RuPaul's Drag Race All Stars season 3 recaps

The shadiest Drag Race recaps on the web. Get ready to death drop, queens!

RuPaul's Drag Race recaps

YASS, HUNTIES! Seasons 6, 7, 8 and a bit of 9 recapped for your reading pleasure. Let's get sickening!

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Incredible Inedibles: Clamato

It's tomato! It's clam! It's... oh my god, there goes my lunch.

Ever since I saw that documentary about that Aussie bloke who lost 600kg (or something) just by drinking juice, I've been really excited about turning vegetables into liquid.

I bought a juicer and have been happily juicing all kinds of crap in it for weeks - celery, apples, carrots, lettuce, spinach. No matter what you put in there it always comes out a lurid green, which really freaks people out when they see you drinking it from a water bottle on the subway.

But the one thing I haven't thought to put through it so far is seafood - I fear it might gum up the blades. SO THANK GOD FOR CLAMATO.


THE ORIGINAL. Because no one else wanted to copy it.

As the name suggests, the other ingredient in this "tomato cocktail" - yes, it's a drink - is clam juice. Yes, juice from a clam. That seafoody thing you make soup out of. THAT CLAM.


THIS clam.

If Clamato were being sold as a soup, I would understand it. It would make sense. But then I remembered I am in America, the international headquarters of odd flavour combinations where a great deal of foods don't make sense.

Like peanut butter flavoured cereal, or fried chicken and waffles, or peanut butter and white chocolate, or the pretzel croissant (actually, this one is delicious).

The bar girl who served me this can of Clamato (OK, so you can assume I was drunk at the time) assured me it was delicious, and barely tasted of clam at all. That's probably because there's hardly any in there:


There is actually more MSG in this thing than clam.

Sadly, she was right - it just tasted like a slightly-more-salty-than-usual tomato juice. In fact if you got a clam to just breathe heavily over a glass of tomato juice for 10 seconds, Clamato is what you'd get.

Sensing my disappointment, she suggested I try it mixed with beer, a traditional Mexican drink called a "Michelada".

Even though a mixture of clam, tomato and beer sounds like what you experience the morning AFTER a night at the pub, I agreed to try one.

And you know what?

IT WAS AMAZING.


Hello, clammy beer cocktail of my dreams.

Who knew that seafood, tomato and beer could coexist so perfectly OUTSIDE of one's stomach? The Michelada is a refreshing alcoholic revelation - light, tangy, spicy, cold and spritzy, it's a great drink for a sunny day. Best of all - it actually REQUIRES shitty beer. The cheaper and shittier the beer (that thin stuff that almost looks like water is perfect), the better.

Plus it's the perfect drink for a hangover. Yes - you can cure a hangover with clam juice and beer. BELIEVE.

MICHELADA RECIPE

- Beer, Mexican preferred, the lighter, cheaper and shittier the better
- Clamato (failing that, plain old tomato juice will do)
- Tabasco sauce
- lime wedge
- salt for rimming (oo-er)
- ice

Rim glass with salt. Half fill glass with ice. Pour beer over, to about two-thirds. Add Clamato/tomato juice to fill, plus a splash of Tabasco and juice from the lime. Now drink, sucker.


Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Incredible Inedibles: Twinkies

I roadtest the quintessential American snack, and try to avoid instant heart failure.

Six years ago on this blog (christ) I started a thing called Incredible Inedibles, in which I would subject myself to eating weird foods, usually sourced from my local Asian supermarket, after which I would try not to die and then write about the experience for your reading pleasure.

Past Inedibles included the horribly named but inexplicably popular drink Pocari Sweat, American "cereal" and Christian mind control substance Lucky Charms, and Japanese turdy stumps, all of which were marginally more tolerable than setting oneself on fire.

But since I'm now living in the land of the free, home of the brave and nation of the unnecessary foodstuff (that's how the American anthem goes, right?) I've decided, despite my better judgement, to resurrect Incredible Inedibles.


Today the part of my stomach will be played by Steve Carell.

And what better weird food to kick things off than that quintessential Americana snack - the Twinkie.


Looks harmless enough...

The side of the box describes the Twinkie as a "golden sponge cake with creamy filling". This is entirely correct, if your understanding of "sponge cake" is "a collection of chemicals" and you define "creamy filling" as "squishy white stuff that has nothing whatsoever to do with cream".

There are in fact 37 ingredients in a Twinkie, most with appealing names such as "Calcium sulfate" and "Polysorbate 60". Despite the promise of "creamy filling", there is no dairy in a Twinkie, which is why it can stay fresh on the shelf without refrigeration for 26 days.

YES, THESE THINGS STAY PERKY FOR TWENTY SIX DAYS. How are stomach acids even a match for this stuff? It is basically the food equivalent of the Terminator. There is a distinct possibility it may reform post-digestion and rise up out of the toilet bowl to kill me.

Which brings me to the eating part.

Biting into a Twinkie is rather like giving up on life. As you put the sugary, slightly stale finger on your tongue and taste the odd, fake-butter flavour you're basically sending a message to your brain that you no longer care about sustaining it, or any of the other useless lumps of meat inside you that supposedly "keep you alive".


Take THAT, body!

The snack's ludicrously white filling also ensures you will be blinded - if not by eventual diabetes, than by the light which reflects off it with the force of a million suns.


Little known fact: Stevie Wonder used to be a huge Twinkies fan. USED to be.

I guess what I'm saying is, Twinkies taste a bit like death. But not the pretty come-to-the-light, surrounded-by-angels death. It's more like this:


It's a very specific vision I have.

In summary: Twinkies are frightening. Also: I need some broccoli, stat.



Tuesday, April 10, 2012

A beauty treatment straight from Dr Who

I think it was Einstein that said: “Wherever there are stupid, rich, pretty people, expensive and ridiculous beauty treatments will follow.”

Actually maybe it was Newton who said that, but in any case it explains why New York – home to some of the world's wealthiest and most beautiful people - is also home to some of the world's stupidest beauty treatments.

This, after all, is the city that popularised the "Geisha facial" - in which bird poo is spread on your face - and the infamous "vajazzle". You can Google that one for yourself. (Tip: don't do it on a work computer.).

With their promises of skin rejuvenation and cell detoxification and instant weight loss, it can be quite difficult not to get sucked in. Plus Manhattan salons always look so clean and relaxing, and everyone wears white coats and carries clipboards, and the creams and gels all smell so good...

I guess what I'm saying is: I spent $99 last week to get slathered in cooking oil, wrapped in plastic and shoved inside a bad Doctor Who prop.


A relaxation device, or a Dalek control centre?


Of course, that's not what the brochure said. It described the treatment as a “Full Pod Spa Package Including Oxygen Facial, Body Wrap, Oil Rub, Collagen Treatment and Oxygen-Inhalation Therapy Worth $450”.

Looking back, the irregular use of capitalisation should have been a red flag.

So should the fact that the “spa” was located in what looked like a former accountant's office, with a water-stained foam ceiling and grey walls full of empty power points. In one corner was an empty desk with a single chair behind it, and in the other was the “Pod” – a giant fibreglass egg, glowing with coloured lights and humming like a broken fridge.

It was about this time that I began to suspect this might not have been a wise use of my $99.

But soon I was lying on a table in nothing but a pair of ill-fitting paper underpants being sprayed with what felt like liquefied Meadow Lea, and it was rather too late to ask for a refund.

The “body wrap” which had conjured up ideas of organic seaweed and purified mud turned out to be plain old Glad Wrap, slapped around my oiled-up thighs, upper arms and stomach. If you ever want to know what a packed lunch feels like, I highly recommend trying this.


Not quite like this, but just as weird.


Then I was laid down in the Pod with tubes shoved up my nose (apparently this was the “oxygen inhalation therapy” but you can easily recreate the effect at home by admitting yourself to hospital for major surgery) before the whole thing started vibrating, glowing red and heating up.

I spent half an hour naked, wrapped in cling film, sweating in a Lady Gaga costume reject that felt like West Tce on an Adelaide January day.

Needless to say when I emerged I did not feel beautiful or slimmer. I was lighter though – by exactly $99.

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This article was first published in the City and Eastern Courier Messengers on April 5, 2012.