A couple of weeks ago, I sent my husband to a foodie event in Manhattan promoting “America’s Most Wanted Recipes,” a new book just put out by Simon and Schuster. The part that had me most interested in this event was that they had requested that people make a kosher version of the over 200 secret recipes from 57 of America’s most popular food chains. As a kosher mom blogger and advocate for kosher food, I just had to be there. Unfortunately, my babysitting budget had been depleted so that I could attend the OU Advanced Kashrut Seminar for Women, a week long seminar that discussed what kosher is and what kosher is not. I learned so much and met some incredible people (I was even quoted in both The Jewish Press and OU.org). So, I sent my husband and main chef in our home, to the event. I advised him to schmooze with the people from the media and get the scoop.

 My husband had fun at the event and even came home with an assignment for us. We were asked to cook one of the recipes and convert it to a kosher one. When I saw one of my favorite appetizers from Houston’s (I used to eat there before I started keeping kosher), I couldn’t wait to get started. I remember eating at Houston’s in Chicago with my friends and sharing Houston’s Spinach and Artichoke Dip. Now, I could make a kosher version of this appetizer in my own home and eat as much as I wanted (that is a really scary thought). Another recipe I wanted to kosherize was the Olive Garden’s Salad Dressing. I remember the days of all you can eat salad at Olive Garden topped off with a tangy, basil balanced salad dressing. I also saw this as an opportunity for my husband and me to get creative with date night as well as good content to post on my blogs, which would also be posted on Epicurious.com.

We agreed to take a shot at a kosher version of Chili’s Southwestern Egg Rolls. Right off the bat we saw something we needed to change with the recipe. The recipe had a combination of chicken and Monterey Jack Cheese. Not kosher! Milk and meat (meat and dairy) are never mixed together. So, we decided to make the dish dairy. We both felt that the cheese was a key component to the success of the recipe. My husband and I both love large amounts of melted cheese on eggs, potatoes, Challah, pizza, and bagels and there is no shortage of cheese in our house (thanks to Costco and their affordable and delicious Natural & Organic Kosher Cheese). Yes, I do get very excited when discussing cheese! We substituted the boneless, skinless chicken breast with Morningstar Farms Meal Starters Chik’n Strips, also kosher pareve. In order to get the grilled like sensation, we threw the pieces into a pan with a little canola oil for a few minutes. Yum. We also made our own avocado-ranch salad dressing with Hellman’s mayonnaise, avocado, and oil. All of the other ingredients were okay to use in our kosher version of the recipe. The final result, delicious and a new addition to our Shabbos and Yom Tov meals.

Once again, I have proven myself to be a slacker in the department of……….. blogging.  So, here is an attempt to update and make up for my slackerness.

About 2.5 weeks ago I was deathly ill. (that may be a slight over exaggeration, only slightly though)  My tonsils were completely swollen and covered in a white substance that had a yellowish tint to it.  They’re better now.

I got in trouble at work for not smiling enough.  This made me rather angry and in my normal passive aggressive, yet sarcastic self,  I had the biggest smile ever plastered on my face for the remainder of the night. (approximately 3.75 hours)  This did very little good if any because my manager who fussed at me never saw it.  It only proved to make my cheeks very sore the next day.

Sarah and a particular tall Dutchman were here all last week and part of this week.  It was positively splendid seeing her and reminded me how much I miss her.  She is absolutely incredible and never ceases to amaze me.

I saw Mr. Jay from America’s Next Top Model.  He probably has the best skin out of any person I’ve ever met.  It’s as though he is a walking airbrushed picture.  Quite stunning I tell ya.

Worked on a film with Josh Radnor, Kate Mara, & Zoe Kazan.  It was just a very small background part.  But it made me happy.

Finished reading Scared, by Tom Davis.  Absolutely incredible book.  Highly recommend it to absolutely everyone.

I’ve aggressively ben working on the accent.  It was doing pretty good for a little while, but then I got real sick of it and feel as though I have digressed.  I know this wasn’t smart of me, but it just happened.  Looks like I have to get back to work.

Saw the new Harry Potter film and am currently debating on whether or not to read the books because I want to know what happens.

Toying with the idea of whether or not I want to start doing Bikram yoga.  Everyone at work swears by it, but I just don’t get it.

Currently listening to It’s All Coming Back to me Now, by Celine Dion.  A guy at work was singing it at the end of the shift.  I’m pretty sure this could make one of the best Karaoke songs ever.  I will soon have to test this theory out.

Recently been aggressively trying to figure out a way to work with the Ogdens for the rest of my life.  They’re absolutely amazing and I miss them terribly.  I haven’t yet figured out how to achieve this goal, but have not given up on it.

Okay, that’s it for now.  I have to be at a convention all week working in the VIP section.  Interested to see how that goes.  Another update will come soon.  I promise = )

One of the best things about waitressing was all the flirting.  Not with my tables, so much – I mean sure I giggled a lot, but getting too flirty with a customer, when you’re also trying to get them to give you a big ol’ tip, always felt kinda ooky.

No, I loved flirting with my fellow servers.  In fact, a shift could be made or broken depending on who I was working with – a bunch of chicks and married dudes?  BORING.  A gaggle of single horndogs, and I’m the prettiest one on the shift?  YES.

I flirted, I kissed, I dated, I even had a few relationships – but I must state I was not the restaurant slut (ahem Karen!).  I just liked boys so very much.

When I transferred to my hometown Houston’s, I noticed Jason Stevens right away.  He was simply gorgeous.  Tall, thin, close-cut hair, incredible green eyes.  Much better looking than me, honestly, and I usually preferred to flirt with those hovering around the same point on the beauty scale as me, but Jason had this way of touching my lower back whenever he maneuvered around me in the waitstation, and I…just….ooooh.

So we kissed quite a bit, here and there, off and on, after nights out, after parties, in the parking garage.  Jason wanted to be a politician.  Jason  wore one of those silly puka shell necklaces.  Jason was a good kisser.

It didn’t go anywhere.  I knew Jason was a player, and I didn’t want to be just another checkmark.  Luckily, Jason was a gentleman player and seemed to sense my limits, so he never ever pressed me to go home with him.  Eventually I started dating someone else and Jason started working part-time for the local GOP office, so I didn’t see him very often.

Then one night a couple months later, big group of us went out dancing at “Chill,” the cool club of the moment.  I was wearing a very short skirt, and the other girls were wearing very low-cut tops, and we got in right away. 

As usually happens when I’m in dance club situations, the girls found a spot to drink and look sexy, and I tried to stay put with them but eventually could not resist the lure of the dance floor and found myself shaking my booty.  A few minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there was Jason Stevens.  I shrieked and fell into his arms, and we spent the rest of the night on the dance floor, kissing and dancing.  (And probably really annoying/grossing out the people around us.  Sorry about that, a decade late.)

At 1 a.m., the lights in the club came on and we surfaced for air.  With all the alcohol and hours of dance floor kissyface, Jason’s gentlemanly airs disappeared and he asked me to come home with him.

I really wanted to do just that.  But I had a rule about going home with self-proclaimed players – which was, simply, Nope.

So I declined, and he asked again, and I declined again, and he asked again, and (oooh it was SO hard) I declined again.  And he asked me, as his hands roamed far and yonder and my skirt threatened to mutiny against my self-control: “Why not?  Why?”

And I said, “Because – you’re going to sleep with hundreds of girls, and sooner or later they’ll all blend together and you won’t remember them, but you will always remember that one girl from Houston’s who said no.”

For someone who is often tongue-tied, this was a gold-star moment for me, made even better by Jason’s rather tortured response, literally falling to his knees and moaning, “Oh shit, you’re so right.”  (He was rather drunk.)

We kissed, we clung, we said goodbye, and I never saw him again.

Sometimes I wonder why I wanted this supposedly vaunted position in his memory as the-girl-he’ll-always-remember as opposed to potentially having really great sex that night.  I mean, there’s the STD factor.  Jason seemed like a big germ risk.  But I think it had more to do with the fact that I’m just not wired that way.  I was never able to do just-sex.  And I think it had even more to do with my love of drama.  I may have been able to resist Jason Stevens’ kiss and his roaming hands, but I could not resist the chance for such a perfect Melrose Place moment.  I like to think Amanda Woodward would be proud.  (I mean, if she wasn’t such a big ol’ slut.)

On one busy Saturday night, I lucked out and received the best station - the one with the 8-top, the biggest table in the restaurant.  In the middle of the rush, my table opened up and suddenly a hostess appeared trailed by a seemingly never-ending parade of men in expensive suits – 10 in all.  I simultaneously panicked and rejoiced – they looked like drinkers! but oh crap, how was I going to handle so many of them?

They demanded martinis, and more martinis, and then four of our most expensive bottles of wine.  They all ordered either filet mignon, the NY strip steak, or barbecue ribs.  They were loud and rude and so far they liked me because I giggled when they called me “sweetheart.”

Then I walked up during the punchline of a dirty joke.  They looked at me aghast when they realized I’d just heard the part about the giant, uh, sausage-shaped organ.

“Why are you sneaking up on us!” one of them grumbled.

“I’m a waitress – it’s my job to sneak,” I replied.  And remembering the giant size of their bill, I smiled really big.  I may have even batted my eyes a little.

“Aw, see, she’s cool,” said another.  “Know any jokes, sweetie?”

Shoot.  I am terrible at remembering jokes.

“Give me one second,” I said, and dashed away.  I knew exactly where to go – the kitchen.  Those guys have filthy, filthy minds.

I went straight to Toby, the grillman.  He didn’t even blink at my request for a dirty joke and promptly rattled one off that I don’t remember.  I ran back to my table and repeated it, hardly knowing what I was saying.  They roared.

We traded jokes for the next few minutes, me rushing back and forth to the kitchen, hitting up all the linemen for their best filth, until finally I remembered that I had other tables and left my Man Table to wait on them for a bit.

When I came back, they were ready for dessert.  They ordered eight – four sundaes, four apple cobblers.  I rang them into the computer with a song in my heart, eyeing that whopping bill.  The desserts should have reached the table lickety split, and when five minutes went by with no desserts for my men, I ran up to the bartender/dessert-maker.

“Where are my cobblers and sundaes?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled.  “I’m out of ice cream.”

Rolling my eyes, I darted back to the walk-in freezer in the kitchen to get the stupid lazy bartender more ice cream.  Except – no ice cream. 

From the kitchen, I screamed at our manager Sean on the line.  “WHERE’S THE ICE CREAM?”

“Ask the K.M.!” he yelled back.

So I tracked down Dave the kitchen manager, who looked at me blankly.  “We’re out,” he said.  “I told Sean that two hours ago.”

GRRRRRRRRRR.

I had a table of 10 rich, drunk men, with a bill hovering around $700.  I was not going to walk up to them and whimper some tired excuse about running out of ice cream.  They would be most displeased.

So I ran up and leaned over on the table, jutting one hip out and explaining that there was just a teensy tiny delay in their desserts.  They bitched and complained, but I wasn’t too worried.  Then I asked another waiter to keep an eye on them, and ran up to Stupid Idiot Sean the manager.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.  “I’m going to Cold Stone.”

“Whaaa?” he started, but I was already dashing out of the restaurant. 

Cold Stone Creamery was at the other end of the shopping plaza, and I sprinted there as fast as I could.  I burst through the doors and pushed my way to the front of the line. 

“I need three gallons of vanilla,” I gasped.  “It’s an emergency.”

I don’t know if the employees and all of the waiting customers thought I was crazy – what is an ice cream emergency, anyway?  All I could think about was my men, getting more sober and more annoyed with every slow scoop of that ice cream spade.  When he finally finished scooping, I shoved some of my own cash at him and ran back to the restaurant, throwing the ice cream at the stupid idiot bartender and screaming, “I need those desserts NOW!” before I flew up the stairs back to my table.

At the sight of me, the men growled.  “Where are our desserts?  What the hell is taking so long?”

I could tell I was about to lose them, could feel my tip dwindling down, down, down.

“I’m so sorry,” I panted.  “Just a small issue with the ice cream.  They’re on their way.”

They practically booed.  “But where the hell have you been?” they asked.  “Maybe we should just get the check.”

“If you could just wait one, ONE more second,” I pleaded.

They conferred.  “Maybe if you can tell us one more joke, a really good one, we’ll forgive you.”

Gulp.  I promised I’d try, and went straight to the only untapped dirty-joke source left in the kitchen – Crazy Kevin.  Kevin had been the Houston’s prep cook for about 30 years, and could always be found wandering around in the back chopping this, chopping that, and talking to himself about what a bunch of morons we all were.  Rumor had it he graduated from Le Cordon Bleu but got into some trouble with the law afterwards.  We servers usually kept our distance from Kevin, but somehow he had a soft spot for me, and when I turned 25 he cooked me an absolutely incredible dinner that I ate in stolen bites during the dinner rush – Kevin kept it hidden from the other servers (“Morons!”) every time I had to check on my tables.

So lucky for me, Kevin didn’t swipe at me with a knife or call me a moron when I approached with my dirty joke request.  Without even looking up from prepping tortilla chips, he said two short lines that I repeated over and over in my head as I ran back to my table.  I didn’t even think about what I was saying when I parroted it back to my Man Table.  To this day, it’s the only joke I’ve ever been able to remember:

“What did one lesbian vampire say to the other lesbian vampire?”

…….

“See you next month!”

And as my men laughed and jeered and whooped, their desserts finally arrived.

Best. Tip. Ever.

Basketball players love Houston’s.  I think it’s the barbeque ribs, because that’s what they always ordered.  Ribs and Courvoisier.  I’ve never liked ribs – there doesn’t seem to be any way for me to eat them without ending up covered in sauce and humiliated.  And so much work for such a little strip of meat!  Cheeseburger, please.

One  night, Shaq visisted Houston’s.  He and three basketball friends squeezed into a six-t0p table, and even then all their limbs spilled out into the aisle, and guests and servers alike had to climb over their legs to reach their tables.

Shaq’s table wasn’t my assigned table, and I was relieved.  I got very nervous dealing with famous types - once I had to wait on David Spade, who had a hissy-fit because his Evian was too chilled, and then proceeded to repeatedly stand up and pretend to look for someone so that everyone in the restaurant would recognize him.

I was much happier toiling for the non-famous diners, but when our manager demanded runners for Shaq’s table, I couldn’t think of an excuse quickly enough and found myself balancing three platters of ribs.  I staggered up to Shaq’s table and tried to find a place to put the plates down amongst the giant arms and snifters of Cognac.  As I thunked the heavy plates down on the table, Shaq spoke.

“How are you tonight?”

Whoa.  Somebody crazy-famous was speaking to me, acknowledging that I, too, am a human being existing in time and space.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I answered demurely.

“What’s your name?”

“Mama,” I smiled as his buddies tore into the ribs.

“Mama, can you get me some more sauce?” he asked.

Whew.  I was a waitress again.  For a second there, I was in uncharted territory.  I ran down the stairs into the waitstation, shouting “Shaq request!” when the manager called for food-runners.  Sauce procured, I trotted back up to Shaq’s table and plopped the little bowl in front of him.

“Thanks, Mama,” he said.

“Anything else I can get for you?” I asked.

“Well, you can get me your phone number,” said Shaq.

My mouth fell open.  “My – what?”

“You asked if there something you could get me, and I’d really like it if you gave me your phone number so I could call you sometime,” said Shaquille O’Neal to ME.

And I answered:

“HA HA HA HA HA!”

…and then ran away like a frightened kitten.

I mean, I could never date a man who likes ribs so much.  Right?

Even though I remained forever skittish about checking ID’s as a waitress, I did eventually become a good server and even to grew to love the job.  Houston’s was my work life, social life, love life, and a way to stay so busy during the evening when I worked and so exhausted during the day that I didn’t have any time or energy to think about my abandoned life and dreams in New York.

There was just something so satisfying about arranging plates of food on my arms – one, two, three – just so; and setting them down on the table with a pleasing ker-thunk, entree placed center stage in front of the customer, side-items playing back-up.

The whole shift moved like a choreographed dance.  We started with line-up, when all the servers would, uh, line up so that our manager could inspect our uniforms and check for sharks.  A shark is someone not scheduled for work but who shows up anyway hoping someone wants to give up their shift.  Someone always wanted to give up their shift, but if a server showed up out of uniform, or drunk, or high, that was the first person to get “sharked.”  Chomp.  After line-up, we all took big swigs of the frappucinos we hid among the condiments and then swooshed out onto the floor, making wide circles through the restaurant.  You  must never stand still, or God forbid, lean on something, during your shift, so until the rush came we circled like gulls, looking for the odd ramekin to clear, a water glass that needed refreshing, clean silverware that needed to be rolled into stiff white napkins.  I loved rolling silverware – I found the rhythmic repetition soothing (fork and knife centered on the crease, make two triangles, then tightly roll, stacking them into giant silverware skyscrapers), plus you could surreptitiously lean as you rolled and gossip to whoever else had snagged a prime rolling spot.

When the dinner rush came, the rolling station was abandoned.  We no longer circled the floor like lazy gulls; more like a swarm of bees.  What would you like to drink?  How is everything?  Another spinach dip?  How would you like your steak cooked?  More ketchup?  Another glass of wine?  Right behind you!  In the weeds!  I’m under!  Help!

We moved through the waitstation in one direction, always entering on the right and exiting on the left.  That way you couldn’t just dart back and forth from your tables to the waitstation- you HAD to circle the floor, checking for first rounds, for credit cards, for plates that needed clearing.  Then when you dumped those dirty plates in Hobart, you were NOT to come back into the waitstation empty-handed; you should always return with clean plates, or a rack of glasses, or a bucket of ice.

In the waitstation, we swirled around each other, constantly fielding demands from the manager to run food out to the floor.  If that weren’t enough, you also had the cries of your peers begging for “a hand,” which meant literally, I need you to take this drink in your hand and deliver it to table 12 so that I can ring in my other table’s order.  We bobbed and weaved, ducked and crashed into each other, sometimes stealing away to the condiment shelf for a sip of not-so-frozen frappucino or a stolen apple cobbler.  I did often see servers eating french fries from dirty plates.  I was tempted myself, but resisted.  Sometimes we’d ring in a dessert order for one of our tables, only to have the customer “change their minds,” in which case the manager would remove the dessert from the bill and the dessert itself would magically disappear (devoured within seconds as we crouched down behind boxes of toilet paper).

When the pace finally slowed, we’d start goofing off, taking great joy in displaying the honey bears in X-rated positions.  Finally, some servers would get cut and start cleaning their tables and doing their assigned sidework, which were fun rotating chores like cleaning the espresso machine, emptying the chip drawers, or wiping off the coagulated gook on every single jar of A1 steak sauce.

After you finished, one server was assigned to check your work.  If he wanted to sleep with you, he would let you go without even a glance, and if you were sleeping with someone she would like to sleep with herself, you would likely find yourself underneath your table until well past midnight, picking at petrified gum with a steak knife.

Finally, finally, we’d untie our aprons and wad them up into smelly greasy balls while we greedily counted up our haul for the night.  One night I had a customer leave three 50 dollar bills folded up neatly in his napkin on his chair.  Another night I greeted my table and the man immediately asked me, “So, are you a 10, 20, or 30?”  I panicked for a millisecond while I wondered whether he was asking me my age or trying to rate my level of hotness, and then figured it out and confidently answered, “30, of course!”  He gave me 40%.  Those were good nights.

After promising our beloved security guard John Dee we’d be safe, we staggered out the door and across the way to the nearby bar.  Actually, I didn’t often make it to the bar, but I went enough to expand my liquor knowledge far beyond wine spritzers.  On the nights I didn’t go to the bar, I could often be found canoodling in the elevator with my latest make-out buddy.  Oddly, restaurants are always charged with sexual tension, despite the grease and kitchen muck.  And on the nights I wasn’t canoodling or drinking, I’d head straight home for bed and a book, still just about my two favorite things in the world (and now there’s someone cozy next to me every night). 

Sometimes, I kinda miss being a waitress.  And not for the make-out buddies, or the secret Sunday margaritas in the liquor closet, or the stolen cobblers (although those were nice).  I miss it more for the feeling of apron ties wrapped twice around my hips and my order book tucked into the back of my jeans.  The pens lined up in my apron pocket, the feeling that I’ve really earned the right to sleep in the next morning.  I miss all those abbreviations – C-Spin, Chk Sal, Shimi – and the secret code that accompanied them.  POT-E no S/S = Baked potato with butter, cheese, bacon and scallions, but please leave off the sour cream and put it on the side instead.  But most of all, I think I miss the sense of hard work done well, and of course, the cold hard cash in my back pocket.

I started working at Houston’s Restaurant during my stint in LA in 1997.  With no experience but in possession of an eagerness to please even the rudest of customers (ahem “guests,” excuse me), they hired me as a hostess.

I enjoyed being a hostess, even though it meant working with hosts like Derek, who took great pride in telling each and every customer to fuck off as they left the restaurant, with the guests none the wiser.

It went like this: 

Derek:  “Have a good night!  Fuckyouforcoming!”

Guests:  “Mm, uh-huh, thanks!”

Me:  CRINGING

After proving my worth as a hostess, I was invited to train as a server, escaping Derek and his invitations to “underwear parties.”  (“The underwear doesn’t usually stay on long,” leered Derek.)

Waitressing scared the hell out of me.  Houston’s was an uber-corporate machine, so there was always an EXACT RIGHT WAY to do everything.  Before doing anything, we were trained to always internally check the Five Priorities:  Guest Request (“I need more ketchup!”), First Round (“What would you like to drink?”), Run (food to tables), Bus (dirty plates from tables), Roll (silverware in napkins).  You’ll notice that “take guests’ food order and enter it into computer” isn’t anywhere on that list.  Houston’s is a strange, rather fascist environment. 

After rigorous training and corporate brainwashing, I was ready to begin but terrified.  I was especially afraid of taking drink orders, since I’m not exactly a font of liquorly knowledge.  At that point in my life, I didn’t venture far beyond wine spritzers, so even though I spent hours pouring over all the brands of liquor we served, I still wasn’t sure I’d be able to answer if someone asked me what kinds of vodka we offered.   To top if off, they sat me down in front of an 80’s-era video (viewing required by law) which described the horrors of alcohol-imbibement and the terror that would rain down upon me if I should serve alcohol to someone underage or already drunk.  

My first night, I was such a nervous wreck that they started me with just one table.   I managed to make 50 bucks, pretty decent for only one table, and I didn’t break anything or embarass myself.  The next night they gave me one more, and finally on my third day I had three tables and felt a little more confident.

Just as the dinner rush was starting, I swooped by a seven-top that had just been seated.   It wasn’t my table, but as Houston’s doctrine dictates, I couldn’t just pass it by to tend to my own table, lest I face flogging after the shift ended.  These people needed drinks dammit! and it was my corporate duty as a sworn member of the Republic of Houston’s to quench their thirst.

So I walked up and greeted them, asking what they’d like to drink.

They were kind of an odd group – five young guys with overly-moussed hair, one big fat man, and a corporate-looking dude in a suit.  I went around the table, carefully writing down their drink orders – mostly sodas for the younger guys, scotch and soda for the fat man (thank God he didn’t ask me what kinds of scotch we carried), beer for the suit.  Then I got to the last guy, a blond baby-faced kid.  He ordered Coke and grenadine.

I froze.  What the hell was grenadine?  Some kind of rum?  It really sounded like some sort of alcohol, and the kid looked even younger than me.  So I asked to see his ID.

The entire table burst into laughter.  Mean laughter.

I didn’t know what to do, so I smiled stupidly and laughed along.  But – but – the VIDEO!  What was grenadine?  Was I supposed to KNOWINGLY serve an underage kid alcohol?  Was this some sort of Houston’s set-up – a test to see if I’d really stick to the rules, or fold under pressure?  Was I being hazed?  Does this kid have some sort of aging disorder and he’s actually 52?

The fat man spoke up.  “You don’t need to see his ID, sweetheart.  You can go now.”

I slunk back to the waitstation and rang in the drink order to the bartender.  Bruce walked up and asked why his table was cackling at me.

“Bruce – what’s coke and grenadine?” I whispered.

“It’s Coke with cherry-flavored syrup,” he said. 

I prompty turned the color of  a maraschino cherry. 

“What did you do?”

I confessed and Bruce slapped his forehead as our manager screamed for food runners.

“First round!” I dutifully called back.

“Dealing with an idiot!”  Bruce called.  That was not one of the Houston’s approved excuses for not running food, but when the manager saw that Bruce was talking to me, he nodded in sympathy.

Bruce rushed off to deliver drinks and try to win back his table while I very carefully avoided that area of the restaurant for the next hour.  After they left, I approached Bruce.

“Everything go okay with your 7-top?” I asked meekly.

“Yeah, they were fine,” Bruce said.  “Don’t worry about it.”

Whew.  No flogging, thank God.

“They were some kind of band or something,” Bruce continued.

“Really?  Who?” I asked.

“I don’t know – ‘In Style?’  Something like that.”

I nodded and went about my business, and after many months of faithful service, I finally lived down the Grenadine Incident and was accepted as a loyal, contributing member of the Houston’s Republic.  I could name our top-shelf liquors with ease (Grey Goose, Sapphire, Chivas, Patron), and sometimes I could even suggest a cocktail – perhaps a Salty Dog, sir? 

About a year later, ‘N Sync hit the big time, and as I scraped dirty plates into the trash one night while the dishwasher hummed “Bye Bye Bye,” I finally, suddenly realized that on that fateful night during my first week as a waitress at Houston’s, Justin Timberlake had asked me for a cherry Coke, and I had asked for his ID.

Dear Justin: 

I know you’ve probably moved on to $10,000 bottles of champagne, but in case you’re feeling nostalgic one day – please, please Justin – just say “cherry Coke.”  Thanks.

Love,

Mama

There seems to be a lot of news lately about people getting fired from their jobs because of stuff they said on social networks. Here’s a video report by CNN today on two folks who used to work at Houston’s restaurant who got fired for ranting about a manager on a private group within MySpace. Then there was last week’s news where two employees of KFC got fired for well, doing things you don’t want done to your food. (the video is no longer available online)

We sometimes forget that the Internet is a powerful tool/vehicle for spreading our voice. If I make one comment online (good or bad), it can be easily and quickly spread to all parts of the world to people I don’t even know.

So what does this mean to me, the customer reference/loyalty professional? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, know what your customers are saying about you. Listen to them and help them solve problems rather than helping them become a problem. As businesses, we’re all online and so are your customers. Be aware of what folks are saying by searching for your company, product, brand online via tools like LinkedIn, Facebook, MySpace, Twitter and Google. You can’t know too much about what your customers are saying. And worse case scenario, you stop a mess before it happens. Not only can you use these tools to reactively see what customers are saying about you, but you can use them proactively too. Ask questions and get answers before you make a mistake.

Remember a few months back the big blow up about the new Motrin ad for moms? (here’s the video if you forgot) Who would have thought that it would cause such a backlash? Motrin was aware of its customers (apparently they were a bit late) and they pulled the ad because there was such a forceful backlash to the commercial. (I personally liked it but the only thing I’m a mom to is a 24lb dog that I don’t carry around all day).

If you only get one thing out of this post, get this…know what your customers are saying and do something about it because no voice on the Internet goes unheard.

If for some incredibly bizarre and unfortunate situation, you are to find yourself reading this blog with any level of frequency beyond, “I was tricked into coming here by an absurdly misleading link,” then you’ll be sure to discover my borderline repulsive obsession with the chicken finger.

So you could imagine my dismay when upon arrival at the gym this morning following a healthy rain-soaked run — (you’re damn right; chicken fingers don’t come cheap) — I discovered that a waitress and bartender could fundamentally alter the landscape of the American chicken finger as we know it.

It is a well-known though thoroughly undocumented fact that the moderately upscale chain restaurant Houston’s prepares not only the best off-menu chicken finger meal in America, but possibly the best chicken finger meal, on- or off-menu, on the planet.

Describing any aspect of the chicken’s succulence or the contents of the batter — trending far more toward tempura flakiness than traditional breading — would fail to do any remote shred of justice to these fried wedges of heaven. For proper analysis, or rather as proper as possible, the experience would need to be live-blogged: something I am considering for a number of greasy meals once public wireless access becomes truly ubiquitous and I hire my ‘life intern’ to perform the task of typing my entry for me shortly before flossing my molars.

Getting back to the story, however, I was shocked to hear of the lawsuit brought forth by two former Houston’s employees of a location in Hackensack, New Jersey. I learned this information on CNN, admittedly more than a week after the story first appeared in the Wall Street Journal.

In brief, employees of this Houston’s set up a private MySpace forum to discuss, and even perhaps belittle, various aspects of their job such as overbearing management and clueless customers. The branch’s management caught wind and saw the likely offensive copy — either by discretion of one of the forum’s members or by slyly infiltrating the thread, (the verdict is still out, so to speak). The case figures to raise all sorts of questions about online privacy and the rapidly evolving and blurring lines between the professional and personal realms.

However, my legal bearings being what they are (read: nonexistent), I’m thoroughly of the mind that this suit cannot succeed. I wish the best to the laid off pair in their future pursuits. Lord knows this is a tough time. But the risk of crippling such an empire – be it an empire of high-calorie American finger food – is simply too frightening to imagine.

Rest assured, this blog will wage a grassroots campaign — (openly willing to go astroturf for some free chicken fingers) — in order to save a species at risk of dying a vastly premature death: the Houston’s ‘flying chicken platter.’

We will not go quietly into the night.

Easter was a blast, although our far away family members were GREATLY missed! Of course it was a busy, busy day for all of us… we had 2 church services to offer everyone that day, with free family picture sessions in between, and then ended with a HUGE Easter egg hunt for all of the kids that had a little over 2,000 eggs stuffed with candy! (Lot’s of prep last week for all of the Easter events for the day!) After our big morning we went out to eat at Houston’s with Brett’s fam and my parent’s. It was the best meal we have all had in a long time… amazing! Ashlyn had awoken that morning to an Easter basket filled with candy and a bag of sand toys, the day before she had gotten a few Easter presents from Grammy and Poppy, and then after lunch on Easter she got some presents from Gigi and Papa too. Needless to say… the girl has quite the collection of candy right now. It was such a great day… ending with a nap and then some family time with just Brett, Ashlyn, and I. Big day… such fun!

Say Cheese (Silverlake, Los Angeles, CA)
Gourmet sandwiches.    It’s a bit on the expensive side for two slices of bread and fixings in between, but the taste and the ensemble of the ingredients making these sandwiches are delicious enough that time slowed down for about 10 minutes while i chewed.

I got the Barcelona: jamon serrano, manchego cheese, roasted red peppers and capers with extra virgin olive oil on rosemary bread.  Though you can argue that it’s just Ham and Cheese, it was the best H+C ever.

I had a bite of the Hyperion submarine: artisan salami, fresh mozzarella, roasted red peppers, shaved red onion, tomato and mesclun with balsamic oil on a bagguette.  Also delicious but i liked mine better.  

it helps to find parking out front.

The adjacent and connecting cheese store has an interesting collection.

oh yeah, i suspect the diluted Lemonade is from Minute Maid.   Mesculan is nothing fancy but salad mix.

http://www.yelp.com/biz/say-cheese-los-angeles#hrid:xiZinb9IcJa257fisBn2ZQ

Houston’s (Santa Monica, CA)
American.    i’ve been to this Houston’s 3 times and all 3 times treated by ER (I’ve been to the Pasadena Houston’s once).   Service is always excellent here.    I started with a glass of Mi Sueno Cabernet Sauvignon.  The red went well with my Hawaiian Ribeye.  

Before that, we had the spinach artichoke dip before entrees and an apple cobbler after.  Delicious all around.

The South Bay Professional Connection’s event at Verch Insurance Services & CA Associates!

The ribs at Houston’s . . . finger-licking incredible

Not eating all of the ribs . . . insane?

Getting the rest of the ribs boxed to take back to hotel . . . ahhh, now it makes sense

Sitting staring at box of ribs while writing a blog post . . . demonstration of will-power

Finally tucking into the rest of the ribs . . . delectable again, but messy fingers

Grabbing a towel from the bathroom in your hotel to wipe fingers while eating . . . genius

Realizing the towel now looks like you were using the bathroom and ran out of TP . . . deeply disturbing

Leaving the stained towel next to the box of rib-bones in the morning as an attempt to explain what happened . . . reeks of desperation.

*Siiiiiiiiigh*

Yesterday, I detailed first meeting Daisy with the surprise visit, but I’m sure you’re all wondering, “just who is this ‘Daisy Duke’ girl anyway?” . . . well, actually, most of you already know her, so you’re probably not wondering that, but even to those who know her, I hope to offer a little more insight into the less-oft seen private life of The Duke. No, not John Wayne, I really don’t know too much about his private life. And it really isn’t relevant to this post. Anyway . . .

Daisy is an incredibly caring, thoughtful, funny and wonderful friend to have – no, really, I’m not just sucking up here, she is all of those things – she loves her own life, and she loves the lives of her friends, and you really can’t ask more than that from someone. OK, so enough of the niceties, let’s start looking at the juicy, nitty-gritty stuff.

Most of you have read about BISMOW (Boy I Sometimes Make Out With – no, not the boy “I” sometimes make out with, more like BSSMOW if we’re talking semantics). Well, of course, there is a little more than ‘Sometimes’ as detailed in the name, but the name is quite cool so it sticks. But, and I know I’m sticking with the niceties that I said I was going to get rid of, they do make an adorable couple. And you have to wonder exactly how . . . (you see, the niceties have ended!)

I’m not revealing too much by saying that Daisy has a propensity for being, how should I say, ‘a clumsy klutz’ – I can honestly say that I’ve not heard about someone injuring themselves so much, with so little ‘injury-equipment’ to work with. This girl could injure herself on a marshmallow. Whether it’s cuts, bumps, bruises, falls, or sunburns, Daisy is an injury pro. But BSSMOW still hangs in there.

While we were in Chicago, Daisy told us a story of her life back home, when she used to go out and run errands to CVS every day. Yes, not content with the fact that she went the previous day, there would be more errands to run the next day. Was there no advance planning going on? Did she really have to wait until the toothpaste tube was completely empty before buying more? Shampoo and conditioner on separate days? Crazy stuff – but does this phase BSSMOW? Nope, he’s still there.

Now I thought I was being a little mean when I was laughing at the story above as she was telling it, maybe taking it to an extreme that wasn’t really there. My sympathy ended when she gave me a little ‘gift’ at dinner on the Sunday night. The ‘gift’ was her shopping list – oh how funny she thought she was giving me some trash from her purse. But, oh what a shopping list it was. What was on it? Well, I could tell you. Or, of course, I could show you. Let’s take a look:

OK, first things first – the paper it’s on – cute, of course. But let’s take a look at the list. For starters, it’s short – like the sort of list that might be written . . . say . . . every day? For daily errands? Mmmhmm, all starting to make sense now. But let’s delve a little deeper:

Salad – OK, nothing wrong with a bit of salad. Well, other than it’s bad for you – evil salad and its lack of meat. But I digress.

Blue Cheese – Really, Daisy? You give me this gift, like a perfect pitch for me to hit out of the ball park? OK, for those of you who don’t know Daisy, she has actually managed to injure herself on a blue cheese container. Twice. But that’s one of the great things about her, it doesn’t stop her from getting more (um, but why such a big space between ‘blue’ and ‘cheese’?). And BSSMOW stands by her and supports the blue cheese fixation.

Granola bars – Again, I can see this – Daisy needs to have such snacks as she puts in her many hours at Big Prestigious Law Firm as well as putting in the hours of class and studying. So granola bars are good.

Triscuits – Yep. Triscuits are good too. But what to put on the triscuits? Well, we already have the blue cheese, so how about . . .

Cheese – Yeah. Um. Huh? Okkk – so, we have blue cheese already, and now we also need ‘cheese’. Just cheese. Well, I know that she loves her Velveeta, so maybe that’s what it was. Triscuits and Velveeta – dinner of champions. NASCAR champions, maybe, but still champions. But still, what’s really for dinner tonight? Oh . . .

Onion – Like. An onion? One solitary, non-descript onion? OK, I’m sure that dinner will become more obvious, when we add . . .

Potato – Again, we’re going for a lonely potato? Hmmm, it’s going to be slim pickings for din-dins, unless of course we’re also buying . . .

. . . – Oh, that’s it? Um. What is it we’re making with the potato, onion, and Velveeta, ’cause it really does not sound like fun. I mean, it’s not like you ran out of room on your list – you had half a page left, and that was with double-spacing. Can you tell she’s at law school? Yeah. But despite this crappy meal, BSSMOW is still there.

(oh, and there is also something about the very neat writing for a shopping ‘list’ – very calming . . . )

I really could keep going on about all things Daisy-revealing, but I guess I should save stuff for the future. Suffice to say though, and leaving the trend of picking on her again, getting to finally meet Daisy and BSSMOW, not only met my expectations, but far exceeded them. I can see why she is such a great friend of A’Hottie and others in Chicago, and I’m looking forward to becoming a much closer friend when we finally make our way out there. Yes, as hinted at before – Chicago, A’Hottie, Daisy, et al, really managed to tug at the right heart strings of Eddie and HASWOE, and we are investigating a possible move before the year’s end. And yes, that does mean after going through all things ‘Bar’ related last summer with HASWOE, I get to go through it again not only with Daisy and A’Hottie this summer, but I’ll get to do it yet again with HASWOE later in the year.

So, that is Daisy for now, but I have to add one more thing. With everything detailed above, Daisy, BYSMOW is way more than ‘Sometimes’ . . . and let’s face it, way more than “MOW”. But BYSMOW does just sound incredibly cool.

Oh, and as an update to our visit: Before the trip, Daisy was a good friend. Immediately after the trip, it reached the heights of ‘adoration’ (especially after the drunken phonecall to HASWOE and me – should I blog about that? Maaaaybee!). But after recommending Houston’s ‘not-on-the-menu’ Flying Chicken last night, it has reached the stage of ‘love’. I’m not exaggerating here, folks, that meal deserved such a lofty status promotion.

For now, here ends all things Chicago-trip, but there may be more soon, as we have already booked our next trip, and if Daisy offers more enticing gifts such as her shopping list, then the world is my blog-oyster. Or ‘bloyster’.

I love Houston’s. There I said it. Go ahead, laugh. NYC Food Guy’s favorite restaurant is a chain and I have no problem with that. Why? Because Houston’s has never disappointed. Not once!

It’s the simplest way to carnivorous bliss.

1. One person orders the Baby Back Ribs ($28) and the other the Cheeseburger ($14).
2. Split everything down the middle and share.

Counting drinks (nonstop free refills, seriously, before you finish your drink, you’ll have a fresh one) and tip, this is the best $25 dollars you can spend.

I love BBQ & I love Ribs. Houston’s Ribs really aren’t BBQ though; they’re cooked in the oven, basted, and grilled. In the end, who cares? They’re delicious. The flavor from the spicy, smoky ribs combined with fries dipped in ketchup, is heavenly.

If that’s not enough, the ribs are always tender and falling off the bone.

 I’ve eaten the buttery cheeseburger below at least 50 times. 50 burgers, 50 lip smacking smiles. 50 thoughts of “I wish there was more”.

And the burger is equally tender. It’s served with lettuce, tomato, pickles, chopped onion, mustard, and mayo, but I skip all that. I stick to the classics.

Crumbly, tender, and moist beef always cooked to order and covered with melted cheddar. I recently found out that the patty is painted with a tiny bit of Hickory Sauce for some smoky flavor. Needless to say, I’m not complaining. A thin slice of cabbage rests below the burger patty so it doesn’t soak through the bun. Its presence goes undetected however, melding perfectly with the buttery egg bun and juicy burger.

The fries are amazing too. Thin, crisp, and amazingly addictive when served piping hot. If they taste like they haven’t been spiced, I implore you to add some salt and pepper because once you do you won’t want your supply of fries to end. Dip them in Houston’s ketchup, Heinz mixed with a touch of honey (surprising, I know), and you’re in business.

I would consider ordering fries as an appetizer if not for the Chicago Style Spinach/Artichoke Dip ($12).

Mounds of Monterey Jack & Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese combine with finely chopped artichoke hearts & spinach to create a molten mass of deliciousness. Served with a bowl of corn chips and two small sides of sour cream and salsa and you’re in for an amazing appetizer. I love alliteration.

I recommend a nice hearty dip in the spinach/artichoke followed by a spoonful of salsa and sour cream. I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.

And since I’ve run this meal in reverse, entree to appetizer, it would only be fitting to end with on a sweet note with one of the best desserts I’ve ever had.

The Warm 5-Nut Brownie ($8) (previously reviewed by NYC Food Guy) features cashews, walnuts, macadmia nuts, pecans, and peanuts, encased within a warm, moist, and slightly fudgy brownie that strikes the perfect balance between sweet and dark chocolate.

The brownie rests in a pool of decadent champagne custard, the most expensive item in any dish in the entire restaurant. As you scoop through the Sedutto vanilla ice cream, drizzled with caramel espresso sauce, drag your whole bite along the plate, through the custard and just marvel at the knee-buckling harmony of flavors making your palate sing.

Houston’s

3 locations in New York

***Check out more great desserts here***

French Fries. They’re NYC Food Guy’s guiltiest pleasure. That being said, only a few places in the city really do something special with our potatoey friends. I’m a purist at heart but I can’t turn down fries slathered in melted cheese or chili or both. I’m here to direct you to a few spots who exemplify French fries at their finest…

Read on for some of the greasiest, crispiest, heart-stoppingest, and most delicious French Fries this city as to offer…

Ziggiz

Price $2.00

This Gramercy grease pit serves humongous orders of double-fried skin-on shoestrings that are the quintessential late night delicacy. Open until 3AM during the week and 5AM on weekends, NYC Food Guy implores you to get over there and try what I think are arguably the best fries in this entire city.

Virgil’s Real Barbecue

Trainwreck Fries ($10.50)

These are the most delicious cheese fries I’ve ever had. They’re covered in monterey jack, cheddar, crispy pieces of bacon, and sliced jalapenos. It’s served covered in some excellent buttermilk ranch dressing, but I order it on the side because I don’t like hot ranch dressing. I recommend you do the same. Served on a hot skillet, these fries are best when dipped in some ranch and then some ketchup. Go to Times Square, spend the money, and follow up with some of the best Banana Pudding I’ve ever eaten.

RUB

BBQ Chili Cheese Fries ($8.50)

These are the messiest and probably best chili cheese fries I’ve ever had. The medium cut, skin on fries are strong enough to hold the weight of the many chunks of tender brisket and glops of melted cheddar. I’m not usually a fan of this kind of generic melted cheese but it works in this case and is definitely worth the price.

Houston’s

Price $5

Houston’s is one of my favorite restaurants. It’s a chain so that may sound like a cop out, but they consistently put out excellent and delicious food. These fries are thin, crispy shoestrings dusted with salt and pepper. They’re irresistible. I have never once finished the serving next to my burger or ribs and not wanted more fries. I’ve always been scrounging for the crumbs and last little bits, they’re that good. Houston’s Burger, Ribs, Artichoke dip appetizer, and Warm 5-Nut Brownie Sundae are also amazing, each one good enough to warrant a spot on the plate of my last meal.

Pommes Frites

Regular $4 Large $6.25 Double $7.75 plus 34 sauces according to website

Delivering on their name, these fries are true to the Frites form. Thick cut and potatoey, they’re crisp on the outside, and hot and fluffy on the inside. Choose from one of what seems like a million sauces and you’re good to go. I had honey mustard and was pleased. The best thing about this place is that they’re open until 4AM on weekends making them a must stop after some East Village gallivanting.

Market Table

NYC Food Guy review

Price $7

Market Table is a swanky little spot, not the type of place you go to for just fries, but if you wanted to you could sit at the bar and munch on these crispy, seasoned bad boys. I’d ditch the cocktail sauce they serve them with and get some ketchup. These were crisp, potatoey, and overall perfect.

Telepan

NYC Food Guy Review

You’re looking at the “Volcano”. Use your imagination and you can see why. It’s a volcano of onion rings shooting flashes of deep-fried potato all over your plate. Fancier than Market Table, Telepan only serves their meals in a prix fixe form so ordering a volcano to go is not an option. Either way these fries were delicious. They were crispy and addictive. I think they were a little too small for optimum dipping but I would be as bold as to forgo the onion volcano in lieu of more fries.

The Spotted Pig

Price $7

Crisp and matchstick thin, these fries are addictive and plentiful. Rosemary is interspersed within this massive clump of fried potato, hindering full enjoyment. After all, I don’t want to eat leaves with my French Fries. Either way, you have to check this place out just to see what all the fuss is about. Burger purists beware, the famed burger comes with stinky, soft Roquefort cheese, something I can’t develop a taste for.

The Smith

Price $5

I ordered these fries well done and the kitchen delivered. I’d probably pass on that however when you order because these arrived so crispy the potato dried up and all I could taste was burnt fried. My friend ordered them normal however and although they’re quite standard, they were cooked perfectly and I’d consider them a fancy diner style fry.

So, I ended up managing to leave Memphis early – well, I’m leaving at 6am tomorrow (Thursday), and get to go home and surprise HASWOE a day earlier. You’d think I’d be ruining the surprise by advertising it on my blog, right? Yeah – well, I’ll challenge her to post as soon as she reads this, and we’ll see how long it takes . . .

I really ended up only spending 2 days and two nights here, so my “things to do” list provided by Daisy didn’t really come to fruition. Let’s see – Tuesday night, dinner at Houston’s; tonight, dinner at Red Lobster and an early night as I have to be up at 4am to get to the airport. It was kind of more like a Daisy/A’Hottie restaurant tour, than a cultural exploration of Memphis. Well, I think I’ll be back early April, so I’ll look into staying downtown and forcing myself to do more of the touristy things.

And no, I didn’t even get to see Elvis. What a rip-off.

All American steak house in Pasadena, CA.  The food was great!  Love, love, loved it!  And we also paid alot for it.  But hey, it was worth it.  Just go.

Food:

Drinks:

Reservations: Yes

Large Groups: Yes

Houston’s Steak House

320 S. Arroyo Parkway

Pasadena, CA 91105

T 626 0577 6001

F 626 577 6086

Few things are worse than an unsatisfied sweet tooth, especially after a delicious meal. Combine that with the monotony of most restaurant dessert menus and a Snickers from the corner store seems like a better option than a generic brownie sundae.

Fear not if you’re eating at Houston’s, because once you finish your cheesy spinach & artichoke dip, buttery cheeseburger, crispy fries, and fall off the bone BBQ pork ribs, the Warm Five Nut Brownie Sundae which awaits you is a decadent, chocolatey achievement of palatal perfection.

It’s also one of NYC Food Guys all-time favorite desserts.

I know what you’re thinking: “Houston’s is a chain restaurant.” Yes, it is, but it’s more of a high-end chain and respect is due when great food is consistently produced. Let me stop you before you attack the NYC Food Guy for praising a chain when there are so many creative chefs creating unique desserts all over the city. Like Ed Levine, I feel that Houston’s is a great place that deserves a lot of credit for some well executed and delicious food.

Onto the brownie:

A perfectly spherical scoop of Sedutto Vanilla Ice Cream crowns the top of a warm, chocolate brownie with chopped walnuts, pecans, peanuts, macadamia nuts, and one more mystery nut ensconced within its fudgy interior. Ed Levine claims he tastes espresso somewhere in there, but it was subtle enough that I didn’t detect it. It all rests seductively on a pool of champagne custard, which Mr. Levine calls “superfluous”, but NYC Food Guy calls it just plain decadent. The sundae crumbles into the pool of custard as you spoon away at it, each bite soaking up the deliciousness until you find yourself scraping the plate clean.

It’s good to have reliable dining options and Houston’s is NYC Food Guy’s go to. It’s great for a date, a meal with the family, or a stop in just for coffee and dessert. It’s a little on the pricey side ($13 for a cheeseburger, $12 for a salad, $28 for a rack of ribs with fries and slaw) but it’s well worth it for the top notch service, the ambiance, and most of all the consistently delicious food.

Houston’s – 3 locations in New York

378 Park Ave S. Btwn 26th & 27th St
Phone: 212-689-1090

153 E 53rd St At 3rd Ave
Phone: 212-888-3828

Roosevelt Field Mall
Garden City, NY 11530
Phone: 516-873-1454

***Check out more great desserts here***