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Posts from the ‘Chains of Love’ Category

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Fresh Seafood and Forgotten Chains of the Oregon Coast

local ocean trio

Because I enjoy generalizing and like seeing the world through my own experiences, I have no problem stating that Oregonians don’t really eat seafood. Not natives anyway. And Dungeness crab aside, local bounties don’t get their due either. You’ve probably had Washington oysters, maybe northern Californian (even in Seattle, some Humboldt Bay bivalves float their way onto menus) but do you even hear about Oregon oysters? I don’t. I don’t even know why.

mo's clam chowder

Regional chain Mo’s and its famous thick, buttery clam chowder is probably the only coastal restaurant with name recognition. And this treatment from the Sterns in Saveur a few years ago is the only food-focused article on the area that I can recall seeing in recent history. It’s strange how so much coastal food is overpriced and geriatric and ‘90s continental crusted in hazelnuts. I just wanted to eat fresh fish, which is how I ended up coercing my mom and stepdude 75 miles from where I was staying in Nehalem, and my sister and her husband (even after a decade, brother-in-law sounds weird) 120 miles from their base in Eugene to Local Ocean Seafoods in Lincoln City for a belated Christmas dinner. (Yep, it’s now April–I’m determined to rein 2016 back in.)

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I Do(nut): Red Hot Red Lobster

cheddar bay mixThere’s likely a lame bae pun in this, but I’m just going to give the facts: Green Bay Packer James Jones proposed to his now-wife using Cheddar Bay Biscuits as a romantic foil, as one should.

I would’ve preferred the ring to be inserted into one of the baked goods rather than just placed in the basket. And now you know my preferences, if anyone was getting an idea or anything.

In Other Words: Red Lobster Is for Lovers

“When he fuck me good I take his ass to Red Lobster, ’cause I slay.”

Aw…this Beyoncé shout-out is the second-happiest I’ve been in 2016. (Can’t talk about the #1 reason without being a boring sap.) Chains of love, indeed.

The Week in Un-American Activities: All-Asian Edition

This re-grammed spread from Dominique Ansel Tokyo reminded me that I haven’t posted about some good old fashioned international intrigue for a while, mostly because it’s not the best use of my time, but look at those milk tea cronuts.

What else happened this week?

Tokyo will have a second Shake Shack soon.

Well, there’s now a Burger Joint in Singapore. Just the usual, though, no sambal spreads, mantou buns, or whatever else one might imagine could be done with burgers in Southeast Asia.

Slightly stranger is the PDT reproduction in Hong Kong with site specific cocktails. Lucky Peach uses its Meehan connection to bring us recipes. I am feeling the Rice Milk & Honey

Starbucks in China isn’t exactly big news (there are already 2,000 in the country) but 2,500 more are planned over the next five years, which is crazy I suppose. Separately, Starbucks will be subsidizing housing in China.

Newborn: Arby’s Manhattan

arby's quad

Manhattan chains aren’t like their outer borough brethren. For one, they don’t get flashy microsites and bus tours of Katz’s and Ottomanelli & Sons promoting the same roast beef the rest of the country consumes to little fanfare.

They also fit into their natural surroundings pretty well even if they don’t last. Who even recalls the Manhattan Mall Arby’s? The new iteration that opened last week is next to Port Authority, sharing the same corridor as Manhattan’s only White Castle and the McDonald’s long-formed so wonderfully earlier this year.

In Brooklyn, they take over Gage & Tollner before disappearing. In Middle Village, they flatten Niederstein’s and quietly persevere. (Unrelated to Arby’s, the latest old-school Queens German restaurant to die and transition is Chalet Alpina into Peruvian La Coya. I was curious about the Pisco bar when I walked by last week to see if anything was going on in the former Sizzler–nope, and I nearly shed a tear–but there wasn’t a soul inside.)

arby's lunch

So how is the food? Do you need me to tell you? It’s Arby’s; you get it or you don’t. I went rogue, which for me meant non-Beef ‘n Cheddar. At the last minute, I went premium and chose what I thought was the A.1. Special Reserve Steak Sandwich instead. I had my reasons. (Ok, I’ll tell you one. It was to impress a guy on social media who I’m already friends with. He never acknowledged it, but I’m pretty sure he noticed that I was eating the sandwich he posted on my timeline two months ago. Yep.)

But now that I’m looking at the menu what I ate was definitely not that limited edition sandwich because A.1 branding is nowhere to be seen, and also someone clearly fucked up because by deduction, the only sandwich involving bacon and crispy onions is the Smokehouse Brisket and that’s also supposed to include smoked Gouda and this contained no cheese whatsoever, when really it needed more creamy salt and fat, and now I’m angry at Arby’s, day 2 in operation (on my visit) or not.

Ok, I just calmed down. One unique feature of the Manhattan Arby’s is breakfast. (It’s no Taco Bell, however.) In fact, there are four whole categories devoted to the not-that-important-meal-of-the-day: sliders, flatbreads, biscuits, and premium biscuits, served with coffee from Brooklyn Roasting Company, which honestly I can’t tell if it’s a pseudo or legit beanery or what. I never eat fast food breakfast, but I may just pick up a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit tomorrow if I can make it by 10:30am since it’s the eve of Christmas Eve and I don’t really have to go to the office.

Arby’s * 611 Eighth Ave., New York, NY 

Americana

 

For years I’ve vowed to stop being so restaurant-y, at least here, because who cares, and go full-on freakshow. I mean, what else is the point of a blog on the cusp of 2016. Twitter or Instagram is where one performs. I don’t want to talk about Snapchat or Vine.

I’ve tried writing two short off-the-cuff takes on a few new Bushwick restaurants for days now (never mind the 25 800-word pieces on a much drier subject that I have due the first week of January for real) and just can’t get the words out, partially because I’m not amped-up but mostly because I’ve started taking migraine medicine that makes me really stupid and also makes me not care that it takes half an hour to write one paragraph (and if it’s anything like before I gave up on it last time in June, it also eventually makes me not that hungry, which is a little weird).

While I couldn’t write about two restaurants, I did see two press releases that I wanted to say had something to do with each other. Both involved an American brand and an foreign pizza chain with an odd name. Domino’s buying Joey’s (German) and something about Subway and Kotipizza (Finland). That’s as far as I got. It’s a confusing time we live in.

Actually, I just got a baby step farther in a different direction. Kotipizza makes a pizza called the Americana and it’s a Hawaiian with blue cheese and I would eat that in a heartbeat. The New Mexico Monster is something else that also exists.

Something to Be Thankful For: Dallas BBQ & White Castle

If you tag the Rego Park Dallas BBQ in Instagram, the default location reads Dallas BBQ’s, superfluous apostrophe S and all, which is the most Dallas BBQ thing ever. I also didn’t really mean to go to Dallas BBQ on Thanksgiving. This wasn’t some long-planned, overwrought performance piece. (If anything, it’s becoming a problem. I’m not necessarily saying the two are directly related, but I’ve mentioned Hennessy Coladas twice on Tinder recently and both times I’ve been ultimately rebuffed, one going as far as unmatching me. I can’t waste time on someone who can’t hang with Dallas BBQ. It’s my new test.)  There just weren’t enough people to cook for this year to make it worth my while, I’d rather spend $100+ on a restaurant meal not involving turkey (not to mention the few more casual places I did inquire about were already booked) and my fellow orphaned New Yorker amenable to dining out could appreciate the simple charm of a $15.99 spread, most bases covered, no heirloom root vegetables, heritage breeds, or wine-soaked gelées. dallas bbq thanks duo You first receive a cup of chicken soup, carrot coins and celery ribs boiled to cafeteria-soft consistency. The first course is followed by a massive heap of bread mush stuffing (I’m of the crispy bits, recognizable crusts school) draped with slices of turkey breast moistened with thin gravy and punched up with a good deal of chopped parsley for color, a yam big enough for two, cranberry relish that was a little wilder, with walnuts, and what were clearly once whole berries, served in a plastic container, and a BBQ-appropriate square of cornbread. This was the second Thanksgiving meal this year I’d encountered with no mashed potatoes. Has double starch gone the way of canned cranberry sauce? thanksgiving sweets Dessert was no more than a wee pumpkin spice cupcake so inconsequential I forgot about it. Not a complaint. I planned ahead by making my own dessert, a pecan-pepita chocolate pie with a gingersnap crust, heavy on the molasses, bolstered by some pastries from La Gran Uruguaya on my corner that was thankfully open the morning of the 26th because I forgot to go on Wednesday and went out for happy hour oysters instead.

Two days post-Thanksgiving I was given the opportunity to finally make a variation on the White Castle stuffing I’ve had my eye on for years and that is far better than one would expect considering the ingredients. You use sliders, no cheese, and don’t include pickles, though the ketchup does throw it off a bit with tangy sweetness. I added a pound of sauteed cremini, a cup and a half each of chopped white onion and celery, just enough chicken broth to add to the liquid released from the mushrooms (more if you do like that mushier texture) a little thyme and paprika, plus fresh sage that seems to disappear no matter how much you toss in. A little sage normally goes a long way, but use more than might seem correct to make this taste like stuffing not hamburger bread pudding.

Chains of Love: Who Needs Tinder When You’ve Got Olive Garden?

So, Olive Garden has decided to get into dating advice because millennials. Just #AskAlfredo and you shall receive.

The real question, though, is who am I going to coerce into a date at Olive Garden before the Never Ending Pasta Bowl offer disappears this year?

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Weekend in Detroit

I wouldn’t necessarily say I went to Detroit for the food, though I did end up eating way more one human should (the biggest downside of traveling alone is the inability to share dishes) and was practically drunk for two days straight (had to check out those new-breed distilleries). I went for the same reason I’ve gone anywhere this year (hmm…just Hudson, NY and Los Angeles–gotta step it up in 2016), primarily to get out of New York City and visit a place I don’t really know.

Detroit’s in-progress renaissance, the emergence of bars and restaurant included, has garnered a good deal of coverage. (I’m kind of partial to this balanced take.) And if the hype over the city’s more Brooklyn-esque aspects (it’s no Paris) make you feel avoidant, don’t worry because Detroit is coming to you like it or not, one semi-artisanal coney dog and pan pizza at a time.

gold cash gold duo

Gold Cash Gold My first stop. Late-ish Friday, “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” playing. That thing where as soon as I’m settled, everyone at the large bar finishes up and I’m sitting smack next to the only couple and inadvertently hear everything they have to say. He wanted Benedictine but didn’t know “the liqueur with the white cap” was called that, and she didn’t want to get married at the Detroit Institute of Arts because it was cliche. (She was right–there were two wedding parties there on my visit.) My first impression: Brooklyn food, even though that’s not fair. I can get on board with the self-referential name, the restaurant occupying a building formerly not serving food . The menu reads well and the prices are refreshing; $12 is a solid plate of food, not a snack, but everything I tried could use a little something more, maybe just salt. The chicken skin salad was all there, pickled peaches, peppery greens, and yet completely under-seasoned so the dish’s calling card made little impression beyond texture. The duck merguez with heirloom apples and potatoes was a little rough around the edges like the results of a weekend cooking project. The fermented pistou (fermentation is this place’s thing) was interesting and barely hinted at basil, though the meat and potatoes were both oddly grainy. 

sugar house a.k.a. bill murray au revoir, gopher

Sugar House/Bill Murray I may be the only person alive who’s indifferent to Bill Murray. One of Detroit’s first craft cocktail bars, they are still doing the speakeasy, suspenders and mustaches thing while charging New York prices. Oh, and apparently changed its name indefinitely to Bill Murray with a Bill Murray themed cocktail list. There was a lot of flourish to the $14 Au Revoir, Gopher (Vida mezcal, Amontillado sherry, masala, Angostura bitters), literal smoke, mirrors not so much. I wanted the less precious Ectoplasm Cooler because blue curacao but Midori is a step too far for me, not because I’m classy but because I find melon foul. This wasn’t a particularly friendly crowd (one thing I’ll say for Detroit is that people are not too cool to be chatty) that was composed of bald men in leather jackets, a lot of baseball caps on men of all races, older dudes in glasses and barn jackets with a faculty-like quality mingling with younger muse-y women. Beach Fossils’ “The Horse,” from an album I love enough that I paid for it on iTunes this summer as driving music but couldn’t figure out how to make my phone play over a rental car’s speakers, did not fit the vibe one bit.

bobcat trio

Bobcat Bonnie’s No one needs a $3 tumbler of well vodka, even if it’s the foundation of diy bloody mary bar, complete with every mixer and hot sauce imaginable, plus bacon, salami, and cheese for garnishes, but if one wakes up their first morning in the city and finds a bloody mary bar a mere block away, just across Michigan Avenue, one of those multi-lane thoroughfares that would be a boulevard of death in NYC but so lightly clumped with cars leisurely crossing (or do wild u-turns or drunk drive in a rainstorm–not that I would know anything about that) is no problem…well. Because I wasn’t alert yet, I ordered the SOS, mostly because I liked the idea of lamb gravy, thinking oh, like biscuits and gravy but with Texas toast instead of biscuits. But no, it’s like shit on a shingle but with lamb instead of chipped beef. And it was tasty. I brunched alone, which is somehow even more fearsome and evil than brunching in group, and survived. The bartender who called me a “Detroit stalker” to my delight because I’d researched the hell out of dining options, was a pleasant mix of cynicism and chill, much needed but not always found in Detroit. My suspicions about my previous night’s dinner and cocktail being no more than ok were confirmed. I was recommended Selden Standard, a known heavy-hitter, then against it by the two middle-aged couples, also sitting at the bar, in the city for the weekend from the suburbs–a sometimes criticized demographic that seems to sustain much of these newer restaurants–for a beer festival. They knew they their stuff, and I didn’t listen and I regretted it.

chartreuse trio

Chartreuse Kitchen & Cocktails Just some snacks and a requisite Last Word since that’s the city’s cocktail claim to fame and almost anything with gin and Maraschino is great. Made with Chartreuse, it’s the color scheme and a featured spirit in multiple styles. Neither the grilled octopus with chorizo nor steak poke were particularly regional, though that was my own doing. Lake Superior whitefish and Michigan shrimp were available. I was keeping it light because I was aiming for a second dinner (and ultimately ended up with a third, if I’m to admit the 1am White Castle fast-walk from my apartment).

selden standard tartare

Selden Standard Strong, I want to say. Despite only trying the steak tartare (yes, the second raw, chopped beef dish in two hours) this felt polished. And yet, too New York-y, too many people bunched up at the bar (yes, it was a Saturday) and getting ma’amed by staff and hoverers coveting my seat, killing the buzz and good spirits I’d amassed at DIA and Chartreuse.

cafe d'mongo whiskey sour

Cafe D’Mongo’s Speakeasy  I didn’t really enjoy this place until I got too drunk. In retrospect, maybe that’s how it works. I know it’s a favorite but there was something slightly off. I guess that could be said for the whole city in many ways.

batch brewery pork belly bolillo

Batch Brewing Company. I thought I’d hit Mudgie’s for a brunch sandwich, but it was closed for no reason on a Sunday, so nearby Batch sufficed with a pork belly bolillo and an imperial milk stout brewed with Great Lakes Costa Rican Microlot Coffee. Really set the tone for the day. 

two james distillery tasting

Two James Spirits If I had to choose a single standout Detroit interaction (thanks for asking) it would be the aw shucks, farmboy-ish kid from somewhere near St. Louis who had been in town two months for work and was sitting a stool away from me at a distillery’s tasting room and freaked the fuck out over the blue corn tortilla chips garnishing his chicken hominy stew. “I’ve never seen a black chip,” he said, clearly upset, no longer wanting to finish the dish he had ordered only because everyone else at the bar had been raving about it. (He wasn’t familiar with cumin and didn’t like it either.) He asked me what my green drink was. Absinthe, which I explained tasted kind of like licorice, trying to find some common ground and not sensory overload him any further.“Regular licorice or black licorice?”

detroit city distillery double dad

Detroit City Distillery I didn’t make it to Eastern Market Saturday or to the crazy bloody mary place or another fancy place, Antietam, named bizarrely after the bloodiest battle in US history, a fact unknown but shared with me after admitting I had no idea how the pronounce the word or had any knowledge of what it was (to further boast my ignorance, I didn’t even know Detroit was across a river from Canada, the only major US city north of Canada I also learned). This is the Double Dad (Elvethea gin, ginger beer, basil syrup) a nice respite from the tailgating wildness occurring outside. Is it too Northwesty of me to admit that I’ve never encountered tailgating in person in my life? History and geography aside, my dumbness was confirmed when I bought a bottle of gin and white rye at Two James without thinking about how I’d flown Spirit with a $40 checked bag surcharge. 

buddy's trio

Buddy’s Too much fancy was occurring, so it’s not surprising that this was possibly my favorite meal and not just as an antidote to new-school Detroit. With hard-baked corners, substantial mozzarella, and a degree of doughy heft, this square style bridges the New York thin crust, which yes, is the best, and Chicago deep dish, which I don’t hate but is barely pizza-like (we all know it may as well be lasagna). This is fun pizza only enhanced by the atmosphere. You have to get into the crispy edges, cheese heft, eaten with a fork and knife. This was the Detroiter, a combo featuring curled and crisp pepperoni slices, a specific subgenre of pepperoni prep I didn’t even know whas a thing. This was the only time I would’ve preferred a table and company (so what if I put an innocent plea on Tinder looking for a pizza date, which didn’t totally come to fruition despite interest and botched plans) rather than being relegated to the bar, in this case not by choice. There weren’t any open two-seaters in the half-filled upstairs dining room.

american vs lafayette coney

American Coney Island and Lafayette Coney Island. I don’t love hotdogs or chili or the combination of the two but regional specialties are more important than my petty wants and needs. It had to be done. American is clearly the Geno’s, flashy, self-congratulatory, to Lafayette’s bare-bones no nonsense a la Pat’s. (I’m talking Philly cheesesteaks, if that needs saying, and if it does, ugh, who are you?) What I learned about myself? That I do like chili cheese fries (not pictured). Fried starch and melted cheese is never a disappointment.

first little caesars

Little Caesars is based in Detroit, and the original 1959 location still survives in a strip mall in Garden City. I very much drove out of my way for this. Proud.

culver's curds

Culvers. In some ways Culver’s was the impetus for this impulse-trip. Or sort of. For a scary peek into how my decisions are often made, here is how it went: I matched on Tinder with someone maybe a little too young (but the guys who claim to be 40-ish look 50-ish and I can’t deal–dudes, just say you’re 52 and own it) who was visiting his parents in Pittsburgh.  I was bored after a few texts but decided I needed to visit the Rust Belt, so posed a Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, or Cleveland question on Facebook. Somehow Culver’s emerged as one compelling reason to visit this region, posited by an age-appropriate but geographically inconvenient person I met on Tinder over four months ago and who was partially the reason for choosing LA over the summer instead of my original two ideas, Seattle or Santa Fe. When it’s all laid out like that, it’s a little disturbing that a dating app would play any role at all in my travel plans, let alone such a large one in 2015. Still single, and I can’t imagine why. 

culver's butterburger

So, a Butterburger, cheese curds, and Vernor’s rootbeer were the last things I ate before returning my rental car. I regret not having time or fortitude for a Custard and being unable to eat more than a few fried nuggets of cheese. The weekend had caught up with me and I was feeling it. Without the Culver’s stop, though, I would’ve considered the entire Detroit mission a failure. It was important.

In Other Words: Chains Function Nicely as Offices

I don’t even pretend to follow sports, but the owner of the Oakland Raiders sounds kind of amazing. From the first paragraph of Mark Davis’ ESPN profile:

Most days start the same — behind the wheel of a white 1997 Dodge Caravan SE outfitted with a bubble-top Mark III conversion kit, a VHS player mounted to the roof inside and a r8hers personalized plate. Mark Davis pilots this machine from his East Bay home to the nearest P.F. Chang’s, where he sits at the left end of the bar, same spot every time, puts his white fanny pack on the counter, orders an iced tea and unfolds the day’s newspapers. Beside him on the bar, next to the papers, is his 2003 Nokia push-button phone with full texting capability. When someone calls and asks him where he is, he says, “I’m in my office,” and sends a knowing nod to the bartenders. It gets ’em every time.

Plus, he’s an evening regular at kinda-chain Morimoto Napa and always books through OpenTable.

And he had to give up Hooters’ $12.99 all-you-can-eat-wings night after a back surgery caused him to change his diet.