A Banger in the Mouth

If you watched "Arrested Development," this title is for you. If you have not yet seen this show, watch the episodes with Mrs. Featherbottom and you will understand. Whether you follow the Bluths or not, you should still read this post and check out The Branded Butcher in Athens, Georgia.

A banger, FYI, is UK slang for "sausage." For example, bangers and mash on a pub menu is sausage and mashed potatoes. I'm picky about a lot of things, sausage being one of them. Breakfast sausage patties especially being one of them. In my experience breakfast sausage is one of those things that comes out either too salty with no other balancing flavors or a little peppery and rubbery. I guess that's why it's always served with pancakes, so the sweetness outweighs the salt. Or you can wrap breakfast sausage in a pancake if you're into fair food at 7 a.m.

I digress. While breakfast sausage is not my favorite meat product, I find bratwurst to be mouthwatering. Prior to this weekend, I only had two places that I would go regularly for bratwurst: the UGA Meat Science Technology Center in Athens and Augsburg Haus in Evans, Georgia. At the UGA MSTC, students and staff actually make meat products from animals harvested from the on-campus slaughter facility. It is fresh, it is local (like, you buy it in the room next to where it's harvested!) and it is dang good. I won't delve into detail about Augsburg Haus right now because I'm suddenly inspired for a visit there soon and it'll get a piece of its own!

I'm adding the habanero bratwurst at Branded Butcher into my top three. Thinking back on this meal makes me hangry. I want to go back for more now.

Habanero bratwurst and a biscuit on the side at The Branded Butcher in
Athens, Georgia

The bratwurst arrives in a little black metal container with creamy, buttery polenta. On top of the polenta is a cross-section of a "cured French horn mushroom," which I'd never eaten before. It was a tad sweet and nutty. The top portion had the soft feel normally associated with fungi, and the closer you got to the volva (base), the filaments got a little closer together, leading to a little more toughness. The accompaniment to all of this was an "agrodolce." When I saw it on the menu, being the super savvy foodie I am, I had no idea what it meant. When I started to write this post I double-checked the menu and then Googled it.

Hopefully I am not the only uncultured person in this world who doesn't know what agrodolce is, so let me teach you. According to the Food Network food encyclopedia (cool; until six seconds ago I did not know this existed), agrodolce is a sweet and sour sauce of Italian origin. In the case of The Branded Butcher, agrodolce is a mix of diced veggies that are sweetened and a little pickled. It added texture to the grits, color to the plate and an awesome flavor mix when you got a bite that had every component of the charcuterie in it: nutty from the 'shroom, salty from the polenta, sweet and sour from the agrodolce, spicy from the bratwurst.

Brown sugar cubes + a glass milk bottle of creamer:
how coffee is served at the Butcher's brunch

I mean, what do you expect when it is called "habanero bratwurst" on the menu, breakfast sausage?! Heck naw, y'all. What I like the most about bratwurst compared to other sausages is how finely ground the meat is inside the casing. The spices and flavor components are blended in better and you're less likely to end up with a giant herb piece stuck in your teeth (reason No. 1 why I shy away from Italian sausage). In essence, a bite of habanero bratwurst looks innocent, because until you shove a forkful into your salivating mouth, you don't realize just how much habanero is in there. I may or may not have asked for a glass of milk (which comes served with a cute little paper straw and I felt like a very happy 6-year-old). But it was so incredible that I couldn't stop myself. The heat hits the tongue, then the back of your throat, but you've got the mushroom and the agrodolce and the savoriness from the meat itself. I say "meat" because traditionally bratwurst is a pork and veal blend, but can be solely pork as well, and the menu here did not specify.

Tip: Get a biscuit on the side. It's well-worth it, because you can turn it into a little breakfast sandwich of habanero bratwurst, sauce and butter. Plus it makes you feel a little more brunch-like if you're showing up and ordering non-breakfast sausage before noon.

Boozy Bonus!

There's a brunch option called The Hipster Breakfast. It is only served after 12:30 p.m. It includes a PBR. I will let you draw your own conclusions.

Aw, Shucks, Y'all!

Guess what -- after three weeks of no posts, you get two doses of Meatetarian Eats this week! Aren't you lucky!

Somehow my 26th birthday became "The Year of the Seafood," as two of the three celebratory meals I ate centered on chicken of the sea. Eh, that pun didn't work. Moving on.

Birthday part three took place in Alpharetta (north of Atlanta) at this swanky seafood place called Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen. The concept behind Pappadeaux includes French and Creole flavors that bring Bourbon Street to the metro area. Lots of things are blackened or served with andouille; lots of menu items end with "etouffee" or are served in a gumbo. Since I'd just eaten fish, I decided to venture a little more toward the seafloor.

A cup of crawfish bisque

The meal began with something I'd never had before, but seemed appropriate for being in a Creole restaurant: a cup of crawfish bisque.

I could have eaten a bowl.

Here's the thing about bisque. If you get "bisque" from a can or from somewhere that prepares it cheaply, you're more than likely to get a watery, greasy soup with more butter melted on top than any other ingredient. It may be creamy, but there's no texture to it aside from the one piece of meat buried at the bottom. A true bisque is a thick, creamy soup studded with chunks of meat throughout. It is rich. It is flavorful. It makes you slurp the whole thing down in three minutes and ask the waiter for bread so you can sop up what your spoon didn't get.

The crawfish bisque gets two thumbs up at Pappadeaux. It was packed with chunks of crawfish. It had just a hint of kick without being overly spicy. The only downside was we did not get bread to dip in it, so I had to resist the urge to be ultra ladylike and stick my finger in the cup.

Instead of getting a fish entree, I followed up the soup with the oyster duo. This is a plate of six Apalachicola oysters (and yes, they were from Apalachicola -- I asked!) served two different ways. Three are Oysters Baton Rouge, presented with a melted parmesan-romano sauce on top. The remaining three are Oysters Pappadeaux, stuffed with crabmeat and then topped with chopped spinach and hollandaise sauce.

Left: Oysters Pappadeaux, right, Oysters Baton Rouge;
served on a platter of salt

The oysters were baked, so the cheese was nice and bubbly and the hollandaise smooth and creamy. The oysters themselves (I scraped the toppings off to try the pure little mollusks) were thick, meaty and briny. Despite being baked, they were well-cooked and still tasted fresh. No slime here, bro. I enjoyed the Oysters Pappadeaux trio more than the Baton Rouge -- though the cheese was good, it was the only flavor presented, and that left a little to be desired. Granted, I am no expert at oyster toppings, but this blend of cheeses could have been amped up a bit, perhaps with the addition of the Tabasco sauce folks usually throw on raw oysters.

Pappadeaux is definitely a cool place to take the family. I felt like we went back in time a few decades and that jazz music should have been playing. This restaurant (a franchise, so I'm only speaking for the Alpharetta location) is what I'd imagine a New Orleans seafood restaurant circa 1924 would be like. The decor, the acoustics, all of it. You walk in and next to the lobster container is a huge on-ice display of fish that you can eat that night. The restaurant seats 400 people. FOUR. HUNDRED. There was live music playing in one room, dimmed lights added to the ambiance and servers bringing out dessert sampler platters every 10 minutes. I enjoyed the meal and the atmosphere and would definitely come back. They also have a lunch menu if you're in the mood for something heftier than a soup and salad.

But if you go and get a soup and salad at lunch, I highly recommend the crawfish bisque.

This Beer, I'll Eat.

Food things I like: beer, bacon, burgers, beef, bread, cheese.

I mean, secretly I'm clearly a stereotypical man, apparently. So it should surprise exactly zero people that Justin and I celebrated our birthdays (mine was March 19th, his the 20th) with beer at the original Taco Mac. 

Yeah, ya heard me: Taco. Mac.

Do not be fooled, my friends. First of all, I've said it before: I don't get paid to do this. I am not a "real food blogger" by any means. I do not even like the word "blog," to be honest with you. So, I can go into a chain restaurant and tell you what I think of the food if I so dad-gum please, because not all of us are hired by Atlanta Magazine and given a $100 bill for just the appetizer section of the menu.
Disclaimer: No idea if that's how real food critics work. 

Anyway! Back to the point of the matter. The original Taco Mac is located in our neighborhood of Atlanta, the Virginia Highlands, in a section on the corner of Virginia and North Highland. It's small, it's unassuming, it probably seats a grand total of 40 people. The inside is a little dark. The bar has cool bottles on a shelf and draft beer taps in front of the stools. I'm not kidding when I say my apartment may be the same size as the original Taco Mac.

What I'm getting at is that you shouldn't judge a chain restaurant. My first Taco Mac experience was at the chain version, and I felt a little bit like I was in an Applebee's with more of a tex-mex feel. The layout was similar; the local high school football pennants were there; it was bright and sunny and felt more like a restaurant than a bar that just happens to serve good food. Chain Taco Macs, like most franchises, vary greatly. In fact, Justin flat-out refused to go to the original because of how miserable his experiences were at other locations. It was only by the prodding of our friend Peter that we finally ventured forth behind the screen doors of the patio and into the depths of this fine bar establishment.

And now we go back at least once a month.

This particular night, I'd heard on the radio something about limited time menu items featuring Sweetwater beer. I am not a fan of the Sweetwater beers I've tried. They've been a little weak, the pale ale a little too pale, and indeed ... sweet. One day I'll write about the Meateterian's drinking habits. But today, I present you with a beer that I may not drink, but I'll sure as heck eat.

Taco Mac's 420 Fish & Chips.

Sweetwater 420-battered fish and chips at Taco Mac

Now, take this with a grain of salt: I cannot speak for the fish and chips meal at all of the Taco Mac locations. But if you come to the original, I suspect you'll be pleasantly surprised by the atmosphere and the menu items.

According to the manager, Sweetwater 420 is the beer added to these traditional beer-battered fish. Ever since my first trip to Captain D's as a toddler (at the time, my favorite things to eat were the crispy bits of breading), I've had a bit of a thing for fish and chips. The fact that fish are now found in sandwiches and tacos only expands my excitement. These fish and chips were GOOD. The breading is light, a little peppery and crunchy. The fish itself was nice and flaky -- I did forget to ask whether it was fresh or frozen, but it tasted fresh -- and had a good meatiness to it. Fish and chips that are soggy or heavily breaded or don't have the right fish (meaning the fish falls apart) may have good flavor, but are not worth your time to eat a fish stick with a fork. Thankfully I was able to eat these with both my hands, and even better, they weren't really greasy.

The slaw that comes on the side of this meal isn't half-bad. Slaw is a great side for fish because it's light, has a good crunch and adds some color to a brown plate. My only qualm with this slaw was the flavor. I liked that instead of strips of cabbage and carrots, these were thinly diced (which had a good texture, like a crunchy couscous) and the veggies weren't drowning in Duke's mayonnaise. However, and this is mostly because I've gotten really into slaw other than coleslaw, it tasted kind of bland in comparison to the fish that starred on the plate. I feel like there's room for improvement.

Bottom line on this one, folks, don't judge a book by its cover, a flavorful beer batter by its sweet liquid counterpart or an original location by its chain compadres. Come to the original Taco Mac, join Brewniversity (Athens folks, it's like Pauley's, but you have an app that tracks your beers instead of a card) and eat these fish and chips before they're gone off the summer menu.

Photo cred: Jailhouse Brewing

Boozy Bonus!

Because this is a post about Taco Mac and I did mention Brewniversity (of which I am a proud student), this blog would  not be complete without a beer mention.

Our waiter recommended Jailhouse Mugshot. Jailhouse Brewing is a Georgia brewery located in Hampton, a little southish of Atlanta. I like hoppy and flavorful beers. I like supporting Georgia breweries and distilleries (as long as their products taste good). Mugshot is hoppy and flavorful and from Georgia. The website says it pairs well with pizza and sharp cheddar cheeses, but it also pairs well with beer-battered fish and chips.

Mugshot is an IPA, which can come off as either bitter all the way through or end with a bitter aftertaste, but I enjoyed that this brew presented with bitter and finished with a warm sweetness. It was also light, a good thing when you're eating anything fried.

Don't Croak Before You Croque

If you know me in real life, you know I'm kind of a sandwich fiend. Mostly because pretty much anything can be a sandwich.

Case in point -- this is what qualifies ingredients to become a sandwich:
1. Two pieces of bread
2. Bunch of stuff in stacked in between

I would say the third qualification is that you have to be able to hold this stack of ingredients between two pieces of bread in your hands while eating, but then I'd be lying.

Because of "The Croque."

Nope, that's not a breakfast. The croque madam at
Manuel's Bread Cafe in North Augusta,
South Carolina, served with side salad

You see, because in addition to giving us the French baguette, the French croissant, the French macaroon, the Eiffel Tower, French poodles and (quite arguably) the French fry, the lovely people of Pah-ree also gave us this thing called the croque-monsieur. This, magnificent friends, is a sandwich eaten not with hands, but with a fork.

Granted, you could probably eat it with your hands, but I recommend you not. You'll see why in about two paragraphs.

According to the super-reliable Internet source Wikipedia, the croque-monsieur originated in Parisian cafes, appearing on menus circa 1910. It's a ham and cheese sandwich, for all intents and purposes, but just as the French make fashion and food upscale, Paris couldn't have "a ham and cheese sandwich." They upped the ante and topped it with bechamel sauce.

Bechamel is flour, milk and a fat (butter and/or bacon fat, for example) turned into a thick gravy-like roux. This is why you might should be fancy and use a fork when eating a croque-monsieur.

In Evans, Georgia, which is where I found myself this past weekend (it's the good ol' stompin' grounds), there is only one place to find this delicacy: Manuel's Bread Cafe in Hammond's Ferry, a quaint little neighborhood in North Augusta, South Carolina. Not to be confused with North, South Carolina, or Augusta, Georgia, because both of those exist too, but that's for another time.

Here's the thing about Manuel's. Manuel Verney-Carron is French. (And cute, if you ask my mother/aunt/grandmother/etc.) So you KNOW you are getting authentic French and French-inspired food in his kitchen. Add to the fact that more times than not Chef Manuel is the one behind the counter cooking a portion of your food and you are in for a treat.

The magic moment of piercing a fried egg; its yolk
blending into the herbed bechamel sauce

The Croque, my cousin Rachel's name for this sandwich, is one of many incredible dishes at Manuel's. I've been to Manuel's a number of times, but only recently beheld a croque of my very own. This weekend I decided to try one of Manuel's specialty croques (check the board when you walk in for these!) -- the croque madam. The madam is a croque-monsieur topped with a perfectly fried egg, meaning that the magic moment your fork touches the sandwich, the bright yellow yolk bursts and the herbed bechamel mixes with its savory goodness to make a silky roux.

Everything about the madam was magnificent. It started innocuously enough, as I watched one of the line chefs stack thin slices of sweet Black Forest ham and Swiss cheese between two oblong slices of sourdough. She swiped both sides of the sandwich in butter and tossed it on a grill. Meanwhile another cook mixed up my side salad. This wasn't your run-of-the-mill iceberg lettuce with dressing side salad. This was a spring mix, diced red onions and tomatoes, coated in housemade vinaigrette. I don't like salads, but this salad was bright, colorful and really, really good. You can't go wrong choosing either the side salad or the fries at this place, honestly.

The croque madam made its way to the plate and was topped with a generous ladleful of bechamel. Be still, mine heart. We sat at the bar (this place gets packed Saturdays for lunch, and Sundays for brunch, so be forewarned) so I could see right across to the warming plate where our food was getting ready to be served. And then, the crowning glory, right before this plate of pure Parisian heaven was brought out in front of me.

Trust me when I say I cut that sucker into the tiniest bites possible because I wanted to savor every mouthful.

There's not much food that can't be added to by laying a fried egg on top (pimento cheese sandwiches, Steak 'n Shake burgers, hot dogs from Blind Pig Tavern, for starters). Rachel, who does not eat eggs (or shrimp, or a random host of other foods) was tempted to eat a bite of the bechamel-egg-croque concoction and gave it a positive review.

I think that speaks for itself. Clearly, this is one sandwich you should add to your bucket list, even if you do have to eat it with a fork.

** Bonus foodie tip: Manuel's also has fab desserts and breads. If you get there early enough, you can find them at Augusta's Saturday Market on the River. They're the booth on the corner closest to the Cotton Exchange building! I recommend chocolate croissants (they heat up nicely too for a coffee-time snack), the Mediterranean loaf and the pizza loaf. Hamburgers and fries at the restaurant get a thumbs up too.

A Mat-So Good Soup & Sandwich

Outside The General Muir at Atlanta's Emory Point

Tonight, I crossed "ate matzoh ball soup" off my bucket list.

Outside of New York City, I'm not sure there are many places in America -- much less in the South -- where one can find authentic, homemade matzoh ball soup in a restaurant, especially matzoh ball soup that gets the approval of my Jewish heritage boyfriend. But the matzoh ball soup at The General Muir at Atlanta's Emory Point not only was a mouth-watering first experience with this food, it also got a thumb's up from Justin.

As I sat and sipped on this simple, flavorful appetizer (which in my case was more of a side dish, because I got it with a sandwich ... I'll get to that later), my eyes wandered around the restaurant. I took in everything that read old-school New York: the industrialized green steel beams adorning the ceiling; minimalist black and white tile on the wall and floor; the deli counter overflowing with breads and cakes and pastries. And bagels, of course. The design of The General Muir is so simple that, instead of diners being distracted by pictures and centerpieces and watching the kitchen staff, you focus instead on the food. In fact, my glance about only took a few seconds, and then I was back to another spoonful of matzoh ball soup.

Now, granted, I don't have a basis to compare this soup to. To all my Southern readers with a similar previous experience in the realm of traditional Jewish delicacies, matzoh ball soup is like chicken 'n' dumplings, except without chicken and instead of thick, biscuit-y dumplings soaking up the broth, the carb is a ginormous fist-size ball of matzoh.

Matzoh, by the way, is a non-fermented bread made from water and either wheat, rye, oats, barley or spelt. Since I'm just starting The Meatetarian Eats, I did not get a chance to schedule an interview with the chef and find out exactly which of these grains is turned into matzoh at The General Muir, but maybe one day I'll get a chance to do that. I mean, he's been nominated for James Beard awards. Like, hell-O, I would have to be deaf, mute and blind to not want to talk to him!

Clockwise from top: The Last Word, an incredible pastrami
sandwich and a bowl of matzoh ball soup

So, anyway, matzoh ball soup at The General Muir is a massive ball of this matzoh bread that has soaked up a light, buttery, savory broth scattered with scallions and dill. There are a few diced veggies in there, enough to add flavor to the broth (carrots, onions, celery), but the focus is on the matzoh. I liked that. I absolutely hate it when you get a soup and expect it to be full of good stuff (read: pasta, meat, savory flavors) and instead there's an abundance of potatoes and vegetables. This was my kind of mix. And the dill added a nifty depth to the flavor profile, so it wasn't entirely savory flavors.

The soup was a great complement to my sandwich. If you go to The General Muir before 7:30 during its dinner hours, you have the option of ordering an Early Bird Special. Thus, like any good 25-year-old who's secretly a senior citizen, I opted for the special and got my bowl of soup with a half sandwich for 12 bucks.

And I kinda sorta maybe a LOT wish I'd gotten a whole sandwich.

At dinner, your sandwich choices are pastrami or corned beef. With pastrami, you can add liver for an extra dollar. The reuben was not an option for the special, so I went with pastrami on rye with liver. SUCH a good decision, guys. 

The architecture of this sandwich was pretty perfect. You know when you go to a restaurant and the whole sandwich is basically six inches of bread and then two pieces of meat and some lettuce in the middle? This was not that. The pastrami sandwich wasn't very big. It had nice, thinly sliced pieces of rye that were so tasty, but because they were skinny gave me a chance to taste what was inside the sandwich.

Unlike a lot of deli sandwiches, instead of getting one-sixteenth-inch shaved slices of pastrami, The General Muir is generous: You get two to three slices of quarter-inch thick slices of pastrami, the size you'd imagine a fancy restaurant slicing off of a prime rib served tableside, that absolutely fall apart in my mouth. I'm pretty sure that's the reason they sliced it so thick; any thinner, and the meat would disintegrate into savory beefy goodness. It had a nice peppery crust to it and what I suspect a housemade spicy dijon spread on one side of the bread. The good kind of dijon, with mustard seeds that get stuck in your teeth.

On the other side of the bread is a thick slab of liver pate. Another thing to cross off my bucket list.

Um, I would go back and just get the liver pate.

On a bagel.

On an everything bagel.

It was that good. 

Not overly salty, a tad sweet, but with this delicate texture and flavor balance that melded so perfectly with the smoky cured hue of the pastrami and the sour and spice of the bread and mustard. I mean, this sandwich with the liver could knock everything off the taste bud list: sweet, sour, salty, umami. Yes, I threw in umami, like a "true person who pretends to know everything about food." 

Bitter came a little from the pepper, but a lot from the drink I had. Originally I was going to be a "good food critic" and drink just water to cleanse my palate between bites, but then I remembered I am not a food critic, I'm just a chick who likes to eat and likes to write and doesn't get paid for it, so what the hell.

I will say that The General Muir is awesome and brings you a frosted glass bottle of water for you to pour at the table, which is a rustic element that I liked in this industrial setting. But water was not as good as the booze. In true New York fashion (or, at least, being a not at all native New Yorker with only a vague, Hollywood-inspired idea of what New York fashion is), I got the Prohibition-inspired drink on the menu. To me, this epitomized a New York Jewish deli experience: a deli sandwich, matzoh ball soup, and something that at one point was probably illegal.

"I'll have the last word," I told our waitress.

The Last Word, which was pretty fun to order, is not on the online menu, so sadly I don't remember at all what went in it. I do recall that it had gin, which I don't like, and sweet and sour flavors, which I do like, so I decided to be adventurous. Hashtag worth it.

This beverage came served in a quaint stem glass, which served only to bring up more 1920s New York images to my mind. It was a light mint color, had some carbonation and a dark cherry floating in the bottom. It wasn't sweet or sour or bitter: just a pleasant combination of all three. It wasn't a drink that I wanted to take down all in one swallow (too strong), so I was able to sip it in between bites of sandwich and slurps of soup. 

I can see why this place is on pretty much every top Atlanta eatery list. Highly recommended, and the prices are pretty reasonable. Now the key is going to be waking up early to go get that bagel I was talking about earlier before work this week ...

The Edgewood

Disclaimer: Theoretically my boyfriend-roommate J and I eat out once a week. Since I started this blog, my plan was to eat out once a week. Like, you know, leave the house and find somewhere cool with food. Well, fun fact, we both get home from work, toss around food ideas if we don't feel like cooking and nine times out of 10 order Chinese food.

This particular night, we "ate out" thanks in part to Zifty, which is a fabulous-yet-quite-pricey delivery service that goes to restaurants, picks up our orders and brings them to our doorstep. For like, a $5 surcharge plus tip, which hurts my soul a tad bit.

But on the plus side, we actually tried somewhere new this time instead of our Chinese, Thai or pizza standbys (which I will also blog about, because there's a reason we get food from them so often. It's GOOD).

We ordered from The Mercantile.

The Edgewood sandwich is a play on a Cuban, featuring ham, Swiss, dijon
and homemade pear preserves. It's equally sweet and spicy and comes pressed.

The Atmosphere: Well, since we didn't eat at the restaurant, the location we did eat at (which was our couch) was quite clean and well-kept. Recently vacuumed and an excellent view of the television. But for realskis, check out the website. The Mercantile is an Atlanta bakery, sandwich shop and family-style meal kitchen that has a weekly menu change plus regular staples. It looks quaint and cute, but probably more of a grab-and-go style locale than a sit-down restaurant. Also, I like the logo. I am a big fan of logos. Yes, I am also that person who judges wine based on their labels. Don't hate.

The Food: I took a gander at The Edgewood, a sandwich inspired by the Cuban (ham, Swiss, banana peppers, mustard). The Edgewood featured dijon mustard and homemade pear preserves. But no banana peppers, which I initially found disappointing, but the sandwich was different enough that I didn't miss them much!

The Flavors: Not too shabby. I enjoyed how intensely spicy the dijon was, actually. It melded quite well with the pear preserves, which was a thick spread without chunks of fruit in it. I also liked that the sandwich was pressed, but I think some of that presentation factor was lost given that we ate it out of a Styrofoam box instead of a pretty plate in a cute little Atlanta shop.

The Verdict: The sandwich was good, but expensive given its small size. It also did not come with a side or drink (chips were approximately $2 a bag). I'd like to check out the restaurant itself, as well as some of its other offerings, but probably won't order this one again from Zifty.

Since I'm willing to try here again, here's a sneak peek at my next choice, The Cabbagetown (all of their sandwiches, by the way, are named for Atlanta-area neighborhoods): Peanut butter, chili paste, raisins, apples, cucumber and arugula. I would also add bacon, because homie don't play vegan very well.

It also appears that The Mercantile has free wine tastings. Yo, who's in?

An Eating Habit.

Some people have a coke habit.

I have an eating habit.

I mean, I have a Coke habit too, but mine comes in either an aluminum can or a glass bottle and will give me a heart attack before it gives me an overdose.

That's the premise for this here little journal o' food: not to serve as a food journal to lose weight (because I may work out, but homie don't count calories); not to provide hoity toity, pretentious reviews of restaurants (I tried that once. Atlanta Magazine didn't hire me); but rather to share my eating habit, try some new food and maybe meet some cool people and chefs along the way.

Let's start with the basics.

Me, with "one scoop" of salted caramel pretzel ice
cream in Anna Maria, Fla., during Thanksgiving.
Photo creds to my mom. <3

I am 25. I live in the Virginia Highlands area of Atlanta. It's a pretty swanky place with lots of character, what my mother calls "Craftsman-style" homes and bookoodles of restaurants and shops and somehow like 17 frozen yogurt igloos all within walking distance of my apartment. Sa-weet.
But with my jobs (I work for a tech company and have Mary Kay and knitting customers spread all over the state), I get to do a lot of traveling. Plus my family is still in Augusta, Ga., (ever heard of the Masters? Yeah, that place), so the Meatetarian goes around the country with plenty of places to check out.

I've pretty much been the Meatetarian since I was born, but I came up with the moniker in college when I started my first blog, not-so-coincidentally of the same name. My background is in ag and science reporting, so Meatetarian is a blog centered around the meat we eat, how it's raised and how it goes from animal to carcass to incredible edible. I decided to branch out a couple of years ago to Meatetarian: Foodish, which was supposed to be recipes with meat and animal-based proteins as key ingredients, but I didn't really cook that much, so we see how that ended up.

And that brings us to this latest venture. I credit all inspiration to my little broski, who bought me this book called Food: A Love Story by Jim Gaffigan. I didn't know who Jim Gaffigan was, but dang y'all, did I enjoy that book. It's a series of essays on Gaffigan (he's a comedian) and his forays into food. It's funny. It's engaging. It got me thinking.

Here's my take with Meatetarian Eats. My eating habit takes me lots of places. It's completely paid for by Mary Kay and knitting profits and the money left over from my real job paycheck after I shell out for rent, gas and those unfortunate things called income taxes.

I hope you enjoy eating with me. Who knows, maybe I'll become a famous writer not through my actual writing, but from my ridiculous musings about insatiable cravings for hamburgers.