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The Adventures of the Flying Burrito

If I had a nickel for every time a fellow transplanted Californian and I had this conversation…

What good is a Steve Hanson-ish up-market Mexican restaurant in Manhattan–with its artisanal tequila tastings-this and wood-fired mole-that–when all I want is a $3 burrito? Sure, I’ll order one of their burritos for lunch, just to sate the craving for something carby and rectangular that’s topped with guac and sour cream. But nothing satisfies like a burrito from La Taqueria in San Francisco’s Mission.

RUDOLPH THE RED NOSED…HANDBAG?

Maybe it was the Christmas thing, or maybe it was because I started writing this entry on an airplane as I was eyeing the bag across the aisle from mine. It was quite unusual and….hairy. Or perhaps it’s better described as furry. Whatever. It was distinctly animal that much I knew, but what animal exactly? Was it horse, goat, albino zebra? I decided to find out!

*Oh, and speaking of Christmas! We’re taking a break for the holiday. Please come back and visit us in 2007. We’ll be back January 2nd.

Meals Made of Italy

My worst international dining experience can be summarized in a frozen moment: I’m sitting in an Andean restaurant jaw dropped as a waiter walks to the next table over with a guinea pig on a plate, spindly rodent feet and all. Probably not the most appetizing way for me to begin a posting on food, but I bring this anecdote up only to contrast against the total glory that is being a cheese-loving vegetarian in Italy.

BYOM (Bring Your Own Meal)

I am loving the bring-your-own-meal (BYOM) trend on domestic flights. If there’s been one improvement to air travel these days, it’s actually the lack of in-flight meals–no more stinking airplane cabins and questionable food lingering on my tray table.

But now snack boxes are proliferating, and not only are they an example of gross over-packaging, but they are also known to be laden with empty calories and artery-clogging fat. I’m telling you now that I don’t ever want to appear on The Biggest Loser, which means you won’t find me “snacking” on chips and cookies at 30,000 feet.