Chez Kulusuk

Turns out there are no restaurants in Kulusuk, Greenland; like that could really stop the Prof'a from doing what she does best. Upon arriving at the little red house, decked out with a pimp icebox and actual running water, my German roommate and Kulusuk tour guide, Christoph offered me some seal jerky, both a local delicacy and the ONLY local cuisine (in fact, the only other option, meat-wise, is canned ham or polar bear. Kulusuk hunters had recently shot a polar bear, but the meat did not appear to be sold in the local shop. My guess is that it went directly to the families of the hunters.) Greenland´s national meat? seal. Greenland´s national vegetable? seal. Greenland´s national pasttime? seal hunting. I, a college-educated traveler, quickly saw the pattern.

The seal jerky tasted rather a lot like dried despair. Fortunately, Christoph was also given a bowl of seal oil by one of the women in town. Eureka! Of course I wasn´t experiencing the full array of flavors that the seal meat had to offer...I had not been dipping it in its traditional condiment. I cleansed my palate with some glacial tap water, carefully bathed the seal jerky in what I imagined to be the appropriate amount of seal oil, and gave it another try. Mmmmm...Seal jerky tasted rather a lot like dried despair dipped in despair oil.

A week´s worth of canned ham it is!

The SandBar

So if you ever happen to be in Newport Beach, CA, (as I found myself two weeks ago following an intense work-related mission directly involving a man named Rolls Royce) then good luck to you, my friends. There ain't NOTHIN' to do there. It's no wonder that my cousin Laura was sent there for a symposium by a certain, anonymous California university system. Those symposium planners knew that she would not be distracted from her symposi-studies by things like good food, interesting people, or nightlife. They figured a large portion of her per diem and that of her work-homies would go unspent due to restaurants all closing around the time her sessions ended each day. What they had not counted on: THE PROFESSA'!!!

That's right. I swooped in on said symposium and really shook things up (also described as "followed my cousin and her friend around in wonder while they took full advantage of the Newport Hyatt's amenities.")

The hotspot of the Hyatt Newport (and the entire Newport area, as far as I can tell)? The Sandbar. Telling you that this bar is touted as a hotspot is as good a way as any to pinpoint the essence of Newport. I met up with the blood-relative and her friend for some pre-bike-ride champagne (I try to never engage in cardiovascular activity without an elevated Blood Alcohol Content), and on a whim we ordered the hummus plate. Mmm, whimsy tastes like tahini. Had I known our delightful server would conjure up such a satisfying mini-meal, I would've ordered another two glasses of bubbly. I should've ordered another two anyway, but Christine (pal of cousin) was really in a hurry to get bikin'. I don't know why; I suspect some sort of allergy to champagne and/or an allergy to not-biking.

But back to the hummmmmus. There was a little vegetable tapenade, and some exquisitely scalene pita pieces (geometry! aesthetics!), and it was the only food I had all day, and thusly, the only thing that prevented me from getting a BUI.

Then came the bike ride. The Newport Hyatt lets you rent beach cruisers for a small fee (At least, I assume it was small... But, on a related note, per + diem is my new fave word combo). And I gotta give it to the little blonde with the weird allergies, what a genius idea. The road was pretty flat, the scenery was pretty scenic, the wheels were pretty rotatey. I don't know, my descriptive skills are really better suited to cuisine and waitstaff. That's what the photos are for! Evidence!

Thesis Statement: I believe that the cardiovascular benefits of an hour-long bike ride are made no less valid when followed by two hours of competitive szechuan binge-eating at PF Chang's.

On Living with my parents...(again)...and On Laziness

I put the peanut butter away today. Loyal bayou-ers know that The Professor begins each morning with a complex set of ablutions and rituals that commence with a dozen cups of coffee with milk and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich; chunky pb, raspberry or strawberry preserves, milton's multi-grain bread (i am a human being, after all). But what may shock you, nay, may frighten you is that I am the laziest mofo who has ever lived (in her parents' house) (whilst contributing no rent) (and often eating leftovers that were not mine to leave-over).

It began about a month ago, when instead of putting the pb away, I contemplated the economy-size jar, picturing the moment that would occur in exactly 24 hours, when I would again be removing the jar from its shelf in the pantry, bringing it to the counter where the bread slices would lay open, open the jar, reclose, then replace it in its original position. I figured that to save myself those 40 some-odd seconds in the morning, I may as well just leave the jar out on the counter for easier access. open, then reclose. it would be so simple! so pure! so free of superfluous movement!

The parent (or Professor-spawner, as he is mainly known), saint that he is, said nothing. There were a few days within the last month when I would find that the peanut butter had mysteriously found its way back home to the pantry, but for the most part, it would just get moved out of the way during daily counter-requiring tasks, and moved back into its sandwich-ready position by morning. Enablers!

It was when, under the same reasoning, i considered leaving the milk out on the counter for goodsies that I realized the madness needed to end. And it might as well end today, on the shelf space designated for pb.

Th. Stmt: I don't deserve milk. And if I do, only skim. 2% is too good for the Professor and her negligent attitudes toward spoilage. *sigh*

I live here!? I am a fraud and an ingrate.

Tips for Living

So in response to this list, written by John Carney, my brother came up with his own amazing set of tips for living. I guess it's up to you which tips you follow, but try to follow my tip for choosing tips: Don't be stupid, Stupid.

An excerpt from John Carney's Tips (hint: wrong choice, Stupid.)

101 Tips For Living

* You should never have to match your socks, other than to separate black from white; buy 18 pairs of identical socks in each color and throw them all out every six months.
* Pants with pleats get cuffs; pants without, do not.
* Carry around those small bottles of hand sanitizer and use some before you eat.
* Business casual was invented to prevent younger people from dressing better than their bosses. Rebel and wear a suit or jeans.
* If you need to put stuff in your hair to add shine or hold, you are washing your hair too often.
* Yes, you do have to floss.
* You will regret your tattoos.
* Time is too short to do your own laundry.
* Learn how to speak before groups.
* An undershirt will prevent you from perspiring through your overshirt.
* Yes, you do have to go to the gym.
* Stop talking about where you went to college.
* When people don’t invite you to parties, you really shouldn’t go.
* Sometimes even when you are invited, you shouldn’t go.
* When in doubt, always kiss the girl.
* If a book is too big to carry around comfortably, cut it up and carry the pages you can read.
* Yes, you do have to have your shoes shined.
* Do thirty-push ups before you shower each morning.
* Eat brunch with friends every other weekend.
* Be a regular at a bar.
* Learn how to fly-fish.
* Ask for a salad instead of fries.
* Pretty women who are unaccompanied want you to talk to them. Ask someone for an introduction.
* You cannot always make amends with people.
* Buy furniture that you think is too small for your apartment. It isn’t.
* Cobblers will save your shoes.
* Figure out what kind of knot you like in your ties and stick with it.
* The first round of drinks is on you.
* When a bartender buys you a round, tip double.
* Hang your clothes up when you take them off.
* Except sweaters. Those get folded.
* Piercings are liabilities in fights.
* You’ll regret much more the things you didn’t do than the things you did.
* You may remove your jacket and roll up your sleeves. The tie may not be loosened.
* Carry a pocket knife.
* Buy a tuxedo before you are thirty. Stay that size.
* Subscribe to a small-circulation magazine.
* After one day of hanging, your tie should be rolled and placed in a drawer.
* People will dance if the music is loud enough and the lights are dim enough. You should too.
* You may only request one song from the DJ.
* Sleep outdoors when you can.
* Your clothes do not match. They go together.
* Yes, you do have to buy her dinner.
* Go to the theater.
* Always bring a bottle of something to the party.
* If you are wittier than you are handsome, avoid very loud clubs.
* Drink outdoors.
* Drink during the day.
* Date women outside your social set. You’ll be surprised.
* If it’s got velvet ropes and lines, walk away unless you know someone.
* You should probably walk away anyway.
* Place-dropping is worse than name dropping.
* The New Yorker is not a high-brow magazine.


Mark's Tips for Living (a.k.a. Nice choice, Kid Awesome!)

* Go ahead and pay extra for the good fireworks. It's worth it.
* Gel and other hair products aren't just for your hair. Some of them can totally get you wasted.
* One cool tattoo I thought of: a flaming skeleton riding a Harley on the back of a dragon.
* Don't use your pants as a car shammy, unless that's all you have.
* If you own more than one pair of socks, then you're a big-time snob.
* Yes, you have to shower every other week.
* Life is too short to say hello to people. Just nod and grunt instead.
* If you find yourself inside a dance club, and people are bugging you to dance, just pretend like you don't speak English. Then, when they turn away, try to swipe their wallets.
* Learn how to speak Klingon.
* Instead of fries, ask for chili fries. If they don't have chili fries, throw a hissy fit until they ask you to leave.
* Go to as many illegal hobo fights as you can. Someday the authorities are going to crack down on that.
* When in doubt, tell the girl she smells funny, and ask whether she's been hanging out at a petting zoo or something.
* It's okay to steal gum.
* Do 700 push-ups every morning. If you can't do it the first time, give up.
* Throw out all your furniture and replace it with the inflatable kind. You can clean it with a hose!
* Become a major industrial tycoon somehow.
* Parties are a waste of energy. Save your strength for the pie-eating contest next week.
* Pretty women who are unaccompanied want you to walk up to them and be like "Hey girl, you looking fine tonight." And then when they ignore you, just go "Why you trying to play me like that?"
* People often have British accents nowadays. You should too.
* If your TV is too big to carry around, cut it up into little pieces and carry those around with you. Then when you meet a foxy lady, you'll have something to talk about (i.e. why your TV is all wrecked).
* Carry a fanny pack full of hand sanitizer bottles.
* Learn how to become a cobbler. Those guys make BANK.
* Instead of beer in the morning, try drinking half-beer, half-coffee.
* Drink outdoors, and yell at passersby.
* Drink alone.
* Pants are a liability in a fight. Always wear jean shorts.
* Stalk someone different for a change.
* Don't buy a girdle at one of those fancy high-end places. The ones online are just as good.
* Yes, you do have to clean and polish your rifle after every skeet shooting match.

Cheripan

For the ultimate in pretention, you certainly have consulted the right person. Over the years (the years of NOT blogging about anything...), the emeffing Professor has visited many a pretentious eatery for the purpose of ...touting her own awesomeness the world over. Why, I have eaten in a Mexican restaurant in Pristina, Kosovo. I have eaten Italian cuisine in Bolivia. I have consumed American food in Texas. But the most overwhelmingly better than you sensation I've ever felt washed over me while dining at Cheripan, the Argentinian restaurant in Tijuana, Mexico, and the self-appointed Revolucion de Sabor.

While wandering around my office last Thursday, (my job is better than your job; i get paid to wander) I waited in breathless anticipation of ANYONE asking me what I was doing that night, or why I had that breathless anticipatory look on my face, or why I was wandering around the office like that. Once asked, or once I felt that the question was forming itself in the minds of the person who would surely have asked had I given them enough time, I would casually flip my hair and reply nonchalantly, "I think I'm just gonna cruise across the border and hit up a restaurant there. I feel practically exhausted with all the options in this country. But the exhaustion could be due to all this wandering around the office. I am simply beat."

Despite a little mishap with forgetting my passport (the Professor is charmingly disorganized...) and having to hit up the county clerk for a copy of my birth certificate final-hour-style instead, the whole "cruise across the border" thing went off without a hitch.

This was actually our second trip to Cheripan, and both times were good for the hunger, good for the sobriety, good for the soul (in that it completely eradicated all three). This second trip was special in double the standard amount of ways: 1. La Agente Kickass brought her sister, the future leader of the New Order. and 2. we finished before 11, meaning we had sufficient time to visit the sister restaurant of Cheripan, Argelato, for dessert.

The dinner was productive as we all were assigned (or called dibs on) our positions within the New Order. I am not sure how quickly impending the next Great Depression actually is, but better safe than sorry, I occasionally say. I called dibs on New Order poet. I will specialize in haiku, and I will avoid all things that have to do with food harvesting, animal husbandry, food preparation, laundry, shelter construction, and handiwork. Luckily, I possess this almost supernatural restaurant review ability, so people will practically be begging me to consume their food regardless of my assistance in its creation. I will oblige with a descriptive rhyme or two referencing its quality. Man, the Depression is gonna rawk!

Argelato was a treat. David, partial owner/founder of both restaurants called ahead for us, so we kicked it like VIP's and comimos the shit out of some fiiiiine gelatos. I had some avellana worth rhyming for; our intrepid leader Chelsea had some dulce de leche that was so sweet even her future children could taste it; La Agente Kickass got some mango gelato (the last of its kind before she is forced to enjoy flan); and I can't remember what Christie (leader of the New Order Foreign Service...was that confidential?) ordered, but it surely was a flavor to savor (see how naturally these rhymes just come? It's a gift. I hardly have any control over it).

Thesis Statement: There will come a time when only the strong will survive. Flan-haters will be forced to lead a tribe of flan-eaters through a perilous wilderness where trash will necessarily become treasure. Spiderwebs will be converted to dryer sheets (by someone way craftier than I am, obviously), and some people, those unprepared with Victory Gardens, won't even HAVE fabric softening dryer sheets. These will be truly testing times. So in the meantime, traveling across the border for a tender flank steak and some ice cream seems totally reasonable. Live it up while you can, folks.

Evidentiary support: I've already called dibs on your dryer sheet rations.

Look how happy we all are pre-Depression! Laughin' it up in our properly laundered clothing

Despues de comer unos sandwiches vegetarianos, some lomipan, y uno o dos martinis, aparecimos poco mas gorditas.

La Agente Kickass takes full advantage of the recently redesigned upper patio.

Mozy café

You may not be familiar with Mozy Café. If you are not, you’re probably that portly gentlemen I stood behind in line at Filiberto’s last week. How are you, sir? Did those carne fries work out for you? Are you aware of the obesity epidemic plaguing America? Have you outgrown your pants yet? Then go to Mozy café. All Mozy customers leave with six-pack abs, guaranteed. Six-pack abs, and a newfound reverence for Mother Earth’s bountiful blessings. Wait, better still. Six-pack abs, a newfound reverence for Mother Earth’s bountiful blessings, and probably only five dollars less in your wallet.

On Hwy 101, north of wherever you currently are, sits this den of flax seed oil and plantain-itude. Whenever you are off of work on a weekday and you know that the good people of the Pannikin will probably roll their eyes if they have to make you yet another goddamn lox plate, it is your only lunch option. Seriously, ONLY. Lunchtime laws in Encinitas are getting very stringent. Just such a situation arose last week (as it does every week), and my lush-ious friend, the Sotbot, managed to stumble in with me to order some Caribbean burritos.

How does one describe manna? Probably in much the same way one describes the Caribbean burrito… in English, impeccable English. Indulgently wrapped in a wheat tortilla, well over the legal amount of jack cheese lovingly caressed an obscene amount of sweet plantains. Grotesquely rich black beans and an almost repulsive display of avocados finished off the filling and threatened to ruin my bodacious figure and that of my intoxicated pal. And yet…our pants stayed on. My elastic waistband (I always insist on elastic) failed to expand. Not a seam was displaced on the Sotbot’s spandex leggings. Quite to the contrary, my abs felt firmer, my chins undoubled; hell, even ole Drunkie’s shoes felt loose. It had to be our fatty burritos, but I’m certainly not one to dodge a thrilling journalistic investigation. I headed straight for the top.

I confirmed with the cashier who took our order, and it was true. We were by far the most attractive people that she has ever seen enter the restaurant. And not only that, but, just as we suspected, the food WAS responsible for making us thinner. No doubt sensing by our shapely spandex-encased physiques that we were health conscious ladies, the cooks snuck in a few key wheat and flax based ingredients into our food. They carefully extracted all butter and eggs from our vegan chocolate chip cookies and banana bread and replaced them with what I can only assume was love. (Editor’s note: Later scientific testing actually revealed a complex alloy of Love, miracle oil, and Himalayan Goji juice.)

I then concentrated my investigative efforts on the menu. Pointing my eyes up above the cashier, I nearly balked. Years of journalistic training, however, have disciplined me to be in complete control of my balking reflex at all times. But, just between you and me, I totally balked later on, in private. But I digress, after successful balk-suppression, I noted that the menu is, like, probably half vegetarian. (Editor’s note: after consulting my TI-84 plus, I can with full confidence verify that it was EXACTLY about half vegetarian.) The Sotbot renounced meat on the spot. burritos=looser leggings; meatless=caribbean burrito; further consultation with TI reveals transitive property implying that: Pirates of the Caribbean=vegans, and we all know how loose Johnny Depp's leggings are. I was picking up what the inebriated crusader was throwing down. And for once it wasn't an empty shot glass.

So there you have it. Conclusive evidence that Mozy Café has got some pretty healthy eats for not too much money. They cater to vegetarians, vegans, sots, professors, and hippie-chicks. So literally, all walks of life. They serve their body slimming burritos with blue chips, described/slurred by the Sotbot as, “well kinda stale, actually.” God, she must’ve been WASTED. You can eat outside on the patio in the sun or inside…on the indoor-patio in the sun. And for God’s sake, you better order that vegan banana bread because the good people at the Pannikin are a little sick of fetching your pastries, too.

Thesis Statement: double the bountiful blessing reverence, double the legal blood alcohol content, double patio, but only single chin.
Extra Free Bonus Statement: boy, this really unraveled near the end, but if I could just get a double mocha from the Pannikin…I know I could improve…guys?

Peace and Light in front of Mozy cafe.

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'.