Dim Memories

Here’s a list of steakhouses in the U.S., ranked in reverse order.  (Follow the link to get the music and lyrics, otherwise just skip to the list below.)  I should point out that other than one or two, I haven’t been to any of them in ages (hence the title of this post), so things might have changed since then.

  • Logan’s Roadhouse — never been there
  • Texas Roadhouse — ditto
  • LongHorn Steakhouse — no idea why this is so low on the list;  I’ve been to several, and they were all good
  • Hoss’s Family Steak & Sea — never been there;  “hoss” and “steak” do not belong together, except maybe in La Belle France
  • Outback Steakhouse — not bad, at least the steaks are decent;  and it’s not really Strylian, which is in its favor
  • Saltgrass Steak House — this should be higher on the list;  I’ve been to several all over Texas, and all were excellent
  • Sizzler — are you fucking kidding me?  If this POS is on the list (never mind being so highly ranked), can Waffle House be far behind?
  • Ruth’s Chris Steak House — not bad, but suffers from having the Most Unpronounceable Name Evah
  • Black Angus Steakhouse — never been there
  • Morton’s — never had a bad meal at Morton’s;  it was my go-to place for client lunches and dinners, and should be near the top
  • Fleming’s Prime Steakhouse & Wine Bar — also excellent.  We celebrated Doc Russia’s bachelor party there, and even the hard-to-impress Mr. Free Market had a good time
  • Fogo de Chão — I can’t eat there because the prices are too high for my suppressed diet;  would love to try them though
  • The Capital Grille — too fucking spendy, even for client expense-account dining.

Add your thoughts to the list.  Mmmmmm… steak.

Back Then

Wasting time over at C.W.’s place there’s this little bit of nostalgia, with his comment:

Certainly, my Gran’s did, except her tabletop was covered with a single sheet of green linoleum (don’t ask).

Also at C.W.’s:  he’s been on a tear about the wonderful Alfa Romeo Tipo 105 sports cars of the late 1960s and early 70s, like this one:

This might be my favorite model of them all:  the Giulia GT Junior, with Alfa’s extraordinary 1300cc engine which performed completely out of its weight class.


Finally, and I hesitate to even say this, he has no business posting pictures of terrible things like this on his website:

Doubleplus want.

I’d call that a Texas BLT, but the bread’s a little on the thin side.


Apparently, today is National Cereal Day, and even though said appellation make my nuts start to ache and my trigger finger twitch, it’s a better reason for commemoration than, say, Cesar Chavez Day or Secretaries Day.

Here’s the Britishland hit parade:

If you want my opinion, those choices are far too healthy.  I mean:  Weetabix? [sic]  Ready brek?  (although I have to say that with our kids, Ready Brek was a firm favorite for First Breakfast)  And of Alpen and All Bran, we will not speak.

Here in Murka, the choices are far more (shall we say) kid-friendly:

…although the appearance of Special K (a triumph of marketing over fact) is concerning, even at #9.

I have to confess that I hardly ever eat breakfast cereal anymore, except the (very) occasional bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, which I discovered on my first trip Over Here with Longtime Friend Trevor, and have never lost the taste for it since.

And my special weakness — i.e. as a snack consumed straight from the box — is this one, discovered as a child in Seffrica, and which still captivates me, over half a century later:

Just looking at the pic makes me want to get some — but fortunately (?) there isn’t any of the lovely stuff in the pantry at the moment.  (I try to contain myself to a box every other month, but it’s very difficult…)

I know, I know:  cereal isn’t for grownups.  Mea maxima culpa, but thank goodness I’m not tempted by the really sweet stuff like Froot Loops or Lucky Charms.

But at least when I look at both the above lists, the “nuts-‘n-twigs” type doesn’t feature.

(I noticed that in Germanland, granola is almost the exclusive offering at hotels’ breakfast buffets, which is probably why they lost the war.)

Ugh.  Makes me lose my appetite just looking at them.

Which is probably the whole point.  Damn Birkenstockers.

Worst Packed Lunches

Inspired by this tale of woe, list the 3 worst combinations (main, snack & drink) you could put in your 8-year-old kid’s school lunchbox.  You can select according to taste, nutritional “value” or smell, your choice.


  1. Vegan “hamburger” / olives / carton of skim milk
  2. Slim Jim / coconut snowball / lemon Kool-Aid
  3. Canned anchovies / soda crackers / can of club soda

Extra points if you actually have given them to your kids in the past, and my apologies if I’ve made anyone feel ill.

Just As Ordered

Reader Don L. suggests, correctly, that I would enjoy this little snippet:

Of all the things that you think could make you more attractive, what you have for breakfast wouldn’t necessarily be one of them.

But, new research has linked what you tuck into in the morning to how much you’re desired by others.

The small study published in Plos One, looked at the impact on facial attractiveness of eating refined carbohydrates (so-called “bad carbs”) for breakfast compared to eating unrefined carbohydrates (“good carbs”).

Researchers at the University of Montpellier found the amount of carbohydrates someone eats was statistically linked with their facial attractiveness as rated by heterosexual members of the opposite sex.

Well, yes.  I know I’m at my best after one of the above:

This would explain why women throw themselves at me every time I walk out of a Brit restaurant… [eyecross]

Compare and contrast the facial characteristics of some who’s just “enjoyed” a vegan breakfast of whatever it is that vegans eat:


Going Greek

New Wife sent me this pic, suggesting that it might make a nice break from my usual laptop wallpaper fare of gloomy Paris streets and snowbound European countrysides:

It’s lovely, and it shows a part of the world — the Greek coast or Greek Islands — that I’ve never visited before (I know, I know).  One day, though… and she wants to go (back) very badly indeed (yeah, she’s been there, pout pout).

(cue Greek music)

What gets me is not so much the scenery as what the table evokes in me, which is:  Greek food.

I love it.  One of my favorite restaurants in the world used to be the Greek-Cypriot Kolossi Grill in London (now permanently closed because Covid, apparently grr grrr grrrr), because

Greek food + Greek wine + shouting Greek waiters + Greek atmosphere = Kim In Heaven

There’s not a single Greek dish I don’t enjoy (unless it’s crap like octopus etc. which I won’t eat in any language).  Spicy lamb, Greek salata and souvlakia… my mouth waters as I write the words.  On one of my trips Over There, I found a Greek gyro stand just off Shaftesbury Avenue and ate there four times in a single week.

And let’s hear it for retsina — or, as most non-Greeks cruelly call it, Lysol.  I can’t drink it unless I’m eating Greek food, but as an accompaniment thereof I won’t drink anything else.

Back when I lived in the Chicago area, I had the real pleasure of meeting up with one of my old South African friends, a Greek named (not George but) Paris, and his wife Debbie, who had all just emigrated from South Africa and taken a job in Chicago.  Of course, he wanted to know about things like Greek food stores and restaurants, so I pointed him at those and suggested we try out the nearest Greek restaurant from our houses (and not one of the ones in Greek Town Chicago).

Anyway, we walked in and Paris did the Greek greeting thing with the owner (thereby ensuring that we’d get the good Greek food and not the shit they pass off on non-Greeks — yeah, it happens).  When we sat down, Paris took away my menu and said, “Let me do the ordering” and I acquiesced with pleasure.  We ate Greek style, i.e with huge plates of food in the middle of the table, from which each diner helped themselves according to preference.  I of course had something from every damn plate, and Debbie  said, “Kim, are you sure you have no Greek blood in you?  Because there’s stuff here that I don’t even eat.”  I would have answered except my mouth was full.  And yes, there was retsina, gallons of the stuff;  and at the end of the evening, Paris wouldn’t let me pay for anything because, as he put it, “It’s such a pleasure to see a non-Greek enjoy Greek food as much as you do.”  I would have replied except I was lying on my back, groaning from Teh Gluttony.

Good times, good times.

Where was I?  Oh yes, the Greek thing.

As I said, Greece is the one place in Europe I haven’t been to — no reason, I just never got there for some reason — and I have to admit that I am a little intimidated by the language barrier.  I’m not that way anywhere else in Western Europe because of my French and German, and even in Italy and Portugal I can get by, at least to the point of understanding street signs and menus. But Greek…?  The different-looking alphabet means I’m clueless, and whereas I usually just grab a phrase book and learn a few things in the native lingo before I go somewhere, places that don’t use the Western alphabet are ummm more problematic.  (One of my Greek buddies wickedly suggested that my German would get me around quite well in Athens or the Islands, but I wasn’t born yesterday.)

Not that it matters much.  If I somehow got the opportunity to go to Hellas, I’d be there in a shot.  I can deal with the language problem when I get there.

After all:  how bad could things get?