Skittles Reunion

It occurred to me recently that when Skittles slipped in green apple to replace lime a few years ago, it wasn't just a temporary nightmare. In spite of all the uproar, it actually stuck. Suddenly a part of my childhood was really dead. Just like North Hills Mall and the Bubble Beeper, the real Skittles were no more. It's not like the green apple is a terrible flavor on its own, but lime just jives a lot better with the rest of the flavors. Sure, I was a strange child and carefully ate the flavors one at a time when I could. But in a dark movie theater? You just took a handful and marveled at how well everything worked together (and strangely tasted just like Tropical Sprite Remix). With the new green apple, it's like Van Halen after Sammy replaced Dave. Some folks will always like Van Hagar better, and that's their choice. It's just a poor choice.

The current loophole is that lime made a stealthy comeback last year in the new Orchards blend. It's absolutely possible to recreate a bag of the original Skittles mix by investing in two bags of candy. Nostalgia doesn't come cheap. Annoyingly, normal bags of Skittles are a bizarre 2.17oz, while the Orchards variety are 2oz exactly. This means (on average) you're going to come up short on lime flavor by about ten percent. Of course, King Size Skittles come in 4oz bags, which should mix flawlessly with two bags of Orchards. So now you need three bags of candy.

As a trial run, I took the incommensurate quantities provided by regular size bags (2oz Orchards, 2.17oz Original). Before a carefully orchestrated recombination, I did sample the new flavors. The lime is everything it used to be, cherry tastes somewhat like cough medicine, orange is more or less the same as in the "original" mix, and red apple is less tart than the green invader. The red and green apple flavors pair quite well, and I take strange pleasure in reuniting them, far away from all the original flavors. Peach is the worst Skittles flavor I've ever encountered. It's the buttered popcorn of Skittles, and fans of Father John Misty probably love it.

Swapping out the green apple for lime reunites Diamond Dave with the band (*) to play a greatest hits show without incident. It's like going back in time. I used to eat the flavors in order of increasing preference, and while the top spots would shuffle around a bit, grape was always the first to get out of the way. With green apple polluting the mix for the last few years, I'd forgotten how poorly I used to think grape fit with the original mix. Since I already started to change around the recommended combinations, I figured this was a great time to go a step further... what could I switch with grape? It then became clear that this operation would have to involve three different assortments of Skittles.

A local gas station stocked the King Size Share Size bags of both original variety and the Wild Berry mix. Wild Berry was one of the three alternative blends I remember from the 90s. The Tropical mix had some kind banana, which I found disgusting. Tart-N-Tangy Skittles were absolutely impossible to find in my old haunts, and they later evolved into the now-ubiquitous Sour Skittles that just burn your mouth. Wild Berry is perhaps the least-changed from its 1989 debut and has always the most tolerable of the remixes to me. Still, it's a bit of a dud on its own. Breaking down the walls and allowing flavors to move back and forth, I see some potential with the other cherry flavor and the raspberry. Darkside Skittles would also offer pomegranate, but I'm already blowing too much cash on Skittles right now to bother trying to track those down.

I got curious looks from my spouse, our dog and several of the cats as I sat on the couch with four bags of Skittles and a number of bowls to facilitate the sorting. The best super mix I could obtain was orange, lemon (from Original), lime (from Orchards), strawberry, cherry and raspberry (from Wild Berry). Strawberry is in the original bag, but it has exactly the same color as the Wild Berry cherry, so I used the other lighter version for visual effect (who knew that would matter?). This mix contains a nice balance between citrus and berries, but I can't say I like it any better than the original Original option. Actually, I don't even like it as much as the classic mix. Skittles had the perfect combination and had to mess it up by involving Granny Smith. In the end, the days of the real original variety being affordable are truly over. It's just too much effort to create the past on a regular basis.

Epilogue: After reviewing my Skittles receipts from the last few days and noting the piles of undesirable flavors still sitting around the kitchen, I told my spouse that, having binged so severely, I'm likely done buying Skittles for the next six months. She looked up from her laptop just long enough to say, "good, that was annoying."

(*) I'm aware it's not a perfect analogy. Michael Anthony did defect to the Hagar camp, and his duties were taken over by Eddie's son, Wolfgang. So imagine grape left with green apple and got replaced by raspberry or something. I already regret the running Van Halen reference.

Positive Jams

I first heard about The Hold Steady as a sudden monsoon struck I-77 just outside Mayberry Mt. Airy in the summer of 2010. Heading back to NY from my mother's house in the NC foothills, I remember having to pull over to the shoulder to avoid hydroplaning because I was driving a Pontiac Trans Am with bald tires. Rising above the cacophony of the precipitation making violent contact with GM metal, an interview with frontman Craig Finn on Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me was playing in the background. Turning my attention from the road to the radio, I recall hearing Craig speak about his skeptical dentist not believing someone with his accountant-like appearance could be in a rock band. I was intrigued. After getting back home, I downloaded the latest album, and just like that, NPR had introduced me to an alcohol-fueled dive-bar band. To be fair, it was also a band with a fan-made Wiki devoted [in part] to a full annotation of the numerous references that weave their song's lyrics together. NPR loves that kind of band.

Over the next few months, I worked my way back through their extensive catalog. As I dug deeper into their history, the vocals became less melodic and more abrasive. It was eerily similar to discovering the Goo Goo Dolls through Name and then back-reading all the way to this polished beginning. The Hold Steady's published work begins chronologically with the droning "Positive Jam," that kicks off their 2004 debut album, Almost Killed Me. Craig seems to begin shows a few beers deep. By the time they launch an encore, some lyrics become quite slurred, and it's safe to say that beer mixes well with The Hold Steady. For a band out of Brooklyn with strong midwestern roots, it's only fitting that Champion Brewing of Virginia made a commemorative "swiggable" beer called A Positive Jam. Just like my late discovery of the band, I was a few years off in realizing that this existed and originated in the town of Charlottesville, VA.

Charlottesville happened to be on Ryan Adam's tour schedule this month at a quaint outdoor amphitheater at the edge of the downtown mall. There's an Omni Hotel at the other end which has become just outdated enough to be quite affordable. Between the two are numerous bars, restaurants and breweries. Included in that list is the birthplace of A Positive Jam. Quite naturally, a perfect day involving food, drink and live music was assembling itself. We just had to get to Virginia. Having lived in Harrisonburg for while, I was quite familiar with the desolation and misery that is Route 29. While Route 11 has its own potato chips, Route 29 has only pain (see left). It's just about three hours of drive time from Greensboro to Charlottesville, and we made the amateur mistake of stopping for lunch in Danville. Somehow in my four years of traveling this corridor I had successfully avoided the angsty town that is Danville. Just to up the ante and make this a real game of Russian roulette, we really took our lives into our own hands by opting for a meal at Sheetz --that is, the gas station that's also its own fast food counter.

Sheetz is kind of like JetBlue in that it's an excellent experience until one thing starts to go wrong. Then the whole operation just unravels. This time, someone stole our food from the counter and we had to wait another 15 minutes for our bag of grease. This setback was probably the Universe strongly hinting that the "Big Mozz" chicken sandwich I ordered was not the wisest of selections, especially for road food. Maintaining no association with the reputable mozzarella producer in Brooklyn it predates, this "sandwich" is actually a filet of fried chicken in a bun with marinara, provolone and several fried mozzarella sticks. It is to Sheetz what the bacon-wrapped deep-dish pizza was to Little Caesers. Curiously, the Big Mozz is the only menu item besides "pizza" that naturally contains the letter "z" (i.e., wingz, burgerz and cup o' fryz). This unforced spelling appealed to me on a grammatical level, and the deal was sealed.

I can now say that the best way to coast up US 29 is during a full blown fried food coma. Everything north of Liberty University was a blur, and ignorance is bliss in this area. Arriving in Charlottesville with a couple of hours before Ryan and the Shining took the stage, we made our way to Champion on foot. I was somewhat bummed to learn something after a three hour drive that the Internet would have told me at home for free: Positive Jam is a spring seasonal and not offered on tap (or otherwise) in late July. Fortunately, the Against Me!-themed stout --everyone's favorite summer beer style-- was on tap. A good beer based on a band I could not care less about is likely a better experience than a potentially awful beer associated with a band I do enjoy, so I consider this a win. Perhaps it's a slightly-muted victory. Nothing screams 90-degree summer weather like a stout that's darker than Guinness.

Ryan took the stage just before 8:30pm with several images of cats scattered throughout the stage. Oversized Fender amplifiers, a vintage Dr. Pepper vending machine and 80s arcade games filled the space between the musicians. It was like a Rush stage setup but less functional. The highlight of the show was probably witnessing as Ryan very publicly berated the woman in front of us for repeatedly screaming song requests in unnaturally high pitches. If it turns out that the show was taped, a shrill "SIXTEEN DAYS!" should cut right through the crowd noise leading up to "Oh My Sweet Carolina."

After blazing through 17 songs (counting the three improvised bits), the house lights came up. It was barely 10pm when the band left the stage for an obligatory encore break before running back to knock out three final songs. There was a song about purple houses and purple trousers, but my personal favorite oddball song lasting less than two minutes didn't make the final cut. It was a significantly shorter show than the one he played there last year, and this year's selections were mainly repeats from last year's show. I don't really mind the repetition because I like reliving the past, but I do feel somewhat cheated out of five songs... and most of the ones we were told to expect on Twitter. I never thought a scenario would emerge where this would be an appropriate statement, but I am kind of bummed that there were no Taylor Swift covers.

Once the band launched into the closing number, we slowly made our way to the gate to beat the crowd to the dinner hot spots. After standing in the summer heat for several hours, my partner in crime was weak enough that I was able to strong-arm her into a late-night visit to that one place we always go when in Charlottesville: Miller's Downtown. I first dragged her here years ago because this is in some sense the birthplace of the Dave Matthews Band. A young Dave Matthews was once a bartender here and according to legend stalked the local musicians, cherry picking his favorite musicians to form everyone's favorite band to hate. Probably the most spectacular aspect about the place is the complete lack of reference to anything about Dave Matthews. Miller's was doing just fine before DMB, and they're continuing to stand on their own as just a really well-put-together tavern with phenomenal local musicians. John D'Earth (frequent DMB contributing musician/guest) still plays a weekly show there with his five-piece band. It's real, and it's awesome.

Miller's has a late-night kitchen which was quite appreciated after our concert. My usual bar order of a burger did not disappoint, and my wife was able to grab two corn dogs. Their beer selection rotates frequently, and I was pleasantly surprised to see my all-time favorite coffee ale featured. Brewed just down the road in San Diego, Ballast Point's Calm Before the Storm first caught my attention in the store because I generally like buying beer that features skeletons on the packaging. Ballast Point is notably expensive, and this pint set me back a cool $8. For those looking to pinch pennies, Miller's also serves the fairly appropriate Miller Light. I couldn't help but try to imagine David J. Matthews explaining to a customer that $8 is a reasonable price for the beer given the exquisite varieties of hops used to brew it. Well, I suppose Dave probably did not have to fill out this extensive application back in 1990.

Getting our orders in before the rest of the rabble stumbled in from the show, we capped off a perfect evening well before midnight. The one nagging issue was the disappointment from not finding the beer I originally sought at Champion Brewing. Figuring some run-down bottle shop might still have a few cases lying around from the distant spring, I turned to my dear friend, Beer Menus. Then I came to the alarming discovery that of the four places carrying this in late July, two of them were in Greensboro. So taking a quick trip after the trip, I was able to snag a can to enjoy with my collection of books from Gate City Growlers, a mere mile from my home. In the end, our ears stopped ringing and our food was digested, but I still have a beer based on The Hold Steady sitting in the refrigerator. Rock on Ryan Adams and all the best to the Goo Goo Dolls (circa 1994).

Update (07/24/2016): As the weekend winds down, I can now report that I've actually tasted Champion Brewing's Positive Jam. The casual beer fan I am, I read "wheat ale flavored with spices" and thought it would be refreshing and predictable, like Sam Summer Ale or The Force Awakens. Instead, the "lavender and coriander" are a bit overpowering, and it kind of feels like drinking very smooth, liquefied potpourri. Not at all what I expected, and fairly highbrow. Well played, Champion.

It's Guinness Season

Another St. Patrick's Day has come and gone without my indulging in green beer or other nonsense. To be fair, I did scribble my math lecture at JSNN in green marker, so all was not lost. But in the days leading up to this glorious day, I found myself with number of Guinness-themed options.

Apparently Guinness flavored chips now exist... (and they're made in England). I once commented to a gentleman in Cork that either Guinness travels poorly or they just ship the skunk batches to the states. He simply said, "No. We keep the best for us, but we send the worst batches to England." I snagged a single bag from the local Harris Teeter, but if commitment is your thing, you can order a large case from Amazon.

Like many all of my favorite foods, this is "not suitable for vegans," as is clearly printed on the back. A proper side dish for this side seemed like a thick-cut bacon & white cheddar grilled cheese sandwich. I've never been much for flavored potato chips, but all the strange extract powders combine to create a potato chip that tastes as if it were dunked in Guinness and then flash dried (but in a good way). It's like eating Guinness... with bacon and cheese and locally brewed beer on the side ("the best beer").

For a proper ending, we have a Guinness flavored cupcake, courtesy Maxie B's, Greensboro's own frilly bakery. Supposedly, there's Guinness in there, but it just tastes like a $3.50 chocolate cupcake. It would have been $2.50, but the "decorations" tack on an extra dollar. Pictured beside it is a 7Up cupcake, which, quite fittingly, tasted like a $3.50 "yellow" cupcake with a zap of citrus. Luckily, this one was not "decorated," so it only fetched $2.50.

So here we are in the post-St. Patrick's Day portion of 2015. 2014 feels like just yesterday, but Easter is just around the corner. Here's to a happy March onward.

Gentlemen, this is Peter Luger

A good friend of mine was preparing to move away in January, and we realized that we had precious little time left to make our pilgrimage to Williamsburg to feast upon the legendary cuts of beef at Peter Luger Steakhouse. As it turns out, we beat the odds by getting a reservation on a Friday night with less than a week's notice. Granted, it was a 9:30PM reservation, and our table wasn't ready on time. According to the legend, none of this matters. And the surly staff? The inconvenience of having to bring enough cash to buy a decent car? All this would be forgiven.

Indeed, all my unease melted away upon experiencing their take on "bacon" with as many of my senses as possible. I think a reasonably sized pig contains a great many potential slices of bacon. This slab contained several pigs. It weighed more than the thick ceramic plate upon which it rested. It sizzled when it was placed in front of me. It smelled so good that a gentleman sitting ten feet from us looked at it with such longing that his date became jealous. This was mythical. A number of other local establishments also serve novelty sized slabs of bacon, and I've tried the version at Keens. Don't get me wrong, I'm really partial to Keens. This was just better.

The waitstaff here has a reputation for being... well, offensive. The trick to dealing with them is apparently to stroke their egos and ask what to do. A simple, "what's the real Peter Luger experience?" did the trick. The choices were made for us. It turns out that the real experience is "steak for [insert party number]; medium rare," German fried potatoes and creamed spinach. Two among us had no appreciation of steak and opted for medium. Our waiter --let's call him Klaus-- shot a look, as did I. Disaster was averted by splitting the order: steak for two and burnt dead cow for two.

Klaus and his assistant returned shortly to plate our meals. I generally like my potatoes in french fried or baked form. If I have to eat greens, I usually settle on asparagus: of all the vegetables, it mostly resembles french fries. As it turns out, there's a reason THIS is what they suggest. I don't think this place does many things well, but they make THIS meal extremely well. This was one of the best steak meals I've ever had. They don't treat you like a valued customer here because they know that enough people like what they do well enough to replace you if you storm off complaining about your dignity. Welcome to Brooklyn.

The meal ended with some sort of chocolate mousse cake and several cups of coffee. Something about a cup of coffee after a nice dinner really makes you feel like an adult. As a 26-year-old student, I need reminders like this. Around midnight, Klaus suddenly told us he was leaving. We assumed that was his way of kicking us out without telling us directly, so we assembled our wad of cash. Against all odds, the four of us found the strength to walk back to Manhattan across the Williamsburg Bridge. This is about the only way one can get a sense of accomplishment about partaking in such a decadent experience.

Clash of the Titans: Cel Ray vs. Manhattan Special

RC Cola and Cheerwine bring back memories of growing up in North Carolina. Sure, each is just carbonated sugar water. But they're really hard to find anywhere else, and I love a good quest for something arbitrary. Since moving to New York, I've discovered that Key Food stocks RC Cola (the Ave. A location also carries Diet RC, which I didn't even know existed), and Brother Jimmy's BBQ sells glass bottles of Cheerwine. This is one of the perks of living in a place like New York -- you can just keep walking until you find what you're looking to acquire.

[Fair is fair, so I should mention something I haven't been able to get my hands on. Still on the subject of obscure pop, I would sell a kidney for a case of this stuff. A thorough review of the Peter Spanton beverage line can be found here. From what I can gather, it's only available in the UK. The spoiled child in me resents being told I can't have something, but the mature adult is intrigued by grown-up soft drinks. Mr. Spanton's sales pitch was enough to get my attention:

"Like Marmite, I think people will either love it or hate it. I actively hope children will dislike it."

Traveling Anglophiles who want a public "thank you" on a blog read by no more than five people, take note. But, I digress.]

High rent and cramped quarters are among the sacrifices one makes for such absurd convenience. Of course, the door doesn't swing both ways. New York has its own quirky cultural relics that become truly impossible to find in most other places. After a bit of pondering, I set out to find a can of celery flavored pop and a bottle of espresso soda. As expected, I didn't even have to leave the neighborhood; I love this town.

First up is Cel Ray -- made popular by the same folks that censored Elvis' hips and hid important documents in their freezers. Jolt Cola was not your grandmother's drink. Cel Ray was... provided that she never stopped speaking ill of those Cossacks. It's one of those Kosher deli staples, so to speak.

So what does it taste like? Throw some celery into a juicer and mix it with some bland variety of ginger ale. That's the best comparison that comes to mind. I find RC cola endearing because it tastes like flat Pepsi "in a good way." Had I grown up on this paired with pastrami sandwiches, perhaps I'd have a special place in my heart for this substance. Instead, I grew up with Nabs and peanuts + Coke. That's enough bizarre tastes for one boy. I'm too old to start developing new quirks like drinking vegetable-based pop, and the other five cans I had to buy are going to sit in my refrigerator until someone takes them off my hands.

Next up is Manhattan Special Espresso Coffee Soda. Aside from coloring and some preservatives, the ingredients are pure coffee, carbonated water, and sugar. In principle, it's the perfect drink to accompany an ambiguous brunch dish like an omelette with french fries. Is it breakfast or lunch? Should you get coffee or cola? Since 1895, a solution to this dilemma has existed.

I appreciate that these 10oz bottles are just the right size to fill an ordinary coffee mug. Yes, I know it's strange to pour soda into a coffee mug, but I really don't know how to approach this drink. In principle, this beverage is a glorious idea. In practice, there's too much sugar in this drink. The first thing that hits you is a combination of coffee and fizz -- good! Then it fades into some kind of sweet-but-stale aftertaste -- less good! The image I was left with was that of sugary seltzer being strained through week-old coffee grinds. Maybe it's the sugar, or maybe it's the preservatives... or maybe it's just a crummy drink. Don't get me wrong, I'm entirely behind this concept. The execution could just use some improvement. Then again, this is coming from the guy that willingly drops perfectly good peanuts into a glass bottle full of Coca Cola.

Oh My Sweet Carolina

Growing up in North Carolina, I wanted nothing more than to leave. It's a state with a beautiful coastline and majestic mountains. It's a state where the water allows one to dissolve more sugar than should be physically possible into the sweet tea. It's also a state where a sign reading, "The KKK Welcomes You To Johnston County" wasn't removed until the late 1980's. Give any angst-fueled Raleigh native a few years of breakfast sandwiches and New York traffic, and he'll start to forget about that last part. The overwhelming longing for a real biscuit distorts certain memories.

Cracker Barrel is a nationwide chain. There's even one in Maine, but no one worth his gravy would dare call something a "biscuit" in any state north of Virginia. Going here outside of the south is kind of like getting pizza in the Ukraine. If it's all you know, then I suppose ignorance is bliss. But if you grew up in North Carolina, then nothing but the real thing is worth the heartburn. Oh, the glorious heartburn. There are rocking chairs on that porch for a reason.

My dinner started as a BLT. For those of us uncomfortable with this vegetable-to-meat ratio, they let you add cheese and a chicken breast to it. I opted for grilled chicken. They'll also fry it, but that just seemed like playing Russian roulette with my arteries. Either way, the lettuce and tomato just seemed out of place at this point. So yes, I got a BLT and threw the LT under the bus. I mean, hey, there's no sense in pretending that there's anything redeeming left in this sandwich.

Aside from being able to drink unlimited quantities of Cheerwine, there's only one thing you need to know about Cook-Out: milkshake possibilities. Depending on the season, their menu contains 39-40 flavors, and they let you add as many as you dare. Practically speaking, this gets disgusting quickly. But if you think about the numbers, it's just impressive. A simple calculation* shows that with 39 add-ins (since vanilla is the base), there are about 550 BILLION unique milkshakes. Keep in mind, a quarter of those contain Hi-C and Peanut Banana.

Traditionally, I make the mistake of hitting up the first Bojangles I see in Virginia as I'm driving home. This results in 1) weaving down I-95 because I'm too wrapped up in reuniting with this lost love, and 2) going back almost every day I'm there, hoping to get my fill before I head back to New York. This time, I saved it for my last meal. One can actually go a lot of different directions with meat, potatoes and bread. Add a deep fryer to the mix, and there's really only one clear way to go. It's this, and it's perfection in a box.


* The Cook-Out milkshake computation

First, warm up with an easier problem: pretend you have only one add-in on the menu, say M&M's. You can choose to have M&M's or forgo M&M's, so you have two possible milkshakes. No magic there.

Now, pretend you have two add-ins, say M&M's and chocolate syrup. You first choose to have M&M's or omit them, which gives you two possibilities. For each of those possibilities, you can choose to add or omit chocolate syrup. That means for each of two choices you have two choices. Two choices times two choices gives you four possible milkshakes. Still reasonable, right?

[Exercise: Work out how many unique milkshake there are if you have three possible add-ins. If you guessed it's two times two times two = eight, you'd be correct. If you think I'm lying, write them out... it doesn't take that long. Or don't, because this is just a dumb blog.]

Now let's look at 39 add-ins. It works the same way. You can choose M&M's or no M&M's, you can choose Hi-C or no Hi-C, and so on. Multiplying two thirty nine times will take you a while, but Google can quickly tell you that the answer is 549,755,813,888, or just under 550 billion.

Thursday's Lunch: Melt Shop

New York is a city of food fads. Cupcakes were really big for a while. After the novelty of being able to order gourmet dessert at 4AM wore off, people looked for the next decadent thing. Hence, the grilled cheese pandemonium that has invaded most neighborhoods.

A fair account of the history can be found here, but all one needs to know is that this enterprise has morphed into a miniature fleet of trucks and several upscale eateries. It's already so five minutes ago. Ronnie, the underground grilled cheese dealer of the East Village, shut down his operation before I could buy a sandwich in a transaction that could be mistaken for acquiring... well, blow. Apparently the threat of being shut down by the Health Department became too great to press on. What this meant to me is that I had to journey to midtown to catch the grilled cheese train. Bummer.

Melt Shop got a fair amount of press when they opened, so I took notice earlier this year. It just took me this many months to gain the courage to make the journey to midtown for lunch. Of course, what they don't tell you is that seating space here is just a myth during the lunch hour. I took a risk and barreled east as quickly as I could, ultimately finding an empty set of stairs on 1st Avenue in the mid 50's before the molten meal congealed entirely. It's a strange enough sight for some dude to eat a gourmet grilled cheese sandwich while sitting in front of an abandoned building as all the suited folks from the UN walk by. It pushes it over the edge when he takes out a camera to take pictures of his own lunch.

I got a side of tater tots... because I forgot one can only comfortably take so much grease on a hot afternoon. The main course is the bacon/cheddar variety, with some other disclaimers such as "aged" or "maple" that I quickly forgot; they had me at "bacon." What isn't explicit in the description of this beast is the entire stick of butter that they fry this thing with, and that's what you feel when you walk back home on a summer afternoon. However, as I wondered if I was going to expire, I did always came back to, "well... what a tasty way to go."

Verdict: Make no mistake, this is just comfort food in a pretty package. It's good, but you have to stand in line with a bunch of people wearing suits to get it. The Three-martini lunch has officially been traded for the kid's lunch in trendy clothing. It's probably for the best, because I don't like olives, and bacon is apparently my Muse.