In Vietnamese pho soup, beef bones and their rich marrow slowly seep through the simmering stew for hours until the unctuous beef fat gives way to a slick beefy broth that the owners of BP might admire.
Asahi offers long, silky ribbons of the carby starch whose natural curves bring with every spoonful an array of secret flavors lurking on the bowl’s bottom like a Loch Ness monster of flavor.
On the lighter side, there’s Panzerotti that must be Italian for “heart attack.”
Hell, forget Santa Barbara, this place could be in Portland, Maine were not the chicks attractive and wearing the shortest of skirts in mid-November.
The line usually snakes around the vibrantly colored tiled shell of a shack; which makes all the more reason to order a tall, frosty PBR from the open-air bar next door to keep you company while waiting.
This entrée is called Pollo Criollo, and it’s a signature dish of John Hancock proportions.
If Burke-Williams served alcohol with their $100 massages, this would be their relaxing signature.
Decadent and delectable.
The floor-to-ceiling walls are adorned with colorful, peyote-inspired paintings reminiscent of Frieda Kahlo on a margarita binge.