As promised, I sampled the whole wheat pizza at Home Slice on Liberties Walk last night with some Sly Fox Weisse, and business card swapped with fellow writers (no bloggers?) like we would ever somehow hire one another. Or co-author a yarn about the creepiness quotient of Liberties Walk. Home Slice looked totally charming and ready to go. There was also soy cheese slices and talk of vegan cheesesteaks. The thin crust was well-played.
In need of more action, I bailed out and went to meet my favorite boy at Lolita.
Lolita bills itself as "provocative Mexican. " I already study at this school called Mexican Cuisine Is Sexier Than Everything Else For the Fine Arts, the Even French Food Campus, so you don't have to convince me. Or do you? Since Salma Hayek Jiménez doesn't work here, you've got to give me something.
The trouble started in that we didn't bring tequila, opting to drink later with some friends. Perhaps with the sway of a pitcher, our plates may have kept up. The salsa was actually spicy enough that it didn't taste of anything. Same deal goes for my dinner, the chuleta de puerco con mole negro, substituted with three-chile tofu. There a number of dishes that allow you to replace meat with tofu or portabellas. So we did. Our server wanted to kill us, I think.
Word of the week, portabellas: see here and here.
When you have to make a dish so electrifyingly hot that it interrupts all other flavor traffic, what are you hiding? Oh, three-chile, you got me. The barely-seared tofu stack ruled over a sweet potato mash, in a moat of smoky mole. I couldn't detect anything but heat. The water I ended up drinking for dinner was very nice. Water, mang. I love the stuff.
I spend a lot of time on Thirteenth St. (Apothecary, Bindi, Capogiro, Grocery - it's like the ABCs of Mod Cuisine) and it's all dandy. The time I spent last night was in unabashed jealousy because my partner's enchiladas verdes with portabellas were so groovy. Too far gone on the hot side for him, but just right for me. Sharp lancaster jack, smooth green salsa, ancient mushroom wisdom. If he wasn't my favorite boy, I would have knocked him out cold, dragged his body into the bathroom, and polished off the remainder of his entree. Say I wouldn't.
We were so alcohol-deprived by the time we drifted into El Vez that we didn't make eye contact with anyone in fear they'd rape us of IQ points, and started making up drink orders. My Walker, Texas Ranger with Hernan Cortes might have been a dream. Minutes later we were in the photo booth, giving face. In less than an hour's time I was on stage at McGillin's for karaoke.
Now I'm wearing the Michelob Ultra shirt that they gave me for belting out Fiona Apple. Style in the home office. This is how bad tastes so right.
Lolita, 106 S. 13th St.
Everywhere else, near 13 St.