It was recently brought to my attention that it has been a long time since I posted a food blog. The calendar seems to indicate that it is now July. While I was pretty sure it was still March (at least that is what it was when I last had a clear head), the lack of snow seems to indicate otherwise.
Perhaps I have come to accustomed to like in the Frozen Nort. Maybe I need to go outside of my comfort zone in order to get a better understanding of the things that I see every day.
Jack Karouac took his search On The Road. Ken Kesey kept trying to go "Further". Hunter S. Thompson (and more recently Anthony Bourdain) looked in Las Vegas. Sure, I dig those last two guys, let's try there.
In the 1970s, Hunter Thompson decided to take an assignment from Rolling Stone magazine to another level. He went on an epic bender through the streets and alleys of Las Vegas in search of the American dream.
If you want, I can save you the read (though I still recommend it): he didn't find it.
And if you dislike me as much as I dislike you, I can save you time here as well: I didn't find it either.
The Las Vegas of Fear and Loathing can only be read as a gross caricacture of a life that most of us have never known.
The neon pink adult playground of yore are gone. Now it is a city of excess where you are as like to see fake ***s as much as you are likely to see children being pushed down the strip in strollers at midnight.
"Hey hon, we need a vacation. Where should we go?"
"Well, we have an infant and a four year-old... hmmm... Las Vegas?"
"Perfect! What other place can I get a $35 85 ounce plastic guitar fool of booze that I can strap over my shoulder as I push my infant along?"
Are you people f***ing kidding me?
I'm guess social services is either really busy or non-existent in Vegas.
Now, when I was a kid, families were also just starting to flock to Vegas. But it was still that grey area of turning it into a family destination. Excalibur was the newest in theme hotels. Luxor wasn't even around yet. You could go to shows with the family and spend an afternoon in the arcade.
Ah, the glory days before the f***ing Jersey Shore crowd.
I can only assume that Las Vegas has become the official dumping ground for all those douchebags that just weren't douche-y enough for MTV.
Everywhere I look are women dressed like prostitutes, prostitutes dressed like tourists and men dressed like... I don't know, let's just call them a bunch of ****-******** ******** that can **** a **** with the best of them.
Food. I need to get back to food.
When it comes to Vegas, I usually keep things simple. Get me coffee whenever I fall out of bed. It doesn't matter if it is a hotel cafe or the lobby McDonald's. Give me what the Ojibwe people call "black medicine water". Vegas was a long way off when the created their word for coffee.
A people of great foresight... well, not really, but they had their moments.
When it comes to breakfast, I keep it simple. Find something, anything to sit in your belly. Grab a muffin, whatever. Don't sit down unless your hotel has a coupon or comp. The key is to keep moving. This isn't a city of complacency. To survive, you have to be a shark.
Lunch is a no-brainer: Mon Ami Gabi in Paris.
If you are the type that enjoys the sun, they have one of the best patios in Vegas with a view of Bellagio fountains. Perfect for people watching or just sitting and enjoying your food. If you need to slow down, this is the place to do it.
Steak and frites. A medium-rare steak sandwich that has been tenderized, peppered and cooked to perfection. Served on a fresh, warm, cabbata roll and given a heaping helping on frites. A glorious cross between chips and french fries. There is a salty crunch to them that has the ability to create feelings of nostalgia from seemingly nowhere.
I had two on my trip and could go for a third.
Though, to tell the truth, get whatever you want. This is one of the most reasonably priced restaurants on The Strip and has some of the best food I have ever had in over a half dozen trips to Vegas.
Afterwards, if you need a drink as much as I do, head to O'Shea's, right next to The Flamingo Hotel. The smart Vegas goers, that aren't welded to a gambling table, know where to drink. For me it is the $1 bottles of Miller High Life served until 6pm. And I am glad the deal ends, by 6pm I had converted several people that "hate High Life" to the dark side.
And we were better off for having a time limit to our drunken debauchery. With a little Johnny-Walker-Judgement, the $5 blackjack tables have a Siren's Call that few can refuse.
For dinner you have more options that you can deal with. The more people that I talk to about Vegas, the more that I hear, "I don't go there for the gambling, I go for the food."
If I may go on a tangent for a moment: bull****.
Saying you go to Vegas for the food is a lot like saying you go for the bathrooms. Just because they are really nice and you have to use them eventually, doesn't make it the reason you go there.
You go there because you can drink on the street and act like a douche because no one there knows you. And if you do run into someone you know, you ignore them. That's the rule. Every year millions of people "don't go" to Vegas.
For dinner, take your pic. I tend to find myself back at Paris, either at Mon Ami Gabi or The Eiffel Tower restaurant, which features not only a beautiful night view of the Strip, but also one of the must incredible pairing menus I've ever eaten.
From there... **** you, ain't tellin'.
What do I actually think of Vegas?
I can find a reason to go there, but I can't last too long. The city is too much for me and in the end, it is still the same place that Hunter Thompson saw.
The pink is mostly gone. Circus Circus is dilapidated and sad. Debbie Gibson is no more. Some people seem to think that the book doesn't relate to the new generations. I think those people are ****ing idiots.
Vegas is a caricature of life in America. Back in the day it was the bright gaudy colors and the celebrities that no one really knew that much about.
Now it is all about dressing like it is Halloween (by which I mean: a whore), acting as though you are a high-roller and living a life of such excess that you should start to understand why other countries hate us. Loud yelling, physical conflicts, illegal transactions. This is not Raoul Duke's Vegas.
This is Las Vegas: The Next Generation.
As we take daily life to a new extreme, Vegas rushes to keep up. As hem lines rise, the lines outside Vegas clubs grow.
Dave Chapelle once pointed out that just because a woman dresses like a whore, doesn't make her a whore. However, should he dress like a cop, you can't assume that he is a police officer. If you are going to wear the uniform, expect the reaction.
Two days was more than enough for me to miss the simplicity of Minnesota. I missed Acapulco's, Aurelio's, the joys of Target Market Pantry.
I can't pretend to be a person I'm not. Not even on vacation.
People that can't be the person they want to be, go to Vegas. They want the chance to let loose and be children; or maniacs.
The men and women that will drink until closing time in downtown Minneapolis will flock to the Vegas clubs that don't close until 8am. They will party (and spend) until they are sick. Looking for an extreme to remind them of the life they think they left behind by putting on a suit and tie.
As though working a 9 to 5 job means sacrifice. These people can't really find escape at home. They relish the idea of telling their friends, "I'm going to Vegas" just to see their eyes widen and their jaws drop in envy.
I find my own reasons to go to Las Vegas that are none of your ****ing business so get passed it. By the end, I am ready to get off the plane at MSP. I like my simplicity. I like to find things that are out of the way in my own home. I don't need to search for the American Dream.
I am lucky in my realization that the American Dream isn't out there. It isn't something you can search for and find, like a hooker that won't stab you.
It doesn't exist.
If you are the sort of person that needs Vegas to remember what you have (or had when it comes to your money) go ahead. No other place can serve to reinforce the appreciation for life like Las Vegas.
Just don't do something stupid and pretend that your reasons to go to Vegas are for the food or just "a vacation". You are looking for what Thompson couldn't find. What Kesey was chased from and what Kerouac got lost looking for.
Now leave me alone, I'm tired. Wake me for Halloween.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Maplelag Resort, Detroit Lakes, MN... The Epic
What better way to make a triumphant return to the world of amateur-Minnesotan-snarky-food critiques than in the tradition of Homer himself.
Not Simpson. Homer, as in The Iliad. The Odyssey... nothing? I hate you people.
Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns
driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the
hallowed heights of Troy.
Could any man, woman, poet or God have put so perfectly the f***ing drive from the Twin Cities to the Maplelag resort?
Our hero, we shall call him Manicus (like Manic, but Greek, but without the creepy sex stuff like in TV series Spartacus), has found himself lost by the wrath of the Gods in the back woods deep within the foreboding world of Northern Minnesota. Far too close to the North Dakota border to find him comfort.
He travels as such, with companions, in search of glory, honor and, of course, several kegs of cheap domestic beer. His journey will be marred on all sides by vengeful deities, wayward spirits and the most evil, vile and feared of them all: 4 Loko.
Their destination the wedding of Minnesota royalty (okay, they were a couple of dentists, but they make way more money than me so they might as well be royalty), there captain and trailblazer being the great Manicus. A man of such infinite renown that no one else could take on such a mission...
Okay, I was a +1 on the invite, but still, I'll take it over the normal "occupant" mail that I get.
Expectations were non-existant as when one is summoned by royalty, one has no choice but to come. That and the Maplelag website didn't have that man details about what to expect.
His entry into the hidden world within the forests of Native Land was one of wonder and curiosity. Soon met with smiling faces carrying flagons of lager and native dogs would just love a good ear scratch, our hero has found a home that is not his own.
The land itself spotted with cabins and cabooses (yes, the train cars) for lodging. The cabins sport some of the more curious architecture with hidden sleeping areas and trap doors. But this was not Manicus' concern. He was there for food and drink.
He got A LOT of both.
Dinner served promptly at 7pm and family-style. Plates and bowls filled with food were set at each table. Maplelag is a cross-country ski resort in the winter and a summer camp in, well, the summer. As such they are used to feeding people en mass. And as such, they do it quite well.
Dinner on Friday was massive amounts of beef brisket that tasted as though it had been cooked in Merlot. Don't let Paul Giamatti fool you, sometimes merlot is okay, just not to drink.
The meat tender and delicious was accompanied by potatoes, carrots, a mixed green salad and plenty of rolls. It was a simple meal made even better by the massive portions. A splendid way to prepare for excess to come.
Our royalty had provided several kegs of beer and even more bottles of liquor. However, in the distance, the evil 4 Loko stirred and plotted.
Yeah, I heard it killed college kids, but kids today are weak. Right?
Memories fade. Was it witch craft? Was it sleep? Our hero has found himself tossed in the turbulent waters of Poseidon. Okay, it was the 24-hour on site hot tub. But when you are rocking on 4 Loko, I might as well have been dashed against the rocks with mighty Odysseus himself.
Did I make snow angels in my swimsuit? I feel sorry for the snow. Let alone anyone that witnessed me.
The next morning brought much heartache... heart burn... nausea... head aches... I needed coffee and food. Fortunately, I knew there would be plenty of food and the coffee is available 24 hours in the main lodge. Sadly, my stomach was still feeling the God's wrath. And the crepes along with kielbasa fell on deaf stomach.
It would seem that the evil 4 Loko was able to capture the scent of the kielbasa and waft it under my nose every hour or so for the next 6 hours just to remind me who was boss and that he would giveth can sure as f*** take it away.
All bow to the Porcelain God.
Lunch was served buffet style and looked tasty. I have no idea since I couldn't eat a bite of it. But it was a good spread with sandwich fixings and several Swedish dinning options.
I missed cross-country skiing, the Polar Bear plunge and who knows what other joy was to be had in the beautiful northern Minnesota winter's day.
Then the blessed nuptials of the royal couple. It was quite lovely.
That's all you get, this is a food/drinking blog afterall.
Dinner was served once again family style with massive amounts of food/salt needed to replenish that which the Gods and a lack of common sense took away. If I remember, it was rosemary chicken, mixed green salad, red potatoes, more rolls, a delicious serving of wild rice, and finally, cupcakes. Yummy.
The Gods were there as well. Their presence felt on all sides as the good man that would be kind Manicus fought against his oppressors sought to see him suffer further by wafting vodka sodas and Bloody Marys under his nose.
Alas, he is but a man and gave into temptation. The rivers ran green with Scooby Snacks, reddish with Jag Bombs, brown with the vicious Captain Morgan and his minions.
Our good man was lost to the sea. Tossed about in a whirlwind of Chicken Dancing, Electric Slides and Heartbreaker by Mariah Carey.
Just when it would seem that he would never make it out of the turbulent journey that had taken years from him that he would never see again... it was over. He had come through Hades and emerged safe on the other side.
The sun rose as it did every other morning. His eyes opened. His appetite returned.
Rallying his traveling companions, Manicus stepped into the 45 degree heat, the sun shining as if a gift from guilt-stricken Gods.
His stomach full from the what turned out to be a Norwegian Smorgasbord filled with a little bit of everything from brie cheese to egg bake to anchovies and beyond, he filled his might traveling vessel, The Accordius, set his sails to the southeast and departed.
To the Maplelag, the friendly and accommodating staff and all those that had anything to do with a weekend that had started out as a long drive, but ended as a weekend I will never forget (and never fully remember).
Manicus' heart was heavy. Joy for the royal couple. Sadness for not being able to enjoy the spoils of the Maplelag further, he was sure that he would find his way back this way again. If for no other reason that the fact that he could get a fresh-baked cookie 24 hours a day.
I like cookies.
Oh fine... Congratulations Jackie and Brian!
Not Simpson. Homer, as in The Iliad. The Odyssey... nothing? I hate you people.
Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns
driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the
hallowed heights of Troy.
Could any man, woman, poet or God have put so perfectly the f***ing drive from the Twin Cities to the Maplelag resort?
Our hero, we shall call him Manicus (like Manic, but Greek, but without the creepy sex stuff like in TV series Spartacus), has found himself lost by the wrath of the Gods in the back woods deep within the foreboding world of Northern Minnesota. Far too close to the North Dakota border to find him comfort.
He travels as such, with companions, in search of glory, honor and, of course, several kegs of cheap domestic beer. His journey will be marred on all sides by vengeful deities, wayward spirits and the most evil, vile and feared of them all: 4 Loko.
Their destination the wedding of Minnesota royalty (okay, they were a couple of dentists, but they make way more money than me so they might as well be royalty), there captain and trailblazer being the great Manicus. A man of such infinite renown that no one else could take on such a mission...
Okay, I was a +1 on the invite, but still, I'll take it over the normal "occupant" mail that I get.
Expectations were non-existant as when one is summoned by royalty, one has no choice but to come. That and the Maplelag website didn't have that man details about what to expect.
His entry into the hidden world within the forests of Native Land was one of wonder and curiosity. Soon met with smiling faces carrying flagons of lager and native dogs would just love a good ear scratch, our hero has found a home that is not his own.
The land itself spotted with cabins and cabooses (yes, the train cars) for lodging. The cabins sport some of the more curious architecture with hidden sleeping areas and trap doors. But this was not Manicus' concern. He was there for food and drink.
He got A LOT of both.
Dinner served promptly at 7pm and family-style. Plates and bowls filled with food were set at each table. Maplelag is a cross-country ski resort in the winter and a summer camp in, well, the summer. As such they are used to feeding people en mass. And as such, they do it quite well.
Dinner on Friday was massive amounts of beef brisket that tasted as though it had been cooked in Merlot. Don't let Paul Giamatti fool you, sometimes merlot is okay, just not to drink.
The meat tender and delicious was accompanied by potatoes, carrots, a mixed green salad and plenty of rolls. It was a simple meal made even better by the massive portions. A splendid way to prepare for excess to come.
Our royalty had provided several kegs of beer and even more bottles of liquor. However, in the distance, the evil 4 Loko stirred and plotted.
Yeah, I heard it killed college kids, but kids today are weak. Right?
Memories fade. Was it witch craft? Was it sleep? Our hero has found himself tossed in the turbulent waters of Poseidon. Okay, it was the 24-hour on site hot tub. But when you are rocking on 4 Loko, I might as well have been dashed against the rocks with mighty Odysseus himself.
Did I make snow angels in my swimsuit? I feel sorry for the snow. Let alone anyone that witnessed me.
The next morning brought much heartache... heart burn... nausea... head aches... I needed coffee and food. Fortunately, I knew there would be plenty of food and the coffee is available 24 hours in the main lodge. Sadly, my stomach was still feeling the God's wrath. And the crepes along with kielbasa fell on deaf stomach.
It would seem that the evil 4 Loko was able to capture the scent of the kielbasa and waft it under my nose every hour or so for the next 6 hours just to remind me who was boss and that he would giveth can sure as f*** take it away.
All bow to the Porcelain God.
Lunch was served buffet style and looked tasty. I have no idea since I couldn't eat a bite of it. But it was a good spread with sandwich fixings and several Swedish dinning options.
I missed cross-country skiing, the Polar Bear plunge and who knows what other joy was to be had in the beautiful northern Minnesota winter's day.
Then the blessed nuptials of the royal couple. It was quite lovely.
That's all you get, this is a food/drinking blog afterall.
Dinner was served once again family style with massive amounts of food/salt needed to replenish that which the Gods and a lack of common sense took away. If I remember, it was rosemary chicken, mixed green salad, red potatoes, more rolls, a delicious serving of wild rice, and finally, cupcakes. Yummy.
The Gods were there as well. Their presence felt on all sides as the good man that would be kind Manicus fought against his oppressors sought to see him suffer further by wafting vodka sodas and Bloody Marys under his nose.
Alas, he is but a man and gave into temptation. The rivers ran green with Scooby Snacks, reddish with Jag Bombs, brown with the vicious Captain Morgan and his minions.
Our good man was lost to the sea. Tossed about in a whirlwind of Chicken Dancing, Electric Slides and Heartbreaker by Mariah Carey.
Just when it would seem that he would never make it out of the turbulent journey that had taken years from him that he would never see again... it was over. He had come through Hades and emerged safe on the other side.
The sun rose as it did every other morning. His eyes opened. His appetite returned.
Rallying his traveling companions, Manicus stepped into the 45 degree heat, the sun shining as if a gift from guilt-stricken Gods.
His stomach full from the what turned out to be a Norwegian Smorgasbord filled with a little bit of everything from brie cheese to egg bake to anchovies and beyond, he filled his might traveling vessel, The Accordius, set his sails to the southeast and departed.
To the Maplelag, the friendly and accommodating staff and all those that had anything to do with a weekend that had started out as a long drive, but ended as a weekend I will never forget (and never fully remember).
Manicus' heart was heavy. Joy for the royal couple. Sadness for not being able to enjoy the spoils of the Maplelag further, he was sure that he would find his way back this way again. If for no other reason that the fact that he could get a fresh-baked cookie 24 hours a day.
I like cookies.
Oh fine... Congratulations Jackie and Brian!
Sunday, December 5, 2010
I was at Dave & Buster's last week?
It has come to my attention, that I devoted my attention to a particular Dave & Buster's location from 6pm until closing at 1am, last Friday.
This comes as news to me. Until now, I had assume the broken images were a part of an alcohol fuel dream. There was some food, a lot of drinking, the killing of Zombies and much much more drinking.
Or, as I like to call it, the stuff dreams are made of.
Piecing together information from scattered pictures on Facebook, ATM recipes and the discolored stains on my Friday outfit, I have put together the following review for Dave & Buster's.
I had hoped for something a bit more clever, perhaps somehow intertwining this particular blog with excerpts from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia (as they devoted a portion of their "The Great Recession" episode to the finer points of Dave & Buster's "self-sustaining economy"). However, as I was drunk then and hung over now, I would like to get this over with and go get some Krispy Kreme donuts.
I had a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich. Not sure why. They actually have a fairly expansive menu there ranging all the way up to steak and rib combos. Perhaps I wanted something simple, perhaps I was drunk on Lion Tamers...
Lion Tamer Recipe
Add 1 scoop of ice to a shaker.
To shaker add 1 jigger of Southern Comfort.
Also add one dash of lime juice.
Shake to chill. Serve in shot glass.
Consume.
I do recall that it was a good sandwich. The white roll it was served on was moist, the meat was tender and the cheese ample and well melted. I don't do veggies on steak, so that's all. Good fries and lots of them. If you want better word stuff, go to a real goddamn restaurant review site.
From there a great deal of laughing, and a shot of Jagermeister.
More laughing a couple of tall Miller Lites, because I'm trying to watch my figure, a speech for some f***ing reason, then onto the real reason to go to D & B's (besides the half-off happy hour that was over at 7pm, damn it!): the video games.
If you are looking for the newest, coolest, most up-to-date video games, go to Japan, since this place didn't have it. However, they had Ghost Recon. A first-person shooter with a life-size submachine-gun replica will get even the fattest, most inept virgins out there to crouch in a combat stance at act as if they are really getting shot at.
Wait, those are the ones most likely to be in the combat stance in the first place.
Weird, strange flash-back of some skinny white kid going chicken noodle on the Dance Dance Revolution Machine. I don't really know what "going chicken noodle" means, it was taught to me by a giant Irishman.
Then two Red-Headed Sluts
Red-Headed Slut Recipe
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Crossroads Delicatessen- Meh...
Located in Hopkins, Minnesota, Crossroads Delicatessen endeavors to bring a taste of the New York Deli scene to our backwater little Land O Ya-Youbetcha.
Just one problem: me.
I've said it before, I am a proud Minnesota that is often scared of new things. This concept of washing ones feet while showering, for example. Who started this rumor? I mean, it's a shower! The soap runs down. Why should I bend over to wash my feet and risk slipping and impaling myself on the faucet? That's just ridiculous.
That and I have an irrational paranoia from too many viewings of American History X and HBO's OZ.
But, as usual, I digress.
The Crossroads Deli might in fact bring a taste of New York to Minnesota. They have corned beef and matzo ball soup. That's just about all I know about the New York deli scene.
Well, that and that Meg Ryan is just a dirty liar and a tease!
Inside what looked to be a converted Bridgeman's is, as one would expect, a full deli case sporting several kinds of cured meats and dessert options. And these ain't your Target prices. Prices are listed on small hanging chalk boards by the 1/2 pound, all starting at at least $4.99.
So they must be good, for all I know.
To the food. I was in a deli, and if I know my stereotypes, they are supposed to have this corned beef thing figured out.
One Crossroads' Hot Corned Beef with fries, please.
Before the meal, the aged waitress (old enough that she got grandfathered in with the term waitress instead of server. I could have called her Flo) brought a basket of three pieces of bread, some pickles and beets.
The bread was a slice each of caraway rye, pumpernickel and sourdough. Three pieces of bread, nine individual portions of butter. I like the way these people think.
The bread was as to be expected, just cold bread there for your tasting. Or perhaps a palate cleanser, but I doubt it.
The pickles were just a normal kosher brine, none of that bread and butter s***t here.
The beets... what the f*** do I know about beets that I haven't been taught by Dwight Schrute? Nothing, never had them. They look gross and bring about some strange flash backs to childhood of watching old people eat them with open mouths.
Still, I am a professional or something, I should give them a shot.
Huh... what do you know. I like beets. As I am not sure what a beet normally tastes like I can't comment on the sweet or salty nature they provide, however, what I was served could only be described as a bread and butter pear.
The combination of briny and sweet coupled with the sandy texture and consistency of a pear create this interest melange with the auspicious purple color.
Yummy.
Ah, my sandwich has arrived. A good portion of meat falling out each side of the sandwich with a toothpicked olive staring at me, judging me...
Much like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally I needed to take a moment to situate the tender, thinly cut slices of corned beef on the sandwich and apply the necessary accoutrement. A small smear of mustard and a couple of pickle slices seem to be a part of the lore that I remember. I take a bite.
Too big of a bite. I got a vein of fat. A lot of them.
And here in lie the rub with corned beef. It is fatty as f***, regardless of where you get it. That is why it cooks down to be so tender. The problem is that if the person cutting it isn't concerned with how lean it is, you might get a half of a sandwich that looks like something you would see in an episode of Grey's Anatomy.
I had to do a bit of surgery myself to get what meat I could out of the first half of the sandwich, leaving a pile of fat and vein at the side of the plate. My faith was shaken, but I still had food on the plate. I went after the second half and was pleasantly surprised at its lack of internal organs and vessels. The meat was tender and thinly sliced that it had the "melt in your mouth" consistency that isn't usually found amongst deli meats.
I just wish the entire sandwich had been that way.
The fries were very crisp and delicious, though a bit colder than I would have liked, but what are ya gonna do? That's something they say in New York, right? That and something about fist pumping that I keep hearing about.
Crap, Oz flashback.
So, here's the thing. It was a good sandwich. I was having lunch and it was $10.99, so it was a bit more expensive than I would normally like, and I wasn't nearly as full as I would have liked, but it was still pretty good. And, outside of the occasional bagel or cheesecake, probably the closest I will ever get to New York.
Would I go there again? I don't know. As it has been 20 hours later and I am still burping corned beef, I think I can wait a while before reliving this kind of gastric reflux.
And next time, I'll stick with the hard salami.
Just one problem: me.
I've said it before, I am a proud Minnesota that is often scared of new things. This concept of washing ones feet while showering, for example. Who started this rumor? I mean, it's a shower! The soap runs down. Why should I bend over to wash my feet and risk slipping and impaling myself on the faucet? That's just ridiculous.
That and I have an irrational paranoia from too many viewings of American History X and HBO's OZ.
But, as usual, I digress.
The Crossroads Deli might in fact bring a taste of New York to Minnesota. They have corned beef and matzo ball soup. That's just about all I know about the New York deli scene.
Well, that and that Meg Ryan is just a dirty liar and a tease!
Inside what looked to be a converted Bridgeman's is, as one would expect, a full deli case sporting several kinds of cured meats and dessert options. And these ain't your Target prices. Prices are listed on small hanging chalk boards by the 1/2 pound, all starting at at least $4.99.
So they must be good, for all I know.
To the food. I was in a deli, and if I know my stereotypes, they are supposed to have this corned beef thing figured out.
One Crossroads' Hot Corned Beef with fries, please.
Before the meal, the aged waitress (old enough that she got grandfathered in with the term waitress instead of server. I could have called her Flo) brought a basket of three pieces of bread, some pickles and beets.
The bread was a slice each of caraway rye, pumpernickel and sourdough. Three pieces of bread, nine individual portions of butter. I like the way these people think.
The bread was as to be expected, just cold bread there for your tasting. Or perhaps a palate cleanser, but I doubt it.
The pickles were just a normal kosher brine, none of that bread and butter s***t here.
The beets... what the f*** do I know about beets that I haven't been taught by Dwight Schrute? Nothing, never had them. They look gross and bring about some strange flash backs to childhood of watching old people eat them with open mouths.
Still, I am a professional or something, I should give them a shot.
Huh... what do you know. I like beets. As I am not sure what a beet normally tastes like I can't comment on the sweet or salty nature they provide, however, what I was served could only be described as a bread and butter pear.
The combination of briny and sweet coupled with the sandy texture and consistency of a pear create this interest melange with the auspicious purple color.
Yummy.
Ah, my sandwich has arrived. A good portion of meat falling out each side of the sandwich with a toothpicked olive staring at me, judging me...
Much like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally I needed to take a moment to situate the tender, thinly cut slices of corned beef on the sandwich and apply the necessary accoutrement. A small smear of mustard and a couple of pickle slices seem to be a part of the lore that I remember. I take a bite.
Too big of a bite. I got a vein of fat. A lot of them.
And here in lie the rub with corned beef. It is fatty as f***, regardless of where you get it. That is why it cooks down to be so tender. The problem is that if the person cutting it isn't concerned with how lean it is, you might get a half of a sandwich that looks like something you would see in an episode of Grey's Anatomy.
I had to do a bit of surgery myself to get what meat I could out of the first half of the sandwich, leaving a pile of fat and vein at the side of the plate. My faith was shaken, but I still had food on the plate. I went after the second half and was pleasantly surprised at its lack of internal organs and vessels. The meat was tender and thinly sliced that it had the "melt in your mouth" consistency that isn't usually found amongst deli meats.
I just wish the entire sandwich had been that way.
The fries were very crisp and delicious, though a bit colder than I would have liked, but what are ya gonna do? That's something they say in New York, right? That and something about fist pumping that I keep hearing about.
Crap, Oz flashback.
So, here's the thing. It was a good sandwich. I was having lunch and it was $10.99, so it was a bit more expensive than I would normally like, and I wasn't nearly as full as I would have liked, but it was still pretty good. And, outside of the occasional bagel or cheesecake, probably the closest I will ever get to New York.
Would I go there again? I don't know. As it has been 20 hours later and I am still burping corned beef, I think I can wait a while before reliving this kind of gastric reflux.
And next time, I'll stick with the hard salami.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Tony Jaros, Nye's Polonaise and The Bulldog. Oh, my...
Since when is four f***ing inches of snow an emergency in Minnesota? Hold on, let me amend that. Since when is four f***ing inches of slush that has largely melted a snow emergency in the piss-poor city of Minneapolis.
Just a heads up, there will be more of that to come.
Let's get into this one, my head hurts, partially from a hangover, partially from my dog headbutting me awake this morning.
Tony Jaros. A name synonymous with a concoction known around the Northeast portion of Minneapolis as the "Green Meanie".
How does one create a Green Meanie you ask? Hard to say, but it has a s***tload of vodka in it. Maybe a press. Top it with melon liqueur and add a dash of a white substance from an unmarked packet.
No seriously. Could be sugar. Could be coke.
DISCLAIMER: The writer of this blog has absolutely no idea what the contents of said package are and his alcohol addled mind will create whatever kinds of parallels it can to make sense of the night before. It is shear speculation and conjecture for comedic purposes and in no way an accusation. So lighten up.
Whatever it is, the drink is good and strong. Sweet, but not too sweet. Had two. $4.50 each. Not bad.
The ambiance would be considered minimalist. The center oval bar taking up more space than the actually seating area. A small kitchen in the back reportedly served food. I did not care to try.
Just as I learned that the bar also serves a "Bluie" and "Pinkie" my party pulled me away, perhaps detecting that my deteriorating mood needed a change of venue. Perhaps, they were right, but their choices were so wrong.
Nye's Polonaise. Jesus f***ing Christ. What did I do to deserve this one.
Far be it from me to suggest that my tastes are better than those at Esquire magazine that deemed Nye's Polonaise to be the "Best Bar In America"... wait, no it isn't. I'll say whatever the hell I want, they charge $5 for a tap of Miller Lite.
1960 threw up on a lot in Northeast. It was then named Nye's. Red carpeting, dark wood paneling and gold flecked booths. All the things that the magazine loved made me ill. A piano player that seems to want drunken aging hipsters to sing their favorites.
A polka band in the side room that looked like a cross between the Chuckie Cheese Animatronic band and the results from opening The Ark of The Covenant. Three old, melted, polka players pressed against a wall, staring at you when you go to the bathroom.
I get it. It is quaint and "original". You don't see bars like that anymore. Is there a reason for that? Yup.
As I am not an aging hipster, a well-worn traveller, or a part of the population that needs more from their bar than good prices, flat screen TVs and pleasant company, this is not a place for me.
Though I will at least concede that there is a large enough portion of this population to make Nye's a very popular haunt. Probably why the parking lot was full.
It was far too much for me to handle. Their parking lot that was only big enough for a dozen cars was filled and we were forced to park two blocks away. Fortunately it was after 10pm. No meters. Yeah!
Or was it...
My party and I needed food. Not wanting to dig into the fair at Nye's, our cravings drifted to something simpler. Something more white trash. We needed tots. We needed The Bulldog.
Three blocks south from Nye's is The Bulldog, which unfortunately took over the space from the gay club, Boom. Say what you will about whatever stupid ass political views you have, if you are male and want to get drunk, go to a gay club. I could get a double Maker's Mark for $5.
But I digress. Walking into the entrance we passed a couple commented that they had been towed.
How much would that suck?
Inside was pretty filled. A far more modern design, simple black high top tables surrounding a very large, fully stocked bar with a serious number of imports and microbrews available.
Of course, I'm not that guy, I was there for Tater Tots. I ordered a High Life.
I hate Napoleon Dynamite, but these tots are good enough that I will endure people's quoting of ridiculous movie lines. Fried, salty and delicious, if I have anything negative to say about them, it is that they are too fancy.
Directly from their menu:
My party got the truffled parmesan. Very good, but something about them just seemed to be too much. Like putting pearls on a pig, in the end, it is just a pig. A delicious, delicious pig.
Avoid the Fried House Made Fresh Mozzarella. You get two blackened hockey pucks. Besides on a pizza, the only way mozzerella should be served is in stick form. What you expected better from this blog?
It was time to leave. The drink had set in and I knew I had to actually be somewhere this morning. Wandering back to the car with my sober cab I commented, "Did you hear that girl who said her car was towed? How much would that..."
Then we saw the car had been towed.
Snow emergency. How the f*** was I supposed to know it was an emergency? Did any businesses have signs? Were there any signs in the streets? What the f*** do you think?
Quickly back to Nye's whose postage stamp parking lot I blame for it all. They had no idea where it would have been towed. Three phone calls later, it was at the city impound. It was then that I noticed the insane number of tow trucks clearing the streets.
Of course, there weren't any snow plows. That would make too much sense.
A ride from concerned citizens (shout out to Cameron and Emily, you my peeps!) to the city impound lot and $138 later we had our car back. I f***ing hate Minneapolis.
Evidently, I need to check the local news stations and internet before I go out drinking. What an awesome town!
That's it. No realizations. No summation. I'm sure this is riddled with spelling and grammar errors, but I just don't give a s*** at this point. What would have been an otherwise fun jaunt through the well known Northeast was ruined. I thought I had avoided the s*** of downtown by staying on the other side of the bridge. But it looks like s*** really does run downhill.
Just a heads up, there will be more of that to come.
Let's get into this one, my head hurts, partially from a hangover, partially from my dog headbutting me awake this morning.
Tony Jaros. A name synonymous with a concoction known around the Northeast portion of Minneapolis as the "Green Meanie".
How does one create a Green Meanie you ask? Hard to say, but it has a s***tload of vodka in it. Maybe a press. Top it with melon liqueur and add a dash of a white substance from an unmarked packet.
No seriously. Could be sugar. Could be coke.
DISCLAIMER: The writer of this blog has absolutely no idea what the contents of said package are and his alcohol addled mind will create whatever kinds of parallels it can to make sense of the night before. It is shear speculation and conjecture for comedic purposes and in no way an accusation. So lighten up.
Whatever it is, the drink is good and strong. Sweet, but not too sweet. Had two. $4.50 each. Not bad.
The ambiance would be considered minimalist. The center oval bar taking up more space than the actually seating area. A small kitchen in the back reportedly served food. I did not care to try.
Just as I learned that the bar also serves a "Bluie" and "Pinkie" my party pulled me away, perhaps detecting that my deteriorating mood needed a change of venue. Perhaps, they were right, but their choices were so wrong.
Nye's Polonaise. Jesus f***ing Christ. What did I do to deserve this one.
Far be it from me to suggest that my tastes are better than those at Esquire magazine that deemed Nye's Polonaise to be the "Best Bar In America"... wait, no it isn't. I'll say whatever the hell I want, they charge $5 for a tap of Miller Lite.
1960 threw up on a lot in Northeast. It was then named Nye's. Red carpeting, dark wood paneling and gold flecked booths. All the things that the magazine loved made me ill. A piano player that seems to want drunken aging hipsters to sing their favorites.
A polka band in the side room that looked like a cross between the Chuckie Cheese Animatronic band and the results from opening The Ark of The Covenant. Three old, melted, polka players pressed against a wall, staring at you when you go to the bathroom.
I get it. It is quaint and "original". You don't see bars like that anymore. Is there a reason for that? Yup.
As I am not an aging hipster, a well-worn traveller, or a part of the population that needs more from their bar than good prices, flat screen TVs and pleasant company, this is not a place for me.
Though I will at least concede that there is a large enough portion of this population to make Nye's a very popular haunt. Probably why the parking lot was full.
It was far too much for me to handle. Their parking lot that was only big enough for a dozen cars was filled and we were forced to park two blocks away. Fortunately it was after 10pm. No meters. Yeah!
Or was it...
My party and I needed food. Not wanting to dig into the fair at Nye's, our cravings drifted to something simpler. Something more white trash. We needed tots. We needed The Bulldog.
Three blocks south from Nye's is The Bulldog, which unfortunately took over the space from the gay club, Boom. Say what you will about whatever stupid ass political views you have, if you are male and want to get drunk, go to a gay club. I could get a double Maker's Mark for $5.
But I digress. Walking into the entrance we passed a couple commented that they had been towed.
How much would that suck?
Inside was pretty filled. A far more modern design, simple black high top tables surrounding a very large, fully stocked bar with a serious number of imports and microbrews available.
Of course, I'm not that guy, I was there for Tater Tots. I ordered a High Life.
I hate Napoleon Dynamite, but these tots are good enough that I will endure people's quoting of ridiculous movie lines. Fried, salty and delicious, if I have anything negative to say about them, it is that they are too fancy.
Directly from their menu:
My party got the truffled parmesan. Very good, but something about them just seemed to be too much. Like putting pearls on a pig, in the end, it is just a pig. A delicious, delicious pig.
Avoid the Fried House Made Fresh Mozzarella. You get two blackened hockey pucks. Besides on a pizza, the only way mozzerella should be served is in stick form. What you expected better from this blog?
It was time to leave. The drink had set in and I knew I had to actually be somewhere this morning. Wandering back to the car with my sober cab I commented, "Did you hear that girl who said her car was towed? How much would that..."
Then we saw the car had been towed.
Snow emergency. How the f*** was I supposed to know it was an emergency? Did any businesses have signs? Were there any signs in the streets? What the f*** do you think?
Quickly back to Nye's whose postage stamp parking lot I blame for it all. They had no idea where it would have been towed. Three phone calls later, it was at the city impound. It was then that I noticed the insane number of tow trucks clearing the streets.
Of course, there weren't any snow plows. That would make too much sense.
A ride from concerned citizens (shout out to Cameron and Emily, you my peeps!) to the city impound lot and $138 later we had our car back. I f***ing hate Minneapolis.
Evidently, I need to check the local news stations and internet before I go out drinking. What an awesome town!
That's it. No realizations. No summation. I'm sure this is riddled with spelling and grammar errors, but I just don't give a s*** at this point. What would have been an otherwise fun jaunt through the well known Northeast was ruined. I thought I had avoided the s*** of downtown by staying on the other side of the bridge. But it looks like s*** really does run downhill.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Rudolph's (Uptown)- Come For The Ribs Stay For The... Wings?
In Cormac McCarthy's stark, haunting and brilliant novel The Road, the Man and his Son are walking down the title road, in search of the ocean coast line. Along the way they come across an old man. The old man delivers, for my money the and most poignant and intriguing thought in the book: if you were the last person on earth, how would you know?
It is this line that will resonate every time I eat Rudolph's in Uptown. If there were better a chicken wing in the world, how would I know? For that matter, would I care to find out?
Truth be told, it wasn't the ribs that brought me to Rudolph's. It was a Groupon. A glorious little invention of marketing by which local businesses can offer their goods and services at a discounted rate, often at 50% of face value. Sometimes more.
Rudolph's is not the typical subject for one of these blogs. It is a bit pricey. The majority of the entrees being over $15. Yes, there are sandwich alternatives for less, but why bother? If you are going to be there, spend the money.
Rudolph's looks like something out of a throw back to the urban lifestyle long lost in New York city, or so I would assume as I have never been there and street crime scares me. The servers wear jackets and carry themselves with professionalism.
Nice, but I don't care. Service is the least of my concerns when I am hungry. And as this is a food blog, here is what I got.
Dixie Chicken Wings - $7.95
The Ultimate Rack- $25.95
Citizen Cornbread- $6.95
Note: most of the menu has a Hollywood theme as the restaurant was named after the immortal star of early Hollywood cinema Rudolph Valentino.
The wings. I would call this putting your best foot forward. The combination of sweet and spicy chili with a hint of garlic creates an utterly unbelievable taste. Neither being the more overpowering taste, the need for a napkin is a moot point as I relished licking my fingers clean. Yup, I'm that guy.
These wings aren't fried, they are broiled. Preserving the tenderness of the chicken and creating a crispiness to the skin that is like no other. If there were ever a chicken wing eating contest here, I would die a bloated happy man.
The Ribs. Here's the thing. Famous Dave's Barbecue is a few miles away from Rudolph's. If you don't care about the quality of the meat and prefer to be overwhelmed by the sauce. Go to Dave's. Don't get me wrong, Dave's is a great sauce, but I'm not paying for the sauce.
Opting for the Ultimate Rack, I got a half slab of spare ribs and a half slab of baby back ribs. The spare ribs are a bit more meaty and covered in a wonderful dry rub. I don't know what was in it, I never will as any true barbecue officiando will tell you that a dry rub recipe is held more dear than wedding vows.
Don't believe me? Have you seen divorce rates? How many people tell you about their rib recipe?
The baby back ribs are tender, fall-off-the-bone with a gentle layer of sauce that isn't so overwhelming that you can't tell the quality of the meat. And if you like them saucier, the servers are more than happy to bring you and extra bottle of sauce. Rudolph's. You may have seen it at the supermarket.
Personally, I'm a spare ribs guy. I love the sensation of pulling meat off the bone in a primal way that makes me reveal in my believe of evolution. The cavemen did something right. Rudolph's just improved it with a dry rub.
How can creationists justify eating meat? For s***-sake, they all think they came from a garden!
We elected a side of coleslaw (fresh and crisp, not too heavy on the dressing) and some seasoned fries that just felt right with the order. Thought I did regret it later, when I saw people eating full ears of corn on the cob. Oh well, next time.
Finally the cornbread. Yup, $7 for cornbread. PAY IT! Served in a six-inch cast iron skillet, this could be on the dessert menu. Honey glazed and served hot with a lump of butter no barbecue meal is complete without corn bread.
Chris Rock said it best, "Corn bread. Ain't nothin' wrong with that."
So, how can I justify spending that much on a meal? Simple, I shared. That entire meal was split between two people and I still had to ask for a box to bring two pieces of cornbread home. Rudolph's is a bit pricey, but you will leave full.
It is funny to say that the best part of the meal was the appetizer, but look at it like this. Rudolph's made a good thing better with quality when they created their ribs. However, the Dixie wings took the concept of wings, something that the country has gone insane for in the last few years and made it better every step of the way.
As far as I know you can't buy a better cut of chicken wings like you could beef, but that doesn't mean that they all have to taste the same.
If you have the Groupon, are willing to share, or just want some damn good wings, go to Uptown. It might be the only reason to go there in the first place. Plus it is right by Highway 94 making for a quick escape.
It is this line that will resonate every time I eat Rudolph's in Uptown. If there were better a chicken wing in the world, how would I know? For that matter, would I care to find out?
Truth be told, it wasn't the ribs that brought me to Rudolph's. It was a Groupon. A glorious little invention of marketing by which local businesses can offer their goods and services at a discounted rate, often at 50% of face value. Sometimes more.
Rudolph's is not the typical subject for one of these blogs. It is a bit pricey. The majority of the entrees being over $15. Yes, there are sandwich alternatives for less, but why bother? If you are going to be there, spend the money.
Rudolph's looks like something out of a throw back to the urban lifestyle long lost in New York city, or so I would assume as I have never been there and street crime scares me. The servers wear jackets and carry themselves with professionalism.
Nice, but I don't care. Service is the least of my concerns when I am hungry. And as this is a food blog, here is what I got.
Dixie Chicken Wings - $7.95
The Ultimate Rack- $25.95
Citizen Cornbread- $6.95
Note: most of the menu has a Hollywood theme as the restaurant was named after the immortal star of early Hollywood cinema Rudolph Valentino.
The wings. I would call this putting your best foot forward. The combination of sweet and spicy chili with a hint of garlic creates an utterly unbelievable taste. Neither being the more overpowering taste, the need for a napkin is a moot point as I relished licking my fingers clean. Yup, I'm that guy.
These wings aren't fried, they are broiled. Preserving the tenderness of the chicken and creating a crispiness to the skin that is like no other. If there were ever a chicken wing eating contest here, I would die a bloated happy man.
The Ribs. Here's the thing. Famous Dave's Barbecue is a few miles away from Rudolph's. If you don't care about the quality of the meat and prefer to be overwhelmed by the sauce. Go to Dave's. Don't get me wrong, Dave's is a great sauce, but I'm not paying for the sauce.
Opting for the Ultimate Rack, I got a half slab of spare ribs and a half slab of baby back ribs. The spare ribs are a bit more meaty and covered in a wonderful dry rub. I don't know what was in it, I never will as any true barbecue officiando will tell you that a dry rub recipe is held more dear than wedding vows.
Don't believe me? Have you seen divorce rates? How many people tell you about their rib recipe?
The baby back ribs are tender, fall-off-the-bone with a gentle layer of sauce that isn't so overwhelming that you can't tell the quality of the meat. And if you like them saucier, the servers are more than happy to bring you and extra bottle of sauce. Rudolph's. You may have seen it at the supermarket.
Personally, I'm a spare ribs guy. I love the sensation of pulling meat off the bone in a primal way that makes me reveal in my believe of evolution. The cavemen did something right. Rudolph's just improved it with a dry rub.
How can creationists justify eating meat? For s***-sake, they all think they came from a garden!
We elected a side of coleslaw (fresh and crisp, not too heavy on the dressing) and some seasoned fries that just felt right with the order. Thought I did regret it later, when I saw people eating full ears of corn on the cob. Oh well, next time.
Finally the cornbread. Yup, $7 for cornbread. PAY IT! Served in a six-inch cast iron skillet, this could be on the dessert menu. Honey glazed and served hot with a lump of butter no barbecue meal is complete without corn bread.
Chris Rock said it best, "Corn bread. Ain't nothin' wrong with that."
So, how can I justify spending that much on a meal? Simple, I shared. That entire meal was split between two people and I still had to ask for a box to bring two pieces of cornbread home. Rudolph's is a bit pricey, but you will leave full.
It is funny to say that the best part of the meal was the appetizer, but look at it like this. Rudolph's made a good thing better with quality when they created their ribs. However, the Dixie wings took the concept of wings, something that the country has gone insane for in the last few years and made it better every step of the way.
As far as I know you can't buy a better cut of chicken wings like you could beef, but that doesn't mean that they all have to taste the same.
If you have the Groupon, are willing to share, or just want some damn good wings, go to Uptown. It might be the only reason to go there in the first place. Plus it is right by Highway 94 making for a quick escape.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Absinthe and Hostess Donettes
Here is what the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Agency has to say about the importation of Absinthe into the United States:
The name on the bottle was "ABSINTHE".
The bottle was a brushed purple and after my first drink (cut with sparkling wine for some damn reason), I was in a state of consciousness that the great writers of the 19th century must have experienced daily.
Of course, I also had been drinking Corona from a can, Molson Light, Jell-O shots made with Jack Daniels, Root Beer Barrels and Mich Golden Light. But I'm sure it was the ABSINTHE that tipped the scales.
I don't know how they did it back then. An all night bender in pantalones and powdered wigs or whatever the hell they used to wear, followed by a morning that could probably offer no better than toast or something that might cause The Plague.
We live in the 21st century, and as people of the future, we know how to do a Sunday morning breakfast after an ABSINTHE bender.
Hostess Donettes and coffee.
Yes that is how it is spelled. D-O-N-E-T-T-E-S.
We're talking the little chocolate gems that come in a bags of 20 or so.
That bag that hasn't changed in a lifetime. The little plastic and wire clasps that are there to hold the bag shut should you have a greater sense of self-control than I.
The clear viewing window so that you can be sure that there isn't a rat or thumb in the bag you are about to purchase. Not only a deft move from a legal point of view, but also a refreshing changed from having to assume that you won't open a bag of chips filled with human hair.
What? It could happen. And when it does, you will wish there was a viewing window on the bag.
The little bit sized bits of hangover heaven that practically dissolve on contact with a steaming cup of Joe. Pop them like pills. Dunk them like glorious little live savers. Eat them with the joy that can only be brought by an incredibly obese Capitalistic society.
The chocolate-esque flavor reminiscent of childhood. The ingredient cocoa doesn't even appear on the list of ingredients until about the tenth item.
But it doesn't matter. They are bit sized and glorious. So small that you know you could stop whenever you want to, but if you have one more it won't matter.
So have one more.
So have one more.
So have one more.
The gods that created ABSINTHE are not benevolent gods. They are malicious and take joy in seeing the ignorant members of society partake in their fabled beverage as though it will bring some greater understanding of life and the world.
To them I say F*** Y**!
My gods made Hostess Donettes! And that is why I am better than you.
- The product must be thujone-free (The chemical thujone, present in small quantities, was blamed for its alleged harmful effects.)
- The name "absinthe" can neither be the brand name nor stand alone on the label, and
- The packaging cannot "project images of hallucinogenic, psychotropic or mind-altering effects.
The name on the bottle was "ABSINTHE".
The bottle was a brushed purple and after my first drink (cut with sparkling wine for some damn reason), I was in a state of consciousness that the great writers of the 19th century must have experienced daily.
Of course, I also had been drinking Corona from a can, Molson Light, Jell-O shots made with Jack Daniels, Root Beer Barrels and Mich Golden Light. But I'm sure it was the ABSINTHE that tipped the scales.
I don't know how they did it back then. An all night bender in pantalones and powdered wigs or whatever the hell they used to wear, followed by a morning that could probably offer no better than toast or something that might cause The Plague.
We live in the 21st century, and as people of the future, we know how to do a Sunday morning breakfast after an ABSINTHE bender.
Hostess Donettes and coffee.
Yes that is how it is spelled. D-O-N-E-T-T-E-S.
We're talking the little chocolate gems that come in a bags of 20 or so.
That bag that hasn't changed in a lifetime. The little plastic and wire clasps that are there to hold the bag shut should you have a greater sense of self-control than I.
The clear viewing window so that you can be sure that there isn't a rat or thumb in the bag you are about to purchase. Not only a deft move from a legal point of view, but also a refreshing changed from having to assume that you won't open a bag of chips filled with human hair.
What? It could happen. And when it does, you will wish there was a viewing window on the bag.
The little bit sized bits of hangover heaven that practically dissolve on contact with a steaming cup of Joe. Pop them like pills. Dunk them like glorious little live savers. Eat them with the joy that can only be brought by an incredibly obese Capitalistic society.
The chocolate-esque flavor reminiscent of childhood. The ingredient cocoa doesn't even appear on the list of ingredients until about the tenth item.
But it doesn't matter. They are bit sized and glorious. So small that you know you could stop whenever you want to, but if you have one more it won't matter.
So have one more.
So have one more.
So have one more.
The gods that created ABSINTHE are not benevolent gods. They are malicious and take joy in seeing the ignorant members of society partake in their fabled beverage as though it will bring some greater understanding of life and the world.
To them I say F*** Y**!
My gods made Hostess Donettes! And that is why I am better than you.
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