If my last trip to Mexico is any indication, she's just about to steal someone's kidneys

If my last trip to Mexico is any indication, she's just about to steal someone's kidneys.

I love Mexican food.  If I had only one type of cuisine to eat for the rest of my life it would, without hesitation, be Mexican.  I’m so enamored of Mexican food because 99.7% of it, I’m convinced, consists solely of varying proportions and combinations of tortillas, meat, grease and cheese.  Naturally, one must move aside the conciliatory little salad they also put on your plate; but, for the most part, Mexican food is deliciously terrible for you.  Unfortunately, this richness (though thoroughly awesome) is also the main reason I hesitate attempting Mexican cheferation at home – namely, because I don’t have a huge bucket of the fat that they seemingly slop on every plate they serve up. 

The exception to this lipid-soaked general rule – and the dish I thought I’d use as the first on this blog – is traditional Huevos Rancheros (which, in the original Mayan language, means “cure for the hangover you got from going to that strip club you know you shouldn’t have gone to, and after having had fifteen $25 scotches, got kicked out for throwing up on that one stripper you thought really liked you and who told you she’d call the next day, but didn’t, and you don’t know whether it was because she didn’t actually like you, or, rather, because you did, after all, vomit on her”). 

The best huevos rancheros that I’ve ever had was at some little hole-in-the-wall place, either in Mexico or in San Diego, I can’t quite recall which (but, judging by the fact that I wasn’t watching a donkey show or getting a full-contact lap dance to completion while eating it, I think it’s safe to assume it was north of the border.)  It was a simple dish with simple ingredients, yet it was as though there was a little baby panda riding a unicycle of flavor all over my taste buds.  Here’s how I tried to re-create the dish:

Buy dis stuff, ovah heah:

Green peppers (avoid the red ones, as their color attracts rogue, neighborhood-roving bulls)
Shallots (because plain old onions are for lesbians and dirty, non-committal Unitarians)
Garlic
Jalapenos
African-American beans
Canned, peeled tomatoes (these have to be “San Marzano” brand – they’re the absolute best.  Plus, it says so in the Patriot Act)
Eggs (either from a falcon or, more patriotically, an eagle)
White wine
Tortilla – slightly grilled (preferably under one of those hanging lamps, by a loose-cannon cop whose expensive and dangerous actions the captain is tired of having to explain to the mayor.)

Do dis, tough-guy:

 Saute the garlic and peppers and what-not in the pan.  Open the can of tomatoes with your teeth, like you would your twentieth beer of the evening.  Pour some of the liquid in the pan – the one I just told you to saute that stuff in, not some other, unrelated, pan.  Crush the tomatoes with your hands as though they were the defeat-laden hearts of your vanquished enemies.  Put in some beans, but not their liquid.  Open the wine.  Pour out a little for your dead homies (or, if you’re drinking a zinfandel, your dead homos), then chug the rest.  If you’re like me, you may want to do this step first, as the hangover you’re suffering from may prevent you from efficiently chopping, measuring, and remembering ever urinating on that cop car in the first place.  Although, if you were, indeed, like me, you wouldn’t need anyone to tell you how to make this crap.  Rather, you’d just suck it up, bang a hot chick, and make this thing for brunch the next morning, off the top of your head, right before you told her to scram.  Anyway, now you’ve got a little stew of goodness going on, and you’re going to want to keep simmering that bad boy until there’s just a little moisture left.  Make a couple little wells in there, and drop in the eggs.  Cook until you won’t get salmonella and die, then place it on the grilled tortilla and enjoy.  For an authentic Mexican dining experience, eat your meal of Huevos Rancheros crammed into the cab of a pick-up with five other people.  Mmmmm, the ethnic stereotyping makes it extra delicioso!

Nothing wrong with a little tequila in the morning.  Unless there's any "Tila" involved, of course.

Nothing wrong with a little tequila in the morning. Unless there's any "Tila" involved, of course.

Hooray!  Diversity through cuisine!
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I wear the same outfit when I grill.

I wear the same outfit when I grill.

Hello there, you handsome, handsome people.

By way of introduction, I thought I would take the opportunity of my inaugural post on this blog to highlight some of my points of view regarding food, drink, and the myriad other things which will serve as driving forces behind what will soon become the best best thing anyone has ever read on the internet, ever.  That, or no one but my mom will ever see this thing.  I really hope it’s the former, though, because I plan on talking about boobs a lot.  Hi, Ma!

You know how those Top Chef rejects on The Next Food Network Star always say that their culinary point of view is something asinine and derivative like “I want to make gourmet simple,” or “I want to make fine dining accessible,” or something else to that effect?  Well, that’s not what I’m here to do.  Gourmet is gourmet for a reason: it’s hard to make – or, at least, it’s hard to make well.  The recipes and techniques explored on this blog will be gourmet, and all that it implies.  They will not be suitable to throwing together at the last minute, nor will they be affordable and family friendly.  The dishes I will show you how to prepare are extraordinarily difficult to make, and will require the utilization of cutting-edge cooking techniques which will be next to impossible to master.  You will be tested and you will inevitably, at some point, fail.  You will probably make your guests sick by under-cooking a delicate dish, when just thirty more seconds in the pan would have made it perfect.  This blog is not for the faint of heart.

Nah, I’m just kidding – this blog will mostly be about me getting roaring-ass drunk on scotch, making some random recipe, and relating to you, you lucky bastards, the methods used throughout.  Although, to tell you the truth, these recipes actually will be a little difficult to make, and they will most assuredly be gourmet.  Difficult to make because I’m horrible at giving directions; gourmet because I will instruct you to do as I do: wear a bow-tie while cooking (Boosh!  Instant gourmet!).

 
Probably about to cook a Rachel Ray recipe.  See the difference?

Probably about to cook a Rachel Ray recipe. See the difference?

 
 
Obviously about to cook something very gourmet.

Obviously about to cook something very gourmet.

 
 
 
 
 
 
     
    
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
     So what about me?  What do I like to eat?  What’s my favorite drink?  Why does it hurt my arm when I go like this?  All of these are valid questions.  Let’s put it this way:  You know how some people, when asked about their taste in music, respond with something like “I kind of like everything – I have really eclectic tastes.”  Well, to those people I say this: No, you fucking don’t.  Having eclectic tastes doesn’t mean that you like both Fallout Boy and Panic at the Disco.  You’ve never heard of Robert Johnson, couldn’t pick out a Vivaldi composition if your life depended on it, and I bet you don’t even know what instrument Charles Mingus plays.  Also, your outfit is hideous.  That said, when describing my culinary tastes and predilections, I don’t know, I guess I kind of like everything.  What can I say – I have really eclectic tastes. 
     I honestly do love pretty much everything gastronomic.  I view food the way that Kim Kardashian views black guys.  In fact, the only things I dislike are the following:
  1. Anything Anise flavored.  These things really make me wish that I could stab a flavor in the face. 
  2. Sweet things, other than my ass.  I really have no sweet tooth at all.  Any cravings that in normal people would be focused on cake are, in me, redirected to chili-dogs. 
  3. Rainy days and Mondays.

     Other than that, I’m good to go!  I’m equally as enamored of kimchi as I am of steak, love oysters as much as jerk chicken, and wouldn’t think twice about punching your mother in the face to get at either a lobster bisque or a cheeseburger. 

     So, with that, I hope you will join me on my culinary adventures which, I am sure, will be an enormous waste of time for the both of us.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get another scotch – the booze is flowing like mud around here.

 

this is sous chef Bruno.  What he lacks in cooking skill he more than makes up for in laying around.

By the way: this is sous-chef Bruno. What he lacks in cooking skill he more than makes up for in laying around.

 

COMING SOON…

Mmmmm...That looks good enough to eat.

The most mind-numbingly, face-meltingly awesome food blog on the planet.  If you don’t count all the other food blogs on the planet, that is.

In the meantime, here’s a girl with a great rack, in nothing but a bikini.  Her top’s a little too small, but I, for one, will not hold that against her.

Mmmm...That looks good enough to eat.