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.