Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Pardon Our Dust...

I'm moving to a Wordpress blog, because people who know more about blogging insist that one day, when I can actually do something with my blog aside from rankle the odd Conservative diner who stumbles upon it, I will find it more amenable and nice-looking.

People have said the same to my husband, I'm sure, but fortunately for me, he's very 1.1.

So please follow me over here at
I shant be updating at blogspot any longer.

And thank you for reading, and thank you for telling me, in private, that it makes you laugh. (For some reason, few people admit publicly that they enjoy my blog. I feel rather like a British Golden Globes host...)


Monday, January 31, 2011

I Puked in Your Car...What's For Breakfast?

When I was waiting tables at this popular breakfast & lunch spot in the OC (don't call it that), the chef/owner, who also lived on the premises, was this crazy fucker who turned up The Pogues full blast on Sunday mornings, played the drums shirtless (and not very well) in his bedroom—of which tables 9 through 13 had a perfect view—and drank shopping carts full of booze on a regular basis, often with his sweet and also-deeply-alcoholic sous chef, Bumpy.

Several times a week, his friends would come to drink all the restaurant's booze and jump off the roof and perform other feats the guys on Jackass wish that they were stupid enough to. We girls would clock in at 7am in our overalls and bandannas, and be greeted by some disheveled hobo in the kitchen, slobbering all over the espresso machine in agony. One morning, after shooing one away and making proper cappuccinos for the gang, which included nearly all of the chef's childhood buddies and our whole kitchen crew, we learned that one of the high school chums had gotten mad at some point in the night and stumbled off to sleep in the sous chef's car.

He wandered into the kitchen as the first tables of blue hairs and rich housewives filed onto the patio for breakfast, and announced to Bumpy, "I puked in your car. What's for breakfast?"

Following are some of my favorite hangover foods, by region. Bumpy-approved:


Seoulleongtang (pronounced "So Long, Tongue"): beef bones simmered in water until it turns milky white - bland on its own, but you're supposed to add coarse sea salt, kimchi, chili paste, and whatever else they give you in the banchan dishes that come on the side. The marrow will restore you to life, and the water will hydrate you. Plus Koreans are so goddamned nice and quiet. When you're not related to them.


Pho (pronounced "fuh"): again, beef bones simmered in water, but with allspice and star anise and plenty of salt, so you get the most marrowy, baking-spicy, slightly fennelly broth you want to just fall asleep in. Add all the fresh Thai basil, greens (often mizuna), jalapeños, and sprouts you can; test the broth before mucking it up with plum sauce and Sriracha.
Order fatty brisket to further flavor the broth, but only plan to eat the eye round, ordered "on the side" so you can dunk it right before eating and not get that leathery consistency you get when it's been sitting in there too long.

Bun bo Hue (pronounced "bun bo weigh"): from the Hue region in Vietnam comes this soup with cubes of pinkish-brown floating in it. What is that, you say? Just eat it, it's good for you.
Okay, I ate it - it tastes like sausage, sort of, but there's something....tinny. Tinny like iron? Yeah, that's cause it's congealed pig blood. And it's delicious. But now you've puked on my shoes, you stupid drunk. So that's one setback to going bun bo Hue instead of pho for your hangover cure (but it's the only one).


Posole or Pozole: Yeah, yeah menudo. Whatever. When I'm three seconds from puking on your shoes, do you really want to show me a bowl of tripe? It looks like something a doctor left in you during surgery that you finally passed, but not before it fused with your own intestines and created a sort of hybrid tissue that longs to tickle your mouth with its freaky little fingers. Fuck menudo.

Posole is porky and dried-chile spicy and full of corny, earthy hominy. Fill it with cilantro and radishes and squirt it with lime. Don't dip tortillas in it unless you're really sure you can stand that much starch yet.

Albondigas: Means "meatballs." It's also got lots of squash, celery, carrots, potatoes, and onions in it - and whatever, really. Just use cilantro or get out. if you're one of those unfortunate people who was born with the enzyme that turns cilantro to soap in the mouth, I pity you, you poor bastard. Cilantro, for the rest of us, produces an ecstatic experience that is rivaled only by the finale of Bizet's "Carmen", combined with a meteor shower and oral sex, all at once.

Maybe you should get that fixed or something.


Congee: A velvet rice porridge designed to coat your insides with loving caresses, like a doting Chinese mother; not the kind that makes you hold your pee while you play Rachmaninoff to perfection. By the way, Tiger Mother? Whatever. Saw it when it was "Sybil" and it was just some crazy white lady. Which brings me to a critical analysis of white people: Chinese kids, it is widely held, flourish with this strict discipline. Whatever their emotional problems later in life, they certainly don't develop multiple personalities to deal with the trauma. Psssh. Lazy, soft white people. When I finally bless the world with my spawn, I will make them green-thumb baking wizard piano virtuosos with straight A's and a job at 15. You'll all appreciate it when your kids grow up to be whiny, lazy brats who can't commit to each other and are deeply depressed that they haven't become famous.

In other words, me. Thanks, hippie parents, for all that "emotional license."


Ramen: Not Top Ramen, you silly such-and-such. Get the handmade noodles and tonkotsu broth simmered all day with pork bones. Then pop a soft-boiled egg in 'er and so good make eye roll back! Add MSG. It makes you smarter. That's the "headache" you all complain about.

Eastern European/Ashkenazi Jewish:

Matzoh Ball Soup: Is there anything in the world as restorative as a broth polka-dotted with the schmaltz from a chicken's skin? It's a velvety hug from your bubbe, and its stern carrots seem to suggest a soup that's seen it all, and has learned that, at the end of the day, it comes down to roots. Root vegetables, your family roots, the roots of your faith. The farther down your roots go, the more unmovable you are when the winds come—like a potato, an onion. Also, take your elbows off of the table, you schlump.

Hit me with some more regional hangover cures.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Chefs Have Awful Taste in Wine

It's true.

I've worked for a CIA-trained chef in California who drank 375's of Port like a little girl - yeah, he drank 10 at a click and would end up shooting someone in the ass with a BB gun, but still.

Your Pegasus called, little girl, it would like you to brush its glorious mane.

Another chef, a nationally acclaimed sushi savant, favored Rosenblum Zinfandel when I met him. He's since graduated, but with a slow and painstaking babystepping that he probably never, ever had to endure in his Japanese food training.

Just because you've got a preternatural sense for fish doesn't mean you're ready for Burgundy, Daniel-sahn.

The third chef...forget it. Beer. I love good beer, but this is about wine.

So when I come across shit like this:

"Chef Kent (Rathbun, of Dallas fame and Austin jeering) Recommends"

I wet myself with glee. Let's look at the flavor/texture profiles of his favorite wines, yes?

Amayna, Chardonnay, Leyda Valley, Chile 2006
Domaine Chandon, étoile , Rosé, Sonoma-Napa County
MacMurray Ranch, Pinot Gris, Sonoma Coast
Patz and Hall, Chardonnay, Alder Springs Vineyard, Rutherford
Roederer Estate, Brut, Anderson Valley NV
Rubicon Estate, Roussanne-Viognier-Marsanne, Blancaneaux, Rutherford
St. Supéry, Sémillon-Sauvingnon [sic] Blanc, Virtú, Napa Valley

So from this, I take it this guy's bag is a giant bucket of buttered popcorn topped with oak chips and a copy of Wine Spectator with which he can wipe his glistening craw.

Not a single Old-World-style wine among them, which has become, for me, synonymous with a lighter, better balanced, often subtler experience.

If I had more time and weren't just writing this to blow off steam between tasks on my steps-to-fucking-Shangri-La-sized to-do list, I'd thoughtfully consider the notion that chefs' palates suffer from an eventual blanding - a phenom that explains why so many guests find things saltier than the chef can taste. Anyone out there know the results of studies done to this effect? Like I said, I'm busy with an actual job. Let the geeks do the work and spittle all over my shirt while they tell me about it.

His red selection is even worse. I won't go into it.

The point of this instruction today is: Don't give a fucking rat's ass what the chef likes to drink. If it were up to him, he'd be passed out in the walk-in with an empty case of cherry Robitussin and an underaged Thai hooker.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Another Yelper Makes Me Want To Shove Razors In My Eyes

"My friend ordered three dishes. I don't speak Chinese, so I don't know their exact names, but I have approximated them below:

1. Chicken Buried in a Giant Mountain of Red Peppers that is Really Goddamn Hot
2. Fish Fillet Swimming in a Giant Pool of Spicy Chili Oil that is Really Goddamn Hot
3. Ma Po Tofu (You DO speaka Chinese! -ed.) Swimming in a Giant Pool of Spicy Chili Oil that is Really Goddamn Hot"

You found this review:
Makes You Want To Shove Razors In Your Eyes

Thursday, December 16, 2010

The $26 Glass of Veuve (or, No One Wants To Read Your Stupid Manifesto)

So I hate lots of things, but especially this:

Don't skip intro! Don't do it!

You didn't skip it, did you? Good, because I HATES IT and it's so much better to HATES THINGS together.

Unless you're a hundred million, the thought of spending $44.95 on a main course of lobster tail at the sort of place that sends shrieks of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" at you from its hopelessly outdated website is about as appealing as a lapdance from Mick Foley. (Who apparently loves him some Tori Amos.)

Speaking of lapdances, if I'm spending $26 on a glass of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label (The King of Beers Champagnes!), I'd better be getting a lapdance. Gratuity included.

According to the Mark's website: "Eating" at Mark’s is truly a memorable dining experience.

I suppose "Eating" is in "quotes" because what you're doing isn't "Eating" so much as it is bleeding money out of your spiny-lobster-perforated innards, resulting in a financial sepsis that leads to projectile vomiting, spouse blaming, and - in many cases - a 22% APR.

And if by "memorable" you mean the opulence and showboatiness couldn't possibly be outdone unless you were dining in Notre Dame at midnight while the Bulgarian Women's Choir hooted out Christmas carols to your foot-high platings (is that a croquant set at an angle at the tippy top of my food pile? Spectacular!), then yeah, it's got to be.

Even if the food at this place is now and then really good, there's just no substitute for sincerity - call it the conceit of my generation, but we found the 80s a superbly entertaining bit of triviality, not to be carried on seriously now that we're grown-ups. I listen to 80s music all the time ("incessantly," says certain persons married to me), but I don't want to eat 80s.

We make fun (I make fun) of the bearded Brooklynite who carves his own utensils from co-op-grown bamboo and takes butchery classes (and yet still not butch!) and throws dinner parties devoted to his own closet-festered cheeses...but more and more, this is how I want our restaurants to look and feel. But not because they cynically put on these airs to be interviewed by the eager beavers at New York magazine (who sometimes remind me of the twentysomething babysitter I once had that let us do anything we wanted because he harbored some uncomfortably tangible need to be liked by children). Because their earnest little hearts want desperately to care about something the way our folks cared about Vietnam and civil rights.

Because we have no modern manifestos, but those regarding how we eat and drink. Economics bores our Ritalin-cured brains; politics are only digestible insomuch as they fit on our iPhone screens. Sex blackens and shrinks in a forgotten broiler - too hopelessly damaged and depressing to touch. We'll have to start over from scratch on that one.

But eating and drinking? The long-accepted pleasures of the mouth and bloodstream? That's worth a revolutionary's attention, isn't it?

Brillat-Savarin knew it, even in 1825:

"In the present state of our knowledge, we work on metals with other metals; we take hold of them with iron tongs, forge them with iron hammers, and cut them with steel files; but I have never yet met anyone who could explain to me how the first tongs were made and the first hammer forged."

-- The Physiology of Taste

So, carve on Bearded Brooklyn Boys, as you meander towards adulthood, balls blue with the hope and audacity you couldn't consummate as quickly and ferociously as you'd desired, and a Kiva loan out there somewhere, whittling its own small path through the darkness. Butcher away, you skinny-jeaned seekers of the primitive self, whose extreme measures are misguided (unless a 29-year lifespan is the goal) but dewy-headed with earnestness. Argue into the night about the difference between "real" and "natural" wines, and eschew marketing firms and Mega-purple. Each guffaw directed at your fixie is also a tiny cheer of the heart. For each cleaver swing, each tamp of the muddling stick, each plate of homegrown, homemade, lowrise of not-glistening or architected food is one step further away from blowhard Wine-Spectator-Award-boasting cruiseship aesthetics like this.


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Monday, December 13, 2010

Edie Loves Everything!!!!!!!

So I love going to new restaurants, especially ones that give me free food when I go because they know I'm a blogger and my words can really influence a person's decision to go. Which is a power I will not abuse, by the way, so don't even ask me to! Heeheeheehee.

In fact, I've been invited to a few "Influencer Events" since I started my food blog, Edie Loves Everything!!!!!!, which is totally an unexpected, happy perk. I had started it simply because I love to eat, and I love to talk, and I love....almost everything! Yay!

One time, this chef even came out of the kitchen during one of our blogger events and said he hoped we would all say really nice things about him and his restaurant, and that if we needed any more information to help us write our blog posts, we could contact his PR rep, a pretty lady getting trashed in the corner. She sort of half-waved, half-fell off her chair, and then the chef leaned on the table and started to cry a little bit. He muttered something about a Bernard Loiseau???? (of course I had to Google it—an old mentor, maybe?). Then he rubbed his face with his dirty towel and went back into the kitchen. We were all like, Whatever. My Tweet that night: OMG, chefs are soooo intense. It's because they're also creative. Ask me how I know LOL

So tonight, I went to this little wine bar by my house. I love it because it has hay on the floor and all the servers are dressed in green jumpsuits, like mechanics or something - yet, it's a wine bar! It's not trying to be anything it's not, in other words. It's like they're saying, "Yeah, we serve wine, but we don't care about it and so you don't have to, either!" It's way more fun this way.

We started with a plate of meat and cheese. It was manchego, I think, which is like, really, really hard to get and from somewhere far away, like Morocco. They cut it into these big cubes that reminded me of the cheese plate at all my work events; that's my favorite part of those parties, by the way. I sit there and spear cubes of orange, white—even green cheese, while all my coworkers just laugh 'cause they know I am so food-crazy! I'm just like, "What can I say? I love really good cheese." My favorite is brie. OMG, to die for.
<--- No brie. Sad face!

After finishing off my cheese cubes, I moved on to the meat. It was some sort of dried meat, like prosciutto. It was so yummy nummy nummers with the fig jam!!!!!! This place is really creative.

I drank a glass of something red that was really scrumptious because it tasted like a wine I had before that I really liked and someone told me was expensive. And this one wasn't! I drank two glasses of it. I think it was Spanish.

<--- like this, but Spanish

All in all, a really good wine bar and really good prices. I can't wait to be invited back! (Hint, hint) Thankfully, this time no one came out of the kitchen and cried. Hello - note to restaurants: that's a total buzzkill.


Wednesday, December 8, 2010

This Is Happening

: It's me, bitches. I'm back.

You: Oh, were you gone?

: And I'm here to tell you that although I'm not a waitress anymore, I still have to endure more stupid bullshit on the Internet about food and wine than I can stand. So now you get to hear all about it.

You: You're going to keep making fun of Yelpers, aren't you?

: Yaaaarrrrr. And food bloggerz and Twitter Twats and fucking chefs, and....GRAWRRRR! PR releases!!! I FUCKING HATE PR RELEASES. THEY MAKE ME WANT TO SHAVE MY FACE LIKE BOB GELDOF IN "THE WALL."

You: And, hopefully, you'll keep giving us good recommendations for wines to drink that are crazy-affordable and natural and taste like real actual wine from a place made by people not robots and chemicals.

: Fuck yes. Now I'm about to go down on this 2002 Pierre Peters Cuvée Speciale like Mama Cass on a ham sandwich. Peace out.