Our visit to Mike’s Pastry got me thinking on what it means to call a restaurant a “tourist trap.” If Magnolia Bakery can be called a tourist trap, should I do the same for Mike’s? And how exactly do we speak to the fact that most “tourist traps” are neither traps, nor are they expressly pointed at tourists?

That said, an oversized, $3 cannolo not much better than what I can have at Rocco’s in New York isn’t exactly where I would point visitors if I were a local. But Mike’s still has perfectly competent pastries, a bit of class, and a good dose of charm, and I didn’t feel cheated in the slightest as we walked up and down the streets of Boston’s north end, tiny chocolate chips tumbling off as we shared a dessert that plenty of Bostonians have been enjoying for years.

Likewise, dinner at Pizzeria Regina wasn’t exactly a culinary landmark, but it was still wholly enjoyable to duck into this almost-century-old pizzeria, sink into the joint’s subdued clamor, and dig into a hearty margherita pie.

While Regina’s atmosphere mirrored that of Grimaldi’s or Totonno’s, its pizza had a distinctly less refined bent. Heavy coats of tomato sauce and mozzarella, more comforting than tantalizing, resembled the kind of pizza I grew up with. The pie’s brick-oven crust, pleasingly crisp and unevenly browned on its bottom, was a highlight, despite its less memorable flavor, and made this the kind of local favorite I’d spring for over pitchers of beer as a Boston resident.

An upscale dinner with my friend Brendan at Island Creek Oyster Bar was quite the opposite. For me, this meal was a happy compromise between the Chowhound hero and the pricey, special-occasion meal, and I truly loved it.

The restaurant’s raw oysters, ranging from $2.00 to $4.00 depending on how far they traveled to be eaten down the road from Fenway Park, make a delicious meal entirely on their own. Of the four New England varieties we sampled, Island Creek’s own Duxbury oysters were my personal favorite – I’m no oyster shucker, but their balanced, not-too-briny flavor and clean, sweet finish made for the refreshing, addictive gulp that I’m sure a good oyster embodies.

Island Creek’s bread, studded with carraway seeds and bits of rosemary and served with a pat of particularly sweet butter, would have been enough to round out the meal. The house’s fish and chips turned out to be a happy addition, each hunk of whiting encased in crisp, puffy beer batter and each chip tasting faintly of fresh potato. The entire spread was nicely capped by Island Creek’s house pilsner, a clean, palate-cleansing brew with a bittersweet tint, especially well suited for washing down fresh seafood.

Oysters, and beer continued their love affair at Harpoon Brewery, where we took a factory tour and tasted every one of Harpoon’s beers on tap for $5. It’s an experience I would recommend to pretty much anyone who likes beer, especially stouts. While I’ve never been impressed by the brewery’s flagship IPA, I was won over immediately by their limited run Oyster Stout – a crisp, drinkable stout whose salt-and-mineral flavors make its roasted, malty flavors pop that much more. I found this one so tasty and refreshing that I lugged four big bottles back to New York after downing three ounces of the stuff.

In what was probably the biggest tourist move of our weekend, Girlfriend and I ordered $18 lobster rolls at Yankee Lobster Fish Market, just around the corner from the brewery. Too much mayo and too much mincing got in the way of what was actually pretty decent lobster, but at that point I was in little position to complain. The fact that Yankee Lobster’s fries were expertly double-fried helped quite a bit, but so did the fact that I was on spring vacation with a wonderful lady.

Sometimes enjoying the simple things actually requires simplifying how you go about the day – food included. Maybe that’s what turns a tourist trap into a tactical meal. Maybe it’s just worth shutting my mouth once in a while to smell the oysters. Either way, I’m looking forward to the next sunny weekend in a world where food isn’t my everything.

Live Wire was the main reason why I rarely ever stepped into another beer bar that was closer to my San Diego apartment – Toronado – but it wasn’t the only reason. The over-designed, franchised Toronado in San Diego looked like a shopping center food court, and despite its lack of neighborhood charm, every chair and stool was taken by four every afternoon. Sometimes, walking into the draught beer hotspot would quickly send me fleeing to the local Henry’s to play six-pack roulette instead. Other times I’d force my way to the front and beg recommendations from friendly but overworked bartenders who probably used the opportunity to thin out unpopular beers.

There seems to be a flaw in going to a bar where the drink is the star and having no place to sit and enjoy it, especially in San Diego, where the affinity for local beers is more or less universal across the late night scene. Toronado served food, too, gourmet sausages on coveted Bread & Cie buns, but even during off hours the din of sitting in the harsh interior and uncomfortable seating kept me away. Maybe I missed out, but living in one of the most laid-back cities in the country had trained me to abide more dudely ways, so instead I grabbed a taco and headed to Live Wire.

When I checked out the original Toronado for the first time, it’s safe to say I had certain expectations built in. I’ve only been living in San Francisco for half a year, but I’d already received more dirty looks for ordering Budweisers in bars than the rest of my life combined. SF is full of people making statements, and the beer in your hand is no different. Cheerful San Diego hospitality is replaced with giant chips on the shoulders of the bartenders at San Francisco’s Toronado. These men and women are pushing forty, can’t stop talking about the eighties, and know more about local beer culture than the breweries themselves – every question I ask them is met with a one-word response.

Toronado is a love song to beer, a place where every draught poured is served in the appropriate glass, with the precise amount of head and possibly too much adoration. Even the brand Chimay will earn scowls and invitations to better nine-dollar Belgian beers, and the India pale ales are tapped with hand pumps. Lots of people order the local Pliny the Elder while plenty others chase rumors that Pliny the Younger had recently been tapped. Toronado is the only place I’ve ever seen beer ordered as a double, and it’s the only place where, when my beer is served in a plain old pint glass, I feel like I’ve screwed up somehow.

Aside from its dutch doors and cornucopia of quality beers, San Francisco’s Toronado could not be more different than San Diego’s brand brother. The Lower Haight’s neighborhood beer bar is almost divey in nature, with stickers all over the wall, European flare and a stadium audience of colorful beer taps. With a jukebox full of punk B-sides, sports on television and a surprising amount of regulars ordering The Usual, SF’s Toronado reminds me more of Hamilton’s Tavern in South Park, San Diego than its franchised sibling. The roomy interior can support most crowds on off days, and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend the place to hopheads. I’ve had some tasty and educational beverages there, Jacobin’s Rouge winning the prize for most interesting: my first “sour” beer, the six ounces fell somewhere between citrus candy and vinegared chardonnay, and tastes better than it sounds.

As a casual fan of beer, I don’t see myself returning to Toronado for the drinks and snobby service. I will, however, return to its mutually parasitic neighbor, Rosamunde Sausage Grill. This particular block of Haight seems over-prepared for post-drinking munchies, with burritos, pizza-by-the-slice and, for special cases, Memphis Minnie’s BBQ – but Rosamunde is the undisputed king. Often surrounded by empty kegs, drunks and leashed dogs or bicycles, the glorified hot dog stand probably hasn’t been empty in its two decades of existence.

As a Berkeley graduate who drank his way through college, I can’t help but think of Top Dog, a tiny place with a large selection of sausages and one employee manning the grill with attitude, when I see or read about Rosamunde. Most of the business for both grills comes at night, when partiers get hungry, but unlike Cal’s favorites, Rosamunde sausages lean toward the gourmet. For six-plus bucks a dog, lager-filled customers get to choose between specials like “fresh lamb with sun-dried tomato and fennel” sausages and a selection of toppings that often includes homemade chutney.

About a year ago, a new Rosamunde location opened in the Mission with its own bar, a large menu and brunch on the weekends. The original Lower Haight location is a small place with lots of metal counter space, big windows, cold sausages behind glass and a lone employee, his face reddened by grill exposure and housing empty eyes that would rather not deal with you. Most customers take their sausages next door to Toronado, a practice that influenced San Diego’s Toronado to serve gourmet sausages as well. It’s also not out of the question to bring one’s dog across the street to Mad Dog in the Fog to watch soccer in HD and drink less pretentious pints.

The sausages themselves are subject to circumstance, like the efforts of distracted employees that could potentially overcook your spicy pork and beef “Beer Sausage” into a chewy stick of flavored protein. Tossed into doughy, unevenly cut buns and smothered in toppings that have been sitting around too long, it’s not out of the question that the gourmet sausage doesn’t live up to the seven dollars you paid for it. That’s simply the drawback to using a grill and serving dogs en masse, and it’s an acceptable price to pay two drinks later, when the beer goggles kick in and anything in hot dog form turns to gold.

A crowd favorite at Rosamunde is the Duck and Fig sausage, or the combination of Duck and Wild Boar in one bun. In my experience, this is more exciting on the menu than in your hands, because though the taste is a tad different, the sausages as a whole are rather generic. Most choices at Rosamunde taste a little too similar to each other, invalidating the expansiveness of the menu. But in the absence of poor grillmanship every one I’ve tried has been well above average. The Nuernberger Bratwurst in particular is beautifully plump and juicy, with strong flavors and a great snap to each bite. With hot peppers on top, I’d be surprised to find a dog as good elsewhere in the Bay Area.

After two drinks, I’d be surprised to find a dog as good elsewhere in the world. That’s the beauty of beer, and it doesn’t matter whether they were limited edition microbrews, hand-pumped IPA’s or Budweisers. It doesn’t matter which city you’re in, how crowded and noisy the bar, or what the jukebox is currently playing. In the end, a couple drinks and some good company can erase all the dirty looks and discomfort and reduce life to the simplest pleasures. One of those simple pleasures is a third beer. A sausage from next door would go really well with that.

There’s a bar in Long Beach that recognizes what every pickled egg in this country is missing: chilies.

Rather than submerging its hard boiled eggs in beet-tinted brine, Joe Jost’s imbues them with the heat of Santa Fe Grandes. The result is a poor man’s caviar with one hell of a bite: The comfort-food quality of each hard-boiled egg rides a neon yellow wave of tartness and spice, and a quick dusting of black pepper and service on a bed of pretzels turns this classic bar food into a bar food classic.

That’s not the only thing classic about the joint. The oldest operating bar in Long Beach, Joe Jost’s has been serving for almost a century. The house’s $3.50 “schooners” of cheap American beer (formerly East Side Old Tap, then Pabst Blue Ribbon, now Busch), $3 Polish sausage sandwiches on steamed rye, hot dogs, liverwurst, and freshly roasted Virginia peanuts join its pickled egg to create a bar menu that will never go out of style. My spell at Joe Jost’s is best cast on a weeknight, starting with a pickled egg and a schooner of Shiner Bock, following with Joe’s Special sandwich, and finishing with pints over a game of shuffleboard.

Joe Jost’s
Joe Jost’s pickled egg recipe
2803 E. Anaheim St.
Long Beach, CA 90804
562.439.5446

For better or for wurst, here’s the record of our eating marathon – I’ll be breaking form to spread this over the week, so your RSS feeds don’t explode. Let the feast of a thousand hams begin!

North Brooklyn Grazing

The next morning began with white donut peaches, trucked from farm to table by way of my legendary neighborhood food coop. I’d been eating farm fresh, rapturously ripe peaches every single day since the season came to a head, and that week’s shipment signaled the sad retreat of New York’s summer fruits.

We relished the peaches’ clean, juicy sweetness and followed with a pot of coffee over an apple bran muffin and chocolate croissant from Blue Sky Bakery. While every mention of Blue Sky has pushed me to try their muffins (which are indeed divine), the bakery’s croissants are ultimately more gratifying.

A sub-par croissant is one of very few foods I will throw into the garbage without hesitation. Rubbery, greasy folds, dry, brittle layers, the insipid/rancid taste of heavy-handed, artificial butter for some reason offend my White Castle-loving taste buds so much that after one bite of anything less than pleasant, I declare my morning ruined and begin the search for a foolproof cookie to turn things around.

I could argue that the sheer existence of croissants like the ones at Blue Sky would turn anyone into a pastry snob in a matter of seconds. Their layers are so fine that they form a flaky, feathery and chewy cloud of flavor. The true taste of butter is pronounced warmly and humbly, and should you choose to go the chocolate route, you’ll be rewarded with a hint of sweetness beneath the surface. It’s almost enough to make a man forsake his morning bagel.

The rest of the day was spent in North Brooklyn, where Boykji and I hopped from haunt to haunt, taking one bite at a time. Crullers and raised at Peter Pan Donuts. Trading card binge at Pop Fuzz. A peek at the New Orleans-style cookout known as Tchoup Shop. Bratwurst, fries, kraut and pitchers of Belgian session beers – as satisfying a midday meal as ever – at Radegast. Pints of ale and games of Crystal Castles at Barcade. A half pound of pork belly barbecue (the only consistently great menu choice, by my reckoning) at Fette Sau. Fried chicken, catfish, greens and slaw at Pies n Thighs. A nightcap of Hofbräu, Bruce Cost Ginger Ale and Star Trek.

All the splendor of the G train, and not a single bite of Polish food. In a city like New York, it’s entirely possible.

Blue Sky Bakery
53 5th Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11217
718.783.4123

In the United States we associate the phrase “beer garden” with any place that serves beer outdoors. While that wouldn’t be too far off from the definition here in Germany, 98% of “beer gardens” in the US are what the Germans call terrasse (a terrace) – yup, those precise Germans have done it again with their witty, exact language.

A true biergarten here in Germany actually involves a drinking establishment situated more or less in the confines of nature. A biergarten is not just a deck attached to a restaurant. It is a place, most times situated in a park, a nature reserve, near a river, in the mountains – basically anywhere patrons can truly feel like they’re in nature (and Germans do love them some nature).

We here in the U.S. are restricted from the true definition of a biergarten due to much stricter alcohol consumption laws. Biergartens here in Germany are typically wide open, with benches as the only boundaries between drinker and nature. On a nice, hot day or evening in the summer time, there is nothing quite like enjoying a cold beer out in the wide open, but something tells me such boundless beer consumption in the States would be strictly verboten.

Ask any Bonn resident about the best biergarten in this city, and before you finish your question you will be told, “Alter Zoll” (“old toll”). Technically the Alter Zoll is the public lookout point situated next to the biergarten, but given its proximity, the biergarten has adopted the same name – it is also known as Biergarten am Alten Zoll (“Beergarden at the old toll”). Wooden benches, gravel ground and a beautiful, giant tree which lovingly drapes itself over all of the drinkers compose this beer drinker’s haven.

Beer gardens are meant to be simple, and it couldn’t be any simpler here: Take a seat, order a beer from one of the student waiters, and you are greeted with a wonderful view over the Rhine River, whose windy path slowly fades out into the green hills, known as the Siebengebirge. In such a surrounding, it’s impossible to keep your consumption just to one beer. If you get bored looking out on the Rhine and all of the passing ships (impossible!), a glance in the other direction will treat you to a scene of bocce ball players who have established the small field next to this biergarten as the place in Bonn to play Boule.

A quick hop over the Kennedy bridge will bring you to the other side of the Rhine, referred to as Bonn-Beuel. Near the bridge you’ll find another beloved biergarten, Bahnhöfchen (‘little train station’). This former train station now serves as a restaurant and biergarten that affords views of the Rhine from the side of the river facing downtown Bonn and setting suns. It also is situated directly on the bike-and-pedestrian path, making it a convenient stop for anyone traversing the river. Although Bahnhöfchen also serves a selection of food, when I visit I usually keep to my meal of choice – beer – and enjoy watching the passers-by who have made the poor choice to suffer from their jogging, biking, or walking rather than partake in a cold beverage.

The other type of biergarten in Bonn that merits mention is, in fact, the one I like most. Although you won’t find this one on any map, nor will you be able to ask around for any specific location, it is known by almost all students in this city (and given the large university here, there are plenty of students in the know).

This would be the unofficial biergarten, the one created when friends find a nice, grassy place outdoors, bring their own drinks and enjoy their evening in the open. My personal favorite is the field across from the Alter Zoll, where in the evenings I find plenty of groups hanging out, playing music, and simply talking the night away.

The unofficial biergarten, just as with the official biergarten, is the result of Germany’s lax alcohol laws, which allow denizens to consume alcohol in public. If I’m caught with no beer at home, I simply pick up a few cold ones along the way from one of the many kiosks found throughout the city; in a pinch I can also buy take-away beer from the Alter Zoll. And because there are public restrooms right next to the field, this unofficial biergarten is an ideal spot for all to enjoy a summer refreshment.

Like most German cities, Bonn has no shortage of biergartens, and given its scenic hillsides and ideal setting along the Rhine, Bonn’s residents have made good use of the beauty surrounding them. If you ever make it to Bonn in warm weather, be sure to hug a tree, enjoy some fresh air, and stop to smell the roses.

And, oh yeah: Enjoy some beer!

“This is the New York City Homebrewers Guild meeting,” I offer. After taking another glance at the crowd, which is listening intently to newly minted brew master Damian Brown explain how he intends to found New York’s next great microbrewery, the visitors respond with a deflated laugh and retreat into the East Village. “It’s probably a sausage fest,” one trails off as they make tracks for the next bar.

The Guild’s monthly meeting, which gathers brewers of all ages and skill levels to exchange notes and share a pint among friends, may not be as sexy as a Matt Timms takedown or as glamorous as one of the many other tastings, tweetups and cocktail events that light up this city’s every evening, but the passion of this assembly, which is one of the city’s best resources for the art of independent beer, cannot be so easily dismissed. Once all questions have been answered, the crowd of brewers breaks into a warm buzz, trading tastes of new batches and refining their art through communion.

Beer is Born – The Bronx Brewery

Brown, the Guild’s guest speaker, owns The Bronx Brewery, a business that is not waiting to be born. After surmounting the technical rigors of UC Davis’ master brewers program and earning his Institute of Brewing and Distilling diploma, Brown quickly set up shop in New York, acquiring all of the necessary paperwork, drafting a business plan, creating a brand and developing a core collection of beer recipes in less than a year. All he needs now is $1 million of investment capital to procure the space, equipment and logistical muster necessary for shipping kegs of craft beer to bars throughout the city.

“We’re not looking to re-invent the wheel here,” Brown declares when asked about his goals with the Bronx Brewery. “I think the most interesting thing to do with beer is to weave in parts of where it’s made, how it’s made, what it’s made of, as opposed to redefining styles.”

Channeling the science and sophistication inherent in creating beer, Brown explains how he will make a new mark in New York’s beer community. In addition to producing quality product, he plans to offer on-premise brewing courses that will allow first-time brewers to learn the process together. He envisions the Bronx Brewery engaging Brooklyn’s rooftop farms to grow hops for local brewers, and he aims to expand the American beer palate by introducing his future customers to variants of beer that he’s discovered while globe trotting. Brown’s hope, consistent with the core function of the Home Brewers Guild, is that by finding more to share in beer, he will lead casual quaffers to become true craft beer advocates.

Just a Few Hops Away -The Homebrewer Tour

My own path to the Guild meeting was paved by Joshua M. Bernstein, an advocate for craft beer on the other side of the ropes. A food and drink journalist who has long been familiar with the ins and outs of home brewing, Bernstein leads a regular home brewer tour to connect those who love to drink craft beer with those who love to make it.

“It’s not a spectacle,” Bernstein says of the event, which evolved from a dive bar crawl into the afternoon series of living room tastings it is today. Each tour, which occurs roughly every six weeks, visits three homes and knocks back anywhere from six to fifteen types of brew, is equal parts education and entertainment. The writer curates the proceedings with a kind of disciplined whimsy, helping wayfarers enjoy their buzz while maintaining the order of the day. His willingness to kick back at each stop belies deep stores of malted knowledge – Bernstein, who has imbibed extensively and thoughtfully in his work as a writer and editor, is now working towards a 2011 publishing date for his first book on the new world of craft beer.

Of Palates, Palettes and Pallets – Conner and Fields

The Conner and Fields loft, a regular stop on Bernstein’s tour, offers a taste of home brewing’s crafty nature. Run by Jon Conner and Josh Fields, who make their living as sculptors and fabricators, this cavernous Williamsburg workshop is a testament to workmanship. The loft’s entrance opens into Conner’s humble living room, where a top-opening chest freezer contains three small kegs of home brew, ready for tasting. Large double doors reveal two vast, sunlit studios, populated with building materials for Conner’s fabrication business and brewing pleasure.

Armed with a computerized milling machine used to craft models for artists and architects, Conner has customized every step of his and Fields’ brewing process. Every object in the loft that includes a hint of wood or plastic carries his signature; the duo’s custom-built brewing equipment includes a stir plate for pitching yeast, a bottle tree and barrel stands for drying empty vessels, a clay slab roller turned grain mill, and the kegerator itself, whose wooden lip houses its taps and spill tray. These homespun creations are accompanied by odd pieces of brewing equipment that Conner and Fields have acquired from various parts of the state – including a massive stainless steel mash tank, accompanied by the story of their march into a deathly, frigid night to obtain it during the last gasp of upstate winter.

Conner and Fields brew new batches of beer several times a week. Their brew days, much like their array of customized equipment, are ripe with experience. Every piece of the process is hands-on; every step of the brew yields a new tool, purchased or hand-crafted for one purpose. As the brewers crush grain, pitch yeast, weigh hops, test carbon dioxide levels, measure sugar content, recirculate mash, stir boiling wort, clean bottles and taste their fermenting creations, they work with the precise verve of scientists and the practical wisdom of carpenters.

These efforts may not yet pay off in salaries, but they yield dividends of flavor that surpass many professional microbrews. Especially tasty are the Bankrupt State, a refreshing California Common with a full, plum-like sweetness, the Land Lover, an American brown with a smoky sense of bitter, La Tondeuse, a Belgian-style blonde that retains all of the floral notes of its genre without the aggressive yeast and alcohol flavors that usually accompany them, and the Robot Small, a crisp, rice-tinted, unfiltered pale ale with a nice bite of lemony bitterness. Demonstrating a broad mastery of the craft ale and a sense of curiosity that unlocks exciting new flavors, Conner and Fields, like Damian Brown and many other of New York’s home brewers, have the talent needed to create a wonderful product.

What’s stopping them from loosing their taps on the public is the money they don’t have to scale their production to large-batch brewing. Those who dream of turning their lifestyles into livelihood face a number of logistical and professional hurdles, but Josh Fields boils everything down to the $50,000 investment minimum he and Conner would need to put serious movement behind their ten years of brewing experience.

Brewing It All Back Home – Fritz Fernow

Many home brewers beyond Conner and Fields have also considered the dream of making beer for a living.
Fritz Fernow is no such man.

As he beckons visitors into his bedroom, where he’s set aside a tiled alcove for tidy brewing, Fernow creates one of the more intimate experiences of the Home Brewer Tour. Jennifer Welte, his wife and original brewing muse, makes a point of measuring the distance – in nightcaps – from his kegerator to their bed. The Cobble Hill couple exemplify a sense of comfort that I’ve come to recognize in the home brewers I’ve met, serving homemade snacks, getting to know their guests on a personal level and opening up discussion to all things tasteful.

This description is not meant to deny Fernow’s inner beer geek. The man’s eyes positively twinkle when he gets a chance to talk about his purest hobby, and when I inquire about how many batches he’s brewed, he almost immediately declares that his newest Belgian triple is batch #58. Fernow is a regular at Guild meetings and on beer message boards, begins the first step of his weekend brew days before he puts on clothes, and often hovers over an array of glasses, discussing flavors and de-constructing recipes with his fellow beer lovers.

Fernow’s creations, heavily favoring IPAs and Belgian styles, are not as inventive as those of Conner and Fields; still, they share the sense of balance that tames strong tastes into highly drinkable beers. In fact, fine-tuning flavors that many beer advocates prize for their extremism may be a more common thread among home brewers than among microbreweries, which have several incentives to prioritize distinction over nuance.

Does becoming a home brewer fundamentally change one’s perception of the nectar? Fernow, who took on the craft four years ago, rarely buys 6-packs of beer anymore; instead, he brings home mixed boxes of bottles for the purpose of tasting. His inquiries, however, are not limited to the new. As he divulges life to me over peanuts and ale in his kitchen, Fernow notes the brewer’s appreciation for batch consistency, which he asserts from time to time by coming back to a classic like Hoegaarden or Pilsner Urquell.

And though he will delve into discussion on the components of beer at the drop of a hat, he does key on the importance of restraint and hopes that his favorite pastime will not grow into a zen obsession: “If I do find something I love, or if I want to just chill and not think about it, I’ll order the same beer twice, and that second one is when I really relax. I stop examining it and smelling it, and just… you know, hey: It’s a beer. Enjoy it.”

The Beeriest Borough?
As Joshua Bernstein sips his maibock and ruffles the fur of Sammy, his newly adopted corgi/chihuahua mutt, he tells me that craft beer is in enjoying its biggest upswing in history.

“In the downturn…this so-called ‘luxury market’ has posted gains,” he highlights, pointing out that a place like Washington Commons, where we’re currently tying one on, could not have stayed in business ten years ago. He also notes that America is now home to the highest number of breweries since the era of prohibition.

Brooklyn, New York’s hotbed for new entrepreneurs in food and drink, is an opportune environment for the city’s most dense collection of home brewers. While the Home Brewer Tour isn’t limited to this borough (and home brewing certainly predates its heady local food movement), there’s something to the confluence of brewers in this locavore’s petry dish, which is now home to three sources of home brewing equipment, ingredients and expertise: The Brooklyn Kitchen, Brooklyn Homebrew and the Brooklyn Brew Shop.

The laid-back vibe, focus on craft and sense of hands-on ownership here may not translate into a night on the town, but they are undeniably refreshing. After finishing my pint with Josh and Sammy and scribbling down the date of their next tour, I leave Prospect Heights with a renewed thirst for going against the grain.

All beers described in this story were provided free of charge (though not explicitly for review purposes) by the brewers who made them. For information on the New York Home Brewer Tour, please contact Joshua M. Bernstein via e-mail.

Fuckin’ A. As long as I’m doubled over in defeat, I might as well go for a roundup of the foods that make this town the tastiest destination in Texas. While Austin doesn’t have the last word on variety, it does cater to three of my bottomless appetites: Mexican food, southern cooking and beer.

St. Arnold’s Lawnmower Ale

I’ll start with beer. Alcohol tend to play an overbearing role in my SXSW experience. This doesn’t mean that it goes down without respect. Case-in-point: St. Arnold’s Lawnmower Ale, a crisp, Kolsch-style Texan microbrew that ranks among my all-time favorites. Lone Star is fine, and Shiner is finer, but the clean body, slightly grainy malt sweetness and ever-so-faint hop lick that makes the Lawnmower a great session beer is usually the first thing I seek out when the sun sets in Austin. Setting out for a six-pack of St. Arnold is also a great excuse to stop by the Whip-In, a powerfully stocked beer closet with snacks, smokes, an outdoor patio and a new-age Indian cafe built into the premises.

Lambert’s Downtown Barbecue
Early on in the week, a recommendation from Robbie Richter and a brief stop between ice cream gigs landed me in Lambert’s, a triple-dollar-sign smokehouse restaurant in the heart of the city center. While I wasn’t completely won over by the restaurant’s brisket or hot links, the country smoked pork ribs – locally sourced, crusted with fennel, maple and coriander, and smoked with oak – were close to the best ribs I have ever tasted.

In fact, part of Lambert’s charm was the fact that a chef, not a pit master or hand-me-down manager, had ordained the servings with keen culinary touches. Each dish was carefully prepared and served with a specific pickled side (cabbage for the sausage, fennel and apple salad for the ribs), which worked wonderfully as a counterweight to the heft and fatty flavors of the meat.

It’s meals like this that snap me out of my curmudgeonly, anti-white-tablecloth demeanor and realize that while Sam’s might stand tall in Austin as the classic barbecue joint, there’s no shame with tipping my moist towellete to the barbecue joint with class. I only hope that when I return, my wallet will have caught up to my palate.

Hoover’s Cooking

On the opposite end of the southern spectrum is Hoover’s Cooking, an unabashedly super-sized family restaurant that bludgeons diners with plate after plate of caloric payload until their taste buds don’t know bread from breading. I’ve attempted to write about Hoover’s every time I’ve visited Austin, but it’s one of those places that’s so straightforward, it can’t possibly tell a story beyond the words, “chicken fried chicken.”

Chicken fried chicken – a pounded cutlet of white meat dredged heavily in seasoned flour, fried golden brown and served with country gravy – certainly is the star of the show here, followed closely by chicken fried steak and southern fried pork chops. Jamaican jerk ribs? Ham steak? Meat loaf? You could give them a shot, but no entree lacking the word “fried” in its title is going to be worth the marathon eating session you’ll have to endure to put it away.

Hoover’s sides easily comprise a meal of their own, especially the rich, barely piquant jalapeño creamed spinach and slightly sweet okra and tomato stew, two choices I come back to time and again regardless of how good everything else can be. With low prices, friendly staff and a great beer selection rounding out the joint, Hoover’s does just about everything right in the dialect of southern cooking.

El Gallo and Rosita’s Al Pastor
I’ve sung the praises of Austin’s breakfast tacos in the past and cannot possibly sing loudly enough when it comes to a fistful of migas, but this year’s highlights were decidedly outside the usual Tex-Mex venn diagram.

El Gallo, an unassuming building ensconced in an eternally half-empty parking lot in South Austin, is for the most part a standard place to get your fill of Tex-Mex cuisine. Queso, quacamole salad, enchiladas and fajitas, however, are accompanied by a number of specials out of regional bounds, including pollo en mole, cabrito al horno, carne guisada, and one hell of a chile relleno. While I can’t vouch for El Gallo’s menu as a whole, this poblano pepper, stuffed with ground beef, pecans, potatoes, carrots and raisins and an assortment of spices, is reason enough to make the drive down South Congress the next time you’re in town.

The best Mexican food I’ve had yet in Austin, though, is at Rosita’s Al Pastor, a sit-down/taco-truck combo in a strip mall just southeast of downtown. Rosita’s pastor, steeped heartily marinade and spit-roasted under pineapple, is tender and flavorful beyond the point of an Angeleno’s recognition. After four years of intermittently eating my way around the Texas capital, I’ve finally found a restaurant to unseat Hoover’s as my first stop for dinner.

Plus – thanks to Al Pastor’s wide screen television – after twenty-six years of enduring a meaningless existence, I’ve finally discovered the dimension of latin entertainment bliss that is 12 Corazones.

Smitty’s Market

No trip to Austin is complete without a smokestack sojourn outside city limits. I was hoping to drive out to Lexington, TX for a shot at Snow’s, but my work schedule limited my options to a Sunday afternoon at Smitty’s in Lockhart.

Smitty’s, of course, is no chopped liver. It’s beef and pork, slow-smoked in the central Texas barbecue tradition and served by the pound – a remnant of the restaurant’s butcher shop forebears. Harbored in the original Kreuz smokehouse thirty miles south of Austin, Smitty’s is one of several standards of this barbecue region.

Nowhere to be found are the honky-tonk exaggerations, dizzying southern sides and po’ boy affectations of urban food tourism. Steadily pushing people along the counter, where pinto beans, white bread, saltine crackers and a number of pickled vegetables are arranged as accompaniment to their barbecue, the staff at Smitty’s turns over hundreds of pounds of food and just as much history without about as much flair as a salt lick.

Brisket is at the center of the Smitty’s experience, and it’s central to whatever pride Texans might take in their reputation as barbecue royalty. It’s the brisket in this part of Texas that has ruined my ability to enjoy this cut of meat almost anywhere else. Plenty of barbecue joints serve tender brisket, and plenty more serve fatty brisket, but strips of stringy beef patched together by greasy globs of fat, no matter how well they’re cooked, can never match what’s on offer in Lockhart, Luling and the rest of the barbecue belt that fits snugly around Austin.

The best barbecue brisket, as proclaimed by my lowly and carnal senses, is seasoned with nothing more than salt and pepper and wood-smoked for hours, until a beautiful ring of pink has penetrated its edges and – most importantly – until the fats in the meat have been transformed into juices of pure flavor that lace the meat rather than suffocate it. A bite of good brisket is enough to make me forget, maybe even forsake, my indifference to beef and my disapproval of the feeding practices that must lead to this kind of marbling. Sustainability be damned for just one moment: The best barbecue brisket is an experience that I’ll take to humanity’s grave.

Smitty’s smoked sausages, mildly flavored and packed just loosely enough to fall apart in your mouth when you take a bite, wear the same halo that allows grease and fat to be interpreted as meat juices. Beef shoulder, dry and tough by comparison, is not worth the purchase.

Neither are the market’s pork ribs, which are tasty enough but just a little too simple to be on equal footing with brisket. Treating pork ribs like beef – seasoned with nothing more than salt and pepper – creates an interesting alternative to the Memphis and St. Louis styles of crusting, basting, rubbing and smoking, but loses the savory and textural complexity that makes those regions’ ribs so incredible.

Fortunately, the same can’t be said about Smitty’s smoked pork chop, which is hearty, juicy and best eaten while driving on the interstate, chop in one hand and steering wheel in the other.

All of this abbatoir adulation might send a stereotypically fatty message about the tastes of Texas. Austin, birthplace of Whole Foods, home to a booming community of enthusiastic taste buds and guardian of the slogan “Keep Austin Weird,” is in fact not solely the product of deep-fried, spit-roasted and pit-smoked animal carcass. Until places like Veggie Heaven stop sabotaging any case for the contrary, though, I’ll be unbuckling my belt every time I touch town at Austin-Bergstrom International.

I’ll be the first to defend the city of angels against straw man haters, but when it comes to feeling at home, everything that gives me the will to open my eyes in the morning was born, raised and eaten in the Bay Area.

Chef Edwards’ BBQ – Downtown Oakland

Chef Edwards’ is my favorite barbecue joint in California. Zach, who introduced me to this pork smoking, sauce conquering, chittlin loving pit master, will have more to say about this at a future juncture – mostly because all I’m truly qualified to speak to is his hallmark menu item: The Piggly Wiggly sandwich.

The first time I had a Piggly Wiggly, Chef Edwards’ was a single counter hole in the wall on a dead block of downtown Oakland, one block from what is possibly the greatest Greyhound sign in the country. For four bucks and change I was handed a styrofoam container wrapped around a small sandwich bun. Between the pudgy slices of soft, processed white bread were thick slices of expertly smoked pork – the kind of barbecue that requires no sauce, but truly sings when smothered in John Edwards’ thick, spicy-sweet red and layered with his tangy, neon yellow vinegar slaw. Only in this memory can I say with pride that a sandwich birthed my taste buds.

As development dollars continued to trickle downtown, the good chef decided to invest in grander digs. When he resumed operations across the street from his old storefront, I returned for a Piggly Wiggly. It was served on a diner plate, and the bun had been replaced with uncharacteristic but delicious hunks of ciabatta. Every time I’ve sat down since for a Piggly Wiggly, its composition has changed to something less reminiscent of that moment of smoky clarity in 2005. Slices of pork crumbled into the more popular form of chopped pork, and size began to overtake flavor. When the chef’s sandwich hit my table last week, it could no longer be eaten by hand.

So: the Piggly Wiggly has proven itself mortal. This certainly doesn’t mean that Chef Edwards has lost his way – he does, after all, still serve the sandwich, engorged as it is, for $5.50 and allows no substitutions for that heavenly yellow slaw. As much as I wish for certain things to stay the same, I’d be a damn fool to turn my snout at what is still much more a signature than it is a trademark – my real problem is that a sandwich this weighty leaves no room for an order of beef ribs.

Jodie’s – Albany


No trip to the East Bay is worth putting on pants for unless it involves breakfast at Jodie’s, which, as my friends recently pointed out, is the closest thing we’ll get to our own Monk’s Restaurant (but with far more bacon). Boykji and I split a full plate of Something Different, and I ordered a Rookie special (two eggs country scrambled, bacon, two pancakes, English muffin and coffee) to round things out. Jodie, reveling in the weekend crowd, was as lively as ever, bustling to and fro with plates and silver as his son Charles commanded the kitchen.

Gioia Pizzeria – North Berkeley
There was no time for a pizza pub crawl this go around, but I’d been meaning to check out Gioia for years, so after a stint at Local 123 (where Flying Goat Coffee gives new context to the word “citrus”) we swung by for a couple slices.

Gioia and Pie in the Sky, still my favorite slice stop in Berkeley, both have a skilled finger on the pulse of the gourmet slice – not quite New York, not quite California and definitely not neopolitan, but affordable and altogether tasteful. While the crust of Gioia’s slice lacked complexity, it maintained a nice crisp all the way to the tip. The sauce here was distinctly tangy but sightly lacking in proportion to cheese, which – to be expected – was just bit heavier than it should have been. The quality and execution of toppings, which is make-or-break for this type of pizza, was superb – roasted mushrooms, parsley, spinach and garlic played point in a way that speaks well for the state of pizza in the Bay Area.

A simple Russian lunch at Zolushka/Cinderella, revolving around overpriced solyanka, fresh black bread, house-made kvas, and baked cabbage piroshki, was the meal I’d been looking forward to most in San Francisco. Unfortunately, the ghost of renovations past and Orthodox holidays present combined forces to present me with (yes):

ZOLUSHKA FAIL – Inner Richmond, San Francisco

Fortunately, not all was lost.

The bakery portion of the restaurant was still up and running, shipping fresh loaves of black bread all over the Bay Area.

Each of us purchased a loaf of the best bread I’ve ever had outside of Russia for $3.25. In the cosmic category of “things that don’t fuck around,” Zolushka’s black bread has Galactus eating soiled chunks of shitty asteroid for breakfast. The crust seems hermetically sealed, shining with a sustaining crunch. The inside of the loaf, however, is a savory Slavic handshake between hearty and fluffy. Entire eras have patiently outlasted history thanks to bread like this. Tragically, bread like this starts to go bad in less than twelve hours, so if you ever find yourself in possession of a loaf, freeze it before the crust goes soft and the insides dry out.

Being stranded in the Richmond is a far more bountiful conundrum than being stranded in a Las Vegas strip mall. We decisively walked up to Clement St. and made our way over to another restaurant I’d been meaning to visit for years:

Burma Superstar – Inner Richmond, San Francisco
Burma Superstar may not refer to John Rambo, but it is a massive hit with many a Bay Area eater, including two food bloggers I know and love. Spices! and Spices!2 were both tempting barriers to Burmese entry, but after suffering Lotus of Siam Fail, an upping of the Southeast ante took precedence over any “Bandit Style” nostalgia.

Our table, seven strong, started off with vegetarian samusa soup, an exemplary bowl of subdued spices simmering in a deep brown South Asian curry. Chunks of fried samosa and other smatterings of legume and grain granted just the right level of heartiness for a soup meant to prime the appetite. The platha, a layered and fried paratha-like pancake, was a bit of a rip-off at $3, but it was admittedly a glory to consume.

Eyes darted quickly to the lettuce cups, which threw tiny cubes of pork, pickled radish, carrots, water chestnuts and spices into the frying pan to emerge as a hot, crunchy, crispy, juicy, savory stuffing for fresh leaves of romaine. Tea leaf salad, the herald of the appetizer menu, handily one-upped the lettuce cups with a rainbow of citrus, garlic, and of course tea, the brute forces of which were forced to play nice by crisp lettuce leaves and the inclusion of peanuts.

Pea shoots “stir fried with wine and garlic” + “staff favorite” = Yes! I question the sanity of anyone who sees pea shoots on a menu and doesn’t order them. Flanking that vegetable was the Vegetable Curry Deluxe, a somewhat tangy, tomato-infused red curry mix of everything good under the sun (though not everything included was seasonal). I don’t know much about Burmese cuisine, but like most of the dishes we tried at Burma Superstar, this one was a nicely understated kaleidoscope of ingredients that found all the right intersections of flavor.

Fiery tofu with lamb exemplified the subtle “sweet heat” connection in many B-S*’s dishes that really makes me reconsider the volcano-blasting of a good Thai meal. This dish was also a highlight because it treated bean curd as a partner to, not substitute for or distraction from, meat. Thick slices of dark bean curd, interspersed with shreds of slightly chewy, slightly crunchy, well done lamb – unlike my love life – proved that a lack of game can indeed yield victory. Stir fried with crisp string beans, bell pepper slices and some well roasted red chiles, the combo wasn’t fiery, but it was the superstar of my day.

Braised pork belly with mustard greens: Beautifully conceived, immaculately executed, but in the end only delicious by default. I know this outcome to be inevitable, yet I can never say no to a new offering of pork belly. Our final choice, bun tay kauswer, was more joyful: A cousin of Thailand’s khao soi, this dish tosses soft flour noodles with a short order of different textures (in this case, split yellow pea, cabbage, eggs, fried onions and something that I swear was wonton) in a creamier-than-thou coconut curry. Rich but still noticeably light, these noodles were almost a palate cleanser after the hot and heavy stylings of our other entrees.

After lunch, we stood up. I think.

Then, we walked one block over to:

Green Apple Books – Inner Richmond – San Francisco, CA

This is one way in which I love San Francisco.

Dinner on my last night in Oakland merits its own post, so I’ll end this one with one way in which I love Berkeley.

Acme Bar – Berkeley, CA
After leaving the City, Tabak and I hung a left to Acme, an establishment that might be all dives to all people. I took the opportunity to reunite myself with a pint of Death and Taxes.

Nothing short of a man on the prowl, Nate got acquainted with a Sunday special called the Meatshake: a double-to-triple strength bloody mary, mixed with no shortage of brine and spice and topped off with pickled green beans, pickled olives, a pearl onion, and one slice of carne asada.

The shot of High Life on the side is more emblem than irony – live it up, not down, my friends.

The truth is, all dumpling feasts test your core eating strength, making you feel the burn in all the wrong places. Yet, pound of dumpling meat for pound, you’d be hard pressed to find one with more heartiness packed into each bite than at the Dongbei dumpling house, a perfect setting for a feast to help you forget all your foibles and a reminder of why, when it comes to personal eating habits, you hate the word “foible” anyways.

Dongbei refers to the Northeast region of China, known for its biting cold and unthinkable levels of poverty. Not to put too fine of a point on it, but when it’s cold and the threat of famine lurks around every corner, it’s best to eat – and drink – up whenever you can. This, my friends, is why comfort food was invented.

Whoever thought up the words “comfort food” is an evil genius with a predilection for doublethink: whenever I think of the phrase, I conjure up thoughts of delicious food that’s also deplorable in the sense that it makes you uncomfortably full. Fried chicken and mac-and-cheese are obvious American candidates, but there’s no chance I could eat either of them with as much frequency – and voracity – as I can the Dongbei dumpling.

Shanghai is littered with Dongbei restaurants, all of them possessing the subtlety of a jackhammer. Somehow, this turns out to be a good thing. Menus scream at you with bright, bold-faced lettering, parading lesser meats (donkey, dog) and dumpling fillings as if they were the last items at a clearance sale.

As a matter of fact, certain foods are like the last items at a clearance sale. At my go-to Dongbei dumpling house, where it’s feast and never famine, a clear rice noodle in peanut and chili sauce dish (majiang lapi) is arguably the piece de resistance: a little sweet, a little sour and a little spicy, with the kind of slippery, seductive texture that only gets better upon repeated munchings. Only problem is: It runs out fast. And trust me, no amount of cajoling or groveling to the waitstaff can change the fact that Chinese people eat early and often, and always know what’s at stake – in this case, the best rice noodles in peanut and chili sauce that you’ll have in Shanghai.

Lucky for us, then, that the dumplings never run out, and like most food meant for mass consumption, are better enjoyed with a mass of like-minded people who enjoy nothing more than mass destruction at the dinner table. Consider yourself lucky to be seated at a table among such gastronomical giants, but consider yourself warned that there will be little to no consensus on choice of dumpling filling. The vegetarians will crow about the mushroom-and-greens but blanch at the sight of dark-mushroom-and-meat (my brother’s personal favorite). Cilantro lovers are derisive of celery buffs, but both bow down to green pepper (my filling of choice). Leek dumplings, on the other hand? I love them, but nobody else really seems to… probably because they’re the wrong shade of green.

The dumplings (or dumps, as they’re more affectionately known by our merry band of miscreant overstuffers) at my Dongbei diner aren’t always the most consistent (loose, flabby skin is loose, flabby skin in any context), but when they are, boy, do they hurt so good. Down them with a beer or five of Harbin’s finest, and leave no dumps behind. This is the clearance sale of feasts – everything must go.

Dongbei Dumpling King
1791 Middle Huaihai Rd (near Wanping Rd)
Shanghai, China

I’ll be deviating from my usual column to post several stories on my meals there throughout this week. As I continue post-vacation recovery, however, you’ll have to settle for this primer album of beverages and mustache: