although I ate two giant pieces of fried chicken I did about twenty-seven curls so it totally evened out calorie wise.

Now, with my chicken I had what the Soul Dog describes as “hot water cornbread”. My immediate response? “Okay, relax on the ‘hot water’ hype. Its just H2O.” Then I took a bite. My second response? “My sincerest apologies for ever doubting making cornbread with hot water.” Though I will never in my life attempt to make cornbread, I am now equipped with the knowledge that hot water makes it better and I can begin insulting anyone who doesn’t make it that way.

And bless the Soul Dog for making sweet potato fries that are actually crispy. So many places jack them up. Nothing is worse than paying extra for sweet potato fries and having them turn out soggy. World wars have started for less. But the sweet potato fries here are crispy and tasty, tasty and crispy.

Everything I had for my meal at the Soul Dog was great (I say “my meal” but I went with a friend and ended up eating half of hers – don’t judge me!) I don’t give out stars or thumbs up for places where I like to eat so I’ll just sum up my experience the old fashioned way:

If you don’t eat at Otis Jackson’s Soul Dog you’re an idiot.

{*Full Disclosure: I found out that Don Scott is originally from Cleveland. That makes me love this place even more. I only hope that Don has enough sense to deny service to Lebron James if he ever strolls into the Soul Dog.}

I Don't Cook So Stop Asking Me!

2011-05-03T07:16:00.000-07:00

Many people have come up to me and asked, “Hey, Kirk, since you seem to enjoy food so much, do you also enjoy cooking?”

Hell to the motherf*#king no. And that’s Mr. Kirk Pynchon – ass bag.

Contrary to the book, I find no joy in cooking. It really does very little for me. Inviting people over for a dinner party so I can serve them a four-course meal sounds exactly like what it is – work.

I am not one to slave in the kitchen. Whenever my wife is out at night and I have to cook for the kids, I make the same thing every time: Annie’s Mac And Cheese with turkey dogs thrown in. And although the kids love it and say it’s their favorite dinner, I take less satisfaction in their praise and more in the fact that their praise pisses off my wife, who is the real chef of the family.

If someone compliments my dish, it’s fine. A compliment is a compliment and I’ll take it. But it would be way cooler if they marveled at my dance moves or just talked about how good looking I am. Now those are compliments that mean something!

Part of the problem is that I consider myself something of a neat freak. I don’t like making messes*. It stresses me out. And cooking is messy. Ergo, cooking stresses me out. In fact, the times when I am forced to cook I am more concerned with the clean up than with the actual creation of a meal. I have to clean while I cook. I HAVE TO. So many a times I have been cooking something on the stove, made a mess, cursed myself for being an idiot and then become compelled to clean it up immediately. So I will I grab the stove burner, having forgotten that it’s still hot and scorched my bare hand. So now I’m a double idiot and hate myself even more.

Why go through all that emotional and physical turmoil over a pot of spaghetti?

[* The late great Phil Hartman had a classic sketch called, “ Cooking With The Anal Retentive Chef”. When I first saw it in college, I didn’t so much laugh as I simply nodded my head and said, “This man is absolutely preaching the truth.”]

I learned not to enjoy cooking at an early age. I’m not sure how old I was. I assume I was seven or eight but to make myself cool I’ll say I was four or five. Regardless, I have a name for this moment when I learned that cooking your own food blows.

I call it “The Great Cinnamon Toast Debacle”.

I had just learned how to make cinnamon toast. Meaning, I now was able to toast bread, spread butter or margarine over it and sprinkle it with cinnamon sugar. I was very, very proud of this – still am, as a matter of fact.

One particular morning I woke up, went downstairs to kitchen to prepare my daily morning repast. I got out the bread (Hilltop Whole Wheat) and toasted it perfectly. I got out the margarine (I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter) and perfectly spread it all over my perfectly toasted bread. I got out the cinnamon sugar and perfectly sprinkled it over my perfectly buttered and perfectly toasted bread. I took a giant bite…

And ran to the kitchen sink and yakked my guts out.

I had sprinkled onion powder on my toast by mistake.

In that one moment I hit the trifecta of decisions: I never made cinnamon toast again, I learned to hate anything with onions and I learned, most importantly, whenever possible…

Get someone else to cook for you.

I Want My Cake And Eat It Too

2011-04-26T06:52:00.000-07:00

The above title comes from a line in the classic 1992 film “Deep Cover”. It was said by one of my idols, Jeff Goldblum, saying the line in his full-metal-Goldbluming-best.

I agree with Mr. Jeff Goldblum. I do want my cake and eat it too. Why the f#*k else would I have cake in the first place? To look at it? To smell it? To admire it from a far? Cake serves one function – consumption. (Hey, that rhymes! I love when that happens!)

But there is one (and only one) time where I do not want my cake and eat it too.

Kids’ birthday parties.

Having a six-year old son and a four-year old daughter means I go to A LOT of kids’ birthday parties – and the fact that I capped and bolded “a lot” does not do justice to how many kids’ birthday parties I go to. Now, I’m not saying they’re not fun. It’s a fine way to spend a weekend afternoon, the parents are always cool to talk to, the kids have a ball and, more importantly, leave me the hell alone. Sometimes there is adult food, which is always appreciated. One party I went to the parents rented a Fillipino/Mexcian fusion food truck where I ate pork belly burritos and carne asada French fries. When the party was over I was the one who cried.

But I have yet to go to a kids’ birthday party and love the cake that they serve – and that includes my own kids’ parties. The cake is always a disappointment. At its best it is average and at its worst it is a crime against the definition of the word cake. There’s always something wrong with it – too sweet, not sweet enough, not enough frosting, too much frosting or just plain weird flavor combinations. I know little Brin loves peanut butter and honey sandwiches but that doesn’t mean you need to make a cake out of those ingredients and make me suffer through it. Stop being selfish and think about your guests.

And if you have some sort of fruit jelly inside your kid’s cake – bravo. You have ruined this birthday and scarred your kid for life. Because of that jelly your child will now have a substandard education, won’t go to college and will end up stripping – boy or girl. Nice parenting skills.

But the real downfall of kids' birthday cakes is fondant. God, I really wish I could find a way to express myself regarding my distaste for fondant. Oh wait. I got it. Here it goes.

F*#k fondant.

Look I get it. Fondant is easy to shape and mold and form. But does that mean that it has to taste bad? Can’t they make a fondant that’s tasty? If they have the ability to make edible underwear then surely they can make a fondant that doesn’t taste like crap.

I had never tasted a cake with fondant until I started going to childrens birthday parties. If that makes me sheltered then I happily admit to being so. Let me live in a sheltered world where fondant does not exist and every cake is made frosted with butter cream.

The first and only fondant incident came at a 4-year old’s birthday. He had a giant Thomas the Train cake and when they cut it open it was chocolate with a whipped cream filling.

“Oh my god,” I whispered to myself. “I am going to go to town on this cake. I might even have to toss some kids back in the giant jump house just so I can be first.”

But decorum stopped me and I waited patiently for my slice. Okay, not patiently. I sort of white knuckled the whole thing. When it was finally time for the parents to get their slices (selfish rat bastard kids just HAVE to be first) I had to pass up a few pieces of cake because they weren’t big enough. I even walked away, feigning disinterest. When I saw just the right size of cake I “casually” walked over and snatched it. I then went into a corner (cause that’s how I like to eat my cake – in a corner filled with joy and shame) and took a huge bite of what I thought was butter cream frosting but was actually fondant.

“Huh,” I said to myself, “this frosting has the consistency of modeling clay and the flavor of a tasteless Tootsie Roll.”

I tried another huge bite, just to make sure.

“Yep. Definitely a tasteless Tootsie Roll.”

My wife came over (smartly she had none of the cake) to see how I was doing.

‘What’s with the cake?” I asked. “Why is it so weird?”

“Cause it’s got fondant as the frosting.”

“This is fondant?” I asked.

“Yes, honey.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I figured you wouldn’t, dear.”

“I don’t like it AT ALL!”

And I tossed my barely eaten slice of cake into the trash and sulked for the rest of the party.

Worst party ever. And I haven’t tried cake at a kid’s birthday party since. I can’t risk it.

And if you’re thinking that the reason I don’t like kids’ birthday cakes is because they are made for children and not for me, then shouldn’t I like it because everyone always accuses me of being childish and immature?

Solve that, Batman!

Wing Man

2011-04-13T07:08:00.000-07:00

Ah, buffalo wings. Maybe one of the most perfect foods ever created. A wonderful mélange (yeah, I just used the word mélange – how ya like me now?) of salty, spicy, greasy and tangy. They can be eaten for lunch or dinner, as an appetizer or entrée. Good with beer (nay, great with beer), wine, pop or good old H2O. Throw in some celery sticks and blue cheese and you have got yourself one well-rounded meal. Wings are the Lord’s way of smiling down on us humans and saying, “I know life is hard. To make up for it, gnaw on these chicken bones while you watch the NBA playoffs.”

And yet, despite all this, people constantly f*#k up the making of buffalo wings. Big time. Like FUBAR’d big time – Like when Bush exclaimed “Mission Accomplished” or when they introduced Scrappy Doo to “The Scooby Doo Show”.

When it comes to wings, think of the acronym KISS. No, not “Keep It Simple Stupid” but “Kirk Is So Smart”. So with that saying in mind (which you should really be applying to all facets of your life), allow me to be your Wing Man.

Here are some quick basics to remember:

Wings too saucy – send them back
Wings not saucy enough – send them back
Wings too big – send them back
Wings too small – send them back

Are you seeing a pattern here? There is a balance to buffalo wings. Though fairly simple to make (deep fry, make sauce, toss) they need proper attention and a delicate touch. Swing too far one way or too far the other and all you have is a basketful of sad chicken. And no one likes sad chicken…not even Morrissey.

And don’t get conned into trying different wing flavors. Restaurants love coming up with different flavor combinations for wings – Teriyaki, Sweet BBQ, Honey Mustard, Curry, Cajun, Parmesan Garlic. I appreciate creativity, I appreciate variety – but not with a food that’s already perfect. Wings should come one style – hot. That’s it. You can have them at whatever degree of heat you can handle. If you want to go medium, hey, that’s a little weak but fine. If you are worried about the size of your penis and need to go 911 Atomic hot, so be it. The point is that all those flavors muck up the pureness that is buffalo wings.

See, like the comic stylings of Mr. Vince Vaughn, buffalo wings are a one trick pony. But that’s okay – I really like that trick. I like it when all Vince does is talk very fast in a scene. I don’t need him to do anything else. Just like my wings. I like them hot, and that’s it. I don’t need Vinny V (he lets me call him that) to stretch himself and attempt to perform Ibsen and I don’t need my wings flavored in a lime cumin sauce.

Also, don’t be a one of those jagholes who gets boneless wings. That’s basically a McNugget dipped in hot sauce. Guess what? Chicken is an animal. No it is! I swear! I learned that when I was five. And if you can’t handle eating chicken off the bone then you don’t deserve to eat chicken. Ordering boneless chicken wings – which is really a stupid name as how can it be boneless and a wing at the same time – is more of an insult to a chicken than tearing off its wing and dipping it in blue cheese. Respect the chicken – eat the s*#t out of it.

And I’ve mentioned it before in this blog but it is so important that I shall mention it again: RANCH DRESSING DOES NOT BELONG WITH HOT WINGS! You are f*#king with the flow of the flavor if you dip your wing in that barf. Don’t do it. And if you are at a joint that happens to do wings but only serves them with Ranch dressing, then stand up, yell, “J’accuse!” and walk out giving every one who works there the finger. They are doing it wrong.*

[*Except for Buffalo Joe’s in Evanston, Illinois. They only serve Ranch dressing but their wings are so goddamn good that they get a pass. Add their cheddar waffle fries into the mix and you will have a heart attack – from pure joy, not from the artery clogging food.]

But of most importance is where you eat your buffalo wings. A bar is always preferable, a diner is cool, even a restaurant known for their wings is perfectly acceptable. Really there’s only one place you should never eat wings.

Hooter’s.

Let me break this down all scientifically and s*#t: Hooter’s sucks a big bowl of d*#k. The wings are terrible. First of all they are breaded, which is a crime punishable by forced, repeated viewing of “Avatar”. And Hooter’s obviously knew they were wrong when they coated them in crap because they then came up with “naked” wings, which is obviously some marketing exec’s ridiculous idea of keeping with Hooter’s “sexy” – and I use that word so loosely you could drive a semi through it - image. But it doesn’t matter because even Hooter’s “naked” wings suck. They are utterly lacking in heat, tang and flavor – as are the overly tan women who serve them. Please heed this advice – do not waste valuable time at Hooter’s. Being served overpriced, average, bland wings by girls who are not really that pretty is dumb. Be smart. Find a local bar that serves killer wings then go to a strip club. There. That is the end of my public service announcement.

Cue soft piano music and graphics reading, “The More You Know”.

White Wedding - The Food Remix

2011-04-06T07:16:00.000-07:00

Here’s the deal with weddings: The food at the receptions tend to range from forgettable to more forgettable. It’s usually a big whatever, with people just getting through their meal so they can sprint back to the open bar for another free 7&7. I can honestly say that I’ve never been to a wedding with memorable food. I’ve never eating a wedding meal and remembered it as something that kneed me in the balls with flavor.

Except my own.

“Wait,” you’re saying to yourself, “Of course you’d say that about your own wedding reception, Pynchon. You think everything you’re a part of is awesome. Let me take a stab at what you’re going to write next: The food at your reception was the kick ass of all kick ass, people went to town on it, it was so good that they were rubbing it on their chests and throwing it on the floor and dryhumping the shit out of it. Is that what you’re gonna tell me, Pynchon? You egotistical, self-centered, annoying, potty mouth son of a bitch!”

Wrong! In your face, Dick Tracey!

Truthfully, I have no idea if the food at my wedding reception was good or not.

I didn’t have any.

My wedding reception might have been one of the only times in my life where I wasn’t hungry. I don’t know what it was, but I just didn’t feel like eating. I can’t remember what was on the menu. I know it was Chinese influenced but other than that I am at a complete loss. I didn’t even eat any cake! Come on – cake for Christ’s sake! I know I had a bite for the wedding photos but after that I think I left my cake plate somewhere and never bothered to pick it up again. Seriously, though I personally believed our reception rocked the house (I mean how could it not when I INSISTED that the last song of the night be Notorious B.I.G.’s “Big Poppa”), I have no idea if the food was good or not.

And yet, I still had the most memorable wedding dinner ever.

“Impossible!” You are saying to yourself. “I cry bulls*#t on you, Pynchon! You are a lying liar who lies! Liar!”

Foot of the gas and let me explain.

After our reception my wife (who also did not eat) and I went to our hotel suite where we lovingly looked at each other and said at the same time,

“I am f*#king starving!”

I then looked out at our giant hotel window into the beautiful spring LA night. And there below us, shining like a beacon of all that is good and true and righteous in the world was a sign from God.

And that sign blinked In-N-Out Burger.

I looked at my wife and she said, “We’re going. Now.”

So, while still in our wedding clothes we ran to the elevator, went to the lobby, sprinted to the garage, hopped in our car and sped to In-N-Out Burger.

Our wedding dinner consisted of Double Doubles, fries and vanilla shakes.

Now that is memorable.

Chinese By Proxy

2011-03-29T15:51:00.000-07:00

A lot of my friends come to me for advice on where to eat good Chinese food. They think because I married a Chinese woman that I have some sort of special insight into what constitutes good Chinese cuisine.

They are absolutely f*#king right.

I do have special knowledge about Chinese food. And if you step to me with some bulls*#t egg foo young I will sarcastically shake my head at you (which is really the only way I know how to shake my head) and say, “Bitch, what is this swill? This Chinese food plays for the JV squad. Get in the business.”

Right or wrong, I think of myself as a specialist on all things tasty and Chinese - yes, that previous sentence includes my wife. I know the good (my mother-in-law's homemade wonton soup – so good it will make you break out into song even if you loathe “Glee”), the bad (Chop Suey – which is not even Chinese but invented by some American guy and sold as authentic to people who have their heads up their asses) and the ugly (egg pie stuffed with fish intestines – I’ll just leave it at that).

It’s nice to have special knowledge that others lack. And being as I am a generous mofo I am only too happy to dispense my knowledge of the food of my people. Am I allowed to say that?

See, nothing pleases me more as when I’m with a friend in a mall and we’ll walk by a Panda Express and my friend will spout off with, “Hey, wanna just eat here?” And I’ll stop, force a single tear out of my eye and say in a whisper, “Why would you dishonor my heritage like that?”*

{*full disclosure: My wife actually likes the orange chicken at Panda Express which I try to mock her for but she always comes back with, “You’re not Chinese, dude.”}

And if we’re at a Chinese restaurant that I have deemed acceptable and someone at my table suggests moo goo gai pan I just shoot them a withering look and a little sigh of disappointment before I gently suggest a menu item that is not so stupid.

I’m providing a public service, really.

I also really enjoy listening to someone rave about some new Chinese restaurant and then just hitting them with one question that destroys their entire non-knowing-Chinese-food-world:

Them: “I just went to this great Chinese place that had the best pea tendrils ever!”
Me: “Were they sautéed in garlic and red chilies?”
Them: “No.”
Me: “That’s a shame. Are you sure you were in a Chinese restaurant?”

Admittedly, sometimes this special knowledge can be a burden. Knowing everything about Chinese food means having to make some tough choices, even ruining some relationships. I want you to know the joys of pigeon whether you like it or not. You need to try steamed crab without drawn butter. And for God’s Sake, you need to stop ordering cream cheese wonton, requesting Chinese Chicken Salad or demanding a Poo Poo Platter when it is more Hawaiian than Chinese (not to mention the name of the dish best describes the taste of it so why order it in the first place). Do it right – aka listen to me – or don’t eat this type of ethnic food. It’s the price I pay for knowing more about Chinese food than anyone…who’s not Chinese that is.

I’m sure to some of you that my belief that I know all about Chinese is offensive. And I could see your point if you were right. But I really do know what I’m talking about. And just to add a little proof to the pudding, we have a "Learn to Speak Chinese" DVD that our kids love to watch. And in the DVD a Chinese woman walks around a grocery store trying to remember words in Chinese. And when she gets stuck and can’t remember whom does she call? Her white husband! I kid you not. Every time she can’t remember a word in Mandarin she would call her white man and ask him and he would respond immediately with the right answer in a flawless dialect. So basically this DVD – educational, teacher approved DVD – proves what I have been saying all along:

White guys know everything.

An Open Letter to Johnny Rockets

2011-03-21T17:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Jonathan Rockets,

F*#k you. Your food blows.

I’m sorry if I’m being a little vague so please allow me to elaborate:

Until this past Sunday I had never been to one of your establishments. Though they are all over this fine country, particularly in Southern California, I have never ventured into a Johnny Rockets. Nothing against you, I just had better places to be. Had I known how bad your food would be I would have kept my tradition of never eating your food alive. My bad.

But I digress. So after a family outing late that Sunday afternoon we decided to give Johnny Rockets a try. “Why not?” I said. “It can’t be as bad as regular fast food. It’s a little pricier so I’m sure it’ll be probably pretty good!”

Oh how f*#king wrong I was.

Here is what you have to say about yourselves on your website:

“Every original Johnny Rockets restaurant boasts great tasting food from a menu of favorites including juicy hamburgers, classic sandwiches, and hand-dipped shakes and malts. Guests also enjoy an all-American look and feel, tabletop jukeboxes and authentic decor.”

Lies! You are filled with nothing but lies!

Your burgers were like hockey pucks. I know that is just an expression but it’s an expression for a reason – because dillweeds like you don’t know how to cook a burger medium rare, let alone medium. Your French fries (on your website you call them “American” fries for no other reason then you are morons) were 100% tasteless. Seriously, how can you jack up fries? It takes a special kind of stupid to do that. And I’m not sure how “hand dipped” comes into play with making a milk shake, but that hand must have been dipped in dog s*#t because that’s what your chocolate milk shake tasted like.

And on a side note, though I appreciate the novelty of a tabletop jukebox that only costs five cents, I’d appreciate being able to hear my song at ANY point during the meal. Hell, it can even play while I’m paying for the check. But to not hear it at all is thievery. You stole five cents from me and I didn’t even get to hear “La Bamba”.

I could have gotten crappy food at any of the millions of fast food joints dotted along America’s highways and been happier. I could have bought frozen burgers at the grocery store and been satisfied. I could have gone to 7/11 and nuked a burger in a plastic wrapper and still enjoyed it more. Those burgers don't lie. I know they're crap. You pretend to be something better. You pretend to be something that you're not. And if you claim to have “an all-American look and feel” then why do you serve food that would be outlawed by the Geneva Convention? Do you hate the United States of America that much?

Look, I’m okay with eating junk food as long as it tastes good. I am not okay with eating junk food that tastes like ass. It is a waste of my precious calories. I can’t stand wasting calories on sh#*ty food that pretends to be good. If you had fessed up and admitted, “Who are we kidding? Our food is substandard at best. It’s really on par with Wendy’s or McDonald’s but on the bright side, our décor is really snazzy and we wear paper hats on our head”, then maybe I would have forgiven you. But you didn’t – so F you.

You are no longer Johnny Rockets. I have now re-christened you Johnny Sucksit.

Rot in hell,

Mr. Kirk David Pynchon

PS If this was how food was like in the 1950’s then thank the Lord I wasn’t alive during that decade.

The Burger Fad: The Tramp Stamp of the Culinary World

2011-03-15T07:24:00.000-07:00

The first time I ever witnessed a chick with a tramp stamp I immediately got a boner. The same for when I first saw a high-end burger joint. Now they are everywhere and both fads have left me flaccid (emotionally, I swear, EMOTIONALLY).

Walking down the streets of LA and seeing hip burger joint after hip burger joint is just like waking down the street and every fifty feet seeing a blonde in low cut jeans showing off her lower back tattoo: It’s really hot the first few times but very quickly it becomes annoying and you just want them to get the f*#k out of the way.

Now, I’m not knocking a good burger with fancy ingredients. Hell yes I’ll pay $12.50 for a grass-fed beef patty topped with warm brie, pickled chilies and horseradish mustard on a homemade multi-grain bun. But as you are overcharging me for said meal, don’t think for one godddamn second that what you are serving me is an original creation. I can get the same burger just down the block for the exact same price. So enjoy being just like everybody else.

I actually did a little research (shocking, since usually I just talk out of my ass), and took a gander at the menus of the more popular high-end burger joints in LA:

The Burger Kitchen
The Counter
Umami Burger
Father’s Office
8oz. Burger
Hole in the Wall Burger Joint
25 Degrees
Lucky Devils

All of these places hyped themselves to be “unique” and “original” and yet all of them offered applewood bacon, onion strings and chipotle spread in their options. Now, I have been to some of these places, not all. The ones I’ve been to have been very tasty. The ones I haven’t been to I’m sure are also very tasty. That’s not the point. The point is that, like the tramp stamp, these burger joints are everywhere, essentially offering the same thing. So while it might be cool to look at a menu and declare, “Hey, I can get a pretzel bun,” when you see that same pretzel bun at eight different burger restaurants it becomes…dare I say…lame.

And of course, it’s all about the cache. While enjoying burgers might not be a hip foodie thing to admit to, adding a microbrewery and sweet potato fries certainly can up the cool ante. Because it’s much cooler to say, “Yeah I love burgers, but I won’t go to just any burger joint. I need a lot of creativity, a lot of variety, and I need wacky names. Especially the wacky names. If my burger doesn’t have a wacky name, then I won’t eat it. That’s just how I roll.”*

[*Example: Kuma’s Burgers in Chicago, where the burgers are named after heavy metal bands. Great burgers…stupid idea. Naming them after Prince songs would have been so much cooler. The “Sexy Motherfucker Burger"? Come on!]

Also, some of these burger joints try to be too “jointy”. This whole trying to look like a hole in the wall, trying to look run-down with mismatched chairs and tables, paper towels instead of napkins, album covers on the ceiling and Muddy Waters on the (expensive) sound system is bulls*#t. It is the equivalent of going to New York, New York in Las Vegas and exclaiming, “Man! The Big Apple! If I can make it here I can make it anywhere!” Point of fact: A REAL hole in the wall burger joint does not offer a remoulade sauce. Just sayin’.

And just like the girls with the tramp stamps, burger joints are constantly trying to outdo each other. It’s not just a burger. It’s got to be special. Having just a meat patty on a bun with lettuce, tomato and a pickle is apparently a crime. No, no, no – it’s got to be different. Well, guess what? Everyone trying to be different always comes out to everybody being the same. Yes, a fried egg on a burger is awesome. Really awesome. Really, really f*#king awesome. But that doesn’t make it unique. It’s like having a tattoo of Tweety Bird on your lower back saying, “I thought I saw a puddy tat!” Unique, maybe to you, until you walk by a girl at the mall who has the exact same ink. Then you know what you got? Two girls pissed off with each other and a catfight ensues (which, come to think of it, really isn’t that bad of a thing).

Again I’m not knocking the taste or quality. But when every burger joint does the same “creative topping” of bologna it becomes less “crazy”. It becomes the norm. It becomes the standard. Kinda like tramp stamps. The first girl that put a Chinese symbol on her ass was hot.

The second was just a whore.

Mayonaisse - A Rat Bastard of a Condiment

2011-03-07T09:15:00.000-08:00

“You know what they eat with French Fries?”
“What?”
“Mayonnaise.”
“Ew.”
“I’m telling you man, I seen it. They drown ‘em in that shit.”
-Pulp Fiction

And those 5 lines sum up my opinion of mayo. It’s an unneeded condiment that if overused will make even a hardcore motherf#@ker like Samuel L. Jackson say “ew”.

Mayonnaise is for children – stupid children who don’t know any better. How do I know this? Because I was a stupid kid and I did use to like mayonnaise. I put it on almost everything. I used to take a cold hunk of brisket, dunk it in a jar of Hellman’s and go to town. Then one day, soon after my testicles dropped, I woke up and said in my Peter Brady puberty voice, “Wait a minute. Mayo sucks the big one!”

And just like Mr. Sheen, I cured my addiction to mayo with my mind. Boom! Winning!

I just don’t see the appeal of mayonnaise. I don’t get it. Other than egg salad, where the mayo is used as more of a binder than a flavor enhancer, what purpose does it serve? Does it really make your food taste better? Let me put it this way: You have a gun to your head (obviously the gun is held by me) and you have three seconds to decide whether to put mayo or mustard on your turkey sandwich. 3…2…1…

Mustard, right? You’d choose mustard.*

(*It’s actually a trick question. I would have pulled the trigger on you anyway had you picked mayo over mustard.)

And don’t get all high and mighty and bring out the “aioli card”. Aioli – mayonnaise = the same. Yeah I know aioli doesn’t contain egg like mayo does, but they are both emulsions and both equally pointless. Never have I eaten a meal and thought, “God a nice aioli would capture the flavor essence of my fish right about now.” Let’s be honest, aioli is just a fancy way of saying “flavored mayonnaise” in a way to convince you to pay an extra seventy-five cents for a side of it. It’s just the better-looking brother of mayonnaise who learned how to coordinate his tie with his shoes.

And speaking of flavored mayonnaise let’s talk about one of the worst food abuses ever committed by man. Worse than Taco Bell “meat”. Worse than onion relish. Worse than lavender-flavored candy. I’m talking about…

Dijionnaise.

Dijionnaise sucks and it’s all mayo’s fault. How dare mayonnaise taint the pure, sacred taste of Dijon mustard? How dare mayo not know its place! Dijonnaise, like most Hollywood relationships, is a marriage that never should have happened in the first place. Clearly Dijon mustard was slumming when it hooked up with mayo and now mayo has clung to Dijon like static cling. But hey, when you lie down with dogs you get fleas. Next time, Dijon, don’t be so goddamn horny and jump into the sack with the first mayonnaise you see. If you need some strange, hook up with horseradish.

I really would be okay if mayonnaise disappeared off the face of the Earth. It’s not that it tastes bad. It’s just that with all the other flavors to explore on the food element chart, why go directly to something that tastes like nothing? The use of mayo as a spread, a dip, or as an ingredient to cook with is an insult to all the better tasting food around it. Stay away from the mayo.

You’re better than that.

Hipster Doofus Foodies - The Movie

2011-02-24T17:50:00.000-08:00

These people are everywhere and ruining eating for everyone.

www.xtranormal.com/watch/11204359/?listtype=SERIES

The Fine Art of Waiting

2011-02-15T07:45:00.000-08:00

Waiters should be like girlfriends: There when I need you and then out of my sight the rest of the time (and for those of you offended by the previous statement, feel free to hunt me down and beat me senseless. I deserve it, if not for this sentiment, then for at least countless others). Maybe a better way to explain how a waiter or waitress should perform is to quote one of our national treasures, Mr. Wesley Snipes, as he said to Queen Latifah in Jungle Fever, “You are a waitress. Your job is to wait.”

In the restaurant biz, the old adage of “The customer is always right” is an unfortunate truism. It is actually diametrically opposed to what my manager at a music store I worked at one summer told me, which is, “The customer is full of shit”. This is the same manager who once yelled at a customer complaining about us not buying any of his used CD’s, “Sir, I am an angry black woman and I do not give a f*#k. Get out of my store before I f*#k your sh*t up.” Best boss ever!

The customer is always right because of tips. He or she is in control of a server’s future income. If a server is good, they get money. If they are not, they don’t. It’s a simple, American idea that has not really taken off in, well, any other country on the planet.

Now, though I empathize with waiters, I still am the customer and I am always right. Let me correct myself: I am the ONLY customer and I am the ONLY one who is right. Everyone else but me is a pain in the ass and should have their food spat on.

I am actually a fantastic customer. Other than having my water glass constantly filled, granting me the many substitutions I demand for my meal, double and then triple checking that there are no onions anywhere on my plate, making sure my bill comes within 27 seconds after I request it, laughing at my jokes and complimenting me on my hair, I am really pretty low maintenance. Waiters and waitresses should actually be honored to wait on me.

I would like to think I speak with experience on this topic, as I was a waiter in two different restaurants in my younger days. And if you think I’m going to spout off about how great I was as a waiter, then get ready to have your mind blown because you are sorely mistaken.

I was awful.

I was a crap- ass waiter for these simple reasons:

1) I’m not a people person.

2) I have a short fuse.

3) I sweat a lot.

Put those three things together and you’ve got yourself a nice recipe for making sh*#ty money.

As a waiter or waitress you spend a lot of time in what is called, “being in the weeds”. This means the place is packed, you have too many tables at exactly the same time and you are generally running around acting like a crazy person, just hoping you can get through the next ninety minutes without offing anyone (including yourself). Being in the weeds sucks. It sucks harder if you are like me and have a low tolerance for people bugging you (really, why I ever was a waiter in the first place I’ll never know).

So there was this one time when I was a waiter at a Ruby Tuesday’s in Atlanta and where I was just crotch deep in the weeds. To make matters worse, the kitchen was backed up. Now, I have used the “kitchen is backed up” excuse many times as a waiter to cover my own f*#k ups, but at this particularly time the kitchen was actually backed up and it truly felt as if no food was coming out of it.

So as I ran around the restaurant, apologizing profusely (as well as sweating profusely) and refilling as many drinks and breadbaskets as I could, this one mother of four waved me down.

“Hello? Where is our food? We have been waiting for over a half an hour!”

“Ma’am, I am terribly sorry. The kitchen is backed up. Can I get you a free beverage of your choice?’

‘I don’t want a beverage of my choice! I want my food!”

“I understand that Ma’am. I am very sorry. I will try to get your food to you as soon as possible.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago!”

“ I know. Again, I am very sorry.”

“Your sorry is not getting me my food any faster now is it?”

Now if I was a pro, if I had waiter game, I would have charmed her, made her laugh, offered her a free appetizer the next time she came in, any number of things to defuse the situation.

I of course did none of these things as I was so goddamn pissed off that none of those ideas even popped into my head. Instead I just glared at her, sweat pouring down my face and said,

“What do ya want from me, dude?”

(Yes, I called a mother of four, “dude”.)

“I want my damn food right now!”

“Guess what – that’s not gonna happen.”

“Then I want to speak to a manager!”

“He’ll tell you the exact same thing.”

“I don’t care. I want to speak to the manager right now!”

And my genius reply?

“FINE! YOU GOT IT!!”

So I went and got the manager (who later that month has sex with one of the waitresses on his desk at The Ruby Tuesdays, got her pregnant and left his wife for her – par for the course in the food biz) who came over, said exactly what I said and comped their entire meal…which still came out a half an hour later.

The lady tipped me a dime. I think she meant it to smite me but I was actually pretty happy to even get the ten cents.

I quit about 3 weeks later and never waited tables again. It’s just too hard. There’s plenty of ways to make money and be miserable at the same time. And I shouldn’t have to suffer the humiliation of smelling like food just so I can have the pleasure of somebody not knowing that they should tip me 15%.

So for all you waitresses and waiters out there, I understand your plight. I feel for you. I know what you’re going through. I’ve been there.

No shut the f*#k up and go fetch me my steamed mussels. And this Arnold Palmer has too much lemonade and not enough ice tea. And…

Ice Cream and Cake: A Vote Towards Segregation

2011-02-08T10:17:00.000-08:00

The Worst Thing Ever Uttered About A Beverage

2011-02-01T09:30:00.000-08:00

“Beer makes me feel full.” – Kirk Pynchon

Yeah, I am the ass bag who said the above...out loud...in public. It’s awful and embarrassing but it’s also the truth. Drinking several beers in one sitting just friggin’ kills me. As a straight white male from the Midwest I probably should be drawn and quartered for that, but what can I tell you? That’s what happens to me when I indulge in golden fermented hops.

I like beer. I am a huge fan of Hoegaarden beer and will never turn one down. I enjoy a properly drawn Guiness. I even have an affinity for Miller High Life, merely from the fact that they claim to be “the champagne of beers”. The problem is I only like one beer. ONE beer. And in America, you are not allowed to have ONE beer. It’s unpatriotic and I think in some states it is illegal…Texas comes to mind.

Many a time I will drink one beer and say to myself, “Goddamn that went down nice. I should have another.” Then I will have second – and hate it. It never tastes as good as that first beer. It always seems more bitter, more skunky, warmer and more flat. If I’m at a bar I’ll force it down. If I’m at home – get ready to shoot red hot daggers into my eyeballs – I’ll pour it down the drain. No matter what the brand, where I’m at, what I’m doing or what I’m eating I always regret that second beer.

I wish I could blame this on aging, but I was like this in my twenties, when I should have been at my optimum beer drinking potential. After my second beer I would get tired and full, like I just ate a massive Thanksgiving meal followed by a peanut butter milkshake. So my secret was to switch to downing shots to hide the fact that I was a pussy when I drank beer. I can drink shots like a m-fer. Why? Because they don’t make me feel full. I would much rather knock back a few shots of Jaeger than have to drink four or five Hamms. So when ultimately one of my drunken friends would chastise me for not drinking enough beer (and by chastising I mean yelling loudly, “Drink you douche!”) I would challenge them to pounding the nastiest, cheapest, foulest, rot-gut liquor available. And my drunk-ass friends would either 1) deny the shot 2) do the shot and vomit or 3) do the shot, drink their beer, vomit and then pass out.

Either way my manhood was always protected.

I really can’t think of an instance where I’ve felt that a second anything is too much. Second cookie? Yes. Second oyster? Bring it. Second tumbler of Scotch? Hell yes. Second T-bone steak? I’ll need to make room but I think that can be arranged. But with beer it really is one and done. I’m not proud of that fact but I certainly can’t deny it. I truly wish I could slurp down several Red Stripes in one night but it’s just not in me. Which is a shame because getting drunk is fun.

I don’t mind being sh*tfaced. I just don’t like being bloated.

Competitive Eating

2011-01-25T07:49:00.000-08:00

I’m not talking about seeing who can eat the largest coconut cream pie the fastest or how many perogis a person can eat in one sitting. Please, I’m not some sort of barbarian. No, competitive eating for me is eating at a nice restaurant and knowing that I am the one who has ordered the best dish at the table, if not the entire restaurant.

I love when I order the right food. How do I know when I’ve ordered the right food, you may be asking? Well, I know when my soul tells me.

Okay, not really. I just wanted to sound like a pretentious jag. Actually, I know because I am the judge and jury and I make the rules. You don’t like? Come up with your own competitive eating game (all rights reserved, copyright Kirk Pynchon for Kirk Pynchon Industries of America).

I love when I can’t decide between two entrees but I ultimately choose correctly. Nothing makes me happier than taking a bite out a nice piece of halibut, knowing that by choosing it over the duck confit I have chosen wisely.

I also love it when someone at the table is unhappy with their meal. Sad, but true. Hey, it’s not my fault you chose the glazed pork chops over the oso buco. It’s not my fault you’re stupid. Next time pick a better entrée like I did.

But it’s not like I’ll taunt you if we’re eating together and you choose the wrong meal. I’ll just simply enjoy my meal a little TOO much:

“Oh, man! This lamb shank is fantastic! Really, it’s beautifully prepared. I’m so happy I ordered it. You know, I wasn’t that hungry but now that I’m eating I think I’ll devour the whole thing! Sorry about your chicken. I wish you enjoyed it as much as I’m enjoying the best lamb shank I’ve ever had.”

I just like being right. All the time. And the moments where I can combine my love of being right with my love of food are sheer bliss to me. Throw in some TV and I can die a happy man.

Some of the best moments of my competitive eating fetish are when I go “off the grid” and order one of the specials of the day and it turns out to be one of the greatest things I’ve ever eaten. I once ordered a whole fish in a little restaurant in Rome that was the special of the day and I still get teary-eyed thinking about it. But ordering one of the specials is never an easy decision. It’s hard to stray from the tried and true. And just because the restaurant uses the term “special” doesn’t mean it will automatically taste good. Just like ordering a prostitute in Thailand, it’s always a risk when you order off the menu. But if you choose right, you will be greatly rewarded (unlike the prostitute in Thailand, who will not only give you some sort of disease, but is also probably a dude).

Many times I am actually able to convince myself that I’ve not only ordered the best meal at the table, but I’ve ordered the best meal in the whole entire eating establishment. I can look around a room, scrutinize other people, and come to the conclusion that I have ordered better and therefore I am better:

“Look at these Joe Bag O’ Donuts. They have no clue how to order a meal. Look at this donkey over here who ordered the pasta primavera. Wrong! He should have obviously gone with the Frutti Del Mar. I almost pity him.”

I am able to do this at every restaurant I go to…because I am mental.

Conversely, nothing sticks in my craw more than choosing the wrong meal. It will ruin everything. If I am indecisive about whether to get the medallions of beef or the veal chop and I get the medallions of beef but I don’t like it, then I am despondent, peevish and downright cranky for the entire evening. Hell, even more then the entire evening. I’ll harbor that wrong decision for days to follow. I once wrongly ordered a bouillabaisse that still haunts me to this day.

Stupid f*#king bouillabaisse.

German Food Makes the Best First Impression

2011-01-17T08:40:00.000-08:00

I once spent three days in Munich, Germany, and aside from the group tour I took that stopped at every little place Hitler stood, sat and shat, all I can remember is the food.

My first remembrance: “Hells yeah! I could eat German food forever!”
My second remembrance: “Jesus Christ, I’d give my left nut for just a salad.”

Yeah, it’s no secret that German food is a tad heavy, and by “a tad heavy” I mean after one meal you’re ready for a three-hour nap…followed by eight hours of sleep. It’s not just "stick to your ribs" food – it’s "stick to your ribs, spleen, small intestine and colon" food. But damn does German food taste good! Where else on the planet can you eat nothing but sausages for breakfast, lunch and dinner and not feel guilty about it?

That first day in Munich was a journey through culinary excess that bordered on the stupid. Never has the phrase “shot my wad early” been so an appropriate statement (and please refrain from any coarse or vulgar comments about the above saying – I run a family blog here, goddamit!)

Breakfast was strusel AND strudel, which really are more afternoon snack treats for Germans, but so what? What’s a German going to do? Scold me? We won the war. They didn’t. Granted I didn’t need to follow up a piece of crumb cake with an apple pastry at seven in the morning, but it was either go big or go home. To make up for it I ate some cheese.

Lunch was sausages and spatzel and then more sausage from my wife’s lunch plate. I covered everything with spicy brown mustard and at this point declared myself a German for life, shouting out the one German phrase I learned, “Das und alles und alles!” or “done and done!”

Dinner was at a beer hall with a long wait time, so I killed that time by eating a big ass pretzel and chased it down with a big ass beer. A word on the beer in Germany; it rules. I am not a massive beer drinker but if I lived in Germany I certainly would become one. Their wheat beer is like drinking from a golden spigot that is directly tapped into the heavens where beautiful virgins sing like Anita Baker as they prepare the fermented hops in the nude. What? Too much? Fine, then you go to Germany and try their wheat beer and see if it doesn’t taste exactly like that.

As we sat down for dinner, that’s where my mind truly exploded. More wheat beer, hearty black bread, braised beef, wienerschnitzel and yes, more sausage, this time stolen from my brother’s plate as he went to the bathroom after his fourth pint of beer. My one and only veggie (the only veggie I had in the entire seventy two hours I was in Munich) was sauerkraut and that was by sheer accident as it just so happened to top off my side of fried potatoes covered in melted cheese. I finished off dinner with some black forest cake.

A great food day. Truly memorable.

Then Day Two rolled around.

And I wanted nothing to do with being German.

I turned into your typical Los Angeles food pansy. That is, I turned back into myself. I wanted tofu. I wanted steamed kale. I didn’t want wheat beer. I wanted spa water. Did I have to have more sausage? And if I did, could it be made from turkey? And hey, Germans, ever heard of steamed brown rice? The remaining forty-eight hours in Munich were long and tortuous, filled with me whining.

And that’s the thing about German food. That first impression, that first taste of it, is so kick ass, so filled with awesomeness, that you think you’ll eat that way forever. Then you have it a second time and you just want to run away. It’s like having a great make-out session with a girl at a bar who you think is your soul mate, then you see her the next day and you realize that yes, she is still a fantastic kisser, but she is also bat-shit crazy and will make the next 3 months of your life a living hell.

It’s been almost ten years since that trip and I haven’t had a German meal since.

I think I’m almost ready for one…almost.

I Want Some Whine!

2011-01-10T10:36:00.000-08:00

I know a little bit about wine. Very little. Let’s just say I know what I like (Burgundys and Sirrahs) and what I don’t like (someone putting ice in their white wine – sorry for calling you out, Mom). After that I’m lost and will let someone else with more experience choose. It’s probably one of the few areas of my life where I don’t try to fake the funk.

And I know we all love Paul Giammati’s character, Miles, in “Sideways”. But stop and think for a moment. We like Miles because it’s a movie and because Paul Giamatti is a kick ass actor. If we met Miles in real life we would more than likely force him to drink a bottle of cheap Merlot and then break that bottle over his skull.

Because, let’s face it, in real life wine people are f*#king annoying.

I firmly believe that there should be a federal law that states if you are not a sommelier then it is illegal to talk like one. Failure to abide by this law is punishable by a $500 fine and a kick in the nuts. But hey, that’s me, I’m a liberal.

Unnecessary wine babble sucks the joy of life out of me. I just don’t friggin’ care. Unless the wine is going to break out into some sort of free-form jazz/soul fusion number, I don’t care about its “notes”. And unless the wine is going to wrap itself around me and start grinding on me, I don’t care about its “legs”. All I need to know about the wine are these 3 things:

1) Is this wine similar to other wines I’ve experienced?
2) What food goes well with this wine?
3) Can I afford this wine?*

Any other discourse on wine is like listening to Charlie Brown’s teacher: “Wha Wha Wha Wha Wha.”

[* Yes, wine people are grating on the nerves. But a lot of times they will pay for really great wine if they see it on the list. So if you happen to be out with a wine person and they offer to pay for an expensive bottle, you owe it to yourself to listen to them blather on in return for a taste of the sweet nectar. Just nod your head and think about something pleasant – like how wonderful it would be if this wine person would shut the f*#k up.]

I like to learn about wines. I like to be informed about what I’m drinking. I just don’t want to have to use phrases like, “The Cab has some backbone” or “This Zin certainly is earthy”. And if I ever have to describe a wine as “volatile” I may just have to yank my tongue out with a pair of chopsticks.

And yet, shockingly there is another group that are even more insidious than wine people:

Port people.

Let me say this about port: Overrated. It’s a nasty, sickly sweet, thick wine and everyone treats it like they’re drinking the saliva of Mother Mary. Ease up off the pedal, port lovers. If you want to waste your after-dinner drink on port, go ahead. I will not. Here are my three after-dinner drinks that kick the sh*t out of port:

1) A tumbler of single malt Scotch
2) A mug of hot green tea
3) A glass of chocolate chip cookies

I am also firmly convinced that no one REALLY likes port. They just like the idea of it. It’s like reading Tolstoy. You don’t read Tolstoy because you like it. You read it because you hope someone will notice you and say, “Hey, you’re reading Tolstoy. Impressive!” It’s the same with port. People drink it so someone can notice them and say, “Wow. Port. You must be classy!”

When all is said and done, let us remember why people originally drank wine in the first place – because if they drank the water they would die. So think about that the next time some wine jag talks about how a certain Pinot Grigio is “a sassy feminine wine with a fine clean finish”…

And wish how that person would just drink the water and die.

Foods I Wish I Liked

2011-01-02T19:59:00.000-08:00

I really try to live my life without regret. And with the exception of turning down a bj from a girl who was tripping off shrooms at our high school’s Halloween Bash (she ended up doing it in the locker room with the center of our basketball team – stupid younger Kirk!), I’ve done pretty well.

But there are some foods that I truly regret that I don’t like. These are foods that I respect, have tried repeatedly but for some reason or the other just can’t get into. It truly bothers me and makes me feel ashamed of myself because I really feel that my life would improve drastically if I did like them.

[And no, I am not including onions in this list. Though my life would be easier if I liked them, I find the enjoyment of loathing them far more fulfilling. So f*#k onions.]

Olives – I really wish I could pop olives in my mouth like candy. Unfortunately, those little buggers taste like a bitter nasty salt lick to me. But everyone seems to love olives. I remember as a kid my friend Danny Mills would put black olives on his fingers and cram them into his mouth. That looked like so much fun. I once went to Antwerp and there was a farmer’s market where my friends bought an assortment of fresh olives to have as a part of their breakfast. I felt so left out. And recently my brother has gotten me into gin martinis, but I use a lemon twist instead of the classic green olive. “You’re missing out,” my brother says. “The gin soaked olive is the best part. It’s the whole reason to drink the martini!” Not enjoying olives makes me feel like I’m not living my life to the fullest.

Gravy – What kind, you may ask? All kinds, I say. I dislike any and all styles of gravy. Make it anyway you like, I still won’t put it on food. I don’t like the look, the consistency, or even really the taste. I find it an unnecessary invention – kind of like a Kindle or sweaters for dogs. But whenever Thanksgiving rolls around I feel a little sad that I can’t enjoy in the communal love and respect for giblets and gravy (and honestly, it’s also just really fun to say “giblets and gravy”). As my wife tells me every Turkey Day, “Your dislike of gravy is ruining Thanksgiving for me.”

Coffee – I love everything about coffee but the taste. I love the smell. I love the warmth. I love the appliances. I love the coffeehouses (the more pretentious the better). I even worked at a Starbucks during my twenties (and, in the ugliest of all ironies, you get a free pound of coffee every week when you work there). But, God help me, how I hate the taste. It’s just awful. No matter what I put in it - milk, sugar, flavored syrup, whipped cream – I still can’t cover up that coffee essence. And I want to love java so bad. Coffee is so cool. I want to wake up in the morning and not be able to function unless I pour my first cup of joe. I wish I could walk into a coffeehouse and order a “red eye”. I want to sit around with friends drinking cup after cup of expensive West Ghana Arabica Beans, smoking American Spirits and arguing over Faust. Unfortunately it is not to be. As hard as I try, I just can’t enjoy a cup of coffee. I guess I’m just not cool enough.

Fresh Ginger – I love sushi. It might be my number one top food. Whenever I go out for sushi I purposely starve myself for the entire day so I can shove piece after piece of yellowtail into my gullet. And who ever invented wasabi should be dipped in platinum and placed inside the molars of Kanye West so he can write a song and then Twitter about it. But whenever I eat sushi I always pass my little pile of fresh ginger over to my dining partner. I never touch the stuff. I know it’s supposed to be good for you and intended to cleanse the pallet, but I just can’t eat it (though I was once in Hong Kong and in order to save face with my wife’s uncle I swallowed an entire ginger ball rolled in raw sugar. I still have nightmares.) I want to like it because I firmly believe that ginger goes with the entire sushi experience. But the fact that I don’t makes me believe that I’m eating sushi wrong and that really pisses me off.

Meat Loaf – People are amazed that I don’t like meat loaf. They tell me that they have a recipe for it that will blow me away. I tell them no, I don’t like meat loaf. They tell me that I will like theirs. I tell them thank you, but no, I have never liked meat loaf, and as good as theirs maybe, I still won’t enjoy. Then they ask me why I don’t like meat loaf. I tell them because 1) I don’t find meat in loaf form appealing and 2) I firmly believe that the words “meat” and “loaf” should never go together. This happens every time meat loaf is brought up in a conversation, followed by “Pynchon, you’re just plain weird.” I want to like meat loaf just for the simple fact that if I did then people would leave me the f*#k alone.

Green Beans – The first food I ever learned to hate. As a kid I would bawl my head off about having to eat a green bean. Sure, sometimes they were fake tears, but that didn’t mean I hated green beans any less. Of course, my parents never bought the crying and I still had to eat them, but I hated them so much that I had to take them like a pill. I would literally place the green bean on my tongue, drink a mouthful of milk and swallow the bean whole. I did this up until my teenage years and only stopped as an adult because guess what? I’m an adult and I don’t have to eat a goddamn green bean if I don’t want to (really the only good thing about being a grown-up). So I guess the real reason I wish I liked green beans is because after all these years, the green bean has still defeated me. The green bean has won…and I f*#king hate that almost as much as the bean itself.

I know we all have likes and dislikes and that they tend to run our lives. Personally, I like the smell of my pee after I eat asparagus and yet at the same time I detest every song The Grateful Dead has ever recorded. These two things define me. And I really wish I liked the above foods so they could define me in a different way. Maybe if I did like olives, coffee, ginger, meat loaf or green beans, then maybe I would be a completely different person.

I wouldn’t be as kick ass, but I definitely would be different.

It's Not Binge Eating - It's Christmas!

2010-12-16T18:52:00.000-08:00

I love Christmas. It truly is the most wonderful time of the year. I love Christmas songs (“Christmas in Hollis” by Run DMC is number one, followed closely by any holiday tune that has been bastardized into smooth jazz – yeah, I said it), I love Christmas movies (“Die Hard” is the most emotional holiday movie ever and I still get choked up when Bruce Willis beats the sh*t out of Alexander Godunov) and most importantly, I love Christmas food.

And by “Christmas food” I mean, “Anything that is on a plate and considered edible.”

The holiday season is about one thing: Cramming as much yummy food into your gullet without feeling one iota of shame. Eating – a lot – is the best way to express your love of Christmas. If you wanna feel the warmth and glow of the yuletide season then the easiest way to do that is to eat an entire tray of pigs in a blanket. I firmly believe that the only way to truly celebrate the birth of baby Jesus is by eating a pumpkin log shaped in the likeness of him. But hey, that’s just me - I’ve always been a spiritual guy.

Yes, Christmas is about giving and it’s better to give than to receive and bladdy bladdy blah blah blah with a side of shut up. Deep down we know that ain’t true. Christmas is about receiving – your mouth receiving a forkful of beef tenderloin with horseradish sauce, your taste buds receiving sautéed brussel sprouts and your throat receiving a nice tumbler of twelve year old, single malt Scotch. Call me an old softy, but that is the true meaning of Christmas.

The holiday season should be looked at as a free pass. It’s a license to eat. And you should use it as much as friggin’ possible because come January 1st that license is revoked. So go ahead and go on an eating rampage for the next couple of weeks. Live the dream of eating chocolate pie for breakfast, bacon wrapped shrimp for lunch and chocolate pie stuffed with bacon wrapped shrimp for dinner. There’s no judgment during Christmas – unless of course you’re wearing a ridiculous looking Christmas sweater, in which case let me get my gavel and white wig because you deserve to be judged for that.

Remember this: If Christmas is about denying yourself your favorite food then why is Santa Claus such a fat sack of fat? Huh? And have you ever seen a production of “A Christmas Carol” where Ebenezer Scrooge is a big chub chub? No, you haven’t. Scrooge looks like he wouldn’t know a good meal if it came up and punched him right in his holiday chestnuts. So stop being such a heartless prick, pick up that turkey drumstick, slam it in that bowl of cheese dip and chow down. It’s Christmas, for sh*t’s sake!*

* [Those of you who know me and know my many food rules are probably crying bullsh*t right now, but the Kirk Pynchon Food Rules – patent pending - are always suspended for the holiday trifecta of Chanukah, Christmas and Kwanza.]

So this holiday season spend time with the ones you love: spinach artichoke dip, whole roast chicken, grilled eggplant and a bottle of Shirazz.

Okay, fine, spend it with your family too. See, I’m not such a complete jag, am I?

Happy Holidays!

Episode #9 - Burn, Baby, Burn!

2010-12-13T10:44:00.000-08:00

Chocolate Thunderdome

2010-12-06T10:58:00.000-08:00

So I read recently that a cocoa shortage in Western Africa, combined with an unfair trade practice and a higher than expected demand for dark chocolate has resulted in a perfect storm where there may be a raise in prices for chocolate or maybe even rationing.

No.

F*#k no.

Not on my watch.

I will not pay more for my chocolate jones, nor will I allow my chocolate jones to suffer due to a lack of consumption. Don’t f*#k with my chocolate. I will kill you with a Bic pen.

I know it is rare for me to overreact, so you gotta believe me when I tell you that this is serious. A lack of chocolate, even the threat of a lack of chocolate, is of dire concern to me. And if it is of dire concern to me than it is of dire concern to all of you, as you do not want to see me go postal. To paraphrase the great Bill Bixby in The Incredible Hulk, don’t make me not eat chocolate. You wouldn’t like me when I don’t eat chocolate.

If there is a raise in the price of chocolate, I am stealing it. If there is a rationing, I am hoarding it. I am fully prepared to go all “Mad Max” on anyone who comes between my chocolate and me – all I need is a dune buggy, a sawed-off double barrel shotgun and a mullet.

Go ahead and ration gas – people need to walk more anyway. Go ahead and raise the rates on electricity – people will learn to turn off lamps. Go ahead and tax booze, cigarettes and soda – all three we can do without. But do not, repeat, DO NOT touch my goddamn chocolate. Things will get real ugly, real fast if you do.

Sure, you can say that there are more important things than chocolate. You can say that, but you’d be absolutely 100% f#*king wrong. Go ahead. Get rid of all the chocolate in the world or make it so expensive that only the richest 1% of the population can afford it. See what that gets you. I can tell you what that gets you – people rioting in the streets, fighting over a single piece of Dove Chocolate. A black market where a dark chocolate truffle costs ninety dollars. Men committing murder for a fun-size Krackel. Women selling themselves for a half of a Hershey Bar…a Hershey Bar!

I am not a reactionary. I am not a rebel. But sometimes you need to take a stand. Sometimes you need to speak out. Sometimes you need to rise up from the muck and the mire, grab a spiked baseball bat and walk up to the powers that be and say, “Touch one ounce of my sacred chocolate and you die.”

Now is one of those times.

Thanksgiving Trounces Pynchon In Easy Victory

2010-11-26T07:51:00.000-08:00

Thursday, November 25th - Valencia, aka "Awesometown", CA

In the end, the turkey that got served was a turkey named Kirk Pynchon.

Pynchon's statement that Thanksgiving Dinner "should be very afraid" came back to bite him last night as he was only able to eat ONE plate of food.

You read that right - ONE plate.

"I got full," Pynchon said tersely.

Thanksgiving Dinner demoralized Pynchon, serving him up a heaping spoonful of whoop ass all night long.

"I was really expecting more from him," Thanksgiving Dinner replied after the game. "He was talking a lot of trash and he seemed pretty confident at the beginning, but in the end his mouth was writing a check that his...uh...mouth couldn't cash."

Pynchon played horribly, not only having one plate, but actually leaving remnants of food on said plate.

"At least polish your one plate of food off, man," Thanksgiving Dinner said. "I mean, come on, show some hustle."

"There was lamb. Lamb for Christ's Sake!" continued Thanksgiving Dinner in disbelief. "How can you not have a second serving of lamb? That's just a lack of will to win, really."

Things really got bad in the fourth quarter when Pynchon refused a second glass of a very good Pinot Noir, despite his wife offering to drive home.

[Pynchon's wife refused to comment on last night's performance, only shaking her head and rolling her eyes before she downed her third vodka drink.]

"When I saw that, I knew I had him," said Thanksgiving Dinner. "Saying no to wine and a ride home proves that he didn't come here tonight to compete."

Coaches Theo and Lily Pynchon showed up for post-game comments but only had this to say:

"We are very disappointed in how Pynchon performed last night. We expected better. Now if you will excuse us, we are going to eat some ice cream soup."

Pynchon himself looked solemn at the post-game wrap up, a towel draped over his head and wearing sunglasses.

"I had a plan of attack and I didn't execute that attack. I give credit to Thanksgiving Dinner who played a great and really through me off my game. All I can say was that I am disappointed."

Then he added:

"Do I look fat?"

I Love America - I Hate Thanksgiving Dinner

2010-11-22T07:00:00.000-08:00

Yes, I openly admit that I’m not a big fan of Turkey Day. I know, I know – get your shotgun out, tie me up and put me in unpatriotic jail. Sorry, but it’s just not that special to me. Stuffing is a big giant whatever, mashed potatoes are overrated, cranberry sauce is pointless, gravy bugs me and green bean casserole is a crime against humanity. And sure I love turkey, but come on, I love turkey at least two times a week for lunch (that came out weird but you know what I mean). So aside from the absolutely brilliant invention of pumpkin pie (which I gorge with enough whipped cream on it to choke a donkey) there’s nothing really to pump my nads on our day of giving thanks.

All of that changed when I spent a Thanksgiving with my in-laws.

My wife is Chinese and her family moved to the States from Hong Kong when she was one. Having been American citizens for years, they like to celebrate Thanksgiving with a huge feast, just like any other U.S. family. Unlike many U.S. families, this feast is an awesome display of Chinese cooking at its finest. Here’s what I ate when I had Thanksgiving with them – let the drooling commence:

*Chinese ribs
*Winter melon squash soup
*Potato salad with shrimp and apples
*Whole crab pan-fried with ginger and garlic sauce
*Choy (steamed green veggies) with Oyster sauce
*Steamed abalone
*Beef tongue (Yes, you are reading that correctly. My father-in-law makes it. It's very labor intensive because he has to scrape off all taste buds off of the cow tongue and then braise it for a very long time. It’s like eating amazingly tender filet mignon.)

So you maybe asking yourself, “Hey, what about the turkey? You can’t have Thanksgiving without a turkey, you commie bastard!” Pump your brakes, kid. We did have a turkey. It was an amazing turkey and, in the words of one of my favorite Top Chef contestants, Fabio Viviani, “ its ass was so full of kick!” (God bless you Fabio and your utter lack of comprehending American colloquiums.)

What gave my in-laws’ turkey an ass so full of kick was the stuffing they made to go with it. See, the turkey is not stuffed with the traditional seasoned breadcrumbs. The stuffing is made with sticky rice, taro root and Chinese sausage. Just let that sink in for a moment. Think about how good that sounds than multiply it by how many times I curse in my blogs. It’s that good. I could not stop eating it. It was like crystal meth it was so addictive. I would have sold myself on the street for just one bowl of this stuff – granted I’m a whore to start with but this rice, taro root, Chinese sausage combo was so incredible that it makes me extra whore-y.

It was the first Thanksgiving where I really and truly really enjoyed the food. I ate so much that I actually had to unbutton my pants afterwards because I was so full, a very rare occurrence in my life and yet a nice treat for my grandmother-in-law. I didn’t even care that there was none of my beloved pumpkin pie for dessert, or really any semblance of dessert for that matter (I’m sorry, but all Asian desserts are horrible and should not even be deemed “dessert” – but I will go off on that a later date). But that was okay. I didn’t need any pumpkin pie that Thanksgiving.

I just ate more Chinese stuffing for dessert.

Now there was something to be thankful for.

Things I Consumed in Chicago

2010-11-09T06:35:00.000-08:00

Beef tongue
Shrimp
Pidgeon
Oysters
Fried Chicken
Sushi
Steamed fish
Pho
Gyros
Saganaki
Tofu with eggplant
Brussel sprouts w/chorizo
Pork meatball sandwich w/kimchee
Dumplings
Egg Rolls
Won Ton
Puerto Rican sandwich
Stuffed pizza
Garrett's caramel/cheese popcorn
Chocolate chip banana bread
Beer
Scotch

I can't believe I'm not dead.

Sloppy Joes? More Like Crappy Joes!

2010-11-01T08:48:00.000-07:00

ALL Sloppy Joes suck a big bag of suck.

There are no such things as great Sloppy Joes. There are no such things as good Sloppy Joes. There are no such things as mediocre Sloppy Joes. There are only crappy Sloppy Joes. The next step below that is dog food. Actually, that’s not fair. I shouldn’t dis dog food like that.

Wet ground meat with cooked onions served in a wet sweet tomato sauce on a white hamburger bun. With the exception of “in” “on” and “a”, all of the preceding words in that last sentence induce my gag reflex. And I have a pretty damn good gag reflex. I once had a cyst drained from my ear and I didn’t flinch. So that should give you a sense of my distaste for Joe de Sloppy.

Even as a kid I never liked them. You know when you would go over to a friend’s house for a sleepover and your friend’s Mom would be all, “ We’re having Sloppy Joes tonight! Yummy! What fun!” Well, it was always the exact opposite of yummy. It was like someone tried to make a tomato meat sauce but cooked it for too long, panicked, threw a cup of water into the pan, panicked some more, dumped a bunch of sugar in it and then hastily threw it on a cold hamburger bun they had lying around in the hopes that no one would know that they couldn’t cook for s*#t.

And where is this purported sense of fun coming from when someone says they’re making Sloppy Joes? Why is it fun? Because it’s sloppy? When is sloppy fun? Look, I maybe an anal retentive, obsessive-compulsive neat freak, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know fun. I was once beaten up by a stripper. I know fun. And eating Sloppy Joes ain’t fun.

I even hate that the word “sloppy” is used in the name Sloppy Joe. And though I have met several Joes in my life and they are all quite pleasant, giving this inedible dish an All-American name doesn’t change the fact that it tastes like ass. In fact, Sloppy is actually too classy of a word for a Sloppy Joe. I would go so far as to say that Sloppy Joes aren’t so much “sloppy” as they are “soggy” or “mushy” or “squashy” or, even better, “a close cousin of diarrhea”. Think I’m being too harsh? Just look at a half-eaten Sloppy Joe left on a plate and see if I’m not preaching the gospel.

And don’t get me started on a Manwich. Contrary to their slogan, a Manwich is not a meal – unless you consider barf a meal. And the fact that they bastardize that sacred word “sandwich” is enough of a crime that the execs at ConAgra Foods should be drawn and quartered. To add insult to injury, they have gone and invented CANNED Sloppy Joe. Come on! Really? Really?! That’s what you have decided to eat for dinner? That’s the best you can do? Eating a Manwich is the equivalent of not bathing and walking around in public in your pajamas. You have truly given up on life. Anyone too goddamn lazy to make an actual Sloppy Joe should be strapped into a chair and made to eat…well…a Manwich, I guess.

I really can’t think of a worse punishment.

Episode #8 - Who Put The Muffin In The Bagel?

2010-10-18T11:13:00.000-07:00

Namaste, Bitches!

2010-10-10T14:51:00.000-07:00

So the other night I made a sweet potato and black bean salad for dinner. I got the recipe from a Buddhist magazine.

Shut up. Stop laughing. Let me explain.

I bought the magazine because I needed something to read for an airplane trip and I thought it would be nice to read something a little different for a change (I won't buy Sports Illustrated until basketball season starts and as much as I want to, I'm way too old to keep buying Vibe). And besides, Jeff Bridges was on the cover. Come on, The Dude!

And the magazine was actually very informative. I learned some things about being present and open. It got me thinking; I could use a little Buddhism in my life. And what better way to start than with food?

So as I was making this vegan Buddhist dish, I started to feel pretty good about myself. I was really making an attempt at changing my ever active and yeah, I'll say it, angry mind. I was changing for the better. This was my first small step towards Buddhism and it felt good.

Then I realized that eating a sweet potato with a black bean salad on top of it was not enough food. So I grilled a steak.

Rare.

Then I chased it all down with two glasses of Bordeaux...followed by a large slice of coconut cake.

This Buddhism sh*t is f*#king great.

Like Revenge...Leftovers Are A Dish Best Served Cold

2010-10-04T08:52:00.000-07:00

Stop Eating Fondue With Irony!

2010-09-27T08:32:00.000-07:00

It’s not meant to be funny. It’s f*#king great and deserves respect. Fondue is not meant to be enjoyed with irony, sarcasm nor derision. It is meant to be enjoyed with the utmost sincerity. It should be eaten from your heart, not your mouth. And if you don’t know how to eat from your heart then I guess you just don’t have one…jagoff.

Here is how you can tell if you are eating fondue with respect. If each time you dip a piece of bread into the cheese and you look into the fondue pot and exclaim, “Goddamn! This cheese fondue is never going to end!" – Then you are giving this dish it’s due. If however, you are ironically at a “fondue” party, are ironically “drinking” blush wine, are ironically “listening” to Chuck Mangione (finest smooth jazz fluglehorn player ever), and, worst of all, you’re wearing some sort of stupid f*#king hipster fedora – then you are mocking the fondue and you should be stabbed in the chest with a fondue fork for disrespecting it as such.

Though I enjoy meat fondue (For Christ’s sake it’s raw meat boiling in oil!) and chocolate fondue (A giant pot of warm chocolate? Where are my goggles cause I’m going swimming!), it’s the cheese fondue that’s really the bomb. There’s something very,very comforting about dipping crusty bread in hot cheese that has been laced with beer or white wine. Wait. Did I say comforting? I meant orgasmic. Sorry, I always get those two words confused…sort of like stalactite and stalagmite.

And here’s why cheese fondue gets mad props; it can even make stale bread taste good. For those fondue newbies, stale bread is the best for dipping into warm gooey cheese. Oddly enough, fresh bread can’t cut it. Try it and see the difference. So any food that can make stale bread an important part of the meal deserves your love and adoration.

My first experience with fondue took place when I was nine and my parents took me to a restaurant called La Fondue - smack dab in the middle of a suburban strip mall outside of Cleveland (A year earlier it had been a crepe place called “The Saucy Crepe”, which just might be the greatest, unintentionally funny name for a restaurant since the concept of a restaurant was invented). I’m pretty sure because it was a fondue restaurant that my mom made me get dressed up, which meant I got to rock my dark brown corduroy jacket and my striped knit tie. So you know I was looking good! And here are the two main things I remember from that night:

1) Taking a sharp prong, stabbing a food item, jamming it into another food item and then cramming it into my mouth was an ideal way for a spastic kid like me to spend an evening.

2) For some reason there was a chalkboard in the men’s bathroom. I would run in there every couple of minutes or so and draw pictures of boobs.

So you can see the importance of this dish in my life.

What I liked then about fondue, and still like about it today, is that it seems to combine all that is great about eating food: communal sharing, active participation, sensuality, fun and of course, gooiness…always the gooiness. And I get that people like to lump fondue in with all things silly and ridiculous about the 70’s. I mean, how could you not mock a time when a thick red shag carpet on the floor of a van was considered hip? But it’s not fair that fondue has to suffer from collateral damage. It has aged nicely over the years and can stand on it’s own as a great meal.

And trust me, 25 years from now a future generation will openly mock us for eating foam. They too will eat it with a sense of sarcasm and irony. The only difference is that they will be right.

Episode #6 - The Importance of Being Dessert

2010-09-20T09:37:00.000-07:00

The Night A Lobster Bitch Slapped Me

2010-09-13T08:23:00.000-07:00

I just drove to the San Gabriel Valley to eat Chinese seafood. There really is no other reason to drive to the San Gabriel Valley other than to eat Chinese seafood. The restaurant was called Newport Seafood. Yeah, not a really catchy name I know, but this place had the best goddamn lobster I’ve ever eaten. How good? So good that the lobster treated me like a punk in prison and I didn’t even object.

The lobster dish was called Newport Special Lobster.

“Why are you called that?” I asked.

“None of your f*#king business, bitch, just order me up,” the lobster replied.

“Well, what are your ingredients that make you so special?”

“My special ingredients are my foot in your ass.”

“I noticed that your cost is listed as ‘seasonal price’. What does that mean?”

“It means that I cost what I motherf*#cking cost, fool! Now order my ass up!” the lobster yelled.

The Newport Special Lobster arrived at the table. It was a huge order of lobster, literally a mound of it placed on a huge platter.

“Good lord!” I exclaimed. “ This lobster is huge!”

“Hells yeah!” The lobster shouted. “That’s how I motherf*#king roll!”

“I thought I ordered a small?”

“You did, bitch!” The lobster said. “I am a small lobster. Damn, homey, thought you knew!”

“There’s no way I can eat all of this.”

“Wah, wah wah. Shut up with your punk ass whining. Eat me, mofo.”

I started eating the Newport Special Lobster. The Lobster started taunting me.

“Yeah, you like that s#*t, don’t you, mofo? Yeah, you can’t get stop eating can you?”

“It’s so good!”

“F#*k yeah, I’m good.” The lobster screamed. “I’m a f*#king Newport Special f#*king Lobster. I’m the s*#t. King Kong got nothing on me! Recognize!”

“Ever piece has so much meat.”

“This ain’t no bulls#*t Red Lobster you’re in. I don’t play that s*#t.”

“I can’t figure out how the lobster is prepared.”

“Goddamn, you a talky motherf*#ker! Fine. I’m flash fried in a special coating that your ass will never figure out. Then I’m stir fried like a motherf#*ker in garlic. Happy?”

“I can’t wait to write about this on my blog!”

“Hooray for f*#king you. I’m sure you’ll make all seven of your fans crap their pants. Now shut your piehole before I shut it for you.”

I ate in silence until I could eat no more.

“What the f*#k, man?” The lobster said. “Why the s#*t you stop eating?”

“I’m so full.”

“So? Lift up your skirt, man up and finish eating me.”

“I can’t.”

“Ain’t no half steppin’ up in this bitch. Eat me.”

“No.”

“What?” The lobster growled. “Mofo, you don’t say no to me. No one says no to Newport Special Lobster. I will give you the back of my claw. I will beat you with my dead lobster tail. I will grab those chopsticks and shove them so far up your ass you’ll wish you had gone to Panda Express! Now finish my s*#t!”

With tears in my eyes, I finished the rest of the Newport Special Lobster. I went home and lied on the couch in a complete food coma and at the same time utterly thrilled that a shellfish would treat me in such a way.

[Author’s note: If any of you were offended by the language in this piece, blame the lobster, not me. I only transcribed exactly what it said.]

Ketchup - Stop The Madness!

2010-08-30T10:12:00.000-07:00

Can we all just chill the hell out on our overuse of this vastly overrated condiment? Please? It is just stomped-on tomatoes – not a cure for cancer. Sorry, ketchup* will not solve your problems…unless your problem is that you don’t like food.

[*Yes, this is how I spell the condiment. K-E-T-C-H-U-P. Not catsup. That just looks stupid, and since ketchup is already in the doghouse with me, I might as well throw it a bone and spell it in a classier way.]

People treat ketchup like it’s the more flavorful version of the second coming of Christ. They have to put it on everything and in copious amounts. Whenever I see someone dump a bottle of Heinz all over their plate I am constantly reminded of an old public service announcement that played during Saturday morning cartoons when I was a kid:

“I’m Louis the lifeguard and happy to say/I rescued a drowning potato today/They drowned it in sour cream/ Oh what a shame/ Cause food’s so much better when it’s practically plain/So don’t drowned your food!”

That’s exactly what people do with ketchup. They drown their food in that red stuff. It’s like they are the mob, their food is the dirty rat who dimed on them and the ketchup is a pair of cement shoes.

Now, ketchup doesn’t suck. It’s fine if you’re a child or if your ability to taste was ruined in a horrible car accident. We just don’t need it ALL THE TIME. I swear to God, I once saw a dude put ketchup on his steak. I cried, screamed, crapped my pants and vomited in my mouth all at the same time.

There is a concept out there called “alternatives”. Ever heard of them? No? Well let me hold your hand and guide you through the process. Here are other condiments you can use besides ketchup that are way better because…well…they’re not ketchup:

On fries – Malt Vinegar
On burgers – Teriyaki Glaze
On onion rings – Bleu Cheese
On a hot dog – Brown Mustard (I think Anthony Bourdain said it best when he so eloquently stated, “If you put ketchup on a hot dog I will f*#king kill you.”)

Some of you might be thinking, “Well Mr. Smarty Pants Who Has Flan Issues, what about gourmet ketchup? Huh? Something like a spicy ketchup, a garlic ketchup or maybe even a lime ketchup? Are those suitable alternatives to regular old ketchup?”

Hmm, good question.

NO.

Why? Cause it’s still goddamn ketchup and you’re still going to douse your food with it. And, knowing you, because it’s gourmet you’ll probably put it on everything you eat from now on and exclaim, “Golly, this bourbon-infused, apple ketchup is a revelation. I shall now eat it with my Ruffles. I love being a foodie!” Look into your heart. You know you will.

I wish ketchup no ill will. And for those of you who are ketchup followers – Godspeed. I would just like for all of us as a people to come together and agree that as a condiment, it’s really pretty average. It’s not even really needed in our culinary geography. So let’s just take a deep breath, take one step back, put down the bottle of “cat soup” and think about if it’s something we really need to put on our cuisine.

Unlike yellow mustard, which is vital to us as living breathing organisms.

Flan Episode #5 - Food So Good You Wanna Punch a Wall

2010-08-23T12:40:00.000-07:00

Free Food Has No Calories

2010-08-17T09:38:00.000-07:00

It is a stone cold scientific fact that free food has no calories. It also has no sugar, fat nor added salt. A gift of a hunk of salami the size of a baby’s head smothered in gorgonzola is the calorie equivalent of a glass of ice water. Why? Because it’s f*#king FREE, that’s why!

It is so rare that we get to eat free in this world. Everything costs. Even in a stable economic environment…I’ll pause a moment for the bitter laughter to cease… eating free is always preferable. So when you get the chance for a free meal, a free snack or a free drink, then you sure as sh*t better take advantage of it. The mere fact that it is free immediately eliminates any health concerns associated with said food. Even if you aren’t hungry, even if you don’t want it, even if you don’t like it you still should take it. Free is free.

What are you, some sort of big shot? You too good to take free food? You got too much money? Go ahead, grab a donut. In fact, grab two. In fact, take a glazed donut and put it between two cake donuts and make a donut sandwich. It’s all good. It’s free. And because it’s free it automatically becomes healthy.

Now just beware, if you paid for that donut, whether it be monetarily, bartering or sexual favors, then it immediately becomes junk food and you become an immediate dumb ass for buying it. Any food bought in some fashion has calories. It only becomes healthy when it’s free with no strings attached. That’s just how the system works. I don’t make the rules – I just enforce them.

And if the free food you are being offered is actually healthy food, hell, then you’re in the bonus round, baby! I was once made a dinner of steamed kale, grilled talapia and whole wheat quinoa. It didn’t cost me a thing and the fact that it was a healthy meal AND free made it doubly healthy. I celebrated by eating an ice cream drumstick and a piece of red velvet cake. My caloric intake that night?

0.0

I am convinced that we could solve the obesity epidemic in America if we just offered free food. We wouldn’t even have to change anything. People could still eat their usual crappy, high fat, high salt, high caloric food on a daily basis and still remain fit. Think about it: The government could feed us a free breakfast of bacon wrapped sausage, followed by a free lunch of fatty corned beef and gravy fries, and top it off with a free dinner of fried chicken smothered in more fried chicken. And because it was free, we’d have no health problems. We would be the fittest nation in the free world!

Hey, you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.

Food Vengance Is Mine!!!

2010-08-09T10:19:00.000-07:00

There is nothing sweeter than the taste of revenge. Oh wait, there is.

FOOD REVENGE.

In my early twenties I lived in Chicago with my high school buddy, Beav (yes that is his actual nickname and has been for many, many years). It was the summer and, as is the norm for all Chicago summers, it was butt ass hot. The kinda hot where you go outside and exclaim, “What the sh*t!? This is a joke right? Someone is messing with me. There’s no way in hell it can be this goddamn hot!” One evening with nothing to do and not wanting to stay inside our swamp-like basement apartment we decided to walk to Baskin Robbins and get some ice cream.

And that’s how we fell in love.

Okay, not really. I was just seeing if you were paying attention. Besides, Beav and I have loved each other for years – just ask our wives.

Anyway, we got to Baskin Robbins and evidently everyone else in the City With Big Shoulders had the same idea because the place was f-ing packed. Getting an ice cream cone that night was more important than getting a lifeboat on the Titanic. We waited for an eternity just to get to the counter, which did nothing to improve my already cranky pants mood.

So at the counter, Beav orders a scoop of chocolate on a plain cone.

“Really, dude?’ I said. “That’s what you’re getting? Chocolate in a plain cone? What are you, a child?”

“Shut up!” Beav protested. “I like chocolate.”

I shook my head in disgust and ordered…a Jamoca malt.

Yeah, that’s how I roll.

So Beav immediately got his chocolate ice cream cone as I waited for my Jamoca malt.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

For some reason the store clerks weren’t making my Jamoca malt. Why? Because they were idiots and didn’t know how to operate the milkshake machine. It took two of them to figure out how to use it. And as they made my Jamoca malt, I noticed that they didn’t put any malt in it, which is really sort of important when making a Jamoca MALT.

“Excuse me, but you didn’t put any malt in there,” I said.

“What do you mean?” replied the store clerk.

“I asked for a Jamoca malt.”

“That’s what I’m making. A Jamoca milkshake.”

“Yeah, but I want a Jamoca malt.”

“Same thing.”

“No, no it’s not. A Jamoca malt has malt in it.”

The store clerk just stared at me with dead eyes.

“Malt?” I said. “It’s probably in that container next to the shake machine?”

The store clerk looked in the container, witnessed the malt and began dumping scoopfuls into the already blended Jamoca ice cream.

Imagine smoke coming out of my ears.

“No, no no! You can’t just put the malt on top! It’s got to be blended in with the ice cream!”

Again – more dead eyes.

“So you want me to redo it?” The store clerk asked.

“Yes! Please!”

The store clerk sighed like I just stomped on her hamster and reluctantly started over.

Meanwhile, Beav is standing next to me licking his dumb ass chocolate ice cream cone with a dumb ass smile on his face.

So after some more waiting with customers behind me grumbling (F them- I wanted my ice cream treat prepared properly), I finally got my Jamoca malt.

Except that it was now like Jamoca milk! The store clerk had blended it so long that it was now a liquid. And it was also goddamn warm.

Imagine smoke now coming out of my nostrils.

“Excuse me, this isn’t what I ordered!”

“You ordered a Jamoca malt.”

I yanked out the straw and ripped off the top.

“Look at that!” I yelled. “Does that look like an ice cream malt? No, it looks like milk. And it’s warm! You just gave me warm milk on the hottest day of the year! Do you know that?!’

Store clerk: “I don’t know.”

‘You know, what?” I said, “This is ridiculous. Give me my money back."

With utter indifference the store clerk handed me my money back.

I turned around to the rest of the customers and said:

This Baskin Robbins is bullsh#t! I am officially boycotting this place and I will never come here again!” *

(* I did boycott that Baskin Robbins and have not been back since. I have a long and illustrious career of boycotting establishments. I once boycotted a Gloria Jeans Coffee Shop for their crappy customer service and a year later it turned into a key duplicating store. That was all because of me.)

I walked out of the ice cream store just fuming. It didn’t help that Beav was following right behind me, laughing at me and enjoying his chocolate ice cream cone. He taunted me the whole walk home.

“I don’t know why you’re so mad. I’m doing great. This chocolate ice cream cone kicks ass!”

Now imagine not smoke coming out of my ears and nose, but pure blood.

“Dude,” Beav said, “You should have just gotten an ice cream cone like me. You want some? You can have a taste if you…”

And with that Beav tripped and dropped his entire chocolate ice cream cone on the ground.

The skies parted and the rays of holy light shone down on my face. I was that happy.

I ran over to be and got right in his face.

“Yeah!! F#*k you! That’s what you get motherf#*ker! How’s that ice cream cone taste now! Huh? HUH!?”

And just for good measure I stomped all over it, leaving a chocolately, coney mess all over the street.

“I win! You lose!” I yelled. And then I ran the rest of the way home with a huge smile on my face.

It was better than actually getting my Jamoca malt.

Table Manners 101*

2010-08-02T09:43:00.000-07:00

I’m going to take a moment to shift away from food talk to discuss the topic of table manners. Wait, that is incorrect and I owe you an apology. I don’t want to discuss table manners. I want to bitch about people who don’t have them. Sorry for the confusion.

Now if you are under the age of five and are reading this, I am giving you a pass (I am also applauding your ability to read and surf the Internet). Everyone else, you are on the list. If you don’t have table manners, if you don’t want to learn them, then never eat in public again. That seems totally fair.

I am also giving a pass to burping. In many cultures it is considered totally acceptable. It is a compliment to the cook. My wife’s grandmother is a tiny Chinese woman, yet she burps like a 300-pound trucker. It’s just her way of saying how wonderful the lobster in black bean sauce tastes. Plus it’s just funny as hell.

Here is a list of unacceptable eating habits. Unfortunately, it is only a partial list. If it were my full list of eating no no’s, I would need to add a second blog entitled, “I Wish I Liked Flan Pt. II; Stop Eating Like A Dumb Ass”. Nevertheless, here we go:

Elbows on the table – We’re not in prison. I’m not going to shank you and steal your cappellini. Sit back, relax and chill the hell out.

No napkin in your lap – Don’t we all know that your napkin belongs in your lap? Haven’t we all watched a romantic comedy where the man or woman stands up in a huff, removes his or her napkin from his or her lap and then throws it on the table? That’s not the screenwriter taking creative license. That’s not made up. People actually put napkins in their laps. It prevents food from falling on to your clothes. So go ahead and pretend to be Kate Hudson or Mathew McConaughey and put your goddamn napkin in your goddamn lap.

Not wiping your mouth before drinking – Few things are worse than seeing little bits of food in someone’s water glass. Hydration is important, but so is me not yakking on your food because I see little bits of meatloaf in your Poland Springs.

Smacking your lips – Next to listening to Maroon 5, the most annoying sound ever. I get that you enjoy your food. I applaud you for enjoying your food. Now do me a kindness and stop with the saliva smacking lip movement. I would have more respect for you if you just yelled out in the middle of enjoying your meal, “Pardon me while I pull down my pants and bang this veal cutlet!”

Manhandling the bread in the breadbasket - What did that poor sourdough baguette ever do to you that you feel to need to strangle it with two hands? Trust me, I appreciate anger but, Jesus, ease up a bit! There’s no need to go postal over the bread in the breadbasket. Tear off one piece and be done with it.

Shoving massive pieces of food into your mouth – If I challenge you to cram an entire waffle in your mouth, then by all means cram away. I might actually do that (I have in the past). Until I offer up that challenge, try smaller bites. It makes food taste better, last longer, and, hey, you don’t look like a jackass when you eat!

Scraping your teeth on your fork – This is the equivalent of waterboarding me. I would actually prefer the waterboarding, because then at least I wouldn’t have to see and hear metal scraping your bicuspids.

Talking with your mouth full – Unless my hair is on fire or Jennifer Beals is behind me making obscene finger gestures, shut the hell up. Nothing is that important that it can’t wait until you finish your salmon patty.

The inability to properly use a knife and fork – How the f*#k do you not know how to cut your food? Were you raised by wildebeests in the deep, green forests of Scotland? I bet you you weren’t. So stop being a nob and learn how to properly hold a knife and fork. It’s not hard. My three-year-old daughter can do it and she thinks we own a cat when we don’t.

Again, this is a partial list. I could go on and on. But if you are confused, here is the most important rule to remember about table manners:

Have them.

[*A very special thanks to Ms. Molly Brennan for the idea for this piece. Molly is a ridiculously talented Chicago actor and an all around awesome person. And I’m not just saying that because we used to make out in college.]

Best. Corndog. Ever.

2010-07-26T11:19:00.000-07:00

That would be at Disneyland in Anaheim, California. Don’t bother eating any other food there because it is all crappy tasting crap created by crappy crap cooks in a land called Crap. They could f*#k up a Pop Tart. But the corndog makes up for it.

The Disneyland corndog actually tastes like someone paid attention to making it. Each one is made to order. It is heavily battered but not soggy with a nice crispiness on the outside. And, shock of shocks, the corn part actually tastes corny! The hot dog portion is fine. It’s really just the transport system for the delicious batter so it gets kudos for not jacking everything up.

I slather mine in copious amounts of yellow mustard and as much as I love spicy mustard, even if Disneyland had it, I wouldn’t use it. It just wouldn’t go. It would be like doing The Running Man to "Smells Like Teen Spirit”; sure you can do it, sure it will match the rhythm, but ultimately it’s just f*#king stupid. I don’t use ketchup because ketchup blows (and I will save my dissertation on the unnecessary need of ketchup, entitled “Everyone Chill on the Goddamn Ketchup”, for a later date).

I am convinced there are no other better tasting corndogs in the world - assuming that other countries also indulge in a deep fried, battered, encased meat product. Hot Dog on a Stick is exceedingly average, a soggy listless consumption, and now that I am forty I get uncomfortable giving my order of a corndog to a high school girl. Corndogs at sporting events or carnivals always seem like a good idea, until you pay seven dollars for one that is either ice cold or rips open the roof of your mouth due to the scalding heat. And microwave corndogs are a joke pasted on an abomination.

The Disneyland corndogs can be located at a red truck (that wisely only serves corndogs) just past Main Street on the right hand side. Be prepared to wait because the line is usually long as it is no secret that these Disneyland corndogs are the greatest achievement of Mr. Walt Disney, with the exception of freezing himself. To beat the crowds I prefer to get one when I first arrive at the park. I actually ate one for breakfast with absolutely no guilt…well, maybe a little, but I just washed that guilt down with a chocolate chip muffin.

Enjoy your time at Disneyland. It really is the happiest place on earth…mostly because of that goddamn corndog.

Episode #4 - Onions and Ranch Dressing - Foods of the Devil

2010-07-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

http://box.net/files#/files/0/f/37960330/I_Wish_I_Liked_Flan

Fake Ass Foodies

2010-07-12T11:34:00.000-07:00

“I’m really into artesianal cooking.”
“I like bold fresh flavors.”
“I cook with simple ingredients but in a really dramatic way.”
“I have to cook seasonal. I just have to.”
“I like complex, layered flavors that compliment many different textures.”

Blah blah blah blah blah.

Here’s what I like –my food to taste good so I enjoy it and my food cooked through so I don’t die from salmonella. That’s it. End of f*#king story.

Too many people talk like chefs these days. The reason? Too many chefs on too many TV shows talking way too much out of their collective asses. Chefs on TV love to sound smart when they talk about food. Even Adam Richman, host of “Man Vs. Food”, talks culinary smack and he’s not even a chef! Every time he stops eating to describe how his food has “really pronounced flavors” and has “a very subtle smokiness” I want to grab him by his jowls and say, “Shut up, dillhole. You are eating a nine-pound cheeseburger. I don’t care about its flavor profile. I just wanna see you cram that monstrosity down your gullet without blowing chunks afterwards.”

And because people love to copy what they see on TV, people start biting these phrases from these chefs…and sounding like idiots*:

“I love the umami of this. It also has an underlying earthiness that I really appreciate. All of the flavors blend effortlessly. This dish is really, really balanced.”

That after taking a bite of Beefaroni.

(*FYI – I too am guilty of biting phrases from TV as well, but I only copy the cool phrases, like “Don’t be ridiculous” from Perfect Strangers.)

Can’t food just taste “good”? Can’t we just use that adjective? How about “tasty”? That’s a good adjective, too. I don’t need to hear you blather on about the “notes” in a Waldorf Salad – just tell me if tastes good or not.

I also can’t stand it when these fake ass foodies spout off on the brilliance of a restaurant that is so obviously sh#t sandwich.

“Yeah, I know of this little out of the way Italian Bistro. It’s wonderful. It’s called Olive Garden. If you go there, talk the assistant manager, his name is Steve, he know me. Mention my name and he’ll hook you up with all the salad and breadsticks you can eat!”

So stop talking about “flavor profiles”. Enough of your “big flavors”. Quit with the “flavor weapons”. I got your flavor weapon…right in my pants…and it doesn’t taste like chicken.

Eat this!!

2010-07-05T14:58:00.001-07:00

From my brother-in-law B (a fellow foodie and possible Communist) at a great Chinese restaurant in Chicago's Chinatown called Lee Wing Wah (http://www.leewingwah-chicago-chinese.com). How goddamn good does that pigeon look? The pigeon in front is posing, GQ style,with a look that says, "Yeah, I'm money, what of it?" And the pigeon in back looks like it's just happy to be there, saying, "Hey, who wants to shove me in their mouths? If I could I would!"

I get a food boner just looking at this.

FYI, behind the plate of pigeon is sweet and sour pork, Chinese style. And if you're saying to yourself, "Golly, that looks just like what I get at Panda Express!", then you are a dumb ass who doesn't deserve to look at this picture. Look away. I said, look away!!!

Flan Episode #3 - Brunch Sucks

2010-06-28T11:11:00.000-07:00

http://box.net/files#/files/0/f/37960330/I_Wish_I_Liked_Flan

Energy Drinks: Are You Really That Exhausted?

2010-06-21T14:06:00.000-07:00

Energy drinks are the jivest things on Earth. Just drinking one of them automatically suggests you are weak. Because you are basically telling everyone in the world, “Life is too hard for me. I just can’t make it through a day without feeling sleepy. So because I need help, I’ve decided to drink two or three cans of a fruity, carbonated beverage every day.” I mean come on, seriously, is your life so goddamn tiring that you need to drink a 20 oz. Monster just so you can function as a normal human being? Really?

Now, I’m not saying that these energy drinks don’t work. They do, sometimes all too well. There is truth to the advertising of energy drinks. I once drank a can of Rock Star and had to snort some blow just to level off. I’m not arguing their effectiveness. I’m arguing that drinking them all the time makes you an addict. And if you’re going to be addicted to something, you might as well be addicted to something cool…like Oreos.

There’s nothing worse than seeing some Joe Bag O’Donuts drinking an energy drink with their food. Why the f*#k are you drinking a can of Crunk Citrus with your linguini and clam sauce? First of all, by drinking it, you are completely ruining the taste of your food. You might as well coat your mouth with Vaseline before you eat. Secondly, do you really need an energy drink with your lunch or dinner? Is the process of consuming and digesting your food so exhausting that you need extra help by drinking a Full Throttle?

Parts of the problem with energy drinks are the names. These companies try so hard to be “cutting edge” and “in your face” with their brands - “Amp”, “Rage”, “Wired”, “Edge”, “Steven Seagal’s Lightning Bolt” (okay, this one sounds cool and I would drink it regularly out of sheer admiration for Mr. Seagal’s work in “Above the Law”). I get it. Your beverage is hardcore. Good for you. Why not tell the truth and call your energy drink, “Sh*#ty Tasting Beverage For Assholes To Hype Them Up And Make Them Even More Of An Asshole”.

Because here’s the thing: being tired is a part of life. It’s called being an adult. Life only gets harder as you get older, and no amount of Red Bull is going to make it any better. And the last thing you want is to be in your thirties, running around all jacked up on Vamp NRG. That’s just sad.

So the next time you find that living on this planet is too taxing for you, do what real men do...

...drink black coffee.*

* I don't like coffee. But that's for another time.

Flan Episode #2 - Death to Non-Foodies

2010-06-15T11:16:00.000-07:00

http://box.net/files#/files/0/f/37960330/I_Wish_I_Liked_Flan

Spam I Am

2010-06-07T07:30:00.000-07:00

Chopped pork shoulder meat with ham meat added, salt, water, modified potato starch as a binder, and sodium nitrite to help keep its color.

Those are the official ingredients in Spam (At least I think so. I was too lazy to read the Spam tin so I just looked it up on Wikipedia. But why would they lie?)

And I gotta say, Spam doesn’t suck. There is a certain salt-lick-of-deliciousness to it. And it doesn’t intrude on the flavor of any other food that it happens to be with.There’s nothing wrong with salty meat products in moderation. And it is fun saying the word “Spam”, almost as much as saying “salty meat products”. It’s not something I particularly crave, but I’m certainly not going to shun Spam like those filthy, evil, rat bastard onions that I hate so much. Yeah, I’m looking at you scallions!

I never had Spam in my life until I got married. My wife is Chinese and for some reason Spam is very popular in Asian cuisine (when I asked her why my wife said she had no clue but, just like Wikipedia, I’ll trust her. I mean, why would she lie?) She puts it in her Chinese fried rice and it works pretty goddamn well. And at a Hawaiian restaurant nearby we usually order Spam Masubi with our entrée. What is Spam Masubi? Well, take a nice piece of Unagi sushi, remove that piece of eel and replace it with a slab of Spam. Done. There’s your Spam Masubi and, again, it doesn’t suck.

My biggest problem with Spam is that it’s just not that healthy for you. Wait, let me rephrase that: It’s not REMOTELY healthy for you. Sure, the good people of Hormel have come out with “healthy” alternatives like Spam Lite or Turkey Spam, but that just seems stupid. Why bother? Using Spam Lite is like paying for a hooker but only dry humping her leg. Sure you can do that, but if your gonna spend the money why not make it worth your while, right? I mean…so I am told.

And despite its lack of nutritional value and despite it being the butt of many a joke, Spam is kinda hardcore. You sort of know what it is but you really don’t. It’s sort of mysterious and few people eat it. You don’t F with Spam. I had a girlfriend in college whose dad threw Spam into a bowl with a can of lima beans and ate that with a side of Saltines and a cold Red White and Blue beer.

I would consume none of those things I just mentioned but I defy you to find a more bad-ass mother-f*#king dinner than that. And it started with the Spam.

Chocolate Slut*

2010-05-26T13:10:00.000-07:00

Those of you who follow my blog (all 12 of you) know me. You know how I roll. I love being a food snob. I love to judge other peoples’ cuisine, shake my head and think to myself, “Jesus, they are way off.” I enjoy mocking stupid food choices. That’s the great thing about being me – that and having a healthy ego.

That being said…I am a chocolate slut.

I have zero indiscretion when it comes to eating chocolate. I’ll eat any kind, anywhere, anytime. I’ll eat the highest quality 87% cocoa, organic dark chocolate bar as well as those bottom-of-the-barrel-not-really-chocolate-tasting chocolate coins. Basically, if it’s chocolate I’m eating it…happily.

There really is no bad chocolate to me. I don’t even like the term “bad”. I’d rather use the phrase “slightly less tasty” to describe a crappy piece of chocolate. And of course the only way to enjoy a slightly less tasty piece of chocolate is to eat more of it. That’s just common sense.

I am a whore.

And I’m convinced that all chocolate knows this. They know I’m easy. If I’m walking by a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses I know they are saying to each other, “Hey there goes Pynchon. He’s a sure thing. We don’t even have to get him drunk.” And sure enough I grab a handful and cram them into my mouth without even thinking. It’s like a bad after school special where chocolate is the lacrosse team and I’m the new girl in town who just wants to be liked.

And yet, I never feel bad about my slutty ways with chocolate. I don’t care that I’m a sure thing. Chocolate and I have an understanding. If it makes itself available, I will consume it. If a seven dollar chocolate truffle comes a callin’, I’m all over it. If all that’s available is something from the 99 Cents store that doesn’t even say “chocolate” but rather “chocolytee”, then that’s fine, too. I don’t discriminate against any chocolate. They are all equally awesome in my book and all deserve equal attention.

Free love, baby. Free love.

(BTW, I’ve just decided that if I were ever to fulfill my dream of being an R&B singer, my stage name would be Chocolate Slut. That’s how much chocolate means to me.)

Episode #1 - If you love food...welcome! If you don't...rot in hell.

2010-05-20T14:45:00.000-07:00

Loser Cake*

2010-05-13T20:31:00.000-07:00

Here's a great recipe if your life sucks and you want it to suck more.

LOSER CAKE.

It doesn't taste bad or gross, just not very good. But because it's Loser Cake and it's sitting in front of you, you eat every goddamn crappy miserable bite.

The specific ingredient amount really doesn't matter because, like losers, Loser Cake doesn't measure up.

Here's what you'll need...I guess:

Flour - a cup or two...or three...it doesn't matter.
Butter - sure.
Sugar - whatever.
Eggs - if a shell falls in leave it...who cares?
Baking Soda - to make it rise, but things rising in Loser Cake will only make you sad.
Milk - if you want...it won't make it taste any better.
Salt - who cares?

But it in some sort of bowl, mix it around until you're tired, take a nap.

Cry.

Come back, put it in a pan that probably doesn't belong to you, bake it at whatever temperature you want for how ever long you want. I mean, it's Loser Cake - do you really care if it burns?

Take it out of the oven. DO NOT FROST. It's Loser Cake...you don't deserve frosting.

Eat it immediately because a big part of eating Loser Cake is severely scalding your tongue.

Served with a nice tepid glass of buttermilk.

*Written one hour after the Cleveland Cavaliers lost in the second round of the NBA Playoffs

A Scotchie For Chachi*

2010-05-03T15:56:00.000-07:00

I have been drinking Scotch for several years now. Do I like the taste of it? Yes. Did I like the taste of it when I first started drinking it? F**k no. I forced myself to enjoy the taste. I willed myself to become a Scotch drinker. Why? Well, to answer that question, let me refer you to one of the most important and seminal pieces of art in our time:

In one of the later episodes of "Bosom Buddies" (this was around the time Kip and Henry stopped hiding the fact that they dressed like chicks at the Susan B. Anthony Hotel for Women and for some reason everyone was okay with that) Tom Hanks (Kip) walks into the hotel bar where his ex-girlfriend Sonny (a stunning Donna Dixon) is on a date with some good looking guy named Tim (I can’t remember the actor’s name – I do remember he replaced Travolta in the later episodes of Welcome Back Kotter if that helps). Kip goes to the bar, orders a Scotch and walks up to Tim. Here is their following exchange:

Kip: “Tim, let me buy you a drink.”
Tim: “I can buy my own drink.”
Kip: “I said, ‘Tim, let me buy you a drink.’”
Tim: “I’ve got a drink.”
Kip: “What are you drinking, Tim?”
Tim: “White wine. You?”
Kip: “SCOTCH!”

That pretty much sums up the genius of Scotch (as well as the genius of Tom Hanks). Nothing beats Scotch. Nothing. Nothing suggests class and sophistication more while at the same time getting you completely sh*tfaced. Don’t step to me with your ridiculous Red Bull and vodka unless you want me to bitch slap you with a bottle of Dewars.

My favorite way to drink Scotch (and therefore the best way) is on the rocks in a short glass with two ice cubes. Because I’m a pretentious ass, I prefer the single malts such as Glenmorangie or Laphroaig. Blends are fine, but you just don’t feel as cool ordering a blend as you do a single malt. The exception is a Johnnie Walker Blue Label, which cost $200 dollars a bottle and comes in a silk lined box. I’ve had the pleasure of drinking Johnnie Walker Blue once, for free, and I take great pains to let everyone know this because it makes me feel like I’m more important than all of those who haven't.

Of course, I didn’t just immediately start drinking Scotch on the rocks. I had to work my way up to it. I had to baby step it. I first started with Whisky Sours, which really are just like drinking liquid candy and made me feel like an old lady when I ordered them. I did have a brief Whisky and Coke phase, but when I switched to Diet Coke I gave that up. A good rule of thumb; you should never order a liquor drink combined with Diet Coke in a bar. It just increases your chances of getting your ass kicked. Then I moved on to Manhattans which are an improvement but everybody drinks those, so then I moved to a brief dalliance with Whisky and Club Soda until one day it hit me; “Dude, stop being a pussy and just order a Scotch on the rocks.” I listened to myself and have been much cooler for it ever since.

So, in total honesty, I would still probably drink Scotch even if I hated the taste. I would much rather suffer through something and look cool then enjoy something and look like everybody else. And isn’t that why we all drink in the first place?

* And just as a footnote, the title for this piece came from a rumor I heard that Scott Baio was once at the Playboy Mansion and when a Playboy Bunny took his drink order he said, “Why don’t you get a scotchie for Chachi?” Tell me that’s not cool!

Crepes Are Not Worth Nine Dollars*

2010-04-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

Butter+Milk+Egg+Flour = $9.00

No. Wrong. Absolutely not. There is no way a crepe should cost nine dollars. Not even starving for 3 days and stoned out of my mind would I pay that much for milk, butter, flour and an egg. And if you are one of these people that are totally fine with paying that exorbitant amount then congratulations - you are both rich and stupid.

The French actually have a phrase for this type of overcharging. It’s called “le f*#king of le ass.” How can anyone with any sense of decency and integrity charge that much for what basically is a thin pancake? Let me big picture this for you in a way that might be easier to understand. Here’s what you could buy with nine dollars:

• A pretty nice ball point pen
• Two VHS copies of Prince’s “Grafitti Bridge”
• A photo of you and an actor impersonating Wolverine on Hollywood Blvd.
• Forty nine seconds of a lap dance from a stripper
• Nine glasses of Milwaukee’s Best on Dollar Draft Night

All of the above are worth way more than a goddamn crepe.

The point is that some foods just don’t need to cost that much. I get that we all need to make a profit and you have to charge more to make more, but don’t insult me. Charge me a fair price and I’ll buy it.

And don’t overcharge me on something that essentially started out as poor people’s food, like Pad Thai. Restaurants charging $10.50 for noodles, bean sprouts, tofu and crushed nuts should be condemned. Pad Thai should not cost $10.50. That is ridiculous. If you showed that to a Thai person he or she would laugh in your face and proceed to muay thai your stupid ass.

Here’s an entrée you can overcharge. Bake a tray of diamonds, cover them in smelted gold, and then sprinkle them with cocaine. That you can overcharge. Everything else should be reasonably priced.

*(special thanks to Beth Davis for this idea. Beth, you rock - now leave me the hell alone.)

President Kirk Pynchon

2010-04-11T09:05:00.000-07:00

“The Contender” is a great movie that came out in 2000 starring Joan Allen (nominated for an Oscar), Jeff Bridges (also nominated for an Oscar), Gary Oldman and Christian Slater. It’s a political drama about Laine Hanson, played by Joan Allen, a senator who is nominated to become Vice President following the death of the previous office holder. During the confirmation process, Laine is the victim of a vicious attack on her personal life when a story that she was involved in an orgy in college is leaked. The movie follows Laine as she fights for her dignity as well as for her political career.

The script for “The Contender” is well written. The direction is flawless. The acting, especially from Joan Allen, is amazing.

But that’s not why I like this movie.

I like “The Contender” because in it the character of the President of the United States (played by Jeff Bridges) is always eating. And what he is eating always looks really, really friggin’ good. There’s a moment in the movie when Jeff Bridges is talking to the character played by Christian Slater and he’s eating the greatest looking turkey sandwich in the history of cinema. In nearly every scene Jeff Bridges is asking a member of his kitchen staff to fix him a plate of something. And of course, because he’s president, they do and it’s always delicious.

I need to be president.

How great would it be to ask for any type of food at any time of the day or night and be able to get it immediately and have it be top notch? And to be able to do that for four years? Or maybe, if you’re lucky, eight? Come on! Now that’s what I call “executive power”!

If I were President of the United States I would constantly be eating. Staff meetings, answering questions from the press, State of the Union addresses, working with the U.N. – you would never see me without food in my hand. I’m convinced that I would be fatter than our twenty-seventh president, William Howard Taft, and let me tell you something, that man was a fat sack of fat. My kitchen staff would be working overtime. I would be the biggest pain-in-the-ass-president since LBJ ran things. Hell, I would have my chefs make me food just in case I wanted it. I may not eat it but they sure as hell better make it:

“You know, I’m not really hungry right now, but I’m sure I will be later, so if you could make me a Peruvian course, a Vietnamese course and a French course, that would be great. I'll choose one when I'm feeling more peckish.”

And they would have to make it for me…because I am the goddamn President and what I say goes.

Who cares about running the most powerful country in the free world? I’d be more concerned about how fast the Secret Service can bring me a corned beef sandwich from Corky and Lenny’s in Cleveland, Ohio. Air Force One would be my own personal delivery service. My trips to visit foreign leaders would be more of a culinary tour where we wouldn’t so much talk about how to make the world a better place but where to find the best perogies in Eastern Europe. And, most importantly, American tax dollars would go directly to funding the construction of an In and Out Burger right in the Oval Office.

Sure, I’d be one of the more ineffectual presidents in American history, but no worse than some of our recent ones. So to hell with foreign policy! To hell with domestic policy! Just bring me a slice of veggie pizza from that little stand in Venice that I love so much.

Food - power - me. Long live democracy.

Foam Can Eat It - And Not In The Good Way

2010-04-02T21:25:00.000-07:00

Can we all just relax on the goddamn foam? Do we really need to run around spouting off about how wonderful it is? It’s foam – not a blow job.

Every high-end restaurant has to do some sort of foam. Foamed espresso, foamed mushroom, foamed coconut, foamed blue cheese – foam, foam, foam, foam, foam! Jesus, can’t you just make regular goddamn food that tastes good?

I get it. You’re applying chemistry to food in an attempt to invent something new and different. Good for you. You must me so proud. Now go back in the kitchen and invent me up a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich.

Here are three words that I never ever want to see on a menu: hot garlic foam. Anyone trying to sell that to me as some sort of delicious food substance is getting kicked in the back of the head.

I read once that there is this British chef named Heston Blumenthal who includes an oyster foam as part of a dish called “The Sound of the Sea” at his Fat Duck restaurant in Bray, Berkshire. The foam is meant to bring a flavor like a sudden whoosh of seawater into the mouth. Diners are asked to listen on an iPod to the sound of waves crashing while eating the dish. The oyster foam represents the “mist above the waves”.

My response to Chef Blumenthal? FUCK YOU.

Look, I’m the kind of guy who loves being pretentious. I love thinking I’m better than others (just ask what few friends I have). But I certainly do not need to suck up some sort of food substance that has the consistency of baby snot to make me feel better about myself. And I certainly don’t need to pay a boatload of money to do it either.

And who are we kidding? People who are really into foam are just consuming it so they can think they are on the cutting edge. No one thinks, “Man, I’m really hungry. I can’t wait to get to that restaurant and eat some foamed beets!” They eat foam so they can make themselves feel important. And there’s better ways to do that, like giving to charity or getting into a knife fight.

Maybe we should just do away with solid food all together. We’ll just go to restaurants and waiters will spray food-flavored mist into our mouths from an aerosol can. We’ll pay $35 for a dinner of steak mist, asparagus mist and risotto mist and for dessert we’ll get to sniff from a small piece of paper that has the scent of crème brulee on it.

Yum.

Shrimp Cocktail - My First Love Affair

2010-03-25T09:56:00.000-07:00

Sure, I remember the first girl I fell in love with. Her name was Julie and in Kindergarten I peed at my desk and out of sheer panic I pushed the puddle of piss with my foot over to Julie’s desk so everyone would think she did it. I haven’t talked to her ever since.

But I still eat shrimp cocktails!

I’m not gonna fight my love for shrimp cocktails. They taste too good. Fresh shrimp, lemon, cocktail sauce and a boatload of horseradish – what’s not to love? Sure they might seem a little pedestrian, a little JV, but so what? When you love something you accept all of their faults, especially when they are so goddamn tasty.

Growing up, ordering a shrimp cocktail was standard procedure when I went to a restaurant with my parents. If the restaurant didn’t serve shrimp cocktails I would throw a huge tantrum. In my young mind, every restaurant should have them on the menu. Anything else was unacceptable. While I no longer believe that, I am tempted to order a shrimp cocktail these days whenever I see one on a menu, even if it’s in a dingy, 24-hour diner and to eat one from such a place would surely result in some sort of food poisoning.

Oddly, I don’t really care that much about other forms of shrimp. Shrimp Scampi is a big whatever, deep fried shrimp plays into the deepest of my nutrition issues and shrimp sushi is downright heresy in my book. But I always get excited about shrimp cocktail. It was one of the first foods that I remember thinking was grown up. It wasn’t like getting spaghetti or a cheeseburger off of the kid’s menu. It was something special. It was something I could order that was all my own. It was my first experience of being obsessed with food.

I guess you really never get over your first love. I’m sorry, Julie, but you are second place when it comes to shrimp cocktail. And hey, sorry I pushed my urine over to your desk.

Diet Coke = Crack

2010-03-13T15:23:00.000-08:00

Okay, I admit that’s a bit unfair. Diet Coke does not equal crack. It actually equals crack plus heroin plus a side order of Pall Malls. That’s how goddamn addictive Diet Coke is to me.

[And let me just state this firmly for the record to avoid confusion – all other diet colas blow in comparison to DC. Diet Pepsi is a weak, paltry, embarrassment of a drink and only wishes it could have the addictive powers of Diet Coke. Diet Sprite or Diet 7Up is for 13-year-old girls who drink it with their ice cream sundaes. And don’t come to me with all that bullshit of, “Hey Diet Dr. Pepper tasted just like the original!” That maybe true, but guess what? Original Dr. Pepper sucks, ergo; Diet Dr. Pepper sucks as well.]

I can’t go one day without drinking a Diet Coke. You don’t want me to go one day without drinking a Diet Coke. I am a happy and loving person when I’m drinking my favorite beverage. I am a better and more useful human being after a can of the stuff. When I go a day without my beloved Diet Coke, life is a little bleaker, the sun shines a little less, and something deep inside my heart withers away and dies.

I told you I was addicted.

But here’s the thing; it’s not the caffeine I’m addicted to. I can enjoy a caffeine-free Diet Coke just as equally as the fully loaded stuff. What I am addicted to is that harsh, chemically, battery acid taste. Jesus Christ how I crave that taste! Some may call the taste of Diet Coke as “artificial” but I like to think of it as “other worldly”. There’s no other taste in the world that is so fake tasting and yet so addicting at the same time. Its cruel and unforgiving flavor is something very rare and very special in this world.

Maybe that’s why I love Diet Coke so much. It is the ultimate in honesty. It makes no bones that its flavors come right out of the sludge of some bio-chem lab in East New Jersey. Diet Coke doesn’t try to pretend to be something it’s not. It just sits there and says, “I do not taste sweet. I do not taste natural. In fact, I taste like nothing in the real world. I’m Diet Coke. I am who I am. Now drink me – hard.”

[Note: Here’s the best way to enjoy your Diet Coke. It’s the best way because it is my way. Wake up early and pop open a can. Let it sit in the fridge for a couple of hours until it gets slightly flat. Cut a wedge of lemon and cram it into the can – DO NOT USE A GLASS TO DRINK YOUR DIET COKE. Wait ten minutes, remove from the fridge and drink as fast as humanely possible without taking a breath.]

The Greatest Recipes in the History of the Written Word -#1

2010-03-03T10:34:00.000-08:00

#1 - The Balsamic"You Can't Touch This" Vinaigrette

Yeah, I said it - you can't touch my salad dressing skills - PROPER! My salad dressing is so good that people request, nay, demand it. I bring it to every pot-luck dinner I’m invited to (though, I don’t bring the actual salad. Hey, that’s not my job). Even my wife, the great cook that she is, doesn’t try to make it without me - which she shouldn't cause she'd just do it wrong. It is the food item that I’m known for and I deliver it every time with the highest quality standards imaginable.

Honestly, there’s really nothing special to my salad dressing. It’s just a simple vinaigrette. But I think people are so used to crappy salad dressings out of a bottle that they appreciate the effort of something homemade.

Balsamic vinegar
Extra virgin olive oil
Brown mustard
Honey
Garlic powder
Salt
Pepper
Dried oregano

Really all you do is throw all of the ingredients into a small bowl. That’s it. But because I like you I’ll share with you the two secrets that make my salad dressing so so good that it will make you wanna holla.

1) Use more vinegar than oil. A lot of bottled dressings and restaurant dressings use way too much oil and it tastes like the Exxon Valdez crashed through their salad dressing. Always go with more vinegar. I would say go with a two to one ratio, but don’t quote me on that as I’m lousy with math.

2) Stir the salad dressing. Never shake it. I know that’s the reverse thinking of James Bond’s martini but learn to think outside of the box. Shaking your salad dressing in a bottle never works. For some reason it just doesn’t taste right. The flavors don’t mix as well as they do when you stir it. And when I say stir, I mean STIR. Grab a whisk and beat the hell out of that salad dressing. Beat it like it slapped your mama. Don’t be bashful. The salad dressing can take it. You want to try to get it almost frothy, wait a minute, then toss it into your salad.

And when you serve The Greatest Salad Dressing Ever be prepared to have your guests come up to you after dinner and ask if they can have sex with you with you. Trust me, it’s that good.

I Like To Taunt My Food

2010-02-23T09:22:00.000-08:00

Many times I am so excited to eat that when my plate of food is set in front of me I am compelled to insult and make fun of it. And not in a good-natured friendly way, like when one of your friends wears a vest so often that you continually call him “Johnny Vest” until he stops wearing it. No, I’m actually mean and cruel to my food:

To a Reuben sandwich - “Motherfucker, you have no idea what I’m going to do to you. I am going to wreck your world.”

To a plate of assorted sushi – “I own you. Just sit there, shut up and take it.”

To a bowl of bread soup – “I am going to eat the shit out of you.”

To an oversized chocolate chip cookie – “What? You think you’re big? You think you're tough? Fuck you. I’m going to bite you so hard that you are going to wish you never came out of the goddamn oven.”

I would like to think my food takes it as a compliment, that they taste so good they are bringing out this passion in me (some might say “psychosis” but I prefer “passion”), but I’m not so sure. Maybe I’m being a little rough on them. But ultimately, it’s not my problem. In the end it’s totally the foods’ fault.

They shouldn’t taste so fucking good.

[Final Thought: If you wondering if I taunt food that I don’t like the answer is no. You only hurt the ones you love. Like this leftover bbq brisket that I just punched and call “a little bitch”.]

Sexy Ass Foods

2010-02-13T13:04:00.000-08:00

Look, it’s no big secret that certain foods are sexy as hell. Not all foods – certain foods. And I am here to help you differentiate between food that makes you wanna rip your clothes off and food that makes you wanna sit on the couch and fart. And why am I qualified for this, you ask? Because I’m a sexy motherfucker, that’s why. Unlike Justin Timberlake, I’m not bringing sexy back, cause with me, sexy never fucking left. So here we go – take notes of you need:

SEXY FOODS

*Oysters on the half shell – You know the rumor that raw oysters are an aphrodisiac? Well, it’s not a rumor, it’s a stone cold fact. That’s why these beautiful creatures were so popular in the 80’s, the sexiest decade ever (just to clarify, I’m talking about the 1980’s, not the 1880’s, which were sexy in a completely different way). Trust me - grab a half shell, squeeze a little lemon juice on the oyster meat, slide it down your throat and then get naked…even if you are in a restaurant.

*Steak Florentine – By nature all meat that’s grilled is sexy. That’s not just me talking – anyone who’s won a Nobel Prize will back me up on this. And if that grilled meat is on the rare side, it’s even sexier. And if that grilled, rare meat is simply prepared with garlic, salt, pepper, lemon and olive oil then we are talking major league sexy. And, if that grilled, rare, simply prepared meat is still on the bone…excuse me for a moment while I stop writing this and spend some quality time with myself.

*Linguini and clam sauce – Damone from "Fast Times" was dead on when he said, “The lady will have the linguini with clam sauce, and a coke with no ice.” This dish is sexy as hell. In name and taste linguini is the sexiest pasta in all of Pastaland (suck on that, cappelini!), and adding garlic and white wine to it takes it to another level of sexiness that we’ll call “Sexy Mach II”. After eating linguini and clam sauce I just want to grease myself up and rub up against a woman as greasy as me. What, too much?

*A shot of rot-gut, bottom of the barrel tequila – Something about this just screams nasty, dirty sex. It says, “I don’t care who you are. Let’s just get really drunk really fast and get to humping. Then go away.”

*Red Velvet cake – Maybe the sexiest food there is. Sweet ,moist, creamy, and red – those four words describe not only all the best things about the cake, but all the best things about sex. If you can’t get laid after eating a big piece of red velvet cake then give up and get thee to a nunnery or monastery.

NOT SEXY FOODS

*Salad – A good rule of thumb; no one ever got laid from ordering a salad on a dinner date. EVER.

* Falafel – Yes, it tastes good but it really is the goofiest food of all time. Ground up chick peas fried into a ball? Come on! No one eats that and thinks sexy thoughts. First of all, nothing eaten in ball form is a turn on (go ahead, think about it for a sec – I’ll wait). Secondly, it’s fried and have you ever tried to be sexy after eating fried food? Oy! And lastly, it’s called "falafel". Try saying the following line in a slow, sexy whisper: “Baby you are so hot. I just wanna eat you up like a plate of falafels.” Can’t be done.

* Corn – Have you ever been at a summer BBQ and watched someone gnawing on a corn cob? And have you at that moment thought, “Jesus, if I don’t have sex with that person right now then my entire summer will be a waste"? I think not.

* Ranch dressing – Yeah, I’ve addressed my venom for this putrid dressing earlier, but its badness deserves more attention (plus it’s my blog and I can do whatever I goddamn want). I’ll be totally honest with you; I’m a pretty horny guy. But there is NO WAY IN HELL I am making out with a woman after she has eating Ranch dressing (normally at this point I’d make an apology to my wife, but I’m pretty sure we’ve been together for so long that the thought of making out with me isn’t that thrilling to her anymore). Even if the taste was pleasurable it’s still the most unsexy food out there. The look, the texture, and the smell – none of it evokes one night in Bangkok, you know what I’m saying?

* Champagne – Truly the most overrated “sexy” drink. It’s a cliché. It’s for people who think the sex scenes in “Grey’s Anatomy” are hot. Champagne, even the most expensive, is good for celebrations and that’s it. My advice; drink something else alcoholic, have sex and THEN have some champagne to celebrate the fact that you just had sex.

The Greatest Recipes in the History of the Written Word- #2

2010-02-06T10:01:00.002-08:00

Ok, let me just start off by saying that I am not a great cook. I can make survival food, but anything fancy is lost on me. If I were to ever cook for you, you would taste my food and exclaim, "Wow, Kirk. This meal has some sort of semblance of flavor and it is not inducing me to vomit. Bravo!" That being said, I can make three dishes that are truly the bomb. The recipes are simple (any idiot could follow them) but what makes them so special is the attention to detail. So unlike most recipes where you can improvise, mine must be followed to the T. A "T" I said! If not, you will be doing it wrong and will embarrass yourself with a crappy dish of food.

Kirk's Kick Ass Garlic Bread

-- 1 loaf of crusty bread (Italian or French, you choose based on your ethnic affinity)
-- 1 clove of garlic, minced (and if you insist on just using garlic powder, then stop reading right now, go back to college and enjoy your big Box O’ Wine)
-- Butter or margarine (I have no idea how much. It's like sex - you'll know when it feels right.)
-- 3 to 5 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar (my super duper, extra special, kick ass, secret ingredient)
-- Coarse black pepper (or not coarse - who really gives a shit)
-- Oregano (and please, when you use it pronounce it or-e-GAN-o - just like those wacky British)
-- Red pepper flakes (optional – for those who are man enough bring the heat)

Pre-heat the oven to 400 degrees. While the oven is getting warm, melt down the butter or margarine in a small saucepan. Chop up the garlic and throw it in the pan. Add the balsamic vinegar, which is really the key component in the kick-assedness of my bread. If you don't use the vinegar then you are not allowed to use my recipe. Seriously. Sprinkle in the pepper, oreGANo and red pepper flakes. Stir until everything is blended well together.

Then, cut the crusty bread into individual slices. DO NOT simply slice the bread down the middle and pour the garlic sauce in the bread. That is for lazy people and you are not one of those people. Instead, take a food brush and lather the garlic sauce on each and every piece of bread. Both sides. Yeah, I said it. BOTH SIDES. And don’t be stingy about it.

Then put the individual slices back together as a loaf, drizzle any remaining sauce on top, wrap the loaf completely in aluminum foil and place in the oven for thirteen minutes. If you go over thirteen minutes, your bread will be burnt. Throw it away. If you go under thirteen minutes, your bread will be undercooked. Throw it away. Thirteen minutes guarantees the bread will be soft and warm on the inside, yet crusty on the outside*.

*Not a binding guarantee

"Leave Me The F*#k Alone" Pie

2010-01-31T14:32:00.000-08:00

Okay, here's the deal. An old college friend of mine, Gini Martinez, just made me a dark chocolate/peanut butter pie with a cookie crust. Did she do this because she likes me? No. Did she do this because I'm a nice person? No. Did she do this because I said she had to if the Cleveland Cavaliers beat the Los Angeles Lakers two weeks ago?

Absolutely goddamn right.

Gini is a HUGE Lakers fan and this loss to the superior (yeah, that's right) Cavaliers was devastating, but a bet's a bet and she had to comply. Now Gini is a professional (not necessarily at baking but she is a kick ass Pilates instructor with a really cool blog - http://pilateyourbody.wordpress.com/)and she took this task very seriously. She could have made a substandard dark chocolate/peanut butter pie. She could have half-assed it like the Lakers on defense. Hell, she could have even bought a dark chocolate/peanut butter pie and passed it off as her own. But she didn't.

Instead, Gini made what I like to call a "Leave Me The F*#k Alone" pie.

That means it was so good that you have no choice but to grab a fork, grab the pie, run into another room and eat the shit out of this thing all by yourself. You don't need anyone bothering you or distracting you from the pie. That's how tasty this freakin' dark chocolate/peanut butter pie with the cookie crust was.

Dark Chocolate, creamy peanut butter all on top off a chocolate cookie crust. Come on! That's the ultimate trifecta right there. There's nothing better than those three ingredients melded together in a sweet orgasmic harmony. That's like forming an All Star R&B trio consisting of Prince, D'angelo and Questlove from the Roots, letting them jam for three hours...and then eating a goddamn chocolate/peanut butter pie with a cookie crust.

I ate that whole pie in 3 nights (that's a lie - 2 nights). I honestly considered having sex with it, then only reconsidered when I realized that if I banged the pie, then I couldn't eat it.

Did I share the pie with my wife? No. She's not a big peanut butter as dessert fan so I didn't even let her taste it. I barely let her smell it.

Did I share the pie with my kids? No. They wouldn't appreciate it on the same level as me. It was too good to waste on them.

Did I share it with my writing partner when he came over to work? No. I didn't even tell him about it. F*#k him.

This is why I call it "Leave Me The F*#k Alone" pie. You ruin relationships because of it and eventually you end up all alone with an empty plate and a dirty fork.

Christ I miss that pie.

Food Preparation - Nothing Is More Important

2010-01-23T07:51:00.000-08:00

I’m not talking about prepping your ingredients before you start cooking. That’s a soul sucking process that’s even more unbearable than cooking (if I could afford it I would pay someone to chop my carrots on a daily basis). No, when I say “food preparation” I’m talking about prepping your plans for your next meal.

I love talking about what to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I am obsessed with knowing what I’m eating next. I have to plan what my next meal will be. I hate not knowing what to eat. It makes me tense and cranky.

There are times when I’m in bed and I’ll prep what I’m eating for the entire following day. It’s like a little lullaby that lulls me to sleep.

“Close your eyes/Go to sleep/ You are eating yogurt for breakfast/Lay down your head/Sweet dreams/ For lunch you’ll have a tuna melt….”

In fact, I spend most of my mental energy plotting and planning what my meals will be throughout the day. It is almost as comforting as eating the food itself. Nothing calms me more than knowing what I’ m eating later (even as I’m writing these words I’m at peace because I know for dinner I’m having farfalla pasta with chicken and vegetables). My brother is the same way – actually he’s worse. I’ve seen him finish his last bite of breakfast and immediately start wondering what to do for lunch. And when the two of us get together, forget about it. It is a food planning frenzy:

“So tonight we’ll do Thai, tomorrow morning will just have fruit for breakfast, lunch will be hot wings, then we’ll do the steak dinner.”

“Cool. Wait – should we really do wings and steak on the same day?”

“Good point. Let’s readjust. We’ll do sushi tonight, keep tomorrow’s breakfast and lunch the same, tomorrow’s dinner will be Thai, and then the following day we’ll do the steak dinner.”

“Great. Now let’s plan the meals for Christmas next year.”

Recently I was putting my 4 year old son to bed. As I said goodnight he looked at me and said, "Dad, I HAVE to have cheesy eggs for breakfast tomorrow. I HAVE to."

I was so proud.

Bring the Pain!!!

2010-01-15T15:53:00.000-08:00

For those of you pretentious or French (redundant, I know) I’m not talking about bread. I’m talking about heat. I’m talking about spice. I’m talking about pain.

I loves me some spicy food! The hotter the better. I always put red pepper flakes on my pizza, I always use the hot mustard in a deli and I always overload my shrimp cocktail sauce with plenty of horseradish. I’m even proud to say that I have used up an entire bottle of Dave’s Insanity Hot Sauce (it took me nearly two years because one drop of that stuff will peel the paint off your walls, but I did it).

Now, in full disclosure, let me honestly say that while I enjoy really spicy food, I don’t enjoy really, REALLY spicy food. At some point it’s just too goddamn hot. Eventually you're not eating a meal, rather you are trying to inhale molten lava for the sake of inhaling molten lava, which frankly can takes a lot of the fun out of eating food. Trying to finish your meal while your tongue burns, your eyes water and sweat pours down your forehead does not enhance your dining experience. Yet I continue to order my food as spicy as humanely possible. Why do I do this?

One word: Ego.

Do I really need to order my buffalo wings not just hot but “atomic hot”? No.

Do I still do it even though I know I’ll regret it later? Yes.

Why? Because I’m a stupid, that’s why.

I can’t let someone “out spice” me. I’d rather barf up a lung than have some donkey order food that’s hotter than mine. Because if that happens then that means that person wins and I lose and then my entire meal is ruined by that fact. I just can’t have that. It’s better to suffer through a meal you’re not enjoying than to be shown up by some chump who’s using salsa that’s hotter than yours.

Any sane person will tell you that.

The Greatest Recipes in the History of the Written Word - #3

2010-01-04T10:59:00.000-08:00

Ok, let me just start off by saying that I am not a great cook. I can make survival food, but anything fancy is lost on me. If I were to ever cook for you, you would taste my food and exclaim, "Wow, Kirk. This meal has some sort of semblance of flavor and it is not inducing me to vomit. Bravo!" That being said, I can make three dishes that are truly the bomb. The recipes are simple (any idiot could follow them) but what makes them so special is the attention to detail. So unlike most recipes where you can improvise, mine must be followed to the T. A "T" I said! If not, you will be doing it wrong and will embarrass yourself with a crappy dish of food.

Donde Esta Mi Nachos Grande?

1 tray of tortilla chips
Shredded cheddar cheese
Sliced jalapeños
Salsa
Sour cream
Guacamole - not needed. Yeah I said it!

Nachos have been around since man first learned how to walk (that’s true – it's on Wikkipedia). You can’t reinvent the ingredients of nachos so don’t even try. But what you can do is learn how to MAKE nachos better.

Two words: cheese placement.

The shredded cheese needs to be placed on the tortilla chips with care. Don’t just throw the cheese down all willy nilly. Show the nachos some respect! Place a layer of chips on the tray. Carefully put the cheese on the chips, making sure that each chip gets a little bit of lovin’. Nothing, I repeat, nothing is more depressing than a naked tortilla chip. Then liberally place down some jalepenos (and if you don't like jalepenos you have no business eating nachos). Then, add a second layer of chips and repeat the process with the cheese and the jalepenos. Double check to make sure every chip is covered with cheese. Then triple check. Then check again. Seriously, if the cheese placement is off then the dish is not worth feeding to the dogs. Even your beloved Fluffy will know that it's jive.

And for all that is sacred in this big, big world, DO NOT put the salsa or sour cream on your nachos until AFTER the cheese is melted. Putting them on before putting the nachos in the oven is a JV mistake, and if you do it, don’t be surprised if your friends insult you and make you cry (that’s what I would do).

Bake at 425 degrees for approximately eleven minutes and thirty seven seconds. Do not wait for them to cool. The whole point of nachos is to eat them scalding hot. If you burn off the skin from the roof of your mouth, pound a beer (again, if you don't like beer you have no business eating nachos).

The Top 5 Best Meals I've Ever Eaten - #1

2009-12-19T09:37:00.000-08:00

[In an ongoing series, I present the five greatest meals I've ever eaten. Though I have had many, these ones stick in my memory the most and, to be frank, totally kick ass.]

Nothing beats this night of eating - nothing. I defy you to challenge me on this. You can try, but you will lose. Here we go:

#1) Delivery from Mr. Pizza – Los Angeles – 2004

One night my wife went out to dinner with some of her friends and since there was no way in hell I was going to cook for myself, I decided to order out. I called Mr. Pizza ( an Italian joint that I am convinced was owned by the Russian Mob) and got a meatball sub with extra cheese, spicy curly fries and a Pacifico. Then I turned out all the lights in the living room, took off my pants, sat on the couch and ate my meal while watching “Die Hard”. It was the perfect dinner for spending a Friday evening alone. It was so good that even to this day my friends say, “Damn, that sounds awesome.”

Jealous?

The Snobbiest Food Snob in Snobville

2009-12-13T09:27:00.000-08:00

It's not me, but Christ how I wish it was. It's actually my mother-in-law. My mother-in-law makes a cranky Anthony Bourdain look like a chirpy Rachel Ray tripping on ecstasy. She is the most opinionated person I have ever meet when it comes to food. My mother-in-law essentially has one continuous thought on the culinary arts: If it’s not Chinese then it’s crap.

This is no exaggeration. I have heard her say as much (though because she's Chinese it’s been translated by my wife and I’m fairly sure she doesn’t say “crap”). Many a time I’ve been out to a family dinner with my in-laws and heard her muttering in Cantonese.

“What’s she saying?” I’ll ask my wife.

“She’s saying this would taste better if it were made the Chinese way,” she’ll say.

“Really? We’re eating pizza.”

And beware the restaurant that serves Asian food other than Chinese. She has a special wrath for them. We once took my wife’s mom and dad out to a Thai restaurant. Actually that's not true. We dragged them to a Thai restaurant because my wife and I didn't want to go to a Chinese restaurant…again. For the entire meal all my mother-in-law did was wonder out loud in amazement about why they couldn't makes this Thai food in the Chinese way. Never mind the gaps in logic - she seriously didn't understand why the Thai cooks in a Thai restaurant couldn't make Thai food the Chinese way. And when the Thai waiter didn’t continually refill our teacups, it was the ultimate grave insult to her. It was like they kicked her dog in the stomach and spit on her cat.

“They would never leave our teacups empty in a Chinese restaurant. Never!” she said (in Cantonese, of course).

Luckily, we rarely eat anything but Chinese when we’re with my mother-in-law, but even when it’s Chinese she’ll criticize the food. It’s never as good as how she makes it. In fact the only time I ever heard my mother-in-law compliment food other than hers was when we took her to Disneyland. Yes, you read that correctly, Disneyland. For lunch we had New England Clam Chowder in a sourdough bread bowl and it literally blew her mind. My mother-in-law loved it! She could not believe that soup could be served in a bowl made of bread. It impressed the hell out of her. She still talks about it to this day.

Or, at least that’s what my wife tells me. Since my mother-in-law really doesn’t speak English very well and the only Cantonese I know is how to say “cheers” (“gan bei”), we really don’t talk that much. Most of my friends say that I’m a lucky son of a bitch in that I never have to talk to my mother-in-law, but some communication would be nice. Fortunately, we are able to bond over one thing: we both love to eat pigeon.

Let me just state here and now that pigeon is not a gross food. Sure when it arrives at the table it looks like hunks of chopped-up gray meat with the head still attached, but it honestly tastes like chicken – a chewier, gamier chicken, yes – but chicken none-the-less. No one in my wife’s family really cares for it so when we go out for a Chinese meal it’s just my mother-in-law and myself who indulge in what some people call “a rat with wings”. She always makes sure pigeon is one of the first dishes to come out to the table and when it does she always serves me a plateful with a big smile on her face. I happily oblige, devouring as much as I can, especially the wings, which are always perfectly crispy amd I would put them up against any bar buffalo wing any day. Sharing pigeon with my mother-in-law is really the only way the two of us can connect. And if I can enjoy a meal and score some brownie points at the same time, then it’s a win-win situation for me.

But I refuse to eat the pigeon’s head. No way in hell. I’m not that good of a son-in-law.

The Top 5 Best Meals I've Ever Eaten - #2

2009-12-06T13:50:00.000-08:00

[In an ongoing series, I present the five greatest meals I've ever eaten. Though I have had many, these ones stick in my memory the most and, to be frank, totally kick ass.]

#2) Morton’s Steakhouse in DC 2000

This meal will go down in history as the most food I’ve ever eaten in one sitting. I went to go visit my brother for a weekend down in DC and we planned to go to Morton’s because a) he had just gotten a huge bonus at work and b) he was about to get divorced.

We got dressed up in our Sunday best and headed to Morton’s where the seated us in a corner booth (like the players we thought we were). We immediately ordered drinks – Bombay Gin Martini for my brother, Glen Morangie Single Malt Scotch on the rocks for me, as well as a bottle of Pinot Noir for later in the meal. We toasted to the success of my brother’s business acumen and/or the demise of his first marriage and ordered our food. This is what we had:

Me - I started with a half dozen oysters on the half shell. Then I had the Center Cut Iceberg Salad with blue cheese and crumbled bacon. For my main entrée I had the double cut filet mignon (medium rare) with sides of fresh sautéed spinach and mushrooms as well as a baked potato.

My brother – He started with the tuna tartare. Then he got the Caesar Salad. For his entrée he had the double cut filet mignon (I called him a copycat, he called me weak for not getting mine cooked rare like his) but with creamed spinach and Lyonnaise Potato.

We ate everything. Our plates were completely empty by the time we had finished. I’m pretty sure we even ate the parsley. We even ate all of the bread and butter. Not because we were starving, but because it was there. And at the end of the evening, not to be out done, as my brother sipped his coffee and I sipped my tea, we ordered Morton's Legendary Hot Chocolate Cake.

Two of them – because sharing one would have been ridiculous.

The entire night took over three hours. We were the last patrons to leave the restaurant. It was a great, great evening.

Then we got back to my brother’s condo.

My brother was so exhausted from the meal that he could barely mumble a “good night”. He just took off his suit and passed out on his bed right then and there. I was sleeping on the couch in the living room. I took off my suit, flopped on the couch, turned on “SportCenter”…

…and began to sweat profusely.

It was unbelievable. I could not stop sweating. It was like I had run a marathon through the Mohave Desert. And yet, I was so exhausted from eating that I couldn’t get up. So I just lied there, sweat pouring out of my body as I tried in vain to focus on the night’s college basketball scores.

Then I passed out.

Twenty minutes later I woke up, staggered off the couch and went to the bathroom where I sat on the toilet for at least a half an hour. I finally went back to the couch and dropped face first into a pool of my own sweat where I remained until late the next morning.

Like I said, it was a great, great evening.

ICE CREAM AND CAKE - A VOTE TOWARDS SEGREGATION

2009-11-22T14:13:00.000-08:00

Look, I consider myself a pretty liberal guy. If someone called me a “bedwetting progressive” I wouldn’t take offense. Hell, if someone even called me a “pillow biting socialist” I still wouldn’t put up much of a fuss. I think people should learn to respect their differences and live together peacefully.

But I cannot allow ice cream and cake to exist together on the same plate.

It’s sick and it’s wrong and it’s got to stop. Cake should be eating without ice cream and vice versa. That’s how the good lord intended it. Now, I’m not saying one is better than the other or that we should kill off ice cream or exterminate cake. I’m not mental, for Christ’s sake! I’m just logically suggesting that combining cake with ice cream should be outlawed and anyone who breaks said law should be sentenced to hard time in a maximum-security prison for a time no less than 5 years. That’s totally reasonable.

And let’s be very clear about one thing: the person who created “ice cream cake” is not some wonderful human being. He or she is some sort of demented, Dr. Moreau-type scientist who is hell bent on desecrating the great society that our founding forefathers worked so hard to create. Nowhere in the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, or the Declaration of Independence does it say that ice cream and cake shall be joined as one. Trust me. I googled it.

It’s not like peanut butter and chocolate, which is the perfect marriage of two wonderful things. I’ll put up that blessed union against any other food combo, any day (and that includes the overrated blending of ketchup and mustard). Unlike ice cream and cake, peanut butter and chocolate were meant to be together, like surf and sand or Vegas and hookers. The combination of creamy peanut butter and delicious chocolate can be summed up in one word: harmony. The combination of ice cream and cake can be summed up in three words: tastes like ass.

Why do people insist that these 2 desserts should go together? Ice cream just makes cake soggy. And who the hell wants to eat soggy cake? And I don’t need cake bits poking out of my ice cream. It’s supposed to be smooth, ya know, like cream? And don’t get me started when the frosting and the ice cream meet in some sort of horrible cross- pollination where all you end up with is wet, too sweet, hardened frosting. That’s just an abomination of mankind.

Cause when you put ice cream and cake together, what you are really doing is tainting each one’s historic bloodlines. And instead of being able to enjoy two perfect foods, what you are left with is one large, craptastic experience. So let ice cream and cake live in two different worlds. Let them be with their own kind.

Just like the Bible says...I think.

[Note: Special thanks to Gini Martinez for the inspiration for this essay - and by inspiration I mean arguing with me.]

The Top 5 Best Meals I've Ever Eaten - #3

2009-11-16T14:39:00.000-08:00

[In an ongoing series, I present the five greatest meals I've ever eaten. Though I have had many, these ones stick in my memory the most and, to be frank, totally kick ass.]

#3) The Samurai Restaurant in Cleveland 1979

The Samurai Restaurant was really just the equivalent of any Benni Hanna restaurant found in any strip mall in America. But, for an eight-year old living in the Midwest, it was the height of sophisticated and exotic Japanese cuisine.

The only times I got to go to The Samurai was when I got good grades, so going there was a real treat. I’d even get dressed up for the occasion, throwing on a little of my Dad’s Old Spice Cologne just in case any eight-year old girls happened to be dining there that evening.

When we got to the restaurant the first thing we would do was saunter up to the bar where I’d order my usual – a Coke with a cherry served in a ceramic Buddha glass. We then would make our way over the wooden bridges to our private dining room where we would sit on the floor to eat(at the time I thought that sitting on the floor for dinner was the greatest idea ever - now in my thirties I realize that it is literally a pain in the ass). Then I would proceed to have the greatest feast of my young life. I would get the double order of shrimp and my brother would get the double order of chicken and we would split it (even then we were plotting and planning our food intake). The main course was complemented by mushrooms, zucchini and bean sprouts, which our table chef called “Japanese spaghetti’ which I thought was hysterical. I always got the fried rice and proceeded to dump all of my shrimp sauce over it, and then I would call the waitress over and ask for even more shrimp sauce, which I would then dump over the rest of my meal. I always over ate, I always order too many Cokes and I always fell asleep in the car on the way home.

Looking back, I now see that The Samurai was kind of jive. It was really just Americanized Japanese food served with a cheesy Vegas flair. But of course, at the time I didn’t care. To me it was something special.

Footnote: I was recently in Cleveland and drove by The Samurai. It had unfortunately closed down…and had been replaced by a Benni Hanna.

Burn, Baby, Burn!

2009-11-07T14:03:00.000-08:00

I am a little ashamed to say that I enjoy certain foods if they are utterly burnt to a crisp (okay, honestly, I'm not ashamed even in the slightest - none of my food issues shame me). Some things just taste better that way. It adds extra nuance and texture to the food. I can easily eat burnt vegetables that no longer look like vegetables but rather strange alien life forms. I consider scorched cheese a delicacy. I’ll happily eat a plate of blackened chocolate chip cookies. Burnt toast? More, please!

[Note: I did say “certain foods”. Some things must be cooked perfectly or they are garbage. Obviously burnt fish is a tragedy. And if my steak is not done medium rare then I will run into the kitchen and flog you with it.]

But the greatest of all burnt foods is burnt chicken wings. Lord in heaven do they taste good! All of that charred skin and crunchy bone and blackened cartilage – yum! I’ll pop the whole wing in my mouth and eat it like it’s popcorn (which is also pretty tasty when it’s burnt). I love burnt chicken wings so much that when I’m eating chicken I’ll put the wings on a napkin by the side of my plate so I can save them for last. It’s like a little charred treat. It’s my burnt dessert – unless, of course, there’s actually a burnt chocolate chip cookie lying around. Then it’s a double burnt dessert and my mind explodes from happiness.

On a related note, although I detest the taste of coffee with every fiber of my being, for some reason I find the smell of burnt coffee very comforting. The smell is very therapeutic for me. It mellows me out. Instead of lilac or jasmine they should pump the scent of burnt coffee through every day spa in Los Angeles.

You may look at my fetish for burnt food as peculiar but I look at it turning a negative into a positive. Eating burnt food is really just getting over the fact that somebody jacked up your food. Besides, somebody’s got to eat it, right? It might as well be me. Like my JV football coach said of my skills on the football field, “ It’s like I’m trying to make chicken salad out of chicken shit with you, Pynchon!” That’s what I’m trying to do with burnt food – turn chicken shit into chicken salad…

…and burning the hell out of it so it will taste better.

The Top 5 Best Meals I've Ever Eaten - #4

2009-11-01T17:52:00.000-08:00

[In an ongoing series, I present the five greatest meals I've ever eaten. Though I have had many, these ones stick in my memory the most and, to be frank, totally kick ass.]

#4)My garden apartment in Chicago 1994 - Deluxe Grahams and French Onion Dip

Okay, this one needs some explanation. The explanation was that I was stoned out of my mind when I ate this delicious combo.

I was in my early twenties and doing theater in Chicago. I had just finished doing a play (one where I played a cheerleader and dressed in drag – don’t laugh, it’s how I met my wife) and I invited a few of my cast members to come over and chill out after the show. We had beer, snacks and, of course, um, how shall I put this; my friend “Mary Jane” was worried about the amount of “weed” in her garden so she put her flowers in a “pot”. We were quickly absolutely toasted and we just sat around like a bunch of idiots laughing, eating and listening to A Tribe Called Quest. Then my friend Jesse took his chocolate covered graham cracker cookie and dunked it into the container of generic brand French onion dip. He took a bite and a huge smile came across his face.

“Dudes, you have to try this,” was all Jesse said.

Everyone tried it and loved it. I was the lone holdout. I was stoned, but not that stoned. Putting a Deluxe Graham into French onion dip was an affront to everything I believed in. It was wrong, just plain wrong. But my friends insisted and I caved.

It was awesome. Really, really awesome. The sweetness of the cookie and the saltiness of the dip were a perfect match. And the combination of crunchy and creamy was unbearable. It was so awesome that after I ate it I had to go into my room and lie down. A half hour later, when I could finally pull my personal thing together, I got up, went back to the living room and proceed to eat half the bag of Deluxe Grahams and almost the entire container of French onion dip. It was one of the most remarkable taste sensations I’ve ever experienced.

I’ve never tried it since. I’m too scared.

Who Put The Muffin In The Bagel?

2009-10-23T21:21:00.000-07:00

Seriously, what’s up with that? I went into a bagel shop the other day and they were selling blueberry bagels.

Really? Blueberry?

A blueberry bagel is not a bagel. Don’t kid yourself. Saying that it is is an insult to all other bagels, and don’t be surprised one day if all bagels in the world rise up and kick your ass for being so ridiculous.

And, fyi, Chocolate Chip, Cranberry and Cinnamon Sugar are also not flavors of bagels. They are flavors of cookies. If you need a sweet fix, go ahead and eat them like that. But please don’t taint the essence of a bagel with such nonsense.

While we’re at it, Potato, Spinach, Sundried Tomato and Asiago Cheese are also not flavors of bagels. They are breads, and yes, a bagel is a type of bread, but why put these flavors into a circular form with a hole in it? Leave the bagel alone. What did it ever do to you?

Here is the DEFINITIVE list of what can be called a bagel:

Plain
Pumpernickel
Whole Wheat
Egg
Poppy seed

All other bagels are bullshit.

On a related note, cream cheese comes in two choices – Plain and Lox. That’s it. That’s the way God intended it when he came up with cream cheese. Garden Veggie Spread is stupid (just eat some vegetables, moron) and Strawberry Spread is for people who listen to Josh Groban.

And for those of you who are confused, Honey Almond, Jalapeno Salsa, Maple Raisin Walnut, Garlic Herb and Basil are not spreads you should use on a bagel. In fact, they are not spreads you should use on any type of food, anywhere, at any time. If you’re out of spackle and need to fill a hole in your wall, then you may use these spreads. Otherwise, don’t touch them.

I understand the need to diversify in any business. I get the need for giving the public what they want. The problem is that when people are giving too many choices they tend to choose wrong. I mean do we really need to cater to everyone’s taste? Even when their taste is bad?

I’ve often thought of opening up a bagel shop that offers only the five bagels and two cream cheeses. And I’d have a big sign on the menu board that would read:

“These are you’re only choices. We are doing this for your own good. Complain once and we ask you to leave. Complain twice and we take you out back and break your legs.”

Okay, that maybe a dumb idea.

But not any dumber than a French Toast bagel topped with Pesto cream cheese.

The Top 5 Best Meals I've Ever Eaten - #5

2009-10-18T18:36:00.000-07:00

[In an ongoing series, I present the five greatest meals I've ever eaten. Though I have had many, these ones stick in my memory the most and, to be frank, totally kick ass.]

#5) Jambon et Fromage Sandwich avec Moutard - High School Trip to Paris, 1987

For those who don’t know French this is just a ham and cheese sandwich with mustard. But, after all of these years, it is still the best goddamn sandwich I’ve ever eaten.

When I was a junior in high school I went with my French class on a spring break trip to Paris. I didn’t know what to expect, but if anything I was determined to meet an older French woman with short black hair who smoked clove cigarettes, would make out with me, smack me in the face and then make out with me again.

On the first day in the City of Lights our French teacher, Dr. Yedid, was taking us to Notre Dame when he stopped at a tiny bakery and ordered the ham and cheese sandwich.

“Trust me, you owe it to yourselves to buy one of these sandwiches. Please do so ‘en francais’”, he said.

So I bought one and it was like no sandwich I’d ever had. Thick slabs of ham, warm slices of Brie, spicy mustard and ridiculously good French bread that was both crispy and soft at the same time. But what really did it for me was that there was butter on it. Being a naïve sixteen year old, it never occurred to me that you could butter your sandwich. Who knew? Really, the butter was what brought the sandwich all together.

I was instantly hooked and Dr. Yedid and I bought a jambon et fromage sandwich avec moutard every day on our French trip. It was the highlight of the trip. Better than the Louvre, better than the Eiffel Tower, even better than our day trip to Versailles. That sandwich stills stays with me to this very day.

I never did find my older French woman, though.

Like Revenge, Leftovers Are A Dish Best Served Cold

2009-10-12T13:12:00.000-07:00

Nothing comforts me more than cold, leftover food. It soothes my weary soul. There’s something about eating leftovers cold that just makes me feel better. It’s like a security blanket, only better because you can eat it.

Some people enjoy their leftover pizza or fried chicken cold. I call these people, “amateurs”. I’ll eat any leftover cold. Yeah, that’s right, anything. I love my leftover spaghetti cold, my leftover macaroni and cheese cold, my leftover bi bim bap cold – hell, I even enjoy my leftover miso soup cold. The trifecta is leftover cold rice, leftover cold chicken breast and leftover cold grilled vegetables all mixed into a bowl. That’s what I call living!

Sometimes I prefer the cold leftovers to the original dish. When I was younger my mom used to make brisket for dinner and I always enjoyed it more the next day straight from the fridge (it is off my opinion that all meats are better the second time without reheating it, but I am way ahead of my time). I’d rip off a hunk of brisket, dunk it into a jar of Miracle Whip and chow down. Good times.

I won’t re-heat leftovers. Ever. Nope. I won’t do it and you can’t make me. My wife is utterly grossed out when she sees me eat cold leftover eggplant parmagiana and screams at me to pop it in the oven, but I refuse to budge (besides, she’s one to talk – she likes cold coffee, the freak). There’s something about re-heating leftovers that ruins the sensation for me. It’s just not comforting or special. It doesn’t taste like “leftovers” anymore. It tastes like “food that I just ate last night”. Eating leftovers cold makes them seem like an entirely brand new meal. Who doesn’t want that?

And yet I enjoy my ice cream sandwiches at room temperature. Yes, the irony is delicious.

The Importance Of Being Dessert

2009-10-09T08:59:00.000-07:00

Words cannot describe how vital dessert is to me. I constantly want it. I’d eat it everyday after lunch and dinner if I thought I wouldn’t be judged so harshly for it. In fact, those days where I do without dessert are minor triumphs for me. “Way to go, Pynchon!” I say to myself with a friendly punch to my own arm. “You white knuckled it through another day without something sweet. Good job. You should celebrate!”

And how do I celebrate? You guessed it – with dessert the next evening.

It’s not just hard for me not to have dessert; it’s hard for me not to have A LOT of dessert. I can’t have just one cookie or a sliver of pie or a handful of M&M’s (and to see how I get around this problem, see below for what I call “The Cookie Theory”). I’m not one of those people who are happy with a few spoonfuls of ice cream. My old roommate was like that. He could open up the fridge, take out his Ben and Gerry’s Cherry Garcia, eat two spoonfuls and put the pint back, completely satisfied. It made me mental when he did this, so much so that one night I took out the pint of ice cream and finished it off for – and I don’t even like Cherry Garcia! But I did it out of principle.

A little taste of something sweet at the end of the night is just something I cannot do. That thinking is just not wired in my DNA. I need massive amounts of dessert. I’ll eat less dinner if I know there’s a special treat waiting for me. Okay, that’s a lie. I’ll eat the same amount of dinner and even if I’m stuffed I’ll eat two or three fudge brownies.

I’m basically a child.

Some of you might be asking, “Why not have some lovely fruit for dessert?” I say, “Sure!” There’s nothing wrong with fruit. Fruit rocks, especially as a snack. There’s not one fruit that I won’t eat. Fruit’s fun!

But –

Is fruit “dessert”? Well, yes, but with a caveat: it’s what I like to call “dessert alternative”. Allow me to explain. On an evening where I sit down with a nice bowl of fresh mangos for dessert, I am quite content. But I’m only quite content because I have spent the previous seven evenings eating chocolate and peanut butter cupcakes and one more day of that kind of eating officially makes me a bad person. The fruit is not my penance, but it is something of a second-class citizen. It’s the JV squad. A good JV squad, but still junior varsity when it comes to dessert. So even though I am enjoying my bowl of mangos, in the back of my head is the thought, “Man, I’d be enjoying this dessert a whole lot more if it were a bowl of red velvet cake.”

And if I do go a few days with just eating fruit for dessert, how do I celebrate?

You guessed it – with dessert the next evening.

The Cookie Theory: Unless you are a diabetic or just plain stupid, nobody eats just one cookie. It can’t be done. At the very least, people eat two cookies in one sitting. Ergo, if you eat just two cookies, you are really eating just one. And if you eat four cookies you’re only eating two, and if you eat six you’re only eating three, and so on and so on. See how that works? What’s great about my cookie theory is that size doesn’t matter. It’s all about the number ratio. So go ahead and eat eight cookies in one sitting like I do.

Technically you’re only eating four.

Food So Good You Wanna Punch A Wall

2009-10-04T19:38:00.000-07:00

Is it just me or are there times that food tastes so good that it turns you violent? Are there times when you’re eating something and everything about it – the flavor, the texture, the smell – clicks with you so deep down in your soul that you are compelled to kick someone in the nuts? Okay, maybe it is just me.

But there are times when I’m eating something that is exactly what I want at that moment and it is so perfect that it completely pisses me off…in a good way. I was once in an Italian delicatessen in Cleveland eating a chicken parmagiana sub that was so good I started cursing.

“Jesus Goddman Christ! This fucking chicken parm sub is fucking kicking my fucking ass!!!”

It was like the sub gave me spontaneous and temporary Tourrets.

It doesn’t even have to be a complicated dish to send me off the deep end. I was at a farmer’s market in Los Angeles and ate a strawberry that was so sweet it was like eating candy. It enraged me so much that I started kicking a tree. The produce seller stared at me in utter shock. Embarrassed, I lied and said that I had a rock in my shoe.

The thing is, I don’t mind that eating delicious food elicits such a vehement response from me. I like getting excited about eating food. Sure maybe my anger is an inappropriate or misdirected response to my enjoyment, but so what? It just means that I have an intense passion for food.

Or maybe it means that I’m in serious need of therapy.

Onions And Ranch Dressing - Foods Of The Devil

2009-09-29T08:51:00.000-07:00

I’d like to think I’m an adventurous eater. I’ve tried and enjoyed almost every ethnic food there is. I’ll eat any meat, fish or fowl. If it’s cooked, I’ll eat a handful of insects. I’ve consumed a deep-fried Snickers Bar and lived to tell about it. I’ve even tasted a spoonful of congealed pig’s blood with turnip and tripe (and unfortunately it sounds better than it tastes).

But if you put onions on my food or place a dish of ranch dressing on the table I will run for the hills. I can’t stand either of them and they are the bane of my existence. If we did away with onions there would be no war. If we did away with ranch dressing there would be no poverty. If we did away with both we would live like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, where everyone loves one another because we are all safe in the knowledge that the evil twins of onions and ranch dressing can never harm us.

Ranch dressing is the lesser of the two evils, only because it is more stupid. It is stupid because people insist on putting it on foods when it doesn’t belong. What is the deal with people’s obsession with dipping their food in ranch dressing? Is the flavor of it that remarkable? I think not. But people continue to lap it up with foods that don’t need it in the first place. Let me cap the following sentence because it is that important: RANCH DRESSING DOES NOT BELONG WITH HOT WINGS…EVER.

Now that I’ve cleared that up, let me list other foods that it doesn’t belong with:

french fries
onion rings
potato chips
pizza
garlic bread
crudite

and, of course, salad.

Onions, though, are truly despicable. They ruin the taste of everything. No matter how it’s prepared I always taste the onion first. And I can’t stand it when I’m at a restaurant and they don’t mention onions in the descriptions of their food but yet there are onions on it anyway. I have wasted many a lunchtime picking tiny little onions out of my salad because the menu never stated it came with the little bastards. And nothing makes my head explode more than biting into a sandwich and finding an onion in it. That’s it. I’m done. Throw the sandwich away and get me some Listermint because I am no longer eating.

Unfortunately, my hatred of onions makes it a challenge to eat my favorite foods. I love Thai food and Thai restaurants love cooking with onions. They also like topping their dishes with scallions. But if just say, “no onions” they still put scallions on it. It’s like scallions aren’t considered part of the evil onion family. So I have to order my meal with “no onions and no scallions”. Sometimes, just to get my point across, I say “no onions, no scallions and no green onions”. The Thai waitress always stares at me like I’m the dumbest man alive (which she may have a good point if you think about it).

A lot if my friends and family suggest I get over my onion and ranch dressing phobias. They say I should learn to enjoy the flavor of onions. They tell me to embrace the taste of ranch. But I remain resolute. People need to understand that onions and ranch dressing are the foods of the devil. Someone has to fight that good fight. Someone has to stand up against the tyranny of evil. Someone has to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight.

That someone is me.

Brunch Sucks

2009-09-22T15:09:00.000-07:00

Next to jeans with pleats, brunch is the worst idea ever. The concept of it truly irks me.

Firstly, I wake up early, so getting up in the morning and then waiting several hours to eat is just stupid to me. Breakfast as a meal itself is incredibly overrated (unlike lunch, which everyone knows is the best meal ever), so I’d just as soon eat some fruit or yogurt and be done with it. Do I really need to eat Eggs Florentine at eleven in the morning?

Secondly, what happens to my beloved lunch if I eat brunch? It disappears is what it happens. No one eats a lunch between a brunch and a dinner. That means brunch has replaced lunch and when that happens we have anarchy and, soon after, Communism. I’ll be damned if I’m going waste a fine tuna sandwich just to eat some Challa French Toast with Boysenberry Compote. I’m an American, for Christ’s sake!

Thirdly, most of the food at brunches are so friggin’ heavy. It beats you down. Eggs Benedict, Chai Spice Pumpkin Pancakes, Chorizo and Kalamata Olive Breakfast Burrito, House Cured Salmon with a Green Peppercorn Sauce, etc. That stuff just lies in your stomach all day. I never want to do anything after I’ve eaten brunch. All I want to do afterwards is lie down with my pants off and fart. And trust me, NO ONE wants that.

But I think the worst thing about brunch is the people who are really, really into it. People who love brunch are kind of annoying (they remind me of the people who are really into Pilates). First of all they are selfish. They want to be able to eat breakfasts foods without the hassle of having to get up early. Then they always have to inform you about THE place to go for brunch.

“Oh, you have to go to Hugo’s for brunch. It’s amazing. They make a four-egg frittata dish that will blow you away. You have to go.”

Really? I have to? I have to go stand outside for an hour waiting to eat a meal that I have no interest in eating and then pay $12.50 for it?

And these people love nothing more than inviting you over to their house for a three-hour brunch. They are so happy to be making you brunch that they border on delirium. They’ve laid out muffins and assorted pastries on a white linen table, they have fresh ground coffee and organic tea brewing, they have scented candles lit and they’ve put a Jewel cd on the stereo. It’s excruciating. And when they pipe up and say, “I got up at 5am this morning to make my famous homemade muesli!”, I know I’m in for a long Sunday.

Brunch sucks.

Don't Trust Non-Foodies

2009-09-14T15:42:00.000-07:00

There are many golden rules when it comes to not trusting someone. Never trust anyone with a weak handshake, because he or she is just lying in wait, biding his or her time to passively aggressively screw you. You must never trust someone who uses the adverb “very” twice in a row – that person will most certainly fuck you. But the most golden of all the golden rules of trust is this:

Never, ever, EVER trust someone who says they are not really into food.

The minute you hear these words spoken from an individual, run away, as said individual probably has a shiv in their hand and is about to jam it into your larynx. People who say that they really don’t care about food are evil incarnate.

I love food. I love talking about it, hearing about it and thinking about it. And I can’t believe that there are people in this world who just don’t give it much thought. What the hell is wrong with these people? How (and why) do they exist?

The worst is when I hear them say this: “Yeah, I was just so busy today that I forgot to eat.” People that say such things are horrible people who probably cheat on their spouses and kick puppies. I mean, come on. You forgot to eat?! What the hell is wrong with you?!! Let me make one thing perfectly clear: Never in my life have I “forgotten” to eat a meal. There have been many times where I’ve been so busy that I’ve never had time to eat, but I’ve certainly never forgotten about it. In fact, the entire time I am busy being busy, the only thing that runs through my head is, “Jesus Goddamn Christ, why the crap am I not eating right now!”

People who aren’t into food are the same dildos who love to exclaim, “Well, I do have a TV, but I don’t watch it.” They are so proud of themselves of that fact. First of all, if that’s true, you are a moron for having the TV in the first place. Secondly, if you’re lying, whom are you trying to impress? It’s the same with food. Saying you’re not into it is just another way of thinking you are cool and better than everyone else. Unless you really don’t like food, which then means you are clinically insane.

Now, I don’t discriminate on what types of food a person loves. I live in Los Angeles and have had my fair share of tofu, baby broccoli and brown rice. But I also grew up in the Midwest, where a corned beef sandwich is considered healthy because it’s topped with coleslaw and French fries. The point is to love your food. To merely say food is “just fuel for the body” is ridiculous. It’s like saying, “I just have sex to procreate.” I have no faith in people who think that way. Do not put your hopes and dreams into people who don’t care about food. They will always let you down.

It’s no coincidence that the people closest to me are the ones who like food the most. When my best friend goes to Bob’s Big Boy he orders the Western Omelet and a tuna sandwich on rye…for breakfast. One of my friends always insists on ordering an extra pizza because four people looking down on the last slice of pepperoni makes him nervous. And another of my friends goes to McDonald’s everyday, twice a day, for a month when the McRib comes out.

Now those are people you can trust.

If you love food - welcome! If you don't - rot in hell.

2009-09-11T15:02:00.000-07:00

“One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.” - Luciano Pavarotti

“Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what's for lunch.” – Orson Wells

Ever since man learned that throwing raw meat on an open flame would make it taste better than just eating it raw, there have been foodies. I would bet anything that the minute that all of the cavemen and cavewomen started digging into that delicious charred flesh with their bare hands one of them piped up with, “Hey, you know what? This bison meat has some nice flavor, but if we added some seasoning to it before we cooked it, its flavors would be even bolder and more pronounced.” And after all of them beat this caveman senseless they probably did add some seasoning to their meat the next time they cooked it and they probably did enjoy it more.

Such was the life of a caveman foodie.

Not much has changed in the plight of us foodies.* You give your opinion even when no one gives a damn in the hopes that people will come around to your way of thinking about food. If you are wrong you get your ass kicked. If you are right you are begrudgingly acknowledged – and you still get your ass kicked.

I think the reason people are so passionate about the food they love (besides the flavor, of course) is because there can be no objectivity in it. You either like the way something tastes or you don’t. There is no in between. There is no, “Although I have just vomited from trying to eat this stinky tofu, I can understand and appreciate why someone else would enjoy it.”

In a way, food is a lot like comedy. Both are totally subjective. If someone makes you laugh, you want to keep listening to them. If they don’t make you laugh, you want to punch that person in the neck until they go away. It’s the same with food. If someone has you try something and you like it, you want to keep trying it. If you don’t like it, you want to punch that person in the neck until they go away.

But it’s always worth it to talk about food.

{*And yes, I consider myself a foodie, though I can’t cook, don’t have expert taste buds and have a laundry list of food dislikes. But I love to consume food, am very opinionated about it as well as very vocal about it. So think of me as a younger Anthony Bourdain – only with less culinary knowledge and not as cool hair.}