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1. Chase ball. Try to keep up with my Labrador cousins.
2. Relax in the sun with my cousins’ toy bear.

– Archie

Uses NYC Subway to Make Getaway

Unfortunately, he was heading uptown on the Q line which dead-ends at 57th street. He’ll have to ride the entire length of the line back in the other direction to get out to the beach at Coney Island.

Long before the recent (relatively) peanut salmonella scare, I was having my own battle with the National Peanut Board.

My dilemma started, as is often the case, on the subway. The Board was heavily advertising on the subway and as I love peanuts, I finally broke down and said, “damn, I’ve got to get me some peanuts.” Not just any peanuts though. I’m picky. I prefer peanuts in the shell — and here’s the key — salted. Now in my experience, this isn’t a big deal. In cities across this great peanut-loving nation, salted peanuts in the shell are easily purchased in a big bag at a supermarket. And since I now live in New York City — where a person can get just about anything under the sun (and delivered at that) — I went down to my local market. 

But alas, it seems that it’s nearly impossible to get a salted, in-shell peanut in NYC. The market had tons of big bags of peanuts in the shell — but all of them unsalted. (It’s like comparing a cucumber to a pickle. I’ve never bought a cucumber, but I eat pickles all the time.) Sure, I could have created a brine, soaked the peanuts and then dried them, but I didn’t have the time, the money or more importantly the will. I wanted salted peanuts in the shell and I wanted them now! 

This inevitably led me on an all points multiple store search which turned up but a single tiny bag at a local bodega containing about 4 peanuts — and costing about $4.00. Hungry and angry, I turned to the internet for salvation. Perhaps there was a giant peanut processing warehouse somewhere in the city where I could roll around in a massive pile of salted in-shell peanuts.?

Shockingly, no. The only places in the city that had peanuts were specialty stores featuring gift baskets — and no salted, in-shell peanuts. None. Nada. Zip.

This led me to seek out the Peanut Board because if I wasn’t going to be able to get any peanuts, I wanted them to stop advertising the damn things. It’s just cruel. (I did feel some solidarity with the poor folks in third world countries who are constantly blasted with the advertising of things they can’t get, let alone afford.)

So I emailed the Peanut Board (via their website) saying just that — either stop advertising (and making me hungry) or encourage vendors to start supplying the NYC area with salted in-shell peanuts. We’re here, we’re hungry and we’ve got money. Why not start selling the damn things?

Not surprisingly, I received no response from the peanut board. It did seem that the ads on the subway lessened but that may have just been the expiration of the ad contract versus any action instigated by my email. Nor did market shelves suddenly swell with bags of salted peanuts. Sigh.

And then along comes news that the processing of peanuts has been tainted with salmonella. So what does the peanut board do? Come out with a new round of advertising touting the health benefits of peanuts of course. I still can’t get a damn salted peanut in the shell and to top it off every time I buy any product with peanuts in it, I take a minute to ask myself if I’m prepared for a bout of potentially lethal food poisoning. 

(As a side note, I should let you know that my wife, upon hearing of my dilemma and my email to the peanut board, is convinced that I’m guaranteed to become the grumpiest curmudgeon ever.)

Just writing this post has given me a craving. Please send me peanuts. Salted. In the shell.

…Bacon’s got a new best friend. And his name is fudge.

Classic Simpson’s lines aside, I did recently come across a new partner for one of my all time favorite foods — the hot dog.

Those who know me, know of my long standing love of hot dogs. All things hot dog.  I can’t get enough of them and the joke has been made that my body won’t decay after I die due to the massive amount of nitrates I’ve ingested via hot dogs. I can easily eat ten in a single sitting.

Now one may think that there’s not a lot of innovation left in the hot dog world. That the entire concept is played out. That hot dogs are relegated to backyard BBQs and the kid’s menu. Not so, my friend. Not so.

I’ve tried many a fine hot dog topping in my day. I love Chicago style dogs with yellow mustard, nuclear green relish, chopped onions, tomato wedges, a pickle slice, peperoncini, and a dash of celery salt. i love New York style dogs - either grilled or boiled right off the cart. And of course, my own special toppings set: honey mustard, jalapeno slices and melted cheddar cheese. I could go on and on.

The new addition to my list of favorite hot dog toppings is simple in it’s application and huge in taste and flavor while still being completely complimentary to the hot dog itself. (One may argue that all the best hot dog topping by definition are simple in application.)

It is this simple application of flavor that makes me so fascinated by this topping (as well as being addicted to it — I’ve already eaten four just to ensure it really is as good as I think.)

This new hot dog topping is: Pastrami.

Salty, smokey, spicy, juicy delicious pastrami. Piled high on a grilled hot dog and slathered with brown mustard.

It’s so good that I’ve been kicking myslef asking “why didn’t I think of this?”

And naturally, it’s got me thinking “what other tasty deli meats would go well on a hot dog?” Perhaps, I should try them all?

I don’t know why I never thought of adding other meats to my hot dog. I mean, it seems like the perfect thing. I’ve always been a big fan of what I like to call “the barnyard sampler” — a hot dog made with turkey, chicken, beef and pork. I’ve had bacon wrapped hot dogs before. Maybe I should add some pepperoni to my next hot dog. Or salami, or capicola? The varieties are endless. And so delicious.

(A tip of the hat to my friend Bob who I believe first coined the term “barnyard sampler.”)

Yesterday, I really felt like a New Yorker. The weather was getting warmer and as I walked around town smoking a cigar with Archie, I must have had the magic, the vibe, the luck that made everyone think, “I need to talk to that guy.”

We were repeatedly stopped by people — and not just for the ubiquitous, “OMG! That is the cutest dog EVER!” comments (which Archie is soooo over).

What really made me feel like I had arrived though was that for all of the questions — I had an answer. And the correct answer at that!

Now, I’ve been asked for directions many times before in NYC and usually I don’t know where the person is trying to get to — or — in a few select worst case scenarios, I’ve given out the wrong directions.

Yesterday? I was on it. I knew the best route, the cross streets, answers to follow up questions, alternative locations for the store they were trying to find, everything.

I was no longer a tourist, no longer a transplant. I was obviously a well seasoned New Yorker.

Heck, only took 4 years.

(Although I’m sure many actual born and raised New Yorkers would put me to shame. And I’m also not resting on my laurels too much — I still don’t know enough about the city. I just got lucky in a neighborhood I knew well.)

Lucky days, indeed.

The world of social networking is an unusual experiment. Especially for those of us who are not very social in the first place. My employer made me join Facebook so that they could look “cool” and “2.0″ — neither of which I have contributed to. So besides the random notes from friends (actual, virtual or long lost), I’ve found very little benefit to being “social” online.

For example: I received this note this morning through Facebook.

• “Hi, I heard about you from an instructor I have at Nait whos sister worked for you and thougth you would be the perfect person to go to for finding out wrestling information and the schools in Calgary. I very much want to become a wrestler and funny enough my boyfriend wants to become a firefighter, so hopefully I contacted the right person and you can help me out. If you don’t like to answer random peoples emails, I also understand, so no worries there. lol. =)”

For the record, I do not know who this person is, I am not a wrestler and I have never been to Calgary. I also am not a firefighter. So while the business value of Facebook is obviously a myth, this note did bring up an old story in my own life.

I believe it was New Year’s Eve 2003 when my wife was on the phone with 911 explaining that there was someone passed out in the hallway, unconscious and covered in vomit. Being a former paramedic, she knew exactly how to explain the situation to 911. The 911 operator was impressed and asked her if she was a doctor. She said no, and explained, “I’m a medical student…” and our friend Greg finished her sentence with, “…and a wrestler.”

A completely random off the wall comment that is still hillarious to this day. The best part may have been that the 911 operator heard Greg’s comment and was thoroughly confused.

Side Note: The person in the hallway was awakened by firefighters, stumbled downstairs and got into a limo outside the building.

Recently, my wife got laid off from her job. To comfort her, Archie has been staying home a lot more and skipping out on coming to the office with me. This has led to a dichotomy in Archie’s little life.

His days at the office are full of structure. His days at home are completely random.

A typical Archie day at the office goes something like this:

• 8:45 - 9:00am: Arrive at office, roll around on carpet scratching back, furiously chase ball up and down halls, greet (and sniff) arriving staff, drink some water, get a treat and settle down.
• 11:00 - 11:15am: Quick tour of office to greet (and sniff) late-comers, find sunny spot in conference room, rest in sun for a bit and then back to work.
• 1:00 - 1:30pm: Recess! Head outside to dog run in park for some off leash, butt-sniffing, ball chasing fun! Plus a daily attempt to try to drag me to Petco.
• 3:00 - 3:15pm: Play time! Furiously chase ball up and down halls; tease staff with ball and try to lure them into chasing him, get another treat before napping (again).
• 6:00pm: Quitting time. A good walk on the way home (weather permitting).

Naturally, there also unscheduled visits from staff members to pet him along with various attempts by him to tackle staff as they walk by.

At home, there is no typical day for Archie. One day it’s furniture shopping in Greenwich Village with the wife (Archie’s been testing out couches), the next day it’s an all day nap-a-thon at home. Some days it’s a free for all at the dog run near the house, other days it’s obedience training (and stick chewing) in the backyard. No rhyme, no reason, no structure. Just free and easy.

To wit, I came home the other day to find a strange sight. My wife had taken Archie shopping for the day which included a stop a new local pet store (naturally).

Archie was wearing a new Philadelphia Eagles football jersey (home white, number double zero). He looked good and not too grumpy about wearing it (which is saying a lot for him).

As I admired Archie in his new outfit, I noticed something else - he smelled. In fact, he reeked. And not in a stinky dog kind of way. Not in a “I just rolled in horse manure” kind of way. Not in a “I just ate my own vomit” kind of way either.

It was so strange a smell that it took me a minute to process it. In fact, it wasn’t the smell itself, but the fact that it was coming from Archie.

Archie smelled like he was heading out to a nightclub for the evening to pick up ladies. As my wife laughed, she told me that the pet store had a sample of a new dog cologne called (of course) Sexy Beast. She had lathered Archie up with the stuff and now, well, he stank. Bad. From a distance.

And then I realized that I was having a flash back to hanging around South Philadelphia in the 1980’s. Here was Archie wearing an Eagles jersey and doused in way, way too much cologne. Archie resembled, in fact, a guido. It was truly the last thing I could have imagined when I arrived home.

The cologne was so strong that after removing the jersey and petting him, the cologne actually came off on your hands. This called for an immediate intervention via some water and a towel.

So there you have it: a day of structure at the office versus a day of…well, I guess shopping and urban parody?

This is the dichotomy Archie now faces.

Usually when I see two (or more) countries cuisines merged under a single restaurant roof, it’s a sure sign to steer clear. I mean, as a chef shouldn’t you focus on one type of cuisine instead of creating your own United Nations food court? The results are never pretty. Here’s some real world examples I’ve run across:

• Chinese and Hamburgers
• Chinese and Donuts (seriously)
• Chinese and Creole (is a pattern emerging?)
• Chinese and Sushi

Now, beyond the culinary aspects of attempting to prepare and serve two distinct types of food (not to mention the restaurant decor), that last one on my list raises a whole other issue: political. The Chinese and Japanese have repeatedly invaded each other committing horrible atrocities and even today barely tolerate each other’s existence. Maybe I’m thinking too much but if see “Chinese and Sushi” on the same menu, I’m not thinking it’s some Kumbaya hugfest in the kitchen. I mean, the chefs are armed with very sharp knives. If I see that sign, I’m thinking that one chef — either Chinese or Japanese — is being forced to commit treason to his homeland by preparing the cuisine of the other and mostly importantly, it’s probably to ward off the scent of imminent restaurant failure. And even if that’s not the case, you just know his heart’s not in it.

Recently, though, I had to good fortune to experience some delicious cross culinary cuisine and it was due to the fact that I never saw the sign. I just ordered take out from the menu (or I should say, my wife ordered for me without telling me what she was getting). To be fair, it wasn’t that far of a cultural stretch either. We ordered from a new pizza joint. Now pizza, despite it’s American origin, has traditionally been associated with Italian cuisine although the strength of that culinary relationship varies widely from place to place.

This particular place seemed fall somewhere in the middle between American and Italian — at least at first glance. Beyond pizza, they offer several Italian dishes such as pasta and veal. But upon further inspection of the menu on subsequent orders (yes, it was good enough to repeat order), the menu offered some strange and deliicious options.

The dish I’m in love with actually references three cultural cusines which is a nifty trick for a chef of any stature.

Enough with the beating around the bush, here’s the ingredient list:

• Two fried hot dogs
• Large order of cheese fries (sometimes thin cut, sometimes steak cut)
• Wrap it up in a tortilla

Mmmmm….ohhhh, yeah.

Why waste time getting a side of cheese fries? Just slather them on top of your hot dogs (plural) and roll ‘em up in a tortilla. My loving wife — knowing my predilection for anything hot dog related — ordered this by chance. And I’ve forced her to order it again several times since (thanks, babe!).

The one problem is they don’t have a good name for this dish. It’s so bad of a name that I can never remember it. Not even now. And a dish as magnificent as this one deserves a good title. Maybe “Cheese-Fry-Dog-Wrap”. I don’t know……….it doesn’t really compete with a great name like “hoagie”. Let’s work on it.

And for those of you keeping score at home, technically, it’s probably only two cultural cuisines crammed together — American and Mexican. But since it’s being offered from a pizza joint, I’m counting Italian too. It’s not too far of a stretch. I could have referenced Irish cuisine due to it’s inclusion of the potato. That would have gone too far.

Of course, long time readers of this blog will notice one other reason I love this dish. The meat log factor. Yup, just wrap a bunch of meat and goodies in a handy delivery device such as a tortilla and I’m in love.

Apparently, I’m going to have to re-evaluate my skepticism toward these cross culinary ventures and be a little more adventurous in my restaurant choices. (Within reason, if history backs me up, I ain’t going in the front door.)

It always happens just when I’m feeling most insecure about carrying a dog in a sling over my shoulder through the NYC subway system. Just when I’m pushing my way down the stairs against traffic and the eyes of annoyed passengers are daggers full of scorn and judgment. Just when I’ve found myself at a loss for words to describe (explain? rationalize?) to a dear friend why I won’t leave him in the car.

And it happened again this morning.

We get on the parked Q train at 57th and before we can sit down on the empty train a woman calls out to me. She has stopped on her way out of the station. She has separated from the leaving herd and come over to us.

And she tells me that she was having a really bad morning until she saw Archie.

Naturally, I bring him over and he (despite the panting) is happy to be petted. She tells us she’s a photographer and that she was having a really, really bad morning (which is saying something for 8:00am) until she saw us coming down the stairs.

She thanks us, though we did nothing, and leaves with a big smile to go about her day.

She feels better. I feel better. Archie strikes again.