Salvador and the Gazpacho

Hands down, the best place in town in the Paleteria Michoacana. If I had another set of hands to put down, I’d say, true dat, hands down for Eva and Salvador, the owners of this fine establishment. Tonight, on our way back from the town plaza, we stopped in for a chat and a paleta. I had the lime; the young lady had the guava. Everything perfectly in season, perfectly formed, no artificial flavors, sweeteners or colorings. Popsicles….just the way god intended them to be. Salvador was sleeping and Eva was minding the store.

Tony Soprano may believe that “remember when is the lowest form of conversation” and, truth to tell, he’s probably right, but I’m not sure that that goes equally for “back in the day” or “used to be” as conversational forms. Suffice to say, back in the day, Salvador gave me one of the nicest culinary gifts I’ve ever received. He mentioned it to me the other day as I was biting into a chili mango paleta, one of his most recent concoctions.

Long years ago, I spent a (second) summer here before beginning graduate school with the rationale firmly in mind that I was actually here working. Namely, reading the suggested summer reading list prior to beginning actual coursework in September. The summer reading list was actually just a single book from each of the 15 or so faculty members who went through the trouble to submit something. Dutifully, I went to Cody’s, Moe’s and Green Apple and found as many as I could, tossed them into a bag with a pair of shorts, a few t shirts and a pair of swim trunks and off I flew. I’d sit in the shade at Gabino’s during the day, eating shrimp ceviche, swimming and reading Freud, the neo Freudians, the post Freudians, Jung, Lacan and others. It was odd to have one’s head filled with these arcane psychological concepts while gazing out at the sea, contemplating the varieties of the color blue.

I was so taken by the summer bounty in the market and having no kitchen or any way to prepare food on my own, I had to rely on the kindness and patience of strangers to prepare a few choice items. One evening, sitting out with Salvador in front of his little paleta stand watching the lightning illuminate the sky, the conversation took a turn to our favorite foods. I mentioned that I was a big fan of the Spanish dish, gazpacho and wondered why, with all the ingredients plentiful and readily at hand, why no one was making any in town. As I mused a bit further, I wondered why no one had ever thought to create a gazpacho flavored paleta…This, I thought, would combine the best of all worlds, the cool icy portability of a popsicle with the healthful qualities of easily half one’s daily requirement of fresh fruits and vegetables. Amiably humoring me, I’m sure, Salvador agreed as I ordered up my 5th paleta of the day. I’ll admit it readily; I was an addict back then. I white knuckled it and quit on my own. I can handle just a few a day now and am not much the worse for wear. I’ve done it before, so I know I can quit anytime I want. I just don’t want to right now. Anyway, on my way out to the beach the next morning, Salvador beckoned me over to his freezer where he proudly displayed his wares…and his new creation, the gazpacho popsicle ! An entire flat of 42 of them, gleaming red in the freezer case. They were delicious and spicy, and as it turned out, not a very popular item at all. So unpopular, in fact, that Salvador had to take them out of the freezer case and put them in the back of the shop, for every time I ordered one, one of the townies would become incensed, practically wanting to punch me for ordering such a thing that has NO BUSINESS BEING IN A PALETA…DO YOU HEAR ME, AMIGO? It got so scary out there, that I had to order with just a nod of my head. I’m sure that Salvador never feared for his life the way I did, but he never did make a second batch, either. Today, I stick to the traditional flavors: guava, lime, cantaloupe and coconut. There isn’t anything better in town.

The Rains

Yesterday the rains began. It has been a dry season around here and despite the fact that all the vegetation looks bright green to me, everyone tells me that things are dry. Very dry. Try visiting California if you want to see dry, I think to tell them, keeping my mouth shut as I remember that I am a guest here.

When the rains, it pours. I know, I know, it’s trite, but trite is true for a reason, you know. Yes, tautologically speaking, because it’s true. The rain just comes down in buckets and everyone who has been out on the streets or in the plaza runs for cover under one of the many overhangs that can be found in the town. Folks just wait it out, standing there next to each other, chatting and becoming new best friends. You couldn’t ask for a better time. The sky brightens with lightning then comes the crash of thunder, followed by a renewed surge of rain. If you are lucky enough to be near the Paleteria Michoacana (popsicle shop), you can chat with the amiable Salvador and his wife Eva to pass the time while eating a frozen fresh fruit concoction that will send you into a seventh heaven. I’ll note here that you can find a Paleteria Michoacana in Vallejo on Broadway just before getting to Tennessee, more or less across from what used to be Pluto’s. It’s not the same, but the paletas are pretty delicious, nonetheless.

This morning, when logging in to the internet to post, I discovered that Blogger logs you in to the closest network, which is, as you might expect, in Spanish. Add to that the relatively slow connection speed, and we have a situation wherein the uploading of pictures is difficult at best and downright impossible practically speaking.

Last night we went to Cenaduria Led-Mar, a venerable lunch place on the plaza that has only recently begun to serve dinners. I’m surprised by how many dinner house have closed here in town, but then again, I’m always surprised at how few choices there are for dinner. I had the chicken tacos while my dining and traveling companion had the pork taquitos. What was not to like about sitting under an umbrella munching crispy taco things slathered in Salsa Huichol, the local hot sauce, watching the rain come down? Under such conditions, even the lowliest meal will taste delicious. The beers are ice cold and arrive at your table with the merest flick of a finger. I’m glad this isn’t an auction where I’d be obligated to buy the entire town by this point.

Wherein the Eater Goes South

M.G. Vallejo, the namesake of our little town here, was a pretty famous dude. Known for being a most famous general, he actually never lived in our town proper, but just a few miles away in what is now Petaluma. Like all good Spanish Generals at that time, our founding colonialist most likely came from Spain by ship by way of Mexico. One of my all time favorite Spanish Colonialists has been up for sainthood for quite a number of years now, his entry into the canon thwarted only by a failure to confirm a single miracle…if crossing the Atlantic and rounding the Cape of Good Hope in a rickety wooden ship with hand drawn maps, no GPS and limited fresh water and food the mid 1500’s doesn’t count, then nothing Mother Theresa ever did should count. Apologies to all you Mother Theresa fans out there, but that’s just the way I feel about it. Anyway, stepping down from the pulpit, I decided to visit the place it all began, the town where Fray (soon to be Saint) Junipero Serra first set foot in the New World, opening the door to all the yummy Mexican food that we’ve enjoyed so much over the past few weeks, San Blas, Mexico.

I’ll admit that I’m pretty well known here, and, unlike many of the minor celebrities who walk the town, I’ve never spent a single night in the jail here. Part of my celebrity, such as it is, stems from the night that I decided to climb to the top of the bell tower on the old church in the town square. One of the locals mentioned to me in an offhand way one evening that there was a special relic that had been placed in a brick at the top of the tower. It had been covered by plaster for 150 years or more and now that the plaster had been flaking off, it was visible once again. Those who were able to touch the relic were assured some great benefit in their lives. Count me in, I thought, as I plotted how exactly I would see this relic. Spending some quality time with the mentally challenged family who runs Viejano’s bar seemed like an excellent idea. Closing time seemed to come rather early that night, so when the doors shut me out and I found myself in the center of the plaza gazing up at the full moon behind the tower, listening to the bell strike a single note. Seeing the iron rungs stuck into the side of the tower, I began to climb, looking up only, not daring at all to look down. Time flies when you’re having fun, but so too, do bats. Just a couple of points to consider before I continue.

1. Iron stuck into the side of a building in a coastal town rusts.
2. The longer it stays there, the more it rusts and the weaker it becomes.
3. Wiggly rungs at 75 feet above sea level do not inspire confidence in one’s future.
4. Bats do not like to be swatted at when they’re flying around.
5. Bats are afraid of the sound of crows.

By the time I reached the top of the tower and was looking around for the relic, holding on for dear life with a single hand as I swept my free hand over the masonry work, hoping to feel a crucifix or something, the bats came swooping in. Was I near their nest? Did mama bat think that I was trying to snatch her young? The swatting did not make them any happier and I was certain that the high pitched sound they were making was a definite call for reinforcements. Not to be outdone by what I considered at the time to be an inferior mammal, I began cawing like a crow. This had the beneficial effects of both scaring off the bats and distracting me from my dawning realization that I suffer with paralyzing acrophobia.
Having not found the relic or any sign thereof, I turned my attentions to getting back to sea level. As I turned to survey the plaza and reassess my route down the tower, I noticed that I had attracted something of a crowd in the plaza, the nightowls and drunks who had come to see what a crow could possibly be doing in the middle of the night. Although I did manage to bend one of the iron rungs, I didn’t actually break it or cause much serious damage to the old church. For those care about these things, the church is immortalized in the poem “The Bells of San Blas” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Shaking, I stepped onto the plaza, greeted by scattered applause, cat calls, and overly friendly drunken backslaps. I had earned myself a new name: El Cuervo, the crow. By morning, news had spread through the town and it seemed that there wasn’t anyone who didn’t know.

I was more than happy to make it out to Gabino’s at the beach, just as I did today, to enjoy a plate of the most delicious shrimp ceviche this side of anywhere. I’m convinced that God speaks through Gabino to produce such a heavenly delicacy. Ceviche’s on me today, Crow, he said winking.

Sac's Tasty Hot Dogs

Sometimes there comes a time when you have to break out of your food box, throw caution to the wind and take the plunge into the steaming waters of Hot Dogville. Today’s disclaimer is that I don’t really like hot dogs very much, and, to extend the truth just a bit further into the tmi sphere, I often come down with a head cold after eating a hot dog or sausage shaped food item. But one thing I do like is a surprise, particularly when it's a pleasant surprise.

The Process:
Sac’s. I’ve been waiting for S day for weeks now just for the opportunity to write the word Sac over and over. It’s a deliciously nasty word, one that feels puerile on the tongue. Lung is another such word for me, evoking horror, disgust and ultimately a shimmer of delight. Tuna and I tried in vain to enlist some of the other colleagues to venture out of their own taco shells and Popeyes' boxes and order up something from Sac's. No matter, the two of us were on a mission. So, we climbed into my tiny little car and sped off towards the other side of town for a peek at Sac's. Imagine our delight when we arrived and saw a line outside the door and halfway around the smallish building. The line was, in a word or two, representative of the melting pot of America. The vast masses of heterogeneous people were here, in line, just to pick up a dog or two. America's National Food. I was definitely feeling a bit better about this. By the time we made it to the counter to place our order, I was wanting one of everything.

The Chow:
The claim is 100% beef and I believe 'em. Sac's claims tasty and boy, oh boy, are they right. (I can't believe that I'm actually raving about a hot dog, but it really was delicious.) I had the regular, basic dog with relish, ketchup and mustard. Tuna opted for one with cheese. And, he ordered the Spicy Dog. He said it was really good, and I believe him. I also believe the rumor that he found a little piece of something crunchy in it and later in the day had passed a hoof. No matter, the food was great and the service fantastic. I'd go back in a second.

The Wrap:
A dark horse is still a horse and I'm really glad that the hot dogs are 100 % beef.

The Rating: 4.5 out of 5.

Take Out Tacos Jalisco for a Taste Treat on T Day

One of my favorite lunches here in town is the Tacos Jalisco truck on Broadway, just down the street from what used to be First Hospital and across the street from Vallejo High. The lines have significantly diminished since the lunchtime lockdown at both facilities. No longer are you waiting behind Sally Schizophrenic who is hallucinating tiny creatures crawling out of her burrito or the gang of four high school sweeties who are paying for a single burrito with an assortment of dimes, nickles and pennies scrounged together out of their purses and pockets.


The Process:
Who’s in the house? Our own Dr. J is in the house, or I should say back in the house. After something of a sabbatical, our friend and colleague Dr. J has returned from distant lands, bearing…caramels. YUM ! Hula Girl and I ran into him at the truck, confirming our thoughts that he's wanting to make a low key re-entry. The taco truck is hardly low key, however, since it is the the see and be seen place. Dr. J was sighted talking to the affable maitre d, Victor, who is, coincidentally, a local artist whose photographs can be seen at Georgina's Cafe, the Vallejo Artist's Guild, or on his own website, alejandrophoto. Anyway, the taco truck is a slam dunk choice that finds ready agreement amongst the kids.

The Chow:
When you’re wanting a fast, inexpensive taco or burrito, this is your go to place. Tacos are served open faced with your choice of meats. Jalisco is an authentic place, so an order of tacos de lengua or cabeza are not out of the question. Oaxacan style grasshopper tacos are not on the menu, c'mon, there's serious state pride going on here. I usually order the vegetarian burrito with the hot sauce and it is consistently good. Filled with some rice, whole beans, lettuce, cheese and some sour cream, it is a veritable meal in a tube. Some folks order the Jinny, a meat filled extravaganza served with a string. Your choice of tortillas includes chili, tomato, spinach, plain, and probably something else which I've forgotten.

The Wrap:
Solid, dependable, consistent burritos and tacos. Top of the charts.

The Rating: 3 out of 5.

R is for Rickshaw

Epi-Curious' Law #1: The quality and taste of a meal is inversely proportional to the weight of the portion served.

Corollary A: If you are given a free sample and it tastes bad, don't actually purchase the bad food based on feelings of guilt or obligation.

Tuna, Hula Girl and I braved the parking lot and the spillover from the Hobo Village to visit The Rickshaw, Oriental Express Dining. 15 years ago I reviewed Rickshaw for a different publication, saying something like "so what if it's a little greasy...It's cheap, close and filling!" Like a hooker down on her luck, the years and the guests have not been kind to Rickshaw. It's still close, filling and relatively cheap, and now more than a little greasy and absolutely inedible.

The Process:

What can I say? Rickshaw is close, really close to the office. It's one of two places within walking distance, the other being a chain pizza place. We don't eat there very often, I'd venture to say the last time I set foot in there was easily four years ago when Doc was just beginning his Atkins diet kick and would order up the half pig of BBQ pork. He swore by the stuff...I swore at it. But now, I'm the guy who can't even fit into his own pants and Doc has dropped a few sizes and looks, frankly, HOT! Hands off, ladies, he's taken.

The Chow:
Greasy, fetid, nasty tasting. At nine bites, Tuna ate more of his meal than anyone else. I had two bites and Hula Girl had five. I probably would have eaten a bit more, but once Hula Girl started in on how the rice smelled and tasted (recall the hooker mentioned earlier and think feet) I just couldn't stomach another bite. Faced with pan after pan of fried items, I thought I'd play it safe and go with the Sweet and Sour Pork. Wrong. Very wrong. I'm definitely off of pork and have no desire to partake of the pig anytime soon. Hula Girl chose the Ginger Chicken which sounds nice and tasty...but wasn't. I wasn't going to put it my mouth after Hula Girl talked all kinds of trash about it. That'd just be dumb. I was over by the office window photographing the food while Hula Girl was tucking into her meal. After a couple of bites of rice, the descriptions started coming fast and furious, and I could taste every horrible flavor...and then some.

The Wrap:
The lowest rating ever should say it all. Three tenths of a point. Blech. I'd rather starve than have to eat there again.

The Rating: .3 out of 5.

Q is for Quiz - NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOs

I have a horrible aversion to chain restaurants. Call me picky, call me a food snob, call me a picky food snob, just don’t call me to dine in one of these soul-less hell holes. Q came up and, in the service of art and fair open mindedness, and under great duress, I consented to dine at Quizno’s, a chain sandwich shop.

The Process:
With dejection, I picked up the phone and placed our order. I made the grave mistake of going onto the Quizno’s website to take a look at the menu. Of course, the one thing that I thought that I could actually eat, the scrambled egg and bacon sandwich, was the one thing they did not serve…Shades of the infamous Fortune Cookie Meal at Pink Dawn detailed a few posts back. No fit this time. I just tried to go with the flow and order something that I might be able to eat. I’m pretty much convinced that Quiznos is serving the poison meat, so one has to be wary.

Poison Meat

OK, OK, I know that the poison meat thing is just in my own head, along with about a million other phobic ideas, but it still makes it really hard to eat weird looking meat based foods. I keep hearing Reagan’s voice repeating that poison meat phrase over and over and over again until I’m nearly ready to drop dead.

The Chow:


The chow is reason one not to visit Quiznos. You’d have to work pretty hard to convince me that I’d need anymore reasons than just the one to forgo another visit. I ordered a bacon and egg sandwich and what came was two pieces of toasted roll with a thin spread of mayo/mustard, about a tablespoonful of chopped boiled egg and a similar about of chopped bacon. I wouldn’t call it a sandwich and I wouldn’t call it lunch. Even Tuna, who usually loves Quiznos, was put off by the sogginess of the beef brisket sandwich. Hula Girl had something with a Hawaiian Island flavor…The Pineapple Poi Sub which was, predictably, gluey, bad tasting and soggy.

The Wrap:
Bread with salt and flavorings does not a sandwich make. The Earl himself is spinning in his grave.

The Rating: 2.0 out of 5.

Pho – oooey !

Anthony Bourdain says “You don’t have to go looking for great food in Vietnam. Great food finds you. It’s everywhere.” Here in V-Town, you have to go looking for it. And today Cougar, Hula Girl and I all went in search of some tasty Vietnamese food, because where we lunch, it sure as hell wasn’t going to find us. Pho #1 is located in a strip mall whose primary anchors are a Long’s Drugs, a Curves, and a couple of defunct storefronts. The mall is definitely part of Vallejo’s burgeoning new “little Asia,” what with there being a Korean “BBQ” joint and Hop Hing’s Chinese Buffet and a couple of electronics stores. For some reason, I have a real fondness for this mall, in particular for the shark-y car salesmen who hang out in the parking lot of the nearby Team Chevrolet dealership. There's just something so cheesy and sleazy about them that it's almost worth the trip alone to watch them in action.


The Process:
Having had a few bad meal in a row, the kids are discouraged. The rumblings have gotten progressively louder regarding the healthfulness of the food project and everyone seems to be fearing the possibility of adding a few pounds. In fact, just this afternoon, Cougar was asking me whether or not my pants were comfortable as they appeared to be binding in some places. I’m thanking my lucky stars that the mirrored glass is on the outside of the building. I order what Cougar is having and Hula Girl orders what I'm having. The reason I go with Cougar is that she dines at Pho #1 quite often and seems very satisfied with the fare. I want to trust.

The Chow:
Plenty of it. A nice mixture of rice noodles, pickled vegetables, grilled shrimp, grilled chicken and a deep fried egg roll thingy. I'm sure in Vietnam this dish goes for just pennies and is incredibly delicious. But they have a Napalm scarred landscape, land mines, and a hell of a lot of war disfigured people wandering around the streets. And, I've heard rumors of dog being on the menu in more that a few establishments.

The Wrap:
C: I think the shrimp has gone off….
HG: There’s a really fishy taste here somewhere….
Me: I think the chicken was not quite right…I'm not sure it was even Chicken. I just passed a paw!

The Rating: 2.6 out of 5.

N is for Never Eat There

There are so many places in the world to eat. So many, in fact, that books have been written about them books that fill countless shelves in countless bookstores and libraries, and still, people go wrong in choosing a place. Clearly I can’t eradicate the world’s wrongs, not even Atlas, with his broad shoulders and long suffering patience could to that. The feat is so daunting that even Hercules passed on it, choosing something a bit simpler, like throwing the earth into a different orbit.

I want to go on record as saying that I really do like to eat and I really do like food. Not that you could really convince Hula Girl, Doc, Cougar, or even Tuna and Lily White of this, though the latter two might be able to be convinced of this just a bit more easily than the others. Not that they’re jaded, but they’ve just seen me take one bite of something and throw the rest away too many times to think otherwise. Hula Girl is quick to tell the story about the time we all went to a Chinese restaurant in town (it shall remain nameless for the time being, but I’ll say that you can see it from the Popeyes drive through). I had my heart set on pot stickers and chose them from the menu. After watching several other tables (who, I might add, had arrived and ordered after us) get their pot stickers, our waitress informed me that there were none left. I threw a bit of a fit (minor, if the truth be told, just a bunch of questions as to why the other people go theirs and I wasn’t getting mine…I smelled a conspiracy) and ended up ordering a plate of fortune cookies. I was as satisfied as I could be, making a sow’s purse out of the proverbial (and indigestible) pig’s ear. Everyone at the table was convinced that I had had a horrible meal. Not so. 8 fortunes do not a bad meal make. Cougar, however, was seated with a view to the kitchen. You know what they say about viewing the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant…An elderly lady of, oh, I’m guessing here of about 95, sat eating chicken heart chow mien out of the bottom of a cut off gallon milk jug. We never saw the inside of that place again. A Never Eat There place.



I’m as food phobic as the next fellow, likely more so. I’m terrified of the poison meat, of something not quite right, not quite wrong about a meal. As much as I want to warn you away from having a bad meal, what I truly want is to find the all-elusive good meal. For me, a good meal is 1) enjoyed with friends, new or old; 2) tasty and delicious (hell, I’ll be satisfied with just tasty); 3) authentic, meaning it is what it is in the very best way that it can be; and, 4) truly giving of joy.

Really and truly, it’s quite simple: simple food, good friends and good feelings. We’ve got the good friends thing hands down, now, if we can only take care to avoid the stomachaches….

Home, Home in the Fry-O-Later – My Homestyle Cafe

I nominate this place for Best Color Scheme in a Restaurant. Brilliant yellow and Greek blue is such a happy and fun combination. I had passed the restaurant on one of my brief forays into Downtown Vallejo some weeks ago and was intrigued by the bright colors. I thought to myself, “now that’s a place I want to try!” Imagine my delight when, on M day, My Homestyle Café came right to the top of the list, the only other viable competition being Max’s of Manila. I may be a bit of a sadist, so I actually did think about pushing the Max’s choice, but at heart, I really do want to eat a good lunch. And, truth to tell, even I’m getting a bit discouraged by what I’m finding. Not that I’m ready to give up, but I do need some encouragement from the food side to keep going. I’m starvin’ here!

The Process:
Hula Girl was in a bit of a hurry, so we rushed out of the building with barely an address in hand and no idea about what to order. We shouted out a promise to Tuna and Cougar to call them with a menu read through in case they wanted to put in an order. There was plenty of parking in front of the café and, surprisingly, it was packed. The atmosphere was, well, lively as it was the owner’s birthday. Cakes and presents filled a few of the tables in front, and I took this as a good sign that the food would live up to this early promise. After a hasty call back to the office, Tuna and Cougar opted for the same meal.

The Chow:

There is truth in advertising ! My Homestyle Café serves, well, homestyle food. Down home. I wasn’t able to peek into the kitchen, but my best guess would be that they have more than two industrial sized Fry-O-Laters running at full bore back there. I have to say that I really, really wanted to like this place more than I did. I had the Philly Cheesesteak, which was one of the specials of the day, Fried Catfish being the other. The rest of the kids had the 3 piece fish and chips meal. Super Fry ! I liked the Philly Cheesesteak. I really did.



The Wrap:
Ohhhhhhhhhh. Owwwwwwwww. My stomach hurts. No, I mean it, my stomach really hurts. “Does anyone have a banana? I’ve gotta get that oil taste out of my mouth.”

The Rating: 2.6 out of 5.

L- Gotta Love That Mexican: La Cabanita

(Tuna, our guest blogger of the day, submits the following as I was enjoying a few days vacation, dining on, what else, tacos!. Photos by Lily White.)

Today we were without our fearless leader, Epi-curious. It was up to Lilly White, Cougar, and me, Tuna, to venture off and find some tasty morsels. I was recently back from a leave from the fine Vallejo foods and was eagerly awaiting a new treat. Today we decided to head off to a recently discovered Mexican restaurant, La Cabanita.

The Process

After figuring out where we were heading and who would be taking the pictures, Lilly White and I headed off to pick up the food. Cougar had phoned in the order and three different orders of chicken enchiladas awaited to be eaten upon our arrival. A short drive through a few stoplights and next to a shady looking discount store, we found our restaurant sitting. Inside we found a few customers and surroundings that resembled any other Mexican restaurant a person enters. Our food was already prepared and waiting, so we grabbed it and left. No communication problems here, everyone spoke English.



The Chow

Before any pictures could be shot, we all had taken to our food like a pack of wolves to a freshly killed deer. I'm not sure how deer tastes to wolves but we all agreed our enchiladas were a meal worth eating. Unfortunately, unlike a freshly killed deer, our enchiladas were rather cold. The phone ahead seemed to have done us a disservice in this situation. We all got a small side salad in white Styrofoam containers which nobody seemed to care for. It was limp and mine was doused in a runny Thousand Island dressing. Cougar got an order of chips which she shared with Lilly White. They both complained of too much salt, only to discover that the salt was in the hot sauce they dipped their chips in.



The Wrap

The food was good,
The food was cold,
We’ll eat there again,
When we’re feeling bold.

The Rating: 3.0 out of 5.0

K is for Kill Me Now and Make it Quick

I know his is supposed to be family blog and all, but I swear to f*ing god that I am never, ever eating at another Chinese restaurant. Ever. At the end of the third week of our dining experiment, I’m frankly ready to be taken out so that I’ll never have to eat another meal again.

The Process:
My dining companions today, Cougar and Lily White, readily agreed on KT Noodle house as the favored choice. Sure, KFC ran a good race, but in a field of two, there has to be one who finishes last. Cougar has been a long time proponent of KT, particularly in winter when the days are long, wet and cold and a bowl of wonton soup is just what the doctor ordered. However, in the middle of spring, the doctor seems to have taken a long anticipated vacation along with the Chinese chef. With enthusiasm waning among the diners, we needed something tasty to keep us going. KT, with its proven track record, seemed a sure thing.

The Chow:



Like Tony Soprano betting on the ponies, we put it all on the Kung Pow Chicken. And like that food lovin’ mob boss, we lost, big time. Fortunately, a loss like this has one reaching only for the Pepto, not a pistol or pile of cash. Upon opening the container, I was nearly blinded by the glare, just like Ralph Meeker in that 50’s atomic noir drama, Kiss Me Deadly. This was the palest, most anemic looking Kung Pow chicken I had ever seen. I suppose when you boil the meat, vegetables and rice that things are bound to come out, well, white. The taste was hot, both in terms of temperature and spiciness. Nothing more: no subtlety, no grossness. The vegetables were, to their credit, crunchy, but flavorless. I speak only for myself in saying that I was wasteful with the food today, throwing out most of what was in my Styrofoam container. I’m burning in hell for a long time, I know. At least I’ll be surrounded by friends.

The Wrap:
Lily White said it best: “I would have thrown it away after a single bite, but I was starving.”

The Rating: 1.75 out of 5.

There are funny things you can do with the letter J, but I don’t know all of them.

Today we venture into Vallejo’s Little Mexico for our homage to the letter J. J, which is mostly silent in Spanish, but when it isn’t, it sounds a bit like H with a bite of Y. For me, one of the most interesting things about following the alphabet through the streets of Vallejo (notice the internal J) is discovering the odd little neighborhoods, the hobo villages, or artifacts of a bygone era. Hula Girl, is terrified and convinced that I’m going to get us shot on these forays into the seedier side of culinary excellence. I’m not so much afraid of getting shot as I am of getting food poisoning. Frankly, as that seems to have happened countless times recently, it seems like nothing to fear.



The Process:
After perusing the Vallejo Directory, I find the J selections meager at best: Jalo’s, JJ’s Fry House, and Jamba Juice. I’ve been told countless times that Jamba Juice is not a lunch, so my chances of rallying the troops for a fruit based lunch seemed nonexistent at best. Putting in the obligatory telephone call to JJ’s, I wasn’t convinced that it would be the best food around, but was fairly certain that the experience would be well worth the increase in cholesterol points. Alas, again, no takers. Both Cougar and Hula Girl gave me looks that as much as said: ‘Remember that frog with the sugar on top? Bring it to me before you force me to eat at JJ’s.’ What can I say? Hula Girl and Cougar are women with good taste and who know what tastes good. Since I’m going into this whole eating adventure with the idea that since I’m not going to get anything good to eat, I might as well get a fairly odd experience. Cougar, who actually wants something good to eat said as much as she’d like to go along, she’d rather chew off and eat her own arm than to have another terrible meal. I can’t say as I blame her. And so, Hula Girl and I found ourselves parking the car in Little Mexico, an L-shaped strip mall with a money sending shop, a faith healing store, a Mexican restaurant, a taqueria and bakery, and a muffler repair shop.



The Chow:
Chicken Enchiladas all the way ‘round. Hula Girl went all the way with the rice and beans combo while I played it safe with just the whole enchiladas. The salsa was killer and the chips were crispy and warm and offered without so much as a question or a demand. There’s nothing remarkable about the food and the best I can say is that it didn’t kill us. I did like the interior of the restaurant, with the picture of Santo Toribio Romo and the sign the declared it to be a family joint and encouraging patrons to watch their alcohol consumption.



The Wrap:
A tortilla ain’t nothin’ but a flat, thin piece of bread: tasty, but lacking something fundamental. A hero it ain’t.

The Rating: 3 out of 5.

What is an H but an I on steroids?

For years, we’ve watched the gradual decline of Smorga Bob’s and its transformation into India Garden without having ever set foot into either establishment. The Jell-O at Smorga Bob’s was the stuff of legend and I do carry the regret that I never gave myself the opportunity to partake of that legend.

The Process:

After a few days off cougaring around the countryside, our own Cougar was eager to be back on the Lunch Parade. I was happy to hand her the baton and invite her to lead us Music Man style to India Garden.

In Japan, buffet style eating is referred to as having a “Viking Meal. ” At the India Garden, I imagine the style is well more Mogul Mix than anything else. Cougar seemed right at home greeting the Buddha that sat guarding the entryway. Once inside, the friendly waiter, maitre’d, cashier, owner, and no doubt cook, too, handed us our to go trays to fill at the buffet. No fewer than 25 different dishes and tastes await the discriminating and not so discriminating diner. Likely your one big regret is that you have but a single serving to go container that you can fill a single time. Choose wisely! You wouldn’t regret taking the food to go, however. The large banquet room was portioned off by a screen divider to just the length of the buffet tables, leaving room for 15 or so tables. During our visit, there were three solitary diners, each eating alone with a large bottle of Lexapro in front of them, replacing the salt and pepper shakers.

The Chow:


The buffet is an eating style, that while adopted by many cultures, remains a uniquely American style of eating in its current incarnation. Buffet has replaced the earlier, coarser, “all you can eat” appellation. As well it should since you shouldn’t really eat all that much anyway, Fatass. Cougar and I were judicious and prudent in our selections and in our lunchtime dining, leaving enough behind for another meal. I liked the vegetable curry and the Chicken Tikka Masala, while Cougar liked the Channa Dal. The lamb curry was not a hit in the slightest. Tough, gamey and strong flavored would be putting it kindly.



The Wrap:
What happens in the buffet should stay in the buffet. That goes double for what’s cooked in the buffet.

The Rating: 3.75 out of 5.

G -- Say Goodnight, Gracie's

Gracie’s has been a Vallejo institution for many years and is, by many accounts, the most revered of the Bar B Que restaurants ‘round town. Fortunately for all concerned, Vallejo is a big enough town to accommodate barbecue lovers of all persuasions.

The Process:
Today Hula Girl takes the lead, scours the phone directory and narrows out selection to three candidates: Georgina’s, Gracie’s or Goombah’s. No one wanted a bad meal just for the sake of art so Gracie’s it had to be. I do think that a good meal can be had at Georgina’s, though it’s a bit predictable and white bread. Goombah’s, on the other hand, is a bit spotty in the food and hygiene departments, but it would make for a good story, that’s for sure. Tuna has heard of the Gracie’s legend and is eager to taste for himself, though he has been a big, big D’s fan from his first taste.

The Chow:



Chicken, ribs, beef brisket all have a strong presence on the menu. I have to say that I did like Gracie’s quite a bit better when it was located in a mobile trailer in a parking lot on the other side of town. Good, simple food in a simple setting. The new location in a converted 1930’s service station is spiffy, new, with a nod to Vallejo’s history, but there’s no funk here. With a bar b que place, I believe you want some funk, not only do you want it, but the food requires it. That said, the food was good, solid and consistent, with a smoky taste. The sauce is served separately. It has a bit of a tang, but is not overwhelmingly hot or spicy, but it is flavorful. Tuna ordered the combo platter, chicken and brisket and had he paused long enough to utter a word or two, I’d reproduce his comments here, but he didn’t. The general consensus, save for this writer, was that the sides were stellar, far and away surpassing the sides at other local establishments which, for the sake of neutrality, will remain nameless here.



The Wrap:
There are contenders and there are contendas. Gracie’s always finishes the race with, well, grace. Say goodnight, Gracie. Goodnight, Gracie.
The Rating: 4 out of 5.

Front Boy !! Pizzas from the Front Room

Today the tradewinds of the Mare Island straights call the diners to The Front Room, the Vallejo outlet of the San Francisco based pizza and beer joint.

The Process:
A perusal through the Vallejo phone directory yielded just one other F restaurant, an Italian joint open only for dinner. Immediately upon hearing we were to dine at the Front Room, Cougar bailed out with her heartfelt apologies. And, to her eternal credit, she did attempt to work this thing phonetically, saying that we should eat something from Pho #2. C’mon, be true to your alphabet,” Tuna called out. But when Cougar has her lunch palate set on something (or set against something), there’s really no dissuading her. Both Cougar and Mz. Moon said that they believed the Front Room was a front organization for a group originating in the Philippine Islands. I wouldn’t know about that.

The Front Room faxed us a menu and we were off. Pizza, sandwiches, salads and grilled fare were the stars of this menu. I was tempted by the club sandwich, but in the end decided that if we were to be in Rome by way of Manila, the pancit pizza would surely be the way to go. Hula Girl was attending a mandatory meeting of some sort, most likely involving the appropriateness of the grass skirt as professional attire, and thus would not be joining us today.

The Chow:
The Front Room experience underscores an important rule in dining: If there are more windows than waitstaff, bring the Pepto-Bismol. The view inside the Front Room is gorgeous. Floor to ceiling window run end to end give in house diners an unparalleled view of Mare Island. The owner of the establishment looks out the windows while seated at a small table with a money box. He listens intently to what goes on in his kitchen. Would that it were the other way around. Tuna ordered the “Sweet and Juicy” pizza—pineapple and mushrooms. I opted for the cheese and fresh tomato. Tuna raved about his meal, going on and on and on about how this was one of the best pizzas he had ever had. I looked at my sorry, soggy, undercooked pile of fat and carbs and wondered just what it was that I’ve been missing in life.



My experience of the food from the Front Room brought back memories from my earliest days as a restaurant critic while a student at Berkeley. I recall wanting to write a book entitled “Never Eat There.” For me, the Front Room would have a place in that book’s hall of fame.

The Wrap:
de gustibus non est disputandum—lit. There is not to be a discussion regarding tastes.

The Rating: 3 out of 5.

El Emperador is in the House

Today we visit El Emperador, Spanish for The Emperor. I’m assuming they’re referring to Emperor Maximilian, and not Emperor Norton or the Emperor of Ice Cream or any of the other famous monarchs. Or, given Maximilian von Hapsburg’s untimely end at the hand of Benito Juarez, the Emperor in question might be Maximilian I, the Holy Roman Emperor, another ill fated Hapsburg. No matter, on the next visit, I’ll make inquiries and fill you in on the rest of the story.

The Process:
The troops rallied a bit today at the same time that they jumped ship like lemmings. I can’t say they all jumped ship, nor can I say that those who did jump didn’t have a defensible position…Hell, maybe this thing isn’t even a ship. In any event, the letter E was calling, Tuna heard the call and together we answered it, brave lunchtime warriors that we are. The pre-visit telephone call is becoming obligatory, I’m coming to believe, especially when you don’t have a menu at hand.

The restaurant itself is located on the Southwest Bank of Interstate 80, on Benicia Road, a broad boulevard that takes you from the Vallejo Shores to Midtown Benicia in the blink of an eye. Plenty of free curbside parking is available and the restaurant has a freelance greeter who works for tips. For the low price of a single dollar, he complimented us on our good taste in shirts offered to guard the car, posed for a picture, and offered to take one of us. And they say the American Service Industry is dead.


The Chow:


Sometimes it’s best to play it safe, and the vegetarian burrito is always a safe bet. Tuna beat me to it, so I had to go out on a limb and order the tacos, three huge meat tacos with fresh green salsa. I couldn’t finish, partly due to size and partly due to getting creeped out by eating all that meat. I’d forego the carne asada and the carnitas next time and stick with the shredded white meat chicken…Delicious. The tube o’ food burrito was heavy on the cheese and rice. The vegetables were hidden somewhere in the center at just about the place where the appetite stopped.


The Wrap:
We made it back alive ! Free decals for your car ! A great pound per peso ratio…good if you’ve fallen on hard times, but the taste per peso ratio is still pretty low.

The Rating: 2.5 out of 5.

E -- Hey, What Happend to E ? Dillon's Starts with D...

It’s still pretty early in the alphabet, but I do believe that we’ve found a gem here…conveniently hidden in an anonymous corner of a nondescript building across the street from the Sanitation facility.

The Process:
There are two restaurants that begin with the letter e which are listed in the Vallejo Phone Directory, Empire Buffet and El Emperador. No one, and I mean no one wanted to try the Empire Buffet. I suspect that even if the gang were to be paid to venture into the buffet that they would all pass. Why does the Empire have such a bad reputation? Hmmmm, could it be its proximity to Max’s of Manila and Seafood City? Perhaps the fact that it’s located in the parking lot of an oversized strip mall? Or maybe, just maybe, the fact that it’s a Chinese Buffet? Doing a little pre-lunch legwork, I called both the Empire Buffet and El Emperador. At El Emperador, I got a recorder in both English and Spanish…and was buoyed by the statement that the restaurant is open until midnight on Fridays and Saturdays. Nothing says Juke Joint quite like being open ‘til midnight at a Benicia Road location. Sadly, they appeared to be closed for this particular Friday lunch, which, in retrospect, seems to have been a good thing since I think El Emperador would have been a really tough sell to one of toughest lunchtime crowds you’ll ever play to. I have it on good authority that El Emperador serves up some darn delicious chow, but that will have to be for another time.

If you haven’t gotten it by now, I’m pretty suspicious and particular when it comes to food. If something has been in the refrigerator more than a day or two, I ignore it and hope it goes away on its own. Which is partly why I like eating in restaurants: I don’t have to know how long the food has been there or how it has been treated. Ignorance really can be bliss if you work it right. Of course, I had to call Dillon’s and pester the nice woman on the other end of the phone with about a million questions. “As far as substitutions go, does no really mean no? Do you make the turkey in house? Is it pressed turkey loaf? Do you make all your own bread? Do you have Dijon mustard?” (Answers: no, no, no, yes, no – spicy brown. All the right ones, as far as I was concerned. The turkey, by the way, is made whole in Petaluma.)



Dillon’s menu is a full four pages, including drinks. Under more than a few headings are the words: NO SUBSTITUTIONS. When Cougar, upon perusing the menu, saw only these two words, she seemed to see no others. It doesn’t help that she doesn’t like sandwiches, either, so she opted out and had Thai at a new place over on Tennessee St. That place has changed hands more times than prosthetics fitter, but I’d be willing to try this iteration. Mz. Moon, our authority on all things Vallejo, was so eager to join in on today’s lunch expedition that I had to run to catch her before she drove away.

The Chow:



Loved it. What more can I say? I had the turkey club on wheat toast. It came toasted, the tomato was ripe and red and flavorful and the bacon was cooked to perfection. The pastrami and Rueben gals had a great experience. Tuna spread his wings and ordered up an eggplant sandwich, which had disappeared before I could get the camera focused. He also ordered the chocolate malt that arrived in two full cups. Everyone ate with such relish that it was difficult to make out the particulars of any individual comment. And even the one diner rated the meal with the lone 4, loved the sandwich.



The Wrap:
Here, the score must stand for itself and I think it will stand as the score to beat fort a long time to come. Say, you know why you can never starve in a desert? Right, because of the sand which is there.


The Rating: 4.75 out of 5.

D is For Deeeeeeeeelicious !

By overwhelming popular demand, the gang demands that we go to D’s Bar-B-Q today. There is no discussion of any other possibility and the phone book never emerges. A menu that was mysteriously faxed to the office yesterday from Dillon’s Bakery and Restaurant is quietly shuffled to the bottom of a pile of papers. Not particularly unusual to receive a fax, but I did think it a bit unusual that the fax appeared from 2 1⁄2 hours in the future. It was as though someone, somewhere was trying to send us a message within a message. I’ll admit that I’m a bit superstitious and had it been me alone, I would have chosen Dillon’s, no questions asked.

Lunch is never just one alone. I mean, if it is, if you’re just going to eat by yourself, you might as well just drive to the parking lot of grocery store and eat a nearly expired generic brand yogurt and read a three day old newspaper in our car. If you think about it, for most folks, lunch is, or at least has the potential to be, the most social meal of the day. Breakfast is best enjoyed alone while one makes the painful transition from dreams to daymares. Brunch, a lunch derivative, is decidedly social. Dinner, social, but most often enjoyed with one’s family, spouse, significant other, domestic partner, pet, or, in increasingly rare cases, friends and acquaintances. So, in our office, lunch is the most emotionally charged time of day. If you ever want to see a catfight, or what comes closest to it, come for a visit around noon.



The Process:
Today there is a general agreement that we’ll visit Bar-B-Q . Sure, I feel a bit railroaded, but I do love D’s, so at least it’s a comfortable train ride. The greatest difficulty we encountered was keeping everyone’s order straight. Beef on the rare side with mild sauce, beef well done with hot sauce and extra potato salad, links without bread, hot sauce, no spork are all the sorts of particularities one has to deal with when making a lunch order. I dutifully write it all down in great detail. Once at D’s however, the order is distilled into its very essence 5 orders of sliced beef, small, one mild, the rest hot, sporks all around!



D’s sits in the middle of a prehistoric strip mall, surrounded on one side by an upholstery outfit and a Mexican restaurant and liquor store on the other. D parks his shiny, late model Mercedes front and center, like a lion at the gates of Hell. D is a friendly, affable fellow who loves what he does and who loves his customers. There’s rarely a line there, though if there were any justice at all in the world, there would be a line surrounding the building, day and night.

The Chow:



On a D day, our party increases in number by several…Doc and Lily White jump in to round out the numbers. Sliced beef was the order of the day, Doc being the outlier who ordered up a plate of links. D offers platters in two sizes, small and large. A small can easily feed two people or one very hungry one. The large is simply to heavy to get back to the office without a forklift. D makes the sauce in house and the hot is delicious, a perfect tang, but not too fiery. Sides include potato salad, cole slaw or baked beans and are, by most accounts, not D’s strong suit. I like the potato salad. Cougar won’t stay in the same county where anything sauced in mayonnaise is served. Lily White didn’t want any sides or the Roman Meal bread that comes with an order. All that could be heard from Hula Girl, Doc and Tuna were the contented slurps of satisfied diners.

The Wrap:
D says it best: D’s BBQ is D best in town.

The Rating: 4.3 out of 5.

C, C, C, Chicken Express

Welcome to C day, which, as it turned out, was also a Potluck Day around the office. A much loved member of our support team is moving on to greener pastures, better hours, and a different building. Some folks make all the luck.



The Process:

As our luck would have it, Chicken Express begins with C and is a long time favorite of the gang, especially when it comes bringing a big platter of food to a potluck. There are, to be fair, a few other C restaurants in the directory that might have made it to the top of the list had we not had larger obligations. CE it would be !

The Chow:
Chicken Express is an odd little corner place whose specialty is, oddly, chicken, Mexican rotisserie style. The options are many: eat in, take out, or drive thru. All options come with Open Late, a super nice option wherever you happen to live, but not much of a value add if you’re just looking for lunchtime fun. And, late is, after all, a relative term in a town where the sidewalks are rolled in at five in the afternoon.



If restaurants had middle names Bargain would be appropriate for CE. Three whole chickens, cut and boxed for a mere 24 bucks. No sauce, no extras, no tortillas, just skin, meat and bones. Cougar offered to drive, so off we went to pile into her vintage Bentley and do the drive thru. I have to confess that I’ve never been a big fan of the drive thru, but after yesterday’s clothes destroying experience at Bud’s I was happy to forego the wait in a greasy foyer.

If presentation is everything, then we had some work to do before walking the dead birds into the potluck. Cougar brought in a nice platter and I plated it up, not without some significant direction and tips from Flower herself. You can see that it made for a very appealing presentation.



You might, at this point, be wondering about the actual chicken itself. What did it taste like? Imagine those old snack crackers, Chicken in a Biscuit with a little less taste and the texture of very fine packed sawdust….What was Express about it? The drive thru, perhaps…or the digestion time: 45 minutes from mouth to beak.

The Wrap:
Chicken, chicken, I declare, I see someone’s underwear. Could be pink, could be white, but I won’t eat again tonight.

The Rating: 2.5 out of 5.

B is for Bud's Giant Burgers

Moving one letter down the alphabet, we come to the letter B. According to the Vallejo telephone directory (December 2006 edition), there are a mere handful of B restaurants including the venerable B & W Cafe, several iterations of Burger King, a Black Angus and Bud's Burgers. The title of the post tells the middle of the story, the beginning and end being decidedly more complex.

The Process:
I'll confess that for many, many years I’ve wanted to visit the B & W café, but have been put off by several factors. First, it’s proximity to Funville, one of Vallejo’s two bookstores. Ayup, it’s an adult one, the other bookstore being, you guessed it, a Christian one. Second, the lack of a game enough dining companion, and third, uh, well, just plain inertia. Several times over the years I’ve gone so far as to contemplate the scenario of coming into work early to sit at the counter and eat a plate of steak and eggs with the bottomless cup of Joe. I’ve always dismissed the thought pretty much as soon as I see the sun rise and realize that I can eke out another hour of sleep before having to show up for work.

B & W turned out to be a tough sell to the crew, too. I called early enough to avoid the nearly inevitable lunch crush, asking what was on the lunch menu and whether it was possible to have a menu faxed over. Hamburgers were on the menu as was broccoli. A mysterious sounding lunch box, too, was a possible lunch option. No one was convinced enough to want to venture a visit, so when Cougar was cajoled to call over to get some more information, she asked about the lunch special. Big mistake, I’m thinking. The woman who I’m assuming was the owner, cheerily replied “Liver and onions, how many would you like?” To which Cougar replied dryly, “terrific,” thus sealing the fate on the B & W café for another decade at least.

We chose the venerable Bud’s Giant Burgers, beloved Vallejo institution practically since the beginning of time. It’s been a few years since the gang has all ventured down Sonoma Boulevard to stop in at Bud’s, and it’s the sort of place folks are thinking about when they say something like, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Same friendly folk, same giant burgers, same beefy smell. I don’t really know the history of the place, but I do know a Burgermeister and his wife when I see them.



This picture of a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Bud sits proudly next to plaques proclaiming Bud’s to be the best burger in Solano County for 8 years running. This picture of the picture is not for sale, by the way.

The Chow:
Tuna and I were elected to pick up the chow. (Note: whether eating in or taking out, it’s probably best not to wear something that has just been cleaned.) Cougar and Hula Girl stayed behind, directing traffic in the office.



Here’s a picture of the menu. Standard burgerhouse fare, so of course I order the steak sandwich and bring another one back for Flower, supersizing it into the meal with soda and bucket o’ fries. Tuna and Cougar play it safe with the supersize cheeseburger/fries/drink combo. Rumor has it that the fries are cooked in beef lard. That’s too much information, even for me, so I kept my mouth shut and didn’t ask the obvious questions.



Soda choices today were limited, as you can see. I’ll not say that Bud’s is falling on hard times, but somebody’s not fully minding the store. I had the root beer, delicious and caffeine free.







The food is presented simply, in an old fashioned style with a twist: the fries arrrive in an environmentally sound Styrofoam cup. Anyone noticing a theme developing here?

Random comments after the meal (A free Bud’s meal to anyone who can correctly match the comment to the diner):

“That made me feel sick.”

“I don’t know what to say about that burger, but thank you for getting it.”

“Was not so good, it’s sitting in my stomach making it churn.”

The Wrap:
It’s good to revisit old friends, but sometimes it's best to leave before the meal is served.

The Rating: 2.3 out of 5.

The Letter A -- Annie's Panda Garden

Fearlessly, our intrepid eaters ventured to the banks of Interstate 80. Climbing "Porn Hill" as Couger calls it, we find a smattering of No Tell Motels, cheap gas stations and Annie's Panda Garden. I must confess here that I did not actually enter the forbidden garden, deciding instead to remain in the office and wait for Cougar and Tuna to return with the goods.

The Process:

Today there were three of us on the lunch program, yours truly, Cougar, and Tuna. We began the debate at 11:30 a.m. with a heated discussion of whether or not we were really going through with this plan. Once intention was established, Tuna brought out a four year old Vallejo Yellow Page directory. I thought A Slice of Heaven sounded like a nice place and dialed the number. 40 rings later, I gave up. Anyway, Cougar put the kibosh on A Slice of Heaven as an A restaurant, discounting the article as not being a ‘real’ word. Picky. Annie’s it would have to be. Amazingly, we were ready to phone in by noon. A near record.

The Chow:

Annie’s offers a reputedly tasty amuse bouche, their world famous gelatinous soup. As our three spoons stood nearly straight up in the corn starch laden appetizer, I took a quick glance, a sniff and a pass. To paraphrase Gogol, “You can put sugar on a frog, but I won’t put it in my mouth.”



The actual main courses came attractively packed in some form of Styrofoam. And they were heavy. I thought that we should get a kitchen scale so as to include weight as an element of the food reviews. I’d guess that the individual meals weighed in at, easily, a pound and a half to two pounds. Cougar and I opted for the safe Kung Pow Chicken, while Tuna, being a bit more adventurous than the rest, took the Lemon Chicken. Kung Pow Chicken, I used to think, should be a benchmark, against which one could rate a Chinese place. If this most basic of dishes passes muster, the, the reasoning goes, it should be safe to delve deeper into the menu and order with relative abandon. Over the past week, I have had three plates of nearly inedible Kung Pow Chicken leading me to rethink this hypothesis and what I believed to be a fondness for Chinese food in general.







But let me return for just a moment to the meal at hand. Tuna ordered the Lemon Chicken, which, as you can see, is a boneless, skinless breaded and fried chicken breast with a lemony sauce...or is it? Tuna said that the sauce came in a separate container and that he needed to smell it to ascertain exactly what it was. True, it didn't smell all that lemony and it did have the consistency of garlic oil, but in the end it was "tasty" and "surprisingly good". Not exactly a rave, but a whole lot better than eating poison meat or not eating at all.

Suffice it to say, and I'll spare you the nasty details since this should be a family blog, I probably won't be returning to Annie's anytime soon.

The Rating: 2.7 of 5