Not Quite Shave Ice

The Banana Banshee and Blumenthal.

Ironic that the first post after I announce the G9 would be accompanied by another iPhone photo, isn't it?

On Thursday, I blew the tire on my GMC Sonoma and ended up changing it in the dark with Jackie coming out to check on me every few minutes. Too macho to accept her offers for help, I trudged along in the bleak darkness.

Yesterday, I took the damaged tire to the local Good Year dealer for a repair. While waiting, I decided to visit our old competitor: SnoAsis - the long-standing snowball stand on Padonia Road in Timonium for a taste of their Banana Banshee snowball.

To the uninitiated, snowballs, shaved ice and shave ice are all the same. Au contraire, mon ami. There is a big difference and it's all in the ice. True Hawaiian-style shave ice (no "d" in "shave") is extremely fine in texture. Like snow with no chunks or chips of ice in any form. The snowball (or New Orleans-style shaved ice) that they serve at SnoAsis is nice but there's still bits of ice pieces in the snowball. It's slightly crunchy. And there's nothing they can do about it.

The problem is in the actual machine used to shave the ice. The machine is designed to accommodate a 6" x 6" x 12" block of ice horizontally where a hand operated plate pushes the block against three fixed blades mounted on a disk spinning at nearly 1,000 rpm. The texture of the ice is determined strictly by the amount of pressure the operator places on the ice block. Push lightly and the texture is soft and fluffy, but production is slow. Press harder and the ice comes out like a blizzard, but it gets chippy and crunchy. You can guess the amount of pressure a typical operator places on the block during a rush.

To me, this variable in the machines' design is a major flaw. Too much possibility for inconsistency in ice texture. Too easy to press harder and make it crunchy. It's a great machine for the average snowball operator but not ideal for one truly fixated on quality and the pinnacle of fluffy ice texture. In other words: It's not the machine for me.

But in the heat of the moment, it's a decent enough alternative. Some shaved ice, a bit of evaporated milk and banana syrup and all is good. But sixteen ounces of the stuff is just too much. Too much to eat and in this heat, at least a fourth of it has melted, rendering it useless. Of course, placing the snowball in a paper cup that offers no insulation doesn't help either.

At least I've got the words of Heston Blumenthal to while the time away while waiting for my tire to be repaired.

Getting The "G"

The Lineup: Apple iPhone 4GB, Canon 350D (XTi), Mamiya 645-1000s, Yashica T4, Canon F-1n, Canon EOS-1N, Nikonos V, Nikon LiteTouch, Nikon Coolpix 4300, Polaroid iZone and Nikon Coolpix 775 (crushed).

I've been shooting images since the seventh grade. For many years, I fancied myself as a wartime photojournalist traveling to far-off and exotic lands to see the world and take pictures of other people killing themselves. I wanted to be where the action was. Mortar fire, rocket propelled grenades and the sweet sound of AK-47 fire was, I figured, my calling.

Instead, I ended up shooting traffic accidents (with some carnage) and rock concerts for the local daily, or posed photos for national periodicals - not quite the rock and roll from heavy gunfire I was envisioning in my youth. When the HBO film Live from Baghdad came out, I wasn't aghast that they were caught by surprise at the onset of Desert Storm. I watched with envious eyes, wishing that I could have been one of those cameramen catching the most amazing footage of the twentieth century. Of course, my reality could well have been me hiding under the bathroom sink, crying out for mommy...

So why this sudden left turn about photography? Well, I've been getting complaints from friends around the world about the quality of photos on this blog, specifically the iPhone photos. "Why do you keep using that crappy iPhone camera?" Yes, I know the photos aren't the best possible, but I use it only when I don't have an alternative handy.

But all of that is about to change.

After years of being a film stalwart, I started making the slow switch to digital in 2001 with my Nikon Coolpix 775. It was a small and handy camera that fit comfortably (if bulkily) in my pocket. It was run over by a car in April 2002. From there, I moved to the Nikon Coolpix 4300. During the summer of 2004, I went whole hog and purchased the Canon 350D and started building a kit of lenses and accessories to match that of my old Canon F1 kit from my shooting days.

For a couple of years, the combination of the Nikon 4300 and Canon 350D sufficed, but the 4300 was getting a bit long in the tooth, so I went out and bought a refurbished Nikon S1 in the summer of 2006. The S1 was a decent camera but took a long time to lock focus and was just a slow camera to shoot with in lower light. Four months later, just after the warranty had expired, so did the electronics. After sending it back to Nikon and getting an estimate on the repair, I decided to abandon that camera (it was almost the same amount I had paid).

In April of 2007, during a visit to Los Angeles, I found a great deal on a Nikon Coolpix S200. I bought it. But the S200 was like the S1: slow in low light, slow in daylight, slow to shoot, slow to write, and with a reddish hue. It turned out to be one of the most frustrating cameras I've ever had to endure. I barely use it and now don't even know where I've placed it. It's that important.

I've spent a lot of time traveling these past eighteen months and the one thing that keeps growing on me is my hand-carry luggage. It's an old Tenba photographers computer case that I've been using for over ten years now. Ten years ago, it was just right and I don't remember it being a burden. Lately, it's grown into a beast that holds my iBook, 350D, video camera, books, accessories and all sorts of other stuff that I've been on a campaign to lighten my load and lose the bulk.

While I enjoy taking pictures, I don't enjoy the bulk of a small SLR, like the 350D. And while the S200 was perfect for the pocket, it infuriated me with everything else. There has to be a compromise somewhere, and before I leave on my next trip in August, I'm determined to find it.

Enter the Canon G9.

Touted as an excellent replacement its' predecessor, the G7, this camera seems to have it all: fully manual control, 12 megapixels, wide lens range and stunning picture quality that's not quite pocketable (unless you have big pockets), but small and compact enough to make it more enjoyable to tote around than the 350D.

The problem is that my local camera store is out of stock and it doesn't seem like they're going to get any more since its' successor, the G10, is going to be announced very soon. Well, as cool as that may be, I don't have the time to wait until the fall to buy a camera for an August trip. Something else has gotta work.

My trusty guy down at the camera store said I should check out Nikon's P5100. Like the Canon, it has a manual mode (though not as much manual controls on the body), a hot shoe for external flash, and good resolution in a compact body. Unlike the Canon, it doesn't shoot in RAW mode and is about $150 less. Hmm, that could be a good alternative.

I sat around for a day or two pondering my choices. I could go to Best Buy and buy the G9, but I'd pay full-tilt ($500) and support big box stores (not too keen on either). B&H in New York was also out of stock. Then a friend told me about Circuit City's online deal: $499 for the camera, $50 online rebate, additional 10% off online coupon and in-store pickup. That would bring the total price of the G9 with tax to $430, plus an additional 10% off coupon for in-store purchases. Tempting.

My favorite camera website: dpreview.com has a buying guide feature where you can compare side-by-side any two (or more) cameras that you desire. I lined up the P5100 against the G9, read their individual reviews and came up with only one choice.

dpreview.com's in-depth reviews are fantastic reference points when considering a digital camera. They've developed a standardized format that looks at everything, including photo results and the differences between the P5100 and G9 led me to only one choice. Now honestly, both cameras are great performers and for my purposes I bet I wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the two since it's mainly for general shooting for personal use and for this blog. But, one's greater sharpness and image quality would allow me to use it for print work in a pinch, that's important in case something happens to the 350D.

Enter the G9.

So I ran out and picked up the G9 from Circuit City for an incredible price and found the SanDisk Extreme II 4GB SDHC card on sale for $29.99 (usually $49.99) and bought two using the 10% off coupon. Whatta bargain!

While reading the reviews, I also realized that I was ready and willing to spend the money for the best camera I could find in that category. That camera was the G9. I thought about getting the P5100 and waiting until the release of the G10, but that would be a compromise. I didn't want to compromise. I wanted the best and had to be honest with myself and acknowledge that I wouldn't be happy unless I had the best. I bought the G9.

It'll take a little while for me to get out there and really work the G9 through it's paces, but hopefully you'll see more and more of it on these pages. Ciao!

Oh, and for those of you thinking about the G10. It should be in stores by the fall.

Things That Make You Go: Hmmm...

A side effect of writing a public blog that at times tends to be highly critical and sometimes controversial is that it is, well - public. Meaning that people from around the world and all walks of life read what you have to say, no matter how long ago you wrote it.

From time to time, I receive comments about old posts that are probably written by people associated with, or sympathetic to whichever restaurant I reviewed at that time. Almost always these comments are left anonymously and range from simple messages of "I HATE YOU!!!!!!!!" (yes, they put in eight exclamation marks) and "You deserve to die.", to slightly more benign remarks, like: "You are a terrible person" and "If you guys like eating in Mexico so much...go back there!!!!"

Within the coffee community, I tend to be rather controversial and viewed perhaps as an arrogant prick. Since I'm willing to ask the tough questions, challenge those who are supposed to be my friends, and hold strong opinions, I can accept that. What some people choose to ignore is the fact that I make all my statements in public and in writing - under the harsh scrutiny of the general public. Some people agree, others do not. In the cases where people don't agree, I'm willing to listen to their take on things - even when they're highly critical of me.

That said, if you're a reader of this blog and have something to say, go for it. I welcome it. I might even address it. The one rule is that you must have a blogger account, sign in and leave your comments under your name. Quite simply, if you can't put your name to your critique, then it means nothing.

But on this occasion, I thought I'd take a moment to address some of the comments intended for posts over a year old (that have been submitted recently). I'll provide the quote and then my commentary will follow:

"I HATE YOU!!!!!!!!"
Thank You, but there's already a bit of a queue. To the back of the line, please.

"You are a terrible person"
You must be my ex-girlfriend from 1988. I know it tasted bitter and salty. I apologize. I've learned to drink a lot of pineapple juice since those days.

"If you guys like eating in Mexico so much...go back there!!!!"
Relax. I'll be back in the DF in September - you can read about it on my blog: onocoffee.blogspot.com.

"You deserve to die."
Rest assured, there's only one certainty in life. One day, I'll be dead. And you will be too.

Kalbi Me This, Kalbi Me That

Sang's Marinade and the Secret Ingredient.

Right before I jetted off on my whirlwind European Tour, Paella Party and Artscape, I took an afternoon to test out a potential new-ish approach for making Korean-style kalbi short ribs. For this test, I sourced some thick cut beef short ribs from Woolsey Farm in Churchville, Maryland. I've been sampling a bit of Woolsey's meats lately and have come to like their offerings.

For the marinade, I would rely on Sang Moon's old recipe of soy sauce, sugar, garlic, onions, green onions, ginger and a variation on the secret ingredient: Mexican Coca-Cola. Just mix it all in a bowl and soak those suckers.


Short Ribs marinated and vacuum bagged.

Actually, I left the ribs in the marinade for only about thirty minutes since I was sealing them in vacuum bags which would help the marinade penetrate the meat. A light coating will do and you can refrigerate the vac-sealed marinated meat overnight, if you wish.

But I wanted to get going, so once they were sealed and the water bath heated, I dropped them into a temperature controlled sous vide bath of 65C water and left the ribs to slow cook for three hours.


Sous Vide at 65.0 Celcius for five hours.

While I've been playing around a bit with sous vide, in many ways I'm still flying in the dark. A little experiment here, a little testing there, and voila! Maybe something good will come of this. Or I would have waited around for hours just to have a taste of disaster.

Of course, I've waited two years just to discover that my efforts in making red wine resulted in catastrophe and financial ruin. Perhaps a couple of hours and ten dollars in beef isn't that bad.


Pan Sear on all sides before serving.

After five hours, I decided to pull the ribs and see what there was to see. The nice thing about sous vide is that nothing escapes. The marinade and the juices are all trapped and the meat has to essentially braise in its' own juices, keeping the flavor close to home.

At five hours, the meat is pink all the way around. It's unnerving in a way since you're not used to seeing the outside of cooked meat so pink. Maybe it's alive. Maybe it's pissed. Whatever it is, it's time to kill it with a proper sear.


Beautifully pink inside but needs to be cooked longer.

It could go without saying that I love my cast iron pan. A properly seasoned cast iron pan is a glorious experience. Everything cooks so nicely. It sears beautifully. And clean up is lickety split. For the past year, I've been on a campaign to teach my extended families the virtues of cast iron. Some of my cousins have responded with serious enthusiasm by buying their own cast iron and cooking in them extensively.

Then there are the elders, like my aunt who complains that they're "too heavy" (they are) and that they can't get the right "look". Further investigation reveals that my aunt likes to scrub the pan with soap and water until it returns to it's "as new" color. I've gently encouraged them to let the natural patina develop by not scrubbing with soap and water. I think they're on the right path.

In the meantime, the pan has been heating on high until it starts to smoke lightly. Drizzle in some peanut oil (or whatever oil you desire), let the oil glimmer and then lay the ribs in. Allow each side to caramelize on the pan and then serve.

The results were okay. Not bad, but not exactly what I was hoping for. Even after five hours, the meat hadn't broken down enough and perhaps it needed more time in the marinade before cooking. Also, a little more salt would give the flavor the extra punch it needed.

For the next time, we're gonna have to go to twelve hours at 65C to really get the meat tender. The pink interior I think looks perfect and is the result I'm looking for without the gradient gray that results from direct heat cooking.

Good thing I had fresh steamed rice at the ready.

Surviving Artscape

Sunset on Mount Royal Avenue.

It's over.

After much heartache, anguish, sweat and tears, Artscape 2008 is now finally over.

This years' event was a scorcher. We must have hit 95F on all three days, and it wouldn't surprise me if it had spiked to nearly 100F - that's 35C and over for you metric readers. Luckily, the humidity was relatively low so while it was hot, the lack of heavy humidity didn't keep the crowds away.

Over the years, I've found that the secret mix for shave ice is warm temperatures and low humidity. Anywhere from 80-95F is fine, as long as the humidity doesn't stick to you and weigh you down. Once the humidity rises, people just want to stay home in their air conditioning. I can't blame them 'cause that's exactly what I want to do.


Sally listens to a customers' tales of woe.

This years' Artscape team brought together both newcomers and seasoned veterans. Big Tony was back for his ninth consecutive Artscape in the pivotal spot of iceman. Other Jays Alumni included Derrick (taking time away from working at Levi's), former manager Sara (home for the summer while attending Duquese) and barista sisters Sally and Hanna (both taking time away from another coffee shop and a stained glass studio, respectively).

Coming along for the ride for their first Artscape were Sara's friends Isabelle, CJ and Alan - as well as barista Allie (on loan from The Spro).


C.J. just barely hanging in there with cheap-ass Viva.

Days at Artscape are grueling twelve-hour days of nearly non-stop battle against a sea of customers. Friday is a relatively light day where customers come and go, on and off until about 7pm. At that point, we start to zoom and shave full-bore until the police shut us down at ten o'clock. Over the years, it's become a necessity that the police come to shut us down because at 10pm, the line is easily 10 to 15 deep and if we closed, we'd have a riot on our hands. At least when the police come, people grumble but they eventually give in to their authority.

Saturday is the busiest of the three because it's the longest. Throughout the day, the line rarely shrinks below five people. By four o'clock it's at least 15 deep and stays that way until the cops come again at 10pm.

Sunday seems worse than Saturday and that's because the people come early and the line is never less than ten people - and this time, they're coming in from three different directions. From about noon, it's nonstop.

The interesting thing is to see my crew at the end of the day. Chatting afterwards with Sally, Hanna and Allie and they look calm, relaxed and ready to do another six hours. In fact, Sally and Hanna a riding their bicycles all the way back to Hampden. The girls are real killers. They're ready to rock, or go out drinking, or ride a few miles in the heat.

The boys on the other hand look completely wiped out. Finished. Done. Kaput. CJ looks like he's going to puke. I ask them if they're coming back tomorrow. No way, they don't need the money that badly.

In a sad way, it reinforces the theory I started developing while running Jay's Shave Ice: that girls work harder than guys. Seeing the two sides of my team on Saturday night and one can only guess. Of course, I know plenty of guys who work their asses off and are ready to party after a twelve-hour day. Good thing Tony, Derrick and Allie are still up for a round of drinks at Woodberry Kitchen after.


Mom and Dad bring a little civility with their umbrella.

A crew from the Kleenex company is onsite promoting their new kitchen towel called Viva. As far as absorbent kitchen towels go, Viva kicks ass. It's supple, it's soft and absorbs quite a bit of liquid. My crew loves it. They're hawking it for Kleenex because they like it so much. They even give us a Viva dispenser for people to use. I'm cool with that.

But the cheap fucking bastards came by towards the end of the day Sunday and swiped the dispenser back. Bastards. Hey Kleenex, if you're gonna ask us to give out Viva samples and do your work for you, at least give us the dispenser to keep for our staff. They were supportive if your product - until now.


Isabelle, Allie and Derrick work the crowd.

Throughout the weekend, we have people who stop by to visit. Friends, neighbors, suppliers, acquaintances, fans and people who just want to know what happened to Jays Shave Ice and when will we be opening a new location. Everyone is greeted with a friendly smile and warm greetings. But what I don't get is the one person who stopped by in the middle of a rush and walked right into the middle of things to chat with me - getting in the way of my shavers. WTF? Even my closest friends don't do that.

I don't get it. Does this person just not have any sense? Just make yourself at home, dude. Why don't you lie down on the barca lounger while you're at it and ask my staff to pour you a mimosa?

I try not to embarrass people unless I can't avoid it, so I invite this person over the side and out of the way. I mean this person is standing literally behind my shaving line (and there's only enough space for one person to stand on that line). For the next ten minutes, it's blah blah blah about coffee and the coffee business. Christ, doesn't this person see that coffee is the last thing on my mind this weekend? Can't you see the thirty people in the fucking line? Don't you think I have better things to do than listen to you bitch about how you own your own business but want to hire people so you don't have to work? Jesus, I work for a living. I don't bitch about it. I've accepted that this is the life I've chosen.

Luckily, Ben from the television show Ace of Cakes comes by for a chat. I've known Ben and Heidi since before he was a television star and it's always good to see him - not to mention that it gets me away from listening about coffee. It's funny because some of my staff notices and recognizes Ben from the show and there's a buzz in the air because of it. After Ben leaves, they want to know why he was hanging out and how I knew him, It's funny like that. To me, he's just that guy Ben with the cool girlfriend and La Cimbali in the kitchen. To my crew, he's a real-life rock star.

Of course, the aforementioned coffee guy is now hanging out on the front line, trying to chat incessantly with one of my crew - undoubtedly about coffee. Never mind that the line is still thirty deep. Ugh.


Isabelle, Sara and Allie.

Artscape is like waging war. It's logistics. Getting all the materials in place at the right time. Screw one thing up and it creates a domino effect that can wipe you out. Three days and it's a five-figure game. Make the wrong moves and it hits the company's bottom line pretty darn hard. But do it right and you can pay your staff a nice wage, and maybe buy yourself that chamber vacuum sealer you've been thinking about.

But it has to be right. Fall short of inventory and you're shutting down early facing lost revenue. Too much inventory and you've got to eat it. The balance has to be just right. For this years' Artscape, we'll consume roughly two hundred gallons of syrup and nearly two tons of ice.

Then there's the matter of personnel. Too few and you can't produce enough to make a profit. Too many and the labor eats your profit. Saturdays require at least ten people working non-stop for twelve hours. It's killer work and only the best will survive the ordeal. And have to be honest: sometimes I wonder if I'll survive it myself.

But it's over now. And I've got a dark suntan to prove it.

Back to the bar at The Spro.

The Dread Week Roberts

The Jay's Shave Ice booth from the truck at Artscape.

A few people have asked me if I've been excited about Artscape, our little company's biggest weekend of the year. To be honest, for months I dread this week. So many things to do, so many things to organize and get in line - it's excruciating. This will be our ninth Artscape and it's just painful. The first couple I organized and learned how to put it all together. Then for a few years, Polly and Al took care of organizing it all. Since 2006, I've been back at the helm and hating every moment.

Okay, maybe I'm just being dramatic. Truth is, I'd prefer to be sitting in a hammock, sipping margaritas with a girl way too young for me by my side while two minions gently fan us with big, feather fans. So much for the hammock, margaritas and minions with fans - at least I can have the girl.

But really, I dread the whole process until this evening - after everything has been put in motion and the booth is setup and ready to go, now is the point where I start to enjoy doing Artscape. Tomorrow, our crew comes together to wage the war of ice and syrup once again, while wrestling with hot weather and what the City of Baltimore tells us will be up to 2 million attendees over a three day weekend.

Like war, waging Artscape is a delicate balance between heat and humidity. Too hot and humid and people stay home. Too cool and people want to buy something silly, like coffee. Over the years, I've found that low humidity and a temperature between 80-90F is just right. Everyone comes out, has a great time and buys more shave ice.

And it needs to go right. I've got five digits invested already.

Of course, the skies could open and dump buckets of rain and ruin me. Or a freak tornado could wipe the entire site out and I'll be crying on Skid Row.

Barring those series of unfortunate incidents, you'll find us this weekend at the corner of Mt. Royal Avenue and Cathedral Street once again making the shave ice that made us famous.

Artscape
June 18, 19 & 20
Mount Royal Avenue
Baltimore, MD
www.artscape.org

Eastbound and Down

The new electronic automatic transmission.

Every year for the past eight years or so, I've rented a 26' box truck from Penske to haul all the gear Jay's Shave Ice needs to stage our booth at Artscape, Baltimore's annual festival of the arts. For me, it's a fun time because I get to drive a big truck around town and it's my time to reminisce the "old days" when I used to drive tour buses for Roberts Hawaii (yes, the big Greyhound type of buses).

I've driven all kinds of trucks with all kinds of transmissions from double-clutch manual buses to automatic trucks loaded down with gear. Every two years or so, Penske replaces their trucks and this year was no different. But this time, my truck came with a new electronic transmission.

As far as transmissions go, it works good enough, but I hate it. The lag between shifts is both unnerving and irritating. You're just waiting for it to shift to the next gear. I know for many of you with normal cars this is hard to fathom but imagine driving in first gear then shifting to neutral for two seconds and then shifting to second. Add in the fact that you need it to shift NOW and that should give you a basic idea of what it's like.

Not to mention the trucks' propensity to roll backwards at stop lights.

Taking iPhone Pictures While Driving: High peril on the open roadway.

And that doesn't begin to cover reverse. Shift the sucker into reverse and it's like a bronco, trying to buck you off. Shudder, shudder, shudder - and the thing barely starts to move. Then suddenly, it wants to jump backwards in fits. My Lord, this is intolerable!

Oh well, I guess I can live with the shift lag and the shaky reverse. It's only for a couple of days anyway.

Meanwhile, I'll be playing The King Of The Road...

The Stigma of Seduction

How To Spot A Dangerous Man - I was interviewed for that book.

Allie and I were wandering around the library today when she pointed out to me the dating books in the Self-Help/Psychology section. As I perused the stacks, one thing hit me: 98% of the books on dating are for women. They're written to help the woman find a man, keep a man, cuckold a man, etc, etc. Where were the books on dating for men?

In today's society, there's a stigma about men studying, reading or learning techniques on dating and picking up women. As though such knowledge will only be used for the nefarious purpose of seduction and sex. Certainly, that is a wonderful end result because everybody wants to be desired and seduced. But it's not always about the sex.

For years I've heard women bemoan the lack of good men while they run into the arms of assholes and tell the nice guys "let's just be friends." They don't understand why some really great guys can't find a nice girl. But have some guys talking about how to meet and pickup girls, or read books on such, and suddenly they're screaming about how "wrong" it is and how it's only about using girls.

Such a strange reaction when in every aspect of our lives we're expected to prepare. Want to get a good job? Go to school and get a degree. Prepare. Want to run a marathon? Workout, train and prepare. Want to be successful in life? Prepare.

All this preparation yet when it comes to one of (if not) the most important aspects of your life, you're expected to merely "wing it." As a man, you're expected to somehow know exactly what to do with a woman - yet, it's commonly accepted that men know nothing about women. Huh???

How many guys do I know in the world that are genuinely nice guys? Guys who will respect and take care of their women. The kind of guys that girls yearn for. Yet they sit at home, night after night or hang out with their friends because they just don't know how to approach women and the social stigma prohibits them from learning.

So come on now, ladies. We need more books for guys on how to meet and talk to women. Enough with the tomes on "How To Cuckold Your Man." Give us "Meeting, Chatting and Kissing Women" books for the nice guys of the world. Let them learn some techniques. Let them get a little dirty. Then you'll have these genuinely loving, caring guys with a wicked sense on how to make your toes curl...

Rub BBQ

Ranch Hand Fries - topped with melted cheeses and pulled chicken.

Fresh off a great time at the Chef & Wine Experience, I met Cecilia at Rub BBQ at the back end of Federal Hill on Light Street. I had been wanting to check out Rub for quite some time and with the heavy thunderstorms and high humidity plowing through the city, what better time to check it out?

Billing itself as "Authentic Texas Barbecue," Rub is a lot smaller than I expected. Think converted neighborhood bar rather than neighborhood restaurant and you'll start to get the idea of the size. As you drive down Light Street, past all of the commercial areas of Federal Hill and into a more residential area, you start to wonder if you've somehow missed it. That is, until you see the glow from the very large neon sign mounted to the side of the building like a beacon in the wilderness.

The interior reminds me of a Texas honkytonk: dark with a bar that's illuminated almost solely by a variety of neon beer signs. There's only about three people working the front of the house on this Sunday evening and there's maybe a total of fifteen guests, including Cecilia and myself.

As I peruse the menu, I'm thinking strategy. The fried green tomatoes look interesting but I'd like to know how their fries taste, but I don't want to order fries with my meal since there's a plethora of tasty-sounding sides that need proper exploration. Field greens and chicken wings seem as though they would be a waste of tummy space, so I decide to order the Ranch Hand Fries topped with melted cheese and pulled chicken or beef. After consulting with our server, who says the chicken is the most popular, we go with that.

It takes a good, long while for that appetizer to arrive. Meanwhile, I'm sampling the sweet tea and it's about average. Nothing to write home about but nothing to send back either. Still waiting for the appetizer. We chat. Still waiting. The rain is just starting. Still waiting.

My third child is about to graduate from college and I'm still waiting.

Finally, the appetizer arrives and it's anti-climactic. A few bites later and I'm wondering what took so darn long? Did they run to SuperFresh to buy some more potatoes? The fries are on the soft side and undercooked. They're also frozen foodservice fries lazily placed on a plate and slathered with shredded chicken and a white and yellow cheddar mix before being tossed under the broiler. Once the cheese is melted, some diced tomatoes are thrown on top (along with one tiny slice of onion) and a lame ranch dressing placed on the side.

By now, I'm starving and my eating of the dish is fueled by hunger rather than desire. It's ugly and the dish is terrible. Just lazy and thoughtless. There's a very weird pineapple taste in the dish and I can't figure out why. It's sweet and disgusting. I taste a couple of bites with the ranch dressing and it's certainly not an improvement. In fact, the dressing makes it worse.

Two Meat Platter - black angus brisket, Texas flat ribs, mac-n-cheese, home-style green beans.

Next it's time to order our main courses. Like I said, I like to sample a variety of flavors, which is why I was flabbergasted when Cecilia decided to order the same main course as I did. I chose the two meat mixed plate, and with five types of meats on the menu to choose from, you'd think that she would order two different ones that we could share.

But maybe I'm just being petty.

For my meats, I chose the Black Angus Brisket and the Texas Flat Ribs with macaroni and cheese and home-style green beans as the sides. Cecilia chose cole slaw and Texas Corn Pudding as her sides. And again we waited.

This time, my third child got married.

For a place that's relatively empty and slow on a Sunday night, the orders were taking inordinately long. And it's not as though these are meats they're cooking a la minute. The brisket is billed as the house specialty, slow-smoked for 12-14 hours. It's gotta be done by now.

Finally, the platters arrive and there's a slight problem: two Corn Puddings but no slaw. That's rectified quickly enough but the slaw is terrible too. Lots of mayo but no bite. Where's the vinegar? Where's the balance? The corn pudding is quite good though. Creamy, tasty with a definite corn flavor and a slight bite from the serrano peppers. It's second only to my macaroni and cheese, which is kinda plain in a Kraft kinda way - Kraft that's been broiled in the oven, which I actually like.

The platters are served with two slices of Texas Toast, some pickled onions and spicy sliced pickles. The pickles are tasty but I have to wonder about the toast. They look like the commercial Texas Toast you buy at the grocery store. In fact, I'd swear it was the very same bread you buy in the grocery store. Is this really how authentic bbq is eaten in Texas?

Then there are the green beans. Order them and it's an extra dollar. With that kind of pricing and hype, I'm expecting them to be killer.

They're okay. At least their fresh. But they've been cooked past their snap point so they're slightly on the soggy side. Cooked with onion, bacon, butter and chicken stock they're kinda tasty - at least there's a lot of bacon to chew on, but I'm not pounding them down like I would expect.

Which brings us to the meat. I have to be honest. I want to like the meat. I desperately want to write great things about it. But I can't. At best, it was disappointing. At worst, it was horrible.

Twelve to fourteen hours for the brisket. Perhaps ten would be better. The brisket was dry. Maybe it was cooked too long. Maybe it was rethermalized improperly. Whatever the case, it was dry, lifeless and tasted like cardboard. It needed the bbq sauce on the table.

Unfortunately, the ribs weren't much better. Again, on the dry side with a rub that really didn't compliment the meat. In fact, the rub was just a letdown. It offered very little to the experience. Maybe there wasn't enough applied at cooking. The ribs too needed the table sauces.

Cecilia wanted to go for dessert. I just couldn't stomach anymore. She ordered the peach cobbler (or something like that). I tasted it. It wasn't bad, but I had had enough.

In the end, I'm disappointed with Rub. I expected so much from this place. I had heard positive things. I wanted to love the place. Unfortunately, the food fell flat and I went home in the rain.



Rub BBQ
1843 Light Street
Baltimore, MD 21230
410-244-5667
www.rubbbq.com

The Chef & Wine Experience

Michaele Weissman invited me to join her and Spike Gjerde and give a coffee talk at the Baltimore Chefs & Wine Experience. It's an annual event where the public comes to meet chefs, listen to them speak, sample their food and try all sorts of wines and other vestiges of Good Living.

For those of you who may not know, Michaele wrote a book on the coffee industry's Third Wave - that eclectic crew of hipster/geek coffee people who work to revolutionize the coffee industry (of course, the question is: are they really "revolutionary" or actually evolutionary?). It's called God In A Cup and available nationwide at your local booksellers.

In spite of the fact that I do coffee for a living, the enthusiasm of the general public about coffee continually surprises me. We had about fifty people pack into our little lecture room where Michaele shared her thoughts on the industry, Spike talked about bringing a New World Order of coffee to restaurants and I generally pontificated about drinking and enjoying your coffee.

In addition to merely chatting about coffee, we decided to have a coffee tasting. Nothing as stuffy or important as cupping with geeky coffee people slurping and talking about "black currants and frozen nutmeg." No, nothing as silly as that. Just some simple press potted coffee served in small cups - actually, the venue (showing their knowledge, sophistication and grasp of coffee) gave us styrofoam cups. Bastards.

For our tasting, I chose two coffees. The first, a Sumatra Mandheling Organic from Indonesia, roasted by Origins Organic Coffee of Vancouver, Canada, as well as the Finca El Puente from Honduras, roasted by Counter Culture Coffee of Durham, NC. I chose the two because of their difference. I didn't want some lame coffee, I wanted something interesting and vibrant. Coffees that would be so different than from each other that it would be easier for the uninitiated to experience the difference.

That's one thing that continually irritates me: accessibility. Whether it's wine or coffee, we tend to speak with such fancy terms that regular people have a hard time connecting. There's red wine and rose petals in coffee??? Only the truly geeky ever speak like this - and only the disconnected actually speak like this to the uninitiated.

For our tasting, I told the audience that it's okay to use those fancy terms but what's more important is to be able to describe the sensation in your own words - however that may manifest itself. For previous tastings, I've encouraged people to use everything from fancy words to colors to rock bands. Man, this tastes like AC/DC's Shoot To Thrill...

Whatever it takes to make it your own, that's what you should use.

Lots of questions followed, and one girl in the audience asked me if I like sugar and cream in my coffee. Hmmm, good question. The hardcore in the Third Wave would immediately stand up and impose their vision like the Fourth Reich and give an absolute "NO" for an answer. Truth is, she asked if I liked cream and sugar in my coffee - and if I'm not tasting the coffee critically and simply drinking it for personal enjoyment, then the answer is an emphatic "YES MA'AM" And if the Third Wave doesn't like it, they can go screw themselves because I absolutely love an 8z coffee with a half teaspoon of sugar and a touch of cream to go with a deep-fried chocolate frosted donut.

I don't know if perhaps I was talking too much, going over time or my revelation about the sugar and cream was too much for Michaele to handle because that's when she steered our discussion back to trying the coffee black to see how it tastes (of course, the girl that asked the question was also the same girl with an unabashed love for sweet frappuccinos). But the audience was great. Even more questions and some great insight into the coffees. For many of them, I'm guessing it was their first time trying some seriously great coffees and I hope they tasted a glimpse into what is possible out there. Hopefully, they'll seek out better quality or maybe come and visit The Spro.

Overall, I had a great time at the event. It was fun to be amongst the great chefs of Baltimore. Several Food Network celebrities were in attendance and earlier, we stopped in to watch one of them give a presentation. For someone with a national television show, I was disappointed in the delivery and level of engagement this person gave at the presentation. From an entertainment standpoint, it was pretty darn lame and disappointing. I went in hoping to pick up some presentation tips from a celebrity, I left after ten minutes because my mind was numbing. Gosh, I hope I'm not that bad in front of an audience.

Speaking of television and food, Jill was hanging out and came to see our presentation. It's always great seeing Jill and she's leaving this week in some sort of mystery trip where she may or may not be picked up for next season's Top Chef. She's sworn to secrecy, so details are sketchy. All we know is that she'll be gone for six weeks and we'll find out the rest next season.

I also met a really nice lady who asked for my card and said she would forward it on to the producer of Hell's Kitchen. Wow. That was a surprise. How much fun would it be to spend a television season being yelled at and berated by Gordon Ramsay? Hey you, I've had enough of that, yeah big boy? Put it in the bin, you fucking donkey....

Good fun, indeed.

Chicken Joy

The girls relating with the chickens.

My nieces have been staying at the house for the past few days and I've been teaching them a little bit about cooking. Yesterday, I showed them how to individually freeze fresh bing cherries and also how to make cherry jam.

The thing about working with me is that it's not a show-and-tell demonstration class, it's live and hands-on. They're doing the work. I'm just making sure they're doing it correctly.

But today we drove up to Springfield Farm to tour the grounds and see how the animals live. Touring the farm is always enlightening. Over time, you start to get a feel for how they do things as the pens move across the land offering the chickens, ducks and geese new, fertile ground upon which to graze.

Ready to eat those chickens.

Since my experiences last year, I've become a believer in understanding where your food comes from. Which is why I brought the girls here today and let them mingle with the chickens. They asked learned that this is where our chickens come from. That these chickens pecking around in front of us would, someday, be in front of us again - and on a plate. They seemed very comfortable going from talking with the chickens in the pens to pulling whole birds out of the refrigerator.

Back at the house, it was time for fried chicken. After butchering a chicken (okay, I did that part), the girls dried off the parts, seasoned them with salt and pepper, then shook them in flour before we laid them in the cast iron filled with 375F oil.

Fifteen minutes later, the chicken was golden, crispy and delicious. I wanted mine with rice. They wanted theirs with ketchup.

Guess I'll have to keep working on them...

Fresh Fresh Seafood

Allie and her tilapia stuffed with lump crab meat.

After another long day at The Spro, I took Allie over to one of my favorite local restaurants: Fresh Fresh Seafood on York Road, immediately south of the Towson Circle. It's a true Mom and Pop shop run by a real mom and pop. I've been coming here for the past two years and it's always been good.

Fresh Fresh's entrance is kinda small, nondescript and so easy to miss that I'm surprised anyone actually finds this place. The decor is minimal to non-existent. There are some mural-type paintings on the wall, formica tables and those same steel chairs you find in all the cheap eateries. Simply put: if you're coming for the decor, you're going to be extremely disappointed.

What you do come here for is the seafood. The owners make no claims as to the provenance of the ingredients - just that it's always fresh and always prepared to order. Service is sorta odd and fruity - there's really no way to describe it otherwise. It's not bad, it's just odd and fruity - almost off-kilter. But no matter how odd it may seem from time to time, they're just so nice and so welcoming and so earnest in their service that nothing else matters and you quickly overlook all the quirkiness.

I don't eat at Fresh Fresh all the time. It's usually saved for when baristas come to town to visit The Spro. After a day of talking/making coffee, a meal at Fresh Fresh caps off the day.

Scallops in lemon butter.

Today they're offering freshly squeezed lemonade and it's hot outside. Thankfully, their cups are bottomless and we're making good use of their generosity. It's sweet and lightly tarty. Actually, I would have preferred a bit more tartiness but it will do.

First round are scallops in lemon butter. Sometime I just get in the mood for scallops and must have them. This was one of those times. They were just right: seared with butter. Can you ask for more?

For our main courses, Allie had the broiled tilapia stuffed with lump crab meat and I had the Chilean sea bass. My bass was thick, meaty and tender but could have used a more liberal seasoning of salt and pepper. It was good but such a large cut of sea bass tends to get monotonous over time and I think a smaller portion would have been more enjoyable. Allie's tilapia was done the way I like it - with crispy edges for texture. It too needed more seasoning but was still quite good.

It's fresh food prepared with simple ingredients and techniques. Just what the doctor ordered.

Chilean Sea Bass.

One thing you'll notice from the images is that it's very simple food. Nothing extraneous or elaborate. Just food. The sides were also simple: macaroni and cheese, french fries and broccoli. I'm always a fan of macaroni and cheese but the fries need to be blanched before being finished fried because they lose that crisp and the broccoli would have been better had they been steamed just a little less - I prefer more of a "snap" in my veggies.

But otherwise, it was another good meal at Fresh Fresh. But one thing to remember about Fresh Fresh, it may look simple but it's not necessarily cheap. This is quality seafood in large portions at an appropriate price. Our meal cost eighty dollars with tip. But like I said, it's fresh and made to order - which also means that it takes a bit longer since it's only pop in the kitchen while mom works the floor.


Fresh Fresh Seafood
507 York Rd
Towson, MD 21204
(410) 821-3474

Chef Boyardee?

A Bit Too Salty Pasta

Sometimes you wonder if you're really having a disconnect with kids.

My nieces are here and they're hungry. They want pasta and I'm thinking about whipping up an incredible concoction that they're going to love. What kind of pasta do you want?, I ask them while nurturing visions of fresh Marvesta shrimp sauteed in oil, butter, garlic, onion and capers.

But they want a tomato based sauce, like spaghetti. The problem is that I don't have anything like that lying around the house at the moment. Undaunted, I decide that if a tomato-based sauce is what they want, that's what they're gonna get.

Into the saute pan goes some olive oil, some macerated garlic, Springfield Farm ground pork, locally grown tomatoes, tomato sauce, oregano, fresh basil, pepper and perhaps a bit too much salt. Saute the pork, onions and garlic, add the rest and simmer. It's simple and classic. Not to mention relatively easy to whip up.

For a brief moment, I think about adding some sugar to sweeten the pot and dumping it all in the blender to puree - since that's kinda how Chef Boyaree looks like: pureed. I decide against it thinking that the girls will love it. They are, afterall, my nieces.

They hate it. After a combination of overly salted pasta water and a bit of a heavy hand, the sauce is a bit on the salty side. Even for me. Damn, I should have used the sugar and blender.

For a brief moment, I consider stocking a can of Chef Boyardee for the next time they come to visit. But I can't...

It's A Paella Party!

Smoked French Fries doing their thing.

It's the Fourth of July and everyone has gathered at my house for another year of food, drink, fireworks and... rain.

Damn rain. For days before, it's beautifully sunny, but on the day it counts: rain. Puta y Madre.

Last year I hosted a Lechon Party where we roasted a whole pig over an open fire in the method of our Philippine grandfathers. It was a splendid day - except for the rain, and I had planned on doing a BBQ Party until Gordon Ramsay got into my head.

It must have been his episode of Kitchen Nightmares where he goes to Spain and ends up cooking a large paella on the beach. It looked amazing and I decided then that the paella was what we had to do for this years' party.

Gathering 'round the Paella.

As quick search on the Internet turns up all sorts of possibilities for paella. From pans to burners to recipes and ingredients. I'm flummoxed but decide that a proper party just isn't a paella party without a proper paella pan. Most commoners would max out at at the 18" pan, but that's just not a proper size for a proper party. I decide that the 31" pan is the right size for our efforts.

At nearly three feet in diameter, this pan is quite serious. The largest is 52" and sells for a whopping six hundred dollars. Okay, I'm serious, but not that serious. The 31" pan is designed to serve up to 40 people. That should be plenty.

The biggest hindrance to the party is my trip to Europe. I'm scheduled to return on July 1st, which gives me just enough time to procure and prep everything. Of course, I'm delayed in Frankfurt and arrive a day later, which leaves me with one day to get everything together for the party. It's an absolute mad scramble.

In one day, I'll hit the farmer's market, the farms, the market, another supermarket, two liquor stores and have a proper breakfast - not to mention setting up my outdoor kitchen featuring full refrigeration, heating cabinets, prep tables, sinks, grills, smoker and the piece de resistance: my forty pound deep fryer.

Around 2pm on the 4th, friends start trickling in. CapitolSwell, Athos and SonSo1 make their way, as does Matt S. visiting from Florida. Everyone gets to work on the deep prep for the paella.

For weeks, the paella perplexed me. Until I met Elisabeth from Barcelona in Copenhagen. All these recipes and Elisabeth boiled them down to the most salient point: screw the recipes, just use whatever is fresh at the market that day. Evidently, it's what Spaniards like Elisabeth does when they're making paella: whatever is fresh.

With those words, the weight of Espana was lifted off my shoulders. Shopping for exotic Spanish ingredients is stressful. Shopping for whatever is fresh and local is, well, normal.

My trips to the market yielded the following bounty:
Tomatoes, sweet onions, garlic, cilantro, basil, rosemary, sage, cebollas, corn, cherries, blueberries, raspberries, watermelons, honeydew melons, lemons, limes, oranges, apples, russet potatoes, Alaskan salmon, Marvesta shrimp, Old Salte Clams, Springfield chicken, ancho sausage, medium grain rice, string beans, mushrooms - all of which would go either into the paella or the sangria.

From there, the paella is relatively simple. Sweat the onions and garlic in olive oil, saute the chicken and sausage, add the veggies, add the rice, add the saffron, add the chicken stock and simmer. About fifteen minutes later, stir in the rest of the seafood and let the whole thing cook down until ready.

To be honest, I had never made paella before. In my entire life. I was flying completely blind. Completely on instinct. I didn't know what I was doing but I was plowing ahead come hell or high water. Imminent disaster was at every turn. There's easily five hundred dollars worth of ingredients in the pan and I could fuck it up at any moment.

This was cooking not for the feint of heart.

Meanwhile, the deep fryer was doing it's thing with our smoked french fries. It's a technique we pioneered at the Woodberry Kitchen/Ideas In Food dinner where you smoke the potatoes and then finish fry. It adds a deep character to the fries that's complex and delicious. Ours were smoked in Mesquite for twenty minutes.

To tide the prep crew over, we whipped up some steak frites and passed them around. Not to mention the beer and sangria to keep everyone company.

Almost ready.

After a brief technical problem with our heat source, the paella was running at full speed ahead. It took longer than expected (about two hours) but the paella came out pretty well I think. Chock full of veggies and proteins, what could one ask for?

The rain chased some of the fireworks and revelers away this year but the ladies came, allowing me to show off my prowess in handling a big stick (the stirring paddle).

Next year I'm looking for something to top this one. Maybe Lechon Baka - baby cow roasted over an open fire.

Grace Garden

Tripe, Tendon and Tongue in spicy chili served cold. Stellar.

The quest for great Chinese in Baltimore has never really existed. I've just accepted the fact that the Chinese food here will always be relegated to the sugary sweet stuff that America thinks is "Chinese", dishes like General Tso's Chicken, or Orange Beef or Egg Foo Young - all of which can be enjoyable in their own right but are hardly classic Chinese dishes.

For great Chinese food, I would usually save my stomach for visits to the Chinatowns in New York or San Francisco, or for KJ Kitchen in Las Vegas, but Baltimore? Never.

So when Jeff called me to say that he's found an excellent Chinese joint across the street from Fort Meade in Odenton, I couldn't believe him. I had to check it out for myself.

Now, Odenton isn't close to my home. In fact, it's way the hell outta my way and the Chinese better be damn good to make sure a journey. And for weeks, it just wasn't possible for me to get over there.

Finally, on the way back from Dulles, after my trip to Europe, we decided to make a pit stop and give it a try. In fact, I've been there twice now - just to be sure.

Fish Noodles - fish and shrimp minced into noodles and sauteed with vegetables in Chef's special sauce.

Quite simply, Grace Garden, with it's low brow, typical Chinese carry out decor, puts out some of the best Chinese food I've had anywhere in the United States. It's hellaciously good. Walk in and it looks like any other crappy Chinese joint. The tables look wobbly, the walls are just cream colored and plain, the wainscoting looks haphazard - to be honest, the decor of the joint fits the area surrounding Fort Meade: crappy.

But take a closer look at the photos of the dishes on the wall and Grace Garden's secret starts to reveal itself. While familiar looking, you realize that these aren't photos of carry out classics like Kung Pao Chicken or wonton soup, there's something different and special about what you're seeing.

There are many Chinese restaurants in the United States that offers two menus: one for the American clients and the other for the Chinese clients - do you need to guess which menu is the interesting one? Grace Garden does the same but the difference is that the Chinese menu is in English, encouraging gaijin, like myself, to order from the real menu.

Sure, you could order from the regular menu and choose Hunan Beef, but why would you? Actually, there's a part of me that's now considering trying one of the old standbys here just to compare.

Szechwan Pork - sliced pork belly stir fried with leeks, bell peppers and Szechwan bean paste.

Quite simply, the food is stellar. We started out with the spicy tendon, tripe and tongue served cold. Amazing. The flavors were pronounced and bold. The heat builds on you but it's a good sweat. From there, we moved onto the Fish Noodles, a delicate concoction of fish and shrimp that actually makes the noodle with some cilantro stems and sliced Chinese sweet sausage. Delicate and delicious.

Next up was one of my favorites, Fried Pork Belly. Just delicious fatty pork goodness. It's not smoked but if you like bacon, you'll absolutely flip over this dish. With hot steamed rise, it's just too wonderful for words.

Which brings up another thought: the rice. When I was young, I thought all rices were relatively the same. And then I was introduced to Uncle Ben's. Then I knew something was wrong in the world. But it wasn't until I traveled the Philippines that I really discovered the myriad varieties of rice available on the open market. Some of great quality. Others of a rather low quality.

It's a double-edged experience for me to say that Grace Garden features rice on the lower end of the scale. Sad because the rice doesn't highlight the flavors in the same way a quality rice would, but nice because it reminds me of fond memories visiting the provincial towns of the Philippines and eating some of the most rustic but delicious foods imaginable. It's an affront to my senses and a throwback to my memories, all at the same time. Such is the power of food.

Szechwan Braised Fish - sliced fish braised in hot & spicy chili pepper broth.

Our final course was the fish braised in a spicy broth. Delicate with spice. I wish I hadn't eaten so much so that I could give this dish greater attention. It was good, but we had already reached our boiling point and I was not able to continue.

In the end, I will be going back to Grace Garden to explore more of their menu. The husband and wife team that owns and runs the place are very welcoming and very nice. It's fun to sit back and allow them to choose our courses for us, but I will make one recommendation: have the tripe, tendon and tongue as a later course. It's such a powerfully flavorful dish that it outshines everything that comes after. The fish noodles were great but I bet they would have been so much better had they not had to shine in the dark shadows cast by the tripe.

Order everything else first and then get the tripe. It will be well worth it.



Grace Garden Chinese Restaurant
1690 Annapolis Road
Odenton, MD 21113
410-672-3581
www.gracegardenchinese.com

Frankfurt Döner

The Döner

In life, you meet many wonderful and amazing people. Some of them touch you deeply and others pass quietly in the morning. Regardless of the outcome, all of them together weave the tapestry that is your life experience.

I must have known something was coming deep down inside when I wasn't bothered that they cancelled our flight from Frankfurt to Dulles. While two hundred people were on the verge of panic, I sat around sipping a Coke in the Red Carpet Club while the staff dutifully took care of new flight arrangements and hotel accommodations.

I wasn't even that stressed when I boarded the "wrong" bus that took us to the hotel in Frankfurt's center city instead of the location by the airport.

Something was coming. I just wasn't conscious of its' impending arrival.

L. is the sort of girl that seems ultra-rare in my world. Multi-cultured, multi-lingual, intelligent, traveled, quick-witted with a razor-sharp tongue and wickedly dark and sensual mind. Imagine all that wrapped in a Hapa-Haole (half-Japanese, half-white, totally sexy), five-foot-two dynamo with long, flowing black hair, piercing eyes and knowing smirk that's ready to crush you at any given moment and you have some sense of what L. is all about.

From the moment we sat down and met each other, the game was on. Earn respect or be crushed. Kill or be killed.

Well-traveled, she had just come from Barcelona where they had partied all night long celebrating Spain's victory over Germany in the European Cup. Truth be told, she was a charlatan in the land of Franco - deep in the land of red and gold while her true loyalty remained to Germany.

Fluent in German (and God know what other languages), she barked out orders to our server between sessions schooling us on the finer points of German beers, their regional origins, favorites and other salient points of beer production in Deutschland.

From there, everything else flowed. Conversation, laughter, making fun of each other, the weird, off-beat and dark humor. Before you knew it, we were the center of the party. Everything and everyone flowed around us. The beers flowed freely and time flowed without care. Closer to midnight, most of our drinking companions decided to make their way back to the hotel to see if United had booked them onto new flights. Like me, L had called the airline earlier and booked a reservation on the same flight I was taking the next morning at 11am.

The night was still too young and we headed off to Sachsenhausen to seek out more beer and perhaps some apfelwein, encamping ourselves in front of a local pub discussing more inane and ridiculous subjects to pass the time.

That's when the Döner came up. A sort of schawarma of pork, cheese and more stuffed into a pita type bread. It's wildly popular in Germany and L insisted that I try one. Across the street was a hopeful looking place that worked me up an order.

It's good but I'm not well-versed in either schawarma or Döner so it's hard to me to tell whether this one was a great example or not. I loved the crispy toasted texture of the bread and it's juxtaposition with the feta type cheese and crisp cold veggies.

Maybe it was my inability to connect successfully with the Döner, or maybe it was just the wrong time in our lives, but we knew that this one night would be the only night and that tomorrow it would all be over and we would return to our normal lives. So many commonalities. So many things that "clicked". But still so many things in our lives that would get in the way. Ironic that we're only separated by sixty miles and yet the distance between us would be insurmountable.

In the end, I got to share some time with an amazing woman and learned a little bit about the Döner. Not a bad way to spend a night in Frankfurt.

Eating Beef at Charles de Gaulle

A fashionable steak sandwich for the intrepid traveler.

Some of you may have been wondering exactly what happened to the leftover meat that I took home from Robert et Louise the other night. Well, it sat in my fridge the whole day since and I tossed in my bag to bring with me on my flight to Frankfurt - in case I got hungry.

Those hunger pangs hit me around noon at Charles de Gaulle. So, I settled into a chair outside of the Terminal 1 security checkpoint (because they'd confiscate my Coke) and made myself at home with the beef, a chilled can of Coke, some leftover pieces of roasted potato and that emergency croissant I picked up at Stephane Secco.

How was it? Well, it could have used a little salt and maybe a microwave but it hit the spot. Sure, some people gave me odd looks, but their loss. I had steak, they had Twix. Muwahahahahaha!

One Day In Paris

Eating Bobi on the train from Charles deGaulle.

While passing through passport control in Frankfurt, the German Polizei officer joked: "one night in Paris?" Don't know if his computer relayed to him my itinerary and I don't know if he was referencing the 2002 Depeche Mode video or the infamous Paris Hilton video (and my cameo appearance), but I kinda played along with it hoping that he wouldn't flag me.

The problem with this visit to Paris was that it was too short. One day is simply not enough. Especially when that day is a Monday - a day when most businesses are typically closed.

I got up rather early and hit the streets by 9am. Had a chocolatine croissant in my hand from what is rapidly becoming my favorite croissant baker: Colas Patrick, as I sauntered through the opening market on Rue Cler to the post office.

The French post office is a curious place. Part post office, part bank - I really don't understand what goes on in there, but there's always people waiting for something. Maybe they're waiting for their money. Luckily, the line for a stamp was short and I got out of there quickly.

I forgot to hit the money exchange at the airport and was forced to head over to Tuileries to get me some Euros. While there, I checked out a bookstore and bought a copy of Michel Bras' new book, a delightful tome chronicling his culinary genius. From there, it was a quick trip through the Tuileries Garden to spy on some fine French babes and then back to the Metro for the long ride to lunch.

Lunch was out by the Palais d'Congress and while I'll save those details for another post, I'll just say that a bottle of wine on a light stomach is not the way to keep a sober day. But touring Paris in an inebriated state is certainly worth trying at least once. At least I know how happy those Spaniards were the night before.

My dream spot for a cafe on Ile de St. Louis

Next stop, the famous patissier Pierre Herme for an assortment of macarons to take home for my parents and a couple of the chaps at Woodberry Kitchen. As always, it's a wonderful place to spent a ridiculous amount of money on some very fine pastries. Though a new development was rather irritating: they've stopped printing their seasonal brochure of collectible pastries and only offer the catalog online through their website. That's just cheap and lame. But at least I have a copy of the last one printed from my visit this past February.

After a pitstop back at the hotel to drop off the book and pastries, it's back on the metro to the Marais to visit my friends at Soluna Cafes on the Rue de l'Hotel de Ville. Of course, it being a Monday and they're closed, so no good coffee on this Parisian holiday - at all.

Disappointed, I make my way across the Seine to the Ile de Saint Louis for a bit of coconut Berthillon ice cream from one of the local parlors (since the actual Berthillon shop is closed too), and to spy on the space I've picked out for my Paris outpost of The Spro at the corner of Rue Saint-Louis en l'Ile and Pont Marie. Happily, no one has yet leased the space out from under me.

From there it's back to the Marais and since I've run out of things to do (I called the olive oil shop and they too were closed), I decide to play Pathetic Food Tourist by visiting the site of the former Piccolo Teatro - the failed vegetarian restaurant featured in Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares television show. It's a cheesy thing to do but I'm giddy as a schoolgirl to be there.

L'as du Falafel!!!

Luckily, Piccolo Teatro is a half block from L'as du Falafel in the city's Jewish section. I didn't know this. I just happened to wander in the right direction and found L'as du Falafel by accident. The corner that it's located is one of those interesting places in many cities where that areas institutions are surrounded by imitators. Surrounding L'as du Falafel are several other falafel/schwarma shops, but only L'as du had the line. I dutifully took my spot for the sake of food science.

The falafel was good. It was tasty. It was eaten with a fork. Maybe I'm just not well-versed in falafel because while it was delicious, I couldn't tell what made this falafel better than the rest. The fried texture was light and delicate, unlike the hard and crunchy texture favored at home. But what made this falafel the favored choice over all others in Paris? Perhaps another science field trip to Paris is on order...

An evening cigar respite on the solarium.

Days seem to last longer in Europe than in America, and I'm not complaining. I got back to the hotel and decided to set up an early evening camp on the rooftop solarium with two cokes, a bucket of ice, Croatian Paprika-flavored Pringles and Paul Garmirian cigar in tow. The last time I sat in the solarium was in February freezing my butt off trying to make the most of it. This time, I was in shorts, t-shirt and slippers. Lovely. Took my refuge at a table, lit up my cigar, poured myself a stiff Coke and relaxed to a nice book. Beautiful. All men should have a couple hours of quiet reflection to cap their day.

Sitting there with a fine cigar in one hand and an ice cold Coke in the other leaves one to reflect upon the days' (and weeks') achievements: the successful excursion to Pierre Herme, the attractive French-Algerian girl from the night before, the stunning Croatian barista from last week, and most importantly, a time to plan for the evenings' dinner.

Even though it was a Monday night, plenty of options exist in the City of Lights for the daring and intrepid traveler. But tonight that would not be. Even with two more Metro tickets in my wallet, I was too darn tired to venture away from my neighborhood in the 7th. I decided that I would enjoy another meal at my local restaurant: Chez Pierrot.



Baguette Mecca - Stephane Secco.

The next morning, I trucked over to Stephane Secco to pickup some baguettes and caneles for the trip home. In fact, I had shifted my flights and paid an extra $200 to fly out of Paris later so that I would have enough time just to pick up these baguettes. They're that good. In fact, they're the best I've ever had. I also grabbed a croissant for good measure.

The honest truth is that this trip to Paris was predicated on two places: Robert et Louise and Stephane Secco. If we just take into consideration the price differential for the later flight, those four bagels worked out to costing fifty bucks each. If we consider that they're half the reason I went to Paris to begin with, well, I'm too scared to try to figure out how much each of those baguettes cost. Perhaps I should have bought six...

Bouffant Foam in the 7th.

In what's fast becoming my routine in the 7th, I made a stop into Colas Patrick for my morning chocolatine. Delicious as usual. Light, delicate, refined and way better than Stephane Secco's chocolate croissant. But such a good chocolatine deserves a coffee. Unfortunately, there's really no good coffee in most of Paris but I did know of a place down the street that makes cappuccinos with incredibly gravity-defying foam. Plus, I thought it would make great footage for a future episode of Barista del Mundo.

I've been working with coffee for five years and I still can't make foam like these guys. It's just amazing - in a gross kind of way. I would never serve a cappuccino like this, but strangely, I would like to know how to achieve this foam. Unfortunately, my camera battery died so there's no footage for the show but the guy steams and steams and steams, generating bigger and bigger foam - and then he puts the whole thing in the refrigerator and tells me it will be a few minutes. Good Lord, is that the secret? Refrigerate the foam?

When he comes back, he pulls a very long and watery shot and spoons the foam on top. I'm horrified. Actually, I'm pissed because I don't have video of this. I taste it and surprisingly, it's not really offensive. It's mild and with sugar it's actually consumable. I wouldn't go out of my way for this coffee but I'll drink it for awhile.

As I sit, I realize the magic of this place. It's not the coffee. It's the camaraderie. I sit there for about fifteen minutes watching the regulars coming in to say hello, drink a coffee and interact with each other before heading off to work. It's a nice atmosphere and one that tempers my expectations of the coffee. This is what it's about: community and experience. I'm happy to be there.


WMD - Weapons of Mass Degustation: baguettes from Stephane Secco and macarons from Pierre Herme.


Before I know it, I'm off on the Air France Bus to Charles deGaulle and my flight to Frankfurt where I'll end up stuck overnight in the arms of young women.


Colas Patrick
178 Rue Grenelle
Paris 75007
01 45 51 06 35

Pierre Herme
72 Rue Bonaparte
Paris 75006
01 43 25 28 17

Galignani Books
224 Rue de Rivoli
Paris 75001
01 42 60 76 07

Soluna Cafes
52, rue de l'Hotel de Ville
75004 Paris
33(1) 53 01 83 84
www.worlds-bestcoffees.com

Piccolo Teatro
9 Rue de Ecouffes
Paris 75004
01 41 72 17 79
www.piccolo-teatro.fr

Stephane Secco
20 rue Jean Nicot
75007 Paris
01 43 17 35 20