Fried Chicken at Dirty Bird To Go

One of my favorite things about doing work for my friends is that I'll more often than not get paid in food. And when that food is fried chicken, well, that's pretty much all I need to hear to get out of the house... especially if Zack's the one doing the summoning. His knowledge of tech is rivaled only by his appreciation for delicious.


Dirty Bird To Go is a tiny little chicken shack on W. 14th - one of those joints where the kitchen is way bigger than the seating area. I think there were a whopping two tables in the place, both adorned with salt, pepper, and two kinds of hot sauce. That pretty much sold me right there.

First up were the sides.


The kale was delightfully garlicky without being laden with butter or bacon fat. The mac and cheese was a careful balance between cheese and mac, with neither overpowering the other. The smashed potatoes with gravy were simply delicious - everything I ever wanted in the side, deftly dodging the common pitfalls of overworking and oversalting. All in all, the sides were simple, but very skillfully done.

But I was there for chicken, and Dirty Bird did not disappoint.


The chicken arrived, picture perfect with two wedges of cornbread and way too freaking hot to put in my mouth. Ha! Like that was going to stop me.


Aaaaaaah. The crust was thin, but substantial. Crunchy, but not mouth-cuttingly so. And it did a good job of staying put when I bit into it. The meat was moist, dripping with chickeny goodness, coating my hands and falling onto the plate where it could be absorbed by the cornbread. The cornbread which, until blessed with a drizzle of fallen chickeny goodness, had been somewhat pallid in flavor.

It was then that I realized something. The cornbread was kind of boring... but perfect with the chicken. I took a bite of chicken and followed it with the kale. The textures melded together beautifully, with the garlic just punching through enough. The mac and cheese got a shot of meaty goodness and that crunch from the crust when eaten in tandem with the chicken. And the mashed potatoes... I can't really describe the combination without sounding like a pervert.

Dirty Bird knows their chicken. And they know how to bring the best out of their chicken in their sides, which is a beautiful and rare thing to experience. If you get the chance, make a break for it - it's some of the best fried chicken in the Village.

Tacos at Taco Chulo

I helped my friend Damon move today. Now, as an incredibly sedentary individual, I can attest to the suckitude of such a task, coupled with the fact that Damon a) has the heaviest freakin' furniture of all mankind, and b) keeps moving into freakin' walkups. Seriously. I think that bookcase is made of granite.

But the evening did have a pleasant ending. Williamsburg has some tasty tacos in the form of Taco Chulo.


And so, beaten and bloody (I took a nasty spill carrying one of his ancient speakers up the stone porch), we settled into our seats. His brother and his brother's friend had already ordered up some guac and pico.


Tasty enough, but I'm a little guacced out from all the experimenting we've been doing at the homestead. Both dips were a little on the acidic side for me. And I mean citrus acidic, not tomato acidic.

But we weren't here for the guac, we were here for the tacos. Sure enough, they arrived with all the mouthwatering appeal of the tacos I had in Puerto Vallarta. None of this tex-mex crap piled with deli lettuce and overloaded with cheddar. Damon's monstrosity, some fish thing called the Juicy, was particularly impressive.


It came with two tortillas, so the taco was free to perform meiosis. My plate was a little more humble, consisting of two simple, non-fancily named tacos.


The first was their carne asada. Tasty, to be certain, but not spectacular. Nothing really popped. The chorizo, though... damn. It made me wish my other taco had been chorizo rather than carne asada. It also made me wish the bowls of guacamole and pico de gallo were replaced by bowls of chorizo. Something about this oily, spicy Mexican sausage reaffirms all that is good and beautiful in life.

Like any good taco, it left my hand a mess.


But hey, that's the mark of good finger food. Sorry about the terrible photo quality today, folks - the lighting in the place was particularly bad. Until next time!

Steak at Peter Luger

That's right, you read it correctly. Peter Luger. The granddaddy of all steakhouses. Now, I understand some of you will read that, and say something like "Oh, I don't know. I've been to Outback." To those people, I ask a simple favor - find yourself a sturdy wrench, then beat yourself about the head and neck with it.

Steak is something special; a meal so simple that it holds so many pitfalls and traps for the uncautious cook. And of course, when it's done right... Well. Peter Luger's has a reputation to uphold. Their meat is peerless in quality and impeccably dry-aged. Their technique is unstoppable. Steakhouses like this are a classic example of a place that knows what it does and does it well.

That being said, let's take a look at the steak.


Mmm. Man. Look at that. That's a serious medium-rare there. And see how, even though it's effectively raw in the middle there, you can see the structure of the meat fibers? It's not all chewy and sinewy. That's one of the neat effects of dry-aging - the moisture that is evaporated out of the meat leaves behind a sturdier, more easily-chewed protein structure.

Now, it is said that a man cannot survive on steak alone. (Actually, the original saying had to do with bread, but bear with me. I'm segueing.) And as much as the steak was an utter delight, the sides were just as wonderful.


We stuck to the creamed spinach (far more spinach than cream, had a wonderfully spinachy flavor and pudding-like texture) and the German fried potatoes (freshly crunchy and a flawless counterpoint to the spinach and meat). Both were, again, devastatingly simple and perfectly prepared.

And, of course, no steak dinner is complete without a bone to gnaw on.


Now, as I said, steak is a special thing. And what special thing was I celebrating tonight? Why, my dear brother's birthday. It's a time-honored tradition to embarrass the crap out of whoever's birthday it is by alerting the staff. Sure enough, at the end of our meal, we got a goofy song from the waitstaff and this honking monstrosity:


Which, by the way, was just as ridiculously sweet and delicious as it looked.

So that was that. I've officially eaten at Peter Luger. Now, I've eaten at some serious steakhouses - Dylan Prime, Gallagher's, Frankie and Johnny's - and I can honestly say that if Luger's steak was superior, it was by a marginal amount. But you don't go for the superlative. You go for the experience.


And, if you're lucky, someone else is paying.

As an addendum, I'd like to point out that I don't have anything against Outback. Hell, I've had some pretty explicit dreams about those loaded fries of theirs. Just... remember. That's a steakhouse in the same way that Olive Garden is an Italian restaurant.

Until next time, dear readers.

Happy birthday, Kuya!