smattering

5.  P.F. Changs – two instances; one in Las Vegas five years ago, one in Phoenix three years ago.  Both because a) we were starving because we’d forgotten to eat on the plane, b) both were directly across from our hotels in each locale, and therefore were the most efficient and delicious way of cramming food into our gaping, three-hours-in-the-future maws.

4. Some Irish Pub, Sevilla, Spain.  Okay, this is blasphemy, I know.  We were fifteen sixteen-year-old college girls out of the North American continent for the first time, it had been raining for twenty seven billion straight hours, we were starving, and the only man on our trip was eleven years old.  This pub was completely staffed by gorgeous young Irish exchange students (including one set of twins – occasionally I wonder if other women have the same guy-thing about twins, or if it’s just me, but probably not) and served something called a “Spanish Omelet” which was a towering cake-like slab of potatoes, onions, and cheese.  We ate there twice in two days, unashamedly.  It was only topped when we found it two days later in SANDWICH FORM, which automatically makes something more awesome, in my opinion.  Because my taste is such that if everything came in the form of a sandwich, I would probably be a happier person.

3.  Paco’s (I think?) in Doylestown, PA.  It was attached to a cheap motel, featured many boozed up short-skirted women and screaming children, and was festooned with fake plastic palm trees decorated with hundreds of Christmas lights.  I hated Mexican food at the time, but by god I would beg to go there any time going out for food was brought up.  I wish I could go back now and get smashed on margaritas and eat a mountain of quesadillas.

2.  Shogun, South Brunswick, NJ.  The best hibachi place ever.  I would get double orders of noodles and tell them to please not give me those vegetables, as they are taking up all the valuable stomach real estate into which I could be cramming even more noodles and grilled shrimp.  Our favorite chef was from Costa Rica, which he called “the most beautiful country in the world.”  Bonus: when it was your birthday they brought out a bottle of wine with a sparkler jammed into it, which they would light indoors to the consternation and delight of parents/children respectively, a giant man in a bear suit would come out to give you a hug, no matter your age, and a disco ball would emerge from the ceiling while a techno j-pop version of the birthday song played – except the chorus went “happy birthday dear white man happy birthday to you!”  I wish I could spend every birthday there

1.  Blue Smoke, New York City, NY.  Barbeque joint, comfort food, best macaroni and cheese, ribs, and corn bread I’ve ever eaten.  And half my family is from West Virginia and lives off of those three food items.  They have an appetizer that’s essentially large barbeque potato chips which, if you’re really good and want to pay a certain extra fee, they bring you out a little platter of bleu cheese dressing with hunks of bacon in it. My father and I would regularly drive/train in the hour and a half from central NJ to NYC pretty much just to eat at this restaurant.  After about the tenth time we’d been one of the waiters recognized us and dubbed us “The Twelve Step Program.”     One of the reasons I regret not going to school in New York is that now I cannot make my home directly across the street from the restaurant, in a cardboard box most likely, and wake up every morning huffing the smoke from the applewood-fired stove.  They also had at least thirty different types of whisky available for drinking.  Please go, if you’re within fifty miles of the place.  For me, if not for yourself.  But really, you won’t regret it.