So, my miserly friends, if you have limited funds to spend on looking fabulous, for God’s sake put the money into things you can wear over and over. Buy your t-shirts at Goodwill and save your money for the best jeans, accessories, haircuts and skin products you can afford — quality skin products like those from… you guessed it: Obagi.

The Obagi Nu-Derm System is an appropriately pricey combination of creams and cleanser that claims to make your skin act “younger and healthier.” This stuff is about as A-list as you can get and doesn’t come cheap, though it’s thankfully not quite as dear as La Mer. It’s also only available by prescription, so if you are the type of person who likes having a professional to oversee your skin regimen, this product is for you.

There are six components to the Obagi Nu-Derm System; the most medically active ingredients being phytic acid and hydroquinone. These two elements block melanin production and bleach the epidermis, addressing classic signs of aging like pigment deposit and sun damage. It’s like taking an dirty old car and scrubbing away years of dirt and grime, then buffing it like hell until it really starts to shine.

So, you ask, what’s not to love? Well, as it so happens, hydroquinone is actually banned in the European Union, Japan, Australia and South Africa; rodent studies have indicated it may be carcinogenic. Hydroquinone can also (rarely) cause ochronosis or areas of hypo-pigmentation, especially in darker-skinned individuals. The FDA is expected to make a final ruling on US sales of hydroquinone-containing products by the end of this year, but in the meantime I’d say individuals who chose to use these products should limit their exposure. Apparently results should appear in 6-8 weeks; after three months dermatologists are advising patients to reduce down to a maintenance dose of 2-3 times weekly.

Bottom line: be careful. You don’t want to go all Sammy Sosa with this stuff.

That said, I’ve been using the Nu-Derm System for about three months, and have been quite happy with the results. I had a little bit of lasting melasma from my pregnancies, so ordered a travel kit as a “starter package” for $189 from lovelyskin.com (without a prescription, by the way — FDA eat your heart out). The system seemed awfully complicated at first, but the packaging includes clever numbering and “AM/PM” designations to help you get started. After some mild itching and redness for the first week I found the system quite easy to use, and the sunscreen is divine.

As I mentioned above, you can order the Nu-Derm system without a prescription from Lovely Skin but my recommendation (and the FDA’s) would be work with a dermatologist or other health-care professional. Though I have noticed a more uniform appearance in my skin and have received several skin-related compliments (well, um… thanks mom), considering the questionable risks I don’t think I’ll be using the Nu-Derm system long-term.

Guess I better start saving up for some La Mer.

I am constantly amazed by what I choose to remember and choose to forget. The small, vital factoids that push me through a conversation drift like breath in 20-degree temperatures. The key word on the very tippity-tip of my tongue never gets out without the serious throwing of shapes and much anguish, yet I can still recall a Datsun commercial from sometime around the 1980s, featuring two Asian men calling themselves The Wong Bros. and announcing a year-end sell-a-thon. In Steve Martin-esque fashion, they shouted at the camera, shaking various degrees of late ’70s bling, “We’re the Wong Brothers! We are two party guys!” I’m dead serious about this.

Clearly this ad wouldn’t have a chance in hell if it was aired today. Even Six Flags came under fire last year for commercials with a barking Asian man rating “fun” situations – One Flag! Six Flags, more fun! This year, he was replaced by their creepy old (meaning younger person in old man prosthetics) dancing man character. If Nissan Motors resurrected those wacky Wongs, it would trigger a thermonuclear public relations implosion. This isn’t about political correctness or incorrectness, though. After several decades, the Wongs are still with me. As a piece of advertising, that means it was highly effective. As anything more than a jumping off point for this piece, though? Not so much.

I know it’s now November and Thanksgiving is just around the bend. That means a few things for a lot of people. The football season, although already plenty serious, now becomes a fight to the finish for some teams, a fight for dear life for others. That cramp in your side pocket is the pain your wallet is feeling due to impending holidays. Economists have already predicted a total outer-thigh-attack this year, but that remains to be seen. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade will strut down New York City once again, although the last time I was really into it, they were walking the giant Underdog balloon down with them.  (If you’re now asking what the heck an “under-dog balloon” is, the next few paragraphs will mean the cubed sum of zero to you.)

My father was a television repairman once, before people just routinely threw out their broken TVs, but before that he was a short order chef, and Thanksgiving was his day to lord over the kitchen. Not that I or my siblings minded, as his recipe for stuffing is totally killer — in every respect, actually. Aside from the bread and the basic mirepoix, in goes raisins, bacon, bacon fat, apples, black olives — and while the details might not sound appetizing, the taste is something else. It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without Dad’s stuffing. It wouldn’t be Dad’s stuffing if we didn’t pack three extra pounds on our respective asses for having eaten it.

Almost as ingrained is the Danny Kaye movie Hans Christian Andersen, always played on this holiday, usually after the airing of Laurel & Hardy’s March of the Wooden Soldiers. We’d be eating the holiday meal, smelling Mom’s homemade pumpkin and apple pies as they started to warm up and hearing Kaye sing, “Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen.” Then, during the station breaks, a cartoon commercial would pop up, an animated globe with a smile on its hemispheric face bouncing across these lyrics, the jingle sung by a chorus of young-sounding voices:

“Playworld! A world of toys, great for girls and great for boys! Playworld, where prices go…”

Then an imposing baritone, possibly Thurl “Tony The Tiger” Ravenscroft, would take over, “So low, low, low, low, LOOOOOWWW…” And the kids would pop back with a last cheer of “PLAYWORLD!”

Now you tell me. Why would this ad have any reason for hanging around my brain? Is it associative — due to the fond recollections surrounding the day, even the commercials get pulled into the nostalgia? Was the commercial really that effective? I wonder about this from time to time and tend to go back to the former, primarily because Playworld folded 25 years ago. The company’s main competition, Child World, collapsed shortly thereafter, both victims of a certain giraffe named Geoffrey and another piece of marketing – the allure of becoming a Toys R Us kid.

Oh, I have that jingle in my brain too, but it appears without pies, stuffing, Underdog or wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen. The funny thing is that if I utter “Playworld, a world of toys” to my older sister she, too, will repeat the commercial’s song verbatim, and the look in her eyes indicates she’s suddenly smelling pie and stuffing. Memory is an incredibly powerful thing.

Cut back to 2009. My Sundays are tied up, not with church even though I feel I ought to attend, but with seeing my grandmother at the nursing home. The reasons why she’s there are complicated, and somewhat shocking considering we were going out to lunch every Sunday last year, me picking her up from her house, she being fairly mobile on her own. Now she’s in a wheelchair, but I still take her out to lunch. The facility she’s in is not bad at all, and I’ve mentioned that in comparison to others I’ve seen it’s some kind of role model, but in order to feel alive, you need to get out. Even if it’s only a couple hours on a Sunday afternoon, those hours can be spent beyond familiar confines, beyond routines that become grooves in the brain, grooves that shove out small insignificant things like names, dates and memories.

I don’t care that she calls me every other person’s name but my own. I just go with it, as I do when she asks me how this person or that person is doing. It’s not my place to tell her that this or that person has been dead for years and she was just picking up on the crosstalk of her dreams. I do care that she at least knows that on Sunday, even if the Jersey Shore beachcombers glut the Garden State Parkway, I will be down there to see her. And if it’s raining like Noah’s worst construction day, I’ll still be down there. I also care about my own brain and sometimes wonder, when it’s my turn to be in the chair, what will I be left with? What will I get to keep? Will I only remember “Playworld, a world of toys”?

“This is the most popular bourbon we sell,” said the clerk at my local BevMo. I guess I had “sucker” written on my face since I bought the bottle without reading the notes on the Eagle Rare. However, the review notes don’t always tell an accurate story of a particular bourbon — as I found out last time — so, in a roundabout way, I reasoned that I would just go with the clerk’s recommendation and see what’s what.

I must say, the Eagle Rare bottle was different for a bourbon. Some bourbon bottles, like my beloved Woodford, or Jeff Giles’ longtime steady, Knob Creek, look like containers cartoon hillbillies keep their “tonic” in. Eagle Rare, however, is bottled in a container that could easily house wine. It’s also wrapped in thin, grayish tissue paper that’s sealed with a silver sticker that makes it so very … yuppie. But I didn’t care. It’s not the bottle that makes the bourbon, it’s what’s inside.

Eagle Rare has a fine amber color that evokes a sense of quality. I couldn’t discern any characteristic aromas like bananas, vanilla, or even a hint of cinnamon. Rather, it was surprisingly devoid of distinguishing smells. Maybe, I thought, the taste would reveal layers of flavor that were lacking when I attempted to breathed in the nonexistent scents.

The start was pleasant. There were hints of bananas and a rather smooth, velvety feel in my mouth (or should I say palate). It was the finish that was the most surprising … and not in a good way. What was the most pronounced taste? Wet socks. That’s right — that dank, somewhat moldy taste that screams: “I stepped in a fucking puddle!” Initially I thought that my palate was somehow tainted from eating food that didn’t pair well with the Eagle Rare. So, drank a glass of water, waited a bit, and had another drink. Guess what? Yeah, wet socks. Great — and in full disclosure to the FTC, I BOUGHT THIS BOTTLE WITH MY HARD EARNED PAY — now I was stuck with a bottle of wet sock and I was out about $38.00. But all was not lost. I was able to mask the foul taste by, yes, making cocktails with the Eagle Rare. Now, my bourbon cocktail of choice is a Manhattan, but even making Manhattans (well, good Manhattans) is not a cake walk. You have to have good sweet vermouth for starters. Second, you don’t want to do what a lot of flashy bartenders do: shake the hell out of the drinks for far too long. The shards of ice bury the flavors of the liquors, and if you add Angostura bitters (which you should), you might end up putting too many dashes that will throw the whole concoction out of whack. So, if you really want the flavors of the bourbon, sweet vermouth, bitters and cherry to stand out, I submit that you don’t shake, but rather stir the combo over ice for a good 30-40 seconds and serve in a chilled glass. Eagle Rare, I’m happy to report, makes for a good Manhattan. Not great, mind you — but good. There was no wet sock taste, the good flavors of the bourbon stood out and, overall, I was quite pleased with it. I’m pretty adamant about drinking bourbon straight. However, there are times when you have to bend those rules, and for me, drinking Eagle Rare was one of those times. If you’re a fan of astringent tastes (and there are people who do like it), this is a bourbon for you. Me? Well, I think I tipped my hand long ago with Woodford Reserve. However, I gotta say (and this will be a tease for the next column), I think I’ve found me a beautiful mistress.

Two and a half tumblers.

I’m also something of a liquor loyalist — partly because I love the stuff, and partly because I “earned” a free bottle cradle during one of the brand’s anniversaries, I’m a Knob Creek man. I buy a big-ass bottle when fall sets in, drop it in the cradle on my kitchen counter, and refill as necessary. For this reason — and because I live in the land of state-run liquor stores, where BevMo is a distant, shining beacon of boozy choice — I wasn’t sure I’d be up for joining Ted on Bourbon Street this year. In the end, though, temptation won out, and even though I still have a couple inches of Knob Creek left in fall’s first bottle, I headed out to my local liquor outlet last week and took a gamble on a container of (rÄ«)¹, a newish brand of rye whiskey.

You might be saying — as the niggling Ted did — that rye isn’t bourbon, and shouldn’t be allowed in a series called Bourbon Street, but as the sheriff of this little burg, I make the laws. And anyway, rye and bourbon are linked, both as close liquor cousins and by history — many of the classic bourbon drinks were made with rye before Prohibition, and though it’s not as popular as it used to be, rye is a distinctly Northeastern drink; since I live in a distinctly Northeastern area, I figured (rÄ«)¹ would be just about perfect for my first trip down Bourbon(ish) Street.

The first thing that stands out about (rÄ«)¹ is its packaging. This isn’t really true for smaller labels, but most of the larger bourbons tend to ship in somewhat boxy bottles, which is supposed to reflect, I guess, the manly, no-nonsense character of the liquor. (rÄ«)¹, while still displaying a hint of the hard angles common to brands like Knob Creek, comes in a tall, slender, striking bottle — it looks more like flavored after-dinner liqueur than something you should be drinking on a screen porch while you puff a corn cob pipe. It also comes with a little collection of (rÄ«)¹ flash cards proclaiming the “ultrapremium” virtues of the brand and saying things like “If you have a taste for the finer things, there’s finally a spirit worthy of your glass,” all of which is how Jim Beam intends to trick people into spending $48 on a bottle of rye.

I didn’t find out (rÄ«)¹ was a Jim Beam liquor until I got home, which I admit pissed me off a little; it’s one thing for an independent bottler to cynically use slick packaging to try and evoke the suavely rugged manliness of a classic drink, but another for Jim Beam to get together with one of its focus groups and decide it’s time to make rye hip again. Still, it wasn’t like I was about to return the stuff, so I waited until 5 o’clock, uncorked the bottle, and dove in.

If you’ve never had rye, it bears mentioning going in that, as a general rule, it doesn’t have the slight sweetness or complex flavor that bourbon boasts; like the Northeast itself, it’s kind of grumpy, with a flavor that suggests it doesn’t really care whether or not you like it — and if you don’t, that’s your problem. True to form, (rÄ«)¹ is a pretty forceful whiskey — 92 proof — with a flavor whose overwhelming taste component is pepper. Other writers have suggested hints of cinnamon, which I guess I can go along with, but don’t go thinking (rÄ«)¹ tastes like a stick of Big Red; it’s a spicy drink, but without much of the sweetness you’d expect from reading the word “cinnamon.” This isn’t a bad thing, mind you; befitting the clean, minimalist design of its packaging, (rÄ«)¹ has a bright, clean taste, and if you can bring yourself to use a $48 bottle of anything for a mixed drink, you’ll find that it does a fine job of blending with everything — you can use it to mix anything from a Manhattan to a hot toddy without worrying about the other components of the drink.

Is it worth almost fifty bones? Assuredly not. I’ve been enjoying a straight shot of (rÄ«)¹ every night for almost a week, and it makes for a good, strong sipping drink, but I do miss the layered flavor of my favorite bourbon — and seeing as how I can get nearly two liters of Knob Creek for the same price of a 750 mL bottle of (rÄ«)¹, I can’t see myself buying it again. Pick it up on sale, maybe, if you’re looking for a switch from your Russell’s Reserve, or you’ve got a trend-conscious liquor connoisseur in your life who’s earned a gift. Otherwise, there’s no real reason not to stick with the cheaper stuff.

Go into any bar, and what do you think the most popular drink is? If you said beer, you’d be right. But among variety of micro and macro-brews at local watering holes, you’re also going to find people order quite a few rum and Cokes, Mojitos, and Cosmopolitans being ordered on any given Friday night. I have nothing against those drinks, but you won’t find me ordering them. Nope. My drink of choice is bourbon. Yeah, that’s right, bourbon: straight with no chaser. But not just any bourbon, mind you. It has to be something that’s worth savoring; something to slowly enjoy over a long conversation or while watching an engaging movie. In other words, (and to use a more high-minded way of expressing myself): I loves me some sipping bourbon.

I know there are people out there who love to shoot bourbon, get really shitfaced, stumble around the dance floor and later puke their guts out on the sidewalk. That, my friends, is recreational bourbon. It’s the kind of bourbon you drink to forget your troubles, to work up enough courage to talk to someone you find attractive, or to show your friends that you can hold your liquor. That kind of booze has its time and place, but now that I’m older (or to some: old), I’ve grown weary of those kind of reindeer games played in bars, and have settled into a quiet snobbery where fetishizing certain kinds of alcohol has become a hobby akin to stamp collecting.

My current favorite bourbon is Woodford Reserve, but I’ll leave the glories of Woodford for another time. What I’d like to feature this month is a bourbon from Evan Williams. Now, most distilleries have their “good stuff,” and Evan Williams certainly has plenty of that. Last week, I went to my local BevMo and there in the locked cases was a bottle of Evan Williams Single Barrel Vintage from 1998. Now, I’m a pretty liberal guy when it comes to bourbon, in that I’ll try anything that looks boutique. And the Evan Williams had all the marking of a boutique bourbon: it came highly recommended with part of the following review affixed to the price tag:

1998 Vintage
2008 San Francisco World Spirits Competition – Silver Medal “The latest issue from the series of annual releases, still is one of the best whiskey bargains around. Aromas of brown bananas, clove, vanilla and glove leather pour from the tasting class. In the mouth it’s smooth and mellow, well-balance and assertive, with a lingering, clean and slightly lemony finish. It’s mouth-watering as a sipping whiskey, and it invites cocktail experimentation. This is a stylish and charming whiskey, another success from the father and son distilling team of Parker and Craig Beam.”

Well, I was sold. I don’t think I’ve ever had a bourbon that had a lemony finish and smelled like brown bananas, clove, vanilla and glove leather, but I was willing to try it. So, I plunked down my $40 and brought home my prize. The verdict? It was a very nice bourbon with pleasant flavors, but it was missing that certain something that is often referred to as “complexity.”

Some bourbons have a smooth finish, others are a little harsh, and some, as the review above stated, linger. But the flavors didn’t linger in the Evan Williams I bought. Instead, the harshness of the alcohol did – with none of lemony finished promised. I was sad, but not to the point of demanding my money back. No, I decided to let my pallet get used to it, and had a drink every night to see if my opinion of this bourbon would change. Alas, it didn’t. I tried to change it up by making Manhattans with the Evan Williams, but it didn’t rise above “pleasant.” Now perhaps my tastes are skewed away from the subtle notes in a bourbon like the Evan Williams Single Barrel Vintage, and while I would recommend this bourbon for those who don’t like powerful flavors, I don’t think Evan Williams will be making an appearance in my liquor cabinet in the near future.

Final Rating: Three tumblers

Behold: DKNY Be Delicious. Now, I’m not one to just give away anything that’s offered to me. And you’re thinking: Jason, I know you’re plenty girly, but why would you be the one to give away perfume? The reason is this: I love this stuff. No, not on me. My wife wound up with a small tester bottle a few years ago, and I thought it was the best-smelling perfume she’d worn in years. The only thing I like better is White Musk from The Body Shop and she won’t wear it, half because she doesn’t like it and half because she automatically doesn’t want to do anything I want her to do. But I seriously love Be Delicious. My wife describes it as “sort of fruity, floral, and light.” I’d agree. And it smells apple-y, too. Which makes sense. I love it so much that last December, she ran out, and I went to Macy’s at the height of holiday shopping season to buy a new bottle. That’s love. Michael McDonald could be on fire in the middle of Macy’s at Christmastime and I would seriously think twice before going in to save him. (Unless he was singing “Minute By Minute” in a Santa outfit.) But for this scent? No question.

Be Delicious has been around for a few years, but recently they’ve re-launched the fragrance in a new pop-art bottle, with a new commercial as well. According to someone who writes better than me, “The illustrated spot was created by comic artist Brad Hamann and features a comic transformation of the DKNY Be Delicious experience, including ben-day dots, lettering and speech balloons in a nod to the visual art movement that flourished in 1960’s New York.”

I don’t know from ben-day dots. All I know is that it smells good, and I want to send you a bottle. I want you to smell good too. Because, like Ambrosia, that’s how much I feel, feel for you, baby.

Technically, anybody who’s made it this far into this ridiculous post deserves to win a bottle, but there can be only one. So send your name and address in an e-mail to Jeff Giles and we’ll pick one lucky recipient at random. Actually, his four-year-old daughter will probably pick the name. (Tip: A lot of her stuffed animals are named “Little One,” so if that’s your name, she’ll probably pick you.)

Good luck! And don’t forget to check out DKNY Be Delicious, available at fine stores everywhere!

Taco Bell

In the years to follow, I’ve watched and wondered in silent amazement at the knack that Taco Bell has for continuously making new creations out of the same basic seven ingredients, and each time it tastes different somehow. How the hell do they do that?

As an underpaid working professional with no money in my 20s, I ate Taco Bell a lot. For five bucks, you could grab food for a couple of days and forget, for one brief moment, how bad you were getting screwed by the man.

My not-so-inner fast food junkie eventually branched out from the traditional tacos and burritos, first with the Mexican Pizza – two crisp shells packed with ground beef (is it really?) and beans, topped with pizza sauce and multiple cheeses, please hold the tomatoes. I discovered that 20something me could easily pack away two of those bad boys, and potentially a soft taco or two if I really wanted to kill my will to do anything for the rest of the day.

The Chalupa. Ah yes, one of the early times that I had that feeling that perhaps I might be leading myself towards eventual clogged arteries by the time I was 30. Because those shells can’t possibly be healthy, can they? They taste too damn good. Grab yourself a Nacho Cheese Chalupa, and you too might feel the feelings of pain and remorse after combining ground beef (still questioning this), nacho cheese sauce, and the previously mentioned potentially unhealthy chalupa shell.

The Crunch Wrap Supreme. This combines my love of the Mexican Pizza with my love of the Double Decker Taco Supreme into one unhealthy package that I nicknamed the “Taco Bell frisbee” because of the circular shape of this item, combined with the fact that I was really, really bored on the day that I first ordered this. I apparently fixed that boredom by naming my food. Mark this down as one of my early cries for help. (P.S. – these really suck as a leftover.)

And then the brilliance ended at Taco Bell HQ. Someone decided that it would be a good idea to inject potatoes into the list of magical ingredients for potential Taco Bell goodness. Now, while I can eat tubs and tubs of the standard Fiesta Potatoes from Taco Bell, I’ve discovered that they seem to taint every Taco Bell creation that incorporates them with the previously mentioned ground, um, beef, beans, or any other substance. Seriously, who looks at beans, beef, potatoes, eight packets of Fire Sauce, and says yum?

Taco Bell does, that’s who.

But now they’ve gone too far.

I was sitting at home watching the always brilliant Rescue Me on my DVR, fast-forwarding through commercials, when I saw it: The word “Bacon” was plastered on my television, and miles and miles of bacon-loaded pictorial goodness splashed across my screen, forcing me to dive for the remote and rewind to believe what I had just seen.

Bacon Cheesy Potato Burrito.

Four words that should have made me say no. No way. No chance in hell.

Instead, I got in my car and drove two blocks over to the nearest Taco Bell location.

I placed an order for two of these potential gifts from God at $2.99 per burrito. That’s value in this time of alleged recession and financial struggle. Not. Thanks a lot, Taco Bell.

Upon arriving home, I sat down at the table and unwrapped the first burrito.

Here’s what they want you to believe that it looks like:

In reality, it actually looks closer to this:

No matter how carefully you unwrap one of these suckers, the visual fraud is very quickly unmasked.

On a side note, who are these people that get paid to set up the fast food glamour shot with every precious ingredient in its proper place, and do they get paid big bucks? More importantly, are they all obsessive-compulsives?

Now, let’s eat!

I had a quick debate on whether I should add my customary hot sauce, or experience it for the first time sans sauce, potentially as intended by the Taco Bell culinary craftsmen. “Screw ‘em, bring on the hot sauce,” was my quick assessment of the situation.

Digging in, I quickly wolfed down the first burrito. Tasting lots of ground beef (fine, I’ll call it beef with only minor snickering,) nacho cheese sauce, potatoes, etc. But I get to the end of burrito uno, and my first thought is that I didn’t taste a lot of bacon in this so-called “Bacon Cheesy Potato Burrito.” Based on the name alone, this burrito should be bursting with bacon-loaded flavor, taste, and texture. Worse, as you would expect, they’ve gone the cheap route and provided bacon in the form of bits that may or may not even be real bacon.

I’m tasting potatoes and remembering how much I previously hated the inclusion of potatoes with previous Taco Bell burrito experiences. What the hell am I doing? I’m left with the complicated decision: Do I forge onward and eat the remaining Bacon Cheesy Potato Burrito, part of my almost $6 two-burrito Taco Bell investment?

Who the hell spends $6 on two items at Taco Bell anyway? This asshole. That’s who.

I ended up eating about three quarters of the burrito before deciding to pitch the remaining portion. Interestingly enough, they seem to have taken all of the bacon bits that were missing from the first burrito and dumped them into the second burrito. In theory, this should make things better, but the whole experience feels beyond bland by the time I’m done eating.

Normally when I finish Taco Bell, I’ve got a feeling of satisfaction mixed with the feeling that I’ve done something horrible to my body. I don’t have that feeling of satisfaction here – instead, I just wish that I’d eaten something else.

Nutritionally, how does this bad boy stack up? Well, let’s take a look at the official full-disclosure rundown from Taco Bell’s site.

680 calories: While some of you are gasping at that number, some of my favorite things that are really bad for me are way over the 1,000 calorie mark.

70 milligrams of cholesterol: I kind of want to forget that I just read this, so that I can lie to my heart surgeon in 15 years.

57 grams of carbs: I’m assuming that that’s bad for most of you that are on whatever fad diet it is that you’re on. As the furthest thing from a “health nut,” I have no idea. I have learned from Popdose mainman Jeff Giles during recent conversations on Twitter that lasers don’t belong anywhere near your eyes. That really has no practical application here. Let’s move on.

36 total grams of fat: Cool! So when I am feeling regretful about that weight gain, I can pin a lot of that Vandross-esque fluctuation on the Bacon Cheesy Potato Burrito, right where it belongs.

31 grams of protein: Here’s the good news folks: Forget everything you read previously, this sucker is loaded with protein, and it’s good for you. So instead of chugging that Slim-Fast shake for your next meal, you can have one of these instead. Okay, I’m probably wrong about this point.

Here’s the bottom line: Fiesta potatoes are a horrible ingredient for any recipe idea at Taco Bell. Unless it’s a pure unadulterated side of fiesta potatoes with the standard sour cream, cheese sauce, etc., just say “pass.” Any other decision will leave you with deep feelings of regret, sorrow, and shame.

Bacon Cheesy Potato Burrito, I wanted to be friends with you, I really did. But unfortunately, I have to give you the big thumbs down. All that you had to do was just seduce me gently with a little bit of real bacon, and I’m talkin’ strips of bacon here. But that didn’t happen, did it?

So, where do we go from here?

My suggested trip to the promised land of Taco Bell happiness includes the following: two chili-cheese burritos, two cheese roll-ups, four soft tacos, and lots of hot sauce. I recommend the signature Taco Bell “Fire” variety.

Now, the hole in your stomach lining after you consume all of that hot sauce for an extended period of time? That’s going to cost you extra.

When a rock star is involved with a restaurant that doesn’t have guitars on the walls, it’s noteworthy.

Chrissie Hynde is one of the more vocal vegans out there. So when she found herself going back to Ohio to deal with aging relatives, she was a little frustrated by the lack of vegan food. And so, she opened her own restaurant, The VegiTerranean in Akron. No animal products are used in the food, and the emphasis is on organic and sustainable ingredients.  This makes the menu friendly to many who have food allergies or who keep kosher. The restaurant is open all day: coffee and baked goods in the morning, followed by lunch, dinner, and bar service.  J. Scot Jones, another Akron native, is the executive chef.

Looking around, I had the feeling that this was a celebrity restaurant that didn’t want to be a Celebrity Restaurant of Planet Hollywood vintage. Hynde’s name is associated with the place, clearly, and the menu includes “Chrissie” fries and the “Back on the Chain Gang” fake sausage sandwich. But the décor is almost minimalist, mostly black and white and chrome, and few of the black-and-white pictures on the wall were of the Pretenders. Hynde’s name is on the menu and on the door, but this isn’t a Chain Gang Café. It’s a serious restaurant that attracted a serious business crowd for lunch on a recent weekday.

The menu features Italian-style foods and flavorings, using many meat analogues produced by Gardien. It includes several salads, sandwiches, pizzas, and pastas. The emphasis is on presentation; everything arrives with a pretty shape and a nice garnish to remind you that this is no hippie hangout. I had gnocchi with artichoke and creamy cashew sauce ($12.50), and it was outrageous. It was also a good reminder that vegan food is not necessarily low in fat or calories.

The grilled soy-cheese sandwich ($9.00) is a salad on bread. The onion, tomato, arugula, and dulse are topped with an orange substance that tastes a lot like cheddar. It’s good, if not traditional, but it will not impress a picky child. The Chrissie fries ($4.00) have a delightful seasoning and are served with dips of soy ricotta and balsamic ketchup. The ketchup missed the mark not because it’s not like Heinz but because it is too sweet. Were the fries spicier, it might have worked. The soy ricotta, on the other hand, was a lovely treat.

Instead of bread, we were offered bread and butter pickle spears to start. It’s a light, gluten-free way to start lunch, especially if you are a fan of pickles.  If not, skip ahead to the menu and order some hummus ($8.00).

I was delighted with the lunch fare but disappointed by dessert.  I’m no Martha Stewart, but I make a vegan chocolate cake so good that it will surpass any egg and butter concoction, with nothing more exotic than vegetable oil, baking soda, and vinegar for moisture and leavening. (A vegan chocolate cake is also easy to make. Several good recipes can be found online, the best-known of which is the Moosewood Chocolate Cake .) The VegiTerranean chocolate cake with margarine-cream frosting, was a whopping $10.00. Good thing it was plenty big for two. Unfortunately, it had the distinct flavor of soy-based addition that threw off the flavor and that is unnecessary in a good vegan cake.

The VegiTerranean has an extensive bar list with specialty cocktails, beer, and wine. They aren’t all organic, unless you happen to be a chemist, but those items produced sustainably are given special mention and include the much-loved local Great Lakes Brewing Company lineup. Diet coke and other soft drinks are offered for those who are thoroughly unwholesome, although the root beer is from Sprecher, a Wisconsin microproducer of beer and pop alike.

The service was a little less than perfect. It would have been nice if our soup (a rich and flavorful tomato-artichoke bisque with a goodly shot of olive oil, $4.00 for a cup) had arrived before, not with, the main courses. My companion and I discovered that we were underdressed given that businessfolk make up the lunch crowd, which may have contributed to the relative lack of attention we received. Still, that should not matter.

The VegiTerranean has one amazing feature that deserves to be emulated at every restaurant in every nation: the ladies’ room has twice the facilities of the men’s room, if my lunch date is to be believed. A woman as thin as Chrissie Hynde might not know much about great chocolate cakes, but she’s all right.

If you are in Northeast Ohio, a trip to VegiTerranean is a good way to shake up the mix of bar food, red-sauce Italian, and chains in the region’s restaurant choices.  Rumor has it that the next branch of the VegiTerranean will be in New York City. Hey, if vegan food can make it in Akron, it can make it anywhere.

The Champs – “Tequila”

The free tequila in question is Rosangel, a hibiscus-infused version of Gran Centenario Reposado tequila.  It’s bottled in clear glass, which lets the pink hue of the hibiscus show.  The glass is incredibly solid – great for clubbing an opponent in a bar fight or preparing root mush – but the cork adds a touch of class that’s usually only seen in a nice bourbon or scotch.

A few friends and I drank the majority of this bottle while watching the classic British gangster film The Long Good Friday.  It’s well-suited to drink as a shot – the hibiscus flavor makes it much more interesting on its own – and survives the trip down your throat smoothly enough that a lime isn’t needed.  As long as you’re secure enough in your masculinity to handle the pink color (or sufficiently heedless of your femininity to drink straight tequila), it’s also fine for sipping.

The makers describe it as having “a complex, perfumed nose with ripe fruit and floral notes, plus hints of vanilla.”  Most prominent is the hibiscus.  It’s much lighter and more floral than a typical gold tequila, but it’s also a bit more complex than a silver tequila.  It’s definitely not meant for drinking straight from the bottle while being passed around a campfire.

My only real quibble is about the recipes that the makers provide.  Brooklyn mixologist Julie Reiner developed several cocktail recipes specifically to include Rosangel, including the Ruby Fizz, the Jalisco, and the Pink Sangria.  All of which sound delicious, but are virtually impossible to make.  Have you ever heard of Punt y Mes, or Creme de Mure?  Do you have any idea where you can buy Agave Nectar or Pomegranate Molasses?  Do you really want to make a Margarita that requires eight different ingredients?

I developed my own simple cocktail recipe – the Lazy Maragarita.  One ounce tequila, one ounce triple sec, the juice of one lime, and a handful of ice.  If strawberries are still in season, cut one in half and toss it in.  In the form of a chemical equation, it’s this:

Tq + Ti + LiJu + Sw + H(s) –> Lazy Margarita.

That receipe is actually a variation of the Fruit Sour, which I adapted for strawberry season by…adding a strawberry.

B + Ti + LeJu + Sw + H(s) –> Strawberry Fruit Sour

I’ve reserved the highest praise of Rosangel for the end, which is the hangover we all experienced the following morning.  More specifically, the lack of any appreciable hangover.  We all found that – despite high sugar consumption and lackluster attempts to rehydrate – we felt just fine the following morning.

Oh yeah – The Long Good Friday is a brilliantly entertaining movie, and features a young Pierce Brosnan kissing another guy in the shower.  You should totally watch it while drinking pink tequila.

Luke started selling makeup brushes on eBay to help make ends meet. To promote the brushes, she put up a few home-made videos on YouTube showing people how to use the brushes to recreate the looks of various pop stars. Want to look like Miley Cyrus? Or Avril Lavigne? Lauren Luke has a video for you.

Part of her charm is that Lauren Luke is every gal. She is not a socialite or a professional makeup artist, but rather an English woman in her twenties with a kid and dogs, enrolled part-time at beauty school, who at first dreamed of little more than a job at the local MAC counter. People found her videos and loved them. Luke has about 178 videos online, all of which seem to be rated with five stars. She’s appeared on the BBC, has a column in the Guardian, and even met the Queen. It’s such an impressive confluence of motivation, technology, and marketing that simply could not have happened even ten years ago.

Luke’s kits are lovely. They are packed as large, elegant black compacts, complete with mirror. All include primer in two shades and a cake of black eyeliner, three eyeshadow shades, one blush, and two lip colors. I tried “My Smokey Classics,” following along with the video. The mirror makes it easy to watch and apply.

The colors were great and her directions are clear. Given that Luke started her beauty career selling brushes on eBay, it’s no surprise that her tutorials are brush-intensive. Her kits do not come with brushes (although more products in her line are slated for release later in the year). I have a few brushes of my own, but not many, so I could not follow all of her directions. No cake eyeliner for me!

I liked the kit, and I was able to more or less match Luke’s look. However, I was shocked to discover that putting in makeup the right way takes time! My routine takes about three minutes, while the Smokey Classics tutorial runs about 14. It takes 23 minutes for Luke to recreate the dramatic eyeshadow in Kylie Minogue’s “In My Arms” video – and that’s after applying foundation and before dealing with cheeks and lips. Yikes!

When the occasion arrives that I want to exude more glamour that the average freelance writer, well, now I know what to do.

By the way, at one point, there was discussion of all of the Popdose staff testing this makeup. Everyone backed out but me. Too bad, because Luke wants everyone to look lovely. That’s why she has a tutorial for doing guyliner a la Green Day. It’s only 10 minutes long.