Awww, you're as cute as you are delicious.

Awww, unfortunately for you, you're as cute as you are delicious.

Several months ago, my mother called to let me know that the daughter of one of her friends would be visiting my city, and wondered whether I would mind showing her around, or, in the alternative, if I would mind not receiving my monthly trust fund check.  I chose the former option, mostly because I have yacht upkeep and a raging meth addiction to think about (responsibilities, and all that…)  My exasperation at the thought of playing tour guide was quickly assuaged, however, when my mystery tourist was revealed to be a twenty-one year old professional dancer, stopping over in my fair town before a one-month engagement on a cruise ship.  Having supported several twenty-one year old professional dancers in the past, mostly through numerous tips submitted to their crotch-banks, I naturally assumed that my one-day excursion through the city with this particular dancer would end as my other dancer-related dalliances had – only this time the “VIP Room” would be my apartment, and the “private dance” would consist of me seducing her with a special interpretive number I put together to go with Sophie B. Hawkins’ “As I Lay Me Down to Sleep.”


Thank God for absentee parents and inappropriately touchy uncles. P.S. I think she likes me.

Unfortunately, my expectations where crushed upon my arrival at her apartment, as she and four other ladies she had invited to come along, piled into my car.  While the prospect of five nubile females may sound provocative and exciting, I knew exactly what was going to happen, and it wasn’t going to be pretty (or hand-jobby).  Baby-sitting only one girl would mean flirty conversation, maybe a boozy lunch, and me inevitably helping her get out of her panties, with my teeth.  Five girls, however, means the inevitable shopping excursion, with The Chef’s Prerogative as chauffeur.  Indeed, the day quickly turned into one of dressing rooms,  salesmen, cell phone chats with boyfriends, and attempted suicide via Juicy Couture hangers.  At our twelfth stop of the day – ostensibly for “a shirt,” but which quickly escalated to “well, if you buy the top, maybe you should get those pants and new shoes to match . . .  Which belt makes me look tanner?” – my masculinity metaphorically kicked me in the nuts and informed me that a break was in order.  Thus, I snuck out and headed to the nearest bar, which, serendipitously, was nestled in an unpretentious yet copiously marbled Italian restaurant.


They're insufferable in unison, too.

It turned out that this place was about as authentic as you can get, outside of an Olive Garden, of course, and the entire staff were from the old country.  I quickly ingratiated myself to them by reciting all the Italian lyrics to “On an Evening in Roma” by Dean Martin, and was welcomed with open arms and an even opener tab.  As time was of the essence, I quickly availed myself of three deeply-poured scotches, and chatted with the raven-haired bartender, who was eating her pre dinner-rush dinner of osso bucco.  Being that I am of a devastatingly charming nature, she offered me a bite – an offer I not only took advantage of, but also assumed was her way of telling me that she wanted to bone.  Lemme tell you a little somethin’ about this here osso bucco: it was maybe one of the most delicious things I’ve ever put in my mouth, and, no, there aren’t any jokes forthcoming about other, more salacious, things I’ve put in my mouth (especially not about your mother’s rack).  I immediately demanded to have the recipe, knowing that my estrogen-laden charges would soon come calling.  She complied as best she could (also, in a totally predictable move, giving me her number), and no sooner was I in possession of this wondrous treasure map of flavor than the she-harpies returned to not only inform me of their purchases, but also of their need to, like, totally go to the yoga-outfit store (and if, like me, you assumed such a place couldn’t possibly exist – guess the fuck again).  My suggestion that we go somewhere so that they could try on lingerie and have a pillow fight went unacknowledged.  And, while the rest of the day was as mind-numbingly boring and vacuous as the first half had been, my spirits were lifted, knowing then that I had a new recipe to try when I got home and finished masturbating to Japanese tentacle porn.


Things just got sexy. And, by "sexy" I mean "what the fuck?".


Veal shanks
White wine
Salt, pepper, olive oil, butter, garlic
San Marzano tomatoes
Veal stock
Probably some other stuff I can’t remember


Osso Bucco is so easy to make, a chimpanzee with Downs syndrome could do it.  No pressure, but this means that if you fuck it up, it’s probably not only because you’re a bad cook, but also because you’re developmentally handicapped.  This is a slow cooking meal, but don’t think I won’t chastise you if you use a slow cooker; that shit is for lazy people and hack Food Network cooks that they relegate to weekday, day-time-hour shows.


"I say, old chap, what's with all this retarded monkey ballyhoo?"

Heat the olive oil and butter in a large dutch oven while rocking the fuck out to some Iron Maiden.  Coat the veal shanks with flour, shake off the excess, brown both sides in the pot, and remove to your specialty Sur La Table veal resting plate.  Turn down the heat, add some oil, carrot, and onion, and saute with reckless, yet extraordinarily precise, abandon.  Pour in the wine, reduce by half, and make sure all the brown bits on the bottom of the pan are incorporated.  Add the tomatoes, stock, veal shanks and whatever else I wrote up there.  Cover the pot and throw that bitch in the oven for a good two to two-and-a-half hours.  Spend this time drinking several 40’s of Mickeys while pretending you’re still in college (basically, just sit around in your underwear, doing nothing, drinking several 40’s of Mickeys; make sure to take this time for granted, as well, for the full effect.)


College: Where the awesome is.

Serve with a gremolata of garlic, parsley, lemon zest, and self-satisfaction.  Finally, feel grateful that you got this recipe from me, rather than an Italian bartender, cum succubus, who can’t take a hint after one date that NO, I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN – YOU KIND OF CREEP ME OUT AND, OH, HERE’S A HINT: STOP TALKING ABOUT HOW YOU USED TO CUT YOURSELF WHEN YOUR EX-BOYFRIEND WOULD CHEAT ON YOU!!!  In unrelated news, “Cum Succubus” is going to be the new name of my band.