Goodies First

Sonic Boom

I see a most amazing two-fer in my future. I normally stick to Middlesex County on my weekend New Jersey excursions but I will have to make an exception for the new Sonic that just opened a mere 18 miles from my home. Those ads for candy topped Sonic Blasts have been taunting me for too long.

What would make it the ultimate experience, though, would be to ultimately end up at P.F. Chang's in West, NJ just 11 miles from the Sonic. This chain, that I imagine being the Cheesecake Factory of Asian food, has also been elusive and on my radar forever.

Speaking of, there was just an odd bit on NPR from a former Saveur editor (why did I know she would be wearing a pashmina?) about going to the Cheesecake Factory for her eleventh anniversary. My tenth (dating) anniversary is creeping up. I was thinking about maybe Corton or Marea but who needs a $100+ per person tasting menu when P.F. Chang's offers a $39.95 four-course "Chang's for Two?"

Soupy Sales

For reasons not even entirely clear to myself, I enjoy hearing what consumers want to eat (yet never lump myself in with this faceless mass of Americans).

According to a recent series of reports, "The Left Side of the Menu," from Technomic, the number of "heavy" (not defined) consumers of appetizers is shrinking. Big salad eaters shrunk from 51% in 2007 to a current 33%. The soup-crazed stood at 25% two years ago but now only make up 15% of all diners. I'm guessing that's probably because it's hard to split soup, and I'm with the whopping 82% who feel appetizers should be shared.

But the number I'm trying to figure out is the 40% of Americans who want more "ethnic soups." What exactly is an ethnic soup? Something like pho? Laksa? Menudo? Does Italian wedding soup count? I think they used to serve that at Ikea. I vote for cock-a-leekie.

I took a look at the online menus from the top five casual chain restaurants in 2008 according to Restaurants & Institutions:

1. Applebee's: chili, French onion soup, tomato-basil. Hmm, Tex-Mex, French and Italian. It all sounds pretty ethnic to me.
2. Chili’s: chili (duh) and “soup of the day.” Lame.
3. T.G.I. Friday’s: broccoli cheese, French onion and once again, the dreaded soup of the day.
4. Ruby Tuesday: white bean chicken chili or broccoli and cheese.
5. Cheesecake Factory: soup of the day.

Ok, not only are we clearly in need of more ethnic soups, how about something other than chili (if you even count that as a soup), French onion and cheese and broccoli?

La Vaguada

Ok, this is it, no mas. I'm finally finished the with sporadic Madrid recapping. But I would feel empty inside if I didn't briefly mention my mall excursion. I always visit a mall when on vacation. Obviously, I only travel to big cities, but even Penang had one, which only surprised me a little since Asians have quite an affinity for mall culture. Only Mexico City posed problems with its Santa Fe mall hidden way on the outskirts, inaccessible by public transportation. (Not really surprising at all considering their seeming lack of a middle class. Maybe that's why NYC can't sustain a proper mall either, too-rich and too-poor all smooshed together.)

Madrid had more than one centro comercial to choose from; we picked La Vaguada because you can get there smoothly on the subway. I figured it would be a rinky-dink Manhattan Mall atrocity, but it was the real deal with an enormous supermarket, or rather a hipermercado, Alcampo, that was way larger than Fairway, and that was just the bottom floor. Upstairs, they sold washing machines, plus-size smocks, saws, and more relevant to my needs, a cheap corkscrew. I should know the answer to this since I cover retail topics at work (I’ll look into it tomorrow) but why do we not have grocery stores inside US malls? Here, I'd appreciate the convenience. In other countries, for the fun of experiencing packaged foreign food.

I feel self-conscious taking photos inside grocery stores, but do regret not capturing the entire towering aisle heaving with hoof-on whole jamon. Canned seafood is also allotted an unusually large proportion of shelf space.

The heart (or I guess if you were corny like me, you could say stomach) of any mall is its food court. I didn't know what to expect from a Spanish food court. And it wasn't really fast foody (no Cinnabon but a homegrown chain Canel Rolls with savory versions like cheese and bacon) but a level ringed by sit down restaurants and tapas bars (and a hair salon, movie theater and video store), almost exclusively Spanish in culinary style.

Bocatin is a taberna specializing in sandwiches, a.k.a. bocadillos. Way in the background is Gran Sol Marisqueria  and Cervecería. I like that beer is prominently mentioned everywhere. Drinking in an American mall just seems weird.

The non-Iberian offerings included The Wok, Istanbul, L'Alsace and Cantina Mariachi. It was also hard to ignore the plywood covered a giant coming soon ad for Taco Bell, fittingly with a larger than life packet of mild salsa. The first public (naval bases don't count) Taco Bell in the country opened not so long ago in December. The chain has never been a success in Europe (or Mexico, duh) so I wonder how the Spanish will take to Crunchwraps.

We chose a random casual eatery, Cervecería Gambrinus, that I later saw all over the place. Their logo is a portly pageboy’d Falstaffian guy called Gambrinus. From what I could deduce the lore is German not Spanish. Maybe it’s like our use of Friar Tuck in association with drinking establishments.

I love gambas al ajillo, maybe even more so for the saucy remnants. I could just pour the shrimp, chile and garlic infused olive oil into and dish and eat it alone with crusty bread.

Ok, so we ordered chicken wings, a.k.a. alitas. You get what you deserve doing such a thing but we were curious. Pallid tomato sauce inevitably accompanies fried chicken parts in other places (marinara in Hua Hin). I realize putting blue cheese or ranch dressing on poultry is an American abomination.

Because I'm childish this café gave me pause. I thought a bit, and duh, it's a cute abbreviation of Vaguada Mall.

One of the cool things was that despite housing a clean modern supermarket (and a weirdo smallish storefront that only sold packaged frozen food—can you imagine an entire store devoted to Tombstone Pizza, Banquet Chicken and Hungry Man Dinners?), the shopping center also had a series of rows emulating traditional market stalls: seafood, produce, dried legumes and nuts, butchers, cheese and the like.

Just across the way, on the same floor, was a tattoo parlor. Not so traditional, I would say.

La Vaguada * Monforte de Lemos 36, Madrid, Spain

Café Nebraska & Vips

1/2 I wouldn't recommend Café Nebraska to anyone unless they were nostalgic for the European trip taken with their mom and sister when they were 15. No, I’m not talking about myself. My family's vacations rarely consisted of more than a two-hour drive to the Oregon Coast. (To be fair, there was a 1984 Disneyland excursion where I watched part of Stop Making Sense in the motel room adjacent to my parents, not knowing what to make of David Byrne's oversized jacket, and a trip to Vancouver B.C. where my dad was too bashful and Hank Hill to go into any of the over-18 shops to buy the Duran Duran posters hanging in the window that my sister and I were clamoring for.)

James wanted to see if Café Nebraska, a Denny's-like chain he had been to over 20 years ago, was still chugging away on the Gran Via. It was, and still is thriving in multiple other locations too. Our first morning was the only time we woke up early enough for breakfast so we stopped by to get some café con leche and plan out our day.

Just plain churros, not with thick chocolate for dipping. These crispy tubes actually tasted more savory than sweet, even with the addition of powered sugar.

After 20 minutes we realized we weren't getting our other ordered item, huevos rotos. I’m still not exactly sure what happened but after finally grabbing our waiter's attention and asking again, we still didn't get them. I would've just left but James was intent on getting our eggs, which we did after the third try and angering the waiter who subsequently wouldn't bring our bill after asking for that twice. That’s the Spanish style service legends are made of. Ok then, it wasn't as if I expected Café Nebraska to come with Michelin-starred service…or food.

We asked for huevos rotos, literally broken eggs, because the night before we were mesmerized by numerous people eating fried eggs, ham and French fries from what looked like individual cast iron pans with handles at a tapas bar, and I finally deduced that this was huevos rotos.

This version unexpectedly contained a bed of mashed potatoes drizzled in like a gallon of olive oil, with eggs over easy and fried jamon. This was good in the same way that a giant platter of oozing melted cheese nachos topped with sour cream and guacamole is good. Gut-busting and tasty, but not for every day consumption.

Throughout the week, I spied many variations on this seemingly popular dish. It was a common first course in menu del dias. Quite a few used thick-cut potato rounds, like chips but fatter.

On to Vips. I've mentioned them before out of my own nostalgia. Though I can't seem to find much evidence of the restaurant's existence (just this pin on eBay and a buried mention in this state representative’s bio) and I'm pretty sure they are in no way related, we had a chain called Vip’s (with the apostrophe) in Oregon. I also noticed Vips in Mexico City, which I do imagine is affiliated with the company Grupo Vips in Spain (that also owns TGI Friday’s and is somehow affiliated with Starbucks). But in Mexico, Sanborns is the Denny's-esque place to be so I never checked out Vips.

I had no intention of going to Vips in Madrid, but at 12:30am on Sunday after getting out of a movie, I was starving and concerned about missing out on a dinner opportunity during vacation (James ate a giant popcorn, a.k.a. palomitas so he wasn't hungry but I don't like popcorn. Well, I do like palomitas dulces, caramel corn, which seems to be standard in theaters in Spanish-speaking countries, but I didn’t want to fill up on sweets) our nearby options were limited. Sure, there were a few brightly lit cervecerias with a few older gents at the bar still open but I wasn't sure what kind of food, if any, they might have. And frankly, I was kind of happy to have an excuse to try Vips.

Neither of us had the nerve to try the aros de cebolla, listed first on the paper place mat menu, which I'm guessing was a bloomin' onion.

James ordered ham and cheese croquetas. I don’t think marinara is standard at Spanish restaurants. I guess these were more like mozzarella sticks.

I went totally off the rails and opted for a ham and cheese quesadilla. My expectations were not high. The tortilla was a bit overdone and the middle wasn't thoroughly warmed, instead of melted cheese, individual grated squiggles were still detectable. And the salsa was barely more spicy than diced tomatoes straight from a can. The guacamole might've used real avocado, though.

Café Nebraska * Gran Via 55, Madrid, Spain

Vips * Calle de Alcalá, Madrid, Spain

Borderline Offensive

I just saw this supposedly controversial Burger King ad for the Texican Whopper while in Madrid (yes, I watch lots of TV on vacation just like in real life, but Rock Star and Ghost Whisperer are learning experiences when en español) and didn't realize is was specifically a Spanish product. I assumed it was a silly American-made commercial. It's not terribly offensive unless I'm missing something, though I've never been the most culturally sensitive person. I'm certainly not alone; read a real Texican's perspective on Guanabee.

I'm not sure about the Texican Whopper but if time had permitted, we would've tried the "gourmet" ciabatta-based McDonald's burger being advertised like crazy (but not so advertised that I can remember the product name). Cheddar and emmental? Nuts.

On the fast food track, I was shocked and excited by the presence of Guatemalan fried chicken chain, Pollo Campero, in Madrid. We planned to stop by after seeing Watchmen (really not my thing but it surely beat Hotel Para Perros) but post-midnight on a Sunday is slim pickings (I still don't get Madrid's reputation for being a night city—bars close at 2am) and the gates were already down. Instead, we opted for Vips, the only nearby eatery still serving, and I ordered a strangely charred yet not fully cooked quesadilla with salsa so mild it verged on tomato puree. That was sort of Texican-inspired, now that I think about it.

I swear we had a chain along the Oregon Coast in the '80s called Vips that had a rabbit mascot. Could it possibly be the same company?

Fastest Growing Guts

 

What could possibly be the fastest growing chain restaurant in America? It must certainly be a question on everyone's mind. Ok, no one's but mine. But thank you, Technomic, for such meaningful-to-me data.

Once again, I'm reminded how out of the loop NYC is as we only have two  eateries on the list. Five Guys  is definitely a growing presence. In no time it went from big deal opening in the hinterlands a.k.a. College Point, to quietly popping up around the city with no one caring. I think the well done patty thing puts off the burger intelligentsia while I'm more weirded out by the hysteria-driven signs warning customers to not remove the gratis shell-on peanuts from the premises lest a flurry of deadly allergens become unleashed on the neighborhood.

I can appreciate the charms of number eight, Chipotle, and only work a block from one (that has a perpetually huge line) but I hate rice in my burritos and even without the extra starch those hefty tortilla cylinders are still too caloric for my sad world.

Speaking of trying to reduce girthiness, how could you eat at a place with potbelly in the name?

Taking It to the Streets

Writing about Southeast Asian street food served indoors would be my ultimate assignment because I love the region's cuisine and have a fetish for dining in malls abroad (ok, here too). 

Robyn of EatingAsia got to live my dream for the Wall Street Journal. It's really not her beat, though. She and her husband (both Americans who I met during my 2005 Kuala Lumpur trip shortly after they had moved there) are really masters of the street food scene. Ok, scene sounds overblown but they know what they're doing.

I've been to quite a  few of the venues mentioned in the article: Madame Kwan's, StraitsKitchen, Food Republic and Lau Pa Sat (as a foreigner I consider that a real hawker center not so much "stylish street food"). I've  also eaten at Bangkok's MBK Shopping Center, though not the specific restaurant mentioned. I recently had my sights set on Central World or Siam Paragon, but Suvarnabhumi Airport ruined my end-of-2008 vacation. And yes, I'm still bitter.

Mystery Solved

I wasn’t expecting Arby’s as the mystery chain taking over the Gage & Tollner spot because it’s not as if we haven’t experienced Arby’s in the city (two in Queens and one now closed in the Manhattan Mall).

I used to eat a Beef ‘n Cheddar and Jamocha shake for lunch practically every day as a high school freshman so I’ve been swayed the allure of Arby’s (I don’t think I’ve foot in one in over 15 years, though).

I would just be concerned about their move into a landmarked building. In 2005 Arby’s razed Niederstein’s, Queens’ oldest restaurant, and built right on top of the spot.

1939 Niederstein's photo from Maspeth Chamber of Commerce.

Another Case Against Shoveling Your Food

You put Mormons and milkshakes together and hilarity is bound to ensue. A gentleman from New Mexico got the bright idea of stashing an engagement ring in his sweetheart’s Frosty while out with friends at  Wendy's. And as LDS members are wont to do, an impromptu ice cream eating contest began. Chug! Chug! Chug!

Sure enough, the game girlfriend chowed down to the bottom of her cup with no ring to show for her efforts. After Kaitlin Whipple was sent home from the hospital with a most romantic x-ray she set about the serious business of reclaiming her prize.

“‘Everybody stocked me up on fiber and prune juice and everything we could think of, and pills just to make that thing come out!’ Kaitlin said.”

Two days later that Metamucil paid off. Aww…dreamy.

More via the New York Daily News

Chain Me Up

A fast food chain with no presence in NYC rumored for the former Gage & Tollner space? What could it be? I’m dying to know. That’s not sarcasm, I really want to know. Didn’t a TGI Friday’s already set up shop there briefly?

The old-timey interior is landmarked so it’s not like you could just stick a Sonic in there easily. I wouldn't argue with a classy Sonic, though. I vote for Cheesecake Factory, but that’s not really fast food.

What’s missing in NYC? In-N-Out (never going to happen), Red Robin? Fuddruckers? Panera Bread? Cracker Barrel? Waffle House? Minus In-N-Out, non of those are technically fast food either. Chick-fil-A? (NYU cafeteria doesn't count). We don't have Dairy Queen now that I think about it. Help!

Stung by Jollibee

I honestly didn’t have high hopes for a Valentine’s Day treat involving Chickenjoy or spaghetti studded with frankfurters at Jollibee on opening day. In the Philippines the homegrown chain is way bigger than McDonald’s. There’s serious nostalgia at work (though not for me, obviously). I could see from blogs that the East Coast’s first branch in Woodside, Queens was tempting visitors from as far as Toronto. James’ Pinoy coworker was packing up his family and heading in from New Jersey’s outer reaches.

I wanted a piece of the action, but went in cautiously expecting a crowd. Sure enough, around 4pm there was a line composed of anxious customers wrapped around the block. We estimated at least a four hour wait. Ack. (Sorry about the oddly colored photos--I'm still getting used to my Christmas gift camera and forgot to change a setting because I rarely take outdoor pics.)

I could stand to wait a few weeks for the hype to die down. Remember how quickly Pollo Campero mania faded? After the initial ruckus, the Guatemalan fried chicken chain couldn’t even sustain enough business in Sunset Park to stay open (there’s still one in Corona, though).

So, we had an impromptu late lunch at Sripraphai instead. No waiting and no photos necessary since I order nearly the same thing every time (crispy watercress salad, crispy pork with chile and basil, drunken noodles and a curry—this time a super bony, more fiery than usual catfish version with apple eggplants).

Since no one gave me holiday candies I gifted myself with assorted mithai from Delhi Palace. These colorful sugar bombs will kill you, total diabetes in a box (seriously, everyone thinks that blacks and latinos are the kings of insulin resistance, but Indians have the highest rate of Type 2 diabetes in the city, which I only remember because the New York Times’ article on the topic last year, “Bedeviled by the Sugar Sickness” was illustrated with a photo of Delhi Palace)  but I love the creamy sweet assault on rare occasions.

I almost would’ve forgotten it was Valentine’s Day if I hadn’t been handed plastic wrapped flowers by a waitress at Sripraphai  just before she ran out. By the time we were done eating, the usual Saturday night hordes had amassed in the lobby and outside…and yep, there was still a massive queue at Jollibee. I’ll be back.

Raising Cane

I’m never surprised to see In-N-Out Burger at the top of a list. In this case, the highest customer satisfaction ratings according to a survey by Sandelman & Associates.

What I am surprised by are the regional chains I’ve never heard of. Number two with a 59% overall excellent rating is Baton Rouge-based Raising Cane’s. What on earth is that (and what's up with the horrible apostrophe S) ? Apparently, a whole eatery founded on chicken fingers. And that’s seriously all they serve, either with starches in a similarly tan color palette: Texas toast and crinkle fries, or three crispy strips on a bun.

Only two of the ten restaurants exist in NYC: burrito purveyors Chipotle and Qdoba. Panera Bread and Chick-fil-A can all be found in close proximity to the city. But the rest? I don’t think so. I do know that Pei Wei is the budget P.F. Chang’s only because I have a P.F. Chang’s fetish despite never having set foot in one.

Anyone have other random chains they love? I feel so out of here sometimes.

The Robert Redford of Pizza

I haven’t eaten at Pizza Hut in years (though I did work at a takeout-only branch the summer between high school and college and ate personal pan pizzas nearly every day) so it’s not likely that a marketing gimmick such as their new (nationally—it launched in test markets last year) pizza, The Natural, will sway me. What I do find interesting is how quickly a food fad will sweep the nation, not that I’m one to argue with a move toward zero high fructose corn syrup and filler-free sausage.

Pizza Hut’s own research found that 73% of those surveyed believe “foods that are natural have flavor the way it was meant to taste.” Ok, that’s a bit vague.

But this newfound faith in nature has been bolstered by recent studies. According to Mintel, in the US 33% of new food and beverage products touted being natural in 2008, a 16% rise from the previous year.

Nielsen has reported that food with natural claims accounted for $22.3 billion in sales in 2008, a 10% increase versus 2007. Meanwhile low carb products decreased 3% during the same time period. Natural in, restricted eating out.

When it comes down to it, taste is what really matters. Check out mixed reviews of The Natural on Chow and The Impulsive Buy.

Carrabba's

If you're like me, you pass by roadside beacons like Carrabba's, Bertucci's and Macaroni Grill and despite your indifference to Italian-American food (I hear the entire February issue of Gourmet is devoted to the cuisine though I've yet to receive my copy in the mail and am in no hurry to), wonder what they're like because you can't resist the allure of a chain, any chain. I mean, aren't they all kind of Olive Gardens at their core?

I was in the wilds of East Brunswick, testing out the new GPS I bought (as a gift) for Christmas to see if it could find Hong Kong Supermarket (a point of interest according to the GPS) and afterwards, Makkoli, a Japanese buffet (not found by name in the GPS). Before I could reach my all-you-can-eat sashimi goal, I was lured by the starchy promises of Carrabba's.

"It's more upscale than Olive Garden," James promised, apparently an old pro from dinners with his parents in Northern Virginia. That's not saying much, though I get what he meant. No photos on the menu or zingy folded cardboard promotions on the table, and no free salads and breadsticks. Everything's a la carte and a few bucks more than a suburban OG (though not necessarily a Manhattan one). I ended up with a $10 glass of wine at the bar, which seemed steep by chain standards, though it's not like anyone forced me to order the Coppola claret. I switched to the $9 quartino of chianti special with dinner. Oh, but it's classy because they pour the wine into an individual glass carafe for you dole out as you like.

At the ungodly hour of 6pm on a Saturday it was family central. I knew what I was getting into. However, I'm still not sure why parents bring kids little enough to need distractions out to eat at places where sitting relatively still is required (maybe I'm just jealous because we rarely went to sit down restaurants when I was a child. And other than maybe Sizzler, fast casual chains didn't exist yet. We would occasionally go to Heidi's, a local favorite with a Swiss-themed gift shop and dazzling pastry case). The toddler with a DVD player at eye level on the table disturbed me much more than the girl walking her plush pony up the mini blinds near to us. At least physical toys require some degree of imagination.

The food was standard issue and plated in sparse lonely ways. Crab cakes seemed awkwardly shoved to one side with an awful lot of real estate devoted to the sauce.

My lobster ravioli looked like I'd heated up a frozen pack from Trader Joe's and tossed it on a plate, more in a hurry to catch 24 (sure, I'll still watch Jack Bauer torturing people) even though I'm DVRing it. Ok, there were some herb bits scattered on top, which is more garnish than dole out at home.

Carrabba's has totally tapped into the mini dessert trend, offering $2.50 "bacino," which translates to creamy parfaits in glorified shot glasses. I wasn't biting as can be seen in this photo of the Chocolate Dream, a bit of fluffy overkill by way of Kahlua brownie with chocolate mousse and syrup. I could've sworn there was ice cream in there. It definitely needed ice cream.

I hate macaroni, which will prevent me from trying a Macaroni Grill maybe ever (I can only picture noodles dripping with Velveeta over flames). Bertucci's, I might give a chance. Though the chain I've always meant to visit but haven't is P.F. Chang's. Looks like the closest one in the strangely named town of West New York, NJ,. Maybe I'll put the GPS to use this weekend.

One thing Carrabba's has over Olive Garden is that if you mention them on Twitter they'll start following you. Brands connecting through tweets is one thing, but when Damages' Patty Hewes started following me I got kind of scared.

Carrabba's * 335 Rt.18, New Brunswick, NJ

J.Co Donuts & Coffee

1/2 I wonder if people in Malaysia read about fast food sensations on NYC blogs? Probably not. I keep tabs on a few Singaporean and Malaysian blogs, and one of the things I find most fascinating are foreign trends. In the mid-2000s I kept hearing about Rotiboy, which I eventually tried.

Last year I started noticing internet chatter about Indonesian donut chain J.Co. I was particularly amused by their use of outré ingredients like cheese. And the alcapone donut combined with a bullet hole motif on the company’s cardboard boxes was kind of sassy.

So, when I was unexpectedly faced with a big J.Co Donuts café with seating (I always imagined them as a take out counter) at Bugis Junction right after a fun stop at Raffles Hospital, a block away, I had to sample the wares even though I’d just eaten sweet, buttery kaya toast.
One vacation problem is that I use the break as a license to snack with hedonistic abandon. I’d buy anything that caught my fancy whether or not I had an appetite for it at the time. Consequently, lots of snacks sat around the hotel room not getting eaten at their prime.

I thought getting four donuts to share with another was being kind of gluttonous, but I had nothing on the two teenage boys in front of me in line who got three donuts apiece on a plate to eat right there on the spot.

These donuts, mocha and tiramisu, had a glossy unusually thick layer of frosting that would be gooey if fresh and warm. When I tasted these the next morning, they were still good but the chocolate had hardened like Magic Shell. It was almost like having a candy layer atop a donut that wanted to flake off in chunks.

Green tea tasted like green tea; I’m more into the color than the flavor. The most interesting donut by far was the cheese. James was scared of it, but I thought it had grotesque charm. I actually prefer hole-in-the-middle non-filled donuts just for the sweet bready yeastiness. This has all that softness with a salty melted parmesan-esque (funny, I just looked up their own description and it's "New Zealand cheese." I told you Southeast Asia was obsessed with Kiwi dairy) coating. I expected something more bagel-y, but nope, it was a genuine donut encased in cheese just like it looked.

It wouldn’t make a half-bad breakfast treat, especially if it had some bacon crumbles sprinkled on. Though being Southeast Asia, they’d most likely use “floss,” the ubiquitous flaked jerky that shows up in strange places.

J.Co Donuts & Coffee * Bugis Junction, 200 Victoria St., Singapore

Don't Be Chicken

Some restaurants tend to be alluring simply because they’re elusive, whether it’s Chick-fil-A to New Yorkers or say, El Bulli, to most of the world. Does the myth live up to reality?

That’s hard to say in the case of the chicken sandwich because I’m no connoisseur. I just don’t choose chicken sandwiches when a hamburger is so much more appealing, but it’s hard to argue with the simplicity of Chick-fil-A’s classic that’s so iconic it was copied by McDonald’s this year.

Toasted buttered bun, breaded, fried (or “pressure-cooked in peanut oil,” they say) chicken breast with no more than two pickles for distraction. Austere in a good way. I think my aversion to fast food chicken and fish sandwiches is that I assume a swath of mayo will be present. I only enjoy mayonnaise when I can’t see it because I semi-secretly have the palate of a seven-year-old. If a white blob squishes out of the side of sandwich when handling it, the napkin immediately comes out and I have to wipe down the interior of overdressed bun or bread as I’ve done for over three decades. It’s not pretty. Not having to endure that trauma with Chick-fil-A is much appreciated; you can gussy up your patty with the individually packaged condiments of your choosing. I was fine with Tabasco only.

(After graduating college in the early ’90s and finding myself unemployable, I housekept my printmaking teacher’s giant ‘70s suburban house for $6/hour. She was a highly entertaining but insane alcoholic who couldn’t get out of bed so I’d also have to take her unruly kid to school [and cart him off to the McDonald’s playground and distract him while she sold pot out of her house] and occasionally make her food. She insisted on tuna sandwiches and freaked when she saw how little mayonnaise I mixed in with the canned fish. “No, like this” she laughed, gleefully thwaping in a good two cups of the condiment, creating a two-to-one ratio of thick white soup to meaty flakes. I almost hurled, and didn’t last long as her helper. I’ve never been good at helping.)

I guess Chick-fil-As aren’t as scarce as I had thought. I encountered one a few weeks ago at Menlo Park Mall, and then again this weekend at the Woodbridge Center, a lovely architectural throwback. I’d peg those JCPenny concrete angles as 1981.

Also appropriate for the era was an Orange Julius inside. I would’ve eaten a peanut buster parfait at the attached Dairy Queen for old time’s sake if I didn’t have a filling German dinner already in the works. I mean, I’d already eaten a late lunch chicken sandwich, which was not on my itinerary.

If you need any further proof of the lowbrowness of Woodbridge Center, they also had a 99-cent store and a Sears (no Spencer’s, sadly) which was the only reason why I had chosen this mall in the first place. Yes, I went to Sears on purpose. I needed to exchange a too-big Land’s End bathing suit top (no nonsense swimwear for me, I’d rather be frumpy than frighten fellow beachgoers) and apparently, they have mini shops inside of select Sears locations.

At least the trip enabled a Chick-fil-A chicken sandwich encounter. I believe there will be more in the future.

Red Robin

Despite being a Northwest chain, I don’t think I’ve eaten at a Red Robin more than once and nearly two decades ago. I have only a vague youthful memory of restaurant, and the nagging feeling that I perceived it as upscale. I’m not sure if that says more about Oregon or me.

I keep seeing their TV ads and just like with Sonic’s commercials, I instantly feel compelled to look up just where these non-NYC chains exist in these parts.  New Jersey, of course. I figured I could squeeze in a visit while scoping out the Norma Kamali collection at Wal-Mart (kind of eh, but I enjoy being a L instead of an XL at Wal-Mart. Oh, just figured out that I'm now a L by most chain store standards--guess my sugar/starch limiting has finally paid off. Unfortunately, "bottomless fries" will show up later in this missive) and picking up hair darkening shampoo and conditioner at Menlo Park Mall’s Aveda (I overheard the cashier mention her food court break at Chick-fil-A. I totally would’ve gone if Red Robin wasn’t already on my itinerary. Even she knew about the “hidden” NYU cafeteria Chick-fil-A).

James wanted to go to Five Guys, but what’s the fun in that? We can walk to the one in Brooklyn Heights if we wanted. No, I’d rather spend $20 in tolls and drive 34 miles to find out that frankly, even a well-done Five Guys burger is kind of preferable to Red Robin’s “gourmet burgers” cooked to an internal temperature of your choice.

It wasn’t so much the food, but the inept service and overall Saturday night suburban mayhem that detracted. Yes, I have standards even for chain restaurants.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the we card if you look under 39 1/ 2 deal. I don’t think they were joking, but I still chortled when asked for my ID and being pointed at the button stating just that pinned to our server’s (who’d just turned 21, we were informed for no reason) shirt. Like if I’m going to illegally purchase drinks, I’m heading to a NJ Red Robin. I know they’re just doing what they’re told, and maybe I should’ve been more weirded out that the bartender who barely looked out of middle-school didn’t card me earlier. I like to believe I don’t look 40+ even to someone half my age.

 We took cues from the locals and ordered the onion ring appetizer, which is admittedly kind of an odd starter. And it practically became a dessert since we weren’t brought our tower until asking about it after we’d received our burgers. This is the glitch that soured me. I don’t think it’s petty to have a separation between courses whether that is onion rings on a pole served with dipping sauces and a jalapeno laden burger or prawns with sunchoke puree and garlic confit and grass fed burger with Cotswold cheese (the same timing issue bothered me at James in Prospect Heights a few months ago).

I’m tempted to declare chipotle sauce (mayo) the new ranch but it appears that America is embracing the two equally, together. Both came with these onion rings. And the combo isn’t exactly new to Frito-Lay or Rachael Ray, for that matter.

I’m not one who rambles on about fat percentages or meat blend ratios, but I will say that lately I’ve swung into the less is more camp. If you can’t even taste the meat in your burger, then what’s the point? There was a bit too much going on in this 5 Alarm Burger, which was more than obvious from the name. All the lettuce, jalapeños, salsa and tomatoes overwhelmed and I couldn’t even detect the pepperjack cheese even though I could see it. Really, I was more interested in the fries and onion rings and consequently grew too full too quickly to eat more than a third of this. Beer and starch has a way of doing that.

The thick cut fries sprinkled with their trademark seasoning (that also sits in a big plastic shaker on the table) were tasty enough that I ate most of them, but I’d much prefer a thin crispy fry to a fat meaty one. I think they make them hearty on purpose to eliminate anyone actually taking them up on their bottomless fry promise. Yes, you heard that right--all-you-can-eat fries.

Red Robin * 6200 Hadley Rd., South Plainfield, NJ

Please Sir, Can I Have Some Más?

I’ve never been to a Sam’s Club, which I think is like a Wal-Mart owned Costco, right? But I still love the idea of Mas Club, a warehouse store devoted to products shipped from Mexico.

I don’t know how this will translate here since we’re more of a plantain than a tortilla city. They’ll probably only put them in Texas, Arizona and California. Ok, nevermind, we don’t have Sam’s Clubs in NYC anyway.

In New Jersey and the outer boroughs I’m accustomed to big Asian supermarkets but we don’t really Latino equivalents, at least that I’m aware of. That’s why I was so wowed by Mariana’s in Vegas a few years ago. That market is probably no big deal to West Coasters where freshly baked conchas and myriad types of tripe are easy to find.

I would like to pretend that I grew up eating wonderfully nuanced Mexican food, but the truth is that my family’s favorite venue was Taco Time. The regional chain was/is better than Taco Bell because they deep-fry their skinny burritos, which are like a cross between a chimichanga and a flauta and they serve Mexi-fries, glorified tater tots. I very rarely get homesick for the Northwest but I have fond Taco Time memories.

Bulking Up For the Winter

Why don’t run-of-the-mill grocery stores in NYC sell bulk food? This was literally keeping me awake last night. I yelled the question repeatedly from my bedroom into the kitchen where James was doing dishes and garnered no response until my third attempt got a ridiculous “It’s not worth answering.” That’s absolutely not true.

A million years ago when I first moved to NYC I was stymied by the Associateds, Key Foods, C Towns and the like packaging everything up for you in Styrofoam and cling film or plastic containers. What if I only wanted a handful of white mushrooms or half a cup of pecans? It seemed so wasteful to force large amounts of perishables on a shopper.

My genius idea would be selling fresh herbs in bulk. Of course, there wouldn’t be much profit in this business model. I can never use 20 thyme sprigs or even a whole cilantro bundle before it starts to go bad.

I’m still not sure if it’s a space and convenience issue; it’s just easier for a store to present you with ready-to-go items, if it’s hygiene like too many hands touching the goods, that people would just take food and not pay or that New Yorkers have a more difficult time than the average consumer with self-service (I tend to believe the latter having seen way too many jams and general cluelessness at the few stores that offer self-checkout).

My big scam when I was a younger teen and candy was enough to make my day, was filling my baggie with bridge mix and writing down the code for chocolate-covered peanuts, which were way cheaper. I only got busted once, which was no big deal because you could just play dumb. People were more trusting. This was during the era when stores would sell kids cigarettes with notes from their parents (I had a neighbor in high school who legitimately did this, the reasoning being that they had had drug problems and were in recovery and their family was happy to see them smoking as long as it meant they weren’t abusing other substances).

I’d forgotten about the lack of bulk food even being problematic until this weekend when I paid a visit to Wegmans in Woodbridge, NJ, a much higher class of grocery store than the already classier-than-NYC garden state supermarkets I normally patronize. The store is mammoth with spacious rows of anything you could think of (except corn tortillas and polenta in a tube it turned out—what’s up with the maize aversion? Maybe someone read The Omnivore's Dilemma one too many times) including a nice row of bulk food dispensers. You don’t even know the joy I derived from meting out the tiniest scoop of pepitas. It’s very satisfying to pay $1 and some change for what you actually need instead of $5 for a container that will just go stale.

I would’ve explored Wegmans further (and possibly found those corn products eventually) but I was running late to meet friends at Cheeseburger in Paradise just minutes away on the other side of Route 1. If you ever want live covers of all your favorite ‘90s hits (think Counting Crows and Extreme) and a signature cocktail composed of pina colada, rum runner, margarita, daiquiri and blue curacao layers, all in the same glass, garnished with a gummy cheeseburger on a toothpick and fruit wearing sunglasses (they’re called “garnimals”) show up at this Jimmy Buffet chain at 9:30pm on a Saturday.

Oh, and why don’t they sell bulk food in NYC?

Photograph Your Way to a Size 0

A recent study from the University of Wisconsin-Madison has shown that taking photos of your food before eating it encourages weight loss. I can’t say that snapping shots of Thai curries or burgers and fries has ever had any positive effect on my b.m.i. So then I wonder if food bloggers are slimmer than the general population? I don't really know any fat food bloggers, but really, I don't know many food bloggers period.

Yesterday I did randomly try the new Dunkin’ Donuts egg white flatbread sandwich, and yes, I took a photo of it. My at-work breakfast usually consists of either Greek yogurt with sugarless jam or a hard-boiled egg with Spanish paprika. I’m bored of both, so Friday I thought I’d go wild and stop by the Broad Street Dunkin'  on my way to work (despite the guilt of my coffee cart guy seeing me patronizing another establishment across the street).

I guess I don’t pay much attention to my surroundings because the Dunkin’ Donuts was closed, paper up in the window and everything. Luckily, I was brought one of these over-toasted treats from the neighborhood on Sunday.

No, it’s not tasty and greasy like those egg and bacon rolls oozing with orange cheese. I envy women who eat those with abandon, and I do often spy totally un-overweight ladies (rarely white, for whatever reason) ordering them from delis. I think these are the same women I see with Burger King bags during lunchtime. How do they do it?

The bread is kind of dry, chewy and overwhelms the portion controlled filling. The egg white and turkey sausage are fine. All in all, it’s an inoffensive alternative to a cholesterol laden breakfast sandwich and was more filling that I’d expected but I seriously wanted to put a slice of cheese on it. I think nearly everything could benefit from a slice of cheese.

Update: I was not wrong in my want of cheese. The sandwich is supposed to have reduced fat mozzarella (the veggie has cheddar) as I noticed on TV and online. It's just that chains in NYC have a way of messing up processed food that's designed to be fool proof to prepare.

A Riblet and a Dream

If I were more of an MBA go-getter type who craved a c-suite title (and wore dark-framed glasses half-way down my nose) I would want Julia Stewart’s job. I mean, could it get any better than CEO of Applebee’s and IHOP? Remember, this is the woman whose claim to fame is inventing stuffed French toast.

Today for some inexplicable reason the dining section of the New York Times has run a profile of Mrs. Stewart a.k.a. the “Velvet Hammer.” Choice quote: “Everybody has a quesadilla, but no one has a bruschetta quesadilla.” So right, and if memory serves Applebee’s also has a cheesecake chimichanga.

I vote for a chicken alfredo burrito or moo shu potato skins.

Now I'll Never Taste a Blarney Blast

I would be sad about Bennigan’s closing (I’m kind of excited about a Ruby Tuesday getting blown up, though) if I’d ever been to one. I didn’t even know the chain was Irish-themed. I wanted to learn more about the Kilkenny Country Chicken Salad, but their website is already down.

Mervyns (no apostrophe) filing for bankruptcy, however, fills me with sadness. I haven’t set foot in one of the so-so Kohl’s-esque retailers in over a decade, and I know they closed all of their Oregon locations early last year so this shouldn’t come as a surprise. But I’ve always had a soft spot for the chain.

Any shop that still has a section called missy (which contrary to popular belief is not a euphemism for plus-sized. Missy just means the even 4, 6, 8, etc. sizes as opposed to the odd-numbered 3, 5, 7 narrower-cut junior sizes. And while I’m on this tangent, I was shocked at this letter in Time Out NY a few weeks ago from a girl who claims she never can find XS or size 4 at H&M. Are you shitting me? I even emailed the store when they first arrived in NYC asking why they didn’t seem to stock larger sizes even though I know for a fact they make clothes up to a size 16 since it’s clearly listed on in-store placards. I did feel a bit vindicated by the Time Out’s response: “We did a random, unscientific sampling of the summer stock racks at four Manhattan H&M stores, and size 4 was among the top three most populous sizes in each instance, while a mere 6.7 percent of garments were size 14 or above.” ) is good with me.

Photo of a 2005 Mervyns still using the '80s font instead of the current yet still '90s perky style from The Detroit News

Olympic Flavor

While the Chinese government is busy combating menu Engrish, McDonald’s, the world over, is promoting Olympic-inspired edibles. Chop suey burgers in Latin America? Ok, I guess they’re going to be called Beijing Burgers according to the Wall Street Journal.

The only McDonald’s country sites where I could find photographic evidence of this hamburguesa de Beijing were Argentina and Colombia, and it’s even better than expected. The China Menu includes said burger with a ginger sauce, black and white sesame seeds on the bun and yes, chop suey. There are also fried rice sticks and a banana caramel sundae.

Though not on the website, I was able to glean a few details about Australia and their "Flavor of the Games" promotion. McDonald’s down under will be serving burgers called The American, The Euro, The African, The Asian and The Australian.

I know Aussies put peculiarities like beets, pineapple and fried egg on their burgers. The Asian will probably involve wasabi, sweet and sour or soy sauce. What I’m dying to know is what’s on an African burger—that’s way open to interpretation (let’s hope it’s not raw fermented sour dough).

Yanking My Chain

Lucky me. I’ll be heading to Buenos Aires just in time try Argentina’s first Starbucks, which opens today in Palermo, the neighborhood I will be residing in tomorrow morning.

Ok, I have no strong opinion on Starbucks one way or the other (as you saw last week, I totally patronize coffee carts) but I do love checking out US chains in foreign countries. I did have a green tea éclair at a Beijing Starbucks and a red bean scone at a location in Shanghai, and I didn’t feel like a dirty American for doing so.

I’ll only be away for a week, and I have no idea if I’ll be posting or not. I tend not to while vacation because I’m just not that plugged in and I’m not deluded enough to think anyone would notice a seven-day online absence.  I never miss my cell phone (which could have something to do with the fact that I only got my first one last year and use it like never) but I always check e-mail because I’m old (wasn’t it declared geriatric like two years ago?)

So, tonight I’m off to eat grass-fed beef, dulce de leche and maybe even a newfangled “mate latte.” Adios.

Photo of now-gone Forbidden City Starbucks by Miguel A. Monjas via Bloggle

There's a Yakov Smirnoff Joke in Here Somewhere

It says something (what, I’m not sure) when Siberia gets an Ikea before NYC.

Kimchi Hana & Bon Chon Chicken Staten Island

Coordinating out-of-the-city errands isn’t always easy. I wanted drivable Korean fried chicken but that would involve Queens or Northern New Jersey and neither of those were places where I wanted to shop (Union and Middlesex counties).

Then I remembered Bon Chon Staten Island, which would be en route to my desired part of the Garden State. Initially, I didn’t believe there was such a branch, but more than once I found those keywords misguidedly bringing searchers to this site so I had to investigate. Yes, there’s Korean fried chicken in Staten Island. Weird. For all its bravado, Brooklyn certainly lacks in the Asian food arena, multiple Chinatowns or not.

But I wanted sit-down rather than takeout, which was the impression I’d gotten about S.I., so fried chicken was nixed and general Korean was substituted into the schedule. I’ll admit that I’m kind of a Korean food idiot having never ventured past the obvious like bbq and bibimbap. I do like spicy and pickled so there’s no reason why I should avoid it, it’s just never around.

Based on some internet randomness, I settled on Kimchi Hana in South Plainfield’s Middlesex Mall.  Now, Middlesex Mall is only a mall in that there’s a row of storefronts; some are empty, others occupied by the likes of Dollar Tree, Radio Shack (which saved my life with in-stock earphone pads. Do you know how difficult it is to find replacement pads for earbuds in stores? I ended up ordering from Amazon and incorrectly buying the wrong size, which were the circumference of an oatmeal cookie) and a more busted looking Macy’s than the one on Fulton Mall, which also isn’t a real mall. I knew what I was in for after reading a local resident’s lament.

What didn’t occur to me was to make a reservation. I clearly don’t have the suburban know-how down because I don’t equate strip mall restaurants with advance planning. And it was busy at an early-ish 7pm, but not insanely so. No one was waiting in the lobby when we showed up. We weren’t asked if we had reservations, though, just whether or not we wanted a bbq table. It seemed like getting a grill would be a problem, plus I trying to expand my culinary horizons, so we went the easiest route and agreed to any table available, which ended up being a standard four-seater in the back half of the smoky room.

This was fine for about ten minutes while we tried to interpret some language on the menu. There was a section of grilled meats but it said you could only order those at bbq tables (though later we noticed cast iron plates of kalbi and the like on grill-free tables. Perhaps they meant you just couldn’t cook it yourself?). While pondering, a woman who seemed to be the boss, came over and told us that we needed to move because someone had reserved this table.

Here we go…the Saturday night nuisance again (and I don’t need anonymous assholes telling me to stay home, thanks, everyone’s entitled to a reasonable dining experience). I don’t mind sitting at a two-top but I could already foresee a problem with fitting dishes into the abbreviated space. The banchan alone (which I do love about Korean cuisine) would take up a majority of the open area.

 

There were seven dishes, a spinach-like vegetable was off to the left. Those pictured included kimchi, baby bok choy, bean curd, octopus, radish and seaweed.

And sure enough, after ordering two appetizers and two entrees we were admonished, “That’s a lot of food.” No, not really. We were ordering a reasonably sized meal and it was now up to them to figure out how they were going to fit all of the dishes.

Sashimi came first, and the raised wooden board wasn’t too much of a hindrance. These were some hefty slabs of fish and considerably fresher than the disconcertingly room temperature slices I’d been served the previous day at Gold St. in the Financial District.

 

The girthy pajun arrived soon after. Pan-fried cakes can get a little doughy, though this seafood-stuffed one maintained a fair amount of crispiness. I will admit that these greasy treats are probably better divvied up between more than two diners, especially since it doesn’t lend itself to leftovers.

 

The seafood hot pot was a bit problematic to eat because of broth’s high temperature (the photo is steamy) and the weight of the vessel. Normally, I would ask for two small bowls as other tables seemed to have but there was nowhere to put them. So, I had to carefully rearrange the other dishes and scoot the little cauldron near me, trying not to splash, eat a few bites, then maneuver it back towards James so he could have some.

The soup was black pepper and chile flake hot, the type that doesn’t hit until you swallow and get the urge to cough. A little of everything was included: shell-on crab chunk, clams, tiny shrimp, hefty tofu squares, wedges of fish and decorative pink-rimmed fish cake slice. It seemed right for a spring day that had turned chilly and wet.

 

Chicken was a misstep. I still had fried chicken on the brain so those two words jumped out at me from the kan poong gi description, but as you can see it was essentially sweet and sour chicken. There was a hint of heat and a scattering of bizarrely firm peas and carrots. It wasn’t horrific by any means but wasn’t what I was craving.

The danger of not eating what you wanted is that you (ok, I) will just end up double dinnering to make up for that empty feeling (in your soul, not your stomach, duh). But really, would two measly midnight snack wings harm anyone?

Microwavable Molten Cakes & Blue Cherries

Western Beef will always be my favorite utilitarian grocery store, but when I’m suburban-ing it up as I’m wont to do every month or so, I lean on Shop Rite. It seems kind of the same as Stop & Shop, which I’ve had an on and off again relationship with, but it’s a little more quirky, open 24-hours so you can have the place to yourself at night (because most people have better things to do at 11pm on a Saturday) and they sell Greek yogurt (three brands at that--I eat this nearly every day so a store without it is most unhelpful) unlike S&S or Western Beef.

I’m specifically referring to a Linden, New Jersey location at Aviation Plaza; I can’t speak to the whole chain. This is an area I’m growing fond of in general because it satisfies most of my rudimentary shopping needs and desire for breathing room (never mind that it’s a 20-mile drive, $16 in tolls and I’m not calculating gas). Despite the sense that there is a sizable African American and Eastern European population (the ATMs have Russian as a language choice and there’s a Polish & Slavic credit union in the same strip mall. You can tell a lot from an ATM. My bank, Capital One, formerly North Fork, formerly Greenpoint, which I only joined because it was the most convenient bank when I lived in Queens, is the house bank at this Shop Rite and even has an office right inside the entrance with two sit-down windows. The fast cash option here is $40, the lowest I’ve seen. In Carroll Gardens it’s $60 and the Wall St. branch near my office it’s a whopping $100. You can also choose to take increments of $10 from this ATM, which is something I haven’t seen offered since my Portland days and they probably are up to a $20 minimum by now.) it feels like a Roseanne neighborhood.

There’s a bowling alley, taverns and lots of ratty motels. If there were a slew of used car dealerships, junk/thrift stores and no Italian delis, it would be the type of no nonsense environs my grandparents lived in when I was in grade school (when they weren’t living in a mobile home in our yard—I’m not joking, though it was probably only for a few months it seemed like a year in kid time).

If it weren’t for the pesky problem of getting to Manhattan for work, I would buy in New Jersey, this part of New Jersey, definitely not the areas teeming with garish new construction. House/condo buying is a real possibility in the next year (through no means of my own) and I like to pretend that I have some say in the matter. I’ve also been entertaining nearby Red Hook but isolation and scrappiness shouldn’t cost $1 million-plus. Same goes for Gowanus. I don’t like being in the thick of things; I want to grow out my nasty gray hair in peace…er, and then go check out a new restaurant. Food is really the one thing that keeps me enamored with NYC. It’s certainly not the people. Though I’m not there yet and may never be, I do understand why at this very moment my sister and her British husband are scoping out property in rural Southern Oregon (I’m still not sold on the idea of a cob house, however).

But back to Shop Rite. They aren’t perfect by any means (and apparently there was a lazy-eyed fat woman with a pregnant accomplice robbing people in aisle nine a few years ago). They don’t have those self-serve bottle return machines that are not only rare in the city, but always hogged by the homeless (hey, five-cent refunds aren’t just for the destitute). I was thwarted by their lack of loose green beans or even prepackaged ones in Styrofoam and plastic wrap. They only had $3.99 bags of organic, which I wasn’t buying.

 

But they do have maraschino cherries in rainbow colors. Yes, I’m obsessed with the Roland cherries.

And they have ethnic candles and cookware. I have no idea what ethnic cookware is and don’t think they mean woks. I also love that brands La Fe and La Cena are mushed together into single lowercase words.

 

I don’t generally hang out in the boxed baking mixes aisle so I was surprised at the amount of molten cake madness on the shelf. Americans love the warm and gooey. Those soft-centered monsters are my biggest culinary pet peeves next to Tuscan kitchens. I will admit to being tempted by the 150-calorie microwavable Betty Crocker Warm Delights Minis even though (or maybe because) sugar is my enemy.

 

Obviously, there’s more to Shop Rite than snack food and candles but that’s for another time. I have my loyalty card so there’s no doubt I will return for more than just savings.

Shop Rite * 637 W. Edgar Rd. Linden, NJ

When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Order Bloomin' Onions

What was the most brilliant article in today’s New York Times? No, not the one about treating gang violence like an infectious disease nor the creepy piece about parents tracking their children’s grades and attendance in real time.

No, it’s "Déjà Vu Dining," an earnest in-depth review/round-up of suburban chain restaurants by their “in the region” writers. I could’ve written the whole thing myself, and with great pleasure.

I have no idea who these writers are but one can only imagine. The overall Manhattan-centric Times always seems woefully out of touch with reality, and I can’t understand how their bedroom community counterparts appear to be equally removed from the scary dietary habits of regular folks. The article gives the impression was that these restaurants were their first encounters with chains. 

At least that’s what I gathered from statements like, “in the league of the best Italian restaurants” in regard to a Long Island Olive Garden. All that says to me is that the state of Italian cuisine in Massapequa is sad and that independently owned has no correlation to quality despite the common perception.

And only someone who feeds their kids gluten-free chicken nuggets and whole grain French bread pizza would say “my teenage daughter is a fan of spicy food, so she was enthusiastic about a visit to Chili’s in East Haven, Conn.” Or maybe I’m the naïve one because I had no idea that Chili’s was known for piquant flavors (though the chain does exist in heat loving Kuala Lumpur) But compared to an Amy’s burrito, Southwestern eggrolls probably do seem spicy.

I wonder if this is meant to be a nod to recession-fighting tactics. While the rest of the nation is supposedly subsisting on 99-cent frozen dinners and Manwich, tri-state denizens are dallying with stuffed potato skins and chocolate lasagna? If so, I’m all for this cost-saving plan.

Here's a real penny-pincher; make your own 3,148-calorie battered onion treat at home.

Organic Wood-Fired Balsamic-Glazed Duck Embryo on a Bed of Microgreens

Glancing at my wardrobe, pantry and home décor, it’s obvious that I love me some Target (with a huge proportion of above items also originating from Ikea and Old Navy—yes, I’m cheap with middling tastes). I buy the occasional Archer Farms product, but I’m totally not seeing the logical connection between so-so foodstuffs gussied up to sound gourmet and Andrew Zimmerman, the Bizarre Foods guy and Pepto Bismol spokesman who has become the new SuperTarget Meal Adventure Guide.

Indigestion, diarrhea and larvae-eating are going to make middle America want to try Spinach & Goat Cheese Torino Wood-Fire Pizza or Strawberry Basil Balsamic Vinegar?

What do I know? I was also confused by Wanda Sykes voicing the mouthy Applebee’s apple. Ha, which has been scrapped for the new Applebee’s new emphasis on quality, better finger foods and improved bar scene. I’m inclined to believe this new CEO knows her business because I never eat at IHOP but on my last visit I totally ordered the stuffed French toast, which apparently is this lady exec’s legacy.

Despite not being directly related, I must say that I appreciate how even diarrhea isn’t immune to user-generated content commercials.

Crochet balut from joylimos on etsy

Snacking Painlessly

The irony of bread being pain in French is not lost on me.

Supplementing my workday changing roster of fruit, Greek yogurt, oatmeal or Kashi TLC bars hasn’t been easy since being forced to limit sugar and starch in my diet (yeah, I know there are carbs in oatmeal and granola bars, and well, fruit too, but I said limit not banish). Sammies are out. So too, sushi and grandma slices. And one can only handle brothy soups or blah salads so many days of the week.

So, I was curious about the new $3.49 and under, 200 calories or less Au Bon Pain Portions. Yes, there’s something childish and pathetic about a corporation doling out healthy amounts of food for you. I can’t stand the 100-calorie pack boom. People not being able to divvy up their own food and put them into baggies is about as sad as the inability to make your own peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I’m also not wild about Au Bon Pain (I seriously burnt out on them while briefly freelancing at the NY Post because the shop was on the ground floor and gave employee discounts and I was too cheap and lazy to stray further a field) but it’s ridiculously hard to find something filling and starchless within a block of my office so I gave them a try this afternoon.

There were combos with hummus, olives and cucumbers, asparagus and almonds, cheese, grapes and crackers and a few mixes involving tuna or chicken. I’d have stealthily snapped a photo of the case but I only had my camera phone on me and it’s next to useless (as you can see from this post's illustration).

The Thai Peanut Chicken & Snow Peas was exactly that atop a small tuft of romaine lettuce. The vegetables were crisp, snappy and free from brown wilty spots and the strips of poultry were fine enough, sweetish as might be expected and not hot at all despite the red flecks dotting them. And once I started digging into it, I realized there was more chicken than I’d anticipated, though these new items are more like snacks than meals—you’d have to possess the stomach capacity of a cat (well, a normal-sized cat, not mine) to feel remotely full.

It’s doubtful that I would ever eat something so lackluster at home, but my standards are lower for at-desk lunches (essentially not messy or foul smelling or tasting). The food could’ve been much worse, that’s all I’m saying. I’ll explore more options next week. And who said April was going to be dull?

Screw You, Too

Some time ago, during a hellish meal at Montreal’s Au Pied de Cochon (service was some of the most sophomoric, assholiest I’ve encountered, which isn’t entirely unusual with restaurants foodies love) James found a screw in his pork chop. At the time we speculated about how it would be reported in a New York Post headline and imagined it would involve the staff having a screw loose.

Well, we finally got our answer thanks to a disgruntled bacon cheeseburger eater in the Bronx: “Wendy’s Got a Screw Loose: Suit”

Back on the Chain Gang

Who knew that it was even possible to blow $300 a pop on Boston Market? Or that you could pay for fast food with checks.  I guess you do what you have to for rotisserie chicken and chipotle meatloaf.

I kind of prefer the sheer idiocy of the Indiana woman who scored $57 worth of Applebee’s food after finding worms in her salad…then left her purse behind with a container of worms. At least it wasn’t a human finger.

Even though I didn’t think it wasn’t true, I was kind of scared by the inexplicable ‘80s urban legend that Wendy’s put worms in their burgers. (To this day, I still believe that Rod Stewart had gallons of antelope semen pumped from his stomach, so these myths are persuasive.) The second I heard chain restaurant and worms in conjunction with the above story, I automatically assumed it was about Wendy’s.

Wendy’s seems to have a lot of trouble. Just off the top of my head I can think of two shooting incidents involving the chain, one recent, one not.

T.G.I. Friday's

You can’t properly entertain a sister who has lived outside the U.S. for over a decade without at least one pit stop at a chain restaurant. Never mind that they have a T.G. I. Friday’s in Bristol, things are best experienced in their natural habitats.

We’d spent a killer day trolling around Bear Mountain (I had to squeeze in a bit of nature to appease the outdoorsiness in my sister and her husband. Some would argue that paved trails aren’t exactly super natural but that’s as rough as I get) and Woodbury Common (where I'd already been to the on-site Applebee's enough times). All that cold weather open air outlet shopping really works up an appetite.

The best part of Bear Mountain were the zillions of '60s-seeming educational signs dotting the park. 

Of course, not enough of an appetite to finish an appetizer and entrée (let alone dessert too, though I was pleased to see they were offering the three courses for $12.99 promotion which probably doesn’t exist in NYC). But that’s not the point. James and I know the excess game--that’s what take out containers are for. Despite not being truly European, British are freaked out by leftovers.

While dwelling on our monstrous portions and Japanese hara hachi bu (wise, certainly. But if I stopped at 80% full, I would never get past the appetizer course) we ordered pink fruity cocktails like the Cosmo ‘Rita. Minor trouble erupted when our waitress asked for ID, “My manager makes me card everyone under 40.” and neither out-of-towner had any on them.

I started having flashbacks to my 22nd birthday with my dad and stepmom at a place called BJ’s Roadhouse. It wasn't my choice (while chain loving now as an adult, I couldn’t see the humor in the early ‘90s). I hadn’t brought my driver’s license and they wouldn’t serve me beer, not even an O’Doul’s, which I didn’t want anyway. These annual occasions were tough enough to slog through with a few drinks in your system.

I’m fairly certain this was the same birthday where we stopped at a grocery store afterwards and picked up a watermelon (I’ve hated melon since birth) and a sugar free cherry pie. I mean, it was my birthday and I could produce insulin normally so would it kill them to buy a real dessert? (technically yes, but diabetes wouldn’t my render my father a fatal blow for another ten years)

Thankfully, we looked old and haggard enough to have the ridiculous rule waived at T.G.I. Friday’s.

Nachos on the half shell. They evoke traditional topping on individual chip rather than pile of toppings on slew of chips, yet these aren’t chips.

Yeah, I noticed that cheesy bacon cheeseburger was separate from the regular cheeseburger but I didn’t read the fine print. The cheesy was cheesy alright. A whole half-inch round of breaded and fried provolone was sitting atop the patty. Whoa. I should’ve taken a cross section photo but I was in a state of shock. It almost looks like a chicken sandwich from this angle.

We passed on the Cinnabon cheesecake and picked up a dozen doughnuts at Dunkin’ across the parking lot (I’m not a doughnut-crazed person, but British folks seem to like them because they don’t really exist in the U.K.), then called it a night.

The next morning I arose to find a note from my sister left on the dining room table. “Dave is afraid of the leftovers; you can have them.” Oh, foreigners…there’s nothing to fear. Even our cheerful waitress told us that the gooey spinach artichoke dip could be brought back to life in the microwave.

I did wait until later that evening, after I had a few drinks in my system (and the brother-in-law had gone to bed) but you know that I devoured that second-hand hot Tuscan dip and red corn tortilla chips along with the help of my sister. We re-warmed the deep-fried breadsticks we’d brought home too. Anything else would be un-American.

T.G.I.Friday’s * 5 Centre Dr., Central Valley, NY

Mickey Finn Meet Ruby Tuesday

Ack, I’m home sick for the second day in a row (I just spent the week entertaining my sister and her husband who were visiting from England. It was all fun and good, despite their vegetarianism, until I caught the creeping crud or whatever virulent bug they brought with them from Europe. As if it wasn’t enough that our dollars are chump change to them. I can barely hear, breathe or swallow and was convinced I had a deadly fever but my temperature is only 97.1. I hate when people say they have fevers and it’s not true so I wanted to make extra sure before declaring one) and have no typing energy.

But I can’t ignore stories involving chain restaurants, especially ones involving Ruby Tuesday, roofies and vigilant waiters named Colt.

Heavens, I don’t want to live in a world where single women with master’s degrees aren’t even safe in family restaurants.

Rat On!

I’ve never eaten at a Qdoba even though they have begun invading Manhattan, but I am a sucker for quizzes so when I read about the What’s Your Q-dentity personality test this morning I couldn’t ignore the silly time-waster. It’s the best fast food advergame since White Castle’s Craverscope (um, five of the seven Google hits for that keyword are from me).

The thing is that the questions are ridiculous, the results dubious, but it’s not wholly made up like horoscopes. There is actual methodology given, which isn’t to say that Dr. Hirsch isn’t a quack.

As it turns out I’m a walking talking quesadilla. “A dependable and true friend, those who prefer quesadillas are content being one of the crowd; they are loyal followers more than leaders. At work they are the foot soldiers, task-oriented, functioning ideally in a group. They don’t require individual praise, but share their successes with those around them. They toil behind the scenes for others at work or in their family.” You know, like Bill Murray in What About Bob and Talia Shire as Adrianne in Rocky.

I don’t like that one bit. Foot soldier? Nuh-uh.

Instead, I’m claiming my rat-ness and today is my day. Pardon, this is my year. Rats aren’t followers and they don’t toil behind the scenes. Rats get shit done. I’ve waited over a decade for this moment.

Looking back, I guess 1996 must’ve been lame and un-ratty because I can’t remember a thing about it. I know that I was 24, dating someone twenty years my senior, shelved books part time for a living, went out and drank a lot, fell down stairs and broke my tail bone and that’s about it. I don’t understand urbane go-getter twenty-somethings who own real estate and have prestigious job titles, and I don’t care to.

But I do recall ’84 because one of the eighth graders in my English class (which I got to take as a sixth grader and got picked on a lot mostly because I was a teacher’s pet and kind of because I wore crap like purple polka dot knee highs and jellies and had bleached eye-covering waver bangs) who I’m pretty sure turned out gay, had a yellow sweatshirt that said in brushy calligraphy script, “Year of the Rat” superimposed over a red Japanese-looking orb even though it was referencing the Chinese zodiac.

In college, I brushed past this sweatshirt kid on the sidewalk downtown Portland during a rainstorm and he huffed, “Get some umbrella control!” That’s when I was like oh, he’s gay now because what kind of straight guy would say something bitchy like that and think it’s witty?

So, here’s to a more memorable 2008. The KFC rodents had their fun last year, now it’s time for the human rats to shine.

In rat news, I do appreciate that yesterday’s Wall Street Journal didn’t simply publish a gross-out story about Vietnamese rat eating (which has nothing to do with the Chinese new year). They actually give recipes…and rat steamed with lemongrass doesn’t sound half bad.

Jose Tejas

I was under the impression that this nutty Tex-Mex Cajun restaurant along Route 1 was a rare independent venue. Maybe it didn’t look glossy enough or maybe I was won over by the enormous blue and white sign visible from a distance that simply reads EAT. But I was wrong; it is a chain and one that more commonly goes by Border Café. Actually, I wasn’t acquainted with Border Café either but now I know.

I can’t figure out why the receipt I received says Iselin yet their website says both Iselin and Woodbridge. New Jersey is annoying like that, every mile practically puts you in a different township and makes my pull down menu look like I’ve been all over the state when really I travel in a close radius around Middlesex and Union counties.

Speaking of the neighborhood, not too long ago a friend started dating a guy who lives about ten minutes from Jose Tejas. This is a very exciting development because New Jersey chain dining has always been a solitary activity. I mean, another and myself are involved but it’s not like we ever have company along (for good reason, certainly). Can you imagine anything sexier than a double date at Bonefish Grill? Unfortunately, I suspect a Valentine’s reservation has already been made somewhere and not likely in the garden state.

It hasn’t taken much for me to conclude that there just aren’t enough giant chain restaurants to satisfy the tri-state population (and what’s this I hear about the Cheesecake Factory being a freaking hotspot in Hartford, CT?). No matter where and when you go it’s a madhouse. And the unusually cheap prices at Jose Tejas—my $8.97 enchiladas were one of the more expensive items—certainly contribute to the popularity. But I cannot allow human obstacles to get in the way of my chain discovery missions.

We went between lunch and dinner on a Saturday and were quoted a 35-minute wait. Normally, I would’ve left but trying to get on the correct side of the highway and then finding parking had already wasted twenty minutes and I couldn’t fathom a plan B. Even the large bar area was jam-packed, and a nasty old lady tried picking a fight with us for blocking her way. I have zero patience with the nice elderly so I had to restrain myself from knocking her block off.

I don’t trust margaritas from machines, not so much out of hygiene or authenticity issues but because I fear a light hand with the alcohol. A bottle of Dos Equis and a requisite basket of corn chips with salsa suited me fine while waiting. And immediately two stools opened up. It was as if the hand of god, or possibly the ghost of Jose Tejas (assuming he's a real human being and that he's no longer living), reached down and cleared a space for us.

Eating lightly would’ve been smart in preparation for the next day’s inescapable Super Bowl gluttony. But how does one even accomplish such a thing at a restaurant with salads that come in those ‘80s fried tortilla bowls? No, we went all out and shared the chorizo flambado, which is essentially a shitload of melted cheese dotted with chorizo. I swear the chorizo was actually ground beef or Italian sausage but the grease and fat effect was still achieved. You eat this concoction with warm flour tortillas, creating scoopable quesadillas.

I wasn’t touching the Cajun side of the menu. That cuisine is hard to pull off properly even in its own element but in NYC it always tastes like dry, spiced mud. Actually, we joked that dirt might be a secret ingredient while in New Orleans a few years ago; the food all has this earthy flavor that seems to go beyond cumin and cayenne.

I usually order seafood burritos or enchiladas in these types of places, which doesn’t seem intuitive. It’s just that the chicken is always dry, the beef is ground (I don’t like ground beef outside of hamburgers) and pork is rarely on the menu period. I’m also not crazy about fish tacos because battered fried seafood makes me hurl (however, battered fried candy is A-OK). And my crawfish and shrimp stuffed tortillas came sauced to the nines. At least I diligently ate half of everything and saved the rest for a late night dinner. Since this was my first meal of the day, I didn’t feel so bad about the caloric value being spread out over twelve hours.

Jose Tejas * 700 Rt. 1 N., Iselin, NJ

Roll with It

I don’t know O’Charley’s, a seemingly Midwestern chain, firsthand but their promotional site features a heartwarming tale about a stellar roll that’s kind of the anti-Kogepan crossed with the Zoloft blob.

Now I’m craving warm bread.

IHOP

Suburban excursions are not always blissful. I couldn’t bear attempting a Swedish meatball combo plate at a busier-than-expected Ikea on Martin Luther King Day. I know better than to patronize the always under stocked Elizabeth, NJ location and don’t even want to ponder the potential beastliness of the soon-to-open walking distance Red Hook branch. Part of me even hopes the neighborhood Trader Joe’s never happens.

Breakfast for lunch (no, not brunch) at Staten Island’s IHOP (contrary to popular belief, there are IHOPS in NYC, six in total randomly scattered throughout four boroughs) was far less life changing than I’d hoped for.

The commercials always entice me with fluff, sweetness and starchy goodness but my stuffed french toast was a waste of fat and calories. The syrupy strawberries were sweet and that’s where all flavor ceased to exist. I don’t know how it’s possible to make grilled egg-coated bread and cream cheese filling taste like chewy nothingness but they did it. I requested no whipped cream and I don’t imagine the non-dairy spray topping could’ve helped matters any.

 

The eggs and bacon that made up the Stuffed French Toast Combo (I have enough making my mouth say Sammie—there’s no way I’m ordering the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n Fruity) were adequate (more like adequite, if you ask me) yet the hash browns fell into the potatoes stripped of all potato-ness category.

I was more interested in the disproportionately Italian desserts being advertised. I can’t imagine all menus in the U.S. have tartufo, spumoni, cannoli and neopolitan ice cream. There’s no mention of any of these treats on their website. I guess if Brooklyn Applebee’s can serve Cakeman Raven red velvet cake, the Staten Island IHOP shouldn’t shy away from micro-regional tastes either. I would definitely take the red velvet cake over any of IHOP’s goodies, though in my opinion blue velvet cake is prettier in its garishness.

IHOP * 935 Richmond Ave., Staten Island, NY

Filet O'Feline

As I’ve said many times before, the busted and chaotic Western Beef headquarters is one of my favorite grocery stores. While picking up Super Bowl provisions this weekend I came face to face with an exterior sign right next to the entrance that I’d never noticed before even though it clearly wasn’t new. The grocer sells plenty of weird bits: pig tails, fish heads and innards of all types, but cat was news to me.

Uncle Sammie Wants You!

Based upon causal Financial District observation, Quiznos’s Sammies are a freak hit. I usually wait until 2pm to eat because hate crowds and mobs wane by then, but at the Quiznos across the street from my office there was still a line well past normal lunch hour and every single person in it was ordering the damn Sammies.

Clearly, the $2, 200 calorie ad campaign is working. Quiznos only recently (reluctantly) started publishing nutrition information, which makes you wonder if they cooked up this product to counteract the frighteningly unhealthy bulk of their menu. Though it should be mentioned that only two of the six varieties are 200 calories.

The mini sandwiches are kind of perfect if you’re craving something junky and don’t want to completely ruin an eating or savings regimen. No, one won’t fill you up but it’s a inoffensive supplement to yogurt, fruit or granola bar, whatever you eat during the day (those are my typical daily bring alongs). For low impact fast food comparison, a McDonald’s cheeseburger is 300 calories and a plain Wendy’s baked potato is 310 calories.

I still have a tough time bringing myself to say Sammie, however. And weirdly, after looking at the photo I took of a Sammie in November I can say that the one I had today seemed larger, or maybe my hand was just really huge a few months ago.

Fuddruckers

Even though I have an irrational fascination with chains (yesterday on my way to see Cloverfield in Astoria I noticed a brand new Panera Bread and Applebee's set to grand open tomorrow. Along with the pre-existing Pizzeria Uno across the street, this micro-suburbia off Northern Blvd. is simultaneously soothing and baffling), Fuddruckers has never been part of my repertoire.

To my recollection, I'd only dined at one once in my life, at least twenty-five years ago. I know I was wowed by all the diy condiments, and I believe that I begged for a repeat performance whenever driving past the 82nd Street location on route to Clackamas Town Center. But I could just be imagining the longing and letdown because this was a common routine; my family rarely ate out, which was more a standard of the times than a commitment to thriftiness. I really don't think that children raised pre-'90s went out to eat, fast food included, frequently as they do now.

So, Saturday night Fuddruckers in Bridgewater was an accident (that we would drive 45 miles and spend $15 in tolls to return a defective mail-ordered Best Buy Dust Devil is a testament to how much NYC box stores suck). Red Lobster was our intended target, but even I can't justify a 75-minute wait for Cheddar Bay biscuits. Just on the other side of the Red Bull Motel (do you think they petitioned for another Red business in their parking lot?) was Fuddruckers, a total mystery to me.

I didn't know the menu and I completely didn't understand the ordering process. I felt feeble-minded standing just shy of the line-up maze, gaping at the wall. The clatter, balloons and children (don't be fooled by the false calmness in the above photo) didn't help my decision making but I figured out that there are lots of things other than burgers but it would be ridiculous to try them on a maiden visit and that burgers come in combo meals with the specialty variations  listed on another panel.

Ok, I chose The Inferno, a 1/3-pounder with jalapenos, fried onions and pepper jack. And a Heineken because even though Fuddruckers is fast food-like, they do serve beer. I guess that makes it more fast-casual, in industry parlance. I was not allowed my requested medium-rare, medium is the needlessly strict minimum, though not as harsh as Five Guys well-done only rule.

You then get a beeper and are left to hunt down an open table. After settling for about ten minutes later you'll be summoned to the side counter, handed your food and set loose on the condiments.  I took a few pumps of nacho cheese, chipotle mayonnaise for my fries and added a smear of spicy bbq sauces to my burger. I'm fairly sparing with add ons.

Yet condiment-abusers abounded. I was disproportionately grossed out by a college aged girl with her family at a nearby table who overfilled two giant plastic containers (larger than the little ones everyone else had) with ketchup. Actually, I more grossed out by her scrunchy-tamed pontytail, sweats and sporty rubber slip on sandals. I have a violent inexplicable aversion to that half-athletic/half-schlubby look. These are the same girls who wear flannel pajama bottoms with cartoon characters on them in public and think fleece is dressy. I had to avert my eyes every time she went for a ketchup dip.

After I got over the perceived sloppiness and topping spillage, I was faced with a pretty good burger that held its shape and retained enough juiciness despite the longer cooking time. The peppers were surprisingly hot, hence The Inferno moniker. The fries fell into the mealy steak fry camp, which I'll certainly eat even though I prefer thin, crispy strips (but not shoestring) over hefty wedges.

It was satisfying without crossing over into monstrous territory (though they do offer a one-pound burger). I do fear the Baconators of the world. On that note, Portfolio just published a substantial article and interesting sidebars on the unabashed gluttony trend touted in particular by Carl Jr's and Hardee's. Knowing that the Double Six Dollar Burger contains around 95% of my recommended daily calories almost makes me want to try it, so clearly their backwards marketing works.

Fuddruckers * 1271 Route 22 W., Bridgewater, New Jersey

Tim Hortons

I honestly don't think I even consumed a dozen donuts (I just can't type doughnut even though it seems more proper) in all twelve months of 2007--they're not my sweet of choice--but I made up for it over New Year's weekend. And the reason for that uncharacteristic behavior is simple: Tim Hortons. I know they're all over the United States now, but if something isn't in the immediate tri-state area it's still exotic to me.

My donut binge began unwisely at a LaGuardia Dunkin' Donuts. While picking up a 6am coffee, I couldn't resist an artificially strawberry-flavored pink glazed specimen. That might've been a mistake.

I still can't say whether it poisoned me or the tiny plane was the source of my stomach distress, but I was queasy an hour later when disembarking in Buffalo. However, I didn't get violently ill until after popping the two Tums James gave me that tasted like they were made of shampoo, apparently from sitting in the bottom of his toiletry bag for months.

We stopped at a Tim Hortons (which is great because it makes use of what I call the white trash S. Tim Horton is the hockey player. Tim Horton's would the hockey player's restaurant. Tim Hortons is just colloquial. I cringe when I hear people say Barnes & Nobles, Nordstroms, JCPenneys and the like, though just recently I caught myself saying that I worked off Williams St. when it's plain ol' William) on the outskirts of Buffalo and the tragedy was that I was too ill to indulge in a timbit, apple fritter or any of the Canadian chain's specialties. My queasy stomach temporarily stood still when REM's "Driver Eight" came over the speaker while I was hunched over the toilet bowl in one of their bathroom stalls because it was an odd song to be playing. Eh,  and then I threw up in their parking lot and repeated that lovely performance two more times during the two-hour drive to Toronto. Sadly, I never got to sample their excessive coffee, breakfast sandwich and donut combo.

Luckily, I perked up enough to later enjoy a maple-glazed Boston cream donut at a mall where strangely, the anchors were Wal-Mart and nofrills. Maple bars, a total NW staple, don't even exist in NYC; people have no idea what you're talking about if you bring them up.

On our third Tim Hortons excursion I got a butter pecan tart. I forgot about these mini treats that seem to flourish in Canada. They're like tiny individual pecan pies with a thicker richer crust. You can also find plain and raisin topped versions in any grocery store.

We love Tim Hortons so much that after our first visit to Toronto in 2000, we named a plush toy rabbit (James's mom is always giving him pointless and inappropriate gifts) Tim Horton. I don't know what ever happened to him, though this very second there is a nameless stuffed animal reindeer and giraffe in the living room.

Tim Hortons * throughout Canada and random U.S. states

Quiznos

The Quiznos in the parking lot of Linden New Jersey’s Aviation Plaza shopping center is the only one I’ve ever been to, and three times now. I work across the street from one and never go. This shopping center off Route 1 has become my go-to weekend destination for important destinations like Target, Old Navy, Marshall’s, Home Depot, a 24-hour Shop Rite (I like grocery shopping post 10pm), not so much the Polish and Slavic Credit Union or Avenue, but I was excited to find Applejack at Pied Piper Liquors—none of the shops in my immediate neighborhood sell it. And we persist in doing a bulk of our shopping out this way even though it costs a ridiculous $15 in tolls (the west coaster in me still can’t fathom such nonsense) to go through Staten Island into Union County.

And I found myself at Quiznos again this weekend because it was 5pm, I hadn’t eaten lunch yet (that’s what happens when you get out of bed at noon) and was starving but didn’t want to ruin my appetite because Sichuan food in Flushing was going to happen around 8:30pm. Applebee’s, Chevy’s and Boulder Steakhouse were out of the question; this was the perfect opportunity to try one of those two-dollar, despicably named Flatbread Sammies I saw advertised on TV last week. Yes, advertising works on me.

This is the Bistro Steak Melt, much flatter and less stuffed than the promotional shots. They’re not bad, though a little mixed up, using flatbread, meat, mozzarella, peppercorn sauce and what seems to be salsa. Middle Eastern? Mexican? I guess that’s wholly American. I don’t believe that they are terribly healthy but for something small and cheap to supplement my brought-from-home apple and yogurt it beats the $3.85 half-sandwich at Pret a Manger. (11/18/07)

Are You Chicken?

The last Wal-Mart I went to only had a lame Subway inside. I’m not one for dining in discount stores anyway (and as much as I like cheapness and crap, Wal-Marts tend to give me the creeps—they’re always heavy with a crestfallen vibe that’s barely masking something violent. What, I don’t know, but they always exude potential danger. There was even something scary about the rendition of “Pop Goes the Weasel” blaring from the ice cream truck cruising the parking lot at the one in Linden, NJ that I last frequented. After the song cycle would finish, this crazy cartoon sound effect “boing” would reverberate like the worst jack-in-the-box ever was popping out and coming to get you, but then, I’ve always been scared shitless by jack-in-the-boxes) but I might change my tune if there was a freaking Pollo Campero tucked between those Faded Glory brand denim shorts and Looney Tunes nursing aide uniforms .

I knew we were behind the times in NYC. We couldn’t even sustain two Guatemalan fast food chicken franchises in a city of 8 million, yet they flourish elsewhere in the US.

Despite a sad lack of fried chicken, I might have to make a Wal-Mart visit this weekend because I’m seriously coveting this wood grain tablecloth. I have no idea when or why this faux bois thing became so out of control, but I've been buying it up for the past few years.

I Went All the Way to Forest Hills and All I Got Was This Lousy Peanut Butter Granola Bar

“We should’ve gone to New Jersey,” was one of the first things I heard after shoving my way into the new Queens Trader Joe’s. Ah, no truer words have ever been spoken by a stranger. (I rarely go in for message board posting and have yet to chime in on this egullet discussion, but I am a proud car-owning [well, car-owning household] New Yorker who chooses to go to New Jersey for food. Not so much for hidden gems as for chain restaurants and big box stores, which is why I haven’t gotten involved with the foodie back and forth.)

Where else can you pick up some chocolate-covered edamame and satiate all of your scrapbooking needs in the same shopping trip? Welcome to the borough's first Trader Joe's and Michaels Crafts. 

I refused to believe James’s prediction that the latest Trader Joe’s addition would suck by virtue of being in NYC. It bummed me out that we missed opening weekend while in Beijing, but that also allowed two weeks for any initial crowds to die down. I don’t want to be negative all the time, so on the ride over I trying to justify how the Forest Hills location is so isolated (no subway access) that it would keep away the riff raff. Instead, it’d only be local curiosity seekers and intrepid yet misguided folks like us who should know better.

 

I was wrong. It was a nightmare. My photos don’t convey the crush, but the aisles were impenetrable. It was no less packed than my first and last Union Square TJ’s foray (and the paunchy, non-young employees here were most definitely not art students/candidates for American Apparel ads) Carts were pointless, though it didn’t stop people from trying to approximate normal shopping behavior anyway, creating irreparable traffic jams.

 

I wanted to grab four yogurts but couldn’t even get within arm’s reach of the shelf. I eyeballed a wedge of Cambozola yet was kept from it by a solid wall of zombies just standing and staring at the cheese case like they’d never seen dairy products before. The granola bar section never materialized at all, and settling on peanut butter bars from an end display instead of finding the sweet and salty ones I had my heart set on was the final straw. Plus, they didn’t carry Plugra butter like the New Jersey locations. And no, they don’t sell wine.

 

I could only be angry at myself for giving NYC the benefit of the doubt. The remedy for my gross miscalculation was to head up the street to Eddie’s Sweet Shop for a soothing hot fudge sundae.

New York does best when it sticks with what it knows; faded, old-timey ice cream parlors are a resounding success while facsimiles of quirky, low-priced faux gourmet chains are excruciatingly bad.

Trader Joe’s * 90-30 Metropolitan Ave., Forest Hills, NY (local press is calling this Rego Park, but that seems a bit off to me)

China: KFC & Pizza Hut

Yes, strange that I would start my China restaurant recaps with Pizza Hut. I really intended to steer clear of western food, I swear, but curiosity eventually got the better of me. Pizza Hut and KFC (both Yum! Brands) definitely seemed to be the dominant US chains in China. You might think of McDonald’s or Starbucks as the global evils, but pan pizza and fried chicken are prevailing in that corner of the world.

KFC got the better of me while killing time in the Beijing airport, which is far from a fun way to spend two afternoons (Singapore’s Changi airport is completely engaging but I’ve never needed to hang around for lengths of time). Though I later saw ads for buckets, simple fried chicken didn’t seem to be the attraction. All the combo meals were focused on sandwiches and wraps, and crunchy breaded cutlets between buns appeared to be the snack of choice. As English was non-existent on signage or spoken by staff, James pointed at a random picture and that’s the combo we split.

The bonanza entailed the popular chicken sandwich, four drummettes/wings, a creepy mayonnaisey vegetable salad that I didn’t taste out of fear and lack of cutlery and what tasted like orange Tang. I don’t really eat at KFC in the US so I can’t accurately compare the two. I don’t think extra crispy is our default, though.

I intended to get two egg tarts for dessert and somehow ended up with four. As far as miscommunications went, this was a fairly minor and tasty mishap. The little custardy pies are served warm and were way better than a fast food apple pie (yes, I’m mixing up my chain desserts).

Malls, each with a unique name and different stores, can span multiple blocks connected by overpasses and underground walkways. The only inevitable commonality are the KFCs and Pizza Huts. I only meant to peek at the Pizza Hut menu posted outside a corner location (there was also a Papa John’s nearby, but I’ve never been to one and didn’t think I should start in Shanghai). But after seeing appetizers like escargots and catching a glimpse of the slightly upscale interior, I had to try one of their seafood pizzas, no way around it.

I haven’t eaten inside a Pizza Hut in years (though I did briefly work in a drive-thru only one in college) so maybe they’ve fancified here too. Chinese Pizza Huts are more of a full service restaurant with soups, pastas and light jazz tinkling in the background.

I wasn’t bold enough to start with escargots, the New Orleans wings gave me pause; it was the cumin lamb meatballs that won me over. I just wasn’t expecting the cold marina-style dipping sauce that came on the side.

Because I’m a grotesque American (despite attracting a 98% Asian clientele, we got nasty looks through the window by some young white folks. I really don’t get the big deal. No one ever takes issue with Japanese chains like Yoshinoya or Coco Curry House that were all over the place. I wouldn’t have a problem if someone from China wanted to try mediocre Chinese food in NYC) I ordered the most expensive pizza (around $8) from their Gourmet Line. This doozy contained smoked salmon, shrimp and squid and was drizzled with creamy wasabi sauce.

Lacking any Italian-ness whatsoever in my DNA, cheese paired with seafood doesn’t bother me in the least. And sure, the dairy and spiciness dominated but the mix of flavors was strangely compelling.

KFC * Beijing Capital International Airport, Beijing, China
Pizza Hut * Metro City, 1111 Zhaojiabang Lu, Shanghai, China

Mall Tease

Do you know what’s annoying?

Decommissioning all three New Jersey Uniqlo locations to focus on Manhattan. Yesterday, I was very upset (Ok, just mildly—James is more into Uniqlo than I am) to see that the shiny red storefront at the Menlo Park Mall had be replaced by some trashy clothing store with 2 in the title.

Perhaps the NYC store has the exact same selection of merchandise and prices (though I’m not convinced of that) but I have no desire to shop in Soho. I don’t like Soho; I like Edison, NJ and being able to pick up cheap colorful clothing from a Japanese chain without running into tourists or locals who might as well be tourists, and then driving across the street to Benihana afterward.

Uniqlo is dead to me.

Do you know what’s irrationally laugh inducing?

When you’re feeling kind of serious doing thigh presses or something at the gym and Duran Duran’s "Hold Back the Rain" comes on your iPod. Second runner up is Alan Parsons Project, "Eye in the Sky."

Though all it takes to shatter this illusion is a grunter. Not a guido grunter--because you can’t fight nature--a guido’s going to grunt. But a Cobble Hiller who reads while using equipment and selfishly hogs machines because apparently they think they’re in a freakin’ den (the same genre who cluelessly block all store aisles with their fertility drug, double wide strollers). If you’re perusing Marion Nestle’s, What to Eat while squeezing in a few bicep curls every couple minutes, you are most definitely not allowed to grunt. However, I’m allowed to scream (in my head, of course).

Olive Garden

The Never Ending Pasta Bow(e)l should really have an extra E because there were some never ending bathroom trips the following day (it was probably my jungle curry lunch, but I don’t want to say anything bad about Chao Thai). Who knew? Even more disturbing is that this was my fourth visit to the Chelsea Olive Garden and I don’t even like (Italian-American) pasta. But all you can eat for $8.95 demanded investigation.

They’re very sneaky with this promotion; despite being advertised on TV continuously, there’s no signage, menu inserts or little cardboard foldovers on any of the tables. It’s all very hush hush and I’m not assertive so I started getting a little nervous. Thankfully, a dining companion who tipped me off in the first place had no qualms about piping up for cheap pasta.

Phew, paying Manhattan chain restaurant prices for mushy alfredo would be harsh (I’m still steaming how once I inexplicably spent close to $50 on a cheeseburger and two margaritas at a Times Square T.G.I. Friday’s. It’s the price you pay for suburban simulacra). I had no idea how the whole thing worked, it’s much more customizable than I’d anticipated. I figured you’d get spaghetti and a couple sauce options, but there were approximately six choices for each.

I have to admit that my linguine with smoked mozzarella and breadcrumbs was satisfying in a creamy starchy way. And I would’ve been fine with the one bowl—pasta is one of the few foodstuffs that never spurs a desire for seconds—but it’s never ending so you have to play along.

 

Penne with five cheese marina came next, and amusingly, in a bowl half the size as the first. Would the third come in a teacup, we wondered aloud. “People don’t finish their second,” we were bluntly told. I wasn’t complaining because entrée number two had no flavor, like I imagine hospital food would taste. Under-salting is one of my many cooking crimes, I never touch a shaker in restaurants, but this blob was crying out for sodium. Maybe they do it on purpose to quell appetites. Like many a diner before me, I didn’t finish my second bowl.

The upside of such a bargain (don’t forget the salad and breadsticks) is that you’ll have plenty of money left over to get sloshed on inexpensive Shiraz. (9/20/07)

Cheeseburger in Paradise

In preparation for my upcoming foray into South Florida I thought I’d do some research. You know, like what to the locals eat? So, I did the only logical thing and headed out to U.S. Route 1 in New Jersey, where all the finest chains are represented, and tried the brand new Cheeseburger in Paradise.

Apparently, in Key West they put mini sunglasses on their cocktail garnishes, eat glorified patty melts oozing Velveeta and enjoy acoustic Journey covers. All in all, pretty awesome. I’m set.

To be honest, I don’t understand the Jimmy Buffet connection to Key West (and I’m not about to look it up) let alone why anyone would name a restaurant Cheeseburger in Paradise. But there’s a lot that I don’t understand.

On an early Sunday evening, the bright pastel hued, surf shack-esque room was almost to capacity with families and large parties (I couldn’t stop staring at a motley group wearing purple polos with a logo I couldn’t make out. I was most mesmerized by a fortysomething female’s modern take on the rat tail. Her short, choppy gray hair was flanked by multiple tiny braid tails flowing half-way down her back. I started taking a photo, then stopped myself because who I am to judge someone’s hairy freak flag?) though in an un-chainlike manner there was no wait for a table.

I wasn’t sure what Cuban crustinis were but figured I should find out. Ok, they’re just mini toast rounds. Lime and cheese seem creepier than the seafood and cheese taboo, and this appetizer had it all. I’ve never been bothered by dairy and fish together, and really the crab, lime juice, spinach and melted asiago were inoffensive.

My burger? Not so sure. You get what’s coming to you if you order anything containing Velveeta and mayo, but I was curious about this Pressed Burger because it had a palm tree icon next to it indicating that it was an “island favorite.” Like I previously stated, it’s really a patty melt because it’s not on a bun. I was sort of imagining a panini burger, whatever that might be. This was more truck stop than trattoria and didn’t conjure the Florida Keys either.

The food was almost secondary because it was hard not to fixate on the entertainment, a middle aged guy (I actually couldn’t see him from where I was seated, but if he was under forty, I’ll buy you a plate of chocolate nachos) with an acoustic guitar, who managed to make every song murky, maudlin and sound like Time in a Bottle. Eventually, I could make out “Dust in the Wind,” “Landslide” and “Who’s Crying Now?” (the latter pumped into the bathroom stalls at five times the normal volume, which made me laugh out loud and no one could even hear). And it only got better when they put on piped music and Rupert Holmes’s classic, “Escape (The Pina Colada Song)” caressed my ears. It really perked up my pressed burger too, but everything feels smoother after a rum punch and margarita. And I now have a new ringtone idea for when I tire of “Popcorn.”

Cheeseburger in Paradise * 625 S.  U.S. Rt. 1, Iselin, NJ

There Must be Sadder Pastimes Than Grocery Shopping, Right?

I’ve never been able to wrap my head around farmers market fanaticism (though I did pay a brief visit to Grand Army Plaza’s on Saturday and picked up some tomatoes and opal basil). I get my entertainment from wide-aisled, fluorescent-lit mega markets. The Western Beef H.Q. will always be my favorite mainstream grocery store but Stop & Shop wows in other ways.

We really only go when we need to return bottles (though it’s often fruitless since I figured out they don’t take brands they don’t sell, so all our Trader Joe’s and various microbrew brands were rejected). I made a whopping 95 cents from plastic Vintage Seltzer. If anyone knows of any self-serve bottle returns in South Brooklyn, please do tell.

The two bright spots are the baked goods and metal shelves teeming with discontinued items. They used to hide the marked down rejects in the back near the bathrooms but it has been moved so it’s the first thing you see upon entering. You don’t often see price-slashed cast offs in NYC, probably because there isn’t enough room.

I picked up a can of oil-packed Genova Tonno (which I just discovered is owned by Chicken of the Sea) which isn’t half-bad tossed with white beans, red onions and arugula. But it was the Trivial Pursuit Pop Tarts that took top prize from the shelf of misfit food. I genuinely like Pop Tarts so I’m still debating whether I should eat them or save them along with my other just-for-looks snacks like Strawberry Fluff and KC Masterpiece ranch-flavored bbq sauce that I hoard on an Ikea Ivar shelf downstairs.

 

Ready to eat cheesecake filling was new to me. I thought those no-bake Jello “cheesecake” mixes were instant enough. There’s something about this plastic tub that implies the filling will never make its way into a crust and more likely alternate between spoon and mouth.

I couldn’t believe Stop & Shop didn’t have Lofthouse cookies, that’s their one reliable item. But single serve carrot cake and 7UP crème cake (we bought both) made up for the lack of soft cookes.
Do they still have Little Buckets at KFC? Ok, yes they do (I love answering my own question). S&S makes Boston cream, strawberry shortcake and said carrot cake in short stubby plastic containers that remind me of a fast food dessert.

 

A cheap jumble of raisin and nut studded cake, whipped cream and piped cream cheese frosting. For only $1.99, I got three snack occasions out of this.