Bad Advice

How NOT to serve a steak.

This is a steak on a plate. Note that the edges of the plate dip up slightly. This way, any blood dripping from the meat gets contained onto the plate. This is especially important if you order your steak any less done than well. There will be blood. (And what's the point of eating meat if you char it into oblivion?)

This is a steak on a cutting board. Note that there's nothing to catch the blood or keep it from gushing all over the place. For some dumb reason, serving steaks on big blocks of wood seems to be the latest thing. All the kids are doing it. I don't particularly mind eating off wood—hell, I'll eat off a floor if I'm hungry enough—but last night I did mind.

Because last night I went to one of my favorite restaurants—I don't want to badmouth the joint so I won't name it—and was served an extremely rare steak on a cutting board. Two bites in and I was covered in blood. I looked like Carrie, except it was mostly on my lap. All over my cute H&M red skirt. Because it's lined, I didn't feel the seepage and it was dark, so I didn't notice it until I was pretty much covered. I was PISSED.

So I get up and go to the bathroom to try and rinse it out. I come out to ask for some seltzer and tell the waitress what happened and notice someone else waiting to use the can. I told her to go ahead, that I was covered in blood and just cleaning up. I could wait. She looked alarmed and a more than a little grossed out.

"Oh no! It's from my steak, not my PERIOD!" I yelped, a lot louder than I'd intended. Der.

The waitress got me some seltzer and I was able to get out some of the blood, but the skirt is pretty much shot and I had to walk home looking like I'd just peed myself. The restaurant didn't even offer to buy me a drink (and I wasn't drinking booze so it would've been cheap!) or take anything off the check. I guess I should be happy they didn't charge me for the seltzer.

Am I being whiney thinking they should've done something? I mean, they offered to pay the dry-cleaning, but it was a $15 skirt and it never would've come out anyway.

(Apologies to my vegetarian friends for the bloody grossness—but doesn't this just reinforce your non-carnivore ways?)

Sandwich or Sacrament?

There are very few things I miss about Millburn, New Jersey.

My family moved there when I was twelve. I started sixth grade 3/4 of the way through the school year and most of the kids in my class had known each other since kindergarten. I was painfully shy. A boy with a piggy nose nicknamed me "truck," ostensibly because of my "keep on truckin'" t-shirt, though I always suspected it was more because I was chubby like a truck. (Yeah, whatever, I was twelve and wildly self-conscious.)

I'll spare you the rest of my sob story, but my school life didn't exactly improve from then on. But one thing Millburn did have over every single other place I've ever lived in or even visited for one day, was the best motherfucking sandwich ever invented: the sloppy joe from the Millburn Deli.

They're not the Hamburger Helper type beef concoctions you're probably thinking of. These bad boys are crafted from three pieces of thinly sliced rye bread, the cold cut of your choice, swiss cheese, and a layer of of butter, russian dressing and cole slaw. This isn't that vinegar-laden coleslaw either. It's mayo-based and deliciously rich. I am salivating just writing about them.

Somehow I'd managed to forget about them until recently. But when my brother Jake showed up at my sis-in-law's hospital room with a bag of them to celebrate the new baby, all those memories came flooding back. Unfortunately, my dad, his wife and I had just eaten lunch at the hospital McDonald's—the only dining option in the hospital! (WTF? I guess planting an artery-clogger like Mickey D's in the hospital is a good way to guarantee business, but gah.) I was salivating, but still kind of ill from my Quarter-Pounder. So as much as it killed me I had to pass it up.

But for weeks, every time I got hungry, I thought about the sloppy joe. How that deliciously creamy combo would sate my hunger so much more effectively than whatever other crap I was tossing down my piehole.

Then yesterday, I got my wish. My brother Jake (aka The Nice McGuire) showed up at my belated birthday dinner with a bag containing two delicious sloppy joes. If I'd known that was coming I would've just insisted we skip the restaurant and hit a park to scarf them down (though I don't like to share). Instead, I waited a respectable amount of time after dinner and ate part of one for my dessert. As you can see, they're split into thirds. I ate another third for my breakfast and still another for lunch today. The BF is off on a job interview and I might (maybe!) give him a third for an afternoon treat, though I'm not making any promises.

Anyway, if you ever find yourself in Millburn, New Jersey, do yourself a favor and stop by the deli. Then speed out of town as fast as you can.

(Oh, and the answer to the question posed in the title: sacrament.)

Damn, that's some puddin'

I was just going through, deleting files and emptying my office computer and I found this pudding picture. I snapped it at a giant supermarket in Hudson. The Pricechopper, perhaps? I love me some puddin', though perhaps this is a bit much.

Boo-Tenanny!

Last Friday, the big guy, some friends and I decided to attend the Brooklyn Mac & Cheese Cookout and Hootenanny. Okay, the hootenanny part sounded pretty lame, but how could you go wrong with mac & cheese, beer and bourbon? Debra and I were especially excited and bought our tickets in advance ($25 each, plus a seven-freaking-dollar "processing fee"), because we were stoopidly worried it would sell out. I talked my friend Rose and her girlfriend into going too, because that's the kind of friend I am.

So we get to The Yard—a very cool park-type venue on the Gowanus—and within ten seconds of arrival are extremely pissed off. . . Why? Because the beer and bourbon weren't included in our $32 dollar cover charge. We're giant suckers because we each just paid $32 for a crappy paper plate of lackluster mac & cheese (mine's way better), a pile of foul-tasting greens and a slice of apple pie with a whole-wheat crust. Seriously, the pie was so dry and tasteless—it was not unlike trying to down a slice of apple-coated sand. The beer we'd been promised turned out to cost $6 a glass, which was a bargain compared to the $8 bourbon! We would've been better off going to Dumont and sitting in the garden there. At least there, we would've had people serving us and it probably would've been cheaper.

We were all so grouchy by the time we left and—even worse—not even close to either full or tipsy.

I was hesitant to even write this, because the woman who owns Saxelby Cheese seems to be a very nice person, but I've been to three of her events now and each one was a bigger disappointment/waste of hard-earned cash than the last. I appreciate what she's trying to do, but good intentions aren't going to get mama drunk.

My kind of place

Last night was the big guy's birthday, so I took him out to Zenkichi for dinner. Though there's not a whole lot on the menu that I can eat (due to my loathing of all things fishy) I adore this place. The food is amazing, the atmosphere, exceptionally serene (except for the racist jackasses seated directly behind us, but that's no fault of the management), but the best part of all is their strict no children policy.

The rule is listed on their website, it comes up when you reserve through opentable.com and then, when they call you to confirm your reservation, they ask once more if there will be any babies or children with you. And if there are—guess what, you can't come. Uninvited!

After spending a day at the Coney Island aquarium this past weekend, I am well over children and their doting parents. In fact, it's not the kids that bother me—it's definitely the people who spawned them. I was in line for the bathroom—a very long line—when I noticed one stall wasn't turning over. I was worried someone was laying a stinker, but it turned out to be a mother and child. No problem, I realize kids take a while.

But after ten or so minutes, the line was getting longer when I hear, out of the stall, "Becky, now flush the toilet. Flush the toilet, Becky. Come on."

Becky: "Waaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!! No!"

Mommy: "Please, Becky, just flush it. Mommy wants you to flush it."

Becky: [hysterical shrieking cries.]

Meanwhile, the line is really long and full of (understandably) whiny kids who need to pee already, when the door opens. The harried mother appears, sans toddler, who is apparently unwilling to give up the stall and is now furious that mommy finally flushed for her.

Mommy: "Come on, Becky, we need to go now."

Becky: "No."

Mommy: "Becky, people are waiting—mommy really wants you to go."

Becky: "No."

At this point I was safely—and I say "safely" for little Becky and her mommy's sake—ensconsed in a stall, but had I not been, I would've grabbed that brat by the hair and pulled her out of that stall and thrown her into the otter pool. Or at least that's what I would've done in my head. The reality is, I would've yelled at Becky's mom. But instead, I just enjoyed my sixty seconds of sweet relief.

Some days I love living in Williamsburg

As I mentioned earlier, the man and I went for a walk around the 'hood yesterday and wound up at the Radegast Beer Garden. But first we did a little shopping. I'm looking for a necklace, so I wandered into this place on Grand Street that's a hair salon/jewelry store. I don't really get the connection either, but they had some nice things.

While in there, I overheard one of those conversations that you only ever hear in neighborhoods overpopulated with the very young and extremely over privileged. This chick was getting her hair did and at the same time, bitching at her stylist about the frantic hand life had dealt her:

"I'm a student, but I'm also a DJ. Except when I'm going to school I can't really DJ because being a DJ is like really hard because you have to research the music and then download it and then I don't have time to study or anything. So I can't really DJ until after finals."

Can you imagine if, like some of us, this nitwit actually had to hold a real job while attending school? To, like, actually pay for her own classes and books? A job even more taxing than programming an iPod? The horror!

Anyway, Radegast was really fun. It's beautiful, cozy, and the beer is awesome. The poor waitresses are forced to dress up like naughty shepherd girls, but everyone who worked there was both nice and competent. The beer was great and the food was good. I can't wait for Spring when they roll down the retractable roof!

I'll take mine with two Percocets and a side of Xanax, please!

Fine-Dining Friday

Inspired by the delicious-looking, rice-cake-crusted Mexican pizza featured earlier this week, my insanely talented friend Debra sent along this scrumptious recipe from Weight Watchers' Cookbooks past. I don't really understand how a bunch of hot dogs surrounding a pile of coleslaw is particularly low-cal, but I guess it's the lack of bun and condiments that makes it so.

At any rate, it's certainly more appetizing than a rice cake smeared with fat-free refried beans.

What's Cookin'?

The Large Greek and I are both attempting to shed a little poundage, so I thought I'd check through the Weight Watchers recipe collection to see what I could find. The first thing that popped up was something called "Mexican Pizza." As pizza and guacamole are two of my favorite food groups, I figured this was a win/win. Until I looked closer. The pizza "crust" is actually a rice cake. And there's nary a dollop of avocado to be found. Full recipe after the jump.

On the other hand. . . .

In sharp contrast to the crappy service at the Silent H, we also checked out the new tapas place on the corner of North 8th and Wythe, Nita Nita. We had stopped by for a quick drink on Saturday, but last night we stayed for dinner. First off, the place is beautiful. The lighting is dim, with tall tables and comfy wood stools, seemingly crafted for wide asses like mine (unlike the anorexia-butt, stools-of-torture at the otherwise lovely Dumont Burger). Sam the owner did a great job and not only that, but she's super nice and friendly. It did not surprise me one bit to learn she's a fellow Jersey girl.

We had the cheese plate, some chorizo, garlic shrimp and tortilla. All of it, excellent. Not only that, but they have two-for-one happy hour and a giant garden which will be amazing once Spring finally kicks in.  I'm going back on Thursday.