Category Archives: Food

I Got Canceled by Food Network for Threatening to Kill Duff Goldman’s Cat

“Why did Food Network cancel your show?”

“I threatened to shoot Duff Goldman‘s cat.”

That’s my response and I’m sticking to it.

Six episodes of Crave had already aired. The ratings started strong. Then Dancing With the Stars, Monday Night Football, Neil Patrick Harris and Two and a Half Men all returned to the airwaves during our time slot, rendering us Nielson non grata. Still, the feedback was cool:

“A whole new way of talking about food!”

“The funniest show on Food Network!”

“Someone please tell Bobby Flay to punch Troy Johnson in the throat!”

I was working three jobs as the senior editor for Riviera Magazine, writer-host of Crave and new dad to my daughter. At 1AM I was on the couch solo con boxer briefs, as the Spanish don’t say. I’d just mainlined another coffee. I had to finish writing our episode on SPICY FOOD. The production company was rightly screaming at me. I also had to finish a restaurant review for the magazine.

Over-caffeinated and needing a distraction, I saw this Tweet from Food Network biggie Duff Goldman:

A LEOPARD? BENGAL CAT? I’m not a cat person. So I read this as, “While small, a jungle predator with sharp teeth can and will disembowel some unsuspecting bro in Venice Beach tonight. If you see it, Tweet me.”

I responded thusly:

I expected he and I would share a ROFL and bond over my feline confusion. He’d naturally want to cameo in my SPICY FOOD episode. Then we would ride motorcycles together, with cupcakes and beer in our saddlebags.

Hilarity did not ensue. This did:

Then, silence. Duff went looking for his cat.

The next morning, I received a call from The Network. They were moving the show to a less conspicuous time slot. And canceling it thereafter.

The timing was impeccable. My unintentional cat-whacking threat had been made no less than eight hours prior. Coincidence?

I imagine Duff sitting across from the executive, having just minutes ago stormed into his office yelling, “This psycho threatened to pop a cap in my kitty!”

Late-night dementia notwithstanding, I can’t say I didn’t.

2011-2011 1/2
“A cap was popped in its ass before it could do the same to Duff’s cat.”

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The Greatest Cereal Mascots: A Psychological Eval, Part V


Frank was a sweet boy.

Nothing says, “Eat up!” quite like a bloated corpse pulled from the river. Frank obviously had issues, dental hygiene among them. It didn’t help that his name was childhood slang for male private parts. Judging by his eyeglasses made of roller-skate wheels, Frank was very industrious after eating children. Air Supply is playing in those headphones, which says a lot about Frank’s inappropriate emotional responses. He had the IQ of a frightened rodent. But don’t worry—the cranial tumor was benign.


Immortality can be cruel.

Granted immortality, this guy chose to sell cereal. Ambition wasn’t a strong suit. Life was hard for Count from the start. Doctors described his mother’s birth canal “like a thin straw,” which resulted in his uniquely elongated head. His buck teeth told a special family secret: Someone mated with jackrabbits. As for that shnoz? Well it seems vampires are like humans in that their ears and noses never stop growing. After 300 years, things get awkward. Severely ADHD, the Count never could finish the famous vampire motto. It was always just “I want to suck.”

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The Greatest Cereal Mascots: A Psychological Eval (Part IV)


Bee-pattern baldness.

Realizing regular Cheerios tasted like moths, General Mills slummed their signature cereal with Honey Nut. The Bee was a trailblazer in the cheek implants trend. His hiring marks a first in the industry: a mascot that makes sense for the product. Unfortunately, cereal consumers consider narrative veracity “lame.” As proven many times over, a successful mascot is one who looks deformed into a permanent state of ultra-joy. Hoping to connect with a more mature audience, General Mills cast a bee with a comb-over. These days the bee lives in a retirement hive where he horrifies residents with tales of his “magic honey stick.”


All thumbs, this guy.

Tony was obviously Italian. His talent for hand gestures was unmistakably regional. His vocabulary, however, never surpassed two words: “They’re grrrrreeat.” Tony spent his off-time at Venice Beach, leaning casually against SUVs and sending blood flow to various muscle groups. The gym industry refers to his torso as the “Viscious V.” But his blue nose told a dirty little secret: Circulatory issues. Since the market for gondoliers is limited, we have to believe the sashay around his neck was mere flair. Though technically a tiger, people often mistake him for a bear. Tony has denied his yellow eyeballs have anything to do with bladder issues.

Tomorrow… nothing says “eat up” quite like a bloated corpse.

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A Psychological Eval of Cereal Mascots, Part III

You can read the first two installments here and here.


“Never let ’em see you shed.”—Sugar Bear

No one is this cool. Even “The Fonz” was eventually outed as a tender self-doubter named Henry Winkler. Sugar Bear was obviously not Anglo Saxon, because no white man except Rick Astley sounds like a real man. When not “hipping up” cereal that liquefies dental work, Sugar Bear read beat poetry to rhythmic coeds. I know what you’re thinking—the turtleneck sweater was a fad. But who was gonna tell Sugar Bear? Certainly not me. Years later, he would embrace his love of high school musical theater as the executive producer of Glee.


Sure, he’s sane.

Body dysmorphia is not restricted to humans. The silly rabbit’s weight obsession eventually drove him to stimulants, as evidenced by the bat-shit crazy look on his face. Troubled by his antics early on, General Mills summoned Trix to corporate HQ to fire him. But the sniffly mammal launched into a series of extraordinarily expressive gestures so zany that the executives couldn’t help but laugh. Today, he’s the self-appointed “house entertainer” at Furry Futures, a live-in rehabilitation center in some field somewhere. The fact that his eyebrows hover above his cranium is not helping his grip on reality.

Tomorrow… A juiced-up Tiger and an insect with a comb-over.

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The Greatest Cereal Mascots of All Time (Part 2)

I write. Seriously in some places, where I have to consider word counts and whether my writing is suitable for human consumption. Here is not that place. This place is free associations from my AA-battery brain.

And so my psychological evals of 1970s sugar cereal mascots continues…


This guy didn’t live in my neighborhood. Sugar Smack was the hippest of the cereal mascots. He grew up on the mean streets, where he first learned to sell smack. He wore his baseball cap stylishly askew, and confidently bastardized the English language at every turn. A savvy entrepreneur, Smack used star power to promote his line of screen-printed tees. He and Kellogg’s relationship has always been mercurial, at best. Some cereal executives have gone on record to say, “Frogs are kinda nasty.” He’d eventually change his name to “Honey Smack” when America decided they’d rather be lied to than feel like they’re eating a giant bowl of granulated cankle-maker. In dire financial need, Smack will eventually sell his legs to a French chef.


Don’t do drugs.

General Mills was forthcoming about the appeal of this product: It’s for people who are high. Only someone who’d inhaled an eighth of weed could grasp the culinary genius of Styrofoam marshmallows in milk. The toasted oats were included merely for the challenge. True connoisseurs systematically eliminated them until all that remained was a slimy, wet mass of Technicolor mallow. At photo shoots the celebrity spokes-leprechaun stat atop a giant mushroom, appearing to eat a bowl of Lucky Charms. Production assistants confirm that he never ate the cereal. He’d simply eat enough of the mushroom until believed in leprechauns. Lucky Charms’ slogan was “Magically delicious.” It’s street slang for felony possession.

Tomorrow… the coolest metrosexual jazz-bear ever.

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The Greatest Cereal Mascots of All Time (a psychological eval)

I was raised on sugar cereal. If you see me twitch, this is why.

My day started with the company of an amiable toucan flying over a bowl of multicolored rings. Fruit Loops looked like a child’s candy necklace had snapped. Resilient, that child gathered the scattered rings into a bowl. Then the child added milk, because children are psychotic. Bowls of diabetes are fun. Over 15 years of eating sugar cereal, I had plenty of time to psychoanalyze my friends. Here’s what I’ve concluded:


The Cap’n, in need of electrolytes.

What a mouth-breathing drunk. After an illustrious career at sea, the good Cap’n went the route of Kenny Rogers and used his star power to shill for consumer products. No one achieves a nose as bulbous as his without treating a bottle of whiskey like a teddy bear. His eyes were crossed, suggesting temporary seasickness or long-term mental illness. He treasured his facial hair, and wept when he lost his eyebrows trying to light a cigar with a kerosene lamp. To cope, the Cap’n glued fake ones to his amusing hat. Judging by his yellow floral epaulettes, he was no four-star general. He will always be remembered by preppies as a trailblazer in the “popped collar” movement.


They resent the hell out of Justin Timberlake.

Snap, Crackle and Pop started as a boy band until their ears got in the way. Out of options, the do-gooders knocked on strangers’ doors to discuss the nutritional value of bloated rice. A good rule of thumb with these guys is: Let ‘em date your daughter, and never listen to their bullshit. Their cereal sucked so bad that its main selling point was the sound—like bacon sizzling in a pan, only without a little thing called flavor. They drank black coffee and chain-smoked. Snap was the chef, with a talent for puffing rice without losing its delicate mediocrity. Crackle was a semi-pro snowboarder with a genetic disease that only allowed his hair to grow in the form of an asterisk. Pop tried to atone for his marching band involvement by always standing just barely more front-and-center than his pals.
Tomorrow… The Toad that pitched oats; and illicit offers from an wee Irishman.

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6th Annual Beer vs. Wine Dinner @ El Bizcocho (G’night, El Biz)

Wine is wet food. It’s the private school Starsky to food’s Hutch. The refined Funkel to food’s Gar. As such, the wine industry owns mealtime. Their challenge is happy hour, boat drink status, bipolar boss de-stressor. There’s non-chewing market share to be gained.

Beer, meanwhile, is still trying to disengage the tailgate from its image. No matter how far the craft beer scene has brought suds, it’s hard to undo the centuries-long association with half-cocked monks, half-shirted river people, and bong-toting collegians.

To that end, the marketing masterminds at Stone Brewing Co. started the “Beer vs. Wine Dinner” at El Bizcocho in 2007. It’s an elaborate grudge match meant to catapult craft beer upmarket.

San Diego is the Octomom of craft beer. Every Thursday the mayor administers Pitocin into the municipal abdomen, and the city squats out a new brewery. Milwaukee is jealous of our yeasty scent. Our beards have beards.

“Beer vs. Wine” is a hell of a tradition. Scruffy beer types find a clean shirt that hasn’t been screen-printed with a softball team logo or an ironic slag on Republicans. They then pile into the formal, old-world Spanish dining room at El Biz—one of SD’s oldest temples of haute cuisine, a country club annex that only recently eased its “formal wear-only” dress code.

The concept of BvW simple. El Biz chefs (Gavin Kaysen and Patrick Ponsaty then, Nicolaus Bour now) create a feast worth more than the collected souls of all attendees. Then a wine guru (Steve Frederick of R&R Wine Marketing this year) and a beer guru (Dr. Bill Sysak of Stone) duel to the death by trying to pair the perfect beverage for each dish. Beers with floral notes pick up the sneeze of lavender in a salad. A Pinot’s thrush of black fruit makes a duck taste like a slow-cooked phoenix. Diners sniff, swirl, analyze the harmonious marriage of food and drink in their mouths. Or the awkward first-date moment between the cheeks.

After each course, they write down the winner on a scorecard.

By dessert, everyone in the room is fattened and wobbly and wondering what each other looks like naked. That’s when the winner is announced and a giant brawl breaks out, with wine lovers slapping the koozie-people with tux gloves.

Continue reading

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Eater Comes to San Diego, Discovers 1984-2008 Dining Scene

In its search for “HOT, NEW!” restaurants in San Diego, Eater turned to food blogger Bownjwing Lee. Lee lives somewhere, I’m sure. But not in San Diego. Eater is a national website with many millions of readers. Going by Bonjwing’s list, those readers are now officially onto what was hot in San Diego two-to-18 years ago. Bownjwing turned them onto:

1. George’s: Awesome chef and restaurant, obviously. They opened in 1984. Would’ve been better for a “Titans Still Pushing the Boundaries” list. It would’ve been great on a “Hot, New” list when parachute pants were big.

2. Tiger! Tiger! and Blind Lady Ale House: Two neighborhood restaurants owned by the same people. Both very cool joints. But BOTH of them make a TOP-8 HOT, NEW SPOTS! list for the entire city? Especially considering Blind Lady opened nearly four years ago? I sure hope Bonjwing got some free pizza out of this one.

3. Cucina Urbana: Another great resto. Bonjwing proves he has an operable palate. Or that he can read—like, say, the hundreds of articles about Cucina that started four years ago, when it opened.

4. Urban Solace: Winner! Matt Gordon rocks. Has since he opened the joint five years ago. He does have a new joint Bonjwing may have pointed to (see below).

5. Spicy City: A mainstay on Convoy since its 2002 opening.

6. Herringbone: Bonjwing got this one right. The only one on his list that opened in 2012.

7. Yakitori Yakyudori: Mmmm, tsukune and beef tongue on a stick. They’ve been a favorite for years, including this location which opened two years ago.

Admission. Eater actually asked me to give them this list. It was an unpaid thing, but I wanted to help out of professional courtesy. Then I got busy working on a huge cover story for San Diego Magazine. So maybe it’s my fault. But with me busy, Eater could have turned to Erin Jackson, Keli Dailey, Amy T. Granite, Mmm-yoso, Kirbie’s Cravings, Darlene Eats, or any of the other hungry people who actually live here and know what’s going on.

Having an out-of-town blogger who visits a few times a year tell them the hottest, newest restaurants—well, you end up with a list like this. Which reads like an outdated guide book withering on a Barnes & Noble shelf. It’s lazy, and a bit insulting.

I’m glad they’re taking an interest in San Diego. I’ve heard they’re eyeing an SD outpost. Hopefully they’ll get it right when they have a home here.

Other suggestions for Eater:

Carnitas Snack Shack: Hannis the pig-loving man-chef is killing it over there.

Craft & Commerce: Where cocktails meet design. At least it opened in 2011, which would have been the second-newest entry on Bonjwing’s list.

Prepkitchen Little Italy: The biggest Prepkitchen yet, with a killer cotechino-stuffed sausage.

Blue Ribbon: Wade’s killed it with his little pizza venture.

Solace & the Moonlight Lounge: Matt Gordon’s newest version of his killer comfort gourmet.

TJ Oyster Bar: Been around for years. But just opened a big, new location. Best pulpo tacos in SD.

Herringbone: Good work, Eater. Batting .125. What a killer room that is.

100 Wines: The gorgeous new spot from the collaboration between The Cohns and Philippe Beltran, which previously yielded the sexy little number in OB, Bo Beau.

Snooze: Sure, it’s a concept from Denver. But there’s a line that starts with the crack of dawn for those cakes.

Manna: Another chain. But a good one. Korean BBQ spot on Convoy has a line out the door every night. They’re slated to open another location in San Marcos in a couple months.

Delicias. Renovated, with new chef-partner Paul McCabe creating a little culinary uprising in Rancho Santa Fe.

I’m sure I forgot a few. I’m spitballing here. But it’s a start.

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Vintana: Cohn Restaurant Group’s Restaurant on Wheels

(Photo: Sam Wells/San Diego Magazine)

I’m the restaurant critic for San Diego Magazine. For August’s issue, I ate in a brochure. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like when you walk through the Lexus “super-dealership” to get to Vintana in Escondido. David and Leslie Cohn, two of the most successful restaurateurs in San Diego (Corvette Diner, Indigo Grill, Bo Beau, The Prado, Melting Pot, 333 Pacific, etc), often take a slagging. Big dogs have big heels, and all the little purse dogs of the city’s dining scene are nippy little bastards.

You can read my review of Vintana here.

The accusation against the Cohns? Middle of the road food, high price, unexciting concepts.

Until a few years ago, I agreed with that estimation. Everyone gets a little soft sometimes. It’s the professional version of sitting on your couch for a week or so, eating ice cream and beer in your boxers while the mail goes unchecked (a recurring personal daydream). That’s not to say The Cohns weren’t trying (nor Rocky Roading excessively in leisurewear). Risk-taking just didn’t seem to be their M.O. But now… Continue reading

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A Fourth of July Eating Manifesto (Plus some random stats about pants)


“Fourth of July.”

Just hearing the words is panicking. It’s the semi-sorta midway point of summer. “Whaddyou mean it’s half gone!? How did this happen?! Did Madoff take it?!” It’s like discovering someone poked a hole in your fun bucket.

Luckily, Fourth of July was designed to replenish. It’s The Complete Works of Summer, performed in a single afternoon. It’s the world’s greatest cookout, and it is pandemonium.

Today we’ll spray bottles of sunblock as if they’re Champagne and we just won the World Series. We’ll bake old-timey pies even though Iron Chef has us “going through a salted caramel-and-cloudberry sabayon phase.” Today grandma will make blue cupcakes that look like Smurf condos, and we will not recoil at their inedible hue.

If today we see Uncle Sam rollerblading in a Speedo, we won’t hide our children. We will raise Uncle Ned’s lumpy burger in salute.

Today, our USA-sized smoke signal will penetrate deep into space. If extra terrestrials exist, they will seek out our delicious creations. Or they will go to France because they think we are on fire.

Today, we’ll eat half our national population in hot dogs. On Independence Day, dogs aren’t just a distraction from the fact that “pitchers’ duel” is baseball speak for “group nap.” Today the pig torpedo is patriotic Eucharist.

Today, our mouths all have one thing in common: Idaho. And today “salad” has mayonnaise, amen.

Today, we’ll find the few patches of America that don’t have a cappuccino machine and a barista with a tattoo on his face. It might be a beach, park, lake, river, glen, dale, or a strip of Astroturf next to a garden hose. Matters not. We’ll gather our people, grab the crowbar, pry open the grill and not flinch one bit at the sight of last year’s charred bits. (When grilling, the Five Second Rule becomes the Five Year Rule. I believe Thomas Jefferson wrote that.)

We’ll wear our humorous aprons. We will not question the nutritional content of white bread. We will Lee Greenwood (so patriotic, his name is a verb). We will not discuss how “the acidity of the lemonade really balances out the fattiness of the hot dog.” We will eat, drink, and toast the brave ones who sacrificed so that we can dress like Liberace cross-dressing as Betsy Ross.

Whether vegetarian or carnivore, carb-shoveler or gluten-freer, beer-toter or teetotaler, CIA super-chef or kitchen-phobe… Today we’re just Americans, hungry for the smoke of summer.


STAT: 82% of US households own a grill. 4th of July is the most popular day to use them, with 71% of us assuming the grill position. It’s a day to remember our roots. Like 1776, sure. But also the simian age. Short of waking up an orangutan and ending the day as Brad Pitt, nothing says “Evolution, heck yeah!” quite like cooking over fire.

SOURCE: Hearth, Patio & Barbecue Association and Business News Daily

STAT: Kids who regularly eat dinner with their families are 40% likelier to get A’s and B’s in school. Fourth of July brings family together—from distant relatives to the siblings you tried to sell on eBay. And that bonding experience will help our children get into colleges we can’t afford.

SOURCE: National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse at Columbia University

STAT: The US imported $232.3 million of fireworks from China in 2011. Say what? Part of being an American is making all kinds of lame laws. Seems like “the national flag must be made in America” should be one. But what a way to end a meal! Most just finish with someone asking you for money, or with dad staggering to the couch like a freshly tranquilized zoo animal.

SOURCE: US Census Bureau News

STAT: Americans eat 155 million hot dogs on Fourth of July. If placed end-to-end, the dogs would stretch from L.A. to D.C. five times. It’s the national sharing stick. It’s also pre-cooked. If anyone can figure out how to use a grill like a microwave, America can.

SOURCE: National Hot Dog & Sausage Council

STAT: 42% of Americans are country music fans. The other 58% tolerate it on Fourth of July. Are you a twangy singer who lists “petting bald eagles” as a personal interest? Today, America loves you. (Except maybe Portland.)

SOURCE: Billboard Magazine

STAT: 86 million Americans (41.9% of us) own patriotic apparel. American flag bikini? Next week it’s vaguely treasonous. But on Fourth of July it’s OK to wear stars, spangles or Bruce Springsteen’s clenched, patriotic teeth on your person.

SOURCE: National Retail Federation

STAT: Americans bought nearly $14 Billion worth of jeans last year. Most of them will be worn today. The only dress code for a park is “clothes.” Jeans are not “apparel” today. They are leg napkins.

SOURCE: Cotton Lifestyle Monitor

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