I know! I'm surprised too. I went to San Fransisco and the only thing gay I have to report is my crush on our adorable host, another old friend of Edith's. He was like Thumper with sex appeal (is dog on bunny still considered beastiality?). Instead of a day of homobauchery, it turned out to be a really classy day of fine drinking.
We started north of the city in Napa Valley. We found a little winery named Bouchaine down some winding vineyard encased roads. Everything from the grapevines to the breeze was gorgeous. Neither Edith nor I had been to a wine tasting prior to this. Truth be told, I do not have a particularly advanced palate. I don't know what undertones are and I've never once used the word "earthy" to describe what was in my mouth. Oh, except for when I was a puppy and I ate dirt simply because I was too lazy to go inside to get actual food. ... Huh, I never noticed this before but that's exactly how I ended up sleeping with most of the people on my Been There list.
My relative ignorance didn't matter, however. Our pourer lady was friendly and informative and educated me quite a bit. For instance, did you know there are only three types of grapes allowed in champagne? Chardonnay, pinot noir, and pinot meunier. Well, you probably did. But I didn't. I also didn't have champagne, but we did have the wines made from those three types of grapes. I picked up hints of deliciousness and subtle notes of 13% alcohol by volume. After we had way more peaceful happiness than either of us could stand, we drove into the city to meet up with Thumper.
As it happens, one of the new trends in San Fransisco is a trend that I happen to fully endorse (Hint: It's not handlebar mustaches, so stop trying to make that happen, you skinny hipster fucks). It's exquisite cocktails. There are also a few places in Atlanta that employ mixologists and are bringing back Prohibition era, handmade cocktails. I'm talking drinks that involve egg whites or basil or white whiskey. I'm a big fan. Seeing as how I don't particularly like my drinks sugary I was never able to lap up a frozen bahama coladarita at TGI Fridays, but the usual blank on the rocks or martini was getting a bit boring. I often find myself jazzed when a bar has cocktail onions for a gin gibson because at least onions in my martini gives the illusion of variety. Also? I f'in love cocktail onions. Now that I can go to a bar and order a cocktail made with absinthe or bacon-infused bourbon, Dot Martix's Alcoholic Alarm is sounding more than ever. It's great!
I had a great time in San Fransisco trying the many cocktails at the two places Thumper took us. I would tell you the names and give a more detailed review, but, honestly, I don't remember the names and any attempt at reviews I've written are more boring than this post so I'll spare you. I will, however, mention that thanks to San Fran and Thumper I discovered a new liquor and that excites me to no end. It's called genever and, as it was described to me, is halfway between whiskey and gin. I was skeptical since that description makes no sense, but once you try it you realize it's somehow true. Genever is a dutch liquor made with juniper that the English evolved into gin as we know it. Sort of a proto-gin. So although I don't have all the palatey words to talk about it, I'm glad for the non-gay education I got in drinking that day. Next visit, though, I'm gonna fuck my way through the Castro until I'm the Grand Marshall of the Pride Parade.
Showing posts with label stomach rumblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stomach rumblings. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
The Enola Gay Burger
There's a place called Arco, Idaho. Somewhere around 1,000 people occupy a small tract of land in the middle of the Idaho National Laboratory, a vast space of flat, flat lands with the occasional rocky mini-mountain jutting up. The image is quite striking, if desolate. At some point, the United States government found these dusty 890 square miles to be the perfect place to set up shop -- atomic power testing shop, that is. And thus was born the National Reactor Testing Station.
But near that test run nuclear reactor there's a place called Arco, Idaho, the first city in the world to have electricity generated by nuclear power. It's atomic past is now apart of Arco's culinary present. Of it's 1,000 or so residents, one saw fit to open a restaurant... or perhaps it could best be described as a diner, I don't know. It straddling the line. "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger," proclaims the billboard! Home of the Atomic Burger? Some shit hole place in some shit hole town? I believe it. And that's not sarcasm. Middle of Nowhere, USA with all it's surrounding cattle land and savage lack of pretension? I believe they make a good burger.
Edith and I drive into Arco and immediately spot the sign, "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger." The sign is suspended from a green wooden building and features an anthropomorphic pickle with a smile on his face, one hand in the air, and the other where his human-pickle crotch would be. Covering himself in modesty? Just too darn excited about the Atomic Burger? I chose the latter explanation, as I myself was growing quite excited about this meal. Especially after days of campsite feasts.
Walking inside did nothing to squelch this excitement. There appeared to be maybe two employees working at the time, judging by the number of tables desperately in need of bussing. We found ourselves a clean, or at least clear, white and gray Formica table and sat down in the green plastic chairs. A few other tables were occupied by locals, several older and almost all in baseball caps. The walls were being used to sell clocks. Clocks that my friends and family should not be surprised to see under the tree this December. They were all made of differently shaped wood pieces, each with a unique image or picture lacquered on. I must applaud the "something for everyone" philosophy of the clock maker. There was an Elvis clock, a cuddly kitten next to a vase of roses clock, an elk clock, a studly Native American clock, and even a muscular unicorn galloping along the Tron racetrack clock. All as tasteful as possible. I began to wonder if they sold gift wrap as well.
According to the menu, the Atomic Burger came with sauteed mushrooms and onions on a corn meal bun and was made with special seasoning that is created, bottled, and sold in Pickle's Place, John's Spice. There was a bottle of this spice created by Arco's culinary rockstar, John, on the table. The label boasted numerous uses for this powdered magic and the ingredients listed garlic, onion, and various peppers, among a number of other spices both specified and not. "Mmmm," I thought to myself sprinkling some on my hand for a sample. "Oh," I said simply, having been mildly disappointed by the flavor. "Well, maybe it needs to be cooked in meat to really be effective," my inner optimist surprisingly offered. I say surprisingly because my inner optimist is buried under so many layers of bitterness and cynicism that I often can't make out what exactly he's trying to say, only an indistinct mumbling.
When the overworked, yet still somehow lackadaisical, waitress finally came to take our order, Edith and I both got an Atomic Burger (every time I say that, I feel as though my voice should get amplified and reverberated). I refrained on the mushrooms; she added cheese to hers. We spent the remaining time chatting about the clocks and musing about what local kids and teens must do in Arco.
Finally, the moment of truth. Our ATOMIC BURGER-Burger-burger arrived. And immediately, my inner optimist was shoved so far down that I fear he may have suffocated to death. It looked weak. All my images of Nagasaki and Indiana Jones flew right out of my brain. All that was left was this burger. This average looking at best burger. A floppy piece of meat with some grilled onions on a normal looking bun. I put the usual lettuce, tomato, onion trimmings on and took a bite.
On second thought, perhaps it was atomic. In the way that the survivors of Hiroshima who got all sickly and radiated were atomic. The highest compliment I can pay this burger is that it was passable. I'd say it was a step up from fast food in that the thought of it doesn't make me want to retch, but neither does it make me want to salivate. In fact, it just makes me mad. If you are going to have a fucking Atomic Burger than have an atomic fucking burger! It's called false advertising and it's illegal, you masturbating pickle. So thank you, Arco. You have effectively built me up and knocked me down. I suddenly no longer feel bad that your high school rodeo team is named the Butte Pirates. Guess we found out what the teens do in Arco.
But near that test run nuclear reactor there's a place called Arco, Idaho, the first city in the world to have electricity generated by nuclear power. It's atomic past is now apart of Arco's culinary present. Of it's 1,000 or so residents, one saw fit to open a restaurant... or perhaps it could best be described as a diner, I don't know. It straddling the line. "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger," proclaims the billboard! Home of the Atomic Burger? Some shit hole place in some shit hole town? I believe it. And that's not sarcasm. Middle of Nowhere, USA with all it's surrounding cattle land and savage lack of pretension? I believe they make a good burger.
Edith and I drive into Arco and immediately spot the sign, "Pickle's Place - Home of the Atomic Burger." The sign is suspended from a green wooden building and features an anthropomorphic pickle with a smile on his face, one hand in the air, and the other where his human-pickle crotch would be. Covering himself in modesty? Just too darn excited about the Atomic Burger? I chose the latter explanation, as I myself was growing quite excited about this meal. Especially after days of campsite feasts.
Walking inside did nothing to squelch this excitement. There appeared to be maybe two employees working at the time, judging by the number of tables desperately in need of bussing. We found ourselves a clean, or at least clear, white and gray Formica table and sat down in the green plastic chairs. A few other tables were occupied by locals, several older and almost all in baseball caps. The walls were being used to sell clocks. Clocks that my friends and family should not be surprised to see under the tree this December. They were all made of differently shaped wood pieces, each with a unique image or picture lacquered on. I must applaud the "something for everyone" philosophy of the clock maker. There was an Elvis clock, a cuddly kitten next to a vase of roses clock, an elk clock, a studly Native American clock, and even a muscular unicorn galloping along the Tron racetrack clock. All as tasteful as possible. I began to wonder if they sold gift wrap as well.
According to the menu, the Atomic Burger came with sauteed mushrooms and onions on a corn meal bun and was made with special seasoning that is created, bottled, and sold in Pickle's Place, John's Spice. There was a bottle of this spice created by Arco's culinary rockstar, John, on the table. The label boasted numerous uses for this powdered magic and the ingredients listed garlic, onion, and various peppers, among a number of other spices both specified and not. "Mmmm," I thought to myself sprinkling some on my hand for a sample. "Oh," I said simply, having been mildly disappointed by the flavor. "Well, maybe it needs to be cooked in meat to really be effective," my inner optimist surprisingly offered. I say surprisingly because my inner optimist is buried under so many layers of bitterness and cynicism that I often can't make out what exactly he's trying to say, only an indistinct mumbling.
When the overworked, yet still somehow lackadaisical, waitress finally came to take our order, Edith and I both got an Atomic Burger (every time I say that, I feel as though my voice should get amplified and reverberated). I refrained on the mushrooms; she added cheese to hers. We spent the remaining time chatting about the clocks and musing about what local kids and teens must do in Arco.
Finally, the moment of truth. Our ATOMIC BURGER-Burger-burger arrived. And immediately, my inner optimist was shoved so far down that I fear he may have suffocated to death. It looked weak. All my images of Nagasaki and Indiana Jones flew right out of my brain. All that was left was this burger. This average looking at best burger. A floppy piece of meat with some grilled onions on a normal looking bun. I put the usual lettuce, tomato, onion trimmings on and took a bite.
On second thought, perhaps it was atomic. In the way that the survivors of Hiroshima who got all sickly and radiated were atomic. The highest compliment I can pay this burger is that it was passable. I'd say it was a step up from fast food in that the thought of it doesn't make me want to retch, but neither does it make me want to salivate. In fact, it just makes me mad. If you are going to have a fucking Atomic Burger than have an atomic fucking burger! It's called false advertising and it's illegal, you masturbating pickle. So thank you, Arco. You have effectively built me up and knocked me down. I suddenly no longer feel bad that your high school rodeo team is named the Butte Pirates. Guess we found out what the teens do in Arco.
Friday, July 10, 2009
It Says, Thing Says: Dueling Gringos
It says: Goddamn Mexicans! Invading our nice, safe cities. Now there's signs in Mexican all over the damn place. This is Amurica! Where we speak God's English. They take away jobs from hard working Amuricans, refuse to pay taxes, and then run off and have twenty babies before they're even sixteen years old! Plus, they steal.
Thing says: But Los Portales.
It says: This was a good town before them Mexican gangbangers came rolling in with their old Cadillacs and crazy latin polka. Them lazy bastards sit around all day drinking and doing rim jobs on these Caddies. Which is an Amurican car! It's blasphemy seeing some wetback muddying up an honest-to-god trusty Amurican classic like that.
Thing says: But, seriously, Los Portales!
It says: Now my wife don't feel safe in our own city, what with the now ever present threat of rape. Them Mexicans are violent, dirty, stupid, lazy, unlawful, and just plain bad for Amurica! 9/11!! Not to mention those little shithole restaurants they open. Uglying up our fair city...
Thing says: WHOA! Now you crossed a line, bitch. You wanna keep talking about Los Portales? Because I will fuckin cut you. Good, cheap, ridiculously authentic Mexican food is one of the ways Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Vishnu, Kukulcan, and L. Ron Hubbard reward us for being sensational.
It says: But look at...
Thing says: NO! You look at it! It's everything everyone wants and more. LOS PORTALES PARA PRESIDENTE DE LA TIERRA!
Thing says: But Los Portales.
It says: This was a good town before them Mexican gangbangers came rolling in with their old Cadillacs and crazy latin polka. Them lazy bastards sit around all day drinking and doing rim jobs on these Caddies. Which is an Amurican car! It's blasphemy seeing some wetback muddying up an honest-to-god trusty Amurican classic like that.
Thing says: But, seriously, Los Portales!
It says: Now my wife don't feel safe in our own city, what with the now ever present threat of rape. Them Mexicans are violent, dirty, stupid, lazy, unlawful, and just plain bad for Amurica! 9/11!! Not to mention those little shithole restaurants they open. Uglying up our fair city...
Thing says: WHOA! Now you crossed a line, bitch. You wanna keep talking about Los Portales? Because I will fuckin cut you. Good, cheap, ridiculously authentic Mexican food is one of the ways Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Vishnu, Kukulcan, and L. Ron Hubbard reward us for being sensational.
It says: But look at...
Thing says: NO! You look at it! It's everything everyone wants and more. LOS PORTALES PARA PRESIDENTE DE LA TIERRA!
Monday, June 29, 2009
"I miss my brother..."
Sometimes, late at night when no one is around, my mind drifts back to the last time I saw my brother. His dark fur almost blended with the dark pavement as he laid motionless at the entrance to the old landfill. The smell was something unforgettable in the southern sun but I didn't mind. Having him there with me brought me comfort. Comfort I sorely lack at the moment. I had to move on from that spot, and it makes me sad because I miss my brother and the way he tasted. And in those sad, hungry hours late at night, I settle for a Milkbone.
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