Mark "O" K.'s Profile

If Hillside Farmacy were any hipper, it would occupy Wall Street.

(Alt punch lines = ...grow a mustache, ...move to Brooklyn, ...protest its own popularity.)

They're savvy with social media. They're anal about coffee beans and charcuteries. Their decor matches Zooey Deschanel's kitchen (I imagine). And their servers are more qualified to run a fashion blog than your food.

I guess the only item on that list worth complaining about is the last one. Long story short, our waitress was terrible. Quite possibly one of the worst I've ever had. The only thing she did right the entire meal was admit that the HOUR wait for our lunch was entirely her fault. (I happen to be a fan of honesty.) However, that forgiveness went out the window when the "free dessert" she promised us never arrived. Unfortunately for her (or maybe just me), I'm the kind of guy who holsters his disappointment until he finds a wi-fi connection. But enough about hipster incompetence, let's get on with the food.

The truffle mac and cheese is immaculate. (I bet that's not the first time that expression has been used.) The baked crumbs on top were a lovely texture contrast to the gooey Gruyere and Sottocenere al tartufo cheese engulfing the al dente conchiglie. (Yes, I discovered that name by Googling, "pasta shells.") I didn't try the version topped with a poached egg and bacon, and quite frankly, I'd like to pretend it doesn't exist. Otherwise, I'll have to add yet another item to my ever-growing list of regrets.

An hour later (due to the terrible service), my dining accomplice and I went halfsies on the Thank You and Pee Wee sandwiches. Yes, they were delicious, but not enough to counter the regrettable service. The highlight of the Thank You was the strawberry jam. It reminded me of Thanksgiving; sort of. The best part of the Pee Wee was the grease running from my wrist to my wenis (http://www.wenisworks....). If it ain't messy, it ain't pork belly.

After reading a few of the other reviews, it saddens me to see that such a promising kitchen staff is being punished for poor service. Come on, Hillside Farmacy! There are plenty of struggling artists in Austin who would be more than willing to replace the riffraff on your wait staff. Stop sacrificing valuable Yelp stars for the sake of some ironic high fives.

How do you say, "P. Terry's" in Spanish?

"El Tacorrido."

Substitute buns for tortilla shells and mayonnaise for salsa verde, and you've got P. Terry's brother from a Hispanic mother.

At El Tacorrido Sur (South), the food quality is excellent, the prices are economical and the branding was clearly done by an expert. My only carne (beef) with this location is the additional twenty-five cents tacked onto every taco (compared to the other locations). But even with the inexplicable price hike, El Tacorrido remains cheaper than every tacquería on South 1st, aside from La Mexicana.

To continue my P.Terry's parallel, I'll direct your attention to El Tacorrido's uncomplicated menu:

Step 1: Pick a tortilla style (Tacos, Tortas, Gorditas, Quesadillas)
Step 2: Pick 1 of 10 fillings (Yes, 10 makes it sound harder than I led you to believe, but the descriptions are gringo proof.)
Step 3: Choose a salsa (And by "choose," I mean get the verde.)

BAM! You're done, unless you want to complicate things? In which case, you can also order a salad or Ricky Martin. Ooops! My mistake. Apparently, "Menudo" is a traditional tripe stew that's only served on weekends.

But that's not all, folks. They also have one of the most surprisingly delicious fast-food desserts I've ever tasted; a homemade ice cream sandwich. Although there's only one flavor, you can't go wrong with a massive scoop of vanilla ice cream packed between chocolate chip cookies. The Lady and I enjoyed ours on-site beneath the charmingly-strewn Christmas lights (or whatever you choose to call strands of tiny white bulbs). Although the seating section is small and somewhat difficult to reach between their dueling drive-thrus, it's furnished with REAL wooden stools and sheets of tastefully-distressed metal you'd expect to see at a Zocalo or something.

One final thing worth dedicating a new paragraph to is their all-day breakfast taco and coffee menu. For me, breakfast taco cheese doesn't get any better than El Tacorrido's. It's that delectable white queso that completely melts before you unravel your foil. Although the other two of my three ingredients are a coin toss, the cheese will always hold a special place in my heart (literally and metaphorically). As far as the beverages are concerned, El Tacorrido has an espresso machine and they aren't afraid to use it. It wasn't until studying the menu to write this review that I realized they have a drink called El Equinox, which is a glass of iced horchata with a shot of espresso. You can bet your sombrero I'll be ordering a glass when I go back, which will probably be faster than I can mispronounce, "nopales."

Valentine's Day is BS.

No, I'm not going to launch into an anti-romantic rant. I'm going to describe an unlikely love story between a glutton and gourmet dining.

As a chubby-cheeked adolescent, I didn't have much patience for small portions. I used to eat such large quantities at such great speeds, the flavors became as blurred as trees lining the highway. But, after many years of honing my self-restraint (Thanksgiving dinner and brunch buffets excluded), I've learned to appreciate taste over stuffing my face.

Which brings us to Barley Swine, and then La Feria to drown our impatience in margaritas, and then back to Barley Swine to be seated an hour-and-a-half later next to the proprietor himself, Bryce Gilmore. Our cozy spot at the bar was worth every tick of the clock and slurp of our margs.

To our left was a bartender manning a tasty selection of taps. I asked for his assistance with my beer selection, come to find that his recommendation was the most expensive one on the menu. Luckily for him, it was absolutely delicious.

Directly ahead were two sauté cooks putting their wrists to work like a teenage boy with unrestricted Internet access. I haven't seen cooking utensils flipped that fast since my days as a hibachi waiter.

And to our immediate right was the aforementioned owner, Bryce Gilmore. We watched in awe as Mr. Food & Wine painstakingly arranged each dish as if they were going to be on the cover of Bon Appétit. He even handed us our plate of pork belly, carrots, lavender and pumpkin seeds.

As expected, the Barley Swine pork belly was just as perfect as the Odd Duck slider that launched Bryce's career; probably even more so. The caramelized lavender coating provided a pleasant crisp, which perfectly junxtaposed the pork's melt-away interior.

The Wagyu brisket, coffee, barbecued beans and slaw came in a close second. The beef's texture was comparable to the pork belly, but with a bitterness brought on by the coffee. The dish seamlessly provided the heartiness of The Salt Lick with the elegance of Uchiko.

The scrambled egg, broccoli, goat feta and pine nut was probably my third favorite plate of the evening, mostly due to the broccoli. I've never tasted such flavorful florets. It was a nice complement to the rest of the dish's mild ingredients, aside from the goat feta.

I could smell the Gulf shrimp, hominy, pancetta, citrus, and cabbage course coming my way before it was plated. The cooked crustacean provided the most alluring aroma of the evening, while the hominy happened to be a bit misleading. I was expecting the grits to be the consistency I had grown accustom to during my coastal Carolina youth. This hominy had the texture of al dente pasta. Regardless, it was excellent.

The sage funnel cake, grilled foie gras and sweet potato ice cream made an wonderful conclusion to our meal. It's gradient of sweets provided a smooth transition from the previous savory dishes.

And last, and least, was the black bean fritters, sesame dressing and sweet potato starter. By no means was it bad; it just wasn't as memorable as the rest of our meal. Which, come to think of it, makes it the perfect beginning to an evening at Barley Swine.

Once all of our two-bite portions were consumed, I came to a realization. THIS is how food should ALWAYS be prepared. It's not about expanding your waistline. It's about exposing your taste buds to a multitude of flavors in the course of a meal. Although I may continue to have the occasional fling with large quantities, I am officially declaring my love for tiny and tasteful potions of food.

UCHIKO RUINED MY LIFE.

Allow me to explain.

Something happens to a man once he's been exposed to Uchiko's unparalleled cuisine and service. Suddenly, all of the moderately priced restaurants he used to frequent become a financial impediment to his next dinner at a Tyson Cole eating establishment.

Spending six bucks for two breakfast tacos is like throwing away a serving of crispy, lemon-chili brussels sprouts. One pound of freshly-cut Applegate deli meat is just a few dollars shy of precisely-sliced maguro sashimi topped with goat cheese, fuji apple, pumpkin seed oil and black pepper. And my doctor's office copay is just a waste of the wagyu beef shortrib special.

Similar to when So You Think You Can Dance judges cry after a moving performance, my cheeks were moistened by tears of pure enjoyment as I dove chopstick first into the symphony of flavors. (Yes, I watch SYTYCD. Want to fight about it?) After a somewhat disappointing meal at Jeffrey's and several fine-dining establishments in San Francisco, I was beginning to wonder if exorbitant menu prices were based on arbitrary appraisals or if my palate was just too unsophisticated for gourmet food. From the atmosphere to the amuse-bouche, I can honestly say Uchiko is worth every penny (even if I didn't have a $125 gift card to get me started).

As amazing as every one of the ten-or-so dishes tasted, I would have never known what to order without the help of our infinitely knowledgeable server. He was less of a waiter and more of a dinner aggregator. With just a few parameters, this customer service computer provided us with the ideal combination of sushi, veggies, protein and sweets.

Speaking of sweets, biting into the fried milk pastries made me emit a sound similar to Meg Ryan's in When Harry Met Sally. I read an interview with Tyson Cole where he stressed the importance of paying a little extra for quality, especially when it comes to dessert. Hiring an executive pastry chef proves that Mr. Cole is no hypocrite.

The Lady's only complaint was the lack of Paul Qui in the kitchen. Although I too was hoping to see my (and every Austinites') favorite Top Chef contestant, I didn't consider it a disappointment. I choose to see it as an excuse to avoid grocery shopping, dental procedures and food trailers in order to enjoy an Uchiko encore; with Paul Qui as the conductor.

Side Note: Paul is currently in THIRD PLACE in the Top Chef Fan Favorite poll. This is a travesty. Click this link (http://www.bravotv.com...) and get our lone star 10,000 more dollars. Not that he needs it. He's the Roger Federer of Top Chef records.

HAPPIEST HOLIDAY: Part VIII - A Fancy Farewell

After causing a scene at The Grove (http://www.yelp.com/bi...), getting stalked at Parc 55 (http://www.yelp.com/bi...), taking a hilariously hellacious limo ride from the Candlestick (http://www.yelp.com/bi...), skinny dipping at the Ritz (http://www.yelp.com/bi...), patiently waiting for Dottie's (http://www.yelp.com/bi...), expanding my mind at the California Academy of Sciences (http://www.yelp.com/bi...) and putting an end to bullying at House of Air (http://www.yelp.com/bi...), I'd say my Christmas vacation was more than complete. Luckily for me, there was still one more activity up my brother's professionally-tailored sleeves.

On Christmas morning my mother and I dressed in our Sunday's best and met my older sibling downstairs for a scenic drive along the Pacific. With the Michael Bublé Christmas Mix blasting from my brother's Pandora app (for the MILLIONTH MOTHER F'N time that trip), we rode the Pacific Coast Highway all the way to the Ritz-Carlton Half Moon Bay. To divert my attention from my bro's horrific driving, I reminisced on the exceptional brunch we enjoyed at that same location just four years before. Images of all-you-can-eat sushi, dim sum and traditional holiday fare danced through my head as my knuckles tightened and whitened around the passenger side handhold. I knew we reached our destination when my mother finally stopped screaming, "SLOW DOWN, you psycho!"

Just like our arrival at the Ritz-Carlton Highlands Hotel, two attendants ambushed our car before the Prius was in park. I got out, kissed the ground and followed my mother and brother into the foyer. The entrance was as festive as I remembered; REAL pine trees ornately dressed with colorful ornaments, wreaths on every wall and a Scandinavian style Santa Claus who was WAY too into character. I laughed as children fled from this atypically dressed St. Nick as if he were Pennywise the Clown.

As lovely as the interior of the resort may have been, the real beauty was reserved for the back porch. We enjoyed a pre-brunch drink while taking in the unparalleled scenery. There were fire pits, garland-lined walkways and a tree that was nearly as tall as the building. By the time my teapot went dry it was time to take down the bougie buffet.

My only complaint of the day occurred when we arrived at the host stand to learn that our table was thirty minutes away from being ready. I realize they were slammed, but this is the Ritz we're talking about. The service should be nothing short of perfection when you're spending that kind of coin. However, the manager curbed out discontent in the same way I calm down an angry significant other, free alcohol. After five plates of food and three glasses of bubbly, I was jollier than that kid-scaring Santa.

Once our table was cleared, we toured the aforementioned porch to aid in the digestion of our decadent meal (most of the items being too fancy or foreign for me to recite). Between soliciting fellow guests to take our picture in front of the tree and dodging approach shots overshooting the dangerously placed green, we found it easy to burn those few extra calories.

After reaching our family photo quota for the day, our party of three retreated to the lounge for Scattergories and liquor. My brother and I's promise to behave in our refined surroundings was shattered by the second round of our first game. Luckily, the pleasant conversations of the loving families around us muffled our mutual death threats.

When the Scattergories boards were banished to their box and my spiked eggnog was consumed, my mom, brother and I took a final stroll around the back porch before returning to the valet. The sun had disappeared in the midst of our heated competition, leaving the yard illuminated by hundreds of white Christmas lights. I captured a few blurry photos of the scene and signaled that I was okay to leave.

As I piled into the back of the Prius, ten pounds heavier and a few spirits happier, I took one last look at the Ritz before making my closing remark, "I DON'T WANNA GO!"

THE END.

HAPPIEST HOLIDAYS: Part VII - Penguins CAN Fly

The California Academy of Science may have fulfilled the academic requirements of my relaxation curriculum (http://www.yelp.com/bi...), but I was still one PE credit short of a successful vacation. Although the Parc 55 fitness center could have provided a perfectly adequate workout, my brother had a different kind of exercise in mind. The following morning I suited up in my usual gym duds and joined him for a light breakfast before defying gravity at House of Air.

House of Air is a trampoline park/injury factory appropriately located in a renovated airplane hanger; just a hop, skip and a jump away from the Golden Gate Bridge. This parents' worst nightmare is divided into four spring-loaded areas: The Training Ground, Air Junior Bounce House, Matrix and Colosseum.

The Training Ground is an appointment only instructional facility "reserved for top gymnasts, boardsport specialists and professional athletes." Since I'm none of the three, I didn't get to experience this section. I'm also a couple decades too old for the Air Junior Bounce House, so I'll jump to The Matrix. (Pun totally intended)

After blindly filling out a release waiver larger than an iTunes agreement and lacing up my specially-issued jumping shoes, I made my way to the 42-trampoline compound capable of cheering up Keanu (Matrix & Meme reference: http://www.buzzfeed.co...). In addition to trampolines, The Matrix is also full of deceptively unforgiving padding. I learned this the hard way when my inaugural bounce launched me into a (not-so) cushioned cross section. Shortly after, my muscle memory kicked in and I was front flipping like I was fifteen again. Things went smoothly until I upped the ante on a diagonal trampoline. I found myself soaring towards the protective padding once again, only this time my fall was broken by my forearm and forehead. While assessing my wounds I heard the unmistakable sound of a paint-coated Styrofoam sphere smacking against someone's face.

I immediately bounded out of The Matrix to find a battle of epic proportions waging inside the Colosseum. This 22-trampoline death pit is dedicated to my new favorite sport, trampoline dodgeball. I was initially hesitant to join in the fun due to the fact that most of the participants could display their age on ten tiny fingers. Then I saw him; a chubby twelve-year-old picking off the other children like Ender Wiggins. (Any Orson Scott Card fans out there?) This pudgy menace needed to pay, and as a former fat kid, I felt it was my duty to teach him a lesson. Sadly, my presence did little to end his reign of terror. It was time to call in my source of childhood emotional trauma, my brother. The events that occurred once he joined the game resulted in a cellphone video that we (and the authorities) have reviewed about 1,000 times.

My definition of "fun" has changed a lot since adolescence, but House of Air has reassured me that I will NEVER be too old for trampolines.

Tune in tomorrow for HAPPIEST HOLIDAY: Part VIII - A Fancy Farewell (http://okmarkok.yelp.com/)

(P.S. - I was kidding about that whole "authorities" thing. However, it's probably best that documented case of child abuse doesn't reach the public.)

HAPPIEST HOLIDAYS: Part VI - I Really Am Russian

After narrowly escaping The Tenderloin alive (http://www.yelp.com/bi...), or at least without a contact high, my brother chauffeured my mom and I to a COMPLETELY different side of the city (geographically and culturally speaking). In a matter of minutes we went from crack heads and soup kitchens to aristocrats and museums.

As we drove deeper into the immaculately landscaped grounds surrounding the de Young and the California Academy of Sciences, I couldn't help but hum the Jurassic Park theme. My cinematic serenade abruptly ended when my brother ejected us from his car and said he'd be back in three hours. That may sound like a lot of time, but I probably spent twice that during my last visit to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in Washington DC.

Somewhat pressed for time (by my standards), my mom and I crossed the courtyard full of Whomping Willows (Harry Potter Reference) and purchased our tickets. Immediately after, we were summoned to a green screen where our likenesses were digitally transported to outer space, beneath the Pacific Ocean and what appeared to be a grade school picture day. Like 99% of guests, we did NOT purchase our portrait.

The first exhibit we explored reinforced the theory, nay, fact of evolution. Believe it or not, some people continue to think humans descend from a guy named Adam who apparated to Earth from the Heavens (second Harry Potter reference). As a former South Carolinian/current Texan, I know an ark-load of people who could use a pilgrimage to the CAoS.

I felt like I was in the Predator's den when I entered the African Hall. The entrance is lined with human skulls chronologically arranged from prehistoric cavemen to the technology dependent pansies we've become. The rest of the wing is full of taxidermy animals and fun facts. My personal favorite was the display case containing my power animal, the cheetah. However, the corresponding plaque informed me that my favorite cat is destined for extinction due to the species' genetic similarities. Like a purebred dog or British royalty, the cheetah's discriminatory DNA is speeding these felines the way of the dodo bird.

My second favorite animal of the African Hall was the klipspringer. Unlike celebrities (and just about everybody), these tiny cousins of the antelope mate with ONE partner for their entire life. It's nice to see that SOME living creatures still believe in monogamy.

Next, we headed to the aquarium. I'll save some characters on this portion of the review, because it didn't really offer anything new. The only display that caught my attention (other than the hypnotizing jellyfish) was a case containing the contents of a tiger shark's stomach. In addition to fish bones, there were license plates, Coke bottles and a Barbie doll. What a fatty!

Our underwater voyage concluded in the Rainforests of the World biodome, where we were ambushed by butterflies in a Hitchcock-like fashion. I was impressed by the CAoS's ability to perfectly reproduce a rainforest's atmosphere, however, I did not enjoy the replication of my crotch's ecosystem in summer.

Speaking of warm weather, the CAoS has a climate change exhibit that would make Al Gore goo his pants. My two favorite parts of this section reaffirmed my beliefe that I am kind of a good person. The first was a giant table containing wax versions of typical American meals. The bottom of each plate contained an environmental impact rating, causing me to limit my beef consumption to one meal a month. The second environmentally friendly expo tests your carbon footprint. thanks to my large amount of biking, small amount of driving and sparse air travel, my environmental impact is comparable to that of a Russian (hence the title).

With little time to spare, my mom and I quickly ascended the stairs to the CAoS's pride and joy, The Living Roof. The carefully landscaped canopy looks like a field in Whoville. The setting sun beautifully illuminated the native plants and flowers lining the building top. Across the way, you see the de Young's architectural artistry in its entirety. And if you peer between the trees, you can see the sprawling, house-lined hills that make San Francisco one of the most alluring real estate markets in the country.

As the old saying goes, you learn something new everyday. If part of your day contains a visit to the California Academy of Science, you'll have no problem reaching your information quota for the year.

Tune in tomorrow for HAPPIEST HOLIDAYS: Part VII - Penguins CAN Fly (http://okmarkok.yelp.com/)

HAPPIEST HOLIDAYS: Part V - Tenderloin for Breakfast

I woke up the morning after my snowboarding excursion pining for steel-cut oatmeal and ski slopes (http://www.yelp.com/bi...). Instead, I was given the task of finding my mom and I a breakfast spot while my brother took care of some business. Where does one go when he or she needs an unbiased consensus of a city's finest eating establishments? (Rhetorical question, I hope.)

After a quick "breakfast" search, I discovered Dottie's True Blue Café. Not only did it have an average rating of four stars with over 1,500 reviews (A feat NO Austin restaurant has accomplished), it was also just a couple of blocks from our hotel (http://www.yelp.com/bi...). Why in wine country would I not want to eat there?

One warning might be the wait (according to a handful of Yelp's pro-bono critics). If you hope to enjoy a Jalapeno Jelly smothered slice of their famous Grilled Chili Cornbread, you'll most likely be standing outside for at least an hour. Fortunately, we had four to kill until my brother could take us to our next activity. Game on, Lamb-Fennel Sausage Scramble!

Another common complaint amongst Yelp's negative minority is the service. It's true, the servers never seem to break a sweat, but after waiting over an hour for a seat, the last thing you want is some table-turning waiter shoving eggs down your gullet. Even with the line stretching beyond the front window, our waiter kindly and calmly took our order and answered our every question. There's even a sign out front explaining their "no-rush" philosophy, so there's really no reason to be surprised or upset by the relaxed atmosphere once you're inside.

The last reason one might want to avoid Dottie's isn't readily apparent to tourists. Currently, Dottie's operates in a little area known as The Tenderloin. If you're unfamiliar with this infamous neighborhood, fast forward to the 2:35 mark of this video and let Dave Chappelle enlighten you (http://youtu.be/xBG0ty...). If you can't access YouTube at the moment, I'll just share the conversation I had with a resident of the Tenderloin sidewalks.

PANHANDLER: Heyman. You got 55 cents?

ME: Sorry. I only have a credit card. (True Story)

PANHANDLER: What about some hot coffee (he asked, pointing at the to-go cup in my hand.)

ME: Sorry. This is all I have.

PANHANDLER: (Leans in closer) Selfish ass cracker! You're lucky I just got hassled by the cops or I'd beat the F**K out of you!

Some people would have found this exchange horrifying. (Exhibit A: My mom's face after hearing his closing statement.) Me? I just chuckled like Buster Bluth on a construction site (Arrested Development reference).

Although Dottie's will probably be in a larger and safer location by the time I return to San Francisco (According to the "relocating" sign on the door), I'm glad I experienced this culinary landmark in all of its ORIGINAL glory; hour-plus wait, sluggish servers and aggressive panhandlers included.

Tune in to tomorrow for HAPPIEST HOLIDAYS: Part VI - I Really Am Russian (http://okmarkok.yelp.com/)

HAPPIEST HOLIDAYS: Part IV - Snowboarding with the Truckee River Killer.

After the Steelers' nightmarish performance at Candlestick Park  (http://www.yelp.com/bi...), my brother, mother and I woke up at 4 AM to head to the haunting grounds of Reno 911's most notorious murderer. (Does the title make sense now?) As an early Christmas present/attempt to buy my forgiveness for his childhood torment, my brother arranged a snowboarding getaway at the Ritz-Carlton Highlands Hotel on Northstar Mountain.

One four-hour drive (or nap in my case) later, we arrived to find a surprisingly quiet resort. The idle valet and bellhop pounced on our car before it came to a complete stop. I was worried the empty lodge would be a reflection of the snow on the slopes, but the receptionist "assured" me the powder was "freshly made this morning."

Although manufactured snow had nearly broken my ass bone countless times before, I strapped into my bindings and descended the slopes for my first time in three years. I'm pleased to say this review was typed with ten injury-free fingers. As a matter of fact, the freezing temperatures kept the synthetic powder surprisingly close to the real deal. I would have probably been a little disappointed if I were Shaun White, but this mountain was paradise compared to the shoddy northeastern runs where I first gained my snow legs.

While I was dodging trees and snowmaking machines, my mother and brother stuffed their faces in the Club Lounge; an upgrade courtesy of my bro's AmEx and the Ritz's large number of vacancies. The lounge served five meals a day including breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner and dessert. I arrived just in time for the lunch service, where I downed a heaping bowl of leek and onion soup, six different kinds of finger sandwiches, a fruit cup, a machine-made latte and a heaping glass of red wine. The highlight of my lunch (and every lounge meal) was the latte. At the touch of a button, this upscale Keurig produced an espresso beverage that rivaled Starbucks.

After eating my weight in hors d'oeuvres, I decided to burn off some calories in the spa. I really wanted to take a dip in the outdoor hot tub, but the clothing policy of the communal swimming area isn't kind to guests who forget their swim trunks. Instead, I stripped down to my birthday suit and alternated between the eucalyptus steam room, dry sauna, hot tub and a shower stall where the nozzles spray you from every (and I mean EVERY) direction. I returned to our room rejuvenated and ready for more food.

For dinner, we skipped the lounge and ate at a resort restaurant called Manzanita. Like most lodge dining options, the price greatly outweighed the quality. Compelled by the Christmas Spirit (and the fact that my mom and brother were too sick to order wine) I offered to pick up the check. Even with the absence of alcohol the bill was close to $300. I'd be hard-pressed to say it was worth even half that price.

The following morning we returned to the lounge for breakfast. I loaded up on carbs for my final snowboarding session before our 4 PM checkout (Thanks AmEx). My side of the table was occupied by a bowl of steel-cut oatmeal topped with fresh fruit, a plate of scrambled eggs covered in smoked salmon, some rice pudding dish I can't recall but could eat every morning for the rest of my life, a large cup of orange juice and a larger cup of coffee. That early-morning smorgasbord turned our disappointing dinner into a distant memory.

The bellboy practically had to pry me from doorframe when he came to retrieve our bags that afternoon. Say what you will about cruises and tropical settings, but I'll take snow-capped mountains and a cozy ski resort over sand-cracked beaches and a hammock any day of the week. The Ritz-Carlton Highlands Hotel reaffirmed that belief.

Tune in to tomorrow for HAPPIEST HOLIDAYS: Part V - Tenderloin For Breakfast
(http://okmarkok.yelp.com/)

HAPPIEST HOLIDAYS: Part III - The Candlestick Blowout.

No sooner did we settle into our Union Square hotel (http://www.yelp.com/bi...), it was time to hitch a ride to Candlestick Park to watch the 49ers smother the Pittsburgh Steelers (Spoiler Alert). I hid my Terrible Towel in my trousers, cloaked my black shirt beneath a pea coat and followed my mother and brother through the hotel lobby. Surprisingly, Steelers fans were the majority. We didn't stumble upon a 49er until we shared a cab with seven of them, three of which were heavily intoxicated. The trio of drunks provided excellent pre-game entertainment. I won't go into details, but adultery, drug addiction and the cover up of a migrant worker's job-related injury were just a few of the topics on the docket.

(Un)fortunately, the driver reached "The Stick" before I could hear what happened to poor Raúl, the Mexican carpenter who "poked his eye out" while falling from a ladder. I swallowed my disappointment and followed my mom and bro up one of the dated escalators in pursuit of our seats. One thing is for sure, Candlestick Park is a far cry from The Cowboys Stadium (which I had the pleasure of visiting a couple months prior). Every rust-covered beam looked ready for demolition and the floor is permanently coated in decades of spit, Coke and condiments. Despite it's obvious flaws, the venue maintains an undeniable charm. However, that "charm" flickered when the lights went off not once, but TWICE, post coin toss.

The first power outage occurred just before the 49ers burst onto the field through an inflatable helmet. I thought it was all part of the show until I noticed a slew of field personnel scrambling to save the deflating prop. Thirty minutes later, the lights were repaired and the Steelers returned the opening kickoff.

Disaster struck again during the second quarter, only this time, the Steelers were the ones being deflated. The field was re-illuminated an hour later, but Pittsburgh's fire was official out. The remaining two quarters were like watching William Wallace's execution (Braveheart reference). My only joyful moment in the second half involved a chili dog and a carton of Gordon Biersch Garlic Fries.

After watching the Steelers sulk off the field, my mom, bro and I scoured the parking lot for a ride. The line of people waiting for post-game transportation could have wrapped around the Candlestick twice. Refusing to wait with the immobile lemmings, my brother led us up the cab-lined hill to find a driver corrupt enough to break protocol. No matter how much he offered, these cabbies refused to accept my brother's bribes. Just when we thought hope was lost, a limo driver yelled out, " $30 a head! Ten spots left!"

We piled into the stretch Lincoln Town Car along with seven 49ers fans. Only this time, they were ALL drunk. Again, I'll spare you the details, but this band of delinquents made our previous drive seem as innocent as the Magic School Bus. To give you an idea, one of the more polite passengers offered my sixty-year-old mom a hit of his joint.

When it comes to live sporting events, the most important parameter of success is the amount of memories it provides. Between the multiple power outages, the creaking of decaying bleachers and our corrupt drivers, I can safely say I'll never forget my first visit to Candlestick Park.

Tune in to tomorrow for HAPPIEST HOLIDAYS: Part IV - Snowboarding with the Truckee River Killer (http://okmarkok.yelp.com/)