Buff me @ Jimmy Buff's! NJ, March 2011

Herro errybody! I see that the traffic is is low to my blog and everyone is too shy to post a comment. In order to maintain interest I am crawling out from under my burger bun to give you another gastro-perience.

If I had to make a sweeping generalisation, New Jersey is a bit of a hole. If King George III were to wrestle power to bring America back to the bosom of the English, I think he would carefully sidestep The Garden State. However, tucked away somewhere in West Orange, lies 'The Originators of Italian Style', Jimmy Buff's. That's right, Giorgio Armani. Who are you?

Jimmy Buff's serves hot dogs. Pardon me - Newark hot dogs. Pulling into the carpark, I could not help but noticing the eating house/shelter/thing. The restaurant, if I can call it one, is a portacabin that has probably seen more renovation and reconstruction than Ronaldo's knee. When walking inside, it really does feel like as if George Orwell has bundled you in the back of his time machine and dumped you into the swinging 50s. The posters and certificates must have absorbed more photons of sunlight than a melanoma, and the furniture must be made of the most nonbiodegradable material known to man; i.e. 1950s plastic.

What was particularly ironic was that the staff of this originator of Italian style were 100 % non Italian nor originators of Italian style- they were Peruvian. Mi dispiace. Anyway, I ordered the flagship meal - the Newark Double. This beast consisted of the most delicate of bread buns raped by a greasy hot dog thing, another greasy sausage thing, fried potato slices, a dollop of ketchup and a dollop of mustard. Imagine offering Rodin's 'The Kiss' to anarchists as a peace offering after destroying London.... Watching the Peruvian originator of Italian style at work was like watching a pool cleaner do his stuff. He did a lot of fishing around for dark sausages in a pool of bubbling oil, then he fished for potato slices in another vat of oil. This vat actually looked like a swimming pool. It had a gradient floor so all the cooked vegetables bits could bask in the shallow end whilst the potato slices were treading oil in the deep end. Forget about invading Iraq for oil, I suggest Uncle Sam invade this place.

I'll tell you what. The friedness of the fried food was actually very acceptable on my palate. This stuff is perfect hangover food. After you have installed a secret webcam in a gay guy's dorm room in a drunken Bud Light stupor, head to this place to clear your heavy heads.

The Ho Down says: I am currently unBuffing myself of the Jimmy Buff's in order to try and get buff again. Enuff said.

Post Garden State

Dear Bloggerdons,


I have encountered a personal crisis. Don't worry, radioactive water is not seeping into my cornflakes. I have a back-blog to get through so more gastr-Ho blogs with a pinch of ather-ho-sclerotic seasoning to come.

138 page views so far but only 2 followers and 1 comment. Show me some love, bloggerdons!

 

Gastr-Ho-nomics: Ciao, bella Italia! December 2010

Gastr-Ho-nomics: Ciao, bella Italia! December 2010: "Ciao! Mental time travel will become a stowaway on a flight across to Il Bel Paese for this special blog-a-don. This is also going to be a ..."

Ciao, bella Italia! December 2010

Ciao! Mental time travel will become a stowaway on a flight across to Il Bel Paese for this special blog-a-don. This is also going to be a bit longer than usual but if you like your offal deep, long and meaningful you should be able to sit through this marathon Italian literary cuisine.

La colazione
Forget about your hangover busting fry-up. Italians are too beautiful to get hangovers. Delicate educated pastries singed with frothy but prickly cappuccino are what I indulged in for the first meal of the day. Let's start with the cuppas of cappuccinos. There is something different about them in Italy. Just like Guinness in Dublin??? The foam is so light. If there is such a thing as wet snow and dry snow with dry snow being the zenith of snow, then this froth is definitely dry. Cast you mind back to when you were a little kid and you took your first mouthful of bubbles whilst having a bubble bath thinking they will be the beverage of life. So light and airy, but substitute the bitter taste of Thomas The Tank Engine soap with milk. Milk so milky the Milky Bar Kid would be a hippy instead of a cowboy. The coffee had that bitter taste that makes you wonder how you just want more.

The pastries were incredible. They were so light and amicable, they somehow floated onto your plate and translocated to your table. The fillings ranged from chocolate to all sorts of fruity fruitiness. Forget about il pranzo, let's break our fast all day long.

Il pranzo
So many choices to whet your appetite... I think I will blog-a-don you with my pannini.
How many restaurants can you go into and ask the owner to make you a sarnie? Lo Spuntino in Montegallo is one of them. We were in Montegallo for 2 days I think but I am sure I had more than two pannini. I was given a big brick wrapped in kitchen foil. 'What was this?' I asked myself. I thought Antonella (the hostess) mistakenly gave us her bricks of coke that was intended for La Camorra. What awaited me when I unwrapped the incredibly thick kitchen foil was a monstrosity of a sandwich reminiscent of la Piazza Vittorio Emanuelle. The two pieces were not even cut straight. WTF? It must be the Italian way. Nevermind. Sure enough the bread was thick and a bit dry for my liking but inside there was an amazing party of ciauscolo and pecorino. In fact the bread grew on me. My luddite palette was being educated. Ciauscolo is succulent pink salami with little stowaway pieces of truffle. The truffle perpendicularly punctuated the pure cured taste of salami with puffs of brashness. I thought this was good until I munched my way through the pecorino. By Jove! I think Hestia, the agricultural goddess of food, was playing keepy-uppy with Paolo Rossi on my taste buds. Being made from sheep's milk, this cheese had a strong but intoxicating taste to it. I cannot describe it and do it justice. Mainly because I am a pleb but also because I will leave it to you to sample yourself. "Antenella, pannino con pecorino per favore. Grazie mille. Ciao!"

La cena
Antonella and Stefano entertained us at their restaurant, Lo Spuntino. Stefano, the chef, was a Roman. He spoke with his hands, I found him fascinating to watch especially as he seemed to spend most of his time chatting and threatening to create a mini supernova with his hand gestures, yet he still managed to bang out some amazing food. He never smiled or threatened to break a smile until I cracked off some pigeon Italian that went something like this: "Abito la dolce vita in Montegallo." His grin might have been translated as: "Who is this putz?" or it might have been translated as: "This putz is joker".  Or even, "Merda, il cinese". I will never know....
The NYE dinner was intense and immense. If I had known that it was going to be a five course meal, I would have taken it easy on the antipasti. What stood out for me like Libyan aircraft in a no-fly zone were the lentils and pasta.
The lentils were from Castoluccio in adjacent Umbria. I always thought lentils were a poor man's musical dish (musical because beans and lentils fire up the intestinal orchestra). Slices of zampone (pork's leg) were lurking like Super Pippo on the shoulder of each lentil waiting to confound belief with important gustatory contributions. I felt as if each individual lentil had its own character and personality and the sauce was the type of comfort sauce only your mother can make. The other dish that caught my taste buds offside was the pasta. Simple (thin) pasta with simple tomato sauce, except that the simpleness of the tomato sauce was so virgin-like that the tomatoes must have germinated through immaculate germination. I thought Michaelangelo was painting a pomodoro al fresco inside my mouth with every mouthful. How could this get even better? Well, shoot me down with a Roman archer and sprinkle some pecorino on the pasta! Bellissima!

Dolce
I am sure I had horse chestnut jam of some sort. That chestnut jam thing was pure theatre. It was the gastronomic version of SuBo. It didn't look appealing; the thought of it was quite repulsive but when it got down to business it was angelic. The jam was bonkers, nutty but delightfully sweet.

The Ho Down says: Italy 1, France 1; Italy win on penalties. Grazie mille, ragazzi!

I would like to thank Marta and Marco for making me feel welcome during my stay. I will always remember 'kazzo di ca!'
I would also like to thank Xu for being my piccolina broncina. Sei una su un millione!

Il pizzaiol-Ho

Chomping my way to The Garden State this Saturday

Herro everybody. I am going to New Jersey this weekend to watch USA Vs Argentina at Meadowlands Stadium. Who will come out on top? Messrs. Messi or Donovan? Who cares. More importantly for you, I will be finding out what the Garden State has to offer my belly. For example, does the garden salad originate from The Garden State? Nachos or Pukka Pies? Is it true that New Jersey a cultural void?

All these questions and more will be answered!

Wright's Farm Restaurant, Harrisville, RI,

I try to include a picture of the event with each blog but even though I don't have any photos I just have to share this experience with you lucky people. If bizarreness was measured in Gaddafi units this would probably notch 6 Gaddafi units. Or maybe a 7 depending on the rebel forces organisation index and oil price coefficient on a given day.

Chicken at Wright's Farm Restaurant - the order of a very wet Sunday.

So how does this place earn 6 Gaddafi units? Imagine leaving a full moon party and getting lost in the wormhole on the way to Original New York Systems (see previous blog) without any battery in your iPhone, and ending up at a tailgating party in a Church car park. G-Force made a well educated guess that the patrons here were probably hungry Sunday church goers looking for something a bit more substantial than a wafer and a swig of wine. I think he might have been correct.

Inside, this place reminded me of a very old cruise liner. I could not quite fathom the dimensions. Was it a square or was it a rectangular building? Everything about it looked old. The staff were old, the carpets were old, even the young waiter who served us looked old. Whilst waiting at the bar, bingo numbers were being called out on the tannoy.

On to the food. This place is a vegetarian's nightmare. It was all about the chicken buffet. Walking through the dining hall, I could not believe the volume of chicken being consumed. Good thing Noah allowed a couple of chickens onto his ark otherwise the Sunday church crowd would be eating tofu. The concept at Wright's is to thank the Lord for chickens getting on Noah's guest list and to smash down as much chicken as you like. Sides included chips (French fries to the yanks) and mac and cheese blah blah blah. It was all about the chicken. It must have been standing room only in the oven. There was something odd about the taste. I couldn't tell if it had been seasoned but it tasted salty so it must have. The meat was succulent. No, actually it might have been greasy. It was greasier than how my mum roasts chicken, but it wasn't greasy enough to stop me from putting away a couple of breasts and thighs. I am a breast man myself. The Force looked like a leg man and Jose, our resident Latino, went straight for the thighs as it is closer than the breasts to the butt.

The verdict of The Ho Down: All I will say is that in the following week I got the two bob bits and The Force was reduced to nothing but a fart on a windy day...

Eagle's Deli, Boston, September 2010

My bet with Bastien was as safe as George Osborne's budget.

Eagle's Deli is 110 % American. The food is served big, the young waitresses blatantly didn't care about customer service, the burger flippers were South American and the decor was delightfully unrefined.

I am convinced you only go to Eagle's Deli for the burgers although they did have other non-American dream food such as salads. If you go to Eagle's Deli and order a non-burger it would be like going to a Jewish deli and ordering a bacon sandwich and packet of pork scratchings.

On my first visit, I took down the smallest challenge - The Nick Lachey. Had to be done. This contained 1.5 lbs of pattie, 6 slices of Swiss cheese, 6 pieces of bacon and 1/2 lbs of French Fries (and a drink). At this point I think I must have blacked out from the beef because all I can remember was 4 hours later whilst laying in a park I was suffering from the bovine sweats. I swear I saw vultures circling above me. Bastien took down the Cowabunga: 2 lbs of pattie, 8 pieces of American cheese (that's right, American cheese), 2 lbs of fries, 1 pickle and a drink. The beast took the burger down. Respect. I felt sorry for his girlfriend though. I can't imagine making beautiful music with a bovine German.

On my second visit, I was ordering as a responsible 30 year old adult and no longer as a juvenile jackass. So I did the mature thing and went for something more manageable in the form of a 1/2 lb specialty burger. This time my mind was clear of beef and I could make a clearer assessment of the burger. It was really rather good. Definitely better than Maccy D's. Better than the King and it pains me to say that it is better than Wendy's square burgers (Wendy is a genius for putting a square pattie in a round bun!)

The Ho Down would bring John Gummer's daughter here for the Eagle's Challenge. No danger. Potential naming of the challenge if Cordelia Gummer took it down? The Bovine Specialty Epicurian burger

Original New York Systems, RI, September 2010

Bizarre. The best word to describe this bizarrity. Another stop on the Bastien farewell tour of all things American.

Walking into this place is like walking into the scene in Men in Black when Agent K blows Jeeb's head off in the pawn shop and a new head sprouts back. It is similar. I kid you not. The decour is outdated, there is a pinball machine that has seen more balls bouncing around than Cathy Barry and there is an arcade machine whose processing power is probably on the same level as a calculator. The staff are probably aliens from outer space too.
The Ho Down: "So what is the difference between a hot weiner and a hot dog?"
Alien 1: "$2.79".
How can you reply to that?

On to the nosh. Where do I start? I have no idea. What is a hot weiner? I still don't really know. According to Alien 2 behind the counter with a couple of missing teeth, a hot weiner is made of 'higher quality' meat. The meat being pork and beef (I think) so definitely not kosher and you won't find this being served at a Hindu wedding. The other ingredients are onions with celery salt and some sort of chilli (minced beef/chilli con carne thing for you civilised English people). And of course, a bun. This is all served completely bareback with love. In other words, the guy stacks a load of weiners on his arm (uncovered) and dresses them faster than you can dial the health authorities. I will leave the taste to your imagination but I am sure hot weiners would taste great after a night out on the lash. Try and wash all that down with a coffee milk. Really cold sweet liquid of some sort. A pancreas killer.

The Ho Down verdict says, bareback is always better.

Lobster in Maine, August 2010

"Bastien, you donut. You have fucked it up. You don't know where you are going. You aren't German- you are Turkish."

The conversation to Thurston's Lobster Pound, Bernard, Maine went something like that. Anyway, always back the Germans. Vorsprung durch technik. We did everything right.

I was expecting a poncey restaurant with valet service but Thurston's Lobster Pound was nothing more than a shack with a canopy. I swear it was colder inside that it was outside. How could this place serve up the zenith of seafood?

We chose our lobsters from the tank. I took a soft shell lobster as the young'uns are meant be tastier. No vicar jokes here please. The girl who picked out our lobster might have jumped out of the tank too. I'm not sure. The kitchen looked like more like a laundry than a kitchen. It all added to the experience.

Anyhow, we took our seats on the crappy tables and sipped on some really rather good Bar Habor Ale while waiting for our lobsters. Our name was called out, we picked them up and bibbed up ready to take it down. Someone couldn't work out how to use the crackers. I thought I was a pleb. Own up. It was either Jose or Bastien. On to the Maine event. What can I say apart from: eating lobster here (in Maine) will change your life for ever. Even G-Force built up a whirlwind to nosh down on some lobster. And he liked it too. Juices were flying everywhere, orifices sucked, Bastien moaning... I lived like a Roman in the time it took me to take down my lobster. We entered, we destroyed, we left. Everything about the experience was bang on the money. Freezing shack, good beer, amazing lobsteroonie... The price? I hear you ask. I think it came to about $30 all in for a 2 lb lobster, corn bread, cole slaw, a blueberry muffin and a pitcher of Bar Harbor Ale to share. Maybe someone can verify that?

The Ho Down says: We did everything right!

Hoot Hoot! Warwick, RI, Sept 2010

Situated right next to TF Green Airport. It was night time. We (Jose, Rafa, Pablo (Jose’s friend)) went in honour of Bastien’s last Friday in Rhode Island.

Hooters is like McDonald’s but instead of a clown (probably a paedophile) Hooters has hooters. Hoot hoot!

Hooters, RI, is great. Remember, it is meant to be a family restaurant. You can bring your kid if you want to. No shame in that... Hooters is all American. You won’t get poncey croque monsieurs or crackers with goat cheese here. It is all about American food. Fuck yeah!

We ordered 50 chicken wings at a reasonable price of $35, half with a mild sauce and the other half with medium sauce. The wings themselves were the best so far. In general, I find chicken wings quite disgusting but these were probably the last in line to be discarded for scraps. The sauce was extremely mild, which was a bit disappointing but my bumhole thanked me the next morning. The wings were somehow crispy as if they were fried but at the same time did not seem as if they had been dipped into the Gulf of Mexico by BP bosses. They were also larger than normal just like American cars Vs European cars. Next up was a philly cheese steak. This was a bit of a beast. The bun was exploding on my plate. Of course, the steak was cooked to shit but it did the job.

The Ho Down says: Hooters - you are the American Dream. Unsophisticated food fit for a pleb. Love it!

Grill23, Boston, 18 March 2011

“This is the best god damn steak I have ever had!” was ringing through my ears on the way to Grill23. The choices were Poste390, Abes and something else. Doing some Zagat-based homework it had to be Grill23 with a beefy score of 91 %.

I was expecting a really stuffy appearance that would turn up its nose at you if you rocked up with anything less than a Harvard degree, but the clientele looked very ordinary (I suppose this is America...)

The menu was quite extensive but I had already decided that if I am going to break my federal reserve I might as well go beefy and get the Kobe Cap Steak (rare of course) at 59 greens. Mr. Phan got the 20 oz Bone-In Delmonico steak (medium rare) - oh my goodness.

After some head scratching and pontificating over the rather large numbers on the menu, the beef finally arrived. First impressions: My Kobe was just like Kobe himself - a big lump of revered dark beef. My first incision was not scalpel-like as I expected but the sight of rare Kobe was gastronomic porn. As I worked my mandible around Kobe I could taste the slightly charred salty exterior, followed by a delicate layer of fat finally backed up by soft delicate massaged protein. Some very attractive amino acids were about to join the party in the house that Ho built. Unlike other steaks, there was not a really beefy taste. It was more subtle. If Vien’s Delmonico steak was rugged like Ray Mears, mine was more like David Ginola. I could tell that my Kobe had spent time with Gavin Henson in a spa with its delicate texture and sleazy taste; on the other hand I could imagine the Bone-In Delmonico steak had been running around in the jungle with nothing but a pocket penknife and a John McClane vest.

The sides were surprisingly good too. The pomme frites were the real deal French things and the asparagus was innocent like a schoolboy before his first day as an altar boy. The only slight criticism I had was that there was a pinch too much salt on Kobe. The chef must have had larger than average hands.

What does the Ho Down say? All in all, it was almost the best god damn steak I have ever had.

Doyle's Cafe, Boston, 19 March 2011

The exterior looked like a grotty pub or some sort of social club. What else can I say apart from, this looks promising!

Upon entering we were greeted by chaos. Imagine being in a room full of Americans with dead batteries in their iphones or Blackberries. There was a queue of people but they did not seem to be queuing up for anything in particular. Whilst queuing up for presumably a table it was an opportunity to ocularly devour the interior. This was the real deal Irish-American bar with high ceilings and a rough and ready feel to it. Who was John Collins?

Anyway, amongst the chaos a table had been prepared and we made our way our which booth. The menu, hashed together with paper cutouts and photocopied onto an A4 sheet of paper, was lacking something Irish but the waitress did have a sense of humour admitting that there was no Irish grub on the menu. Funny that - the paraphernalia boasted that Doyle’s was meant to be the best Irish pub outside Galway.

The food: I got the clam chowder in a bread bowl which arrived in more of a normal bun thing than a sourdough thing. Each their own. At least it did not turn up in a spud. The clam chowder tasted unique and not generic. It was creamy, not too salty and had little droplets of oil to remind you that this is comfort food. It was really rather good. I completely forgot that it was meant to contain clams and potatoes. In fact I can’t remember if it had clams. It must have had spuds as we were in the best Irish pub outside Galway. Mr. Phan indulged in, and lost his buffalo wings virginity. It was a proud moment. Bringing a wing close to my nostrils was the closest thing to smelling salts. The wings were bordering on crispy. A few more minutes in the fryer and they would have made the starting line up next to Hooters. For me personally, I struggled with them - the vinegary taste, the heat, the bright orange flavour. Maybe that is what makes good wings good.

So what is the Ho Down on Doyle’s? Just like the 2011 Ireland Six nations team: Played 6, won 3, lost 2; mid table. The floor and table were not sticky enough to be a real pub.