Lakewood, arguably the most neighborly neighborhood in East Dallas, presented the city with a local festival this past Saturday on what turned out to be a fantastically sunny afternoon (no thanks to the weather forecasts). Though expectations were low, Lakewoodstock attendance was relatively high, providing nearby residents with an unorthodox day activity for the kids and kinfolk.

More carnival than festival
Call me spoiled from the adventures of the past, but my definition of a festival has certainly been altered over the past year. Though it was a valiant effort, Lakewoodstock’s entertainment was quite lackluster. Local businesses and community entities did their best to add to the atmosphere with classic carnival staples such as face painting, ring toss, and a bounce house. Seriously, ring toss?

Venue Architecture
With Abrams Rd. splitting the venue in half, attendees were forced to throw away chug their beverages before walking 5 yards into the other half, back and forth, throughout the day. I suppose the party planning committee wanted to showcase local businesses on both sides of Abrams – that I can understand. Why not shut down that portion of Abrams anyways? I’ll chalk it up to first year rookie mistakes by the planning committee.

Silver Linings
Despite my prejudice and minor gripes, my low expectations were definitely exceeded by the sheer strength of the local community. Yes, the limbo between festival and carnival allowed Lakewoodstock to get away with not having some crucial stereotypical elements of either, but for its worth, I enjoyed myself. From the perspective of a local resident, I can see how this would be an attractive event on a Saturday at the end of spring. Boy scouts, the local fire department, and community businesses all pitched in to make this possible. With more helping hands, a little more foresight, and an absurd amount of more live music, I can definitely see this little local baby-festival growing into it’s own.

For a group raised with Texan cynicism towards all things Oklahoma, this was to be as much of an eye-opening experience as an enjoyable one. We were expecting a rural atmosphere with little metropolitan spirit and a folksy festival supplied with weak beer. Our final impression would be much different.

The music was as eclectic as any major festival: country folk and bluegrass wailed against a backdrop of psychedelic pop rock and 80′s dance grooves. The recurring theme of NMF was the desire to expose local Oklahoma talent by putting them shoulder-to-shoulder with more nationally recognized acts; in this regard, the festival succeeded. Our biggest regret was not having the correspondents needed to catch more of OK’s finest, but the acts we saw and spoke to gave a tantalizing preview of the emerging local music scene.

Every festival has its standouts, and Norman Music Fest was no exception. Stillwater native Sheree Chamberlain brought a soulful sound to the afternoon set; her haunting vocals and acoustic folk sound blended nicely with the atmosphere of Main Street Norman, classically framed in railroad iron and wood. Sugar and Gold brought a pumping dance rhythm and blew away the stagnant afternoon heat with a Chromeo-esque energy that demanded your hip’s attention. Philadelphia band Man Man soon matched with their own sweaty, high-energy set, followed by a more subdued Starlight Mints performance punctuated with carefully timed moments of bravado. Main headliners and final performers Of Montreal did not disappoint with their closing ceremonies. The Athens, Georgia band displayed their mastery of blending performance art, electric pop soul, and a theatrical style reminiscent of Greek tragedy into a truly unique and jarring live concert experience. It was a befitting end to a festival that made constant allusions to the great heroes of modern Oklahoma music, The Flaming Lips.

But for all of the the amazing acts and turkey legs, the strongest impression was made by the local community and the festival acting as vanguard. The classic prejudices of a backwards, culture-starved Oklahoma were trampled under the feet of an art performance troupe and with each local artist and volunteer we spoke with. There’s clearly a creative element yearning to create a new identity in this historically conservative state.

If you’re a newbie to the festival scene, you should know that almost all medium to major festivals charge entrance fees per day on top of overpriced food and drinks you’re inevitably obligated to purchase. Thankfully, NMF stayed grass roots during these hard economic times. Cheap beer and food prices are good, but the option to bring your own food/drinks is great!

Many, many thanks to Oklahoman cutie Mary Ann Osko for helping us get through the press pass process smoothly. This lady has a lot of great plans for that city and is a shining example of the ambassadors that are redefining the area. Treat her well, Norman.

With attendance tripling yet still in manageable numbers, my only fear is that this great, authentic event will be touched by the mighty hands of the corporate gods and thus transformed into any other unidentifiable commercial weekend money pit. With various industries taking budget cuts left and right, any Oklahoman or Texan would be a fool to pass up such a great source of free, spectacular entertainment. Let’s hope this festival remembers to stay humble.

Shout-out to Natalie A. and her equally bodacious roommate Julia for graciously hosting MeVersus+3. Those pbj’s rocked.

Guidelive categorizes Perry’s as a four-star restaurant, which automatically predisposes diners to reject the idea of even stepping into the restaurant for the fear of losing their wallets in the cavernous space of the malicious economic giant. (That was a mouthful.) I don’t want to mislead anyone into thinking a small price won’t have to be paid. But for intricate service, overwhelmingly hearty servings,  and a bill that is pleasantly surprising, I can’t complain.

I wasn’t too impressed with the stuffiness exuding from the classically decorated walls. It was glaringly obvious Perry’s isn’t the t-shirts, jeans and cowboy boots kind of place. Well, maybe if they’re Hugo Boss boots. And having been to a few of these upscale restaurants before, I expected minuscule portions made for Polly Pocket (the old school one whose house fits in the palm of your hand, not the pop-cartoon rendition Mattel’s selling today). It’d take at least a three-course meal to get me even remotely full. I decided to order Jumbo Lump Crab Cakes to start and the Tempura Lobster for my main course. My company had Calamari with Sweet Thai Sauce and the Prime Cowboy Ribeye.

Boy, oh boy! Does Perry surprise. The portions were… the only word to really describe it here… ginormous! I was pretty much done after the crab cakes – two disks of chewy crab meat, each the size of a regulation coaster. The grain mustard rémoulade was the perfect companion to balance the cakes. It was truly an explosion of flavor in every bite. The lobster had to have been at least a two-pounder. The thickness intimidated me a little, but I still dove in. It was a little bland for my taste, but the tarragon béarnaise sauce complimented it nicely. The calamari was perfectly crispy. I wasn’t a big fan of the sauce, but if you like a little sweetness in your meal, it would definitely hit the spot. The steak, at a whopping 23 oz, was a delight. Cooked just right, the meat was pleasurably tender and juicy. You may request any of their specialty sauces if A1 is getting a little boring for you.

The presentation was truly awe-inspiring. The bill came out to be $109; but with portions that big, I’m wondering if the profit margin is even that high. Well done, Perry’s. (Pun intended.)

If you’ve visited New Orleans, you definitely appreciated your visit to the original Cafe Du Monde (where they specialize in coffee and beignets.) I may not be a big coffee drinker, but the fluffy pastries with generous sprinkles of powder sugar could warrant a trip. The last time I was there, I had to find an excuse to return after the breakfast helping. Needless to say, these delectables consumed my heart as I consumed them.

Upon returning to Dallas, I missed them terribly. A specialty shop in Houston offers them, but even I know driving 259 miles to Chez Beignet seemed irrational. But on one beautiful, Sunday morning, something serendipitous happened. I discovered Pala Cafe. In the tradition of New Orleans, intermingled with Vietnamese influence, Pala offers fresh coffee with my much-yearned-for beignets. I ordered two portions and devoured too eagerly.

Oh yeah, the rest of the menu isn’t too bad: pho, Philly cheesesteak sandwich, lemongrass chicken on rice, hoagies. Any of those items will satiate at a decent price. Not to mention the friendliest ownder on the face of Earth. I return regularly and receive the same affection that makes any cold day warm.

UPDATE: Pala Cafe has fallen prey to the vicious and unforgiving economy. It recently closed and I am back on the beignet market. Suggestions?

The problem is that cheesesteaks are the type of thing you shouldn’t eat unless it’s superbly created. When you order one there’s the implicit agreement between the mind and body that you’re about to consume something that will, in some fashion, devastate every organ you have. Anything less than near-perfection is a bad trade.

I’ve encountered this “cheesesteak remorse” on many occasions – that feeling that a sub-standard cheesesteak has claimed that little piece of health that should have gone toward a kick-ass cheesteak. It takes the right mix of spices, onions, meat texture, and cheese to make a convincing argument against living a few more years. That’s why I roll my eyes when I see Subway trying to make them.

So, it is with great consideration that I recommend Fred’s Downtown Philly Cheesesteaks in Richardson and Plano as the tops in town. They’ve got it down to an art: chopped-up peppered-steak jiblets toasted crisp and mixed with caramelized onions, layered within a well-proportioned hoagie on a bed of melty-cheese. It makes that golden cru-squersh sound with every bite. No regrets here.

Fred’s looks slightly more appealing than a mess hall, but, like the main dish, it’s not meant to be pretty. You get a sense of the place by seeing their website devote a page to “Our Women Patrons.”

Hats off to all the cheesesteak eatin’ ladies out there.

The name itself should evoke images of a grimy, local joint dishing out hearty slices of New York-styled pizza. Crispy dough, thick sauce that burns your tongue, melty cheese, and sausage so flavorful only Everybody Loves Raymond’s Marie’s recipe could produce. And while the pizza wasn’t a complete letdown, less could be said for the rest of the restaurant.

I was surprised to discover the restaurant relies completely on a self-service system. Our party walked in and foolishly waited for a hostess to seat us. After 15 minutes of self-consciousness, we finally decided to grab one of the waiters racing by. We were instructed to get in line, order, and seat ourselves. We even had to get our own utensils! Call me spoiled, but the least I expect from a restaurant is not having to get up to get your own silverware when the food comes.

Their tag line: “We make it like we made it back in Brooklyn. Where we made it like we made it back in Italy.” I may not be Italian, but I’ve eaten enough Italian food to deem myself certified. Unless by Italy they mean Generic Factory Town, America, the ad is definitely slipping on some infringement issues.

Bottom line: For $3.49 per ginormous slice, the food’s decent for the bargain. If you’re really hungry, order a slice of the Stuffed Meat Pie ($4.99/slice). One slice could probably feed an appetite and a half. With a vast variety of toppings, you’ll certainly find something suitable to your palate. However, if you’re feeling like some pasta, do yourself a favor and drive down the street to Olive Garden.

Locations: Allen, Frisco, Garland, McKinney, and Plano.

On your average morning to work I stop by to pick up my favorite breakfast pick-me-up, a delectable jalapeño-cheese kolache. Upon entering I’m instantly greeted with that toasty, fresh out of the what-ever-they-make-it-in smell of donuts.

But my favorite part is the shop owners, a Korean (I believe) couple who are always working tirelessly to keep the place running. Whenever they see me, they flash me a warm smile and instantly say, “one jalapeño” without me saying a word. When my kolache is handed over the counter it is done so with the utmost deference: a two-handed pass, one hand lightly holding the top of the bag while the other is supporting the base like a serving tray, and with a subtle bow of the head and eyes closed. I feel like I’m receiving a golden idol or someone’s liver transplant.

It may be a cheesy sense of respect, or merely the fact that I feel like a human being rather than an ATM, but it’s just the thing I need before a mind-numbing day at the office.

I salute you Creamy Donuts. May your golden kolaches reap the years of prosperity you have deservedly claimed from my colon.