There’s nothing quite like a road trip. No matter how much quicker it is to get somewhere on an airplane or how unique it is to travel by train or ship, nothing compares to the experience of throwing half a house of shit into a car trunk, filling the tank of gas as the first trickles of sunlight hit pavement, weaving your way to the open highway, and remembering 5 miles out that no one is quite sure if they locked the front door. Sure, maybe now the kids in the backseat are busy with their iPods instead of their G.I. Joes, and they’re more likely singing Eminem’s “White Trash Party” than they are “99 Bottles of Beer” but when the unmistakable groans of “stop touching me,” “I have to take a whiz” and “who farted?” fill the air, you know you are road-trip bound.

Part of the gamble that goes along for that ride with you is road trip eating, because unless you’ve gone ahead and made reservations ahead of time or been given recommendations by a friend, you are essentially at the will of your internet connection and its slew of local finds…and that’s about as trustworthy as Dick Cheney on a duck hunt. Not only do you have to contend with the fact that two of you want one cuisine and two of you want something else, and the fact that one wants to sit outside while the other 3 want A/C, but you also have to put a certain amount of trust in online reviews which is about as efficient as pissing into the wind. You are, at the end of it all, at the mercy of The Angels & Demons of Road Trip Food.

So early afternoon finds us on a recent Saturday, finishing up a tour of Bethel Woods and its Woodstock Museum on a trip that would eventually land us in the Finger Lakes of New York. I figured we could check into the hotel, unpack and then find somewhere to eat, but the natives were restless and growing hungry so I whipped out my iPhone to see what was around, trying desperately to keep a grip on my sanity despite the fact that it was about 110° inside the sun-baked car, the husband had a headache and was sifting for Advil in the overflowing trunk, the two thirteen-year-old boys were debating the pros and cons of the NFL draft, and the mother fucking AT&T signal (despite being atop a mountain) was non-existent.

My requirements were simple: food and alcohol. Waterfront was simply gravy. No sooner did I see a few good reviews for a place called Bubba’s BBQ than I realized we had just whizzed past it. Perfect—food, alcohol and a waterfront that’s close. My kinda place. Turns out Bubba’s was packed and really busy because of an unexpected 12-top (might have been more, I can’t remember) that strolled in, so we grabbed an outdoor seat down by their little beach-like oasis and quenched our thirst with a cold glass of Purple Haze while we figured out what we wanted to eat. Turns out the sun does indeed shine on a dog’s ass sometimes because Bubba’s BBQ was every bit the find, not only for its fantastic food but also for its beautiful, warm people, both staff and owners.

Between the four of us, we got to taste their St. Louis ribs, their pulled pork, their chicken, and other low-fat options like the corn fritters, the massive sweet potato fries and the baked beans. All delicious. But it was this incredible sense of family and genuine hospitality that made the meal noteworthy. It wasn’t just one nice waiter (Lucas, pictured at the left end)…it was the nice waiter who BSed with you about the concerts held at Bethel Woods, the great waitress who guilted your son for wanting dessert after he couldn’t finish his meal as if he were her own, the gracious host who walked from table to table to make sure everyone was happy and fed (and who also introduced you to her grandson, Bubba), the gregarious owner who waxed nostalgic about the best place to find gefilte fish in NJ, and Bubba himself…an adorable chubby-cheeked boy that spoke more like an 8 year old than a pre-schooler. There is no greater pleasure than exchanging hugs and handshakes with a group of people that not only serve you delicious barbecue, but that make you feel like they want you to come back just so you can shoot the shit a while longer.

But of course this wouldn’t be an Angels & Demons post if things hadn’t gone awry somewhere else on this road trip, would it? Luck is a cruel, cold bitch that turns her back on you while you are giddy off the high of your last meal, and drops you square in the middle of a restaurant you are pretty sure is in the midst of filming an episode of Kitchen Nightmares. Sunday morning we continued the run up to the Finger Lakes and by the time we pulled into Watkins Glenn at the southern tip of Seneca Lake, we needed food. Again, I had been Googling like a madwoman in the car, leaving it to a toss-up between two places, one of which was, again, waterfront. News flash: water always wins. But sometimes winning is losing.

The Village Marina Bar & Grill was the single worst way to ever spend (blow) $85, and I’m not even sure where the litany of complaints should begin though this is certainly par for the course when you base your decision on a quick online menu and a few screwball reviews. First, the food. I was stupid enough to have ordered the beer-battered fish fry, which I guess I somehow misread because I’m pretty sure it technically said “oil-soaked fish fry” on the menu. Take a look at the photo and you’ll see the puddle of grease my fish left behind (and that was before I even tried squeezing it out of the batter coating). Needless to say, I stopped eating after a few bites and concentrated on my less-greasy fries and the cold beer they couldn’t possibly fuck up. My husband ordered a medium-rare burger, and my son’s friend ordered a rare cheeseburger. Turns out there was no need for such silly details because both burgers came out well-done.

Then there was the service. When we first sat down, there was no hiding from the sun so we put on our sunglasses and sucked it up. But when a waitress started pulling out the umbrellas and setting them up on the tables we figured we’d be in the shade within minutes—let’s just say that by this point I was getting used to being wrong. She proceeded to put an umbrella at all the empty tables and never came by to ask if we wanted some shade. To be clear, empty chairs got shade, patrons didn’t. And when we complained about the overcooked burgers our waitress shrugged her shoulders and said “sorry”. But that’s OK, when I handed her the signed credit card slip that included a terrible tip I shrugged my shoulders and said “sorry.” Hmm, that was a half-lie now that I think about it because I really wasn’t.

To be voted the best restaurant in the world is no doubt an insanely flattering honor, and an ego boost to be sure. Chefs and restauranteurs spend thankless lifetimes just trying to run a successful business, much less earn a star or two from the New York Times or Michelin. To receive that title five times, though, can be both a blessing and a curse depending on which side of the kitchen doors your standing on, because the top is a really damned far point to fall from, and for as much as people may want to join you up there, not everyone can hack the thin air.

Ferran Adria’s elBulli (pronounced boo-yee not boo-lee) sits at that pinnacle at a moment in time when gastronomy is more popular than ever and chefs are attaining celebrity status in a culture that once thought them to be society’s fringe. Adrià, despite how many may condemn his style of cuisine, has done more to change the face of cooking than any other chef since Escoffier. Unfortunately, the term “molecular gastronomy” is being used and abused for what Adrià and other innovative chefs are doing, but his goal in the end is still to create a meal that tastes great…a meal that entices all the senses…a meal that forces you to interact with your food and have a heightened sense of awareness when you eat. That work is labor intensive and demands attention to detail—something chefs from around the world would do just about anything to learn, and something that is captured from behind the scenes in The Sorcerer’s Apprentices.

In most recent years there have been about 45 people working in elBulli’s kitchen, and the overwhelming majority only worked there for one season. Other than the handful of permanent staffers, the rest of the kitchen is fueled by cooks from all corners of the globe who apply to be stagiaires, willing to leave their homes for six months and go work long, grueling hours in elBulli for absolutely no pay…all in the hopes of learning the ways of the “sorcerer”. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice follows an entire season and its stagiaires in Adrià’s kitchen…a kitchen run completely differently than just about any you’ll ever dine from…a kitchen that is an extraordinary machine with a very human soul.

Despite the fact that elBulli’s stagiaires all speak completely different languages—French, Italian, Korean, English, Japanese, Portuguese and of course the native Spanish—everyone manages to listen, learn and communicate, even if it’s only with the ubiquitous quemo which can mean anything from “get the hell out of my way, I have fragile food in my hands” to “I’m rounding a blind corner so please don’t hit me or we’ll both screw up service.” Variations include: quemo mucho (carrying something really hot or really cold), quemo máximo (carrying boiling oil or something equally capable of disfiguring you), and quemo nitro (literally hauling liquid nitrogen). But more than anything else, quemo is an assertion that they are there, something not at all trivial given that they’ve beaten out nearly 3,000 people for the privilege of cooking in Adrià’s kitchen.

For anyone that is curious about what the hell goes on behind the scenes in elBulli, why it has been voted the best restaurant an unprecedented five times, or why well-established chefs would jump at the chance to start at the bottom rung again if it means being at Adrià’s side for six months, The Sorcerer’s Apprentices is a fascinating read. It is a microscopic look at the most influential chef in the last 60 years and his “baby”. It is a rare peek at the quest for culinary expertise and the frustrations that come with it. It is the unlidding of the world’s most revolutionary pot.

Over all, I’m not one who tends to frequent Italian restaurants that haven’t been personally recommended by someone that knows my lack of enthusiasm towards them…especially those that cater towards the American “bastardization” of Italian dishes…and especially those in New Jersey. As luck (or lack thereof) would have it, I ate at two last week, and my experiences at both of them made for a classic case of Angels vs. Demons—of Italian restaurants. The fact that one of these restaurants committed a clusterfuck of transgressions would normally have me reminding you just how many fools I’m willing to suffer for your entertainment, but the truth of that matter is that I laughed nearly all the way home, wondering just how long it would be before these guys showed up on an episode of Kitchen Nightmares.

I’m bound to get flack for this, but I seriously seldom bother with the majority of Italian restaurants in my state. I know there are a few good ones (because they are the ones that get my business) but most of them are just a regurgitation of what Americans have come to expect: chicken, eggplant or just about anything else “parmigiana”, meatballs as dense as Paris Hilton, penne vodka, and carbonaras and alfredos drenched in cream. But when we got together for a girls’ night out last week, we were supposed to be headed for a German restaurant in Hawthorne, so overcooked pasta and undercooked risotto were the last thing on my mind. That quickly changed when we took one look at the place. The consensus at that point became, “screw this place, what else is nearby and how stiff are their drinks?” A few suggestions were tossed around but we settled on a new Italian joint called Vivi that had just recently opened up a couple of blocks up. My sister-in-law and I were pretty hesitant about the place, but it was local and reasonably priced. The fact that it said “creative cuisine” on its awning was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a good sign…it was the sign, apparently, of a “Demon” Italian restaurant.

After seven of us lovely ladies sat at a round table in the corner, our waiter—a 60-something, Italian-American divorcee that could easily have scooped up a roll on The Sopranos—began flirting with a couple of us while he opened our wines. I liken this overt flirtation with women approximately half his age to the nausea that overcomes you when you read in the backseat of a car. After a few humoring giggles he was gone, tossing about in a manic rush despite the fact that there weren’t that many full tables. Every other menu item we asked about, by the way, was either “unbelievable, amazing or melted in your mouth.” By the time he came back to take our order, the din of 7 hungry ladies was completely outdone by his idiot son/maître d’ who stood at the front desk, on the phone, yelling at whoever was on the other end that he “paid the fuckin’ bank” and that he was gonna “fuckin’ smoke him.” Ahh, lovely dinner banter.

Then there was the food. The lump-crab meat appetizer that we ordered supposedly came served on top of mango. What it actually came served on top of were mango peel slices. The meal I wanted to order—shrimp and wild mushrooms over spaghetti—was a no-go because they were out of shrimp. “Can you just replace the shrimp with scallops or such?” I asked. No way…they were out of scallops, too. I asked how exactly they were able to make the dinner special that consisted of a crépe stuffed with shrimp, fish, etc. if they were out of shrimp, and was told that those were made “ahead of time.” Like an asshole, I ordered the special. What I got wasn’t a crépe, but a burrito-like, thick tortilla, and it wasn’t stuffed with shrimp and fish, it was stuffed with a few little chunks of shrimp and a few tiny shards of fish, and mostly stuffed with what I’m guessing was a mixture of bread crumbs and God knows what else. While we ate, the maître d’s cell phone rang at the front desk and that prompted another slew of threats that weren’t even remotely mumbled under breath, spewed instead with a thick Italian accent. Dessert, by the time we got to it, consisted of typical options like tartufo, spumoni, cannoli, and chocolate mousse cake. The cannoli, the life-threatening son actually admitted, wasn’t much good and they were out of the chocolate mousse cake (big surprise). So a couple of the girls ordered some almond-flavored cake while one of the busboys gallantly returned from the liquor store with a huge jug of Gallo wine and poured the waiter and son a brim-full glass so the son could then proceed to sit with a friend at the table next to us and explain to said friend how he “swears on his mother” (why is it always the mother?!) that he’s gonna “smoke this guy.” The cake, by the way, was decent.

It was only a couple of days later that my husband and I decided to treat ourselves to a nice night out (with the kid) at a local, yet remote Italian restaurant called Momento. Quite the antithesis of Vivi, I wasn’t greeted by a horny Italian divorcee…I was greeted by a doting Albanian maître d’ who gently kissed my hand and showed us our seat. There were no menacing threats made over a phone line, no swearing, and no gilding of the menu items. Instead we had a gregarious waiter who entertained us with a couple of little-known facts about the history of various alcoholic beverages and yet knew instinctively when to leave us alone. There was no trace of Amercanized Italian food on the menu, save perhaps for the lobster ravioli. The carpaccio I ordered was delicious and my shrimp and wild mushroom risotto (damned if I wasn’t gonna finally get my shrimp and mushrooms) was perfectly cooked, with enormous chunks of shrimp and scallops tossed throughout. My son’s lamb chops (9 small ones) were a beautiful medium-rare, and I’d gladly tell you about my husband’s Bolognese were it not for the fact that I was so wrapped up in my meal that I wasn’t even courteous enough to ask how his was. An empty plate, however, sufficed for an answer.

When we told the waiter we had to leave without dessert or coffee because our son wasn’t feeling well, we weren’t given dirty looks—we were given sympathetic ones, with an offer to return soon for a “full” meal. The waiter, busboy and maître d’ were all the kind of people you felt like hugging on the way out after you paid your bill. You felt as if they actually enjoyed your company and wanted you to return not so much for your patronage but merely for your presence. They didn’t blatantly work at schmoozing for a tip, and that’s precisely why they earned a good one. I’ll gladly return to Momento a hundred times over before I’d even remotely consider stepping foot inside Vivi again.

To say that I have a penchant for being opinionated is no doubt to understate the obvious. Whether it’s the only proper way to make a martini, the correct way to define “barbecue,” or the ingredients that do and don’t belong in a caprese salad, some things are just black and white in my culinary world. That’s not to say that you can’t play with a recipe and tweak it until it soaks your shorts instead of mine, but at that point it needs to be defined as something other than what it originally was. At no time, for instance, should ribs be parboiled or pre-roasted in an oven before being thrown on a grill. If you don’t have the time and patience to cook them low and slow, then put a hamburger on instead and call it a day. Nor does anything poured into a martini glass earn the right to be called a martini. If it doesn’t contain gin, dry vermouth, and an olive it is in no way, shape or form a martini. I don’t consider these general rules—I consider them law.

This country has, unfortunately, grown up with a severely bastardized version of what is an extremely simple, hearty, soul-satisfying peasant dish—a dish that each ethnicity has some version of—bacon and eggs. I’ve eaten in countless restaurants from coast to coast, that list on their menu what they claim to be “spaghetti carbonara,” but what they serve bears no resemblance whatsoever to its namesake. In fact, what diners usually get is pasta covered in a thick cream sauce that chokes out the life of what carbonara is with its sloppy stranglehold. Few restaurants get it right (Batali’s Otto is one of them), and by default few home cooks get it right because they mimic what the restaurants do. Meanwhile, there are hundreds of recipes available online, but many of them include cream, including Giada De Laurentiis’, the supposed resident Italian food expert on Food Network.

What carbonara is, is pasta tossed with eggs, fried bits of guanciale (or pancetta in its absence), cheese, white wine, a little pasta water and proper seasoning. And regardless of what anyone tells you, what carbonara isn’t, is a cream-based sauce. Carbonara never…ever…ever contains a single drop of cream. If done right, there is no need for any heretic cream in order to create that magical, luxurious, silky sauce. That’s left to the alchemy of the ingredients I mentioned before. For those of you that have an issue with eating a dish that contains raw egg, I suggest you order an Alfredo instead, and get that cream monkey off your back with that fix—just don’t fuck with the carbonara, OK? No eggs, no carbonara. All of this is not to say that adding a little cream into your dish is illegal—no kitchen police are gonna come and slap cuffs on you (unless you like that sort of thing). It’s just no longer a carbonara.

The true queen of Italian cooking, despite Giada’s impressive boobage, is Marcella Hazan, and it’s her recipe that I posted for you. Her Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking has a permanent home on my kitchen shelf, and its pages are littered with sauce stains if that’s any indication of how essential it truly is. The only way in which I sometimes veer from this recipe is to separate the eggs, reserve the yolks, and then put one atop each serving of pasta for the diner to break open, so it can ooze down the mound of pasta like a glorious overflowing volcano of culinary perfection. I thank Batali for that idea and take no credit for it whatsoever, no matter how many oohs and aahs I get at the dinner table—though I’ll admit it’s tempting.

If you ever find yourself in Amarillo, TX with a growling stomach because that protein bar you had for breakfast just didn’t cut it, there’s a lovely establishment known as the Big Texan Steak Ranch. Given that everything’s bigger in Texas, it’s safe to assume when THESE guys say big, it must be enormous. How enormous? 4 ½ lbs. worth of enormity, that’s how much. And if you manage to keep down that, plus an order of shrimp cocktail, a salad, a buttered roll and a baked potato it’s on the house. Forget to butter your roll and I guess you’re screwed. If, instead, you find yourself in St. Louis with a hankering for pizza, you can hit Pointer’s, which has an 11 ½ lb. pizza that spans a total of 28 inches. Manage to finish it with the help of a partner (i.e. someone equally as stupid) in 1 hour, and not only is the pizza free, but you win $500. Prefer a little dessert? Hightail it to Ben & Jerry’s in Vermont and stick your face in their “Vermonster” which contains 20 scoops of ice cream (over half a gallon), 4 bananas, 3 chocolate chip cookies, hot fudge, 18 scoops of toppings and whipped cream.

I realize that this country has an infatuation with size, most likely because until recently it’s been run by nothing but men, but what the hell, people? While portion sizes have tripled in the last ten years, some restaurants are actually flaunting ridiculously sized servings for entertainment value and profiting from our stupidity. Beth’s Café in Seattle will gladly serve you up a 12-egg ham and cheese omelet with so many hash browns and toast that it has to be served on a pizza tray. The Eagle’s Deli in Boston is known for its 3 lb. hamburger sandwich (6 half-pound burgers), which is stacked with a total of ¼ lb. of cheese and plated with 5—yes 5—pounds of french fries. But not to EVER allow ourselves to be outdone by a Bostonian, in Jersey we have the Clinton Station Diner, which serves a gastronomical delicacy known as Mt. Olympus, the 50 lb. burger. Finish it in 4 hours with the help of 4 friends and it’s free (I think the barf bag is complementary as well), and you get to split the $1,000 prize. That’s 10 pounds of beef per person—about 40 normal patties—not including the cheese, the lovely veggies and the bun. Guesstimates would put that at over 12,000 calories PER PERSON. Michigan’s Mallie’s Sports Grill holds the record for the world’s largest burger (150 lbs.), but given that they’re not trying to make you and a small group of idiots consume it on your own, we can forgive them—sort of.

On occasion, I try (unsuccessfully) to eat a ½ lb. burger at Fuddruckers with nothing but sautéed onions (and only the bottom half of the bun) and when I do, I feel great at the onset, and disgusting by the time I’m done. But I guess I’m in the minority, because websites like supersizedmeals.com and TV shows like Man v. Food are getting plenty of enthusiastic attention. I’d like to think it’s the morbid curiosity that draws in viewers—that, “Holy shit, look at that schmuck try to eat that thing” mentality—where you can play the odds on whether or not the food will wind up getting spewed up onto the camera lens. And I’d also like to think that the people who take on these challenges should perhaps be excused because they simply don’t have the mental capacity to know any better. But, then again, I’d like to think that that’s Burt Reynold’s real hair, too.

I’ve said it before, and I’m going to say it again if for no other reason than I like to re-read my well-honed truisms: Cooking is about control and eating is about submission. Unfortunately, for the most part, few people like to truly be in a position of complete submission. Relinquishing control doesn’t come easy to Americans, because we’ve gotten spoiled by the likes of folks like the marketing gurus over at Burger King that tell us we can have it “our way.” Nonetheless, for as much as we’ve gotten accustomed to having salt & pepper shakers perpetually within reach (sometimes accompanied by ketchup and steak sauce), we don’t often see that in higher-end restaurants. And unless we have a not-so-subtle addiction to sodium chloride, we don’t usually ask for salt after our entrees are brought out, either. Why? Aren’t we assuming that the chef in an establishment like that will know how to properly season food? Of course we are, because we TRUST them.

Ethan Pines for The Wall Street Journal

Unfortunately, when Americans were being introduced to sushi in the 1960s, many Los Angeles restaurants were doling out dumbed-down “California Rolls” for those who weren’t adventurous enough to try raw fish. Rather than tell these idiots that they had no business sitting at a sushi bar if they didn’t want to try raw fish, they placated them with avocado, cucumber and imitation crab—the antithesis of the pristine seafood sushi chefs were spending so much of their energy and money obtaining. They looked the other way when Americans wiped away (or added) wasabi, dunked sushi into the soy sauce rice-side down, and asked for “more sauce.” They even started packing the rice tighter than what was traditionally taught, specifically because they KNEW that Americans would dunk rice-side down instead of fish-side down, inevitably causing the rice to fall apart in the dish. All this has created a country of sushi eaters that don’t truly eat sushi as it was intended. It created a nation of people who think mayo actually has a place at a sushi counter.

So when a few top sushi chefs decided to serve strictly in a style known as “omakase” (loosely translated as “trust the chef”), it’s no surprise that Americans got their panties in an uproar when they were denied their miso soup and kicked out for requesting fried soft shell crab rolls or spicy tuna rolls. In an effort to return sushi to the craft it once was, these guys are now being called sushi bullies because they have no time for our Americanized bullshit. Most of us are completely unfamiliar with the centuries-old Japanese culinary traditions, and that can be agonizing for some chefs. I was fortunate enough, for example, to have been taught that sushi is finger food, and doesn’t require chopsticks. So when I get funny looks from Americans who think I’m being rude, I often wonder if they realize how rude THEY are being by drowning the delicate fish in wasabi-spiked soy sauce—the equivalent of pouring ketchup over coq au vin.

These sushi chefs are asking that we put our trust in them. They’re insisting that they know how a certain piece of fish will best be appreciated, and that we shouldn’t question or adulterate what’s set before us if we want to experience sushi for what it truly is. If you don’t like putting yourself completely in the hands of a well-trained chef, feel free to go to Sushi Samba and order any one of their many bastardizations. I’m pretty sure they’ll also bring you a bottle of Heinz Ketchup if you ask nicely. But if you can handle total culinary surrender, perhaps you’ll learn a thing or two about the cuisine you claim to love so deeply and devoutly. And perhaps, then, you can leave your treasured Philadelphia Roll behind you and never, ever, EVER look back.

Some Omakase-Style Restaurants:
Los Angeles – Urasawa, Matsuhisa, Sushi Nozawa
New York – Sushi Yasuda, Masa
Boston – Oishii
San Francisco – Ino
Canada – Tojo’s

It was 2:30am in Miami, and we had just left a nightclub with my brother and his fiancé. Knowing there was a 10-year-old sleeping soundly at his grandparent’s house who’d be up at the crack of dawn anxious to hit the beach, I was thankful to be heading home, despite the fact that at that hour there was STILL a line of young folk waiting to get into the place and BEGIN their evening. But it was at that moment that my baby brother turned to me in the car and said, “Do you mind if we stop to get a quick bite to eat? I’m hungry.” Now, I’m getting old, but I’m not THAT old that I don’t still remember what it was like to leave a bar late at night with a case of munchies and a need to soak up some alcohol, but I didn’t have to worry about being beach-bound by 10am back then, either. I reluctantly capitulated, but insisted that it be a REALLY quick bite.

In Jersey, the place to go after a night of drinking when I was younger was either a diner or White Castles, and the only thing I ever got at the diners was “Disco Fries” which were covered with melted, gooey cheese and came with a bowl of gravy to dip them in. But Miami isn’t much for diners, and even less for gravy. So after about 10 minutes in the car we pulled up to a place downtown called La Moon, which apparently specialized in something called Perros Colombianos (Columbian Hot Dogs). I didn’t bother to look at the menu since I knew I wanted to try whatever the specialty was, and honestly, any hot dog with a quail egg on top of it sounded too damned good to pass up. Thoughts of the ten-year old were quickly relinquished to the deepest recesses of my mind as I sat at the small metal table, licking my chops in anticipation of this meatfest.

I apologize for the piss-poor photo, but I had been taking photos during the evening and forgot to change the camera’s settings for shooting food. Well, it was that and the fact that I had taken a bite by this point, and all I could think clearly about was taking ANOTHER. Let me describe this bun full of heaven: One grilled hot dog, about 9” long, sits at the bottom. On top are slices of pan-fried chorizo and crumbled bits of bacon. All that diet food is smothered in melted cheese (I think mozzarella but couldn’t slow down enough to really tell) and the cheese, in turn, is covered with mounds of crunchy potato sticks. The texture is the perfect counterpoint to all the other goodies. All that is then drizzled with 4 different condiments, only 2 of which I recognized: ketchup and mayo. The third seemed like a mildly spicy cayenne-kissed cream, and the fourth (which runs straight across the top) was a sweeter, tropical-fruit tasting sauce. My only disappointment was that I was hoping the quail egg would maybe be fried, so I could break the yolk and let it run down everything, but it was hardboiled instead. Kind of a waste to add a quail egg that way, no?

White Castles—fuck off. Hamburger Deluxe—get bent. Even my highly esteemed disco fries can take a walk. THIS is the new face of drinking night’s aftermath. THIS is what all food served between the hours of 3 and 5am should aspire to. On your knees and bow, boys.

So I’m sitting in a bathroom in New York City, staring at a shelf full of really cool wine books and listening to Jimi Hendrix being piped in through speakers, and I’m thinking two things: A) I really need to rethink my bathroom at home and B) this evening could not have been any better than it was. But before I tell you whose bathroom I was sitting in, let me hit rewind.

It was our anniversary, and we had decided to head into the city to celebrate (although honestly we look for any reason to head to NYC and celebrate—National Plumbers Day would have sufficed). I get to the George Washington Bridge and made what my husband claimed was a mistake by pulling up behind a motorcyclist, because apparently they take forever getting their cash out, etc. On this rare and glorious occasion, my husband had the distinct honor of being correct—proof that miracles do still happen. But instead of losing my cool and honking, I sat silently and waited. Mind you every nerve ending in my body was tingling with anxiety because I REALLY wanted to nab a seat where we were headed, and if I didn’t get there when the doors opened, I knew I’d be shit out of luck. Anyhow, after 4 very long minutes the dude left and gave me a thumbs up. I immediately thought to flip him the bird figuring he was being sarcastic, but I stopped myself. When I pulled up, the toll collector told me the guy had paid our $8 toll as well, and in one fell swoop this dreadlock-headed, green jumpsuit-wearing stranger single handedly saved my faith in the inherent goodness of humanity.

OK, so we tarry through cross-town traffic, get to within 1 block of where we’re headed and FIND A FREE PARKING SPACE. I was actually looking around for a hidden camera figuring this couldn’t possibly be happening to me. We walk across First Avenue, and down 12th Street but when we get to the big glass door outside of Terroir wine bar a note stuck to it said that there was a private party going on and we’d have to wait until 7:45 to get in…and I was stupid enough to complain about the wait (it was 6pm). I told my husband that the restaurant Hearth a few doors down was also Paul Grieco’s place so why not head over there for a drink and a bite while we wait?!? And this is why I truly believe there are no accidents in this life—the place was absolutely fantastic. We sat at a little cozy table near the bar, with a view outside. The food was amazing: I had the foie gras torchon served atop a brioche with concord grapes and almonds, and my husband had an heirloom tomato caprese salad with fresh, moist mozzarella. The staff was attentive, knowledgeable, friendly as hell, and the bartender made a killer Old Fashioned. Two hours later we walked out, thanking everyone by name at that point, and headed back over to Terroir.

We nabbed a seat just at the end of the bar by the front door, and I perused the wine list (which looked a whole lot like my binders did back in high school)  but a few seconds later I did what any intelligent person should do when they step foot inside Terroir, and closed the wine list. I looked at Mark behind the bar and said “I like a lot of funk in my wine…you know, earthy, mushroomy, barnyard kind of stuff. Is that enough to work with?” And with a nod and a smile he skipped away (ok, maybe it wasn’t a skip, but the dude was happy to be in the driver’s seat) and retrieved a bottle of 2002 Primitivo Quiles “Raspay” made with 100% Monastrell (aka Mourvèdre). That was 1 of 4 different wines he served me that night, and not one was a miss. The food there is not your average wine bar noshies, either. My husband had a duck breast panini and I had some lamb sausage with fried sage. The panini started a conversation with our neighbors about duck fat that would have seemed nearly pornographic to an outsider, but I’ll leave that for another post. I also fell in love with the t-shirts they had for sale, each with a different “terroirist” on it. Unable to resist, I bought the one with Bartolo Mascarello wearing a Che Guevara hat. My only complaint would be that Grieco needs to get some chicks on those tees—think Lalou Bize-Leroy or María José López de Heredia, Paul! Anyhow, three hours later was when I found myself sitting on the john, looking at the shelf of wine books, bopping my head to “Hey Joe” and actually being envious of a restroom in NYC…how often does that happen?

ONE OF A GAZILLION REASONS WHY RATINGS ARE USELESS:
You’re sitting at a cozy table in the latest hip restaurant, you’ve just decided that you’re gonna give the Pomegranate-Glazed Duck Breasts a go, and now you’ve gotta tackle that tome they call a wine list. In your pocket there’s a cute little digital gizmo that can tell you what kind of a rating some of those wines got, but in the end, is that really what matters to you when you’re getting ready to order? Do you honestly give a crap that some Bordeaux or other scored a 94, or should you be more worried about whether or not a Bordeaux would even be a wise choice with that duck dish? To make matters worse, your dining partner has decided on the Sole Veronique, and trying to find a wine that will pair well with both dishes leaves you as confused as a fart in a fan shop.

I’m certainly not the first to say it, but points are utterly useless here. Not only because they don’t tell you if any given wine will complement your meal (or screw it up) but also because rated wines are NEVER tasted and reviewed alongside food. A poor wine choice will wind up disappointing you, and it may also irritate the line cook whose dish has been ruined by your sub-par performance in wine pairing!

If, by chance, the restaurant happens to have a capable sommelier, you may find the salvation you need. But if he/she extols the virtues of that $450 bottle while disregarding your subtle-but-piercing “no fucking way” stares, you’re nowhere. If there is no sommelier, and all you can go on is the recommendation of your pimple-faced waiter, who is more concerned with texting his girlfriend between runs than he is about what you should drink, you’re still screwed. In the end, experience is your only safe bet.

Wine and food are partners in a dance, and like most of you rhythmless white folk out there (you know who you are, with that bite-your-bottom-lip-while-you-cabbage-patch move), a poor partner will KILL your groove. So please, use those endless glossy pages of ratings for a birdcage liner, a fly swatter, fire kindling, packing material, or do what I did—recycle the wine magazines by making a wine tote out of them. Then, have a party. Make some food. Ask everybody to bring a different variety of wine. Experiment. Learn. Do it again. Learn some more. And for Christ’s sake, go take some dance lessons while you’re at it.