This week in Houston brings in another great batch of unique events, including the opening party for new vintage shop El Bambi, opening receptions at Redbud Gallery and Gspot Gallery, and a pop-up by Anthony Calleo of Pi Pizza.

Wednesday, June 29

Free Gallery Talk + Lunch: Andy Campbell and Sandra Zalman on Matthew Ronay at Blaffer Art Museum

Join Blaffer Art Museum (4173 Elgin) at noon for a free gallery talk about Matthew Ronay’s solo exhibition, one which concludes over lunch provided by the museum. Andy Campbell, an Assistant Professor of Critical Studies at the Roski School of Art and Design at University of Southern California, and Sandra Zalman, an Associate Professor at the University of Houston, will discuss Ronay’s exhibition.

Thursday, June 30

Tai Chi by the Reflecting Pool at Rothko Chapel

Join instructor Henderson Smith for a Tai Chi class by the reflecting pool at Rothko Chapel (3900 Yupon) from 5 to 6 pm. The slow repetitive movements of Tai Chi are intended to relieve stress from the body and mind and the class is open to all, from beginners to the experienced. There is a $10 suggested donation to attend.

Cultured Cocktails Benefiting Experimental Action at Bar Boheme

Head to Bar Boheme (307 Fairview) from 5 to 8 pm for Cultured Cocktails benefiting Experimental Action, a three-day international performance art festival curated and directed by Evan McCarley and Julia Claire Wallace. Enjoy some drinks and check out performances by Raiska Mchnsk and Hayden Wright, all while supporting a unique artist-run festival.

Pop-Up with Chef Anthony Calleo of Pi Pizza Truck at Glitter Karaoke

From 8 pm to 2 am, Anthony Calleo of Pi Pizza Truck is hosting a pop-up event at Glitter Karaoke (2621 Milam). Calleo, who will soon open a brick and mortar location of Pi Pizza, will serve up food hearkening back to the now-defunct but wildly popular Sandy Witch, including offerings like venison sausage dogs, Dr. Pepper short rib sandwiches and fried mac and cheese balls.

Friday, July 1

Screening — Jurassic World at Miller Outdoor Theatre

Join Miller Outdoor Theatre (6000 Hermann Park Drive) for a free screening of Jurassic World. While the screening of the action packed thriller starts at 6 pm, you should arrive early to grab a spot on the lawn.

Saturday, July 2

Opening Reception — Bruce New: Together We Can Dream This Life Away at Redbud Gallery

Check out the opening reception of Bruce New’s exhibition, Together We Can Dream This Life, from 6 to 9 pm at Redbud Gallery (303 East 11th). Curated by Jay Wehnert of Intuitive Eye, the exhibition features visionary collage by the Kentucky-based outsider artist and the show will be on view through July 26.

Opening Reception — Krista Birnbaum: Courage at Gspot Gallery

Stop by the opening reception for Houston-based artist Krista Birnbaum’s exhibition, Courage, from 6 to 9 pm at Gspot Gallery (310 East 9th). The exhibition by Birnbaum — whose public commission, Roadside Attraction, was recently installed at Hobby International Airport — focuses on the flaws in her strongly held beliefs on gender, morality, and human instinct.

Grand Opening Party at El Bambi

Don’t miss the grand opening party for new vintage clothing and accessories shop El Bambi (4721 N. Main) from 7 to 10 pm. Started by Lindsay Beale and Emily Hynds, the shop features curated vintage goods for men, women and children, and the party will include food and drinks from Canard, Buffalo Bayou Brewing Company, Morningstar, Sinfull Bakery and Foreign Correspondents.

The latter category can not only stimulate your thought process, perhaps the best compliment a film can have, but also encourage one to want to go immediately to a restaurant or food truck immediately following the end credits.

Such is the case with City of Gold, a documentary profile of Los Angeles Times food critic Jonathan Gold.

Gold, whose articles also include explorations of punk music, is like a zen master of culinary skills. To hear Gold explain the preparation and ingredients of, say, exotic Thai food is to be put on the path of righteous eating.

About two reels into the film I realized that Gold was the basis of the Oliver Platt character in the foodie feature Chef (d. Jon Favreau). Additionally Roy Choi, also seen playing himself in Chef, makes an appearance in City of Gold. It was Choi who made food trucks a staple of the LA scene.

Gold himself seems to have visited every food truck in the City of Angels, in addition to every ethnic restaurant in every strip mall in the nation’s second largest city. This Gold guy covers the waterfront.

You don’t even have to be a foodie to enjoy City of Gold. There’s a whole philosophy of living and enjoying the arts that runs as a subtext to the dishes on display.

City of Gold opens at the Sundance Cinemas this weekend.

— Michael Bergeron

If you’ve ever eaten Willow’s Texas BBQ on Sunday’s at Grand Prize Bar, then you know how serious pitmaster Willow Villarreal is about his barbecue.

I had the chance to speak with Willow during service on Sunday, although because he’s so incredibly busy, I conducted the interview while squeezed in a corner of the kitchen as he kept up with orders. In fact, the pitmaster is making moves to grow beyond his weekly service at Grand Prize and will soon be working with barbecue full-time.

FPH: How did you first get into barbecue?

Willow Villarreal: Well, the way I got into it is that I just became obsessed. I don’t think there’s any real way you get into it. It’s been a few years now of me just trying to perfect my barbecue cooking and trying to learn as much as I can. I think about barbecue daily, I read about barbecue daily, I’m constantly trying to learn more. If you get into barbecue, it’s because you made that choice and you’re pretty silly if you do because it’s hard and a lot of work. Whenever I cook here, I don’t get any sleep. I stay up all night with the briskets to do the service on Sunday. It’s just something I’ve become obsessed with and I’m constantly trying to get better and perfect it.

FPH: Now, you have a full-time job in addition to Willow’s Texas BBQ.

Willow: I do. Well, that’s tricky. I work at Fox Sports and on May 20th, it’ll be 16 years, but May 21st will be my last day. Employees that have worked there at least 15 years were recently offered a severance package to try and cut budget costs and I’m taking it. As soon as I found that out, I was talking to Russell Roegels of Roegels Barbecue — who has become a friend through my barbecue education — and he’s consulting at Typhoon Texas Waterpark to open a new barbecue place inside. He was like, “Hey, maybe I could suggest you as the guy to be the pitmaster for the place,” so that’s what’s happening.

As far as how I’ve been balancing it, my days off [from Fox Sports] are Sunday and Monday. On Thursday, I start buying all my supplies, Saturday morning I usually wake up to buy some more. I go to work, I get off, I come straight here [Grand Prize], season and trim briskets, start my fire, and then I sit up all night with it. By the time we’re done on Sunday night, I’ve been up for almost two days with little cat naps in between, if anything. Then when I wake up on Monday, I’m useless. I don’t wake up until late afternoon. It’s a major recovery day.

FPH: So when is your last day at Grand Prize?

Willow: Sunday, May 8. It’s about a month and a half, I guess. I’m going to try to do every single Sunday. I’m taking a trip to Denver in the middle of April but we fly back on a Saturday so I’m hoping to still work that Sunday. Ever since the news came out, people have just been bugging, saying, “What’s going to happen with Grand Prize?”

I let people know I’m leaving my job and looked at what’s going on with the water park so I could set a last day [for Grand Prize]. I thought about trying to do both, but I can’t. It’s too much.

Since the announcement, it’s like a countdown now. I’ve been at my job for 16 years, so that’s a big thing that I’m leaving my job. The news last week kinda came out of nowhere so I wanted to explain it a little. I have to thank people. There’s been so many people that have helped me, I couldn’t have done any of this without key people. There’s no way I’m going to be like, “Hey, cool, we’re leaving,” without saying “Thanks.” I had a passion and a dream and people really helped me and pushed me and I really appreciate that. I had to thank people. Jasmine in the back, my girlfriend, Next Door [Bar] gave me a spot for the first few months I did it, then Roy getting me over here, just everybody.

FPH: What will your involvement be at Typhoon Texas?

Willow: I will be the pitmaster there. Russell Roegels is consulting them on the business and it’s not going to be my barbecue, per se, and it’s not necessarily going to be what you get at Roegels Barbecue. It’ll be something we come up with that will still be a top quality product.

When I took the job, I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be in a situation where I was cooking mass produced barbecue. I was assured it’ll be a quality product. Unfortunately, we’re not doing ribs out there and that kind of bums me out, but there will definitely be brisket.

FPH: Since the position is seasonal, do you have plans after the season is over?

Willow: My plan is to open up my own spot. Russell wanted me to do this so I can make sure that this is what I wanted to go with and to do it on a full-time basis, instead of how I’ve been doing it, only one day a week, to make sure this is really what I want. It’s instead of going from one day a week and then dumping all my money into [a business] and being like, “What the hell did I get myself into?” Going out there and getting that experience, doing it five or six days a week on a larger scale — a way larger scale than what I do here — and making sure I still have a passion for it. I don’t see that changing. I’m ready to start my second life. I’ve been doing television stuff since I was 16 years old and there’s nothing left for me in that. I have to do what makes me happy and this is what drives me every day. So, I’m pretty excited that I actually get to do it every day. You know, I wish it was a little different, like I was at a spot in town, but as long as I’m putting out a quality product, I’m going to be happy with it. And damn, I’m excited about getting off work when the park’s closing and getting a beer and going down to the lazy river. That’s gonna be awesome.

“And I like chicken fried, a cold beer on a fried-day night, a pair of jeans that fit just right, and the radio on.” Other than the pun I couldn’t resist adding, those are the famous words of one of my favorite bands — Zac Brown Band. What can I say, the song “Chicken Fried” speaks to me; it grazes my brainheart in the same way that the year’s first cool night’s breeze grazes my face and reminds me that there are moments of my Houston life that don’t take place on top of  a puddle of my sweat. So, to me, it comes as no surprise that when I was blasting that song and saw the sign for Oak Leaf Smokehouse, I absolutely knew that I had to stop by and eat there.

I had driven by the Dumble and Telephone Rd intersection a number of times but had not really noticed Oak Leaf before. In part, I think I hadn’t noticed this place because it’s decently sized parking lot was always empty when I drove by. As stated above, I was jammin’ out to some pop country (#pcp, #popcountrypunx, #datlyfetho #2frat2care) so my country mindset enabled me to spot this spot.

The first thing I noticed as I was pulling into a parking spot is the RV just chillin’ in the back (by the way — I say ‘chillin’ instead of ‘parked’ because it is pretty apparent that that RV had not been moved in a bit). Instantly I got a good feeling about this place. After walking into the restaurant itself, I can tell you that I was not disappointed. Many of y’all who’ve been there might be a bit confused about my lack of disappointment; however, I challenge you to look once again.

Oak Leaf Smokehouse — the physical building — is pretty barren. It’s the barrenness, however, that gives it its charm. The smokehouse is essentially four walls with one wall-wide menu and one set of longhorn horns hanging right above the menu. That, I think, is the way smokehouses should be — to me it says, “We mean business, you are here to eat not to sit in a pretty room made to distract you from your food.”  It’s a shame, however, that their food did not say the same.

I’m a very indecisive person, so I asked the cashier what his favorite thing on the menu was and he stared at me not knowing what to say and then stared at the menu and said, “Try the Chicken Fried Brisket.” — literally the one item that is bigger and bolder than anything else on the menu. Don’t get me wrong though, the cashier was super nice and really tried to help and be cordial — there’s only so much anyone can say about a restaurant when they don’t eat there.

The food came out in a jiffy. Upon seeing the plate I knew that something was amiss — chicken fried brisket should not look like something that an Iron Chef came up with. I never thought I’d see a plate so faux-gucci-ly dressed at a smokehouse. I sat there poking at my food for a couple of seconds wondering, “Why do these veggies look like you’re SUPPOSED to eat them?” That, the veggies, the thinly sliced deep-fried onions artistically placed on top of the gravy, and the fact that the BBQ sauce was on a very small plate on the side made me question every single life decision I had made until that moment. Until then I had never been to an artsy smokehouse; a smokehouse that did not force you to drink 25 gallons of their BBQ sauce and whose pickled veggies were strictly for decoration purposes.

Not entirely discouraged I dug in.  It turns out that the veggies were in fact meant to be eaten and so were the x-tra thin onion rings covering the chicken fried brisket so naturally I just set those aside and went to town on the mashed ‘taters and brisket.  The chicken fried brisket was not bad, especially once it got cold (not kidding either, I took it home and placed it in the fridge) but by far the best part of my meal were the mashed potatoes covered in gravy. The mashers (as they call them) were softer than angel butt and as well-seasoned as an angel diaper. The mashers were coupled with gravy creamier-than-all-others and taste similar to sitting on the bed of a truck in the middle of a field watching Independence Day fireworks. I’m not even exaggerating when I say that that combination itself is enough to start WW4 if someone were to take a bite out of your plate.

In short, I don’t blame Oak Leaf (formerly Pete’s BBQ) for anything. They offer glutton-free brownies. If a smokehouse ever offers glutton-free anything, then you know that they are struggling. With all these hipsters “not gentrifying” the area, local businesses have had to keep up, and we all know that if there’s one thing hipsters like it’s glutton-free stuff and complicating stuff from the ways it was traditionally done.

Would I go there again? Probably not, because I can just have it delivered.

 
I don’t know about yall but I have spots that I hate before I even go to them. St. Dane’s was one of them. It was one of the most obvious yuppie spots in Midtown before Midtown reminded the rest of us of falling limbs due to leprosy. I guess you could say that I would’ve (and probably did) call St. Dane’s the spots on your arm before they fell. Well, woe on me.

I went to St. Dane’s, which, by the way was established in 2024 — as their sign won’t let you miss — for the first time today. I’m not gonna lie, I was grumpy, I didn’t want to go, alas.

I took the Bagby exit off that weird feeder road that comes out of 59 at the height of Main. St. Dane’s is immediately at the right. I drove into the parking lot and noticed that it was incredibly more packed than I thought it was going to be. Fortunately, someone was leaving their spot right in front of the entrance. As usual, parking the Whiskey Waker (my car) in a lot with nothing other than Beemers and Audis (‘cuz you know, Mercedes and Jaguars are no longer cool) makes me chuckle and remember that I can’t be super obvious about my flask.

Walking in my, defenses instantly go down — they were playing Chicago (only the world’s best band ever to be alive). Groovin’ and struttin’ I walked up to the only seat I could find without making it obvious that I was looking for a seat. Luckily for me, I sat at the bar. (Before you think ill of me I’ll have you know that I say that because the bar was so full that having to wait for someone to bring me food or drink to my table would’ve been an eternal feat.)

Once I sat down I was instantly attended by Chelsea, the bartender. She was clearly busy but still pretended to be patient when I asked her my usual silly questions of ‘What’s the cheapest drink?’ and ‘Omg. Are you serious?! That’s your cheapest?!’ In the end, I got a $7 mini-pitcher of domestic.

All of the above is ultimately irrelevant. I went to St. Dane’s for the steak.

I sat down at the bar and ordered myself a steak, a steak with French fries and corn. I sat there drinking my beer for less than 15 minutes when my steak showed up. At first I was pretty peeved because the plate was plastic and the food looked gross so I ordered steak sauce (which I never do). Boy was I a fool.

The steak was delicious. Granted, the black pepper taste, at first, might’ve been a bit overwhelming for those with a refined (read: delicate) palate. I really like black pepper so I didn’t mind, but then, once the first couple of bites were in my belly, the flavor eased up and became, honestly, delightful.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m fully aware that the meat used wasn’t the highest quality, or that the seasonings weren’t crafted in Cordon Bleu, or that the chef didn’t live in Paris for 25 years. I’m fully aware of that. My point is that the ribeye steak that I had tasted delicious. I just wish my sides would’ve been that good. My fries were pretty much crispy air and my corn tasted like bathsalts (not the drug) ((I hear…)) I enjoyed my food so much that I completely forgot about my beer and the music that was being played, and believe me, that rarely happens.

Steak sauce barely touched, I realized that my food was gone. I was about to freak out because I didn’t remember finishing it and thought someone stole right from my plate. It’s ok though, I didn’t freak out, I remembered that I had in fact finished my steak and that that cloud I fondly remembering chewing on was actually the steak.

As the youth might say, TBH I think I enjoyed myself so much at this spot because of the music. This was the first time I was at St. Dane’s so I don’t know if they always have such an amazing musical selection, but the night I went I was absolutely astonished. They played my favorite genre — adult contemporary — they played funk, they played 90s pop, they played radio-style ragamuffin. Drunk me was groovin’ the eff out of it.

Now for the elephant in the room; the major flaw about this place is its patrons. Walking in, the air is instantly infused by chemical cologne and perfume. I heard the phrase, “Do you have any diet wheat beer?” within 10 minutes of sitting down. Someone had to be CONVINCED to take a shot that was bought for him because it was his birthday, but I think, worstly, their bathroom sucks for drugs. Once again, please don’t get me wrong. I was once told by a friend that if a bathroom doesn’t lock and/or it doesn’t have any tags inside the stall then it is no good for drugs. I’m an equal opportunity writer so it is my job to think of even those that the society does not deem worthy — that’s the only reason I bring up my last point.

All in all, St. Dane’s was an enjoyable experience regardless of what I was expecting. The food was good. The music was good. The drinks (at least the pitcher) were reasonable. As much as it might pain me, I think I’ll be going back to this place.

The first thing he does is burns some sage. Grabs a hot coal from the smoker, puts it in a terra cotta planter, then sprinkles sage from a nearby bush on top. Blue smoke in a gray sky.

Back in college, I had a roommate who would declare, “I honor your soul, noble warrior,” each time before he brought his shoe down a cockroach. He got it from the movie The Last of the Mohicans, in which the protagonist says this to a deer he’s just shot, right before he slits its throat. I understand the sentiment. It’s a way to honor the life you’re about to take, on which your own life depends. It’s acknowledging the symbiotic natural order of things. It’s a way to show respect and give thanks.

But I’m not in college, I’m in a backyard on Houston’s East End. I won’t say exactly where, but it’s the back yard to a duplex in a residential neighborhood. We are about three miles due east of the George R. Brown Convention Center and about one mile north of the University of Houston. In other words, we are within spitting distance of the gleaming glass and steel towers of the fourth-largest city in the US of A and we are about to kill some rabbits and skin them on a wooden shed bearing the shadow of a satellite dish as it sits amidst raised garden beds and a whitewashed chicken coop.

Alvaro holds open the top of the cage and Eric jumps in to grab one of four rabbits. He’s about to leave for Mexico for a month, and these four-month-old rabbits need to get killed and cleaned and frozen before he leaves. Alvaro asks if he names them.

“Fuck no!” Eric laughs. “I mean, the ones that we breed and don’t kill, yeah, but not the ones we eat.”

He “smudges” the rabbit in the sage smoke, then sets it on the ground beside a boat paddle. Alvaro stands on one end of the paddle. Eric lifts the other end, puts the rabbit beneath it, then lays the stick across the back of the rabbit’s neck and puts his foot down on the other side. A plane passes overhead. I imagine I hear a soft snap, like a twig might sound snapping under water. The smell of sage fills my nostrils. Eric lifts the rabbit by its hind legs and runs his hand down its back to make sure that it’s dead.

He carries the rabbit’s limp body to the side of the shed, where he hangs it upside down by the feet from two protruding screws. On this crisp, winter afternoon, steam rises off the pink flesh when the skin is removed.

But this is not a story about blood and guts. This is a story about self-reliance, self-sufficiency, and living off the grid in the shadow of empire.

This is a story that goes beyond the bumper sticker, “Think local. Act global.” Parts of it ain’t pretty, but even the ugly parts are preferable to factory farming livestock and multinational agribusiness flying in “organic” produce from far and wide, all borne on the backs of exploited migrant workers.

In December we ran a story about Cavanaugh Nweze and his project the Marcus Garvey Liberation Garden. Nweze reclaims abandoned lots in the food desert of the Third Ward and uses them to put people to work growing their own, healthy food. This is the next story in that series. Self-reliance. Self-sufficiency. Living off the grid in the shadow of empire.

We expect that we will catch some flack. From the vegetarians, of course, because their high fiber booties don’t stink (never mind the labor and environmental problems with big agribusiness). And from some carnivores, too, because people want to think that meat comes off the meat tree wrapped in cellophane, on styrofoam, with a little meat diaper to soak up the excess blood.

It’s all so neat and sanitized. Except it’s not. We just prefer not to think about it. We let somebody else do the dirty work for us.

We prefer not to think about it just like we prefer not to think that our unsustainable lifestyle is, well, “unsustainable.” We think that we’ll shift to a kinder, gentler, “greener” version of our current lifestyle and everything will be fine. Just flip the switch — no interruption in service. We’ll just swap out the gas-powered car for an electric car…swap out the coal and gas power plants for wind, solar and nuclear power plants…increase efficiency all around…and that’s it! We all get to keep all our toys and invite our Chinese, Brazilian, and Indian friends to the party. Or so we like to think.

We mock people who deny human influence on the global climate, but this belief that a closed system with finite resources (Earth) can support limitless growth and expansion if only we just “green” things up is equally inane.

But this is not a story about beliefs; this is a story about deeds — about rolling up your shirtsleeves and getting your hands dirty. Beliefs alone won’t stop global warming, nor will they put food on your table when fuel and fertilizer become so expensive that we return to local, seasonal agriculture of necessity, not because of a fad.

After he kills, skins, cleans, and butchers the first of the four rabbits, Eric brings together a pair of male and female breeders into the same cage so they can do their deed, so there’s a fresh litter when he returns from his trip. I hum the Benny Hill theme as the eager male chases the reluctant, annoyed female around the cage. Their offspring are being slaughtered in another part of the yard, but they are both oblivious. In the words of Jane’s Addiction, “Sex is violent.” Cycle of life and death.

Eric kills the second rabbit. Then with the same brutal hands, he gently plants tender greens in his garden beds and tends to the chickens while Alvaro tries his hand at killing the third rabbit. I chicken out when it’s my turn, so Eric finishes off the fourth.

All told, the four rabbits yielded close to 20 lbs of meat that day. Only the fourth one squealed — not from physical pain, but it must have sensed what was about to happen more than the others. The first three went silently.

Eric says he got about 90 lbs worth of rabbit meat over this, his first year, from about 18 rabbits killed. They live four to five months before they’re slaughtered; feed costs less than $20 per month and is supplemented with kitchen scraps, and the poop is used as compost in the garden to complete the cycle. You can add to that the three chickens which laid about 15 eggs per week, for a total of over 700 fresh organic eggs for the year (and another $20/mo for feed). The one-time cost of building the chicken coop was probably $300 and the rabbit hutch was about $200.

Ninety lbs of meat and 700 eggs are not enough to cut out supermarkets, entirely, but that’ll shave a good chunk of anybody’s annual grocery bill.

This story makes no claims of moral superiority. We — people, cows, rabbits, corn, kale, the viruses and parasites in factory farm slurry — all of us —  are swirling and swimming in the interdependent cycle of life. You are just one small part of a dynamic biosphere, and the best you can do in life is tread lightly, and there’s no treading lighter than growing your own food on the soil beneath your own foot.

“My rabbits eat grass,” says Eric. “They live a good life. You want to tell me that flying in vegetables from overseas is better for the planet, just because they’re vegetables?”

Nope.

You know what my third favorite thing about this country is, particularly in Houston? The fact that I can eat anything I want. We live in the country’s most diverse city. According to the City of Houston website, we have 92 different consular offices in our area, meaning that there are more than 92 different cultures living within the city. Naturally, there is a lot of food to choose from — over 11,000 different places to be precise (once again taken from the city’s website).

Food is more than just sustenance though; food reminds us of home — it fills our hearts as well as our bellies; it nourishes our spirit as it nourishes our body. I know whenever I come back from travelling, the first thing I want is a set of sandwiches my mom makes, and I’m not really home until I have them. I’m no different from the rest of the world; all we ever want is the food we grew up eating.

The beauty of food reminding us of home is that home is infinitely different from person to person, and Houston caters to that. If your comfort food is pizza, then Houston has got your back. You like Mexico City style tamales, Houston’s your spot. Into Ethiopian food? Yup, Houston’s got it. Is your thing New York style Halal fried chicken that leaves you wanting more flavor and higher quality food? Then you’re in luck! Houston has the place just for you — Jones Fried Chicken.

Jones Fried Chicken makes up part of the rather diverse back-of-Sharpstown-Mall scenery. It sits on Fondren, just north of Bellaire, right next to a Whataburger and caddy-corner to a dollar store that is too big to tell if it is open or not. If you know the area, then you will recall that there used to be a James Coney Island in that corner — that JCI is now JFC.

This janky sign must be a sign that they’re putting all their effort into the food, right? Wrong.

Driving down Fondren there is absolutely no way to miss Jones. It has a taller-than-the-rest, bright red and white sign that sits right next to the street, and it is the only Halal fried chicken restaurant in the area. Southwest Houston is no stranger to ‘world’ restaurants — it’s not like River Oaks or West U where you will be hard pressed to find anything from Africa, the Middle East, or south of Mexico. Southwest Houston, on the other hand, is like a box of chocolates: You never know what you’re going to get next. So, standing out in southwest Houston is actually quite an accomplishment.

I live a couple of blocks away from Jones and finally, after the zillionth time of driving by Jones Fried Chicken, I decided to stop and try it.

Pulling in, the first thing I noticed was that the parking lot was full, so I was excited because a lot of people were eating here. (That usually means the place is really good.) As I walked into the restaurant however, I turned and looked, and my assumption that a packed parking lot means a packed restaurant was proven wrong. Still, unphased by the emptiness of the restaurant, I stepped up to the wall-menu and tried to decide what my meal would be.

Wall-menu with pictures — good sign, right? Wrong.

Everything sounded and looked good — they had chicken wings, catfish, kafta, falafel, Philly cheese steak — they have pretty much anything anyone could possibly want to eat. I ended up ordering the lamb sandwich with a side of French fries. (Granted, Jones Fried Chicken has “fried chicken” as its middle name, so I should have ordered la pièce de résistance, but the rotating lamb looked delightful and I couldn’t resist.)

While I was waiting at the counter, watching my food be made, my mouth began to water as they sliced the lamb and packed my sandwich with veggies that look impeccable — tomatoes redder than gala apples, lettuce greener than green crack, and onions so pungent they could be smelt three feet away. It goes without saying, but I was stoked on my lunch.

I decided to be adventurous and took my meal upstairs, right in front of the television playing some obnoxious kids’ show. Anxiously staring at my sandwich, I took a huge bite and to my surprise…nothing. I double checked to see if I actually had food in my mouth and accidentally bit my finger. Confused, I kept chewing. “Ok, let’s try this again,” I thought as I opened my mouth for another bite. I bit down onto the sandwich. This time I made sure to concentrate, but again, nothing.

I might as well have bitten into thin air. With each bite I took, disillusionment and I became better friends. Having finished the sandwich, I dubiously looked at the French fries and began covering them with the hot sauce they provided.  I began to munch away, and that’s when I realized that the best part of my meal was the children’s show on the television. Even the hot sauce they gave me for the fries was tasteless!

It goes without saying that I felt like a little kid who was good all year so Santa Claus would bring him a Game Boy but instead Santa gets him an Etch A Sketch. Thanks for nothing, Halal Fried Santa!

So, if you’re one of those people who think that ISIS is invading the country, or that Obama is implementing Sharia law, or that the gay agenda is bringing Islamic extremists to Houston, believe me when I tell you: There is nothing to worry about. With places like Jones Fried Chicken offering what they do — pass the Chick-Fil-A, bredren, Jesús of Suburbia is not going anywhere.

*Disclaimer: French fries are now allowed and accepted by the good people of ‘merica! once again, now that France is back on the anti-Islam bandwagon after their reaction to Charlie Hebdo’s death. Although, I do wonder if Jones Fried Chicken changed them to Freedom fries before everybody was choking on Charlie’s tip.

Have you ever walked into a place thinking you knew what to expect but then your expectation was wrong and it ended up being better than you could have ever hoped for? You know, like the time you were forced to watch The Hangover 2? Going to Bull & Bear Tavern and Eatery on Westheimer is the food version of The Hangover 2. I went expecting typical British food that is not out of this world, but I left a changed person.

A couple of friends and I went to have dinner and a couple of drinks at Bull & Bear Tavern and Eatery (to be referred to as “B&B,” henceforth) on a Wednesday night. I suggested the spot because I had been there for lunch a while back and remembered wanting to try the Cornish pastie the guy sitting next to me had.

Upon arrival, I immediately noticed that there were way more people than I had ever seen there, but as I stood outside with my friends, waiting for them to finish smoking, I realize that that’s not what seems to somewhat irked me — it was the fact that the lights were on. I had never been to a bar, pub, or tavern that had the lights on so everyone could see everything clearly.

Cigarettes finished, we walked into the tavern and lo and behold, the lighting situation suddenly made perfect sense — B&B was filled with old people! I’m pretty sure that every table other than ours had at least one grandparent sitting at it, and every single one of them was hanging on to every single word of the karaoke singer’s interpretation of Sade as if they were at their grandchild’s choir recital. Now, please don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against old people, I was just confused as to why all the lights were on and then consequently was shocked by seeing a bar filled by people between my parents’ and grandparents’ age — as I said at the beginning, it just was not what I expected.

So, we sit down at the only table available; the server comes over and we order beers. After a few short minutes the waitress comes back with our drinks and informs us that there is about an hour left till the buffet is over — this is when someone died and stood at the gates of Heaven waiting for St. Peter to find his key — but one of my friends ignores the buffet comment and goes ahead and orders nachos. We all look at him weird and make fun of him because he passed up a free buffet in order to get a plate that is usually very hit or miss, however, I am curious to see what happens. If you’re anything like me, then you have only one weakness, and that weakness is nachos.

At first glance it may seem that my friend who ordered nachos made a foolish mistake considering we had a free buffet waiting for us to attack it for the next hour, but, if I may put it gently, you’ve never been more wrong in your entire life. The buffet is your typical, single-flavored foods England is so fondly known for; you know, the types of food that you have to douse with Tabasco just to get it to taste like something: Cornish pastie, steak & mushroom pie, liver and onion, etc. The nachos, on the other hand are a work of art. They are without a doubt the Van Gogh of food, the Jimmi Hendrix of meals, the Genghis Khan of appetizers. The nachos are divine.

The nachos at B&B are without a doubt the 8^th Wonder of the World in both the old and the new 7 Wonders of the World. They are a mountain of deliciousness, much unlike the usual mockery of nachos that is served at most places. Here, not only are you served a mound of chips covered with cheese made from the milk of Zeus’s own cows, but also the meat is marinated and prepared in such a way that you will have no choice but to bow to the gods of food in sheer shame that you had not known such delight before.

Unlike most places that just top the chips off with a bit of meat, cheese, veggies, and whatever condiments, B&B lovingly forms layers with the chips, cheese, and meat. Aside from the glory-like flavor of the meat and cheese, the fact that they layer their nachos means that you will not only enjoy the chips on the top floor, it means that you will enjoy most of the chips fully accompanied by the rest of the flavors.

Please don’t take this as sheer hyperbole though. I make such bold statements confidently because I consider myself a Nacho Expert, secondly because the buffet actually served a pretty decent variety of food to compare the rest of their “sazón” (flavoring or seasoning) with, and thirdly, because it’s true. The rest of the food at B&B was not necessarily bad, but it was also not particularly good — it was what was expected to be: bar food. The nachos, on the other hand, are probably Houston’s best nachos. Any place that cares enough about its patrons that it layers its nachos, that makes meat specifically for the nachos (instead of using the same meat they were going to use for something else), and then, on top of that, is not stingy on the vegetables and condiments, is a place that has earned my respect because it has respected me. I say that seriously, you can tell way more about a place (or a person even) based on the small details they present than on the big advertisement they want you to see. Based on this, I can attest that Bull & Bear Eatery and Tavern is a place that actually loves and respects its patrons, and places like these are slowly being run out by big, flashy, sterile places.

With that I say, “Cheers! To Bull & Bear Eatery and Tavern.”