FOOD REVIEW - Archive:
12.08.2003
So the holidays are on the way, and time to
celebrate the Christmas season with my family. I vow to keep it bit simpler this year and just do my
usual Santa thing and maybe keep with the Christmas Eve
calamari tradition. Last year I thought it would be a nice idea to bring a date to my parents' house
on Christmas Eve. I thought it would be interesting for a non-Italian girl to see how an Italian family spends the holidays. I thought my
mother and my date would hit it off like partridges and pear trees. So I was wrong. So sue
me. I had only known Karen for three weeks when I extended the invitation. "I know these family things can be a
little weird," I told her, "but my folks are great, and we always have a
lot of fun on Christmas Eve." "Sounds fine to me," Karen said. I had only known my mother for 31 years when I told her I'd be bringing
Karen with me. "She's a very nice girl and she's really looking forward to meeting all of you." "Sounds fine to me," my mother said. And that
was that. Two telephone calls. Two sounds-fine-to-me. What more could I want?
I should point out, I suppose, that in Italian households, Christmas Eve is the social event of the
season - an Italian woman's raison d'etre. She cleans. She cooks. She bakes. She orchestrates every
minute of the entire evening. The entire family shows up; packing about 75 people into a 1000 sf house. Christmas Eve is what Italian women live for.
I should also point out, I suppose, that when it comes to the kind of women that make Italian men go nuts, Karen is it. She doesn't clean.
She doesn't cook. She doesn't bake. And she has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being. I brought her anyway.
7:00 p.m. - We arrive Karen and I walk in and putter around for half an hour waiting for the other guests to show up. We take a few
pictures and my mother grills Karen like a cheeseburger and cannily
determines that Karen does not clean, cook, or bake. My father is equally
observant. He pulls me into the living room and notes,
"She has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human being."
7:30 p.m. - Others
arrive. Uncle Ziti walks in with my Aunt Mafalde, assorted kids, assorted
gifts. We sit around the dining room table for antipasto, a symmetrically composed platter of
lettuce, roasted peppers, black olives, salami, prosciutto, provolone, and anchovies. When I offer
to make Karen's plate she says, "Thank you. But none of those things, okay?" She points to the
anchovies. "You don't like anchovies?" I ask. "I don't like fish," Karen announces to one and all as
67 other varieties of foods-that-swim bake, broil and simmer in the next room.
My mother makes the sign of the cross. Things are getting uncomfortable.
Aunt Mafalde asks Karen what her family eats on Christmas Eve. Karen says, "Knockwurst." My father, who is still staring in a daze, at
Karen's chest, temporarily snaps out of it to murmur, "Knockers?" My mother kicks him so hard he gets a blood clot. None of this is turning
out the way I'd hoped.
8:00 p.m. - Second course. The spaghetti and crab sauce is on the way to
the table. Karen declines the crab sauce and says she'll make her own with butter and ketchup. My mother asks me to join her in the
kitchen. I take my Merry Christmas napkin from my lap, place it on the
Merry Christmas tablecloth and walk into the kitchen. "I don't want to start
any trouble," my mother says calmly, clutching a bottle of ketchup in her hands.
"But if she pours this on my pasta, I'm going to throw acid in her face."
"Come on," I tell her. "It's Christmas. Let her eat what she wants." My
mother considers the situation, then nods. As I turn to walk back into the dining room, she grabs my shoulder.
"Tell me the truth," she says, "are you serious with this tramp?"
"She's not a tramp," I reply. "And I've only known her for three weeks."
"Well, it's your life", she tells me, "but if you marry her, she'll
poison you."
8:30 p.m. - More fish. My stomach is knotted like one of those macramé
plant hangers that are always three times larger than the plants they hold. All
the women get up to clear away the spaghetti dishes, except for Karen, who, instead, lights a cigarette.
"Why don't you give them a little hand?" I politely suggest. Karen makes a face and walks into the
kitchen carrying three forks. "Dear, you don't have to do that," my mother tells her, smiling
painfully. "Oh, okay," Karen says, putting the forks on the sink. As she reenters the dining room, a wine glass
flies over her head, and smashes against the wall. From the kitchen, my mother
shouts, "Whoops!" I vaguely remember that line from Torch Song Trilogy.
"Whoops?" No. "Whoops is when you fall down an elevator shaft." More fish comes out. After some
goading, Karen tries a piece of scungilli, which she describes as "slimy, like worms." My mother winces,
bites her hand and pounds her chest like one of those old women you always see in the sixth row of a
funeral home. Aunt Mafalde does the same. Karen, believing that this is something that all Italian
women do on Christmas Eve, bites her hand and pounds her chest. My Uncle Ziti doesn't know what to make
of it. My father's dentures fall out and chew a six-inch gash in the tablecloth.
10:00 p.m. - Coffee, dessert. Espresso all around. A little anisette. A curl of lemon peel.
When Karen asks for milk, my mother finally slaps her in the face with a
cannoli. I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Karen, believing that this is something
that all Italian women do on Christmas Eve, picks up a cannoli and slaps my mother with it.
"This is fun," Karen says. Fun? No. Fun is when you fall down an elevator shaft.
But, amazingly, everyone is laughing and smiling and filled with good cheer - even my mother, who grabs me by the shoulder, laughs
and says, "Get this bitch out of my house." I promptly urge Karen to leave with the excuse of
having to get up early for presents the next morning. As we search through the mile high pile of
coats on my parents bed I inform Karen of the last tradition we have to endure for the evening… singing
goodbye. As everyone leaves you must sing “We wish you a merry Christmas” to those still at the party
and they in turn sing it back. I don’t sing too well, especially after a few shots of Ouzo and some
lemoncello. This is why in past years I have been known to sneak out a window or leave with a large
group of other people. No such luck this year. Karen and I reach the door and quickly sing our song and
listen to the response from the drunken dego crowd.
As we leave my mother approaches with the biggest
fake smile I have ever seen. She looks at Karen in the eyes saying, “It was a pleasure having you dear,
please come back again”. Everyone except Karen knew she didn’t mean it. Mom then gave her a hug and the
traditional kiss on both cheeks finishing with the “You better get her out of here” look to me. My
father approached still staring at Karen’s breasts saying “I hope to see them soon.” We all knew he
wasn’t lying. Dad followed with the same hug and kiss; though I think he tried to put his tongue in
her ear.
That was Christmas Eve Italian style! I think you can see why I don’t care to relive that
one!
Merry Christmas everyone!
~Rocky
______________
10.30.2003
I realize it’s been a while since I have written, but I have refused to work for those two
morons, Sniggle and Sheal, until they pay me. Bills are piling up and I’m in dire straits. I was forced to place a bet with my
bookie, Abduhl, to try to make my mortgage payment. Unfortunately Roy lived. When I couldn’t pay up, Abduhl let loose on my bachelor
pad. That is where this whole story starts...(I’m getting to the food part, patience please)
After hitting the boss’ up for a few dollars (I actually had to sneak in their offices, steal their computers, and pawn them) I found a great deal in southern Ohio on some plywood; I figure I can make myself a little lean-to in the parking lot at
SniggleZone Headquarters. So I make the trek down there, load up my car, and start home when hunger overtakes me, and I stop for a bite to eat. I obviously don’t have a lot of cash, so a fine establishment like Taco Bell is out of the question, but notice a quaint little
diner sitting along the riverside that should fit the bill nicely.
As I pull up, a few guys are finishing a fishing trip and pulling up in their big Texas
boat for a little grub after the long hot morning. It seems like it might be a big lunch rush as a few others pull in right behind me. A genuinely attractive fellow by the name of
Bo pulls in behind me and sets his car alarm as a team from the local welcome wagon,
Flo and Marge, pull up with a van full of country goodies. We were about open the door to the diner when Billy, the fry cook, came screaming out of the door yelling many obscenities we cannot list on this site
(Like 'darn' and 'fuck'). It seems he had a small mishap. As he prepared for his date with the
twins he was slicking his hair back with a touch of lard. Although he may be the most educated in his family, graduating from the second grade, he doesn’t have all of the common sense. You see Billy used the lard from the fryer to slick his hair, resulting in a terrible painful
mess. At this point I figured lunch could wait as I stayed with Billy until the
paramedics arrived.
As Billy was cared for, Jimmy pulled up in a gorgeous rig, and decided to join me for lunch. We sat together in a corner booth, away from the
regulars that were reaping havoc at the counter, and decided that breakfast food had to be the way to go. One must admit, there is something priceless about any restaurant that serves breakfast all day long. When our server arrived, wearing a traditional 50’s poodle
skirt, Billy opted for the eggs and biscuit with fresh
chicken gravy, hash browns and the house breakfast meat. That was a bit much for me, and more than my pocket book would allow, so I opted for 2 eggs over easy and asked about the other meats available as ham hocks just aren’t my cup of tea. Butch happily informed me that Mary Joe had just made a fresh batch of
deer sausage this morning as she pointed out the newly hung
picture on the wall. “Check out those two over there” she stated, “They’ve been enjoying sausages every morning for a month.” As I turned to look I noticed
William T and Father Toes sharing a whole feast of sausages together. When they noticed me looking at them, they high-tailed it out of the diner quicker than a hog on Christmas morning, though not before purchasing a bottle of the diner’s
award-winning hot sauce. I thought to myself, “How do they get paid from Sniggle to afford a big meal like that every day?”
Needless to say, the meal was stellar. I haven’t enjoyed a meal like that since, well never. But I don’t think quite everyone enjoyed the
meal...
It was time to go. So I finished a drink with Mary Joe, the town lawyer, and headed out the door with Billy. As we left, discussing what a fabulous meal we had enjoyed, Billy’s face got red, and in a moment he was so mad he wanted to
fight. While we ate, someone had stripped down his rig and made off with the whole darn
thing. The owners of the diner felt so bad about this happening in their parking lot that they gave Billy a little
gift in attempts to make up for the inconvenience.
Billy has since traced the assailants to a sect of Moroccan illegal immigrants
from West Virginia and has marched on Washington searching for lessened incest laws to keep them in their own state.
Thanks for reading, and good eating!
~Rocky
______________
09.26.2003
Hello Zoners!!
Sorry for the delay in getting the food review updated. Snigglezone has reported record hits on my section as people scramble to check for my latest views. The wait was well worth it as the newest article is on weight loss. You will take a journey with Fred Darvis and myself as we travel the long and treacherous highway of dieting. Will we succeed or fall off the wagon and into the
tub.
The story starts a few months ago as Darvis and I were sharing in our traditional Sunday morning pickled herring
omelet. When we began to feel our arteries clog on the second dozen of eggs we began to realize we have been become a bit out of control in our eating habits. To be honest we were
pigs (actually Darvis was a pig, I’m more of a gopher: a bit chunky, but so damn cute). So we decided then and there it was diet time!
Where to start?!?!? There are only about a gazillion diet plans to choose from.
Dr. Phil’s diet? Phillard’s diet? How about the ol’ Adkins diet (hold the
fava beans)? Or do we just become a vegetarian and always be
hungry? But what about the old fashioned way of eating right and exercising?
Naw, that can’t work, there’s no magic pill or special calorie formula. Besides, I want to lose 80 pounds; and do it in a month and the old fashioned way would take to long. Let me tell you something; Anything worth doing is worth doing right. Yeah, it might take longer, but it will also stay longer. Do you really want to lose 80 pounds only to gain 90 back. All of these “magic” diets that sound too good to be true are too good to be true.
There is only one key to weight loss, and that’s your metabolism. There are two sure ways to speed up your metabolism: eating correctly and regularly and exercise. No super pill or magic shake, just common sense. If you eat 6 small meals a day your metabolism will be constantly going. Throw exercise into the mix, and you’re a champ! This doesn’t mean you can throw down a Mickey D’s cheeseburger and small fries each meal (compared to the double
quarter-pounder and quadruple fries you were eating) and expect to make any headway. Some foods will slow down your metabolism; complex starches, fats (including oils), dairy. Let’s be honest, milk is made to make cows fat. Stick to chicken breast, turkey breast, fish, fruits (the ones lower on sugar), and vegetables. When eating six times a day you don’t need your traditional 8-10 ounce portion either, 4 ounces will suffice. You may even have to force yourself to eat at some of the six meals.
This was the “diet” Fred and I chose. It all started with plenty of exercise.
Sit-ups, running, even dancing did the trick. The two keys to this diet is
drinking plenty of water and don’t binge eat. Personally that was my weakness, I missed having a bag of chips or bowl of ice cream while watching the tube. My answer: put
guards in the kitchen.
At first Darvis was doing great, I couldn’t believe how fast he lost
weight. He was even back to his old antics. But, unfortunately he didn’t have the
willpower (or does he) to lay off the snacks. He was a refrigerator
bandit.
Back to his old ways I haven’t seen Fred since. It seems since I have found a new image and a new growing
career he just doesn’t fit into my life with all of those fatty ways. I did, however, receive a letter recently stating
“You owe me a Ding Dong, you better give it up before I <unreadable> your
ass!” The ketchup smear left a portion unreadable, so I am still unsure of his purposes.
Happy Dieting,
~Rocky
_______________
08.05.2003
Long time no talk
Zoners, apparently too long. Those jerks Sheal and Sniggle called me 4 AM this morning to reprimand me on my delinquent articles. Apparently they were a bit
angry with me. So I rolled out of bed and raced
over as quickly as I could. I was passing by everyone speeding around in my fine
automobile. I, of course, had to stop and grab a bite to
eat on the way; like strong prescription drugs, you never want to meet with those two on an empty stomach. Of course when I finally get there all the parking spots were taken except for
one. And everyone knows I’m too big of a pansy to tempt fate on that one. So I made my own parking
spot. When I finally got to their office
they ripped me a new one. Apparently I don’t have the “best interest of our readers in mind”. Well
up yours and piss on you. I can’t be at work all the time.
Or can I? So anyway here is what I got for ya' this week:
I found this little dump Inn(13) that serves the best BBQ
this side of the Minnesota River. I showed up on a Friday afternoon and the party went non stop until Sunday afternoon. The servers were fast and friendly, always wearing
a smile. And the food was just non stop. It was like being in the land of milk and honey. I started simple with
burger and ribs, but soon had to dive into the roast
pig and beans and weenies. I did learn, however, that you must look out for the
“Hot Dogs” in the beans. Speaking of the hot dogs, the Inn has all you could ask for in stuffed entrails;
Hot dogs, sausage, wiener on a
wiener, etc. And is a BBQ ever complete where me
and my girl don’t eat a bushel of corn? The fried chicken finished the meal and got me ready to party.
On top of the food there is song and dance galore. What a fabulous time. I will say that the
beer was hard to come by at times. But the shot girls walking around well made up for that. What it breaks down to is that come Sunday morning you know you had a
good time.
A definite must for all BBQ fans, I recommend making your reservation now, and
we hope to see you there!~Chef Rocky
_______________
07.17.2003
Long time no talk fellow
zoners. Unfortunately I have just been released from the hospital where I have been laid up with multiple food-borne illnesses. The hassles I go through for this damn job. I sure as hell don’t make enough money for this. One would
think that a multi- million dollar company like
SniggleZone.com could at least pay me enough to get out of my 1977 Pinto Cruising Wagon. Hell those dirty bastards didn’t even send me
flowers! What the hell am I saying-- they didn’t even send me a card while I was in the hospital. I did, however, receive a phone call with well wishes such as
"Get better or else". Well I’m better now though a bit
swollen, and under threats that cannot even be printed on the internet,
I have written an article for your enjoyment.
I am about to give my first full food review in the Cleveland area. Unfortunately this "restaurant" is the hell-hole that bestowed upon me the previously mentioned illnesses. To get a true feeling of this restaurant a bit of history must first be told.
Before it became "Marco Polo’s" this historic building in Brecksville was a successful
little spot by the name of The Spanish Tavern. Where this name came from is well beyond me, considering the owner of this dive was a dirty filthy
Greek by the name of Michael. Now I have always said that no Greek should ever own a restaurant. They’re cheap, dirty, and care more about the sweat on their balls than they do about the people
working for them. To a Greek, a customer is only a dollar sign, and you will be treated like a counterfeit $1 bill. I remember hearing stories of some of the slop this slob would try to push off as fine food, yet again dicking over his customers for the almighty dollar. As this poor excuse for a human would rob a customer with one hand, he would be grabbing the ass of an
ugly server with the other. If sexual harassment
suits were filed for all of his advancements, the county would have to hire a
full-time judge just to hear his cases. My guess is something like that happened
because one day that dirty scum ball had to shut down.
That brings us to Marco Polo’s. Another Mike took over this time, but with the original Mike still owning the building. First big mistake. This new Mike, however, was only half Greek, the other half Italian. At first, luckily, it was the Italian side running the restaurant. This place had great pasta, great veal and chicken, and a fabulous filet.
Recently they were serving frozen vegetables as veg. of the day, and the service needed some work, but there was a lot of potential, and the food was pretty good. However, this man had the business sense of a
jackass. Even in the busiest times, this guy still would bounce checks or get a utility shut off on him. The more these types of things happened, the more the
Greek side seemed to kick in. Corners cut, food quality down, less qualified people in the
restaurant, and the place became a flippin’ sty. Table
cloths would go unchanged, silverware had food stuck on it, and let’s not even talk about the kitchen. Then there were the
bathrooms...
Anyway, needless to say, the place went down the tubes. I was one of the lucky ones to have one of the last meals there. After I got sick, I made a call to the health department and they sent some guys there to
check it out. Apparently it wasn’t up to code.
Rocky’s Rating: -34.657 stars
Happy dining!
~Rocky
_______________
06.24.2003
Hello
zoners! Sorry it’s been so long since I wrote, but the big
wigs saw it fit to send me on yet another assignment. This time to the east coast, sunny (yeah right) Nags Head,
N.C. We had a beautiful place to stay right on the beachfront. So after swinging through the beverage store for a few
cocktails it was time to have a little cookout on the beach. I decided to stay with the local fare so we decided
crabs were the way to go. Actually they looked more like
this. We had a good time that night, crabs and booze always seem to go together. We perhaps had too much to drink as the night ended on a
peculiar note.
After recovery the next day my new wife and I decided to join some friends for a big
lunch. I must say that every damn restaurant had the same damn food. Oysters, clams, crab, tuna… all done almost the same damn way. I think there might only be a handful of
chefs for the whole area and they just make the same menus for every place. The exception to this rule was a great little BBQ place we stopped at in Kitty Hawk;
blablabla. It was awesome. I had some smoked ribs and chicken while my wife had some
pulled pork. Both came with homemade slaw and, get this, hushpuppies. Damn if we don’t ever see those up north. We Yankees don’t know what we’re missing. The only thing I didn’t like were the baked beans. They didn’t have much of a flavor, but who cares when you have ribs so good you don’t even need any sauce.
After a few nights of eating the same crap I decided to take matters into my own hands and make dinner myself. Before I get into that too deeply let me make the point that we only had a few nice days and damn if one of them was the day I was going to spend in the kitchen. SOB. Anyway, I made a nice 5 course dinner for 18 people. Telling you the whole menu would be a complete waste of time, so the only point I guess I wanted to make was to bitch about this one
A-hole. One person feeding 18 people 5 courses, That’s 90 plates of food, and I get this one prick bugging me with special requests. Apparently he’s never had soft-shell crab and is too big of a pansy to try them. So he asked me ‘Can I have scallops instead?’ Does he think I can pull scallops out of my ass? I damn near bitch slapped that
punk. I told him he had to eat my crabs or I would shove them up his ass; either way he ended up with them. The rest of the dinner went off without a hitch however, but my mood was totally spoiled after that. I was glad I was leaving the next morning so I didn’t have to see that dude again.
Well that’s about it. I can’t imagine the boss is going to let me out of town yet again; so I guess I’ll have to hang around Cleveland for a while.
Happy Dining
~Rocky
_______________
06.04.2003
Hello Zoners! I just got in on the redeye from
Seattle. You gotta love these sniggle- bitches for picking up the tab so I can go attend a wedding. Of course I had to do some research for the column while I was there. Yeah, big stretch to come up with food ideas in Seattle!
First let me start by saying that while I stayed at a friend’s house I was caught having to drink soy milk with my flippin’ cereal. How the hell do you milk soy anyhow? Does it look like
this? Or maybe this? I swear it was liquid cardboard. I never thought a liquid could bind me up. Anyhow there are better things to talk about in the trip...
Like the Pike’s Place Market. Very cool! Before we even talk about the seafood,
jeez oh man was the produce spectacular. Raspberries were as big as quarters and red like a fire engine. And the selection was fabulous... persimmons, jumbo papayas (bigger than my
head), wild asparagus, and anything else you can think of. Then you have all the cool prepared foods, I really dug the Russian
dumpling I had. Actually it was like this. They’re called piroshky and can have damn near anything in them. I also had a BBQ pork skewer, though I’m not sure if it agreed with
me. But the coolest part was the fish. Mussels, clams, oysters, halibut, sock-eye salmon, king salmon, damn near everything in the sea. Whether you like seafood or not you just start salivating over the pure freshness of it all. Then there’s the dudes throwing fish
around. They’re pretty amazing to watch them whiz these 20 pound fish around with full force. The trouble comes when someone
misses. Unfortunately I could not spend all my time at the market and had to do the wedding thing... like the rehearsal dinner.
The food was good at the hole we went to for dinner. Small but quaint. But let me spend a moment here for a PSA on assigned seating etiquette. DO NOT sit your friend
(me) next to your raggedy old grandma. DO NOT sit your friend next other
friends A or B, you have that are fifteen levels of class and stature above him. And please, oh please, DO NOT sit him next to your crazy old
aunt. By the end of the evening I had so much wine in me to avoid having to remember the freakshow that I think I might have done something that I
regret.
As a final note of my trip... to hell with the airlines for letting me starve on the plane ride. Peanuts are only good one way if you ask
me.
Thanks for reading, we’ll see you soon.
~Rocky
_______________
05.28.2003
I
know all you
SniggleZoners have been checking this link hourly waiting for an update of the food section. Well, unfortunately, I have some sad news to report: Dickey is no longer with us. No, he has not just left
SniggleZone, he has kicked the proverbial bucket. The exact details on his sudden demise are a bit sketchy, but this is how I understand the facts to be:
He was doing some undercover work in the local underground Korean restaurant scene trying to uncover the secret ingredient in the cross cultural dish of Mexican Chihuahua Chimichangas (apparently they don't use Chihuahua at all, it's actually ground street rat). Anyway, as you all well know Dickey had a
weakness for the oriental women (ok, any woman, regardless of heartbeat), and we
believe this was the start of his sudden misfortunes. It seems there was a fine looking lass kidnapped from the Southern side of the peninsula to do the most regrettable job of collecting and slaughtering the weeks specials. To make a long story short, when her brother came to save her he caught Dickey already "liberating" her. This is when it seems to get a bit sketchy, all we know is
there was a meat grinder, a hand-juicer, a 18" whisk involved. I guess Dickey is getting eaten' like the dog that he was.
So now I suppose I should introduce myself, your new food writer. My name is Rocky, a native of Philadelphia. (no, not that Rocky) My history is quite extensive in the food review field. But
unfortunately the masses have not much cared for my unconventional reviews. So after being booted from the industry in Philly I decided to take up roots elsewhere. I came to Cleveland when someone told me of it's hot culinary scene (yes, I'm that damn
gullible), but plan on making the most of it. Unlike my predecessor I take my job
seriously and will have updates for you at least weekly. Look for the first review
by week's end. Hope you enjoy what you see!
~Rocky
_______________
04.01.2003
Hi, my name is Dickey
Schmalz, but most people just call me a dick. I'll be heading up the new Food
Review department of SniggleZone.com. We'll be covering any and all subjects even remotely food related. If
it can be ingested, I'm there. If there's a restaurant bathroom amenable to a quick head job; I'm there. If there's a cure to the bad aftertaste of rotten pootie; I'm most definitely there. I think you get the picture. From time to time we'll be throwing a recipe or two at you; perhaps a good use for that freezer burnt hot dogs you've been moving around your freezer for two years (you don't really think pig snout spoils do you?). If I spend enough time conscious I might even throw in some reviews of local dives, and believe me there's allot more important things to look for than just the food (I hear the new Boneyard in Broadview Heights has some bartenders that will give you your own personal boneyard). So that's about all I plan on covering; if it interests you, come back it'll be allot of fun; if it doesn't, F-U I don't need your sniveling bullshit anyway.
Perhaps you punks might be interested in knowing what gives me the right to give my all knowing opinions on such a glorious web site; I'll answer that question if you can shut the hell up long enough to finish reading this.
After waking up from a drunken stupor one afternoon I went to score some more nose candy but realized I was dead broke. I then realized I needed a job to support my "good life". So what career can support my habits while supplying me with an unstopping supply of stupid women to work my magic on: a chef of course. So I schmoozed some schmuck into lending me the money to go to CIA (hell, only the best for me), and off I went to New York. I was doing awesome. I had found a second calling (ask one of my bitches what my first is). But then one day I got booted from the program; stupid pansy chef didn't like my substitute of magic mushrooms for black truffles. So naturally I came back to Cleveland after forging my certificate and have been putting my time in some of the finest servers in the area. Then I found this gig-- gotta' love a job when I
get to use all my years of "hands on" experience.
~Rocky
_______________
03.01.2003
As
soon as Dickey Schmalz gets back from Tuscany, he will update this section on
various food reviews.
