A buddy of mine who works at East Coast Grill had been hounding me for months to give Hell Night a try at ECG.  He knew about my weakness for hotter-than-hades peppers and the like, and encouraged me to get a reservation.  Hell Night is basically a niche-market promotion/party/sweatfest that encourages diners to eat some really, really spicy food.

About a week ago, he mentioned to me that a couple early tables were still available for this go-round and I decided to give it a shot.  After checking out some reviews of the hell pasta and insane drinks (one guy passed out on the way to the bathroom after taking a nuclear tequila shot — scotch bonnet peppers left in a vat of jose cuervo for a week), we decided that proper attire would be in order.

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Just to give you a feel for how hectic/crowded/crazy/awesome filming is.

To all of those who find this seemingly-abandoned site in wild, late night google searches, I am here to inform you that the author is not, in fact, "late."  You know, late like dead?  It’s a threat you see.

Oh, nevermind.

I’ve had lots of time in the last year to do some serious thinking, and I believe it is about that time again.

Gentleman gourmand may be returning.  Don’t go anywhere.  (Until you get hungry, in which case you are permitted to prepare yourself some delicious food.)

Regards,
The Gentleman Gourmand

This meal sponsored by **

When people think of food in the South, they almost always immediately think of barbecue. Now, this is a fair argument, since barbecue is made quite well in the South, but it’s not the only food we have. This is why I tried to stay away from doing a Barbecue review until now. I feel like I have shown the full spectrum, and can shine the light on the kings feast that is Dirty South ATL Barbecue.

If you ask someone where Harold’s Barbecue is, most likely you’ll get something like this;

“Hey, where’s Harold’s Barbecue?”
“You mean the place down by the prison?”
“Yeah, where is it?”
“Down by the prison.”
“Thanks.”

Basically, you have to smell your way there. No one knows precisely where it is, but every day for lunch it fills up with business men, workers, and local folks who are lookin for some good, old school, southern style, barbecue.

Once you get there, the menu is a relief. There are very few menu options, and your biggest decision comes when you order your pork chopped or pulled. (There are also some secret options, like inside/outside, which refers to the inside or outside cuts of meat from the roasted pig.) Clearly the most popular option is the large pork plate which comes with a big bowl of spicy, thin soup with huge chunks of meat, cole slaw, and about a suckling pigs worth of meat. On the side you get cracklin’ cornbread (cracklin’ referring to the pieces of pork skin in em), and any true Southerner washes it down with some sweet iced tea that has been poured by the same gray-haired woman for the last 20 someodd years.

On all the tables are two squeeze bottles. One is hot barbecue sauce, and the other; sweet. Personally, I like a lot of both, all over just about everything. Once you’re done dressing your meat to your personal preference, dig in. Once you feel like you’re about to burst, eat some more cornbread and take a sip of your iced tea. Pause. Dig back in. Repeat until finished.

All the meat is either chopped or pulled by hand, right behind the register. You can even see the roaster in the room behind. Everything is made on property, and it absolutely shows.

Don’t let the cars parked out front confuse you. Three quarters of the lot behind the building are either Lexus or Mercedes. The one thing you can’t forget about Harold’s is how to find it. Just follow your nose.

**This is a joke. I don’t want to get any emails starting with “This message is being sent by or on behalf of a lawyer. It is intended exclusively for the individual or entity to which it is addressed. This communication may contain information that is proprietary, privileged or confidential or otherwise legally exempt from disclosure. . .”

Those emails scare me.

So, an interesting fact is that all of Cate’s male friends are named Andrew. And at Smith, I’m sure some of her “female” friends are named Andrew too. Anyway, Cate’s significant other (Kobayashi) told Cate that she had to take the subway in Rome, and photograph the graffiti for him. It worked out, because Cate wanted to see the Coliseum and we didn’t feel like carjacking an old lady for her wheels. So we go underground, and what do we see? The lamest graffiti ever.

Just as I was making fun of Andrew, which I rarely do, since I actually think he’s a great guy, our train came, and I utterly stopped talking.

The trains were covered, nay, WERE graffiti. On some of the cars, it was hard to tell what color the car was supposed to be, there was so much spraypaint on it. This was my favorite:

Unfortunately, I didn’t really document any of my epicurean adventures in Rome, but I didn’t really think I needed to. I had some good meals, nothing really extraordinary. We did have some amusing waiters, including one who basically forced Cate to eat all her food, so she kept sneaking most of it onto my plate.

Nothing more to report on that front.

I believe it’s in both of our best interest to leave you with this picture.

iF yoU eVeR wAnT tO SeE cAte AgaIn yOu WiLl bUy hEr a rEtUrn tIcKEt fOr aT lEaSt a MoNtH !!!

-aNonYmoUs gEnTLeMAn GoURManD

Just kidding. She’s fine. Or is she?

I found this incredibly amusing, and forgot to post it when I got back from Rome.

On trains with no food car, a guy comes through with a cart. He sells sandwiches and snacks, but most people just want an espresso. He takes a plastic cup, fills it with hot water, and adds instant Nespresso Espresso. This by itself is not unusual.

The odd part is, after you pay him the 1 Euro for your drink, he gives you a receipt that would be appropriate for a new car.

I present the irrefutable evidence:

Making Espresso on a professional espresso maker is one of those things that you see all the time at your local coffee joint. (Java Monkey, anyone?)

It also happens to be one of those things that looks easy until you actually have to do it. At which point you realize that it is in fact, really easy.

Here we have our intimidating Italian Espresso Machine Maker (Plus steamer, hot water dispenser, baby changing station).

Now, first step is to find someone who wants an espresso. This is made simple if you yourself want an espresso. For those of you who don’t, just be patient and I’ll come by shortly.

So, the first thing you need to identify is your espresso holder + handle thing, hereafter referred to as “dispenser.” Stay with me.

They look like this, and come in two types: one dispense and two dispense. Both shown here are two, but its easy to tell which is which, because the ones only have one drip canal.

Once you have your dispenser, open up the trash and bang it on the bar to get rid of the old, used up grounds.

Now you’re ready to put your own espresso grinds in. Stick the dispenser in the grinder, and pull the lever. Once for one, thrice for two (two, sir, TWO). Umm, make that Once for one, twice for two.

Then tamp it down with the smoosher. Make sure it’s good and packed. (No joke, this is serious stuff. You could get stabbed here for not tamping with vigor.)

Next step: attaching the dispenser. It requires a steady aim and a firm grip. Once you find the groove it fits in, crank it around till its good and tight, or else steam could escape and blow the whole thing off the machine.

There’s a small lever just to the right of the dispenser once it’s locked in. Pull it toward you. You should hear much moaning and groaning from the machine. Be patient! You’re only a few steam blasted seconds away from a perfect cup of espresso!!

After a second or so, the blood will start to flow. Did I say blood? I meant espresso.

When it’s full to your level of liking, push the lever back into place. The excess steam should be shot out somewhere. Keep your face away from that somewhere. This is not a spa.

Finally, plate it up like its your last tea party, and have at thee!