Eve Binder
Eve Binder
Recent Stories
Swagat: Tikka Me Masala
You could probably drive past Swagat a thousand times and never see it. Tucked into a little fork on Boston Post Road and obscured by a generic awning, it’s the kind of place your brain just fails to target when you make your annual Target run.
Not mastering the art of French cooking
One morning, I (Eve Binder) awoke from troubled dreams to discover that my life had been transformed into an epic cliché. Not, sadly, the kind of cliché where drunk people wake up married, and talking animals hem your pants for you, and you fell in a barrel of toxic waste, and now you have superpowers. More like the cliché where you wake up from Kafkaesque dreams to realize that your life’s plans are totally unoriginal, and you’re just treading a road that’s been trod by a million before you, and you are an unspecial little turd in a big trite world.
Poverty and punsanity
Breaking news: the economy is broken and everybody’s broke, and the brokers are heartbroken because no one’s breaking even, and your parents are breaking your balls because your spring break broke the bank. At times like these, who can even think of breaking bread? … In case you didn’t get that, let me break it down.
You, and me, and all them Peeps
Easter is nigh, and for hungry sacrileJews like me that can mean only one thing. THEY have arrived.
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Currently I have two short-term goals in life. Goal #1: Eat everything in sight, as well as some things that are not in sight.
Danger-ish liasons
Ah, Valentine’s Day, celebration of lovers. Or perhaps more accurately, celebration of dimly lit rooms, Marvin Gaye and One Dozen Red Roses. And nasty, pasty candy hearts with creepy pseudo-English messages like “MAD 4 U” or “2 HAWT.”
Six degrees of BACON
Let me start by making something very clear. I love bacon. I have loved bacon since I was a tiny, clueless child with a pudding-bowl haircut, round red grandpa glasses and one friend named Sam who was probably imaginary.
Mung beans and brickle
January is a very depressing time to be a chowhound. Gone are those festive holiday feasts, and with them that holly-jolly mentality that turns us all into mad cookiemongers.
FOOD COLUMN | Don’t make me figgy pudding
All religious considerations aside, I’ve always thought of Christmas as being pretty foodtastic. Candy canes basically grow on trees; chestnuts roast over open fires (fire codes be damned); everything smells like gingerbread and tastes like rum. Even the Grinchiest little hearts can’t help but stir at the prospect of Christmas cookies — and joy to any world that gives us eggnog by the gallon.
FOOD COLUMN | Binder: King size does matter
Last Friday at 1 a.m. — as the Halloween debauchery began to wind down and the skanky Disney princesses/skanky woodland creatures/skanky mavericks went home to shower and barf — I stopped at Gourmet Heaven to buy a candy bar.