This anthropomorphic hot dog is wearing chaps and asking for "one all the way." Just be glad I didn't take pictures of the BDSM-themed cups.
Total number of hot dogs consumed: 8
Total cups of birch and/or root beer consumed: 3
Total number of weiner-related "jokes" made by Brian and his brother: 10 hundred thousand million
Total number of times they made me want to stab myself in the ear with a plastic butter knife: 10 hundred thousand million and one
Knowing that I brought it all upon myself: Priceless
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Goddamn it, I fucking LOVE DUCK.
We've been to The Left Bank, one of the more upscale restaurants on the Outer Banks, twice this week, once for cocktails and munchies and once for dinner. Chef de Cuisine Joel Sardinha is assisted by, among others, my nephew Ryan and the peripatetic Dodge Draffin, but that's no reason not to go.*
*Rim shot!
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As I mentioned in my smackdown post I didn't bring a camera or notepad to Babbo, preferring to be a plain old diner enjoying an evening out. Obviously, my dining companions cook eat FRET and Mother of FRET discussed the food for 80% of the evening so I have no shortage of opinions, but there will be no photos, no dish-by-dish dissection of the evening. But frankly, I feel that it's much more important that you learn about Ethel - Mother of FRET - than about Babbo. Because while there was memorable food, there was nothing more ...
Prunes, prunes, the musical fruit; the more you eat, the more you shit uncontrollably.
So I pretty much dream about prune-stuffed gnocchi with vin santo and foie gras every night. And often during the day, as well. So it's a good thing that No. 9 Park gives out the recipe on request. And since Chef Barbara Lynch has a cookbook coming out this year and I'm taking the liberty of assuming that this recipe - her signature - will be in it, I feel justified in selecting it as this week's smackdown.
Because maybe this will help jar ...