Archive for November, 2010

Pie Time

Eliza has been saying for a while that the next big thing in food is gelatin, but I think it’s pie. I suppose she must not disagree entirely, because this book recently appeared at our house. And now, with this article appearing in the Times, it’s clear that pie’s time has come.

This weekend, we made one of my personal favorites: chess pie. For the uninitiated, chess pie is quintessentially Southern, a sort of proto-pecan pie. Our friend Elizabeth did a nice writeup on chess pie over at the Green Olive blog earlier this year.

But the real winner of our pie experimentation so far is the first one Eliza made: Tar Heel Pie. This isn’t something I had ever heard of, but with a name like Tar Heel Pie, how could you go wrong? It’s like a pecan pie, but chocolate and with the pecans chopped and mixed in.


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Hipster Bloodsport

This week’s New Yorker features a profile of Spotted Pig chef April Bloomfield. One passage reminded me of our last visit there:

New Yorkers didn’t quite know what to make of it. Was it a bar with good food? A restaurant that was fun? In any case, it was an immediate hit, a seat at one of its cramped tables so coveted that Frank Bruni, in a mostly admiring review in the Times, deemed the place a “gastromelee.” Message boards abounded with proudly masochistic anecdotes about what one blogger called the “hipster bloodsport” of trying to get in.

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New Orleans, yesterday is going to he hard to beat. But let’s try. First stop is breakfast at Luke.

A few months back, Anthony Bourdain remarked that there’s no place on earth like you, New Orleans. Grillades and grits is a great example. I had never heard of it and I’ve never had anything like it. Highlight of the trip.

Chicken and waffles for Eliza.

Let’s go for a walk, New Orleans. You can sing us a song. “Do you know what it meeeeeeeans…”

Let’s try something completely different. What’s that? Another John Besh restaurant? Do they have grillades and grits?

A pork sandwich will have to do.

After a dinner (with no photos) at Herbsaint, we’ve got one final meal with you, New Orleans. Our last breakfast at Luke was lovely. Let’s do that again.

Eliza will have the pate. I’ll help her out. Doesn’t she look dainty?

Excuse me, New Orleans. Will you pass me my wide angle lens? Otherwise, I’m not going to be able to fit this soft shell crab sandwich in this camera’s meager frame. And yes, that is a fried egg on top.

Eliza’s mom had a fried oyster salad featuring the bacon of one Mr. Allan Benton.

That was fun, New Orleans. Let’s do it again soon.

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Thank you, New Orleans. I am delighted as well. Where shall we go first?

Yes, Cochon sounds delightful. Judging by how the name translates and their choice of artwork, New Orleans, I think this will do nicely.

Why yes, I think we would like to try your house made Slim Jim. I find myself wondering why I don’t utter the phrase “house made Slim Jim” more often.

Or “fried rabbit liver” for that matter.

But really New Orleans, I must stop you. You see, people sometimes assume that we here at Chicken Fried Everything only partake of fried food. And you see, we’re much more complicated–I’m sorry, what’s that you say? Fried alligator? Well, if you insist.

OK, New Orleans. After all that I’m going to need a few hours to recover. But dinner is in three hours? Well, I do hear that MiLa has something called Deconstructed Oysters Rockefeller and I am curious…

It’s been a long day New Orleans. Let’s get some rest, as we have a full day tomorrow.

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I wouldn’t say that Indian food is a culinary strength of Austin. But we here at Chicken Fried Everything are always looking for diamonds in the rough. We recently tried a place near our house called Sarovar.

We didn’t make it to the Sarovar lounge. I try to avoid lounges in general. I’m a man of action, so I have no respect for the lounging class.

Sarovar is notable for having strangest collection of business names in adjacent properties. I’d like to know what’s going on at “The Boss Ladies.”

In case you were having any last minute doubts as you reach for the door handle, rest assured.

Another romantic evening together. Don’t worry, she’s not doing work. She’s reading my latest love poem.

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