General Tso’s Chicken is the best food in the world. This is what it tastes like: mad scientists combined the DNA of an eagle, a lion, a dinosaur, and Aron Ralston AKA the guy from the James Franco movie who cut his own arm off with a Leatherman tool in order to escape a ravine. Then they took the resulting badass mutant bird and assassinated it using the only means possible to kill such a resilient beast: they had to throw it into the sun. Then, using a space craft and several million miles of special towing cables, they removed the carcass, rolled it in uncut cocaine, and deep fried it. Then they coated it in Christina Hendrick’s vaginal juices. The resulting delicious gleaming abomination is General Tso’s Chicken.
I’m a HUGE fan of the General’s. I once wrote nostalgic paean to the General since it is unquestionably my favorite food. But my absolute favorite purveyor of the General closed in 2006, and I hadn’t been able to find a suitable replacement in Seattle. So in the true martial tradition of the A-Team and other buddy movies with an ensemble cast, I recruited a crack team of fellow gourmands to help me track down Seattle’s most delicious iteration of General Tso’s Chicken.
Joining me in my quest were men whose palates I trust without question, men with august personages and huge penises who are leaders in their respective fields: Matthew Amster- Burton is a well-known local food writer and a fellow General Tso’s aficionado. Langdon Cook is an author and professional forager, whose poetic turns of phrase are surpassed only by his ability to discover a bunch of killer shrooms. Marc Schermerhorn is a food blogger and an experienced chef who’s staged at Alinea and Allium on Orcas. Henry Lo is an architect and experienced home cook. Henry is also a true General Tso’s authority: a family friend of his is a chef who studied under Peng Chang-kuei, the Chinese chef who INVENTED THE GENERAL TSO’S RECIPE. And so with my expert cabal assembled, we ventured afield.
Louie’s Cuisine of China was our first stop. Nuggets of breast meat were doused in a light sauce. The meat itself was a little dry, though not offensively so. The batter was very airy; indeed, it manifested itself as a bare dusty coating on the surface of each nugget. The sauce managed to be sweet without being syrupy. A good plate of the General usually comes with a couple florets of steamed broccoli, but Louie’s version didn’t include any. While I assigned demerits for the lack of the General’s native flora, some of my colleagues disagreed. Langdon was quite smitten with Louie’s, ranking it as his favorite, and Matthew scoffed at my proposed rating for Louie’s. “I’d give it a 10 for no broccoli.” But I’m writing this review, Matthew, and not you.
Rating: 7 Louie’s out of 10.
Judy Fu’s Snappy Dragon was next up, and I must say, with absolute clarity and a complete lack of obsfucation, that they failed to not disappoint. Judy Fu’s failure was surprising given that the hand-shaved noodles they serve there are the second best shaved thing in the world. However, this usually reliable Maple Leaf institution was a stalwart in the worst sense of the world: it was stale and tasted like warts. These limp- wristed slabs of pity were shrouded in a puffy winding sheet of soggy batter and condemned to an ignoble burial at sea in a bland ocean of slimy sauce. Visually, Judy Fu’s General was quite striking, shellacked an impetuous and glossy maroon, like a lacquered box found at an estate sale. But unlike in nature, where the vivid colors of toxic South American frogs and treacherous butterflies serve as a visual growl to predators, Judy Fu’s General had no bite: spice was nonexistent and the tang was muted. It tasted like watered- down Aunt Jemima’s. Sad. It wasn’t the worst version of the General we tasted on our campaign, but given Snappy Dragon’s reputation, it was the biggest letdown. This General deserves a court martial.
Rating: 2 defanged predators out of 10
Black Pearl is just down the street from Judy Fu’s and we managed to infiltrate the premises just before closing. Black Pearl’s version of the General was okay: massive hunks of chicken breast were crusted in a lackadaisical batter, which was serviceable, if spongy, much like your mom. The chicken was glossed over with an unlikely sauce which somehow managed to be both spicy and bland at the same time. While it wasn’t too bad, Black Pearl’s General Tso’s is hardly the stuff of legend.
Rating: 5 serviceable, spongy batters out of 10
Chiang’s Gourmet proved to be quite the conundrum. On paper, at least, Chiang’s General should have been superlative: juicy nuggets of thigh meat were jacketed in a really crunchy crust. These nuggets cavorted playfully amid a tangy citrusy sauce with a rumbling heat. Everyone besides me seemed to enjoy Chiang’s General, but I kept getting overcooked pieces: while the sauce was good, the batter seemed to be scorched and the meat was stringy and dry. “You must’ve gotten a rogue piece,” Henry offered, but if I did then it must’ve been a rogue dynasty, because the second piece I ate was easily the Kim Jong- Il of General Tso’s Chicken. Still, Chiang’s gets a boost in the ratings from me because the sweet and spicy sauce was quite tasty, and I was clearly the victim of a statistical outlier.
Rating: 4 outliers out of 10
China Harbor did a pretty good job: hearty slabs of poultry stare up at you from beneath a glistening bronze pool of sticky and vinegary sauce. The crust is deceptively crisp; it looks like it would be flabby yet somehow, blessedly, it isn’t. Yet China Harbor is such a wacky fucking place, the décor almost detracts from the food: it’s not only a restaurant, it’s also a fucking marina. And there’s an indoor swimming pool. The dated interior décor sports the classic red-on-black color scheme and musty Victorian chinoiserie of the old Chinese restaurants of yesteryear. It’s the kind of place where it seems like people should legally still be allowed to smoke inside. It’s the kind of place where Jews eat on Christmas Day. The panoramic view of Lake Union can’t be beat, but unfortunately the General cares not for such things. After all, what is best in life? To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women: these things are best in life.
Rating: 6 pieces of chinoiserie out of 10
As far as asian restaurants go, Monsoon rivals perhaps only Wild Ginger as the most popular among crackers. Seriously, Monsoon’s Drunken Chicken is the white-breadiest dish on the menu of one of the whitest restaurants in Honkey Town, also known as the back side of Capitol Hill. True, it technically isn’t called “General Tso’s,” but here we just assumed that the General was going undercover, because while Monsoon’s Drunken Chicken might violate the letter of General Tso’s iron-fisted law, it joyfully embraces its spirit. Tender cuts of chicken breast, juicy like an issue of Us Weekly, were breaded in a crisp batter that practically fragmented when bitten into, and painted with a complex and subtle sauce that managed to negotiate the fine line between sweet and sour. The Drunken Chicken was dusted in sesame seeds and served on a sprightly bed of sautéed yu choy. Masterful.
Rating: 8.5 delicious examples of deliciousness out of 10
At this point we suffered our first casualty: Matthew had to go home, but he urged the rest of his comrades to soldier on. So we did. The last battle of the campaign took place at Honey Court. Honey Court’s General Tso’s was universally panned by my compatriots, but I found it intriguing. True, the desiccated shreds of chicken breast were sheathed in a limp parka of foamy batter, and the sauce had too much cornstarch, which gave it the consistency of the swill found on the floor of a peep show. Despite all of that, I rather enjoyed it, in a perverse way, mostly because I liked the flavor of the sauce: it was tangy and bright orange, with a vinegary heat, as if they mixed a bottle of Frank’s Red Hot with corn starch slurry. Honey Court’s General Tso’s Chicken fails on almost every level, but the sauce was different, at least. Accompanying the General were a couple stiff green broccoli florets, glossy and dense like the plastic food inside a floor model refrigerator at Sear’s.
Rating: 1 slurry out of 10
The General is a formidable foe, and his chicken is not to be fucked with. Many places try in vain to capture the General’s flag, but end up, like your mom, looking like a homeless asshole with a dick in her mouth. Yet a few masters do in fact turn out a respectable homage to General Tso’s greatness. Now you know.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Lecosho
Lecosho is so goddamned awesome, Jesus Christ obviously came back from the dead to eat there. Unfortunately, Jesus's timing sucks because he came back from the dead a couple thousand years too early to eat at Lecosho, which sucks for him and all the zillions of people who died without eating there. Almost as motherfucking awesome as Lecosho is the fact that Word’s spell check software recognizes “motherfucking” but not “Lecosho.” That’s progress.
The handmade spaetzle ($6) was tasty. This price got you a big bowl filled with shitloads of chewy pasta squiggles, the golden- brown ringlets mounded up, like a careless toss of a pretty girl’s head on a summer day. This cascade was topped with a gossamer pile of microplaned romano, like cheesy dandruff on Goldilocks’ scalp.
$6 also got us a bowl of balsamic lentils with potatoes. The French puy lentils, heaped up like gleaming emeralds in a long- lost undersea treasure chest, were perfectly cooked. The eponymous balsamic vinegar kept a respectful distance; with each bite the vinegar made itself known without yelling “IT’S ME, MOTHERFUCKING BALSAMIC VINEGAR BITCHES” at the top of its vinegary lungs. Atop this savory pile were three medallions of grilled potato, seared a pleasing burnt sienna outside, soft and pillowy inside.
Grilled polenta was, at $6, similarly priced and also similarly as awesome. Three scalene triangles of polenta, sides perfectly straight as though cut by industrial machinery, were crusty outside yet as fluffy and silken as a cloud of pussies within. They were lightly salted and graced, like the spaetzle, with another microplaned drift of romano.
Housemade sausage with roasted cabbage and apple slaw ($10) was okay. The sausage itself was so fucking good, I’m totally gay for this sausage: when cut into, this juicy glans of pork sausage ejaculated a lurid gout of juice all over the plate. The meat was delicately seasoned, and very finely ground into a perfect sausage. Sadly, there was only one of these awesome homoerotic sausages for the huge- ass bowl of cabbage. The roasted cabbage and apple slaw was great: crisp, sweet, maybe a bit too tart, and did not at all smell even the slightest bit flatulent, as cabbage sometimes can. A dressing of housemade mustard came close to overwhelming the slaw, but those canny Lecosho assholes stepped right back from the brink, and so it tasted (mostly) balanced.
Spicy coppa salad ($9) was the only thing I’d consider a misstep. Arugla, pickled beets, and a couple blobs of goat cheese were piled atop a couple thin slices of coppa. Like a bitchy Republican from a Podunk congressional district, these beets screamed red- faced at full volume, dominating the proceedings. The goat cheese, obviously designed to buffer the beet’s tirade, proved ineffective at quelling the uproar. Unlike the balsamic vinegar in the aforementioned lentils and potatoes, the pickled beets didn’t have the good sense to back the fuck off. The spiciness of the coppa only added fuel to the fire, intensifying the bitchy flavor. Each bite of this salad was like licking a brass doorknob with lightning bolts shooting out of it. The arugula was fresh, at least.
Cavatelli ($15), on the other hand, managed to be spicy without losing its cool (just like me). This price got us a big bowl of cavatelli, which was supple and folded into little packets, like a magnificent pile of pasta vaginas. These labial folds were evenly painted with a rich orange tomato sauce. The sauce, like the coppa salad, had a sultry, unapologetic heat, but the creaminess of this sauce kept it from flying off the handle. Bitter skeins of braised kale twisted throughout the bowl, and the whole thing was topped with the recurring pile of finely grated cheese.
But probably the BEST FUCKING THING we ate was the porchetta. Affordably priced at $17, we got a huge meaty slab of porchetta. If you don’t know what porchetta is, allow me to explain with this fanciful meaty analogy: imagine a world made entirely of meat. The crown prince of this fleshy land is a fat kid, whose torso is made of meatloaf, his cock is a salami, and each of his legs is a whole prosciutto. His fiery, proud eyes are spicy meatballs, and instead of freckles, his nose is dotted with bacon bits. All hail King Meatyass! In his hand he holds the sacred symbol of his office, Porchetta: a pinwheel made of meat, this holy relic spins lazily in the carnivorous wind which blows across King Meatyass’s kingdom.
Maybe I went too far with that dumb fantasy. After all, how unrealistic is that? Kings don’t carry pinwheels! Duh. But that’s what porchetta is: a pinwheel made of pork. Lecosho’s porchetta was superb. A whole pork tenderloin was rolled up in pork belly like a jelly roll, then the whole thing was roasted. Sliced into cross- sections and finished in a pan, the belly was as yielding and juicy as when your girlfriend comes home drunk, and the central core of tenderloin was, after having been constantly basted by the fat of the belly, tender like a skinned knee The porchetta was perfectly seasoned, with a rind of crisp skin, and served on top of a mound of white beans and thinly sliced baby turnip. The beans were creamy, and the baby turnips, cute little while minarets, each topped with a precious green crewcut, were piquant and sweet. It doesn’t, my friends, get better than this.
We didn’t get dessert because that's for people who mourn an unrequited love and read the Twilight books. If you’re still hungry, get more porchetta.
Lecosho is badass. Unfortunately for Jesus and George Washington and Rick James and all of the other sad motherfuckers who died, they will never be able to eat at Lecosho, but I lived long enough, so fuck you, dead people.
Rating: 9.5 dead out of 10
Lecosho is located at 89 University St at the Harbor Steps
For reservations call 206-623-2101
The handmade spaetzle ($6) was tasty. This price got you a big bowl filled with shitloads of chewy pasta squiggles, the golden- brown ringlets mounded up, like a careless toss of a pretty girl’s head on a summer day. This cascade was topped with a gossamer pile of microplaned romano, like cheesy dandruff on Goldilocks’ scalp.
$6 also got us a bowl of balsamic lentils with potatoes. The French puy lentils, heaped up like gleaming emeralds in a long- lost undersea treasure chest, were perfectly cooked. The eponymous balsamic vinegar kept a respectful distance; with each bite the vinegar made itself known without yelling “IT’S ME, MOTHERFUCKING BALSAMIC VINEGAR BITCHES” at the top of its vinegary lungs. Atop this savory pile were three medallions of grilled potato, seared a pleasing burnt sienna outside, soft and pillowy inside.
Grilled polenta was, at $6, similarly priced and also similarly as awesome. Three scalene triangles of polenta, sides perfectly straight as though cut by industrial machinery, were crusty outside yet as fluffy and silken as a cloud of pussies within. They were lightly salted and graced, like the spaetzle, with another microplaned drift of romano.
Housemade sausage with roasted cabbage and apple slaw ($10) was okay. The sausage itself was so fucking good, I’m totally gay for this sausage: when cut into, this juicy glans of pork sausage ejaculated a lurid gout of juice all over the plate. The meat was delicately seasoned, and very finely ground into a perfect sausage. Sadly, there was only one of these awesome homoerotic sausages for the huge- ass bowl of cabbage. The roasted cabbage and apple slaw was great: crisp, sweet, maybe a bit too tart, and did not at all smell even the slightest bit flatulent, as cabbage sometimes can. A dressing of housemade mustard came close to overwhelming the slaw, but those canny Lecosho assholes stepped right back from the brink, and so it tasted (mostly) balanced.
Spicy coppa salad ($9) was the only thing I’d consider a misstep. Arugla, pickled beets, and a couple blobs of goat cheese were piled atop a couple thin slices of coppa. Like a bitchy Republican from a Podunk congressional district, these beets screamed red- faced at full volume, dominating the proceedings. The goat cheese, obviously designed to buffer the beet’s tirade, proved ineffective at quelling the uproar. Unlike the balsamic vinegar in the aforementioned lentils and potatoes, the pickled beets didn’t have the good sense to back the fuck off. The spiciness of the coppa only added fuel to the fire, intensifying the bitchy flavor. Each bite of this salad was like licking a brass doorknob with lightning bolts shooting out of it. The arugula was fresh, at least.
Cavatelli ($15), on the other hand, managed to be spicy without losing its cool (just like me). This price got us a big bowl of cavatelli, which was supple and folded into little packets, like a magnificent pile of pasta vaginas. These labial folds were evenly painted with a rich orange tomato sauce. The sauce, like the coppa salad, had a sultry, unapologetic heat, but the creaminess of this sauce kept it from flying off the handle. Bitter skeins of braised kale twisted throughout the bowl, and the whole thing was topped with the recurring pile of finely grated cheese.
But probably the BEST FUCKING THING we ate was the porchetta. Affordably priced at $17, we got a huge meaty slab of porchetta. If you don’t know what porchetta is, allow me to explain with this fanciful meaty analogy: imagine a world made entirely of meat. The crown prince of this fleshy land is a fat kid, whose torso is made of meatloaf, his cock is a salami, and each of his legs is a whole prosciutto. His fiery, proud eyes are spicy meatballs, and instead of freckles, his nose is dotted with bacon bits. All hail King Meatyass! In his hand he holds the sacred symbol of his office, Porchetta: a pinwheel made of meat, this holy relic spins lazily in the carnivorous wind which blows across King Meatyass’s kingdom.
Maybe I went too far with that dumb fantasy. After all, how unrealistic is that? Kings don’t carry pinwheels! Duh. But that’s what porchetta is: a pinwheel made of pork. Lecosho’s porchetta was superb. A whole pork tenderloin was rolled up in pork belly like a jelly roll, then the whole thing was roasted. Sliced into cross- sections and finished in a pan, the belly was as yielding and juicy as when your girlfriend comes home drunk, and the central core of tenderloin was, after having been constantly basted by the fat of the belly, tender like a skinned knee The porchetta was perfectly seasoned, with a rind of crisp skin, and served on top of a mound of white beans and thinly sliced baby turnip. The beans were creamy, and the baby turnips, cute little while minarets, each topped with a precious green crewcut, were piquant and sweet. It doesn’t, my friends, get better than this.
We didn’t get dessert because that's for people who mourn an unrequited love and read the Twilight books. If you’re still hungry, get more porchetta.
Lecosho is badass. Unfortunately for Jesus and George Washington and Rick James and all of the other sad motherfuckers who died, they will never be able to eat at Lecosho, but I lived long enough, so fuck you, dead people.
Rating: 9.5 dead out of 10
Lecosho is located at 89 University St at the Harbor Steps
For reservations call 206-623-2101
Monday, May 02, 2011
Requiescat in pace, Mrs. Ricketts
Kim Ricketts died last week. A lot of people have already discussed her untimely demise, but I wanted to talk about it too: she was one of the most awesomely outrageous women I have ever known, and I respected her a lot. She was the only mom on earth exempt from my jokes about your mom.
I’ll never forget the day we met. It was day two of Foodista’s very first International Food Blogger’s Conference. It was just after lunch. I had eaten enough food to make a hippo become bulimic, all of it masterfully prepared by expert delishtards like Mark Fuller and Brian Cartenuto and Keith Luce. Elise Bauer or Molly Wizenberg or somebody was instructing everyone in the audience on how to become beloved by billions of housewives. The mid afternoon sun was slanting in through the windows, hammering me in the face, and suddenly all the tequila shots I had drunk caught up to me, and I nodded off. When I opened my eyes, this lady at the next table was staring directly at me, laughing. Weird laugh, crooked smile: Kim Ricketts.
During the break I introduced myself to Mrs. Ricketts. We talked about reading and writing and Sour Patch Kids and Conan the Barbarian. She had a distinctive voice. It was weathered and lilting, cracking on the high notes: this was the sound of a $1000 a day Ricola habit. And that motherfucking laugh: wheezing, squealing, like a cigar-smoking chihuahua. It was like her vocal cords were made out of an old baseball glove.
She was charming, savvy, literate, and fucking generous. The same night I met her, she introduced me to Ruth Reichl and, I proudly recall, referred to me as “one of the best food writers in Seattle.” I instantly knew that Mrs. Ricketts was my kind of people, and not just because of her effusive praise (although that really helped). Someone more concerned about politics would never have risked her own reputation by exposing the Archduchess of culinary journalism to an unknown douche with a penchant for jokes about your mom.
That was one of the great things about Mrs. Ricketts: sometimes she really just didn’t give a fuck. She was fearless. A couple years ago she invited me to dine with her at the Ruins. The dinner conversation, of course, was stellar, but the food was less than awesome: there was turtle soup, and roasted duck breast, and a bigass steak, but nothing to write home about. After dinner she asked me what I thought about the menu. I lied politely about how good it was, but Mrs. Ricketts was having none of it. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she hissed, “because I thought it sucked.” And one time she told me the lurid story about how, when she was pregnant, her water broke in the bathroom at Vito’s. It was probably the third time I met her when she revealed this.
She could also be a total harpy if you crossed her. Last October she hosted a reception for Renee Redzepi at Mistral Kitchen. Redzepi, chef at NOMA restaurant in Copenhagen, was in town promoting his new cookbook, but Mrs. Ricketts was SUPER PISSED for some reason. Later on I found out what was going on: to make a long story short, Mistral Kitchen proprietor William Belickis had somehow tried to double cross her. After Redzepi left, Mrs. Ricketts and I retired to the Palace Kitchen for a drink. She was adamant that I write about Belickis’s attempt to steal her thunder. “PLEASE,” she told me, “make sure to tell everyone that I will never work with William Belickis again!” Now you know.
Anyway, I was as shocked as everyone to hear that this woman, once so full of piss vinaigrette, had been stricken with cancer. She was stuck in the hospital for what seemed like a long time. I got a few emails from her, and followed her Twitter stream, and she seemed upbeat. I thought for sure she was going to defy the odds and survive. After all, this woman was fearless. If she could handle Marco Pierre White (“That man is a vampire!”) then cancer would be a fucking cakewalk.
But she didn’t survive. She was gone, so suddenly. Which really fucking sucks. Here in Seattle we’ve managed to build a food writing community that’s probably the most interesting, engaged, and cohesive scene in the entire country, and yes, I’m including New York City when I say that, and Kim Ricketts was instrumental in bringing us all together. Now the keystone has fallen out of our arch. Fuck.
Still, the show must go on, and for me at least, Mrs. Ricketts’ death has served as a wakeup call. Besides, she’s in a better place now anyway. After all, being dead means you no longer have to hear anything about Branjelina, and she’s probably already organizing book tours for John Milton and David Foster Wallace by now. It’s bittersweet, in a way, like being kicked in the nuts by a leprechaun: yes, it hurts a lot, but YOU GOT TO SEE A LEPRECHAUN. So thank you, Mrs. Ricketts, wherever you are, for being such an awesome leprechaun.
Rating: 12 personal inspirations out of 10
I would like to extend my deepest sympathy to the Ricketts family.
I would also like to respectfully dedicate my entire oeuvre on this blog, from 2005 up to today, to the memory of Kim Ricketts.
I’ll never forget the day we met. It was day two of Foodista’s very first International Food Blogger’s Conference. It was just after lunch. I had eaten enough food to make a hippo become bulimic, all of it masterfully prepared by expert delishtards like Mark Fuller and Brian Cartenuto and Keith Luce. Elise Bauer or Molly Wizenberg or somebody was instructing everyone in the audience on how to become beloved by billions of housewives. The mid afternoon sun was slanting in through the windows, hammering me in the face, and suddenly all the tequila shots I had drunk caught up to me, and I nodded off. When I opened my eyes, this lady at the next table was staring directly at me, laughing. Weird laugh, crooked smile: Kim Ricketts.
During the break I introduced myself to Mrs. Ricketts. We talked about reading and writing and Sour Patch Kids and Conan the Barbarian. She had a distinctive voice. It was weathered and lilting, cracking on the high notes: this was the sound of a $1000 a day Ricola habit. And that motherfucking laugh: wheezing, squealing, like a cigar-smoking chihuahua. It was like her vocal cords were made out of an old baseball glove.
She was charming, savvy, literate, and fucking generous. The same night I met her, she introduced me to Ruth Reichl and, I proudly recall, referred to me as “one of the best food writers in Seattle.” I instantly knew that Mrs. Ricketts was my kind of people, and not just because of her effusive praise (although that really helped). Someone more concerned about politics would never have risked her own reputation by exposing the Archduchess of culinary journalism to an unknown douche with a penchant for jokes about your mom.
That was one of the great things about Mrs. Ricketts: sometimes she really just didn’t give a fuck. She was fearless. A couple years ago she invited me to dine with her at the Ruins. The dinner conversation, of course, was stellar, but the food was less than awesome: there was turtle soup, and roasted duck breast, and a bigass steak, but nothing to write home about. After dinner she asked me what I thought about the menu. I lied politely about how good it was, but Mrs. Ricketts was having none of it. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she hissed, “because I thought it sucked.” And one time she told me the lurid story about how, when she was pregnant, her water broke in the bathroom at Vito’s. It was probably the third time I met her when she revealed this.
She could also be a total harpy if you crossed her. Last October she hosted a reception for Renee Redzepi at Mistral Kitchen. Redzepi, chef at NOMA restaurant in Copenhagen, was in town promoting his new cookbook, but Mrs. Ricketts was SUPER PISSED for some reason. Later on I found out what was going on: to make a long story short, Mistral Kitchen proprietor William Belickis had somehow tried to double cross her. After Redzepi left, Mrs. Ricketts and I retired to the Palace Kitchen for a drink. She was adamant that I write about Belickis’s attempt to steal her thunder. “PLEASE,” she told me, “make sure to tell everyone that I will never work with William Belickis again!” Now you know.
Anyway, I was as shocked as everyone to hear that this woman, once so full of piss vinaigrette, had been stricken with cancer. She was stuck in the hospital for what seemed like a long time. I got a few emails from her, and followed her Twitter stream, and she seemed upbeat. I thought for sure she was going to defy the odds and survive. After all, this woman was fearless. If she could handle Marco Pierre White (“That man is a vampire!”) then cancer would be a fucking cakewalk.
But she didn’t survive. She was gone, so suddenly. Which really fucking sucks. Here in Seattle we’ve managed to build a food writing community that’s probably the most interesting, engaged, and cohesive scene in the entire country, and yes, I’m including New York City when I say that, and Kim Ricketts was instrumental in bringing us all together. Now the keystone has fallen out of our arch. Fuck.
Still, the show must go on, and for me at least, Mrs. Ricketts’ death has served as a wakeup call. Besides, she’s in a better place now anyway. After all, being dead means you no longer have to hear anything about Branjelina, and she’s probably already organizing book tours for John Milton and David Foster Wallace by now. It’s bittersweet, in a way, like being kicked in the nuts by a leprechaun: yes, it hurts a lot, but YOU GOT TO SEE A LEPRECHAUN. So thank you, Mrs. Ricketts, wherever you are, for being such an awesome leprechaun.
Rating: 12 personal inspirations out of 10
I would like to extend my deepest sympathy to the Ricketts family.
I would also like to respectfully dedicate my entire oeuvre on this blog, from 2005 up to today, to the memory of Kim Ricketts.
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Toulouse Petit
Toulouse Petit
601 Queen Anne Ave N
206- 432-9069
Hey everybody! I'm going rogue once again, because the Seattle Weekly didn't want this review of Toulouse Petit. So enjoy! The Weekly never lets me say "retard" but I control all the variables here, so... retardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretard.
Anyway.
When I heard about Toulouse Petit I was immediately intrigued, but skeptical. Normally I try to keep my nose out of the politics but I heard a rumor that the dude who owns Peso’s had something to do with Toulouse Petit. That was strike one because Peso’s sucks ass. Actually, I’m sorry: I can only CONJECTURE that Peso’s sucks ass because you aren’t allowed in there if you don’t drive either an Escalade or a
Hummer, and everyone knows that my ride is your mom so of course I’ve been denied entry to Peso’s.
I was also extra skeptical because I don’t like the name. Toulouse Petit. It’s like they tried to come up with the most “New Orleans-y” name possible. I could have come up with some better ideas: how about “Bayou Billy’s Bourbon Street Bordello?” or “A Streetcar Named the Superdome?” or “Show me Your Tits: the Restaurant?”
Still, I’m a glutton for punishment so I went to Toulouse Petit. Much has been made of the interior, but I don’t think words can describe how over the top this fucking place is: the multicolored rough plaster walls look stupid. Or maybe they hired blind hookers to paint it. The menu brags about how many gazillions of pieces of glass are in the windows. And yes, I’ll agree that the windows look cool, but that’s
only from the INSIDE. From the outside, Toulouse Petit’s extra- awesome windows just look like a lot of expensive handcraft embedded into a green stucco box. And the tables, with their intricate wood inlays, are just fucking ostentatious.
I’d call the showy interior a fail. It looks like a crayon factory exploded inside. They DID, however, get one very important thing right: the menu. Toulouse Petit’s menu, like Galatoire’s or Antoine’s or any one of the old school New Orleans pleasure palaces that it’s trying to emulate, is a vast decadent Bible of
gustatory excess. We started with the boudin blanc ($7.50). This boudin blanc is similar to the watery, pallid, rice- filled sausage you find in Louisiana convenience stores in name only. Toulose Petit’s boudin was fantastic: plump, juicy sausages, sautéed to a glossy bronze, strained in their cases and practically begged you to cut into them. And when you did, it was awesome: rivulets of juice ejaculated from a deceptively light and airy pork stuffing.
The duck confit salad ($10) had lots of radicchio, crescents of sliced celery, and lurid glistening purple chunks of duck confit, topped with a poached egg and a mustard vinaigrette. The vinaigrette combined with the grumbling bitterness of the radicchio was ALMOST too much until you cut into the egg and mixed the yolk into the salad, which mellowed the fuck out to the point where it was JUST painless enough to wolf the fuck down.
Fried alligator seemed a bit pricey at $9.95. For this price you got a small pile of alligator: pink slabs of fleshy tail meat sliced thinly and fried in a really shaggy but crisp breading. This was served with twin pools of remoulade: one chili flavored, smoky and burgundy; the other bone- colored and speckled with herbs. Both remoulades were finely textured. Sometimes when eating alligator, you get the
shittiest, most rank taste you’ve ever had in your mouth, similar only to the shitty rank taste I get when eating your mom. The gator was in no way contaminated by the rancid flavor of reptile fat.
Fried Chicken Gumbo was, for $7.50, a rather small bowl. They wisely didn’t try to stretch the gumbo with too much rice; all of the shitty bowls of gumbo I’ve seen at tourist traps always feature an enormous ice cream scoop of white rice, or even TWO scoops sometimes, mounded into twin bosomy heaps, with only a meager splash of thin grey dishwater gumbo on top. Toulouse Petit’s gumbo was nothing like this: the roux itself was thick and chocolatey, with a satin finish, and there was just enough
rice to mix into the soup without blunting the flavor. Perched on top were crisp chunks of chicken breast fried in that same crunchy shaggy batter as the fried alligator. Well done.
Beignets cost $7. This is pretty fucking pricey for 6 triangular beignets. That’s highway robbery in Louisiana. In Louisiana, beignets are CHEAP. But that’s BECAUSE THEY FUCKING SUCK. Beignets are for old people and drunks: drunks can’t taste how shitty and leathery these fucking things are, and old people remember the time they ate a rat at the height of the Great Depression, so to them a stale,crumbly fake donuts tastes delicious. The beignets at Toulouse Petit are not much better: they’re fried to a dark brown varnish, folded into crumbly triangles like middle school paper footballs. They were okay but a creamy chicory crème anglaise that accompanied was brilliant: when you dipped the beignets into the chicory cream the overall effect was like a million 5 am breakfasts with your grandparents.
I reluctantly found myself genuinely enjoying Toulouse Petit. The food is actually quite tasty. The only way it could be more reminiscent of the actual Louisiana experience would be if the food caused you to drop out of high school and drive a Firebird and wear white rubber boots.
Rating: 8.5 Louisiana experiences out of 10
601 Queen Anne Ave N
206- 432-9069
Hey everybody! I'm going rogue once again, because the Seattle Weekly didn't want this review of Toulouse Petit. So enjoy! The Weekly never lets me say "retard" but I control all the variables here, so... retardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretardretard.
Anyway.
When I heard about Toulouse Petit I was immediately intrigued, but skeptical. Normally I try to keep my nose out of the politics but I heard a rumor that the dude who owns Peso’s had something to do with Toulouse Petit. That was strike one because Peso’s sucks ass. Actually, I’m sorry: I can only CONJECTURE that Peso’s sucks ass because you aren’t allowed in there if you don’t drive either an Escalade or a
Hummer, and everyone knows that my ride is your mom so of course I’ve been denied entry to Peso’s.
I was also extra skeptical because I don’t like the name. Toulouse Petit. It’s like they tried to come up with the most “New Orleans-y” name possible. I could have come up with some better ideas: how about “Bayou Billy’s Bourbon Street Bordello?” or “A Streetcar Named the Superdome?” or “Show me Your Tits: the Restaurant?”
Still, I’m a glutton for punishment so I went to Toulouse Petit. Much has been made of the interior, but I don’t think words can describe how over the top this fucking place is: the multicolored rough plaster walls look stupid. Or maybe they hired blind hookers to paint it. The menu brags about how many gazillions of pieces of glass are in the windows. And yes, I’ll agree that the windows look cool, but that’s
only from the INSIDE. From the outside, Toulouse Petit’s extra- awesome windows just look like a lot of expensive handcraft embedded into a green stucco box. And the tables, with their intricate wood inlays, are just fucking ostentatious.
I’d call the showy interior a fail. It looks like a crayon factory exploded inside. They DID, however, get one very important thing right: the menu. Toulouse Petit’s menu, like Galatoire’s or Antoine’s or any one of the old school New Orleans pleasure palaces that it’s trying to emulate, is a vast decadent Bible of
gustatory excess. We started with the boudin blanc ($7.50). This boudin blanc is similar to the watery, pallid, rice- filled sausage you find in Louisiana convenience stores in name only. Toulose Petit’s boudin was fantastic: plump, juicy sausages, sautéed to a glossy bronze, strained in their cases and practically begged you to cut into them. And when you did, it was awesome: rivulets of juice ejaculated from a deceptively light and airy pork stuffing.
The duck confit salad ($10) had lots of radicchio, crescents of sliced celery, and lurid glistening purple chunks of duck confit, topped with a poached egg and a mustard vinaigrette. The vinaigrette combined with the grumbling bitterness of the radicchio was ALMOST too much until you cut into the egg and mixed the yolk into the salad, which mellowed the fuck out to the point where it was JUST painless enough to wolf the fuck down.
Fried alligator seemed a bit pricey at $9.95. For this price you got a small pile of alligator: pink slabs of fleshy tail meat sliced thinly and fried in a really shaggy but crisp breading. This was served with twin pools of remoulade: one chili flavored, smoky and burgundy; the other bone- colored and speckled with herbs. Both remoulades were finely textured. Sometimes when eating alligator, you get the
shittiest, most rank taste you’ve ever had in your mouth, similar only to the shitty rank taste I get when eating your mom. The gator was in no way contaminated by the rancid flavor of reptile fat.
Fried Chicken Gumbo was, for $7.50, a rather small bowl. They wisely didn’t try to stretch the gumbo with too much rice; all of the shitty bowls of gumbo I’ve seen at tourist traps always feature an enormous ice cream scoop of white rice, or even TWO scoops sometimes, mounded into twin bosomy heaps, with only a meager splash of thin grey dishwater gumbo on top. Toulouse Petit’s gumbo was nothing like this: the roux itself was thick and chocolatey, with a satin finish, and there was just enough
rice to mix into the soup without blunting the flavor. Perched on top were crisp chunks of chicken breast fried in that same crunchy shaggy batter as the fried alligator. Well done.
Beignets cost $7. This is pretty fucking pricey for 6 triangular beignets. That’s highway robbery in Louisiana. In Louisiana, beignets are CHEAP. But that’s BECAUSE THEY FUCKING SUCK. Beignets are for old people and drunks: drunks can’t taste how shitty and leathery these fucking things are, and old people remember the time they ate a rat at the height of the Great Depression, so to them a stale,crumbly fake donuts tastes delicious. The beignets at Toulouse Petit are not much better: they’re fried to a dark brown varnish, folded into crumbly triangles like middle school paper footballs. They were okay but a creamy chicory crème anglaise that accompanied was brilliant: when you dipped the beignets into the chicory cream the overall effect was like a million 5 am breakfasts with your grandparents.
I reluctantly found myself genuinely enjoying Toulouse Petit. The food is actually quite tasty. The only way it could be more reminiscent of the actual Louisiana experience would be if the food caused you to drop out of high school and drive a Firebird and wear white rubber boots.
Rating: 8.5 Louisiana experiences out of 10
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Ga Ga Loc
424 Maynard Ave S
206-521-8933
Yes, this blog is still alive. Even though I write for the Seattle Weekly now, I'm going to keep this wainscoted salon of loose morals updated, at least intermittently. They won't let me write about some things, for a variety of reasons: either someone else beat me to it, or I'm breaking too many balls, or some old lady ratted me out, or something. So to answer your questions, yes I'm still alive.
Anyway. Ga Ga Loc.
There are many restaurants in Seattle’s International District. All of them serve similar dishes, so how do you choose? Answer: pick the place with the funniest fucking name. Like Ga Ga Loc. I’ve been laughing at this place’s name for over a decade now. Ga Ga Loc. Ga Ga Fucking Loc.
What does it mean? My Chinese- speaking sources claim it means “Happy Family” or “Lucky Family” or something, which makes perfect sense, since that’s the kind of name ALL Chinese restaurants seem to have. Really, it’s like every Chinese restaurateur has a pair of 8- sided dice, Dungeons & Dragons style, that they use to name the restaurant. The first die has adjectives: Happy, Lucky, Jade, Magic, Great, Seven, China, Sea. The other die has nouns: Dragon, Wall, Garden, Sea, Warrior, Tiger, Family, Wok. Every combination is allowed except “Sea Sea.” When that one pops up they must roll again. Although I don’t think I’d be too keen on eating at a place called “Sea Wall.” And “Magic Warrior” is probably already taken as the name of a (R.I.P.)Ronnie James Dio song, so that one’s out too. And “Happy Wall” just doesn’t make any fucking sense. But you get the picture. I suspect that people just like to say silly words, which is probably why Ga Ga Loc is still in business, because the food sure as fuck isn’t that great.
I WANTED to start with the salt and pepper duck tongue ($11.95) but they were OUT. Who fucking knew that duck tongue could be so popular? We settled for the braised squab ($11.95), which seemed a bit pricey. For that price you get a whole pigeon, which isn’t unfortunately saying much since squabs aren’t that big. That having been said, it was really a WHOLE squab: the head was still attached. The skin was a crackly salty golden brown. The flesh was all dark meat, and by that I mean it was REALLY fucking dark.
I’ve had squab before, but in restaurants owned by white people it’s usually cooked to a rosy and succulent medium rare. Ga Ga Loc’s squab was obviously well- done, since it had been braised, but that doesn’t mean it was bad: it had the rich sandy texture of cooked chicken liver, like chocolate made of meat.
I don’t know what I was thinking when I ordered the chilled jellyfish ($7.95). I was just being a flippant dildo, and the waitress even asked me if I was sure I wanted it. I was expecting tentacles, and stinging, but of course got neither of those things. What I DID get was a gigantic plate full of clear rubbery squiggles speckled with red pepper and a couple batons of pickled carrot and cucumber. The jellyfish was cold, largely flavorless, and had a weirdly unexpected granular bite to it. Biting into a jellyfish piece is a lot like eating a piece of gristle from a steak.
If you didn’t actually bite into it and just kinda slurped it down, the jellyfish, ice cold and slippery and fleshy, would be like what I imagine going down on a lady vampire would be like. It didn’t really taste bad, but it sure as fuck didn’t taste good.
When I ordered the soft egg with prawns ($9.95) I got a huge puffy cloud of scrambled eggs punctuated here and there with sautéed prawns. The prawns were actually quite good, not overcooked, with a hint of 5 spice powder. As for the eggs, please allow me at this point to digress into a dreamy paean to a good scrambled egg. A perfect scrambled egg is a thing of beauty: creamy, with a texture like custard, quivering on the plate like a vaginal cumulonimbus, and as bright yellow and glossy as Pac Man’s spherical carapace. A good scrambled egg is so pure and luscious it’s practically virginal, and it seems like an abomination to even eat it, yet you must violate the chaste sanctity of the egg because it’s SO FUCKING AWESOME. But guess what: Ga Ga Loc’s so- called “soft egg” was nothing like that. The eggs were overcooked, with the shitty dry and foamy texture that only overdone eggs have.
Five spices supreme duck ($9.95) had a pretty goddamned ambitious name, though I wonder what made them stop at that particular level of hyperbole. Living in the realm of obscene exaggeration, as I do, makes me question Ga Ga Loc’s commitment to their own cause. Because if you’re going to call it “supreme” duck you might as well throw in a couple “ultimates” and “holys” and possibly even an “optimal” just for good measure: “Ultimate five spices supreme holy mega- duck” has a much more commanding ring to it anyway.
The pitfall with this idea is that it then has to be the best motherfucking duck you ever tasted, which of course it wasn’t. The duck was good enough: it was the typical standard Chinese roasted duck, moist and fatty, and chopped up into bony chunks the way the Chinese like to do, swimming in a glossy greasy dark brown sauce, heavy on the 5- spice powder. Was it really “supreme” though? Nope. I wouldn’t even call it “penultimate.” I might, however, call it “magnanimous” duck since the poor bastard gave its life to star in such an uninspired dish.
The beef chow foon dry ($6.95) was the best thing I ate at Ga Ga Loc. I fucking LOVE chow foon, or chow ho fun, or however the chinamen want to spell it this week. For the price you get a mountainous pile of wide rice noodles, with supple slivers of beef, diced scallion, and plenty sautéed onion, all tossed in a slippery soy- based sauce. The noodles were soft and go down like liquid satin. The beef was tender, the onions still a bit crunchy for contrast, and the sauce was beefy and smoky and salty. I’ve had this dish many times at different restaurants, and Ga Ga Loc does a fine version.
Then again, it’s difficult to fuck up chow foon because the key is not in the seasoning, but in how wide the noodles are. Wider noodles are clearly better than thin noodles. In fact, the best noodle dish in the world, if it exists, would probably just have one whole gigantic noodle, all folded up on the plate. I wish I could wrap myself in a huge noodle Snuggie right now and eat my way out. Actually that doesn’t go far enough: I wish we could wrap the ENTIRE EARTH in a gargantuan noodle, thus abolishing world hunger because everyone could just chow down on the local noodle dough nearest to them. I’m sure the earth noodle would get dirty in some spots, like where it touched a pile of dog poo or got some dirt or pine needles on it, or where it got dipped into a sewer or something, but still: that would be rad.
Anyway, Ga Ga Loc is okay I guess. It’s open until 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning, which is pretty good, but so are lots of other places in the International District. Now that I’ve been inside this ridiculous fucking place there’s no need for me to return. If you’re drunk after last call, and a place like Jade Garden or Hing Loon is crowded, then I’d give Ga Ga Loc a shot. Maybe they’ll have some fucking duck tongues this time.
Rating 3 noodle Snuggies out of 10
PS This entry is respectfully dedicated to the friends and family of Ronnie James Dio. My thoughts are with you, even though Black Sabbath totally sucked ass after he took over from Ozzy.
206-521-8933
Yes, this blog is still alive. Even though I write for the Seattle Weekly now, I'm going to keep this wainscoted salon of loose morals updated, at least intermittently. They won't let me write about some things, for a variety of reasons: either someone else beat me to it, or I'm breaking too many balls, or some old lady ratted me out, or something. So to answer your questions, yes I'm still alive.
Anyway. Ga Ga Loc.
There are many restaurants in Seattle’s International District. All of them serve similar dishes, so how do you choose? Answer: pick the place with the funniest fucking name. Like Ga Ga Loc. I’ve been laughing at this place’s name for over a decade now. Ga Ga Loc. Ga Ga Fucking Loc.
What does it mean? My Chinese- speaking sources claim it means “Happy Family” or “Lucky Family” or something, which makes perfect sense, since that’s the kind of name ALL Chinese restaurants seem to have. Really, it’s like every Chinese restaurateur has a pair of 8- sided dice, Dungeons & Dragons style, that they use to name the restaurant. The first die has adjectives: Happy, Lucky, Jade, Magic, Great, Seven, China, Sea. The other die has nouns: Dragon, Wall, Garden, Sea, Warrior, Tiger, Family, Wok. Every combination is allowed except “Sea Sea.” When that one pops up they must roll again. Although I don’t think I’d be too keen on eating at a place called “Sea Wall.” And “Magic Warrior” is probably already taken as the name of a (R.I.P.)Ronnie James Dio song, so that one’s out too. And “Happy Wall” just doesn’t make any fucking sense. But you get the picture. I suspect that people just like to say silly words, which is probably why Ga Ga Loc is still in business, because the food sure as fuck isn’t that great.
I WANTED to start with the salt and pepper duck tongue ($11.95) but they were OUT. Who fucking knew that duck tongue could be so popular? We settled for the braised squab ($11.95), which seemed a bit pricey. For that price you get a whole pigeon, which isn’t unfortunately saying much since squabs aren’t that big. That having been said, it was really a WHOLE squab: the head was still attached. The skin was a crackly salty golden brown. The flesh was all dark meat, and by that I mean it was REALLY fucking dark.
I’ve had squab before, but in restaurants owned by white people it’s usually cooked to a rosy and succulent medium rare. Ga Ga Loc’s squab was obviously well- done, since it had been braised, but that doesn’t mean it was bad: it had the rich sandy texture of cooked chicken liver, like chocolate made of meat.
I don’t know what I was thinking when I ordered the chilled jellyfish ($7.95). I was just being a flippant dildo, and the waitress even asked me if I was sure I wanted it. I was expecting tentacles, and stinging, but of course got neither of those things. What I DID get was a gigantic plate full of clear rubbery squiggles speckled with red pepper and a couple batons of pickled carrot and cucumber. The jellyfish was cold, largely flavorless, and had a weirdly unexpected granular bite to it. Biting into a jellyfish piece is a lot like eating a piece of gristle from a steak.
If you didn’t actually bite into it and just kinda slurped it down, the jellyfish, ice cold and slippery and fleshy, would be like what I imagine going down on a lady vampire would be like. It didn’t really taste bad, but it sure as fuck didn’t taste good.
When I ordered the soft egg with prawns ($9.95) I got a huge puffy cloud of scrambled eggs punctuated here and there with sautéed prawns. The prawns were actually quite good, not overcooked, with a hint of 5 spice powder. As for the eggs, please allow me at this point to digress into a dreamy paean to a good scrambled egg. A perfect scrambled egg is a thing of beauty: creamy, with a texture like custard, quivering on the plate like a vaginal cumulonimbus, and as bright yellow and glossy as Pac Man’s spherical carapace. A good scrambled egg is so pure and luscious it’s practically virginal, and it seems like an abomination to even eat it, yet you must violate the chaste sanctity of the egg because it’s SO FUCKING AWESOME. But guess what: Ga Ga Loc’s so- called “soft egg” was nothing like that. The eggs were overcooked, with the shitty dry and foamy texture that only overdone eggs have.
Five spices supreme duck ($9.95) had a pretty goddamned ambitious name, though I wonder what made them stop at that particular level of hyperbole. Living in the realm of obscene exaggeration, as I do, makes me question Ga Ga Loc’s commitment to their own cause. Because if you’re going to call it “supreme” duck you might as well throw in a couple “ultimates” and “holys” and possibly even an “optimal” just for good measure: “Ultimate five spices supreme holy mega- duck” has a much more commanding ring to it anyway.
The pitfall with this idea is that it then has to be the best motherfucking duck you ever tasted, which of course it wasn’t. The duck was good enough: it was the typical standard Chinese roasted duck, moist and fatty, and chopped up into bony chunks the way the Chinese like to do, swimming in a glossy greasy dark brown sauce, heavy on the 5- spice powder. Was it really “supreme” though? Nope. I wouldn’t even call it “penultimate.” I might, however, call it “magnanimous” duck since the poor bastard gave its life to star in such an uninspired dish.
The beef chow foon dry ($6.95) was the best thing I ate at Ga Ga Loc. I fucking LOVE chow foon, or chow ho fun, or however the chinamen want to spell it this week. For the price you get a mountainous pile of wide rice noodles, with supple slivers of beef, diced scallion, and plenty sautéed onion, all tossed in a slippery soy- based sauce. The noodles were soft and go down like liquid satin. The beef was tender, the onions still a bit crunchy for contrast, and the sauce was beefy and smoky and salty. I’ve had this dish many times at different restaurants, and Ga Ga Loc does a fine version.
Then again, it’s difficult to fuck up chow foon because the key is not in the seasoning, but in how wide the noodles are. Wider noodles are clearly better than thin noodles. In fact, the best noodle dish in the world, if it exists, would probably just have one whole gigantic noodle, all folded up on the plate. I wish I could wrap myself in a huge noodle Snuggie right now and eat my way out. Actually that doesn’t go far enough: I wish we could wrap the ENTIRE EARTH in a gargantuan noodle, thus abolishing world hunger because everyone could just chow down on the local noodle dough nearest to them. I’m sure the earth noodle would get dirty in some spots, like where it touched a pile of dog poo or got some dirt or pine needles on it, or where it got dipped into a sewer or something, but still: that would be rad.
Anyway, Ga Ga Loc is okay I guess. It’s open until 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning, which is pretty good, but so are lots of other places in the International District. Now that I’ve been inside this ridiculous fucking place there’s no need for me to return. If you’re drunk after last call, and a place like Jade Garden or Hing Loon is crowded, then I’d give Ga Ga Loc a shot. Maybe they’ll have some fucking duck tongues this time.
Rating 3 noodle Snuggies out of 10
PS This entry is respectfully dedicated to the friends and family of Ronnie James Dio. My thoughts are with you, even though Black Sabbath totally sucked ass after he took over from Ozzy.
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