Juanita Greenberg's Nacho Royale: Gastronomical Memories

One day you may find yourself in Charleston, SC. It may have been days since you slept in your own bed. Your paradigm for cleanliness may or may not have recently been drastically changed due to your living out of a van for a week. You may be a bit downtrodden and desperately need a bright spot in your life to bring you back from the brink of sanity.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Juanita Greenberg's Nacho Royale.

I found myself in the exact position above and let me tell you, stumbling upon Juanita Greenberg's completely altered my perceptions of the cloudy, humid day and made my life better in the process.

First and foremost, the front window of this place had a giant, lit-up crown. Nothing cheesy or new-fangled, but an approximately 8 foot wide crown studded with 1960s-amusement-park-style light bulbs that illuminated the dreary street around it like a beacon of gloriousness. My friends and I somehow KNEW we were in for a treat. Entering the establishment left me with an interesting impression because it wasn't flashy or ultra-modern (matching the feel of the sign/crown). Not dirty at all, but it seemed that comfort in eating was more important than obsessive compulsive cleanliness...must be a southern thing. I had the inkling that the purpose of this restaurant/storefront was a venue for eating and not much more. Tables with benches lined the right side and a bar with the griddle/cooking materials lined the left. Again, nothing flashy...all business.

With the ambience of the setting taken care of, let's move on the heart of the matter: the food. Now perhaps I'm alone or uncultured on this front, but I never took Charleston, SC as a hotbed for Mexican-style food. I could be entirely wrong or oblivious (not an uncommon thing), but I took this place to be a diamond in the rough. My order would be a grilled chicken taco salad, and before I am ridiculed for my choice of a "salad" at such a locale, let me explain. For one, I had been on a budget and this seemed like the most value for my money. Also, my god was this the biggest, most unhealthy mammoth of a salad I have ever seen. The chicken was perfectly grilled, taco shell appropriately fried & slightly greasy, the lettuce was romaine instead of iceberg. Pretty much everything, down to the tangy corn salsa and sour cream, was pretty much perfect. Tasting a forkful with a sampling of every item in the delicious taco bowl was like thousands of little men high-fiving my taste buds. Glorious.

In the interest of brevity I will say that the four other gentlemen I was with greatly enjoyed their meals as well. Ranging from beef & chicken burritos, tacos and a grilled steak burrito that was called "the best steak I have ever eaten." Hyperbole aside, it was a delicious experience and as it occurred in November 2007, you can see that it has stayed with me for quite some time.
I don't recall the name of the street it was on, but if you're ever in Charleston and want, nay, NEED a burrito or taco salad ask a local where to find Juanita Greenberg's Nacho Royale. I hope to visit there again sometime soon and so should you. (Photo courtesy of http://www.juanitagreenbergs.com/ )

The Epic Burger: A Quest of Questing

Epic is a word that has lost much of its muster. Once used to describe the classic novels, as time has moved from a more analog world full of wonder to a more ironic one full of digital, the idea of epic scope has shrunk. Epics have become adventures, adventures into tales, and tales into fan fiction. It seems that as a culture, we’ve lost that drive. I’ve decided that this summer, my task was to resuscitate it, to bring it back to the forefront.

The idea originally sprung forth from a famous saying that roughly translates to “Living the shit out of that shit“, or carpe diem for all you scholarly Latin dicks( I feel I need to clarify this by saying I have no problem with Hispanics. I find them not only agreeable, but lovely and sassy. I’m merely speaking to those poopheads who study a dead romantic language). I spent much of last summer collapsing my lungs and holing my heart so I could flirt with over-exaggeratingly beautiful nurses. Unfortunately, what I didn’t foresee at the time was that I’d spend most of those sweet summer nights laying in bed, wacked on oxycotin, and watching El Topo (which still doesn‘t make any sense, even under influences). Thus, I birthed the Summer of Kemp. Its thesis lies in a need to live life at its fullest, cramming as much as I would in one summer into two. So, I now hang out on Fridays nights, not just Saturdays.

Thus, if I was to bring it, I’d need something to be brought. All of the great questers had their obsession. Jason and his silly arguing naughts had that Golden Fleece. King Arthur had his holey grail. Joanie had her Chachi. For me, the answer was obvious. It would have to be eye-watering, slightly titillating, and something one’s eyes could not be diverted from. The cheeseburger it was.

My goal is simple. I will find the greatest hamburger Philadelphia has to offer. It must be produced in bar, restaurant, or fine gentleman’s club, It must be delicious, and it must end up in my belly. I know my parameters may be easy, but so am I.

And much like all great epic-seekers, I shall have a merry band accompany me on my many jaunts. Not only will I need their camaraderie, but fodder for those really boring entries where the food was just okay. I will also take side quests, indulging in local eateries that may not serve burgers, but may satiate my yearning tummy with much deliciousness. It’s a dangerous quest, but one I accept with a light belly. Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Signed,
Kemper Herron

Post Script: I feel I need to qualify my remarks from earlier. AGAIN. When I said dead romantic language, I was actually referring to the Romanesque language, not a cynical, despondent view of amor. I love chocolates and roses! Gigglez.

Post Script Script: I realize that some of you reading this may think that I was speaking of the interesting mix of Polish, German and English that a good friend named Roman speaks when I qualified my remarks earlier. Though he’s a lovable European, I was intending to refer to the language spoke in Rome, which was burned by an angry fiddle.