SAY IT AINT SO
I overheard some drip today in the grocery store lamenting the end of summer. It's still July, right? Regardless of the date, it got me thinking: Have I done all the "summery things" I set out to do? Not even close really. The homegrown tomatoes have - thankfully - been coming in, but I haven't had a single moules et frites or michelada... What gives? So I've decided to jot down a list and follow it ad litteram. And the big winners are:
Moules et frite: Of fuckin' course. Nothing really like it. Three pounds of shellfish; three pounds of butter; three pounds of potatoes cleaned and sliced and fried in drippings... Win win win win. Pair both with three or six Duvel and you're insured an evening of mayhem.
Michelada: Beer and lime juice and hot sauce. It's easy and quick and the drink made for August in Atlanta. Tecate for the beer, Cholula for the hot sauce, good organic limes for the limes. Glass, ice, etc. Bottoms up.
Oysters: I know the "ber" rule but I give not a fuck. Bring me some Pacific Rim oysters the size of a monk's testicles and let's do it. Lemon juice. Canned beer. Maybe some Stooges on the hi-fi...
Hangover Helper: Try as I might, I still haven't gotten drunk enough to warrant the ultimate bad advice h'over "cure." One V-8, one beer, one egg yolk, some HP, and down the hatch. Usually you're vomitting in no time and begging for a beer and shot brunch afterwards. Be careful, folks. It works. I swear.
Fritto Misto di Mare: Where the fuck is the fish fry? I've caught a bunch of fish this summer. Why aren't they in my frezzer, waiting for a all purpose flour, corn starch and Old Bay breading?
Old Fashioned: If the martini is the perfect cocktail the Old Fashioned is its shadow. Canadian whisky, soda, macerated oranges, cherries, bitters and blammo. On a cool, windy night best enjoyed porchside with early Roxy Music blaring from the den. Heat lightning storms are good framers, too. Have at it.
Vindaloo: It's hot as hell. Eat food hotter than the temp. It makes you sweat your ass off, thus cooling you down. I need some.
Moules et frite: Of fuckin' course. Nothing really like it. Three pounds of shellfish; three pounds of butter; three pounds of potatoes cleaned and sliced and fried in drippings... Win win win win. Pair both with three or six Duvel and you're insured an evening of mayhem.
Michelada: Beer and lime juice and hot sauce. It's easy and quick and the drink made for August in Atlanta. Tecate for the beer, Cholula for the hot sauce, good organic limes for the limes. Glass, ice, etc. Bottoms up.
Oysters: I know the "ber" rule but I give not a fuck. Bring me some Pacific Rim oysters the size of a monk's testicles and let's do it. Lemon juice. Canned beer. Maybe some Stooges on the hi-fi...
Hangover Helper: Try as I might, I still haven't gotten drunk enough to warrant the ultimate bad advice h'over "cure." One V-8, one beer, one egg yolk, some HP, and down the hatch. Usually you're vomitting in no time and begging for a beer and shot brunch afterwards. Be careful, folks. It works. I swear.
Fritto Misto di Mare: Where the fuck is the fish fry? I've caught a bunch of fish this summer. Why aren't they in my frezzer, waiting for a all purpose flour, corn starch and Old Bay breading?
Old Fashioned: If the martini is the perfect cocktail the Old Fashioned is its shadow. Canadian whisky, soda, macerated oranges, cherries, bitters and blammo. On a cool, windy night best enjoyed porchside with early Roxy Music blaring from the den. Heat lightning storms are good framers, too. Have at it.
Vindaloo: It's hot as hell. Eat food hotter than the temp. It makes you sweat your ass off, thus cooling you down. I need some.
Labels: Booze, Michelada, Moules et Frites, Oysters, Roxy Music, Summertime, The Stooges, V-8, Vindaloo
posted by GSV JR at
7:40 PM
4 Comments:
I had fish curry the other day, badamee I think, from the good local place. Got it hot, it was great. I'm so glad my town has a little hole-in-the-wall Indian place run by expats who know what they're doing, you know? Even the butter chicken there has some bite, not the creamy crap the local pubs serve tourists.
Made a chicken vindaloo, peas pulao, and saag paneer last night so I'm good for a while. May as well call that dinner el asswrecka.
While sitting on a toilet for the umpteenth time after a late night curry in London -- I invented Ass Chap Stick. One time use only. They can sell 'em by the cash register on your way out.
Send me over a case of Ass Chap Stick; I'm good for it.
The worst I ever had it was from lamb vindaloo at "Touch of India," a flowering oasis in the midst of a stripmall wasteland.
Chili seeds dusted the curry like pollen on a car's windshield. The aftershock from ingesting said foodstuff became known as having "The Touch."
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