A humongous Pop-Tart. That’s what this marionberry cobbler — named for a type of blackberry, not the erstwhile mayor of D.C. — reminds me of, from its gooey, purplish guts, to its crust, which, like Kellogg’s toaster pastry, turns soft after a little time in the microwave. As with the…
Aside from the fetish festivities this evening, which I’ll describe in a sec, Chasers in Scottsdale looks like everyone’s friendly neighborhood dive, with pool tables for the cue-ballers, a low stage for musical acts, and an abundance of TV sets, which I’m guessing on most nights feature sporting events. But…
Before the P-town Rihanna and I get blunted at the four-year anniversary of the Dolemite of hip-hop clubs in the PHX, there’s a little information we must convey to the masses. In the last Inferno at WWIII Sadisco (“War Games,” May 18), I mentioned that Sadisco co-founder Donnie Burbank believed…
There are a barrel of jackasses out there in foodie land who insist I’m never supposed to visit a fresh grubbateria until it’s survived six months or so, and to these jackasses, I say: Eat my ragged Speedo! My five-year mission as your Captain Kirk of comestibles is to explore…
I used to loathe doggie bags, mainly the way they stink up the sedan as you’re motoring home with half a curry fermenting in the back seat. But I’ve learned the trick of rolling down all four windows on the trek home so that the breeze blows back any odious…
I must be paying for the sins of a past life. Why is it every time I locate a new sushi purveyor that I’d like to put into heavy rotation for my weekly feeding rounds, the joint is inevitably 30 minutes to an hour away from me? By Thor’s mighty…
Jett’s run off in a corner somewhere at Mardi Gras in Scottsdale, snapping a pic of this squalie’s ass, while I’m dodging flailing arms and legs near the dance floor. On stage, there’s a bald white dude, in a flowing Middle Eastern-type shirt that reaches all the way to his…
On paper, the whole concept of tapas must seem a boon to money-grubbing restaurateurs everywhere, which is why nearly every upscale nightclub you waltz into these days serves what they refer to as “American” or “International” tapas, basically a catchall meaning, “Tonight, we’ll be serving you a third of the…
The warm glow of candlelight suffuses the Wrigley Mansion’s grand living room, as George Gershwin’s ghost tickles the ivories of an ancient Steinway, belting out the dulcet tones of “Rhapsody in Blue.” Seems Gershwin was a guest of chewing gum magnate William Wrigley Jr. back in the day, and recorded…
The ofays in this town would starve without Mexicans, whether legal, illegal, or full-blown citizens. Seems like just about every eatery in Maricopa County has Spanish-speaking help in the cocina, from cheapo fast-food outlets and slow-food bistros to those wallet-draining nose-in-the-clouds gourmet spots that bother with only the highest of…
It’s near midnight on a Friday, and IO club owner David Landreville and I are chatting up this lil’ pecan-skinned spitfire we’ll call “Natalie” ’cause she didn’t want me to use her real handle, for reasons that will soon be clear. We’re parked at IO’s backlit martini bar, and Natalie’s…
In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been burning a humongo hole in my billfold the past few weeks, eating out at all these high-dollar grubbaterias, and stacking so much credit card debt that Visa should consider taking out a life insurance policy on me. How else would the company survive…
Don’t ask why Jett flaked on me this week. Something about a free eightball and a three-way in Ahwatukee. Not that I blame her. I mean, the last three-way I was invited to involved me, myself and I, all buck nekkid in the hot tub. Talk about a tight fit!…
If there’s any place in town that has me daydreaming about bloody guillotines and headless aristocrats, it’s Kierland Commons, though my 18th-century fantasy is more Monty Python than History Channel. First, we’ll erect the infernal machine in front of Restoration Hardware, with executions beginning at noon. All Cialis-popping, nouveau riche…
The voice crackling over the cell phone belongs to a cat with three days left to live: D12 rapper Proof, Slim Shady’s right-hand man, and a respected hip-hop artist in his own right, who was slain early Tuesday, April 11, in a three-way shootout that the Detroit po-po are still…
Halfway through the slightly acidic creaminess of my sorrel bisque, and well into a second bottle of value-priced Pinot Noir with my dining companions, I feel unusually blessed. Seated amidst the colorful hodgepodge of art and antiques that is the Backstreet Wine Salon, all alone on a Thursday night (save…
Chuey the Rock ‘n’ Roll Midget, a.k.a. “The Satanic Hispanic,” scrambles to the middle of the Wheel of Fortune-like board as fast as his little sawed-off legs will carry him and rips down an 8-by-10 pic of tonight’s “secret square,” missing-and-presumed-dead Alabama hottie Natalee Holloway. The four-foot-three, 180-pound horndog then…
Hoist the Belgian tricolor and strike up that kingdom’s national anthem, “La Brabançonne.” Chart a course for the ancient port city of Antwerp, and make it snappy. We sail for the land that gave us mystery writer Georges Simenon and the Singing Nun, Audrey Hepburn and René Magritte, pommes frites…
“What the hell is Britpop, anyway, Kreme?” queries the Jettster as I ease the shaggin’ wagon into the lot next to Anderson’s Fifth Estate in Scottsdale, site of the monthly Britpop night Panic!, the reason for our appearance this eve. “Oh, you know, it’s all those ’90s bands from the…
I’d have a rough time coining a more idiotic name for a restaurant than “Cocono’s,” the d.b.a. of the new West Valley venture brought to us by members of the Salazar family, proprietors of the mostly mediocre Manuel’s Mexican Restaurants. The handle’s too close to “Coco’s,” that family-friendly peddler of…
Paco Paco might’ve been a drive-thru likker store back in the day. Something about the slanted roof, pointy lit-up sign, and the way the squat structure juts out to the south of Earll Drive on 16th Street with a little driveway off to the side. Whatever its original use, it’s…
Eyeless sirens trapped in the detritus of urban wastelands. Iconic gas-mask-clad craniums sprouting antlers like human jackalopes. Jigsawed female forms splayed out beside abandoned automata. Behold, y’all, the bizarrely bewitching realm that photographer Dayvid LeMmon, 23, creates with his camera and computer. Outwardly, the Glendale resident plays the unassuming, stringy-haired…
