That Which Does Not Kill Me: Deep Fried Mac n Cheese

Between recent forays into the pork-permeated Momofuku universe, a profoundly unhealthy interest in bone-dry southern Italian white wines, the lack of a gym membership, and the absence of any willpower when it comes to the mushroom pizza at Rosario's, there's a good chance I won't live to see 34. And when you get to that point in your life where you realize that you might as well just stop trying to be healthy, you also then come to the conclusion that there's no point in avoiding deep fried macaroni and cheese. Really. Just give into it. You'll feel a lot better. I mean, it's a thought I've had for a long time now: who in the carnivorous, lactose-tolerant (or, like me, lactose-intolerance-be-damned) universe wouldn't love to consume a ball of mac n cheese, breaded and then deep fried? Add to that a piece of smoked kielbasa in the center, and you've got yourself an updated version of the mac n cheese n franks one would often find in elementary school cafeterias. An updated version for the glutton in all of us. Made by yours truly. Sadly, yours truly has a kitchen the size of an armchair a folding chair, and I woefully lack a deep fryer. So KS proposed that until I was blessed with a dream kitchen and fryolator, we head out into the city to try other places' take on this concept. (Sadly, too, I am not the only one with this wondrous idea.) And so this past weekend, and for a wee bit of the other evening, we crafted almost entire meals around deep fried mac n cheese. And lived to tell the tale. First up: Supermac. A wee little place in the fashion district that specializes in macaroni and cheese (including a lobster thermidor version...!), Supermac was unfortunately out of their mac n cheese nuggets the day we visited. We consoled ourselves by ordering a couple versions of their regular mac n cheese: a traditional one with American and cheddar, and a 4-cheese one with cheddar, asiago, mozzarella, and parmesiano-reggiano. The four cheese one rocked -- nice texture, with really good tang from the cheese combination (it's the one further away in the photograph on the left). Up next: after downing a couple pint glasses of sangria, we headed over to Mo Pitkins, based on a tip from gridskipper, where there had been photographic evidence of a deep fried mac and cheese loaf. On the walk over there, I may have said something to the effect of "It seems to me that the loaf, qua loaf...." I actually don't remember how I finished that sentence because KS started cracking up. Qua. It's the only bit of latin I know how to use in a sentence. Anyhow: the loaf. Insane. I mean, look at the knife that accompanied it. And the crazy cheese sauce. It was spectacular. The sauce kept the whole thing from drying out, and the breading was crisp and light (as light as deep fried anything can be). The mac and cheese itself was pretty standard -- nothing very fancy, but in that sense quite good: nothing to distract you from the deep fried mac n cheese qua deep fried mac n cheese. Having hit the proverbial wall that evening, we waited a couple of days before trying out purveyor no.3: Bamn!, the automat place over on St. Marks near 2nd avenue. The whole automat thing was sort of fun, but I suspect I'd have to be considerably more intoxicated for the whole thing to be the kind of pleasure I think it's supposed to be. In any event, their mac n cheese krokets (their spelling) were a far cry from Mo Pitkins' cheese extravaganza, but seemed to work pretty well as an inbetween sort of thing. And not so bad, having emerged from the depths of an automat. The mac n cheese was bit more straightforwardly Kraft-esque, and there was something comforting about that. The outer coating could've use a little something extra -- pepper or a touch of cayenne, maybe? -- but again, for an automat, pretty solid fare. (I'd like to add, as an aside, that we followed this up with automat-generated chicken fingers, and then some Chicken Stroganoff at Cafe Anyway. One day my metabolism is going to catch up with my gluttony, and that's going to be a very sad day.) The verdict: good stuff, but not quite what I had envisioned. I sort of think that my version would blow these other guys out of the water. Now will someone please build me my dream kitchen so I can show this city what's what?

That Which Does Not Kill Me: The Enormous Omelet Sandwich

I seriously don't know what came over me this morning. I woke up and the first thought that entered my head was I really ought to try that Burger King monstrosity. It's not like I've been depriving myself of quality proteins and fats. And it's not like I haven't been eating vast quantities of food, period. There's no reason for me to want to have 730 calories (410 of them from fat alone) in one sitting. And yet...it really seemed like not only a good idea, but more importantly, a necessity. And so, two hours later, that thought became a reality. I just ate The Enormous Omelet Sandwich. When Burger King announced this new item on their breakfast menu, there was a big kerfuffle about it: it was, after all, two eggs, a sausage patty, two slices of cheese, and three strips of bacon, all crammed into what Burger King refers to as a "specialty bun" -- essentially a long, sesame-seed bun used in BK's chicken sandwiches. Newscasters solemnly predicted that this sandwich would single-handedly bring down civilization. This sandwich exemplified The Problem With America. [A USA Today article about the sandwich interviewed a market analyst, who had quite possibly the best two-liner about it: "The critics will still label it food porn," says Sherri Daye Scott, editor at QSR, a fast-food industry trade magazine. "But the average male fast-food customer does not have a problem with this."] So the sandwich itself: weirdly...boring. I'm going to have to agree with the folks at mrbreakfast.com, who noted that despite having a gazillion forms of protein and fat crammed inbetween two pieces of bread, the sandwich didn't really taste like anything. The 1-2 salt punch of the cheese and bacon sort of overwhelmed the entire thing (I'm a big fan of discernible sausage in my breakfast sandwich experience), and it was just kind of ... smooshy. I think some hot sauce might have helped with the overall taste, which needed some added oomph. It just wasn't very interesting to eat. Just very big. I will confess that I did not finish the sandwich, not because of the taste but because of the general fear that I'm pretty sure any non-average, non-male fast-food customer has when faced with the daunting task of consuming 730 calories in one go. After six generous bites, I calmly rewrapped the sandwich and put it in the very fashionable all-black BK paper bag from whence it came. The bag still sits on my desk, taunting me. I suppose I could finish off the remaining 400 or so calories later this afternoon. But I guess if you're going to shell out $3.35 for a fast food breakfast sandwich, stick with the Egg McMuffin at McDonalds. It's got so much more texture, nuance, and taste (seriously). (And yes, I know I'm a terrible person.) You're all going to tell me to go to my local deli or bodega the next time I'm hankering for a fried egg sandwich, but where's the fun (or blog post) in that?

Another Reason to Love Philadelphia

Maybe it's because I haven't eaten yet today, and it's nearing lunchtime. Maybe it's because I miss Philly, which I sometimes regard as my second or third hometown (depending on how generous I'm feeling towards Ithaca), since it's where I spent my formative years not understanding Walter Benjamin. Or maybe it's simply because I can't resist these sorts of things. But today, via Cho-Tabetai, I learned of the Philly Taco. And suffice it to say, I really, really want one. I mean, how can you go wrong with a cheesesteak wrapped inside a slice of pizza? I'm sure it helps considerably to be inebriated, but still .... I live across the street from the unfortunately named Cheesesteak Factory, and near one of the best places in the city to get a late-night slice. I'll report back to you this weekend.

That Which Does Not Kill Me: The Chili Cheese Fries Burrito

I've had a long-standing fascination with edible products that come together, in Voltron-esque fashion, to become mega-foods. During my extended stay in Ithaca, I had occasion to eat every so often at a place called Viva Taqueria, which fancied itself a California-style burrito place. The one thing that stood out in the otherwise unremarkable Viva menu was something called the Chicken Taco Salad Burrito. Yes. Not quite four food items melding into a single unit, but close enough: a taco salad with chicken, wrapped up in a tortilla. I ordered it often, mostly because I enjoyed saying it out loud. Chicken Taco Salad Burrito. Throw in some commas and it would still make sense, though you might end up with a different end product. And, while it wasn't all that good, it didn't kill me. And so while I was home in Southern California this past week, I read in the paper about how Wienerschnitzel, a local hotdog chain (correction: apparently the world's largest hotdog chain!) that I hadn't been to since the late 70s, had a 99-cent menu that featured something called the Chili Cheese Fries Burrito. And well, that was that. I was gonna have to try it. My father, who recently admitted to being on something of a hotdog kick, offered to accompany me to the local Wienerschnitzel on a bright and warm Sunday morning. (That's him in the picture. Hi dad!) I don't think either of us realized the extent of the terror that awaited us. Neither of us had been to the 'schnitzel in a while, but we had these vague, pleasant memories of it. (Oh well.) Dad got a stadium dog -- an extra long, all-beef dog -- with the works, and I ordered the aforementioned chili cheese fries burrito. I would've taken a picture of dad's hot dog, but he managed to wolf it down in about 90 seconds flat, which was a bad idea. I was much more deliberate in the handling of my burrito, which essentially was a slop of chili cheese fries encased in a tortilla. I mean, it's weird -- you're eating fries wrapped in a tortilla. Besides the general carb overload that was awaiting me, there was the (un)certain hell of chili and cheese. And I was to board an airplane in a couple of hours. Long story long, the burrito was predictably disgusting. The chili -- I'm still not sure if it had meat in it. I think it did? The fries were mediocre. The combination of flour-y tortilla + chili & cheese + subpar fries just made for a strange, starchy, fried, beefy (?) taste that lingered way too long. But I suppose you can only get so far with a place whose new catch phrase is "Pushing the Boundaries of Taste," right? I mean, I took four meaningful bites of it. I tried. And then I had to walk away. Voltron this most certainly was not.