Menu Shopping

By Sierra Shear

“Walking around and looking at menus is like window shopping for foodies.” Melissa Butler, one of my new best friends from Archer, pointed this out while wandering around Dupont looking for ice cream on my last night in DC. She was voted “Archer Most Likely To Win a Supreme Court Case” so we expect profound statements, but she reached a new level of accuracy with this one.

DC is a great place to menu shop. Between the thousands of Starbucks and Potbellys, you find Ethiopian food to eat with hands, establishment-style steak houses, and places named things like Yum’s that sell chicken, salad, subs, seafood, and Chinese food. I may have mentioned this before, but it’s shocking.

 We went to Mandu, my current favorite restaurant in DC. It’s right next to Lauriol Plaza, the only Mexican joint we find acceptable. In a testament to our homesickness for Tex-Mex we went twice this week. Sterling Hill, you deserve a shout out for your cheesecake eating abilities. Spring Archer Class of 2012 – I love you all and I’m so happy you know what I’m talking about. It will remain between us.

But I digress. Mandu is the best. It’s the ultimate version of “rice and s**t.” I love anything mixed with rice. This semester I mastered it with shiracha, cheese, beans, shrimp, asparagus, curry (not at the same time, but those of you who know me know that’s not out of the question). People always comment on how good it looks. Little do they know, it’s Americanized 21^st century peasant food.

Mandu kicks it up a notch. (That’s probably trademarked; please don’t sue me Emeril). I always get dolsot bi bimbap, which is a sizzling hot bowl of rice, veggies, and marinated beef topped with a runny egg that cooks when you mix up the bowl of goodness. Sounds simple, but it’s incredible.

However good DC may be at Korean food, I needed to return to Austin for some real Tex Mex. Josh took me to a place of parallel importance – Iron Works Barbecue – for my first meal upon return. The chopped and sliced brisket sandwiches are good, and reminded me why we’re so lucky to live in the south. There are rolls of paper towels on the table, a welcome foil to the linen napkin culture of DC. We sat outside overlooking a dry, but pretty waterway with the Austin skyline only blocks away. Take that National Mall.

I loved DC, but like all things I love I need to pick on it a little bit.

Tex Mex was next on the list. Last night, Evan and I decided to try somewhere we deemed sketchy and therefore, in our West Campus minds, authentic. We drove down South First Street, an Austiny drag with an overgrown feel and lots of character.

Evan thought the first place we stopped “felt too much like a minimum security prison.” A reasonable analysis. We drove on.

A few blocks later we ran into Little Mexico Restaurant, a medium-sized green building with bars on the windows and red trim. It reminded me of my favorite Tex Mex joint at home, Evan deemed the bars a good sign, and we went in.

Things started off well. Salsa and chips arrived immediately. We ordered few minutes later. Like the obnoxious foodie I am, I asked the waiter for suggestions.  He didn’t have any. First bad sign. I got two tacos, one vaguely named “The Antonio” and one barbacoa. Evan got chicken fajitas.

The food arrived uncomfortably fast. It’s just physically impossible to cook chicken, or even plausibly reheat it that quickly.

My tacos were bad, and “The Antonio” was almost inevitable. It was a packaged-tasting flour tortilla with refried beans, a tiny bit of cheese, quasi-brisket, potatoes topped with a rogue piece of bacon. I tried it, because in theory that’s a heart attack but would probably taste good. It didn’t. It took everything but the beans off and dumped some salsa on. The barbacoa was bad, but not nearly as offensive. The meat was oily, but I replaced most of it with salsa and it was edible again.

Evan’s fajitas did not arrive cooking on a hot plate, disappointing from the start. Instead, chicken and pepper strips were plopped as an afterthought on a plate filled with rice, beans, guac, and sour cream. He used the trick where you mix it all up, put it in a tortilla, and somehow it tastes fine. Fine might be an overstatement, but I’m feeling kind today.

Despite eating mostly chips for dinner, we still had a great time. The check was less than $15 for both of us, which was helpful. Lesson learned – follow Yelp more closely next time. Tex Mex craving still in effect.

Life as a Melissa Sandwich

By Sierra Shear

DC loves its symbols. From the White House to Congress to Ben’s Chili Bowl, our capital is home to iconic institutions, some more functional than others. Stands selling South Padre Island-style DC sweatshirts, shot glasses, and tote bags dot the city. They lure in passers-by (the politically correct way of saying tourists) and capitalize on their desire to buy t-shirts with President Obama’s face screen printed front and center. It’s a whole-heartedly American venture.

Other, arguably more authentic American symbols lie outside the Beltway. Pop Tarts are a prime example. They’re a quick, occasionally delicious frosted breakfast complete with nostalgia and refined sugar. But would they be as American without their blue box and corporate trademark?

The Melissas (Butler and Dunn – I’m always with them, hence Melissa sandwich), Alyssa, Chrissy, and I went to Ted’s Bulletin in pursuit of the answer. We encountered a delicious meal along the way.

Dunn, Butler, Shear 

It took us about 20 minutes to decide what we wanted to eat. The menu was not very long, but everything looked good. For me, the breakfast all day section immediately gave the restaurant credibility, as did the waiter who gave us charming attitude about our indecisiveness.

Alyssa and Chrissy decided on biscuits and gravy, Dunn and I got the veggie burger topped with “southwest stuff,” and Butler ordered shrimp and chicken kabobs. The Melissas and Alyssa also took on a couple of milkshakes.

The milkshakes arrived as appetizers and were passed around to taste test. There’s a reason the shakes own an entire section of the menu. Both the Nutty Professor, the hazelnut flavor with a kick, and the s’mores flavor rocked. These pictures don’t do them justice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chrissy and Alyssa’s biscuits and gravy looked intense. It was the first time I’d ever tried the dish so I had nothing to compare it to, but it was hearty and received their approval. I especially like the biscuits, which were thick and crumbly.

The veggie burger was incredible. Dunn, our resident vegetarian, lobbied hard for the burger during our walk to the restaurant. She said it was made of black beans, corn, onions, and other good things. Southwest style meant that it came with avocado, roasted peppers, and green chili sauce. In my mind, disaster was not an option. AKA a burger can always be covered with ketchup.

This was not only one of the best veggie burgers, but one of the best sandwiches I’ve eaten in a really long time. It was fresh and flavorful, and a perfect complement to a couple of my favorite condiments.

Butler enjoyed her kabobs. There were two skewers of mixed chicken, shrimp, and veggies. She also got a side of her choice – onion rings. Kabobs and onions rings. I seriously have the best friends.

We finally moved on to the serious part of our meal – dessert. We split a homemade strawberry pop tart, which arrived warm with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles. It was incredible. The flakey dough surrounded real strawberry jam. The sprinkles and icing gave it the right touch of pure sugar.

Sorry Kellogg, but I think Ted’s Bulletin makes the best pop tart of all time.

Here are some pictures of other cool things we’ve eaten:

Massive sunday with vanilla ice cream and chocolate cake

                       Dinner for four one night in New York

Soba noodle bar – capacity 15 and nothing over $10. New York

Obviously not the first day of Passover

Butter Girl

By Sierra Shear

During my time in DC I have adopted two nicknames – Butter Girl and Shakira, or Shakeers to some. I’ll tell you the etemology of both.

My friend Beto created “Butter Girl” after witnessing my dramatic search for my Smart Balance (to be referred to as ‘butter’), which went missing a few weeks ago. While many people would take this disappearance in stride, I consider butter a core part of my diet. My dad and I believe it is one of the main food groups, along with cereal/oatmeal and Eddy’s French Silk ice cream. Why it’s called French Silk I don’t know. I want to clarify because it sounds pompous – it’s vanilla and mocha ice cream mixed with chocolate chips.

Butter and crackers is my specialty. In DC I share a kitchen with 15 people, and therefore rarely get to actually “cook” anything. That’s where butter and crackers come in – they’re delicious, easy, and require zero cooking. I’m not arguing that this is a sustainable or good way of feeding oneself, but its worked so far.

I’ve established the centrality of butter in my diet, which explains why I was concerned when I couldn’t find my precious tub of Smart Balance. I searched my kitchen, living room, and cabinets (you never know) to no avail. Finally I made my way over to my friend’s house, also home to 15 people, to complain about my missing butter. To my delight it was sitting on their counter, loitering at perfect room temperature ready spread on an unassuming cracker. I expressed my joy at locating the tub, which may have been an above average amount of delight for the situation. Hence – Butter Girl.

Luke anointed me Shakira, which has since evolved into the more popular and personal Shakeers (Shakira + Shear = Shakeers). Yet to settle the question of whether hips do or don’t lie.

When I escape this suit-wearing co-op of overachievers, I like to eat something good. Luckily the food here has been, without fail, quite excellent.

Last Saturday, after a healthy 9-5 lecture on communication and life lessons, the Melissas (there are two) and I escaped to find some fuel. We discovered a creation that did much more than nourish when we stopped at Il Canale, a hidden restaurant cooking authentic and delicious southern Italian cuisine. It sounds totally pretentious, but they’re certified by the Italian government to make Neapolitan pizza in an oven imported from Naples. And from what we tasted, it matters.

We began the meal with bruschetta, pieces of bread drizzled in olive oil and rubbed with garlic topped with chopped ripe tomatoes. Minimalist and correct.

The pie was unlike any pizza I have tasted before. The middle crust was extremely thin, while the outside was fluffy, but doughy. One of the pizzas carried a bright, tangy tomato sauce and light pieces of mozzarella. The ingredients were fresh and flavorful. The simplicity shined.

Our second pie arrived topped with mozzarella, artichoke, eggplant, and zucchini. This was not your normal “I eat healthy, look at all the veggies on my pizza” kind of experience. All the ingredients tied together, and the absence of tomato sauce allowed each element to stand out.

For thirteen bucks each, Il Canale served up one of the best meals and the best values I have discovered in DC.

Two months without posting (oops) created quite the backlog of food pictures on my phone. More stories to come!

Egypt vs. Syria…a culinary throw down?

By Sierra Shear

When I come back to Oklahoma, I always want to return to reliable spots on the streets I trolled for my first eighteen years. On Wednesday my friend Noel and I went to Tana Thai, our favorite hole-in-the-wall Thai joint. The decoration has changed marginally since our frequent visits in high school. They now have a tank full of fake fish illuminated by a black light. The fabric flowers sitting in empty vases on the tables used to be roses. Recently they moved to carnations.

The next day my dad wanted to meet for lunch, and urged us to “try something new.” This is where things get complicated. I love trying new restaurants and types of food, but sometimes you walk up to a buffet and puddles of oil glisten back at you and you know it’s going to be the worst food ever.

I say this from the experience at Taste of Egypt in Oklahoma City. It was a place I should like. Sketchy, exotic, family-run North African restaurants and I get along quite well. Unfortunately, I found the exception at 36^th and May. Even the rice was laden with salt, the meat on the buffet loitered in oil, and the tomatoes in the salad were frozen. In addition, it wasn’t cheap at $10 per person. I luckily diagnosed the situation early, and picked off other people’s plates in judgment rather than grab my own.

Two weeks earlier, Cooper and I had a delightful, completely opposite experience at a restaurant in the Arab Spring genre. We chose comparably questionable dive in a strip mall in Austin called Sarah’s Mediterranean. This time, however, we walked in and were greeted by the smiling owners, the air of fresh cooking, and a fragrant specialty grocery store.

We walked up to the counter and were greeted by the Iraqi and Syrian couple that owns the restaurant they named after their daughter. Jokes began to fly, including a believable quip about Cooper having to do the dishes. They gave us samples of the Friday specials, made recommendations, and sent us to our table with little pieces of paper with our names written in Arabic.

The food was as wonderful as the people. First we split a Greek salad with lettuce, feta, onion, tomato, and olives . I enjoyed it, but for Cooper it was cleansing. Pre-salad, dorm food weighed visibly on his soul.

Hummus with shawerma followed the salad. The hummus was fresh and tangy, balanced by the bites of rich meat.

The lady convinced us to try the Friday special, a lentil and rice dish. It was hearty and delicious, filling without being heavy. It was excellent choice, especially if you’re one of those vegetarian people or whatever.

The plates included a date and a bite of baklava. This was perfect. Anyone I know can attest to the fact that I need a touch of sweet to conclude any meal. Who doesn’t?

Double-fisting falafel in Paris, just for effect.

Occupy Korea House

By Sierra Shear

One of the first lessons I learned in “The US and World War II” covered the inherent blasphemy of blueberry bagels. My professor noticed an Einstein’s bag sitting on someone’s table and launched into a jovial but serious mini-lecture on bagel purity. Sesame, plain, and poppy were acceptable, while garlic and everything remained questionable without causing offense. As new students who wanted to impress, we laughed and tried not to think about our appreciation of another sacrilege – strawberry cream cheese.

Today, Cooper announced to me that he desecrated the bagel tradition in a way I never even considered. Lox, cream cheese, tomatoes, and a…green chili bagel. An act of treason perhaps? Moses is rolling in his grave.

His “creation” juxtaposed our recent meal at Korea House Restaurant and Sushi Bar, which was an experience overflowing with tradition, freshness, and excitement. The first clue to the authenticity and quality of the food was the difficulty of finding the restaurant. It’s hidden in the back of a suburban shopping center and all but unmarked. At one point we became so discouraged we almost gave up our search.

I’m glad we persevered. A warm lady greeted us when we entered, and showed us to a table near the window. Carts carrying kim chi, traditional Korean side dishes that come with all meals, rolled by on the fittingly black-and-white tiled linoleum floor. For some reason it looked good under the reasonably ornate sushi bar. The kim chi was accompanied by unfamiliar but fragrant plates of meat, noodles, and rice.

I generally dislike asking for help, but allow myself leeway when it comes to menus in different languages or written over 70% in transliteration. The English descriptions really just listed the ingredients, so when our waitress arrived I requested some assistance. She recommended two dishes to share – sweet potato noodles and Dol Sol Bi Bim Bop, a hot bowl filled with rice, meat, veggies, and a raw egg that cooks when you mix it up.

Sweet potato noodles are superficially similar to classic glass noodles, but taste even more wonderful, sweet and unexpected. Broccoli, red peppers, and mushrooms added color. To translate, it’s like Lo Mein 2.0.

Rarely does one see raw egg proudly served in the middle of a dish. The taboo creates an excitement around the idea of one being served on purpose. The yellow center smiled up from the Dol Sol Bi Bim Bop. We paused, looked, and quickly mixed the egg into the veggies, beef, and rice where it cooked quickly. The components created a balance between freshness, starch, and slices of rich meat rarely exemplified on a plate, or more rarely in a bowl for that matter. The rice at the bottom of the bowl soaked up the flavors of the ingredients above it, an extra and unexpected treat at the end.

For those weak souls wary of Korean food, the sushi bar looked remarkable and reasonably priced. Korean barbecue is also available, as long as more than one person at the table orders it. For whatever it’s worth, Korea House Restaurant and Sushi Bar gets the full Shear endorsement.

Other good things I’ve eaten/made lately:

Daal (homemade, what’s up)

           

           Enchiladas (Magnolia Cafe)

The Notorious P.I.G. (Sugar Shack BBQ – sorry this is upside down)

Pho Sho

By Sierra Shear

Until last Friday, I disliked three foods – chipped beef, maraschino cherries, and pho. All well-reasoned, legitimate grudges.

Chipped beef entered my life unexpectedly. I spent a long time decorating the Christmas tree at my friend’s house during the winter of 1998. We schlepped ornaments back and forth from the boxes for hours, and found places on the tree for what seemed like thousands of globes, birds, and paper mementos. As we filled the tree with bling, we simultaneously dodged blow darts from her older brother’s new “toy.” He ambushed us from the landing on the stairwell. Famished from our exertions, we complained to her mom of our hunger.

(http://lasvegasfoodadventures.wordpress.com/2011/01/21/creamed-chipped-beef/)

Chipped beef on a potato appeared. I had no idea what it was, but it arrived on a plate with a fork and knife so it seemed edible. I scooped up a piece of meat slathered in white sauce with some potato, and took a bite. The canned meat and thick, chunky white gravy mixture was gross. Chipped beef was not tolerable during our society’s mid-century decade of casseroles, and certainly is not acceptable now. I ate it. I was hungry, but have since avoided the concoction. Maraschino cherries played a more pervasive role in my life. They loiter at the bottom of every kid’s “bar mitzvah martini,” the Shirley Temple. In my quest to banish maraschinos from my life, I began forcibly removing the bright red settlers from my drink. On a good day, this mission involved a long-handled spoon, but I occasionally resorted to less dignified removal strategies. I think they taste like children’s Advil. Case closed.

(http://lisatortorello.blogspot.com/2011/08/cherry-chip-cakein-memory-of-your.html)

Until Friday, pho completed the trifecta of disgust. My experience with pho was limited, but negative. The pho I tried tasted like salt water with boiled meat. That sounds bad, right?

Pho Saigon changed my mind. Austin was chilly on Friday, and by that I mean about 70 and breezy. Cooper and I decided to seize the day and get some soup. We trekked back out to north Lamar, and found Pho Saigon in the same giant shopping center that housed First Chinese Barbeque.

A diverse crowd filled the restaurant. We were seated quickly. Accompaniments for the food – duck sauce, sriracha, and red chili paste – covered half of our two-person table. Napkins, spoons, chopsticks took up the rest of the space.

We soon faced what seemed like hundreds of choices between essentially the same thing. While Pho Saigon serves rice dishes and other Vietnamese specialties in addition to pho, we stuck to our broth-based mission and decided on beef pho, which dominated the menu. Diners chose between combinations of “cuts of meat.” Cooper and I couldn’t decipher the difference between the options, nor were we particularly interested in getting into lengthy discussion with the waiter. He decided on option #17; I chose #19. We were fairly certain we didn’t order any innards.

Two massive bowls arrived about 90 seconds later, steaming fragrantly. The broth was rich in flavor and light in weight. It was sprinkled with fresh herbs. A side of crunchy bean sprouts accompanied the cauldrons. We looked around and followed along. We squeezed in limes and began the process of grabbing the delicate rice noodles with our chopsticks, while simultaneously scooping some of the broth with soupspoons. Everyone had his or her way of doing it, and we soon developed our own.

It culminated in a “bowl-to-the-face” action, as seen below. It was that good. Cooper remarked that it was the best soup he had ever tasted. If there was ever a cure-all to rival the legendary matzo ball soup, Pho Saigon may be the place to find it.

A Chinese Challenge to Texan Barbecue Hegemony

By Sierra Shear

Last week I received a disturbing text from my brother notifying me that he “just ate deep-fried skin.” He didn’t specify the type of flesh, and the knowledge that he was at the Texas State Fair didn’t put my mind at rest. The unknown species of epidermis could have been anything dipped in flour and grease. Texans are known for their unpredictable frying adventures. Earlier that day while attempting to my first Yom Kippur fast (an epic failure culminating in a Chinese feast with my best friend Maya’s brother and dad), I’d seen fried gum, fried PB&J, and fried margarita advertised during football commercials. I worried for Cooper’s safety, health, and sanity.

Like the strong Shear he is, Cooper survived the skin incident and returned to Austin in one battered, but whole piece. No pun intended.

This Friday we pursued another Texas tradition – barbeque. We again tore up Lamar, this time taking the trusty Civic north into the hinterlands of Austin. We passed an intersection that looked so generic we believed we’d hit Oklahoma City. The cluster of fast-food chains, next to a dry cleaners and a Toys-R-Us was disorienting.

Fifteen minutes later, we made it to our destination. First Chinese Barbeque was one of many restaurants in an Asian shopping center. We chose it because it was rated a Top 20 restaurant on Yelp Austin. 140 reviews, 4 solid stars, and one $ sign. It looked promising.

The pictures of hanging duck and pig carcasses also attracted our attention. We stepped in the door, and were immediately flushed of any doubts. The ducks and pig hung next to the cash register, separated from the mortals by only a glass case. We sat down and opened the expansive menu. Ordering our own Chinese food was a first for the young Shears. We usually delegate the task to our educated and wise mother.

Cooper and I split up the duty. We predetermined that we needed to try the duck and pork, and picked a plate with both meats. He chose House Crispy Noodle. I added Mixed Vegetable Hotpot. We intentionally ordered enough to have leftovers, but did not realize the extent of the meal we got ourselves into.

The duck and pork arrived almost immediately. Both were appropriately fatty and rich, while still maintaining the integrity of the distinct flavor of the different meats. Silence fell over the table, a rare event during our Friday outings.

House Crispy Noodle arrived next. Crunchy noodles sat atop their soft counterparts, submerged in a gingery brown sauce. A mixture of vegetables and proteins crowned the dish. It took us a few minutes to identify the squid, which came in the unidentifiable form of a scored tube. The quality of the meat was less-than-stellar, but the noodles and vegetables were perfect.

The Mixed Vegetable Hotpot was surprising and wonderful. We tried, and failed, to cancel it after we saw how big the other dishes were but the greens were already on their way to the table. We continued to discover new ingredients as we dug deeper into the pot, stuffed with bok choy, carrots, bamboo, mushrooms, baby corn, watercress, and glass noodles. It was packed with fresh ginger. The vegetables complemented the heaviness of the other dishes.

A tub of steamed rice was an added bonus. My history of receiving free rice is shotty at best, so I appreciate it when a restaurant throws in the staple carb. In London I ordered curry. The waiter asked me what kind of rice I would like, not if I would like it or not. I answered white, duh, and was angrily surprised with some ridiculous charge on my bill. I fought with the guy, considered mentioning the American Revolution, and eventually paid what probably converted to $3.50 for some dumb scoop of rice. On our way out the door, Josh told the waiter that “we will NOT be coming back,” which seemed to be the highest level of threat we could deliver. We walked away feeling like winners.

Before the meal at First Chinese Barbeque, I was a proponent of the “No Good Chinese Food in Austin Theory.” No longer do I suffer from that misunderstanding.