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

1 oz peach schnapps
1 oz Jagermeister® herbal liqueur
cranberry juice

Chill and serve.

Those were way easier going down than the two shots of Patron that followed. I don't know why people request patron. It isn't any better than Jose. It is just like the stupid f***s that demand Grey Goose vodka as if they know the goddamn difference. 

The two shots of Red Stag that followed were a little tough, but cherry flavored whiskey should never really go down smoothly.

Then there was something to do with killing Zombies. I think there was a wickedly hard Terminator game. 

Finally visions of my staring down and cursing at the images in the quick-draw game. Did I call an image in a video screen a "yellow-belly"?

Then a member of the party got cut off, and it wasn't even me! Ha! It was the girl buying everyone else shots. I suppose they didn't want more money. Go figure.

Yeah D & B, I'm familiar with Dram Shop Laws, go figure, however the extent of your liability would have been limited to the repercussions of the actions caused by the party you cut off. And should your concern fall with-in the realm of "last-link-in-the-chain", that rule no longer applies to the intoxicated individual as of 1999. And if you had bothered to ask, her boyfriend was sober, and her driver. 

Wow, it's all coming back to me. That being said, I liked the food, was surprised by the extent of the menu and had an overall good time, especially since I woke up with a Spiderman Smarties Dispenser in my pocket. I have woken up with much much worse things lying in bed next to me.

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.

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:

Tater Tots

Served with sriracha mayo, fennel dusted with tarragon aioli, Togarashi with wasabi mayo, or truffled with parmesan cheese as priced below.

• Sriracha: $4.00
• Fennel: $5.00
• Togarishi: $5.00
• Truffled: $6.00

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.

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.

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 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.

I don't know about the thujones, the bottle was entirely in French.

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.

Grand Casino Mille Lacs Serves Food?

Yeah, I was fooled on that one, too. I thought the only thing a person could find at Grand Casino Mille Lacs was the morbidly obese, the down trodden and those that miss the ability to smoke indoors.

My vision was foggy. Reality a mix of present time and images of the night before. Drinking, a lot of it. At one of Garrison, Minnesota's finest establishments. Country music. Shots. A local television celebrity wasted on tequila and very interested in the two women kissing in front of him. 

I know, more than anything right now, you want to know what I ate at the casino, so I won't waste any more time with the trivial visual accounts of the unnamed but very recognizable Minnesota television personality that could easily find their way to the gossip section.

Making my way through the fog of Marlboro smoke, wave after wave of cellulite and finally testing my agility and dexterity against an army of motorized Rascal wheelchairs, I found myself at the Grand Northern Grill just before they stopped serving breakfast.

Perhaps the Gods of Providence wanted me to see what the Casino had to offer. Perhaps the Gods of Obesity wanted to make me a part of their flock. Regardless, I moved forward.

As usual, my eyes floated towards the Biscuits & Gravy. The safe bet. Fatty, meaty goodness that with rare variance is the same the world around. However, in the both next to me sat a couple. The man seemed to have a "Jersey Thing" going on. Greased hair, Ed Hardy rip off shirt. But more importantly was what he was eating. What they were sharing.

One plate. Two people. The Lumberjack Breakfast for $9.99. Three eggs, hash browns, choice of two meats (ham, sausage patties or bacon), pancakes and toast (either white or wild rice). Utterly massive.

How did it taste? Like breakfast. What the hell else does eggs and hash browns taste like? I'm not Andrew Zimmern. If I roll my eyes while I eat it is because I am choking or passing out. And nothing, nothing should every be described as creamy. Unless it is actually cream.

The plate itself was huge, making what was on it seem like a completely conquerable task, but by the time I got to the two pancakes, portion size alone was enough to make me want to throw in the towel. But I'm not a quitter.

I also got the Grand Casino Mille Lacs’ Famous Cinnamon Roll. Cinnamon-spiked sweet dough freshly baked and topped with our creamy confectioners icing. $3.49

God damnit, they just had to call it creamy. Didn't they? This isn't sheep testicles. It's just icing. And lots of it.

Has anyone ever described the amount of food using "a camel's foot" as a reference point? Perhaps somewhere in the Sahara. However, that is most likely for an actual camel's foot.

The cinnamon roll in front on me was the size of a camel's foot. Slathered in frosting. It's weight measurable in pounds, not ounces.

How did it taste? Dense.

Add a few cups of coffee to compound last night's gut rot and I had all the ammo I needed to reek havoc on the casino's pipelines. Serves them right for taking my money in a fair game of chance.

I am not a gambling man, unless it is with questionable foreign alcohols and meats. I don't care to risk my money on table games. I will however remember that should another day come when I feel the need to drown my emotions in food, while bathed in a sea of stale smoke and hopeless addicts, I would definitely make another trip to the Grand Northern Lodge.

Though I think that I would have to find levels of self degredation and lack of humiliation that reflect the lost souls at the penny slots.

However, if you should be there amongst the walking dead, I readily recommend this breakfast. You obviously don't have that much else going for you. Might as well be full.

Papa Murphy's Pizza- A Review For Shut-Ins

Don't be afraid of that big yellow orb in the sky. It is the sun. It gives us warmth.

Among other things the outside world has much to provide for the average shut-in, of the average Minnesotan during the eight winter months a year. Beyond the social skills necessary to actually interact with other humans, being outside means that you can go place. You can do things for yourself. You can be a real live grown-up person.

I get it, you are too afraid to go to a restaurant and sit down. The idea that people will question your joy of jean shorts and Battlestar Galactica t-shirt. Delivery just seems like the natural option, but you have other choices.

The first step is to put the f***ing phone down and go get your own pizza.

For too long was it the belief that delivery pizza was the way to go. Pick up the phone and in 30 or so minutes, depending on how high your delivery driver was, you would have a hot pizza pie delivered to your door. Then it got better with the addition of cheese bread. Then, gasp, wings!

All by just picking up the phone, or, for you people that are even afraid of talking to people, via the internet. Jesus, that's pathetic.

What's the deal that they are doing now? Two pizzas for $11 or something like that? Or a large with unlimited toppings for $10. Plus delivery charges. Plus a tip. It adds up. And in the end, it's just pizza. Why don't you live a little and go to Aurelio's in Roseville, or at least to Papa Murphy's for their award winning take-and-bake?

If you are so intent on going online for your pizza, do so. Go to the Papa Murphy's website, put in your zip code and get one of the omnipresent coupons so your pizza might be $7 or even less.

I know, this creates a problem in itself. You will actually have to do something that resembles cooking. Turn on the oven to a hot setting, no need to get all fancy with your math and numbers, but the pizza in. Take it out when it looks done.

Don't try to kid me and tell me you don't know when that is. You've had enough pizzas to guess when it is done, I believe in you.

Crisp up the crust, brown the cheese. Cut in in wedges or get all fancy and go with squares. Add some Franks, maybe crack a beer. This is a big-ass pizza at it's finest and freshest. You see the 16 year old kids with their Justin Beiber haircuts and snarky comments make it. You see the strange look of attitude in their eyes as they wrap it like it involves some kind of skill. You cook it yourself.

Your instincts will be much like the monster in Frankenstein, but don't worry, fire not bad. Fire good for cook food. Yum.

The crust is light and flaky. The cheese is gooey and spreads the inevitable pepperoni grease. And now, for $8.99 you can get a double decker. That's right, where once there was one, now there is two, right on top of the other and without the inconvenience of having to cut two different pizzas.

Papa Murphy's has been awarded America's Best Pizza Chain for something like 6 years in a row for a reason. But you have to try it yourself.

You have to face your fear of the outside world, of germs and Jean Paul Sartre... you know, "Hell is other people." Which may be true, but trust me, a quit walk through Hell is worth it for great fresh pizza at half the price.

Tastelessly Minnesotan: Sarna's Classic Grill; Bring Your Appetite/Eating ...

Tastelessly Minnesotan: Sarna's Classic Grill; Bring Your Appetite/Eating ...: "Off of University Avenue in Columbia Heights Minnesota there is a mirage. From street view, Sarna's Classic Grill seems to be a restaurant ..."

Sarna's Classic Grill; Bring Your Appetite/Eating Disorder

Off of University Avenue in Columbia Heights Minnesota there is a mirage.

From street view, Sarna's Classic Grill seems to be a restaurant not unlike any other. A brick structure with windows. A large patio boasted about on their web page (not sure why due to it's scenic view of University Ave). Decent parking. Nothing to suggest that it is anything other than your typical restaurant, until you order the food. All of the f***ing food your inflated beer guts can handle.

I am no one to talk, for an appetizer, I ordered a pizza. It was a small pizza, but sounded more tempting than the usual fair of wings, fried green beans or other like items. And it only cost $9 (as much or cheaper than most appetizers on the menu).

The pizza in question, Chicken Alfredo, had a good enough description on the menu to warrant a try... let's be honest, it said it had prosciutto on it, I was going to try it one way or another. Garlic white sauce with chicken,
mozzarella, mushrooms, spinach and prosciutto. A good combination, with one minor set back. It was a pizza.

The garlic white sauce was simple and not overpowering, laying a good foundation for the topic. The chicken was grilled and as good as can be expected on a pizza off the conveyor oven. The mushrooms were button, but then again, the pizza was cheap. The spinach existed only in small amount so as to not overwhelm with texture or flavor. The prosciutto was crisp and delicious. Together it was a great combination of flavors. Except that it was a pizza.

Why the f*** do I keep saying that? Because it was such a good combination of flavors, that's why. The crust itself was soft and quite tasty, but the texture and consistency took away from the flavors on top instead of emphasizing them. Had this actually been an appetizer, it would have served much better on a crispy flat-bread.

Minor and nit-picky. I know. I'm a dick.

For the main course I had a harder time deciding. The menu itself is huge. My eye was drawn to the whiskey steak. What could make a slab of beef better than to marinate it in the thing that I some day want to be marinated in?

Wrong, it's not available anymore. Rumor has it that marinating in alcohol can make the meat itself turn colors not too desirable.

My eyes wandered (past the salad, because who the f*** gets salad for a dinner main course) to the pastas, the burgers (they have a Juicy Lucy that I wasn't even going to bother with, I just did an article on the 5-8 and I won't do them the injustice of comparing them to a knock off version), sandwiches...

What's this? Classic comfort food? I like comfort food! I have emotions that I like to quell with large amounts of starches and gravy.

According to the menu the Blue Plate Special is a "local favorite". Who am I to argue with the locals?


"Oven roasted and hand carved turkey served open faced on white bread with mashed potatoes and stuffing covered in our homemade gravy. Served with a side of cranberry sauce $11"

Works for me. I was expecting something to satisfy my appetite. I was not expecting something that would put me into a joyously peaceful food coma.

What was brought out to me had me rethinking my location. It had looked like a normal restaurant from the outside. It had looked like a normal restaurant on the inside. However, somewhere between reality and the place I live, was an Old Country Buffet disguised as a restaurant. And one that actual served good food.

Warning: if you are going to order this meal (or just about any of the entrees from what I could see), bring your appetite. Or at least make sure that you tap into some deep dark memories that you will need to suppress with about half a carved turkey, a pound of mashed, skin on red potatoes and a slathering of gravy.

And it was good. Not great. But the quantity made up for any lack of quality. The turkey was a little dry. Thank God I had all that gravy to moisten it up.

I actually laughed to myself when I remembered that somewhere under this mountain of food was a single piece of white bread, there only to qualify this meal as an open faced sandwich. It's like taking eight shots of whiskey and calling the beer you had at the end a chaser. Technically it is, but it really isn't.

There is a dessert tray as well. A throw back to the times when restaurants knew that the best way to get people to eat a dessert is to shove it in their face.

Sadly, I had to pass. I went there in a good mood. I had to eat fueled only by my own desire and not, as I typically do, by the vague memories of that guy I knew as "Uncle".

Off of University Avenue in Columbia Heights is a mirage. The sign says Sarna's Classic Grill, but don't be fooled. There is nothing classic about the idea of having a really well designed and decorated restaurant with huge portions of great food.

What? I grew up in the 80s. Is that the way food was supposed to be served?

5-8 Club Gets a 6 out of 10

The Juicy Lucy.

It seems these days you can't go anywhere without some restaurant trying to sport this creation on their menu. Often duplicated, never replicated, this concoction of melted cheese sandwiched... nay, buried like a treasure between two fused pieces of good ol' American ground beef has become a part of Minnesotan popular culture.

Of course, who has the best is up for debate. The "original" creators of the Juicy Lucy at the 5-8 Club or the "original" creator of the Juicy Nooky at the Nook Bar & Grill. That is a debate for another time. Leave these squabbles for the Travel Channel. My time too valuable. My hangover, too imposing.

Not want to venture all the want towards the Airport for the original 5-8 location in Minneapolis, I venture to the far more friendly, or so I thought, location in Champlin, Minnesota.

Don't call it Champlin Park. That's the name of the high school. And for some reason they take serious offense to it.

I think they need to take it a bit more likely, like those local wacky kids in Shoreview that kept stealing the S off of the town sign, even though it was bolted down. (W)horeview. That's good stuff.

This location is simple. The decor not unlike a mashed together sports bar and Ground Round. Wait, that doesn't sound good at all. Screw it, I'm going (thanks Alec Baldwin).

The menu is what one would expect from a greasy spoon diner. A lot of meat. A lot of cheese. There are entree options beyond the "famous" hamburgers like chicken, pork tenderloin (called "The Hangover", tempting in my current state of mind), salads, ribs, shrimp, etc.

I didn't come here for that. Not sure why anyone would come here for that. I want carbs. And I want fat. And I want an appetizer with both. How about the Cheese Dip and Pretzels.

Sounds like what it is. A plate of homemade, maybe, soft preztels and a soup cup full of pipping hot spiced melted cheese. Good for dippin'. Good for drinkin'. Good for showin' God you aren't afraid of Coronary Artery Disease.

Then to the Juicy Lucy herself. A half pound stuffed burger filled with the cheese of your choice. Choose from good old neon orange American, something called Amablu Bleu, Pepper or Swiss. My being an expert at choosing just the right thing on the menu lead me to opt for the Amablu Bleu.

Bleu cheese is great on buffalo wings. It is very good on salad. It is even good crumbled on top of a burger. Not so much when a ladle full is sitting in wait inside of a burger waiting to scald my epiglottis with lava that is far too overpowering.

It is far too strong of a cheese to have with this burger. Go Patriotic and stick with the American.

It is a good burger. The service is like you would expect at a greasy spoon. Of course, need I mention that this isn't a greasy spoon. Just one disguised as a restaurant.

Perhaps mid-afternoon on a Sunday isn't the best time to go, but I was forced- yes, forced- to listen to the classless boar that seemed to be a manager or supervisor by the way he was talking so casually and with so much profanity to the staff (while creepily trying to give a shoulder massage to a young woman) drone on and on about how he knew everything and everyone.

He spoke too loud, he laughed to hard. Trying to convince the entire bar that he was fun and smart while achieving neither.

*Note: the writer of this article is an idiot and speculates on things that may or may not be the truth. The smarter side of the writer's brain would like to point out that this man may in fact have been an overly excited patron or a wandering Nomad like Lorenzo Lamaze in The Renegade. There is nothing to support that he was endorsed or employed by the 5-8 Club in Champlin. 

But I digress, this actually has nothing to do with the actual food itself, though it did leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

So- if you skipped the title of this article- what did I actually think of the food at the 5-8 Club? Well, the pretzels and cheese tasted like a pretzel and cheese. The Juicy Lucy tasted like a burger stuffed with cheese. The side order of Jo-Jos (the canoe shaped and sized french fries) were tender and arguably the biggest stand out.

You get what you order here. There are no surprises. The food is good, not great. I didn't eat anything and realize that there had been invented the longer lasting lightbulb or the 100-mile to the gallon car. This isn't food that was made better. It is just good food. The prices are reasonable. The ambiance is confusing.

Never had a cheese stuffed burger? Go ahead and check it out, you can do a far cry worse. But I will hold my final judgement about who has the best "original" stuffed burger until I find myself in The Nook.

Sorry no Hemmingway or Thompson references this week. Too sick. Too tired. Too stupid to figure out how to get them in there.

It Ain't Easy Writin' Cheesy

Last night I was sitting on the couch, a bag of Cheetos at my side, remote in my hand. Surfing through a never ending onslaught of crappy reruns, pathetic "reality" shows and a cluster of clip shows. Finally, somewhere in the 300s, I found a channel I could handle. Cinemax.

Cinemax at 2am.

I woke up in the morning terrified. My **** was orange! The channel still on Cinemax, the Cheetos bag empty, I put two and two together just as I was about to call 911. Damn cheesy fingers.

That bit was stolen. I'm not Carlos Mencia, I can admit when I flagrantly steal other people's jokes. What I won't apologize for is my obsession with the cheesy crunch of the joyous Cheetos. A special place in my heart for Chester Cheetah.

That sunglasses wearing, hard partying animal that was introduced to a waiting public in need of something more than just Spuds McKenzie.

Remember Spuds McKenzie kids? The dog in the Hawaiian shirt that loved drinking Bud Light? What happened to the brilliant advertising minds behind that one (hmm... future blog idea). Perhaps both they and Spuds died slow painful deaths from liver cirrhosis. One wouldn't think a dog's liver could handle that much of the beast.

Chester (the coolest thing to ever have the name Chester) gave us a substance so addictive it falls somewhere between the paid-for love of a stranger and heroin.

The simple combination of a slightly puffed corn crunch with a powdered cheese normally only found in box of cheap Mac & Cheese. Yet for some reason it works. It is acceptable. It is popular. Be you a stoner, morbindly obese or just bored, this food can fill the void that you have had in your life since you realize mom was wrong and that you really are a loser.

This brand has gone through phases of body dimorphism. From puffs, to balls, to hand shapes (no idea on that one), yet always returning to a shape that vaguely resembles a log, piece of feces or shalaylee.


The later seeming to indicate that the Irish had something to do with this one. Perhaps in an attempt to finding something other than whiskey to have with pints of Guinness.

Put it in a small wooden bowl, set it on a bar. Let it get prodded at by untold numbers of fingers that have been to untold places. And still, they will get eaten. So good that even the risk of explosive diarhhea won't deter.

Though let's face it, eat enough of them with beer and you are going to be on the throne for a long time anyway.

Nothing can be said about this paramount of snack foods that hasn't be theorized and prophesied by ganja addicts world wide, yet still it must be mentioned. It must be remembered and heralded as one of the few foods that didn't seem to be vilified by the Atkins craze.

Perhaps shield by the realization that they aren't good for you anyway, so why give a f*** how many carbs are in a handful of the little blaze orange shalaylees?

Marvel in their color as it does not exist in nature. Wonder how the creator was never given a Noble prize. Pry open your wallet and spend the extra dollar on the Family Size bag, because let's face it, the calories are going to be the make it or break it point between you sporting a six-pack or a keg for a belly.

As the bard said, "It ain't easy bein' cheesy." Of course, it ain't easy bein' fat either, though somehow we all find a way to live with it.

A Naughty Buffalo in White Bear Lake

Riding on the back of a Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle several questions raced through my head.

First, why is it so hard to find a full body wet suit at 1pm on a Saturday in White Bear Lake, Minnesota?

Second, who was the man that I was holding onto for dear life?

Third, did the fact that he was wearing a shirt that said, "If you can read this, the bitch fell off" on the back make me less of a man?

Sadly, the only answer I got was to the third question. And I don't want to talk about it.

I would much rather talk about the restaurant that I just stumbled across in White Bear Lake. I was hungry. As I was unfamiliar with the territory, I walked into the first place that looked like a restaurant (a patio with umbrellas and tables). Enter Washington Sqaure Bar & Grill.

Just as with relationships (and with motorcycling companions), I have found that the most pleasant surprises come from little to no expectations. Inside was a cozy, fireside bar room. Tables and high-tops. Simple, understated, quite pleasing.

I opted to look around, through a door way revealed that the restaurant itself is split into two sides. As if a large circular bar had a wall fall through it a la The Wizard of Oz. Oh, Toto, there's no place like Washington Square. There's no place like Washington Square. There's no place like Washington Square.

Damn, it didn't work. I suppose I'll need to find another ride.

The atmosphere was unique and enjoyable. The environment seemed laid back. There was a chalk board with names written on it I didn't understand and didn't bother to ask about as I am far from a competent journalist. It looked like a list for people that wanted to buy someone a drink as there was three sections outlining from whom, what, and to whom. If that makes sense. If not, consider it another reason to go check it out for yourself.

But the environment should only be a cherry on top. You need to check out both the bar and restaurant menu. Washington Square proudly states that they make there menu from scratch and after eating there, I don't doubt it.

The bar offers incredible originality for such an out of the way, understated location. They infuse their own bitters, vodka and rum. No cheap stuff here. The blend their own margarita mix and make their own simple syrup (the only way to have a daiquiri).

They have a build-your-own margarita in which you choose the kind of tequila and triple sec. They even have the national drink of Brazil....

The answer is: caipirinha.

Their lemon drop and scratch margaritas include egg white. Again, I have no idea why. But it was 1pm and I had a hard enough time staying on the back of that motorcycle without having a buzz going. Though I can guarantee that it will gnaw at me until I find out for myself.

Their appetizer menu goes from the more common mozzarella sticks and onion rings to a fish-of-the-day ceviche (a dish in which the seafood is cooked thanks to citric acid. Therefore both accentuating and preserving the flavor. Pretty bold for a local bar in Minnesota). Also intriguing were the sausage platter and the roasted vegetable platter options.


Again, all made from scratch unless otherwise mentioned on the menu. The personal pizza concedes that it is made on a Boboli crust. The lunch menu is mainly salads and sandwiches, but the back cover reveals an interesting Mexican menu with tacos, burritos and the very intriguing mole enchiladas. Novias enchiladas with queso fresco. The list goes on and on and on...


As for first hand experience. The clam chowder is second only to the ambrosia at Kincaid's Seafood and Chop House in St. Paul. The freshness shining through in every bite. From the fresh Minnesota Sourdough Bread (one of the four bread choices you have with any sandwich choice) to he ham in the ham and swiss being thick cut. These were not cold cuts. Delectable!


Time to get more experimental. Of course, I don't experiment. The buffalo chicken sandwich sounded good. The fact that they offer either a 6 or 4 ounce (slightly cheaper) sandwich was even better. More options is a pain for the kitchen, but bliss for the patron. This is a restaurant with the patrons in mind.


Just before ordering, my eyes wandered one spot down. The Naughty Buffalo? Sounds... naughty. The short of it was a buffalo chicken sandwich rubbed with jerk seasoning, served with a pile of thick cut french fries.


The sweet and savory taste of the Jamacian jerk seasoning (with the every present cinnamon overtones) complimented the spice of the buffalo sauce. So much so that the side of blue cheese wasn't necessary to balance the heat. But it was still appreciated.

The bun soft. The chicken tender. Making a barroom staple as good as it can get.


Too much food, too little time. Having never had reason to want to live in White Bear Lake before, I only now regret such a long travel time between my place of residence and what will quickly become my default choice if I am hungry, thirsty or just trying to kill time within a 30 mile radius. 


I would have had a post lunch drink or at least got a dessert to go, but my ride was leaving and I wouldn't have wanted anyone to think that the bitch fell off.


My belly full and my faith in my own sexuality momentarily restored (I don't know my buffalo chicken reaffirms my sexuality, it just does) I held my traveling companion like the man I was as we road down Highway 96 towards places unknown. Only two questions that remained.

First, In the bar on the north side of the building, how did they get the TV into the nook above the door? There is a water pipe running across the very top of the TV and the screen was far to big to get past at any angle (proves I was there, suck it!).

Second, would my traveling companion remember me as fondly as I remember him for bringing me to Washington Square?


I think not. And I am sad.

Aurelio's Pizza- A Justified Obsession

At this very moment, all over the world, babies are coming into the world. Miracles from God. Results of biology and evolution. Crap factories. Whatever you want to call them, they are out there. In the time that it took to read this paragraph about a hundred more have popped out.

Their eyes closed by the light, their instincts all they have to survive. The instinct to eat being predominant. The desire and need for nutrition. Mother's milk. The colostrum produced by the mother essential for the growth and development of the infant. High in antibodies it is the cornerstone of their health. Hence the term Mother's Milk.

As a man screaming towards middle age, I need to find other sources of Mother's Milk. Although I have heard a sickeningly number of stories about mother's that breast feed their children well into the Elementary School years. Gross.

I found my newest source of nutrition and life in Roseville a couple of decades ago. In a small, nondescript strip mall off of Hamline Avenue, appropriately named Hamline Mall, exists perhaps the single most wonderful source of pizza in my known universe: Aurelio's.

Just through the doors lay a wonderland disguised as a neighborhood pizza shop. A small waiting area with checkout counter. Refridgerator case filled with Pepsi products. The walls are lined with pictures and trophies from softball and Little League teams from the 80s and 90s.

There are a few pictures of local celebrities from back in the old school wrestling days. One in particular being signed by a certain former wrestler-turned-governor. Next to the door is a collage of baby pictures. Each baby wearing a little white Aurelio's onsie. Precious.

Except for one. There is one really ugly baby in the collage. Can you find him/her?

The space seems about equally divided between customer seating a kitchen space. There are about a half dozen booths in a hallway that goes to a slightly larger back room. Every other booth has a coin operated television that has been there for who-know-how-long. A remanent and fond reminder of how long this place has been a local staple.

There was a time when Aurelio's delivered. When, in an effort to cut costs, they eliminated the service (well over a decade ago), the owner stated simply that the people that really wanted the pizza would be willing to drive. There survival since then has been a testament that true believers still exist.

Besides pizza, there are options for traditional appetizers, sandwiches, pastas, and salads (a great antipasto). All are good and worth a taste, but this place is all about the pizza.

A crispy and flaky crust covered in a sweet red sauce unlike anything else found in the metro. A cheese blend with a splash of oregano. The first cheese being mozzarella, the second, as yet unidentified by my oft overwhelmed palate. The simple effort of adding a second cheese instead of just cutting open another bag of mozz not going unnoticed.

Fresh toppings, sausage in particular. Far too many pizza places have become satisfied with the idea of using frozen nuggets that they call sausage. Never settle for anything less than the real thing.

Besides the traditional pizza, there are stuffed pizzas (like an actual pizza pie) and the very popular spinach or plain calabrese (very similar to a large calazone). 

The sauce deserves it's own mention. It deserves it's own place on the menu (also used for the pastas. The cheese ravioli is another favorite). Smooth and sweet. It is the only time I have every asked for extra sauce on a pizza. The simple joy of mopping up any extra sauce left on a plate with an edge of crust is a pleasure I don't take for granted.

This sauce that I dream about. This sauce that makes me hate other pizza parlors for not being able to simulate. My desire so strong that I feel the need to go all the way to Roseville just to satisfy my urges.

The fact that I would sell my TV like a crackhead to get a large pepperoni, extra sauce, extra crispy.

But I digress.

The staff has been there for a long time. Some are actually family of the owners. The servers are no-nonsense and are there to get you your food and drink. Miller Lite and MGD are your on tap (and only) options.

It is a small location that can fill up quickly. As far as I know, it is the only Aurelio's location outside of Chicago, a point that they take pride in. This is a place with the sole goal of making it good, the way it has always been made.

It is a little bit pricier for the food. A large (16 inch) pizza pepperoni pizza running $18.50. Don't let the price dissuade you, this isn't Dominos. This isn't some franchise (well, techincally, it is since there are 43 locations around the country, most of which being in Illinois. But there is only 1 in Minnesota) that will just pop up and churn out pizzas, worrying more about advertising than taste. This is a local, family run business that has survived in an all-but-dead strip mall for decades.

There is a reason for that. You need to find it out for yourself.

It is my guarantee to you that if you go to Aurelio's and it isn't some of, if not the, best pizza you have ever had... I will hate you. This is Mother's Milk and don't you dare speak bad about my momma. F***ers.

Beer and Eating at Acapulco's

In the foul year of Our Lord, 1971, Hunter S. Thompson found himself cruising down The Strip in Las Vegas. First in a huge red Chevy Convertible, then later in a White Cadillac Convertible. His assignment was journalistic, however his quest was for The American Dream.

Whacked out on a list of drugs that has become something of a lore and benchmark for the hipster generation that envied his freedom, Thompson believed that Las Vegas held the secret to what The American Dream has become. Amongst the gaudy pink neon and wall to wall shag carpeting, somewhere, there had to be traces of it. There was no way it could have been lost within the gap of a single generation.

Whether he was actually able to find The American Dream is up for discussion, more importantly was the quest. The idea that somewhere out there was the culmination of hard work and degradation that this generation can scarcely fathom. The idea that it is waiting to be found.

I took such a question. And somehow, it brought me to Acapulco. The one in Coon Rapids. You can drink the water there. Acapulco Restaurante Mexicano (also located in Blaine, Maplewood, Stillwater, Woodbury, New Brighton and Ramsey).

Of course, my question is far from the perception of The American Dream. It is something closer to the Midwestern Hallucination. Regardless, there is a lot of food and huge beers.

The service is fast. Scary fast. Perhaps to cover up the lack of linguistic skills amongst the wait staff, perhaps because they want to get you in and out as fast as f***ing possible.

Sit down and you get chips and salsa. Don't ask, they will just bring it. Want more? Just ask. They don't care.

Want something to drink? The margaritas are good, but the beer... sorry, I just passed out there for a second. Dos Equis on tap? Always a bonus.

34 ounce glass beer mugs? Even better.

34 oz frosted mugs of Dos Equis lager for $4 any time of the day? What did I do right in life to deserve this? If I thought Mexico was like this for real I would hire my own coyote to head south of the border.

Or just take a plane. But I hate flying. And I like water.

You could do an appetizer, but only if you aren't planning on having an entree. The portions are mammoth and worth a separate trip just to indulge a little bit.

While my typical dinning partners tend to go straight for either the Creamed or Wet Burritos (which in name sound filthy and perverse) I gotta go with the pork. If you are going south of the border and you are dining in Minnesota, you have people from Mexico and Central America in the kitchen. They do pork and they do it great.

The Puerco en Chile Verde (pork in green chile sauce) is fall apart tender and delicious. Enough so that I just drooled on my laptop. Probably the least offensive stain to date. Served in a pool of green sauce that is far less visually pleasing than I tend to prefer, I quickly damn my eyes and dig in. The melding of tomatillo sauce with the wonderful pork fat creates a kind of gravy that must be ingested to be believed.

It also comes with tortillas, beans and rice, but it could easily be a stand alone meal.

This food ain't exactly Mexican. It's somewhere on the spectrum just a few notches above what Leeann Chin's and P.F. Chang's are to Asia food. But it is familiar in the way that we as Minnesotans view Mexican food. And there is a lot of it. And it is cheap. Really cheap.

Huge food. Huge beer. Low prices. All a wonderful mixture that makes the impending date with the toilet and the inevitable hemorrhoids worth it all.

As Hunter Thompson looked out upon Las Vegas he waxed poetic, "you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark- that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back." His mind connecting the visual splendor with the metaphorical disappearance of the hippie subculture.

As I stand, awkwardly in the parking lot of the Coon Rapids Acapulco Familia Restaurante, my stomach filled far beyond capacity with pork, chips and beer, I look out to my surroundings. Strip malls and highways. The product of consumerism and democracy.

And with the right kind of antacid you can almost feel Mexico right here in Minnesota. Indigestion, heart burn and an impending hangover. And you didn't even need a passport.

Elite Breakfast Found In Osseo

Waking somewhere around the borders of Maple Grove and Osseo, Minnesota I am immediately struck by a sense of disorientation. How did I get here? Why here of all places? Was that former Tampa Bay Buccaneer Super Bowl winning coach Jon Gruden driving the cab last night?

I remember a maniacal Chucky Doll-like sneer in the rear view mirror as I asked over and over again if he would please turn up the volume on the radio because they were "playing my song". Just to be yelled at over and over again that the radio wasn't on.

Had he sunk so low that he was forced to be a hack in suburban Minnesota? Had Mezcal been the best choice to chase down my whiskey shots? I fear that the answer to both of these questions is yes.

In desperate need of sustenance, my options are limited at this God awful time of 10:30am on a Sunday morning. My most immediate and apparent options being McDonalds or Perkins. Not feeling like adding to my stomach pains I pass on the former. Not feeling like dining with people that just minutes earlier were praying for my soul as they teetered tenuously on the edge of the grave, I reject the latter.

There it is, like an oasis (or as close to it as a Minnesotan who has spent less time out of the state than he has mowing the lawn can get), a third option. Just a sign: Lynde's Restaurant & Catering. Semi-full parking lot, no wait. Good sign. I inspect closer. Is that a full bar? Better sign. I dive in.

As I sit down I am reminded of something the bard Oscar Wilde once said, "Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast." So please, bare with me.

My own encounters with the family eatery/greasy spoon being limited to franchise chains and historical landmarks, this place doesn't sound familiar. All the better.

Their breakfast menu is pretty big. About a dozen different options for omelets alone. Pancake stack options and a variety of the more traditional breakfast combinations. My stomach being in no mood for surprises, I opt for the Eggs, Spuds & Porky ($6.95). The following is the transcript from my order with a young male server sporting a jester tattoo on his forearm.

"Get you something to drink? Water? Mich Golden Light?"

Clever, but also possible as for the entire month of September there is a 2 for 1 beer special ALL DAY EVERY DAY.

"Water... coffee... bloody mary, please."

Upon his return with my devilishly red concoction sure to be the hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-me-while-humping-my-leg (which he informed me was with the top shelf/only shelf vodka they had) I ordered. The following conversation occurring in a rapid fire succession.

"Eggs, Spuds & Porky."

"How do you want the eggs?"

"Over medium"

"Hash [browns], fries?"

"Hash."

"Sausage, bacon."

"Sausage."

"Patty or links?"

"Links."

"Zip code? Just kidding."

Not too often you see a young male server in a small family restaurant, let alone one that seems to have a sense of humor. Bonus points. I never expect good service at breakfast. To me, good service at breakfast is just over compensation for something. Like a short man driving an F-150 and parking accross three spaces at Target. F***ers.

The Bloody was spicy. Wonderfully spicy, but not overpowering. By nature, I am not a Bloody Mary kind of guy. The only good use for tomatoes in my mind is ketchup. The only good use for vodka is to drown those damn emotions.

For this, I will definitely make an exception. Spicy and strong. Much needed.

The snifter of beer was not. I cannot help but flash back to 10 hours earlier. There is a large glass Boot involved. Oh God, there are two of them. And I have emptied them both. Nausea follows and is sedated by the presentation of what could be considered too much food for one person.

The portions are huge. A 12-inch oval clay plate, two eggs, cooked perfectly, a massive amount of hash browns covering the remaining portion. So much so that the four triangles of toast have to be set on top of it all instead of on the edge. It would seem that empty space is not wanted here.

Ikebana, the art of Japanese flower arranging, is all about minimalism. The idea that the empty space is just as, if not more, important than the occupied space.

Ikebana is not welcome in this kitchen. I dig it.

Here is how breakfast works: make it good and plentiful. Stick to the basics. Make them good and in large amounts. This is breakfast. Save the fancy stuff for dinner, when the smug of downtown Minneapolis is thick enough to make one think we are in deeper waters of larger food cultures.

I don't need Gruyere cheese in my omelet. Not that I wouldn't eat it, but because it is just too much effort. Good food can stand on its own. The real staples of breakfast in American haven't changed that much in the last 50 years. There is a reason for that.

I look around at the people quietly consuming there food. The single pancake that actually covers the entirety of the plate. The giant fluffy omelet. The Biscuits & Gravy that I seemed to have completely missed on the menu. Damn it. Next time. And there will be a next time.

It's quiet in here. Very quiet. I'm not used to that. I realize that there are moments when there actually seems to be a hush across the restaurant. It wasn't a time of quiet reflection. It was a place filled with happy consumers enjoying their food too much than to prattle on about having to get to Kohl's for the Labor Day specials.

I have to pay and leave or I will stay, watching the flat panel TVs until I have room for lunch. Or until a time that my gut rot goes away and I can take advantage of the 2 for 1s.

Besides, I need to go get my medical alert bracelet changed to say, "If found drunk or unconscious, please bring to Lynde's Restaurant & Catering at 209 County Road 81, Osseo, MN 55369-1544."

Is it really that good? The food sure as f*** is. The service isn't anything special (there were moments when it was a bit slow), but who goes to a restaurant for the service? Probably some prick food critic that is just looking for something to slam.

I have had a lot of breakfasts all over this state and to say one breakfast is the best isn't really possible. It is particularly tough when you are talking about the basics of eggs, sausage, hash browns, pancakes, etc. However, Lynde's has a few things on their side:

- A full bar with great deals and a great Bloody Mary
- A big menu that results in even bigger portions (it took a lot of effort to finish breakfast and I have cleaned off plates at Gastov's with relative ease. Those damn Boots are another matter.)
- Great prices (the most expensive thing was the 8oz Steak & Eggs for $9.95. Three of those pizza sized pancakes are less than $6.)

My feeling is that there is no "best" breakfast in Minnesota. There are just the Elite places that become institutions unto themselves. And Lynde's is definitely one of them. And they did it without nuance, without gimmick and without pretension. High marks across the board and definitely worth the trip.

Now, how the f*** do I get home?

The Great Minnesota Food Orgy

Porcine Testicles.

Don't worry. Life is circular. It will make sense later.

Let me explain, when I first sat down to write this article I had written a deeply introspective and dramatic open that had me delving into what professors in Cultural Studies refer to as a sense of place. It was lovely. Trust me.

Then I ate so much fried food that my sweat was thick and translucent, no doubt packed with delicious transfats.

Besides, this is about the Minnesota State Fair. We need to steps things up and change the way that we look at the traditional. This is a Food Orgy. Get with it.

And much like a real orgy, there is nothing pretty about this. It isn't sexy and streamlined filled with beautiful people sharing in a beautiful thing. This is reality. It is fatty and sweaty and filled with people that are there to fulfill some desire that has been left void since childhood. And when it is over you will feel sticky and a little remorseful. Yet you will do it again, because now you are an Orgy-guy.

Pronto-Pups. Milk shakes. Pork Chops on-a-stick. Corn on the Cob. 

Garrison Keller once said that "sex is good, but not as good as fresh, sweet corn." Mrs. Keller must be so proud. I'm not sure if Keller hasn't been doing it right, but it is just f***ing corn. The stuff that seems to have a permanent line at the Fair is also just f***ing corn. It is good, but not sex good.

"You didn't get the corn? Oh my god you need to get the corn. The corn is so good. I just love the corn. The corn is so sweet. I get the corn every year."

Yeah, I get corn every year, too. It is about a quarter an ear at the store. I also throw it on a grill and put butter on it. Same f***ing thing.

Let's move on already and dive into the new grease on the block.

Deep Fried Fruit

This was actually the first thing that I had at the Fair this year. I went in with an empty stomach and an open mind. What I got was a kabob of fruit covered in a single coating of batter handed too me looking much like a Pronto Pup. First bite was pineapple. The soft smooth consistency of the fruit complimented by the fatty crunch of the batter. It tasted like a pineapple pie.

The next taste was pear. This was far less suited to deep frying. The sandy, firmer texture of the pear was not complimentary and did not seem to have interacted at all with the frying process.

Next was a cherry. Again, somewhat of a disappointment. Simply a maraschino cherry surrounded by batter. Not much to say there.

Grape. Not great. Even though it has a thin skin, the fruit is too dense to have any combination with the batter.

Then was a banana. Much better. The already soft texture slightly melting from the heat of the oil created a much more pleasing texture that mingled with the batter in ways that the firmer fruit had not.

Finally was strawberry. Though this was a firmer fruit, the flavor and taste was more conducive to the battering and tasted much more like a fruit pie.

Overall it was okay. Nothing special. And if given the choice again, I would have taken the option to select my own fruit. Sticking with strawberry, pineapple and banana.

Deep Fried Pigs Ears

These were interesting to say the least. They were really more like pig ear french fries. In fact, I think that was what they were called. Not to be mistaken with the chocolate covered pigs ears, which seemed to be given out in very small amounts for the same cost ($5).

The pigs ears french fries come out looking much like over cooked french fries. They aren't particularly crunchy. They are a bit chewy, more like a cross between a pork jerky and a french fry. They come with Famous Dave's BBQ Sauce (as it is found at the Famous Dave's Stand), great for dippin'.

These seem more the fare of the Lord-Of-All-Things-Piggy Mr. Anthony Bourdain of No Reservations and Kitchen Confidential fame. However, if you are looking for something new and porky, these are worth a shot.


Deep Fried Cheese and Bacon Mashed Potatoes

You need to find the Potato Man & Sweetie stand just south of The Midway. This is the best of the new food at The Minnesota State Fair. Four deep fried balls of mashed potatoes with bits of bacon and cheese in the middle. Then skewer it on a pointy stick. And well worth the $5.50.

You will be asked what you want for a side. If I remember correctly the options are BBQ sauce, ketchup, sour cream, sweet & sour and gravy. Pick gravy. These are mashed potatoes. PICK GRAVY! I don't care if it is 90 degrees and humid. This is comfort food at it's finest.

It truly makes me wish the State Fair was open in the middle of winter so that this might be enjoyed more completely for the comfort food it is. I might drink less when there was snow on the ground. Of course, I would be morbidly obese. But at least I wouldn't have so many hangovers.

Each bit both tender and crunchy with flecks of joy in the form of bacon and cheese. The only down side being the realization that with each bite there is less left to eat. Eventually it was all gone, and I was sad.

Cubana Torta

Thank God for sandwiches in the middle of a fried food bender. Thank God I can at least have some fried pork on it so that I don't go into full remission. I love Tortas and the idea of some pork, ham, chipotle mayo, jalapeno, avocado, lettuce and tomato sounded too good to pass by. Manny's Torta stand seemed to be the land in an ocean of fryer oil.

I was upset. I didn't want onions (hence my not mentioning them) and when requested a lid was lifted off a heating tray, a pre-wrapped sandwich was passed back to a cook, who looked around like a guilty ventriloquist dummy.

This is just speculation, but I can only imagine that he was only scrapping the onions off and re-wrapping. The sandwich was very good, but very small for $5. Maybe, maybe a 4-5 inch sandwich. A real shame for such a tasty sandwich.

Camel on-a-stick


Found at the Global Market stand in the International Foods bazaar, this one is interesting. Perhaps it was my being naive, but I was expecting something more along the lines of chunks. Instead it was much more like ground beef. Though, it was a little gamy.

The first bite was a bit strange. The consistency and the taste didn't match up to anything previously registered in the black hole that is my palate. It comes with either a spicy or a mild sauce. I chose spicy. The woman ahead of me in line asked how hot the spicy was. Our vendor responded without missing a beat, "I dunno, about 85 degrees."

A smartass after my own heart.

The spicy was a bit tangy at best and help to moisten a meat that seems to be a bit dry by nature. It was an interesting experience.

Bored? Want to enjoy a bit more colorful and diverse venue by which to eat? Make a stop by the International Market. It's not the best thing on a stick, but it is an original for a Minnesota Boy.

Grilled marshmallow, chocolate and banana sandwich

This was the last of the new food I tried and not something that I had planned on trying. That is until I had heard that The Minneapolis Star Tribune had called it the best of the new in 2010 Fair food. A challenge.

The real challenge was finding it by name. Where as many places will go so simple as to name their stand after the food they serve (like Deep Fried Fruit), Moe & Joe's Coffee is primarily a coffee stand.

For $4, it was worth a shot to pack a little bit more on top of a list of food three times as long as what I have already reviewed. I would have preferred it to be deep-fried, however, grilled works.

The marshmallow seemed to be marshmallow fluff. The chocolate seemed to be chocolate syrup. And there were sliced bananas. Throw on a little butter from the griddle and you have yet another food as advertised thanks to it's very name.

F*** the Star Tribune. This is the best of the new food? A sandwich I could make on a hot plate with the s*** I have in my cupboard? Use a real marshmellow. Use some real chocolate. Fry the f***ing thing!

To be fair. None of this is the fault of Moe & Joe's. It is one of three sandwiches on a list of about 20 items. It is just a little something different.

F*** you Star Tribune for going out and telling people to go and try something that was thrown together just for the hell of it all. And to say that is the best of the new foods in 2010? Maybe you need a new monkey to take over your food reviews.

... I need to calm down. I'm food drunk. Pronto Pup. Brownie with whipped cream and fudge. Cheese curds. Deep fried pickles (delicious, by the way and cool in their "blackjack dealer" way of taking money). Garlic fries (with about a pound of minced garlicky deliciousness). Jumbo 1919 Root Beer Float. And of course, the milk shake.

The Gopher Dairy Club has without a doubt the best milk shake in the world, or at least the world that is Minnesota. And please, don't be like the woman in line ahead of me and ask if they serve malts. Just shakes. Glorious shakes that even a lactose intolerant guy like me will endure explosive diarrhea for.

Enjoying each spoonful of the cool, smooth goodness. Walking through the livestock barn, the smell being nothing in comparison to the glory of this Fair staple. The cute little piggies. The bleating little goats. Losing myself somewhere between gastronomic pleasure and the wonder of life.

There it was. Minnesota's biggest pig. 1450 pounds. I marveled at him. The shear mass. The excess of life. A near metaphysical moment.

At that moment my wife (shut the f*** up, I could have a wife) said, "Look at his balls." Huge.

Look at his balls indeed.

Next Blog: Best Breakfast in Minnesota

Hills Like White Castles

"What should we eat?" the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.
"It's pretty hot," the man said.
"Let's eat sliders."
"Dos Sack Meals," the man said to the bullet proof glass.
"Big ones?" a woman asked from behind the bullet proof glass.
"Yes, Two Sack Meal #2s."
The woman brought two trays of food. She put the trays on the shelf and slide the shelf through the bulletproof barrier and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the non-existent hills of St. Paul, MN. To her they were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry. Which it actually was.
"They look like White Castle sliders," she said.
"I've never seen one."
"No, you wouldn't have."
"I might have, bitch," the man said. "Just because you say I wouldn't have doesn't prove anything. You're just like your mother. I hate you."

He stares at me through the bullet proof glass, his eyes cold, hardened. The 1000-yard stare of a Vietnam veteran being channeled through the vestige of a 17-year old boy. His arms crossed, he stands impatiently, as though he is ready to leave at a running pace without hesitation. A life of violence shows across him like a tattoo. Not too unlike the tear drop tattoo under the left eye of the man behind me.

White Castle can be a tough place to dine.

"Welcome to White Castle. What you crave?"

The voice powerful, demanding, grammatically incorrect. My impulse was to tell him everything I craved. Box seats at Target Field. A perfect Canary diamond. My father's love.

Now I stand there, at the counter of the White Castle on University Ave in St. Paul, looking at my dining options:

- Sack meal 1: four hamburgers, regular fry regular drink
- Sack meal 2: two double cheeseburgers, regular fry, regular drink
- Sack meal 3: 10 hamburgers, two regular fries, two regular drinks
- Sack meal 4: 20 hamburgers, four regular fries

Then it gets weird. Progressing times call for progressing madness.

- Sack meal 5: Six "chicken rings", regular fry, regular drink
- Sack meal 6: Two "chicken ring", regular fry, small drink

The chicken ring being some strange creation of Mary Shelly, the idea of chicken in its natural form or at least the more recognizable boot-like shape of the McNugget is out of date, instead going for a doughnut. Sure, why not?

As with the rest of my life, I tend to let me mind draw connections between reality and the great masterpieces of cinema. Orson Welle's Citizen Kane. Federico Fellini's 8 1/2. Alfred Hitchcock's North by Northwest. And of course, Danny Leiner's Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle. 

Thespian and accused rapist Anthony Andersen's soliloquy and ode to the internationally known "slider".   "Just thinking about those tender little White Castle burgers. With those little itty bitty grilled onions that just explode in your mouth like flavor crystals every time you bite into one... just makes me want to burn this motherf***er down!"

My own sentiments regarding the infamous Castle of White are mixed. As a youth, I was greatly opposed to the idea of fried onions and my own father and grandfather's particular penchant for the lovingly referred to "gut bombs" created a confusion deep within my subconscious that has scarred me forever.

"What did you say?"
"I said we could have everything."
"We can have everything."
"No, we can't."
"We can have the whole menu."
"No, we can't. I only brought $10"
"We can sh*t everywhere."
"No, we can't. It isn't our place to sh*t here."

In the lobby of the White Castle I stood. Finally coming to a daring conclusion. I needed to confront my childhood fear of the intestinal damaged caused by the combination of a regrettable meat to bun ratio, fried onions and pickles. I needed a crave pack. $2.99 for 4 sliders, a small fry and a drink. I also got a jalapeno burger. And then packed it all down with some chicken rings.

With fear and a poised gag reflex I took my first bite of the hamburger that looked small even in my baby-sized palm. I have such little hands.

To my surprise, I didn't vomit. Instead, what I tasted was individuality. If such thing can be tasted. For the most part, hamburgers are hamburgers. Subtle variation in patty size or bun being the main difference amongst the major chains. This, however, was different. A small patty in a large bun. Covered in fried onions that were most likely cooked on an ill-cleaned flattop grill and topped off with the briny goodness of pickle slices.

It took three bites to finish the first. Two to finish the second. I fit the third and fourth in my mouth at the same time. Not because they tasted so good that I had to eat them fast. I'm just really weird and tend to make a scene for no reason at all.

The jalapeno burger did not in fact contain jalapenos. Instead, it was a burger with pepper jack cheese. It did not look good. It tasted like a slider with a tiny piece of pepper jack cheese on it in place of the pickles. 

The chicken rings. What can I say about chicken rings? They tasted like rings of chicken. Not sure what the big deal is. If anything, it reminded me of the chicken fingers of the Hardee's of old. The strangely tube-shaped chicken fingers that were no doubt oozed from the same kind of machine responsible for the form of hot dogs. The contents unidentifiable beyond the description of "it tasted like chicken". As so many things do, I was unimpressed.

The crinkle cut fries were as they have always been, perhaps less the trans-fats that we had all grown to know and love, but still, the overly salted familiarity and slightly soggy texture that are far from the best, but definitely their own.

Conclusion: it's White Castle. What the f*** do you want me to say? Is it the best burger out there? No. Not even close. But that isn't the reason to go. The reason is that despite the trend of standing on the shoulders of giants in the fast food industry, no one has even attempted to imitate the White Castle slider. Normally that would lead to a humiliating failure. Instead, White Castle has been around for 89 years. Surviving on tradition and originality.

You go to White Castle for the sake of White Castle. It is an American original and staple in the economic and capitalistic growth of our nation. It is as American as syphilis blankets. Not in a bad way, but in the whole "it worked out for us in the long run" kind of thing. But not in the "I'd give this to my mom" kind of thing.

 He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the restaurant towards the exit. He looked up and down the parking lot, but couldn't see his car. Coming back, he walked through the dining area, where people waiting for death were eating. He sipped his Diet Coke by the rail and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for death. He went around the garbage can. She was sitting at the table and smiling at him.
"Do you feel better?" he asked
"I feel fine," she said. "There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine." Then she got up for round two of  explosive diarrhea that may or may not have been caused by eating a six pack of gut bombs.


So, uh, did anyone actually get the Hemmingway reference or did I just waste a lot of f***ing time? Bunch of savages.

Next Blog: It's State Fair Time, Bitches!

Minnesotan Decadence

There is a slight chill in the air. A hot and humid streak in the waning moments we Minnesotan's call summer has passed. The breeze has with it a cooling affect reminding us that fall is just around the corner. And with it, the Minnesota State Fair.

I let my mind wander. Images of tailgating and endless conversations about what teams will go all the way and which teams are in a rebuilding year. Sitting around the grill, watching slabs of meat sizzle away releasing aromas almost pornographic to the palette. Bonfires. Allowing oneself to be wrapped in the warm embrace of glowing embers. Too much to drink, sliding to that gray area between sobriety and Did-I-Say-That-Out-Loud?

I have no idea whose memories these are, or how they got in my head, but I hold onto them as long as I can. Letting them replace the all-to-often bouts of manic weeping and drowning of my emotions in beer and gravy.

As I sit on my patio, the wind blowing gently through the few remaining hairs on my head, I watch my beloved dog roll around in what I can only hope is a pile of her poop and ponder: what food symbolizes this moment? This time of year in Minnesota?

Perhaps it isn't so much a specific food as much as a genre. The blissful red-headed-stepchild of the food pyramid: Fried Sh*t.

First I pose you a question: what is decadence? Let me take a step back for those of you not familiar with the word. In an age of civilization that is rapidly starting to think the word "please" is spelled p-l-z or the words "you are" is u-r, I will used to semi-useful and often misleading Wikipedia to set u on yer path.

Decadence can refer to a personal trait, or to the state of a society (or segment of it). Used to describe a person's lifestyle. Concise Oxford Dictionary: "a luxurious self-indulgence".

You've gotta love an online encyclopedia that uses, as a reference, a dictionary. Perhaps the idea of using a dictionary has been so lost that only thanks to hyperlinks that one is ever even used.

Decadence. A state of a society. I like that, let's start there.

I have willingly put myself within the outskirts of the subculture known and largely despised the world over as food critics. A group of self-important undereducated know-it-alls that were scorned by a surly chef at some point in their upbringing and decided to take it out on hard working men and women that willfully got into a career of serving other people.

And it seems, that the moment one appoints themselves to be a critic of others, they defy gravity and all that Newton taught us, leaving the pull of gravity and hover high above the heads of more simple people. The people that go to Olive Garden for their fancy night out. The people that eat fast food out of necessity as much as desire.

What is decadence in a food culture that appreciates foremost the rare and the financially indulgent? The White Truffle. Foie Gras. Louis XIII.

You have to get the idea of money out of your head. Money doesn't matter.

Don't get me wrong. Money matters for most things. I still dream about the day that I could find out that it doesn't buy happiness, but as that day is unlikely to happen, I must focus on the achievable. In the world of food, it doesn't have to be expensive to be decadent.

It's very definition suggests that decadence is purely subjective. Southern Minnesota farm country and downtown Minneapolis will not share a view on what is the penultimate of indulgence. And I say "Thank f***ing God!"

You want to know what decadence is? Really? It is eating something that you feel a little guilty about. For some it is spending $80 on a steak. The idea that you sank your teeth into a cow's ass and soon enough it will come out yours.

For others it is that Lindor Truffle you had to eat at Christmas, as it taunted you from the candy bowl. What the hell? They were on sale at Target. Forget the calories and indulge.

Decadence is pleasure wrapped in guilt. It is everything that makes the State Fair worth going to. And with the taste of fried-everything still lingering in my mouth from the last time I stepped on the hallowed grounds over a year ago, I feel I need to talk about the glory of the Fried Oreo Cookie.

At some point, people realized that you didn't just need to subject hunks of protein to batter. You could do the same thing to snack food. Fried fat covering sugar covering congealed fat. Glory glory Hallelujah. Each layer presenting a new adventure in all that my fellow a**holes turn up their noses at.

Batter giving away tenderly to the oil soaked cookie. The nostalgia of keeping a cookie dunked a little too long in a tall glass of ice cold milk dances around the tongue as texture and sentiment marry in an union that will most likely be deemed unholy by the Catholic Church.

And just when you think it is over, your brain reminds you euphorically that there is still the frosting in the middle. Soft, almost gooey from the fryer is coats the inside of your mouth like some disgusting metaphor that I will save for when I have a larger and more crude fan base.

Walkers-by turn up their noses, scoffing at the indulgence as they prize themselves for taking the healthy option of eating a butter drenched ear of corn on their way to the All-You-Can-Drink Milk stand for a whole milk enema.

Pay them no mind. If possible, time it out so you exhale at just the right time to release a cloud of the powdered sugar coating your confection immediately into their path. A more socially acceptable version of blowing cigarettes smoke into the face of an adversary. Watch them cough and gag in an overly dramatic rendition of revulsion. Wallow in your own corpulence.

As I am yet to even address someone that might fancy themselves as a detractor, let's look at the idea that maybe a fried cookie is just too much fat. Too much sugar. Too much grease. Too much fun.

And if you didn't buy it, don't complain. Don't look down on it as an evolutionary step backwards in the Minnesota food culture. In fact, look at it for what it is: a hybrid in a class all it's own. It is a treat. An indulgence. Don't eat them for breakfast, but don't feel the need for self-flagellation either. Forget it, look it up.

This is fried Americana. The tradition of the Oreo cookie Minnesota-ized to feed the frenzy of Fair goers that expect new levels of insanity each year. Enjoy it, savor it. Then get another.

This isn't caviar. This isn't pate. This is a Fried Oreo Cookie. And it is Minnesota decadence personified. Look on us Oh World and weep for you do not know the pleasure we live.

Next Blog: Black Knights and White Castles