He’s baack! Hope you’re hungry because we’ve got another searing scribble from DLT‘s proudly-persnickety contributor, Eric Eats Out. Check back the first Wednesday of every month as Mr. Eats Out chews up life’s greatest mysteries, including the power of ambiance.

At the risk of jeopardizing my own personal safety, I’m coming out with a bold statement: New York pizza isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. I’m married to a girl that grew up a few miles outside of Manhattan. So, I’m not just risking my personal well-being, I’m risking my marriage, as well.

New Yorkers profess that “it’s the water.” Granted, despite the detritus left by the puppy-sized rats that wander the catacombs beneath Manhattan, one sip of water from the faucet will make you realize that tap water really does taste better in NYC, especially compared to the filthy sludge that we get here in Arizona. However, it is my contention that it’s not about the H20, it’s about the ambiance. It’s a simple truth: where you eat has a huge influence on the degree to which you enjoy what you eat.

Naturally, I have absolutely no scientific evidence to support this assertion but, hey, this is Desert Living Today, not graduate-level psychology class. They don’t even pay me to come up with this crap.

I cannot even count the number of slices of New York City pizza that I’ve had, most of them consumed in the wee hours of the morning after a long night of expense account-funded liver-destroying debauchery. And every slice was divine…folded in half with grease dripping down my arm. Same with hot dogs from a cart, carefully aged in a bath of gray water. They taste good because you’re standing on a corner surrounded by the sensory overload that only Manhattan can provide. But do you really think you would enjoy that hot dog – or pizza – equally if you ate it at a deserted intersection somewhere in Des Moines? Your time would be better spent cow-tipping.

Sonoran Hot Dog Photo: Sunset Magazine Alex Farnum

There is a time and a place for everything. Sonoran Hot Dogs should be consumed late at night from a cart in a parking lot in one of the grittier precincts of central or south Phoenix, preferably with an adequate supply of Tums in your pocket. Tea-sized cucumber sandwiches are best in a snooty hotel. When eating authentic Asian food, there is a direct correlation between the number of health code violations and the deliciousness of the food itself. When I’m eating soul food, I want to be the only white guy there and there damn well better be gizzards on the menu. As uncomfortable as these assertions may make you feel, they are truths that cannot be denied.

If you’re a food geek like me then you probably peruse the food-related web sites, like Chowhound.com. Years ago, a curious pattern emerged as readers waxed poetic about Le Grande Orange (“LGO”), in Arcadia. It seems that, again and again, eating at LGO magically made diners feel as though they had escaped the alleged-lameness of Phoenix and been taken to someplace “hipper,” like San Francisco. I’m here to say that it isn’t the food at LGO that teleported you elsewhere, it’s the lack of parking. By San Francisco standards, the food isn’t even that good.

And this brings me full circle, back to the subjects of ambiance, time and place. Are there some foods that really are better in their native habitat? Just ask any New Yorker how he feels about bagels.

Tweet