Archive for the ‘Yum’ Category
See, this is why I don’t drink coffee… Apparently, a woman named Virginia stopped for a coffee at a Hong Kong Starbucks — and this is what the counter staff wrote on her cup:
Actually, I think this is the kind of thing you have to have a sense of humour about: I have a friend who also has a traditional all-American name, which kept getting butchered by baristas in Mumbai. He finally took to just telling them his name was “Red.” They got that wrong, too.
On the other hand, I’m having a hard time imaging the staff at the Connecticut Avenue Starbucks correctly spelling “Ramachandra” or “Jing-wei” if they were spoken aloud to them.
We all have our labours of love. David Chan’s is slightly more caloric than most: The Los Angeles man has eaten his way through nearly 6,300 Chinese restaurants throughout the U.S. and Canada, documenting every meal meticulously, down to the ambiance (for which Chinese restaurants are not known), on an Excel spreadsheet.
On one hand, I agree wholeheartedly with some of his choices. (See No. 6.) On the other…should you trust a Chinese-food connoisseur who seemingly doesn’t know how to use chopsticks?
Canada, like the U.S., is an immigrant nation. So, it’s hard to pinpoint a national cuisine. But given our Canadian over-seriousness, we’re trying to assert some sort of culinary identity. Really. The government is attempting to convert Mexicans to maple syrup and tuna by setting up a nationally-themed, taxpayer-supported food truck.
Look, people, I’m from Cod Country, but can’t we just agree on poutine? It’s the best Quebec has to offer.
I pretty much hated eggs as a kid. It was one of those foods that occasioned breakfast-table stand-offs, with my mother insisting that I stay there until I finished my plate and me retorting I’d rather sit there all day!
But our tastes change. And, of course, my mother is a terrible cook, capable of turning a diner off most dishes. So, it’s hardly surprising that I should like eggs, and other bete-noires of my childhood, now.
Specifically, I like poached eggs. Specifically, I am obsessed, as obsessed as someone who fails 90 percent of the time can be. I have tried the traditional float-the-egg-in-water-and-vinegar method. I cheated with egg cups. I experimented with olive-oil poaching. But almost every time, no matter my diligence, I get a yolk that has set just a smidge too much.
Thus, when I go to restaurants, I feel a mix of envy and resentment (also, hunger) over their invariably perfectly cooked eggs. But now I know — they cheat! More precisely, they use an immersion circulator, which can cook dozens of eggs at a time, all at a constant temperature precise to the tenth of a degree. Not only can they turn out my eggs with the lovely runny centre, they can produce ones with the consistency of a real-life Cadbury creme egg or the malleability of marzipan.
Since I can’t imagine anyone’s planning to buy me an immersion circulator anytime soon — and really, how practical would it be for cooking an egg or three? — I’ll merely have to admire chef’s perfect orbs. But I’m on to them!
When I saw this headline, I was kind of excited. After all, the Times travel section had recently named Washington one of its must-go places, largely on the basis of our burgeoning food culture. Perhaps with all the new restaurants springing up on the Hill, replacing the musty frat bars, we’d be getting some more of our due.
But no, no, it’s a piece literally about eating in the Congressional office buildings, one that notes the “overcooked hamburger and depressing excuse for pizza” — although it gives props to the “perfectly cooked salad-bar brussels sprouts” (WTF, NYT?). In other words, more of the usual condescension.
No comment needed:
The Blue Ribbon Bacon Festival doesn’t take place until Saturday at the State Fairgrounds, but plenty of Iowans are already swooning for swine.
Now in its sixth year, the Blue Ribbon Bacon Fest somehow has become hip; a place to be seen….
“It all happened by complete accident like anything wonderful, electricity, penicillin,” said Chief Bacon Officer of Bacon Fest Marshall Porter.
I appreciate the artisanal, literally handcrafted, nature of the menus at the new restaurant Table. (Also kudos on the penmanship.) Each hand-written menu took two to three hours; the full set, nearly 75.
Seriously, though, it sounds like an exercise elementary-school teachers put their wayward students through: “I will not leave my brussels sprouts on my plate. I will not leave my brussels sprouts on my plate.”