Hot Food, Hot Sun

Like I wrote in "800," I went to Mohegan Sun in Connecticut. Usually casino grub isn't worth writing about but this one was the exception.

I arrived around midnight and hungry. The great thing about casinos is that they always have a restaurant (or four) open all night long. Mohegan Sun was no different and I went to Fedelia's for a quick bite.

Now, when you go to a late-night eatery, what do you expect? Hot, tasty food served quick? Hardly. You expect cafeteria food at lukewarm temperatures with a long wait. Since it was late but I needed something to carry me through a couple hours gaming, I ordered the Ugly Mug of Roasted Chicken and Corn soup and a side order of french fries.

The food arrived on my table in under five minutes.

Sure, it's soup they keep in a water bath and fries they keep under a heat lamp - how hard could it be? But no, this soup was piping hot. And tasty. The fries were perfect: freshly fried, crisp and hot. Holy smokes, this was PERFECT cafeteria food.

Which made me wonder. Why is it that I can go to a small, supposedly quality-oriented, restaurant and the food is worse? Like the other week at Mama's On The Half Shell in Baltimore - the seafood chowder was tepid at best. Or another trip to Cafe Hon where the gravy fries were limp, lifeless and supposedly covered in a transparent liquid that was supposedly brown gravy.

Here I was, at an institutional monstrosity, in the middle of a weekday night with barely any patrons and the food was just stellar. Exactly the way it was supposed to be and served by a friendly group of staffers.

I wish more restaurants would take their cues from this example.

1-800-GAMBLER

Between August 2005 and September 2006, I visited Las Vegas no less than five times.

Admittedly, none of these trips were "gaming trips" that were planned with the sole intention of gambling, but none of the trips were concluded without a visit to one of the casinos to keep my "rating."

And while I don't gamble much, there's no game I find more interesting and exciting than craps. That feeling of the dice as it leaves your fingertips, hurtles through the air, bounces on the felt, turning up the point number: it's exhilarating.

Not to mention, a bit addictive.

I'm afraid of addictions because I think I've got an addictive personality. It's the reason why I've never indulged in cigarettes, alcohol, drugs and the like. I don't want to become addicted to these vices. My current addictions of french fries and women are destructive enough without adding more addictions to wipe out my empire.

It's been six months since my last casino visit and I've got to be honest, I've been yearning for the roll of the dice. It's not so bad that I would plan a trip to a casino, but I found out that both Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun were on the way from Vermont, so I thought I would check it out. Afterall, Tony Soprano went there and, therefore, so should I.

The guys from the Ferrari group said that I should check out Mohegan Sun over Foxwoods. So, after a five hour journey from Montpelier, I found myself at Mohegan Sun on a relatively quiet Monday night. After a quick meal and a tour of the gaming floor, I settled into a $5 craps table where I lost $140 in about an hour and a half.

So much for a new Ferrari.

That was it. That was my plan. Visit Mohegan Sun and then go home Tuesday after visiting New York.

Sometimes, things don't turn out as planned.

The next morning, after a long slumber, a pie from Mystic Pizza and a 2.5 hour drive into New York to visit Ninth Street Espresso on Thirteenth Street, I decided that I didn't want to spend the evening in the city and wanted to get out and go the hell home.

I rolled out of the Holland Tunnel at 3:30pm.

After a quick calculation, I realized that I would hit the Philadelphia area right around 5pm - the middle of rush hour.

I hate rush hours. And I hate traffic.

After another quick calculation, I figured that I could jump on the Garden State Parkway, hit Atlantic City around 5pm, check out Borgata, wait out rush hour, grab a steak from Pat's and then be home around 9pm.

Game on.

In less than 24 hours, I would hit two casinos in two states, separated by 300 miles. No, I'm not addicted. I'm just avoiding rush hour traffic.

Like Mohegan Sun, this was my first visit to Borgata. After a quick tour of the casino floor and the $5 craps table, I settled in for what I figured would be a quick run of about an hour.


You're on this date with me,
The pickings have been lush,
And yet before the evening is over,
You might give me the brush.

You might forget your manners,
You might begin to stray,
And so the best that I can do is pray.


Three hours later, I walked around the casino holding my first-ever purple chip. It was a glorious evening. The table was warm and toasty, the dice were punching numbers and I was making pretty decent bets. To be sure, there were a few throws when my chip count was down and I on the verge of being knocked out, but Lady Luck stayed with us and I rode her as long as I could.

Three hours of gaming gives one an appetite and I was crushed to find Pat's Steaks on Atlantic Avenue closed. It's what I had been dreaming of. It's what I needed. Hell, it was only about 8:30 - plenty of time for a drive to Philly. So, that's what I did: drive to Philadelphia, grab a steak (whiz with) and hit the road. I got home right around 11pm.

Not bad for a degenerate gambler.

Now, what was that 800 number again?

Aftermath

The weather in Baltimore today was a beautiful and sunny 70 degrees fahrenheit. Just lovely.

With the wonderful summer-eque weather on my back, I sit down to crunch numbers for the week. A by-product of this bookkeeping session is an online check of accounts and account balances...

Crap.

Checks are bouncing.

Merde.

Shibakuzo.

Yesterday's surprise has brought todays' horror. The unanticipated account charge for the unexpected arrival of the AntiGriddle has created havoc with my beautifully balanced bank account necessitating an emergency rush to the branch to shore up additional funds.

Whew.

Crisis averted.

Cold Chillin'

It's been awhile since I placed an order for the PolyScience AntiGriddle. The rep said they would call when it was ready. They never called and I presumed it was just taking a long time for them to work up another batch.

I roll into Spro today to find a very large box sitting on the floor.

From PolyScience.


Suddenly, it's like Christmas and I'm giddy with excitement.

It's Thursday. Just another Thursday. And I've joined the ranks of some of the finest chefs in the world.


The box is pretty big. And pretty heavy. About seventy pounds. After a few moments of composure, I tear into the box, unpacking my destiny.

The AntiGriddle. It really is about the size of a microwave. A small microwave. We hoist it into its' position of honor next to the La Marzocco Linea 3AV.

Within a few moments, Spro Coffee has the unique distinction of being the first and currently only coffee bar in the world featuring the AntiGriddle.

Clover? Bah!

Spike from Artifact Coffee asks me the question that everyone asks: "What are you going to do with it?"

Honestly, I really don't know.

Instead, I realize I'm without my camera and rush back home to get it for some "First Look" pics.

Giddy with excitment but without a clue.

After a few promo shots with the AntiGriddle, I'm left with the excruciating task of figuring out what I'm going to do with this technological wizardry. A month or so ago I was thinking about using the AntiGriddle for the USBC and today I feel how Nick Rhodes must have felt right before Duran Duran's "Sing Blue Silver" world tour in 1984.

Back then, the Fairlight CMI was the "to die for" sampling keyboard. All the cool kids, like Thomas Dolby and Devo, had one. Nick Rhodes had finally acquired his right before the tour and said in a later interview that he hadn't the time to really get into the meat of the Fairlight and thus the keyboard was reduced to very basic duties.

Now that the AntiGriddle is here and the United States Barista Champion is in a couple of weeks, I'm left pondering whether I'll have enough time to tweak and fiddle with the thing to create something smashing for the competition using the AntiGriddle. Or will it just sit there looking pretty?

As of yet, I have no answers. Just a world of possibilities.

In the meantime, here's some pics of some quick experimentation with the new AntiGriddle. You'll see that I'm going to need some molds.

The Glory. And yes, that is a bottle of grain alcohol and Pam.

The griddle surface freezing to -40 Celcius.

A dollop of honey.

The honey freezes in just a few seconds time.

On my finger and ready to eat. The texture was very creamy and sensuous.

Double shot of Hines espresso looking quite tasty.

Pouring the Hines.

Letting the Hines set up.

Breaking off a chunk of some of that funky stuff. The texture was wild but the bitters were pronounced. Need to do more experimentation.

Fifty Years Later

I've been reading the Towson Times again. Supposedly, I'm going to appear in part some article soon. So, I've been scouring the weekly looking for my shiny mug to grace their pages when I ran across an article in the latest issue.

Falling in Love. It's one of life's most desperate desires. I think everyone wants to fall in love and be swept away by their feelings/passions/desires and have that returned in equal (or greater) amounts. Even the cynical (like myself) wish to grasp once again that feeting passion that leaves you panting for more.

Fifty-five years ago, in 1942, Claude met Patricia in their fourth grade schoolhouse in Brewerton, New York. Only ten years old, the freckle-faced, strawberry blonde burned an impression in his heart that has never dissipated.

Shy as a puppy, Claude didn't start walking her to school for three years, until three days before Patty and her family moved from New York to Towson, Maryland in 1945. Years would pass and Claude would join the Army, taking leave in 1951 to visit Patty in Towson where they would re-affirm their desires to be together.

A few months later, Patty decided to join her mother and become a Jehovah's Witness Missionary. Claude went on with his life while Patty went on with hers. Claude married, had two sons and then was separated by 1955. They reunited over New Year's but never saw each other again.

Years later, Patty would marry a church elder much older than herself and bore a daughter that still lives in Towson.

In his minds' eye, Claude has a dream of them both walking on a hill blanketed with flowers overlooking a valley. She wearing a flowered dress and he in a button-up shirt, knee socks, cap and knickers. The best part of it all is that they are together in the dream.

This is where the Towson Times article ends.

Read About Claude & Patty



It's a nice dream: finding your true love. Some people find that person. Some don't. Some find each other then lose each other. Tragic. Others dream all their lives hoping to be reunited. Claude's story is one that everyone can root for because it addresses our most basic desire: to be loved and thought as important by someone else.

Years have passed and when the article came out, so too did the people stepping forward to lead Claude to Patty. Letting the reporter, Loni, know Patty's married name, where she lived and, importantly, the identity of Patty's daughter.

Patty's daughter would tell Loni that Patty talked about Claude and told her how much she cared for him - even after all this time had passed. Her feelings never diminished.

On Thursday night, Loni told Claude about his love. Patty died three years ago. They will never meet again.



It's sad. It's Love Lost. But I think Claude knew it in his heart. Perhaps there was some warmth her life brought to his heart that was gone when she passed away - a little nuance in the world that was missing. That "butterfly effect" perhaps.

So, is there a moral to the story?

You decide for yourself.

Artifact Coffee

One of biggest problems about owning your own shop/place to hang out is that you can never experience and enjoy your place in the manner of your customers.

There's no such thing as going in to hang out, sit down, enjoy a coffee and just hang with friends. That doesn't happen. There's always customers who (rightfully) want your attention. Staff issues that need resolving. Operational issues that need your guidance. In all, a myriad of details that you can never escape when you are in your shop trying to "hang out."

As such, all owners (and staff members) need a place of their own to hang out and just enjoy themselves free from the needs of operations. The problem is that when you put so much attention on your coffee quality, you need to find a place that's your equal, otherwise you're just sitting there unable to enjoy your free time.

For years, I've had nowhere to go.

I'm happy to report that time has passed.

Spike Gjerdes (and his clan of food professionals) have turned up again in the form of Artifact Coffee in the sort-of-Hampden area of Baltimore's Clipper Mill project underneath I-83, next to the Light Rail and Pepsi - and I've got a place to hang out again.

For the coffee aficionados out there, Artifact has got a two group Synesso Cyncra, French Presses and Counter Culture Coffee. Yes, it's good. Yes, it's tasty. Yes, you should rush out there right away.

There's even a table or two outside where I can smoke a cigar. I'm just hoping that Spike stays open later so I can partake more.

Chocolatea

Every once in a while, you run into a place that just has a cool name and you just have to check it out.

This past Saturday, Coffee Bryan and myself were driving around Baltimore trying to eat French for lunch. As Baltimore would have it, this proved impossible at both Petit Louis and Brasserie Tatin. However, the people at Tatin pointed us in the direction of the Indian buffet at the Ambassador Hotel. Now, I'm sorry, but Indian buffet for under ten bucks does not sound appetizing to me. Food sitting out in the open, barely warm, hovering in the bacterial danger zone is unappetizing at best and I try to avoid any kind of buffet at all costs.

Ixnay on the Indian oodfay.

As we're driving by the Ambassador, we spy a sign reading "Chocolatea" on the ground floor. Gosh, that SOUNDS interesting, let's check it out. In a moments' flash, the car is parked and we're hustling for the door.

Now, what do you see in your minds' eye when you hear the word "Chocolatea"? I envision a specialty boutique of handmade chocolates and the finest teas - the "it" stop and the "end all, be all" of chocolate and tea, right?

In a word, Chocolatea is: schizophrenic.

Everything about the place is just, well, schizo. Nothing seems to make sense. From the Dasani refrigerated case filled with Coke to the IKEA furniture to the remnant couch to the crazy contrasting wall colors to the un-unified assortment of teas to the small case of chocolate truffles that seems like an afterthought to the absolutely crazy and left-field menu ranging from waffles and pancakes to udon noodles and rice bowls.

Now, I'm a hardcore rice guy and when rice presents itself in Baltimore, I'm all over it. Ditto for ahi tuna. So while Coffee Bryan was busy ording pancakes and the chicken udon bowl, I made do with the spicy tuna and the chicken rice bowl - and a bag of Doritos.

How was the food?

Kinda blah, to be honest.

Note to entrepreneurs: if you must do something, narrow it down and do it well. Using pre-cooked, frozen chicken from a bag in your dishes is inexcusable. And, if you're going to pass off the dishes as Japanese in origin, at least know what condiments are typically served with the dishes. Ichimi Togarashi is de rigeur with any sort of donburi bowl.

The tuna was raw and pretty good on its' own but the hot sauce was unremarkable and did nothing for the tuna, though the prepared seaweed salad was tasty, if store bought.

For a drink, I ordered the Lemonade Iced Tea expecting a place called Chocolatea to make killer tea drinks. This one was overpowered with lemon juice and no balance whatsoever with the tea. Coffee Bryan's Chocolatea signature beverage was filled with chocolate floaters that, evidently, were to give texture but were not to his liking.

It's unfortunate. What started out with high hopes led only to disappointment. We love the name, I just hope the owners bring the concept into some sort of focus instead of the schizophrenic menu that's all over the place trying to do many things and succeeding at none of them.

Time To Get Serious?

"You don't take this seriously."

That's what USBC judge and uber-barista Aaron Ultimo told me once when I was hanging out at the Arlington Murky Coffee well over a year ago. It was a comment. It was a critique. It was a criticism.

And he was right.

It's the end of March and we're deep into competition season and rushing towards the United States Barista Championship being held in Long Beach, CA the weekend of May 5th. It's a madhouse time where baristas from across the country are in a practicing frenzy, working hard and long hours practicing and preparing for their fifteen minutes of fame and glory. They want to win. They want to stand there basking in the sunlight. They want to represent our nation in Tokyo at the World Championship.

But do I?

Don't get me wrong, I think I would be giddy winning the national championship. Whisked away by a new hand-carved chariot, it woud be a year of appearances on national television shows, glad-handing with leaders of nations, appearances with Pavarotti, the Metropolitan Opera, on stage with Metallica, Justin Timberlake and the Moody Blues, and bedding down celebutantes like Paris Hilton, Eliza Dushku and Britney Spears. Ok, maybe not Britney (been there, done that).

Imagine the groupies, the constant pawing of my body, the ripping of my clothes... Sheesh, and I have enough troubles with women already.

Ultimo is right, my biggest problem is that I don't take this seriously enough. I'm not doing it to win. My problem is that I don't care about winning, it's not part of my goals. I'm more interested in exploring tertiary aspects of the competition. Areas like attention to detail, ambience, service and delivery. I'm more interested in exploring coffee in a culinary presentation. Seeing if I can push the boundaries of how people think of coffee.

I see the barista craft today as that of the chef twenty years ago. Toiling in obscurity, with little respect and little recognition. It's time for the barista craft to wrestle that perception, push the bounds, demand respect, show respect for themselves and our craft and march towards the standard to today's chef. Competition is only a small component of that march.

The 2nd Annual Mid-Atlantic Regional Barista Competition has just completed and I captured Third Place. The Champ, Katie Carguilo, and the 2nd place finisher, Belle Batista, are wonderful barista competitors - excellent and tough competition and I'm proud to be ranked amongst them.

But for me, the Third Place finish rings a bit hollow and unsatisfying. True, many obstacles stood in my way to land that spot and it's pretty much miraculous that I made it there, but it's hollow and unsatisfying nonetheless.

And it's because I didn't remain true to my goals.

My first round signature drink was called "PBJ" - a deconstructed drink in three parts. The first part was a hazelnut puree mixed with espresso. You stir the ingredients and then sip. In a separate container is a fresh, handmade Black Grape gelee that you sip with the hazelnut/espresso to your liking (similar to how some like a lot of jelly or a little in their sandwich). And third is a small glass of whole milk to chase the drink. It's presented with straws and in cupware that's reminiscent of the malt shops and, hopefully, brings back memories of youth and childhood.

The presentation for the first round was choppy, staccato - I just couldn't find the groove. Since I never practiced and hadn't done a competition presentation in nearly one year, I had a hard time remembering where everything went and figured out order of service on the fly. A poor first espresso pull and I decided to dump those and pull a third. Inadequate milk in the pitchers and I ran out pouring the cappuccinos and had to steam more. Residue on the sides and I needed to wipe the capp cup after nearly setting it down. Add on top of that service experiments like a separate utensil plate (that needed to be wiped if a judge placed a soiled spoon back on the plate) and the involved prep of PBJ and I nearly disqualified myself with a 16:44 time.

For the uninitiated, regular competition time is 15 minutes. There's a five point penalty per sensory judge (there's four) for every thirty seconds over time and outright disqualification if you exceed 17 minutes. This resulted in an 80 point penalty for going that far overtime - usually death to any competitor's hope to advance to the next round.

Somehow, I scratched my way into the finals in spite of the penalty and poor performance. That's when I got sidetracked and lost my focus.

I had another drink sitting on the sidelines. One that involved roasted corn, but it wasn't quite finalized and I thought that I should play it safe and work the points. Try to win rather than stay true to my goals of exploring and pushing our craft. Blinded by this, I decided to use a variation of "Sweetness" - the drink that Bronwen Serna used to win the 2004 USBC. It's a simple drink that we serve daily as "Honey Macchiato." Just a little honey, shot of espresso and steamed half&half. Simple. Sweet. Elegant. But nothing risky or edgy, like the roasted corn thing.

The Finals performance presented its' own challenges. Faced with a panel featuring three judges from one coffee roaster/retailer, I worried that their tastes would be too similar. That the palate would be too skewed towards one style of espresso - much like presenting an acidic coffee to a panel of Japanese judges. With this in mind, I needed to find a way to allay that potential problem and bring them towards my coffees' way of thinking.

After consulting with friends who knew the coffee of the three judges (and the lone judge from another company), I decided that I would compare their coffees with the Hines. How they might be similar. How they might be different. What we tasted in the morning tasting. Created little bridges that they could easily cross.

This is not to say that the judges were prejudiced against any coffee other than their own. I had no way of knowing if that was true since I really didn't know the judges or their tastes. I had to presume that the extreme would be the case while hoping that it wasn't.

In the end, I took third place with a "safe" drink and not the drink I know I should have used. Had I used the roasted corn I would have remained true to my goals, the third place finish would be satisfying and I would have feedback on the corn drink. Since I allowed the thought of winning cloud my judgment and chose the "safe" drink, I have no feedback on the corn drink and have a trophy that can sit around collecting dust. The only consolation I have is that I was awarded a "6" by a longtime USBC judge - which is an accomplishment in and of itself, especially from a seasoned and tough judge.

But I blew it. I let the thought of winning get in the way of what I wanted to do. I thought I should get serious about winning, instead of being serious about exploring. Failure.


Unsatisfying indeed.

Chicago: A Four Star Weekend

Last month the coffee business brought me to Chicago for a few days to attend CoffeeFest, the Great Lakes Regional Barista Competition and Executive Council meetings for the Barista Guild of America. I decided that I would make a crazy weekend of it by staying at the W Lakeshore and dining at both Charlie Trotter's and Alinea on consecutive Saturday and Sunday nights. Then, if I had it in me, I might go for a third night at the always enjoyable Chicago Chop House.

In the end, I never made it to the Chop House. I ended up gorging on pedestrian fare like the Chicago Hot Dog and Portillo's Italian Beef - both of which were quite tasty and a wonderful, greasy and cheap counterpoint to the rest of the weekend.

I've compiled the experiences a bit differently than Blogger likes to display posts. I've combined all four articles (including this one) in a time cascade meaning that you read the articles down the page in column format like you would a newspaper article, rather than the up reading, chronological format that is typical of Blogger.

So, in a nutshell, after finishing this, read the Trotter's article, then Alinea and then Compiled at the bottom of the page.

In short, the restaurants were amazing, educational and inspiring. I hope that all of you enjoy the images and the thoughts.

Jay

Chicago: Charlie Trotter's

Ever since I read the book Lessons In Service from Charlie Trotter I've been intrigued to eat at his restaurant. His approach to service and hospitality, not to mention food, seemed beautiful. Servers in suits, attentive service and top quality food. It was a scene made just for me to dine.

The weather in Chicago was crappy that weekend. O'Hare had been shut down and our friends from the West Coast just didn't make it. Had I not left Baltimore on the 2pm flight, I would not have made it to Chicago and my visions of dining grandieur would have been flushed.

But that was not the case and I found myself, along with Barista Matt, on our way through the snow to the remodeled rowhomes on West Armitage. Two short than our reservation for four, we hung out a bit by the bar while they arranged our table then we were on our way.

The decor is refined and tasteful. Subdued incandescent lighting produces a warm light that puts you at ease - even though the dress code requires a coat. But I guess it would be weird if the staff was dressed nicer than the guests. Luckily I brought a comfortable jacket.

Won't waste time chatting about inane subject matter, it's time to get to business. The Grand Menu of 8 courses was $175. The wine pairing was an additional $85. Both Barista Matt and myself went with the Grand Menu and Tasting.

Artic Char with Savoy Cabbage & Mustard
Henriot "Blanc Souverain - Pur Chardonnay" Brut NV

Four Story Hills Farm Avian with Poached Egg, Truffle Chutney & Pumpernickel Crisp
- Santiago Ruiz "O Rosal" Rias Baixas 2005

Okay, I'll say it now. The poached egg blew me away. Poached for ten hours at 40C. The texture was immaculate. It was sublime. It is almost impossible to describe the mouthfeel and the exquisite texture and how I dream of an egg such as this.

Japanese Tai with Grapefruit, Clams, Shima Mikan & Pink Peppercorn
Monthelie "Premier Cru - Chateau Gaillard" Domaine Annick Parent 2002

My first real experience with foam and it was, well, weird. Don't think I like the foam thing. Nothing of substance - just fleeting.

Roasted Monkfish Tail with Parsnip & Iranian Pistachio Emulsion

The roasted tail was wild. Who would have thought of this? Kinda like strange crisps. Crunchy. Interesting. And kinda tasty. Wonder how it would go with salt and a Coke.

Axis Venison Loin with Quinoa, Black Cardamom Mole & Ash Baked Eggplant
Felton Road Pinot Noir, Central Otago 2004

The venison was good, but the Pinot Noir was BAM! Bangin'! A beautiful pairing of bold flavors. Amazing.

Grilled Blood Orange Sorbet with Jicama & Cilantro
Seven Hills "Pentad" Walla Walla 2003

Again, the wine pairing was BA-BAMM! Fuckin' rockin'.

Organic d'Hiver Pears with Carmelized Endive & Burnt Hickory Syrup Ice Cream
J.J. Christoffel Erben "Urzinger Wurtzgarten" Riesling Eiswein, Mosel 2002

Eiswein - BAM! Again. Who is this sommelier and why won't he let up? I need more. Easily the most challenging dish of the night. See that white sauce second from the left? It was some sort of cheese sauce that was just challenging. Here's this sweet dessert kind of dish with this savory, salty kind of cheese that totally clashes with the sweetness and you're trying to find its' meaning. Challenging. Amazing.

Later, 2003 Barista Champion Heather Perry would ask me over breakfast - if I had experienced this dish anywhere else, would I have hated it outright or did I like it (or try to like it) merely because I was dining at Charlie Trotters?

Great question and I still don't know the answer.

Chocolate, Tea, Caramel
Warre's Late Bottled Vintage Port 1995" Brut NV

Oh, LBV 1995 - now you're killing me. Who keeps this stuff? If it was mine, it would have been long gone. Barista Matt couldn't get enough and asked for another round of chocolates. Didn't know you could do that! But I was pleased.

Easily one of the best meals I've ever had. The flavors were rich. The textures were varied and the wine pairings were the best I've ever experienced. A true compliment to the food. I've never experienced that before. Amazing.

The service was top-notch and everything I had hoped for after reading the book. Barista Matt asked to tour the wine cellars, so into the recesses of Trotter's we went. Down, down,down, past the kitchen, past the locker room and into the cellar where I came face to face with a mid-20th Century Petrus. Amazing. If only I understood wines more...

Chicago: Alinea

When I was trying to figure out how difficult it would be to obtain a reservation at Charlie Trotter's, Jay Cunningham suggested Alinea as an alternative. At the time I knew nothing about Alinea or it's chef, Grant Achatz. A little internet research yielded some dramatic results. Started at Trotter's, worked at The French Laundry, staged at El Bulli and then was Sous Chef at French Laundry before heading off to Chicago to first work Trio and then open Alinea.

Read the experiences on eGullet if you want to know more about the ambience. It's modern and refined and everyone is sharply dressed. The open kitchen with its' modular design is just gorgeous. It has quickly become the inspiration for the modular design of Nail Salon Espresso.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After the completely fabulous (and expensive) meal at Trotter's the night before, I was about to leave my hotel room with $300. Then I thought better of it. Perhaps I'll need another hundred, just in case. Tucked another hundred into my wallet and I was off with $480 in my pocket. That's $400 for the dinner and $80 for cab fares and incidentals. Plenty of cash for this Bling Bling Barista.

Forget the extaneous stuff. You can read about the layout, design and ambience on the Internet. Let's get right to the nitty-gritty. Everything you've heard about Alinea being one of America's cutting-edge restaurants is true. The food is wild. The food is good. The pairings are tasty and subtle. There was no blasting chorus of wines like at Trotter's. Everything just fit nicely together in a smooth and subtle symphony. My team of captain and sommelier were wonderful. Everyone in the dining room spied on each others' tables to see either what was coming or fondly reminiscing about that same dish.

Originally, I had planned on dining with Bronwen but when her flight from the West Coast was cancelled due to Chicago weather, I ended up dining solo. They graciously accommodated me at a luscious dark walnut table as I sat on the wall-length couch, arms propped with pillows. How nice.

You have a choice at Alinea. Some sort of short menu or The Tour. Of course, having travelled all this way, I was choosing The Tour. Then there's the wine pairings - $85 for the short pairing or the same amount as The Tour for The Tour Pairing.

The Tour is $195. The Tour Pairing was an additional $195. A quick head calculation and I was glad I brought that extra Franklin. The Grand Tour it would be.

And here it is, The Grand Tour as it was presented to me on Sunday, Februrary 25, 2007:

Note: if the course was paired with a wine, that wine is listed below.

Croquette - Smoked steelhead roe, several garnishes
Chartogne-Taillet "Cuvee Ste-Anne" Brut with Pineau des Charentes

Octopus - shiso, papaya, toasted soy

Chanterelle - Carrot, curry, ham
Quinta do Alqueve Fernao Pires, Ribatejo, Portugal 2005

Apple - horseradish, celery

An encapsulation of the celery juice inside a horseradish sphere sitting in apple juice. Trippy.

Monkfish - banana, onion, lime
Vincent Danver Chassagne-Montrachet ler Cru "La Romanee" 2004

This one was three preparations of monkfish - poached, fried and mousse.

Duck - mango, yogurt, pillow of juniper air
F.X. Pichler Gruner Veitliner Smaragd "Loibner Berg", Wachau 2004

Just wild. Get close and smell the juniper as it emanates out of the pillow.

Black Truffle - explosion, romaine, parmesan

Far out. The truffle juice explodes out of the ravioli onto your tongue. One of the most gushed about courses on eGullet.

Short Rib - Guiness, peanut, fried broccoli
Paolo Bea Montefalco Rosso Riserva "Pipparello", Umbria 2001

Yuzu - frozen and chewy

Chestnut - Blis maple syrup

Persimmon - brioche, mace, grapefruit
Weinbach Gewurtztraminer "Altenbourg" Vendanges Tardives, Alsace 2003

Licorice Cake - muscovado sugar, orange, anise hyssop

Definitely the wildest preparation.

King Crab - vinegar, aromatics, rice
A.R. Lenobie "Rose Millesime" Brut, Damery 2000

Skate - caper, lemon and brown butter powders
Francois Villard "Terrasses du Palat" Condrieu, N. Rhone 2004

That swirl that looks like the galaxy were the powders. Mind-blowing.

Pineapple - bacon powder, black pepper

Lamb - date, mastic, rosemary aroma
Jean Royer Chateauneuf-du-Pape "Hommage a mon Pere" S. Rhone 2001

Hot Potato - cold potato, black truffle, butter

Venison - encased in savory granola
Azelia Barolo "San Rocco", Castigilone Falletto 1998

Foie Gras - spicy cinnamon, apple pate de fruit

Orange - olive oil, green olive, almond
Disnoko Tokaji Aszu "6 Puttonyos", Hungary 1997

Coconut - saffron, kiwi, cornmeal
Cavalchina "Le Pergole del Sole" Muller-Thurgau Passito, Veneto, Italy 2003

Notice the translucent brown jelly on the right corner. It was a roasted corn gelee and it rocked the house.


Chocolate - passionfruit, kaffir lime leaf, soy
Abbazia di Novacella Moscato Rosa "Praepositus", Alto Adige 2004

- I apologize about this course. I guess I got so carried away (not to mention blitzed on the flowing wine) that I must have forgotten to snap a photo.

PCaramel - meyer lemon, cinnamon perfume

That's it. That was the complete 23 course Tour at Alinea. Grant wasn't in that evening but the food was wild. The utensils were wonderful and that roasted corn gelee rocked the house. Twice. Somewhere along the way, I enjoyed some sort of bottled water and a sort of French pressed coffee from Intelligentsia. I say 'sort of' because even at this grand restaurant they still don't quite "get" the nuances and finesse of great coffee.

The dining room was full when I arrived so I mainly kept to myself and tried to snap the pics as unobtrusively as possible. The friendly ladies dining next to me asked if I was a food critic. Perhaps I should have said yes. Then again, I later noticed the couple across the room snapping images of their meal as well. Just label me "tourist."

I ended up being the final diner in my dining room which allowed me to actually chat with Olivia, the captain and Scott, the sommelier and ask them their thoughts on service and their experience working in one of America's top restaurants. Passion and commitment to service seemed to be the predominant thought. Throughout the evening the service was friendly but reserved and respectful. I think I would prefer service slightly (and I do mean slightly) more colloquial, but that's a personal preference on the way I would like to be treated and not a criticism on their approach.

In the end, I was glad that I brought the extra hundred, but distressed that I didn't bring another hundred. Here's the breakdown of my bill:

Menu - $195
Wine - $195
Bever - $8
Sub - $398
10.25% tax - 40.80
Total - 438.80

Now remember, I only had $480 in my pocket, lose $30 for the round-trip cab ride to and from Alinea and that leaves me with $450 in cash. Quite a bit short to cover the tip. Ended up charging $100 to my credit card and covering the balance in cash and I spent a total of $540.00 on dinner for one.

Holy Crap.

This was easily the most reckless dinner I've ever spent money on. Five Hundred and Forty Dollars. I must be insane. There must be something wrong with me. Yes, it was a business trip. An exploration into understanding the level of service and approach to service at the top echelons of the hospitality industry. But it was expensive for a dinner. True, it was cheaper than the Culinary Boot Camp at the Culinary Institute of America. But it was an expensive dinner.

But was it worth the Five Hundred Dollars? That is the question.

It was absolutely one of the wildest meals of my life. I'll say that for now and leave the analysis to another post.

Chicago: Compiled

So I've eaten at two of the nation's top restaurants, Charlie Trotter's and Alinea. What do I think? Was it worth it?

In a word: absolutely. At both restaurants the service, hospitality, presentation and food were top notch. The pinnacle of fine dining. Friendly, accommodating, respectful and enjoyable. Not to mention comfortable. And when your dinner takes at least three hours - you NEED to be comfortable.

It was an incredible weekend of the finest dining possible. I got to see first-hand the definition of 3-4 Star Service. It's what the United States Barista Championship gives so much lip service but understands so little about. This level of service is more than just the rigid "service from the left" theories of yore. It's about tailoring the service to fit the experience. It's about making continual adjustments to the process to accommodate the guests. It's about being on your game in a way we don't usually see when eating out.

And for a five hundred dollar meal, you'd best be experiencing something vastly different than Red Lobster.

It's too easy to use superlatives, like "the best" or "incredible" or whatever comes to mind. Whatever you choose, chances are that it would be true of either restaurant. The wine pairings at Trotter's were bold, definitive and struck a strong chord with my palate. Flavors I had never experienced together that made wine pairings actually enjoyable rather than trying to understand what all the fuss is about and why doesn't someone bring me an ice cold Coke.

Trotter's wines were so impressive that I tried to hunt down the Seven Hills Pentad and the Felton Road Pinot Noir to no avail in Baltimore. Add to that the incredibly succulent and amazing poached egg and it sears my memory to the point that I can't stop thinking about that poached egg and its' indescribable texture.

But the whole experience was strange too. As I reflect on the experience, I'm wowed by the overall presentation. I'm blown away by components of dishes, but no one dish (as a whole) stands out in my mind. It was experimental. It was an experience. But I'm not awestruck by any course in particular.

The Apple course at Alinea stood out when I was reviewing the images. An encapsulation of celery juice in a sodium alginate/horseradish ball, sitting in apple juice that, when consumed, the ball breaks - flooding the mouth with the mixing juices. Wild. Unexpected. And it made me think of how that treatment could be adapted to a signature drink for competition.

Actually, it also reminded me of 2006 USBC Champion and 2007 Great Lakes Barista Champion Matt Riddle's ginger signature drink - which I thought might benefit tremendously from such a presentation.

I remember the Yuzu strictly for its' cool factor. Was it really outstanding? Perhaps. But the whole "freezing stuff on the Anti-Griddle" is just cool beans.

The roasted corn gelee in Alinea's Coconut course just blew me away. The concentrated flavors of roasted corn - in a gelee. Amazing. I must make this at home. I must find a way to combine something like this with espresso. I must. I must.

On Monday morning, while we were having breakfast at a local joint, 2003 USBC Champion Heather Perry asked me the most poignant question of the experience. If I had tasted the cheese sauce at a restaurant other than Trotter's would I have hated it? In other words, did I "like" it and label it "the most challenging dish" and thought of it as "challenging my palate and preconceived notions" BECAUSE it came from Trotter's?

How much does ones' preconceived notions about a restaurant colour his/her experience?

For example, if I went to 7-11 one morning and got a cup of truly exquisitely prepared Red Mountain a la Counter Culture Coffee, would I recognize it? Or would I disregard it outright because "I knew" that 7-11 serves only crap coffee?

Likewise, at either Trotter's or Alinea, if I was served the most incredibly horrible dish known to man, would I acknowledge it or label it "challenging" because "there's no way" that either restaurant would serve anything less than incredible?

Good questions.

Maybe I did hate the cheese sauce. It was savory, tangy, salty and an extreme counterpoint to the sweetness inheirent in the rest of the dish. But perhaps I was more open-minded because I was expecting stellar courses.

In the end, I don't know for sure and it will take more reflection to really decide which side I stand.


CONCLUSION
In closing, the meals were phenomenal, but there's something missing for me. Desire. Desire is what's missing. I reflect back on my Trotter and Alinea experience and find myself satiated that I tried them. I'm not plotting a return trip to Chicago. I'm not devising ways to raise a thousand bucks so I can eat there again. I'm not dreaming of the food.

I don't know what it is. Maybe I'm just a simpleton, but when I think about my favorite restaurants, like Les Halles in Washington DC, Imanas Tei or Helena's in Honolulu, KC Kitchen or Firefly on Paradise in Las Vegas, I desire to be there again. I think of their food and I'm lusting for it. I DREAM of eating at these places again. I plot and maneuver to eat there. No nefarious deed is too, well nefarious, to dine there again.

Not so with the greatest in American restaurants.

But I'll never forget that weekend.

Anti-Griddle

Another moment of psychosis and the credit card is maxed out.

Not too long ago, I ventured to Alinea Restaurant in Chicago where I experienced this frozen sort of Ponzu. It was such an interesting experience that I must find a way to recreate a similar experience at Spro Coffee and the coming Nail Salon Espresso.

So, in a moment or two of wild, credit card blazing fantasy, I've gone ahead and ordered the Anti-Griddle from Polyscience where I will join the ranks of Jean-Georges Vongerichten, Charlie Trotter, Guy Rubino, Thomas Keller and Grant Achatz - if not in skill then at least in equipment glory.

What is this "anti-griddle," you ask? Well, it's some sort of fangled contraption that has a griddle plate that hovers at -40 degrees celcius that starts to freeze anything you place on its' surface, hence the name "anti-griddle." It will be mine and I have no idea what I'm going to do with it once I've tried sticking my tongue on the surface (just to see what happens).

Jim at Polyscience told me that there's a four to six week waiting period for the AntiGriddle. With any luck, it will be here in time for my entry in the United States Barista Championship in Long Beach and I'll be able to pay for it with my winnings as champion....hehehe....

The AntiGriddle - what's in your wallet?

A Guilty Indulgence

It's true, I must be a hedonist. Everywhere I go and in everything I do, I seek pleasure. I want pleasure. Give me pleasure and then a double-scoop of pleasure on top, please.

As I write this, I am nearing the bottom fourth of this mornings' greatest pleasure: an ice cold 500ml bottle of Coca-Cola.

Yes, it's the High Fructose Corn Syrup version of Coke so it's not the Ultimate Pleasure but an indulgence nonetheless that was sparked by my unique (but not unusual) storage method. The Coke was part of Spro Coffee's stock that I keep in the garage. It snowed yesterday and it was bitterly cold this morning as I loaded the crates of Coke into the back of the Sonoma for the fifteen minute commute to Towson.

When it came time to unload the bottles, there they were, in their fizzy, frozen state. That weird, brackish-looking color of frozen coke. It's a classic look and a tempting fate. I couldn't resist.

There's nothing like the feeling of the frozen Coke sizzling down your throat and into your gullet. It's cold. It's crisp. It's refreshing (until that syrupy hell makes you thirsty again ten minutes later). It's what Coke was meant to be.

So go ahead, gentle reader, freeze your Cokes. Let the ice crystals form and indulge yourself with hedonistic abandon.

MySpace

I'm getting to the point where I'm starting to hate MySpace.com. It's a cool website that allows people (like myself) to create "web spaces" for people to get to know me. The interface is clean and straight-forward and the MySpace Universe is populated by a myriad of people and their whims. From teens (and adults) trying to hook up with each other to businesses and bands trying to create a "personality" to people who are just trying to connect with friends.

And while I enjoy the MySpace experience overall, I'm growing increasingly irritated with its' denizens and their "tastes."

Years ago, when I was first learning design theory, one of the first adages was that merely because you could use all the fonts on your computer, you shouldn't. This is a lesson missed by most of the people on MySpace. Take a look at the MySpace pages of your friends (or people you're interested in hooking up with) and you'll see some of the most horrific examples of graphic/web design known to mankind. A mish-mash of colors, fonts, font sizes, cutesy pictures, animations, illustrations and anything and everything in poor taste that represents the individual.

Pile on top of that the continuing cacophony of music/sound tracks that so many insist on including in their MySpace page and it becomes downright maddening.

So please people, stop with the cute pictures. Stop with the multitude of colors. Stop with the music. Stop with all the nonsense because it's taking too damn long for your pages to load into my browser.

Everyone's a Geek at the Comic Book Store

Every few weeks I receive a call from my local comic book store, Alternate Worlds of Cockeysville, Maryland, to let me know that my standing order for the latest Battlestar Galactica comic books have arrived. It's an exciting call since I've been a BSG fan since 1978 and I usually find the time within the next day or so to stop by and pick up the issues.

I've never been a big collector of comic books. Many of my friends were into the SuperFriends kinds of books featuring heroes like Batman, Superman, Spiderman - the DC/Marvel world of comics. I've usually been into the manga/anime world of Japanese comics, following the adventures of the SDF-1, The Dirty Pair of Kei and Yuki, Mai The Psychic Girl, or Urusei Yatsura's Lum. But since none of those series are continuing, I've turned to the sporadic offerings of Josh Wheden's Firefly universe and the once-again popular Battlestar Galactica.

The world of the comic book store is an interesting place filled with all sorts of role-playing games (RPG), busts of comic book heroes and villains, erotic manga (which I secretly wish to peel back the plastic cover and see what's inside) and the usual selection of DC/Marvel style comic books - which means there's little for me to do but browse and consider purchasing the Firefly RPG book.

On weekends, the store fills with makeshift tables and kids of all ages waging war with miniature figurines that they've either sculpted or painted, or both. I don't really understand what's going on but it looks interesting even though I'm an outsider to their world.

Hang out at the comic book store long enough and you'll see all sorts of people. From the expected goofy guys obsessed with comics, otaku and comic book women, to the suit-wearing businessman - I fall somewhere in-between. By now, I'm a 30-something, post 80s alternative scene, self-employed self-imaginary rockstar. I envision myself as cool and hip as the next 30-something dude - a guy who's traveled the world, worked with some of the most famous celebrities, been a regular at the cool clubs and dated some hot chicks.

Yet, no matter how cool I may envision myself, I still feel like a geek everytime I step into the comic book store.

The 30-something Geek.

I own my own company fer chrissakes, yet I can't help but feeling as geeky as the manga-obsessed virgin to my left. For all that I've conquered in the world, I can see Kathy D. just standing there, shaking her head and telling me how much of a geek I am: ˆDude, you are SUCH a geek!ˆ

Which leads me to believe that the comic book store is great equalizer. No matter who you think you are, no matter what you have done in the world, the mere fact that you are perusing the wares in the comic book store and enjoying it means that you are a Geek. An obsessed with comics and afraid of girls kind of geek who just wants to sit on the couch all day in your Underoos playing Nintendo...

I'm doomed.

I Bless The Rains...

I hear the drums echoing tonight,
But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation,
She's coming in 12:30 flight,
The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation.


Africa.

I'm overwhelmed.

I've only seen one tiny sliver of the Dark Continent. Just one portion of one city. Yet, I'm amazed, inspired and overwhelmed at the same time. Much of it seemed so familiar. Yet, much of it was very different. It's like a conundrum and I'm still trying to sort out my thoughts and experiences.

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

From what I've been told, Addis and Ethiopia are vastly different than the rest of Africa. Almost an enigma unto itself where the life and people are different than everywhere else on the continent.

Strangely enough, I found Addis to be very familiar - very similar in character to Manila. It was almost as if I was back in Manila with it's crazy (to Americans) juxtapositions of extreme poverty to grand wealth, suffering to partying, Coke to Pepsi - except for the manic lack of McDonald's, credit cards and ATMs, Addis could have been Manila.

Just like the other Developing Nations I've visited, there's lots of poverty to be seen stark naked on the streets of Addis. Both the maimed and the children ply the streets asking for hand outs. Girls work the clubs to make extra cash. The rich and connected act with little regard for everyone else. Westerners don't drink the water and don't drink drinks with ice. Coke is served near room temperature.

I've spent quite some time away from America and its' luxuries of refrigerated meats and plush surroundings but my visit to Africa made me wonder if I've truly accepted the world for how it is or just have become a cold hearted bastard.

I no longer feel the tug on my heart strings when a poor child comes up to the car window begging for money dirty and disheveled. I don't really acknowledge the maimed crawling along the street by his arms. Am I callous enough to blow them off without a second thought? Yes, I am.

Perhaps its' because I've seen it all before. The children, the maimed, the mothers and more taking it in the neck while my American dollars and United States Passport afford me greater luxuries than these people could ever dream of. You see it all around you and I wonder why it is that I no longer wonder: "how can people live like this?" I know they do because they have no choice.

Some of my friends seemed to have trouble with Africa and the way things are there. Too Americanized, I thought. Too used to a life of luxury in the First World. But maybe that's too easy. Will they go back and work to change the plight of people in the Third World? No, probably not. It will be easier for them to return to the United States, forget about their discomfort and get back on with their lives.

But more importantly, will I change their plight? A person whose travelled through the world, seen how poorly some people are forced to live and have come to accept that children will be forced to beg in the street? Will my acceptance of how the world is augur change?

I'm sad to say the answer is no.

More Q&A

Here's a few more Q&A questions I ripped off from Capitol Swell:

1. Chopsticks versus Fork & Spoon?
Good Lord man, of course I choose the Fork & Spoon. There's nothing finer than the Fork & Spoon. Nothing goes to waste and there's no wasted energy or movements. No errant rice kernels running away. Just pure eating satisfaction.

And there's nothing I hate more than those cheap, plastic chopsticks at the Chinese restaurant.

2. Favorite Japanese Food?
For me, a yariman would be too obvious. But for food, I prefer a nice soy based tonkatsu ramen with hard boiled egg and gyoza on the side.

3. Could you have sex with a hot nun?
If she looked like Marlene Favela from the Ugly Betty telenovelitas Vidas de Fuego then the answer is "AMEN"!

4. Does Mormon Porn exist?
Considering the two Mormon girls I've dated - I'd say the answer is: "Yes Jesus"

5. Is it good?
They were.

6. Should "It's A Wonderful Life" be redone and updated?
Perhaps I should see the original before commenting. But without seeing it, I would like either Joss Whedon or Ronald Moore to do the "re-imagining."

7. Are there any movies that should be redone?
Caged Heat from 1974 would be my first choice with an all-star cast featuring Ashley Blue, Charlize Theron, Bridget Moynahan, Penelope Cruz, Anna Ortiz and Beyonce Knowles. It would be an instant hit.

8. Worst Christmas Present?
Clothes. Most people don't put enough thought into their Christmas gifts. I'd prefer people share with me their greatest gift: time.

9. Favorite Vacation Spot?
The old futon on the lanai at Ipo Place, Honolulu, Hawaii. Wish it were still there.

10. Would you use the Omega 13 from Galaxy Quest?
Considering it only takes you back 13 seconds in the past, I'd have to say No. I need to back 17 years to make the changes I'd like to make.

Passport Photo???

I hate it when I spend money poorly. It makes me sick to the core.

Understand, I have no problem spending hundreds (perhaps thousands) in a single shopping spree, but usually I'm getting my moneys' worth. Even when the expense is questionable, like the Playstation 3, there is some basis for the price ($650) and it's not a screwing.

But nothing has been more painful than getting some passport pictures taken at the local Ritz Camera.

Maybe it's just a brain fart, but I really should know better. I've been shooting since I was in seventh grade. My images have appeared in numerous publications, but nothing soothes the mind knowing that I've been had.

I'm heading to Ethiopia in a couple of weeks and need to apply for a visa. That visa application requires two passport pictures. And if you've obtained a passport picture over the years, you usually go down to the local photo store and they take your picture using a specially modified Polaroid camera.

The Polaroid camera costs just about anyone roughly one dollar per image. As far as images go, it's pretty expensive, but it's instant and for that convenience one must pay a price. And I was fully expecting to get a Polaroid passport picture.

I head down to the Ritz Camera and ask the girl for a passport pic. She tells me to stand next to the wall and whips out a Nikon digital camera and takes my photo. Then, she inputs it into one of those Kodak photo kiosks and spits out six passport images and charges me $15.30 (with tax).

Fucking Hell...

That's it? Just a fuckin' Nikon digital SLR against a white wall? For fifteen bucks???? What the Fuck? I'm a dumb ass for this one. I spent all this money when I could have done it at home for nothing. I haven't felt so sick about wasting money in a long time. It's like a kick to the groin.

So gentle readers, take note: if you need a passport picture, do it yourself with whatever crappy digital camera and inkjet printer you have at home. It's not rocket science (although I thought it might be). Use some good lighting and crop your head (including shoulders) into a 2" x 2" image at 300dpi and you will be fine.

It was an expensive lesson.

A Ripped Off Q&A

Alright, it's been awhile and I've got a backlog of posts from my trips that are just burning to get out there. But I've been a bit busy lately so I thought I'd steal Capitol Swell's Q&A to pass the time...


1. Would you pose naked as art?

-Been there, did that. If you can find it, check out Honolulu Swingers Volume 23.


2. Favorite Chinese food?

- That chopped and wok fried dungeness crab at KJ Kitchen in Las Vegas. I covet that crab.


3. Who would win a fight between Captain America and Wolverine?

- Cap'n Wha? Who???


4. Why is Hugh Grant cool?

- Because he bedded down Elizabeth Hurley.


5. Capilene or wool?

- Capilene, because it maintains its' insulating properties when wet. And I like to get wet.


6. Iron Chef America - Tony Bourdain v. Bobby Flay. Secret Ingredient: Potato - who would win?

- First off, DEATH TO FLAY!!! Bourdain all the way!


7. Gills or wings?

- Wings, 'cause I believe I can fly. But it's hard to soar with Eagles when you're surrounded by turkeys...


8. Could you give up chocolate in all its' forms?

- Heresy! Absolutely not. Chocolate body paint is my fave.


9. Could you give up steak?

- Heresy Twice!!! DEATH TO YOU!!!


10. Heaven?

- Only if I can find the stairway.


11. Doors at the Hollywood Bowl or R.E.M. at The Cat's Cradle?

- Neither. I'd rather buy the DVD so I can sit at home, watching it through my PS3 BluRay player on my 65" HDTV in Dolby ProLogic surround sound, while in my boxer briefs eating a big steak with fries and a Coke.

Dreambuster

The Jobs Showing Off The iPhone - Paul Sakuma/AP

Twenty-four hours ago my head felt like it was going to explode.

Steve Jobs, the celebrated CEO of Apple Computer recently maligned with a stock option backdating scandal, was giving his usual keynote speech at MacWorld San Francisco and shocking the world with news of the long-awaited iPhone.

Imagine that, a phone with video and music and Internet and seamless syncing with the Apple Macintosh. It was my wet dream and I wanted to cheer loudly in the shop to express my glee and joy in what seemed to be the end of a long journey. After work, I had my chauffeur rush me over to the Towson Apple Store to see what details I could glean on the iPhone and the iTV.

I wish the chaps at the Apple Store were a bit more enthusiastic and a bit more knowledgeable on what was going on. While Jobs announced that you could pre-order the iTV immediately, they knew nothing of the sort at the Apple Store. Is it too much to expect their own staff to know what's going on?

Today, the elation has worn off and Iwonder if this is what marriage is going to be like: that rush of getting hitched then the morning reality that all things aren't as shiny as you originally thought. Now that I've had time to ponder the iPhone, I'm feeling a little jilted - a little Rebecca, if you will (who will now become my new whipping post).

The features are cool. You supposedly can do full-screen Internet browsing as though you were on your laptop. It's running on Mac OSX. The widescreen will automatically work horizontal or vertical, depending on how you are holding the unit. It will play movies. It will play music. It will do all of this is a small-form factor.

It's going to do all of this on a maximum 8GB of memory?

Right now, I've got a four year old, 3rd generation 30GB iPod. It's completely filled. My contact list was nearing 2,000 contacts and I regularly shuttle episodes of Battlestar Galactica, Heroes and Ugly Betty off my laptop to my desktop because there's not enough space. Quite simply, 8GB is next to nothing in terms of usability.

But the most bitter pill of all is the price: $499 for the 6GB iPhone and $599 for the 8GB iPhone. I told "The Bob"® that I would be wiling to pay upwards of $700 for an iPhone, but the paltry gigabyte size and the TWO YEAR CONTRACT with Cingular makes me feel dirty, and a bit miffed.

It's the morning after and the euphoria has washed away in the tears of a jilted lover.

PS - Why?

Sadly, not EVERYTHING comes in the box for $600.

Like I said, I was in Toronto for New Year's Eve and stayed with old friends Jules and Carm, and their four kids - along with Mike & Christine and their two kids, and Chuck and Anne Marie and their newborn. Maybe there were others but it's kinda blurry now.

Jules is a gadget freak. He's got just about every kind of techno wizardry under the sun, but I was disappointed that all he had was the XBox 360 and no Playstation 3. I told him the same. "Oh no, I've got the PS3," he replied. Where was it? Still in the box because Carm had placed a prohibition on the PS3. "Too many toys and too much money," was the reason. "Do you want it?"

I've got the PS2. But I didn't buy it until it had been out for nearly two years and you could readily buy it anywhere. When the PS3 was released in November 2006, it was nearly impossible to get. I figured I'd wait for another year before buying one. But this was a tempting offer, so I took it.

Now that I've had the PS3 for nearly a week, I wonder why? Why did I buy this thing? Was it to be hip and cool? Was it to pick up chicks? Was it because I have a penchant for gaming?

The only person who noticed the PS3 was the bellhop/doorman/bartender/cook named Felix from the Hotel Gault. Not exactly a chick magnet this PS3.

I don't play video games much anymore. Wastes too much time. Why bother playing basketball or football on the PS3 if it only makes me plumpier? Doesn't make sense. I need to hit the treadmill instead of the L3 button.

None of my friends that know I have the PS3 treat me with any more respect.

I brought it home, plugged it in and then realized that this High Definition PS3 doesn't come with High Definition cables. No HDMI or component cables. In fact, component cables aren't even available yet. What kind of rubbish is this???

Then there's the games. Of which there are almost none. Sure, it's backwards compatible with the billions of PS1 and PS2 games but I want the awesome, God-like, Octo-Uber-Super power of the PS3, not some over-priced PS2 simulator.

When it comes to gaming, I prefer something simple and easy. I don't want to battle on the racecar circuit winning prize money so I can hot rod some Yugo that I must start out with. I want to jump into the Koenigsegg CCR or Ferrari 430 and just floor it for a few hours. Or, I want to hit the streets with a devastating arsenal of automatic weapons and lay seige to the poor, hapless citizenry. After a long day of work, I want mindless gaming to ensue with lots of brigandage and car crashes to while away the evening.

So I started with Ridge Racer 7 and hated it almost immediately. It's absolute rubbish for a car driving game. All you do is drive some hypothetical vehicles around a course where the driving is completely unrealistic. Seems that you can't crash the vehicles and each turn is some sort of scene from The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. Utter rubbish.

My cousin in Vegas has XBox 360 and when I wasn't hitting the craps tables or having a meal at KJ Kitchen, I was racing on the streets of Vegas through Project Gotham Racing. It's serious. It's realistic. It's the kind of driving video game that I want for PS3. But there's nothing like that currently on the market. They say Gran Turismo 4 is going to be "The Bomb" but it won't be out for months.

The Seed likes to state that the PS3 is the "cheapest Blu-Ray Disc player on the market" and it even includes a copy of Talladega Nights but what does that matter when the PS3 doesn't come with HDMI cables and HD component cables aren't on the market yet?

So far, I've got a six hundred dollar DVD player that looks cool.

And not a chick to share the second controller with...

Espresso Toronto

Spent the waning hours of 2006 in Toronto, Canada where Barista Matt took me on an espresso tour of the city.

Like most East Coast cities, Toronto is plagued by generally poor coffee quality. There are the big chains (like Tim Horton's) and the specialty chains (like Starbucks and local grown Second Cup), all which serve the usual suspect coffee. However, like it's U.S. counterpart, Toronto's coffee scene is starting to rumble like New York Citys'.


DARK HORSE ESPRESSO
Located at 682 Queen Street East, Dark Horse is the newcomer to the Toronto scene. It's a hip and fashionable place, nicely done up with a very large community table forcing normally introverted Torontonians to get to know each other. There's a big Elektra espresso machine which will, no doubt, force ghasts amongst the La Marzocco/Synesso elitists of the Third Wave.

The espresso was nice. Rich, dark, slightly astringent but relatively pleasant.


MERCURY ORGANIC ESPRESSO BAR
Just down the street a few blocks at 915 Queen Street East is Mercury Organic. These guys are pretty serious about their coffee and their commitment to sustainability and all things organic - to the point of re-using the materials left over from the previous tenant to create their new interior. However, that same commitment to all things green stumbles a bit when you hear their tale about why they cannot choose alternative roasters: because of the petroleum impact on the environment caused by shipping roasted coffee.

But Odd Things Green are not what we're interested in talking about. We're interested in coffee and the espresso was quite enjoyable. Dark, mysterious and quite bright. So bright that it reminded me of Stumptown's Hairbender. While I'm not a fan of bright espresso, I found Mercurys' shot to be quite tasty - and with good mouthfeel.

Like I've discussed in previous posts, I prefer to remain relatively incognito when visiting coffee shops where I don't know the people. Same went during this trip. I'm just another average customer coming in for a shot of espresso and a little chit-chat. Alex, the owner, was very friendly and open to discussing all things coffee and all things Mercury. It's nice to meet passionate people in our industry.

An odd thing happened during our discussion. Alex mentioned that he really wanted to try this drink he had read about in Barista Magazine. A drink where the barista mixed coffee and tobacco...

To be honest, I didn't have the heart to tell him that it was my drink he was talking about. I just didn't know how without it coming off as braggadocio. I just made some soft suggestions on preparation, recalling what I had read in the article. It was a funny, humorous and humbling experience, especially since I find it an honor that anyone would want to recreate one of our drinks.


BULLDOG ESPRESSO
A short distance from the East Side, where the Third Wave is taking root in Toronto, to 89 Granby Street is Bulldog Espresso. Bulldog is the home of Ross, the Central Region Canadian Barista Champion 2005. It's a cool little shop that's nicely decorated and features a large gold tone espresso machine that dominates the room. Things look well thought out and remind me of Espresso Vivace in Seattle. The bulldog, of course, is the central theme and I loved the logo and wanted one of their t-shirts to send to my brother in L.A. (they've got two bulldogs). Unfortunately, Bulldog doesn't accept credit cards so I was unable to purchase a t-shirt.

This was New Year's Eve and while I hate to make excuses, it was just about closing time for Bulldog when we rolled in so perhaps they were tearing things down and the espresso-making wasn't at their 100% game. That said, I found the espresso to be definitely sour and astringent, to the point that it was almost undrinkable but I consumed it anyway. Of the three, it was the toughest to drink and I certainly look forward to going back on another trip to Toronto when they're at the peak of their day to get a proper espresso.



A FEW HOURS WITH CLOVER
Barista Matt is a hardcore kind of chap. To the point that he's got a Clover 1s set up in his condo. That's right, children, I said "in his condo." Not satisfied with something as pedestrian as a French Press, aeropress, or God Forbid, a drip brewer, Matt's got the Real Deal Clover 1s with 220volts of power and a Ditting grinder to match.

Veterans of the Portafilter.net Podcast. and The Forum Which Shall Not Be Named know that I'm kinda skeptical about the Clover replacing drip in a busy cafe environment. It's considerably expensive (about US$11,000) and slow (when compared to drip speed), which makes it a hard choice and I'm looking forward to how the twin Clover setup at Cafe Grumpy's Chelsea location performs.

I had the opportunity to sample the original Clover 1 during its' debut at CoffeeFest Seattle 2005. The coffee it produced was remarkable but it's that price point that always makes me pause. But here was the chance to see the 1s up close and personal with someone who has been on the leading edge of Clover brewing since it's release (Matt previously worked as a barista at Elysian Room in Vancouver, BC - a major promoter of Clover).

We spent a few hours just making cup after cup, with a variety of techniques and comparing Clover brewed coffee to that of pressed (the method we use at Spro Coffee). Compared the same coffee at different parameters (i.e. brew temps, brew times, etc) and I have to report (although it may seem late in the game to some) that the Clover is very impressive. I'm tempted to go out and buy one straight away. Unfortunately, that desire is quelled by the Clover's price tag.

So there it is, I'm a Clover fan. I dig what it can do. I dig the coffee it can produce. I love the ability to control the parameters for the coffee. But I'm no fan of the US$11,000 price tag. At $4,000 it would be nearly a no-brainer and I'd have sold one of my La Marzoccos to finance a Clover, but alas it will have to wait until another day.

Ce la vie...


OUTRO
In closing, I found the coffee scene in Toronto to be very promising. But about the espresso...

I found the espresso scene to still be in its' infancy stage. While the espressos I tried were decent, none of them were stellar and I think this has to do with blend of coffees that they're using in Toronto. Like the rest of the East Coast, the scene and development of coffee is about ten years behind Seattle. They're working hard and trying but it's going to take some time for things to develop and mature. When it comes to espresso, I prefer rich body, complexity, chocolate, fruits and a bit of nuttiness - a deep, complex coffee to appreciate. Their time will come.

Another interesting thing I found was the dominance of Elektra espresso machines. They're heat exchangers and can pull some tasty espresso. Alex remarked that he's looking forward to jumping on the Synesso bandwagon but I'm not sure if that's absolutely necessary.

Overall, I had a great trip to Toronto. Got to see some old friends. Hung out with passionate coffee people. Visited the distillery tourist district, saw a very wild-looking BMW dealership, drove 140kph on the 401 and ate Douglas Fir truffles (very tasty, but don't ask). Thanks to Barista Matt, Alex, Deanna and Michael Empacher for giving me a tour of the Fresh Coffee Network and Merchants of Green Coffee. A good trip and I look forward to returning.

L'Express

A Fine Woman, Fine Foie & Steak Frites - What more can a man ask for?

Montreal is a pretty city filled with French-speaking people, French things and, presumably, tasty French food. Montreal is a city known for its' food and its' people who have a fanaticism about good food. Heck, even the plain Sealtest butter is better than what we have in "The States."

Readers of this blog know that I'm a fan of French brasserie food with my frequent visits to Washington D.C.'s Les Halles. With that in mind, N. decided that I would enjoy L'Express.

L'Express has been noted as "the heart and soul of Montreal." Like Bistro du Coin, it's a busy place. Packed, usually. One needs reservations because it's so busy. Located in the Latin Quarter at 3927 Rue Saint-Denis, L'Express is decidedly red. If one imagines what a French brasserie is like, it must look like L'Express. Marble tables, old chairs, string lights, a long bar, stark walls that resonate audio, making it a noisy environment. The only thing missing are people puffing away on cigarettes and cigars (thanks to American-style Gestapo Lawmaking).

The menu is wide and varied, but a little odd for this American. They offer you two sheets of paper. The first has a litany of menu items that are listed in column order. The second is a handwritten menu with prices. At first, I didn't know what was going on. Was it like those diners back in America that have everything under the sun? That's when N. told me that the printed sheet had "all" their menus and the handwritten one with the prices was tonight's actual menu. I guess they're tempting you for future visits.

Like our Les Halles excursions, I wanted to go ballistic. "Bring it on!" I wanted to tell our waiter, but I didn't want to scare N., so moderation was the theme of the evening. But oh, how I wish I could have brought a large group and ordered everything on the menu. The steak tartare was so tempting. As were the mussels. In the end, I stuck with something a bit more sane: the foie gras and an order of Steak Frites.

Service comes and goes at L'Express. I wish they came by the table more often but the water glasses were kept relatively full and the orange wedges with my Coca-Cola were a nice touch.

Bread and butter is the mainstay of any restaurant experience and the butter was warm and ready to spread over the crusty and slightly crispy baguette. Soon, a large jar of pickeled cornichons appeared with wood tongs. These little cornichons are just perfect: slightly crispy without being soggy and nice and vinegar-y.

The first course was Foie Gras with prunes. I was expecting a sauteed dish but this one was a cold slice of foie gras with prune gelee. One can claim to "love" foie gras but it's the eating of cold foie that separates the lovers from the pretenders. Rich in its' fatty excellence, cold foie is not something that you can eat en masse or very fast. Served with toasted bread rounds, it's a sensuous experience, but too rich to eat in one sitting. I reserved a large hunk for my drive home the next night.

In seemingly no time, the main course arrived: Steak Frites. The cut of onglet was different than that of Les Halles. At Les Halles, their cut is butterflied creating a seemingly larger cut that (I think) cooks slightly better. The onglet was a simple preparation with salt, pepper and butter and served with perfectly fried Frites and a side of seasoned butter for topping.

N. hit the nail on the head. The food was wonderful. It was as good, but different, than eating at Les Halles and I can't wait for another trip to Montreal.

James Martin Cachero, 1965-2006

JC on Kuta Beach, Bali, Indonesia with his women - the way I prefer to remember him.

Received a midnight call almost two weeks ago from Ray Ray in Honolulu. Even with the time difference it seemed like an odd time to call - especially since I was lying in bed awaiting dreamland. It wasn't Rays' usual cheery voice greeting me that night, his voice was ashen. I knew exactly why he was calling. I just didn't know who.

James Cachero was an old friend. And he is dead. Evidently killed in a car crash in San Diego. Details are spotty at best. He was 41 years old and a 1983 graduate of Farrington High School in Honolulu.

I met James when I first got into cigars back in 1994-1995. He was one of the regulars at the original Don Pablo Smoke Shop in Kona Street behind Ala Moana Shopping Center. Every afternoon around 3pm (sometimes all day) a group of us would gather for a cigar (or four) welcomed by Ray Ray's warm hospitality (he was the manager at the time).

It was a good group of guys. Gary F. a sea mariner who had captained ocean-going vessels and was then preparing for a lengthy legal battle representing himself against an insurance company (he would later win), Andy A. would breeze in a few times a week in his jacked up Jeep and with his assistant Juvy in tow. There was also John S., a brilliant intellect who preferred shorts, t-shirt and slippahs and whose family had some sort of pulse on Hawaii politics. Kamu K. swept into the scene by eating a lit lighter. BobEsc had just started his humanitarian work at MAC Cosmetics. Gene P. was a social worker who spent his mornings helping local people and his afternoons puffing on extremely large cigars. Joe K. was the crazy plaza security guard who hailed from Detroit and shared funny tales about Karmann Ghias and used porcelain toilets. Dale N. was the other manager who had a funky obsession for Filipino women and was obsessed about pipes. Ben M., a Honolulu police officer as handsome as Duke Kahanamoku, drove a bad-assed custom Harley. Frank O. shot photographs in the daytime while moonlighting at Alfred Dunhill and deejay at a local strip club.

It was a motley crew of great people - many of whom I still consider friends today. Mixed in with everyone was James - a strange if not lovable sort of Filipino who had a penchant for "The Colonies" dressed in caucasian sailing attire (is there anything other than caucasian sailing attire?), a taste for blondes, shot photographs for an unspecified photo agency and regaled us with dubious tales of adventures from around the world.

One was never sure on the authenticity of these adventures, but the stories were as entertaining as they were fascinating. Many times, the rest of us would wonder whether or not they were true. But unlike most made-up stories, Cachero's stories never changed: the details remained the same. One just never knew for sure if they were absolute fact or the work of a brilliant storyteller.

There was the story of James joining a crew in San Diego then sailing to Honolulu in something as audacious as four days (when the current record was seven). Or traveling the world to photograph the Gulf War when all we ever saw were photos shot in and around Honolulu. Or the time he flew back to Honolulu from Indonesia in the time it took me to fly from Baltimore. As the years would pass, James would take flight back into the world of photojournalism and every once in a while one would receive shrouded calls from places like Russia, Indonesia, or some other Eastern Bloc country under politico-social reform. One was never sure if he really was in Belarus or hanging out at Long's Drugs.

Whatever the reality, James was always a friend. He had crazy stories but he was always a good friend. I can't say that I was always as good a friend to him as he was to me.

In the late 1990s, Roy C. decided that he would put a little journalistic focus on James' stories by compiling what they called "The X Files" - a dossier of collected stories and sightings. At first, I found it humorous and interesting that there would now be a repository for all the great adventures. In time, the focus changed, becoming aggressive and more than a bit mean-spirited. I was no longer living in Honolulu so I didn't participate in the information gathering, but I didn't do anything to discourage The X Files, which probably makes me worse. Unlike me, Ray Ray would have nothing to do with The X Files. To him, it was disrespectful and disloyal to a good friend. Personally, I used the excuse that I lived away so I couldn't do anything about it. I could have. I should have. I just didn't. Which makes me more of a sonofabitch than the rest.

Unlike the FBI, the X Files came to light with Roy confronting James with the "evidence." I wasn't there but it couldn't have been good. Betrayed by those who he believed were his friends, James relocated to Southern California.

I didn't see James much since he moved to SoCal. Every once in a while, I would fly into L.A. and James would always make time to drive in from wherever he was and hang out - into late hours of the night. He introduced me to the crazy scene at Tommy Burger at Beverly and Rampart. We hung out in Westwood where he met my old friend Lisa G. He came down to the wilds of Inglewood to take my brother and I to Best Buy during a 12 hour stopover coming back from Manila.

As much as we may pretend that it's not true, our friends influence us. As individuals, we take what we like and incorporate that into our own profile. That was true for me with James. His profession in photography renewed my interest. His love for sailing encouraged me to explore that sport and find a love for it of my own. He helped me gain membership into the Waikiki Yacht Club (of which I am still a member today) and his taste for khakis, button downs and deck shoes fueled my own sartorial pursuits. With all my friends, there's something in them that I respect and admire, and it was true in my friendship with James.

I'd like to think that this transfer of passions worked both ways. While James had always been a staunch still photo person, I'd like to think that it was my work in the film business that helped encourage him to pursue that field. As the years would pass, James would call to tell me that he was finding more work in Hollywood, from small indie shoots to episodic television shows like Veronica Mars. The Seed worked with him on a couple indie shoots while living in L.A. and reported that James made some mistakes on the set, but as anyone who pushes their craft knows - when you're pushing your craft and learning new things, you are bound to make mistakes. Otherwise, you just never learn.

I hope he found happiness and love in his life. He only hinted that he was once married to a blonde. He never said much, but it didn't sound pleasant. In later years, he would imitate me by chasing a younger woman in Indonesia. Don't know whatever became of that but I hope he found someone because I think it's a bit sad to live a life worth living and have no one to share it with.

The last time I spoke to James was in November when he called me at work. I was working the bar at Spro Coffee and had to put him on hold a couple of times while I attended to customers. He was telling me about a recent shoot where they were forced to work 36 hours straight on 7th Heaven. It sounded crazy. It sounded dubious - especially for a union show. But it was grand and James always had a flair for the grand.

Back in 1996, James came out to Baltimore to spend Thanksgiving with the family. Back then, we had extended group gatherings of which I think James enjoyed immensely. Since it was close to Thanksgiving again, I told him that if he had the time to fly out he was always welcome to stay.

That was the last time I spoke with him. According to the Honolulu Star-Bulletin and the Honolulu Advertiser, James was killed on December 12, 2006 in San Diego, not long after we had spoken.

It's a weird thing when your friends pass before you. It's sad. You're glad it's not you. You hope that when your time comes, there will be people to remember you and allow the spirit of who you were live on. James is gone and that's a sad occasion. We'll never share a smoke together again. I'll never find out if the stories were real but he lives on and through Sybercouch where he has reposited a series of photos that quash many of the questions of The X Files.

There's always the thought that if you had the chance to see that person again, things would be different. If I had another chance to sit down with James, would anything be different? No, I don't think so. I can see it now: James, Ray Ray, John, Frank and myself sitting down with Cuban cigars at a resurrected Havana Cabana and nothing would be different. The stories would still be the same. We'd still sit around wondering how much of it was real. We'd wonder why James was so secretive about his passport.

But the truth is that no matter how many questions there may have been, we don't really want to know the truth. That's not what's important. What's important is our friendship together. Our camaraderie together. A friendship that has transcended time and distance and maintains a tight brotherhood regardless of what's happened through the years.

James' funeral services are being held right now as I finish writing this. 9:30am at St. John The Baptist Church in Kalihi and internment at Valley of the Temples. His family will be there - a family none of us has ever met, but hope to someday. All the glitz, glamour and wild storytelling has come down to these final moments - a verifiable event in a friend's life that has been anything but verifiable. I can't make it because of schedule and the cost of airfare ($1700), but the truth is: this is the one story that I don't want to believe is real.

Aloha e James.

Marching at the Marche

Just when I'm starting to think that I'm getting a grasp on this foodie thing, I do something foolish: like visiting Montreal.

Spent about 42 hours in Montreal this week on a quick stop after the New Year's festivities in Toronto to see N. She's doing well and while she spent her days recovering from illness, I spent the day wandering around the city trying not to say too much because my French is just horrible (as in hor-ree-bleh).

My tour of Montreal brought me to Marche Jean-Talon. It's one of, if not the, biggest open-air markets in the city and nestled in the heart of Little Italy - although there were more than a fair number of halal shops and Thai markets.

I fancy myself someone who knows about food. Someone who can apprciate life's finer appointments. A man who has sampled life's delicacies. I fancied myself glitzing around the market and choosing basketfuls of pates, cuts of meat, cheeses, breads and other fanciful foodstuffs - a veritable orgy of "the good stuff." My vision had me choosing a wise variety of jams made from clementines, bilberries, apricot, bitter oranges, plums, melons and being labelled un vrai connoisseur de confiture by an attractive female mademoiselle who would pass me her phone number because she was so impressed with my culinary prowess.

That vision was shattered as I toured Marche Jean-Talon. I had been served.

All those meals at Les Halles and books on French cuisine does not aptly prepare one for a shopping excursion at the local marche. It was a dizzying array of foodstuffs, in a language I could barely understand and I was the hapless guy trying figure out what was going on.

Every shop I entered was filled with tasty goodies but since I had no foundation in the finer points of olive oil, jams or cheese, I was lost and swimming. Just what do those grades of amber in Maple syrup mean? I don't know. White honey - huh? Look, a patisserie and they have that opera cake they're calling l'opera - and the boulangerie with French Bread (baguette).

After wandering around and familiarizing myself for a little while, my hyperventilation started to slow and I started to enjoy the marche shopping experience. Most importantly, I started purchasing!

I started at the pommes dealer with a large jug of #1 Maple syrup and a jar of golden honey. "Bonjour, merci" I mumbled trying to remain incognito. I could complete a sale but the problem was that I didn't know how to say "how much is this?"

After a quick bite of a beef and pork pie with leek soup, I was ready to hit the aisles again. Behind me is a crepe stand, over to the left is the egg expert, to the right is an immensely large cheese shop, next to that is an olive and spice shop, two doors over is a coffee roaster, and around the corner is a florist and a fresh pasta shop.

But, oh my gosh - what is that over there??? A pork store??? Alright, now I don't care what the Bible might say, but the French are God's Chosen People.

One of the biggest problems of shopping in this kind of environment is United States Customs and Agriculture. While those langoustines look absolutely fabulous and those eggs look incredibly edible, they'll probably be confiscated at The Border and I'll be S.O.L. This reality unfortunately tempers ones' shopping excursion.

In the end, I left with sacks filled with honey, maple syrup, bleu confiture, porc confit, truffle pate, confit du canard, dried cherries, baguettes and rabbit pate.

How glorious!