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...

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!

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...

Hamburguesas Montaner

Bienvenidos a Hamburguesas Montaner.

"Have you ever tried bandillos?", asked Ana.

Bandillos. Something that only proper bandits ate? Sounded interesting. But she wanted a definitive answer but I had no idea what bandillos were and she had taken me to try so many different things that maybe I had already tried them and didn't realize it. Afterall, I could be a proper Bandito...

In Colonia Escandon, at the southeast corner of Jose Marti and Patriotismo, is a small cluster of food stands. There you will find Hamburguesas Montaner and the famous bandillo.


Cheese and sausage bandillos.

I had been in the city for a couple of days and was starting to feel a certain withdrawal from french fries. As much as I may love tacos, tacos al pastor and the assortment of wonderful Mexican fare, I can't help but to think how much powerful that pastor experience would be with a side of salted papas fritas.

Knowing me all too well, she asked me if I wanted to have some fries and then we were off to Montaner.


Getting inside the sausage.

Most of the food stalls in Mexico City are small, mom and pop affairs. There's pop grilling the burgers, mom frying everything else and maybe their son taking money. And it all happens in what must be an eight foot long by four foot deep metal stand.

The best thing about Mexico City is that it's populated by places like Montaner, selling just about everything Mexican you could ever dream of eating. And they're everywhere, which means that there are plenty of places that are just so-so and some that are stellar. They key is driving around a seeing which stands have the longest lines.


Papas Fritas piled high with cheese, mayo, ketchup and Valentina. Darn good.

As received our order of fries and bandillos, I realized that I had never had these before in Mexico City and what was once unknown and mysterious, was suddenly familiar and comforting. Think "corn dogs" and you've pretty much got what a bandillo is all about. However, in this case, the batter isn't thick, it's thin and light, and makes for a nice treat when slathered with mayo, ketchup, mustard and a side of pureed jalapeno peppers.

Ana's favorite is the cheese version and I have to agree that I think it's better. Better mouthfeel and a nice chewiness that goes well with the batter.


Montaner's Hawaiian Hamburger.

But since this is "Hamburguesas Montaner", I had to try a sample of their hamburger. Ana ordered the Hawaiian which is their burger with a slice ring of pineapple, lightly griddled. I'm guessing it's canned pineapple since most people don't cut rings that perfect by hand!

The burger was pretty decent. Simple, basic fare. Piled high with toppings and condiments, it's a messy burger but quite satisfying.


Hamburguesas Montaner
Patriotismo 85
Colonia Escandon
Mexico DF

Let Me Show You...

Sometimes my day takes a slightly turn for the strange.

After heading downtown to pick up some supplies, I decided at the last minute to swing by a local pasticceria for a scoop of gelato. Upon arriving and having a look at the gelato selection, which was looking a bit wet, I decided to just grab a cookie instead.

That's exactly when the chef/owner decided that I must come try the new cookie that's cooling on the racks in the kitchen. So, back into the kitchen we went. Now, I must say, the kitchen was pretty nice. Very clean, well organized - essentially the kind of place that I wouldn't mind working.

After showing me the new batch of butter cookies with powdered sugar topping and a hint of lemon, the chef decides to show me his (new?) pastry machine. This unit measures, portions and dispenses a variety of pastry items based on how you program it. Cookies, eclairs, sheets, anything and everything for the proper Italian pastry chef.

The thing is that the kitchen crew has gone home for the day and he's cleaning the unit. With the main hopper detached from the machine, he really needs someone to help him move the hopper and put it back in place. The hopper is stainless steel and probably weighs two hundred pounds.

Basically, for a few cookies and a tour of the kitchen, I've been drafted into moving this massive, heavy hopper. Not that I mind so much since we sit around talking shop and I get the opportunity to learn a bit about Italian pasty making from someone who's a true master of the craft. All in exchange for a little brute labor.

And I got a few cookies to boot!

Roasting Illustrated

French Heirloom Chicken ready to go.

Perusing the latest issue of Cook's Illustrated, I came across their quick roast technique for roasted chicken and decided to give it a try. The key is to heat a skillet first, placing the chicken on the skillet and the dark meat to cook with conduction while the rest of the bird is heated with convection.

Cook's Illustrated gives a different preparation of the meat for those trying to jam a roasted chicken in after work and in time for dinner, but I wanted to go with a more traditional method of seasoning. A little softened butter, rosemary, lemon, sweet onion, salt and pepper. And since I'm not really in a rush, a pop in the refrigerator to dry out the skin a little.


Into the skillet.

After a very successful test a couple of weeks ago at Vanessa's, I grabbed another French heirloom chicken from KCC Natural Farms in Forest Hill, Maryland. I had come across KCC at the Towson Farmer's Market and the thought of a French heritage bird intrigued me. The flavor was so good that I grabbed a couple more.

If you're used to grocery store, commercial chickens, these will look positively anemic. Afterall, they're only about three pounds. Those grocery store Purdue suckers are upwards of five pounds with massive breast meat that comes from a short life sitting in your own feces.


Fresh from the oven.

With the bird in hand and a solid helping of minced rosemary in butter, separate the skin from the meat with your hand, starting by the tail bone. Rub the butter into the space between the skin and the meat and be very liberal with your butter.

From there, it's a simple squeeze of lemon over the skin then a stuffing of the remaining lemon half and half an onion in the body cavity before trussing legs and wings. You want to truss the legs together and the wings to the body to prevent scorching (with the wing tips) and even cooking. Good results can also be had by leaving the legs dangling but it doesn't make for a nice presentation.


A little bit closer.

After a brief spell in the refrigerator to dry out the skin a little, select a skillet that is just wide enough to hold the bird and high-walled enough to contain the juices that will emanate from the meat. Place the skillet on the center rack of the oven then preheat the oven to 450F.

Once at temperature, remove skillet and place bird in center. It should sizzle nicely. Place the bird in skillet back into oven and roast for 25-30 minutes (the bigger the bird, the longer the time). Once the time has been reached, DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR and shut the heat off, allowing the residual heat contained in the oven to continue cooking the bird. Do not open the door at all.


Eat with a pan sauce.

After another 30 minutes in the oven, remove bird from skillet and allow to rest for 20 minutes. During this time, you can make a pan sauce by deglazing the pan of fond with some onions, white wine and whatever else you feel like putting into your sauce then mounting it with a little butter.

Finally, it's time to carve and eat. I recommend the use of hands.

Kheuwel Couture

Calculating the tissue.

Ever since I attended the EAFCA Conference in Addis Ababa back in 2007, I've been wanting to get myself a traditional African outfit. For the past two weeks, I've been thinking about it but only got around to telling Eric that I wanted to go and get one yesterday. He immediately calls a friend and after the barista training is completed, we're on our way.

Surprisingly, the tailor is just down the street from my hotel. It's about five in the afternoon and I need one now. My flight leaves the next morning. Obviously, I need a custom job and what place can measure and custom tailor an entire outfit (with embroidery) in just a few hours? Well, these guys at Kheuwel Couture say that they will have my outfit ready by 7:30am. Wow.


Samples of their work.

They toss out magazines of samples of various styles of Kitengi for me to choose. Being not African, I really don't know what is "kheuwel" (cool) and what is not. I ask Eric and his friend to be my guides. They help me select a style of cut and embroidery that's fashionable and sensible. With the approval of our tailor, we're on to selection of "tissue".

Now, I don't understand why they call it "tissue" but the texture is very different than the fabric I'm used to. Maybe it's made from banana leaves? It has a texture that reminds me of modern-day sailcloth material. They show me several styles of tissue to select and I choose one that suits my tastes.


Eric calls the tailor. It's 7:45am - he's late!

Somehow, even in the face of ignorance of another culture, my "tastes" have led me to select a tissue that prices out to be US$250 for the outfit. Well, I wasn't expecting to pay that much for a Kitengi! Turns out the one I selected is "first quality" tissue. They show me "second quality" tissue and it's a bit stiffer and the difference is noticeable to me. They price the second quality and it comes out at US$203. That's not enough to make a difference but $250 is still more than I have.

After a moment or two, the lady says she can do the second quality tissue for US$167. I can't help but ask if she'll do me the First Quality tissue for $200 instead. No, that's not possible.

We debate a little more before settling on the deal. Suddenly, the tailor takes his stride. The master is at work. He grabs his measuring tape and starts barking out metric measurements in French. It's Cat this, catorze that and I think I'm hearing too many numbers above 100 in there somewhere. I certainly hope he's not talking decimeters!



Dressed like the next King of Kigali.

Finally, with measurements taken, tissue selected and deposit given, I thank the tailor and his team and bid them adieu. $167 for a custom tailored suit. Made overnight. That's gotta be a steal - even though I imagine it would be cheaper if I weren't a mzungu.

We're there bright and early this morning and no one is there except the keepers. The tailor is nowhere to be seen but my suit is neatly folded on the table awaiting my arrival. Whatever the case, he finished my suit before going to bed.

I try it on and it fits, well, perfectly - I guess. To be honest, I don't know how a Kitengi is supposed to fit. It's a bit loose and comfortable like a proper Barong Tagalog or Guyabera and the matching pants are slightly baggy and Eric tells me it looks good and proper.

I'll be ready for Kwanzaa or any African themed celebration with a proper Kitengi custom made for me in Kigali, Rwanda.

Fondle My Balls, Please.

Do we really need xrays to find what metal detectors are designed for?

"When the TSA was established, it was never envisioned that it would become a huge, unwieldy bureaucracy which was soon to grow to 67,000 employees." "As TSA has grown larger, more impersonal, and administratively top-heavy, I believe it is important that airports across the country consider utilizing the opt-out provision provided by law."
- Representative John Mica, republican

Not long after 9/11, along with the so-called USAPATRIOT Act that started the grand erosion of our civil rights, the government (read: our politicians) decided that they would federalize all of those hapless airport security agents into a big, government bureaucracy. How in the world that anyone of salient being in 2001-2002 could not see the Transportation Security Agency growing into the train wreck that it is today is beyond me.

Even then, the most obtuse amongst us could see a new bureaucracy being formed - how this was good for anyone is anyone's guess.

Nearly ten years later, the TSA is a growing monster filled with long lines, poor customer service and now you get someone to fondle your balls before flying. Never mind the uselessness of taking off your shoes or pulling your laptop out of the bag. Forget the stupidity of dumping 5 ounces of water or a small tub of soft cheese (yes, that happened to me at ORD - guess Illinois doesn't like Wisconsin). Now the government is telling us that we should agree to undergo X-ray screening so that they can see the size of my balls and how it relates to my dick.

Or that girls' vagina.

The TSA administrators assures us that they have "security measures" to "protect our privacy." I'm sorry, but you're the last people I expect to protect my privacy - especially after you've spent the last nine years invading it. Of course, they want us to believe that those TSA people in Florida weren't passing around x-ray images and talking about the size of people's junk. In addition, they want us to believe that those images will be deleted immediately after use. Of course if you believe that, then I wear size 28 pants!


This is more likely.

Perhaps the only way to force the issue is to make it painful all the way around. I can't imagine the TSA people really want to fondle balls (mine or anyone else's), so maybe the best way to get the TSA to cease and desist is to have everyone opt out of the xray scanner and go for the pat down. The lines then become horrifically long, the TSA agents have a lot of balls to handle and it all goes to the crapper (maybe even literally).

All I know is that when I take off later this week for points beyond, I plan on bypassing the xray screening and asking them to touch my balls. Afterall, what's the point in looking at them if they're not going to be handled?

Feast @4East

Tomato and Goat Cheese Tart

Sometimes looking for a place to eat is a challenge. Do you go to the places you know to make good food or do you try someplace new? Try a new place and you don't know for sure what you're going to get. Maybe you'll check out that taco joint but they don't have limes - a disappointment for sure.

With that in mind, I started the search for a place to eat wanting to try something new but the call of the familiar and known pulled strongly. In the end, we decided to check out Feast @4East at the 4 East Madison Inn. A menu of local, farm to table American cuisine was a bright possibility and the BYOB menu meant that I could bring some favored wines without breaking the bank.


Adelsheim 2007 Pinot Blanc

Located inside the 4 East Madison Inn, it reminded me of Auberge d'Carcarille: the inn with gourmet meals. Being a Saturday and calling at 5:30pm, I figured it would be jammed and an 8pm reservation unrealistic. However, they had a table for two and we were on our way.

The food was good. Nicely prepared with good flavors. The tomato and goat cheese tart had hints of anchovy. The bison steak was perfectly cooked. The succotash medley was nice and the mashed potatoes had just the right balance of potato and butter.

In all, a nice meal paired with a couple of great wines.


Molly and her 1/2 Roasted Chicken with Garden Herbs.


2007 Coudoulet de Beaucastel Cote du Rhone


Grilled Bison Steak

Feast @4East
4 East Madison Inn
4 East Madison Street
Baltimore, MD 21202
410-605-2020
www.4eastmadisoninn.com

Nori Wrapped Arare

The irony of my daily existence is that I work all day but seem to never get much done. Today I'm doing my thing, getting things in order and decide to swing by and visit some friends. We chat, we laugh, we dance, we sing. Then the wine rep stops by for a sampling of new wines. I'm looped into the tasting (I would be lying if I told you I was looped in reluctantly) and we start tasting.

From there it's the usual litany of pouring, swirling, looking for "legs" and sloshing moderate to expensive wines in the mouth. I've never done a "real" wine tasting before and I'm watching my friend do his thing and I notice some curiosities. In some ways, wine tasting is like coffee cupping. There are rituals and styles, and I'm watching my friend execute his. I wonder if there's a particular method that I'm not employing and missing out on some aspect of the wines. The sloshing in the mouth is particularly long. The method of expectorating is stylish. I'm the neophyte and I think it shows.

It reminded me of the 2007 Taste of Harvest cupping in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia when I cupped 75 coffees alongside some truly talented experts in our industry. Long rows of coffees waiting for serious scrutiny by some of the top buyers in the world and here I am trying to keep up. I really didn't know what I was doing at the time and I don't really know what I'm doing today.

The only thing that separates me of today from the me of 2007 is that my taste buds are more experienced and I'm tasting and experiencing interesting nuances in the wines. But the one that's most striking is the one from Sierra Madre Vineyards. In the nose I'm immediately reminded of nori-wrapped arare crackers. I'm thrown off a bit by the smell. It's weird. And mildly disconcerting. Wine that smells like rice crackers wrapped in seaweed. Fantastic.

Truth is, I don't know if I like it, but I do know that I'm fascinated by the smell and take a taste. Nori Wrapped Arare Crackers. It's amazing how this wine tastes like that too. What is going on in California? Are they dumping bags of mochi crunch into their wine casks?

The progression continues as we sample twelve wines. For the most part I've expectorated (in a decidedly un-stylish way) all the wine I've tasted, until the last one. The Prisoner is a celebrated wine that's big, fruity and large. I drink it greedily. It's good, but fleeting. And I've got to get back to work. At least the drive back will be pleasant.

Far Bar

DJ Un-G on the Wheels of Steel.

After over ten days of non-stop going out, partying, drinking and staying up late, I'm starting to feel fatigued. But it's Saturday night in L.A. and time to continue the party. Tonight we're at Far Bar in Japantown where DJ Un-G is spinning the tracks and Fabiola is the cute Mexican makeup artist from Jalisco with a taste for tacos al pastor and the now seemingly ubiquitous penchant for Morrissey and The Smiths.


The Guys checking out The Chicks.



Christine and Fabiola

Mitsuwa Matashitemo

Lucy at Mitsuwa

Gerry decided to rise from his slumber in Woodland Hills to make the trip down to Torrance for ramen and what better place to go than Santouku in Mitsuwa Marketplace. Since Polly and I were just here the other day, it afforded the opportunity to try other things in the food court.

I'm a big fan of Japanese food and I could literally have lunch here all week long and not run out of things to try. Today's choice was a tough one: katsu curry or katsu donburi? Very difficult and one should never be faced with such difficult choices. Do I use the Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Moe theory? Draw straws? Flip a coin? It's such a difficult choice and it would be foolhardy to chintz out and order both.


Katsu Curry with togarashi.

In the end, I went for the katsu curry with side salad, just because. I'm a big fan of Japanese curry. If you haven't tried it, it's very different than Thai or Indian curries. It's more mellow but oh so tasty. Nary can I pass a Japanese curry house and not stop in for a bite.


Gerry's pork belly shoyu ramen.


Polly went for the tonkatsu don.

Strutting on Sunset

The Lapu Lapu - I have no idea what it is but two is not advisable.

After a night of drinking with Liz, a smart person would have immediately gone to bed. Sometimes, I'm not that smart.

Instead, I met up with the crew on Sunset at Tiki Ti. A little tiny joint that's the size of a living room (seriously) and serving up some serious tiki style drinks. This place is a throwback to an older era and the mixed concoctions are sweet, balanced and stiff - very stiff.

The Lapu Lapu literally tastes like Hawaiian Punch, but if you have more than one, be prepared to be punched.




The earlier part of the evening is already hazy and now it just gets surreal. After Tiki Ti, we head down Sunset to El Cid where a Morrissey/Smiths cover/tribute band is rocking out to a group of twenty-something Latinas. Evidently, Morrissey and the alternative 80s music is big with the Latino scene here in Los Angeles.

We're downstairs at El Cid and suddenly, it's like 1987 all over again. The styles are diverse but the crowd is decidedly Latino. Girls have that rockabilly or 1940s style to them. Latina with cool hair, cool clothes, lots of style and 80s alternative music? What more can I ask for in life? I've found my own little slice of heaven in Los Angeles.


At Tiki Ti with Joe, David, Brandy, Arlene, Allen and The Bob.

Truth be told, I was never a big Morrissey fan, but I do like stylish Latina girls, therefore I'm not complaining. I'm not that dumb.

I think at this point is where a fight broke out and somehow DJ Un-G stepped in and ended it. He's got some sort of mystical, martial arts master kind of power that he channeled to end the fight. One minute, some guy is on the ground getting pounded - hard. The next, Un-G is there with just a word that causes everyone to stop. Even with my dulled senses, it was amazing.


Checking out El Cid.

As we stood outside chatting with some of the girls, I wondered just how this scene developed. How does twenty-something Latinos get this into Morrissey? And mix it in with a little rockabilly and 1940s Chola style?

It's a scene that I plan on investigating more...


"I am human and I want to be loved... just like everybody else does..."

Culver City

Liz and Chanti

Some girls are a good influence on your life. Some girls are bad. Liz has always been the latter. But I can't get enough.

We're back in Culver City for happy hour. I'm not really a happy hour kind of guy, so the scene is quite interesting and odd to me. Regular people blowing off steam after a day at the office. Many of the guys here are in suits and business attire - it's really strange for me. At least I've got the hottest girls in the place.

In some ways, it's hard to remember the details - but that's not too unusual on Liz outings. I took pictures but I'll have to reconstruct the details another time.


Slider


Sweet Potato Fries


Broccolini Pizza


Add Shannon


Red Velvet Cake


Someone actually called me "Charlie"...