COLOMBIAN MEAT PIE - Barranquero Cafe, State College, PA

When you think of Colombia, what do you think of? Probably an illicit white powder or paste (kinda yellow if it's really good) that you either have never done, have never got enough of, cooked with baking soda and smoked, or took a bit of once at a bar in Brooklyn and wondered why your conversations were so intense.

Well, if you can think past that, you biased dick, you might also know that Colombia exports a buttload of the worlds coffee (third most in the world) and is really turning around as far as safety goes. I know very little much about the rest of it, so I'll stop there on grandstanding about a culture I know nothing about, but I'll tell you what I do know about: what yuppie scum (like myself) calls 'Third Wave Coffee.'

Presumably, this is the realm of those mustachioed baristas whose self-importance is second only to the self-proclaimed craft bartenders of the world (of which I used to be) and its detractors may say its making something simple far more complicated than it need be. After all, what's wrong with Sanka?

EVERYTHING. WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE? ESTELLE COSTANZA IS YOUR TASTE MAKER?

Third Wave Coffee comes to us on the heels of a transitioning economy, where previously people's passions might have been in industry or craftsmanship, a large swath of the population suddenly finds themselves both creating and consuming things that were once a simple part of life in a new, more refined version. I don't want to get into a chicken-and-egg conversation about whether or not third wave coffee was forced upon the public or if there was public demand that created the ubiquity of these types of shops, but it falls perfectly in order if you think about it. Think craft beer versus Miller High Life; the explosion of craft whiskeys versus the bottle of Old Crow collecting dust on your grandfather's bar (which you continually hope no one notices how much is gone and/or diluted); the popularity of Neapolitan style pizza versus the old pizza shops with their aging electric ovens. Its only natural that coffee would follow this; after all, Americans consume 400 million cups of coffee a day. There's got to be demand for a craft version somewhere.

Enter the town of State College, PA. Home to one of the largest public universities in the United States in what is essentially the middle of fucking nowhere (seriously, its just mountains and farmland and I LOVE it around here) its becoming a food oasis. The area gets a lot of food trends coming in from larger cities, whether the area is prepared for them or not. For instance, we have two places with soup dumplings; a Thai ice cream place is opening; a hawker style food court is opening; and numerous Sichuan and other various region specific restaurants are all over the place.

Needless to say, there's also countless coffee shops. Many have remained mainstays in town, but since my return in 2016, I haven't found a better pour-over. (This search has not been exhaustive.) However, coffee can only go so very far for me; I am much more interested in effect than flavor regarding my caffeine containing beverages (hence the black sludge of Cafe Bustelo I wake up and make every morning) so one might ask, why, Alex, we know you don't give a fuck about how coffee tastes (you are wrong), why are you reviewing a coffee shop?

EMPANADAS. Empanadas and deep fried plantains and other various comforting foods. Because I love these things. Comfort extends across all cultures, no matter the ingredient; if its prepared with love, with simplicity, and with tradition, it's most likely comfort food If its comfort food, its probably going to be good.

Now on to the good stuff....

YOU NEED ACID IF ITS FRIED

If you have group therapy at 1 pm. in the middle of town and don't eat lunch with a friend from the group, you're kind of wasting that time, right? Right. So now you get the setting: my friend Roni and I are both in the same group and are both hungry people.

This is her. She works at a hoagie shop that I'll review at some point. She's a good friend.She claims her real name is Demonica.

This spot is right beside a Chipotle, an 'Asian Cafe,' a pretty dope bagel place (which I will ALSO review later), a FANTASTIC Lebanese place, and down the street from several other great places to eat. This place is probably going to always be my first choice among all of these places, however. I'll make it real simple for ya: their empanadas are handmade. Not like those garbage kind that come in frozen packs that places try to pass off as good. Not like those $2 things from questionable food carts in Bushwick. Oh no, these are handmade. They are three for $6, and come with a little bit of lime and a deliciously acidic salsa that perfectly offsets the rich fried flavors. 

I got beef, pork and chicken. Each are mixed with a variety of spices and fillings and are absolutely excellent. 

They also offer several other excellent small options, such as delicious arepas and lovely pan de quesos. We opted for patacones as another dish because I can't get enough of fried plantains. 

The accompanying guac was obviously made in hous and had large lovely parts of avocado which is fine by me, I wish it had a lime wedge as well because it was missing a bit of an acid component. It had plenty of cilantro, though.  

I also got an Antioquia pour over which was absolutely delicious and light; Roni got a cold brew of Bourbon (which is not pronounced like the American style of whiskey.) With a dash of cream and sugar, the flavor of the cold brew still stuck out and I wound up finishing it later on because of her good heart.

The space is very inviting, brightly decorated and has a variety of bar stools, chairs, couches and an upstairs in case its packed or if you desire to be removed from the public. I often wish to be when drinking coffee and focusing on a book. 

With businesses pouring in and out of State College at what seems a drop of a hat, I really hope Barranquero sticks around and keeps its craft coffee and delicious snacks coming. They also offer a lot of baked goods and your more traditional coffee shop offerings, but I can't help but love empanadas. 

CAFFEINE FIEND SAYS: THE COFFEE IS WORTH IT

HUNGRY BUNGLER SAYS: GOOD FOR SNACKS, MAYBE NOT A MEAL

Barranquero Cafe

324 East Calder Way

State College, PA 16803

BIRD IS THE WORD: Burkholder's Country Market - Spring Mills, PA

"I believe that fried chicken is North America’s Hospitality Dish. I spell all those words with capital letters. I don’t care whether it’s a king, a preacher, or a potentate who comes to see you, if you give him good fried chicken with mashed potatoes, chicken cracklin’ gravy, and hot biscuits and vegetables, you’re giving him the best the American table can offer"
-Colonel Harlan David Sanders, founder of Kentucky Fried Chicken

CONCERNING THE AUTHOR AND FRIED CHICKEN:

The quote above is from the man whose image is synonymous with one of the nation's most maligned fast food chains, the ubiquitous KFC. A place where, ideally, you could get a bucket of fried chicken and mac and cheese, cole slaw, biscuits and other southern staples. An oasis for those unafraid of diabetes or cholesterol levels, a compound in which one can enjoy the flavors of the traditional southern hospitality the area is *apparently* famous for (in my experience, everyone in the south is slow as fuck and can really dress up being an asshole in airs. Sorry southerners.) When a man turns his back on his baby, you know they fucked up royal.

(though I still eat there from time to time whatever I'm not perfect)

Realistically, KFC is usually inedible. Colonel Sanders himself referred to the gravy of the franchises as something like brown paste water. To make matters worse, KFC is often sidled up with Pizza Huts and Taco Bells in the same building, two other purely American ventures which devour ethnic cuisines (in these cases, Mexican and Italian) and regurgitate them back into disturbing postmodern pastiches of what our taste bud and stomach's id craves: nacho cheese and white flour; vegetable oil, a vague yet depressing reminder of garlic, and liberal amounts of a poor impression of parmesan on top of a mass of refined white flour. What's even worse, when these three elements combined the final product is far less than the sum of its parts: it's a surefire route to a night of stomach problems and another brick in the wall of a disturbing lack of faith in humanity, the type of which would depress even the happiest-go-lucky optimists. 

That being said, there's a saying about pizza: "pizza is like sex, there's no real BAD pizza." The same could be said for fried chicken. Who among us can say they have never reached for a dried out bag of chicken tenders at the local grocery store, despite knowing that it will be a dry heap of barely chewable meat and breading whose only hope for moisture comes from a prepackaged miserable flavored form of high fructose corn syrup? Who among us can say they have never absolutely pounded a 10 piece bag of fried chicken that had been sitting there since the morning? 

If you claim you have not, you are a liar, or someone I do not want to know. Your faults are features too, and this is a fault among all decent people. Grocery store chicken is a fact of life, and if you do not accept this fact, you are lying to yourself. 

That being said, fried chicken when done right is one of the most marvelous things known to man. The quote above is from Colonel Sanders' autobiography, an excellent read for anyone interested and a particularly interesting read for those in the hospitality industry. If a man of his clout believes fried chicken is the best the American table has to offer, it is certainly worth its own series, whether be from restaurants, grocery stores, or where ever one finds this ubiquitous and American gem. So, as the deigned denizen among us who seeks out deliciousness, it is my job in the series of BIRD IS THE WORD to inform you of where I find the best fried chicken (besides Popeye's and Bojangles. Royal Farms is up for debate.) Fried chicken is also a large part of my childhood: when family gatherings happened as a young child, my father would bring wholesale amounts of fried chicken, enough to feed everyone, and that flavor sticks with me as much as the dewy humidity of the trees and the smell of chlorine from water parks contained in a local gem of an amusement park. (Idlewild, in Ligonier, in case anyone was wondering.)

Now, on to the good stuff:

BUTTF*@# EGYPT AIN'T THAT BAD

I live in Boalsburg, Pennsylvania with my father, right outside the boom town of State College, where the mammoth main campus of Penn State drives most of the economy. We often take day trips to other little towns around us to search for antiques. Today we were hunting for a desk. After finding a good deal in Lewisburg, we headed back down 45 and hunger struck with deafening force upon my stomach, for all I had eaten that day was four shots of espresso and a glass of juiced vegetables. My body thanked me for that. I couldn't have that, and thus it was time to prove to myself what I seem to always prove to myself: I'm an asshole. This time to my body, specifically.

Along the way is what appears to be a quaint country market called Burkholder's. While one might pass it and not think twice, it is in fact one of the best grocery stores I've ever been in. It's produce is always ridiculously fresh and well priced, its baked goods are sublime, its locally made chocolates are to die for, and its butcher really knows what he's doing. I mean, look at these steaks:

Look at that marbling. Oh man. 

Anyway, the real gem of the place is its hot bar. As much as grocery store chicken is a fact of life, often times a quick hot bar dinner from the little shop down the street is necessary. Its just that this one happens to be made by a bunch of Amish and Mennonite types and man... it's good. 

Okay, so, doesn't look like much, does it? And you're thinking: why is this guy going on and on about a hot bar at a grocery store? Well, do you like homemade meatloaf, four homemade soups, homemade gravy, stuffing, and best of all hand breaded deep fried chicken with cornflakes in the crisp?
If you don't, leave. This blog is not for you. There's 7 billion people on this Earth. I don't need you.

I opted for two pieces of fried chicken (a thigh and a wing, natch), some stuffing with gravy, meatloaf, and a side of that narcotic-like mac and cheese known only in microwaves and grocery store hot bars.

The meal was good. I don't have to tell you that. The fact that I'm even bothering to write about a hot bar in the back of a grocery store in the middle of nowhere should tell you how good this is. I have had few revelatory experiences regarding fried chicken: the thighs here are pure immersion in the magic that cholesterol, fat, carbohydrates and meat can do together, a happy drowning in it. The meatloaf was delicious as well. The Mac and cheese is the same as it is everywhere: the fuckin' best. Even Anthony Bourdain claims a weak spot for the nuclear orange-yellow lumpy paste. Some things just aren't meant to be understood.

That being said, it's always a glorious grocery store containing many different indigenous central PA specialties, such as having way too many fucking brands of potato chips that are all delicious, scrapple, bacon from a place in Lancaster that will make people renounce religions and codes of ethics, the steak previously mentioned, and GOBS!

The picture above was taken at about 2 p.m. I imagine all of those gobs are gone now.

Anyway, if you think you're too good to eat at a grocery store hot bar to get some killer fried chicken, they do have a dining area and even at an off time it was busy.

As strange as it might be, the most comforting foods can be found in very comforting places: you just might not think to look there. Good thing I did, I'll tell you that much. The chicken travels well for take out, but eating it and seeing a bunch of Amish and Mennonite people chowing down around you really makes the experience much more grand. So if you find yourself on PA route 45, stop in there.

Oh, and you'll totally see a couple Amish buggies around. Just a forewarning.

Q: HOW DID THE AMISH WOMAN KEEP HERSELF HAPPY?
A: TWO MENNONITE. 

CHICKEN BOY SAY: SO GOOD I STRIP IT TO THE BONE
Burkholder's Country Market
107 Market Drive, Spring Mills, PA 16875

HOAGIE HUNTIN': Miller's Hoagies - Milesburg, PA

PRELIMINARY EXPECTORATION CONCERNING HOAGIES AND THE AUTHOR:

Hoagies. Known as subs to some, heroes to others, grinders, whatever... All of those names are wrong to me. Among my friends, the word, disgusting to some, has become a kind of character marker: I often refer to people as hoagies in a complimentary way, and call myself a hoagie man. Be forewarned: I am also a hoagie destroyer. 

Since I was a young kid, hoagies have been so ingrained in my life it's impossible not to think of them. When I was young, once a year my father's deli would make an insurmountable of hoagies for a local sale. When I was in my teens, dinner was often hoagies from a local shop. Despite Philadelphia purists falling short of all but legalizing what a hoagie should mean, it's this to me: a sandwich on a long roll with meats and cheese and a variety of toppings. Hot, cold, whatever: I love them all.

It's strange to think that at one point and time, this sandwich, a cornerstone of my culinary upbringing, didn't even exist. Wasn't even popular. (It's equally hard to think of a world without sandwiches: thank you, dear Earl of Sandwich for slapping things between bread for easier eating. I don't know why you're not up for sainthood.) Wherever the word comes from and whatever pedigrees it requires from people who make snobbery out of working class food, I choose to use it as I see it in our daily syntax.

The hoagie shop is so ubiquitous in all the areas I'm familiar with that a life without them seems impossible. (When I lived in Baltimore, I couldn't find a good one: a chain that shall not be named satisfied my cravings.)

A DESPERATE PLEA AND WARNING FROM GOVERNOR HOAGIE

Now,  one must differentiate between a great hoagie, a good hoagie, and utter fucking garbage that should be flushed down the toilet. With the prevalence of chain restaurants, specifically one whose spokesman is a convicted pedophile, people seem to have forgotten the local places and eschew little mom and pop shops for a heavily advertised garbage dump of Sysco products known as Subway.

Be not afraid of this devil, although do not give into the ease or temptation of its convenience. Somewhere around you, I am certain, is a better place to eat than Subway. Even if the craving for a hoagie is irrepressible, do not give in to temptation. You will become stronger for not having done so.

Now, to the good stuff....

A MILESTONE IN HOAGIE HISTORY IN MILESBURG, PA



My father, born in 1947, remembers the first time he had a hoagie. In Centre County where I currently reside, every year the Grange Fair brings visitors from all over the country, and when he was a boy he had his first hoagie from Miller's Hoagie stand. Where were you when you had your first hoagie? Probably don't even know, huh? Well, neither do I. So don't feel too bad.

Today, after searching for a desk at antique and thrift shops in quaint little towns outside of State College, we found ourselves by the original outpost of Miller's Hoagies and for a trip down memory lane (and also, certainly not least of the reasons, because we were hungry for a good sandwich.)
We decided to stop in Milesburg and see how Miller's stood the test of time.

This is the introduction, and we were glad to see they took cards. It always pains me to hurt small businesses by not carrying cash, and I urge you to use cash as much as possible when frequenting local and small businesses. The no smoking sign charmed me to bits. 

Upon walking in, you can tell nothing has changed here for a while simply because it simply doesn't need to. That's the mark of a great spot. 

They also have the perennial central PA favorite, Middleswarth chips. Miller's stocks a couple unicorns that even at the most well stocked grocery stores around here are hard to find: the Jalapeno and the Sea Salt and Vinegar variety.

I was craving something hot, my father something cold. I decided to go for a Double Chicken Cheesesteak (6.95) as opposed to a regular Chicken Cheesesteak (6.25). With the price difference, it was a no brainer as I can never pass up a good deal. It's served on an 8 inch soft roll with choice of toppings (I opted for lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise) and sage and salt. The chicken was chopped with provolone cheese on a grill, which is how I like it. 

Certain places like to use those prepackaged strips and not chop them up at all. That's a bastard sandwich. Forget that sandwich. If it's not chopped, you're screwed. 

This sandwich, however, was excellent. I of course salted it because I apparently want my heart to explode before I'm 40, so your experience may vary. I can say that for $7, it was quite a meal. 

My father opted for the Tuna sub, topped with peppers, onions, lettuce, tomato and hoagie oil. Tuna ain't my thing, but I took a couple bites and it was better than competent. He finished it with aplomb.

Another local favorite, Ritchey's chocolate milk was available, and so we split a pint of it. It's nice and rich and thick. Good for sipping. 

Miller's Hoagies is the type of small town establishment that has existed forever because of its quality. Little needs to change when you do it right the first time.
If you find yourself out that way, I highly advise stopping in. There's a bulletin board full of local events and posters, a table full of free local news publications, and even a corner full of half-happy plants.

HOAGIE MAN SAYS: EAT THE HOAGIES HERE. THEY ARE GOOD. 

Miller's Hoagies

306 Turnpike Street, Milesburg, PA

Open M-Sat 9:30 a.m. - 9:55 p.m., Sunday 11 a.m. - 9:55 p.m.

Welcome to Food We Forgot

I have a passion for food. Anyone who looks at my gut should know that. I grew up on a chicken farm in western Pennsylvania; my father owned a whole sale foods business and a deli. I've worked in every possible element of the restaurant industry, from dishwasher and busser to line cook to floor manager, but primarily behind the bar. I've worked in everything from corner bars, chain restaurants, delis, barbecue joints up to high end fine dining and molecular gastronomy. I have some mean chops in the kitchen and even meaner behind the bar.

However, I am on a new adventure through life as working through mental illness and all the fun that comes with that. I decided that I should write about something I don't think gets enough attention from people who are serious about food. The roadside places, the simple take out places that are better than the others, the mom and pop hoagie shops in small towns, the cafes families start and pass on through generations, the fading old Chinese restaurants with table service and Koi tanks. The food press is always looking for new trends; the Yelpers bring businesses up and down with their own entitled opinions, whether warranted or not, whether coming from a place of expertise or just someone with an itch to scratch. (Seriously, who reviews pharmacies on Yelp except for people with serious issues?)

This blog will be a document of my adventures as I eat the unpretentious foods of the different areas I traverse and my relation to them, as well as a document of my own cooking from time to time. I hope you enjoy what you read.