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Your Iron Chef America secret ingredient is .... HERE!
Um:
Twelve bottles of The End Of History ale have been made and placed inside seven dead stoats, four squirrels and one hare.
And at 55 per cent volume, its makers claim it is the world's strongest beer.
More here and at the manufacturer's site, where we find this:
This 55% beer should be drank in small servings whilst exuding an endearing pseudo vigilance and reverence for Mr Stoat. This is to be enjoyed with a weather eye on the horizon for inflatable alcohol industry Nazis, judgemental washed up neo-prohibitionists or any grandiloquent, ostentatious foxes.
Let's just say that, on Saturday, Mrs Heathen and I had a little too much fun. It started at Phil's BBQ for the WC match, and continued for reasons not entirely clear at Beaver's, where Claire Sprouse made souses of us with her delicious cocktails.
So some recovery was in order on Sunday -- although let the record show that Mrs Heathen still went and ran nearly 6 miles on Sunday morning, so three cheers for her. We lazed about, had a nap, watched Argentina dismantle Mexico, and eventually felt the need to venture into the world again as much for fun as for food. And that's when I remembered something: We'd not yet been to Rockwell Tavern.
I am an unashamed inner-loop snob. I rarely leave Montrose. I consider it a hike if I have to go to the Galleria (seriously: I just mail-ordered a laptop battery rather than go to the Apple store), and most typically am leaving town if I get more than an exit or two beyond 610, so the whole idea of driving to Cypress for a fucking hamburger is something that, well, most of the time I'd just laugh off. But for some reason on a lazy Sunday afternoon it seemed reasonable, so we packed a bag and lit out for the territories. (For the record, Rockwell is 25 miles from our house; on a Sunday at five, you can do that in about half an hour, but God help you during the week.)
About 40 minutes later (!) we pulled into the lot. I've lived in Houston for 16 years, and this is the first time I've been this far out on 290. Cypress is miles past the beltway, for crying out loud. I thought about tweeting a pic, but I had no 3G service out there. The reviews are right; you're in the ass end of the universe, and it looks like nothing so much as the rural world I visit when I want to shoot at doves.
The strip center itself is an exercise in halfassery -- there's an unfinished something next door to Rockwell, full of piles of building materials. This mode extends to Rockwell's own facilities, which despite being fairly new (Robb Walsh says they opened in January 2009) is already pretty ramshackle. And features an empty aquarium. The bar itself is a baroque thing distinctly out of place in what amounts to a giant featureless room with insufficient A/C, but stay with me, dear reader, for all sins are forgiven by what comes next.
There was next to no one in the place at about 6 on a Sunday, so we were immediately seated. I was again sad for our hungover state, as the beer selection out there is pretty impressive for any address, let alone one halfway to Bastrop. We weren't there for beer, though. Mrs Heathen ordered some fried pickles for an appy, and they proved tasty if under-drained; after that, though, came the main courses.
I followed St Walsh's lead and had the King Bubba, a half-pound of fresh ground meat topped with bacon, cheese, and a fried egg. Mrs Heathen went with the Psychedelic Hendrix ("like Jimi, chock full of 'shrooms!"). There's not much I can say that Walsh or Alison Cook didn't already say, but:
Holy Jesus, these are some good goddamn hamburgers. The slightly sweet egg bun, toasted to perfection, is a fantastic complement to its crispy and greasy cargo (and, shockingly, held up well for the duration of the meal). You need to go here, and eat these. Now. Especially the Bubba. I have not had a better burger, I'm sad to say, and I wish more than anything these cats would open a branch somewhere I don't need provisions to visit. Both Walsh and Cook ding Rockwell for their onion rings, and they're absolutely right; skip the rings and go with either their fantastic sweet potato fries or the handcut traditional fries. Both are outstanding. Oh, and don't bother with an appetizer; we forgot all about the pickles as soon as the burgers and fries hit the table (Which was quick! Service was outstanding.), and had way more food than we needed. Now, if only we didn't need to take vacation time and pack a change of clothes to eat there again...
I have constructed a mint julep. It is awesome. That is all.
The good news in the Houston food world is that uber-food-writer Robb Walsh is a partner in a new Tex-Mex joint opening in the old Tower Theater location in the heart of Montrose.
Imagine my disappointment to discover his partners, which means I'll never eat there. I had one of the worst customer service experiences of my life at Caswell's Reef, when his valets wrecked my pal's brand-new car and then refused to own up or pressure the valet firm to properly repair it. I'll be damned if I spend a single dime at any restaurant he's a part of despite how much I'd like to partake of Mr Walsh's venture.
Jimmy Dead, king of the sausagemakers? Dead!.
At 81.
A BBQ Disaster Narrowly Averted is a fine, fine read.
The bhut jolokia is, at over 1,000,000 Scoville units, the hottest pepper on the planet. (That's about twice as hot as a habanero, or twenty times hotter than a cayenne; a jalapeno clocks in between 2,500 and 8,000.)
So it just makes sense that India would turn it into a weapon, right?
Incidentally, there's a joint in San Antonio where you can get some on a hamburger.
So, Houston Foodie Heathen, don't you think we should all go in on a sous vide machine?
I'd have written it up, but it turns out another local blogger was the guest of honor. Enjoy.
(Really, now, isn't Central Asia the logical homeland for all heathen?)
Please enjoy the Automated Frou Frou Restaurant Menu Generator. I got an option for ground civet with organic compote, plus salted addax with bitter stew. But my favorite is "fire-roasted orangutan with brussel sprout gravy."
Dear Restaurants: STOP DOING THIS.
It is apparently possible to purchase Tabasco sauce by the gallon, in personalized jugs.
Excellent.
They seem particularly likely to fall prey to the Flash disease, which means their sites are useless to folks on smartphones. They also routinely miss basic shit like keeping a phone number on every page, especially the menu -- don't make a customer look for it!
All-PDF menu sites are nearly as bad, since they're nearly impossible to reformat for small devices (again, think about your smartphone use cases!). At the same time, though, keeping a PDF download of your menu in a handy header link is a great idea not used nearly often enough -- for a frequently-called neighborhood joint, having to wade through a flash menu every time is just ridiculous.
What IS malt liquor, after all? Long but worth your time.
This hamburger at Indika. How did I miss this? Who's with me?
Love dumplings, but all thumbs? They've got you covered.
Sriracha is in the New York Times today. Turns out, it's made in LA, and is more or less an American thing -- though it was created by a Vietnamese immigrant.
This link to Bakon Vodka. Mmmm, Bacon.
How to brew beer in a coffee maker, using only materials commonly found on a modestly sized oceanographic research vessel, courteously supplied by Agent Rob.
I like it, but this guy really really loves it.
Recent Heathen fave neighborhood restaurant Feast has just bagged some national press from NYT's Frank Bruni. How cool is that?
Someone made a Taco Town taco. Yes, the one from SNL. With "a taco in a taco in a gordita in a pizza in a blueberry pancake in batter, deep fried." Yep.
Oh god.
Cafe Montrose never reopened after Ike, which is irritating and sad -- it was a great neighborhood joint for a quick bite or a resplendent feast. I'll miss it.
But in its place, we're getting a cured-meat-and-wine-bar ("Vinoteca Poscol") from Marco Wiles, he of Da Marco and Dolce Vita, which could be a lovely thing.
If you, in the course of the holiday season, were to be gifted with some fine Imperial-pint sized beer glasses by certain Jackson-area attorneys, and were then to, after a post-holiday period of abstention, acquire some fine, fine beer to enjoy in said glasses, two things might come to mind:
"Goodness me! This beer is actually much better in the pint glass, owing probably to the greater ability to smell the beer!"; and
"Why, as God as my witness, it seems a crime against humanity and Christendom that modern beers are served in such paltry 12-oz bottles; my fine Imperial Pint glasses have room for much more beer than that!"
That is all.
Ladies and Gentleheathen, I give you the Bacon Explosion.
Whoa. I think I had a little heart attack just reading about that.
The Foodie at Fifteen blog's most recent entry recounts the author's third trip to Per Se, wherein he blew the last of his summer job money.
Dude. All I bought was a guitar and some weed. Also, I didn't eat any of Keller's food until I was 30. Go read this; it's delightful. And not at all overdone; if Per Se is on par with Keller's other kitchen, if anything this kid undersells the experience.
Who knew there was a BaconToday web magazine? Its hard-hitting coverage of the Turbaconducken earns it a bookmark on our desktop for sure.
Compared to Jeremy Clarkson's Top Gear V-8 Blender, at least.
Via Joe, we find this excellent snapshot, clearly taken a long, long way from where Bob got that T-shirt.
In 1998, Corning sold the Pyrex brand to World Kitchen, and it appears that around then Pyrex sold in the US stopped being made out of borosilicate glass; instead, now it's conventional soda lime glass. Borosilicate composition is the sine qua non of Pyrex; Pyrex was Pyrex -- which is to say, able to go from oven to cooktop to freezer with no danger of breakage -- because it was borosilicate, not normal tempered glass. Pyrex made form conventional glass just isn't the Pyrex we all came to know in the years prior to 1998.
It's a worse problem, actually, than the obvious, i.e. a sudden drop in quality. People buy Pyrex pan with the expectation that they can bake a chicken in it, but the new Pyrex pans just might spontaneously shatter (with some force!) under such heating. Needless to say, both Corning and World Kitchen would very much like everyone to shut up about this, but thankfully Consumer Affairs hasn't, and won't.
Bottom line: Do not buy Pyrex. Find a supplier who actually make borosilicate glass if you want what Pyrex used to be.
Apparently, Satan dwells in Google's kitchen. I can't imagine how this fits in with their famous corporate motto.
(Via Mrs Heathen)
Apparently, in NY, you can get ostrich eggs at Whole Foods.
Let's say you love pizza. I mean, you really, really love the stuff. But suddenly you move away from your favorite pizza places in NYC, and find yourself in Atlanta, and what's a guy to do? It goes without saying that non-northeastern 'Za is simply unacceptable, so clearly you embark on a wild and obsessive pursuit of awesome pizza made at home.
I'm not talking about the shallow end of the pool, either. This guy's got strong opinions on flour types, on the fermenting of dough, on kneading technique, on blenders, and, most significantly, how to modify your home oven so it'll go to 800 degrees, since cooking pizza at 475 just won't cut it.
(Confidential to Mrs Heathen: I remain perfectly happy getting ours from Dolce Vita or Pink's. I have no need to modify the Jennair.)
No one can hack a Chemex. I don't have one, but was frankly just before getting one when Mrs Heathen gave me my Bodum vac pot.
Chicago has abandoned its wrongheaded foie gras ban.
