DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Baltimore, Hungover Gourmet-Style!

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Baltimore, Hungover Gourmet-Style!
By Louis Fowler

A lot of times, when you take a vacation, you fall in love with a city in such a way that you actually consider moving there, simply because it's not the boring lame old city you're currently stuck in. It's like falling in love with another girl while you're in a serious, committed relationship with another. You're a jerk, you're a prick, you're a monster and you want a way out.

I couldn't help but feel that way about Baltimore. It will forever be my mistress city. Sorry, OKC.

If you remember, I had crashed at Atomic TV impresario Tom Warner's house the previous night. He had left for work early, leaving me to my own devices. Luckily my devices included more sleeping. I woke up just in time to catch a shower and wait for my good friend, Dan Taylor, of HUNGOVER GOURMET fame, to swing by and get me. He had promised a day or so of food, folks and fun, and, yes, he delivered on that McDonaldsy trifecta.

I expected Dan to be a short squat fellow, maybe weighing in at a deuce, deuce and a half, at best. I mean, c'mon: he does a food blog AND loves B-movies. Look at me for further proof of this stereotype. Sadly, Dan is actually a very tall, mostly in-shape fellow who cuts a very mild-mannered, Clark Kent-ish presence; very calming, very relaxing and very safe. I'm sure that even when he's angry and cursing, he's very soothing when he does it. I wish he'd record a series of relaxation tapes to help people quit smoking.

Being the Hungover Gourmet, of course, I charged him with one mission: get me some food that is not only wholly representative of Baltimore cuisine, but food that, because I'm on vacation and my wife and doctor are nowhere in sight, might also kill me. Thankfully, that's all Baltimore food.

With his adorable toddler in tow, we hit up an area of town known as “Corn Beef Row”. I would love to move to a city with a Corn Beef Row. The one deli Dan wanted to take me to was supposedly extremely famous for their corn beef, it was what they did best. But, as we trudged through their muddy parking lot, a guy carrying out a fifteen-foot party sub told us that they were closed for renovations, but that they should be open in about an hour.

OK, so when have you known renovations to finish in a hour? Something was fishy and, as we later learned, we were right! Apparently, earlier on the local news, the establishment had been shut down by the city for a horrendous rat infestation.

And all it took to clear it up was sixty minutes.

Now I don't mind a little rat feces—if you've seen the places in Mexico I've eaten tacos out of, you'd know that about me—but I was hungry for corn beef, dammit, so we walked up the road to the second best corn beef place in town, Lenny's.

Lenny's is a lot like your high school cafeteria if it were run by exceedingly surly employees who want you to get your damn food and get the hell out of their damn line. NOW! That's the kind of service I like though: no nonsense, no small-talk, all business. I wish more restaurants would follow this lead. “Here's you're food, later bro.”



The corn beef at Lenny's, by the way, was phenomenal and I really wanted to order two of them. If Dan was a fat ass, I honestly would have, but, instead, he had to be fit, so I had to pretend like one was enough. But I could've had two. Easy.

***

After a short battery recharge, we headed to the hipper part of town—yes, hipper than Corn Beef Row. The hip part of town that houses cool bars, cool eateries, cool resale shops, cool curio stores and, best of all, my Mecca, the cool book store known as Atomic Books.

Now while I'm sure the Atomic Books of yore, back when it was dirty 'n' scuzzy 'n' nasty was really something to behold, this new era of Atomic Books ain't nothing to scoff at. I wish this was a chain, I wish there was one of these in my town. I would spend so much money there. I almost did spend all of my money there. After all, where else can I get zines fresh off the press anymore? Please tell me! There is no place, besides Atomic, to do just that.

Looking at their racks, filled with one indie mag after another, I was hit with a rush of overwhelmingness. I was in sensory overload. Hurriedly, as if they were going to disappear at any moment, I picked up copies of CONSPIRACY JOURNAL, CASHIERS DU CINEMART and CINEMA SEWER, among others.

I also bought my new favorite shirt of all time. Screw you New York Tourist Board!

Afterwards, on a whim, we also stopped at a thrift store that had a window full of dollar records. As many of you know, Louis + Dollar Records = Destruction to Your Hearing on Tuesday! Yes, for only a measly buck each, I found such treasures as:

* The Fat Boys' maxi-single for their hit “Wipeout!”, featuring the heads of the Beach Boys on the cover! They're visibly embarrassed!

* HEAR 'N AID, the hair metal answer to Live Aid, featuring such rock luminaries as Carmine and Vinny Appice, Chris Holmes, Buck Dharma, Yngwie Malmsteen and George Lynch, all in an effort to end African famine. They failed.

* “Sexcrime (Nineteen Eighty-Four)”, another maxi-single, this time by Eurythmics and released as a tie-in to their soundtrack to the bleak, hopeless 1984 adaptation of Orwell's novel. Yes, Eurythmics did the music. WTF?

* In my attempt to collect everything Village People, I found a break-dancing fad tie-in, appropriately called BREAK MACHINE, produced by Jacques Morali, the studio Svengali responsible for creating and bring the Village People to fame. The album, by the way, brought me to tears.

* And, best of all, a three-record collection called GARY OWENS MUSIC WEEKEND 7/2/88, which was, I'm guessing, Gary Owens' weekend music show, pre-recorded and ready for lazy radio stations to spin on a Saturday afternoon. It has hits from Chicago, Toto, Debbie Gibson, a Moody Blues “Mini-Concert”, interviews with Robin Leach and Dan Aykroyd, Guess what? Next time I go on vacation, this is what you DAMAGED Hearing listeners are getting. Lucky you.

On the way back to Dan's house, by the way, we saw a truck with a spray-painted mural of Freddy Krueger on the tailgate. It was awesome and I would love a tattoo of it on my chest.



***

When I asked Dan to show me the best Baltimore has to offer, it came with a caveat, of sorts: I wanted to try some big, juicy, fried, zesty crab cakes. Maybe you Baltimorons take them for granted because you can walk into any corner convenience store and get them right off the rack where, in other parts of the country hot dogs would be, but for me, it's a big deal. I want and need crab cakes. I want and need a city where they are available to me at all times.

I can't rightly remember if Dan said that he'd been there before or not, but his pick for the most representative Baltimore restaurant, which, I can honestly say is the ultimate travelogue, a living mural, for all of you planning a visit to the Charm City: Michael's Steak and Lobster House, in the dread town of Dundalk. It is also my new favorite (white people) place of all time to eat. No foolin'!

The building is highly unassuming, almost dive-like. Wood paneling, the kind you find in your downstairs rumpus room, covers the walls and, like Lenny's, the staff are surly and don't take any of your crap. Dan and I went with SMILE HON, YOU'RE IN BALTIMORE editor William Tandy, who I'm sure after five minutes of meeting me was all like “Settle down, dude. You'll get your crab-cakes! Get a grip!”. But he was nice enough not to say it out loud.

Since I was on vacation, I though, hey, what the Hell, I'm going to get an app. (Appetizer, for those not in the know.) As I asked of charmingly Flo-like waitress to describe clams casino, she threw me a chuckle that said “Ha. Who is this yokel?” Regardless, I ordered a plate of clams casino, which are chopped-up clams, mixed with bacon and sautéed in butter, then served in a half-shell.



In short, it's the greatest (white people) appetizer I've ever had. I wish they served this in movie theaters. I wish that Wal-Mart had these next to the check-out line. I would pop these like there was no tomorrow, which, if I did, I'm sure there wouldn't be. For my main course, I ordered the crab cakes, of course, and while they were great, I still wanted some more clams casino. I wanted to try some oysters casino. I wanted everything served casino-style. I almost sent my crab cakes back, asking for them to be recooked, casino-style, I don't care what the cost.

As we ate, I absorbed the wonderfully unpretentious, insanely non-hipster surroundings. These are the types of places I adore. A SOPRANOS-like father and son duo argue about the price of a martini, while men in tracksuits and gold-chains laugh as they try to eat as much $16.95 40 oz. Porterhouse as possible. These are my people. These are people I don't have to impress and they don't feel the need to impress me. If the Decemberists were to walk in there, I think we would all have a good old fashioned beat-down on them, and the cops would look the other way. I want to move to Dundalk. I want to be a Dundalkian.



The ride home was a belt-loosening one, the slumber on Dan's guest room daybed, heavenly. I needed all the sleep I could get: not only in the morning were pork rolls waiting for me, but so was the city of Cleveland. Cinema Wasteland...look out!