Ongbat? Ong-what???

Was at K's place last weekend for a mini-feast and thought I would share my recipe for onglet aka Hanger Steak.

First off, there is only one onglet per steer. That's right, only one. The more onglet you order, the more steers need to die to satisfy your cravings, but it's so worth it. The hanger steak sits on the bottom of the animal and kinda, well, "hangs" there from the diapraghm of the steer. It's a stringy cut of meat that's V-shaped, marbled and oh so delicious. Most importantly, it's not well-known in America so you can seem very continental to your friends.

The problem with this exclusivity is that it's difficult to find in most supermarkets. Don't confuse this with a plain, old flank steak. This steak takes commitment. Chances are you will need to order it from your butcher.

Which brings me to another point: go find yourself a good butcher. One who knows what he's talking about and can order what you need. Need onlget for a special dinner? No problem. Need fifty pounds of veal bones for stock? He'll get it. It's a love affair in the truest sense of the word. Just say the word and in a couple days there is your meat, cut and trimmed specially for you (to your specifications), wrapped elegantly in butchers paper and ready for your culinary expertise.

Like I said, the onglet is v-shaped with an inedible center seam that must be removed (or at least left uneaten). My personal recommendation is to have your butcher cut out the center seam, leaving two long halves that can then be butterflied to even out the thickness and prepared for grilling.

Grill or pan sear, the choice is yours. Either way, the hanger steak is meant for medium and nothing more. If you're a well-done kinda steak eater then please click off my blog and get away.

For K's party, I chose a simple preparation of freshly ground pepper and Hawaiian Ala'e Red Salt. I like to use both liberally. Meanwhile, make sure you are preheating your oven to 375 degrees Farhenheit. In a saute pan, heat up a little oil and add a couple pats of butter once the oil is hot. Wait for the fizziness to subside and then sear the steaks on both sides for two mintues.

Once seared, transfer steaks to a roasting pan and into the oven for 8 to 10 minutes. This should result in nicely medium steaks. Once finished, put aside and let them rest for about five minutes before serving.

If you're interested in making a sauce for the steak, reheat the pan and deglaze with a bit of white wine, reduce by half, add some butter, add a little dark chicken stock, reduce by half, pull from the heat and whisk in a little dijon mustard. If you've allowed the steaks to sit, there should be some au jus - whisk that into the sauce and you're good to go.

While hot steamed rice is preferred and frites are a nice accompaniment, R's corn casserole did the trick just nicely...

I Know Jay

A curious thing happened to me this morning...

I'm manning the bar at Spro Coffee Towson when a customer inquires if Spro is related to Jay's Shave Ice in Timonium. Why yes, I tell her and she continues on how she enjoys Jay's Shave Ice because she's from Honolulu and that she's talked to Jay before...

Really?

Of course, there's not a glimmer of recognition in her eyes that I look anywhere remotely familiar to her. Without skipping a beat, I continue on the conversation as though I'm just another staffer working behind the bar at Spro Coffee.

I didn't have the heart to say anything to her.

But I could've sworn when I looked in the mirror this morning that I am Jay!

The Riedel Riddle

It's not quite 10:30 in the morning and already I'm feeling happy.

You know, that happiness that numbs you in the face and in most areas because you've been drinking before you've eaten. Maybe it's a sickness or maybe it's just a Sunday Morning Indulgence but I'm feeling quite relaxed already.

Outside of this early morning drinking, I've succombed to one of my Ultimate Temptations - I've bought a pair of Riedel Vinum wine glasses.

It's true, I've been secretly lusting after these glasses for years. Wondering if it's true: does the unique shape of the Vinum really enhance the wine experience? Yesterday evening, while shopping at Beltway Fine Wines, I decided "Fuck it, I'm buying them." Six glasses for one hundred and twenty dollars. Okay, that's a bit rich for me so I settled on the two-pack for forty bucks.

So far, I've only unwrapped one of them since I was a lonely man last night and no one go out with. Lady G was busy at a party, K was still on her whirlwind China Adventure, and things with Ms. V are kaput, I was just left at home with my sexy new glasses, a bottle of wine and a flavorless roasted chicken from Wegman's.

But do the glasses work?

One thing I like about Beltway is that they've got some serious wine guys working there. What started out as a simple question: "What red will knock my socks off for under forty bucks?" turned into a dizzying tour of wines from California, France and Spain. I appreciate the enthusiasm and knowledge, but I only want to buy one bottle. Finally, after a bit more coaching, we settled on a bottle of Chateau Bellefont-Belcier Bordeaux 2000.

I drank a couple glasses last night and a couple this morning (hence my current state of numbness) and I really don't know. The aromas are deep and astringent with black cherries and maybe apricot. Lots of body and mouthfeel with strong spice notes. There's an acidity that dances on my tongue as well.

I'm comparing the wine in a simple wine glass that I keep in my cellars. It's the standard Libbery foodservice wine glass you see at most wineries. Cheap and affordable by the case. To me, the flavor is bolder in the Libbey, not subtle and refined as in the Riedel. While the wine is very good in both glasses, I have to admit that there is a difference. The Bordeaux seems less refined in the Libbey.

So there it is, there is something to this whole Riedel Riddle. Fantasies of cabinets full of Vinum glasses dance in my mind. All it would take is a moment of reckless finance with the credit card and the fantasy could be mine. But I shall exercise restraint, for I could purchase a 36 count case of the Libbey glasses for the price of the two-pack. So dear friends, I apologize that you'll have to enjoy the wines at my house in the Libbey instead of the Riedel.

Unless, of course, you feel so inclined as to remember me on your holiday gift-giving....hint, hint.

The Smell of Oranges

A clean and fresh-smelling rest room is a wonderful thing. It's even better when you don't have to do the cleaning.

Each morning I'm greeted with a clean and sparkling restroom. The soap and towel dispensers are full, the urinal basin has that familiar blue cleaning agent. The floors are freshly mopped and all is well in the world.

It's a small respite from the usual day's work and I know in about 40 minutes the building will be open and the throngs will pound this restroom non-stop for thirteen hours. By noon that citrus-y smell will be gone. The toilets will not have been flushed. Paper towels wil be strewn across the floor and, horror of horrors, there will be suspicious "drips" nearby. Good thing the floor sports colored tile to hide any yellow hues that may be inherent in the "drips."

Cleaning toilets is crappy work (pun intended) and I have deep admiration for those who choose this life. That vida brings a whole new meaning to dans la merde. It's too easy for us to disregard these people as those who don't take pride in their work, but that would be acutely inaccurate. There is pride to their work and I see it every morning from the vacuumed floors, to the clean tabletops, to my morning restroom ritual (that does not include a seated session). However, this pride is framed in the one place where no one would ever see for themselves: the custodial closet.

In my building there are two closets. One for waste and the other a mop closet with sink. The waste closet is always in proper order but it's in the sink closet where one can see their pride. White cotton mops perfectly cleaned and hung to dry after a morning of endless cleaning demonstrate to me that these are true professionals who take pride in what they do and treat the tools of their trade with respect. That's something I can admire.

Regardless of the mountain of used paper towels that grows right next to the 33gallon trash can and regardless of the "drips" that have now coalesced into a small stream, the intrepid team of custodial engineers returns each morning to make my morning respite civilized once again, and to them I am eternally grateful.

So thank you to those of you who work so hard in the early morning hours in obscurity to make our lives a bit more civilized, no matter how uncivilized our society acts in your work area. My morning is better because of you. I hope you remain in your profession for many years to come.

Until then, the smell of oranges will always be a comforting scent.

Les Halles

What is it about those places where you just feel at home?

You know, the kind of place that's "comfortable." That feels like you belong. Thomas Keller once wrote:

I felt as if I'd been there already, knew the place in my bones, as if the bistro were already a part of me before I was conscious of it, and that by stepping into one, I simply engaged a part of myself that had always been there but until that moment was dormant.

I couldn't have said it any better.

Because that's how I felt the first time I arrived at Washington D.C.'s Brasserie Les Halles.

Maybe it's the tin ceilings, the dark wood, the tobacco patina on the walls. Maybe it's the ice cubes in the urinals, or the humidor of Paul Garmirian cigars. Maybe it's the denim shirts on the waitstaff or the al fresco dining area. Maybe it's all those things combined with some very tasty food.

Les Halles may sound familiar to some of you, the New York restaurant is the home of now celebrity chef Tony Bourdain and one of the focal points in his bestseller Kitchen Confidential. But that's neither here nor there.

My first experience with Les Halles was back in 2002, just after Peter Gunn had opened the eponymous Adam Leaf & Bean tobacco shop. We were invited to attend a cigar dinner at Les Halles hosted by Paul Garmirian. I had heard about Les Halles and their reputation for pommes frites so when they called with the invitation, it was a no brainer. Dinner and cigars and the same time with steak and french fries? I was in and I didn't need to hear anymore about it.

I don't remember too much about that evening other than the cigars were excellent, the wines were flowing and it was steak frites and then more frites on top of the frites, and a very sharp waitress named Aicha.

Since that time, I've been to Les Halles on a somewhat regular basis. Usually monthly, sometimes weekly and, occasionally, more than once a week. In the beginning it was Steak Frites and some Macaroni and Cheese, then I discovered the Onglet a L'echalote, then the moules, then the cassoulet, then the onion soup, then the merguez, then the steak tartare, then the chocroute, then the steak aux poive, then the escargot, then the pate de campagne - in all, we've probably tried just about every item on Les Halles menu.

The question comes up - is it the "best" food available? Probably not. It's not expensive to eat there. The food is standard French workman's food. There's very little of the haute cuisine you'd find in those fancy French restaurants. The plating isn't wild, just relatively simple food prepared in a simple manner. But gosh is it good.

Sad to say that while I've tried most everything on the menu, I had never tried the Confit de Canard.

By now, I've been to a few other French bistros. Places like the old Aud Pied du Cochon, La Madeleine, Marche, La Chaumiere, Petit Louis and Bouchon, but there's no place like home. There's no place like Les Halles.

Food and Bloating in Las Vegas

Vegas. I used to think it was a weird place that I would never like. It was that odd pit stop on the way to Edmondton after being taken down in the California desert by the BATF and DEA. It was the place I saw Wayne Newton in concert. It was never a place I thought I would find interesting.

My how times change. For the past year I've been exploring Vegas and some of the things it has to offer. I've come up with a triumvirate of must eat places for my trips out there and now I'm sharing them with you.

Chinese
First off, there's KJ Kitchen on Spring Mountain Road. At first, most people think it's in the megaplex that looks like China's Forbidden City but it's not. It's down the street a ways and it's got to be one of the best damn Chinese seafood joints I've been to in the United States. The patrons are mostly Chinese (and in-the-know Filipinos), the menus are in Chinese and the staff is Chinese. There's a big fish tank filled with live seafood for your choosing. The "don't miss this" dish is the wok fried dungeness crab - don't know what it's really called, we just find a way to communicate with the staff for what we want.

The crab is chopped up and dredged in what must be corn starch with salt pepper, garlic, onion and jalapeno peppers. Whatever it is, it's fucking insanely good. It's the best goddamned crab I've ever had. The flavor pops. It's so good, I DREAM about it.

I've tried a bunch of other dishes and they're always excellent, but it's the crab that does it for me. Set me up with the crab and a bowl of steamed rice and I'm good to go.

The Cho took us to his favorite seafood restaurant in Boston's Chinatown where we ordered the fried crab and it was lifeless in comparison.

Spanish
Holy crap, there's only one dish that you must have at Firefly on Paradise and it's the Stuffed Dates. Bacon-wrapped with smoked almond, red wine reduction and bleu cheese - oh my God, it's The Bomb. Order four, just in case.

The rest of the menu is top-notch tapas fare but it's the dates that you kill for.

Thai
Nestled in a predominantly Korean stip mall shopping center on Sahara not too far from Maryland Parkway is the very non-descript Lotus of Siam. It's a cheap looking place with cheap looking chairs and cheap-looking tables. And while you can dine at The Venetian's Bouchon with expensive surroundings and expensive food, here you get cheap surroundings, Thai servers and some of the most rockin' Thai food I've had outside of Thailand.

I've had nothing less than stellar at Lotus but the one thing you must order is the Plar Laad Prik. Imagine a whole pomplano fish that's been scored, rubbed with seasoning and deep fried until the outside is crispy and the insides are moist and tender. Jesus, it's fucking unbelievable. Now serve that with fresh chilis and a garlic sauce and it's beyond description.

I took my brother Al, his wife Polly, Nessa and The Rod the last time we were in Vegas and we tore that fish up. Nothing was left. It's suck the head and eyeballs good. So good, I'm shaking as I write this, wishing that there was a Thai place in Baltimore that measured up to this.


Other Places
Of course, these aren't the only places to eat in Vegas. In Vegas, you could easily spend over $700 on a meal for two at the posh and famous eateries run by celebrity chefs such as Thomas Keller, Guy Savoy, Emeril Lagasse, Alain Ducasse and a host of others. But you needn't go further than the places I mentioned above for some truly soul-enriching meals.

Outside of those, there are a couple of other places in Vegas close to my heart, like the late-night eating at Roberto's Tacos, or the local Hawaiian food at L&L Hawaiian BBQ or Ohana Hawaiian BBQ. Then there's the strange 24/7 old school style Becker's Steakhouse where you can order big rib eyes, mashed potatoes and cabernets at 8am. And of course, there's the cheap eats at Main Street Station and the California Hotel, with their Hawaiian-style Oxtail Soup and 20x Odds craps tables.

Next time you're planning to go to Vegas, call me and get ready for that fried pomplano fish.

Getting Schooled

Every once in a while, each of us succumbs to our own personal desires. To be the Mack Daddy. To be the pimp. To be the hustler. To be the gourmand.

I've spent the last couple of years reading, reviewing and testing recipes from the tomes of Thomas Keller (The French Laundry Cookbook, Bouchon), Anthony Bourdain (The Les Halles Cookbook) and have successfully completed a number of their recipes, as well as lots of meals on my own, cooked with chef friends and brief stints at institutional size cooking. My delusion doesn't include my knifework (which is atrociously poor) or a depth of knowledge equal to Keller. Just a decent ability to cook just about anything.

To keep myself growing, I've been buying books to read and help expand my knowledge base. After waiting several weeks, the bible of the cooking world finally arrived today: Escoffier's Le Guide de Culinaire in the English translation by Cracknell and Kaufmann. It's what I've been waiting for. The herald to a new level of culinary excellence and understanding. I was excited to pour through the book and get cracking.

I got schooled.

If you're like me, nothing prepares you for this book. Escoffier presumes the reader has a certain level of understanding and experience in order to tackle the thousands of recipes he has to offer. This is serious. This is old school. Things like Poulard Parame, Ecrevisses a la Bordelaise and Merlans en Lorgnette au Gratin. Jesus, I don't know if I'm up for this but I'm gonna try.

Reading The Guide is like swimming - without a firm grasp of swimmings' fundamentals. I'll give it a go but I'll probably end up flailing about and producing results like my first attempt at Pancit Bihon in 1988 (not a pretty picture and a story for another day).

Looks like I'm going swimming tonight...

Eating The Towel

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!

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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....

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?

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.

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?


.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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...