twister947
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For me to put lobster on a roll, it had damn well better be some truly spectacular bread.
Yank's Free Range Turkey Trot Warming House and Bondage Barn
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midwestyankee
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midwestyankee
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Well done. It's always good to be generous with one's foodie knowledge.
midwestyankee
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Fuck me.
Lobstah on pizza, no, for either. They are both perfect food, separately.
Anchovies on pizza? BRING IT.
Good morning. I made coffee.
Are you saying that you would refuse to eat a lobster roll if offered to you?
Having been a wee lad on an island off the coast of ME and my father a fisherman, I am quite familiar with those bug eyed monsters. According to certain ladies, the best use of lobster is in a stew consisting of nothing but butter, cream and lobster. And of course served with popovers.
Personally I can not see ruining a perfectly good pizza with lobster or fish of any kind.
Personally I can not see ruining a perfectly good pizza with lobster or fish of any kind.
twister947
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midwestyankee
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I would eat it with a fork.
Do you eat hot dogs with a fork when they are served on a bun?
twister947
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Usually. Ditto burritos and tacos.I'm pretty picky about bread. If it doesn't do anything to enhance the dish, I'll pass.
midwestyankee
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twister947
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I just checked...my go-to pizza joint doesn't even offer anchovies. Oh well...
midwestyankee
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You chose wisely.
Time for a new go-to pizza joint, it seems to me.
midwestyankee
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I have the same problem and mine extends to sardines as well. Come to think of it, I'm certainly the only one around here who eats smelts, too. I sense a pattern that seems a little fishy.
twister947
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Opening a tin of sardines is a surefire method of enforcing social distancing.
Speaking of fishy foods, I have a weakness for kippered herring on dark rye with cream cheese and red onion.
Speaking of fishy foods, I have a weakness for kippered herring on dark rye with cream cheese and red onion.
gracie920101
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midwestyankee
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So...burgers...smashed, grilled, or other?
ultramarineblue
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I tried them but they didn't really help. Taking Benadryl is more effective.
midwestyankee
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Smashed is what you get at Shake Shack and several other similar places. The patty is cooked on a griddle and smashed flat so it has very thin edges that get crispyas they cook. Smashburger is another chain that specializes in thus style.
midwestyankee
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That's a shame. Benadryl makes me feel like shit the next morning so I'm glad you get some good from it.
twister947
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Burgers were changed (diminished! ) forever when the powers decreed they must be cooked to a cinder.
midwestyankee
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I don't disagree completely. So are you a big-and-thick patty guy? Griddke or grill?
midwestyankee
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Generally I prefer diners to chains any day, but I thought it might be easier to explain the smashed burger concept by referring to a Noo Yawk fixture. Most diners use flat-top griddles so you have probably been eating a variety of smashed all along.
But the real question is how do you prefer to make your own?
twister947
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My current fave is a 1/3# patty with cheddar and jalapenos embedded in it, warmed on the grill. Bun is ciabatta from WM bakery.
twister947
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For about 50 years I cooked on seasoned white oak. Then I got old and lazy.
gracie920101
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Our latest is cheddar stuffed 90/10. I throw them on the G Forman and it's ready in minutes. I also I put the buns in a buttered skillet to toast.
Same method used for hotdogs.
Same method used for hotdogs.
Acktion
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Where's the beef?
Years ago an erstwhile friend moved down from the North. He was one of the responders when the towers went down and needed somewhere he could pull himself together, so his wife took a job at the medical library.
Any road, he would positively delight in kidnapping me and driving around backcountry roads for hours to no purpose that I could ever ascertain. And one day, he prodded me where I was dozing in the passenger seat and asked, "so, cows come from Texas, right?"
I blinked bleary eyes and peered around to see what the fuck caused this latest brain bomb. And spotted a herd lined up along the fence chewing their cuds as they watched us go past... probably the first car they'd seen in a week, and the most excitement other than feeding time.
As it happens, I misspent a semester in college studying Food Technology (and lost fifty pounds before I wised up and changed my major since I couldn't eat anything after we talked about it in class). But, I didn't feel like going into a long drawn out lecture. (I know. Hard to believe.)
So, I yawned and said, "yeah. With towns around like 'Bovina' and 'Hereford,' of course, we got cows."
"So, where do New York Strip steaks come from?"
"Hell, son, I thought everybody knew that every cow has an asshole."
After the hilarity, which almost put us in a ditch, died down, he asked me again, seriously. So, I gave him the serious (or close enough) answer.
Back in the times of the cattle drives, a brighter than most cook in Kansas City figured out that muscle doesn't get used as much. And, so, doesn't get as tough and stringy. Now, we understand more about stress toxin build-ups and such, but this was back then, mind you. And they also figured out that it stored better, traveled better, held flavor better... basically, it was a tough cut to fuck up if you had the slightest clue what you were doing.
And some restauranteurs from New York City tried it out. Liked it. And took it back.
And being from New York just couldn't accept that they weren't the best. At pretty much anything. So, they rebranded the Kansas City Strip the New York Strip. The thing is, there are so damn many of 'em and so loud and obnoxious, that we eventually just let them have their way to keep it quiet so we don't spook the cattle.
After I finished my Texan Tale, I settled back in the saddle of the passenger seat and pulled my hat down over my eyes to go back into my doze. I could feel him glancing at me from time to time to see if I was serious, and just grinned to myself since enough of it is out there as published fact to let me get away with giving the Damn Yankee some hell.
Then he pops off with, "So, then why does no place here serve any better steak or hamburger than back home?"
That woke me right the Hell up in a hurry. As I'm sure he intended it to.
And as I guided him through another hour of backcountry roads to a place I knew, I lectured him on a little something I'd picked up.
While I'd picked up the dust of many places on my boots, I hadn't been out of the continental U.S. or even North of the Mason-Dixon line. But, I'd picked up a few things in my travels that I know for a fact are true in the south, and I would imagine are the same anywhere else in the world.
1) The food is always gonna be better where they grow it or catch it. Doesn't matter how much we learn about preserving and shipping, that's just not going to change. And, more often than not, the places that grow it or catch it keep the best for themselves and ship out only their third or fourth best anyway. And laugh up their sleeves at the people willing to spend so much money for their cast-offs.
2) Even when you go where the food is grown or caught, there are tourist traps and chains. And those aren't going to be any different than anywhere else. Oh, the tourist traps may get the second best cast-offs. But, the chain is going to get their stuff shipped in from a central place anyway. So, you might as well stay the fuck home.
Get off the main streets. As a matter of fact, get the Hell out of the city! Lubbock is a tiny city comparatively speaking, basically more of a town too big for its britches. And even here, it's the rare bird that can carve a niche in high traffic areas and balance the cost of rent, the cost of foodstuffs, and make money.
3) Look for a place that has only a minimal sign, or no sign at all. A converted house or barn. Hubcaps and flystrips are your friend. No, I'm not kidding. Every place I've ever discovered that had hub caps outside and flystrips that needed changing inside has been immeasurably better than brick and neon. Straw or peanut shells on the floor is another good sign.
***shrug*** He argued with me the entire way. And when we parked in a lot with hub caps lined up along a graveled lot to mark parking, was distinctly displeased when I asked him if he smelled that, since he was already turning green and trying not to puke over the miasma of shit. Cow shit. Pig shit. Chicken shit. Turkey shit.
But, once we got inside, you didn't notice it so much over the delightful aromas filling the place.
This was before... uh... Wyagu? Wagyu? Well, whatever became such a craze. However, the particular place had already had some luck with their Angus/Buffalo cross.
And being a Damn Yankee, he wanted to dive right off in the deep-end and get a steak. And a damn Kansas City Strip... uh... well, you know what I mean.
Fortunately, I was there to stop him. A real steak cooked by someone who knows what the hell they are doing is something you have to work your way up to when all your palate has known is that crap city folk learn to appreciate.
So, I made him start with Hereford, Texas Burger, with the promise that if he could handle that this trip and the next five, we could try him out on a real steak.
The poor child slipped into a food coma halfway through and I had to drive him back with the leftovers. And his wife didn't fare much better with the leftovers.
I almost felt guilty.
But, not so guilty that when they admitted that we could do a damn fine burger after all (as well as steak once they'd worked their way up to it), but didn't know squat about pizza that I didn't take them to a little place an immigrant from Italy opened and put paid to the whole "New York Pizza" controversy too.
Although, I readily admit that I rarely ever got the pizza from One Guy (don't know if I ever knew his name although he adopted me right from our first meeting and wouldn't let me pay for anything, but just called him One Guy after the name of his place One Guy From Italy). His calzone was just too fuckin' good.
And, yeah... One Guy had about the same response as Fara the one time I mentioned pineapple. Actually, he shook a two-foot knife at me and told me to leave the cooking to him since he was the one who actually knew how. (Hardly fair since I was one step short of a gourmand and most everybody who'd tried my cooking tried to get me to go to culinary school. Except him. Damn elitist Italian was almost as bad as the French.)
Any road, I don't know. I couldn't tell you if any of those places are even still there since I've been sheltering in place for a decade before we ever heard of Covid/Corona, and pretty well eating cans of shit without even bothering to dump 'em out of the can, much less heat them, since Love died.
But, I haven't lost my touch as we found when my gal has made one of her trips and we went out looking for grub. I'm still batting a thousand by picking little no-name diners off the beaten path, by lookin' for hubcaps and fly-strips.
Years ago an erstwhile friend moved down from the North. He was one of the responders when the towers went down and needed somewhere he could pull himself together, so his wife took a job at the medical library.
Any road, he would positively delight in kidnapping me and driving around backcountry roads for hours to no purpose that I could ever ascertain. And one day, he prodded me where I was dozing in the passenger seat and asked, "so, cows come from Texas, right?"
I blinked bleary eyes and peered around to see what the fuck caused this latest brain bomb. And spotted a herd lined up along the fence chewing their cuds as they watched us go past... probably the first car they'd seen in a week, and the most excitement other than feeding time.
As it happens, I misspent a semester in college studying Food Technology (and lost fifty pounds before I wised up and changed my major since I couldn't eat anything after we talked about it in class). But, I didn't feel like going into a long drawn out lecture. (I know. Hard to believe.)
So, I yawned and said, "yeah. With towns around like 'Bovina' and 'Hereford,' of course, we got cows."
"So, where do New York Strip steaks come from?"
"Hell, son, I thought everybody knew that every cow has an asshole."
After the hilarity, which almost put us in a ditch, died down, he asked me again, seriously. So, I gave him the serious (or close enough) answer.
Back in the times of the cattle drives, a brighter than most cook in Kansas City figured out that muscle doesn't get used as much. And, so, doesn't get as tough and stringy. Now, we understand more about stress toxin build-ups and such, but this was back then, mind you. And they also figured out that it stored better, traveled better, held flavor better... basically, it was a tough cut to fuck up if you had the slightest clue what you were doing.
And some restauranteurs from New York City tried it out. Liked it. And took it back.
And being from New York just couldn't accept that they weren't the best. At pretty much anything. So, they rebranded the Kansas City Strip the New York Strip. The thing is, there are so damn many of 'em and so loud and obnoxious, that we eventually just let them have their way to keep it quiet so we don't spook the cattle.
After I finished my Texan Tale, I settled back in the saddle of the passenger seat and pulled my hat down over my eyes to go back into my doze. I could feel him glancing at me from time to time to see if I was serious, and just grinned to myself since enough of it is out there as published fact to let me get away with giving the Damn Yankee some hell.
Then he pops off with, "So, then why does no place here serve any better steak or hamburger than back home?"
That woke me right the Hell up in a hurry. As I'm sure he intended it to.
And as I guided him through another hour of backcountry roads to a place I knew, I lectured him on a little something I'd picked up.
While I'd picked up the dust of many places on my boots, I hadn't been out of the continental U.S. or even North of the Mason-Dixon line. But, I'd picked up a few things in my travels that I know for a fact are true in the south, and I would imagine are the same anywhere else in the world.
1) The food is always gonna be better where they grow it or catch it. Doesn't matter how much we learn about preserving and shipping, that's just not going to change. And, more often than not, the places that grow it or catch it keep the best for themselves and ship out only their third or fourth best anyway. And laugh up their sleeves at the people willing to spend so much money for their cast-offs.
2) Even when you go where the food is grown or caught, there are tourist traps and chains. And those aren't going to be any different than anywhere else. Oh, the tourist traps may get the second best cast-offs. But, the chain is going to get their stuff shipped in from a central place anyway. So, you might as well stay the fuck home.
Get off the main streets. As a matter of fact, get the Hell out of the city! Lubbock is a tiny city comparatively speaking, basically more of a town too big for its britches. And even here, it's the rare bird that can carve a niche in high traffic areas and balance the cost of rent, the cost of foodstuffs, and make money.
3) Look for a place that has only a minimal sign, or no sign at all. A converted house or barn. Hubcaps and flystrips are your friend. No, I'm not kidding. Every place I've ever discovered that had hub caps outside and flystrips that needed changing inside has been immeasurably better than brick and neon. Straw or peanut shells on the floor is another good sign.
***shrug*** He argued with me the entire way. And when we parked in a lot with hub caps lined up along a graveled lot to mark parking, was distinctly displeased when I asked him if he smelled that, since he was already turning green and trying not to puke over the miasma of shit. Cow shit. Pig shit. Chicken shit. Turkey shit.
But, once we got inside, you didn't notice it so much over the delightful aromas filling the place.
This was before... uh... Wyagu? Wagyu? Well, whatever became such a craze. However, the particular place had already had some luck with their Angus/Buffalo cross.
And being a Damn Yankee, he wanted to dive right off in the deep-end and get a steak. And a damn Kansas City Strip... uh... well, you know what I mean.
Fortunately, I was there to stop him. A real steak cooked by someone who knows what the hell they are doing is something you have to work your way up to when all your palate has known is that crap city folk learn to appreciate.
So, I made him start with Hereford, Texas Burger, with the promise that if he could handle that this trip and the next five, we could try him out on a real steak.
The poor child slipped into a food coma halfway through and I had to drive him back with the leftovers. And his wife didn't fare much better with the leftovers.
I almost felt guilty.
But, not so guilty that when they admitted that we could do a damn fine burger after all (as well as steak once they'd worked their way up to it), but didn't know squat about pizza that I didn't take them to a little place an immigrant from Italy opened and put paid to the whole "New York Pizza" controversy too.
Although, I readily admit that I rarely ever got the pizza from One Guy (don't know if I ever knew his name although he adopted me right from our first meeting and wouldn't let me pay for anything, but just called him One Guy after the name of his place One Guy From Italy). His calzone was just too fuckin' good.
And, yeah... One Guy had about the same response as Fara the one time I mentioned pineapple. Actually, he shook a two-foot knife at me and told me to leave the cooking to him since he was the one who actually knew how. (Hardly fair since I was one step short of a gourmand and most everybody who'd tried my cooking tried to get me to go to culinary school. Except him. Damn elitist Italian was almost as bad as the French.)
Any road, I don't know. I couldn't tell you if any of those places are even still there since I've been sheltering in place for a decade before we ever heard of Covid/Corona, and pretty well eating cans of shit without even bothering to dump 'em out of the can, much less heat them, since Love died.
But, I haven't lost my touch as we found when my gal has made one of her trips and we went out looking for grub. I'm still batting a thousand by picking little no-name diners off the beaten path, by lookin' for hubcaps and fly-strips.
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