Saturday night found myself and Lady G at Baltimore's Dukem Restaurant (that's pronounced "doo-kem" and not "duke-em"). It was a cold and blustery night with high winds and a crisp feel in the air - but crap was it cold.
Dukem was recommended to me by a friend who eats there all the time. It's a lot smaller than I expected and at 9pm the dining room was absolutely empty. Lady G and I were the only people there. At first I thought they were closed but the friendly hostess/owner greeted us warmly and we made ourselves at home.
I've never had Ethiopian food before. Didn't know anything about it. But a friend said it was good and that was good enough for me to give it a try. Our young waitress who hails from Addis Abbaba had good command of English but I tend to speak very colloquially and some (read:many) of the euphemisms and slangs didn't translate well and she ended up coming off a bit curt. Like when I told her I had never eaten Ethiopian food and asked her what I should try somehow that didn't translate well. Or the sizes: "Yes, they're pretty small."
Started out with some hot tea. I'm no tea expert but it was fascinatingly good. I'm sure it was relatively cheap stuff but it was a bit spicy and that was very enjoyable. Of course, Lady G asked for a bit of lemon and our waitresses responce was pure Third Wave Barista - that response of surprise and look of incredulity when someone asks to pour hazelnut syrup into that $100 per pound Brazilian Fazenda Santa Ines. I almost started to laugh.
Lady G had eaten Ethiopian before and referred to the traditional bread, the Injera, as eating a towel. The Injera is completely fascinating to me. Looks like a huge, grayish-brown, spongy crepe. Very neutral tasting at first that finishes with sour notes. Completely odd and totally different, in many ways I didn't know what to make of it.
When I'm out and trying something new, I prefer to allow the kitchen to prepare something for us. I'm adventurous, I'll try anything. But getting our waitress to recommend some dishes seemed next to impossible - although she finally recommended that we try the Dukem Special Lamb Tibs. Combine that with the prime short rib Goden Tibs and the Special Dukem Veggie Combo 1 and we were ready to try something new.
I'm no vegan but I found the veggie combo to be quite tasty. Spicy split lentil, yellow peas, greens, cabbage, shiro and potato all served on top of injera with the lamb tibs in the center and the Goden tibs on the side. Honestly, I didn't know what veggies we were eating. Most were mashed in some way, or chopped and I didn't know how to eat since the food didn't come with a knife and fork.
Okay, I hate to admit it, but I felt uncomfortable without the knife and fork. I didn't know what to do. Even though I'm Filipino and very skilled at eating with my hands, I didn't know if that kind of exercise was welcome here and had to consult with our waitress on the proper Ethiopian technique. She promptly came out with a small plate of injera and some veggie paste thing and showed us how it's done in Addis Abbaba. Just tear off a piece of injera, support with your fingers and grab whatever food you want. Note: please be sure that you grab/wrap the food with your injera and not your fingers.
Properly indoctrinated into Ethiopian grinding methodology, I went to town. The Goden was okay, nothing too stellar. Just some thick cut short ribs marinated and then grilled. The meat was pretty tough and I think if they braised it, it would have been incredible. Like I said, the veggies were good. Some spicy, others acidy, but a good accompaniment.
The Lamb Tibs were fantastic. Marinated and cooked so the outside of the meat was slightly crisp. It was heavenly. I tore it up.
In the end, that was it. No dessert. The food was way too much for Lady G and I - even though our waitress assured us the servings were small. Maybe compared to Macaroni Grill. Whatever the case, there was enough food leftover to fill two takeout containers. Being that we were in the city out and about, I started thinking that maybe a sojourn to Vaccaro's in Little Italy for some cannoli might be in order, but Lady G had some other dessert in mind.....
Oh la, la!
Monday, October 30, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
The $288K Home for $365K
For the past year I've been bullish on the Las Vegas housing market. Perhaps it was just geniune optimism or perhaps it was market ignorance but I was bullish. The point of laying down some earnest money for a new home.
It's been a fascinating experience, and one that I've tried very hard to remain objective, but it's exciting to build your own home, pick and choose all the fixtures and options. In the end, I'd like to think that I built a very nice home that splurged on what mattered, i.e. ubatuba granite counters, deep maple cabinets, picket rail stairs, 16" clay tile, concrete driveway pavers, 9' ceilings, super master bath and a covered patio.
I toured the house back in June. It was nearly completed. It looked great and I was a bit disappointed that my tenants were going to be the ones enjoying my optional open den/workspace and not me. Of course, if I had lived in the house, I would have installed a casino grade craps table because it's Vegas and I wanted to practice for the World Series of Craps (whenever that would happen).
One thing that wigs me out about West Coast Living is the proximity to your neighbors. I mean, the large bay window next to the jacuzzi tub is very cool, but with your neighbor's house ten feet away, it's a bit unnerving. However, it goes without saying that had I lived in the house, my neighbor would at some point come up to me, congratulating me because of the ever-changing parade of women going through the house and my prowess as a physical champion (as evidenced through the bay window next to the jacuzzi tub). Without a doubt, I would remain humble in my victory and console my neighbor in his marriage and lack of sex life.
I digress.
All in all, the house was going to cost me $365,000 - or, if you looked at the Truth In Lending Statement, $1.5 million over thirty years. Holy crap - one point five million??? Gee, how many 21 year old female "companions" could I buy for that much money? Six thousand - to be exact, which would take me 16.4 years if I had one per day.
Oh, fantasies.
So what happened to the house? I ejected from the deal back in September when I finally realized that I no longer had confidence in the housing market and good timing too.
Today I looked up the price of the house I would have bought and it had fallen to $288K.
So much for the World Series of Craps...
It's been a fascinating experience, and one that I've tried very hard to remain objective, but it's exciting to build your own home, pick and choose all the fixtures and options. In the end, I'd like to think that I built a very nice home that splurged on what mattered, i.e. ubatuba granite counters, deep maple cabinets, picket rail stairs, 16" clay tile, concrete driveway pavers, 9' ceilings, super master bath and a covered patio.
I toured the house back in June. It was nearly completed. It looked great and I was a bit disappointed that my tenants were going to be the ones enjoying my optional open den/workspace and not me. Of course, if I had lived in the house, I would have installed a casino grade craps table because it's Vegas and I wanted to practice for the World Series of Craps (whenever that would happen).
One thing that wigs me out about West Coast Living is the proximity to your neighbors. I mean, the large bay window next to the jacuzzi tub is very cool, but with your neighbor's house ten feet away, it's a bit unnerving. However, it goes without saying that had I lived in the house, my neighbor would at some point come up to me, congratulating me because of the ever-changing parade of women going through the house and my prowess as a physical champion (as evidenced through the bay window next to the jacuzzi tub). Without a doubt, I would remain humble in my victory and console my neighbor in his marriage and lack of sex life.
I digress.
All in all, the house was going to cost me $365,000 - or, if you looked at the Truth In Lending Statement, $1.5 million over thirty years. Holy crap - one point five million??? Gee, how many 21 year old female "companions" could I buy for that much money? Six thousand - to be exact, which would take me 16.4 years if I had one per day.
Oh, fantasies.
So what happened to the house? I ejected from the deal back in September when I finally realized that I no longer had confidence in the housing market and good timing too.
Today I looked up the price of the house I would have bought and it had fallen to $288K.
So much for the World Series of Craps...
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
R&R at The Ram's Head
After my brief sojourn to Caffe Pronto in Annapolis yesterday, I called my dear old friend R., who does black ops for the Erlich Administration, to see if she had time to catch up and eat. It's two weeks from the hotly contested race for Maryland governor and she's forehead-deep into whatever they do to get re-elected and keep their jobs, but she made some time to see an old friend for a fifteen minute meal before jetting off to some other secret agenda. Just like old times, except for the three beefy guys in dark suits and menacing bulges of automatic weapons under their jackets.
How about Macaroni Grill?
After last Monday, I didn't know how to respond to that.
Hello?
Well, how about someplace different?, I offered.
Let's meet at Ram's Head.
The Ram's Head Tavern. It's an Annapolis institution. And a damn nice music venue. And the place I met that other R who I spent two and a half years chasing. Not the best of memories.
But I can put my romantic pain and misery behind me. Forget about the longing and hurt. I've had a month and a half to recover and refocus. I'm okay now. I'm okay to eat at Ram's Head without all the memories flooding back.
I feel a tingle.
Perhaps that's because I elected to wear shorts today and it's 34 degrees out.
Walk into the Ram's Head and it's a true taste of Maryland. Everyone is sporting "the uniform" of khakis, brown shoes, button down and maybe a tie. Everyone looks and dresses the same. If you've ever seen the movie Wedding Crashers, that's exactly what I mean. And coming from a prep school background, it almost makes me want to puke because I got out of high school so I wouldn't have to dress like I did in high school.
The owners of the Ram's Head also own Fordham Micro Brewery. The brewery adjoins the restaurant/bar/venue and I'm feeling interested in trying a beer. Give me the Oktoberfest. Too bad it's too cold to sit outside in the courtyard because I've got a hot nut for the PG Belicoso Maduro cigar sitting in my pocket.
Anyway, let's cut to the chase. This is about the food and the food is, well, "pub food." Nothing to get excited about or write home to mamma. Started out with the beer battered onion rings which were quite good. Very good, in fact. But it was one of those nights where I was in the mood for more fried foods and decided that I would start with the rings and then progress into the Steak Chili with all the "fixings" and a side of fries. R ordered the crab cake with rice.
The chili sounded promising, but that was about it. The "fixings" were more cheese, jalapenos, tortilla chips - basically crappy filler for an extra buck fifty. It's a shame too because I suspect the chili could have been much better without all that stuff.
The real down point came with the fries. I don't understand what possesses humans to bludgeon and violate something so natural and so perfect as the french fried potato. Too many places use that shitty frozen batter dipped french fries and Ram's Head is one of those places. And they came out on the cold side. Jesus, can you help me please? This abomination should be outlawed.
R's crab cake looked decent. She didn't finish it but she did take it home so it probably wasn't too bad. For dessert, we split a chocolate cake. Not too bad, I liked the choc chips on the outside layer.
In the end, the food wasn't very good. But I suspect that it's good enough for most of their usual patrons - especially if you're consuming a pitcher or four of their brewskis.
Next time I'll stick with their Fish and Chips.
How about Macaroni Grill?
After last Monday, I didn't know how to respond to that.
Hello?
Well, how about someplace different?, I offered.
Let's meet at Ram's Head.
The Ram's Head Tavern. It's an Annapolis institution. And a damn nice music venue. And the place I met that other R who I spent two and a half years chasing. Not the best of memories.
But I can put my romantic pain and misery behind me. Forget about the longing and hurt. I've had a month and a half to recover and refocus. I'm okay now. I'm okay to eat at Ram's Head without all the memories flooding back.
I feel a tingle.
Perhaps that's because I elected to wear shorts today and it's 34 degrees out.
Walk into the Ram's Head and it's a true taste of Maryland. Everyone is sporting "the uniform" of khakis, brown shoes, button down and maybe a tie. Everyone looks and dresses the same. If you've ever seen the movie Wedding Crashers, that's exactly what I mean. And coming from a prep school background, it almost makes me want to puke because I got out of high school so I wouldn't have to dress like I did in high school.
The owners of the Ram's Head also own Fordham Micro Brewery. The brewery adjoins the restaurant/bar/venue and I'm feeling interested in trying a beer. Give me the Oktoberfest. Too bad it's too cold to sit outside in the courtyard because I've got a hot nut for the PG Belicoso Maduro cigar sitting in my pocket.
Anyway, let's cut to the chase. This is about the food and the food is, well, "pub food." Nothing to get excited about or write home to mamma. Started out with the beer battered onion rings which were quite good. Very good, in fact. But it was one of those nights where I was in the mood for more fried foods and decided that I would start with the rings and then progress into the Steak Chili with all the "fixings" and a side of fries. R ordered the crab cake with rice.
The chili sounded promising, but that was about it. The "fixings" were more cheese, jalapenos, tortilla chips - basically crappy filler for an extra buck fifty. It's a shame too because I suspect the chili could have been much better without all that stuff.
The real down point came with the fries. I don't understand what possesses humans to bludgeon and violate something so natural and so perfect as the french fried potato. Too many places use that shitty frozen batter dipped french fries and Ram's Head is one of those places. And they came out on the cold side. Jesus, can you help me please? This abomination should be outlawed.
R's crab cake looked decent. She didn't finish it but she did take it home so it probably wasn't too bad. For dessert, we split a chocolate cake. Not too bad, I liked the choc chips on the outside layer.
In the end, the food wasn't very good. But I suspect that it's good enough for most of their usual patrons - especially if you're consuming a pitcher or four of their brewskis.
Next time I'll stick with their Fish and Chips.
Sins from the Dark Confessional
Stoked.
That's the word. Stoked.
That's exactly how I feel at the moment.
In the galaxy that is quality coffee, our little shop is at the point farthest from the bright center. We're in the outland. The far flung planets. The Outer Rim. The Border Planets. The Hind End of Space. Tattooine.
Because of this, every blue moon we have some supply line problems. Deliveries from the Center of the Universe take a bit longer than anticipated and we run dangerously low on coffee. And maybe one time out of fifty, we actually run out of coffee and must source coffee locally. It's not something to be proud of but it does happen.
For the past sixteen hours we've been serving what I consider to be Elegant Dreck. Coffee of questionable lineage and dubious origin. And just a small amount of coffee at that, meaning that we've stretched things a bit. Slightly lower on the TDS levels, different brewing techniques. Longer than optimal holding times. It's been a horrific day and a half.
Imagine running out of your daily coffee, as well as your decaf and espresso coffees. That's the nightmare. Compound that with turning to the local roaster who's not quite up to the level you desire and that's the reality. It's been so bad that I haven't drank the coffee and I've been encouraging our customers to try something different - something that will mask the odd taste of the coffee. A little raspberry and white chocolate syrup? A lot, perhaps?
It was so bad that I made the hour-long trek down to Caffe Pronto in Annapolis to source a five pound bag of their Espresso Vincente. I have to say, it's a beautiful and tasty espresso - and one that I'm not ashamed to serve to our customers.
The FedEx website said to expect delivery by 4:30pm tomorrow. Crap. That's a long time to wait for coffee. Screwed.
You can't imagine the elation I experienced as the FedEx guy came rolling up the elevator with our eighty pounds of glory from Hines Public Market Coffee.
It was almost as good as being told by the Magic 8-Ball that four girls are currently in love/desire with me...
Almost.
That's the word. Stoked.
That's exactly how I feel at the moment.
In the galaxy that is quality coffee, our little shop is at the point farthest from the bright center. We're in the outland. The far flung planets. The Outer Rim. The Border Planets. The Hind End of Space. Tattooine.
Because of this, every blue moon we have some supply line problems. Deliveries from the Center of the Universe take a bit longer than anticipated and we run dangerously low on coffee. And maybe one time out of fifty, we actually run out of coffee and must source coffee locally. It's not something to be proud of but it does happen.
For the past sixteen hours we've been serving what I consider to be Elegant Dreck. Coffee of questionable lineage and dubious origin. And just a small amount of coffee at that, meaning that we've stretched things a bit. Slightly lower on the TDS levels, different brewing techniques. Longer than optimal holding times. It's been a horrific day and a half.
Imagine running out of your daily coffee, as well as your decaf and espresso coffees. That's the nightmare. Compound that with turning to the local roaster who's not quite up to the level you desire and that's the reality. It's been so bad that I haven't drank the coffee and I've been encouraging our customers to try something different - something that will mask the odd taste of the coffee. A little raspberry and white chocolate syrup? A lot, perhaps?
It was so bad that I made the hour-long trek down to Caffe Pronto in Annapolis to source a five pound bag of their Espresso Vincente. I have to say, it's a beautiful and tasty espresso - and one that I'm not ashamed to serve to our customers.
The FedEx website said to expect delivery by 4:30pm tomorrow. Crap. That's a long time to wait for coffee. Screwed.
You can't imagine the elation I experienced as the FedEx guy came rolling up the elevator with our eighty pounds of glory from Hines Public Market Coffee.
It was almost as good as being told by the Magic 8-Ball that four girls are currently in love/desire with me...
Almost.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Falling In Love at the Bistrot du Coin
Like I kind of said in the last post, it's all about the company that makes an outing a special event. Last year I had the possibility of eating solo at The French Laundry. For sure that would have been an incredible meal but I would have enjoyed it alone and that's not much fun at all.
Seems that this month is the month of birthdays and last Saturday night found a large group of friends (some I knew, others I didn't) jammed into the upstairs dining area at Washington D.C.'s Bistrot du Coin. Evidently, the Bistrot is jammed all week long. It's on the 1700 block of Connecticut, just above DuPont Circle, which means that it's a serious pain in the ass for a suburban living, automobile-driving sucker like myself. The weekend before we were eating at my favorite joint, Brasserie Les Halles when Michelle suggested trying their (hers and Christian's) favorite: du Coin. And there we were.
Bistrot du Coin is a bit of a departure from Les Halles. It's brighter, louder and definitely more packed than Les Halles, which is a minus in my book. You can smoke at the bar but there's no tables for smoking (advantage: Les Halles) and while they do have Foie Gras (advantage: Bistrot) and a wide variety of mussels (advantage: Bistrot), it's just not the same, nor is it a replacement for me (advantage: Les Halles).
But let's talk about the food. Simply, it's deelish! While it is a bit disappionting to see the bread precut, placed in baskets and jammed into a bread pantry for ease of use, the butter was soft when it came to the table and that's a lovely thing. It amazes me how many nice restaurants we go to and the butter is hard as a rock. Then you try cutting and spreading it and it's just this clumpy mess that doesn't mix well with the palate. I'm hoping that this was intentional on the part of du Coin and not just happenstance.
Without a doubt, the highlight of the meal (other than the girl, details to follow) was the foie gras. Perfect thickness to show off the delicate nature of the liver, it was just heavenly. Paired with some greens and a small glass of sauternes and it's waaay better than Les Halles foie.
The onglet and shallots was interesting. Too much black pepper on the meat for my tastes but it was cooked just right and the roasted shallots made for a tantalizing accompaniment. But not as tantalizing as my dinner companion, Vanessa - the Chinese girl from L.A. pursuing an MBA who strangely reminds me of a snowflake-y, Jennifer Tilly-esque looking sensation, eating mussels in a white wine sauce and sharing it with those around her.
It's true, I try to be an objective observer but I'm a flawed human who succumbs to his weaknesses: food and women. I can no longer offer an objective opinion on whether or not the mussels were truly good. Perhaps they were cooked just right, with the perfect amount of wine, butter, veggies and whatever else goes into that pot, or perhaps they were just being shared by the sensation to my left. Personally, I think it was the latter.
BTW, the mussels were smashing.
Seems that this month is the month of birthdays and last Saturday night found a large group of friends (some I knew, others I didn't) jammed into the upstairs dining area at Washington D.C.'s Bistrot du Coin. Evidently, the Bistrot is jammed all week long. It's on the 1700 block of Connecticut, just above DuPont Circle, which means that it's a serious pain in the ass for a suburban living, automobile-driving sucker like myself. The weekend before we were eating at my favorite joint, Brasserie Les Halles when Michelle suggested trying their (hers and Christian's) favorite: du Coin. And there we were.
Bistrot du Coin is a bit of a departure from Les Halles. It's brighter, louder and definitely more packed than Les Halles, which is a minus in my book. You can smoke at the bar but there's no tables for smoking (advantage: Les Halles) and while they do have Foie Gras (advantage: Bistrot) and a wide variety of mussels (advantage: Bistrot), it's just not the same, nor is it a replacement for me (advantage: Les Halles).
But let's talk about the food. Simply, it's deelish! While it is a bit disappionting to see the bread precut, placed in baskets and jammed into a bread pantry for ease of use, the butter was soft when it came to the table and that's a lovely thing. It amazes me how many nice restaurants we go to and the butter is hard as a rock. Then you try cutting and spreading it and it's just this clumpy mess that doesn't mix well with the palate. I'm hoping that this was intentional on the part of du Coin and not just happenstance.
Without a doubt, the highlight of the meal (other than the girl, details to follow) was the foie gras. Perfect thickness to show off the delicate nature of the liver, it was just heavenly. Paired with some greens and a small glass of sauternes and it's waaay better than Les Halles foie.
The onglet and shallots was interesting. Too much black pepper on the meat for my tastes but it was cooked just right and the roasted shallots made for a tantalizing accompaniment. But not as tantalizing as my dinner companion, Vanessa - the Chinese girl from L.A. pursuing an MBA who strangely reminds me of a snowflake-y, Jennifer Tilly-esque looking sensation, eating mussels in a white wine sauce and sharing it with those around her.
It's true, I try to be an objective observer but I'm a flawed human who succumbs to his weaknesses: food and women. I can no longer offer an objective opinion on whether or not the mussels were truly good. Perhaps they were cooked just right, with the perfect amount of wine, butter, veggies and whatever else goes into that pot, or perhaps they were just being shared by the sensation to my left. Personally, I think it was the latter.
BTW, the mussels were smashing.
Los Italianos - Suburbs From Hell, Part 2
Dateline: Monday Night.
It's The Rod's birthday and we're at the local Macaroni Grill and I don't understand why.
Baltimore's a town that can be hard to find some good ethnic foods, but good Italian food is not one of them. Just a quick shot down I-83 to Little Italy and some of the city's best Italian can be had at places like Boccacio's or La Scala. Even in the hellish suburban enclave of Timonium, in the shopping center behind Jay's Shave Ice, one can find a group of Neopolitans working behind the counter and producing some tasty and authentic Italian cuisine at the oddly-named Pasta Blitz
With such a plethora of great Italian going on I'm continually perplexed as to why suburbia refuses to take a short drive for some excellent food instead of an hour's wait outside a national corporate chain restaurant with a penchant for bland dishes and vacuum bagged sauces and pre-portioned foods. Even more perlexing is why this group of friends are choosing that same national chain over the good stuff when they too know where to find the good stuff.
But I try to be an affable chap and since Macaroni Grill is pretty close to my house, I didn't raise a concern. Perhaps I'll be surprised and head off to meet everyone for our 8pm seating.
It's a Monday night so the dining room is slow. For me, there's no better time to head out into the restaurant scene than during the week. The dining rooms are slow which means that a good kitchen can take more time preparing their dishes properly and you generally receive better service and food. Otherwise, you're going out to eat during the weekend with everyone and their mother, smushed into position on a two-top, surrounded by a gaggle of amateurs who don't know what to order off the menu but want everything NOW. Not the ideal way to enjoy an outing, if you ask me.
Our waitress was nice enough, she took care of things and was generally friendly. Started out with some appetizers that everyone shared. There was the ubiquitous Fried Calamari with a light batter and generally uninspired red dipping sauce. Our uncle had some mussels, which he didn't share but they looked kinda interesting. And I had an order of the minestrone soup. I ordered the "cup" size which came out in a frickin' huge bowl. I was shocked, but grateful that I didn't order the "bowl." The soup could have been quite enjoyable. If it was served hot. Instead it was limp, lifeless and tepid.
For the main course, I ordered the Penne Rustica. Penne pasta with shrimp, sliced chicken and a cream sauce, covered in cheese and crusted under a salamander. Mine came out hot and actually pretty darn tasty. I thoroughly enjoyed the dish. Finally, something worth eating at Macaroni Grill.
Everyone else ordered some sort of pasta dish and the serving sizes are just ridiculous. Who can eat all that food? It's just dumb. I chowed the shrimp and chicken and left a small pile of penne.
All in all, it wasn't the worst dining experience. The penne made it decent and the company made it a fun outing, which is what really matters because it's lonely to eat fantastic food all by yourself.
Still, I'm harboring desires of dinner at La Scala sometime in the near future.
It's The Rod's birthday and we're at the local Macaroni Grill and I don't understand why.
Baltimore's a town that can be hard to find some good ethnic foods, but good Italian food is not one of them. Just a quick shot down I-83 to Little Italy and some of the city's best Italian can be had at places like Boccacio's or La Scala. Even in the hellish suburban enclave of Timonium, in the shopping center behind Jay's Shave Ice, one can find a group of Neopolitans working behind the counter and producing some tasty and authentic Italian cuisine at the oddly-named Pasta Blitz
With such a plethora of great Italian going on I'm continually perplexed as to why suburbia refuses to take a short drive for some excellent food instead of an hour's wait outside a national corporate chain restaurant with a penchant for bland dishes and vacuum bagged sauces and pre-portioned foods. Even more perlexing is why this group of friends are choosing that same national chain over the good stuff when they too know where to find the good stuff.
But I try to be an affable chap and since Macaroni Grill is pretty close to my house, I didn't raise a concern. Perhaps I'll be surprised and head off to meet everyone for our 8pm seating.
It's a Monday night so the dining room is slow. For me, there's no better time to head out into the restaurant scene than during the week. The dining rooms are slow which means that a good kitchen can take more time preparing their dishes properly and you generally receive better service and food. Otherwise, you're going out to eat during the weekend with everyone and their mother, smushed into position on a two-top, surrounded by a gaggle of amateurs who don't know what to order off the menu but want everything NOW. Not the ideal way to enjoy an outing, if you ask me.
Our waitress was nice enough, she took care of things and was generally friendly. Started out with some appetizers that everyone shared. There was the ubiquitous Fried Calamari with a light batter and generally uninspired red dipping sauce. Our uncle had some mussels, which he didn't share but they looked kinda interesting. And I had an order of the minestrone soup. I ordered the "cup" size which came out in a frickin' huge bowl. I was shocked, but grateful that I didn't order the "bowl." The soup could have been quite enjoyable. If it was served hot. Instead it was limp, lifeless and tepid.
For the main course, I ordered the Penne Rustica. Penne pasta with shrimp, sliced chicken and a cream sauce, covered in cheese and crusted under a salamander. Mine came out hot and actually pretty darn tasty. I thoroughly enjoyed the dish. Finally, something worth eating at Macaroni Grill.
Everyone else ordered some sort of pasta dish and the serving sizes are just ridiculous. Who can eat all that food? It's just dumb. I chowed the shrimp and chicken and left a small pile of penne.
All in all, it wasn't the worst dining experience. The penne made it decent and the company made it a fun outing, which is what really matters because it's lonely to eat fantastic food all by yourself.
Still, I'm harboring desires of dinner at La Scala sometime in the near future.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Lechon In The Suburbs From Hell
I'm Filipino.
It's true. I really am.
Because I've lived in Honolulu and because I started Jay's Shave Ice, many people think I'm "Hawaiian." Understandable, but I'm not.
Day in and day out, friends and people I know constantly ask me to open more food places because they too want to eat something beyond the typical national chain restaurants and fast food outlets that comprise this suburban hell known as Baltimore County. It's a horrible way to live. I mean, I sit around all day long trying to figure out where to eat something tasty and delicious that wasn't cryo-vac-packed by the corporate kitchen somewhere in Middle America, trucked in frozen boxes, sent to the restaurant by Sysco and reheated in the steamer by some cooking school hopeful who takes ladlefuls of alfredo sauce and sloshes it in a saute pan with some penne and sliced grilled chicken.
The problem is that it takes a herculean effort to open any sort of business, much less one that's food related. I know, you want a place where you can order a Chicken Katsu Curry plate just like L&L back home in Honolulu, I want a place to eat serious Japanese-style ramen at 3am, but if you're waiting for me to build it, it ain't happening. I cannot afford to go out and start a new company simply because I'm hungry for something unavailable in the Baltimore Metro Area.
Thank God for other people who are interested in pursuing serious ethnic food. This morning I stopped by the local 7-Eleven owned by Wilma, the Filipino lady, to pick up a couple gallons of milk because we're running short at the shop and I cannot afford to run out of milk. While there, I spy a little green brochure with the promise of Filipino Food next door at Tako Seafood Market.
This can't be real. This is Timonium. And everyone knows there's no good ethnic food in Timonium. Okay, outside of Jay's Shave Ice, there's no serious ethnic food in Timonium.
Filipino Food is an interesting anomaly in the restaurant world. It's a misunderstood category. No one really knows what Filipino food is all about and that's a shame. It's not the firery spices of Thai cuisine, or the succulence of lamb curry and naan that is Indian, or the delicate harmony of sushi that is Japanese. Of course, it isn't bastardized into something that no longer resembles anything traditional, like General Tso's Chicken that is suspiciously posing as "Chinese."
Filipino food is wide and varied, and like it's people, the cuisine absorbs influences from the SouthEast Asian region that it comes from. There's kilawin tanigue, that spicy raw fish concoction that mimics Spanish ceviche, to the down-home traditional adobo, a chicken and/or pork dish sauteed in garlic, oil, vinegar and soy sauce - with a little bay leaf and black pepper thrown in for good measure. The cuisine is much more sublime and subdued than the rest of Asia, but once you get to know it, it's heaven. It's comfort food defined.
So, after a long day of working behind the bar slinging coffee for a living, I decided to give this place a try. Turns out the owner, Jojo, is the brother of Wilma who owns the 7-Eleven next door. The menu is simple. Just printed on an inkjet. The offerings are limited. The experience is True Filipino. Just some guys hanging out, waiting to cook you up some food. Today's special was Lechon Kawali, should be known as the "heart attack special." Roasted pork belly that's cubed and then deep fried 'til crispy. I had to order that. Add a small order of Pork Adobo and Pancit Bihon, a quick fried dish of vermicelli rice noodles, chicken broth, veggies and some sliced shrimp and I was out the door and on the way home to where I knew a cooker of rice was chugging on it's way.
Let me state upfront that taking the Kawali home in a styro container is no way to treat this fine treat. It deserves to be eaten hot. Eaten right away. With San Miguel Beer. But reality is reality and I want to eat this with rice dammit!
How was the food? Delicious. The Kawali was everything I hoped for. Fried just right so it's barely oily. Jojo also gave me some lumpiang isda, strips of tuna wrapped in lumpia wrappers then deep-fried. Deelish. The Adobo was money. Just the right balance of soy sauce and vinegar. The only stumble was the pancit. The dish was on the dry side which left it wanting for flavor. Oh well, three out of four is great - especially in suburban hell.
The sad part of all this is that I must limit myself to one visit a month if I want to avoid a heart attack.
It's true. I really am.
Because I've lived in Honolulu and because I started Jay's Shave Ice, many people think I'm "Hawaiian." Understandable, but I'm not.
Day in and day out, friends and people I know constantly ask me to open more food places because they too want to eat something beyond the typical national chain restaurants and fast food outlets that comprise this suburban hell known as Baltimore County. It's a horrible way to live. I mean, I sit around all day long trying to figure out where to eat something tasty and delicious that wasn't cryo-vac-packed by the corporate kitchen somewhere in Middle America, trucked in frozen boxes, sent to the restaurant by Sysco and reheated in the steamer by some cooking school hopeful who takes ladlefuls of alfredo sauce and sloshes it in a saute pan with some penne and sliced grilled chicken.
The problem is that it takes a herculean effort to open any sort of business, much less one that's food related. I know, you want a place where you can order a Chicken Katsu Curry plate just like L&L back home in Honolulu, I want a place to eat serious Japanese-style ramen at 3am, but if you're waiting for me to build it, it ain't happening. I cannot afford to go out and start a new company simply because I'm hungry for something unavailable in the Baltimore Metro Area.
Thank God for other people who are interested in pursuing serious ethnic food. This morning I stopped by the local 7-Eleven owned by Wilma, the Filipino lady, to pick up a couple gallons of milk because we're running short at the shop and I cannot afford to run out of milk. While there, I spy a little green brochure with the promise of Filipino Food next door at Tako Seafood Market.
This can't be real. This is Timonium. And everyone knows there's no good ethnic food in Timonium. Okay, outside of Jay's Shave Ice, there's no serious ethnic food in Timonium.
Filipino Food is an interesting anomaly in the restaurant world. It's a misunderstood category. No one really knows what Filipino food is all about and that's a shame. It's not the firery spices of Thai cuisine, or the succulence of lamb curry and naan that is Indian, or the delicate harmony of sushi that is Japanese. Of course, it isn't bastardized into something that no longer resembles anything traditional, like General Tso's Chicken that is suspiciously posing as "Chinese."
Filipino food is wide and varied, and like it's people, the cuisine absorbs influences from the SouthEast Asian region that it comes from. There's kilawin tanigue, that spicy raw fish concoction that mimics Spanish ceviche, to the down-home traditional adobo, a chicken and/or pork dish sauteed in garlic, oil, vinegar and soy sauce - with a little bay leaf and black pepper thrown in for good measure. The cuisine is much more sublime and subdued than the rest of Asia, but once you get to know it, it's heaven. It's comfort food defined.
So, after a long day of working behind the bar slinging coffee for a living, I decided to give this place a try. Turns out the owner, Jojo, is the brother of Wilma who owns the 7-Eleven next door. The menu is simple. Just printed on an inkjet. The offerings are limited. The experience is True Filipino. Just some guys hanging out, waiting to cook you up some food. Today's special was Lechon Kawali, should be known as the "heart attack special." Roasted pork belly that's cubed and then deep fried 'til crispy. I had to order that. Add a small order of Pork Adobo and Pancit Bihon, a quick fried dish of vermicelli rice noodles, chicken broth, veggies and some sliced shrimp and I was out the door and on the way home to where I knew a cooker of rice was chugging on it's way.
Let me state upfront that taking the Kawali home in a styro container is no way to treat this fine treat. It deserves to be eaten hot. Eaten right away. With San Miguel Beer. But reality is reality and I want to eat this with rice dammit!
How was the food? Delicious. The Kawali was everything I hoped for. Fried just right so it's barely oily. Jojo also gave me some lumpiang isda, strips of tuna wrapped in lumpia wrappers then deep-fried. Deelish. The Adobo was money. Just the right balance of soy sauce and vinegar. The only stumble was the pancit. The dish was on the dry side which left it wanting for flavor. Oh well, three out of four is great - especially in suburban hell.
The sad part of all this is that I must limit myself to one visit a month if I want to avoid a heart attack.
Calls From The Morning Rush
Dateline: Typical Weekday, 8:47am
"Spro Coffee Towson."
"Yes, this is Daniel from Excelsior Merchant Services is the owner available?"
"What?"
"Do you accept credit cards? Because we're ready to offer you great rates..."
"Do you know what company you're calling?"
"Yes, Sapporo Coffee."
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes."
"And do you know what we do?"
"Yes, coffee."
"Then WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING CALLING IN THE MIDDLE OF MORNING RUSH?!?!?!?!?!"
This usually results with me slamming down the phone on its' cradle for effect.
I've opened a new shop in Towson called Spro Coffee, even went so far as to call Verizon for a new phone line to process credit cards. I haven't released the number to the public so the only people that call are merchant services soliciting business. I've learned that most of these merchant services don't want to talk to a shop owned by a corporation so when they do call on the off-hours, I tell them that we're corporate owned (which we are) and they usually hang up.
I've decided though that as long as they are going to call, I'm going to challenge them. Give me a rate of 1.19%, swipe fee under fifteen cents and no monthly fee and I'll give you a listen.
So call now, I'm standing by.
"Spro Coffee Towson."
"Yes, this is Daniel from Excelsior Merchant Services is the owner available?"
"What?"
"Do you accept credit cards? Because we're ready to offer you great rates..."
"Do you know what company you're calling?"
"Yes, Sapporo Coffee."
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes."
"And do you know what we do?"
"Yes, coffee."
"Then WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING CALLING IN THE MIDDLE OF MORNING RUSH?!?!?!?!?!"
This usually results with me slamming down the phone on its' cradle for effect.
I've opened a new shop in Towson called Spro Coffee, even went so far as to call Verizon for a new phone line to process credit cards. I haven't released the number to the public so the only people that call are merchant services soliciting business. I've learned that most of these merchant services don't want to talk to a shop owned by a corporation so when they do call on the off-hours, I tell them that we're corporate owned (which we are) and they usually hang up.
I've decided though that as long as they are going to call, I'm going to challenge them. Give me a rate of 1.19%, swipe fee under fifteen cents and no monthly fee and I'll give you a listen.
So call now, I'm standing by.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Dans la Merde
Today began rather nicely. Woke up early, had time to lounge around the house a bit and even had a little extra time to stop by Wolford's and try their French Toast (nice!).
Things progessively went downhill from there.
Got to the shop only to find some early arrivals. Regulars. Who came early today. The drinks they ordered aren't difficult to make, except when you've just walked in and still need to prepare your mise, get the morning brew up and running and attend to the big delivery that just walked in the door.
From smooth sailing into the merde - fast.
Crap.
The problem with getting into the "weeds" is that it builds from there. Every little setback or misstep compounding on each other until you're so deep into it that recovery seems impossible. Everything is off. The grind. The tamp. The pull. The technique. It attacks your psyche and that's the worst part because that's the only thing holding it together. The only choice left is just to plow through it, try to work it out and hope you can pull back into the groove.
Until then, I'm screwed.
Things progessively went downhill from there.
Got to the shop only to find some early arrivals. Regulars. Who came early today. The drinks they ordered aren't difficult to make, except when you've just walked in and still need to prepare your mise, get the morning brew up and running and attend to the big delivery that just walked in the door.
From smooth sailing into the merde - fast.
Crap.
The problem with getting into the "weeds" is that it builds from there. Every little setback or misstep compounding on each other until you're so deep into it that recovery seems impossible. Everything is off. The grind. The tamp. The pull. The technique. It attacks your psyche and that's the worst part because that's the only thing holding it together. The only choice left is just to plow through it, try to work it out and hope you can pull back into the groove.
Until then, I'm screwed.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Frakking Starbuck
I know what you coffee people are thinking, but that's not it!
When the RagTag Fleet jumped away from New Caprica leaving the Colonials to fend for themselves against the Cylon Occupation, I was left feeling a bit betrayed and a bit unenthusiastic about the Third Season of Battlestar Galactica. This wasn't the "Holy Frak, Sharon shot Adama!!!!" ending of the First Season, or the "Holy Frak, Adama's going to duke it out with the Battlestar Pegasus" ending of the Second Season Midseason Break, it was just kind of, well, disappointing and I wasn't losing my mind that I would have to wait until October to see what happened.
But tomorrow has finally come and tomorrow, Friday, October 6th is the premiere of Battlestar Galactica Season Three and I'm frakkin' pumped! I told K that I'm busy Friday and cannot be disturbed. It's just me, the TV and BSG.
Oh, I can't wait!
When the RagTag Fleet jumped away from New Caprica leaving the Colonials to fend for themselves against the Cylon Occupation, I was left feeling a bit betrayed and a bit unenthusiastic about the Third Season of Battlestar Galactica. This wasn't the "Holy Frak, Sharon shot Adama!!!!" ending of the First Season, or the "Holy Frak, Adama's going to duke it out with the Battlestar Pegasus" ending of the Second Season Midseason Break, it was just kind of, well, disappointing and I wasn't losing my mind that I would have to wait until October to see what happened.
But tomorrow has finally come and tomorrow, Friday, October 6th is the premiere of Battlestar Galactica Season Three and I'm frakkin' pumped! I told K that I'm busy Friday and cannot be disturbed. It's just me, the TV and BSG.
Oh, I can't wait!
Tasty "Taste"
Finally found myself at Taste Restaurant in Baltimore's Belvedere Square last night. Been wanting to check it out for several weeks now and headed down there with The Affable Dave.
The interior decor is modern with an edge. Large Manila ropes are draped across the main dining room with pendulum-style halogen lighting amongst a red theme. Red is predominant throughout from the red upholstered chairs to the walls to garishly painted red bathrooms. The split-level floors are done in rich wood amidst a showcase kitchen and a sexy-looking glass wine room.
There's outdoor seating and a spacious bar area and they even have a cigar humidor, which could be an interesting development for our fun-loving, capricious and cigar chomping crew.
What can I say about the food? It was solid. Probably one of the most solid restaurant meals I've had in a long time. Nothing extraordinary or mind-blowing. Just solid cooking and solid food. I had a delicious Shrimp and Grits appetizer that featured slightly runny grits with chopped tomatoes and decent sized shrimp (I'm guessing U-20). The Affable Dave had the soup of the day (split pea) that he said was good but a bit on the cool side, fried oysters as an appetizer (lightly breaded and light but tasty) and the Pork Chop as his entree. My entree was the Veal Anna - lightly breaded and fried veal served on mashed potatoes with three Old Bay seasoned steamed shrimp. Again, nothing mind blowing, just solid, tasty food.
Our server suggested pairing the meal with a 2004 Mark West Pinot Noir - a light and fruity wine that matched the food tastefully. And since Wednesday night is "Half Price Wine Night", it was even more delightful. That $38 bottle of wine was notched down to $19.
While our server was on the money, the only misstep of the evening came when another server (one with dreadlocks pulled back) came to deliver food to our table. I inquired if they welcomed cigar smoking at the bar (since the bar has a cigar humidor) and he came back with a dumb look and a dumb response. Note to the Chef: fire that guy or get him into some serious training - he needs help and is a poor reflection on the restaurant.
My personal misstep came with dessert. I should have stopped after the entree. It was deliciously satisfying but I ignored my heart and continued into dessert. Not to say that dessert was bad, just that I was satiatied and didn't need to continue. I ordered the Fried Apple Fritters which is basically a peeled and cored Granny Smith Apple dipped in tempura batter, fried and served with vanilla ice cream and cinnamon powder. It was a good effort but the apple is just too darned big. When I had small bites of the apple with the batter and ice cream, it was dreamy. But you had to battle with this big apple and it was just unsatisfying.
I would have prefered to pair my dessert with a good coffee but upon inquiring which roaster they used, I declined. It is such a shame that any chef who takes their food this seriously just chooses crappy coffee to end their meals. It's a tragedy.
Overall, my impression of Taste is "solid." Just solid cooking making solid food. Good stuff and I think I'll explore the menu further in the coming months.
The interior decor is modern with an edge. Large Manila ropes are draped across the main dining room with pendulum-style halogen lighting amongst a red theme. Red is predominant throughout from the red upholstered chairs to the walls to garishly painted red bathrooms. The split-level floors are done in rich wood amidst a showcase kitchen and a sexy-looking glass wine room.
There's outdoor seating and a spacious bar area and they even have a cigar humidor, which could be an interesting development for our fun-loving, capricious and cigar chomping crew.
What can I say about the food? It was solid. Probably one of the most solid restaurant meals I've had in a long time. Nothing extraordinary or mind-blowing. Just solid cooking and solid food. I had a delicious Shrimp and Grits appetizer that featured slightly runny grits with chopped tomatoes and decent sized shrimp (I'm guessing U-20). The Affable Dave had the soup of the day (split pea) that he said was good but a bit on the cool side, fried oysters as an appetizer (lightly breaded and light but tasty) and the Pork Chop as his entree. My entree was the Veal Anna - lightly breaded and fried veal served on mashed potatoes with three Old Bay seasoned steamed shrimp. Again, nothing mind blowing, just solid, tasty food.
Our server suggested pairing the meal with a 2004 Mark West Pinot Noir - a light and fruity wine that matched the food tastefully. And since Wednesday night is "Half Price Wine Night", it was even more delightful. That $38 bottle of wine was notched down to $19.
While our server was on the money, the only misstep of the evening came when another server (one with dreadlocks pulled back) came to deliver food to our table. I inquired if they welcomed cigar smoking at the bar (since the bar has a cigar humidor) and he came back with a dumb look and a dumb response. Note to the Chef: fire that guy or get him into some serious training - he needs help and is a poor reflection on the restaurant.
My personal misstep came with dessert. I should have stopped after the entree. It was deliciously satisfying but I ignored my heart and continued into dessert. Not to say that dessert was bad, just that I was satiatied and didn't need to continue. I ordered the Fried Apple Fritters which is basically a peeled and cored Granny Smith Apple dipped in tempura batter, fried and served with vanilla ice cream and cinnamon powder. It was a good effort but the apple is just too darned big. When I had small bites of the apple with the batter and ice cream, it was dreamy. But you had to battle with this big apple and it was just unsatisfying.
I would have prefered to pair my dessert with a good coffee but upon inquiring which roaster they used, I declined. It is such a shame that any chef who takes their food this seriously just chooses crappy coffee to end their meals. It's a tragedy.
Overall, my impression of Taste is "solid." Just solid cooking making solid food. Good stuff and I think I'll explore the menu further in the coming months.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Just A Little Bit "Local"
Les Halles.
Bouchon.
Charlie Palmer's.
Beckers.
Lawry's.
Morton's.
Imanas Tei.
I realize to the uninitiated it probably seems that I live a charmed life of good food, good wine, incredible cigars and great coffee. And, at times, it certainly seems that way. Unfortunately, the cold reality is that I live a pretty mundane existence in the suburbs - and while I do have the opportunity of living in Maryland's "Hunt Country," it's still a bland suburbia of big box stores and chain eateries. And lately, my days are spent eating out-of-date, leftover cold sandwiches and salads that we didn't move the day before.
Since I used to live in Honolulu, I've always held dear what we called "local food." That unique mish-mash of ethnic cuisines into one, diverse gustatory experience. There's nothing like that here in Maryland so any opportunity for "local food" is always a treat.
Went over to K's house last night for some local grinds. She's got a new townhouse in Perry Hall - not too far from the mall and not too far from IKEA. It's a nice place in a nice neighborhood and like any 20something, she's in the midst of trying to decide on colors, furniture and how to assemble her new gas grill for the housewarming party next weekend.
I don't know what the name of what she made is exactly - something like "somen salad" or something along those lines. It's a simple dish of cold somen noodles in a casserole, layered with shredded lettuce (preferably romaine instead of iceberg for my genteel tastes), scrambled egg (cooked like a flat omelette and julienned), ham (julienned) and the secret ingredient: kamaboko.
What is this kamaboko, you say? You've probably seen it before. Basically it's mashed and processed white fish that's cooked and extruded into "D" shape with a red or pink top layer, attached to a wood plank - think little Hello Kitty pink quonset hut and you've got the gist of it.
The Kamaboko is julienned and layered at the topmost layer and when you look at the finished dish, it's a colorful, if slightly odd-looking meal that demands a knife if you haven't greased the somen noodles with some sort of oil because it's clumping together. At the time, I thought that olive oil would do the trick a la Italian cooking but upon thinking about it now, it has to be sesame oil to complement the flavors.
Once you've scooped up your portion it's time to add the dressing - a mixture of shoyu, ginger, sesame oil and other ingredients to make a proper "asian" dressing (whatever that means). Toss it all together and grind it hard with chopsticks (grind meaning "to eat" and not grind the salad into a paste) and you're good to go.
How was it? Tasty and deelish. Reminds me of holiday picnics with friends at Ala Moana Beach Park. Good times. Now if I can only make it home before 2am so I'm not wasted the next day for work at 6am things would be even better.
Oh well, I've got an out-of-date ham sandwich waiting for me in the fridge today....
Bouchon.
Charlie Palmer's.
Beckers.
Lawry's.
Morton's.
Imanas Tei.
I realize to the uninitiated it probably seems that I live a charmed life of good food, good wine, incredible cigars and great coffee. And, at times, it certainly seems that way. Unfortunately, the cold reality is that I live a pretty mundane existence in the suburbs - and while I do have the opportunity of living in Maryland's "Hunt Country," it's still a bland suburbia of big box stores and chain eateries. And lately, my days are spent eating out-of-date, leftover cold sandwiches and salads that we didn't move the day before.
Since I used to live in Honolulu, I've always held dear what we called "local food." That unique mish-mash of ethnic cuisines into one, diverse gustatory experience. There's nothing like that here in Maryland so any opportunity for "local food" is always a treat.
Went over to K's house last night for some local grinds. She's got a new townhouse in Perry Hall - not too far from the mall and not too far from IKEA. It's a nice place in a nice neighborhood and like any 20something, she's in the midst of trying to decide on colors, furniture and how to assemble her new gas grill for the housewarming party next weekend.
I don't know what the name of what she made is exactly - something like "somen salad" or something along those lines. It's a simple dish of cold somen noodles in a casserole, layered with shredded lettuce (preferably romaine instead of iceberg for my genteel tastes), scrambled egg (cooked like a flat omelette and julienned), ham (julienned) and the secret ingredient: kamaboko.
What is this kamaboko, you say? You've probably seen it before. Basically it's mashed and processed white fish that's cooked and extruded into "D" shape with a red or pink top layer, attached to a wood plank - think little Hello Kitty pink quonset hut and you've got the gist of it.
The Kamaboko is julienned and layered at the topmost layer and when you look at the finished dish, it's a colorful, if slightly odd-looking meal that demands a knife if you haven't greased the somen noodles with some sort of oil because it's clumping together. At the time, I thought that olive oil would do the trick a la Italian cooking but upon thinking about it now, it has to be sesame oil to complement the flavors.
Once you've scooped up your portion it's time to add the dressing - a mixture of shoyu, ginger, sesame oil and other ingredients to make a proper "asian" dressing (whatever that means). Toss it all together and grind it hard with chopsticks (grind meaning "to eat" and not grind the salad into a paste) and you're good to go.
How was it? Tasty and deelish. Reminds me of holiday picnics with friends at Ala Moana Beach Park. Good times. Now if I can only make it home before 2am so I'm not wasted the next day for work at 6am things would be even better.
Oh well, I've got an out-of-date ham sandwich waiting for me in the fridge today....
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Fat All The Way Around
Spend last evening at "Little Puff 2006" - the annual charity fundraiser and cigar event staged by W.C. Draper Tobacco in Washington, D.C.. The event was held on the rooftop of 101 Constitution Ave and hosted by Charlie Palmer's Steak. If you ever have the opportunity to view The District from the roof, I highly recommend it - the view is spectacular. Last night was cool, crisp and perfectly clear. Dramatic views of The Capitol and the surrounding buildings. It's quite impressive.
If you've never been to these kinds of cigar events, it's an interesting sight to behold: mostly grown men (and women of all sizes and augmentations) standing around drinking premium alcoholic beverages, smoking like it's going out of style - and nary a cigarette in sight (thank Jesus). Even though I had been to these kinds of events before and usually don't find them too interesting, the thought of eating food catered by Palmer was enough to seal the deal for me. Some sort of fried lobster balls on a stick (deelish) and other appetizers I don't remember were topped off with roasted pig served with a wonderful red wine reduction, au gratin potatoes and a serious helping of rice and beans. Later, when the rice and beans ran out, they brought out their buttery mashed potatoes that had perfect texture and just rich in butter - just the way I like 'em.
But really, I could care less about the event, the cigars or Carlos Fuente, Jr (who I chatted with briefly to learn more about the Forbidden X cigars I see at Casa Fuente in Las Vegas and suspected that the girls there were giving me the wrong info - I was right). I've been smoking cigars for over ten years now and I know what I like and I really don't need a lot of fodder filling up my humidor. Just give me boxes of Paul Garmirian Belicoso Maduro, Montecristo #2 Habano, Cohiba Siglo IV Habana or Partagas Serie D No. 4 Habana and I'm happy. The real reason for this blog-ation is the food.
The food at the event was nice but since you're mashed in with two hundred other people waiting to feed and then standing there trying to eat off your tiny plate while holding your drink, smoking your cigar and not losing the bag of cigars you received for your $125, it's almost impossible to give your food the attention it deserves, nor is it possible to satiate your hunger pangs.
With that in mind, the affable David and I decided to hit Charlie Palmer's main dining room.
The dining room closes at 10pm. It was 10:06pm. At first they were declining us but when they realized that we were with the party on the roof they accommodated us. Nice.
Charlie Palmer's is quite a bit different than I expected. It's very contemporary in decor and styling. Chic and classy while still being comfortable. Palmer's follows the lead of chefs like Keller and Trotter by dressing their servers in business suits and the bus staff in dark shirts. It's a sharp look and everyone is friendly while maintaining a respectful tone. It's high-end service they way I prefer.
The Menu. Forget the duck. Forget the chicken. Or that stupid salmon entree that steakhouses always want to offer. Note to non-beef eaters: get the hell out of a steakhouse if you don't eat meat! Give me the richestm, fattiest food because I'm going to spend some money and get down to some grinding!
There was an interesting shellfish appetizer that cost $58. Sounds good but maybe half a Benjamin for an appetizer is a bit much - especiallly when there's foie gras on the menu. That would be it: the foie gras. Hudson Valley Foie Gras sauteed with prunes and onions for $21. It was good. It was succulent. The texture of the foie was like meat. Just pure fatty goodness. Those Chicago Aldermans can burn in hell for banning it. It was good. It was hellaciously good. But, dare I say it? I think I like the foie gras at Les Halles better...
With The Affable Dave ordered iced tea, I asked our server to bring me whatever red he thought would compliment my meal. Since I was driving, a bottle was out of the question, just a glass please. Out comes a glass of the Frog's Leap Zinfandel. Beautiful. Body, richness, fruit - hellacious. I dreamed of drinking the bottle. I also want to note that the stemware was crystal. I'd say it was Reidel but I didn't look. But it wasn't the usual Libby glassware you find at most restaurants. This stuff "pinged."
When I eat at steakhouses there's usually only one steak I order: the Rib Eye. Yes, it's fatty and marbled and probably the worst for you from a fatty health standpoint. But all that fat means one thing: flavor. So, to hell with the stupid filet mignon and it's lean and mealy texture. Give me the fat and more of it.
The Kansas City Rib Eye for $38 really wasn't a bad price for where we were. I think it is very reasonable. I thought about ordering two: one for now and the other for lunch the next day, but sanity prevailed. Besides, that second steak would've never made it home anyway. I'd end up on the side of I-95 huddled over it and tearing it apart.
"How would you like that done?" our server asked me. Honestly, that's just too much thinking for me. This is Charlie Palmer's and you're the steak kings. You've taken whatever monumental efforts to source, age and cut this beef for me to enjoy and you want me to nullify all that hard work by asking me to choose how it's prepared? Dammit, give it to me well-done in the deep fryer with plenty of A-1 steak sauce on the side!!!
Alright, that would be insane. Instead, I let the kitchen decide for me.
"Medium," was the answer, "pink on the inside."
"Perfect." I cooed.
The Affable Dave had ordered a salad and Surf and Turf for his meal.
I really dig this Kansas City Rib Eye thing. Big 'ole marble-y rib eye with the bone-in. Not sure how they cook their steaks but judging by the crustiness of the exterior I'm guessing they pan sear in butter then finish in the oven.
So how was it? In a word: wild. I've never had a rib eye like the one at Charlie Palmer's Steak. The marble and fat were just integral to the beef in such a way that the texture was unlike anything I had experienced before. Every few bites was a glide through smooth, fatty texture. Really, I can't describe it. It defies words - or at least my vocabulary. Succulent. Rich. Deep. Delicious. Amazing. Satisfying.
I ate the whole thing.
Along with our entrees, we had a couple of sides: french fries in a paper cone and carrots. The fries were decent but slightly soggy and the carrots were sauteed but didn't really have any oooomph in the flavor department. They were just "nice." Again, I hate to say it, but the fries are better at Les Halles.
That was the end. No dessert and certainly no coffee. We didn't even think about it. The meal was just too rich, too fattening and too filling to consider additional courses. The steak was excellent and why should I ruin a delicious experience with shitty coffee?
If you've never been to these kinds of cigar events, it's an interesting sight to behold: mostly grown men (and women of all sizes and augmentations) standing around drinking premium alcoholic beverages, smoking like it's going out of style - and nary a cigarette in sight (thank Jesus). Even though I had been to these kinds of events before and usually don't find them too interesting, the thought of eating food catered by Palmer was enough to seal the deal for me. Some sort of fried lobster balls on a stick (deelish) and other appetizers I don't remember were topped off with roasted pig served with a wonderful red wine reduction, au gratin potatoes and a serious helping of rice and beans. Later, when the rice and beans ran out, they brought out their buttery mashed potatoes that had perfect texture and just rich in butter - just the way I like 'em.
But really, I could care less about the event, the cigars or Carlos Fuente, Jr (who I chatted with briefly to learn more about the Forbidden X cigars I see at Casa Fuente in Las Vegas and suspected that the girls there were giving me the wrong info - I was right). I've been smoking cigars for over ten years now and I know what I like and I really don't need a lot of fodder filling up my humidor. Just give me boxes of Paul Garmirian Belicoso Maduro, Montecristo #2 Habano, Cohiba Siglo IV Habana or Partagas Serie D No. 4 Habana and I'm happy. The real reason for this blog-ation is the food.
The food at the event was nice but since you're mashed in with two hundred other people waiting to feed and then standing there trying to eat off your tiny plate while holding your drink, smoking your cigar and not losing the bag of cigars you received for your $125, it's almost impossible to give your food the attention it deserves, nor is it possible to satiate your hunger pangs.
With that in mind, the affable David and I decided to hit Charlie Palmer's main dining room.
The dining room closes at 10pm. It was 10:06pm. At first they were declining us but when they realized that we were with the party on the roof they accommodated us. Nice.
Charlie Palmer's is quite a bit different than I expected. It's very contemporary in decor and styling. Chic and classy while still being comfortable. Palmer's follows the lead of chefs like Keller and Trotter by dressing their servers in business suits and the bus staff in dark shirts. It's a sharp look and everyone is friendly while maintaining a respectful tone. It's high-end service they way I prefer.
The Menu. Forget the duck. Forget the chicken. Or that stupid salmon entree that steakhouses always want to offer. Note to non-beef eaters: get the hell out of a steakhouse if you don't eat meat! Give me the richestm, fattiest food because I'm going to spend some money and get down to some grinding!
There was an interesting shellfish appetizer that cost $58. Sounds good but maybe half a Benjamin for an appetizer is a bit much - especiallly when there's foie gras on the menu. That would be it: the foie gras. Hudson Valley Foie Gras sauteed with prunes and onions for $21. It was good. It was succulent. The texture of the foie was like meat. Just pure fatty goodness. Those Chicago Aldermans can burn in hell for banning it. It was good. It was hellaciously good. But, dare I say it? I think I like the foie gras at Les Halles better...
With The Affable Dave ordered iced tea, I asked our server to bring me whatever red he thought would compliment my meal. Since I was driving, a bottle was out of the question, just a glass please. Out comes a glass of the Frog's Leap Zinfandel. Beautiful. Body, richness, fruit - hellacious. I dreamed of drinking the bottle. I also want to note that the stemware was crystal. I'd say it was Reidel but I didn't look. But it wasn't the usual Libby glassware you find at most restaurants. This stuff "pinged."
When I eat at steakhouses there's usually only one steak I order: the Rib Eye. Yes, it's fatty and marbled and probably the worst for you from a fatty health standpoint. But all that fat means one thing: flavor. So, to hell with the stupid filet mignon and it's lean and mealy texture. Give me the fat and more of it.
The Kansas City Rib Eye for $38 really wasn't a bad price for where we were. I think it is very reasonable. I thought about ordering two: one for now and the other for lunch the next day, but sanity prevailed. Besides, that second steak would've never made it home anyway. I'd end up on the side of I-95 huddled over it and tearing it apart.
"How would you like that done?" our server asked me. Honestly, that's just too much thinking for me. This is Charlie Palmer's and you're the steak kings. You've taken whatever monumental efforts to source, age and cut this beef for me to enjoy and you want me to nullify all that hard work by asking me to choose how it's prepared? Dammit, give it to me well-done in the deep fryer with plenty of A-1 steak sauce on the side!!!
Alright, that would be insane. Instead, I let the kitchen decide for me.
"Medium," was the answer, "pink on the inside."
"Perfect." I cooed.
The Affable Dave had ordered a salad and Surf and Turf for his meal.
I really dig this Kansas City Rib Eye thing. Big 'ole marble-y rib eye with the bone-in. Not sure how they cook their steaks but judging by the crustiness of the exterior I'm guessing they pan sear in butter then finish in the oven.
So how was it? In a word: wild. I've never had a rib eye like the one at Charlie Palmer's Steak. The marble and fat were just integral to the beef in such a way that the texture was unlike anything I had experienced before. Every few bites was a glide through smooth, fatty texture. Really, I can't describe it. It defies words - or at least my vocabulary. Succulent. Rich. Deep. Delicious. Amazing. Satisfying.
I ate the whole thing.
Along with our entrees, we had a couple of sides: french fries in a paper cone and carrots. The fries were decent but slightly soggy and the carrots were sauteed but didn't really have any oooomph in the flavor department. They were just "nice." Again, I hate to say it, but the fries are better at Les Halles.
That was the end. No dessert and certainly no coffee. We didn't even think about it. The meal was just too rich, too fattening and too filling to consider additional courses. The steak was excellent and why should I ruin a delicious experience with shitty coffee?
Saturday, September 02, 2006
The Smell of Funny
Ran out of decaf coffee yesterday so I decided to head down to the local coffee roaster, buy some decaf beans and put together a custom blend of coffee for decaf service today.
The coffee that we get from Hines Public Market Coffee comes in heat sealed mylar bags with one-way gas valves. If I take a sealed bag and toss it in the car, my car will reek of coffee. It's nearly overwhelming - and it happens in a short amount of time. Just a few minutes is enough but leave it overnight and you definitely smell "coffee."
This local roaster has a large retail showroom with all their beans laid out on the counter in small, burlap bags. They just sit there open and exposed. Grab a handful, take a whiff and you don't smell too much. Could be the environment is so coffee laden that you just can't smell anything else. So, with the cell phoned advice of Colonel Sanders, I put together a decaf blend of Sumatra Mandheling, Ethiopian Harrar and Guatemala Antigua - all Swiss Water Process, and hit the road home with the bags sitting on the front seat.
This roaster bagged the coffee in folded mylar bags, no heat seal. Of course, this morning, I was fully expecting my car to reek of coffee. It didn't. In fact, when I got to the shop, I opened the bags and took a deep whiff - still nothing. This coffee was dead. No aromatics. Dark roasted. It was an excellent example of why I don't source coffee locally.
I can't wait until our new shipment of Hines arrives on Tuesday. Good thing we're closed on Monday for Labor Day.
The coffee that we get from Hines Public Market Coffee comes in heat sealed mylar bags with one-way gas valves. If I take a sealed bag and toss it in the car, my car will reek of coffee. It's nearly overwhelming - and it happens in a short amount of time. Just a few minutes is enough but leave it overnight and you definitely smell "coffee."
This local roaster has a large retail showroom with all their beans laid out on the counter in small, burlap bags. They just sit there open and exposed. Grab a handful, take a whiff and you don't smell too much. Could be the environment is so coffee laden that you just can't smell anything else. So, with the cell phoned advice of Colonel Sanders, I put together a decaf blend of Sumatra Mandheling, Ethiopian Harrar and Guatemala Antigua - all Swiss Water Process, and hit the road home with the bags sitting on the front seat.
This roaster bagged the coffee in folded mylar bags, no heat seal. Of course, this morning, I was fully expecting my car to reek of coffee. It didn't. In fact, when I got to the shop, I opened the bags and took a deep whiff - still nothing. This coffee was dead. No aromatics. Dark roasted. It was an excellent example of why I don't source coffee locally.
I can't wait until our new shipment of Hines arrives on Tuesday. Good thing we're closed on Monday for Labor Day.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Liquids On A Plane
Unless you're like me and totally absorbed in your own little world that you miss the big news event of the day, you've probably heard about the foiled terrorist plot to blow up airliners on their way to the United States from the United Kingdom. Evidently, some Al Queda types were supposedly going to pack explosive liquids in beverage bottles, smuggle them onboard in their hand-carry luggage and detonate them with an iPod.
This just augurs a shitty time in the future for those of us who must endure the already shitty experience of airline travel.
In response to this, the Transportation Security Administration declared that no liquids would be allowed on flights, forcing passengers to dump their Cokes and Arrowhead water bottles into big tubs at the airport security stations across America.
If there's really a threat of explosive liquids, how intelligent is it to have people dump their liquids in a big tub at the security checkpoint - where there's an immense backup because of the higher alert level and intensive screening scrutiny? If the liquids were that volatile, couldn't they mix, detonate and kill hundreds of innocent people who have done nothing more than wait in a ridiculous line for two hours?
The intrepid readers of BoingBoing.net seem to think so.
The crappy part of all this is the future. Here's more reason for our government to make the already shitty experience of flying on commercial airlines even more shitty. No personal beverages. Then the airlines can start chargine five bucks for a 12z can of Coke. No iPods. What else can they restrict? They'll figure it out and we're the ones who pay.
How much more scare tactics will our government need before our populace is ready and willing to accept National ID Cards and electronic ID implants?
.
This just augurs a shitty time in the future for those of us who must endure the already shitty experience of airline travel.
In response to this, the Transportation Security Administration declared that no liquids would be allowed on flights, forcing passengers to dump their Cokes and Arrowhead water bottles into big tubs at the airport security stations across America.
If there's really a threat of explosive liquids, how intelligent is it to have people dump their liquids in a big tub at the security checkpoint - where there's an immense backup because of the higher alert level and intensive screening scrutiny? If the liquids were that volatile, couldn't they mix, detonate and kill hundreds of innocent people who have done nothing more than wait in a ridiculous line for two hours?
The intrepid readers of BoingBoing.net seem to think so.
The crappy part of all this is the future. Here's more reason for our government to make the already shitty experience of flying on commercial airlines even more shitty. No personal beverages. Then the airlines can start chargine five bucks for a 12z can of Coke. No iPods. What else can they restrict? They'll figure it out and we're the ones who pay.
How much more scare tactics will our government need before our populace is ready and willing to accept National ID Cards and electronic ID implants?
.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Jay The Humanitarian
Oh, just like Dreamland...
Out there. In CyberSpace is a man. A man named Jay. It's not me, although I wish I was the Jay I'm talking about. He's an enigma. A Legend. An anonymous Jay. But to me, he's a great Humanitarian.
I'm not afraid to say it: I Love Women. I admire women. I adore women. Women are beautiful beings and are the perfect counterpoint to the rough, tumble and otherwise crass males of our species.
But why is this mysterious Jay a Humanitarian you ask? Because he's gathered images of his favorite women and compiled them into his own website. It's bold. It's daring. It's risque without being porn. It's something I wish I could have done. So, every now and then, I sneak onto his site - just to see who he's added lately and I've never been disappointed.
jayfaves.textamerica.com
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Green Mountain - Ow!
For those of you who don't know, I've finally succumb to my psychosis and have been hard at working building a new kiosk at the Baltimore County Public Library in Towson. Other than the project sucking the life out of me, it's been a fun and rewarding experience.
For the past few days, I've found myself in downtown Towson in the mornings in search of tasty breakfast. Usual mornings in Timonium will find me at McDonald's for a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit and two hash browns or at the Cockeysville Bagel Bakery for a triple toasted jalapeno bagel with American cheese, fried egg and sausage. These past couple mornings, I've been looking for something similar and found Wolford's European Bakery and Cafe just down the street from the Library.
Wolford's has got a tasty sausage, egg and cheese croissant that's pretty decent, but a bit odd with the sliced in half sausage link. The people are nice and friendly and they give you a free large (16z) cup of Green Mountain Coffee with your sandwich.
While the sandwich has been tasty, the coffee has been a hellish nightmare.
When it comes to coffee, I think I'm pretty lucky. I grew up hating the taste so I never developed a reliance on it to start my day. I get some of the best coffees on the open market at my shop and when I drink coffee in the morning, it's absolutely exquisite. It's proportioned and brewed just right.
But this Green Mountain stuff I've been drinking has just been absolutely horrid. Burnt, bitter and four packs of sugar and two creamers couldn't mute the nastiness. Not to mention the color of the cream in the coffee turns a bit translucent which means the ratio of coffee to water is low.
In all, it's been a rough few days and I look forward to the day when I will, once again, have my own coffee to enjoy.
For the past few days, I've found myself in downtown Towson in the mornings in search of tasty breakfast. Usual mornings in Timonium will find me at McDonald's for a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit and two hash browns or at the Cockeysville Bagel Bakery for a triple toasted jalapeno bagel with American cheese, fried egg and sausage. These past couple mornings, I've been looking for something similar and found Wolford's European Bakery and Cafe just down the street from the Library.
Wolford's has got a tasty sausage, egg and cheese croissant that's pretty decent, but a bit odd with the sliced in half sausage link. The people are nice and friendly and they give you a free large (16z) cup of Green Mountain Coffee with your sandwich.
While the sandwich has been tasty, the coffee has been a hellish nightmare.
When it comes to coffee, I think I'm pretty lucky. I grew up hating the taste so I never developed a reliance on it to start my day. I get some of the best coffees on the open market at my shop and when I drink coffee in the morning, it's absolutely exquisite. It's proportioned and brewed just right.
But this Green Mountain stuff I've been drinking has just been absolutely horrid. Burnt, bitter and four packs of sugar and two creamers couldn't mute the nastiness. Not to mention the color of the cream in the coffee turns a bit translucent which means the ratio of coffee to water is low.
In all, it's been a rough few days and I look forward to the day when I will, once again, have my own coffee to enjoy.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Jesus Is Magic
Don't rush out to buy this one.
I've had a crush on Sarah Silverman since she appeared in There's Something About Mary. That dark hair and the cute face - I was instantly hooked. In case you're not familiar with her, Sarah is an L.A. based comic who gets bit parts in movies and I don't know much else about her other than she's cute and I've had a crush on her.
Dreading another long flight from Los Vegas to Baltimore, I stopped by the local Fry's Electronics to pick up a DVD to watch and found Sarah's new Jesus Is Magic DVD and picked it up. Peter Travers of Rolling Stone wrote that Sarah is "The most outrageously funny woman alive!" Variety said that Jesus Is Magic is "Explosively funny and perversely adorable." And the Los Angeles Times wrote: "Comedy as ruthlessly provocative as anything since the heydey of Lenny Bruce."
Those are some big words from some big industry guns and I was seriously looking forward to watching the video. But there's something else to consider... In the world of Hollywood media, it's not uncommon for a production company to "encourage" a writer to write something positive (or even just put their name to something scripted) about a film/video with the promise of including that writer's name and publication in the ad. It's not really deceptive. It's marketing.
I wish I had that in mind when I was perusing the racks of DVDs at Fry's because I would have bought something else and just downloaded Jesus Is Magic off the Internet.
Overall, Jesus Is Magic is a disappointment. It's entertaining at best and offensive at worst. Perhaps Sarah displays the epitome of Jewish neurosis, but I just don't get it. It's barely funny. It's not a video that I would watch over and over again because of it's witty insight into the human persona. It's vaguely concealed racism at best.
Hawaii-based comic Andy Bumatai, in his seminal CD release Brain Child noted that good comedy has insight into the culture that it's joking about, while poor comedy is based on superficial and stereotypical understanding of the culture. And Sarah's understanding is of the latter rather than the former.
One of the things that separates most other comics from Sarah is their ability to make fun of and laugh at themselves. Sarah is unable to do any of that. She's unabashedly Jewish by her own demonstration that she's part of the "chosen people" but refuses to poke fun at her own people instead positioning Blacks as the target while propositioning that Jews are indeed White.
In fact, it seems that the only time Sarah mentions Blacks or Chinks or any other ethnic minority is in a derogatory context because she obviously lacks depth and understanding of the people she's making fun of. We cannot laugh with her but moreover, can only watch in horror to these poor jokes.
But all isn't bad in Jesus Is Magic, like I said previously, Sarah's strength is in being an entertainer. Her musical breaks are interesting, funny and entertaining. She needs to stay with the entertainment side of her career and stay away from the comedy.
If you're looking for a video that's going to keep you rolling with non-stop huge belly laughs, Jesus Is Magic is not for you. It's at times entertaining, sort of funny and definitely offensive because Sarah lacks any insight and understanding to the people she's joking about.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Ms. V's Cookies
On Sunday (today is Thursday), Verna baked up a batch of oatmeal cookies while I was out in Vegas. She also made a pan of brownies sprinkled with powdered sugar. Both were deelish. We tore up the brownies but I stashed the cookies when my cousin started consuming them in [what I think are] mass quantities.
For four days now, I've been enjoying these oatmeal and raisin cookies and I'm still discovering their joys. They're still soft, chewy and ever so slightly crumbly. Each day and each cookie is like a new awakening with something new in each bite. One day, I found a sliver of shredded coconut in the cookie - coconut???. I usually don't like foreign substances in my baked delictables but the coconut works without overpowering the cookie, so I'm hooked.
But I'm also sad because I'm down to my last three cookies, I don't know how long I can hold out and Verna lives 2,000 miles away...
Drat.
For four days now, I've been enjoying these oatmeal and raisin cookies and I'm still discovering their joys. They're still soft, chewy and ever so slightly crumbly. Each day and each cookie is like a new awakening with something new in each bite. One day, I found a sliver of shredded coconut in the cookie - coconut???. I usually don't like foreign substances in my baked delictables but the coconut works without overpowering the cookie, so I'm hooked.
But I'm also sad because I'm down to my last three cookies, I don't know how long I can hold out and Verna lives 2,000 miles away...
Drat.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Vegas Baby
Commandeering the pool with my PG Belicoso Maduro.
I've been in Vegas for the past few days where I've commandeered my cousin's house in Southwest. She's got pretty phat pad with a pool, granite countertops, plasma, surround sound, leather and more in a gated community with security - kind of reminds me of some of the places I stay in Manila.
Speaking of which, I must say that this is truly a wonderful life. Over the past nine months Vegas has become one of the places that feels like home. It's a place where I always have a place to stay for as long as I wish, filled with friends and family and giving a real home like feeling - even when everything surrounding you is fake (including the breasts).
It's been a good trip. My house here is almost completed, meaning that it will soon be time to start paying a mortgage. Better find someone to rent this four bedroom home soon. Spent a day at the CoffeeFest trade show. Like most CoffeeFests, it was small - and since it was being held in the gargantuan Las Vegas Convention Center where I've attended the Consumer Electronics Show and the Magic Fashion Show, CoffeeFest looked downright pathetic in size. Overall, I didn't spend much time at the show - the vendors that I really wanted to see, like Fetco, ESI and EPNW weren't there so I didn't get much accomplished.
I spent most of my time hanging out with friends and family. It was good fun but one thing I'm learning is that I have a tough time with Aquarius women. On the larger scale, I think there's a definite attraction, but Aquarius women are too hot and cold for me. I'm the Aries sort of guy who knows what he wants and wants to get things moving right now. My interest doesn't wane on a day to day basis. Aquarius women give you their attention one day then it's as though they forgot about you the next, then on the third day they want to know why you didn't call them to come out. Hello - you said that you had plans and blew me off anyway... After my experiences with the Aquarius at home and here in Vegas I think I should avoid meeting more Aquarius women. It's too maddening for my tastes.
And to the Aquarius at home, it's summertime so let's pick up the pace a little. I understand you work hard but a little time for me would be appreciated.
I'll be back home tonight.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
The New Way(ve) in Third Wa(y)ve?
There's a new soda pop on the market.
And it's called Coke Bleech!
As in kinda nasty.
As in overpriced.
As in don't bother.
Actually, it's not that bad. Like coke with some weird vanilla latte flavoring added to it. Which also makes it kinda nasty.
But at least it comes in a glass bottle.
An 8z glass bottle that costs you more than a dollar each.
It was worth it to try once. I seriously doubt I will ever spend money on Bleech again.
And it's called Coke Bleech!
As in kinda nasty.
As in overpriced.
As in don't bother.
Actually, it's not that bad. Like coke with some weird vanilla latte flavoring added to it. Which also makes it kinda nasty.
But at least it comes in a glass bottle.
An 8z glass bottle that costs you more than a dollar each.
It was worth it to try once. I seriously doubt I will ever spend money on Bleech again.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Controversy Erupts at the WBC
Regular readers of this blog, listeners of the Portafilter.net Podcast and those who read That Board That Shall Not Be Named have a particular idea that I'm not one to mince words or shirk away from controversy.
I little bird called me yesterday with a report from Berne and the World Barista Championship. Seems that things are just: Situation Normal: All Fucked Up (SNAFU) at the WBC. Something about Sammy Piccolo not being judged correctly and some sort of controversy over the judges selection and how the Head Judge trained two of the finalists. Sounds like a problem to me. Even just the appearance of impropriety is enough to discredit the event.
It would be like myself making it into the Finals Round of the USBC and having John Sanders as my Head Judge. John and I are friends, he's my mentor, he's trained me, he's my roaster and while his feedback is extremely important to me and I have no questions about his ability to judge me in an objective manner, I wouldn't want him to be my Head Judge simply because no one else would believe it was legit. I would want my victory to be as questionless as possible.
Oh well, I guess I just think differently than most people.
And while I ranted just a week or so ago about the TARFU (Things Are Really Fucked Up) situation at the United States Barista Championship, am I as riled up about these WBC problems?
No, not really.
Maybe I've come to the point where I just don't care anymore. Maybe I accept the fact that the USBC/WBC will always be screwy. Maybe it's because I wasn't a competitor, nor did I spend thousands of dollars to compete (or send someone to compete) like I've done with the US competitions. Maybe it's because during the last podcast (#37) I vocalized the need for baristas to perform at the highest level in their own domain and that the competitions really mean nothing. That the ability to make a nice signature drink once is shit compared to being able to make that same level of complexity day-in and day-out for hundreds of customers a day.
For whatever reason, I really don't care anymore.
I little bird called me yesterday with a report from Berne and the World Barista Championship. Seems that things are just: Situation Normal: All Fucked Up (SNAFU) at the WBC. Something about Sammy Piccolo not being judged correctly and some sort of controversy over the judges selection and how the Head Judge trained two of the finalists. Sounds like a problem to me. Even just the appearance of impropriety is enough to discredit the event.
It would be like myself making it into the Finals Round of the USBC and having John Sanders as my Head Judge. John and I are friends, he's my mentor, he's trained me, he's my roaster and while his feedback is extremely important to me and I have no questions about his ability to judge me in an objective manner, I wouldn't want him to be my Head Judge simply because no one else would believe it was legit. I would want my victory to be as questionless as possible.
Oh well, I guess I just think differently than most people.
And while I ranted just a week or so ago about the TARFU (Things Are Really Fucked Up) situation at the United States Barista Championship, am I as riled up about these WBC problems?
No, not really.
Maybe I've come to the point where I just don't care anymore. Maybe I accept the fact that the USBC/WBC will always be screwy. Maybe it's because I wasn't a competitor, nor did I spend thousands of dollars to compete (or send someone to compete) like I've done with the US competitions. Maybe it's because during the last podcast (#37) I vocalized the need for baristas to perform at the highest level in their own domain and that the competitions really mean nothing. That the ability to make a nice signature drink once is shit compared to being able to make that same level of complexity day-in and day-out for hundreds of customers a day.
For whatever reason, I really don't care anymore.
Monday, May 22, 2006
The Melancholy Man
Most of my clientele is suburban, white and middle-class, with a sprinkling of minorities thrown in throughout the day. Everyone's usually friendly and in a good mood when they come here so it's a nice way to spend the day.
Just a few moments ago, a Filipino brother came in with a truly beautiful girl. She looks to be what we call mestiza or hapa, meaning that she's half-Filipino and half-white. Long golden dark hair, rich tan - a looker. They're both in their late teens or early twenties.
I've never seen a guy walk into my shop of his age beaming so proudly. I mean this guy had the biggest smile I've seen in weeks. He had that "I asked the hottest chick to go on a date with me and she said yes" look. Any moment and I thought I was gonna have to High Five him.
He ordered two of our house specialty; the Halo-Halo. It's a traditional Filipino dessert consisting of different fruit preserves with shaved ice, evaporated milk and a splash of strawberry syrup, topped off with a slice of my mom's delicious leche flan. For some, it's an acquired taste. For others, it's a religion. This guy orders two. One for himself and one for his "woman."
Like with most customers, I leave them to enjoy their treat in peace. No need to have some big guy hovering around waiting to wipe off the table and chase them out for the next customer. I go back to my duties but notice that this whole time, she's been sitting at a table while he's been running back and forth to order and pickup the order still beaming.
They're gone now and I'm feeling a bit melancholy for the guy. On one hand, he looked like the happiest guy on Earth. But, to be honest, she looked like a total bitch. Sitting there waiting for him to serve her, "don't be a sucker," I thought to myself. Maybe I'm just jaded over the whole dating thing, but I can imagine them sitting there with him trying to be upbeat and entertaining and she just feigning mild interest.
When they left he was still beaming. I watched them as they walked to her car (a silver Honda Civic 4door). She led the way looking like she was almost ignoring him and then him waiting while she took her time cleaning off her slippers before she pulled her legs into the car and unlocked the other doors.
He looked like the happiest guy in the world and I'm hoping that he can find the courage to leave her. She may be beautiful but no person should have to endure bitchiness in hope of finding happiness.
Just a few moments ago, a Filipino brother came in with a truly beautiful girl. She looks to be what we call mestiza or hapa, meaning that she's half-Filipino and half-white. Long golden dark hair, rich tan - a looker. They're both in their late teens or early twenties.
I've never seen a guy walk into my shop of his age beaming so proudly. I mean this guy had the biggest smile I've seen in weeks. He had that "I asked the hottest chick to go on a date with me and she said yes" look. Any moment and I thought I was gonna have to High Five him.
He ordered two of our house specialty; the Halo-Halo. It's a traditional Filipino dessert consisting of different fruit preserves with shaved ice, evaporated milk and a splash of strawberry syrup, topped off with a slice of my mom's delicious leche flan. For some, it's an acquired taste. For others, it's a religion. This guy orders two. One for himself and one for his "woman."
Like with most customers, I leave them to enjoy their treat in peace. No need to have some big guy hovering around waiting to wipe off the table and chase them out for the next customer. I go back to my duties but notice that this whole time, she's been sitting at a table while he's been running back and forth to order and pickup the order still beaming.
They're gone now and I'm feeling a bit melancholy for the guy. On one hand, he looked like the happiest guy on Earth. But, to be honest, she looked like a total bitch. Sitting there waiting for him to serve her, "don't be a sucker," I thought to myself. Maybe I'm just jaded over the whole dating thing, but I can imagine them sitting there with him trying to be upbeat and entertaining and she just feigning mild interest.
When they left he was still beaming. I watched them as they walked to her car (a silver Honda Civic 4door). She led the way looking like she was almost ignoring him and then him waiting while she took her time cleaning off her slippers before she pulled her legs into the car and unlocked the other doors.
He looked like the happiest guy in the world and I'm hoping that he can find the courage to leave her. She may be beautiful but no person should have to endure bitchiness in hope of finding happiness.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
More On NYC Coffee
I originally wrote this right after my New York trip but am only getting to post it now. Enjoy.
Did any of you see the comments from my New York Joe entry?
"You gotta check out Ninth Street..."
Good Lord, I'm trying. I'm just one man in a sea of bodies. Sheesh!
Rest assured, I did make the journey to Ninth Street Espresso right after my visit to Joe The Art of Coffee, with a pit-stop on the way there in Gray's Papaya for a breakfast sandwich. Ah, just like old times.
Actually, I attempted to visit Ninth Street the day before while I was buying shoes at 99X that New York Institution that sells everything for the properly dressed Skinhead: Doc Martens, Fred Perry and thin braces. I was just there to pick up some new Docs before making the attempt at Ninth Street.
The only thing I knew was that NSE in on Ninth Street and, guessing by the name of their ABC Blend, somewhere in Alphabet City which meant it was east of 2nd Avenue. So I walked and walked and walked - all the way to Tompkins Square Park. Getting a bit frustrated, I called them. "Where are you?," I asked. "Ninth between C and D," was the reply.
C and D???
Crap.
It was already 5pm and I had to be at MTV.com's offices in Times Square by 6pm.
That's when I abandoned my quest for Ninth Street. Good thing too because the heavens opened and a monsoon started falling on the city.
But back to the next morning and Gray's Papaya...
I'm on Sixth Avenue and hailing a cab. After a morning of Americano, espresso and cinnamon roll at Joe, I need something a bit more substantial, so I had the breakfast sandwich, sans 25 cent coffee, for $1.50. Grilled sausage patty with fresh eggs, American cheese on a sesame roll, nice! Plain and simple. Hailed a cab and was zipping on my way across Greenwich Village with a turban-ated cabbie.
Now that I've been in the coffee game for a little while and have been rather outspoken about things within the Barista Guild, SCAA, USBC, online forums and the Portafilter.net Podcast, it seems that I've gained a little notoriety. I'm the kind of person who, when visiting another coffee shop, likes to just sit back and try to remain anonymous. I was able to do that at Joe and was hoping to do the same at Ninth Street.
That wasn't going to happen.
I hate to say it, but as soon as I walked in the door, I was pegged by the barista. Bob had seen me in Charlotte at the USBC and introduced himself right away. Great guy and I ended up chatting with him and Edmund, his co-barista, the rest of the morning.
Ninth Street Espresso is a cool little shop in a tree-lined neighborhood in Alphabet City. It's probably the same floor size as Jay's Shave Ice - a comfortable space with tables and chairs, a sit-down bar and no couches. I like the approach. I would have blogged from Ninth Street but they don't have Wi-Fi.
I started off with an Americano while Bob and I chatted next to their 2group Synesso Cyncra. After two stops, the Cyncra's looking to be the "it" machine of New York City. It was almost 10am and business was steady. A girl named Rachel stopped in for her morning vanilla latte and we razzed on her a bit. Cool girl, great attitude and she was trying to figure out if she was going to work that day as a media engineer.
After awhile, owner Ken Nye stopped in on his way to an appointment. This was the first time I met Ken and I'm glad to have met him. Ken's a great guy who's passionate and committed to quality coffee and espresso. He's got a level of intensity and passion that makes it refreshing to be in this business again - especially after listening to other owners babble on and on about how "great'" their coffee is when all I see is hot gas being passed. Ken really knows his business and it was great meeting him.
But some of you probably want to know about the espresso. In a couple of words, it's fuckin' fantastic. Easily one of the best espressos I've ever tasted. Lively, floral, sweet and minor chocolate notes. Chewy. Tasty. Fucking Good. I literally was chewing on this bitch. Yum.
I rank it Number Two to Hines.
Did any of you see the comments from my New York Joe entry?
"You gotta check out Ninth Street..."
Good Lord, I'm trying. I'm just one man in a sea of bodies. Sheesh!
Rest assured, I did make the journey to Ninth Street Espresso right after my visit to Joe The Art of Coffee, with a pit-stop on the way there in Gray's Papaya for a breakfast sandwich. Ah, just like old times.
Actually, I attempted to visit Ninth Street the day before while I was buying shoes at 99X that New York Institution that sells everything for the properly dressed Skinhead: Doc Martens, Fred Perry and thin braces. I was just there to pick up some new Docs before making the attempt at Ninth Street.
The only thing I knew was that NSE in on Ninth Street and, guessing by the name of their ABC Blend, somewhere in Alphabet City which meant it was east of 2nd Avenue. So I walked and walked and walked - all the way to Tompkins Square Park. Getting a bit frustrated, I called them. "Where are you?," I asked. "Ninth between C and D," was the reply.
C and D???
Crap.
It was already 5pm and I had to be at MTV.com's offices in Times Square by 6pm.
That's when I abandoned my quest for Ninth Street. Good thing too because the heavens opened and a monsoon started falling on the city.
But back to the next morning and Gray's Papaya...
I'm on Sixth Avenue and hailing a cab. After a morning of Americano, espresso and cinnamon roll at Joe, I need something a bit more substantial, so I had the breakfast sandwich, sans 25 cent coffee, for $1.50. Grilled sausage patty with fresh eggs, American cheese on a sesame roll, nice! Plain and simple. Hailed a cab and was zipping on my way across Greenwich Village with a turban-ated cabbie.
Now that I've been in the coffee game for a little while and have been rather outspoken about things within the Barista Guild, SCAA, USBC, online forums and the Portafilter.net Podcast, it seems that I've gained a little notoriety. I'm the kind of person who, when visiting another coffee shop, likes to just sit back and try to remain anonymous. I was able to do that at Joe and was hoping to do the same at Ninth Street.
That wasn't going to happen.
I hate to say it, but as soon as I walked in the door, I was pegged by the barista. Bob had seen me in Charlotte at the USBC and introduced himself right away. Great guy and I ended up chatting with him and Edmund, his co-barista, the rest of the morning.
Ninth Street Espresso is a cool little shop in a tree-lined neighborhood in Alphabet City. It's probably the same floor size as Jay's Shave Ice - a comfortable space with tables and chairs, a sit-down bar and no couches. I like the approach. I would have blogged from Ninth Street but they don't have Wi-Fi.
I started off with an Americano while Bob and I chatted next to their 2group Synesso Cyncra. After two stops, the Cyncra's looking to be the "it" machine of New York City. It was almost 10am and business was steady. A girl named Rachel stopped in for her morning vanilla latte and we razzed on her a bit. Cool girl, great attitude and she was trying to figure out if she was going to work that day as a media engineer.
After awhile, owner Ken Nye stopped in on his way to an appointment. This was the first time I met Ken and I'm glad to have met him. Ken's a great guy who's passionate and committed to quality coffee and espresso. He's got a level of intensity and passion that makes it refreshing to be in this business again - especially after listening to other owners babble on and on about how "great'" their coffee is when all I see is hot gas being passed. Ken really knows his business and it was great meeting him.
But some of you probably want to know about the espresso. In a couple of words, it's fuckin' fantastic. Easily one of the best espressos I've ever tasted. Lively, floral, sweet and minor chocolate notes. Chewy. Tasty. Fucking Good. I literally was chewing on this bitch. Yum.
I rank it Number Two to Hines.
Friday, May 19, 2006
New York Joe
Double Espresso and The Board That Wishes To Remain Anonymous.
I can't decide if I've degenerated to this level or if this is a symbiotic symbol of my newfound enthusiasm for coffee. I didn't grow up liking coffee. I grew up liking tea. Coffee was just nasty.
Anyway, I'm in New York City for a couple of days hanging out with friends from all over the nation. They called, and since I didn't go to Switzerland, I thought I might as well get out for a little bit.
It's a grey and dreary morning in Manhattan and since I'm stuck in one of those hip, pretentious, expensive and compromising hotels in midtown, I decided to escape the concrete jungle of the theatre district for the comfy environs of my old stomping grounds in Greenwich Village and have some drinks at Joe The Art of Coffee.
I lived on Washington Square back in 1991. It was a great time. Giuliano had yet to become mayor. New York was a wild place. Ganja was being sold openly by Rastafarians in Washington Square on the way to classes at NYU. People were really rude. The meat-packing district still had meat. You could literally be killed in Alphabet City and Canal Jean was still bohemian.
From the entrance to my building on Washington Square West, you could see the twin towers of the World Trade Center. In my own odd sense of morbidity, I wondered how far the quarter mile high building would fall if you tipped them over. Little did I know that fifteen years later those towers would be gone and a generation of people would be growing up without them. Odd.
But I'm digressing into my own world of youthful remembrace...
So, I'm camped out here at Joe. A steady rain is falling and this place is ticking along nicely. I've already had an Americano, a cinnamon bun and a double-shot espresso. It's all good. My cousin just called, incredulous that I would venture so far for a coffee - I hate coffee, I remind him. For me to go out for coffee, it has to be good. I can't just drink coffee for the sake of drinking coffee. It's too nasty and why should I subject myself to self-induced nastiness?
The coffee here at Joe is anything but. The crema is deep reddish brown with serious flecking - gotta love that. The staff is friendly.
Did I just hear the barista call out that they just ran out of latte?
I don't understand.
Is he kidding?
Oh well, milk is nasty anyway so I'm not worrying about it. I'm too tired to worry about it. It was a long night that got me back to the hotel around 3am and then I was up again at 6:30am. This damn "gotta open the shop" bio-schedule that my body is used to has me waiking because I think I'm late to work no matter what time I went to bed. Spent the previous day/night sarging DJ Un-G's co-workers at MTV.com, eating gourmet hot dogs, listening to live bossanova at Laila in Williamsburg, drinking at some French bar on Ludlow - just too much partying for this old soul.
And tonight is Friday Night and it's going to be worse.
For now, I'm just enjoying the quiet respite here in The Village.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Han Loves Greedo
Who Shot JR? You Decide.
Can somebody please tell me what is so wrong with Han shooting Greedo first?
Okay, for those of you who have been living under a rock for the past twenty-five years, there's a scene in Star Wars where Luke and Obi-Wan Kenobi go to see the smuggler Han Solo at the Mos Eisley Cantina. As Han is leaving, he's intercepted by the bounty hunter Greedo who's there to collect him for Jabba The Hut. Greedo offers to take Han's ship, the Milennium Falcon, Han tells him over his dead body, Greedo likes that idea and, suddenly, ends up fried face down on the table: dead.
Decades later, the discussion rages on about how "wrong" it was for Han to kill Greedo first - as though the storyline would have moved better had Greedo killed Han first. George Lucas, in his infinite wisdom (sarcasm), decided to placate the whiners with a "special edition" verson of Star Wars that shows Greedo shooting first, missing and then Han killing him in self-defense.
This bounty hunter is sitting about a meter from Han and he misses? What kind of lame-ass bounty hunter is Greedo? Who believes this nonsense?
Somewhere along the way, we have forgotten than Han Solo is a pirate. He's a smuggler. He's a scoundrel. He's "scruffy looking." He's a pimp. He's a playa. He's a gambler. He's wanted in a dozen systems. Until he met Leia and fell in love, he was a man of the most despicable sort - that's why we liked him so much. He wasn't a namby-pamby pussy boy whiner like Luke. Han didn't whine about being chased by the Empire - he took them head on and into an asteroid field. He's a Corellian. He's made the Kessel Run. But because Middle America likes Han Solo we are to believe that he wouldn't shoot a bounty hunter trying to capture him first???
Well, I'm not here to debate the merits of the case, that's for you, gentle reader, to decide. Me? I like the original. I like Han The Scoundrel Who Wasted Greedo and Gave Two Bits to the Bartender for the Trouble.
And if I'm ever in a sleazy spaceport bar on the hind end of the galaxy with some ugly green monster who's ready to kill me and take my prize ship, I'll shoot him first too.
Meanwhile, check out the cool Han and Greedo Bookends and let your mind decide.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
The Dipwell Lives!
The Dipwell running strong and clean once again.
I got this Dipwell for a great deal at Superior Products many years ago before I ever knew I was going to build the shop we occupy today. Superior has a closeout aisle filled with all sorts of foodservice equipment odds and ends at great prices. Whenever I'm out there, I always check it out and find something cool I got the well and the faucet for fifteen bucks! Brand new, it's at least fifty bucks.
Fast forward six or seven years to now. The Dipwell has been running almost non-stop since December 2003. It's a workhorse and it's one of my favorite tools keeping my barspoons neat and clean. But it's been having problems these past few months.
For whatever reason, the Dipwell has been running at a trickle. No matter how much I turn the faucet handle, the thing just drip, drip, drips. It's maddening. And I cannot understand what's happened to my favorite dipwell. Where before the jet stream of water would keep the dipwell water clear, it's routinely been running a bit murky lately. I'm almost horrified to use it. But I do. I am ashamed.
Just yesterday, I was thinking about the ProCon pump for our La Marzocco Linea. Just thinking about it wondering why we turn the screw to adjust the pressure. Not critical thinking mind you, nor the kind of thinking that revolutionizes an industry. Just the kind of thinking that you do as your mind wanders to fill the day. Then, I decided to stare at the pump.
The pump, as far as ProCon espresso machine/carbonator pumps go, is nothing remarkable. I've thought of hot-rodding the thing by giving the brass a high polish, but just never got around to it. Again, not the kind of critical thinking that revolutionizes an industry. But the pump resides at the bottom of the cabinet that houses the Dipwell.
As I was staring at the pump, I noticed the copper hardline water feed that runs to the Dipwell and, suddenly, an epiphany.
I had been turning the knob on the faucet and nothing. What about turning the valve that regulates the line to the Dipwell?
I gave it a turn and Holy Moly, the Dipwell sprung to life again!!!! Water gushing out of the faucet, the Dipwell's life renewed!
It was amazing.
And dumb too on my part.
Each winter, we shut down the shop for about two weeks and tear everything apart to clean and perform yearly maintenance. Since the cabinetry comes out, the Dipwell lines are closed and the cabinets removed. Looks like when I reinstalled everything, I just barely opened to water valve for the Dipwell and have been suffering these past four months because of my own ineptitude.
DUH!
Viva La Dipwell!
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Hello Little Fly
Hello Little Fly and thank you for deciding to land on my leg as I surf the Internet. But after doing that for the past fifteen minutes, you've finally irritated me enough to stand up and get the Ultimate Secret Weapon: the plastic and wire handled fly swatter I picked up at the local big box store four years ago for ninety-nine cents. It's a grotesque tool that's crudded up with the dried remains of hundreds of your kind.
You may have watched me with your million eyes sitting here trying to do my own thing and waving my hand to get you to go away. It's a beautiful day here in Timonium. Bright sunshine, 65 degrees, surfing the Internet posting about whatever troubles me today and enjoying a wonderful Kenyan Karogato from Hines Public Market Coffee. I wave my hand to let you know to go fly somewhere else because I don't want to get up.
But you had to make me count...
One...
Two...
Two and a half...
Two and three-quarters...
Three...
Dammit.
That's it. Now you've done it. I've had it. I tried to be "Mister Nice Guy" and let you be but my exposed leg was just too tasty for you to leave alone. And now you shall pay the Ultimate Penalty.
Before I begin, this is a FoodService establishment and I have been certified by ServeSafe and the Baltimore County Department of Environmental Protection as a "certified foodservice manager" which gives me a License To Kill all pests and insects that threated my happy space. License To Kill, I'm the fucking James Bond of the Shave Ice world and you are my Nick Nack. And yes, Mister Nack, you are about to die.
But why is it that once I've returned with my weapon and seated in front of the computer do you decide to fly just out of reach? Happily, my swatter has the Extend-O-Matic option, giving me an extra inch of reach.
And I will strike down upon thee with great vengance, and furious anger. And you will know my name is The Jay when I lay my vengance upon thee
What a shame. What a curious existence you could have had. You didn't realize that in my line of work, I've neutralized thousands of your bretheren. Big, small, fast, tall, it didn't matter. It didn't matter if they were on my body part or on a piece of equipment, the punishment was meted out swiftly and without mercy. You tried to be tricky by staying on the side of my weak arm but I'm an ambidextrous kind of Ninja James Bond. I cut you down (and in half) with my weak arm. Imagine the carnage if I had used the full power and might of the right arm.
Oh yes, Little Fly, I am a stone cold killer. And I have left your split torso with two legs and one wing by the door as a warning to your kind.
You may have watched me with your million eyes sitting here trying to do my own thing and waving my hand to get you to go away. It's a beautiful day here in Timonium. Bright sunshine, 65 degrees, surfing the Internet posting about whatever troubles me today and enjoying a wonderful Kenyan Karogato from Hines Public Market Coffee. I wave my hand to let you know to go fly somewhere else because I don't want to get up.
But you had to make me count...
One...
Two...
Two and a half...
Two and three-quarters...
Three...
Dammit.
That's it. Now you've done it. I've had it. I tried to be "Mister Nice Guy" and let you be but my exposed leg was just too tasty for you to leave alone. And now you shall pay the Ultimate Penalty.
Before I begin, this is a FoodService establishment and I have been certified by ServeSafe and the Baltimore County Department of Environmental Protection as a "certified foodservice manager" which gives me a License To Kill all pests and insects that threated my happy space. License To Kill, I'm the fucking James Bond of the Shave Ice world and you are my Nick Nack. And yes, Mister Nack, you are about to die.
But why is it that once I've returned with my weapon and seated in front of the computer do you decide to fly just out of reach? Happily, my swatter has the Extend-O-Matic option, giving me an extra inch of reach.
And I will strike down upon thee with great vengance, and furious anger. And you will know my name is The Jay when I lay my vengance upon thee
What a shame. What a curious existence you could have had. You didn't realize that in my line of work, I've neutralized thousands of your bretheren. Big, small, fast, tall, it didn't matter. It didn't matter if they were on my body part or on a piece of equipment, the punishment was meted out swiftly and without mercy. You tried to be tricky by staying on the side of my weak arm but I'm an ambidextrous kind of Ninja James Bond. I cut you down (and in half) with my weak arm. Imagine the carnage if I had used the full power and might of the right arm.
Oh yes, Little Fly, I am a stone cold killer. And I have left your split torso with two legs and one wing by the door as a warning to your kind.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Grilling Steaks & The USBC
Beef Rib Steak on a Charcoal Grill by Jay.
Those of you who have been reading my posts lately on this blog and that "Bulletin Board Which Desires Not To Be Named" probably have the idea that I'm ranting and raving, going on and on about how screwed up the USBC Committee is over this latest scandal.
So I thought I would share a little bit of my personal life.
As the world of the United States Barista Championship began to shake and competitors and industry friends began to make their thoughts known about all this hoopla, I stayed true to my goals: I went home and had a steak.
First of all, I stopped off at the local Super Fresh for a nice cut of rib eye. Upon reaching the butcher and not seeing any rib eyes, he tells me (in his slightly strange but friendly, if not a bit autistic way) that he doesn't have any rib eyes. Gee, thanks. But they do have this Beef Rib Steak with the inch-and-a-half cut for $19.99/lb. So what is this "beef rib steak"?, I ask him, "And how is it different than a rib eye steak?"
He doesn't know and begins to tell me a long story about how people don't like steaks because they cook it too long. Dude, I'm not asking about cooking it - I want to know what's the difference? Is it more marbled? Is it better? How? Well, this guy doesn't know and replies that he's never tried either this steak or a rib eye to know the difference. I was just so flabbergasted that I really didn't know how to respond, so I just took the darn thing and got out of there.
$21.08 of pure beef pleasure.
The cut itself was pretty nice. Good marbling and looking slightly air dried (aged). It felt a bit resilient so I hoped it wasn't tough. Went home and pulled out my baby: a steel New Braunfels charcoal grill with smoking box that I picked up several years ago at Home Depot for $115. Hands down, this is the best grill I've ever owned - much cheaper than any gas grill and the charcoal makes it taste so good.
Ooops, I should re-phrase that. Perhaps it's not the best grill I've owned, but it's definitely the best charcoal grill I've owned. Just for the record, I also have a 48" MagicCater propane grill at the OnoGrill that I absolutely love. But that's a whole 'nother story.
Back to the steak...
I use Royal Oak natural wood charcoal because I love the flavor and because it's pretty cheap at Restaurant Depot when you buy it these huge bags. Burns beautifully and has a great aroma. I lit that sucker up and let the coals burn down while I ran into the house and powered up the rice cooker.
Okay, perhaps this is an "Asian Thing" but I love steamed white rice. It's an absolute essential for daily living. A day without rice for me is a day without sunshine. It's the perfect accompaniment. Slightly sweet and almost neutral. I liken the entree to a picture and the rice to a frame. The picture is nice, but it's nothing without the rice to frame it.
When it comes to seasoning, I cheat. Since it came out, I've been a big fan of McCormick's Montreal Steak Seasoning. Yes, I know it's a cop-out. Yes, my chef friends hate me for it, but I don't care. I like my steaks thick and crusted with this stuff. I buy it in big containers at Restaurant Depot for five bucks.
Grilling is one of two ways that I prefer to cook steaks. The other is to pan sear the steak in butter then finish in a blazing oven. It's delish. But last night it was all about the grill and I wanted that sucker to get hot.
That's the key, the bitch has got to be hot. Blazing hot. Five hundred degrees is okay by me. Once the grill is hot and the grates have turned an ashy white, it's good to go. Drop that steak on the grill and let it work. I leave it there until it crusts, then I sear it on the other side. Usually takes about five minutes each side for a 1.5 inch thick steak.
Once the sides are seared have sealed in the juices, it's time to cook the fat in the meat by taking off the heat and placing the steak to the side and closing the top so that it finishes in the oven-like heat. I leave it for about ten to fifteen minutes, but no more than twenty.
Meanwhile, I've got a saute pan with canned corn (nothing fresh yet available) simmering in half a stick of butter, a little salt and freshly ground pepper. Time it just right to coincide with the rice and the steak and God will be on my side. And when it starts to emit that roasted corn and butter aroma...heaven.
After fifteen minutes that steak is done, but it's not finished. I'll drop it on a plate and let it rest for at least five minutes to let the cooking slow down and for it just to develop a bit more. This will give me time to scoop some rice, spoon out some corn, fill a glass with ice and bust out a Coke. Grab a fork, spoon and knife and it's time to grind.
And let me tell you, while the world of the USBC was crumbling across the nation, I sat in my kitchen enjoying an exquisite steak, carmelized on the outside and a perfect medium pink on the inside. Holy Mother of God.
Then after, I enjoyed an AVO LE 05 cigar...
I Could Be Hines
Most of the Third Wave Cognoscenti (gosh, I can't help but laugh when using that!) know about Hines Public Market Coffee and their old shop in Seattle's Eastlake neighborhood. It was a cool little shop who's most notable feature was the lack of a cash register. Just a plain old cigar box for the bills and some ceramic cups for the change. Very bohemian.
Tuesday night, I'm sitting in my office smoking a big cigar and doing miscellaneous administrative work (you know, the kind of admin work that corporate CEOs do: surfing the 'Net and IM-ing hot chicks), when the power goes out for a couple seconds. No big deal, the UPS units kicked in and both the computers and network kept on running.
The next morning I come in and find that the power surge has fried the memory of our most excellent Costco purchased, Royal 9155c electronic cash register. Everything has been wiped out by this surge, including the 800+ PLUs programmed into the thing. Crap.
So, I spent two days completely reprogramming the register. It sucked. But it also allowed us to run without a cash register for two days. Two days that I found strangely invigorating, refreshing and free. Free to interact with the customer in a more casual setting without the pressure of accurately inputting the drink into the register so that we'll have historical data to compare to the past and forecast for the future.
That freedom awakened in me a desire to toss the register in the dumpster and bust out the cigar box. Suddenly, numbers and exact change weren't as important as before. I had more counterspace to lay things out. It was brilliance defined.
That's all over today since the register is programmed and ready to go. Ready to record the daily sales at Jay's Shave Ice to tell us our past, forecast our future and let us know exactly how close to bankruptcy we really are. Even as we move back to reality, my brief flirt with a register-less existence was fun - like a short, torrid affair.
I saw for one brief moment that even I, with my obsessive compulsive obsession to quantify and systematize everything, could be like Hines.
And isn't that refreshing!
Tuesday night, I'm sitting in my office smoking a big cigar and doing miscellaneous administrative work (you know, the kind of admin work that corporate CEOs do: surfing the 'Net and IM-ing hot chicks), when the power goes out for a couple seconds. No big deal, the UPS units kicked in and both the computers and network kept on running.
The next morning I come in and find that the power surge has fried the memory of our most excellent Costco purchased, Royal 9155c electronic cash register. Everything has been wiped out by this surge, including the 800+ PLUs programmed into the thing. Crap.
So, I spent two days completely reprogramming the register. It sucked. But it also allowed us to run without a cash register for two days. Two days that I found strangely invigorating, refreshing and free. Free to interact with the customer in a more casual setting without the pressure of accurately inputting the drink into the register so that we'll have historical data to compare to the past and forecast for the future.
That freedom awakened in me a desire to toss the register in the dumpster and bust out the cigar box. Suddenly, numbers and exact change weren't as important as before. I had more counterspace to lay things out. It was brilliance defined.
That's all over today since the register is programmed and ready to go. Ready to record the daily sales at Jay's Shave Ice to tell us our past, forecast our future and let us know exactly how close to bankruptcy we really are. Even as we move back to reality, my brief flirt with a register-less existence was fun - like a short, torrid affair.
I saw for one brief moment that even I, with my obsessive compulsive obsession to quantify and systematize everything, could be like Hines.
And isn't that refreshing!
Thursday, April 27, 2006
BrokeBack Barista
No, this isn't some sort of new comedy movie with baristas testing each others' tampers.
Get your mind out of the gutter and get yo hand outta my pocket!
This is serious.
A fellow barista in San Francisco fell out of a three-story building while most of us were cavorting in Charlotte at the SCAA Conference the other week. Steve Ford is his name and he built his fame with Blue Bottle Coffee. I met Steve in January 2005 just after he had opened Blue Bottle's kiosk in the Hayes Valley neighborhood of San Francisco. I personally don't know him very well having only met him once, but what a nice guy - and everyone on the West Coast from Brownwen to Dismas to the crew at Ritual all think he's swell.
So, he falls out of a building and was airlifted to a shock trauma hospital in the Bay Area where he was treated and is recovering nicely. But as some of you may know, a visit to the hospital is an expensive one. Being airlifted and kept in the hospital is exorbitant. And Steve doesn't have medical insurance.
Because of this, some of our friends have started a "Save Steve Ford" fundraising drive to help Good Man Steve cover his medical expenses.
Please take a moment of your time to consider a donation of any amount to help this effort and help a brotha out.
Thanks!
Get your mind out of the gutter and get yo hand outta my pocket!
This is serious.
A fellow barista in San Francisco fell out of a three-story building while most of us were cavorting in Charlotte at the SCAA Conference the other week. Steve Ford is his name and he built his fame with Blue Bottle Coffee. I met Steve in January 2005 just after he had opened Blue Bottle's kiosk in the Hayes Valley neighborhood of San Francisco. I personally don't know him very well having only met him once, but what a nice guy - and everyone on the West Coast from Brownwen to Dismas to the crew at Ritual all think he's swell.
So, he falls out of a building and was airlifted to a shock trauma hospital in the Bay Area where he was treated and is recovering nicely. But as some of you may know, a visit to the hospital is an expensive one. Being airlifted and kept in the hospital is exorbitant. And Steve doesn't have medical insurance.
Because of this, some of our friends have started a "Save Steve Ford" fundraising drive to help Good Man Steve cover his medical expenses.
Please take a moment of your time to consider a donation of any amount to help this effort and help a brotha out.
Thanks!
It's Never Dull at the USBC
If you're a regular listener of the Portafilter.net Podcast and have heard the most recent episode, Podcast 36, then you already know what my thoughts are about the USBC Committee's spineless attempt to placate a certain Nebraskan competitor.
In a word, I think it's "Bullshit".
After the recording and release of Podcast 36, I thought I would enjoy a nice leisurely night at home. To my chagrin, a message from the USBC Committee popped into my e-mail box, it read:
April 26, 2006
To Whom It May Concern:
It was brought to the attention of the USBC Event Manager, Michelle Campbell, by the USBC Judges' Committee Chair, Tracy Allen, that there was a mis-judgement against USBC competitor, Ryan Dennhardt. This took place during his competition in the semi-finals of the USBC on Sunday, April 9, 2006.
It concerned the type of cappuccino cup used by said competitor. The cups were judged incorrect by three of the four sensory judges. Later, during the judges' calibration that follows the performance, the cups were deemed incorrect by all four judges. This decision cost competitor, Ryan Dennhardt, four points in his final score of the semi-finals.
In reviewing the validity of the judges' decision, several things came to light. Mr. Dennhardt had brought two sets of cups for his performance. Both sets appeared to be the exact same cups from the outside. Inside, one set had squared or straight bottoms and the other set had the appropriate rounded bottoms. Prior to his performance, Mr. Dennhardt had asked the advice of one of the judges to check one of the sets of cappuccino cups he hoped to use. The judge told him the cups had a flat bottom and would be marked incorrect. Upon hearing this information from the judge Mr. Dennhardt decided to use a second set of cappuccino cups he brought that did have the correct rounded bottom. During his performance, the correct cups were used, but due to the similarity of the exterior of the cups, (compared to the flat bottom cups first reviewed) three of the judges assumed that they were the incorrect cups. This was an incorrect assumption. In fact, the correct cups had been used.
As a result of this review and the events that took place, it is the decision of the USBC Event Manager and the Judges Committee that Mr. Dennhardt be given the four points that he lost (in the Semi-Finals Round) as a result of this mis-judgement.
We appreciate this coming to the committee's attention and the opportunity to correct the score. Please know that the process in place for contesting judges' decisions is there for the most transparency possible in the use of the USBC Rules and Regulations for these competitions. A complaint must be made in writing to the Event Manager and all information must be compiled immediately following the event.
It's always refreshing to see how the vanity and ego of one person ruins it for the whole.
Is this Dennhardt guy so hard-up for validation of his place in the USBC Finals that he can't let it go? What more do you want? Bullied his way into the Finals round on a bullshit call but got smacked down by the people who deserved to be there by placing Seventh. The illegitimate fact that he participated in the Finals round should have been enough. But obviously that's just not enough for this guy.
Hey Dennhardt, wake up. There's not a competitor in the USBC that believes you deserved to be in the Finals this year. And no matter how hard you try to make your placing look "legit" everyone knows that it's a sham.
At the 2005 USBC Dennhardt did a very noble thing at Cyclops in Seattle. Something that earned tremendous amounts of respect from me. He's thrown that respect away by his actions at this years' USBC.
"Cups that looked alike." What kind of bullshit is that? Each competitor knows that judges will drag their demitasse spoon on the bottom of the cup to test the "roundness" of that cup. If a USBC Judge hits you with points for a flat bottom, it's because they tested it, not because they "looked" at the outside. Let's not miss the fact that THREE OUT OF FOUR Judges scored incorrect cups. A majority of the judges said they were wrong and yet the USBC Committee is going with the minority?
Also, don't miss the point that Dennhardt talked to "a judge" about which of the two cups were appropriate. Is this one of the actual judges from his round? If so, isn't that illegal unto itself? Or did he speak with all four of his sensory judges, asking each one which cup was appropriate? Because that's the only way those three judges would have predisposed to marking him incorrectly.
And to bring that forward now after SIXTEEN DAYS?
So who was this judge that Dennhardt "consulted" about his cups? If it was the Head Judge for his round, why didn't the Head Judge challenge the rulings of the three sensory judges? He obviously challenged the minority judge to change his/her score.
It's time to lend the truth to this claim of "transparency" by providing the names of the judges involved in this incident. Is this truly a question of incompetence on the part of the judges? Or is this just a prime example of the corruption of the USBC?
In a word, I think it's "Bullshit".
After the recording and release of Podcast 36, I thought I would enjoy a nice leisurely night at home. To my chagrin, a message from the USBC Committee popped into my e-mail box, it read:
April 26, 2006
To Whom It May Concern:
It was brought to the attention of the USBC Event Manager, Michelle Campbell, by the USBC Judges' Committee Chair, Tracy Allen, that there was a mis-judgement against USBC competitor, Ryan Dennhardt. This took place during his competition in the semi-finals of the USBC on Sunday, April 9, 2006.
It concerned the type of cappuccino cup used by said competitor. The cups were judged incorrect by three of the four sensory judges. Later, during the judges' calibration that follows the performance, the cups were deemed incorrect by all four judges. This decision cost competitor, Ryan Dennhardt, four points in his final score of the semi-finals.
In reviewing the validity of the judges' decision, several things came to light. Mr. Dennhardt had brought two sets of cups for his performance. Both sets appeared to be the exact same cups from the outside. Inside, one set had squared or straight bottoms and the other set had the appropriate rounded bottoms. Prior to his performance, Mr. Dennhardt had asked the advice of one of the judges to check one of the sets of cappuccino cups he hoped to use. The judge told him the cups had a flat bottom and would be marked incorrect. Upon hearing this information from the judge Mr. Dennhardt decided to use a second set of cappuccino cups he brought that did have the correct rounded bottom. During his performance, the correct cups were used, but due to the similarity of the exterior of the cups, (compared to the flat bottom cups first reviewed) three of the judges assumed that they were the incorrect cups. This was an incorrect assumption. In fact, the correct cups had been used.
As a result of this review and the events that took place, it is the decision of the USBC Event Manager and the Judges Committee that Mr. Dennhardt be given the four points that he lost (in the Semi-Finals Round) as a result of this mis-judgement.
We appreciate this coming to the committee's attention and the opportunity to correct the score. Please know that the process in place for contesting judges' decisions is there for the most transparency possible in the use of the USBC Rules and Regulations for these competitions. A complaint must be made in writing to the Event Manager and all information must be compiled immediately following the event.
It's always refreshing to see how the vanity and ego of one person ruins it for the whole.
Is this Dennhardt guy so hard-up for validation of his place in the USBC Finals that he can't let it go? What more do you want? Bullied his way into the Finals round on a bullshit call but got smacked down by the people who deserved to be there by placing Seventh. The illegitimate fact that he participated in the Finals round should have been enough. But obviously that's just not enough for this guy.
Hey Dennhardt, wake up. There's not a competitor in the USBC that believes you deserved to be in the Finals this year. And no matter how hard you try to make your placing look "legit" everyone knows that it's a sham.
At the 2005 USBC Dennhardt did a very noble thing at Cyclops in Seattle. Something that earned tremendous amounts of respect from me. He's thrown that respect away by his actions at this years' USBC.
"Cups that looked alike." What kind of bullshit is that? Each competitor knows that judges will drag their demitasse spoon on the bottom of the cup to test the "roundness" of that cup. If a USBC Judge hits you with points for a flat bottom, it's because they tested it, not because they "looked" at the outside. Let's not miss the fact that THREE OUT OF FOUR Judges scored incorrect cups. A majority of the judges said they were wrong and yet the USBC Committee is going with the minority?
Also, don't miss the point that Dennhardt talked to "a judge" about which of the two cups were appropriate. Is this one of the actual judges from his round? If so, isn't that illegal unto itself? Or did he speak with all four of his sensory judges, asking each one which cup was appropriate? Because that's the only way those three judges would have predisposed to marking him incorrectly.
And to bring that forward now after SIXTEEN DAYS?
So who was this judge that Dennhardt "consulted" about his cups? If it was the Head Judge for his round, why didn't the Head Judge challenge the rulings of the three sensory judges? He obviously challenged the minority judge to change his/her score.
It's time to lend the truth to this claim of "transparency" by providing the names of the judges involved in this incident. Is this truly a question of incompetence on the part of the judges? Or is this just a prime example of the corruption of the USBC?
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
No More Bourdain Audio Books
First off, I want to make it clear that I'm a fan of Anthony Bourdain's books. Both Kitchen Confidential and A Cook's Tour. I read both of those books over and over again and always enjoy the stories. But, unlike most people, I've never, ever seen Bourdain on television or any of his tv shows. My experience with Bourdain has been strictly through his books.
On the way back from South Carolina (after the USBC and a side trip), I stopped off at a JR's to buy cigars and found A Cook's Tour on sale. I loved that book - especially the chapters on riding through the Saharan desert to eat lamb and his visit to The French Laundry - especially his visit to The French Laundry.
Upon seeing the Audio CD, I immediately thought that if the books were so good then having The Master himself, the Bad Boy of the restaurant business, reading the stories would make them come alive and lend greater insight into the mind of the master.
Please God, don't ever let me make that mistake again.
To say that I am disappointed would be an understatement.
Read his books and the man's got some prose. Innuendoes and a great writing style made the stories come alive in my mind. But to hear Bourdain read the passages... gosh, how uninspired he sounds. And that slight New Yawk accent starts to become seriously grating to the mind as he drones on in a relative monotone.
In the book, he writes almost giddy about his experience at The French Laundry. His writing of that experience is awe-inspiring and causes me to curse The Maker for not allowing me the chance to have the same experience. But to hear him read it? Oh God, it's absolutely awful. No enthusiasm. No inflections to suggest his emotion. Just a droll monotone for six discs.
And worse yet, it's an abridged version that deleted the best parts of the book.
Please Tony Bourdain, I love your books, but please don't ever make another Audio CD.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
My Barber Has A Mullet
You're right, it's a bit embarassing to admit, but it's true: my barber has a mullet. Ever the quitessential fashion statement of the 1980s, The Mullet defined a certain aspect of Life In The 80s. Not necessarily a positive aspect of the 80s, but an aspect of Life back then regardless.
Of course today, The Mullet is seen as the epitome of, well, you know. But my barber has one and he's not planning on cutting it off anytime soon.
Overall, he's a pretty good guy. Has a wife, kids and enjoys fishing on his days off. That's really all I know about him. Oh, and he knows how to cut hair pretty well too. He's a quiet kind of barber. He doesn't talk much. Just a casual mention of his latest fishing outing when I ask, otherwise, we don't talk much. I just sit back and enjoy the haircut.
But honestly, I don't enjoy a haircut as much as I used to, but I don't hate it as much as when I was a child. When I was young, back in First through Eighth grades, I was sent to Military School. Crewcuts, uniforms, marching and guns. Eight years of military school. That's two tours. And I hated every haircut I had to endure. It was worse than going to the dentist. And it happened every three weeks. Eight years. It's probably the reason why I never joined the military as I got older.
After military school came years of long hair. It was high school and the Days of Rebellion: The Late 1980s. Deconstructed jackets, thin ties, parachute pants, leather jackets, black eyeliner, Doc Martens - ah, the heady days of youth and discontent. Back then we were stuck on Comme des Garcons, Jean Paul Gaultier, Azzedine Alaia and expensive stylists who would shave the lower part of your mushroom cut for $30 a pop. VooDoo Economics, nightclubbing at Nell's Basement and at parties thrown by Michael Alig and John Sex. Such good times.
Then I moved away from the fast paced, blurry and unfocused direction of being Hip and Stylish on the East Coast while clubbing all night and going to art school during the day to a more slow and serene pace in Honolulu. There I found myself floundering from stylist to stylist, looking for something real in a haircut. I still held onto my mushroom cut for several years before transitioning to something less extreme. Toyed around with some barbers, but no one really caught my attention.
One thing about growing up in the 80s and 90s is that we're lost on tradition. There's something satisfying and comforting about tradition - especially after spending half my life telling tradition to Fuck Off. But finding that in a barber would prove to be next to impossible.
For me, the fantasy is to find an Old School style of barber. One who does it all: cuts your hair, scalp massage, blackhead removal and a straight-razor shave. Manicure would be a plus, but not absolutely essential.
Shortly after returning to live on the East Coast, I heard about an Old World English barber that had opened on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. For $185 they would give you the full treatment: haircut, shave, massage, manicure AND pedicure. Established in 1805 and barbers to British Royalty? Well, my anglo heritage demanded a visit!
Not too long after, I found my way to 900 Michigan Avenue for a visit to Truefitt & Hill. Glorious. Wood paneled and very British-looking, I thought I too could be landed gentry. And with a bill fast approaching $200 for a haircut, they thought I had the money of landed gentry. It was a great time. I must have spent at least an hour there. But at those prices, it's a luxury that I could only afford once. But I understand they now have locations in Toronto and Las Vegas. And since I'm building a house in Vegas, I just might have to go for a comparison test.
But really, jumping on a plane to get a haircut is just foolish. For that kind of money, I could keep my hair long and buy a gaggle of women to do my bidding. But a haircut is what I want and a gaggle of women just won't do.
My search continued back in Baltimore where I eventually found an old Italian barber named Enrico in the suburban enclave of Timonium - not too far from where I would start Jay's Shave Ice years later. Enrico had been cutting hair for over 40 years starting in Italy when he was young. He prided himself on his clippers. A model that he had kept running, repairing and upgrading for thirty years. This guy was the barber's answer to the traditional barista: a Lifer.
Enrico regaled me with stories of Italy and with his own homemade red wine. It was always a good time and he could cut hair. He prided himself with the fact that he "shaved the neck" with a straight-bladed razor. The first few times really wigged me out and I was shaking as he put the steel to my neck. But over time, I've found warm comfort in that carbon steel blade. Today, nothing is more reassuring than that blade expertly trimming away errant hairs.
On top of all that, Enrico would give you the full-service: a straight-razor shave - straight out of the movie The Untouchables. A hot towel covering your face to soften your rough, manly bristles. Then warm cream. Finally, the razor came down for a shave so close you'd swear you were a 7 year old boy again.
There was nothing "nice" about Enrico's shop. Just hard linoleum floors, old school white barber chairs, big mirrors, 1950s style cabinetry and pictures of baseball players, jockeys and boxers on the wall. Not the kind of pictures that had been signed by the players when they came to sit in his chair. Oh no, these were the pictures of the sports heros. Atheletes long dead who had never come to the shop, nor ever would. It was pictures of male heros for males in a completely masculine setting. No foo foo and nothing feminine. It was the kind of place where a man could be "a man" and not be apologetic about it.
As years passed, Enrico became older and his skills a bit shaky. He's retired (I think) and hopefully sitting back and enjoying his homemade wine - which, by the way, was pretty darn good for red table wine.
Someday, I'm going to open my own Male Haberdashery. It's sort of a dream. Like Enrico's, it will be a place where men can be men. A place to come in, smoke a cigar, enjoy a stiff drink, have a haircut, shave and manicure, and outfit yourself with a new wardrobe. God willing, it will even be a place where a man can select a new handmade trap shotgun.
But for now, I'm enjoying my time with my Mulleted Barber.
Of course today, The Mullet is seen as the epitome of, well, you know. But my barber has one and he's not planning on cutting it off anytime soon.
Overall, he's a pretty good guy. Has a wife, kids and enjoys fishing on his days off. That's really all I know about him. Oh, and he knows how to cut hair pretty well too. He's a quiet kind of barber. He doesn't talk much. Just a casual mention of his latest fishing outing when I ask, otherwise, we don't talk much. I just sit back and enjoy the haircut.
But honestly, I don't enjoy a haircut as much as I used to, but I don't hate it as much as when I was a child. When I was young, back in First through Eighth grades, I was sent to Military School. Crewcuts, uniforms, marching and guns. Eight years of military school. That's two tours. And I hated every haircut I had to endure. It was worse than going to the dentist. And it happened every three weeks. Eight years. It's probably the reason why I never joined the military as I got older.
After military school came years of long hair. It was high school and the Days of Rebellion: The Late 1980s. Deconstructed jackets, thin ties, parachute pants, leather jackets, black eyeliner, Doc Martens - ah, the heady days of youth and discontent. Back then we were stuck on Comme des Garcons, Jean Paul Gaultier, Azzedine Alaia and expensive stylists who would shave the lower part of your mushroom cut for $30 a pop. VooDoo Economics, nightclubbing at Nell's Basement and at parties thrown by Michael Alig and John Sex. Such good times.
Then I moved away from the fast paced, blurry and unfocused direction of being Hip and Stylish on the East Coast while clubbing all night and going to art school during the day to a more slow and serene pace in Honolulu. There I found myself floundering from stylist to stylist, looking for something real in a haircut. I still held onto my mushroom cut for several years before transitioning to something less extreme. Toyed around with some barbers, but no one really caught my attention.
One thing about growing up in the 80s and 90s is that we're lost on tradition. There's something satisfying and comforting about tradition - especially after spending half my life telling tradition to Fuck Off. But finding that in a barber would prove to be next to impossible.
For me, the fantasy is to find an Old School style of barber. One who does it all: cuts your hair, scalp massage, blackhead removal and a straight-razor shave. Manicure would be a plus, but not absolutely essential.
Shortly after returning to live on the East Coast, I heard about an Old World English barber that had opened on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. For $185 they would give you the full treatment: haircut, shave, massage, manicure AND pedicure. Established in 1805 and barbers to British Royalty? Well, my anglo heritage demanded a visit!
Not too long after, I found my way to 900 Michigan Avenue for a visit to Truefitt & Hill. Glorious. Wood paneled and very British-looking, I thought I too could be landed gentry. And with a bill fast approaching $200 for a haircut, they thought I had the money of landed gentry. It was a great time. I must have spent at least an hour there. But at those prices, it's a luxury that I could only afford once. But I understand they now have locations in Toronto and Las Vegas. And since I'm building a house in Vegas, I just might have to go for a comparison test.
But really, jumping on a plane to get a haircut is just foolish. For that kind of money, I could keep my hair long and buy a gaggle of women to do my bidding. But a haircut is what I want and a gaggle of women just won't do.
My search continued back in Baltimore where I eventually found an old Italian barber named Enrico in the suburban enclave of Timonium - not too far from where I would start Jay's Shave Ice years later. Enrico had been cutting hair for over 40 years starting in Italy when he was young. He prided himself on his clippers. A model that he had kept running, repairing and upgrading for thirty years. This guy was the barber's answer to the traditional barista: a Lifer.
Enrico regaled me with stories of Italy and with his own homemade red wine. It was always a good time and he could cut hair. He prided himself with the fact that he "shaved the neck" with a straight-bladed razor. The first few times really wigged me out and I was shaking as he put the steel to my neck. But over time, I've found warm comfort in that carbon steel blade. Today, nothing is more reassuring than that blade expertly trimming away errant hairs.
On top of all that, Enrico would give you the full-service: a straight-razor shave - straight out of the movie The Untouchables. A hot towel covering your face to soften your rough, manly bristles. Then warm cream. Finally, the razor came down for a shave so close you'd swear you were a 7 year old boy again.
There was nothing "nice" about Enrico's shop. Just hard linoleum floors, old school white barber chairs, big mirrors, 1950s style cabinetry and pictures of baseball players, jockeys and boxers on the wall. Not the kind of pictures that had been signed by the players when they came to sit in his chair. Oh no, these were the pictures of the sports heros. Atheletes long dead who had never come to the shop, nor ever would. It was pictures of male heros for males in a completely masculine setting. No foo foo and nothing feminine. It was the kind of place where a man could be "a man" and not be apologetic about it.
As years passed, Enrico became older and his skills a bit shaky. He's retired (I think) and hopefully sitting back and enjoying his homemade wine - which, by the way, was pretty darn good for red table wine.
Someday, I'm going to open my own Male Haberdashery. It's sort of a dream. Like Enrico's, it will be a place where men can be men. A place to come in, smoke a cigar, enjoy a stiff drink, have a haircut, shave and manicure, and outfit yourself with a new wardrobe. God willing, it will even be a place where a man can select a new handmade trap shotgun.
But for now, I'm enjoying my time with my Mulleted Barber.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Competing in Fear of the USBC
A certain Darren posted a comment to my Coffee and a Cigarette entry. Don't really know which/who this particular Darren really is, but here's what he had to say:
Curious as to what you thought of the judging/judges this year. I heard they were a joke. Take what happened to Ryan Dennhardt. Yeah, they recognized their screw-up and reinstated him in the finals, but then made him pay for it anyway with a 7th place finish. When you do what the judges tell you to do and still get penalized. When the head judge doesn't catch/correct the mistakes of the other judges? This is a joke.
As far as I'm concerned, if you made the Semis you are clearly one of the top Barista's in the country. Who really cares about #1? Ryan came out of nowhere (Kearney, Nebraska actually) to make the Nat'l Finals three years in a row. He's got nothing to be ashamed of (in contrast to the Nat'l judges).
If you are going to continue to compete, I doubt you will say what you really think on this subject, but thought I'd ask.
If people really didn't care about being "Number One" then Dennhardt would never have protested the outcome of his Semi-Finals performance.
Overall, I thought the judging was pretty spot-on. Some of the best judging I've experienced in three USBC competitions.
Well, friendly Darren, you're probably not a listener of the famed Portafilter.net Podcast where I've gone on (at times at length) about what I think is messed up about the specialty coffee industry. I even shared my thoughts rather vibrantly on the Dennhardt ruling at the 2006 USBC.
In a nutshell, I thought the ruling was bullshit.
A complete insult to every competitor at the USBC - especially the Finalists.
There is a method and a means to a protest in a competition. One would think (and expect) that such a protest be voiced and filed at the time of the incident. Not the next morning. That's worse than the Monday Morning Quarterback.
If one listens to Portafilter.net Podcast Number 33, you'll hear Dennhardt wax poetic about missing the Finals. It's disappointing to miss the Finals, but there's no hint that anything is awry or amiss - or that he has any clue about how close his score was from the Finals or that there may have been some measure of impropriety on the part of the Judges or Runners.
All of that came later. And I think it's because someone improperly disclosed the scores.
Let's look at it from a more objective viewpoint. We're not talking about Dennhardt just missing the 15-minute mark and losing the Finals. He protested his SECOND overtime penalty at 15:30. He's already overtime and then to blame that on Runners and Judges? Like I said below, the Judges are your customers; your guests. They have the prerogative of taking their time and it's still your job to compensate. I'd give the seed of doubt if this were a case of 15:05, but it's not.
Others will desperately try to make it seem "legit." They'll argue about the integrity of the rules, or how some skeptical judge even said it looks legit. Sounds to me like they're just trying to appease the USBC Machine. Others will even question my support of the "Red Tape" - as though I'm not "Third Wave" enough to roll with this.
Fact of the matter is that I've always been a strong proponent of very explicit rules. Rules that limit and define strictly what can and can not be done. And when it comes to protests and challenges, then the rules need to be exceedingly explicit. No provision on video tape review means that there is NO video review. You cannot have video review at one competition without providing it for all competitions.
Don't get me wrong, I like Ryan. An incident in Seattle last year demonstrated to me that he can be a man of character and I respect that. However, it was a Cold Day in Hell in the competitor's room that Monday morning. From the other Finalists to the other competitors, to the members of the audience - the one remark that ran across their silent faces was: "That's bullshit."
It's disappointing to lose the USBC, but it's far, far worse to lose the respect of your peers.
Curious as to what you thought of the judging/judges this year. I heard they were a joke. Take what happened to Ryan Dennhardt. Yeah, they recognized their screw-up and reinstated him in the finals, but then made him pay for it anyway with a 7th place finish. When you do what the judges tell you to do and still get penalized. When the head judge doesn't catch/correct the mistakes of the other judges? This is a joke.
As far as I'm concerned, if you made the Semis you are clearly one of the top Barista's in the country. Who really cares about #1? Ryan came out of nowhere (Kearney, Nebraska actually) to make the Nat'l Finals three years in a row. He's got nothing to be ashamed of (in contrast to the Nat'l judges).
If you are going to continue to compete, I doubt you will say what you really think on this subject, but thought I'd ask.
If people really didn't care about being "Number One" then Dennhardt would never have protested the outcome of his Semi-Finals performance.
Overall, I thought the judging was pretty spot-on. Some of the best judging I've experienced in three USBC competitions.
Well, friendly Darren, you're probably not a listener of the famed Portafilter.net Podcast where I've gone on (at times at length) about what I think is messed up about the specialty coffee industry. I even shared my thoughts rather vibrantly on the Dennhardt ruling at the 2006 USBC.
In a nutshell, I thought the ruling was bullshit.
A complete insult to every competitor at the USBC - especially the Finalists.
There is a method and a means to a protest in a competition. One would think (and expect) that such a protest be voiced and filed at the time of the incident. Not the next morning. That's worse than the Monday Morning Quarterback.
If one listens to Portafilter.net Podcast Number 33, you'll hear Dennhardt wax poetic about missing the Finals. It's disappointing to miss the Finals, but there's no hint that anything is awry or amiss - or that he has any clue about how close his score was from the Finals or that there may have been some measure of impropriety on the part of the Judges or Runners.
All of that came later. And I think it's because someone improperly disclosed the scores.
Let's look at it from a more objective viewpoint. We're not talking about Dennhardt just missing the 15-minute mark and losing the Finals. He protested his SECOND overtime penalty at 15:30. He's already overtime and then to blame that on Runners and Judges? Like I said below, the Judges are your customers; your guests. They have the prerogative of taking their time and it's still your job to compensate. I'd give the seed of doubt if this were a case of 15:05, but it's not.
Others will desperately try to make it seem "legit." They'll argue about the integrity of the rules, or how some skeptical judge even said it looks legit. Sounds to me like they're just trying to appease the USBC Machine. Others will even question my support of the "Red Tape" - as though I'm not "Third Wave" enough to roll with this.
Fact of the matter is that I've always been a strong proponent of very explicit rules. Rules that limit and define strictly what can and can not be done. And when it comes to protests and challenges, then the rules need to be exceedingly explicit. No provision on video tape review means that there is NO video review. You cannot have video review at one competition without providing it for all competitions.
Don't get me wrong, I like Ryan. An incident in Seattle last year demonstrated to me that he can be a man of character and I respect that. However, it was a Cold Day in Hell in the competitor's room that Monday morning. From the other Finalists to the other competitors, to the members of the audience - the one remark that ran across their silent faces was: "That's bullshit."
It's disappointing to lose the USBC, but it's far, far worse to lose the respect of your peers.
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