Like the late, great Rodney Dangerfield, Buffalo wings get no respect, no respect at all. The name “Buffalo” hardly engenders esteem, as that burg’s other contributions to the culture include Millard Fillmore, Vincent Gallo and the Goo Goo Dolls. Probably doesn’t help that the word can be used as a…
Whenever I visit The Gelato Spot, that new purveyor of Italian “ice cream” across from Zen 32 at 32nd Street and Camelback Road, I’m often reminded of that classic short story by Irwin Shaw, “The Girls in Their Summer Dresses.” It’s the one where this Gotham couple gets into a…
Pizza is one of those foods I enjoy too much to actually indulge in very often. Once the feeding frenzy begins in earnest, I’ll go through an extra-large pie solo and start on the cardboard box if any cheese has dripped onto it. Keep your hands and feet away from…
For this food critic, there’s nothing quite as satisfying as gnawing on a hunk of butt while perusing the Scottsdale-based Serbian Times and occasionally wondering how many pierogi a grown man can ingest before he explodes. The butt in question? Smoked pork butt, silly! From Stanley’s Home Made Sausage Co…
As any Birkenstocks-clad liberal arts major will tell you ad nauseam if you let him, the word “empire” is a loaded term, a Pandora’s box of negative connotations. From the conquest and subjugation of native peoples to Darth Vader and the Death Star, empires lack any redeeming characteristics. Or so…
I’m fairly skeptical about the concept of some sort of cosmic justice, whether it be a benevolent graybeard on a throne up in heaven, or something less silly, like the notion of karma. After all, not enough bad things happen to the right people. If my idea of karma were…
Like most foodies, I’m fond of almost all ethnic cuisines, and I’m always heartened to hear of another attempting a toe-hold in greater Phoenix. Indeed, upon learning of one, my first instinct is to pull on my socks and head out the door quicker than Pope Benedict XVI can sputter…
I may pique the interest of Michael Jackson fans by saying so, but who knew that the, uh, cojónes of young calves would make such a mouth-watering appetizer? Not me, as I must admit to never partaking of this well-known Western delicacy before stopping by the reopened and revitalized Stockyards…
Submitted for your consideration: the worst sushi I’ve had since I made the mistake of walking into a Todai many years back. Sushi that makes Trader Joe’s prepackaged California rolls seem like the food of the gods. Sushi so repulsive that it’d make Pope John Paul II sit up on…
We need some new rules here on the Ponderosa, and the first one is that for every bad meal I have to endure, my belly deserves to be placated with a satisfying one. Truly, last week’s trek to Armadillo Grill was so hideous that I should be pampered like a…
Is it possible to predict a lousy dining experience as soon as you enter a chow house, without a peek at the bill of fare? You betcha. For instance, if the teenage hostess is on her cell phone calling her boyfriend, or the waitstaff’s forced to wear suspenders adorned with…
Harvard prez Larry Summers has been excoriated in the past few months by feminists, fellow academics, and the politically correct for suggesting that innate differences in guys and dolls might help explain why there aren’t more ladies present in the upper echelons of science and math. You know, the old…
A lot of what’s appealing about greater Phoenix falls into the classic can’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover category. I don’t mean the lusher parts of Scottsdale or the desert vistas out by Carefree. I mean just tooling about the city, parts of which, let’s be honest, can be less than enchanting. Ours is not…
Ah, the smell of chocolate and meat! Two great tastes that taste great together. Okay, maybe not. Still, this is what my olfactory nerves deal with each time I enter Chandler’s 4-week-old Shabu Fondue, a hip, nightclubby eatery that looks like it belongs catty-cornered from Stingray Sushi in Scottsdale. Instead,…
God, I could go for a pint of Stella Artois, or “wife-beater,” as it’s sometimes referred to in merry ol’ England. I’m in a black-and-white box of an eatery, surrounded by photos of Cornish tin miners, reading a biography of Hermann Goering. Halfway through my midday meal, it hits me…
Some bastards have all the bloody luck. Say, a year ago today, you signed a lease or bought a residence near 70th Street and Shea Boulevard in Scottsdale. Then you wake up one morning to discover that not only does the cul-de-sac there boast Sushi on Shea, but the Great…
Might there be some redemption for what I like to call the swill on and around Mill? As I mentioned in my recent write-up of Mucho Gusto Taqueria and Mexican Bistro, just west of Mill Avenue on University Drive (“Taste Magnet,” January 20), Mill Avenue generally holds as much fascination…
I have the funny feeling Mike Tyson knows something I don’t. Other than how to land a right cross that’ll knock a 230-pound boxer on his ass. See, I’ve started compiling a little list of the places where I’ve spotted snapshots of the former world heavyweight champ around town, and…
Does Phoenix really need another steak house? That’s what pops to mind considering the recent arrival of the swank, upscale Donovan’s near 32nd Street and Camelback. I mean, if there’s anything you can say definitively about Phoenix, other than the temperature of the sidewalk in August, it’s that we’re one…
Tina Tamrat Hildebrand laughs and smiles shyly when I play reporter rather than gentleman, and ask her age. This fetching little Ethiopian lady could pass for someone in her mid-to-late 20s, but curiosity has yet to kill the culinary critic, which is why I pose the question. “You know, in…
The ker-plunk and whoosh is most pronounced right around the intersection of Tempe’s Fifth Street and Mill Avenue, or, as I like to call it, the corner of Hooters and Gordon Biersch. No doubt you’ve heard it before: the sound of your soul being flushed into the rancid sewer of…
I’m convinced there’s a conspiracy of dunces out there, hell-bent on making the dining experience as consistently staid and by-the-numbers as an effin’ copy of Reader’s Digest. Scribblers of that pinkie-in-the-air genre known as “food writing” — the unfortunate tribe in which I’m lumped — are by far the worst…
