Gulp Fiction

Like Jimmy Walker, Good Times are here again

Good times are here again.
Spring training has started. NASCAR is back in full effect. Flowers are blooming. Birds are chirping and crapping on my car. The girls are shedding their winter boyfriends, and wearing less and less clothing with every passing day.
Yep, good times are definitely here again.
And that means barbecue season is right around the corner too (though barbecue enthusiasts would say it never left).
There are few pleasures in this world that I cherish more than drinking a beer by the barbecue on a spring afternoon, the baseball game on the radio, flipping steaks and wings, doing absolutely nothing at all of any significance, importance or consequence.
I look forward to spending many, many afternoons in flip-flops and sleeveless T-shirts, cooking T-bones and ribeyes, and filling the entire neighborhood with the delicious smell of marinated meat cooking on an open flame.
I just hope the neighbors don’t mind the whiskey-induced chants of “U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A!” that will surely fill the air from time to time to time.
And if they do, to hell with them.

The day the cooking died

Mario Batali is gone. So is Emeril Lagasse. Moe Green. Slacci. Cuneo. They are all gone.
Food Network has settled all its family business.
It looks like they’ve put all their chips on Tyler “Applebee’s” Florence, “Bobby “Four-TV-Shows-and-all-of-them-littered-with-ancho-chili-powder” Flay, Rachel “I-Posed-for-FHM-Magazine” Ray, and Alton “Four-Eyes-and-Bad-Jokes” Brown.
Too bad. Apparently, good chefs with gall and a passion for the unfamiliar just have no place on that network anymore.
Though I never liked Emeril, mostly due to his personality rather than his art, he is a good chef. And now that he is gone, I am sad to see him go.
I always loved Mario though. . . for his cooking and for his shoes. Both were wild, interesting, new to most yet old even more, and very fun to watch.
It’s unfortunate that the Bob-and-Susie-Smith crowd from Hicksville, Anywhere, just couldn’t relate to the kind of spiritual, culinary upheaval in the food universe that folks like Batali were trying to instill in the American food conscience.
Once again, too bad.
Who now, with Emeril and Orange-Clog Batali gone, will I mock on that network?
The hack characters that they pull up are mediocre, and mediocrity has no part in heckling.
People, just as food, must have a personality – a distinct flavor – to draw a reaction, whether it is positive or negative. Blandness, boredom and the ordinary draw no reaction because nobody cares and therefore they are tired, worthless and without purpose.
They are the instant mashed potatoes of existence – cultured and created to please everyone, everywhere immediately, but only just a little bit. And children and cultureless beings love them because they taste like they are: nothing.
I, however, want the raw oysters of life (even though I still am learning to like them). I want to grab the pig’s head by the horns and suck the eyeball straight out. I want my father’s cioppino on Friday, birria on Saturday and something I have never had before on Sunday.
But it seems there are too few people out there who want the same. It seems the most interesting culinary deviation that most Americans are willing to take is whether to use mild or hot Taco Bell sauce on their Taco Supreme . . . even when they pick off the tomatoes.
Oh well, I can’t blame them. I used to pick off the tomatoes too . . . when I was 6.

Goodbye, Ketchup. My old friend.

I never thought that I would say this, but I believe the time has come.
The time has come, I am convinced, to join many other hot dog purists and swear off ketchup on hot dogs once and for all.
I don’t know why I made this decision. There really isn’t concrete logic behind it all; just a couple thousand (maybe a million) of people who say that hot dogs are better and more sacred with no ketchup.
I must admit that ketchup is rather bland. It doesn’t really have much flavor to it. It’s like a horrible marinara sauce in a bottle.
You never see a ketchup festival. Even here in Fairfield, there is a tomato festival but there sure isn’t any ketchup festival.
But mustard, ahhh, now there is a classy condiment. It’s not as bland and unsophisticated as ketchup; it’s not simply a vehicle for fat intake such as ranch dressing or mayo. Mustard, unlike its counterparts, is all about the flavor.
Nobody ever buys upscale ketchup. What would be the point? A $20 bottle of ketchup tastes the exact same as a $2 bottle of ketchup.
Gourmet mustard, however, is everywhere. One can walk into a supermarket and fine 50 different kinds of mustard on the shelves. There is highbrow and lowbrow mustard. There is Dijon mustard, stone ground mustard, deli mustard, honey mustard, spicy mustard.
How many different kinds of ketchup are there? For all intensive purposes, there are two: Heinz and the store brand. And maybe some bottle labeled “catsup” that nobody ever buys.
Yep, I thing mustard, onions and relish from this day forward is the way for me. And of course, chili dogs. I could never, ever give up a good chili dog.

So that's how The Fat Boys got so fat

I have always believed that doctors are nothing more than bad lawyers with stethoscopes, but never before have I been so convinced that I am, in fact, correct.
Not because I have watched “Scrubs,” which still is a pretty accurate portrayal of the mindless, apathetic, golf club-swinging morons tending to the life-and-death matters of your loved ones, but because I have seen them in action.
Usually they give you obvious and unhelpful answers to serious questions, vague and wishy-washy answers to straightforward questions, or, if you are lucky, they give you no answers at all.
The reason I bring this us is that my mother is currently in the hospital with an abnormal heart rhythm. So what do they bring her with her dinner? Coffee. Coffee for a woman with an irregular heart beat. Way to go, guys. Keep up the good work.
Her dinner did look rather appealing though. I wasn’t hungry but I was tempted to try some. Yes, I was tempted to take food from a sick woman in a hospital. So what?
Anyway, she had turkey and mashed potatoes with gravy, stuffing, sweet potatoes and green salad.
According to Patty, (Izza’s sister who works as a nurse in a hospital) it is not uncommon for the hospital staff to eat the food of patients who check out early. And by “check out early,” I meant the technical meaning, not those who died. Though I am sure they eat their meals too.
Eating a dead man’s dinner must really make you feel alive.
The food must be pretty good if the help eats it. I mean, I am willing to bet that flight attendants don’t gorge down regularly on left over airline food.
I couldn’t help but think of one of the greatest pieces of American cinematography, “Disorderlies” with The Fat Boys, as I saw a hefty nurse waddle as she pushed a dead (or soon-to-be dead) man down the hall on a gurney. She probably ate his dinner.
Ah, bad lawyers with stethoscopes.
(Author’s note: I don’t really think that doctors are bad lawyers with stethoscopes. I simply am presenting a humorous outlook on those who hold the lives of so many of us in their hands like a well-crafted 7 iron. Besides, that would just be mean to lawyers.)

In Russia, dinner eats you

When I was 12 years old, I went with my parents and little brother to [the] Ukraine.
It was the summer of 1992, right after the fall of the Soviet Union, and things still moved at a Soviet pace: pretty much a standstill.
Lines were long and stagnant, people who were supposed to be working were hardly working at all, and no one was smiling because nobody was sure if they were going to get a paycheck that month. Times were rough and uncertain.
Border guards sat in their stations as cars backed up for miles. Restaurant workers sat around smoking while customers just seated themselves.
Road workers simply left their machinery on the road during lunch breaks, nearly killing my family and myself.
My parents had rented a car (a junky French Peugeot to be exact) and had driven my brother and I, fighting in the backseat all the way, from France to Italy, Italy to Austria, Austria to Czechoslovakia, and Czechoslovakia to Ukraine. I can remember the farther east we got the more the food became unbearable to my 12-year-old taste buds.
In France, Italy and Austria, I could get McDonalds and Coca-Colas, Snickers bars and Gatorades – all the horrible stuff. But as we moved deeper and deeper into the freshly illuminated yet still shadowy darkness of the Iron Curtain, the tastes of home became simply impossible to obtain.
We made our way across the border (which took something like five hours), through the countryside and, with the aid of Ukrainian woman name Tatiana who had stayed with us in the States, to the city of Uman – sister city to Davis.
On our arrival, a huge celebratory dinner was planned. Even then, I was grateful of the kindness and selfless gestures of our hosts.
It was obvious that they had spared no expense; spending what little money they had to buy what little luxuries were available.
The problem was just that to a 12-year-old American, the Ukrainian delicacies just tasted horrible.
Though I now will eat just about anything and generally like it or tolerate it, when I was a child, like many American children, I was a very picky eater.
Things like borscht were not what I called a good time. Everything was flavored with dill. Raw, sliced tomatoes were served with everything. Mushrooms were everywhere. Vinegar-soaked cucumbers came with every meal it seemed. The bread was dark and heavily flavored and nothing like the flavorless Honky bread I had eaten all of my life.
I had never seen, tasted of heard of most of the items that were put in front of me at every meal.
All I wanted was some chicken nuggets, French fries, a 7-Up and a television that got more than two channels.
One good thing did happen, I must say. That trip was when got my first taste of vodka, much to my parents’ displeasure.
If I ever get a chance to go back, I will make up for the uncultured impressions I left in my youth and eat everything that it put in front of me.
And I’ll probably be offered more than one shot of vodka.

Surgeon General's warning: Karaoke may be hazardous to your health

Engaging in karaoke is always a dangerous proposition.
One can embarrass oneself, vandalize and bastardize cherished tunes, and alienate an entire bar, but I never thought, in all of my years of years, that one could enrage a significant other so badly in the course of a karaoke duet.
Pabst Blue Ribbon is the sort of thing that makes men out of boys, boys out of women, and children out of us all.
It makes seemingly straight men sing Monkees songs off key and at the top of their lungs.
It also, apparently, makes men sign themselves and their girlfriends up to sing “I Got You Babe” and to then change the words to have serious sexual (and tragic) meanings.
The G St. Pub in Davis is a place where nobody knows your name and nobody cares. All the better, if you ask me.
It’s the sort of place where children are allowed to roam freely (until 9 p.m., that is) while their parents drink cheap hooch, play pool, listen to Iron Maiden on the jukebox and generally avoid their parental responsibilities.
The well-oiled smell of beer-battered onion rings lingers throughout the entire establishment and masks the smell of the cigarette smoke blowing in through the rickety doorway.
As expected, it is my sort of place.
As implied, it has Pabst on tap, and every Monday and Tuesday karaoke is on tap as well.
Izza and I make it down there just about every week. A few pints, a tune or two and a game of pool always seems to take the sting off the dreariness and depression of a working man’s Monday.
Yesterday was no different.
Izza and I made twice-baked potatoes -- a favorite of mine. We made them with lots of scallions, lots of pepper jack cheese, and lots of cream and butter -- just the way I like them.
After dinner, we made it the pub, curled up a table, ordered a pitcher and watched the festivities.
Most of the people who sing early in the night are good. They are the die-hards, the kids who were in choir. They know the songs, they hit their notes and they are all, by and large, single. Not surprising.
I signed up and when my name was called did my best Davy Jones (or Axl Rose, depending on your generation) impression, swaying hips and hands and all, to “Daydream Believer,” or as most people incorrectly call it, “Cheer Up Sleepy Jean.”
I could feel my Republican grandfather rolling over in his grave as I came off the stage. Sorry, gramps.
The problem arose when Izza was in the ladies room and I signed her and I up for “I Got You Babe.” Needless to say, in the words of Comic Book Guy, “worst decision ever.”
Much to her horror, I sang the song they way I thought it should be sung and we left immediately afterwards.
I just thought that was what Sonny was trying to really say.
I can’t really get into the details of the performance because I am prohibited from using profanity on this forum but let’s put it like this -- I definitely slept on the couch last night.
Maybe next time I’ll just sing the song the way I am supposed to.

God permit, I'll dance on Bill Belichick's grave

Surprisingly, Mother Nature heard my prayers. It didn’t rain.
I suppose if Tom Brady’s dreaminess and charm can be defeated then it’s only logical to assume that precipitation can be defeated as well.
The sun was shining. The birds were chirping (until we shot them from the sky with sling shots and deep-fried them, that is) and everything went to plan.
Except for the Giants wining, which was awesome.
Normally I would never root for the N.Y. Giants, but my disdain for the Patriots is so intense that they could have been playing the Devil himself and his band of minions, and I would have been wearing red.
The sad fact is that Boston sports fans were so much more likeable when they were a bunch of losers, the underdogs. Deep-fried underdogs, as it were
Now Boston sports fans are just as obnoxious and successful as those who they claim to despise: New York Sports fans.
I must admit that the deep-fried bananas were almost as sweet as watching Bill Belichick scurrying off the field and into sore-loser immortality.
His surliness with the media, his hobo clothes and ratty sweatshirts, his cheating and subsequent indignation at the accusations after being caught, his running up the score on obviously inferior teams, his general demeanor and constantly ticked-off gaze all just irked me in some way.
I hated him before and now I hate him even more, if that is even possible.
Satan and the Hades Immortals in 2009 are my team. Oh wait, that’s already the Raiders. Oh well, I’ll cheer for them, anyway.

A deep-fried super duper pooper blooper

Though I am hardly a religious man, never before in the pitiful, heathen existence that I call my life have I prayed harder for it not to rain.
I have asked Jesus, Allah, YHWY, Vishnu and every other god, spirit, deity and entity for it not to rain on Super Bowl Sunday. I have sacrificed spiders, spilled blood, humbled myself, and asked, prayed and begged for just this one simple thing in a desperate attempt to appease Mother Nature.
Sadly, it appears that the one weather god who has any pull around these parts-the mighty meteorologist-hasn’t heard my prayers, nor has he heard the prayers of the sad, vagabond hobo camp of slack-jawed, inbred cutters that I call my friends.
It seems (save a miracle) that we will be crowded, in all of our drunken dreariness and splendor,  on Super Sunday under a fraudulent soccer mom nine-by-nine tent , hiding from the elements and violent students, as we deep fry every creature, critter, animal and organism known to man. Good times nonetheless, I suppose.
Never before has bad weather stopped our escapades and I am sure that it won’t stop them this time.
The power of deep-fried stuffing balls is just too extreme. They are too good.
Brilliant in simplicity; all you do is take regular Thanksgiving stuffing, roll it into walnut-sized balls, coat in flour, and deep fry until golden. Serve with gravy . . . lots of gravy.
We’ll also see how good the deep-fried bananas foster turns out. I’m assuming that it will turn out amazing.
My idea (though I am sure I am not the first to think of this) is to take bananas, roll them in a butter and rum mixture, then roll them in a sugar and cinnamon mixture, coat with batter and deep fry. Serve with vanilla ice cream.
It’s all, however, in peril. Rain threatens. Rain could really throw a monkey wrench in our whole operation.
As anyone who knows anything will tell you, scalding hot oil and heavy precipitation are not great friends. They are, in fact, like Eli Manning and Tom Brady: Identical tough-guy, frat boy nuts of varying quality, fresh off the tree of insanity and competition, placed on two opposite fields of play with everything on the line.
Times are rough these days with rain above and I’m not driving to the burn ward.
The way I figure, doctors make enough already. There’s really no reason to give them more business.