Kale-ing me softly

Whether you prefer kale "smooties" or kale "smoothies," just please stop it already. No one cares about your sad little eating disorder.

According to this recent article in the Huffington Post (which, no doubt, was pilfered from a legitimate news source), the dreaded, overrated kale is number 8 on the list of hipster foods suffering from overexposure.

Huh, number 8. Only number 8? I would have clocked it in at number 1. Kale: The Kim Kardashian of produce. Never was appealing, never will be.

Or better still, the Miley Cyrus of vegetables: Once a simple, assuming, harmless green, now with carefully calculated media coverage and a starring role riding nekkid on a wrecking ball, kale is now omnipresent and oppressive in his domination, making fun of Sinead O'Connor's mental health issues and passed out cold from overindulgence on 420 day.

 

Or something like that.

For frisee's sake, even the French are getting into the trend. What a world, what a world.

I recall once being at the local food co-op and overhearing a mother and child in the produce section. "Oh look, Nebuchadnezzar, kale! You know how much you love kale!"

Ol' Neb must have been all of 2 years of age. No 2-year-old loves kale. (I'd argue, no one loves kale, but like Kim or Miley, we've been told it's interesting so often that we have almost come to believe it.) No, a 2-year-old's palate lacks the desperation and emptiness of a crunchy mother.

And any mother that would foist upon her 2-year-old a heaping helping of kale is just asking for a visit from Child and Family Services.

 

So try our kale smoothies, eh? How 'bout I give you my even-better-for-you Southern variation on that odorous concoction you're gagging down--the collard smoothie. Made with mustard green frozen yogurt. 

 

Yeah, shut up already about the kale.

When you think of pizza, think of dead South American revolutionaries with an "image" problem

I can't believe I forgot all about this pic!

From my Edinburgh trip this past summer: Lassies and germs, I give you Che Pizza somewhere in Old Town.

Whoever said Che was assassinated by a Bolivian junta? Nah, he just fled to Scotland and started making the most delicious pizza, wraps, and burgers known to working-class humanity!

¡Delicioso, comrades!

Ode to a non-greasy yearn

The smell of chicken in the air that night
The fryer alight
Oh Nando
They were frying hens for you and me
For fricassee
Oh Nando
Though there're pounds we'll never lose
There's no regret
If I had to eat chick-en again
I would eat yours my friend
Oh Nando

One of the discoveries on my recent trip to Great Britain was Nando's, a palace of Portuguese roast chicken in peri-peri sauce, which has something like 250+ locations in the UK. And it's been in the GB since 1992, so it's more than just a fluke, it's practically a way of life. This was my third trip since then, so why am I just discovering this now? <sotto voce> Vegetarian friends </sotto voce>.

I've had chicken and fish roasted Portuguese-style before--in Montreal of all places, which has a noteworthy Portuguese community along Rue Saint-Laurent north of Rue Sherbrooke. So this was more Portuguese roast chicken done for the "casual dining" crowd--but, nevertheless, done very well! (But, thankfully not, well done.)

There was also a Southern African influence in the cuisine, what with the rich "Southern style" (in that they reminded me of home) Luso beans and the fiery (for Great Britain) peri-peri marinades, common to Mozambique (a former Portuguese colonial territory) and South Africa, too, from whence Nando's got its start.

Nando's is global--there are even several locations in the Washington, D.C., area, although the closest to me is either in suburban Maryland or Toronto. Apparently, though, there are none in Montreal at this time, which is somewhat surprising because, calvaire, those Quebecois do love the roast chicken. (I'm looking at you, St. Hubert.)

What's my point in telling you all of this? Well, I wanted to show off my little homage to Nando's above (sung to the tune of ABBA's "Fernando," natch), which I recently composed for my dear friend Cali. And to remind you that our casual dining choices in the Pittsburgh area include Applebee's, TGIFriday's, and Eat 'n' Park.

Gah, sometimes how I hate you, life.

Greek to me

A subdued scene from my second belly-to-the-bar moment at the St. Nicholas Greek Food Festival in Oakland this week.

And quite literally, I do mean "belly" and "bar": Please note the juxtaposition of the "pastries" area with the full-service bar. In a church fellowship hall no less.

'Cause that's how we roll in Pennsylvania.

After lunch, I did a lot of groaning and shifting in my chair, as well as mispronouncing the dishes that I ate for my Greek-heritage boss. Not one to let any mistake go unchallenged (bless his spanokopita-filled heart), he spent a portion of the day correcting me in front of my office mates.

"It's not 'mous-SAK-a' and it's not 'MOUS-sak-a' either. It's 'mous-sa-KAH!'"

"OK . . ."

"So what else did you have besides moussaka?"

"Well, I had a 'sa-la-DAH!' and a 'so-DAH!'"

Please let it be known that you may be able to employ me, correct me, humiliate me, fill me full of Greek food and send me scurrying down the hall with relief on my mind (or wherever), but, oh yes, I will prevail.

Don't tell Texas

Forget beef.

Nutella. It's what's for dinner.