Manolo says, EVOO is people! And dogs!

P.S. Shopped!.

Little Americans, do your bit: no matter how noxious it may be

Yes, kiddies: close your eyes and do it for your country!

Oatmeal is made from corn? Who knew??? Also: corn meal mush needs a new marketing strategy. Filboid Studge, anyone?

Does their milkshake bring all the boys to the yard?

It is with sadness (for we always enjoy having one more ridonkulous thing in the world upon which to snark) that we note that health concerns have turned off the tap on Baby Gaga, the ice cream made from human breast milk. It seems dairy livestock need to be raised in accordance with certain conditions which the new mothers of London were not as a rule encountering in their own lifestyles.

The late lamented publicity magnet was offered at London ice creamateria The Icecreamists for a cool £14 a serving; a serving which was delivered to you by a waitress dressed up as, yes, Lady Gaga. Apparently, it tasted like vanilla. And desperation.

We much prefer the new (and, yes, real) Ben & Jerry’s Late Night Snack ice cream, another vanilla variant, this one with salty caramel swirl and fudge covered potato chip clusters. All that’s missing is the salsa and it’s a late night meal in a carton!

Late Night Ice Cream: Beer and/or pot not included

Apparently Jimmy Fallon is involved in the product, but presumably not as a “donor.”

My god, what did we ever do before we had the technological capability to MST3K red carpet events in realtime? Also, the woman has a point.

Chiabattaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

And don’t ask about dips.

Oh jeez, there goes the party

I’m back! Didja miss me?

During my recent and entirely (I assure you) involuntary hiatus from food and beverage products of a kind which are not delivered via intravenous drip, there was one thing and one thing alone which I craved, and I craved it both morning and night, at noon and at the witching hour, and indeed at every moment in between. Yes, it seems that a mandated cessation from oral gratification of the most basic kind has a predictable, and inescapable result.

BBQ craving.

The nurses tell me this isn’t a surprise to them. The dieticians told me nothing, because if they were in the business of paying attention to patients, they’d be providing better food, wouldn’t they? You sam hill bet they would. But no matter how many sucrose-based, saline-encrusted chemicals they pump into your arm, they can’t deliver taste or satisfaction. Curious, though, that I craved protein the entire time; I wasn’t exactly working out the whole time.

Which reminds me of my friend Christi, who used to live in North Carolina, home to Duke University, which boasts the most advanced obesity-research center in the world, ringed entirely by BBQ restaurants. She walked into one once, asked “What kind of meat is it?” and was told, “Barbeque.” That, apparently, settles that. Ah, the mysteries of American culture.

All of which is just so much preamble to the question: What can you tell me about good old American barbeque? I went out today to Vera’s, “Vancouver’s best burgers,” specifically to satisfy my craving for saucy, meaty goodness (the burlesque shows don’t open till 7 around my hood) and was, to say the least, disappointed. There was slime. There was meat. But there was no piquancy. There was no smokiness. There was no detectable level of carboniferious goodness. Ou sont les scorch marks d’antan?

I understand that in some esoteric enclaves such as San Antonio and North Carolina, BBQ is something of a religion with its own fractured family tree of orthodoxies. As I wouldn’t dream of stepping on anyone’s orthodoxies, I’m wondering if any of you are secret or not so secret acolytes, and if you wouldn’t mind enlightening us.

Besides, I’m too damn lazy to Google it.

Shawn Soole by Vancouver Foodster

UPDATE: Golly, just look how influential we are: it got in the New York Times today!

Well, what do you know? The humble ManoloFood blog has permeated the highest reaches of the Cocktailosphere and influenced Liquid Revolutionary Shawn Soole of Clives Classic Lounge, one of the best bartenders on the fair shores of the Pacific. Yes, undoubtably in response to our epic post about the world’s poshest grilled cheese sarnies, he’s been moved to create the masterpiece of cocktail curiosity known as Grilled Cheese Washed Rum.

And we have a world exclusive on the recipe:

You start with an amber, not too aggressive rum (specifically the lovely Mount Gay) and make yourself a super cheesy, super buttery grilled cheese sandwich with whatever bread you want. Make two, because you’ll want to eat one, silly! Crumble the spare up, soak it in the rum for 4-6 hours, covered airtightly which to me means pyrex pie tins with plastic wrap secured by rubber band. Don’t use plastic; it’ll absorb all the aromas! And metal is risky; stick with glass or pyrex.

Strain the crumbly bits out of your booze and toss them. Freeze the rum so that the fat solidifies and then break it off. If you freeze it too long, just let it sit on the counter a bit till it’s softened and you can pull the fat off in a sheet. This is almost as much fun as picking a scab, and with no pain! And it’s hardly gross at all!!!

So far, so awesome.

Now put it through a coffee filter a couple of times to get the last of the cloud-making bits, and what you’ve got left is your deliciously salty, deliciously savory, artisanal grilled cheese washed rum. Sounds crazy, tastes savory. It’s unusual but it’s also very, very good.

Cheers! For more sandwich-based beverage recipes, see this roundup of sandwich-in-a-glass cocktails made for National Sandwich Day, November 3rd.

We've found the problem: Chef Boyardee isn't in the kitchen tonight

It’s your own fault for booking on a Monday, rube!

In related news, Chef Boyardee was a real chef, and he never would have gone near PG-13 crap like Zoodles!