when excess is excessive, hangover cures

Although I generally prefer just getting drunk again, I do enjoy reading about the lengths some people go to to erase the memory of when they erased their memory.

A simple side note: the best hangover "cure" is of course to not drink at all in the first place. The same principle applies to avoiding STDs and pregnancy; just don't get down. And to avoid getting fat? Diet and exercise. So though it just needed to be said, I err on the side of reparation rather than prevention as a fat, slutty drunk. That said, here are my favorites selected and adapted from Travel + Leisure's June 2011 issue.

The Full English Breakfast

Substitute coffee for tea and gravy for blood puddings and let loose on the Full English Breakfast. Taken moments after waking up, the Full English requires lots and lots of protein and fat. Unlike the stateside greasy spoon, you will find carbs only in the form of a piece of toast or two, generously buttered. Here's what you get: ham, poached or fried eggs, piles of bacon, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, baked beans and sausages. Variations abound, so use what you have provided it's meaty and fatty. While technically a big breakfast will do nothing to "absorb" the previous nights excesses, it may induce a bout of sleepiness and you will be fortified for a long, reparative nap.

The Sauna

I have had great experiences with saunas and steam rooms after tying one on a little too hard. The idea is to sweat out the alcohol or something like that, but all it really does is shock your body, waking you up, and making you thirsty for water. The Russians take it to the next level, alternating between sauna and ice baths. Hard core. In the absence of spa facilities, a hot bath followed by a cold shower does wonders. Avoid a massage though. I learned the hard way that a hungover massage leads to uncontrollable vomiting. Unless you're into that sort of thing.

The Corpse Reviver

The ultimate hair of the dog, please be careful: it is said that after the forth corpse reviver, the the corpse is no longer revived. Subject to many variations, my favorite version contains gin, cointreau, lillet blanc, and absinthe. The idea is that essences and herbs from orange, wormwood, anise and sweet fennel are medicinal in some way. I doubt it, but I'll take this rather potent cocktail, served up, over a bloody mary or mimosa any day. My homespun version consists of a shot of Jack Daniels, chased by a beer, then a cough drop. For bonus points, enjoy my version in the shower before you show up 10 minutes late to work.

Menudo

Many cultures have hangover cures, but worldwide three elements are consistent: 1) cures are often soups, 2) cures are very spicy and 3) cures contain tripe. My favorite world hangover remedy is of course menudo (not the band) which harmoniously combines hot spice and tripe in a delicious soup. Call me gross or old-fashioned, but I like how this one works. I prefer it to be so spicy that I can't focus on anything else. Taking your mind off your hangover is sometimes the best you can do. Eating and sexing are my favorite distractions.

Share your favorite hangover cure by commenting or e-mailing thesanchezlsanchez@gmail.com.

i think our waiter is sexy

Unfortunately, a server in the state of Colorado must wear a shirt.

I had my first crush at a restaurant. He indicated that his name was Steven by using two crayons to write his name on the butcher paper tablecloth. He had the sort of smile that did not indicate he was exactly happy, but it always betrayed his interest in you. He made my mom, dad, even Grandpa at ease, and there were no hiccups when my sister excluded every other ingredient from something which probably started out boing, anyway.

It's still there, which is actually saying a lot for anything in Colorado Springs, but it succeeds to this day mostly because it has become a chain:

Zio's Italian Kitchen is a regional concept with 15 restaurants to serve you in Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma, Missouri, New Mexico and Texas with plans to expand to additional locations in the future. 

I knew I was in love when Steven touched my shoulder, asking ever so tenderly if I would like a refill on my soda water. I looked into his eyes and said "yes." He was probably 20, stood no more than five-nine, was quite skinny and wore his standard apron well. He was vaguely ethnic and decidedly not white. His hands were strong like his voice: commanding, authoritative, determined.

At the time I was ordering seafood just to gross out my sister and seem mature. It didn't work. In practice, I ended up eating all manners of squid, oysters, salmon and halibut who had met the long, cold prison of a year-long deep freeze. I never liked the food anyway, but I ate it. At this particular meal I ordered fettucini with clams, knowing at least that no one would ask for a bite.

This is not about that meal. That meal is the one I should have had, years later, with Steven and Mom and Dad and my sister, Grandpa was probably there, and who knows who else.

At least four years after I had seen Steven, I was was busy rehearsing for a play about runaway teens, but not that night. That night I was nervously enjoying carnal pleasures with my new boyfriend Noah who, despite his apparent patience was quite pushy. I was having new experiences all at once, in retrospect much like a weekend in Vegas. All I remember clearly about that encounter was that his butt felt like firm tomatoes.

I was carrying the family's only cell phone, and when I came to and remembered I needed to be somewhere, I found the phone just in time to receive a call from my mom, "Where the hell are you?" she demanded. "Rehearsal," I lied, "we're just getting out." The jig was up though, I should have known not to lie when my mother said "hell," this from a woman who gave me a stern talking-to after I used the word "sucks" to indicate that something or another was no good. I had used the unlikely cover-story of a late rehearsal to ride in Noah's Toyota Camry to some basement in a suburby cookie-cutter housing development, not far from Zio's, where he ate Funyuns before he kissed me.

"We went there and the janitor told us rehearsal ended hours ago. We have been waiting for you at the restaurant." Frightened, nervous, guilty-feeling on many levels, I said I would be right there, but I knew that I was no longer invited to my own birthday dinner. "Just go home. We'll talk about this then." At home I paced, hid under my bed a little, listened to 80's at 8, my favorite radio show at the time, but I couldn't calm my nerves. On top of it all, I was hungry.

There was a talking-to, more lies, a bit of anger, lots of tears and I finally fell asleep fitfully. Waking up around 2 a.m., still excited, confused and very nervous, I found leftovers downstairs in the refrigerator. Someone had only eaten half of their chicken parmigiano and there was some pasta suspended in cold-firmed butter. I sat on the floor, refrigerator door open, and awaited the gentle assurance of Steven asking, "is there anything else I can bring you?"

eatso much, peso little

In the style of the finest hacienda, you walk through the front door looking for señoritas and a little well-lit jardín. Instead you find well-child-licked bars similar to a ride at Disney Land. That is where I had this meal.

Don't get me wrong: inside, there are cliff divers, mariachis, treasure hunts, caves, all-in-all it is a magical place. I've been scared, thrilled, and delighted there. I even got to wear a too-big sombrero. This is a place of sheer childhood delight and I will always love it.

So you go through this cattle shoot past the sign, "Eatso Much. Peso Little." Much like the sign, the food is backlit and offensively punned. Perhaps the only choice you are given is beef or cheese, otherwise it doesn't matter. At the end of this ordeal, you have a hot plate on which beans are indistinguishable from enchiladas from rice from queso. Yes, I asked for seconds. When you sit, enjoying the cliff-side entertainment or the puppet show, your table is equipped with a flag that can slide up and down a simple metal pole, indicating when up that you would like a refried bean refill, more enchiladas, some hot sauce, please, or the sopapillas. My flag went up several times for each.

Sopapillas, a delicacy I have yet to find outside of Colorado or New Mexico, similar to Navajo fry bread, are tortillas cut into triangles then deep fried. They puff up and become fillable with whatever you'd put in a taco or topped with powdered sugar then drenched in honey. The latter is the estilo de la casa, the house style. 

Growing up, my aunt and my grandmother admonished the idea of sopapillas for desert. "Hito, have some more sopapillas with your dinner so you can grow up big and strong like Tío Chito." For grandma, this statement was in earnest. For my aunt, I think she liked watching me eat when she could not, after the stomach staples. 

After dinner, there is a lot to see. As a child, I never remembered the food (save the sopapillas) because I was rushing to the hourly piñata, knowing in advance that my older, stronger cousin in his moon boots and Star Wars tee would be the first to crack the thing open as though he could see through the blindfold. The cliff divers wore speedos. If you solved a riddle you would get a Jolly Rancher. I always thought I would discover some forgotten cave and hide there until they closed down and I could break my own piñata without my cousin, and I could have as many sopapillas (with honey, thank-you-very-much) as I wanted. Having returned, having eaten, having pushed through the crowds, I know now that it is just another strip mall amusement in a run-down part of Denver. I'll go back.

Two Buffets

A lavish Sunday brunch, hosted weekly by a five-star resort. Roast of venison. Elaborate raw bar. Every pastry known to (French) man. Omelette bar with the tall chef hats, and you don't wait in line for very long. And salads, oh, the salads! But I all really needed to say was "ice sculptures."

So that is exactly where I did not brunch or buffet today. That is where Michael's family brunched and buffeted today. I told him to ask questions (mostly about the raw bar, omelette, whether or not there was macaroni and cheese), but all he could get was that they enjoyed the shrimp. And the bananas Foster. The APB is still out about the whereabouts of macaroni and cheese.

With consideration to the best cook we know (who feeds us well), we were obliged to pick arugula all morning at her farm. Since it had been quite a day, starved for food and to more or lesser degrees hungover, we stopped at a place we euphemistically refer to as "The Bar." Since we are often expected at a bar, but we may have no way of referring to the bar without being specific about which bar, "The Bar" has a functional, evasive purpose.

This place, an "all-you-can-eat buffet with over 120 items!" features pizza and a salad bar. It happened to be after church, so fried chicken, nacho bar and mashed potatoes made appearances and because there were so many children, there was rarely a solo appearance. I went wanting to hate, but there was a ladle instead of a scoop in the catsup. Much appreciated.

None of us, even though Michael is a hipster, played pinball.

Who knew? Blue cheese and coffee

It was an accident. I woke up at noon to an annoying phone call from my mom who talked about the weather. Since I was hungover and didn't feel like lunching with Michael, I rummaged through my fridge for something to eat. Luckily, I found a cobb salad I hadn't eaten yet, mostly because I decided to drink a few beers that day after I had purchased carry-out from a local deli.

So there sat a yummy salad with lots of meat and cheese, only a couple of days old. At first I noticed that the blue cheese had imparted a medicinal quality to the then stale bread. I ate it anyway. Since I had recently woken up, I brewed coffee. Lo and behold, after I had taken a few bites of my breakfast, I sipped some coffee and had a serendipitous moment. Coffee - good coffee - with blue cheese is amazing! It is an irreverent pairing for sure, but I want you to try it.

I also recommend salads for breakfast, provided you wake up at noon, hungover.

Letters: Gourmet vs. Gourmand, What to eat

I recently received these letters, and am always happy to respond to your questions. If it is out of my league, I'll defer questions to Michael whose pretense is usually uncalled for but at times useful.

"Dear Mr. Sanchez,

I have been wondering lately about this question that is a problem I have, and can you help me I wonder???

My problem for you today is: Where should I eat? lol. but no really!

Thank you for your kind consideration and sharing of your expertise.

Your fan,
Matthew"

Matthew:

It is my general feeling that eating should be done near or in the mouth.

"Dear Dirty Sanchez,

I'm in an irritable state trying to figure out if I'm categorically a gourmet or a gourmand. In dire need of your help.

Sincerely,

Twinky Cub"

Dear TC:

First off, while "dirty Sanchez" could possibly be similar to a reference to food, I am just Sanchez these days.

A gourmet knows the business end of a caviar spoon. A gourmand knows the business end of a microwave ground beef burrito (and there is more than one!). I consider myself to be a gourmand because I will eat anything up to and including the finest providence of the gourmet with the crucial difference that I am more than happy to take pride in the more widely-consumed and accessible options.

To be more specific:

gour•met

—noun

a conneseur of fine food and drink; an epicure.

gour•mand

—noun

a person who is fond of good eating, often indiscriminently and to excess.

< from the French gourmant, glutton

(ref. Dictionary.com, LLC. Copyright 2011. All rights reserved)

Without more information about your food habits TC, I cannot speak to your specific category but I hope that this simple explanation will be helpful.

We are always accepting questions, although be prepared for a pithy response.

E-mail thesanchezlsanchez@gmail.com to submit your question.