Everyone's a Geek at the Comic Book Store

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 30-something Geek.

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

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

I'm doomed.

I Bless The Rains...

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


Africa.

I'm overwhelmed.

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

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm sad to say the answer is no.

More Q&A

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

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

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

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

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

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

5. Is it good?
They were.

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

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

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

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

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

Passport Photo???

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking Hell...

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

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

It was an expensive lesson.

A Ripped Off Q&A

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


1. Would you pose naked as art?

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


2. Favorite Chinese food?

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


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

- Cap'n Wha? Who???


4. Why is Hugh Grant cool?

- Because he bedded down Elizabeth Hurley.


5. Capilene or wool?

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


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

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


7. Gills or wings?

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


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

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


9. Could you give up steak?

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


10. Heaven?

- Only if I can find the stairway.


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

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

Dreambuster

The Jobs Showing Off The iPhone - Paul Sakuma/AP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PS - Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Espresso Toronto

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Ce la vie...


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

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

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

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

L'Express

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James Martin Cachero, 1965-2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aloha e James.

Marching at the Marche

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How glorious!

Visions For A New Year

It's New Year's Day and I've awaken from my slumber surrounded by the cacophy of children playing, infants crying and so-called adult males cooking up a storm while the women attend to the children and exchange happy gossip.

A new year has dawned in Toronto where it's pretty cold outside and Christine has some interesting news. Turns out she's never dreamt about me until last night. In her dream, all of us are together and I'm with some beautiful Asian girl. Since she's never dreamt about me, she's sure that this girl is "The One."

"The One" is supposedly beautiful, which leaves me with a few choices from my current array of casual dates. She's also supposedly really nice - which eliminates R. from the aforementioned group. Outside of those details there's little else. No facial descriptions. No names. No other clues to help me figure out this puzzle.

So I grab my computer and start pulling up images of potential "The Ones." Nothing.

In her dream, "The One" and I are together and it's our interaction that tells Christine that she's "The One."

Hmmm, I wonder: Which One?

Death Of A Dictator

Saddam Hussein - an unsatisfying execution.

Saddam Hussein is dead. Hung by his neck until dead.

And America rejoices.

But I cannot help but to wonder if this is the wrong path.

I fear that that the death of Saddam Hussein by a U.S. backed Iraqi government will only lead to severe terrorist attacks within the United States. Is the execution of Hussein the battlecry for a new intensity?

I feat that things within the United States will only get worse. That by 2008 the United States will fall casualty to a another large-scale terrorist attack that will knock the benign tenor we currently relax in and that will allow our government to push for national I.D. cards and/or electronic I.D. implants for all citizens. It will be branded for our safety and that of our children. "To protect our children" will be the mantra and the horror of another terror attack will push our nation further into the grips of totalitarianism.

This is what I fear for the next phase in our history. I hope that I'm wrong, but to look on our recent past and the number of rights and liberties we have given up in the name of "safety" and "security" is not reassuring.

Christmas Is All Around

Capitol Swell's recent post reminded me about a great Christmas move Love Actually. It's a fun movie about falling in love around Christmastime and has one of my favorite quotes.

Daniel and his son, Sam, have recently suffered the loss of their wife and mother. Sam's been acting a bit odd and Daniel's been worried that he might be getting into depression or, worse, drugs. They're spending some time together and finally have a chat:

DANIEL
So, what's the problem? Something odd?
Is it just mum or something else? Hmm?
Maybe school? Are you being bullied? Or
is it something worse? Can you give me
any clues, you know?

SAM
You really want to know?

DANIEL
I really want to know.

SAM
Even though you won't be able to do
anything to help?

DANIEL
Even if that's the case, yeah.

SAM
Okay. Well, truth is, actually...
I'm in love.

DANIEL
Sorry?

SAM
I know I should be thinking about mum
all the time and I am. But the truth is
I'm in love, and I was before she died and
there's nothing I can do about it.

DANIEL
(laughs with relief)
Are you a bit young to be in love?

SAM
No.

DANIEL
Oh, okay, yeah, well... I'm a little relieved.

SAM
Why?

DANIEL
Well, because I thought it would be
something worse.

SAM
Worse than the total agony of being in love?

DANIEL
(realizing)
Ah, no, you're right. Yeah, total agony.



Merry Christmas.

A Collection of Christmas Shorts

BOOKS & CHOCOLATE
How's your Christmas shopping? Done yet? Mine is. And I didn't step one foot into a mall or buy anything online. This year, I went to the local bookstore and went ballistic.

I bought every book in sight. Did that look cool? I bought it.
Did that look dumb? I bought it.
Could I give that as an "emergency gift"? Bought it.
Maybe my dad would like that book? Bought it.
"101 Reasons Why You're A Whore" A perfect gift for someone I love. Bought that too!

Next stop, Glarus Chocolatier.

I love chocolate. Since I was a little boy, it's been one of my addictions. Nestle Crunch, Kit Kat, Snickers, Hershey Kisses - I've loved them all but lately they've been falling flat. What was once a secret indulgence of Kit Kat bars is now a hollow experience after finding quality chocolate. Just a couple of years ago, Glarus opened in Timonium in the Swiss tradition and now I'm addicted.

This isn't some sort of commercialized Godiva or Lindt, this stuff is fresh. And delicious. And pricey. But so worth it. The milk chocolate just melts in the mouth - a sensuous and sticky experience dancing on your tongue. It's sin. One needs to repent and go to confession after a Glarus experience.

So I went ballistic there too. Boxes and boxes piled high with truffles. This Christmas it's books and chocolate.




MERRY CHRISTMAS, ASSHOLE
For the past two days, the morning commute to Towson has been glorious. Almost no traffic. No backups. Nothing except smooth sailing all the way in. If the morning commute was like this everyday, Baltimore could be heaven. With a high per capita murder rate.

As I'm cruising up York Road by the fire station, an elderly gentleman starts crossing the street. He's pretty far ahead and there's very little chance I could run him over (unless he stopped), but I do have to lighten up on the pedal and slow my rate of speed slightly which is a minor irritation. I think about blowing my horn and yelling expletitives at him when I start to think that it's Christmas Time and I should love my fellow man more than usual.

What happens when something happens and road rage consumes you? You want to yell expletitives at the other person and give him/her (I'm equal opportunity) The Finger. Yelling out "FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!!!" is strangely comforting and soothing while driving the rage equally in the other person who counters the tirade and, sometimes, things escalate out of hand from there. Once in a while, you're Tupac Shakur and you end up riddled with bullets, but most of the time, you just continue on more pissed off than normal.

So I thought to myself, It's Christmas. Why not yell at people with the Christmas Spirit? See how they react. Would they still be as pissed off? Therefore, I've decided that the next time someone irritates me and forces me into Road Rage Mode, I'm going to yell:

"MERRY CHRISTMAS, ASSHOLE!!!!"

Somehow, I don't think they'll be able to continue...



TOWSON HOT BAGEL
Several mornings a week find me at the local bagel bakery ordering a toasted everything bagel with lox spread and a toasted salt bagel with butter. The bagels are crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside, just like a good bagel should be. And like most foodservice establishments, Towson Hot Bagel is staffed and (unlike most foodservice establishments) owned by Hispanics (who I suspect are of Mexican descent).

The guy who actually prepares my bagels is pretty friendly, offering a smile and a hello every now and then. But the guy at the register never smiles at me. Sure he smiles at the white people, but never at me. And I think I finally know why.

Sometimes people mistake me for being Hispanic and come up to me speaking Spanish. I'm a Filipino kid who grew up in conservative Baltimore. I don't speak Spanish. I barely can speak my own language: English. I live in the Horse Country. I drive European cars. I wear khakis. I'm about as white as they come around here.

But to the casual observer none of that matters. I don't speak Spanish.

I think these guys see me and think I'm Hispanic. Therefore, they expect me to speak Spanish to them. And since I don't, they probably think I'm sort of white-washed sell-out that has forsaken La Raza for La Perla when the truth is that I've sold out Peking Duck for Duck Confit.

So what to do, what to do? Do I figure out some way to let them know that I'm not Hispanic and not a La Raza sellout? Maybe then they'll think I'm cool enough to chat with like they do with all the white people. Or maybe I'll just roll with it. They're courteous enough. And they've got good bagels. And they're convenient to my commute.

And maybe, just maybe, they'll hook me up with a hottie Latina to "bring me back to my roots."

Hope springs eternal.



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Now Playing: Pissed Off For Christmas

It's the holiday season and I'm irritated.

Not the usual irritability that comes from being surrounded by Happy Happy Joy Joy people who will turn into their usual ogres come December 26th. I'm irritated for a completely different reason.

Those that know me know I like women. Heck, those that don't know me and only read this blog probably know that I like women. It's true: I like women. I like dating women. I like going out and being around women. And I enjoy being around Foxy Women.

The Cho noted in Portafilter.net Podcast #55: . "I've seen some of the women you hang with and they're always very attractive."

Ah, vindication.

But I digress...

So, I date. A lot. As much as I can. Not because I'm a "playa" or I'm "bad like that." But rather because I don't have anything else to do in my off time so I meet, hang out and date women. Sometimes it's a noble pursuit. Sometimes it isn't. Whatever it is: it is what it is. But after doing it for so long sometimes you think that you'd like to try something else. Something that other people have been doing. Like dating someone. Seriously. Exclusively. Mano a mano. What was once a horrific thought not too long ago - suddenly, the notion of having someone to spend the holidays with sounds appealing.

Perhaps I need a doctor.

But wait, maybe it is getting tiring playing around. Maybe it would be nice to focus on one person and have that focus returned on you. Sad thing is I can't imagine what that's like since I've never been party to something like that. Maybe it's time to change.

With that in mind, I penned a note to a girl I've known for nearly three years. She's cool. She's hip. She's fashionable. She's driven. She's motivated. Most guys find a driven, independent, motivated and focused woman intimidating - I find it exciting. By now, I know her pretty well. Know what she likes, what she dislikes, what troubles her, what inspires her, her hopes, her dreams, her incredibly odd disdain for seafood, her uncontrollable need to shop - I'm down, I dig it, I accept her for how she is, what she wants to be and I want to be there encouraging and supporting her in her efforts.

So what did the note say? In a nutshell, I said that I was tired of games. Tired of bullshit. Tired of pretending. Tired of posturing. I want something more. To know each other better. To spend more time. Nothing heavy like marriage, just being Real. I thought it was honest and heartfelt, and real. I sent it on December 5th.

To be honest, there's a part of me that expects rejection. That dark side of the psyche that always tells you that you're not good enough. If that was the case and I ended up in the "Friend Zone" then I would have been hurt, disappointed and sad.

But that's not what happened.

And this isn't a Happy Happy Joy Joy story.

Nothing. That's what happened. Not a damn thing. I've been completely ignored. Blown off. Might as well have been told to "Fuck Off." In nearly twenty days, I haven't heard from her once. Oh yes, I know she got the note because she would have called out of sheer routine by now. I thought the worst possible outcome would have been told that she didn't feel that way about me.

But this is completely different.

This shows a complete lack of respect for me and whatever relationship we supposedly had these past three years. It's a slap in the face. I thought I might have been sad and hurt, but it turns out that now I'm mad. Pissed off, to be accurate.

Way fucking pissed off, actually.

And a bit disappointed too. I thought she was a better person than this. I thought she had character along with her conviction. I thought she had substance. But I was wrong.

So that's it. Game Over. Kaput. Tapos. Finis. Time to hit the Reset Button and return to our regularly scheduled programming. Can't waste time crying over spilled milk. Time to get back in the game.

But don't worry about me, gentle reader.

I've got a date lined up for next week!


Ciao Baby, Ciao.

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

Zuleyka, Tara and Kate during more innocent times. onet.pl.

The Donald (Trump, that is) was back in the news recently forgiving the reigning Miss USA, Tara Conner, for "behaviour unbecoming Miss USA." Evidently, Tara was going out drinking with Miss Universe, Zuleyka Rivera, and making out with Miss Teen USA, Kate Blair.

As the New York Daily News. reported: "...lustily kissing Miss Teen USA in public..."

I ask you, gentle reader, is this REALLY a problem???


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Maggie Eeeew!

Maggie, you would be unbelievably hot if you were a size four.

At any moment's notice, I'm happy to admit that I am both an admirer and lover of women. Woman is beautiful and I do not apologize for that fact. The world is a strange place because I'd much rather watch women than watch football.

But what is it with this emaciated look? Does anyone really find this Famine Look fasionable? Is it really "beauty"? Who beholds starvation and malnutrition as the face of desire?

Take Maggie Q for instance. Born and raised in Hawaii to an Polish-Irish father and Vietnamese mother. As most of these Asian/Caucasian mixes go, she's quite beautiful. Downright hottie, I would say. But take a closer look and she's just a hollow sack of bones with some skin. She's embodying the epitome of this Emaciated Look and it's absolutely horrifying.

It's a shame really. She could be unbelievably gorgeous, if only she ate a few cheeseburgers once in a while and gained maybe fifteen pounds.

So please ladies - PLEASE! Please don't fall for this Hollywood stereotype that you should be wearing 00 clothing. Men like real women and real women wear at least a size four.

The Horror! The Horror!

I've been thinking about taking a month-long sojourn to a new city to refresh my life's focus and spend some time learning something new. To that end, I've been searching the Internet looking for furnished, short-term apartments for rent.

The apartments I've found range anywhere from $1450 to $2200 per month. Of course, that seems high but I'm only talking about one month and completely furnished so I don't think it's too bad. What I would like is a nice apartment that has a good number of amenities such as cookware and perhaps Internet access and an available laundry. It also needs to be conveniently located so I can readily walk to the place where I'll be learning that new thing.

Yet while having a nice and decent place to live that's conveniently located is important, what's really emerging as Factor Muy Importante is the interior decoration of the apartment.

I'd like to think that I have some sense of taste and what's fashionable. God knows I've made a number of missteps in this department, such as the all black furniture. Smooth and chic in 1989 but by 1992 it was well played out. One thing I have found over the years is that I'm not necessarily a "one style, fits all" kind of guy. Visit some people's homes and it's one theme, such as Federal with wainscoting all over the house. Nice, but it gets a bit monotonous to me.

For myself, I like variety. Perhaps a bit of eclecticism. I don't necessarily mean a mish-mash of pieces in one room, but perhaps a collection of rooms that are as varied as my own interests. Today, I let the architecture of the space be my guide. I let the space speak to me on what it can become.

For example, none of the shops I've built (or planned to build) are alike. They each had their own character. The original Jay's Shave Ice was a reflection on the plantation style homes Hawaii with it's white paint, blue trim and corrugated steel roof. The second Jay's kept the spirit of the 1928 house and incorporated design elements that combined modern cabinetry with colors that gave it a homey, country, Waimanalo feel.

The original design for Spro Coffee was very rock star to play off the Recher Theatre next door. Translucent illuminated glass and steel bar with a La Marzocco Mistral espresso machine, electronically controlled concert lighting and sound system, it would have been off the hook if we could have landed a deal with the landlord. Spro Coffee Fells Point would have been stark white modern in the front room, with primary accents, and a warm, earthy coccoon for the back room. The Spro Coffee Kiosk at the Towson Library reflects the contemporary concrete structure of the building with an industrial pine and steel facade and black lacquered cabinetry.

For my personal spaces, I've played with the hip and modern (all black everything) and the post modern (contemporary) but there's something about the old that seems new to me. While most of what I have is modern in design, my favorites are a bit older. Like the Kamehameha V koa tea table. The King George II tilt-top, pie crust, claw-footed table. The Audrey Poole Kelley original oil paintings. The relic arrows from Northern Luzon. The Hawaiian kukui nut lamps made of lava rock that were absconded from the collection of the Honolulu Academy of Art.

Give me interesting pieces and give me a wonderful palette of colors to compliment them.

But what I found most disheartening about this apartment search is how poorly decorated they are. I mean, just horrible. $1750 for an apartment that still sports the off-white paint the builders put on the walls. White couches with gray and pink throw pillows - can you imagine the rest?

Suddenly, I'm finding myself willing to pay nearly any price for a place that's decently appointed...


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Seven Days 'til Christmas

This is the time of the year when I wish I was travelling. I'd much rather be in some foreign land, alone, during Christmas. That way I don't have to see all the fucking happiness going on. It drives me nuts.

Everywhere you go there are people wishing happiness on each other. In just a few days they'll be cursing and giving the finger to each other, but that's what the Christmas Spirit is all about: being fake to each other for about a month.. Sure, the lights are pretty and the crispy weather means you can wear your nice coat and snuggle up to someone warm, but I have neither a nice coat nor a snuggle friend so I'm left hanging out in the cold watching some cheap WalMart lighting blink on and off.

It's not pretty.

But I can manage being cocooned in all this psuedo-happiness. What drives me absolutely fucking insane though is the bloody Christmas music that every radio station deigns that it must play. Hey, Mister DeeJay, turn that shit off! I'm tuning into your rock station so I can hear rock music. I want to hear Metallica's Enter the Sandman and not Frosty The Snowman.

Seven days. I hope I'll make it.

New York Fatties

I've been reflecting on my trip to the Big Apple this past week and I've come across an interesting revelation.

The American Media continually touts the Obese-ification of America and everywhere I turn, it seems to be true. Walk around Baltimore and there are chubby people everywhere. Chubby people, fat people, BBW people, Thunder Thigh people. Diets abound. Atkins, South Beach, whatever. People constantly talk about "going to the gym" but no one really goes except for the skinny people.

It didn't hit me right away until I had returned to Baltimore - but there are no fat people in New York.

Okay, maybe there are a few fat people. But you walk around New York and just about everyone is in decent physical shape. Maybe New York really is an island unto itself. Maybe it is the center of the universe. Maybe it's just that everyone and their mother WALKS.

No one really drives a car in "The City." It's too penalizing. Parkings' a bitch. And costs too much. Traffic is fucked. Commuting by car from outside Manhattan absolutely sucks. The tolls cost your youngest born. That said, everyone walks. Even if they take the train, they walk. And walk a lot.

I think that's the key to the obesity epidemic. We need to walk. So many people I know talk about "the way to lose weight" or complain about being chubby. Well, stop yer bitchin' and get to walkin'.

Daniel Craig, in a recent issue of British GQ, discussed how he lost weight and it necessitated him raising his heart rate to 160 bpm for ten minutes. Most of us fat-asses would have a heart attack at 160. We just need to walk more and let the sweat start.

In fact, I'm going to walk over to Hooter's for fuel and inspiration...

The Devil Wears Prada

Just finished watching the Anne Hathaway film The Devil Wears Prada and enjoyed it thoroughly. Meryl Streep was deliciously evil, Stanley Tucci was deliciously fabulous, and Anne was just delicious.

But I'm not here to blather and slather about some fashion movie. I'm here to bitch.

I the movie, Anne's character takes on the job as assistant to the editor of a major fashion magazine. It's all-consuming and forces her to choose her work over all else. Nothing new there. Her boyfriend gets upset and eventually breaks up with her. Nothing particularly new there either.

The thing that rankles my goat is that Anne's character is forced to work late and comes home late. Now, if the boyfriend was some sort of office worker doing the 9 to 5 thing it would be understandable that he's sitting at home at 10 or 11pm getting pissed off, but he's not. He's a cook working in a restaurant.

Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't know any cooks who are lounging around at home at 10pm looking perfectly showered and rested. I mean really, if this was the real world, she would be working late, he would be coming home later - it would have been the perfect match. That lazy bastard even has time to party on his birthday - which just blows the whole movie for me.

At least they live in what could pass for a standard crappy Manhattan apartment instead of the usual $5000/mo loft that movies usually put their "just out of school and trying to make it" characters.

Captain Incognito

During one of the Portafilter.net Podcasts, Nick and I discussed visiting shops. He felt that one should introduce himself, I didn't. It's not about being sneaky or spying, it's about respect. I'm just a humble visitor to a shop and I feel it's presumptuous that anyone in that shop would know me or kowtow to me because I announced my presence.


Anticipating chilly weather in the Big Apple, I grabbed my trusty La Marzocco baseball cap before jumping on the train to New York and threw on a button down over the 2004 USBC Atlanta long sleeve t-shirt I was wearing underneath.

That said, I really hate going into shops and being pegged for a "coffee person." It's embarassing. And the only way someone will know that I'm one of those "coffee people" is if I let some piece of clothing display that fact, or have gone off the deep end and become some proselytizing schmuck telling the shop staff "how to make coffee." If I'm ever the latter, please kick me in the nuts. I never want to be some jerkoff acting like he knows more than everyone else about coffee.

Which brings us to the point of this entry.

Wednesday, December 6, 2006 - 7:30pm, Spring Street, SoHo, New York, NY
As Lindsay, Karen ("Kahn" to the uninitiated) and myself are mindlessly drifting down Spring Street after a day of shopping (or in my case, traveling), Matt notices the Alessi store on Greene Street. If you're unfamiliar, Alessi is one of those European accessory companies that makes all sorts of unique, intersting and expensive furnishings for the home. Things like bowls, cups, pitchers, tableware, etc, etc. They're also the creator of a pricey latte art pitcher that those latte artists (like Defurious) seem to prefer.

Suddenly, for Matt, it's a "must see" and since we're just wandering aimlessly, into the Alessi Store we go.

But on the way in, I notice a small sign in the window that reads: "Joe The Art of Coffee."

We've just stumbled haplessly upon Joe's third location.

Inside the store is gorgeous in a modern, hip, Euro-urban kind of way. White walls, chrome store fixtures - everything is streamlined and integrated. The Alessi stuff is in the back while Joe takes up the front. The Joe half is scrumptuous. More white, a cushioned bench, what looks to be uncomfy stools along a very long and very abstract artsy bar. It's hard to describe. You'll just have to see it for yourself. For this location, Joe has armed itself with a two group La Marzocco Linea - a departure from the Synesso love at the other two locations.

Matt goes up and orders an Americano while I ask for a double espresso. As I'm looking for money in my wallet, the girl behind the bar notices my hat and comments, asking if we're in the coffee business. Crap, I'm Joe Jerkoff with the La Marzocco cap. Totally forgot I was wearing it. I wish I had buried it. Oh well, too late now. I acknowledge that we are in the coffee business when she asks where we are all from. I rattle off where we're all from, the Coffee Capitals of the World: Vancouver, Copenhagen and Baltimore.

That's when things took a turn to scary. "Baltimore? You're not Jay, are you?" she asks.

Busted.

"Um, well, actually, yes, I am." Shit, don't know what else to say. Can't lie now.

Meister, Lindsay, Jay, Karen and Matt cold chillin' at Joe.

It's weird. This whole podcast thing. Whether it's by reputation or from hearing my voice, some coffee people seem to know who I am, and it's just odd. Don't get me wrong. I'm honored that people choose to listen and find the show enjoyable. I'm honored and humbled. But I'm also conscious about visiting your shop and coming off the wrong way. Besides, it helps to roll with a crew of baristas who are far more skilled, talented, passionate and committed than I will ever be.

So how was the visit to Joe's Alessi? Very cool. Meister (her name) made me a killer double shot of espresso. Full-bodied, tasty, complex, oh-la-la, I really enjoyed it. She was cool, friendly and welcoming - even though we waltzed in a half-hour to closing. The next day, we ran into Meister in front of Cafe Grumpy - seems that all of the New York baristas hang out there. She invited us to a NYC Barista Kickball Challenge on Sunday but we were gonna be gone by then.

Next time we'll be back and they shall fall.

Oh yes, they shall fall.

Back In The Saddle (Empire Goes Kaput, Part Two)

Woe.

Woe is me.

I'm back behind the bar again after a five day sojourn. And I'm suffering.

These mid-week jaunts are a tempting mistress. They're the sweet seductive fruits that cause mighty men to crumble and fall weak at their knees. Spend a few days doing nothing in particular except eating lavish meals and hanging out with beautiful women and you too wil succumb to the warm waters suspending and massaging you body and mind into blissful submission.

Until you wake up and your empire has crumbled, your fortunes wiped out and you're left penniless sleeping under a highway overpass.

Another weekday holiday with Lindsay and Matt in New York City was just too good to pass up. Coffee. No Coffee. It didn't matter to me. I was enjoying taking off during the week, in spite of what Donald Trump once said:

Bad for business. You start missing weekdays, you start to like it too much, your whole empire goes kaput."

They said my momma raised an intelligent, articulate and inquisitive son. They didn't say I was smart.

From Wednesday to Saturday, it was a dizzying array of activity and people, punctuated by hours of nothingness. Weird. Even though I had lived in Greenwich Village and cut my teeth in the pretentious clubs of New York, there were times when I just felt bored and out of place in the busiest city in the world. Hours would pass and I would do nothing. Then, once Lindsay arrived, it would be a tornado of activity.

It's too much to process in one post. It was crazy and beautiful at the same time. We saw everyone in New York. All the usual suspects and then we ran into the unexpected - people like Karen from Estate Coffee in Copenhagen who wasn't in town for the coffee as much as the record shopping. Turns out Karen (pronounced: "Khan") is an aspiring deejay with hiphop and funk influences. I hope she names her CD release "Wrath of Karen."

A morning stop at the Chelsea Cafe Grumpy found a surprised Daryn Berlin of Counter Culture Coffee and Tony from Atlanta's Octane Coffee and a Clover made cup of Red Mountain Papua New Guinea (which was deelish, by the way). But the true surprise of the trip was the very excellent double-shot of Intelligentsia's Black Cat espresso made by Dan Griffith at Cafe Collage. A true first, since I had never experienced a shot of Black Cat that I liked. This one was dark, chocolately, complex, thick and very good to start. However, the last half ounce was just incredibly bitter and not to my liking. But finally, a good pull of Black Cat.

All in all, it was too much. Lindsay liked to walk. And so we walked. We walked like pilgrims on the way to Mecca. From Spring Street in Soho, all the way to 57th and 7th Avenue. Then back again. I was a sore bitch by Friday morning. But I wasn't going to let it show. If she wanted to walk to 242nd Street, I would be there: humping it. Thank goodness a bitter cold front moved into the city, making walking just miserable and forcing us to use the subway or cab.

In the end, it was a fun trip. One that I wish didn't have to end. I really was hoping for a Miami extension. Oh well, some other time.

Meanwhile, I'm just trying to find enough clothes to keep me warm under the highway...


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Yo Soy Daniel Meade

I'm hooked.

It's true. I'm obsessed with Ugly Betty.

The sets, the scenes and the wardrobe. I love it all. I see the blue tailored shirts with purple ties and I too want to be Daniel Meade, editor in chief of Mode Magazine. I want to be stylish and fashionable.

Oh, and I've been spending recklessly at Nordstrom Men's...

Saturday at Pazo

I'm not a Saturday Person.

Meaning that while I enjoy going out to eat at fabulous restaurants, I don't like eating at those same fabulous restaurants on Friday or Saturday nights. Why? Because everyone and their mother is also eating out that night. Those are the nights restaurants rake in most of their money, the house is packed, the wait staff is harried, the bus people have a harder time keeping up and the kitchen just won't give your food the attention it deserves because, like everyone else, they're just trying to stay out of the weeds.

But I can't control birthdays and I don't like to be the one poo-poo-ing on the parade, so I'm happy to go along with whatever. It was Vanessa's 30th and Pazo was the place. Seating time: 8:30pm.

Just pulling up to the place and I could tell it was packed. The valet line was a bit long and the attendants look harried. A quick chat with my attendant revealed 130 for the 8:30p seating and possibly another 80 at 10p - a busy night indeed.

I had been to Pazo once before with Sam H. on the night the OnoGrill was born. It was that blustery spring night in 2005 that we sat down and hammered out the ideas which would propel us to 4 stars from the Baltimore Sun. Back then, Pazo was spanking new and I was interested to see how the restaurant had matured over the past year and a half.

The brainchild of Baltimore's media chef darling, Cindy Wolf - who also owns Charleston and Petit Louis, Pazo is supposed to be a Spanish-style tapas restaurant that doubles as a hip spot where the trendy want to see and be seen. After years in Nell's Basement, Michael Alig parties at Tunnel and years in the movie business, a place to see and be seen is the last place I usually want to be.

The interior is dramatic. High ceilings, timber structural supports, Spanish-esque chandeliers (think: Mask of Zorro) fill a cavernous converted factory space in the grey area between Fells Point and Harbor East. It's a pleasant looking space whose lack of any sort of acoustic dampeners make for a very noisy place - and that's without the loud euro techno music.

I want to like Pazo, I really do, but it's hard. Maybe that's just their thing or maybe it's because we were there on Saturday night, but I found the food to be bland and relatively uninspired. For our large party of 20 plus older-than-twentysomethings we had been given the "head table" - a dark wood table that dominated the lower level, featuring bar height chairs. I have to admit, I absolutely HATE bar height chairs. My feet dangle and there's no place to rest them (like the floor on normal chairs), so even while the upholstered seats are comfy on the tushy, it's hell on the legs and a complete and utter distraction from the main event: the food.

We had what must have been a fifteen course meal, prix fixe. Like I said, the food was okay, but for the price I expected better. I expected something dazzling. I expected to hunger for the dishes, like I do at Las Vegas' Firefly on Paradise.

Out of all the dishes, which just kinda blended together, the most memorable were the beef empandas, the beef course and the spaghetti squash. The empanadas were good, tasty and cooked just right. Lightly spicy, slightly sweet with a delicate crust. The beef course was a nice fatty flank steak with sliced almonds. That was tasty. So tasty that I could help but to devour as much of it as was possible - of course, it could also be that the rest of the meal was unfulfilling and I just was trying to build some sense of satiation. Another highlight for me was the spaghetti squash. Thin julienne slices of squash sauteed with lardon style bacon. That was tasty.

The honorable mention goes to the pistachio topped white fish. I think it would have been a smashing dish had it not been overcooked.

The rest of the meal was largely unmemorable but Capitol Swell lists pretty much the entire meal in his blog entry. And while I don't necessarily disagree with him, he is incorrect about the salad - it's romaine, not iceberg.

As I said earlier, chef/owner Cindy Wolf is Baltimore's media darling. She's reputed as "the best" in Baltimore. Which makes me wonder why I have such a hard time thinking that her restaurants (Charleston, Petit Louis, Pazo) are as good as the reputation? Most of the meal was unmemorable because it's just bland. Perhaps the great unwashed masses of Baltimore are into bland food, or the clientele is too worried about being seen in the hip spot so the food doesn't have to measure up, but it's just disappointing.

Some missteps: while our server was very good, top-notch even, there were a couple missteps by those supporting him. Most irritably was midway through the meal. I was drinking a very good Allende Rioja 2003 in one of those stemless Riedel glasses when a blonde waitress brought another course to the table. Now, maybe I expect too much, but I do expect that it is the waitress' problem to move other dishes to make room for the next course - especially if I'm engaged in conversation with my dining companion. But to take my wine glass, move it out of place and drop the dish where the glass was is just inexcusable. It's poor service. It's a lack of understanding on what service is all about. If Cindy Wolf is the best chef in Baltimore then this is just shit.

The next misstep occured during dessert as a bowl filled with two scoops of mousse and six raspberries were brought to the table. One of the raspberries had a big splotch of green mold on it. That's bad enough and had the raspberry been placed in such a way that obscured the mold, i might have thought that maybe the kitchen didn't see it. But there it was, the mold was right side up and in obvious sight - it might as well have had a neon sign. Either the kitchen was so slammed they weren't taking their time to plate and check the plates carefully, or they were just incompetent. Neither situation is desirable.

Oh well, enough slugging on Pazo. I'm disappointed. I was hoping for something tasty, adventurous and authentic, but what we got was mild, bland and uninspired - I mean really, a plateful of mini cannolis? Is that considered imaginative and bold in this town?

Maybe that's why I usually find myself in D.C.

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The Day I Became A Barista

The other night, whizzing along I-95 at nearly the same speed, Lindsay posed the question on when I considered myself a "barista." At first I was stumped. I don't know, maybe three weeks ago? I wasn't sure what she meant. After a bit more probing, it turned out the consensus was that there was some sort of challenging event that took place that really solidified your ability to perform and grind out professional-level drinks. For both Lindsay and Matt, they had been working baristas for quite some time before that day came around.

Part of what brought this up was the fact that there seems to be a number of "baristas" out there who lay claim to the title with very little knowledge or understanding about their craft or what they are doing. These are the same chaps who posit that they are "the best" in their "town", "shop" or "city" and that they know more than their employers and those around them. While this may very well be true, how difficult is it for one to become "the best" when they're working in a vacuum?

Even though I've toiled on the hind end of the coffee business, I've been lucky to have met mentors and friends willing to share their thoughts, ideas and expertise with me. Unlike some of my friends who enjoy daily interaction with their experts, I only have brief moments, conversations and trips with mine, resulting in a mad rush to memorize the theories and lessons to implement when I get home and try to execute faithfully. The difficult part of this approach is that you never know truly how you are advancing - or if you are advancing at all. Perhaps you've plateau'd and remain stagnant but you just don't know it, while thinking that you're "the best." A scary thought indeed.

My day of reckoning came without notice in April 2005. It was during the La Marzocco party at Hines Public Market Coffee during the Seattle SCAA Conference. The La Marzocco party featured rare antique espresso machines, free alcohol, free food, free coffee and the illuminati of the coffee industry. When it came to the coffee biz, everyone and their mother was there.

True to form, I arrived late. The place was jam packed so I sought refuge by the five group Linea espresso machine being manned by Bronwen Serna, who was increasingly late for another event she had to attend. Finally, she decided that she had to go, leaving me to defend the fort behind the five group with Andy Newbom (of Barefoot Coffee Roasters). Um, I think we should get someone else that's better than me to do this, I told Bronwen. Nah, you'll be fine. You do it, and she was out the door.

Left with no other choice, I stepped behind the machine and prepared to get hammered. And hammered we did. The orders for drinks came at a dizzying rate. Double espresso, macchiato, single espresso, cappuccino, honey macchiato, mocha - an endless cacophony of drinks yelled out from a blizzard of the industry's finest. These were the true experts of the industry. Those who had written books, articles, publications, papers, done studies and trained the best of the best - all drinking the drinks I churned out from behind the Linea. It would have been an appropriate time for a mental breakdown.

But there wasn't time for that. There wasn't much time to think about the different variables that affect the espresso. Dose, distribution, level, grind, tamp - that espresso might end up in the hands of Piero Bambi. Merde. National champions, world champions, usually it's impressive to have just one of them in your shop. There were a gaggle of them. A thirsty gaggle of them. Did I really get enough coffee in that basket? Whoa, that chica looks muy caliente, wish she'd come over for a hazelnut latte. Fuck it, I'm pulling that shot anyway.

It was a rush. A crushing rush. Chances are that I'll never experience pulling shots for such a notable group ever again. Thank God. Nothing is more nerve wracking than making drinks for the industry elite whom you know is critiquing each and every drink you prepare for them. If I sucked that suckiness would have been amplified ten fold and I would be labeled a poseur, or worse. Doom. But there wasn't time to think about that, just keep your head down, pump out the drinks and avoid falling in the weeds in front of your friends.

I wasn't sure if that was the right answer when I told Lindsay but now that I think about it that was the day I cut my teeth and made my bones. After that night I felt good about the work I did but it wasn't until several months later, while Googling myself, did I find this quote from Doug Cadmus' blog who had been there that night at Hines:

Best Espresso: Tied between Jay Caragay's espresso macchiato at Hines' and Jennifer Prince's version in the BGA Booth.
http://www.bloggle.com/coffee/2005/04/scaa-seattle-day-three.php

Not a bad way to start your day.



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The Empire Goes Kaput

In his book, Who's Your Caddy? Rick Reilly chronicles his adventures caddying for various characters both famous and nefarious, including a stint with Donald Trump. He joins The Donald on a Tuesday golf outing at Trump's New Jersey country club where Trump notes that he doesn't like taking off during the week to play golf or generally goof around.

Why? Because if he takes Tuesdays off to play golf, he might enjoy it. In turn, this might become a regular outing that erupts into more weekdays off, more leisure and his entire empire going kaput.

And kaput is something undesireable for The Donald and His Empire.

I've spent the last three days enjoying a brief weekday vacation with Lindsay and Matt on a segment of their East Coast Coffee Crawl, a two to three week odyssey that will take them across the Eastern Seaboard of the United States and a quick jaunt to Chicago. It's been a fun and intoxicating (definitely non-alcoholic intoxication) adventure with The Intrepid Two from Canada. Happily, it hasn't been only about the coffee.

Monday started out with an evening at Murky Coffee in Arlington, Virginia with The Cho, Coffee Wonderkind Peter Giuliano, El Salvadorean coffee producer Aida Batlle, a bunch of coffee fanatics, The Intrepid Two, sizzling platters of beef, a Korean style restaurant reconstruction project, as well as visits to Abe's Place, Korea, Vietnam, The Hill, Exorcist Stairs, Cho's Rice Rocket and being surveilled by Uniformed Secret Service and White House snipers.

Tuesday brought fatty beef brisket, mystery coffee, cupping notes, runny water, the Star Spangled Banner, Eat Bertha's Mussels, totalitarianism, snowboarding down Federal Hill, $2600 love seats, Irish Pubs in Greektown, duckpin bowling and big, fat crab cakes at G&M with Beto and Anna.

Wednesday morning found headaches, triple-toasted jalapeno bagels with fried eggs, sausage and cheese, Mazzer Major Mods, latte art demonstrations, Sidamo tastings from David George, returning old lingerie to Old Flames, Twix, the Bad Ass interior design of Chesnut Hill Coffee, finding great makeout spots behind dodgy warehouses, waking a bewildered John Hornall from his slumber, Independence Hall, The Liberty Bell, Virgo-isms, truly innovative inner-city parking methods, "It's just Philly," 57% like sex, Tacos in Little Italy, 8/9-Ball Tournament, and the Jim's-Geno's-Pat's Cheesesteak (Whiz with) Trifecta.

It's now another Thursday afternoon at Spro Coffee, the Intrepid Two are probably gorging themselves on Hershey bars while I'm conniving and bullying my staff into working next week so I can take another weekday vacation for their New York City segment where there's been promises of Les Halles, Carnegie Deli, Ninth Street Espresso, twin Clovers, hanging with the Murky Crew, Chinese food, podcasting from MTV, and who knows - there might even be tour extensions to Miami, Atlantic City, South of the Border, Disney World, Terry Davis' couch and an opening of the new Key West Espresso Bar.

Looks like my empire might be going kaput.

Oh My God, They're Turkeys!

With the unofficial holiday of Black Friday upon us, I thought it would be a good time to remember the meaning of Thanksgiving with this quote from WKRP radio's Les Nessman:

What a sight, ladies and gentlemen. What a sight. The copter seems to be circling the parking area now, I guess it's looking for a place to land. No, something just came out of the back of the helicopter. It's a dark object. Perhaps a skydiver plummeting to the earth from only two thousand feet in the air. A second and a third. There's no parachutes yet. Those can't be skydivers. I can't tell just yet what they are but - OH MY GOD THEY'RE TURKEYS!!!!

Oh my God, Johnny did you get this? Oh, they're crashing to the earth right in front of my eyes. One just went through the windshield of a parked car! This is terrible. The crowd is running around pushing each other. Oh my goodness. Oh the humanity! Oh, people are running about. The turkeys are hitting the ground like sacks of wet cement. I don't know how much longer - the crowd is running for their lives. I think I'm going to step inside. I can't stay out here and watch this any longer. No, I can't go in there.

Children are searching for their mothers, and - Oh, not since the Hindenberg tragedy has there been anything like this. I don't know how much longer I can hold my position here Johnny. The crowd...


Hope your T-Day was a good one and you can see the actual video below.

To fast forward to the transcript above, go to 07:30.

Gobble Gobble

It must be some sort of male fantasy.

After a long night's slumber, one awakens to find a smoker filled with delicious meats ready for the eating. Some, like the ribs, are ready for morning chow. Others, like the turkeys, are almost ready. And yet more meats, such as the Kalua Pig and Monster Brisket, will be ready in several hours.

There's so much effort put into starting up the smoker that it seemed a darn shame to only smoke a couple of birds. The Fast Eddy FEC 100 smoker has so much more room available that it seems very un-Christian to smoke it almost empty. This prompted an evening trip to the local supermarket to pick up the aforementioned ribs and pork shoulder picnic.

Perhaps it's due to my desire for simplicity, or perhaps I'm just being unimaginative and lazy, but I chose some very simple preparations for last night's meat load. The turkeys received a rubbing of sea salt, ground black pepper, ground thyme and rosemary. Both the Monster Brisket and ribs received the Ono Grill's Hines Spro Rub and Pig Powder, respectively. And the pork shoulder picnic received a serious lomi lomi of Ala'e Salt, garlic, one ti leaf and wrapped in banana leaves that will transform it into that Hawaiian staple known as Kalua Pig.

All this meat, along with a good helping of steamed white rice, promises to make for a delicious Turkey Day meal.

But the best part of waking up today were the ribs that I stashed in the smoker strictly for today's breakfast...

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Night Before Thanksgiving

It's just past midnight the night before Thanksgiving.

Outside in the cold rain sits my trusty Fast Eddie smoker running at 230 degrees Fahrenheit. It's filled to the brim with three fifteen pound turkeys, four racks of ribs, a pork shoulder for Kalua Pig, and a twenty pound beef brisket. All being slowly smoked to perfection for Thanksgiving feasts around Baltimore and New Jersey.

In the refrigerator is a honey baked ham and in the oven bakes both a pumpkin and sweet potato pie. My house is packed with food being prepped and cooked for tomorrows feast.

But there isn't a damn thing in this house that I can eat now.

And I'm bloody starving...

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...