Verbal Herman Munster

So the freshmen are getting restless for the teachings of the Professor?
It's not that I haven't been writing all kinds of wisecrackery and indepthitude. It's not that I haven't been dining at all kinds of places that are better than your house.
I've just been getting down to brass tacks, going back to stiff parchment and a quill pen. So that it's the words, not the technology that you feel.
Thesis statement: It's just too bad that you people can't enjoy my fine calligraphy. Mostly, I just feel real sorry for you...

Angel Restaurant

Hey, hey, hey. La profesora goes bilingual to bring you edible news from the Pacific coast of Costa Rica; and what a rica coast it is indeed. Any country where fried plantains are ubiquitous is a country in which I should have honorary citizenship. Who do I need to talk to about that? And do they speak good Spanish? Because the profesora´s high grammatical standards are universal.
About 30 arduous meters from the Costa Rican Spanish Institute in Manuel Antonio, thatch-roofed and aromatic, sits Cafe Angel. This is the only restaurant that one can eat at in Manuel Antonio if one has 30 minutes between classes. Unless you want pizza, which is sospechosa at best. Luckily, this place is damn good. Todo is served with a side of rice and black beans, standard in this great nation, and the plantains were just a delightful bonus. Following the lead of my beautiful French classmate, Sophie, I ordered a jugo mixto expecting a glass of fruit punch. Imagine my surprise when presented with a smoothie. Are you imagining it? Not impressed? I am THOUSANDS OF MILES from a Jamba Juice. It´s more impressive than it sounds, jerks. The casado pollo that I ordered was of little consequence, frankly, but it´s really just the presence of chicken that counts in a meal. The accoutrements (ah, thank you Sophie for your European power over my vocabulary) were sufficient enough. It should be noted that the Cafe Angel experience far overwhelms my memories of the Cafe Angel food. The tin roof was covered in dried fronds, giving it the tropical appeal that I paid good colones to sit under. Hanging from this strange overhang were perhaps papier mache fish and seahorses. I say "perhaps" because this is a crazy backwards nation (that I call Unamerica) and for all I know they are real fish and seahorse skeletons, meant to guard against the American riffraff. Bien hecho, Cafe Angel, bien hecho.
On this particular afternoon, while sitting under the tin/thatch roof, the most ridiculous rain started up. When I say ridiculous, I mean a profound downpour cleansed my soul while I impatiently waited for my food, with only minutes to spare before class began. I had a raincoat with me which, most assuredly, had Mother Nature in stitches. No raincoat was going to protect me from this solid rain. I needed an arc. Jesus, why on Earth were you in Texas when I needed you? The second I climbed the stoop and exited my befronded asylum, I was completely saturated. Minutes later, walking into COSI, I was beyond wet. I had entered a new dimension of wet that the English language is not yet prepared to describe. I sat myself down like a trooper in my pleather chair and spoke in Spanish for another two hours, unable to dry in this bathtub of a country. But, by the grace of Cafe Angel´s sturdy to-go packaging, my food remained unaffected and I enjoyed a perfect alimentation, completely in spite of my uncomfortable pleather perch. Ah, Cafe Angel. So unimpressive overall, yet so Pura Vida. I cannot help but recommend you to the masses (and by masses, I mean Sam).
appetizing decor:

mi angelita mojada:

Less than Triumphant Return

No apologies for the delayed updates. I've already explained my superiority.
As I prepare for my spring-break related departure from this country, I also prepare to leave behind the world of professionally prepared cuisine. I will instead be consuming large quantities of rice, beans, and frutas de la selva. But while I quasi-dine during the month of April, I will salivate vicariously through this weblog. and so...
top ten san diego restaurants about which i will have shit to say while in costa rica:
10. spread...this may be a negative review. prepare yourselves.
9. i trulli...more of a commentary on italian men than any culinary insights
8. the roxy
7. filiberto's
6. frutilandia
5. pannikin
4. mozy cafe
3. amici
2. carl's jr...don't you dare judge me.
1. pipes...tears will be shed if i can't find an egg sandwich in la terra extrana.

Crest Cafe

In case you're wondering where I've been eating practically every day since moving back to the coast, I'm here to tell you that you have way too much time on your hands. Read a damn book, for heaven's sake.
I've been at the same eatery nearly every day since August 5th. Where I was from March to August is between me and the trees, my friends. But since about the 5th until now, I've been enjoying such a wide selection of food and beverages that I see no reason to travel to a new locale. I may just stop reporting on restaurants altogether. Now, there are no other motives for me advertising for the Crest Cafe other than their high quality entrees and your choosy tastebuds. I'm a professor by trade and incur no benefits from my blatant persuasions. I am by no means a purveyor of food and I by no means spend a large fraction of my time wiping down menus with windex or wearing an apron covered in ketchup stains. I'm far too busy sharing my wisdom and enriching minds to....whatever, just go to Crest Cafe, okay. They have really good creme brulee french toast. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with CBFT cravings and I have to show up to work... I mean this delightful little cafe which I only patronize because I enjoy it so...a half hour early just to stop the pangs.
Plus, if you're a good tipper, the service is spectacular. (And might I mention well-endowed in the derriere department.)

Bacon Situation

To update all on my legal status: As of yesterday, there are no outstanding warrants for my arrest, and Officer Pigsman of the Dallas PD has been implicated by an anonymous party (shhhh....) in several acts of an "indecent nature" with animals of a "barnyard nature" and will no longer be roaming the streets with intent to "rob innocent people blind" and spread his "rude 'tude" to the citizens of this "great nation". Hooray! Hi diddly dee! No TX license plates for me.
Thesis Statement and Solemn Promise: I will never again try to post at this incoherent hour.
Supporting Detail: Time for a catnap!!

Electro-Schrock Therapy

You can't fool me with your Russian pseudonyms, Schrock. You elusive bandit, reveal yourself!! (Although not in public, of course. That's illegal.)
Just to let the loyal bayou-lovers know, I'm going to be rocking the Pacific Standard timezone this week and if you are, too? Well, then, a rendezvous is in order.

In-Depth Analysis of Current Political Climate....and Local Eatery!

AHA. I was just testing you, fanbase. I was testing your loyalty to the wisdom and discerning palate of the Profesora. You win.
I'm back.
But, unfortunately, the whole education thing is still not a money-making venture, so I haven't really visited a lot of restaurants worth mentioning.
Kraft Macaroni and Cheese is still making headlines....I will NEVER grow tired of that shit.
As for political commentary, who the hell do you think I am? the Son of God?
Thesis statement: kiss my ass, you blogmongers. Not everyone has daily computer access and post-a-day lifestyles. Some places of employment use things like firewalls and the hawkeye vision of "the man" to keep controversial opinions and restaurant reviews under wraps. It sometimes takes me months to hack in to the blogger system with sufficient secrecy. So keep your critical, time-conscious comments to a minimum, asshats.

Eureka!

So apparently, Dallas PD thinks that it has the right to hand out excessive fines for running yellow lights (an entirely legal traffic transaction; in fact, I think that I probably saved lives and donated to charities simply by refusing to brake). Now, if I take the matter to court (which I fully intend to do, particularly if I can get Brian "Strongarm" Loncar to get my back) it's my word against that of an obviously crooked cop with *ahem* some obvious emotional baggage.
Well....I found the loophole! After hours at the Royal branch of the Dallas library (too near the scene of the alleged incident for comfort, mind you)spent researching law, criminal justice, crooked cops, Sacco and Venzetti, Dallas penal code, and Siberian tigers, I found out that it is NOT illegal to implicate a cop in a male prostitution scandal if you have reason to believe that the accused cop is a major ASSHOLE!

P.D. Johnson's Dog Day Deli

Once more from Preston Center, I bring you news of fine cuisine and wacky atmosphere. This time, I'm reporting live from P.D. Johnson's, which believe it or not is located catty-corner to Wang's Chinese food (which should, in turn, be adjacent to both Woody's Lumberyard and Big Willy's Caulking Supplies). Sharing a wall with a 24 hour fitness, this little deli is a beacon of lunch salvation in a sea of Chipotle burritorias and Sonic Burgererias. Upon entering you are enveloped in a soothing wave of semi-titillating "Johnson" references and clever signs that may or may not be authentic (For example, the "Now Hiring: No Irish" rusted tin sign...ah, if only today's prejudices could be so well-founded). Although faced with several Cold Johnson, Hot Johnson, and Nearly-Foot-Long options, I quickly narrowed it down to either a "Heavy D," a corned beef variety with a curiously named 007 sauce, or "The Bone," which included a luxurious combination of cranberry sauce and cream cheese.
Now, something to consider when you inevitably end up choosing to eat at P.D. Johnson's is the entertainment. Pinned to the walls are several articles from The Onion, a brutally honest news source. Piled on the counter are practically current magazines for every interest and a pile of crossword puzzles copied out of recent newspapers (oh 47 down, why do you haunt me still?). I feel as though the needs of my intellect are as carefully considered at Johnson's as the needs of my belly.
Speaking of belly needs, the pot of gold at the end of this lunchmeat rainbow is filled with P.D. Johnson's brownies. Oh god. Give me a moment to reflect...
The brownies have gradually improved over time, becoming more and more undercooked (less and less cooked??) until they evolved into their current glory: an entirely uncooked puddle of brownie batter poured onto a square of saran wrap. This soupy nectar is then lovingly wrapped and molded into a rectangular prism resembling something more solid. This is not only efficient for the time-hoarding bigwigs at P.D.'s, but beneficial to today's learned (and startlingly sexy) brownie consumers --such as myself.
Major Caveat: If you order water, they charge you 23 cents for "cup and ice" even if you assure those bastards that you hate ice.
Related Bonus: The tap water charge absolutely eliminates the nasty guilt feeling usually associated with filling your "water" cup with Sierra Mist. Thesis Statement: Being a female patron of P.D. Johnson's doesn't get you free water, but it sure does make you feel uncomfortable while ordering up a 6 inch Bone.

Cosmic Cafe

The combination of vegetarian food, eastern religious figures and meditation practices has never been so hokey or super tasty as it is at Cosmic Cafe and Meditation Center on fabulous Oak Lawn Avenue. I have never felt so mock-spiritual in my life, and that includes my brief stint as a nun. Plus, after 5 straight hours of intense Dance Dance Revolution competition, there's nothing like a mango lassie to soothe my aching ankles.
So, Manimal, Jesus, and I once again visited this beacon of holy treats and sassy, if at all, service. The Manimal ordered the Taco Trinity from the "Oscillating Big Bang Entrees" section of the menu without a hint of irony and I believe he enjoyed it immensely, as evidenced by the beams of light pouring out of his eyes upon completion.
The Messiah and I bypassed the "Sidereal Allah Carte" menu, despite its having the silliest name and headed straight for the "Celestial Light Offerings" which were probably the heaviest items on the menu, despite their moniker. The Shiva pizza refreshed my DDR spirit with an exciting blend of peppers mushrooms and was that squash? Decidedly deit-astic. My Lord and Savior replenished his infinite strength and wisdom with A Fold in Thyme (what most inferior restaurants might have referred to as a wrap). He topped His meal off with a large-ass Mango Lassie and, in his enlightened state of digestion claimed, "This Lassie puts the ASS back in LIE." Holla', Jesus.
Main Idea: Get hip; eat Indian-esque food named after holy beings. Madonna would be so proud. Plus, an entire menu of vegetarian-friendly food is pretty tough to find in Dallas, so job well done.
Auxiliary Idea: Whether you eat meat or not, whether you enjoy sitar music or think it's for whiny babies and the Beatles, whether you're old or young, whether you get your saris from Bombay or Gap, the waitresses here will NOT pay any attention to you whatsoever. (Tip them anyway, assholes. They have bills, too. [Theirs are just sassier than ours.])

Fireflies

First there was the Cottonwood fascination. Now that pillow fight season has sadly passed, Texas has again offered up a new surprise: Lightning bugs. Fireflies. Whatever they're called, I had no idea these little flare guns actually existed until I lost my way and ended up here. One got trapped in the house once and in a misguided attempt to do some mating it started flashing his assets around our dining room (or dining area, as it could more fittingly be called). Isabella went nuts and aimed straight for its jugular (and a shelf full of champagne flutes) but, although they seem drunkenly slow, this one managed to escape harm and return to its singles bar on the patio in short order. In fact, those luminescent little devils' only purpose seems to be to procreate, and fly around slowly enough for little kids to catch 'em in jars for further observation. I mean, I've definitely never seen a dead lightning bug. I'm not sure exactly what it is yet, but there is a lesson to be learned from that.

La Duni

Fantastic. Finally a place that lives up to its recommendations. On McKinney, about a block north of Knox, La Duni is apparently a very hip place to be on a Friday night. Getting there just before 7, however, there was no wait for a meal. Just that certain sense of inferiority that you get when your car gets valet parked just after a lexus suv and just before an audi. Among the patrons were four "sex in the city"esque females, sporting pashminas draped over their shoulders despite the eighty five degrees waiting for them outside. Among those lucky enough to snatch a patio table was Michael Bolton and a female guest. At least I think it was him. But come to think of it, this guy's hair was kind of reddish, whereas Michael Bolton's hair does not currently exist.
But, by taking advantage of the early bird dinner hour, usually reserved for senior citizens and lame-o's, we were given an inside table immediately upon entering and loaded up pretty quickly with some very potent drinks. A mojito for me and a caipirhina for my mint-hating cohort. Accompanying our beverages was some of the finest salsa this side of Encinitas, with some generic but necessary chips.
I wouldn't say that La Duni has Mexican food. They call themselves a Latin bistro, but I wouldn't say that La Duni has Latin food, either (mostly because of my distaste for the ubiquity of the word "Latin". It has some identifiably Cuban fare with a little bit of Venezuelan or some other South American flavor thrown in. Think of plantains, think of mint. Think of pork, here we go. We had some sort of appetizer. It was lovely; plaintains filled with spicy shredded pork and black beans and topped with some kind of cheese. I had tacos al something and Manimal had quesadillas al something with mahi mahi. The only poor planning on the part of the restaurant was making the food so unpronounceable that nobody can possibly spread the word to anyone else about anything except the desserts (highly pronounceable and sooo good). So I guess I'll just tell you about those:
I had the Cuatro Leches cake and this is the superstar for which La Duni is famous. The price is a bit stiff, but who the hell cares? It's manteca cake (which I'm pretty sure means butter cake, so right away you know: nice) soaked in tres leches sauce and topped with cuatro leches sauce and a leche meringue whipped cream hybrid. That makes a startling total of ocho leches. So you're getting twice as many leches as you're paying for! Then it has a drizzle of caramel which makes this a dessert that you don't so much taste in your mouth as you do feel in your loins. Their other desserts look comparable but why on earth would anyone go through the trouble of ordering anything else? Stick with a sure thing. (On a sidenote, that is also the name of my new bestselling self-help book. "Stick with a sure thing: how to settle for second best and keep the status quo humming along nicely")
The service at La Duni was much spicier than the food. I'm pretty sure I must have inadvertantly slept with our waitress's boyfriend because damn, she was spitting fireballs at me all night. Not to mention all the inappropriate touching that she administered on my dinner mate. Did I care? Not with cake in front of me.
Thesis statement: Do not mess with a Cuban woman unless 8 milks are on the line.

Two Rows

I would like very much to say that I enjoyed this place. It was very late last night when we ate here and I was starving so I think that even Chick Fil-A would have seemed gourmet, but even still...
Two Rows is in Plano somewhere, near the tollway. Plano is pretty much all the same so I think if you went to any corner near the tollway, you would find it, or an equivalent eatery no problem. The best way for me to capture the experience is by taking you on a virtual tour. So, close your eyes for a moment. Oh shit, now how am I going to get you to open them. I hope you have one of those automated voice computers that blind people use to instant message....I really should have thought this virtual tour through before giving a command like that. Well, for those of you who lost patience and opened your eyes by now, I apologize. Don't close your eyes anymore.
Just picture TGI Friday's. Or, even better, go to their website and print out a picture. (I refuse, for ethical reasons, to include a link here) Scratch out the name of the restaurant and write Two Rows. BLAM! You've got a primo image without even having to utilize your poor overworked imagination.
The main draw of this place though, the thing that makes it worth driving 30 minutes to dine in, is its perplexing array of soups. They have a grand total of 2 soups: Taco Soup and Tortilla Soup. When I am able to discern between these two soups, even whilst enjoying them simultaneously, then and only then will my soul feel peace.
Auxiliary draw: They brew their own beer. The huge brewing tank, or "brank" if you would be so kind, sits out front like a water tower, promising refreshment and hops to all who enter.
Thesis Statement: At least Chick Fil-A has waffle fries.

Freebirds

I've been meaning to have an opinion on Freebird's World Burrito for quite some time now, but I think I'm just now getting around to it. I mean, it ain't no Rico's, that much I know.
I can't tell if I like Freebirds and their anti-corporate corporation, their hippy/redneck flavor, or if my DT's due to lack of guacamole are just making me think that I do. Either way, I go. I order my half bird with steak. I pay extra for guacamole. I pay $5.25 (pre-guacamole tax) for what passes as a meal. It beats paying nearly ten bucks for a monster, a tortilla piled so high with crap that it takes the fat man who orders it four bites just to penetrate the foil wrapping.
I go and I eat and I'm vaguely certain that I enjoy it. It's just that I've been to one location in Austin, one in Dallas (on Greenville Ave. and Lovers Ln.), and one in College Station (if ever a city could be categorized as a "total fucking mindfuck, bro") and each location is exactly the same as the next, from the half brick, half cement walls, to the foil sculptures left on the bricks by customers, to the giant Statue of Liberty on a Harley holding a burrito instead of a torch. I mean, if I had just gone to one, I might have been fooled into thinking it was unique, a novel place, where college kids can rediscover what tortilla-wrapped edibles should be.
But I didn't stop at one. Nay, I got hooked on their backwards F logo. I saw it, high on a shopping center marquee and I salivated. I imbibed again and again, until resistance was futile; I was no longer a consumer, but a puppet, controlled by a half-bird with no cheese. So do I still go to Freebird's? Of course. Do I enjoy it? maybe. But do I choose to eat their burritos? Quite the contrary. The burritos chose me.
(Wow. Pot really DOES affect yer brain.)
Also, if you're still interested, you can order your Birds online! They'll be waiting for you ten minutes later at your favorite location. Bitchin'.

Tolerable

Tolerable is the word of the week to describe this city. Sometimes Dallas can be downright tolerable. I'm starting to come around. I mean, 'member cottonwood trees? Those things are fucking awesome. They make me feel like I'm driving around in the middle of a cosmic pillow fight. And not in an intrusive, coitus interruptus way. In a nice participatory way.

Two Guys From Italy

As for the name of this restaurant...F that.
As for the rest, it's a little out of my particular way (on Webb Chapel and 635) but it's a prime date spot for the local high schoolers, so that's fun. Whereas Dallas guys take their prom dates to 2 guys from Italy, my prom dates were 2 guys from...no? already saw that one coming? well, SCREW YOU!
I guess it's sort of romantic in a painfully obvious way. In a two-people-sharing-one-booth sort of way. In a let-me-buy-you-a-twelve-dollar-bottle-of-white-wine,baby kind of a way. The ceiling is covered in what I presumed to be fake grape vines? but I suppose they could just as easily be fake bouganvillea? fake ivy? what the hell is that crap and just what about Italy is it supposed to represent? Do Italian people really feel more at home with empty wine bottles and grape vines over their heads? Is Italy primarily a dense jungle region? (I'd like you to note that I refrained from using the word "jungly" there out of pure respect for my readers.)
Apart from the atmosphere, which was bland at best, the food was all right. Gnocchi in orangey sauce and Dr. Pepper with those little crushed ice pieces. Mmmm. If french fries came with it, I'd be in heaven. Or some strange blend of several European countries. Same thing.

Keep on Truckin'

Y'know who sucks? SBC and all the internet service that they DON'T provide. Y'know who still rocks? The Professor.

The Skin Trade

'member when I mentioned these guys? Let's refresh...it was in the context of Rubber Gloves, they were very small, they moved me to the core, there was a question as to whether or not my Heineken wrote my editorial....
Anyway, at least the beer question was answered. Fully sober, I attended another hoedown Skin-Trade-style, and I was again reminded of exactly who "The Man" was and that I was fucking pissed at him. And so it goes...they're still awesome. This evening we discovered that the drummer who was so tinytiny I just wanted to store him in my pocket, or a tupperware (for freshness), had a birthday today and is (get this) TWENTY YEARS OLD! For real. My age guesstimations are going horribly awry. Next show they'll tell me that the singing guy is in his eighties, the bass player is already dead, and I am actually only 6 and a half. Coherent conclusion: Anybody have any beer? When the Heineken was talking (see RGRS; below), I made more sense.

Star Seeds

The Manimal and I went to Austin this weekend to visit Jesus for the big holiday (Passover) and despite the whole anti-leavening-agent aspect of the week, we indulged in some sweet-ass gingerbread pancakes at the Magnolia. Sacrelicious. Then, upon the recommendation of some burger-craving crazies (I have my doubts as to the extent of their sobriety), we opted the next morn to branch out from the Magnolia's unholy offerings and dine at the Stars Cafe, as it is known in the Day's Inn parking lot, or Star Seeds, as it is known inside the place. Forewarning: This cafe should offer in lieu of a requisite height sign, a la the Gravitron, a sign with a prerequisite coolness quotient ("Must be at least THIS hip to eat omelettes herein" or "Must wear at least 67% black leather at all times to enter" or, "If you've had a haircut recently, don't bother"). I walked in wearing tennis shoes and I can't express the shame I felt in blog format.
But, as long as you meet the standards, in the Star Seeds cafe, you will find what can only be described as "some large ass breakfast tacos." I guess I could describe them more...uh, descriptively than that but I'm still suffering from heartburn induced by my Sunbow breakfast plate. Jesus ordered one of the aforedescribed (albeit poorly) tacos and was rendered speechless (which, if you've ever hung out with the savior, you know is nothing short of miraculous). The Lord also appreciated the fact that there were so many vegetarian options available.
Another bonus of the Star Seeds, besides the fact that the hipness even oozed from their crackly stereo system, was the wall decor. Art pieces by what I can only imagine are the hottest young artists of the Austin-area, depicting super-IN topics such as how the Man is oppressing us and how all the latest wars are simply a byproduct of the Man's oppression and also how bikinis were invented by the Man as a way of oppressing women. It was good early-morning contemplation fodder. You know, the kind of stuff that really makes you feel oppressed before you've even had your morning 'ccino.
So, the Main Idea? Those burger-craving crazies are friggin' cool, yo. I would have never thought to look in a motel parking lot to find true breakfast salvation.

On the Subject of Awesome

For those of you who are interested (which should be all..what, four of you?), the Skin Trade will be putting in an appearance at the Rubber Gloves on Saturday, April 17. They'll most likely be the opening act (seeing as how they're neonates), so you can get there at 11, drink a Heineken, let their holy sound renew you, and be out the door before you have to sit through Jackson 8 or 40 Minutes of Hell (seriously, those are the band names; you can't make this shit up). What do you say, Freaky Jesus? Is a trip to Dallas in your near future? It's just post-holy week; you're sure to be resurrected by then.