A Bloody Good Boat Noodle

Mmm…bloody boat noodles. Photo: Flickr/djjewelz

As the eldest son of a doctor and a nurse, I have become numb to blood. Talk of tricky needles was bandied about like baseball scores, and the plentiful sights of IV bags and gauze punctuated visits to my parents’ hospitals and nursing homes.

Thus, I am not freaked out by gashes and scrapes, punctures and pricks. Eating blood? One St. Patrick’s Day, I began my morn with eggs and blood pudding. The mixture of grains and hemoglobin was desert-dry and intensely minerally, akin to licking an iron bar in the desert. Another time, congee mixed with thick, arterial-toned slices of congealed pig’s blood triggered an instant gag reflex. My throat was a one-way street.

But a man can’t live his culinary life in fear. So last week in Los Angeles I decided to once more give blood a whirl. After an early morning appearance on Playboy Morning Radio, a radio show that features a former Playmate as an anchor, I convinced my driver—well, friend Steve—to steer us to Saap Coffee Shop for an early morning lunch. Continue reading

Sorry, Tagine. It’s Lobster Time

Spider crabs, by way of Morocco. Photo: Jenene Chesbrough

Perhaps I would’ve had a different opinion of Moroccan cuisine if the first thing I ate upon landing in Marrakesh were not a spongy mass of lamb mammary.

That flan-colored, disturbingly luscious flesh sent my stomach roiling, leaving my appetite on rocky seas. Over the ensuing days, I barely touched my steaming tagine stuffed with sardine meatballs, or the spicy merguez sausages that were greasier than a teen’s complexion. Typically, I would’ve found some measure of culinary pleasure within this distant-land sustenance, but the sights and smells of Moroccan fare set off intestinal alarms: Do not eat.

As the days passed, my wife noticed my distress. “You’re not eating,” she said. “What’s wrong?” I explained to her my distaste with Moroccan food. I never quite cottoned to the reliance upon turmeric, pillowy piles of couscous or the dubious pleasures of cinnamon-sprinkled pigeon pie.

“I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s go to Oualidia.” Located on the Atlantic coast, Oualidia is a tiny fishing town known for its oysters, crabs, clams and other aquatic delights. Each morning, sun-browned, forehead-creased men alight into the salty, wave-smacked waters, returning with the day’s catch. Much of this fare does not make it to market. That’s because when the fishermen return, they sell their watery wares on the beach. Clams are bisected before your eyes, while fish is filleted and spindly spider crabs are cooked on sand-encased charcoal grills. It’s impossibly fresh food: alive one moment, in your belly the next.

After checking into our hotel room, my wife and I made haste to the beach with our friends Bati and Emily, with whom we were traveling. We’d been driving all day and were ravenous. We spread out our beach blankets and planted an umbrella in the sand. Within minutes, a shoeless chef approached us with his menu of the day. Continue reading

Great Cookbooks for Holiday Gifts

For the holidays, I was asked to join a virtual potluck. Since the digital realm precludes me from bringing oodles of beer (which is my trademark!), I was partnered with a fellow writer and tasked to clack out a book review and a tasty, tasty recipe. Below, check out the links to more cookbooks and recipes. Remember, if you get hungry, it’s not my fault. Continue reading

Meet the Jucy Lucy

Meet the Jucy Lucy, a burger that breaks the rules: cheese on the inside?! And no “i” in the word “juicy.”

Ladies and gentlemen, can you imagine a world without sandwiches? That would mean lunchboxes lacking PB&Js, delis deficient in turkey-and-Swiss, Cuban lunch counters lacking the Cubano—in short, a life not worth living. Luckily, that long-ago innovator took knife to loaf, slicing bread and paving the way for centuries of handheld edible innovation, which is proudly on display in Susan Russo’s sumptuously photographed The Encyclopedia of Sandwiches.

In this chunky cookbook, the San Diego–based author and brains behind  Food Blogga delves deep into the sandwich universe. Smartly, she sprinkles in equal measures of history and trivia alongside the hundreds of recipes for double-handed delicacies ranging from New Orleans’ olive salad–slathered muffuletta to Chicago’s hot, juicy Italian beef—and even the Fluffernutter too.

While I consider myself sort of a resourceful, freeform sandwich maker (whatever’s in my fridge goes between two slices of bread), I was most captivated by the stories of regional delicacies such as the chow mein sandwich popular in New England and the spiedie. While the name may recall a tight-fitting swimsuit, the spiedie has its roots in spiedini: the Italian word for grilled skewered meat, seafood or vegetables. Slide the skewer into a submarine roll, and you’ll soon be eating the pride of Binghamton, New York.

Hungry yet? Try this easy, tasty recipe for one of my favorite calories-be-damned indulgences: the inside-out Jucy Lucy cheeseburger, which is the joy of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Continue reading

A Wish List for the Craft Beer Industry


By all accounts, it’s a charmed time to be a craft beer drinker. There are more than 1,700 breweries in America, with more than 700 in the planning stages. Pint by pint, brewers are forging a new identity for American beer, creating suds that are respected— and lauded — on an international stage.

But still, I want more. Forget the socks, sweaters and new toaster: This holiday season, I’d be happier than a clam in its shell if some of these wishes came true. Hanukkah Harry, are you listening? Check out Food Republic for my 1o picks.

Black Friday Brewed Awakening Sale

Photo: Silverfox09

To commemorate today’s crazy shopping kickoff, I’m selling discounted signed copies of Brewed Awakening. For $21.95 ($4 off list price till 11/28), you get an autographed copy of the hardcover, full-color book (please send me any dedication you desire), two full-color coasters of the book cover, plus a limited-edition button or two. Cost includes shipping and handling within the continental United States. I will also seal the envelope with my own two hands.  I will also lick the envelope, too, if that’s what you want.

And now back to your regularly scheduled shopping blitz.

P.S. Yes, the book costs a bit more from me than Amazon, but this way the sales directly support the author. And you get a signed copy. And buttons. Buttons!

The South Is Rising—at the Bar

Meet the crew from Louisiana’s Bayou Teche, who are rewriting the Southern template for beer.

As a city, New Orleans excels in the culinary arena. It makes the marvelously meaty, olive-strewn muffaletta sandwich. Crusty po’boys packed with fried oysters and shrimp are tasty to the last crumb. The absinthe-haunted Sazerac cocktail exemplifies potent balance. But beer, well, that’s barely an afterthought.

In New Orleans, beer has long been consumed by the Big Gulp, with quantity mattering more than quality. Miller High Life and its watery ilk are as omnipresent as beads come Mardi Gras. Down in the Crescent City, it seems like nary a shot has been fired in the craft beer revolution.

At least that’s what I thought until I arrived at the Avenue Pub last week. Ostensibly, I was in town for a family reunion (it’s a long story how three dozen New York–bred Jews ended up in the Big Easy). While there, I thought, I might as well add a stop to my Brewed Awakening book tour. But where to go? I doubted anyone on Bourbon Street, home to three-for-one Buds and Hurricanes as sweet as Halloween candy, gave a damn about a book on craft beer.

“Go to Avenue Pub,” offered my friend Joel, a longtime NOLA resident. In the last couple years, I learned, Avenue Pub seriously upgraded its tap lines, offering dozens of drafts focused on of-the-moment American and European ales and lagers. Sure, it’s terrific to carry Sierra Nevada and Stone. But upon arriving at the Avenue (located off the St. Charles Avenue street-car line), I was more struck by the breadth and scope of novel locally brewed beer. From Mississippi, Lazy Magnolia made a marvelous stout hewn with sweet potatoes, as well as an ale dosed with pecans. Louisiana’s Bayou Teche turned out beers suited to the Southern palate. And right in town, NOLA Brewing crafted the pungent Hopitoulas IPA, which could stand toe-to-toe with anything from the West Coast.

I spent the evening sampling brews from below the Mason-Dixon Line, finding a delightfully idiosyncratic craft beer culture on the rise. Curious about which Southern beers are worth seeking out next time you make it down to New Orleans? Check out the rest of my story at Food Republic.

When Beer Met Whiskey

Though the book tour has been utter madness, I’ve still been able to eke out a few minutes here and there to pen stories such as this doozy in the latest Imbibe. At its core, whiskey is basically unhopped beer (dubbed wash) that’s been distilled, then aged in oak barrels.

By and large, most distilleries don’t give a darn about creating a flavorful wash. Instead, they’re most concerned with creating the largest measure of fermentable liquids. But lately, distillers have been thinking a lot like brewers, creating imperial stouts that are distilled down, or even dosing white dog with Centennial hops. It’s a tasty development, one that’s blurring the lines between distilleries and breweries—some of which double as distilleries. Check out my story in the magazine this month. Any thoughts? I’m curious to hear what you think about this burgeoning new genre.

Brewed Awakening: The Video!

I will let the video do all the talking. And yes, I did drink a beer mixed with an egg.

What I’ve Learned From My Book Tour (Part 1)

Meet me and you, too, can own this pin!

After spending the last five days promoting the heck out of Brewed Awakening, I can safely say that my bloodstream is at least 12 percent beer—largely composed of imperial stouts and other delicious treats of the craft beer world.

From Brooklyn to Portland, Maine, to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to Boston and back home, I’ve met hundreds of beer drinkers that reaffirm my one core belief: There are no jerks in craft beer. Everyone has been wildly friendly, rolling out an IPA-soaked carpet everywhere we go. Yet I’ve learned a few core lessons that have helped me survive:

* Bring more pins! I’m a button fiend, and I decided that it would be great to create pins for the tour (see above). But I had no idea how many pins people would snap up. We burned through nearly 300 in just four days. But never fear! We will make more on the double. And perhaps some special-edition pins t00.

* Eat dinner. Going on a book tour is a lot like a wedding. Everyone is so eager to chat that food sometimes falls by the wayside. One day, I had a single fried egg till 7 p.m. Strangely, there’s never a shortage of beer.

* Sleep in. The evening book events sometimes stretch deep into the night. An extra hour of shut-eye makes me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—and eager to have another beer, then another.

* Enjoy the ride. It’s easy to get caught up in the crazy stresses and constant travel. It’s a bit like riding a tornado. But I’m happy to endure sleep deprivation and minor morning hangovers. After 11 years of being a freelance writer, I’m finally in charge of my destiny, writing about a subject I love best and spreading the good-beer gospel. Sometimes I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

P.S. This week, I’ll be hitting Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, Manhattan, Brooklyn and New Orleans. Phew! Check out my schedule and come say hey!

Brewed Awakening Release Day Is Here!

I wrote a book!

Nearly 18 months after this long, crazy-making book-writing journey began, the day is finally upon me: My book on the craft beer revolution, Brewed Awakening, has finally been released. Thank heavens. Writing a book is a marathon, not the hourly blog-post sprint or even the leisurely monthly stroll to the finish line. I’ve been excited and angry, nervous and world-weary with this whole process. I’ve bitched. I’ve moaned. But you know what? Today, I couldn’t be happier.

Eleven years ago yesterday, I arrived in New York City with little more than a backpack and, well, not a single dream. I did not come here to make it big in journalism. I came here because my friend had a free bedroom in Astoria, and my only other option was going back to Ohio and sharing a bunk bed with my little brother.

But over time, I could not resist the trumpet call of journalism. Or maybe I was just sick of being a receptionist. No matter what, I’ve spent the last decade toiling away, taking assignments both terrible and terrific, writing so, so many words. However, that’s neither here nor there. What matters now is this: It’s November 1, and I’m holding my first book in my hands. It’s time to have a beer. Care to join me for a pint?

A Tribute to the White Castle Slider

Hello, my favorite drunk food. Photo: Flickr/soupstance

*Note: This story first appeared on Food Republic. Check out the original!

The first time I ate a White Castle hamburger I was wildly stoned, the kind of brain-fried high you only get when you’re 17 and sitting in a friend’s car, listening to Built To Spill and cruising around the suburbs with no destination in mind.

At a stoplight, my friend Tim turned around and stared at the red-eyed quartet crowded into his backseat. He drove the sort of massive, maroon-hued American auto that late-’70s pimps favored, meaning that four could commandeer the rear and still have wiggle room. “You guys need to eat,” he said. “You need White Castle.”

We pulled into a parking lot and entered the dumpy, fortress-shaped White Castle, which recalled the dingy home of a once-regal king exiled to the suburbs and forced to work for minimum wage. At the time, I toiled for minimum wage, manning the deep fryer for Burger King. My bank account hovered in the low three digits, meaning I could make the rare splurge on dirt weed, the occasional CD, a late-night meal of Waffle House hash browns and, indeed, fast food.

“Everything is so…cheap,” I mumbled, mesmerized by the fluorescent lights and signs touting burgers for less than 50 cents. With the five-dollar bill in my wallet, I could eat like royalty—the king of White Castle. “Seven sliders,” I ordered, then watched the bored, grease-sheened cooks work their magic. Continue reading