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I Ate Shit and Became a Star

My latest gastro incantation.

SFO

I know this is long over due. By now, most of you have known, heard and we’ve chatted about my surprise birthday present which was (in case you didn’t know) a weekend getaway to San Francisco. Seemed like everyone was in on it though, so if you do fall into the latter group, you probably really aren’t my friend.

They’re now selling Fuji x Obey track bikes at Macy’s.

Chinatown.

Toronto…take note. This is a REAL taco.

SF hills will kill ya.

We chilled out at the Japanese Tea Garden for ice cold green tea and obscure Asian cookies and treats.

Ocean Beach. This place is like 10 minute bike ride from Jacob’s place. Bastard.

This is a bad picture but its from a restaurant in the Mission called Blue Plate. Its kind of a twist on modern American bistro type food. I had meatloaf, with pork belly. Jacob had pork chops and Michelle had Gnocchi. Food was on-fucking-point. However, it was hotter than hell in this place and our tolerance was definitely tested.

EMB???

Over-priced guacamole from a taco spot down on the wharf near Embarcadero. Pricey? Yes. Good-enough-to-make-you-pee? Damn skippy.

Cupcake princess.

I think Marcus McBride front side flipped this. I could be wrong (my Skate-pedia Browns will have to fact check that for me). In any case though, once a heralded skate spot that the aforementioned owned. Now a bench for the Cupcake Princess.

A watering hole somewhere in the Mission.

Don’t say the car’s topless, say the tits are out.

Don’t even front like you don’t wish you could be right then and there.

Jacob took us to this Puerto Rican spot in San Rafael called Sol Food. One of the better meals on this trip. All organic/free range (for the whities), and portion sizes/price points that were more than reasonable (for the brownies).

Fried plantain + California tomatoes + avacado + fresh, organic mozzarella cheese.

Early Sunday morning, at the Civic Center on Market, people were lining up to buy live chickens and balut.

This was the lineup for Dotties on Sunday morning. Kidding! It’s the line-up for one of the shelters off of Jones. Oh how it sucks to be homeless.

Idyllic SF.

Jacob’s broken Frejus. I’ll let him explain how this happened.

Just To Let You Know…

My pal Trace and I always talk about BBQ. Trace reigns from Houston so he not only can appreciate a good and proper cue, but he’s also quick to call bullshit on all the city slickers north of the Mason-Dixon Line that think that barbecue somehow involves propane.

Lil’ Odeezie

Bear with me. I have a full time job. Updating the blog while I know has been sporadic at best, is really all I can do. And since I’m not trying to be BlogTo, I really could care less if this is old news. As a pre-cursor to our Momofuku Ssam dinner, a couple of friends and myself decided to chow down on some authentic Russian cuisine in Brighton Beach also known as Little Odessa. I’m not sure what ‘Odessa’ refers to, but coupled with my recent infatuation with GTA4 and prediliction for Russian prison tattoos, I had a boner as soon as we got off the train.

Thanks to Mike and Kate for being great hosts.

Also, thanks to the kid who pointed at me and commented “Have you ever seen chinese people like that???? Look at their eyes!!!”. Awesome.

CB and myself. My A-Alike. No homo.

Beef tongue. Yum. Not quite as tasty as pork head though.

They are like perogies. Except they swim in butter.

Russian poutine.

We walked to Coney Island later. Their Polar Express has a mural of Tupac and Biggie and the DJ sounds like he should be spinning a mix show on Hot 97. Everyone was amped. Girls were hollering. Thugs were throwing up sets. One dude even took off his shirt during the fast cycle of the ride, and started waving it around in the air. Yup, BK is in the house.

Photos courtesy of Alam.

Korean Pigs in a Blanket

Its been a hot minute since I’ve posted on here. And for that I apologize. Depriving you – our loyal fans – of decadent prok posts must be quite tolling on the nerves.

I recently visited my good ol ginger buddy CB who has been living in the Rotten Apple for a few months. The duration of my stay included a number of meat heavy meals, including a disappointing visit to much talked about Wildwood that I’m quite sure, wreaked havoc on CB’s porcelain pedestal. Our final meal however, absolutely destroyed any possibilities of us averting colon cancer. A New York trip wouldn’t be complete without a sit down at one of chef du jour David Chang’s establishments. We opted for Ssam Bar since we did Noodle Bar last visit and if you don’t know, they serve this $200 slow roasted pork shoulder that could feed a family of 12.

Usually you have to pre-reserve this before your visit, but thanks to our buddy Tyler, he charmed the kitchen staff into hooking us up with a “baby Bo Ssam”. According to the chef, this was a quarter of the full size. The wait staff said its more like a third of the full size. In any case, it was a lot of fucking prok.

Pork Head Croquettes and Lamb Belly

4lbs of Pork Shoulder and L.I. Oyseters to boot.

You very rarely catch white people doing this. Species totally out of its element.

Pretty much sums up our meal.

51% Momofuku, 49% Sonofabitch

David Chang is to food what Sydney Crosby is to hockey. Minus all the crying like a bitch that has become a trademark of the latter, he represents a fresh, new perspective towards eating well and not breaking the bank. He’s been heralded as the second coming of Christ for the New York restaurant scene and If you have had the delight of eating at Ssam Bar, Noodle Bar or his more recent Ko, you’ll know that he lives up to the hype.

I found this somewhat recent piece about Chang written by the too funny Alan Richman. Chang comes across as a mis-guided fuck-up that just happened onto cooking and somehow became the posterboy in the process. Hardly pretentious. Entirely self-depricating. Stubborn as a mule. And swears like a fucking sailor.

Some of my favorite gems:

It’s a mix of Asian ­ ingredients, fastidious preparations, condiments shaken from jars, and sauces poured from bottles. Other chefs might attempt to interpret their food lyrically, adding to the aura, but not Chang: “It’s American food, man. That’s all there is to explain.”

…Chang knows exactly whom he wants in the seats. “I want to cook for real people who want to eat,” he says. “When I worked at Café Boulud, I hated making food for East Siders. I hate their air of superiority. I hate investment bankers. I don’t want Momofuku Ko to come off as elitist or snobbish. I don’t want shithead bankers and the friends of dickhead traders who spend thousands.” One more thing: “My partner gets to kick me in the balls if he catches me wearing those reflective silvered sun- glasses that asshole Europeans wear indoors. I can do the same to him.”

…the dinner menu at Ssäm Bar reads, “We do not serve vegetarian-friendly items.” Just to rub a little suet in the wound, Chang says, “Vegetarians are a pain in the ass as customers. It’s always ‘I want this’ or ‘I don’t want that.’ Jesus Christ, go cook at home.”

The new Momofuku Ko has no waiters, only cooks who chat with customers, pour wine, and keep the tips. Chang says, as he has before, “I know nobody expects to make money as a cook, but cooks have to live, and they can’t live on $300 to $400 a week. It makes me mad that cooks are treated like shit and servers say, ‘Well, you choose your profession.’ Whatever you guys say, you don’t work as hard as cooks, so go fuck yourselves.”

The rest of the article is here.

Tis The Season…

…for meat sweats.

Toronto Is Not a Food City

Calling Toronto the mecca for foodies is horseshit. Melting pot of cultural culinary delight? More like crock pot of culinary mediocrity. Toronto is striving to be what New York is and is miserably failing at it. Japanese restaurants owned by Chinese; pizza parlors owned by Lebanese; poutine made with grated mozzarella. We’re like a cess-pool for bastardize food done half assed.

Yes! No!

Poutine

Cheese curds + fresh cut fries + chicken gravy. Not shredded mozzarella. Not battered fries. Not beef gravy. What is so hard about this dish that Torontonians can’t comprehend?

Yes! No!

Smoked Meat Sandwiches

A smoked meat sandwich should be about 9lb of smoked warm pastrami layered between two pieces of rye bread. Maybe with some mustard on it. And that’s it. Do not garnish with any vegetation and do not try to make it all “artisan” by toasting it or whoring it in a panini grill.

Japanese Food should be done by Japanese

Sorry Chinaman Charlie, but you have to take your hands out of the Nippon pot. Like everything business related, you constantly cut corners in hopes of saving money and as a result, the end product is a hair shy of being complete shite. This is the polar opposite of the Japanese ethos, of which OCD is not only celebrated, it’s encouraged. Their anal retentiveness is why their food is so good. Do you honestly think a sketchy, greedy Chinaman could have even dreamt up sushi let alone make it?

Yes! No!

Pulled Pork Sandwiches

Torontonians are simply too hoity toity to get this dish dialed in. The thought of using the cheapest cut of pork, smoking it for hours whilst getting drunk on bad beer, then slathering a gallon of bbq sauce over it and serving it on the cheapest white bun you can find at your local Giant Tiger is light years beyond Torontonian comprehension.

Yes! NO!!!

Mexican

Lets get one thing straight: Burrito’s are not Mexican. They are a white guy’s take on what Mexican should be like. They are what chicken balls are to Chinese food. Stop bragging about the best burritos in the city because that’s like bragging about what the best brand of canned meat is.

Je Mange Pour Remplir ma Grosse Bedaine!

I was told that this blog should be converted into a food blog since one half of the editing team is too busy riding to write about riding. Makes perfect sense to me. In the absence of promoting exercise and well being, lets talk about gorging ourselves silly like a fat goose ready for the foie farm.

And I figure, since I’m in Las Vegas there’s no better place to celebrate excess and debauchery than good ol’ Sin City. Its probably the only city in the western world, where artery clogging and organ degeneration is not only celebrated, but encouraged.

During a recent work visit, I had to check out the much talked about Bouchon – the sister resto of its Napa Valley namesake and kind of the stepchild to its food darling big brother Per Se which Thomas Keller has built his name and reputation upon. I had simply heard too much about Per Se (thanks Robin and food critics world wide) to let this opportunity pass me by. If I’m to go out in a heart attack blaze of glory, then goddammit, I’m letting Mr. Keller be my Jack Kevorkian.

Upon reading Bouchon’s menu, for whatever reason, I couldn’t help but think of Ville De Montreal. Perhaps it was the copious amounts of alcohol or the droves of precocious sluts, but something about Bouchon in LV reminded me of our fair Francophone city.

Montreal is a diamond in the rough that is post industrial North America. It’s a city that prides itself on good times, good attitudes and high un-employment. It’s also the only city outside of LV and maybe Atlantic City that fully supports financial irresponsibility and coddles those that are good at it. How could two cities so disparate in history and culture be so alike?

Really though, Bouchon fondly reminded me of my favorite MTL haunt, Au Pied De Cochon. Both are variations of French cuisine, both use generous amounts of duck fat in the cooking process, and both are not shy about making their patrons either shit their pants or keel over because of heart failure. More importantly, both represent the very definition of culinary hedonism.

Bottom line is, whether you’re a three star Michelin rated chef or some schmuck that has a stove, you really can’t go wrong when you base your food on three things: Pork, duck fat and goose liver.

PS: Bouchon is nothing like Au Pied De Cochon BTW.