Monthly Archives: November 2009

Bloody Umami Burgers and Happy Turdrucken Day!

Umami burger? More like Uma... meh.

In honor of Umami Burger’s pseudo-Japanese leanings, a haiku:

Umami Burger,
Oh, how you disappoint me.
Tiny ketchup spoon.

It wasn’t bad. I had the MANLY Burger (b/c I am from Chicago and like to watch football), which is described as beer-cheddar cheese, smoked salt onion strings (good!) and bacon lardons. Pal Dan had the signature Umami burger, and big, fluffy onion rings with a tiny spoonful of ketchup. (It’s house-made, so you have to pay for another spoonful. No, I’m not kidding. And don’t call me Shirley.)

They don’t ask you for a temp preference so I’m guessing they are all served rare unless otherwise specified — and by rare I mean the squishy, buttery bottom bun was resting in a puddle of BLOOD. Overall — average, and NO LIQUOR LICENSE. Worth going back? Nope.

Dan (bless him) asks that I point out the portion size was actually perfect. Unlike the usual American belly-bomber that tops out at 1/2 lb. and probably 1400 calories, this left us feeling pleasantly full but not stuffed like a turdrucken. My favorite burger at The Cheesecake Factory, the Tons of Fun (it’s a name AND a cautionary tale!) is apparently 1563 calories.

WHOOP. There it is.

I, for one, am not on the umami as ‘fifth taste’ bandwagon, but if you want to learn more, this link is informative and this one is propaganda. I think umami may be a viral marketing-type ploy by the clever Kikkoman folks, but maybe after all these years on the inside (imprisoned as an advertising copywriter, nickname: Tons of Fun) my default mode is skeptical.

And speaking of TONS OF FUN, I am heading home to Chicago tomorrow morning — hooray! — and won’t be back ’til Monday. So until then my little Drucklings, I wish you the happiest of Thanksgiving holidays. May your martini/wine/moonshine glass always be full, and may all your pies be perfect. L’chaim!

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Druckin Tasty Tapas and Poopy Face Tomato Nose Pie

Now that's some serious mussel.

Had so much fun last night at Tasca Wine Bar in WeHo with my gorgeous pal Han. They have an all-night happy hour(s), which includes an impressive array of $3/$4/$5 small plates. BE WARNED. When they say small, they’re not kidding. ($4=one dainty skewer of beef, bacon, mushroom and cherry tomato.)

The food is gorgeous (the only thing prettier in the bar was Han!) and they had a lovely variety of wines by the glass. We sat at the bar and indulged in plate after plate, including garlic shrimp (which the LA times called lusty — love that!), the beef skewer, delicate ceviche, creamy burrata on crispy toast wrapped in prosciutto, chicken liver mousse… Somehow, in $3/$4/$5 increments, we managed to spend $60. Well done us!

I was also impressed by our attentive, well-informed bartender AND the nice manager or owner lady parked on a barstool right next to us sampling a plethora of different dishes herself. As my ex (and Detroit-area restaurateur extraordinaire) used to tell me:  If the waitstaff/owners haven’t tasted it, neither should you.

So in honor of Han’s imminent departure for her Australia homeland, I wanted to make her an American classic — a lemon meringue pie:

When your pie is kinda runny and you think it's kinda funny but it's snot.

Seriously, Pillsbury? Are you kidding me with this? Easy and foolproof my arse. More like time-consuming and fool-hostile. The meringue was flat and the custard was weepy, runny, ICK. I think my pal Steve who took this photo did a great job of capturing the shiny puddles of run-off that attended this pie-tastrophe. Should’ve made a pavlova, right Han? Then we’d have been happy as Larry. (Who IS this Larry, anyway, and why do Aussies consider him the pinnacle of earthly bliss?)

Thank God I’m not responsible for the pies at our upcoming Thanksgivingpalooza in Chicago. Two days and counting! Can’t wait.

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The Bears Are Druckin NSFW. See below. (Literally.)

Jay Cutler has thrown a league-high 18 interceptions. How many Bears fans have thrown up thanks to him remains unknown.

For today’s post, I’m going to edit the Bears fight song for 2009. To hear the actual song, see this youtube clip; it made me so frickin’ homesick that I’m sitting here like a girl with tears in my eyes. Wait, I am a girl…)

Bear Down, Chicago Bears
None of your plays lead the way to victory
Bear Down, Chicago Bears
You’ve got no right to take yourselves seriously
We’ll never forget the way you scared the nation
With this humiliation:

Sorry Hester. Posting this makes me feel like an ass.

Bear Down, Chicago Bears
Let them know why the Vikes wear the crown
You’re the sad demise of a proud franchise
2009 Bears, SIT DOWN!

I have more to tell you about my weekend (good druckin’ times!) but will have to wait so you can absorb the above. In the meantime, little druckers, I must thank at least one of you out there for giving me reason to smile today. According to my handy WordPress dashboard, top searches for/near Mother Drucker include “sex party druck streepers.”

And if sex party druck streepers doesn’t describe this blog perfectly, well. I just don’t know what will.

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Keep Yer Druckin Pants On!

EAT ME.

Oh my little Drucklings. We have so much to discuss! Let’s start with 8oz Burger Bar on Melrose in LA, shall we? First of all, real whipped cream on my Irish coffee, the kind that spoons, not the kind that squirts. (Innuendo FULLY intended. Enjoy!) Second, adorable, friendly and FUN staff, including a particularly tasty Texan tending bar.

And third, Kobe beef mini corn dogs? Short-rib grilled cheese panini? Half-pound burgers made with juicy, humanely-raised (ergo guilt-free) American beef?! SOLD. Also worth a mention, pal Tom’s cool, creamy Pumpkin Ginger Shake. Your pie is in my shake! My shake is in your pie! You see where I’m going with this.

Pants? I don't need no stinkin pants!

Now, Mother Drucker rarely posts pics of herself, though she’s certainly not above speaking in the third person, like Bob Dole. (Remember him?) But after a night out with awesome pal Han and her crew, enjoying the fab happy hour specials at 8oz (try the ginger-spiked Moscow Mule), I am in the mood to mock my drunk-ass self.

If I were only getting out of a limo at an awards ceremony/Maxim party/envelope opening, I would be prime fodder for a paparazzi panty-flash. Guess I’m a real LA girl now! And speaking of LA girls, my cool, super-connected journo pal over at Pocket Lint says there’s a sale at Barneys Co-op.

You're the one that I want. Ooh ooh ooh, honey.

Wait, why are you still reading? GO. And may the cashmere be with you. Have a great weekend! GO BEARS!

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Lesbian Yellow Sour Fruit, and Mao’s Druckin Blows

See what I did? I did that thing that’s so popular on college campuses, where you put up a poster that says “SEX” in huge letters, then in small type it says “Now that I’ve got your attention, come to our vegan rally at the Rock. Tofu goodies will be served!” So here are your tofu goodies, stolen from a poor unsuspecting Flickrite, as per yoush:

Beans means Mao's. Or not.

Pal Brooke and I made a pilgrimage to Mao’s Kitchen in Venice, CA and to be honest, we were underwhelmed. We had kung pao chicken with too much sugar and not enough heat, and bland, boring lettuce cups that left me longing for P.F. Chang’s yummy version. (My foodie fans may be horrified, but whatevs! I grew up in the suburbs! I worked at TGI Friday’s one summer, for goodness sake. What up, Lombard, IL!)

For dessert, I wanted to share the first 30 seconds of last week’s 30 Rock, which is where I got the inspiration for this post’s title. (“Man No Good, by Lesbian Yellow Sour Fruit.”) But I just learned that I have to pay WordPress $59.95 for the privilege of embedding videos, which is probably fair enough considering they give me plenty for free. (Apologies for the annoying Verizon commercial that precedes the clip.)

Now this has me wondering, what would the Chinese knock-off version Mother Drucker be? Lady Parent Almost Dirty Word? As always, your suggestions are welcome and appreciated.

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The Druckin W in Westwood

I remember a joke I heard when I lived in Ireland, where a “Kerry man” joke is the equivalent of a “Polack” joke in the U.S. (I am from Chicago and therefore Polish, so I say Polack fearlessly. Plus, I boost their GNP with my unwavering commitment to their vodka. Na zdrowie!)

ANYWAY. The joke was, why did the Kerry man go halfway to Dublin and turn back? Because he saw a sign that said, ‘Dublin Left.’

This is precisely how I feel about my visit to the W in Westwood last night with awesome new pal, la belle Christelle. We sat in the deserted bar, just the two of us and a sweet, buxom bartendress. I think a tumbleweed blew by. We were ALONE. And it never occurred to us to step out to the pool, why would it? It was 60° out, so it sure wasn’t gonna look like this:

Swimmin' pools, movie stars.

No. Not like this. Like a freaking hybrid ice-skating rink HOW COOL IS THAT?! Complete with specialty cocktails, like Spiced Pumpkin Lattés, and Adult Hot Chocolate! (Which was totally my name in prison.) But did we check it out? Noooooo. Because we never saw a sign. So we never turned left.

If you go (and WHY THE HELL WOULDN’T YOU?!) would you pretty please tell me all about it? I’ll be here, hanging out with the tumblin’ tumbleweeds.
Love and kisses,
Adult Hot Chocolate

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Please Come to Drucker for the Springtime

Put that on your pillow and suck it.

Okay, Flickr People From Whom I Usually Pilfer. (FPFWIUPs.) You need to take more pictures of the Mint LA, the West Side’s folksiest, bluesiest, rockingest music venue. Because what’s out there is JUST NOT CUTTING IT.

I love the Mint, and not just because it’s sugary and refreshing. It’s a great size, and the people who work there are genuinely nice. ($3 for soda water is a little ridiculous. But that’s not the bartenders’ fault.) I love the glimmering green velvet curtains, and the sad little disco ball. It almost has a small-town juke joint vibe, like you just wandered in off a particularly ugly portion of Pico Blvd and made a beautiful discovery.

This is a band called Lady Danville. NOT, I repeat, NOT Jackopierce.

What I don’t love are the tables that front the stage — but they take them out for bigger, louder bands, like one of my favorite gigs of ALL TIME, Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue.

Saw Jackopierce there with pal Brooke (SMU was apparently in the house, go PONIES!), and was underwhelmed except for one perfect song which I now love, covet and desire. And as Brooke and I discussed, one perfect song might actually be worth the $23 admission. It’s called Please Come to Boston, and it’s actually a Willie Nelson cover. (Good call Brooke! How do you know these things?!) If you get a chance, Please Come to the Mint. It’s magically delicious.

On a personal note, I lost a friend last night. His name was Henry and he was 94. You were one of a kind, mon cher ami. You will be missed.

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