Archives for category: hangover helper


East Bay is Pig Latin for BEAST. I really wanted to find The Beast’s best burger, without having to follow any hipster foodie-type counseling.

I thought about taking on this very important task… but, I’m large. I can’t go around researching the quality of hamburgers while I still intend to fit my fat ass into an affordable compact vehicle.

That said, I believe I found the best hamburger in The Beast by accident.

My son and I met a group of persons that I enjoy on the patio at El Charro in Lafayette. I ordered a kids’ burger for my Prince who is all of three years old. The dish I ordered for myself was a complete abortion. I couldn’t even look down. While he was busy emptying the salt and pepper shakers, I counted 10 Mississippi.

Baby Boy just wasn’t hungry.

I dove in.

I had my very first Hamburgasm. It was the best burger I’ve ever had… (and I don’t care who you are. I’ve eaten more hamburgers than you.)

But, I mean, People… I was really very hungry… and we all know that Hunger is the bestest Chef of all the chefs.

So I went again last night. I watched in sick satisfaction as my little Prince completely ignored his meal. After the check was paid, I put that culinary work of art into my purse and hurriedly hauled my ass home. I waited an eternity for Baby Boy to fall asleep, so that El Charro Kid Burger and I could be alone. By the time that happened the bun was but a sponge, but it didn’t matter… because of that beloved beef patty.

That beef patty was everything.

…I believe the Holy Grail of Hamburgers is right here, in the belly of The Beast.

Have you ever had a tantrum over the closing of a restaurant?

My fat ass threw the mother of all fits when some killjoy told it that florent got bullied out of its lease at 69 Gansevoort Street. Some filthy animal wanted 30 G’s a month to keep the beauty alive.


My answer to this absolute blasphemy was to give the Meat Packing district, in its entirety, the HAND. I refused to grace its greedy blood soaked cobblestones with my adorable adidas EVER again.

(…until about six weeks later when some trick with significant shoulders offered to buy me a black and blue double porterhouse coupled with a bottomless Diet Coke.)

Guys! it was totally Field of Dreams. But so much more watchable.


The cornfield is a neglected parcel of lower Manhattan. Kevin Costner’s almost-as-boring-as-a-baseball-game character is, instead, played by a colorful Frenchman called Florent Morellet. Shoeless Joe Jackson comes, indeed… but he comes to 69 Gansevoort Street, and that barefoot bitch stays for nearly 23 years… in the form of the pinpoint perfect clientele. If every restauranteur could be so lucky; edgy celebrities, drunk drag queens, transgender prostitutes, and a hodge podge of insatiable late night lunatics.

…and the child that chokes herself unconscious on a hot dog?

…that’s my twentysomething ass.

Interpret that as you will, and let your sick mind meander… my floriend.


the recipe for this deliciousness follows

the recipe for this deliciousness follows

Jiffy Corn Dogs:

I used 1 box Jiffy Corn Bread mix, 3 hot dogs (Cut in 1/6ths), and a mini cupcake pan. Prepare corn bread as box directs, fill muffin cups 2/3, press hot dog section in center, bake @ 400 for 15-20 min.


Here is a great story that promises to reveal my extreme elegance.

I used to live in Queens without a car and the Key Food was just too far for my fat ass. I mean, if I was going to walk all the way to Queens Boulevard for food I would just hit White Castle. So on the way home from the train I’d stop at the bodega and buy the kind of food that your parents had in the basement for emergency scenarios. The kind of food you left in the poor people crate at school during Thanksgiving. The kind of food that never, ever, ever goes bad.

My mom used to serve up Spaghettio’s. I have never not loved Chef Boyardee‘s classic collection of foodstuffs. It was, and has always been my favorite sort of lunch.

I went out one night and drank a huge mess of alcohol, took a taxi home and was fucking thrilled to find a couple of cans of Spaghettio’s with hot dog bits in my otherwise thirsty kitchen cabinet.

I piled both 14 ounce cans into a 24 ounce bowl. I waited anxiously by the microwave. I watched the bowl rotate and the orange sauce splatter about as the reflection of my lazy eye tried to focus on its next meal. I nearly fell asleep waiting.

I took the bowl to bed because that’s what single girls do. They eat buckets of orange food in bed. (Someone let the execs at  Victoria’s Secret in on the real deal.)

Believe it or not, I was too drunk to eat, so I passed out with a steaming, teeming bowl of Boyardee parked next to my pillow. When the sun came up I opened my eyes, and that bowl of beautiful O’s was still there. Like a polite one night stand.

Lucky for me I was so dehydrated that I didn’t have to get up and pee. I just leaned over that lovely lukewarm meal and began shoveling in the morning light. When I was through, I rolled back over for a few more Z’s.

Life’s defining moments can be very delicious, indeed.


I found a recipe on the internet to make Spaghettio’s at home. It’s more work than stumbling into a bodega, but you won’t have to worry about the preservatives ravaging your children’s innards.

Here is the recipe for DIY Spaghettio’s:

Prep Time: 10 minutes

Cook Time: 20 minutes

Total Time: 30 minutes

Yield: 4-6 adult servings, 6-8 child servings

  • 8 oz ditalini pasta (or other small pasta)
  • 2 Tablespoons olive oil
  • 2 cloves garlic, pressed
  • Pinch of crushed red pepper flakes
  • 15 oz can tomato sauce
  • 1 cup water
  • 1 Tablespoon tomato paste
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
  • 1/2 teaspoon granulated sugar
  • 4 Tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces
  • 1/4 cup milk
  • 1 cup shredded cheddar cheese

Cook the pasta in a large pot of salted boiling water, to al dente (about 10 minutes).

Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a Dutch oven or large saute’ pan over medium heat. Add the garlic and red pepper flakes and cook until just fragrant, about 30 seconds. Stir in the tomato sauce, water, tomato paste, salt, pepper, sugar and butter. Heat, while stirring, until the butter is melted. Slowly stir in the milk, then turn the heat to low. Simmer at low heat for 10 minutes.

Stir the shredded cheese into the soup until melted. Drain the pasta and transfer to a serving bowl. Pour as much of the tomato sauce into the pasta as desired; stir to combine. (I don’t like mine extremely soupy, so usually have about 1/3 cup of the sauce leftover.)

Notes: Looking for the convenience factor? Double the batch and freeze the rest for later. Heat on the stove top or in the microwave when you’re ready for that quick lunch or dinner!

UPDATE: my friend Renee sent me the below genius-ness. I’m still not sure if I want to eat this or sleep in it.


If that stupid whipped-cream-and-chocolate-foreplay story bores you to bits… and, instead, your sex dreams involve salt licks and bouillion cubes… and lastly, if you’re like me… and your life savings consists of a sweaty Susan B. Anthony coin in your bra,  then get over to the Fine Fare, stat. Ramen-o-rama is on aisle TWO across from the sale on Parade Mexican Blend Fancy Shredded Cheese. It will be open until nine tonight.

Mr. Momofuku is the creator of the famed Ramen Noodle. He founded Nissin and it’s divine Cup Noodles. (Americans call it “Cuppa Noodles” because we can’t read and also we think the two O’s in Noodle stands for double orgasm, since we are all pervs. There is actually an Instant Ramen Museum in Osaka.

Trivia; from 1996 to 2006, a 60 foot steaming Cup Noodle sign was installed at One Times Square. That’s ten drunk years of New Years Eves. One can’t help wondering if this made Bob Hope hongray.

Even more interestingly, under the nutritional facts it states, “for lower sodium use less seasoning”. This is satisfying to me. We don’t need to talk incessantly about salt to understand that is makes food DELICIOUS…

Lucky for us, there are multitudes of recipes on the internet to celebrate the masterful life work of the late Momofuku. And lastly, here is an image that should be blown up a thousand times and featured at The Whitney, but really, actually I found it on the internet.

You’re welcome.

Gray’s Papaya is the answer to many of my prayers:

What do I do when the bars close?

Where do I go for urgent salty meat?

What do I do with these nettlesome coins?

Where do I tell my hipster coworker to take his date?

Where can I get a the lightening fast stoke of endorphins?

How do I ease this hangover?

How can I induce a nap?

Where can I go during an afternoon rainstorm?

Where are all of my drunk friends right now?

In addition to being such a mandatory city amenity, they are totally loyal to their original signage, menu and philosophy. With their “Recession Special” and democratic endorsements, they aren’t just an eatery, but a neighborhood institution:

I lived in a dorm called Marlton House on 8th Street and 5th Ave. We used to maraude around the Village in the middle of the night smoking stale menthols and menacing the graveyard servers at French Roast. I was haunted night after night by Gray’s end of day refuse… A recipe of beef scrapple and papaya mulch simmering slowly atop a main subway artery,,, still not enough to keep my fat ass from making that place my personal parlour.

I once dated a man who lived in a loft above the founders of Papaya King, from which Gray’s Papaya was born. It’s not a secret that they get the hot dogs as they are about to expire and turn them around as quick as possible which is how they profit from such inexpensive retail prices. The only concept happening on Earth more ingenious is this.

How great are these:

And… (meat) curtain.

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