THE FLAVOR OF COCK

After today's treatment, I waited five hours until making something to eat, an amount of time that allowed my stomach to settle. There are some days when I come out of dialysis absolutely ravenous, and that's because I often do not eat breakfast before going, but this morning I ate before treatment, so that is probably what allowed me be able to eat a meal five hours after treatment rather then eight or nine hours later. (For those who do not know, after treatment I usually hurl my guts up several times before my stomach settles and I can eat something. It's highly unpleasant but I've gotten used it, and I kind of zone out when it happens.)

 

Tonight's meal could not have been simpler: I made slow-roasted chicken legs and thighs that fall off the bone, a roux from which I made a rich gravy that incorporated some chicken stock and the copious drippings from the legs, and a small pot of sticky rice. The star of this meal was the seasoning, specifically Caribbean Traditions Cock Flavored Seasoning. (You there! Stop that giggling!!!) The stuff lends the perfect flavor accent to fowl, and I cannot recommend it enough.

SERIOUS SAUSAGE, RUNNY OVER-EASY EGG and CHEESE CROISSANT

I say that as a reward for making it through the week during the pandemic/quarantine, we all treat ourselves to an obscene weekend breakfast. Today's for me was a sausage, runny over-easy egg, and cheese croissant, with a lashing of cayenne pepper. Utterly delicious and way better than one you'd get at a diner or a Dunkin' Donuts.

The secret is obtaining a large croissant (as you are making a proper sandwich and not a dainty snack) and flattening your sausage patty meat between two sheets of parchment paper, making sure it's flatter and wider than a pancake. Meat shrinks on a griddle, so making the patty super-wide and super-flat compensates for for that and allows the patty to be at a respectable size upon completion of cooking. The area of the sausage surface space also allows for carefully placing your egg and allowing the runny bits room to move but still stay on the sausage (more or less) while the croissant sops up some of the runoff.

Whatever the case, this is a 10 out of a possible 10 on the quality breakfast scale if done properly, and it goes swimmingly with tea.

MY FAMOUS SLOW-COOKED PULLED PORK (and Barbecue Loooooooooove Sensation Sauce)

What's not to love about a grill-master in a shirt celebrating an infamous Wisconsin cannibal?

Spring is upon us and that means it's time for me to start doling out heaping helpings of my famous slow-cooked pulled pork. It's a favorite among my friends and family, and now I will share its secrets with you, o lucky Gravy-Groovers!

The process is simplicity itself:

• First, get two pork shoulders with the bone left in, aka "pernil." (if you don't shop at some would-be fancy schmancy supermarket and keep it real by going to a commoner's market, the average one of these will cost you around ten bucks, max.) Poke holes into the meat to accommodate however many garlic cloves you like — crack the garlic open first on a flat surface with the side of a wide knife to smack over it — and once the stuffing is done place the meat into a deep roasting pan.
  
• Season as you like, but I recommend salt and pepper, liberal sprinkling with adobo and that orange seasoning in packets that can be found along with Goya products in the "ethnic" food section at the local supermarket — specifically Sazon Goya Sin Achiote (Without Annatto) — making sure to season both sides, add about an inch of Dr. Pepper (some go with root beer, but I don't recommend it; the root beer flavor overwhelms the natural porky awesomeness, so fuck that) and then place pork uncovered in a pre-heated oven at 300 degrees for about two hours.
  
• Once the two hours are up, take the pork out and add a few shakes of liquid smoke — found in the aisle with the barbecue condiments — then seal the roasting pan with a double thickness of heavy-duty foil and return the meat to the oven. Drop the temperature to about 210 degrees and forget about it for the next fourteen hours. I mean it, just ignore the fuckers. When all is said and done, your pork should look like this:

Actual shot of pork just out of the oven in Jared's kitchen on Saturday morning.

The meat will be tender like you won't believe, and take care to peel off the skin in one piece if possible (more on that shortly).

With the skin removed, the pork will reveal a glistening layer of artery-clogging tastiness and it's up to you to decide how much fat you want to leave attached when you pull it into a form more conducive to eating in a shredded mound, wrapped up in tortillas or on a sandwich. As anyone will tell you, the flavor is in the fat, so don't dump too much of it. But then again, if you're gonna eat this stuff you know what you're in for.

Once you've solved your fat issues, use a pair of meat tongs and grab the large bone that's visible in the pork. Grasp the bone firmly and tug; the bone will dislodge with the ease of pulling a finger out of a velvet glove.

The ease of the pull: note the complete and utter lack of meat adhering to the bone.

Once that's removed, poke around with a fork to locate any remaining smaller bones and gristle and remove that stuff. Then take a sturdy fork like one of those big fuckers some people favor for the grill — I don't, because poking meat lets the juices out; only use tongs or spatulas for grilling! — and gently swirl through the meat like you're using a frosting-spreader. The meat will fall apart like magic, and once you've made sure no excess bones or other such crud remains I would advise tasting the pork to determine if it needs any additional seasoning or tarting up. I'd go with some more adobo, salt, pepper or sage, but only you can know what's best for your by-now-drooling audience. Serve as is with some sauce of choice — I recommend making some of my patented Barbecue Loooooooooove Sensation Sauce — or throw that gorgeousness onto some white bread or a good potato roll and prepare to watch your guests go into spontaneous culinary orgasm.

The aforementioned Barbecue Loooooooooove Sensation Sauce is also a study in simplicity:

INGREDIENTS:

Cheap barbecue sauce
Honey
Garlic powder (I prefer Badia brand)
Brown/Deli mustard (Gulden's or Nathan's both rock)
Hot sauce (optional)

Take as much cheap barbecue sauce as you may need and put it into a big pot; blend in honey and mustard to taste and add a huge motherfucking shitload of garlic powder. Blend until somewhat smooth but thick, and keep in mind that the flavor should be sweet and garlicky. At this point it's up to you to add hot sauce if you want a bit of a kick to the concoction; if you seek that flavor I recommend Indi-Pep West Indian pepper sauce, but you use what you like (except for the green Emeril sauce; it's tasty but it will throw off the color. And the shit is pointlessly expensive).

And as for the previously set-aside pork skin, put it non-fatty side down onto a baking tray or cookie sheet and hit it with a little adobo and finely ground cayenne pepper. Heat the oven back up to about 300 degrees and put the skin there for about a half hour to forty-five minutes, checking occasionally with a spatula to prevent sticking. When it's crispy enough for your taste, take it out and cut into appropriate sizes for homemade pork rinds, but don't serve them until they've almost at room temperature. Can't you just feel your heart seizing up like a rusty and mud-mucked chainsaw?

ANOTHER REASON TO BRING LUNCH TO WORK

It should come as a surprise to absolutely no one who lives or works in Manhattan that the cost of buying lunch on a daily basic can be exorbitant, thus precipitating many folks brown-bagging it. I usually cook stuff that I can bring in but every now and then I'm tempted to try something new, in spite of the pointlessly high prices here in Midtown. My day job is located near Grand Central Station and there are numerous places where one can find pretty much any kind of grub to suit their fancy, and my co-workers take it upon themselves to check out nearly every new place that opens up. One recent sitdown/takeout joint that won high kudos from my fellow employees at the design 'ho house is Five Guys, a hamburger joint on 3rd Avenue that makes burgers and fries that were reputed to be on par with getting one's dick sucked — well — by an in-her-prime Jenny Agutter while she looks up from her kindly-provided task and gazes at you adoringly.

24-year-old Jenny Agutter as Jessica 6 in LOGAN'S RUN (1976). You're welcome.

Needless to say, I very much doubted if any burger could live up to that kind of hyperbole, but I resolved to eventually judge for myself. That day came this afternoon, when I couldn't make up my mind as to what I wanted to have for lunch (I forgot my packed lunch at home) and wandered about the area in search of sustenance. Failing to find anything that looked good at the local Hale & Hearty soup place I looked across the street and spied Five Guys, deciding on the spot to experience their allegedly transcendent burger (no fries; too greasy and heavy).

I walked into the joint, passing a large crowd of yuppie-types as I made my way to the counter, and took a look at the menu. I decided on a plain bacon cheeseburger — just the beef, bacon and cheese, no condiments — so I could taste the sandwich and judge it by its own unadorned merits, but balked when I saw that the burger I wanted, even as relatively no-frills as I desired, was priced at $8.49, or rather $9.25 when tax was included. I mulled it over and finally decided to take the risk, plunking down my hard-earned cash before the cashier. In no time flat I received my burger in a plain paper sack, after which I made it back to my desk and commenced with the eating.

The Five Guys bacon cheeseburger, yours for a mere $9.25.

As I bit into the burger and masticated upon its artery-clogging goodness, I enjoyed its flavor to a certain extent, but the overall experience amounted to what could fairly be compared to the same item as found at any Wendy's location, only about 85% less greasy. While that's all well and good, the Wendy's version is less than half the cost of the much-vaunted Five Guys version, and the burger I had was in no way whatsoever worth paying nearly ten bucks for.

The Five Guys bacon cheeseburger, half-eaten and positioned next to a soda can for scale. This was not worth nearly ten bucks.

Considering that I was full after eating a little over half of the thing, coupled with a sense of disappointment and a profound feeling of having been ripped off, I didn't bother finishing my nearly-ten-buck burger, disinterestedly relegating what remained of it to the trash.

Oh, well. No Jenny Agutter dick-sucking analog for Yer Bunche. You live and learn, I guess...

ON FAST FOOD FRIED CHICKEN

Among the things that will be falling by the wayside during my efforts to get it all together in 2010 is my too-frequent consumption of the gods' own gift to Negroes everywhere, namely the ambrosia that is fried chicken. Jesus H. Christ, do I love me some fried chicken and despite my lifetime of defying stereotypes related to us highly rhythmic individuals, I wear my love of this artery-clogging delicacy like a badge of honor.

Long an affordable staple on the American family's menu, fried chicken can be easily prepared at home — easy after mastering the intricacies and arcane secrets of its preparation, that is — but it is most often enjoyed when picked up from one of our fair nation's many fast food chains that specialize in such crunchy-yet-tender mouth-watering deliciousness. (You can also get decent fried chicken at Chinese takeout places because, let's face it, the only people who do fried stuff better than black people are our Asian brothers.) So with that in mind, allow me to take a brief walk through the premiere chicken franchises and reminisce about their various merits (or lack thereof).

ROY ROGERS

This roast beef sandwich-based chain is slowly dying out and that's a shame because their roast beef sandwiches were pretty good (and a damned sight better than that shit they sell you at Arby's). The same cannot be said of their chicken, which was passable back in the late-1980's, but has steadily dwindled in quality ever since. You know you're in trouble when the best part of the chicken is the frequently shell-like coating and not the meat, and Roy's chicken was often served overcooked and bearing a wood-like consistency. You might get lucky and receive a decent order if you find a Roy's in some podunk locale, but otherwise this bird is best avoided altogether.

CHURCH'S FRIED CHICKEN

For years there was an urban legend circulating among the black and Latino communities that Church's Chicken was actually owned by the KKK or some other white supremacist organization, and that the insidious forces of evil whiteness had infused the chain's artery-clogging wares with a chemical that either prevented dusky erections or outright sterilized the blacks and Hispanics who ate the stuff (seriously, Google that one for yourself). That's all obviously bullshit, but the fact of the matter is that Church's Chicken simply isn't very good, or at least the sole Church's that I've experienced is particularly uninspired. The one fairly close to where I live in Brooklyn is a combination Church's and White Castle and it tends to attract the dregs of the area's populace — junkies, alkies, lowlife hoods and hustlers, strung-out whores, bootleg DVD salesmen, assorted redolent beggars — so maybe the overall mediocre-to-awful quality of the food reflects the staff's apathy toward serving anything truly worth eating to an assortment of mutants. Whatever the case may actually be, the chicken served here has nothing to its flavor that sets it apart from the frozen TV dinner equivalent and it almost seems to wear its blandness as a badge of honor. In the specific case of the Church's shop near me, its flavor-mediocrity is perfectly compounded by being available from the same dual menu that allows you to order it with some White Castle sliders, a combination guaranteed to make you fart and shit like a goddamned banshee. If that sounds unpleasant, let me tell you with absolute certainty that it's actually far worse than it sounds and can result in gaseous emissions that make plants wilt, pets flee, and children cry. My relatives from Alabama used to rave about Church's Chicken and considering a number of their highly questionable interests, that was all I really needed to know.

KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN

The acme of fast food fried chicken for decades, I doubt there's a single non-vegetarian household in this country that has never experienced the time-honored meal of a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Now known as "KFC" in what's probably a feeble attempt at diverting the modern health-conscious consumer's attention away from the chicken's fried aspect being prominently featured in its name, the Colonel's signature bird can be a tender and flavorful joy that deserves its franchise longevity. But the decline in KFC's quality is easily tracked from the late-1970's, beginning with the introduction of the "extra-crispy" version of chicken that eschews the unique seasoning of the original recipe in favor of a largely flavorless, battered and deep-fried overcooked edible paperweight with admittedly tasty breading. Then came the day when someone realized that wings were the perfect snack, and immediately the piece of the bird that everyone got pissed off about getting too many of in a bucket became popular and more pricey than they were worth. And as the years passed, many KFC's merged with other fast food joints in the Reise corporate stable, allowing the standards of KFC and whatever chain they were paired with to drop because proper attention could not be paid to both fast food favorites; a particularly troubling example of such a pairing is when KFC is linked with Taco Bell (which I fucking love when it's done right) and neither junk food delicacy is prepared and served with the care that made them great. Then there are the KFC's in urban areas that are manned by stereotypically lazy and hostile layabouts who get annoyed with you if you expect them to get your order right or serve you chicken that's fresh, rather than the sorry specimens that have been slowly desiccating under heat lamps for hours on end. In big cities KFC tends to attract a certain thuggish and uncouth element, sometimes resulting in your order being served to you from behind two layers of three-inch-thick bulletproof plexiglass (I am not exaggerating), thus reducing the once-pleasant dining experience to something akin to being doled out a meal in a maximum security prison. Sometimes you get lucky and receive an order of KFC that's a winner across the board, but in my experience I've been disappointed by what I've gotten from the once-reliable Colonel and his minions around eight out of ten times I go to them for chicken. I've officially given up on any KFC in the New York City or Connecticut areas and will only patronize one of their locations in small towns and out of the way places where standards are a tad more stringent.

POPEYE'S CHICKEN & BISCUITS

Contrary to popular belief, this negro-pleasing franchise was not named for the spinach-chomping cartoon sailor, but was actually named in tribute to Popeye Doyle of THE FRENCH CONNECTION fame. No, seriously! This Louisiana-accented chain features what is hands down the best fried chicken available for fast food consumption, and if it's done right it is a genuine pleasure in all aspects. Available in mild or spicy varieties, Popeye's chicken has an exceptional crispy coating and skin, tender meat, and an aroma that's certain to stimulate your salivary glands. Their biscuits are simply the best of the many available with your garden variety fast food chicken order and the same can be said of their sides, of which I wholeheartedly steer you toward the mashed potatoes and Cajun gravy. Simply superb, Popeye's Chicken is the only fast food chicken to which I will remain loyal, although limiting my intake of it to one order per month (okay, maybe two). However, even something as awesome as Popeye's is not without its downside (apart from the obvious potential death from congestive heart failure, that is). With the exception of a location on the highway that leads to New Paltz, NY, all the Popeye's I've visited have been in some urban area and staffed by surly and/or brain-dead high school students or recent parolees who do not give a fuck about you, your order, or even if what they're serving you is fresh or not. Popeye's is also notorious for running out of chicken before or during the dinner hours, which certainly speaks of its popularity, but it's fucking annoying and frustrating to get there before 7PM and be told that they're out of whatever you may want and that they have no intention of making anything fresh, despite the fact that the place is open for another three whole hours. That's completely disgraceful because frying chicken at home takes about ten minutes at most, and not only is Popeye's a joint whose sole raison d'etre is to make fried chicken by the truckload, the place has industrial fryers to facilitate exactly that goal, so what the fuck? And depending on which one you go to, Popeye's can also be afflicted with the same dregs of the neighborhood as previously described at Church's Chicken and there's nothing worse than being stuck on the sometimes very long lines behind those assholes. They'll attempt to haggle over the price of a single biscuit and get loud/potentially violent if the clerk's answers are not to their liking, so have your pepper spray or Taser at the ready. But even those caveats cannot detract from the excellence of Popeye's if you get it fresh and hot from the fryers.

Damn. Now I wanna go get me some Popeye's...

A VAULT RERUN: LOVE SONG TO THE MIGHT AND MAJESTY OF THE CHILI DOG

Blame this article on a sixty-nine-cent can of Steve & Ed's Original Hot Dog Chili Sauce.

Next to genocide and slavery is there anything more American than the lowly hot dog? Enjoyed in huge numbers on a daily basis all over this fair land, everybody has their own unique preference for how they like to eat a tube steak: with relish, any number of mustards, onions (cooked or raw), cheese (real or that fake yellow/orange semi-solid), wrapped in bacon, or with a slathering of ketchup. Those are all well and good, but they all pale beside the mouthwatering culinary orgasm of a really, REALLY good chili dog.

When my family moved to Westport, Connecticut in 1972 there was a humble little burger & dog stand on the Post Road called Big Top Shoppe, or Big Top for short. At first I was drawn to their superior flame-broiled cheeseburgers, topped with the white variety of processed cheese slices. Juicy and utterly delicious, the Big Top cheeseburger was one of the last of the dying breed of made-in-front-of-the-customer burgers that overflowed with the pride and care of a grill cook who really gave a shit about what they served to the public. Whenever I'm toiling over a grill I can't help but wonder if I will ever be worthy of the mantle of a Big Topper...

Having made my way through the rest of their menu by the time I was eight, I turned my sights onto the hot dogs. I didn't expect much since kids have always been exposed to franks of widely varying quality and by that time I was pretty much resigned to the inevitability of another sub par specimen. At birthday parties, cookouts, and ball games I had been subjected to such noxious "treats" as those gray, spongy filler-dogs of the Ballpark brand ilk and the vinegary, artificial-tasting horror of the Oscar Mayer hot dog (which has always struck me as tasting like what cloned processed meat would taste like after a trip through a matter transporter) with bland yellow mustard. In short, I was totally unprepared for anything resembling the mind-altering palate-festival of the Big Top chili dog.

I received the frank from the grill cook and took a bite. The frank itself was flame-grilled to crisp perfection, displaying what some hot dog experts term "the snap", junk food slang for the resistance that a good dog puts up when your teeth sink into it. Its meat had a solid, beefy consistency that brimmed with subtly seasoned flavor; the ambrosia of carefully administered spices that were glaringly absent from the hot dogs that I had previously tasted. The bun was light and fresh, briefly toasted over the brazier, providing the perfect cushion and counterpoint for the sausage. And then, the chili. Sweet jumping Jesus in a basket of chicken, the chili...

Never before or since have I tasted chili of the caliber that graced Big Top's masterpieces. If I could somehow conjure up a gallon of that sacred elixir for the sake of analyzing it and breaking it's arcane code I would willingly give up the pleasures of the opposite sex for two whole years. The basics are simple: we're talking a beanless wonder consisting of fresh ground beef, cumin and a unique chili powder all simmered for the better part of a day. The niggling puzzle is a question of exactly what was it that made this mundane recipe taste so damned good? Sadly, the world may never know again since Big Top Shoppe gave up the ghost around early 1983 after it was discovered to be a very profitable drug front. But I digress.

After losing my chili dog cherry in such a memorable fashion, I insisted that my mother try to replicate the miracle at home. Gone were the bad hot dogs and soon our fridge made the acquaintance of Hebrew National kosher franks, Sabrett, and others along those lines, but the closest thing to the Big Top dog to ever grace our house was the mighty Nathan's curved dog. Grilled or oven-broiled, they had the right "snap." Buns were pretty easy to find and toast so all that remained was the chili.

Now let's make one thing perfectly clear. My mother was always an exceptional cook, but chili was never her strong suit. Much like a good curry, if you intend to make it yourself you have to have a love for the flavor of chili to truly understand what you're doing. In later years Mom developed a taste for it due to my endless attempts at south-of-the-border alchemy, but at the time she just couldn't get it to work. My solution was to try any and all available canned beanless chili, and after several disappointments I finally stumbled upon what is my canned chili of choice to this day: Hormel. It's not as good as the Big Top goodness, but if you tweak it with just the right amounts of cumin and either Tabasco or West Indian pepper sauce it's good for rock 'n' roll.

Even today I'm willing to check out a new canned chili on the off chance that it may be what I've been searching to recapture for the past two decades. Nothing has come along to take the place of Hormel, and after the many culinary disasters that I have been assaulted with I have come to the conclusion that there simply is no other decent supermarket chili to be had. This point was driven home by the results of my shopping excursion of a week ago.

Since I am still unemployed, I have the wonderful option of going to market at any point during a given twenty-four-hour period. Not only is the enormous Pathmark supermarket on Atlantic avenue nearly deserted at 2AM, it also plays host to the dregs of the nighttime world.Prostitutes undergoing heroin withdrawal, bickering butch gay black men, alcoholic welfare mothers who are practically giving birth (again) in the frozen food aisle, hostile teenagers hanging around menacingly and former comics industry people can all be found haunting the joint, all under the weary yet watchful eyes of those unlucky enough to work the graveyard shift. It's all quite conducive to a meditative state, actually.

So there I was at 2AM, grooving on a very relaxed vibe (which probably had something to do with the six beers working their way around my synapses) and shopping at my leisure when I found myself in the aisle containing condiments for hot dogs, burgers and such. The thought that I might like to make chili dogs the next afternoon entered my addled mind and I began to look for old reliable Hormel when my eyes spied something I had never noticed before. The unassuming can read Steve & Ed's Original Hot Dog Chili Sauce and featured a photograph of what I could have sworn was the long lost Big Top brew, and it was on special for sixty-nine cents. Dare to hope?

When biohazard labeling should be mandatory.

The next day, when I finally opened the can, I tasted a bit of the chili sauce and my upper lip involuntarily tried to wrap itself around my nostrils. I should have stopped right then and there, but I hoped that once heated the flavor would come through. The brackish brown glop began to simmer and my apartment was promptly inundated with a stench that rivaled the Fresh Kills landfill or the farts that follow digesting a sack of White Castle cheeseburgers. As for the flavor, it tasted not unlike coffee grounds and cigarette butts slow-brewed into a tar-like consistency. I promptly dumped the offending crud down the bog, which seemed appropriate since it looked like the contents of colostomy bag. Bottom line: Steve & Ed's Original Hot Dog Chili Sauce is without question the single worst thing ever to cross my palate in all of my thirty-eight years on this miserable rock, and the fact that it is now sub-filed in my memory in relation to the chili quest is tantamount to psychological torture. In fact, it prompted me to go off at length on just what makes up a good chili dog just to try and get the violation out of my mind.

So the lesson here is that when you find a truly great specimen of your favorite junk food, cherish it since you may never find it's like again. And for the record, here's where you can find some very good chili dogs; nothing approaching the Big Top glory, but I'll take what I can get.

NATHAN'S-nationwide in the USA. Perfect frank, decent chili. 7 out of 10.

DAIRY QUEEN/KING-nationwide in the USA but slowly dying out. Decent foot-long dogs and light grilled buns, but the chili is the star here. One of the best out there, but the preparation varies regionally, so be sure to specify that you want it with just chili and not ketchup and mustard. 9 out of 10, sometimes 10 out of 10 (depending on where you get it)

Sheer junk food bliss from the Dairy King in Norwalk, CT.

THE PUERTO RICAN HOT DOG STAND AT 95TH STREET AND COLUMBUS AVENUE, MANHATTAN-run by a sweet middle-aged woman whose grasp of English is tenuous at best, this stand peddles your standard New York dirty-water-dog garnished with a homemade bean chili that can give eyesight to the blind. In fact, the chili is so good that there are some regulars who order just the chili on a bun. I have been a big fan of these dogs since the current proprietor's ancient father was making them during my four-year residence in the neighborhood, and at $1.25 each, these are a bargain basement gem. 8 out of 10 (would score higher if the chili wasn't adorning the common dirty-water-dog)

MOJO'S-a beachfront joint in Provincetown, Rhode Island. Hands out exceptional dogs that not only taste great, but they look like works of art. Utterly appropriate for the most entertaining
of the East coast's gay meccas. I once saw a drag queen work one of these to the point where I felt the urge to smoke a cigarette afterward. 9 out of 10.

SWANKY FRANKS-Norwalk, CT. Fried or grilled dogs (go with the grilled ones) and a bun which is much too thick and hearty at first, but the bun is absolutely necessary for helping to absorb some of the most ass-kicking chili ever to grace anything served in a family restaurant. 8 out of 10.

PAT'S HUBBA HUBBA-Portchester, NY. Infamous in local college lore first as TEXAS CHILI, this place is a twenty-four-hour chili endurance test for diehards and gastrointestinal masochists only. The only items on the menu are chili, hot dogs, hamburgers, cheese burgers and French fries, and chili-slathered versions of each (except the chili because that would be redundant and possibly lethal). The chili at this place tastes incredible, but you start to pay the price for eating it about three minutes after it hits your mouth, and I won't even mention what happens about an hour later. Just make sure that you are near a bathroom that has toilet paper and some interesting reading material; you'll be there for a while. The genius of this is that the food is dirt cheap, yet the small drinks that they serve (orange or grape only) are two bucks apiece, and as the chili rapes your mouth Viking-style, you'll go through at least four of them. The first time I ate this stuff I was taking a late-night break form working in my college's sculpture wing, and upon returning to the campus I flew to the bathroom. As I suffered unspeakable agonies on the bowl, I noticed an understated bit of graffiti that simply read, "Texas Chili is an evil thing." Extremely dangerous and definitely not recommended for those with weak constitutions or acid reflux disease. 10 out of 10 for the sheer balls it takes to do this to the public and get away with it.

MIGHTY OXTAIL STEW

I love me some slow-brewed oxtail stew, a hearty mainstay in the cuisine of many cultures, and my own version of it derives from the Chinese and Jamaican varieties. Loaded with beefy goodness, vertebrae that are incredibly flavorful when sucked on after cooking, corn, peas, onions and beans, this is tasty as a motherfucker, very filling, and will make you drop a tree trunk-solid turd as big and heavy as your head. And this same recipe can be used for curried goat as well!

INGREDIENTS

Curry powder (brand is irrelevant, though I do favor Jamaican Choice or Badia)
Oxtail in inch-thick sections (2 pounds)
Beef broth (enough to cover the oxtail, with four inches extra)
2 large onions
4 smashed cloves of garlic (but if you enjoy more, go for it)
2 cans dark kidney beans (drained)
1 can lima beans (or 1 package of frozen)
1 standard-size package of frozen peas
1 standard-size package of frozen corn
1 can sliced potatoes
Salt
Pepper

Optional Ingredients

SunBird Golden Curry Mix, Mild (3.5-Ounce Box)
Trappey’s Indi-Pep hot sauce

How to make dis shit, Mon

• Chop up your onions into decent-sized hunks, nothing fancy because it’ll all melt into the mixture eventually. Smash your garlic with the flat of a large cooking knife or cleaver. Have chopped onions and garlic at the ready to add when things come to a boil.

• Drop the oxtail into a big stew pot and add enough beef broth to cover it, allowing a depth of roughly four inches above the meat. Bring to a boil and add curry powder to taste. If necessary add salt and pepper; some curry powder brands have a certain amount of salt already in the mix, so taste the broth to see if you need to tart things up with the salt and pepper.

• Add onions and garlic and drop heat to a simmer.

• Add beans, peas and corn. Stir until well blended and allow to simmer, uncovered.

• Simmer until the meat is just about ready to fall off the bones, and then add the potatoes. Cook until meat is fork tender. Remove from heat and if possible allow to sit in the fridge overnight to “find its flavor” — it’s good fresh off the stove, but the overnight thing really punches up the richness.

NOTE:
Regarding the optional ingredients, the boxed curry mix is suggested for ease of use if you don’t feel like experimenting and coming up with a curry sauce that bears your own culinary signature. The hot sauce is recommended for those who want the stew to have a bit of “kick,” and Indi-Pep is suggested because it’s got a real West Indian flavor rather than a burn-your-asshole-out spice assault. If you chose to use it, lose that dash-regulating white bit of plastic that tops the open bottle and dump about half the bottle into the simmering stew. It’s got some heat, but it won’t kill your pets or children.

You can serve this over white rice or noodles or with crusty bread, but I go for it as a stand-alone soup or stew.

FULLY LOADED GUMBO EL BUNCHO

Gumbo, cherished mainstay of Louisiana cuisine and one of the tastiest fucking dishes on the planet. As diverse as the people in the region that spawned it, there are literally dozens — if not hundreds — of ways to prepare a rich pot of gumbo and I have attempted at least seven different varieties only to arrive at my culinary gene-splicing of my favorite variations (chief of which is my mother’s brown roux specialty). Making a good batch of this sacred brew is an art form requiring patience, a knack for “measuring by intuition” and attention to both detail and the slowly simmering elixir, in other words, if you feel that you do not possess these traits, do not attempt this recipe and pass it on to someone who would feel more comfortable with it. If you’re gonna make gumbo, you’ve gotta do it right since gumbo cooking ain’t for the weak. Not scared off? Then let’s get badassed on the bayou!

INGREDIENTS:

ROUX
SALT AND PEPPER (to taste)
ONIONS
CELERY
CHICKEN BROTH
ANDOUILLE SAUSAGE
CHICKEN
DUNGENESS CRABS (or ALASKAN KING CRAB LEGS)
CLAM JUICE
SHRIMP
GUMBO FILE

Hail to the might and majesty of the roux!

The foundation of any good batch of the ‘Bo is a heartfelt roux. Roux is a mixture of flour and oil continually stirred over a medium hot flame until the mixture turns a chestnut brown; some prefer a lighter color for their roux but I find that the darker brown provides a headier flavor, but you can do it however you like. Blend the flour and oil slowly with a spatula, and I suggest adding salt and pepper (to taste) to the mix at this point. The roux is finished when it is somewhat pasty in thickness and has reached the shade of brown that floats your boat, but time-wise I usually stay at the stove and stir slowly for about a half-hour/forty-five minutes; this part of the procedure is a great time for functional meditation as you concentrate on the incredibly relaxing Zen of stirring. Also, depending on how much you need for your batch of gumbo, I suggest making a surplus of roux to save on the side. More on this shortly.

A surfeit of veggie goodness!

Next, chop up as much onion and celery as you may need and sauté in butter or oil until the veggies are somewhat soft. As mentioned previously regarding the roux, you may also want to prepare a surplus of the vegetables so that they can be combined with the surplus roux and frozen for when you may need it again; since making roux is a time-consuming activity you will pat yourself on the back for this time-saving bit of foresightedness when it is needed.

Behold the goodies!

Next, pour the veggies and roux into an eight-quart stock pot and mix thoroughly. Now pour in two quarts (or as much as you feel you may need; remember that much of my method is intuitive) of chicken broth and four Andouille sausages that have been cut into small, coin-shaped sections. NOTE: I recommend adding as much Andouille as possible since it adds a distinct flavor and spiciness to the mix, but keep in mind that the shit ain’t cheap; at my local supermarket they go for around six bucks per pound and that translates into two nine-inch sausages for about five bucks since a two sausage pack never quite equals a full pound. My average batch of gumbo requires at least four Andouille sausages, and in a pinch smoked sausage, Italian sausage and damn near any other sausage will do, but I’m snob for authenticity of flavor.

Bring this lovely mixture to a low boil and add the Dungeness crabs (cleaned of course, and frozen is perfectly fine — for my standard batch I go with three pounds, which comes to around twenty bucks) or Alaskan King Crab Legs, and then the chicken. I recommend wings, legs and thighs over breasts since breasts tend to fall apart into stringy tendrils during a long, slow simmer; it’s still edible, but it’s just nicer to have a piece of solid chicken to sink your teeth into while enjoying the meal. Anyway, pour in one quarter of a bottle of clam juice and we’re off to the races. Once that comes to a boil drop it down to a low simmer, stirring periodically for three hours, taking care not to break up the chicken too much. NOTE: sometimes the roux portion of the mixture may stick to the bottom of the pot so pay attention and don’t let it settle to the bottom for too long.

At the end of the three-hour simmer add at least a pound of fresh, cleaned shrimp to the pot, along with a few shakes of gumbo file; file (pronounced "fee-lay") is ground sassafras which is used to thicken soups and stews, so apply as much as you need for the desired thickness. Let this boil for another five minutes and remove from heat. That’s it. You have now made a pot of gumbo.

I recommend making this the day before you intend to serve it since, much like almost any dish, the gumbo finds its flavor overnight, just make sure that it has fully cooled before putting it in the fridge. And for those who want more of a kick to the flavor, feel free to add whatever kind of hot sauce you like later, though thanks to the Andouille you probably won’t need to.

SIDE DISH IN EXCELSIS: THE MACARONI AND CHEESE OF THE GODS

Prepare to kiss this shit goodbye!

A few years ago, yet another person moved into the studio apartment across the hall from me; not much of a surprise there since this building has a staggering turnover rate, leaving myself and two other people as the only residents who have lived here for more than a few years. I didn’t see the new neighbor move in but one evening I heard the all-too-familiar strains of Devo’s “Snowball” coming through the paper-thin wall and had to introduce myself.

I knocked on the door and was greeted by a blonde twenty-something guy named Tim Holden. I think he expected me to request that he turn the music down, but I put his mind at ease by telling him of my rabid Devo-tion and invited him to drop in any time. During the time that he lived here Tim and I became good friends, sharing much music and many recipes, including his secrets for the perfect — and I DO mean perfect — macaroni and cheese.

At this point I would like to make a statement of priorities. My favorite things in the whole world are pussy, good food and rock ‘n’ roll. As rock ‘n’ roll is utterly irrelevant to this post, we’ll just leave that one out and return to the other two favorites.

There are very few things that I enjoy eating more than pussy, and this macaroni and cheese is one of them.

When I lived on Manhattan’s Upper West Side there was a rather chi-chi delicatessen a couple of blocks away from my apartment whose prices were what one would expect for the area and I would have totally ignored it if not for rumors of them making an exemplary macaroni and cheese. Now it’s a well-known fact that something as seemingly simple as macaroni and cheese can vary widely in terms of tastes ranging from mouthful-of-paste to the final word in sharp, cheesy goodness, so I purchased a half-pound of the deli’s offering with no expectations whatsoever. Let me just say that the flavor that I experienced that day was a life-changer, and whenever I find myself in that neighborhood I always buy a pound of the stuff, but I’m seldom up there so I was totally screwed if I wanted some truly holy m & c. That is until Tim Holden hooked me up with the following recipe. If you are looking to avoid carbs and cholesterol, stop reading now and go eat a fistful of wheat germ; this one’s for us hedonists!

INGREDIENTS

24 OZ. EXTRA-SHARP CHEDDAR CHEESE
2 CANS EVAPORATED MILK
4 EGGS
PASTA (YOUR CHOICE OF NOODLES)
POWDERED MUSTARD
2 TABLESPOONS OF BUTTER

NOTE: these are the basics for simple mac and cheese, but you can tweak it with shredded ham of crumbled bacon.

Boil your pasta of choice; I recommend either standard elbow noodles or hearty flat noodles. Drain and set to the side.

Take the cheese and if it isn’t already shredded, shred it and put it into a saucepot. Add two cans of evaporated milk and four eggs; slowly cook over low heat, stirring until the cheese has melted and the whole thing is velvety creamy. Next add powdered mustard to taste, but the mixture should have a certain tang to it. Then add the butter and blend it all together until smooth. Add to the drained pasta and mix thoroughly. Put the gloppy sludge into a baking dish and bake in an oven (no, duh!) on broil for a couple of minutes until the top browns. After that, let it sit at room temperature for five minutes and then stuff your fat face.

Spring this one on your family at Thanksgiving and be prepared to join the annals of holiday legends. Just remember to play to your audience and use the “better to eat than pussy” comment at your discretion.

FULLY LOADED GUMBO EL BUNCHO

Gumbo, cherished mainstay of Louisiana cuisine and one of the tastiest fucking dishes on the planet; as diverse as the people in the region that spawned it, there are literally dozens — if not hundreds — of ways to prepare a rich pot of gumbo and I have attempted at least seven different varieties only to arrive at my culinary gene-splicing of my favorite variations (chief of which is my mother’s brown roux specialty). Making a good batch of this sacred brew is an art form requiring patience, a knack for “measuring by intuition,” and attention to both detail and the slowly simmering elixir; if you feel that you do not possess these traits, do not attempt this recipe and pass it on to someone who would feel more comfortable with it. If you’re gonna make gumbo, you’ve gotta do it right since gumbo cooking ain’t for the weak. Not scared off? Then let’s get badassed on the bayou!

INGREDIENTS:

ROUX
SALT AND PEPPER (to taste)
ONIONS
CELERY
CHICKEN BROTH
ANDOUILLE SAUSAGE
CHICKEN
DUNGENESS CRABS (or ALASKAN KING CRAB LEGS)
CLAM JUICE
SHRIMP
GUMBO FILE

The foundation of any good batch of the ‘Bo is a heartfelt roux. Roux is a mixture of flour and oil that is continually stirred over a medium hot flame until the mixture turns a chestnut brown; some prefer a lighter color for their roux but I find that the darker brown provides a headier flavor, but you can do it however you like. Blend the flour and oil slowly with a spatula, and I suggest adding salt and pepper (to taste) to the mix at this point. The roux is finished when it is somewhat pasty in thickness and has reached the shade of brown that floats your boat, but time-wise I usually stay at the stove and stir slowly for about a half-hour/forty-five minutes; this part of the procedure is a great time for functional meditation as you concentrate on the incredibly relaxing Zen of stirring. Also, depending on how much you need for your batch of gumbo, I suggest making a surplus of roux to save on the side. More on this shortly.

Next, chop up as much onion and celery as you may need and sauté in butter or oil until the veggies are somewhat soft. As mentioned previously regarding the roux, you may also want to prepare a surplus of the vegetables so that they can be combined with the surplus roux and frozen for when you may need it again; since making roux is a time-consuming activity you will pat yourself on the back for this time-saving bit of foresightedness when it is needed.

Next, pour the veggies and roux into an eight-quart stock pot and mix thoroughly. Now pour in two quarts (or as much as you feel you may need; remember that much of my method is intuitive) of chicken broth and four Andouille sausages that have been cut into small, coin-shaped sections. NOTE: I recommend adding as much Andouille as possible since it adds a distinct flavor and spiciness to the mix, but keep in mind that the shit ain’t cheap; at my local supermarket they go for around six bucks per pound and that translates into two nine-inch sausages for about five bucks since a two sausage pack never quite equals a full pound. My average batch of gumbo requires at least four Andouille sausages, and in a pinch smoked sausage, Italian sausage and damn near any other sausage will do, but I’m snob for authenticity.

Bring this lovely mixture to a low boil and add the Dungeness crabs (cleaned of course, and frozen is perfectly fine — for my standard batch I go with three pounds, which comes to around twenty bucks) or Alaskan King Crab Legs, and then the chicken. I recommend wings, legs and thighs over breasts since breasts tend to fall apart into stringy tendrils during a long, slow simmer; it’s still edible, but it’s just nicer to have a piece of solid chicken to sink your teeth into while enjoying the meal. Anyway, pour in one quarter of a bottle of clam juice and we’re off to the races. Once that comes to a boil drop it down to a low simmer, stirring periodically for three hours, taking care not to break up the chicken too much. NOTE: sometimes the roux portion of the mixture may stick to the bottom of the pot so pay attention and don’t let it settle to the bottom for too long.

At the end of the three-hour simmer add at least a pound of fresh, cleaned shrimp to the pot, along with a few shakes of gumbo file; file is ground sassafras which is used to thicken soups and stews, so apply as much as you need for the desired thickness. Let this boil for another five minutes and remove from heat. That’s it. You have now made a pot of gumbo.

I recommend making this the day before you intend to serve it since, much like almost any dish, the gumbo finds its flavor overnight. Just make sure that it has fully cooled before putting it in the fridge. And for those who want more of a kick to the flavor, feel free to add whatever kind of hot sauce you like later, though thanks to the Andouille you probably won’t need to.

LOVE SONG TO THE MIGHT AND MAJESTY OF THE CHILI DOG

Blame this article on a sixty-nine-cent can of Steve & Ed's Original Hot Dog Chili Sauce.

Next to genocide and slavery is there anything more American than the lowly hot dog? Enjoyed in huge numbers on a daily basis all over this fair land, everybody has their own unique preference for how they like to eat a tube steak: with relish, any number of mustards, onions (cooked or raw), cheese (real or that fake yellow/orange semi-solid), wrapped in bacon, or with a slathering of ketchup. Those are all well and good, but they all pale beside the mouthwatering culinary orgasm of a really, REALLY good chili dog.

When my family moved to Westport, Connecticut in 1972 there was a humble little burger & dog stand on the Post Road called Big Top Shoppe, or Big Top for short. At first I was drawn to their superior flame-broiled cheeseburgers, topped with the white variety of processed cheese slices. Juicy and utterly delicious, the Big Top cheeseburger was one of the last of the dying breed of made-in-front-of-the-customer burgers that overflowed with the pride and care of a grill cook who really gave a shit about what they served to the public. Whenever I'm toiling over a grill I can't help but wonder if I will ever be worthy of the mantle of a Big Topper...

Having made my way through the rest of their menu by the time I was eight, I turned my sights onto the hot dogs. I didn't expect much since kids have always been exposed to franks of widely varying quality and by that time I was pretty much resigned to the inevitability of another sub par specimen. At birthday parties, cookouts, and ball games I had been subjected to such noxious "treats" as those gray, spongy filler-dogs of the Ballpark brand ilk and the vinegary, artificial-tasting horror of the Oscar Mayer hot dog (which has always struck me as tasting like what cloned processed meat would taste like after a trip through a matter transporter) with bland yellow mustard. In short, I was totally unprepared for anything resembling the mind-altering palate-festival of the Big Top chili dog.

I received the frank from the grill cook and took a bite. The frank itself was flame-grilled to crisp perfection, displaying what some hot dog experts term "the snap", junk food slang for the resistance that a good dog puts up when your teeth sink into it. Its meat had a solid, beefy consistency that brimmed with subtly seasoned flavor; the ambrosia of carefully administered spices that were glaringly absent from the hot dogs that I had previously tasted. The bun was light and fresh, briefly toasted over the brazier, providing the perfect cushion and counterpoint for the sausage. And then, the chili. Sweet jumping Jesus in a basket of chicken, the chili...

Never before or since have I tasted chili of the caliber that graced Big Top's masterpieces. If I could somehow conjure up a gallon of that sacred elixir for the sake of analyzing it and breaking it's arcane code I would willingly give up the pleasures of the opposite sex for two whole years. The basics are simple: we're talking a beanless wonder consisting of fresh ground beef, cumin and a unique chili powder all simmered for the better part of a day. The niggling puzzle is a question of exactly what was it that made this mundane recipe taste so damned good? Sadly, the world may never know again since Big Top Shoppe gave up the ghost around early 1983 after it was discovered to be a very profitable drug front. But I digress.

After losing my chili dog cherry in such a memorable fashion, I insisted that my mother try to replicate the miracle at home. Gone were the bad hot dogs and soon our fridge made the acquaintance of Hebrew National kosher franks, Sabrett, and others along those lines, but the closest thing to the Big Top dog to ever grace our house was the mighty Nathan's curved dog. Grilled or oven-broiled, they had the right "snap." Buns were pretty easy to find and toast so all that remained was the chili.

Now let's make one thing perfectly clear. My mother was always an exceptional cook, but chili was never her strong suit. Much like a good curry, if you intend to make it yourself you have to have a love for the flavor of chili to truly understand what you're doing. In later years Mom developed a taste for it due to my endless attempts at south-of-the-border alchemy, but at the time she just couldn't get it to work. My solution was to try any and all available canned beanless chili, and after several disappointments I finally stumbled upon what is my canned chili of choice to this day: Hormel. It's not as good as the Big Top goodness, but if you tweak it with just the right amounts of cumin and either Tabasco or West Indian pepper sauce it's good for rock 'n' roll.

Even today I'm willing to check out a new canned chili on the off chance that it may be what I've been searching to recapture for the past two decades. Nothing has come along to take the place of Hormel, and after the many culinary disasters that I have been assaulted with I have come to the conclusion that there simply is no other decent supermarket chili to be had. This point was driven home by the results of my shopping excursion of a week ago.

Since I am still unemployed, I have the wonderful option of going to market at any point during a given twenty-four-hour period. Not only is the enormous Pathmark supermarket on Atlantic Avenue nearly deserted at 2AM, it also plays host to the dregs of the nighttime world.Prostitutes undergoing heroin withdrawal, bickering butch gay black men, alcoholic welfare mothers who are practically giving birth (again) in the frozen food aisle, hostile teenagers hanging around menacingly and former comics industry people can all be found haunting the joint, all under the weary yet watchful eyes of those unlucky enough to work the graveyard shift. It's all quite conducive to a meditative state, actually.

So there I was at 2AM, grooving on a very relaxed vibe (which probably had something to do with the six beers working their way around my synapses) and shopping at my leisure when I found myself in the aisle containing condiments for hot dogs, burgers and such. The thought that I might like to make chili dogs the next afternoon entered my addled mind and I began to look for old reliable Hormel when my eyes spied something I had never noticed before. The unassuming can read Steve & Ed's Original Hot Dog Chili Sauce and featured a photograph of what I could have sworn was the long lost Big Top brew, and it was on special for sixty-nine cents. Dare to hope?

When biohazard labeling should be mandatory.

The next day, when I finally opened the can, I tasted a bit of the chili sauce and my upper lip involuntarily tried to wrap itself around my nostrils. I should have stopped right then and there, but I hoped that once heated the flavor would come through. The brackish brown glop began to simmer and my apartment was promptly inundated with a stench that rivaled the Fresh Kills landfill or the farts that follow digesting a sack of White Castle cheeseburgers. As for the flavor, it tasted not unlike coffee grounds and cigarette butts slow-brewed into a tar-like consistency. I promptly dumped the offending crud down the bog, which seemed appropriate since it looked like the contents of colostomy bag. Bottom line: Steve & Ed's Original Hot Dog Chili Sauce is without question the single worst thing ever to cross my palate in all of my thirty-eight years on this miserable rock, and the fact that it is now sub-filed in my memory in relation to the chili quest is tantamount to psychological torture. In fact, it prompted me to go off at length on just what makes up a good chili dog just to try and get the violation out of my mind.

So the lesson here is that when you find a truly great specimen of your favorite junk food, cherish it since you may never find it's like again. And for the record, here's where you can find some very good chili dogs; nothing approaching the Big Top glory, but I'll take what I can get.

NATHAN'S-nationwide in the USA. Perfect frank, decent chili. 7 out of 10.

DAIRY QUEEN/KING-nationwide in the USA but slowly dying out. Decent foot-long dogs and light grilled buns, but the chili is the star here. One of the best out there, but the preparation varies regionally, so be sure to specify that you want it with just chili and not ketchup and mustard. 9 out of 10, sometimes 10 out of 10 (depending on where you get it)

Sheer junk food bliss from the Dairy King in Norwalk, CT.

THE PUERTO RICAN HOT DOG STAND AT 95TH STREET AND COLUMBUS AVENUE, MANHATTAN-run by a sweet middle-aged woman whose grasp of English is tenuous at best, this stand peddles your standard New York dirty-water-dog garnished with a homemade bean chili that can give eyesight to the blind. In fact, the chili is so good that there are some regulars who order just the chili on a bun. I have been a big fan of these dogs since the current proprietor's ancient father was making them during my four-year residence in the neighborhood, and at $1.25 each these are a bargain basement gem. 8 out of 10 (would score higher if the chili wasn't adorning the common dirty-water-dog)

MOJO'S-a beachfront joint in Provincetown, Rhode Island. Hands out exceptional dogs that not only taste great, but they look like works of art. Utterly appropriate for the most entertaining
of the East Coast's gay meccas. I once saw a drag queen work one of these to the point where I felt the urge to smoke a cigarette afterward. 9 out of 10.

SWANKY FRANKS-Norwalk and Westport, CT. Fried or grilled dogs (go with the grilled ones), and a bun which is much too thick and hearty at first, but the bun is absolutely necessary for helping to absorb some of the most ass-kicking chili ever to grace anything served in a family restaurant. 8 out of 10.

PAT'S HUBBA HUBBA-Portchester, NY. Infamous in local college lore first as TEXAS CHILI, this place is a twenty-four-hour chili endurance test for diehards and gastrointestinal masochists only. The only items on the menu are chili, hot dogs, hamburgers, cheese burgers and French fries, and chili-slathered versions of each (except the chili because that would be redundant and possibly lethal). The chili at this place tastes incredible, but you start to pay the price for eating it about three minutes after it hits your mouth and I won't even mention what happens about an hour later. Just make sure that you are near a bathroom that has a surplus of toilet paper and some interesting reading material; you'll be there for a while. The genius of this is that the food is dirt cheap, yet the small drinks that they serve (orange or grape only) are two bucks apiece, and as the chili rapes your mouth Viking-style, you'll go through at least four of them. The first time I ate this stuff I was taking a late-night break form working in my college's sculpture wing, and upon returning to the campus I flew to the bathroom, there to reenact the eruption of Mount Vesuvius with my scorched anus. As I suffered unspeakable agonies on the bowl, I noticed an understated bit of graffiti that simply read, "Texas Chili is an evil thing." Extremely dangerous and definitely not recommended for those with weak constitutions or acid reflux disorder. 10 out of 10 for the sheer balls it takes to do this to the public and get away with it.