Thursday, June 7, 2012
I've spoken in the past of a reoccurring street fair that transpires outside my apartment on 3rd Avenue. I awoke – from a deep and thorough slumber on my living room couch – to the same Disney Radio outfitted behemoth spasmodically stomping her gargantuan frame around the stage that had been constructed across the street. She lip synced Usher into a microphone, occasionally ad libbing with her own enthusiastic prompts: "Come on", "Let's see those hands", "This song is for anyone who ever wondered what it's like to be a firework. It's Firework by Katy Perry". I went downstairs and purchased the shitscene you see above. The movie Heat is not nearly as good as I remember.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
The other day at lunch my friend Marc ordered THIS:
A tiramisu martini. It was delivered to him on a glitter chariot being pulled by six adolescent boys wearing loincloths and fake eyelashes. As soon as he took one sip his voice raised like five octaves. He made nine pedicure appointments in the next 15 minutes. Every time he raised the glass to his lips a flock of doves flew out of his iridescent windbreaker.
Without hesitation I can say that these behemoth bricks of fried cheese were the best mozzarel sticks I've ever had. They're from Big Daddy's, which is like some kind of diner on steroids where I go with my girlfriend when we don't care about our future. I wanted to get a picture of her but there was literally no point at which she didn't have six to eight pigs in a blanket stuffed inside her mouth. We also got a pile of breakfast.
I was at my parents house and they barbecued for the first time this season. When they grill we have to handcuff my sister to the stairs cause the last few times she burned her mouth trying to lick beef grease off the grill slats.
I copped this BLT with a fried egg from Wichcraft a few days ago. On the back of the menu there's like this 40 page essay about the uniqueness of the bacon they use. About how the pig it's made from was given a hot stone massage for like six years while listening to Sade albums on repeat. This thing tasted like every other mediocre BLT I've ever had. Cut the shit, Colicchio.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
My sister and I haven't cooked together in a while because she has been in and out of rehab. But the other night we did, and it was at my parents house, AND THEY WEREN'T HOME, so we cracked open a couple of Zima's and cranked up the radio almost as loud as it goes and we made some food. Here are pictures:
Friggin' red onion, huh?
An interesting fact that a lot of Americans don't know about Italy is that on Christmas, instead of filling children's' stockings with small gifts, Santa Claus (or BABBO NATALE as he is called in Italian) piles the stockings high with a heaping scoop of tomatoes and moozarel.
Here are some photographic highlights from a recent trip to the supermarket! I went with my sister Cookie but she's not in any of the shots because she was fighting with the woman at the deli counter about pancetta. Some sort of misunderstanding about "that's not enough."
A pile of stuffed animals as seen from outside.
You might think that photographing fruit in a supermarket is pretty "gay", but actually it's pretty "creepy".
They had a few different kinds of yogurt.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
They called this Pork Neck Bone Gravy. It had a huge dollop of ricotta in the middle. It was like if everyone's Italian grandmother collaborated on a sauce recipe and the sauce was infused with chunks of pigs that were sent to earth from heaven specifically to hang out in this bowl.
I usually don't like brussel sprouts. It's a vegetable that makes me sympathize with children for picking up and throwing at their parents. I saw one of my friends pop an entire raw brussel sprout into their mouth one time like it was candy and I had to go to therapy for PTSD. But these sprouts were the bomb – because they were shredded like cole slaw and mixed with a shameless amount of Parmesan cheese.
When I was in Chicago we spent a pretty decent chunk of time in Sable, the restaurant on the ground floor of our hotel. The executive chef is Heather Terhune, who recently got the boot from Top Chef, and according to every article I found about her is a "horrible bitch". Luckily her bitchiness did not spill over into my food, though, as everything I ate was outstanding. The pizza pictured up top housed a plethora of pork belly, green apples, white cheddar and chipotle BBQ sauce. I wasn't sure if I could do it but I ate the whole thing in one bite.
Friday, January 13, 2012
When you put a fried egg on something it's basically like adding an orgasm to an already pretty good situation. Like: oh, the park was gorgeous today, it was 70 degrees, not a cloud in the sky and we relaxed by the water for a while and fed the geese AND I HAD AN ORGASM. So you can only imagine my delight to find such an egg draped over my bowl of crispy pig's ears. I had never tried pig's ears before but considering how adorable I find them when they're still attached to the animal I could only guess I'd like them even better deep fried.
We did a wine tasting. I had another photo of my friend Marc holding a glass and smiling, but my camera actually turned gay after I took it and the photo moved to San Francisco.
We also tasted a bunch of cheeses that were too boring looking to photograph. One was weird - with a coffee and lavender crusted skin. Another was maybe the most appalling thing I've ever put in my mouth and tasted like if you went down on a horse in a dumpster.
My sister Cookie had what was straight up the best porkchop I've ever eaten. This thing tasted the way I imagine middle aged women feel when George Clooney smiles. Thos are mustard seeds on top. And some brussel sprouts. I don't remember what all the other bullshit is but when combined into a single bite it was pretty obscene. The pork chop was pink in the middle, which undoubtedly strikes fear into the hearts of many, but our waitress assured us that this pig was healthier than Jack LaLanne. Before he died.
There was a time when I felt pretty adamantly about having my meat cooked almost to the point of turning into ash. As you can see from the photo of my steak tartare however, my desired level of doneness has since decreased significantly. I have a friend Grace who likes her burgers so rare that she's stopped going to restaurants altogether and now just saunters onto farms in the moonlight and sinks her teeth into the necks of sleeping cows.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The deep dish pizza we got was actually the size of Michael Clarke Duncan, the magic black guy from The Green Mile. It spoke in his voice as well. I understood that a deep dish was a somewhat serious endeavor but I didn't expect that it would render me a moron for the next five hours. We had it topped with jalapenos, onions, black olives and sausage.
It was a fork and knife situation, obviously. I could only eat one slice. We took the rest back to the hotel and put it in my mini fridge and I'm not kidding you that later in the middle of the night I was roused from my sleep by my sister who SNUCK INTO MY ROOM, took the rest of the pie and crept back out like some psychotic, criminal addict.