I think in my next life I'm going to be not a food critic again, but the operator of a sno-cone wagon. Today's visit to the sno-cone wagon that can be found on the sidewalk in front of Unclaimed Carpet convinced me of that. For one thing, the profits must be phenomenal! I mean, basically you're selling frozen water with syrup poured on it. So a sno-cone wagon may be in my future. And how often can you say that!
After wandering in a stupor through the aisles and aisles of Unclaimed Carpet, numbed by the smell of carpet padding and dizzied by the carpet rolls that towered above me, I was in the mood for lunch. And what better way to satisfy your appetite than a sno-cone?
First, let me describe the cart. This stainless-steel sno-cone wagon draws in the eye like a Venus Fly-Trap. The white powder finish, combined with the charming bicycle wheels, made me feel that I had been transported to a childhood beach. It was 1974 again, AM radio had gone completely insane, and 7up ads were everywhere. The perfect day for a sno-cone!
After being magnetized by the wagon, I next spoke with the owner/operator of the wagon, "Mr. Phelps." "What are you having?" he asked. Let me tell you, the variety of sno-cone flavors is phenomenal. After looking through a thick binder of plastic sheets listing the thousands of flavors, I finally settled on Lime.
How shall I describe the sno-cone? Oddly, it isn't precisely a cone. And it isn't literally made of snow. But, as they say, it is what it is. While the ice was a bit occluded, and I suspected the water was not fresh from a spring but perhaps had gushed from a garden hose, I did find the Lime syrup to be piquant and intriguing. In fact, I bought a jug of it to bring home with me. I think I'll pour a glass of it right now!
Overall, my visit to the Sno-Cone wagon was exactly what it needed to be. Though it may not have been the finest sno-cone I've ever had, the Lime cone was cold, syrupy, and solid. The service, as performed by the indefatigable Mr. Phelps, was exemplary. All in all, a good experience, especially after the confusion and exhaustion of shopping at Unclaimed Carpet. And so I award the Sno-Cone wagon Three Ice Shavers!
Monday, March 29, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The Sleepy Chapel Sandwich Shoppe
This afternoon I stopped for lunch at the Sleepy Chapel Sandwich Shoppe. This eatery is located in the shopping district of Villageville, a place I had avoided for years because for some mysterious reason the drive up there always induced a panic attack in me. What was it about the sedated greenery on the sides of the highway, the droning scent of summer and slumber, that made me feel trapped in my own car as I drove to Villageville? Painful thoughts attacked my psyche as I stayed in the right lane so as to be able to exit whenever I wanted to (much as some people like to sit near the exit in a movie theater, in case the figures on the screen loom too large, and the excessive soundtrack pummel the delicate mind). This somnolent village, once I'd arrived, seemed pleasant but oddly disturbing in its agrarian gentlemanliness. But I always made the trip because of my love for the Sleepy Chapel. Every year I would overcome my anxiety, get in my car with a well-highlighted set of printouts from the automobile association's site, and set forth for Villageville. And today I again had the longing to visit Villageville. After the car trip, which for once was in no way harrowing, oddly enough--my experiences last year traveling to numerous eating establishments may have inured me for good to interstate driving--I parked in the municipal dirt pit, got my ticket, and made my way to my destination, the one-of-a-kind Sleepy Chapel Sandwich Shoppe.
The Shoppe itself is, like many of the other buildings in Villageville, a red brick building which seems to absorb somehow the heat of the sun and to be in a state of endless drowsiness. How amazed I was to see that the Shoppe, which a year ago had opened at 10 am (which I consider rather late for a restaurant) now, according to the sign in the window (a cartoon chef held on a tray a clock with moveable red hands) was to open at 11. Eleven o'clock! I pulled out my cellphone and noted that it was now 10:30. I had exactly a half hour to spend waiting for the Shoppe to open. What would I do? What was going on with the Shoppe that their hours of operation were becoming more and more circumscribed? I decided to go for a brief stroll, walking for fifteen minutes in one direction, upon which point I would turn in the opposite direction, taking another fifteen minutes to return to the Sandwich Shoppe. I thought it just might do the trick, and bring me back to the restaurant in time for opening.
As I strolled along Village Street (not to be confused with nearby Village Road, Village Avenue, Villageville Street, and Village Circle), I glanced into the windows of the shops. The paint everywhere was peeling. A number of charming thrift shops charmed me, but I was intent on keeping my senses clear until I was ready to dine at Sleepy Chapel. Finding a long-lost childhood lunchbox might skew my critical eye for the entire day, and that would be doing you, the readers of these reviews, a grave disservice.
After my half-hour's walk, I stepped into the Sandwich Shoppe. And who did I see sitting at one of the antiqued, green wrought-iron tables but my old friend Jacques Wool? I rushed to greet him, tripping on a rug but quickly righting myself. I shook hands with Jacques and sat down to join him for lunch.
"I see you have overcome your little anxieties and have made the trek to Villageville!" Wool said. "Though sometimes I wonder whether it is indeed worth the effort. The Sleepy Sandwich is not what it used to be. That is for certain!" Jacques leaned back in his chair and a gale of laughter stormed from his lips. Jacques continued, more soberly, "Once, I told you to check this place out. But you must realize, I am only human. And so is this Sandwich Shoppe! This may no longer be the food palace I once deemed it to be. This may be my last time in this joint. I am glad that you were able to be here for my farewell to Villageville!"
The waitroid arrived then. As usual, Jacques ordered the cigar-flavored smoothie. I decided on the wonderful Eggless Omelet (all the ingredients you'd expect in an omelet, without the eggs--we're talking genius, here!). "I mean, really," Jacques stated, "is it worth the angst? You look like a ghost, man! Like a freaking specter!" Jacques cackled. "And for what? A plate full of diced ham and onions? I don't think so. You make the harrowing journey to Villageville once a year, and something about driving on that interstate gives you anxiety attacks--big time!" As we talked, I noticed that they'd turned on the music. The Buggles' "Living in the Plastic Age" was playing. "I haven't heard that one in years," I said. Jacques said, "What, the phrase 'big time'?" Our waitroid returned and set down our lunch. Before the server could leave, Jacques clenched his forearm and said, "Wait a moment, R2D2. I want to ask you a question. There's a big tip in it for you if you have the correct answer." Jacques blew a personified cloud of smoke into the air and said, "My friend here has a problem. I think he has a certain sensitivity that is making him act strangely when he comes to Villageville." The waitroid looked at Jacques quizzically. Jacques said, "I think our friend here has a morbid sensitivity to...pinecones!" The server looked at though Jacques were either being nice to him or mocking him, and he couldn't be sure. "Pinecones?" he asked. Jacques said, "Yes, I think the highway to Villageville is lined with many pinecones, and these cause him to have a strange reaction. Maybe he was traumatized in the past. Maybe as a child a pinecone hit him on the noggin--and now he is afraid of them!" Jacques laughed heartily and pounded the table with his fist. "Whatever you do, do not--and I mean, do not--serve this man pinecones!" The waitroid answered noncommittally, and walked away. "What in Hades was that all about?" I asked Jacques. "Oh," Jacques said, forming a devilish point at the end of his Van Dyke beard, "you will see soon enough. Now that I've broached the subject, the true import of the symbolism will penetrate your subconscious mind." I started tucking into my omelet, pulling the sheet over my nose and mouth. "Jacques," I said, "you're a loon." Jacques slurped his cigar smoothie. It sounded like the suction in a dentist's office. "My friend, you need to get at the root of these phobias. But perhaps the Sleepy Sandwich is not the place for such explorations."
The omelet as usual was fantastic. The diced ham and onions were well-polished and clicked pleasantly in my spoon. Jacques seemed to find his cigar smoothie rather satisfying--it appeared to put him in a mellow mood. "Did I ever tell you," Jacques said, "about the aspiring food critic who never actually ate at any of the restaurants he reviewed? Scandalous! He simply picked up copies of their take-out menu's and made up reviews out of whole cloth. Imagine! And no one was none the wiser--not any, not one!" Jacques absently tapped his forehead with his spoon. "Of course, he was apprehended. People cannot go through these kinds of clandestine machinations without being exposed. The idiot, he wrote a review of a restaurant that had been turned into a reptile shop! You can imagine how his editors reacted to that review when he phoned it in to them. They threw him out into the street! You may have your numerous faults as a restaurant critic, my friend, but at least you visit the eateries you are reviewing! I can say that much for you. You give us at least that much credit as readers--darn it, as human beings! Food criticism is not a game of jumping jacks!" At this Jacques slammed his fist on the table. "Food criticism is the most highly evolved form of reviewing in our century--and this man was playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey with it! Madness! Who knows how many people, taking him at his word, journeyed down to that reptile shop expecting it to be Shambles' Steakhouse? It's an insult! A literal insult!" Jacques' face was flushed with anger as he sat there panting, his aviator glasses misted over with rage, like seeing a red neon light through a car window on a rainy, foggy night. After a few minutes of trembling fury, Jacques seemed to calm down again. He slurped his cigar smoothie once more, then shrugged with upturned palms and pursed lips. "But if that's how he wanted to play the game, who am I to say no? I am not Milton Bradley."
The waitroid returned and offered us dessert. I love dessert at Sleepy Chapel. I ordered the avocado cobbler; Jacques had the Calcium-Lover's Sundae. Lunch with Jacques was amazing always, but I needed to psychically prepare myself for the stressful ride home. "You think about those pinecones," Jacques reinforced as he shook my hand. Oddly though, as I pulled my car onto Village Street, the prospect of driving on the highway no longer caused me any anxiety. In fact, I was home before I knew it. Perhaps talking with Jacques had done the trick. Or more likely it was the confidence I'd gained through my many food-inspired roadtrips and daytrips of the previous year. Whatever the cause of my newfound calmness on the interstate, it showed that just as I could get used to new dishes like the fabulous avocado cobbler, so could I get used to the unfamiliar road to Villageville. I was glad I had overcome this driving phobia, because I had already begun to map out a number of restaurants in the surrounding area that I wished to travel to and enjoy.
The Shoppe itself is, like many of the other buildings in Villageville, a red brick building which seems to absorb somehow the heat of the sun and to be in a state of endless drowsiness. How amazed I was to see that the Shoppe, which a year ago had opened at 10 am (which I consider rather late for a restaurant) now, according to the sign in the window (a cartoon chef held on a tray a clock with moveable red hands) was to open at 11. Eleven o'clock! I pulled out my cellphone and noted that it was now 10:30. I had exactly a half hour to spend waiting for the Shoppe to open. What would I do? What was going on with the Shoppe that their hours of operation were becoming more and more circumscribed? I decided to go for a brief stroll, walking for fifteen minutes in one direction, upon which point I would turn in the opposite direction, taking another fifteen minutes to return to the Sandwich Shoppe. I thought it just might do the trick, and bring me back to the restaurant in time for opening.
As I strolled along Village Street (not to be confused with nearby Village Road, Village Avenue, Villageville Street, and Village Circle), I glanced into the windows of the shops. The paint everywhere was peeling. A number of charming thrift shops charmed me, but I was intent on keeping my senses clear until I was ready to dine at Sleepy Chapel. Finding a long-lost childhood lunchbox might skew my critical eye for the entire day, and that would be doing you, the readers of these reviews, a grave disservice.
After my half-hour's walk, I stepped into the Sandwich Shoppe. And who did I see sitting at one of the antiqued, green wrought-iron tables but my old friend Jacques Wool? I rushed to greet him, tripping on a rug but quickly righting myself. I shook hands with Jacques and sat down to join him for lunch.
"I see you have overcome your little anxieties and have made the trek to Villageville!" Wool said. "Though sometimes I wonder whether it is indeed worth the effort. The Sleepy Sandwich is not what it used to be. That is for certain!" Jacques leaned back in his chair and a gale of laughter stormed from his lips. Jacques continued, more soberly, "Once, I told you to check this place out. But you must realize, I am only human. And so is this Sandwich Shoppe! This may no longer be the food palace I once deemed it to be. This may be my last time in this joint. I am glad that you were able to be here for my farewell to Villageville!"
The waitroid arrived then. As usual, Jacques ordered the cigar-flavored smoothie. I decided on the wonderful Eggless Omelet (all the ingredients you'd expect in an omelet, without the eggs--we're talking genius, here!). "I mean, really," Jacques stated, "is it worth the angst? You look like a ghost, man! Like a freaking specter!" Jacques cackled. "And for what? A plate full of diced ham and onions? I don't think so. You make the harrowing journey to Villageville once a year, and something about driving on that interstate gives you anxiety attacks--big time!" As we talked, I noticed that they'd turned on the music. The Buggles' "Living in the Plastic Age" was playing. "I haven't heard that one in years," I said. Jacques said, "What, the phrase 'big time'?" Our waitroid returned and set down our lunch. Before the server could leave, Jacques clenched his forearm and said, "Wait a moment, R2D2. I want to ask you a question. There's a big tip in it for you if you have the correct answer." Jacques blew a personified cloud of smoke into the air and said, "My friend here has a problem. I think he has a certain sensitivity that is making him act strangely when he comes to Villageville." The waitroid looked at Jacques quizzically. Jacques said, "I think our friend here has a morbid sensitivity to...pinecones!" The server looked at though Jacques were either being nice to him or mocking him, and he couldn't be sure. "Pinecones?" he asked. Jacques said, "Yes, I think the highway to Villageville is lined with many pinecones, and these cause him to have a strange reaction. Maybe he was traumatized in the past. Maybe as a child a pinecone hit him on the noggin--and now he is afraid of them!" Jacques laughed heartily and pounded the table with his fist. "Whatever you do, do not--and I mean, do not--serve this man pinecones!" The waitroid answered noncommittally, and walked away. "What in Hades was that all about?" I asked Jacques. "Oh," Jacques said, forming a devilish point at the end of his Van Dyke beard, "you will see soon enough. Now that I've broached the subject, the true import of the symbolism will penetrate your subconscious mind." I started tucking into my omelet, pulling the sheet over my nose and mouth. "Jacques," I said, "you're a loon." Jacques slurped his cigar smoothie. It sounded like the suction in a dentist's office. "My friend, you need to get at the root of these phobias. But perhaps the Sleepy Sandwich is not the place for such explorations."
The omelet as usual was fantastic. The diced ham and onions were well-polished and clicked pleasantly in my spoon. Jacques seemed to find his cigar smoothie rather satisfying--it appeared to put him in a mellow mood. "Did I ever tell you," Jacques said, "about the aspiring food critic who never actually ate at any of the restaurants he reviewed? Scandalous! He simply picked up copies of their take-out menu's and made up reviews out of whole cloth. Imagine! And no one was none the wiser--not any, not one!" Jacques absently tapped his forehead with his spoon. "Of course, he was apprehended. People cannot go through these kinds of clandestine machinations without being exposed. The idiot, he wrote a review of a restaurant that had been turned into a reptile shop! You can imagine how his editors reacted to that review when he phoned it in to them. They threw him out into the street! You may have your numerous faults as a restaurant critic, my friend, but at least you visit the eateries you are reviewing! I can say that much for you. You give us at least that much credit as readers--darn it, as human beings! Food criticism is not a game of jumping jacks!" At this Jacques slammed his fist on the table. "Food criticism is the most highly evolved form of reviewing in our century--and this man was playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey with it! Madness! Who knows how many people, taking him at his word, journeyed down to that reptile shop expecting it to be Shambles' Steakhouse? It's an insult! A literal insult!" Jacques' face was flushed with anger as he sat there panting, his aviator glasses misted over with rage, like seeing a red neon light through a car window on a rainy, foggy night. After a few minutes of trembling fury, Jacques seemed to calm down again. He slurped his cigar smoothie once more, then shrugged with upturned palms and pursed lips. "But if that's how he wanted to play the game, who am I to say no? I am not Milton Bradley."
The waitroid returned and offered us dessert. I love dessert at Sleepy Chapel. I ordered the avocado cobbler; Jacques had the Calcium-Lover's Sundae. Lunch with Jacques was amazing always, but I needed to psychically prepare myself for the stressful ride home. "You think about those pinecones," Jacques reinforced as he shook my hand. Oddly though, as I pulled my car onto Village Street, the prospect of driving on the highway no longer caused me any anxiety. In fact, I was home before I knew it. Perhaps talking with Jacques had done the trick. Or more likely it was the confidence I'd gained through my many food-inspired roadtrips and daytrips of the previous year. Whatever the cause of my newfound calmness on the interstate, it showed that just as I could get used to new dishes like the fabulous avocado cobbler, so could I get used to the unfamiliar road to Villageville. I was glad I had overcome this driving phobia, because I had already begun to map out a number of restaurants in the surrounding area that I wished to travel to and enjoy.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Back to the Egg: the Beginnings of a Food Critic
Long before I dreamed of being a food critic, I wanted to be a magician. Crazy, huh? No, it's magical. I was obsessed with magic. The embryonic food critic was a little boy in a tuxedo and a magic set. From the public library I checked out a book, no doubt some instant-bargain reprint (on cheap newsprint) of a book from the 1930's (I imagine) by somebody named Duninger (sp?) all about how to perform magic tricks. I'll google it later (google it later--isn't that everybody's motto now? Unless it's "google it now.") I remember my wand, black with white tips at both ends. I remember the black bowls, the coins, the rings, the scarves. All in a package for Christmas. I was going to be a magician. I was obsessed with Houdini. I watched a TV Movie called "The Great Houdinis" (plural--it was about his wife as well). I read paperback books about Houdini. I remember the local mall/indoor amusement park had a magic history exhibit. I saw Houdini's straitjacket! That mall also had a magic shop. I'd go there and buy tricks--for a while, but soon I started buying the gags and novelties instead, until at last I bought only the coverless (!) comics they sold there (I found a copy of The Great Gazoo). That mall is out of business now. I wanted so bad to be a magician. I was everything T.S. Eliot said about Edgar Allan Poe, except I really was a nine-year-old boy (or whatever age Eliot claimed Poe was stuck in). I think I bought Blue Oyster Cult's (umlaut to be provided later if never, I'm feeling lazy--can't you tell?) Agents of Fortune LP (on vinyl!) because of the mysterious picture of the magician on the cover. The strange glyph. The intriguing cards (I didn't know they were Tarot cards then. In my early twenties I became obsessed with the Tarot). And so I thought I would become a magician in later life, little dreaming (little dreaming!) that I would become instead the world's foremost food critic. What a twisted, misted labyrinth that led from that midwestern magic shop to my place at the forefront of culinary theory. Back to the egg, indeed!
But--you must be asking--show us the thread and how it leads from one dream to another, please! I'd say I probably always was a food critic. Because I indeed was that child who people stated "ate like a bird." Ate like a bird! What kind of bird? A vulture? A hawk? No, I know what they meant, they meant some tiny pipsqueak of a feathered friend, chirping and chirruping, pecking and picking, eating crumbs, ah, not a ravenous lion tearing great chunks of meatloaf from his plate. That's what they wanted to see. But I, alas, had a bird's beak, not a lion's fang. Looking back, now, I see that what I possessed was greater than both of those things, for I was endowed with a little thing called "taste." Because I was able to make disinctions, even back then. I knew that King Vitaman (note the spelling--not "Vitamin" but "Vita-Man" in other words "VITAL MAN"--what crazed fantasies of virility were being packaged in these cereal boxes??) was much more interesting than Cheerio's. What could be less "cheery, oh!" than a bowl of Cheerio's, I thought as a child. Those sad, round oat rings floating pitifully in a milk bowl, the milk usually over-sweetened with grains of sugar since the stuff was inedible without adding at least seven lumps to it, and the sogginess of the rings as they became saturated with warming, sickeningly sweet milk. Where's my King Vitaman? Don't give me these nihilistic, life-despising circles of pathos! Give me my King Vitaman! And when that happened, when I decided that I preferred KV to Cheerio's, that was a mind-blowing, earth-tilting epiphanic moment that decided it for me. I put down my wand and picked up my food-critic's notepad. And I never looked back!
As a food critic, I must make judgements. I must use the sword of criticism to divide the good from the bad, cuisine-wise. And most of all I must preserve your trust in me, as I promise not to lead you astray. I pledge that if a meal, no matter how trendy, tastes like chalk tablets to my tastebuds, I will report that to you. I recall walking up to shoppers in the supermarket as a child and warning them about products they were intent on buying. "No!" I howled. "Don't make the mistake of purchasing those jars of peanut butter already mixed with jelly! I had some last month and it's horrific! Please don't do that to yourselves!" And with crazed gestures like some insane symphony conductor I pulled boxes of Chicken-in-a-Biscuit off the shelves and threw them into their shopping carts. "Eat this stuff instead! I promise, you won't be sorry. Aw, you gotta listen to me. That stuff is just no darn good!" Soon I was tossing jars of canned heart-of-palm into the carts as well, as I stood there windmilling my arms, racked with frustrated, altruistic sobs. And so, a food critic was born. If there's a hero in this story, it's that little boy that I was, howling as he tosses bottles of Squirt and boxes of Quisp into the shopping carts of clueless consumers. Soon, of course, I began to speak up not just in supermarkets but in restaurants, and here my career as a food critic begins in earnest. If I saw somebody pouring ketchup on their fries at McDonald's, it was all I could do as a youngster not to flap my hands in their face and ask them if they'd never heard of vinegar. "Sour? Available in bottles? Good on French fries?" I began typing little reviews of restaurants on index cards and thumb-tacking them to telephone poles. I graduated to borrowing the school mimeograph machine to turn out purple copies of my restaurant criticism. Soon, as you know, I was given the Food Critic Prodigy Award . I was well on my way to greatness as a food critic. But of course, it's a "Long and Winding Road" from here to there.
In between those early days and now there were many periods of transition as my tastebuds evolved. (For example, as a child I couldn't abide calamari, whereas now it's practically all I eat--or at least that's what some people would tell you!) I won't pretend that I haven't made a few food faux pas on my road to greatness. I was one of the first critics to predict that aerosol lard would soon be a tableside staple--what was I thinking?! But all in all, I think I've hit more bullseyes and stuck fewer bystanders with my opinions. And now with the Internet, I have a way of instantly seed-casting my insights across the entire solar system--even to colonized Mars!
I want to thank you for joining me on this journey from the embryonic magician that spellbound his schoolmates and teachers, to the courageous food-reformer taking a stand in the grocery aisles, all the way to the successful, complacent food guru who rules the cyber waves! Remember, it's not how the chef stirs the food, it's how the food stirs you!
But--you must be asking--show us the thread and how it leads from one dream to another, please! I'd say I probably always was a food critic. Because I indeed was that child who people stated "ate like a bird." Ate like a bird! What kind of bird? A vulture? A hawk? No, I know what they meant, they meant some tiny pipsqueak of a feathered friend, chirping and chirruping, pecking and picking, eating crumbs, ah, not a ravenous lion tearing great chunks of meatloaf from his plate. That's what they wanted to see. But I, alas, had a bird's beak, not a lion's fang. Looking back, now, I see that what I possessed was greater than both of those things, for I was endowed with a little thing called "taste." Because I was able to make disinctions, even back then. I knew that King Vitaman (note the spelling--not "Vitamin" but "Vita-Man" in other words "VITAL MAN"--what crazed fantasies of virility were being packaged in these cereal boxes??) was much more interesting than Cheerio's. What could be less "cheery, oh!" than a bowl of Cheerio's, I thought as a child. Those sad, round oat rings floating pitifully in a milk bowl, the milk usually over-sweetened with grains of sugar since the stuff was inedible without adding at least seven lumps to it, and the sogginess of the rings as they became saturated with warming, sickeningly sweet milk. Where's my King Vitaman? Don't give me these nihilistic, life-despising circles of pathos! Give me my King Vitaman! And when that happened, when I decided that I preferred KV to Cheerio's, that was a mind-blowing, earth-tilting epiphanic moment that decided it for me. I put down my wand and picked up my food-critic's notepad. And I never looked back!
As a food critic, I must make judgements. I must use the sword of criticism to divide the good from the bad, cuisine-wise. And most of all I must preserve your trust in me, as I promise not to lead you astray. I pledge that if a meal, no matter how trendy, tastes like chalk tablets to my tastebuds, I will report that to you. I recall walking up to shoppers in the supermarket as a child and warning them about products they were intent on buying. "No!" I howled. "Don't make the mistake of purchasing those jars of peanut butter already mixed with jelly! I had some last month and it's horrific! Please don't do that to yourselves!" And with crazed gestures like some insane symphony conductor I pulled boxes of Chicken-in-a-Biscuit off the shelves and threw them into their shopping carts. "Eat this stuff instead! I promise, you won't be sorry. Aw, you gotta listen to me. That stuff is just no darn good!" Soon I was tossing jars of canned heart-of-palm into the carts as well, as I stood there windmilling my arms, racked with frustrated, altruistic sobs. And so, a food critic was born. If there's a hero in this story, it's that little boy that I was, howling as he tosses bottles of Squirt and boxes of Quisp into the shopping carts of clueless consumers. Soon, of course, I began to speak up not just in supermarkets but in restaurants, and here my career as a food critic begins in earnest. If I saw somebody pouring ketchup on their fries at McDonald's, it was all I could do as a youngster not to flap my hands in their face and ask them if they'd never heard of vinegar. "Sour? Available in bottles? Good on French fries?" I began typing little reviews of restaurants on index cards and thumb-tacking them to telephone poles. I graduated to borrowing the school mimeograph machine to turn out purple copies of my restaurant criticism. Soon, as you know, I was given the Food Critic Prodigy Award . I was well on my way to greatness as a food critic. But of course, it's a "Long and Winding Road" from here to there.
In between those early days and now there were many periods of transition as my tastebuds evolved. (For example, as a child I couldn't abide calamari, whereas now it's practically all I eat--or at least that's what some people would tell you!) I won't pretend that I haven't made a few food faux pas on my road to greatness. I was one of the first critics to predict that aerosol lard would soon be a tableside staple--what was I thinking?! But all in all, I think I've hit more bullseyes and stuck fewer bystanders with my opinions. And now with the Internet, I have a way of instantly seed-casting my insights across the entire solar system--even to colonized Mars!
I want to thank you for joining me on this journey from the embryonic magician that spellbound his schoolmates and teachers, to the courageous food-reformer taking a stand in the grocery aisles, all the way to the successful, complacent food guru who rules the cyber waves! Remember, it's not how the chef stirs the food, it's how the food stirs you!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Foghorn Seafood
On TV sitcoms, when somebody gets a new job it's always one their friends don't know about at a fast-food place. (Fast food, convenience food, quick serve, whatever). And there is one thing that always happens to this person. Two things. First, they are always made to wear an embarrassing cap. This cap is never the kind you actually encounter in a fast-food establishment--it always has a large spring attached to it from which bounces and bobs a giant chicken. And the person's friends always show up at the restaurant and get in line when the character is working the register. No, three things. For some reason unfathomable to me, television screenwriters believe that persons who work for fast food eateries are given company cars. The company car the character is given always has a (giant) chicken attached to the roof of it, much as the chicken is attached to his cap, though not on a spring. (Spring chicken? That is not where I was going with this observation). Anyway. Foghorn Seafood ("Where the food is never forlorn") is just the kind of place a sitcom character might get a job at, but in a good way. I'd had a hankering for seafood, so I stopped in at Foghorn this afternoon for lunch. If you're not from North Carolina, you don't know that there are two kinds of seafood in the piedmont state: Eastern (beach) style seafood and Western (mountain) style seafood. Now some purists may prefer Western seafood, but I myself, and perhaps it's a guilty pleasure, prefer the seafood that is served near the Atlantic ocean. While Western tartar sauce has its own flair, I suspect that most of you will agree with me (and you had better) that oceanside seafood is cooler. Now that we've gotten that little debate out of the way, let's talk Foghorn. Now remember, Foghorn is fast food, so there are no servers. You must take your place in line with the rest and read your selection not from a menu but from a menu board (huge distinction). There are two parts to this menu board: the main section, for adults, is subheaded "Old Salts." The smaller section is dubbed "Little Sea Monsters," which contains offerings for children. From "Old Salts," I ordered the beer-battered octopus-suckers with a side of anchovy fries, washed down with bottled saltwater. Now, some argue that saltwater in a bottle is no different from saltwater direct from the ocean, but I beg to differ. Bottled saltwater is better, and I can prove it. The atmosphere in Foghorn is what you'd expect in a quick-serve emporium--primary colors, plastic, music you would never willingly listen to. The octopus-suckers were scrumptious, and the anchovy fries some of the best I've encountered. I really love how the anchovy fries make you thirsty, and the saltwater you drink to ease your thirst makes you ever more parched than before! It's a lot like life. And it's a lot like lunch at Foghorn Seafood, which I'm giving a solid three tentacles!
Monday, March 15, 2010
Golly's
What's the first LP you ever bought? Chances are it's framed and hanging on the walls at Golly's. Winner of the "best credit-card folder" award from my 2009 Restaurant Round-up, Golly's gives you all the nostalgia with none of the neuralgia. Dig? My first LP (vinyl of course) was K-Tel's Fantastic, which came out in 1973, I believe. I remember my parents buying it for me at Sears. I remember walking past the 1970's furniture department to the record department. Does Sears even still sell records? What an album! Whatever happened to Gunhill Road? Anyway, I was pleased as spiked punch when I was seated at Golly's and saw Fantastic on the wall right next to my booth. At Golly's, the platters on the table aren't the only platters you'll love! As I gazed at the cover, which I suddenly realized in a humbling ephiphany actually depicts the 7 colors of the spectrum--yes, Roy G. Biv himself--I recalled such favorites as "Back When My Hair was Short" by the aforementioned Gunhill Road and "Hocus Pocus" by Focus, just to name a couple from this 22-track cornucopia (22 Hits!! 20!!). You can imagine how sweetly thrilled I was when the server approached my table with my frosted glass of Squirt and apparently noticing me looking fondly at the album cover, stated, "You know, if you press the PLAY button beneath the cover, you can hear the album!" I had no idea. I mashed the button with enthusiasm and sat back with my Squirt as "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree" dangled above my head from the ceiling like some musical sword of Damocles. I was in hog heaven! These were the songs that the other children in elementary school were always talking about--owning that album was possibly the last time I was ever "with it." This is just the kind of experience that Golly's will make you feel. The placemat was wonderful. It had cartoons of famous inventors on one side and cartoons of their inventions on the other. The puzzle? Match up the inventor with the invention. Sounds simple, but I had trouble with which innovator came up with AstroTurf and which one invented the Hitching Post. The menu was amazing, printed on placemat-style paper. In a place like Golly's, you have to order typical diner fare. What I had in mind was the pupusas on a pu-pu platter, and that's exactly what I got! By this point, Jerry Jeff Walker's unbelievably great "L.A. Freeway" was barreling down my brain folds, and it was time to order dessert. I passed on the dessert special, the Sea Cucumber a la Rasputin, and instead had a more traditional after-dinner sweet treat--the Haggis Volcano! Yes, folks, Golly's serves my all-time favorite dessert. If you haven't tasted hot haggis erupting like lava from a rich chocolate cake, then you haven't lived, my friend! The wonderful aroma of haggis drifted toward my nostrils like a fresh spring breeze as I gently broke the chocolate Etna with my fork. The mingling flavors of haggis and fudge tumbled on my tastebuds like acrobats. It wasn't till Maureen McGovern's heartsick "Morning After" fell over me like a parachute of sadness that I realized my dessert was gone. So let's see. I got to hear my favorite songs as I ate my favorite dessert, the wondrous, magical Haggis Volcano. Together, they make a great combo, and make me happy to give Golly's an enthusiastic Five Original Stars!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Top 10 Restaurant Pet Peeves
Here at the top 10 eatery annoyances that never fail to drive me batty!
1. "We're Out of That."
What?! Is this a restaurant or the Monty Python "Cheese Shopppe" sketch? Nothing irritates me more than a menu item that is unavailable. In the past I've been denied such arcane items as table salt, water, breadsticks, and napkins, all on the grounds that the restaurant is "out of it." Oh, you're "out of it," all right. Don't you realize I may have flown through an electrical storm in my private helicopter to visit your dining establishment--just for one item? That item you now have the effrontery to tell me you're "out of." This is why we need digital, constantly updated menu's. (I know there shouldn't be an apostrophe in the plural form of "menu," but I just wish it were correct. "Menus" just looks weird to me.) Maybe I've been having, as the rock band Bread would have it, "A Rather Dismal Day." Maybe that special item, that squash sorbet, or canned bread, or side of conch fritters, is all that is standing between me and the abyss? Huh? Have you never thought of that? Whoever does your ordering needs to think twice about cutting back on how many strips of fruit leather you need in your smokehouse.
2. Shrieking Children
When I dine, I wish to engage all of my senses. This means that I not only wish to inhale the aroma of the seared koi on my plate, I also want to hear the fishbones snapping in my mouth. What I do not wish to hear is your out-of-control progeny screaming their lungs out because there's too much picklelilly in their milkshake. Ear-splitting shrieks better suited to an asylum are not the kind of ambient noise I seek out in my bistro of choice. When I have to wear NRR 33 earplugs to a restaurant, something is wrong.
3. Happy Birthday Yourself
If somehow you've done some kind of background check and have found out my date of birth, do not--and I mean, do not--in any way, shape, or form let the servers in any restaurant where I am dining know this fact. I will not tolerate a ring of servers around poor, captive me--clapping their hands, shouting in some kind of maniacal crescendo--singing one of those royalty-avoiders I've discussed here and here. Is public humilation an amenity now?
4. Servers Who are Secretly Morticians
I know it sounds like some lame nightclub comedian's joke, but I'm sorry. If I have to deal with one more server who is "really a mortician," I'm going to scream. When your waitron stops in the middle of reciting the specials to show you some 8 X 10 glossies of his latest achievements in funerary cosmetics--well, excuse me, I'm just not interested. I don't normally complain about the waitrons, but these vain, self-absorbed server/undertakers are just plain annoying. Do you really think you're too good to refill my iced tea glass because you go to mortuary school at night?
5. A Television
I go to restaurants to get away from things like television. And no, turning the volume all the way down and putting on the Closed Captioning doesn't make it any less irritating.
6. An Aquarium
When I see an aquarium in a restaurant, I feel like I'm dining in some 1960's secret agent's penthouse apartment. I don't know why.
7. Bad Music
Sometimes I think there's a special satellite that beams only terrible music, and that the eatery I'm dining at is tuned into that signal. Don't play fake "new wave" songs by third-rate acts from 1980 who specialize in obvious keyboard sounds and sarcastic vocals when I'm swallowing my evening meal, thank you.
8. Managers Who Tell Me Their Theories
Please stop loitering at my table to bore me with your theories about such matters as electricity, space people, spelling reform, the medicinal uses of various plants, disposable single-use cameras, perpetual motion, the year 2012, reality, the mind, or time travel. I will feel as though I had been immured like a character in Edgar Allan Poe. I'm serious.
9. Restaurants that Misspell "Edgar Allan Poe" on their Menu
Ulalume's, you know who you are.
10. Sanitation Ratings of F
If your dining establishment can't at least earn a D, you'll have to make it up in areas other than sanitation--and so few restaurants do. If I can get a C in Microbiology, then you guys can at least get a D in cleanliness and food safety!
Well, there you have it. The Top 10 things that annoy me when I'm eating out. I'm sure you have your own Top 10 list, but not as good. If you were thinking of adding to this list in any way with your own comments, please don't. But you have my permission to agree that by avoiding these culinary irritations--using them as a checklist, as it were--then you will have a much brighter future in the world of food.
1. "We're Out of That."
What?! Is this a restaurant or the Monty Python "Cheese Shopppe" sketch? Nothing irritates me more than a menu item that is unavailable. In the past I've been denied such arcane items as table salt, water, breadsticks, and napkins, all on the grounds that the restaurant is "out of it." Oh, you're "out of it," all right. Don't you realize I may have flown through an electrical storm in my private helicopter to visit your dining establishment--just for one item? That item you now have the effrontery to tell me you're "out of." This is why we need digital, constantly updated menu's. (I know there shouldn't be an apostrophe in the plural form of "menu," but I just wish it were correct. "Menus" just looks weird to me.) Maybe I've been having, as the rock band Bread would have it, "A Rather Dismal Day." Maybe that special item, that squash sorbet, or canned bread, or side of conch fritters, is all that is standing between me and the abyss? Huh? Have you never thought of that? Whoever does your ordering needs to think twice about cutting back on how many strips of fruit leather you need in your smokehouse.
2. Shrieking Children
When I dine, I wish to engage all of my senses. This means that I not only wish to inhale the aroma of the seared koi on my plate, I also want to hear the fishbones snapping in my mouth. What I do not wish to hear is your out-of-control progeny screaming their lungs out because there's too much picklelilly in their milkshake. Ear-splitting shrieks better suited to an asylum are not the kind of ambient noise I seek out in my bistro of choice. When I have to wear NRR 33 earplugs to a restaurant, something is wrong.
3. Happy Birthday Yourself
If somehow you've done some kind of background check and have found out my date of birth, do not--and I mean, do not--in any way, shape, or form let the servers in any restaurant where I am dining know this fact. I will not tolerate a ring of servers around poor, captive me--clapping their hands, shouting in some kind of maniacal crescendo--singing one of those royalty-avoiders I've discussed here and here. Is public humilation an amenity now?
4. Servers Who are Secretly Morticians
I know it sounds like some lame nightclub comedian's joke, but I'm sorry. If I have to deal with one more server who is "really a mortician," I'm going to scream. When your waitron stops in the middle of reciting the specials to show you some 8 X 10 glossies of his latest achievements in funerary cosmetics--well, excuse me, I'm just not interested. I don't normally complain about the waitrons, but these vain, self-absorbed server/undertakers are just plain annoying. Do you really think you're too good to refill my iced tea glass because you go to mortuary school at night?
5. A Television
I go to restaurants to get away from things like television. And no, turning the volume all the way down and putting on the Closed Captioning doesn't make it any less irritating.
6. An Aquarium
When I see an aquarium in a restaurant, I feel like I'm dining in some 1960's secret agent's penthouse apartment. I don't know why.
7. Bad Music
Sometimes I think there's a special satellite that beams only terrible music, and that the eatery I'm dining at is tuned into that signal. Don't play fake "new wave" songs by third-rate acts from 1980 who specialize in obvious keyboard sounds and sarcastic vocals when I'm swallowing my evening meal, thank you.
8. Managers Who Tell Me Their Theories
Please stop loitering at my table to bore me with your theories about such matters as electricity, space people, spelling reform, the medicinal uses of various plants, disposable single-use cameras, perpetual motion, the year 2012, reality, the mind, or time travel. I will feel as though I had been immured like a character in Edgar Allan Poe. I'm serious.
9. Restaurants that Misspell "Edgar Allan Poe" on their Menu
Ulalume's, you know who you are.
10. Sanitation Ratings of F
If your dining establishment can't at least earn a D, you'll have to make it up in areas other than sanitation--and so few restaurants do. If I can get a C in Microbiology, then you guys can at least get a D in cleanliness and food safety!
Well, there you have it. The Top 10 things that annoy me when I'm eating out. I'm sure you have your own Top 10 list, but not as good. If you were thinking of adding to this list in any way with your own comments, please don't. But you have my permission to agree that by avoiding these culinary irritations--using them as a checklist, as it were--then you will have a much brighter future in the world of food.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Velcro Elk & Crow
Looking for a respite from the season's unrelentingly sloppy weather, I stopped for dinner last evening at one of my favorite chophouses in the area, namely The Velcro Elk & Crow. If you've never eaten at "the Velc" before, then I must warn you--this review contains spoilers! But having said that, let me assure you, dear reader (monitor-starer?) that The Velcro Elk & Crow contains no spoiled food. Whatsoever. No, everything is fresh as a soggy hillock in springtime. The weather felt nothing like springtime as I stood outside the Velc Elk with numerous others waiting for a seat. The air thrummed with excitement as we waited. Some shared traumatic stories from their youth. Others smoked. One patron was surprised to find that what looked like one of those black ashtray stands, the kind that look like a plastic baseball-bat with a hole in it stuck to a covered, ribbed bowl, was actually not an ash-collector but a speaker. What?! Yes, mellow instrumental jazz-rock was wafting from the device. The patron was severely rebuked by another (not in his dining party!) for this indiscretion. After an hour or so, the watering hole opened again for dinner. Concerned about being stampeded to death, I waited for the impatient, pushy diners to enter before I even made the attempt. I would never come between a hungry Velc fan and their dinner! When the excitement died down, I made my way gingerly into the lobby of the Velcro Elk and Crow. The hostess was staggeringly efficient (she may have been drunk). "Two?" she asked. "Three? One?" I declared, "One...non-smoking,please," adding that little squib to see if this hostess were up-to-speed on the latest anti-tobacco legislation. "It's all non-smoking, sir. You aren't the fellow who tried to drop ash in the camouflaged Bose out there, are you?" I chuckled. "It wasn't me! I swear!" After this delightful exchange, the hostess shepherded me through the Quasi-Bethan decor of the Velc. "Will this be fine?" she asked. What an amazing booth! It was like a giant four-poster bed, complete with canopy. "I think it will do," I smirked. "Your waitron will be here in a moment," the hostess promised. I settled into the booth, head spinnning with wonder. My waitron arrived with my menu, a leather folio with a tassel as large as a full head of hair. "My name is 'the Grappler' and I'll be your server this evening." I ordered a carrot rickey and turned to the menu. The menu was a feast for the eye! It featured wondrous color photographs of still lifes, pearls and wine bottles and artificial roses next to plates heaped with onion rings. Incredible! When the server returned, I knew what I had to do. "I want this!" I demanded, pointing at one of the photographs. A glass of violin was depicted next to a glass of wine and a plate of noodles. "The Falstaff Noodles, sir, a very good choice. One of my favorites. I just had that for lunch today," the waitron rambled. "Spare me your personal testimony. And I don't just want the noodles. I want the violin." The waitron looked at me quizzically. "I want the plate of noodles with a few strands of noodle draped lovingly over the Stradivarius, darn it, just like in the picture!" I realized I was raising my voice. But at this point I didn't care. "Sir," the waitron stated, dealing with me as though I were a crazed attacker, "that's merely an artist's representation, man." I flipped wildly through the menu, pointing at various photographs. "And this? The bust of Beethoven and the vase of ferns next to the bowl of pheasant soup? Is that just an artist's representation? They can't all be artists' renderings? Is none of this real?" By this point, the customer-care manager had arrived. She looked down at me sternly through a pair of giant eyeglasses, the type not seen since the mid-1980's. "I've been told you have a problem with the artwork in our menu." I told her, "Just slip me a free dessert and be on your way, madam." The dessert was a mind-blowing deep-fried blondie. It was carried back and forth on my plate in bite-sized pieces by a team of synchronized ants forming a mesmerizing kaleidoscope. As I speared a moving piece with my fork, I regarded myself fondly. Another free dessert from the Velcro Elk & Crow. Let's just hope they never catch on and change their menu--or add the phrase "artist's rendering" to its pages. All in all, a fabulous meal, and so I grant the Velcrow Elk & Crow a whole-hearted Five Velcro Strips!
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