Something fishy.... somewhere, Providence, RI, August 2011

I had just spent an afternoon on a chilly but nice beach trying in vain to top up my European tan. I must have built up an appetite trying to keep warm while being buffeted by the Atlantic Ocean fetch. So we ended up in Mi Guatemala somewhere near or thereabouts from Providence.

MV Rena

Walking inside was like walking into a Ripley's museum. It was eerie and fascinating. There was no messing about with a waiter or an imposter maitre d'. Just find yourself some space and take it from there. This was my second time here and I fancied a bit of fish. But first, I had to get stuck into the local beer - Famosa. I somehow asked for it to be served in a thick goblet with a rim of salt and some squeezed lemon. Not my cup of tea I'm afraid. We also ordered some sort of tripe soup, which came piping hot as if Simon Cowell had given it the hairdryer treatment. It was reddish so must have had some sort of tomato based stock in it but I couldn't tell because the low lighting made the room murkier than the corridors of the European Central Bank. The bits of intestines were like the Arsenal back four: spineless, a bit wet and floating aimlessly around. The taste was rural. I felt as if I was in Guatemala whilst poking around in my bowl. One let down however, was that after a couple of mouthfuls I felt as if I had dived, mouth wide open, in Astrolabe Reef. OPEC would do well tapping into my tripe soup.

Spot the fish

My gargantuan dish arrived soon after. Somewhere on my plate was a fish drowned twice over with more spices than Christopher Columbus' spice rack. When I eventually got to the fish, the skin was crispy like a New England autumn morning. The meat itself was rather good. I cannot remember the type of fish but the meat was cod-like: it was white and flaky. I think I would have preferred it without Christopher Columbus' alchemy set though. Maybe grilled or roasted with some parsley and a dash of lemon would have sufficed. Served with the fish was a medley of vegetables also welded with spices, a generous helping of boiled rice and some soft taco things that resembled pancakes. They were as fluffy as a pooch in a Dyson hand dryer.





After that onslaught, I was stuffed. According to an unofficial source, the average height of a Guatemalan male and female is 4' 6" and 5' 2" respectively. So it baffles me as to, if this were representative of Guatemalan food, where do these quarter pints put all that food???

The Ho Down says: More spice than Geri, Victoria, Melanie, Melanie and Emma; as OTT as Geri, Victoria, Melanie, Melanie and Emma

$100 lunch, Boston, October 2011

One steakhouse on the list when The Phlap was in New England was Abe and Louie's. But instead we did our bit for the global economy at Grill23 (see previous post). In the spur of the moment on an Indian October summer's day, however, Xu and I had lunch chez Abe and Louie's.

We skuttled through the entrance to the maitre d'. It was typical American - try hard to make the place classy but over do it. The maitre d', donning a useless suit, was perched on a make-shift balcony flanked with two female assistants whose jobs were to cross tables off on a white board. After a short wait we finally got a table outside on the patio. After being slightly bullied by the brash waiter for our drinks we sat back and people watched the Bostonians go about their weekend business of spending money. Our people watching was pleasantly interrupted by a delivery of a medley of bread/cake/muffins. They were really rather good. However, they would have been just perfect over an afternoon tea. Being served before a steak deserves some Sepp Blatter points of bizarreness. Anyhow, we shook hands and forgot about it.

I ordered the Prime Delmonico - 14 oz of prime goodness - medium rare. My bombelone ordered the Filet Mignon, which complemented her mignon-ness. I had to dig around in search of the real steak, the rare pink interior but I eventually found it. This steak had character. This steak was American muscle. This steak, dressed in greenback, spat in the face of the anti-capitalist protestors who blotted our lunch. I enjoyed my steak very much. It was fun like those at Texas Roadhouse but was a definite upgrade on Texas Roadhouse. I was slightly disappointed, however, that our table was slanted so only half my steak could swim in its jus de vivre. I tasted a morcel of the Filet Mignon. The two steaks were like chalk and cheese. The Filet Mignon was more delicate and witty with twinkle toes that danced on my palate. On a side note, the sides were good too. My grilled asparagus was, as always, Mr reliable. Although, the chef whacked on too much oil. Come on, Mr. Chef. Prudence is the key. Less is more. The side of fries were actually proper chips - chunky and fluffy. Whilst they were good I would have still preferred French fries. The chunky chips felt more like a juxtaposition than a complement.

The Ho Down says: In the Parthenon of steaks, these steaks were quality. It certainly belongs to the Premier League but maybe a Europa League position.

The Maine Event, Trenton, Maine, October 2011

This time we knew what we were doing. Barring an almost fatal road traffic accident, kayaking in a downpour and sleeping with the nature we knew exactly where we were going.

Trenton Bridge Lobster Pound

Trenton Bridge Lobster Pound stood somewhat forlornly next to a bridge connecting Trenton to Bar Harbor. It was raining but the brick ovens outside were churning away. We had come for one thing and that was the best lobster in town. After warming my cockles standing next to the brick ovens where the lobsters enjoy their final sauna I marched into the pound.

"I'll take you... and, hell, you" Mr. Williams, Enter the Dragon

It was utter chaos. People were standing around agitated. People were barking orders. People were waking around with bright red lobsters. I wanted a piece of this so badly. The protocol at Trenton Bridge went something like this:
1) Stand around wondering how to order,
2) When you know what to do, go to the guy in dirty overalls and tell him what type of lobster (soft or hard shell) and how big you want it,
3) Watch him pull out your meal from a big box full of crustacean curiosities and plonk it on a scale,
4) Watch him stuff your meal in a rope sack then watch him walk out the side door into the pouring rain,
5) Wonder what to do next with a clipboard and sheet of paper looking like a human resources form,

The kitchen

6) Work out that you have to tick what sides you want with your lobster,
7) Stand around a bit more and hope you manage to pay,
8) Pay,
9) Wonder what happens next,
10) Find a table and realise that your order number is written on the receipt and that it will be called out on the tannoy,
11) Struggle through the gaggle of confused people, that you were once part of, and pick up your plastic tray with your lobster plus sides




 

His and Hers lobsteroonies

 In the interim whilst waiting for my number to be squeeled through the tannoy, I went back outside in the drizzle and watched my 2 lb lobster get boiled in the ovens by a grizzly guy in a mackintosh. It was so fascinating watching him. It was like watching the Man City substitutes bench getting ready to warm up. It was utterly compelling. The whole set up looked so chaotic. He looked for a pot with enough room for the bag he wanted to boil then stuffed it in then stoke the fire a bit. After a premeditated random period of cooking time the guy would open a pot and pull out a lobster as red as a red faced Wayne Rooney's red card.

Close up of my dinner

After taking the obligatory pictures I went to work on demolishing my crustacean friend. First up, the claws. Trying to crack the shell and extract the meat in the shape of the claw itself was just so satisfying. Being able to munch on more than a morsel of lobster meat but a claw the size of Greece's sovereign debt was even more satisfying. The meat was tender but also ever so slightly tangy in texture. The meat probably has enough memory recoil that you could use the claw to flick a pea across the table. The steam from the liberated meat was fogging up my glasses as I was in a euphoric masticating trance. After dismantling the claws and scoffing down on the immaculate claw meat, I moved onto the tail. As I got a 2 lb monster cracking the shell proved to be a bit of brain bamboozler. Why always me? Just to be clear, expect one quarter of the weight of the lobster to be meat. And being a armchair lobster enthusiast, probably the bigger the lobster the older it is so the tougher its shell is going to be unless your lobster is actually a toddler with acromegaly. So, after finally cracking the shell off the tail and spraying everyone on my table with jus de mer I rewarded myself with the tail. Whereas the claw is more delicate akin to an oceanic filet mignon, the tail is a more rough and ready all action hero. I suspect that the tail is more muscular so is more Ann Robinson than Johnny Robinson. I just loved engaging my mandibular muscles chewing on the challenging tail meat squeezing the sea's magic potion that was infused into the meat. What adds to the privileged but highly uncouth occasion is the fact that you just have to get really messy. Get your bibs on, wash your hands and get ready to barbarically devour your lobster like a peckish Hun just off a Master Cleanse diet.

Get stuck in!

So I had always wondered what makes Maine Lobsters Maine Lobsters. The simple answer is that they are boiled in the local sea water.

The Ho Down says: Damp, chaotic but barbarically sumptuous.

Via Via, Newport, RI, September 2011

I went to Newport with the intention of getting a pair of deck shoes or outdoor boots. Instead I came back after a gastronomical mugging. Feeling a bit peckish from the sea air and diesel fumes from the boat show I ventured to Via Via, a pizzeria which unwittingly provided me with an infamous first insight into the mindset of Americans to pizzas.

So I'll regress back to that balmy day when I was on my lonesome in Newport after successfully negotiating my DS2019 through US immigration. I remember ordering a Newport Chicken that was more bizarre than a midnight shawarma with Paul Gascoigne and the Gaddafis. As well as the tomato sauce base, it had chicken (or some sort of white meat chunks) and a slather of genuine fake white sauce and green stuff that was meant to be spinach but might actually have been seaweed dredged from the bottom of the nearest harbour. I wasn't quite sure what to make of my pizza apart from the table I was sitting at was dirtier than a Welsh spear tackle.

Perhaps my first visit was like a Carlos Tevez lost in translation episode so with such fond memories of my Newport Chicken pizza slice I took my little sea legs back to Via Via. I decided to play it safe this time and order a margarita pizza. After grudgingly handing my greenback to Kia Joorabchian behind the till, I sat down and waited for what delight was awaiting me. I think I saw the same stains on the table but 18 months older. By this time it was probably welded into the table. As I sat there unsticking my elbows from the table surface I could take in again the spartan interior. It was as bleak as the state of the Eurozone. Even more bleak than a S&P credit rating downgrading was my pizza slice. I was handed a triangular piece of red acrylic with white cubes, which were probably mozzarella. As I picked it up it flopped like the X-Factor. The only positive was that it was hot. I could taste a tomato base of some sort along with punctuations of rubbery blandness, which were probably the white cube mozzarella things. I'd rather be a Man U fan and be Liam Gallagher's footstool during Sunday's game than go back.

The Ho Down says: Oh Dia Dia.

My first ruby in America, Providence, RI, September 2011

I had been craving a ruby murray ever since I knew I had booked my flight back to the civilised country. Unfortunately due to the intestinal cleansing caused by curries and the tight flight schedules I did not manage to tuck into Britain's national dish.

I persuaded G-Force to join my revolution in the same way Basil Faulty persuaded a knackered Spaniard, a slow German and an unknown Brazilian to join the Arsenal. It was a knee jerk reaction. We drove to Rasoi with me salivating like a Republican Baptist in a wafer factory. There was seating outside - a rather upmarket curry house I thought. Anyway, we sat at our table and perused the menu. One Taj Mahal (lager) please. Nice one. One thing about the interior that caught my eye was an island/bar thing in the middle of the dining room. I couldn't work out what it was meant to be. A quick stop eating area? But no one was eating there. People were just standing around. A bar then? But there was no bar staff and I couldn't see any booze. It was as perplexing as watching The England at stupid o'clock in the Rugby World Cup.

After persuading G-Force to do it English style, I ordered the chicken vindaloo and G-Force the chicken biryani. After engaging in some prepradial banter about how the England cricket team made chutney out of the Indians to be the number one Test team in il mundo, we were served our respective dishes. I could instantly tell that my vindaloo had more tomato than a Heinz factory as the aroma wafted into my nostrils. I was worried with my first bite. Outside I was as cool as a cucumber ready to neutralise any capsaicin induced defaulting, but inside I was sweating like a rogue UBS banker on Facebook. I was relieved and also disappointed. The heat did not even touch the sides. There was more heat from an X-Factor panel than from this limp vindaloo. It was more tomato soup than a New Dheli (belly) cleanser. The lentils that came with it was amazing though. Creamy but rough with just enough magic Indian spice to make it IPL rather than Friends Provident t20. The Force's biryani was the standout. Just looking at it made me lust for it like an alleged sober rugby player and a blonde 'family friend'. This was biryani at its best. Not overly dry but not sloppy like an Arsenal back four. It had a superstar quality like an Indian batting line up except that this did not disappoint. The caramalised onion juxtaposed the bland almost generic spiciness with a dash of electricity to raise this biryani to the next level.

The Ho Down says: I will be back to order the biryani quicker than a Zara Phillips inquest.

147 break! Providence, RI, August 2011

Upon my return to The Cultural Desert, I wanted something American. What can be more American than a hamburger? However, it should be noted that Hamburger derived from Hamburg, Germany as far back as the 15th Century.

Snookers pronounced 'sn-oh-kers' here in Rhode Island is a sports bar with more character than another toothless display by The Three Lions. You cannot miss the hideous sign as you roll into Providence. Mad Dog Gaddafi would use with one of those signs and do everyone a favour. Inside was cavernous with high ceilings. I was expecting Val Kilmer to stroll out in his bat suit with a bottle of Bud Light. There were more flat screen TVs than a looter's front room showing glorified rounders and big girls running around in pads. It all felt industrial and dare I say it, cool. It reminded me of Fabric in London minus the Body Sonics and oh so trendy clubbers.

 Perusing the drinks menu like a parched Hun, I was looking for a hearty lager for some laryngeal lubrication. I noticed under the Malt Beverages, Smirnoff Ice (Canada) and Lindemans. After doing research, 'Malt Beverages' in the US are basically beers but have additional flavours to make them taste, for example, fruity. But Smirnoff Ice is not Canadian. Clang. After clearing up that ongoing mental polemicising, I chose the Flying Dog Old Scratch. Big mistake amplified by the fact that I got the 22 oz version. It tasted like a diabetic's urine sample and complemented my Texas Special Burger as well as tipsy John Galliano and a couple of glasses of plonk. The Texas Special was certainly special though. It was especially big. Philipp Hildebrand should would have no problem hiding some Swiss Francs in this burger. It was big, juicy and so American. I think it had a bun, some lettuce, tomatoes and onion rings. I'm not sure because the patty was just so overwhelmingly devouring.

The Ho Down says: Snookered but kept coming back to the table.

Epic Epicurean Italia, August 2011

My latest Italian adventure took me to Italy's Adriatic coast during the summer holidays where I enjoyed the blue flag status endowed by Le Marche's beaches. It was definitely 'locals only' with Sundek swimwear and sun-o-visions marinating in the sun (there were one or two with Dolce and Gabbana swimwear and a couple of male peacocks); no sign of Germans pilfering sun loungers or Brits doing their best impersonations of lobsters. Of course, all of that was a side attraction to the gustatory gastr-orgasms that followed.

On the first night, I experienced a family BBQ by the beach, Italian style. How different it is to American BBQs. No hideous camping chairs were in sight; the BBQ was a little charcoal filled, carbon smothered metal box thing with sprawling legs. The warm air was punctuated with gossip, oral frivolities and kids wanting to be the next Divine Ponytail. On the BBQ, the meat is sandwiched between two grills and BBQed quite hard. This Italian BBQ was more like a Fiat 500 than a Dodge Silverado. The meat is prepared as chunks and thinly cut slices rather than big American muscle steaks. One thing that I particularly remember was the arrosticini, which were chunks of skewered mutton. I don't think I have ever had BBQed mutton. This stuff was extremely strong, perhaps a bit too strong for my palate Inglese. Luckily the customary ice cream that later followed was like taking a shower under a waterfall on a hot sticky day. I deviated from my usual and went for something fruity. I think I died and woke up as a Mancunian on Sunday afternoon because I had my Edin the clouds with this gelato. There must have been at least a hatrick of gusti in my cone with each flavour tingling their distinct subsets of taste buds to a chorus of Tutti Frutti.

Chez Rita

For the next couple of meals over the following days I indulged myself in some summer defining home made genuine organic vegetables. The highlight was the roasted tomatoes with breadcrumbs. The tomatoes were of such a deep red colour, one would think they got severe sunburn basking in the sun. Each one was as sweet as a Wayne Rooney free kick - beautiful and devastating.

Some more home made gastronomic artistry included tagliatelle with seafood, courgettes with melted mozzeralla in tomato sauce and fried seafood. How can something so simple be so good? More importantly, why can't I make it? The seafood tagliatelle was an amalgamation of Neptune's greatest with Romulus' and Remus' finest. Egg tagliatelle with a seafood medley, vegetable patch sourced cherry tomatoes, some onions and stock and a sprinkle of parsley- all tossed together to form a Neptunian-Roman cosmopolitan. The trick to eating this masterpiece is to be the last person to be served as all the juices are at the bottom.

Fried seafood is a special favourite. 1.7 kg of seafood - calamari, octopus, herring, prawns and these small cod things all gently massaged in nothing but flour before being crucified in an ocean of hot oil for our palatable pleasure. Squirt on a bit of lemon, be careful not to singe your finger tips, and tuck in. Fantastic!

The courgettes with tomato sauce was a pleasant surprise. The thin slices of courgette with a layer of melted mozzarella, which shared a sun lounger with the tomatoes in the vegetable patch, wallowed happily in the maritime home made tomato sauce. Bland yet so innocently massaged the palate Ingelese.

Eating out

Onto the eateries with their enticing versions of classics. No doubt the highlight of highlights has to the pizza at Michele Da Ale in Senagallia. After cruising along the endless beach front with the swollen red sun slowly lurking behind the Adriatic Sea we parked up and rocked up to the Pizzeria. 'Orsini' was the password and we were shown to our table on the patio. It was all about the pizza served in half metre or one metre slabs. We all chose one type and then shared. I ordered the Brezza (rocket, flakes of parmesan cheese, mozzarella - all freshly sprinkled like a sprinkle of youth -  with a pomodori base). I thought I made the correct choice until I tried the Margherita and Bufalina. I think the pizzas were as good as, if not better, than le pizze at Formula Uno, Roma. Served on a rectangular wooden board probably more hallowed than Sachin Tendulkar's cricket bat, the crust was slightly thicker than that of The Eternal City's but was fluffy like a Moncler jacket. The Bufelina (with mozzarella di bufalo) was out of this world. The mozzerella di bufalo, which was shredded and tossed on before being served, added a smooth dairy-ness that propelled this pizza into near orbit stardom. The Margherita was no Usain Bolt and did not disappoint. Probably the best Margherita pizza I have had the pleasure to lay my gnashers into. This experience at Michele Da Ale was as thrilling as transfer deadline day.

The ice cream at the start of the blog was from Pelacani Gelataria. The gelataria and yogurtaria itself was a little bizarre. It was ultra modern with white furnishings with more right angles than hypotenuse, and somehow they managed to make neon lighting look quite chic. All this was plonked in a rather rustic beach town (at least the amazingly stark contrast made the town seem rustic). At the BBQ I had a medley of fruit so this time I had my standard pistacchio e nociola. The pistacchio was earthy and deep while the nociola was more subtle. It was alright. Nothing special. Not as good as the fruit flavours. I did, however, taste the coconut ice cream. Now this was something special. It conjured up the romantic image of how I thought eating coconut was meant to be: like eating a Bounty on Blackpool Beach after a kebab and a punch up. What I find fascinating  is that at no time was an ice cream scoop used. Large spoons were used to compile my mildly chaotic medley of mellifluous edible emotional compositions. A metaphor of Italy, perhaps?

The Ho Down says: mmmmm buonissimo!

The McDream, Logan International, MA, August 2010

The journey to Terminal B at Logan International Airport was tortuous like watching scumbags tear down their own communities in The England. I would love to them a new one actually.

I was catching an overnight flight across the pond and I fancied a tummy tickler before my flight. The only two places open were a sandwich shop and Maccy D's. The latter was the choice as charging 10 greenbacks for a meal at the sandwich shop was scandalous. It was corporate looting. They are robbing people in broad daylight. Anyway, scanning the menu I decided to order an Angus Deluxe meal for about $7.50 or so. It was number 12 on the menu.

When I opened the carton, I almost went back to the counter to return it because the burger looked exactly like how it looked like in the picture. I never imagined this possible. But The England are the number 1 test team in the world so anything is possible. Here is photographic evidence. I did not photoshop or finger my burger in any way.

Identical twins (which image is from the Maccy D's website?)

I was really amazed when I took my first bite. I was expecting my burger to fall apart like Western economies but like the price of gold, this was rock solid. I could actually taste the beefy flavour of the 5.33 ounce patty too. Admittedly it was not as ostentatious as the offerings at Grill23 or Ruth's Chris, but it was a good quality $7 burger. If you pay £38 million, you are going to get Sergio Aguero; if you pay a lot less you get Nicklas Bendtner. This Angus Deluxe was better than Nicklas Bendter though. At least this burger hit the spot.

On a side about the sides, the fries were genuinely fake. They were perfect geometric copies of each other. Gregor Mendel would have been far more prolific if he used these fries in his laboratory instead of crossing pea plants together. By the way, the fries tasted really rather good. This was Maccy D's at its best.

The Ho Down says: "Number 12 please".

Defaulted on Thayer, Providence, RI, July 2011

Greece may have almost defaulted but I had enough liquidity to get myself over to a Greek restaurant on Thayer Street, Providence. Andrea's Restaurant was actually the place where I made up my mind to move to the crazy city of Providence. I must have bitten on a very pickled chilli that gave me severe enough brain cramp to come to that decision. Anyway, here I was again with a real life Greek person. She was not wearing a gas mask and throwing molotov cocktails. Unfortunate.

The interior has a hint of art deco about it with the booths and the busy waitresses whizzing around like worker bees looking for tips. We were stuck in the anteroom away from all the other patrons, and consequently escaped the radar of our rotund waitress. Prior to my moussaka, I had a Greek salad that consisted of the standard rabbit food. The thing that made it Greek was the sprinkle of feta cheese and one olive. Yes, one paltry olive. One olive does not make a salad a Greek salad. Even Mr. Papandreou would have scoffed at this austerity measure. Luckily my Moussaka, like the House of Representatives swooping like a caped crusader, saved the day at the last minute. It has been a while since I had moussaka- not since the glory days of being treated by the Bank of Mum and Dad with dinner at Mayday Hospital. This was pretty good. It did, however, have the specific heat capacity of water though, which was no bad thing. The aubergine was quite firm and the minced lamb was spiced sufficiently not to make you smell or taste like a drunk Brit on a Friday night. This would have been perfect for a cold winter's day to warm your cockles and leave you grinning like a smug Capitol Hill. Good thing the AC was on Arctic adding more greenback to the deficit then. With the reprieve, however, there is always going to be a backlash somewhere down the road. That backlash was in the form of the service. It was atrocious. Our waitress had as much class as a Katie Price fantasy.

The Ho Down says: Woo!-ssaka.

Macho cow's heart in the hood, Providence, RI, July 2011

First of all, RIP Amy Winehouse. It was a shock to read the tragic news.

We visited an old friend on a hot and sticky Friday evening. Los Andes is a Peruvian/Bolivian restaurant somewhere in Providence. What I like about this place (from previous visits) is that it is not pretentious. To me anyway, it serves food how I imagine big mamacita would serve Latin food.

From outside, Los Andes restaurant looks quite dingy - more Lost Somewhere than Los Andes. The lobby/bar looks more like a beach shack than a bar to a restaurant with more dead space than in Mario Backheel-otelli's head. Round the corner is where the dining room and all the action is. I always remark to myself how dark it is. It is like walking "Back To Black" except for a couple of luminous fish swimming around in a tank and a mannequin sporting a very colourful Bolivian costume of some sort.

We got some anticuchos for starters. Never fails. Anticuchos are slices of beef heart marinated hard with vinegar and other spices, and grilled like a kebab. The combination of the hearty meat and marinade results in it being incredibly tender with more multifaceted accents than Rory Bremner. For my entree, I got an old favourtie - Pique A Lo Macho. "You Know I'm No Good" at Latino but I think translated it means Gerard Pique is as hard as Joey Barton. After a short while our waitress somehow managed to bring the gargantuan dishes. The waitress was a tiny little thing but carrying those huge dishes about she must surely be "Stronger Than Me". To be honest, I was a tad disappointed with the culinary landscape on my plate. The chunks of steak looked rather dark and overcooked as if they had got singed standing too close to a Higgs Boson experiment on the Swiss-French border. The chorizo was standard sausage and just about contributed to the party. G-Force liked it. What normally puts the macho in the pique is the sauce. Previous incarnations have had me in "Rehab" about the tomato based sauce. Unfortunately this latest version had a rather rich oily consistency, and hence left a taste of betrayal similar to that of BP's billion pound profits. In the previous version the chips (or fries to the Yanks) soaked up the textured sauce like a sun junkie with a prosthetic ear leaving me glowing like "Just Friends". This version, however, was a battle and I am probably closer to ordering a Big John toilet seat.

The Ho Down says: Los(t) it. Sorry, foodies. I was disappointed. I'm not saying this place is bad. Los Andes will be frequently frequented as it always serves hearty nosh.

High steaks table, Providence, RI, July 2011

As The New York Times smugly reports on the British newspaper phone tapping scandal, I can finally report to you all with some a positive foodie experience. Ruth's Chris Steakhouse was a small culinary oasis in this otherwise as cultural and comestible desert.

Ruth's Chris was, to my a relief, low key. The meretricious pompousness was kept to a minimum; there was no obtuse woman on the tannoy mincing our names announcing that our table is ready. It was all very refreshing.

The drinks menu was rather rambunctious with thick genuine synthetic leather bindings and big numbers printed inside. In the end I ordered a glass of cheapo red plonk. Not for a long time have I appreciated steak with a glass of red tipple. Getting straight down to business unlike Arsene Wenger in the summer transfer window, I should fast forward to the steak. The seafood gumbo for starters, the very creamy mashed potatoes and desert were all serfs to my 12 oz NY Strip. Rare of course. I was issued with a rather obvious disclaimer though by Adam our waiter: our plates were going to be hot so don't burn yourself. Give this guy a Wendi Deng Prize for Proactive Intervention. After a short interlude, my steak arrived sizzling and sneering in lava of juice. From the outside the steak looked like it was burnt but after slicing through I was able to peer at the deep red pulsating sinews. I quite simply impressed from my first bite. At first I could taste the gently seasoned, slightly charred exterior followed by a luke warm soothing interior. Somehow, they managed to sear the bastard hard with all the rage of a phone-tapping scandal but somehow left the middle as succulent and sweet tasting as a EuroMillions win. The glass of red plonk along with the NY Strip complimented, and also complemented, each other so well. I was seriously impressed. The only complaint was that 12 oz was too much. I want just enough to come back for more. 12 oz made me feel like exasperated like Bobby Mancini after Mario Backheel-otelli's capers.

The Ho Down says: Ruth-lessly good!

Fatman and Red Robbin, Warwick, RI, June 2011

I was really excited on the 4th of July. It wasn't because the Yanks were celebrating Independence from the greatest country on earth. I was excited because after being spurned a couple of weeks back like Cheryl Cole by US TV network we were heading back for take two of Red Robbin. The Latino told me that the burgers here were as good as Alexi Sanchez with a football.

As usual, being in Warwick messes with my internal compass. Not even Christopher Columbus would have been able to navigate in Warwick. I know how Siobhan Watson felt like after her huge boozy hen night every time I am in that neck of the woods.

Stepping inside was like being flashed by Jason's technicolour dreamcoat. I immediately felt a wave of happiness wash over me like a Phoenix dust storm. Our wait for a table was meant to be 10 min but after 10 seconds, our names were announced on the tannoy and our table was prepared. After perusing the extensive menu of bog standard American staple, I decided to engage in a bit of banter with our waiter. However, Chris was one miserable bastard. He must have been working as a no-win-no-fee associate with Cyrus R. Vance Jr. on the Strauss-Khan case recently because he was more pissed off than a Gooner in the summer transfer market. Cheer up, me old bean. Could be worse. You could be Rio Ferdinand being interviewed on Piers Morgan Tonight. Anyway, coupled with Chris' apathy that stank like a NOTW phone tap the burger was, quite frankly, disappointing. This was the David Haye of burgers - with all the pre-gluttony hype it was toe-tally disappointing. It was the same old story. Berlosconi gets hit by yet another sex scandal; I get hit by another plastic bit of meat.

There was not even any comedy or banter so I had to salvage the blogcast with some random repartee between my good self and the Latino.

The Ho Down says: Red Robbin? More like Red Faced.

"I want something of quality", Warwick, RI, June 2011

Here it is, chaps. The very first Blogcast.

The Latino and I were in search of something of quality. We should have bought a plane ticket to Europe. Or even Canada. How did we end up at Chili's? Check it out below.

1 US pint = 473 ml or 47.3 cl. I was close.

1 UK pint = 568 ml or 56.8 cl. You Yanks get short changed...

There must be a template for American eateries. Put some human statues in the lobby to thank you in advance for their tip. I bet if Colonel Gadaffi rocked up, they would tear up his arrest warrant, ask with sincerity how he is doing being one of the most wanted man in the world and whisk him to a table. The menu was extensive like an Arsene Wenger apology letter. But will it deliver? In Arsene we trust so in Chili's we trust. Anyhow, my attention was drawn to the deal. The deal was get one appetizer, two mains for $20. Not bad at all. Not even Christine Lagarde could come up with a better deal.

The nacho things were alright as were the dips: guacamole and salsa. According to the Latino, the guacamole was good so it must have been good. I'm really sorry but what I was given to me thereafter looked as genuine as a Louis Walsh sexual assault claim. It took about 10 minutes to get my food. I didn't know it took that long to take something out of a wrapper and microwave it. I'm not even going to go into how it tasted. Put it this way, there is more chance of Andrei Finkelstein's prediction coming true than me going back. E.T. would be on his way home faster than Cesc if he had what I had.


The Ho Down says: I Fink I'll pass on the Chili's.

New items on the menu

Hello All,

New and exciting items will come bucking your way in the near future. Taking video footage is proving to be rather tricky especially as I keep forgetting to bring my camera. Also, I don't want to be subject to Mr. Rubenstein and partners issuing me papers for defamation, and law suits from dimwit waitresses after a mickey-taking. So, I have come up with an alternative - a blogcast. Look out for instant reactions more instant than a cup of instant coffee. I hope to get my first bit of material this weekend and have it all edited in its raw form like sashimi by Monday. In the meantime, to generate some discussion can anyone guess what I was doing prior to this footage? 

Winners will be drawn pseudorandomly and will be mentioned on the sly in a future blogcast.

Meaty genius, somewhere in Virginia, Summer 2005

One of my fondest memories of American's finest gastr-ho-moment has to be Wendy's. I am sure that there was a Wendy's in Croydon town centre somewhere where RBS now stands. Maybe someone can confirm or otherwise?

My first American experience of Wendy's was in 2001 when I was at summer camp in the upstate New York. Achtung! My German friend told me of a fast food burger that surpassed even The King. Surely not! I remember taking my first ever trip in a yellow school bus to a mall to feast my noshers on a Wendy's Triple Deluxe burger. I thought those yellow buses only existed in the movies. Fast forward a couple of years and I experienced another Wendy's delight with The Phlap.

We were driving back home after testing the automatic transmission in our motor when we stopped off at a Wendy's. I had been ranting about the holy grail of absurd fast food burgers for days. We didn't back down and ordered the Triple Deluxe. No questions asked unlike Congress's stance on the legality of US troops in Gadaffi's backyard. This monstronsity consists of three square patties in a round bun. Whoever thought of serving square burgers in a round bun should lobby for the vacant post at the IMF. This burger definitely puts the beefy into Sir Ian Botham. I was hit for six as was The Phlap. The American dream, in the shape a Triple Deluxe, was fat and festering in its bespoke Wendy's foil wrapping like Kim Kardashian after a workout. It was filthy like Louis Walsh in a nightclub toilet but was devilishly gluttonous as an Ashley Cole slumber party in LA. The actual patties were alright. Everything about the stereotype of American food was packaged into this burger. It was excessive, it was greasy (like Cristiano Ronaldo's barnet), it was made by a coloured person (with the money going to a white person), it was cheap (unlike the Libyan war to taxpayers) and it was devoid of any natural taste. Serve a Wendy's burger to one of the tribesman discovered in the Brazilian rainforest and watch him claim social security first thing in the morning, it was that good (or the UK version: watch him queue outside Lunar House, Croydon, first thing in the morning). This burger was truly mind boggling. Due to the absurd enormity of the meal I thought that not even Ryan Clearly would be able to hack into this. Nevertheless, after relentless banter relating finishing the meal and penis size the Triple Deluxe was no more.

The HoDown says: The video says it all.

Steak a fork in me; I'm done, Warwick, RI June 2011

It has been a while since my plebian palate has been satisfied. I was informed by a source, as reliable as the World Cup bidding process, that the steaks at LongHorn were good. I took my gut over to Warwick, RI, to see if such obtuse claims were in fact true.

We were late meeting The Force and his significant other. Soz. The Latino and I were in Dick's looking at rods. To those not in the know, we were in a sporting goods shop called Dick's. That's right, a shop called penis. And we went to buy a fishing rod. Half an hour late, we arrived in the LongHorn car park where a pickup truck with a Kentucky number plate welcomed me. I took a snap to go with my collection of number plates. Fourteen down, thirty six left to go. The exterior of LongHorn looked rather dull with a neon sign that was probably meant to be a long horn. It was a Sunday evening and there were not very many patrons. It was like walking into a morgue. The restaurant was cold (the A/C was on the customary American summer setting; i.e. Arctic); the restaurant was empty (like Murray's Mount today); the restaurant was quite sterile (like Hugh Hefner surely must be).

Having inspected the menu, I asked the waitress for the signature 7 oz Flo's filet. Hold on. "We have run out of 7 oz filets".  Fine. I will take the Outlaw Ribeye (18 oz bone in ribeye to you). And hit me with a Killian's beer to wash down all that beef. Hold on. "We have run out of Killian's". The lack of atmosphere, lack of items I wanted on the menu disappointed me. Could be worse - imagine the disappointment of Crystal Harris' parents.

The steak arrived with a perfect tessellation of sear marks. They must have used a special edition George Foreman grill. I am not sure if my knife was somehow blunt or my steak was as tough as nails. Even Amanda Knox would have had trouble making a telling incision. When I finally got to grips with cutting, I was able to take my first taste of my Outlaw Ribeye. It was alright.Trying to think of my experience, all I can remember is that my mandible was given a good and proper workout. David Haye, I would recommend chowing down on this to strengthen your jaw before you get your head ripped off by Vitali Klitschko. I cannot recall the taste of the steak itself - it was masked by the million and one special spices that got thrown into the mixer.

It was all a bit disappointing to be honest. It was like England's U21 Euro campaign all wrapped up in an over seasoned second choice steak. The restaurant was done up to be champagne but it served up lemonade.

The HoDown says: LongForlorn.

Utterly ridiculous pizza, Commencement, Brown, May 2011

Why is Commencement called Commencement? Surely graduation should be called 'The End' or 'Thank You For Your Guaranteed Greenback For The Last 4 Years." Maybe someone can tell me via a comment.

Do me a favour...

Whilst doing the responsible thing and attending some receptions, I came across this monstrosity by Ronzio. Who in their right mind would attempt to make and sell an edible 28" pizza? Let me put this in perspective. The average rim diameter of a Chevrolet Silverado wheel is 20"; pikeys with champagne taste and lemonade money put 28" rims on their cars; The Natural Energy Laboratory of Hawaii Authority uses 28" water pipes to pump fresh seawater to shore. Now Ronzio makes a 28" diameter pizza... I am stunned like Dave and Cleggy after being lambasted by a bowtie wearing consultant at Guy's Hospital.

Opening the huge lid I expected a huge whiff of pizza aroma. Instead I got a whiff of damp cheesy air; and instead of seeing a 28" on delightful pizza, I was greeted by dishevelled passed-by-sell-by-date Take That groupies that masqueraded as toppings. For such a large pizza, the slices were miniscule, perhaps the size of The Young Lions' chances of being kings of Europe after their two limp displays in Denmark. After taking my first booze fueled bite, I think I will join the Unions' protest this summer. This pizza must have felt the full brunt of fiscal cuts as this was devoid of any taste. It was as tasteless as Katie Price and reports of her daily activities. In fact, Katie's new Ronseal tan was more interesting than masticating on this disaster. The only saving grace of this abomination was that it was rather good at soaking up the alcohol that I was imbibing. This stuff should have been prescribed to the sozzled bints at Take That's concert.

The Ho Down says: Ronzi-No

Three Lung Park, On brown Campus, RI, May 2011

Samsung, Park Ji Sung, The Seoul Olympics, Mama Kim's? As Korean groceries in New York are slowly closing, Big Mama Kim's son has put his Brown degree to good use and stuck his mum in a big truck to serve Korean Seoul food somewhere on College Hill. To me the truck looks like a big tub of margarine with a canopy on it. Upon closer inspection, it is quite an impressive vehicle with a chilled drinks compartment big enough to keep Ratko Mladic on ice for his trial. Being a quarter pint, I had to crane my neck to bark my order to Mama Kim. 

Whilst waiting for my nosh, I had a butchers inside and saw a couple of (most likely) Korean guys and of particular peculiarity, a white guy doing something that might have been important. Was this white guy a member of the 'Ndrangheta mafioso spreading that slipped the carabinieri? According to Mama Kim's website, she collaborates with students from Johnson and Wales University, so this guy must be doing time for sneezing in class and forgetting to wash his hands. 

I was advised by a rather random source to get the bulgogi. Whilst waiting for the white peculiarity to prepare my food I had a peruse in the chilled compartment. I did not find Ratko Mladic but I did find some interesting Korean beverages ranging from aloe juice to rice punch. In no time at all, my bulgogi was passed through the narrow window into my hungry hands. Taking it back to my bench I took my first mouthful. For a moment, I thought I knew how Rhodri felt after checking his twitter account. Bulgogi is basically a Korean beef stir fry. But this one had a bit of a sickly sweet taste to it. I was later informed that, in true American tradition to give it some chutzpah (or more like putz-pah), this Bulgogi had some sort of pear puree. To me, this fell flat on its face like Newt Gingrich's candidacy for President. The pear puree turned a perfectly respectable beef stir fry into something scandalous like Fred The Shred's demand for a super injunction. The rice was adequate although I couldn't work out if it was meant to be sticky rice or normal boiled rice. It was an England Under 21 Euro Championship campaign - neither here nor there. The only saving grace was the kimchi. Kimchi is basically pickled Korean cabbage with a bit of attitude. When eaten with the Stuart Pearce's rice and Giggsy's beef it was rather tame but added enough heat to tickle the capsacin receptors. On its own, the kimchi was like a summer day in Providence; i.e. hot.

The Ho Down says:  
Park Park wherever you may be
You eat dogs in your home country
Could be worse
Could be a scouse
Eating rats in a council house
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_orkTy0A1yE)
 

A for effort, 5 for attainment, Randolph, MA, May 2011

Somewhere in misty Massachusetts, I pulled my twin cab gas guzzling Chevy Silverado Tank Buster into the extra wide berth parking space in Randolph, MA. I looked at disgust at all the piddly cars next to me - Massholes...

Not Your Average Joe's looked rather average. It was your typical big boisterous American dining room with people with faces you just want to hit. We were warned that the bread was great. It did not disappoint although I would have preferred more crust though. The dipping thing was composed of a glug or two or three or four of olive oil, finely grated asiago cheese and some herbs of some sort. It was alright but I could not work out why my fingers ended up being so oily. Maybe I was experiencing what Jack Warner experienced during the World Cup voting circus?

Average picture for average Joe's

For my main course I got a Pork Cubano sandwich. When it arrived, it wasn't so much Fidel but more infidel. This thing was tiny and was certainly not fit enough to ride in my twin cab Chevy Silverado with 3 cup holders via my gut. I thought I was in America? The ciabatta was as fresh as Sepp Blatter after undergoing a corruption probe. My first bite nearly made me cry. All I could taste were pickles/gherkins - whatever you want to call them. The pickles were so pickled that even German E.Coli would have been in a pickle. Achtung! After scraping the pickles from my sandwich I could appreciate the Pork Cubano. The pork was succulent and the mustard and cheese were as common as muck but were reasonably useful complements like Gary Barlow, Kelly Rowland and Tulisa Contostavlos. Louis Walsh was the pickle - useless. Together they made the sandwich really rather tasty.

However, like an Olympic ticketing ballot, there always has to be a fuck up. I asked my salad to be served with a dash of olive oil and that's it. No caesar dressing with extra calories, no bizarre American Blatter-infused dressing. Just a dash of olive oil, please. What the fuck I got I still have no idea. My greens were limp and disgraceful like Mark Hughes' explanation for his resignation. My dash of olive oil was certainly not olive oil. It was sticky, oily and sweet. Complete and utter disaster springs to mind....

I had a bite of the Latino's burger and that was really rather good. The pattie was not too oily, not too dry and it had a bit of character to it unlike Manchester United's midfield at Wembley last weekend.

The Ho Down says: Good and pitifully bad = Joes about average.

Bish Bash Bosh - 5 Ton up

Herro Brog-fam!

Today I hit 500 hits. If each hit equaled one run, I would have surpassed Brian Lara's world record of test match runs in one innings by 100 runs. I have been collecting a number of memorable experiences blogging about what I have been masticating on in the last three or four months. Thank you to Vinny Phannie Phlap for persuading me to record my gastr-ho-nomic experiences. Although since my first blog, trying to maintain my slender girth has been like a Republican strategy on Medicare - disastrous. Since my first blog, I have really been taking lessons from The Governator and gorging myself in adulterous gastronomic affairs - I have been back to places such as Eagle's Deli and Texas Roadhouse. My second experience at Eagle's Deli was far more civilised to the point where I was not struggling to put away a pound and a half of burger. Texas Roadhouse is slowly becoming a favourite as I always have fun there. The steaks are decent and very good value for money.

One thing, though. Where are all the comments? For all those food Giggs, I Imogen that you have lots of comments. I have been thinking of doing short video blogs to complement the written blog. What do you think? Are there any places you want me to wrap my noshers around? Let me know!

Frozen yoghurt on Thayer Street, Providence, RI, 2011

Thayer Street, to me, is how I envisaged American drags after watching movies such as Back To The Future. The eclectic mix does not end at eateries and quirky shops but also to the people who can be seen strutting their stuff. You have bikers who like to feel the power between their legs, flat footed geeks who substitute the lack of power between their legs with power between the ears, and jocks who also like to feel power between their legs.

Juniper, apparently, has been serving up frozen yoghurt on Thayer Street for three years. However, a new yoghurteria, FroYo, has crashed the party. How do they compare?

If looks could kill:
Juniper is cute and minimilistic with a white interior and a couple of white stools. A small counter greets you with a very deliberate selection of toppings. Less is more. This place oozes cuteness and would fit in in Europe.
FroYo is in your face. The garish pink interior and loud pop music makes Lady Gaga look like a Vatican nun, or even a librarian. There are stools and benches of all sorts of heights and shapes for people of all heights and shapes.
Pick your poison.

The staff:
The staff at Juniper are very conservative. Not in the Republican way, but in a very pleasant charming way. They always look at me as if I am alien when I do not ask for toppings though. I spoke with the lady who probably owns the place and she was very passionate about her yoghurt. The husband has got to be one of the hardest bastards I have seen, which is more than can be said about (alleged reports of) Bin Laden being shot in his underpants clutching a copy of Debbie Does Dallas and using one of his wives as a human shield. How can Mr Juniper walk around in just a T-shirt in winter??
I had trouble working out who and where the staff were at FroYo. On the day I went, two girls were manning the scales and till. They were very cheerful. I think they might be the Asian version of the Cheeky Girls but I did not see Lembit Opik perched on a pink stool.

The concept:
Juniper is traditional with no nonsense. I order, they serve, I pay, I enjoy. You get to see the owners working hard to make a living, and watch them pocket your hard earned greenbacks mummy and daddy gave you.
FroYo has a very clever concept that panders straight to the American mindset - bigger is better, more in marvelous. At FroYo, you have control over how much frozen yoghurt you want to smash down, and how much toppings you want slathered over it. At the end of this self indulgence, then you pay according to the weight. Very clever, Mr. and Mrs. FroYo. A desk surely awaits you in the Microsoft Skype Division with the task of working out how to make a free service make money. Unlike Juniper, FroYo is a conveyor belt. Squeeze out your yoghurt yourself, put toppings yourself, go to the cheeky Asian girls and pay.

The yoghurt (comparing original flavours):
I was not expecting anything when I bought my first encounter at Juniper. It looked like a bog standard Mr Whippy. However, I was blown away. I had utopia melting on my tongue. I was a Manchester City supporter for a moment. There was body and texture to the yoghurt. For some reason, Michaelangelo's David comes to mind right now when I think of Juniper's yoghurt. It just tasted pure, focused and intense. The yoghurt has a sweetness to it that is not sickly or overbearing, then comes a delightful dairy flavour that lingers and disappears just in time so that you are craving another mouthful.
FroYo's yoghurt is different. It is creamier and lighter. Whereas, Juniper's product seems like it has been aged like a vintage wine, FroYo's is like a younger zestier wine. The taste does not linger but is like time - it is there for a second then disappears. I bet Mr. Strauss-Kahn wishes the same for his predicament right now.

The summary:
Both places have their merits. Juniper is the quiet man. It churns out fantastic frozen yoghurt quietly knowing that its product is A+.
FroYo, on the other hand, is like The Donald - a loud pugnacious brute who works the product, image and concept, and is probably raking in the greenback. It is very clever in offering people what they want - quantity, more, excessiveness. I see plenty of fat girls walking out of FroYo with huge cups of frozen yoghurt. Ladies, it is not healthy if you eat a pound of frozen yoghurt topped with mountainous toppings of chocolate and fruit in syrup.

The Ho Down says: Spread the wealth and gin me.

The original Original

The American Dream.....bleh, Providence, RI, May 2011

I was in quite a good mood today. My new flat is starting to look good and I worked out this morning to lose the smiling belly. So I decided to reward myself with a trip to McDonald's at University Heights, Providence.

The reason why I gave the location of this Maccy D's is because the girl who served me was shockingly poor. Amanda, you were crap. How do you not know how much a medium and a large Big Mac Meal cost? They are your flagship meals. Furthermore, you had no idea of even approximate costs. What vexed me even more was that you made absolutely no attempt to find out. Go and run your head under the ketchup station and wake up, you dunce.

I ordered a Medium Big Mac Meal. I was given an empty cup. That threw me a bit. What was I supposed to with an empty cup? Beg for money? Then I remembered. The American Dream states that one can fill up as many times as you want with whatever you want. Fuck yeah! We don't have that concept in The England. By the way, the cup was huge. It must have been a pint in size. That would be a Large in The England too.

My next logical step was to go to the 'Refreshments counter' to fill the bastard up. There was nothing refreshing about the 'Refreshments counter'. Where were the ketchup cups, Amanda? So there it was. No ketchup with my fries. I took my seat at one of the booths dodging the puddle on the floor. After cleaning another puddle on my table, I inspected the damage. The anticipation of having a Maccy D's on American soil was was tingling. It must be what all Americans dream of when they pop out of their mothers' wombs. If this all goes well, I am going to apply for a Green Card...

 The fries were standard. No complaints. The main event was the Big Mac. What welcomed me was a typical mess of a soggy bun with lettuce and chopped onions tossed randomly in the carton for a laugh. Complimenting the soggy bun were two dry brown things that I think were the patties. The plastic sauce topped my ordeal. Every time I picked the burger up, the bun flapped around like Heurelho Gomez on a wet afternoon in Seven Sisters. This Big Mac was like Ken Clarke's comments - it left a nasty taste in the mouth.

The Ho Down says: My dining experience from start to finish was like a scene from the (fictional) movie: 'Bankers Gone Wild' starring Dominique Strauss-Kahn; i.e. disgraceful. Don Gorske, you have nothing to be proud of, son...

On a side note, a reliable source informed me that if Maccy D's are run by a good manager, their quality of products should be good. So my experience might not reflect with all Maccy D's. Not all Maccy D's employ Amanda...

Garden Grille Cafe, RI, May 2011

When I think of vegans I think of pasty white skinny deformed people with rickets reading The Guardian while their dog chews on their Doc Martens. I was told by a trustworthy source that the Garden Grille Cafe was good and packed some meat (don't worry, vegans, it is an expression).

8 pm on a Saturday night and the establishment was busy. People were queuing up to eat soy. The waiter who greeted us was a complete shambles. He was as on top of his game as Stoke City were in the FA Cup Final. When we finally got our seats (at the bar) I could settle down and take in the fresh carnivore-free air. The place actually felt warm and inviting - not the usual snooty atmosphere associated with tattooed scruffy vegans.

In terms of food, I always had a negative impression about vegan food. To me, I always feel that the snooty pompousness of the staff at these places try to make up for the lack of flavour and taste of vegan food. However, the Garden Grille Cafe is an exception. The Ginger adzuki bean soup was bloody marvelous. I will quite happily accept the windy intestinal byproducts associated with beans after this soup. It had just the right amount of seasoning to it. Not too salty, it had a bit of mystery to it making me want more. It was as much of a surprise as the winners of the Eurovision song contest. For my main meal, I had some soy based thing with 'yellow gits' (what the fuck that is, I have no idea) and a load of green vegetables. The yellow grits can only be described as a kind of polenta. The tempeh soy thing was meant to be the 'meat' between the two veg and it did a good job fooling me into thinking it was a turkey twizzler - almost as good a job as Jack Warner and Wowari Makudi.  What I don't understand about vegetarian food is that they try to trick you into think you are eating meat by making a bit of soy look and taste like a chicken nugget. The pure pomposity of it... I digress. It must be hard to make good vegan food especially trying to give it good taste (something Princess Beatrice is void of in terms of hats). The mixture of a Mexican sauce of some sort and the lurking sweetness of a mango relish actually went well. Every bite delivered a new interesting sensation like the trickling reports of Bin Laden's take down. We will never know the identities of Seal Team 6, but I do know that I really enjoyed my vegan meal. I will have to reassess my views of vegan food unlike my views on Jedward (twats).

The Ho Down says: I would meat at the Garden Grill Cafe again. But please serve the food on a hot plate.

P.S. Allagash Tripel is a damn good beer. There is nothing gash about Allagash.

Fish n Chips, Brighton, UK, April 2011

The sun was shining, the trees were blossoming and I was in Brighton enjoying a nice promenade on the seaside. I hadn't had a good ole fish n chips for a while. I hadn't had a good ole nasty kebab for a while either but that will have to wait. Whether it is the flaky piping hot cod, or the chips with the floury inside and crispy outside, or maybe even the sinfulness of crunching the batter on the cod, there is something romantic about having fish n chips while on a trip to the seaside.

My trip to the chippie was long in the planning like Obama's strike in Pakistan. Like a stealth gastro-navy seal I negotiated my way to the seaside chippie. I was met with 'significant' resistance in the form of my no-longer-agile  frame and the shingles on the beach. Upon getting to the chippie, I checked the overhead menu and homed in on a portion of cod and chips. Taking it back to my spot on the beach, I was judge, jury and executioner. It offered no resistance and I took it down. We got it!

I was disappointed with it to be honest, however. First of all, the cod was not one long piece - it came in two pseudo pieces. WTF? Taking my bites into it, I found the batter as useless as Pakistani military intelligence. The cod itself was OK but was as bland as operational details released by the White House. The chips were a major disappointment. The deep fat fryer must have had the same mechanical failure as the helicopter used in Pakistan. The chips were just nondescript. Not even eating from a wooden fork saved the day. Sorry...

The Ho Down says: I had Bin had. Burial at sea.

My mark in Le Marche, Italy, April 2011

I have been fortunate to experience lovely home made cuisine in Montegranaro - a small town in the Marche region of Italy.

On Day 1 I dusted off my sea legs and indulged in some seafood. First up was a fried medley of Neptune’s picks of the day: small sole, small cod, calamari, little octopus...... all battered - or should I say powdered - in the lightest batter. It was as If each of the titbits on offer here were bespokely dressed in flour by Sarah Burton. Second, shrimps marinated in an apple sauce came sizzling straight from the cooker. What an unusual combination. I have to admit, it was not my sort of thing but it somehow worked. The feint bitterness of the shrimps and the tangy ever so slightly sweetness of the apple sauce formed an unlikely duo like Kevin Nolan and Andy Carroll. By now, I was getting giddy by a combination of home made Italian cooking and my 3 am wake up call courtesy of Ryanair that morning. Inbetween the fried seafood and the shrimps were mussels cooked in a tomato sauce so pure, Kate Middleton could have worn it instead of her Alexander McQueen number. There was nothing fancy about it. It was mussels cooked in home made tomato sauce.
Day 2: Home cooking took to il pranzo where seafood lasagne was the Pippa Middleton of the day. I must confess that I didn’t know that the real deal lasagne consisted of so many sheets of pasta. The ones I had for school dinners and canteens only had about three layers. I think there must have been six or seven layers in this one. ‘How do you fit the filling?’ you may ask? I have no idea but the subtle prawns and bits of fish manage to swim their way in a light white sauce composed of batter, flour of milk (la besciamella). You would think that it would be as heavy as a brick too but this was the Floyd Mayweather of lasagnes - pound for pound the best lasagne I have ever had.
Day 3: The main event was il coniglio - roasted rabbit seasoned in rosemary and dill. My initial thoughts of dill on meat were skeptical but it gave the strong tasting meat a freshness about it. Rabbit has two flavours. The first is chicken. The texture of the muscular part of the animal was very chicken-esque while the breast part of the rabbit - known as the bacon - is where the party kicks off. The taste is hard to describe - it has a strong taste but not overpowering like mutton. It has an inherent seasoning to it or maybe it was the rosemary and dill... You are just going to have to try it yourself. Some may not appreciate the strong taste, some may enjoy it. See what it does for you.

The Ho Down says: Grazie mille, Rita!
Sorry, no pictures on offer here. You just have to envisage the home made cooking at Rita’s.

A pasticceria, Civitanova, Italy, April 2011

What a delight! This unassuming pastry with a red flashy centre was calling for me in a pasticceria in Civitanova. What was it? In true Italian way, there were no labels on the counter. The little delight was called 'diplomatico'. What an odd name for such a delightful fancy.

This pastry had such a delicate looking frosting on top, I was worried that the tiny air current caused by me bringing it to my mouth would blow it off into the Marche air. Luckily I gobbled it up faster than Obama producing his birth certificate. Just like today was a day to remember (for the houses of Windsor and Middleton), that first bite was a joy. There was certainly no Kung Fu fighting going on in my mouth. The diplomatico was diplomatically sweet but not too sweet. No taste was overpowering. It was pure harmony. I can only imagine it was composed of a light custard cream with a hint of cherry to keep the experience thrilling. The pastry just crumbled and melted like QPR's automatic promotion to the Prem as I munched through it. Washed down with some Estathe (pronounced 'esta teh') on the rocks, this was the perfect spring buccal tickler.

The Ho Down says: grazie mille, Italia!

Good enough for Obama then good enough for me, DC, November, 2010

This was a pilgrimage. A convoy of 2 SUVs made their way to Ben's Chili Bowl in Washington DC. The street was rather dim and murky, then this beacon of light shone like a chili bowl oasis in a desert of grimness. Seriously, Ben's was like the Star of Bethlehem. This was the main event on U Street.

After taking my photo with the multicoloured bear outside I was greeted by an unofficial homeless usher. He kindly opened the door for me and I remunerated his service with a polite 'thank you'. Ordering the signature Bill Cosby's Original Chili Half-Smoke, I gave the prep area a coup d'oeil. Homies were tending to glistening dogs basking on the grill. They were lying prone on the piping hot grill waiting to be wrapped in a cocoon that is a finger bun then slathered in the main event - the chili. After receiving my Bill Cosby I threw my other eye to the rest of the restaurant. This place was an institution. There were loads of photos of randoms - supposedly famous - who knows. Even Mr Obama lavished his gnashers here. Maybe Wills and Kate will rock up here for their reception? I tried to engage some banter with a happy nosher but he was either 1) enjoying eating his sausage in a bun too much to talk to me, 2) he did not understand the Queen's English, 3) he was a prick or 4) he was deaf and mute.

I let Bill Cosby marinate and fester in its foil wrapper and brown paper bag much like England in Easter week before I tucked in. To me, a hot dog is a hot dog. Whether it has chili on it, the sausage has been split and smoked or not, a hot dog is still a hot dog. There were no surprises just like Real Madrid finishing El Classico with 10 men.

The Ho Down says: buy some sausages, cook them; make your own chili and dump the two together; call it some crazy name claiming that it is the best god damn chili dog this side of the Milky Way and you have yourself a chili dog to rival Ben's. What a load of tosh.

'One of those' and Bob Ho @ The Mayflower, Bristol, The England, 2009 (Happy days)

Probably 4 Gaddafi units on the Gaddafi scale of bizarrity. Two behind Wright's (oh so wrong) Farm Restaurant. The Mayflower was recommended to me by a fellow Chinese guy so this place must be the nutz. Sure enough, The Mayflower is situated in a bit of a dark dingy place where one would sneak off to for a bit of illegal gambling and to eat some steaks on the endangered species list. Fantastic!

The interior looks like it should be an office or a shop floor. But instead there are tables - some round, some square, some large, some small. The first (and best) time I went was for a post midnight snack. We must have got there at around 0030. For you Yanks if you are a bit bamboozled, 0030 = 12.30 am. Engaging in a bit of non-Chinese banter, or rather pigeon Engrish, with the waitress she concluded that I was 'one of those' and swapped my chopsticks for a knife and fork. Thank you very much. What is unusual about this Chinese restaurant is that they serve dim sum between 12 pm and 4 pm, and 10 pm - 3 am. Amazing.

Where do I start? Chicken feet! There is something barbarically romantic about eating chicken feet. The way they flop lifelessly off the end of your chopsticks (or in my case, on the end of my fork) just screams obscenities at the camera. But having to suck the soft skin off the bones then letting the flavours of the tangy-like sauce trot around your palette is strangely satisfying. I had never had congee before but this is the Evander Holyfield when it comes to winter comfort food. It is a piping hot rice porridge with a density similar to gold. Good luck getting this thing moving in the Tevatron. My congee was perfectly bland with a hint of flavoursome saltiness punctuated by the innocent virgin flavours of the egg, spring onions and other meaty titbits lurking in the bowl. My favourite dish without doubt is the pork cheung fun. This brought back memories of when Mad Alan and I used to dust up to China Town in London Town for dim sum on Sunday afternoons. The memories of throwing rio snappers out of a car window at unsuspecting pedestrians was like reminiscing about the glory days of Gazza and Italia '90. Emotional. And the 'sticky rice'! Another winter favourite! Reliving that experience is bringing more tears to my eyes as if I have been trying to dice onions using my eyelids. Those long road trips up to North London on a Sunday afternoon to the Chinese supermarket with the bank of Mum and Dad... Happy days.

The Ho Down and Bob Ho

The Mayflower place became such a favourite of mine that this place was frequented on multiple occasions with a large inpromptu groups of mildly autistic neuroscientists. A couple of things I would really like know though. What was really in the tea? That stuff gave me the giggles all night long as if I had read the story that Ashley Cole shot a work experience kid in the buttocks for the first time all the time. Did the lighting really fluctuate or was it the tea? Or were they really stealing electricity from their neighbours? Why does the English menu look completely different to the Chinese menu? Is it true that the Chinese menu is cheaper than the English menu? Can you get special off-the-menu dishes such as panda T-bones and golden eagle wings? The Mayflower has character. Loads of it. More character than a herd of thespians auditioning for part of Joey in Joey. The staff have character too, especially Bob Ho (real name Duncan) - you sarcastic joker!

The Ho Down is honoured to have been 'one of those' at The Mayflower.

Steak this place out, Cranston, RI, April, 2011

The first thing you will notice are the peanut shells strewn across the floor like confetti. There was more neon in the lobby than the set of Tron. I thought I was going to get an epileptic fit at The Texas Roadhouse. We passed some proud steaks displaying themselves on their refrigerated catwalk. One of the waitresses asked if I would like to choose my own steak. Hold your horses, cowgirl! I just stepped in and I am still wondering whether this place has a squirrel infestation from the peanut shells on the floor.

Walking through the dining area I felt Harry Stamper getting ready to launch into space to save mankind. This restaurant was Brash with a capital B. Everything is big in this place. The drinks are big and the food is big. The lady in the booth next to me was rather big too... Quite how our waitress brought over 4 pints of water, one 22oz beer, a 300 ml (or so) cocktail and a 18oz margarita in one go without any spillage was very impressive. Judge Douglas Field must have stopped here regularly for cocktail lunches before going back to work.

The bread rolls offered as tantilising palate teasers were little bundles of joy. They came piping hot and glistened like Nicolas Anelka's cranium under the Stamford Bridge floodlights. They had a pleasant sweet taste to them. I later found out that had a glaze of cinnamon butter that gave it that Anelka cranium-like finish as well as that odd sweetness. For the main prize, I got a 20oz Bone In Ribeye steakeroonie with a side of green beans and mashed potatoes. This badboy was meant to be the lone star on the menu.  The steak was good but it was a pauper in comparison to the Kobe Cap Steak I had previously (see Grill23 blog). Imagine getting chauffeured in a Bentley to your new car - a second hand VW Polo. Nothing wrong with a Polo but it is not a Bentley. Each bite was a slight effort, but not enough to enforce a government shutdown. A good steak, in my opinion, is one where the fat is as much of the steak as the steak itself, and adds a little adulterous flavour. The fat on my bone-in was unfortunately just fat. It reminded me of when I was dissecting a foot in anatomy class and whilst struggling with the ligaments I accidentally flicked a piece of my cadaver's adipose tissue into my mouth.

The Ho Down says: it is worth steaking this place out.