The Blackness

I just ate an entire can of black beans…for dinner.

And I f-ing loved it. I don’t know what it is. Pinto? You’re better refried. Kidney? You’re name is KIDNEY…nasty! Go hump other kidney beans in the sex stew that is chili. Garbanzo? You’re gross unless you’re simmered for hours in some broth made by Jesus. Lima? Get the fuck outta here, you suck in every way that suck can suck.  So, probably the absolute shortest blog post on earth, but suffice to say…when you go black, you never go back.

Taste of Colorawesome

Okay, normally the thought of street-thick crowds makes me want to take a pair of nunchucks to my face, but I decided to brave the Taste of Colorado because dammit, I know they gots good food. Plus, I can walk there, so that’s a bonus.  The thing about Taste of Colorado (which is like a state fair, but most people have all of their teeth) is that when it’s really nice out, it’s tolerable.  So, I ventured out with the boy, very little in the tum-tum on purpose, and readied the stomach. It was a gorgeous 75 degrees outside, so hell, that’s enough to make anyone hungry. Yeah, many people might use the great weather to hike, bike or explore their green thumb – those dirty bastards – but I use it to get a tan as I eat myself to oblivion. That’s because tan people look skinnier (apparently) and hell, I need all the skinny secrets I can get because I was planning to eat like a growing teenage boy (without the barely there pubes…or wait…*winky face*).

So, first stop. Beer tent. It was like premature ejaculation because little did I know, had I walked another block, I could’ve enjoyed a microbrew. Suck. Oh well, It was Blue Moon, and it was good, even without a side of the obligatory orange slice…take note, fair-hopping bartenders!



Looking to build a base for all the food I'm going to eat.



Next stop? Oh, just the place that serves fried ALLIGATOR. Talk about getting some supreme tail. Sure, I got about 1/100 of it, but frankly, put some of that in a cornmeal batter and deep-fry it, it tastes just like… (stop waiting for me to say something inappropriate because I never do that, sillies) chewy chicken. Yeah, not so impressed, but who has had fried alligator? People who speak that Cajun pidgin stuff… and me. Another notch on my belt…made of alligator skin.

Knowing that I'm eating the tail of an animal that does the Death Roll is hawt.

Next stop: Lunch. What’s that I see? A Wild Game sign?!? Gimme. Immediately. So, they had a bunch of the hoofed game meat (elk, venison, buffalo, etc.), but I’ve done that and needed something that would make me question my choices..oh, and make me want to take a shower afterward. So I went for the rattlesnake sausage. People, rattlesnakes suck ass. They’re scary, they bite, they stick out their tongues at everyone, they live in dry, wretched places and they have a baby rattle attached to their asses. Stupids. But slap my mom and call her Susan (her name is actually Susan – sorry, Mom!) this sausage is some of the best sausage I’ve ever had in my life. For realz. It’s really light, but the seasoning was just enough to make it great without overdoing it. It’s like a hot dog on crack…meaning crack of the rattle, bitches.

So, clearly, one r’snake dog isn’t going to do it for me. Granted, I boned out with its deliciousness, but hell on trike wheels, mi estomago wasn’t done yet. I mean, if you’re at a fair designed around food (aren’t they all?), I must grub más. So, we walked through this area infested with 13-year-old “I dye my hair with Kool-Aid and wear jeans that are self-ripped…but not really, they’re from Hot Topic” peeps. Gross. [Disclaimer:  I was one of those. I just punched myself in the chest thinking about it.]

Anyway, that meant we had to trudge through the rides (think Uncle Eddie, Tilt-A-Whirl and Carnies (small hands!)) but happened upon this little cart wielding all that is fried glory. Yeah, they know their target market, but I’m in a market all my own: Bitch be crazy…and starving. So, the boy and I opt for fried Oreos. It took a million years…at least that’s what pre-teen blondie with the Manic Panic hair said…but suck a honey badger’s tit, this was amazing.

Holy Poopface -- who let this girl outside? Note: no need to match the color of the food you're eating. The powdered sugar look is not FASHION.

Anything fried is good. But anything fried with chocolate in it? Holy ballsack, it’s the bestest. Look at it!

I may or may not have had to pound my chest a few times to restart my heart, but it was worth it. I love fun, whimsical, super-fattening food, and Taste of Colorado delivered. If you ever have a chance to hit a food fair, do it. Lots of local restaurants, lots of good beer and ‘cohol and LOTS of excellent people-watching [read: freaky people who probably indulge in bestiality]. Funzies.

An Airplane DisASSter

I’ve oft thought of myself as an adventurous eater, so when I opted for a pretzel dog at LaGuardia airport on a recent business trip, I figured I was playing it safe. I mean sure, it’s a bit unconventional – it’s not in a bun nor wrapped in fried corn dough, but come on, it’s combining two very pedestrian foods: soft pretzels and hot dogs (Nathan’s hot dogs, to be clear). Plus, it was NYC and I figured I had to get in my hot dog fix somewhere since I spent 95 percent of the trip in New Jersey. 

So, I belly up to the counter at Auntie Anne’s and peruse the menu. It’s around 4 p.m. or so and I’m pretty hungry, so I opt for the jumbo pretzel dog meal, which comes with a footlong dog, cheese and a drink. A bargain at $8.50. I ate it so fast I probably looked like I was some porn star on vacation, but I didn’t care at that point. It was pretty darn good. Plus, can’t go wrong with nacho cheese.

Stopped up? Try a Pretzel Dog!

After a slight delay, we board the plane. I’m full and tired, so I figure I’ll just situate the neck pillow and zonk out. That’s when the captain comes over the intercom and says, “Folks, got some bad news. We’ve got a major storm system approaching to the west, so we’re going to be grounded for at least an hour.”

An hour? I can manage. Sure, I’m tired and a bit grumpy, but hell, I’ll still be home relatively early, so no big deal. Just as I’m starting to zone out, the captain comes back on and says, “Folks, sorry to say, but I’ve got MORE bad news. Ya see, we seem to have a loose bolt in one of our wheel wells and it’s going to take another hour and a half for us to fix it.”

I look at my coworker Candace sitting two rows behind me, mouth a few expletives to express my annoyance, and decide to browse through Sky Mall. Then I start feeling a little queasy and figure it’s just from sitting in such tight quarters. Then I start getting gassy and have to crap. I assume it was probably all the nacho cheese and instantly regret eating it because farting on a plane is tantamount to dutch oven-ing the people in my row .  So I vent to Candace:

But who poops on a plane? Not me. Ever. I don’t do road games, especially in a bathroom the size of a Cracker Jack box. So, we decide to deplane since we figure we’re going to be on this plane for quite a while before takeoff AND it’s a four-hour flight. I hit the restroom and as I’m sitting there, I’m thinking I’ll probably get hungry again. What do I do? I’m vulnerable and not thinking clearly at that point, so I grab another f-ing pretzel dog. This time with spicy nacho cheese. And yes, I have a very short-term memory. The guy behind the counter was the same guy who served me before, but this time he was super nice and complimented my necklace, which in hindsight really meant, "See, I'm a nice person, so don't hate me for what's about to happen to your colon."

I take my meal back to the plane, wolf it down, then lay back hoping for some shut-eye. Little did I know I should’ve been praying for some shut-browneye. First, it was the cold sweats. Then the hot sweats. Then the stomach rumble. Of course I was sitting in "B," which for those unfamiliar, it means the middle or "sitting bitch," as some fondly like to call it. And that term is definitely appropriate. I politely tell the Asian guy sitting in the aisle that I need to use the restroom. Note that we’re still grounded.

I head down the aisle and there’s a bunch of people congregating. Attempting to suck in your stomach to make yourself model skinny in order to get past a group of people…while trying not to crap your pants is quite a feat. But I made it to the toilet and did what I needed to do, as ungodly as it was. Relief comes over me, the sweat subsides and I head on back to my seat. This colon is CLEAR!

And to make the situation even better, we’re ready for takeoff. Brilliant! I settle in, close my eyes and fall asleep…for all of 10 minutes when I realize that the incline of the plane stirred something up inside and I have to hit the john again.

Some deep breaths, lip biting and white knuckling the armrest helped me hold it until 10,000 feet, but the stupid f-ing seatbelt sign was still on. Sorry peeps, my ass don’t give a shit about seatbelt signs. I get up and thank GOD all the flight attendants are in front of the plane and can’t order me back to my seat. I book it. As I shut the door, the captain comes over the intercom and says, “Folks, I’m keeping the seatbelt sign on for a bit, as we’re heading into some fairly nasty turbulence.”

F…M…L… Having diarrhea is horrible in itself. Having diarrhea on a plane is like getting tea-bagged by a transient. But having diarrhea on a plane while it’s going through turbulence belongs in the 7^th circle of hell. I’m pretty sure I had a near death experience trying to harness myself on the pot using the handlebar and the sink so as not to come out of the bathroom looking like I got hit by a typhoon of ass juice.  I was like the Evel Knievel  of poo wrangling.

I finish up, bounce back and forth between rows like a pinball because those turbulence are still aggressive, and land in my seat, completely wiped (pun intended). No less than 30 despicable minutes later, I have to go again. I finally decide to own up to Asian Aisle Seat Guy and let him know that I’m pretty sure I ate poisonous pretzel dogs, have wicked diarrhea and that I need to get up again. “Diarrhea?” he asks in his Asian accent (have no idea which one, so don’t hate…but it sounded like “Die-a-wee-ahhh”). He looks at me like I told him I had the Ebola virus. I nod and he quickly gets up and lets me pass, making sure not to touch me. This seat dance happens two more times before we finally land, the poor guy. I would’ve shaken his hand, but we all know how that would’ve gone.  

In sum, Jesus H. Christ! How can a pretzel dog (or two) rip me a new asshole? I was sick all the next day, too. Was that really a pretzel dog, or did someone decide it would be super awesome to feed me two-day-old leftover doggers from 7-Eleven?  Was that nacho cheese or coagulated Ex-Lax? Either way, the morale of the story is that just because I was in a city known for the hot dog, the only thing hot about the pretzel dog was the burning in my anus.

On the bright side, I lost 5 lbs and got to meet Birdman! The end.

Me, Birdman from the Nuggets and Candace. This is pre-colon blow.

An Ode To The California Burrito

There’s something to be said about burritos. They’re a meal (a G-D gut bomb at that) wrapped up in a tortilla. You can put pretty much anything in them. Shit, you can put another burrito in them (aka “The Pregnant Burrito”). Portable, delicious…and the reason Beano was invented. But not all burritos fall in the realm of what I like to call “Holy Mother Of All that Gives Me Colonic Hardship, But Worth The Trip To The Toilet.”

Lucky for San Diego, they invented something worth a day of colon blows: The California Burrito. Typically if you live anywhere other than California, any meal with “California” in the title means avocado, sprouts and something healthy. But get your sweet ass to San Diego, because that city is the antithesis of the leafy green veggie assault you expect from California…in the form of what’s called the California Burrito. What’s in this magnificent handheld piece of wonderment you ask? Um, all that’s delicious, duh.

They start with carne asada. That in itself is downright poop-your-pants delicious. It’s essentially a thin steak that’s grilled and cut into bits or strips and serves as the protein base for the burrito. Then comes a heart-attack load of cheese, a dollop of sour cream that was probably loaded on there by one of the employee’s low rider trucks parked in the back. You know, the one with decked out with sweet decals in that old English lettering that looks like someone barfed up serifs everywhere.

And the best part: FRENCH FRIES. You heard that right, folks. Just because it’s not a breakfast burrito doesn’t mean it can’t get some tuber action. And it does. It flexes its starch muscles like some overly tanned meathead…but in this case, a meathead with a brain (I mean, you have to be a GENIUS to include something French in a Mexican dish. There’s a sex joke in there somewhere).



I would've smiled like a Cheshire cat in this pic because I was in Mexi-heaven, but alas, my teeth were busy assaulting some California burrito goodness.



Anyway, it’s probably one of the best burritos I’ve had in my life, and you can get them anywhere in San Diego. Some people go to San Diego to chill at the beach…my next trip there will be to eat my weight in California burritos.

Oh, and if you’re still hungry after the burrito (what are you, a fat ass like me?), try the carne asada fries. Basically a box full of French fries covered in carne asada, cheese, sour cream, guac and overall awesomeness. You might want to bring a portable defibrillator…just to be on the safe side. CLEAR!

Blue Hairs and Mexican Fare

Okay, okay, okay. I may have a small obsession with Mexican food, but why the hell not? 1.) You get chips and salsa immediately upon taking a seat, which allows you to prepare yourself for the full-on stomach assault heading your way. 2.) Mexican food is versatile – you can eat it for any meal; it can be fried, baked, grilled, smothered, rolled, etc.; and it goes with any outfit, whether you’re donning a full-on mariachi getup or just chillin’ in your sweet-ass Mexican peasant blouse (oh the embroidery is exquisite!). 3.) Margaritas.

So, after work, I started hearing the call from my inner amiga (who wears eyeliner as lipliner, pencils in her eyebrows and ALWAYS wants Mexican food. Simmer down, chola!). Usually that call is punctuated by some light Norteña music, which is horrible, but gets the point across. Anyway, Don and I decided to hit up Las Brisas in Greenwood Village, which touts itself as serving Latin coastal cuisine. 

Ready to eat some yummy Mexican food, just like Grandma used to do.

Yeah, I kinda got that when I saw the décor. A special fountain/jungle area near the dance floor (oh yeah, there’s a dance floor, baby) and the white/pastel wicker tables and chairs with backs shaped like raindrops. Hello Miami, circa mid-80’s. I apologize in advance for not donning the obligatory white linen suit and hot pink button-up shirt. 

Oh, the decor is glorious. Yeah, it's a bit hard to make out the colors, but trust me, this place is a pastel nightmare.

They sat Don and me down in this dimly lit area, and when I say “dimly lit,” we’re talking nothing but candlelight. Sure, I suppose it could’ve been considered romantic, except for the fact that when we took a good look around (after our eyes adjusted, of course) it was an f-ing blue hair bonanza. We were by far the youngest people in there. WTF? Shouldn’t these people be in bed already? I thought dinner time was between 3:30-4:30 in the afternoon. But I suppose not for THIS sect of sassy seniors. In fact, as I soon discovered, Las Brisas is essentially a high-mileage meet market. It’s like a club you’d find in a retirement village in Orlando.

Two silverbacks were sitting at a table near us and we actually overheard them asking the waiter how to get reservations on the dance floor to sit next to a group of equally silvered-out, frosted ladies. Apparently, every Thursday, Las Brisas is blessed with the soothing sounds of some dude dressed in weird rockabilly attire from 1982 with a hairdo that looks like the lovechild of Donald Trump and Gene Simmons. Dead sexy, and evidently conducive to some serious senior snogging (little blue pill not included).

Anyway, Don and I perused the menu, which is a bit on the pricey side ($15-$18 for entrees, less for combo plates/salads). I went with taco salad because frankly, any salad that comes in a fried shell gives me the smilies. Both horizontal and vertical. But first, the chips and salsa. Surprisingly enough, while the salsa was definitely mild for obvious reasons, it had great flavor. Who knew? A salsa both you and the lady commandeering the Rascal can enjoy. And the margarita I ordered was terrific. Note: they’re VERY strong, so if you’re ever nearby the restaurant and see a Buick or old Caddy pulling out of the parking lot, STEER CLEAR…unless you want to be known as the guy who got iced by someone who could very well be rockin’ adult diapers.   

Back to the food. The taco salad was really good. Not spectacular, but it had big chunks of shredded chicken (all white meat), guacamole, tomatoes, sour cream, beans…and a touch of lettuce. All good stuff, and I finished the whole thing. Take that, two old ladies splitting (and gumming) a plate of cheese enchiladas. Would love to show you a pic of the salad, but dining in a place where the only thing brighter than the candle is the patrons’ hair, it’s hard to get a good shot. But take my word for it, it was good and worth the money.

There I am. Sipping my marg. Eating. But you can't see shit. At least I added this artistic border, yo.

So, I’ll admit, this post isn’t so much about the food as it is the restaurant itself. Food? Pretty darn good? Atmosphere? Off the charts if you can remember what you were doing when Kennedy was assassinated. And even if you’re not part of the Baby Boomer set like myself, it’s worth it to sit back, relax with a great margarita, and hope no one breaks a hip while shaking a tail feather on the dance floor.

Food Porn

Food porn. Sounds dirty, and can be (you know who you are, banana/cucumber aficionados), but in my family? It’s not about “getting off” in the traditional sense. It’s about a flavor orgasm. Or “flava” as the cool kids say. Too many quotation marks in the first paragraph? Consider each instance of punctuation a flavor orgasm and embrace it, prudes.

Take my brother Danny and me. That Cinnamon Toast Crunch we ate? Delicious. Know what made it more delicious? Admiring the beautiful, lick your lips-inducing photos on the cereal box. But that was just foreplay until we moved on to the dessert section of a cookbook. But not just ANY cookbook. The Good Housekeeping Illustrated Cookbook my beautiful grandmother, Frances Sifers, gave me on my 12^th birthday (the proof is in the note on the inside!). Just look at it! It’s gorgeous! LOOK AT IT!

Considering how long I've had this thing, still looks pretty good. Like it's had cookbook botox.

My grandmother always wrote a note in books she gave me. She kicked some serious ass when she picked this book.

Look at those desserts. Sure, the food styling is dated, but screw it. I would dunk my face into any one of those desserts.

Just like the pages of a Playboy stick together after being thoroughly “reviewed,” the pages of this glorious cookbook are bonded together (but hey, we read it for the recipes, not the photos…wink, wink). This poor Good Housekeeping cookbook has been assailed by the nubby fingers of hungry kids like Danny and me, turning the pages with one hand while the other hand does the dirty stuff (shoveling food into our mouths…duh, you pervs).

In the Bauer household, food porn goes beyond the kitchen table. It’s also prevalent in the bedroom. All of us like to eat in bed – usually the sweet stuff. Soooo naughty. Hiding candy and cookies in our bedrooms like they were paraphernalia was a regular occurrence for us kids.

Take Danny, for instance. This ADHD typhoon of a child would steal the sugar bowl – yes, the entire sugar bowl – and hide it under his bed like it was a Hustler magazine. But that’s not all. He would take all of the candy and sugary goodness we had in the house and stow it away in his closet when room under the bed was taken up by things like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures, Lego landscapes and of course, the damn sugar bowl. When all was said and done, he had transformed his closet into a candy bunker rivaling Charlie’s Chocolate Factory, sans the chocolate river and the creepy ass tunnel. But we did, mind you, have younger brother Brent, who made a fine stand-in for an Oompa-Loompa.

Danny also (and I’m still pissed off about this) stole my entire inventory of Girl Scout Almond Roca Cookies, the little sugar nympho. Pretty sure he still owes my dad money for that. Sidenote: Girl Scouts of America, if you ever bring back Almond Rocas, do NOT, I repeat, do NOT sell to a lanky guy who looks like this because he WILL have a full-on sugar relapse. He will probably murder someone for a box:

Danny may be the picture of health, but Almond Rocas are his kryptonite.

Fast forward 18 years. Today, I get my flava orgasms from the vast abundance of TV shows focused squarely on food (all hail the mighty Food Network!). Some folks watch TV to fill their shorts. I do it to fill my belly. These days, you’ve got cooking shows in HD, with LOTS of full-frontal close-ups. Might have to go change my skivvies just thinking about it. My massive bowl of spaghetti is good, but turn on some Giada and Mama Mia! My limp-noodled spaghetti is now erupting with authentic Italian goodness…while at the same time I’m marveling at how Giada stays so thin cooking all that pasta. Pretty sure she’s equipped with some sort of boob-powered fat vacuum, because that’s the only part on her body that’s big. Bitch.

Jesus H. Christ. It's just not fair.

 Anyway, I could go on and on about food porn, but really, if you want it, you can find it. Sure, it doesn’t come mailed to you in a discrete tan envelope, but that’s what’s so great about it – it’s discrete simply because it’s food. Take your mediocre plate of food, turn on the tube or thumb through an illustrated cookbook and you’ll see how much better your meal tastes. Hell, hide food under your bed like Danny if that’s what gets your tongue wagging (to eat, you filthy people). Whatever you decide, I support it, because it’s America, and nothing says freedom and the pursuit of happiness like food porn. And I’m spent. Excuse me while I roll over and go to bed.

BBQ + Denver = A One Night Stand

The day started out innocently enough. Got up a little after 4 a.m. like I normally do, did some P90X Plyometrics (this is how I can eat massive quantities of food without looking like a water buffalo in high heels), had my special morning smoothie and headed to the office. I’m the picture of health today, I told myself. But then, it happened. The rumble. The hunger rumble. But it’s too early, I told myself. Must ignore. But I couldn’t. So, I had my midmorning snack early – cottage cheese. I mean, if that doesn’t scream “look at me, I swim around in a sea of Muscle Milk nymphs and bodybuilder mermaids,” I don’t know what does.

Unfortunately, that didn’t cut it. Anyone who knows me is aware that when I’m really hungry, I make bad decisions. Case in point: I remembered I had some Boulder Canyon Malt Vinegar and Sea Salt chips leftover from a visit with the intern to the Spicy Pickle on Monday. So I told myself I’d have half of them because it was only 9:30 in the morning. I mean, who eats an entire bag of chips before noon? Well, sweet baby goat cheese, I’m damn good at lying to myself. I know full well that Lays had it right with the slogan “You can’t eat just one,” because I ate the entire bag. And guess what, my potato chip comrades? I was STILL hungry. 

It's "All Natural!" I can't think of a better way to start the day!

So when my boss suggested lunch at *cough, cough* a Denver “BBQ” establishment, I said yes…without hesitation. For shame! I should’ve known that with a name like “Bono’s,” I was in for a world of hurt. We got there and something was wrong immediately: it was too clean. Like “normal” restaurant clean. So clean in fact, that I was wearing a white shirt and didn’t get a drop of BBQ sauce on me – not one. And mind you, I’m the type of person who could be at a tea party with the Royals and somehow get crumpet crumbs in my thong line. Real BBQ restaurants make you feel like you need to bathe in Clorox…and you actually WANT to because you’re covered in sauce and it’s so worth it. Not here. But I let it slide.

On to the menu. Too many options. And there was a salad section. Like, entrée salads people! Um, if you’re going to a BBQ restaurant and want a salad, someone needs to nun chuck your ass…immediately. It’s a mockery of the BBQ culture. And I’m pretty sure you wear tighty-whities, lame sauce. The only salads a BBQ place should offer are mayonnaise-laden – hence, potato salad or coleslaw. And they’re sides, not entrees. Put that in your smoker and…smoke it.

I didn't even take a picture of the salad section...too embarrassing.

So, I didn’t order an f-ing salad. I instead got the two-meat special, which included pork and beef, plus two sides (sweet potato fries and beans for me – you’re welcome, my fellow coworkers who share a very small space with me). Oh, and a massive buttered slice of Texas Toast…wait, what? Yes, Texas Toast. Seriously folks, plain white Wonder Bread is all you need. It shouldn’t be extra thick, buttered and toasted – that robs the bread of its important purpose – to soak up the meat juices and sauce. Texas Toast is a waste of valuable stomach space. I mean, Jesus, not everything needs to be big in Texas. Get over yourself, big state with its own electrical grid (note: I have many friends from Texas – I hate you now…*winky face*).

Get off of the REAL food, Texas Toast. What a bully.

The meal was decent…once you drenched it in some sauce. But not just any sauce. They have four of them because just like the menu, they feel like more is better. Dislike. The best one is an attempt at KC Masterpiece. The worst is the “original” which tastes like someone took a bottle of mustard and threw in some spice rub mixed with moth balls from grandma’s closet. Hey, would you like fries with your mustard mothball meatpile?

Second from the right. Avoid at all costs. Don't even try it on a dare.

Man, I sound like a hater. Not at all. Just a snob, which is way better. Look, Denver BBQ is passable. But if you decide to come to Denver, don’t spend your precious “dolla-dolla billz, yo” at any of the BBQ places. The joints truly worth the a-hole claymore attack you’ll have on your porcelain friend are the Mexican places. You can put that in your smoker…and eat it. Fist pump! I’m out.