ROAD TRIP USA 2010: WEEKEND IN THE WINDY CITY

After ten days in NYC, it was time to head to Chicago.

My main reason for visiting was to attend the wedding of Syb's charming young cousin, Rose to her college sweetheart, Stuart. I am not sure that he quite knows what he is letting himself in for. As I am finding out after three months of wedded bliss, there are three things you need to know when you join this particular Filipino clan. The first is that they are all (how can I put it nicely? I can't) nuts. Benignly, charmingly and beguilingly nuts, but nuts just the same.

The second is that there are enough of them in the extended family to populate a small city and new cousins/aunties/uncles and other relatives are introduced with alarming regularity at any family gathering. Every new member of the clan should be presented with a handbook when they join just so they can figure out who is related to whom.

The last thing you should know is that Filipinos are obsessed with food like few other people I have ever met. They talk about food constantly and any visit to the house of a family member will involve you sitting down and being force fed more food than you ever thought humanly possible regardless of how hungry you profess to be.

If you want to know how obsessed my particular new family are with feeding themselves, at one point during a pre-wedding meal at the house of a relative who lives in Chicago, an auntie appeared with a dish of soft cakes made with cassava and coconut (Pichi Pichi?) . Everyone tucked in until one of Syb's uncles proclaimed

"You know this cake contains a compound that they have found to be very toxic, don't you?"

He considered his words for a moment and then, reaching for the bowl added "So, I will just have one" as everyone else carried on devouring them undeterred by his words.

I love my new Filipino family.

The day after the wedding, I met with one of my oldest chums Neal (who had previously joined me for the Mozambique leg of my Eat My Globe trip) to begin Road trip USA 2010 proper. What better way to do that than to introduce him to a proper Chicago dog in the form of the Red Hot at The Wieners Circle along with a large portion of cheddar fries? The car on the drive to St Louis this morning is sure be filled with interesting sounds and smells, I am certain.

Let the fun commence.

OKI'S DOG: MY INSIDES FEEL VIOLATED, BUT IN A GOOD WAY

As I write this, Twitter is alight with posts from those attending a meal for "The 50 Best Restaurants in the World" awards. Very nice it sounds too, particularly a dish of scallops with morels.

Someone was actually kind/foolish enough to invite me as their guest at this year's occasion and, even though I find the concept of the competition slightly specious, I would have happily gone along if it had not been for the simple matter of 6000 miles and a looming wedding to contend with.

I am sure I would have enjoyed the meal a great deal. However, I am also equally sure that, despite the fact I have had more than my fair share of fine dining experiences over the years, that is not where my heart truly lies when it comes to eating.

No, my heart truly lies at places like Oki's Dog in the Pico/La Brea area of Los Angeles. It is not much too look at from the outside. In fact, it is not much to look at from the inside either. There is a take out hatch facing the street and, around the back, a small dining area with cracked Formica covered tables and walls covered by ageing black & white pictures of people of whom I had never heard.

The place is Japanese owned (the name apparently comes from the owner's origins in Okinawa) and has a large menu including hamburgers, teriyaki chicken and the rather infamous "Oki-Dog" wrapped in a tortilla. That's what I ordered, along with some chili fries and a couple of drinks.

At least, that's what I thought I ordered until our food arrived. Somewhere between my mouth and the ears of the young assistant behind the counter, my clear and precise order of "Two Oki-Dogs please" delivered with my best Rex Harrison impression, had been transformed to "Two hot dogs covered in the slurry like contents of a cesspool. Oh, and bung some of the same shit on the chips and all, while you are at it"

What we had received instead were two chili cheese dogs. By now, a queue had formed and we decided just to carry on eating regardless of the mistake. When we opened the wrapping to reveal the contents of our lunch, it looked like someone else had already revealed their lunch over our dogs and fries. It looked fairly grim, but then as I have discovered to be the case, so much delicious food often does.

It probably tells you all you need to know about me that not only did I polish off my hot dog and more than my fair share of the fries, in about ten minutes, I actually rather enjoyed them. The dog gave a nice "snap" when I bit into it and although any flavour it might have had was covered up by the coating of chili, the overall result was not bad at all.

The bun had been lightly toasted and it too played its part adding a slight sweetness to the whole affair. The fries were covered in another thick slick of chili, which had enough heat about it to make us slurp loudly from our drinks containers before we finished up, threw out our rubbish and headed back out to the car $10 lighter of pocket.

We were not quite finished for the day as Sybil also had some shopping to do on Melrose. We stopped in for dessert of cookies and ice cream at The Village Idiot. As we sat on our bar stools, both our stomachs began gurgling noisily enough to be heard above the sounds of Brit pop blaring from the P.A and continued to do so for the rest of the day. Oki's Dog, the meal that keeps on giving.

As I finish writing, people are still tweeting the final courses of their delicious sounding meal back in London. I wish I was with them, but there is no reason why people can't enjoy all ends of the spectrum is there?

So, if I am not in the UK or not invited again next year, no harm done. You will be able to find me at the sort of place which makes me really happy. A sort of place very much like Oki-Dog.

Just follow the sound of the gurgling stomachs.

A DOG & A BEER WITH THE DODGERS

It’s an odd and slightly unnerving experience when someone scores a home run at a LA Dodgers game.

It’s not that it is an unusual occurrence. On the contrary, my hosts for the day informed me that they are actually a decent side, so someone dressed in pyjamas bludgeoning a small white ball into the stands can be usually be counted upon to happen at least a few times every game. No, it is more that, when the home run is confirmed, the speakers suddenly start blaring out a raucous version of a tune well known to every Glam Rock fan of a certain age.

Rock & Roll Pt2 is one of the most used sporting themes in the USA, but I wonder how many of the people listening would realise that, as they clap and whoop along, they are stomping to the tunes of Gary Glitter, one of the U.K’s most notorious sex offenders? Not many and I suspect if they did, whatever royalties he might be receiving would dry up pretty sharpish.

Still, the music aside, my first experience of a baseball game was very good fun indeed. It was a last minute invitation from my new chum, Robert, who had been offered a couple of tickets to join his friends Elizabeth and Grafton at the opening season game at Dodger Stadium. The sight of me slurping uni from the shell a week before, had obviously not put him off and he suggested I might like to take his extra ticket. I couldn’t say no to that kind invitation and promptly agreed to meet up with him in Santa Monica for the ride.

I have been making lists of events I want to experience as I ease myself into my new American lifestyle over the next few years and a dog & a beer at a baseball game was ranked high amongst them. Few things strike me as being more quintessentially American.

There could not have been a better time to go than the opening game of the season at the fifty-year old stadium (ranked third oldest in the country, I was reliably informed). They take opening day very seriously in these parts and, by the time we arrived, the stadium was full and a military guard of honour was rolling up a huge American flag after the warbling of the national anthem. Someone from a band called The Black Eyes Peas was dragged out to throw the opening pitch and elderly talk show host Larry King tottered out to give the call to “Play Ball”

All good fun, and as the game progressed my new friend, Grafton attempted to explain the rules to me. I may be none the wiser as to what was going on even after his valiant efforts to teach me, but I can at least now claim to be a good luck charm.

Not only did the Dodgers win comfortably against the Arizona Diamondbacks, but during the first innings a batsman swung at a ball clipping it directly into our section of the stands. While I put my hands over my head and ducked like the world’s premier sissy, the ball sailed straight into the waiting mitt attached to Grafton’s right hand.

It is fair to say that he was made up and took several curtain calls as the folks in the neighbouring seats applauded, hollered and shouted “good job”. I like to think I played my small part in his good fortune too.

Ah, this is a food blog, you remind me. Well, during the game, I ticked this great American experience off my list by wolfing down a couple of hot dogs (a “Dodgerdog” and a Polish dog, for the record) along with a large glass of pissy, gassy beer than went through me quicker than Charlie Sheen goes through low rent hookers.

It was a good day.

NORDIC BAR: A COLD DAY FOR A BAD DOG

Believe it or not, the best Hot Dog I ate on my trip was not in the USA. not at Hot Doug's, not at The Weiner's Circle and not even more recently at Marty's in Los Angeles. It was a spectacular example of a sausage in a bun at a small harbour side stand in Reykjavik where, in the sheeting snow, I indulged in not one, but two dogs so good I could understand why Mr William Jefferson Clinton was a regular every time he came to town.

It was fantastic. Perfect bun, sausages that needed some bite to find a way through the casing, remoulade sauce and topped with crispy onions. I have been craving one ever since.

The Nordic Bar on Newman St offers up a menu of Scandanavian Hot Dogs including that oh so weird Swedish one topped with a dollop of mashed potato. So, when my craving could be controlled no more, I made my way through the crowds of Christmas shoppers and office workers to their little underground restaurant in search of memories of encased meat sandwiches past. Like my companion, I went for the Danish Polz, the closest to the Icelandic version on the menu and we added a side of a bacon sandwich, well just because we could.

What arrived was a disappointment to say the least. First of all, they had cut it in half. Who the hell says you should do that? Any right minded person knows that, if you cut a dog, you let all the flavour escape. Next, the bread. Just too damn much of it, so the sausage was hidden. The crunchy onions weren't, crunchy that is and the remoulade lacked the pre-requiste mustard kick. Add this to a portion of chips of the oven variety and our bill of £14 + tip seemed rather on the steep side. Serving only to remind me how really good those in Iceland were, as the bottom picture goes to show.

I guess we just have to mark down hot dogs as yet another thing we just can't do in this country. Ho Hum

HERMANO SEGUNDO LOST IN LA LA LAND: DAY ELEVEN

I guess at heart I am a pleb, a commoner, a serf and an underling.

Despite my best efforts, it is not the swanky restaurants which attracts me it is the down home and the simple. Oh, I can enjoy a meal such as our recent one at Providence as much as anyone, you would have to be a bit simple minded not to admire the chef’s ability to turn exemplary ingredients into the utterly fabulous. But, while others may sit and parse their dishes of fish, foams and fancies, I can’t help but feel that somewhere out there there is a pile of BBQ ribs, a plate of fish & chips or a hamburger with my name on them.

My new chum, John Haskell, is obviously a man after my own heart or heart attack. As we sat having a wonderful supper on Saturday, drinking astonishing wines and eating the food of a soon-to-be Michelin 2* chef, his wife, Liz was making copious notes and bringing all her considerable dining experience to bear on the dishes in front of us. John was playing along with good humour, but when I mentioned that one of the best things I had eaten so far was a hot dog from Let’s Be Frank, his eyes lit up and he began to talk with genuine passion about L.A’s great hamburger and hot dog joints.

At the end of the evening he promised me a trip to his favourite of all, Marty’s on the corner of Pico & Overland and as promised was sitting outside Sybil's flat waiting for me at 11am sharp. Well, in fact he was a little early, John being a man who realises that prime beef waits for no man.

Marty’s is everything you want from a hamburger joint and Angel, who has been working there for over twenty years was cooking away a storm in preparation for the lunchtime rush. John is a regular and his request to “double my regular order” saw us head back to the small dining area a few moments later each carrying a tray laden down with a chilli dog, a cheeseburger, fries and onion rings. Yes, that is all of that for both of us.

“fast food does not have to mean junk food” John mumbled between slow, considered bites, alternating between dog and burger and he was right. Marty’s hamburgers are made from decent beef and cooked perfectly to order, rare in this case, with lots of toppings, which compliment rather than detract from the main event. If the hamburger was good, the chilli dog was a revelation with a decent frank slathered with slow cooked chilli with a bit of a kick. I finished it off in about three bites, prompting John to ask me if I wanted another. Damn, yes I did, but with a bowl of decent onion rings and passable fries to contend with and a stadium size diet Coke to wash it down ( I am on a diet don’t you know?) good judgement got the better of a good appetite.

After a poor start, L.A’s eating scene is finally growing on me and I guess it now says as much about me as it does about the city’s restaurants that the one place I want to return to before I leave is a small hamburger joint where a meal for two costs about £12.

But then, as I say, I am a pleb. No apologies offered, none necessary.

HERMANO SEGUNDO LOST IN LA LA LAND: DAY TWO

We are so done with French” my friend, Sybil announced as we drove home after another dispiriting meal in West Hollywood.

I could only hope she was referring to the fact that, in the 24 hours since my arrival, we had eaten almost exclusively in a procession of faux French restaurants that had been united in their inability to whelm.

An arrival supper at Fraiche was a lovely treat but the meal itself will not live long in the memory. On my first full day, an early morning stroll around Santa Monica’s small farmer’s market, which did little to dissuade me that there are only so many stalls of fruit and veg I can look at in a life time, was followed by a passable breakfast at Anisette a restaurant which talked the talk of a Parisian Brasserie with its high ceilings and mirrored walls, but only walked the walk in an otherwise forgettable meal with some meaty smoked salmon served with salty capers.

A mid afternoon stroll from Santa Monica Pier to Venice Beach saw me hungry enough to reach into my pocket and hand over $1.50 for a hot dog at Costco, while Sybil went in to buy John Goodman size bottles of hair conditioner and shampoo. I am ashamed to say I rather liked it, particularly when doused with that rather scary green day-glo relish that Amercians seem to like and scattered on top with onions from a turn handle shredding machine next to the napkins, from which Sybil had to drag me away because a disgruntled and angry line was forming behind me.

Supper saw us cross town to Comme Ca, another uber-fashionable eatery on West Hollywood’s restaurant row, as famous for its cocktail mixing and its loud scene as for its French menu. The back bar is impressive as indeed was the list of cocktails on offer, but like so much I had experienced in the city so far, what was presented did not live up to the hype, with a Martini being over diluted with excessive stirring and drenched with citrus oil from too large a twist.

Unfortunately, the meal itself was little better. My own starter of sweetbreads passed muster with the glands having a crunchy texture and a meltingly liquid inside, but other dishes of a beet salad and onion soup seemed little more than standard. Worst of all was one of the more noxious things I can recall putting in my mouth in a very long time, a dish of Burgundian snails served, out of the shell, in a slimy sauce claiming to be a persillade but which I am convinced, if you came back in a million years would have evolved into a life form. Very, very nasty.

Main courses were better, braised belly pork in lentils could have benefited from a slab of something crispy on top, but was delicious. Steak was well, er steak, but perfectly prepared and with a mound of delicious frites. My own duck confit was fine, suitably crispy outside, soft enough inside so the flesh could be shredded from the bone with only the bed of tough spaetzel letting the side down. The only dish that flopped horribly involved overcooked sole and a tomato sauce so bitter it made everyone who tasted it shudder.

We skipped yet more identikit desserts and headed out into the balmy night air $60 a head poorer, which, compared to London, might not seem like a lot of money, but had everyone complaining of poor value for a so-so meal.

So far so mediocre for my eating in L.A and it says much that my most memorable meal so far was a $1.50 hot dog at Costco.

However, with Sybil’s promise that we are “so done with French” I have high hopes that things can only get better.