Food

Strip Mall Thai Food

Beau Monday — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 22:45:00 GMT

I know you're expecting a full-on expletive-filled rant about the quality of food one can get in the normal strip mall thai restaurant. And actually, when I made up my mind to try this place, located in the heart of Edmond, I thought that's the story I'd leave with too.

Instead, friends, what you are about to hear is a story about a guy named Crazy Nick, and his one-man Thai food empire, run out of the end of an average-looking (that is to say: run-down) strip mall in downtown Edmond. Doesn't take credit cards. Doesn't even have a phone.

I can't tell you the name of Nick's establishment. I can't tell you where it is. I can't even tell you how I heard of it, for reasons which will become clear as I tell the story.

So I pull up to the place, and the parking lot has one car in it, and that pulls away when I drive up. It looks deserted, and I wonder if they are even open. But the door is unlocked, so I stroll on in. In one corner is a couple chatting quietly, and towards the counter sits a young woman waiting a take-out order. No sign of any staff, and the place is devoid of customers aside from these two.

And speaking of the counter, there's a Mary statue on one side of the register, and on the other side there is a statue of Vishnu. My steps falter slightly as my brain tries to process that paradox, and I can feel the mental safeties flick off on my fight-or-flight impulse. People eat here, I tell myself, and they live to tell about it. Some of them, at least.

So I have a seat, and out comes this tiny little Asian guy with a happy gap-toothed grin on his face. He pours a glass of water, grabs a menu and strolls over to my table.

“Oh, I don't need that,” I tell him. “I'll have your phad thai, with chicken please.”
”Sure thing,” he says, as he turns and heads back to the kitchen. “Dead or alive?”

My brain jumps to 100% utilization trying to figure out what he possibly could have asked, because no sane person would ask me if I wanted my phad thai dead or alive. I laugh nervously, hoping he was just making small talk. But he turns to me, expectantly. Time to commit. Dead chicken or live chicken on my phad thai.

“Dead”, I say confidently, “This time.” Crazy Nick, as I would come to know him, smiles and heads back to the kitchen. That, apparently, was the right answer. Whew.

Not 5 minutes later, here comes Nick, with my food.

“I hear you make the best Thai food in town,” I say, as he sets the plate down in front of me.
”Who told you that?” Nick says suspiciously. Uh oh.
”Um, some guy on the Internet. I don't remember his name.” I try to look busy with my food, hoping he'd go find something to do. But, shit, he's not going anywhere. He's got nothing to do. HE'S GOT NO CUSTOMERS.
”Huh. Probably that Steve guy. I keep asking him to stop telling people about this place.”
”Seriously?”
”Yeah, it's just me here, serving, cooking, everything. Friggin 7 people came in earlier, ALL AT ONCE. Man, if they bring kids, I tell them to feed those kids down the street at McDonalds, I don't need to be cooking food for 6 year old kids. Those kids don't care what they're eating.”

And as I eat Nick's food, I come to realize that he's right. This food is wasted on children. It's so perfectly cooked and seasoned that it can't possibly be properly appreciated by the kids. If I were king, Nick would cook for me, and nobody else. The parents would be down at McDonalds too.

So while I wolf down the best thai food I've had in many years, Nick goes on to tell me his story. He works 20 hours a day, sleeping only 4. That's how he likes it. He closes the restaurant on Sundays so he can go tend the farm at the monastary. The restaurant is his hobby, and it's just as busy as he likes it, thank you. He said one or two tables is about right, any more than that and he's in the weeds. This guy's an Asian Howard Hughes or something, because he cares less about money than any restauranteur I've ever known.

Nick beams proudly when I tell him that my food was spiced perfectly, and I'd love to come back.

“Don't bring any friends,” he warns me. “And don't go telling people about me!“
“Ok, you got it.”
“I'm Nick,“ he says, extending a hand.
“Beau,“ I say, as I shake his hand.
“They call me Crazy Nick.”
”Well of course they do,” I smile wryly at him as I turn and walk out the door, leaving Nick to tend his empty restaurant.

Sausage and Spinach Stuffed Shells

Beau Monday — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 22:55:00 GMT

I'm trying my hand at food writing, for something to spice up the otherwise dry blog.

My first submission, for your review, is a recipe I cooked up in my head this past week, when I tried desperately (and failed) to find fresh pasta where I live. So I converted what was a recipe for manicotti (using fresh lasagna sheets and rolling them up around the filling), into a recipe for stuffed pasta shells.

It works in a pinch, but I miss that fresh pasta.

I'm still working on my food photography, too. Throw me a frickin bone here.

Recipe follows:

1 lb fresh Italian sausage (I use mild, so I can control the heat with pepper flakes during cooking)
2 lbs fresh baby spinach
3 cups ricotta cheese
3 cloves garlic
1/2 of a small onion
1 lb jumbo pasta shells
Chili flakes to taste

Set a pot on to cook the pasta. Once at a rolling boil, drop the pasta into the water and let cook for roughly 3/4 the directed cooking time before removing from the heat and draining.

Cook the sausage in a large skillet until browned, then remove from the pan. Chop the onions in a small dice and sweat them in the skillet that you just pulled the sausage out of. Add the garlic and sauté until fragrant. Add the spinach and cook until wilted. Stir the sausage back into the pan, kill the heat, and set aside.

Cover the bottom of a shallow baking dish with the red sauce of your liking (I use a home-made sauce of tomatoes, garlic, onion, basil, flat-leaf parsley and salt, all thrown into a food processor and obliterated until smooth). The goal is to have enough to submerge the shells about halfway into the sauce.

Fill each of the shells with a tablespoon's worth of ricotta (using a piping bag or a makeshift zip-lock piping bag will make this part easier). The add a tablespoon of the sausage and spinach mixture to fill. Then top with a little cheese (I used romano tonight, but use what you like. I'm not the boss of you.).

Stick the whole thing in a 400 degree oven until the cheese does whatever it's going to do (parm/romano gets kinda crispy, mozz will melt). About 15 mins.

Consume.

The Seventh Sign of the Apolcalypse

Beau Monday — Wed, 07 May 2008 18:49:00 GMT

Today I saw a picture so utterly horrifying that I cannot even bring myself to include it within this post. You'll have to click on it, and by doing so you hereby release me from any claims pertaining to damaged psyche, mental anguish, or anything else that tends to result from the vile desecration of things you allow into the ring 0 of your soul.

You've been warned: click.

More details here: http://www.prweb.com/releases/2008/04/prweb819754.htm

The Fridge Full of Win

Beau Monday — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 22:56:00 GMT

When I bought my house in Oklahoma I bought a special fridge. It is all fridge, no freezer. My decision was universally mocked. “Dumbest thing ever”, it was called by one friend in particular. “Where do you keep the ice?“ they said. To which I replied: “Who puts ice in beer?“

My friends don't always appreciate my vision. See, I had a special plan for this fridge. Yes, precious, I did.

Now my vision has been realized, and I just have one thing to say to you naysayers: WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW?!?!

Actually, I have a second thing to say: “How about a Corona?”

An Ode to Mike And Ikes

Beau Monday — Fri, 23 Jun 2006 22:44:00 GMT

Nobody would believe that an ode to Mike and Ikes has been percolating in the back of my mind for years. I believe only my ex-wife knew the depth of my Mike and Ike problem, which is exceeded only by my love for the Fat Tire. It's a thing. I'm in therapy. My therapist thinks we'll have time to address this problem around the 2012 timeframe. Fingers crossed!

Anyway, as I lay on my hotel room bed in Oklahoma City, contentedly consuming about 7 serving's worth of Mike and Ikes (I'm on vacation, get off me), I decided to fire up the laptop and see if I could put my incubating homage down on paper. And not sharing the fruits (hah!) of that labor with my faithful readers just seems wrong.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I give you: An Ode to Mike and Ikes:

O! Mighty Mike and Ikes
in your big jumbo box
I avert my eyes in the store,
but I swear the box talks!

“Buy me Beau! I won't make
a mess of your britches
like those chocolate M&Ms,
those one-trick bitches.“

You tasty little fruits
with your confectioners shell
You won't melt on me in Phoenix
where it's hotter than Hell.

You won't sweat on me in OKC
where the humidity soars to 110.
Or fail me in the chilled air
of Alaska, no not even then.

Orange, lemon, lime
we like it like that.
23 peices per serving
and no calories from fat!

Stopping at 23 is hard to do,
I'd like to see you try it.
Luckily, Percent Daily Values
are based on a 2000 calorie diet!

Mike and Ike
the original fruits
3 citruses and cherry,
all in cahoots.

For not being a citrus,
we don't blame the cherry.
When mixed with the others,
It's strangely complementary.

But truth be told,
We often pick out the reds
And toss them at squirrels
And random crackheads.

We toss them out windows,
And stash them in nooks.
To save them for Halloween
(We get the queerest of looks)

Lemon, Lime, Orange,
And sometimes Cherry.
But can someone tell me
Who invited strawberry?

O JustBorn!
What have you wrought?
Red is a filler,
Or have you forgot?

Fumbling in the dark theatre
to separate orange from the red
Was often so difficult
It filled me with dread

Yellow and green
Those were easy to sort
Now there's two kinds of red
I'm sorry to report.

Twice the cursed reds
Where I'd rather see none.
One closer to orange still
Son of a gun.

Less room for the Oranges,
The Lemons, the Limes.
My joy's been diluted.
A sign of the times?

With the arrival of strawberry
My pleasure's down by at least half
Or maybe a third
I can't be bothered with math

So, Just Born Inc
With your satisfaction guarantee
When you get a return of just reds
You'll know that was me.

Finis

Obesity is a lifestyle choice

Beau Monday — Wed, 24 Aug 2005 14:12:00 GMT

I was over at Subway for lunch today, and I can't wait until later to relate this story.

I walk into the place and the only people in line are 2 hefty ladies talking about diet pills. Lady #1 is talking about some pill she uses that has done wonders for her, and she can get her friend some if she wants, since she's an Amway Lady (must be some Amway product).

Lady #2 expresses great gratitude, and volunteers that she's tried “everything” and nothing seems to help her shed weight.

When it comes time to order, Lady #1 orders a spinach and chicken salad, with dressing on the side. Lady #2 orders a foot-long roast beef sandwich on white bread with extra cheese and extra mayo.

Now let me ask you, how successful is the 2nd lady going to be with her “magic” pills if she keeps pounding down 2000-calorie sandwiches for lunch?

Being obese is a choice. Unless you are physically disabled, you CHOOSE to be fat. Nobody else is forcing foot-long roast beef sandwiches down your throat when you aren't looking, YOU ARE.

I'm 6'4”, and 290 pounds. I'm a big guy. I'm big because I drink lots of good beer and eat lots of good food. I made a lifestyle choice that resulted in my being overweight. I don't look for someone else to blame for my condition. I don't look for relief in a pill, or answers in my DNA. I don't go around wondering why I'm fat, I know exactly why.

It drives me nuts to hear people complain about their weight problems when the most exercise they regularly get comes from the 2-block walk to Subway to score their calorie-packed, fat-ladened, refined-carb-loaded lunch. And then they pop a pill that gives them the fantasy that they can go on with their couch potato lifestyle without any consequences whatsoever.

If you choose to eat recklessly, and exercise little or not at all, then you have chosen to be fat. Period.

Food Network Random Ravings

Beau Monday — Mon, 08 Aug 2005 22:59:00 GMT

I've been saving up some rants about the Food Network, and dammit, I can't hold it in any longer!

Let me say first, that The Food Network is probably the most watched channel in the lineup. I like it. They have interesting shows and largely cool hosts.

Now let's get started...

What the FUCK is Al Roker doing on a food show? Didn't that guy get his stomach stapled a couple years ago because he couldn't give up his food addictions? And now they have him doing a FOOD SHOW?!?! This is like sending an alcoholic to do a weekly show on bars around the world, for fuck's sake. Wait, that could actually describe Bourdain's show. Anyway, it's disturbing. Knock it off.
Cat Cora. Do I really need to say anything more here? I think I might. Iron Chef? This is the woman they picked for Iron Chef? *I* have better knife skills than this woman, and I've lost parts of 2 fingers and a number of toes in my kitchen. Rachel Ray (I love me some Rachel Ray, don't get me wrong), who can't make it through a single fucking episode of 30-Minute Meals without a band-aid appearing on at least one of her fingers, has better knife skills than this woman does. Did you see Chef Cora going at that coconut with a vegetable peeler in a recent Iron Chef? My god, I thought she was going to take half her hand off right on national TV... with a fucking *vegetable peeler*! She scares me. And Jesus, did you see her on her previous show, Kitchen Accomplished? During an episode where they were renovating the kitchen of a fourth generation baker, she showed them how to make... BREAD. These people have been making bread for GENERATIONS and here comes Cat Cora to show them how it's REALLY done. Give me a fucking break.
Let's be real here. That chick that was on last night, you know, the one that totally kicked Batali's ass? There's a female Iron Chef for you. Kick Cat to the curb, and put Chef des Jardine in there. What the hell was Mario thinking with that shrimp parfait thing anyway? Did you see that one judge almost puke right there on national TV. I was laughing my ass off.
Emeril. Just stop. All of it. We hit Maximum Emeril Capacity about 2 years ago. I can only stomach the same fucking joke 10,000 times before it starts to wear on me. Yes, where you get your spinach it doesn't come seasoned. We know. The studio audience maybe hasn't heard you say that 10 gazillion times, but your television audience has heard you say it every fucking episode for eight fucking years already. Stop it! And I've seen every fucking episode of The Soprano's at least twice, and I still have no fucking idea what you're talking about when you say your sink was a gift from the Sopranos. Someone explain this joke to me please.
Actually let me say that Emeril's show “The Essence of Emeril“ is really good, and quite entertaining. When you remove the audience you remove the entertainer from Emeril, and you're left with the chef. And he's pretty damn good, once you pummel the showman out of him.
Speaking of overload, I've seen more Bobby Flay than I deserve in 10 lifetimes, and I'd like him to just fucking disappear. There is not a single fucking show he's done that is worth the 30 minutes of life it has robbed from me. Yesterday I watched him put salt on BACON, for fuck's sake. I just sat there stunned. I wanted to call someone and ask if Bobby Flay had really just put salt on bacon, but frankly I don't know anyone that watches him. and I was just watching him because I had seen that episode of WSOP 3 times already. I want those 30 minutes back god dammit. And Iron Chef? Don't get me fucking started. He beats Morimoto with a fucking fish taco? Are you kidding me? Talk about a home-field advantage. It's time for America to stop giving this guy's ego a hand-job just because he makes the ladies swoon.
How to Boil Water. Look, it's OK to edit things out. I don't want to see little Jack get all teared up over cutting an egg salad sandwich in half when she wasn't supposed to. Why do I have to watch that? Someone needs to just say “Cut!“, grab two fresh slices of bread, and redo the damn thing. I feel bad for the woman. And how many chefs has that show gone through, anyway? You know, come to think of it, I don't think Jack was the original host either. What's going on over there?!?!
Speaking of Tyler Florence (and we were speaking of Tyler Florence, try to keep up), the show Tyler's Ultimate is annoying. You go and visit people who have been making a particular food for generations to see how it's done, and then you go back to your pad and make your “Ultimate“ version? Isn't that a bit arrogant? You think that the people who have been making it for hundreds of years have been doing it all wrong the whole time? Go back and do more Food 911, that was a good show.
Gordon Elliot. Stick to producing other people's shows. No more specials for you. We know where Normandy butter comes from, we don't need a special on it. How did you convince Food Network to fly you to France to bring some back to New York and watch someone cook it? Oh, and you're forbidden from standing next to Sara Moulton in front of a camera ever again. She's like 4 feet tall in heels, and you've gotta be 7 feet at least. You're scaring the children.
Everyday Italian. I have no idea how good Giada's food is and I don't even care. I watch the show anyway. Don't be stupid.
Hosts that creep me out: The Calorie Commando guy. Something wrong with the boy. Also the lady from Semi Homemade. The Low Carb and Loving it guy is a bit off. The Cookworks lady scares me, and I think she's probably beaten more than one sous chef to within an inch of his life (I can't back that up). Jacques Torres... Sorry man, I can't get past the transition from Camera 1 to Camera 2 that you always do 20 seconds into the show.
Hosts I'd like to see more of:

Alton Brown (that goes without saying, doesn't it?). Alton Brown makes Iron Chef America downright enjoyable to watch, and he keeps churning out great Good Eats episodes. And he's not even a chef!
Mario Batali. This guy annoyed the hell out of me when I first started watching him on Ciao Italia, or whatever his traveling show was called. But I've come to respect him, especially after watching him kick serious ass on Iron Chef. Some say he's the best chef in America.
Anthony Bourdain. Here's a guy that tells it like it is, without apology. On his show he drinks far more than he eats. If you want to know what it's like to be a chef, read his book Kitchen Confidential. I credit this man with keeping me out of the food business.
Wolfgang Puck. It would be so easy to put this guy on the Emeril/Flay over-exposed pile, but frankly he's a brilliant chef. If you have ever seen his show “Wolfgang Puck's Cooking Class“ you know what I mean.

Man, I was holding that post in for like ever. I'm spent.

Another Alton Brown near-miss

Beau Monday — Thu, 27 Jan 2005 07:10:00 GMT

(Why is it “near-miss” anyway? You didn't nearly miss something, you nearly hit it. But I digress.)

So a year and a half ago, Alton Brown was in Seattle, touring his new book, I'm Just Here For The Food (a fantastic body of work, by the way). I remember at the time seeing his tour schedule, and noting that he was going to be at Pike Place Market's Sur La Table doing some signings. It was a month or so out, so I just set a mental reminder and went on about my business. Which turned out to be a bad idea, since I can't remember what I had for breakfast 20 minutes ago. So I'm not sure how I expected my brain to generate a pop-up alert the day before Alton flew in, reminding me. And lo and behold, by the time I remembered on my own (Thanks, Brain. Another beer?), he'd come and gone a week prior and I was left sulking.

So a couple weeks ago I heard Alton had just put out a follow-on to his first book, called I'm Just Here For More Food, and figured he'd tour again. Perhaps I'd have another shot at meeting him. Not that the thought prompted me to actually do anything, other than remark to myself “Hmm, maybe he'll come to Seattle again.”

And then over the weekend I heard a promo for a local morning show, mentioning they'd have Alton Brown on. You'd think that would have clued me in to the fact that HE'S FUCKING COMING TO TOWN, but that's not how my brain works. (What's that, Brain? Another beer? Coming right up!)

So I'm sitting at the computer this morning, having gone to bed way too early last night, staggering around the Internet looking for something interesting to read. And I hit Fark, which is my go-to guy when I need something interesting to read, and they link to a newspaper story about Alton (he's well-loved on Fark).

And since my brain was still mostly asleep, and not quite engaged just yet, all the recent hints about Alton coming to Seattle again came flooding back and I had one of those epiphanies people are always talking about: Shit, Alton's coming to town!

Lightning-quick I launch another Maxthon window and frantically type in “www.altonbrown.com” and mash the Enter key. “What's going on?” my brain says groggily, realizing I'm doing something without its “help”. I grab the mouse and click “Book Tour”. Oy, it's a long list.

I scroll and scroll, and see Orlando, Tampa, St Louis, and more. I see Issaquah flash by, but my brain is mostly awake now. “Wait a minute, don't I know someone that lives in Issaquah?” “Shit, *I* live in Issaquah! Alton's coming to Issaquah!” It was like a sign from heaven, man. All these great major cities he's traveling to, and he lands in my little town to do a book signing. Seriously I could walk there from my house. He might as well have sent me a personalized invitation saying “Hey Beau, I'll be at Costco on Tuesday, why don't you swing by. We'll have a couple beers and talk about grills with hair dryer attachments!“

Tuesday. It's a date Alton! See you then!

I fire up the Outlook in my head and put in a mental reminder to be at the Issaquah Costco at 6:00 on Tuesday the 25th. My brain, fully engaged now, and rather annoyed at being left in bed during most of this episode, presents a mental Outlook-esque popup that says “This appointment occurs in the past, dumbass.“ I've never seen the “dumbass“ bit on the real Outlook warning, I suspect my brain threw that in out of spite.

Horrified, I look down at my calendar and see that today is, in fact, the 27th. Alton was in town 2 days ago. While my wife and I were having dinner at a local restaurant in Issaquah on Tuesday night, Alton Brown was 2 blocks away, signing books, and wondering (I'm sure) where the hell I was. Now he's 2 states away.

Stupid brain. Go back to bed.

Evidence grows about the benefits of moderate drinking

Beau Monday — Tue, 06 Apr 2004 14:30:00 GMT

A story in today's Boston Globe details the medical field's mounting pile of evidence that drinking in moderation is actually beneficial to your health. Some are actually starting to suggest that people drink 1-2 glasses of wine or beer every night with dinner.

Money quote: “...scientists around the world have been looking at alcohol's upside, and their findings have been consistent: Drinking in moderation appears healthier than not drinking at all.”

Dear Ohio: I'm Sorry

Beau Monday — Mon, 05 Apr 2004 20:08:00 GMT

(This will be much funnier for all of us if you picture Doctor Evil doing the quote thing with his fingers every time I italicize, ok? Work with me here, people, this medium sucks for humor!)

So in a recent post, I may have inferred that Ohio has no place in the Mexican food industry. Some regrettable words were spoken on both sides of the issue, and I think we've all come to an understanding that Ohio Mexican food isn't by default inferior to the real thing. But in my own defense, I will say that the Ohio crowd completely misunderstood “WTF“ to mean something entirely inappropriate, when all I was really asking was “Where's The Fondue?“

Seriously, though. WTF is the fondue?

Truth be told, nobody said a thing to me. But in the absence of any real drama, I'm not above just making shit up. Makes my life more exciting.

My self-imposed guilt did get the better of me last week, I will admit. I decided to head down to Baja Fresh and give them a chance to redeem themselves in my eyes.

And, much to my surprise, they did. Baja Fresh is actually pretty damn good, for what they offer. I'd place then squarely in 3rd place, right behind Acapulco Fresh (if you have to ask who is in First Place, you haven't been paying attention). While they only offer steak and chicken as meat choices, the results are very tasty. And free guac! Nobody else gives away guacamole with every meal. For 6 bucks I got 3 soft tacos, chips and guac, and a drink. Not a bad deal.

It's no Su Casa, but do I really need to remind you that they're from OHIO?!?!