WWFB: Holiday Time = Disaster Time Edition

The scene: Your kitchen, Fakesgiving eve. This year, you’re assigned to bring a dessert to your in-laws’ Fakesgiving dinner, which is held annually on the weekend before Thanksgiving. They probably discovered your Heirloom Floor Carrots recipe from last year and are hoping you’ll have better luck with the sweet than you did with the savory.

They would be wrong.

It all started out with so much promise. You’d found a recipe for pumpkin cheesecake with a gingersnap crust and a salted caramel glaze. You did your shopping early in the week. You woke up early the day before Fakesgiving to start baking because you know cheesecake needs some time to chill and become its best self before being thrust into the spotlight at a party. You and cheesecake have a lot in common. #cheesecakeselfcare

They say the best-laid plans often go awry, and, spoiler alert: yours do, too. Spectacularly!   

It wouldn’t be the holidays without a little culinary cataclysm, so pull up your tub of popcorn, settle into your comfiest chair, and read on to learn the harrowing tale of Fakesgiving cheesecake gone so, so awry.

PUMPKIN CHEESECAKE WITH GINGERSNAP CRUST 

A recipe by World’s Worst Food Blogger, adapted from that one Redditor’s cheesecake recipe and the recipe from  Sally the Addict* for homemade pumpkin spice.
*Ahem, Baking Addict

INGREDIENTS

Pumpkin Pie Spice

• 3 Tablespoons ground cinnamon
• 2 teaspoons ground ginger
• 1 and 1/2 teaspoons ground nutmeg
• 1 teaspoon ground cloves
• 1 teaspoon ground allspice
• 1/8 teaspoon ground black pepper

The Crust

• 1 package (14 oz) ginger snap cookies, to yield 2 cups of crumbs
  I like Stauffer’s Snaps — a Cookie with “Zing”!
• 6 tbsp (3/4) stick melted, unsalted butter
• 1/4 cup granulated sugar
• 1 tsp pumpkin pie spice

The Filling

• 32 oz cream cheese, room temperature
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1/4 cup packed light brown sugar
• 15 oz can pumpkin purée
• 4 large egg yolks
• 1/2 cup sour cream
• 1 tbsp pumpkin pie spice
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 1 tbsp vanilla extract

Caramel Sauce*
*Spoiler alert: If you follow my instructions to the letter, you will not need to make this.

• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 6 tbsp salted butter, room temperature cut up into 6 pieces
• 1/2 cup heavy cream at room temperature
• 1 tsp salt

Whipped Cream*
*Spoiler alert: You also will not need to make this.

• 1 cup heavy cream
• 1/4 cup powdered sugar
• 1 tsp pumpkin spice extract (ugh just use vanilla, you don’t need to buy a whole bottle of this shit that you’ll deplete 1 tsp at a time over the next 12 years #oldpumpkinspice)

Desperate Salvage-Attempt Cookies

• 2 packages (5.25 oz) Anna’s Ginger Thins

PREPARATION

STEP 1: Make the pumpkin spice mix 

Toss all the ingredients into a mason jar.

I hope I don’t need to specify that you now need to put the lid on the mason jar. Then again, “disaster” is in the name of this recipe, so, for the record: Put the lid on the mason jar. Close it tight. Shake to combine.

If the ginger has lumps, get in there with a spoon and break them up. Nobody likes lumpy ginger. Close the lid and shake it again. Now you’re ready!

STEP 2: Prep your springform pan

The recipe calls for a 9-inch springform pan, but a 10-inch springform is also fine. Dimensions won’t matter in the end. (That, my friends, is called foreshadowing.)

Wrap the outside of the pan in 3 layers of foil. Consult the internet for wrapping techniques to keep out the water from the water bath. The internet is full of experts who definitely will not lead you astray. (And that, gentle reader, is called sarcasm.)

Step 3: Make the crust

Pulse most of the bag of ginger snaps (the Stauffer’s Snaps, not Anna’s Ginger Thins) in a food processor until fine crumbs form.

In a medium bowl, stir together the crumbs and melted butter along with the sugar and pumpkin pie spice.

Transfer into a 9-inch springform pan with 3″ tall walls and use a large spoon to press crumbs into the bottom of your springform pan, and going about 1/2″ up the sides of the pan.

Bake at 350°F for 8 minutes. Remove from oven and cool to room temp.

Gaze upon it lovingly. Inhale its zesty aroma. Imagine all the good times you’re going to have eating this crust when it is filled with your beautiful pumpkin cheesecake. Commit these sensations and images to memory because NONE OF THAT IS EVER GOING TO HAPPEN.

STEP 3.5: Go to the farmers’ market

You don’t need anything for this recipe, but it’s the last market of the season and you need to stock up on cheese for the winter because you live in Wisconsin and that’s just how it is. Besides, you’re meeting friends. And that crust needs to cool.

STEP 4: Make the cheesecake filling 

Preheat oven to 350°F again if it’s not still on from making the crust. If it is still on, your local fire marshal might have a few things to say to you about leaving the house with the oven on.

In the bowl of your paddle mixer (or using a hand mixer, you don’t need to be fancy to make this cheesecake), beat the softened cream cheese and both sugars on medium speed until light and fluffy and without lumps, about 5 minutes. Scrape down the bowl as needed to make sure you don’t have chunks of cream cheese. Chunks of cream cheese would be a DISASTER!

In a separate bowl, using a whisk or hand mixer, stir together the pumpkin purée, egg yolks, sour cream, pumpkin pie spice, salt, and vanilla extract. Mix until well combined.

Add this mixture to the cheesecake filling and continue mixing on low speed just until well combined, scraping down the bowl as needed.

Transfer the filling into your foil-entombed springform pan where your now-room-temp gingersnap crust yearns to be united with this fluffy, pumpkin-y goodness. Place the pan into a water bath, and slide the whole thing onto the middle rack.

STEP 5: Bake that gorgeous thing!

Bake for 1 hour. Turn off heat, prop the oven door open slightly and let the cheesecake sit in the oven another 45 minutes or so.

WWFB: “We’re Not Eating In the Shadow of the Abercrombie & Fitch” Edition

The scene: Mexico City, where Google has lied to you one too many times that a particular restaurant that sounds amazing is open or even still exists. You’re 57 minutes into a purported 33 minute walk (again, lies!), and you are thirsty and hungry but you’re both trying not to be crabby, and you agree that the seafood restaurant you found on the map sounds fantastic because it has food and chairs, so that’s where you’re going and that is THAT!

Until.

WWFB: Five-Second Rule Edition

The scene: Your kitchen, Fakesgiving morning. You’ve been tasked with bringing something involving carrots to your in-laws’ Fakesgiving dinner, which is held annually on the weekend before Thanksgiving. 

Don’t you hate those online recipes that have enticing titles and photos in the Google search results, but when you click over to the page you’re bombarded with a bunch of banner ads and inline ads and popup video ads and the page goes unresponsive for a bit because it’s just all too much for your browser to handle, and when you’re finally able to scroll, the first three-quarters of the page is full of the narrative musings of Jenni, a self-indulgent home chef who feels the need to explain how this recipe always reminds her of that time six years ago when Chad got down on one knee at the farmers’ market and she thought he was going to propose but he was just tying his loose shoelace, but as he rose he spotted a new vendor’s table with the most gorgeous carrots piled on the table which was covered by an adorable gingham tablecloth with lace trim that was clearly made by an old-world grandma with love, and he grabbed her hand and dragged her there to buy carrots (all the carrots!) and when I say dragged I mean dragged because Jenni was passive-aggressively upset that Chad hadn’t, in fact, proposed (and still hasn’t! maybe he has a secret wife who writes a different food blog! ooh, the plot thickens…or does it?), but that day wasn’t a total loss as it brought those gorgeous carrots into Jenni’s life, and she’s excited to share the recipe with you which she adapted from one she saw on the NYT Cooking website, and you’re never going to believe what secret ingredient she adds, and you scroll and scroll and scroll and scroll and it turns out it’s a just dollop of honey and now you can kinda understand why Chad didn’t propose because OH MY GOD IT’S JUST HONEY IT’S NOT LIKE SHE’S THE FIRST ONE TO ADD HONEY TO CARROTS WHY DOES SHE CALL IT A SECRET? No wonder Chad’s on the fence here. Jenni is kind of a lot.

Yeah, I hate those fucking recipes, too.

*Ahem.*

Where was I? Oh yes. Heirloom Floor Carrots. Let’s get to it!   

HEIRLOOM FLOOR CARROTS

A recipe by World’s Worst Food Blogger, adapted from Jenni’s blog which featured an adaptation of a recipe from NYT Cooking called simply “Roasted Carrots,” which is a little uninspired if you ask me. 

INGREDIENTS

• Carrots — enough to serve the in-laws plus some leftovers because OMG you guys these are THAT GOOD!
• fresh thyme leaves (1 tsp) — if you don’t have fresh, ask yourself if you’re really committed to this relationship because dried herbs are for the weak; actually, make it 2 tsp (YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHY!).
• extra virgin olive oil (3 Tbsp) — you’ll definitely need more, and yes, that is foreshadowing.
• Salt — so. much. salt. I don’t care if you have a heart condition; salt makes the world go ’round and don’t let your cardiologist tell you otherwise.
• freshly ground pepper — I sure hope you’re not using the black pepper that comes pre-ground in a jar; what, do you hate yourself?
• dried oregano (½ tsp 1 tsp) — OK, what I said earlier about dried herbs being for the weak? That might have been premature. Dried THYME is for the weak, but you get a pass on oregano.
• flat-leaf parsley (NOT THE CURLY KIND–that shit is garbage!) — you’re going to need 3 Tbsp 6 Tbsp, finely chopped. Or coarsely chopped…whatever, it really doesn’t matter, nobody’s going to be talking about the parsley AFTER THEY LEARN THE SHOCKING SECRET INGREDIENT THAT TAKES THIS RECIPE FROM GREAT TO GREATEST!
• SECRET INGREDIENT: A dollop of honey (eyeroll)

PREPARATION

STEP 1: Prelude to a carrot

According to NYT Cooking, Step 1 consists of: “Heat the oven to 400 degrees. Meanwhile, peel the carrots and cut into 2-inch segments, then quarter or cut into sixths lengthwise depending on size. Chop the thyme.”

“MEANWHILE?” “CUT INTO SIXTHS?” Come on NYT Cooking, we don’t have a protractor handy. 

WWFB Adaptation: JUST FUCKING CUT UP YOUR CARROTS TO BE ROUGHLY THE SAME SIZE IT’S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE. Also, be sure to put your vent hood fan on high because Chad is a big fan of cooking his frozen pizzas directly on the rack and he’s not super great at picking up after himself, so there’s gonna be smoke. 

STEP 2: Shit’s about to get real

Quoth NYT Cooking: “Oil a sheet pan or a baking dish large enough to fit all of the carrots in a single layer. Place the carrots in a large bowl, and toss with the olive oil, salt, pepper, thyme and oregano.” DON’T FORGET THE SECRET INGREDIENT: A DOLLOP OF HONEY! (Credit to Jenni!)

OK, back to you, NYT.

“Spread in an even layer in the prepared pan or baking dish. Cover with foil, and place in the oven for 20 to 30 minutes. Uncover, and if the carrots are not yet tender, turn the heat down to 375 degrees and return to the oven for 5 to 10 more minutes. (For caramelized edges, roast uncovered for all, or part, of the cooking time.)”

WWFB Real Talk: You need to prep 2 sheet pans, and you need to use parchment paper, otherwise poor Chad is going to have a real mess on his hands when it comes to cleanup. Put one pan on the lower rack and one pan on the middle rack and swap them halfway through the cooking time.

AND ANOTHER THING! Allocate another 30 minutes for the cooking because no recipe in the history of recipes ever gives a realistic time frame for roasting vegetables. You’re going to need to watch these fuckers like a hawk though, because there’s a fine line between “caramelized edges” and “charcoal briquettes.”

STEP 2.5: Shit doesn’t get any realer than this

Using only one oven mitt, reach into the oven, grasp the first pan, slide it out of the oven and place it on the stovetop, but do it kinda crooked and a little too close to the edge of the stove.

Slide the second pan out of the oven, and as you try to make room for it on the stovetop, bump the first pan with the second pan because remember: YOU ONLY HAVE ONE OVEN MITT and you don’t want to touch that 400 degree baking sheet with your free hand!

With that fateful bump of sheet pan on sheet pan, watch as the first pan falls to the floor in slow motion, taking with it all your beautiful, honey-glazed, caramelized-edged carrots. Optional: Cry out “Nooooooooooooooooooooo!”, also in slow motion.

WWFB Note: You won’t find this step in the NYT recipe.

Step 2.75: This step separates the men from the boys, the women from the girls, and the professionals from the amateurs

Things start moving fast now: It’s Fakesgiving morning. You cannot show up to your in-laws’ house with half of the promised carrots. Chad is in the shower or playing video games or something…you don’t know, you don’t care: Point is, he is not here to witness what is about to happen.

Using two spatulas, scoop up the carrots from the floor and transfer them into a colander. Don’t think too much about whether those little dark specks are crispy thyme leaves or coffee grounds or random kitchen floor particles. I REAPEAT: DO NOT THINK; let instinct take over.

Run the colander under steaming hot water for as long as it takes to grab a paper towel and clean up the evidence of your domestic blunder. Sure, you’re going to lose the honey glaze and those crispy thyme leaves, but you’ll also be washing away all the suspect granules your sticky carrots picked up from your not-particularly-recently-swept kitchen floor. 

Pat the carrots dry and return them to the baking sheet. Do you need new parchment paper? I think we both know we’re beyond formalities now. You need to fix this and you need to fix this NOW!

Drizzle the carrots with some more EVOO, sprinkle with a small handful of salt, grind some more pepper on top, throw on the extra herbs you prepped earlier (aren’t you glad you listened to me?), and squeeze another dollop of honey out of your bear-shaped honey bottle…hell, make it two dollops, this pig needs all the lipstick you’ve got. Then shake the pan rapidly (wearing two oven mitts this time) to vaguely distribute the toppings onto the carrots.

Turn on the broiler and roast those fuckers for another 5-7 minutes until the charred honey threatens to set off your smoke alarm, lest it arouse Chad’s suspicion. The less he knows about these carrots, the better. 

STEP 3: Back to our regularly scheduled programming

NYT Cooking says, in a soothing yet authoritative voice: “Add the parsley, stir gently, and taste and adjust salt and pepper. Serve hot, warm or at room temperature.”

Do exactly that. Do nothing else. Wait, scratch that: Put the carrots into a dish with a proper cover so you don’t have a mishap in the car and end up with Twice-Floored Carrots. There’s no coming back from Twice-Floored Carrots.

If your sister-in-law asks for the carrot recipe, send her the NYT version. NEVER SPEAK OF THE CARROTS AGAIN. 

VERDICT: 8/10 Would do it again, let’s be honest. Roasting any kind of vegetable is a major time commitment, and you can’t always count on having backup vegetables on hand, and with this being a holiday and all, time was of the essence. There was no option for a do-over. Minus 2 points for my own embarrassing lack of dexterity, and for the fact that FFS, the big secret is just a dollop of honey. A DOLLOP OF HONEY. Don’t be fooled by the clickbait and come here thinking these carrots have a tantalizing secret, other than the fact that they spent 5 seconds on the floor…we’ll just keep that between us.

WWFB: You Had Me at “Miss Saigon” Edition

The scene: Philadelphia in early July, a uniquely soupy experience. The heat index is approximately 1 billion degrees and my delicate constitution is having NONE OF IT.

I’d never been to Philadelphia, so when my husband’s annual marathon 9-day work conference was scheduled there, I was excited to tag along as a tourist. (I work remotely so I’m generally game for tagging along to these things no matter when or where, but last year I skipped this conference when it was held in Orlando because #F’ingDeSantis. Sorry, Floridians.)

Anyway. Philly!

The husband of one of my husband’s colleagues often attends these events as well. We’ll call him “S,” because his name starts with an “S.”

S and I have become a dynamic duo of day-drinking and sight-seeing as we scout out the best museums, restaurants, bars, cultural events, and architecture boat tours each city has to offer, which we then gleefully report back on to our work-weary spouses after their conference day ends. They really appreciate our vivid retelling of our hijinks.

I mean, they need to believe there is hope for something better than lukewarm hot dogs beyond the convention center walls, right? They need to hear about the amazing tacos and ramen we had for lunch at a place called Taco & Ramen, so they can be motivated to wrap up their meetings in an expeditious manner and possibly experience the magic for themselves before last call. Really, we’re doing it for them. Not all heroes wear capes; we wear napkin-bibs!

In an effort to continue getting invited to join our long-suffering spouses at these conferences, we have taken up the mantle of responsibility to ensure that on the rare occasions they DO escape the convention center, we’ve got quality food and beverage options lined up for them. S and I typically meet up first thing in the morning for coffee in the hotel lobby, where we take to our phones to perform a complex multivariate analysis of highly rated, ideally walkable, non-generic-sounding spots we discover on Yelp, Resy, Tock, Toast, and Open Table. Occasionally we’ll Google (“best scrapple in philadelphia” for example…shockingly, Google returned no search results on that one).

Once we’ve identified a short list of dining spots for the night, we’ll typically play rock-paper-scissors to choose the winner. Sometimes are choices are constrained by the group size: In San Francisco we needed a place that could accommodate 20 of us, same day. (Challenge accepted and conquered, and it wasn’t even a Chili’s!) Thankfully in Philly our largest party was 5, so we had tons of flexibility given the city’s bountiful dining scene.

I think S and I stumbled upon Miss Saigon at the very same moment. We both practically spilled our coffees as we hastened to shove our phones in each other’s face. “OMG YOU HAVE TO CHECK THIS PLACE OUT WE HAVE TO GO HERE I DON’T CARE WHAT ELSE YOU FOUND I DEMAND WE GO HERE TONIGHT!” we cried in unison. And so it was decided. 

Miss Saigon is a modern Vietnamese spot in the Gayborhood of Philadelphia, just a short walk from our hotel. We loved the space as soon as we entered, and we quickly confirmed the food and drink are just as exquisite as the décor. It is a truly special vibe at Miss Saigon, whether you go for weekend brunch, dinner, or a night of inventive cocktails. We learned from one of the charming owners that it opened 7 months ago. We ended up eating here three times and sending others from the conference during the week–it is truly that good.

Scroll down for blurry photos and exclamation mark laden recaps of our amazing meals here.

VERDICT: 11/10 Would rent a room upstairs and eat (and drink!) 3 meals a day at Miss Saigon if I could.

WWFB: “Mouth, Please Stop Talking!” Edition

The scene: DanDan, Milwaukee’s best and buzziest dim sum restaurant — already a tough table to get, but even moreso lately because Chef Dan Jacobs (one half of the DanDan chef duo) was a finalist and fan favorite on Season 21 of Top Chef. He makes our city so proud!

My sister-in-law and friends from Madison do an annual girls’ weekend in Milwaukee. This year I crashed dinner and reserved us a table at DanDan. The Madison crew was super psyched to dine here — they’d been following the entire season of Top Chef as it highlights Wisconsin’s culinary riches. They loooooove Chef Dan!

As we waited for our cocktails to arrive, we spied Chef Dan at a nearby table speaking with a guest. With everyone at my table beaming laser eyes his way, he couldn’t help but notice our insane grins. I waved him over. 

I wanted to impress upon Chef Dan how excited my friends were to meet him. I wanted to tip my hat to my friends for being such genuine fans who made a special trip to dine here. I wanted to convey how much I’ve enjoyed my meals at DanDan over the years. 

I wanted to be so gracious.

Here is what I ended up saying:
 

Chef Dan! [gesturing at my friends] You have a table full of big fans here! They’ve been following you on Top Chef and have been rooting for you all season. And I’m not a fan per se…I mean, I’m not not a fan, but I haven’t been watching because I don’t have cable. But, I mean…I love your restaurant. You do great work.

I’m available 7 days a week to officiate weddings, deliver keynote addresses, or give toasts at your life’s most meaningful events, wherever eloquence is required.  

VERDICT: 0/10 for my super awkward introduction to Chef Dan. 11/10 for the food and drink at DanDan. Next time I go I promise not to talk.

WWFB: “A Three-Hour Tour” Edition

The scene: Porto, Portugal. Late September. You’ve just rolled into town from Lisbon and you’ve scheduled an afternoon walking tour to get an overview of the city, like a damn fool! What were you thinking?

OK, this is a hot take and we’re still trying to process it so I’ll be brief.

We went on what might be the worst walking tour either of us has ever taken, and we’ve been on A LOT of walking tours.

Our guide meant well (they always mean well)—he’s the guy in the photo below, rearranging tables at the cafe for our “coffee break” which was weirdly timed for 3 hours and 15 minutes into our 3-hour tour. #a3hourtour

At the 3.5 hour mark, we came to the stark realization that our guide may have been trying to hold us hostage, so we feigned dinner reservations. Our only regret was that we couldn’t find a natural way to include in our escape plan the nice Danish couple who were similarly contemplating the appropriateness of the title of our walking tour, which involved the words “The Best of Porto.” #leavenodanebehind #sorryman #everymanforhimself

The irony of it all is that the guy’s restaurant recommendation (the place where we had “reservations”) was fantastic and we contemplated going back on another night because where else could we be waited on by Portuguese Adam Sandler and only pay €6 for a liter of rosé?

VERDICT: 7/10 Come for the walking tour. Stay for more walking tour than you bargained for, but at least you get a good story out of it. 

WWFB: Clandestino Edition

The scene: Lisbon, Portugal. You’re on a food tour in the Mouraria neighborhood. When your guide gestures nonchalantly at the building you’re walking past on the way up a billion steps through a maze of ancient streets and says, “See those red paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling through the window on the third floor?” (Not really, but it’s really hot out and we trust you!) “That’s a signal it’s an underground Chinese restaurant.”

Wait, a what now? “Keep your eyes open for them around the city,” he said. “They serve the best Chinese food you’ll find here in Lisbon. It just happens that they’re not licensed, and they’re in someone’s apartment. They’re called ‘clandestinos.’ Sounds a little sketchy but there’s like *hardly ever* a case of food poisoning, and the police pretty much leave them alone, except to eat there…”

Well that settles it: Illicit dinner plans decided!

We managed to find our way back to this unassuming apartment building at dusk. We rang the buzzer for 3E, which we hoped was the clandestino. Our other choice was the buzzer labeled 3D, which surely led to a perennially annoyed neighbor. Or vice versa.

Really, we had a 50/50 chance of annoying someone, and when a man who spoke only Portuguese and Chinese leaned over the balcony and started gesticulating in a manner suggesting either “Oh Jeezus! More tourists! Well, if you’re here to eat, get your asses up here!” or “Oh Jeezus! More tourists! You pressed the wrong buzzer, AGAIN!” we realized we had succeeded spectacularly. So we smiled and waved up at the man until we heard the door click open. Huzzah! Third floor here we come!

We were escorted into the tiny front room where one couple sat at a table by the window. We sat at the next table and were treated not just to a fantastic meal but THE BEST EAVESDROPPING EVER! The couple was comprised of a young man and a young woman who clearly just met at a hostel and quickly determined they had zero in common and even less chemistry.

Highlights of the evening included the pan-fried dumplings, the street noodles with shrimp, and the “Wow, you totally remind me of my brother…”

VERDICT: 10/10 Clandestine Chinese Dumpling House: Come for the mystery, stay for the bao buns and the burning hot bro-zoning!

WWFB: Quotable Husband Edition

“I’m gonna eat a bunch of bread soaked in butter, and I’m gonna drink a bunch of green wine!”
— my husband in Lisbon

For a little context, there was also seafood involved—the kind where it’s beneficial to have loads of bread sitting around so as to absorb the delicious sauces.

VERDICT: He did as he said he would, and it was good.

WWFB: Pastry Pride Edition

The scene: Every goddamn street corner in Lisbon.

If you’ve ever looked into visiting Lisbon, you’ve probably read about the city’s famous pastry, the pastel de nata (plural: pastéis de natas). If the travel blogs are to be believed, these things are god’s gift to breakfast. Allegedly, every man, woman, and child in Lisbon swears a vow of allegiance to them and forswears all other pastries forever and ever amen.

I was a touch skeptical. I mean, little custard pies? Okaaaay, I guess in theory that could be bees’ knees material but do we really need a pastel de nata shop on every corner?

I was wondering if it was one of those tourist traps masquerading under the auspices of civic pride, much like the good people of Philadelphia are alleged to love scrapple, whatever that is. I don’t know a single Philadelphian who actually eats it (OR DO I?!?! Fess up, Philadelphians!), unless they eat it in secret, which is creepy and kind of sad.

In addition to every man, woman, and child in Lisbon swearing by the pastry supremacy of the pastel de nata, each one of them has a VERY STRONG opinion about which bakery makes the best one. My advice, if you ever find yourself being grilled by a local about where you get your pastéis de natas: Point to the left and run to the right. Just keep running. This is not a hill you want to die on.

But anyway, getting back to the supposedly magical qualities of the pastel de nata: BELIEVE THE HYPE!

Seriously, people. That flaky crust? How do they get so many layers in such a tiny shell?!? And don’t even get me started on that creamy custard: Egg yolks and sugar have never been so well combined, so fluffy yet perfectly browned! And the fact that the corner bar sells them at 11:00 at night for €1.25 apiece in an uncanny anticipation of my next day’s early morning breakfast needs? Priceless.

VERDICT: Freaking fantastic, you guys. 11/10, will eat again tomorrow. And the next day.

WWFB: Airport Baked Goods Edition

The scene: San Francisco International Airport, hour 12 into a 22 hours flight delay due to an atmospheric river that has settled over the Bay Area and refuses to let us go home. I’m sleepy yet also hangry.

I’m more mad at myself than the cookies, really.

I bought these wretched things at the airport equivalent of Whole Foods, drawn in by the flavors. Peppermint? Chocolate? Chunk? Three of my favorite food groups! Espresso? Lemon? Chocolate? Chunk? I LOVE espresso and lemons…AND ALSO CHUNKS!

What I failed to notice was the fine print: “Gluten free, Vegan, Nut Free, 100% Natural.”

GODDAMNIT! All of the qualities that make cookies delicious are absent from these f*ing things.

In retrospect, I should have been tipped off by the fact that each cookie is emblazoned with its own hippie word to designate its unique personality, or perhaps to imply the state it would impart upon you after consuming it. I inadvertently paid for “clarity” and “enlightenment”, but that is decidedly NOT what I received.

I’m not gonna sugarcoat it here, people — and not just because there’s no goddamn sugar to be had in these bad boys: These cookies suuuuuuuck.

Imagine going to the beach and grabbing some damp sand and forming it into a patty and then sticking no more than five chocolate chips into it, and then you stumble upon a bottle of peppermint extract and you figure, “Why the hell not?” So you douse a few drops of peppermint extract onto your nominally chocolate chippy sand patty and you sit down and admire the sunset and all of God’s creations — including, if you do say so, yourself and YOUR creation (you’re getting very meta at this point, DON’T STOP NOW!) — and you lean back and you take a bite and you think, “Ahh. Clarity.”

The hell you do! You spit it out and wonder just how high you are, and then you wonder how much venture funding you can get for your hippie sand-cookie startup.

VERDICT: 0/10 Would not buy again. Tempted to return the second cookie to the airport shop but probably won’t because I’m from Wisconsin and I don’t want to make a fuss.

WWFB: In-Flight Edition

The scene: Fully booked Delta flight from Milwaukee to San Francisco. I’m wedged in the middle seat between my husband and some guy. Flight meals being what they are, I try to do my eating on land, but by the time we were over the Great Plains states, I was getting kinda peckish.

As I skimmed the menu card, taking in the bland sandwich and sandwich-adjacent offerings, my already meager hopes of finding something worth digging out my credit card for diminished. Turkey wrap? A salad whose description includes the word “mayonnaise”? Thank you but no. 

Suddenly, my eyes lit upon a snack box offering that seemed almost too good to be true. I wanted to pinch myself, but my arms were pinned down due to the armrest hogs to my left and right, so I just blinked dramatically a few times. Could it be real?

I gotta hand it to Delta, they put together hands-down The. Most. Obnoxious. snack box one could possibly consume in a confined space with strangers…so naturally that is the one that I ordered.

• Garlic & basil olives? CHECK
• Little tubs of garlicky garlicky hummus and garlicky garlicky sun-dried tomato “bruschetta spread”? CHECK and CHECK
• The world’s loudest pita chips (and also hipster-est, having been “Baked in Brooklyn” according to the multiple edgy fonts on the bag)? CHECK
• Almonds? Crunchy, crunchy almonds? CHECK
• As for the fruit course, my Market Box sadly did not contain the dried apricots pictured on the menu; instead, there was some weird little fig-based fruit bar. CHECK-ish, I guess?
• And let’s not forget that tiny little Meyer Lemon ginger “chew” to round out the assortment. I don’t know about you but where I was raised, “chew” is strictly a verb, so I was a bit skeptical of the dessert course. No CHECK for this linguistic enigma.

Being in the middle seat, I felt it was my obligation to savor this meal as slowwwwwwwwwwwly as possible, so that my seat-mates could enjoy it vicariously as well. Especially the guy in the window seat whose Air Pods were too loud, revealing his questionable taste in music. 

They say your sense of taste is dulled at altitude, which is why airline food is typically so salty and/or sweet. So I went into this expecting BIG FLAVOR. Here’s what I got:

• The olives were great for 35,000 feet: unmistakably olive-y, garlicky, and basil-y, as advertised.
• The hummus was…adequate. It was a little too finely pureed for my taste, but you take what you can get in the sky.
• The “bruschetta spread” was simultaneously super bland and also faintly chemical-tasting.
• I had hoped those pita chips would taste like something other than lightly salted cardboard — maybe heavily salted cardboard? But still they managed to disappoint. (Sorry, Brooklyn hipsters — your pita chips are nothing to write home about.
• I chucked the rest of the items in my purse because you never know when you’re going to need some emergency protein or sugar or…a “chew.” 

VERDICT: 2/5 — Would not order again. Well, I might…if my seat-mates exercise poor armrest etiquette or engage in the unforgivable in-flight sin of playing games on their phone with the volume on and no headphones. In that case I’ll order two!

WWFB: “What’s In a Name?” Edition

The scene: Atlanta — your first time! You’re putting in a ton of miles on your sneakers exploring the city, and now you’re ready for a break. You’re a sucker for a good Croque Madame, so when you spy one on the menu at a corner café that also serves cocktails, you step right inside.

In this episode we consider the age-old question “What’s in a name?” Specifically, the names “Croque Madame” and “Poutine.”

The following is a 100% accurate, non rosé-infused recounting of our experience at an Atlanta café that shall remain nameless because…well, read on and you’ll understand.

It all began with a tempting menu item: Croque Madame served with Poutine. We were in a festive mood…why not order French Canada on a Plate in the heart of the American south? WHY NOT, INDEED.

What came to our table was a wet ham sandwich completely devoid of eggs accompanied by a side of potatoes completely devoid of cheese curds and gravy.

I didn’t want to be That Lady but I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the plate as our waiter set it down between us. I said, “Excuse me, Jeremy…but shouldn’t there be…” I trailed off as I gestured at the dish.

“AN EGG?” he cut in, nodding enthusiastically in agreement.

“Right!” I exclaimed. “Shouldn’t there be an egg?”

He said, completely straight-faced: “I KNOW!!! I asked about it but chef said, ‘This is how we serve them here.’”

*blink* *blink*

Jeremy kept going: “And I said, ‘Then we should call it a Croque Monsieur!’ But then chef said, ‘This. Is. How. We. Make. It.’ So…here you go, I guess?”

I said, as politely as…I don’t know…someone who wants a f*ing egg on my Croque Madame just the same as I would want my spicy fried chicken sandwich to contain spicy fried chicken as opposed to, I dunno, everything but the chicken? I mean…IT’S IN THE NAME! Granted it’s a metaphor but COME ON! (I was channeling my inner Gob Bluth at this point.)

Anyway, I said, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you ask chef to please add an egg?”

“No problem,” Jeremy replied, leaving our warmish ham sandwich on the table where it became visibly soggier and colder. Anyone who knows me know I like my hot food *hot* so this was almost as bad in my book as a Croque Madame sans egg, but I digress.

While Jeremy hid out in the kitchen, the manager (or a peculiarly concerned patron) moseyed over to the table and said, “I understand you were hoping for an egg on your Croque Madame.”

I glanced around for hidden cameras, thinking there were so many things I was hoping for out of this dining experience but an appearance on Punk’d (if that’s still a show and if that’s how it is/was punctuated) was not one of them.

Finding no film crew giggling on the sidelines, I simply replied, “Yes.”

The manager then said, “And so I told them, if that woman wants her Croque Madame to have an egg on it, we should give her that egg!”

Oh good, I thought. An ally. An ally who clearly thinks my name is Karen and I wanted to speak with the manager.

“Thanks, that’s awesome!” I offered in an effort to shut down the conversation.

Minutes later…like, *many* minutes later, Jeremy returned with a small plate containing two beautiful fried eggs, which he handed to me so that he would be blameless in the inevitable yolk-breaking that would occur as the eggs were transferred atop the sandwich.

On the plus side, the eggs carried some residual heat and warmed up the sandwich a scooch, but by then our attention had turned to the naked potatoes. We agreed that it would not be in our interest to point out that “we wanted” the menu item billed as “Poutine” to have the very toppings that transform the humble potato into poutine. We would just eat the potatoes as quickly as possible so we could get the hell out of the Twilight Zone Diner and get on with our day.

My husband joked, “I wonder if they’re gonna charge us separately for the eggs,” to which I confidently replied, “Oh god no, that would be ABSURD!” *cough* #famouslastwords *cough*

And with that I wish to draw your attention to the photo of our receipt…

VERDICT: 0/10 NEVER AGAIN! DEAD TO ME!

WWFB: Pandemic Picnic Edition

The scene: Somewhere near the Indiana Dunes. It’s deep pandemic and you’re just excited to be SOMEWHERE. #thankspandemic

When you’re 3 hours early for check-in and there’s a Meijer nearby, why yes! I *would* like to chow down on some cheezy snack mix and sip rosé from an insulated water bottle while sitting on an Adirondack chair in front of the hotel, thank you very much!

The rosé pairs well with Frito Lay-brand orange powder. 

VERDICT: 7/10 Would definitely do it again, should another pandemic arise, but next time I’d pack some actual cheese from Wisconsin. 

WWFB: Pandemic Sangria Class #2 Edition

The scene: Further into the pandemic, but vaccines are available and masking rules are being relaxed throughout the state. You’re at Movida, a bar in Milwaukee that is hosting a sangria-making class. 

We so enjoyed Movida’s margarita-making class that we jumped at the chance to join their sangria class. Our bar for sangria is set pretty high (especially after last year’s Zoom class making sangria with Portuguese drag queens!), so we were excited to try this one.

The diabolical minds behind Movida and Hotel Madrid loaded us up with knowledge and provisions to make 4 kinds of sangria. All we needed to do was pick our permutations and name our concoctions.

Also, filed under “smart move, hosts!”, starchy, well-spiced foods were provided, along with brownies and piña colada macaroons for dessert.

My creations: Sunset and Red Velvet.

Nathan’s creations: It’s Fine and I’m Here. (I think he liked mine better!)

While homemade sangria is like the beverage equivalent of TJ Maxx (never the same place twice), our instructor explained that using bottled fruit nectars instead of fresh fruit enables you to produce a consistent taste. This is important for restaurants and bars, sure, but less so for use in the home. Personally, I love the wildcard nature of homemade sangria. You may never be able to re-create that magical concoction you once made, but you’ll die trying! (Many, many years from now, when you’re like 120 years old. Red wine is practically a health food!)

VERDICT: 8/10. A good time was had by all, and the novelty of going out into the world and seeing other people’s entire faces has not worn off, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Portuguese Drag Sangria! 

WWFB: Pandemic Self-Improvement Edition

The scene: Deep pandemic, but vaccines are finally available! You’re at Movida, a bar in Milwaukee that is hosting a margarita-making class. Tables are six feet apart, everyone is wearing a mask, but OMG YOU ARE OUT OF THE HOUSE THIS IS AMAZING! 

It’s Cinco de Mayo and you are here to learn.

There’s recipe cards and individual portions of various tequilas and house-made infused agave and simple syrups in tiny little bottles! Everything’s better in tiny bottles! And there’s tasty appetizers to go with your creations. Everything’s better with tasty appetizers! 

It’s still the pandemic but you’re out in the world…learning things! Bettering yourself through knowledge! Sweet, sweet tequila-based knowledge.

Could this day get any better? Oh yes it can!

#cincodecuatro #cincodemayo #tequila

VERDICT: 11/10 Great margarita recipes and an extra point for reminding me what other people’s faces look like (above the eyes, anyway).  

WWFB: Crimes Against Food Edition

The scene: The mean streets of Brookfield and Waukesha, Wisconsin.

And by “mean streets” of course I mean idyllic suburban byways.

I’ve always wanted to start a YouTube series featuring me reading aloud the best incidents from the Brookfield and Waukesha crime blotters. There was the one about the person in trouble for buying pies and then throwing them to the ground outside the Bakers Square. And the one about the suspicious figure lurking in a neighbor’s driveway that turned out to be a basketball hoop. Welcome to Mayberry!

Turns out a lot of crime in the western Milwaukee suburbs has to do with food. I don’t mean stealing food. I mean…pretty much everything you can do to, with, or about food except stealing it.

I hereby present a roundup of the best food-related entries from the Brookfield & Waukesha crime reports:

• Woman was performing a spiritual ritual on a dead opossum by throwing goldfish and windshield washer fluid on the dead animal. She then pulled out a Green Bay Packers lawn chair and yelled “repent” at the dead animal. (link)
• Husband declares marriage over after wife salts popcorn at Brookfield theater, police say. (link)
• Man flips garbage cans, insults owner at Brookfield Kopps over ketchup packets, police say. (link)
• A man reported a turkey sitting in the same spot for three hours. (link)
• In the McDonald’s parking lot, a man in a white Nissan threw a water bottle at another car. The man was driving in the wrong lane and a passenger in the other car called the man a ‘ding a ling.’ (link)

Be careful out there!

WWFB: When in Santa Fe Edition

The scene: Santa Fe, New Mexico. Early November. 

We weren’t specifically looking for breakfast chocolate, but when we drove past Kakawa Chocolate House and noticed signs of life inside, I immediately turned the car around to investigate. When the universe speaks, you gotta listen.

Traditional mesoamerican chocolate elixirs? I had never heard of such a thing, but the lovely staff at Kakawa were happy to share their knowledge along with their tasty, tasty chocolate.

From their website:

Over a thousand years ago, the pre-Colombian cultures (the Olmecs, Toltecs, and later the Mayans & Aztecs) discovered that by grinding together cacao beans with spices, chilis, and herbs they could create a paste or wafer that, when dissolved in water, created a potent and powerful drink. For this reason, chocolate was typically consumed as a drink, rather than eaten. Over time, the chocolate elixir came to be seen as a sacred and powerful beverage, and was taken only by the elite.

Kakawa’s Mesoamerican chocolate drinks are based upon archeological research as well as the written accounts of Spanish conquistadors and colonists. Generally, they are only lightly sweetened, and most of them include spicy chili and a dense mixture of spices and herbs. We also offer two unsweetened options. The pure cacao Zapoteca and the complex and intense Aztec Warrior.

These drinks are intensely dark, powerful, and complex and are unlike any chocolate most people have ever encountered. Truly for the adventurous palate!

VERDICT: 10/10 Chocolate for breakfast? Did you even need to ask? Would have bought one of everything in the shop but didn’t have enough room in my carry-on.

WWFB: Hometown Taco Edition

The scene: You’re on your home turf in Milwaukee. It’s (Inter?)National Taco Day and you are nothing if not patriotic.

Scroll for before, during, and after pics from our visit to The Laughing Taco.

Their boozy slushies (Paloma for me, traditional margarita for my husband) are legit and will f.you.up, but what we really need to talk about is their Gringa taco… marinated pork, onions, cilantro, on a tortilla that has been crisped with cheese on the grill. Life is complete. This is the only taco you need. Also pictured (foreground): shrimp taco…skip it. You need those Gringas in your belly, stat!

VERDICT: 11/10 This place will ruin you for other tacos.   

UPDATE: The Laughing Taco closed their restaurant space and now do catering and operate a stall at Fiserv Forum, where they do not serve the majestic Gringa taco. We are cherishing our memories of the OG Laughing Taco experience in the hopes they shall return in full form someday.  

WWFB: “Whatever, Man” Edition

The scene: Québec, Canada. You’re wandering the city and find yourself in the charming Saint-Roch neighborhood. It’s summer, so you assume there must be sangria to be had. It’s 5:00 somewhere, amirightpeople? Not here, but somewhere, surely.

We saw a cute café with patrons (pro tip: sometimes the people can be trusted) and air conditioning, so we moseyed in and found a table.

We ordered the red (rouge) sangria and after a puzzlingly long wait, this yellow stuff came out (jaune?? mon dieu!).

But…it had taken a really long time to prepare so we know they made it special for us, and our waitress was really sweet, and we didn’t *really* care about the color, and we had nowhere to be for at least 16 hours, so we figured…Eh, we can try the red when we order our next pitcher. #leanin #yaycanada!

VERDICT: 9/10. Come for the red sangria. Stay for the yellow sangria. Then stay longer for the red sangria. And some snacks. You definitely need something to soak up all the wine. 

WWFB: “Heart of Darkness” Edition 

The scene: Montréal, Canada. You’ve spent all day gazing upon your beloved husband and you just need a break from his devastatingly handsome face. So naturally you book a table at a restaurant that promises to plunge you into total darkness for the evening! 

If O.Noir were a person with an online dating profile, he or she could legitimately proclaim: “I’m not picky about your looks” without sounding desperate. That’s because all of the waitstaff is blind, and the dining room is 100% pitch black, so guests, too, are plunged into complete darkness during the meal. I’m talking Vantablack darkness.

We met our server, Matthieu, in the dimly lit lobby, where he had my husband put his left hand on Matthieu’s left shoulder, I followed suit with my hand on my husband’s shoulder, and our little 3-person train inched its way through a curtained maze of a passageway into the dining room and eventually to our table.

It was super disorienting — we had no idea how big the room was, how many tables there were — and how to escape in case of emergency.

When we were seated, Matthieu gave us verbal instructions on how to find our wine glasses, silverware, napkin, and plate.

When we made our reservation a few weeks ago, we pre-ordered the surprise menu, which meant we had no idea what would be served until we started to eat it — and as it turns out, sometimes not even then!

We’re fairly certain the entrée was beef, and there may have been some kind of pork rillette situation on or adjacent to the salad. Dessert was… something? It was probably plated beautifully but of course no photos allowed so we’ll all just have to take their word for it. Honestly, I gave up on using silverware two seconds into the salad. Why would I want to poke the side of my face repeatedly with vinaigrette-draped arugula? Thankfully we’re already married so my husband was unable to back out after discovering what a barbarian I am when dining in the dark.

It’s true what they say about your other senses growing stronger when one of them is diminished. Well, clearly my spatial relations skills were not improved, nor was my sense of taste. But our hearing! My god, this place is a gold mine for eavesdropping!

Most diners were comparing notes on what a trippy experience it was, but a few other conversations stood out…I think the couple next to us was on their first date, which is genius, actually — if one of them was bored, the other would be totally oblivious to the eye-rolling, horizon-staring, and watch-checking. They seemed to be having a good time, which was nice.

Another party elsewhere in the dining room was full of mischief-makers, as we overheard one of the them ask, “What the…Are you messing with my plate?” and another replied, “Oh yes, I’ve been moving stuff around on it all night!” #noregrets

Anyone eavesdropping on our table would have learned what I think baba ghanoush feels like, which one of us had our eyes open and which had them closed, and how it would really have been better if I had skipped that last cocktail at the magical speakeasy before dinner. #spinning

WWFB: “We Need to Talk About Montréal’s Speakeasy Problem” Edition (Part Deux)

French Canada sure does love to hide its drinking establishments.

The scene: Montréal, Canada. You discover a magical door to a dimly lit basement speakeasy…by passing through Canada’s smallest bar. It’s like Hipster Inception, and you are there for it!

First we went into El Pequeño Bar in the old town, a 141 square foot slice of Havana nostalgia that had standing room for exactly 8. I know this because my husband and I were joined by a party of 6 gregarious middle-aged tennis-playing Canadians who were excited to drink mojitos with exotic foreigners from Wisconsin.

The decor was awesome, the bartenders were charming and had perfectly coiffed novelty mustaches, and the company was hysterically funny, but honestly? I prefer the mojitos at Maxie’s in Milwaukee: They have a more pleasing liquid-to-ice ratio.

Behind the teeny tiny bar they had a panini press that they were using to churn out some pretty tasty looking Cuban sandwiches but we had dinner reservations later so we didn’t try one.

After saying our Wisconsin goodbye (which is the opposite of an Irish goodbye, but probably with the same amount of liquor), we approached an unmarked door next to El Pequeño and rang a buzzer. Well, actually, it was marked “SORTIE” which we assume is French for “SPEAKEASY.” Kinda defeats the purpose of hiding your drinking establishments, but who are we to second guess our host nation?

Soon we were whisked inside by a mysterious yet overtly friendly Canadian who escorted us down a dark staircase and into a dimly lit, low-ceilinged, totally hoppin’ joint called The Coldroom. Not to be confused with The Cloakroom, which is the other hipster hideaway we visited earlier in the week.

Our escort to the underworld brought us to a table in the corner from which we could survey the entire length of the room and eavesdrop on at least 3 parties’ conversations. The lights were so low that we had to use my iPhone’s flashlight to read the cocktail menu — this made us feel super old, but it’s a small price to pay for the opportunity to drink edgily in the dark.

There were a bunch of whiskey drinks and other nonsense on the menu that didn’t interest me so I ordered the one drink that sounded good, which had a name like The Stripper’s Delight or something — I’m guessing this is their way of punishing people who are so uncool as to not like whiskey. Well, joke’s on them because I liked it so much I ordered another one, but LOUDER the second time!

VERDICT: 9/10 overall. 10/10 for El Pequeño: Come for the décor, stay for directions to The Cold Room! 9/10  for The Cold Room: Come for the embarrassing cocktail names (ya sissy!), stay for the charcuterie plate. And the pulled pork sliders. And the eavesdropping.

WWFB: “We Need to Talk About Montréal’s Speakeasy Problem” Edition (Part 1)

French Canada sure does love to hide its drinking establishments.

The scene: Montréal, Canada. It’s a beautiful summer day. You want to find yourself a speakeasy!

The Google leads you to The Cloakroom, tucked away behind an unmarked door just beyond this fancy-ass men’s clothing store/tailor/hipster barber/designer denim boutique (say each of those with a question mark at the end because I really have no idea what it was).

You stand outside the brown wood-paneled door and wait. You wonder if there’s a buzzer to buzz, a bell to bing, a hidden camera to look nonchalant for. But there’s nothing. You just…wait.

Eventually, a mustachioed mixologist who speaks 5 languages peeps out from behind the door and beckons you inside to an elegant bar with seats for 9 patrons. He asks you a few sorting-hat-type questions of the kind you might encounter on a covert Russian data mining operation masquerading as a Facebook personality quiz (“You like tequila and mountains? Your Superhero alter ego is Spiderpig and you should retire to Kotor, Montenegro!”) — he’s very thorough — and then a few splashes of this, a few dashes of that, some shake-shake-shake, and suddenly he pours into a glass in front of you the liquid equivalent of your soulmate.

VERDICT: 11/10. Come for the mystery…stay to meet three of your soulmates…and then leave because it turns out your soulmates are extremely strong and you aren’t sure you can handle what’s behind Door #4.

WWFB: Cocktail Boat Edition

The scene: Montréal, Canada. It’s another beautiful summer day. You want to enjoy a cocktail but not on land.

The Google informs you that your best bet for amphibious refreshment is Canal Lounge, so that is where you go.

Notice I didn’t call this post “Booze Cruise Edition.” That’s because this boat stays docked during the summer in Montréal’s canal.

Sadly, none of the cocktails or snacks had nautical puns in their names, and not a single one of the servers wore an eye-patch or peg-leg.

However, there was an unadvertised Sea Dog on board, so that was cool.

VERDICT: 9/10. Come for the beautiful people and tasty sangria; stay for more sangria and the hope of a visit from the elusive Sea Dog. One point deduction for lack of sea-related puns, although in my husband’s book, that would be a one point bonus.

WWFB: “Who (Didn’t) Let the Dogs Out?” Edition

The scene: North Conway, New Hampshire. You’re on a Boston-to-Montréal road trip and you’ve stayed overnight in this hella-charming town and now, unfortunately, you must leave. But not before breakfast! #priorities

Our Airbnb hosts recommended Frontside Coffee Roasters as one of their favorite spots to grab a quick breakfast in town. Great coffee, they said. Great bagels, they said. Dog-friendly outdoor patio, they said. ‘

LIES! ONE OUT OF THREE LIES!

The coffee was, true to their word, great.

The bagels? Don’t even get me started on this perfectly toasted everything bagel with the perfect lox-to-schmear ratio.

The dogs? NOWHERE TO BE FOUND.

This might explain the single one-star Yelp rant I saw, titled: “I WAS PROMISED DOGS AND THERE WERE NO DOGS.” signed “B. Sanders, I-VT.” I’m beginning to think this New Hampshire – Vermont rivalry is more intense than a Michigan – Ohio State sportsball death match, when even the Senators pile on. 

VERDICT: 9/10 Come for the coffee, stay for the bagels, but don’t get your hopes up about the dogs — take it from Bernie.

WWFB: Lobstah Edition

The scene: Boston-to-Montréal road trip on a beautiful August day. After crossing the state line into New Hampshire mid-afternoon, we decided to let The Wisdom of The Crowd guide us to our lunch destination.

Our Yelp search criteria: On the way to North Conway, 4-stars and above, and Open Now. Al’s Seafood fit the bill, with the common theme among the non-5-star reviews being (1) “THEY DON’T HAVE ENOUGH PARKING!”; (2) “YOU SOMETIMES HAVE TO WAIT A LONG TIME FOR YOUR MEAL!”; and (3) “I DON’T LIKE SEAFOOD!” Strangely, all of the complaining reviews were signed “B. SANDERS, (I-VT)”

We didn’t let the haters dissuade us, and it’s a good thing too, because Al’s lobster roll game was on point! Well, let me qualify that. The lobster meat was plentiful and fresh as can be. The bun was perfectly toasted and represented the perfect bread-to-filling ratio. But we had to add an unholy amount of salt and pepper to coax a bit of flavor out of the mayo coating the lobster. And when I asked if they had any hot sauce, I was handed a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I took it, but only to be polite.  #blessyourheart

Al’s clam chowder was tasty, and not just because it was free with a Yelp check-in! Served with a small bag of Oyster Crack.  #truthinadvertising

I can’t even remember what this thing was. Ask my husband. But don’t believe a word he says about it. #selectiveamnesia
#somethingsarebetterforgotten

VERDICT: 8/10 Worth a stop if you are hungry and brought your own hot sauce. 

WWFB: Best Monday Ever Edition

The scene: Monday in the Azores. You’re staying in a cute Airbnb, you’ve got a rental car, and you’re ready to do some serious touristing! 

Breakfast at home was egg sandwiches and coffee. The coffeemaker was boobytrapped (R.I.P. white dish towel that was the closest thing on hand to mop up the deluge!), so thank goodness I’d had the foresight to pick up some Starbucks VIA before the trip.

Now I’m no Starbucks fangirl — I much prefer fresh ground, fresh brewed Valentine or Colectivo, my fave Milwaukee roasters — but if it’s a choice between starting the day with no coffee and actually-not-terrible instant Italian roast from a convenient little packet that I can fix while I’m still in jammies, my money’s on Starbucks. And really, it’s better for everyone. Trust me, the people of the Azores are not ready for Uncaffeinated Me. But I digress.

Amid our travels across the island on Monday, we stopped at several spots for food and drink. There was a late lunch at Santa Bárbara Eco-Beach Resort, a fancy-ass surf school / hotel on the north coast.

Approaching Ponta Delgada at what we thought was dinner time, we had to kill an hour and a half drinking cocktails in the rooftop bar at Azor Hotel, a fancy-ass boutique hotel on the south coast of São Miguel. As expected for the first 5-star resort on the island, the décor, drinks, and service were fantastic! We are not fancy enough to stay there, but thankfully they let us drink there without checking our credit scores.

When the dinner hour finally arrived (8:00? 8:30? I don’t know, it’s European time and there were cocktails involved…) we strolled across town to Restaurant Gastrónomo, an unassuming spot that soon filled up with locals — always a good sign! We ate a damn fine fish there. It had eyes. And eventually we drove back to Furnas, where we drank some 10-year-old Porto. A great day in food!

VERDICT: Come for the €7 liters of sangria and the invisible cheese. Stay for more €7 liters of sangria.

UPDATE: Hotel Azor has closed its fancy-ass doors, alas. Get yer 5-star cocktails elsewhere, peasant!

WWFB: Azorean Sangria Saves the Day Edition

The scene: A local tavern in Furnas, Sao Miguel, Azores. Sunday night. Our first dinner on the island.

When the menu boasts a liter of sangria for €7, you know that dinner will be juuuuuuuust fiiiiiiine.

And indeed. It was just fine.

Our meal started with some sort of local bread-based delicacy stuffed with garlic and minced pickled peppers and herbs and olive oil and, allegedly, cheese, although I could not detect any. But you know what? With our €7 liter of sangria well in hand, we were frankly not bothered in the least.

Then came our entrees. We ordered the same thing, a traditionally prepared octopus stew. You’ll have to forgive us the matchy-matchy ordering: (1) We’re adorable, deal with it; (2) We fell in love with a traditionally prepared octopus stew a few years ago off the coast of Croatia on the island of Vís, and we’ve been chasing that dragon ever since; and (3) €7 liters of sangria.

We’re still chasing…but you know what? It’s juuuuuust fiiiiine (see #3).

Our entrée rated an “adequate” in my book and a somewhat more favorable appraisal in my husband’s, although if he used an actual word rather than a facial expression, I’m having difficulty recalling it. Listen, I told you from the get-go that I am the World’s Worst Food Blogger, so if you were expecting, I don’t know… specificity?…adjectives?, that’s on you.

Anyhoo. While our entrée lacked a certain je ne sais quois, the wall of wine next to our table MORE THAN MADE UP FOR IT. Amid a broad selection of Portuguese and French wines, we spied these two bottles of bubbly: one clearly marked “WOMAN” and the other “INTENSE.”

I wondered if these were the Portuguese moscato equivalent of those terrifically misguided “Bic Pens — For Her” (a real product, for a while at least; check out the Amazon reviews…pure comedy gold). Alas, we did not have the wherewithal to investigate further on account of all the sangria.

VERDICT: Come for the €7 liters of sangria and the invisible cheese. Stay for more €7 liters of sangria.

Who moved my cheese(bread)? Also: Sangria!

Uh-oh, we’re out of sangria!

Espumante…for her. And Espumante…if you dare.

WWFB: “What the Fog?” Edition

The scene: A beautiful morning in Ponta Delgada on Sao Miguel, an island in the Azores in the mid-Atlantic. Your flight from Boston had been delayed for aaaaaaaaaaages due to alleged fog here, but there is not a cloud to be seen. You’ve been traveling for nearly 24 hours and you are huuuuuuungry! Wandering through the black-and-white mosaic streets, you chance upon Café Central, which has outdoor seating, food, and coffee. Everything you need!  

Those just joining us should be warned that I have an uncanny inability to remember take a photo of a delicious meal before I have devoured at least half of it. Herewith, I present: Brunch — The Remnants.

On the left of the photo are two types of Azorean bread. Top-left was sweeter than bottom-left.

The triangles are some local hard cheese. There are cows EVERYWHERE here (I mean in the expected places such as fields, meadows, barns, pastures, paddocks, mountainsides, and highway crossings…not, like, in town). Anyway, the triangle cheese on the left and the round white soft cheese cut into triangles on the right are legit, quality cheese products. Wisconsin resident stamp of approval.

The large round dish in the center is filled with fresh-cut tidbits of LOCALLY GROWN PINEAPPLE. We are visiting a pineapple plantation later this week and will report on their quality of life before they are plucked for the eating. I’m guessing those pineapples are pretty well pampered.

In the 3 little round dishes we have pineapple jam, pumpkin jam, and butter.

VERDICT: 9/10 for its excellent balance of carbs, fat, and sugary sweetness, all most welcome in the bellies of two people who spent almost 24 hours in transit immediately prior to stumbling into the café and begging for “coffee…please god…coffee” and “what did *they* order? that looks amazing!” One point off for not offering bottomless mimosas, which apparently is not a thing in the Azores.

WWFB: Icelanders Also Say Tomato Edition

The scene: Friðheimar, Iceland. August. You’ve grown weary of chasing waterfalls. You’re looking for something a little different. A little more…yellow.

When we learned that there was a tomato greenhouse in Iceland that produces nearly 1 ton of tomatoes per day AND throws a mean tomato-themed lunch buffet AND puts on the occasional horse show, we had to check it out. Friðheimar did not disappoint! The farm is situated about an hour and a half east of Reykjavík, so if you visit you’ll either need to rent a car or join a pre-arranged tour.

The photos below don’t do this place justice. I’ve never seen such high-tech greenhouses! The yellow lighting gave the place a surreal vibe, and the air was scented with unripe tomato. Friendly bees and lovely flowers everywhere…   

VERDICT: 10/10 Come for the tomatoes. Stay for the sweet jaundiced glow you’ll get in all your selfies. And don’t forget to pick up a jar of cinnamon lime green tomato jam so you can relive the magic back home. 

WWFB: Frumbiti Should Be Faroese for “Yum” Edition

The scene: Tórshavn, Faroe Islands. You’re on a brief vacation from your Iceland vacation. It’s a beautiful summer day by Faroese standards: Partly sunny! No rain! You’ve planned one fancy dinner for Tórshavn, and this is it.

We’d read about Frumbiti on a bunch of best-new-restaurant lists so we were eager to visit. After spending the day taking in some of the world’s most jaw-droppingly gorgeous scenery, we had worked up quite an appetite. The small plates looked amazing, so we started with a few and then ordered the Chef’s Choice menu to fully savor the local culinary creativity.

In this post you’ll find amateurish photos of delicious food (some already partially eaten) with poorly remembered descriptions of each dish, as well as photos of the wall art which featured some seriously rugged Faroese gentlemen. 

VERDICT: 10/10 for tastiness, amiable yet impeccable service, and originality in decor.

UPDATE: Sad to report that Frumbiti closed permanently in 2019.

WWFB: Up North in Iceland Edition

The scene: Akureyri, Iceland. August.

When I learned there was a city in northern Iceland that put up heart-shaped traffic lights to cheer up the local population during an economic recession, I just had to check it out. When we arrived we discovered the Icelandic equivalent of the Bronze Fonz, which sealed the deal for our deep and abiding love for Akureyri.  

VERDICT: 9/10 Come for the traffic lights, stay for the statue. Minus one point for the “Octopus Hot Dog” not actually containing hot dog. #foolmeonce 

WWFB: Icelandic Rock Royalty Edition

The scene: Reykjavík, Iceland, early August. You’ve only ever been to Iceland in wintertime, so this whole “sun being visible for more than 4 hours a day” is going to take some getting used to.

Today’s adventure included an afternoon walking around Reykjavík with Ívar Pétur, the drummer from FM Belfast*. He is pretty much rock royalty around here; OK, maybe not Björk-level fame but you don’t see Björk giving walking tours so Ívar wins in my book!

He took the two of us to his favorite spots off the beaten path including a terminally hip record shop, a hostel/bar/performance space beloved by locals and tourists alike, an upstart bakery that is challenging the local bakery mafia, a pizza joint where the cocktails run ~$22 but are totally worth it, and a sweet Icelandic design shop where they handed us cans of beer and sent us around the corner to a small music festival that happened to be running this weekend.

Plus local history, politics, and all sorts of fun conversation, beneath clear blue skies on one of the few sunny days Reykjavík has seen all summer. So much fun!

VERDICT: 11/10 The best way to explore Reykjavík (or indeed any city) is with a local. Even better when it’s Ívar! 

UPDATE: Not sure if Ívar still offers walking tours but you can find him here: On Tour With Ívar.

*FM Belfast played THE.BEST.CONCERT I saw at at Iceland Airwaves 2015. Find their music and play it loud — you’ll thank me!

WWFB: “Wanna Hear My Band?” Edition

The scene: Reykjavík, Iceland, early August but it feels like February. It’s OK, you’re from Wisconsin; you’ve seen worse.

Everyone in Iceland is in a band, as we learned on a super fun Reykjavík food tour with Örn (Eagle) from the experimental feminist punk band Hórmónar.

Lest you think this is just some rando garage band, they won the Icelandic battle of the bands the year after Of Monsters and Men did, and some critics say they won Iceland Airwaves last year. Also, their pun game is on point, as their name translates to “WhoreMoans.”

Örn is a fun tour-guide. He knows everyone in town on a high-five basis, and he took us to some spots we never would have found, or would have passed up, on our own.

Of particular interest to me on this tour was one of our fellow participants, who was an actual food blogger — like, a paid professional. I KNOW, RIGHT? He had a whole lighting rig and a proper camera and shit. I told him about my approach to food blogging and he looked at me with a strange mix of confusion and envy. Whatever, man — you made your bed, now spend the next 12 hours editing photos and sweating word count before you go lie in it. I, on the other hand, will keep eating!

Scroll down for pics from our tour. If you are wondering why there are no food photos, it’s because I am the World’s Worst Food Blogger. Don’t act so surprised — it’s in the title.

VERDICT: 9/10 A very tasty tour. Minus one for Örn not bringing a boom box to play his band’s music while ushering us around town.

WWFB: “Wait, What?!?” Edition

The scene: An ordinary day in Milwaukee. You’re innocently scrolling through Facebook Marketplace when all of a sudden…

A GROCERY BAG FULL OF ASSORTED BABY MEAT.

VERDICT: 10/10 for the generosity of this anonymous individual giving away A GROCERY BAG FULL OF ASSORTED BABY MEAT and the annual mirth it provokes every year when this thing pops up in my Facebook Memories. Assorted baby meat indeed.

WWFB: We’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat Edition

The scene: My basement.

Finally set up the rack and unpacked wine from vacation and cases stacked up in the basement. Organizing them was fun!

Based on the bottom 4 shelves, looks like we can truly “Rosé All Day” for quite a while. I can use “rosé” as a verb, right?

• Shelf 1 (top): Reds from Washington, Oregon, and California
• Shelf 2: California Zinfandels and blends
• Shelf 3: Reds from Spain, Chile, and Argentina
• Shelf 4: Reds from France, Austria, and Australia
• Shelf 5: Whites from France, New Zealand, and California
• Shelf 6: Rosés from Spain and California
• Shelf 7: Rosés from France
• Shelf 8: Rosés from Austria and Germany
• Shelf 9: Rosés from Germany

VERDICT: 9/10 because there’s only 9 shelves.

WWFB: Hood River Edition

The scene: Hood River, Oregon. It’s August and the Pacific Northwest is literally on fire. It is m’fing hot. You’ve been enjoying the local wine at some cute little wineries, and now it’s time to eat.

As part of our West Coast road trip (Seattle to San Francisco), we stopped in Hood River, where we stumbled upon Kin, a charming little restaurant* run by a charming Czech couple. We really enjoyed everything we ate, and we especially enjoyed the lovely atmosphere and conversation with the owners! 

VERDICT: 10/10 Simply lovely.  

*UPDATE: Kin was forced out of its lease in 2020 and had to close, but follow their Insta in the hopes they reopen someplace else soon! 

WWFB: Ballard with Bekah Edition

The scene: Seattle, late summer, 20 million degrees outside. Your last night in town, and your cousin is free!

My sisters and I are the oldest in our family’s cousin universe, by at least a decade. Because of this, we were never in school with our cousins, or in the same age bracket even — so shared experiences were limited to family gatherings a couple times a year. 

Now that we’re all adults, it’s been incredibly fun to see who my cousins have grown up to become. In the case of Bekah, she’s artsy, outdoorsy, whip-smart, and above all, sassy as hell. I love that girl!

Our West Coast Road Trip was the perfect opportunity to catch up with Bekah, who took us to a couple of her favorite spots in the Ballard neighborhood of Seattle.

Below you’ll see the remnants of some tasty vegetables at Stoneburner and the beginnings of some tasty desserts at Hot Cakes. What we ate in between shall remain a mystery.

Ballard: You do good food!

VERDICT: 11/10 for the sheer fun of spending time with Bekah. The food doesn’t even factor into the rating (but it was quite delicious, if you happen to NOT be hanging out with my cousin).

WWFB: Dangerously Delicious Drinks Edition

The scene: You’re visiting Seattle and you want to drink like a local, but not some schlubby local: You want to drink fabulously! So you call up your friend Matt who moved to Seattle who happens to be fabulous, and you put your evening in his hands.

I am the World’s Worst Food Blogger, in part because I can only be bothered to snap a photo in medias res. Ahh well. Seattle, forgive me. Bar Melusine, your drinks are divine! Matt, your taste in watering holes is impeccable!

VERDICT: 10/10 Highly recommend finding a friend as cool as Matt. If my husband were rating this outing, he’d probably give it a 9/10, which represents the average of the 18/10 he’d rate the drinks at Melusine and the 0/10 he’d rate getting a sprained ankle tripping over the curb as we walked to our next bar. (Booooooo! Vacation injuries are the worst!)

UPDATE: Bar Melusine morphed into Boat Bar in 2020. 

WWFB: Old San Juan Day-Drinking Edition

The scene: Old San Juan, Puerto Rico, on a dazzlingly sunny afternoon. You’re on the first half of your honeymoon, which was planned to coincide with your husband’s friend’s destination wedding. You’re here a few days early, so you’ve got some free time and lots of local rum to explore.

If I haven’t mentioned this yet, I am a delicate flower. I don’t mean in terms of character — hell no, as far as will and fortitude go, I’m a goddamn force to be reckoned with. I’m talking my ability to withstand heat and direct sunlight.

So when we find ourselves somewhere tropical and sunny, I don giant sunglasses, ridiculously wide-brimmed sun hats, and long-sleeved linen shirts to minimize my exposure to the elements. I’ve been told (in normal daily life) that I look like brunette Katherine Heigl, so when we’re on vacation, I might be mistaken for incognito brunette Katherine Heigl although I suspect she travels with way more luggage than I do, and she probably owns more than 2 sun hats. Maybe she’s even got special suitcases for them.

Anyway, we’re wandering around Old San Juan in the million degree heat, dashing to the shady side of the street each time we turn a corner. After a while, our game of Frogger gets a little tiresome, so when we spy a gorgeous corner bar with open tables, ceiling fans, and a robust liquor selection, we step in for a cool beverage and a respite from the heat.

As happens when day-drinking, our conversation wanders.

When I snapped this pic, my husband had just explained to me the premise of The Chronicles of Riddick. Apparently, Vin Diesel’s home planet is not accessible via an intricately carved wardrobe. And there’s also no witch, and definitely no lion. The more earnestly he tried to describe the film, the more *ahem* riddickulous it all sounded. PUN INTENDED! #themoreyouknow #daydrinking #merica!

VERDICT: 10/10 for the fantastic mojitos and vibe; would drink here again. 3/10 for the movie; according to Rotten Tomatoes: “As an action movie, Riddick offers some thrills, but as a sequel to Pitch Black, it’s a disappointment.”

WWFB: Uncanny Resemblance Edition

My coffee maker bears a striking resemblance to Darth Vader. That is all.

WWFB: Executive Order Edition

The scene: Austin, Texas. Spring break. You’re wandering the city with no specific agenda.

While strolling along one of Austin’s charming sidewalks, we spied this sandwich board outside a small bar, advertising its happy hour with live music.

What really caught our eye was the Obama quote:

“Beautiful day for some day drinkin.”

VERDICT: 10/10 — indeed, it was a beautiful day for some day drinkin. Thanks, Obama! For your sage leisure advice and so many other things. #hailtothechief

WWFB: Franklin Barbecue Edition

The scene: Austin, Texas. Spring break. You want some transcendent BBQ.

We’d done our online sleuthing in advance and knew that if we wanted to experience the magic of Franklin Barbecue, we’d have to get there early.

The line started at 6AM when some intrepid souls with camp chairs and blankets queued up at the entrance. We were committed, but not 6AM committed (this was vacation, after all), so we rolled up at 10:30. The line wrapped around the restaurant and stretched for an impressive distance, past a well-positioned coffee trailer.

A worker popped out of the restaurant and handed me this sign. It meant we were the last people guaranteed to be served…around 2PM. Some enterprising youth offered to hold our place in line for the low, low price of $20, if we wanted to go sight-seeing or whatever.

We had brisket and turkey and got two kinds of pie to go: key lime and lemon chess. Six hours later we were still full! #texasforever!

VERDICT: 9/10 would wait in that line again. One point off for the coffee trailer not having boozy options.

WWFB: Brennivín Edition

The scene: Reykjavík, Iceland, early November. You’re at a music festival. You’re at a bar, on account of being at a music festival.

We stumbled upon this promotional sign for Brennivín and immediately fell victim to its persuasive charms. You can’t not try a shot of something that promises to keep homicidal elves at bay. After all, you’re in Iceland and the elves don’t take kindly to tourists who turn down offers of local hospitality.

VERDICT: 11/10 Packs a punch and, true to its word, protects you from evil elves.

WWFB: Island Tax Edition

The scene: Reykjavík, Iceland, early November. You’re at a music festival and you’ve had about all the reindeer hotdogs you can stand, so you venture out in search of a burger and fries.

My friends and I stumbled upon Prikið, a gem of a burger joint, at just the right time in our trip. We had come to Reykjavík for Iceland Airwaves (hands-down the best run music festival on earth!), and we were about to head out into the countryside for a couple days at Hestheimar Horse Farm. Our plan was to ride horses and try to catch the aurora borealis, which had eluded us during our time in Reykjavík.

If you’ve never been to Iceland, here’s two take-home messages for you: (1) Go; and (2) Food is insanely expensive on the island, so buckle up. I’m talking $20-bowl-of-soup-at-a-roadside-gas-station-cafe expensive. 

Since we’d been in Iceland for a few days already, we had acclimated ourselves to the “island surcharge” effect on our restaurant bills. Still, Prikið — with its retro vibe and cheeky, movie-themed menu item names — provided a bit of a gut-punch with their “Five Dollar Milkshake” which actually cost $12.

I couldn’t get too mad at the false advertising, however, because the Pulp Fiction reference took me back to college when I was taking a sociology class and convinced my professor to let me write a term paper about the underground economy as depicted in that film. It was still in theaters and I had to go see it multiple times to really absorb it and formulate my thesis. I ate a lot of popcorn that semester.

VERDICT: 9/10 Come for the movie references and puns on the menu, stay for the boozy milkshakes! Minus one star for the fact that our waiter didn’t sing “My Heart Will Go On” when he delivered my Celine Dijon sandwich.

WWFB: Icelandic Hot Dog Edition

The scene: Reykjavík, Iceland, early November. You’re at a music festival. You’re broke, on account of being at a music festival in Iceland. 

Somehow in my planning for this trip, I got it in my head that Icelandic hot dogs are made from reindeer.

That may be true at a more esoteric hot dog stand, but at Bæjarins Beztu — an Icelandic staple since 1937 — the dogs are made of lamb. Baaaaaaaah!

I’m typically a once-in-a-decade hot dog gal — typically coinciding with how often I attend a Major League Baseball game. But I must have had three of these Bæjarins Beztu bad boys in my 6 days in Iceland. It’s the perfect meal when you’re running between concert venues in Reykjavík under the inky, dark winter skies that blanket the city from 2PM to 10AM the next day.     

VERDICT: 8/10 Come for the sheep-dogs. Stay for the crispy fried onions and remoulade. Feel smug knowing you had a fancier hot dog than President Bill Clinton did when he visited in 2004.

WWFB: Fluffy Angel Wings Edition

The scene: My house, autumn, pining for fluffy angel wings.

Re-creating the magical Ramos Gin Fizz from The Sazerac Bar in New Orleans, thanks to a recipe from Imbibe. According to legend, you’re supposed to shake it for 12 minutes. F that… I used the blender.

Ingredients

• 1½ OZ. OLD TOM GIN
• 1 OZ. SIMPLE SYRUP (1:1)
• ½ OZ. FRESH LEMON JUICE
• ½ OZ. FRESH LIME JUICE
• 1 OZ. FRESH EGG WHITE 
• 2 OZ. HEAVY CREAM
• 3 DASHES ORANGE FLOWER WATER
• CHILLED CLUB SODA

Preparation

Add ice to the glass to chill and set aside. Add all the ingredients (except the soda) to an ice-filled shaker and shake vigorously for 12 minutes (LOL — or just use the blender, sans ice!). Remove the ice from the glass and strain mixture into the glass from a distance to ensure froth. Top with club soda.

VERDICT: 8/10 Not as magical as the real deal at The Sazerac Bar, but not bad for homemade. Will drink again!

WWFB: GOAT Edition

The scene: The hills above Hvar, Croatia, in a village overlooking the port. It doesn’t get much more idyllic than this.

Our Airbnb was perched on a steep hillside and the village was down below…down hundreds of steps interrupted here and there by narrow streets lined with stone houses and ancient stone walls adorned by grapevines and wild blackberries.

In the early part of our walk down to the village, we would pass a house with a giant fig tree whose branches overstretched the sidewalk. Some of the figs had fallen to the ground, which seemed like a sad end to such glorious fruits. I took it upon myself to rescue a few particularly ripe figs on each leg of our round trip, reasoning that in a few minutes or hours, they would end up on the sidewalk, and the homeowner would probably prefer the fruit be enjoyed by someone other than the ants. (Not sure if that is a valid legal defense, but that would be my angle, anyway.)

We went down to the village twice a day, so four times a day we passed by this goat who was tied up in his yard, hanging out in a stone and wood shelter with a corrugated metal roof. Each time we passed, I sang out, “Hello, Mr. Goat!” and introduced myself as someone who would love to be his friend and definitely did not want to eat him.

Much to my disappointment, Mr. Goat kept his back turned or otherwise showed no interest in engaging. Why was he ignoring me? Maybe he only spoke Croatian?

Finally…FINALLY!…on Day 3, Mr. Goat trusted me enough to come over and say hi back!

I held out a handful of wild blackberries I’d picked from a bush down the path. That got his attention!

Turns out I befriended the world’s most finicky goat. Mr. Goat loved those blackberries, but literally sneezed at the grapes I picked from the vine just minutes earlier, and turned up his nose at the fresh figs I had liberated from the nearby tree. Don’t goats eat tin cans and plastic bags?!

VERDICT: 7/10 Would pet again, but damn, that’s one picky goat!

WWFB: Sunglasses for Scale Edition

The scene: Somewhere in Croatia, where you’d think the 100+ degree temps would suppress your appetite and also where you’d be wrong.

Sometimes, you just need to eat a burger as big as your head. (Sunglasses for scale.)

VERDICT: 8/10 Would skip the bacon next time; it didn’t achieve optimal crispiness.

WWFB: Anthropomorphic Dessert Edition

The scene: Dubrovnik in August. Seventh-circle-of-hell hot. You’re strolling along a touristy street, watching the people come and go. You think, “You know what would hit the spot right now? Abject terror.”

Look no further than Croatian Cone Child.

Because nothing says, “Hey! Buy some ice cream!” quite like OH DEAR GOD WHAT IS THAT THING?!?!?!

VERDICT: 4/10 for making me feel like a cannibal when I’m just trying to enjoy my gelato.

WWFB: Neighborhood Mystery Edition

The scene: My house. The mailbox attached to my house, more specifically.

All summer long, I’ve been finding spent avocado skins on top of my mailbox. Several times a week. It’s…perplexing. It makes me want to post a letter:

Dear Neighborhood Weirdo Who Keeps Perching Avocado Skins Atop My Mailbox:

Quit it. You’re creeping me out.
 
xoxo,
Gossip Girl

VERDICT: 0/10 Do not recommend food-based stalking.

WWFB: Office Workers Will Eat Anything Abandoned In the Kitchen Edition

The scene: My client’s office in downtown Milwaukee, Wisconsin, midday, late spring.

I stumbled upon something like this in the office kitchen…something like this but bigger and more menacing. I didn’t have my phone so couldn’t capture the thing in all its terrible majesty, so this photo from Google Image Search will have to do.

It had a body, too, but most of the body had been eaten away. What remained was the head, plus a ragged stump of a torso.

Pro tip: Never choose red velvet when making an anthropomorphic cake.

It was laid out on a big foil-covered piece of cardboard, upon which the baker had written in icing: “Bob’s turning 50!”

I thought…Good God! Is that supposed to be…Bob?

It’s a big office so I have no idea who Bob is, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t look like…that. (Surely I’d know Bob if he looked like…that.)

But then, the orange nose made me think it’s probably supposed to be a…snowman? But it’s mid-May, that just doesn’t make any sense!

But then my useless pop culture knowledge base churned into motion and after several awkward seconds of me standing in front of this thing, eyes frozen in terror, it came to me.

Olaf? Is that you, Olaf? Wh…what have they done to you? And is Bob next?

Much to my surprise, all remnants of “Olaf” disappeared within minutes.

But I was left with more questions than answers. Who is Bob? Why did somebody think an Olaf cake was an appropriate choice for a 50-year-old banker? Wouldn’t a cake depicting a monogrammed shirt or perhaps a pair of tasseled loafers be more apropos? Did his arch-nemesis bake this thing as some kind of message? If we can get to Olaf, we can get to you…Bob!

VERDICT: 9/10 for the mystery and intrigue (I didn’t try it). One point off for the choice of red velvet for a cake with a body…that’s a bridge too far.

WWFB: Swank In the City Edition

The scene: Weekend getaway in Chicago.

In a hilarious twist, N and I got each other the same present for Christmas: Tickets to see “The Book of Mormon” when it came to the Midwest. He got us tickets to the Milwaukee show and I got us tickets for Chicago. We sold the Milwaukee tix and decided to make a weekend of it in Chicago.

We stayed at The Ambassador Hotel in Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood. Our room was so lovely and luxe, and our dinner at the famed Pump Room was no different.

We ordered Chef Jean-Georges’ tasting menu with wine pairings. Everything was fantastic, but the tagliatelle haunts my dreams!

VERDICT: 11/10 — would do it again no question. Always order the tasting menu!

UPDATE: The Pump Room has closed but it appears the light fixtures live on at the restaurant that took over the space, aptly named The Ambassador Room.