Just discovered today that Panera Bread no longer sells their Cuban sandwich, which was an excellent way to get a taste of the southeastern United States (and Cuba, obviously) elsewhere in the country. I haven't watched the sandwich menu too closely, but it appears the replacement is the Mediterranean Veggie.
A healthy-sounding choice, and one I'd probably order. But the Panera Bread employee I talked to said the company should have dropped the "Portobello & Mozzarella" Panini sandwich. "No one orders it," he said.
You had to order extra spicy mustard with the Cuban to get the right effect, and it came on Asiago cheese bread instead of Cuban, but it was awfully good. All the proper ingredients, and pressed thin on a sandwich press. It will be missed.
At Panera you can still get the incomparable Dr. Brown's Black Cherry Soda and Krunchers potato chips, neither of which are widely available in Nebraska. I'll keep going.
Thursday, July 25, 2002
Torta Cubana: Food Fun with Babelfish
You'll never know just how much fun you can have translating foreign-language Web pages until you try it with a recipe.
A colleague sent me a link to a recipe, in Spanish, for a Torta Cubana (the Mexican version of a Cuban sandwich). Running it through Babelfish produces these delights, among others:
" . . . all it passed through the plate until the cheese is based."
"It serves... and acuérdate immediately to open the jaws well to bite this sandwich."
A colleague sent me a link to a recipe, in Spanish, for a Torta Cubana (the Mexican version of a Cuban sandwich). Running it through Babelfish produces these delights, among others:
"It serves... and acuérdate immediately to open the jaws well to bite this sandwich."
Saturday, July 20, 2002
Midwest Express Airlines: The Best Care in the Air?
The premium carrier Midwest Express costs just slightly more than other carriers for leisure airfare, and delivers a world of difference. After enjoying the airline's justifiably famous service, legroom and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, I'm seriously considering making it my only choice for air travel.
Midwest Express, soon to be renamed Midwest Airlines, operates from Omaha, Milwaukee and Kansas City hubs. This is no regional airline; it offers nonstops to both coasts from Milwaukee and to the East Coast from Omaha and Kansas City. The name change, coming in 2003, is designed to remove the false regional-carrier stigma that the company says costs it millions of dollars a year in lost bookings.
My $517.50 unrestricted fare from Omaha to Washington D.C. for staff training came with fixings it's hard to get in the lower classes of multi-class carriers. (The same trip on a no-refunds, no-changes ticket can be made in August for $233.50, a check of Midwest's quick and efficient Web site revealed.) The airline has just one class: superior. Besides the amenities, you get an aircraft (mostly McDonnell-Douglas DC-9s) that feels more spacious simply for having no section dividers, and a uniformly wide center aisle.
The brown leather seats look rich but aren't impressive in comfort terms. They're not uncomfortable, but neither are they cushy. Generous legroom makes up for any seating drawbacks, however; my 6'2" frame fit nicely, with a good four inches to spare ahead of my knees. All the tray tables fold out from the armrest in the two-by-two seats, which helps avoid jarring interruptions in computing or eating when the person in front reclines his or her seat. The center armrest is big enough for two large men to share.
Meal service starts shortly after takeoff, with red and white wine offered from real 750-milliliter bottles in real glass stemware (customized with a square base, so as not to slide around as much). On offer for my flight were a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Chardonnay blend, both of southeastern Australia's Lindeman's Cawarra label. My wine knowledge extends only to knowing at a taste whether I like a wine, and I liked the Chardonnay blend. The previous night's too-short rest and the upcoming busy day didn't allow a test of the Cabernet. The possibly mis-named "lunch" (served around 4:30 p.m.) consisted of a chicken "Caesar" salad -- definitely mis-named, as no Caesar dressing was present. In its place was "sour cream herb" dressing, which tasted just fine. Shredded parmesan, boiled egg slices, tomatoes, olives and cucumbers surrounded a chicken breast atop Romaine lettuce. The chicken -- moist, dense and flavorful -- was a pleasant surprise.
The meal presentation recalls some of the glamour of a bygone aviation era. The salad came on real china, with metal fork and spoon and a plastic knife. Hang on to that large linen napkin -- you'll need it in just a few minutes.
That's when the renowned Midwest Express fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies come out. Each passenger gets two (probably more, if you asked), and the gooey chocolate gets all over your fingers. Thus the retained linen napkin. But the cookies, even piping hot, are firm enough to fill the mouth with decadent satisfaction while not falling apart in one's hands. A colleague told me these are the best chocolate chip cookies she's ever had. She hasn't had mine yet, but they're a close second.
Service from the well-attired flight attendants was quick and efficient, if not overtly friendly. Unfortunately, the Midwest Express flight crews share with their colleagues at other carriers an affinity for talking too long, too loudly and too often on the intercom system. They should read my friendly suggestions to the airlines on flight announcements, and take it to heart.
Midwest Express, soon to be renamed Midwest Airlines, operates from Omaha, Milwaukee and Kansas City hubs. This is no regional airline; it offers nonstops to both coasts from Milwaukee and to the East Coast from Omaha and Kansas City. The name change, coming in 2003, is designed to remove the false regional-carrier stigma that the company says costs it millions of dollars a year in lost bookings.
My $517.50 unrestricted fare from Omaha to Washington D.C. for staff training came with fixings it's hard to get in the lower classes of multi-class carriers. (The same trip on a no-refunds, no-changes ticket can be made in August for $233.50, a check of Midwest's quick and efficient Web site revealed.) The airline has just one class: superior. Besides the amenities, you get an aircraft (mostly McDonnell-Douglas DC-9s) that feels more spacious simply for having no section dividers, and a uniformly wide center aisle.
The brown leather seats look rich but aren't impressive in comfort terms. They're not uncomfortable, but neither are they cushy. Generous legroom makes up for any seating drawbacks, however; my 6'2" frame fit nicely, with a good four inches to spare ahead of my knees. All the tray tables fold out from the armrest in the two-by-two seats, which helps avoid jarring interruptions in computing or eating when the person in front reclines his or her seat. The center armrest is big enough for two large men to share.
Meal service starts shortly after takeoff, with red and white wine offered from real 750-milliliter bottles in real glass stemware (customized with a square base, so as not to slide around as much). On offer for my flight were a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Chardonnay blend, both of southeastern Australia's Lindeman's Cawarra label. My wine knowledge extends only to knowing at a taste whether I like a wine, and I liked the Chardonnay blend. The previous night's too-short rest and the upcoming busy day didn't allow a test of the Cabernet. The possibly mis-named "lunch" (served around 4:30 p.m.) consisted of a chicken "Caesar" salad -- definitely mis-named, as no Caesar dressing was present. In its place was "sour cream herb" dressing, which tasted just fine. Shredded parmesan, boiled egg slices, tomatoes, olives and cucumbers surrounded a chicken breast atop Romaine lettuce. The chicken -- moist, dense and flavorful -- was a pleasant surprise.
The meal presentation recalls some of the glamour of a bygone aviation era. The salad came on real china, with metal fork and spoon and a plastic knife. Hang on to that large linen napkin -- you'll need it in just a few minutes.
That's when the renowned Midwest Express fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies come out. Each passenger gets two (probably more, if you asked), and the gooey chocolate gets all over your fingers. Thus the retained linen napkin. But the cookies, even piping hot, are firm enough to fill the mouth with decadent satisfaction while not falling apart in one's hands. A colleague told me these are the best chocolate chip cookies she's ever had. She hasn't had mine yet, but they're a close second.
Service from the well-attired flight attendants was quick and efficient, if not overtly friendly. Unfortunately, the Midwest Express flight crews share with their colleagues at other carriers an affinity for talking too long, too loudly and too often on the intercom system. They should read my friendly suggestions to the airlines on flight announcements, and take it to heart.
Ban Annoying Flight Announcements!
Open letter to the airlines: Do a scientific study to find a quiet and soothing female voice (like the Washington Metro's "Doors closing. Please stand clear of the doors" recording) and use it for all the FAA regulations and safety advisories no on listens to anyway. It's improve the morale of passengers, who'll be able to get some work or sleep in with fewer distractions, and of employees who must just hate repeating the same script flight after flight, so much that they make gaffes like "FAA regulations prohibit destroying airplane lavatories, um, airplane lavatory smoke detectors."
Another thing: ban weather reports. There is no weather information useful to the average person that cannot be gained be looking out the window upon landing, and/or feeling the blast of cold/hot/mild air in the jetway immediately after "deplaning."
And get rid of that word, too. The sooner we all forget the tired "De plane, boss, de plane!" joke, the better.
Another thing: ban weather reports. There is no weather information useful to the average person that cannot be gained be looking out the window upon landing, and/or feeling the blast of cold/hot/mild air in the jetway immediately after "deplaning."
And get rid of that word, too. The sooner we all forget the tired "De plane, boss, de plane!" joke, the better.
Tuesday, July 2, 2002
Excellent Dumpling House
New York -- Excellent Dumpling House offers Chinese noodle dishes in astounding variety, many with delectably unidentifiable ingredients and all in servings that only the hugest of appetites could conquer. A favorite among people on jury duty because it's so cheap. I went late at night and was served quickly, but I hear it's packed during the day. The decor, dominated by baby-barf-green tile, makes the restaurant look like a gigantic bathroom.
Excellent Dumpling House | 111 Lafayette St., between Canal and Walker streets | Chinatown, Manhattan, New York City | (212) 219-0212
_____
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Excellent Dumpling House | 111 Lafayette St., between Canal and Walker streets | Chinatown, Manhattan, New York City | (212) 219-0212
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Mocca Hungarian Restaurant
New York -- For central and eastern European cooking on a budget, this is the place to go. Roughly the same cuisine, of higher quality, is offered a few blocks north at Heidelberg. But why pay? Mocca's $6.95 lunchtime prix fixe menu, available from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., is absolutely astounding. You get fresh bread, soup or salad, your choice from a generous list of entrees, and dessert. The service is phenomenally gruff and rude; your plates will be dropped onto your table, and you will not receive a single smile from anyone. But the food, oh, the food. It's heavy and delicious. We tried the Chicken Paprikash and the Wiener Schnitzel and found both above average. Allow time for a nap afterward.
Mocca Hungarian Restaurant | 1588 Second Ave., between 82nd and 83rd streets | Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York City | (212) 734-6470
_____
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Mocca Hungarian Restaurant | 1588 Second Ave., between 82nd and 83rd streets | Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York City | (212) 734-6470
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Mahmoun's Falafel
New York -- Prepare yourself, for you are about to have a taste experience like none other. For the last hour and a half (you did eat in 30-minute increments, didn't you?) you have eaten but peasant food; tasty, but simple. Now you are about to consume the Pita Fulla Passion, the Mediterranean Magnificence. You enter the narrow doorway, and before you stands -- not much at all. And that's the glory of the place! Four long steps and you're at the counter. You order a falafel sandwich, pay two dollars (much cheaper than anywhere else in the city) and half a minute later it's in your hand, its vegetarian goodness ensconced in aluminum foil. You sit down on one of the 10 seats in the entire place, and think, "My walk-in closet is bigger than this." Then you unwrap the falafel and the aroma wafts up to tickle your nostrils and your fancy. In one bite are found fried balls of ground chickpeas and spices; tomatoes, lettuce and tahini sauce, a mixture of ground sesame seeds and oil. Not a single animal died in its production, yet it's a perfectly filling meal.
Mahmoun's Falafel | 119 MacDougal St, between Bleecker Street to the south and West Third Street to the north | Greenwich Village, Manhattan, New York City
_____
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Mahmoun's Falafel | 119 MacDougal St, between Bleecker Street to the south and West Third Street to the north | Greenwich Village, Manhattan, New York City
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Gray's Papaya
New York -- This, my friends, is Hot Dog Heaven. Bliss on a Bun. For 75 cents you, yes you, can have a hot dog onto which a sweaty man in white will pile endless sauerkraut -- for no additional charge. The line stretches down the street as starving Greenwich Villagers, wallets empty from paying their $2,000 rents, wait for a little bit o' Heaven slathered with spicy mustard. But you don't just go to Gray's Papaya to get a hot dog for 50 cents less than you'd pay anywhere else in the city, you go to get, that's right, papaya juice. It's one of several exotic fruity delights they have; pina colada and orange juice are there, among others. The dogs are even better than the ones launched at you by Der Wiener Schlinger in Lincoln, Nebraska's Memorial Stadium. Yes, that good.
Gray's Papaya | 402 Sixth Avenue at 8th Street | Greenwich Village, Manhattan, New York City
_____
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Gray's Papaya | 402 Sixth Avenue at 8th Street | Greenwich Village, Manhattan, New York City
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Arthur Bryant's
Kansas City, Missouri -- Driving 45 minutes through flash floods, car-shaking wind and the occasional hailstone to reach a place a block away from that morning's fatal shooting is worth it if the destination is Arthur Bryant's.
This is the barbecue that stuffed-to-bursting, groggy, contented 6 p.m. naps are made of. It starts blocks away, that scent of smoking meat you know will subtract a day or two from your life, but who cares? You near the parking lot and wave to the rent-a-cop watching carefully over the beat-up station wagons and Lexus sedans parked side-by-side. Your stomach roars carnivorously like some starved mountain lion leaping upon its longed-for meal. Your legs move of their own accord, longing for purchase upon Arthur Bryant's rain- and drippings-soaked floors.
The screen doors slap shut behind you as you quickly assess the ordering line, figuring instantaneously how long you must endure the smoky sights and smells before tasting of their goodness. People of all shapes and sizes, colors and ages fill the narrow room ahead. Unfortunately, several of them are ahead of you in the queue.
The dirty jeans-clad lucky man who's reached the window says turkey on whole wheat, pickles and fries. He doesn't need to say "to go" - that's assumed, unless you hand the man behind the counter a dishwasher-hot white plate from the tall stacks close at hand. Behind him the high-powered businessman waits, gold cufflinks jingling as his hands shake slightly in anticipation.
A huge sheet of butcher paper is laid on the cutting board. One slice of whole wheat, then six more next to it (you need a lot of bread to soak up all the meat juice and sauce). A pound of meat on the single slice. Slap it with a house-painter's brush soaked in barbecue sauce. The customer wants extra, really paint it this time. Top with other six slices of bread. Grab a handful of fries pulled just seconds ago from boiling oil (no protection for the skin, first-time customers stare in wonderment), dodge the co-worker heading with a slab of meat for the slicer, pile the fries next to the sandwich. Grab a handful of dill pickle slices from a huge plastic jar, slap them down on the other side of the sandwich. Roll the whole mess into a ball the size of a cantaloupe. Juices soaking through, wrap it in another big sheet of butcher paper and seal with a sticker printed with Arthur Bryant's address (as if you could possibly forget it). Hand it to the happy customer, who rushes to pay at the end of the line because he knows the meaty majesty that awaits him.
This is the place where presidents (Jimmy Carter) dine. This is the place where you don't need foo-foo "side orders" like corn on the cob and cole slaw to fill the empty space left by less-than-generous servings of meat. This is the place that makes you look at restaurants like K.C. Masterpiece and Famous Dave's and think, "Why eat there? I'll just waste valuable stomach capacity I could better use at Arthur Bryant's!"
This is the place that occupies the same block as Wanna Burger, where employees could be seen through the windows (I kid you not) still cleaning up the bloodstains from that morning's shooting. This is the place I drove through a tornado watch to get to on a Saturday. This is the place that's worth it.
There's pork, beef and turkey for sandwiches, as well as sausage, ribs and burnt ends. There's the fries. Beer by the glass or the pitcher, or a big 40-ounce soft drink in a cup with the Arthur Bryant's logo if you're driving. Six to eight dollars for the sandwiches and I've never tried the ribs or sausage - the sandwiches are just too good. A group of four can dine for $48, beer, soft drinks and enough leftovers for next day's lunch included.
The blinding-hot smoker, big as an industrial refrigerator, stands with its blackened doors wide open just three feet behind the counter. At Arthur Bryant's, you know where your meat is coming from - because they pull slabs out of the furnace and start slicing them if they run out of meat on the counter. You could go to some lesser chain barbecue restaurant, where some college student serves you a prettified plate of origin-unknown "barbecue" - or you could travel three hours from Lincoln, Nebraska, four from Omaha, Nebraska, or send your private jet from California (it's happened). Who cares? It's worth it.
Arthur Bryant's | 1727 Brooklyn, Kansas City, Missouri | (816) 231-1123
_____
This piece originally appeared May 29, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here.
This is the barbecue that stuffed-to-bursting, groggy, contented 6 p.m. naps are made of. It starts blocks away, that scent of smoking meat you know will subtract a day or two from your life, but who cares? You near the parking lot and wave to the rent-a-cop watching carefully over the beat-up station wagons and Lexus sedans parked side-by-side. Your stomach roars carnivorously like some starved mountain lion leaping upon its longed-for meal. Your legs move of their own accord, longing for purchase upon Arthur Bryant's rain- and drippings-soaked floors.
The screen doors slap shut behind you as you quickly assess the ordering line, figuring instantaneously how long you must endure the smoky sights and smells before tasting of their goodness. People of all shapes and sizes, colors and ages fill the narrow room ahead. Unfortunately, several of them are ahead of you in the queue.
The dirty jeans-clad lucky man who's reached the window says turkey on whole wheat, pickles and fries. He doesn't need to say "to go" - that's assumed, unless you hand the man behind the counter a dishwasher-hot white plate from the tall stacks close at hand. Behind him the high-powered businessman waits, gold cufflinks jingling as his hands shake slightly in anticipation.
A huge sheet of butcher paper is laid on the cutting board. One slice of whole wheat, then six more next to it (you need a lot of bread to soak up all the meat juice and sauce). A pound of meat on the single slice. Slap it with a house-painter's brush soaked in barbecue sauce. The customer wants extra, really paint it this time. Top with other six slices of bread. Grab a handful of fries pulled just seconds ago from boiling oil (no protection for the skin, first-time customers stare in wonderment), dodge the co-worker heading with a slab of meat for the slicer, pile the fries next to the sandwich. Grab a handful of dill pickle slices from a huge plastic jar, slap them down on the other side of the sandwich. Roll the whole mess into a ball the size of a cantaloupe. Juices soaking through, wrap it in another big sheet of butcher paper and seal with a sticker printed with Arthur Bryant's address (as if you could possibly forget it). Hand it to the happy customer, who rushes to pay at the end of the line because he knows the meaty majesty that awaits him.
This is the place where presidents (Jimmy Carter) dine. This is the place where you don't need foo-foo "side orders" like corn on the cob and cole slaw to fill the empty space left by less-than-generous servings of meat. This is the place that makes you look at restaurants like K.C. Masterpiece and Famous Dave's and think, "Why eat there? I'll just waste valuable stomach capacity I could better use at Arthur Bryant's!"
This is the place that occupies the same block as Wanna Burger, where employees could be seen through the windows (I kid you not) still cleaning up the bloodstains from that morning's shooting. This is the place I drove through a tornado watch to get to on a Saturday. This is the place that's worth it.
There's pork, beef and turkey for sandwiches, as well as sausage, ribs and burnt ends. There's the fries. Beer by the glass or the pitcher, or a big 40-ounce soft drink in a cup with the Arthur Bryant's logo if you're driving. Six to eight dollars for the sandwiches and I've never tried the ribs or sausage - the sandwiches are just too good. A group of four can dine for $48, beer, soft drinks and enough leftovers for next day's lunch included.
The blinding-hot smoker, big as an industrial refrigerator, stands with its blackened doors wide open just three feet behind the counter. At Arthur Bryant's, you know where your meat is coming from - because they pull slabs out of the furnace and start slicing them if they run out of meat on the counter. You could go to some lesser chain barbecue restaurant, where some college student serves you a prettified plate of origin-unknown "barbecue" - or you could travel three hours from Lincoln, Nebraska, four from Omaha, Nebraska, or send your private jet from California (it's happened). Who cares? It's worth it.
Arthur Bryant's | 1727 Brooklyn, Kansas City, Missouri | (816) 231-1123
This piece originally appeared May 29, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here.
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