Posts from the ‘United States’ Category

Feb 24

T.G.I. Friday’s

You can’t properly entertain a sister who has lived outside the U.S. for over a decade without at least one pit stop at a chain restaurant. Never mind that they have a T.G. I. Friday’s in Bristol, things are best experienced in their natural habitats.

We’d spent a killer day trolling around Bear Mountain (I had to squeeze in a bit of nature to appease the outdoorsiness in my sister and her husband. Some would argue that paved trails aren’t exactly super natural but that’s as rough as I get) and Woodbury Common (where I’d already been to the on-site Applebee’s enough times). All that cold weather open air outlet shopping really works up an appetite.

The best part of Bear Mountain were the zillions of ’60s-seeming educational signs dotting the park.

Of course, not enough of an appetite to finish an appetizer and entrée (let alone dessert too, though I was pleased to see they were offering the three courses for $12.99 promotion which probably doesn’t exist in NYC). But that’s not the point. James and I know the excess game–that’s what take out containers are for. Despite not being truly European, British are freaked out by leftovers.

While dwelling on our monstrous portions and Japanese hara hachi bu (wise, certainly. But if I stopped at 80% full, I would never get past the appetizer course) we ordered pink fruity cocktails like the Cosmo ‘Rita. Minor trouble erupted when our waitress asked for ID, “My manager makes me card everyone under 40.” and neither out-of-towner had any on them.

I started having flashbacks to my 22nd birthday with my dad and stepmom at a place called BJ’s Roadhouse. It wasn’t my choice (while chain loving now as an adult, I couldn’t see the humor in the early ‘90s). I hadn’t brought my driver’s license and they wouldn’t serve me beer, not even an O’Doul’s, which I didn’t want anyway. These annual occasions were tough enough to slog through with a few drinks in your system.

I’m fairly certain this was the same birthday where we stopped at a grocery store afterwards and picked up a watermelon (I’ve hated melon since birth) and a sugar free cherry pie. I mean, it was my birthday and I could produce insulin normally so would it kill them to buy a real dessert? (technically yes, but diabetes wouldn’t my render my father a fatal blow for another ten years)

Thankfully, we looked old and haggard enough to have the ridiculous rule waived at T.G.I. Friday’s.

Nachos on the half shell. They evoke traditional topping on individual chip rather than pile of toppings on slew of chips, yet these aren’t chips.

Yeah, I noticed that cheesy bacon cheeseburger was separate from the regular cheeseburger but I didn’t read the fine print. The cheesy was cheesy alright. A whole half-inch round of breaded and fried provolone was sitting atop the patty. Whoa. I should’ve taken a cross section photo but I was in a state of shock. It almost looks like a chicken sandwich from this angle.

We passed on the Cinnabon cheesecake and picked up a dozen doughnuts at Dunkin’ across the parking lot (I’m not a doughnut-crazed person, but British folks seem to like them because they don’t really exist in the U.K.), then called it a night.

The next morning I arose to find a note from my sister left on the dining room table. “Dave is afraid of the leftovers; you can have them.” Oh, foreigners…there’s nothing to fear. Even our cheerful waitress told us that the gooey spinach artichoke dip could be brought back to life in the microwave.

I did wait until later that evening, after I had a few drinks in my system (and the brother-in-law had gone to bed) but you know that I devoured that second-hand hot Tuscan dip and red corn tortilla chips along with the help of my sister. We re-warmed the deep-fried breadsticks we’d brought home too. Anything else would be un-American.

T.G.I.Friday’s * 5 Centre Dr., Central Valley, NY

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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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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 12

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Anchor Bar

1/2 Due to its personal timeliness, I decided to kick off my impossible 1,049 words in three weeks task with Calvin Trillin’s “An Attempt to Compile the Short History of the Buffalo Wing.” It was insightful to get a 1980 perspective on a then relatively recent invention, kind of the equivalent of researching foodstuffs from ’91 today.

Hmm, how about pesto-sauced pizza with artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes? I sure thought that was the ultimate edible at the time. I’m guessing the popularization of “gourmet” pizzas can be credited to Wolfgang Puck…in 1982. Ok, culinary trends took their time meandering up to the Northwest.

Oddly, around 1991 a college friend’s boyfriend came to visit from Rochester during the Super Bowl and insisted we eat buffalo wings to celebrate. I didn’t even know what they were (and had never watched a football game in my life). And he couldn’t find the ready-chopped drumettes in the grocery store. We made do with poultry parts of some sort. What I recall most is drinking so much that I had to call in sick to my movie theater job that evening. Wings didn’t wow me.

However, I’d forgotten that I’d already read this chicken wing essay a few years ago. And to compound my fears of age-onset dementia, if it weren’t for these two sentences I would’ve also forgotten just about everything about ever being at the Anchor Bar in 2000. Wings still didn’t wow me a decade later.

My first meal of 2008 proved more memorable but unfortunately brief. A snowstorm hit Toronto on January 1, which made the drive to Buffalo slow going. But being a fanatical planner, we made it to town just on schedule with an hour to wing it up before needing to head to the airport (the nice thing about small cities is that you can cut it close; returning and rental car, checking in and getting through security can all practically be done in 20 minutes). I was nervous that they wouldn’t be open on the pseudo-holiday because no one answered when I called. But as I was reminded upon entering, the phone number is a pay phone that seems to get answered on whim.

I never thought of Buffalo as much of a tourist destination but it seemed obvious that a majority of the diners were not locals. Everyone, including us, were getting the friendly “where are you from” interrogation from our waitress.

There was no time for small talk. Time was ticking away. I started sweating it when our Sam Adams (no Genesee for us) arrived and twenty minutes later we were still wingless.

I eat slower than a snail (ok, they move slowly—who knows how they eat) so I did my best to get as many wings down as possible when they eventually arrived. We must’ve eaten like maniacs because we surprised our waitress with one remaining wing when checked on to see if we needed a to go container. We ended up with an 8/12 split, I with the lesser number since my wing fanaticism isn’t as strong. I get bogged down by the acidic vinegariness of the neon orange sauce.

In fact, earlier this week I posited the unthinkable.

“What if we made different kinds of wings for Super Bowl?” (ducks)

“What?! Let me guess, some Asian style?”

“Well, duh.”

James knows too well my desire to sneak fish sauce, shrimp paste or sambal into all items possible. And in fact my inaugural issue of Food & Wine, which I’d forgotten I’d subscribed to (see, the memory again) has a recipe Spicy Sriracha Chicken Wings courtesy of Michael Symon.

Hot isn’t that hot but suicidal, the next and last notch up, seemed too macabre. I’m not the wing-maker in my household so I can’t say what makes ours so kicky. A few extra shakes of cayenne, I imagine.

The thing that makes a superior wing is the crispiness of the skin. That’s kind of the point, right? The tiny pieces ensure a good skin to meat ratio and if the outside doesn’t contrast with the meaty interior then it’s a waste of calories. Anchor Bar has the texture down pat. These wings could stand to be left sauced on the plate for some time before giving in to sogginess.

One thing to note is the absence of carrots at Anchor Bar. It’s a celery-only joint, and I kind of like that despite normally being depressed by celery. You need a palate cleanser and something bland to benefit from the fattiness of the blue cheese dressing. Oh, the dressing should be thick and chunky, almost like spackle so that a celery stick could stand upright if stuck into the plastic container, if you felt like doing such a thing.

We finished just in time for Toronto’s southward-moving snow to descend on Buffalo. Flurries were swirling as we left the restaurant, though not enough to disrupt our take off time by much. And thankfully, we were fortified with enough Tabasco sauce and fried chicken to make it through the bumpy 50-minute journey back to the city. A few sick bags were employed on the short ride and not by me.

Anchor Bar * 1047 Main St., Buffalo, NY

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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)

Sep 23

Shorty’s BBQ & Fox’s Sherron Inn

Are you as sick of hearing about Miami (and bbq) as I am? No worries, this is the last food-related recap of my Labor Day mini-trip. I can’t say when the NYC barbecue mania will die down, however. I’m behind the times anyway–I still haven’t been to Fette Sau, I can’t even think about Hill Country yet.

As I’m certain I’ve made clear before, I’m no barbecue know-it-all. Not even close. (I can’t even recall the logic that brought us to Shorty’s. For our last meal I said, “no Cuban” because I really wanted Asian, any country, but nothing seemed very promising from that continent.) Sure, I can determine if the meat is too fatty, dry or flavorless but I can’t speak to regional styles and adherence to authenticity. In fact, I have no idea what Florida-style barbecue is exactly.

Shorty’s appeared to do a little of everything, ribs dominated the menu but they also served pulled pork, chicken and beef brisket. The ribs were dry-rubbed and two sauces were available along the wooden communal tables. One, in a shaker bottle more typically used for pizzeria chile flakes, was smoky. Another in a squeeze bottle was kind of spicy. It made sense to tinker with both.

Uncharacteristically, I went Texan and chose the brisket instead of anything made of pork and was thrilled by what my $8.95 got me. The portion was more substantial than the photo shows. You can’t even get mediocre (yet strangely likeable) bargain Dallas BBQ entrees for that price. It’s really about the meat. The crinkle cut fries were ok, garlic bread nothing special, well, the coleslaw was actually edible.

It felt negligent to visit Florida and never try key lime pie, so we shared a slice. Once again showing my lack of refined palate, I couldn’t tell you if the tart dessert was truly made with the tiny local variety or with ordinary limes. It seems that I’m not the only one who can’t differentiate (there’s something unnerving about the Food & Wine blog not allowing comments—not that I ever partake in online conversations).

All meal long I was wondering what might be in the windowed metal heat lamp box at the front counter. Crispy Critters was emblazoned across its top. Something creepy and deep fried like rocky mountain oysters or perhaps frog legs? Nah, just little chocolate chip cookie nubs, as it turned out. Chocolate chips are not critters.

One of my favorite finds in Miami involved no food at all, just two gin and tonics up the highway from Shorty’s at Fox’s Sherron Inn. I love dark, burgundy vinyl booth, mid-century cocktail lounges. Real hold outs, not contrived Swingers era bars that were popular last decade, or total dumpy dives where old men dominate or faux modern speakeasies. Just an unassuming place where regular folks commingle with a younger crowd. Oldies play, not indie rock. And they serve food food like steak and chops.

Maybe it’s a west coast genre, it feels kind of Vegas or L.A. Portland still had a few left during my day. I can’t think of a single place that fits the profile in NYC. The only problem is that these joints should be filled with smoke and like many a state in the U.S., cigarettes are no longer allowed indoors in Florida. Lately, I try to keep my smoking to a minimum, maybe three cigarettes a week, if that, but a cocktail cries out for an unhealthy accompaniment.

Shorty’s BBQ * 9200 S. Dixie Hwy., Miami, FL
Fox's Sherron Inn * 6030 S. Dixie Hwy., Miami, FL

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Sep 20

Latin American Bayside Café

After our welcome to Miami mishap in finding the Latin American Cafeteria, we never made it back out to that part of the city. I’m not even sure what that part is even called. We passed through Coral Gables, that’s all I know. Sad, but we ended up settling for an offshoot, which may or may not be related to the original, wedged in a kind of horrific South Street Seaport conglomerate of shops called Bayside Marketplace.

Once again, I was so sweaty that I didn’t feel like eating (I began wondering if residents were somehow genetically inured to humidity because no one ever seemed to care, and even dared to dine al fresco, while I was perpetually hot and bothered, literally and idiomatically, even in air conditioned restaurants like this one. I was relieved to see one waitress moist-faced and fanning herself).

But I wasn’t going to come all the way to Miami and go cubano-less. A medianoche, which our waitress actually called a “midnight,” was the sensible solution. Sure, it’s on sweeter bread but it’s more manageable in size. I’m not actually sure why it’s named as such, though I can envision it as a suitable midnight snack.

There was definitely no NYC salami aberration occurring (which I actually like). And the most interesting thing I experienced and have heard is the norm, is no inclusion of condiments. The mustard I always assumed was standard, was offered in a foil packet, totally do-it-yourself. And definitely no mayonnaise, which is fine by me. The roast pork is so moist and naturally flavorful that it could actually stand as it’s served. I did try a few shakes of Frank’s Xtra Hot that was passed our way. Of course, the ham, swiss and pickle are included.

In a perfect world I could’ve conducted some form of taste test but that kind of determined eating requires more than an extended weekend.

Latin American Bayside Café * 401 Biscayne Blvd. # S102, Miami, FL

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Sep 18

Fish House

Is there a food you like to eat even though it makes you sick? Battered, fried shellfish tends to make me a little queasy but I love it. I steer clear of coated, fried fish, though. I don’t know if it’s bad Gorton’s (check out their Halloween Fish Sticks Graveyard—spoooky) or Filet-O-Fish memories or what but I can’t handle it. Even in England, I eat chips and do without the fish part (it’s ok because I like meat pies).

So, I was a little bummed that since it wasn’t stone crab season I was kind of stuck with lots of places known for fish sandwiches. I’m sure The Keys are filled with great fish sandwiches but coupled with the long car ride, it would be courting digestive disaster.

We stopped at the aptly named Fish House in Key Largo. In my mind I had pictured a breezy spot with picnic tables on the water. In actuality, the seating is indoors (I couldn’t have stood the humidity anyway) and full of dark wood, fishing nets and maritime kitsch.

I went unorthodox and split a crab quesadilla. At least it wasn’t bulging with surimi. Crab is always either pricy or dubious here.

I was also swayed by an oyster and shrimp po boy, which despite the name was nothing like you’d find in New Orleans. For one, the bread was encrusted with melted cheddar. That seemed kind of wrong, especially since I’d just been barraged with oozing dairy in the quesadilla. The sandwich was more like seafood on garlic cheese bread topped with shredded lettuce, and then it kind of grew on me even though I got all dainty and had to use a knife and fork. Then I became concerned over the decadence and scared myself into only gnawing on one half of the roll. Like the damage hadn’t already been done.

My only regret is not trying the key lime pie. I was plagued by the same problem that always thwarts me in Southeast Asia: the too hot to be hungry syndrome.

Fish House * 102341 Overseas Hwy., Key Largo, FL

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Sep 15

No Name Pub

Pizza in Florida? I know, it doesn’t make any sense. And it’s not like Pizzeria Bianco in Arizona where you’re like, “wha?” but it’s all artisanal and quite possibly the best pizza in the entire nation (not that I know this first hand).

No, this was total childhood pizza, neither deep dish thick nor NYC skinny. ‘80s pizza is doughy yet still fairly crispy on the bottom. Kind of stiff, some might say cardboard-like. And there’s a buttload of cheese, what would pass for extra cheese anywhere else.

Despite being touristy as anything, No Name Pub where the gimmick is to inexplicably staple a dollar bill on any surface, became our Keys dinner destination. The little I saw of Key West was scary in a Beale St./Bourbon St., whatever other B street filled with frozen drink revelers, way. We didn’t have time to dig for charm. And it took so long to get there that by the time we turned around and left it was already approaching 10pm. I feared it might be slim pickings on Rt. 1 Sunday night. So, we hightailed it to Big Pine Key hoping that the pub in their name might save us with a reasonable closing time (11pm, as it turned out).

Wrong as it seemed, pizza definitely appeared to be their thing. Everyone had pies on their tables, along with pitchers of beer. I always take the opportunity to order a pitcher since they tend to be scarce in NYC. Plus, they’d already turned off the deep fryer, which ruled out most of the seafood side of the menu. It was our second attempt that day to try conch fritters. A pier side bar we’d stopped at earlier claimed to have run out. It was very suspicious. Did we look like people who should be denied conch fritters?

I can’t believe I got my way with the ham and pineapple, maybe James was too beat to argue. It’s not always easy convincing others of the beauty of “Hawaiian” food.

And the best part was the pitch black, windy drive on back roads back to the main highway. On the way down, I’d thought all the signs about deer crossing were bullshit (it’s not like I saw any alligators) but it turns out key deer are real, not a jackalope farce. All sorts of tiny, german shepherd-sized creatures popped into bushes as we drove past.

No Name Pub * North Watson Blvd., Big Pine Key, FL

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Posts from the ‘United States’ Category

T.G.I. Friday’s

Jose Tejas

Fuddruckers

Anchor Bar

Tim Hortons

Quiznos

Shorty’s BBQ & Fox’s Sherron Inn

Latin American Bayside Café

Fish House

No Name Pub

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