Oh Hai! My Heart Stopped.

Today I’m jacking another blog post.

For no other reason than the concoction of this aberration is enough to make the biggest balled, reddest blooded male crumble to his knees like a little bitch.

Apparently, in Venezuela, the ideal hamburger is comprised of ketchup, mayo, mustard, onions, cabbage, shoestring potatoes, more ketchup, mayo and mustard, avocado, tomato, burger patty, chorizo, chicken, eggs and bacon, and a mountain of shredded Roquefort cheese.

Aptly named La Diabla, you can read more here.


Rub Down

With barbecue, your end result is only good as the rub.  Without rub, you don’t have barbecue.  Without GOOD rub, you’re most likely to end up with a big brick of char.  It’s the one ingredient that’s constantly overlooked yet so essential to good cue.  Blame Chef Ricci for that.

I’ve been fortunate to have Agent Mule, a local Texan, scrutinize my rub.  Rub for Texans, is like whiskey for an Irishman.  Having him around acts as a level of quality control that constantly keeps the bar high. It boils down to a simple formula:  if its good for said Agent, it will be good for the gander.

So as a token gesture, and because I’ve re-invented my original rub (rubs are about as secretive as you can get), I felt that I could impart some of that southern wisdom to my oh faithful readers.  Grab a pen…er Apple P this fucker, because folks, here are the ingredients for Chen-Yip’s Rub version 1.0.

  • 2 parts paprika
  • 1 part chili powder
  • 1 part kosher salt
  • 1 1/2 part black pepper
  • 1/2 part garlic powder
  • 1/2 part onion powder
  • 1 1/2 parts brown sugar
  • 1/4 part cumin

Momofuku Buns

I made the buns.

Unfortunately I don’t have any pictures.  I was way too sick and tired to bother flicking them.  That said, for a first time try, they turned out pretty damn good.

Hardest part was getting the buns down right.  Mine weren’t nearly as fluffy as the ones you get at Momos but that probably had a lot to do with the fact that I didn’t have the right environment to proof the dough.

Pork was sooooo suculent.  The recipe calls for a bit too much salt, but other than that, it was bang on.

I’m hoping to do this again.  Next project: Bo Ssam.

The World Going One Way, People Going The Other…

Ya goddam right I’m obsessed.

It’s been a hot minute since a TV show hit the airwaves and impacted me the way The Wire does.  Before watching season one, I pre-determined that the ghetto aura (set in Bodymore, Murdaland) of the show would be its coup-de-grace.  My initial thoughts were that the slang, the hip-hop references and a handful of rapper cameo’s was enough to keep me interested.  Well it didn’t.  It was good for an initial attraction and the odd moment of me muttering to myself “shit, that’s Fredro Starr“.  The selling point however – the element that got me hooked –  was the show’s insane repository of developed characters and a plot line so webbed  you’d almost need Coles notes to follow.  In other words, the ghetto setting was seeing titties through a shear blouse.  The characters, the story line and plot – the meat and potatoes – was actually getting to know the girl.  Ya feel me?

To follow The Wire, you gotta be a bit more than hooked.  To quote excerpts – mildly obsessed.  Taking innocuous points of reference and dialogue that at best, has maybe 30 seconds of play and turning it into a blog-post means you are gleefully gay for the show.  And not in an Omar Little type way.

Which is why I thought it would be neat to highlight some of my favorite food points in said show.  Aside from icing niggas, holding down corners and running re-ups, there are a couple of food gems and moments of food brilliancy throughout the five seasons.  Given that the show is hyper-realistic, this can mean two things:  either David Simon and Ed Burns have boners for food or niggas really do like to eat.

Eat and slang packages.

Now you could wax poetic about the underlying message, theme and meaning behind why food is such a focal point in the show.  But we’ll leave that for The Wire 101.  I on the other hand, would just like to believe that after a long day of pushing weight and being the black Martha Stewart, a nigga just wanna eat some good shit.

Our introduction to the soldiers of the Barksdale Crew.  D’angelo, Wallace and Poot talk about the wonders and politics of the Chicken McNugget.  Niggas got a point.

Here we see what happens when you creep out on the job to grab a mid-shift snack.

Lunch meetings in West B-More.

I’ve been Chinese for 30 years.  In all that time I’ve never ever heard of Yakami in turkey grease.  Can someone please let me know what the fuck that is?

Sometimes you have to make do with something else when the city health inspectors shut down your favorite lunch spot.

Avon drops the biggest truth-bomb of the entire show.

Ha Soooooooo!

Olivia hit me up the other day, and dropped a gem on me.  She found the recipe for this made by this guy.

I’m going to attempt it this weekend.  Any takers?


Never, ever, ever enter a pissing match if you piss sitting down.

Long story short, this guy thought he would man up, and bet a buddy who could eat the hottest chili.  He put his bravado to the test and ended up merked.

Thanks Jacob for todays post and as my favorite jew would say:  Don’t talk the talk if you can’t walk the walk. Or: if you can’t stand the heat stay out the kitchen. Or: don’t throw stones if you live in a glass house.  Or….


Chances are if you like eating, you live in Toronto and you’ve got half an ear to the ground, you’ve heard of Caplansky’s.  If not…well then really I can’t blame ya.  Caplansky’s isn’t exactly easy to find.  It’s nestled away inside a pub that no-one really gives a fuck about and there’s no real signage or indicator that you are close, or right outside said haunt.  Its pretty much harder to find than Anne Frank.

That being said, if you do find Anne…err Caplansky’s, you’ve definitely stumbled on a Jewish gem.

One thing I really missed from my time living in Montreal aside from the poutine, bagels and depaneurs, was smoked-meat sandwiches.  The Jewish settlement in Montreal really did wonders to the city’s food department (unlike Toronto, where all our Jews are down on Bay street swindling the stock markets) allowing arguably the best deli’s and bagel bakeries to pop-up this side of Israel.  Schwartz’s, Lester’s, you name it.  There’s no shortage of smoked meat sammies in Montreal.  Toronto on the other hand, has a chain that sells pre-fab sandwiches, and delis that don’t measure anywhere close to what MTL has (one deli I went to, gave me cold-cut roast beef on rye and told me that was their “authentic MTL smoked meat sandwich).

Then came Caplansky’s.  Toronto’s answer to the Franco-Jewish void.  And it does a great job of filling said void (and your stomach I might add).  First things first.  Caplansky’s shouldn’t be compared to Schwartz’s or Lester’s because it’s not trying to be that.  It’s not striving to make the perfect Montreal smoked meat sandwich.  Caplansky’s, is trying to be well…Caplansky’s.

And it does so with fervor.  The sandwich (which comes in regular or 10 oz) is pretty damn good.  It’s got all the sensibilities of a MTL SMS with a little hint of smokiness for more of a Texan flavor.  The meat is well marbled and the “fatty cut” is a good fatty cut, with the renderings dripping like a leaky faucet (fatty brisket can go either way: it can be deliciously succulent or it can be stringy and sinuous from un-rendered fat strands) Long story short, It’s a great new take on something rather traditional. Whether you are a barbecue fanatic or a Jew lover (sorry my Hebrew friends, I just had to take one last racist pot-shot) Caplansky’s won’t disappoint.