Endless Simmer - A Food Blog

With the NCAA basketball tournament tipping off this afternoon, America’s brightest young minds are poised to spend the next month doing what they do best: getting drunk and yelling at television screens. When all the blood, sweat, tears - and beer - are swept off the court, the nation’s 18 million college students will be left in search of one thing: some grease to soak it all up.

While you were finalizing your bracket picks, Endless Simmer carefully evaluated the tournament field to compile this list of the tournament’s Top 10 Colleges - ranked by the drunk food they have to offer their hungry, hungry students. Eat that, U.S. News and World Report.

10. University of Wisconsin - Mac ‘n Cheese Pizza

Photo: J&J Blog

Oh maaaan, I need some pizza. Cheesy pizza. Mmmm, cheese. No, wait, I want mac and cheese. Oooh! Pizza with mac and cheese on top! That’s what I want.

If you have ever said or heard a statement like this, you are almost certainly a drunk college student. Also, you probably live in Wisconsin.

The Badgers may have been dissed by the selection committee (29-4 can’t get you a no #2 seed??) but Wisconsin never was as good at sports as they are at creative use of cheese. Madison drunks flock to Ian’s Pizza for this gooey, magnificent creation that just couldn’t come from any other state.

9. Rutgers - Fat Darell

Photo: AP

Don Imus’ not-so-favorite team is back in the women’s tourney as a Number 2 seed, while the Rutgers men were sent packing after a miserable season at the bottom of the Big East.

But don’t feel too bad for the Scarlet Knights - they can always console themselves back on campus with a Jersey summer full of Fat Darrells, a behemoth of a sandwich that solves the drunk’s eternal dilemma of “Do I want chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, or French fries?”

The answer: a resounding “all three,” piled high on a sub role and topped off with marinara sauce. I’d tell you more about it but I’m a little short of breath and I feel a painful shooting sensation in my arm.

8. Purdue - The Duane Purvis All-American

Photo: Flick User Horsepj

You can be forgiven if you didn’t know the name of Purdue’s All-American half-back/full-back from their undefeated 1932 football team. But you should damn well know the burger that bears his name.

The Triple XXX Family Restaurant in West Lafayette, Indiana serves up this decidedly unwholesome Boilermaker classic: 100% sirloin patty with lettuce, tomato, pickle, Spanish onions, and….wait for it…peanut butter. Only a drunk or Elvis - perhaps only a drunk Elvis - could fully appreciate this brilliance.

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I wanted Christian Siriano to win. The clothes, the ingenious asymmetrical haircut and the adorable arrogance all in a 4 foot tall perfect package. I was cheering for him all through the Project Runway finale as he bopped around with threads, winked at the camera and snapped at his own fierceness….until he told a size -1 model “don’t eat!” after fittings. My mouth hung open at this comment (not attractive considering it was full of cheesy lasagna) and it got me thinking. Not about how women don’t need to be stick thin to be beautiful. That argument’s been done a thousand times and reiterated by Tyra Banks ten thousand times more. Christian’s quip about food rejection simply made me hungry, even after digging into my second helping of lasagna. His comment made me think about…sandwiches. I do love a good sandwich. For the rest of the finale, I wasn’t on the edge of my seat debating who will rule the runway. I was thinking: If these finalist were a sandwich, what kind of sandwich would they be?

Let’s start with Chris. Now, I actually didn’t mind human hair on clothes, but I do mind them in my sandwiches. Thankfully, at Primanti Brothers in Pittsburgh, I never found one. These sandwiches are extravagant, layered, grandiose goodness….and more importantly, as burly as the PR finalist himself. Pounds of Italian ham, Swiss cheese, coleslaw. All topped off with fries IN the sandwich. A little much for most people, but so was that fugly jacket that got Chris kicked off in the first place so there you go. Chris, I honor you with the roast beef sandwich at Primanti brothers.

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Grilled cheese or hot pocket?

Hey, I haven’t yet reached a level of enlightenment needed to determine the answer to all life’s questions. Nevertheless, this “sandwich” was gooey and crispy and hot. And while I may not be smart enough to know its scientific name, at least my taste buds know a good thing when they sense it.

But what, exactly, was in this mystery creation? Find out after the jump…

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I know, I know, believe it or not, I do have a day job. And it’s for a non-profit. So as much as I’d love to go out to eat at my fav places every night, or cook fantastic meals, sometimes I slum it.

Exhibit A:

Normally, I would have thrown that sucker out. But, I looked at it twice. As a thing of beauty. As a slice of life I shouldn’t waste. And so I mashed the banana up with some natural peanut butter** and created a creamy, and slightly chunky open faced sandwich. On wheat toast. With a side of ruffled plain potato chips.

**Holy crap. There are like a million different kinds of peanut butters. Or, I should say: NUT BUTTERS. So 80 and I are in Whole Foods selecting over-priced ingredients for our “V-day” celebration and I remember that I just ran out of peanut butter. (Hint, Hint - 80. This is your girlfriend nagging you to write up our Vday dinner.)

Now growing up in little ole Cherry Hill, New Jersey I only remember two kinds of PB - Jif and Peter Pan (I was a Jif girl.) And then I found out there was “chunky” which I thought was disgusting, as I hated peanuts (I’ve grown to like them since) and I didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that my beloved peanut butter was actually made from peanuts. Okay, I’ll reveal one more secret just so I can beat dad gansie to the punch: my elementary school lunch sandwich consisted of peanut butter on a hamburger bun. Period.

Okay, back to WF. Since I don’t frequent that grocer very often, I haven’t memorized the aisles so I had to ask where the PB was. I was swiftly corrected that I would be taken to the NUT BUTTER aisle. Anyway I get there and just fucking stare. Meanwhile, 80, who is itchin to get out of there at this point (he has his gourmet beer so he’s ready) is not super thrilled when he finds me open-mouthed and rummaging through: soy butter, soy peanut butter, almond butter, cashew butter, organic fill-in-the-blank nut butter, natural peanut butter, natural organic peanut butter and blah blah blah I’m going insane! I ended up just getting what I came for (10 minutes later) - natural peanut butter. Phew.

Hold up - one more Q - why is natural PB so funky in that the oil separates from the rest of the creaminess? JoeHoya? Anyone?

*Spoiler Alert*
And OMFG - I can’t believe the ending of this week’s LOST. The Baby!

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Here’s a tasty last minute Valentine’s Day recipe for those of you who interpret “going all out” as using the top knob on your toaster oven. Hey, don’t judge, it’s a step up for some of us.

I made this the other night with my valentine, Alex (newish development - of course the ES community gets first word on these things). Anyway, here’s the shocking part - she’s a vegetarian. Clearly I’m not happy about this, but none other than the New York Times says it’s possible for us to coexist, even though, and I quote - from the paper of record:

“Meat eaters smell bad and have low energy.”

Well I can’t argue with that, but I do know that portobello mushrooms might not be filet mignon, but they are just about the tastiest things I’ve ever had that aren’t served bloody.

Navigate that hurdle for more on the toaster oven portobello and brie sandwich.

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(in case you’re wondering what design is hiding underneath the sandwich)

It’s rare that I keep bread in the house. Not that I have anything against carbs or whatever, I just normally don’t make sandwiches. I’ll either throw something over a salad, in a pita or under eggs. And toast, please - we all know I take my grains in the form of begals.

On a whim I convinced 80 to pick up some turkey deli meat on his trip to Whole Foods. (And bread, for turkey sandwiches.) Clearly I should have known that WF doesn’t just sell regular, plain old sliced turkey. No, 80 had to buy 10 dollars worth of real smoked turkey breast that we had to slice ourselves. (It was delicious, look for details on my kick-ass turkey sandwich in a later post.)

But now to the sandwich at hand. It’s a really simple egg sandwich enhanced with some fridge staples. Recipe and *bonus* trick post jump.

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I’m proud to report that I made some progress in “not cheating” for Sunday night dinner. Although I didn’t whip up something intense, I actually did so some prep work, as opposed to the shame that was last week.

I obviously spent the day sleeping in, watching football (Eli continues on?!?!) and this terrible commercial 700 times (although for some reason, 80 loves it,) reading a good amount of the Wash Post* (that’s me to the right) and, of course, eating.

*Okay, let me rant for a second. I hate/do not believe when people say they read the whole paper every morning. That’s a lie. The paper is HUGE. It’s absolutely impossible to read the entire paper every morning. You’d have to start reading the second it was delivered (4-5 am? and shoot-off rant, you know you’re in trouble when you get home from a night partying and the paper is already delivered, but that can be a rant for another day) to be done reading it by the time you had to go to work. Sure, some people are animals and get up at 5 o’clock in the morning and drink coffee and read the paper and save the world, but I’m sooo not one of them. And anyway, they’re lying. 80 and I spent three hours tag-teaming the paper and we still couldn’t get through the whole thing. Regardless.

So for dinner, 80 and I flirted with the idea of ordering from Goodys, one of those all encompassing delivery places. They serve everything from fried rice to buffalo wings to burritos to chicken parm subs. And, during the end/beginning of the year, they also give a complimentary calendar/menu (see left) along with the food. The calendar kicks ass, it features the Chinese Zodiac (or peacocks or pandas) as well as their extensive menu, ensuring easy ordering all year long. But, we decided instead to find something in the kitchen because god-forbid one of us has to actually leave the apartment and go downstairs to get the food. Leaving the couch was hard enough.

Continue reading for the startling conclusion to Sunday night eating.

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Much to Gansie’s chagrin I have not turned into a full-fledged Philadelphia Eagles fan. My theory is that I couldn’t possibly understand the pain and torment that constant losing brings; so I will root for them, but can’t call myself a fan. It wouldn’t be fair to real Bird’s fans. Plus, I’m a Duke basketball fan, I root for winners (just lost half of our readership).

A couple of Sunday’s ago, our movie star friend Matt (broadandpatterson) offered up 2 of his season tickets to me and Gansie. We jumped at the chance to spend 8 hours in 30 degree weather; who wouldn’t? This being football and all, we knew we had to tailgate. Unfortunately, Matt and Julie couldn’t leave DC until Sunday morning, so they missed most of the fun. But Gansie and I, along with Gansie’s brother and his extremely hungover friend, did make it out the lot by 10:30am (1 pm game).

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I’m really not that big of a sandwich eater. Well, making sandwiches that is. I can’t deny my love for someone else selling me a good lunch-time egg salad on rye. Bread just seems to go bad too quickly in my apartment. So, I usually toss in anything I’d use for a sandwich into a salad instead.

But, when I’m at a Wegmans with my dad, my eyes light up at the fresh bread and endless opportunities for different creations that my tiny Hispanic super market just can’t compare to. Although I will say that it took me almost 5 aisles to find some canned black beans, which I clearly find unacceptable (hence telling my father that Cherry Hill needs more of an influx of Central American immigrants.)

Regardless, with an abundant amount of time (and my dad’s credit card for purchase power) I compiled a killer sandwich for my dad and brother, SAG, and me.

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