Broward Palm Beach Food Blog

John Linn

This wurst is the best.

​I'm a sucker for pate -- I'll eat any sort of meat blended into a paste and cured. It started when I was a maybe 10-years-old. My parents would buy Oscar Mayer Liverwurst (yes, there's such a thing) and spread it on butter crackers. I must've ate six tubes of the thick pink paste before finding out it was actually liver. (Was I a slow kid?) I was grossed out for a moment. But then I quickly decided I didn't care, and popped more of that wurst in my mouth with excitement.

I was shopping in Fresh Market the other day when I came across this tube of teawurst, a type of pate I've never had before. It was only four bucks, so I bought the little bundle and a loaf of bread and brought it home to taste.
 

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So we cheated a little last week. With the taste of those yellow cherries still stinging our taste buds, everyone unfortunate enough to taste those decided it was a great time to try out something else. After all, with expectations set so low, anything even digestible would raise our spirits and faith in prepackaged food. We decided to break open the Yucatekas, which look like potato chips so can't be too bad, right? Plus, most of the packaging is in English, proclaiming things like "Vinegar & Hot Chilli Pepper Flavored" and listing ingredients I'm completely familiar with, like corn and MSG. We rip open the package, dump the contents on some paper in the middle of the office, and dig in.

The Yucatekas don't have a very strong odor, which is both a good and a bad thing. It's good because too often when something we open in the office has a strong odor, it's an overpoweringly awful one that sends people into a panic thinking a dead body has been unearthed. It's a bad thing because if these Yucatekas are supposed to have a vinegar and hot-chili-pepper flavoring, they should at least smell like one of those ingredients. Instead, there's a faint smell of salt and... well yucca. Thoroughly apathetic to the whole idea, I grab a couple of chips and toss them into my mouth.

​My editor found a Honduran Market in Fort Lauderdale and decided to go on a shopping spree. Thankfully, he didn't return with a basket of pig brains or things that look like tapeworms. I'm still left with quite a few questionable-looking items sitting on my desk that I'm required to eat at some point or another. This week, I decided to take on the one that looked the least promising: Nance Yellow Cherries made by a company called Dismex.

The jar of cherries does not look appetizing. Behind the white label hides a mess of "yellow cherries" that look more like cat eyes with the irises scooped out. Shaking the jar produces a cloud of little yellow particles that float between the "cherries" and really make the whole thing look like a snow globe in an aspiring warlock's bedroom. A few of the "cherries" are smashed open, showing the pits inside their yellow flesh and making my stomach turn. Not wanting to concentrate on how gross this all looked, I decided to pry off the top and get this all over with.

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There's nothing like buying something that I have no earthly idea what it might be. Normally even if the packaging doesn't have much English on it, I can deduct from the pictures what I might find inside. Whatever this is, I have no idea. There are literally four English words on the package "Net Weight and Gluten Free". There are also no pictures, drawings, or hints as to what this food might be. Peering out through the clear plastic window look to be anemic circus peanuts. You know those bright orange marshmallow-ish candies that actually taste like the color orange? Well these look like those, except they don't have the brilliant orange color, kind of like what would happen if Bunnicula got to them just before they were packaged. After a few minutes of trying to figure out what Cassini Biscoito de Polvilho might be, I decide to just open the package and try one out.

​When I think of porridge, only a few things come to mind: Goldilocks, bears, poverty, and prison. Goldilocks and the Bears probably don't need much of an explanation, as I'm sure many of our first times even hearing the word was in the children's story. Poverty... well for some reason I've always associated having to heat porridge with having two parents employed in the chimney sweeping industry (a viewpoint I'm sure is ignorant, but fun nonetheless). As for associating porridge with prison, well it has less to do with actual experience (as I've never had the pleasure of eating prison porridge) as much as it has to do with my strange predilection for 1970's era British Sitcoms.

​So when I stumbled across Grace Instant Cornmeal Porridge at my local supermarket, I knew I had to try it. To the best of my knowledge, I've never consumed porridge. I've had gruel, grits, oatmeal, and pudding, but never this particular type of mush. Besides, the bright yellow container and handy on-the-go style packaging just screamed out to me.
Normally, when I bring something like this home and begin scrutinizing it, I find all sorts of weird things that start to turn me off to the food before I can even try it. This time, there's not much to dissuade me from eating it. Aside from it being a product of Jamaica, which surprised me due to my associating between porridge and Richard Beckinsale, everything else on the container is straightforward. It's ready after steeping in boiling water in 5 minutes, packed with vitamins and minerals, good for breakfast on the go, and shouldn't need additional milk or sugar to enjoy. I threw a pot of water on the stove and waited patiently for it to boil.

​This week's post is purely the product of catchy packaging and weird wording. Clearly advertised as Jerky from the Jar, despite the fact it was in a plain plastic bag just like the 43 other varieties at the gas station, Wild Bill's still jumped off the shelf. Perhaps it's the see through mason jar window on the front, or maybe it's the geriatric Yosemite Sam caricature shooting his guns between "Made In" and "The U.S.A." Either way, it found its way into my hands and onto my desk.

What exactly makes jerky from the jar different than jerky from wherever the hell it normally comes from? According to the packaging, the jar has to be famous in order to make it different. "Hickory-Smoked beef jerky from our famous Mason jar." The jar is quite obviously famous because it sparkles, just like the font on the front of the bag. The package goes on to explain this jerky has a "freshness that tastes like it was just pulled from the smokehouse." Now I'm confused: Was it pulled out of a mason jar or a smokehouse. Or maybe it was a smokehouse shaped like a mason jar? These questions are making my brain hurt and the only cure for that it cured, dried meat. I tear open the bag and inhale.

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I'm familiar with the Caribbean: Tropical islands, year 'round sun and humidity, and unique cuisine. I am not at all familiar with the Caribean. Shopping around my local farmer's market, I find a clear plastic bag filled with four large, brown cakes labeled "Caribean Sizzles." As has become my unfortunate habit, I snatch up this strange-looking food and begin wondering what I'm about to ingest. If indeed this isn't a misspelling, I figure a caribean is some sort of exotic legume prone to psychic attacks. This makes me want to buy another package.

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Ocho Rios, distributors of this particular treat, is the same company that packaged those strange tamarind ball candies I tried a few months back. Further examining the package, I find out these "Caribean Sizzles" also provide "Great Taste!, Quality! And Value!" Then, the largest font on the entire package finally strikes my eye: Ginger Bulla Cakes. These suddenly sound delicious, despite the fact I have no idea what a bulla is.
Wasting no time when I get home, secretly hoping my psyonic powers will activate the moment these caribeans take hold, I tear open the package and take out a cake. Or at least I try to. Pulling on one cake causes all four to spill out of the package and thud against the counter. I pry apart one of the dense cakes and raise it to my nose. It smells like a gingerbread cookie. I break the cake in half and take a bite from the center.
The cake is dense and extremely dry. So dry, in fact, that every last molecule of my saliva instantly swarms to the cake in an effort to somehow soften it. Biting down sends dry crumbs to the corners of my mouth, which are by this time almost chapped from lack of moisture. Aside from the cruelly dry texture, these bulla cakes are delicious. Like a two-inch-thick gingerbread cookie, it seems to scream to be dipped in milk. Unfortunately, there's no milk to be had, so I'm left dreaming and hoping the caribeans will let me conjure things out of thin air.

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Once my mouth recovers from the drought, I take a look at the ingredients on the back. Nothing special there: Flour, water (yeah, right), brown sugar, and ginger. Then I notice the serving suggestions: "Enjoy with cheese, butter or avocado." Every one of those things would make this taste awful. I'm seriously considering writing Ocho Rios a one-word letter: Milk.

Who should eat these: Psychic hopefuls, people with drooling problems, dairy farmers.

​Once again, I was wandering through my local grocery store when something caught my eye as being completely out of place. Here, in the cereal aisle is a whole shelf of Alpina Yogurt with Cereal. Just to be clear, the cereal aisle at Publix is completely void of refrigeration. As far as I know, yogurt is a dairy product, and most dairy products require some kind of refrigeration. Not Alpina Yogurt.

Honestly, what catches my eye about the yogurt isn't totally the placement in the grocery store. It also has a clear plastic cup of cereal attached to the top. I'm a total sucker for combinations like this, so I threw it into the cart and began pondering what this yogurt would look like after sitting on the shelf for God knows how long.

​Before I open the yogurt, I cheat a little. My curiosity as to how this can be unrefrigerated for such a long time gets the best of me, so I take a peek at the ingredients: Semi-skimmed hygienized milk, sugar, lactic ferments, and starch. I guess "hygienized" means to make invulnerable to spoilage and the forces of nature. I also notice that the ingredients call this a "Low fat yogurt drink," something I missed the first time around. I take off the cereal top and pry off the foil top.

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It is not at all hard to make pickles. All it takes is a few vital ingredients: cucumbers, some brine, a jar, and some patience. If you're missing any of these things, your pickles won't turn out so hot. Also, it seems I've just discovered if you have too much patience, that's also a bad thing in the pickle making world.

I found a can (yes a can) of Osem Mediterranean pickles on the shelf during my most recent visit to Publix. The bright yellow can practically jumped off the shelf, and the big green comic book style word bubble proclaiming "Medium Size Pickles in Brine (7-9 pickles per can)" made me giggle. The rest of the print on the can was basic stuff: Product of Israel, No preservatives, Kosher for Passover and all year round, and a list of ingredients. Inside this can is a combination of cucumbers, water, salt, acetic acid, dill, garlic, pepper, and calcium chloride. Nothing there scares me in any way, and I imagine these will be just like the pickles you buy at the deli, with a little added tin flavor thanks to the packaging.

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I brought the can home and cracked open the top with the aid of the handy pull tab. The smell that came rushing out was much less vinegary pickle scent and much more canned tuna scent. Within a few seconds, my cat was vigorously rubbing my leg and meowing. It might have been a coincidence, but I don't think so. When I peer into the can, I see a few pickles floating in milky white brine. This is definitely not what I was expecting.
I take another deep breath and can't shake the feeling this can was once used as a home for the chicken of the sea. Seeing that I loathe tuna fish, this has all but spoiled what little appetite I'd mustered for these pickles. With typically low expectations, I drive a fork into the most immediately visible pickle and pull it out of the sea of milk.

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There's some sort of force in this universe that just doesn't want my taste buds to enjoy themselves. A few weeks back, I found a gaggle of treats from the Little Market Indian Grocery and Spice (3062 N. Andrews Ave., Fort Lauderdale 954-561-8606). There was one in particular that I was looking forward to eating, so I stored it away for a rainy day. After choking down scotch bonnet peppers last week, I figured it was about time to break out the trump card and eat some candy for this blog. As it turns out, I might have been better off swallowing a few scotch bonnet peppers instead.

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The label reads Pan Pasand Candy. It's a clear plastic bag filled with dozens of red candies wrapped in bright foil. How can I tell the candies are red despite them being wrapped in foil? Well, my x-ray vision is down, but a few of the candies aren't wrapped at all, a clear sign that quality control at the factory was lacking at best. Still, these are just little hard candies, and they can't possibly be that bad. Plus, the red and green wrappings remind me of my favorite candies from my youth: those little strawberry flavored hard candies with the red gel filling that were wrapped to look like... well strawberries. I tear open the top of the package and take out one of the wrapped candies. Before I unwrap the treat, I decide to take a glance at the ingredients on the back.

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This one came with a disclaimer. A note on my desk reads:

Brett: This may be so hot it kills you. --E.

I ponder whether this sticky note disclaimer would hold up in court. Then I realize if something I eat kills me, my family will surely be too embarrassed to even acknowledge I ever existed, much less sue in my name. But after the last "spicy" food debacle, it's hard to get worked up about this one, no matter how severe the Post-It foreshadowing.

The label reads Trinidad Best Mango Kuchela. Sounds slightly delicious. Mangoes are good and Kuchela sounds like a pretty Spanish name. Then I remember the yellow note and my eyes dart to the ingredients. Shredded green mangoes (couldn't even wait until they're ripe I see), Flavored mustard oil, Amchar Massala, Garlic, Yellow & Red Scotch Bonnet Peppers, Salt, Potassium Sorbate. Oh joy, scotch bonnet peppers.

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This one didn't work out so well. The boss went on a shopping spree a couple of weeks back at Little Market Indian Grocery & Spices (3062 N. Andrews Ave., Fort Lauderdale). He picked up last week's gem as well as a couple of bags of betel nut. I went with the Rajgira last week, as it looked at least edible, and saved this one for later.

Resident food writer John Linn sent me a cautionary email warning that eating betel nut might not be a great idea, seeing it's got carcinogenic qualities and is a known stimulant. After reading this email, I picked the bag off my desk to take a closer look and found a sticky note on the underside warning "Probably not edible." Sounds like a challenge to me.

Further inspecting the bag gives me no clues as to what I'm about to consume. Most of the writing on the foil backing of the package has been rubbed off, the nutritional information is loaded with zeroes, and the sticker on the back states only that it was "The Best Scented." I suddenly get the feeling I'm about to eat potpourri.

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This week, it looks like I'll be eating balls of birdseed. A clear package sits on my desk. The label says Best Quality Bansi manufactured these Rajgira Ladoo. So far, exactly two words on the package make sense to me. The next five words, Les Balles de Rajgira Douces, don't clear anything up. They do make me giggle a bit, knowing that it's one stray H away from being a hygiene product rather than a snack of some sort.

Reading the ingredients clears things up a little bit. The first ingredient is Rajgira, which by the looks of it is used to sustain chickens and sparrows. A few familiar ingredients follow: peanuts, Jaggery, and glucose. Peanuts and tons of sugar should make whatever this Rajgira stuff is at least palpable.

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I open the package, which contains nine symmetrical balls. I'm assuming that the thumping sound that the first ball made against my desk means I'll be able to see the inside of the treat. Instead, I look down and notice the falling ball made a small indentation in the desk and rolled away unharmed. My teeth shriek in anticipation.
I pick up the rogue Rajgira Ladoo and roll it around in my hand. It's slightly larger and denser than a golf ball. The sugars in the Ladoo act like a cement as no matter of rolling, picking, or banging against the desk knocks a single morsel off the ball. I'm not sure exactly how I'm going to eat this thing. I raise it to my mouth and attempt to take a chunk out like I'm eating an apple.

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When it's my turn to pick something for this weekly post, I'll be the first to admit I'm not too adventurous. Instead, I'm looking for something that is strange enough to pass as exotic yet not so strange as to give me anxiety thinking about what it will do to my taste buds and or stomach. I'm looking for something that I might actually buy a second time or even recommend that other humans consume. I might have to rethink my strategy after this one.

I was browsing the aisles of my local CVS around 11 p.m. looking for God knows what when I ran into their beef-jerky section. Among the stacks of Slim Jims and teriyaki jerkey strips, I noticed something new. Jack Links, purveyors of all meats seasoned and dried in preparation of the impending apocalypse, is packaging a new breed of salted chunks of meat: Flamin' Buffalo Style Chicken Nuggets. I love chicken and all things jerkyed (although I may regret typing that once jerkyed platypus shows up on my desk), so I decided to spend the $6 and give it a shot.

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I haven't been more frightened to eat something as I was this week. Food critic and resident sadist John Linn walked up to my desk holding what looked like a glass trophy filled with long green peppers. He asked if I liked spicy foods and I replied that I did. As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted saying them. Sure I'll pour Tabasco sauce on my eggs in the morning and order hot wings at bars during football seasons, but I never venture into the extra hot wings and I'm routinely scared off when a waiter informs me that the dish is "super spicy." Now with two little words, I'm afraid I've just signed myself up for an afternoon of excruciating pain shooting through my GI tract.

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This week, I was tasked with finding myself something for the blog. That actually seems worse than just showing up with something new on my desk. It's almost like having to pick your method of execution. I knew I couldn't get away with picking something that looked delicious, so I wandered the "Ethnic" aisle at my local Publix scanning the shelves for something strange. I stopped at the British section and spotted a can of Spotted Dick pudding. I thought for a minute about how many STD jokes I could fit into one post and picked it up to place into my cart. Just before I let it drop from my hand, I noticed it had raisins in it and immediately put it back on the shelf. There's something about raisins in pre-packaged pudding that puts me off. Probably a fear that one of the "raisins" ends up being something left behind from a rather large rodent scurrying across the pudding factory floor. When I placed the Spotted Dick back on the shelf, I noticed a can of Heinz Treacle Sponge Pudding right next to it for $4.99. I grabbed it and headed to the checkout before I could talk myself out of the purchase.

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This can of breadfruit has been sitting on my desk for nearly a month, and I'm sure it was on a shelf for 20 times longer than that. I haven't exactly been avoiding it; after all, how bad could it be? It's got fruit right in the name, the pictures on the can make it look like a combination of a Granny Smith Apple and a pear, it's got a "Guaranteed A-1 Quality" seal on the front of the label, and a slew of people around the office have tried and enjoyed breadfruit in the past. Granted, each of the people who've tried it groaned once they learned I'd be eating it out of a can. Still, it's with little trepidation that I take the can opener to the top and begin prying open the breadfruit.

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I didn't exactly have high expectations when I was tasked with reviewing Wendy's new boneless chicken creations. I've certainly had a square hamburger or two from the red=headed temptress' chain, but it's never the first choice I make. So it's with a very real sense of dread that I walk through the doors and stand in line for my lunch today and decide to try the Sweet and Spicy Asian chicken over the Honey BBQ or Bold Buffalo flavors.

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There are advertisements for these new chicken concoctions scattered throughout the entire restaurant. Most of the advertisements just nudge the reader to "Try one today" or "Try all three," but the most hilarious one of all reads "5-star taste! (No reservations required)." After trying the "Sweet and Spicy Asian chicken," I can honestly say that there's not a single accurate statement on that advertisement. In fact, we should all have reservations about living on the same planet as this dish, much less eating it.

Last week's experiment in trying to eat something delicious and exotic didn't work out exactly as I'd planned. It wasn't disgusting, but it was far from a treat that I'll find myself scouring the aisles in my local grocery store for. Before the sting of my moderate failure could truly set in, the boss pulled out the lemon-in-my-eye, Pocky, an exotic and delicious chocolate-covered treat straight from Japan. Epic failure never tasted so good.


Pocky is as simple as a manufactured snack gets. Take a thin rod of baked biscuit (about six inches long and thinner than a drinking straw), dip it in chocolate, and voilà. The inch or so of biscuit that isn't drowned in milk chocolate is dotted with dark streaks, showing off where the biscuit was baked. The rest of the Pocky is dipped in a thin layer of cavity-causing sweet milk chocolate. With tail tucked firmly between my legs, I grab a stick and prepare to drown my shame in chocolate, secretly hoping to bite into a fingernail or anything else that might save my bruised tamarind-ball-laden ego.

 

No such luck. Biting into a Pocky stick brings no negative thoughts whatsoever. The biscuit is surprisingly light and airy, with a crunch comparable to a thin pretzel stick. The milk chocolate is, well, it's milk chocolate. If you've never tasted it before, it's time to get out of your internet-equipped cave and buy a Kit-Kat. Really the only negative thing I can say about Pocky is it's hard to stop eating them once you start. Within a minute, half of the package disappeared (not all into my stomach, mind you), and the other half was gone by the time I returned to the office the following morning.

 It's not hard to find Pocky if you know where to go. Almost any comic book shop that sells manga or anime carries Pocky, often in many different flavors like strawberry, vanilla, green tea, or coffee. This particular box came from Sushi 1, a delicious and inexpensive sushi joint at 23 N. Federal Hwy. in Fort Lauderdale.

Photos by Eric Barton

Leave it to your boss to inadvertently ruin your good mood. After last week's grass jelly debacle, I decided to take fate back into my own hands and hand-select the food I'd be eating for this week's post. At my last trip to Publix, I was waiting in the checkout line, just behind someone writing a check for three bucks of groceries, when a bright-yellow package caught my eye.

It read Ocho Rios Tamarind Ball Candy and had a comical picture of the world's happiest bee. It also boasted a couple of "Guaranteed A-1 quality" and "100% Natural" stamps on it. I quickly grabbed the package, paid for it, and put my mind at ease knowing this week, my taste buds wouldn't risk permanent damage.

I walked into the office, smiling and proclaiming I'd found my food item for the week: what looks to be delicious sugar-coated candy. The boss tells me he's had it before, and it's an ingredient in a sauce that I'd never be able to guess. Rather than ruin it, I asked him to keep it a secret so I can taste the Tamarind Ball Candy unadulterated. About an hour later, he confesses he can't keep a secret and blurts out "Worcestershire sauce" before walking back to his office. Good mood: gone. How does one make a candy from a major ingredient in a meat marinade? I sulk around the office for a while before deciding to go ahead and take my medicine.

There's no sugar-coating this one. I knew from the moment I saw it on my desk it was going to be bad. I feared eating this so much, in fact, that I "accidentally" forgot to bring a can opener into the office for three straight weeks. The boss stopped putting new items on my desk last week, leaving me no choice but to pry open the can and get it over with.

The can reads "Grass Jelly," and it has only three ingredients: Grass Jelly, Corn Starch, and water. How the name of the food -- and not grass -- is the primary ingredient in Grass Jelly is perplexing. There also seems to be almost no nutritional value at all, only 100 calories in the whole can, no sodium, fat, sugar (surprise, surprise), or carbs and only a minuscule amount of vitamins A and C with a hefty dose of iron.

Finally, I can avoid it no longer. I place the can opener on the lid and begin sawing away. As soon as the lid on the can pops off, the small crowd gathered around the desk lets out a groan like we've just seen a fatal car crash. The grass jelly is as black as midnight, like staring into the abyss conveniently packaged in a can. I take an apprehensive sniff toward the open container, and my nose is greeted with just a hint of black liquorish, another food that turns my stomach. Before we dig in, we decide to see what it looks like out of the can.

When I was a kid, I remember my mother packing lunches in a brown paper bag and throwing in a little note on my napkin throughout grade school. As I complained of embarrassment, the notes disappeared, as did the carefully prepared cream cheese and sliced green olive sandwiches. They were replaced by Lunchables, prepackaged slices of cheese, meat, and crackers that were as easy to pack in my backpack as they were to open and devour. After middle school, though, I pretty much made it a point to avoid prepackaged meals for lunch, but I always get a bit nostalgic when I see them on the grocery shelves. Not nostalgic enough to submit my intestines to what's behind the cute and convenient packaging, mind you, but nostalgic nonetheless. When I saw the Sera branded Stuffed Cabbage Leaves sitting on my desk, it really took me back.



The packaging on the cabbage leaves is bright, colorful, and inviting. Four translucent white leaves sit in a row with lemon slices between them and a mint leaf in the foreground. Just above this picture is a scene of a babbling brook running through a little valley village. I'm not sure what this has to do with cabbage, but it plays right to that whole nostalgia factor, as if by opening this can, you'll be transported to a simpler time. Or perhaps it's an omen of what my intestines will experience a few hours after consuming the can's contents.

I'm hoping that whole "you can't judge a book by the cover" thing pans out in this situation, because if it doesn't, I'll certainly be sick. As I type, there is a bright-orange package sitting on my desk with a clear window running down the middle. The package has been vacuum sealed and weighs about a pound.

The most concerning thing isn't the large reddish-brown stain on the back of the package, which is either blood, motor oil, or something from the inside of this package seeping out. No, the things that make me want to stop writing this blog post altogether are the sickly brownish squiggles peeking out from the clear plastic. They honestly look like tapeworms, freeze-dried liver, or some sort of woodland creature's candied intestines. The only English on the package states "Chili Radish," so I'll assume these are radishes and hope that isn't some kind of sadistic typo.

I grab a nearby pair of scissors after snapping a few pictures of the packaging and slice it open. I bring the opened bag to my face and make the mistake of inhaling deeply.

"It might have some kind of fish in it, but I'm not sure." Those were the first words out of the boss' grinning mouth as he handed me a shrink-wrapped styrofoam plate. I'm not exactly an adventurous eater. For instance, I don't eat things that swim. I've always said when I see a cow swimming, I'll swear off hamburgers for life. Just the thought of eating something with fish in it makes my stomach turn just a bit.

Upon further questioning, I found out that it's probably not in any way composed of fish. Instead the grocer was struggling with the proper English word to describe the ingredients. That's not surprising at all once you get a good look at this "food." Small squares with centimeter-thick layers of goo in various shades of green. One layer has the same slimy shine as lime-flavored Jello, and the next one looks more like pistachio ice cream that's been freeze-dried for astronauts.

I peel  back the plastic wrap and inhale deeply, but there's nothing there. It smells like a combination of plastic and styrofoam with only a slightly sweet undertone. I'm relieved that I don't smell salmon. I gently press my finger into one of the green squares, noticing that my fingerprint sticks around long after I've lifted it from the hardened goo. It's got the consistency of a hunk of pre-chewed bubble gum.

The plastic fork cuts through the square like it's hardened gelatin. The lighter layers of green move and jiggle, while the pistachio layers stand solid. It feels like a flattened gummy worm on my tongue, one that has been run over by a bicycle. It tastes exactly like it smells, like nothing. It's more texture than anything else, and the texture is even boring, somewhere between Jell-o and a gummy bear, and it only has a faintly sweet taste. We decide this might be meant to cleanse your palate, but more likely it's been fiendishly designed to bore your palate to death.

It's been nearly a week since I put that bitter melon in my mouth, and I swear I can still taste the damn thing once in a while. Either that or my taste buds are still having nightmares from which I fear they'll never awake. Seeing that today I have another mysterious package on my desk from the same grocer which spawned that green cylinder or bitterness, I think about drinking boiling water first, if only to dull my taste buds.

The pale yellow block sitting on the desk looks more like a candle than food. Holes the size of dimes litter the outer layer surrounded by what looks like bread mold. The block is much heavier than it looks, weighting at least two pounds. A small label inside the plastic wrap reads Indian Kolhapuri Jaggery, and the nutrition facts only tell me that a 15 gram serving size yields 56 calories, 14 grams of carbs and 12 grams of sugar. At least it will be sweet.

As soon I open the wrapper, I get a strong scent of honey and sugar. The plastic knifes we're forced to use at the office do very little to cut into the rock hard exterior, but after a bit of sawing and hacking, a slice about the size of a pea falls off and reveals a soft, gummy interior.

As soon as I taste the Kolhapuri Jaggery, I know it's some kind of sugar cane. It melts upon contact with my tongue, sending waves of pre-diabetic shock throughout my jaw. There's a slight aftertaste which reminds me of a candy I used to eat as a child, but I can't put my finger on which one. Some people around the office suggest it's like Bit of Honey or Marzipan, which are both close, but not quite there. Either way, Kolhapuri Jaggery is immensely sweet, and probably not meant to be consumed all by itself, but rather as an ingredient to sweeten just about anything. I wonder what would happen if I spread it over that bitter melon? This Jaggery was purchased at Indian Grocery and Spices, 3062 N Andrews Ave., 954-561-8606 for about $3.50.

If looks could kill, you'd call this thing the plague. It's roughly the size of a cucumber, and covered with green bumps that make it look like the bastard child of a cucumber and a head of broccoli. My trembling hands pick it up and the cold outer layer feels like Astroturf. I was assured that this was indeed edible.

The New Times office wisely doesn't contain knives of any kind, save the disposable kind that come with delivery food. The plastic knife cut easily through the strange green cylinder. I hold a fresh slice of up to my nose and notice it smells exactly like a freshly cut lawn and looks like a banana covered in moss. The yellow fleshy inside contains a few small white seeds, which we assume are edible. I silently say my prayers and bite the piece in half.

This is easily the bitterest thing I've ever had in my mouth. There seems to be almost no taste, except a faint "green" taste, like raw broccoli. It's the bitterness that really is what this fruit is all about. I decide to take a bite of just the yellowish flesh on the inside, and the pulp alone has a slightly faintly sweet flavor and the consistency of an overcooked water chestnut. Cringing, I take a bite of the outer green layer alone, and realize that's where the bitter lives.

Once my taste buds stopped screaming, I was informed that this fruit was ingeniously named Bitter Melon. There's no false advertising here. This particular Bitter Melon was purchased at Indian Grocery and Spices, 3062 N Andrews Ave., 954-561-8606 for under a dollar.

The whole crew is standing by

Next Friday we launch our weekly Friday Feature, "Ask The Critic," invented for the sole purpose of allowing us to show off.

Readers: Send us your easy questions, send us your torturous riddles. "Where can I find beignet in Lauderhill?"; "Who makes the tastiest shark n bake?"; "How many calories are in the Kitchen Sink Sundae at Jackson's Ice Cream Parlor?", "What does balut taste like?"; "Is it true that Chef X is shagging his prep cook?"; "Do these pants make me look fat?"

We'll endeavor to find out. Pose your questions to the group or tag one of us in particular.

Our areas of expertise are multitudinous and overlapping, but we've worked out a rough division of labor that seems to have broken down along these lines:

Bill Citara: Wine Snob
John Linn: Pit man. Barbecue, Japanese, Mexican, or anything that narrows the arterial walls.
Brett Gillin: Intrepid & Parsimonious  (he'll eat anything, particularly if it's cheap)
Gail Shepherd: Inveterate lush. Social climber. Chocolate. Oh hell, just ask me anything.
Eric Barton: Once his wife knew somebody who knew somebody who got them a table at the French Laundry. Maybe she can get you one too.
Vicki: Licorice whip tester and Jawbreakers aficionado.

Send us your questions NOW and we'll answer them NEXT FRIDAY!

An innocuous looking chocolate bar wrapped in silver foil and a paper Whole Foods bag sat on the table in front of me with a note reading "Try this for the food blog and don't open the bag until you've tasted the chocolate." I was confused as to how this would qualify for this blog, but it's hard to complain about eating chocolate for a living.

I unwrapped the foil to reveal a large milk chocolate bar with "Vosges" printed on each square. Breaking off a square, I lifted it to my nose and inhaled deeply. It certainly smelled like chocolate, but there's a hint of something else... something salty. Upon further inspection of the broken edge of the square, I noticed several small pink and red flakes sticking out. Before I thought myself out of eating it, I tossed about half of the square into my mouth.

The chocolate tasted sweeter than I'd anticipated, but before I could truly react to that another taste flooded my taste buds. Salty. Fatty. Bacon. As the chocolate melted, the mixture of the sweet milk chocolate and the smoked bacon danced back and forth, fighting for space on my palate, and it became abundantly clear that this was not bacon flavored chocolate, but chocolate with bits and flakes of bacon mixed in.

Once the chocolate completely dissolved, I was left with a gritty feeling in my mouth and pieces of bacon, most are smaller than what you'd put on a salad, resting on my tongue. The smoky, salty flavor of the bacon lingers much longer than the chocolate, and it's easy to fall into a vicious cycle of breaking off another small square to get that original flavor back.

Mo's Bacon Bar, made by Vosges Haut Chocolat can be found at most Whole Foods Stores for about $7.

I arrived at work and found a pea-green bag on my desk with a note saying "I have no idea what this is." Printed across the top of the bag is "Vishwas," and "Roasted Chivda" along the bottom. In the spirit of this blog, I know I'm not allowed to hop online and find out exactly what this is, but I'm a bit scared.

The plastic bag is about the size of a bag of Doritos and is literally bulging with air. It reminds me of those generic bags of cereal at the grocery store, with clever names like Oat Rings and Chocolate Puffs. Through the small clear window at the bottom of the bag, I see pale yellow flakes that seem destined to float atop a five-gallon aquarium. Shaking the bag around reveals what looks like dried corn, some whole curry leaves, and a peanut or two. This is either meant to be eaten as a kind of bar food or to sustain five-cent goldfish.

I carefully open the bag and pour a handful of chivda into my hand. It feels gritty, earthy, and again reminds me of the dry texture of fish food. But it smells like a cardboard box coated with curry and coconut. I raise my now-shaking hand to my mouth and pour the mixture into my mouth. Dry, grainy flakes coat my tongue. A taste of coconut, cumin, and mustard washes down my throat.

The flakes have a more complex taste than I was expecting. The sweet  coconut mixing with salty peanuts, mustard seeds, and curry provides everything a stoner could want in a snack. Add to that the strange texture and it's a wonder this stuff isn't more popular with the Phish set. As I pour out my second handful, I read the ingredients on the back of the package: "rice flakes, peanuts, roasted split gram, palm oil, mustard seeds, green chilly (sp), turmeric, curry leaves, dry coconut, cumin, poppy seeds, and salt." The 'chilly', curry, and coconut are the most prevalent flavors, but after reading the rest of the ingredients, the other tastes fell into place on my pallet.

Roasted Chivda should be available at your local Indian market for under $2. This bag was purchased at Indian Grocery and Spices, 3062 N Andrews Ave., 954-561-8606

Gagnaire & friend: "Ees eet timed to explode en schedule?"

This confirms it, we are in The End of Times. French chef Pierre Gagnaire at Hong Kong's Mandarin Oriental has created what he's calling the first entirely food-free restaurant dish, at least according to the PR the hotel is sending out. The recipe for "Le Note a Note", just one course in an 11-course synthetic tasting menu, is comprised of ascorbic acid, citric acid, glucose, and maltitol. Isn't that the exact recipe for chewable C tablets? Reports say the dish looks like little pearls and tastes a bit like apple and lemon. Or like a Flintstones vitamin, take your pick.

Can I just put this out there -- isn't there enough synthetic food on our grocery store shelves that we don't necessarily want a kitchen lab approximation of Cocoa Krispies or Fruity Pebbles when we book a table at some high-end restaurant? Am I being a hopeless curmudgeon? I mean, I'm sure Gagnaire and his sous chefs are having a blast back there playing mad scientist, but I can't imagine that his customers are similarly enthralled. The dish below, for example, looks like a pickled pig's testicle set alongside a souvenir model of the World's Fair, interesting....but edible?

No, please, you go first...