Fried pickle haiku

delightfully sour
breaded, dripping in garlic ranch
a slice of heaven

Foodie on the road

On Saturday I made one of those rare, beautiful stops at Elmo's in Carrboro, on the way out of town. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, and the wait was only about 20 minutes -- not bad for a Saturday at Elmo's.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of ordering the cheese grits. I've gotten them before, and they aren't bad -- they just don't have the magic of, say, the sweet potato pancakes that I always eye but rarely get. Perhaps it's because they aren't the creamy magnificence of the grits at Bogart's, which likely have about 3,000 calories. So I suppose I should thank Elmo's for the slightly blander-but-healthier version of the Southern classic, non?

At least I had a biscuit. It was bliss: big and fluffy, toasted and buttered. It made me wish I had ordered the biscuits and gravy (plus the two dozen sides that come with). Regardless, I will never not have an excuse to visit Elmo's. I will defy spiking gas prices to get my fix, and cross my fingers that Elmo's opens a diner in Raleigh.*

Also, breakfast for two for $13. Who can beat that?**

____



*As much as I love Elmo's, I have to admit that the crunchy-granola vibe would be desperately out of place in a vaguely soulless Raleigh. *sigh*

** A rhetorical question. Fast-food breakfast deserves its own entry (or 10).

I can't get no satisfaction

Day: Thursday
Place: Work
Time: 5 p.m.

The culprit: Thai Kitchen's Pad Thai "noodle cart"

It's been a busy day -- so much so I didn't have time to forage for chocolate, as usual. So when I finally got around to opening my lunchbag (actually a recycled Sephora bag), I had high hopes that whatever I ate would be sustaining. I had two options: Campbell's Soup at Hand cream of broccoli, which tastes kind of like ass but is at least hot, and the pad thai, which I figured would have the added bonus of being mildly spicy.

I chose the pad thai, and got a hit of spice, but also gummy noodles, insubstantial sauce and a dearth of peanuts. I won't lie: I ate most of it. But it didn't come near to filling that gaping midday need.

I ignored the cream of broccoli and headed down to my local Vend-o-land, where I hoped to find something sweet but not ghastly, cheap but not indigestion-inducing. Unfortunately, the ice cream machine has been out of service for weeks, so my fallback ice cream sandwich -- which deserves an entry of its own -- was out of reach.

So I bought a 50-cent bag of Herr's Honey BBQ Potato Chips.

Lemme tell ya: They were gross. Generally I'm cool with barbecue chips. Lay's does a particularly good version: crispy, salty and tart-savory enough to pleasantly singe the inside of my mouth. These, however, were awful. Stale (despite the July expiration date), sickeningly sweet and generally nauseating.

Maybe it's time for me to lay off the convenience foods, y'all.

Barbecue blasphemy?

The new issue of Gourmet, which arrived in the mail a few days ago, has a feature on Eastern Carolina barbecue -- you know, the vinegar kind. For the record, I love that kind. When done well, it's savory with a lovely texture, complemented by a dollop of creamy slaw. Growing up in the Midwest, I ate no such thing. It was a pleasant surprise to a girl whose exposure to barbecue was limited to my mom's ground-turkey sloppy joes and Famous Dave's Kansas City-style tomato-based sauce.

Well, Gourmet figured out a way to not do justice to the regional phenomenon. They published pictures of beautiful young people at a picnic table -- New York models, no doubt -- chowing away on barbecue and its accoutrements -- as if any beautiful New York model would ever be caught dead putting something fried or pork-based in his or her mouth.

Furthermore, Gourmet just overdoes the food itself. They offer a range of recipes that, objectively speaking, look delicious. But they cross the line when they offer up a recipe for a homemade bun on which to put the barbecue.

Now, aside from the ideological objections to the simple existence of the bun that some might have, why do we need to go to all this trouble? We're already spending hours, theoretically, slow-cooking and seasoning the pig, making the slaw, assembling the 'nana pudding. Why add another time-consuming, unnecessary step to the process when a storebought, smooshy, carbolicious bun will do the trick?

This post is my homage to Smithfield's, a fairly recent discovery with locations scattered across central and Eastern N.C. I worship its unpretentious style and straightforward delivery. Hats off to you, Smithfield's. Stay your very own nonhighfalutin' self.

Missin' out

Either my head was somewhere else, or this was badly promoted. Regardless, it's a good idea -- that I hope to take advantage of next year.

Food, food and more food

When poverty strikes

Normally Sunday afternoon is a time of impromptu decadence. It's an afternoon off, and the lazy Sunday ethos calls.

But money is beginning to mean something different, for a variety of reasons including but not limited to the prospect of $4-a-gallon gas, so Sunday lunch (or "dinner," if you're a Midwesterner) was Zaxby's.

Zaxby's is, in general, awesome. The fries are well seasoned, and the house dipping sauce is awesome. Moreover, you will find two things there you can't find many other places: Texas toast, dripping with butter, and cherry soda. For $6 a head, what more could you want?

There was one hitch, though -- our order was up so quickly it was clear our plates weren't cooked to order, which has been up to this point one of Zaxby's selling points. Usually the food is piping hot and fresh from the fryer. This time it was hot-ish. And thus it was good-ish. Not fabulous. But passable for a coupla hungry Sunday-afternoon lie-abouts.

Sunday dinner was homemade: Granny Lawson's Lunch Dish (from "Nigella Bites") and a box of Krusteaz lemon bars. And a bottle of bad wine. It was still a good meal.

A Saturday afternoon quickie

Artsplosure.

Let's acknowledge the obvious: major crowds, traffic jams of human and vehicle varieties, long lines, spendy food.

Then, let's take a moment to acknowledge the sublime: people-watching, downtown revitalization at work, funky arty stuff, good music.

The food wasn't too bad, either, though I kind of cheated. I was meeting a friend and we wanted to sit and talk and *try* to avoid the lines. So we went to El Rodeo at City Market. Mexican that's cheap, hot and fast. *insert crude joke here* I got a beef enchilada; it tasted like a beef enchilada. No surprises there. We were so busy talking I forgot about the delicious guac until afterward, when I exploded in a flurry of guac haste -- dipping it off my plate with the remaining chips as fast as I could, lest a zealous bus person snatch my plate away in a busy-day frenzy.

The best part of the meal was the salsa, delivered as usual in a mini carafe. It was spicier than usual, with a wonderful consistency -- not too watery, not too chunky. My mouth did a small victory dance.

Then, it was on to the fair food. I only partook of a lemon cream crepe, which was worth the short wait. It was served in a folded piece of waxed paper with a napkin, and it was h-o-t. But the lemon was the lemon I desired, a lemon curd-like filling. The cream wasn't so evident. The crepe itself was light and crusty and lovely.

Finally, we ended up at Crema on Fayetteville Street, where my companion wanted a milkshake but changed her mind when we started perusing the Cold Stone-style ice cream menu. Two flavors of ice cream, a few dozen mix-ins. The counter folk were harried and none too pleased by the crowd, it seemed, but hey, it was an ice cream kind of day. I got vanilla with brownie and toffee bits mixed in. It was cold creamy perfection.

And with that, I was stuffed.

Food capsules

I decided I had better write about these two before they become staler than a two-week-old box of Wheat Thins. I will be brief.

Enoteca Vin: Not entirely worth the hype. Small and crowded with harried service. It doesn't appear there's a designated bartender, and when a place has "wine" in the title, that can be a problem. The deviled eggs were good. The aperitif was good. The creative mixed drinks were marvelous; the wine just OK. The entree I got -- a citrusy salmon -- was just meh. I keep forgetting that I've only enjoyed salmon once or twice in my life. This was not one of those times. The panna cotta was pleasingly vanilla. The surprise of the night was the sorbet: cucumber, pineapple and jalapeno. Better than it sounds. Awesome, in fact.

Ruth's Chris: This place, I'm beginning to see, is dependable in a hometown diner kinda way. You'll get what you what, know what to expect, and enjoy it similarly every time. It's nice in a way and kind of a pain in another way: For those prices, can't they mix it up every once in a while? Anyways, I enjoyed a few appropriately strong drinks. The filet was done to my specifications, the accompanying shrimp large and well-seasoned. The best part of the meal: the calamari. Every other time I've had it, it has been greasy and rubbery, and I've applauded myself only for stepping out of my comfort zone. This time it was light and fresh, with only a whisper of breading. Unfortunately, I had to share it with my party o' 10.

Odds and ends

It's been an eventful week here in Raleigh Foodieville, folks. I still have to come up with reviews for Enoteca Vin and Ruth's Chris -- but I wanted to take a moment to ponder the pleasures of eating party leftovers.

Truly it has been a great week to eat at home, if only because we have more than our share of chips, cheese, olives, wine, beer and dips galore. It's wonderful to open the fridge, produce a handful of containers, shuffle over to the dining-room table, and have a meal at your fingertips.

Perhaps the biggest and best surprise was the olives. We put out the kalamatas Friday night and barely managed to get rid of them over the course of the 4-hour shindig. Which meant we had two packages of olives from Whole Foods remaining: the spicy ones with the red-peppery brine, and the garlic-stuffed ones.

My eating partner didn't love the garlic-stuffed ones. The garlic was quasi-pickled and thus more subdued than expected. Also, the olives themselves were rather firm and young-tasting. A little crunchier than expected. I didn't at first love them, but they grew on me.

The spicy ones, however, were heavenly. The texture was altogether pleasing, and the hot finish was a delight. And just when I didn't think I could get any more enjoyment out of them, I ripped off a piece of my rosemary baguette and dipped it into the pool of leftover red-flecked brine. It was fantastic.

Still remaining: the quartet of hummus flavors bought at Trader Joe's to go with the tortilla chips. Apparently we didn't have much of a hummus crowd. I consider hummus generally a tricked-out bean dip and thus mostly universally appealing; I guess that was my mistake. Upon finally tasting it this weekend, however, perhaps it was the overarching blandness that kept people away. The green hummus tasted vaguely of parsley, or perhaps cilantro -- maybe spinach? The red and "natural"-colored hummuses tasted pretty much the same, though one tasted slightly more garlicky than the others. *sigh* Oh, well. Next time I'll make my own, and add plenty of lemon, garlic and cracked black pepper.

The at-home buffet odyssey is probably nearing a close, though we have plenty of beer left and some fruit and veggies. Oh, and does anyone want a gallon of sweet tea? I bought it to appease our teetotalers, but I can't touch the stuff myself. Blech.

India Mahal, you sneaky thing

I was in the market for an impromptu lunch today. There was about 20 minutes of driving about aimlessly. I didn't know what I wanted. At first, I thought: cheese curds. A&W. Western Boulevard. Mmmmmm. So I headed in that direction, only to find that the former A&W/KFC had become KFC only. That was a bit of a bummer: I don't know where there's another A&W, and on the rare occasions I crave root beer and/or cheese curds, it's the only scratch for that itch.

So then I considered Pizza Hut. I used to frequent the one on Hillsborough by N.C. State. I'd head over after an evening class on nights I was too restless to study. I would pop in, place my order for the student special (soda, breadsticks and a personal pan pizza for something ridiculous like $4), meander over to Reader's Corner to browse the outside books, and 10 minutes later I'd have a piping hot piece of greasy heaven in my hands. Ahh, nostalgia. Thy name is food.

Finally, I decided I wanted to sit somewhere. Somewhere quiet, where I could read a book and get out of my skin for a while instead of pacing my apartment like a restless zoo animal. So I decided to go to India Mahal.

I discovered India Mahal in 2003, on one of my first visits to Raleigh. I lived in a city lacking an Indian restaurant, and I had fallen in love with Indian post-college in a small Minnesota city with only one Indian restaurant. Leaving it behind meant only one thing: I thought about Indian constantly. I loved the smells, the decor, the Indian pop and folk music wafting from the tiny speakers. I loved the delicately scented chai and the mango lassi, the naan. I loved the service, thorough but hands-off. My greatest weakness, however ordinary, was lamb curry.

So I arrived in Raleigh in 2003 with high hopes. And -- I was kind of disappointed. India Mahal wasn't *bad*. It just didn't satisfy my whole-experience craving the way I had hoped. There was something kind of flat about the experience. The building was small and shambly, the service was indifferent, the food bordering on boring.

I returned a few times simply out of convenience. It's tough to turn down an Indian lunch buffet when it's the only one in an 8-10 mile radius and you're too lazy to drive any further. And it was laziness that brought me back today.

For once, I wasn't disappointed.

The buffet, ordinarily lukewarm and picked-over, was fresh, hot and inviting. The naan was warm and subtly sweet (a strange observation, I know, but it wasn't unpleasant). The vegetarian items were pleasantly spicy, and the several meat items were homey and comforting: two kinds of saag, a generic chicken curry and tandoori chicken -- which, though a bit dry, was still reasonably flavorful.

After a busy weekend, it was just what I needed. Surprise! India Mahal doesn't suck full-time.

La Luna: la popular, la busy, la fine

On Saturday night we had dinner at Cafe/Caffe Luna in downtown Raleigh. It was a beautiful night: not too hot, slightly breezy, with gemuchlicheit in the air.

Unfortunately, I was kind of expecting more of Luna. The appetizers were passed, family-style, and looked kind of wimpy -- and kind of alienated some of the visitors at our table, I suspected. The melon and prosciutto was small, the tomato and fresh mozzarella slightly watery and, too, small. *sigh* At least there was bread.

The entrees were more pleasing. I had the seafood-stuffed tortelli. It arrived not quite piping hot, but the flavor of the filling and the sauce provided ample distraction. The sea bass-eaters at the table were quite pleased. The steak eaters, I dunno. It was a more subdued dinner than I expected.

Dessert was actually quite divine, but by then I was either especially stuffed or especially constricted by my lady undergarment. I took about five bites of my rustic apple tart and gave up -- but not without a bite of my companion's chocolate mousse pyramid. I have my suspicions about the homemade-ness of these selections -- Gordon Ramsay is both the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other, I'm afraid -- but in pure tartness, sweetness, and attractive presentation, the desserts scored well.

Thankfully, the service was good, if businesslike. Our server kept our glasses full, especially my glass of prosecco, though was unable to produce butter for a particular Wisconsin gentleman who didn't prefer olive oil. Until Saturday, I had only experienced Luna during busy weekday lunches. It is a common networking ground/schmoozing locale for the business elite and politicians. I guess I had believed it settled down on weekends, and I was wrong. Families, parties large and small filled the dining rooms. We had a private room at the back, overlooking the Moore Square fountains (and bus station), and the light and ambience were really lovely -- and we could actually carry on conversations, which counts for a lot.

I expect to return under different circumstances: fewer guests, less pressure, more relaxation -- and perhaps a spicier entree and a few more drinks. It's good to have an old-school-type Tuscan restaurant around. Not all the hype is warranted, but the cumulative effect is pleasing enough.

On the agenda

Today was a grocery-shopping odyssey. In preparation for a party, my companion and I braved the wilds of Cary to visit Trader Joe's, where we bought two varieties of cashews (lightly salted and chili lime), a few frozen appetizers, four bottles of wine and a 12-pack of Magic Hat. Then it was on to Harris Teeter, where we fleshed out our party selections with nonalcoholic beverages and a box of Bailey's Irish Cream puffs. Finally, it was off to Whole Foods -- which I love but for the extreme prices and abundance of people, particularly soccer moms -- to raid the olive bar. There we finally found the tiny frozen quiche that warm my heart so.

The party menu is rounded out with tortilla chips with hummus and salsa, a veggie plate, fresh fruit and two-bite brownies. Hope there's enough. If not, HT is a half-mile away. We call quick trips to the grocery "Teeterfying." Catchy only to us, I suppose.

This is going to be a great week foodwise, folks. Besides the overabundance of party food, there will be dining out to the nth degree. Tomorrow night we have reservations for Enoteca Vin -- our first visit. If the online menu is the least bit indicative, it's going to be a good time.

Then, Saturday, comes the quasi prix fixe at Cafe Luna (which can't seem to decide how to spell its name: Cafe or Caffe?). It seemed decadent at the time -- and, really, actually will be, except that ...

... dinner Sunday is likely to be at Ruth's Chris in Cary. I've been there, folks. It ain't cheap eats. Luckily, it's mostly worthwhile, or else I'd feel like the world's biggest freeloader. Our generous hosts likely won't blink an eye at a bottle or two of Dom, but I'll do my best to appreciate the quality of the steak, the ambience, the service.

Stories to come.

Krispy Kreme *sigh*

My first experience with Krispy Kreme was in 2002. I was a newcomer to this warm Southern state, and I had heard about Krispy Kreme. A warm glazed donut was a religious experience, I was told.

I didn't instantly become a believer, if only because I didn't instantly have a warm donut. My first trip through the drive-through (most unfortunately, on a certain boulevard populated by pawn shops and strip clubs) didn't take place with a certain neon sign lit. So, to me, it was just another donut. Yawn. I worked at a bakery for two years in high school. I knew donuts. I wanted more. I wanted foodgasm.

I couldn't tell you my first warm Krispy Kreme experience. Sad to say. But it did happen. And each is just as good as the last one. The glaze melting on my fingers, the donut collapsing on my tongue. The arteries hardening. It was a hypnotic ritual, evoking dizzying if brief joy.

Tonight I honored a workplace tradition -- one I wasn't aware of despite my nearly five-year tenure. I took the pot in the annual Kentucky Derby pool: $16. So I traipsed to the nearest Krispy Kreme store and bought a coupla dozen for my $1-poorer colleagues.

The sign wasn't lit.

It would have been too good to be true, anyways, after a long lethargic workweek that just demanded the sweet glazey reward of nature's -- okay, not nature's -- perfect donut. But I had a tradition to uphold, so I lifted my head, stepped inside, and ordered a dozen (cool) glazed, and another dozen filled. I took my comfort in the near-perfection of the custard-filled donut: the filling was well-distributed, the icing creamy chocolate. And the best part -- actually! -- the slight crustiness of the donut's exterior, the crustiness that says "Yup! Yessiree, I'm fried. I am so fried."

And maybe next time I succumb to temptation, or uphold a tradition, the neon light will glow cheerfully into the night and I can once again lose myself in that unique and special glaze haze.

So, about Courtney's

A friend introduced me to Courtneys 3-some years ago. It was like stumbling upon breakfast nirvana. So many combinations of eggs, cheese and meat! Such big portions! Such awe-inspiring English muffins, dripping with butter!

I loved the faux-intimacy of the dining rooms -- both in Cary and in Raleigh. They looked like film sets for a breakfast diner, except with exceedingly low ceilings. The servers were hello-darlin' Southern. And the carafes of water were a touch of lemon-flavored genius: All that cheese and salty breakfast meat demanded a perpetual beverage source, and the last thing you wanted to do was be flagging down a server with a mouthful of cheesy eggs, right?

I should have known the wonderment would wear off.

The menu hasn't changed in the past few years. I can still sit down and order the Denver or the California and get the skillet full of cholesteroly goodness. But things have slid. Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen, this isn't the same Courtney's.

First off, the service: A few weeks ago my plus-1 and me walked into the Raleigh restaurant. We were greeted with monosyllabic grunts by a girl barely old enough to hold a driver's license, then led to a table next to a buoyant toddler. Stee-rike 1. Service with a grunt, not so appealing. Toddler, even less so, though a necessary evil of dining out.

So I read my obligatory USA Today (available outside the front door for 50 cents! just like at the Marriott!) and waited far too long for my skillet. When the skillet arrived, it was a pale imitation of my first skillet all those many Saturdays ago. The potatoes, the sauteed miracle of butter and paprika, were undercooked. The English muffin, barely toasted if at all. The combination of eggs, cheese and vegetables had no romance, no glamour. I felt let down. Like I was on a second date that fizzled.

More monosyllables from underage employees, and we were out.

*sigh* It's such a shame. The concept is so good, so simple, so pure! Hot, quick breakfast for the masses, a solid cross-section of churchgoers, harried families and retirees. But after my last experience, my confidence is more likely to rest with Big Ed's (closed on Sundays, sadly) or NoFo (slightly uppity and overpriced).

More from the breakfast trenches another time. The blueberry muffins on my stove are calling my name.

A day in the life...

Sometimes, I think I think about food too much.

I think about my next meal just after finishing my last meal. Sooner, sometimes. I wake up thinking about dinner. I leave work thinking about Tater Tots. I get distracted at my desk by the thought of a Charburger from Char-Grill, with chopped onions and catsup that's slightly warm. I consider swinging by Harris Teeter just to sample the deli ham and whatever cheese resides in their little sample receptacles with a spray of toothpicks nearby. I wonder which grocery butchers are carrying lamb.

I'm not a food snob. I'll admit that I love my wine and cheese, and I will carry on a one-way conversation with Lynne Rossetto Kasper while listening to "The Splendid Table" in the car. I own "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" but, sadly, have only executed one recipe from it. I'm definitely not a food snob.

So where does that leave me, a food-obsessed resident of the Triangle?

I'll tell you: with a blog. A Blogger blog, no less -- just to show you what a low-rent exhibitionist I am.

I will use this space to talk about restaurants, grocery stores and food in general. I live in Raleigh and eat mostly at Raleigh restaurants. No disrespect to Durham and Chapel Hill: The eats there are just great. Blame it on the gas prices, if you will. Hate driving, love food. Will write, won't travel. With occasional -- and deserving -- exceptions. I am an Elmo's junkie. I only get my fix every few months. The rest of the time, breakfast comes from my own kitchen, or Courtney's, or occasionally NoFo or Big Ed's.

Stay tuned, and I'll tell you exactly what I think about all of them.