Craftsteak, Or, How I Lost My Kobe Cherry

A few weeks ago I went to Vegas for "business". Sadly this "business" was bereft of hookers. Fortunately, for at least a night it was full of Kobe beef.

I've never had Kobe beef before. As my experience at BLT Steak and life in general has proved to me, I'm not really a big fan of beef and steaks and all that woo-ha. However, I am a fan of fully comped meals at expensive restaurants of any kind, so I wasn't going to argue over where said comped meal would occur. In this case, the location was Craftsteak at the MGM Grand.

Now, I have a love/hate relationship with Vegas. I used to really hate it, but this trip helped me come around to its charms - mostly because I was there for "business" so I didn't pay for a goddamn thing and I was with someone who had the "hookup" (see: comped meal at Craftsteak, among other things). To be honest, this is probably the only way I could go to Vegas unless I was loaded, as to enjoy Vegas you need to have money coming out of your ying-yang. Everything is ridiculously expensive and there's not much in between - you're either dropping $150 each for a great meal or you're eating at McDonalds. I generally shun McDonalds. Also, the city is clean trash-wise but seedy otherwise... like when you see an expose on a fancy hotel and the rooms look clean and nice and lovely, and then they bring out the black light and EVERYTHING in the room is covered in a fine film of dried semen. Yeah. Think about it.

Anyways - Craftsteak. Started things out and continued things with Perrier-Jouet, which is a good way to start things (for reference purposes - the glass cost about as much as a bottle.. I'm not sure why I note this as I live in NYC and should be used to this, but still, it just ain't right). Since the meal was comped, I was SORELY tempted to order a bottle of something ridiculous, but the three other people I was with didn't want to drink. Missed opportunity.

After much table discussion and prompting from our server, we went with a prix-fixe Kobe Surf and Turf. All details aside, this meant we had a bunch of typical fancy Steakhouse appetizers (salads, prosciutto, etc) which were all standardly good. Then the main courses: two pots of two-pound lobsters in bisque sauce, Kobe skirt steak, and Kobe filet. Since half of the table didn't like lobster, that left me and the other person with a pot of lobster. Obviously the little two-pound bastard didn't last more than a few minutes as it had been mostly pre cracked and cut up.

The Kobe filet was great, but it wasn't there that I really noticed the difference between Kobe and regular beef. I mean, a filet's always really good and since I'm no connoisseur I couldn't really say much other than it was a really really good filet. The difference came in the skirt steak. Skirt steak is the counterarguement to any time I proclaim that I don't like steak or beef, as I really like skirt steak.

I have positive memories of eating skirt steak mostly every night my first trip to Key Biscayne and getting really really drunk afterwards and being told the next morning The Other Mike had seen my balls as he rolled around the floor drunk as a skunk. The Kobe skirt steak was awesome. It was melt in your mouth awesome. Now, I'm not entirely sure what the difference between a filet and skirt steak is, but I'm inclined to believe that while both come from a cow they don't come from the same place on said cow. In this case it was like someone said, hey, here's a really good filet of beef, lets somehow turn it into skirt steak, AND THEY DID. Oh god did they. It was so good.

I doubt I will get Kobe beef anytime soon, though, as the entire meal for 4 was somewhere upwards of $800.. although about $100-120 of that was probably champagne... and about $100-120 of that was consumed by me. However, I must say, if the opportunity presents itself, I will Kobe again.

Kittichai Thai Why?

For some reason I've fallen off the blogging wagon and this is my attempt to get back on.

A few weeks (months maybe?) back I went to Kittichai with the Pale Imitation of Desmond (Deluca) and the Lobster Loving Afghan for a little dinner. Like all restaurants on Earth that I haven't been to, I've been meaning to go here for some time. So one Spring/Winter/I-can't-keep-track-of-time day, we three went downtown to Soho for a little Kittichai.

What is Kittichai? I'm not sure which food oriented website I saw this on, but I once read that Kittichai was Thai foods answer to high-end Japanese in the form of Nobu. I love Nobu. I love high-end. I love food. I especially love Thai food and the prospect of a Nobu-ish Thai restaurant in Soho. Sounds perfect right?

WELLLL.... here's the thing...

First of all, the decor was pretty tight. They had a pond in the middle of the dimly lit restaurant area (the bar area was small and nothing to write home about). I believe there were lily pads floating around and maybe even a few fish and the pond was referred to as the "reflecting pool". That's pretty tight, right? The rest of it was all "dark, trendy Thai restaurant in Soho" wicker and dark wood tables. I'm still fuzzy about the fish being in the central pond - I feel like if there were fish in there I would have made a comment about how much I wanted to eat them, but I don't remember making said comment, so maybe there weren't any fish?

So yeah, cool decor. I had a glass of champagne and Lobster Afghan had some form of mojito that came with (and I quote after checking with her what the hell she had) "sugar cane or some shit". Either way, it was good, as were most of the mixed drinks we had.. except I had some sort of berry mojito or some shit that was like sipping on liquid Nerds. Deluca might have had a lychee martini, but who can remember what she got. It's Deluca. Just like Paris Hilton exists for our attention, Deluca lives to be ignored. Oh, also, they had Hoegarden on tap, which is pretty much the best idea ever - Thai food and Hoegarden.

Anyways, the drinks were good, yada yada yada. The food... well... I wouldn't say I was "disappointed" per say, but I don't think I'd ever go back. It was pretty expensive and the portions were predictably small... but there were a lot of hits and misses. On the appetizer front, the fish cakes were awesome. The Northern Thai Beef Salad was eh, and I was really looking forward to that (I'm not sure why, but I was). The other interesting one was some finely shaved ham with stuff on top. Sorry I can't get more descriptive than that cause it's been like two or three months, but that should tell you something -- it wasn't that memorable except that it lookd like a ham pizza of some sort.

Main courses were... um... so so? I got the pineapple braised short ribs in a green curry because I had read sooo much about it (because of course, months prior to actually going I had been reading up all sorts of reviews).. and after consuming it, I'm not sure why it got so much attention. The meat was good, fell right off, but there was no "pineapple" flavor and the green curry sauce itself was a) not that good and b) hardly there at all. Deluca had a Sea Bass of some sort, which was just eh. Lobster Afghan, though, hit the jackpot with her lamb shank. Oh man. The lamb just melted off the bone. It came with a sauce, too.

See? This is what happens when I eat somewhere and don't blog about it till months later. I come up with inspired gems like "It came with a sauce, too".

Afterwards we retired to Tabac Ciroc where we got champagne cocktails and yelled at each other over loud music. Champagne cocktails were good. The air purifiers we were promised would protect us from the cigar smoke all around us? Not so good. Blame the Afghan for that (as well as the destruction of Buddha statues in her native homeland).

What a lame ass post. Later dudes.

On the Gayest Place on Earth

I think I might have stumbled into the gayest place in New York City last night - a little place called Arriba Arriba (which I assume is Mexican for "Gay gay"). Also in attendance was the Pale Imitation of Desmond (Deluca) and Joanna, via Rhode Island.

Now.. in general, as we all know, I don't like Mexican food.... so this whole little caper began on the wrong foot as I met the dynamic duo on the corner of 46th and 9th and was informed that we'd be going to a Mexican place. I subtly tried to indicate two places that had BYOB and was promptly ignored.

I don't like being ignored. It hurts my feelings.

However, I was reminded that I like tequila (boy do I ever!), so things got back on track after that. So, anyways, we get in and are greeted by perhaps the gayest Mexican host on earth. How did I know he was gay? Well, that's like asking, is the sky blue? Are unicorns real? Is Mike a fatass alcoholic? Etc.

Anyways, it didn't QUITE hit us how gay Arriba Arriba was until the gay bartender made us gay frozen margaritas and we listened closely to the really subtle gay music being played gayly... and by subtle I mean thumping and uber-loud, uber-gay Ace of Bass (uber is a gay word, therefore it's place in this blog is neccessary). Gay Gay Gay.

Musicwise, what followed was a colorful rainbow of Britney Spears, Ace of Bass, and other assorted gay songs... except for some reason both Cher and Madonna were not featured artists. Are the gays mad at them? It was also fun to take any song they played and make it into inneundo.. like, for some strange reason the DJ (who danced to his own beat... the beat being commonly known as "Xtacy") played a Beatles song - Come Together. Get it? Come....... together......

The crowd also reinforced my assertion that this was the gayest place to be on Thursday night in New York City. It's like, you're a crocodile, right? And you're going down the pond to just check out things, you know, do crocodile things. And you sorta meander into a little pond section and you see a bunch of other crocodiles, and you're all like, OK, this is a popular spot... but after a little while you're like, hmmm something is off here, can't quite put my claw on it... and then it hits you -- ALL THE MALE CROCODILES ARE HAVING SEX WITH EACH OTHER. And then you're like, where are the women? ALL THE WOMEN CROCODILES ARE HAVING SEX WITH EACH OTHER. Well... all but one male crocodile and one female crodocile who are sitting behind you as the male crocodile talks about his problems with his parents (no really, this conversation was being had behind us for like 20 minutes (although neither of them was really a crocodile)).

It was pretty overwhelming. At certain points I felt inclined to call after our waitress "I'm not gay!" but I don't think she ever heard me. Also, I ordered a chicken salad, so I'm thinking that negated any attempts at non-homosexuality I was trying to make.

Oh yeah. And the food. Yeah. Um... it was Mexican, so you know, what do you expect? It was OK.

Afterwards we went back to Joanna's gigantic room at the Marriot Marquis and had beer and looked out on Times Square from her awesome view. Also, we watched the Apprentice Finale... which might not have been gay, but was a really wierd choice. Didn't see who won though. Also, on the way to the subway I did my "overwhelmed by tourists" thing where I flail my arms and make guttural sounds to get them out of my way. One of them looked at me and said "OH MY GOD!". It's always nice to scare people. I do it daily.

On Maine

I went to Maine last weekend. It's more or less pretty fucking awesome.

When people think, weekend road trip from New York City... I don't think they think "Maine!" often enough. They may think "Boston!" or "Philly!" or "DC!". They are nothing compared to Maine. Nothing. On top of this, all of these are "been there, done that" sorta places where you really can't leave much of a mark. In Maine, you really can... and if you drive erratically and well over the speed limit, you can be in Maine from New York City in about 4.5-5 hours (sooner if you don't stop for a McFlurry after severe disappointment because the one flaw in Maine is that the fuckers close their Dairy Queen to celebrate Christ becoming a bunny rabbit or some bullshit).

Anyways. How to change Maine:

-Take a diverse posse. We had an Afghani and a Phillipino. This effectively quadrupled the ethnic diversity of Maine.

-Also, be a fatass who loves CHUNKS of lobster. How can this forever change the landscape of Maine, you may be asking - well, simply put, you can put the Maine lobster on the endangered list for a week or two after your visit with a little dedication.

I could go on at length about the charms of Maine. There's the beaches with water that is surprisingly clear, but that are as fucking cold and windy as a witch's genital sack in late March. There's the "Stud of Kennebunkport" who runs a novelty shop wherein you can purchase glow sticks (for a dollar!!!) to be used later in your hotel room and who, sadly, is married. There's a surprisingly large number of fudge shops where you can discover the best smell on earth is liquid toffee and almonds being poured out onto a marble top to harden. One can stay at the Kennebunk Inn, that is haunted by a ghost named Sylus Perkins and who makes his presence known by throwing beer glasses (translation: one night someone got drunk and threw a glass and made up a story about a ghost named Sylus). When you ask, "Where's the nightlife?" the answer will always be - wherever you are, even if you're in a haunted Inn drinking champagne from a bottle and watching aforementioned Phillipino dazzle you with glowsticks on string.

But really... all of these petty details are nothing when compared with true reason to go to Maine:
That is a 1.25 pound lobster served with a cup of clam chowder, goat island mussels, and a beer of your choice..... for $33.95.


Let me leave you with this thought - remember that story about the woman who lived in a bathroom for two years and her ass got fused to the toilet seat and when you heard about it you said, how the fuck does this happen? How could someone just sit in a bathroom for two years and live off of having her boyfriend bring her food everyday? This can't be real, can it???

Well... let's just say that if I lived in Maine... I would inhabit a bathroom at Federal Jack's or Allison's Restaurant and have the waitresses bring me lobster in some form every four hours (be it roll, whole, or chunk)... except unlike that crazy woman I would stay there for far longer than 2 years.

A Blog Post

So, after a slight hiatus, here is my new blog:

I hate bloggers. No one cares about your life. No one cares about your opinions. No one cares about YOU.

Incidentally, why hasn't Katy blogged in awhile?

I leave tomorrow for St. Thomas. I won't blog from there. Fuck off you leeches.

LOVE YOU ALL!

An Open Letter to Barry Weiss of Jive Records

Dear Mr. Weiss,

First of all, a hearty congratulations to you on Britney Spears' new CD, Blackout. Despite tremendous odds, it is set to debut on top of the charts next week with sales in the 300K+ range.


However, this is not just a letter of congratulations; I have to admit, I have an ulterior motive.

Now, I know you have to tow the party line (since you're the head of this party) that states that you couldn't be more pleased with Ms. Spears' album and she is and will continue to be a leading star at your label and in pop music, blah blah blah etc etc.

Between me and you, we both know this isn't true. She's a couple months away from an inevitable trainwreck, happily chugging along to an eventual KABOOM.. but that's besides the point.

What makes her opening at #1 with the numbers she is projected to sell really is quite incredible considering that she's done NOTHING besides stay in the tabloids for flashing her 'gina, ignoring court orders, and driving around to Starbucks and various gas stations in and around Los Angeles. I may be going out on a limb here, but I believe she's done far more promoting Starbucks than her own album these last few weeks.

By all accounts (critical and chartwise), this album is good. Really good. However, the quality of the album has very little to do with her.

Here is where we get to my point: she's done nothing. She didn't write the songs, she didn't produce the songs, and, to a staggering degree, she really doesn't sing any of the songs. An album was crafted for her by a team of quality musicians and producers and all she needed to do was hum a long to a few lyrics - thats all she did, besides pose for a few pictures with a male model dressed as a priest (kudos for the extra press on that one!). But again, where are the interviews? Where are the surprise appearances? Where are the performances?.. well.. maybe its better that we all learned a little something about letting Britney perform.

I'll cut to the chase, Mr. Weiss: why are you wasting your time on an "artist" that puts forth not even the minimum of effort needed to effectively market and sell an album? It's time for a change and that change could be ME.

I have no musical talent. For all intents and purposes, I'm tone deaf. I couldn't carry a tune to save my life. Can I dance? Hell no. I have no grasp of beats or rhythms. What I DO have, though, is work ethic.

My proposal is this: give up on the Spears and give me a chance. She's over. In fact, I think if we all stopped paying attention to her, she might start paying attention to herself and get the help she most desperately needs. I'm not belittling her - she must have some sort of deep-seated mental issues that a good therapist and some time alone could fix. It's our duty to let her sort all that out. In the meantime, let's embark on a little experiment.

Set me up with the same producers, writers, and background singers that were involved in Britney's album. Sure, I'm not an international, national, regional, or local sex symbol, nor have I sold millions of albums, but I think all parties involved might feel a little better creating an album for someone who will actually get behind it.

I'll sit on the couch with Leno and hobnob with Letterman. I'll trade quips with Ellen and cook some meatballs with Martha. If Ryan Seacrest calls me, you better believe I won't leave halfway through to shower. I'll show up for interviews and photoshoots, and I won't walk off with the clothing or pee with the bathroom door open. My pets won't ruin dresses. I'll sign a deal with a coffee chain so that when I go to get a beverage, we'll both pocket a few extra dollars. When I dance on TV I'll look like a fool, but I won't be drunk and I won't be the butt of the joke, I'll be in on it. I'll guzzle champagne like the best of them at insider parties, but when I'm hungover and tired the next morning I'll make it to my video shoot and put in 100% effort.

At this point, Mr. Weiss, what do you have to lose?

I look forward to hearing from you.

Mike Burton

PS: Can we look into hiring Gloria Allred as my lead attorney? I saw her on Dr. Phil the other day and she's a real pitbull. Good person to have in our corner for my inevitable marriages, divorces, and custody battles once my album goes #1.

If Poop Grosses You Out, Don't Read This

With a title like that, I hope all of you are reading this. As Art pointed out to me, if this blog is about food I should make sure to address the other half of the eating cycle -- pooping.

As many of you may or may not know, I love to poop. It's great. It's a time to get away from it all and just center your chi and gain a little zen. When you're pooping, theres potential to be literally "caught with your pants down", but inspite of this pooping is rarely stressful or embarrassing. It's just you and a toilet, communing with one another. A ying and a yang situation - you're giving a little, and the toilet is taking.

HOWEVER, throughout my many years on this Earth I have found a few terrible situations where this most hallowed moment becomes a nightmare.

Imagine if you will that you and your chums have just had a tasty Thai meal. As you enjoy your curry more than the common man, you've consumed more than your fair share of said delicacy. Afterwards, you and a certain other chum (who wears far too much linen and pays no attention to personal grooming) are wandering the streets of some vibrant city, taking in the sights and blocking each other's conversations out. All in all, a great day -- BUT WAIT!

There's something moving in your stomach... it's spicy... it's semi-digested.. it's the curry, and it wants out.

PRONTO.

Obviously this story is not just a creation of my fanciful mind, but a real life experience. After lunch at Sripraphai and way too much beef red curry, I was hit with an imminent and pressing case of the shits.

I refuse to shit in a public place. REFUSE. I probably could count on my fingers the times I have pooped in a public place, mostly life or death situations.

When these shits hit me, I was between Astor Place and Union Square and at the time I lived at 99 John St.. so for those of you unfamilar with the city, these points are roughly an 8-10 minute subway ride (not counting the waiting for a train) or a 25-30 minute walk apart.

Now, some of you may say -- well, I'd opt for the subway because unless you're terribly unlucky, the train shouldn't take too long to come and with a little luck you'll be home and depanted in about 20 minutes.

Did I take the train? No. Fuck no. Too risky.

First, you've got the waiting for the train where you have to remain stationary, making no progress towards your goal while your poop is ready to pop out at any minute. Also, the train is bumpy and once you're in there, theres no way for you to get out.. whereas your poop is in the opposite boat as it can escape at any time.. and who wants to shit their pants not be able be to run away? And what if there is suddenly a blackout and you're stuck? Your poop won't understand this. It's impatient. It's an unruly six year old.

To be honest, though, none of this mattered at the time. What mattered was that I needed to poop and I needed to poop now and I was not about to do this in a dirty public bathroom. It just wasn't going to happen.. so I got my lineny, dirty friend (Katy) into high gear and walked, the poop fighting me with every step I took.

I've never felt so ALIVE. If I could survive this through sheer force of will than what couldn't I survive?

Long story short, I made it. I had to leave Katy behind as she wasn't keeping up (I think she peeled off to go to Zeytuna, where she once again proved that one person can decimate an entire overpriced grocery store's profits with pluck and a large canvas bag). The hardest few minutes was when I finally got in my building and was in the elevator, as my mind knew I was about to bid adieu to the poop seething inside of me, but my butt didn't understand that I needed it to keep the floodgates closed just a little longer.

I can't even describe the relief once I was free of it all, but the entire experience violated the usually calm and serene act of pooping and ever since then I've been scarred.. and I don't order curry from Sripraphai unless I know I am going straight home.

This, ladies and gentelman, is just one scenario wherein pooping can become a nightmare. More scenarios to come...

And yes, I did just blog twice today. Don't judge me.

Mike Goes To A Steakhouse

Last night I went to BLTSteak for dinner, armed with a $250 gift certificate for my birthday that Heather gave me. I left with mixed emotions.

The oysters were jamming. I love any kind of seafood, especially the variety that has a lot of legs/appendages and/or has a carapice/shell. I really can't stress that enough - I love anything edible that comes from the sea, be it crab, fish, or sponge. I have no actual experience eating real sponge, but I imagine I would enjoy it as I could pretend I was eating SpongeBob Squarepants and crushing the dreams of trillions of children (and developmently delayed adults). Back to the oysters - they were jamming. Fresh, salty, tasty... everything an oyster should be.

With the oysters I had two Pomegranate Smashes, which were basically kool-aid with a dash of vodka. Slightly disappointing.

Next came the steak, which was a revelation for me: I don't like steak. I mean, I don't HATE it, but.. I don't LOVE it. I had a medium rare filet and it was good, don't get me wrong, but it was just like.. this is it? I had it with peppercorn sauce, which helped, but I mean.. at the end of the day.. I just paid $41 for 12 ozs of steak... and it tasted good and all, but really, I just don't like steak that much and I think in general I just don't like things that are meant to just sit there and be consumed without any real preparation. I bet I could eventually learn how to cook a steak and for me, thats not real cookery. It's like art (not Art) - if I think I could eventually paint or sculpt something, then it can't be real art. Same goes for cookerying - if I could make it, its not real food.

The sides were good, but when you pay $9 for potato gratin at a steakhouse, I was sorta expecting a couple potatoes worth of gratin.. and all we got was like 6 thin sliced potatoes in gratinesey sauce. Woopty doo.

The dessert was awesome -- apple cobbler with bourbon ice cream. I'm a huge fan of pie/ice cream combinations and an ice cream that involved liquor was A-OK with me.

I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with all this. Basically, I think I've decided that I'm not a big fan of steakhouses.. although maybe next time I'll get something other than the steak.

This is my pathetic blog of the day. This is Mike, signing off.