Justin "aquaphase" B.'s Profile

So it was a humid as hell Saturday mid-morning and the Mrs. and I were struggling to get errands run so we could crash the rest of the day and stay out of the Dallas Spring nastiness that always seems to take us by surprise.

Victuals, we needed victuals.

Because I buzz the corner of Greenville Ave. and University all the time on my various trips south of 635, I'd been very curious as to what was being done with the old brake joint that had been abandoned a while back. I was happy as hell to see it turned into a quick service taco joint and even happier to see that every time I drove by it the place was packed.

We showed up a little after 11AM hoping to snag some of the breakfast tacos I've heard about from several friends who have sung the praises of them, but, alas, breakfast stops at 11. No worries, we'll just shift into "lunch" mode. I went with the roasted pork and a chicken taco (on corn tortillas, natch). The Mrs. went with a picadillo and a chicken taco. The roasted pork was incredibly juicy and chock full of delicious piggy flavor. The little crumble of queso fresco and the pickled onion just enhanced the flavor like a charm. My only complaint is that I had some containment issues as I dug into the monster, but I'm a relatively messy person, so I am fine with getting a little taco juice on me.

The chicken was simmered in a ranchero sauce that had a really nice flavor. I'm not going to put it up there with the red chile sauce I'm used to getting in New Mexico, but it was mighty tasty.

The picadillo taco looked pretty good, but was covered in chopped raw onions: something the Mrs. downright hates. She spent a good three minutes picking each and every little offensive onion off of her taco before smothering it in the tomatillo sauce. It looked pretty tasty to me and I didn't hear any complaints from her as she tucked it away.

Surprisingly, we were able to get decent seating inside Rusty Taco without any problems. I think we hit at the lull between breakfast and lunch, but there were still a fair amount of folks getting their taco feedbag on.

We'll definitely be going back.

I knew I was headed to the right place when I noticed a giant Yeti-looking critter in the window as we were driving by.

We are 1976 is just the kind of place that I have been needing in Dallas for the past 10 years: a place to pick up gifts for all those people that are incredibly hard to buy for.  I guarantee that your giftee will not even know of the existence of at least 60% of the items this shop carries. That's what makes it so vital.

From quirky prints to bubblewrap calendars to vinyl toys, We Are 1976 has a smattering of just about everything you didn't know you were looking for. In particular, I was very drawn to the Circus Punks customized by local artist Tyson Summers, but I'm going to have to wait until I can distract the Mrs. with something good and shiny before I bring those back into my excessive nest of art toys.

The fact that We Are 1976 puts on regular trunk shows and hosts workshops on everything from screen printing to creating flowers out of paper is seriously just icing on an already over-adorned cake.

This is a trend I can get behind.

For the most part, I gave up coffee almost eight years ago. Only a few times a month do I indulge in the bean juice, so I always want it to be tasty.

The Pearl Cup delivered. The Mrs. and I stopped in there while wasting a Saturday afternoon to see if what everyone had been saying about the place was true. It pretty much was.

I ordered the Pearl Latte which is made with special "Pearl milk." I'm not really sure what's in this epic moo juice, but it tasted sweet and there was a little hint of something else. Either way, the latte didn't last long. The coffee was smooth and tasty without being burned tasting (hello Starbucks?) nor acidic. I'd definitely try another one.

Much to the surprise of many of my friends, I'm a big fan of Bed & Breakfasts. I think it's mainly because after a long day of hard vacationing (and I can vacation pretty hard), I want to come flop in some place that is more like home than an impersonal hotel room. That may seem weird to some, but when have I ever pretended to not be weird?

The Mrs. and I decided that we were going to take in this year's Fun Fun Fun Fest down Austin way, and needed a place to stay that would be relatively close to Waterloo Park to expedite stumbling home at the end of the day. The place we usually stay at was full when we started looking (damn Longhorns home football game), but we chanced upon Brava House and were instantly convinced it needed further investigation.

We couldn't have been happier with our choice. Robin and Mary were incredibly accommodating (even being very cool about our 3AM check-in time) and made this one of our best stays in Austin. Brava House it tucked back in a historical neighborhood right Northwest from Lamar. If you don't know what you are looking for, you'll miss it. Take a short drive down one of the longest driveways I've seen in central Austin and you'll find ample parking for the rooms, a quaint but festive patio and the breakfast nook/kitchen that looks like it was stolen from a Food Network studio.

We were fortunate enough to book the Fitzgerald Suite for our stay. You can go to the Brava House's website and look at pics of the rooms, but nothing will prepare you for walking through the door. This place was huge and I immediately wanted to curl up in one of the ancient leather chairs and tuck back into my book. These rich leather chairs felt like they'd had more butts in them than a dive bar's ashtrays.

Through a tiny nook with a kitchenette on one side and floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on the other was the giant hexagonal bedroom. The bed was really comfortable and a welcome spot.

OK, that was the bed, now for the breakfast. After hauling our corpses from slumber, we were very happy to be met with tasty breakfast tacos on our first day (it is Austin isn't it?) stuffed with tasty eggs, veggies and cheese along with cheesy grits, toast, coffee, etc. Day two was mini omelet type concoctions made in a muffin pan with potatoes on the bottom and accompanied by homemade french toast. After such hearty fare, I was ready to spend the entire day on my feet rocking out at Fun Fun Fun Fest.

Brava House is definitely one of the best hidden gems in all of Austin. Hell, my brother lived a mere block from the place for at least a year and didn't know of it's existence.  I urge all B&B fans and even those who just want to try it out to give Brava House a chance.  At the very least, to visit with Mary and Robin's great puppies, Rizzo and Sheba, or Sam, the amazingly cross-eyed siamese.

I'd like to set up my review of Midori Sushi with a little bit of friendly background that will hopefully set the scene adequately enough to understand my pleasure with my lunch experience.

Point 1: If I do not bring a lunch to work, a car must be utilized to obtain sustenance.

Point 2: Despite the closest place to eat being a good 4 minute drive, lunch is (generally) only an hour.

OK, the stage is set.  Let's delve into Midori Sushi.

As a rule, I stay away from sushi buffet.  It has been my experience that there is often much more rice than filling, the fish is sub-standard (and often unidentifiable) and the staff is often there only for fascistic vigilance; ready to drop the hammer on people who prefer to pull half the rice out of their rolls. (Believe me, I've seen it more than once) The final last straw is that sushi buffets often cost in excess of $20 and spending $20 makes me damn near choke.

Midori Sushi was a complete 360 from that (and it's on 360! See, I made a little funny there). Right off the bat I was pleased to see that the lunch buffet was $11.99: a bit more than I generally like to pay for lunch, but definitely not out of bounds for a non-buffet sushi lunch. Second, the place was quaint, clean and well furnished.  That generally doesn't bother me at most places, but I get a bit squidgy when it comes to places that serve raw foods.

The buffet was stretched out across the sushi bar where the sushi chefs could convienently reach over and place out new offerings. At the left end of the buffet was some salad (with the yummy yummy ginger dressing I love so much at most Japanese places) and an offering of tempura, gyoza, fried spring rolls and a couple of Japanese-style omelettes. The remaining 50% of the bar was covered in plates of pretty tasty looking rolls.

As is my usual, I skipped over the California rolls and went for some spicy tuna and several pieces of a rainbow roll. I generally start with these rolls before I delve into other fare on a sushi buffet because it helps tell me two things: the freshness of the fish, and the amount of spiciness the chef considers "normal." Luckily, no stank on the fish (actually the salmon and white fish were really nice and firm), and a good amount of spice on the spicy tuna roll.  

I then just took the shotgun approach and grabbed up little bits from various trays: tempura roll, philadelphia roll, several rolls I had no idea of the contents, and more of the initial rainbow and spicy tuna rolls. I would have to say that I was pretty pleased with just about everything. Sure, I would have liked a few more veggies in the tempura selection (rings of onion and bell pepper were what was offered), but that's a minor, if not picky, complaint.

Let's roll this back to my initial scene-setting.  I got a "fancy" lunch on the relative cheap at a place that was convenient to the office. In my book, that's just about a solid win all the way around.

Oh, super extra bonus: this Midori Sushi has a little putting green right out on the patio. It was raining like the dickens when I went, so no between "exercise" for me, but that was a damn cool litle feature for a nice little lunch stop. I guess it's kinda like Chuck-e-Cheese for the yuppie set (though I'd rather play skee ball any day).

Humans, on the whole, are lazy creatures.  And by humans, I mean me. I loves me some good eatin', but I'm often too lazy to make it for myself and I'm even often too lazy to clean myself up enough to be presentable for even a fast food joint.

These are just statements of fact; they, indeed, have nothing to do with the wonder that is El Pollo Regio, but contribute to how this casa of magical meats grasped a prime spot on my current "goto" list for when hunger strikes and the laze has me in it's grasp.

My first jaunt to El Pollo Regio was quite eye-opening. From looking at the website first and then the drive-thru menu, it could be safe to say that an "objects are larger than they appear" label to both. A half chicken and two carne asada tacos were ordered and I pulled around to the window (like you do) to gather my spoils from talking to the electronic box. Boy howdy!

I was passed several large bags with what felt like enough food to feed me and the Mrs. for at least a snowed-in weekend if needed. Apparently the carne asada tacos are ginormous and packed to the breaking with succulent beefy bits, and sided with a grilled whole jalapeno that really added to the whole package. Two weren't necessary, but my eggs the next morning were more than happy to have an accompanyment.

The chicken damn near made me weep. You could definitely tell this joint spent a good amount of time watching bird carcasses spiral around each other in the tasty dance that is magical rotisserie.  Hell, you could smell the wood smoke in the drive-thru and it didn't disappoint. Almost better than the chicken was the magically roasted onion tucked in with the bird. If it wouldn't get me relegated to the couch for the night, I could eat those all day.

Of special note are the sauces that accompany just about everything ordered at Regio: one red and one green. The red is straight up freshy fresh salsa that I really appreciate in a zip-through joint like Regio. This stuff blows away what Cabana has to offer, by far.  The green stuff, however, is delicious and evil all at the same time. I'm not sure what is in the opaque green creamy stuff, but it tastes like what slamming your hand in the car door would be if it felt good. This stuff burned the hell out of my lips and throat, but I couldn't stop eating it. The chicken sure didn't need the benefit of a sauce: it was just super tasty.

I almost forgot, the chicken came with a big ol' cup of charro beans with real pork fat in it (yum yum yum) and some of the best "spanish" rice I've had since Rosa's over in Midland. In addition, a stack of enough corn tortillas to keep me happy for a couple of days. The whole half of a chicken went bye-bye pretty damn quick, but the tortillas lasted me.

With such a wide array of diverse menu items, I'm not sure if I'm going to get sick of Regio for quite a long while.

Life never goes your way 100% of the time: that's why we have Xanax, booze and daytime television. Regardless of the implied reliability of your "magic" hybrid automobile with the two engines and the perfect service record, one day it will break down and strand you far enough away from home that you give up ideas of walking and just head for the nearest bar.

OK, so maybe that's just me, but I did get a couple of pluses out of my experience.  A couple that I'm not going to mention here and discovering Marion's Wrecking Service.  I'd like to say I stumbled across them as if guided by fate, but it was my service guy at my Toyota dealership who told me to call them to save my poor little Prius.

The dispatcher at Marion's took all of my details and told me he'd give me a ring when the driver was about fifteen minutes away from my car so I could set out into the rain (of course it was raining) and meet him with the keys.  Already in a mindset of total defeat, I went ahead and took the Mrs' precious Mini over to my dead mobile and sat in the grey morning like a pathetic emo kid.  Sure enough, about 30 minutes later I get a call from Marion's dispatch letting me know that the driver got stuck in traffic on Central Expressway (we know what Friday morning plus rain is like for Dallas traffic), but would be right there.

When the flatbed arrived, the driver went through the paces in the mystical maneuvers it takes to get my robot car into neutral without power. After that he got the car loaded up on the flatbed, took my key and said I was good to go and the dealer would give me a call when the car was fixed.

Never before had I experienced a towing event so painlessly.  Marion's really made it easy for me to get my car where I needed it to take care of its ailments.

Now about that magical non-breaking automobile...

Several years ago I came to a realization that I had a horrible horrible problem that I really had no intention of resolving: I loves me some sammiches. It really doesn't matter what form they take -- overstuffed, open-faced, submarine or finger -- I'll nom all offerings. On my quest for sandwich perfection I have discovered that one incarnation over most others instantly grabs my attention and keeps me in rapture for at least the 10 to 30 minutes it takes me to stuff it in my gullet: the corned beef ruben.

It was on this jaunt for ruben perfection that I happened upon Zinsky's. We stumbled into Zinsky's on a Saturday morning around 11:30 with hunger in our bellys and rubens on our mind. While I'm also a fan of pastrami (when the heartburn doesn't damn near kill me), I remain a corned beef purist when it comes to the combo of grilled rye bread, sauerkraut, swiss cheese and russian dressing.  Don't even think of passing off that turkey crap on me, I'll throw it right back in your face.

The first thing I noticed about Zinsky's was the decor.  This place is hip and metropolitan without trying overly hard to create that faux coziness that a lot of the newer restaurants in Dallas attempt.  A nice mostly brick interior with minimalist photographs of the components of their fare (fried eggs, expertly sculpted smoked salmon curls, pancakes, etc.) on the wall against stark white backgrounds.  Additionally, their menu has to be one of the most design-centric masterpieces I've seen in a long time.  I was actually pissed that I hadn't used elements like that in my own work.

Anyhoo, on to the food. I ordered my requisite ruben with potato salad (despite about 20 other menu items that called to me and demanded a repeat visit) and coffee. Apparently I channel retirees in Boca Raton when I'm in a deli because I almost always order coffee with my sandwiches despite not drinking all that much coffee anymore.  If I start complaining about my lumbago and wanting to spend the afternoon playing bocce, somebody shoot me.

Pickles were delivered to the table along with my coffee.  I'm not the biggest pickle fan in the world (I actually can't taste garlic unless it is raw and in big chunks), so I set those aside until after I threw down my sandwich munch in case they took up valuable space reserved for meat and bread.  Very quickly, the sandwich arrived. It wasn't overstuffed, like many places do these days, and had, what I consider, perfect thickness on the rye.  Closer observation showed that the corned beef, sauerkraut, and swiss had all been mish-moshed together and sizzled on the griddle before being married to the bread: providing perfect flavor balance and distribution.  This little detail alone brought me to the realization that I was going to be partaking in a holy ritual of ruben consumption to be remembered for ages.

The corned beef was perfection. I don't care how fat you stuff your sandwich, or if the swiss cheese was made by blind nuns in the alps who prepare their wares under the fourth full moon each decade, if the meat isn't top notch, your ruben will be crap. The beef wasn't overly fatty (a peeve of mine), yet it wasn't so dry that it had tumbleweeds blowing across the plate. It was cut to perfect thickness and basically fell apart as I picked up the sandwich.  The sauerkraut had good crispness and wasn't overly vinegary: perfectly complimenting the spices of the corned beef and mingling with the russian dressing.  Also of note, the sauerkraut didn't soak the crap out of the bottom pieces of bread.  Nothing gets my ire up like a soggy bottom (take that as you will). Cheese is cheese.  Wait, did I just say that?!?!?!  The cheese wasn't overwhelming in this sandwich and really acted as the perfect binder.  It added a slight sharpness to the melange of flavors and proved quite well at keeping the whole thing from ending up in my lap as I damn near openly wept.

The potato salad was pretty good, but only acted as a means by which I could extend my sandwich consumption bliss. Next time I will definitely try the noodle kugel that I saw pass me by when I was exited my tunnel vision-like bliss to flag down the server for some more coffee.

Now for the brass tacks.  The service leaves itsself room for some improvement, but they are a new restaurant.  The ruben goes a long way towards making me "OK" with the lack of attention and the skittishness of much of the staff towards a couple of tattooed freaks journeying out to what appeared to be a mostly University Park/Preston Hollow crowd.  Get used to me, I'm going to be back to pray at the altar of Zinsky's ruben.  I might just also come back to give the Saturday night "buy-by-the-ounce" (four ounce minimum) prime rib. I might even try other things on the menu, even though the ruben was just about the best one I've ever eaten and will be hard pressed to order anything else.

When it comes to the Foundation Room, I have to say I'm a little spoiled. Surprisingly enough, it's not for the elite treatment that members get nor the amazing food that the people downstairs just don't know their missing: I'm spoiled because it freaks people out that I'm there.

Having been a Foundation Room member since our wonderful HOB opened here in Dallas (yes, my name is on that funky mirror near the bar), I have noticed that it attracts a certain class/type of clientele.  That class/type just doesn't jive with how I present myself, so I often garner stares when I'm up at the bar ordering one of their tasty, tasty Bombay Sapphire martinis.  Now, there's nothing wrong with this. I realize that "I'm not like the other kids."  I'm sure that half of the people think that I'm with one of the bands playing at one of the two venues downstairs: no skin off my back.

The standout thing about the Foundation Room is the staff. I have never met more attentive, personable staff in what I typically describe as a "fancy bar."  I spend a lot of my time at dive bars. The people there always know me because I'm there often, tip well, and pretty much always behave.  "Fancy bars" don't have to remember you. Hell, one of the defining factors for a "fancy bar" is that they don't remember you because you aren't as important as the image of the bar.  Not so for the Foundation Room.

A not-so-lauded benefit of the Foundation Room that has made me appreciate my annual dues is the "mini" Foundation Room in the main Music Hall. Members can crash out on the couches down there and get a good shot of the stage without having to fight for standing room in the rest of the General Admission area.  It's a nice little perk that makes it all worth it.

It's the Dubliners fault that I now ride a Vespa.  Sure, sure the seeds were always there, but do yourself a favor and visit on a Sunday afternoon and try to get out of there without wanting to hop on one of the dozen or so scooters that accumulate in the wonderfully blocked-off front parking lot like tumbleweeds on a barbed-wire fence in an old John Wayne movie. For this alone, "the Dub" earns it's five stars.

I haven't even gotten to the drink selection, the menu or the incredible staff! I can always count on a nice pint of Smithwicks every time I walk through the door, and nomming on one of their BLT's before one of the many major footie matches I've watched there is one of the definite highlights of the experience. Sure, their ploy is pure evil: someone orders a BLT (or their incredible baked potato) and next thing you know, the bar is wafting with the marvelous aroma of bacon.  It's very very hard to resist.

Everyone is friendly (save that guy wearing the jersey for the team your team is beating 3-1 currently) and it's definitely my choice for a spot on Greenville.