ForTasteSake

As (relatively) young, single, working professional women in a city of roughly 1.5 million people (over 200,000 of which are aged 25-34), it seems as though it shouldn’t be quite so difficult to find relatively interesting men to pass some time with (and maybe share some meals with). We’ve both realized that over the 30+ years that we’ve spent stumbling through the urban dating jungle (oh yes, it IS a jungle out there!), we’ve learned our fair share and thought it only made sense for us to spread our warped dating perspectives and experiences to the masses.  (We’re all about helping others, you know.)

Kellie: Dating has never been high up on my list of priorities.  I’m completely okay with not being in a relationship, and, frankly, I’m unsure at this point that I even have the patience for sustained interaction with one person over a substantial length of time.  Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy people and spending time with others, but I also really enjoy being by myself and doing things alone.  Basically, I realize that I’m difficult to get along with at times, and I find others difficult as well.

Stephanie: And I’ve quickly learned to get over my parents’ frequent referral of my cat, Daphne, as their grand-daughter (in fact, I think it kind-of sweet now) or the awkward family gatherings in which my single-dom is an inevitable topic of conversation (nope, haven’t met anyone “special” since our last awkward family gathering two months ago).

Kellie: Recently, I went on a date (for real – the dress and heels kind), and when I mentioned it to my mom, her response was, “I thought you’d given up on humanity.”  I think that perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I’m unconcerned with dating either way – whether I do it or not doesn’t really matter to me.  If I found someone that could tolerate my independence, sarcasm, workaholism and addiction to text messaging, while having good taste in music, a dry wit, similar political and social justice views and a steady career, I’d consider “dating” him (or at least getting to know him).  Otherwise, I have friends, family, and undateable men I already hang out with, so I’m all set.

Stephanie: Similarly, I laughed when I first read in “The Rules” the following:  men are the adversary, especially on the first date (caveat:   I did not purchase this book of my own accord… I knew Kellie and I would be doing a dating post so I was trying to do some research.  As a self-respecting, intelligent, single gal, I had to put that out there).  However, as time goes on, I think there is some truth to approaching dating from this position.  At it’s overly-simplistic core, this gem is telling you that you have to be prepared, can’t let your guard down, and make sure that you are armed with the appropriate amount of  artillery to deflect any BS that is bound to head your way from the opposite sex from time-to-time.  Above all else, you can’t let yourself get hurt and, while vulnerability can be the hallmark of a great Audrey Hepburn movie, it can also be the hallmark of your dating downfall.

Kellie: A few weeks ago, Stephanie sent me this article from New York Magazine about “the fadeaway,” which is when a person just sort of disappears from your romantic life, with no explanation and no further contact.  Now, while the merits (or lack of merit) of this approach can be debated, I have my own personal opinion (surprise!), which may or may not be biased based on my own past actions: the fadeaway is perfectly acceptable if you’ve been out with someone less than three times.  If that’s all the time you’ve spent together, you don’t owe them anything, nor do they owe you.  Sorry, folks.  I know we all generally claim that we want closure or an explanation, but, sometimes, it’s just not necessary.

(Also, to be clear, when I say “been out,” I mean official, intentional, I-made-a-conscious-decision-to-spend-time-with-you dates.  Whether you actually decide call them dates is your own choice.  None of that we-ran-into-each-other-at-bar/party/restaurant/coffee shop-and-spent-some-time-talking business.)

Stephanie: And speaking of the fadeaway….as someone who does not necessarily buy into spiritual, other-wordly pursuits, I have been thinking more and more that my dating karma has turned ugly and the dating gods have forsaken me because of my past indiscretions.  I’ve wondered, did the fadeaway just get pulled on me because of the fadeaway I pulled in 2003? And maybe kissing my ex’s bff at sorority formal was a baaad idea (I blame the massive amounts of white zin for that one.  Yeah, so what, I drank white zin in college.  I was trying to be “classy”).  Is it possible that my proverbial dating hens have come home to roost?  I mean, who knows, but I’ve taken to burning sage just in case….

This is not to say that all is bad or that I’m going to give up and start playing for the other team (I still haven’t completely convinced myself that this isn’t a partial motivation for some men to be complete douche lords:  the hope that their idiocy will force a woman into the arms of another woman – hot).  However, it is to say that we have to be prepared for what we will be faced with when we are out there traversing what can sometimes be a very barren landscape and to do unto others as you would have others do unto you (as much as possible).

So what can be learned from Kellie and my somewhat unintentionally constructed dating frameworks?  We’re not sure.  But it sure has been cathartic for us to write about it and, while Kellie and I certainly don’t have the answers to it all, we are hoping that this blog can be a forum for us to not only share what turns us on when it comes to good food but also what turns us on when it comes to good men (and vice-versa, of course).

Caution – a word contained in a picture below may not be suitable for all audiences and may be deemed inappropriate and offensive by most.  Except Brits.  Consider yourself warned.

Jenny and I hardly squeezed our way through the door of Carman’s Country Kitchen (11th and Wharton, Friday-Monday, 8am-2pm), partly due to our ample backsides, but mostly because of the large crowd of people waiting to eat and trying to beat the sweltering 102 degree heat outside.  A staple in the South Philly brunch scene, and one of the primary members of the Philadelphia “brunch belt,” Carman’s is basically just a small room with three tables (accommodating 2-3 each) and two counters (adding another 9-10 seats).  It’s rumored that larger parties are able to sit in the bed of Carman’s pickup that’s parked outside, but I haven’t seen it in my many passes by.

We had made a reservation (it’s recommended), but were told by the waiter (who we later found out was Carman’s son, Jaret) that we’d still have a 10-15 minute wait.  (Carman offers everyone coffee while they wait, so you don’t have to sacrifice your caffeine addiction in order to get a seat.)  Four minutes later, we settled into our seats at the far end of the counter near the door, taking in the atmosphere of the place, which was full of tchotchkes (mostly of the sexual variety) and signs of all types, many of them bearing the motto of the restaurant.

***If it isn’t yet obvious, you probably don’t want to bring your kids here, unless you’re a bad parent.***

Each day at Carman’s there are four menu items – a pancake/belgian waffle dish, a challah french toast dish, an omelet, and a special.  As someone who truly struggles at brunch to make the choice between sweet and savory, I was thankful that Jenny wanted to share so my tastebuds could be fully satisfied.  We opted for the challah french toast with jersey blueberries and south carolina peaches and the special – a large piece of shrimp with crab grits, two eggs any way you want them, yukon gold home fries and toast.  We also had coffee (of course) and sides of bacon and homemade country sausage.  (I know good sausage, and Carman’s is right up there with the best I’ve ever had.  It’s definitely worth the $2. Don’t skip it.)

Almost everything was absolutely delicious (though I’ll admit that I’ve had better potatoes in my day), and I ended up feeling full but not uncomfortable.  Unfortunately, Jenny wasn’t quite so lucky – “I’m so full that when I sneezed, I felt like I was going to vomit.”   (That’s what she gets for having a cold and a weak immune system.)

Overall, the mix of the over the top inappropriateness and unintentional kitschiness made me feel right at home.  Carman cooks every dish, making it feel as though you’re at an eccentric aunt’s house for breakfast.  To me, that’s comfort at it’s finest.

I first heard of the City Tap House through a Facebook ad, oddly enough.  It was one of those lists of things to do in Philly, which I usually ignore.  With the extra free time and sunlight that summer brings in the evenings, however, I decided to click on one of these lists.  Although some of them were predictable enough (go to the Barnes, check out the Mutter Museum, etc) there were at least a couple bars that sounded intriguing.  One bar/restaurant in particular was on my side of the Schuylkill (the west, of course!) and was supposed to have the most fire-pits of any restaurant in Philly. I’ve never been to any restaurant with fire-pits in Philly! So clearly, I had to see it to believe it.

The City Tap House is located on Walnut between 39th and 40th in the Radian, that brand new residential + shopping + eating complex that Penn built, which I personally feel looks like an homage to 80s tape decks.  The door was a little hard to find, sandwiched next to Capogiro, and most of the parking around there costs money, although all the meters have been replaced with kiosks.  The El would be the easiest option, SEPTA-wise, since the 40th street stop is only a few blocks away.  Once you enter, you immediately take an elevator to the restaurant, which is two or three floors up (it was hard to tell).  The look is very sleek and modern, and they have taken full advantage of being located on the second floor–the entire wall facing south is windows, and about half the place is outdoor seating.  There were the fire-pits, as advertised, with cushy bench seating around them–I saw people ordering food, but many people were choosing to just lounge around them and drink.  There was even a field of wildflowers next to the patio tables.  I suppose this was to help with drainage and make the building more green; I liked it–it made it feel like we weren’t in the middle of the city.  The view was great, too, looking out at Penn’s campus and beyond that, the city skyline.

Overall the prices seemed moderate–my Scottish Salmon BLT was $10, and most of the other “craftwiches,” salads, and appetizers were around the $10-12 range.  They also have daily specials and mussels that you can get as entrees.  The entrees were a little more, maybe around $15-20.  The beer ranged from $4-7; there’s a wine list, but with 60 beers on tap (the most in the city) I didn’t pay it any attention.

So about that salmon BLT…first, it was the size of my head, and the size was mostly salmon.  There was nothing skimpy about it.  It was also cooked to order (I got rare, and it was amazing). I had to eat it with a knife and fork because I couldn’t figure out how to pick it up, and it was fantastic.  I only managed half.  My dining partner got the mussels in a saffron sauce, and she said they were delicious.  We also got the vegetable bruschetta–you only get 4 little squares, but it was very good; however, dinner was so good that I think next time I wouldn’t bother with an appetizer.  I also got fries with my BLT; they were shoestring style, crisp and tasty.

Finally: THE BEER.  One great thing that the Tap House does is give you a card to take notes on your beer; you put your name at the bottom and they save the card for you so that when you come back, you can see what beers you tried already, and what you thought of them. For a place that sells itself on the amount of beer it has, this is a fabulous idea.  Some people are just able to remember the names of every beer they drink; while I like beer, I am not that good.  They also sorted their draft list by type of beer and gave helpful descriptions about the beer, which I also appreciate.  Their beer list changes daily, so you are not guaranteed that the beer you have one day will be there the next, but included in the list they tell you what kegs are next to be tapped in case you want to come back for one.  The draft list is also on the website; I’m guessing it is updated fairly regularly because when I went to look up what beer I had, it wasn’t listed there anymore (all I know is, I had a brown ale and then a Japanese coffee stout, and they were both great).

Dress code was fairly casual; I wore jeans and so did most of the servers, although there were several tables around us with dressed up folks.  The beauty about a restaurant near a university is that there were also tables of people all in scrubs, or workout clothes, or business suits.  They also do live acoustic music fairly regularly, although that appears to mostly happen indoors, and with this place, outdoors is where you want to be.

My summary: good food, good beer, great atmosphere–perfect for escaping the city on a summer evening, when you can’t actually get out of town. I will definitely be going back to sit by the fire pit and fill out more note cards about their beer!

Recently, we celebrated a friend’s birthday at Zahav, a mediterranean tapas-style restaurant.  Walking distance from my house, I was excited to check it out, but was a bit thrown off by the address (237 Saint James Place).  As I walked up and down Saint James, finding nothing resembling a restaurant, my enthusiasm started to wane (though some of that could have been attributed to my recovering from three weeks of being ill).  Having traversed what should have been the appropriate block multiple times and getting grumpier with each step, I rounded the corner of a building and found myself basking in the warm glow of the front of Zahav  (just in time to save my soon-to-be dinner companions from a miserable dinner in my company).

The first to arrive, I parked myself near the door, watching couple after couple come in, only to be turned away because of their lack of reservations.  It seemed a bit odd to me, considering that most of the tables were empty, but I learned later why this was the case – a meal at Zahav is more than just a meal.  It’s a dining experience, one which you need to set aside a good chunk of your evening to truly enjoy.

Stephanie was the next to arrive, so we grabbed a seat at the bar  and ordered some drinks to start the evening.  (Shocking, I know).

Meenoo and Juie (the birthday girl) arrived shortly thereafter, so we moved ourselves to a carved wooden table to begin our evening of celebrating.  Stephanie and I decided to try the Mesibah, one of the two tasting menus.  Unfortunately, our waiter informed us that it was meant to be an experience for the whole table, and, since the signature dish of the Mesibah is a whole roasted lamb shoulder and our other two companions are vegetarians, it wasn’t really going to work out for us.  The waiter must have been able to read the disappointment on our faces, because he worked it out so that we could get the Mesibah, with Stephanie and I getting the lamb as our main course and Meenoo and Juie getting the Galil, a vegetarian dish of eggplant, tomato couscous, asparagus and tehina.

The service was fantastic, and the food, overall, is now on my list of the top ten meals I’ve had in my six years living in Philly.  Having ordered the Mesibah, we weren’t entirely sure what dishes would be coming, so it was like a constant supply of never-ending surprise plates.  The pictures in no way do the food justice, but here they are, nonetheless.

Potentially the best hummus in the world…

I don’t even like cauliflower, but this was fried so well that it was absolutely delicious.

Part of the impetus for Kellie and I to get our acts together and start this food blog was to share with the world the greatness that is Philadelphia.  We’ve lived here most of our adult lives and while every so often we may engage in a brief affair with another city, when it comes right down to it, we love this place.

We love its underdog status; its eclectic neighborhoods and the eateries that define them; the rich history; the diversity of people and opinions; the Skeletor karaoke at the Troc.

Yep, Skeletor karaoke at the Troc or “Trocadero” (1003 Arch St.) for those of you not familiar, which I now am, having spent a night taking in what has become somewhat of an institution right here in our great city.  Let me break it down for you all because it’s real simple:  man dressed in Skeletor costume leads karaoke for the drunk masses crowded in the Troc’s balcony, uses a gong to alert the unknowing participants of his displeasure with their performance (think Rex Reed from the “Gong Show”), all the while, taunting the “fools” who dare compete with the power of Gray Skull and trumpeting K-Ci and JoJo as the best R&B duo of all time.

I wasn’t really sure what I was getting myself into when I made the decision to check it out after attending Lucha VaVoom (Mexican Masked Wrestling and Burlesque) earlier that evening, but I thought, “Hey, it couldn’t possibly get any weirder than this, right?”  Wrong.  It was weird in the most fantastical, hysterical and nonsensical way possible.  While Kellie and I didn’t sing ourselves, we stayed most of the night watching one courageous songster after another brave the stage and endure the Skeletor antics that would surely accompany their performance.  The highlight of the night for me?  Skeletor leading the male contingent in a heartfelt rendition of K-Ci and JoJo’s “All My Life” and the “punching solo” that accompanied the instrumental interludes.

After attending Lucha VaVoom, I didn’t think there would be much that could top watching masked luchadores, mini-estrellas and buxoticas doing their thing for two hours (and with luchador names like “Dirty Sanchez” and “Chocolate Caliente” who would fathom anything could be more delightfully offensive); however, Skeletor karaoke was added to my social calendar almost immediately upon hearing Skeletor’s diabolical, hyena-like voice belt out the first song of the night – Danzig’s “Mother” (in honor of Mother’s Day, of course).

I encourage you to check it out at least once – you will not regret it.  And who knows, maybe you will be there the night Kellie and I unveil our choreographed routine to Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now.” Gong that back to Eternia, Skeletor!

I know, I know, I know….it is a completely cheeserific title but how else could I properly express the splendor that is Bomb Bomb:  Bar-B-Q Grill and Italian Restaurant (1026 Wolf Street)?  I know that the thought of Italian and BBQ is as implausible a combination as Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney or Lisa Marie Presley and Michael Jackson but you get my point — it somehow, in a weird, twisted alternate universe, makes sense.  Bomb Bomb’s eclectic combination of yin and yang may be born from its colorful history — bombs on the front steps and warring “business” factions in 1930’s South Philadelphia (Yes, it’s true and just one more reason why this place is great) — but it’s a combination that works.

Although Kellie and I were hoping to also snag a South Philly sugar daddy on our trip to Bomb Bomb, an endeavor completely emboldened by our reading for the evening (“Why Men Love Bitches” and “The Rules”…research for a forthcoming post! Do you think we would seriously buy either of these books for personal use!?), we instead snagged a half-rack of ribs and the house special lasagna.  Perhaps our affinity for food over men is the cause of our singleness?  Hmmm….something to definitely explore in a future post.  But I digress….

Before delving into our main courses, we started things off with the fried calamari. While a somewhat predictable selection, the delivery was anything but.  The calamari was fried to complete perfection – not too breaded or greasy – and paired with spicy marinara-like cocktail sauce, which was both spicy and sweet.

The homemade Italian dressing that donned our salads (we were attempting to throw something healthy in there) was a little too tart for me but I appreciated a gesture that left me feeling like I just stepped into my grandmom’s kitchen for Sunday dinner.  Since we were at a BBQ and Italian restaurant, we decided to throw caution to the wind and try both.  I’m so glad we did.  The ribs were slathered with the house-made BBQ sauce and were scrumptious.  The meat literally fell from the bone.

Our waitress recommended the lasagna, one of the night’s specials, and while I wasn’t a huge fan of the big hunks of sausage, the marinara was perfecto and had just the right amount of ricotta.  I could have probably ate the whole thing had I not known about and planned to devour their infamous dessert – the Ice Box Cake.  If you’ve never had it, I highly recommend it.  Named for the “oven” in which the “cake” is “baked” (Get it?  It “cooks” in the ice box.  The quotes were supposed to help you figure that out), it is chocolate and vanilla pudding layered between crushed graham crackers, topped with whipped cream, and served in a sundae glass. The perfect out-of-sync end to our mishmash main course. Yum!

While Kellie and I may have left this corner taproom sans sugar daddies, in the end, the Bomb Bomb experience inspired us to appreciate the other unlikely but completely complimentary pairings that abound in our world – Ebony and Ivory, anyone?

**I have to personally thank my colleagues and lunch buddies, David and Nicole, for pointing me in the direction of Bomb Bomb.  They did not steer me wrong.

On Monday, I went with my usual start-of-the-week companion for our “getting through Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday” ritual of drinking and dining.  We ended up trying out Liberties (705 N. 2nd) because of the happy hour special ($1.50 off everything – drinks and menu).

There were only two people inside when we arrived and parked ourselves on stools at the ornately beautiful, wood bar.  We ordered draughts (Newcastle and Smithwick’s) and food (seasoned waffle fries with cheese) and began talking amongst ourselves.  In walks an overly friendly man (late 30’s, maybe?) in a baja poncho, who proceeds to ruin our evening.  As we try to ignore him during his continuous questions firing our way, it gets increasingly more awkward and uncomfortable.  We get the check, and, apparently, it was right on time.

Man: J, do you dance?

J: No.

Man: Not even at junior prom or senior prom?

J: Nope.

Man: Kellie, how about you?  Do you dance?

Me: Nope.  I don’t dance either.

Man: Are you guys best friends?

J and me: *choking laughter*

Me: Not best friends, no.  Just friends.

Man: Can I come hang out with you tonight?

Me: No.  I think we’re just going to head home.

Man: Can I come with you guys?

J and me: (emphatically) No.

The turn that the conversation took, starting with the best friends comment, led us to believe that he thought we were going home together and had a different type of relationship than we do.  A type that he wanted to be a part of. Definitely more than I was expecting during a Monday happy hour.

Inspired by our recent purchase of matching Three Wolves Howling at the Moon t-shirts, Kellie and I embarked on an anthropological exploration of sorts – to study hipsters in their natural habitat – and, hopefully, re-connect with our younger, hipper counterparts via the shared cultural experience of good food and drink.

Of course, I allowed Kellie to be the lead investigator and cultural broker for this experiment, given her familiarity with the study site (South Philly) and her clear-cut uber-coolness, as evidenced by her hot-orange, vintage hunting jacket and low-top Chuck Taylors.

For those of you who don’t know, parts of South Philly have been undergoing a “hipster” renaissance of sorts.  Gone are the old-world days of green awnings, fake flowers, and Virgin Mary statues (well, that’s not completely true, as Kellie and I discovered during our brief walk through the neighborhood).

Nowadays, you are more likely to experience its uncomfortable juxtaposition with skinny jeans, coffee shops, and post-modernist thought than the Mafioso that made South Philly notorious.  East Passyunk Ave. is the ultimate example of this renaissance and was the site for at least half of our jaunt into the somewhat unknown.

Kellie and I started out at 1601 at 10^th and Tasker – a cozy local pub offering updated versions of various comfort food classics.  I, of course, choose a PBR pounder as my drink of choice (I was trying to fit in with the locals, after all)

and went with the fish tacos, which were pretty disappointing and bland.  (note from Kellie – I’ve had the fish tacos twice before, and they’re usually quite tasty.)  Kellie tried to enjoy her Bacon, Lettuce, Avocado and Fried Tomato (BLAT) sandwich sans mayo; however, it came out with mayo and had to be sent back.  The delicious Parmesan pomme frittes and free stout for the mayo mix-up more than made up for these small missteps, though.  While Kellie and I dined, drank, and discussed socialism (again, we didn’t want to stick out too conspicuously), we studied the sociological mashing of old and new:  the weathered old man donning Nike and playing Megatouch; two hipsters waxing philosophical over “the nostalgia of analog recordings” (a direct quote); and, Nick Drake playing faintly in the background while March Madness dominated the flat screens over the bar.  As our own conversation devolved into more tawdry subjects (not to be shared here) as did the conversations of the natives (did I really hear je ne sais quoi and the f-bomb in the same sentence?)   Seeing all there was to see, we decided to take our study to the next level and travel down the street to the what many would deem hipster Mecca right here in Philadelphia – Pub on Passyunk East aka “Pope.”  I learned quickly, though, never, ever to actually call it by its real name as that is as sure a social death as leprosy.

I was intimidated and nervous as we entered into the lair –  would I be fingered as an imposter?  A sell-out working for “the man” who is as removed from my “activist” days as Sarah Palin is from reality?  With Kellie by my side sipping on her “WTF” porter (even the beer names had the air of cool superiority) and a “G&T” in hand  (Gin and Tonic, folks…a required hipster drink), we settled into a dark corner and tried to blend into our surroundings.  Thankfully, those surroundings included a jukebox, which I was sure would be my redemption (one thing I know is good music) but even I was sad to learn that my musical lexicon was not nearly as eclectic as the jukebox offerings.  The best we could collectively muster was Metallica’s “Fade to Black”, some Al Green, Gang of Four, the Beach Boys and The Pixies, among others. (note from Kellie – the jukebox was a bit too sparse and indie, a dangerous combination.)

With our social experiment nearing it’s end and both of us still starving, Kellie and I decided to venture to the bright lights of cheesesteak row at 9^th and Passyunk.  Being Pat’s girls through and through (Geno’s is so 2000 and late), we chowed down on a “Wiz Wit,” Lady and the Tramp style, while enjoying the early-90’s musical stylings coming from the nearby South Philly Bar and Grill (Rhythm is totally a dancer!)

A Wiz Wit: Heaven and a Heart-attack on a Roll

Ultimately, my quest to understand this often misunderstood species and enjoy some good food along the way re-awakened that little voice deep, down inside that whispers ”Damn, the Man!” and yearns for the day that little yuppy boys and girls can coexist peacefully with their hipster brethren.  Can I get an amen?!

What do mediocre burgers, horrendous service and Blink 182 have in common?  PYT (1050 N. Hancock St, in the Piazza).

Having read one glowing review after another about the joy that a PYT burger brings, I was almost salivating when I walked in on Monday night.  Here’s a rundown of the experience:

Host/worker says to sit at the third table on the right; doesn’t escort.  I get confused about whether or not to go to the third booth (technically the fourth table?) or the third table.  In my defense, the first “table” was tiny, so I’m not sure whether or not it actually counted as a place to sit.

We order “adultshakes,” and the server takes our menus and starts to walk away, then comes back with a comment about how we still need them because we haven’t ordered yet.  As if we aren’t aware.

Shakes come, both are Peanutbutterchocolatebanana (chocolate ice cream, Castries peanut rum, Malibu tropical banana rum, fresh bananas and fresh peanut butter, topped with whipped cream and rainbow jimmies).  Pretty tasty, but with shake dripping down the side.  Thank goodness for napkins.

I order first – the PYT Burger (cheddar, bacon, tomato, lettuce and some chunky special sauce – which I ask for on the side – on a potato roll).  The menu says it comes topped with chips, so I’m surprised when the server asks, “Do you want fries or onion rings with that?”  (Score!)  I get the onion rings, Felicia (PYT Burger) and Jana (Calibunga Burger) get the handcut fries.

We wait and chat, basking in the glow of the digital cable classic alternative music channel.  Billy Idol, The Clash, Blink 182…ridiculously glorious.

Burgers come sans sides.  I remind the server about the two orders of fries and my onion rings.  She gets confused and says she thought it was three orders of fries (apparently they were on their way).  I say, “No, I ordered the onion rings,” wanting to add (but refraining from doing so), “You wrote it down.  And I ordered first.  Not much grey area.”  She puts in my order for onion rings and tells me it’ll be a wait because they need to start cooking.  Super.

We dig into our burgers, and Jana’s falls apart at first bite.  She mashes it back into burger shape.  Bite and repeat for the rest of the meal.

I chance the chunky special sauce – the chunks may or may not be onions – and it’s relatively okay.  The burger itself is fine but nothing special.  Three quarters of the way through, onion rings arrive and are the best part of the meal.  Greasy, peppery deliciousness.

Server comes to clear table and picks up some items.  She realizes she can’t carry everything she picked up, makes a face and puts some things back down.  Leaves.

Classic alternative gets turned off and the bartender puts on music that needs to be yelled over due to the volume.  I shout to my companions, “I’m glad I already ran out of things to say to you.”  Good timing, I suppose.

Server drops off bill (and the holder also includes someone else’s bill).  We realize that we were duped, and the fries and onion rings are added as sides.  We’re charged for three fries and one onion ring.  (Didn’t we already go over this?)  We tell server there are too many fries on the bill.  She has bartender help her remove an order and brings updated bill.

We all have cards, so I write the amounts we want charged on each onto the bill.  Server takes it and we explain that we wrote it down for her.

Server returns and says to me, “You have lots of receipts.  I actually charged $0.24 a couple of times by accident.  Sorry.”  (A couple of times?)  I sign my three receipts and we almost run out the door.  Goodbye forever PYT.

Many Philly food blogs have spoken highly of PYT, but I don’t understand the appeal.  I can get a better tasting burger, a vaster selection of milkshakes (though alcohol free) and better service (not to mention free crayons!) at Nifty Fifty’s.  Mmmm…Nifty Fifty’s…

As Stephanie and I stumble through this world of blogging and posting, we can’t help but pay attention to the role that social networking plays these days.  As someone who has been slow to adapt to the ever-changing landscape of social media, it pains me to even bring it up, but, alas, here I am.  I’ve always been a bit behind; I created a friendster account when myspace had already carved out their place, a myspace account after facebook had taken over, and a facebook account was created for me (because I was so vehemently opposed) by one of my employees so that I could join the 21st century.

Well, along came twitter, and needless to say, I’m perplexed.  Is it just me, or does anyone else think it’s exceptionally self-absorbed to believe that other people actually care what you’re doing at any given moment?  I mean, I like myself a pretty healthy amount, but even I’m not that interested in me.  Therefore, I can’t seem to wrap my head around the basic idea of twitter and the fact that people “follow” each other.

That being said, I can also see the parallels between utilizing social media and manifest destiny.  Now, manifest destiny is not necessarily something I support, but I think the concept can be updated and thought about in a blogging sense.  Stephanie and I believe that we have been granted a mission to spread good food to the masses and that ignoring this mission would be a disservice to humanity.  Instead of extending our “boundaries of freedom” via carriage and horseback, we must now extend them via the internet.

In his comments on manifest destiny, John O’Sullivan said, “What friend of human liberty, civilization, and refinement, can cast his view over the past history of the monarchies and aristocracies of antiquity, and not deplore that they ever existed?  What philanthropist can contemplate the oppressions, the cruelties, and injustice inflicted by them on the masses of mankind, and not turn with moral horror from the retrospect?”

The same is true of food and drink: What friend of the delicious can lend thought to the travesties brought about by the overly salted, the lite-beered and the chain restauranting and not be moved to show the world a better way?  We are inspired to act, and it is with a heavy heart and humanity in mind that I say, “follow us on twitter!” (@ForTasteSake)