Thursday, August 26, 2010
Me on Facebook: "Going to Rehobeth Beach for a week"
JRS: "Dood, can you get me some Nic-O-Bolis"?
Me: "What the hell is a Nic-O-Boli?"
JRS: "It's like a Stromboli...but better...amazing...they come frozen, order me a case, I'll pay you."
Me Status Post Consumption: Jon...you asshole..it was so good, but 6am was bad...really bad....
JRS:..."Ha, I see you tamed the ring-of-fire"...
Me: No reply...but I was seriously having cravings for another go round....
Nicola's restaurant is a pizza joint with their claim to fame, the "Nic-O-Boli"...and in all honesty, it's like a Stromboli. I mean, look at the picture...you got dough, mozzarella, tomato sauce, and sauteed ground beef. But in all honesty, it's just...better...why? I think it's the beef...it's just a greasy wonderment of rendered fatty meatyness...meatyness? Yes...meatyness.
My first trip was after a few beers at midnight. My buddy was with me and is one of those guys who can't sit still. Seriously, it had been a really relaxing evening with a great cigar out on the porch of our beach house. Instead of enjoying our nicotine buzzes...he chirps off, "Hey, wanna grab some pizza...wanna go for a walk?" Seriously...we weren't even buzzed enough to crave late night eats yet...literally I think we were like two beers deep...but I caved. The kid just couldn't sit still.
Instead of haunting the local Grotto's Pizza (like the night before)...I piped up, "Hey wanna try a Nic-O-Boli (and explained the strange word)?" I then added something like, "I heard it can really give you grief in the bathroom later on"...halfway giving it a chuckle...bathroom humor is still so funny to me. "Ring of Fire" I told him..."Anyway, wanna try it?"
Disbelieving the "Ring of Fire" claim...and knowing that I have an iron stomach, I upped the anti by adding double anchovies and onions..and maybe that's where I went wrong. Oh god was it good...salty, savory goodness..all washed down with a PBR (that's Pabst Blue Ribbon)...ESPN was on the screen, and we had a cougar for a bartender talking about walking around in a thong at her house using spray tan (yeah random, but I swear that's what was happening, and me and my friend were thinking...this shit is hilarious and awesome).
We closed our tab, walked home, laughing about our crazy ass bartender and relished in our freshly stuffed guts...mmmmm, anchovies, beef...beer...we were men, we had smoked cigars, drank beer, and gotten our eat on.
And then 6am came...and it went...Ring-O-Fire...
Two days later however I went crawling back, for another hit of smack...F the "Ring-O-Fire"...it was worth it, well worth it...18 hours later...on the way to work mind you at 5:30am...Ring-O-Fire...under a street lamp, in the dark...
And just as a loyal friend would do, I smuggled out a half case of frozen Nic-O-Bolis for my buddy JRS...hmmmm, we have a microwave at work...do you think he would know if one went missing? If anyone knew, it would be me...and my poor wife...she did ask for me to put the flame out before ever setting foot in the house again.
"You've never had Thrashers?"...uttered a disbelieving Meg..."No hon, never..."
"Oh my god, when we go to Rehobeth Beach in August...you are getting Thrashers"...
I climbed the mountain, I have conquered the journey of the fry...and for that I am a better human being and a better man. In short, I will now be a better future father because I tamed the beast that is Thrashers.
Thrashers is a "Board-Walk Fry"...not only is it a Board-Walk Fry...it's a level of potato genius I have never seen recreated...in short, this is a fry place that has been dishing it out since 1929. It is ubiquitous amongst beach going folks to the shores of Maryland and Delaware. Walk down the family saturated boardwalk, and you'll smell Thrashers. Oogle your ways towards the herd-like masses of fatties...yep..Thrashers. Literally the containers come in size sensible to the ostentatious size of "Type II Diabetes and Coronary Artery Disease". (I of course ordered "size sensible")
The fries are cooked to order...no limp old man shrivels here. Once cooked, and hoisted into the container du jour...you eye the golden rods of holiness and start to hyperventilate. The outside of the fry is glistening with fry-o-later peanut oil...extremely hot to the touch, the outside is crispy. On the inside however is a poetic genius resembling the cotton pillows of a well made gnocchi. Add the two opposing textures...heavenly golden latticework to the Almighty.
No ketchup needed...merely malt vinegar and salt...and please forget the fancy kosher/sea salt...literally the big industrial iodized salt container has nail holes punched in it...that's what you use. And if you are industrious like me, and you crave a cold beer...duck on in to a local place (choose a bar that looks kinda seedy because the self loathing feels better when you can greedily eye your fries as you cram them into your maw by the fistful).
Oh Thrasher fries...how I love thee...how I love thee indeed.