Off the Map: Cleveland, Where Cinnamon Rolls Are an Appetizer

Biscuits and Gravy -- Lucky's Cafe, Cleveland, OH

Lucky's Cafe

While neither of us care to actually do the math to prove this point, we're fairly certain that Michael Symon has the highest Best Thing I Ever Ate average of any of the Food Network stars. 

The Benefit of Choosing Dishes That Look Like This

It is for this reason that Vodka was so eager to explore Michael's hometown choices, while Ginger sat at home with increasing levels of regret as one after another of Cleveland's culinary masterpieces was deemed a winner.

Who Would Have Thought Cleveland Could Produce Such High Levels of FOMO?

And thankfully for everyone but Ginger, the streak lives on at Lucky's Cafe, home of Michael's favorite biscuits and gravy from the COMBOS episode. 

Lucky Be a Lady

In a great show of self-restraint, Vodka and Mezcal order one of these breakfast entrees to share, but top off this choice with mugs  of hot apple cider and a cinnamon roll appetizer.

One Step Forward, Three Sips Back

Before our biscuits and gravy order has even reached the kitchen, Vodka can be heard moaning over the buttery greatness of said cinnamon roll, its delightful taste topped only by the steaming mug of cider which has been diluted with a solid helping of melted caramel. 

What Cleveland Dreams Are Made Of

Our level of glee is only heightened when an overflowing plate of white gravy is placed before us, camouflaging a pair of flaky biscuits and fluffy scrambled eggs. 

Eggs Playing Hide and Seek

A generous helping of potatoes and precisely 10 grapes complete the dish, and Vodka immediately knocks the "fruit course" over to Mezcal's side of the table. 

There Were Exactly Ten. We Counted

The potatoes themselves are deceivingly delicious, being that such home fry-type creations tend to be throwaways at other breakfast establishments. 

Also, Lucky's Doubles as an Art Gallery

And the biscuits and gravy could stand up against any similar creation found south of the Mason Dixon line. 

Actual Description of the Menu Item Since We Were Too Busy Eating It to Care

Indeed, our only criticism of our entire Lucky's Cafe experience is that their hot sauce bottle releases approximately half a thimble-full of liquid at a time, and based on how prone Vodka is to complaining, that is quite the feat. 

Sidenote: Vodka Eats Hot Sauce Now

So with a final swig of apple cider, Vodka and Mezcal head back to the sidewalks of Cleveland, content in the knowledge that, by the time this weekend is over, Michael Symon's Best Thing I Ever Ate record may not just be unbeatable, but most likely approaching valedictorian levels.

The Luckiest Cafe of All

Lucky's Cafe's Biscuits and Gravy: 5 stars*

*Certifiable Best Thing We Ever Ate

Off the Map: The Accidental Waffle

Chicken and Waffles -- Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles, Los Angeles, CA
Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles

Only three stops into our food tour of Los Angeles, and we are growing delirious.  Some may blame the jetlag.  Some may blame the fact that we haven't been bowled over by any of the Best Thing I Ever Ate dishes yet.  But we would blame the fact that we are in desperate need of a cocktail.

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

After our excursion for tacos, Vodka checks the double-decker tour bus app and discovers that the bus we had planned to ride in the direction of our next eating location is less than two minutes away.  The problems with this are a) if we miss this bus, the next one won't arrive for another 45 minutes, b) we're not exactly sure where the bus stop is, and c) however we slice it, we're going to be required to run.

Doesn't Everyone Arrive at 5-Star Restaurants on Sightseeing Buses?

We take off "running" (LA's abundance of personal trainers would almost certainly not consider our trot "running") in the direction we think the tour bus will be, and sure enough, a double-decker monstrosity is straight ahead.  At this time, we break into a full-on "sprint" (again, the categorization of our speed is subjective) and throw ourselves onto the bus just as the driver opens the door.  

Where, save for the driver, the bus is completely empty.

No Problem -- Might You Know Where We Could Find a Bar?

Said driver informs us that the actual bus stop, for the actual bus, is somewhere "across the street" (communication issues prevent us from understanding exactly what bus, what street, and what stop he is referring to).  Our impatience results in a decision to throw money at the problem and instead to flag down one of our trusty Uber drivers, who carts us to Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles, home of Duff Goldman's Best Thing I Ever Ate COMBOS dish, the chicken and waffle.

All Restaurants Should Hang This Warning When We Come to Town

When we stumble out of the bright sunshine (Vodka would say TOO bright of sunshine) into the relatively dark interior of Roscoe's, we immediately feel as though we have entered some sort of alternate universe.  We are ushered to a table by the very jovial host (again with the people in LA being disarmingly nice), and we are at once disheartened to find that the only drinks available on the menu are beer (which we despise) and "house wine," a term which has proven in the past to be our heads' personal nemesis.  

House Wine = Hangovers R Us

As the clock clicks disturbingly close to noon, we resign ourselves to yet another sober meal as we place an order for a single platter of chicken and waffles.

It bears repeating that we ordered ONE platter of chicken and waffles.  Or so we thought.

Within minutes, plates of the infamous combo are placed in front of both of us.  

We Really Need to Stop Using the Royal We

Now, if still in New York, there is a solid chance that we would have fought this circumstance.  That we would have chased down our waiter and insisted that he take away the accidental waffle, both from our table, and perhaps more importantly, from our check.  

Mister, Do You Know How Many Meals We Have Left to Eat Today?!

But in less than a half day, LA seems to have mellowed us.  It's the problem, we decide, when everyone is so bloody NICE to us -- we then feel bad going at them in our usual guns-blazing fashion.  And so, we reluctantly begin making our way through our separate plates of chicken and waffles.  

Leggo My Eggo, This Is Not

After all, we do love a salty/sweet pairing, so perhaps we'll be grateful that we each have our own portion, and for once, do not have to share....

Yeah, not so much.

The Perfect Bite?

The fried chicken portion of Roscoe's offering is really quite good.  Crispy on the outside and moist and juicy on the inside, it is even preferred to some of the Best Thing I Ever Ate FRIED CHICKEN dishes we've tasted in the past.  

You Know What Would Go Well With This Chicken? ALCOHOL

The waffle, however, doesn't have much in the way of flavor, and after a solid helping of real Vermont maple syrup earlier at BLD, the grocery store version available here just doesn't seem to cut it.  Vodka ends up eating the chicken on its own, while Ginger mostly winds up consuming the butter.

Happy Cholesterol Check to You, Too

After acquiring some to-go boxes, we dump the remainder of our plates inside, assuming that they will last all of a block before we get tired of carrying them. 

Now, Doesn't That Look Appetizing?

In the end, it turns out the leftovers prove to be quite useful later in the day while stuck in traffic on top of one of the infamous double-decker buses. 

"And On Your Left, You'll Find Two Girls Gnawing on a Chicken Bone..."

Which we suppose proves that you never know when an accidental waffle just might come in handy.  

Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles's Chicken and Waffles: 3 stars

Off the Map: If It Weren't for the Trash Can, We'd Have a Lot of Leg Room

House-Cured Corned Beef Brisket and Caramelized Cabbage -- The Franklin Cafe, Boston, MA
The Franklin Cafe

In The Franklin Cafe's defense, we were not in the proper mindset when entering its doors.  Having just come from four quiet, appealingly lit restaurants, we were not prepared for the onslaught of darkness, noise, and lack of seating that washed over us the minute we entered the premises.

Who Ever Heard of Risking One's Hearing in Pursuit of Cabbage?

And as we have mentioned many times before, we hate nothing more than loud, dark restaurants.  We don't want to shout and we don't want to reach out blindly in search of our food.  And even without Ginger present, Vodka can almost hear her grumbling about the situation the entire time she makes her way into The Franklin Cafe with her equally high volume-averse friend.

Franklin Cafe Seems to Be into Supersize Wreaths This Year

Finding no seats at the bar nor at the nine surrounding tables, we ask a waiter where we should go in order to be assured the next open booth.

"Just stand anywhere in the restaurant," he answers, which is just about the least helpful response we have received in Boston thus far.

We decide to saddle up to the trash can at the end of the bar, prime position for hopping on the next available stools.  Vodka, once again, is trying to order her latest obsession, flavored vodka and club soda, and she is appeased to learn that the Franklin Cafe is not only allowed to serve hard alcohol (ahem, Oleana), but they have a wide variety of flavors available.  We tuck into our blueberry vodka soda and beer and preemptively order our corned beef and cabbage, hoping that seats will open up before our third dinner of the night arrives.

Or Else We're Going to Blind You All with Vodka's Camera Flash Until You Leave

As if sent a message from the Best Thing I Ever Ate COMBOS gods of Adam Gertler, the gentlemen at the two closest stools get up to leave just as our scalding cast iron pan of Irish delicacies arrive, and we leap onto their vacated seats with the speed, if not nimbleness, of two cats.

No Comment on How Closely Our Desired Dish Resembles Cat Food

Unfortunately, we have not managed to completely escape our old pal, the trash can, as Vodka's friend comments, "If it weren't for this trash can, we'd have a lot of leg room," but we simply tuck our ankles under our stools and sink our forks into the platter before us.

And Throw This Dimly-Lit, Mediocre Bread into Said Can

At first glance, at least from what we can see of it, the corned beef appears extremely fatty, verging on Fatty Crab levels.  Unlike Fatty Crab, actual meat is present with this fat, so the whole thing is not a complete debacle.  It takes little more than a stab of the fork to recognize that our knives will not be needed, as the beef itself is so tender that it practically melts into the spokes of the fork.

New Campaign Image for "This Is Why You're Fat"

The first bite of the combined beef and cabbage is relatively pleasing, if a bit on the greasy side.  As the meal goes on, however, we find ourselves needing more and more of the sides of sea salt and Dijon mustard in order to make our way through it.

And If a Sprinkling of Salt Is the Highlight of a Dish, Well...

While the taste of it is not bad, it is also not something we would seek out again, especially with the cave-like atmosphere of the bar itself.

May or May Not Be Plastic Silverware

And plus, considering we get subsequently lost in the wilds of Dorcester on our way to the Red Line, we don't think we'll be making our way to South Boston again any time soon.  Especially if it's only in the pursuit of fire and cabbage.

The Franklin Cafe's House-Cured Corned Beef Brisket and Caramelized Cabbage: 3 stars

Off the Map: Almost a Healthy Dish -- Almost

Beer-Battered Fish and Chips -- The Dandelion, Philadelphia, PA
The Dandelion

In truth, The Dandelion is not even on today's itinerary, and we end up here only after we discover that Parc Brasserie is incapable of producing mashed potatoes before 5:00pm (but more on that later).  After barging out of Parc in various states of disgruntlement (Ginger murmuring, "This is what I hate about Philadelphia - from massive win to massive fail"), a fast perusal of our Best Thing I Ever Ate database shows that we are a mere two blocks away from The Dandelion, where they serve beer-battered fish and chips, Marc Summers's COMBOS choice.

Cheerio, Darlings!

Vodka makes us an OpenTable reservation when we are less than one block away (as it turns out, there is plenty of room, as all of Philadelphia seems to be at Parc).

And Anyone Who Is Not Is Afraid of The Dandelion's Decor

Rather than actually sitting at said reserved table, we do as we always do and saddle up to the bar and consult the cocktail menu to find something to take away the sting of the lost mashed potatoes.

Pommes Puree Consolation Prize

Ginger decides on the Pimm's Deluxe, which features Pimm's #1, beefeater gin, lemon, and muddled cucumber.  To some, this would be considered a faulty choice, as neither of us have a clue what "Pimm's" is (or, for that matter, why one would need to muddle a cucumber).  The genial bartender, upon hearing our moronic conversation, brings us over a taste of Pimm's (which he describes perfectly as tasting like "Dr. Pepper with alcohol").

If That Lamp Said "Vodka," Vodka Would Steal It for Her Apartment

"See, people are nice here," Ginger muses.  "Nobody's ever nice to us in New York."

"How about you test how nice he is by asking for a sample of every other component of our drinks?" Vodka suggests.

Now Can We Please Try a Cucumber, Extra-Muddled

Rather than push our luck, we instead try Vodka's cocktail of choice, the Tartanka, which includes Smirnoff vodka, fresh-pressed apple juice, cinnamon, and a red apple wedge.  Tasting surprisingly like something out of the a Minute Maid juice box, we decide that this is the kind of apple juice we could drink every morning.

Makers of Musselman's: Take Note

As we wait for our fish and chips, Ginger prattles on about why one should never make new friends (reason: new people are boring), which is not exactly the best philosophy to have when we're heading straight from here to our lone homecoming activity: a football game.  In truth, we only plan on staying at this game for twenty minutes or less, just enough time to join the band alumni on the field for halftime.  Nevertheless, Ginger is off-put by the whole endeavor and broods over the fact that her cocktail is "a good precursor to my football experience."

But THIS Many Would Be Even Better

When our fish and chips arrive, we realize that neither of us knows a great deal about the stuff, being that we have only consumed it in England many years ago.  This fish is especially thick and round, and the breading looks only lightly tanned rather than fried to a crisp.

The Better to Cod You With, My Dear

Breaking through the center, large hunks of pearly white cod can be found tucked within the coating, and we are impressed by how the fish itself has not been lost among the outer shell.

Hunka Hunka Burnin' Fish

Dividing the fish in two, we each begin spooning helpings of tartar sauce (featuring actual capers) onto our plates with great delight, along with a small dash of the malt vinegar.

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish

The fish is as light and satisfying as it looks, and the cod is so ample that we are almost tricked into believing that we are consuming something healthy.  Thankfully, even with the "beer-battered" name, we do not discern anything ale-like in the breading (a good thing for us because beer is one of approximately five things we are both incapable of liking).

The Great Fish Massacre of 2011

In contrast, the chips do not taste remotely of health food.  Solid rectangular potatoes, apparently triple cooked, are pleasing in their salty crispiness.  They seem almost identical to the chips served at The Breslin, but a bit more overworked than those at A Salt and Battery (our two go-to New York British establishments).

If These Are "Chips," What Are Ruffles Called in England?!

Indeed, even though neither of us is generally enthusiastic about fish and chips, and even though we have just consumed half of the cuisine of Greece less than an hour before, very little food remains on our wooden tray when we leave The Dandelion.

And our cocktail glasses are, true to form, completely drained.

The Dandelion's Beer-Battered Fish and Chips: 4 stars

On Top of Spaghetti, All Covered in Meat

Spaghetti and Meatballs -- Extra Virgin
Extra Virgin

We have, admittedly, been a bit remiss in our Best Thing I Ever Ate mission as of late.  But we have a good excuse.  In fact, we have at least two good excuses:

1. Ginger ventured to the hotspot vacation destination, El Salvador, where she consumed entirely too many unfamiliar foods and ended up laid up in bed (well, really in the bathroom) for days, resulting in a nearly month-long aversion to (over)eating.

2. Vodka, in preparation for her future as a crazy cat lady, has acquired a kitten, which , if you're keeping count, now has her outnumbered by pets.  (As it happens, because Vodka cannot do anything in a manner that does not result in some sort of ridiculous story, she adopted said kitten from none other than her favorite childhood author, and if "The BSC" means anything to you, you can figure out who that is).  Anyway, the wrangling of these animals has consumed a great deal of Vodka's hermit-like existence.

But now, we are back: Ginger recovering from post-traumatic pupusa disorder and Vodka leaving her poodle in charge of the apartment.  And we are ready to eat.  And, more importantly, to drink.

Somebody Get Lady and the Tramp on the Line for Us

We begin this leg of our culinary journey at Extra Virgin in the West Village, home of Anne Burrell's chosen Best Thing I Ever Ate COMBOS dish, the spaghetti and meatballs.  Said dish is served only on Sunday nights, and a limited twenty-eight portions of the combination is prepared, forcing those who wish to consume it to arrive early.  Because Vodka is mildly anal and less mildly psychotic, she has insisted that we arrive at 4:45pm so that we are guaranteed two of the twenty-eight servings when Extra Virgin begins dinner service at 5:00pm.

Unfortunately for all involved, Extra Virgin actually begins dinner service at 5:30pm. 

But At Least We Have a Bowl of Salt and a Shmata of a Menu to Keep Ourselves Occupied

We make this discovery after Vodka arrives at Extra Virgin and finds many a table already filled with patrons.  In a meatball panic, she gives the hostess her name and goes to stand outside and wait for Ginger.  Ginger appears exactly one minute later only to find that Vodka is jaywalking across the street away from the restaurant.

"Um, where are you going?" she bellows, cutting through the quaintness of the tree-lined streets.

Vodka returns to her sheepishly and answers, "I felt conspicuous standing right in front of all of the outside diners, so I was going to wait across the street."  Now, however, Vodka's plan to not look insane has been rendered moot by Ginger's outing of her (perhaps faulty) reasoning, and it is with a bit of a mocking smirk that the hostess seats us at our table.

Sorry, Lady, We Don't Get Out Much

"We're sitting outside?" Ginger, never fond of a blustery fall breeze, asks.  Pulling her jacket tighter, she complains about a mysterious plague that has consumed her body for three weeks and decides that a hot apple rum cider is just the cocktail to cure what's ailing her.  But before we can place our cocktail orders, Ginger blurts out that we are here for the spaghetti and meatballs, afraid to order anything without confirming their existence.

"We don't have that today," the waitress begins.  "They're only served on Sundays."

"It is Sunday," we say.

"Oh," she answers.  "Well, it's only served for dinner after 5:30pm."

The current time?  4:51pm.  Apparently, we are seated with the "After Brunch" menu crowd, rather than the "Dinner" crowd.

"Nothing like being early," Ginger notes as we saddle up for a long, chilly wait for our requested platters.  At least we'll have our cocktails to keep us warm and entertained, right?  Wrong.

Said cocktails do not appear for at least 25 minutes, during which time we are forced into confusing conversations about Ginger's brunch earlier that day ("I came here for brunch -- "; "HERE?!";  "Well, not HERE, just in the West Village") and her forays the night before into what we've taken to calling "triple house wine" (think house wine of the very worst variety).  Meanwhile, Vodka taps distractedly at her phone, interrupting Ginger's tales with various pictures of her animal menagerie like someone straight out of an episode of Hoarders.

Eventually, our cocktails arrive, and the spaghetti and meatballs follow soon after.

And dare we say they are all worth the wait.

The spaghetti and meatballs are separated onto two serving dishes.

Add This Fine China to Our Hypothetical Registries

The bowl features a thick swarm of pasta piled high, coated gently in tomato sauce and a healthy helping of parmesan cheese ("I mean, look at that parm," Ginger says with true appreciation).

Feel Free to Leave the Cheese Grater on the Table, Thanks in Advance

Next to this heap, in their own mini-casserole dish, rest the two largest meatballs we have ever seen, each dripping with more sauce and melted cheese and speared by a thin triangular crostini of bread.

Two Basketballs of Meat

Taking the first bite, Ginger has only one thing to say: "I'll be here every Sunday, just so you know."

And She'll Be Consuming Double-Orders, With or Without Vodka

Unlike Roger Mooking's downright dour COMBOS choice from Fatty Crab, which left us just short of gagging, Extra Virgin's most famous combination is delicious in its simplicity (and, to be honest, its size).  The spaghetti noodles are cooked to a perfect al dente and complemented by the ideal amounts of sauce and cheese.

Forkful Twirl Courtesy of Lucy Ricardo

The meatballs are fork-tender and hearty, with a spicy kick that pops the whole dish away from the ordinary.

Nobody Sneeze - We Don't Want to Lose a Meatball

Along with our clear enjoyment of our forkfuls of noodles, the dish draws many a gasped reaction from passersby and people at the surrounding tables.  In fact, one unlikable-looking gentleman at the table next to Ginger scoffs at the notion that anyone could ever eat the entire dish on her own, a comment that prompts Ginger, ever the competitor, to whisper to Vodka, "We have to finish the whole thing cause this guy thinks we can't."

Time to Start Shoveling It In, Girls

Sadly, it soon becomes clear why we've never entered a spaghetti-eating contest, as we both find ourselves, halfway through our spaghetti and down one meatball, unable to continue.

You Win This Round, Disgruntled Fellow at the Next Table

As we await our doggie bags, Ginger attacks her cider with a straw, poking at some unknown substance at the bottom of the cup.  "I hope whatever this is turns out to be something delicious and not something weird," she says, and when a bit of fork leverage reveals that it is a real cinnamon stick, her wishes are granted.

Only the Classiest People Stick Forks in Their Cocktails

Indeed, we believe that despite Ginger's initial reluctance, our outside seating adds to the appeal of both Ginger's hot toddy and our spaghetti: the slightly chilly external temperatures cause the warmness of the dishes to be all the more comforting (Vodka's white cosmopolitan, on the other hand, is more suited for the tropics).

Bipolar Climate Choices

In truth, if we have any real criticism of the whole experience, it is that a basket of bread to help mop up the spaghetti sauce would have been more useful than the slab of crunchy crostini provided (and being that we see bread baskets appear on other tables as we leave, we fear we've been gypped). 

And Goodness Knows We'd Hate to Miss a Carb

As we sort our leftovers, the conversation turns to Ginger's desire to begin becoming a society matron, which Vodka, naturally, manages to turn into a passive/aggressive attempt to get Ginger to see Follies:

Ginger: "I want to start doing cultural things."
Vodka: "Follies."
Ginger: "I'm going to begin doing something cultural every week.  Eating and drinking don't count."
Vodka: "Follies."

Our waitress escorts our check to the table before Vodka can get Ginger to agree to a ticket purchase or Ginger can get Vodka to stop repeating the word "Follies" with Rain Man-like precision.  We pay our bill with what turns out to be the last $43 in each of our wallets and go on our merry ways, both content in the knowledge that "eating and drinking" is just about all of the culture either of us is going to expose ourselves to anytime soon.

Particularly Because We Just Left All of Our Cash Blowing Through the Winds of the West Village

Extra Virgin's Spaghetti and Meatballs: 5 stars*

*Certifiable Best Thing We Ever Ate