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!
Thursday, 26 May 2011
Friday, 20 May 2011
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.
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 |
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
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...
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 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...
Saturday, 14 May 2011
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
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 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.
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.
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