How and where to chowdah
How to chowdah head
Welcome back OCD addled chowdah* head readers, to the Pot and Pan Handler’s mischievous blog, where politics as usual means; politically incorrect is the correct course of action. Suck ass. See? Today we’re talking petty annoyances that end in a cup o’ chowdah, so good it almost changed our political outlook. Suck ass. Like I said, almost, changed our political outlook.
It’s not personal, it’s just business. LORD BUSINESS.
It started where most chowdah stories do, in the soviet people’s republic of Boston, Massachusetts. It is morning, we’re in a hotel and we just realized that the “convenient” service that booked our flight back home, booked it for exactly one year later to the day when we needed to fly back. How convenient and to make matters even more convenient, there’s no free wifi. This fact leaves us with the option of using the hotel “business center” to contact the booking service. Rectifying this problem takes close to 1 ½ hours and guess what? It only costs $50 freaking bucks a half hour. Great, the booking agency also booked this hotel, for business millionaires, too. They’re not good at this… suck ass.
It is now afternoon and our wallet is $170 dollars lighter than when we arrived. Fortunately there’s a concierge selling bus tours of the city. Why not? We purchase two tickets and are told, the tour bus swings by the hotel every twenty minutes. An hour and forty five minutes later, the first tour bus we’ve seen pulls up. The door swings open and we bustle forth to get on. In true masshole fashion, the driver snottily remarks “The buhs is fuhl.” While glaring at us like this should’ve been painfully obvious. “Okay, we’ve been waiting for almost two hours will another one be by soon?” We reply. He reaches for his phone and says, “I’ll cahl mah bahs.” Slams the door shut and leaves. Fuckin’ masshole, suck ass.
Plan C: Chowdah
We wait another forty minutes and nothing… We give up. Fortunately the doorman has been witness to us waiting all afternoon and is willing to vouch for us when we demand our money back from the concierge. We’re informed she has already left for the day. Which is weird because five minutes later she happily refunds the money after the doorman vouches for us. This of course costs us another ten bucks, they work for tips after all. Suck, ass.
It is now nearing evening and we haven’t eaten. Plan A and B are broken… on to plan C. What is plan C? We don’t have a freakin’ plan C. Who makes a plan C? Not freakin’ us, that’s who. Hunger is the only language we understand, because no one can understand what massholes say. The deep seeded language of hunger drives us to do the unthinkable, go to the restaurant in the lobby. Besides, we need a beer, assuming of course that we can afford one at a lobby bar in the hotel for business millionaires. Suck, ass.
GOOOOOoooooooaaaaaaallll! MJ O’Connor’s
We head into the faux Irish bar in the hotel lobby. Inside it is properly dark with the requisite wood paneling, like most Irish bars in the United States and filled with retro pub furniture and antique signage. Unlike actual Dublin bars filled with clean modern Scandinavian sculptured tables and weird chairs. We find a spot at the bar, where of course they have TV’s tuned into ESPN and soccer is on. In accordance to the ESPN/Irish Bar United States charter that states; it is our mission to convince Americans in pubs across the United States that soccer is something they really enjoy. Suck, ass. It hasn’t worked yet.
We acquire two moderately priced beers and peruse the menu while enjoying the art of ignoring soccer. A glance at the menu and I’m ready to order… Hall of fame winning Chowdah! I didn’t know there was a chowdah hall of fame, mustard hall of fame, yes, Spam museum, yes, chowdah hall of fame, who’dvethunk? Relishing redemption from the soupy, insipid broth, presented to us as chowdah from a steak house in the suburbs a few nights previous, I’m putting my chowdahead hat on and I am going to get busy. Hellz, yass.
Is it me or is it chili in here?
When the expedient bar tender glides over to take our order she mentions that the special that day was something near and dear to our hearts; Chili. Whatever else we had thought about ordering has now fled our minds like Americans from the threat of a soccer game. Chowdah & Chili the alliteration was more than enough reason to order this combination. Yet, we looked forward to eating them too. Things are looking up since we came in here. Hellz, yass.
We barely had time to appreciate the much needed beers before the bartender with great flourish placed the chili & chowdah in front of us. We were in awe of the alliteration. Otherwise they looked like a cup of chili and a cup of chowdah… Exactly, like a cup of chili and a cup of chowdah. Which was nice, because that’s what we ordered, but there wasn’t anything exceptional looking about either one. I suppose with the possible exception of the chili had been shoved in a broiler and the cheese was melted across the top, similar to a French onion soup. Effective garnish, I suppose. Hellz yass.
Chowdah ya’ think it tasted?
Good, great, exceptional, superlative, the list goes on. Creamy, unctuous, clammy and savory, not overly heavily creamed, it tastes light. Like a light, flaky, pastry that can fool you into thinking it’s good for you, despite the part of you responsible for reason that knows that shear butter and sugar are not good for you. It’s like that. Deceptively light and absolutely stunningly tasty and we’re no strangers to chowdah. This is the best we’ve had. Hellz, yass!
The chili on the other hand, spicy, meaty and complex, this chili has layers of flavor like the proverbial onion. It has balls. This is typically hard to find in New England where buttermilk is considered too spicy to consider consuming in anything more than a thimble worth. At MJ O’Connor’s they’re clearly not sensitive about offending some poor massholes sense of spicy sensibilities and they serve their chili aggressively seasoned and for this we thank them. Hellz yass…
We would go back for either of these any freakin’ time. http://mjoconnors.com/menus#lunch-dinner We never did try anything else but will go back for a hearty bowl of alliteration, chili & chowder at MJ O’Connor’s as soon as we’re back in the soviet people’s republic of Boston, Massachusetts. Probably as soon as we escape the wheezing and coughing hellhole they call an airport at Boston, Logan. And you probably should too.
*Chowdah, to pronounce or spell it otherwise would end up in the revocation of our New English card.
Coming soon: Fuggetaboudit we get lucky and score seats at Cantina Italiana without reservations on a Friday night in the soviet people’s republic of Boston, Massachusetts’ Little Italy, the North End. Hellz, yass. We’ll see you then, until then may the odds be ever in your flavor. – The Pot & Pan Handler
The Pot & Pan Handler are free range, escaped restaurant robots who travelled back in time with our best friend for some reason. Did I mention our best friend is a blueberry pie? These happy days are yours and mine, these happy days are yours, and, mine, hap-py, days.
Homer, we’re all out of vodka! – Ron Howard