It’s a sad day in the world of fat children, but really in today’s food market that’s so health and calorie conscious how did ho-ho’s even plan on getting picked up off the street? Little Debbie is going to have to do some growing up and exercising if she wants to outrun the leaders in today’s snacking industry and competitive market.

Twinkies were said to survive even a nuclear bomb due to their composition. That statement alone should make you question stuffing your face with them.

The Mayans predicted the end of the world to come December 21, 2012. That’s in exactly one month. Maybe this is it … after-all, supposed nuclear survivors couldn’t even get past it, will we?

Stay tuned, as there may be hope after all.  Pabst Blue Ribbon, which just so happens to be my roommates favorite beer and balcony side table decor is interested in buying the Twinkies name and recipe. Talk about the ultimate combination – beer and Twinkies. Like pizza and coke. If there’s anyone that can keep this brand from seeing their doomsday it’s these people, who also revived Chef-Boy-R-Dee and Bumblebee Tuna.

Guess we’ll get to see if Twinkies can really survive a doomsday come December 21st.

Bring it Mayans…

And after attending Iron Fork under the pretense of stalking him and sending him various e-mail I got him to respond …

And so this is the story I submitted and what will decided whether I get one step closer to being the Carrie Bradshaw of food and of Miami.

Giorgio Rapicavoli: Chef or Carpenter?

Today kicks off the most overindulging week of the year as millions of Americans gear up for the Thanksgiving holiday, which combines no work, football, and lots of food. Thank you pilgrims.

And while many restaurants are getting ready to close their doors for the weekend, one in particular is getting ready to open … permanently.

Former pop-up restaurant Eating House will open its doors this Friday November 23^rd with a ribbon cutting ceremony celebrating all they have to be thankful for: a fresh new look, soon-to-come lunch service, and Henry Hane.

When Eating House closed in late September nobody anticipated a permanent return, not even owner and head chef Giorgio Rapicavoli. With a month to go to his 27 birthday (he’s a Scorpio ladies) Rapicavoli decided to give himself a splendid birthday gift and buy out Café Ponce. He also took a 20-day trip to Chicago and California in which all he did was eat. “This trip really influenced me in ways I have never been before. I’m really taking notice of molecular gastronomy. Done right it’s really sexy,” says the young barely 27 year old chef. He was able to get reservations (months in advance) at Alinea in Chicago where he had the dish that made the biggest impression of  his whole trip: a razor clam. “It was hidden in this crazy concoction of seaweed and other creatures of the sea, but it was shining, almost talking, singing to me, and I listened.” That’s deep.

Eating House, set to open this past Friday, got a bit delayed due to the chef’s I-do-whatever-the fuck-I-want-attitude, which goes perfectly with his camouflage cargo shorts and tattoos. “And whoever doesn’t like it can go fuck themselves.” His words, not ours, but don’t let that scare you. There’s much to like in the new Eating House. Its new look resembles that of a street, one that’s under construction, but with lots of promise. Ghost wood and muted gray walls with industrial lighting give the feel of a place that could very well have cows, pigs, or even a ram just outside waiting to be caught, cooked to order, and served for dinner – on handmade tables.

Yes, Rapicavoli has used his hands for something other than dicing tomatoes to make whipped gazpacho, which he’s officially adding to the menu, and breaking eggs to make his pasta MY WAY carbonara. Handmade tables made his way add just another rustic touch to create the setting he and partner and long-time friend Alex Cassanova are aiming to create for EH.  “One table top would cost us over 100 dollars each. We were able to make the all the tables exactly how we want for $250,” says front-of-house expert Alex Cassanova. “They’re fucking edgy,” adds Rapicavoli. He sounds sexy cursing while operating heavy machinery. “We’re sticking to the same premise as when we popped up, just a bit refined. We still don’t have expensive china or even plates that match.” Beautiful rock-like plates from Crate and Barrel will serve as the cold surface for raw and earthy like tartars and his citrus tomato staple, while charcoal colored bowls and eggshell plates from Ikea give the chef ways to play around with colors like that of his green brussels sprouts and fried egg. A great color contrast  to match the graffiti on the walls and concept they started out with – if food is art then we’re making graffiti. “Food is still art, so we’re still making graffiti. Now you’ll just have tables and food made by me, and graffiti that’s going up on the walls for good. No more of taking it down during the day shit.” There he goes again.

EH will be bringing back their Sunday brunch dubbed Wakin’-n-Bacon, where they’ll be bakin’ (captain toast crunch pancakes, what else?), but will be opening for lunch come the new year with a more casual, over the counter type service, and a different menu. “I want to do more grub food for lunch, you know things you can eat with your hands.” Expect to see different and more refined dishes from him, flavor-wise and texturally … sexy. That’s what his food will be like – sexy, just like him and his new Sous Chef Henry Hane.

Former Señora Martinez Sous Chef, Hane has known Rapicavoli since cooking school. After Señora Martinez closed its doors Hane left to Spain and has now come back to the states to form part of the culinary team Eating House. With Rapicavoli’s Italian and Mediterranean influence and experience from working in Spanish restaurants (Olivos and Por Fin) and Hane’s passion and execution for Spanish food, it will be very interesting to see the things that the two of them will get their hands on.

Giorgio Rapicavoli? Chef or carpenter? Right now as he sits on the floor surrounded by tools and a hammer instead of knives slicing wood and not wearing his apron it’s hard to tell. One thing is clear. This Friday won’t be black, as we’ll have one more thing to be thankful for after leftovers: a house built to eat and to last.

The verdict?

Stay tuned …

I actually blame this on my mother who forced me to steal the soup spoons and bowls from Benihana at a far too early age. If I got caught, she could blame it on the child. Only problem, after stealing of course, is deciding which one of us was/is the child.

The first and only time I got caught shoplifting I was nine and had been stealing from the local Sanrio store in Key Biscayne for months. Who could resist Pekkle, Keroppi, and Batz Maru? Not me … Hello Clepto.

I made a killing selling these stolen goods to my fellow fourth graders. But like all good things must come to an end, so  did my part-time as a Sanrio sales representative. They (the owners) never saw it coming – they loved me. I was their best client. In order to go unnoticed I  would use some of  my earnings towards buying my own Sanrio stuff. The rest went to Sir Pizza and the underground arcade at The Sonesta (that I got banned from, but that’s another story). My parents got called to the scene of the crime, and when asking me the million dollar question ‘why did you do this?’ I responded mommy makes me do it at Benihana.

This was when I realized how good I was with my mouth…

My parents paid off my debt and then some to cover the months of losses the store had been tracking and had no explanation for. My parents threw away all the Sanrio stuff I had worked so hard for, and my mom made sure to tell me that it was wrong to steal anything that had a price tag on it or belongs to someone else – restaurant plates and the such is OK because a lot of people use those. Clearly I was raised by wolves …

Momma-wolf’s advice came in handy when thinking of how to decorate  my kitchen, which rarely gets used since I can’t cook a damn thing. I’ve decided on a menu wall- menu’s from iconic places and the restaurants that mean something to me.

And I almost have all the pieces in place.

My most current acquisition: Serendipity. Having recently opened a location here in Lincoln Road on South Beach, Serendipity is a special addition to the pile because for starters the menu is huge, and quite impressive to steal unnoticed, and second it’s the main location for one of my favorite movies (Serendipity, duh) and my next tattoo.

What does it mean? Fortunate accident.

The word actually derived from a Persian tale titled the ‘The Three Princes of Serendip.’ The heroes of which ‘were always making discoveries by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of … much like my life, or at least I like to think so.

And just when I wasn’t in quest of this menu I had the perfect opportunity to take not one, but three. Gave one back, so I have two – since like Serendipity I too am serious about food. One for the opening page with the great word and what it stands for, and the other open for its various and greatly named menu items.

I’ll go into the food another time, as well as the rest of my great wall of restaurants…

Today watching this at work I remembered that date. Truth be told, looking back it wasn’t all that bad as I, the carpenter, painted it out to be…

But you be the judge of that if you didn’t get a chance.

http://hotnhungry.com/2011/09/17/its-a-meat-market-out-there/

I’ve yet to try the oysters at Meat Market though…

And so the point of this is that I have left this blog long abandoned and without a valid excuse seeing as how I eat daily to you know … LIV.

So I am coming out from the bottom of the rabbit hole and attempting to do the impossible and open the next door. “Wait no, impassible. Nothing is impossible.”

Question is where will that door take me?

Hopefully to a dozen oysters…

So when we (the team) got invited to a private dinner party at Mansion my first thought was “they serve food at Mansion?” How did I not know about this? The five W’s that I so thoroughly learned about in journalism and learned to live by (who,what,when,where,why, and the magic h-how) immediately came to my head.

Who? Promoters and those they so desire to invite. Normally these are their own friends, people who can benefit while at they same time they benefit, and the best part? Everyone has a good time. Isn’t this the dream?

What? Red Steakhouse catered the dinner in family style dining fashion. Ten people to a table is much more than is intended to be fed by these plates, but then I remember not everyone is a fatass like me. And while they come for the music, the free alcohol and entrance to DJ booth aftermath I am here for the food, at least tonight. A simple mixed green salad with goat cheese (yuck) and raspberry vinaigrette was the start to this meal. I hate picking cheese off my salad, especially blue since it leaves strays, but when you find yourself at a dinner party of this caliber you shutup and eat anything, even blue cheese. Main course offered something for all tastes: fish, chicken, and meat. In this case you try all three. See, here is the number one rule at any dinner party as well as in life: try everything once, twice if you like it, and if you love it then well, quite honestly you’re fucked. The salmon only got one bite out of me, the chicken was worth a few thighs, and the meat? I had to get more from another table. Let’s talk side dishes. Grilled green asparagus and mac and cheese. Again, when served cheese at a party you eat cheese. In this particular case I liked it I just don’t know if that’s was the champagne’s influence or the simple fact that I find myself trying new things every day. Maybe a little of both. We sadly missed dessert since we just had to go to the bathroom. Lesson learned here: don’t break seal till after dinner.

When? Right now. Well actually dinner is over, but the party is very much going on. Barely starting …

Where? No other than Mansion nightclub, which recently renovated their boom box sound club for one million dollars to compete with LIV and the other high end clubs including their very own. So what better way to up the ante than to throw dinner parties and then follow it up with an actual party. Makes me never want to leave. If only they would do breakfast… Then i would really never leave.

Why? In a city like Miami the best reason for a party is no reason and Mansion exemplifies this midweek on a Wednesday because, well we all have to relax throughout the middle of the work week. Ten girls to a table also make for interesting conversation. Tonight’s consisted of circumcision. Talk not action. Pros vs. cons. Learn something new every day. Apparently there is less need for circumcision now and so people are going to stop undergoing this painful, and according to one of the girls at my table, castration like process. I guess she has a penis. For someone who has experience with the Jewish and the normal and is currently on her who knows what glass of champagne I’m going to hold back the urge to say what i feel and hide under my shell. No pun intended.

And lastly, how?

I don’t know. No, actually I have no effing idea. It’s a combination about being in the right place at the right time and making moves. And so in honor of my own advice and the champagne bottle that just arrived I have to keep making moves an burn off my dinner from Mansion at Mansion.

I’ve been told I make things awkward. Truth be told I thrive on awkwardness, and so when I got invited out on a second date with someone whom my first date with was the epitome of awkward I immediately thought this ought to be good.

I even planned on recording my date with a nice little incognito USB recorder I bought. We’ll call this research for my book, and personal life of course. My plan didn’t work because the restaurant although nine floors above ground level and with Miami Beach as its backdrop was just as loud as any New York City restaurant. In fact, I kind of felt like I was in New York City as I entered the private psychedelic looking elevator that was barely big enough for my date and I, not to mention the group of French who rode up to Juvia with us.

Doors open and you’re greeted by a 22 feet plant wall and three very different looking hostesses who just so happen to speak French, cause doesn’t everyone in Miami, and looked so incredibly happy to see some of her fellow Parisians. A walk through the outside area first with totally open seating looking out onto Miami Beach makes you wonder how nobody thought of opening something here sooner. I was wishing our table would be here, but it wasn’t. This outside area leads to an inside that’s equally as open with glass windows all around and because they realize they took the everything you wanted away from you by putting you in here the creators of this place give you something worth looking to inside just as good: an open kitchen.

The living plant wall stretches through the entire restaurant and limestone tabletops and hand-woven chairs to give you the feel that although you are nowhere near sea level or below sea level as we are in Miami you are definitely at the beach. If this isn’t enough the servers are in khakis and white button downs with just the same amount of buttons open as my date. Miami is all around you.

Dates are always awkward especially when you’re 24 and going out with someone significantly older than you, but how much more awkward can it get after you coincidentally bump into his ex-wife on your first date? This is how I found out he was previously married. For me the most awkward part is always that initial moment when you get sat and handed your menus. You don’t know what to do. Do you read the menu but you’re not really reading cause you’re thinking you should be talking. Do you let him order because he’s older and he should be in control or do you want to show that you have a mind of your own and selective about what you put in your mouth?

Juvia’s menu is long and heavy and offers everything on one page just how I like it. No need to flip back and forth pretending to be reading. It’s much easier to just pretend you’re staring blank at this testament looking menu wondering what the fuck do I do next? My indecisive nature let him take charge not only because I can’t decide what I want since I want it all but because I want to see what he’s made of. Chivas on the rocks with sprite. So far so good. I got some sort of fruity whiskey drink with ginger and mint. It worked just as well.

The menu is exactly what you would expect from the people behind this: the Boulud and Nobu family. A blend of Asia executed  with classic French techniques infused with Peruvian flavors and Japanese textures.

Kumamoto oysters. He would order an aphrodisiac. Clever. Any guy that eats oysters likes it raw  and is by definition fully exposing himself like a sore or a wound. These were on a bed of seaweed and had some beautiful crisps on top for a crunch after the slime of the oyster.

A rock shrimp tiradito with aji amarillo alioli, red onion, and cilantro not to mention sweet potato. Appetizers are encouraged to be eaten with chopsticks as the the Japanese use for family style dining. The purpose of this is so that you eat with one end and flip them when you are going to pick at the plate at the center of the table. I’m dirty so I choose to just stick to one end of the stick.

As my entrée I chose the sea scallops plancha with maitake, shiitake mushrooms, garlic chips and what I think was bok choy. The garlic chips added the perfect balance to the softness of the scallop that was dripping of sea flavor and the buttery and garlic taste of the slimy shiitake.

He ordered the veal chop with lemon confit, parsnip puree, and dried fruit sauce. Since I have to have it all he cut me a giant piece of the chop for me to try. I couldn’t help but feel like I was being tested to see just what I could fit in my mouth and upon calling him out on it happened the best moment of the night: he choked on his piece of meat. While I had no problem with the veal he seemed to be having some difficulty with his steak knife. I cut his same meat with my regular wimpy knife. This is good though. It ensures that he doesn’t know how to use a knife and I don’t have to be scared of him killing me after I write this.

The only sad part of the night was when the desert came, which I found to be a bit bitter nothing like my date or the overall feel of the night. An apple tarte with some sort of ice cream. I had trouble even cutting it and sent a piece flying elsewhere. To think I almost got away with being smooth the entire meal.

As we walked out I wondered all the men who bring women here to woo them and use Juvia as a stepping stone for their “move.” Why wouldn’t you?  It sets it up perfectly. Miami at your fingertips, drinks that do the job, and food that screams at you to be eaten. We exited in the same elevator, which was way more psychedelic now after I ate shiitake mushrooms and was drunk. This was the perfect moment I thought, and what broke my chain of thought was the moment itself. A kiss. Oh. This guy is good.

But Juvia, or Yuvia as he called it is better.

Juvia. A place to seduce and be seduced, by the company, the environment, and the food.

As an only child I was told since childhood that I was alone. Only child says it all. Everyday my mother reminded me of how alone I was, and that should they die at that precise moment I would have no one or nothing else and therefore have to produce everything for myself. Little did I know the impact this would have on me years later or how it would traumatize me for life and give me the idea for my book Only Child Syndrome coming circa 2025, or at least this is what my witch predicts.

I used to cry as a child thinking about this and visualizing the world as empty and pitch black with nothing but land and water and me in it, kind of like Wall-e, only Carla or whatever I would decide to call myself since no one is around to name me. How would I eat? What would I wear? Who would I talk to? And most importantly how would I have fun? Money never crossed my mind.

Children. So innocent…  

Eventually I realized that if there existed nothing for me I could create everything and it would be there for me to take and only me.  This is the way I see the world today even though I am not alone since thankfully my parents have yet to die, but in reality I am. We all are, and yet we turn to people on a daily basis to resolve things for us, make us feel loved or reassured, or simply keep us company. It’s bullshit. An illusion. What isn’t an illusion, however, and has become very real and the only tangible thing in this empty world is money. Money makes the world go round and 20 years later I find myself asking one question which answers all the others. How do I make more money than humanly possible to feed myself, buy myself clothes, surround myself with amusing people, and have more fun than I can possibly imagine?

This becomes a conflict when you don’t like the real world, which I don’t. It sucks. Corporate America is a joke. If it were up to me I would travel everywhere, eat what I want, say what I feel, and do as I please, but we have rules, morals, structure. Or so we think. Also an illusion. Who’s to  say what you can and can’t do? What’s good and what’s bad? What’s real and what’s more or less real?

We study our whole lives as part of a school system to learn what? And to get where? To graduate and then have to find a job in a well-known company or somewhere that has “promise and security.” Corporate America is the school system for adults, and we just can’t wait to get accepted to the best whatever the fuck you want to call it (we might as well call it prison) where you continue to do work assigned to you by someone else as it’s been done your whole life.

So how do you beat the system? Be radical. Create your own world with the elements around you that are already in place for a reason, and when you are as self-absorbed you believe that the reason is for your own success.

See I personally believe that everything that happens to me is so that I can write about it because, well I need to let other people know how crazy I am, and so I think I have this gift where I can write about nothing as I have been for the past 20 minutes and yet I am writing about everything that embodies the human experience, which is food, sex, drugs, emotions, and most importantly finding yourself in this world where you are ultimately alone.

And because this is a “food” blog (fucking structure) I’m posting something about “food”  tomorrow.

Maybe Friday. I’m a rebel.

As I write this I feel the ethical need to tell you of my exact whereabouts. I’m sitting with a whiskey sprite in front of me, disco lights above me and what I think is the Dracula of what a squirrel/monkey/ and bear would have if they decided to mate. For the purpose of story let’s just call it a squirrel since I’m sitting beside my friend who is launching his all organic ethical clothing line All ’bout Trees or A.B.T (www.allbouttrees.com) and his logo stems of his family. Chances are if you are Venezuelan you know of El Bloque De Armas. They own Playboy in Venezuela. Yeah…

So his great-grandfather has a typical billion dollar story. He started selling newspapers on the streets and got these people who he delivered the news to on a daily basis to locals who got to know him as their daily source of news. This was the way that he was able to raise funds to eventually begin, execute, and publish his own newspaper, which he then delivered to the same people who knew him as their daily news source for years. If this doesn’t give you credibility I don’t know what does. Credibility is key. Someone to back you or your concept up. And what this very smart businessman did in the 1920′s was to back himself up. In the era of the great America depression and in pre-booming Venezuela this was unheard of. People purchased, liked, and supported this unbiased publication titled “El 2001.” Ironically, 2001 would be the same year the founder of its publication died, but I’ll leave that for my book.

Anyways he went on to raise the money by selling the future to a society that would too soon be destroyed their ruler. While others crumbled to their demise, El Bloque de Armas who was known to just report the facts and keep opinions aside was left completely alone and acquired radio stations, channels, magazines and fully blossomed into a media conglomerate. Last time I checked the company was valued at six billion dollars.

So why is this important? Well his logo was a squirrel he created and A.B.T is using that same squirrel to start their ethical apparel all organic clothing line today. Of course it has a modern feel to it like all things current should, but that’s just history repeating itself in a different time.

Oh did I forget to mention that his grandfather gave fashion designer Carolina Herrera, who my other friend Eugy, also starting her own  clothing line called Fake Frivolity  got to meet and like every other aspiring fashion designer idolizes the investment that would make her who she is today? A mere 50 thousand would translate into what the Carolina Herrera empire is in present day society. This investment also got her to custom make his aunts wedding dress for free. Now that’s building ties. When you have Carolina Herrera make your wedding dress for you only and personally gift it you are a Carrie Bradshaw. And don’t we all want to be our own version of Carrie?

So today this same squirrel comes back and tries to tackle the modern-day fashion world that is be or be eaten. And what better way to do so than by eating nuts and …

So I ask him how he got this billion dollar idea and it was really simple. Their friends started talking about it and then they started doing it. So as I sit here out on a Tuesday night listening to damn good music I find myself inspired and slowly on my way to my (our) billion dollar idea, and all of this, what’s happening now in this place is all a part of it.

Especially Pirate Stereo, but he’s about to come on after fantastic opening performances from his real name is Nico but I’ll get back to you on his DJ name, and Santi Caballero (who keeps it simple with just one name)., so I’ll get to that at a later time.

Whenever I travel anywhere anything goes, which means I don’t censor myself in regards to food, social behavior, language, or pretty much being me. Great thing about this is I generally get ego boosts when traveling anywhere because I have great stories to tell in regards to food, social behavior, and myself. This one isn’t so much about my ego at it is about eggo. Not Leggo.

So I traveled to Atlanta to see my best friend who recently got transferred and because it is Coca-Cola central. More the latter than the first, and I flew alone for the first time ever because well, my name is Carla Torres and I am addicted to Coke.

But we’ll leave that for another time.

I happened to be visiting Atlanta during Martin Luther King weekend, which as you can imagine is quite popping since MLK was from there. My best friend and his Fiance happen to be the ONLY white people who live in their building, and their upstairs neighbors happen to be part of a marching band and decide to practice every Sunday, which was great since the night before we just so happened to go to a comedy club where Orlando Jones (Dr.Lee) from Drumline was the talent. It was very fitting. Even more fitting would have been to have this be the soundtrack as I had Chicken-N-Waffles for the first time the previous day. You know, like in the movies where you have a really great moment and really great music to go along with it that resembles exactly what you are feeling? Well the people who opened Glady’s and Ron’s Chicken & Waffles gave me a really good feeling: a feeling of utter and complete satisfaction in a moment least expected.

We parked outside the restaurant in very inconvenient 30 degree weather only to find a very strange parking meter that none of us knew how to use. And how would you? Look at this thing. What’s worse is I tried to give a black man telling us to park elsewhere money that had nothing to do with the parking situation, or maybe he did. I still don’t fully understand what happened or if we even paid for parking. Did I mention Atlanta is the number one dangerous city in the world?

Wait time for a table was 45 minutes and only place to wait was outside. My good luck would of course have it that as we put our name down the only people sitting in the cozy area inside happened to get called leaving us that god sent spot. It was in my cards to have these waffles and hot and ready when I did.

Their menu is very Southern and what’s even better about the South, the real South, not Florida South is that these people own up to their heritage 100%. Slave jokes were hot topic at the comedy club, and laughter the best medicine. One, two, three, I lost count of how many times they mentioned Mississippi. Glady’s and Ron’s just like the comedy club is a hot spot for locals, only it’s not a hole in the wall, but rather a higher than average class type of establishment that looks like a nighttime jazz-playing, cigar-smoking, steakhouse in New York. Big booths with leather seats, high tables,very well-dressed servers, and food that looks just as good to go with it, you’d never think you were in a chickenhouse, but that’s exactly what it is. And in great Southern country fashion it owns up to it.

Everyone in our table got the same thing: chicken-n-waffles. I got fried green tomatoes as an appetizer and fried corn to go along my chicken-n-waffles. One of the people I was with took this whole breakfast meets dinner and lunch concept too seriously and ordered milk as her drink, but hey to each their own. Don’t knock it till you try it, which is exactly what I have to say for both the fried green tomatoes and the chicken-n-waffles. Fried to a perfect crisp these tomatoes were hot, which is the last thing I expect of a tomato so it was terrific when I found it to act of out character and even burn the roof of my mouth. And as I bit through the exterior fried crispness and then got the cool, slimy, and wet sensation that is very typical and what I am used to from my fruity friend tomato I no longer cared that I had put it in too soon or that it burned me. You could say I like it rough, although not usually during foreplay. The chicken-n-waffles weren’t rough at all. Quite the contrary. Extremely smooth, they knew exactly what they were doing and as I got more comfortable with this new idea I started spicing things up. First I tried each component individually: the chicken, waffle, and maple syrup. And then I went for it. Chicken and waffle. Fuck. I wouldn’t mind moving to the South or even being a victim of slavery if this is what I am getting fed at least once a week. I didn’t think I could get any higher than this and then I had the idea to add syrup to my twosome. Forget the corn, who was dry, bland, and quite honestly had nothing to bring to this table, so I simply set it aside. Chicken was playing hard to get (chicks usually do this, especially when it comes to having a threesome) so I had to use my hands to get what I wanted, flesh and skin, and most importantly no bones. All it needed was a fluffy waffle to sit on for an ego (since this is nothing like eggo) boost and syrup to make it a dirty threesome, but who wants to be clean in this particular situation? Not Aunt Jemima, and definitely not me. This is exactly when the upstairs neighbors marching band should have kicked in along with some gospel music, and since we’re on the topic of threesomes Dr. Lee could have joined to direct the two and praise Hallelujah as I worked on bringing this to a close. As it should be, my waffle, my chicken, and my syrup were all gone at the same time. No trace of what had just happened was left behind, and given a 15 minute break I could have had another go, but syrup had another place to be and so did I.

The Coca-Cola Factory…

He was at 660 then. I’ve seen him grow through numerous restaurants and ventures and had him cook meals for me off the clock where things other than a dinner crowd and thousand dollar kitchen served to inspire him, particularly his hookah, which we dubbed Gazpacho and the Sicilian looking kitchen at his mother’s house.

He has now left 660 and with good reason, piggybacking off the winning of Chopped and to do what he’s always wanted to do: whatever the fucks he wants.

And now he can, and is.

Pop-up restaurants are a recent trend in the restaurant industry. Personally, I think it’s a phenomenal concept. Here’s how it works. Restaurants who open say for only lunch and close at four due to lack of a dinner crowd have wasted nights, but for them this works since they make their cover during their busy commercial lunches. Still the kitchen, tables, silverware, and most importantly bar are all available for use and yet uninhabited, and nobody likes to window shop when it comes to food. We all want to buy. So a chef, a concept, a restaurant pops up in these already running restaurants that go by another name, but upon walking in you find yourself somewhere else entirely.

I’ve never been to Café Ponce, but last night I did go to Eating House: Rapicavoli’s six month venture.

Nothing like what I would imagine Café Ponce to be, but just the perfect place to set up Eating House. Bare walls allow for the Eating House team to put up their graffiti to go along with their “If eating is an art, then we’re making graffiti” concept. Small and lightweight movable tables make for good use of space and allow for puzzle play to make everyone who walks through those doors fit one way or another. A two-top could easily become a four-top even if they have to take a table away from another party who isn’t using it, although here, that will be unlikely. And best of all the small space is perfect for what Rapicavoli and long time friend, room-mate, and co-worker Alex Casanova are designing: an informal grub-like approach to eating.

There are no servers. There are no runners. There are no bartenders. Just three room-mates who have the perfect combination: one can cook, one can bartend, and one can serve. A Triple threat. I was lucky enough to work with the three of them at Chispa and to see them now, with a restaurant and girlfriends, all grown-up is surreal in a way, much like the food you’ll eat at their house.

I could talk about the dishes I had last night, but there’s really not much of a point since you can’t go back tonight and get the same thing since the menu changes daily according to whatever Giorgio feels like serving you, what he came up with this morning in the shower, or what crazy tomatoes he got delivered. What I can tell you is that every day will be a different adventure and that if you go enough times you will see the traits of this chef pop up throughout his food. The mixes of different textures, his love and need to give you sorbet at least once throughout your meal, his sweet meets salty and ingenious combinations of things that should not go together, and his exotic use of ingredients in sauce.

But because this is a food blog, social blog, me blog, and I love teasing people I’ll give you a preview of what the friends and family at Eating House was like.

I started the night out with cured zucchini that unlike regular zucchini was not hard or watery. It was smooth and slimy and served with a whipped ricotta cream, lemon, basil, and different kinds of flower petals. I’m not one for things that are served on a plate but serve no purpose, which is great seeing as to how whatever Giorgio puts on my plate is because it’s all meant to be eaten.

Next came something very special, and I say special because it’s something that would never come together under the mind of anyone else. Tomato, San Marzano I presume (knowing Giorgio), with fish sauce, ginger, lime, peanuts, and a coconut milk sorbet. Yes, you read right, and no it is anything but disgusting. I have no idea how or why this works, but when you find something truly great you shouldn’t question it, and as a girl that’s difficult. Part of the reason why we drive men crazy is because of our natural instinct to question everything including love, which for guys isn’t something of question: it just is. So just let it be and don’t ruin a good and rare thing because coconut milk sorbet doesn’t come around often.

My favorite dish for the night, as he guessed it would be, was the slow poached egg with mashed potatoes, iron beer morcilla ragu and coffee salt. Blame it on my European identity, or the fact I am a fatass, but anything with a poached egg and morcilla has my vote and mouth on it. Perfectly plated between a bed of mashed potatoes, I find egg marks the spot where it lays hidden and tucked in by the morcilla ragu. The real treat is when you mix everything together so that the yolk mixes with the blood sausage and the mashed potatoes. With the strong pungent taste of the morcilla, the smoothness of the potatoes, and the subtleness of the yolk you get this kick of sweet salt and you’re left wondering which one of these three ingredients brought that on, but the best part is that it was another ingredient standing alone: the coffee salt. I licked this plate clean against what I was raised to do as a Spaniard and the manners my mom so carefully imprinted in me, but that I blame on the fact that I am a fatass.

Chunks of diced raw beef with sesame, soy, egg yolk, micro-onion, radishes, and some flower that starts with an n that I can’t remember, but I know it’s exotic, much like this dish. From the ragu to this it was a great balance of textures while keeping with the familiarity of ingredients: yolk, who always brings people and plates together.

And then after this he did traditional Giorgio: Salty meets sweet. A Japanese eggplant with banana miso, vanilla sea salt, cilantro, and corn shoots. WTF? Again, nothing about this makes sense, but I just eat and stop questioning the fact that I am having banana with eggplant and it taste so damn good. Even the skin, especially the skin….

A huge fan of BBQ, it was no surprise when I saw chicken and waffles make their way to my table, but as expected there had to be a twist. In this case he chose to serve it with smoked maple syrup, candied bacon, and a hot ranch to counteract the desert like and sweetness of the waffle and syrup. I won’t even talk about his fried chicken because I could be here for days. All I’ll say is I could undress all the chickens Giorgio gives me gladly.

My second favorite dish of the night: a pork tenderloin with raw and smoked apples. The pork was perfectly cooked to a medium rare, a real medium rare who’s soft and juicy texture went so well with the fried and almost harsh brussel sprouts it came with, and as if that weren’t enough a Dr. Pepper reduction and apples two ways cause one ain’t enough: raw and smoked. How do you like them apples?

Now what  I really love about Giorgio is that he utilizes the parts of things others would throw away or disregard, as he did with this rib-eye that was not only cooked perfectly, but the fat was absolutely delicious and worth making me fat for. I had it all, and how could I not when it was served in a kalimocho sauce (red wine and coca-cola). The fat drenched in this? Thick, hard, and difficult to finish off, but with something like this you really don’t have a choice.

Black cod with an emulsion of green peas, sugar snap peas a green tea emulsion.

Roasted bone marrow with chimi-churri, burnt onion puree, and marrow toast. Now you’re thinking what’s marrow toast? Ahhh I am glad you asked. The juice that the marrow releases, Giorgio takes and saves that, he doesn’t just throw it away, and then uses it to dip the bread in, toast, and grill it. Just in casethe fat from the marrow isn’t enough, although it certainly is, you also have it on your bread.

And because he ran out of the dessert I had been waiting for from the beginning of the night: a banana foster puree with whipped nutella, salted caramel, and cookie crumbs, he whipped something up on the spot he knew I’d like. Balls. Lychee balls with coconut sorbet (from the tomato dish) sugared grapefruit, and mint. In the beginning I must say it was very acidic for my palate, but as all of it blended together and as the balls burst in my mouth, I forgot about the acidic texture and focused on the eruption that was happening in my mouth.

And last but not least, a take on strawberry shortcake with stewed and raw strawberries, angel cake, and purple and green basil. For some reason this dish was absolutely mind blowing to me but now I have nothing to say about it. For once I am speechless. After 1,617 words what else would you expect?

Guess I’m not such a tease after all.