Chobani, as a long-time disordered consumer of yogurt, let me be the first to gently deliver this message: knock it off. For starters, you’re making Dannon and Yoplait feel bad. They’ve only just discovered that you can make cake into a flavor for people who think cake is shameful and want to capitalize it. You’re just going to confuse them. Also, I’m pretty sure that Bobby Flay has a monopoly on the concept, flavor, feeling, and etymology of “chipotle,” so you’ll be hearing from his lawyers. Continue reading “Chobani Flip Chipotle Pineapple”
Yogurt is swiftly becoming the new dessert. It has tried for years. Yoplait attempted flattery through mimicry, Yo-Crunch tried to fool you with Oreos, and Chobani initiated a Ted Cruz-level smear campaign on watermelon by replacing it with yogurt. Also, all of those omnipresent fro-yo chains. They still exist, sheeple, wake up. Noosa is now expanding its creamy, cow-milked goodness to a sweeter line beyond fruit inclusions, featuring salted caramel in its smaller-format containers. Continue reading “Noosa Salted Caramel”
If in 2009, college-aged humans feared a zombie epidemic, in 2015 the mongering has surely turned to the transformation of the basic bitch. And dear readers, with the final sunset dawning over my apartment-turned-Starbucks, I must inform you with deep regret that I, too, have merrily joined the ranks of Lush-purchasing, pumpkin spice-consuming, scarf-adorned basics, and for that, I cannot apologize because I now communicate exclusively in emoticons.A very birthday cake winky face teapot smiling poop to all of you. Continue reading “Celestial Lattes: The Godfather”
Royal Sport is the sleek king of the supplement world– eschewing the bulky, half-filled tubs of whey protein and creepy creatine supplements, covered in monsters like a sixth grader’s trapperkeeper for a matte design with minimalistic typeface. It’s what I imagine hipsters would have started on Etsy before Etsy sucked balls, kickstarted with sticker rewards, and then sold to GNC as an exclusive line. They’re made by Cellucor as a GNC exclusive and come in whimsical flavors and high prices. Continue reading “Royal Sport Charge Blood Orange BCAA-SAA”
Please, please, please don’t make me leave Arkansas. It’s a secret prayer to the complete and beautifully blanketing anonymity of the internet, where you are a stranger to all but your closest family and friends, a few bosses, and 7 billion random people. I’m sorry that people think it’s a flyover state. I’m sorry that I even know that phrase because I went to a Jason Aldeen concert of my own volition and I liked it, and I’m sorry that I still have a billion restaurants to try and not nearly enough time left in the world. By next Friday I’ll be in Memphis or somewhere in the Northern part of Alabama and fuck those places, because they’re not Arkansas, employment, or a place where I can stay more than a night. Continue reading “Dreaming Cow Blueberry Cardamom Yogurt”
When you laugh, the world laughs with you. When you dine alone at a three Michelin star restaurant, the world is cold. It started when I stepped in the limo, the sky unusually dark for a hot Vegas night. Sitting in the back, the car was familiar, tastefully gilded in a sea of black. Leg room and Fiji water for the taking. Silent. In traffic, I looked out onto the people, close enough to touch, and I knew they couldn’t see me watching. The dignity of lingering in the atrium, watching the lights go on and off in the villas at the private mansion entrance is offset by a gentle hand at your elbow as you are seated in the lounge. They expected a party of two and are modifying a table, a plush velvet banquette in purple and gold, very Deco Paris. You can ask women to do many things with you in Vegas, but none of them will accompany you to dinner. On the plus side, now you have more elbow room. It is my last evening in Las Vegas, and I am dining at Joël Robuchon. Continue reading “Three Michelin Stars, Table for One: Joël Robuchon, Las Vegas, NV”
I wonder if people have a very polarized conception of me- either they find me very lucky, or very unlucky. The truth, like every single other person on the planet, is both. There are days when I attend hip parties and manage to be the coolest person in the room, and there are days when someone hits my car, denies it, and drives back to whatever corner of Illinois favors shit-brown BMW’s. I took photos, guy. This is an entirely normal phenomenon as far as I am concerned. Some days the collective consciousness bends over and sits on my chest and other days, it happily spoon-feeds me chocolate pudding enrobed in gold leaf. Continue reading “Krispy Kreme Southern Classics Banana Pudding and Carrot Cake Donuts”
Here is huge tip for future reference: The way to win me over is to give me a mind blowingly good, but not brain freezing, frozen margarita. I prefer it to be a frozen strawberry margarita, but I also understand limitations. I will also do cucumber, passion fruit, pomegranate, and one day I hope to encounter a raspberry frozen margarita. I am sure that my literary idols do not respect me for this and are currently glaring down at me as they sip the heavy, brown liquors that saturated their livers and eventually killed them. Continue reading “Órale Mexican Kitchen, New York, NY”
Austen writes the exceptional and equally snarky book blog, Page Terror and is my NYC correspondent while I am in Arkansas.
Foodette and I go back some years and, for avid readers, I believe that I have been referred to as ‘Austen’ in past reviews. Austen is a reference to Jane Austen, the brilliant social satirist who earned herself a place next to men such as Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope, but instead gets cast into the same lot as Nora Ephron. My point is that although Foodette has graciously titled me Austen, Foodette is the writer whose unique voice sends you spiraling forward with her highly unusual and provocative prospectives. She is a great catalyst for thought and I frequently find myself questioning my palate in response to her. Continue reading “Guest Review: Wild, Williamsburg, NY”
So, I’m in Kansas City. I said I’d provide an update when I arrived in Arkansas, but for the moment, I’m here.
My car got broken into last night.
I walked out in boxers and sunglasses with a killer grin on my face at 1PM this afternoon only to find my back window smashed and my briefcase gone, the one my dad gave me for graduation. They only stole one thing, something buried underneath a blanket and a suit jacket, and it mystified and killed me a little, partly due to the administrative annoyance, but mostly due to the sentimentality of it. It had my passport. It had my dumb little Bluetooth speaker, which I liked because it was red and I got a good deal on it and it was decently loud. It had my fashionable flask with embroidered bow-ties. It had my medication and my grandfather’s old stationary.
They took my travel journal.