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.