ForTasteSake

To continue the dating conversation begun several weeks ago, let me tell you the story of my one and only fadeaway. Here’s what happened (if my parents are reading this, I just want you to know that I make better decisions these days): I was out one night about four years ago with a friend of mine who wanted me to experience Puerto Rican North Philly and the world he came from. We went to several bars over the course of the evening and finally ended up, in the wee hours of the morning, at an after-hours club at 2nd and Erie. (Anyone from Philly knows there’s not a lot of good happening there at 3am.) After a full-body pat down that assured the bouncer that I was unarmed (I was informed shortly thereafter by Jumbo, one of my bar-hopping companions, that the last time he had been there, a shooting had occurred), I entered the club, which was basically a room with a bar on one end and a dance floor on the other. I downed several bottles of Corona – that’s all my friend would allow me to drink that night, other than shots of rum – and noticed a Haitian guy on the dance floor, who, though a bit shorter (my height) than my general tastes run, had fantastic locks. (For those who aren’t in the know, locks refers to dread locks.) I approached him; we danced, flirted, exchanged numbers and then went our separate ways.

Divinity (that’s right, his name was DIVINITY; or at least, that’s what he went by) called me up a few days later, and we made plans to meet up at the movies in the Northeast. (By the way, going on a first date to the movies is a bad idea. Don’t do it.) That went well enough, and we decided to grab some food, so we got in our respective cars (because, let’s be real, I don’t know this guy, so I’m not getting in his car) and headed to Friendly’s on the Boulevard. It’s during this ice cream time that I learned that Divinity has OCD (there was an issue with the cleanliness of silverware that ended up with the need for individually wrapped plastic utensils). Not necessarily a dealbreaker, but it has potential to be one depending on the severity. As we said goodnight and I prepared to go my separate way, he asked me why I wasn’t going to sleep with him that night. (If there are any guys reading this that aren’t clear about this, it’s not okay to ask that on a first date. Or ever.) He also pulled out this little gem as he tried to entice me: “Most people think all Haitian men have AIDS, but I don’t. I promise.” YIKES.

At that point, I should have realized that Divinity and I were not going to work out, but, as someone who likes a free meal, I agreed to see him again the next weekend. This time, we went to Kabobeesh, an Indian restaurant at 42nd and Chestnut. (If anyone reading this can explain to me why a man with OCD and hygiene issues would suggest going to an Indian buffet, I would be much obliged. It’s been baffling me for years.) We once again had issues with cutlery and dishes, resulting in full use of paper products, but at least that was accompanied by excessively dull conversation that was strained, at best. He asked me where I live (since I had yet to let him pick me up for a date), and I vaguely tell him the Italian Market, but refuse to give him any specifics. The meal ended and he walked me to my car, where he kissed me goodnight and said he’d like to see me again, to which I mumbled something and quickly drove away.

While I recognize that I should have been direct with him and just told him I wasn’t interested, I didn’t, and, for the next several weeks, he called and texted quite often. I never answered the phone or responded, and got what I deserved when he started calling upwards of six times a day. I also saw him wandering around my neighborhood once or twice (he never saw me), which made me quite happy in my decision to not tell him exactly where I lived, the main reason being that he had no business being in my neighborhood, since he lived in WILMINGTON, DE. (You can’t really pull the I-just-happened-to-be-in-the-neighborhood thing with distance like that.) I get that I’m charming, but come on.

To make a long story even longer, my point is that, since we’d only been out twice , the fadeaway was an acceptable form of ending things between us. Of course, it’s also true that I wimped out and just couldn’t be direct, and that resulted in my phone and neighborhood both ending up being things I wanted to avoid for a few weeks, but I stand by that fadeaway. If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing, except maybe deciding to go out with a guy named Divinity that I met at a North Philly after-hours club where it was assumed I was carrying a weapon.

So, if this were a fairy tale and I wanted you to take away a moral from this story, here’s what it would be: don’t pick up men in places where people have been shot. There’s no greater dating wisdom I can impart than that.

I don’t profess to be a patriotic person.  Sure, I’m happy to be a resident of the US of A, but I also believe there are other countries I’d be just as happy in (with the added bonus of potentially developing a charming accent, rather than the guttural twang that came about during my formative years in the Pine Barrens of South Jersey).  And, while I’m thankful for the opportunities that I’ve had in this country, I don’t get teary-eyed when I see the stars and stripes waving softly on the breeze of democracy.  (You know we live in a Republic, right?)

However, there is something that makes me feel like a red-blooded, apple pie loving, terrorist hating member of this Union: baseball.  There is no time when I feel greater pride in my country than when I’m sitting in the cheap seats at a Phillies game, sucking down the most American meal known to man – cold beer and lukewarm hot dogs in the blazing summer sun.  Can there be a greater sense of unity than high fiving a row of complete strangers in the excitement of a walk off homerun or a stronger feeling of brotherhood created when starting the wave and seeing it ripple out over 45,000 people?

There’s a feeling of comraderie that seems to wash over me as I’m sweating alongside fellow red-shirted fans that makes my heart swell with pride at being both a Philadelphian and an American.  Perhaps I’ve been brainwashed by years of hearing baseball referred to as our “national pastime,” to the point that I can no longer separate the game from the country. Or, perhaps I’m just a simple gal who loves bad food and worse beer, and the loud hum of joy, frustration and, occasionally, sorrow from an audience wearing their collective hearts on their t-shirt sleeves.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A few days ago, I met a former colleague for drinks at El Vez, one of about a thousand (okay, that might be a slight exaggeration) Stephen Starr restaurants in Philly.  We sat at the bar – topped with a tricked out gold bike that screams “I’m trying so desperately to be cool” – drinking sangria and snacking on chips, quacamole and free quesadillas, a happy hour bonus.

As the minutes passed, the restaurant became more and more crowded, filling with 1.) young businessmen and women living beyond their means and 2.) yipsters.  If you’re not familiar with yipsters, they are a breed of urbanite that are a hybrid of yuppies and hipsters and, to put it simply, are the kind of people who will spend $45 on a brand new t-shirt that looks like it was bought at a thrift shop for under a dollar.

The evolution of yipsters is quite simple.  In most cases, they are former emo kids who joined the working world.  Their newfound salaries have increased their materialism and desire to impress others with “things,” yet they still cling to their days of scowling, pondering and refusing to dance at basement shows in college.  They believe that their thoughts and opinions are original and creative, yet they are, for the most part, shared across the species, as a sort of inherent groupthink.  They are generally non-threatening, but their presence can signify a change in the climate of the city (often neighborhood gentrification).  Yipsters are the societal equivalent of finding a cockroach in your apartment; by the time you see one, you have a full-fledged infestation on your hands.

So, as you make the rounds from bar to bar and eatery to eatery, stay alert – you don’t want to get caught in a dark alley with a yipster, because you might not make it out with your taste in good music and individual opinions intact.

Last night, in an effort to stick it to snowmageddon/snowpocalypse/snowgasm/snowtorious B.I.G/snowmergency/other-ridiculous-play-on-the-word-snow, Stephanie and I slipped and slid down the icy sidewalks of Center City West to check out Noble: An American Cookery, tucked on a quiet part of Sansom Street near the Roxy Theater. Upon entering, the atmosphere was simple and a bit plain, with a seeming emphasis on minimalism and prairie living that any self-respecting, wine-bar-frequenting hipster would love (including the vintage-style plaid shirts worn by the servers). On this blizzard recovering Valentine’s weekend, the tables were mostly empty, and both floors were quiet for a Friday evening. We sat on the second floor, where the walls were white (or maybe mayonnaise) and bare save for several large, weathered wood mirrors. The street-facing front “wall” was actually floor to ceiling windows, which let in some nice light reflecting off the river of snow and ice that some would call a road below.

The drink menu was fairly extensive, with over 20 wines and the same number of beers, all of which were crafted in North America. For those of you who like your drinks on the harder side, they also have a bar with liquor, but we stuck to wine – pinot noir – and beer – coffee porter – because, well, we’re simple ladies.

The food menu was smaller than the drink menu (not necessarily a bad thing, depending on the type of week it was at work), and, though the menu changes seasonally, many of the elements stay the same, just with different complements and flavors. I began with the sweet potato-mango soup, which had a subtle sweetness and was deliciously rich and creamy. Stephanie had the scallops, which were fairly tasty, but the cold pink Maine shrimp that dressed their tops were almost gag worthy.

The main course was made up of hanger steak (with bacon, watercress and sweet potato puree) for Stephanie, and yellowfin tuna (with polenta and beet puree) for me. Both were tasty, but the sides we ordered stole the show. At the waiter’s recommendation, I ordered the wild mushrooms with garlic, even though I’m not a big mushroom fan. They were somewhat crunchy (thankfully, since chewy mushrooms induce in me an immediate desire to spit them out) and the garlic was refreshing, not overpowering. Stephanie had the roasted brussel sprouts, and the waiter wasn’t lying when he said they were “out of this world.” Absolutely delicious.

While we waited for dessert, I finally looked up toward the ceiling, noticing the wood beams, exposed ductwork and three huge skylights, which were my favorite part of the decor. I’m glad that my eyes happened to wander upward, since there was nothing in the room drawing attention to the interesting features in the ceiling. It was also at this point that Stephanie and I noticed the music, and we were thankful to have not noticed it earlier. I can’t even remember what it sounded like (my subconscious mind may be doing me a favor), but I remember that I preferred not to hear it.

Our desserts came (mine was accompanied by La Colombe coffee), mexican hot chocolate with a chocolate dipped cookie for Stephanie and mexican coffee brulee for me. I was surprised to see the brulee topped with mango sorbet, but the flavors actually served each other well, with the sweet bitterness of the coffee smoothing out the tanginess of the mango. The hot chocolate was dark, thick and enjoyable, and was best eaten by being slurped off a spoon.

Overall, Noble, while not being overtly impressive, was worth the trip (though maybe not the hour wait in the slush for a bus that never came to take me home) and is a place I would return to. The service was absolutely excellent, and wasn’t hurt by the fact that our waiter was on the cute side. If you end up trying out Noble, be forewarned; the way the portions and menu are set up, you’ll want to order a first course or a side, so the price can add up fairly quickly. And, it may just make you gassy, so try to avoid it on a first date.