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by BS

Burns My Bacon: Stop the Music

Memo to all restaurant owners: In my line of work/leisure I visit a lot of restaurant and bar websites, and I just do not understand why so, so many of you view this brief, virtual interaction as an opportunity to share a sampling of your preferred musical tastes with me. It’s unnecessary. It’s distracting. It has nothing to do with food.

If I’m visiting your website, chances are I’m there to do one of three things: 1) Look at the menu, 2) Find out the address, or 3) Make a reservation. That’s it. I do not need some sort of visceral, subconscious encouragement that you really are the restaurant for me. I certainly do not need a primer on the music of whatever country’s food you specialize in. That cheesy Italian tune is not going to make me any more likely to visit your trattoria. The hum of a mariachi band will not push me towards a Mexican spot. I don’t care if your establishment is owned by Hova himself — you don’t need to prove it!

Do you really think you are getting more customers this way? Trust me — you’re not. If anything you’re only causing a large percentage of them to frantically close the browser window before their bosses hear that thumping background music and realize they’re not working. And do not try to tell me it’s OK because you have a tiny off button hidden down on the bottom of the page below your site credits. No. Just stop. All of you. Please.

And don’t even get me started on flash animation.

Feed Us Back: What’s the worst restaurant website music you’ve ever heard?

by gansie

The 1-2-3s of Veggies

“What are you watching?” my sister asked as I painted my nails sitting on the carpet of my parents’ living room floor.

“Stay,” I said, “Mom saved the Oprah with Michael Pollan. He’s the dude who wrote the book that I’m making dad read.”

And that’s all it took.

My sister watched in horror as chickens, so burdened, so physically burdened, with the weight of their unnaturally large breasts, that they could only crank out a few steps before collapsing. She stopped eating meat after that. It’s been just over a month now. And she has no idea what to eat.

How Not to Eat Ice Cream Every 15 Minutes

I woke up and kept my pajamas on. I peed. Didn’t brush my teeth. Started the computer and scanned work emails. I thought about how much energy it would take to boil water for my french press coffee. I decided against that task. I checked more emails and then let the IT dude in. He was sweating. It was gross. But I let him into my bedroom anyway. He left an hour and a half later and there it was. My new virtual office. In my bedroom.

I am now a full time virtual worker. In an effort to save money and save the environment, okay, really save money, we’ve gotten rid of our downtown DC offices and instead will advocate for working women within our respective bedrooms. Or however my coworkers have set up their offices.

What makes me really excited about this development is not just the ability to remain in a tshirt and sweats all day, but to create real time lunches. I will never again have to figure out the next day’s meal the night before. I could actually probably throw out half my tupperware collection. Although I probably won’t because I have an addiction to things.

Anyway, lunch was great today. I warmed up leftovers from last night’s dinner, potato, greens and ricotta broiler eggs, and juggled it on top of a pocketless pita schmeared with sun dried tomato cream cheese.

Real quick.

Fucking A. So when 80 and I were trying to get the hell out of NYC on Sunday—which took, I shit you not, an hour and a half, mostly because of this bullshit bicycle thing in all 25 boroughs and then the fact that we thought instead of leaving directly from Manhattan to one of the tunnels we worked our way into Brooklyn to try to jump on the BQE and yes, BS, I called you but maybe you weren’t back from Sri Lanka yet—we found an awesome bagel place.

Shocking it is not.

But I know bagels. Okay. I know bagels. And these were maybe the best bagels I’ve ever had. Soft and chewy and large. Full and lush. Lots of soft interior.

After about an hour of driving around NYC (and staring opening mouthed at the Hasidic Jews—they all wear the same clothes, it’s crazy) I begged 80 to stop for breakfast. We decided whatever we saw first–bagels or pizza–we’d jump out and grab it for the road. And actually, we saw a pizza place first but it was still closed (as it was only 11am) so luckily Brownstone Bagel & Bread Co was right across the street. We both got egg sandwiches (real egg!) on bagels and I also got another bagel for the road.

I let 80 pick one of their in-house “whipped” cream cheeses to go and he selected sun dried tomato. He hates tomatoes.

What Did I Do Wrong

I’ve done it again. And I’m ready to admit that I need help.

I’ve previously failed, and documented, my attempts to create an appetizing salad at one of the many new do-it-yourself salad places that have popped up downtown. Another one just opened, Freshii, and my friend Katie and I checked it out.

I was immediately turned off by their ordering process. Each customer is given a piece of paper and a pencil and told to check off their salad items. I can see how this saves time and confusion, but this absolute waste of paper really pisses me off. Couldn’t there be touch screen kiosks instead? (Although they do claim to reuse order tickets as flyers, but I’m not really sure how that works.)

I soldiered on and checked off ingredients. I went vegan that day and avoided the up-charges, although that was probably the main issue. A salad without cheese or avocado can barely be considered a salad. But still, I thought my choices went well together, especially as I’m increasingly into raw broccoli. But it was bland and barely dressed.

Help! Please show me how to put together a decent salad. (Better view of ingredients.)

in Personal / Restaurants 8 comments

by gansie

Chicken in the Raw

OhMyGod – Guess What?!?!

80P and I are going to Japan and South Korea!

We’re doing a week in/around Tokyo and a week in/around Seoul. We’re looking for travel suggestions, especially where to eat. We’re also interested in taking an over-night trip from both cities. I would like to know where I can buy an entire new wardrobe and 80 would like to know where he can drink sake while I clothes shop.

Last night I went to a press dinner at Kushi, a Japanese style sushi, raw bar and grill. The owners there are really nice and knowledgeable about Japan and I tried to learn as much as possible so I don’t look like a total asshole when I’m in Asia. Oh and the food is kick-ass, especially the crispy duck thigh, the heritage breed chicken wing, the miso marinated fish and pretty much any of the sashimi.

Things I’ve Learned Pre-Japan

Patrons are given a warm, damp cloth at the beginning of meal to cleanse their hands and then use as napkin.

Robata is a grill.

Never drink sake with a rice dish. Sake is made from rice so it’d be a double starch. Imagine adding potatoes to pasta. However, sushi is fine to drink with sake, the rule is more geared to a bowl of rice.

Shoji is like vodka. If I remembered that correctly. An anti-hangover drink combines ukon, a turmeric tea, mixed with shoji.

Chicken is eaten raw in Japan. Chicken can be served sashimi style and eaten with wasbi and soy, like fish.

in Personal / Restaurants 7 comments

by gansie

Duck, Duck, Duck…Peking…Post

While Britannia’s Slow Cooked Peking Duck may have not yielded all that much meat, it was definitely revolutionary in its originality. The Washington Post even picked up on it. Check out Britannia’s (Russell) shout out in Joe Yonan‘s solo cooking column.

[Cooking for One: Discovering Slow Cookers]

(Photo: Thin Glass)

in Fowl / Personal 0 comments

by Tyler

My Classy Cheating Confession: Gastronomic Glaze

Part III in our controversial ES series…

When my fabulous former neighbor returned from Paris having successfully smuggled Vacherin Mont d’Or cheese into the States, we knew it was going to be a party.

And party we did. After leaving the contraband Vacherin out overnight, it was exceptionally soft and bore that hallmark of quality cheese, the stink of smelly feet. It was the rustic-looking wild cousin of brie—the one with the beard who gets wasted at your sister’s wedding and hits on the bridesmaids because he knows you’re not going to say shit about it.

But the real star of the party was the goat cheese garnished with crumbled walnuts and fig balsamic gastronomic glaze (glassa gastronomica if you’re pretentious, Italian, or both). It was the perfect tangy and sweet complement to the cheese. She simply took a log of chevre, split it in half lengthwise and glazed up the interior, putting it back together like a wonderful cheese sandwich with balsamic candy in the middle. Gastronomic glaze: garnish of the gods.

Well, after six or seven bottles of Bordeaux and my incessant harping on the brilliance of this balsamic glaze, Jan admitted that she had brought back a couple bottles of plain balsamic glaze from a French grocery. In her drunken state she offered me one, which I’m sure she now regrets.