5th Uganda Barista Championship

Barista Jonathan Ddumba presents to Head Judge Clare and sensory judges Miriam, Richard, Evelyn and Emma.

A few weeks ago, I received a call from David Roche of the Coffee Quality Institute. He was calling to ask me if I would be willing to go to Kampala again to be the head judge and trainer for their barista championship. He said they had been asking for me personally. An honor.

Not too long later, I found myself boarding yet another trans-Atlantic and trans-African flight to Uganda where we would be holding two days of barista workshops, one day of judges training and then three days of competition.


Surrounded by competitors for a "photo op."

Last year, I thought it was a bit odd to have a barista training literally hours before the competition. I mean, how much could the competitors digest, make changes and (perhaps) improve right before the championship. But I was tasked to do a job and I did what I could and shared as much information as possible on how to compete, methods of flow and even ways to improve your scores.

While I was at first a bit skeptical, I'm now a fan of. One of the greatest problems in barista competitions is the disconnect between competitor and judge. One person within the USBC once remarked that the WBC Rules and Regulations are the only training manual you would need, but the interpretation of those rules can vary wildly from judge to judge and competition to competition. Add to that the WBC's reluctance, or outright refusal, to provide materials and information to illuminate these areas and you've got a situation where only a small percentage of competitors have the ability to truly be competitive.


Joseph Kyeyune rocks it to the Finals.

Of course, the pundits will argue that it's a "level" playing field and that one doesn't need to have money to win. These are also the same people who never comment that those who win have also spent time training with the likes of World Barista Champion Fritz Storm - whose rates are in the thousands. So much for the average competitor...

Which is what the majority of the competing world is comprised of: average competitors trying to learn finer points of our craft and doing a better job in the world. Everyone wants to do well and win a trip to Vienna, but not everyone has the resources available to them. And that's what the barista workshops are designed to do: bring the information to the competitors before the competition when they will have some time to perhaps make changes and incorporate them into their performances.


Daphne awaiting lunch.

And that's what I see here in Kampala. Lots of passion. Lots of interest and the desire to do well and improve. So, after two days of instruction, we're off to the races.

The competition itself went very smoothly. With a resident WBC Certified Judge, the duties of Head Judge were split between myself and Clare - relieving me of the intensity that comes from Head Judging 26 competitors non-stop.

As with any competition, we want to judge the competitors on the same level at the rest of the world. Meaning that a score of "5" is equivalent to a "5" elsewhere in the world. What we don't want is a "5" in Uganda to mean a "3" at the World Championship. We want a realistic evaluation according to world standards, which is a difficult proposition when you're trying to wrangle local judges who've never seen competition before (or maybe never outside of their country).

In my world, there's a bit of pushing, prodding and even outright challenge to judges' evaluations. Scores go up, scores go down, but always with lots of information, discussion and detail as to why. The hardest part is getting the judges to write enough information on their sheets to be helpful to the competitor later.


Finalists Emma Katongole, defending champion Mark Okuta, two-time champion Roberts Mbabzi and Joseph Kyeyune.

As the competition winded down and the finalists announced, I looked over the scores compared to last years competition and was pleasantly surprised. The average scores had improved considerably. Only one disqualification this year compared to four in 2010. And the finalists all performed very strongly - one could easily see the improvements from the previous year.

When the Finals got rolling on the last day, the excitement was palpable. The Defending Champion Mark Okuta versus the former two-time champion and a slate of some very tough competitors. Quickly, four of the finalists pulled away from the field. Nearly 100 points would separate the fourth and fifth positions. While Simon's cultural smoked milk electrified the audience, Mark's tour of the coffee bean was fascinating and Salim's dazzling performance rocked, it was the former two-time champion, Roberts Mbabzi who came a calling to reclaim his title as Barista Champion of Uganda.


They said I was looking "smart" at the barista awards party.

Many hours later, after the partying was over, some of the competitors came to me to ask how they had done. What they really wanted to know is: how could they have lost? And: how did Roberts win again? I understood their question because it's common amongst those who don't take the title. There's always the wondering if the competition isn't somehow, fixed. Especially for someone who always seems to win.

I sat down with them and pulled up the electronic scoresheets that I keep on file as the Certifying Judge for a national championship. And I compared their scores. Even without the actual notes of the scoresheets, the scores tell a lot. The top four were very close. Each of them within striking range of the Champion spot. An improvement in this set of espressos, or an improvement in your professionalism, plus a slight mistake on the part of the Champion could easily have switched positions. Even hitting an even 4.5 on cappuccinos taste balance could have scored you the title.

In the end, I discussed it with them to show that there's nothing rigged about the competition. The scores reflect the performance. Maybe that one puck was off and you served it because it would burn time to redo the shot. That shot got you 1.5 in scores. Maybe it would be worth it to burn the additional 30 seconds to grab a 3.5 in scores? All things that have to be considered by the competitive barista.

I think they all left understanding the process a little bit better. Perhaps still not happy that they "lost" but at least with a better understanding.

And if I can leave a place with a better understanding of our craft, then it's been a worthwhile trip.

Exploding Kampala

Outside the world looks grey, but it's still there.


5:52am

The sound of a large explosion rousts my consciousness into awareness. As the rumbling from the explosion continues, I lie there in silence waiting for the building to collapse and crush me. For five long seconds, I'm scared.

Outside, I can hear a cacophony of car alarms and the muted howl of wind. Nothing has happened. I haven't been crushed. I start to think that I should investigate just what is going on.

My room at the Kampala Serena is build for sleeping. A plush, king-sized bed and three layers of drapes means that I can sleep in the middle of the day cocooned in comfort and darkness. As I make my way to the balcony, I wonder if I will find the world ablaze due to the works of the Lord's Resistance Army or Al Shabbab. I hear another explosion, this time a bit more distant.

As I peer out into the world, it is dark and grey. Rain and gale force winds whip through the capital. Turns out that the explosion is merely thunder. But thunder unlike I've ever heard before. In North America, the thunder cracks like a high-pitched whip. Here in Africa, it's got umph and when it hits over you (like it must have when it woke me), you think the world is falling.

Secure in the knowledge that this storm probably won't pancake my building, I return to sleep.

Two Guys Out On The Town

The nightlight is kicking at Cayenne.

It's nearly two a.m., the music is thumping, bodies writhe before us, a plate of grilled meat is half eaten, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label is nearly finished, and for reasons I don't quite understand, I've been smoking a shisha the whole night when a crazy (but very friendly) central Asian dude comes up to our table to offer greetings and shots of tequila.

After nearly a full bottle of Black Label, tequila of unknown origin has to be a bad idea. Somehow, the guy knows my girlfriend lives in Mexico City, asking me to bring back a bottle of tequila the next time I come back to Kampala (as though I'm here every few weeks). The tequila isn't bad - maybe Cuevo Tradicional (or similar). Slightly sweet and tart, and unlike America, there's not a salt shaker or wedge of lime in sight (gracias a Dios).

We've been here for hours and while sitting at our reserved table, I've seen the club go from comfortably open to insanely packed. It's a madhouse in here. And it's the most diverse crowd I've seen yet. Americans, Europeans, Asians, Africans - everyone is here. Including that hooker I see at my hotel bar every night.

That's not to say Cayenne is a hooker bar, because it's not. People of all strata are here - mainly middle to upper class because everyone else can't afford the cover charge. Andreas knows the owner so we're comfortably ensconced at the best table in the house.

It's not the occasional hooker, or the older white men with young African girls, it's the sex tourists that surprise me. Not the stereotypical male hunting young girls (or boys), but rather the new breed of sex tourists: White (American or European) women of all ages on the hunt for real African cock. As one of our friends from the American Embassy tells us, the white girls ignore him (he's also white) because they're looking to get plowed by the fantasy.

Women sex tourists hunting men. If that isn't gender equality, then I don't know what is...

Everyone knows Andy (or so it seems). As we sit there, I meet a wide range of people who come to our table to say hi. Promoters, coffee industry types and one guy who at one point evidently was the head of Mossad in Tel Aviv. I make a mental note not to screw with that guy.

It's interesting and fun but at one point, I find myself asking "what are we doing here?" We're just sitting there, like uninteresting guys. Five years ago, Andy and I would be on the prowl. Shooting and looting. In a place like this, it would be Game On and out of control.

Instead, I'm smoking a shisha.

Two guys, once pirates, now committed, sitting at a reserve table with bottle service and smoking a shisha at 3am. Guess it's time to go home.

Turkey On The Far Side Of The World

A little late to the party.

I've spent a number of holidays away from home but none of them has revealed itself as poignant as Thanksgiving. In America, Thanksgiving is ubiquitous. In many respects, it's the most important holiday of the year as families make great effort to spend that day together. This is the second time I've been away from family and friends for Thanksgiving.

It wasn't until this year that I started to feel just how important Thanksgiving is to Americans. Forget the whole thing about how it's a celebration of the white man raping, pillaging, stealing and plundering what rightfully belonged to the Native Americans. Like Native Hawaiians, the government may have offered an apology and given them crappy land to call their own, but they're still screwed.

But Thanksgiving isn't important because of those pilgrims, today it's important because it's the time of gathering of family and friends and I find myself feeling the lack of family and friends. Even my girlfriend is nine time zones away, meaning I haven't had the chance to talk to her in nearly a week - all of which tends to be quite a bit isolating.

Being in Kampala, there's very little talk of American Thanksgiving. If anything, I've been hearing more about these mysterious Scottish Dances where Scots (or those who fancy themselves as Scots) come together to eat, drink and dance in skirts. I'm tempted to go but it's 75,000 Shillings and I'm just too darn tired to leave the hotel.


Not the typical Thanksgiving plate.

Instead I resign myself to another quiet Thanksgiving alone in some glorious hotel in Eastern Africa. After the gym, I stroll through The Lakes Restaurant to see just what they have on the buffet. I'm thinking of taking my dinner in the room but spy what was once a rather large turkey on the carving table. Seems that the kitchen here at the Serena are exploiting a little bit of America on its greatest holiday.

So, my Thanksgiving dinner consisted of turkey, turkey and cheese sausage, chicken tikka masala, vegetable curry, rice and a little Baked Alaska.

Not too bad for a guy in the middle of Eastern Africa.

Robusta, Naturally!

Welcome to Great Lakes Coffee - the honorary Consulate of Greece.

After eating a bit too much barbecue and partying together in Houston this past April, Andy invited me to visit his coffee factory the next time I was in Kampala (you know, because I always just happen to swing out to Africa).

And since I was in Kampala, I gave him a ring and off we were running in a Euro-spec Nissan Patrol careening through the streets of Kampala off to some far-flung place on the eastern side of the city, past rutted roads, mud huts and sinfully gorgeous gated mansions to this industrial section where I wondered how anyone navigated the "road" without a four wheel drive truck or SUV.


Where the women hand sort for defects.

Drive up and you face a gated wall that's simply ominous and forbidding. Until the armed guard with the Ak-47 swings the gate open with a friendly "You're very most welcome!"

Africa: Situation Normal.

Once inside the high, concrete walls, I'm reminded of my cousins rice mill in the Philippines. Large, flatbed trucks wait to haul away container loads of coffee and some kind of mill towers above all else.


A mosque for the Muslim workers.

Our tour begins with the sorting room. Here dozens of women sit on the floor, spread out with a bag of green coffee in front of them. Each of the women sit there sorting the coffee and picking out the bad beans. Those go into a hopper where they'll evidently be sold to Lavazza or Illy or Folger's, or any of the dozens of coffee companies looking for coffee of any quality - so long as it's priced below the C-Market.

For the women, it's a great way to make money and socialize. They sit in the large room, openly discussing the days gossip. Who's doing what to whom, and so on. Showing me a wooden desk that looks like an oversized cigar rolling table, Andy tells me that he once tried to create these work stations where the women would sit and sort. It would be more comfortable and more efficient, allowing these women (who are paid by the bag) to work faster and earn more.

Problem is that these workstations ended up being five feet high and when seated, the bin would obscure the women's view from each other, thus ending the social interaction that they enjoy more than cranking out another bag a day. The one model stands lonely in the space, a monument reminding the women that this is about sorting quality coffee AND discussing what that crazy muzungu lady must have been thinking wearing that outfit to church.


Laser sorting green coffee.

From there it's past the Mosque built specifically so that Muslim workers would have a place to worship and into the processing room where thousands of pounds an hour can be mechanically dried, hulled, sorted and bagged. It's a large and impressive operation with laser sorters that divide the beans at incredible speed.

Next to the processing area is the arrival storage area where the room is nearly packed to the ceiling with green coffees fresh from the fields. The harvest is starting to peak here in Uganda and we're seeing the greatest volume right about now.


Reaching the peak of harvest.

After a tour of the offices to meet the company principals (Dad, uncle, brother and Kat), I'm whisked into the lab where the fun really will begin. Andy, Corey and Emma have set up an 11 sample cupping for me to taste the latest crop arrivals along with some interesting specimens from the DRC (Democratic Republic of the Congo) and a freakingly interesting natural processed robusta.

Awareness of Ugandan coffees is very low, with most people only knowing or hearing about Ugandan Bugisu. According to Andy, coffees from this Bugisu region can be very good - especially the select stuff from Mount Elgon. The problem with Bugisu is similar to that of Kona in Hawaii. Coffees from other parts of Uganda, which may be interesting on their own, are trucked across the country to be blended with coffees from the Bugisu region to become Uganda's "Bugisu" coffee.


Cupping New Crop arrivals.

Happily, Andy and company are forging ways to preserve the unique characters of the growing regions and develop a specialty market for these coffees. I'm interested in tasting these coffees and bringing them back to the United States.

Despite (or maybe because of) the fact that we buy and sell some of the best coffees available on the market at Spro, my personal exposure to the many cupping defects out there really is quite limited. By the time we receive our green or roasted coffees, they've already gone through a multi-stage process of cupping and vetting. Here, we're tasting the stuff as it's coming from the field and anything goes.


Screening 320 bags (container load) with my face.

One cupping sample (out of the five) immediately smelled of boiled peanuts when dry and wet potatoes when wet. There's that potato fungus right there. Sadly, while it was interesting to actually cup a coffee from the DRC, the coffee itself wasn't quite what we were looking for.

There were, however, several samples that I found really intriguing and I'm planning on following these coffees through the harvest to see exactly how they're going to shape up in the coming weeks.

UBC Barista Training - Day Two

Evaluating a cappuccino.

Day Two of barista training for the Uganda Barista Championship consists of mock trials. Originally, I had planned to show videos of World Barista Champion Alejandro Mendez but the dual punch combination of the incessantly excessive and irritating "sports commentary" while reviewing the footage in my hotel room the night before and the poor 3G reception in wireless Kampala, along with the stupidly difficult to load Livestream feed, meant that we were going to abandon watching "official" footage and instead focus on live interaction.

Which I think turned out much better than watching some streaming video of average quality over the Internet.

By placing the baristas in the role of judges, I think gave them a greater appreciation for what pressures the judges face and how difficult it really is to score accurately, consistently and impartially.


Can you give this a visual score upside down? Evidently, one barista judge did not think it was possible.

For this exercise, we would eliminate the signature drink because it's much more interpretive than the rest. Just espresso and cappuccino rounds with the baristas taking turns presenting and judging.


You might give it a "3".



Drawing their presentation order for The Big Day.

UBC Training - Day One

The prize of Eastern Africa.

With 20+C weather outside, Kampala is a lovely place filled with a cacophony of sounds, briliant sights and quite a bit of traffic. Making our way along the crowded streets is a demonstration of the mass humanity filling Africa's cities. Vehicles of all sizes, pedestrians and even the women balancing just about anything and everything on their heads.

Today is the first day of three days worth of training. Two for barista competitors and one for championship judges. I always find these trainings to be quite a challenge because you never know what you're in for. Everyone has been through basic training and passed a preliminary qualifying round, but even in this group of 21 baristas, the experience ranges from independent competitors learning competition coffee for just a few months to seasoned cafe and competition baristas with five years in the field.

In the end though, it all goes back to basics: the scoresheets and rules. Most of Day One was spent going over the scoresheets and making sure that they understand the scoring, how the categories are scored and a little bit on how to exploit the scoresheets to their advantage.


Pouring it out.

In the afternoon, we review visual identification techniques for cappuccino and espresso, giving the baristas the chance to judge scores on multiple examples of both, familiarizing themselves with just how the judges will be reviewing their drinks. Later, it's open stations for the baristas to make drinks and then we sit down and evaluate the drinks together - giving them the chance to visually score and taste their own drinks for deeper understanding.

Afterwards, the interested baristas hang out roasting coffee, talk about blending and work on more advanced techniques. It's interesting to see who stays behind until the bitter end - it may be an indication of the standings to come.


Uganda's 2010 Barista Champion: Mark Okuta.

Serena-ty Uganda

Poolside at the Kampala Serena Hotel in Uganda.

After leaving my house at noon on Thursday, I finally arrived at my room in Kampala, Uganda at 3am on Sunday morning: a total travel time of 55 hours (including a stopover in Frankfurt, Germany). Finally got into bed around 5am and slept until 1:15pm to find myself in what is easily the highlight of my entire years worth of travels.

My hosts here in Kampala are gracious and generous enough to put me up at the gorgeous Kampala Serena Hotel where luxury and comfortable living is the norm and I highly recommend anyone staying here. The staff is wonderful and the attention just right. Not too overbearing but right there when you need it.

The only downside at the Serena is the crazy sporadic Internet connection. Maybe that spot you're sitting doesn't have great reception, but move five feet to the right and a step back and the kilobytes start flying. But no matter, if the problem is really serious, one of their service techs will be here right away to help you with the matter and find the optimum location for your laptop. They'll even move your beverages and umbrella to accommodate you.

For a few moments, I thought about calling some friends and heading out into the Big City, but how often in my life do I find myself with a day to luxuriate and do nothing in particular except enjoy just being alive? That week between Christmas and New Year's in Honolulu at The Porn King's bungalow overlooking Honolulu back in 2004 comes to mind.


Danke schoen Alemania for the Montecristos.

So what better way to spend the day than in t-shirt, board shorts, slippers and lounging poolside with a pack of Montecristo Minis, some cold beverages and the occasional swim in the pool? I should note that I did bring my Foodservice Management and Controls textbook with me as part of my continuing studies retinue (which I didn't crack open once this afternoon).

After laying down some bronzing foundation on my rapidly whitening winter skin, I decided to retire from the pool to the outside lobby bar to rest and recover from the constant movement trying to avoid the shadows cast poolside from the waning sun (it's difficult work!)

I also met a woman (with her visiting son) who has been living here for four years. I asked her how she liked Uganda and she clarified that she has been living here, in the hotel, for the past four years.

At the lobby bar, I've settled myself with a pot of African tea - an interesting and slightly odd blend of tea with ginger to give it a zing, already steeped with milk and served with sugars and some cookies. Somewhere from the pool area wafts strong traditional African music. It's alluring and wonderful, and I want to wander over there and watch the musicians but I'm too relaxed to do anything that strenuous.


Working at The Mist bar.

My mind wanders back to that woman and her son. Four years. I've always secretly envied those people who have found a way to live in the best hotels of the world. How does one even arrange that kind of arrangement? I can only imagine what the rate is here for my stay. Multiply that by a month then by years???

But what a fantasy. You're daily live tended to by the best hotel people in the world. Meals prepared in the nations best kitchens. There's always a pool and a spa, a bar and 24 hour room service to satiate your every desire. The baristas here make killer coffee to the standard which I desire. It would be heavenly - and when your time comes, you can rest assured that your remains will be disposed of with care and your loved one notified with the proper amount of discretion.

If I don't return to America by December 7th, you'll know where to find me...

Foolishness

Feeling the call to duty.

It's been sitting on my desk for three days now. I don't even know why I bought it knowing that I was leaving for Africa tomorrow. I could just have easily waited until I return in December, but noooo.

I've convinced myself that I can play just one (or two) levels and then I'll be done and can put the game away until I return...

Final Jeopardy

Another round of Hepatitis A vaccinations.

It's weird, because I've traveled quite a bit in my life but every once in a while I get hit with a bout of travel jitters. That slight heaviness of anxiety and trepidation that comes when you wonder if, maybe, this might be the time the odds catch up to you.

It hasn't actually happened to me in years, but back in the day, there were times when my nervousness over flying actually caused me to push a departure day back a day or two.

I don't know why because flying is statistically safer than driving - especially my driving. But with about 44 hours before my flight takes off, I'm feeling a bit apprehensive. I once had a dream about being in a plane crash. It wasn't pleasant, but I say "dream" instead of "nightmare" because I didn't wake up scared.

Over half a million miles and most of the die hard travelers around me seem to be doing the same thing: the nonchalance of sitting there sipping your pre-flight beverage feigning boredom and a "oh, it's just another day flying" kind of attitude. Meanwhile, I wonder if they're also like me: pretending, while secretly wondering is this might be the day we plummet to the ground in a crumpled mass of flesh and aluminum. Morbid: yes.

I comfort myself with the thought that at an flight level altitude between 35,000 to 41,000 feet, the pilots have five miles to correct whatever problem might occur over that cold and vast North Atlantic. Plenty of time to address a situation. Maybe.

My itinerary has me flying a Boeing 777 across the Atlantic, an Airbus A340 down to Addis Ababa and then a two hour flight through darkness in a DeHavilland Dash-8 turboprop. Overall, it should be a pleasant enough trip - though the Dash8 doesn't offer premium seating, of which I fear the most.

The height of falling aside, I also comfort myself with the thought that the airlines are notoriously cheap. Forget all the amenities that have gone away over the years, the airlines are cheap enough that they A) don't want to lose airplanes because they cost millions, and B) they don't want to pay penalties, fines, legal costs and compensation to bereaved relatives. Not to mention the bad press and it's in their financial interest to land their passengers safely.

I often wonder why some of the other frequent flyers like to line up in the premium queue an hour before the flight. You know who I'm talking about: those strange folks (usually in a suit) standing on that tiny red carpet wanting to be the first on the plane.

Me? I've got little interest in being stuffed into an aluminum tube that may just take me to my demise. I like to be the last person on the plane. I'll wait until final call.

Deep down inside, I understand. Faced with the constant possibility of checking out in a fiery ball, we want to feel a little pampered. Ensconced in some semblance of civility and calm, as opposed to the mass huddle happening in coach.

So that maybe, as we plummet to the earth clenching our seventh "free" cocktail, after eating a four course meal, sitting in our leather-bound, lay flat reclining chair, we'll feel some semblance of comfort...

Meanwhile, I've got my vaccination card up-to-date, my bags to be packed and a healthy optimism that the airlines don't want to lose any more money!

Roxy Mas!

Coconut, tutti frutti, tutti frutti and the mystery orange flavor.

Carnitas Alfonso

Assorted pork goodies in the window at Carnitas Alfonso.

One of the nicest things about Mexico is that Mexicans are not afraid of pork.

Seemingly everywhere you turn, it's pork this and pork that. Pork, pork, pork. God love this place.

Of course, if you're Jewish or Muslim, you're kinda in trouble. Then again, I don't recall seeing a lot of pork places in Polanco where many of the Jewish community lives.

Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Mexico City in Naucalpan stands Carnitas Alfonso. Adriana and Hector have been raving about this place and on a recent Sunday afternoon, instead of being good Catholics and going to mass, we decided to worship at the altar of pork while watching futbol on the television.


Salsas y Limon.

Honestly, I can't imagine what it must be like to come to Mexico and be someone who doesn't eat pork. Like watching porn, you're missing out on half the fun.

And when you arrive at Carnitas Alfonso, you're greeted by windows of sheer and utter pork goodness. Not just the ribs or the belly or the shoulder, but by mounds of intestines, jowls and amazingly large sheets of chicharron. I mean sheets as big as your torso. Fantastic.


Pickled peppers and red onions.

If you so choose, you can eat outside while picking and choosing from the selections in the window. Or you can head inside, sit at a table and enjoy flowing plates of endless pork.

Our server brings us a large menu listing hundreds of items. He wants to know what we would like. Really, I want to tell him to simply bring me the tastiest pork stuff they make, prepared in a manner that I can readily and easily put it in my mouth to eat. Good thing Hector knows what to order.


Gorditas.

In just a little while, a parade of plates starts making their way to our table. It's a blizzard of antojitos and I recall splashes of ground masa with cheese and pork, along with salsas and limes and tall, super cold glasses of freshly made horchata.

Gracias Hey-seuss (Jesus).


Quesadillas.

As they bring out the pile of carnitas by the kilo, I'm starting to realize that maybe I'm feeling a little on the full side. But the steaming pile of pork is too good to resist. Add the stack of hot tortillas and how is one supposed to resist? It can't be.

Oh but it's so delicious. Delicate, tender meat. Technically speaking, our meat isn't really "carnitas" but actually the rib meat - meaning it's got more fat and more flavor.


Carnitas por kilo.

In the end, the plates are empty and we realize that we should spend some time simply walking around to alleviate the pressure. It was a good meal. A tasty meal. A meal worth repeating.

And next time, we're going to explore the other bits.


Oh, chicharron!



Carnitas Alfonso
Blvd. Manuel Avila Camacho 865
Echegaray, Estado de Mexico
Tel: 5363 3229

Not (Quite) Bolognese

The sort of bolognese simmers on the stove.

I'm hungry. But I don't quite have fresh ingredients on hand.

Instead, the freezer is full of foodstuffs I've laid up for a rainy day, and since today was a bit rainy, it's time to put them to good use - and I've had sugo de bolognese on the mind.

Problem is: I don't have all the proper ingredients for a traditional bolognese. Digging into the freezer, I find a pound of ground beef, a pound of homemade chorizo (I think) sausage, some blanched and frozen haricort verts, homemade demiglace and tomato water. In the fridge, I find some carrots, onions, bell peppers and garlic. No celery, no bacon (Good God!) and no cream. Not to mention the most pedestrian bottle of red wine that I have on hand is a 2009 Madrigal Zinfandel.

What does all this mean? It's going to be a bit of a freestyle fest. Luckily, I have plenty of butter.

The veggies go into the food processor while the olive oil and butter heats in my new orange (or as they say: "valencia") Le Creuset 7.25qt big honking pot.

Sizzle the essentially pureed veggies in the pot until they start to turn color then add the ground meats, cooking them until they start to brown. Then add some red wine and burn it off.

While all of this is happening, I've been reducing the tomato water into a nice, thick sludge for maximum concentrated flavor. Once the wine is burned off, in goes the tomato liquid and maybe a bit too much demiglace. Boil it off for a minute or two and then reduce to low flame. Now, I'm gonna let this sucker simmer for a couple of hours.

I'm supposed to add sage. I'm supposed to add salt and pepper, but the chorizo style ground sausage is pretty jacked on seasonings that I decide to wait and see. About 30 minutes into the simmer, I give it a taste. Not surprisingly, there's a strong sense of chorizo but it's pretty good. In a little while, I'll add some milk to smoothen it out and then see how it does on pasta.

And maybe as a taco...

Neveria Roxy

Tutti Frutti, Coconut and Strawberry ice creams.

What's missing in Baltimore is an old school soda fountain kind of joint. Not so in Mexico City where Neveria Roxy still maintains the flavors of the past. Inside you'll find a nice selection of ice creams and sorbets, along with milkshakes, malts, sodas and more. All of this in the kind of retro-1950s soda fountain looking place.

The thing is, it's doesn't seem like it was made to look 1950s. It looks like it was actually built in the 1950s.


Ana Claudia sells mas agua.



A Roxy Favorite: Coca-Cola with a scoop of lime sorbet.



A bit more refreshing than a root beer float.

Black Is All Black

Oh, yes...

It's odd to me when I think upon how the New Zealand All Blacks have not won the Rugby World Cup in 24 years. I always think of them as the greatest rugby team ever. The ones we idolize and strive to emulate. They were the baddest, toughest and most fierce team in the world.

Or maybe that's just because I was always envious of their Haka.

As a young captain on Hawaii Loa College's RFC team, I was new to the sport and relied upon my teammates experience playing throughout their youth in the leagues of the Pacific Rim or at boarding school in England.

But nothing was ever as terrifying as playing in the Hawaii leagues. Big, tough, burly Polynesian men racing to cream this chubby Filipino boy. I admit, I was scared shitless half the time. I came from genteel living. This was maniacal, crazed and utter mayhem - like Lord Of The Flies, without the literal killing.

I knew I was in new element when, during one match, a referee made a call that did not quite agree with a rather solid-looking Fijian. He approached the ref and promptly clocked him on the top of his head with a downward swing of his burly arm. The ref crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

I could hear the smack on the head crisply and clearly, half a pitch away.

Needless to say (or maybe I should underscore it), the player was immediately red carded and banned outright from the sport for life. But that ref looked worse for wear and I certainly was a bit more intimidated by these solidly built men from the South Pacific more than ever.

Today, the All Blacks (my All Blacks) take to the field against France in the World Cup Finals. And as much as I like the cuisine, countryside and cities of France, I like my All Blacks better.

You can guess whose jersey I will be wearing today.

Another Box Gone...

2006 Arturo Fuente Rothschild Maduro.

The problem with enjoying lovely cigars is that they tend to fly out of my humidor.

I'm lucky in the fact that I was prudent enough to build a humidor quite a number of years ago. Through wreckless thinking and judicious use of my American Express, I was able to not only build the humidor but stock it as well. This happened in the mid-1990s, during the midst of the cigar boom when scarcity was the norm and low-quality cigars abounded.

But I was still able to lay my hands on a nice collection of La Gloria Cubanas, Partagas 110, a selection of ISOM (Island South Of Miami) cigars, Partagas 150 Anniversary and a beautiful depth from Arturo Fuente, including the first run of the then-new 1995 Arturo Fuente Opus X (which I found not to be to my tastes).

It was literal madness until about 1998 when the boom really put a crush on the quality of available cigars and I stopped adding to the collection altogether.

The beauty of this is that I now had a collection of lovely aging cigars. A wonderful selection. After about five years, the problem changed to one of replenishment. I now had a stellar collection of aged cigars, but I was five years behind the curve. If I smoked the box, I didn't have successive years to replace it. I was in trouble.

By this point, I had started buying nice and decent cigars as a regular smoke, in an attempt to stave off the certain financial ruin that was to come by only smoking my favorite Belicoso Maduro by Paul Garmirian. They're insanely delicious but oh so very dearly priced. Open a box one day and it's sucked dry within a month. Good for Visa's bottom line. Not good for mine.

In 2006, Bryan called me to let me know that Iwan Ries in Chicago was running a sale on Arturo Fuente Rothschild Maduro cigars. Super cheap special prices, he assured me. Sure enough, the prices were cheap, the Visa numbers were blazing and a package of Rothschild Maduros were on their way to me.

When they arrived in 2006, they were nice cigars. The Rothschilds were nice, decent smokes. Enjoyable. Satisfying. And relatively inexpensive (especially when compared to the PGs). I smoked them regularly and enjoyed them.

Two boxes found their way into the recesses of the humidor where they layed fallow for several years, until I found them last winter. Hmmm, I wondered, how will these be now with some age on them? Shockingly good and demonstrably superior to when they were fresh. Aging deepened the flavors, brought out a little spice and just made them into tasty treats.

The problem when cigars are this good is that I can't hold on to them. Just one more, I tell myself - until the entire box is gone. I'll share some with friends. Before I knew it, I was on the last cigar of the two boxes.

And now I'm back to Square One...

Daddy's Mistake

Uh oh, Danger...

As I was perusing the aisles of a local Asian market, I spotted something familiar, yet strange.

SPAM Singles.

Truth be told, I didn't grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth. My parents immigrated here and we lived rather plainly throughout my youth. None of this farm-to-table nonsense. Cheap cuts of meat, lots of canned corned beef, canned vegetables and whatever else twenty bucks could by at the grocery store - and according to Mom, twenty bucks in the early 1970s could buy you a weeks worth of groceries.

As such, we ate a lot of SPAM in my house. Not as much as people in Hawaii, but quite a darn bit of it. So much so that opening a can of SPAM with that old twist tab wasn't odd, it was fun and we argued over who got to open the can. From there, it was salty, hammy goodness mixed with rice. Until...

One day my Dad did something wrong, creating the dish that would be memorialized in our house as "Daddy's Mistake."


Now that's weird - even for SPAM.

I don't quite know how it really happened (I'll have to ask Dad one day), but it was SPAM served with hot, steamed white rice, fried egg and ketchup. Mash the eggs and rice together and season to taste with the ketchup, serve with fried SPAM and you're in business!

I know some of my gentle readers are recoiling in horror as they read this, but rest assured, it's not as bad as you think.

Now that I'm older, the problem with SPAM (besides the obvious industrial aspects) is that the cans are quite large. For SPAM Musubi, I can make eight musubi from one can. That's simply too much SPAM for one person. God knows I'm not going to eat it more than once, what would I do with the rest of the can? Julienne it and make it into Island Style Noodles???

Okay, I like SPAM, but not THAT much! The ubiquitous use of SPAM in Hawaii freaked even me out.


Three thin slices.

Personally speaking, I'm a contrasting texture freak. Meaning with all these soft ingredients, like the rice and eggs, I want a textural contrast. I want some crunch. This translates into a desire to fry SPAM thin and crispy (or as crispy as the industrial nature of SPAM will allow).

The brilliance of SPAM Singles is that I can eat it and not waste any. It's enough. Actually, it might be more than enough, but we're going for it anyway. After slicing the one into three thin sheets, into the frying pan they went - probably at too hight a temp. Perhaps the best way is to start with them in a warm pan and heat it up gradually until it crisps (more testing to come).




Once done, add some butter to the pan, crack a couple of eggs and go to town. Layer the eggs over the rice, break the yolks and mix until the rice is evenly coated in yolk then add ketchup to taste. Eat with SPAM.

The memories are almost as vivid as Adobo Sandwiches on Road Trips To Florida.

But those are stories for another day.

Dancing On The Valentine

Nick Rhodes waves goodbye to my childhood.


In 1984, I was an unhappy child.

I was fifteen years old, Duran Duran was on their worldwide Sing Blue Silver Tour, and my mom would not allow me to attend the concert at the Capital Center. Like many of my peers, I was a Duran Duran freak. They were my favorite band. I fancied myself as the American Nick Rhodes. I desired the Roland Jupiter 8 synthesizer simply because it was Nick's keyboard of choice - so therefore, it had to be awesome. I had to go to the concert.

My mom would have none of it.

So, I did what any teenager does when he doesn't get his way: I moped around the house and lamented my lot in life. The biggest concert tour in the world and I was going to miss it.

This wasn't the first time I was denied a concert. An attempt to see AC/DC in 1981 with a close friend was promptly shot down by my parents. A proper boy going to see such bedlam? Not having it. Even the argument that I had already purchased the tickets (and had them in-hand) did nothing to help my cause. I moped for the very first time.

Duran Duran was the centerpoint of my teenage years. Not seeing them in concert in 1984 would haunt me for years. How could I embody the essence of Nick Rhodes if I never saw them live? My stage persona would be lacking because of it.

Finally, on the day before the concert, my mom relented. "Okay, you can go and see Duran Duran," she told me. Which upset me even more. One does not simply go to the biggest concert tour in the world the day before the show when it is completely sold out. It was just a no-win situation.

Years would pass and I would finally go to concerts on my own. The Go-Go's, INXS, SWANS, Depeche Mode, Frank Zappa, Erasure, Pet Shop Boys, 10,000 Maniacs and more. But I wouldn't have the opportunity to see Duran Duran until much later, in the mid-1990s, at Merriwether Post Pavilion. By then, their fame had softened to smaller venues, which would turn out to be more conducive to enjoying the experience. I would see them again in 1999 at the Nissan Pavilion.

Through the years, the band lineup changed. In the early 2000s, the original members got back together, but I could never find the right time to see them. Then on Thursday, I receive a Facebook message from a friend in San Diego playing in a Duran Duran tribute band.

Truth be told, I think tribute bands are kinda odd. I mean, I'm a fan. I love the music, but a tribute band? That's serious fandom. His post reminded me to check around and see if Duran Duran (the real band) was playing anywhere and turns out they were playing in Washington, D.C. at the D.A.R. Constitution Hall on Sunday night. Tickets were available. Mom was not around to deny me, and I was going.

The interesting and odd thing about going to a concert of your favorite teenage band when you're 42 is that everyone else at the concert is around your age - much different than Lady Gaga last winter. To be honest, I'm not usually surrounded by people my own age and it reminded me of my 20th year high school reunion: everyone looked damn old.

Sure, there were a few people in the 20s, but the majority of attendees were 30s and up. The same people who went to see them during the Sing Blue Silver Tour were now denying their teenage children their opportunity to see The Black Eyed Peas in concert while leaving them at home to watch Simon LeBon.

As always, Duran Duran attracts a wide swath of people. From normal, suburban yuppie types to avante garde types, old school goths, immigrants, tourists, fetishists and everyone in between. Everyone is welcome. Everyone gets along. As it should always be.

Of course, by morning some of them will be facing off in the typical democrats v. republicans kind of division we know as America today, but tonight everyone is waiting with cell phones in hand, anticipating waving them over their heads during "Save A Prayer."

The concert itself was a good one. Constitution Hall has got to be one of the best venues in the region. It's relatively small, has good acoustics and there doesn't seem to be a bad seat in the house. Of course, I somehow found myself on the orchestra floor at the front row, stage right when my tickets were for Section C, Row K, high on the sides.

I had simply walked onto the floor, found myself a row of seats, waited for someone to challenge me but when no one did (maybe a little), I just kept quiet and waited for Simon to take the stage.

It turns out that the row of seats I had found were kept for handicapped attendees and other misfits. A lady in a wheelchair and her companions, two other ladies and a very drunk blonde in a tight, black mini-dress that looked quite a lot like 1980s Kim Basinger sat next to me.

And when I say "drunk", I mean DRUNK. Wasted. Like have a hard time standing and balancing kind of drunk. She had a VIP Access badge, making me wonder if she might be a girlfriend or wife of one of the band members. Nothing quite like having your teen idols know you because they hate you because their woman was all over you.

Once upon a time, this would have been a welcome event. Everyone partying and boozing. Drunk girl comes up, wants to dance and then who knows what? A year ago, no problem. Today? Slow your roll there, girl. I'm happy just enjoying the show and the last thing I need is some sort of Facebook photo of me with some slutty, drunk girl.

I should've stayed in my seat in Section C, Row K.

Happily, she soon tired of my indifference and latched onto the big, burly floor bouncer. Whew! That's just the way I like it!

The concert itself was good. Lots of oldies but goodies, along with a number of tunes for their new CD that I'm not familiar. I guess I should be a better fan. Simon and the gang are getting old - they've gotta be over 50 by now, but the women still scream the loudest for John Taylor.

As the show continues, I silently wonder what it really must have been like to be in the audience during Sing Blue Silver. Duran Duran was at its zenith. They were touring the world and playing to stadiums. The world was ablaze with craze for the Fab Five. It would be the tour that would end the band as we knew it.

After that tour, succumbing to the pressures of success and fame, the band split. John and Andy went to form Power Station while Simon and Nick (with John too) started up Arcadia. Roger left music altogether to live on his farm in the English countryside. It would never be the same again.

And I'm still left with the feeling that while the show was good, it wasn't Sing Blue Silver. I'll never be able to capture that experience. It is gone like sand in the hourglass. Gone like Save A Prayer is from their setlist.

Da na na na...

Lobstah Roll

The small lobster roll at Lobster Express.

A certain sign that you're in New England is not just the lobster house but the vast selection of lobsters available at the lobster house. At home in Baltimore, there's simply a tank and a price - say $10/lb for whatever lobsters they have in stock. Head out west to Portland and lobsters are pushing $50 each.

Here lobsters start at $5.99/lb for the soft shell lobsters and move upward. Interestingly enough, the larger the lobster, the lower the per pound price. Though you'd think that buying a 6 plus pound lobster that's thirty years old would mean higher prices.


A selection of lobsters for your choosing.

Today it's a lobster roll, some clam chowder and a couple of lobsters (1.5lb) for dinner. Will report back later. Maybe...