I keep trying to figure out exactly how to write about all the restaurants we visit in a city. New York seems particularly overwhelming, because every place you look up seems to have a few hundred reviews on Yelp. Everything consequently averages out to about 3 stars. It is, in short, impossible to know where to eat. And, for me at least, it’s impossible to shake the feeling that something better might be just around the corner. Thankfully, we lucked out on our last trip. With the exception of this dinner, we ate at some low-key, generally budget-friendly places, and I’d return to nearly all of them.

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In the travel world, certain places have an air of exclusivity. You can’t simply sign up for a tour or call up for a reservation. They are open only to the wealthy and connected.

Needless to say, I am neither of those things. So I generally dislike places that are shared secrets among people in the know. If something is amazing, I think that everyone should know about it. But obviously, that would ruin it and make it less amazing, and … sigh. You get the point. Obviously, it helps to tell myself that I don’t want to get into exclusive clubs or restaurants in the first place, because then I never need  to confront the reality that I couldn’t get in.

Which is why, when Rand and I received an invite to dine at the Brasserie at La Esquina, a supposedly impossible-to-get-into restaurant in New York (at least, impossible for the likes of us)  with a group of his colleagues, I was hesitant. It seemed that sort of clique-y, upscale place that I generally shun. And frankly, I’d rather not step into that world at all. It makes me feel strangely inadequate and snobbish all at once.

But, since I figured it would make a good story, and I’m always up for a meal with friends, I put my neurosis aside and decided to have a friggin taco or three.

After dinner, I was of two minds.

1. Everyone should have the chance to eat here.
2. I need to keep this place as secret as possible, thereby ensuring more tacos for me.

What? I’m noble, but I’m hungry, too.

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Note to readers: The original title of this post was “Holy cats, my blog proves useful for once!” I found that title apt, but figured this would be easier for me to find when doing a search. Sigh … practicality and what have you.

Last month, I took a few jabs at the expense of the city of Rye Brook, NY. I know, I know – shocking, right? That I would take the piss out of a town? Absolutely unbelievable.

But it indeed happen. I blame demonic possession. As a result, I might have mentioned that Rye Brook’s food scene is the culinary equivalent of a trying to find a date for prom: there’s no real viable options, and if you end up with anything, it’s just because you wanted to dress up and go out.

Reader Raf C took issue with my position, and maintained that there were some viable options in Rye Brook. He recommended a few spots, including Polla a la Brasa, a Peruvian restaurant in nearby Port Chester. Since it ended up being ridiculously close to the hotel, we decided to stop by.

We ordered according to the New York Times’ suggestion: their eponymous rotisserie chicken dish, lomo saltado (beef stir-fry over french fries), a slice of tres leches cake, and an alfajor cookie.

There are many words that I could use to describe the meal at hand, but the best one that comes to mind is this: ZOMG.

Yes, ZOMG, indeed.

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Portland seems like a lifetime away, though we were only there a few weeks ago. Rand had a conference, and I popped down with him, because I love Portland, and it’s just so damn close to Seattle (a three-hour-drive) that I couldn’t think of a legtimate reason for staying at home.

Besides, there’s just so much damn crazy that happens on the stretch of I-5 between Seattle and Portland. Last time, we saw someone who had decorated their mini-van in homage to the Jonas Brothers for whatever reason. Honestly, if you asked me to turn my car into a shrine for any of the following, I would be game: Indiana Jones, movie-theater popcorn (I love popcorn), the musical stylings of William Shatner, and/or comfortable footwear.

But the Jonas Brothers? What. The. Hell. I suppose, though, it’s about as legitimate as this guy, who turned his vehicle into a billboard for, well, I don’t know what.

I read this four times and still have no idea what it means.

The huge sign affixed to the back of his car reads: “All Christians & Atheists judge and deny Jesus is the god of life in us all & die blaspheming the whole I spirit.”

I dare anyone to make less sense.

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Sometimes things don’t always go as smoothly as I would like in my family. Things become exponentially more complicated by the fact that I’m so close with my cousins that it’s like I have scores of older brothers. And while that can occasionally be fun, it also has its downside: that there are that many more people to fight with, viciously and angrily. The way that only siblings can.

This isn’t really a post about that. It’s more a post about swallowing your pride, accepting that things change, and realizing that while it may suck a little, sometimes a great breakfast is all it takes to fix things.

That, and some kissing seals.

We used San Diego as a jumping-off point for a trip to New Orleans for Rachel and Chris’ wedding. On Saturday morning, before we were scheduled to leave for Louisiana (a trip which was an adventure unto itself), my cousin and his fiancee invited us out to La Jolla for breakfast.

Mending fences and all that jazz.

La Jolla has a sort of opulence I’m not really used to. We have a bit of that in Seattle, but we don’t have streets and streets full of untouchable homes built into cliffsides above a beaches. Houses that rarely go on sale, and if they do, it’s handled by Sotheby’s. In a way, such decadent surroundings make Brockton Villa Restaurant even more refreshing.

It’s the sort of place that couldn’t be built today – the building has been around for over 100 years, so it’s protected by the city from new construction and development, and it’s grandfathered in, making it exempt from a lot of zoning rules and regulations. I’m fairly sure that now you couldn’t have a restaurant on that spot, but the Brockton Villa has been there forever.

Behind and all around are ridiculously expensive homes, condos, and hotels.

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I was trying to think of a more clever name for this post, something like “Tuesdays with Dharmie” or something, but I think he might sue me if I called him that. Not because he’s overly-litigious or anything, but that title is awful.

I’ve mentioned Dharmesh on the blog before – he’s a colleague of Rand’s, but referring to him as such makes him sound stodgy and boring and not the sort who would be up for hopping in a car and driving to dinner, despite the fact that no one in the vehicle had any idea where we going. Oh, and I, directionally challenged and spacey, was the driver.

So, no, he’s definitely not stodgy. So perhaps I should just say, “My friend Dharmesh” instead.

This is a post about the dinner I had with my friend Dharmesh, while we were in San Diego a few weeks ago.

The first night, Rand was busy with something-or-other, so we had to go out without him. This already makes an evening exponentially less fun, so to counteract it, I invited our friend Lauren. (more…)

“… I think it’s repellant in every way. In fact, I think most Scottish cuisine is based on a dare.” – Mike Myers, So I Married An Axe Murderer
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I didn’t find haggis repellant: just for the record. It tastes like all other offal, like liver or kidneys, which I rather enjoy, even though my aunt describes them as “tasting of urine.” (Note: never tell her you love something she hates, because she will try to destroy it in your heart. She doesn’t mean to be evil … she just is.) Trube told, the hubby and I rather liked haggis. I wouldn’t eat it everyday, nor do I think it would make good hangover food. But as a bite here and there? Pretty fantastic.

All in all, Scottish food has a fairly bad reputation (especially stateside. Tell me the last time you visited a Scottish restaurant), but there are definitely some culinary bright spots during our trip to Glasgow. (more…)

Originally an east-coaster, my husband maintains that Seattle is a pretty easy town in which to make a good impression. We tell each other snobbish little jokes on the topic all the time …

Me: If you want to be the best-dressed person in a Seattle bar, what should you wear?

Rand: What?

Me: Your clean jeans!

or …

Rand: How do you get a standing ovation from a Seattle audience?

Me: How?

Rand: Finish the show.

Ba-da-dum!

The fact is, for how snobbish and elitist us Northwesterners supposedly are, we can be very, very easily impressed. Plays, music shows, and, most importantly, restaurants, are often over-hyped. That’s not to say that we have a shortage of awesome places to eat in Seattle – quite the contrary. We have plenty of great spots to grab a bite. But often, they’re not the places that get the most attention. In an effort to balance out the playing field, I’ve compiled a list of some of the most over-hyped restaurants/eateries in all of Seattle, along with a few alternatives that will hopefully spare you some time, money, and grief. (more…)

When I told a few friends we were going to Chicago, the suggestion that kept popping up was The Signature Room on the 95th floor of the John Hancock Center. The top of the Hancock Center has amazing views, and you can either go up to the observation deck (at a minimum admission price of $15) or you can get sloshed on the floor below at the Signature Room (high altitudes make you drunker quicker, I think) and just pay for drinks.

Go ahead. Guess which one we chose?

The pros: it's a hot chocolate. AND it's alcoholic. The cons: It's $13.

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There are times when I miss having a nine-to-five job. Those moments are fleeting – like those rare occassions during summer vacation when you begin to long for school. They vanish almost as soon as they appear, as you tell yourself to enjoy the now, because this seemingly endless vacation of staying up late and eating microwave popcorn for dinner can’t last forever.

Probably.

More than anything, though, I miss the people I worked with. I still see a lot of them semi-regularly, but it will never be the way it was when were crammed into our offices at Cranium: deliriously trying to think up taglines, hacking chocolate Santas to bits with kitchen knives and eating the carnage, rearranging the magnetic letters on the fridge to prophesize our own company’s doom. (more…)