When my girls and I go on vacation, we spare no expense and go to great lengths to heighten our cholesterol levels. Thus, between the seven of us, we have grown around 34 new chins and have started doing group sessions with a cardiologist. We are currently planning a lipo/margarita trip to Guadalajara, Mexico in the summertime...let me know if you're down, we got a group deal for that too. (Not for the margarita's, for the lipo.)
ANYWAYS, I am fat, whats new...I'll get on with the pictures.
So the first spot we hit up in DC was Good Stuff, a burger joint that some dude named Spike opened up. Apparently, he was a contestant on Top Chef? I don't fucks with that show cause they cry too much, don't do any kind of erotic closeup shots of food, and I don't know what channel its on. They need to step their game up if you ask me...as in invite me to be a judge.
FOUR DIFFERENT VARIETIES OF MAYO. Sriracha, mango, chipotle, and old bay leaves or some kind of shit. All that matters is the Sriracha and mango mayo's because they make you forget that you are eating mayo and trick you into thinking you're eating some kind of exotic dip. I know what you're thinking, "Yeah, your fobby ass WOULD like the Sriracha and mango flavors." Whateva, you don't know my rife.
Who does this GREASY motherfucker think he/she is? Shine-shining all bright like that, got a bitch steamin' up her stunner glasses with all that sexy. I got the burger with the fried egg, smoked applewood bacon, and good stuff sauce on a brioche bun. It was bomb.com as you would expect and you already know ya boy fingerpainted a shit ton of mango and Sriracha mayo all over this baby.
Their signature Village Fries with fresh thyme, rosemary, and cracked black pepper. Herbal relaxation at its finest baby. I put these fries in my grinder and rolled a fat one in the name of Barack.
Their D-Lechable Leche hand-spun milkshake had us praising Allah up and down, round and round. It had vanilla bean/crack sprinkled atop a cloud of whipped cream, which switched up the milkshake game in my life entirely. But grease + creamyass dairy = no bueno for mi nalgas.
So after we ate, it was damn near PARTY TIME and I did some special preparation to enhance my partying on the eastcoast. My little brown friend, Gabby and I bought children's Camelbak's and we packed those joyous little sippers with us for alcoholic purposes. I got this idea from that obnoxiously crap book, "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell," so I am not a total genius. But we stumbled upon a HANDLE of Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka at a nearby liquor store, copped some lemonade, and BAYUM!...we had spiked Arnold Palmer's strapped to our backs! Tell me, we are not triumphant human beings...go ahead, I'll wait.
A degenerate pants-shitter doing some kind of beastly squat with a handle of Firefly in their hands. So careless.
We ended up at this bar called Little Miss Whiskey's on H Street in D.C., which is an area that bares a strong resemblance to Oakland, so I felt real at home. Clearly, we all felt at home cause we felt comfortable enough to sprawl all of our shit out on the bar top. Shout out to our bearded hapa bartender, Eric for having a high tolerance for bullshit.
So in the midst of the madness, I decided I needed a sandwich, so I wandered out of the bar in search of a sandwich. Needless to say, I got LOST and somehow followed the deep fried scents wafting through the frosty DC air to a shack that sold fried catfish. I bought approximately 9 lbs of catfish and walked out the door to find that I had no clue where I was. I walked around in the rain aimlessly and ended up crying in front someones front yard, whilst attacking my deluxe plate of catfish. I eventually found my way back to the bar, only to find that nobody even knew I went missing and that I left my hot sauce in someones front yard :(
THAR SHE IS. I miss you everyday Mystery Catfish Shack. Maybe it was a figment of my imagination?
My girl, Steph is VIP on the Capitol and she got us into the super official congressional cafeteria. So I ate BBQ amongst the countries play maker's and it was the business.
No, I didn't go to Ben's Chili Bowl. Yeah, #killmyself, I know.
Hopped on a bus to NEW YORK, got off, and walked directly to the GYRO TRUCK. We were posted up outside of Foot Action, covered in that white sauce and all the NY fellas thought it was MAD SEXY, SON.
A few hours later, we wound up at a crackinass Halal cart on 53rd street aka THE AFTER PARTY. That white sauce is bangin' and my coat is STILL covered in that Halal jizz. Ain't no shame in my game, as you can see.
The next day, we made the trek to Williamsburg in Brooklyn not only to cruise for canary-bird looking men a.k.a. hipster limbs but also for the legendary PETER LUGER'S. Its only the most amazing steakhouse on the planet and it was on STEAK PARADISE, so you know that this is consistently one of the seven wonders of the world.
(Photo courtesy of Diane Valera...praise her.)
You don't know shit about poetry til you stare at this photo of a plastic cow drowning in steak juices for a good half hour. Nirvana.
We wandered about Brooklyn and visited Jacques Torres Chocolate shop in DUMBO, where we nutted our long johns and made the staff cry.
We got some cookies and peanut butter hot chocolates. It looks like mud, but it tastes like heaven. Like the breastmilk from the teat of a Reese's peanut butter cup. Not mud.
Cafe Habana was the next stop on the "Can't Stop, Won't Stop Stuffing Our Fucking Faces" tour. It was in Soho or some shit, whatever it was a cute neighborhood and I wanted to live there.
ROAST PORK with rice and beans. Sorry, was too lazy to rotate this shit because it required to much finger movement.
ELOTE.
CUBANO SANDWICH. We also got some scrimps and a jicama salad, which were blindingly sexcellent. EVERYTHING we ordered made me creepily praise Cuba and all its culinary glory under my breath in the corner of our hotel room.
After we went out in the Lower East Side, I was furiously demanding pizza and we ended up at one of the trillion spots in New York with the name "Ray's Pizza" or some variation of it. I think this spot was a little bootleg cause it wasn't as crackin as it should have been. Fuck me...I JUST WANTED SOME PIZZA!
Next morning, we did brunch and let me tell you, the brunch game out in New York is retarded. The westcoast could learn a thing or two about brunch deals from New York. In the East Village, there are at least 10 spots on each block to get brunch and everything runs you around $10 for an entire meal. We ended up at this spot called Arcane where you get an entree, a breakfast cocktail, orange juice, and coffee/tea for $10. There weren't bottomless mimosa's, which may have been a blessing disguise cause half of us were still drunk anyways. They had amazing bellini's and sangrias and even more amazing food, which is the most important part anyways.
CARIBBEAN POACHED EGGS. This wins life...its basically eggs benedict with a pineapple in it. I'm not a hollandaise fan but this hollandaise was creamy, seductive, and didn't have that tang that usually makes me want to barf up all kinds of mess. But I cannot stand living on the opposite end of the country of these sexyass eggs.
Baked eggs was the bizz too.
A mess of bellini's, mangorini's, sangria, which eventually led to hand holding, screaming, and diarrhea.
White wine sangria...this transformed us into a bunch barking savages.
God, this is a long post. So then I knew deep in my heart/loins, I needed to reunite my mouth with a cannoli. (That's what she said.) So we ended up at Ferrara's in Little Italy because it was the first place we saw and I'm positive it was Jehovah's work because I died a thousand times in the arms of our waiter, who undoubtedly feared my cannoli prowess.
THE CANNOLI. The shell had a delicate crunch, the ricotta filling made my pores cream, and the chocolate chips added a hint of cocoa magic that rivals Dwight Howard's shoulders.
This is hands down the most amazing cheesecake my soul has ever bonded with. It was an experience in itself and my lover Steph rightfully exclaimed, "Raise your hand if you need to change your underwear." We then retreated to the bathroom, hand in hand, and retired our soiled undergarments.
A trio of cream filled what's-its.
AND AFTER, we went to a French restaurant called Le Bateau Ivre, which was undoubtedly rich and excellent. I don't think we were hungry, just intrigued and also needed to kill time.
Frites Maison. French fries for you simple folk.
Le Cheese Burger. BRIE. Sho 'nuff.
Moules Marinieres a la creme. Mussels in white wine, shallots, and cream...I would bathe in a tub of these sea creatures.
So for breakfast...ESS-A-BAGEL! I walked in and the old man behind the counter yelled at the other guy behind the counter and screamed, "GOD DAMMIT JIMMY, GO ON A DIET!" And from that moment on, I knew this place was gonna be amazing. It was a real old school deli with a bunch of angryass old Jewish guys running it, which is where I aspire to end up in a couple years when I make it in the big city.
Sesame bagel with scallion cream cheese. UGGGGGGGH SON!!
Yeah, so creams, Halal, and sin is all I learned about New York and D.C.
Oh yeah, and peep my girl Steph's new blog: http://www.thepudgelife.blogspot.com
