McDonaldʼs worker: “What kind of sauce?”
Me: “Honey mustard.”
McDonaldʼs worker: Hands me spicy buffalo.
Me: “No, honey mustard.”
McDonaldʼs worker: Hands me hot picante.
Me: Walks away with my nuggets.
Remember back when McDonaldʼs mascot was a convicted felon? Everyone knew it, and nobody cared.
Societyʼs tolerance and forgiveness has since been replaced by internet outrage.
After a day at the tree museum, I like to stop at Food D'lite on the way home. Itʼs a combination hamburger stand and Chinese food joint.
Itʼs my understanding that in the early part of the last century, it was common for Chinese immigrants who opened restaurants to serve both Chinese and American cuisine, in order to expand their customer base and to ingratiate themselves with the locals. Iʼve also noticed it in a number of old movies from the 1940ʼs, so it seems to be a little slice of Americana that is fading away as restaurants now strive to pigeonhole themselves into a particular category, rather than attract the largest number of people they can.
As you can tell from the picture, Food D'lite is small, old, and garishly-painted. So, naturally my expectations were high the first time I went here.
I have never gotten a hamburger from this stand, but I am happy to report that the Chinese food is excellent. Itʼs very much in the style of the heavy, muddy East Coast Cantonese I grew up with, and very far from the fresh-crispy-sprouts-and-heat of the West Coast Szechuan Iʼve had to make do with for the last decade.
If the Metro Green Line ran just another 4.8 miles eastward, Iʼd probably have lunch here every other day.
The self-service ordering gizmo at Shake Shack canʼt cope with my hot dog order. Which I find a bit ironic, considering that Shake Shack started out as a hot dog stand.
This is what I get for using a computer to replace a personʼs job. Thereʼs a perfectly good human being ten feet away who can take my order if I wait 90 seconds, and my bag will never be out of sync.
Remember when technology was going to make our lives better?
When I think of fine coffees, I donʼt usually think of Michael Caine and Benny Hill. But I might from now on.
Thereʼs a coffee shop down the street called The Italian Job. Itʼs run by a couple of guys from Italy who decided that Houston could do with a bit of civilization, and decided to contribute by importing enormous chrome-plated espresso machines.
Itʼs located in one of the new skyscraper apartment buildings, and across the street from a park, so it has an audience built-in. But it looks more like a bar than a coffee shop, and based on the paraphernalia behind the counter, Iʼd say that booze is its bread and butter.
Still, you never see a bar without coffee, and if youʼre going to be the sober one in the bunch, the coffee proffered here is really quite good.
The space is tight, which is great for rubbing elbows on a night out on the town, but not so great for people trying to dodge COVID in the middle of the day, so I got mine to go.
It's a quality brew, made in the Italian tradition — meaning produced in no absolutely no hurry. This isnʼt Naples, so itʼs an indication of care, not contempt. And the extra time comes through in the flavor. This is not push-button global chain espresso.
Is this the most ghetto McDonaldʼs in America? Letʼs look at the facts:
The things I do for a McRib.
Thereʼs a weird kind of hybrid bar -slash- epicurean bodega near my home called District Market that gives free coffee to cops and other essential workers. Thatʼs nice.
People make a lot of jokes about cops and doughnut shops thinking that itʼs nothing more than a lame stereotype, but few understand that thereʼs a historical reason for that association.
America used to be littered with all-night coffee shops. This was because people used to stay out later, as they didnʼt have much entertainment at home. People also used to work later because a lot of once-massive industries demanded it. And more people worked overnight shifts than they do now. Stopping at a coffee shop or a diner on the way home at 2am was a perfectly normal thing to do. People also used to work harder, so in some cities there were 24-hour cheap steak joints, but thatʼs a story for another time.
Because these coffee shops were open in the small hours, they were often the targets of criminals. A clever way to attract police officers to your late-night noshery in order to repel criminals was to offer the badged free coffee, and sometimes free doughnuts.
Whether District Market is giving away free coffee in lieu of paying for improved security doesnʼt really matter, because itʼs still a nice thing to do. And the whole notion of “free coffee” which used to be ubiquitous in American society has almost disappeared today.
Thing nobody asks in a restaurant anymore:
“Smoking or non-smoking?”
After seeing how the staff at The Palm wear their masks, Iʼll never eat there again.
Thereʼs a reason that mask-wearing by staff is the law.
Date night at The Palm with carrot cake. I think Darcie was there, too.
Minutes later, the place filled up with hungry tourists. With the white manʼs government shut down, this is about the only food available in this part of Death Valley.
Iʼm pretty sure thatʼs a no parking zone.
Selfie. 1930ʼs style.
Dinner at a Navajo steakhouse. As you can see around her neck, Darcie decided to bring coal to Newcastle.
Darcie was a little startled when the waiter asked her to pick a knife for her steak.
Perhaps it was because he told her, “Choose your weapon.” I shit you not.
Lunch hour and Iʼm the only person in this Carlʼs Jr.¹ I guess nobody else wants to risk getting shot for a Thickburger.
¹ Read “Hardeeʼs” for you people back east.
“No, Darcie. Keep eating. I'm just taking a picture of my sammitch.”
Darcie took me to the last Carnegie Deli for our anniversary. Sammitches so big I had to back up to take the picture.
We're not Red Sea pedestrians, but we love matzah ball soup and a good knish!
So this is what our society has come to. Iʼm hoarding Five Guy straws in anticipation of straws being outlawed everywhere like prohibition hooch, or pre-Obama French fry grease.
This is what happens when you let Jerry Lewis eat breakfast in your diner too often.
You can tell it’s fake news because there’s no way a hundred Americans have ordered a salad at McDonald’s.
The one sure way to tell a great steakhouse from a crappy steakhouse is the presence of a great creamed spinach.
If there's no creamed spinach, it might as well be Applebees.
If a steakhouse has an oil painting of the mayor and her mob lawyer husband on the wall over their regular booth, itʼs probably a good steakhouse.
If a steakhouse has brass plaques identifying the regular tables of people from Frank Sinatra to Mario Andretti, itʼs probably a very good steakhouse.
But do you know how you can tell if a steakhouse is an excellent steakhouse? Creamed spinach, baby!
