Though I am known among my friends as someone to consult regarding all things culinary, I must confess a love of 7-11 hot dogs, particularly the 1/4 pound spicy bite. But this post is not about that. It's about the other things they serve, which have seemingly been shoe-horned into tube shape so they can be cooked on the hot dog grills. I speak, specifically, about the "taquito."
My girlfriend has a dog. This dog loves me, and usually won't leave me alone, so I walk him often. I also am frequently the one that feeds him. In short, there is a bond, so hopefully it doesn't seem cruel when I reveal that my nickname for him is "dumb-dumb." He's a sweet guy, and terribly inquisitive, but basically a simpleton. Notwithstanding, or perhaps because of this, he will eat anything. When I lived in DC, he found chicken bones and other detritus that no one could have -- and consumed it. And he still does this now that he lives in the 'burbs, though to a lesser extent. But, honestly, he did something the other day that surprised me. On a normal walk, I saw a whole, seemingly fresh, taquito in our path and decided not to avoid it. The dog came to it while smelling the ground incessantly, presumably looking for things to eat. But when he encountered the taquito, he passed right by, not even recognizing it as food.
So, if you're tempted, don't be. My de facto dog has decided that a taquito is not food. Clearly you should not eat one.
Original Post: http://donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=17376
Showing posts with label Essays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Essays. Show all posts
Monday, November 21, 2011
Deutsch American
Ever since Don Rockwell started a forum for recommending professionals, I had meant to recommend my BMW mechanics (who service all German cars) in Urbana (my guy is Mike). I learned of them when I lived up that way, but have continued to use them since, despite the inconvenience of getting my car (and me) there. The reasons for this is that they are cheap and bullshit free. If they say you need it, you need it; if they say you don't, you don't. I've tried the dealer and other places down here and, after they recommended multi-thousand dollar repairs, went to Deutsch American. My repair bill each time for what they actually did has always been about half what I would have paid here. And they've frequently told me I didn't need to have certain work done. My car has always been returned flawless.But, of course, there's a story. When I met my girlfriend, my car needed some work. Because they are so good, I planned to take my car to Deutsch American. One thing led to another, and she volunteered to take me to drop it off. So, we set off for Deutsch American, which, I guess, I forgot to mention is in the middle of nowhere, at the end of a private airplane runway, in a hangar. So, as we pull in, she's thinking things are a bit sketchy. The door for the place is also around the side of the hangar in the back, which is not well lit. So she's thinking worse things. And I was having work done that impacted my trunk, so I had to clean it out. This is, apparently, where things got interesting.I had just moved from a friend's house in College Park with a giant back yard to a loft in DC. I didn't have a lot of storage in my new place, so I left precisely three things in my trunk that I needed in the Maryland house that I did not need in DC: a shovel; a ground tamper; and heavy-duty construction trash bags. The reason I had these three things is as follows: (1) the house I live in in Maryland had an old-school chimney smoker, and I needed the shovel to get the coals from the chimney part to the smoker box; (2) the house also had an overgrowth of bamboo, which I chopped down but took daily pruning to maintain; and (3) I put in a fountain for a former significant other and needed the tamper. I loaded these things into her trunk and we left. It was a long, silent ride home.Apparently, she believed that I needed these things so that I could kill her and bury her body where no one would find it. Of course, about half way home she confessed this to me. And, of course, rather than telling her why I owned these items, I responded that I was tired and, actually, hoped to kill her in the morning. I have no idea why she's still with me now, two and a half years later. But I'm thankful.
Original Post: http://www.donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=17375
Original Post: http://www.donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=17375
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Como-No, Isla Mujeres
Tonight, Elke and I dined at a great little Israeli restaurant in Isla Mujeres, appropriately named "Como-No" (Why Not?). It was part of a side trip during my "annual" family vacation in Cancun (which I attend about once every five years) and came after a long day at a seedy beach with every immediate relative I have. We had "Comono hummous," which was hummous topped with very good falafel and slices of hard-boiled egg, and "Arabic salad" which was a salad of tomato, cucumber, and onion in a yoghurt-based dressing.
The place was very casual and very hip. It wasn't an Israeli restaurant, per se, so much as it was a place owned by a guy from Tel Aviv that served what appeared to be all of his favorite food. Before we talked with the owner, there was no real indication that it was an Israeli-owned restaurant except that the menu was rather odd for a tiny Mexican island and the people that worked there all spoke English. The menu had guacamole, but it was predominantly Middle-Eastern dishes like hummous and kebabs, with a few Spanish tapas thrown in for good measure. I determined that the owner must be Israeli because the menu also, curiously, has schnitzel, which I have come to learn is a "traditional Israeli dish" (at least for my friend Karen!). My suspicion was bolstered when the owner nodded knowingly to a customer that strolled in wearing what looked like a Mexican-themed, knit yarmulke and when Elke noticed a colorful, framed print of a menorah (which was directly behind me, so I initially didn't see it). It was confirmed when we met the owner shortly thereafter.
He was a nice guy, with a blonde, pregnant wife who was also from Israel (I don't recall the city, but Elke would). The place was a lot of fun, and tonight had a couple of Spanish-speaking guitar players as the entertainment. They too were great -- sort-of Jack Johnson types, only Mexican -- and we ended up staying for a full set. This was, of course, just long enough for us to miss the correct ferry back to the hotel zone, meaning we got on the wrong one and ended up in Cuidad Cancun. Fortunately for us, I have learned that nearly every stupid thing you do in Mexico is easily remedied with a few pesos. It this case, they went to a nice cab driver who entertained us with rather loud videos of deliciously bad American pop during the nearly 30-minute trip home from this remote port.
Original post: http://donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=8086&st=0&gopid=180768&#entry180768
The place was very casual and very hip. It wasn't an Israeli restaurant, per se, so much as it was a place owned by a guy from Tel Aviv that served what appeared to be all of his favorite food. Before we talked with the owner, there was no real indication that it was an Israeli-owned restaurant except that the menu was rather odd for a tiny Mexican island and the people that worked there all spoke English. The menu had guacamole, but it was predominantly Middle-Eastern dishes like hummous and kebabs, with a few Spanish tapas thrown in for good measure. I determined that the owner must be Israeli because the menu also, curiously, has schnitzel, which I have come to learn is a "traditional Israeli dish" (at least for my friend Karen!). My suspicion was bolstered when the owner nodded knowingly to a customer that strolled in wearing what looked like a Mexican-themed, knit yarmulke and when Elke noticed a colorful, framed print of a menorah (which was directly behind me, so I initially didn't see it). It was confirmed when we met the owner shortly thereafter.
He was a nice guy, with a blonde, pregnant wife who was also from Israel (I don't recall the city, but Elke would). The place was a lot of fun, and tonight had a couple of Spanish-speaking guitar players as the entertainment. They too were great -- sort-of Jack Johnson types, only Mexican -- and we ended up staying for a full set. This was, of course, just long enough for us to miss the correct ferry back to the hotel zone, meaning we got on the wrong one and ended up in Cuidad Cancun. Fortunately for us, I have learned that nearly every stupid thing you do in Mexico is easily remedied with a few pesos. It this case, they went to a nice cab driver who entertained us with rather loud videos of deliciously bad American pop during the nearly 30-minute trip home from this remote port.
Original post: http://donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=8086&st=0&gopid=180768&#entry180768
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Champagne
In my house, I either have Champagne, or I am out of Champagne. So I wanted to write an ode, to describe why I love it. Why it is impossible to be unhappy while drinking Champagne. Alas, I cannot hope to top the words of Terry Theise. So here they are.
From Terry Theise's 2007 Catalogue:
I have a friend who was about to marry when, a week before the wedding, he and his fiance learned of her diagnosis with cancer, a bad cancer, a killer. They married nevertheless, and the eighteen months of their marriage were marked by the disease, its treatment, the endless round of doctors and specialists, and the pathos of her death. She was in her early thirties, and they were each the other’s Great Love. His friends did what we could to rally around him.
Within a week or two after the death, we gathered in one of our homes to cook supper and keep our friend company. He and I had spoken often, of course, and shed many a tear together, but this was my first time seeing him, and so I brought a special wine, a Magnum of Vilmart’s 1991 Coeur de Cuvée. And this is the first thing I want to tell you; what other wine can be at once appropriate for both celebration and consolation? The very sight of the tiny rising bubbles, dancing upward as if to snub their noses at gravity and exploding in a soft wash of foam, are heralds of an unquenchable hope. And so it was; the Champagne itself was enthralling, and I watched my friend be drawn into its suave complexity, and I knew very well that for these few moments he was engrossed in life, free of the ache of his dead. The Champagne almost literally brought him back to life.
What other wine could have done this?
...
That’s why Champagne matters, and why you should care.
Original URL: http://www.skurnikwines.com/msw/documents/2007Champagnecatalog_Champagne2007_working.pdf
From Terry Theise's 2007 Catalogue:
I have a friend who was about to marry when, a week before the wedding, he and his fiance learned of her diagnosis with cancer, a bad cancer, a killer. They married nevertheless, and the eighteen months of their marriage were marked by the disease, its treatment, the endless round of doctors and specialists, and the pathos of her death. She was in her early thirties, and they were each the other’s Great Love. His friends did what we could to rally around him.
Within a week or two after the death, we gathered in one of our homes to cook supper and keep our friend company. He and I had spoken often, of course, and shed many a tear together, but this was my first time seeing him, and so I brought a special wine, a Magnum of Vilmart’s 1991 Coeur de Cuvée. And this is the first thing I want to tell you; what other wine can be at once appropriate for both celebration and consolation? The very sight of the tiny rising bubbles, dancing upward as if to snub their noses at gravity and exploding in a soft wash of foam, are heralds of an unquenchable hope. And so it was; the Champagne itself was enthralling, and I watched my friend be drawn into its suave complexity, and I knew very well that for these few moments he was engrossed in life, free of the ache of his dead. The Champagne almost literally brought him back to life.
What other wine could have done this?
...
That’s why Champagne matters, and why you should care.
Original URL: http://www.skurnikwines.com/msw/documents/2007Champagnecatalog_Champagne2007_working.pdf
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Dukem, U Street
So it is said, that one day in 1943, about a dozen or so officers’ wives on a shopping spree in a border town in Mexico wandered into a restaurant called the Victory Club. Though the accounts don’t typically mention this, I like to think that all of the women were more than a little tipsy. Unfortunately for them, the restaurant had closed for the day and, with few exceptions, everything had been sold. But, it being a border town, the restaurant owner did not want to disappoint the nice Gringos with money. So he told Chef Ignacio Anaya to come up with something, anything, for these well-heeled women. Having nothing but leftover tortillas, cheese, and jalapeños at his disposal, the Nacho was born (Nacho, of course, was the chef’s nickname).
Again it happened late one night in 1964, as Teressa Belissimo watched over the Anchor Bar in Buffalo New York, which she owned with her husband, Frank Lentz (who likely would not have allowed this to story to occur). That night, her son Dominic wandered in with his friends from college – doubtlessly drunk – looking for food. Again, limited by what was on hand at that late hour, she had her cook whip up a feast from some leftover chicken wings, hot sauce, and butter. The Buffalo wing was born.
And so, in the shadow of such legends, I found myself on the eve of Thanksgiving in 2010, the accidental beneficiary of scarcity. My girlfriend and I wandered out of the 9:30 club onto U Street, several drinks into a good night, looking for food. We tried the nearest establishment, Nelly's, but they were done cooking for the night. I immediately considered Ohh and Ahhs, but, this being late on the Wednesday night before a major holiday, they too were closed. As was Etete. So, when my girlfriend gave me a choice between finding the next open place to eat and death (followed, shortly thereafter, by her consuming my carcass), I decided Dukem was a better idea than the line at Ben’s.
The place was not only open, it was bouncing. Literally. It was full of (who I assume were) Ethiopians having a great time, dancing to (what I assume was) Ethiopian music. No one was eating, but, undeterred, we asked our waitress for menus. No menus. The kitchen was open, but there were only two choices: fried beef and fried lamb. And they didn’t have injera, only “regular bread.”
This was a bit of a quandary for me, given my girlfriend’s vegetarian proclivities (notwithstanding her recent threats). So I was as surprised – as you might imagine – when she demanded the lamb (but, let’s face it, most “vegetarians” are one good drunk away from a cheeseburger). Ten minutes later, the meat arrived, adorned by a few onions, fresh jalapeños, and four small French rolls. I’m pretty sure that what we ended up with was Dukem’s version of yebeg tibs with rolls instead of injera.
It didn’t look that promising. Then I cracked a roll. It was clearly store-bought bread, but it was very fresh and somehow better than what I’ve had in most of the sub shops that ship their rolls in from Philly. It was nicely toasted and the inside was like luscious cotton. The roll steamed as I cracked it. I greedily crammed the meat into my roll until it wouldn’t take any more and dug in.
I had created the perfect sandwich.
It was amazing: the bread, the (limited) vegetables, and the juice were like a good cheesesteak, but with the flavor of Ninth Street instead of South Street. I would recommend you try one, but I’m not sure you can. Clearly, my epiphany was, for Dukem, a problem and they seemed embarrassed to serve it to me. But in that moment, it was perfect.
Original Post: http://donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=11262&view=findpost&p=178001
Again it happened late one night in 1964, as Teressa Belissimo watched over the Anchor Bar in Buffalo New York, which she owned with her husband, Frank Lentz (who likely would not have allowed this to story to occur). That night, her son Dominic wandered in with his friends from college – doubtlessly drunk – looking for food. Again, limited by what was on hand at that late hour, she had her cook whip up a feast from some leftover chicken wings, hot sauce, and butter. The Buffalo wing was born.
And so, in the shadow of such legends, I found myself on the eve of Thanksgiving in 2010, the accidental beneficiary of scarcity. My girlfriend and I wandered out of the 9:30 club onto U Street, several drinks into a good night, looking for food. We tried the nearest establishment, Nelly's, but they were done cooking for the night. I immediately considered Ohh and Ahhs, but, this being late on the Wednesday night before a major holiday, they too were closed. As was Etete. So, when my girlfriend gave me a choice between finding the next open place to eat and death (followed, shortly thereafter, by her consuming my carcass), I decided Dukem was a better idea than the line at Ben’s.
The place was not only open, it was bouncing. Literally. It was full of (who I assume were) Ethiopians having a great time, dancing to (what I assume was) Ethiopian music. No one was eating, but, undeterred, we asked our waitress for menus. No menus. The kitchen was open, but there were only two choices: fried beef and fried lamb. And they didn’t have injera, only “regular bread.”
This was a bit of a quandary for me, given my girlfriend’s vegetarian proclivities (notwithstanding her recent threats). So I was as surprised – as you might imagine – when she demanded the lamb (but, let’s face it, most “vegetarians” are one good drunk away from a cheeseburger). Ten minutes later, the meat arrived, adorned by a few onions, fresh jalapeños, and four small French rolls. I’m pretty sure that what we ended up with was Dukem’s version of yebeg tibs with rolls instead of injera.
It didn’t look that promising. Then I cracked a roll. It was clearly store-bought bread, but it was very fresh and somehow better than what I’ve had in most of the sub shops that ship their rolls in from Philly. It was nicely toasted and the inside was like luscious cotton. The roll steamed as I cracked it. I greedily crammed the meat into my roll until it wouldn’t take any more and dug in.
I had created the perfect sandwich.
It was amazing: the bread, the (limited) vegetables, and the juice were like a good cheesesteak, but with the flavor of Ninth Street instead of South Street. I would recommend you try one, but I’m not sure you can. Clearly, my epiphany was, for Dukem, a problem and they seemed embarrassed to serve it to me. But in that moment, it was perfect.
Original Post: http://donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=11262&view=findpost&p=178001
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Levantine Meat Pies
About a year an a half ago, a strange little place called "Tuscany Grapes Cafe" opened on Lee Highway in Falls Church, behind the 7-11 across from the big cemetery. I have no recollection of why I happened in there one night with my girlfriend, but it was clear that they had just opened (possibly that night). Aside from a few common Middle Eastern appetizers like hummus, the posted carry-out menu reflected a bad strip mall pizza and sub joint, as did about half of the restaurant, which was basically a pizza counter and kitchen. The other half of the place was an open dining room, once appropriate to the pizza counter, but now adorned with a handful of Middle Eastern artifacts and some hookahs.
The "staff" consisted of three guys sitting in the dining room talking. When we walked in, one got up to meet us, gave us a gracious welcome, and showed us to some seats in the back. It was late for a weeknight and we were the only customers in the restaurant, which looked like either it had been cleaned for the night or we were the first customers of the day (or ever). I was regretting the decision to enter until our "waiter" (who, as it turns out, owned the place) reappeared with the menus. As expected, the dining menu matched the carryout menu. However, a single, typewritten sheet had also been inserted, offering "Tuscany Grapes' Pies" with various fillings. Our server described these as "Lebanese pizza" and enthusiastically suggested we try one. I took the recommendation and ordered a pie with beef filling.
Our strange experience had so lowered my expectations that anything edible would have surprised me. But the meat pie I got was good. Really good. Food Network's "The Best Thing I Ever Ate" good. It was round dough, about the size of a medium pizza and similarly sliced, layered with ground, spiced meat, and topped with another thin layer of dough. I asked our server the proper name of the dish and immediately forgot his response. I still have no idea what it’s called, but, after a little research, I think it was most likely a version of sfiha, or lahm bi'ajīn, or lahmajoun, which may or may not all be the same thing.
We went back to Tuscany Grapes a couple of times after that and only ever got the meat pie and the Middle Eastern appetizers, which were always very good. Each experience was as strange as the first and my girlfriend and I were always the only customers. A few months later, my girlfriend moved (ironically) to Ramallah for work and, because I was convinced that the quality of the food was in direct proportion to the owner’s fondness for my girlfriend, I stopped going to Tuscany Grapes.
When the girlfriend recently returned to my life (she actually returned to the States some months ago…it’s kind of a long story) one of my first thoughts was to take her to Tuscany Grapes for another meat pie. (I know, I’m terribly romantic…and did I forget to mention that she’s a vegetarian? I said it was a long story.) I was greatly disappointed to discover that Tuscany Grapes is gone. So, now my quest has begun. Not only must I identify the strange, yet wonderful, meat pie that I remember, I must also find a good version of it.
Anyone have any ideas?
Original Post: http://donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=15238&st=0&p=175085&#entry175085
The "staff" consisted of three guys sitting in the dining room talking. When we walked in, one got up to meet us, gave us a gracious welcome, and showed us to some seats in the back. It was late for a weeknight and we were the only customers in the restaurant, which looked like either it had been cleaned for the night or we were the first customers of the day (or ever). I was regretting the decision to enter until our "waiter" (who, as it turns out, owned the place) reappeared with the menus. As expected, the dining menu matched the carryout menu. However, a single, typewritten sheet had also been inserted, offering "Tuscany Grapes' Pies" with various fillings. Our server described these as "Lebanese pizza" and enthusiastically suggested we try one. I took the recommendation and ordered a pie with beef filling.
Our strange experience had so lowered my expectations that anything edible would have surprised me. But the meat pie I got was good. Really good. Food Network's "The Best Thing I Ever Ate" good. It was round dough, about the size of a medium pizza and similarly sliced, layered with ground, spiced meat, and topped with another thin layer of dough. I asked our server the proper name of the dish and immediately forgot his response. I still have no idea what it’s called, but, after a little research, I think it was most likely a version of sfiha, or lahm bi'ajīn, or lahmajoun, which may or may not all be the same thing.
We went back to Tuscany Grapes a couple of times after that and only ever got the meat pie and the Middle Eastern appetizers, which were always very good. Each experience was as strange as the first and my girlfriend and I were always the only customers. A few months later, my girlfriend moved (ironically) to Ramallah for work and, because I was convinced that the quality of the food was in direct proportion to the owner’s fondness for my girlfriend, I stopped going to Tuscany Grapes.
When the girlfriend recently returned to my life (she actually returned to the States some months ago…it’s kind of a long story) one of my first thoughts was to take her to Tuscany Grapes for another meat pie. (I know, I’m terribly romantic…and did I forget to mention that she’s a vegetarian? I said it was a long story.) I was greatly disappointed to discover that Tuscany Grapes is gone. So, now my quest has begun. Not only must I identify the strange, yet wonderful, meat pie that I remember, I must also find a good version of it.
Anyone have any ideas?
Original Post: http://donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=15238&st=0&p=175085&#entry175085
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Againn, DC
Dear Againn DC,
Screw you. I have never been motivated to trash a restaurant on this board, or elsewhere, but you deserve it. I was in your establishment for over 50 minutes last night and none of those minutes was even remotely pleasant. Your staff managed to do absolutely everything wrong. From the 10 minutes I was at the host stand before anyone said a word to me, through the 15 additional minutes it took to get our menus, to the 15 minutes it took to get two average beers, to the two separate times my dining companion tried to order an appetizer, only to be told that the kitchen was out of it, through the 10 further minutes I waited for a manager who never came (which I was forced by my server to do when I asked for my check). All of these I could let pass because, when I finally begged my server for the check saying “I will literally pay you anything you want if I can get out of this restaurant” she told us to just go (no food was ever ordered). But, now you have reported me to Opentable as a no-show. So I feel compelled to report you to this community, Againn DC, as a no-show. Apparently your management has all decamped for Rockville.
Sincerely,
Never Againn.
Original Post: http://donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=12494&view=findpost&p=171862
Screw you. I have never been motivated to trash a restaurant on this board, or elsewhere, but you deserve it. I was in your establishment for over 50 minutes last night and none of those minutes was even remotely pleasant. Your staff managed to do absolutely everything wrong. From the 10 minutes I was at the host stand before anyone said a word to me, through the 15 additional minutes it took to get our menus, to the 15 minutes it took to get two average beers, to the two separate times my dining companion tried to order an appetizer, only to be told that the kitchen was out of it, through the 10 further minutes I waited for a manager who never came (which I was forced by my server to do when I asked for my check). All of these I could let pass because, when I finally begged my server for the check saying “I will literally pay you anything you want if I can get out of this restaurant” she told us to just go (no food was ever ordered). But, now you have reported me to Opentable as a no-show. So I feel compelled to report you to this community, Againn DC, as a no-show. Apparently your management has all decamped for Rockville.
Sincerely,
Never Againn.
Original Post: http://donrockwell.com/index.php?showtopic=12494&view=findpost&p=171862
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Boone's Rules in a Crisis Situation
In honor of Tiger Woods' current domestic perdicament, I will add my first ever substantive post: Boone's Rules in a Crisis Situation. I have been formulating these for twenty years, and sharing them almost as long. But they bear repeating:
1. Deny Everything. By this I don't mean deny specific accuasations. I literally mean deny EVERYTHING. Denying specific accusations would be lying. There is a rule for that (see number 3). I mean, say things like "I don't know what you're talking about" and "that's crazy."
2. Create a Diversion. By this I mean focus trouble away from you. Find something the accuser would be far more pissed about. Talking about the diversion might completely shield you from blame for the original sin.
3. Lie, or, if the lie would be worse than the truth, Confess Everything and Ask Forgiveness. This is the hard step, because it calls on you to understand the true repercussions of the lie versus the truth. Most people get this wrong, because it is easier just to lie. Do not get this wrong, you could end up in jail or disbarred. (See Bill Clinton.) If you can't assess the repercussions of the lie, call an attorney. If the lie is minor, but you're stupid, call a friend.
4. Run Like Hell. If the lie or truth don't work, you need to get the hell out of dodge. This is why lawsuits settle and why marriages break up. And, if you know this rule, it's why you never get your ass beat.
Note: None of these rules apply if you are speaking with law enforcement officials. In that case, there is only one rule: SHUT THE FUCK UP AND CALL AN ATTORNEY. This rule applies even if you are innocent. Seriously. Just stop talking.
1. Deny Everything. By this I don't mean deny specific accuasations. I literally mean deny EVERYTHING. Denying specific accusations would be lying. There is a rule for that (see number 3). I mean, say things like "I don't know what you're talking about" and "that's crazy."
2. Create a Diversion. By this I mean focus trouble away from you. Find something the accuser would be far more pissed about. Talking about the diversion might completely shield you from blame for the original sin.
3. Lie, or, if the lie would be worse than the truth, Confess Everything and Ask Forgiveness. This is the hard step, because it calls on you to understand the true repercussions of the lie versus the truth. Most people get this wrong, because it is easier just to lie. Do not get this wrong, you could end up in jail or disbarred. (See Bill Clinton.) If you can't assess the repercussions of the lie, call an attorney. If the lie is minor, but you're stupid, call a friend.
4. Run Like Hell. If the lie or truth don't work, you need to get the hell out of dodge. This is why lawsuits settle and why marriages break up. And, if you know this rule, it's why you never get your ass beat.
Note: None of these rules apply if you are speaking with law enforcement officials. In that case, there is only one rule: SHUT THE FUCK UP AND CALL AN ATTORNEY. This rule applies even if you are innocent. Seriously. Just stop talking.
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