My Latest Yelp Review, brought to YOU on Tribe

((SINCE I'M A BIG DEAL I DECIDED TO SYNDICATE MYSELF. ENJOY THIS LATEST REVIEW I POSTED ON YELP))

The Kebab Shop
9th and Market
East Village (What-what!?)
San Diego

There’s meat. And there’s stick. The two did not come together without brutality. However violent the origins of meat on a stick, as one, they satiate the cravings of East Village cavemen and women alike at a little place called The Kebab Shop.

Not everyone likes to be hit over the head and dragged by the hair, but we can all dance around the campfire in primordial glee, meat on stick held high, celebrating one of the only restaurants in town where eating with one’s hands isn’t frowned upon, but expected!

Although the juicy flesh of the Salmon Kebab, marinated in a sweet and savory concoction, is enough to evoke victorious war-hoot-hollerings deep from the lungs of loin-clothed-clad East Village Vikings—I’d be selling the place short if all I raved about was meat on a friggin’ stick.

Over the course of several visits to The Kebab Shop in which I dined solely on (you guessed it) meat on a stick, one day I finally succumbed to my carbo cravings and shouted in my most aggressive huntress-tone: ‘Give me a DONER!’

I took a seat and observed my surroundings. An interesting mix of peoples indeed. To my right, a band of fashionable, G-Star Denim rockin’ model types clearly of East Village decent; across the dining room huddled a pack of wild bikers in tight pants and heads bands, likely in migration from the North Park region of town. My hunger pangs sharpened as I admired the plump calf of one such biker. It wasn’t his time just yet. Right then my name was called.

With the unabashed fervor of a starving beast, I tore into what can best be described as glorified gyro-burrito; but alas, such an ignorant comparison won’t suffice the bounties I discovered within lightly toasted, chewy flatbread, delicious in and of itself. Tender lamb meat pranced across a pasture of leafy greens dressed with tangy yogurt sauce, a fresh crunch of purple onion and herbaceous burst of mint, basil and oregano were at once ignited by a douse of house-made hot sauce.

I looked around The Kebab Shop once again, careful not to take both eyes off my prized meal, and spotted an East Villager mouthing a falafel, his mate sinking her teeth into the soft, baked bread of a Shawarma. Appropriately, a North Park biker sat grazing his plate of foliage and grains; Algerian eggplant salad, rich with roasted vegetables next to a mound of Tabouli, cous-cous flecked with sprigs of fresh herbs. Bam Bam’s Pebbles sat adorningly at his side, her veggie kebab pointed straight toward her mouth.

Hopefully this scene needn’t be painted in ox blood across a cave wall to illustrate my point: The Kebab Shop offers a delectable taste of the foods in large part responsible for the survival of human kind. The first being to spear a beast was—well. On to something.

Homecoming

San Diego, I'm coming home, and this time it's for good.

I shared a very magical New Years with my friends, togetherness which truly played a pivotal role in my return to town.

Over the course of three months, I took major inventory of what 26 years on this planet had yielded. 2007 was a major focal point. A turbulent year filled with many highs, lows and in the end, wreckage, question and doubt; all of which I resolved to hold close, but let go.

January 13th, 2008. What a terrific day.

I believe in magic. And in the opportnities I create for myself.

Eat This

Life is a series of cravings to be satiated one by one. No, I am not a ‘foodie.’ And I hate that word. To me, the term foodie is a dumb cop-out weak description for a person with refined taste buds, high standards and of course, the knowledge and skill to truly appreciate the flavors of our world. Foodie. Bah! I’ll bet the bozo that came up with that one wore a helicopter hat and flung Spaghettios at the wall.

In the pursuit of happiness by way of epicurean excellence, this flavor chaser is driven by the intense experiences of my past that I seek to
recreate in the future. The idea of what I seek is simple; full bodied, bold, arrogant flavors that scream integrity, surmounting to what it is they are. An orange that tastes like an orange. A leaf of cilantro so powerful on the palate that you’re right back at the seaside cafe in Peurto Neuvo where you enjoyed the best salsa you ever ate. The sexy slurp of a plump oyster out of its shell, the rush of a wave in your mouth as you experience what it is to taste the ocean.

Needless to say I’m disappointed a lot. But when I have a sweet experience, man do I savor it.

I understand (and lament) why phenomenal experiences with foods are so few and far between. As a culture, we don’t really ‘know’ what we’re consuming. Do you ‘know’ your sister? As in ‘know’ the details of her life? When was the last time you held a potato in your hand and could say where it grew up? Yes, smartass, Idaho is a valid answer, but what I really mean is that we are so separated from the process of farming, cultivation and harvest that as mass produced foods travel through greenhouse, to factory to refrigerator to store shelf to home—flavors weaken and lose integrity.

A test-tube tomato made me poop all night! In Vetro veal almost killed me!

Why is it legal to play God with our foooood?!!!!!

Do you know where your cheese stuffed, twice baked, freeze dried, bacon wrapped, chicken nugget casserole came from? “It came from Stouffer’s!” Ma screamed, a bead of sweat catching in a hair on her chin (hormones?) as she struggled to open a new jar of Miracle Whip.

Sadly, so long as Grocery Advertisements show frozen breakfast sandwiches made of egg, sausage and pancakes 10 for $3.99 alongside organic green beans on sale for $2.99 a pound… well, the argument of eating smart versus right s reserved for another time.

I’ll leave you with this to ponder:

Is the organic ‘trend’ a much needed dose of lost nutritional ideals—or a crime for its reaping of major bucks in the name of living a healthy lifestyle? Or should we be grateful that our culture is reconnecting with a concept so basic it must have been lost somewhere between Ipods, Wheelies and Buttered Popcorn flavored jelly beans?

Who axed my ability to hold an apple, bring it to my mouth and know from what tree it came? Where did my apple sleep last night and how do I eat it safely?

Why do I have to pay more money to eat the way of the cavewoman?

I’m looking out the window right now and I don’t see dinner. The streets and yards of City Heights are driving me straight to McDonalds. And I’ve been meaning to ask, since when do chickens have nuggets?