ForTasteSake

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)

Do you know what the best thing in life is?  Puppies playing?  Nope.  Sleeping with the windows open?  Wrong.  A good book paired with a cup of coffee?  Uh uh.  Grammatically correct text messages?  Incorrect.  Free alcohol?  Well, that’s pretty great, but no.  Ladies and gentlemen, the best thing in life is…(drum roll, please)…brunch.  The reason is quite simple: brunch is basically a no-holds-barred, gastronomic free-for-all.  The conventional rules of what’s acceptable to eat at any given time of day are thrown out the window.  Tequila with breakfast and steak before noon?  Yes, please!

This weekend marked the beginning of a new era for Distrito, the Jose Garces modern Mexican spot in University City (3945 Chestnut – entrance on 40th), with the addition of an alcohol heavy, surprisingly affordable brunch.   The building itself is a bit too much, and doesn’t fit in with the landscape and architecture of the city.  (It looks more like it should house a bunch of condos in Williamsburg.)  Having never been, I was not prepared for the pink – pink walls, pink napkins, pink cushions, pink accents in/on the chairs.  I actually felt like I had walked into a Stephen Starr restaurant, which was not the best first impression, at least in my book.

Once my eyes adjusted to the pepto bismol-colored decor, I was able to take in the overtly gaudy and kitschy touches, including the “Hecho en Mexico” t-shirts that the Latin busboys wore.  Over the top, to say the least.   My friend and I were the first people there (we take our brunch seriously, and new brunch = no line), and the service was pretty great, though waiting on one table isn’t really much of a feat.  The first thing we did was order a drink (surprising, right?), the nitro caipirinha (cachaça, canton ginger liqueur and lime; pretty much tasted like a mojito – sorry Brazil) for me and the hemingway (chile infused hornitos tequila, maraschino and grapefruit) for her.

We decided to share so we could enjoy both the sweet and savory options (always the hardest of the brunch decisions) and went with the huevos rancheros (fried egg, roasted tomato, asparagus and black beans) and the waiter-recommended torrijas (deep fried tres leches battered french toast, goat’s milk cajeta, fresh berries and chantilly cream).  The waiter commented on the torrijas being the food version of crack, and he may have been right – absolutely, delightfully, lip-smackingly delicious.  The huevos were also pretty tasty, but the drizzle of crema (not mentioned on the menu) was something we both could have done without (though it surprisingly didn’t seem to negatively impact the flavor for either of us sour cream haters).

We also ordered coffee (nice and strong) and got suckered into ordering the fresh pan dulce (sweet breads) to complement it.  Completely unnecessary – we had plenty of food without, so they basically just took up space on the table.  However, the couple of bites I had – most of which were dunked into my coffee, leaving an unappetizing mess of floating crumbs behind – were pretty damn fantastic.

Overall, Distrito offered a fairly good brunch in an overdone atmosphere that, despite being a touch excessive, still had some charm.  Not a bad way to start a perfect Sunday that will include a nap (with the windows open) and a homemade meal with friends.