Out Crazying The Crazy

A while back, I'd wanted to draw my six readers' attention to a creative counter protest in San Francisco in response to perennial protester Fred Phelps. But then time went by, and you know how these things work.

But hey now! It's relevant again! So here I go!

For those who may not remember Fred Phelps and the Phelps Family Singers, they're the "God Hates Fags" people, recently in the news because a dead Marine's father was ordered by a judge to pay the Phelps' family legal costs, because the Marine's father sued the Phelps for protesting at his son's funeral. Bill O'Reilly ended up stepping in on behalf of the Marine's father and paying the legal costs.

This is but one example of the Phelps Horror Show.

Anyway, San Francisco! So you might be surprised to hear that there are some freaks out there. And freaks are funny. So the freaks made some crazy-ass signs to out crazy the Phelps' crazy-ass signs. I'm partial to the one that just says, "ME!" but there are a couple of real gems in there.

Also, you can play around with your own crazy signs here. I made this one:


So how is it suddenly relevant again? Well, a fella called Jason Levin received his inspiration from the wackiness of the sign makers in San Francisco and, in the tradition of the Yes Men, has come up with an idea that's part performance art, part activism, and part sheer lunacy.

The short of it is that Jason hopes to destroy the Tea Party movement by infiltrating and pushing it further away from the mainstream, so that Everyman looks at them and says, "Well, that's too fucking crazy for me."

His people may or may not be the people saying the craziest of the crazy shit you hear coming from the Tea Parties. So if members of the Tea Party start claiming that Obama performs deviant sexual acts, a member of Jason's group might say, "Yeah, and the president also fucks goats!" The best part is that the Tea Party won't know who's legitimately crazy and who's just fucking with them. Maybe a real Tea Bagger thinks that the president fucks goats. Just maybe. Who can tell?

Go, Jason.

That's a Spicy Cluster Bomb!

At the most kickass Thai restaurant in New York (in Queens, of course), when a whitey like me asks for "spicy," the waiters shake their heads knowingly, and say, "For you, medium." The medium will raise your eyebrows and keep your mouth searching for water or something without heat to dull the tingle. Even our go-to dish, the Penang curry, at "mild," is right at the threshold of pleasure and pain for my taste buds, which are more used to bland Eurofood. "Mild" is not a fair description for the Penang. It's got real kick. And it's delicious.

The point is that in the hot climes, they make a hotter cuisine. In this country, count on the Cajuns, Mexicans, African-Americans, and other southern American cookers to wake your mouth up. Once you get into South and Southeast Asian cuisine, we're getting into a whole different ballgame.

Well, the Indians (of South Asia, not the indigenous Americans) are exploring new ways to use their superhot "ghost peppers." They're not just for food anymore!

The ghost chili can be 400 times hotter than our wimpy Tabasco sauce. So what better to do with the chili than weaponize it? The Indian military is going to make some fucking ghost chili hand grenades.

All you gotta do is get yourself some fresh seafood, andouille sausage, rice, okra, and other vegetables, throw them in a big pot along with a delicious seafood stock, then throw one of those ghost chili grenades into a foxhole to smoke out a terrorist, gather up some of the leftover smoke for your pot, and you've got a delicious, spicy gumbo for sustenance during interrogation.

That Wasn't What I Expected

The missus and I went to a most excellent wedding this past weekend. It's really such a pleasure to see two (or more!) people you love getting hitched.

The couple in question really did it right. It was a destination wedding. Northwest Ohio is, after all, a destination. And there's no better time to visit northwest Ohio than February. It snowed at least a little bit every single day!

But seriously, B&E readers, if I may be sincere for a moment, I couldn't be happier for this couple, and the missus and I were thrilled to be a part of it all. Nice friends, nice family, one near run-in over a table between a hormonal pregnant friend and some angry OSU graduates, delicious Greek food, some kickass processional/recessional music from the missus, lots of laughter, and no serious drama. I'm telling you, B&E readers... it was a great wedding.

So how about that winter road trip? Some of you may have heard that New York was slammed by a pretty decent snowstorm this past weekend. Thursday, in fact. We were supposed to leave on Thursday, and I won the "genius award" from the missus for convincing her to leave on Wednesday late instead. Yes, it was an extra evening in a hotel, but the idea was to get out before the storm hit.

We drove about two-and-a-half hours into Pennsylvania. When we woke up on Thursday morning, I was pretty convinced I'd been a total idiot (again), what with the several inches of snow and near white-out conditions.

But once we got a half-hour or so west of the hotel, it was smooth sailing, and we made it to our destination.

Naturally, it was a road trip. Road trips mean road eating. When you just want to get to your destination, you're limited to what you see when you stop.

Put more succinctly, we ate at fucking McDonald's.

It's been years since we've done that. Or maybe since whenever our last road trip was. But we really don't do the fast food thing. In the past year and a half or so I've largely given up sugar consumption (apart from fruit), and I've been watching the salt intake for some time now.

So when I ordered that Southern Chicken Sandwich, I was expecting a sodium explosion. It didn't disappoint, but salt was the second flavor I noticed.

When I took my first bite, I actually thought something was wrong with my order. It tasted almost like cake to me. It was just wrong. Once I took the second bite, my taste buds had adjusted, and it was all about the salt again.

But Judas Priest, B&E readers: I couldn't believe that first bite. It was really disconcerting. Naturally, I ate the whole goddamn thing because that's what people do when they go to McDonald's (or anywhere else, really). But I was spooked.

I looked up the nutrition information about a Southern Style Crispy Chicken sandwich at McDonald's, and it looks like there are 6 grams of sugar in there. That's actually less than half the sugar there is in other chicken sandwiches.

Still... That first bite was really sweet. And fucked up. I think I can't eat at McDonald's ever again, even on a road trip. There are other fucked up choices on the road, and those fucked up places will get my business.

I sincerely hope that they will not freak me out with their deliciousness.

That Shit Was Already Expensive

So this New York councilman has been indicted on corruption charges, and one little detail is getting a lot of attention.

Bronx councilman Larry Seabrook apparently doctored a receipt for a bagel and soda, so that instead of the original $7, it cost $177.

I've bought my share of bagels over the years, and I tell you what: I'm just as shocked by the $7 receipt as I am by the $177 doctoring of the receipt.

Even if he got a fancy shmear, that bagel shouldn't have been more than $3 (and indeed should have been closer to $2). And let's assume that he ran up the bill with a two-liter bottle of soda, rather than the 12 oz. can or 20 oz. bottle that most unhealthy people drink. Being really liberal with prices, the whole thing shouldn't have been even $6.

Councilman, you need to find yourself a better bagelry. You're being overcharged.

Our Meat Comes From What?!

I'm a real fan of food. Like most progressive, professional, city-dwelling omnivores, I have a pretty good awareness of the food industrial complex, and I therefore attempt to avoid being a part of it, to varying degrees of success.

I've read Fast Food Nation and The Omnivore's Dilemma. I have not seen Food, Inc. but suspect I already know much of its content. I shop at farmers markets, prioritize local meats and veggies, and buy organically if local isn't an option.

All my rules tend to go right out the window when I go out to eat. I don't know where most restaurants source their foods. Although for Valentine's Day last night, the missus and I went to Marlow & Sons, a restaurant that sources its food locally, and our grass-fed sirloins were outstanding.

So yes, in general I believe in conscious eating. Which is why I was rather interested in this article. It's about a teacher at a school with a farm, who decided that it would be good to teach the children at the school about the food cycle by slaughtering one of the school's lambs. She got shit-canned. Which seems pretty fucking stupid to me.

The writer is clearly on the teacher's side. He has, in fact, taken his children to see the pig being butchered for their consumption. And he's been accused by Guardian readers of child abuse. Which also seems pretty fucking stupid to me. Jesus Christ, people. Meat is animals. Being removed from it makes it no less true.

I was sharing this article with a friend, and he sent me this link to Yorkshire Meats, where you "Eat Babe." It's brilliant. Choose a pig, adopt it, name it, visit it, and eat it. The whole process is transparent, and the pig gets a really happy life before it dies. And then you get a whole lot of pork. I seriously love this plan. And if I lived in a home with a freezer, I'd find the equivalent here in the US and do it.

This actually reminded me of what my family did for many years in Kansas. I was a kid and wasn't terribly curious about the whole process, but we split a cow every year with another family. A whole cow was slaughtered for two families. It was a lot of meat. Now, I don't know if the cow was treated kindly (maybe) or was fed grass (doubtful) or what, exactly. But I knew it was literally half a cow. And it lasted us a year.

This is how I want to eat meat now. I want to know that my cow or pig or chicken had a good life while it was alive, and then I want to eat that delicious cow or pig or chicken. I see no reason to separate ourselves from the process. Hell, if meat were more expensive, and if we were somehow more aware of how it's raised and killed, we'd probably eat a lot less of it. And that'd probably be a lot healthier for our nation of fat Americans with our overburdened healthcare system.

A Peruvian Chicken Party. You Heard Me: A Peruvian Chicken Party

The missus and I had the pleasure of attending a Peruvian Chicken Party this weekend.


It's not a chicken party, of course, without chickens. So the woman hosting this party purchased 100 chickens in Queens (Queens!) for the party. A really good dent was already put into the total number of chicken parts, by the time I snagged this photo of the fridge.


B&E readers, the missus and I live in Queens (Queens!). It's the most diverse borough in the most diverse city in the world. Still, we have a relatively homogeneous life. So when we had the chance to attend a party thrown by Peruvians, we were all for it. Our friend's babysitter is trying to bring her daughter here from Peru, so she was having a fundraiser.

She made a traditional Peruvian chicken dinner and sold that plate of awesomeness for $10. It was, of course, outstanding. As guests arrived, she deep-fried the chicken and served it with potatoes and salad. Yum (or however it is you say "Yum!" in Spanish)!


It was largely but not solely about the food. We had very little cultural frame of reference for this party. We speak no Spanish. We don't often hang out with Peruvians. But the hosts and other guests really did everything they could to make us confused gringos feel welcome. You know, it was a party.

The music was blasting. The dancing was dancetastic. A young Peruvian dude hit on the missus.

Yes. Fun. And I hope the woman raised a boatload of Peruvian chicken money so that she can be reunited with her daughter soon.

Hey! That dude hit on the missus!

The Milwaukese Know a Thing or Two About Bratwurst

While passing through Milwaukee, my gracious hosts were kind enough to take me on a pilgrimage to Usinger's. Usinger's is all about sausage, Germans, and elves. Mostly sausage, but the German elves are awfully prominent.

Here they are, from the murals in the store, pulling a pig to its ultimate demise. They're very happy about it.


Those murals, by the way, go all the way around the store and feature this poem:

Schinken, Wurst, und Schwartenmagen
Jedern Deutschen wohl behagen

Doch auch Yankee und Frazosen
Lieben diese deutschen Chosen.

Nehme Fleisch von einem Schwein
Fulls in gewaschine Därme ein

Bind sie zu und lass sie kochen
Und die Wurst wird fertig sein.

Gebt Fleisch & Wurst dem Verderben nicht preiss
Kühlt sie in Nordpol's Berge von eis.

Dieses Bild dir klar verkündt
Dass du Freundlich wirst heir bedien't
Mit Wurst, Schinken, Speck und allen
Was vom Schwin dir mag gefallen.

Nur gesundes Fleisch vom Ochs, Kalb, oder Schwein
Nehm't mir in die Wurst hinein;
Auch praeg'ich Euch ernstlich ein:
Ihr könnt mir nie zu reinlich sein.

Und Onkel Sam der gute Mann
Bringt nur das beste Vieh heran.

Eine schöne Wirklichkeit.

Zum Schluss der Wurst ein kräftig Hoch!
Mög sie lang'uns schmecken noch.

Ein schöner Traum.

Ein schöner Traum, indeed, B&E readers. Ein schöner Traum, indeed.

I'll translate my favorite part for you. And by "I'll translate" I mean that I'll type out the translation Usinger's gave me in the store:

Only wholesome meat from steer, calf, or pig
Do we put in the sausage;
And we ardently impress upon you:
One cannot be too sanitary.

And Uncle Sam the good man
Brings us only the best livestock.

Oh, I bought some bratwurst, B&E readers. You know I did.

The kind woman who helped me at the store packed it on ice and helped it survive my drive home. I ate a couple tonight. They really were ein schöner Traum.

The Pabst Blue Ribbon in this photo, by the way, is made of meat.

I Totally Found the Piggly Wiggly

Good news, B&E readers! I didn't need to shop at Walmart yesterday! Behold! The Piggly Wiggly!

Someone Saved My Life Tonight - Addendum

Dude, I totally found the cabin's coffee maker this morning. Still, I think I'm gonna use the percolator.

Heather Must've Made that Nasty Potato

Hey, B&E readers! I've insulted a Scot! And it wasn't even the missus!

Heather didn't much care for my review of the bad Scottish cuisine from our trip last May. And apparently she didn't stick around long enough to read my raves about the better food.

Alas, she seemed particularly irritated at my attitude toward the baked potato with tuna mayonnaise:

What did he expect when he ordered a baked potato with tuna mayo? And what's wrong with tuna in a potato anyway?

Bloody typical yank.

Why don't you just stay over in America and eat your McDonald's you tosser.

Well, I couldn't say nothing, so I posted the following comment back, one I don't expect Heather will ever see:

Dearest Heather, if that is indeed your name...

First of all, I'm not sure what about this posting makes you think I'm a bloody typical yank. I'm married to a Scotswoman, and her father (who ordered the tuna-in-a-potato concoction) is also a Scot. I think that makes me an atypical Yank.

Also, I'm not bleeding.

Secondly, I don't eat at McDonald's. It McSucks.

Thirdly, I love Scotland and the Scots, which might explain why I fell in love with and married one.

Fourthly, Scotland relies on tourism for its economy, and insulting the tourists won't do much for the future of the country.

Fifthly, when my father-in-law ordered a baked potato with tuna mayo, he was expecting both the potato and the tuna mayo to be edible. They weren't.

Sixthly, tuna in a potato is like putting corn on a pizza. If you're still reading this, Heather, I would like you to explain this particular phenomenon to me as well.

Seventhly, I don't particularly want to stay over in America all the time. It's good to get out of the country for a change in perspective once in a while. When we Americans don't see the world, we tend to invade countries. Not good.

Eighthly, I only occasionally toss, but fair point.

Ninthly, the missus has much to say to you about this, but this is my blog, so she can either add her own comment or stop telling me what to write.

I would like to express to Heather my deepest and sincerest apologies for insulting her national cuisine.

Because I may well someday live in Heather's home country, it is not a good idea for me to burn any bridges. Can we be friends, Heather? Maybe Facebook friends? Can I follow you on Twitter?

I Love This Place

A couple of years ago, I got a second-hand story in which a Thai man said that the restaurant SriPraPhai had "the best Thai food outside of Thailand." That, B&E readers, is a freakin' endorsement.

SriPraPhai is truly outstanding, especially if authenticity is what you're looking for in your Thai food experience. It's not so far from where the missus and I live in Queens, and honestly we could stand to go much more often than we do.

I'm meeting some college friends there this weekend, and I needed to give them directions, so I went to the SriPraPhai website to get the exact address. That was when I happened upon the "About Us" portion of the website.

It's a cheap shot (and a little offensive) to mock immigrants for poor English or less-than-stellar writing abilities. So I'm going to (mostly) let that go without comment.

Yes, the grasp on English is tenuous ("Not until a couple of years later when these American companies started their business directly in Thailand bringing the price differentiation closer") and tense usage gets confusing ("It was not until middle of 2003 that she has an opportunity to buy building on both of her sides").

But this biography of Sripraphai Tipmanee does its job well: it makes me want to eat at the restaurant. It's upbeat. It's positive. It constantly discusses its service to Thai people first (authenticity!).

It doesn't even matter that it says "About Us" and discusses only one person. I'd love to know more about the restaurant itself, but I'm just going to need to go back again and again to make my discoveries.

Food, Glorious Food

I'd just like to give another shout-out to Amy Goodman and Democracy Now! for putting together one hell of a riveting show yesterday. (If you come to this post or follow the link a bit after the fact, it's the Monday, August 3rd show in the archives.)

Please give a listen. It's about food (which I love) and bacon (which I love), and about the associations our brains make when we have a food experience, especially one that includes any delicious combination of sugar, fat, and/or salt. Chalking American obesity up to "laziness" has recently become a pet peeve of mine, and this is further dissection of the very complex issues around the food industry and American diets.

I tell you what else: it got me thinking about Shea Stadium. I'm talking about the Old Shea and not the New Shea officially known by another name.

At the Old Shea, a Mets game meant an Italian sausage with peppers, onion, and mustard (and I kid you not, I just salivated typing that) during the early innings, and a Carvel twist in a cup with hot fudge at some point in the middle of the game.

It never felt like a routine. It was genuinely what I wanted to eat every time I went to see the Mets play at Old Shea. The neurons in my brain required that this be my dinner (or lunch) at the stadium. It had all of the pleasurable experiences of being at a live Mets game (and if you remember, I also had a hell of a win streak there for a while), and between the addictive qualities of the sugar, fat, and salt and those good associations, I was helpless before the call of those obesity-causing sirens.

During this past off-season, I gave up sweets. I was actually concerned that I would need to blow my sugar fast during my first visit to the Mets new stadium. I so associated Mets games with Carvel (especially), I didn't know if I could do it.

But it was the place itself that had the association. Shea Stadium was where I ate Carvel. To keep me from eating Carvel, all they had to do was tear down the stadium! Thanks, Mets!

My visits to New Shea have created new food associations. Now I can't help but dream of barbecued pulled pork and fried flounder sandwiches. It's the same thing, really, only of a slightly higher brow. Better? Probably not.

At least gotten off the Carvel. There's not a lot one can say about Carvel's positive effect on one's health. But it does taste delicious on a hot summer's day.

My Late Spring Vacation - Better Food

In fairness to Scotland, I shouldn't let my last food post be the only real statement about the culinary arts in the country. We did eat some delicious food, too. I mean, come on, look at this gorgeous classic of British cuisine...

Not just fish & chips, but fish, chips, & peas!

And let's face some facts, B&E readers. The British invented the proper breakfast.

This is the Scottish breakfast at the Glengorm Castle hotel. Soak it in, readers. That's an egg, some mushrooms, a tomato, and three kinds of meat: bacon, sausage, and black pudding. It's made with blood. Mm... breakfast blood...

Here's the Scottish breakfast at the Bellacroy Hotel on the Isle of Mull. I got it without the black pudding, because it also included baked beans. Baked beans!

That's also a little thing they call a potato scone. Delicious!

Desserts are another particular specialty of the Scottish people.

That's sticky toffee pudding from the Caledonian Hotel in Fort Augustus (located on Loch Ness). If you have this option on the menu at any Scottish restaurant, get it. Just get it. Don't ask questions. Get it. Even at mediocre restaurants, it tends to be good. At good restaurants, it like God Himself dancing in your mouth.

The Caledonian also served up this delicious concoction, called a pavlova, which is a sort of meringue type of thing with strawberries and kiwi.

Tasty!

Not to be outdone, the missus' family prepared a delicious meal that ended with the best of all puddings.

That's stewed rhubarb, strawberries, ice cream, and the toffee sauce (one of the missus' cousins works at the Caledonian Hotel and knows how to make it proper).

Then here are a few other delicious treats...

That's salmon with smoked salmon on top. Those green things are actually fried and colored salmon tentacles. No, really. Seriously. I would never lie to you.

This is a smoked venison and melon appetizer.

I love smoked venison.

Those last two are both also from the Caledonian Hotel (where I also got the haggis).

We came upon this window display while walking in Edinburgh...

I still can't believe we didn't actually go back there to eat. Next time, B&E readers. Next time.

My Late Spring Vacation - Nasty Food

I've already shown some of the masterpieces of our culinary experience in Scotland, specifically the haggis and the Taste of Mull Platter for Two.

What's generally terrific about the food in Scotland is that it's legendarily crappy. So when you have a good meal (or even more rarely a healthy meal), it's a genuine surprise, and your experience is all the more pleasant for the hey-didn't-expect-that factor.

Typically, the food comes out looking something like this...

It's hard to fuck up a sausage roll and chips, although the ketchup (or "tomahto sauce" as they like to call it) was sorta blah.

The other food came out looking even worse...

That's "prawn Marie Rose" on top, and I have no idea why they call it that, or indeed what it even is. I also have no idea what inspired the missus to order it.

Her dad ordered the "tuna mayonnaise" version of the potato that the missus ordered. He was equally disappointed.

That's tuna salad on a baked potato. Some might call it a tattie. I call it nasty.

The restaurant was appropriately named...

I guess we really should've had low expectations.

At a Farmer's Market?

I'm a big fan of the Sunnyside Farmer's Market. It's easy to mock because it's all of about a half-dozen stalls along a sidewalk outside one of our beautiful, caged, paved parks.

But I tell you what: the produce is terrific ("These sprouts take like green!"), the fish is fresh ("You caught this yesterday?"), and the offerings are growing ("Long Island has good wines?").

Last year, there was a sometimes meat vendor, who had organic goodness from local animals who were treated nicely until the moment they were slaughtered for the benefit of my belly. When he was there, we'd stock up on the ground beef, and once he had summer sausage, a treat I hadn't had since I was a kid munching on the cheese and sausage gift baskets my dad received from parishioners at Christmas time. (I much preferred those baskets to the hams.) The meat vendor hasn't been in attendance yet this year, and I hope he's not giving the Sunnyside Farmer's Market a miss. That'd really be too bad.

Last week, though, I was pleased to see a dairy vendor - mostly cheeses, cured meats, and some baked goods. The smoked cheddar is delicious. I also sampled and purchased some hot meat sticks (which aren't nearly as dirty as they sound). They're delicious. Think Slim Jim, only better.

When I got home and finally bothered to look at the ingredients as I gnawed away on my hot meat stick, I discovered that it had corn syrup, mono-sodium glutamate (that's MSG, by the way), and a couple of nitrites.

Now, I know there's no law forbidding local farmers (even the ones who participate in farmer's markets) from using crappy ingredients, but it sure does seem to go against the spirit of a farmer's market. Yes, yes, I know that the point is to support local farmers more than it is to eat organically, but still, I'm especially disappointed that the hot meat sticks have corn syrup and MSG. (I hear it's good to avoid nitrites, but hell if I know why.)

Oh, Farmer, you looked so innocent and Amish with your no-mustachioed-bearded face and brimmed hat.

Don't get me wrong: I'll finish the package. They're delicious hot meat sticks, after all. But I won't buy them again. I can get food that kills me at any old market. I think I'll stick to the unprocessed foods at the Farmer's Market from now on.

And I'll stop trusting people who look Amish.

My Late Spring Vacation - Haggis

No, not Paul Haggis, you wacky Crash fans.

The missus and I have been together for something like six-and-a-half years, married for nearly five of them, and we've been to Scotland together four or five times. Maybe six. I was also in Scotland for a week back in '93, during my semester abroad.

And yet, I'd never tried haggis.

Some people avoid it. After all, according to Wikipedia, haggis is made of the sheep's "pluck": heart, liver, and lungs, then mixed with oatmeal, spices, and other mysteries. Oh, and it's usually encased in sheep intestines.

Really, haggis is just like any of those other "leftover" foods - the innards of an animal, in this case a sheep. After all, it makes sense to use the whole animal.

But people run like hell from haggis. Maybe it's the name. Who knows?

Anyway, I never avoided haggis; I just never tried it.

Well, the missus' father took us out to a nice restaurant in his little town located on Loch Ness, and I ordered the haggis appetizer.

Those are oatcakes on the side of it. Oatcakes are Scottish crackers, only better.

I spread that haggis right on those oatcakes and ate the hell out of it.

Good times, indeed.

The missus has a couple of cousins who work in the kitchen at this particular restaurant, and apparently the chef adds some cream to her haggis recipe. That's less typical, but it sure tasted good.

So what does haggis look like before it's cooked up? We got a few items from the local butcher, and I caught a glimpse of raw haggis for sale. We didn't buy any; perhaps an adventure for another time. But here it is behind the counter...

That's black pudding next to the haggis, by the way.

What does it look like before it's haggis in a butcher shop? A little something like this...

That Hump is a Burger

It's Wednesday, or Hump Day as the kids like to call it, which can only mean one thing, B&E readers! It's Burger Day!

(That's right, it's the only thing Wednesday can mean.)

My Wednesday is thus far meatless, but my media is carnivorous as ever. I'm not talking about the "red meat" of attacking one's political opponents, although that's surely happening somewhere, too. No, indeed, I'm talking about actual red meat in the media.

First of all, this fine feature in the New York Times, which some of you may have heard of. Click on a burger to see a bit of info about it and hear a little audio review. Donovan's Pub (home of the #2 ranked burger on this list) is just up the road from my apartment in Queens, and I can vouch for that particular burger's tastiness. The missus calls it greasy; I call it juicy. Tomato, tomato. Hm... That comparison doesn't work at all in writing.

Looks like our President also appreciates a burger, and when he and Vice President Biden had a hankering, they headed over to the strip mall home of Ray's Hell Burger in DC.

If you watch the video, you may catch that President Obama orders his burger medium-well. What the hell is that all about? I grew up in the red meat belt, and you just don't order a burger medium-well. Medium is OK; medium-rare is better. If the beef's really good, take it rare. It's gotta be at least a little pink. This is one time when pink doesn't equal gay.

(Speaking of gay, shout-out to Maine!)

Anyway, medium-well... That's not beef I can believe in, Mr. President.

With my share of complaints (of course), I'm much more in sync with the views and positions of this President over the last one, certainly. But this really takes the cake. Medium-well? Oh, Mr. President, how could you?

You might as well order a hockey puck on a roll and call yourself Canadian.

Things Ain't So Bad at Bailout Ballpark

First of all, I was very relieved to discover that yes, one can walk up to the new, smaller stadium on a beautiful day and get a ticket for that day's game. And we got tickets for only $15 a pop. Granted, it was just a game against the Washington Nationals, which is really more a team in AA ball, so it's a series in the lower pricing tier. But still, I find the day-of walk-up to a stadium very satisfying.

Because we didn't know what to expect from the crowds and all, we got out there a little before 11:00 am for a 1:10 pm game time. The 7 train in Queens used to let out at Shea Stadium-Willets Point. Well, the MTA got a little bit pissed off that some of that Citigroup bailout money didn't trickle its way down to them, so they refused to name the stop after the corporate sponsor. I'm as critical of the MTA as anyone, but they have my full support on this one.


If you haven't yet made your first trip to Bailout Ballpark, I recommend getting there early to see the place with limited crowds.

The Jackie Robinson Rotunda is quite nice, and people line up to have their photos taken with the giant 42. (For you non-baseball fans, that's Jackie Robinson's number, which is now retired in all of Major League Baseball. Oh, and by the way, for you non-Civil Rights fans, Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in baseball.) I don't know who these guys are, but they really stood there awkwardly for a while.


There's a giant Mets shop in the rotunda. Alyssa Milano's Touch collection gets a lot of attention from the ladies who've been dragged to the game by their men. The missus resisted the velour Mets sweatpants, nearly snagged a sheen reversible Mets jacket, and instead went for a standard-but-cute orange t-shirt of a non-Alyssa design. She's got good taste, the missus.

Speaking of good taste, the food. Oh, good lord, yes, the food... Our first destination passed the Rotunda was the Taste of New York food court. We immediately shared a pulled pork barbecue sandwich from the Blue Smoke stand.


I also took a couple of pictures of us enjoying the sandwich, but I have an unwritten policy against putting up photos of me and the missus. Oh. I just wrote it. It's now a written policy. It was delicious. The sandwich, not the policy. Swine flu be damned. The missus also got a black & white shake from Shake Shack, and I broke my sugar fast to drink the last third of it. I think perhaps it was made by the loving hand of Jesus Christ himself.

We then made our way to the seats. I'd heard of course that all the seats at Bailout are good seats, and yet for $15 my expectations were pretty low. Still, they weren't bad at all. Except that any fly ball to deep-ish left field floated out of view, we could see the whole field. And even from the upper deck in fair territory out in deep left, I have to say, I didn't feel that far from the action.


OK, so maybe it looks really far in the photo. It's deceptive. I have an old camera.

And in case you don't know which corporate sponsor you should support, the Mets have given you plenty of options!


We still had some time before first pitch, so we decided to explore further and, hey, who knows? If we just happened upon the Taste of New York food court again, maybe, just maybe, we'd get ourselves some Belgian fries. Yes. Delicious.

We also came out to a walkway with this view of the Queens chop shops.


The chop shops were largely hidden from view at Shea, and it's the part of the city that Mayor Bloomberg is really hoping to develop like crazy. What Bailout Ballpark needs is a mall next door! He may even use eminent domain to do it. Hell, I'm sure it'll include some green space, too, but this is Queens, bitches. Junkyards and mechanics keep our economy going, too.

Around halfway through the game, we were ready for another foray into foodville. This time I wandered just beyond the Taste of New York over to the Catch of the Day stand and got us a fried flounder sandwich to split. Good goddamn it was delicious.


This would be my top recommendation for food at Bailout thus far, but having tried only four items in a ballpark full of what seem to be amazing options hardly makes for a well-informed rec.

And there are definitely still some kinks to work out with the service at the Catch of the Day stand. I had exact change in my hand, and yet I stood in front of the cashier, along with my sandwich, for at least five minutes while I waited for a manager to void the mistake the guy at the register made. During that time, I had a chance to watch the manager, who seemed to be fixing mistakes all over the place, which explains why it took her so long to get to my poor bastard. And no one back there seemed to know where they kept any napkins. It was finally another customer who told me that the napkins are at the "toppings stations" throughout the stadium.

It's early in the season yet. Those things are bound to get figured out. Or not. Who the hell knows. It's a good sandwich, though.

Overall, I have to say, it really was an exceptional first visit to Bailout Ballpark.

Oh, shit! I forgot! The Mets won!

Digital Detox - Round 1

Blogging about a digital detox is so very meta. My mind is blown.

Evening was a breeze. Got home, made a nice big salad with the missus. We had just enough time to do some dishes and make some funny faces at each other before going to bed.

Morning was confusing. Routine upended. Woke up a half hour later. Had my coffee without NY1 and web-browsing for potential material. Read my trusty Nation magazine instead. Completely lost track of time and had to rush out of the house.

Feeling discombobulated now.

Just to continue an important conversation...

The fine folks at Gotham have gotten their mitts on the food at Bailout Ballfield, and they've got a report.

That's a fine lookin' burger... and flounder sandwich... and frites... and... sushi? Hell, I'm willing to go with it.

The Food at Bailout Ballfield

The menu at the Mets new stadium has been announced. Yes, they'll still have hot dogs and pretzels. But they'll also have Danny Meyer. That's right: the restaurateur who brought us Gramercy Tavern and Union Square Cafe will be feeding the masses at Bailout Ballfield.

I'd be concerned that the Mets were getting all hoity-toity on our blue and orange asses, except that Danny's done some fare in the realm of "ballpark appropriate" as well. Blue Smoke makes a mean barbecue, and the Shake Shack is all about the burgers and fries. Oh, and shakes.

Danny claims to be a big baseball fan, so in addition to his Shake Shack menu, he's making food he would want to eat while at a ballgame: pulled pork sandwich on a brioche roll, steamed corn on the cob with a dusting of a fancy-pants cheese I've never heard of, kosher "dog bites," and a few other things that sound mighty fine to this middle-class palate.

He will, of course, also be running the club restaurant that people like me don't get into.

Food was just one of the many complaints about Shea Stadium (may it rest in peace). And I'm glad that Danny has seemingly appeared to keep his audience in mind. Mets fans want their meat. Their beleaguered wives may need some vegetarian/pescetarian options.

Now, if the Mets could just do something about the ticket prices at Bailout, I could maybe even get to a game this year...

A Day for Thanks

Ah, Thanksgiving...

After less than twenty minutes of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, the missus and I opted to get the hell out of the apartment and go see the morning screening of Quantum of Solace. We chose it over Four Christmases mostly because we felt that James Bond really deserves to be seen on the big screen.

It was, like most James Bond films, good enough. We left feeling satisfied. And it was essentially a private screening, since we were the only people in the theater (until about three-quarters of the way through it, when a solitary dude third-acted it).

We went out for our Thanksgiving meal. Once we knew it was just going to be the two of us, we sure didn't want to make any kind of major effort and create a giant mess in our kitchen. So we went to Telepan, near Lincoln Center. It was delicious. I also ate the first real dessert I've had in nearly a month, so I savored the shit out of it. Their pumpkin bread pudding in whiskey sauce with pumpkin ice cream was particularly good. Now I'm off sugar again until Christmas. (Ma, I hope you've got grand plans for dessert at Christmas.)

Fully stuffed, we opted against going out for movie #2 and instead came home to watch one of those Netflix movies that lingers in your home for far too long. In this case, it was Young @ Heart, the documentary about old people singing rock music. See it. If you get through Fred's rendition of Coldplay's "Fix You" without crying, you've got no soul.

Yes, B&E readers, it was a lovely day with the lovely missus, who I remain ever thankful for.

A Giant Vat of Stew

As some of you may recall, I have this ridiculous tendency to make giant quantities of food. I don't know how it happens, except that I'm usually cooking for two and many recipes are feeding families of four or more.

In an attempt to save money, I've been using this "leftover" food to feed myself and the missus during our workday lunchtimes.

But I don't know what we're gonna do with the giant fucking vat of stew I made this weekend. I found this recipe on, of all places, the lid of a jar of natural peanut butter. It sounded delicious, and because it actually seemed quite small and sensible, and because I wanted a few lunches for us, too, I was foolish enough to double the recipe. I think maybe that's where it went so wrong.

It's difficult to present scale in the photo, but that's one of the larger Le Creusets available on the market today. To give you a sense of size, the kettle behind it is about six feet tall.

Yes, it's a lot of food, the missus and I will be well fed, and by the end of the week, we will never want to look at West African Peanut Chicken Stew again.

But at least if we want to stretch it, we can serve it over rice!