01.24.07
Posted in BBQ, Chic, Chinese, Hamburgers, Italian, Latino, Meats, On The Open Road, Sandwiches, Seafood, Sushi, There's A Beverage Here Man at 1:15 pm by Administrator
There is something fundamentally wrong with a country in which a man has to work for 20 years before he gets to take 5 weeks of vacation. Every time I travel, I run into Europeans, Australians, Argentinians, Congolese who have been on the road for months. Sometimes years. And the Americans feel lucky to take advantage of a four day weekend.
I consider it my civic duty to travel (or vacation, whatever you want to call it) as much as possible. As a yellow cabbie, I don’t get paid vacations. I don’t get dental. I don’t even get a refund if I rent a cab that breaks down twenty minutes into my shift. But I do get to make my own schedule.
So over the new year, I headed out west. Melissa, my sweet, Khmer-style Thai girlfriend, put her vacation days from 06 together with her vacation days from 07, and we managed a fairly lengthy west coast swing.
And even though my job has me logging a lot of hours behind the wheel, I intended to do California right by making it into a classic Highway 1 road trip. We had family and friends to see (crash with) all along the way. We had nature to experience. We had nerves to calm. But mainly we had bellies to feed and taste buds to please.
Jeremy, my very talented and chic Hollywood editor of a cousin, took the first week of our journey off of work so he could join in the festivities. He promised to show us around LA after exploring a little more of his adopted state together. He also promised to let me drive as much as I wanted. And with a plan to NOT make any plans more than half a day in advance, we took off in his souped up Honda Accord heading north along Highway 1.
But before we left, Jeremy introduced me to a Santa Monica Italian (possibly Sicilian because I saw a big map of the island up on the wall) institution called Bay Cities. In addition to ridiculously big and delicious heroes that would make any New Yorker blush:
(the other half was bigger)
I was overwhelmed with the selection of Italian cheeses, olives, jarred imports, salami, (Jewish) pickles, and fresh bread. I decided to stock Jeremy and his roommate Mike up on some Bay Cities delights:
And neither of them wasted time tearing into the particularly tasty sopressata (though Jeremy had a hard time remembering what it was called, nice Jewish boy from Chicago that he is):
Every single thing we bought was nothing short of great. An old woman I chatted with as I waited for the counter man to scoop my artichoke hearts proudly informed me that Bay Cities used to be a tiny little shop with saw dust on the floor that smelled overwhelmingly like parmesan. Now, they had hit the big time with a much larger location.
There was a sign claiming that Bay Cities makes fresh bread all day long. I didn’t believe it until I saw someone come out of the back with a cart full of piping hot filone (pictured above on the table and in the sandwich). All I had to do was look at him, and he handed me a loaf that was literally too hot to hold. Try finding filone too hot to hold at 4 pm in New York City.
From the way people, particularly New Yorkers, talk about LA and its food, I didn’t think a place like Bay Cities existed there. But if Bay Cities were on Bleeker Street in Manhattan, there would be a line out the door all day long and tourists would be coming in from every corner of the globe to take a picture in front of the garlic hanging from the ceiling. Right then and there, I realized I didn’t know ANYTHING about LA. I also thought I might be able to live there.
We put LA many dark hours behind us. Most of the first leg of the journey was done in the pitch black because we’d spent the daylight eating Bay Cities and playing Mike’s Guitar Heroes II. My internal clock felt like we had until 9pm before the sun went down because the weather was like summer. Highway 1 north of LA FELT beautiful even though we only saw the first 15 minutes of it at dusk. And we spent the rest of the night at a lodge in Big Sur.
There, we found Monterey Bay beef jerky. And on a roadtrip heavy on jerky, that bag of Monterey Bay proved to be the tastiest. Even though we all commented on how amazing it was (”I think this is the best beef jerky I ever had,” Jeremy said during our inaugural game of Rummy 500 at the lodge), we somehow managed not to take a picture.
We did, however, take a picture of the famous dungeness crab I had in the actual town of Monterey at a strip mall spot called Sea Harvest Restaurant and Market:
And it was tasty indeed. It was much easier to find big bunches of meat than back home near the Chesapeake. But I have to say Monterey dungeness crab, if that was a typical example, doesn’t compare to Maryland blue crab for taste or overall experience. But hey, no one ever told me they were competing.
Next stop: San Francisco. We stayed with our extremely generous friends Lily and Levi in their beautiful apartment in Twin Peaks with an insane view:
(okay this is the view from the hill just up the hill from their apartment, but apparently building a city on a series of steep hills has one advantage: abundant views)
We actually managed to have not one, but two mediocre burritos in The Mission. The first spot’s lackluster performance could be explained away by the fact that our visit to La Taqueria Corneta came just before closing the day after Christmas. Their hearts must have been with Jesus rather than refried beans.
But we went to Poncho Villa’s in the middle of day on December 29th, and it was WEAK. Both burritos were dry and lacked flavor. Pictures were taken in wild anticipation only to be deleted in genuine anger. I’d had incredible burritos in the Mission on past SF trips, and I don’t know what went wrong this time.
Chinatown, on the other hand, did NOT disappoint:
The Peking Duck at Great Eastern was perfect. Super crispy skin. Super tender meat. Not too much fat in between. And the steamed bun vehicle is so choice. If you have the means, I do suggest you try it. I’ve never had that option back east, but I found the buns add a wonderful texture to the duck that pancakes never could. And they are much smaller so you could easily handle three or four or five sandwiches, while I usually have to stop at two pancakes.
And everything else we ate – Mongolian beef, fried rice, the lemoniest lemon chicken ever, mussels– was about two notches above what passes for great in New York’s Chinatown. We sat there eating like kings and queens of the Ming Dynasty until midnight. We even got a spot across the street (unHEARD of according to Levi, who was born and raised in SF). It truly was a blessed meal.
Next, Jeremy and I went across the Bay for a meal with our beloved Aunt Francis and dear cousin Sandy. They wanted to show us Sausalito. They claimed it was much more beautiful in the daytime, but I thought it was plenty nice at night.
Aunt Frances can be picky, and she shot down Sandy’s suggestion of Thai food saying, “Too spicy.” But when Sandy suggested sushi, Aunt Francis agreed saying, “I love anything Chinese.” Classic Aunt Frances.
We arrived at Sushi Ran ready to eat, and we had a feast. My white tuna sushi (top right) was, hands down, the best I’ve ever tasted, and white tuna is my bar none favorite piece of negiri. So that’s saying something.
Jeremy and I both loved his citrus salmon roll (top left) as well. They sliced the lime so thin that the rind didn’t take away from the melt-in-your-mouth experience in the least. The California roll (bottom left), which I ordered on the logic that I ought to since we were in California after all, were the only thing mediocre on the table. Aunt Frances popped the entire ball of ginger (bottom right) into her mouth before we could stop her, sucked on it for ten seconds, spit it out, and shouted “Wa Wa Weeeeee Wah!” I guess Borat did not invent that, because Aunt Frances told us, after we finished laughing, that Wa Wa Weeeeee Wah is just something people used to say.” She then declared the restaurant to be shabby even though her teriyaki was admittedly great.
For dessert, Jeremy ordered a tea which had hundreds of tea leaves stitched together by hand with silk thread. The tea leaf flower, when it arrived at the table, blossomed at the bottom of the glass of hot water before our eyes:
I can’t say it was the best glass of tea I ever had, but it was very California.
Then we found ourselves in Sacramento. The “annoying hipsters” call it Sacto, according to my friend. Andy and his girl Jess, with whom I made fast friends while we all lived in Spain a couple years back, call it “Sac Town” or just plain “Sac.”
Anyway, I had no idea what Sac would be like, but I knew that I never would have gone if it weren’t for Andy and Jess. And I knew that they would show us a good time no matter what. They are the type of people who attract all sorts of wild characters, they surround themselves with genuine folks, and the fun is just bound to follow:
(That is Andy is on the upper right, Jess is squished beneath him, and that’s his friend Phips with ZA CRAZY EYE in the middle in “Old Sac”)
We hit 3 bars in three hours, all of which were fun in their own way, and then made it back to Andy’s place for some Spain-style late night partying. There, amidst the drunkenness and insanity at Andy’s house at 230am, Andy introduced me to my single favorite treat of the entire roadtrip:
The Sacramento Salsa Company makes a garlic salsa that blew away every other salsa I ever tasted (I’ve never been to Mexico). They claim to use tomatoes from California’s “tomato country” which I didn’t know existed (could it be as good as Jersey tomato country? apparently). And the plentiful garlic comes from Gilroy, a mythical town Jeremy told me of where everything is made from cloves of fresh garlic including the ice cream.
Andy and Jess swore that making nachos out this Sacramento Salsa would change my life. I was reluctant because I enjoyed eating it straight out of the container so much. But Andy argued that cooking the garlic brings out the flavor, and did his bidding.
(Jess couldn’t decide on the international sign for ROCK or the the international sign for WEST SYIIIIDE to show off the Sac Town specialty)
Yes, I admit, it may have been because it was very late at night, I may not have been entirely sober, and I was RAGING with my old friends from my crazy days in Spain, but those nachos really did change my life. At that moment, in that town, no treat could have been more perfect. And I’ll never look at salsa the same way again.
The rest of the roadtrip was a bit of a blur. But we did continue to search for delicious tastes of the golden state.
I recall going for breakfast the next morning bleary eyed. Andy led us to the tastiest “Mexican food cooked by white people” in all of Sac. It was called Nopalitos, and Melissa finally got a great burrito there:
I had a bold salad with vinaigrette on top and chile verde beneath:
We encountered the most pitiful salad bar in history at our hotel in Yosemite. And I ended up trying to drink of one of the park’s impressive waterfalls:
We visited with my cousin Bo and his family in Santa Cruz. We pretended it was Santa Carla and we were vampires. Jeremy even had the sound track in his car. “Eat this David and become one of us.” On the pier, we ate surprisingly stellar fish and chips and fried calamari (that gave Melissa and me surprisingly nasty burps for our cruise back down through Big Sur that made Jeremy both love and fear us more):
(I didn’t read the signs saying “Don’t Feed The Seagulls” until AFTER I fielded an array of dirty looks from the locals who should be so lucky that I didn’t feast on their flesh. I’m tryin’ to watch the Lost Boys.)
And Melissa and I later stumbled upon the best diner food of our young lives. She knew she was going to be happy with the food in California because her two favorite meals are sushi and burritos. But I’d have to say chicken fingers are a very close third.
While we were spending a couple days in Palm Springs testing out what life would be like if we were already retired (I consider this my civic duty along with vacationing as much as possible), we were told to try Ruby’s Diner. We were shocked by how amazing the chicken fingers were:
(Melissa is laughing because she can’t believe how good such a simple diner menu item could be, especially when you’re retired)
We also enjoyed Ruby’s Kobe sliders. Normally, I would never order Kobe anything, but I figured as long as I was retired, I may as well:
Sadly, the roadtrip had to come to an end. But once we returned to LA, the good eats just kept on coming. Our meal at Roscoe’s House of Chicken N Waffles was all I ever dreamt it would be and more. We were overwhelmed with our choice of high quality fast food burger joints, any of which would be the best of its kind back east. And we eagerly wolfed as many as we could.
But the most distinctively LA eating experience we enjoyed came when Jeremy’s mom/my Aunt Linda told Jeremy to take us all out on her credit card. Jeremy wasted no time heading straight for The Ivy.
Oh yes, that’s Sharon Stone dining right next to where we waited for our table on the sidewalk. It was an odd sensation standing next to a woman I’d never met but whose beaver I’d seen (and examined closely on slow mo and freeze frame when I was 12). And the woman she is with is wearing sunglasses ON HER HEAD. I love LA.
The maitre d’ thought he knew Jeremy. And Jeremy responded, “Yeah, you’ve seen me before.” So we got a table right quick.
The calamari app came quickly too, but we were too busy being fabulous to think about it too much.
(That’s us/Melissa still being fabulous by dessert with our super fluffy key lime pie)
My entree, a mixed seafood pasta caught my attention though.
The pasta looked hand cut. And they do NOT skimp on the seafood at The Ivy. I was extremely pleased with the dish. But after Angelica Houston meandered past (she wasn’t even there WITH Sharon Stone), I couldn’t concentrate on my food anymore. There was just too much external stimulation:
We managed to fight through the gauntlet of paparazzi trying to take Melissa’s picture:
Only to find Jeremy’s souped up Honda Accord’s hood covered not only in bird shit, but feathers as well when the valet brought it back. I don’t think Angelica’s Houston’s car came back that way.
I was still coming off the high of the roadtrip, and I was going through driving withdrawal. So Jeremy let me drive to dinner that night, whereupon I BUMPED the car behind me while parallel parking. Jeremy and Mike gasped in audible horror when I did it. “What, you don’t bump people’s cars out here?” I asked innocently. “No, Dave, you definitely don’t bump people’s cars out here.” Makes sense. I could go with that flow. But you should see the bumper on my car here in New York.
Thankfully, we were parked outside of Baby Blues BBQ. Jeremy declared it to be his single favorite restaurant in all of LA. And, AGAIN, we were greeted like old friends by the staff. Jeremy, the waitress let me know, is the “sweetest kid.” But I already knew that.
He’s also got great taste, because the food at his pick was so good it made me wish we’d eaten there every night we were in LA. It’s southern bbq, which is a risky venture to undertake anywhere outside of the south (I admit I was skeptical before I sat down and smelled the array of bbq sauces). But this meal turned out to rival anything I’ve eaten down south.
My “Memphis ribs” (above) were supple on the bone, crispy at the edges, and bursting with smoky, meaty flavor. I was surprised they called them “Memphis ribs” if they weren’t dry rub like at Rendezvous (a famous rib joint in Memphis that made remember how happy I am to be alive). The waitress said they start out as a dry rub, but Baby Blues likes to bring them to the table with a little sauce.
No matter what style the menu described them as, they were some of the best ribs I’ve ever tasted. And mine were served on a Yankee plate?!? What a pleasant surprise to find after ripping through half my rack. Baby Blues is truly a restaurant after my own heart.
As you could see from the size of my Yankee plate, I only ordered half a rack and sauteed okra (I’d filled up on cheese from Bay Cities before we left). Jeremy, on the other hand, ordered a whole rack of Texas style beef ribs. And he challenged himself to eat them all:
(On the left, Jeremy is a man on a mission; On the right, he feels like he hit a brick wall with two to go, but I think I recall him polishing those off as well before we stood up from the table)
Before we knew it, we had to catch our flight back. We knew we loved California. But we had, to our surprise, grown quite attached to LA. We agreed that we’d live there if the drivers weren’t so NUTS. People turn their wheels like they are making a turn from an avenue onto a street in Manhattan just to change lanes on the Freeway. I saw the fresh aftermath of THREE different apparently fatal accidents in the few days I was in the LA area. That is not normal to see back east. Jeremy seems unfazed. He also seemed unfazed when a drunk in an SUV nearly smashed into us head on just a block from his place in West LA. To me, the drivers seem more dangerous than the earthquakes and the mud slides and the wild fires and the gangs. I tried not to let it bother me. I was on vacation.
Before we left, I wanted to eat something that I couldn’t get back in New York. So Jeremy and Mike took us to Wahoo’s:
Fish tacos are almost never an option where I usually eat. In fact, I’d NEVER eaten an authentic one. The fish tacos at Wahoo’s in Santa Monica sealed the deal for me. I couldn’t have done my public service of going on vacation in any more appropriate of a locale. California is certainly a spot that makes me feel like I’m getting some serious vacation time in:
Visit www.FamousFatDave.com
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07.11.06
Posted in Caribbean, Chelsea, Chic, Chinese, Latino, Manhattan at 8:27 am by Administrator
I’ve spent a lot of time in Chelsea over the years. As a cab driver, I go through that neighborhood at least 15 times per shift. As an admirer of New York’s gay community, I’ll meet up with friends in Chelsea for drinks or the occasional transvesite stripper Broadway review extravaganza. And as an eater, I used to go to Chelsea at least once a month for a restaurant on 18th Street and 8th Avenue called La Chinita Linda.
La Chinita Linda, which translates to ”The Pretty Little Chinese Girl,” was a stubborn hold-out from that bygone era sometime in the 80s and 90s when “Chino-Latino” cuisine was all the rage. Menus all over town were devoted half to Chinese food and half to Cuban food.
One of the most popular restaurants of that ilk was called Bayamo. Located on Broadway and Washington Place, the cavernous space was decorated with a giant, embarassingly phallic red chili pepper suspended from the ceiling. Although Bayamo and most of the others closed a few years back, La Chinita Linda remained.
(I loved it enough to put my camera on top of a parked car, set the timer, and leap into the frame to express the joy it brought me)
I thought La Chinita Linda was different, impervious to change. Their Chinese food was above par. Their egg rolls, heavy on the shrimp, light on the cabbage, and fried until they were a dark, crispy brown, were some of the best I’ve ever had. And the beers were under $2 per bottle.
The Cuban food was nothing less than phenomenal. La Chinita Linda was run by Chinese people with Chinese waitresses and Chinese cooks, but the Cuban food was better than any I’ve ever tasted (those who know me me know that I’ve gone to great lengths to eat authentic Cuban food). I’ve heard the Chinese owner speak in Spanish with a Cuban accent to some of the many gay Cuban patrons who, in my wild imagination, all came over on the Mariel boat lift in 1980, and I swear the owner was more fluent than the Cubans.
My favorite dish was called ropa vieja or “old clothes.” According to some Cubans I’ve spoken with, the dish is named ropa vieja because the shredded beef bares a striking resemblance to tattered old rags. For the money, nothing in Chelsea could beat that plate overflowing with tender, juicy shredded beef beside a steaming mound of fluffy yellow rice topped with five or six plump, gooey maduros (sweet plantains). I used to save some of the yellow rice to eat on its own, mix the rest in with the meat, douse one corner in hot sauce, save another corner to enjoy with just the natural flavoring, consume the rest with a conservative smothering of hot sauce, down some maduros straight, mingle the other maduros with the rice and meat. Every bite was a unique taste sensation. Even Famous Fat Dave couldn’t ever finish a whole plate. And then there was something so satisfying, so uniquely New York, about capping off an amazing traditional Cuban feast with a fortune cookie.
This February I went to look at an apartment in Chelsea. I was checking out the dismal parking situation and considering the subway options when I noticed I was on the corner of 18th and 8th. I raised my finger in the direction of my favorite Chelsea haunt and said, “Well, at least we’d be near . . .” when I saw the For Lease signs all over the gated windows. I actually dropped to my knees and screamed in agony. Tears welled up in my eyes, and my heart was bursting with actual physical pain. I was in a terrible mood for weeks. I don’t deal well with change.
Yesterday I drove by late at night and noticed a new establishment had finally opened in La Chinita Linda’s place. I knew it wasn’t going to be a tasty, inexpensive eatery that might find its way into my heart against all the odds, but I wish it didn’t turn out the way it did. It is exactly what Chelsea doesn’t need: another tragically hip, overpriced bar/ unauthentic Thai restaurant that is clearly too concerned with its appearance. I don’t know who gets to sit in this chair, but I don’t think they had me in mind when they hung it in the window:
As I gazed upon what had become of my pretty little Chinese girl, I heard a crash at the corner of 18th Street. One yellow cabbie had spotted a potential fare on the slow night and stopped short while turning onto 8th Ave. Another cabbie rear ended him firmly. The first cabbie got out of his car and began hurling all sorts of outlandish insults in broken English, so the second cabbie gave the first cab yet another love nudge to prove his point.
As the argument reached a fever pitch, an unnecessarily muscular man in snakeskin cowboy boots and a mesh tank top walked by. In a stern, but jovial tone, he bellowed, “GIRLS, GIRLS, YOU’RE BOTH BEAUTIFUL.” It was nice to see that some things in Chelsea haven’t changed.
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for an eating tour on which maduros can be featured prominently
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06.04.06
Posted in Chinatown, Chinese, Manhattan, Meats, On The Open Road at 4:34 am by Administrator
The odds were stacked against me. The car in front of me was a S.U.V. It had New Jersey plates. The driver was a woman. She was talking on her cell phone. She was Asian. And we were in Chinatown.
I could tell you the accident was entirely her fault, and I could probably get away with it. But I admit I wasn’t driving defensively. Still, legally I think it was her fault.
I was on my way to the Manhattan Bridge with a fare to Park Slope, and this woman in front of me clearly had no clue where she was going. She’d already made me miss a light by driving excruciatingly slowly down Ludlow Street where there is no room to pass. So when she slowed to a near stop underneath a green light in the intersection of Division Street and Pike, I saw room on her right side and made a move like a stock car driver who’d been drafting for 10 laps.
Even though I’d been behind her for blocks, she apparently had not the slightest clue as to my existence. At the moment I was swinging out from behind her, she decided to accelerate and turn hard to the right. I slammed on my breaks and turned with her as sharply as I could, but the collision was inevitable. Thankfully, since the speeds were just breaking the double digit barrier thanks to her ineptitude, no one was hurt and the damage was minimal (inperceptable on her behemoth).
As she leapt down to the street, cell phone in hand, she actually screamed, “Where did you come from” proving me right that she never even knew I existed. I was ready to reconcile and move on with my life, but my fare, a saucy native Brooklynite, was angrier than I was and beat me to the scene. By the time I emerged from the cab (I was held up because I had to button the top button on my pants and zip up; SHUT UP, I’D BEEN DRIVING FOR 8 HOURS) my fare and the Asian woman were in a face to face screaming match. There was nothing I could do. She was on the phone with the police before I had the chance to say a word.
The NYPD, however, did not find the matter as pressing as she did. We pulled our cars to the side of the road and waited well more than half an hour for a cruiser to arrive. My saucy fare could have easily taken the opportunity to hail another cab and head home. But he’d had words with this woman, and he was emotionally invested now, so he chose to linger.
As money hemoraged from my pockets while I stood there, the wait actually turned out to be the only good thing to come out of the whole sordid debacle. Standing next to my wounded yellow cab, now on the corner of Canal where Pike becomes Allen, I caught sight of a young Chinese boy holding a large sheet of beef jerky in a piece of wax paper.
Beef jerky holds a place of honor along with pickles, crabs, cannoli, fried chicken, sushi, and soft serve in my pantheon of foods that make my life worth living. I am now, and have always been, a card-carrying member of the Jerky Of The Month Club. On my cross-country roadtrip last year, I had to completely restructure my budget, because I hadn’t considered how incredible the jerky would be out west. I found myself stopping as many as 5 times in a day at roadside jerky stands, each of which seemed to top the last.
(New Mexico)
(The edge of the Grand Canyon)
(Texas)
But here in New York, I’d not found so much as a sliver of jerky that could stand up to anything I ate out west. I heard there is a man in College Point, Queens who converted his home into a jerky factor, but there is no trace of him on the internet or the Bobst card catalog, and I’ve begun to think I am chasing a ghost. He might be the Keyser Soze of cased and cured meats.
Convenience stores across most of the nation sport mammoth jerky sections. But most New York deli’s have jerky sections that look something like this:
(Meatless jerky, like tits on a bull)
So happening upon this Chinese boy with a sheet of delicious-looking beef jerky was like a stumbling upon Atlantis for me. Just a hundred feet from where I stood waiting for the NYPD, a short walk from where I’d spent years as a pickle man at Guss, on a block I’d traversed a million times before, was Ling Kee Beef Jerky.
It is not the dried out jerky of American west, but it makes my mouth water just the same. The jerky is made fresh behind the counter and barbequed before it goes into the case to be sold for about $1 a sheet. All sorts of options like pork, chicken, and spicy make Ling Kee a storefront I’ll be visiting often when I’m cruising that section of Chinatown.
As for the NYPD, they had a curious reaction once they ambled onto the scene. As I munched on a sheet of warm pork jerky, I asked if they would file a police report saying it was her fault (I had a saucy witness) so that I wouldn’t have to pay for my cracked bumper and busted headlight. The problem was that, even though the woman had called them in the first place, once she calmed down and realized that there was no real damage to her S.U.V. (not to mention that she might be the one at fault), she figured she’d be better off not filing a police report at all.
So now she was demanding that the police leave, and I was demanding that they stay to write a report in my favor. One cop pulled me aside and asked me, rhetorically, “How long you been driving a cab? You should know by now, if we file a report, it’s gonna say it was your fault. Even if it wasn’t. Get it.” I wish he’d just said, “Forget it Dave, it’s Chinatown.”
Interestingly, class had trumped race, and the NYPD felt compelled to protect the property of a rich suburbanite over the rights of a lowly yellow cabbie. She was the recent immigrant, and I am the white male. But the NYPD, not known for being particularly friendly to recent immigrants, was firmly on her side, because she had the nice Mercedes S.U.V., and I had the dirty yellow Crown Vic. Thankfully, I also had a new jerky joint.
Ling Kee Beef Jerky, Canal Street and Ludlow Street, Chinatown, Manhattan
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour
(Jerky Country U.S.A.)
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