Slurp, Glop, Goo
When food stops being formed and starts getting wet
This week, it’s all about stuff that slid down easy (literally). We also welcome Guest Gulletier, Todd Clayton to the table.
Send Noods
by Todd Clayton1
A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I trekked up to Williamsburg on a Saturday for a matinee showing of Clueless and to order the cold noodle trio from Pusu, a vegetarian Chinese restaurant we’d wanted to try. We sat down and immediately ordered the trio, which—I have to say it—looked very fashion on the menu and was the main draw to the place. Three nests of jade, garnet, and ivory noodles with julienned cucumbers, a side of sesame sauce, and dried chilis. We were through our two appetizers when our waiter returned to our table with the news that the trio was sold out for the day.
On his recommendation and full of disappointment, we swapped in the canton fried noodles. If the trio was NYFW, the fried noodles were weekend errands. This was a humble, everyday dish: a woven basket of shimmering amber noodles with pops of green and red from a chive and pepper garnish. When we jumped in for our first bite, all I can say is umamigasm. These noodles punched way above their weight—piping hot with a perfect chew, layers of unexpected, earthy flavor, and just a bit of kick.
I left not knowing what the trio tasted like, but I was too busy stomping the runway with my new noodle it-girl to care.
Verdict: Let go and let the noodle gods lead.
Name drops: Pusu
Your Teeth Have No Use Here
by Kitty
My friends Herb and Des recently expressed that they were craving Italian. As a people pleaser who’s never turned down gluten, I suggested we head to Il Massimo on Federal Hill to load up. We kicked off the meal with fun cocktails; my blackberry bourbon smash had the biggest, juiciest GMO blackberry garnish bouncing around in it, but that's not even part of the story. We ordered the polpette appetizer - three giant meatballs about the size of a fist that we described almost in unison as "SO MOIST." They melted in your mouth alongside creamy little dollops of ricotta cheese. We all ordered pasta for our entrees, and each dish sailed out of the kitchen looking better than the next. I kept it casual with a bowl of pink vodka ziti that came out so steaming hot I nearly got a facial. Each tiny tube was perfectly lubricated in sauce, making its journey from lips to hips frictionless. It had a peppery kick that I hadn't experienced in competitor's pasta, and I seared with jealousy watching Nick eat my leftovers later that night. Rounding out the meal was a piece of cheesecake fluffier than an early 2000s carton of Yoplait Whips. I repeat, NO NEED TO CHEW. The whole evening felt like a magical experiment by an Italian American Willy Wonka.
The verdict: Wet food win.
Name drops: Il Massimo
So Stew Me!
by Greg
Lately, I've been trying to understand why soups and stews repulse me. The body of supporting evidence I've gathered to date is detailed below:
Chicken soup. Good enough, but you're probably sick.
I worked at a Starbucks Cafe inside Barnes & Noble, and one of my opening duties was pouring the soup du jour out of what looked like an IV bag into a barely washed crock, where it would sit at low heat for 12+ hours.
A dinner on MacDougal Street where my friend Micah ordered borscht. When it appeared on the table, smelling like shit and the color of a 90s leather couch, I felt the room spin.
The long vowel sound—ewww— in soup and stew speaks for itself.
My friend Patrick once told me a horror story about when he was a manager at The Cheesecake Factory and had to present in the test kitchen at HQ. He saw a fly land in a vat of tomato bisque, instantly making him vom in front of a group of trainees. Anything could be lurking in a soup!
Most stew looks like…Alpo?
A reckoning came this weekend when I arrived at a dinner party, and the entree was…beef stew. I had already enjoyed several heavenly meals that the chef, Melissa, had prepared at other gatherings. Was I going to trust her prowess or be a little bitch?
I was gearing up for the old close-your-nasal-passages-and-swallow trick, but as soon as the first spoonful passed my lips, I decided to go with god and let the stew in. Not just into my mouth but my soul. It was incredible. The melange of flavors sang like kisses from a choir of Lady Delish’s angels. I could feel new neural pathways forming. I understood why people claim stew as the perfect winter meal. Slurping it down made me feel warm and…childlike. Alas, the word “hearty” finally made sense. Melissa rounded out this main course with thick, creamy mashed potatoes and a bitter green side salad.
This meal made me realize a new favorite food category: slop. A big wet, savory mess that’s explicitly not soup and is peppered with bits and bobs. Soup may still be on my shit list, but I’m a stew slut now.
The verdict: If the meal converts you, it’s a food win.
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Christian Ort2! See his work here.
Let us know what’s going down your gullet! Drop us a note at putitinthegullet@gmail.com
Todd Clayton lives in Brooklyn with his husband. They don’t have kids or pets or plants, but do have a beautiful spray of dried eucalyptus on their dining room table. He just finished watching The Sopranos for the first time.
Christian Ort is a designer and illustrator living in New York with his dog Rosie. He loves video games, cold weather and the feeling of starting a new sketch book.