Alfred P.'s Profile

I tried periwinkles, a creature whose name would sound cute if it didn't resemble anatomy I'd rather not associate with food. Then again, I'm a almost criminally perverted, so anything that has to do with sex has to do with food as far as I'm concerned. They were good. Chewy and oceany as expected. I'm into that. I'm into a lot of things.

Highlight of the night were definitely the oysters, especially those raised, apparently, on watermelon. They fucking tasted like watermelon. Can you believe that? Bahia Falsas if you're interested.

I'd knock one star for shrimp that reminded me of when I used to chew on erasers, but I'm still alive after having consumed so many raw things.

Their butter is on point.

What do I know about Korea? Me--a stupid, fat, lazy, superfluously ugly, disgusting, olfatorily revolting, shitty American--what do I know? Starcraft. That's all I know. Given that, I can't vouch for its authenticity.

You're pretty shit outta luck if you're unable to acquire a Korean attaché. You may as well be blind and mute.

The food is good, especially the dduk bok gi, but you have to get at it before all the cigarette smoke sears your taste buds and gives you one-thousand tumors in your lungs.

One time, while having a smoke outside (ironic, I know), I saw a police car stop in front of a bicyclist who was fleeing from them and he smashed into the car and went flying over the hood and then he was arrested and we were cracking up because: just like the movies, right?

Let's just get the facts straight: there is no surly goat. It's just the name of the place.

Fact 2: The Surly Goat is a very tactical sexual maneuver involving peanut butter, deceit, and spanking.

Fact 3: Beer. Shit tons of beer. Everywhere. You'll leave with a patina of beer, a glaze by which you'll get others drunk if they lick you. You will no longer be human, but a sexual vessel of beer capable of FTL travel.

Fact 4: You can bring food if you want.

Lotta kids around. I don't understand why. They're the worst drinking buddies and are horrible drivers and can't buy you beer and you have to be responsible for them. Why are they still being made anyway?

It was warm and sunny, so I was able to appreciate the lightness and crispness of their beer. The IPA was clean with notes of marijuana. Fucking kids can't even score you pot either. What the hell is their problem?

They had a dark beer that tasted like umami. It's good if you're into that. Personally, I like MSG. Yeah, I said it. MSG is good. So I'm down like clown's frown lost in browntown with this beer. I bet clown's eat a lot of ass.

I can't speak for the food. Whatever, you don't even care.

I don't much believe in updates, writing them or otherwise.  This may be why my computer is flooded with viruses and why I still wear high tops with parachute pants.  Phooey.

But I digress.  There come times when change is warranted, necessary even, like for parking meters, vagrants, or not wearing parachute pants anymore.  As such, one review cannot possibly contain the greatness that is Gloria's Cafe and so I must write an update.

For example, how did I get away with a singular mention of their sangria?  Or without mentioning their garlic and lime marinated grilled shrimp?  Or their siete mares soup?  It's like neglecting to insert the American Revolution in history books.  

My girlfriend is in love with that siete mares soup.  Literally, it looked like she made love to it.  She was elbow deep in that bowl with broth streaming down her forearm.  She tore apart the crab legs with the ferocity of a vagrant tearing into my parachute pants for change.

I did the same with their tamales, except with a fork and in a civilized manner.  I kept one in my cheek like a chipmunk to enjoy later.

Anyhow, there's a chance that I'll write another update for Gloria's in the future as I plan on taking my parents there, possibly to eat.  I won't, however, relinquish my parachute pants because I am much too legit to quit, my friends.

A word, or several, of advice to those who plan on holding business meetings: don't hold them at Cafe Beaujolais.  My girlfriend and I decided to discuss her business venture over dinner and I, stupidly, chose a place with food so good I may as well have chosen a strip bar as a distraction.  I mean, the food is so good it renders you stupid.  It's like trying to hold a meaningful conversation while drunk, which I was, so you can imagine how doubly I was stricken stupid.

We perused our menus and listened to the specials of the day, but, being drunk, I couldn't make out the French accent.  It sounded delicious, but just about everything sounds delicious with a French accent.  

I was about to dispense unknown amounts of knowledge to my girlfriend regarding her business and how she could cut costs by "importing" women from other countries when the escargot came out.  Instead of dispensing invaluable advice, I decided to woo her with that S Car Go joke from Trading Places except I enunciated the T at the end of escargot because I was stupid with liquor and, now, delicious snails.  They were swimming in garlic-parsley butter and were more divine than, I'm sure, an actual S Car Got.  We dipped our bread (which I wished were warmed), and again attempted to talk business.

"No, you can't charge per pound," I told her as we waited for our main course.

"But the bigger he is, the more effort--," she was cut off by my telling her to shut up because our food was here.  I ordered steak with a peppercorn sauce and she ordered a seafood pasta.  The potatoes on my plate were perhaps the best I'd ever had and also, perhaps, they were lyonnaise with some awesome parmesan sauce.

Upon finishing my entree, I was so bloated that my diaphragm couldn't suck enough air into my lungs for me to form complete sentences.  I resorted, instead, to communicating in Morse code but found that futile because neither of us know Morse code.  Instead, we were just tapping the table like irregular idiots attempting to decipher what song we were drumming.  

I concluded our business meeting as our new language barrier stifled any progress.  I wished her luck with her "massage" business and stole her leftover pasta which I enjoyed the following day.  It was just as good.

I'm not a big fan of tacos.  Yes, I'm Mexican, and I should love tacos, and avocados, and tequila, but I despise them all.  Most tacos are flavorless and filled with gristle, avocados feel like mush, and tequila makes me do stupid things, like eat avocado tacos.

Logically, I concluded that I'd hate fusion tacos, too.  Bulgogi in tacos?  I don't question many things, like why that police officer pulled me over, or how I fit the description, or why he beat me, or why he wasn't wearing a uniform, but this notion of bulgogi tacos is just confusing.   I'd never encountered sweet tacos in either the culinary or natural world.  Only sour tacos . . . cuz the lime.

Innuendo aside, these tacos are wonderful.  My pet peeve in tacos is gristle, and these had none.  I hate biting into tacos thinking I'm biting an eraser.  Conversely, I hate meat-flavored erasers.

Oh, their red sauce is on point.

I remember when I was a kid and pretended to shoot things with my toy guns and how awesome that was.  A few years later I was able to shoot a BB gun and thought, "this is so much more awesome than pretending to shoot things."

I had a similar experience after eating a burger at Blue Dahlia.  Though, Instead of likening their burger to a BB gun, I liken it to having your own personal Death Star, exploding planets willy-nilly.

Sadly, their garlic fries weren't comparable to a Death Star.  I guess they're a BB gun, or maybe a revolver.  They were very garlicky.  My girlfriend refused to kiss me after I ate them, which is weird because she loves garlic.  

Anyway, the sweet potato fries are the way to go here.  They're crofty, that's crispy on the outside and soft on the inside like a real fry should be.  On that note, what gives with soggy fries?  It's like having soggy bacons or square tires.  Just doesn't make sense.

Fish King proved my long-standing theory on seafood: the more repulsive the item, the more delicious it is. Case in point: oysters. They look like sad, contorted rocks formed in a whale's gall bladder.  Not only that, they're filled with what I can only compare to something produced exclusively by female anatomy.

Of course, in accordance with my theory, oysters are absolutely delicious like a salty ocean breeze or fuzzy memories, the edible kind.  Not only that, I've heard horror stories about people getting sick, puking out their stomachs and shitting their gastrointestinal tracts in their entirety after eating oysters.  Not so with the oysters at Fish King.  They were fresh and for only 1.24 each (25 cents for shucking).

We also got some hamachi sashimi which was even more delicious.  I shudder to think how hideous that seabeast must be.  I bet it's forty feet long with tentacles jutting from its eyeballs.

That being said, it's no wonder Nemo made it through the movie unscathed.  I bet that adorable pipsqueak tasted like fermented sewage.

I don't believe in big burritos.  Eating a burrito with a knife and fork is just visually offensive.  Would you eat a hoagie off a crouton?  First, it's physically impossible.  Second, you may as well have steak.  It's an idea few grasp as bread and tortillas are not just meat vessels, but vital ingredients in the meal.  

This burrito theory--nay, burrito FACT--should be acknowledged world-wide not only because large burritos don't make sense, but because they make me feel inadequate.

Burrito jealousy aside, it was a damned fine meat-filled sack (for a burrito of that size is no longer a burrito, but a meat-filled sack).  The meat inside this meat-filled sack was so incredibly tender and juicy and flavorful that I thought I was eating unicorn, the tenderest of all meat.  "No," our waiter assured me backing away slowly.

I should mention that La Barca has a dangerous happy hour.  It's dangerous because they pass a pint of vodka off as a cocktail, and because that pint in a cup is 2.50.  I was effectively drunk for 7.50.