just say no: hershey's chocolate syrup

Maybe you remember this post, in which I declared that we food snobs should, perhaps, collectively stop judging the cart contents of grocery shopping brethren? Well that doesn't count for restaurants. Sorry, but I am going to judge.

Yesterday evening, NH and I had dinner at relaxed, suburban red-sauce-Italian kind of joint on Staten Island. The dinner was decent and quick, though as many mediocre meals out do it reminded me that I can do better at home in less time. I guess I need to do more emulating of the excellent bloggers behind Not Eating Out in New York. At any rate, NH and I allowed ourselves to be talked into a truly lackluster "chocolate souffle" for dessert, which was really just a second-rate chocolate lava cake. And by "second-rate" I mean the interior was barely warm. True to form, the restaurant festooned this prosaic dessert with ruffles of ReddiWip and the dreaded drizzles of Hershey's Chocolate Syrup.

This stuff. Don't click unless you want to see the frightening number of disgusting-sounding varieties available for purchase at a store near you.

I don't blame this place, after all, NH and I knew exactly what we were getting into and we really didn't mind, though we couldn't help comparing it with some of our recent, finer Italian dining experiences. It bothers me though, that classy-with-a-k suburban casual dining holes aren't the only places where this questionable condiment finds full time employment. Hershey's Chocolate Syrup makes its way onto the fine china of a number of much nicer restaurants regularly. A few of these establishments allow it to touch the food.

Perhaps you're wondering why I'm so harsh on the brown stuff. Here's the thing: it's not good. Doubt it? Go buy a bottle and eat a spoonful of it. Doesn't live up to those childhood memories, does it? Now I won't lie, I still believe there's a special time and place for a glass of cold milk with a few hearty tablespoons of the brown stuff swirled in, but it's the same time and place for grilled cheese sandwiches on squishy white bread and that little square of microwaved dessert in a Kid Cuisine frozen meal (when, by the way, did Kid Cuisine start billing itself as a "real meal"?). That time and place is not in a nice restaurant, making a minefield of my otherwise delicious dessert. I don't need a kind of chocolate-y product drizzled over my delicious fudgy microwaved brownie, or even over my vaguely tasty not-quite-souffle-or-lava-cake dessert product thing. Whatever happened to the joys of minimalist plating? Certainly the restaurant can save $10 on a mammoth can of the syrup and use it to, I don't know, buy more things restaurants need, like salt and pepper shakers to replace all the stolen ones.

At this point in time, there is very little that I can do personally in the war against Hershey's Chocolate Syrup, which is ever so slightly better when warm, but only, only slightly. NH and I have decided to take one course of action though: we're going to make sure we order desserts sans Hershey's Chocolate Syrup. Will you join us in this mission?

general housewifery is participating in National Blog Post Month (NaBloPoMo).

bring your own

Tuesday in the Times' Diner's Journal, Frank Bruni posted about an incident in which his friend was instructed to trash his Starbucks coffee when he asked to be put on the list at a diner/coffee shop. Bruni mused on whether or not this was acceptable, although as usual, the most interesting and meaty discussion clearly erupts in the comments section. Some readers argued that the restaurant was in the right for a variety of reasons, ranging from liability to managing impressions. Others thought the hostess should have lightened up, let the man finish his coffee (or poured the man's coffee into a restaurant-issue mug and let him finish it), and chalked it up to good customer service. Probably there are defensible reasons to go either way, although I can't say I'd walk into anything remotely resembling a coffee shop holding a coffee from another place.*

On the other hand, I have a serious tea problem. Unlike some friends of mine, I'm not a fancy tea snob connoisseur, but I can be a little picky about my tea. I don't, for example, like drinking straight up Lipton. If I want something strong enough to make me antsy, I want it to have some flavor too, a nice Earl Gray or Prince of Wales. Most of the time I choose an herbal tea tisane (I think that's the correct term these days) because I like to have a hot beverage with dessert, and I'm just not that into coffee. NH has mocked me in the past for bringing my own tea bags, granny style, into a business. He thinks it's cheap. And while I argued against him at the time, because there is nothing so fun as arguing with NH over brunch on a sleepy Sunday morning, I think he's probably right. After all, the restaurant would actually make a couple of dollars if I ordered a tea.

In a perfect world, all decent restaurants would get a decent tea selection to match, or at least choose a house tea with some semblance of taste. Places with nice tea options stay in my mind vividly and for a long time, places like Blue Duck Tavern for one, or The Brampton Inn (by the way, I recommend that given the opportunity, you try dinner at Blue Duck Tavern or a night at the Brampton). This will never happen, not in the coffee-alarm-using, Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz eating US of A. A commenter on Bruni's piece had a nice suggestion, which I might use in the future. The mother of said commenter brings her own bag but orders hot tea at the table, swapping the restaurant's bland offering for something she prefers. The restaurant, in essence, charges for the tea service but the classy lady gets what she wants. This seems ideal, unless one takes a quick glance at the economics of it. The customer pays for the tea, then for the tea service. Assuming the restaurant reuses, rather than tosses, the offending tea bag, the restaurant profits. If one worries over troubling the waiter for hot water, why not just toss an extra dollar or so into the tip, rather than paying for hot tea, using one's own tea, and then tipping on the tea order? This is getting so complicated that it's entirely simple to see why I no longer order tea in restaurants very often. Also, I anticipate at least on person wondering whether the economics of tea is really a big deal. Well no, not at say, Bigelow from the grocery store prices. But if you purchase a nice tea, whether loose or bagged, prices can go up considerably.

I don't have this one worked out. I think I'm going to keep skipping after dinner beverages, or opting for an espresso once in a while. What would you do in my situation? Eat the extra cost to drink what you want? Bite the bullet and either order of the menu or order nothing?

* Actually, this is not entirely accurate. On occasion I have purchased a cup of tea or similar from Starbucks and, not finding a seat, have toted my beverage to another Starbucks location. I do not think this is morally reprehensible. If you disagree, leave it in the comments.

general housewifery is participating in National Blog Post Month (NaBloPoMo).

"house water"

NH and I recently spent a weekend in Las Vegas celebrating my twenty-first birthday. We spent a lot of time thinking about it beforehand, and since I'm not a gambler (NH enjoys a game of craps and a sports bet or two, but nothing serious) and neither of us are raging lushes, we decided the foci of our trip would be (1) amazing food (2) at least one spectacular show and (3) shopping. Okay, I tacked on the last one, ran NH off his feet, and otherwise troubled him excessively over shoes, etc. etc., but overall we had a very good time. In compensation, I spent a few hours in the sports betting rooms with him, so we're almost even. Almost!

We stayed at The Venetian, which was both fabulous and gloriously, hilariously overdone, and we quite enjoyed ourselves there. Tucked away (seriously, we almost got lost trying to return to our hotel room) in the hotel is one of Thomas Keller's famed Bouchon restaurants, and having already greatly enjoyed the pastries at the Bouchon Bakery in New York City, we were determined to have at least one brunch there. Brunch is, arguably, our favorite meal because we have fewer disagreements about it. Suffice to say that our brunching experience was so delectable that we returned twice more, beginning every day of our stay with a sumptuous and satisfying brunch. If you are ever possessed of the opportunity, you must whisk yourself into a Bouchon for the sake a the beignets, the potato croquettes, the (cream-filled!) sticky buns, the expertly prepared omelets, the...well, I'm getting away from myself here. I truly regret that we did not return for lunch and that we did not sample what some have called the best french fries in America.

Anyway, I'm not posting on the experience because the food was delicious, because to be perfectly honest, I eat many delicious things in a year and have no reason to wax poetic on them to people on the internets who likely are not sampling said delicious food items themselves. I'm writing because the waiters at Bouchon in Vegas seemed to have the perfect solution to the "bottled water, monsieur, or tap?" issue. Obviously, a fellow might feel a bit lame asking for tap, gasp, how pedestrian! I kid, NH and I always drink tap unless I'm really in the mood for something with bubbles. In NYC, I have heard of waiters using cutesy names for tap water that honestly make me want to gag a little, included in this genre are "l'eau Bloomburg" and all of its manifestations. The waiters at Bouchon simply ask patrons if they prefer "bottled or house?" water. It's quite simple, a tad euphemistic, and much more pleasant sounding than "tap".

Of course, this is a very, very small issue. As I said above, NH and I happily order tap wherever we go (I mean, sure, we'd drink bottled in India, or Mexico, or Florida), but for the most part, if you are the sort who is horribly embarrassed by the prospect of ordering "tap" then it is very likely that you have lived a remarkably charmed life. All the same, I appreciated this gesture so much because in the end, it was an effort on behalf of the staff to make me and NH, the guests, more comfortable. For most of time in Vegas the waiters and other service people were of exceptional friendliness, politeness and quality. In NYC, I have seen waiters who are barely able to conceal a sneer when a customer orders a relatively cheap bottle of wine. In Vegas, where the wine lists in fine restaurants are literally binders, the waiters and sommeliers seemed as pleased when guests ordered moderate bottles as when big spenders shelled out for pricey gems. Sure, Vegas is an intense, expensive fantastical charade, but the people working there sure were remarkably pleasant...

blais bliss

Whatever my opinion on reality television in general, Top Chef definitely ranks amongst my top three current television shows, and in fact beats out all other food related shows, including Alton Brown's Good Eats, if only because Good Eats is only a half hour long and Alton Brown keeps selling out to the Food Network and accepting gigs on other, fairly stupid shows. Anyway, I digress.

My dad shares my love for Top Chef and brings to the table a certain amount of common sense and foresight, and so decided to make a reservation at Richard Blais'--one of the, err, "Cheftestants" that made it to the season finale this season--Buckhead restaurant home as part of our July 4th celebrations. We weren't particularly sure what to expect; a late-evening telephone to the restaurant to check on the dress code introduced to us "Ted" (must have been a pseudonym) who informed my stepmother that ladies should come to the resto "sexy casual".

In reality, home is located in an old house, and has all sorts of fun charms, including real silver flatware left over from the previous occupant (another restaurant), enormous wine glasses and portholes into the kitchen (ask for table thirty for a great view). Sexy casual is an excellent way to describe the dress code and style, and even the menu, which features all kinds of twists on overwhelmingly delicious southern basics.

This post isn't really about the dreamy meal though, it's about the dreamy experience with chef Richard Blais, who took several minutes out of his busy evening of chef-ing it up at the kitchen of home to make the meal incredibly special for me. We checked that he was cooking when we arrived. That shocked me, as in true jaded New Yorker fashion I imagined that celebrity (or even semi-celebrity) chefs didn't cook in their restaurant kitchens all that often, and especially not on holidays. As we were left to our table (yes, the aforementioned table thirty), I witnessed Richard pow-wowing with some staff and perhaps due to my awkward and embarrassing reaction, he came over to greet my party and was as friendly as could be. He chatted with us and wished us a wonderful meal and we sat down and had one.

At the end of the meal when Richard was doing the rounds and the waitress came by to ask us if we needed anything else (we were bordering on stuffed over the cornbread cake with coffee ice cream, blueberries and caramel-butter sauce, not to mention the Coke float with vanilla-cardamom ice cream), I asked her if Richard would sign a copy of the menu for me. We were working on the check when Richard stopped by and asked us how our meal was and so on, not carrying my signed menu. I figured no one had told him or he had forgotten and since he was working I wasn't going to pressure him, but then, before ducking his faux-hawked head back into the kitchen, he asked if we'd like to see the kitchen. I stammered out a "yes, please" and he told us that our waitress would bring us in when we were done settling up and she did. She also brought me the day's menu which he'd drawn all over, and scribbled with birthday messages and other sweetnesses (my birthday is in forty-five days). Fans of the show will understand when I say that Richard showed us his nitrogen tanks and circulators, he introduced his protein chef and showed us where he approved the night's dishes. At the very end of the evening he shook my hand again and said he hoped to cook for me again.

I was too nervous to ask all sorts of intelligent questions and so on, but what really impressed me was his graciousness as a chef. I am guessing his run on Top Chef (a very successful run at that) has popularized the already nifty home, and I am sure he was busy enough without bringing a troop of six diners into his kitchen. Instead of shunning his guests, he was a charmer and a true host. He made me feel absolutely special and he guaranteed that I would travel to home again on a future trip to Atlanta. His faux-hawk may not be bobbing behind the portholes as he chugs water and furrows his brows, but his excellent, sometimes hilarious, food will be on the table, and that in itself is well worth the trip.

quick shout out to the atlanta cupcake factory

The Atlanta Cupcake Factory's somewhat homely website brings to mind the old-fashioned bakery's guileless interior. It's a small, bright shop with nothing but a two-by-two case of cupcakes on the counter, and nothing but water, milk and cupcakes on the chalkboard menu. The available cupcake varieties vary, perhaps daily, but it seems like almost every flavor has its charms. If you don't believe me, consider this: today, we (six of us) ordered one of every cupcake available (well, two each of the Red Velvet and Key Lime) and shared them, round robin style. We discovered that each cupcake yielded six frosting-laden bites. And that's the genius of the Cupcake Factory's miniature cakes. They aren't the gargantuan sugar bombs, baked in extra large muffin tins, that pass for cupcakes these days. They are the same size as the cupcakes your mother made using Duncan Hines mix in the kitchen you grew up in, except, for the most part, ten times more delicious because someone actually decided (rightfully) that making cupcakes, and cupcakes alone was the best idea ever. And they were right.

My one reservation is that the varieties based on white cake (the Sugar Cookie Dulce de Leche, Coconut and Sugar Cookie Chocolate) were dry. Otherwise, the cupcakes were moist and the creative frostings were truly standouts. The Key Lime was as creamy as the real thing. The frosting spread across the Chocolate Peanut Butter was so honestly peanut-buttery it could not be believed. I forfeited my bites of the Lemon Lemon and the Strawberry, but they looked like knockouts as well, bright yellow and pink respectively, and smelling strongly of fruit and sugar (that's a good thing!). The Carrot Cake had no raisins and no one had refrigerated the thing until the frosting was a solid log of cream cheese. The menu has some other awesome sounding flavors, including Pumpkin Pie and Chocolate Mint, that weren't out today, but that's how the cookie crumbles when it comes to a real bakery, the sort of place that closes when the cupcakes run out. Charm and a sugar-high don't come cheap, with each delightful cup of joy and butter going for $2.50, but the Atlanta Cupcake Factory is a gem, completely worth a stop-in or a detour.

The Atlanta Cupcake Factory, located at 624 N Highland Avenue NE, Atlanta, GA, 30306, is only open for retail sales Thursday through Sunday.

i wasn't even wearing a mickey mouse tee shirt

Have you ever had Bahama Breeze? Although I'm the last person to endorse what NH and I refer to as "family neighborhood chain" type places (Florida is known for it's glut of these, I'm pretty sure), I've been to Bahama Breeze a few times and they have some very tasty dishes if that casual, lots of crazy drinks, "island-influenced" feel suits your mood. This past Tuesday, jonesing for mojitos, coconut shrimp and indoor palm trees, my family headed to an Orlando Bahama Breeze for a dinnertime feast.

The meal was lovely. Not something I'd lovingly recount here (I'll spare you all loving recounts of all but homemade meals), but tasty, speedily prepared and unhurried. Unfortunately, while my four dining companions received exceptional and polite service, the waitress would have ruined my meal were it not for my family's fantastic sense of humor and willingness to coax away any of my impatience or annoyance.

It began with the drinks. Everyone, minus me, had drinks from the bar by the time we sat (there was a bit of a wait) down at the table, and so the waitress asked in a sugary sweet soprano whether she could get me anything to drink. The request in itself was innocuous, it's just too bad she felt the need to call me "sweetheart" and use that singsong voice. After I requested a glass of water and she wandered off my family and I immediately exchanged glances because we knew what we were in for: the waitress must have thought I was thirteen.

Her patronizing/coddling behavior continued throughout the meal. The highlight was, of course, when she felt the need to duck under the hanging light to get close to me and ask me what I'd like to have for dinner (she made no such contortions for the other guests at the table). She called me by a term of endearment at every turn, from "sweetie" to "honey" to "darling". Her voice adopted a special quality whenever it was my turn to order something. When I turned down a refill of water, she showed up with one anyway (I guess I didn't know what I wanted). Her behavior was exactly the sort of pandering to small children you might expect from someone hoping to earn a large tip from the children's parents, with the exception that her mistake in judgment meant that she was far more insulting than endearing.

Now, I recognize that I have a very young face, and that my outfit (a pair of straight skinny jeans, a flowing cotton tank top with a small floral print, and a navy blue fine gauge cotton sweater with a hood) did little to age me. I am no stranger to these mistakes; on Thursday afternoon at the airport a Continental employee asked my age (the first number is a 2) and then replied, "oh, well if you're under fourteen you need to check in as a minor traveling alone". I'm pretty used to it and try and accept it as a blessing (I doubt I'll complain if I'm carded at thirty). Still, I did everything I could short of directly informing the waitress of my age, to signal that her behavior was neither appropriate nor necessary. I spoke clearly, asked and thanked her politely for every service, and participated in lively but respectable (well, depending upon your definition of "respectable") conversation with my fellow diners. So why didn't she get a clue?

My feeling is that if someone is old enough to not order from the children's menu (not a crayon in sight at our table for five), then they should receive the same treatment as everyone else at the table, unless it's their birthday or some other such occasion. No one should be made to feel singled out or mocked when dining publicly, since meals out are an indulgence and should be a pleasure. That waitress diminished rather than elevated our experience, making me glad I was not at a restaurant at home, where I would be likely to see her again.

What are some negative restaurant experiences you've had? Would you have done something differently to remedy this situation?

the case against calle ocho

NH surprised me with opera tickets for Christmas. The opera in itself was a fun experience (his first time).

Dinner beforehand was rather another story. He made reservations at Calle Ocho, where a friend of ours had apparently enjoyed a buoyant and delicious evening or two. We arrived, and although we felt a bit over dressed in our opera attire (NH wore a suit, I wore a blue jersey dress over tights and heels), the place was pretty gorgeously designed and we were excited for our meal. Our waitress was sweet if a bit dull and wore a lovely pink top, which I complimented right off.

Things went well until we didn't order drinks with our dinner. After that, it was pretty much as though we'd fallen from grace. Having lost the monetary value of the tables that surrounded us (and really, there weren't that many-this was dinner before an 8 PM show) the waitress no longer deemed NH and I worthy of her attention. Her demeanor was suddenly, and obviously, colder. I sensed the reason right away, and over mediocre entrees (as with many trendy places, Calle Ocho likes to pile all of the dish's components on top of one another, this doesn't work so nicely when you stack mild salsa, lobster mashed potatoes and salmon) NH revealed that he two had noticed the change.

Now, it's not like I don't understand why tables who order expensive alcohol, or at least overprices bottles of fizzy water, are more valuable than those who don't. I can do the math, and I have handfuls of friends who wait tables, so I know the plight of a New York City waiter at least secondhand. On the other hand, a tip is a tip. Shouldn't a waiter make the best of any situation, especially in a half-filled restaurant? I can't help but think that it would have been smarter for the waitress to maintain her high standard of service, earning a generous tip on our slightly-smaller bill. We would probably have consumed less than 40$ of alcohol (the approximate cost of one pitcher of sangria, which would be too much for us anyway), so she would have lost a maximum of 8$ in tip money. This was an extravagant gift meal and NH and I try to be generous tippers, so she could have made most of that back by at least remaining friendly and treating us like guests rather than huge inconveniences.

By the time dessert rolled around, the waitress didn't even bother to ask if we wanted the menus, she just thrust them at us and wandered away without a word. My blood began to seethe, but it was already seven, so we ordered coffee and dessert without complaint and waited. The coffee never showed, and ten minutes after our desserts landed (both acceptable but not great, both involving rapidly melting ice cream), she deigned to appear and point out that our coffees had never arrived. At that point, we ordered the check. She, of course, hovered for it like a vulture.

The food could have been fantastic, and at this point, I would not have remembered. Luckily, it wasn't great so I wasn't left feeling that we missed an awesome experience by not scoring better service. I left Calle Ocho with a sour stomach, but worse, feeling utterly dejected. Our meal cost a lot and we deserved decent service, regardless of what we ordered. We treated our waitress like a human (becoming rare in the city, I know) and she treated us like a bad paycheck. Worse, we knew that if we tipped badly, she would feel validated in her choice to treat us badly.

In the end, we left her between 13-15% and left quietly. I would like to have spoken to the manager about her poor performance, but it wasn't worth ruining the rest of our night (we would have been late for the show). What would you have done?