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.
Friday, 24 June 2011
Thursday, 23 June 2011
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.
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.
Monday, 20 June 2011
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
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.
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
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| Do me a favour... |
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
Thursday, 9 June 2011
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)
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.
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)
Friday, 3 June 2011
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?
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.
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.
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