This Week in Deliciousness
Welcome back to the weekly roundup here at Eating Our Words, where our birthday cakes will from now on bear only cream cheese icing or Nutella. None of that sugary-sweet crap that tastes like Play-Doh. We're taking a stand.
"Mother, are you certain these are Merlot? I detect nary a note of plum nor berry yet my palate does sense slightly more tannin than usual. Oh, Mother, it seems you've handed me a cluster of Cabernet Sauvignon yet again, you affable amateur!"
We started the week off on a fairly dubious note with a first look at Don Julio's, which may finally prove successful at that cursed northeast corner of Westheimer and Taft, although so far they seem to have mastered ambiance and service more than food. In fact, it turns out there are several things that can redeem a restaurant with mediocre food, something which some of our local idiot-savant chefs who cook amazing meals but have the social skills of an agitated badger could learn. "Ooo, he's talking about someone specific!" No, I'm not, which is sad, to be able to make that statement as a generalization.
Continuing on with the negativity for just a bit, we listed five food celebrities we wish would become Martians, assuming they aren't already. We brought the positivity back with a look at which kinds of booze go best on Blue Bell ice cream. What, no McCormick's? See, that's funny because McCormick's is a type of dirt-cheap vodka made from acid rain and petroleum.
The comments lit up for our list of politically incorrect food icons, yet we feel bad for having left out the most popular tiresome, offensive character from virtually every commercial on TV. We're speaking, of course, about Dopey, Incompetent White Early-Middle-Aged Father Who Can't Do A Single Goddamned Thing Right Until His Wife Shows Up To Straighten Things Out." He shows up in a lot of sitcoms, too.
So, who loves crawfish as much as Texans? Would you believe the Swedes? Why does that strike us as so incongruous? Is the image of the Swede as tall, muscular Aryan chomping on cold pickled herring while riding an ice floe to work really ingrained so deeply in my head? How sad, especially since every time I go out of state I spend the first five minutes of any conversation assuring people that I neither live on a farm nor ride a horse to work.
Folks around town are pitting their handmade ramen noodles against one another, and no matter who wins, it's a victory for college students all over the city. Handmade is definitely better than feetmade, unless you're dealing with wine, which is of course the only food it's okay to stomp all over like you caught it breaking into your house.
Finally, we leave you with a rather ballsy claim: Better'n Peanut Butter? Seems like a something of a foolhardy claim along the lines of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. Because we all believe it's not butter. It's so easy to.
Have a great weekend!
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