Last night, I made my way to Cesar in Berkeley, CA’s “Gourmet Ghetto.” After surveying the critically acclaimed menu known for its Spanish tapas, I decided on a bocadillo of “Manchego and greens” to which I fortuitously  added Jamon Serrano. Now, I’m the kind of guy that loves Manchego and Jamon Serrano as much as Hernan Cortes enjoys pillaging an indigenous population, so you could imagine my excitement when the server complimented my request. Accompanied by a Grey Goose Martini, I waited in anticipation for the entree as my mouth began to salivate. Several minutes passed and the waiter returned with my sandwich. Once placed before me, I noticed something horribly odd about the bocadillo. The so-called “greens” were, in fact, a Popeye sized lump of sauteed spinach. I took one bite and promptly placed the stringy pound-and-a-half of vegetation on the sidelines. After all, I anticipated a sandwich full of Spanish goodness. What I got instead was a mound of Done Here, Buddy.

With flavors as delicate as Manchego and Jamon Serrano, one might expect a simple salad of mixed greens gently tossed with a balsamic vinaigrette ... Not a pile of poopy Done Here.

Last night, I had the distinct opportunity to volunteer at a fundraising event thrown by Conservacion Patogonica at the David Brower Center in Berkeley, California. The event was truly inspiring, as those who attended watched two films, one produced independently by CP’s Founder and President, Kristine Tompkins, and the other by her husband, Doug Tompkins, founder of the Conservation Land Trust. The purpose of last night’s fundraiser was two-fold: to raise funds (obviously) and to create awareness for the more than 2 million acres of land these industry pioneers have worked to protect in Argentina and Chile.  Following the films and a short Q & A session, the attendees returned to the lobby to indulge in deserts and coffee. It was at this exact juncture that I noticed a gentleman sporting an article that has no place whatsoever in an urban setting or on a person aged more than 13 years: The Cargo Pant.  How Done Here, Buddy is the cargo pant? “So Done Here, Buddy,” exclaimed one of my friends. “I can’t believe those things were even started here,” he continued. Sadly, it’s true. Let’s ask ourselves some fundamental questions:

1) How many pockets does a guy actually need? 2) What is the aesthetic value of having zippers dangling all over the place? If pockets needed on a pair of gentleman’s trousers is 4, and, if  the aesthetic value of superfluously dangling zippers is 0, we can use a simple mathematical equation to deduce the the final answer for todays post: 4 pockets + 0 aesthetic value = You’re Done Here, Buddy

I apologize for the not so Ansel Adams(esque) photo quality. But, if you look close enough, you will see something truly horrifying: a pair of cargo pants.

Pastrami Sandwich, Manny's Deli: Chicago

I would like to preface today’s post by pointing out that I am a proud son of Chicago, the city that American Poet Carl Sandburg described as the:

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of wheat,
Player with Railroads and the nation’s Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders

Renowned for inventing the Skyscraper and other decadent delicacies such as Deep-Dish Pizza, Italian Beef Sandwiches, Vienna Beef Hotdogs and, of course, the McJeff (shout out to my boy Jeff Barzan*).  It is safe to say that when Chicago goes, it goes big.  Keeping this in mind …  Roughly six months ago, I relocated from the greatest city in the world to Oakland, California…

… Three months ago, on the eve of Passover–the Jewish Holiday which commemorates the Exodus from Egypt–my good friend and roommate Arlen Ginsburg and I headed to Saul’s Restaurant and Deli in North Berkeley to dine on traditional Jewish delicacies.  Now, my days of eating Matzos for a week straight are long gone. God, if you’re out there, please forgive me.

That night, I definitely felt the hunger within. When the waitress came to our table to take my order, I asked which would be more filling: the Cobb Salad (which, it turns out, was no longer available) or the Pastrami Sandwich.  Now, the menu has two different pastramis, one that is small and one that is large. I ordered the large with one slight change. Instead of getting rye bread, I asked for challah, which I believe makes for a superior culinary experience.  When the plate was served, my face dropped in astonishment at the meager portion which lay before me. Being from Chicago, I am used to such culinary institutions as Manny’s and the 11th St. Diner, places that understand the meaning of “piled high.” The two pieces of Challah bread were literally separated by three pathetic and limp slices of pastrami. I asked two different waitressess to confirm that I had ordered  the large. Both replied that, since I had ordered my sandwich on challah (which is a wider bread and a totally bullshit response), it gave the appearance that there was less meat on the sandwich. I was astonished once again.  I finally requested to speak with the Manager as there was no way that I was going to pay $12.95 for six slices of pastrami.  To my bewilderment, the MANAGER had the exact same response.  During my bickering contest with the manager, I even mentioned that I have been eating pastrami for “a long time now” and there was no way that this met the criteria for a  $13 sandwich.  I finally got my way and was charged for the small, but, not before deciding to never again step foot in such a horse-shit establishment.

After reviewing the play three months later, the call on the field stands–Saul’s Restaurant and Deli: You’re Done Here, Buddy.

* To learn more about the McJeff and other heart-stopping culinary delicacies in the Chicagoland area, check out Titus Ruscitti’s Blog Smokin’, Chokin’ and Chowing with the King @ http://chibbqking.blogspot.com/