Episode 5: Tacos de Calle

Warning: These tacos are not from the streets.

"Tacos de Calle" translates to Street Tacos, so I was already skeptical as I sat down to eat at Jalisco, a little restaurant in Henderson, on Sunset and Eastern. I was already in a mood when I walked in. The place used to be called SuperMex, and while the name didn't inspire high hopes of authentic Mexican food, if you wanted a giant burrito smothered in cheesy sauce, that was the place to go. I hadn't been in since it closed and opened under its new name.

It was 5:30 in the evening and the happy hour specials were on. Among them, $2 "Tacos de Calle", my choice of meat.

With an air of resigned skepticism, I ordered two: one carnitas and the other carne asada. If they were horrible, I was out $4, and I could feel vindicated in my prejudicial disdain of the place.

I slipped a dollar into a machine, and keyed up a single hand of blackjack, which I won, let ride, and subsequently won again. I played four more hands, sipping and hating a Negro Modelo. The sub-par beer helped me slip further into my this place sucks attitude, but the continuous winning hands of blackjack weren't making it easy.

The food came when I'd played myself up to ten dollars, and against my will, I felt a ray of sunshiny hope: these were real refried beans, not the sorry excuse from a can. Not caring what the people next to me at the bar were thinking, I leaned over my plate and inhaled deep. Immediately, my mouth watered--it didn't just water. There were pinpricks in my tongue and my jaw ached as saliva flooded my mouth. The smells of pork fat and marinated, salty meat filled my nose.

I looked up at the bartender and said, "Oh my gosh." The smug bastard just looked at me and nodded. He had seen my kind before.

The portions were small, but such is the nature of street tacos. I didn't mind. The tortillas weren't hand made, but they were high quality. Besides, the meat is where the points are really earned--and Jalisco did earn some major points.

The pork (carnitas) were part crisp and part chewy, almost melting, and covered in a homemade green salsa that I could have done without. The salsa was tasty, but the carnitas didn't need any help beyond the diced raw onion resting on it. The pork was savory and salty and had that fresh, hot meat flavor that comes from quality ingredients.

The beef (carne asada) had a little more going on. I caught hints of smoke and some an undertone of sweet from whatever the restaurant used as marinade; a cross between typical asada and al pastor marinade, but that was fine with me. Real street food should have its own flair, something that made it unique. The pico on the carne asada was a little more welcome as well, the tomatoes blending with the mysterious spices of the meat in a way the green sauce didn't.

I judged Jalisco harshly and unfairly before I went in, and for that, I'm sorry. The service staff was personable, the prices were amazing and most importantly, the food exceeded my expectations. You with this one, Jalisco.

Episode 4: New Orleans Part Two: Bugs?

Every morning of a New Orleans vacation is a hangover, and this one is no exception. You roll out of bed and into the shower, gargling the rest of your travel size mouthwash to get the taste of whatever that last drink was out of your mouth.

The shower's done, but you're never dry, not with humidity like this.

It's fine. You've got to get moving, then you'll feel a little more like a human.

Cheap sunglasses, shorts and the thinnest cotton t-shirt you can find, and you're out the door, on the lookout for something to put in your belly to quiet the beast inside.

Finally, you round the corner to the Audubon Insectarium and grab a seat at the lunch counter. You're in luck, there's perfect hangover food on the menu this morning: a big order of Chocolate Chirp Pancakes.

What now?

Chocolate Chirp: Standard pancake, but stuffed full of chocolate and farm-fresh crickets.

Okay, I know how it sounds, but there's actually something to this madness. I got a chance to interview the chef, a man with the unfortunate name of Artie Grossman. I asked Chef Grossman the only question that matters when you find yourself voluntarily knocking back a plastic shot glass full for cinnamon and sugar toasted insects: "Why bugs?"

The answer was surprisingly simple: Protein.

Chef Grossman explained with the air of a super-villain railing at the authorities that he was actually trying to save them: Bugs are pretty flavor-neutral. That mango and mealworm chutney (picture above) tastes like one thing: mango. The Chocolate Chirp pancakes taste like chocolate. So, why add the bugs? Insects contain a decent bit of protein for their size, and protein is (mostly) healthy. If a chef can pack a little protein into something that tastes like a kids snack, he's doing a little good in the world.

I get the concept. You see grams of protein advertised on everything from yogurt to cereal bars. But still, who wants to eat a bug?

That's the beautiful part, Grossman explains. At the Insectarium, they leave the bugs whole. They're catering to kids who really want the grossout factor. However, Chef Grossman throws a handful of the cinnamon and sugar insects in the food processor and taps the button for a few seconds. When he pops the top and holds it out, all I can smell is sweet cinnamon and it looks like a fine brown powder. The "bugs" he says--making finger quotes where appropriate--are gone, but the protein is all still there.

Episode 3: New Orleans Part 1: Drinks

Hand Grenade

Hurricane

  vs







New Orleans has an incredibly rich and diverse culinary history. The indigenous Native Americans were there first, prepping the land itself for plants and animals the incipient invaders had never experienced before. Then came the Spanish, with their mix of tradition and trade. The French came after them, bringing their penchant for heavy, flavorful sauces as well as an influx of African slaves trained to cook in their style while harboring a love for their own unique cooking styles and spices. Crawfish etouffee, file gumbo, jambalaya: none of these things would be possible without the specific mix of horror and history that is New Orleans style and Creole cooking.

But who has time for food on Bourbon Street?

Bourbon street by day is a lazy mix of sounds and smells: jazz music plays from some open doorways, rock from others. If you're lucky, you'll hear a little blues, but the masters of the craft seem to be in hiding while the sun is out. Some bars, in the most clever and effective marketing ploy I've ever seen, have grills on their back patios and let the smell of cooking meat draw customers more effectively than any of the carnival-style barkers working the daytime shift outside the strip clubs. At night, Bourbon street tansforms into a teaming mass of bodies and madness, but that'likely inappropriate for a food blog.

Any time, day or night, booze is king. There's nothing that enhances the omnipresent music quite like a delicious beverage, and nothing soothes the heat like a ice cold glass of, well, anything.

But just as there are foods that aren't quite the same anywhere else but the Big Easy, there are two drinks that are either non-existent or un-clonable anywhere but a few proprietary NOLA bars.

The first, and oldest, is the Hurricane. Everyone has one, but they're never identical to the ones served at the iconic Pat O'brian's. Pat O'Brian's is a giant venue with an indoor bar that looks and feels like a scene from Interview with The Vampire, and a massive outdoor courtyard with live music and fountains. The venerable pub is credited with the Hurricane's creation. It's distinctive red Kool-Aid color and the way its accompanying buffet of fruit are all part of the experience. It's a high-octane drink that tastes like red candy; drinker beware. (Yes, the flavor profile I offered was "red", like NyQuil)

The only contender for king dink of Bourbon Street is a recent concoction called the Hand Grenade. In a little bar jammed between two other, larger bars is The Funky Pirate. Their house band rolls in around 1pm, and Mark Pentone, the lead singer, isn't averse to having a shot of Jager and or sharing a J with you, if you're inclined. They sing covers of classic songs and keep up a rolling patter with the audience that only someone with years of small-venue muscianing can attempt.

The Funky Pirate's special is the Hand Grenade. It's an evil little drink that comes in an eighteen inch glass, bowed out at the bottom and molded into its eponymous shape. The kicker is the grenade's friendly little smile that swims through your dreams after you pass out from drinking one too many.

A Hand Grenade tastes a little like someone poured Southern Comfort in your Green Tea Frap from Starbucks. Their indefinable "green" flavor is possibly some kind of melon, but the question becomes purely esoteric after the first sip, because that's when the true beauty of the Grenade is revealed. The blended drink is so cold, if freezes your tongue to the point of pain. Somehow, this, mixed with the pure grain alcohol goodness, becomes appealing.

Sitting in the bar, oppressed by the New Orleans humid heat, the condensation freezes on the outside of the glass and that little smile stamped on its front says to you: "It's cool, rest your forehead right here. We'll get through this together."

The next few hours are an exercise in battling freezer burn on your tongue, brain freeze in your head and intoxication in your limbs as you struggle to drink as many of these magic cocktails as you can because you know, no matter who tells you they can make something just like it, these guys can only be found right here, at the Funky Pirate and its two sister bars, on Bourbon Street.

If it's not clear from the way I wax poetic, Hand Grenades are the clear winner. They don't have the clout or respect that Pat O'Biran's Hurricanes command, but the Hand Grenade is a multi-sensory experience and a valued ally against summer in NOLA.

Episode 2: Aces and Ales

Beer culture is huge. Unfortunately, most people are doing it wrong.

There's a hold-over from the college culture of our recent past that says beer is for pounding; buy in bulk, drink as much as possible.

Then comes this new, hipster fad of high-end, high-alcohol imports and microbrews. In a way, it's the best thing to have happened to beer since the Reinheitsgebot, but in other ways it's really killing everything about American beer culture.

It's not just dangerous to down as much 12%ABV Big Bad Baptist as you would Keystone Lite, it's disrespectful to the beer. So what's a beer connoisseur to do?

Enter: Flights.

A flight of beer is a group of 4oz tasters (usually 3-6 different beers), just big enough for two good-size sips. Why two? Ideally, one is taken immediately, as the beer is still tap-cold and effervescent. The other is taken a little later, when the beer has "settled" and is closer to cellar temp.

Lots of restaurants and tap rooms offer flight selections, but dollar-to-buzz ratio, no one does it better than Aces and Ales (two locations, here and here).

A flight of six beers is reasonably priced and never pre-set. Want to try that brand new collaboration from Evil Twin and Left Hand, but think it's too pricey for a full pour? It's cool. Doesn't matter what you pick, if it's on tap, it goes on the flight for the same price as every other beer. In addition to some rare finds, they frequently feature exclusive beers from local breweries like Tenaya Creek, or big names like Ballast Point out of San Diego.

Okay, so you go in, you have your flight, but you've got a bit of a buzz going on. Put some food in your belly. Aces and Ales has some surprisingly fancy fair for a local, neighborhood bar. There are too many choices that fuse tradition bar food and fancy pants cuisine to name, but a few recommendations: Beer Bites (essentially tiny bread sticks) served with a homemade Arrogant Bastard beer cheese sauce, or the Eddie Spaghetti, a full-size sausage pizza with a surprise under that layer of melted three-cheese blend: an entire serving of spaghetti. If you're avoiding carbs, it's not for you, but if you need something to sit in your belly while you're waiting for the Uber guy to take you home, Eddie's your pal.

Episode 1: The Simple Quiche

Real men don't eat quiche, or so that liar Bruce Feirstein has been telling us since 1982.

I admit, I bought into his outdated ideas of masculinity most of my life. My father raised me to be proud, strong, sprts-savvy; a True 'Merican!

And so, I deprived myself of this simple delicacy: eggs, spinach, cheddar cheese, pre-made pie crust.

Even now, as I type this, I confess my mouth begins to water. And why shouldn't it?  This is 2017. A black president has come and gone. Sexual orientation is no longer a factor in marriage or in the military. In my home town of Las Vegas, Nevada, I can walk to a dispensary and buy an ounce of the finest weed man can grow. Everything we used to take as a matter of course has fallen into the sere.

I decided to throw up my hands and give into the absurd one autumn when I was teaching high school. I needed something filling, nutritious and eat-on-the-go friendly, because I had to be at school at an ungodly hour.

One quiche, cooked on Sunday, pre-sliced, and I was ready to go for the week. Granted, the taste quality degraded a little around Wednesday, but single men and teachers are willing to put almost anything in their mouths. I'm both.

So what was it like?

You want me to tell you?

Well, on Sunday, right when I cook it, I always cut myself a slice. I can't help myself. The cooking pie crust and baking cheese fill the house with this aroma that makes my stomach growl like a revving engine.

That first cut is great; the cheddar is gooey and clings to the knife. The metal cuts through that firmed up scrambled egg and this cloud of scented steam is just billowing up off the surface.

Once I cut it, I never grab a plate. It's hot--painful--but I'm a glutton. So I hold this hot little slice of egg pie in my hand, the only thing between my skin and the crust is a thing strip of paper towel, but perversely, that adds to the experience.

Each bite heats up the fork and it slides right off onto the tongue. The consistency is well-done scrambled egg, firm, not runny at all. The boldest flavor is that sharp cheddar on top of that slightly-sweet pie crust. But there's something rich and subtle under all the other flavors. It's that spinach. For a second, you thought it was just there for color, or maybe to make a grab at that "healthy" label (good luck, this isn't a healthy snack), but no. Gentle spinach, meek and mild, is doing unseen, thankless work in the background: rich and earthy and smooth.

Thank God for humble spinach.