The Butcher of Cadiz

Please Note: The following post contains images that sensitive people may find offensive.

We visited the processing plant at Locust Point Farm in Elkton, Maryland a week after visiting the Meat Locker. I originally started writing this post immediately after that visit.

The chickens, all 275 of them, ready to go for a ride.

I am a barista.
I am a butcher.
I am the harbinger of Death.

I am standing there, in my ubiquitious black Polo t-shirt, black short and New Balance Shoes. The concrete floor beneath my feet is a cold reminder of the horror I have become. The black-handled curved blade boning knife whips in a frenzy. At the top of my game, it's three quick cuts. At my pinnacle, it's two. At my worst, it's five cuts plus some sawing, some hacking and/or some chopping.

I feel dirty and I'm covered in a grotesque haze of guts and carcasses juices sprayed onto my once clean and pristine black uniform. Had I known what I was to become, I would have dressed differently. Perhaps some work boots, Carhartt jeans and workshirt to keep the slime off my exposed flesh.

In my continuing quest to learn about locally grown and produced foods, we've ventured to the Northeastern tip of Maryland to Locust Point Farms in Elkton where we've brought 275 chickens to slaughter at the hands of a very friendly Mennonite family.

And so it begins with the flick of a sharp knife.

As an omnivore, we eat meat. Meats of all kinds. I handle chicken all the time. I've become accustomed to buying whole chickens and butchering them at home to save some money and understand the chicken. But chicken is supposed to be the cold meat we buy at the store, not the warm flesh it is in my hands. Until now, the warmest chicken I've held was made for me by a guy named Popeye.

The slaughter of any animal is a gruesome experience. It's real. Real Death. To see the neck sliced, its' blood draining and the bird flailing about in denial of fate is nothing short of real. To say it's ugly is a lie. It's horrific. There's nothing pretty about death. But it's what must be done in order for us to live.

After being immersed in a hot water bath, the chickens are loaded on a conveyor.

The processing of chickens at Locust Point is done by hand. Unlike the mechanized utility of commercial plants like those run by Purdue, the Locust Point plant is small and family-run. Family members handle everything from slaughter to defeathering to dressing the birds.

Once slaughtered, the chickens are dipped in a 140 degree Fahrenheit water bath to loosen the feathers. Then they're placed in what one can only describe as a washing machine with rubber fingers set on spin, that removes the feathers and outer skin. Once the feathers have been removed, the carcass is hung and the oil gland is removed, the butt is drilled out, the internal organs are removed by hand and then anything left in the body cavity is forcibly vacuumed out. And I do mean forcibly.

Where their feathers are removed.

Once cleaned of its' internals, the hanging chickens continue down the production line through a water shower to rinse them off, then over to the finishing table where they come off the hangers and slide down to the table where I await them with blade in hand.

For our batch of soup chickens and roasters, it's up to myself and Mariano to cut off the feet. It looks simple and the father makes it look like easy work. But actual practice is something else, especially with the soup chickens.

Then hung onto the processing line.

The soup chickens are older. They're old laying hens that have lived past their prime production life and can now continue on their journey in someone's (grandma's?) chicken noodle soup. Since they're older, they're tougher and harder to slice through. It starts off as clumsy work. Sawing, hacking, whittling - it's tough to make a clean cut through the joint and I fumble and falter a bit. When the young roasting chickens arrive it's amazing to feel the difference. The joints are young, tender and, therefore, easy pickings. I'll admit, I can't help but wonder if this is how it feels to chop up humans, a la Tony Soprano. And was Ralph Cifaretto harder to cut up than a young guy because of the age factor, like the chickens?

About twenty chickens into my slaughter, I start getting the hang of it. Slice, slice, slice and that leg pops right off. The joint is clean - just how you'd expect the end of a drumstick to look. Gosh, I feel like a professional. If I had access to a band saw, I might actually go berzerk.

First, the oil gland is cut off and then the body cavity is opened with this drill.

The internal organs are pulled out by hand.

I started off smelling fresh and looking trim in my nice, clean clothes. The longer I stand around in the facility, the more water and chicken bits are splashed on me from every direction. At first, I'm mortified. Disgusted. Gross. As the metal of my blade flashes by, I grow more accustomed to being coated in chicken film. I butcher chicken. I am chicken. I am the Chicken Master.

Slice, slice, slice and more feet pop off and into the icy tub, destined for a future in some exotic kitchen where a Chinese guy is going to slurp and scarf down my professional goodness. Moments of glory flash by when I can sever the feet in two slices instead of three. Mariano and I discuss the best way to cook these chickens and rotisserie is the hands down favorite. We're not grossed out by our carnage. We're not renouncing our consumption of meat for some ill-conceived ideal that vegan-ism is going to Save The Chickens of the World. We're enthused by this. So enthused that we're getting hungry.

Once Mariano and I have lopped off the feet, the chickens are basically done and look exactly like the fryers you buy at the local supermarket. The mom of the farm cuts a slit in the skin and tucks the legs, then plops the whole thing into an ice bath where they will drop in temperature to below 40 degrees Fahrenheit in under three hours.

Anything left inside is vacuumed out.

Gutted chickens are then given a cleansing shower.

Still coated in chicken grime, we take a moment to enjoy a little yogurt from a local farm. It's sweet, delicious and better than any of the commercial yogurts I've tried, and it's a nice respite from the massacre we've just been part of. And I do mean massacre. In about an hour and ten minutes, we've killed and processed two hundred seventy five chickens. Sure, that's small potatoes for a processor like Frank Purdue, but for our little crew doing everything by hand, it's been a veritable blood bath.

Mariano and I doing "our thing."

Blood bath or not, it was an amazing experience. To see where the food comes from and how it's processed is something that more people need to do. If I had asked, I could have been one of the guys dispatching the chickens by slicing their necks and letting the blood drain out. Next time, I want to be one of them. To know the feeling of actually killing the food. To give it honor and respect for its' sacrifice so that we can live.

Seeing all of this is incredibly amazing. Respect. There's no other way to describe it. From the farmer who raised the chickens and cared for them to this Mennonite family who processes them, it's respect all the way around and now that respect is placed upon us to treat our food properly and respectfully.

No looking back now.

Meat - It's What's For Dinner

Please Note: The following post contains images that sensitive people may find offensive.

Sirloin steak, as we know it, being trimmed down for retail sale.

Readers of this blog know that I'm a fan of meat. Give me a nice ribeye steak, some grilled veggies, hot white rice and a big cigar and I'm happy as can be.

Lately, I've been getting into locally grown beef that's grass fed and free range. Unlike commercial beef that's raised on large ranches where the steers are confined in pens and fed a corn-based feed, these animals are allowed to roam around, eat grass and are herded in small numbers. It's what they call "Grass Finished" beef - meaning that the animals are left to eat grass throughout their existence until the last couple of weeks when they're fed a corn-based feed that fattens them up a little before slaughter. I realize that, to the non-cattlemen, the name sounds opposite to the reality, but that's how they categorize it.

This "old is new" kind of approach to beef gives great flavor, texture and quality to the meat. It's absolutely delicious. I can't get enough of it. Give me more.

In the interest of understanding where our food comes from (other than the refrigerated case at the grocery store), Spike, Mariano and myself headed up to Mount Airy, Maryland to visit the Meat Locker where the beef and pork that we consume is slaughtered and processed.

Pork doesn't get any fresher than this.

It's an unassuming building in the very sleepy town of Mount Airy. You could pass it by and never know what was going on inside. There's a school across the street it's so innocuous. And considering the carnage that goes on inside, it's a strange juxtaposition that I can't help but to think of something as odd as Jeffrey Dahmer.

Not that there's anything sinister going on inside. The place is clean. Spotless even. The USDA has an inspector in the building at all times observing the processing at every step and checking for any problems or contaminants.

Sides of beef waiting 21 days.

The animals come from select farms in the region who grow quality steer and pigs. They're loaded into holding pens at the side of the building which lead into the Kill Room.

The Kill Room. Concrete. Tile. Utility. There's nothing glamorous about the Kill Room or working in it. It's gruesome work. Pigs throats are cut and steers are shot in the head with a .22 caliber pistol. The animals are hung to drain their blood, then hit with hot water to remove the body hairs.

Many people find it hard to believe that our food comes from these animals. They'd much rather know their food as that plastic-wrapped cut they're used to. Watching how our food comes to be is slightly unnerving, but it instills respect. Respect for the animals that have been slaughtered so that we can survive. Respect for the meat so that it's cared for and cooked properly.

Spike checks out the quality of the pork.

Walking into the Kill Room reminded me of being in the Philippines. The aroma was fresh - like that of the open-air markets. Men in jeans and boots did their deeds of slaughtering pigs and preparing them for storage then butchering. The USDA inspector taking their heads and inspecting their glands for any signs of problems or trichinosis. Brutal efficiency.

A pig head after the USDA has inspected it for contaminants.

When looking at a 150+ pound pig, one has to wonder just how they take this animal and break it down? Once the hair has been removed from the carcass and the entrails removed, it must be split with a stainless steel chain saw.

The Kill Room - splitting the carcass.

Once cut down, beef is kept in refrigerated storage for 21 days to "age" the meat. Pork can be used right away. The sides are rolled into large, refrigerated rooms and then are later brought into the cutting rooms where they are broken down into the pork chops, sirloin and skirt steaks we all know and love.

The End gives us a new beginning.

Studs of Shave Ice

The Line.

Studs.

That's the only way to describe them - both the boys and the girls. Whatever their gender, they are The Studs of the Shave Ice industry.

1300 pounds of ice
65 gallons of syrup
1400 flower cups
1850 spoons

Shave it all together and you get the last day of the Jay's Shave Ice booth at Artscape 2007. At a crisp 89 degrees with cool breezes, it was another perfect day for shave ice.

Isaiah, Isabel and Sara working it.

Returning for the final day was our tough crew from yesterday, along with the return of both Mariano, the cook who cooked for a Michelin 1-star restaurant in Italy, and Isaiah, who spent yesterday gallavanting with his wife at a roller coaster park in Pennsylvania. joining us for the first time was Isabel, fresh from building decks in the wilds of Kentucky.

Stud Mariano - this guy from Argentina never left the line - all day.

There's not much more to say than these guys are studs. All of them. No breaks. No pissing. No whining. No moaning. Just hard, solid work. Drilling out over a thousand shave ices in a seven hour period. Maybe a quick phone call here and there to scheme and connive for their next gig, or to answer that important text message, but the beat never wavered and they kept pounding it out.

It was amazing. It was awesome. It was awe-inspiring.

I can't wait to do it again.

Next year.

The view from the catbird seat.

It Must Be Prime Time - Artscape 2007

Today had to be one of the most beautiful days of 2007 in Baltimore. The weather was cool, breezy and about 85 degrees. No humidity. Absolutely perfect.

It's also prime shave ice weather.

After eight years in the shave ice business I've come to realize the ideal weather. Dip down into the 70s and it starts to be a bit chilly for shave ice. Reach up into the 90s and humidity and people just don't want to leave their air conditioning at home. But right in the middle is where everyone and their mother (including mine) come out to play and eat shave ice.

After six years of Artscape, it's never this nice. Usually it's on the hot and humid side. Perhaps not as bad as the Dog Days of Summer, but close. Sometimes, we'll have passing showers and even the odd thunderstorm (that was exciting).

Four shavers, four crew, myself and mom. Pounding it out in the hot sun in front of hundreds of thousands of attendees, cranking out well over a thousand shave ices in just over eight hours. Grueling. Tough.

On the front line were two Jay's Shave Ice alumni. Sara (2005 Seasonal Manager) and Derrick (2006 Season staffer) rocked the front line, taking orders, fielding questions and putting on a friendly and hospitable face for the company. All by herself on the third line to the side of the booth was mom - holding her own in a never-ending line that was 20 deep (after Jordan decided to pull off the front and work the shaver line). Holding it all together was long-time friend Tony M. whose main job is to prep and cut ice, as well as maintain inventory and prepare dinner.

Mom's line. This line never grew shorter than you see it here.

I rocked the shaver line the whole day, along with some help in the late afternoon from Jordan. Four shavers, never stopping except to reload. Shaving ice in a never ending ribbon of fine, delicious stuff.

To be honest, I've never rocked four machines at once. At one point, Tony was about to step in to help but I shooed him away with my ego being the main reason. I wanted to see if I could rock the four machines and keep up with the demand of three lines of customers. I rocked it for about two hours. I was in love with myself. Then mom came and Jordan stepped back to run two of the shavers.

Sara's Line - amazed and in awe to get shave ice.

Day two is over and while I'm usually wiped out and dreading one more day at Artscape, tonight I'm feeling good. We worked it - hard. My crew are studs. They never looked up. They never complained. They never took a piss. They're fucking awesome.

Tomorrow, the same crew returns, but this time they're going to be joined by Mariano and Isiaiah, two of some of Baltimore's best line cooks - studs in their own right (Mariano worked for a Michelin 1 star in Italy), as well as first-timer newbie Isabelle.

Whatever the outcome, I'm stoked and pumped that we're going to have a rockin' crew for the final day in the sun.

Maybe this time we won't run out of ice...

Throughout the day we see old friends, like B.J. and his family - long time supporters of Jay's Shave Ice.

Like Riding A Bicycle

It's been nearly a year since I stood behind a proper ice shaving machine - and I wasn't sure how it was going to turn out. But it was just like riding an old bike, once you know how to do it - you just can do it.

Artscape weekend is here and on full-blast. The weather is beautiful (if slightly cool) and the crowds are on the street and hitting our little shave ice stand at the corner of Mount Royal Avenue and Cathedral Street. It's in the heart of Artscape. The "crossroads", if you will, of the entire festival. And we're smack dab in the middle of it.

This week is traditionally the worst week of the year. It's the busiest as we try to cram everything together. It's crazy and everything falls to the wayside as we prepare ourselves for battle.

But I'm happy to report that even after all this time, I can still rock an ice shaver. No line is too long for this strapping chap. i'll spin three machines simultaneously and beat down a hundred people in line. Never mind that all these unused muscles are aching, in pain and in need of a rubdown from a (younger) woman, I can still kick it with the best of 'em.

Let's hope my creaking bones make it through the weekend...

Rockin' the Fujimarca 709.

The End Before The Beginning

The Egg. It's a symbol of life. New life. A life to come. But this egg is anything but that. It's a sad reminder of a life that was and one that will never become. An ironic twist to the lives that will continue as a result of the end to this one.

iScrewed

On July 26th, I board the aluminum behemoth known as a Boeing 777 and fly to the Land of the Rising Sun. It's been 17 years since my last trip to Japan. A trip that included visits to Tokyo, Kyoto, Kanazawa, Osaka and a couple of rides on the Shinkansen or Bullet Train, not to mention shopping in Akihabara, strolling through Shibuya Park and general mischief at Club Gold with Nat and Misuzu.

Preliminary reports indicate that Japan is one of the few places left on Earth whose cellular telephone system does not work with GSM wireless phones. Evidently, one has to rent a phone in Japan or be left without wireless communications.

It's a horrible thought. Especially since I spent $500 on a 4GB iPhone that is supposed to revolutionize my travel and bring the world to my fingertips.

As the thought of not having a cell phone in Japan seeps into the mind, I'm scared. How will I live? How will I communicate? How will I make plans with friends?

It makes me wonder how I survived in the years prior to a cell phone. When large groups of my friends would plan, meet and party the night away - all without the convenience of calling each other on their cell to arrange everything. How did it happen? Did we just plan to meet at a certain place and at a certain time and just made it???

This trip will encompass hanging out with friends who are arriving from all over the world. All of whom will have some form of crippled communication. How will we meet and coordinate? I've also got friends who live in Tokyo - how will I coordinate with them?

No cell phones? That's a Brave New World.

It shouldn't be all that bad. When I was in Ethiopia, my cell phone didn't work at all (despite reassurances by Cingular prior to my trip that it would) and I was left to fend for myself in the African badlands. Now, I'll be dragged away by screaming Harajuku Girls in schoolgirl uniforms carrying Sanrio tchotchke and I won't be able to tell anyone about that fortunate incident nor send them photos of the carnage.

No cell phones in Japan. I don't know if I'm ready for 1987 all over again...

USBC, Seriously?

Not quite the "USBC" we have in mind.

You don't take this seriously enough.

It's a paraphrase but I think it's succinct enough for you to get the gist of the message and it's basically what Tracey Allen (judge) of Seattle's Zoka Coffee tells me every year after the USBC.

For the uninitiated and newer readers of this blog, this "USBC" isn't the United States Bowling Congress, but rather the United States Barista Championship - an annual gathering pitting the nations' top baristas against each other in a head-on, all-out barista brawl of artful delivery, technical skill and drink-making fabulosity.

Chris Deferio and Kyle Larsen ponder the inevitabilities of the USBC.

The competitors range from competition neophytes to seasoned professionals. From those who are there to win at nearly any cost to those there to deliver a message - people like Jon Lewis and Chris Deferio who are finally showing that a poetic, thoughtful and artistic presentation can indeed make it to the Finals. Or Peter Middlecamp, a first-time USBC competitor, finishing in the Top Six - ahead of some of America's greatest barista talent.

They range from 2006 USBC Champion Matt Riddle with his smooth and flawless style to the in-your-face, shake it 'till your booty drops, sending-a-message-to-your-mama kind of presentation from Tatiana Becker. The former as the first competitor in a sweater and the latter as the first competitor from the Kappa Kappa Chino Sorority.

As a competitor, I fall somewhere in the middle - with a leaning towards the Tatiana side of things - without the mini skirt and halter top combo. Not because of some sort of "it's disrespectful to the competition" kind of mantra that some people exclaimed, but rather because I think the audience wouldn't appreciate the splendor of my physique in such an outfit.



So how was the USBC?

Well, in retrospect, it was "nice."

Fun, for sure. It's always great to see industry friends hanging out, sharing in their passion for coffee and seeing who's doing what on the cutting edge of our industry. But now that I'm two months removed, I'm actually a bit disappointed.

Disappointed for several reasons.

First, there's the ego thing. I didn't make it past the Preliminary Round. No Semi-Finals for me. Out. Finished. Kaput. One round and that was it. My scores just weren't good enough. I thought I had been disqualified, but I wasn't. I just didn't cut the muster. It was a buzzkill because I had a completely different presentation for the Semi-Finals. Doomed. My fault.

Secondly, I'm wondering who we're playing to and why? The USBC is held in conjunction with the SCAA Conference. It's on the show floor. In a convention center. You have to go there specifically for the event. There's no walk-by traffic to draw from. The show is a Trade Only event and even though the public can get passes, it's a pain in the butt to do so.

And while the event can help to increase public/consumer awareness about the craft and quality coffee, we're really playing to a very limited audience of ourselves, our friends (and family - if they're in the same city) and other people from within the industry. There's no coverage by the mainstream media or cable networks. The performance videos of the competition have not been released since the 2003 USBC.

So who are we playing to? Ourselves? We're trying to show ourselves the passion and commitment of the professional barista? It's a noble cause, but we're just preaching to the choir.

"The Lewis'" and "The Mug" - a nice gift. Thanks!

Thirdly, after three years of competing, I'm wondering what impact this competition thing has on our craft? Is it resulting in us "pushing the bar"? Or are we just resting on our collective laurels?

After watching numerous competitions, I'm definitely seeing a growing culinary awareness in the signature drinks, but to what means? On one end, there's a growing resentment of the signature drink - that it somehow is too similar to a crappy Starbucks Caramel Macchiato and, therefore, we should eliminate it from competition and focus on the purity of the coffee.

On the other end, those that are developing interesting signature drinks are letting them wither and die. There's very few shops or baristas actively developing quote/unquote "signature drinks" for public consumption. Most everyone develops one for competition and that's it. Game over.

To my mind (and experience) it's the signature drink that captures the public eye and imagination. Most everyone has tried a cup of coffee and, for most, it's a bitter and mildy offensive experience, one best served with lots of cream and sugar. These are the unwashed masses that we serve everyday and they are the same people who are caught perplexed by these so-called "exotic" drinks. But yet, the majority of shops poo-poo these drinks and toss them aside as soon as the Finals are announced.

Judge Jarrett on patrol by the Zoka Coffee booth.

Fourthly, where are we heading with the judges and rulings? Uniformity in judging is a perennial problem. The lack of explicit rules are a perennial problem. One year after the finals fiasco in the 2006 USBC, where performance videos were inappropriately used to overturn scores and Finals standings, there is still nothing in the rules to address this hole.

Another potential pitfall for the USBC is this "defending of the faith" that is starting to emerge both within the competitor and administrative ranks. Tatiana Becker's performance mimicking a sorority/frat rush, with members of the audience chanting "chug, chug, chug" and the judges being asked to wear beer hats pushed the limits of even some of the most progressive judges while outraging a number of judges and competitors.

Like I said in the now censored and removed (at the command of the SCAA Board of Directors) Portafilter.net Podcast Number 69, I support competitors' efforts to push and prod the competition in new directions. Some contrasted Tatiana's approach to my own and that's fallible because we have very different viewpoints and experiences from which to draw. For her to attempt a "Jay" style of presentation would be as absurd as me donning a halter top and mini skirt.

Myself with Tatiana Becker - it should be obvious why she looks better in the halter top.

As the competition continues into the future, we need to become increasingly vigilant against "keeping things safe." As an evolving craft, we need baristas to push the limits of our "comfort zones."

As it stands, the competition is starting to morph into a format that discourages innovation and this is movement in the wrong direction. A look into the rules and judging problems within sports such as gymnastics and figure skating are testament to this "defending of the faith" and is something we, as a community, need to avoid.

This year, when Tracey Allen gave me the "you're not taking this seriously enough" talk, I agreed with him. I'm not taking it as seriously as many of the other competitors. I hardly practiced my routine. I didn't have a signature drink until a few days before the competition. I didn't know what I was going to do until I did it. It wasn't a "serious" approach, I admit it.

Chris Owens as "Sylar" from the NBC television series "Heroes".

Some say I could be a "contender", but I wonder: "a contender for what? A "champion" to a narrow group of industry insiders who follow the competitions? Does this mean I have to abandon my preferred style for a more reserved, muted and perhaps boring one so that I can "win"? I don't find that remotely appealing.

Right now, the champion wins and toils in relative obscurity. Historically speaking, the USBC Champion has been given little opportunity to encourage greater awareness in the public consumer. The USBC Champions' domain has been the barista competitions and some regional barista jams, as well as perhaps some recognition by the hardcore coffee enthusiasts.

So, in the darkness of my own mind, I ask "what is the advantage of compromising on my personal vision in an attempt to win the USBC when it amounts to almost nothing?" What does it say about this pursuit when the National Air Guitar Champion, as well as the champion ranks of the International Federation of Competitive Eating receive greater media coverage and potential to influence the public?

I don't know myself, but it certainly makes it harder to take this "serious" thing seriously...

Did I really say that I was going to give up competing and all this? Nah, that's crazy talk!

Three

A man and a woman had a little baby.
Yes, they did.
They had three in the family,
And that's a magic number.

An unexpected call from Christine and Chef Mike about a long ago girl (psycho that she is) led to the three of us going out to check out Baltimore's new Three Restaurant (in it's third week of business) in Patterson Park.

Patterson Park. Don't know what it was like years ago but for most of my life it's been a drug-infested, crime-ridden area with corner dealers and lots of street hookers. About ten years ago, the pioneers started coming to gentrify the area and it's been steady progress since. However, I like a little adventure when visiting one of the most violent cities in America and while gentrification is "nice," I prefer that it doesn't come with Starbucks and a Cheesecake Factory.

Three took over the space formerly occupied by Parkside - whose owners spent big bucks transforming this run-down remnant of a pharmacy into a modern and gorgeous space. And Three is pretty gorgeous-looking. From the wood floors to the great-looking open-paneled bar (an idea for a future project), it's a modern and great-looking space - that really needs acoustical treatment. Badly.

I really don't like going out to eat on Friday or Saturday nights as I think the kitchen just isn't able to spend as much time with the food if they're trying to churn out 200 covers and two table turns. Where on a weekday, the chef may take his time lovingly swirling the saute pan, on a weekend, he's madly tossing in the ingredients, setting the flame to afterburner and tossing it a few times before he falls into the weeds. Not exactly my idea of an ideal meal.

But there we were, on a Friday night, waiting by the bar for our table for three. For forty minutes. While Chef Mike and Christine sloshed themselves on a variety of alcoholic treats.

Finally seated, our waitress was pleasant, courteous and steered us toward a very fruity (with hints of cherries and peach) California pinot noir. Alas, I can't remember the name and since Three doesn't seem to have a website...

Three is a "small plate" kind of restaurant - what most other places would call "tapas" without the actual Spanish dishes that make a tapas joint a tapas joint. There's some interesting stuff on the menu and we ordered most of them.

Unfortunately, the dishes were hit and miss. Some were good. Some were very good. Others were just "blah." Here's a quick rundown of the memorable ones:

Ahi Tartare
There's a ball of finely chopped ahi. It's got some spiciness. It's pretty darn good. It's worth checking out again.

Scallops wrapped in Bacon
These were two small scallops. Wrapped in bacon. Kinda bland. Kinda boring. Nothing to jump up about.

Lamb Chops
These three grilled lamb chops were perfectly executed and perfectly seasoned. Medium. French cut. Beautiful.

Grilled Romaine
Sliced a head of romaine in half down the center, sit the side on a grill. Char. Add some seasoning and some olive oil. Simple. Tasty. Nicely done.

Pomme Frites
Take a potato. Slice it a very thin (nearly chip thickness) waffle cut in a mandoline. Deep fry. Slather it with duck fat and serve with a side of mayo. This dish sounded incredible: duck fat. In the end, the fat was just that: fat, sitting on the chip, making it damp. No crispness, no flavor, no nothing. This needed a liberal dosing of salt. Too bad they don't put salt on the table at Three.

Grilled Polenta
One of the best grilled polenta's I've ever had was at Valhalla Restaurant in Sausalito, California. That was some incredible polenta. The texture was perfect with enough seasoning and butter to make it beautiful. Three's version was two thick slabs of polenta. Great texture, but again, they needed a little salt and some butter to give it some life.

Ahi Sashimi
The disaster of the lot. To me (and most of the free world), "sashimi" means one thing: raw fish. Perfectly sliced, unseasoned and served with some soy sauce and wasabi on the side. It is, by no means ever servedcooked and drizzled with terikayi sauce and mayo. This fish block was seasoned and pan seared, cooking the outside and leaving a perfect raw oval in the interior. This is called (by many places) "black and blue ahi" and should never ever EVER be called, or misconstrued as "sashimi." The only similarity between this dish and sashimi is that the fish was sliced.

But note that I said that the raw oval was "perfect." If they had called this "black and blue ahi" the execution of the cooking would have been perfect. In fact, the fish itself was beautifully meaty and luscious - just the way I prefer raw yellowfin tuna. That said, the sugar heavy teriyaki sauce with accompanying mayo drizzle was a mistake. Leave fish of this quality stand on its' own. It can!

Coeur la Creme
Ah, dessert. This one was tasty. Smooth, rich, velvety. I loved it. Perhaps a bit too rich for me though. An indulgence.

Coconut Chess Pie
Unlike the Coeur la Creme, this pie came from outside the house. From Dangerously Delicious Pies. Typical for DDP, the pie was rich, tasty and fattening. Their pies are good. We used to offer them at Spro. But they're not cheap. At DDP's own shop, a big slice of pie is $5.00. We offered an slice (8 per pie) for $3.50. At Three, what looked to be a 10 per pie slice cost $6.00. Too expensive for me to order next time around.



So there you have it: Three. Like I said above, the food is hit or miss. Some were good. Others were "ah." But it's still early for this new, hip restaurant and there's lots of promise. Michael, one of the three owners of Three, came by to ask our candid thoughts about the food. We were pretty candid with our candor. He seemed interested and I hope they take our suggestions to mind.

One thing: they need salt and pepper on the table if they're going to season the food this lightly. Many of the dishes could have been stellar if they just gave a pinch. Please.

Another thing: Please, get something to help the acoustics. I like modern looking spaces. I like hip-looking spaces. I don't like to nearly shout to talk to someone sitting across the table. Three is just "too loud." Hang some fabric panels on the wall, put up tapestries, whatever - just put something up to bring the noise to comfortable level.

In the end, I plan to go back. While I'm not jumping up and down for the food, the quality of the ingredients shows promise for potentially great food to come.

Next time, it will be a mid-week meal and not a weekend meal.

Trifecta

There's a lot to this blog that the readers don't see. Specifically, a number of half-written articles that were never completed. Just petered out of steam. As I was looking through the collection of unfinished entries (for a soon to come "Bits and Pieces" article), I spied this post that was never posted to the blog. I don't know why. It's complete and finished but I must have missed posting it for some reason, so here it is:
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Trifecta
12/04/06
11:36pm



Jim. Pat. Geno.

To the uninitiated these are just simple male names. Innocent. Unoffensive. Plain. But to the cheesesteak cognoscenti, these names mean war.

Last week brought us to the epicenter of this ages long battle that pits brother against brother, mothers against fathers and spans generations. We were in Philly and determined to figure this conundrum out for ourselves.

Yours truly and Lindsay at the start of something great.

Across this great nation, from Timonium to Honolulu are places that either mimic the Philly Cheesesteak or develop their own variation. Some are good, others are not, but to understand how all of this comes together, one must journey to Mecca-delphia and experience its' roots.

It was with this in mind that myself, Lindsay and Matt ventured to the City of Brotherly Love.

For the first-time visitor, one only need remember: "south" - as in South Street and South Philly. Our first stop on this tour was down South Street, a funky and hip retail/bar district, to Jim's. It's different than the other two because you go inside, ensconsed from the weather outside - and when you've froze your butt off eating steaks in the dead of winter in South Philly, you can appreciate this seemingly minor aberration.

The basic Philly Cheesesteak fries beef on a griddle, adds sauteed onions and slops it all in a baked roll that's been sliced down the middle and lathered with Cheese Whiz (hence the term: Whiz With - meaning Cheese Whiz with onions).

The Jim's of South Street Cheesesteak.

Motownphilly's Geno's Steak.

Pat's The King of Steaks. With a name like that how can you go wrong? We opted for the full meal with cheese fries and sodas.

So which is the best? That's up for you to decide. After years of trying both Pat's and Geno's, I found myself to favor Pat's. So does Matt. Lindsay thought that the bread was better at Pat's and the meat at Geno's.

Go figure. Try them all.

Just remember that none of them have patience for amateurs. Just walk up with a bit of cocky confidence and say "Whiz With" - even if you don't know what that means.

You'll have a great time.

And let me know which is your favorite.

Gabba-Gool

Tony Sirico toasts my newfound appreciation for Italian forcemeats.

In my never relenting search for tasty foods, I sometimes "discover" something to eat the old fashioned way: I saw it on TV. Readers of this blog know that I'm a long-time viewer of "The Sopranos" and every once in awhile life imitates fiction.

After a marathon viewing of "The Sopranos" on DVD prior to the series finale, I got a hankering for a hunka "Gabba-Gool."

But what is this mysterious Gabba-Gool?

I hadn't a clue.

But, after watching nearly ten years of Sopranos, I realized that they routine hack away at both English and Italian with weird pronunciations and malapropisms. But I had to know what this "Gabba-Gool" is and tastes like, so I found myself at Cerielli's again looking at their massive display case.

What can I get for ya? asked the counter guy.
Um, well, I heard about something called "Gabba-Gool"? You know what that is? I said, trying to sound cool and knowledgeable.
Yeah, it's called Cappacola. You want it hot?
Huh?
It comes hot or not.
Let's go with the regular. Quarter pound and a quarter pound of provolone.

The guy goes off and starts hacking away at my order. Alright, I now know what this "Gabba-Gool" is and I've managed to find out without looking too foolish.

Here ya go.
Nice. I got my meats.
Hey, how did you hear about the coppacola?

Crap. Busted.

Here I was at a crossroads. Do I lie and tell them some friends were telling me about it? Or do I stand up and tell the truth that I'm a Sopranos weenie who doesn't know the fine points of Italian forcemeats - and look like a real cafone?

In the end, I told him the truth. I heard it watching "The Sopranos." I'm lame. I decided to take my medicine and admit that I'm just a food jamook. I comforted myself with the notion that I could still go back and not be branded a liar.

I also comforted myself with a nice coppacola and provolone sandwich....

The forcemeat that brought the House of Cards down.

Fresh Strawberries

Perhaps part of the reason I'm not feeling so violated about the bank card thing is because I've been eating well lately.

I don't mean "well" in the sense of the delicious, marble fat laden ribeye steak (although that is part of it). I mean "well" in the sense of great quality food.

Take today as an example. After taking care of all sorts of things this morning, I started out with a round of cold roasted chicken and some delicious sweet watermelon. Watermelon so sweet and juicy, there's not need for any beverage.

Then, after a lightning round at Costco, I went over to Belvedere Square for a late lunch and some shopping. A bowl of crab and corn chowder at Atwater's with iced tea and a wedge of fresh bread - deelish! I've been eating quite a bit at the soup stand lately and it's been a good experience time and again. Today's chowder was light, refreshing and had a tinge of "Asian-ness" to it.

After a lingering lunch while reading the latest issue of Saveur on steaks and beef, I made my way through the market, picking up some blood oranges, apples and fresh Virginia strawberries at the produce stand. There's nothing like fresh, ripe strawberries. They're blood red, just beautiful, but oh so delicate. They cost $3 a bundle and what's survived the drive up York Road is now on sale at Spro Coffee until Saturday. Hopefully, my customers will think they're "too expensive" and I'll have a sensuous treat when I open Saturday morning.

So, if you happen to stop by Spro Saturday morning and I look a little tipsy, you'll know I had some champagn with those strawberries.

Swung around to the bakery for some fresh country white bread (sliced, thank you). Then over to the smokehouse for a half pound of beautiful Grav Lox. So tasty-looking, I want to run out for bagels and cream cheese, but I foolishly prove to myself that I have willpower.

Then to Ceriello's for some fresh mozarella and a half pound of prosciutto di parma. That, combined with the provolone and coppacola I have at the shop will make for a killer sandwich in a couple of hours.

I leave the market with bags in tow and the knowledge that I've got a number of wonderful meals in my very near future.

Attack of the Clones

I think I'm supposed to say that I feel "violated."

But I don't.

It started on Saturday with a $1.75 charge declined at a luncheon for my goddaughter Brooklyn. I thought I might have been overdrawn, but there was plenty of money in the bank and chalked it up to the proprietors being cheap about the charge.

Then it happened again on Monday night while I was out with Lady G for a declined $39.67 charge at The Tomato Palace. Hmm, maybe some checks came through and I didn't have enough? Good thing I still carry cash. Made a mental note to check in the morning, but forgot all about it.

Until yesterday at Exxon and the card was declined again - forcing me to actually walk inside the TigerMart and pay cash for gas.

Now, I was pissed and finally called The Bank.

Turns out that someone in Downey, California had cloned my bank card, went on a shopping spree at Best Buy late last week and the bank suspended the card on the "suspicious" charges. "Suspicious" because the card was being swiped both in California by pseudo-me and in Maryland by real-me. Glad to see someone at the bank is paying attention.

After confirming some other questionable charges - like $30 charge for Kate Spade note cards at the paper store, The Bank said they would do a little more research then give me my money back. I mean, who in their right mind actually charges their meal at McDonald's - Three Times??

So, I guess I'm supposed to feel "violated." But I'm not. To be honest, I'm barely fazed by all of this. This kind of thing happens and then it's rectified, so I've lost very little. Of course, if I only had $850 in the bank, I'd be pissed. But this week, I've got a bit more so it doesn't hurt that much.

Meanwhile, I'm trying my hardest to be violated.

Yo Soy Tony Soprano

This Sunday, the HBO series The Sopranos comes to a close.

At the end of anything, one reflects on the beginning. And for me, the beginning of The Sopranos almost got a bit hairy.

I remember catching an episode or two when the first season aired in 1999, but it wasn't until I was in Honolulu months later that I had the chance to watch the entire season. The Bob had purchased the DVD set and one morning, we watched all the episodes from start to finish.

For someone like me, The Sopranos holds a bit of romanticism where anyone can be Italian and anyone can become a Wise Guy. From 7am until about 1pm, we watched the first five or six episodes before feeling the hunger pangs. We decided that we would need to go out and get something to eat.

Watching that much Sopranos changes your outlook on life. It puts you in a completely different mindset. Just a few hours watching and, suddenly, we were "made". In just a few short hours, we were from North Jersey, uttering phrases like "Ohw" and "ugots" and "marone." Hookers, booze, gambling and interstate commerce were on the afternoon's agenda.

Not exactly the ideal mentality for mingling with the public.

Hungry as we were, we decided to head over to Big City Diner for their Kim Chee Fried Rice Loco Moco. For the uninitiated, this is a dish filled with Kim Chee Fried Rice (fried rice mixed with kim chee), layered with hamburger patty, fried egg and lots of brown gravy. For those not familiar with island cuisine, it's complete heaven in layers of fat and gravy.

So, we're sitting there, feeling very Soprano-like, enjoying the discussion and just hanging out when I notice some guy from across the room sitting with his co-workers, staring at me.

What the fuck is this cocksucker looking at?

See, I've already degenerated.

For the next few moments, I'm sitting there, fighting in my mind. The Sopranos-influenced side of me wants to get up, look the guy in the eye and shout :What the fuck are you lookin' at, asshole? - with the total intention of jumping over the table, grabbing the chair and beating him to a pulp if he disrespects me and my crew.

But, what the fuck is wrong with me? I'm an upstanding citizen who's normally laid back and casual. I can't go around beating people because they're staring at me. Or can I?

In spite of the fact that I know he's really just zoning out and staring into space (and not really "staring" at me), it takes me a couple moments to reign my desires from going wild on the guy. My heart's pounding. My palms are slightly sweaty. And I'm scared. Scared of myself.

After lunch, we head back to house for another marathon session of The Sopranos and I decide not to leave the house until the next day when my delusions of hanging with Silvio, Paulie, Chrissy and Tony have subsided and I can go back to being a normal, functioning (and calm) member of society.

French Kissin' In The USA - Lilly's French Cafe

Anna, le Sherpa famouse (celebre), ponders the wonders of life and the goodness of moules.

Those who know me, and those who dine with me, know that I enjoy French brasserie food tremendously. My need for Les Halles in Washington DC is epic. I can't get enough. No matter where I am.

Luckily, my sister-in-law Polly understands this and after casually mentioning that I had a hankering for some French, she steered us towards Venice Beach to Lilly's French Cafe.

Actually, when we were on the way there, I didn't know we were going to a French place. Hell, I wasn't paying attention to the sign when we walked in, and didn't realize our good fortune until I spied the onglet on the menu. Merci Jesus Cristo.

With Dennis in tow and Anna, that famous Sherpa with her brand new BMW hotness, we sat down for another multi-course meal exploring all of Lilly's French goodness. It's now getting to the point where one dish and one flavor just won't do. We must have all dishes and tastes of all dishes, and that's how it went down.

Starting with a round of onion soup, then the big guns came out: ahi tuna salad, moules mariniere, poulet roti, onglet l'echallote and frites, frites and more frites. We had so much fuckin' frites - it was potato hurricane.

Ahi, onglet, moules, poulet and frites, frites, frites!

The onion soup was pretty good. Nicely done and a good flavor. When it comes to ahi tuna, as long as it's fresh and raw (at least in the middle), I'm happy. Truth is, I'll eat fresh, raw tuna all day, every day until Judgement Day if I could afford it.

The moules were tasty and cooked just right. Everyone tore into those with reckless abandon. So much so that you'd have thought we hadn't been eating non-stop all week. Scary. The onglet was it's usual kidney-icious goodness. Grilled just right and covered in shallots. The low point was the poulet. The exterior looked delicious but once you got into it, you realized it just looked good but were dry and killed inside. Such a shame.

"Toodle-Fucking-Oo"

Unlike most Americans, I try to not watch television. However, I do reserve some time for my favorite shows, one of which has been HBO's "The Sopranos."

It's Sunday evening and tonight's show is the penultimate episode. Next week, the series ends and, hopefully, all questions will be answered. Although, considering it's David Chase's show, there will undoubtedly be plenty of unanswered questions.

There's been much speculation on how The Sopranos will end and I'm going to give in and add my thoughts to the queue.

In the Season Three episode "The Army Of One," after Jackie Aprile, Jr's funeral, Meadow Soprano dresses down Jackie's sister for speaking openly about La Cosa Nostra in front of "outsiders." Since that time, it has been one of my hopes that Meadow would, somehow, rise to take over the DiMeo Crime Family at the end of Tony's rule. Especially since they established that a Sicilian family could be led by a woman in the Season Two episode "Commendatori."

But I think that Meadow taking over is a long shot.

I've been watchin the first four seasons these past couple of days and it suddenly occured to me how the show will end. In the first season, during one of the sessions with Dr. Melfi, Tony reveals that he's afraid of "losing his family." In the episode, the comments infer that he means his blood family of Carmela, Meadow and A.J., but it could be his mob family with the impending war with Phil Leotardo and New York.

I'm going to speculate here that The Sopranos will end not with Tony being arrested by the FBI, not with Tony being killed, but rather with his blood family dead and Tony left all alone.

Right or wrong? Agree or disagree? We're going to find out next Sunday night.

Eating Local

While quality and flavor are high on my list of priorities, I just hadn't been thinking much about "buying local." Sure, I'll buy my silver queen corn from the guy selling it at the produce stand in Hunt Valley, but beyond that, I just don't think too much about it.

Finally, after months of Spike's (of celebrity chef and Artifact Coffee fame) soliliquizing (is that a word?) on the virtues of locally produced everything, I decided to break down and take a visit to Springfield Farm. in Sparks, MD.

It's out in the, well, country - down winding roads, through forest groves and meandering through the lush Northern Baltimore County countryside. It's a fun ride in a truck and I wonder how much better it will be in a Ferrari.

After the twists and turns, the entrance to the farm comes suddenly, then it's a hard right turn into someone's driveway and towards a house. Is this the right place? There's a pond to the left and all sorts of vehicles, ATVs, bed mowers and whatnot scattered along driveway. At first, you're not sure if this is place - 'cause it really looks like someone's house, and maybe they might shoot you.

As you come around the bend, that's when you notice the large metal walk-in cooler and you know this must be the place.

The farm store itself is pretty small. Just a table and a few refrigerated merchandisers holding the products. They've got beef, chicken, pork, eggs, milk, sausage, ice cream - and it's all ready for the taking. Much of the stuff I saw was frozen - evidently, they didn't move as much product over the Memorial Day Weekend and ended up freezing a bunch of stuff.

If it comes from beef, pork or chicken, you can pretty much get what you want. Want some ribeyes? No problem. Need a chicken? Can do. Want an 80 pound pig for a 4th of July roast? Be ready that morning. And all of it coming straight from the farm. Not just some anonymous farm - this farm. Right here. And not too long ago either.

I swear I used some restraint. But I was compelled to try as much as I could, so here's what I bought:

4lb whole chicken
1lb ribeye
1dz large eggs
3pt ice cream
1pk bacon

Then I rushed home to start cooking.

With the chicken, I cut it up and made that fried chicken recipe I've been tweaking. WIth the eggs and bacon, I made those this morning for breakfast. The ice cream I sampled last night while watching The Sopranos on DVD. And the ribeye is still in the fridge awaiting it's time in my hot skillet (with lots of butter, of course).

So, how was this locally produced stuff? Good? Yes, but incredibly different.

Maybe I'm just used to the mass-produced, steroid pumped and feed plumped chicken that you buy at Wegman's because this farm-raised chicken actually had flavor - especially the thigh and leg pieces. But, I'll be honest, that flavor kinda wigged me out a bit. Chicken shouldn't taste like "chicken." It should be plump, juicy but neutral tasting. Or should it?

The chicken reminded me of my trips to the Philippines. Where the chickens aren't plump and they actually have flavor. But this is America dammit, is this how chicken is supposed to taste here???

Well, of course it is, and it was damn good too. Although, I think I need to tweak it with just a little more salt. I ended up adding more salt to the chicken to "pop" its' flavor.

Then there's this morning with the bacon and eggs. Simple right? Wrong. The bacon wasn't that papery thin stuff Wegman's is passing off as good, this stuff was thick - and short so it fit perfectly in my small cast iron skillet. Nice. And the thickness helped it to cook evenly and meaty.

The eggs. These were "large" eggs but, Jesus, these weren't just "large", they were LARGE. Mother Large. So large that the two eggs nearly filled the skillet. So large that, halfway through, I was thinking: Shit, these are large. Note: one "large" egg is enough.

So far, it's been an interesting and exciting journey with locally produced meats. They're beyond my expectation. They're outside of my expectation. It's going to be a brave new world with chicken that tastes like chicken and eggs too huge to mention.

But, this kind of flavor and quality doesn't come cheap. That shopping list above? Seventy bucks. Yes, you read it right: $70. It's not cheap, but it is good.

Guess I just have to buy a Ferrari to make the drive...

Eat My Hot Snake - Hot Doug's

Sliced potatoes fried in duck fat? Sounds like my kind of place. I originally wasn't planning on visiting Hot Doug's (in spite of the insistence of more than a couple of friends in the know), but since I crammed the NRA show into one day (and was thoroughly exhausted to boot), I decided to gallavant around Chicago a bit.

Trifecta: French Fries, Rattlesnake Sausage & Chicago Hot Dog.

Woke up with sore muscles from my 24 mile odyssey at the National Restaurant Show and maybe because my friends have been encouraging me to visit, or maybe because I'm just a sissy who's afraid of another day on the show floor, I decided to blow off the NRA Show and do a brief tour of Chicago's food and coffee joints.

Duck Fat Fried French Fries...Jesus, that's gotta be the Touch of God. Problem is, they only serve those duck-i-licious fries on Fridays and Saturdays.

Today is Monday.

Lame.

Everyone that has recommended Doug has tales of long lines and encouragement to "go early" when they open at 10:30am. That was my intention but lounging around the hotel room is so delicious that I didn't get their 'til 11:30am.

No worries, parking was easy and there were only two people ahead of me. Lucky me.

Doug's got a selection of encased meats, from the hot dog to Italian sausage, Polish sausage, corn dog, hot sausage and his own encased meat selections. There's also a featured dog of the week for the adventurous to try.

Today's "game"?

Rattlesnake Sausage.

Whoa, rattlesnake, you say? That was my reaction too. Smoked Rattlesnake Sausage with Black Currant Mustard and Vodka Currant Cheese. I'll admit, I was kinda put off by this turn of events. I almost didn't order it. Then I reminded myself that "this is not a dress rehearsal" and decided to "go for it."

Rattlesnake Sausage with Black Currant Mustard and Vodka Currant Cheese.

There's something ironic about a rattlesnake sausage. First off, what is a "rattlesnake"? Basically, it's encased meat that "snakes" its' way across the ground. So, for a naturally encased meat to be ground up and then re-encased as a sausage seems ironic and comical to me. At least in the latter version, it doesn't make noise and won't bite me with deadly venom - a plus in my book.

The place is small-ish. There's a bunch of faux wood formica tables and small cooking line where a couple of sausage cooks keep things going, with a self-serve soda fountain to their backs and a podium-like spot facing the door where Doug Himself holds court.

Doug's a short guy, about 5'6" wearing dark rimmed glasses and short dark hair. He stands there, taking orders and making chit chat with the regulars and the tourists (like me). Some of the more dense of the tourists (like myself) ask: "Are you Doug?"

Not if you're a process server.

Ah, a kindred soul at last.

The menu is varied with all sorts of hot dog and sausage combinations with cute names, like the sausage formerly known as the "Lucca Brazzi" (no fish) or the "Britney Spears" (maybe tuna).

Standing there, you get the feeling that this place might be like Pat's Steaks in Philly - where you're expected to know how to order properly, otherwise Get The Fuck Out Of The Line. There's certainly a bit of intimidation here - especially with all the locals who know how to order exactly what they want. It's compounded by the fact that the menu items all look tasty and you know you really shouldn't eat them all.

In the end, Doug was friendly and accommodating to this wide-eyed tourist who ordered the Rattlesnake, the traditional Chicago style hot dog, and order of fries and a Coke. There's two sizes of Coke and Doug steered me to the smaller size and told me that there's free refills so just get the smaller one. I certainly appreciate that kind of hospitality.

So how was the food? In a word: good.

The Chicago Hot Dog.

I'm really getting into this Chicago-style hot dog thing. It's so different than the Sabrett New York hot dog, but so interesting with it's celery salt, onions, tomato and muther-huge pickle. God knows what a pickle is doing on a hot dog but it's damn good.

The fries were wonderfully done. Blanched and then deep-fried. You can tell just by eating them. They know how to do frites right. God Bless that Doug and death to the fabled process server who wants to take him away.

But what you really want to know is about the rattlesnake. Was it good? Was it bad? Did I start to hiss like I was in a Harry Potter movie? It was good. The meat had great texture and a slight spiciness to it. It was grilled and that was lovely. The black currant mustard and vodka currant cheese were an interesting combination that grew on me as I bit more into the snake.

The Rattlesnake Gets Bitten, Bitch.

The rattlesnake, currant and vodka was a combination I never would have thought about and a perfect example of why one must run to Hot Doug's. It's taking something as lowly as the hot dog and sausage - fare usually reserved for griddling with peppers and onions at the neighborhood street fair - and turning it into something new and original. It's taking it out for a drive and never turning back. It's raising the lowly encased meat to a culinary delight.

Run, Run, Run, young gourmand!

And beware the process servers...

Chicago Chop House

One of our earnest readers recently asked if I did, indeed, visit the Chicago Chop House during my recent visit to the Windy City. Well, the answer is: Yes, indeedy! I've had such a backlog of posts that I'm trying to work my way through them and get up to date. Heck, I still have things from April I need to post!

I actually wrote this post the day after while waiting at O'hare after being bumped off my original flight back to Baltimore.

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My last visit to Chicago heralded a new level in my dining adventures at two of the best restaurants in America. Those were heady times of abandoned eating and reckless spending. This time, I vowed to be a bit more thrifty.

With only a one night visit, one should only enjoy one dinner. Not to fear, gentle reader, only one dinner ensued.

The Chicago Chop House is, by now, one of my "old Chicago haunts." With the exception of February's visit, I eat there every time I come to this city. It's one of those old fashioned steakhouses where the steaks are big, the sides are big and Al Capone's picture hangs on the wall.

To be honest, I almost didn't eat at Chicago Chop House this time around. A search of the Internet yielded a couple of sites that recommended other steakhouses. But since most of those said that places like Morton's, Smith & Wollensky, Capitol Grille, The Palm and Lawry's were amongst the best in Chicago, I decided against any of those places for the most basic reason that I can go to any of those at home in Baltimore or Washington DC. If I'm in another city, I want to eat at places that I can't eat at home. Morton's? I might as well eat at Applebee's.

It's nice to know that as totalitarianism develops and a police state arises in the United States that you can still find small enclaves of civility in this nation: the Chicago Chop House allows cigar smoking in their bar (if albeit only in the back of the bar).

Regular readers of this blog know that I have a penchant for a meal of meaty steaks and tasty cigars. They're a wonderful pairing and it's becoming all too rare an experience in what once was The Land of the Free. God Bless the Chop House for maintaining some level of sensibility in an insane world.

Oddly enough, The Chicago Chop House (THCC) is located in the heart of the city's tourist district - usually a sure sign to stay away. As such, it's typically dangerous territory to just show up, hoping for a seat. They're open 'til 11pm so I gambled that a seating for one at 10pm wouldn't be too problematic. Luckily, I was right (not to mention that it was a Sunday).

Blanche, my waitress, was attentive, light as meringue but a bit short on the attention span whenever our conversation strayed from menu items to, say, what The Loop is all about.

The First Course.

For starters, Blanche brought out the sauteed butterflied shrimp. Three large shrip sauteed in butter, garlic, lemon and onions. The shrimp were huge and I tore into them. The table bread was equally fantastic. Crusty on the outside, warm, soft and chewy on the inside. Slathered with lots of butter and I wanted to grind the entire loaf - appetite be damned.

The rather unremarkable salad.

The next course was the salad course with a garlic dressing. Hate to say it, but it was pretty unremarkable. Iceberg or romaine? Who could tell since it was mostly the flavorless white ends with a couple baby tomatoes and drowning in dressing. It would have been better if they dropped the salad altogether, although I suspect it's there to appease the tourists who want the most for their money.

Ah, Prime Rib Succulence and the Arturo Fuente Rothschild Maduro cigar. Sublime.

For the main course, I chose the prime rib/ribeye. It's a cut of prime rib that's cooked as a prime rib should and finished on the grill like a ribeye steak. I ordered mine "medium," along with a side order of their fried baked potato.

The crispy potato thingies.

The meat was a perfect medium. Carmelized exterior with a red/pink and cool (temperature cool) interior. Probably the best medium I've ever eaten. And the potatoes? Excellent. Evidently, they're baked potatoes that are sliced and then deep-fried to a crispy perfection with onions.

To top it all off - the cigar. A maduro robusto from A. Fuente just made the experience sublime. To me, there's little finer than a wonderful cut of meat paired with a delicious cigar. It's almost an aphrodisiac. While I say "death" to those anti-smoking gestapo types who deign to smother smoking from God's Green Earth, leave me these little havens where I can enjoy a steak and a cigar and revolution will be thwarted. For now.

Chocolate cake.

Continued on with a dessert course - a chocolate cake. It was good but nothing earth-shattering. Thought for a moment about ordering a coffee, but decided against it.

All in all, the Chicago Chop House lived to my expectations. I got a wonderful cut of meat, excellently prepared and smoked a cigar to boot - what more could I ask for? I was happy and took half the cut home with me.

The Funk

For the past two days I've been in a funk. A myopic funk. A foggy funk. An "I don't know what I'm doing and can't see where I'm going and don't have anyone to hug me" kind of funk. One of those funks where you sit around trying to figure out where you went wrong in life and are extremely tempted to call old girlfriends and cry kind of funk.

I'm happy to report that the funk has passed and I woke up this morning feeling refreshed and reinvigorated.

Maybe it's the fact that the Nail Salon isn't happening. Maybe it's the fact that the beverage refrigerator keeps leaking and I can't seem to figure out why. Maybe it's because I lost the USBC and now have to fork out my own money to go to Japan.

Whatever it was, I'm a guy and I'm too busy being "macho" to sit around figuring it out, unless I deign to look like a sissy.

The crescendo came last night, as I'm leaving The Spro, in need of someone to talk to about The Funk, and I'm texting an old flame to see if she wants to chat. She didn't call or return my text. Bitch.

This morning, twelve hours later, I receive this message: "Sorry! I went to bed early. I've been so wiped out this week."

Sure. She was probably busy with whatever current boyfriend she has now.

But it's really a good thing she didn't call me back, I think. After six months of no contact what would happen now? The swirling hurricane starts again? No, I don't think I want to go back to that craziness. That would be, well, just crazy.

So, here I am again, The Spro is about to close after another busy day in Towson, and I'm feeling pretty chipper about things and The Funk is an old memory disappearing into the night.


And I think I should note: No tears were shed during the filming of This Funk.

The Fetal Position

I love my family. I really do. Overall, I'm very close to my family. In the traditional Filipino culture, there really is no "extended" family. They are all just "family" and as such, you're subject to the whims and judgments of everyone.

In high school, one of my aunts constantly nagged me about a girl I was "in love" with. She didn't like this girl and made it painfully obvious to my inexperienced self each and every time I saw her. Which, when you're being nagged about a girl you like was always too often.

Now, that girl is long gone, my aunt and I are still close but a new cloud lingers on my horizon. It's my other aunt.

Don't get me wrong, my other aunt is great. I love her to death. She oversees the company accounting after I've hacked my way through it. She's the one who recalculates revenue, taxes and works with our CPA to make sure things are in line and on-time.

I see her on a regular basis, but I usually hear from her quarterly, when it's: "Jay, we need to talk. I need checks."

Notice the plural in the word "checks." It's never just one. It's always a cascade of checks needed to be issued and sent to either the IRS, the Comptroller of Maryland or some other government agency extorting us for more cash to feed the machine. It's a never-ending cycle of revenue, taxes and checks - and I'm starting to wonder if it will affect my relationship with my aunt.

There are days when I fear her call, because I know it's the call for money to the IRS. But I was going to use that money to put a down payment on a business jet, I think to myself. Not anymore sucka, you got to pay and your aunt is the Agent For The Reaper.

I want to regale you with stories about my aunt calling, the phone wringing and me, crouched on the floor of my basement in fetal position - but it hasn't reached that stage yet. There are still family gatherings and we sit, chat, joke, laugh and gossip about what problems are in the family this month, so things are still good.

Perhaps next year I'll find myself in the fetal position on the floor in the basement...

Broken Nails

I'm sad to report here on The Onocoffee Blog that Nail Salon Espresso will not be happening.

While just a day ago I thought we were on the same path as the landlord, today I see that we are not. Last night as I was leaving The Spro, I noticed that a crew was working in the space that was to be Nail Salon Espresso. I had sent off a finalized and ready-to-go lease to the landlord at the end of April before I left for SCAA. Hadn't heard from him since. Even sent off a couple of e-mails to see how things were progressing. Nothing.

You know, I don't mind losing a potential location. I do mind it when the people you're dealing with don't have the courtesy to let you know that there's no longer a deal to be made. It's disappointing (to say the least).

It's also disappointing because Nail Salon Espresso was designed to be something special for East Towson. Not only was it going to be the most forward-thinking espresso bar in Baltimore (even more than The Spro), it was going to roast single-origin coffees on a beatiful copper-jacketed Petroncini The Crumb 3 kilo roaster, and it was going to feature The Sunday Brunch - a four seat only, chef and barista driven multi-course tasting menu on Sundays with a visiting chef each brunch.

Oh well, no sense in crying over spilled espresso. Time to move forward to the next adventure.