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Week 40: Saluting, Swinging, and Santa Fe, Baby.

Calling all over-achievers, we’re here in Washington D.C. for the running of the 36^th Marine Corps Marathon. In this sea of perfect health sits my chubby ass, huffing and puffing, from literally chasing my boyfriend across town as a spectator. That’s right. Ryan is running, in addition to our friends Rolando and Shannon. I’m apparently the only one who does not have “running a marathon” on their bucket list.

As I stand at the finish line awaiting the arrival of Ryan, Rolando and Shannon, I notice there’s a common look of anguish across every runner’s face. Despite being inches away from the finish, very few look “happy.”   Although running a marathon is pale in comparison to all that Marines (who look fantastic in uniform) have sacrificed to serve our country, I just can’t imagine myself accomplishing something of this nature. 

Ryan passes with a forced smile and while he may look in desperate need for Tylenol and a jacuzzi, I know he’s beaming inside. Shannon passes shortly after looking like she’s on her way to a casting call for Platoon. And when I refer to the movie Platoon, I’m not talking about hot fearless men in combat. I’m talking about the men that have already been shot several times and are being filmed dying in slow motion. I scream at her to continue and let her know she’s “kickin f’in ass!” But, the mother to the right to me doesn’t appreciate my language, and the guy to the left of me refuses to believe Shannon is my friend based on the hideous face she just gave me.  Because I’m only a mediocre friend with a lack of dedication, I disappear before Rolando crosses in order to redeem the free beer ticket I just found laying in the mud. I believe these beers were reserved for runners only, but something tells me I deserve a beer as well.

Rolando and Shannon truly are great friends. They moved to Indiana from Florida about a year ago and I’ve missed them every day since.  If I were ever to explore swinging I believe they would be the perfect match for Ryan and I. Ryan and Shannon share a common interest of running and are both very smart, and Rolando and I are both light brown people who get ashy in the winter if we don’t keep up on our application of lotion. I believe a partner swap would work just fine.

(Insert fast forward button here).   It’s Meatball Chronicle time, the following morning, and I’m the only one capable of walking. D.C meets Sante Fe, baby. We’ve found a nearby restaurant that the runners are capable of hobbling to, and its name is Santa Fe Café. I envisioned the day being full of “ahhhs” and “ouches”, due to the hell/26.2 miles the runners put their bodies through yesterday; which is why I have filled everyone’s coffee cups with wine. A buzz before noon never feels bad.  It’s like we never parted ways. The old crew together again, finishing off our faux coffees, throwing back a few beers, discussing segway accidents and debating over how disgusting of a city Cleveland is.

Santa Fe Café is buried underground in a chamber-like poorly decorated establishment that somehow manages to get enough sunlight to illuminate the place. Located in Arlington, Virginia, they serve authentic New Mexican cuisine from hand-packed hamburgers to quesadillas to New Mexican explosions in bowls—which I further define as “everything Mexican in the kitchen thrown into one bowl that will make you shit.”  They are very reasonably priced.

I wasn’t craving Mexican and randomly ordered a sausage, egg and cheese sandwich from the breakfast menu. The way I see it, if the New Mexican chef cooks it, it’s still authentic. I added lettuce and tomato to let my fellow marathoners know that I too care about health. Side of home fries, okay I’ll have those too.

Everyone else ordered Mexican dishes and once the food came out I found myself regretting my decision. Mexican looked delicious. In an attempt to turn my home fries into a Mexican cuisine, I dumped chili sauce all over them, completely destroying them. Those firey bastard potatoes were so hot that one bite resulted in suffering.

In my short visit to Santa Fe Café, a visit never to occur again due to its lack of geographical desirableness, I can say I enjoyed my time spent there. I think it was more about reconnecting with old friends than it was the food, though. And, my food critiquing was slightly off due to the solid buzz I had following my wine packed morning and ice cold beer, but if you’re in DC it’s worth a visit. And, order from their authentic menu, not the breakfast chalkboard.  Despite being delicious, sausage always seems to find me at moments of weakness.   

Week 39: B-B-B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets

It’s Sunday again and for some strange reason I want to explore Brandon. Neighboring town of Tampa, Brandon, offers two things: A TJ Maxx and a Marshalls. And they are even within the same convenient shopping complex. Since I’ve drifted off into my own entrepreneurial spirit and direction in life, I’m not actually planning on buying anything. I’m like a starving artist these days, but not actually an artist. Or starving….. Because I’m still finding the time and resources necessary to dine out.

Across from this wonderful shopping complex is the Brandon Mall but I’ve only been there once (many moons ago) to resize a diamond ring an ex-boyfriend had bought me. We later broke up and I sold it on Craigslist so I could have some cash for fine dining with a few new boyfriends. I considered regifting it so everyone would think I was a gracious gift giver, but there just aren’t any girls in my family. I take that back, there are girls. But not anyone I’d give a diamond ring to. And when you buy a gift for one, you’ve gotta buy gifts for the others. I think I’ll stick to my short list of Mom-Dad-Brother each holiday season. Sometimes Nana and Papa get a framed picture or a hand drawn card.

Before hitting up Marshalls and TJ’s, we’re on our way to Ben’s Family Restaurant in Brandon and it isn’t our first choice. Buddy Freddy’s was our first choice and had raving reviews but upon arriving there we realized due to the hardships of our shit economy Buddy Freddy’s is now a ghost town. Closed down forever with a graveyard view (the restaurant actually sits directly on a graveyard). So sad. And creepy.

Most restaurants will admit that the economic trickle-down is hurting business, yet, you still see people eating out all the time. Let’s live and learn people. Recent trends designed to make eating out affordable such as the proliferation of special fixed-price bang for your buck buffets or weekly specials are winning. If you don’t have a gift card on restaurant.com, you sure as hell better have something sweet. Like Wednesdays at Bonefish, $5 Bang Bang Shrimp… do you know what happens? People like Ryan and I are sucked in because there’s an orgasmic dish for $5, but once we’re seated that turns into one more order of the Bang Bang Shrimp and two dinners, and then we walk out with empty wallets. Ploy the people, people; that’s how you stay in business.

I’d be good at that. I have a long distant goal of opening my own tiny beer tent in Ybor some day called "The Dollar Dixie" Feel free to steal this idea because I don’t have the financial means to act upon it. Anyway, The Dollar Dixie will sell shit beer in Dixie cups for $1 each. Every day. Sounds like a great idea, right? Well, what the Ybor rats won’t realize is that they’ll actually consume 10-15 tiny beers and tip me more the drunker they get. With a ½ keg costing approximately $85 and yielding 165 12-oz beers, which is approximately 198 10-oz Dixie beers, you do the math. I’ll still be making money after I rob the people of all their tips. Now, this isn’t going to make me millions, but you know what they say, slow and steady wins the race. People love shit for a dollar.

Here we are at Ben’s Family Restaurant, a type of establishment I’m not all that accustomed to seeing in Florida and for lack of a better term I’ll call it the Florida Ski Lodge. No snow suits, no snow, no skis, no snowboards. Just high timber ceilings, old tacky décor, a brick interior, a cafeteria type feel despite the sit down service, and warm hearty meals.

Once we’re seated we get our own thermostat of hot coffee. That’s what I’m talking about! There’s nothing worse than a waitress aggressively walking by and refilling your coffee every 30 seconds, throwing off your cream to coffee ratio over and over again. Fall has me craving a Pumpkin Spiced iced coffee from Dunkin Donuts and unfortunately there’s not a D&D kiosk in here. I do however have a Dunkin Donuts gift card with me and I’ll make sure to grab one on the way home. Wait a minute, that’s the third great thing Brandon offers: Dunkin Donuts.

Ryan orders country fried steak and gravy, eggs over medium and home fries. I order eggs and hash. I’m a hash animal. My dish comes with two sides so I go for grits and a single biscuit with gravy. There is a rather large couple next to us and I await their order. I can’t wait to see what their Sunday brunch will include. "We need to cut out carbs this week, we just started the South Beach Diet. Can you recommend anything?" WHAT? Not what I was expecting. Good for them. People like to rag on South Beach, but boy does it get you results. I participated in a little South Beach diet action in college, but my timing was all off. I had just cut off all my hair and donated it to Children’s Cancer. My thought was, "No pretty hair, let’s work on the body." Wrong. My weight loss came with a boney curveless body and I was stuck looking like a tiny John Stamos until my hair grew back. It’s hard to handle your liquor with a lack of carbs in your life as well. So I quit (dieting).

Food’s here. Delicious. I rarely go wrong with ordering hash, it’s just so damn good. Not many people care for grits but I love its flavorless grainy texture. It reminds me of pastina for some reason. I like both dishes plain and flooded with butter. Ryan’s not enjoying his country fried steak. It’s not pounded thin enough, it lacks salt and there’s too much breading. Sucks for him. My biscuit and gravy is good. Although, I always wonder why everyone fails to serve a sausage-heavy sausage gravy. There are always miniscule bits of sausage in the gravy that leave you begging for more. How come nobody sticks a bundle of Jimmy Deans in there? (Insert light bulb here). I’m doing it next time.

We probably won’t be back to Ben’s. Not because we don’t like you all, but because we’re rarely in Brandon and the search needs to continue--- the search for an un-f*cking-believable brunch. Somewhere out there, are tons of tiny sausage links drowning in a thick white gravy.

Week 38: Screw You Fauna, Nicko's is the Chronic

So we’ve taken a couple weeks off. I’m sorry, really. We were trying this thing called romance. Last Sunday we biked to the bay, and had a picnic in the waterfront park on Davis Island. Ryan surprised me with bottles of champagne and pomegranate juice for a spectacular day of pomegranate mimosas and all things quixotic. With country music playing softly, the sun shining bright, fruity champagne, a spread of great food and a beautiful sail boat belonging to Japanese terrorists, you can easily understand why I may have mistaken this for our engagement day (approximately 8 separate times). It was not until Ryan received a text message from our friend that said “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE DOING IT TODAY, AREN’T YOU” and then read it aloud, laughed, and said “nope absolutely not”—It was then I realized this was just in fact a picnic.

A small plane flew by and Ryan showed fake interest in owning one of his own someday. “We could take it to your parent’s house in the Cape babe.” Well, no we could not. My friend Savannah who likes to refer to my family as the Kennedys has warned me several times never to take a plane anywhere with Ryan or my extra Caucasian family.

So here we are, a week later, back to the grime… I mean grind. Ryan’s got a Bucs game to attend and I’ve got a long day of couch lounging ahead. Where to? The only glorious “in-out, get your fix, save your money and get on with your damn life” diner- Nicko's on North Florida. The actual name is Nicko's Fine Foods… but let’s be realistic. You can’t charge $3.50 for a breakfast sandwich and call it a fine. 100% delicious, but let’s call it cheap comfort.

I’ve never sat at the bar at Nicko's, I always opt in for a booth… but, we’re starving. There’s no time for that. We seat ourselves at the bar next to two friendly boys and I immediately strike up conversation. This is out of sober character for me. They don’t have any cash and Nicko's is a cash-only establishment. It just so happens that their ATM is out of cash today too. Wait, no it is not, the owner is restocking it with bills as we speak. I didn’t even know that was legal. I wish I had a money machine in my home, but I would definitely need someone else to stock it.

As I pretend to review the menu (I order the same thing every time), the owner of Nicko's comes out to do some magic. He does some amazing card tricks and makes a few things disappear. I haven’t had my coffee yet so I fall for every single trick. Perhaps he really is magic. I bet that makes stocking the ATM a bit easier.  This place is strange, but for all us odd birds who may live in the outskirts of the hood, it’s home.

We order. Sausage, egg and cheese with lettuce and tomato on wheat bread. Massive side of hash. Slap in on me, bitch. Ryan gets biscuits and gravy and pancakes. Pancakes? This is a first. You can’t go wrong at Nicko's, everything is amazing so I say “Go for it champ!”

I’ve stumbled across some pretty hasty reviews of Nicko's, including this one from “Fauna” on Urban Spoon: “This is coming from an inside source: Don’t go to Niko's. It's dirty. They (the owners) let their dog run around and even put it up on the bar. They smoke indoors; you can smell the reek from the front. The food is all frozen and bought at Sam’s club. Seriously. Nobody actually cooks there. They just throw things on the griddle or in the deep fryer. Nobody there cares about cooking or anything concerning the business, to them it’s just a way to support their lavish lifestyles.”

Well, FAUNA. Niko's is dirty? So is sex and I bet that doesn’t stop you from doing it right on roof of your trailer. Lavish lifestyle? We’re on North Florida Avenue, how lavish can you get? And if the owners do in fact go home to a nice pad with an indoor pool and a few pure bred dogs, good for them. They were smart enough to fire you – assuming by “insider” you meant past employee. Considering I had to correct every piece of punctuation and grammar in your “review” on Urban Spoon, I’m going to go ahead and call you a dumb ass. Sounds like jealousy to me, princess. 

Speaking of jealously, my new friends next to us got served before us and I need to stop staring. So I look at the other patrons: body shop workers, bedazzled old ladies, a lady in slippers, bicyclists, a slightly fatter John Travolta (1978 Grease John Travolta), some blonde diner ladies, a little kid… I love this place. I’m still angry about “Fauna.”

Food. Glorious food. I’ve never added lettuce and tomato to a breakfast sandwich but I wanted to mix things up today. It adds a nice, crisp, cool texture to an otherwise steaming sandwich, and I may do this again in the future. And the hash. Heavenly hash. Crisp on the top, warm in the middle, and a faint hint of dog food as it slides down my throat. I don’t love dogs, but I LOVE hash.

Ryan has too much food in front of him for everything to stay warm, so by the time I dig into his biscuits and gravy (with permission) they are room temperature. Nicko’s biscuits and gravy definitely has a hint of cream. Now whether that’s cream of mushroom, cream of celery or cream of chicken I don’t know. But something screams “can of cream.”  I still like it. I’ve rarely met a plate of gravy I didn’t like. Fortunately, I missed our family Thanksgiving a few years ago where my grandmother accidentally put red food coloring into the gravy, thinking it was gravy master. I heard from some "insiders" that it was a tragedy. A blood gravy tragedy. 

I truly believe that a pancake is a pancake until you’ve covered it in butter and syrup and taken it to an entirely new level. And that is exactly what Ryan did. In fact, the highlight of the dish was the syrupy butter combination. The pancakes served as more of a side item. But that’s okay with me.

Next week we are going to be in Washington D.C…do you think there is a Nicko’s there?  I sure hope so. Join us for our Halloween brunch, we may even wear drag. I’ll try to have it written in a timely manner as well. Until next time...

 

 

Week 37: Revenge of the Exes

“Made out with him.”  “Slept with him.”  “Dated him.”  “Poured a beer on him.” No, no, no. Not me. As I sit back and relax at Jackson’s Bistro, ready for brunch, I’m puzzled by how many exes Sean and John-Paul are running into. It appears that every ex boyfriend in their life has received a memo to show up at brunch this morning. John-Paul: “Happens all the time actually.”

I don’t like to think of myself as the jealous type, but I could never deal with that. If Ryan’s exes came out of the woodworks to attend Sunday brunch, or even if they just decided to swing through the same zip code, I’d probably lose my mind. All geography aside, Ryan and I are fortunate we both used to be fat, so our pasts don't include anyone of great threat.  The only girl in Ryan's life that I know of, I actually hate for no reason and refer to as "Barbara Streisand" because I can’t think of anything better to call her-- I have never even met her. All of my exes are married, so Ryan doesn’t have to worry about them. I'm like that one last girl that teaches the boy it's time to settle down... with someone else.

Jackson’s is an interesting venue. On the weekends, particularly Friday nights, they “elevate the standard for Tampa clubbing.”  VIP tables, waterfront cabanas, lounges, 80’s music inside, house music at the bar, and then a DJ mixing the top 40 outside… oh and bottles of booze, men with hair gel and women with much bigger boobs than my own…everywhere. With intoxication taking over nearly every attendee, and the dark atmosphere lit by strobes, it’s easy to forget you are not on drugs. Call it confusion or curse of the cabanas, but if you’re there past 11PM, you’re getting laid. Everyone’s a supermodel.

By Sunday morning, the venue undergoes a complete identity transformation, and is clean, lit by sunshine, and filled with food and families. Wealthy families. No one at Jackson's goes home to a brown lawn.

As we approach the buffet I brainstorm my strategy. As I’ve discussed in previous chronicles, it’s all about quality, not quantity…but you can have both if you make room. Making room can be done by stretching in privacy, or throwing the good ole’ finger down the throat. I’ve never opted in for the second option. I instead go to the bathroom and do every yoga position I can think of. If we are sitting in a booth and no one is across from me, I just do a reverse plank under the table. Call me gangster. Planking used to be a real exercise until people of a certain decent started daring one another to “plank” in unusual places.

To “plank” in the modern day form, you must lay horizontally, straighten your body and point your fingers and toes down (towards your feet). Then you must post a picture on Facebook to make a real asshole of yourself. For real life examples, click here.  So yes, I do that, but reversed with my stomach to face the sky. And I don’t post pictures. 

Ok back to the buffet: carving station, steak, sushi, pastas, eggs benedict, scrambled eggs, donuts, bacon, sausage, ice cream, candy, nuts, pasta salads, ceasar salad, neptune salad, fish, tuna shooters, omelet station, hash, potatoes, finger sandwiches, fruit, biscuits and gravy, and so much more.

Between the 4 of us, approximately 15 trips to the buffet is on the agenda.  Every time I walk back to our booth I pass the table of exes and give them a filthy poo-gas face to let them know I am John-Paul and Sean’s fag hag… and they would be gay toast if they tried to initiate a squabble.  I have much better hair than the women in their group too. They clearly got hosed on recruitment day.

It’s strange but while we're on a roll with ex-flings I can help but associate some of mine with the food in front of me-- the international spread reminds me of a worldly fellow I used to see. He never liked me but we enjoyed doing "worldly" things together like eating sushi, reviewing art and photography, and discussing Japanese threesomes. I think my only real future with him would have involved a Japanese wife, for the two of us.

Oh and the spaghetti. The poor spaghetti. Proof that nothing, regardless of secret sauce, can survive the strain of tension if there's just no strength holding it together. Lady and the tramp had it all wrong. Spaghetti doesn't hold you together.  Nobody's that content. People (and dogs) are starving; the spaghetti would have broken long before the kiss because each one of them would have wanted more.

A large bin lays ahead—perhaps ice and sodas?  Nope, just the trash. The trash can speak for itself. The one ex-fling I can’t relate to food. For a brief period in time I forgot my family comes from khakis and Saabs. Perhaps it was high school in the city, or the movie 8 Mile, but something dared me to dabble with delinquency.

The only thing I can complain about is the sushi spread. All the tiny rolls taste the same and there isn’t much of a selection. I’m disappointed because I had a real craving for sushi prior to arriving and have heard nothing but good things about Jackson’s sushi. I can make anything delicious with spicy mayo though… Where the hell is the spicy mayo?!?  FAIL.

We were all so busy eating that the only thing we could find time to talk about was acquired immune deficiency syndrome and how it sometimes kills cats. Jackson’s, you let me down on the sushi but made up for it in every other spread. Get some spicy mayo too. It would have been a fabulous addition to numerous items beyond the sushi, including those lovely little finger sandwiches. We’ll all be back as a group, so long as you pass a law of segregation to keep all exes outside.  

Week 36: Two Lonely Housewives

Our boyfriends are out of town and John-Paul and I are left wondering what to do with our Sunday. Thankfully with work on Monday, we can’t get into too much trouble. The past year or so has been spent double dating and whenever John-Paul and I get the opportunity to be alone together, it’s remotely dangerous.

I woke up sad for the first time this morning. With Ryan in North Carolina the majority of the week, I finally realized why he’s important to have around: to eat with. I’ve been busy remodeling my bedroom all weekend and the only time I stopped was to occasionally text Ryan and then to attend Friday night’s shitshow with some of the Ybor rats.  Actually, the majority of Saturday was spent lying face down on my new bedroom carpet due to Friday’s activities. But, I was back to Extreme Home Makeover, Meatball Edition, by late afternoon.

With John-Paul out partying until 5:30 AM, I started to consider my options for dining alone. I was shocked when he returned my call at 11AM, as all bets were against him actually being awake. Eating alone is a very great fear of mine, alongside my fear of full grown men in overalls and dry rocks. I don’t really want to get into detail with the dry rocks, but if you’ve ever been at the beach with dry bare feet, and stepped on a dry rock, you know what I’m talking about. Oh and the word “moist.” That word is also a fear of mine. I cringe when people say it.

Daytime in Ybor is so nice. Aside from the bums that grace the cobblestoned roads, you can really breathe in the unique culture and architecture. As John-Paul and I cross the street, our conversation is interrupted by our observation that a sixth church has opened in the neighborhood. I have no idea why people think we need such saving. “Oh wow, just what we need, another church in Ybor,” I say to John-Paul, only to be bombarded seconds later by a stranger “HEY, what did you just say?”  As I struggled for a response, the man attempted luring us in with some reference to Jesus and something about Sunday football, as if I’m interested and as if John-Paul’s a real man’s man.

Upon escaping religion, and arriving at La Creparia Ybor, John-Paul and I begin raping the menu. This is a real date and I’m the man. I have to pay for John-Paul because he spent his disposable income on a few worthless things this week such as cat food, Nair and 8 or 9 HBO movies.

I’m craving not one, but two iced coffees. Something about iced coffee (or any kind of coffee) makes me feel skinny. We go on to order the Jambalaya Crepe and the La Creparia Special. I add an egg to La Creparia’s Special to transform it into a breakfast crepe.  John-Paul and I discuss weight, diet, blogging, cats, the future, and the hideous curly Mohawk attached to the head of the metro beside us.  Just two single girls hitting up the town and enjoying a gossipy brunch together.

When our food came, we dove in. Savory sex of the mouth. La Creparia has created dozens upon dozens of delicious alternatives to your “ordinary crepes.” They’ll put anything in a damn crepe and I think it’s fantastic. From savory to sweet, from fulfilling to treats (Hey, I should do their advertising), they’ve got it all.

When your boyfriend’s out of town, and all you’ve got is $30 and a gay best friend, visit La Creparia. You won’t be able to drink booze, but you will be able to drink what I consider the best iced coffee in all of Tampa Bay and maybe even the United States. They have booze, you just won’t be able to afford it if you only have $30 (I included a generous tip in that). Skip the tip, you’re golden. But I don’t recommend that. Oh yes and their crepes are pretty frigan fantastic as well.

Week 35: Datz F’in Fantastic

First of all, before we eat, I’d like to address something. A grace of sorts:

Thank you for this lovely meal and for this light-hearted life we lead. I truly believe that in every aspect of life, whether amusing or boring, happy or sad, humor can be found. It’s humor that keeps us young, keeps us merry, and prevents us from listening to gothic rock. Lately it has been brought to my attention that some people are using the Sunday Meatball Chronicles' “offensive content” to get their panties in a bunch. We can take life with a grain of salt my friends, or we can simply eat shit. You shall be the judge.  

Back to business, Week 35, Datz. To be completely honest, in the two times I have visited Datz, I did not become a fan. If you take a few things I don’t like, such as long lines and overpriced alcohol, and put them in one spot, chances are I’m going to be a tough sell. Datz has an interesting crowd, as does South Tampa in general. Perhaps a crowd I’d like to be a part of some day. Some refer to the type as thirty-thousand dollar millionaires. Thirty-thousand dollar millionaires are the type of people that make peanuts, yet drive a foreign car, live in an overpriced home, and are willing to pay $11 for a mimosa. I like to simply call that “hood rich”… kids in private schools, a $175/month gym membership, a home theatre…. and $15 in the bank. I have nothing against the frauds. My father Bobby has played this game for a long time, and calls his strategy “the fat man’s wallet.” He always folds a stack of one dollar bills, but leaves a hundred dollar bill on the outside, to imply that he has a massive stack of cash at all times…when in reality, he may only have $114.

Datz… words ending with Z give me anxiety. I’m not sure who the hell Dat is or whether or not this is Dat’s restaurant, but in other instances, “girlz,”  “watz up” and “love yaz” has really bothered me. Fuckin Z’s. Ryan believes you need to give a restaurant more than one or two chances, because sometimes you just can’t avoid their “off days.” Deep breath, open mind, game on.

There is a good crowd today, because I selected it. Ryan, John-Paul, Sean and Erin. Although we talk every single day, I haven’t hung out with Erin in quite some time. Now that she is right before my eyes, I realize that her 6 weeks of crossfit training have probably enabled her to bench press me. I use this observation as an opportunity to make a mental note: keep Erin on your good side, or just avoid her at all costs. I just dyed my hair black and I’m wearing an off the shoulder skeleton tee. I feel like a real jetsetter, a Kardashian with contacts. No one else seems to agree, as my ass is not big enough, my upper torso has not reached puberty, I haven’t starred in a porno (yet), and I’m not frigan loaded.

As we sit down, the waitress (named China) hands us some reading material and it takes me a full 5 minutes to realize that this newspaper in front of me is actually the menu. How creative. I’m staring at the corned beef/reuben sandwiches section and I decide to talk about how delicious they all look, just to make Erin uncomfortable. Corned beef scares her a bit. Perhaps because it is used to make hash, is not unlike dog food and sometimes comes in a very large tin can which can be reused as a portable-potty on camping trips.  I love everything about corned beef. I express my love for this delicious meat to John-Paul and Sean, and John-Paul confirms its deliciousness. Obviously he loves meat.

The Datz menu contains the work of shamelessly unapologetic flavor crusaders, as they like to call themselves, and I appreciate their odd selection of comfort foods. Fingers crossed, I want to actually enjoy the food this time. Insert drum roll here. Ordering takes place: Roger’s Rockin’ Reuben (sy ginsberg’s corned beef, sauerkraut, swiss cheese, datz Russian dressing, on perfectly grilled Jewish rye), side of macaroni and cheese, Datz potato chips with blue cheese drizzle,  2 orders of Holy Guacamo Lee Mezrah  (oven-roasted turkey breast, fresh guacamole, creamy cole slaw, muenster cheese, datz Russian dressing, served cold on grilled country bread), Billy Benedict (datz ham, Gruyère cheese, poached eggs, topped with hollandaise, on Wolferman’s English muffins. served with datz breakfast potatoes), and Brigitte’s Brioche (brioche French toast, seasonal berry jam, melted brie and crème Anglaise. served with nueske’s applewood smoked bacon).

The waitress has had a long day and it’s obvious. If I were a waitress, the last group of people I would want to serve is us. Aside from being extremely generous tippers, we sometimes get too loud and obnoxious for public. We seem like a bunch of snobs, especially when John-Paul decides to point out a pregnant woman’s stomach in the middle of brunch. I want her to think we are welcoming, open-minded, culturally aware people. After all, her name is China. I bet she has no idea that I owned a yellow FUBU tank top in the 7^th grade until realizing what it stood for. Yea, I am a nice balanced girl.

Food. F’in yum. Seriously. Third time’s a charm, Datz. Your food couldn’t be any better than it was today, and I didn’t even need to hit the gravity bong to truly savor every orgasmic flavor. And finally, silence. Three obnoxious humans (John-Paul, Erin and myself) and not a word left to say, but “F’in yum.”  Ryan and Sean are quiet by nature so who knows what their silence meant. They were probably plotting for ways to get away from us. Regardless, I speak for all when I say we'll be back. So the booze is overpriced, and you may have to wait an hour to be seated…. Well, sometimes a good meal is worth the wait, and wallet.

 

Week 34: (Ryan, Guest Writer): The Bearded Quahog

Things I learned while visiting Michelle’s family in Cape Cod this week:

-          The letter “O” is pronounced as an “AW.” Example: Cape Cawd

-          Words that end with an “A” occasionally acquire an R. Example: Tamper

-          Oaks Bluff, Martha’s Vineyard is for black people.  The rare breeds that swim,  
           enunciate clearly and ride appropriately sized bikes. 

-          The shellfish I’ve always known to be a clam, is actually a quahog.

-          Fried clam strips are delicious but they cheat you out of the whole belly.

-          The beach is for laying out, not swimming. It’s too cold.

-          Provincetown makes Gaybor look straight.

Michelle’s family lives in Falmouth, located in the armpit of the Cape Cod arm. Cape Cod itself is not a town; Falmouth is one of the many towns in Cape Cod. Her dad picked us up at Logan airport Friday night, with the top down in his Saab convertible. He proclaimed it was a beautiful night, to which I could not disagree. However, the fact that we left Tampa three hours earlier where the heat index was 106 degrees, the 66 degree breeze had me looking for flakes of snow.

We weren’t the only ones in need of a ride that night. Michelle’s brother Chris had friends in town and they were bombed.  Shortly after arriving at the Cape house, Michelle’s mother, Denise, donned her chauffeur cap and was out the door.  Hurricane Chris blew into the house with a 20ft squeegee he stole from the bar parking lot to use as a joust alongside the aforementioned Saab.  My dad was a man of few words and although he rarely told me he was proud of me, he didn’t have to.  I could see it in his eyes.  That was not the look I saw in Denise’s eyes that night. 

I’m here for two reasons:  The infamous Falmouth Road Race and Denise’s famous stuffed quahogs.  I’ve been hearing about these things since the day I met Michelle and I am excited!  I assumed my responsibilities in these activities included running and eating which happen to be my two favorite hobbies.   Little did I know, I’d actually been recruited for harvesting.

I’ve never been much of a hunter or a fisherman but I’m not ignorant.  I know that food doesn’t actually come from the grocery store.  Growing up on a dairy farm in eastern NC, I learned at a very young age that steaks and hamburger came from the cows that I considered pets.  Quahogging is more hunting than fishing but probably most accurately described as gathering.  They live in the muck.  It’s absolutely disgusting work involving a rake, a floating basket, shallow brackish water, four feet of muck and hazards like spider crabs and eels.  No one told me about the eels.  If Falmouth had a home depot, I’d suggest picking up a crew of illegal illegals for this job. 

The bearded clam is an extinct species that lived off the coast of Britain.  Its beard was prized for making beer.  It wasn’t until after its extinction that brew masters began using hops making the beer we are familiar with today.  Diving and digging through the muck of a Cape Cod inlet, I discovered a new breed.  Michelle emerged from the murky abyss with a fresh coat of muck clinging to her body hair. A fine black line ran across her lip, down her chin and continued to her naval. Disgusting…  In addition to Meatball, Michelle’s new nickname is The Bearded Quahog. 

This week’s Sunday Meatball Chronicle involves neither brunch nor a restaurant but it’s Sunday so game on. It’s the 39^th running of the Mother Fuckin Falmouth Road Race!  In 1973 a few guys ran the 7.3 mile stretch from a bar in Woods Hole to another bar in East Falmouth.  Over 11,000 ran this year and I finished 1074^th place which is okay I suppose but there is plenty of room for improvement.  It’s a money race so it attracts elite runners from around the world.  This year’s winner came from Kenya and he finished the route in 31:37. DISGUSTING! In good pompous American fashion, Falmouth awards the fastest overall runners and then the top American finishers.  There were no personal records for any of us but it didn’t stop us from celebrating. 

The Boyd family post-race party is as important of a tradition and nearly as epic as the race.  Seventy-two degrees, light humidity, tables full of food, a wine barrel stuffed with ice and beer, a hammock and new friends make for an amazing day.  Truth be told, I don’t like running but I love that it enables me to eat and drink to my hearts content, guilt-free.  The spread was amazing and it began with the spoils of the previous day’s haul: stuffed quahogs.  We feasted on marinated and grilled steak, cheeseburgers, red sweet/spicy Chinese sausage, lasagna, grilled chicken breasts and army of creamy salads and sides.  I’m a fan of “drive-by grazing.”  Drive-by grazing is a great tactic for sampling throughout the day without showing everyone how many plates you’ve used. 

The rain held off, the beer stayed cold, the stories embellished and we all got sloppy.  The 2^nd generation of runners/partiers transferred the party from the backyard to a boat at a nearby dock.  I’d love to tell you about the rest of the night but even after a review of the pictures, I’m still in the dark.  Let’s just say it included pu pu platters for 16, scorpion bowls, dancing with chicken wings, and a Glock. End of story.

Week 33: Catchin’ the Spirit!

As I sit in a tastefully decorated wooden pew, eating macaroni and cheese, I anxiously await the arrival of Mr. Jesus. Ryan and I are in the final stretch of a weekend getaway to Whorelando and the trip has been nothing short of fantastic.  It is amazing what you can experience in just 48 hours after being removed from the Tampa bubble. Living in Ybor, I am prone to ass clowns. But marching ducks, a winning scratch ticket, bourbon-infused sweet tea vodka, mimosas and now a Sunday gospel brunch…. Have I died and gone to heaven?

The whites are low in attendance today, but black and white alike are uniting today, in one bible thumping concert hall, under God. I’m not going to be personally uniting with anyone because I’m in my own private pew on the second floor balcony, overlooking Jesus’ dance party downstairs.

Let me try and describe this.  House of Blues, Orlando. A concert hall/temple of sorts. A stage surrounded by white-clothed tables, a second floor with a balcony and pews. God’s children everywhere, catchin’ the spirit. One woman caught the spirit so hard she found it necessary to wear an all white body suit and dance in a one woman exorcism party of some sort. No really...watch the video clip below.  

Ryan keeps finding it funny to dance and clap uncontrollably and the sad part is, he actually fits in. This experience is 100% preposterous. I keep taking pictures with my phone and sending them to my circle of unholy friends and the only replies I receive back are “what’s wrong with you,” “you’re an idiot,” and “where the hell are you, Sister Act?”   

Our backdrop is an endless buffet that I can’t get enough of. This beats Holy Communion fo’ sho’.  Bread crumb topped mac n’ cheese, fish sticks, eggs, sausage, bacon, collard greens, bbq chicken, jambalaya, potato salad, biscuits and gravy, waffles, strawberries, creamy broccoli salad with crispy bacon, cocktail shrimp and remoulade, a carving station with prime rib and ham and a dessert station pies, cobblers and bread puddin’ with whiskey cream sauce.  I broke up my bacon and mixed it into the macaroni and cheese like a real fat ass. It was to die for. Ryan inhaled 4 full plates of food.

Surely this is not serious. But as I look around the room I realize this is fact serious. I can pregame the apostle’s show with mimosas, practice gluttony, and party with a bunch of black people…. And get away with it. Praise the lord!  Earlier this morning we watched a bunch of live ducks make a red carpet grand entrance into the Peabody Hotel lobby, led by a marching “Duck Master” (named Donald) and I thought that was strange—not anymore.

 

Week 32: Pach's Place, Pronounced Pa-ches, No Rappers Here.

Ok, maybe you’ve noticed, maybe you haven’t…. But after, thirty-one straight weeks of brunch, we actually skipped eating last Sunday. It was an all-liquid Sunday Funday for John-Paul’s Birthday Extravaganza. He turned 28 and only John-Paul and his boyfriend Sean think that turning 28 is a big deal. I, like other adults in the world, stopped celebrating and arranging birthday adventures at the age of 13. Most people just wait for milestones like “21” or “80.” I didn’t buy him a present. Being his friend and putting up with his gay antics is my everyday present.

We surprised John-Paul with a group trip to Adventure Island, the wonderfully overpriced, drug infested, water world located in Tampa, Florida. If you are looking for a soaking wet degenerate, go to Adventure Island. Adults in life vests, recirculated piss pools, and mediocre security that permits you to sneak your own booze into the park…They’ve got it all. Great place.

It was a fun day but I hope we didn’t let him down. Part of me thinks he was expecting more. Before arriving at the water park, we were all waiting outside of a convenience store for everyone to finish packing up their road sodas. A state cop approached us on his way into the store. John-Paul immediately got excited and screamed “WOOHOOO, YOU ALL BOUGHT ME A STRIPPER!” Fortunately the cop ignored his incongruity, but John-Paul looked slightly disappointed upon realizing it was not a naked law enforcement fraud. Now that I think about it---that was a ridiculous thought. Do you know your friends at all JP? We would never purchase an overweight stripper of non-white decent. Get a grip. Adventure Island was much more entertaining anyway.

So, Sunday has come once again and Ryan and I are back to business: brunch. We’re on our way to Pach’s Place on Bay to Bay Boulevard because we haven’t been this wonderful establishment in almost a year. As I enter Pach’s, memories flood my brain…. flood my brain like nasty recirculated sewage water, definitely not beautiful blue tides. I think back on who I used to be and it’s hard to imagine that today I’m sitting here, respectably dining with a boyfriend and a leg free of probation electronics. Joking. That is not actually a staple of my past, although it should have been.

Pach’s Place was our go-to Sunday brunch joint in college. There were 6 of us Holly Hangovers that used to go together, until one week when we made too many Hellen Keller jokes in public and offended our friend Christine. We then became a pack of 5. We were never sober and we were rarely dressed appropriately. More often than not we’d be wearing our clothes from the night before or even worse, pajamas. We’d always have to make a slight detour to pick up my roommate on the way. She tended to go missing at night. We’d find her waiting on a curb somewhere, beautiful as ever, and ready for coffee. She was a gem.

The ultimate fail of Pach’s Place came my senior year of college. I had been partying all weekend (all year, really) and my parents were in town and wanted to take me to brunch. The waitress sat us at a table in a high-traffic area near the door and I took the outside seat near the aisle, letting my parents hug the wall. While sitting there, minding my own hangover and trying to have an adult conversation with my parents, a woman came darting through the front door with her baby thrown over her shoulder. I felt something splash and start to slightly drip down my forehead. My mother’s face didn’t need to provide any explanation. The tiny human had puked directly on my head. At breakfast.

Anyway, not even projectile vomit throughout my hair could stop me from loving Pach’s Place. They are one of the most fair-priced establishments in South Tampa and their greasy diner atmosphere sure hits home. They even have a waitress who resembles Dolly Parton and she’s here today. I usually get their massive omelets but I’ll mix it up. For $4.85 there’s a fabulous combo of 2 eggs, 2 sausage patties, toast and grits. DONE! Ryan ordered a fabulous combo as well but his included country fried steak with sausage gravy, home fries, a biscuit, 2 eggs over medium and a side of smoked chicken/apple sausage, What the f is smoked chicken apple sausage!?   

It is at this point I would like to review the food but I am too distracted by the man sitting across from us with his hand up the leg of his shorts, scratching his balls. I wonder if he is aware the tables have no clothes and I’m getting a peek at the mouse in the cage. He’s wearing a Snow White shirt that says “Don’t Worry, Be Grumpy,” and let’s be honest dude, the only thing worse than an adult in a Disney t-shirt, is an adult who engages in public scrotum scratching. I’m watching you, you swine.

Speaking of swine, my sausage patties were frigan amazing, but I can’t say the same for Ryan’s “chicken apple sausage.” Although the flavor was great, I couldn’t stand wondering whether each crunchy bite was a chunk of apple or a chunk of cartilage.  The grits were fantastic as well. I took my scrambled eggs and sausage and used the toast to make my own breakfast sandwiches like a true food monster. Ryan’s country fried steak and gravy was slightly orgasmic and so were his home fries. You never let us down Pach’s. I’m glad we finally got around to visiting you once again. I purposely forgot to order the potato pancakes because I’m doing this thing called “watching my weight”… so I’ll be back!