We went to a pork party on Sunday. The food was indeed something to write home about. An evening dedicated to everything pig. Thanks, pigs! For reals... And then we went and had some drinks. Not just any old drinks. Deep bourbons with very subtle mixers served ice, ice cold. What a drink is meant to be. No shouting, dark corners and very slow sipping on what tasted like solid, shining gold. My kind of place. Little Branch. Go there. Bring cash. Order a blue collar. Thank me later.
Keith and I attended a supper club dinner last week. Not that anyone asked, but my rating: meh. My favorite thing about the whole evening was Mr. The Cow. The dog. Caviar doesn't impress me, especially for the sake of just being fancy. I remember this being good, but don't remember why it was good, which doesn't say much for the dish.This bite takes last place. The custard tasted of egg, and that thing on top? That's a "potato chip." It was leathery and chewy and absolutely wrong in all ways chip. It was sort of an insult that they even served it at all.This was by far my favorite bite. However, that big, good-looking piece of truffle on top bribed me into liking it more than I otherwise would have. The honey was my favorite thing on this plate. They MICROWAVED the prosciutto. And those little cubes at the top of the plate? Those are apples,"compressed to take on a whole new texture and flavor." They tasted like apples and chewed like apples. The end.I don't eat much red meat, but much to my chagrin I devoured this filet. And even though it was lukewarm, it was still very good. But that dumpling? Cold and the dough was raw. And finally, what I refer to as the poo-poo platter. Does this look appetizing to you? It may seem as though I'm being snobby and harsh, but we paid a pretty decent amount of cash for the meal and the host talked the food up like you wouldn't believe (that-is-the-best-fucking-piece-of-meat-that-will-ever-pass-your-lips-type-talk.) My expectations were well beyond high. Apparently they were testing these dishes on us for upcoming trips to Chicago and San Fran. While there, they will then make the same dishes for the two best chefs in the country. Perhaps they were just having an off night, but if they serve to Grant Achatz and Thomas Keller what they served to us... Oy vay... I've eaten Thomas Keller's food. There is certainly no sog in his potato chip. Just goes to show how incredibly SPOILED to rotting I am having Keith in my life. He cooks light years beyond better than this on a daily basis. With his eyes shut. And his hands in his pockets.
Mae n' Emma aka Falcor Pillow fighter Ahh, the life of a wee one. No pants, no worries. Chicklet teeth and good eats and plenty of sleep. Something to admire and a sight to behold, from her fuzz to her toes.
This weekend was full of good faces. She Keeps Bees was a glowing and epic show. Don't miss this shit. It gets better every time... The Parakstar. Can you believe this guy? Three years of drunk-holiday-dials later. I couldn't be happier. Nathan Dillmus Griswold, in town from Michago. Erin & Kiki in the flesh, with an appearance by Satan's Penis. And Lydia's wooden fingers tap out some beats to behold. Later, smores roasted to perfection in the Reynaud Roarer. Nate broke it down with the coral flute. Even father and son were around to marsh the mellow.