Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Sad Food

Monday, July 28th, 2008

I have many ideas for photo essays. I have these ideas, sometimes, before I even have the photos. For example, I’m currently working on my “Dogs That Should Be Named Oreo” photo essay. So far I have two pictures. Both are blurry (dogs do not stay still in the same way that entrees do) and one of them has a bandana on the crucial “creamy center” so you can’t even see it.

ANYWAY! Sometimes, however, the inspiration comes from the subject. The very, very sad subject in this case.

It all started during my conference in Baltimore. Every year, there is a super cute girl who doesn’t know anyone and I pick her up at the mentor-mentee reception and turn her into my BFF for three days. This year it was Betty (clearly not her real name as she would never be so unstylish as to be called Betty). Anyway, Sharisa and Betty and I and some others hit up a local sushi joint, the name of which I have now forgotten. As we, collectively as a group, didn’t know each other that well and were shy, that thing happened where NO ONE touched the last piece of sushi (see top).

Isn’t it sad? It’s sad. This is the culinary equivalent of the kid who didn’t get picked for…kickball? It’s always kickball in TV shows. But it’s not like this piece of sushi was sickly and inhaler-toting. It was just on one end of the roll, and we just happened to start eating at the other end.

Anyway, I had great fun framing the photo so the plate looked huge and the sushi sad as can be.


The next day, Sharisa, Betty and I went to a very very delicious Mexican place. Even being from LA, I liked it. I had some sort of beautifully proportioned bowl with guac, salsa, cheese, rice, and… carne asada.

I was innocently eating when a lone piece divebombed off my fork, bounced off the table, and came to a sad stop on the ground. We all got immediately excited. Picture #2 in the photo essay! This pic is the view from between my legs. Sad, sad piece of cow.

Then, we went to the Whole Foods down the block to pick up fruit and other organic produce that is so difficult to come by during conferences. Haha, totally lying. I wanted to get a big fucking bag of potato chips to binge on that night after stumbling back to the hotel room wasted.

But anyway! They were serving, for St. Patrick Day, samples of fun things like bangers and mash, bread with Irish butter, and this cheese made with black beer. I speared a tiny cube with a toothpick and…

GASP! Too good to be true! I inadvertently dropped the cheese! It tumbled down into a tiny and desolate crevice to live out its last, uneaten, sad existence. Giggles as Betty and I snapped a bunch of photos and the Whole Foods lady looked on like we were crazy.

I had grand visions of compiling a collection of such photos worthy of filling a coffee table book. It’s difficult, though, when one’s #1 rule is that this shit has to happen naturally. No fake posed sad food photos.

Fast forward to now, July, almost 5 months later, and it has NOT HAPPENED ONCE. So it’s time to post this already. It did happen once to Betty, who posted this on my wall:

Betty wrote

at 3:43pm on March 21st, 2008

I had one remaining cheerio in my bowl today…it was yearning to be photographed by you.

lol. Miss you Betty~

Western Spaghetti

Saturday, July 26th, 2008

I’m having a computer meltdown, sorry for the delay in posts~

Until I can get access to my own pics, here: Geekologie found this amazing PES stop-motion video of making toy spaghetti. That description does not do the video justice. Just watch it.

Now back to “fixing” my lappie (alternately pleading at it, spitting on it, and having staring contests with it).

Sugar Butter! [Giggle]

Sunday, July 20th, 2008

Last night I went with Dr. Z to his ex-girlfriend’s wedding. Dr. Z’s current girlfriend was out of town digging up fossils or whatever it is that she does, and he didn’t want to show up alone (on account of the whole EX-girlfriend thing). I assumed he scoured his friends for the hottest one to show off so I was flattered, and indeed, did my best to look smashing, but it turns out that he asked me merely because I’m “game for everything.” I guess that’s a compliment.

I’ve blogged weddings before, because for some reason they are so funny! I think it’s the fact that many different people are brought together, and there are so many instances in which to display (your lack of) taste, whether it’s the dress, the cake, the flowers, etcetera.

This wedding was VERY tasteful. It was tasteful, polite, tame, nice. It did not start out well, however. The invitation said 6pm; we arrived at the country club in beautiful Bel Air at 6:00:30. Apparently, that was thirty seconds too late, as the parents were already walking down the aisle and we got yelled at by the wedding planner and were not allowed to go to the wedding area, but were instead relegated to an area about 200 yards away like losers.

The ceremony went off without a single hitch. Very nice, very smooth (except for the fact that there was a guy who was golfing right next to the couple. WTF?). I enjoyed schmoozing with the wedding guests, who seemed to ALL be from Dr. Z’s church. I made sure Dr. Z had a drink in his hands at all times, cooed at the appropriate moments when talking to family friends’ moms, and walked the fine line of reassuring Dr. Z that yes, the bride was very very hot, but not hot enough to deserve him.

Anyway, next to me at Table 5 was David, one of Dr. Z’s oldest friends and a youth pastor. Who doesn’t drink. And sings really really high (he sang the upper harmony in the Indigo Girls song that they sang during the wedding). Overall, a very nice but slightly off chap.

For example. He suddenly shrieked, “SUGAR BUTTER!” and started giggling. Intrigued, I looked over and decided to document what was going on.

Step 1 [pictured top]: Put ball of butter inside your empty wine glass (because you don’t drink, remember?)

Step 2: Put in a packet of sugar. You may have to raid the super fancy custom-made cappuccino bar for the sugar packets, as at this point the salads have not even been served and there is no sugar on the table.

Step 3: Mix with a fork. Be focused – do not, for example, listen to the wedding speeches, or pause to place salad dressing on your salad. Definitely eat your salad dry.

Step 4: Not enough sugar!! Grab one more packet and sprinkle the contents onto the ball, which is stuck to the end of your fork. Do this with a frenzied, trembling sort of excitement, as you are SO CLOSE to getting to eat your sugar butter!

Step 5: GRATIFICATION! Eat your sugar butter! Smooth it all over your tongue and enjoy the crunch of the sugar crystals and the creamy saltiness of the butter. If your eyes feel compelled to roll back in your head, let them.

I, for one, was much more enthralled by the MASHED POTATO BAR! A huge line there the whole night. I have recently been over mashies, but now I am firmly back in the MASH camp.

Aside from a couple awkward moments (e.g. where I had to lean over, place my hand gently on Dr. Z’s shoulder and say, “Don’t take that personally,” when the bride’s father said, “When we first met [groom’s name which I’ve already forgotten], we instantly thought, ‘Now THIS is the kind of guy we want for our daughter!'” and when Dr. Z brought a conversation to a screeching halt by saying, “Yeah, but there’s a rape in it” about a book that everyone was raving about [Pillars of the Earth]), I had a surprisingly fabulous time at this wedding where I knew no one. Dr. Z kept saying, “You’re doing great!” so I think he would agree.

Gas Lite Karaoke Bar

Monday, July 7th, 2008

Our free margarita, courtesy of Travis.

Tinx, every night we drive home together: OOOOOOOOH let’s go to Gas Lite!!!
Me: OK, maybe this weekend.

But it never happened. Until one fateful Friday when we decided to walk Simon’s puppy for him first and then hit up the karaoke bar on the way back. Tinx and I both like to sing, and when we perform we like to get dolled up. So we got semi-dolled up (our final outfits that we walked out the door with were actually quite scaled back from our original ones), walked the dog in our heels, and then headed over.

They have a parking lot, and we found a spot. Incredible. I felt like I was in Peoria, Illinois, not fucking Wilshire Blvd. Amazing.

We walked in to a divey bar where someone was singing an Offspring song. There were books strewn about with songs in them, but after seeing the rather shabby clientele and nary a skirt nor high heel in sight, I decided liquid courage was in order so we got drinks. Then we chose our songs. Tinx: Kelly Clarkson’s Never Again. I sing a mean, mean No Doubt, so I put in Bathwater originally, but then re-gauged the crowd and changed my song to Madonna’s Like A Prayer. It was that sort of karaoke bar. You know, where white chicks “sing” California Love (she actually really brought it – I was impressed) and a random scary white guy sings Possum Kingdom by the Toadies. If you don’t know this song, the refrain is “DOOOO YOU WANNA DIE?? DOOOO YOU WANNA DIE???”

Anyway, I had been burned by karaoke bars in the past where the DJ won’t play your song unless you tip them, so I put in our two songs and tipped him ten bux. The DJ was CUTE! A mix between John Mayer and Joaquin Phoenix, but cuter than both. I confirmed with him that my song had not been sung yet (to re-sing a song is a definite faux pas and a definite danger with that song). He said no with a smile and I further tipped him with a smile and a wink and single shoulder shrug.

And we sat. And waited. The drinks were good, except for the warm shot of Stoli Vanil that we did blech. We were awkwardly seated, so people kept coming in between us to order drinks/bother us. Example 1: Some girl named Laura and her friends, for whom I took several very good pictures, who were called up TWICE to sing. Example 2: Some high-powered white cougar lady who worked for Oprah. I have here in my drunken post-bar notes “fucking ugly terrible extensions.” My guess is that she was rude to us. Example 3: A guy who said, “Good work!” when I popped my birth control pill at midnight. I said, “No babies!” and he flashed me a thumbs up.

Tinx is…not a patient girl. So she was getting visibly irritated and flustered (probably also due to the three thousand degree heat – goddamn), so our very cute bartender named Travis gave us free margaritas. Thanks, Travis! But then he, too, betrayed us by being called up to sing (seriously – can’t the patrons sing before the staff??), where he performed a passably sexy Usher.

Like a silly, idealistic fool, I didn’t want to pee in case our songs came up. But I could wait no longer so I ran into the bathroom and peed, and ran out, where I was stopped by a man named Max H., who gave me his card and asked me out. On his card he has some terrible clip art on one side, and it says his title is “Web Programmer and Rock Singer.” lol. And a 323 number. He would have a 323 number. Also – weakest handshake ever, which makes me think it unlikely that he shreds anything in his rock band or can even type faster than 5 wpm when programming.

Anyway, I’m sure you can predict how the story ended. Last call and the DJ saying, “Sorry guys! That was the last song.” OMGWTFBBQ?!? Does tipping mean nothing in this world anymore? Piece of shitty shit cute DJ. We drove home in a perfumed, curly-haired self-righteous huff and jotted down furious, drunken, bitchy notes, to be blogged at some later point. Done.

Gas Lite
(I see your spelling is as good as your karaoke DJ-ing)
2030 Wilshire Blvd
Santa Monica, CA 90403

No Cookie Left Behind

Tuesday, July 1st, 2008

As part of the Share Our Strength Great American Bake Sale, my friend Connie invited me and Burtis to her friend’s 2nd Annual No Cookie Left Behind bake sale. In my head, it was a sleek, Billion Dollar Babes-esque sample sale of a bake sale. It was in Silverlake, after all. In truth, it was a darling/charming (“darming?”) normal, normal bake sale on a sidewalk.

But first, Burtis, bless his heart, started whining for tacos. Every dirty, divey taco stand we drove by he would start crying like a very cute puppy. He kept asking Connie “But what are we going to eat for LUUUUNCH?” and she would keep saying, “CUPCAKES!” and he would keep replying, “NOOOOOOOO TACOOOOS!”

So we set out on foot, away from the bake sale, to score some tacos first. We walked around a couple blocks and then, like the clouds parting to let through glorious sunlight, we saw it.

Que Ricos.

It was a cross between a McDonald’s and a taco shack. Love it. The menu, pictured above, is not me inadvertently stretching the picture out width-wise. That was literally their menu. (The same thing happens on their business card, I see. Someone should teach them to click “lock aspect ratio.”)

It was one of those places where they have mysterious desserts that have likely existed for decades, untouched, by the register. The marshmallow-ey things on top piqued my interest, but good sense overruled this train of thought and I stuck with an asada taco with a side of rice y beans.

Drinks, made from pure cane sugar. Mmmmm. I wanted to save my cash for the baked goods, so I declined the tamarind soda, but seriously tamarind is like crack, no? I did help myself to copious amounts of their homemade salsas. They had those pickled carrot things that I really love, too.

I’m sure you could imagine exactly how this tasted. Like every other taco truck taco – fresh and perfect. The rice was freaking yum, too. It had CORN and POTATOES! I loved it.

Over our taco lunch, Burtis happily chattered away about how he had learned the art of hypnosis, and we talked about what craft he should learn next. I believe we agreed on American Sign Language for the both of us so we could (a) talk shit about people during seminars across the room at each other; and (b) go to bars and “game” girls, with he acting the part of a deaf guy and me being the translator, making girls’ hearts melt with his gentle sensitivity and poeticism in his eyes.

Back to the bake sale. Why is it that the homemade goods are so much more appealing at bake sales? There were cakes and cookies from profesh shops, but the things that went first were the big cookies in good ol’ ziplock bags. That’s what Connie got.

I settled on three items. 1. Baklava; 2. Carrot Cake Cupcake with Cream Cheese Frosting (they should call it the CCCCCC); 3. Sour Cream Fudge Cookie.

All three were winners~! I have been on a crazy workout schedule this summer, and I believe my body is screaming at me to consume more glucose, and my usual salt-tooth was gone and replaced with a normal person’s tooth. The baklava – what’s that seasoning baklava that makes it baklava? Tinx says cardamom. Whatever it was, it was SO INTENSE that it went straight up my nose into my brain pleasure neurons.

The sour cream fudge cookie was tiny (the size of a silver dollar) and was neither fudgey nor cookie-ey – almost cakey, but velvety smooth and with a nice sticky sour cream smell.

Connie says this bundt looks huge and that we should have held up a dollar bill next to it for scale. This bundt cake is actually TINY, thus making the baby baby bundt cakes behind it squealingly microscopic. These were on sale courtesy of a new bakery called Kiss My Bundt bakery. Whatever you need, we’ve got your BUNDT covered! is their tagline. Love it.

All of this took place in front of Scoops, a gelato joint. So after the sugar bomb on the sidewalk, we went inside to explore the crazy mindfuck gelato flavors that they had to offer. Behold:

-Brown Bread
-Chocolate Guinness
-Lemon Hefeweizen
-Avocado Vanilla
-Blueberry Lychee
-Salty Dulce de Leche
-Pear Champagne
-Watermelon Triple Sec
-Maple Oreo
-Orange Rootbeer
-White Chocolate Jim Beam
-Raspberry Balsamic
-Almond Honey Ginger
-Green Tea Irish Cream

I sampled the salty caramel and my eyes rolled back into my head. Burtis got a scoop of the watermelon triple sec from one of the two hotties behind the counter, which was refreshing, though I’m not a fan of triple sec. I appreciated that refills were a mere $1.75, which we were going to exploit by eating multiple flavors among the three of us. But…the insulin spike was killing me, so we didn’t.

While we lounged around, nursing our sugar comas, I turned to Vani and said, “These gelato attendants are SO freaking adorable!” From all the way across the fucking store, one of them looked up and smiled at me and half-waved. Eagle ears! I was embarrassed.

I don’t know why. I should have owned it. Like “YEAH MOTHERFUCKER YOU HOTT!”

End childhood hunger by donating here

Que Ricos
712 N. Vermont Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90029

Kiss My Bundt
8104 West Third Street
Los Angeles, CA 90036


712 N. Heliotrope Dr.
Los Angeles, CA 90029

RIP Tongue Piercing. And also Pizza Protein Stick.

Monday, June 23rd, 2008

Dr. D, my dentist, just can’t get enough of ruining my life. Now he wants to take out my wisdom teeth with only local anesthetic. Not only that, but he says I have to take out my tongue piercing for the procedure and the entire time while I heal. I guess he doesn’t understand (I mean why would he when he’s a FUCKING DENTIST) that the mouth is the fastest healing organ, and even having the piercing out for several hours can close it, let alone several days. Boo. Cry. Hiss. More cry.

Further, I worry about Dr. D’s skills. When he said my three wisdom teeth (I only have three? I guess I’m evolutionarily advanced) needed to come out, he said – well, here is a transcript:

Friday, June 20th, 10:02 am Pacific Daylight Time
Dr. D: Do you want to take them out today? Let’s just do it right now.
Me: Ummmm, really? I mean, I drove here alone so I don’t know…
Dr. D: No, no, you’ll be fine.
Me: Actually, I teach aerobics today so there’s no way I can do it.
Dr. D: What time is your class?
Me: Noon?
Dr. D: Oh, you’ll be fine.
Me: Ummmmm, actually, no I think I’ll wait.

What the fuck and are you fucking serious me. This man is crazygonuts.

Then I had to take the piercing out for the fancy X-ray where you stand up and the thingies go around your head. So, rather than be sentimental about my tongue piercing (which I’ve had for [sniff] eight years), I just said “FUCK IT!” and took it out and never looked back. Except right now as I recreate it for CM.

No one, and I mean no one, has noticed anyway that it’s gone.

Oh, and a side story about my dentist being a dummy. He was looking at my teeth and was like, “Janet, I think you are grinding your teeth at night. There should be pointy peaks here but they are ground down, and right here your tooth is chipped. I think you should get a mouthguard.” Of course the mouthguard costs $450, but more importantly, all of this damage is because of my tongue piercing clanking around in my mouth. I wonder why it didn’t occur to him that the HUGE METAL THINGIE in my mouth was to blame for all this tooth damage?

Anyway, it was a sad week overall, as I must end with a lament about Jamba Juice‘s glorious Pizza Protein Stick, which has been discontinued. Oh, OK, so in the ENTIRE interweb there is not a single photograph of the fucking pizza protein stick? This post just gets sadder and sadder.

The PPS was the hidden gem of JJ. It sounds gross but it was really deceptively delicious. Warm, chewy, with delightful hidden chunks of tartness with sundried tomato and a nice whiff of oregano. Everyone I coaxed into trying it loved it, too.

So, RIP, PPS. Here is a poem that I worked really hard on to commemorate your life.

Oh, peppery, pitiful Pizza Protein Stick.
Who discontinued you? What a dick!
Life without you makes me sick.
PS Did I tell you my dentist sucks balls?

Bacon Flavored Floss

Monday, June 23rd, 2008

By way of Geekologie by way of OhGizmo by way of NerdApproved by way of Archie McPhee [phreeew exhausted!] comes…

BACON FLOSS! OMG best idea ever! Only, it’s a terrible idea. But still, the bacon-loving, floss-loving (no shitting you I love how my gums feel hurty/itchy after I floss – creepy?) gal in me is so intrigued. This is the kind of gag gift that people might give me like, “haha” but then I would actually use. In fact, I wonder what it would be like if I threaded it through my recently-deceased tongue piercing hole? That would make for the ultimate bacon experience.

Buy it here.

The Pond at GVR

Thursday, May 29th, 2008

James says this blog should be called ConsumerMachineAway because none of the posts are about LA. Appropriately, these next two posts are from my Vegas adventures!

Simon, in his usual baller Simon way, scored us some free rooms at the lovely lovely Green Valley Ranch. It’s in Henderson, a little ways from the strip (which we shuttled to and cabbed back from), and just fucking gorgeous! Easily the prettiest pool in Vegas.

Hotel guests are invited to The Pond (pictured top), which is an enclosed lounge/bar with a pretty pool and waterfall in the middle. Our gigantic group, ten strong, descended upon the pool and generally went crazy.

Crazy with the food, crazy with the silly beers-in-cans. Corona in cans, Newcastle in cans?!?! I guess there’s a no glass policy by the pool. I spontaneously created the best cocktail ever! Diet coke with Passionfruit Malibu. Try it. If it wasn’t liquid I would have shouted “NOM NOM NOM” while imbibing it.

Tinx got the lobster quesadillas, off limits to me, but gobbled up by her. My lobster allergy is an acquired one, so I definitely know what it tastes like, and I still don’t understand the lobster quesadilla thing. CHEESE with lobsters? And why dress down such a decadent, expensive meat with a weirdo tortilla and TOMATOES? Strange, strange.

Well, I’ll never know.

I, along with basically everyone else, got the Kobe beef sliders. We at CM know a thing or two about Kobe beef sliders, so, you know, I’m just saying.

But The Pond had a couple things going for it. (1) Crispy onion strings . (2) Patrons who are super hung over and craving greasy food. (3) Special sauce [not TyTy’s]. (4) Eating decadently with half of your body in a warm, warm pool.

That’s why I freaking inhaled my sliders, not even whining at the alarming coldness of the food; not even pausing when my teeth clamped down on a tiny bit of gristle. The pickle was so excellent (so very very cucmbery!). TyTy and I swam around scavenging others’ plates for their pickles like Jaws, and then ate each oval slice gripped preciously in both paws.

With all the fun, I barely noticed the Eurotrash a couple beds over, wearing “USA” tiaras and the tightest, whitest, smallest Speedos ever. The boys kept saying ew ew and looking through spread fingers, but I was kind of into it cuz he was so brazen. Ballin’, if you will…

The Pond
at Green Valley Resort Spa Casino
2300 Paseo Verde Parkway
Henderson, NV 89052

Pasta? Looks like barf but tastes good.

Friday, May 23rd, 2008

Last weekend, I accompanied some of my favorite research assistants to Stanford for an undergrad conference at which they were presenting. As my sister goes there, it was killing two birds with one stone, and between my sister and my RAs it was like total cuteness overload for me.

The first night (actually, I was only there one night) we aimlessly wandered around University looking for dinner. We were all in that terrible low blood sugar + super indecisive state, so it took forever to choose a location. Despite the fact that Hallie had vetoed Italian, we ate Italian (sorry) at Pasta? (The question mark is part of the name. What a terrible decision on someone’s part. Not only does their website url have to be [awkward!] but can’t you imagine the massive confusion as people are texting their friends “we should go to pasta?”)

The ambiance was upscale but the prices were reasonable. My favorite combo. As I am still chugging along at this weekday fish+vegetarian thing, I got Fettucine Al Salmone – Fresh homemade pasta with smoked salmon, peas, onions, and dill in pink sauce. It came out and looked like barf, but tasted SO good. I love it when there is more sauce than pasta – soupy pasta is how I like it. So this was absolutely right up my alley, with the salmon so disintegrated it was more like a roux for the sauce. Also, I have been craving peas for a while now – one night about a week ago I was craving peas & butter as a midnight snack, rushed home from my office in anticipation, only to discover that Tinx had used them all for her damn pasta dish (still love you tho roomie).

Other notable events: Reese talking about how her grandma can drink an entire bottle of whiskey and be totally fine, and how this is also Reese’s life goal to be able to do this…Giselle flirting with our cute server, but then totally insulting him by guessing his age to be 30 when it was actually 23 (“Oh, man, I better get some moisturizer” was his response”)…calculating the check three different times for no reason…and the piece de resistance, which was my sister’s gigantic oozing, weeping, slightly green blister on the outside of her leg, acquired from burning herself on the tailpipe of her boyfriend’s motorcycle. I’m totally telling Mom!!!!!

326 University Ave.
Palo Alto, CA 94301

Rock Bottom Brewery and Buggie Eggs

Tuesday, May 20th, 2008

On my final day in San Diego, I had lunch with my sister and Bunny at Rock Bottom Brewery. It’s a chain, but it’s the lowest-maintenance eatery when you are with indecisive people.

To begin – the amazing gigantaquitos. Well, that’s not the real name, but that’s what they were like. They were really Titan ToothpicksOur signature starter combines smoked chicken, Jack cheese, peppers and onions in hand-rolled, fried tortillas. Served with guacamole, sour cream, fresh salsa and spicy chipotle BBQ sauce.”

I quadruple-dipped and used all of the above condiments. The chicken inside squished out oil in a slightly unpleasant way, but the the shell was so crispy flaky lovely so I forgave it.

My sister got Stout Onion Soup “House-made with our robust Stout to give this favorite a Brewery twist. Topped with oven-melted Swiss cheese and two focaccia croutons.”. I was very distracted by an event I shall chronicle shortly so I wasn’t paying attention to whether she liked it or not. In this photo the bread on top looks so incredibly burny crunchy.

I got the Mahi Tacos Beer-battered Mahi wrapped in three soft tortillas with our homemade pineapple slaw. Served with black beans, Red Ale rice and pico de gallo. Mahi available grilled.” I asked for grilled. I ate an entire taco (cry) when I noticed some brown stuff on the back of my cilantro leaf. I couldn’t get a good picture of what was going on, which is lucky for all of us because it will cause you nightmares.

The situation was this: bug eggs. Like a million rows of eggie eggs, stuck in perfectly symmetrical configurations on the back of my cilantro. [shudder] I calmly (I can be weirdly calm in such situations) showed it to my sister, who shrieked.

[I just googled “bug eggs leaf” to insert a photo as an example, and I fear I will never sleep again. Terrible.]

I flagged down a manager and showed him, and he became like weirdly catatonic looking at them. Then he started stroking the eggs with his FINGER! AAAAAA! I told him: “Stop immediately!” and he kind of ran off.

He came back later and said, “OK, well I just checked ALL the cilantro leaves we have, and I assure you that there aren’t eggs on any of the other ones.” Like I give a fuck about the other cilantro. Then he comped our appetizer and my tacos. I wasn’t about to be settled with that so I also ordered a dessert – a seasonal one – the cherry pie.

It looked crusty and delicious but it was just doughy and pretty hard. I promise it wasn’t just that I lost my appetite from the eggs.

Amazingly, I think I’ll be back. Our waiter was cute and the app was crunchy yummy. And there aren’t THAT many bugs in the world, right?

Rock Bottom Brewery
401 G Street
San Diego, CA 92101