Albertson's cheese Danish

“This is more like it!” the Generalissimo cried.

I’d made the mistake of having the great sunglassed one over to my place for an evening of cheese Danishes and fine boxed wine. Unfortunately, the first Danish I pulled out wasn’t a Danish at all, but a cheese croissant. He wasn’t amused. This offering, also from Albertson’s, was a true cheese Danish, and he seemed much more inclined to enjoy it, right until he put it into his mouth.

“GAAAAA! What is this vile creature? Upon whose sullied hands have wrought such a lifeless abomination?”

“Albertson’s.”

“They shall feel my wrath!” He pulled out his stainless steel Colt Anacondas and ran out the door, into the night.

“What about the boxed wine?” I called after him.

His head popped back in. “You have the boxed wine?”

“Indeed.”

“Is it any good?”

“Why don’t you tell me.”

He smiled, put away the weapons, and got back to work. While he drank himself stupid to wash down the foul taste in his mouth, I decided to have a go at the Danish. He was right. It was better than the croissant, but that’s like saying the Mustang II was a better car than the Pinto. Like saying Two-Buck Chuck is a step up from Boone’s. Like saying Natural Light is a better deal than Keystone Light.

The bread was a little better, but still not something I’d gladly toss into my mouth. The filling was the same baby vomit consistency of the croissant’s, only there was less of it (might have been a good thing). The frosting was good, but when the rest is so bad, the icing on the crap cake seems kinda irrelevant. But for some sick reason, when taken all together, the overall result wasn’t too bad. But I only had the one bite, and I wasn’t willing to take any more chances with this one than I had to.

C+

Albertson's cheese croissant

“This is not a cheese Danish!” the Generalissimo said. “You promised me cheese Danish! I salute your deception!”

He saluted.

It wasn’t much of a deception. When I went to Albertson’s, I bought two things that looked like cheese Danishes, only one of them turned out to be a cheese croissant. No big whoop. We’d try it, and if he liked it, then all was right with the world. Except, I made the mistake of trying it first.

“You look ill, young Thurman! Am I correct in assuming this fine looking pastry is less than it appears?!”

“Indubitably.”

He had no idea. The bread was dry. Dry croissants aren’t usually bad, but they’re at least tasty in a buttery goodness sort of way. This wasn’t. The frosting was pretty good, but also dry. And don’t get me started on the filling. It had the consistency of dog vomit, and I’m guessing didn’t taste much better. I certainly didn’t enjoy it.

“Where is the cheese Danish you promised?!”

“Wait here. I’ll see if I can find one.”

If you see this pastry at the store, do yourself a favor: keep walking.

C

Prairie City Bakery’s Creamy Cheese Danish

Prairie City Bakery’s Creamy Cheese Danish isn’t as bad as it could be. Compared to some of the other Danishes we’ve tested, it’s fantastic. The flavor is nothing special, the bread isn’t the best out there, and the frosting isn’t provided in enough quantity to make it relevant, but the filling...wow. Creamy and soft, with just enough tart to keep it interesting. The flavor reminds me of homemade, and that isn’t a criticism.

But Prairie City gets serious bonus points for the volume of cheese filling. The center core was almost three inches in diameter, and three quarters of an inch deep. That may not sound like much to you, but in the world of cheap Danishes, that’s a lot. Easily twice what I’ve seen on other Danishes, and almost twice what our local bakery puts out.

“Tell them about the filling!” the Generalissimo screamed in my ear. I didn’t even know he was in my apartment. Come to think of it, I distinctly remembered locking the door when I got home.

“I just did,” I said.

“You did?”

“See, right there.”

He read over my shoulder. “Indeed! A thousand apologies, oh stinky one! I can think of no higher honor—”

“Oh please no.”

“—than to salute you!” He saluted. Think flourish. Think extravagant. Think gay pride parade, and you’re getting warmer.

I wouldn’t call this cheese Danish the best, but it has enough going for it that I’d be willing to overlook its problem areas for more of its cheesy goodness. And if they could fix those problems...

B-

2009 Nissan Versa 1.6 Base

The Versa isn’t my kind of car. Don’t get me wrong. It’s cheap, which I can get behind. The sedan we tested was the base model with no options, not even a stereo, which is why it only costs $9,990. Plus tax, of course. But still, ten grand for a car? Nice.

But there’s a cost to getting it cheap. The lack of a stereo is just the tip of the iceberg. The cloth interior is something you’d get out of the recycle bin at Wal-Mart. Durability was the least of the interior’s problems, however, as the lack of stuff made me think “motorcycle with seatbelts.” No ABS. No A/C. The rear seat doesn’t fold down. This is car making at its most basic, most primitive.

But it isn’t all bad. The trunk is good for 2½ bodies, maybe more if they’re small. It rides well, with just a little body roll in the corners. It had some sort of rattle off the line, which I’d attribute to a loose muffler, but as I didn’t get under the car to find out, we’ll just have to assume it wasn’t major. It certainly wasn’t as bad as the rattle coming off the Toyota Yaris we tested a while back.

I had a few gripes about it. The A-pillar is divided into two sections near the door, which, in theory, would give you better visibility between the side mirror and the windshield. Unfortunately it’s a little chunky, and actually made visibility worse. Then there was the transmission. I kept getting third gear instead of first, which I would normally blame myself for, but as it happened five or six times, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me. And because it didn’t have a radio, I was forced to listen to the little four-banger howl away at three-thousand RPM while trying to do sixty miles an hour. I never even got it to seventy for fear that I’d be up above four-k, wondering why I’d want to commute to work in a car that is begging for another gear.

The score on this car is lower than I think it deserves, as the price alone should give it a B. Unfortunately, all it gets is a:

C


“This is...um...” the Generalissimo said.

I knew exactly what he meant. We’d tested some pretty sweet rides together, but this wasn’t going to make the cut. I’d wanted to get the five-door model, but the dealer didn’t have one with a stick. Sure, he had forty others with an automatic, but that’s because most people would rather let the car do everything for them.

“Let’s just go around the block and see what we see,” I suggested.

“Indeed! You are, as always, correct!”

“You told me ten minutes ago that I was a moron.”

“And you are! Sixteen steps!”

“Steps?”

He laughed. Even his mustache got into it. “Your memory has placed you sixteen steps ahead of me! You are in the lead! I will catch you!”

And with that, he peeled out of the parking lot, at least, as much as anyone can peel out in a car with 107 horsepower.

“How’s it ride?” I asked after he shot it around a hairpin at a rate of speed the cops would frown upon as they secured the cuffs.

“Like a skittish platypus!”

“Um...”

“Like a beefsteak tomato, lonely after a hard day at work!”

“Um...”

“Like a wounded caterpillar, angry at the world for it insolence!”

“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Neither do I!”

And with that, he stomped on the brakes, slid us through a stop sign, and scared a pack of geese out for a morning graze. He hit the horn.

“I’m not sure our honk is in their language!” He started laughing. Honestly, it wasn’t that much of a joke.

Hardy’s 2008 Riesling

Let me begin by saying how much I enjoy writing wine reviews while actually consuming the beverage in question. Yeah, so my typing skills go south rather fast, but it makes for a much more entertaining evening.

“Quit bogarting the box!” the Generalissimo said. Well, maybe he slurred it just a bit. We’d been going at it for a few hours.

“Kiss my ass!” I said.

“That’s the spirit!” He slapped me on the back, hard enough to knock the box of Hardy’s 2008 Riesling out of my hands.

I’m a big fan of the Riesling. It’s sweet. It’s nice when chilled, and equally so when not. No one hates Riesling, making it an ideal wine to bring to someone’s house. But mainly, it’s a pleasant drink before, during, and after dinner. Can’t say that about most other wines. Well, except for the fortified ones, but those don’t really count, and they don’t go all that well with paella. Riesling? Lovely with paella.

“Tell them about the wine!”

“I am.” I’m not. My bad.

It’s yellow. It’s slightly sweet, but not like a desert wine, or even an off-dry Riesling. It’s not too tart, not too pungent, and it doesn’t leave my esophagus reaching for the Tums. It’s not the most flavorful wine I’ve ever had, but it’s got alcohol in it. And really, what’s more important than that?

“Tell them about the wine!”

“I did!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Vive a France!”

What he said. The box says that it is, “A refreshing, crisp wine with intense lime and lemon flavor and a soft lingering finish.”

Sure. And I’m the Queen of Norway. The only lemon or lime I tasted came from the Jell-o we had for dinner. The fact is, it’s not going to win any awards for complexity or its subtle nose of citrusy goodness or its palate of mooseberries. It’s simple, it’s easy to dink, and it’s cheap when you think about how many normal bottles are in that Mylar pouch.

Drink it. Don’t drink it. I don’t care. Now leave me alone. The Generalissimo is trying to get Zak the intern to join him in a spirited game of Twister.

“Put your pants back on you crazy bastard!” I yelled. Ah, screw it. Where’s that box of wine?

Bon Appetit Vienna Cream Danish

This is the worst pastry I’ve ever eaten. Bon Appetit, you are officially on my list. The Generalissimo not only refused to try it, but whipped out his Colt Anaconda and punched a pair of .44 holes in my plate, putting me out of my misery. And the antique table the plate was on. And the floor. Did I mention he uses explosive tipped rounds? Can you say “shrapnel wound to the shin?”

No frosting.

The bread was generic, bordering on useless.

The filling was gooey, flavorless, and made my stomach do a Triple Lindy off the 10M board.

I have but one question: are you effing kidding me? Because I’m not.

F

Top Food and Drug cheese Danish

I’m a big fan of Top Food and Drug. I do quite a bit of my grocery shopping there, mainly because it’s close, but also because they carry a lot of odd items I can only find in trendier places (think Metropolitan Market or Whole Foods). And as we don’t have either of the other two, Top works for me.

I rather enjoy their individual pieces of carrot cake. The cake tends to be moist, the carrots are rarely rancid, and the cream cheese frosting is sublime. So it goes with their cheese Danish.

Our Top won’t let you buy an individual Danish, which is my loss. I had to buy an eight-pack, which included two each of lemon, mixed berry, apple-pineapple, and of course, cheese.

The bread is solid. Flaky, moist, and not overpowering in the taste department, just the way it should be. The frosting is an unfortunate aberration. It’s wet, even a few days after it’s made. There’s also very little of it, which held it back from a better score.

“The cheese! You always forget the cheese!” the Generalissimo barked from behind me.

“I never forget the cheese, you crazy bastard. I just haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“Then get to it!”

“Fine.” It was good. Just a hint of lemon that never got too pungent, but lingered like it should. The texture was right on the money, and they didn’t sweeten it to death. But like the frosting, they went cheap on us and added just a dollop. Huge mistake. With a creamy filling this good, they shouldn’t skimp. Bump the price and make the core a solid mass of the good stuff.

But alas, it wasn’t to be. And as a result, what could have ranked among the top ten regionally will have to live with being just mildly above average.

“But the filling! It was a masterpiece! A Van Gogh, but with the ear still attached!”

He’s scaring me again. But for once, his crazy is making some sense.

B

2010 Mercedes Benz GLK

I really liked the Mercedes Benz GLK. I shouldn’t for any number of reasons, starting with its lack of a manual transmission option, to its excessive price tag, to its abysmal fuel mileage.

But still...

The ride is excellent. The steering response it firm, with just a hair of roll in the corners brought on by being an SUV (if you find an SUV, big or small, that doesn’t lean in the corners, call me). The brakes were solid. It looks like a serious SUV, but in a more compact package. I’d call it rugged looking, but there’s just too much chrome for that. The interior was up to Mercedes standards, meaning lots of quality plastic and high-grade leather. For some reason the driver’s seat felt cramped, even though the overall space was more than adequate. The central command center seems to squeeze the legs a bit more than necessary, but it isn’t something I’d worry about for too long. I mean, come on, this car is plush. An when you’re driving it, all you can think about is bounding through the Sahara, chasing Leftist rebels while your buddy working the turret gun sends them a jaunty hello.

But, but, but...

The base price is around $36,000, and unlike most cars, you can find one on the dealer’s lot that’s within a few grand of that. But if you want an option or two, like navi, the trick sunroofs, or maybe Bluetooth, expect to pay for it. Our test vehicle tipped the scales at just over $49,000, and it didn’t have everything. And when you consider that that price puts you in ML territory, it’s time to take a step back and rethink this one.

But, damn, what a car. But, sweet Jesus, what a price.

B+

I made sure my belt was tight. Again.

“Okay, sir, all you have to do is let off the brake pedal, and the car will begin creping forward,” I said.

“I do not creep! I engage!” To prove this, he let go of the brakes, and stood on the gas. The 4Matic system kept all the wheels glued to the road. The GLK accelerated hard down the narrow access road. The Generalissimo stomped on the brakes.

“See, that wasn’t so bad—”

He stood on the gas. This process repeated four times before I grabbed the gear selector and popped it in Neutral.

“I give up! Automatics are the Satan’s answer to sloth!”

I actually agreed with him, but I was determined to teach him how to drive one anyway. We were running out of cars to test, and I still had a few hundred community service hours to work off. Picking up trash on the highway seemed less appealing than strapping myself into a car as the Generalissimo tried very hard to kill me. Call me crazy.

“Sir, all you need to do is let go, and then gently get on the gas.”

“But my left foot! It feels so....unloved!”

“Can you brake with your left foot?”

“Blasphemy!” He reached into his tunic and whipped out a blackjack. I came to a few minutes later with a golf ball on my forehead filed with some kind of body fluid. My thumb left an imprint in the center of it when I tried to gauge its depth. My left eye wasn’t working as advertised. I smelled blood. Pretty sure it was mine.

“What...who...”

The Generalissimo sat in the driver’s seat, arms folded across his chest. He chewed on the lower half of his mustache, and sniffled.

“Did you hit me with that—”

“I am a failure as a man,” he said.

“Yes, yes you are.”

He glared at me. Or, at least I think he glared at me. Hard to see through those mirrored aviators he has on all the time.

“Look,” I said, “this isn’t all that hard. I mean, hell, it’s a Mercedes. You love Benzes.”

“Indeed, I do, but I cannot abide their unwillingness to import vehicles without a proper transmission. It is...cruel.”

“I agree.” I blinked, hoping my left eye would regain its proper orbit in time for me to finish the driving lesson. “But we don’t run their company. We also don’t have any say into what kind of transmissions a car can have. If we did—”

“We wouldn’t have to drive cars like this!”

“Indeed. And can you please stop yelling? The bump on my noggin is starting to gain sentience.”

“Never!” He took off his seat belt. He got out, screaming at the trees and demanding an audience with someone called Mon Presidénte. I caught something about wanting to send a team of heavily armed men into Stuttgart to bring the German devils to their knees.

“Crap.” I reached for the handle, but it was locked. “Screw it.” I wished him well, then passed out.