Going out to dinner with my Uncle Jim feels like performance art. Uncle Jim’s encyclopedic knowledge of food comes from years spent paying his dues — as garde-manger, sous chef, kitchen manager — at a variety of upscale eateries. He hasn’t worked as a chef for a long time, but…
A few years ago, I moved to a historic district near downtown Phoenix, figuring that the best way to support the city’s renaissance was to live here, shop here, and eat here, frequenting the small, locally owned joints that dot the landscape. But the dots were few and far between,…
When I was a kid, I could not wait to become an adult, and my grandparents’ themed cocktail parties fueled my imagination. Not that my memories are based on actual experiences, mind you. These glitzy poolside affairs never included children. Instead, I got a vicarious thrill from the old Polaroids…
The expectations game can be as dangerous for restaurant owners as playing mumblety-peg with a 10-inch, razor-sharp Bowie knife. If you roll into town telling all and sundry you’re the bee’s knees, pour $1 million into your eatery, and brag that your venture is going to be the only “authentic”…
Pink Taco is to Mexican grub what the House of Blues is to soul food, or P.F. Chang’s is to Chinese. Each of these spots doles out eats for yupper middle-class, gringo palates. So if you’re expecting either a gourmet meal or an authentic ethnic dining experience when you go…
The late ’70s. California. Macrobiotic cooking. Wacky New Age cults. Jogging. Yoga. Tibetan Buddhism. Jerry Brown and Linda Ronstadt. Uri Geller. Wheat germ. Meditation. The Esalen Institute. UFOs. Patty Hearst. Est. And my own personal fashion icon, the Reverend Jim Jones, the man who made guayaberas and dark sunglasses look…
I wonder if Damon Brasch could do for veganism what American Apparel founder Dov Charney has done for generic clothing: make it sexy as all get-out. Brasch is the owner of Green, New American Vegetarian, a purveyor of vegan comfort food on Scottsdale Road in Tempe, not far from the…
There’s been no love lost between myself and those belonging to the Valley’s veg-head clan. And I’m a big enough man — literally as well as figuratively — to admit that certain prejudiced perceptions of the vegan/vegetarian tribe have heretofore inhibited my gustatory outings. Generally, when someone says the words…
Why have I been skipping around the office, of late, humming Iron Butterfly’s heavy metal classic “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” as I go? Have I been doing peyote again? Swallowed a bag of ‘shrooms, followed by a tab or three of X? Yahweh, no. My drug of choice is made evident by the…
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…
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…
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 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…
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…
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…
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…
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…
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…
I’ve had New Orleans on the cerebrum lately, and not just because the Katrina disaster remains an open sore on the American body politic. I picked up this recently published comic novel Tremble and Ennui by New Orleanian Edgar Nicaud the other day, and had great fun following its ne’er-do-well…
Holy headcheese, not another freakin’ Irish place! Now, don’t ruffle your kilts, lads. After all, it is St. Paddy’s Day, and this is the only time of the year I’d bother writing up two new purveyors of Celtic comestibles in a row. Last week, it was Scottsdale’s smashing Skeptical Chymist,…
