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Smarties are a total mystery to me. They taste like very slightly flavored chalk, I have seen them for sale anywhere but the gaint bins of “assorted” gross candy you can buy at 95 cents a pound, and NO ONE LIKES THEM. Okay, okay. Before this gets a million comments (it will not get a million comments) about how some of you with no taste buds “like” Smarties, I will re-phrase that: “No one LOVES Smarties”. I have never heard anyone open the candy bag on Halloween and squeal: “Yes! Smarties!” (unless they have gluten issues.) This flies in the face of smarties.com’s bold claim that Smarties are “America’s Favorite Candy”. Uh, just because you make a billion of them and cheap grandparents and offices buy them en masse doesn’t mean they are a nation’s FAVORITE. However, it seems as though there is one thing they ARE good for: making yourself look like a total rebellious badass.
KIDS!
(It has been a good chunk of time since my last post on foodparty, but I have not been slacking. I have been doing food reviews for BiteClub.com, a industry networking site. Hey, why not go check them out? I’m re-posting a review onto FP, because…I miss you!!!)
When did restaurants get such a smug sense of humor? From Burger King, to Quizno’s, to trendy little upscale bistros, I’m confronted with Dennis Miller-ish quips about the establishment’s totally laid-back and relatable attitude. Instead of “We accept all major credit cards”, McDonald’s sign reads: “Yeah, we take ‘em.” Does this smack more of a sarcastic teenager than friendly employee? I’m all for your establishment having it’s own voice, but lately I feel like I’m being pandered to by a huddle of PR firms, intent on “speaking my language”.
Tight roping very hard between creatively cute and slick irritation is “Swich”, a pressed sandwich and salad stop on 104 8th Ave, NYC. There’s only one location, but it looks primed for expanding its reach very soon. Painted only in white and apple green, every surface has been branded with witticisms and quips, to the point that I felt that everything was alive and addressing me like on Pee-Wee’s Playhouse. A plasma television plays a loop of “SwichTV”, humorous mini-movies about how totally amazing the sandwiches are, without ever showing the product or actually addressing anything. Oh, post-modernism! Thank you for coming full circle!
So are the sandwiches? Uh, they’re good. That’s all I can say. I had the “Tuna-na-na”, a tuna, tomato, and artichoke on seven grain. It was straightforward, on a lunch break style sandwich. One thing that might make me choose these sandwiches over others is the style of the bread. I like bread, but when it’s so thick sliced that it overtakes the interior action, or worse, is so crusty that it shreds my mouth Capt’n Crunch-style, it’s a no-go. Swich’s bread is just thick enough to contain the goodness, but not so thin it goes dry.
The real star of the place is not the sandwich, in my opinion, but the sweet potato chips. OMG, these puppies are cut potato chip thin, but are slightly soft, fully sweet, and sprinkled with just enough course kosher salt. I’ll likely just get a bag of those charmers to go in the future.
What did I do with the rest of my day?
OH I DON’T KNOW, maybe I got my photo taken with A GIANT SKUNK.
WHATEVER, HATERS. ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME.
BRRR! That’s a verbatim quote from me this weekend, as the first snowflakes of the winter drifted down upon the Food Party Headquarters. Weather changes instinctively make me crave certain tastes. I suddenly become a little Carl Cookiebaker, anything “mulled” sounds appealing, and a world of all things peppermint or gingerbread flavored opens up at your local grocer.
See, I just referred to a “Supermarket” as a “Grocer”. I start referring to things all “Old Timey” during the holidays, because you want things to be more romantic and Victorian. Spare a ‘alfpenny for a paper of chestnuts, Gov’ner? I got the croup in the PoorHouse, I did. All right, that’s enough.
My fave Christmastime beverage comes from the stovetop of my dear Ma, who created a citrus-based tea that tastes A-mazing, and is a for-real remedy for cough-and-cold symptoms.
We call it “Mrs. Frakers Tea”, after the hippy nature-grandma that my mom befriended in the 60′. Mrs. Fraker was a real whiz in the kitchen, and passed this recipe on to my mother. I served it on the set of the latest Food Party episode to the cast and crew, and it was a energizing hit. Make some! It’s EASY!
From my beloved “Betty Crocker Cookbook For Boys and Girls” circa 1954.
Thu seems to associate me with “novelty items” and “angst” above all else. Maybe that’s a fair assumption, because no holiday food gets me more excited than the Halloween season. You can’t pick up a soft drink, peanut butter cup or bag of Tater Tots during October without having monsters plastered all over the bag, or better yet, the food LOOKS like a monster. Or better yet, the food IS a monster, like the shrimp cocktail in Beetlejuice.
But let’s dispense with the pleasantries, and move on to the pretty pictures.
Okay, I wish this was a bigger image. What’s important to know is that in the 50′s people thought you could sell more hot dogs if you made a federal case out of the fact that they (the hot dogs) were SKINLESS, (as it trumpets on the recipe card) and that you dress the meat tubes up as little witchy-poos, and stacked the rest like meaty Lincoln Logs. I suppose you could pretend that the stack is a pyre of firewood, and re-enact “The Crucible” with Weeny as Elizabeth Proctor.
How can people hate Martha Stewart? This vomiting pumpkin candy dispenser is in her latest Halloween magazine. I know she doesn’t come up with the ideas, but it’s all approved by her. That means some intern thought it would be funny to have a gourd puke Lemonheads into some eight-year olds hand. And Martha agreed. I love this thing.
The Peeps company never phones it in when it comes to the seasonal product. Above, design your own Peep pumpkins with whatever wacky dogma you have stuck up your butt at the time, never mind that black frosting tastes like motor oil. Below are the coveted Cocoa Bats. They aren’t available this year, and I for one am RUINED about it. First off, the sugar/cocoa flavor is to die for, and secondly: they are more than six inches wide. That’s the biggest Peep that has been commercially made public. No wonder they weren’t made again: THEY WERE TAMPERING IN THE REALM OF THE GODS.
Ish. These are both Jello molds, and it’s safe to say I don’t like Jello in little squares, and would hate pushing these monstrosities into my mouth. I don’t want to eat the face of an Oopma Loompa youth pastor, nor do I want the hand 36 year old Hot Topic district manager. Let’s leave these be.
If I have to explain why this is the best thing ever, then maybe we weren’t meant to be.
I’ll be back, Lumplings!
When I go into a diner that looks like a “50’s style” diner, I’m always in terror that some waiter is going jump up on a counter and sing “Love Shack” to amuse me. Then I’ll point out that “Love Shack” isn’t a song from the fifties, and why do we have this romanticized version of the fifties is our minds, what with the segregation, the objectification of women, terrifying cold war, etc, etc. Yes, I’m a barrelful of lighthearted laughter at Johnny Rockets!
Luckily for anyone who is forced to eat with me, the Bel Aire Diner only looks fifties-ish from the outside. Plopped on the corner of Broadway and 21st Street, it has the chrome-everything appearance of a mobile home.
I got there on 3pm on a Sunday afternoon, which means it’s time for breakfast food. (You don’t go ordering shrimp kabobs or lentil soup on a Sunday afternoon, Commie!) It’s busy. Super busy, even on an off time. This place has apparently been voted “best diner” in Queens for the last 100-plus years, and they’re in no danger of going out of business. I sit at the counter (I don’t mind eating solo), and order the Irish breakfast. I’ve ordered “Irish Breakfast” at other places, and usually it means that they throw Irish Bacon in the normal mix of eggs and toast. But oh, how I underestimated you Bel Aire Diner. My plate is put in front of me, and I get this:
Okay, I didn’t get an actual photo of the plate, but sweet Mother O’Malley, people. Here’s what you get: Two eggs any style (I recommend over-hard), two savory pieces of Irish bacon, two pieces Irish sausage, two pieces regular sausage, French fries, and baked-bean style white pinto beans. And toast. Thanks, Irish for never inventing a dish that’s less than 70% starches. Everything comes out in a big pile, which you should most certainly put catsup upon and eat as one big conglomeration. I wouldn’t have suspected that all this mixed together would come up delicious, but my rule of thumb when eating out is: if it sound like a bizarre or terrible idea, ALWAYS order it. It will either be the best thing you ever put in your mouth, or a horrendous thing you can tell a story about later.
In addition, it’s not greasy. The meat is all real meat, not pieces of lard shaped into different forms. The beans are fresh, and the fries are light and crispy. Oh, and it’s only eight dollars. That’s right. Coffee is good diner coffee. It’s not the greatest, but certainly not brown water. It’s just strong enough for you to drink five cups without getting ill.
Two more reasons it’s great: 24 hours, and one block from my house. So come out here and eat, you little jerks!
Thu Tran
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