The Promised Land of Pho and Banh Mi

I used to be in a really kick ass stoner rock band. Aside from my guitar player, we never took it seriously and ended up only playing smaller clubs around metro Atlanta to the same thirty people every month. But we were a tight band--we never had to worry about onstage monitor mixes--because we kept a strict practice schedule that included smoking a lot and listening to Justin Bieber. One day after practice, the keyboard player suggested we try out a pho/banh mi place down the street from the studio, Lee's Bakery. I had dabbled in the banh mi at EAV's We Suki Suki and pho-ed at SoBa, also in East Atlanta Village, but had never had a true Buford Highway experience. Fast forward a few years and I'm no longer a Buford Highway n00b or in a kick ass stoner rock band, and I have made Lee's Bakery part of my circuit.

This is actually the ass-end of the building.

Lee's Bakery

Monster is the premium beverage on display.

J and I were in a hurry. My nephew's fifth birthday party had started ten minutes ago but we were starving and had a daunting thirty minute drive ahead of us. She looked at me with big and hungry, wolf-like eyes that said, "We need to go to Lee's Bakery and get some banh mis and iced coffees to go RIGHT NOW!" Her head began to spin around and the pea soup started. Luckily for the new jeans I was wearing, we were already in the parking lot of Lee's and I was snapping dumb pictures for this stupid blog while this was happening. I was getting a shot of the ass-end of the building when I heard a sound like a garbage truck dropped off the Empire State Building. J was rushing me. She scooped me up and tucked me football-style under her left arm, slammed through the glass doors and stiff-armed a nerdy, white neckbeard guy/buckle-y boot BDSM girl couple out of the way. The cashier lady wasn't at all put off by this and drummed her fingers on the counter as J dropped me, whimpering, in front of the nerd core/goth duo we had cut in line. The interior of Lee's dissolved and started whooshing past as J's eyes grew larger and she howled anime language at the cashier. The cashier calmly wrote everything down, handed it to a younger guy standing behind her and held her hand out for our payment. My ribs were broken and it made digging in my pocket for the ten dollars a little difficult. J, satisfied, went to rut in the bin of fresh baguettes while we waited for our number to be called. 

Mmm...Head cheese

Turns out the other couple had already ordered and were waiting for their food. I Wolverined-up through the pain and decided to investigate a display case full of dead things, pickled things and sprouts. It all looked disgusting. And delicious. I don't understand how that works but it does--I have a weird brain. J was at my side again, leaving the bin of baguettes behind and was talking about some Asian grocery stuff that was on a shelf behind me. I gave it a quick glance and began to count the number of quarters in a charity display on the dead meat case. Seems like $8.50 to donate to charity every few weeks is slow-going. And I was out of quarters.

Our number was called. We grabbed our iced coffees and our sack full of banh mis and raced back to my house. I was starving. J was starving. There are dogs in the desert, abandoned by their cruel owners, that don't get hunger pangs like the ones we were experiencing. And when we finally pulled the banh mis from the twisted, burning wreck...it looked like THIS:

J had her sandwich down in the time it took for me to grab a cup of water from the kitchen--I needed to swish all the sweetener off of my teeth from the iced coffee. She grinned up at me, no longer afflicted with the crazy eye.

I love Lee's. It's cheap. It's fast. They have delicious banh mis and decent pho and it's down the street from my house. I've only been there once when it was empty and have seen it packed more than a few times. Get the iced coffee. It is made with Cafe du Monde--a classic French chicory blend--and sweetened, condensed milk. It is thick, like a gloop of saltwater taffy, on your tongue and in your mouth hole. It is wonderful. I know didn't talk about the banh mis in depth but many many many other blogs have talked about Lee's Bakery and I wanted to tell a story about rutting in baguette bins and the ass-ends of buildings rather than rehashing old foodie trends.

If you haven't been to Lee's Bakery, go. And if you end up ordering some of the weirder things on the menu, eat it and tell 'em Large Marge sent ya.

The Case Against Free Public Art

Last week, I suffered through the opening of Mi Casa, Your Casa at the High Museum. I hate art openings. It all feels pretentious, people standing around wearing monocles and sipping Miller High Life out of plastic champagne flutes chortling to one another while a bunch of unemployable twenty-somethings give a modern interpretive dance performance set to a Philip Glass knockoff's piano score. This was the opening for Mi Casa but with more babies and dudes wearing Braves caps.

The artist was actually raised in a barn.

This house barely survived Hurricane Uggla and was FedEx'ed to the High Museum the night before the opening.

Following the herd to watch a really drawn out and geographically overreaching dance piece by GloATL.

Mi Casa, Your Casa @ The High Museum of Art

The exhibit is a bunch of A-frame houses bolted together and painted bright red like a weird IKEA/Target mash-up. Most of these houses have oversized but uncomfortable hammocks hung across them because the artist figured--correctly--Atlantans are oversized and like to lounge. There was a noticeable lack of A/C units.

Some of the casas that had actual art inside of them. I'm sure when the directors of the High Museum saw these being installed, they breathed a collective sigh of relief--the artists' grant hadn't been entirely wasted on heroin and American Apparel lolitas.

They may have gotten their money's worth. There was a house with a chair. I demanded a self-portrait. In a few years, J and I will sell that to the High Museum.

Then he shows you his butterfly collection, including the killing jar.

Originally, this door featured the Death Head's moth from Silence of the Lambs but someone stickered over it.

Mi Casa, Your Casa is on display in the Sifly Piazza just outside the main entrance to the High Museum of Art. I would say briefly look at the Hurricane Uggla house pictured above and then tear through the boring hammocked A-frames on your way to check out the High Museum's Dream Cars exhibit. Does the public deserve free public art? No. The artists, Hector Esrawe and Ignacio Cadena, should have bought more drugs and booze and come up with something more horrifying than a representation of American home life. If the artists ever read this blog, here's a free idea: Cthulhu at Home & The Private Lives of the Other Elder Gods. You're welcome.

NOTE: I was informed the Hurricane Uggla house is a permanent installation at the High Museum by famed pop artist Roy Lichtenstein III. I need to pay more attention and/or stop by the High Museum more often.

Escape from New York... and eat in Atlanta

Everything you have heard about The General Muir is true. It is a New York-style delicatessen, named for an American transport ship that brought Jewish refugees to America during World War II. And it serves some of the best food and drink in Atlanta. If you haven't yet dined at The General Muir, you need to drop what you're doing and go there right now.

The General Muir

It was a hot and humid Summer Saturday morning in July. The sidewalks were gray and slick from the early morning rain showers but the sun was slipping out from behind the cloud cover and began to steam the city. I was starving--I usually am starving if I am not putting food in my mouth--and J wanted to lunch at the General Muir. 

I had read a lot about the place. Every foodie in the city gushed about The General Muir. Creative Loafing, Atlanta magazine and every podunk, supplicant blogger pushed its menu like Homegrown pushes Comfy Chicken Biscuits. I had avoided the place, as I avoid most things that get too much press because I assume everyone dining there has a scarf wrapped around their pencil-necks and a Smith & Corona typewriter on their table. Okay, I wasn't avoiding the place. I was avoiding Emory Village. But J insisted that I would die regretful, ashamed and alone if I didn't try The General Muir at least once. So we headed over.

We arrived and gave our names to the hostess. There was a fifteen minute wait. I sat on the wall that separates the outside "patio"--a glorified raised sidewalk with a few cafe tables-- from the plebeian public sidewalk. It was damp and my jeans became squishy. After fifteen minutes, the hostess came out and apologized because some gray hairs were camping the tables in the main dining room and it would be a little longer. Or we could sit at the bar. Let me be clear: I love sitting at the bar because I love drinking. We sat at the bar.

There are knives on the beer taps because they really push cocktails.

The bartender welcomed us and set us up with drinks. J ordered the house Bloody Mary which is served with the usual Bloody Mary garnish of a house made pickle. I spent a few minutes studying the liquors on display and decided on a Sazerac. The bartender asked me for my absinthe and rye choices and then whipped me up a nice, lunchtime Saz. 

J is a deviled egg fiend and told me The General Muir has some of the best deviled eggs in the city. I am smart enough not to argue with her over these kinds of things and when they arrived a few minutes later, after one bite, I knew she was right. These babies didn't last very long and I was craving more as soon as they were gone. 

My mouth was bulging from the deviled eggs when the guy from Ancient Aliens sauntered up behind the bar, propped his elbows on a bar mop with his hands folded under his chin and asked me how I liked my Sazerac. I pointed at my glass, gave him a thumbs-up and wiped paprika yolk from my lips. He explained that he was the FOH manager and that they hadn't trained their bartender on the new house recipe for their Sazeracs yet and wanted to make me another one in order to show the bartender the new official version. I realized this meant I got another Sazerac for free and anyone who turns that down is an idiot. I thanked him profusely, tasted each version, looked at the difference in hues and realized the official house version is superior. Day-buzz started to kick in.

The brunch/lunch menu at The General Muir is a hard hard mistress. So many temptations. I ain't too proud to beg, so I asked J for suggestions. Todd Ginsberg, the genius that created Bocado's burger--thought to be the best burger on the planet-- also created The General Muir burger and added special sauce.

I love burgers but I wanted a love that I could see. Noticing that I was a ball of confusion, the bartender suggested the nova salmon latkes--Jewish hash browns floating atop a dollop of house apple sauce, topped with cured salmon, arugula and fresh green apple slices. Done. J got the burger with fries. The burger at The General Muir is a simple beast, but everything about it is perfect. I felt a little betrayed that I didn't order it and only got to feast upon J's scraps. Next time, burger, you're all mine. CHECK IT: Creative Loafting ATL voted The General Muir as the #1 burger in Atlanta.

The way they do the things they do, The General Muir works wonders. Was it just my imagination? Was the food that good? Were the drinks so delicious? Oh, Muir of mine. I love you. You're my girl. We connected soul to soul.

I ate all of my food. And some of J's burger. I drank all of my glug. And didn't want to leave yet.

A few guys next to us at the bar had ordered a basket of sin from the bakery counter and told us to dig in. The cinnamon rolls were extravagant. I honestly don't remember what happened after the salmon and the burgers because I was on Cloud Nine. Point is, everyone here is high on The General Muir and everyone wants to pass the bowl to you.

J and I may have left that day not knowing that something special--something spectacular--had occurred. Point is, Atlanta has a world-class, casual/fine dining restaurant you should visit with your date. Or your whole family. Or by yourself.

Appendices

#1

The first time J and I tried to visit The General Muir, it was early evening and the candle-lit restaurant didn't seem open. We approached the hostess hesitantly. Everyone was wearing suits and yarmulkes. 

"Hello, do you have a reservation this evening?"

"No...?"

"It's Passover."

We left. Our hearts full of sadness and our stomachs rumbling. That evening taught me that I need to be more culturally aware.

#2

The lady reading at the bar next to me got up to go to the restroom. I looked at J with a sly look and reached over to turn the book over so I could judge this stranger on her reading material. Something about baseball. I returned the book back to its original position. The bar manager saw me do this and grinned. I think he had a Sazerac too.

Zyka: The Taste of the Best Family Reunion Dinner You Probably Never Had

I was in London the first time I can remember eating Indian food. I was seventeen and on a Summer EF tour with my then-girlfriend and some of my best friends. After a long day of sightseeing, our tour director had everyone meet at an Indian restaurant a few blocks from the British Museum. EF Tours include a breakfast and dinner meal. I feel like the restaurants that offer these deals to the tour company hate everyone and go out of their way to make everything bland and unappealing. That being said, there's no real way to make Indian food taste bland, and so from that day on, I've been hooked. I live over by Buford Highway, the mecca for ethnic eats in Atlanta, but most of the good Indian restaurants are in Decatur. Like Zyka: The Taste.

The dinner scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was filmed in Zyka's banquet hall.

Zyka: The Taste

You have probably driven by Zyka a couple of times -maybe hundreds of times if you live in Decatur- and not realized that it was a separate entity from the Montessori school built overtop of it. It's a brick building, fairly-nondescript and combines the architectural elements of a funeral home and a convent. I usually don't try to dine out in funeral homes, but sometimes I like to get weird and when J and I pulled into the lot, it felt real weird. There was not a soul around and the air was thick and deadened from the Summer heat. A covered sidewalk with a large sign (see above) beckons you down into the cardamom-scented crypt but the serenity of the location ends when you open the glass door into the restaurant's dining room. I saw about fifty tables of different sizes scattered around the large, hotel lobby-esque space, each full with families of all kinds. Kids ran under tables giggling as the adults ripped apart freshly baked naan and dipped it into the styrofoam bowls filled with something delicious.

It was like stepping into a Chuck E. Cheese minus the game room and the creepy robot show. It had been a while since I've been to a restaurant packed out with children. It gave Zyka a welcoming, youthful energy and made me feel as if I had just stepped into someone's multicultural family reunion. 

Again, Zyka picks up on the trend of no hostess stand/order at the counter. J browsed the menu while we waited in line while I stood and stared through the window behind the counter into the kitchen. The smells coming from the window and the frantic chatter of the chefs made me realize that anything we chose off the menu was going to be amazing. J asked if I wanted to try a few dishes. I was entranced, but I do remember we picked the Chicken 65 and Beef Nehari and two vegetarian dishes: the veggie samosa and Paneer Makhni with a side of naan. With drinks, the total bill came to less than $30.

We gave the counter our name, filled our drinks at the beverage station and found a table. Moments after sitting down, a couple of kids decided our table made the best hide and seek venue, complete with Stranger Legs. This was me from two until a few months ago, so I didn't mind. The children's father tracked them down, boomed at them in Hindi and nodded at the two of us as the rug rats skittered back to their table.

Our names were called ten minutes after we ordered and we grabbed our fully-loaded cafeteria trays and made our way back to our table. At one point the paper bowl containing the naan slid precariously to the edge of my tray and almost teetered off onto a man's back but I maintained and got my balance. The spices were making my eyes water.

Ahh! Snake Surprise!

Zyka's food is glorious and rich. Each dish has at least four complementing flavors and the fresh cut peppers help cleanse your palate between bites. Or maybe it was the water after the peppers. Dipping the soft naan into each dish's sauce gets the slightest taste of the dish and is the best way to mop up the delicious sauces left over when you find yourself out of mains.

I ate everything and felt myself slipping into a food coma brought on by the ever-loving arms of Ganesh.

....::::::Zyyyyyyka:::::....

Zyka serves its Indian and Pakistani cuisine cafeteria style to a C. It comes out on cafeteria trays and each dish is loaded into paper and styrofoam dinnerware. Plastic cutlery rounds it all out. If you're a person that can't handle a low-key but delicious meal, I don't want you reading my blog.

Everyone else, go to Zyka.