Get Your Holiday Shopping Done Early!

Zines! Remember them? They’re like printed blogs!

Who likes buying things? You do! In an effort to separate you from your cold hard cash, team Rated Rookie has collected all the back issues of the zine we thought was going to change the world (or at least make us famous in our heads) into one easy package. You know the drill: youthful idealism quickly flamed out in the face of the unforgiving world. Wait—that’s not true. Our head designed simply moved to Tennessee to live near goats and then Tower Records folded, taken with it our major distribution outlet.

Sigh.

But now you can relive the good old days of Rated Rookie by clicking here. Six issues. $10 plus shipping. There’s even a headless picture of me in my underwear.

Gut Instinct: Brief Encounters

Who wants pizza?!

The halogen-bright morning sun beat down on my crusted eyelids.

Opening them felt like I was prying the top of an ancient jar of mustard.

To my right, my girlfriend’s carcass was comatose, immune to meddlesome light. I stood and stretched. My back snapped and crackled like bubble wrap, my muscles sore and flu-achy. Perhaps it was the tub of Buffalo Trace bourbon I consumed the previous eve, but it took several beats to make an important realization: Well, I thought, it looks like I’ve lost my pants and underwear.

Had our hissing radiator turned our apartment as hot as Hades, forcing me to shed clothes like a dog does fur? I typed a Google search into my bourbon-shrouded brain, yielding no results. Now, I should’ve pulled on pajamas or shorts. But my girlfriend and I recently ditched our roommate and, for the first time, we control the entire apartment. It’s unfettered freedom: The fridge features a dedicated beer shelf. I can play ear-splitting, early ’90s indie rock. Most happily, however, I can make a sandwich or a pot of coffee without wearing pants.

“Even cavemen have better manners,” my girl complained. “I can do what I want: I pay the rent here,” I replied.

“Half the rent,” she sighed, shutting her office door and turning up the volume on The Biggest Loser.

I blame my bear-naked dining on my dear old dad. During my youth, he’d often strut around home wearing his white briefs. “Will you at least wear a shirt?” I’d squeak, shirking at the spectacle of the grey chest rug that awaited my future. It was like gazing into a furry crystal ball. “Who pays the rent around here?” he’d ask rhetorically. Then he’d head into the kitchen to grab a glass of icy Diet Coke or cut a slice of Entenmann’s coffee cake.

Instead of advocating semi-nudity, I think this is my father’s takeaway lesson: At home, you can do as you damn well please. Want to pee with the bathroom door open? Drop your drawers and don’t lock the door! Go on, stick your finger in the peanut butter jar. Your house is your kingdom, where pleasure and comfort are paramount— snacking in your skivvies included.

Now, exceptions exist to my hastily penned, half-cooked hypothesis. While it’s OK to nosh while unclothed, it’s a no-no to eat food off of another human. Case in point: that troubling trend concerning a nude woman doubling as sushi serving platter. Call me a prude—sure, I know about the magical combo of nipples and Reddi- Wip—but there’s nothing appealing about plucking a California roll from a lady’s stubbly crevice.

Also, summer aside, one should always be fully clothed while consuming alcohol. Here’s a handy parable: My freshman year of college, my next-door neighbor was lanky Cowboy Craig, thus named because he wore Stetsons and talked like a Southerner. One night, I knocked on his door to borrow a pen. “Come in,” Cowboy Craig drawled, his words thick and honeyed. I entered his lair, dark as Darth Vader, and saw Cowboy Craig sitting by a window. Moonlight glinted off his jug of Jack Daniel’s, a few inches from empty. He wore nothing but briefs and a smile.

“Are you OK, Craig?” I asked, unsure if I wanted an answer. “Never better.” He passed me a pen.Then he took a long, slow swallow of tan whiskey and smiled. It was a beguiling grin that said, “Hey, buddy, glad to see you” and “While you sleep, I’m going to sneak into your bedroom and use your intestines as sausage casings.” I returned to my room as quick as a mouse, locking the door double tight.

And so, after all this soapbox stumping, we find ourselves back at the beginning: watching me in my birthday suit, hangover throbbing, the only sound my rumbling stomach.While my sweetheart slept, I crept into the kitchen and cracked the fridge as quietly as a jewel thief. I pondered a bowl of creamy homemade cabbage soup, but that might make me gassy—a rather unappealing notion when nude. I also vetoed the acidic Macintosh apples, but hidden beneath a head of wilted romaine lettuce I found my appetite’s answer: a Tupperware container filled with a friend’s frosted pumpkin cupcakes.

I selected a well-frosted specimen and peeled away the foil. I took a chipmunk nibble. It tasted sweet and illicit—dessert as breakfast, breakfast in the buff. I gobbled the first cupcake and, with no one looking, reached for another, the crumbs dropping into warm nooks and crannies that best remain unwritten. C

Sam Adams Utopias – Beer of the Week

I will make y0u so drunk.

Oh, hi there. What sort of boozy delights do I have up my sleeve this week? Why, Sam Adams Utopias, the strongest beer in the world. It clocks in at 27 percent ABV, a number that will have you seeing triple on the double. Thirsty? Drink it up!

Gut Instinct: Lard Help Me

Lard! I hate lard!

This may sound as sacrilegious as an Exxon exec owning an electric car, but I often despise patronizing bars. I have a love-hate explanation: I love craft brews. I hate paying $6 or $7 a pint.

“Then come to Brouwerij Lane,” my beerloving pal Matt suggested. The Greenpoint beer store pours its growler-ready draft beers on premise by the pint ($4) and the half pint ($2), creating a low-cost tasting station. “It’s like permanent happy hour,” he said, joyous words that echoed in my ears as we convened at Brouwerij Lane (78 Greenpoint Ave., at Franklin Ave., Brooklyn, 347-529-6133).

Though more store than saloon, Brouwerij contains a smattering of tables and, most crucially, a bathroom. We secured a corner table and tiptoed to the taps. A chalkboard listed the night’s intoxications, ranging from North Coast’s dark, cockles-warming Old Rasputin and Heartland Brewery’s sweet, spiced Imperial Smiling Pumpkin Ale. Tasty, but we thirsted for fresh-hop brews. August and September signal harvesting season for hops—the flower cones that provide beers’ bitter, floral flavors.

And though most hops are dried and packaged, just-plucked hops form fall’s fleeting delicacy: fresh-hopped beer. It’s grassy and vibrant, greener and livelier than super-bitter bombs such as Stone IPA or Bear Republic Racer 5.

Heart palpitating, drool forming, I dove into a Southern Tier Harvest Ale.

It drank citric and piney with just the slightest caramel jolt. By contrast, Matt’s Victory Harvest Ale was assertively malty and earthy, and the Two Brothers Heavy Handed Wet Hop was light in carbonation but heavy on the tongue. Paying but $4 a pint, we quickly and economically drank ourselves into a David Hasselhoff-like stupor.

Unlike the Hoff, there were no hamburgers to scavenge off the floor; instead, we debated the best food to cure beer munchies.

I voted for area Mexican star Papacito’s (999 Manhattan Ave. betw. Huron & Green Sts., Brooklyn, 718-349-7292), which makes Baja-quality fish tacos. Matt was atwitter after reading a rave review: “The [bacon] combination we found most persuasive was a weirdo appetizer at Polish newcomer Karczma, which features a bread dip called ‘peasant lard’—a pool of molten fat dotted with smoky bits of bacon.”

He paused for a moment, letting the words marinate in my mind, then added, “I want lard, and I want it now!” Now, Matt’s as keen as I am for culinary adventures, eager to trek to Brooklyn and Queens’ hinterlands for, say, a slice of clam-crowned pizza or extra-spicy chorizo. I mostly trust his taste. But lard and bread seemed as appealing as another Bloomberg term.

“I’m watching my girlish figure…” I begged, pointing to the beach ball between my nipples and waist as soft as Wonder bread. “Lard,” Matt commanded, a dining dictator issuing his final directive. I meekly agreed. Bellies sloshing with a fresh-hop sea, we bounded up Greenpoint Avenue to Karczma (136 Greenpoint Ave. betw. Manhattan & Greenpoint Aves., 718-349-1744; Brooklyn). It looked like the Wild West invaded Poland.Wooden booths were complemented by wagon wheels and a faux well. Farm implements were strewn willy-nilly, providing ample weaponry should we be overrun by the brains-craving undead.

Using our tastily pickled gray matter, we ordered a banquet of Polish brews, beer-roasted ham hocks, stuffed cabbage, kielbasa, pierogies and peasant-style lard. “I enjoy that one very much,” assured the waitress, wearing a frilly dress. Matt beamed with I-told-you-so pride. His smile broadened as we tore into kielbasa that was split and griddle-crisped to a snappy, fatty crunch.The pierogies were plump and tender, swollen with mashed potatoes. The cabbage was as tasty as limp leaves wrapped around a meaty lump could ever aspire to be. However, the ham hocks were a brown slurry of bone, skin and swine. For once, I understood my girlfriend’s vegetarianism.

Matt gamely gobbled a couple chunks.

His smile sagged like 70-year-old cleavage, then skipped town upon the lard’s arrival. Thin-sliced brown bread was served alongside a cool ramekin containing what resembled chunky pomade. I sunk my knife into the thick spread, smeared it across bread and took my first and last bite.The lard was as slick and flavorful as Crisco. The bacon nibs were rubbery speed bumps. In car terms, peasant lard was a clunker.

“Seconds?” I asked Matt, whose face was lard-colored.

“Shut up,” he said, reaching for his crisp, palate-cleansing pilsner.

Brooklyn Homebrew Tour II: The Aftermath

Photo: Village Voice/Suemedha Sood

I learned a very important lesson on Sunday: You can lead a homebrew tour while mildly (well, mostly) hungover on whiskey and nursing a massive Rico’s Tacos chorizo torta in your belly. The second installment of the homebrew tour was a roaring hoot, despite the fact that, due to a brain fart, I nearly sent half the tour participants onto a different train.

But no matter: Beers were sampled! Homebrewers were met! Camaraderie was forged! The Village Voice (a mortal enemy to my Gut Instinct employer, the New York Press) ended up penning an article about the tour. Thankfully, the writer left out the fact that I was a shambling wreck and instead focused on the fact that I made my sign from cardboard ripped from the garbage. Good times.

I never planned to be a tour guide, but these Brooklyn Homebrew tours are such a blast that I’m going to get them going again in the New Year. If you’re interested, send me an e-mail at josh.bernstein AT gmail.com, and I’ll be sure to put you on my happy list. Look at this satisfied customer!

Sierra Nevada Harvest Wet Hop Ale – Beer of the Week

Oh, that looks like my bedroom curtains. So bright!

Oh, fall, you cool maiden, taking away all the leaves and bringing us blustery winds. I hate you! But I also love you, because you have brought us fresh hop beers, a fleeting fall delicacy that’s heaven for hop heads. This week, I focus on an oldie but a goodie. Sierra Nevada’s Harvest Wet Hop Ale was one of the first fresh-hop brews to hit the market, and it remains one of the finest. Interested. Thirsty? Drink it up here!

Gut Instinct: Down in the Dumps

Ooh, someone’s feeling saucy!

“You can them in your mouth or put them in water, but if anyone vomits,” the cute Chinese event coordinator chirped, pointing to trashcans lined with I HEART NEW YORK bags, “they’re disqualified. Anyone have any questions?” Just one: Why did I enter Chef One’s sixth annual dumpling-eating contest? Answer: A little bit of hubris, a lot of jet lag and, naturally, no common sense.

By now, I’ve chronicled my dumpling adoration to death. Whether it’s crispy, juicy pork-and-chive pot stickers at dumpy Prosperity Dumpling (46 Eldridge St. betw. Canal and Hester Sts., 212-343-0683) or rich, slurp-friendly pork-and-crab soup dumplings at Flushing’s Nan Xiang Xiao Long Bao (38-12 Prince St. at 38th Ave., 718-321-3838; Queens), I’m a bona fide fiend.

Fanaticism, though, does not trump the laws governing my stomach. I can only devour a dozen, maybe 15 dumplings before my belly tosses up a roadblock, issuing incoming pot stickers a stern warning:

“Come closer, and we’ll be forced to puke.”

My corporal defense mechanism keeps me from entering competitive-eating competitions, a “sport” that ranks several rungs beneath curling. There’s nothing exceptional about consuming your weekly caloric allotment in a couple minutes. Do you cheer on tubs of lard scooping up fifths at the Chinese buffet? Obesity doesn’t warrant a round of applause.

Naturally, I fell off my high chair of gluttonous hypocrisy during an October trip to China. I spent ample time in the eastern coastal province of Shandong. In the region, boiled dumplings—pork, minced greens or shrimp—are king. There they lose their appetizer status, served as a main course or a meal’s closing dish, arriving even after dessert.While visiting seaport town Yantai, I consumed dozens of plump beauties, my stomach growing as round and white as dumplings themselves. “You are a very hungry man,” my translator Lynn said as I polished a plate of 30. I’d bested my gag reflex.

How could I test my newfound talent? By entering Chef One’s competition, featuring a glittering $1,000 prize. It certainly pays to pig-out.

My flight home landed 18 hours before the event, leaving me with wickedly disorienting jet lag. “Are you sure you’re up for eating dumplings?” my girlfriend asked. My eyes were donut-glazed, my skin as clammy and damp as rotten fish’s.

“I’m gonna dominate! I’m the dumpling king!” I shouted. “That’s right, you’re the king, hon,” she soothed, folding me into a subway bound for Manhattan. Upon arriving at Sara D. Roosevelt Park’s Dumpling Festival, I checked in and sat in the holding pen. The contestants—40 males, 16 females—were split into two camps: the steely-eyed pros (“My technique is to get on my knees and not swallow,” said one amply bellied dude) and in-over-their heads amateurs.

“My only goal is to not vomit,” confided a contestant wearing sunglasses. Behind me, a student wearing a Karate Kid headband popped pills that recalled caterpillar cocoons. “Want a fat blocker?” he asked.

“I would rather not have undigested fat leak from my derriere,” I said, aghast.

“I have a high cholesterol,” he explained sheepishly. Then perhaps you shouldn’t be in a competitive-eating competition, I thought, as I climbed the stage. I was in the first batch of 10 male contestants, ranging from a short Mexican man to a bro with his hat spun backward. We lined up before bowls of 20 whole-wheat chicken dumplings—thick as a thumb, long as a middle finger—and planned our methods of attack.

The competitor to my right baptized his dumplings with water. The competitor to my left mumbled a prayer. I surveyed the deep, empty bin by my feet and, at the horn, inserted a lukewarm dumpling into my mouth. I chewed twice and swallowed hard. It went down like medicine. I paused and watched another contestant shove fistfuls of waterlogged dumplings into his hunger hole, smearing his face like a toddler, snorting like a bull. Half a bowl vanished in one messy bite, alongside a sizable chunk of his self-respect. Despite my China training, I knew I wasn’t in it to win it; I was in it to have lunch.

I leisurely popped dumplings into my mouth, one by one, masticating the doughy meat to delicious, digestible goo. In two minutes I devoured 13 dumplings. Winner “Gentleman” Joe Menchetti inhaled 53. His victory may have been sweet, but defeat tasted excellent too.

Beer of the Week: Taiwan Beer!

Does it make you…thirsty?

When I wandered through China last month, I drank a sea of watery lager beer. It was like I was in college once again. Then I met Taiwan Beer, a blandly named yet full-flavored beauty. Yeah, it’s mass-produced by the Chinese government, but it’s still swell as all get-out. Don’t believe me? Drink it up!

Gut Instinct: Bottoms Up

Thirst be gone!

My greatest asset is my gullet. Despite my horse-jockey height, my gullet is long and elastic, permitting me to swallow ponds and streams in one breathless gulp. It’s like discovering a Wizard of Oz munchkin is hung like Dirk Diggler.

I unlocked my throat’s secrets during college, when my roommate Geoff devised a drinking contest based upon a baseball videogame’s homerun-derby feature. If you smacked two consecutive long balls, your competitor drank for two seconds. Three dingers equaled three seconds of consumption, and so on. But if a round-tripper landed in a predetermined locale—say, the bullpen— your competitor finished his 40-ouncer.

“One Phat Boy, going down!” my roommate Geoff would scream, pointing at my malt liquor that incorporated ginseng—zero health benefits, 100 percent hangover. I’d disappear the swill then grab the controller, smacking homeruns as drunkenly as Babe Ruth once did.

My gullet once again proved its handiness during last week’s voyage across China. See, the People’s Republic plays the world’s most dangerous drinking game: “gan bei,” roughly translated to “bottoms up.” At bureaucratic and businessmen banquets, glasses are filled with beer, wine or bai jiu—a raw, vicious grain liquor that makes moonshine taste like sweet tea.“Gan bei!” the meal’s host will call, meaning everyone must empty their vessels and display them for inspection. Refusing to drink is disrespectful; drinking as much as a frat pledge is applauded. China is a country where an alcoholic could feel right at home.

I knew of the dangers before I boarded my Air China flight to Beijing, embarking on an 11-day, government-sponsored trip across China—seriously. But I sidestepped disaster as I bounced from frenetic Shanghai to seafaring Yantai to bike-friendly Hangzhou. My lucky-liver streak ended in Qingdao, a mountainous Yellow Sea city better known as Tsingtao, the birthplace of America’s favorite beer to accompany General Tso’s chicken. You won’t find such gloppy abominations in this beachy town: Culinary Qingdao traffics in fried, braised, seafood-focused cuisine that’s by turns salty and savory, with an emphasis on soy sauce, peanuts and peppers.

In Flushing, Qingdao eats are available at bright, friendly M&T (44-09 Kissena Blvd., betw. Cherry & Elder Aves., Queens, 718-539- 3398). Customers share $10 pitchers of beer alongside crispy ribs coated in shrimp paste and golden-fried fish strewn with peanuts and addictively crunchy hot peppers.

It was a good primer for dinner in our secluded dining room—a circular table filled with my six traveling companions, a local guide and three bureaucrats of varying importance, including the host, the local head of tourism. A lazy Susan was loaded with plates of tangy and flaky white fish, cartilage-crunchy sea cucumbers swimming in a minced-swine sauce and heaps of crunchy pork nibs awash in a red capsaicin ocean. I was a chili head in heaven. Hell was around the corner.

“Josh,” my translator began, motioning to the host, “he has heard you write about beer and alcohol. He would like you to drink bai jiu.”

“Can we stick to beer?” I gulped my golden Tsingtao.

“The bai jiu, it is for special occasions,” she said.

“How strong is it?” “Seventy-two degrees.” “Which is… ” “About… 145 proof.”

“Line them up,” I said, eager to make America proud. Fleet-footed waiters filled our glasses as quickly as I typed this sentence. A toast was said, the gist of which was,“We are glad to have you visit our town and vomit in our bathrooms.” Then the host hoisted his glass—sloshing white liquid smelling of unleaded gasoline—and said the words that consign so many businessmen to cirrhosis: “Gan bei!” His shot vanished like a mirage. I brought the glass to my lips and, relaxing my most reliable body part, dumped bai jiu down the hatch. It was like turning a hairdryer on my intestines. I displayed my upside-down glass, a sole drop falling onto the tablecloth like a tear. The Chinese contingent golf-clapped, as if I’d just sunk a particularly difficult putt.The waiters filled our glasses again. “Gan bei!” the host toasted. Our shots visited our respective bellies.We switched to beer, then to wine, then back to bai jiu—who knew being a Chinese bureaucrat was so fun?

Though my gullet was indomitable, my bladder was not. I excused myself to the bathroom, nearly turning my red shoes yellow and wet. Back at the table, more bai jiu awaited. I grabbed a glass.The host guffawed.

“He says you can drink well,” my translator explained. “But you should never be the first person to go to the bathroom.”

Images From China: Please Forgive

Snapped in the Beijing, in front of a Pizza Hut not selling any pizza. Lots more where these came from, lovelies. Please forgive!

Gut Instinct: Market Report

Get drunk, Josh. Get drunk! Pound it!

Let me be blunt: I loathe interviewing celebrities as much as I detest raw tomatoes, a vegetable barely fit for chucking at American Idol afterthoughts.

My hatred traces to Hugh Hefner.As a cub journalist in 2002, I took every bottom-barrel assignment. I penned trivia about Mr. T and wrote round-ups about flaming drinks and my demeaning medical experiments, subjects that endeared me to an editor at a trendy NYC mag. She hired me to ink articles on characters like Mary Carey, the porn star turned California gubernatorial candidate, who ended our interview by grabbing my berries and twig.

One afternoon, said editor called urgently.

“Can you come to California tomorrow and interview Hugh Hefner at the Playboy Mansion?” Did water roll off a duck’s neck? I departed for JFK, armed with my tape recorder and overheated silicone-enhanced fantasies. Twelve hours later, a battalion of lingerie-clad starlets ushered me into the mansion. “Welcome,” one artificially enhanced specimen purred, her skin the color of boat shoes and red lips like inflatable arm buoys.The bionic women deposited me in Hef’s regal inner sanctum. Sweat blasted from my pores like a busted fire hydrant.

I needn’t have worried. No matter what I asked (“What’s Playboy’s role in the 21st century?”), I received boilerplate answers (“Playboy is an icon.”) and anecdotes as stale as week-old bread. The experience was not unlike interviewing a parakeet with a limited verbal repertoire. From that day forward, I swore off celebrity interviews. I succeeded. Until last week’s phone call.

“Josh, can you cover some events for the New York City Wine & Food Festival?” asked a non-Press editor.

Sure thing. Since launching last year, the Food Network shindig has grown into one of America’s preeminent culinary festivals, thanks to popular programming like the juicy Burger Bash and the sugarrushed Sweet. In lieu of those lip-smacking events, I was tabbed to cover Chelsea Market After Dark: the opening-night kickoff party featuring star chefs Guy Fieri and Sandra Lee.

“To be perfectly honest, this is not my strong suit,” I told my editor, begging off to wash my hair. “I don’t even own a TV.”

“You’ll do great,” the editor said, pumping me up like I was an insecure lover. “Besides, we’ve already put in your press pass.”

Checkmate. I grabbed my digital recorder and hit Chelsea Market, the Oreo’s birthplace. That night, the former Nabisco factory’s fancy-food marketplace became a pleasure dome for middle-aged couples with hairsprayed coiffures and the power to purchase the tasting event’s $95 tickets. It was a very specific, entitled form of hell.

“I need a stiff drink,” I told my curlyhaired photographer, reaching for a cherryequipped Manhattan.

My 40-watt mood brightened to 75. I was ready to tackle my first mission: Sandra Lee. In my mind’s eye, Lee was a large, loquacious Southerner who specialized in culinary atrocities like burgers served between glazed donuts. “Isn’t that her?” my photographer asked, pointing at a threadthin lady with long hair the color of California sand. Oh, shit. My mistake: I thought I was interviewing Paula Deen, not Lee, who specializes in style and “semi-homemade” food. Hence, ditch the question about deep-fried butter. Instead, we discussed pretty fall leaves.

“Well, that went well,” the photographer said.

“You can’t classify a train wreck as ‘going well,’” I replied, descending into the crowd. I fought through the wine-lubricated throngs, pausing to marvel at Jacques Torres: “Come inside! We will roll you in chocolate! We will cover you in chocolate!” he called to passersby. I bit the bait. “Even me?” “Only the ladies,” he replied, instead offering me a chocolate-chip cookie. It was a chunky, chewy consolation prize.

But my main target was Fieri. I entered his red-neon lair, greeted by nubile gals distributing Jägermeister swag. I scanned the room, my ears deafened by a white dude crooning Michael Jackson covers, when I spotted the supernova of attention: Fieri, his gelled hair like a blond porcupine, was ringed by fawning fans. I fought to the front and asked Fieri a couple questions about the festival’s success, softball questions with softball answers. I was going through the motions.Then journalistic inspiration struck:“I need a drink.What should I get?” Fieri passed me a plastic cup. I sipped the black liquid: Jäger, cold as an Alaskan Christmas.

“Come on, you have to pound it,” Fieri said, as if I were a failed frat boy.

I followed orders. Fieri grinned. “Now that’s not so bad, is it?” Fieri asked.

“Not so bad at all,” I replied, reaching for another icy, anesthetizing glass of what I called journalism.

Beer of the Week: Corne de Brume

Slowly, slowly do I catch up with all the posts that the Chinese government forbade me from posting. Anyway, this week (or was that last week?) I penned tale of Corne de Brume, a Canadian beer made on a salt-licked body of land. This Scottish ale is totally tasty cakes. I lurve it. Curious? Drink it up!