Gonzo Gastronomy

Joe Blow had been asked to judge the California State Fair Commercial Wine Competition a couple of years ago and decided to go ahead and join the panel, completely unaware of the fact that his judging was also gonna get judged. After hobnobbing with the other 3 judges the day of the competition, pissing and moaning that someone was apparently wearing cologne, and doing whatever else wine judges might to do prepare their palates for an exhausting day, Joe bulldozed his way through 30 wines. He then wiped the sweat from his brow and the drool from his mouth, and tasted another flight of 30 wines, and another, and another…though my guess is he probably stopped to eat and pee along the way. What Joe didn’t know was that during the course of the day he and the other judges were given the same exact wine, from the same exact bottle, 3 different times. The first 2 times they seemed to dislike it so much that it was rejected (thus making it unable to advance to the final judging). But third time’s definitely a charm because Joe Blow and company not only accepted the 3rd sample of the same wine for final judging, but it also went on to receive a double-gold medal. Hoo-fuckin’-ray for objectivity.

I’m not saying that wine judges are dolts—not this time, anyway. After tasting several dozen wines, the inside of your mouth usually gets to feeling like you’ve been sucking on a rubber hose that was dunked in a yummy combination of acetone and Novacaine. When Sutter Home starts tasting like Chateaux Margaux, and Richebourg starts tasting like dirty dishwater you know you should be packing up your tasting notes and heading home, but you can’t. By the third time you hand me the same wine, if 95 others have been sipped and spit, I might react differently, too. But what sucks is that ABC Winery will have just paid a shitload of money to enter a competition where winning and losing (objective terms) are determined by tired schmos (subjective terms). Consistent results—obviously an oxymoron in wine competition—will make or break you, and it’s pretty clear from the results of these trials that judges are not consistent with whether or not they like a wine in such settings. The wine they tasted in triplicate would never have stood a chance in a true challenge, because it was disliked and eliminated on the first go-around. Yet, somehow, several hours later, it was taking home two gold medals and flipping other wines the bird because it was so well received.

So what Joe Blow and I hope you take away from these eye-opening trials is that:

1.    If you fool me once, shame on you. If you fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me a third time and someone’s going home with a medal.

2.    Sutter Home proprietors should start entering more wine competitions.

3.    Consistency and objectivity are vewwwy vewwwy big words that have no business being used at a wine tasting.

4.    Never judge a wine by its pretty stickers (or lack thereof).

If you ever find yourself in Amarillo, TX with a growling stomach because that protein bar you had for breakfast just didn’t cut it, there’s a lovely establishment known as the Big Texan Steak Ranch. Given that everything’s bigger in Texas, it’s safe to assume when THESE guys say big, it must be enormous. How enormous? 4 ½ lbs. worth of enormity, that’s how much. And if you manage to keep down that, plus an order of shrimp cocktail, a salad, a buttered roll and a baked potato it’s on the house. Forget to butter your roll and I guess you’re screwed. If, instead, you find yourself in St. Louis with a hankering for pizza, you can hit Pointer’s, which has an 11 ½ lb. pizza that spans a total of 28 inches. Manage to finish it with the help of a partner (i.e. someone equally as stupid) in 1 hour, and not only is the pizza free, but you win $500. Prefer a little dessert? Hightail it to Ben & Jerry’s in Vermont and stick your face in their “Vermonster” which contains 20 scoops of ice cream (over half a gallon), 4 bananas, 3 chocolate chip cookies, hot fudge, 18 scoops of toppings and whipped cream.

I realize that this country has an infatuation with size, most likely because until recently it’s been run by nothing but men, but what the hell, people? While portion sizes have tripled in the last ten years, some restaurants are actually flaunting ridiculously sized servings for entertainment value and profiting from our stupidity. Beth’s Café in Seattle will gladly serve you up a 12-egg ham and cheese omelet with so many hash browns and toast that it has to be served on a pizza tray. The Eagle’s Deli in Boston is known for its 3 lb. hamburger sandwich (6 half-pound burgers), which is stacked with a total of ¼ lb. of cheese and plated with 5—yes 5—pounds of french fries. But not to EVER allow ourselves to be outdone by a Bostonian, in Jersey we have the Clinton Station Diner, which serves a gastronomical delicacy known as Mt. Olympus, the 50 lb. burger. Finish it in 4 hours with the help of 4 friends and it’s free (I think the barf bag is complementary as well), and you get to split the $1,000 prize. That’s 10 pounds of beef per person—about 40 normal patties—not including the cheese, the lovely veggies and the bun. Guesstimates would put that at over 12,000 calories PER PERSON. Michigan’s Mallie’s Sports Grill holds the record for the world’s largest burger (150 lbs.), but given that they’re not trying to make you and a small group of idiots consume it on your own, we can forgive them—sort of.

On occasion, I try (unsuccessfully) to eat a ½ lb. burger at Fuddruckers with nothing but sautéed onions (and only the bottom half of the bun) and when I do, I feel great at the onset, and disgusting by the time I’m done. But I guess I’m in the minority, because websites like supersizedmeals.com and TV shows like Man v. Food are getting plenty of enthusiastic attention. I’d like to think it’s the morbid curiosity that draws in viewers—that, “Holy shit, look at that schmuck try to eat that thing” mentality—where you can play the odds on whether or not the food will wind up getting spewed up onto the camera lens. And I’d also like to think that the people who take on these challenges should perhaps be excused because they simply don’t have the mental capacity to know any better. But, then again, I’d like to think that that’s Burt Reynold’s real hair, too.

Sauvignon blanc is one of those wines that expresses itself completely differently depending on where it’s made. To say you do or don’t like SB is no more useful than saying you do or don’t like ale—too many variables are involved. Some people can’t stand the grassy New Zealand SBs with that faint (or not-so-faint) hint of cat pee. Others absolutely adore them but turn their noses up at the less-racy, richer SBs from Bordeaux or the spicy, aromatic ones from Sancerre.  What no one talks too much about, though, is California sauvignon blanc. It’s there, it’s fine, it’s…mostly boring. We can thank Robert Mondavi for bringing attention to it, sure. But the list is long of people we can thank for destroying a grape that doesn’t have any business being grown in warmer climates. Our new Angel vs. Demon throwdown, folks, is California sauvignon blanc.

Generally speaking, SB thrives in cooler climates. In places like Sancerre (in the Loire valley) the coolness produces wines with high acidity and moderate alcohol. It also seldom sees any time in oak except, of course, in California where a lot of it at this point, is indistinguishable from chardonnay. So when I was in the mood for SB I never, repeat NEVER, thought to buy from Napa/Sonoma. Despite the fact that many (ok, let’s be honest, most) wineries in CA are still making crappy, uninspired, overripe sauv. blanc, one in particular turned my head about two years ago and reawakened the faith I once had in the west coast’s ability to make good SB. When I originally reviewed the wine, my writing was so blatantly passionate that it actually caused one reader to stop what she was doing, hunt down the wine online and buy a couple of bottles— something no wine review had ever moved her to do.  Here’s some of what I wrote about Fortress Vineyards‘ SB (from the cool-climate Red Hills AVA) whose 2007 is our “Angel” today:

“The mere process of pouring it into a glass stirred up all sorts of floral notes, tropical fruit and citrus. Just sticking my nose in the glass brought a smile to my face, and I lingered there in absolutely no rush to actually taste. I COULD SMELL THIS WINE ALL DAY LONG!…A string of descriptions came tripping off my tongue as I tasted: lime, tangerine, apricot, pineapple…even guava on the finish. It had a slight minerality, but it was round and chewy, rich, deep, lingering…told you it was love! And when I chilled it down just a bit, the crispness and acidity showed its face some more to completely round this puppy out. You’d never believe this was 100% SB because it SO resembles a fine Graves, but indeedy-doo it is…no Semillon in the mix at all, and it certainly doesn’t need it.”

I can’t stress how important this wine is to Cali SB. They planted in a cool pocket, used the aromatic Musque clone of the grape, and made a fantastic wine that is a damned BARGAIN at about $15. On the other side of the coin is our “Demon” whose roll quite frankly could have been played by any number of wines. So for shits and giggles I closed my eyes, had my kid spin me in circles a couple of times in the wine shop, and then I randomly pointed to the bottle I was going to buy and pit against the Fortress. THIS is how much I love you people. Not only because I’d gladly make a fool of myself in a store, but also because I actually wasted fourteen perfectly good bones for wine I wouldn’t cook with, much less drink: Sterling Vineyards SB. Tasting notes were not exactly copious…very light in color (did I pour water or wine?), SUPER tight nose…like a virgin who is simply NOT willing to give you any play at all. Boring, flat, insipid. No, not the virgin, the wine. This battle, no surprise to me, was a complete massacre.

Fortress Vineyards 2007 Sauvignon Blanc ($15) Find It (here)
Sterling Vineyards 2007 Sauvignon Blanc ( $14) Forget It

It’s taken years of introspection, months of mindfulness, and countless days of self awareness, but what I have come to realize is that I, Katie Pizzuto, am a tool. Not to be confused with an implement or handy piece of equipment, I am instead, a meek pawn, powerless to the allure of two things: wine and food. Rather than eat and drink when I am hungry and thirsty, the overwhelming majority of what gets put into my body has little or nothing to do with a human being’s basic survival instincts. That’s something my waistline apparently knew a long time ago, but somehow the message kept getting lost on its way to the brain…probably because its path was obstructed by a hunk of Pecorino Tartufo drizzled with extra virgin olive oil. Anyhow, this new awareness was brought on after the 1st of the year, not because I made a dumb-ass resolution to lose weight, but because of another weakness—books. My resolution, in case you care, is to try 365 new wines this year, but that’s beside the point.

So I’m standing in a Barnes & Noble on New Year’s Day, brought in by the intention of buying a gift for my sister, but then intoxicated by the combined smells of triple-shot cappuccinos and unopened books. I quickly find the gift (a copy of Marcella Hazan’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking) so that I can then move on to more important issues…books for ME. This is how it plays out:

Ooooh, The Billionaire’s Vinegar (she says, still standing in the Food/Wine section)….I’ve been meaning to read that for a while now…cool! (Grabs book, places it atop Hazan, and meanders to the other side of the shelf). Where the hell is On Food and Cooking? How can they not have a copy of that here? Whatever. Oh shit, son’s headed in my direction with grandfather in tow. Better sneak into Fiction before I’m discovered (makes a beeline for Fiction but is distracted by a display of “Buy 2 Get One Free” books). Hey, Eric Clapton’s book! I didn’t know that was in soft cover. If I can find two more books in this section, that’d be awesome. Maybe….hmmmm…. (hears husband calling for her against the din known as the Children’s Section. Apparently the son and grandfather found him.) Crap, forget Clapton. Lemme go upstairs to the music department. (Big mistake. Entire family sees me on the escalator and I am, as they say, snagged.) Yes hon, what’s that? You wanna look for a fitness book for your dad in Self-Help? SURE. Let’s go.

And that, my friends, is where things unravel. I turned the corner, and at eye level was a book called Eating the Moment. It lured me in with its beautiful cover photo of juicy plums, like the sirens lured Odysseus. I grabbed it and threw it on the pile without much thought—a lot like how I eat, ironically. When we got back home, it was the first one I cracked open, but ½ hour (and several pages) later, I dog-eared a page and put the book away, determined to put its suggested exercises into action. THAT, folks, is why you are reading this. I spent one week in a hyper-aware mode, noting whether or not I was actually hungry each time I ate. Then, I had to get up one day and basically starve myself until I began to experience true hunger. And I was supposed to push it to its limit. Forget a rumbling stomach. I waited until I had a roaring headache and got bitchier than I ever thought I could get—a feat my husband had no doubt I could attain. I then proceeded to stop at the nearest pub, have a shitty salad followed by a shitty cup of French onion soup and a not-so-cold glass of Bass Ale. Every fiber of my being wanted the bacon cheeseburger with caramelized onions and blue cheese, figuring that might begin to satisfy my hunger, but I played the game well and ordered a salad and soup that did nothing to satisfy the hunger in my HEAD but enough to satisfy the hunger in my BODY.

What does all this mean? Besides the fact that I probably need therapy for my inability to step foot inside a wine or bookstore and NOT buy something, I’m pretty sure it means that I’m a tool. I eat with my brain, not my body. I imagine making French fries in duck fat, dusting them with rosemary-infused sea salt, and I get hungry—in my head. Whatever the hell that means. But duck fat isn’t the easiest to find at the office, so I wind up eating a piece of dark Toblerone instead, thus eating despite the fact that I’m not really hungry. Hey, the way I see it, we all have our shortcomings. I, on the other hand, saved myself about 800 calories by eating the chocolate instead of the fries, so that, methinks, is a step in the right direction. No?

I was one of those people that, for years, were taken in by the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I read countless books about the disastrous day, and even labored through a copy of transcripts from The House Select Committee on Assassinations’ investigation, looking for answers I’d never find. And what I’ve learned is that sometimes we don’t need answers. Sometimes, NOT knowing is liberating, because it allows us the freedom to move forward unfettered by the shackles of fear. When we were young we did things that were far riskier and dangerous than what we do today, because we weren’t bound by the knowledge of what might happen to us—we were clueless.

What could we do with our futures right now were we not crippled by fear? How differently would we make our decisions and set our goals if they weren’t continually thwarted by the voice in our head that says, “no fucking way, you nut job!” On the eve of the presidential inauguration, I wonder how much Obama listens to that voice as well. My hope is that if he does hear it from time to time, he will silence it. Otherwise, our agriculture (and the legislative bodies that regulate it) will not get the change it so desperately needs.  Otherwise, many Americans will lose faith in their ability to change the course their country’s on. Otherwise, it’ll just be, “meet the new boss, same as the old boss.” My hope is that he puts on the gloves and takes on industrial agribusiness, like a kid with no comprehension of gravity would climb a tree. But my hopes are tempered by our past—ain’t that a kick in the ass.

The immortal Martin Luther King gave breath to these words in 1967, in protest of the quagmire in Vietnam, but I use them here in protest of the existence of entities like ConAgra. Ironically enough, in the 1960s, the US Congress received more letters from citizens concerned with animal welfare issues than letters concerning civil rights and the Vietnam War, so the words seem more than appropriate right now:

“I speak as a citizen of the world, for the world as it stands aghast at the path we have taken. I speak as an American to the leaders of my own nation. The great initiative in this war is ours. The initiative to stop it must be ours.”

I get bombarded on a daily basis, by emails from PR and marketing firms in the food/wine industry. Some of these are press releases, and others are merely round-ups of headlines from major publications. And it never fails to amaze me just how much crap is being written and read out there. The worst are, of course, the many holiday pieces, repeatedly telling you which wines will pair best with your turkey, which are the romantic Valentine wines, which to bring to your next barbecue, and which make the perfect Christmas gifts for the discerning wine lover. Bleck.

But lately, the headlines are so inane I actually struggle to believe they can keep a straight face when they propose the idea to their editor:

Wine Suggestions for soon-to-be President Obama (i.e. “Put down the beer”)
Fruity, But no Trip to the Candy Store (a synopsis of gay-friendly wines?!?)
Value-Priced Wines from France do Exist (duh.)
Five Things to Watch for in 2009 (including Giants’ golf handicaps and Madoff investment strategies)
2008’s Most Memorable Wines (for those wine critics who DON’T already have Alzheimer’s)

photo by Gary Trask/Casino City

The one that really got my goat, however, came in yesterday from the apex of journalism known as Casino City Times. The article was titled “Wine Entrepreneur Takes Center Stage at Affiliate Summit”. No big deal, right? The ONLY reason I bothered to click on the link was because the first paragraph read as follows:

LAS VEGAS, Nevada -– Wine entrepreneur Gary Vaynerchuk was making his keynote address at the sold-out Affiliate Summit West in Las Vegas Monday morning when in the midst of his spirited speech he began dropping a few expletives.

THIS, my friends is what has become of mainstream media. Reporters from Sin City, the adult playground where gambling, whoring and debauchery reign supreme, can’t seem to wrap their little heads around the fact that someone might curse every now and then, in the middle of what happens to always be a very passionate (and articulate) speech. Rather than focus on the message, this jackass focused on delivery, including infantile rants like, “his not-fit-for-Sunday-School choice of words.” Grow the fuck up, will you? Are we not adults? Why does it take you several paragraphs to get to the crux of who GaryV is and what he does? Why was it important to preface it all by putting a microscope to a couple of curses? Belching, I would’ve understood. Farting, even better. But swearing? THAT is newsworthy? And in Vegas of all places? I’m rendered speechless—sort of.

I’ve said it before, and I’m going to say it again if for no other reason than I like to re-read my well-honed truisms: Cooking is about control and eating is about submission. Unfortunately, for the most part, few people like to truly be in a position of complete submission. Relinquishing control doesn’t come easy to Americans, because we’ve gotten spoiled by the likes of folks like the marketing gurus over at Burger King that tell us we can have it “our way.” Nonetheless, for as much as we’ve gotten accustomed to having salt & pepper shakers perpetually within reach (sometimes accompanied by ketchup and steak sauce), we don’t often see that in higher-end restaurants. And unless we have a not-so-subtle addiction to sodium chloride, we don’t usually ask for salt after our entrees are brought out, either. Why? Aren’t we assuming that the chef in an establishment like that will know how to properly season food? Of course we are, because we TRUST them.

Ethan Pines for The Wall Street Journal

Unfortunately, when Americans were being introduced to sushi in the 1960s, many Los Angeles restaurants were doling out dumbed-down “California Rolls” for those who weren’t adventurous enough to try raw fish. Rather than tell these idiots that they had no business sitting at a sushi bar if they didn’t want to try raw fish, they placated them with avocado, cucumber and imitation crab—the antithesis of the pristine seafood sushi chefs were spending so much of their energy and money obtaining. They looked the other way when Americans wiped away (or added) wasabi, dunked sushi into the soy sauce rice-side down, and asked for “more sauce.” They even started packing the rice tighter than what was traditionally taught, specifically because they KNEW that Americans would dunk rice-side down instead of fish-side down, inevitably causing the rice to fall apart in the dish. All this has created a country of sushi eaters that don’t truly eat sushi as it was intended. It created a nation of people who think mayo actually has a place at a sushi counter.

So when a few top sushi chefs decided to serve strictly in a style known as “omakase” (loosely translated as “trust the chef”), it’s no surprise that Americans got their panties in an uproar when they were denied their miso soup and kicked out for requesting fried soft shell crab rolls or spicy tuna rolls. In an effort to return sushi to the craft it once was, these guys are now being called sushi bullies because they have no time for our Americanized bullshit. Most of us are completely unfamiliar with the centuries-old Japanese culinary traditions, and that can be agonizing for some chefs. I was fortunate enough, for example, to have been taught that sushi is finger food, and doesn’t require chopsticks. So when I get funny looks from Americans who think I’m being rude, I often wonder if they realize how rude THEY are being by drowning the delicate fish in wasabi-spiked soy sauce—the equivalent of pouring ketchup over coq au vin.

These sushi chefs are asking that we put our trust in them. They’re insisting that they know how a certain piece of fish will best be appreciated, and that we shouldn’t question or adulterate what’s set before us if we want to experience sushi for what it truly is. If you don’t like putting yourself completely in the hands of a well-trained chef, feel free to go to Sushi Samba and order any one of their many bastardizations. I’m pretty sure they’ll also bring you a bottle of Heinz Ketchup if you ask nicely. But if you can handle total culinary surrender, perhaps you’ll learn a thing or two about the cuisine you claim to love so deeply and devoutly. And perhaps, then, you can leave your treasured Philadelphia Roll behind you and never, ever, EVER look back.

Some Omakase-Style Restaurants:
Los Angeles – Urasawa, Matsuhisa, Sushi Nozawa
New York – Sushi Yasuda, Masa
Boston – Oishii
San Francisco – Ino
Canada – Tojo’s

New Jersey has plenty of things wrong with it, most importantly that it’s not New York. I say that with the cruel-to-be-kind love of a native resident, and I mean it. But what bugs me most about my home state is that I can’t receive wine directly from wineries, be they in-state or out-of-state. Why? Because Fast-Fingered Freddie, who heads up WXYZ Distributors, needs to make sure he gets his slice of the pie and that won’t happen if I circumvent him. Then there’s also Louie “The Lizard” Legislator who needs to make sure he doesn’t miss out on collecting sales tax dollars from out-of-state wineries. Lastly, there’s the New Jersey Licensed Beverage Association (otherwise known as Dickheads ‘R’ Us) who insist that legalizing direct wine shipments would cause rampant cases of under-aged teens ordering fine wine over the internet to get their illegal buzz on. The problems with all this are that:

1.    Under-aged teens have better things to do than order a case of wine from some small-production boutique winery in order to get shitfaced. They are way too busy borrowing the ID of a thirty-year-old cousin who looks nothing like them, memorizing their birthdate and zodiac sign, and heading out to local bars and liquor stores for six packs and fifths of SoCo. Most frat houses have little interest in securing the last few bottles of a hard-to-find vintage.

2.    Boutique wines are only available to us via the internet (or by purchasing direct at the winery and having it shipped home) because they don’t even HAVE a damned wholesale distributor, thus, they don’t get to grace the shelves of the liquor stores we’re supposed to be buying from.

3.    If NJ legislators would curtail the acceptance of lavish gifts in exchange for city contracts, the bribery, the extortion, the tax evasion, the use of campaign funds to pay personal expenses, the racketeering, and the money laundering, then perhaps we’d be able to worry a little less about plucking every last penny out of wineries that are trying to eek out a living, and taxing the ever-loving shit out of them.

Bill S1810/A2656, sponsored by state Senate Majority Leader Stephen M. Sweeney and Assemblyman John J. Burzichelli, would allow New Jersey to join 35 other US states and let its cork dorks get their favorite juice sent directly to their homes—IF passed. So please, if you’re from the area that Bruce Springsteen lovingly refers to as a death trap and a suicide rap, visit www.uncorknj.com and knock on your legislators’ proverbial doors. In fact, please knock them down with a wrecking ball if at all possible. Email them. Let them know you want them to free the friggin’ grapes!

I am many things. Among those “things” are being a mother and being a sharp-witted wiseass. I’m not alone, either. The blogosphere is littered with us. But what I’ve learned from cyberspace is that it’s REALLY difficult to convey sarcasm and irony on a computer screen when there is no inflection in your voice, no wink in your eye, no quote marks with your fingers. One misguided reader can seriously fuck things up for you and your failed attempts at dark humor.

There have been moments where, as a mom, I’ve stared down my son, wondering just how many marks I’d leave if I put him through a wall—replastering and repainting would’ve been well worth it. Hell, I’ve got a retired DYFS counselor for a neighbor and even HE laughs at my plights. So when a girlfriend calls wondering if I’ve got a secret stash of valium or if it’s poor parenting to want to duct tape your kids to a spinning ceiling fan, I relate—I don’t call the cops on her. But that’s just me.

Apparently, we’ve gotta watch what we say online because not everyone “gets” our humor…and that includes folks on Twitter. When an aggravated mom asked if it was OK to smother her unrelenting daughter, I laughed at both the frustration and the love. I GOT it. But others didn’t get it, tracked down her location, and called the cops. Concerned samaritans? I guess. Overreacting dolts? More likely. After proving to the fuzz that her kids were happily tucked in bed, she posted about the experience and the muzzle that it has now put on her:

“So lesson learned ladies. Don’t do any venting in public. Don’t network. Don’t show anything LESS than perfect bliss and 400 tweets about contests and fucking blow it out your ass nothing. Because someone, somewhere might call the police on you and you’ll be sitting there in your pajamas watching a cop waste his fucking time, and know it.”

What does all this have to do with food or wine? Nothing. If you want someone who always stays on topic go read Fermentation or something. But I will say this, because I can’t do perfect bliss, and I don’t wear pajamas: For the record, I am NOT a homicidal maniac…but I can’t say that I haven’t wanted to tar and feather Charlie Trotter for removing foie gras from his menu, flog Robert Parker for using the term “fruit bomb” redundantly, whip Bob Tuschman for cancelling “Molto Mario” and stone Rocco DiSpirito for stepping foot outside the kitchen. For those who have one hand on the receiver and the other poised at 9-1-1 on your speed dial, I pinky swear that I am winking at you right now—really.

It was 2:30am in Miami, and we had just left a nightclub with my brother and his fiancé. Knowing there was a 10-year-old sleeping soundly at his grandparent’s house who’d be up at the crack of dawn anxious to hit the beach, I was thankful to be heading home, despite the fact that at that hour there was STILL a line of young folk waiting to get into the place and BEGIN their evening. But it was at that moment that my baby brother turned to me in the car and said, “Do you mind if we stop to get a quick bite to eat? I’m hungry.” Now, I’m getting old, but I’m not THAT old that I don’t still remember what it was like to leave a bar late at night with a case of munchies and a need to soak up some alcohol, but I didn’t have to worry about being beach-bound by 10am back then, either. I reluctantly capitulated, but insisted that it be a REALLY quick bite.

In Jersey, the place to go after a night of drinking when I was younger was either a diner or White Castles, and the only thing I ever got at the diners was “Disco Fries” which were covered with melted, gooey cheese and came with a bowl of gravy to dip them in. But Miami isn’t much for diners, and even less for gravy. So after about 10 minutes in the car we pulled up to a place downtown called La Moon, which apparently specialized in something called Perros Colombianos (Columbian Hot Dogs). I didn’t bother to look at the menu since I knew I wanted to try whatever the specialty was, and honestly, any hot dog with a quail egg on top of it sounded too damned good to pass up. Thoughts of the ten-year old were quickly relinquished to the deepest recesses of my mind as I sat at the small metal table, licking my chops in anticipation of this meatfest.

I apologize for the piss-poor photo, but I had been taking photos during the evening and forgot to change the camera’s settings for shooting food. Well, it was that and the fact that I had taken a bite by this point, and all I could think clearly about was taking ANOTHER. Let me describe this bun full of heaven: One grilled hot dog, about 9” long, sits at the bottom. On top are slices of pan-fried chorizo and crumbled bits of bacon. All that diet food is smothered in melted cheese (I think mozzarella but couldn’t slow down enough to really tell) and the cheese, in turn, is covered with mounds of crunchy potato sticks. The texture is the perfect counterpoint to all the other goodies. All that is then drizzled with 4 different condiments, only 2 of which I recognized: ketchup and mayo. The third seemed like a mildly spicy cayenne-kissed cream, and the fourth (which runs straight across the top) was a sweeter, tropical-fruit tasting sauce. My only disappointment was that I was hoping the quail egg would maybe be fried, so I could break the yolk and let it run down everything, but it was hardboiled instead. Kind of a waste to add a quail egg that way, no?

White Castles—fuck off. Hamburger Deluxe—get bent. Even my highly esteemed disco fries can take a walk. THIS is the new face of drinking night’s aftermath. THIS is what all food served between the hours of 3 and 5am should aspire to. On your knees and bow, boys.