By Malloreigh

I started trying to write this article about ex-vegans over a week ago, but I found it really difficult. I couldn’t come up with a clean explanation for why I think people give up on veganism. I’ve talked about this with people for most of the seven years I’ve been vegan, and yet no pattern has made itself evident. In the process of trying to write the article, I interviewed about ten people who once followed a vegan lifestyle and don’t any longer; their answers were varied, sometimes defensive, sometimes apathetic, often apologetic.



I found the whole thing really disheartening, to tell you the truth, but I’m going to try to write about it as intelligently as I can. I hope to inspire some thought and dialog about this topic – for my own interest as well as that of anyone else who’s wondered about this.

Some of the people I talked to cited health reasons for giving up veganism. Every once in a while I’ll meet someone who wasn’t getting all the nutrients they needed on a vegan diet, and usually they express that they understand they just weren’t putting in the effort they should have. It’s difficult to eat a balanced diet even if you do consume animal products, but there are a few special challenges for vegans. This has become easier as fortified vegan products like non-dairy milks, cereals, and proteins have become more commonly available in supermarkets.

Most of the former vegans I talked to, however, weren’t concerned about their health. Some were just lazy, didn’t want to learn to cook. Some said that veganism was too expensive – and it certainly can be if you subsist mostly on specialty vegan products like faux meats and cheeses. Most of them, however, weren’t concerned about this, either.

A common theme among these former vegans is that they didn’t want to be freaks. They didn’t want to be “the vegan” – always having to explain and defend their lifestyle choices. They didn’t want to make the people around them uncomfortable, and they didn’t want to inconvenience their friends and partners. The endless onslaught of swimming against the current was, for these ex-vegans, the hardest part.

One longtime-vegan friend wrote, “It’s not that my values changed really, just my sticking to them.” After years of being the odd one out, and experiencing difficulty while in a relationship with an omnivore, another said that he “just didn’t think it mattered anymore.”



[Nymph in Vegan Heat]

I’m vegan because I want to save the world. All of the former vegans I talked to felt this way once too – that animals’ lives are worth more than their monetary value, that it’s easy to make small changes that are less environmentally destructive, that veganism helps to promote sustainable food systems and reduce suffering in the world. But after years of watching everyone around you eat whatever they want without concern for the consequences of their food choices, it can sometimes feel like the struggle is not worth it. How much difference can one person make? Is it worth depriving oneself in the face of so much apathy?

It’s always difficult to swim against the tide; recycling used to be a weirdo, hippie, inconvenient thing to do too. Being vegan means missing out on certain parts of an indulgent “normal life” – things like 3 AM pizza and nachos, or holiday meats. But staying true to what you believe in is an admirable, strong, beautiful thing to do, even if it means missing out on certain indulgences. It is difficult, yes, but many things worth doing are. And people should – and do – respect people who are passionate about what they believe in.

by Tara Diane

Yummmm, hummus is one of my favorite snacks. Here is my favorite hummus recipe, tuned specifically to my veggie hating, lemon-loving taste buds. Oh and I also included a festive way to serve it that will make your friends make fun of you behind your back!



What You’ll Need

• 2 16 ounce cans of garbanzo beans (chickpeas), drained and rinsed


• 6 oz. feta cheese (yummy!) OR a half teaspoon salt


• 1 tsp -1 tbsp crushed red pepper, to taste


• 1/3 cup lemon (less if you don’t want much citrus flavor)


• 1/3 cup tahini


• 2/3 cup water


• 1/3 cup olive oil

You probably have most of these ingredients in your house, but tahini might be harder to find. All GOOD grocery stores I’ve looked for it at have had it, but it might take some searching. Look in the Asian/Indian/International section. Sometimes they have it by the peanut butter (that’s where I found it today). If in doubt, just ask. If they have no idea what the fuck it is, tell them it’s Middle Eastern, ground sesame seeds that look like runny peanut butter.



1. Drain and rinse your garbanzo beans (chickpeas) and put them into a food processor or blender. A food processor is preferable, but if you use a blender it just might take a bit longer and not grind as finely.



2. Add in all of your ingredients except the feta cheese (if you used salt go ahead and put it in). It’s going to look like a gross pile of weird vomit. Turn on your processor and blend for about two minutes to make it super creamy, scraping the sides if you think you need to.



3. Add in the feta cheese and mix for about ten seconds.



For a super cute way to serve it at a Halloween party, carve out a small pumpkin and pour in the dip! Sprinkle a little bit of feta and red peppers on top and serve it with some yummy pita chips.

All of your friends will like it. Just don’t leave it out for more than a couple of hours or your pumpkin will start drooling its nasty pumpkin juices in there.

Have a good week :]

By Malloreigh

If there’s anything that’s legitimized veganism among the masses lately it’s been the explosive popularity of vegan baking. A vegan cupcake baker won Food Network’s Cupcake Wars, and Isa Chandra Moskowitz’ pair of cookbooks featuring rich, delicious vegan cookie and cupcake recipes have been a success with vegans and non-vegans alike.

That said, even if it weren’t for the sudden boom in the acceptability of vegan baking, this cookie recipe would still be a hit. The delicate flavor of lavender flowers gives this a particularly grown-up taste, but even without the floral hints, these cookies are gobbled up in record time no matter where I bring them. I think the relatively small amount of sugar makes them feel guiltless to eat.

Bonus side note: I came up with the idea of combining the flavors of lavender and cinnamon sugar while showering. My soap smells like snickerdoodles and my facial exfoliant is scented with lavender oil. The combination was surprisingly exciting.



Make this recipe your own by using one of the several adjustments I’ve left room for in the recipe, as follows.

Note on egg substitutes: There are many different substitutes you can use, from ground flaxseed to psyllium husk to applesauce to mashed banana. Each of these will impart their own taste and properties on to the cookies. I prefer ground flaxseed because it’s nutritious and doesn’t make my cookies taste like bananas. For each flaxseed egg, combine one teaspoon ground flaxseed with three tablespoons liquid – juice or water – in a separate small bowl or measuring cup. Whisk it together with a fork and add it all at once.



Vegan Lavender Snickerdoodles

• 11/2 cups flour


• 1/2 cups granulated sugar (I used slightly under a half-cup – this is my general trick for less guilty cookies)


• 1 teaspoon lavender flowers, dried and crushed (optional)


• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda


• 1/2 teaspoon salt


• 1/2 cup oil


• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract, or a combination of 2 teaspoons of different extracts – I like to use almond extract combined with vanilla


• 1 tablespoon maple syrup, agave nectar, or brown rice syrup


• 1 egg substitute (I use 1 tsp ground flaxseed whisked with a scant 3 tbsp)

apple juice or water)

• Cinnamon sugar mixture to coat

Mix dry ingredients in a large bowl. Mix wet ingredients in a medium bowl. Add the wet ingredients to the dry and mix together until an even dough forms.

Cover the bowl and set it in the refrigerator for half an hour.

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Roll one-inch cookie dough balls in the cinnamon sugar mixture and place on an ungreased cookie sheet. Flatten each with a fork.

Bake for 6 – 7 minutes. Watch closely – you want the cookies to be golden but soft. They take exactly 6 minutes in my oven but have taken 8 – 10 in someone else’s.

Makes 20 cookies, give or take, depending on how much dough you eat.

By Malloreigh

Dating is immeasurably frustrating. It’s not like the dating pool is huge to begin with – sure, there are lots of people out there, but we all have our tastes, our proclivities, our peculiarities. Sometimes we fall in lust with someone totally unavailable; sometimes the opposite happens; sometimes we like someone enough to date them and only find out after we’ve given away our hearts that they are fake poser liar cheating assholes. Ahem. Sorry, it’s not like I’m speaking from personal experience…

So imagine dating; imagine how difficult, how awkward, how soul-killing it is. Now, throw being a vegan into the mix. I’ve been on a few dates with people who chose to be totally offensive and disrespectful of my eating preferences. That, my friends, is a dealbreaker – so the next time you’re on a date with a vegan, don’t make any of those tacky jokes, and don’t try to feed your restricted-diet potential lover a bite of your steak at dinner – it’s just rude.

But wait, it gets better. Some vegans choose not to sleep with meat-eaters altogether. Some vegans go so far as to only sleep with other vegans. It’s a phenomenon called “vegansexuality” – and I think it’d be more common among vegans if it weren’t so damn hard to find other eligible, attractive vegans. But despite the extra effort involved – a vegan-only dating diet can be worth it in more ways than one. See, when your diet is poor – and this includes not only meat, but soda, alcohol, cigarettes – it affects your health, which in turn – pay attention! – affects the way you smell and taste. (Sometimes, it also affects your asshole factor. See above.)





[Pictured: Uva in Veggie Picnic]
(It’s fresh, it’s fruity, it’s vegan, and it tastes better.)

Have you ever heard that “vegans taste better”? It turns out that a diet high in fruits and vegetables, and low in acidic meat and animal products, promotes bodily secretions that are milder in taste. Simply put, vegans do generally taste better. We also have more sensitive palates, as a result of eating so many delicately flavored vegetables – so we will smell and taste things stronger than omnivores. If you want the science, I don’t have it. I just have my personal experience and that of many other people who have talked about it on the internet. (Taste is subjective anyway.)

It’s not just your vaginal secretions or semen than are affected. Your sweat and your saliva will smell different if you vary your diet, too. And it’s not just about taste; certainly, many vegans are put off by the thought of drinking the bodily secretions of a meat eater, but it also has to do with compatibility. To many vegans, their lifestyle choice is like a religion. It’s very, very important to them, and they can’t imagine wanting to share their life with someone whose values are so radically different.

Have you scored a date with a vegan? Even if they’re not vegansexual, you might do well to follow these tips:

Earlier this year, I decided it would probably be a good idea to not be so damn fat. Getting healthier overall laid more seemed like a worthwhile possible side-effect as well. Naturally, I went about googling ways to not be fat, as I assumed it would mean more than just skipping my morning hot cup of butter-flavored Crisco. That googling led me to find out some truly startling mostly maybe possibly true information.

Bread is an asshole.

Yep, that's what the internet said to me. The internet wouldn't lie to me, would it? I mean, it brings me porn. Oh wait, hold on. I knew a girl in Sacramento who did the same thing and she turned out to be crazy.

Regardless, I decided to trust this whole "bread's a cocksucker" theory, in the interest of science, and consume a KFC Double Down. For the great unwashed, this new product from The Colonel is a sandwich that boasts about its lack of buns and judicious application of all things unhealthy.


KGC? Obviously this refers to their line of grilled products, but somehow to me it invokes imagery of communism, jackboots, and possibly Dolph Lundgren.

SPOILERS! (Click to view)

]
Ha HA! Now who's crazy?

This thing was wrapped up so tightly upon delivery, I was concerned it may be an omen of greasiness to come. Little did I know how right I was.


The last time I saw breasts this bare it cost me a dollar plus cover and a creepy hipster with Kanye West asshole glasses tried to score coke off me in the men's shitter.


Further exploration shows inside lies a gloppy combination of cheese, bacon, and The Colonel's "secret sauce". Cue the masturbation joke. All gloppiness aside, the structure of the sandwich is sound. I expected the two chicken chunks to slide around against each other like Rosie O'Donnell's ass cheeks in July, making handling difficult and awkward. This was not the case. At least not for the sandwich.


Upon first nom, I ran into a weakness. Rather than submit to my powerful jaws easily, the chicken was stubborn, tearing along its grain. I literally bit off more than I could chew. This tendancy is the sandwich's fatal flaw; the Death Star exaust port if you will.

But there also arose another issue:

A magnificent case of greasefinger. Only the lube-wrangler on the set of Ass Spelunkers #3 could top what results from the handling of this product. I recommend you fight the temptation to unwrap this thing unless you like your fingers to leave subtle meat-smelling fingerprints on everything all day.

But how does it taste? Not bad, really. If the bacon and cheese had been of higher quality it might have even been good despite its flaws. But they weren't, meaning this epicurean disaster can only achieve mediocrity. But, in a way, KFC seems to revel in that fact ... like the slow kid in class with mittens pinned on his sleeves who's way too proud about his ninth place t-ball trophy. Good try, KFC...good try.




6/10 flushes


SnakePlissken proudly sniffs his fingers after fried chicken.

When I think shit food, I think Italian. Not because it’s bad. Oh, fuck no. I mean shit food in the way that every single dish is out to clog your arteries and make you die of an infarction while you’re masturbating awkwardly in a changing booth at the Fashion Bug. I mean, what’s not to love about a cuisine where even the vegetarian dishes can turn a white tablecloth orange if accidentally spilled? Oh, right. The rip-offs. The “authentic” stuff out there that lures you in with your trust of all things Italiariffic, only to leave you searching for the nearest 7-11 that sells both Imodium and Depends. That being said, it’s time to take on one of the worst offenders: Subway.

I love a good sandwich. A lot. If I had my choice between the perfect sandwich and the perfect handjob, I’d take the sandwich. I’m not saying I don’t like handjobs. Quite the contrary. I’m just saying I really fucking love sandwiches. And Subway is to sandwiches what Captain Hook is to handjobs, preparing greasy luges of bread set to rocket out of your colon like a doomed Georgian athlete.

So, after my daily trip to the liquor store, I stopped by the local Subway for a foot long of blasphemy. There were two choices on the menu with “Italian” in their name, the Italian B.M.T. and the Spicy Italian. I settled on the Spicy Italian after deciding that I simply couldn’t eat anything with the initials B.M. anywhere in its naming scheme. Considering the gustatory dynamite that would comprise this big bastard, I selected the parmesan oregano bread, hoping the cheese would create a gluing effect in my lower GI tract, thus countering the natural laxative effect of cheap cold cuts. And do I want it toasted? Why not? I was.

Here’s what Subway says a Spicy Italian should look like.

Look at that thing. I kind of want to marry it and move to a country where it’s legal to eat your wife.

Here’s what it really looks like.

Yeah, that’s the Russian Bride effect. Looks great on the internet, but when it shows up, it’s ugly, mean, and probably will wake you up by putting cigarettes out on your arm.

Fortunately, I know it's what's inside that counts, right?

Shit. That piece of bread looks like it could try out for Jersey Shore 2. Better dig deeper.


Ok, well that's not so bad looking I guess, even though it resembles the Jolly Green Giant's first dump of the day.


Much to my surprise, it handles well. Not much topping leakage or bread crumble. These are the first favorable traits I've noticed.

But then I tried it. It tastes, well, cheap. Like licking Lindsay Lohan, only slightly less greasy. The salami and pepperoni are the exact opposite of what they should be in a quality sandwich. Most likely, I don't want to know what's in them as they probably contain at least half the periodic table. I don't even want to speculate on the half-life of Subway salami. The olives, which I normally love, were oppressively briney, dominating the flavor profile. As for the tomatoes, well, they were red. If they had a flavor they might have been nice. Same goes for the lettuce. Ugh, iceberg. Unless it's sinking the Titanic and killing Leonardo DiCaprio, I'm not interested.

So is the king of cheap sandwiches worth it? No, not at all when you consider the quality of what you're getting for your money. Why not spend an extra buck or two and visit a local establishment instead? Not only will you support your local economy, but you'll get a much better product for the money you spend. Don't settle for less when more is everywhere.



3/10 flushes


SnakePlissken eagerly awaits being sued by Lindsay.

I woke up this morning on the wrong side of the bed. I mean this both literally and figuratively. Not only was I in a pissy mood, but I was also on the wrong side of the bed. I was trapped like a Uruguayan rugby player in the Andes, wedged between mattress and wall. Bizarrely positioned and beyond numb in every appendage, I felt like a cross between Stephen Hawking and a discarded prom night prophylactic. Rallied forth by poop tremors, I dragged myself out from the living tomb of A-Team sheets and made my way to the lavatory where I pondered the eternal conundrum that is finishing up the deuce process with numb arms. Needless to say, this series of events did little to aid my already angry disposition.

I parked my car and began my walk to class in the cold stinging rain. Going down the steps from the lot, I noted that even after two weeks no one had the good sense or kind heart to turn a hose on the exceptionally large and amorphous pile of vomit that lay there upon the steps. At this point I could only assume that it was some part of an art project or bizarre social experiment and continued on my way. A few blocks later I realized something from that pile of vomit; I hadn't visited my neighbor the Burger King in some time. And coincidentally enough The King was angry too, and taking it out on his Whoppers!



The Reveal

This is what my $5.89 gets you. It looks like a lot, but realize that in some parts of the world that same amount can buy you a virgin and two fatted sows. Or vice-versa.



Take a moment to observe the photo below.

SPOILERS! (Click to view)

Yes, that is indeed four packets of ketchup. This is the kind of star treatment only an important fellow like myself can receive. I’ll bet Gary Busey doesn’t even get four ketchups.



And there it is. The Burger King Angry Whopper. A standard whopper at heart, but with the addition of Angry Onions, jalapeños, pepper jack cheese, and Angry Sauce. Weighing in at 880 calories, this is the smallest of the Angry lineup. It’s also available as a double at 1120 calories and a triple weighing in at 1360 calories. I decided to avoid the larger of the three as I would like to avoid riding a chair up my staircase like Mrs. Deagle. We all know how well that turned out.

The Mastication

Why does every fast food burger I get look like it was designed by a half-blind French engineer? Is this part of the Angry marketing scheme?





This is the part where I eat my words. It held together. Well even. Minimal drippage occurred, and that which did hit the paper was clearly from an eager tomato and not any sort of condiment or grease meat juice. Score one for the Angry Whopper.

But there did arise a problem. This was an “Angry” Whopper, not an “Irritated” Whopper or an “OMG What’s The Matter Honey? Nothing! ” Whopper. So where was the Angry? It’s not in the sauce. It appears to be, at best, a watered down wing topping with an extra dose of sweet. It’s not in the pepper-jack cheese either, nor was it the Angry Onions. The jalapeños did have a slight bite, but still this sandwich is not anywhere near a level that seemed indicated on the advertisements. But are they ever?

Overall Impressions

Despite the fact they tout it as Lewis Black when it’s really just a coked up Steven Wright, it wasn’t as terrible as I expected. It was almost decent, but one major factor will always hold the King back for me.

SPOILERS! (Click to view)

I hate albino lettuce and they always give me albino lettuce. There may be a sprig or too of green in there on occasion, but for the most part it’s whiter than the crowd at a Dave Matthew’s Band concert. Quit bogarting the green, King.

I give the Burger King Angry Whopper


7/10 flushes

SnakePlissken needs a drink.

I love Swiss cheese. It’s packed with glory-holes of deliciousness. I love mushrooms, too, even if they make me so gassy I could fart the entire chainsaw solo from “The Lumberjack” by Jackyl. While I'm at it, let’s not forget french-fried onions. They‘re greasy and tasty and totally count as a serving of vegetables as per the FDA food pyramid. So, how could I not love a sandwich with all of those things on it? Oh yes, that’s right; it’s from Burger King. That statement alone is sufficient to make even the most iron-gutted of us shake in fear like a Shar-Pei shitting tacks. But, maybe I shouldn’t judge. So what if the company mascot looks like he isn’t allowed to live less than two hundred feet from all schools or day care centers? Even the shittiest kid in gym class can park a homer or two on occasion.

Time for a Burger King Mushroom and Swiss Steakhouse Burger.

First Impressions

The cold, the dark, and the rain conspired to form an opaque fog on my car windows. The gentle breeze smells of cold and evil. That evil is Burger King, and I'm in the drive-thru lane to Hell. The small trollish woman at the window smiles a black-toothed grin as she approaches with the item in hand. A knowing grin. I momentarily feel like I may have just done a deal with Leland Gaunt. I rush home; if I did just sell my soul for this thing I shouldn't let it get cold. Microwaved soul-burger sounds unappealing.

The Reveal

Seven bucks this sucker cost me. How can these people sleep at night? On a big pile of money I suppose. I hope they inhale a quarter and die.




That's what you get for your hard-earned money

So that's Angus beef? Pardon me, whoever wrote that, I think your "g" key might be sticking. This terrible excuse for a patty was dry, overcooked, and had an overabundance of the color black. If this was indeed Angus beef, The King should be ashamed of himself. Maybe even more than people who have plastic spinner hubcaps or get hookers off Craigslist.

Ready to take a peek under the hood?

The Mastication

SPOILERS! (Click to view)

"Yeah, but secreted by what?!"

This thing made my kitchen smell like a church basement on potluck night. More specifically, it made it smell like the table with the three green bean casseroles that invariably show up. It's cheap fried onions and hot canned mushrooms all the way. This is the first time I've been tempted to back out. But it's too late, and the damn thing was seven bucks.



Wow, it tastes like it smells. The onion flavor is really too strong and strange, but at least it kills some of the tinny, briny mushroom taste. The last time I had ones that tasted this bad they cost me a hundred bucks, but made anime entertaining for the first time.

All in all, I'd say this thing checks in at the top of my list of life regrets. And, I'd say it's bad enough to top other people's, too. I imagine right now, probably in Washington state, there's a guy with a pile of hooker torsos in his closet who just ate one and had it top his list of regrets, too. So yeah, it's worse than murder. But at least no one will gas you to death for doing it. You'll probably take care of that yourself.




1/10 flushes



SnakePlissken wants a Hamdog.

It’s 12:30 AM Friday morning July 18 and I find myself in Gelsenkirchen, Germany.

Gelsenkirchen.

Home of… um, home of nothing that I know of and I’m too lazy to Google it. Take my word for it, it’s quiet. Even the pub in the hotel was dead except for the one drunk guy that stared at us for a minute and then burped AT us. Seriously, he burped at us like he was throwing something at us. Then he grabbed the waitress’s ass and yelled a lot.

Still, it’s very quiet here; too quiet after the raucous insanity that was Sligo, Ireland.

If you’ve ever read this column before then you probably know I have an affinity for the black stuff. A pint of Guinness in Ireland is as close to perfection on earth as it gets. It can’t be done better. It can’t be improved upon. The only anomalies are the temperature (sometimes it can be too cold) and the pour (most places don’t do it right). A proper pour is to fill the glass about three quarters of the way and then let it settle (when it’s solid black with a creamy head) and then fill the rest of the way slowly so the head just makes a slight dome over the top edge of the glass. It should take about two minutes. Then it takes another minute to settle. As far as I have experienced, the two anomalies I mentioned don’t exist in Ireland.

My first proper Guinness was in 1986 at the Gresham Hotel in Dublin. I went straight to the bar with my bags and ordered from the barman. I didn’t know anything about pouring Guinness then so when he stopped pouring three quarters of the way I thought he was fucking with me, the stupid American. I waited a minute and then ignorantly asked him if there was a problem with the tap and he said, “Sonny, a proper pour takes at least two minutes.” He wasn’t being condescending, and I didn’t take it that way. I sat there all afternoon and drank, probably over compensating for my faux pas and to this day I go have a Guinness at the Gresham every time I am in Dublin.

I had been looking forward to two days off in Dublin since we got these Pearl tour dates supporting Meat Loaf. Days off are like precious stones and to have two days in Dublin is like winning the lottery. The plan was we would stay in Sligo for the show in Bundoran, which is on the west coast and then drive to Dublin to spend two days bowing to the Phil Lynott statue outside the Bruxelles Pub, Guinness in hand. Ah, the best laid plans…

The show in Bundoran got postponed a day due to technical problems with the tent/stage. Basically the whole thing was gonna come crashing down and the promoter needed another day to get it right. The weather was fierce, raining sideways and this circus tent was not going to hold up. They were also going to try and squeeze 6000 people into a space that maybe held 3000. The whole thing was a mess and on top of it we lost our days in Dublin. Wah, wah. Cry for me; it’s such a sad story.

I’m not one to dwell on the negative and it was my first time on the west coast of Ireland so Sligo it was!! The Guinness fight had begun.

We ended up spending three nights in the hotel bar, each night progressively better (or worse) drinking the black stuff. It was a 72-hour cacophony of Guinness and whisky (Powers and Jameson Black Tooth Grins!) and bad singing and swords and metal and fish and chips and more Guinness.

When I woke up today to fly to Germany I was in a zone, in some strange yet familiar and friendly place. I felt like I was walking backwards when I was going forwards. Everything was a little out of focus and for a moment everything was right with the world. Maybe it was the sea air of the beautiful west coast, or maybe it was being in such close proximity to the mighty Ben Bulben (it’s a huge mountain/rock with a head like the Juggernaut), or maybe it was from my dinner the night before that had three different kinds of potatoes (mashed, fried and a side of mashed) on the plate, or maybe it was the really drunk and pissed off guy that I drank with who told me his opinions of Americans had changed for the better after spending some time with us, or maybe it was being with friends and sharing it all.

Maybe it was all of that or maybe it was the Guinness.

It is good for you. The ad says so. Truth in advertising is a wonderful thing.

Getcha’ pull!!

Cheers,
Scott




Scott Ian plays guitar for revolutionary metal band Anthrax and also for Pearl.

Artwork credit: Shepard Fairey

Remember 1993? Boy, I sure do. I was obsessed with White Zombie, Warhammer 40,000, and pretty much every girl's tits at school. And, yes, I am including the lunch lady, as her arm fat flap-flopping was hauntingly captivating and the source of many a young man's lusty gaze. That was also the year we learned that Jack in the Box really did have shitty burgers. Should have just let mommy make you one at home eh? Sure there's no toy, but is a posable ALF figurine really worth a scathing case of bloody eliminations?


First Impressions

It's hot out. Damn hot. Plus, I have leather seats. Not a good combo. I'm stewing in my own juices and cursing Al Gore under my breath for inventing global warming. The air conditioner strains to keep up, like a free clinic in New Orleans the week after Mardi Gras. I roll down the window just long enough to scream my order of a BBQ Bacon Sirloin Burger combo. Do I want it large-a-sized? Fuck yes, I'd like a giant cup of ice. How much extra to have that Latina counter girl with the big ass pour it down my pants? No response. I pull around to the window and cough up my $7.68. In return, I'm handed an overflowing bag of greasy goodness from a man that looks a lot like Billy Mays. I once again ponder the concept of the doppelgänger, crane my neck for one more glance of hot Latina butt, and depart for home.

The Reveal

Ahh yes, the BBQ Bacon Sirloin burger. What's not to love about that? BBQ is awesome even if it is from the south, bacon is....fucking bacon, and sirloin is the Cadillac of meats; no buttholes and jowls for this sucker. But, will all this rolled into one mean awesomenicity? Let's see...





Hmm. It's pretty big. Peter North big. But the bacon looks less than impressive, and is as limp as Bob Dole. But, what's this? Are those onion rings? Sweet, that totally counts as one of my daily servings of vegetables.

The Mastication

You fuckers and your shitty excuse for BBQ sauce. When will they learn it takes more than a shot of brown sugar in the ketchup? It's so weirdly sweet it really ruins the experience. I can't taste anything else but it. Nothing. Not even the bacon. I repeat: NOT EVEN THE BACON. Not exactly a trip to flavor country. How could something with this combination of toppings be so bland? It's as if Dr. Wily invented a machine capable of removing all flavor and tested it on this burger. I suspect he pumped said flavor into the aforementioned Latina girls' ass.

As for the curly fries, they were pretty much what I expect from every place that offers curly fries. Chewy, smooshy, and greasy. The potato version of George Hamilton.



But, what this burger does have is structural integrity. I could have eaten this thing with one hand in the fast lane without fear of dripping grease on my crotch. So, if that's your thing, I suggest you steer clear. But does that minor feature make a mediocre burger worth almost eight dollars? Hardly. I feel ripped off, like I was fisted by Jack Palance without him even pausing to put down his cigarette.

I give the Jack in the Box BBQ Bacon Sirloin Burger




3/10 flushes

SnakePlissken would like to personally thank the makers of Imodium AD.

Previously on Food Coma... In-N-Out good, Olive Garden bad. Tiny little birds tortured for the gastronomic pleasure of the rich elite and some old Popes. Truffles are angel poop. Drunk on Amaro with Mario and Tom. The Oceanic Six have been revealed.

I have been traveling the world since we last met, out in the territories, your ever faithful servant, your gentleman at arms, hopscotching the globe, looking for the best the world has to offer! Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to another pulse-pounding edition of Food Coma.

Dateline London 24/3/2008: The Crown Pub
British beer is better than American beer. Is there anyone that this is news to? Bottom line, a properly pulled/poured pint of Fuller’s or any number of British lagers or ales is better than anything we drink here in the states. Of course a Guinness in Dublin is king shit of fuck mountain, and those crazy Belgian monks are universally known as the best conjurers of the hop, but I wasn’t just in Dublin or Belgium; I was in England, damn it, and the quality of the brew was fantastic. Here in the states you have to seek out specialty beer bars like Father’s Office here in Los Angeles, or DBA in New York City, to drink anything even close to what they’re serving in the local pub. Yes, there are fine micro/local breweries making amazing stuff here in the U.S. No argument. What I’m saying is, the average pint in the UK is just so much better than the crap Americans accept. I’m not going to go into a whole tirade against Anheuser-Busch and tell you why their product tastes like watery ass. I’m just going to tell you that 99% of beer is done wrong here and you should find out for yourself. Spend the extra $3 on a six-pack of something good. You deserve it. I’ll even recommend a great U.S. made ale for all you patriots: Arrogant Bastard Ale from Stone Brewing in San Diego. Big, bold, delicious and it’ll get you drunk a lot quicker than the pee you’re used to.

Dateline London 26/3/2008: Andy and Eric’s room at the K West
Post-show (on tour with Pearl opening for Velvet Revolver, for more on that go to www.myspace.com/pearl) meal at Tayyab’s in White Chapel. Possibly the best Indian food I’ve ever had. How can lentils taste this good? The fried paneer was addictive. The seekh kabab was the best I ever had. I’ve never had dry beef before and I don’t know where to find it in LA!!!! Even the basic chicken curry had a flavorful heat that gave my taste buds boners. God-damn-it the food was so good I’m pissed off. And for £10 that’s CHEAP for London.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the catering on the Velvet Revolver tour. Usually, in Europe bands will travel with catering and in general, UK caterers are good. It’s easy to get really fat on a UK/Euro tour when you’ve got someone cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner for you and then even making you sandwiches for the bus after the show. The VR caterers were a company called Eat Your Hearts Out and every meal was terrific. The Mulligatawny soup was amazing. Never had it? Go get Indian food right now. And Banoffee pie. Holy shit. Graham cracker crust, bananas, toffee and whipped cream. Go fuck yourself.

Dateline London 27/3/2008 in the wee hours
The K West hotel has vending machines with beer, airplane size liquor bottles and snacks. What will these Brits think of next????????

Dateline Los Angeles 4/1/2008
Jet-lagged but happy to be home. The tour was amazing, sold-out and Slash, Duff, Matt and Dave were so kind to us. I didn’t get to see Scott but I hope he’s good and that Velvet Revolver and STP both move onwards and upwards.

Ate at Craft, Tom Colicchio’s LA branch of the NYC steakhouse classic. I wanted to eat here when it first opened but I quickly lost interest thinking it was going to be a cold, biz-oriented power lunch kind of place (it’s practically in CAA’s lobby). I couldn’t have been more wrong. The dining room was warm, nicely lit and felt great. Everyone was really friendly (Maybe they know I write a food column? Yeah, I wish) and the food was excellent. The smoked trout appetizer was perfect and the steak was great. I always judge a steakhouse by the NY Strip and this was perfectly cooked and full of flavor. I’ll be back.

Dateline Los Angeles 4/2/2008
Went to Lucques which was recently named top LA restaurant in Los Angeles Magazine. I like Lucques but I didn’t think it was the best place in town. I hadn’t been in a few years (last time I was there, Pearl and I had dinner with Roger Daltrey and The Edge sat at the next table and it was quite a night, but that’s a story for another time) so I figured I’d revisit. It was definitely not the best restaurant in town. Citrus Avocado salad to start was eh. Not enough avocado so it was more like a fruit salad that someone dropped some avocado into. The salmon was cooked well but was swimming in butter and was bland. Not sure how they cooked the flavor out of it. Maybe they were having an off night. Not sure if I’ll be back.

Dateline Chicago 4/3/2008
In Chicago writing with Anthrax. Nine songs done. We’re really getting close to making the record. I’m very happy with where we’re at creatively. Fucking Metal.

Ate at Blackbird. Fucking amazing. If Los Angeles Magazine named this restaurant as best restaurant in LA, I’d agree. It was a perfect meal. I even asked for a menu so I could get it right here. The only thing I can’t remember is the first amuse. It was whitefish in some delicious sauce.

Appetizer: Salad of endives with crispy potatoes, basil, dijon, pancetta, and poached egg.

Amuse: Crispy confit of suckling pig with braised endive, crab apples, sweet potato mustard and pork rind.

Entrée: Grilled California sturgeon with sauerkraut gnocchi, Anjou pear and celery root puree.

Amuse: Grapefruit sorbet.

Dessert: Roasted pineapple with brioche ice cream, hibiscus and cinnamon toast.

All this and booze for $80. If it was NY or LA it would’ve been $150. It sounds pretty fancy-pants but all the flavors were very down home, American style cooking. Awesome.

I’m off to Costa Rica tomorrow for a week. My belly is excited.

Cheers,
Scott

P.S. If you’re not watching "Battlestar Galactica," you’re an idiot.

www.myspace.com/scottian
www.nonelouder.com/scottian
http://blogs.scifi.com/battlestar/scottian/

Scott Ian plays guitar for revolutionary metal band Anthrax and also for Pearl.

Artwork credit: Shepard Fairey

We’re all busy. We all have things to do. In an age when we value efficiency to such a high degree, we are all looking for ways to multitask and corners to cut. Fast food, TV dinners, drive thrus, meals on the go, snack bars, Hungry? Why wait?: it seems that one facet of life that is commonly streamlined is the meal.

Of course, we know that such routes to alimentary fulfillment are not optimal for our health. Fewer nutrients, more trans fat, high caloric content, and that nasty postprandial bloating. But, apparently, there's more!

The Archives of Pediatric and Adolescent Medicine report a study showing that teenage girls benefit from sitting down to eat meals with their families. This idea goes beyond, though includes, the idea of direct nutrition to encompass a psychological element as well.

The study is a longitudinal evaluation. In 1999, 2500 girls between the ages of 13 and 17 were polled regarding their eating habits. Follow-up investigation has found that the girls who eat with their families at least five times a week have much healthier relationships with food.

Of course, this is a correlational research study, so we are not able to disentangle the various potential causes from one another. But at the same time, this study hints at the idea that family meals help to encourage young girls to form healthier connections with eating. In fact, these results were found to be independent of factors including family relationship, socio-economic status, and weight. Such studies can never provide concrete evidence of causal mechanisms, but some researchers have hypotheses regarding these results.

A little speculative, perhaps, but interesting nonetheless.

And boys? Well…it appears family meals had no such effects on the male population.

And just in case you’re wondering, Fatality eats. And eats a lot. Though her family right now consists of two dogs.

Bon Scott once said, “Hell ain’t a bad place to be.” I couldn’t agree more as my adopted city turns into a Rammstein video shoot. Los Angeles is burning, San Diego is burnt and it’s snowing Malibu ash. Serious shit for this town. Yes, what was an arsonist’s wet-dream of a week was the top story across the board, barely beating out Marie Osmond passing out because she’s crazy.

I’ve been in Los Angeles for 18 years now and I know I’ve developed a disaster callous because driving on a freeway next to a hillside in flames is just interesting enough to get me to stop typing on my iPhone (yes, I am THAT GUY or that gay. Either one works.)

I do love this city and I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. I’m a New Yorker that would rather live in La La Land than back in the “old neighborhood.” Fuck the old neighborhood. Small-minded bitter assholes hanging out in dank, old-man bars, drinking from their mugs of sadness and failure as life passes them by. I’m not judging, maybe I’m stereotyping a bit, but I’ve been there. It smells bad.

I come from a New York that doesn’t exist any more so there’s not much for me to miss. I used to miss the restaurants … Ah, now he’s getting to the point of all this. Were you worried it was going to be like an episode of “John From Cincinnati” (like you watched that piece of crap) where nothing happens and nothing makes sense yet you still come back every week because it’s Milch and he did “Deadwood” and you hope something will crack and the only thing that ends up cracking is your head against the wall in frustration? That was me.

So the point is, I used to miss the food. Used to. New York used to lord over Los Angeles as a “culinary town” but not any more. Some people will disagree with me on this so I will fight them. Fight them with words. Really fancy words like “Sous-Vide,” and “Affinage,” and “Amuse Bouche,” and “Rape,” (the vegetable not the assault, look it up.)

Me being more akin to the lowbrow, I’ll spell it out this way; I just fucking love food and in the last five years Los Angeles has become a premier dining city and that’s what I’m guhna fuhkin’ write about if dats OK wit yous.



Editor's Note: Scott Ian plays guitar for revolutionary metal band Anthrax and also for Pearl, on tour now in the UK. SuicideGirls is proud to welcome him as a columnist. Now throw up them horns…

Artwork credit: Shepard Fairey

This weekend marks L.A.'s Tofu Festival, August 12-13th. While some scoff at the cubic wonder food, it's a great opportunity to try it in its many forms as restaurants compete for the tastiest tofu treats. Offering a full itinerary of festive attractions such as a celebrity chef cooking stage (including an Iron Chef!), performance by Blackalicious, a beer and sake garden, and a tofu-eating contest, vegetarians and tofu-aficionados have a kickass reason to unite.



For those stuck at home or unable to attend, whip up your own tofu festival using the inventive, free recipes at the Post Punk Kitchen, beginning with those that use tofu as the main ingredient.

Also, don't even bother making fun here; I'm proud of my TOFU LUV.