Great food and conversation this weekend at Track 15 in Providence, RI. The beautifully restored Union Train Station turned food hall is pure sensory delight. The moment you walk in, the aromas from the seven vendors pull you right in. A huge shoutout to Tolia for their unforgettable Turkish magic, especially the shawarma and lamb shish. Come hungry and leave inspired by flavors that linger long after the last bite.
Few things beat the joy of watching football at a bar on a Sunday afternoon.
It’s more than a game. It’s a ritual that somehow feels like home, no matter where you are.
Let’s start with the food because football
Sundays demand it. Wings are the undisputed star of the table. I’m a Buffalo
Wing guy, but I tip my cap to the variety. (Here’s a good link on the Top 10
USA Wing Flavors).
https://www.wingaddicts.com/blog/the-10-most-popular-chicken-wing-flavors-in-the-united-states
Beer specials, half-price appetizers, and those
silly/awesome giveaways add to the spectacle. Who among us hasn’t tried to wedge yet
another promotional pint glass into an already overstuffed cabinet? You don’t
need it, but somehow you do.
But the real magic is in the conversations.
Everyone in a jersey has a story about how they chose their team. Maybe it’s
where they grew up, maybe it’s family tradition, maybe it was one perfect
Sunday when they were eight and got hooked by a quarterback’s poise or the
shine of a helmet. Those stories get told and retold, louder than the
commentators on TV.
The bar becomes a theater of voices.
One guy
recites obscure stats like he’s auditioning for ESPN. There’s bragging about
wins, commiserating over losses, and plenty of taunting aimed at rival fans who
were brave enough to show up in the wrong colors.
That’s the beauty of football in public. It’s
a shared language that connects strangers for a few hours every week. You might
not remember everyone’s name, but you’ll remember their team, their wing
preference, and their reaction to that last-minute touchdown.
Here’s to another season! Another round of wings, another pint glass jammed into the cabinet, another Sunday yelling at the screen with friends and strangers alike.
Football is back, and with it, the
joy of watching together.
About a decade ago, I stumbled upon pie and booze. Not just any booze. It was a crafted, thoughtful cocktail. My gateway pairing?
A slice of cherry pie
with a cherry Old Fashioned.
It happened in the Pacific Northwest, where the food scene has a knack
for surprising you in the best possible way. The bartender told me the bourbon
had been infused with fresh cherries for over a week, and they’d swapped out
regular bitters for cherry bitters. The result? A deep, fruity richness that
made the pie’s sweet-tart filling sing. It wasn’t just dessert. It was a
dessert with a plot twist.
Sadly, some of the pie bars I’ve visited over the years, including a few
gems, have closed. Pandemic fallout? Changing tastes? The cruel economics of
running a place where bourbon meets butter crust? Who the hell knows, probably
a bit of all three. But the dream lives on, because when done right, alcohol
and pie are a match made in indulgent heaven. When done wrong… well, let’s just
say it’s a breakup you’ll remember.
Pairing alcohol with pie is a bit like matchmaking. It’s about not
forcing two personalities that don’t work together.
A few guides can help you avoid dessert disasters:
The moral of the story? Pie and alcohol aren’t just dessert, It's dessert with booze. And while the pie bar renaissance may have slowed, there’s no reason you can’t bring the magic home. Start with a favorite pie, think about its flavor profile, and pick a drink that complements rather than competes.
Or just go for it and see what happens!
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the inaugural Pie Hard with a
Vengeance. From the
sticky countertops of convenience stores everywhere, we bring you the opening
bout of our handheld apple pie tournament.
Your referee today is none other than Pi Man, seated at a wobbly
elementary school desk, legs cramped by a chair designed for third graders. The
discomfort is intentional. It captures the nostalgic spirit of snack
food consumption.
In the red corner: Drake’s Apple Pie, born in New York City in
1886. Drake’s has been a Northeast staple for generations, backed by McKee
Foods, the folks behind Devil Dogs and Ring Dings. Their apple pies roll out of
bakeries in Tennessee, Arkansas, and Virginia, each wrapped with old‑school
pride.
And in the blue corner: Hostess Apple Pie, a Kansas City legend
since 1919. The same company that gave America the Twinkie now bakes these pies
in Kansas, Georgia, and Indiana. Their crust glimmers under fluorescent lights
with the confidence of a prizefighter’s robe.
The contest is judged on six factors: Taste, Filling, Crust, Sugar
Content, Packaging, and Nostalgia. Two pies enter. One pie moves on. Let the
munching commence.
Taste: Drake’s came out strong with a flavor reminiscent of a homemade pie,
complete with real apple notes and a subtle touch of cinnamon. Hostess fired
back with pure sweetness—less apple pie, more carnival treat. Delicious, yes,
but leaning heavily on sugar.
Filling: Hostess showed up with more filling in the middle, though the definition of “generous” in the snack‑aisle world is modest at best. Drake’s was lighter, but still respectable.
Crust: Hostess went flashy, with a shiny glaze that looked like it had been
painted on. The sweetness was overwhelming. Drake’s stuck to a sturdier,
humbler crust—no frills, just business—and it worked.
Sugar Content: Hostess delivered a sugar rush worthy of a double espresso, while
Drake’s kept its balance, letting the apple flavor shine through. Big points
for Hostess in this category!
Packaging: Hostess scores points for practicality with a protective box. Drake’s
counters with a classic paper wrap, the kind that sparked memories of a pie
forgotten in a 7th‑grade locker—remarkably intact months later.
Nostalgia: This category ended in a draw. Both contenders carried decades of
lunchbox loyalty.
The Winner: Drake’s Apple Pie—for tasting the most like an actual apple pie.
My verdict is in. Pi Man has spoken.
Pi Man likes cartoons. Maybe you do too. Remember in old cartoons when a
character needed to knock some sense into a no-good husband or the nearest
anthropomorphic cat? Out came the rolling pin. It was practically the Swiss
Army knife of cartoon comedy.
But why the rolling pin? I needed to know.
The truth is, back in the 1940s, it seems every kitchen had one. The rolling pin
was like the family dog—always around, always ready, and occasionally dangerous. People baked constantly. Bread, cookies, biscuits,
and—most importantly—pies. If you wanted that perfectly thin, flaky crust, a
rolling pin was your best friend. Cartoonists knew their audiences would
instantly recognize the tool, which made it the perfect prop for a good
old-fashioned comedic bonk on the head.
But let’s rewind a bit. Who came up with this genius invention in the
first place? Ancient civilizations were already rolling out dough thousands of
years ago using simple wooden or stone cylinders. The rolling pin we know
today—with handy handles that don’t pinch your palms—was patented in the
mid-1800s by a clever American named J.W. Reed. Ever since, it’s been rolling
smoothly through kitchens everywhere.
For decades, the rolling pin was the MVP of the kitchen lineup. But then
came the 1950s convenience boom. Suddenly, instead of Grandma rolling out pie
crust from scratch, families could just grab a ready-made dessert at the store.
Frozen doughs and packaged pies started pushing rolling pins to the back of the
drawer. The poor pin only got called up for holiday duty.
Then came 2020, and everything changed. With the world stuck at home,
people rediscovered baking. Suddenly, flour was flying off shelves, sourdough
starters were being treated like family pets, and—yep—rolling pin sales spiked.
The once-retired kitchen workhorse was back in action, flattening everything
from pie crusts to stress levels.
So, next time you spot a rolling pin in an old cartoon, give it a nod of
respect. It wasn’t just a slapstick weapon—it was a cultural icon, a culinary
essential, and, thanks to the pandemic, a comeback kid.
Let's be honest – crumbles are pie's laid-back first cousin
who shows up to family dinner in comfortable clothes and somehow steals the
show. This humble friend consists of fruit crowned with a crumbly mixture of
flour, butter, sugar, and sometimes oats or nuts. Unlike a pie, there is no
bottom crust.
And here's my beautiful secret: crumbles are great for breakfast. It goes down ridiculously easy.
I had this raspberry apple crumble yesterday
at 7:30 a.m. Did I feel remorse? Seriously?
Crumbles are the dessert equivalent of your favorite worn sweater – comforting, reliable, and irresistible.
Add it to your breakfast rotation. You can thank me later.
Those little individually wrapped pies you see at gas
stations and corner stores. The ones sitting next to the candy bars and chips.
Most people grab them without thinking twice, eat them, and move on with their
day.
But I think they deserve better than that.
The Forgotten Pies
Not all pies are created equal – that's been my belief for a
long time. But sometimes you can't choose where you find something good.
Sometimes the best discoveries happen in the most ordinary places.
That's why I'm doing this tournament: Pie Hard with a
Vengeance. It's an apple pie face-off between what I'm calling "snack
pies" – those small, handheld pies made for busy people who still want
something sweet.
They have crust. They have filling. They're meant to be
eaten on the go. And honestly? They're probably all made by the same company in
the same building by the same hardworking people.
I don't care about that last part. What I care about is
giving these pies a fair shot.
The Lineup
We've got the heavy hitters: Hostess, Tastykake, Drake's,
Little Debbie, Entenmann's, Walmart's Great Value, and Table Talk. Each
one has been feeding Americans for decades. Each one has earned its spot on
those convenience store shelves.
These aren't artisanal. They're not made with organic flour
or hand-picked fruit. But they're consistent, they're affordable, and they're
always there when you need them. That counts for something.
How I'm Judging Them
I've got six things I'm looking for:
Taste – Does it taste good? Simple as that. When the package
says apple, do I taste apple?
Filling – Is there enough? Does it taste like what it's
supposed to be? Is the texture right?
Crust – I'm not expecting buttery, flaky perfection here. I
want something that holds together, tastes decent, and doesn't fall apart in my
hands.
Sugar Content – These are sweet treats, but there's a line
between "pleasantly sweet" and "candy disguised as pie." I give extra points if I walk away with an
instant sugar rush.
Packaging – Does it keep the pie fresh? Is it easy to open?
Does it protect what's inside?
Nostalgia – This might sound silly, but these pies carry
memories. Childhood lunches, road trip snacks, late-night study sessions. That
emotional connection matters. If the pie makes me cry, extra points.
Why This Matters
I know what you're thinking. Why spend time on convenience
store pies when there are so many amazing bakeries out there? Because sometimes
you're stuck at a gas station at midnight and you want something that reminds
you of dessert.
These pies might not win any fancy food awards, but they've
won something else: they've become part of people's lives. You just need to
walk into almost any store in North America.
My guess? Some of them are going to surprise me. Some of
them are going to be better than I expected. Some will suck.
No fancy equipment, no complicated scoring system. Just me,
a bunch of snack pies, and the simple question: which one is the best?
Stay tuned.
This story deviates from the Pie Path. It's about chicken wings. I think it is worth telling.
Once upon a time, Pi Man was a young salesman who,
like many young sales people, kicked off work early on a Friday afternoon to
hang out at a bar.
This one bar had very spicy wings called Eagle
Wings. They were pure fire in the mouth.
These wings were so spicy that no one in the group
ever ate more than four at one sitting. The brave soul who managed four would
sweat all over his expensive suit like he was being tortured. He was a star. A
sweaty, miserable star.
But then came Neal.
Neal was a young sales guy from elsewhere in the
branch, across the river where people apparently had different ideas about pain
and dignity. He said he would eat ten Eagle Wings if invited. Everyone thought
he was bragging and would fold after two, maybe three if he was trying to
impress someone.
So we thought.
When Neal showed up, he had a process. Like a
surgeon preparing for a delicate operation, he removed his suit jacket, his
tie, and his crisp white shirt. This was back in the 1990s, when all salesmen
wore suits and ties.
There he sat in his t-shirt, methodically removing
all the chicken meat from ten wing bones. He created a large pile of chicken
meat which he rubbed excessively in the Eagle Sauce. Eagle Sauce was directly
related to volcano lava.
Then something beautiful and terrible happened.
Neal started to chant "I'm pledging, I'm
pledging" and then smoothly and quickly ate all the meat from ten wings.
He smashed the record. He was a legend. The crowd went wild.
Six months later, I saw Neal and his girlfriend at a
work event. She leaned in close and told me that after his wing consumption
triumph, he spent the evening in the bathroom, screaming at the top of his
lungs: "I hate you guys."
It was a magnificent sacrifice of his well-being to
attain legend status.
"We must have pie. Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie."~ Dave Mamet (thanks again for writing Glengarry Glen Ross!)
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I figured apple pie.
I was wrong.
I then guessed pumpkin pie. Must be right?
Again wrong - although very popular according to DSACSHFR (The Distinguished
Society for the Advancement of Crust Sciences and Historical Filling Research).*
The winner according to my web research? Mince Pie.
Yuck.
Mince pie is a sweet pie filled with a mixture of fruit, spices, and suet. Suet is the hard fat found around the kidneys and loins of cattle and sheep. It's a specific type of animal fat that has a firm, waxy texture when raw and becomes solid at room temperature.
Yup, that is suet.
Pi Man does not want to go back in time.
* Ok, I made DSACSHFR up.
Among the many wonderful things from Toronto, we have them to thank for the first recorded pie-eating contest. It took place in 1878 as a charity fundraising event and was won by Albert Piddington, whose prize was a “handsomely” bound book. Newspapers across the United States covered the event, describing this unorthodox form of "the latest new entertainment."
The choice of pies made perfect sense. Pies were cheap and popular foods
for nineteenth-century Americans and Canadians. They were readily available and
messy enough to provide entertainment value for spectators. They captured
public imagination as a novel form of entertainment that combined competition with
comedy.
Here’s a little pie-fact - originally pie-eating contests were called “pie-eating tournaments,” How about that?
Following that first Toronto contest, pie-eating competitions became
popular at county fairs, community events, and fundraisers throughout North
America. They became part of the broader tradition of competitive eating that
would eventually evolve into the organized events we see.
The pie-eating contest represents one of the earliest forms of organized
competitive eating, predating the famous Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest by
decades. Today, pie-eating contests remain popular at local festivals and
fairs. They serve the same purposes they did in 1878: raising money for good
causes, bringing communities together, and providing messy, lighthearted
entertainment that makes people laugh.
Oh, one more thing. There are two recorded deaths during pie eating
contests. Even lighthearted entertainment comes at a price.
When sugar became cheap and available, British pie culture was already
set in stone. American pie culture was just getting started.
By the 1700s, Britain had Caribbean sugar colonies. Sugar prices dropped
and it became mainstream. But savory meat pies were already the norm in
Britain. These hearty pies served as main meals, not desserts. The tradition
was too established to change.
America was different. The colonies developed their pie culture during
this sugar boom. When sugar became widely available, American bakers embraced
it. They made simple sweet fillings with basic ingredients. American pie
culture grew up alongside increased sugar availability.
American colonists also had access to abundant fruits—apples, berries,
pumpkins. They had cheaper maple syrup and molasses.
Britain kept its savory pie tradition. Steak and kidney pie, shepherd's
pie, and meat pies remained central to British cuisine. These pies were
substantial meals that fed working families.
America went the other direction. We became sweet pie people.
Don't say you don't learn stuff from Pi Man.
Pie-throwing as political protest has a surprisingly long history.
Spanish bakers were apparently chucking pies at royal dinners back in the 1600s
to protest Habsburg policies, which honestly sounds like the most delicious
revolution ever.
But America really perfected the art. The modern pie-throwing movement
kicked off in 1969 when activist Jim Retherford smooshed a cream pie right into
UC Berkeley president Clark Kerr's face. And just like that, a beautiful
tradition was born.
The most famous pie incident happened in 1977 when gay rights activist
Tom Higgins delivered a pie to anti-gay crusader Anita Bryant during a press
conference. Bryant's response? "At least it was a fruit pie," before
bursting into tears and praying for the pie-thrower.
What makes pie-throwing so effective isn't the mess—it's the humiliation.
There's something deeply ridiculous about being covered in whipped cream and
custard that instantly makes even the most serious person look silly
The visual impact is incredible too. Early activists figured out that
pie-throwing created perfect photo opportunities. Each "hit" became a
viral moment, spreading the protesters' message far beyond the original
audience. The practice became so common that security had to start screening
for potential pie-throwers at public events.
Even The Three Stooges got in on the action, making pie fights a comedy
staple. Though Larry Fine later admitted the behind-the-scenes reality was gross—prop
crews would literally sweep pie goop off the floor, complete with nails and
splinters, to reuse it. Ouch.
Forgive me Pie People, for I have sinned. It has been 1661 days since my last posting.
I know, I know. You counted. I counted too. Every morning I'd wake up and
think, "Today's the day I'll write about that magnificent key lime pie,"
and then I'd stare at my laptop screen.
Honestly, I burned out during the pandemic and then I had a hard time
getting back into it. I just wanted to eat pie in silence. And let me tell you,
silent pie consumption is a lonely art form. No one to share the triumph of a
perfectly flaky crust, no one to witness the tragedy of a soggy apples. Just
me, my fork, and the crushing weight of my abandoned pie blog.
The irony wasn't lost on me that while the world was baking bread, I—a
person whose identity revolved around circular pastries—couldn't even muster
the enthusiasm to write about a simple fruit tart. I had become a fraud, a
shell of my former flour-dusted self.
But life has seasons and this season is called "I am back."
What got me back? The pure goodness of this Apple Crumble (made with
oatmeal!). A sign from the heavens? One bite of that buttery, oat-studded top
layer giving way to tender, cinnamon-kissed apples below, and suddenly my
fingers were tingling—not from carpal tunnel, but from the desperate need to
share this revelation with you, my patient, long-suffering readers.
So here I am, humbled and hungry, ready to resume my sacred duty of chronicling the circular wonders of this world. Thank you for waiting. The pie posts shall flow again.
