Welcome back to the weekly roundup here at Eating Our Words, where we're growing out our summer mustaches so that we can carry around the savory scent of any crawfish boils we attend for at least a week.
Speaking of weeks, we started this one off right with a look at how New Mexican cuisine compares to Tex-Mex. There are people in New Mexico? I thought there were only a few folks who take the shuttle over from El Paso to Albuquerque every day to work the Stuckey's.
For some reason, Taco Bell's new Doritos taco had people talking, and if you think that's controversial, just wait until they combine that taco with Doritos' new "Jacked" flavors. There are 600 ingredients. They all start with "mono" and end with "zine."
People all over the place still don't accept that we descended from primates, and yet we're paying people money to make food look good. If it doesn't look tasty to your monkey brain, you won't want it. Especially if said monkey brain is hung over.
Don't miss the Moonlighting-esque "will they or won't they?" chemistry in this week's Point-Counterpoint, wherein our heroes tackle the wonder of the Monte Cristo sandwich. God, just do it already, you two. Jeez Louise.
Nabi was hit-and-miss this time around, but fared better than the store-bought chocolate chip cookies, which were pretty much all miss. There will always be a special place in my heart for Chips Ahoy, which I used to eat by the sleeve for breakfast before school in junior high. I believe that special place would be my left ventricle.
Any excuse is a good excuse to prominently display a goat's asshole, and we certainly did that this week. We also learned that fast food doesn't have to be terrible, although calling it "fast food" now seems inaccurate connotation-wise if not technically. "Pronto food?" Yeah, no.
Complimentary bread service seems to be going the way of the dodo, but that's actually not a bad thing: if you have to pay for it, it tends to be waaaaay better.
Brunch at Max's Wine Dive looks like the most amazing thing ever. I just ate a sandwich the size of a trombone and I'd still gladly shove my face into any of those meals pictured. That reminds me: why do you people keep sending me links to books with titles like "Ending Your Unhealthy Relationship With Food" every time I write this column?
We've decided to take a look at Frito Pies again, and folks are still arguing about what is/is not a Frito Pie, ALMOST AS IF PEOPLE HAVE DIFFERENT PREFERENCES AND TRADITIONS. Here's a fun thing to do: find the most devoted punk rocker you can and try to convince them that, technically, Green Day is a punk rock band. It's kind of the same thing. Hours and hours of
An important public service this time of year is the crawfish boil etiquette primer we drew up for you, and it all boils (ha!) down to one simple axiom: don't be a prissy douche. That's good advice most of the time, really.
The education continues with a handy little guide for fighting stains, although try as you might, you can never scrape the stain off your soul. You know what you did.
Finally, some lady in our fair city invented specialized tongs to grasp nachos with. Oh, I would love for one of my friends to reach into his coat pocket and foppishly draw these babies out during a group meal, and then proceed to daintily grip each individual nacho and carefully insert it into his mouth. It's probably not easy to jam a pair of forked tongs way up into someone's ocular cavity, but I bet we can do it.
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