Off the Map: We Would Like to Issue a Retraction

Dip Sum Doughnuts -- Buddakan, Philadelphia, PA
Buddakan

It should come as no shock that we are not always the sharpest tools in the shed.  Sometimes we get confused, usually when the bill arrives.  But we also find restaurants of the same name that feature different menus at their various locations completely confounding.

We're looking at you, Buddakan.

And Your Little Doughnuts, Too

Many months ago, we had ventured to the Buddakan in Atlantic City in search of Marc Summers's chosen Best Thing I Ever Ate WITH MY HANDS doughnuts.  Unbeknownst to us at the time, Stephen Starr serves different kinds of doughnuts at the Atlantic City, Philadelphia, and New York locations.  We had assumed that even though they had a different name (Zan-Ful Doughnuts), the ones in Atlantic City were the same concept as the ones Marc Summers had talked about in Philly.

They were not.  And they were also awful.

Never Trust a Doughnut with Corners

Stuffed with cream filling and the overwhelming taste of banana, the doughnuts at the Atlantic City Buddakan were a sore spot in our early culinary adventures. 

So here we are, to try again.

And We Don't Like to Give Second Chances, So You're Welcome, Buddakan

We arrive at Buddakan at the end of our Philadelphia eating journey, looking to sit at the bar.  Of course, the downstairs bar is packed with a crowd of revelers that we have taken to calling the Real Housewives of South Jersey.  We take ourselves to the bar upstairs, which is slightly less packed but still devoid of empty seats, and order the dip sum doughnuts.  Between the atmosphere and the clientele, we decide that Buddakan reminds us almost exactly of TAO.  It is "sceney" (a word Vodka is trying to add to the English language lexicon, like Paula Abdul accomplished with "pitchy"), and we hate a scene.

As we wait for our doughnuts, we have time to observe the various dates taking up the bar stools.  First of all, we decide that all of the dates are instantly horrendous, because if the guy were good, he would have reserved a table.  Second of all, we spend most of our time trying to determine which of the couples are already married, and our ring-spotting eventually confirms that the ones who look the most bored are the ones who are betrothed.

Perhaps They Should Order Some Doughnuts to Spice Things Up

One of the recently-judged couples departs just as our doughnuts arrive, and we cuddle up to the bar for Buddakan's second shot at It's Not Even Noon Somewhere glory.

And these doughnuts, as Marc Summers promised, are much, MUCH better.

Upscale Doughnut Holes

Our main issue with the Atlantic City variety had been the distasteful cream filling the dough.  These doughnuts, in contrast, are like Dunkin' Donuts holes, only larger and fluffier, but with no banana-flavored cream to disrupt the proceedings.  Spiced on their exteriors with sugar and cinnamon, they are almost better alone than they are with the provided sauces (blackberry jam, chocolate sauce, and gingered cream cheese).

Though Ginger is Naturally All Over Her Candied Cream Cheese

So Buddakan, we apologize: your actual Best Thing I Ever Ate doughnuts are not as bad as we had initially feared.  They almost make up for the random men (on their own failing dates) asking us first if we were VIPs and then for the names of Vodka's pets and other such "sceney" invasions of privacy.  Almost.

And so with Buddakan, our day in Philly draws to a close.  We calculate that based on our schedule, we consumed a cocktail approximately every two hours -- "a steady flow of alcohol" -- and a Best Thing I Ever Ate dish every 90 minutes.  While yes, Philadelphia had its definite moments of "Fail" throughout our day, it certainly had its winning moments as well.  And we have therefore determined that Philly, while never completely down for the count, rarely quite reaches the top of the podium either.

Buddakan's Dip Sum Doughnuts: 4 stars

Off the Map: Here We Come A'Wassailing

West Indies Pepperpot Soup -- City Tavern, Philadelphia, PA
City Tavern

By this point, our "Win, Fail, Win, Fail" pattern has ceased to exist, and we feel we have encountered too many Fails in a row.  Not helping the situation is the fact that we now have to walk from South Street to Olde City, a journey that is not that far but inevitably will now be completely desolate and dark and thus, creepy.  This desolation is our main issue with Philadelphia, generally speaking: we don't like to feel isolated, and in Philly, particularly after nightfall, one almost always feels alone.  It's not that we pass such unsavory characters on our walk from Creperie Beau Monde to City Tavern; it's that we don't pass anyone until we reach Walnut Street.  And this phenomenon never ceases to feel eery.

For this reason, Vodka is walking at her normal brisk clip, to which Ginger, who is now seriously regretting the Parc bread basket, has to trot to keep up (especially ridiculous because Ginger is at least four inches taller).  Relieved when we reach City Tavern, we are eager for our first experience of the admittedly tourist destination.  While this dinner is West Indies pepperpot soup-specific, as per Adam Gertler's choice on the OLD SCHOOL episode of Best Thing I Ever Ate, we are looking forward to encountering Ben Franklin and Friends in the meantime.

We the People of Manhattan Have Come to Philly In Pursuit of Soup and Street Lamps

Unfortunately, it looks like everyone who works at City Tavern is authentic to the 1700s in costume only.

They Also Clearly Skipped the John Hancock School of Neat Penmanship

We are expecting the waitstaff to speak to us in what we're calling "foreign tongue," to at least feign lack of knowledge of anything that has happened past the eighteenth century.  Instead, we encounter worker after worker that could very well be working at the Cheesecake Factory, were it not for their chaps and petticoats.  We naturally ask if we can sit at the bar, and we are lead to the "Dispensary" (which Vodka keeps accidentally calling the "Dysentery," a la Oregon Trail).

On the drink menu, we are ecstatic to find "wassail," as we love any and all references to a Christmas carol.  Some type of red wine spiced with cloves, cinnamon, and the like (including a real cinnamon stick), it is served warm and we fall instantly in love.

Love and Joy Come to You, and To You Your Wassail, Too

As we wait for the arrival of our pepperpot soup, Vodka comments that the large group of college students at the next bench looks bored.  "Egh, so do we," Ginger answers, shedding light on the fact that our blog behavior makes us seem completely disengaged with one another for large portions of our "meals."  There is just so much to contend with, what with the picture snapping, the note taking, and the Googling of "wassail."

Plus, there's the little fact that we have already been in each other's company for no less than 14 hours.

And There Are Only So Many Christmas Carol-Based Beverages One Can Drink in a Day

Thankfully, Vodka's reaction to Ginger's first taste of the soup reveals that we are not yet sick of each other.  Upon scooping the first spoonful of this mysterious pepperpot substance into her mouth, Ginger makes some incomprehensible noise of satisfaction that sends Vodka into a raging fit of the giggles.  Practically lying down on our entirely-too-large-for-our-party-size booth, Vodka is ravaged by laughter for so long that the soup is practically chilled before she manages to take her first taste.  At which point, she understands Ginger's reaction.

Ye Olde Spoon O' Soup

The soup, which features hunks of potato and beef, taro root, and leafy greens that remind of us kale, is entirely likable (and entirely salty, which obviously thrills Vodka).  Much like the wassail, it has a distinct kick of spice at the end of each taste, and we find the whole thing fairly scrumptious.  While we later learn that pepperpot soup usually features tripe, we do not find any stomach pieces floating among the broth, so City Tavern either does not include it or does a fine job of hiding this particular component from the tourists.

And By "Tourists," We Mean "Us"

"I've taken a liking to soup this week," Vodka repeats to Ginger no less than five times, causing Ginger to contemplate a nap on our booth bench.  Indeed, despite the fact that yes, we are nursing our glasses of delicious wassail, we are at City Tavern an exceptionally long time, because we cannot get our non-Olde English-speaking waitress to bring us our check (why is this always our issue?  Don't people want us to pay them?!).

Or Is City Tavern a Soup Kitchen?

Finally emerging from City Tavern, we decide that we probably could have lived in revolutionary times, as long as we managed to keep straight the difference between "dispensary" and "dysentery".

City Tavern's West Indies Pepperpot Soup: 4 stars

Off the Map: Is This Supposed to be the Moulin Rouge?

Crepes -- Creperie Beau Monde, Philadelphia, PA
Creperie Beau Monde

By some miracle, neither of us had ever been to Creperie Beau Monde, despite our respective years of Philadelphia living.  Both of us had heard of the place, but before now, we had not made an effort to get here.

And now, we're not sure we'd make an effort to go back.

The Place to Go If You Like Your Meal Gift-Wrapped

After our gourmet dining at Whole Foods experience, we venture a few blocks east to Creperie Beau Monde for Alton Brown's two favorite Best Thing I Ever Ate UNDER WRAPS crepes, the mushroom, swiss cheese, and toasted almond crepe (from the Savory side of the menu) and the pears, chestnut cream, and chocolate crepe (from the Sweet side).

Despite Their Appearance, The Crepes Were Not Actually Served on Plastic Plates

Neither of us have much of an opinion on crepes, which is more than we can say for our thoughts about the rest of the restaurant.  First of all, the place is loud.  It is loud in the way that Barbuto is loud: without reason.  It is not like they're pumping music through the speakers a la Ms. Tootsie's; no, Creperie Beau Monde's single dining room is deafening with chatter, a complete debacle in acoustical design.  Adding insult to injury, we are seated in the back corner by the kitchen, despite other empty tables throughout the restaurant, and the clatter of the busboys breaking glasses (seriously) only compounds the noise factor.

Also, the Dark Lighting Is Not Conducive to Picture-Taking

Proving that we have become elderly before our 30th birthdays, we then latch into complaining to each other about the waitresses' attire.  It seems that Creperie Beau Monde's dress code is "black, short, tight, undergarment-revealing," no matter what one's age or body type.  The whole thing is a bit of a horror show, and it leads us to wonder if someone has tried to install the Moulin Rouge in the back alleys of Philadelphia.

Thankfully, our crepes arrive promptly, and Ginger tries to wash down them, the bread, and her Parc cocktails with her newfound BFF, green tea, while Vodka sticks with a glass of chardonnay.  Ginger is in the mood for dessert, and Vodka is not, so we split up the sweet and savory crepes accordingly.  The contents of both crepes, we notice, come spilling out onto the plate the second we cut into them.

We Always Enjoy Eating the Equivalent of Soup with a Fork - How About You?

We do appreciate that Beau Monde piles the inside components on top of the crepe itself so that we can see what we're eating, but this aesthetic gesture doesn't do much for the taste.

So Inside, We Have Pears, Chocolate, Chestnut Sauce, but Sadly, No Whipped Cream

First up, the mushroom, swiss cheese, and toasted almond crepe is, if nothing else, texturally interesting.  The cheese provides goo, the almonds crunch, and the mushrooms... mush?  The overall effect, however, is of eating cream of mushroom soup out of a soft tortilla.

Uniform Square = Impressive Geometry

The pear, chestnut cream, and chocolate crepe is similarly just okay (though Vodka finds the homemade whipped cream nothing short of delectable).

Though The Insides Look Like a Decaying Organ

We believe the problem with both crepes lies in the fact that there is no flavor diversity as we make our way through the plates -- the taste profile is always the same.  In Creperie Beau Monde's defense, if left to our own devices, we would not have chosen the same crepes as Alton Brown, so perhaps if the ingredients were better suited to our particular preferences, we would find the crepes more satisfying and less monotonous (the crepe wrapping itself is indeed very appealing, and we pull it apart, sans ingredients, to eat separately).

We'll Just Take the Carb Portion of This Plate, Thanks

By this point in the evening, we are fairly full and increasingly exhausted, as we have already managed to walk most of the length of Philadelphia and back.  As we try to work up the energy to leave, Vodka confesses, "I can barely sit right now," which causes Ginger to perform an honest-to-goodness spit-take with her water glass.

Needless to Say, the Crepes Did Not Fare Well in This Attempted Drowning

We stumble back onto the Philadelphia streets, content in the fact that even if we spit things on tables, at least our undergarments are not visible.  And we suppose this is why we will never fit in at the Moulin Rouge.

Creperie Beau Monde's Crepes: 3 stars

Off the Map: Slowest Chicken Ever

Southern Fried Chicken -- Ms. Tootsie's Restaurant Bar Lounge, Philadelphia, PA
Ms. Tootsie's Restaurant Bar Lounge

Had we been forced to procure roast chicken with our pommes puree at Parc, we have decided that we would have brought it to Ms. Tootsie's, where we are supposed to eat Robert Irvine's favorite FRIED CHICKEN, to have them fry it for us.

BYOC: Bring Your Own Chicken

Lucky for all involved, our hands are roast chicken-free when we arrive at Ms. Tootsie's Restaurant Bar Lounge on South Street.

Even If This Chicken Is the Protagonist of Ginger's Latest Reading Venture

Now, we are fairly certain that this place, when it was featured on Best Thing I Ever Ate, had been called "Ms. Tootsie's Soul Food Cafe."  So we had expected to arrive at a quaint dining room featuring pink tablecloths and Grandma's floral china.  Instead, what we find when we reach the given address is the equivalent of a nightclub.

It appears that somewhere along the line, Ms. Tootsie's name changed to the punctuation-deprived "Ms. Tootsie's Restaurant Bar Lounge" (apparently, Ms. Tootsie does not believe in commas).  Outside the front door, a large crowd of potential diners as already assembled, and the hostess manages to be flustered yet completely lackadaisical in the face of the mess before her.  When we hear that the wait for a table will be an hour an a half (at 5:30pm!), we inquire about their take-out option.  The hostess sends us to the bar to order, and we encounter the complete opposite of a "soul food cafe" for the first time.

Ms. Tootsie's features dark, moody lighting, white leather couches, and pounding music that does not remotely match the music videos being played on the flat-screen televisions (this disparity bothers Ginger so much during our wait that she keeps downloading samples of the music video songs on her phone so she can hear what they sound like).  Maneuvering our way to the bar, we manage to place our order for one thigh and two drumsticks with the very pleasant bartender.  He tells us our order should be ready in 15 minutes.

35 minutes later, and after ample consultation, our order finally appears.

Wow, Those Leafy Greens Look... "Impressive"

And this lack of efficiency seems to be a huge issue for Ms. Tootsie's... Whatever It's Called Now.  The whole time we are waiting, at least three tables stand completely empty in the dining room, while the crowd outside grows and grows.  The staff are all milling around with no set tasks, as the cake tray girl is also the soda girl and the bathroom girl and the take-out girl, depending on the minute (or, based on the pace of the workmanship, depending on the "5 minute interval").  Adding to the chaos, the restaurant's computers are down, so they are cash-only for the night.

The whole scenario, for lack of a more descriptive term, is a "hot mess."

Literally, hot.  Besides the lighting, the noise, and the lack of urgency, the place is toasty, and the whole thing is making Ginger feel increasingly ill ("I don't think you understand how much bread I ate at Parc.  I had a slice of the French bread, a slice of the wheat bread, and three slices of the nut bread.  I can't handle this").

Ginger's Bread Basket of Binge

Finally, when our to-go chicken arrives, and we scramble away from Ms. Tootsie's as fast as the mob at the front door will let us.

Now, however, we are left with the conundrum that we are virtually homeless -- where are we going to eat our chicken?!  Then, as if sent as a beacon from the southern fried gods, the lights of Whole Foods appear before us.  We enter, buy beverages so that we'll look less like interlopers in their dining section, and dig in.

The chicken is fine.

And Not Nearly As Impressive as Our Ability to Trespass

We have pretty much figured out that our initial reaction to Best Thing I Ever Ate dishes coincides with our final rating.  If we instantly moan, nod, and mumble variations of "Mmm," it will turn into a 5 or a 4.  If we pinch our lips, crinkle our nose, and chew like we're about to gag, it will turn into a 2 or a 1.

If we do absolutely nothing, the dish is 3 stars.  It is nothing more than adequate.  And so goes the fate of Ms. Tootsie's chicken.

Welcome to the Middle Class, Ms. Tootsie's

The batter, which we are incapable of telling whether or not is attached to skin, is crispy and crunchy, but the flavoring so utterly lacking compared to our friends at Hill Country Chicken that it is almost laughable.

I Played My Drumstick for Him, Pa Rum Pum Pum Pum

The meat is not particularly juicy, but it's not dry either.  It's just... there.  Besides the fact that the chicken is not remotely greasy (frankly, Vodka believes a bit more grease wouldn't hurt the situation), it tastes no better than what one would find at a local grocery store or, dare we say, at KFC.

Colonel Sanders Would Not Be Impressed

For all of these reasons -- their service, their decor, and their chicken -- Ms. Tootsie's remains an enigma to us.  We would say that they should just stick with what they're doing well, but frankly, we haven't figured out what that is yet.

Ms. Tootsie's Restaurant Bar Lounge's Southern Fried Chicken: 3 stars

Off the Map: We Just Really Like Mashed Potatoes

Pommes Puree -- Parc Brasserie, Philadelphia, PA
Parc Brasserie

So far in our culinary journey across Philadelphia, we have encountered a win (Kanella), a fail (Parc), and another win (The Dandelion).

Unfortunately, this pattern sets us up for a fail, and we find just that at "Food Truck Row" in West Philadelphia.  We venture here to try to find the A&M Halal Food Truck, which is yet another stop on our Best Thing I Ever Ate itinerary.  But when we eventually stumble upon said "Row" (a place that, after four years living less than ten blocks away, we never knew existed), we find a bevy of assorted food trucks.

All of them closed.  Fail.

Soldiering on, we scurry over to our school's football stadium so we can partake in our one scheduled homecoming activity: going on the field with the band alumni during halftime.  Based on our calculations, we are due for a win.  Instead, we encounter our first Philadelphia double-fail of the day.  It seems that there is a misplaced list of which band alums are allowed in the stadium (heaven forbid we pay for tickets to a sporting event), and no one seems willing to try to locate it.  After being sent from the box office to a random tent and then back to the box office, we confront the security guards themselves, who, after much confusion, tell us that they'll let us in if we can produce some kind of ID affiliating us to the school (apparently, a tattoo would be preferred.  We're not kidding).

After seeing our addresses on our driver's licenses, security decides that we wouldn't travel all this way just to break into a half-played football game, and we are granted admittance.

Win.

By the time we finish frolicking on the field for all of five minutes, we are ready to return to our strict eating schedule.  Out of the goodness of our hearts (or really, our OCD-like tendency to complete things), we have decided to give Parc another chance.  Earlier, when we had arrived and staked out two places at the over-crowded bar, we were informed that the pommes puree (mashed potatoes to us peasants) would not be available until 3:00pm.  Annoyed, as we are fairly certain that their online menus say otherwise, we had left and stumbled into The Dandelion.  Now, it is 3:30pm, and we are back for our promised mashed potatoes.

And no one will serve them to us until 5:00pm.

What is going ON, Parc?!

How Are We Supposed to Carb-Load Now?!

Since we have no where else to go, as most of the other places on our itinerary open at 5:00pm, we decide to wait it out at one of the many empty tables outside.  Where the hostesses at Parc seem none to keen to seat us, as it takes them many minutes to allow us to occupy one.  When we do, we have our first encounter with the waiter who will soon be regretting that he ever showed up for work today.  You see, we have decided to play dumb ("play dumb" is relative in our case, based on our continued inability to figure out how to split our tabs) and ask him if they will serve us a side of mashed potatoes, even though they are not on the mid-day menu. 

"We'll take leftovers," Vodka offers.  "Like, if you have some extra from last night.  We're not picky."  The waiter seems to find this gesture odd, as he is not aware that we are on a Best Thing I Ever Ate mission for Robert Irvine's CLASSIC choice, and we have not admitted to this fact.

Instead, Ginger adds this gem of an explanation: "We just really like mashed potatoes."

And We REALLY Dislike Having to Wait for Them... AGAIN

The waiter, bless his heart, says he will go check.  When he comes back, he has both of our grapefruit martinis but not a single side of mashed potatoes, which the staff in the kitchen is still insisting cannot be served before 5:00pm.  We have come to learn that Parc is very stringent on the various "rules" of their establishment -- they are not flexible concerning, well, anything, but particularly about their doling out of dinner side dishes ahead of time.

We tuck into our cocktails and the complimentary bread basket.  Our drinks are icy and quite good, if not particularly memorable (the grapefruit margarita at Barrio Chino has ruined all subsequent grapefruit-based drinks for us).  Ginger still manages to down hers within minutes, and she then decides that she should choose a drink she can sip more slowly.  When beer is suggested, she turns up her nose and states, "Please, that would take me the rest of my life to finish drinking."

Least Cohesive Cocktail Shot Ever

Settling on a new cocktail, Ginger is also quite taken with the bread basket, which Vodka, for once in her life, finds completely undesirable.  Slathering butter onto piece after piece, with nary a care for the four additional dishes we are still scheduled to eat tonight, Ginger drones on about how she should have lived in 1990 because "no one cared then."  (As she is mid-way through her second cocktail, it is difficult to determine what exactly people did not care about and/or whether or not Ginger is aware that she actually did "live" in 1990).

Let's Hope This Bread Did Not Also Live in the 20th-Century

By this point, we have almost come to accept our potato-less fate, at least until our friend arrives and hears all about Pommes-Puree-Gate.  As it is now close to an hour after our initial inquiry, less than thirty minutes until the mashed potatoes will appear on the dinner menu, our friend decides to take a stab at the quest, once again "playing dumb."

"Do you, by chance, have mashed potatoes?" she asks our long-suffering waiter as we attempt to suppress our laughter.

"Let me go check," he answers.  We decide that said waiter is unfailingly polite, as we would have answered with "Why don't you ask those idiots next to you?"  Alas, our friend gets no further than we did, as our waiter tells us that the kitchen is still refusing to allow the potatoes out of their premises.

Now, this is just getting ridiculous.

In the meantime, we make separate trips to the restroom and are doubly confounded by restaurants' inability to label bathroom doors "Boys" and "Girls."  Parc's restrooms feature completely faded letters that once read "Monsieurs" and "Dames."  Now, call us crazy, but if restaurants are going to insist on labeling their bathrooms in foreign tongues, they should at least make sure that the writing is legible so that their patrons don't, say, go wandering into the "Monsieur" room by mistake (hypothetically speaking).

Finally, after a full ninety minutes of hanging out on the sidewalks of Philadelphia in search of mashed potatoes, a steaming bowl of them arrives before us.  Digging our spoons into the creamy yellow-ish mixture, which is sprinkled with chives, we figure out what Parc has been doing all day:

Pureeing potatoes within an inch of their lives.

And For Our Next Course, We'll Take Some Smashed Peas and Carrots

We're not saying the mashed potatoes are not good.  In fact, their taste is more buttery, salty, and yes, CLASSIC, than almost any we have encountered before.  But they are also the consistency of baby food.

Now, Ginger has absolutely no issue with this texture.  Admitting that she "never eats mashed potatoes," she does not have an ideal with which to compare these.  Vodka, in contrast, keeps repeating "These need some chunks" at spoonful intervals.  It seems her problem with the potatoes is merely a matter of preference: she likes mashed potatoes thick, chunky, and sticky, while the ones before us could be piped into a Gerber jar with next to no effort.

Best Thing I Ever Ate for the Under-12-Months Set

We lap up the remainder of the potatoes and decide we are grateful that we weren't forced to order the roast chicken with which they are usually served.  We say goodbye to our fellow potato-grubbing friend and head off to our new locale, continuing to debate the merits of soupy versus chunky potatoes.  Eventually, Ginger sums up her preference in a single phrase:

"I just enjoy knowing that there is a food I can still eat when I have no teeth."

Parc Brasserie's Pommes Puree: 3 stars