Posts from the ‘Chains of Love’ Category

Feb 22

Mickey Finn Meet Ruby Tuesday

Drink_spiking_common Ack, I’m home sick for the second day in a row (I just spent the week entertaining my sister and her husband who were visiting from England. It was all fun and good, despite their vegetarianism, until I caught the creeping crud or whatever virulent bug they brought with them from Europe. As if it wasn’t enough that our dollars are chump change to them. I can barely hear, breathe or swallow and was convinced I had a deadly fever but my temperature is only 97.1. I hate when people say they have fevers and it’s not true so I wanted to make extra sure before declaring one) and have no typing energy.

But I can’t ignore stories involving chain restaurants, especially ones involving Ruby Tuesday, roofies and vigilant waiters named Colt.

Heavens, I don’t want to live in a world where single women with master’s degrees aren’t even safe in family restaurants.

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Feb 7

Rat On!

Rat_on
I’ve never eaten at a Qdoba even though they have begun invading Manhattan, but I am a sucker for quizzes so when I read about the What’s Your Q-dentity personality test this morning I couldn’t ignore the silly time-waster. It’s the best fast food advergame since White Castle’s Craverscope (um, five of the seven Google hits for that keyword are from me).

The thing is that the questions are ridiculous, the results dubious, but it’s not wholly made up like horoscopes. There is actual methodology given, which isn’t to say that Dr. Hirsch isn’t a quack.

As it turns out I’m a walking talking quesadilla. “A dependable and true friend, those who prefer quesadillas are content being one of the crowd; they are loyal followers more than leaders. At work they are the foot soldiers, task-oriented, functioning ideally in a group. They don’t require individual praise, but share their successes with those around them. They toil behind the scenes for others at work or in their family.” You know, like Bill Murray in What About Bob and Talia Shire as Adrianne in Rocky.

I don’t like that one bit. Foot soldier? Nuh-uh.

Instead, I’m claiming my rat-ness and today is my day. Pardon, this is my year. Rats aren’t followers and they don’t toil behind the scenes. Rats get shit done. I’ve waited over a decade for this moment.

Looking back, I guess 1996 must’ve been lame and un-ratty because I can’t remember a thing about it. I know that I was 24, dating someone twenty years my senior, shelved books part time for a living, went out and drank a lot, fell down stairs and broke my tail bone and that’s about it. I don’t understand urbane go-getter twenty-somethings who own real estate and have prestigious job titles, and I don’t care to.

But I do recall ’84 because one of the eighth graders in my English class (which I got to take as a sixth grader and got picked on a lot mostly because I was a teacher’s pet and kind of because I wore crap like purple polka dot knee highs and jellies and had bleached eye-covering waver bangs) who I’m pretty sure turned out gay, had a yellow sweatshirt that said in brushy calligraphy script, “Year of the Rat” superimposed over a red Japanese-looking orb even though it was referencing the Chinese zodiac.

In college, I brushed past this sweatshirt kid on the sidewalk downtown Portland during a rainstorm and he huffed, “Get some umbrella control!” That’s when I was like oh, he’s gay now because what kind of straight guy would say something bitchy like that and think it’s witty?

So, here’s to a more memorable 2008. The KFC rodents had their fun last year, now it’s time for the human rats to shine.

In rat news, I do appreciate that yesterday’s Wall Street Journal didn’t simply publish a gross-out story about Vietnamese rat eating (which has nothing to do with the Chinese new year). They actually give recipes…and rat steamed with lemongrass doesn’t sound half bad.

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Feb 6

Jose Tejas

I was under the impression that this nutty Tex-Mex Cajun restaurant along Route 1 was a rare independent venue. Maybe it didn’t look glossy enough or maybe I was won over by the enormous blue and white sign visible from a distance that simply reads EAT. But I was wrong; it is a chain and one that more commonly goes by Border Café. Actually, I wasn’t acquainted with Border Café either but now I know.

I can’t figure out why the receipt I received says Iselin yet their website says both Iselin and Woodbridge. New Jersey is annoying like that, every mile practically puts you in a different township and makes my pull down menu look like I’ve been all over the state when really I travel in a close radius around Middlesex and Union counties.

Speaking of the neighborhood, not too long ago a friend started dating a guy who lives about ten minutes from Jose Tejas. This is a very exciting development because New Jersey chain dining has always been a solitary activity. I mean, another and myself are involved but it’s not like we ever have company along (for good reason, certainly). Can you imagine anything sexier than a double date at Bonefish Grill? Unfortunately, I suspect a Valentine’s reservation has already been made somewhere and not likely in the garden state.

It hasn’t taken much for me to conclude that there just aren’t enough giant chain restaurants to satisfy the tri-state population (and what’s this I hear about the Cheesecake Factory being a freaking hotspot in Hartford, CT?). No matter where and when you go it’s a madhouse. And the unusually cheap prices at Jose Tejas—my $8.97 enchiladas were one of the more expensive items—certainly contribute to the popularity. But I cannot allow human obstacles to get in the way of my chain discovery missions.

We went between lunch and dinner on a Saturday and were quoted a 35-minute wait. Normally, I would’ve left but trying to get on the correct side of the highway and then finding parking had already wasted twenty minutes and I couldn’t fathom a plan B. Even the large bar area was jam-packed, and a nasty old lady tried picking a fight with us for blocking her way. I have zero patience with the nice elderly so I had to restrain myself from knocking her block off.

I don’t trust margaritas from machines, not so much out of hygiene or authenticity issues but because I fear a light hand with the alcohol. A bottle of Dos Equis and a requisite basket of corn chips with salsa suited me fine while waiting. And immediately two stools opened up. It was as if the hand of god, or possibly the ghost of Jose Tejas (assuming he's a real human being and that he's no longer living), reached down and cleared a space for us.

Eating lightly would’ve been smart in preparation for the next day’s inescapable Super Bowl gluttony. But how does one even accomplish such a thing at a restaurant with salads that come in those ‘80s fried tortilla bowls? No, we went all out and shared the chorizo flambado, which is essentially a shitload of melted cheese dotted with chorizo. I swear the chorizo was actually ground beef or Italian sausage but the grease and fat effect was still achieved. You eat this concoction with warm flour tortillas, creating scoopable quesadillas.

I wasn’t touching the Cajun side of the menu. That cuisine is hard to pull off properly even in its own element but in NYC it always tastes like dry, spiced mud. Actually, we joked that dirt might be a secret ingredient while in New Orleans a few years ago; the food all has this earthy flavor that seems to go beyond cumin and cayenne.

I usually order seafood burritos or enchiladas in these types of places, which doesn’t seem intuitive. It’s just that the chicken is always dry, the beef is ground (I don’t like ground beef outside of hamburgers) and pork is rarely on the menu period. I’m also not crazy about fish tacos because battered fried seafood makes me hurl (however, battered fried candy is A-OK). And my crawfish and shrimp stuffed tortillas came sauced to the nines. At least I diligently ate half of everything and saved the rest for a late night dinner. Since this was my first meal of the day, I didn’t feel so bad about the caloric value being spread out over twelve hours.

Jose Tejas * 700 Rt. 1 N., Iselin, NJ

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Feb 5

Roll with It

Blobs

I don’t know O’Charley’s, a seemingly Midwestern chain, firsthand but their promotional site features a heartwarming tale about a stellar roll that’s kind of the anti-Kogepan crossed with the Zoloft blob.

Now I’m craving warm bread.

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Jan 30

IHOP

Suburban excursions are not always blissful. I couldn’t bear attempting a Swedish meatball combo plate at a busier-than-expected Ikea on Martin Luther King Day. I know better than to patronize the always under stocked Elizabeth, NJ location and don’t even want to ponder the potential beastliness of the soon-to-open walking distance Red Hook branch. Part of me even hopes the neighborhood Trader Joe’s never happens.

Breakfast for lunch (no, not brunch) at Staten Island’s IHOP (contrary to popular belief, there are IHOPS in NYC, six in total randomly scattered throughout four boroughs) was far less life changing than I’d hoped for.

The commercials always entice me with fluff, sweetness and starchy goodness but my stuffed french toast was a waste of fat and calories. The syrupy strawberries were sweet and that’s where all flavor ceased to exist. I don’t know how it’s possible to make grilled egg-coated bread and cream cheese filling taste like chewy nothingness but they did it. I requested no whipped cream and I don’t imagine the non-dairy spray topping could’ve helped matters any.

The eggs and bacon that made up the Stuffed French Toast Combo (I have enough making my mouth say Sammie—there’s no way I’m ordering the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n Fruity) were adequate (more like adequite, if you ask me) yet the hash browns fell into the potatoes stripped of all potato-ness category.

I was more interested in the disproportionately Italian desserts being advertised. I can’t imagine all menus in the U.S. have tartufo, spumoni, cannoli and neopolitan ice cream. There’s no mention of any of these treats on their website. I guess if Brooklyn Applebee’s can serve Cakeman Raven red velvet cake, the Staten Island IHOP shouldn’t shy away from micro-regional tastes either. I would definitely take the red velvet cake over any of IHOP’s goodies, though in my opinion blue velvet cake is prettier in its garishness.

IHOP * 935 Richmond Ave., Staten Island, NY

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Jan 29

Filet O’Feline

As I’ve said many times before, the busted and chaotic Western Beef headquarters is one of my favorite grocery stores. While picking up Super Bowl provisions this weekend I came face to face with an exterior sign right next to the entrance that I’d never noticed before even though it clearly wasn’t new. The grocer sells plenty of weird bits: pig tails, fish heads and innards of all types, but cat was news to me.

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Jan 29

Uncle Sammie Wants You!

Based upon causal Financial District observation, Quiznos’s Sammies are a freak hit. I usually wait until 2pm to eat because hate crowds and mobs wane by then, but at the Quiznos across the street from my office there was still a line well past normal lunch hour and every single person in it was ordering the damn Sammies.

Clearly, the $2, 200 calorie ad campaign is working. Quiznos only recently (reluctantly) started publishing nutrition information, which makes you wonder if they cooked up this product to counteract the frighteningly unhealthy bulk of their menu. Though it should be mentioned that only two of the six varieties are 200 calories.

The mini sandwiches are kind of perfect if you’re craving something junky and don’t want to completely ruin an eating or savings regimen. No, one won’t fill you up but it’s a inoffensive supplement to yogurt, fruit or granola bar, whatever you eat during the day (those are my typical daily bring alongs). For low impact fast food comparison, a McDonald’s cheeseburger is 300 calories and a plain Wendy’s baked potato is 310 calories.

I still have a tough time bringing myself to say Sammie, however. And weirdly, after looking at the photo I took of a Sammie in November I can say that the one I had today seemed larger, or maybe my hand was just really huge a few months ago.

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Jan 21

Fuddruckers

Even though I have an irrational fascination with chains (yesterday on my way to see Cloverfield in Astoria I noticed a brand new Panera Bread and Applebee's set to grand open tomorrow. Along with the pre-existing Pizzeria Uno across the street, this micro-suburbia off Northern Blvd. is simultaneously soothing and baffling), Fuddruckers has never been part of my repertoire.

To my recollection, I'd only dined at one once in my life, at least twenty-five years ago. I know I was wowed by all the diy condiments, and I believe that I begged for a repeat performance whenever driving past the 82nd Street location on route to Clackamas Town Center. But I could just be imagining the longing and letdown because this was a common routine; my family rarely ate out, which was more a standard of the times than a commitment to thriftiness. I really don't think that children raised pre-'90s went out to eat, fast food included, frequently as they do now.

So, Saturday night Fuddruckers in Bridgewater was an accident (that we would drive 45 miles and spend $15 in tolls to return a defective mail-ordered Best Buy Dust Devil is a testament to how much NYC box stores suck). Red Lobster was our intended target, but even I can't justify a 75-minute wait for Cheddar Bay biscuits. Just on the other side of the Red Bull Motel (do you think they petitioned for another Red business in their parking lot?) was Fuddruckers, a total mystery to me.

I didn't know the menu and I completely didn't understand the ordering process. I felt feeble-minded standing just shy of the line-up maze, gaping at the wall. The clatter, balloons and children (don't be fooled by the false calmness in the above photo) didn't help my decision making but I figured out that there are lots of things other than burgers but it would be ridiculous to try them on a maiden visit and that burgers come in combo meals with the specialty variations listed on another panel.

Ok, I chose The Inferno, a 1/3-pounder with jalapenos, fried onions and pepper jack. And a Heineken because even though Fuddruckers is fast food-like, they do serve beer. I guess that makes it more fast-casual, in industry parlance. I was not allowed my requested medium-rare, medium is the needlessly strict minimum, though not as harsh as Five Guys well-done only rule.

You then get a beeper and are left to hunt down an open table. After settling for about ten minutes later you'll be summoned to the side counter, handed your food and set loose on the condiments. I took a few pumps of nacho cheese, chipotle mayonnaise for my fries and added a smear of spicy bbq sauces to my burger. I'm fairly sparing with add ons.

Yet condiment-abusers abounded. I was disproportionately grossed out by a college aged girl with her family at a nearby table who overfilled two giant plastic containers (larger than the little ones everyone else had) with ketchup. Actually, I more grossed out by her scrunchy-tamed pontytail, sweats and sporty rubber slip on sandals. I have a violent inexplicable aversion to that half-athletic/half-schlubby look. These are the same girls who wear flannel pajama bottoms with cartoon characters on them in public and think fleece is dressy. I had to avert my eyes every time she went for a ketchup dip.

After I got over the perceived sloppiness and topping spillage, I was faced with a pretty good burger that held its shape and retained enough juiciness despite the longer cooking time. The peppers were surprisingly hot, hence The Inferno moniker. The fries fell into the mealy steak fry camp, which I'll certainly eat even though I prefer thin, crispy strips (but not shoestring) over hefty wedges.

It was satisfying without crossing over into monstrous territory (though they do offer a one-pound burger). I do fear the Baconators of the world. On that note, Portfolio just published a substantial article and interesting sidebars on the unabashed gluttony trend touted in particular by Carl Jr's and Hardee's. Knowing that the Double Six Dollar Burger contains around 95% of my recommended daily calories almost makes me want to try it, so clearly their backwards marketing works.

Fuddruckers * 1271 Route 22 W., Bridgewater, New Jersey

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Jan 10

Tim Hortons

I honestly don't think I even consumed a dozen donuts (I just can't type doughnut even though it seems more proper) in all twelve months of 2007–they're not my sweet of choice–but I made up for it over New Year's weekend. And the reason for that uncharacteristic behavior is simple: Tim Hortons. I know they're all over the United States now, but if something isn't in the immediate tri-state area it's still exotic to me.

My donut binge began unwisely at a LaGuardia Dunkin' Donuts. While picking up a 6am coffee, I couldn't resist an artificially strawberry-flavored pink glazed specimen. That might've been a mistake.

I still can't say whether it poisoned me or the tiny plane was the source of my stomach distress, but I was queasy an hour later when disembarking in Buffalo. However, I didn't get violently ill until after popping the two Tums James gave me that tasted like they were made of shampoo, apparently from sitting in the bottom of his toiletry bag for months.

We stopped at a Tim Hortons (which is great because it makes use of what I call the white trash S. Tim Horton is the hockey player. Tim Horton's would the hockey player's restaurant. Tim Hortons is just colloquial. I cringe when I hear people say Barnes & Nobles, Nordstroms, JCPenneys and the like, though just recently I caught myself saying that I worked off Williams St. when it's plain ol' William) on the outskirts of Buffalo and the tragedy was that I was too ill to indulge in a timbit, apple fritter or any of the Canadian chain's specialties. My queasy stomach temporarily stood still when REM's "Driver Eight" came over the speaker while I was hunched over the toilet bowl in one of their bathroom stalls because it was an odd song to be playing. Eh, and then I threw up in their parking lot and repeated that lovely performance two more times during the two-hour drive to Toronto. Sadly, I never got to sample their excessive coffee, breakfast sandwich and donut combo.

Luckily, I perked up enough to later enjoy a maple-glazed Boston cream donut at a mall where strangely, the anchors were Wal-Mart and nofrills. Maple bars, a total NW staple, don't even exist in NYC; people have no idea what you're talking about if you bring them up.

On our third Tim Hortons excursion I got a butter pecan tart. I forgot about these mini treats that seem to flourish in Canada. They're like tiny individual pecan pies with a thicker richer crust. You can also find plain and raisin topped versions in any grocery store.

We love Tim Hortons so much that after our first visit to Toronto in 2000, we named a plush toy rabbit (James's mom is always giving him pointless and inappropriate gifts) Tim Horton. I don't know what ever happened to him, though this very second there is a nameless stuffed animal reindeer and giraffe in the living room.

Tim Hortons * throughout Canada and random U.S. states

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Nov 18

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Quiznos

The Quiznos in the parking lot of Linden New Jersey’s Aviation Plaza shopping center is the only one I’ve ever been to, and three times now. I work across the street from one and never go. This shopping center off Route 1 has become my go-to weekend destination for important destinations like Target, Old Navy, Marshall’s, Home Depot, a 24-hour Shop Rite (I like grocery shopping post 10pm), not so much the Polish and Slavic Credit Union or Avenue, but I was excited to find Applejack at Pied Piper Liquors—none of the shops in my immediate neighborhood sell it. And we persist in doing a bulk of our shopping out this way even though it costs a ridiculous $15 in tolls (the west coaster in me still can’t fathom such nonsense) to go through Staten Island into Union County.

And I found myself at Quiznos again this weekend because it was 5pm, I hadn’t eaten lunch yet (that’s what happens when you get out of bed at noon) and was starving but didn’t want to ruin my appetite because Sichuan food in Flushing was going to happen around 8:30pm. Applebee’s, Chevy’s and Boulder Steakhouse were out of the question; this was the perfect opportunity to try one of those two-dollar, despicably named Flatbread Sammies I saw advertised on TV last week. Yes, advertising works on me.

This is the Bistro Steak Melt, much flatter and less stuffed than the promotional shots. They’re not bad, though a little mixed up, using flatbread, meat, mozzarella, peppercorn sauce and what seems to be salsa. Middle Eastern? Mexican? I guess that’s wholly American. I don’t believe that they are terribly healthy but for something small and cheap to supplement my brought-from-home apple and yogurt it beats the $3.85 half-sandwich at Pret a Manger. (11/18/07)

Posts from the ‘Chains of Love’ Category

Mickey Finn Meet Ruby Tuesday

Rat On!

Jose Tejas

Roll with It

IHOP

Filet O’Feline

Uncle Sammie Wants You!

Fuddruckers

Tim Hortons

Quiznos

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