The words have been hard to come by. Do I blame the news or blame myself? I know plenty of people who just avert their eyes. They don’t seem troubled at all. I am the son of a news junkie and cousin of a news legend. That has never worked for me.

Last weekend I went to a wedding in Baltimore. A dear friend’s son married a woman from India. The joining of the families and the cultures was such a joy. It got me to thinking of a time when that was what America stood for. A time before hatred, trumpeted out so biliously, became the word of the day.

In a previous job in a previous life, I wrote these words for Kofi Annan, the former Secretary General of the UN. They were delivered in a convention hall in Accra, Ghana to a roomful of presidents and ministers gathered from all across Africa to advance the cause of ending hunger.

“We walked into this hall as individuals – isolated from one another and unsure of what the path forward might be.

Today we move forward, strongly united and passionately committed to the concrete actions that we have jointly developed.

With our hands on the plow, we will till this beautiful land’s soil together, and help Africa reap a bountiful harvest.

This is Africa’s moment. Together, as a movement, we will feed Africa. And we will not fail!”

I remember working on that speech all night long with Kofi’s aide de camp until the sun rose over the smoky fields outside the hall. We waited for a car at daybreak as goats wandered by on the red clay road.

A few years later, I traveled to the Bokaap district in Capetown, where I was researching a novel I was working on. I took off on the 24-hour journey from JFK to South Africa on Election Eve in the United States. When I landed, the customs agent asked me if I was okay. “Why?” I asked. “You didn’t hear the news?”

In the middle of the night on my long circumnavigation of the globe, Hilary Clinton had been defeated. The era of President Donald Trump had begun.

In Capetown, I took a small room in an Airbnb with a Muslim family who welcomed me with open arms. Our Jewish and Arab identities were why I was there, and during my time as an American far from home, I experienced so much kindness and curiosity about America. It was a two-way street. Complete strangers invited me into their homes to sample their foods and learn their customs.

I still have not finished the novel, but when I think of lying in bed in the middle of the night listening to the call to prayer echoing from tinny speakers across the empty streets, to this day my heart grows fond.

Yet again, America will be litmus-tested in the next couple of weeks ahead. Who are we? Who do we want to be? Strolling through the streets of our nation’s Capital with my wife last weekend, we got into a discussion: where are we headed, where do we want to end up? Instead of scrutinizing our retirement accounts and housing costs, I posed a different question. Forget about the dough and interest rates. What do we think will make us happy?

Maybe as a whole, we should all be asking that. Talk to anyone within 20 years of my age group and you’ll find this profound sense of nostalgia. Yeah, we used to be pretty good. Content. Happy! Is there any reason we can’t be, again?

Always hungry,

Ken

Woke up yesterday morning to great news: the birth of our second grandson, Taylan, who arrived in the middle of our night, in Dusseldorf, Germany. Congratulated my wife, who then took me to the hospital for three hours under the knife for corrective abdominal surgery. Came home, cleared emails, posted a few reviews, and then learned via the Web that, yet again, my so-called genius was not rewarded by the maestros of MacArthur. Damn! We could have used a cool $800k at Beyondish. Oh well, tant pis. I am back at work. We soldier on.

Perhaps you have noticed the glaring lack of ads at Beyondish. Couple that with our never-ending quest to land that BIG corporate sponsor (Hello Hampton Inn, we’re talking to you), and you may wonder how we’re still in business. Me too. It’s not for lack of trying. We love our product. We love our writers. We still believe we’re the fastest way to a great meal, with the added benefit that our reviewers are real, their reviews are really good, and we do not need to invest in AI-detection software to ferret out the phony. We have that. You’re reading him right now.

People ask me why continue? Three reasons really. Love what we do. Believe that we’re still a unique proposition in a glutted food review universe. And, our journalism!

Getting wired up in pre-op yesterday, a fabulous nurse in purple heart-shaped glasses asked me out of the blue if I thought we were living in a charitable world. Great question! I told her about Beyondish and how our whole raison d’etre was that we believe the sharing of food at the table makes this bungled-up planet of ours feel just a little better. She proceeded to quote to me from Matthew 7:12 – “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Amen.

We recently ran THIS STORY entitled “Young Heroes Changing the Future Through Food.” One of these Gloria Barron Prize high school winners, pictured below, founded a youth volunteer group called Food Recovery Alliance, that harvested 9,000 lbs. of produce valued at $32,000 and distributed it to people in need. We vote for her. And her fellow high school grantees, because they get it.

For the naysayers who think I should throw in the towel, sorry, no. Someone has got to keep telling these stories, as well as running reviews for the hard-working army of small business restaurant people who keep us fed, entertained, and smiling through it all. If that’s our contribution to solving life’s bigger problems, we’re going to keep at it.

If you get even a small lift from what we do, please subscribe to Beyondish. It really makes a difference.

And if that doesn’t work for you today, please share us with a friend who loves food and cares about supporting small local businesses. Every review that gets read helps put butts in seats.

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We appreciate you! I am adding some of our best Giving Back links from ON THE DISH, below. Let’s have a great and positive week.

Always hungry,

Ken, Editor-in-Chief, Beyondish

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Good morning friends & readers! I know I have hung my reviewer cap on the idyllic back roads of the U.S. of A. And we have been steadfast – NO reviews in LA/NY because your stalwart (read: stubborn) editor thinks there is absolutely nothing new to add to the food and folklore of these two over-covered dining destinations. So what’s the deal? Well, two things. One: I did travel to get to this place. All the way from the Village to Hell’s Kitchen!! Two: This meal was so over-the-top tears-down-my-cheeks good that I had to write about it. So here goes.

Yes, I had vaguely heard about Uncle Rays Chicken Rice in the countless food press postings that cross my desk. It made lists. Respected bloggers waxed poetic. It did that mysterious thing that all restaurant owners hope for – it started to appear everywhere. That’s not why I went. Rather, it was the consistent description of the aromatic chicken rice that got my tastebuds to wandering.

Uncle Ray’s traffics in traditional Hainanese food (think Singapore street hawkers). I was informed that the poached chicken was the dish to try. But then others suggested going both ways and doing the poached AND roasted chicken. Glutton for punishment that I am, I could not say no to The Trio, adding in the chewy Char Siu as well. My review?

Save a bit of the fragrant soup broth for later dipping. You only get a fork and spoon and that’s okay, because both chicken servings are so tender you could cut them with a smile. Probably didn’t need the Char Siu, which did not stop me from devouring every bite!

The rice is, as advertised, a 30,000 foot journey through the culinary clouds. The fowl is so juicy I am salivating just thinking about it. And not that it needs a drop of help, but the three sauces are crazy simple and insanely good: a tangy chili, bold ginger, and an umami soy that I would use on breakfast cereal if I could find a bottle. I dipped lightly so that each bite was enhanced, not transmogrified.

The space is classic 9th Avenue hole-in-the-wall, clean, but barely can seat a dozen. The chefs are the servers, owners and recipients of your gushing thanks when you pay. A closing note of the highest praise: I got there after the lunch takeout rush and was informed it would be a half-hour wait before their next round of food was prepared. That did not stop every seat in the place from filling up.

Always hungry, Ken

Just in case you’re not in Hell’s Kitchen…

Our ace reporter and foodie scribe Nicolette did a deep dive with an incredible new Argentinian burger chain taking root in South Florida. From the looks of it, they might be migrating north sooner not later. Have a peek.

As a child, there was little better treat on a Sunday morning than for my dad to announce that we were piling into the car for a trip to The Pancake House. Our particular venue was the original Bickford’s on Central Avenue in Scarsdale, NY. Long gone, it was a glass and retro building with sharp angles and large windows, always crammed full of people enjoying an array of breakfast treats, including the phantasmagoric “German pancake” that you had to pre-order and wait a half hour for it to come out of the kitchen risen like the Phoenix and dripping with sweetness. There was always a line to get into Bickford’s and I can still remember shuffling between my brother and sister pining for that first buttery bite.

The current version in my multifaceted life is Walker Brothers, the original in Wilmette, IL, where the penultimate scene of Ordinary People with Timothy Hutton and Diane Manoff was filmed, and as recently as last month, we (the Chicago branch of the family) queued up for the usual gut-busting feast that always concludes with their apple pancake. I generally need to repose like a python post-wild boar for at least three hours before I can even move again.

Walker Bros, Wilmette, IL

Labor Day weekend my wife and I disappeared to the Outer Banks of North Carolina (OBX) where we oceanfront hoteled it for a few days, mostly hiding from the 97-degree heat and humidity that made even sitting by the pool unpleasant. On a Starbucks run to the main drag that inexplicably has more box and burger chains than an LA boulevard, we stumbled upon “The line.” That telltale queue that shouts CHECK THIS OUT! So, the next morning, with the black flies swarming on the beach and thunderheads already piling high on the horizon, we did.

Yes, we made a whole new bunch of friends while we waited to order. One even looked me up and might have signed up for my Substack because I guess they don’t get that many “famous writers” at Stack ‘Em High. And yes, even though we swore to go easy, we still ended up with so much delicious food that they nearly had to wheel us out at closing time, which by the way is 12:30 p.m. promptly.

I don’t know of any advertising that draws a crowd better than a line out the door. And I can’t remember ever having a bad meal where friendly people are patiently waiting their time to dine. Chatty waitstaff, good vibes, great food? Please, dear friends & readers, tell me where in your town can we find a place like this? It feels like a Beyondish pubic service to share that news.

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Always hungry, Ken

And while you are down here…

The clerk at our hotel told me that climate change has had such an impact on the region that they are drawing large and larger crowds in the fall season when the suffocating temps (and black flies!) have made a merciful exit. We actually had several fantastic meals during our visit. I’m putting a stake in the ground for this one.

Locally Caught Tuna at The Saltbox Cafe, Kill Devil Hills, NC

I awoke from a long nap thinking of dead people. My Dad, who loved the road and hung in there until he was 95. My Mom, who died recently and clung to life unhappily until her last breath at 96. My mother-in-law, who also passed recently but let go when she knew it was her time. And my brother, who left us way too young, who also knew it was time and played it his way until the end.

Thoughts of all of them were rattling around my brain at the end of a 700-mile drive when I had to pull over to avoid killing myself, having gravely miscalculated the last bit after an eye-popping day exploring much of Arkansas and Missouri on the back roads. I never map on my phone and notoriously do not want to know what time some satellite says I’ll be arriving at my destination. I navigate by direction and sunset. “Rerouting” is my middle name. On this particular meander I miscalculated the weather, which slowed traffic down to a 20 mph crawl, as well as the distance between St. Louis and Chicago. It was 300 miles, not 175. Whups.

People talk about their happy places. Based on Instagram that would be Cape Cod, Maine, or Sicily as August winds down. It seems as if everyone is there. I’d be happy there too. But something comes over me when it’s nothing but me and the road. I listen to country music, crop reports, and minor league baseball on the AM dial. Often I’ll go 100 miles and realize I’ve had the radio off and the windows open for the past hour and a half.

I used to gorge on strawberry Twizzlers and jalapeno potato chips, Charleston Chews and Teriyaki beef jerky. Anything to fight the old urge of lighting up in a rented car! Now I hold off on the junk food, craving my next meal. The hungrier I get, the longer I’ll go without stopping. That’s when my mind wanders and all those hopes and dreams filter in. The unpublished novel. The cottage by the lake. A stack of green wood waiting to be chopped. A line in a song that has me longing for more halcyon days.

You awake from your nap, you ease the car back onto the interstate. The steady stream of oncoming lights, the hum of the engine. The bump bump bump of the uneven asphalt. The glow of the dashboard, the wheel in your hands. For a moment the night stretches on bursting with optimism. You know this. You got this. You are in control.

Always hungry,

Ken

Where we do and do not go at Beyondish

Since our founding, we made an editorial decision to skip NY and LA, the logic being that there was too much food media in those cities and there was nothing new we could write. Somehow that policy bled over into Chicago and that was probably a mistake. So without further adieu, we dip our Bear-soaked toe into the Windy City waters with this review of the now-fabled dish.

Italian Beef, Chicago, IL

These grilled peppers are not sourced from an organic farm in a bucolic valley near a precious restored industrial Hudson River mill town. The olive oil was not lovingly cold pressed by an old man with 20 trees on his plot near Puglia. The tomatoes were not nurtured by seed from the raised garden at my Vermont weekend getaway cottage. The provenance of this delicious salad? Giant Foods supermarket in Columbia Heights, a decidedly DC inner city neighborhood. The bits of char off the grill, an excess of salt, and a generous amount of evoo make this about as delicious per bite as anything I have cooked all summer.

My cooking prowess is as average as any backyard chef. The chicken below is still providing me culinary, lip-smacking joy, even if it did come in a shrink-wrapped package for the insane price of six bucks for eight drumsticks. Not fair to the fowl, but there are plenty of folks (myself included), who simply cannot afford the price of properly raised or grown local farmstand products.

I mention this because as much as I adore reading all my fellow Substack food writers, this time of the year there is a tendency toward self-satisfied complacency. Sadly, my vintage F-150 pickup truck is not loaded with sacks of bursting ripe tomatoes from the Amagansett farmers market. Sure we all aspire to be Ina. How many of us can???

With that in mind, may I call your attention to our plucky home chef, Victoria, whose next installment of Cooking with Victoria runs this week. She just returned from volunteer harvesting grapes and home chef-ing in the wilds of Provence. Believe me, one look at her posts and you’ll be thinking about moving to France. But what she brings to our pages is a charming one-to-one relationship with the simple foods of her home island–Nantucket.

There are currently 14,656,910 cooking videos circulating on Instagram, TikTok and YouTube. Why watch Victoria’s? Because she drops things. She burns herself. She cusses and makes funny faces. Everything doesn’t come out picture perfect. But one look at a VP recipe and you’ll find yourself both hungry, and thinking, “Hey, I can do that!”

August can wreak havoc on your beach-starved soul. If you spend too much time on your phone (and who doesn’t?!!), you might find yourself thinking: Everyone is somewhere better than I am, and they’re all eating the most fabulous foods that don’t look anything like what I’m having. I encourage you to give Victoria a chance. You’ll feel so much better about yourself, and you might just get a smile and a good simple recipe out of it.

See Victoria’s latest HERE.

Peruse the entire Victoria Collection HERE.

Always hungry,

Ken

Trivia! By car, how many Midwestern states can you traverse in a single day? When one thinks of those long endless stretches (Nebraska east to west anyone? Texas? Holy cow!), the answer might surprise you. 5! Count ‘em, five. IA, MO, KS, OK, and AR.

This knowledge came about because of my unique obsession with perusing the back roads, as well as my dependence on a Rand McNally Atlas instead of any kind of phone mapping technology. On this long day’s journey into night, I was headed north-south, and mostly stayed off the interstate, instead meandering down Iowa Highway 85, Kansas Co. Road 146, and Oklahoma Rte. 25. I am a curiosity whenever I pull into a coffee shop for a break. Not many people lugging a dog-eared atlas around these days. I find the pages intoxicating. How much can you see in one long summer’s afternoon?

I drive by instinct with no set plan, following the sun rather than a clock, and only aiming my wheels toward an end destination when the light has faded from its last dusky purple usefulness. I often find myself navigating off of a dirt road past fields of corn and inquisitive cattle as I seek the higher ground of civilization–meaning someplace with a gas station, a Hampton Inn, and somewhere to get a late-night bite. My phone comes out for an instant: “Bars Nearby.” On this particular eve it guided me to a whisky and steak joint in a strip mall with a handful of pickup trucks in the parking lot. I wandered in to explore.

A table or two had a few straggling old-timers packing up their losses. I ended up, as I often do, alone at the bar. At least there you can strike up a smattering of conversation with the barkeep, while keeping an eye on any sport that crosses the TV. I ordered my usual, scotch on the rocks, house is fine. 14 hours on the road leaves your body humming. I was waiting on my second round when a couple sidled up next to me. They were brown-skinned, Mexican I assumed, and they clearly knew the bartender. They ordered up an inordinately large heap of food, and an appetizer. I felt the hunger pangs starting. “How late is the kitchen open?” I asked my server, another one of my great conversational gambits. About half an hour. I dug into the menu.

It was too late for a steak dinner and their selection of pastas, which is what I really craved, was too much. Shrimp in a cream sauce over ziti was not hitting any chords. It seemed I was well on my way to the de rigueur wings when the couple next door’s appetizer arrived. Pan fried pork dumplings. Ten of them! They looked and smelled delicious. “I’ll have what they’re having,” I told the bartender.

“Here, try one,” the man next to me said. “They’re really good.” Nahhh, thanks, that’s okay. “Seriously! Take the whole order.” Excuse me?!! “They’re free. We ordered dinner for our four boys and the dumplings were on the house. We’re not even hungry!”

So what happens when you travel alone in the middle of America and sit down at a strip mall bar 30 minutes before closing? You meet the proprietors of a Mexican food truck who just put in three shifts across town, served hundreds of tacos and tamales, and are grabbing food for their hungry kids. You learn where they came from, how they started, and how gas and grocery prices are affecting their day to day lives. Two years ago I might have asked to see their truck, take some pictures, maybe even do an Instagram reel. Today? No way! Their skin is brown, the administration has suspended Temporary Protected Status, and roving ICE raids are back on the rise. How fast a congenial encounter could become cloaked in a wave of suspicion. Of me!

I offered to buy their round of Cokes and they declined, laughing. “Well at least let me take care of the tip on your take-out?” Their sack of food arrived and we all shook hands. “Have a blessed rest of your trip,” they said as they exited. I left the bartender thirty bucks on a twelve-dollar tab. I walked out into the gaslit black night thinking, no matter how dark our current climate, look to the people. There’s still plenty of goodness left in this beautiful country of ours.

Always hungry, Ken

Out on Highway 200 in far western North Dakota, where the road rises up uninterrupted except for towering cumulus clouds and the occasional grain elevator, I met a person called Loman Goetz. Loman is not so easy to find. You need to scrunch on the brakes at the only crossroads for 20 miles, rumble over the railroad tracks, and then explore the half dozen blocks of Dunn Center, a hardscrabble town that time seems to have forgotten. The half-block Main street, like so many others across America, is as barren as an unplanted field. I lowered my car windows and cruised the surrounding residential blocks dotted by modest single-story dwellings. I do this a lot when I am driving around, looking for something, never quite sure what.

In the middle of a baking, bone empty street, I passed a white building, a house really, with a sign outside: Secondhand Corner. I coasted on by, nearly not stopping. Then on a whim, I backed up and pulled to the curb. The hours were pasted on the door. The door was open. I walked in.

If like me you have perused the back roads looking for that ultimate vintage find, the perfect antique I-don’t-know-what, then you will understand what nirvana looks like. In this shop, every shelf, every space, every nook and cranny was filled with a scrapbook of my childhood. Clock radios. Stacking bowls. Cigar boxes. Cassette tapes. Manual egg beaters. Baseball cards. Ashtrays. Life magazines. The dimestore treasures of a time long passed, the detritus of what remains.

I wandered through the space in silent awe, finally settling upon a piece of glassware that caught my eye. A juicer, with a faded, taped-on price tag that read $5. I looked around the place. Behind the counter a lone, gentle-looking soul watched me patiently. I brought my treasure up to them and asked about its provenance.

“1950s I’d imagine.”

I was 300 miles from anywhere, with nowhere to be. Of course I started up a conversation with the proprietor, Loman Goetz. We talked about the shop and the weather, North Dakota and New York, and everything in between. I found an old church key at the counter (50 cents) to bolster my purchase. When our transaction was complete, I asked Loman if I could take a picture. A few moments later I was back out on the highway, windows open, hot air whipping through the car, racing towards absolutely nowhere.

It’s been a few years since I met Loman Goetz. I googled the town and its unusual shopkeeper inhabitant. I thought I might find some long article in The Atlantic or perhaps the New York Times about the place. Everything these days seems to have been “discovered.” But no, Loman had nothing but a one line entry and a phone number in the Bismarck classifieds. I thought about calling and following up, doing some research, but I decided not. I didn’t want to know. Maybe I’ll wander back to Dunn Center on my next trip. But for today, I just want to remember the hot emptiness of those billowing skies, the cool musty smell of the shop, and our chance encounter. Loman built something and I happened to drive by. We conducted some business and shared a pleasant chat on a summer’s afternoon. I’m glad we met.

Always hungry, Ken

EDITOR’S NOTE: It is just over a year since I launched this Substack. This is my 62nd column. It is my favorite task of the week as Beyondish lumbers on. Thank you to those of you who have renewed your subscriptions. I hope more of you will. And for those who are along for the journey, please think about it. I’m getting ready for my next big trip. I am not ready to stop. Still searching, K.

If you happened to be in our nation’s Capital for the recent America250 celebration, you might have noticed something besides the Code Purple bad air particulate drifting through the haze. The whole ambience felt like an epic shrug. Add to that the politically tainted US men’s soccer conclusion, a nominating convention in newly candidate-less Maine, and a general malaise I sense from sea to shining sea. This summer seems to be shaping up as the season of “leave me out of it.” Pick your pundits and your medium: it’s too hot, gas costs too much, we’re at war/we’re not at war. The one thing we all might agree on is that we’re sick and tired of disagreeing!

If there was any one motif I picked up on during the 4th of July weekend, it was that we’ve been here before and we need to focus on the positive. Not so easy for a news junkie like myself, but I put down the paper, mixed up a Hugo Spritz, and gave it some thought. I asked myself where the so-called polar opposites we call ourselves, live. And I arrived at an answer. Miles City, Montana! Specifically, the Eastern Montana Fair.

I attended this event a handful of summers ago. I have no statistical data to support this claim, but I might well have been the only New Yorker, the only Jew, and the only registered Brooklyn Democrat walking the fairway alone. No matter, it was as friendly and welcoming as anyplace I’ve ever set foot in America. And what an eye-opening experience it was!

The rodeo was entrancing. You have not seen the heart of this country until you’ve watched a young woman barrel racing atop a galloping horse to the clattering of hooves in a cloud of dust.

As the late day sun faded to dusky blue, the carnival fairway lit up with rides, but it was the sound I remember most, or perhaps moreso, the lack of almost any. The rides provided their mechanical whirring and clanking. Voices carried in the night air. The rodeo barker could still be heard in the distance. But Montana is Big Sky country and that sky swallows up a lot of space. Sure there was laughter coming from folks with beers, the chatter of kids lined up at the ferris wheel, but mostly there was peace and quiet. No one was squabbling about anything. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.

We can no more silence the presses and shut off the CNN than we can kick everyone out of Congress and empty out the White House. The grand American experiment will go on. But as we slouch into the full-on summer months, perhaps it is good advice to pause and reflect on something that gives you joy. The splash of the pool. The bells of the ice cream truck. The squish of the sand under your feet on a morning beach stroll. We can all use a rest and a reset. I remain hopeful for better days ahead.

Always hungry,

Ken

I just read a terrific deep dive on Eater about the impossibility of making an online reservation for dinner of late, especially in New York. The kinds of places I favor in the city generally do not require a reservation (Joe’s Pizza, Papaya Dog, that Chinese joint on Third and 18th). However, I recently gathered my kids, wife, and a dear visiting couple from London at the always-popular Patsy’s Pizza of Brooklyn. I went online for a Sunday 6 p.m. slot and as the Eater story makes vividly clear, drew blanks. There was nothing, and I mean NOTHING, within 3 hours of our appointed rendezvous. So I rolled out the old tried and true method of –calling!– and immediately nabbed a table for eight at 6 p.m. Not only did the person on the end of the phone appear gracious and inviting, but I couldn’t help but notice how many empty tables there were as we enjoyed a fabulous meal and left a hefty amount of revenue on the table. A win for everyone, and it could not have been easier.

You do not have to be a Luddite to read the tea leaves these days: “touch grass,” “IRL,” “phone-free dinner parties.” Apps are not the cure to all of humankind’s ills. Reservations are a good thing – for people who need an assurance that their party will be seated, and the restaurants that relish any way to ensure business and watch costs. But my wife and I, currently ensconced in DC, have found our own version of stress-free joy by simply venturing out to a new ‘hood and seeing what pops up. We have enjoyed really good Friday and Saturday night seats (sidewalk, or prime window real estate) in Adams Morgan, Columbia Heights, and Mt. Pleasant. On the occasions when the wait felt long, we became happy bar people. In fact, that is kind of fun and romantic. Like going on a first date!

It has been suggested to me before that I pursue a Beyondish relationship with one of the major rezzie players, and if I thought that would benefit our users, I’d definitely consider it. But for now, a click on Beyondish gets you the dish, why you should try it, and a phone number and website. We aim to make your day easier, not more frustrating. So Happy Fourth one and all, and here is a sampling of places where I’m pretty sure you will get fed without a hard-to-get reservation.

Always hungry,

Ken

Claudette’s Sandwiches, Nantucket, MA

Summer’s Deli, San Diego, CA

El Caprichoso, Phoenix, Arizona

“Dad. Do you remember the lightning storm in Kansas?” My son recently texted me this, along with a video he shot of the sky crackling electric above Brooklyn during a recent thunderstorm. Did I remember?!!

We were rolling out of Dodge City after a long day of meandering the two-lanes and farm roads in the western part of the state. That’s how I raised my boys following an unexpected divorce when they were still in their single digits. Da-da liked to drive and see America. More than a week or two of day camp in Staten Island was all I could afford. But boy could we find adventure in a rented car with a Rand McNally and nothing but endless hours of daylight to fill. Matty’s older brother Ben had to drop from this trip at the last second, having come down with a monstrous case of strep throat. So it was just Matty and I and 2,000 miles between Park Slope and our intended destination, a camping weekend with friends in Boulder.

That evening, dusk really, we had rolled into Dodge where we found a steakhouse saloon and enjoyed a robust meal and baseball on the TV over the bar. I indulged in a quivering rare slab of prime Kansas beef. I didn’t know Matty was gay back then, but he was definitely skewing vegetarian. I have no doubt mac & cheese was on his menu. After dinner, we had about 60 miles to go to our usual resting place, a Hampton Inn somewhere off the interstate. The sky had turned cobalt blue, nearly pitch dark, his mom’s favorite color, as we rolled west on State Highway 50.

“Did you see that?” We both noticed at the same time. Barely off in the distance over the wheat fields and power lines, the sky was flickering in phosphorescent orange. At first you had to crane your neck, but soon the sky was lighting up like someone was flicking a switch. The show was so impressive that I pulled off to the side of the nearly empty road, our tires crunching to a halt in the gravel. We opened all the windows and listened in silence. No thunder came. The sky show was a celestial display of heat lightning, shimmering waves of eerie energy, occasionally pierced by a voltage streak. We observed in wonder, not speaking, until our reverie was broken by an approaching rumble. I saw the brilliant lights in my rearview mirror and startled at first, until I realized we were parked alongside the railroad tracks. Soon enough, a throaty, Union Pacific three-engine freight train roared by, followed by the clackety-clack of its endless trail of rail cars racing to god-knows-where. It was the perfect exclamation point to our night of sky watching. I guided the car back onto the highway and we headed for our hotel.

Matty came out to me one evening a few years later while we were watching an episode of Law & Order: SVU. The moment was about as momentous as Liv cracking a case. Predictable and satisfying, justice is done. Not so much for Matty, and the LGBTQ community. As the Pride celebration unspools this weekend in New York City, our kids, friends, families and neighbors who once, perhaps, felt the tiniest bit safer, cannot count on these protections any more. It makes no sense to me, because the challenges rippling out from our lawmakers bear no relation to the love and affection for this community I find wherever I travel. I raised my guys in a rented car scarfing burgers and shakes from Marfa, Texas to Rugby, North Dakota. When I boast on them today – an up and coming sportscaster and a gay Brooklyn deejay – I am met, at least on the surface, with nothing but open-heartedness, laughter and a generous dose of genuine warmth.

As Pride segues to the celebration of our nation’s 250th birthday, I refuse to accept that our American values are reflected in misguided shades of algae green and swimming pool blue. Scouring the US this year for Beyondish, I have dined from Memphis to Wichita, Birmingham to Boston, and I am yet to suffer a disparaging word.

So please, go, celebrate Pride, celebrate America, and let’s show our true colors and be proud of both. The Knicks united New York like we have not seen in years. Maybe US soccer will do the same? Regardless of who raises the Cup, wouldn’t it be great to show the world that we really are okay?

Always hungry,

Ken

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Let me synopsize. Lauren Collins, in a fabulous New Yorker article, wrote about a woman in Japan who unspooled this beautiful note, plucked from a bottle that washed ashore where she lived on the island of Ishigaki.

“My name is Jean-Paul Sundström. I am a sailor aboard a merchant marine vessel traveling from Punta Arenas (Chile) to Yeosu, South Korea.

Let us all try, together, to build a better future and a better world—without war, without poverty—where each of us opens our heart to others. . . . The miracles of life are more frequent than we think—this is the key that opens the door to hope.”

The note was in French, of which the woman who found it did not speak a word. However, she befriended a German woman who had moved to Ishigaki and translated it, including Sundström’s address – on the Île de Ré off the coast of France. Several more fortuitous twists and Sundström was located. His hopeful message in a bottle had been drifting aimlessly since 2009!!

When I think of the Île de Ré, I think back on the most fabulous summer vacations raising my boys as a divorced single Dad. I had little in the way of means: a freelance writing career, best friends with a place in the southwest of France, and frequent flyer miles. Somehow, we found our way every August to the coast, where we crossed the bridge, rented bicycles, and rode the length of the Île de Ré, stopping along the way to scarf fresh oysters and dine at a seafood shack at the furthest end in Saint-Clement-des-Baleine. I am yet to find a more delicious plate of seiche sautéed in garlic and oil.

I have France on my mind, as I report that our talented and insouciant island chef, Victoria, has decamped from Nantucket to bring her peripatetic charms to the villages and vineyards of France, where she will be Woof’ing at a variety of organic destinations. I am sworn to secrecy as to her specific itinerary, but if and when she comes up for wine, you can track her here. And if you have not sampled her burgeoning chef-y talent, please give this a look-see. Delight guaranteed.

As summer kicks off in earnest, naturally my mind turns to food. Here in my current digs of DC, where can I find a weathered picnic table covered in Chesapeake blue crabs and smothered in Old Bay? Will I be able to steal away to the Cape for a few days and bury myself elbow deep in Wellfleet oysters? Our apartment is blessed with a rooftop deck and grill, but it’s HOT in DC in the summertime! When will I do “The Lamb?”

These and other pressing culinary questions will be answered in the two much-too-short months to come. But honestly, as gobsmackingly good as summer flavors are, it’s the sights and smells of August that float my boat. The splash of the pool. The bark of the beer guy at The Stadium. Time with my kids at the shore – any shore will do! They call them summer memories for a reason. I’m dreaming of that soundtrack today.

Always hungry,

Ken

Minding the fort at Beyondish

This article is not about food. It is about memory, food’s kissing cousin, because what else so viscerally ties us to our youth?

The above photograph is a close approximation to my age the last time the New York Knicks won the NBA championship. I could not tell you the accurate dates of my 4 kids’ birthdays, but the starting lineup of the ‘73 Knicks tumbles off my lips like the top line of an eye chart. No need to prove it here, but I can still picture the Clyde and Willis posters tacked above my bed in our house in Ardsley, NY. You could order those super 2x3 foot action shots off the inside back page of Sports Illustrated. I still remember the excitement of coming home to my weekly edition of SI in the mail. ‘73 was a very good year indeed.

The excitement in New York is palpable and I have a gut feeling it’s about more than basketball. I just read a Substack by a well-known author who has taken to writing her first drafts on a manual typewriter. School systems are banning cell phones and “touch grass” is a real thing. You cannot read three sentences in any format anytime anywhere without stumbling into a debate about AI. What have we wrought???

NBA fans will hunker down tonight for what should be a fantastic series. Will Mitchell Robinson hit a foul shot? How do you defend a “Wemby?” Can Zohran appoint a co-mayor if Jalen Brunson leads the Knicks to victory? Good luck to San Antonio. They’re not the Red Sox. We can deal. But my heart is in my throat and I’ll be on the edge of my seat buzzer to buzzer this week. Sure we’re craving a championship. A trip back to 1973 wouldn’t be such a bad thing either.

Extremely hungry,

Ken

It is a good question, one I get asked often. Anyone who knows me, knows this is my happy place. Even people who stop and ask me for directions on the street seem to sense it. The photo above was taken at The Cannoli King in Little Italy, following a Chinatown dumpling fest at Nom Wah Tea Parlor.

Here is my review. I would walk the 225 miles from Washington, DC to Nom Wah for their shrimp and snow pea dumplings, and it is hard not to eat three dozen of them. But as great as they are, my achilles Nom Wah heel is for their rice rolls with scallion and cilantro. See below. I rest my case.

There are two reasons we do not post New York City reviews at Beyondish. The first one is easy. There are approximately 17,300 restaurants across the five boroughs. How can anyone purport to recommend just a few? And just in case you look, there are probably 20,000 Instagrammers, multiple dozens of food sites on top of the Big well-known ones, and as many writers reviewing their favorites as there are pizza shops in NYC. It is almost a city mandate, or perhaps a religious calling, for people who like food in New York and live there, to hold forth. Therefore, we made an early decision not to jump into that burrata-fueled fray. We had nothing to add.

The second reason is more personal and can be filed under the personal preferences of Beyondish’s editor in chief, namely, moi! This Sunday, the New York Times will run its fourth annual Best 100 Restaurants in NYC. I, like the rest of this food-crazed city, will scour it like the menu at Nom Wah. However, I will have been to precious few of these establishments because they are too expensive, too hard to get into, or too refined for my pedestrian tastes. Don’t get me wrong. I would enjoy a thousand-dollar Omakase meal as much as the next guy. And just the word Wagyu makes my mouth water (and my wallet weep). But I favor the more mundane, the more approachable, to the hungry masses. So at least for the time being, we leave NYC’s finest to the good people of New York, while we aim our palates, iPhones and writerly chops at all the places beyond the Hudson and East Rivers.

That said, I passionately and enthusiastically encourage you to visit the place where I was born. There is something for everyone. You will neither go home broke, hungry, or disappointed.

Looking forward to a new hole-in-the-wall Thai place tonight,

Ken

Editor in Chief, Beyondish

I think I write our founding story about every third week. Driving cross country with my best friend in 11th grade. Looking for a bite to eat with 6,000 other folks at the AIDS Conference in Durban, South Africa. Talking tacos with the owner/chef of a dive-y Mexican joint at a barren crossroads in central New Mexico! These are real and memorable moments where I could say it all began.

But beyond these visions of culinary Kerouac-ian grandeur, Beyondish is a legitimate business and that has had its stutter start beginnings, too. How about the moment the LLC paperwork popped into my spanking brand new Beyondish email account? Or the day we banked our first check? What about that evening in 2020 when I stared at the TV screen with the rest of the planet and realized that every restaurant in America was about to close because of a virus no one had ever heard of?

Somehow, we survived the coronavirus, and plenty more, and unlike the 95% of start-ups that go bust, we’re still here. Which is why I am beyond proud to have inadvertently noticed the other morning that we published our one-thousandth review. So for those of you who think we’re a Substack column, or perhaps an Instagram site, let me re-introduce ourselves.

Beyondish is a web platform that publishes and shares reviews of local, independent restaurant dishes. One pic, one paragraph, by a real person – all curated by our editorial team. There are no influencer bribes, no expense account freebies, no funny business, no AI-generated slop. Dish reviews are by real peeps with real opinions, and only positive. We leave the snark to others. We’re one click to dining as provided by the locals themselves.

Of course there is a business model woven into the mix, but this column is not about that. It is about the fact that I light up every time a new review pops into my mailbox. It sends a message – the true north that Beyondish is all about – that people still want to go out to their favorite local joints, and a small but loyal cadre of them are willing to take the 5 minutes it takes to write and post a Beyondish review.

A lot has changed since we launched. In fact a lot has changed since last month! About the only constant is that it is hard as hell for restaurant owners to keep their doors open and their walk-ins stocked. The one surefire way Beyondish can help? Keep posting and sharing the reviews and getting folks to come on in. Remember Motel 6’s motto? “We’ll keep the lights on.” Maybe ours should be “We’ll put asses in seats.” Look for it on our new totes, ball caps and tees.

So What’s Good This Month?

Well, start with numero 1,000 pictured above, Dan’s Lobster Spaghetti. Dan is one of our stalwart, talented, traveling food aficionados, posting from all over the US, though he covers his home base of San Diego like a pro!

We’re a sucker for a mouthwatering capture, like this glorious-looking dish, as reviewed by Erica from Louisville.

Kababs, Jerusalem Kitchen, Louisville, KY

We have plenty of repeat reviewers from across the lower 50, but it never ceases to thrill us when a newbie takes the stage, like Jenny from New England, who weighed in with her first dish.

Stuffed French Toast, Millswright’s, Simsbury, CT

Becca up in the PDX not only showcased this beautifully simple sandwich, but also contributes to Beyondish as a food journalist.

Huevo Mutilation, Fried Egg I’m In Love, Portland, OR

And 3,000 miles east and hailing from Boston, we offer food and more pro writing chops from Beyondish On The Dish contributing writer Nicolette Degrassi.

Lumache, Pammy’s, Boston, MA

I could do this all day! Please, visit the pages of Beyondish for genuinely great local reviews from people who really care. And while you’re waiting for a table, take a spin through On The Dish and see what our fab food writers are cooking up. 1,000 is a nice number. But we’re only getting started.

Always hungry,

Ken Carlton

Editor in Chief, Beyondish

When I dream of tequila, it is not lime, salt on my knuckle, and a frontal lobe crushing hangover the next day that comes to mind. Rather, it goes back to one of my old speechwriting trips to Scottsdale, Arizona at a fancy resort where we did a tequila taste testing event and I learned all about Reposado, Anejo, and Joven and all the sublime characteristics that differentiate tequilas. I added Agave mastery to my wish list, along with wine tasting, organic gardening, and learning how to two-step. Thus far, none of these missions accomplished!

Not so for lawyer, corporate executive and full-time Mom-turned-Tequila CEO, Mara Smith. Smith took her professional chops and a hankering for a smoother adult beverage and converted it into a company, Inspiro Tequila. I know plenty of people who want to start a line of baked goods, sell jam at a farmstand, or open a bookstore. Starting a booze-based company? That’s a leap above.

Please read about Mara and her journey at Beyondish’s On the Dish section. We rake the back roads gravel looking for food stories that mostly have not gone mainstream yet. Curious about sea salt production in Massachusetts? We’ve got that. Mouthwatering Vermont local cheese? Sure! Maybe you’re thinking about going crabbing in Charleston! Who knew? We did! I literally jump for joy when one of our intrepid journalists brings us a quirky lede. And may I add, if you’ve got one in your neck of the woods, please click reply. Hungry, inquiring minds want to know.

On another topic, I may need new reading glasses I spend so much time scrolling through fellow scribes and foodies’ Substacks. A lot of them cover familiar ground. Ramps in spring, tomatoes and corn in summer, zucchini abundance come September. Etc. Not always ripping with surprise. My good friend Chef John Delucie has other plans. I get no kickback from Substack when I say READ THIS. His words and observations pop like garlic in a hot pan.

Lastly it’s been a while, so allow me to make my bi-monthly plea: if you can spare the dough for a paid upgrade to your Beyondish subscription, trust me, it will be my favorite email notification of the day. THANK YOU!!

Always hungry,

Ken

What’s New and Delish on The Dish?

The usual offering of various dishes from around the country – one photo, one paragraph – submitted voluntarily by our amazing reviewers who have real names and real links. No fake food here. What’s on this week?

Read more

“Aujourd’hui, maman est morte.”

Race not for your French/English dictionary. As every writer (or lit student) worth their salt knows, this is the first line of Camus’ The Stranger, and for those of us who have spent a lifetime playing with words, it is a line and a day you spend your whole life waiting for. Yes, indeed, my mother died, not today as the quote infers, but last week, at the amazing age of 97.

Of all the photographs I have been collecting for a Memorial Wall, one might ask why I chose this shot of her getting smooched by an old (and sadly, long deceased) high school friend. Well, several reasons. One, it is a rare shot of my mother with a beer in her hand. Two, it is a rare photograph of her being playful. Mirth was not her strong suit. And lastly, and most germane to this column, I can trace this snapshot back to the founding of Beyondish! For you see, in 11th grade, my buddy Larry and I convinced my mom to loan us her car for the summer to drive across America – a trip that encompassed 10,000 miles of back roads travel and left us both with a lasting passion for two-lane highways and a good grilled cheese.

My mother taught me a lot of things, some that even stuck, like her recipe for meatballs that as a grownup I re-interpreted as “steak tartare” and prepare to this day.

In the closing years of her final act, there was a lot of loss – too much – between the passing of my dad and then the tragic death of her firstborn, my big brother. No parent is supposed to recover from that and I doubt she ever did.

97 years might be too long to live. She lay silent, eyes closed, for many weeks of her ultimate demise. It left me, Monday at the gravesite, beginning the process of deciding how I want to remember her. Holding my hand as a 5-year-old at the Leonard Bernstein Young People’s Concerts at Lincoln Center. Her lasagna, of course, my birthday dinner for so many years. Then there was her cross country trip with my Dad and aunt in their 80s, where they had a tire blowout in West Texas that, per Blossom’s version (not my father’s), nearly made them a hood ornament on a westbound semi-trailer out there on the I-10.

I often carry the memory of my Dad shotgun on my road trips, pulling over with me for a great photograph, or an especially inviting diner and a good lunch. I can add my Mom to the back seat now, covering her eyes every time we pass an 18-wheeler. She was a distinct and entertaining presence, one I will never forget.

Still hungry,

Ken

Some lovely pics at this Memorial Page.

As the Passover and Easter holiday weekend is upon us, perhaps you don’t have time to dig into the meaning of the 14th Amendment and birthright citizenship. We don’t blame you. Let the black-robed nine ponder that. Our mind is on, well, yes–fowl. And as a public service, since Beyondish aims to be your cultural go-to as it relates to food, may we first direct you to this SUPERB SCENE from “Little Miss Sunshine?” The headline will become clear and if you have not seen this film, we highly recommend!

Pollos Asados Los Norteños was founded in 2006 as a local fundraiser for a new church in the Mexican town of Nueva Rosita, Coahuila. It segued into a food truck on Rigsby Avenue in fabulous and friendly San Antonio, Texas. Ultimately, it morphed into a family-run community restaurant on a non-descript block, a place you can easily find by following your nose to the open fire roasting grill-loads of marinated chicken out front.

Inside, for well under twenty bucks, order a half or whole chicken and doctor it up with rice, corn tortillas, green & red sauce, grilled jalapena lime, grilled onion–and do not miss the charro beans for an additional buck and a half! Wash it all down with a Texas-sized iced tea, your call, sweetened or not.

You can drive the whole country over and not find a meal as satisfying, delicious and budget friendly as this. If you don’t want to bring the gang to occupy the congenial picnic tables setting inside, they will happily load your pickup truck to bursting with as many chickens and fixin’s as you need.

As we pause to reflect this weekend, perhaps it is worth thinking about what brought us all together in the first place. Remember those words inscribed at the base of the Statue of Liberty?

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”

And eat chicken.

Always hungry,

Ken

In Case You Missed It

Our intrepid reporter and Charleston raconteur Susan Nefzger got down and dirty with the owner/pitmaster of Melvin’s BBQ. You can read about David Bessinger’s mastery of meat at our On The Dish section.

One for the Road

If you happen to be passing through the Louisville area before or after your Easter repast, this sandwich at “The Deli” has earned a distinctive badge of honor from Beyondish 5-Star Reviewer Todd at The Lou Guru.

Make Your Own Club, The Deli, Louisville

Wishing you a peaceful weekend of food, family, and basketball.

Yup, it’s been a long, hard, cold, challenging winter. I know hardly a soul kicking their feet up with joy. Do you? Upon reflection, a couple of quotes come to mind. That oh-so famous Beatles opener, for one.

“I read the news today. Oh boy.”

I was curious about this lyric’s roots and since I can’t for the life of me figure out how to turn AI off on my computer, here is Sam Altman & friends’ pithy summation.

“A Day in the Life by The Beatles is a profound reflection on the monotony of modern existence, existential detachment, and the contrast between public tragedy and private routine.”

Oh-kayyy!

And then, taking the date into mind, THIS pithy reflection from a fellow Substack scribe.

“Wherever inspiration may come from, March is where it goes to die."

So you can only imagine the sense of relief I felt on the Metro riding into work when my sports broadcaster son texted to remind me that today is Opening Day for the 2026 baseball season. My daily sense of gloom, foreboding and barely contained panic immediately segued into something that more resembled, well, happiness?

This is the moment when everyone’s favorite team starts the day in first place. For the perennial losers, no matter how grim the forecast, you are allowed to dream of a late August pennant chase. The smell of hot dogs and beer is in the air, and grownups handcuffed to their mundane on-screen existence, break free from their shackles to steal out to a ballpark and root for the home team in the middle of a work afternoon.

Tomorrow, March 26th, is the birthdate of that most great of American poets, Robert Frost. In 1920, Harper’s magazine published this poem of his.

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

Frost lived for years in a simple cottage overlooking a hay field in Ripton, Vermont. That hay field was the site of many a summer’s pick-up baseball game between the writers and staff of the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, where he taught for over 40 years. I can picture it well. It is where I asked the mother of my children to marry me nearly 30 years ago this season.

Can baseball deliver us from our worldly woes? Probably not. But will I be camped out in front of the Yankees season opener tonight, uplifted by the notion that change is possible? That salvation might rise like an Aaron Judge drive? Count on it. Play ball!

Always hungry,

Ken Carlton

Editor-in-Chief, Beyondish

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

New York Yankees at San Francisco Giants

The Caviar Twinkie at Bourbon Steak reviewed by Joel Kleinfeld

Washington Nationals at Chicago Cubs

Char Dog at Poochies reviewed by Ken Carlton

Minnesota Twins at Baltimore Orioles

Crab Cake Platter at Nick’s Fish House reviewed by Stacy Brooks

You will probably not find yourself in Rock Springs, Wyoming anytime soon unless you are picking up your child from freshmen year at Berkeley, or visiting the Grand Tetons this summer. I-80 stretches from the George Washington Bridge in New York to the Bay Bridge in San Francisco. It is a heady 2,900 mile drive for sure, one of my absolute favorites.

When most people hop off the interstate for the night, I suspect their journey usually ends at a Hampton Inn, the gas station, and a TGI Fridays. It takes a sense of adventure and a few extra moments to look for that black and white sign that reads “Business 80.” It is those business loops that lead you through the nuts and bolts of the real town nestled just off the exit ramp. That is how you find your way to Broadway Burger Station in south Central Wyoming.

Why should you do this? Well, for the burger, fries and a shake of course. This is not American fast food. You can see the griddle-master working in the pass, and the busy waitstaff is slinging shakes meticulously blended at the counter, where I sat. It’s good food made real and right that tastes like 1976. Come for the meal, stay for the people!

There is more going on at a lunchtime diner in anytown USA than you’re ever going to see on your phone. It felt like Veronica and Jughead met the cast of Stand By Me. Sure I could hear snatches of conversation, but it’s the comforting babble of humans interacting with one another that made my lunch stop such a delight.

I did not google up this place and it was not recommended by Jay H. on Yelp. I just was hungry and hopped off the interstate. And looked around Rock Springs. And took my time. That precious commodity we never seem to find enough of. What a delicious experience indeed.

Always hungry,

Ken