Manhattan Hillbilly

Love Bacon to Death? Now You Can

J&D Foods, inventors of bacon-flavored just about everything, add a Bacon Coffin to their lineup.

Enjoy the video and then buy yours. 

My guess is they start taking orders April 1. 

 

Back Safe in New York City

I don't ever want to hear my Southern brethren lecture me about crime in New York City.

Just finished a whirlwind 12-day tour of the South, with stops in Richmond, Knoxville, Atlanta and points in-between. The stated goal was to visit kinfolk for the holidays, but the true goal was to put 1,500 miles on the car, get cramps in my gas-pedal foot, confirm my allergy to cats by spending a week living among them, and re-energize my Southern accent, which my wife says is losing it's edge after 14 months of living in Manhattan.

Mission accomplished on all fronts!

Another goal was to raise my cholesterol level a good 50 points by enjoying the food that made me the man and a half I am today. To wit: 

Waffle House. The closest Waffle House to New York is in Elkton, Maryland, just across the border from Delaware on I-95. Don't think I didn't pull off the road as soon as I crossed the Mason-Dixon. 

Krispy Kreme. There's only one shop in all of Yankeeland. It's in Penn Station, and the doughnuts are so stale by the time you get them there's rumors the Rangers come across the street from Madison Square Garden when they run low on pucks.

Ali-Baba's Deli. This is a uniquely Knoxville sandwich shop, run by two Palestinian brothers. It's a landmark in the city after 30 years, and if you don't know what a "Steak in Sack' is, well shame on you.

Barbecue. Doesn't matter whether it's Buddy's or Dreamland or Williamson Brothers. It's all good, and after a year my quest for good BBQ in NYC is still unresolved.

All my kinfolk were fine, and most generous to the Manhattan Hillbilly at Christmastime (maybe it was pity that caused them to be so kind). Everyone looked great, and my family and I even managed to squeeze in a round of our infamous Death Croquet game in the backyard of mamma's house. (Think the Kennedy's and touch football, but played with mallets and hard wooden balls that can all be used as weapons). 

As for safety, the night before we were to leave Knoxville on New Years Eve, we went to a movie and returned to find this:

 

Happy New Year! Someone had tried to break into our car, and after failing to pry their way through to door to the lock, decided to just shatter the driver's side window. Apparently when they unlocked the door it set off the car alarm, which sent them scurrying without taking anything from the car. It took us an extra day to get home since no glass replacement companies were open Jan. 1. 

As I told everyone who came by to feel sorry for us as we waited for the police, I couldn't wait to get back to the streets of New York City, where I felt safe.

It's Turkey Time In Staten Island

When I made my first visit to Staten Island last month (finally completing my five-borough quintilla) I was shocked to see wildlife. And I'm not talking about Illusions Nightclub.

Turkeys. Lots of wild turkeys. Roaming wild down the streets of Staten Island. In residents' lawns. Infesting the parks in the same way that Canada Geese often do in other cities. I easily counted more than a hundred of them walking around randomly in one greenspace called Ocean Breeze Park.

WTF? (Why The Fowls?)

No one there could tell me with certainly, but apparently at some point some resident brought several turkeys to the area as pets, and with no hunting there or natural predators, their numbers have butterballed.

So, with Thanksgiving coming and the economy down a bit, are a ..., are some residents considering actually bagging one of these babies and having a free Thanksgiving dinner? Apparently so.

Now, don't expect me to be serving my kids free-range Hyland Boulevard turkey next week. A bit to gamy to me. But if your host serves you white meat with tire tracks on it, you've been warned. 

 

I'm Not Saying Nightlife in NYC Is Diverse...

... but does your town have a country western gay saloon?

Welcome to Flaming Saddles. Think Coyote Ugly for the alternate lifestyle crowd. Opening next week down in Hell's Kitchen about 20 blocks away. 

h/t: Gothamist. 

How Do You Like Your Coffee?

In the 1970's, heroin may have been the drug of choice in New York City, but today, it's coffee.

There are approximately, 847,000 Starbucks inside the city limits. Or at least it seems that way. It's true there are locations where two Starbucks are across the street from each other. It's more rare to see someone walking down the sidewalks without a Starbucks cup in the hand than with one. 

David Letterman famously said "If it wasn't for coffee, I'd have no personality at all." If true, it explains why most New Yorkers are such personalities. They drink a lot of coffee. 

And they like to make it complicated. I actually heard someone yesterday order a double-nonfat latte with whipped cream. To his credit, the barista didn't blink.

There's three castes to coffee drinkers in New York City:

• There's the Blue-Collar Drinkers, who will pick up a cup anywhere. A deli. A corner store. A restaurant. Diner. Doesn't matter. They just want coffee, or as Denis Leary famously screamed "Forget hazelnut, frappacino fapachino -- I just want coffee-flavored coffee!" [Link NSFW] They'll order their coffee just the way they want it -- something that's never done in the South. "Gimme a coffee sweet and light," which means they expect it to show up with the sugar and milk already added in. No self-serve here. This is New York -- I don't have time to tear open packets, buddy!
• The Starbucks Crowd. This is either those who accept the convenience of the national chain, or actually like the product. There's no shame here, but there's a fine line between getting a nice venti mocca and getting something that takes 20 sylables to order. Most Wall Street types are Starbucks people. Make of that what you will. One guy even tried to visit and document every Starbucks in the city. 
• The Coffee Snobs. These are the folks who wouldn't be caught dead in a Starbucks. They seek out smaller, mom-and-pop or corner coffee klatches. They revel in the hipster atmosphere and admittedly these places by and love serve a much superior cup of java. I've documented some of these places here, and I'm still finding new places to love. My latest discovery Friday was Stumptown Coffee in lower midtown, which offered the chance to sit in a 80-year-old hotel lobby and enjoy your cup of joe. 

So what'll you have?

Who Says New York Isn't Classy?

Our McDonald's have hostesses!

H/T: Zagat's

Guy Posts Coffee Cart Review -- On A Post

Everybody's got an opinion in New York City. And no one's really afraid to share it.

via NYTimes.

 

Sunday Morning Bagel Lines

Huge line at Murray's Bagels on 6th Avenue this morning. Figured the bagels were good because of the long line.

Ordered an everything bagel with cream cheese and salmon to go "totally" New York.

It was good, but $10.45 good? Nope. Could get two Waffle House All-Star Breakfasts for that!

Chestnuts? Yuck!

One of my key learnings over Christmas: No one in their right mind eats roasted chestnuts.

OK, OK. We've all sung "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire." We all have these nostalgic Currier & Ives prints of people pulling pans of hot chestnuts out of the fireplace. Some of us have even used the metaphor about "someone's chestnuts are in the fire."

So add chestnuts to one of those somewhat Yankee foods that I've never eaten. Until now. More accurately, until right before Christmas.

Yuk.

The missus and I were Christmas shopping along Fifth Avenue. Well, more accurately were were Christmas looking -- there's no way we could afford anything being offered for sale along Fifth Avenue. With one exception: There was a vendor selling hot roasted chestnuts out of his cart. 

They didn't smell great. In fact, they smelled burnt. And I quickly found out why: In most cases, they burn the outer shell of the chestnuts as they roast them. You're supposed to peal the burnt shell of and eat the nut inside. I've admitted in this space that I'm a total moron, but thankfully I wasn't stupid enough to try and eat the burnt outer shell.

I should have. It couldn't have tasted much worse than what was inside. The texture was like a soft walnut, but without the flavorfulness of a walnut. It seemed more like a cross between a peanut, a walnut and sidewalk chalk.

I gobbled down two to make sure I hadn't gotten a bad one, and then tossed the rest. It was Christmas, the window decorations were out, billions of tourists were jamming the street, the wind was blowing and I'd eaten roasted chestnuts.

I can now say I've "done" Christmas in New York -- for the first time.

This is the kind of news that ruins your day

Community Board Postpones Vote on Annual Big Apple BBQ Event.

I weep for the city if this doesn't happen this summer. It needs as much culture as possible. And what's more cultured than yummy, tasty barbecue?

A Good Morning Latte for You

Visited several coffee houses this week around NYC.

Prettiest cup of joe had to go to Sweetleaf Coffee across the East River in the Long Island City section of Queens. Fairly large place, with a laptop room for those who like to camp out and work. My mocca came with a nice little leaf design in the foam. Pretty cool.

Nicest atmosphere? Had to be Mojo Coffee in the West Village. Tiny little place but a big heart, good coffee and exceptional music playlist. Sat in a window seat and looked out over the cold, windy New York streets the two Dylans -- Dylan Thomas and Bob Dylan -- had made their homes. I stumbled upon it after visiting McNulty's Coffee, a tea and bean place that had been recommended to me.

The inside of Mojo's.

 

My pillow-strewn window seat, where I spent a relaxing half-hour.

 

Yes, soup for me!

Had my first lunch at the Soupman's restaurant today. Asked for clam chowder, the clerk heard "corn chowder."

It was OK, but at $5.99 for a bowl and a piece of bread, not spectacular. I think the fact that this has gone from one unique, colorful restaurant on the corner of 50th and 8th avenue to a chain of restaurants has diminished it somewhat. I did, however, follow the etiquette by placing my order, having my money ready in my hand, and then moving to the left immediately after ordering.

Was it good? It was OK, but not worth giving up your girlfriend or anything.

 

 

Rat droppings aren't an automatic 'F'?

New York's restaurateurs have been in a tizzy for the past six months as the city's health department transitioned to a new grading system -- one apparently with some teeth.

Gone are the confusing numerical codes that listed "violations" but gave you little idea how to compare your corner pizza place with the Plaza as far as cleanliness was concerned. Now it's simple. You get a certain number of violations, you rate either an "A", "B" or "C" rating. Too many, they still shut you down.

The city has been more than fair during the transition. Restaurants that scored horribly -- and a lot of good, well-known ones did -- got two chances to fix things and eventually score an "A" score.

Well this month the fun begins. All the restaurants have pretty much exhausted their second and third chances, and are having to post their scores. Most of us know the "A" restaurants -- they're the ones who wasted no time putting their big blue "A" stickers on the front windows. The ones who didn't? Well, we kinda knew they were still having to get their acts together, and we started getting nervous about eating there.

This week, we noticed a new sticker in the window. "Restaurant Grade Pending." This was the slackers' attempt to avoid having to post that dreaded "C" in their restaurants. But, as the New York Post today noted, they don't have that option. They're supposed to put it up. And the Post has posted what they're calling the dreaded "Filthy Fifteen," the 15 restaurants with the worst scores. And -- surprise, surprise -- eight of the 15 didn't post their scores as required by law.

One nice resource that's always been useful is the city's online restaurant inspection guide. You can key in a restaurant name, type of food or location and get a rundown of scores and violations. It's like the Zagat Guide for people who don't want food poisoning. Not that at least one enterprising blogger hasn't already started to promote living on the edge by writing the "Guide to the Best C Restaurants" blog.

It's worth checking out the scores before you go eat in the city. Many of the places I thought were top-notch quite frankly aren't.

Another dietary first: My first Drake's Devil Dog

Again, another culinary oddity you don't find in the hills of Tennessee: A Drake's Devil Dog.

The pride of Wayne, New Jersey, you can't pass a vending machine in New York City that doesn't seem to have these carbohydrate-chocked monsters inside. And although Drake's is now apparently owned by Hostess, they still keep the iconic duck with the chef's hat and spoon on the label.

At first, I just thought these were the local version of Zingers, but I was clearly wrong. And buddy, there's a large subset of people here in the Northeast who are loyal to these things.

For me, the cakey taste and white filling weren't quite as flavorful as Zingers, and so that was a little off-putting. But if you're needing to ingest 500 calories in 15 seconds or less, these are the babies for you. If you live in the South or West and want to try one of these things, you can actually order them online.

Drake's makes tons of artery-clogging goodness up here, including products such as Ring Dings, Yankee Doodles, Sunny Doodles and something called Yodels, which look exactly like what we Southerners know are really Little Debbie Cake Rolls. We'll see if they've managed to mess those up too.

A Krystal by any other name

Had my first experience with White Castle hamburgers Thursday. Krystals, they're not.

This is another of those many touchstones that determine whether you're a Yankee or not. If you grew up in the North, especially the MidWest, then you grew up on White Castles. If you grew up in the South, then it's Krystals.

Which came first? White Castle was born in 1921 in Wichita, Kansas, while Krystal showed up 11 years later in Chattanooga, Tennessee. There's been countless analysis, battles and critiques comparing the two brands over the years, and just like The Civil ..., er., the War Between the States, it's unlikely that one side is going to abandon their loyalties anytime soon.

So with an admitted bias, I'm going to add my hillbilly voice the cacophony of voices comparing the two. First, the venue: I had my White Castles just south of the Port Authority Bus Terminal along 8th Avenue, not the seedy side of Manhattan but definitely not a hub of fine dining either.

The line was long, and when I got to the counter I was faced with a myraid of choices. In addition to hamburgers, cheeseburgers and chicken sandwiches, which Krystal has on their menu, I was also faced with a Jalipeno Cheeseburger, a BBQ Pulled Pork White Castle (I wasn't brave or foolhardy enough to try this!), a Fish Sandwich, Cheese Sticks, Clam Sticks and something called "Fish Nibblers." They also, bodaciously enough, had something labeled "Surf and Turf" on the menu. Didn't even want to know what that was!

My bottom line? I ordered two traditional White Castles. They were greasier than Krystals (which is really saying something!) which made the bun soggier. The meat itself was identical to a Krystal's (I assume it's meat. Now I'm not so sure) and the only major flavoring difference was a big one: If you're a White Castle person, apparently you're used to the fact it comes with ketchup. Krystal people know the thing that makes it a Krystal are three things: Onion, pickle and mustard. Not having mustard was a big surprise to the palette, and made the dining experience a little otherworldly.

Want to tell me why White Castle rocks your world, or why Krystals still rule? Cast your vote and make your case by hitting the "Comments" link below.

This is how you know I'm a hillbilly

My new New York City friends sometimes doubt I'm a true hillbilly. Why?

• I dress fairly neatly
• I don't usually wear bib overalls
• I always wear shoes
• I have a Southern accent, but not a south Georgia or South Carolina drawl
• I eat sushi
• I can ride the No. 2 train in rush hour and not freak out when I'm packed in like vienna sausage in a can
• I have a black t-shirt I often wear
• I drink Grey Goose rather than corn liquor.

That said, I have the latest trump card which proves I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Southern redneck: The university where I studied for my Masters of Arts in Communications now has a Waffle House in the student center.

'Nuff said.

 

We don't need no stinkin' Golden Arches!

This is Times Square, kiddo!

Barbecue Quest: Finding Real Southern BBQ in NYC

 
Attempt No. 2.

A place literally around the corner called Dallas BBQ. There's actually several of them in NYC.

The verdict: Nope. Not even close.  

Grillin' out, New York City style

Meat is murder.

Tasty, tasty murder.

One of my biggest unsatisfied cravings since moving from Georgia to the big city has been the ability to haul a Fred Flintstone-style steak out onto the back deck, fire up the grill and sear that baby on both sides to create a 2-inch thick, medium-rare hunk of grilled steak goodness.

Grilling out is a rarity here. The missus and I came close to having an apartment on the top floor of a building that would have given us a private rooftop where we could have set out lawn furniture and a huge charcoal or even gas grill. The tradeoff was five flights of stairs, but climbing Everest might be worth it if you could a fire up a Weber at the summit.

That apartment didn't materialize, and our whopping 629 square feet includes zero -- repeat zero -- outdoor space. That is, unless you include the three-inch wide stone ledge where pigeons like to land every morning and deposit "welcome to New York" messages. Needless to say, three-inches is not big enough for put a triple-burner, propane-powered flame-kissing steak-maker.

And good steaks in New York aren't easy to find. Restaurants don't grill outdoors, and those that do specialize in steaks cook them in giant broiler ovens and charge you half your monthly rent to enjoy one.

Many New Yorkers are big fans of the George Foreman Grill and you see them for sale almost everywhere. I've always found them messy and the results far substandard. And again, until two months ago, I HAD A HUGE FRIKKIN GRILL OUT BACK TO COOK STEAKS ON!

Sorry, my grilled meat withdrawal is causing me some major primal issues. But I'm working through them. In the meantime, you can see how I'm having to grill for now -- on the stovetop, with my covered Calphalon grill pan. But someday, my pretty New York strip, some day I'll have a bag of Kingsford and an outdoor space -- and you will be mine.

Another food faux pas

Went to Artie's Jewish Delicatessen last night and asked for a special order. Can't figure out why asking for bacon on my egg salad sandwich caused such a hubbub there.

My first egg creme

... As all my Southern friends pull up Wikipedia to figure out what an "egg cream" is ...

Yes, you can clog to Rocky Top on the Upper East Side

Most Southeastern Conference football teams have alumni clubs here in New York. And most have "their bar" where they congregate to watch ball games on Saturday afternoons.

But be aware: You're going to stand out like a blackfIy on a white goat. Football up here is a "Sunday" thing. If you're not wearing Giants or Jets jerseys, or if you're wearing big blue foam Auburn fingers or barking like a Dawg on a Saturday, people look at you as if you just spilled hair in the milk jug.

Saturday I found the designated Volunteer bar joined 100 or so friends wearing Orange and clogging to piped in versions of "Rocky Top" every time Tennessee scored a touchdown -- which was just barely enough times. It was a good gathering that helped me once again find my "inner hillbilly" that sometimes gets lost during the week.

But boy, the looks I got as I clogged out of the bar and kept high stepping up 2nd Avenue ...

Breakfast, yadda, yadda, yadda

Guess where I'm having breakfast?

Clearly I'm still more tourist than New Yorker.

Ever see a four dollar cookie?

 
 
 
You have now. Levain Bakery, around the corner from me, gets five-star reviews on Yelp and other foodie websites here. And I was shocked when I found out each cookie was $4.

After trying one out, I felt like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction commenting about a 5 dollar milkshake. It's a pretty darned good cookie. I'm not sure it's worth four dollars. But it's close. It's a pretty darned good cookie.

Want to turn on New York women? Slap on some Starbucks

Study by Axe body spray shows the scent that turns on New York women is ... coffee.

This is why you live in the big city

My late-night chocolate cravings are about to be solved!

A company called Insomina Cookies, which offers 24-hour delivery of peanut butter, oatmeal, chocolate chip, sugar and coconut pecan cookies is opening a storefront down the street from us.

Now if I only had my cow so I could get milk at midnight, I'd be all set!

My not-so-proud moment of rudeness

Had my first outburst of rudeness at the Fairway Market yesterday. I’m not apologizing for it, or making excuses, but I’m not proud of it either.

Markets here are crowded places. I detailed this somewhat in yesterday’s post. So when I had to navigate down a narrow, crowded aisle to grab a bottle of grapefruit juice (part of my medication that allows me to cope with New York), I left my cart parked along the side of a main aisle, allowing enough room for people to get through and then worked my way toward the Ocean Spray.

I should note that I had my iPod headphones in, although at the moment I wasn’t listening to music. When I returned to my cart, I found there were now 18,000 people in the main aisle, and the whole area was hopelessly logjammed.

As I put my juice in my cart, a 5-foot-2, relatively elderly and extremely emphatic woman glared at me and said “You can’t do that here. You have to push your cart over the side!”

I blinked. At first I didn’t understand what this woman was saying. My cart was to the side. Then I tried to figure out who died and made her the traffic cop at Fairway Market. My consternation must have been obvious, and she took that, plus the face I was wearing headphones, to add this rejoinder: “I know you can hear what I’m saying!” Then she glared at me more.

By now I was insulted, hurt and angry. And I abandoned my Southern gentility for the first time since arriving here. Raised to always respect my elders, and especially ladies, I broke – and uttered my first New Yorkerism:

“Lady, you’re confusing my hearing what you said with my caring about what you said.”

OK, maybe I’m a little proud of it.

Shopping for groceries in the big city

One of the things you take for granted outside of the big city is grocery shopping. You hop in the pickup, drive to the warehouse-sized Publix/Kroger/SaveOn/Wanker Foods/Ralph's, load up your cart, have the pimple-faced boy wheel it out to your truck and you're on your way.

In New York, it's a totally different monster. Your challenges:

• Size - Real estate is expensive in New York. So groceries are small. Selections are limited. You can either run around to the corner to the bodega for a quart of milk or a "soda" (what they call co-colers up here), or when you need a more extensive list of items, you head to the grocery. But don't expect a great selection of items, because floor space is at a premium
• 
  Tightly-packed shelves and aisles - Because space is at a premium, you don't get aisles. You'd better love your fellow man, because when you go shopping you're going to be bumping into him a lot. And he's going to be blocking your path to the Frosted Flakes, just like you're blocking his path to the deli counter. And when it comes to checkout, as you can see in the picture above, you are literally lined up 3/4 of the way down a food aisle before you can even get to a register.
• Selection - You will have only one choice of brand for most items, but that doesn't mean you don't have selections. Because they only stock one of most things, they can care more things. Want poppy-seed cake? They have it in the bakery. Fresh olives? Whole bins of them. Cheese? They have one of everything, but they do have everything. The variety is truly staggering, but in as eclectic a city as New York, you should come to expect that.
• Freshness - Quite candidly, this was an area where my expectations were exceeded. Prior to my arrival, I thought the produce would be rather poor, since the city was so far from the country. But apparently produce buyers bring in tons of fresh fruits and vegetables every day, and the quality is in many cases better than what I used to get in Atlanta. Even the sidewalk fruit carts have good apples, peaches, berries and pears.
• Getting home - This is where you suddenly realize you're not in Kansas (or Georgia, Tennessee or Texas) anymore. You grab your four, six or eight grocery bags and start walking. In my case, Fairway (my current grocery of choice) is two long and one short block away from my apartment. So you're talking a five- to eight-minute walk. With heavy bags making your arms longer and longer. If you've got ice cream, it's melting. You don't want to waste time. We've even invested in one of those carts that you see old people pushing down the street.
• Get a thick skin - The worst time to shop is on Friday afternoons (when everyone gets off work and is shopping for the weekend) and midday weekdays when the elderly are in the aisles. If you think teens are annoying, you haven't shared an aisleway with an 70-year-old 5-foot-2 woman who's out for blood ... and babkas. These women will slam into you, cut you off, shove their carts into your shins -- if they had a knife, they'd cut you if you got between you and whatever is on the shelf that they want right now. One of these ladies actually created a situation where I committed my first act of New York-style rudeness. More on that tomorrow ...

To heck with specialization

Do one thing, and do it well? Screw that!

 

Watch out, Sonoma Valley!

 

More New York weirdness

Listening to David Allen Coe in an Irish Dive bar on 72nd Street.

Blog posted here.

Forget pretzels

Had a drink at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel waiting for the misses. Nineteen dollars for a greyhound!

But to show they're classy, I got olives and almonds instead of pretzels and peanuts. Odd.

 

 

I don't want a 'venti,' I want a LARGE coffee

One of my favorite expressions to dismiss annoyances that I just don't want to waste time dealing with is "That's not the hill I want to die on." My close friends have heard me use it often, and it's a great device to say "this really ticks me off, but I'm too tired or bored to pick a fight over it."

That said, as a regular Starbucks customer (yes, I confess I have a gold card), I find the nomenclature somewhat pretentious and annoying. I always order a "small" coffee, not a "tall," and a medium mocha, not a "grande." Denis Leary sums my feelings up here. (Caution: audio file NSFW)

But it's not the hill I want to die on. Apparently some college English professor on the Upper West Side (about 10 blocks or so from here) decided to play language police at her local Starbucks Sunday, and proceeded to make such a scene that the cops were called and she was ejected. Gotta love it.

 

In New York, Mr. Softee is no softy

Think ice cream isn't serious business here? Here's video of a brawl between two ice cream vendors. Seems a generic softy ice cream truck parked in a spot near Lincoln Center that a branded Mr. Softee truck usually takes. An argument ensues, some bad language and then a nice little street brawl. "You think you're selling a dip cone on my corner?? Fuhgettaboutit!!!"

 

Begun, the doughnut wars have

My as-yet-unrequited quest for barbecue has been well-documented, but I've added a new search to my hunt through New York: Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.

Dunkin Donuts may have been born in Boston, but they own this town. You can't swing a dead cup of coffee around the place without hitting a Dunkin Donuts store or stand that carries them. Yankees love their Dunkin Doughnuts. In a pinch, I can go for them when I want a massive, heart-attack-inducing sugar injection, but it's just not the same as the Raleigh-born KK's.

These two companies don't agree on what makes a doughnut, with one preferring the simple fried dough with toppings schmeared atop them. My beloved KK's lightly fry the dough, but then cover them lovingly in a white sheen of pure, heavenly sugar. One of the benefits of KK's is that even after eating the doughnut, you can go on to work and later in the morning when you're hungry again, you can just lick your fingers and enjoy the rest of the magical cakey sugar that stuck to your fingers hours earlier.

These guys don't even agree on how to spell "doughnut." Apparently Dunkin makes theirs out of something called "do," as opposed to "dough."

Currently, the closest place for me to go and get "Hot Doughnuts Now" is in Scranton, Pennsylvania. And while I love KK's, I'm not visiting Scranton to get them. Equally maddening is the discovery that until last year, Krispy Kreme had a little shack at the corner of 72nd Street and Broadway, just a block and a half from my place. Doh!

 

My first cannoli

This is something that absolutely shocked all of my northern acquaintances: I have never eaten a cannoli.

Now, I never got my dungarees in a bunch whenever I ran into a Yankee who hadn't tried grits. Grits are refined, high-calibre foodstuffs that may be too refined for many not from the South. I understand that, and would never try and make a visitor from the North feel bad that they'd never experienced them.

But when I let slip the other day that I'd never eaten a cannoli, my right arm was grabbed and I was hustled out the door to the nearest pastry shop as if I was going to die if I didn't receive an immediate injection of ricotta cheese.

I'd heard of cannoli. I realized they might be important as a result of that famous line from The Godfather. But aside from them being some type of pastry, I knew nothing.

Essentially, they're a thinly formed piece of dough, rolled up and fried. Then the bakers add a mixture of sugar and ricotta ( which is pronounced "ri-COTT-ah" by someone like me, and "ri-GUH-tah" by anyone who's Italian or knows an Italian).

My verdict: Not bad. Certainly filling. But I suspect by the time I take my pilgrimage this weekend to this televised bakery wonderland, I'll find much more interesting and tasty bakery items to sample.

Two more words: PopTart Sushi

The PopTart Cafe opens today in Times Square, including offerings such as PopTart Sushi.

Makes you almost wish the strip clubs and live-sex-act shops were back, doesn't it?

Dirty water hot dog for a hot dog

 
My beagle Marshall likes dirty water hot dogs in Central Park.

Good thing my camera takes 2 frames per second or you'd have never seen the hot dog.

 

I am lost in a city of anti-pork Philistines

Why do I consider some New Yorkers to be Phillistines? Because they're promiscuous? No.

Because they're loud and aggressive? No.

Because there's a raging vegitarian mafia that can shut down one of God's greatest creations -- a pig roast?

You bet.

I may have no opinion when the Mets and Yankees square off for a subway series. But as a Southerner, it's easy for me to pick sides in this battle that has been well-documented by the local foodie blog GrubStreet: This little piggie needs to be slow-cooked on a grill.

There's nothing more quintessentially Southern than a pig roast. One of the best ones I can remember was the first and only one I ever hosted. It was a lowcountry, South Carolina pig pickin'. And in the Pee Dee region of South Carolina, you do it a certain way.

First, you buy a pig. Mine was a 120-pounder named "Blue." I drove to the farm where Blue had lived, and whose owner had lovingly and caringly killed, disemboweled, cleaned and dressed Blue for the party I was throwing. But in true South Carolina tradition, I was asked if I wanted my pig "head-on," or "head-off." I was told by my mentor in this pig-pickin' training program that head-on was much better, because it allowed all the juicy, juicy flavors from the head to slowly work their way into the rest of the pig.

After buying Blue, we brought him home and with great difficulty lifted him on the slow-cooker-on-wheels I had rented for the occasion. Then we fired up the coals and began the 24-hour vigil of slow cooking prior to the party I was throwing for my neighbors and employees the following night.

It doesn't ever get cold in the Pee Dee region of South Carolina, but we pretended it did so we could fortify ourselves with various liquid products throughout the night. We told ourselves we had to stay up all night and drink so we could every hour or so "marinate Blue." This we did with a massive hypodermic device that looked so fearful, that even Blue was glad he was already dead.

By 6 p.m. the following evening, Blue was slow-cooked, and so was I. I remember little of the party, and my training wife had to constantly shake me as I snored away during the party in my lawn chair. But the pig was good. Mark that; it was criminally good. In South Carolina, it's called a pig picking because when it's time to eat, you simply line up, throw a couple of hunks of Texas toast bread on your plate and pick the meat off the pig with your hands. After that, you slosh some barbecue sauce on and go to town.

Pork is one of life's great pleasures. And how sad that vegitarians here have enough political clout to deny it to others. Temperance unions aren't dead; they're just populated with tofu-eaters.

 

 

Moving day, and I've moved in all I need

Yesterday was moving day, and our 650 square feet of apartment are innundated with carboard boxes, chairs, and little furniture.

Lots to unpack, but for me, I've got everything I need:

Nice to get centered

Been enjoying my high school's class reunion this weekend. It's been fun to see who's held up well (most of my classmates) and who looks like they should have put a few more scarecrows in the field to keep the crows off their corn (like yours truly). Most have told me they've become Manhattan Hillbilly fans, and all promise they'll send me care packages of biscuits if things get really desperate. Most importantly, it's been nice to get one final dose of hillbilly vernacular. Just last night, I heard several people talking about "goin up the road a fer piece" and talking about "gwon back to Knoxville." After some heavy drinking of corn liquor tonight, I'll be heading up the Blue Ridge and long about 8 p.m. I should be officially crossing that Mason-Dixon line. There's 47 Waffle Houses between here and the Pennsylvania border. Not that I'm counting or anything ...

Blog posted here.

A nice farewell gift

My political pals the Webbs just swung by with a very thoughtful going-away gift. Obviously someone has some pull with the folks at WH.

Blog posted here.

The hillbilly-ing of New York is under way!

Even prior to my arrival next month, it appears that my hillfolk brethren are winning the culture war.

You want proof? Think Fess Parker getting hammered. Apparently coonskin caps and shine are becoming the hottest trends in the Big Apple!

No soup for you? Well, yes, soup for you!

 He's back! The man who inspired the Soup Nazi reopens a new store on the west side next week. Can't wait to get back up there and try it out.

I keep forgetting ...

... They don't automatically add sugar to their iced tea here!

Blog posted here.

Where can a redneck score some fruit around here?

I'm just trying to get an apple to snack on. These dirty-water hot dogs and gyros (still not sure how to say that) are nice, but I wanted to eat healthy.

Went to a couple of very fancy apple stores today, but couldn't find a darn piece of fruit in them. My friends in Ellijay need to take some of this year's crop and rush them up to New York City perty fast. There's a big market for them, and these big glass apple stores are plumb out.

 

You say to-MAY-toe ...

OK, I need a ruling: is it pronounced GUY-row, Ji-row, GEE-row or HEE-row?

No Pepsi. Coke!

Man behind the breakfast counter sounds exactly like Belushi in the classic SNL sketch. No chezburger for breakfast, though.

Blog posted here.

Who knew lamb gyros were so critical to life here?

 

It's frikkin' 11 o'clock at night, and there's 100 people in line for these lamb kebob thingees outside my hotel. These people are like doves flocking over a baited field.

The Pizza Wars

OK, here's a civil war battle I can get behind.

When you're looking for pizza in New York, the options are as plentiful as gnats in Tifton. This city in the 19th and 20th century was constructed by Italian immigrants, so pizza and Italian food offerings can be found on every corner.

The whole issue is clouded in mystery, claims and counter claims, but apparently there was a guy named Ray who started a pizzeria named Ray's back in 1957. Then other guys started opening pizzerias and started calling them "Ray's." Some were actually named Ray. Others were named Ralph. Eventually, as these things often do, it either leads to pitched battles with muskets, or lawsuits. Since New York has more lawyers per capita than any other city, you can guess which way they went. The battle boiled down to just a few Rays, and eventually they came to some muted truce.

So when you visit the city, there's "Famous Original Ray's Pizza." And there's "Ray's Pizza." There's also a "Ray Bari's Pizza." All claim to be the first and the best. They're all pretty good, but my New York pizza impresarios tell me none of the three are the best slice of pizza in the city.

Maybe they should take a hint from the pitched battles we Southerners fight over barbecue and start having pizza competitions. It works for us, plus you get to see lots of neat trophies with pigs on top while you dine.