Smorgasburg virgins

For Trish's Last Supper (or in this case, Last Brunch) before getting Snatched, we decided to pop our Smorgasburg cherries and meet the Westfield, NJ contingent in über hip Williamsburg for a bacchanalian day of excess. Here's how the day progressed in pictures!

After a fairly painless subway ride, including a transfer to the dreaded L train, Trish and I emerged in NYC's hippest borough, Brooklyn. We strolled toward the waterfront, throwing death stares at the cute brownstones and chic apartment buildings reserved for goatee sporting, skinny-jean wearing, gluten-free, pretty people.

We arrived about 20 minutes before 11am - just enough time to cruise the vendors (many still setting up) and plan the day's caloric intake. The Guerrero-Cook crews were still stuck in cars somewhere in NY traffic, so we grabbed a bacon pretzel from the bitchy gal manning the Bronx Baking Co.'s tent and started our first round of munching. Since the pretzel was so delicious, we decided not to let that bitch's attitude dampen our enthusiasm or appetite.

Grilled maple bacon stick anyone? We made it about halfway around the ring of food tents before giving in to a gooey, sweet slab of pork belly from Landhaus. 

You can never have too much pork belly, right? (Someone needs to cross-stitch that on a pillow) Next stop, Bite Size Kitchen for crispy pork belly and braised duck leg buns. From behind, we overheard two pretentious, twenty-something gals straight out of Girls, snootily turn their noses up at these buns because, "Oh, we make those at home." From the look of their manicured hands and expensive-though-made-to-look-vintage clothing, there is no way those girls have made homemade anything, ever.

Having completed our initial exploratory loop, it was time to cleanse our palates with dessert. We ended up sharing a fluffy, yeast-raised, dulce de leche and almond doughnut from Dough. These little diabetes bombs give Doughnut Plant a run for their money. Heresy, I know.

An hour later and the Jersey crew still hadn't arrived.  So we grabbed a fried chicken and bacon biscuit (somewhat disappointing following all our decadent pork belly treats) and relaxed at a picnic table overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Up until now, we had been taunting our car-bound friends by texting them these pictures as we cruelly described each scrumptious bite.

I'm usually not one to shy away from excessive bitchiness, but even I started to feel guilty as the time passed and our companions continued to sit in food-free torment on the highway. So after this picture, we decided on a food porn moratorium until after their arrival.

Just passed our table, Trish spied a long line forming by one tent. Without even checking out the offerings, we got in line. Whatever is under that blue tent better be worth the wait or this bitch may just cut you.

With the line barely moving, Trish went on reconnaissance to make sure we weren't wasting our time. Ramen burgers! Score. But it was now close to noon and there was a noticeable increase in foot traffic. We decided to split up. Trish made a beeline for Might Quinn's where another long line was forming. She hooked us up with some pork BBQ and brisket sandwiches.

After about 20 minutes, I finally made it to the front of the line and purchased my $9 (!!) burger. Sadly, the product didn't live up to the hype. I mean, it's a burger wedged between two slabs of greasy ramen noodles. Didn't taste bad per se, but really nothing special. We ended up taking a few bites and tossing the rest. No use wasting precious stomach space.

The Philippines is representin' in Brooklyn. Though I'm sure they are delicious, we didn't try their lumpia because we were suspicious of the pretty plating and garnishing. We're used to seeing those little critters piled up haphazardly in a foil tray, ghetto style.

The Guerreros, Cooks and Nadeaus finally arrived and we spent the rest of the afternoon taking turns guarding our picnic table and hording food.

The End

The adventure continues...

<< Monday, September 2 ...later. >>

Satiated from my "gourmet" lunch, we piled back into the van and headed to one of the more famous south rim vantage points, Mather Point.

A panoramic view of the Grand Canyon and my baby bump.

The view from my window seat as we watch the canyon fade into the distance. Farewell, Captain Todd. I'll never forget you.

Sightseeing sure works up the appetite, so once back in Sin City, Trish and I head across the convenient attached walkway from our hotel to the Fashion Show Mall and El Segundo Sol for some Mexican food.

There's nothing better than a big ol' bowl of guacamole and plenty of white and red sangria to get the party started. Wasted at four in the afternoon! That's Vegas, baby.

More food and drinks, Vegas style (that means the calories don't count - what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, right?). Check out the alcoholic glaze over my eyes.

Thoroughly exhausted from our eight-hour mini excursion to the Grand Canyon and our Mexican siesta, Trish and I thought we'd cat nap before heading out for some final slot action. Our bodies, however, had other plans. Though we had every intention of getting up, we actually slept through to the next morning.

Grand Canyon redux...

<< Grand Canyon - attempt #2 >>

Monday, September 2

Like a deleted scene from Groundhog Day, Trish and I rotely re-enacted yesterday's early morning trip to Maverick's air field for attempt #2 at a Grand Canyon excursion. Fortunately, today's aircraft decided to cooperate and we were able to take off as scheduled with Captain Todd (insert dreamy sigh here) at the control panel of a very, very tiny plane.

Here's the view from the back of our itsy-bitsy 15 passenger puddle jumper. Kind of exciting but also extremely terrifying. At least I got my own seat and didn't have to cram into the last row three-seater.

And everyone gets a window seat! Well, except for the poor schmuck stuck in the middle of the three-seater in the back.

I guess the NSA isn't worried about terrorists bombing our National Parks, since the open cockpit design of our plane doesn't allow for a separate cabin and cockpit. It's like cruising the skies in a big ol' station wagon. And just like dad on those long road trips, our swarthy pilots act as our tour guides, pointing out landmarks along the way and...

...inviting us to visit them in the cockpit. That's right, instead of watching out for flocks of wayward birds or storm clouds, our trusty pilots will take your camera, perch it on top of the control panel and take a selfie with you!

And here's Trish on her trip up to the cockpit. I cannot for the life of me remember the co-pilot's name is he wasn't nearly as hot as Captain Todd (on the right).

After a civilized 40-minute flight (we nixed the much cheaper bus option because it's a 5-hour drive each way), we land on an air field just a couple of miles from the canyon. Trish and I finally get to live out our Howard Hughes-esque fantasy of jet-setting around the country in our own private jet. Naturally, we never travel without our dark glasses and fedoras.

Once on the ground, our centerfold-worthy pilots take some time to pose for their adoring passengers/fans

Grateful for a safe landing, I give our Maverick jet a big "thank you" smooch on the noggin. Jets need love, too.

After a short bus ride, we arrived at Bright Angel Lodge for our first glimpse of the Grand Canyon. I am in awe of the view as you can see by my freakishly excited expression and slack jaw.

Since we arrived fairly early in the morning, we were able to avoid the tourist rush and leisurely lounge on the cliff wall in relative solitude. Except, that is, for the many marauding squirrels aggressively grabbing for our "gourmet" box lunches.

Here you can see me enjoying the advertised "gourmet" boxed lunch included with our Grand Canyon tour package. That would be a "gourmet" turkey sandwich, a "gourmet" bag of chips and "gourmet" bottled water (with accompanying "gourmet" mayonnaise and mustard packets). Bon appétit!

The adventure continues...

Grand Canyon or bust...

<< Sunday, September 1 >>

With my list of spots-to-visit-before-I-die growing endlessly longer and my time on earth dwindling away faster than Miley Cyrus' integrity, I decided to book Trish and I on a very expensive one-day trip to the Grand Canyon via small charter jet. Let's be real, I'll probably never have the time, opportunity or finances to plan a separate trip anytime soon.

With iPhone cameras in hand, we heeded our 6am wake-up call and groggily headed downstairs for the shuttle transfer out to a private desert air field for the 40-minute flight to one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World (I'll have now seen two - the harbor in Rio being the first).

We checked in and waited patiently for our group to be called for boarding. After about an hour, the waiting room stood painfully empty save me, Trish and an anxious handful of tourists. I was called back up to the check-in counter.

I'm sorry, due to technical difficulty with the aircraft, we've had to cancel your tour for the day.

Huh? My once-in-a-lifetime trip is canceled?

We can reschedule you for tomorrow morning.

Phew, disaster diverted. Sadly, a few foreign tourists didn't have the luxury of an additional day for a reschedule. And though my linguistic skills are limited to English and a spattering of Tagalog curse words, I could tell there were some mighty angry foreign profanities being hurled around that waiting room.

Disappointed and sleepy, we joined a bunch of pissed of tourists on a shuttle bus back to Vegas.

Determined to salvage the rest of our day, Trish and I made a beeline for the TI coffee shop for a gluttonous All-American breakfast of pancakes, ham steak and home fries. If I wasn't going to see the Grand Canyon today, I'd at least have a Grand Breakfast.

And that was just the beginning of our Sunday food orgy...

In a decidedly unhealthy attempt to eat our feelings of disappointment, we lucked out and snagged a last-minute reservation to the ultra-chic, very snooty, high end Sunday brunch at the Mandarin Oriental's Mozen Bistro. Yes, the above is in fact the buffet's all you can eat oyster, shrimp and crab claw bar. The buffet also boasts a noodle and ramen bar, made-to-order sushi bar, dessert bar, carving station and dozens of other random high end choices. Oh, and you also get to choose a supplemental menu entree with your meal. Best of all, unlike most of the other high volume buffets, the price point and limited seating ensures you're not fighting the huddled masses for that last claw.

We decided to walk off some of the day's calories by hoofing it on the strip. Unfortunately, summer in Vegas isn't exactly amenable to daytime hiking. We instead hit one of the many discount ticket booths and on recommendation from our friend, Chris, got tickets to Jubilee! at Bally's.

If you're looking for a dazzling evening of fine singing and stunning choreography, be sure not to miss Jubilee! said no one ever.

If you're looking for a cheesy display of silicone-enhanced boobs accompanied by the gayest, most mediocre chorus boys in Vegas, and boobs - did I mention boobs? Get your tickets to Jubilee! immediately.

Even though I shall never re-gain those precious 90 minutes of my life wasted at Jubilee!, the night wasn't a complete bust. Trish and I lazily wended our way back to the hotel in the comfortable desert evening enjoying the sights of Vegas at night.

I'll admit, I'm probably being a tad harsh on Jubilee!, but it has a review average of 4 stars on Tripadvisor.com. I mean, come on. It's at best a 2-star affair, and that's for the costumes and novelty of all those topless dancers. Trust me, after about 10 minutes you realize you're in for a long, tedious evening of cliched skits that were probably only vaguely sexy in the 1970s when they were likely created and staged. The only reason to sit through this mess is to see the rather spectacular contortionist couple. Bitter, party of one, check please!

We finally make it to the Grand Canyon...

Staycation 2013 NYC part deux

Friday, July 5 (click here for part une)

Unlike the rest of civilized society, my office decided to open for business the Friday after July 4.  I sat in my empty office and watched the clock tick by as my phone and inbox sat silent for five hours.  The powers that be at least had the sense to let us leave after lunch.

Tonight, the boys and girls split up for separate date nights.  I took Juan for a belated birthday dinner to michelin-starred Aldea for their nine-course Brazilian tasting menu.  Coincidentally, Trish and I noshed here earlier in the summer during our Memorial Day staycation.  If you're an adventurous eater and appreciate gorgeous plating, you can't go wrong for the $95 price tag.

Three hours later, Juan and I stumbled out of Aldea in an Iberian food coma.  Time to burn some calories by renting citibikes.  After some issues with the credit card kiosk - nothing a few good kicks and a slew of obscenities couldn't fix - we were peddling back downtown to the hotel.  What's that saying?  You never forget how to ride a bike...bullshit.  I was weaving back and forth on First Avenue like a drunk drag queen in platform stilettos.

The girls chose a date spot in Little Italy, walking distance from the hotel.  Val's sporting her new pixie cut.  While I was twiddling my thumbs in the office earlier in the day, Juan, Val and Trish were getting all Housewives-of-Orange-County at the salon with haircuts, massages and mani-pedis.  Bitches!

Trish is showing off her fancy dessert.  She and Val were generous enough to bring back a bag of Italian goodies for Juan and I to try.  So what if we had just finished a 9-course dinner, there's always room for a cannoli.

Saturday, July 6

Still woozy from last night's food orgy, Juan and I decided on an early morning bike ride across the Brooklyn Bridge.  Since we purchased 24-hour citibike memberships the night before, we still had several hours of rental time available to us when we got up this morning.

I'm finally getting my "bike legs" back after nearly a decade of living bikeless in the city.  On a side note, notice the unintentional cross branding.

In theory, a bike trek across the Brooklyn Bridge seems like a pleasant enough way to spend a morning.  In practice, it sucks balls.  With the mercury already nearing 90 degrees and the humidity crushing my out of shape lungs, we made it about two-thirds of the way to the first tower before I felt the pangs of an impending heart attack.  We decided to stop and take a breather while enjoying the downtown Manhattan skyline.

Here's my artsy-fartsy overhead shot.

I take one more minute to catch my breath before heading back to dry land.

Here's Juan.

After working up our appetites crossing (at least partially) the Brooklyn Bridge, Juan and I dropped off our bikes and headed back to the hotel to pick up the ladies.  Next stop, Petit Abeille for waffles and mimosas.  Directly across the street from the restaurant we spotted this freakish array of superheros and marine life hanging out in front of the Balloon Saloon.  In NYC there is literally a specialty store for everything.

After brunch, we bid Juan and Val a fond adieu.  Juan, unfortunately, has a church job so he and Val had to cut their weekend short.  Trish and I, however, decided to keep the hotel room an extra day and extend our Chinatown staycation.

After a power nap, Trish and I were hankering for some Vietnamese food.  Based on yelp reviews, we headed to Bo Ky, which was just around the corner from our hotel.  I'm not gonna' lie, the place seemed a little ghetto and the cleanliness level was, well, just a notch above outdoor truckstop picnic table, but damn, the food tasted good.  You know it's authentic when you can't spot a single white face in the joint.

I'm enjoying a bowl of yummy pho and an appetizer portion (yes, appetizer portion) of their fried spring rolls.

Trish opted for a heaping plate of marinated steak.  Amazing how a delicious chunk of cow can make you forget all about that sticky spot on the table top.  Shout out to our waitress, a crazy old Asian grandma, who helped allay our initial wariness and made us feel like we were having lunch in her dining room.

After dinner Trish and I headed a few blocks uptown to the Public Theatre where my gorgeous and talented friend, Jaygee, is appearing in David Byrne and Fatboy Slim's environmentally-staged rock musical, Here Lies Love, based on the tumultuous life of Filipino first lady, Imelda Marcos.

Me with the delightful Jaygee after her rockin' performance as Imelda Marcos.  She's the swing and understudy for Imelda so when I heard she would be going on this weekend, I bought my ticket pronto.  (Read my review)

Trish and I were exhausted from the day's flurry of activity and non-stop noshing, so we decided to take advantage of our last evening at the hotel by watching TV and lounging in our PJ's.

Sunday, July 7

Our staycation is nearly over, but not before one last stop for soup dumplings.  We checked our bags in the hotel lobby and headed to Shanghai Gourmet.

11am on a Sunday morning in Chinatown - nothing like having an empty restaurant all to yourself.  These babies arrived just in time to sate a raging dumpling craving.  Soup dumplings are exactly what they sound like, tasty little bundles of scalding hot broth and pork wrapped in a slightly sweet dough.  Heaven.

As a final farewell to the lower east side, Trish and I ventured slightly northward to the Essex Street Market where we leisurely strolled passed the many arstisonal vendors.  Still bloated from our earlier dumpling adventure, we left empty handed and merely made mental notes for our next visit.

One cannot venture to the lower east side and not make a pilgrimage to the Doughnut Plant.  So on our way back to the hotel from Essex Street, we made a little detour and visited their original location.  And after ordering a half dozen luscious, diabetes-inducing beauties for the walk home, we opted to wash it all down with a "healthy" drink option - fresh watermelon juice! 

Staycation 2013 NYC

With the Pineda family squirreling away every extra penny for Juan and Val's adoption fund, we decided to forgo our usual July Fourth trip to DC's swanky Omni Shoreham.  I'll surely miss luxuriating in the outdoor pool while an attentive staff plies me with frozen libations.  Oh well, if I want a little niece or nephew that I can dress in inappropriate message tees, I'm going to have to make a few sacrifices.

Instead, we decided on a last minute staycation in the city - a decision that left us with very few lodging options.  Sure, there were plenty of $1,000 a night rooms in five star hotels, but blowing a month's rent on one night seemed just a tad unreasonable.  And though I love Juan and Val, I wasn't about to spoon with either one of them in a tiny cot in some nasty fleabag hotel.

Lucky for us, Trish was able to work her internet magic and found a very reasonably-priced boutique hotel in Chinatown with unusually high yelp and tripadvisor ratings.  We decided to spin the hotel roulette wheel and take a chance on the Hotel Mulberry.

Wednesday, July 3

Technically, my apartment in Astoria is less than 10 miles from the hotel.  But I've always been an uptown kinda' guy, having never lived below 42nd Street.  So a long weekend in Chinatown seemed just as foreign to me as a trek to the exotic Orient.

Due to the impending holiday I only had to work a half day at the office.  So after lunch I headed back to my apartment to stuff an old backpack with shorts and t-shirts for the expected 90-plus degree weather.  Juan, Trish and Val drove up from Jersey right after camp and met me in Astoria where we boarded the N train for the 30-minute ride downtown.  After entertaining some elderly tourists from Pittsburgh (on their way to Eataly) with our sparkling wit and clever sex-in-the-city banter, we got off at Canal Street and found ourselves in the midst of a torrential downpour.

Nevertheless, we sucked it up and trudged through the murky brown water now running through the streets and between my open-toed sandals, all the while telling myself, "This is not human waste running up through the sewer, it's just dirt."  The stench, of course, seemed to betray the truth of my mantra.

Damp, sticky and sweating, we eventually found our way to the Hotel Mulberry.  I'm obviously enthralled by our hotel room's dramatic dusk view of downtown Manhattan with the Freedom Tower shining in the distance.  Below, a soccer field afforded us equally breathtaking views of sweaty, shirtless jocks kickin' it during daylight hours.

Inspired by a fellow subway rider, we photographed this colorful mosaic inside the subway stop closest to our hotel.  What a difference a "C" makes. 

For our first night on staycation I made a reservation at Bacaro, a cozy Italian joint on the eastern edge of Chinatown.  It's apparently one of Padma Lakshmi's favorite restaurants in NYC.  With its downstairs seating, exposed stone walls and maze of tunnels and private dining rooms, the restaurant gives off a fun, medieval-dungeon-meets-hipster vibe.  Our semi-private room lit with dripping candles felt straight out of the Crusades, sans the metal shackles - though there did appear to be blood stains on the walls.

After a few bottles of wine and some dozen delicious small plates (Bacaro specializes in tasting plates), we started to loosen up and really dig the dungeon-chic vibe.  We entertained visions of Hugh Jackman a la Jean Valjean belting out "Who Am I" while chained to our wooden slab table.

We decided to skip dessert at Bacaro so that we could fill my lactose intolerant bowels with exotic Asian flavors from the famous Chinatown Ice Cream Factory.  Hmmm, red bean?  Or maybe the almond cookie or taro?  My mouth watering, we approached the shop only to find it...closed!  Wah wah.  We instead hit the dessert shop next door, Mango Mango for some shakes and halo halo-like sundeas.

Thursday, July 4

Instead of sleeping in, the men folk decided to venture forth from the comfort of our climate-controlled room to scavenge up a patriotic breakfast of Asian delicacies. But with NYC experiencing heat and humidity rivaling the Amazon rain forests, Juan and I only made it about a block before turning back.  But not before stopping at Mei Li Wah for roast pork buns and congee and Simply Bakery for a month's worth of baked goods.  Happy Birthday, America!

All decked out in our red, white and blue (notice my use of horizontal striping to accentuate my muffin top), we headed down to South Street Seaport's SmorgasBar, the NYC min-outpost of Brooklyn's sprawling SmorgasBurg, for dinner.  Per usual, we ate until we could barely walk - lobster rolls from Red Hook Lobster Pound, oysters from Brooklyn Oyster Party, grilled cheese sandwiches from Milk Truck and pizza from Pizza Moto.  Oh, and beer.  Lots of beer.

Due to my inebriated state, we were forced to take a cab back to the hotel.  There was no way I was going to make the 20 minute walk back to the hotel.  I could barely stand (notice me leaning heavily on Val in the above picture).

We spent the rest of the evening hydrating and watching A Capital Fourth from our beds.  Dear God, what has happened to Barry Manilow's face?!  And who decided it was a good idea to let the über white Darren Criss sing "Shout" (with an all black gospel chorus backing him up, no less)?!  The show's saving grace?  The always suave Neil Diamond belting out, what else, "Coming to America."  

Staycation continues...