Top 10 dirtiest sounding meat cuts.
10 FebTop 10 dirtiest sounding meat cuts (in no particular order):
10. Short loin
9. Belly trim
8. Hind shank
7. Inside skirt
6. Pork loin strap on
5. Bone in breast
4. Lip on rib
3. Hanging tender
2. Ball tip
1. Spatchcock
If you’ve got more good’uns, add them in the comments. You sick bastard, you.
Smothered Rabbit
2 JanI posted a picture on the Facebooks on New Year’s Day. It was the meal I cooked for my family on that day– Smothered Rabbit; which, as is the tradition in parts of the USA, I served with black-eyed peas and collard greens. Lots of friends wanted the recipe, so here it is. FYI– the rabbit is “smothered” with a rich, herby Southern-style gravy, not a pillow. If rabbit ain’t your thang, you can substitute chicken. But, this would also work great for all sorts of critters: game birds, squirrel, cuts of pork– whatever. I’ve posted my Smothered Rabbit recipe on my “Just Cook This” page, but here’s the quick link. Enjoy, and Happy New Year!
The Final Event for the Denver Adventurous Eaters Club
12 OctIt’s with a heavy stomach that I announce that the Denver Adventurous Eaters Club will hold its final event on the evening of Sunday, October 19th at 6:00 pm at our favorite spot, and with our favorite chef, P17 and Chef Mary Nguyen.
I’m shuttin’ her down.
And our finale will be a food blowout. Here is the proposed menu from Chef Mary (subject to change):
•Huitlacoche Sopes
• Andouillette (French pig colon sausage) with Green Lentils
• Kangaroo Sliders
• Slow Roasted Ear and Snout of Pig with Red Wine Sauce and Polenta
• Bun Bo Hue with congealed pigs blood, boiled intestines, pork knuckles, banana blossom, Vietnamese coriander and saw tooth herbs
• Braised Heart of Lamb
• Blood Crème Brule with Aloe Vera Granita and Cricket Biscuit
Of course, as is always the case with P17, we can always expect lots of surprises and educational tidbits from Chef Mary and crew.
The cost of this ultimate DAEC event will be $75.00, inclusive of food and non-alcoholic beverages (not inclusive of tax and gratuity).
Please call P17 directly at (303) 399-0988 to make a reservation. I hope to see DAEC old-timers there, as well as those of those new to the club who have recently reached out to me. I also hope you’ll be there to join me in a toast to the fun times had with the DAEC.
There are bound to be questions as to why I have made this decision. The quick and dirty is this: I find I have increasing difficulty in my ability to set aside the considerable time necessary for the planning and execution of DAEC events, as evidenced by their rarity in the past couple of years. I am, however, also heartened by the amount of restaurants and chefs around Denver that now offer many of the types of items we often featured at our events on their regular menus; including, of course, Chef Mary Nguyen and her three restaurants. I’m not saying we had anything to do with that, but the offering of the offal and lesser used bits is becoming more commonplace, and that was always encouraged the DAEC. For that I am thankful and feel this adds to the fact that this is a good time to call it a wrap.
For those of you who have been with us since the beginning, thank you for your enthusiasm and friendship. For those of you who will be joining us for the first time, please enjoy this evening and be sure to meet lots of new freaky eaters to help you chew through your future fetes. Fetes—like in parties. Not fetuses; although yes, we have done that. C’mon, people, stay on track.
Cheers–
Jon
Gettin’ Freaky: The Origins of the Denver Adventurous Eaters Club
3 SepWanna hear a story?
There are a lot of things that have been born out of necessity: the wheel, the electric light, the banana slicer. Not that my little contribution to society is on nearly the same level as those wonders of human ingenuity; but I like to think that the world may be just a tad better for the existence of The Denver Adventurous Eaters Club, of which I am the founder and “organ”-izer. This is the tale of how that happened to be…
There was a time, my sweetlings, that I was in the employ of the United States Antarctic Program, dedicated to the pursuit of scientific research and discovery upon the great sub-continent. As the Executive Chef at Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station, I made seven deployments to the geographic South Pole, most of which lasted four months, mid-October to mid-February. During that time, as one might imagine, strong friendships were formed among the lucky few who were privileged enough to become members of the fairly exclusive group known as “Polies”– those who have lived and worked at this remote site.
I chose to move on from the Polar Program in 2005 because, to put it technically, it started to drive me batshit. As a result, I’d be spending my first winter in several years in the US, the first in several years without Polies, and my very first in Denver.
As my friends left the following season, Penny and I toasted them goodbye at one of the dinners we had often attended together as “The Gastronauts”– a group of Polies and honoraries who would trek out to some new eatery one of us wanted to try. It was a blast, and while I could anticipate more outings once my Polie friends returned in the spring, four months was a long time to wait. Trust me– I had learned that at the Pole.
So I started looking for groups of folks who might fill the gap– temporarily, of course, and certainly not to the same extent– as the deployed and beloved Gastronauts. That led me to a local dining out meetup group I found online.
It seemed to fit the bill. As I explored the mission and makeup of this group, I saw that it appeared to be comprised of those wishing to dine out with new friends, enjoy some witty chatter and try new restaurants. They all looked and sounded so nice! Cool– I signed up for a night out at Domo, a Japanese restaurant in Denver that I had never been to.
I arrived at Domo on time, despite getting a little lost on the way there. Domo is not in an area you’d expect a restaurant to be. It’s next to the tracks in an area that looks like a great place to catch tetanus. Aside from the somewhat elaborate entranceway, Domo looked more like a dark, creepy warehouse out of some kind of Punisher movie than a restaurant. As I entered through the gate and then through the little courtyard, I saw a potentially beautiful and large Japanese style garden ahead. I say potentially beautiful because it was dark and the middle of winter in Denver and there was not a leaf or blossom to be seen. But dang, it looked like it would be absolutely stunning in springtime.
The first thing one notices as one enters Domo is its massiveness. The place is strikingly huge. Next, its authenticity. Beautifully worked logs– gigantic– vault to the ceiling. Traditional Japanese seating dots a warm dining room decked out like a Japanese country house. Fantastic.
Domo don’t mess around– and there is a very specific reason for that. The owner, Gaku Homma, is not only the chef at Domo, he’s the freaking sensei of the attached aikido dojo. Seriously– the guy is world-renowned. Plus there’s a museum. Plus that garden. Chef/Sensei Homma is, to put it mildly, an over-achiever. I have his cookbook. It’s written well and informative, but there is an underlying tone that seems to be telling you, “If you don’t cook rice the way I say to cook rice, you’re a fuck up.”
You know why else Domo don’t mess around? Students travel from all over the world to study with Sensei Homma; and in turn they work for Chef Homma in the restaurant. How about that? Think that kitchen is disciplined?
You know why else Domo don’t mess around? This is my favorite reason: There are signs in several places throughout the restaurant, and also printed right on the menu (and in their FAQ, AKA, the Domo Code of Conduct), that basically say, “We know how to cook around here. Don’t you even think about asking for soy sauce, salt, pepper or anything else to alter our food that we are so generously allowing you to eat.” Awesome. Of course I’m paraphrasing here, but that was the gist and I was fine with that– I have no problem putting my meal 100% in the hands of a chef I respect. There was a sign right there on the hostess stand so one couldn’t miss it when one walked into Domo. OK. I’ve been warned. This was going to be pretty great.
Except it wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong– Domo was amazing. It is one of the most unusual restaurants I’ve ever been to, and the food, service and atmosphere– I mean you’re basically transported to a Japanese farmhouse– rocks. If you’re in Denver, just freaking go.
What was wrong– so very wrong– was this group of numbskulls I had unfortunately found myself in the company of during an otherwise outstanding dining experience.
It’s generally not right, children, to speak ill of others behind their backs. There were two or three people out of this group of around a dozen that were actually pretty cool. However, the rest were utterly embarrassing, and by exposing their behavior here perhaps I can enlighten an otherwise numbskullish future diner from pulling a serious and regrettable faux pas.
The leader of the group simply would not shut up with his braggish babble. He barely allowed a word in edgewise, and then he interrupted about how great he was. The few cool people passed eye-rolling glances at each other as he bloviated– which was most of the time.
Others couldn’t find anything they wanted to eat on the (extensive) menu because they were too picky. You gotta be kidding me. Nothing? How picky do you have to be? I mean, there’s teriyaki chicken fer crissakes– what five year old can’t eat that?
And they were cheap. Now, I am cheapskate myself when I’m not out to eat with people. In a circumstances like these, people should know going in that if they’re going out to eat they will be droppin’ a bit more cheddar than usual, we’re not talking a lot here, if they wish to have a fulfilling experience. Wasn’t that the point?
Oh my god, no, as it turned out. I still can’t quite figure out why these people were out to eat. I was actually thinking that if someone I knew happened to walk by and see me with these Honey-Boo-Boos I’d have to hide away somewhere for a while.
And here is the one event from that night that changed my views on dining out with strangers forever:
A woman of about thirty, let’s call her Susie Tightwallet, ordered miso soup with a side of rice. That’s it. Among the cheapskates, she won the tourney and reigned supreme. But, I digress…
When Susie Tightwallet’s food arrived the server, a lovely young woman (and I only mention this next bit because it’s important to the story) of Asian decent who spoke beautiful English because she was probably born and raised in Denver, set Susie’s food before her. And then, you guessed it, Susie Tightwallet went there.
“May I have some soy sauce please?” asked Susie Tightwallet.
Goddammit.
“I’m sorry,” said the server, “we are not allowed to give out soy sauce.” Probably because Chef/Sensei Homma might give her a swift kick to the throat.
“No, I mean I want soy sauce,” continued Susie Tightwallet. The signs are all over the place, remember.
“Again, I apologize, but we do not give out soy sauce.”
It was then that Susie Tightwallet turned to the group with a look of utter ignorant shock and asked, “Do you think she understands what I am saying?”
And, with that, I wolfed down my food, left ample cash on the table (I certainly did not want to stick around for the circus that was sure to ensue when the check got split up) and got the hell outta Domo.
I left pissed, embarrassed and discouraged. Not because of Domo, but because these jackasses– members of a meetup group claiming to be all about dining out– did not know how to fucking dine out.
I still felt that void where the Gastronauts used to be, and over the next few weeks I thought maybe I ought to start a group of my own. How about the People That Know How to Fucking Dine Out Group?
Too wordy.
But how does one reasonably predict that cool, informed and polite people might be attracted to this type of group? Who generally fits that bill?
Travelers, I thought. Not tourists– travelers. There’s a difference. Those that love going around the world and immersing themselves in the culture of wherever they might be– including food. I consider myself a traveler, so why not start a group?
Dining with Travelers. This was nearly the group I decided to form. It has a nice ring, and the dinner conversation would probably be great. But man, those picky eaters bugged the shit outta me. I wanted to be sure to weed them out as best as I could, and Dining with Travelers just didn’t seem to go far enough.
If you read my post called A Tribute, dedicated to my friend, the late, great Hubert Tse; you know that I was raised on an unusual bill of fare for a suburban white boy. I had never had a fear of eating the exotic, challenging or different from what your typical American palette is used to. “Not picky”– I fall into that category.
Travelers that are used to the idea of different cultures. Those who are not picky eaters. Hmm. Combine those two and you’d probably also find people who are used to being polite with those around them due to various cultural exposures, and who aren’t afraid to spend a little money and try something new. These people would know how to dine out.
The Denver Adventurous Eaters Club was born. Over the years we have had some amazing times: guest chefs opening their restaurants to us for unbelievable dining experiences, checking out some of Denver’s most unusual menus, member potlucks (which can get insane)– even an appearance on Bizarre Foods America with Andrew Zimmern. We have over 800 members and counting at the time of this writing.
Check out some of the following pictures from the Denver Adventurous Eaters club archives to see how much fun we have; and tell us about some of your craziest eating experiences in the comments.
Thanks to Laura Bloom, Yen and Joel Peach for contributing photos. For even more photos, check the Denver Adventurous Eaters Club photo page.

Yah– that’s me with a short beard being interviewed by Andrew Zimmern. Although my interview hit the cutting room floor, it was an honor to chat with him during the filming of one of our events for Bizarre Foods America at Parallel Seventeen. I basically told him everything I’ve written to you in this post.

Alligator siu mai (from an alligator recently hunted by a DAEC member) made by the amazing Chef Mary Nguyen at Parallel Seventeen , where we have had three incredible events.

PotHead– Potted Pig Head Rillette, by buddy, DAEC member and restaurateur Biker Jim Pittenger.

Pig Intestine and Congealed Blood Hot Pot at JJ Chinese.

Porchetta di Testa prep for an event.

We make an annual holiday trek to the Sons of Norway Lodge for lutefisk.
The Filthy Hooligan
1 SepThe Filthy Hooligan.
That’s a cigar, my friends. A cigar I’ve been waiting to try. I’m going to talk about it; and since I know straight cigar reviews are not everyone’s bag-o-donuts, I’ll throw in some pics and commentary of some of the food I ate during my recent trip to the UK. OK?

A sausage whirl at the Horseshoe Bar in Glasgow, Scotland. Set in a Yorkshire pudding with tatties and peas. Downed along with a local Tennent’s lager. Good.
I learned of this cigar from my dad who posted a pic on his Facebook page of him smoking one of these Honduran-made, green-wrapped stogies on St. Patrick’s Day. Alec Bradleys were reliably good smokes to me, and I was intrigued by the Filthy Hooligan’s Nicaraguan candela neon-green wrapper stuffed with Nicaraguan, Honduran and Panamanian fillers. At 6 inches and 50 ring size, it’s a great size for a 45 minute or so smoke.

Look at that guy’s block. How old do you think that swaybacked block is, and how long has this guy been a meat-cutter? This was at the English Market in Cork, Ireland; which has been a market since 1788, and is a butcher’s paradise.
I wanted to try it, but at $176.00, it was a little outta my range to purchase a box. Luckily, my dad and I (and my lovely wife, Penny, and my lovely mom), would soon be traveling by cruise ship around the islands of the UK, and a couple of stops in Ireland seemed a great excuse for my dad to bring a couple Filthy Hooligans along for us to enjoy. He had found a web special on the JR Cigar site and bought a box for $120.00, including swag (a lighter, bottle opener and a t-shirt), which Dad said was sold out inside of three hours. Better, swag aside; but I’d have to try ’em before making an investment like that.

Bangers and mash atop bubble and squeak at the Castle Tavern in Inverness, Scotland.
So somewhere on the Irish Sea between Dublin and Belfast, Dad and I headed to the smoking deck to get Filthy.

The charcuterie plate at the Pub St. Germain in Paris.
Now, let me state for the record that I enjoy cigars the way I think most cigar smokers do: as a pleasant activity to contemplate momentarily, and then to simply sit back, relax and go along for the nice, slow ride. You won’t find me speaking at length about cigars the way some speak of wine (a little bit, but I won’t get crazy), nor will you read of how I broke the cigar into thirds, fourths or fifths and describe in detail the leatheriness and the the hint of peaches in every facet of the stick. Like I said: I’ll review it like I, and I think most others, smoke and enjoy the cigar: How does it basically draw? Burn? What’s the body? When did it turn? Etc. With that in mind…
Take a look at that. Pretty cool looking. I’ll admit that the novelty of this cigar is part of its appeal. That Black Market label is an indication of a line of smokes I’ve enjoyed in the past, which was a good omen. However, when I carefully removed that label, a bit of the cigar wrapper tore off. Grr.
My dad cut a tight draw for me and a medium draw for himself. Then we lit up.
The draw was looser than I had hoped, maybe because of that tear, but I doubt it. My dad keeps an orderly humidor, and the draw was not that of a meticulously rolled stick.

Steak and ale pie at the Horseshoe Bar in Glasgow, Scotland.
It was a great afternoon smoke, mild side of medium bodied and a little grassy. Minty, even. Sweet. I paired it with– what else?– a Jameson’s rocks.

Cheese! At the English Market in Cork.
As I smoked, I kept an eye on the burn. An even burn can be an indication of a well crafted smoke. The burn on my cigar progressed quite unevenly. Dad’s seemed to be burning fine– and he said it was drawing decently. Take a look at the side by side in the following pic, Dad’s on the left, mine of the right.

A nice burn for my dad (L), and Ashy Larry for me.
The medium body of the cigar remained steady and then changed course rather quickly about halfway through. It got a lot spicier and peppery, and not in the same way most cigars progress. It was sudden. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant; one expects cigar characteristics to change throughout the smoke, but like I said– sudden. I’d say that the loose draw was a factor here. Dad backed me up on that. His turned a bit later in the smoke. The Jameson’s certainly did it’s job here– it held up nicely through the change.
The song remained the same, including that lousy burn, until I crushed it.
My overall review: The Filthy Hooligan appears to be a bit inconsistently constructed (of course that is based on only two smokes), which leads to an OK or a good smoke depending on which side of inconsistent you wind up smoking. It’s generally medium bodied, with a sudden heavy turn a little better than halfway through.

Haggis! At the Castle Tavern in Inverness, Scotland. Dang, was this ever good. I’d once had a meager attempt at haggis at a Scottish Festival, and it tasted like watery oatmeal and piss. This, however, was rich with stock, nutty from the toasted steel cut oats, and full of meaty flavor. Delicious. I could’ve eaten a ton of this.
Despite the fact that this cigar is not top of my list to smoke again, there is no one I’d rather kick back with in this manner, smoke and whisky in hand, than my dad. He is one cool cat. And that made that smoke much, much sweeter.
So, in honor of filthy hooligans everywhere, and to finish this post off right, enjoy Billy’s Bones from The Pogues’ album Rum, Sodomy and the Lash. Sláinte!
Vay-cay
31 JulI’m taking a vacation (and therefore, so is Don’t Tell Chef). I’ll be writing for you all again in a few weeks. Cheers. Jon
Tripetastic!
29 JulAs the “Organ”-izer of the Denver Adventurous Eaters Club, I’m often asked about all the crazy shit I’ve pumped down my gullet. The weirdest to me is, to this day, balut; a hard-boiled duck egg complete with an embryo. The first one I tried was, shall we say, in it’s third trimester. It looked like a wet hamster; and I could feel, as it rolled around my mouth, a little poke here, a tiny scrape there, and a crunch. It tasted OK, if duck soup with hard boiled egg yolk is your bag; but it was not top of my list to try again. But I did, and the second one I tried was younger, and preferable, I’d say.
Balut is what I would refer to as an “advanced” dish for your average American pallette. To members of my group I’ll often rank different foods by their difficulty level for those who might not be used to dining adventurously. Balut pretty much tops that advanced list of challenging foods that are semi-regularly available in the great US of A if you know where to find them. At the bottom, in the “beginner” category, are foods like tongue and oxtail; things that if your average “normal” eater would almost certainly enjoy, especially if they didn’t know what they were eating. In the middle– liver, sweetbreads and stinky cheese. Sharing the top billing with balut is tripe. It’s just not for everybody. And I get it.
Even if one can get past the fact that it is the stomach lining of ruminants (usually beef in this country), there is no escaping its flavor profile. I describe it as “barnyardy.” The whiff-of-corral quality of tripe is part of what makes it tripe. Now, this quality should not be excessive, and is calmed by scrubbing, scraping, bleaching and blanching of the outer-space-looking, pale, rubbery gut. Even after all that punishment, the flavor lingers, and that is OK to tripe gobblers. It’s part of what makes tripe tripe.
Next thing to overcome is the texture. Tripe is tough– like biting into a Coney Island handball— if it’s not patiently prepared. And even when it is at its generally-considered-proper tenderness, it’s still a tough mother of a protein. And it’s got a little, cartilage-like crunch that some might find objectionable. But again, that’s tripe.
Most Americans know tripe as an ingredient in menudo, a hominy and tripe soup from south of the border generally considered a dandy hangover cure. It can be fairly bland (aside from that poopy whisper); or– and this how I like it– simmered with lots of chilies and doused in hot sauce, raw onions and dried oregano (and with pigs feet– yum!). My menudo is the cover photo for Don’t Tell Chef, by the way.
Menudo– or something like it– is generally my go-to recipe when preparing tripe. But I was feeling saucy one day and decided to prepare it in more of a French fashion: cooked with aromatics and a little wine. Like a court-bouillon. Then I’d try it in a few different applications. Here’s what happened:
So I started with blanched, grocery store bought, bleached honeycomb tripe. Honeycomb tripe is generally considered the favorite of the tripe varieties. The different varieties depend on which of the four ruminant stomachs, or which parts of said stomachs, the tripe comes from. What I like about honeycomb tripe is its appearance. It really looks other-worldly. It’s chambered, geometric surface looks more like coral than something that came from the inside of a cow. It’s a little freaky, honestly. But it is also a wonder of nature, and it’s one of the things I love about tripe.
I did something I don’t normally do with store bought tripe: I blanched it in water acidulated with a little lemon juice for about an hour. Some recommend this practice as necessary to help tame the barnyardiness. Other say that the store bought stuff is already as tamed as you’re gonna get. What the hell– I tried it, especially since I was planning on serving this tripe in a fairly mild fashion.
After blanching, I shocked it in ice water.
Then I diced it.
I got a standard mirepoix together and added a little wine and water. I brought it to a boil and added the tripe and a bouquet garni.
I then brought it back up, turned it down to a simmer, and then proceeded to cook the living shite out of it. I simply turned my back on it.
4 hours later (for a grand total of 5 hours simmering time), I had a tender (for tripe), mild (for tripe) pile of tripe cubes.
I tried browning a couple of pieces in clarified butter. It was OK, but nothing special.
Then I broke out the peanut oil.
I dredged the tripe pieces in flour seasoned with salt, pepper and a little cayenne.
Then I deep fried the pieces in the peanut oil (my favorite oil, by the way).
I served it with a little Chinese sweetened black vinegar and called the crew over.
As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, my fellow kitchen crew members are my most honest and trusted critics. They knew what I was doing– namely cooking tripe– and knew that I would ask them to try these fried guts.
I am happy to report that even the doubters enjoyed the tripe chips. And if you’ve never tried sweetened black vinegar, put it at the top of your list. Freaking magic.
I’ll be doing this one again.
Do you like tripe? What other kinds of freakiness finds its way into your gob? Let the world know in the comments.