There’s something ridiculously indulgent about having a full bar with no perforations or implicit ideas about how you should parcel it out. Patric’s emblazoned signature implies one rule- eat it. And you should, because it’s the older, more sophisticated brother of a Terry’s Chocolate Orange, with deeper, oiled nuances and natural caramel and butterscotch notes to make the unctuousness off the charts like a fruit off the tree from another planet. And yes, it’s milk chocolate- and not just milk chocolate, milk chocolate with whole milk powder for that dreamsicle dream. Sue me, that’s my favorite. It has a deep bone-like snap and satisfying thickness with a fresh aftertaste that reminds me, to the letter, of a coffee I had in St. Louis at Kaldi’s Coffee, a Mexican coatepec cold brew that really manages to evoke the sherbert that the name implies. Continue reading
“About this business of being a gentleman: I paid so heavily for the fourteen years of my gentleman’s education that I feel entitled, now and then, to get some sort of return.”
I don’t remember when I stopped caring, but I remember exactly where I was when I started to rationalize it. It was October of my senior year of college- I was walking to work and realized I had posts due. One of them was here, one was on my new website, Nobly Rotten, and suddenly I realized that not only did I have a great deal of writing to do, I had to drink a bottle of wine. My relationship with drinking has always been a kind one- wine knowledge started early and became something I could share with my father, gin was always convivial and kept me bright and the rest, fine to keep around for company. So drinking to write and writing to drink felt natural, and I started the website. It was a process- a difficult client relationship with a web developer, starting SEO from scratch, and accessing an entirely new client base that I so badly wanted to enmesh myself with. I don’t know if I wanted another blog so much as that I wanted friends. Continue reading
Royal Sport is the sleek king of the supplement world- eschewing the bulky, half-filled tubs of whey protein and creepy creatine supplements, covered in monsters like a sixth grader’s trapperkeeper for a matte design with minimalistic typeface. It’s what I imagine hipsters would have started on Etsy before Etsy sucked balls, kickstarted with sticker rewards, and then sold to GNC as an exclusive line. They’re made by Cellucor as a GNC exclusive and come in whimsical flavors and high prices. Continue reading
Nutrex bills this as the best underground bodybuilding protein powder. Yeah, and the Vitamin Shoppe is all in Tyler Durden’s head. Aside from being the worst/most hilarious marketing campaign to hit the shelves- personally, I think “Nutrex Research” sounds more sinister at face value than “Muscle Infusion Black”, this stuff is clean. 25g’s in the blend, 130 calories, and seven different proteins, although they will not list those proteins. That is the extent of their evil genius, though, and it is one that goes well with fruit and deadlifts. The sole complaint? It smells awful. Like, stale gym locker awful. When mixed with liquid, the odor goes away immediately- it isn’t Cellucor’s cupcake and ass-kicking excitement, but don’t let it deter you from trying it out.I mean, look at that. This powder incorporates better than a Delaware filing clerk who has just received a fifty-year service award. The red cup clashes with her pink undertones, but for two cups of raspberries, three scoops of protein, i-Satori BioGro, whole milk yogurt, and a can of raspberry seltzer, it is smoother than Kenny G on a Slip ‘n’ Slide. With solely milk and water it also mixes well, with a Nesquik-like effect. Or Quik, if you’re still young and have your best years ahead of you.Frankly, this stuff is masquerading as a bad guy but is truly ridonkulous. Yeah, that’s right, 2007, I’m taking back the slang that was never allowed to use as a teenager. Vanilla Villain, you are not fighting The Hulk, nor have you turned me into a super-villain, although I have woken up in the morning to piles of jewels and gold bars that I had not owned or claimed as taxable income before. (Results may vary.)
Do you hate people? Children? Do you have a crippling fear of your doorbell ringing unless it’s USPS with five free jars of peanut butter and boxers? Do you miss escaping town and never coming back? Do you have nostalgia for the brands and delicious high-snob of Fairfield County, Connecticut? Are you me? If so, get this tea!Bigelow Tea has combined forces with the Girl Scouts to create cookie-flavored tea. Yes, they took the easy route and combined flavors that already exist in tea, eschewing a chance at historical tea design with Tagalongs and going for ‘coconut and chocolate’ and ‘mint and chocolate,’ as if we don’t know the cookies those demarcate. I’ll review them anyway, because I, too, am powerless to the Girl Scout sales pitch, even if it is at 11PM on a Wednesday at an abandoned grocery store. Continue reading
I’m putting off a difficult task and it’s getting in the way of the generally hilarious tomfoolery on this sinking ship of a semi-never-famous empire that I created back in high school when love was merely a hilarious anagram for evol and all my shirts were from woot.com. It isn’t the blog- that’s collateral damage in the larger scheme of pulling the trigger on the Rube Goldbergian stage of bureaucratic events that enable me to not go to France next year to study and cavort and live minimalistically while still maintaining a sense of style, escapism, happiness, and jeunesse that I struggle to find in Hartford. That would have made such a great novel. That novel would have pushed Eat, Pray, Love to the curb.
I would have had the best author photo. Or at least the best byline on my article at The Toast.
Yes, quite the problem to have, it’s funny in a stupid, hyperspecific way, like being catfished by a stock photo, but I still haven’t quite reached the point where I’m comfortable typing those words or pressing the button that pushes me another turn around the carousel before I have to hop off and enter the real world and get a job. In this world, the carousel is also not limited to children, keep that in mind, so I’m definitely not imaginary trespassing in this imaginary theme park allegory that I have created. Continue reading
Did I expect to be chewing off the bra of a stranger the day before Valentine’s Day? No, but the weekend is young and the Bedfellow’s donning of the red fedora has me roving the streets. Little did I know that she condoned this type of illicit activity. We have a DADT policy in our arrangement…don’t ask, don’t tell the trainer. So when this arrived in a box from Eleni’s Cookies, I knew I could trust this to stay secret and copacetic. Continue reading
I participated in an Influencer Activation on behalf of IC for Blue Dragon. I received product samples and a promotional item to thank me for my participation. No bias, no BS, no bad recipes. Enjoy. I love Chinese food. Unfortunately, the Chinese food around Hartford, with the exception of the lip-tingling Shu, tastes as if it’s all sourced from one underground tap-based factory gurgling from the bottom of the city somewhere near Waterbury. It’s bad. And it’s all the same- bad takeout containers, lukewarm food. Thankfully, we have a massive Asian grocery close by and a few decent places to whet my whistle for decent Chinese cuisine, so I’m able to try my hand at it when I have the chance. And the more I enjoy the authentic recipes and flavors, the more weird, hipster things I can do in the privacy of my own home, hence this pink peppercorn orange chicken and soba salad. Continue reading
Ain’t no party like a Neopolitan pizza party, because a Neapolitan pizza party is held five feet away from a 1,000 degree oven. Oh yes. Brick + Wood in Fairfield is the latest pizzeria to grace the Gold Coast, and a mighty good one it is indeed. We attended a press dinner a few weeks ago, full of hijinks, Italian cocktails, and dessert in Fairfield. Continue reading
Yesterday I started my hypertrophy training. Today, I was ass-deep in estate tax notes to the tune of 115 pages. Today, I ate my lean muscle mass in ramen. We all know ramen is elevated as an obsessive art form in the US, ever since we discovered that the rest of the world knew how good ramen was long before we cracked open our first Maruchan. But I’ve discovered the intersection of boxed, laxy convenience and near-gourmet seasoning and preparation. Its name is Myojo Japanese Yakisoba, and it played the dozens with Nissin’s version and won hard. Sauce in the house, playa. Continue reading