ph: Singing An Arabber

Vending Fruit on 36th Street.

One of the last remaining remnants of old Baltimore are the horse-drawn fruit & vegetable vendors. In the last city in America where "Arabbers" still ply their trade, it's a sight that's dwindling and I'm compelled to buy from him just because. Just because we need to keep old traditions like this alive in our country.

Take the Good Humor Man. He's gone. Gone are the days when a guy drove around in a truck jingling reindeer bells. Today you'll find beat up step vans converted into shabby-looking ice cream trucks with electronic jingles blaring down the street.

As for me, I'll take the sing-song cadence of the Arabbers as they call out down the street letting everyone know what they've got in their cart today. Maybe I'll take a cantaloupe, or four.

Table 21

Oooh La La!

Why anyone would build a fine dining restaurant in Frederick is really beyond me. Nothing against Frederick but it just seems like an odd place to open a contender for the finest restaurant in Maryland. Washington DC, of course. Baltimore, sure. But Frederick? Just odd.

Even though I had eaten previously at Volt in June, it was only recently that I heard about Volt's Table 21 - a private chef's table situated in the middle of the kitchen featuring a 21 course T-21 tasting menu. Stories buzzed about the "molecular gastronomy" approach to Table 21 and with Chef Bryan Voltaggio being a part of the coming season of Top Chef, we figured we had better hit Table 21 before the show aired and it becomes another Minibar - where you have to play telephone marathon months in advance to score a seat.


Anisha and Juan Manuel playing "Thumpers."

To be honest, I'm not one for planning too much too far ahead of time. If I get in, I get in. If not - oh well. My experiences at per se, minibar, L'Arpege, Alinea and other places were because I just kinda showed up or called at random times with lots of flexibility - sure, I'll take that seat for one. Happily, because I think he knows how much I hate to plan too much, Juan Manuel took upon the task of securing our reservation.

For our dinner, I invited Anisha, chef/owner of Puffs & Pastries, and Janice, chef/owner of the now-moving-to-Frederick Tenzo Artisan to join myself and the aforementioned Juan Manuel - former restauranteur, coffee aficionado, car enthusiast cum food expert.


Neil Protects Us from Our First Course.

Like I said, I had been to Volt back in June. It's a gorgeous space. Take a Victorian mansion, put in a modern interior with a gleaming kitchen and that's Volt. Like Cafe Atlantico's minibar, at Volt's Table 21, the guests sit in a row facing the garde manger station, with the hot line and pass to your right. In other words, you're smack dab in the middle of everything, with a front row seat. The problem with the setup is that if you're in the first or fourth seat, it becomes very hard to engage in the conversation across the table. Like at minibar, there were numerous times I was wishing we were sitting in a typical four-top so that conversation could flow easier - and I was in seat 3.

Anisha and Juan Manuel had asked me before about Volt and I decided not to tell them what I thought about my previous experience because I didn't want my comments to color their expectations. Truth is, my first experience at Volt was a bit uneven and off-putting.

I had been hearing about Volt for months. Then, on the way back from the Mid-Atlantic Roasters Group meeting in Blacksburg, Virginia, I decided what the hell - I was going to take the long route home and detour through Frederick for a taste of Volt. Parking on a deserted lot, I changed from my long-distance driving attire into khaki shorts with webbed leather belt, black Polo Ralph Lauren t-shirt under a short-sleeved button down. I didn't have a reservation and as I walked up to the host podium, the blonde receptionist gave me a really fast one-over look and a half-second squint in her eye - as though I was improperly dressed.


Chocolate Cake in a Martini Glass

Truth is, I didn't know the dress code. I didn't know much about Volt at all other than the fact that people had been talking about the food. She asked if I wanted to sit in the dining room or at the bar. The dining room was my choice. Her glance had only been for a fraction of a second but it was enough time for me to catch it- which wouldn't have irritated me so much except for the guy I saw sitting in the bar area wearing an outfit nearly identical to my own. The difference was that he was white.

After dining at some really wonderful restaurants around the world, I was surprised to find a really fine dining approach in such a small town as Frederick. Servers in suits, runners, bussers - crap they had a lot of staff in the dining room. It reminded me of per se. But to my eye, some things were just incongruent to what they seemed to be pursuing. Take the attire, for example. The runners were nicely dressed, but not too nice. My servers' suit was a suit but it wasn't well tailored. It lacked the sharpness you see at places like Charlie Trotters or Alinea. It didn't drape well. Then there is the matter of the footwear: brown Converse Chucks.


Prosciutto Chips, Potato Dip

I graduated from high school in 1987 and throughout my high school years it was the height of teen fashion rebellion to wear Converse Chucks with suits - especially red Chucks with your tuxedo at prom. I'm sure there are many legions of diners that probably love the juxtaposition of the Chucks with the suit, but I'm not one of them. Here's a place that obviously spent a lot of time and money sourcing and preparing the food, developing service and creating a sophisticated environment that seems like it wants to be on par with places like Citronelle or Le Bernadin, but the servers wardrobe was so incongruent with everything else they were doing that it hit me like Mike Tyson.

Sadly wasn't all. I think I chatted with someone later that night about finding knowledgeable servers in a town so far removed from any metropolitan city. My server was nice enough but all night long he chatted endlessly about himself and what restaurants he's been to and anything and everything else him. Had I not tuned him out earlier in the evening, I would have known just about everything there is to know about him. I'd be very surprised if he knew anything about me.


Neil Opens a Bottle of White Wine

Not to say that I think I'm all that, but I was the guest that evening. You'd think by the amount of information I was being fed that I was server and he was the guest.

By now you're probably wondering what I thought about the food that night. I remember it being good. I remember that I enjoyed the food. The problem with Volt that night wasn't the food - actually, I know I enjoyed the food because I made a point to stop by the kitchen and thank the cooks before leaving - it were these incongruencies in the evening. Those little (and not so little) things that just throw off everything that everyone is trying to achieve.

You can see why I was being so coy about my thoughts on Volt before our dinner. Normally, I would be reluctant to go back after such an evening, but the food was good and when I heard that they were doing some exciting stuff at their Table 21, I wanted to go back and give it another try, and I'm glad I did.


Sashimi of Yellowfin Tuna, Yellow Doll Watermelon, Perilla

I never want to be close-minded about things because things can change. Things can improve and there's something about Volt that I really like. It's hard to hold a standard and bring service up to that standard - I know that personally. It's something that takes time. And it helps that former Volt staffer Felecia had lots of good things to say about the restaurant and their approach.

This time was much better. Service was friendly but deferential. There wasn't a lot of chattiness. We weren't burdened with someone's low opinion of other restaurants or how poor the restaurant scene is in Baltimore, or how that restaurant sucked. We were given the room to have a good time.

Enough about that. How was the food? Quite good. Lots of great technique going on with those cutting-edge things you may have heard about: liquid nitrogen, anti-griddle, PacoJet, foams, chemicals, sous vide. For someone like me, it's always fun to be served a meal and have an understanding (and hopefully an appreciation) of the technique that went into creating the dish. Like compressing watermelon in a vacuum. It's so simple yet so exciting to me.


Heirloom Tomatoes, Encapsulated Buffalo Mozzarella, Basil

Happily, none of our courses begged of technique for the sake of technique. Sometimes these tasting menus get crazy just because. They become exercises in intellectual wow rather than soul nourishment. Bryan Voltaggio and his crew are able to walk that line without crossing into the intellectual wow factor.

Sitting in the kitchen offers the opportunity to watch that technique in action - like the Nitro Beet's beet puree that starts off as a dollop on the AntiGriddle and then finished in a liquid nitrogen bath. Lots of cool things to watch that you don't see on Food Network.


Chicharron, Spun Sugar, Curry Salt

Twenty-one courses is a lot of food. Some were great, others not so much. I'll tell you about my favorites.

Prosciutto Chips in a warm potato foam dip with chives - deelish. The chips were dehydrated and the perfect foil to the potato foam. The problem with the dish is that there's more foam than chips and I was left wanting for a spoon to chow down on the remaining foam dip.

Sashimi of Yellowfin Tuna with compressed Yellow Dot Watermelon. Like I said above, I dig compressed melon. It's widely regarded as having the same texture as tuna (I disagree), but I'm always game for good yellowfin tuna. More please.

Then there was the chicharron stick with a swirl of cotton candy topped with curry salt. Crunchy pig wrapped with sugar and the spiciness of curry - need I say more?


Compressed Yellow Doll Watermelon, Salmon Roe, Vanilla Salt

Foie Gras Torchon - nothing terribly innovative here. Just beautiful foie gras from Hudson Valley, some fresh bing cherry halves and toasted brioche. The anti-foie gras people can go fuck themselves.

Iberico cross pork - I had to ask our server to repeat himself on this one. Evidently, there's someone local who's raising a cross breed of Iberico pigs from Spain and by the taste of the pork belly, someone is doing something very, very right.


Working in the Corner of Dreams: PacoJet, AntiGriddle, Liquid Nitrogen

The Pineland Farm Beef Strip was the dish that was both amazing and disappointing. First off, it's plated onto a huge, mother of a plate. The thing takes up the entire depth of the table and demands two hands to handle it. It's frickin' huge. The components of the dish are really good and I really dig the flavor of the creamed corn and the Yukon Gold puree, plus the garlic chip and foam paired perfectly with the stellar beef - and I do mean that the beef was stellar. Absolutely perfectly seasoned, cooked sous vide and just delicious. Stellar.

The problem with the dish wasn't the flavors or the beef but the amount of time it took to prepare such a large plating. By the time it reached our table, the creamed corn had started to dry out under the heat lamps at the pass and was developing a dry film. Flavor wise, it was the highlight of the meal. Visually speaking, the drying corn made it the lowest.


Nitro Beet, Foie Gras, Candied Walnut

Cheese is always an enjoyable course and the Midnight Moon cheese was delicious. The only problem was that the plate was so big. Not in terms of physical size but of quantity. All night long, we've been enjoying tastes of food. The cheese with the beets and the strawberry sorbet was just too much after so many courses. Half that size and it would have been perfection.


Chicken Wing, Point Reyes Blue Cheese, Celery


Cherry Glen Farm Goat Cheese Ravioli, Sweet Corn


Bass, Tasting of Summer Squash, Chorizo


Sweetbreads, Flavors of Picata


Preparing more to eat.


Iberico Cross Pork Belly, Bacon, Mostarda, Upland Cress

The Dulce de Leche "dirt" on the dessert was my favorite component of the dish, even though the goat cheese cheesecake was very tasty. I'm also a sucker for coconut ice cream and while the coconut dessert reminded me of Hawaiian haupia, it reminded Anisha of India. "It tastes like India," she says.

Now I no longer have to visit Bombay.

The barista side of me demands that I must try the coffee at nice restaurants - just to see what they are doing. Volt's coffee comes from Dublin Roasters in New Market, Maryland. Juan Manuel and I shared a french press of Organic Tanzania Peaberry. While more roasty than I prefer, it was pretty decent.


Foie Gras Torchon, Bing Cherries, Vanilla Brioche, Pistachio Soil




Duck, Belgian Endive, Purslane


Salsify, 60F Egg, Summer Truffles


Longnecker Farm Rabbit, Applewood Smoked Bacon, Carrot, Parsley


Dried and dehydrated Beets

Our mignardises were miniature madelines, Parisian style macarons and chocolate truffles. Tasty stuff that Anisha took home in what turned out to be a large container (for the four mignardises) and an even larger bag.

For me, the challenge is in the details. I found our experience at Table 21 to be very good. Not quite equal to the experiences I've had at other restaurants but certainly better than many, many others. One detail that I particularly loved was the cleanliness of the kitchen. Overall, it's very clean. But take a closer look and the details reveal themselves.


Chef Voltaggio doing his thing.


Pineland Farm Beef Strip Loin, Yukon Gold Puree, Roasted Pepper, Garlic


Cheese Midnight Moon, Strawberry, Beets


Dulce de Leche, White Chocolate, Goat Cheesecake


French Press Coffee Service



Coconut Vanilla, Lavender


Anisha and the Bread Sticks - After spending the entire evening without bread and spying the house baked bread sticks sitting on the undershelf at the Garde Manger station, the baker in Anisha finally broke down and asked for a taste.


Bing Cherry Chocolate


Mignardises

While most restaurant stoves have an overshelf, Volt's has a custom fabricated overshelf with a smooth coved base that prohibits grease from collecting in the corners. It's a touch that I'm sure not many people will notice but it's a killer detail that I'm sure the cooks appreciate.

The pans are also spotless. No burn or scorch marks on the side means that they've been scrubbed hard by the dishwash crew.

But the detail that caught my eye most dramatically were the chrome plated halon fire extinguishing pipes and nozzles in the hood above the hot line. Those pipes and fittings were gleaming and spotless. That detail alone is an absolute beauty and an indication of the level these guys are pursuing.

So how much does all of this cost? A cute 121 dollars - plus beverages, taxes and tip. After sharing a bottle of wine with Anisha, my portion came out to $203 all inclusive. Pricey for DC, expensive for Baltimore, which has to be astronomical for Frederick - but still less than half what you would pay at Alinea in Chicago and not even a third of the price for dinner at L'Arpege in Paris - so, all in all, a good deal. And you don't have to fly to get there.

Will I go back? In addition to Table 21 and the a la carte menu in the main dining room, there's still yet a separate menu in the Chef's Dining Room...


When Pigs Fly at Volt's Table 21.


Volt Restaurant
228 North Market Street
Frederick, Maryland 21701
301.696.8658
www.voltrestaurant.com

Getting Excited About Saucisson Sec

The couple at Les Cochons Tout Ronds in Montreal's Marche Jean Talon.

I like Baltimore, I really do. But once in a while I run into our little city's limitations. Take French food, for example. Good brasserie/bistro fare is almost non-existent. Sure there are some bistros in the area but they're not terrific examples and the other French places tend to be rather pricey. Even the sort-of down home Petit Louis Bistro is still on the pricey side.

Which leads me to something as simple as saucisson sec - there is none in Baltimore. At least none that I have found and certainly none made locally. We can get some pretty good baguettes in Baltimore, and even some pretty good butter - but there's no saucisson sec to go with that baguette and butter. Merde.

Ever since I worked on that Porchetta di Testa, the whole charcuterie thing has been on the mind. It's on the mind and with the build of project hampden, I'm starting to envision house-made saucisson sec in Hampden. But that's probably a year out. There's still so much to learn - especially about dry curing meats.

But, with a little luck, a little blessing from God and the avoidance of botulism, maybe we'll have fresh aged (oxymoron?) saucisson sec served on a baguette with butter and a cup of coffee on the side.

Now that's something to get excited about.

ph: Permitting Mayhem

Getting the Health Department Permit off the ground.

Sometimes it seems like a project goes nowhere for six weeks then, all of a sudden, starts to take off. After waiting around the entire day for our inspector to arrive (they follow a system not unlike Comcast), I had the opportunity to continue work on the new Spro Manual. The everything guide to all things Spro. It's good to get away from the distractions of my home office (i.e. the Internet) and into a place where I could focus on the task at hand.

To facilitate this, I brought along my folding table and one of the old chairs from Jay's Shave Ice. I discovered that the folding table is a bit too low for working and the chair is unkindly uncomfortable to sit on for hours on end. It's a good chair to keep laptop squatters at bay, and for those of you who did suffer sitting in those old chairs, I do apologize. Lay smug tonight knowing that I suffered in one as well today.

Now, with our shopping list of inspection requirements, we can move forward at a (hopefully) increasing speed.

ph: Mock Me Amadeus

Current plans about to be scrapped.

Things continue to move forward with project hampden. The drywall has been patched, the carpeting removed, the floor addressed and now it's time to build counter mock-ups. In such a tight space, I'm concerned that if we only rely on paper plans, we might run into a situation where ambition exceeds reality.

For years, I've been wanting to utilize underbar equipment in a coffee bar setting because it seemed plausible. Many shops I've visited have terrible design economies - wasting a lot of space for equipment that's sized a bit too big for their needs. To my mind, underbar equipment offers the possibility of giving the operator all the necessary equipment in a very space economic package.

Sounds good, but the reality turned out to be a little different than my ambition.

My idea was that the underbar equipment could comfortably fit under a 36" countertop so I could drop an espresso machine on top of it. That would give the barista a whole complement of sinks, ice bins and stuff right at their feet. Problem is that underbar equipment is designed to be offset from a 42" bar top and not directly under a 36" counter.


Counter mock-ups and an underbar blending station, dipwell and hand sink.

As soon as I set the combination dipwell, blender station, hand sink under the counter mockup, I knew that plan was doomed. There's just no way to make that work - unless I raised the counter to 42" or chopped the underbar feet down to 24", neither of which would provide a satisfactory result.

Now it's back to the drawing board to see where I can mash in a 3 compartment sink, then jostle around some refrigerators and an ice machine to make it all work - while adding a small freezer.

ph: Getting Floored

A portion of the floor filled with putty.

project hampden continues with floor work. The original hardwook oak floors are just gorgeous and it seems such a waste to cover them with any kind of flooring that I'm attempting to fill in the gaps between boards with stainable wood putty. Food service environments require washable floors and I'm hoping that a filled-in wood floor with heavy coats of polyurethane will be satisfactory for our inspector.

There's nothing like sitting/lying on the floor filling in gaps in the floor. It's slow and painstaking work. I haven't quite decided if I'm enjoying it, but maybe.

The back room's floors were painted white years ago and Spike had the great idea of sanding it down until it looked translucent and then sealing it. Good idea. Putty today, sanding starts next week.

A Weekend BBQ

This weekend is BBQ, but not the American, slow-cooked BBQ you're used to. This time it's Philippine style pork BBQ, Korean style Kalbi ribs and Caribbean-style chicken at the Baltimore International Festival this Saturday being held at Poly-Western High School.

Along with teams of BBQ competitors, there will be over 60 vendors and 40 futbol (soccer) games with teams representing a wide-variety of countries.

And yours truly will be the head judge for the BBQ competition, along with Karen Parks (FOX45 Weekend Anchor, Jessica Starr (Fox45 Meterologist), Spike Gjerde (Chef, Woodberry Kitchen), Sam Holmes (Pitmaster, OnoGrill), and Sony Florendo (local restauranteur and cookbook writer)

Click here for Baltimore Sun article.

ph: Do The Demolition

Tunes for the boombox.

Luckily, there's not too much demolition to do in the new project hampden space, mainly a partition wall. In order to do this, I've brought along my trusty Panasonic boombox cassette deck.

Yes, cassette tape. That old trusty servant from days past that archived happy times, sad times and everything in-between with various mix tapes of music and straight recordings of vinyl albums. All the tapes above are circa 1987 and a glimpse back to a time before iTunes and the quick ease of burning a CD.

In fact, burning a CD just isn't the same. Sure, you're selecting some tunes to give to your friend (or hopeful girlfriend), but the act of creating a mix tape was serious commitment. While a 45 minute CD takes just minutes to assemble and burn, a ninety minute mix tape took nearly two hours. Two hours of selecting the tunes, setting up the turntable, adjusting the levels and then recording the songs real time one by one. A cassette tape was a Labor of Love and I've always found it nigh impossible to throw my old collection away - especially with such classics as Xymox and Strawberry Switchblade on offer.

For the day's demolition, I just grabbed a handful of cassettes from a box in the garage. Ah, nostalgia. To be young again and fighting the world...


I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside.

ph: For The Love of Wainscoting

Dad does detail work on the wainscoting.

For whatever reason, I've been/become a fan of wainscoting. It's ultra-traditional and very white (two things I'm not) and I'm just fascinated by it. It's formal and fanciful. Unique yet common. And I found it quite therapeutic to install.

By no means am I a skilled builder. I build because I'm cheap. Because I'm the owner and when things need to get done, the buck stops here. So, regardless of experience or skill, with saw in hand I go. For me, it's the details that make the difference and I sat there and pondered how to finish the raw end of chair railing - finally settling on a detail that I'm quite excited about. It's a detail that's surely elementary to an experienced carpenter, but for me it's wildly exciting. When you visit, I'll point it out to you.

In all truth, it's a very small detail in the space and a detail that I expect most people won't notice or pay attention to. But it's there for those people that are looking at the details. Of course, I'm hoping that these same people won't notice some of the other details where my inexperience rears its' ugly head...

Luckily, Dad came a calling to offer his help. I may be one who tries to think about the details but my father is the one who knows how to execute the details - in excruciatingly detailed detail. While my caulk work is decent, his is smooth and beautiful. Sure, it's something that will be covered by paint but the caulk work is just brilliant and I'm super-excited about it.

More to follow.

The Old Barista and The Sea

Alexandra and Daniela no worse for wear.


When we die, we die alone.

The notion of dying is a lonely thought. Sure, different cultures and religions believe in afterlife or reincarnation or simple obliteration, but we really don't know. We can believe, but we'll never know for sure until that moment eventually arrives for us all.

I never thought too much about it, but I imagine death being a lonely place, and as Duncan and I floated off the coast of Florida in the Gulf of Mexico, swallowed up by a squall, trying to tread water in two foot chop with zero visibility and completely fatigued, I felt very lonely indeed. Scared, lonely and not quite ready to die.

Just a few moments before things had been going swimmingly. We were in the warm waters of the Gulf diving for bay scallops. The sun was out, the water felt cool and we were amongst friends. The ride out to the coast that morning had been through a storm front but we were assured that it has passed. Our skiff was loaded with snacks, snorkel gear and even in the face of questionable fishing, we were hopeful for a large bounty of scallops for that nights' larder. How many ways could one prepare and consume scallops? We were intending to find out.

I found diving for scallops to be about as frustrating as spear fishing for octupus off the coast of O'ahu. You can swim and swim and swim without seeing anything, until someone shows you what to look for then, suddenly, they're everywhere! Once Anthony had pointed out what I should be looking for, I started seeing them hidden amongst the sea grass. These weren't the large sea scallops most people think about, these were smaller scallops that produced muscle meat the size of your thumb.

Bay scallops are tasty, but not as sweet as their larger cousins. Regardless of the size, they were plentiful and the five of us were grabbing as much as we could. In a matter of minutes, my hands were full and I realized that I really needed my mesh bag that I had left back on the boat. No problem, it's only about twenty yards away.

That morning we had set out from Gainesville down to the Steinhatchee River where we rented a skiff to take us out to sea. As Anthony cleared the Steinhatchee channel and started to open her up, the girls were still sitting on the bow as the boat started to skip across the swells. Along for the adventure were Alexandra and Daniela, baristas at Anthony's Volta Coffee and Tea, and their friend Duncan who's manager at the local bike shop.

I have always been a sailor, but this year it seems I've been doing a lot of power boating. And while I very much enjoy the thrill of heeling the boat over until the rail starts to tuck into the water, there's something alluring about throttling forward in a power boat at high speed, seemingly daring the sea to break your hull as you crash from swell to swell.

Eager to collect as many scallops as humanly possible (or permissible by law), I started paddling towards our boat. Twenty yards, and a couple more scallops, and I expected to be near the boat. As I looked up from the water, the boat was still twenty yards away. Crickey, what's up with that? Oh well, keep paddling. After another twenty yards or so, I looked up again to find the boat the same distance away. WTF?

After a couple more twenty yard distances with no achievement, I started to get really irritated. Was the boat pinwheeling on the anchor and I'm just chasing after it in circles? Maybe. I decided to paddle faster and harder.

Admittedly, I'm no svelte man, so it's probably ill-advised to be paddling as hard and as fast as I was, but the boat wasn't getting any closer. Now, I've lived in Hawaii and spent numerous times there snorkeling around the islands. I'm no novice, but I would never say that I'm experienced either.

The harder I paddled, the harder I started to breathe. Not only was I breathing harder but also faster. So fast that I started to think that I might start hyperventilating and maybe I should slow down. It was about this time that it started to rain. Nothing to worry about, just a light drizzle. Maybe if I was dry and on shore, I would run for cover but I'm in the water - I can't get any wetter. But I was starting to feel a little tired.

Off to my right, I spotted Daniela swimming for the boat. She was passing me as it started to rain harder. She looked a little worried but since she was swimming better than me, I didn't bother to bother her. She'll make it back to the boat, I thought.

It was right about then that fatigue really started to lay into me. Had the waters been calm, I would have just rested and floated there but the squall was now a dark wall on our near horizon and the light swells turned into two foot chop, washing overhead as I was trying to get my bearings.

By this point, I had stopped pursuing the boat and was trying to tread water in position to calm down and regain my strength. The boat was rapidly floating away from me and visibility started to worsen as the squall set in over us. Crap.

I had been unsuccessful in slowing down my breathing and started forcing myself to take large, deep breaths in an effort to calm and control myself. I was getting worried. Screw that, I knew I was/could be on the verge of panic. I tried to keep my eyes on our rapidly disappearing boat.

Many thoughts race through your mind at times like this. Mine came at me in a blur. The thought of drowning/dying. The knowledge the I would make it: guaranteed. The deeper knowledge that knew that that was all bravado. Maybe I should never have gone on this trip. I hate deep water swimming. It all came at a rush and as the rain and fog started to obscure my vision, and the chop kept pounding over my head, I knew that I was in deep trouble.

I wanted to call out. I wanted to scream for help. I wanted someone to rescue me. This really sucks. I quickly reflected back on my life and on the times that I got away without killing myself and thought how much it would suck if I drowned here today. Alone, in the Gulf of Mexico: dead. I was on the verge.

The terror of panic started to grip me and I had to fight it back. If I gave in, I would be finished. Breathe deep. Breathe slowly. Don't think too much. Don't panic. Focus. As I fought back the urge to panic, in the back of my mind, I couldn't help thinking that this was going to be it: The End. I would die here. At sea. And be shipped home in a box. I would never get to know my niece/nephew who is scheduled to be born in December. It would just be me: the dead uncle. Killed at sea while diving for scallops.

In many ways, survival is a mental struggle. Lose the mental struggle, give in to panic and die. Not pretty. I didn't want to go out like that, but the truth is, I probably wouldn't have lasted much longer. I probably would have lost the mental struggle. I was right on the edge and about to fall off.

I'm not a very good Catholic. In fact, I'm a terrible Catholic. And I'm just a bad Christian in general. But I think I prayed a little in those moments, hoping that God would not abandon me (or perhaps bring me up for roll call). Some will think it's just coincidence, but maybe it was Divine Intervention that had Duncan swimming for the boat right past me at that moment.

He was about five yards away when he called over to me asking if I was okay.

Sadly, I'm afflicted with the male predisposition to pretend that everything is okay. That I'm a man and, therefore, in control of things. My first reaction, in spite of the fact that I was on the verge of panic and dying, was to tell him that I was okay and continue treading water in the hopes of making it. If I said that and Duncan kept going, I would drown soon after. I literally forced myself to call him over and tell him that I wasn't okay, that I was on the verge of panicking and would he stay with me while I struggled to calm down and regain my composure.

Duncan saved my life that day.

The guy stayed with me and let me hang on to him while we rode out the storm. It got worse. As the storm worsened, we lost all visibility. I lost all orientation. In the pouring rain, we were all alone. Alone at sea. As we floated there together, surrounded by nothingness, I started to think that we might die anyway. All that struggling to maintain sanity would be for nothing. We would be lost at sea and die.

Then, we saw a boat in the distance through the rain and haze. It was searching for their people. We waved. We called out. They couldn't hear us or see us and kept going, disappearing into the haze.


What could have turned out to be Blood Scallops...

As the boat disappeared, I had regained most of my composure, but knew that that could have been out last chance. We might die out here afterall. I didn't know how it would happen to us, but I decided that I would meet our demise stoic-ly. If death was going to come for us, I wasn't going to cry. I was going to try as best as I could to meet death head-on, without regret.

It was about then that Anthony had called out, responding to our calls to the boat. He had been floating and riding out the storm when he heard our calls and decided to seek us out.

One thing to know about this guy is that he's an experienced cave diver who's been in some harrowing and life-threatening events. Evidently for someone with his experience, this squall was nothing in particular. I guess when you've survived being lost at sea, in the water, for four hours, 70 miles offshore, our life-threatening storm is easy peasy.

As the storm subsided, visibility returned for us to see two boats heading towards us. Alexandra had called a nearby boat and asked someone to come aboard to pilot the boat and rescue us, and Daniela had been plucked out of the water by another boat and both boats were heading in our general location.


Something raw, something happy.

Back onboard, our crew looked a bit worse for wear. After I had seen her, Daniela lost a fin then decided to jettison her remaining fin, got caught up in the storm and lost her mask in the process before being rescued by the other crew. She looked shaken but not stirred.

Alexandra on the other hand, was completely blue. She was the lucky one who decided not to swim far from the boat and got back in before the storm hit. Three of her friends had been recently killed, the most recent due to a body boarding accident. I can't imagine her horror watching the four people she came out with slowly disappearing and being swallowed by the storm.

Armchair quarterbacking always reveals the little problems that combine into a force that threatens to kill you. Several things happened that day, but the one event that nearly did us in was the boat. Like I said above, the boat never seemed to get closer, not matter how much I swam towards it. I was wrong, the boat wasn't pinwheeling on the anchor. The anchor had pulled out of the seabed and the boat was being dragged with the current at 4 knots - meaning that no matter how fast I was swimming, I would never catch the boat. Doomed from the start.

In the end, all of us made it back alive. A bit scratched and beaten, but we lived. Sadly, our catch for the day was small. The scallops I had been holding, I jettisoned in the interest of staying alive, though as I reflect back on it now, it would have been just as easy to have given my scallops to Duncan (who was holding a mesh bag). That night, we shared a bowl of bay scallops in a light cream sauce over truffled pasta at Volta Coffee to celebrate our friendship.


A taste of glory: Bay scallops in a cream sauce on truffle pasta.

When Going Large Is Not Better

I don't know why I do it, but I do.

Every day (or most days), as part of my daily reading, I peruse the blog of Elizabeth Large, the restaurant critic for the once-venerable Baltimore Sun, and each day I reel in pain wondering why I subject myself to what is the literary equivalent of dragging a shiv across my neck. You would think that the critic for Baltimore's paper of record could reach no lower, yet every day, she manages to stupend and amaze with mediocrity even more mediocre than the day before (bet you didn't know that was possible).

For the record, I've been banned by Elizabeth Large from commenting on her blog. She long ago tired of my constant criticism of her lack of discretion and standards and stopped approving my comments. I mean, what better way to live ensconced in your own mediocrity when there's no one to critique you?

A couple of weeks ago, the level of mediocrity was even noted by CapitolSwell on his blog, where he writes:

"A good food critic can remind people of what is amazing about a city. It expresses who we are as a people. A good food critic can elevate a great city like Baltimore unto a whole new level."

Read Elizabeth Large's blog and your constantly reminded of the mediocrity that this city has to offer. Cheap "top ten" lists of places she hasn't visited that are written "just because" and a never-ending stream of posts that demonstrate that Large has very little concept of food or cuisine. I mean, any critic that perjoratively states that a restaurants' kale soup "...tastes, well, like kale" is just beyond credibility.

But why am I ranting about this today - when I've been trying to be nice for the past couple of months? When these public criticisms of Large will only guarantee that my shops or restaurants are slaughtered on the day she decides to write about them? Because CapitolSwell is right. It is the restaurant critic that upholds the standard for a city. If the critic of record has low standards and champions them, then the restaurants of Baltimore falter because they know that they don't have to strive for very much to receive a favorable review.

In today's blog entry, Large writes:

" Once, a positive or negative review from the critic of the city's main newspaper would have made a huge difference. My reviews were prominently placed in the Sun's Sunday magazine. They were a must read if you loved going out to dinner because there weren't many other places where you could read about local restaurants in town.

Now we have, to mention just a few other places to find reviews, Baltimore magazine, the City Paper, Zagat, Yelp, Urban Spoon, City Search, MetroMix, and many local bloggers. People may like to read what I have to say about a restaurant, but they certainly aren't going to spend their hard-earned dollars (or not) on just my word anymore.

That's a relief to me. If anyone thinks I enjoy eating a bad meal or writing something that hurts the feelings -- or the business -- of people who are trying to run a restaurant the best they can, he or she is very much mistaken."

Maybe I'm just a bit strange, but I always thought competition (like Baltimore Magazine, Zagat, Yelp and Chowhound) made you work harder and strive better. I always thought the idea was to demonstrate why you're better than the competition. But the critic for Baltimore's paper of record thinks it's a "relief" that the readership isn't "going to spend their hard-earned dollars (or not)" on her word anymore? Am I in some sort of messed up culinary twilight zone???

Today, Elizabeth Large's reviews are no longer placed in a position of prominence, it's no longer a "must read" - and yet, somehow, she's thinks this is okay. It doesn't dawn on her that perhaps her reviews no longer have an impact, not because of the emergence of Chowhound and UrbanSpoon, but because the readership has come to realize that Elizabeth Large has no standards and proudly parades that fact daily on her blog. She doesn't realize that her position has lost its' prominence because of her own fault.

Critics like Tom Sietsema (Washington Post) and Frank Bruni (New York Times) are feared and respected because they have standards. Standards that they aren't afraid to hold anyone and everyone accountable. The emergence of Internet sources hasn't diminished the power and respect of the Washington Post and New York Times reviews, yet Elizabeth Large claims that it's the reason why her words no longer have prominence - total baloney.

Talk to chefs and restauranteurs in New York City and there's the very real concern that Bruni (et al) will not find their establishment up to par. The reviewer for the New York Times is feared and respected. Mention Elizabeth Large to chefs and restauranteurs in Baltimore and you hear ridicule and derision - even the cook slinging thighs doesn't think Elizabeth Large is credible enough to review Kentucky Fried Chicken.

I hear from many people that Baltimore doesn't have the food scene that Washington D.C. has but few people consider that much of the reason we're swimming in a sea of mediocrity and Applebee's is because of The Baltimore Sun's food critic, Elizabeth Large.

Three Rules for Young Men

My friend's son is sixteen years old. His mom tells me about a photo she has of me in their photo album holding their infant son sixteen years ago. Amazing. It seems like yesterday.

My friend and his family are visiting for the holiday weekend and it was just myself, my friend, his son and our other friend driving and taking care of things around town. The wives and girls were off doing other things (like shopping).

He's sixteen and fully aware of how things are in the world. Girls, drinking, drugs, sex - he's fed a continuous stream of this diet through media, the Internet and his peer group. As it was when I was that age, there's little to discuss that he hasn't already heard about from his friends at school. About the only advice that "The Bad Uncle" like me can offer is suggestions on approach and technique.

Amongst the guys, we're just a dirty group. It's guy talk and all of us (save for the kid) have been around the block (so to speak) a bit and there's very little use in pretending so it's a straight-up "have you had sex yet?" kind of questions - both he (and his mom) assure us that he has not (yet).

Listen to the kid speak about the kinds of parties they have nowadays where it seems as though blowjobs are doled out as a form of greeting, Three Rules emerged from his suddenly wise father:

1. Don't get drunk.

2. Don't do drugs.

3. Don't give blowjobs.

Three simple rules for young men to live by...

Cranky Wallpaper

Today was the day. I was finally doing it.

The NCR Trail is a relatively level gravel bed trail built on the former North Central Railroad line running over 20 miles through northern Baltimore County into Pennsylvania. After much delay, I finally rolled my trusty Univega onto the path and started pedaling my way towards the Pennsylvania border (okay, I wasn't going to do the 40 mile roundtrip but rather the six mile roundtrip to the first road crossing). Whatever the case may be, I was getting my fat ass on the bike and on the trail.

The morning was beautifully sunny and a cool 73F. With the wind in my face, I greeted fellow cyclists and trail joggers with a hearty Bonjour! signaling all was well in the world. As I clicked through to higher gears on the Shimano selector and started to increase speed, I started to feel a strange oscillating wobble on my left pedal.

That's odd, I thought and looked down to see the left crank starting to separate from the shaft. Merde. I could just see myself now, pedaling harder and harder when suddenly, snaaap! The crack snaps off the shaft still cleated to my foot on the downstroke. The force of the snapping crank as my left foot charges downward sends the cleated foot straight to the ground at 25 mph.

The results of that occurrence didn't play well in my mind and only seemed that it would result in my crashing and burning in a very painful (if spectacular) manner. I decided to stop. Not even a mile out and my ride was over. Doomed.

Back in the truck, I had an hour to kill before the bike shop at REI would be open. I decided to head over to Budeke's to check out their selection of paint colors and wallpaper for project hampden.

I don't know how many of you have ever decided to look at wallpaper but it's absolutely bewildering (and I know what I'm looking for). Books upon books upon books of paper samples jumbled together with no rhyme or reason. Want a specific color? You're outta luck - just gotta look. And the books aren't light. They're filled with high-quality wallpaper and they are heavy. Up, down, up, down, again and again. It's exhausting and drives me mad.

After an hour of reviewing papers, I'm starting to freak out over the sheer enormity of the sample collection. This is going to take awhile.

If You Really Want To Drive A Stake Through My Heart...

Yesterday, I blogged about some schmoe getting his panties in a bunch about me being a lame asshole (or something like that). As long-time readers of this blog know, I'm down with that.

While working the bar at The Spro today, I receive a call from Christine. She's returning from a multi-week trip to Manila and needs advice on where to go for ramen - in Honolulu.

Truth be told, I can take being called a lame asshole or dickhead. It bothers me not that some people don't find our vision of coffee to fit their own. And I'm perfectly happy with others hating on me because I don't share their enthusiasm for the barista competitions (or not bathing)...

But, if you're one of my friends and you call me to tell me that you're sunning it up in Honolulu, I'm crushed and ready to curl into a fetal ball in the corner of the room. As I told Christine: "I could have multi-million dollar stores, a house in the country and women half my age on my arm and you still will have beaten me by being in Honolulu."

No amount of being called a lame asshole is worse than calling me from Honolulu...



- BTW, I sent her to Goma Ichi Ramen, 631 Keeaumoku Street, Honolulu, Hawaii 96816, 808-951-6666.

Perhaps This Blog isn't the Right Fit for You

Just got this comment for the Reading The Soul post:

"Fucking lame. Great work pissing on the competition just because you suck at them and you just use them to get attention. If your so worried with all the shit you blog about then you should shut the fuck up and work on making your shop better. Ive been to your shop and youre all talk."


Oh come on, REALLY???. I'm game for being called "lame" or an "asshole" or whatever descriptive you might want to hurl my way (it's probably true anyway), but you want to act macho and hide anonymously? Come on, show some balls. Gordon Ramsay has the balls to call someone a "fucking donkey" without hiding.

Truth is, I suck at the USBC Competitions. Have you seen my scores? They're terrible. I can't win. Hell, I can't even place. I can't even get a 6 in creativity. It's really sad and if winning the USBC was everything, I'd be lost.

But really, it's good that you're pissed. Maybe that means you care about your craft (or something). Maybe you're some hipster barista with tight jeans and you're ready for a shower. Good for you! Your customers will be grateful.


And as far as The Spro not being up to your standards - like I've told more than one person over the years:

"Perhaps we're not the right fit for you."




Note to our coffee industry readers: I did take a moment to consider taking a cue in responding to this message by quoting my former Portafiler.net Podcast co-host: "I'll punch you in your dick," but that's not really my style.

Reading The Soul

"But by Certified Master Chef (CMC) standards - those set primarily by the Culinary Institute of America, an institution that did not attempt to teach soul or happiness, but rather technique and knowledge and theory and practice - many CMC candidates did succeed. Perhaps the ones who succeeded, then, not only were technically gifted but also had never cooked to make people happy in the first place and therefore did not have that particular cord bound up in their standards. Maybe they'd cooked for money, as a job only, and happened to be really good at it. Good reason to cook: a job, a paycheck. Maybe they cooked because it pleased them personally and they were content to ride this one out. Maybe they cooked for the sport, the adrenaline rush of working a line, the way some people lifted weights or became compulsive joggers. if they had begun cooking for these reasons, cooked their whole lives this way, had never needed to make people happy to justify their work, their existence - and how many professions did? - then this absence built into the CMC test would never bother those chefs; that kind of chef would not feel its absence and would just cook as he or she always did."

- Michael Ruhlman, The Soul of a Chef, page 324


There are several books I return to and read every year or two, Ruhlman's The Soul of a Chef is one of those books and each time I read it, I can't help but create a parallel between the CIA's Certified Master Chef program and the Specialty Coffee Association of America's United States Barista Championship. I've competed in the USBC six times and have never found satisfaction participating. Sure, there's the camaraderie amongst baristas and the joy of spending time with friends across the world, but I've always found it lacking. Personally un-fulfilling. Disappointing. And, at times, outright corrupt.

As I was re-reading The Soul of a Chef this week, I ran across the above quote and found the parallel to the barista world unmistakable. Substitute "USBC" for "CMC" and "SCAA" for "CIA" and "barista" for "chef" and I think it's 100% applicable. In the barista world, there are those who do it to win at competition. They claim to "love" coffee and even put on affectations to make you think they have that level of care but really they're in it for the accolades. The accolades of winning, the accolades of being loved. For many baristas, it's about slinging coffee as fast at they can while combating the line dragon forming in front of them. Never mind the mound of wasted ground coffee that's piling up in front of the grinder, they're busy slaying the dragon.

Maybe I'm just a malcontent but I've never found satisfaction in the competitions or much of the barista world. There's a certain level of disconnect for me. A wondering where the craft meets the care. Too many baristas are too concerned about being "right" and being "hardcore" for no other reason than maybe to mask the fact that they haven't showered recently.

I read and re-read Soul, and it's sequel Reach of a Chef mainly because I want to study more on Keller. I'm fascinated by the man. Not in some fanboy stalker kind of way but rather I'm amazed at the level of finesse, pursuit of perfection and adherence to standards the man possesses. I want to hone that level of standard and finesse, and maybe that's why I find the whole barista world not very satisfying.

Why, I wonder, buy commercial syrups when you can make them better in-house? It seems everywhere I turn there's a laziness to craft. Commercial this, commercial that. Claims that an automated brewer is "better" and "cleaner." Absurd rationalizations that a timer stepped grinder that doses straight down is, somehow, more accurate than an infinitely adjustable grinder. "Signature" drinks that demonstrate a near lack of understanding of cuisine: I'm adding cocoa to highlight the cocoa character of the coffee" or "Have a sip of grapefruit juice to complement the citrus-y grapefruit note in the coffee.

Never mind contrasting flavors or complimentary flavors, let's just add more of the flavor already in there. It's so mind-numbing I might as well bash my skull against a concrete wall.

At least I have The Spro where I can practice our form of coffee pursuit to my standards. I can't imagine being a barista for someone else in any of the shops across America - I imagine it would be worse than being back in the movie business.


" Keller combined extraordinary technique and knowledge with humor, imagination and intelligence, and he did so in a setting straight out of a Monet painting. It was the perfect combination, and Keller never underestimated the important of the place he had found.

This was how he saw the world, and this was how he understood cooking, with a Zenlike spirituality but with his feet firmly grounded. Cooking had never been a means to an end for Keller. That was why he never got sidetracked by money or the lack of it. The first thing was care for food.

He loved this. He loved to wipe a counter clean. Because this was where perfection began. At this clean counter was where we learned not to waste anything and not to err, because when you made a mistake or when you didn't care, or you didn't appreciate that carrot that you were peeling, it was a waste of life itself."

- Michael Ruhlman, The Soul of a Chef, page 329

Seven Too Many

Dayboat scallops seasoned and at the ready.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been having a scallop craving. Every time I'm at Swirl hanging with Austin and James I dream of going to the fishmonger next door and buying a pound. But I've either been with Twyla (who hates seafood) or not in a position to run home and start cooking. Now that she's moved back to Arizona I'm back to my usual Tour de Force and can indulge on scallops again.

The local fishmonger stocks some nice dayboat scallops. They're dry and lovely. Beautifully fresh, happily sweet - they're a dream to eat and I never seem to get enough. With a pound in tow, I head home to season with salt and pepper then pan sear in cast iron with canola oil. The results are just beautiful. Success. With some steamed rice as the backdrop and a little extra salt and a squeeze of lemon, it's scallop perfection.

The first bite is divine. That balance of sweet scallop meat accented with the salt and the zest of lemon is sublime. It is God's Perfection. I'm blown away. I must have more.

This is where I should have stopped.



Seared scallops seasoned with salt & pepper, and drizzled with lemon.

In total, I seared eight scallops. Eight beautiful scallops. I should have stopped after eating the first. Not because of any bad experience that necessitated a Ruling of The Kingdom, but as I ate the successive scallops, palate sensitivity lessened. The more I ate, the more my palate became used to the flavor and the more I had to eat - always trying to recapture the beauty I had tasted in the first bite. Like a drug addict chasing his first high, I ate each successive scallop chasing the sweet beauty of the first. My palate had grown accustomed to the beauty and the beauty of each successive scallop was diminished.

This is something that Thomas Keller had talked about that I had forgotten. So used to massive servings, we lose the flavor we seek as our palate becomes used to the flavor. I'm sure each scallop was just as amazing as the first but as I got used to the flavor it lost something. One scallop would have been the apotheosis of flavor. Two would have been beautiful symphony. Three would have been a wonderful meal but after that, it was just excess.

Not that I discourage excess when it comes to fresh, dayboat scallops. Just be prepared to lose a taste of the flavor with each successive bite. I may profess here that one perfectly prepared scallop is the apotheosis of flavor but I don't think I'm Keller enough to only prepare just one. Next time I'm faced with a mound of scallops I'll probably be consuming them en masse.

Steamed Milk in Your Iced Latte

I've been openly critical about Baltimore Sun food critic Elizabeth Large. Even though I find her taste in cuisine to be vastly different than my own (and of a completely divergent agenda), I still take a moment now and then to read her blog - if only to practice the exercise of bashing my head against the wall in frustration.

In fact, I've been so openly critical of Liz Large that I've been effectively banned from posting comments to her blog. Long ago, she stopped "allowing" my comments because they tended to be highly critical of her position in the food chain - how anyone makes the claim that kale soup tastes too much of kale and retains credibility is beyond me.

In today's blog entry, she writes about iced coffee and how it's surpassing iced tea as a restaurant breakfast drink. Now, I don't know if that's true but consumption of iced coffee from the Brew Tower of Power at The Spro has been on a sharp rise. Anyway, the point is that she writes:

"My favorite version of iced coffee is an iced latte, but the milk has to be steamed first or it doesn't taste right. You can't just put espresso and cold milk together and call it an iced latte."

Which makes me go: "Hmmmm..."

Lots of places in Baltimore serve something resembling iced coffee or espresso with cold milk aka "iced latte" but no other shop that I know of steams their iced latte milk other than The Spro. Has the kale-handicapped Liz Large made clandestine visits to The Spro under the guise of a regular customer? Could I, God Forbid, have actually served the mysterious Lady Large myself? Maybe even treated her with our usual blend of friendly hospitality? I wonder.

I'm guessing that because of our history, she won't acknowledge this but I wanted to put out a message to Mrs. Large:

"Come visit and enjoy our iced lattes. We welcome all at The Spro."

Showoff

I enjoy reading Chef Shola Olunloyo's StudioKitchen blog. He's progressive and centered and not afraid to pronounce his opinions that may rankle the goats of others. The StudioKitchen blog is a fascinating journey of Shola's food and it's quite enjoyable to follow.

Recently, he's posted about Storing Spices
and Artist and Artisan
. Two posts where he shares images of a very sexy storage system for his spices crowned by the complete collection of Ferran Adria's Texturas line of food chemicals, or his pseudo-museum display of his equipment collection of Polyscience AntiGriddle, Polyscience Immersion Bath, PacoJet and Thermomixes. He shows us pictures because it's too sexy for words.

To Shola and his images, I say: "Showoff."

(but really, I'm just envious...)

StudioKitchen
: Read It.

project hampden: Something's Afoot at Spro

The new Compak grinders await their vetting while our old standbys wait in the distance.

Here's a quick sneak peek at some of the new equipment that's slated for project hampden. As some of you already know, in spite of the fact I've been using Mazzer grinders for over five years, I'm a big fan of Compak grinders from Spain. Our 2006 K10 has been grinding it out for over three years with no problems making beautiful coffee. How could I not continue the flow?

Featured here are the new Compak R80 bulk grinder, Compak K10 WBC espresso grinder and the only one in America prototype K10 WBC Doserless Timer Grinder. And if it looks strangely familiar and you think you've seen this grinder before, that's because you have seen it before.

New Sunglasses at Cabela's

On the way home, I decided to swing by Cabela's again. One hour on Tuesday wasn't enough. The store is immense. Shock and Awe.

As I approached the behemoth, I spotted a tractor trailer pulling up alongside the building. Dwarfed, actually. And I wondered: How many trailers does it take to stock this store??? Inside, it reminded me of a casino. A very large casino. Anything and everything outdoors can be found inside. Amazing. The prices were good too.

Even their camping section had a nice array of kitchen equipment, like the stainless steel butcher's saw, or the rebadged Excalibur dehydrator, or the sausage stuffers or monolithic meat grinders for $400. Tre cool. With my paid off Visa card in hand, I marched up to the cash register.

And bought a pair of sunglasses to replace the ones that had broken earlier today.