The Bearded Lunch

To avoid the inevitable disaster of Christmas, my family took road trips every year. Instead of sitting around, watching Granny drink her Manhattans and grandpa barking commands about turing the water off the right way and shutting the door the right way, my parents cleverly chose to take a cross country trip each year to a new destination. One year, we went to New Orleans. Now, as a 13-year-old, I had shocking experience: "Mom, that lady didn't have a shirt on." To which my mother replied, "She's no lady, honey." In short, the seedy side of NOLA was not lost on my impressionable mind. I could not wait to go back as an adult. (I have been there twice since, and each time was confirmation that the Big Easy is still my kind of town.)

I remember on that trip, my dad ate about 40 pounds of red beans and rice. It seemed that he'd become a junky as soon as he crossed the Louisiana border. When travelling with four females, some men would turn to drink, others might lose themselves in sports. On this trip, my dad fell off the Red Beans and Rice wagon. I didn't care for it myself, and I lost my taste for it completely on the way home when the beans finally caught up with him. "Each bean is a potential fart," he'd declare, then lay a scud that would force us to roll down the windows and hang our heads outside. We had more than 800 miles to drive.

It is with this now fond memory that I finally, after six years of pining to try it, entered Treebeards. Since moving to Houston, I've wanted to go there, but the hours are quirky and getting there was something of a challenge. Now that I am stationed a mere three blocks during work hours, I have no excuses.

My first visit was filled with awe and wonder. It had that New Orelans feel to it with the black iron railings and plantation windows. The food looked wonderful and the staff was more than nice. I got the gumbo, green beans, and cornbread. My honey got etouffe, greens, broccoli. When we sat down, I knew that this was my kind of place. The gumbo was amazing. It was spicy, yet just a little soupy. The green beans had a heavy garlic on them that made them slip down easily and the jalapeno cornbread was worth every carb-a-licious bite.

I finally got aggressive and tried Matt's etouffe. It was good, but the gumbo was significantly better.

So when I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have lunch with my dad, we headed to Treebeards. I wanted him to see it for himself. Immediately, I knew he'd fall off the wagon and be back to his old tricks with the red beans and rice. Sure enough, he got the large bowl with onions and jalapenos. I think he liked it. He didn't say much, but gobbled up the whole kit and caboodle, with a few slices of French bread to wash it down.Maybehe was in a reverie of the good old days some 17 years ago when he found a way to have Big Red for all three squares.

This time, I chose the jambalaya, which, I must tell you, was exquisite. Get it. The sausage is outstanding, there is just enough veggie to give texture and bulk, and the spice is just enough to keep you hot and bothered, yet making you want more. There were no green beans, so I substituted bread pudding with whiskey sauce. It was one of those desserts that gets better the more you eat it. But the end, I was loving it ten times more than in the beginng. Was is the whiskey talking?

I am glad I had the opportunity to take my dad there. He and my mom are staying with me for a few days, and when I went in to say good night, sure enough, my dad said, "Every bean is a potential fart." Then he ambushed my mom and I. This time, I just shut the door and headed into the other room.

Say It Ain't So, Otto

Genetics have left me predisposed to several things: chubby thighs, migraine headaches, an internal navigation system (affectionately named Hellergation by my boyfriend), and a love for Bar-B-Que. I mean, there's nothing like a good rub and bone or two to suck on. (Seriously people, get it out of the gutter.)

Growing up in Wisconsin, BBQ was a delicacy and quite hard to come by. Our common version was also called Spanish Hamburger, and outside of Wisconsin we call it Manwich. Now don't get me wrong, a Sloppy Joe has it's time and place in my heart. I mean, give me a few potato chips, some pickles, and nary a complaint will slip from these lips. But when you've lapped up dry rub ribs at the Rendezvous in Memphis or Andy's vinegar base in Richmond, ole Joe slips into a different category.

My father and I have created a rating system for BBQ, we're that intense. Tenderness, spice, sauce, rub, vinegar usage, smoke, sides... all considerations for finding that perfect combination. We are strict connoisseurs of the cuisine and use a take no prisoners approach. When I moved to Texas, I felt that it would be worth my time to become well versed in Texas-style BBQ. And I have learned a lot in my adventures towards finding the best BBQ in Texas. I'm a firm believer that Saltlick outside of Austin is perhaps where God eats on the weekend.

When a friend said that Otto's BBQ in Memorial was a superior stop in Houston, I thought I would try it out before my dad's next visit. I'm glad I did the leg work ahead of time and saved us a wasted meal.

It's located on Memorial Dr. just between the park and Shepherd, across from the Starbucks. The restaurant is divided in two: burgers in the front building, BBQ in the back. Walk through the utility closet and you'll see it.

This is the kind of joint you expect to be good. It's old, rickety, smells yummy and smoky, and has pickles sitting out for the taking. They even have their own line of rootbeer, cream soda, and orange pop. I felt my heart leap... this was it, I thought. This was the down and dirty BBQ joint I'd been looking for. I ordered the turkey with beans and potato salad; Matt got the ribs and brisket, with potato salad and cole slaw.

But when it came, the food was a disappointment. There's something wrong with BBQ when you pour hot sauce on it to spice it up a bit. And I did. I used a lot to add an extra something to give my smoked meat that pep I adore. I watched Matt gnaw his ribs; the meat was tough and turkey had a bit of a funny after taste. It was, I hate to say, just not great BBQ. It wasn't terrible, but it isn't good enough to bring me back, much less take my dad who would leave heartbroken, disenchanted and confused.

There were, of course benefits. I liked that they had cornbread out to eat at no extra cost (no butter?). And of course, the pile of pickles I ate was more than enough to feed a pickle monster for a month. Maybe next time I should just go and order a water and eat all the pickles in the joint. The sides were fine, particularly the beans, which I ate all of.

While Goode Company is perhaps the best in Houston to my knowledge, I am on a quest to find if there is better. Otto's isn't it. I'll keep looking.

Lights Out at Candelaris

I hate when a place's food is outstanding, but the service is so bad that it threatens my loyalties. And I am loyal. Particularly to food places.

Usually I eat at the Candelari's on Bissonnet as carry out. It's a small storefront with about three tables. With the proximity to my house (just a few blocks), I can run over, pick up the pizza, and grab some beer at the quick mart on the way back. It's an ideal situation made for harried girls like me. The entire process from phone in to food in is about 30 minutes.

And the pizza is outstanding. It's not grasy at all, which is the first thing that I appreciate. There's cheese, sure, but somehow it's missing that swimming pool of liquid heart clogger in the center. They also have an amazing 5-grain crust that's not dry like many competitors' pizza. It stands up to to the flavors of the pizza and offers a distinct flavor and texture that's not all bland and wheaty. And their sausage is... well... really, really good. I can't think of a better way to explain it. The variety is unique and the flavors are incredible: sun-dried tomator chicken sausage, turkey japapeno, pepper beef... just to tantalize you with a few. And again with the not grasy thing. You'd think with that meat, you'd be elbow deep in fat... no. Not true.

But seriously, make sure you get your order read clearly back to you. The employees at Candelaris are among the worst you'll find and threaten to keep me and others loyal to the joint. I'm pretty good about getting the order read back, but when I don't, I pay for it. Case in point, last Friday night.

I went with several friends to the Candelari's on Washington, which is the location with the full restaurant. It's a bigger operation than that one I am used to and was impressed with how cute it was. It's a total heights kind of place: quirky, unique, fun. We all ordered seperately and sat down.

My pizza seemed to cause a lot of problems. A manager came out twice to ask me what I had on the pizza. He offered a dinner salad while I waited, but I said I would be fine. Which I thought was really nice. When I got my pizza, however, it was wrong, even though I ordered it three times. Not just one thing was wrong, but two. I was missing the 5-grain crust and they put on sun dried tomatoes instead of a sausage. It was totally edible and I didn't leverage a complaint, until after I ate a fair portion of the pie.

When my friends Amy and Kyle got their pizza, same thing. Theirs was smothered in sun dried tomatoes instead of sausage. It's easy enough to understand the mistake, we all wanted the sun dried tomato sausage. And I take partial responsibilty for not asking for the order to be read back. But at the same time, the manager came back to discuss the persistent problems and didn't seem too concerned. He offered to change it, but it seemed a bit grudging as though he were really saying, "You're not really going to ask us to remake the pizza, are you?" And Amy and Kyle understandably gave in. They said no, go ahead and add the sausage to the top and we'll eat what we've got.

I guess I feel like a consistent problem like that shouldn't be happening. The people taking orders need to listen better. And making a customer's order correct should never an option for the customer. It should be done without even asking if they want it fixed. Apparently, this problem is always a concern. Amy and Kyle dine there just about every Friday, and every week, without fail, the order is wrong in one way or another. Amy made a great point when she said, "At first it was funny, but now it's just irritating." If I had to guess, she's too frustrated to go back. An who can blame her, if the employees aren't going to start listening to their customers after six weeks, they're never going to.

And I would be angry too. But with only two wrong orders (I had a wrong carry out once as well), I am not ready to say lights out... or candles out... but I don't blame others for giving up. After all, it's just pizza.

Per Whatto?

I have been so excited to try Perbacco. There was some buzz about it when it opened, and I read about their great Italian delicacies, particularly the gnocchi. I called Matt A. and we decided to head there for lunch. I am now working a block away in the downtown/theatre district, so it's an easy trip for me.

The decor is cute as can be. The white walls and blue accents make me think I am on the Mediterranean. Although I have never been there. But still, a girl can pretend, can't she? Lots of windows and hardwoods. It's really a catchy place.

The menu is interesting, but the gnocchi was nowhere to be found. I felt jipped... I mean, that's why I'm supposed to go, isn't it? I ordered a tortellini with a cream sauce. The lunch came with salad and bread. The salad was fine and the bread was stale. The tortelling was very good. Soft, creamy, but I kept adding more pepper and parmesan cheese to my dish which means it wasn't all that flavorful.

When Matt asked what I thought about it, I summed it up with a shrug and said, "It's good." I guess that's my overall analysis. Either I am missing something, or it's not living up to the expectations I had based on the hype. In fact, it made me crave D'Amicos in the village, if anything. Which doesn't really bode well... one restaurant making you crave another. Hmmm....

It's worth a second try, for sure. Maybe I'll give it a shot for dinner.

A Java Good Place

You've got to try Java Java Cafe in the Heights. But please, don't tell anyone.

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend and I couldn't think of somewhere to go to eat. In both of our lethargic states, we decided that we'd walk the two blocks to the sketchy restaurant down the street. Don't be deceived by the exterior. Nor the interior for that matter. The inside is something of a dump with folding chairs and table cloths that I saw in my grandma's house in the 70's. It's the food that's at hand and this eatery is tasty.

The first time we ate there, I got the Tropical Salad, which was a quarter pineapple with chicken salad on top. It was amazing. The combination of sweet/tart pineapple perfectly balanced the salty/savory salad. There were additional fruits and sweet breads to accompany. To top it all off, I had the Honey Nut Latte. Oh my gawd... sweeter than hot chocolate, but ten times tastier. It's a latte with honey and almond syrup. It comes in a rootbeer mug, but don't let that stop you from enjoying the tasty morsel.

Matt B. got the Huevos Ranchero. He's not a sharer, so I can't comment on his food. He ate it, which doesn't say a lot. He eats most things.

The second visit was all about breakfast for me this time. I had the croissant french toast. It was really wonderful. It came with strawberries on top. The bread was squishy and the syrup and strawberries added that something extra. No butter needed, the croissants have plenty.

Again, Matt B. got a breakfast combination that I can't comment on. Maybe I should be more aggressive?

None of it overly pricy, although for the both of us, it usually runs about $20. They have a soup bar during the week for lunch, and I'll probably need to take a day off of work to figure how to get there in time. I must supply my readers with something to go on. That's what I tell myself, at least.

In short, it's a great hole-in-the wall. It gets busy on weekends, so word is out about it. Don't count on great service-- it is pretty abysmal, but, hey, sometimes you've gotta let it go. And this is one of those times. But keep the tip mum, we don't want too may people going and packing it.