| rev:text
| - I hate having to give out three star reviews. For me, 1-star isn't the worst possible rating you can an establishment, a 3 is. Because 3 stars means it invoked no reaction to you, neither joy or disgust, no pleasure or pain.
I'd rather eat at a really shitty place that I'll remember than a so-so eatery that I'll forget the moment I get back into my truck.
If I want mediocre "take it or leave it" food I'll just cook for myself, kthxbye.
As BFeF's (Best Frienemies Forever), Clarice W and I frequently have lunch together in the Peoria area. The decision on what to eat is usually made using the following criteria: Where haven't we been that we can yelp about?
Our last lunch involved us going to Hope Kee and getting all wrapped up in their cutesy snack section and coming in late to work. So we needed somewhere relatively closer with no Hello Kitty gummi lips to distract us from our voyage back.
Clarice suggested Casa Filipina, a Filipino place by the Lenny's Burger somewhere near but not necessarily 35th Avenue.
We were welcomed in by the staff and taken immediately to a nice cozy table by the window. We were given our menus by the excited and talkative waiter I would come later to know as "that fucking guy".
At first I was a little troubled reading the menu. I was once in a relationship with a Filipino girl that was so tumultuous and unloving that when I seriously thought of breaking up with her that my first thought "but man, I love her mother's cooking...".
But aside from the adobo and lumpia, I saw nothing else on the menu that I could recall from all those awkward awkward family dinners.
I can't tell if this means there's more to the cuisine than I'm aware of or that said ex's mother was, as well as a good cook, a fucking liar.
Either way, I'm glad I left her in the end anyway.
I ordered the Dinguan, which translates as "chocolate pork".
Don't be fooled by the name, all you saucy foodies out there thinking of that Iron Chef America where they made savory dishes with chocolate.
Chocolate pork is actually pork cooked in pig's blood.
I'll repeat that.
It's pig's blood. It's called "chocolate pork" because the blood takes on a brownish-black hue after it's been cooked.
After hearing this from that fucking guy, Clarice changed her original order (we even order the same thing! aren't we just the cutest!) to the Bistek Tagalog, which she was familiar with and knew she would like.
All the entries come with at CFB is a side of ride. I'm not sure if it's jasmine, white, or saffron, because I always opt for noodles when given the option.
And if you get that fucking guy, that rice doesn't even come with soy sauce. After serving us, he disappeared into the bakery, talking it up with some of the other customers. Clarice didn't get her soy sauce until after we had finished our entrees and were on our second helping of rice.
Thankfully my chocolate pork came with a lot of sauce and I was able to dribble it on my rice.
That's right, muchachos. We trannies prefer blood on our rice. You think about that the next time you try to tell us what bathrooms we can use, amigo.
I couldn't taste the pork. All I tasted was the blood. They could've just dumped a quart of blood on my rice and called it a day. The texture was nice though.
Clarice wasn't as fortunate with her dish. While I've tried to stay away from beef (it's enough of a commitment to keep my vegetarian brother off my back but not interfere with my eating habits), I had some of the Bistek, and it was passable. It reminded me of beef jerky, with its dry spicy roughness. Good, but not sure if that's how it's meant to taste.
Moral of the story: Clarice's entree did NOT make its own gravy, which made eating her rice a little inconvenient.
And seriously, JUST rice (really good rice, but seriously, how hard is it to make good rice)? Even my neighborhood so-poor-it-steals-its-recipes-from-other-restaurants Chinese place gives you an eggroll or wonton with your meal.
As the place is so fucking proud of its desserts, we ordered some. Clarice got the Creme Brulee and I got the mango tart. That fucking guy was in the middle of bringing Clarice her spoon when he caught the attention of another customer, so we sat for a good few minutes waiting to dig in. In the meantime, I managed to come up with a name for the color of the filling in my tart : burnt earwax.
My tart was about as tasty and edible as that term would imply.
Clarice's creme brulee was good, albeit a little cold by the time that fucking guy came with her spoon.
On our way out I learned that the bill had to be over 10 dollars before they would accept debit.
After I imagined beating every one of the staff near to death with a rolling pin, I got an eclair to go.
What I got was a bunch of whipped cream between two pieces of rock-hard pastry that you'd get at Fry's. Essentially, a diabetes sandwich.
Casa Filipina isn't good. But it's not bad.
That's the proble
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)
![[cxml]](/fct/images/cxml_doc.png)
![[csv]](/fct/images/csv_doc.png)
![[text]](/fct/images/ntriples_doc.png)
![[turtle]](/fct/images/n3turtle_doc.png)
![[ld+json]](/fct/images/jsonld_doc.png)
![[rdf+json]](/fct/images/json_doc.png)
![[rdf+xml]](/fct/images/xml_doc.png)
![[atom+xml]](/fct/images/atom_doc.png)
![[html]](/fct/images/html_doc.png)