Phoenix Food Blog

Heather Hoch

The epicenter of fair eats has a delighful view of the ferris wheel.

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The Arizona State Fair always seems to attract some rather eccentric food vendors. There are a few running themes in fair fare this year, though. First, if you can batter something like a corn dog, it can be deep-fried and subsequently sold at a booth. Second, food is better sold with qualifiers like jumbo, super, or brick. (That's right, a brick of cheese fries.) Third, bugs are food. So many of the treats are so unique they deserve a little recognition.

 

My significant other is a notorious grump -- which has never been more evident than in his initial response to Hanny's, Karl Kopp's new downtown Phoenix hotspot. Here we have a gorgeous old building transformed into a stylin' new space, courtesy of the same people behind Scottsdale's AZ88. Here was a D.J. spinning some real great tunes. And here was a bartender eager to make us martinis.

Significant Other was having none of it. "I thought you said this was a restaurant," he growled. "This is a couple of sandwiches and salads. I want real food."

So that's my warning to any would-be hipsters with cranky boyfriends: This is not the place to get a sit-down dinner. The compact menu has a few appetizers, a few sammys, and a couple of small pizzas. Our waitress promised that there's going to be more to come, but for now, it's pretty slim pickings.

 

My new favorite at Sam's Cafe.

Loyalty is not my strong suit. I like to try new places and new things; ask me what my favorite restaurant is, and it's probably one that opened last week.

But with the economy collapsing, the newspaper industry in a particularly awful place, and a cold front (for Phoenix, at least) chilling the air, I've found myself turning more regularly to oldies-but goodies. McDonald's french fries. A petit filet at Durant's, washed down with an ice-cold martini. Just about anything at Tandoori Times in Scottsdale.

And, of course, Sam's Cafe. 

 

Four of us -- my sister-in-law and my brother and my dad -- had just decided on pizza for lunch when another brother piped up.

"Pizza?? I have a sore throat! I can't eat pizza."

This is life in the Fenske family. There is never consensus. Nothing can ever be simple. We might spend 40 minutes deciding which restaurant to go to -- and then a full hour afterwards, second-guessing our choice (and heaping ridicule on whichever moron had been stupid enough to recommend it.)

It's kind of charming, really. Until you're stuck there, standing in a crowded mall one day after Thanksgiving, arguing about lunch.

Yes, I went home to Cleveland. And of course the best thing to do when you're thousands of miles from your home is to go a chain restaurant, right? Umm, right?

It wasn't my fault we ended up there. We were desperate. The Italian place we like was closed for lunch. Adam didn't think he could swallow pizza. None of us were willing to deal with Mom's pick; it's despressingly filled with bluehaired old ladies. Dad was pushing for Red Robin, but it was the day after Thanksgiving, and we were already stuffed to the gills. (Plus, I noted helpfully, "it's a chain. I like to eat local." In typical fashion, everyone just ignored me.)

Rachel thought a deli might be nice -- but did we know of any nearby? It was Abby who had the answer: a nice locally owned place, just around the corner, big enough to seat all ten of us. Score! Half the party started to move toward the exits.

Then my mom made the fatal mistake. "Amy, what do you think about the Stonefield Grill? Abby's recomending it."

"What if they don't have a children's menu?" Amy asked. She is a first-time mother and (like most first-time mothers) completely preoccupied with motherhood.

"They'll have a children's menu," Abby said. "Everybody does."

"What if they don't?" Amy persisted.

"I'm sure they have a children's menu!" I will admit to shouting. We were starting to get glares from other shoppers.

"We don't know that ..." my mother said.

 "I've never been there," my father said. "What if I don't like it?"

In most families, this question would be easily answered. So what if you don't like it? It's one meal. You give it a go.

Mine family, suffice to say, is not like most families.

A true feast ...

If there is anything worse than moving -- and I'm not certain there is -- it may well be attempting to move in that frantic time between Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I'm nothing if not stupid, so my movers are scheduled to arrive bright and early December 3. In the mean time, I am trying to squeeze a full work schedule, a high-maitenance dog, holiday travel, and packing up four years' worth of junk into one seven-day period. Needless to say, I'm a mess.

Enter Kiri, Jill, Kendall, and Jen. Unbelievably, when I started musing aloud about "wouldn't it be sooo much fun to have a packing party, wherein you guys help me box up my crap," these four wonderful women did not go screaming for the hills. Instead, they asked when they should show up. (Is it any wonder they are my four favorite people in the entire Valley??)

When they arrived last night, however, I had a surprise for them. For once, I would not be serving liquor, hold the food. Nope, I intended to treat them to a full meal from my favorite neighborhood spot: QuikTrip.

Suffice to say I never quite bonded with this particular 'hood. When I moved in, I'd had visions of walking to Safeway for groceries, stumbling home from the funky bar on the corner, zipping over to Indian School Park. But it never quite materialized. Whenever I'd walk anywhere, I'd be followed by one of the neighborhood's overfriendly schizophrenics. The funky bar closed, replaced by yet another chain grocery. Meanwhile, light rail construction made it impossible to get to the park without walking blocks out of the way -- and dodging construction-angry motorists. So much for my urban adventure.

But I did find true love with something in walking distance ... that oh-so-cheerful gas station/convenience store at 3rd Avenue and Indian School.  

Cyclo is so freakin' cheery -- doesn't this wall just make you grin?

By Sarah Fenske

I have these fabulously cool neighbors. I know, I know, it's Phoenix, and no one is supposed to know their neighbors. But Daniel and Bobby both moved here from farflung places (Argentina for Daniel, Calfornia for Bobby), so maybe they didn't get the memo. Suffice to say, these two know everyone in the neighborhood who's worth knowing -- when Significant Other and I started to get to know them, it was kind of like being let into the cool kids' clique. They are funny guys who live very graciously.

So when Daniel decided that we needed to make a pilgrimage to Cyclo , the highly acclaimed Vietnamese restaurant in Chandler, who was I to say no? I mean, yeah, my usual weeknight dinner doesn't require an hour-long roundtrip drive featuring miles of the 202. And, alcoholic that I am, I also tend to prefer places with a fully stocked bar. BYOB? Does that mean there are no martinis?

But ... Daniel and Bobby adore this place. And did I mention I really like these guys?

So they rounded up two of their equally cool friends, Jonathan and Nicky, and the six of us made the sojourn from Central Phoenix to the heart of Chandler. Yes, it felt like we were halfway to New Mexico.

But it was sooo worth it.

The best thing about experiencing a new restaurant with its most regular regulars is that you can mooch off their menu choices. They've tried everything; they can tell you what works. And, of course, Daniel knew exactly how to get things started: the cha gio, better known as egg rolls.

Daniel's favorite...

I've done rolls both Chinese style (deep fried) and the lighter, crisper Vietnamese style, where veggies are wrapped in chilled rice paper. But I'd never done them Cyclo style -- which basically means they are fried, twice, and then at the table, you wrap them with fresh mint and a big lettuce leaf. It's a startlingly good combo: The heat and moistness of an egg roll, plus the crisp lightness of a lettuce wrap.

The final product, just before it got scarfed up.

We ended up ordering three plates of this appetizer. Cyclo's owner, the fabulous Justina, is teaching Jonathan some Vietnamese words, and of course he had just the word for this undertaking: Pig. Hey, if the shoe fits ...

Three hundred and fifty calories ...

By Sarah Fenske

This morning, some time after breakfast but before lunch, I ate 54 percent of my daily allotment of saturated fat. Fifty-four percent! Do you know how little that leaves for french fries at lunch, for butter at dinner, for any sort of dessert?

What happened was this: I ventured into the new Krispy Kreme at 7th Street and Roosevelt, and I ate a doughnut -- one freakin' donut. As it turns out, I stupidly chose one of the very fattiest on the menu (who knew that a Chocolate Iced/Kreme Filled doughnut is literally twice as bad for you as an Original Glazed?) and then I ate the whole thing. As a result, I'm now roughly the size of a McMansion. Ick.

I had been warned about Krispy Kremes. When I lived in Texas, the doughnut chain had storefronts on seemingly every corner -- and people just raved about the product. But for a Yankee experiencing the wonders of Houston cuisine for the first time, a doughnut seemed like a terrible waste of calories. In the neighborhood I worked in, you could get super cheap Vietnamese sandwiches, red beans and rice with gumbo, cheesey Tex Mex, barbeque, or chicken fried steak -- all in a matter of blocks. What use did I have for fried dough?

Then I moved to the Valley, and soon after, the Krispy Kremes here closed their doors. It wasn't until recently that the company was again open for business in Phoenix.

My favorite place, but not my favorite dish...

By Sarah Fenske

I have been in the worst mood lately. For some reason, fall always makes me depressed, in a "Remembrance of Things Past" kind of way. Like I can't stop thinking about past autumns -- better autumns -- and my present state of mind always suffers as a result.

And that's what I found myself thinking about at Rokerij on Monday. Normally I love, love, love this place -- generally, I'm never happier than when I'm sitting at the copper-covered basement bar, drinking a martini and basking in the fireplace's warm glow. As of last year, they have this wonderful menu of small plates, so you can sit there with your drink and nosh on a really nice steak tartare or even some blue crab tostadas. It feels great.

But in the spirit of getting out of my autumnal blues and into a better mood, I decided to eschew my usual tartare-and-salad combo and try the calamari. And I was reminded, sadlly, of why sometimes it's better to stick to one's hitlist: The calamari at Rokerij simply isn't very good.

A happy experience at the lounge at the new downtown Phoenix Sheraton ... who would have thunk it?

By Sarah Fenske

I totally wanted to hate District: American Kitchen and Wine Bar, the brand-spankin'-new restaurant at the brand-spankin'-new downtown Sheraton.

In my other life, the non-food-blogger one, I am a crusty old hard news reporter. I am also, coincidentally, a libertarian. And that combination means I spend most of my time inveighing against government waste. Which means I was not one bit in favor of the city of Phoenix subsidizing a new Sheraton hotel to the tune of 350 million frickin' dollars. If this was a good business venture, can't we all agree that the private sector would have stepped up?

For another, I am an ornery bitch, and I get sick of the Arizona Republic trying to tell me that the big ugly boxes downtown signify something "new" and "hip" and "classy." Reading reporter Dawn Gilbertson's piece last week about staying overnight in the Sheraton, I almost lost my lunch. "The Sheraton has been derided for its bland exterior. But there's nothing bland about the interior," Gilbertson wrote -- just before calling the rooms "Pottery Barn meets Sheraton purchasing." Frankly, I've never read a better description of "bland."

So I went into the place on Monday with guns blazing, figuring I'd write something nasty -- or, at minimum, a parody of Gilbertson's prose. I figured I'd sit at the bar, order something to eat, and then write up a first-person account of government excess and boring chain hotel eats. (See what I mean about being a bitch?)

The problem is, I really loved the place.

The perfect comfort food.

By Sarah Fenske

Every time I go to Cheese 'n Stuff, the remarkable little deli/food shop on Central, I order the same thing.

This is not the fault of the owners. They have an amazing variety of food here, from sandwiches made with Boar's Head meats and exotic cheeses to Nordic delicacies. Where else in town can you get Swedish pancake mix? Or Lutefisk? When I popped by this morning, I was amused to see a sign at the counter proclaiming that they now had "German Limburger." No offense to Limburger, but you simply won't see that one being advertised in many other delis.

No, the reason I keep ordering the same thing is that I'm in love. The very first time I placed an order here, I hit the jackpot, and I just don't see any reason to give another sandwich a chance: The Doughboy is comfort food perfected.

It's pretty simple, really. Deli turkey, bacon, advocado, and mayo on sourdough bread, served warm. But there is something wonderful about the way they make it here. They never give you tasteless spears of still-hard advocado, for one thing: at Cheese 'n Stuff, it's creamy and ripe. The bread is so wonderfully soft, too. And the mayo -- I swear, they must slather it on, because the overriding impression you get is the creamy saltiness of mayo-and-bacon. Yum.

Poor little sandwiches ...

By Sarah Fenske

It might sound weird to a normal person, but I stopped going to KFC because of the Pepsi.

There are two types of fast food junkies in the world: Coke people and Pepsi people. Some time during college, I realized I was a Coke head all the way. I wasn't one of those young hipster with their "choice of a new generation." I was into aging classics.

When you love Coke and hate Pepsi, you actually begin to plan your drive-through stops around the question of where your product of choice is carried. For me, that meant yes to McDonald's, no to Taco Bell; yes to Wendy's, no to Pizza Hut. Etcetera etcetera.

I mourned none of those fast food losses as intensely as my beloved KFC. For years, my perfect meal had been a bucket of fried chicken, greasy at the bottom; a little tub of coleslaw; a mound of macaroni-and-cheese, and one of those flaky buttermilk biscuits, squirted with a packet of faux butter. I'm getting hungry just remembering it. In my post-Pepsi days, I have to admit, I've occasionally planned a trip to KFC to pick up a chicken lunch -- but only if I have time to stop at Circle K on the way and pick up a Diet Coke first. I'm pathetic.

So I was pretty disappointed when I did one of my Circle K/KFC runs last weekend and realized I'm over the place -- and, this time, it's got nothing to do with the all-too-sweet taste of Pepsi.

Is this the best bread in the world? Or am I just a happy to be alive?

By Sarah Fenske

I didn't even realize I was hungry.

One minute I was sitting there, chatting away with my friends, and the next minute I'd knocked off an entire pastrami sandwich. There wasn't a crumb left. Not one crumb!

I blame the bread.

At night, Cibo specializes in pizza. A gorgeous little neighborhood hotspot in an elegant old house, people come here for the wine and the thin-crust pies and the cosmopolitan crowd. Sipping your wine on a starry night, you'd swear you were in a real city.

But by day, they use that pizza oven to make bread. They call it "saltimbocca" bread, which is apparently Italian for "jumps in the mouth" -- and the description is perfectly, wonderfully apt. See, I can have an excuse for my noontime pastrami scarfing: damnedest thing, but the sammy jumped in my mouth.

When Joe Lieberman is speaking, ya need a little spice ...

by Sarah Fenske

I was gonna order the salad, I swear.

Everyone warned me that once I turned 30, my metabolism would suddenly take a nosedive. This did not happen: I continued to eat like a horse and never gained an ounce. But then I turned 31 -- and oh, the humanity! Suddenly all those fast food lunches turned straight into ponch. Suddenly none of my skinny jeans fit. Blech.

I briefly considered liposuction, or diet pills, or crystal meth, only to decide on a more sensible course: Why not just eat less? And healthier?

Hence, the thoughts of salad. But then I was perusing the menu at Fez on Central, the swanky nouvelle Moroccan joint at Central and Indian School. This is my favorite place to go for a pomegranate martini, for a hearty lamb kisra, and (I'll admit it) a burger. I tried, but failed, to talk myself into a nice tomato-and-mozzarella salad. Hey, the heart wants what it wants. (This might explain why none of my skinny jeans fit.)

They call it "fish candy" ...

by Sarah Fenske

It was Jill's birthday, and Mari's birthday, and Kendall's birthday -- or, at least, it was a date close enough to all three to have a celebratory Girls Night Out. So we headed to the Malee's Thai Bistro at Desert Ridge -- the second location of what is indisputably the best Thai restaurant in town. (The first Malee's, a smaller, more elegant version in Old Town Scottsdale, is much closer to my house, but one of the birthday girls agreed to be my designated driver, so I wasn't complaining too much.)

We had a table of seven, and at Jill's recommendation, two of the seven chose the same entree -- crispy pla. Jill loves this dish so much, she remembers when Malee's used to call it "spicy crispy pla"; apparently the adjective was lost somewhere along the way.

Initially, I have to admit, some of the table was a little weirded out by its pla-ness. For one thing, Mari and Jill inadvertantly both ordered the "large" version of the dish, which for $21.99 gives you a full ten ounces of fish. That's a lot, even for girls like us who like (okay, love) to eat. And Meggin was convinced that the fried exterior was covering up something more nefarious: "It looks like there's skin on it!" she said, horrified.

Can you tell which of us spends her days with two little kids?

But after we all dug in, it was pretty clear that even without the "spicy" modifier, "crispy pla" has plenty of wonderful zing. The two giant filets were flash fried and then topped with a garlicky pickled jalapeno sauce and cilantro, and each bite was a new sensation: the vinegary sweet jalapeno sauce, the sharp greenness of cilantro, the soft flesh of the fish. With a good glass of pinot noir -- and trust me, there was more than one good glass shared -- it was sensational.

You won't find this on a low-fat menu, anywhere.

by Sarah Fenske

Back east, Dunkin Donuts are ubiquitous -- almost like Starbucks or Jack In the Box here in the Valley of Sun. Not so in Phoenix. So I was stunned when, on a trip back to New York last week, I visited a DD for the first time in years. America's most venerable donut chain has gone diet-friendly!

I'm not kidding. My favorite donut, a powdery hockey puck stuffed with vanilla frosting, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, they were pushing egg-white flatbread sandwiches, low-fat smoothies, and even multi-grain bagels. At Dunkin Donuts! I swear, it was like finding a strip club staffed entirely by nuns. Very disappointing to any good strip club client, let me tell ya.

So I was a bit relieved when, this morning, I saw the familiar sign of Wishill's Donut House beckoning me from the corner of McDowell Road and 15th Avenue. This venerable old donut shoppe has not only resisted the siren call of egg whites; it's actually promoting a deal where if you buy a 1/2 pound breakfast sandwich, they throw in a donut for free. Talk about wonderful gratuitousness.

Macaroni and cheese, plus the deep fat fryer ...

by Sarah Fenske

Macaroni-and-cheese is one of God's perfect foods. Whether it's a high-end version with lobster over at The Capital Grille, the kind your mother made with potato chips on top, or even the kind you make just by adding water, it's comfort food at its best.

There's only one problem with mac and cheese: You can't eat it while you're driving.

But now that I've made yet another trip through the drive-through at Jack In the Box, I've got to amend that statement. There used to be only one problem with mac-and-cheese. Now Jack In the Box has rolled out a portable version.

This isn't a gimmick. No, it's genuine Kraft-style mac-and-cheese, fried into a perfect orange triangle that you can scarf even with one hand on the wheel. And it' s just $1.59 for three. (There's also a bigger size available, but trust me: You won't need it.)

I gave the bites a test run while on the road yesterday and nearly hit a dude in a Beemer. But that's not because these suckers are hard to hold. I'm just a bad driver.

No, these bites really are perfect for a day when you crave mac-and-cheese, but don't have enough time to slow down and pick up a fork. I don't know how Jack In the Box does it, but they really hold together, with a tempura-style crust locking in the warm cheesy goodness with no mess and no fuss. I was pleasantly surprised by how much of the macaroni flavor comes across in this version.

Now, I have to admit, I didn't love these more than the plated version; the fried batter doesn't really add much taste-wise. But the fact that I could enjoy mac-and-cheese taste while still menacing my fellow drivers -- well, that's a really good thing in these days of working lunches and overbooked schedules.

I'll definitely be ordering these again.

It's squidalicious!

by Sarah Fenske

I have the occasional good fortune to dine with a 15-year-old -- and no, I'm not kidding when I call it "good fortune." This kid is an adventurous eater with a knack for ordering. He's introduced me to the world's most amazing sea urchin, an absolutely sensational clam treatment, and now -- the latest and greatest -- Ika Kara Age at Hana Japanese Eatery. I swear, this dish is so good, I almost fell off my chair. And, soon thereafter, I started nagging my friends: "Dude, we've got to go to Hana!"

Hana is a little BYOB joint in an unassuming strip mall at Missouri and 7th Avenue -- not exactly the Biltmore area when it comes to fine dining. But every time I go there, I'm blown away. They have the nicest servers, the freshest fish, the yummiest specials. And, thanks to my teenage friend, I now know that the yummiest of the yum is just $6.95 -- a perfect plate of squid, marinated in sweet butter and then fried, tempura style. Nothing will prepare you for how buttery this stuff tastes, and how soft the meat. It seriously tastes like it's just been dipped in drawn butter.

Last Friday, I took my friends to Hana to show off my find. And they agreed: It was out of this world. "This is sooo good," Kendall said, her eyes like saucers. Said Jill, "Wow. Wow! This is so frickin' good -- and I'm a squid fan!" We seriously sat there for like five minutes, oohing and ahhing and congratulating ourselves for good ordering.

You say pakora, I say samosa -- and this time, I'm right.

by Sarah Fenske

My dearest pal in the whole world is Indian -- she grew up in Mumbai, only coming to the U.S. for college. So I know a bit more about Indian food than, say, Thai or Chinese; Divya has been a wonderful tutor.

The one thing I don't know anything about is appetizers. When I go to Indian restaurants, I tend to go overboard up on the naan and the raita, the basmati rice and all those wonderfully flavorful Indian vegetables, studded with cottage cheese. (I swear, Indian is one of the few cuisines where being a vegetarian would be no hardship.) There's hardly room for meat, much less a starter.

But on Monday, I was in the mood for something fried. And there simply isn't much fried stuff in Indian restaurants -- even one with as extensive a menu as Flavors of India, my favorite CenPho Indian eatery. You pretty much have to order pakoras or samosas if you want your daily gutbomb.

Naturally, I decided to order both.

Sweet dreams are made of fried cheese! Who am I to disagree?

By Sarah Fenske

I've been thinking about friendship lately, friendship and Greek food.

One of my best friends in high school back in Cleveland, Chelsea, was half Greek and half Irish. But since her father was absent and her YaYa, or grandmother, was a particularly strong presence, it was her Greek side that she cherished. The highlight every May for her -- and us, her lucky friends -- was the Church of the Assumption's annual Greek Festival. We'd pile our plates with dolmathes and spanakopita, add a fat slab of pastitio and some stuffed peppers, and then maybe even a leg of lamb. Washed down with a cup of cold beer in the church's raucous great hall, it was the best food I'd ever eaten.

It was Chelsea, too, who introduced me to saganaki -- that wonderful Greek kasseri cheese, soaked in brandy and flambeed tableside, followed by a long squeeze of lemon. It's over the top, in the way tableside flambees are by definition over the top, but it really is the yummiest thing imaginable.

Chelsea and I have lost touch, which may be why I thought of her Saturday night as I sat at Greekfest, the wonderfully spacious family-owned taverna at 20th Street and Camelback Road. I was there with a group of six women and one boyfriend, saying goodbye to two dear friends who are leaving Phoenix for (literally) greener pastures: Austin and San Diego.

So we sipped the soft red Greek wine and shrieked stories back and forth. Seriously, we were so loud that the only table nearby asked the waiter to move them, and not one of us could blame them. We just love talking; even Grace, the introvert of the group, has the world's loudest laugh.

But even in the middle of the din, I couldn't help but think about past Greek meals, and about how friendships can wither from neglect. It's kind of amazing, but even in this world of free long-distance calling and constant email, we can still lose track of the people we love if we're not vigilant. There's a cautionary tale.

We ordered saganaki, but we were all too busy chatting to yell the requisite "Opa!" except for the vigilant Andrea, so of course we had to order a second plate of it. When our waiter lit the cheese this time, we all shouted the magic word. And of course the dish was perfect: salty, savory, the crust seared and the center soft. We all cut thick slabs and scarfed it up on the excellent house-made pita.

I think everything on the menu at Greekfest is divine. (If you really want to know how good squid can taste, try the cold calamari appetizer; it's insanely good.) And as the wine flowed freely, and our appetizers were whisked away and out came the Greek salads and then the silky rich moussaka, I vowed not to forget my buddies -- and, of course, to get back to Greekfest ASAP.

Lili and Grace, please come back to visit soon. If nothing else, your Phoenix friends can promise you some really great fried cheese.

Look at the pretty cocktail!

By Sarah Fenske

I'm a sucker for good lighting.

I have certain thrifty friends who will take one look at the menu and back out of a restaurant, howling, "$28 for an entree?!?" Or, "$15 for a cocktail? What is this, highway robbery?!"? Not me. What gets me backing up and howling is fluorescent lighting. Hang some from your restaurant's ceiling and I am so not going in.

So I liked Asia de Cuba, the Asian/Cuban fusion joint at the Mondrian Scottsdale. Yes, I could accurately describe the décor as white with a touch of rooster. Yes, I was horrified that the kitchen's version of surf-and-turf costs $74. But with a schmancy Effen Cherry martini in front of me and a plate of $19.50 braised beef spring rolls, all I could think about was how fabulous the place looked. Even the old lady at the next table looked young and pretty in the room's soft white glow. No one in the place last night was quite up to the stereotypical "Scottsdale scene," but the ambiance certainly helped us all feel a bit better about it.

As for that braised beef spring roll, I wouldn't necessarily say it was worth $19.50. But it was damn good: The beef filling was so tender, it was practically a pot roast, complemented by the addition of peppers instead of carrots. I adored the black bean-and-papaya salsa, served on the side with a port wine reduction. And unlike the deep-fat-fried stuff I frequently find myself indulging in — hey, I am the "Fried" correspondent, after all — the crust was thin and crispy, not greasy. Three cheers for braising!

So I'll toss my frugal friends a bone and admit that maybe my appetizer wasn't $19.50 good — but it was definitely $15 good. And what's an extra $4? These days, it'll barely buy a gallon of gas.

Personally, I'd much rather spend my extra $4 on a swanky atmosphere — and really flattering lighting. I'm feeling pretty good about Asia de Cuba.

This week's fried food is a BLT at Drip. And, yes, I had to take a bite before taking the picture -- I was starving.

by Sarah Fenske

There is nothing more sublime than a BLT: Think crisp salty bacon, ripe tomatoes dripping with juice, a sheet of crisp iceberg and a slather of mayo, all crushed together on toast. Seriously, my heart is singing just thinking about it. Ode to joy! Ode to the perfect sandwich!

When I was a kid, my siblings and I lived for BLT Night. Dad would sit at the head of the table, our toaster on a little TV tray at his side, toasting bread and whipping up sandwiches as fast as we could eat them -- and, believe me, we gave him a run for it. My brother Mark and I used to compete to see who could eat the most BLTs; he ultimately set the record at seven.

Today, what with the childhood obesity crisis and all, I suppose fun like that might be illegal. Not in 1983, thank God.

It really was heaven.

So when I woke up this morning feeling fat, I decided not to try to starve myself, or attempt whatever women's magazine tip-of-the-day that might make me feel skinnier. Instead, I decided to eat a BLT. Why not revel in fat? Why not relive those days when we didn't know mayonnaise had calories and bacon was a nutritious choice from the "meat" food group?

This week's fried food: Calf fries at the Stockyards

By Sarah Fenske

I've never been a particularly healthy eater. For one thing, I've got a fast food jones to rival the Hamburglar's -- I go through the drive-through at least four times a week. And even when I take the time to go somewhere nicer, I tend to order something soaked in saturated fat. Alfredo sauce? I'm lovin' it! French fries? Only if you bring me a tub of mayo ...

So when New Times needed someone to file weekly reports on fried food around the Valley, I was an enthusiastic volunteer. Hey, I eat the stuff anyway; I might as well have a good excuse for ordering it.

And while I didn't plan to try anything exotic for my first Fried post, somehow I ended up at The Stockyards Restaurant, putting in order for calf fries.

For the unitiated, those are cow testicles. Breaded and fried cow testicles, that is, with a side of marinara.