Text 22784, 65 rader
Skriven 2015-01-10 16:17:00 av MICHAEL LOO (1:123/140)
Ärende: OST 50
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The breakfast offering - stale pastry, unripe fruit, acrid
liquids in the office - having been deemed wanting, we went
to nearby Yvonne's Cafe, well reviewed on the Internet. It
was bustling right along, and it was a few before a table
cleared up, and we swooped down on it. Between us we ordered
my two favorite breakfast dishes (read only ones I'll eat).
Copious rounds of tasting, so I am not clear on who ordered
which.

Hash and eggs was made with shredded corned beef round (lean
and therefore disappointing) and chunked real potatoes; if I
liked potatoes, they would have been good, but I actually
prefer the little tiny cubes that taste more like can than
like a foodstuff.

Country-fried steak is an indulgence that I pounce on on the
rare occasions when I remember to bring my lactase pills to
breakfast. This consisted of really quite good sausage
gravy, second only to that of the Sheraton Anchorage for
toothsomeness, over really quite decent round steak pounded
within an inch of its life but at least not that Kafkaesquely
tenderized meatoid that you get in lesser restaurants; this
was sided with pretty good real potatoes with crusty bits
and lots of variously fried onion.

Off to see Team Japan (tuning up for the World Baseball
Classic) @ Giants in Scottsdale, a stadium I enjoy for the
catering (Don & Charlie's for brisket, among other things)
but hate for the parking. We got there early for a good
spot, as Swisher has gone kind of lame in the last few years.
This gave me time to become slightly overserved before the
game started. We watched amazed as Japan racked up Yusmeiro
Petit and completely outplayed the world champs, tidily
taking the game 6-3.

I'd talked up the Roaring Fork to Swisher (my friend Alex had
introduced this to me a long time ago, when he was a student
at ASU), and I'd enjoyed it a few times since. Well, aided
by a number of stadium beers and my even more diminished
eyesight, we drove right past 4800 and hilariously decided
that we weren't meant to have pork in green chile that day.
Even more hilariously, I decided to visit that temple of
gluttony, Bill Johnson's in Mesa, where you used to get a
porterhouse of varying size (advertised at 36 oz I think),
which, if you ate the whole thing, you got a t-shirt saying
"I Ate the Big One." I used to go every second year or so so
I could give a t-shirt to a chosen friend that Christmas.
Well, they no longer serve the Big One, which was the only
reason for going. I got the cutesily named Nate Loves
Sirloin, which was a modestly cut and modestly priced shell
steak, of good supermarket quality, not more, too thin and
wet to get any kind of char when ordered blue rare. Swisher,
perhaps economizing, got the pulled pork sandwich, whose
contents were clearly boil-in-bag. Sort of sad, as it's gone
from joke food that's good to joke food that's a joke. Beer
was our consolation, and even that was bad, although served
cold cold cold, as the climate dictates.

Speaking of which, we went to a liquor store down by the
university, where Swisher got his Milwaukee's Swill and I
picked up a six of malty, honeyed Salvator for $11 about
4x what his cost).
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