Genius Loci 4A: Pinky's v. Peckers. Hot dog anyone?

Wait. A hot dog throw down between a hamburger joint and a wing shack?

You have lost your mind. What about The BV Rule: "Order within the Expertise of the Establishment Rule, i.e. The Never Order Fish at a Steak House Rule?"

I get it. But: 

1. I am NOT a big fan of burgers. Shoot me.

2. I have consumed so many danged chicken wings lately that I am having recurring nightmares in which my arms have transformed into drums/flappers/tips and hungry villagers/members of the Purdue family are chasing me through the midnight streets with hatchets,

3. I like hot dogs.

Pinky's uses Nathan's dogs (aka NYC insta-cred) and gives over a portion of its menu to eight hot dog offerings: Wiener Wonderland. 

I see what you did there. Clever.

I settle on a classic The Pinky Dog (pimento cheese and chili) and in the allowable variation category The Cheesy Korean (cream cheese and house made kimchi.)

Least result first, The Cheesy Korean was...well...meh. After tasting it I was left with one question, "What exactly are they are going for here?" 

The kimchi needed something. Salt? More heat? More cabbagy FUNK? 

Yes, Yes, Yes and the cream cheese was confusing, not complimentary. Of course I finished it. It might not have been perfection in/on a bun, but it was OK.

The Pinky Dog, on the other hand, was perfection in/on a bun. Generous quantities of well executed, on point pimento cheese and Greco-Michigan style meat chili. So generous they served the dog with a knife and fork both of which proved their necessity during the consumption process.

Thus I declare, "When at Pinky's order The Pinky Dog."

So that wraps up the A Block of my 2018 NorCaro Hot Dog Throw Down. And yes, you are correct Virginia, there are no hot dog photos:

1. Unlike foodies, BVs do not take photos of every damned thing we put in our pie holes. Boring!

2. In this Age of The Unrepentant Foodie Horde you can Google an image if need be.

3. Photos are for taunting friends/fellow BVs who are unable to be day drinking/eating with us. Like this photo of the roasted sprout and pork belly appetizer. The sprouts were pork fat tasty AND a favorite of CAF whose response I cannot share in polite company.

 

3A. Cautionary tale: make sure you hear the entire description of the special you order. I swore the bartender said, "pork belly appetizer." 

PS: In the "I never expected that from a burger joint" realm: Pinky's makes LEGIT Chicken Gumbo. I shitteth thee not. If it is on offer, order it.

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Genius Loci 3: A whirlwind tour through the Carolinas...

By no means is this an exhaustive tour through the cuisine of the Carolinas because let's face it, I lack the funds for an exhaustive tour of anything beyond the first floor of our wee, humble abode.

This then shall be the essence of Genius Loci, a few quick highlights of a whirlwind tour through the Greater Charlotte Area (GCA.) The order is intentional:

1. HollyHoll's familial turkey recipe as executed by BGE (Big Green Egg) Tony, Tega Cay, SC. Said recipe involves two jars of Duke's mayonnaise (must be Duke's not that poseur to the throne Hellman's and we are definitely NOT talking the demon concoction known as Miracle Whip, PToooi!,) slathered lovingly/generously in and on the bird, then a low and slow smoke of several hours in the aforementioned Egg.

The resultant bird was moist, tender and absolutely fucking delicious. Hard to say this with exact certitude because I do not have a metric, but this may be the best turkey I have ever eaten. It was that good. 

That the chef executed this wonder after a marathon card playing session that lasted until dawn the night (or is it day?) previous, assembled the Egg just hours before and used it for the first fucking time, makes the result all the more extraordinary. The stuff of legend my friends.

1A. Randall Roll as executed by Sushi Chuck at Tega Cay Golf Club. Let's face it, special rolls are usually odd amalgams of ingredients tossed into a maki style roll without surety of the resultant whole. This roll is an amazing exception. Literally using Randall's favorite sushi ingredients, Sushi Chuck assembled a cohesive and representative slice of sushi excellence. That I cannot order one right now is a major source of disappointment to me.

3. Chicken wings at D.D. Peckers, Charlotte.  Finally...a place where they understand properly cooked chicken wings. My preference is classic cayenne sauced, Buffalo style wings (boring and old school I know,) but their Cajun spice dusted version were excellent.

4. Collard greens at 521 BBQ, Tea Cay, SC. REAL collards with a surprisingly delightful hint of chili heat. I do mean REAL collards. Around here we see some version of slow cooked greens. These days most usually employing kale. Fuck kale.

5. Duke's mayonnaise. We are a Hellman's family (it could be a DNA thing, I'll check with Ancestry.com) but I may have to reconsider. More on this later.

Before I sign off with a photo of the Randall Roll, I want to thank the entire GCA crew (names withheld to protect the innocent) for sharing their best with this grumpy, Yankee transient. Southern hospitality at its best yo. Peace and happiness.

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Make Do: cleaning the fridge

So what exactly does one do with half a jar of pasta sauce, three quarters of a jar of pizza sauce and the leavings at the bottom of the bottle that just are not worth the extraction effort from disparate bottles of gringo ketchup, Vietnamese chili garlic sauce and Pinoy spicy banana! ketchup?

I am sure if I asked, the Internets could tell me. The Internets are great at solving similar dilemmas, life hacks, shortcuts, information both useful and esoteric, etcetera and etcetera. 

Preventing the Russians from having a say in every fucking election being held in the world, meh not so much, but the Internets can sure tell you how to take off your shirt and save ten seconds while doing so.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen I am putting on my old fashioned thinking cap. In this case my thinking cap is an egg nog scented with Bacardi dark and I return to the heavy lifting of figuring out just what to do with the items in that photo.

So four out of five are tomato based, the other chili and garlic. What do I know that compromises tomato, chili and garlic? 

I wash up the dishes, put away the dry stragglers from the second dish drain (for those still in the analog world like me, two dish drains are a revelation my babies, no seriously) and then I lean against the counter for a proper think on the matter.

By now, I have finished my nog and am now onto a Mountain Dew grape flavored energy drink (like much of America these days, I am a ship adrift, terribly, terribly adrift) when it finally hits me: cacciatore! Rustic, wonderful, slow cooked, deliciousness!

All I will need is meat (chicken) and a jar of whole tomatoes (in the pantry) to add the requisite hunter's body to the too thin, sans toothsome chunks jarred pasta and pizza sauces, et voila!

That my friends is frugality in a photo, Steve's Clean the Fridge Cacciatore:

To the doubters you cannot taste the banana. 

I swear.

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Better than store bought Randy...

The above title was appropriated from one of my favorite TV shows, Trailer Park Boys. If you need context, Google the quote or "old blue jay burger."

I bought jarred Castelvetrano olives at Stop&Rob this morning. It was early.

It was early, because I try to be there before 7AM on the weekends, because S&R is now the only full line grocery store remaining in fabulous River City and I just cannot handle the crowds later in the day.

Crowds that combine a singular desire to complete their shopping in fifteen minutes or less with a could care less approach to how many people they run into, run over or run down like so many dogs in the road.

Setting aside my agoraphobia, it is never too early in the morning for a serious salt craving. Hence the olives.

But the store bought olives looked sad and they made me sad as I stowed them into our crowded refrigerator. I knew they were not everything an olive could be nor would they meet the expectations of my taste buds so recently returned from the Upstate NY haven of great Italian food all sorts, Schenectady, NY.

But onward Steven, ever onward the fridge needs cleaning.

So while tossing out a container of cottage cheese (it got pushed to the back behind the beer and had grown a mold colony of such variation and extreme unpleasantness, that I could not even bring myself to scrape it clean and wash it out for recycling. Humble apologies to Mother Earth for this failing,) I noticed the leftover container of Large Green Sicilian Olives (Spicy Hot) from last October's trip to Kalustyan's in NYC:

Correction, it was not a container of leftover olives, it was a container of the chili flake and neutral oil deliciousness that the olives had marinated in.

I was deeply skeptical that the container was not by now a biohazard, but after a deep sniff and tentative taste, I was able to determine that chili oil melange was in good standing.

In truth, though still in good standing, I was about to rinse out the container because even if it is still good, I have not used it in a year and there is a very good chance it could be in there for another before I figure out something creative to...and then I recalled the sad, store bought Castelvetrano olives. Eu-FUCKING-reka!

This is how you make olives better than store bought Randy:

Oh and Kalustyan's is a monument to amazing foodstuffs from around the planet.

Go there. If I can manage the crowds, you can too.

Kramer out.

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Today's burning culinary question:

Is Filipino spicy banana ketchup a suitable condiment for a Boarshead garlic bologna sandwich?

Why yes. It is suitable, quite suitable indeed.

When they say spicy ketchup, they mean spicy. Still tingling and I am halfway through a bowl of killed lettuce.

I love it.

And yes it is, clean out the fridge day.

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Genius Loci 2: Scubber's Wings, A slice of Buffalo on Wolf Road

Confession: In moments of weakness and withdrawal, Agnes and I have been know to frequent Buffalo Wild Wings and make pronouncements like, “These are just as good as the wings Upstate or at Duff’s or Anchor Bar.”

Forgive us Father, for we know not what we say.

In my defense, the wings at Buffalo Wild Wings are decent, passable examples of the wing making art, but they are not as good as the wings found in Upstate, NY, let alone the real deal from The City of Good Neighbors.

I blame distance, both spatial and chronological.  I am certain that if a profit were involved, the science-y software engineer types at Google could develop an algorithm to prove that the farther one gets from a given place and instance of consuming a given food or beverage or rock and roll show for that matter, the easier it becomes to fool you with decent approximations, passable examples or the band Creed.

Plus, real deal wing joints do not need to be told:

1. what type of sauce (other than a particular Scoville unit preference) to put on the wings they make for there is but one true sauce: cayenne pepper, mediated with butter, occasionally and allowably tinged with wing joint specific spices,

2. to fry the wings until they are actually and thoroughly cooked which results in a crisp skin and tender meat that readily separates from the bone.  At lesser wing establishments (LWEs,) one must ensure this practice by ordering the wings “extra crispy,”

3. to put the right amount of sauce on the wings they serve.  You will have to order “extra sauce” at an LWE in order to receive a closer approximation of a true wing experience and that lovable, end of meal challenge of consuming the “swimmers” at the bottom of the service device.  Having soaked for 20-30 in the pooled cayenne sauce, these wings are the true measure of one’s wing consuming mettle.  I firmly believe that the consuming of “swimmers” at Duff’s should involve the awarding of medals and a celebratory parade for the hearty soul who consumed these beasts in their highest numbers, yes yes!

4. I am saying this for the last time, the demon mucus also known as ranch dressing is for fucking salad.  It should never, ever be offered as a wing dipping sauce alternative to bleu cheese dressing.  There is a special place reserved in Hell for the person that started offering this God forsaken dipping sauce option for chicken wings.

Clearly, I have gone the long way ‘round the mountain to get to my point: Scubber’s Wings, 186 Wolf Road, Albany, NY is indeed a real deal wing joint offering perfect examples of the wing making arts: crisp, cayenne saucy wings, with bleu cheese dressing and a sufficient number of “swimmers” so as to make my heart sing with joy. 

And, truth told, a beef on weck that might compete with the legendary Schwabl’s just outside Flour City.  But then again, it has been awhile since I visited Schwabl’s so I better hold my tongue until I can verify that hypothesis through empiricism, field work and direct observation. 

I do not want to fall into the close approximation, passable example trap again.

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The new Steve-Eats serial: genius loci

In an episode of Treasuresof New York about Columbia University I watched recently on PBS, the architect Renzo Piano mentioned the desire of the school’s administration to account for the genius loci of the surrounding Harlem community when designing the buildings for the university’s new campus.  He went on to give his brief definition, “The genius of the place.”

So during this week I have been thinking about genius loci as it relates to all things food and by coincidence/confluence I also caught the Burgundy episode of Huang’s World on the new ViceLand network in which Eddie Huang discussed terroir the French, more BV familiar version of genius loci.

My conclusions:

1. Even if we take into account that the programming I watch trends toward the educational (Agnes calls them “Steve Shows,”) rather than say the mindlessness of most reality television or the toxic, intellectual fungus of Fox News, I watch too much television,
2. I will borrow the term genius loci (I hope the Romans won’t mind) for the title of a new serial here at Steve-Eats to encompass the genius of place in its myriad variation.  In our little endeavor, place can mean restaurant, farm stand, deli, bodega, city, world region and its genius its food, beverage, people, atmosphere or je ne sais quoi that makes it unique and appealing,
3. I really should apologize for the number of italicized words in this post.  So smug, so elitist.  Is this a food blog entry or Master Thesis you jackass?

Rather than further, boring explication let’s get to it with the first installment of genius loci: grilled oysters and Riga Black Balsam at Darkhorse Restaurant, East Main Street, Riverhead, NY.

I’ll be honest, I do not frequent Darkhorse.  Our relationship is challenged.  How do I best explain it?  Maybe the best comparison is dating.  Perhaps you meet someone, you get along sort of, but you do not really hit it off, but for a reason you cannot quite put your mind around, you keep trying.  You sense there is something there only to find more disappointment the next time you meet, but that does not preclude trying again and again and again…

So there’s that, but now there are the grilled oysters which until our most recent visit, we had never, to our subsequent shame ordered.  In fact it took a well traveled out of town guest to put us on the path to possible reconciliation (thanks LM!)  Indeed, they were perfect: local briny shellfish deliciousness teased with butter and a hint of smoke and sufficient reason in and of themselves for a return engagement.

The other reason I find my way back to Darkhorse on occasion: Riga Black Balsam.  It is likely that Darkhorse is the only establishment in the greater expanse of Long Island that has this Latvian aperitif on offer. 

When I first saw it high on the third shelf, appearing to be (in its resplendently sexy black bottle lettered in gold) more decoration than active pour, I was forced in shock, amazement and genuine disbelief to ask, “Is there anything in that bottle?  Or is it just there for decoration?”

The bartender then had to admit, “I have never poured it.  I will have to check.”

Riga Black Balsam is an acquired taste children.  As Agnes once said, “It smells like dirt.  I am not drinking that.”  Her advice is sound and I am certainly not advocating its consumption unless one appreciates earthy (a euphemism for smells like or tastes like dirt,) herbaceous aperitifs that were originally concocted (before the advent of antibiotics) as medicinal tinctures. If that is your boat, by all means hop the hell on it is an interesting sail.

For me, Riga Black Balsam has come represent the weird weaving confluences of Life, of friendship, of loss and unless you buy a bottle and split it with me, that is all that I am saying about that.

And so ends the first installment of genius loci: grilled oysters and Riga Black Balsam at Darkhorse Restaurant. 

Sorry for all of the fucking italics.

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