Karl sez: "I like them French-fried potaters. Mmm Hmm." See, Karl gets it.

As you might imagine, being a full-time male model and part-time crime fighter is an exhausting endeavor.  As such, I’m rarely afforded the time I’d like to devote to my duties as a registered scientist, let alone as a blogging chef.  Oh, sure, I’d love to test out a new recipe for you people and then relay such information as how to roast a goose over an open flame, or how to bake perfect Poilane-esque baguettes, or how you should stop saying that you waited “on line” instead of “in line” for that movie.  But, frankly, there are many days when I’m just too exhausted to get all baby oiled-up and prance around the kitchen all day, going over long ingredient lists, busting out numerous apparatti, and brandishing my chef’s knife like I was the star of a Kurosawa film on a three-day meth binge.  On days like these, I delve into my cookbook and take comfort in the pleasure of dishes that are simple, delicious, and quick to make.  Some people may derisively call these dishes “bar food.”  I prefer to call them “ambrosial” – mostly ’cause I use gooder words than you.  So, unless you’re able to conjure a slave girl from your harem to feed you grapes while you lounge comfortably on your day bed (thanks, again, Patricia), the following three dishes – and one bonus drink! – are your best bet for a quick, delicious snack that, unlike a Rachel Ray recipe, consists of more than just throwing a bunch of shit in a pot and calling it a dumb name.

White Russian


"I booze for me! FOR ME!!!"

The white Russian was the perfect drink to personify The Big Lebowski’s “Dude.”  It’s cool without trying to be, low key, and mellow – you know, pretty much the opposite of you and your constant attention-grabbing pleas for acceptance.  To make one, simply pour some vodka, Kahlua, and milk over ice, then in four hours attempt to explain to your roommates why that gallon of 2% that was new this morning is now gone.  Holy shit do I want ten of these right now.

Fried Pickles


Oh, sure, they may look a little weird to you; but did you ever stop to think that you may look just as weird to them?

Obviously, everything that is deep fried is good.  Fish and chips from the pub stirs the soul, French fries satisfy desires, tempura takes the palate on an adventure, and frito misto is another thing that fits in this list.  My favorite fried food, though, happens to be fried pickles.  I assumed that this delicious concoction was something everyone knew about, but was recently informed by a female acquaintance that “you’re a fucking weirdo – that’s gross,” which leads me to my new conclusion that fried pickles aren’t all that common, nor is that stuck-up bitch ever going to get to experience my patented love making skillz*.  Mix a simple batter out of beer, flour, cayenne, black pepper, salt, paprika, and hot sauce, and resist the urge to batter and fry everything within a five foot radius.  Dip some sour dill spears in the batter and drop them into 375-degree oil.  Cook until golden brown, then bask in the delicious interplay between the rich batter and acidic pickle, along with other equally gay-sounding things.

Potato Wedges

It's an odd thing to have a restaurant named after your wang.

It's odd knowing that there's a restaurant out there named after your wang.

During a recent sojourn to Kansas City for a friend’s wedding, I had the unmitigated pleasure of dining at The Majestic Steakhouse.  The filet mignon, of course, was delicious, and the fact that they offered to cook it one of three distinct levels of rare made me wonder whether I could legally marry a restaurant.  To say that the potato wedges stole the show would be blasphemous, given the quality of the beef, but, fuck it: the potato wedges stole the fucking show.  The insides of these miraculous little bastards were light and fluffy, while the skins were somehow thick and crispy, almost like a kettle chip.  I called up the restaurant after returning home, and spoke to the head chef, in an effort to divine his miraculous potato cooking methods.  Unfortunately, during my questioning he became coyer than that cock-tease I met at Starbucks, last week, and like her, wouldn’t give anything up.  I did manage to glean that they’re made with a light breading, but that they’re not fried (thanks for nothing, douchebag.)  After numerous hours of test-baking in my kitchen, and single-handedly funding Idaho’s budgetary needs for the next decade with my potato consumption (appx. $23.75), I finally came up with a sure-fire way of getting authentic Majestic “chips”: fly your ass to Kansas City.  If you’d like to try a passable version of these at home, however, here’s what I’ve come up with: lightly coat the potatoes in oil, then roll in a mixture of flour, paprika, salt, pepper, and garlic powder, and bake half way.  The key is leaving them out, over night, then cooking them fully the next day.  I think this is how they may do them at the restaurant but, then again, I also thought people were saying “for all intense ant purposes,” until only recently, so you should probably take all this shit with a grain of salt.

Bone Marrow**


"Uh, yeth, cawlah...Like I thaid to the previouth four cawlah'th: when in doubt, bone.

If you’re a fan of Anthony Bourdain, then you know that he’s listed bone marrow as one of his favorite dishes, along with cigarettes and not giving a fuck.  Not to be a sycophantic asshole or nuthin’, but goddamn is that dude on to something.  Bone marrow is the most delicious part of the animal, which must be why God hid it in an osseous vault, deep in the recesses of the flesh (He’s testing us, you see.)  Most supermarkets carry marrow bones, and their preparation is super easy, which makes me wonder why you’re reading this, right now, instead of hopping in your car to go to Ralph’s.  Roast the bones at about 400-degrees for a while, remove to cool, then serve in the bone with toast points, kosher salt, and maybe a little parsley.  I’m pretty sure that marrow is, like, 100% fat and cholesterol, so maybe don’t eat this if you have a heart condition, or if you like being in shape because that means girls are more likely to want to fuck you.  But, if you have the constitution of an ox, like me, go ahead and make a marrow, bacon, and cheddar sandwich, drink a fifth of scotch, smoke four cigars, then lie sedentary on your couch for the rest of the weekend, secure in the knowledge that you’re better than everyone else and also your eyes are prettier.


Speaking of pretty eyes, I'm sure Eve's got some...somewhere.

*Yep, with a “z.”
**A lot of people in my internet tell me that you should rinse the bones, or clean them, or something, before cooking.  I don’t know about all that, so don’t be surprised if my prescribed method of preparation gives you the Mad Cow disease, or whatever.