![]() ![]() They make a decent square pie and will sometimes give me extra grated parm for free, tied tightly in wax paper, like a gift. I'd rather order from my local pizzeria, which is run by a bunch of gruff Albanians. But the whole thing is too fraught for me, deep-fried as it is in cultural exoticism. ![]() And I get it, I really do: There is no goong chae nam pla quite like the goong chae nam pla - raw mantis prawns, in case you didn't know - handed to you by a peasant woman in some beachside shack on Phuket. I see the popularity of Do or Dine as just an urban version of the culinary adventurism perfected by Anthony Bourdain, who has become a Rimbaud of the food world, deranging his taste buds in the most far-flung locales, with the most outlandish delicacies. The notion of luxuriating on duck liver in one of the more impoverished neighborhoods in New York City - the name of the restaurant is a play on "Bed Stuy, Do or Die," a rhyme from a more combustible time - seems too perverse for the kind of visceral enjoyment food ought to bring. I haven't tried the foie gras donut, nor much want to. One of the kids behind it, Justin Warner, even got his own Food Network show, the short-lived Rebel Eats, a title that has me imagining Che Guevara wielding a garlic press. The restaurant Do or Dine, in Brooklyn's Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood, has won widespread acclaim for its foie gras donut. ![]()
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