Review: The Open Kitchen, Charlotte, North Carolina

A Great Old-School Italian-American Place

I was in Charlotte, North Carolina recently to attend a show at the Belk Theater at Blumenthal Performing Arts Center (a fabulous venue, by the way) and was hunting for an Italian eatery for our theater party of four.

Many years ago, my default Italian place in Charlotte was a lovely spot called Zarrelli's, run by a charming Neapolitan immigrant named Aniello “Neal” Zarrelli. Sadly, Neal died in 2017 at the age of 87 and his wonderfully warm and welcoming restaurant passed into the Queen City's culinary history.

Charlotte is an up-and-coming food city and there is no shortage of modern, upscale Italian restaurants in the metropolitan area. But I do so miss Zarrelli's and it's traditional menu and atmosphere. So when my online search led me to a story about the city's first pizza restaurant, I was intrigued.

Located on West Morehead Street between Freedom Drive and I-77, The Open Kitchen was founded by brothers Speros and Steve Kokenes back in 1952 to serve the factory workers in what was then a heavily industrial neighborhood. And if the surname “Kokenes” doesn't sound particularly Italian to you, that's because it's not: the brothers were of Greek heritage. Steve was born in Washington, DC and that's where he first encountered a relatively new dish called “pizza” or "pizza pie" as it was often dubbed in those days.

It's hard to imagine today, as pizza has become so ubiquitous and embedded in American culture, but back then pizza was an exotic dish found only in Italian enclaves in big cities. Gennaro Lombardi, an immigrant from Naples, is generally credited with opening America's first pizzeria in Manhattan's Little Italy back in 1905. American servicemen in WWII developed a taste for the tasty comestible when they encountered it in local places in Italy and they brought that taste back home with them. Soon pizza was moving out of the “in” spots in places like New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia and was spreading across the culinary landscape like wildfire. That fire was fed by entrepreneurs like Dan and Frank Carney, who founded Pizza Hut in Wichita, Kansas in 1958 and by local Italian immigrants like the two that opened the first pizzerias in my small Midwestern home town; Marino's, in 1955 and Luigi's in 1957. Both places were huge hits with area teenagers who were among those that helped pizza take over the American food scene in the next decade.

Anyway, the Kokenes brothers brought the new-fangled dish to this Southern bastion of grits and gravy nearly seventy years ago and it's still going strong in its original, definitely retro location. The neighborhood has changed and is now “trendy,” but the venerable eatery still reflects the Greek and Italian traditions of the family that opened it, and pizza is still at the center of the menu.

I fell in love with the exterior at first sight. Thanks to renovations and expansions in the '60s and '70s, the place doesn't look exactly like it did back in 1952, but it's darn close. Then I stepped through the front door and was immediately transported back in time.

The comforting aroma of Italian food caresses your olfactory sense as soon as you enter. You are seated at a sturdy table covered by a red-checkered cloth and you are presented with menus. You can barely read them, of course, because the place is very dimly lit, just as a traditional red sauce joint should be. The friendly and accommodating server takes your drink order and returns fairly promptly with your beverages and with a basket overflowing with an assortment of fresh bread, little tubs of butter, crackers, and some very slightly stale individually wrapped breadsticks. Remember those? I do. They were the highlight of my meal when I was about ten years old.

Now it's time to order.

As I said, there are a lot of Greek touches to the menu including Chicken Livers Greque, Pizza ala Greque, and a Greek Salad, but the focus is on Italian-American dishes like Baked Ziti and Chicken Parmigiana, along with various other chicken, veal, and seafood offerings. And, of course, lots of pasta. There are a variety of soups, salads, and appetizers from which to choose and several Italian-ish sandwiches, if that's your thing. And, lest we forget the star of the show, there's pizza.

My dining companions all went in different directions. One ordered Lasagna Di Stefano – a blend of pasta, ricotta and provolone cheeses “oozing with our tempting meat sauce.” Another chose the Chicken Parmigiana – “tender chicken, sautéed in a tomato, mushroom, and wine sauce, then covered with mozzarella cheese and baked to perfection. Served with spaghetti ala marinara.” My wife opted for meat ravioli in an “oh-my-god” meat sauce. As for me, hey! Sul serio? Why would I go to Charlotte's first pizza place and not order pizza?

Six 'o clock on a Saturday evening and the place was quite busy, but our food was delivered surprisingly quickly. And it was out-of-this-world good. We all ate until eravamo pieni – ma non troppo pieno per dolce. For you non-paesani, that sort of means we were stuffed but we saved room for dessert. Two chocolate mousse split among the four of us. Decadente e divino! The Open Kitchen features a nice selection of wine and beer and our choices perfectly complimented our wonderful meal.

Nothing we ate broke the bank: my simple cheese pizza was eight bucks, the lasagna was $10.75, the chicken parm was $15.75 and my wife's ravioli was $13.50. I have been to places where one entrée would have cost as much as our entire meal combined and would not necessarily have been anywhere near as good.

You'll find The Open Kitchen at 1318 West Morehead Street. They offer dine-in, curbside, and delivery. Open 11 am to 9 pm Monday through Thursday, from 11 am to 10 pm on Friday, and from 4 to 10 pm on Saturday and Sunday. Reservations are not required and large groups can be accommodated with sufficient prior notice. Dress is casual and parking is onsite, but it's not a very big lot. You can call them at (704) 375-7449 or find them on the Web at www.worldfamousopenkitchen.com.

May the late Neal Zarrelli rest in peace knowing that there is still a great old-school Italian-American place thriving in his city. And The Open Kitchen has definitely made the list as my new “go to” eatery there. Now, if only they had somebody strolling through the dining room singing opera like Neal used to. Beh, non puoi avere tutto. (You can't have everything.)

Review: Giada, The Cromwell, Las Vegas, Nevada

A True Gem Among Rhinestones

Okay, anybody who knows me knows that I'm a particular fan of Giada De Laurentiis. I became a fan during her “Everyday Italian” days on Food Network, back when the network was actually worth watching. In addition to being a talented chef, I've always found her to be a nice person. I've actually met Giada, spoken with her, spent time with her and have frequently defended her against shallow detractors who criticize her for her appearance. Is there a more absurd reason to “hate” a person?

Anyway, I was excited when Giada made the announcement in 2014 that she was opening a restaurant in Las Vegas, joining the ranks of many other “celebrity” chefs with eponymous eateries there. And I was even more excited when I finally got the opportunity to dine at her signature place.

I don't much like Las Vegas in general. It's just not my scene. In the first place, with apologies to Elvis, the “bright light city” doesn't so much “set my soul on fire” as it just burns up my wallet. I'm not fond, for example, of shelling out ten dollars for a Coke and a candy bar. I don't gamble, I don't like crowds, I don't like noise, I don't like drunks, and I especially don't like crowds of noisy, gambling drunks. And I object to being accosted by grubby pornslappers who pop their smutty little cards at me every ten feet as I walk along The Strip. After all, why should I patronize them when I can, as the numerous rolling billboard trucks proclaim, have girls delivered “direct to your room” just like a pizza? Thank you. No.

I do, however, appreciate the vibrant Vegas food scene. Just about every “famous” chef I know either personally or through various media has a place in “The Entertainment Capital of the World.” Tom Colicchio, Gordon Ramsay, Emeril Lagasse, Masahara Morimoto, Buddy Valastro, Joel Robuchon, Guy Fieri, Wolfgang Puck, Jose Andres, Robert Irvine......the list is extensive to say the least. But it was on Giada's place at The Cromwell that I was focused this trip.

We had a 9 p.m. reservation, but between being seriously jet lagged and frankly tired of all the throngs crowding The Strip, we showed up early with the intention of just sitting quietly at the bar until nine if necessary. Fortunately, it wasn't: thanks to a very friendly and accommodating staff, we were seated within about thirty minutes. But our relatively brief sojourn at the bar was quite comfortable and pleasant. We were attended to promptly and settled in to enjoy a nice Pinot Noir (hers) and a cool glass of Peroni (mine). When we were seated, we were quite well seated, thank you, at one of the coveted window tables overlooking The Strip below and the adjacent fountains of the Bellagio. The restaurant's huge retractable windows were open on a pleasant autumn evening, enabling us to take in all the dazzling sights and cacophonous sounds from a nice safe perch on the hotel's second floor.

The ambiance and décor are very much reflective of Giada, including works by her artist friend, Darren Quinn. Giada fans and viewers will recognize his “Amore” from her TV show set. There are also some wonderful portraits of her, her grandfather, Dino, and her beautiful grandmother, Silvana Mangano displayed near the bar. It's an elegant and sophisticated vibe that is at the same time quite understated and soothing in the midst of all the surrounding glitz and faux glamour.

I don't know where Giada (the restaurant) found Fred, but I wish he could be cloned or at the very least loaned out to train every server at every eating place in the country. Friendly, personable, efficient, and knowledgeable, Fred was a joy. He was perfectly professional without being the least bit pretentious or stuffy. He never hovered, but he was never far away. His familiarity with every dish was impressive, although I do wish he'd learn to pronounce “mascarpone.” The flat, American-accented “mahs-car-POHN” was a bit grating, but that's just the annoying purist in me. Fred's recommendations were spot on and he seemed genuinely pleased when we were genuinely pleased by them. Obviously somebody who enjoys his craft and is not just collecting a paycheck.

Whoever was running the kitchen the night we were there (I know it wasn't Giada) also obviously enjoys their craft and is extremely good at it. The food was absolutely delicious. Giada features a unique fusion of Giada De Lauretiis' personal “authentic Italian meets modern California” style. By and large, it's lighter fare that doesn't necessarily sacrifice any of the traditional Italian taste.

My wife was especially amazed by her ravioli with Brussels sprouts and brown butter. She has never met a Brussels sprout she enjoyed – until now. Her fulsome praise of the cook on the vegetable and her equally enthusiastic enjoyment of the delicately unctuous brown butter were the talk of the evening. My bucatini pasta dish was also enjoyable, with a sweetly tangy pomodoro sauce and perfectly cooked pasta. Well, the al dente texture was perfect. The pasta itself could have benefited from just a teensie bit more salt. I know a lot of places have to cook to the lowest common denominator of misinformed patrons who are convinced that the slightest amount of salt in their food will lead them straight to hardened arteries and an early grave, but I was somewhat disappointed that the cooks at Giada would fall into that. Giada knows, as every Italian does, that salt – in what some consider egregious amounts – is the only way to flavor pasta. There was a little dish of flake salt on our table, placed there to compliment some incredible bread, and I crushed and sprinkled the tiniest pinch of it over my dish to immediately discernible results. The minuscule addition made the tomato flavor in the sauce pop even more. But again, I'm a purist and a cook. Others may not have noticed or appreciated the difference.

And these were porzioni veramente italiane, truly Italian portions. No huge overflowing platters of food. These were perfectly plated individual portions, not great piles designed to feed ravenous hordes like you usually find in “Italian” places.

Speaking as I was of the bread, a complimentary plate of ciabatta and an olive oil rosemary bread was absolutely to die for when combined with a selection of condiments that included the aforementioned flake salt, some capers, some peperoncino, an herbed olive oil, and an insanely good lemon mascarpone butter. I'm definitely stealing that last one.

I'd also like to steal the hot cocoa souffle that capped our incredible meal. A fresh-baked hot chocolate souffle that was deflated tableside and filled with rich chocolate sauce and served next to a scoop of creamy marshmallow gelato. Buonissimo! Perfetto! Delizioso! And a whole bunch of other Italian superlatives.

Did this heavenly repast come cheap? Oh, hell no. My credit card went straight to ICU. But you know what? The food, the service, the atmosphere, the entire experience was worth every penny and I'll eagerly do it again next time I'm in town. Just don't think you're going to Olive Garden when you cross the threshold at Giada. The food is obviously superior to anything you'll ever get at such a place, but be aware that you'll get a lot less for a lot more.

Giada is located on the second floor of The Cromwell Hotel & Casino at 3595 S. Las Vegas Blvd. They serve a weekend brunch Friday, Saturday, and Sunday and are open from 9 a.m. to 10:30 p.m. those days. Monday through Thursday hours are 5 p.m until 10:30. Parking? Yeah, right. This is Vegas, baby. Reservations are not strictly required but are strongly suggested. Dress is golf course or business casual. But again, this is Vegas: don't be surprised by anything you see. Allow at least an hour to an hour-and-a-half for your dining experience. Call (855) 442-3271 or visit the website at https://www.caesars.com/cromwell/restaurants/giada .

Why Must Restaurants Be So Damn LOUD?

It Used To Be Merely Annoying. Now It's Nearly Intolerable

As I frequently remind readers – and family and friends and just about anybody else who will listen – sono vecchio: I'm old. And sometimes cranky and ill-tempered as well, especially when something gets me started on a path toward a rant. And one such thing is the current trend toward ludicrously loud restaurants.

Now, in fairness to myself, it's not just a matter of temperament. Within the last year or so I have developed something the audiologists refer to as “hyperacusis,” defined as “a highly debilitating hearing disorder characterized by an increased sensitivity to certain frequencies and volume ranges of sound (a collapsed tolerance to usual environmental sound).” Thankfully, mine is a very mild case and its only manifested itself in one ear. But believe me, it's enough to make me wince, cringe, and occasionally cry out when, say, the screams of an infant echo off the hard, bare walls, floors, and ceilings of a modern eatery and reverberate through my skull. Before hyperacusis, I found this merely annoying. Now it's nearly intolerable.

Once upon a time, restaurants – finer dining establishments in particular – were lush, plush places. There were rich draperies adorning the windows, carpeting covering the floors, paneling on the walls, acoustic tiles on low ceilings, thick padding on the chairs and booth seats, heavy fabric table linens, and wall hangings of various sorts. If there was music playing, it was of a soft background nature. All of this cushiness resulted in a gentle, refined, muted atmosphere. One in which you could sit down in quiet enjoyment of the food on offer and engage in conversation with your companion or companions.

Nowadays? You're lucky if you can hear yourself think.

Used to be, two of Guy Fieri's three “D”s – diners and dives – were the only spots where this was a problem. Usually a little farther down the upscale spectrum, such places were pretty low-fringe. Lots of tile and chrome and plastic and very few plush accoutrements. You generally expected a noisy atmosphere and you were seldom disappointed. But today it seems like even the finest of five-star establishments are out to strip down to the bare walls and to be as “industrial” as they can be.

Case in point: Meril on Girod Street in New Orleans. Billed as a “casual Emeril Lagasse spot” serving “New American” fare, the service at Meril is unreproachable and the food indescribable. I had an Iberico ham dish I'm still praising weeks later and my wife still salivates over her perfect rib eye. But if you've ever been in a packed sports bar in Tuscaloosa, Alabama on an Iron Bowl game day at the moment the Crimson Tide definitively rolls over the Auburn Tigers to clinch the win, you'll get an idea of what the atmosphere at Meril is like on an average Friday dinner service.

My wife and I sat at a beautiful hardwood table in beautiful hardwood chairs amidst a plethora of hard, unyielding surfaces at a roughly ninety-degree right angle to one another, hands touching above the table and knees touching beneath, scarcely an arm's length apart and completely unable to hear one another without leaning in and shouting in each other's ears or faces. Romantic it was not. When the waiter came over and shouted at me regarding my order, I shouted back at him, attempting to explain my hearing difficulty and directing him to attempt to communicate with my wife, who could at least nominally understand what he was saying/shouting. She would, in turn, point, sign, and shout to me and thus convey whatever information the server was striving to disseminate. There were at least two large tables nearby filled with people celebrating birthdays or something and being served dishes that featured literal fireworks. And even at the surrounding “quieter” four and six-top tables, diners were all reduced to shouting at one another, adding to the general din of unrelenting sound bouncing off unpadded, unadorned walls, floors, windows, and ceilings and hard furnishings. We were expecting my son to arrive in town at any moment and when he called me, I felt rather than heard his call and had to step out into the relative peace and quiet of a busy New Orleans street to answer it, the crowd gathered outside being much quieter than the one inside. Four of my five senses will always remember fondly the experience they had at Meril. The fifth one? Hearing? Not so much.

And it's not just the high-dollar, big city places. There's a new eatery downtown in the tiny rural hamlet where we live. My wife and I decided to check it out the other night. Shades of Meril! Brick walls, stone floors, high metal ceilings, wood furnishings. Only this was a “family” bar and grill, so in addition to the boisterous bedlam created by the adult diners, there was the added element of screeching children and bawling babies factored in to the general cacophony. The food was good, but as we were leaving we noticed an adjacent outdoor patio. Guess where we'll sit next time. Even if it's raining.

On the other side of the coin, we were dining at one of our favorite family-owned Italian places recently. And it was packed; easily a hundred-twenty people or more occupying nearly every available seat. And yet, as we sat in the midst of this sea of noisy humanity, we were able to talk to one another and to interact with our server in normal, conversational tones. Why? Because it's “old school:” low, acoustic-tiled ceiling, padded seats, draped windows – lots of sound-absorbing elements in the construction and décor.

It's not just me being annoyed by this raucous new trend. Others are noticing and commenting on the same thing. A quick Google search of “loud restaurants” yields numerous results: How Restaurants Got So Loud - The Atlantic; Why restaurants became so loud — and how to fight back – Vox; Why Are Restaurants So Loud? - Eater; Are Restaurants Getting Too Loud? | Here & Now – WBUR; Why Restaurants Are So Loud These Days | HowStuffWorks; It's not just you: Restaurants really are louder than they used to be; and a host of other similar offerings on the subject. Respondants to restaurant surveys by both Zagat and Consumer Reports list excessive noise as their number one complaint.

Several sources cite the same motive behind the noise: profit. They claim that restaurateurs are deliberately cranking up the volume in order to turn tables more quickly, the theory being that you'll find the loud atmosphere so unpleasant you'll simply wolf down your food and leave. Could be: I didn't linger at either of the aforementioned loud restaurants one second longer than I had to.

Another reason for the unreasonable noise has to do with the personal tastes of upscale chefs like Mario Batali, David Chang and others. Back in the '90s, Batali was among the first to inflict his personal musical taste on his customers. Restaurant kitchens have always cranked up the tunes for kitchen employees even though more subdued music usually played in the dining area. Batali felt that his head-banger faves “energized” the overall atmosphere and created what he considered a “New York vibe.” And it wasn't long before other chef/restaurateurs followed in the aural assault.

But the main factor behind the noise seems simply to be the newest architectural “trend.” Whereas in the middle of the last century, “upscale” and “elegant” were equated with plush opulence, today's “high-end” establishments follow a “minimalist” or “industrial” trend started in the 1970s. Lots of glass and steel and exposed brick. Soaring high ceilings featuring open ductwork. These are the “elegant” spots of the new dining era. And they're killing us. Or, at least they're not doing us any good.

The author of one of the Googled articles took a calibrated decibel meter into several places and found that the noise level in a brewpub situated in a rehabbed fire station reached ninety decibels. That's approximately as loud as an approaching 737 or a DC-9 one mile out. It's as loud as a motorcycle that's twenty-five feet away or as loud as a running newspaper press. And more important than the aggravation factor is the health concern for people who have to put up with it for extended periods of time. Exposure to ninety decibels can damage your hearing after several hours. Okay, so diners don't sit at tables for six or eight-hour stretches, but employees are another matter.

Even short-term exposure is not altogether healthy. Acoustic engineers studying what one MIT engineer terms “aural architecture” have discovered that the atmosphere, the noise level, the “voice,” if you will, of a space can adversely affect the physical and mental health of people occupying the space. Scientific research suggests that noisy settings have been proven to annoy people, and noise annoyance itself has been linked to depression and anxiety. I know extremely noisy places have always tended to set my teeth on edge. And now, with the additional complication of my hearing problem, well......I've been known to pull out an earplug and stick it in my ear just to get through dinner.

One more factor contributes to the overall noise problem in American restaurants and that factor is Americans. By and large and with few exceptions, Americans are the loudest, most boisterous people on the planet. I've been around groups of Chinese who might come in a close second, but most folks who study and evaluate such things agree that Americans are a bunch of loudmouths. Theories on why this is so vary from Americans being accustomed to having a lot of space, hence the tendency to shout, to Americans loudly expressing their individualism to cultural and social influences. But for whatever reason, put two or more Americans in a quiet room and it won't be quiet for long, especially if you lubricate their vocal cords with a little booze. Even stone cold sober, though, Americans tend to exhibit an “I'm having a good time, dammit, and to hell with anybody who doesn't like it” attitude, and if you're unfortunate enough to be seated near a group of these individualists, well......

The solutions to the problem aren't abundant nor are they very promising. You can always complain to management, which will usually get you a polite if insincere apology and very little else. You can “shush” or stare angrily at offending noisemakers – as long as you have A) good health insurance and/or B) bail money. You can go at “off peak” times: personally, I love having dinner at three in the afternoon. Or you can avoid noisy places altogether: in other words, eat at home.

Seriously, people who like a more tranquil dining experience, one with perhaps a bit less “energy,” are pretty much stuck bucking the still-growing trend toward minimalist industrial chic. And it's a trend which I doubt a few complaints to management is going to reverse. Restaurant owners have jumped on the bandwagon big time and they're not getting off until the next big thing comes along. For one thing, it's cheaper to go “industrial.” Sound dampening elements cost money, although there are a few customer conscious innovators out there who manage to be “trendy” while still keeping the atmosphere in their establishments from deafening their patrons and employees. Kudos to them, but good luck finding them. No, we're basically screwed. The noise is going to continue unabated until enough diners lose their appetites – or their hearing – to make it stop.

In the meantime, stop by a Walmart or a sporting goods store on your way to dinner at that fancy “upscale” place you've been wanting to try. Earplugs are cheap.

Review: Bobby's Burger Palace, Potomac Mills Mall, Woodbridge, Virginia

I'd Go There Again

Okay, so I'm not like a really close personal friend of Bobby Flay's. I don't have his number on speed dial on my phone. (Although I do have a few pictures of him on it!) I have met him at industry events (hence the pictures) and have spent a little time talking food and cooking with him. Anyway, when I spotted a “Bobby's Burger Palace” at the mall near my hotel in the Washington, DC suburb of Woodbridge, Virginia, I figured, “Bobby's place? Why not?” And my wife and I went on over there for dinner.

Even a few days after Christmas, the parking lot of the super-busy Potomac Mills Mall was packed. My wife had driven us over from the hotel and she suggested I hop out and get a table while she found a place to park.

First off, there's no “getting a table:” the place is counter service and all the tables are communal. Surprisingly, considering the overall volume at the mall, Bobby's wasn't particularly busy at 6:30 or so on a chilly, rainy Thursday night. There was one couple in line in front of us, three more people came in after us, and there were perhaps eight or ten other customers seated at tables around the restaurant. As I said, all tables are communal, so if you're looking for a place for a romantic interlude or even for quiet personal conversation, don't look here. Unless you don't mind sharing your thoughts with the strangers sitting across the table or seated beside you. More on that in a second, but picture having an intimate dining experience at a Waffle House service counter. Get the idea?

But hey! It's a burger joint. It's described in published literature as an “upscale fast casual restaurant” and I can get behind that description. The location, the ambiance, and the menu are definitely a cut above, say, “What-a-Burger” or “Five Guys.” But all in all, it is what it is: it's an “upscale” burger joint. Just as Bobby Flay intended.

Bobby Flay has come up through the ranks. From age ten when he asked for an Easy Bake oven for Christmas to the French Culinary Institute to his work with Jonathan Waxman and Jerome Kretchmer to helming the kitchens at Mesa Grill, Bolo Bar & Restaurant, Bar Americain, and Bobby Flay Steak, Bobby has circulated in the upper atmosphere of the culinary world for many years. Back in 2008, he decided he wanted to work a little closer to the ground: to bring a touch of the “fine dining” experience to the more common market. Bobby says, “Food is the epicenter of my life – what inspires me every day. It’s the way I make my living, the way I relax, the way I express myself and how I keep healthy. I want to share that passion with as many people as possible.” And since one of his favorite things to eat and cook is a burger, the first “Bobby's Burger Palace” opened at Smith Haven Mall in Lake Grove, Long Island in July of that year. The location where we dined is one of nineteen now spread across eleven states and the DC area.

The menu is pretty simple and straighforward. There are about a dozen sandwiches on offer, including a veggie burger and an adult “griddled cheese.” You can choose your meats from among beef, turkey, and chicken and opt for add-ons of bacon, fried egg, or double meat. You can have your burger “crunchified” – topped with crispy potato chips – at no extra cost. Hand cut fries, sweet potato fries and buttermilk onion rings round out the menu. BBP also features a selection of “spoon bending” shakes in a variety of flavors. Unlike your run of the mill burger stands, BBP serves beer, wine, and frozen margaritas as well as the usual assortment of soft drinks.

My burger-loving wife went with the Palace Classic Burger. She also ordered one of those signature shakes, the vanilla bean one. Heretical though it may seem, I'm not a burger guy. I'm part Italian. I like food that ends in vowels. But the Griddled Cheese looked appealing, so I ordered one. The food was outstanding. My wife found her burger to be completely drool worthy and even the “griddled” cheese was way above average. The fries were perfect and the portions more than adequate. And the prices were ridiculously reasonable. It didn't cost us any more to eat “upscale” fare at Bobby's place than it would have had we gone to the Five Guys down the road.

The only thing that gave us pause was the service. It was kinda slow for the relatively low volume of business. Now I don't know that the kitchen may not have been snowed under with call-in orders or something, but they seemed to have a hard time getting food out to the dining room in a timely manner. It's an open kitchen so you can see what's going on back there, and to our trained eyes it looked like the flow could have been a little smoother and the service a bit faster. The ticket time on our order was nearly thirty minutes. Now that's about industry average for an an entree at an “upscale” fast casual joint, but considering the aforementioned Five Guys boasts a seven to eight minute ticket time for the same order...... well......it just seemed a little long for a burger and fries. And my wife's shake arrived a full five minutes after her burger had been served.

And call me anti-social but I'm not so much on the seating concept. My wife and I sat across from one another near the end of one of the long tables. We were quietly discussing the events of our days when a party of three women seated themselves immediately to my wife's right, leaving one or two seats between. So now you've got five people at a ten or twelve-top, four on one side and one on the other. As the newcomers started their conversation it kinda put a damper on ours. Communal tables are great for large parties of friends or family. But two groups of strangers sitting elbow to elbow? Not so much.

Be that as it may, would I go back to another Bobby's Burger Palace? Sure. I'd definitely go there again, especially now that I know what to expect. The place was scrupulously clean, the atmosphere was pleasant, the service was friendly if a bit slow, the food was delicious, and the price was right. Overall, it was a great experience and one I'd recommend – with certain caveats – to anybody looking for a nice “upscale fast casual restaurant.”

The BBP I went to is located at 2700 Potomac Mills Circle, Woodbridge, VA 22192. They're open Sunday thru Thursday from 11AM to 9PM, and on Friday and Saturday from 11AM to 10PM. You can call them at (703) 490-2121. No reservations. Casual attire. Ample parking. Call-in and online ordering are available. The Potomac Mills location partners with Doordash for delivery. Find more locations at http://bobbysburgerpalace.com/locations

Germophobes Beware: Your Favorite Restaurant Is Trying To Kill You

Health Inspectors Are Good, But........

I'm kind of a clean freak. I admit it and I come by it honestly. My mother was the Queen of Clean. Germs didn't stand a chance anywhere in my mother's house. She dusted, vacuumed, scrubbed, and scoured from dawn 'til dusk. She entombed everything in plastic and sanitized each and every surface she encountered. There was never a speck of dust on a shelf or a knickknack, never a streak on a window or mirror, and nary a grease or water spot anywhere in the kitchen. Never mind the old “five second rule”: my mother's floors were so clean that if you ever dropped anything on them you could just sit down with a knife and fork and eat it where it lay. I'm not sure but I think stocks in Lysol and Clorox fell dramatically the day she died. I'm not quite that OCD, but the acorn didn't fall far from the tree. So how I wound up involved in food service is a mystery to me. Like it or not, restaurants are nasty, dirty places.

You see, cooking is not a clean process. There's lots of dirt, grease, blood and other things you'd probably rather not think about involved in the transformation of raw foodstuffs into the tasty morsels you ingest. Now I'm not saying the food you're being served in restaurants is nasty, dirty, or in any way unsafe. That's why we have health inspectors and why in most states you'll see letter or number grades posted in eating establishments to reassure you that local health departments are on the job. Trust me, those of us who have inhabited commercial kitchens over the years come to cringe and cower when we see health inspectors come through the door because we know they're going to do their damnedest to find something wrong. And to your benefit they often do and they hold us accountable for fixing it.

Are the people preparing your food practicing safe techniques? Are they wearing gloves? Are their heads covered to prevent hair from falling into your salad? Did you know that most jurisdictions even regulate how kitchen employees drink? Yep. Food workers have to drink from lidded containers with a straw and said containers have to be kept away from food prep areas. Why? To prevent the possibility of your food being contaminated by droplets of employee saliva. And an establishment's lower number or letter grade might not be the result of a direct food preparation issue. I got dinged by an inspector once because somebody had inexplicably wrapped a small piece of duct tape around the faucet at a handwash sink. Duct tape does not make for a smooth, easily cleanable surface and hence can't be used in a restaurant kitchen.

Yep, health inspectors are good. But for all the myriad things they inspect for, there are a number of things they overlook. And those are the things that are gonna getcha if you're a dedicated germophobe.

You know what the Number One Dirtiest Thing In A Restaurant is? Study after study have shown it to be the menu. Think about it. Or don't, if you prefer. How many filthy, dirty, grimy, nasty hands have handled that menu you're holding? Hands that have done things and been places you really don't want to consider just before eating. Sure, the signs say employees are required to wash their hands after using the bathroom, but patrons? Not so much. What about the dog groomer or the sanitation worker who “forgot” to wash their hands when they left work? And there's always some cute little toddler or infant who has chewed on or otherwise spread snot all over the entire surface you're now touching. Was Typhoid Mary the last person to order from your menu? The Journal of Medical Virology reports that cold and flu viruses can survive for eighteen hours on hard surfaces. Has that menu been dropped on the floor? Probably. And the places those menus are often stored aren't exactly NASA clean rooms, you know? Studies have shown you have a better chance with the restaurant's toilet seats than with the menus. At least people clean the toilets from time to time. Most eateries only give the hard cover or plastic menus a cursory wipe down as an afterthought if they bother to do it at all. And paper menus obviously never get wiped down. Good Morning America once sent an investigative team out to swab items on tables at a dozen restaurants and they found that menus averaged around 185,000 bacteria. So you don't want the menus touching your plates or silverware if you can help it and washing or sanitizing your hands after handling them is probably a good idea.

Next up on the Wheel of Sanitary Misfortune are condiment containers, especially salt and pepper shakers. C'mon, you've picked up a sticky salt shaker or two, haven't you? Ever wonder what it's sticky with? Probably better that you don't know. Sometimes if you point it out to your server, he or she might replace it with a less sticky one or at least wipe down the offending vessel with a nominally clean cloth. Granted, menus have been found to be sixteen times germier than salt and pepper shakers simply because everybody looks at menus while not everybody uses salt and pepper, but still...... Cleaning condiment containers is supposed to be a part of side work duties in most restaurants, but don't bet your health on it. Take matters into your own hands – so to speak – and use some sort of handi-wipe or sanitizer on those shakers and squeeze bottles before you transfer somebody else's nastiness to your fries.

If you get up from the table to go to the bathroom or something, don't drop your napkin onto the seat of your chair. Researchers at New York University Microbiology Department ran tests and found that seventy percent of restaurant chair seats harbored seventeen different varieties of bacteria including strains of good ol' E. coli. Nothing like wiping your mouth with germs from a stranger's butt, right?

Let's talk about those bathrooms for a minute. Health inspectors check restaurant rest rooms for overall condition and for obvious signs of neglect. But they don't stand in there and watch to make sure people wash their hands before touching the doorknob. So let's say the six uncouth heathens who used the bathroom before you all decided to say, “Oh hell. My hands are clean enough” after they did whatever they did and they exited without washing, thus depositing their germ-laden deposits on the door handle. Along comes you. You wash your hands, of course, and then you grab the handle and........you might as well not have bothered. Here's what the people who advise all us clean freaks recommend: after you've washed up and dried your hands, grab a clean paper towel and use it to open the door. Most rest rooms have a waste receptacle near the door. Toss in the towel after you've opened the door. As my wife was looking over my shoulder just now, she reminded me of a few places that have automatic kick plates that allow you open the door without touching the handle. Let's hope those catch on.

Oh, and while we're in the bathroom, have you ever thought about what you're touching when you touch the faucet handles or the soap dispenser? Ye-e-a-a-h-h-h, so make sure you wash your hands really thoroughly with the nice clean soap that came out of that nasty dispenser that I guarantee nobody ever thought to clean and sanitize when they cleaned the rest of the bathroom.

And ladies, for goodness sake don't set your purse on the bathroom floor. Most public toilets don't have lids and those that do seldom have them used. So everything that gets flushed gets partially aerosolized and deposited on the floor around the toilet. And then you carry your purse back to the dining room and maybe set it on the table while you look for something? Just. Don't.

One more item tops the list of things to avoid in most restaurants: lemon wedges. According to numerous studies, fifty to seventy percent of the lemon wedges perched on the rims of restaurant glasses contain disease-causing microbes including E. coli and other fecal bacteria. Why? For one thing, nobody washes the lemons before they're cut. There's this naïve assumption that they come into the restaurant all nice and squeaky clean. Wrong-o! They come right out the box that came right out the groves after passing through the hands of pickers and sorters who, shall we say, might be somewhat lax about the whole handwashing after using the bathroom thing? So here comes your prep person, who also may or may not have fingers you want to stick in your mouth, and they start whacking away at those lemons. The cut wedges mound up in a container and the germs just have a party getting to know one another before they're rubbed around the rim of your glass or squeezed into your beverage.

“But wait,” you say. “Aren't lemons acidic and won't that acid kill all the germs?” Not really. According to food science expert John Floros, head of the Department of Food Science at Penn State University, acidic lemon juice is unfavorable to the growth of most microbes, but it doesn’t kill them directly. And Clemson University food scientists who studied drink garnishes found that dry lemons pick up nasty bacteria thirty percent of the time. That figure rises to one hundred percent when the lemons are wet.

And speaking of the rims of those glasses, if your server hands you a glass the rim of which they have touched with their hands or fingers, ask for two things: a new glass and a manager. Servers are supposed to be trained better than that. I've nailed more than one server on this, both as a consultant and as a customer. “The top of the glass is the customer's,” I tell them. “The bottom of the glass is yours.” The rims of glasses were found the be the sixth most germy restaurant spot in the aforementioned New York University Microbiology Department research project.

Okay. Now that I've convinced you that everything in your favorite restaurant is out to kill you, go on out and enjoy dinner somewhere. Seriously. You can't live in a bubble and you can't walk around in a hazmat suit. Germs are everywhere and you can't completely avoid them. And you know what? You don't want to. Exposure to some germs helps develop a healthy immune system. But that doesn't necessarily mean you have to invite them to dine with you. They say “knowledge is power” and “forewarned is forearmed” and all that stuff, so I've tried to impart just a little forewarning and a bit of knowledge here when it comes to dining in a restaurant. What you do with it is up to you.

A New Runner Up To My Favorite Bacon

Head For A Nearby Cracker Barrel

Greetings, fellow bacon aficionados. I come to you today with good news; I have found a worthy runner up to my favorite bacon and it, too, comes from the Volunteer State. Well.....sort of, anyway.

Nothing short of the apocalypse is going to separate me from my abiding love for Allan Benton's porky ambrosia. The bacon produced at Benton's Smoky Mountain Country Hams in Madisonville, Tennessee is renowned and preferred – nay, revered – by top chefs all over the country for a good reason: it's freakin' delicious. Naturally dry-cured by hand, thick-cut, and oh-so-smoky, there isn't a bacon on the market that can touch it.

But.....it's kinda hard to come by. Allan doesn't sell at retail because he doesn't have to. You won't find Benton's bacon at your neighborhood supermarket. It's available at a few specialty places in and around the area where it's produced, but by and large the only way to obtain this nearly unobtainable porcine perfection is to order it online or to make a pilgrimage to the smokehouse in East Tennessee, something I do a few times a year. I never leave Benton's without several pounds of my favorite savory, piggy bonne bouche, but invariably I do run out before I can restock. What to do, what to do? Well, I'll tell you what to do: head for a nearby Cracker Barrel.

Yep, that's what I said; a good ol' Cracker Barrel Old Country Store. Based out of Lebanon, Tennessee, which is located about 165 miles west and slightly north of Madisonville, and with more than six-hundred locations nationwide, there's probably one around an interstate exit near you.

Now, I've been eating the bacon at CB for decades. It's an integral part of my favorite “Old Timer's” breakfast. And I've probably seen the signs proclaiming that the bacon is available for in-store purchase in two-pound packages hundreds of times. But only recently did I actually pay attention to those signs.

I was out of Benton's bacon and Sunday morning was coming up. That's the day I totally abandon my Italian roots and pig out – excuse the pun – by cooking my family and friends a huge American-style breakfast. It's about the only non-Italian meal that I really enjoy cooking and eating. And bacon, of course, is the star. For years, my backup bacon had come from my local butcher who has a special purchase arrangement with Farmland Foods. I used it both at home and in my restaurant kitchen. But lately, that bacon wasn't up to par. I was returning pounds of the stuff that looked like it had been cut with a dull chainsaw. The taste was still okay, but otherwise the overall quality was just lacking. I tried a few national and regional brands from the supermarket with “meh” results. So when I saw the sign at Cracker Barrel one Friday evening, I thought, “Why not? Let's give it a try.” And, boy, am I glad I did!

This is good stuff, folks. It's not handcrafted artisan to-die-for good like Benton's, but for a commercially produced product, it's hard to beat. The first thing I noticed is the uniformity of the cut. This is a big deal because it means all the slices will cook up evenly. It's a nice medium thickness; not so thick you feel like you're munching on a thin pork chop nor so thin as to resemble bacon-flavored tissue paper. All the slices are of a standard length and they stay that way throughout the cooking process. There's not a lot of shrinkage, indicating that minimal water was injected in the curing. At the same time, there's not a great deal of fat rendered off, either. For example, I had to cook some up in the microwave the other day. This is my absolute least favorite way to cook bacon, but it's the best way to get it super crisp super fast if you want to crumble it over a baked potato, which is what I was doing. Normally, bacon cooked in the microwave makes a gawdawful greasy mess. But I was pleasantly surprised that that was not the case here. Very little grease to clean up. This means there's a good lean-to-fat ratio. Best of all, this is bacon that tastes like bacon. It's got a great balanced porky, salty, hardwood smoky flavor. And it's not terribly expensive. As I write this, Cracker Barrel's bacon, when purchased at a local restaurant, is priced about the same as the premium brands you find at the grocery store. And it's worth every penny.

Now, Cracker Barrel may bill itself as an “Old Country Store” and it may have a lot of rustic décor and lots of homey products for sale, but one thing's for sure: there ain't anybody out back butchering hogs and makin' bacon. Nope. Thanks to a multi-year licensing agreement, the credit for that goes to John Morrell, a division of Smithfield Foods. And as far as commercially sourced bacon goes, both are pretty reliable names.

So here's the deal, Lucille: if you want the best bacon money can buy, you'll still need to find a way to tap into Allan Benton's Tennessee treasure house. Go online, go to Madisonville, or go find a friend who's making a road trip and doesn't mind having the car smell like bacon for possibly hundreds of miles. But if you're looking for an acceptable substitute, skip the supermarket and skip on over to Cracker Barrel. Buy a couple of two-pound packages and make sure to employ my tipsfor saving your bacon after you get it home. It ain't Benton's, but it's good. (I wonder if I could get them to print that on the label. Nah. Probably not.)

A Disappointing Eataly Experience

Crowded, Overpriced, And Overrated

Ever since Eataly opened in New York back in 2010, I've been jonesing to go. I don't go to New York if I can help it. In fact, I drive around the place as much as possible, not being much of a fan of traffic, tolls, and crowds. So when they opened another Eataly location in Chicago, I was really tempted to make a pilgrimage. Not that Chicago doesn't have traffic or tolls or crowds, but, having grown up in Chicagoland, I can at least deal with them a little better. Then, lo and behold, the Batali and Bastianich partnership went and opened a brand new Eataly in the Prudential Center in Boston. Hot damn! Of course, New York and Chicago are closer to where I live by one hundred and two hundred miles, respectively, but I really like Boston – especially the North End – and have occasion to travel there a couple of times a year. So Boston it shall be for my Eataly initiation!

In case you have no idea what I'm talking about, Eataly started out in Turin, Italy in 2007. Now expanding worldwide, it is a huge open Italian market containing restaurants, grocers, bakers, butchers, fishmongers, cheese mongers, pasta makers, wine merchants and just about any other form of Italian food vendor you can think of. It's basically an Italian food hall on steroids. And since I live in a little town where the only Italian ingredients readily available to me are found in the “ethnic” aisle at the grocery store, a place like Eataly is a long-held dream come true. Sadly, the dream turned out to be more of a nightmare.

I had some specific items in mind when I arrived at the Prudential Center on a frigid December afternoon. My son had asked me for some help in perfecting his pizza dough, so I wanted some 00 flour. Since we were making pizza, I also wanted San Marzano tomatoes. I was drooling over the prospect of some wonderfully crusty fresh bread that I didn't have to make myself. I had in mind a soup that uses potato gnocchi. I was also looking for some real Italian-made pasta for a nice spaghetti dinner. I love my De Cecco and Barilla, mind you, but I was hoping to find something a little less.......common. I guess. Giddy at the potential prospects ahead of us, my wife and I got out of the car in the parking garage – thankful that we didn't have to venture into the sub-zero wind chill outside – and rode the escalator up to Eataly.

Pandemonium met us.

The crowds, even at two o' clock on a Thursday afternoon, were absolutely overwhelming. You couldn't actually choose where you wanted to start; you just stepped into the wave and hoped the tide carried you in the right general direction. My wife is not exactly agoraphobic, but I could sense her growing anxiety as she was bumped, jostled, shaken and stirred by the surrounding sea of humanity. It was clear that this was not going to be a pleasant, leisurely shopping trip. It was rapidly turning into an expedition; an exercise in survival. And then there was the fire alarm.

Almost immediately after getting swept into the maelstrom, a blaring klaxon began to sound and an amplified voice informed us that a fire had been reported in a retail area. We were advised to “stand by for further information” – at least I think that's what was being said. The crowd itself raised such a din as to overpower the announcement and the alarm, which continued to jangle our already jangled nerves as the attendant warning lights flashed. This went on for what seemed like hours, although it was probably about five minutes before the piercing racket ceased and the “all clear” was announced. Welcome to Eataly.

The map I had picked up at the door was useless; standing still long enough to consult it was tantamount to suicide by trampling. Looking around “together” was impossible. We each drifted wherever the current took us, occasionally breaking free and fighting toward something of interest. I swear to God I will never again complain about shopping at Walmart.

I have no doubt they had some wonderful stuff at Eataly, but I sure as hell didn't get to see any of it. All I saw were asses and elbows. I got twisted and bent in so many directions I'm not entirely sure the asses and elbows I was seeing weren't sometimes my own. Now I'm not browsing anymore. Now I'm on a mission: find what I came for and get the hell out of here. Alas, that was not to be the case.

They had exactly one bag of “Tipo 00” flour. Priced at $6.80 for 2.2 pounds. Outrageous, but I bought it. You see, you have to take out a loan to park at the Prudential Center in the first place, but if you buy at least ten dollars' worth of merchandise within you can get your parking validated down to only fourteen dollars for the first four hours. My little bag of flour got me a little over halfway there. The two packets of two-dollar spaghetti I bought got me the rest of the way to the goal. Or I could have bought one package of the stuff with Lidia's picture on it.

San Marzano tomatoes? Oh, they were there, but I could have booked passage to Italy and picked them myself for less. Same with the bread. I could have bought two or three loaves at the panetteria at Bricco over on Hanover Street for what one would have cost me at Eataly. Gnocchi? They had it, alright. Some was made with pumpkin and they had some stuffed with all kinds of stuff, but plain ol' potato gnocchi like I needed for my simple soup? Nah. At least none that I could see as I was driven through the fresh pasta section like a steer on its way to the Dodge City stockyards.

We were hungry. A break for a bite sounded like a good idea. We stopped at a sit-down place called La Pizza e La Pasta. How long is the wait? 90 minutes, you say? No, thank you. “Make a stop at La Piazza,” the map says. “Enjoy an aperitivo of wine and cheese, just like in Italy,” the map says. R-i-i-i-i-ght! What the map doesn't say is that you can fly to Italy faster. And cheaper. And with fewer crowds. I Panini E Le Ciabatte looked promising, but by then all we wanted was out.

I went to Eataly with the idea in mind of buying a few ingredients for a couple of simple meals. I couldn't find half of what I was looking for and I couldn't afford the other half. After all, I only had a few hundred bucks to spend. Overrated, overpriced, and thoroughly disappointing, Eataly was definitely not worth the seven hundred mile drive. No, I'm not crazy enough to make that kind of drive for a shopping trip. I was passing through the area anyway and only made a slight detour. But I won't go back to Eataly again even when I'm already in town. You know where I found my flour? A couple of blocks over at DeLuca's Market on Newbury Street. Three ninety-nine a bag. And there are shops and restaurants all over the North End that are equally well-stocked, cheaper, and a helluva lot more fun to visit. Give me Bricco Salumeria & Pasta Shoppe on Hanover Street or Salumeria Italiana on Richmond Street. Nobody beats Mike's Pastry on Hanover Street for cannoli. And you probably won't have a ninety minute wait at Pizzeria Regina. Sure, it's not “one stop shopping,” but you know what? I don't care.

Eataly Boston: with apologies to Julius Caesar, Veni, vidi, remansit frustra.

Pizza La Stella, Raleigh, North Carolina

Don't Expect Italian Flags And Dean Martin Muzak

A recent rainy winter night found our party of four at Pizza La Stella, a new downtown pizza place in Raleigh, North Carolina. Searching for a dining spot convenient to the North Carolina Symphony concert we had just attended, La Stella's “authentic Neapolitan pizza” hook got my attention.

If you're looking for the comforting kitsch of a run-of-the-mill pizzeria, keep looking. You won't find it at La Stella. There is nothing here that says “Italian” except for the writing done in tile work on the pizza ovens. The place looks, acts, and feels more like a trendy downtown fast casual establishment. It's all barn wood, heavy wooden beams, and casual banquettes. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. I've been to plenty of “Italian” restaurants where the décor was a lot better than the food. I'm just sayin' don't expect Italian flags on the walls and Dean Martin muzak in the background.

Upon entering, we ordered at the counter and were given the option of seating in the first floor dining area or upstairs in “The Loft,” La Stella's cocktail bar, billed as a “rustic retreat straight out of a forgotten era.” We opted for the dining room and were shown to a table where I could see one of the enormous custom made Stefano Ferrara wood-fired brick ovens at work. You can tell they are wood-fired as soon as you walk in; you'll probably leave smelling slightly smoky. The oven I could see was emblazoned with “fatta a mano.” The one I couldn't see said “con il cuore.” This is apparently the eatery's motto, even though when I questioned the server, she hadn't the slightest idea what the writing on the ovens said. I enlightened her and she got kind of an “ah-HAH” look on her face. Later I spied the English translation printed over a door. Now, I'm not suggesting that everybody in the place should speak fluent Italian, but surely somebody else must have noticed the writing on the ovens and asked about it. But I digress.

I had to have the Pizza Margherita. Made on a thin “doppio zero” crust with imported San Marzano tomatoes, mozzarella di bufala, and leaves of fresh basil, it is the definitive authentic Neapolitan pizza. All other pies are variations or imitations. You want a real pizza? The kind God orders? Gotta be a Margherita. My dinner companions, however, are carnivores, so they had to have something with meat. They ordered the Carnoso, a concoction of San Marzano tomatoes, Fontina cheese, soppressata, Italian sausage, and guanciale.

I was delighted with my choice. The flavors were wonderful and the ratios were perfect. The crust had a delectable char. My only complaint was that it was a tad floppy. It could have been a little crisper to stand up to the toppings. If I were a New Yorker who liked to fold my slice in half and stuff it in my face, it would have been perfect. However, I prefer the more Italian style of using a knife and fork to start with and then finishing the slice by picking it up and eating the area around the cornicione. This otherwise perfectly thin crust was so.....I don't want to say “soggy,” but......a knife and fork were nearly impossible and even just lifting it and eating it from the pointy end was tricky without wearing the toppings on my shirt. New York style was about all you could do with it. Not really my thing. That said, overall it was a delicious offering to which I ultimately did some serious damage. Even if I did have to take a ribbing from my friend for abandoning my utensils.

My wife had a slice of the Margherita, which she also pronounced as wonderful, but her main focus was on her generous Caprese salad; light and fresh and drizzled with a tart-sweet balsamic vinegar. It was also big enough to share.

Our friends were not quite as impressed with their fare. I suppose when you're accustomed to “regular” pizza with mozzarella and pepperoni, Fontina and soppressata may be acquired tastes. Their chief grievance was that the “bacon” overpowered everything else. Again, guanciale is a highly flavorful cut of “bacon,” made from the cheeks of the animal, and its strong flavor takes some getting used to. It couldn't have been too objectionable, though; I noticed there were no leftovers.

Service was a little odd. The Margherita came to the table in minutes, followed fairly quickly by the salad. My friends were left sitting and watching as my wife and I somewhat reluctantly chowed down. Not wanting to be rude, we offered them portions of salad and slices of our pizza because theirs was so slow in arriving. We were nearly finished with our pizza before their pizza came out, and that only happened after I got a server's attention and asked about it. My wife sampled a bit of their pie and her sensitive palate detected what she perceived as a slight difference in the tomatoes used in the two sauces. When I asked our server if different sauces or different tomatoes were used in the preparation, she obviously didn't have a clue. But give her points for faking a good answer. Note to management: menu training?

Pizza La Stella has a varied menu that includes both red sauce pies and a selection of white pizzas. (There's actually no such word as “pizzas”; the proper Italian is pizze, but I've long since given up on that lost cause.) Besides the aforementioned Margherita and Carnoso, they also have a Bolognese and a vegetarian offering called “The Shroomer,” among other specialties. The “Pollo Sporco,” a rosemary, Peppadew peppers, apple cider chicken, red onion, and garlic confit pizza, had me wondering. The name means “Dirty Chicken.” And, naturally, being in the middle of North Carolina, there has to be a “Carolina Classic,” a pizza consisting of Carolina pulled pork, red onion, pancetta, and La Stella slaw. Of course, they have “classic” cheese, pepperoni, and pepperoni and sausage pizza as well. There's a nice variety of antipasti, including fire-roasted Brussels sprouts, to start off with. Lots of salads in addition to the Caprese, including the option to “craft your salad” from an impressive list of toppings and dressings. The menu also features wood-fired wings, calzone and stromboli, and some tempting desserts.

The prices at Pizza La Stella are reasonable considering what you're getting. Can you get a pizza for eight bucks somewhere else? Sure, but not one with mozzarella di bufala on it, capisci? I'm not gonna kick about $15 for what I got. Ten bucks for a salad was okay because it fed the whole table. Some of the other salads were cheaper and some of the other pizzas – like the Carnoso – were more expensive. You can eat for less at Pizza Hut, but.......you get what you pay for.

Pizza La Stella is located at 219 Fayetteville Street in the heart of downtown Raleigh. I understand there has been a fairly high restaurant turnover at the location. Maybe this one will work. They don't accept individual reservations, but large groups can be accommodated with advance notice. Parking is....well, it's downtown, folks. Open from 11 a.m. to 10 p.m. Sunday through Wednesday, 11 a.m. to midnight on Thursday, and 11 a.m. to 1 a.m. Friday and Saturday, call them at 984-200-2441 or look them up on the Web at pizzalastella.com.

La Stella is Italian for “the star.” A lot of things have changed since my last visit to Raleigh in 1978. With “stars” like this one on the scene, I'll definitely go back more often.

No Dinner Reservations For Old, Fat, Naked People

I Won't Be Going To The Amrita

When July 29, 2016 rolls around, I will not be present for the grand opening of a new restaurant called The Amrita. In the first place, it's located in Tokyo, which is a wicked commute from my current home on the East Coast. Not that I don't occasionally travel to enjoy new restaurants, but 6,881 miles does seem like a bit of a stretch and besides, there are other reasons I won't be going to this one.

Given my culinary preferences, I seriously doubt there will be anything Italian on the menu. I could be wrong. Italian dishes are everywhere these days and The Amrita might up and surprise me with a fantastic bucatini al amatriciana. Who knows? And in any case, my wife is a big fan of Japanese food, so there's that consideration to take into account. Even so, however, there are still other reasons I won't be making reservations at The Amrita. Three reasons, to be exact: I'm old, I'm fat, and I don't like sitting around in paper underwear.

You see, The Amrita, which takes its name from a Sanskrit word for immortality, is one of a growing number of restaurants worldwide that caters to folks who want to dine senza vestiti. That means “without clothes,” for you non-Italian speakers or, as the late Lewis Grizzard was fond of saying, “nekkid.”

Okay, there are thousands of eateries for nudists and other sun worshipers in camps and enclaves dedicated to that sort of thing all over the globe. But The Amrita is fairly unique in that it, like its counterparts in London and Melbourne (the cities in England and Australia as opposed to those in Kentucky and Florida), is not located out in “nature” somewhere where patrons are already slapping volleyballs and swinging golf clubs au naturel. No, these places are smack in the middle of town and they invite all comers to come in and strip down for dinner.

At The Amrita's inaugural banquet, you'll be able to sit at the table in your “hygienic” paper panties and enjoy selections from an organic menu while being served “Adam and Eve-style” by “men with the world's most beautiful bodies” and enjoying entertainment in the form of a “Men's Show dance performance.” (Let's see......in America we have a term for such places, but I suppose “titty bar” wouldn't quite apply in this case, now would it?)

While I am not a habitue of such establishments, I have nothing against them. I used to have a Playboy Club key back in the day and I have patronized a Hooters or two over the years. Those institutions are different in that while the staffs may show varying degrees of skin, the customers must remain completely clothed. Or at least they must if they want to avoid getting tossed out. At The Amrita, everbody is invited to get naked. Well......almost everybody, and that exception leads to the final reasons I won't be going to The Amrita.

The Amrita has standards. (Stop smirking.) In order to be issued your paper undies, you have to be between the ages of 18 and 60. Apparently there is something unappetizing about age spots, stretch marks, and wrinkles. Obviously, the management is not aware of the Italian maxim that says, “a tavola non s'invecchia” – “at the table, one does not grow old.”

You also can't have any tattoos, which should just about guarantee a light crowd these days. However, even if you meet the age criterion and are unmarked and unblemished by body art, you still have to weigh in. Yep, them paper drawers don't come in XL. If you weigh more than 15kg (about 33 pounds) over the average weight for your height, well......there's a McDonald's right down the street.

Mia bella wife would make the age and weight cuts, but she has a couple of discreet tattoos that would not be so discreet under the circumstances, and although I am inkless, I am slightly overage and significantly undertall. (As opposed to being overweight, you know.) On the plus size.....er.......side, we wouldn't have to worry about those annoying Instagrammers or about clueless idiots babbling away on their cellphones. All such devices have to be locked away in a tabletop box. (Now there's an idea I can get behind at any eatery.) And we wouldn't have to be subjected to unwanted conversation from other diners: patrons must promise to refrain from being a “nuisance” by chatting up their nearly naked neighbors.

Alas, we couldn't afford the joint anyway: tickets are going for anywhere from 12,000 to 80,000 yen, which equates to $112 to $563 US. On the one hand, I suppose the cost would be somewhat offset by the savings incurred through not having to go out and buy new dinner outfits.

I suppose a certain degree of titillation (no pun intended) is to be expected, but nudity is a great equalizer under such conditions. The sartorial playing field is rather leveled out, after all, when you're wearing nothing but your birthday suit. However, I do think management ought to implement a ban on Viagra, Cialis, and such before dining. I mean, really. I know some of these places are just designed to be temporary pop-ups, but......

And you know, I hadn't before this second considered another aspect. As careful as I am, every once in awhile I do manage to splash or drop or dribble something down my shirtfront or into my lap. Or somebody else does it for me: the manager at the old Italian place that used to be located in Epcot at Disneyworld practically had apoplexy after a waiter spilled olive oil down the leg of my khaki pants. Such things would not be a problem at places like The Amrita. Just have some wet-naps handy and you're good to go. At worst you might have to whip off your little paper pants and put on some new ones. Unless, of course, flambéing or hot coffee are involved, in which case a trip to the hospital might be in order.

No, I guess July 29 will probably find me at Little Italy. It's close to home, you don't have to show an ID to get in there, it's okay if you have a tattoo or two, the only scales are located in the kitchen, you can can get a plate of spaghetti or ravioli for less than fifteen bucks, and everybody – thank God – wears clothes. I'll be there around seven if you'd care to join me.

Falling Out Of Love With Whole Foods

The “Whole Paycheck” Moniker Is Becoming Less Of A Gentle Jab And More Of A Bitch Slap

Like in the popular John Mellencamp song, I was born in a small town. And I live in a small town today. In the decades between, I've lived in a lot of big towns and while, as Mellancamp sings, I can breathe in a small town, I often can't buy decent groceries there. Or at last that's the way it used to be.

When I was a kid growing up in a Midwestern community of less than five-thousand, we had three grocery stores in town. And they were all pretty much the same. There was no olive oil. Cooking oil came from the most abundant local product; corn. You wanted cheese? You had your choice; Cheddar, Swiss, or American. The produce section could fit on a postage stamp and featured staples like apples, bananas, oranges, carrots, celery, and potatoes. Tomatoes, peas, and corn were available in season, of course, otherwise it was up to the Jolly Green Giant over in the canned goods aisle. Veal, lamb, duck, lobster? In your dreams. Beef, chicken, or pork chops; take it or leave it. My mom and I used to make monthly pilgrimages to the nearest “big city,” a metropolis of about ten-thousand, to acquire those rare “luxury items” we just couldn't get at home.

In later years, I discovered ethnic neighborhoods in places like Chicago and Minneapolis. Wow! No more Kraft spaghetti dinners in a box! I could actually buy the stuff I needed to make real Italian food at home. We had a Japanese friend visiting for a couple of weeks, and she was thrilled to find authentic Japanese ingredients for the dishes she wanted to prepare for us. You couldn't even buy soy sauce in the little markets I'd grown up with.

And then one day I discovered Whole Foods. I was not a “health nut” in those days, so I had pretty much bypassed the place at first until somebody told me I could find more than just granola and carrot juice in there. They had Parmigiano-Reggiano in the cheese department. “Okay,” I said, “let's go check this place out.” And I was hooked. It was love at first sight. Yeah, they had a lot of granola and carrot juice, but there was just so much more! It was mind boggling. The produce section went on for miles, stuffed full of every “exotic” fruit and vegetable my little heart could desire. They had amazing meats. I mean, come on! They had buffalo! There were bulk containers brimming with flours and legumes and grains I had never seen outside the ethnic stores. An ocean of fresh seafood awaited. And the cheese section.......I thought I had died and gone to Wisconsin. By way of Italy, France, England, and a number of other great cheesy places. There was every cheese I had ever imagined and some I hadn't even thought of. And great wines to boot.

Not only did Whole Foods have all these wonderful raw materials for me to take home and transform into delicious fare, they had delicious fare right there in the store. Whole Foods quickly became my favorite restaurant. They had an awesome hot bar. The location I frequented had a wonderful brasserie and a fantastic pizzeria. And a gelateria for dessert. What more could you ask for?

The closest Whole Foods was more than fifty miles away, but who cared? And yes, they were a little on the pricey side, but I was willing to pay extra for the quality and variety. I ignored the critics who called the place “Whole Paycheck” and started beating the drum and singing the song for Whole Foods, touting it as the only place on the planet to get anything and everything you needed to make amazing food at home. Sure it was expensive. Quality usually is. But still I sent friends and family there and I recommended it to readers and listeners and to human beings in general. Then something strange occurred.

Whole Foods had carved itself a niche as the industry leader in natural and organic products. And they pretty much had the market cornered when it came to providing ingredients you just couldn't get anywhere else. They became the media darling for shows like “Top Chef,” where the contestants were always shown going to a Whole Foods to purchase those high-quality high-end ingredients they needed to make their innovative and exciting dishes. Bear in mind, I was not on the “organic” or “natural” bandwagon. I'm still not. Too much wiggle room in those murky, undefined and uncodified terms. But quality and variety......those are things I understood and actively sought out. Still do. So imagine my surprise when I was strolling through a Sam's Club one day and found Parmigiano-Reggiano there. And it was cheaper.....much cheaper.......than what I had recently paid at Whole Foods. Hmmmmm.

A paradigm shift had occurred in the market. Over the course of a fairly short period of time, all the things I craved and drooled over at Whole Foods started cropping up at Kroger. And Publix. And Harris Teeter. Even “lower end” markets like Giant, Food City and Piggly Wiggly were upping their game. My jaw dropped when I started finding prosciutto and fresh mozzarella at Walmart. And all of it at much lower prices than Whole Foods was charging. And most within the limits of my small town. No more fifty mile treks to buy a wedge of cheese. Then farmers markets started springing up everywhere. Fresh, organic, natural produce.....including farm-fresh eggs......were suddenly as close as a downtown parking lot on a Saturday morning. What more could you ask for?

Whole Foods saw the writing on the wall and responded. Well.....sort of. They responded at the corporate level anyway. Lots of promises and guarantees, but so far no sign of any real change has been forthcoming as I discovered on my last trip to Whole Foods. Somebody had given me a fifty-dollar Whole Foods gift card. I was astonished when I realized that I could not spend it all in one trip. Not because the prices were so low, but rather because I couldn't find anything upon which to spend it that I couldn't find elsewhere and cheaper. Ten dollars a pound for bacon? Not when my butcher sells it for less than four dollars a pound. Arborio rice? They've got that everywhere nowadays. Olive oil? Trader Joes.......just as good and much cheaper. That Parmigiano-Reggiano that originally got me in the door at Whole Foods is now available at Walmart for about half the cost. I've never been able to find grana padano at Whole Foods. I picked some up at Publix the other day. Ooops.

Whole Foods got body-slammed by overpricing scandals in New York and California. More recently, the company's stock took a hit after an analyst downgraded the chain to an “underperfom” rating; Wall Street shorthand for “sell.” That move was based largely on a survey that revealed significant rumblings in the ranks of the Whole Foods faithful. More than a thousand Whole Foods customers.......customers, mind you, not the common “man-on-the-street”.....were polled and more than seventy percent failed to notice any price changes in the previous three months. This in the face of the company's promise to lower prices. Worse, only twenty-four percent of respondents said that Whole Foods' organic products were “definitely” better than those found at grocery stores. Fifty-four percent of those surveyed said the quality of the food was "sometimes" better at Whole Foods while the remaining twenty-two percent said "not at all." Apparently I'm not the only one falling out of love with Whole Foods. It looks like I've got a lot of company.

They've brought it on themselves. Everybody who's ever taken an economics class in high school knows that competition drives the market. When your loyal customers discover they can buy products that are equal to or better than yours for less somewhere else, how long do you think loyalty is going to last? I'm as loyal as the next guy. Sometimes I'm too loyal, riding the bandwagon all the way to the last stop in the hope that something will turn things around. But I guess when it comes to Whole Foods, I'll be jumping off as the wagon passes Publix. Or Kroger. Or Harris Teeter. Or even Walmart.

Will I stop recommending Whole Foods to other people? No. Not yet. They still have some unique aspects that other stores have yet to implement. For instance, you can sample before you buy at Whole Foods. The cheesemonger there will gladly let you try a bit of an unfamiliar cheese. Some Whole Foods locations have olive oil bars where you can try out the various brands and varieties offered. But the competition is catching wise to that trick, too, and it won't be long before Whole Foods loses its last competitive edge.

The “Whole Paycheck” moniker is becoming less of a gentle jab and more of a bitch slap as cost-conscious consumers continue to board the bus for less expensive locales. Goodness knows I'm not a penny-pincher, at least not when it comes to quality. Nickels and dimes don't bother me in the slightest. But dollars do. When I can buy two or three of something at one store for the cost of one of the same item at another store, guess where I'm shopping? Especially if the quality is about the same, which is more and more becoming the case with Whole Foods versus, say, Trader Joe's or Kroger. Parmigiano-Reggiano is as much a staple for me as American cheese is for some households. Harris Teeter regularly has it on sale for less than ten bucks a pound. As opposed to nearly twenty dollars a pound at Whole Paycheck......er......I mean Whole Foods. There's just no competition there. I love....let me spell that out.....L-O-V-E bacon. Ten bucks a pound for stuff that's supposed to be locally sourced? Okay, I'm usually all about “local,” but not when I can get Benton's bacon, the best bacon on the planet, for $7.50 or some pretty darn good porky ambrosia from my butcher for less than four dollars a pound. There's just no competition there. I get fresh eggs from a local guy. He charges me two dollars a dozen. Whole Foods can't touch that. And there's a place in town that now sells grass-fed beef for about what Whole Foods charges. Except it's fifty miles closer. No brainer.

Like John Mellencamp's “Small Town” character, my bed is in a small town. And as the quality and variety of goods being offered in my small town continues to increase and expand, my wallet will stay there, too. See you around, Whole Foods. I'll drop by when I'm in town and have a lot of extra money to spend. But don't hold your breath.