That Time I Lied to You All.

I’m terrible. Last week, I flat out lied to you. I didn’t intend to, but I totally did. I spilled my guts on Valentine’s Day on Facebook so you may have already seen me expose myself. If you don’t follow me on Facebook, what the @#%@! is wrong with you?!


Allow me to explain myself further.

We cancelled our plans at the local meat house. It was Atlantic City’s fault.

We went to AC for a quick getaway romp, as a break from that literal snot-faced kid and to have a moment together before Big A leaves again. We love to gamble, we love Vegas, it’s a short drive away, it seemed like a good plan. We were just unprepared as to HOW good of a plan it was. Our only concern, really, was that we would be snowed in up there. And if we had, big flipping whoop, what’s one more night?! But we weren’t. It didn’t even snow enough to stick and my plans to make a snowman with the bartender at Hard Rock were disappointingly squashed. I did hit some lucky streaks and decided AC was my town.

ANYWAY. To the food and the abandonment of our plans. We had picked a few random places to try that were sort of off-Boardwalk and had amazing Yelp reviews. We opted for the Iron Room first because the place offered a ridic huge whiskey menu. That was all we needed, really. It took us each like ten minutes to browse the booze menu. I was not anticipating the experience to be my #2 dining experience OF ALL TIME. (The #1 being a stupid expensive Batali/Bastianich steak dinner in Vegas).

We each got a flight – three scotch for him, three bourbon for me. (and three beers for George Thorogood, am I right?!) And we selected few tapas-type plates to nom on. Steak Frites with pepper gravy. Good. Steak Tartare. Great, once I got over the texture and raw thing. (Big A ordered it well done. The kitchen didn’t listen.) And Sweet Fried Chicken on a duck fat and cheddar waffle with lavender velouté. @!#$%! AMAZING. I’m pretty sure Big A and I would have stabbed each other with forts had the portion been any smaller. We were thisclose to licking the plate clean. I’m drooling right now, just reliving it. 

Chicken and Waffle, Round 1. It's blurry because I just wanted to $%@# eat it.

Chicken and Waffle, Round 1, Iron Room. It’s blurry because I just wanted to $%@# eat it.

So for something completely different than raw steak and gourmet chicken and waffles, the next night we opted to go to a supper club called Kelsey’s for…chicken and waffles. Soul food chicken and waffles. With maple syrup. And mac and cheese. And cornbread. And the cutest older ladies rocking the karaoke night. Ughhhhhh. So much goodness.

Chicken and Waffle, Round 2. Pre-syruped.

Chicken and Waffle, Round 2, Kelsey’s. Pre-syruped.

Two dinners. All the chicken and waffles Atlantic City had.

Plus an amazing pulled pork sandwich, buffalo chicken strips, gas station cheese-stuffed pretzels, hot dogs and slightly hungover Panda Express. So much. Too much. We didn’t even wake up in time for breakfasts and still managed to cram in all the foods.

And that’s why we decided to forgo the Fogo. We just wouldn’t be able to give it the appreciation it deserves so we’re saving it for another day when the chicken and waffles are a distant memory and we dream once again of copious amounts of meat.

I’m sorry I disappointed you. Is there anyway I can make it up to you?

A photo of me and some delicious bourbon? Ok!

Basking in the goodness.

Basking in the goodness.


Fogo de Ow

To celebrate the upcoming holiday of Love & Stupid Cards, Big A and I have made a reservation at our local Brazilian-style meat house. While some opt for candles and romance, we prefer oodles of meat and cheapish red wine. If you haven’t been to such a place, I highly suggest it. Unless you’re vegetarian, in which case I suggest you read no further.

Five tips from an experienced carnivorous diner:

1. Don’t touch the salad bar. Don’t even look at it. There’s good stuff on it, like cured meats and fancy cheeses. You know I’m being serious when I tell you to stay away from the cheese. SO DON’T BE TEMPTED. If you go to a meat house and eat anything green you’re dead to me. Don’t fill up on useless foliage; that’s dumb.

Sorry folks. Some options may only be available in East African Meat Houses.

Sorry folks. Some options may only be available in East African Meat Houses.

2. Don’t drink water. It takes up too much valuable space for meat. And wine. Water is for dogs.

3. Try everything! Even if it seems sketchy, try it anyway. You may not like it, but how often is one presented with 34 different kinds of animal? You may discover that Ostrich and Camel are @#^%! delicious, though I think you have to go outside the US to try those. But they are, indeed, delicious.

4. Except fish. If for some reason you encounter fish, don’t eat that. It’s not meat.

5. Dessert is usually delicious. Because it’s usually flan. And flan is flantastic. Devour at your own risk. Your Belly should say NO but your Sweet Tooth will scream YES and you’ll have the referee the battle. Don’t specifically save room for dessert. Let the meat be your guide.

If you don’t feel like Violet “Blueberry” Beauregard when you leave, you have failed. If you don’t question every decision you’ve ever made, you’ve failed. If you don’t struggle to get in the car, you have failed.

You should feel like this.

You should feel like this.

The next day meat sweats will be your trophy of awesome. Worth it.


Build a Bad Idea

Oh, Build A Bear. I don’t really have anything against you. Although I’ve never actually stepped into your store and I’ve only heard the rumors of your overpriced do-it-yourself animal pelts and cotton balls, there is nothing truly to dislike. You’ve obviously got a good thing going for ya. The animals are cute and the accessories are crazy, all that shit kids like. I was even gifted an build-a-bear elephant a looooong time ago from a college friend to commemorate this guy we both had a crush on. And that’s special.

But I’m not telling THAT story.


This is about your Valentine’s Day commercial.

You know, the one where the mom and the daughter go in, stuff a bear covered in hearts, get a free Cody Simpson poster, whoever the @!#% that is, then in their car, mom asks who she just made that bear for and daughter replies “my best friend” while placing a card by the bear addressed to “Mom” and then scampers away, leaving mom to sob in the car by herself sans Kleenex and the carpool lane honking and road raging behind her.

They don’t show that part, but you know that’s what !@%!ing happened next.

It’s sweet. I get it.

But I can’t be the only one who thought it was inconsiderate that the daughter made the mom buy a fairly pricey stuffed animal that the mom probably wants nothing to do with, because really, what would a (normal) 40-something want with a stuffed heart printed bear which the girl probably wanted for herself and found the most underhanded and manipulative way to obtain it?

Right? RIGHT?! I mean, really. WTF.

If the mom and daughter went to pick out a special gift to celebrate their relationship and chose a bear to do so, fine. Cute, even! If the daughter literally wanted to buy a bear for her best friend OF THE SAME AGE, that’s cool, even though I never saw that sort of thing in my day. New Kids on the Block Valentine’s were as fancy as we got. And even if the daughter was like, “HEY MOM YOU SUCK AND YOU NEVER LET ME EAT CHICKEN NUGGETS AND YOU’RE OBSESSED WITH KALE AND IF YOU DON’T BUY ME THAT BEAR I’M CALLING CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES.”

I would %$^! love that version.

Alas. We get emotionally manipulative fifth grader with a penchant for expensive teddy bears.

A hug, a card, a page out of a coloring book, shit, a teddy bear from Wal-Fucking-Mart would have said the same damn thing. Only cheaper. And less shrewd.

“Hey, Mom. You’re the best. You’re like my best friend. Thanks for buying me an expensive teddy bear. I’m gonna go brag about you and show off my new bear to all my friends!”



I’ve done the commercial diatribe before. And apparently, not going to end any time soon. Oh, advertising. I can’t quit you.

What commercials annoy the shit outta you?