Static Zombie

Natural Selection

A class action suit has been filed in New Jersey against Snapple, charging that the use of high-fructose corn syrup makes their claim of "all natural" false advertising. Deceptive advetising claims are everywhere these days-- perhaps the only thing more ubiquitous is high fructose corn syrup-- and I'm all for cracking the whip on corporations who engage in such practices. But only if the advertising in question is, um, false.

I wouldn't bat an eyelash at the appointment of a High-Fructose Corn Syrup Czar to head the War on Sugar. Grab a package of something from your fridge and check the label-- it's probably there. And we wonder why obesity is rampant in America. But as evil as high-fructose corn syrup is, to call it unnatural seems absurd. According to the article:

High-fructose corn syrup is made from corn starch that is processed with enzymes to create glucose and fructose. Critics of the sweetener charge it is far from natural because of the multi-step process required to create it.

Corn starch and enzymes. No chemicals, nothing unnatural. Critics are trying to attach guilt by association. The process used to create the syrup requires multiple steps, therefore the result is unnatural. And there is certainly a definition of "unnatural" that would support this. Could the syrup be created spontaneously in nature? If not, by one definition, it's unnatural. But I don't think that's the definition consumers would find most useful in this context. What we really want to know is whether or not there are chemical additives in our food. I don't care if bananas and kiwis grow in entirely different climates, such that they could never be in the same place "naturally". If you puree them with some ice, the resulting smoothie is still all-natural. Hell, if you liquified them and then whipped them into a stable foam (assuming such a thing were possible)-- a configuration nature probably never intended-- there's nothing culinarily "unnatural" about it. If you made a popsicle out of it by freezing it to absolute zero-- a condition impossible in nature and enabled only by modern technology-- is there anything in the final product that my body would find unnatural? If not, what's the hubbub?

The FDA has no official definition of "natural", so the use of the term remains unregulated. High fructose corn syrup is evil, sure. But it isn't unnatural.

If lawyers are really looking for someone to go after for false advertising, I have just five words for them. Fox News: Fair and Balanced.

Princess Leia Organics

Last week the gf embarked on a new dietary regime designed to detox the body by eliminating potentially allergenic foods. Dairy? Gone. Wheat? Axed. Shellfish and beef? Off the table. Citrus, tomatoes, potatoes and corn are also taboo. What's left? Chicken, fish, rice, lentils, and veggies. And since detoxing is a goal, eliminating chemicals and processed foods is also beneficial. Wanting to be supportive, I seized on this as an opportunity to try out a service I've long been curious about-- organic produce delivery.

The service, from Pioneer Organics (wouldn't the title of this entry be a better name, battalions of Lucasfilm lawyers not withstanding?), delivers a box of seasonal produce to your door every one or two weeks. The contents of the box changes each week depending on what's fresh, but you can ban things you don't like (we'll pass on the eggplants and lima beans, thanks) and you can vet the packing list beforehand every time and add or remove whatever you want. This goes with my belief that life should be delivered. I've never much cared if my produce was organic or not, so I'm very interested to see if I notice any difference in taste or quality.

We opted to start with the small box, delivered every other week. Better to use everything up early and switch to a more frequent interval if need be than to drown under a sea of produce. Our deliveries are on Thursdays, and the first box came today. If I'd been more on the ball I'd have taken a picture of the contents, but you'll have to make do with a list:

1 Galia melon, 1 lb mixed baby new potatoes, 2 ears of white corn, 1 bunch broccoli, 1 bulb purple garlic, 1 mango, 1 Valencia orange, 2/3 lb Bing cherries, 2 lbs bananas, 1/4 lb salad mix, 1 bunch kale, 3/4 lb green grapes, 1 head Romaine lettuce.

The potatoes, corn, and orange are earmarked for me since they're off-limits for the gf. I intend to eat the corn ASAP (likely Saturday) since its sugar quickly turns to starch causing the corn to lose flavor. We dipped into the cherries tonight and they're deliciously sweet. The Romaine is easily the fullest head of Romaine I've ever seen. It's screaming "Caesar salad" to me, but... egg. Parmesan. Not gf-friendly. Perhaps a different salad, or a Thai lettuce wrap recipe the gf dug up. I've never seen a Galia melon before-- it's about the size of a grapefruit, and I'm not sure if it's ripe yet. Since it has no odor, I'm inclined to wait a bit. I've never used kale in my life, so that's going to be a fun little adventure. In fact, having unfamiliar produce thrust upon us and being forced to figure out how to use it was part of the motivation for signing up with the service.

So... the experiment is too early to call. I'm hoping that having the produce in the house will spur me to cook with it, and if that happens it's all to the good. And every other Thursday is going to feel a little bit like Christmas. With a granola-crunching, overall-clad Santa.

Frosty

Of all the fast food burger joints, the one I like most is Wendy's. Not necessarily because their burgers are better than their competitors', mind you, but for a number of factors combined. Their value menu has an excellent array of choices when you want something cheap, including the winning combination of a real, honest-to-goodness baked potato and a cup of acceptable chili (whose real, honest-to-goodness-ness I choose not to dwell on). Slice open potato, pour on chili, enjoy. They have both batter-fried and roasted chicken sandwich options. Most importantly, I like their fries-- thicker than Mickey D's or Burger Kings, less crispy, but heartier and less salty.

Really, the only thing missing is dessert. I know lots of people who swoon over the Frosty, but chocolate dairy treats aren't my thing. I like dark chocolate, and any ice cream concoction will have more of a milk chocolate flavor. When it comes to shakes and the like, I'm a vanilla guy. Songs of praise for the Wendy's Frosty fall on deaf ears.

So last night I found myself at a Wendy's, and a decal on the menu caught my attention: "Chocolate or Vanilla". I did a double-take. The Frosty machine stared back at me from behind the counter as it always did. It looked no different. It still had only one spout-- a spout that heretofore always dispensed a chocolate dairy treat. "Excuse me," I asked the cashier, "do you guys have Vanilla Frosties now?" She confirmed that they did, and so I ordered my first 99 cent Frosty-- dispensed as if by magic from the formerly chocolate-spewing machine.

And you know what? Meh.

It was basically a cup of vanilla soft-serve. A perfectly fine soft-serve, but too firm to be sucked down with a straw. Certainly nothing to replace McDonald's old hot caramel sundae-- I used to ask my dad to stop at the golden arches just for that. With extra caramel on the bottom, please. Ooooooh, yeah. But this? Nothing to get excited about whatsoever.

Blizzard, your throne remains secure.

Cooking++

We eat three meals a day (or we would, if we woke up early enough for breakfast...). Unless you're Calista Flockhart, you've just gotta eat. You can look at it as a chore, like shaving or teaching the dog that humping visitors' legs is not acceptable behavior unless the visitor is your mother-in-law, but I see it as something to relish. I don't understand why more people don't like to cook. Unlike many other creative passions like gardening, carpentry, and child-rearing, the gratification is almost immediate. Few things are as satisfying as producing a delicious meal.

True chefs don't follow recipes. They coax flavors out of their ingredients through Vulcan mind meld, intuitively knowing that a chilled apple coulis will create a perfect counterpoint to that rutebega. They throw ingredients into the pan by sight-- a dash of this, a handful of that. Measuring spoons are beneath them. Seasoning is an art; the pan, their canvas.

Then there's the rest of us. We need recipes-- codified series of instructions that take us step by step through the creation of a dish. And this morning, in the wake of a couple of fabulously successful new recipes for chicken tikka masala and butter chicken, it hit me that recipes are really just computer programs, with the cook as the central processor.

Just as we declare variables at the top of each program, every recipe begins by declaring its ingredients. Instead of allocating storage in memory, the cook sets aside storage on his countertop or in his mis en place and measures out the appropriate amount of the ingredient. Many recipes present themselves as a series of numbered steps, or subroutines, in the cooking process. The cook proceeds from the top to the bottom, executing each step in turn until he reaches the end. Before running a program/recipe, you have to make sure you meet the hardware requirements. Instead of a blue screen of death when a program crashes, you might get black smoke. You have to clean up what you use, lest the computer/kitchen run out of resources and grind to a halt. And when everything works as intended, the satisfaction is unparalleled. No wonder I love cooking!

Since cooking is just another programming language, recipes can be ported from one system to another. Here's a port of my favorite chocolate chip cookie recipe...

#define COOKIES_PER_BATCH 24;
#define ROWS_PER_SHEET 3;
#define COLUMNS_PER_SHEET 2;

var bowl1, bowl2, platter;
var wet_ingredients[] = { sugar, brown_sugar, melted_butter, milk, vanilla };
var dry_ingredients[] = {flour, baking_soda, salt };
var choc_chips, eggs[2];
var oven;
var baking_sheet[][] = new cookie[ROWS_PER_SHEET][COLUMNS_PER_SHEET];

Main()
{
    oven.Initialize(375);
    AddIngredients(wet_ingredients, ref bowl1);

    bowl1 += egg[0];
    egg[1] -= egg_white;
    bowl1 += egg[1];
    Cooking.Util.Mix(bowl1);
    AddIngredients(dry_ingredients, ref bowl2);
    CombineReceptacles(bowl2, ref bowl1);

    bowl1 += chocolate_chips;
    Cooking.Util.Mix(bowl1);
    bowl1 -= raw_dough / rand(100); // Source of "girlfriend likes raw dough" issue?

    while (bowl1.IsEmpty() == false)
    {
        CreateDropCookies(ref baking_sheet, bowl1);
        BakeCookies(baking_sheet);
        RemoveCookiesFromSheet(baking_sheet, ref platter);
    }
}

AddIngredients(ingredients, ref receptacle)
{
    for (int ing_num = 0; ing_num < ingredients.count; ing_num++)
    {
        receptacle += ingredients[ing_num];
    }
    Cooking.Util.Mix(receptacle);
}

CombineReceptacles(src, ref dest)
{
    // Risk buffer overrun if added all at once.  Workaround: add in 4ths
    for (part = 0; part < 4; part++)
    {
        dest += memcpy(src + sizeof(src / 4), sizeof(src / 4));
        Cooking.Util.Mix(dest);
    }
}

CreateDropCookies(ref baking_sheet, bowl1)
{
    for (row = 0; row < ROWS_PER_SHEET; row++)
    {
        for (column = 0; column < COLUMNS_PER_SHEET; column++)
        {
            if (bowl1.IsEmpty())
            {
                break;
            }
            var doughsize = sizeof(bowl1 / COOKIES_PER_BATCH);
            var doughball = new Doughball(bowl1, doughsize);
            baking_sheet[row][column] = doughball;
            bowl1 -= doughball;
        }
    }
}

BakeCookies(baking_sheet)
{
    oven += baking_sheet;
    System.Util.Delay(840000);  // 14 minutes.  Switch to async timer for multitasking.
    oven -= baking_sheet;
}

RemoveCookiesFromSheet(baking_sheet, platter)
{
    for (row = 0; row < ROWS_PER_SHEET; row++)
    {
        for (column = 0; column < COLUMNS_PER_SHEET; column++)
        {
            if (baking_sheet[row][column] != null)
            {
                platter.Add(baking_sheet[row][column]);
                baking_sheet[row][column] = null;
            }
        }
    }
    platter.Remove(1); // one for the cook!
}

Strip Food

We hit what are widely considered to be the top three buffets on the strip, and I'd rank them in this order: Paris, Aladdin, Bellagio. None of the others are in the same league as the Paris when it comes to decor. The Paris buffet looks like a little French village and is really quite lovely, in a Disney kind of way. What I particularly liked about their cuisine was that it stayed remarkably on-theme. The other buffets offer stations providing food segregated by nationality-- Mexican, Chinese, Sushi, American, Italian, etc. At Paris, the stations are grouped by region of France. I have no idea if the cuisine was authentic to those regions, but I can tell you there were no tacos or stir-fries to be found. Some things they couldn't get away from-- a carving station, crab legs, Caesar salad-- but the majority of their offerings felt at home in a French restaurant. Fondue, crepes, quiche, brochettes, gratins, exceptional mashed potatoes and creamed spinach, and of course divine desserts (although, oddly, no creme brulee). The quality of the food at the Aladdin buffet was also top-notch, and the desserts seemed the highest quality and most varied of the three places we visited. The Bellagio suffered only in comparison to the other two, and I'm sure other people with different tastes might rank it higher-- I do give it extra points for offering a poke (pronounced PO-kay) at its sushi station, a dish that's become my favorite form of raw fish.

We also dined at Mesa Grill at Caesar's. On the whole I was disappointed here-- the hollandaise on the chicken and sweet potato hash overpowered its other flavors, and the nine-spice chicken salad was nothing special. But if nothing else, I'd go back for the goat cheese fundido-- a small cast iron pan of cheesy heaven. Go for lunch or a snack, order this, and you'll be happy happy happy.

Vegas has become a foodie's dream but a casual diner's nightmare. Top chefs from around the world have outposts here, and getting from one to the other is easier than anywhere else in the world. Reservations are virtually required at any of the better restaurants, and prices are a far cry from the days when $2.99 steak and eggs ruled the roost. There are less expensive options-- most casinos have a food court with Nathan's and the like-- but restaurants are now as much a destination as the casinos and are priced accordingly.

At the other end of the scale, we also took a trip to In-N-Out Burger just off the strip. While I applaud their fresh-cut fries, Nathan's is still the champ in that category. I've said this before, and it still holds-- I don't understand the fanatic loyalty this place inspires. It has to be for reasons other than the food itself, because the burgers are absolutely nothing special-- even a Whopper is better.

If you and your friends are thirsty, I recommend a visit to the Coca-Cola store near the MGM. The soda fountain upstairs offers a $7 "Tastes of the World" sampler: 16 glasses of various soda flavors from around the globe, most of which are completely unavailable in the United States. Some, like the green apple, were just delish (think liquid Jolly Rancher) while others-- one in particular-- were flat-out repulsive. There was too much for just the two of us to finish in one sitting. A group of four that doesn't mind sharing the same cups would be just right.

50 Best Foods: Desserts

Saved the best for last...

Häagen Dazs Caramel Cone ice cream: I've covered this previously.

Oreo Blizzard: The Blizzard single-handedly saved Dairy Queen, accounting for an astounding percentage of its annual sales (I looked, but couldn't find the precise figure). The Oreo Blizzard is nirvana in a cup, with the chocolate crunchiness of the cookie offering a perfect counterpoint to the creamy vanilla soft serve ice cream.

hazelnut gelato: I don't go for fruity ice creams-- mixing fruit and dairy has never been a huge winner for me (Creamsicles? Ugh!) I've always gravitated toward the creamier flavors-- butter crunch, mint chocolate chip, etc. Hazelnut gelato is like super-creamy frozen nougat. I ate three cones of this every day I was in Florence.

Good Humor Toasted Almond bars: I'm not even sure if they make this anymore. If they do, I want some. This was my treat of choice as a kid, when I used to run to the end of our dead-end street and cut through a neighbor's backyard to reach the Good Humor truck that was always stationed there on warm spring and summer afternoons. Other kids got the red, white, and blue rocket popsicles that turn your tongue colors, or the italian ices with wooden tongue-depressor spoons. For me it was Toasted Almond or nothing. The simple vanilla ice cream was nothing special, but that "toasted almond" coating... mmmmmmmm. At one gelateria in Florence I had amaretto gelato that tasted EXACTLY like this, and for a few minutes I was a kid again.

PBMax: Late and very much lamented, the PBMax was an answer to the atrocious Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, with it's chalky <air quotes>peanut butter</air quotes>. PBMax covered a crispy puffed-rice cookie with real, honest-to-goodness sumptuously creamy peanut butter, all dunked in chocolate. It was like dipping a chocolate bar into a jar of peanut butter, but with a satisfying crunchy cookie layer to bind and unify the experience. Had I only known it was disappearing, I'd have pulled an Elaine and bought up every case Costco had in stock. By now, they'd all be gone-- and none of you would have been PBMax-worthy.

buttercream frosting: Specifically, the kind of sweet frosting found on bakery cupcakes and sheet cakes. I know, I know-- but I love the stuff. Corner piece? Mine! Big pink frosting rose? Mine! Quadruple bypass at 50? Mine!

Puyallup fair scones: At the Western Washington State Fair held every September in Puyallup, WA, one of the signature foods are Fisher scones. Slap your buck on the counter and you're instantly rewarded with a waxed paper bag containing a piping hot scone, sliced and slathered with honey butter and raspberry jam. I never get just one. The mix is available year-round to be made at home, but unless your home basks in the odor of cow manure baking in the hot afternoon sun, it's just not the same.

Cinnabons: I know I could probably make cinnamon buns at home that are as good or better, but what a production, with the kneading and the rolling out and the cutting and the GLAY-vin! And then, a dozen cinnamon rolls later, I'm reflecting that perhaps it would have been better all the way around to just pop over to the mall for a Cinnabon. It may not be buttercream, but it's all about the frosting.

Cheesecake Factory dulce de leche caramel cheesecake: Oh. My. God. Insanely good. I'm not a whipped cream fan at all, but even the accompanying dollop of cream is spectacular. Best of all, they top the whipped cream with something that tastes an awful lot like Good Humor toasted almonds! I will never, ever leave a Cheesecake Factory restaurant without a slice of this, and have been known to swing by solely to get one to go.

freshly baked chocolate chip cookies: The Chewy, of course. The key is to get them out of the oven immediately to ensure their chewiness when cooled, which is essential to the preferred chocolate chip cookie experience. Assuming they last long enough for it to matter, of course. Nothing I ever cook makes me as happy as the simple pleasure of a warm Chewy and cold glass of milk.

50 Best Foods: Chicken and Fish

tom kha gai soup: Silky smooth coconut milk and spicy red chili paste make a good tom kha gai a sublime pleasure-- especially if the cook resists the urge to overload the soup with stalks of inedible lemongrass.

chicken tikka masala: I don't believe I ever had Indian food before going to college. Once there, friends-- yeah, I'm looking at you, Springberg-- introduced me to chicken tikka masala, and it became the archetype. In my mental dictionary, the picture next to the "indian food" entry is this dish. You know what I love about Indian cuisine? Cream is not a four letter word. The tikka is tasty, but it's the tomato-cream sauce that makes the dish.

jambalaya: There are really only two vegetables I hate: brussel sprouts and okra. Gumbo, which I'd otherwise adore, is too often an excuse to foist okra onto an unsuspecting diner. So when it comes to N'awlins chow, I turn to jambalaya. Cajun andouille sausage, shredded chicken, plump shrimp, all nestled in a pot of zesty, gooey rice. It's a hearty one-pot meal that always brings the happy.

blackened salmon: Really, this could be blackened anything-- chicken, steak, whatever. There's very little in the way of protein that can't be improved with a healthy coating of cajun spices. Salmon fares particularly well, however, with its moist flesh providing a counterpoint to the charred exterior. Served up with grilled onions and a creole mayo and BAM-- your dinner's kicked up a few notches.

curried chicken salad: So simple, and yet sublime. Grapes, golden raisins, and granny smith apples provide sweetness and texture, while celery lends a satisfying crunch and red onion provides a little extra zing. Forget sandwich bread-- I'll eat the stuff right out of the tupperware. The perfect use for poached chicken meat produced by my favorite stock-making procedure.

jerk chicken: Someday I'll get to Jamaica and have the real thing, cooked in allspice leaves with scotch bonnet peppers. In the meantime, I have to content myself with off-the-shelf marinades and sauces.

chicken pot pie: The ultimate comfort food, especially since I learned to make it from scratch at home. As with so many things, a liberal application of Tabasco to the tender-flaky crust makes a good thing even better.

General Tso's chicken: The barometer by which all Chinese restaurants are measured. Nobody knows who the General really was, or if he ever existed, but in my book a General trumps the Colonel.

50 Best Foods: Beef and Pork

Paseo pork sandwich: The best sandwich on the planet, served from a tiny little hole-in-the-wall in Seattle's Fremont neighborhood. Why is it the best foods always come from tiny holes-in-the-wall? The marinated pork is unlike anything I've ever had. It's served on a fabulous Cuban roll with mayo, cilantro, and the most incredible marinated, grilled thick-cut onions you'll ever find. The Paseo pork sandwich redefines finger-lickin' good.

bosna: An Austrian sausage I spent most of my visit in Salzburg greedily inhaling. Served doubled-up on a bun with curry, mustard, and onions, bosna was love at first bite.

steak: Your plain old basic steak. I could specify New York strip, porterhouse, filet, or even my Costco value pack tri-tip, but I love 'em all. Just rub it with some olive oil, season with kosher salt and coarsely-ground black pepper, maybe a dash of Worchestershire, and cook on the Weber until medium-rare. Sometimes, you can't beat the classics.

skirt steak: I'm listing this separately because, while it's still a slab o' cow, it's an entirely different thing from other steaks. The texture of skirt steak is similar to flank, but unlike any other cut. And once again, we can trace my love of it back to mom. I grew up before fajitas hit the big time, sending the price of skirt steak soaring. Back then it was a very cheap cut of meat, and it was the only form of steak that ever made it to our dinner table. And I relished every appearance. Mom used a marinade of soy sauce and brown sugar that I've never been able to replicate-- in part because she never measured anything. But damn, did it make a scrumptuous steak. .

chili: I favor Cincinnati style (with cinnamon), but a good bowl of Texas red is a fine, fine thing. The key is to eschew ground beef in favor of cubed-- the difference in texture and flavor is remarkable. I generally buy a chuck roast and dice it into tiny cubes manually. An hour well-spent. Serve it over white rice, top it with some cheddar cheese, and spoon it up with tortilla chips. And no beans, please. But imagine my surprise to discover that Stagg makes some very credible chili-in-a-box in the form of their habanero variety-- useful to keep around the office as emergency rations.

lamb kabobs with red onion: Lamb is underutilized in the U.S., but not in my house during the summer. A Costco leg of lamb makes for terrific kabobs when diced into large cubes, seasoned with kosher salt and pepper, rubbed with olive oil, and threaded onto a skewer between wedges of red onion. While many would consider the onion an afterthought, to me it's essential. When grilled, the onion loses its edge and takes on a surprising sweetness that balances the lamb. It's a perfect combination.

Seven Flavor Beef: If you ever visit Seattle or have guests in from out of town, the one essential restaurant is Wild Ginger. Their signature Crispy Fragrant Duck is all well and good, but I make a beeline for the Seven Flavor Beef: slices of flank steak cooked with lemongrass, peanuts, chilies, hoisin, basil, garlic and ginger. The flavors dance on my tongue and make me swoon every time.

Chinese barbequed spare ribs: Ubiquitous in New Jersey but seemingly impossible to find here in Seattle, spare ribs pink with marinade and charred black around the edges are the best way to eat pork ribs. A dip in duck sauce is optional.

pulled pork barbecue: I'm not getting into the debate over what constitutes "real" barbecue-- a tomato-based sauce or Carolina's mustard-and-vinegar approach-- because I like them both. I'll eat it in a sandwich or mounded high on a plate. If the pork's been mixed with chopped onions, so much the better.

50 Best Foods: Breads, Eggs, and Cheese

New York bagel: Theories abound for why New York bagels are the best in the world. Is it the water, the air, the attitude? I don't know. But for damn sure the bagels in the Pacific NW are nothing like what a proper bagel should be-- a soft, chewy interior surrounded by a hard, crisp outer shell. I worked at a bagel bakery for years when I was in junior/high school (hard to believe I used to get to work at 7 AM every weekend, even in the summer!) and enjoyed making "sampler" bagels-- a little bit of a bunch of different spreads, each in its own section-- with a salt bagel fresh from the oven. Just stay away from Noah's so-called "New York" bagels. For all their "shmear" and "nosh" lingo, their bagels just ain't right-- and their employees look at you like you're crazy if you ask if they boil their bagels. Hint: it's the essential step just prior to baking.

injera bread: This is somewhat of a cheat, because injera bread-- the spongy, rubbery Ethiopian flatbread-- doesn't have much flavor on its own. But you never eat it alone, anyway-- you eat it with an Ethiopian meal, using it to pick up your food and to soak up the flavors of the various sauces. Injera's spongelike qualities are marvelous, and when used to line a serving platter it becomes a delicious way to finish off the meal.

deviled eggs: Cholestericious. Hold the pickle relish, extra paprika. Piped with a star-point pastry tip for bonus points.

quiche Lorraine: A dear family friend made spectacular quiches once upon a time, and I haven't lost the taste for them. The outer crust must be flaky-tender, and the inner filling cheesy and fluffy. Real Men can have their pork rinds, I'll take the quiche.

macaroni and cheese: Steuffer's frozen? Yes. Kraft's blue box? Absolutely not. Homemade with quality cheddar and oven-baked? Ooooooh, baby. Textbook definition of comfort food.

Atlantic Street Garlic Gulch pizza: They don't call themselves Atlantic Street anymore, but this Seattle pizzaria still makes the best thick-crust pie around. The sourdough crust is actually worth devouring, and the artichoke and sundried tomato topping is smothered with a layer of fresh pesto, all permeated with garlic. The finished pie needs a forklift to transport and just 2 slices (well, 3 for me) is a meal.

Star Tavern sausage pizza: This dive near my New Jersey hometown is always crazy busy with families packed in to savor their extremely thin-crust pizzas with sauce and cheese all the way to the edge. In a world gone crazy with toppings, thicker crusts, and gourmet trappings, Star's back-to-basics approach yields amazing results. They serve sausage the way God intended it-- crumbled onto the pie, not sliced or in pellets. Details matter, people, and Star Tavern gets them all right. Every year when I return home for Thanksgiving, Star Tavern is the one must-go invariant.

garlic bread: It's hard to go wrong with garlic and butter. Add some melted parmesan and you're even less wrong.

Cougar Gold cheese: I debated putting this on the list at all, because it's rare that I eat cheese as a food unto itself. But in that category, Cougar Gold from the Washington State University Creamery is in a class by itself. A white, sharp cheddar cheese with a dry, crumbly texture and nutty flavor, Cougar Gold gets even better as it ages in its vacuum-sealed can (as one of mine in the back of the fridge has been doing for about five years now. Mmmmmm). And if you want a killer cheddar cheese soup or mac and cheese, this is the stuff.

50 Best Foods: Fruits and Veggies

caramelized onions: There are very few things in the kitchen that smell as good as sauteeing garlic and caramelizing onions. It's amazing what a difference a little heat can make, transforming the harsh, sometimes bitter bulb into a sweet, nutty ambrosia. Caramelized onions have a lot of applications, but I like them best as a topping for grilled meats-- sausage, burgers, or especially steak. Trader Joe's used to offer small jars of caramelized red onions that made for a convenient and sinfully sweet steak relish, but Seattle stores stopped carrying it a couple of years ago. I immediately called the Trader Joe's near my parents in New Jersey and ordered a case. I ferry a few jars back with me every Thanksgiving, and will be very sad when they finally run out.

Trader Joe's Indian Relish: Crack in a jar. I'm sure this this tomato-based condiment has a zillion uses, but it never stays around long enough for me to discover them. A jar of this stuff with a bag of pita chips and I'm a very happy camper. Dip, munch, repeat.

saag: As a kid, few things would make me look forward to dinner more than when my mother would tell me creamed spinach was involved. Most kids hate spinach-- I still hate creamed corn, though I love all other forms of the kernel-- but for me it was always a comfort food. Too much Popeye, perhaps. But it wasn't until I was an adult that I discovered India's take on the dish and went completely over the moon. My childhood, boil-in-bag creamed spinach was loose and runny, but saag is tight, dense, infinitely creamier and spiced with typical Indian goodness. I could eat bowls of the stuff and come back for more.

baked sweet potato: Say what you want about the Lone Star chain of steak houses, but I will forever be in its debt for opening my eyes to the true way of the sweet potato. In my family, "sweet potatoes" meant a cloyingly sweet pureed casserole topped with melted marshmallows-- far too sweet to be a side dish, but not really a dessert either. I hated the stuff. Later I learned that whole sweet potatoes, oven-roasted and served simply, were divine on their own. But at Lone Star they top them with butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon, and they're something else again. I know, it sounds like I'm coming full circle on the sweetness issue, but served this way a sweet potato is sweet and savory, capable of holding its own beside a steak without sending you to the dentist to have molten marshmallow extracted from your molars.

fresh pineapple: The canned stuff is Stepford pineapple, suited only for topping a Boboli or adding tang to Mongolian stir-fry. The real thing, cut into spears or bit-sized chunks, is worth the effort required to extract it.

cilantro: Thanks to the lottery of genetics, for some poor souls cilantro tastes like soap. These sad misfortunate Untasteables should be pitied, for they can never know the sublime joy of cilantro mayonnaise, the fresh kick of a cilantro salsa, or the aromatic zest of cilantro-infused stew. Having cilantro on hand at all times was a major reason for starting my herb garden this year. Ironically, cilantro was already out of season at the time. But someday...

Greek salad: And I mean Greek salad. In Crete last summer, the Greek salads were a revelation. Yes, the feta was tangy and the locally-pressed olive oil was fruity and native oregano unexpectedly delightful. But the tomatoes-- oh, the tomatoes!-- were the true stars. A great Greek salad starts and ends with them, and Crete has them in abundance.

home fries / hash browns with Tabasco: First, let's get the definitions straight. Hash browns are shredded potatoes fried in butter on a griddle into a flat, crisp patty-like mound (if that's not an oxymoron). Home fries are cubed, previously-cooked boiled potatoes fried on a griddle or in a pan, often with onions and peppers. The consistency of the two are completely different. I've long enjoyed home fries, but it wasn't until a trip to Vegas that I had my first taste of hash browns. Hungry at 3 AM, we went to the Barbary Coast for their $1.99 steak and eggs. When they arrived, accompanying them on the plate was a side of hash browns. A friend immediately doused his with Tabasco. Intrigued, I followed suit. I haven't looked back. Greasy spoon breakfasts for me are now all about the crisp, tender hash browns and Tabasco.

gazpacho: There is a vast chasm of crushed expectations between bad and good gazpacho. When made well-- thick and chunky, fresh and lively, not swimming in an ocean of lifeless canned tomato juice-- gazpacho is one of the most wonderful things to eat in the summer. I got turned on to it in Barcelona, and a good bowl of gazpacho always makes me think of that spectacular city.

Amsterdam french fries: I suppose I should say "Belgian frites" but my exposure to them was in Amsterdam. When most people talk about getting turned on to something new during their post-collegiate backpacking trips in Amsterdam, if food's involved at all it's probably a brownie. But for me Amsterdam was defined by its frites stalls, where paper cones are filled with twice-fried potatoes and topped with your choice of a dizzying array of sauces-- mayo, ketchup, vinegar, peanut sauce, curry, and things I couldn't translate from Dutch and couldn't quite identify on my palate either. Simply the most spectacular fries I've ever had, and I got a couple of cones every day I was there.

potato knish with spicy brown mustard: Forget hot dogs, knishes are THE New York City street food in my book. The street knishes themselves are really nothing special when you get right down to it-- mashed potatoes in a breaded shell. But when the vendor slices them open lengthwise, like a sandwich, and slathers the inside with spicy brown mustard, it becomes transcendent. Upgrade the knish into a homemade delicacy with onions, pepper, and other herb/spice goodness... oy! I'm kvelling.

dry seared broccoli: First tasted at a Seattle restaurant called Bandoleone and not-quite-duplicated many times at home since then, dry seared broccoli is the best way I've found to enjoy one of my favorite cooked vegetables. The broccoli is seared in a pan and cooked along with peppercorns, red peppers, and garlic, then served in a chili-lime olive oil pan sauce. The description can't do the finished dish justice, but it's super-easy to toss together your own version at home and see for yourself. I could make an entire meal out of just this dish, it's that good.

Caesar salad: Fresh, real Caesar dressing, with anchovies and everything-- is absolutely essential. Add crisp Romaine, zesty croutons, and a sprinkling of parmesan, and that's all I need in a salad. Toss in a chicken breast, perhaps grilled with a nice garlic rub, and now you're really talking. Whole Foods used to sell their spectacular house Caesar dressing (I haven't yet tried their new bottled brand to see if it's the same stuff), and for a while it, and Costco romaine hearts, were a staple of my diet.

fresh-squeezed orange juice: When people ask me why I don't drink alcohol, my answer is that I just prefer juice. Orange juice is my lifeblood-- I go through it like paparazzi in Britney Spears' dumpster. Freshly squeezed OJ, preferably brimming with pulp, is the Dom Perignon of fruit juice.

50 Best Foods

Fifty best In my world, anyway. In an essay about blood sausage, Vogue food writer Jeffery Steingarten mentioned that his first taste of the boudin noir bumped frozen Milky Way bars off his list of the hundred best foods in the world. Which got me to thinking. I've never tried blood sausage, and my culinary horizons are considerably less far-flung than Mr. Steingarten's. But lists are like farts-- anyone can make them and they compel comment. 100 foods seemed rather excessive to me, so I cut it in half to 50.

My list represents only my own experience. I tried to stay within the realm of "foods" as opposed to "dishes" or "preparations", but on occasion I could not help myself. When generic foods are listed, take it as a given that "good" is the implied prefix. The same soup made in one kitchen might be repulsive, but in another sublime. I'm assuming the latter.

To preserve my own sanity, I decided to categorize items rather than attempt to sort them in some kind of numerical priority order, and to post the list in segments by category. And of course, I reserve the right to modify the list as omissions occur to me.

Spam and Poi

A new Hawaiian restaurant opened in my neighborhood recently. Sadly, the food I sampled was unremarkable. In a town where the only food outlet more ubiquitous than teriyaki shops is Starbucks, anybody serving marinated chicken or short ribs over rice has got to really go the extra mile to stand out. That said, perhaps I bypassed the true star of the menu: Spam.

I couldn't believe my eyes. Spam, right there on the menu, as a peer with chicken, beef, and shrimp. Grilled over rice, or-- and this blew my mind-- as a form of cooked sushi called musubi. I asked the proprietor about this, and was informed that musubi-- and in fact Spam in general-- is a culinary staple in Hawaii. Everyone eats it. Over 5.5 cans of Spam are sold per year, per Hawaiian. I gather that Hawaii's fondness for Spam is well-known, but until now it wasn't to me. Talk about cognitive dissonance. When I think of Hawaii, I think of roast pig, pineapple, and poi. I think of fresh, colorful tropical foods with simple, traditional preparations. Discovering that the island's culinary tradition now includes Spam is a bit like learning Italians lead the world in Spaghetti-Os consumption (don't panic-- I made that up).

To be fair, I've never eaten Spam. I don't much care for ham to begin with, so I don't imagine that ripping the SP off of Letterman's varsity sweater to transform it into a canned meat would do much to improve it for me. But it will take some time to get used to the notion that the tropical nirvana I envision in my mind's eye goes gaga over an oft-ridiculed canned luncheon meat.

Raspberry Bars

The latest issue of Cook's Illustrated included a recipe for raspberry bars. I've made it twice now-- I'm working my way up to my true goal, raspberry linzer cookies, which are a lot more work what with the rolling and the cutting of the dough, but have all that almondy goodness-- and the bars have come out perfect both times. It's a great, super-easy recipe, and it's available at the Cook's Illustrated web site for free. I used frozen raspberries both times and have no complaints, so don't let a lack of fresh berries stop you. Do your family a favor and give it a try.

Conehead

So you're walking through your neighborhood, trying to decide where to go for dinner and kinda tired of all the usual choices, when you notice a new place you hadn't seen before. It beckons to you the way a mudhole calls to a three-year-old in Sunday finery, whispering of forbidden delights heretofore unknown to your poor senses numbed by mediocrity. Excited, you give it a try and it is a revelation. Every morsel throws a new penalty flag on your taste buds for excessive jubilation. You walk out the door energized, already forseeing many future returns to your new favorite haunt. The next time you visit, the doors are boarded up and the place is emptier than Wrigley Field in the post season.

Perhaps you buy into the ballyhoo of a new fall television program. You set your Season Pass or, among the hoi polloi, schedule your Friday evening around the show. You get sucked in by the quality writing, delightful plotting, and chemistry among the cast. You can't wait to see how the show's mysteries unfold over time, how the bread crumbs of future developments ever-so-carefully doled out come to fruition in due course. The show becomes a highlight of your viewing week. And then WHAM, before the season's half over, the plug gets pulled and you're left mourning what might have been.

Well, then, you understand how I feel about Häagen Dazs Caramel Cone Explosion ice cream. Available on the American market for a brief time a few years ago as part of their "Extraas" line, Caramel Cone Explosion was quite simply the best ice cream flavor ever. It even eclipsed Ben & Jerry's defunct but sublime Rainforest Crunch (the victim of rising South American nut prices and a heinous maybe-they-won't-notice metamorphosis into Dilbert's World Totally Nuts), the previous title holder. Just how good was Caramel Cone Explosion? A single cup had as much artery-clogging saturated fat (20 grams) as two McDonald's Quarter Pounders with Cheese. Oooooooh, baby.

But just as suddenly as it appeared, Caramel Cone Explosion went away. Not since the unexpected disappearance of the PBMax candy bar-- the most divine chocolate-and-peanut-butter concoction ever to grace the planet-- had I been so traumatized. What is it with the sugar barons at these confection conglomerates? Are we just toys to them? Mere playthings to be teased at their whim? "Here, my pretty-- have some live-giving oxygen. Drink deeply of its sweet purity. Now gasp in wretched, unending agony as I take it away forever."

So you can imagine my joy as, stealing a glance at the ice cream case en route to suckling once again at the Tater Tot teat, I espied a new flavor in the Häagen-Dazs section: Caramel Cone. Apparently explosions are no longer a marketing coup in a post 9/11 world, or perhaps almonds were a catalyst to the explosive effect and, lacking nuts in its new incarnation, the company elected not to promise what it could not deliver. Be that as it may, the essence of the flavor has returned and I rejoice.

I cannot, however, tell you how it compares to its ancestor. First, because in claiming the follicles from atop my head the mists of time have seemingly also stolen my memories of bygone flavors. Second, because I have not yet sampled the new apple in my supermarket's frozen garden of Eden. I'm wise to their tricks now. Fool me once, and all that. I'm sure Caramel Cone will be on the shelves just long enough to send me into spasms of insulin withdrawal when the company fiendishly discontinues the product.

And third, I've moved on. Dissatisfied with the prepackaged options I took matters into my own hands and got myself an ice cream machine. When Caramel Cone sang and smiled I lashed myself to the milk, cream, and almonds in my basket and sailed clear of the ice cream case completely, setting course for a batch of homemade toasted almond ice cream.

Let 'em try and pull cream off the market.

Scrumpdillyishus

Last night I got into a discussion with Chris about the pecking order in the frozen drink food chain. The poor man is sadly deluded about the virtues of Coca-Cola Slurpees, a substance precision engineered to induce insulin shock and brain freeze simultaneously. For the benefit of culinary science, herewith I present the definitive hierarchy:

Wild Cherry Icee
Perched at the top of the slush mountain, the Icee represents the pinnacle of the form. Whipped to a fulsome volume in the freezing process, Icees balloon to dramatic heights in the cup to offer two distinct modes of consumption: suction and spoonage. The cherry flavor bursts forth with a delightful tang, yet doesn't overpower with cloying sugary excess. Just as the incorporation of oxygen into cream creates a whipped foam with textural properties surpassing that of cream alone, so too does the Icee's oxygenated and CO2-infused tumble create a product of superior body and mouth-feel.

Cherry Slurpee
The Slurpee aspires to Icee's lofty perch, and indeed once shared it. They are, in fact, one and the same product-- invented by a man named Omar Knedlik in the late 1950's. In 1988, however, 7-Eleven stopped manufacturing its own syrup for Slurpees. Since then, the Coca-Cola Company has been the exclusive supplier of Slurpee syrup and it's been a downhill slide. You used to be able to walk into a 7-Eleven anywhere in the country and be virtually guaranteed to find a Slurpee machine loaded with cherry syrup, its rotating chamber shooting an unblinking come-hither stare from the back wall. Today that machine is far more likely to be loaded with Coke syrup. If I want Coke, I'll buy Coke. I don't need it aerated and frozen, so that with every sip I can feel the enamel on my teeth disintegrating in the chemical acid bath. The beauty of the Slurpee was that it came in flavors that didn't exist outside of the magical, mysterious arctic wonderland of Slurpeetown.

Other Icee/Slurpee flavors NOT based on cola syrups
I ask you: what other drink comes in Watermelon? Genius!

Slush Puppy
The beauty of the Slush Puppy is that it's the salad bar of the slush world. A slush puppy doesn't come pre-mixed and pre-made for you, oh no-- you get to put it together yourself with a few squirts of syrup and a shot of ice slurry. Sure, the handy squirting guide suggests how many squirts to use for your medium cup, but c'mon-- what do they know? Those things are written by the same people who call canned chili "spicy." Pump those syrup nozzles with abandon, chum-- the slush police are on break, grabbing a donut a few aisles down. But drink fast. When this thing melts, you're facing down a cup full of liquid sugar that'll have you singing show tunes down main street.

Icee/Slurpee flavors based on cola syrups
In food parlance, we describe these products as "icky."

Mr. Misty
Ah, Dairy Queen. The Mr. Misty is from a simpler time. A time when scalliwag Dennis the Menace was somehow considered to be the perfect mascot for a purveyor of frozen treats. A time before Blizzards-- the world's most perfect frozen dessert-- rendered all of the chain's other products irrelevant. In those halcyon days, a cup full of crushed ice and flavored syrup was my treat of choice when I entered a DQ. Never mind that I invariably wound up sucking out all the syrup long before the drink was half finished, leaving a metric buttload of plain, unflavored ice in the bottom of the cup. It was a simpler time, and it was enough. Today, if I walk into a DQ you can be damn sure I'm coming out with a large Oreo Blizzard firmly in hand. Nirvana.

Taking Stock

There are any number of axioms in the culinary world. Brown meat on all sides to develop the best flavor. Let cooked meat rest for a few minutes before slicing to allow juices to redistribute. Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't. But perhaps the most fundamental axiom is that cooking with homemade stock is infinitely better than using canned broth or bouillon. I'm a busy guy-- I've got 100 hours of Tivo'd television to watch, after all-- so I've always made do with Better Than Bouillon brand concentrated chicken base. The same brand's beef base won Cook's Illustrated's commerical broth taste test, beating out canned broths, and come on-- it says it's better than bouillon right there on the label. And the results I've gotten have been completely satisfactory, and mighty convenient. Still, magazine after cookbook after television show kept touting the virtues of homemade stock. It's a floor wax and a dessert topping.

Then I stumbled onto EGullet-- and incidentally, you're all on my shit list for not bringing this site to my attention sooner-- and more specifically, their EGullet Culinary Institute. Which is really a fancy schmancy name of a series of online cooking lessons, all of which are archived for posterity. Which reminds me, henceforth Static Zombie shall be known as the Static Zombie Procrastination Institute. I'll post lesson one tomorrow.

The very first lesson on EGullet? Cooking your own stock. I read through it and was inspired by the apparent simplicity of it all. Photographs documented the process, and a Q&A session offered testimonials from many first-time stock-makers. My interest was piqued, but I always buy packages of chicken breasts instead of whole chickens, so I never have necks and backs and other meaty bones to use for making stock. What got me off the fence was the lesson's suggestion to just buy a couple of chickens, and when they're fully cooked about 40 minutes into the process you can fish out the birds, strip the perfectly poached breast meat right off the bones for consumption, and then return the carcass to the pot.

Sold.

Fast forward a couple of days, and I've got stock. About 1.5 quarts of the gelatinous stuff, frozen in 1 oz cubes and 1/3 cup muffins. And I've got a great curried chicken salad from the breast meat, and chicken quesadillas from the mostly-spent-but-still-good-for-quesadillas meat from the rest of the carcass. And it really wasn't that much work.

Is it better than Better Than Bouillon? I dunno-- I haven't made anything with it yet. But it feels like I've unlocked a secret cooking level. Now I just need to discover the finishing move.

Fowl Play

This week I carved a turkey for the first time. And by "carved" I mean "committed brutal acts of post-mortem dismemberment to forcibly remove meat from a dead bird's carcass." There was nothing pretty, elegant, or civilized about it. The turkey had been lovingly brined in a mixture of salt, brown sugar, bourbon, cloves and peppercorns, then seasoned with care and roasted to succulence. Nothing in the bird's culinary journey could possibly have prepared it for the oafish brutality that awaited it on my cutting board. Except, perhaps, that one fateful moment as the axe-- or whatever mechanized equivalent Frank Purdue's people employ-- cleaved its head from its neck.

It's not like I didn't come prepared. I came armed with a sharp, quality Sabatier chef's knife which, all my sources assured me, would be ample for the task. I had my laptop nearby, the step-by-step illustrated carving guide from Cooks' Illustrated's turkey site loaded and ready. But that guide assumes the user earned a certificate of merit from an AP turkey anatomy class, and my education was mysteriously lacking in that department.

It seemed so simple. Separate the legs and thighs, then do the same with the wings. Slice down the middle of the breast, then slide the knife under the breast meat and separate the breast from the rib cage. Slice on a bias across the grain and presto: elegant, picturesque slices of delectable holiday goodness. A Martha Stewart moment.

So. The leg bone's connected to the thigh bone, but where the heck's the joint? I knew it had to be there, somewhere beneath the dark meat slowly dripping its juices onto my hand, but I'll be damned if I could find it. Once I did, I had no doubt the Sabatier could cleave it in twain in no time. But a hammer's no good without a nail. I flipped the bird over, turned it forwards, backwards, and on its side, examined it from every possible angle and would have called Mr. DeMille in for a close-up if I thought it would help. I wedged the knife in where I thought the joint should be, only to meet solid bone. Even with great leverage I wasn't going to cut through that; with the knife twisting in my now-thoroughly-lubricated-with-turkey-juices hand, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Even with no salmon mousse on the menu, death lurked outside the door.

Frustration mounted. Flayed pieces of turkey were beginning to pile up, and I still hadn't carved a darn thing. So I punted. I grabbed the leg with one hand and gave a mighty twist, popping out the leg joint. From there I twisted some more to uncover the elusive thigh joint. It only got uglier from there as, emboldened, I got medieval on the turkey's carcass. In a thought bubble above my head, Alton Brown looked down disapprovingly. "Now that is definitely not good eats." But in the end, I got the job done. A platter of respectable white meat slices and... irregular dark meat chunks made it to the table. And the meat was, in fact, flavorful, moist, and tender.

This is why I don't eat lobster. I love the process of cooking. I love the process of eating. Foods that throw up obstacles between those two steps are more trouble than they're worth. Next time I'll just slap the turkey on a platter, bring it to the table with a few sharp knives, and tell people to carve their own damn dinner.

Something Fishy

Culinarily, I can't recall a nastier surprise than when today's artichoke heart and barbeque chicken pizza slice at lunch turned out to be a slice of artichoke heart and salmon pizza. Chocolate and peanut butter has nothing to worry about from that flavor combo. I've had tuna fish on a pizza before, and it was actually rather good, in a why-didn't-I-just-get-pepperoni-instead-of-trying-something-different kind of way. Salmon swings Cajun, blackened on a roll with creole mayo and grilled onions. It dresses up French, in papillote with lemon and dill. But if you must ship salmon off to Italy, leave the mozzarella and marinana sauce behind. Your gastrointestinal system will thank you.

Heart Attack in a Cup

Been hankering for the sugary ambrosia of a warm glazed doughnut, but the hot summer weather's got you down? Krispy Kreme to the rescue! And look-- the 12oz "small" has only twice the calories and triple the carbs of an actual doughnut! Now you can take a refreshing break from the summer heat and sip your way to a coronary bypass without the horrible inconvenience of sticky fingers. Bless you, Krispy Kreme!

The Chewy

I've long been a fan of the Cook's Illustrated "Best Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookie" recipe. It turns out a substantial, rustic cookie with a good chew. The problem is that while they taste great fresh from the oven or a few hours later, within a day or two the cookies get stale (even in burped storage containers). "A day or two?" you wonder, "How in the world are your cookies lasting that long?" These cookies are large, and one cookie is plenty. Since I'm primarily eating these myself, a batch can last a while. Part of the problem may be that the cookies are fairly thick, and that makes it difficult to get the timing right to ensure that all the dough is completely baked. Underbaked dough is fine in a fresh cookie, but turns into a layer of granite when the cookie cools. I can save part of the dough and bake more fresh ones as needed, but I'd prefer not to have to worry about the problem at all.

Enter Alton Brown. I'm a long-time fan of his Food Network program Good Eats, which I heartily recommend to you as, hands-down, the most fun and educational food program ever. In his chocolate chip cookie show, Alton covers three cookie varieties-- the thin, the puffy, and the chewy, explaining the recipe modifications which result in the changes among the cookies. "The Chewy" produces a great, chewy cookie that also holds up well to longer-term storage, and has become my chocolate chip recipe of choice. Don't feel too bad, Cook's-- I still love your chicken pot pie.

Burger Prince

In the wake of Supersize Me-- and for the thirty years prior-- it's been trendy to bash fast food. And such an easy target. The industry as a whole earned major karma points in my eyes with the creation of the Oreo Blizzard (nee McFlurry), one of the single greatest inventions of the twentieth century. But it's hard to work yourself out of the karmic debt built up by the McRib, McLean Deluxe, McDLT (the hot stays hot, the cool stays cool, and the styrofoam container stays forever), any form of chalupa, and-- may the Lord have mercy on their souls-- "Herb".

So when a positive fast food experience wanders by, it's only fair to stand up straight and salute. And so I present to you Burger King's Spicy TenderCrisp chicken sandwich, a study in juxtaposition and delivery on promises. TenderCrisp. The name itself promises much: not merely tenderness and crispiness together-- against all the laws of nature-- in one sandwich, but in sufficiently notable quality as to warrant the coinage of a completely new word. And "spicy"? Really, who are they kidding? Wendy's Spicy Chicken Sandwich registers a .04 on the Scoville scale on its best day-- I was skeptical that Burger King could do better.

I was wrong.

The TenderCrisp was-- hands down-- the crispiest chicken sandwich I have ever had. Fried to golden perfection, each bite yielded a satisfying crunch. And beneath that crackling exterior-- did my mouth deceive me?-- lo, a juicy breast of chicken yielding ever so gently to the tongue with an overall consistency that could only be described as ... tender.

But surely, you cry, the tepid seasonings would give the lie to the sandwich's moniker! The same thought flashed through my mind, gentle reader. And yet here too was my cynicism dashed against the mighty promontory that is the Spicy TenderCrisp jutting into a writhing sea of mediocre fast food. While the sauce did not inflame my taste buds and leave me panting for relief, it nevertheless bore a delightfully spicy tang that had me regretting the lack of a beverage at hand.

Add a hearty slice of tomato, a fresh leaf of lettuce, and a sturdy bun up to the challenge of containing such a bold sandwich offering and this, my friends, is the Real Deal. Yea, the Spicy TenderCrisp is verily spicy, tender, and crisp-- a triumph of the fast food arts the likes of which comes along but rarely in one lifetime, and which should not be overlooked upon its arrival.

Smellovision

Things That Make Me Happy (a new series)
#1. Thanks to a spontaneous cooking binge last night (chicken mulligatawny soup and spinach lamb), my house is now suffused with the delightful aroma of Indian spices.

Bleed For Your Dinner

I decided to capitalize on today's holiday by breaking in part of the All-Clad set I got for my birthday (thanks, mom!). I cooked up a lamb tagine (recipe courtesy of The Best Recipe: Soups & Stews from the good folks at Cook's Illustrated) which turned out to be dee-lish. The secret ingredient? Human blood.

I used a different knife than I normally use-- thicker, sturdier, and sharper. All to the good, no? No. It has a tendency to slide as it cuts. As I minced some garlic, for example, I noticed that rather than slicing cleanly through the clove, the blade sometimes sheared away from it partway through the motion. Perhaps I'm just used to manipulating a thinner, duller knife, and the sharpness of this one requires a different technique. Or perhaps the knife is being guided by an otherworldy force-- the soul of a man slain at the forge where the knife was made, now forever trapped within the blade and inflicting minor cuts in mute outrage over being forced to spend eternity inside a freaking kitchen knife instead of something cool like a katana or chainsaw.

But my money's on technique.

I've chopped hundreds, perhaps thousands of onions in my life. Tonight, when coarsely chopping the first onion, the knife slid off the onion and sliced my finger. Nothing too bad, a fairly shallow cut at the base of the nail of my left index finger. I cursed, sucked on it, rinsed it off, and made a mental note to be careful with this knife, which gleamed balefully in the pale fluorescence of my kitchen.

And so on to onion number two. Holding it gingerly this time, I proceeded to chop with careful, deliberate motions. Which made absolutely no difference, as the knife slipped again and carved a deep gouge in almost precisely the same spot as before, but on my middle finger this time. More cursing, more sucking as I cast the knife away like a viper into the sink. The smell of brimstone rose from the pipes-- a stygian stench of rot and decay that threatened to pull my soul into the depths from which it came. Or just the remnants of last night's dinner in the disposal-- a quick flick of the switch washed it away. I made a brief detour into the bathroom and thanked the nice people at Microsoft for handing out first aid kits at the company picnic this summer.

A couple of hours later I took the almost-finished tagine from the oven to add some last-minute ingredients. That done, I grabbed the lid to recover the pot and return it to the oven. And discovered that 45 seconds is enough time to completely forget the laws of thermodynamics-- and not nearly enough time for a stainless steel lid to release the heat it builds up from two hours in a 300 degree oven.

And so, with two bandaged fingers and a seared thumb, I savored every forkful of tagine this evening as I researched Seattle-area knife-skills classes on the Web.

Thai Tom

How well do you really know your neighborhood? I've lived in mine for close to a decade now, and I don't know it nearly as well as I should. I know where things are, of course, but not necessarily how they are-- especially with restaurants. There are so many in the area, and there are opportunity costs to trying out new ones. But those same costs exist when not trying them out, as I discovered when my parents were in town and I finally tried Thai Tom on the Ave.

I've passed by the place hundreds of times over the years. It's a tiny hole in the wall that's not only always packed, but hosts a constant stream of hopeful supplicants on the sidewalk waiting for a table. That's what's known as a Big Clue. I never wanted to deal with the crowd, so I just kept walking. Since it's the U district, that kind of following meant Thai Tom was either very cheap, or very good.

Turns out it's both. Their menu is extremely limited but borders on divine. Everything I've had has been spectacular, the kind of food you remember long afterward with a fondness reserved for cherished pets and technicolor sunsets. They want to turn tables quickly, so slow-cooking panang remains the province of Sea-Thai with their salaciously silky sauce. But oh, the Swimming Rama of Thai Tom is surely a delight sent from heaven. Yellow is not my favored curry hue, but theirs transcends color and crosses into a spectrum of delectability. It's a good thing I have to hop into a car to get to Thai Tom-- if they were in closer proximity, I'd be eating there every night instead of merely once or twice a week.

The next time you see a local joint that's always packed, make the time to check it out. As for me, I've got a decade of neglect to make up for, one dish at a time.

Ice Crrrrrrrrrrrrream

Super-creamy ice cream in 30 seconds flat?
Now that's cool. Where can I score some liquid nitrogen?

Pepsi Shnizzle

Do you remember waaaaaay back in the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation, when key members of Starfleet Command got taken over by parasites and started acting funny and eating mealy worms? Of course you don't. That's why I'm here-- to be the geek so you don't have to. But I'm starting to think those parasites have infested the marketing departments of the major soft drink companies, because the names of their new products have stopped making sense.

Mountain Dew Code Red. Mountain Dew Livewire. Sprite Remix. Pepsi Blue. What the hell? These names tell me nothing about the single most important aspect of a soft drink-- their flavor. It wasn't so long ago that Coke got it right, with the plainly named (if vile-tasting) Vanilla Coke. See how easy that is? Vanilla Coke. What's wrong with Mountain Dew Orange, or Tropical Sprite? "Livewire" is not a flavor, it's a safety warning. The parasites are just preparing us for their invasion. Pepsi Blue is people!

Pork Belly

Culinary tip o' the week:

If you see "Singapore Barbeque Pork Chops" on a Malaysian menu, and you think to yourself, "I wonder if they're like Chinese spare ribs?" the answer is no. And if you think, "Gee, that looks like an awful lot of pork, with no rice or veggies to go with it. I wonder if I should get something a little better balanced," the answer is yes. And if you order them anyway, and are trying to decide if you should eat them all in one sitting, the answer is no.

Saffron Truffles?

My parents are coming into town in July, for the first time in about eight years. And while my annual trips home for Thanksgiving sometimes verge on painful, I usually enjoy having the folks out on my turf. Maybe it's because the home they now live in isn't the same one in which I grew up, so going "home" isn't really going home for me, while having them in Seattle lets me play host and be all grown up (which, at 34, you'd think would be a non-issue, but I guess it's hard to shake the memories of being at the kids' table).

They did a lot of the usual Seattle stuff the last time they came-- Pike Place Market, Woodland Park Zoo, Capitol Hill and the Ave., Wild Ginger, the Spirit of Washington dinner train. The Experience Music Project is new, but even less appealing to them than Swan Lake to an eighth grade boy. I'd like to treat them to something nice, and different.

And so I find myself thinking about The Herbfarm. I'm a foodie, and other foodies rave about the place. I've never been-- it's a special occasion kind of place, and I don't have many special occasions. But for the money, I could fly all three of us to Vegas and see Cirque du Soleil's O at Bellagio with money left over for cab fare. At the end of the day-- and at 5 hours for dinner, that's a long day-- it's just food. You'd almost have to have nine courses of that chocolate cake from The Matrix Reloaded, hand-fed by Famke Janssen to feel justified in signing the check. At what point is food no longer food, but an experience? And is such a thing even possible in Woodinville?

Ratburgers

Overall, I love living in Seattle, but there are a few things I miss about the East Coast. There are no good amusement parks out here. Nobody makes a decent bagel. Chinese restaurants charge for white rice and don't offer barbeque spare ribs. And there are no White Castles.

One of the fringe benefits of The Gathering of Friends is the hotel's proximity to a White Castle. It's always fun to watch people experience their first ratburger. You either get it or you don't. A friend wrinkled his nose after trying one for the first time last week. "The bun is so... moist!" he cried. "Yes," I replied in a dreamy, Homeresque drone, "moist with oniony goodness." I grew up with White Castle. For me, it's comfort food. Which makes me realize that by the same logic, there are probably millions of people for whom Domino's pizza is also comfort food. <shudder> I can get them frozen at the supermarket, but that's not the same as buying them by the sack. If you didn't grow up with them, you just can't understand.

It's Wafer Thin

I just returned from a second visit to my new favorite local eatery. It's a Brazilian grill (Rio, on the Ave, for any Seattle locals), which is to say, it's where good little carnivores go when they die. The all-you-can-eat buffet, a concept so divine as to secure its inventor a seat at the head of the heavenly table, has been impossibly improved by the most simple of ideas.

The food comes to you.

No more lulls in the digestive process while you drag yourself away from your table, stagger over to the buffet, and dirty yet another plate with sneeze-guard-protected vittles. While you and your companions pass around an assortment of simple yet delicious side dishes, a parade of servers visit your table. Each offers a sword-like skewer for your approval, sliding a morsel or two onto your plate at your merest nod. Grilled pineapple, mushrooms, assorted veggies, corn on the cob, bacon-wrapped turkey breast, pepper steak, chicken, shrimp, sausage... you'll want to shout "huzzah!" and pour mead on the court jester. Upon sampling the tri-tip steak, sliced off the skewer to your specifications, your eyes will roll so far back you'll see the pleasure centers of your brain doing the samba.

All of life should be like this. I want an endless stream of people walking past my door, offering services throughout the day. "Out of toilet paper, mister?" "Chevron Man-- I'm here to top off your tank." "You look tense, sir. Massage?" After all, they say life's a buffet. I want mine to be Brazilian.