Fidel Gastro

The 2013 Philadelphia Wine & Food Festival in Really Bad Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Tue, 14 May 2013 17:44:00 +0000

Loafers without socks, leathery faces, and the quiet discomfort of being in a room where everybody makes more money than you. That basically sums up the 2013 Philadelphia Wine and Food Festival. Not that it wasn't a good time. There were some stellar pours, including a perfectly balanced sherry imported by P.R. Grisley Co.* and a sauvingnon blanc from Casa Patronales that drank like a high octane double or triple-IPA (imagine a boozier Double Jack or a less-syrupy Hop'solutely). Plus, it was all you can drink, although I did my best not to render myself useless for the next day's kid party doubleheader.

At the end of it all, I had the opportunity to catch up with a high school buddy of mine who dropped serious knowledge on the challenges of importing wine (P.R. Grisley is only available in 13 states), the effect of the E.U.'s disdain for austerity (It's no secret that Spain and Portugal, where many of P.R. Grisley's imports come from, are kind of fucked right now), and how wine's a whole lot cooler if you're not snobby about it. Check back shortly for a couple videos featuring a real-life Geico caveman and a drunken Spanaird. Buen provecho.

Update: Here's the Spanish bull (toro?) I was talking about. Foreign accents are so cool:

And here's the IRL Geico Caveman:

Dude, you've got some mango salsa in your beard.

*Full disclosure. These guys were my sponsors. I was pretty relieved, however, when their wines were among the best I had all night. It would have been really awkward if they sucked.

When Life Imitates Art: A Little Green Eggs Cafe Rodent Levity

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Thu, 09 May 2013 12:30:00 +0000

More surprising than the lack of puns about the whole Green Eggs Cafe rat conundrum (I'll throw my own hat into the headline ring with "Broken Sewer Pipe Leads to Shitty Situation."*) is the fact that almost a week has passed and nobody out there has compared this to one of my ~~daughter's~~ favorite movies, Ratatouille. I suppose real life rats are far worse than computer animated rats, but perhaps they were just in there trying to whip up one of their favorite classic French dishes. A cassoulet, maybe? The perfect omelet?

It got me thinking about the parallels between the movie and Philly food (with a tiny bit of poetic license for one of the characters).

An aging diminutive chef who's ready to cash out:

A woman in a man's world, eager to make a name for herself:

And a goofy shithead who becomes an overnight success for reasons not even the most brilliant market researchers can figure out (I thought about the locals and came up empty on local goofy shitheads. Can't wait to try your Good Stuff, Spike!):

So instead of crucifying Green Eggs Cafe for something that was obviously not their fault, simply picture a real life Ratatouille playing out in Midtown Village (with ServSafe certified rats). And while you're at it, think about the fact that you wipe your butt, then wash your hands, then use them to eat. Or if you used to live in New York City, think about the time you got bedbugs. It was a rough couple of weeks, but nobody sentenced you to a life of quarantine on leper island. This is kind of a similar situation, and I'm sure the Green Eggs folks are going to make double- and triple-sure that their place will be clean enough to eat off the floors for the indefinite future. Here's hoping that this doesn't shut them down completely, because this business is already hard enough as it is. Buen provecho.

*If there have been puns, please forgive me for living under a rock.

People That Look Like People: Starr and Christie

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Tue, 07 May 2013 22:20:00 +0000

I haven't. Have you? Buen provecho.

Burger Brawl 2013 Non-Recap*

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Mon, 06 May 2013 15:29:00 +0000

It would be nice if we humans could evolve to the point where our collective metabolisms catch up to the amount of food we produce/consume rather than just becoming a bunch of fat shits. That way, instead of only being able to eat nine or so of the burgers at this year’s Burger Brawl, every last one of us at the event could have enjoyed all twenty-four.

Alas, the finiteness of our stupid stomachs brings regret not from eating so much, but from eating so little (relatively speaking). I suppose when you say you’re upset that you only got to eat nine(!) burgers, you’ve got problems. Or you’re American.

Congrats to Fat Jack’s for being the jewel of the judges with their "Memphis Mauler" burger, and to Lucky’s Last Chance for getting the crowd’s crown with their Peanut Butter and Bacon Burger. And congrats to the rest of us for enduring sunburns and meat sweats in the name of competition and philanthropy. Buen provecho.

*Regarding the event itself, I can't stop thinking of Percy St BBQ's offering (middle left), a mouthful of egg yolk and country ham that had the silky texture of prosciutto with vinegar onions to balance all of those riches. I was also quite partial to South Philly Tap Room's Ham-Hamburger, because I hate ham salad (too sweet), but I fucking love SUPER ham salad, something Scott Schroeder came up with while "shooting darts."

Do You Want Pho?

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Wed, 01 May 2013 19:33:00 +0000

In case you were wondering, this PowerPoint/decision making masterpiece is the result of two years of business school and the associated mountain of debt. Buen provecho.

Alla Spina, One Year Later

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 16:47:00 +0000

It took a little over 365 days for me to finally get to Alla Spina. Those following me on Twitter know that the reason for the delay could be attributed to beef jerky and/or the fact that I'm usually too drunk to drive, but whatever the excuse, I'm happy to say that I finally made it to the North Broad birreria this past Friday. Since I'm a year late to the party and you probably already know about the grafitti, the pig with leg warmers, and the negronis on tap, I'll keep things short and sweet by telling you what I ate and why you should do the same (or I'll go off on a bunch of tangents about shit that doesn't make any sense whatsoever).

Joined by lyme disease survivor/former roommate/secretly cyborg/good friend of mine D-tron (remember what I said about tangents?), most of what we ordered came from the happy hour menu, an extensive list that included must-order items such as the mortadella hot dog. In addition to the deep fried dog, we got a half-dozen oysters, the house-made pretzels with beer cheese sauce, and the poutine (theirs is made with guinea hen and mozzrella curd). To drink, I started with a negroni (because it was on tap). Artfully presented with a giant ice cube, the only bummer was that it limited the subsequent beer-drinking to two, a Baladin Wayan Sour and a Yards Old Square Spruce. Happy hour was ending, so I ordered them at the same time, which is like buying two albums at the same time, which you should never do, because you just won't pay attention to one of them (this happened to me with Primus and Helmet back in '92. Sorry, Sailing the Seas of Cheese). The Baladin was great, but even with its list of 17 ingredients, it was less memorable than the Old Square Spruce. The result of a barrel-aging tennis match elaborated on here, the best way to describe its flavor is melted Coca-Cola slurpee with a subtle pine finish (a very good thing). Now back to the food:

Oysters: The oysters on special were called "Little Bitches," and goddamn those little bitches were great. Medium-sized and buttery, they set the tone for the rest of the food.

House-made pretzels: Say what you wish about Auntie Anne's, but pretend you don't like that lacquer of butter and sugar and I'll be the first to note that your pants are engulfed in flames. Alla Spina's had that same sweetness, but the consistency was much fluffier. It was almost like eating a donut. A donut that I could dip in cheese sauce at my leisure.

Mortadella Hot Dog: Perhaps it was the dollar dog deal of yesteryear that pushed this to the front of my mind, but I'm glad we ordered it. The dog was great, but the salt & vinegar potato chips served on the side were even better. Instead of a kettle chip crunch, they were melt-in-your-mouth, which worked really well with the light crunch of the toasted bun and the snap of the hot dog casing.

Poutine: I haven't met a poutine I didn't like, and this one was no exception. The best part about it? It tasted like Hamburger Helper (a very very good thing). Had I not been sharing it, I would have ditched the fork and scooped it into my face by the handful.

If you're still reading, here's a picture of Steve Wildy, the beverage director for the Vetri Family, and current contender for nicest guy in America. If you want to geek out on booze, this guy is a wealth of knowledge, and he's happy to share without being a dick and/or making you feel like an idiot (yes, another tangent).

Beverage Director Steve Wildy: He's so bad.

I'd recommend going for happy hour immediately, and if you don't have to drive, you might as well just stay there until the late night happy hour kicks in at 10 P.M. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 13:09:00 +0000

The trouble with gimmicks, even the bright orange crunchy ones, is their inherent lognormal distribution. Out of the gate, Taco Bell's first Doritos Locos taco was in heavy rotation, and rightly so. The "oh shit why didn't we think of that before?" combination of crappy fast food and crappy snack food was a monumental success, but like beating Street Fighter II on one quarter with Blanka for the 30th time, its novelty faded, settling beyond the third sigma where one can comfortably avoid being seen making a run for the border and heard in the toilet immediately following. I lost count of how many Doritos Locos tacos I have eaten since their debut almost a year ago, and it has been at least a month since my last one. I had all but forgotten about the brilliant combination until Hahri Shin's Twitter feed reminded me that the brain trust at Taco Bell was diversifying their Doritos Locos portfolio with a Cool Ranch shell. And it would be ready a day early. And that day was today (well, yesterday, since you're probably reading this on Thursday).

With curiosity and expectations high, I made my way to the nearest Taco Bell thinking my life would be changed once again. That was my first mistake.

While just as good as a Taco Bell taco can hope to be, it didn't deliver like its Nacho Cheese predecessor. The seasoned "beef" overpowers the Cool Ranch flavor instead of complementing it like it does with the Nacho Cheese. The first bite works, but as you get to the middle, the Dorito just gets lost. My second mistake was not ordering a supreme version. I think the sour cream and tomatoes might have amplified the little red, white, and green bits on the shell. If nothing else, they would have added a bit more depth to an otherwise disappointing taco. Call it a sophomore slump or whatever you will, but it's best to stick with the Nacho Cheese. If you have no intention of trying either or you need some help deciding, then please allow me to explain in the context of North Korean leaders.

Both tacos are capable of launching a nuclear assault on your intestines, but one's just not as powerful, even if he hangs out with Dennis Rodman. Buen Provecho.

Merry Christmas, I Recorded a Metal Song for You

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Mon, 24 Dec 2012 13:21:00 +0000

It's not going to be a silent night with this gem on your juke:

Happy holidays from me and the Megadeth skull. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Mon, 17 Dec 2012 19:16:00 +0000

The prospect of caramelized onions was enough to sucker me into trying the latest attempt at fast food gourmet, the McDonald's CBO Angus Third-Pounder. Click through for a brief (three) photo essay that captures my stupidity and the sadness of this sandwich.

This is what it's supposed to look like:

This is what it really looks like:

The truth is actually not too far from the lie in this case, and it would appear that you're getting more bacon than you bargained for. Trouble is, the flaccid strips are too long to eat in one bite, so instead of looking like a civilized jackass eating McDonald's, you look like a bear who just caught a bacon-fish in his mouth. Let's check under the hood:

The caramelized onion bait was instead a few burnt onions that tasted like 3 day-old fond. The creamy mustard sauce served only to make the bun taste like a freezer-burnt corn dog, and just like the first time I tested out the angus third-pounder, the patty itself was horribly dry. Ringing up at over six bucks, this I'm not sure how they can call this an Extra Value Meal. You're better off sticking to the dollar menu. Buen provecho.

Weighing in on Wells, or Guy Bites Big

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Wed, 14 Nov 2012 15:28:00 +0000

By today, most of you have seen Pete Wells' takedown of Guy's American Kitchen & Bar. Already heralded as a thing of beauty by aspiring food writers and other folks that rest comfortably outside this restaurant's target market, the questions-only review takes a megadump on the newest Times Square megarestaurant branded by the goateed specter that haunts my nightmares, Guy Fieri.

It's a fun read, but the joke's on us. While we get to maintain such things as our dignity and our hair color, this clown's laughing all the way to bank. He cleared $8 million last year, and I would imagine that much like Krusty, he signed off on the use of his name and all of those dumbshit menu items after a dump truck full of money showed up in his driveway—too busy to think about anything but the dollar signs because he was "rollin' out!" to the next triple-D shoot.

We're hopeful that Mr. Fieri is investing this cash in something other than hookers and coke, especially if he's planning to continue diluting his brand. In the meantime, let's get back to Mr. Wells, for whom I have a few questions of my own regarding the expectations of this review:

Did you really expect this place to be good? Did the New York Times also review the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. when it first opened? Would you expect your readers—most of whom use the company card to impress clients—to entertain a night out in Times Square? Are you fucking kidding me with this? And one more time, just to make sure—did you really expect this place to be anything other than a T.G.I.Friday's with a different name?

More heartbreaking than this wasted review, however, is the scene that just played out in my mind. Guy's sons, Hunter and Ryder (as if we needed more fuel for the ridicule fire. Plus, that sounds terrible together), are seated at the dinner table, staring longingly at their mostly absent father. The family's eating a Papa John's pizza and Guy closes the lid after grabbing a fourth slice. Not sure what to make of the sad faces (because there's still plenty of pizza left), Guy asks them if there's a problem in flavortown, to which the older one replies:

"Dad, why does everybody hate you so much?"

You know what's worse than being Guy Fieri? Getting beat up because your dad's Guy Fieri. Buen provecho.

Distilling the Douche Out of Manayunk, One Craft Beer (and One Burger) at a Time

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Fri, 07 Sep 2012 14:05:00 +0000

Just in time for the September installment of Manayunk's First Friday, owner Chris Barnes and his crew at Lucky's Last Chance pull off a Robert Irvine-worthy transformation of their second floor from pseudo-club to seats aplenty. I chatted with Chris during the demolition last week to find out why Lucky's bucked the trend of $3 u-call-its and (insert fucked up candy flavor here) shots that has been Manayunk's SOP for as long as anyone can remember,* and it turns out that the past year of being open was an experiment that ran amok. "We did the whole burger thing on a small scale to start out. We knew we had to cater to a certain population here on Main St, and that's why we kept Upstairs [at Lucky's]. We weren't really sure how far the burger and craft beer thing would go."

In a word, Chris, "Duh."

He's right, though. Craft beer on Main St. can be a tough sell. On the one hand, you've got college kids (or the recently graduated) who favor quantity over quality, and on the other hand, you've got old-ass Main Liners who jump in their tiny-ass Mercedes coupes after drinking way too much wine at Derek's or Jake's.

Fortunately, there's another demographic slowly materializing, and with another level of seating and additional taps, Lucky's Last Chance will be ready for them tonight.

"We're not changing much, just adding tables, really," Chris says. Still, it's nice to have an option in Manayunk where the food is good and I don't feel too old, too young, and I can bring the kids. Buen Provecho.

*Nothing wrong with this, folks. Just stating facts.

The Best Thing to Come Out of A-B InBev's Acquisition of Goose Island

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Tue, 21 Aug 2012 16:57:00 +0000

This year's beer options at the Linc include Goose Island IPA, an offering from the craft beer concern that was (somewhat) recently acquired by marketing machine/shit beer brewer/craft beer bully AB InBev. Time will tell whether the quality of Goose Island's offerings will wane to Blue Moon standards, but in the meantime, you can pair your overpriced nachos with a more than fairly priced and super delicious IPA ($7.25 for a stadium-sized plastic cup). Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 19:55:00 +0000

If you've been watching the Olympics, you have no doubt seen (or at least fast forwarded through) Lorena Garcia throwing prop spices on prop food to promote Taco Bell's blatant ripoff of Chipotle/Qdoba, the Cantina Bell menu. The story we're being fed is that the Latina stereotype/current contestant on Top Chef Masters was the inspiration for the new items, drawing from her vast experience with big bold flavors. Oh yeah, and she's Venezuelan, too. Not sure how that translates to fast food Tex-Mex (if you can call it that), but the long and short of it is that our border buddies are trying to beat Qdotle (see what I did there?) on price, asking us consumers "Think Taco Bell Can't Do Gourmet?"

Even before trying it, the answer was obvious. I KNOW Taco Bell can't do gourmet, but I could give a shit if they could. I go to Taco Bell for Doritos Locos Tacos and Cheesy Gordita Crunches. I love the powdery taste of the barely beef, the waterlogged lettuce, and sometimes even the horrible abdominal pains that remind you to stay away from it all for as long as you can.

Still, I had to try their attempt at "gourmet," and I was curious how the ripoff would translate when it wasn't styled and made to look as appetizing as it does on TV. Here's a lazy list of what you can expect from their Cantina Bowl if you decide to try it for yourself:

1. Instead of a white ceramic bowl, you get a black plastic tray, so it looks like you're eating a Lean Cuisine from the grocer's feezer.
2. The rice was dry and bland, so I'm assuming it came from a boil-in-bag. It definitely lacked the butter/oil mixture that gets dumped into the rice at Chipotle.
3. I counted 10-15 beans in total and tasted none of them.
4. Other than a faint hint of lime, the citrus-herb marinated chicken tasted exactly like what you get in their chicken soft taco, and it was just as rubbery.
5. The pico de gallo and corn salsas were definitely from a bag but passable.
6. The lettuce was nice and soggy.
7. The guacamole is presented like the ball of butter on diner pancakes, one cost-controlled scoop atop a messy salad. It didn't have much taste either.
8. In an effort to keep us fat, the whole thing is topped with a green mayonnaise that doesn't show up in the commercials.

Put it all together and it's $4.29 not well spent. You can get three Doritos tacos for the same price and you don't have to fool yourself into thinking you're eating anything other than crap. I applaud Taco Bell's effort and total lack of shame for stealing, but there's really no need for a gourmet Taco Bell. Buen provecho.

Since We're All Talking About Chicken Anyway

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Fri, 03 Aug 2012 13:42:00 +0000

I figured it would be a much better idea to post this video instead of throwing out my two pennies about Chick-fil-A. It's unclear whether the dancing KyoChon chicken mascot is a hatemonger, but goddamn it if their fried chicken isn't some of the best I've ever had.

I will say this, however. Fuck the fucking higher-ups at Chick-fil-A for making all of us choose between eating something delicious and taking the moral high ground. Buen provecho.

He Made How Much Last Year?

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Thu, 19 Jul 2012 19:42:00 +0000

Click image to see larger

Here's some surprising and depressing news. According to the Huffington Post, my least favorite person of all time besides the kids that fucked with me in grade school just cracked the top ten list of highest paid celebrity chefs. I'm sure he puts in the hours, but I just can't get past the Offspring haircut and the "terrible to the point where I want to start cutting myself" style. He even beat Andrew Zimmern and Tony Bourdain. If anyone needs me, I'll be spending the next few hours with my head in the oven. During that time, please enjoy this infographic to see what Guy Fieri can buy for the eight million bucks he raked in last year. Buen provecho.

If I Won the Lottery

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Fri, 13 Jul 2012 13:26:00 +0000

I don't play the lottery and I think it's a sucker's bet, but in a parallel universe where I'm a blatant hoarder living in a trailer with my collection of highly flammable stuffed animals, mainlining Easy Cheese into my face for every meal, I would spend at least 95% of my government subsidy on Powerball tickets and scratch-offs. It would also be in this parallel universe that I would win the jackpot and be ushered into the world of the nouveau riche, where I would immediately commission the Taco Fountain pictured above and buy an El Camino. Buen provecho.

Full disclosure: The Taco Fountain was actually spawned in the brain of Jason Sheehan, food editor at Philly Mag and Foobooz, the latter of which sometimes publishes my drivel. I've kind of been obsessed with the idea since he mentioned it, and you should be, too. Further, if you consider yourself a Maker, perhaps we could get together and build it? I'm sure it would kill at hipster weddings.

The Easiest Paella Recipe Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Tue, 10 Jul 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Until I realized that being Mexican is actually super awesome*, I would lie and say I was Spanish. Not that being Spanish made you any less of an outsider in Utah, but bullfighting was definitely more acceptable than low riders (it's a footrace regarding which one is cooler). I suppose it's not a total lie, but the details on my ancestry are foggy, and that commercial where the white people open up a laptop and have their entire family history after a few clicks is bullshit. What does it all mean? Nothing, really. It's just a roundabout way to introduce you to the easiest paella recipe ever made. Step-by-step photo instructions after the jump.

Paella Muy Facil
Ingredients:
1 text message

1. Extend a long overdue invitation to what now could be considered old friends.
2. Set up the outdoor stove used for frying last Thanksgiving's turkey. Watch guests sear chicken thighs.

3. Enlist your almost-three year-old daughter to debeard a few mussels and behead a few shrimp.

4. Pretend you know how to make a good Bloody Mary (and go hide in the kitchen) while your guests add shrimp stock to a pan full of chicken thighs, seafood, and arroz de Calasparra.

5. Watch them boil down cup after cup of shrimp stock, then watch as they methodically arrange the myriad components of the dish.

6. Enjoy the results with a ~~fine glass of Spanish wine~~ tall boy of Narragansett Light.

The next step in the process, obtain a giant paella pan to throw a monster paella party, is currently in the works. Buen provecho.

*While awesome from an action movie perspective, I do not condone the drug wars and corruption that is currently being witnessed in parts of Mexico today. Being Mexican is actually awesome because of things like pork tacos and luchadores.

Side Project Jerky - Now With More E-Commerce

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 13:38:00 +0000

Ladies and gentlemen, my online store is now accepting orders for our flagship jerky flavors in 2oz. packages, and shipping is free for the next two weeks. Who's pumped? I know Montgomery the muskox sure is. Buen provecho.

Side Project Jerky Online Store - SHOP NOW

A Legendary French Chef Walks Into a Bar...

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 12:30:00 +0000

I exist on the periphery of tragedy. Eleven years ago, I was five blocks away from the hole formerly known as the World Trade Center and now known as the Freedom Tower. A year later, a giant portion of the northeast was enveloped in darkness, and I'm pretty sure my block was one of the first to get power. Last March, I was in Tokyo during the biggest earthquake in Japan's history, and a few months later (this really wasn't a tragedy but it does fall into the category of holy-shit-that-was-intense), Mrs. Gastro missed her epidural window and had a drug-free childbirth (she was a total rockstar). It has been quite the decade, but not even a former sommelier of Georges Perrier could prepare me for a chance meeting with him at Iron Hill Brewery last night.

My reward for a run to Babies 'R' was 12oz. of Iron (Chestnut) Hill's Lex Luthor, a freshly tapped 11% ABV Triple IPA. There were two open seats between a blatantly obvious middle aged match.com date and a trio of nerds watching the spelling bee. Not wanting to interrupt a second chance at happiness, I took the one next to the nerds. Minutes later, a diminutive old man whose style and cologne reeked of Israeli jeweler and/or Italian expat sat next to me. Nice suit, gaudy jewelry, short in stature but big in presence. Mostly, however, just grumpy, like blue-collar dad grumpy. I knew the face, but it didn't immediately register, because I never knew how little this big man was, so I texted my sommelier friend.

FG: Is Georges Perrier short? I think he's sitting next to me at Iron Hill.
JH: Short as shit. He lives in Chestnut Hill...Probably him.

So I'm sitting next to the guy that basically spawned Philly's food scene, watching him berate the bartenders like they're his own, and what do I say?

FG: The burgers are pretty good.
GP: Eye had borgair for lonzsh.
FG: Mussels then?
GP: I do a bad day. Weez loyarz unteel now. I have cheeekin pod pie.

And we all wish it were as simple as me buying Monsieur Perrier a lager (which I did) and he quietly eats his chicken pot pie at the bar, pays his tab and goes home (which he totally didn't). He was nice to me, but the waitstaff was another story, and the poor guy completely self-destructed after receiving less than 3-bell service. Lots of hand waving, French disgust (the worst kind because it makes you feel mime-sad), and then a final and deliberate "beetch" that got the manager involved, a gentleman who stood two Georges (Georgeses?) tall and who could have easily tossed him like he was playing cornhole at a tailgate.

So here I am once again, on the periphery of tragedy, this time a little closer to the epicenter. I figured it would be a nice gesture to buy him a beer, but doing so prompts him to return the favor, and although I'm stoked to have Georges Perrier crying on my shoulder, I'm now in the middle of him and the waitstaff, none of whom have the slightest idea that this giant asshole also happens to be a fucking legend. Not that it gives him any more latitude to act like a big baby, but perhaps if they knew who he was, maybe they would have been a bit snappier with the service?

As intense as it was, it was kind of sad. The dude from the match.com date took a moment to thank him and also lie about drinking a fancy bottle of wine (Georges was pleased), but the spelling bee nerds next to me--all in their 20s--had no idea who he was and were disgusted at his behavior. They were like, "Who's the douchebag?" and I was like, "That's Georges Perrier," and they were like, "Who?"

I didn't stick around long enough to watch the tragicomedy play out, but I'm hopeful it ended well. I was taught to respect my elders, even when they were being completely unreasonable. I'm not sure the younger generation buys into this, but I doubt Iron Hill would want to be known as the restaurant that tossed Georges Perrier.

The end of an era indeed.

The Cat is Out of the Bag

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Tue, 22 May 2012 16:05:00 +0000

Actually, it's beef, and it's in the bag, a vacuum-sealed one to be exact. After months in the test kitchen, I'm happy to announce my latest venture, Side Project Jerky. Our not-so-humble mission is to provide the highest quality and best tasting jerky available, thereby spreading the beef jerky bible to jerky eaters both on the go and at the bar. Foobooz gave us a great write-up this morning and can tell you when and where to get it in the coming months. You can also follow us @sideprjctjerky on Twitter and check out webpage for more information. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Wed, 09 May 2012 18:18:00 +0000

I feel bad for Wendy's. Without Dave Thomas, the marketing's not the same, nor will it ever be. For whatever reason, it was like they didn't even have to try under his watchful four eyes. Now, they're flailing like the rest of the fast food giants, not only with their completely forgettable marketing campaigns, but also with their "throw a bunch of shit at the wall and hope something sticks" method of introducing new dishes. Their latest attempt—a spicy chicken sandwich topped with pepper jack, bacon, and "natural" guacamole—was the first one in a long time to grab my attention, primarily because of the word "natural." I'm assuming that they couldn't legally use the term "fresh" and figured "natural" would convey the same idea, but when I looked under the hood, the guacamole's neon-green hue reminded me of Ecto-cooler, and it had the telltale tang of something mass produced and infused with whatever acidic chemical is used to prevent it from turning greyish-brown. Guacamole notwithstanding, I still ate the whole damn thing in five seconds, and the reasoning is simple. The spicy chicken breast is one of the greatest and best tasting innovations in fast food, and the toppings are no match for its bold flavor, so the only thing you really taste besides the chicken is regret. Try it if you must (Serious Eats and DidjaEat? both liked it), but my recommendation is to stick with the standard. Buen provecho.

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to Happy Hour

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Tue, 08 May 2012 13:55:00 +0000

Dear Mr. XXXXXXX,
Thank you very much for reaching out to me regarding a recent comment I made on Foobooz about XXXXX. It certainly came as a surprise considering that I changed my phone number not too long ago, but if my remarks warrant tracking me down, then yay me. Since I’m pretty sure that you and your management were the only people who actually bothered to read it, I’ll go ahead and post it here again for a bit more visibility:

“Have yet to have a positive experience there. Dirty glasses, stale nachos, always out of the one beer that I want on their draft list, and the staff is a bunch of jerks. The XXXXX boys need to keep a closer eye on this spot.”

What the rest of the world also didn’t hear was our phone conversation, which is a bit foggy to me as well considering I was in the middle of happy hour and working on beer number three (or was it four)? In any event, my recollection is that you would have preferred that I contact you personally before making a comment in a public forum, the basis of such a statement being that I have a “personal relationship” with one of your colleagues. Correct me if I’m wrong, but a few direct messages on Twitter and a brief phone call to discuss some free press doesn’t exactly constitute a “personal relationship.”

I certainly understand your position here. Being told that you suck totally sucks, but every time I’ve been to XXXXX, it’s been a huge bummer. I’m not drawing on a singular bad experience, I’ve given the place a fair shake, and just to make double and triple sure, I even went back the day after you called and ruined my happy hour. And guess what? There’s a slight improvement, but it’s still way off the mark. The service wasn’t as dismissive as previous visits, but it was painfully slow. Nachos weren’t available during brunch, but we did get chips with the lobster roll, and they tasted and felt like somebody forgot to put the lid on the container the night before. Clearly, your chip game needs a bit of work, and you should probably work on your lobster game, too. For $19, I expect a lot more than a few stringy pieces of overcooked meat on a crushed bun taken from the bottom of the bin. Most people like to chew their lobster, not floss with it. On the plus side of things, the glassware was clean and the beer list was correct, but the slow service only allowed me one for the meal, which, when all was said and done, set me back a very regrettable sixty bucks not well spent.

But this letter isn’t about the sorry state of affairs at XXXXX. It’s about your assumption that you can control what’s written about you. I suppose I should be flattered that you think people give a shit about my opinion, but if you check my website analytics, you’re sorely mistaken. After backing out the webcrawlers in Eastern Europe and the number of times I check the site myself, daily traffic averages like 3 visits per day. Are you also hunting down the negative reviewers on Yelp? There are plenty of them to call. And did you get in touch with Craig LaBan after his XXXXX review?

If you really do care about what I think, then I offer you one recommendation: spend less time harassing two-bit bloggers like myself and more time trying to suck less. Also, don't ever speak to me when you see me.

Warm Regards,
Fidel Gastro

The Martini Experiment

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 17:24:00 +0000

Martini on a high chair. Father of the year.

A recent visit from a couple with no kids inspired Mrs. Gastro and I to try out the Southern tradition of cocktails at 6pm. If you're like them and your list of responsibilities is a little shorter than ours, I highly recommend following suit. It's a great way to start the evening, and it'll slice the edge off cleaner than the sharpest of Japanese cutlery. If you happen to have two or more kids, however, the 6pm cocktail hour plays out like a grown-up version of an after-school special. You forget about the meat on the grill, the macaroni for the kids boils to mush because you shifted your attention to the cocktail shaker, and the whole host of shit you need to do once you've finished your neglected dinner is still waiting for you three days later. With the bender complete, it's safe to say that the martini experiment was as big a failure as my unfortunate run-in with Four Loko couple years back. Martinis are delicious, but it's probably wise to save it for when the kids are in college and you need to self-medicate to forget about how much it's costing you. Buen provecho.

Ozzie Guillen: It Was All a Misunderstanding

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 21:05:00 +0000

Blame the suspension on broken English (or the rain or whatever), but this is what Ozzie Guillen really meant to say. Buen provecho.

Why Did I Eat This?

noreply@blogger.com (Fidel Gastro) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 12:30:00 +0000

From the department of "I should have known better" comes another piece of shit breakfast sandwich from Dunkin' Donuts. I know you have all been impatiently waiting for me to eat this, so I finally bit the stale bagel bullet (Jesus went so far as to die for your sins, so I figured it was the least I could do for the people still reading this). Here's a quick rundown of why you should probably avoid Dunkin's Angus Steak & Egg sandwich:

1. The bagel, as is the case with all Dunkin' Donuts bagels, is chewy on the inside, but you have to gnaw through the impenetrable "crust" to get to it. It's a lot like cutting through pork skin with a dull knife, but doing so with your teeth, and way less worth the work involved.

2. The eggs are nothing if not consistent. Three years later, they still taste like this.

3. I had no expectations for the "steak" other than the hope I could keep it down. I didn't expect it to taste EXACTLY like a microwave cheeseburger, but when it did, I was at least happy that it tasted familiar.

This poor excuse for a breakfast sandwich set the tone for the rest of the day, which got more and more depressing as the "steak," "eggs," and "cheese" made their way through my system. I suppose I should just be thankful that I didn't get (literally) crucified the day before. Buen provecho.