Saturday, July 31, 2010

The Boardwalk

We all love the new boardwalk. Me, I'm old, I remember the old concrete boardwalk, and the one before that. Here's an excerpt from my book about goin to the boardwalk back in my long ago.

"Got myself a fist fulla change, my collar up, my ducktail combed perfect, skinny suede belt on the side, dungaree cuffs rolled up into a tight peg, ID bracelet round my wrist, crucifix round my neck, and hawkbill knife in my back pocket.

Just finished hammerin 4 Coca-cola caps into the leather bottoms of my size-5 loafers. I'm headin to to the boardwalk. Gonna take a shot at scorin me on a those skull rings or maybe a carved coconut head. Then I'm gonna nosh a corndog and punch in Honky Tonk on the Wurlitzer and ask some girl in cheeky shorts to fast dance"

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Well Done Steaks

Well Done Steak! Last night I wandered thru and spoke to everyone...everyone happy and complimentary.
Except one. He ordered his filet "well done". Mr. Cliff, Our right-on-time grill man has been with us 30 years. Wolfgang Puck would have to stand on his grandma's shoulder to kiss his bee-hind. The steak came out perfectly well done. Customer sent it back to be cooked some more. Cliff cooked it for one more minute. Customer sent it back because it was dry. Other than boiling it, can someone tell me how to grill a well-done steak that's not dry?

Friday, July 2, 2010

Food Critics- Why do they exist?

Excerpt from Dino's new book:
Just cause you're capable of forking dead animals in your mouth without blinding yourself, doesn't mean you're qualified to comment on the nuances of fusion of Japanese or Middle Eastern flavors. And it sure as hell doesn't mean you're qualified to condemn the ravioli verde at Chez Pannisse or the cold collard hog'n hominy at Bubba's Snak Shak.

Take a listen to a typical description in Gael Green's book, Insatiable…
“I remember square balloons of puff pastry more delicate than I’d ever tasted…shards of buttery leaves filled with unbearable lightness of crème chantilly cushioning a layer of pear, each slice beatified with a tinge of caramel.”

Well that’s bout the same way I felt the first time I had a warm Bojangles blueberry biscuit, a cold Mountain Dew and kissed my first girl. Most kids would describe Little Debbie Cakes that way if they could. I love dancing through Miss Greene’s syrupy puddles. But if you sat my bare butt on a Cuisinart I couldn’t create a sentence that spectacularly juicy.

But why just pick on the Indie joints? Why not review every dang one of the 2000 Applebys or 1000 Outbacks? Or the uniform colors and sauce packets at the zillion Subways and McDonalds? They sling more hot food in one day than all the indie joints do in a career.

Or why not review the big-box chain snack bars and lunch counters?
Can you imagine some hoof-in-the-mouth blowhard critiquing the harsh lighting in Costco or napkin ply in Target? How bout the $10 hotdog at Yankee Stadium or the garish box-seat décor? Take it a stupid step further and imagine a Times critic commenting on the anorexic poses of a Bloomingdale mannequin, or the hairstyle of a cardiac surgeon, or dissin a Mayo Clinic masseuse cause they detected a callus on her palm or taking a star away from a master plumber cause he flashed butt-crack and didn’t sterilize his snake? Way stupid right?
Bout as lame as if the same people critiqued NY’s finest flophouses.
Yea, a flophouse critic. Why not?
Picture some Brown University, wallaby-wearin Jism PHD working at the bowels of the NY Times who grades the sexual act on 14 categories: Initial impression, creativity, consistency, position, conversation, first course, main entrée, final course, lighting, follow through, aftertaste, depth, corkiness and cost to value.
Here's what she said...#$!@&*!(Sorry, you'll have to buy the book to find out what she said)