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.
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Monday, 25 July 2011
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!
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!
Monday, 11 July 2011
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.
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.
Friday, 1 July 2011
"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.
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.
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.
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