Yo Soy Tony Soprano

This Sunday, the HBO series The Sopranos comes to a close.

At the end of anything, one reflects on the beginning. And for me, the beginning of The Sopranos almost got a bit hairy.

I remember catching an episode or two when the first season aired in 1999, but it wasn't until I was in Honolulu months later that I had the chance to watch the entire season. The Bob had purchased the DVD set and one morning, we watched all the episodes from start to finish.

For someone like me, The Sopranos holds a bit of romanticism where anyone can be Italian and anyone can become a Wise Guy. From 7am until about 1pm, we watched the first five or six episodes before feeling the hunger pangs. We decided that we would need to go out and get something to eat.

Watching that much Sopranos changes your outlook on life. It puts you in a completely different mindset. Just a few hours watching and, suddenly, we were "made". In just a few short hours, we were from North Jersey, uttering phrases like "Ohw" and "ugots" and "marone." Hookers, booze, gambling and interstate commerce were on the afternoon's agenda.

Not exactly the ideal mentality for mingling with the public.

Hungry as we were, we decided to head over to Big City Diner for their Kim Chee Fried Rice Loco Moco. For the uninitiated, this is a dish filled with Kim Chee Fried Rice (fried rice mixed with kim chee), layered with hamburger patty, fried egg and lots of brown gravy. For those not familiar with island cuisine, it's complete heaven in layers of fat and gravy.

So, we're sitting there, feeling very Soprano-like, enjoying the discussion and just hanging out when I notice some guy from across the room sitting with his co-workers, staring at me.

What the fuck is this cocksucker looking at?

See, I've already degenerated.

For the next few moments, I'm sitting there, fighting in my mind. The Sopranos-influenced side of me wants to get up, look the guy in the eye and shout :What the fuck are you lookin' at, asshole? - with the total intention of jumping over the table, grabbing the chair and beating him to a pulp if he disrespects me and my crew.

But, what the fuck is wrong with me? I'm an upstanding citizen who's normally laid back and casual. I can't go around beating people because they're staring at me. Or can I?

In spite of the fact that I know he's really just zoning out and staring into space (and not really "staring" at me), it takes me a couple moments to reign my desires from going wild on the guy. My heart's pounding. My palms are slightly sweaty. And I'm scared. Scared of myself.

After lunch, we head back to house for another marathon session of The Sopranos and I decide not to leave the house until the next day when my delusions of hanging with Silvio, Paulie, Chrissy and Tony have subsided and I can go back to being a normal, functioning (and calm) member of society.

French Kissin' In The USA - Lilly's French Cafe

Anna, le Sherpa famouse (celebre), ponders the wonders of life and the goodness of moules.

Those who know me, and those who dine with me, know that I enjoy French brasserie food tremendously. My need for Les Halles in Washington DC is epic. I can't get enough. No matter where I am.

Luckily, my sister-in-law Polly understands this and after casually mentioning that I had a hankering for some French, she steered us towards Venice Beach to Lilly's French Cafe.

Actually, when we were on the way there, I didn't know we were going to a French place. Hell, I wasn't paying attention to the sign when we walked in, and didn't realize our good fortune until I spied the onglet on the menu. Merci Jesus Cristo.

With Dennis in tow and Anna, that famous Sherpa with her brand new BMW hotness, we sat down for another multi-course meal exploring all of Lilly's French goodness. It's now getting to the point where one dish and one flavor just won't do. We must have all dishes and tastes of all dishes, and that's how it went down.

Starting with a round of onion soup, then the big guns came out: ahi tuna salad, moules mariniere, poulet roti, onglet l'echallote and frites, frites and more frites. We had so much fuckin' frites - it was potato hurricane.

Ahi, onglet, moules, poulet and frites, frites, frites!

The onion soup was pretty good. Nicely done and a good flavor. When it comes to ahi tuna, as long as it's fresh and raw (at least in the middle), I'm happy. Truth is, I'll eat fresh, raw tuna all day, every day until Judgement Day if I could afford it.

The moules were tasty and cooked just right. Everyone tore into those with reckless abandon. So much so that you'd have thought we hadn't been eating non-stop all week. Scary. The onglet was it's usual kidney-icious goodness. Grilled just right and covered in shallots. The low point was the poulet. The exterior looked delicious but once you got into it, you realized it just looked good but were dry and killed inside. Such a shame.

"Toodle-Fucking-Oo"

Unlike most Americans, I try to not watch television. However, I do reserve some time for my favorite shows, one of which has been HBO's "The Sopranos."

It's Sunday evening and tonight's show is the penultimate episode. Next week, the series ends and, hopefully, all questions will be answered. Although, considering it's David Chase's show, there will undoubtedly be plenty of unanswered questions.

There's been much speculation on how The Sopranos will end and I'm going to give in and add my thoughts to the queue.

In the Season Three episode "The Army Of One," after Jackie Aprile, Jr's funeral, Meadow Soprano dresses down Jackie's sister for speaking openly about La Cosa Nostra in front of "outsiders." Since that time, it has been one of my hopes that Meadow would, somehow, rise to take over the DiMeo Crime Family at the end of Tony's rule. Especially since they established that a Sicilian family could be led by a woman in the Season Two episode "Commendatori."

But I think that Meadow taking over is a long shot.

I've been watchin the first four seasons these past couple of days and it suddenly occured to me how the show will end. In the first season, during one of the sessions with Dr. Melfi, Tony reveals that he's afraid of "losing his family." In the episode, the comments infer that he means his blood family of Carmela, Meadow and A.J., but it could be his mob family with the impending war with Phil Leotardo and New York.

I'm going to speculate here that The Sopranos will end not with Tony being arrested by the FBI, not with Tony being killed, but rather with his blood family dead and Tony left all alone.

Right or wrong? Agree or disagree? We're going to find out next Sunday night.

Eating Local

While quality and flavor are high on my list of priorities, I just hadn't been thinking much about "buying local." Sure, I'll buy my silver queen corn from the guy selling it at the produce stand in Hunt Valley, but beyond that, I just don't think too much about it.

Finally, after months of Spike's (of celebrity chef and Artifact Coffee fame) soliliquizing (is that a word?) on the virtues of locally produced everything, I decided to break down and take a visit to Springfield Farm. in Sparks, MD.

It's out in the, well, country - down winding roads, through forest groves and meandering through the lush Northern Baltimore County countryside. It's a fun ride in a truck and I wonder how much better it will be in a Ferrari.

After the twists and turns, the entrance to the farm comes suddenly, then it's a hard right turn into someone's driveway and towards a house. Is this the right place? There's a pond to the left and all sorts of vehicles, ATVs, bed mowers and whatnot scattered along driveway. At first, you're not sure if this is place - 'cause it really looks like someone's house, and maybe they might shoot you.

As you come around the bend, that's when you notice the large metal walk-in cooler and you know this must be the place.

The farm store itself is pretty small. Just a table and a few refrigerated merchandisers holding the products. They've got beef, chicken, pork, eggs, milk, sausage, ice cream - and it's all ready for the taking. Much of the stuff I saw was frozen - evidently, they didn't move as much product over the Memorial Day Weekend and ended up freezing a bunch of stuff.

If it comes from beef, pork or chicken, you can pretty much get what you want. Want some ribeyes? No problem. Need a chicken? Can do. Want an 80 pound pig for a 4th of July roast? Be ready that morning. And all of it coming straight from the farm. Not just some anonymous farm - this farm. Right here. And not too long ago either.

I swear I used some restraint. But I was compelled to try as much as I could, so here's what I bought:

4lb whole chicken
1lb ribeye
1dz large eggs
3pt ice cream
1pk bacon

Then I rushed home to start cooking.

With the chicken, I cut it up and made that fried chicken recipe I've been tweaking. WIth the eggs and bacon, I made those this morning for breakfast. The ice cream I sampled last night while watching The Sopranos on DVD. And the ribeye is still in the fridge awaiting it's time in my hot skillet (with lots of butter, of course).

So, how was this locally produced stuff? Good? Yes, but incredibly different.

Maybe I'm just used to the mass-produced, steroid pumped and feed plumped chicken that you buy at Wegman's because this farm-raised chicken actually had flavor - especially the thigh and leg pieces. But, I'll be honest, that flavor kinda wigged me out a bit. Chicken shouldn't taste like "chicken." It should be plump, juicy but neutral tasting. Or should it?

The chicken reminded me of my trips to the Philippines. Where the chickens aren't plump and they actually have flavor. But this is America dammit, is this how chicken is supposed to taste here???

Well, of course it is, and it was damn good too. Although, I think I need to tweak it with just a little more salt. I ended up adding more salt to the chicken to "pop" its' flavor.

Then there's this morning with the bacon and eggs. Simple right? Wrong. The bacon wasn't that papery thin stuff Wegman's is passing off as good, this stuff was thick - and short so it fit perfectly in my small cast iron skillet. Nice. And the thickness helped it to cook evenly and meaty.

The eggs. These were "large" eggs but, Jesus, these weren't just "large", they were LARGE. Mother Large. So large that the two eggs nearly filled the skillet. So large that, halfway through, I was thinking: Shit, these are large. Note: one "large" egg is enough.

So far, it's been an interesting and exciting journey with locally produced meats. They're beyond my expectation. They're outside of my expectation. It's going to be a brave new world with chicken that tastes like chicken and eggs too huge to mention.

But, this kind of flavor and quality doesn't come cheap. That shopping list above? Seventy bucks. Yes, you read it right: $70. It's not cheap, but it is good.

Guess I just have to buy a Ferrari to make the drive...

Eat My Hot Snake - Hot Doug's

Sliced potatoes fried in duck fat? Sounds like my kind of place. I originally wasn't planning on visiting Hot Doug's (in spite of the insistence of more than a couple of friends in the know), but since I crammed the NRA show into one day (and was thoroughly exhausted to boot), I decided to gallavant around Chicago a bit.

Trifecta: French Fries, Rattlesnake Sausage & Chicago Hot Dog.

Woke up with sore muscles from my 24 mile odyssey at the National Restaurant Show and maybe because my friends have been encouraging me to visit, or maybe because I'm just a sissy who's afraid of another day on the show floor, I decided to blow off the NRA Show and do a brief tour of Chicago's food and coffee joints.

Duck Fat Fried French Fries...Jesus, that's gotta be the Touch of God. Problem is, they only serve those duck-i-licious fries on Fridays and Saturdays.

Today is Monday.

Lame.

Everyone that has recommended Doug has tales of long lines and encouragement to "go early" when they open at 10:30am. That was my intention but lounging around the hotel room is so delicious that I didn't get their 'til 11:30am.

No worries, parking was easy and there were only two people ahead of me. Lucky me.

Doug's got a selection of encased meats, from the hot dog to Italian sausage, Polish sausage, corn dog, hot sausage and his own encased meat selections. There's also a featured dog of the week for the adventurous to try.

Today's "game"?

Rattlesnake Sausage.

Whoa, rattlesnake, you say? That was my reaction too. Smoked Rattlesnake Sausage with Black Currant Mustard and Vodka Currant Cheese. I'll admit, I was kinda put off by this turn of events. I almost didn't order it. Then I reminded myself that "this is not a dress rehearsal" and decided to "go for it."

Rattlesnake Sausage with Black Currant Mustard and Vodka Currant Cheese.

There's something ironic about a rattlesnake sausage. First off, what is a "rattlesnake"? Basically, it's encased meat that "snakes" its' way across the ground. So, for a naturally encased meat to be ground up and then re-encased as a sausage seems ironic and comical to me. At least in the latter version, it doesn't make noise and won't bite me with deadly venom - a plus in my book.

The place is small-ish. There's a bunch of faux wood formica tables and small cooking line where a couple of sausage cooks keep things going, with a self-serve soda fountain to their backs and a podium-like spot facing the door where Doug Himself holds court.

Doug's a short guy, about 5'6" wearing dark rimmed glasses and short dark hair. He stands there, taking orders and making chit chat with the regulars and the tourists (like me). Some of the more dense of the tourists (like myself) ask: "Are you Doug?"

Not if you're a process server.

Ah, a kindred soul at last.

The menu is varied with all sorts of hot dog and sausage combinations with cute names, like the sausage formerly known as the "Lucca Brazzi" (no fish) or the "Britney Spears" (maybe tuna).

Standing there, you get the feeling that this place might be like Pat's Steaks in Philly - where you're expected to know how to order properly, otherwise Get The Fuck Out Of The Line. There's certainly a bit of intimidation here - especially with all the locals who know how to order exactly what they want. It's compounded by the fact that the menu items all look tasty and you know you really shouldn't eat them all.

In the end, Doug was friendly and accommodating to this wide-eyed tourist who ordered the Rattlesnake, the traditional Chicago style hot dog, and order of fries and a Coke. There's two sizes of Coke and Doug steered me to the smaller size and told me that there's free refills so just get the smaller one. I certainly appreciate that kind of hospitality.

So how was the food? In a word: good.

The Chicago Hot Dog.

I'm really getting into this Chicago-style hot dog thing. It's so different than the Sabrett New York hot dog, but so interesting with it's celery salt, onions, tomato and muther-huge pickle. God knows what a pickle is doing on a hot dog but it's damn good.

The fries were wonderfully done. Blanched and then deep-fried. You can tell just by eating them. They know how to do frites right. God Bless that Doug and death to the fabled process server who wants to take him away.

But what you really want to know is about the rattlesnake. Was it good? Was it bad? Did I start to hiss like I was in a Harry Potter movie? It was good. The meat had great texture and a slight spiciness to it. It was grilled and that was lovely. The black currant mustard and vodka currant cheese were an interesting combination that grew on me as I bit more into the snake.

The Rattlesnake Gets Bitten, Bitch.

The rattlesnake, currant and vodka was a combination I never would have thought about and a perfect example of why one must run to Hot Doug's. It's taking something as lowly as the hot dog and sausage - fare usually reserved for griddling with peppers and onions at the neighborhood street fair - and turning it into something new and original. It's taking it out for a drive and never turning back. It's raising the lowly encased meat to a culinary delight.

Run, Run, Run, young gourmand!

And beware the process servers...

Chicago Chop House

One of our earnest readers recently asked if I did, indeed, visit the Chicago Chop House during my recent visit to the Windy City. Well, the answer is: Yes, indeedy! I've had such a backlog of posts that I'm trying to work my way through them and get up to date. Heck, I still have things from April I need to post!

I actually wrote this post the day after while waiting at O'hare after being bumped off my original flight back to Baltimore.

---------

My last visit to Chicago heralded a new level in my dining adventures at two of the best restaurants in America. Those were heady times of abandoned eating and reckless spending. This time, I vowed to be a bit more thrifty.

With only a one night visit, one should only enjoy one dinner. Not to fear, gentle reader, only one dinner ensued.

The Chicago Chop House is, by now, one of my "old Chicago haunts." With the exception of February's visit, I eat there every time I come to this city. It's one of those old fashioned steakhouses where the steaks are big, the sides are big and Al Capone's picture hangs on the wall.

To be honest, I almost didn't eat at Chicago Chop House this time around. A search of the Internet yielded a couple of sites that recommended other steakhouses. But since most of those said that places like Morton's, Smith & Wollensky, Capitol Grille, The Palm and Lawry's were amongst the best in Chicago, I decided against any of those places for the most basic reason that I can go to any of those at home in Baltimore or Washington DC. If I'm in another city, I want to eat at places that I can't eat at home. Morton's? I might as well eat at Applebee's.

It's nice to know that as totalitarianism develops and a police state arises in the United States that you can still find small enclaves of civility in this nation: the Chicago Chop House allows cigar smoking in their bar (if albeit only in the back of the bar).

Regular readers of this blog know that I have a penchant for a meal of meaty steaks and tasty cigars. They're a wonderful pairing and it's becoming all too rare an experience in what once was The Land of the Free. God Bless the Chop House for maintaining some level of sensibility in an insane world.

Oddly enough, The Chicago Chop House (THCC) is located in the heart of the city's tourist district - usually a sure sign to stay away. As such, it's typically dangerous territory to just show up, hoping for a seat. They're open 'til 11pm so I gambled that a seating for one at 10pm wouldn't be too problematic. Luckily, I was right (not to mention that it was a Sunday).

Blanche, my waitress, was attentive, light as meringue but a bit short on the attention span whenever our conversation strayed from menu items to, say, what The Loop is all about.

The First Course.

For starters, Blanche brought out the sauteed butterflied shrimp. Three large shrip sauteed in butter, garlic, lemon and onions. The shrimp were huge and I tore into them. The table bread was equally fantastic. Crusty on the outside, warm, soft and chewy on the inside. Slathered with lots of butter and I wanted to grind the entire loaf - appetite be damned.

The rather unremarkable salad.

The next course was the salad course with a garlic dressing. Hate to say it, but it was pretty unremarkable. Iceberg or romaine? Who could tell since it was mostly the flavorless white ends with a couple baby tomatoes and drowning in dressing. It would have been better if they dropped the salad altogether, although I suspect it's there to appease the tourists who want the most for their money.

Ah, Prime Rib Succulence and the Arturo Fuente Rothschild Maduro cigar. Sublime.

For the main course, I chose the prime rib/ribeye. It's a cut of prime rib that's cooked as a prime rib should and finished on the grill like a ribeye steak. I ordered mine "medium," along with a side order of their fried baked potato.

The crispy potato thingies.

The meat was a perfect medium. Carmelized exterior with a red/pink and cool (temperature cool) interior. Probably the best medium I've ever eaten. And the potatoes? Excellent. Evidently, they're baked potatoes that are sliced and then deep-fried to a crispy perfection with onions.

To top it all off - the cigar. A maduro robusto from A. Fuente just made the experience sublime. To me, there's little finer than a wonderful cut of meat paired with a delicious cigar. It's almost an aphrodisiac. While I say "death" to those anti-smoking gestapo types who deign to smother smoking from God's Green Earth, leave me these little havens where I can enjoy a steak and a cigar and revolution will be thwarted. For now.

Chocolate cake.

Continued on with a dessert course - a chocolate cake. It was good but nothing earth-shattering. Thought for a moment about ordering a coffee, but decided against it.

All in all, the Chicago Chop House lived to my expectations. I got a wonderful cut of meat, excellently prepared and smoked a cigar to boot - what more could I ask for? I was happy and took half the cut home with me.

The Funk

For the past two days I've been in a funk. A myopic funk. A foggy funk. An "I don't know what I'm doing and can't see where I'm going and don't have anyone to hug me" kind of funk. One of those funks where you sit around trying to figure out where you went wrong in life and are extremely tempted to call old girlfriends and cry kind of funk.

I'm happy to report that the funk has passed and I woke up this morning feeling refreshed and reinvigorated.

Maybe it's the fact that the Nail Salon isn't happening. Maybe it's the fact that the beverage refrigerator keeps leaking and I can't seem to figure out why. Maybe it's because I lost the USBC and now have to fork out my own money to go to Japan.

Whatever it was, I'm a guy and I'm too busy being "macho" to sit around figuring it out, unless I deign to look like a sissy.

The crescendo came last night, as I'm leaving The Spro, in need of someone to talk to about The Funk, and I'm texting an old flame to see if she wants to chat. She didn't call or return my text. Bitch.

This morning, twelve hours later, I receive this message: "Sorry! I went to bed early. I've been so wiped out this week."

Sure. She was probably busy with whatever current boyfriend she has now.

But it's really a good thing she didn't call me back, I think. After six months of no contact what would happen now? The swirling hurricane starts again? No, I don't think I want to go back to that craziness. That would be, well, just crazy.

So, here I am again, The Spro is about to close after another busy day in Towson, and I'm feeling pretty chipper about things and The Funk is an old memory disappearing into the night.


And I think I should note: No tears were shed during the filming of This Funk.

The Fetal Position

I love my family. I really do. Overall, I'm very close to my family. In the traditional Filipino culture, there really is no "extended" family. They are all just "family" and as such, you're subject to the whims and judgments of everyone.

In high school, one of my aunts constantly nagged me about a girl I was "in love" with. She didn't like this girl and made it painfully obvious to my inexperienced self each and every time I saw her. Which, when you're being nagged about a girl you like was always too often.

Now, that girl is long gone, my aunt and I are still close but a new cloud lingers on my horizon. It's my other aunt.

Don't get me wrong, my other aunt is great. I love her to death. She oversees the company accounting after I've hacked my way through it. She's the one who recalculates revenue, taxes and works with our CPA to make sure things are in line and on-time.

I see her on a regular basis, but I usually hear from her quarterly, when it's: "Jay, we need to talk. I need checks."

Notice the plural in the word "checks." It's never just one. It's always a cascade of checks needed to be issued and sent to either the IRS, the Comptroller of Maryland or some other government agency extorting us for more cash to feed the machine. It's a never-ending cycle of revenue, taxes and checks - and I'm starting to wonder if it will affect my relationship with my aunt.

There are days when I fear her call, because I know it's the call for money to the IRS. But I was going to use that money to put a down payment on a business jet, I think to myself. Not anymore sucka, you got to pay and your aunt is the Agent For The Reaper.

I want to regale you with stories about my aunt calling, the phone wringing and me, crouched on the floor of my basement in fetal position - but it hasn't reached that stage yet. There are still family gatherings and we sit, chat, joke, laugh and gossip about what problems are in the family this month, so things are still good.

Perhaps next year I'll find myself in the fetal position on the floor in the basement...

Broken Nails

I'm sad to report here on The Onocoffee Blog that Nail Salon Espresso will not be happening.

While just a day ago I thought we were on the same path as the landlord, today I see that we are not. Last night as I was leaving The Spro, I noticed that a crew was working in the space that was to be Nail Salon Espresso. I had sent off a finalized and ready-to-go lease to the landlord at the end of April before I left for SCAA. Hadn't heard from him since. Even sent off a couple of e-mails to see how things were progressing. Nothing.

You know, I don't mind losing a potential location. I do mind it when the people you're dealing with don't have the courtesy to let you know that there's no longer a deal to be made. It's disappointing (to say the least).

It's also disappointing because Nail Salon Espresso was designed to be something special for East Towson. Not only was it going to be the most forward-thinking espresso bar in Baltimore (even more than The Spro), it was going to roast single-origin coffees on a beatiful copper-jacketed Petroncini The Crumb 3 kilo roaster, and it was going to feature The Sunday Brunch - a four seat only, chef and barista driven multi-course tasting menu on Sundays with a visiting chef each brunch.

Oh well, no sense in crying over spilled espresso. Time to move forward to the next adventure.

More Anti Action

More happens in my life than I have time to blog about - I promise. Because of this, I tend to fall way behind in the stuff I want to share on the blog. This is one of those times.

The AntiGriddle has been an experience. In one way, it's mind-boggling. Perhaps I just have a small mind but it has been forcing me to stretch my preconceptions about food and preparation. Unlike heat, the freezing action doesn't change the food molecularly, so there's no way to "cook" something like meat. It just freezes. It's incredibly limiting, which means it forces you to think in different directions.

Here are some shots of the AntiGriddle in action on our long road towards understanding it and figuring out what to do with it. The images were shot in late April while the AntiGriddle was taking a temporary residence at Artifact Coffee in Baltimore while we played with ideas for the United States Barista Championship.

Chef Spike Gjerde (a Baltimore culinary celebrity and owner of Artifact) pries off the first test.

Foamed sabayon in aluminum forms starting to form.

Suckers are so cold you need a blowtorch to release them. More cool tools to use.

A First Attempt: The Floating Creme - frozen sabayon floating in a sea of espresso.

More Madness - freezing straight espresso on the left and an apricot foam on the right.

An apricot star with a shot of espresso.

Birthday Cake - layers of espresso, apricot and cream semi-freddo.

24 Miles

Location: McCormick Place, Chicago
Time: 5:30pm, Sunday, May 20, 2007

I'm sitting in the lobby of McCormick place and it's a complete madhouse. The line for the taxi is unbelieveable and the crush of restaurant industry humanity is swirling by with a dizzying rush.

And I'm completely wiped out.

I'm sitting next to the water fountains and next to some boisterous Canadians (from Toronto) who are hooting and hollering about all sorts of topics. They're wiped out too but ready to party. One of them says that he heard that if you walked each aisle you would walk a total of 24 miles.

No wonder I feel wiped out.

My back is aching. My feet are sore. I'm tired. In other words: I'm wasted.

And I still have at least a 30 minute commute back to my hotel.

The National Restaurant Association Show is the largest foodservice trade show in North America and just like a proper American trade show, there are people from all over the world here. It's huge. It's dizzying. It's incredible. And there's a ton of food, drink and alcoholic beverages for you to gorge yourself, if you so desire.

John Klein once told me that the NRA show is a good one to visit every two or three years. I think he's right. God knows you're not out buying a new cooking line every year and since I'm in a specialty niche, it's even moreso. For those of you in the coffee business, the NRA Show is much bigger than SCAA. If SCAA is the largest show you've attended then you're in for a shock at NRA. However, if you've been to the Consumer Electronics Show or the Magic Marketplace fashion trade show, then NRA won't seem that big to you.

After an early morning flight from Baltimore (that was packed to the gills), I walked every aisle. 24 miles in one day while eating samples along the way, chatting with vendors and generally being overwhelmed by the enormity of the attempt. Smarter creatures will dedicate one day to each of the three main halls - allowing themselves time to savor the experience, attend seminars, attend the keynote and, generally, linger around.

Not me. I'm not that smart a creature. I'm here for a day and I've got to marathon it. Lots of cool things to see and taste.

One thing I learned the first year attending restaurant shows was: moderate your eating. There are, literally, hundreds of vendors giving away free samples of food and drink. It's very easy to let your eyes be greedy, gorge on everything in sight and then pass out from gluttony. Take small bites, you're just tasting.

I arrived at the hall hungry. Early flight, no breakfast and it's 10:30am. Gotta eat.

The thing about restaurant shows I never understood is why attendees bother to eat at the convention center food centers. I mean, there are hundreds of vendors giving food away. Grab some fried shrimp here, tilapia there, some sausage over here, a little prime rib a the next booth, a cup of soup, a taste of jambalaya - and you're done. All free and without the outrageous price gouging typical of convention center companies, like Aramark. And the quality of food is at least on par or better than that hot dog for eight bucks.

For me, the highlights of the show were:

- Finally discovering that True Refrigeration makes lowboy worktop refrigerators with illuminated glass doors. Gotta have those for Nail Salon Espresso.

- Checking out the Paco Jet and learning how its' used. While I love my two barrel Coldelite ice cream freezer, the PacoJet's gonna replace it at Nail Salon.

- Seeing Paul Prudhomme signing autographs. Hadn't seen Chef Paul in years and he's looking good.

- Meeting Philip and the crew from PolyScience. Great to finally meet them in person and hear about some new things that may be coming down the pipeline. Found out that they're also readers of this blog. It's an honor and I'm slightly embarassed.

- Wagyu Beef from Japan. It's truly incredible. I must have it. I must open NFA Steaks and offer it on the menu. The marbled fat is indescribable, not to mention the taste and texture.

Some disappointments:

- CookTek wasn't in attendance so I wasn't able to see their lineup of induction ranges. I will have one of those.

- Turns out that Thomas Keller and Grant Achatz hung out at the Polyscience booth for three hours on Saturday. Damn my lameness in coming on Sunday!!!! Oh well, last time I saw Keller was during a tour of his kitchen right before service in January 2005 and he didn't look too happy with this interloper snooping around.

- The utter lack of quality coffee roasters at the show. Sure, you can buy coffee from Sara Lee, but why? Unfortunately, none of our Third Wave crew was there to show the restaurant biz what coffee can be like. Hmmm - sounds like an opportunity for next year.

The Lolo Level

I've reached a new milestone.

Within my extended family there is structure. Traditional structure of old world customs and heirarchy. Elders are to be respected. Being an "American," I've always struggled with this - trying to fight against the tide to gain that respect and position before my time.

Over the years, as my cousins and I collectively became older and a younger generation took out places, I moved up in rank and respect. As time passed, I found myself in the odd position of being mano'd to (mano po being the old custom of respect for elders by taking their hand and placing the back of that hand to your forehead). It became unfamiliar to be the "elder" amongst a growing sea of nephews and nieces.

And now, I've reached a level wholly shocking to me.

The Lolo, or grandfather, level.

A few weeks ago, my niece calls me from Illinois to ask if I will be the ninong (godfather) to her newborn daughter. Of course I would and found myself in the Chicagoland area this past weekend for the baptism. My niece is the oldest daughter of my eldest cousin - the one person in our hierarchy who doesn't call anyone "kuya" or "ate" because he's the oldest and doesn't have to. It's the position of ultimate privilege.

Anyway, I'm hanging around the house and realize that people are catering to me. There's no need for me to get up and get a drink, someone will get it for me. Need a little more rice? Not a problem. Don't get up. Of course, I get up and give my seat to one of the aunties because that's how it works. I'm still in the middle of the overall hierarchy and always subordinate to the aunt/uncle level above me.

But as I'm sitting there, secretly enjoying the luxury of respect, it hits me: I'm now on the "Lolo Level."

So, there's my cousin and his daughter, who is my niece, and it's her daughter - his granddaugher and, therefore, placing me on the same grandparent level.

Yes, I know there are some of you who will want to argue with this structure but regardless of what you think, this is how it works in my familys' structure.

And the thought that I'm now at the Lolo Level is just weird to me. I'm not THAT old.

Oh well, at least I'm still dating younger women... dirty old man that I am....hehehe.

Hot Food, Hot Sun

Like I wrote in "800," I went to Mohegan Sun in Connecticut. Usually casino grub isn't worth writing about but this one was the exception.

I arrived around midnight and hungry. The great thing about casinos is that they always have a restaurant (or four) open all night long. Mohegan Sun was no different and I went to Fedelia's for a quick bite.

Now, when you go to a late-night eatery, what do you expect? Hot, tasty food served quick? Hardly. You expect cafeteria food at lukewarm temperatures with a long wait. Since it was late but I needed something to carry me through a couple hours gaming, I ordered the Ugly Mug of Roasted Chicken and Corn soup and a side order of french fries.

The food arrived on my table in under five minutes.

Sure, it's soup they keep in a water bath and fries they keep under a heat lamp - how hard could it be? But no, this soup was piping hot. And tasty. The fries were perfect: freshly fried, crisp and hot. Holy smokes, this was PERFECT cafeteria food.

Which made me wonder. Why is it that I can go to a small, supposedly quality-oriented, restaurant and the food is worse? Like the other week at Mama's On The Half Shell in Baltimore - the seafood chowder was tepid at best. Or another trip to Cafe Hon where the gravy fries were limp, lifeless and supposedly covered in a transparent liquid that was supposedly brown gravy.

Here I was, at an institutional monstrosity, in the middle of a weekday night with barely any patrons and the food was just stellar. Exactly the way it was supposed to be and served by a friendly group of staffers.

I wish more restaurants would take their cues from this example.

1-800-GAMBLER

Between August 2005 and September 2006, I visited Las Vegas no less than five times.

Admittedly, none of these trips were "gaming trips" that were planned with the sole intention of gambling, but none of the trips were concluded without a visit to one of the casinos to keep my "rating."

And while I don't gamble much, there's no game I find more interesting and exciting than craps. That feeling of the dice as it leaves your fingertips, hurtles through the air, bounces on the felt, turning up the point number: it's exhilarating.

Not to mention, a bit addictive.

I'm afraid of addictions because I think I've got an addictive personality. It's the reason why I've never indulged in cigarettes, alcohol, drugs and the like. I don't want to become addicted to these vices. My current addictions of french fries and women are destructive enough without adding more addictions to wipe out my empire.

It's been six months since my last casino visit and I've got to be honest, I've been yearning for the roll of the dice. It's not so bad that I would plan a trip to a casino, but I found out that both Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun were on the way from Vermont, so I thought I would check it out. Afterall, Tony Soprano went there and, therefore, so should I.

The guys from the Ferrari group said that I should check out Mohegan Sun over Foxwoods. So, after a five hour journey from Montpelier, I found myself at Mohegan Sun on a relatively quiet Monday night. After a quick meal and a tour of the gaming floor, I settled into a $5 craps table where I lost $140 in about an hour and a half.

So much for a new Ferrari.

That was it. That was my plan. Visit Mohegan Sun and then go home Tuesday after visiting New York.

Sometimes, things don't turn out as planned.

The next morning, after a long slumber, a pie from Mystic Pizza and a 2.5 hour drive into New York to visit Ninth Street Espresso on Thirteenth Street, I decided that I didn't want to spend the evening in the city and wanted to get out and go the hell home.

I rolled out of the Holland Tunnel at 3:30pm.

After a quick calculation, I realized that I would hit the Philadelphia area right around 5pm - the middle of rush hour.

I hate rush hours. And I hate traffic.

After another quick calculation, I figured that I could jump on the Garden State Parkway, hit Atlantic City around 5pm, check out Borgata, wait out rush hour, grab a steak from Pat's and then be home around 9pm.

Game on.

In less than 24 hours, I would hit two casinos in two states, separated by 300 miles. No, I'm not addicted. I'm just avoiding rush hour traffic.

Like Mohegan Sun, this was my first visit to Borgata. After a quick tour of the casino floor and the $5 craps table, I settled in for what I figured would be a quick run of about an hour.


You're on this date with me,
The pickings have been lush,
And yet before the evening is over,
You might give me the brush.

You might forget your manners,
You might begin to stray,
And so the best that I can do is pray.


Three hours later, I walked around the casino holding my first-ever purple chip. It was a glorious evening. The table was warm and toasty, the dice were punching numbers and I was making pretty decent bets. To be sure, there were a few throws when my chip count was down and I on the verge of being knocked out, but Lady Luck stayed with us and I rode her as long as I could.

Three hours of gaming gives one an appetite and I was crushed to find Pat's Steaks on Atlantic Avenue closed. It's what I had been dreaming of. It's what I needed. Hell, it was only about 8:30 - plenty of time for a drive to Philly. So, that's what I did: drive to Philadelphia, grab a steak (whiz with) and hit the road. I got home right around 11pm.

Not bad for a degenerate gambler.

Now, what was that 800 number again?

Aftermath

The weather in Baltimore today was a beautiful and sunny 70 degrees fahrenheit. Just lovely.

With the wonderful summer-eque weather on my back, I sit down to crunch numbers for the week. A by-product of this bookkeeping session is an online check of accounts and account balances...

Crap.

Checks are bouncing.

Merde.

Shibakuzo.

Yesterday's surprise has brought todays' horror. The unanticipated account charge for the unexpected arrival of the AntiGriddle has created havoc with my beautifully balanced bank account necessitating an emergency rush to the branch to shore up additional funds.

Whew.

Crisis averted.

Cold Chillin'

It's been awhile since I placed an order for the PolyScience AntiGriddle. The rep said they would call when it was ready. They never called and I presumed it was just taking a long time for them to work up another batch.

I roll into Spro today to find a very large box sitting on the floor.

From PolyScience.


Suddenly, it's like Christmas and I'm giddy with excitement.

It's Thursday. Just another Thursday. And I've joined the ranks of some of the finest chefs in the world.


The box is pretty big. And pretty heavy. About seventy pounds. After a few moments of composure, I tear into the box, unpacking my destiny.

The AntiGriddle. It really is about the size of a microwave. A small microwave. We hoist it into its' position of honor next to the La Marzocco Linea 3AV.

Within a few moments, Spro Coffee has the unique distinction of being the first and currently only coffee bar in the world featuring the AntiGriddle.

Clover? Bah!

Spike from Artifact Coffee asks me the question that everyone asks: "What are you going to do with it?"

Honestly, I really don't know.

Instead, I realize I'm without my camera and rush back home to get it for some "First Look" pics.

Giddy with excitment but without a clue.

After a few promo shots with the AntiGriddle, I'm left with the excruciating task of figuring out what I'm going to do with this technological wizardry. A month or so ago I was thinking about using the AntiGriddle for the USBC and today I feel how Nick Rhodes must have felt right before Duran Duran's "Sing Blue Silver" world tour in 1984.

Back then, the Fairlight CMI was the "to die for" sampling keyboard. All the cool kids, like Thomas Dolby and Devo, had one. Nick Rhodes had finally acquired his right before the tour and said in a later interview that he hadn't the time to really get into the meat of the Fairlight and thus the keyboard was reduced to very basic duties.

Now that the AntiGriddle is here and the United States Barista Champion is in a couple of weeks, I'm left pondering whether I'll have enough time to tweak and fiddle with the thing to create something smashing for the competition using the AntiGriddle. Or will it just sit there looking pretty?

As of yet, I have no answers. Just a world of possibilities.

In the meantime, here's some pics of some quick experimentation with the new AntiGriddle. You'll see that I'm going to need some molds.

The Glory. And yes, that is a bottle of grain alcohol and Pam.

The griddle surface freezing to -40 Celcius.

A dollop of honey.

The honey freezes in just a few seconds time.

On my finger and ready to eat. The texture was very creamy and sensuous.

Double shot of Hines espresso looking quite tasty.

Pouring the Hines.

Letting the Hines set up.

Breaking off a chunk of some of that funky stuff. The texture was wild but the bitters were pronounced. Need to do more experimentation.

Fifty Years Later

I've been reading the Towson Times again. Supposedly, I'm going to appear in part some article soon. So, I've been scouring the weekly looking for my shiny mug to grace their pages when I ran across an article in the latest issue.

Falling in Love. It's one of life's most desperate desires. I think everyone wants to fall in love and be swept away by their feelings/passions/desires and have that returned in equal (or greater) amounts. Even the cynical (like myself) wish to grasp once again that feeting passion that leaves you panting for more.

Fifty-five years ago, in 1942, Claude met Patricia in their fourth grade schoolhouse in Brewerton, New York. Only ten years old, the freckle-faced, strawberry blonde burned an impression in his heart that has never dissipated.

Shy as a puppy, Claude didn't start walking her to school for three years, until three days before Patty and her family moved from New York to Towson, Maryland in 1945. Years would pass and Claude would join the Army, taking leave in 1951 to visit Patty in Towson where they would re-affirm their desires to be together.

A few months later, Patty decided to join her mother and become a Jehovah's Witness Missionary. Claude went on with his life while Patty went on with hers. Claude married, had two sons and then was separated by 1955. They reunited over New Year's but never saw each other again.

Years later, Patty would marry a church elder much older than herself and bore a daughter that still lives in Towson.

In his minds' eye, Claude has a dream of them both walking on a hill blanketed with flowers overlooking a valley. She wearing a flowered dress and he in a button-up shirt, knee socks, cap and knickers. The best part of it all is that they are together in the dream.

This is where the Towson Times article ends.

Read About Claude & Patty



It's a nice dream: finding your true love. Some people find that person. Some don't. Some find each other then lose each other. Tragic. Others dream all their lives hoping to be reunited. Claude's story is one that everyone can root for because it addresses our most basic desire: to be loved and thought as important by someone else.

Years have passed and when the article came out, so too did the people stepping forward to lead Claude to Patty. Letting the reporter, Loni, know Patty's married name, where she lived and, importantly, the identity of Patty's daughter.

Patty's daughter would tell Loni that Patty talked about Claude and told her how much she cared for him - even after all this time had passed. Her feelings never diminished.

On Thursday night, Loni told Claude about his love. Patty died three years ago. They will never meet again.



It's sad. It's Love Lost. But I think Claude knew it in his heart. Perhaps there was some warmth her life brought to his heart that was gone when she passed away - a little nuance in the world that was missing. That "butterfly effect" perhaps.

So, is there a moral to the story?

You decide for yourself.

Artifact Coffee

One of biggest problems about owning your own shop/place to hang out is that you can never experience and enjoy your place in the manner of your customers.

There's no such thing as going in to hang out, sit down, enjoy a coffee and just hang with friends. That doesn't happen. There's always customers who (rightfully) want your attention. Staff issues that need resolving. Operational issues that need your guidance. In all, a myriad of details that you can never escape when you are in your shop trying to "hang out."

As such, all owners (and staff members) need a place of their own to hang out and just enjoy themselves free from the needs of operations. The problem is that when you put so much attention on your coffee quality, you need to find a place that's your equal, otherwise you're just sitting there unable to enjoy your free time.

For years, I've had nowhere to go.

I'm happy to report that time has passed.

Spike Gjerdes (and his clan of food professionals) have turned up again in the form of Artifact Coffee in the sort-of-Hampden area of Baltimore's Clipper Mill project underneath I-83, next to the Light Rail and Pepsi - and I've got a place to hang out again.

For the coffee aficionados out there, Artifact has got a two group Synesso Cyncra, French Presses and Counter Culture Coffee. Yes, it's good. Yes, it's tasty. Yes, you should rush out there right away.

There's even a table or two outside where I can smoke a cigar. I'm just hoping that Spike stays open later so I can partake more.

Chocolatea

Every once in a while, you run into a place that just has a cool name and you just have to check it out.

This past Saturday, Coffee Bryan and myself were driving around Baltimore trying to eat French for lunch. As Baltimore would have it, this proved impossible at both Petit Louis and Brasserie Tatin. However, the people at Tatin pointed us in the direction of the Indian buffet at the Ambassador Hotel. Now, I'm sorry, but Indian buffet for under ten bucks does not sound appetizing to me. Food sitting out in the open, barely warm, hovering in the bacterial danger zone is unappetizing at best and I try to avoid any kind of buffet at all costs.

Ixnay on the Indian oodfay.

As we're driving by the Ambassador, we spy a sign reading "Chocolatea" on the ground floor. Gosh, that SOUNDS interesting, let's check it out. In a moments' flash, the car is parked and we're hustling for the door.

Now, what do you see in your minds' eye when you hear the word "Chocolatea"? I envision a specialty boutique of handmade chocolates and the finest teas - the "it" stop and the "end all, be all" of chocolate and tea, right?

In a word, Chocolatea is: schizophrenic.

Everything about the place is just, well, schizo. Nothing seems to make sense. From the Dasani refrigerated case filled with Coke to the IKEA furniture to the remnant couch to the crazy contrasting wall colors to the un-unified assortment of teas to the small case of chocolate truffles that seems like an afterthought to the absolutely crazy and left-field menu ranging from waffles and pancakes to udon noodles and rice bowls.

Now, I'm a hardcore rice guy and when rice presents itself in Baltimore, I'm all over it. Ditto for ahi tuna. So while Coffee Bryan was busy ording pancakes and the chicken udon bowl, I made do with the spicy tuna and the chicken rice bowl - and a bag of Doritos.

How was the food?

Kinda blah, to be honest.

Note to entrepreneurs: if you must do something, narrow it down and do it well. Using pre-cooked, frozen chicken from a bag in your dishes is inexcusable. And, if you're going to pass off the dishes as Japanese in origin, at least know what condiments are typically served with the dishes. Ichimi Togarashi is de rigeur with any sort of donburi bowl.

The tuna was raw and pretty good on its' own but the hot sauce was unremarkable and did nothing for the tuna, though the prepared seaweed salad was tasty, if store bought.

For a drink, I ordered the Lemonade Iced Tea expecting a place called Chocolatea to make killer tea drinks. This one was overpowered with lemon juice and no balance whatsoever with the tea. Coffee Bryan's Chocolatea signature beverage was filled with chocolate floaters that, evidently, were to give texture but were not to his liking.

It's unfortunate. What started out with high hopes led only to disappointment. We love the name, I just hope the owners bring the concept into some sort of focus instead of the schizophrenic menu that's all over the place trying to do many things and succeeding at none of them.

Time To Get Serious?

"You don't take this seriously."

That's what USBC judge and uber-barista Aaron Ultimo told me once when I was hanging out at the Arlington Murky Coffee well over a year ago. It was a comment. It was a critique. It was a criticism.

And he was right.

It's the end of March and we're deep into competition season and rushing towards the United States Barista Championship being held in Long Beach, CA the weekend of May 5th. It's a madhouse time where baristas from across the country are in a practicing frenzy, working hard and long hours practicing and preparing for their fifteen minutes of fame and glory. They want to win. They want to stand there basking in the sunlight. They want to represent our nation in Tokyo at the World Championship.

But do I?

Don't get me wrong, I think I would be giddy winning the national championship. Whisked away by a new hand-carved chariot, it woud be a year of appearances on national television shows, glad-handing with leaders of nations, appearances with Pavarotti, the Metropolitan Opera, on stage with Metallica, Justin Timberlake and the Moody Blues, and bedding down celebutantes like Paris Hilton, Eliza Dushku and Britney Spears. Ok, maybe not Britney (been there, done that).

Imagine the groupies, the constant pawing of my body, the ripping of my clothes... Sheesh, and I have enough troubles with women already.

Ultimo is right, my biggest problem is that I don't take this seriously enough. I'm not doing it to win. My problem is that I don't care about winning, it's not part of my goals. I'm more interested in exploring tertiary aspects of the competition. Areas like attention to detail, ambience, service and delivery. I'm more interested in exploring coffee in a culinary presentation. Seeing if I can push the boundaries of how people think of coffee.

I see the barista craft today as that of the chef twenty years ago. Toiling in obscurity, with little respect and little recognition. It's time for the barista craft to wrestle that perception, push the bounds, demand respect, show respect for themselves and our craft and march towards the standard to today's chef. Competition is only a small component of that march.

The 2nd Annual Mid-Atlantic Regional Barista Competition has just completed and I captured Third Place. The Champ, Katie Carguilo, and the 2nd place finisher, Belle Batista, are wonderful barista competitors - excellent and tough competition and I'm proud to be ranked amongst them.

But for me, the Third Place finish rings a bit hollow and unsatisfying. True, many obstacles stood in my way to land that spot and it's pretty much miraculous that I made it there, but it's hollow and unsatisfying nonetheless.

And it's because I didn't remain true to my goals.

My first round signature drink was called "PBJ" - a deconstructed drink in three parts. The first part was a hazelnut puree mixed with espresso. You stir the ingredients and then sip. In a separate container is a fresh, handmade Black Grape gelee that you sip with the hazelnut/espresso to your liking (similar to how some like a lot of jelly or a little in their sandwich). And third is a small glass of whole milk to chase the drink. It's presented with straws and in cupware that's reminiscent of the malt shops and, hopefully, brings back memories of youth and childhood.

The presentation for the first round was choppy, staccato - I just couldn't find the groove. Since I never practiced and hadn't done a competition presentation in nearly one year, I had a hard time remembering where everything went and figured out order of service on the fly. A poor first espresso pull and I decided to dump those and pull a third. Inadequate milk in the pitchers and I ran out pouring the cappuccinos and had to steam more. Residue on the sides and I needed to wipe the capp cup after nearly setting it down. Add on top of that service experiments like a separate utensil plate (that needed to be wiped if a judge placed a soiled spoon back on the plate) and the involved prep of PBJ and I nearly disqualified myself with a 16:44 time.

For the uninitiated, regular competition time is 15 minutes. There's a five point penalty per sensory judge (there's four) for every thirty seconds over time and outright disqualification if you exceed 17 minutes. This resulted in an 80 point penalty for going that far overtime - usually death to any competitor's hope to advance to the next round.

Somehow, I scratched my way into the finals in spite of the penalty and poor performance. That's when I got sidetracked and lost my focus.

I had another drink sitting on the sidelines. One that involved roasted corn, but it wasn't quite finalized and I thought that I should play it safe and work the points. Try to win rather than stay true to my goals of exploring and pushing our craft. Blinded by this, I decided to use a variation of "Sweetness" - the drink that Bronwen Serna used to win the 2004 USBC. It's a simple drink that we serve daily as "Honey Macchiato." Just a little honey, shot of espresso and steamed half&half. Simple. Sweet. Elegant. But nothing risky or edgy, like the roasted corn thing.

The Finals performance presented its' own challenges. Faced with a panel featuring three judges from one coffee roaster/retailer, I worried that their tastes would be too similar. That the palate would be too skewed towards one style of espresso - much like presenting an acidic coffee to a panel of Japanese judges. With this in mind, I needed to find a way to allay that potential problem and bring them towards my coffees' way of thinking.

After consulting with friends who knew the coffee of the three judges (and the lone judge from another company), I decided that I would compare their coffees with the Hines. How they might be similar. How they might be different. What we tasted in the morning tasting. Created little bridges that they could easily cross.

This is not to say that the judges were prejudiced against any coffee other than their own. I had no way of knowing if that was true since I really didn't know the judges or their tastes. I had to presume that the extreme would be the case while hoping that it wasn't.

In the end, I took third place with a "safe" drink and not the drink I know I should have used. Had I used the roasted corn I would have remained true to my goals, the third place finish would be satisfying and I would have feedback on the corn drink. Since I allowed the thought of winning cloud my judgment and chose the "safe" drink, I have no feedback on the corn drink and have a trophy that can sit around collecting dust. The only consolation I have is that I was awarded a "6" by a longtime USBC judge - which is an accomplishment in and of itself, especially from a seasoned and tough judge.

But I blew it. I let the thought of winning get in the way of what I wanted to do. I thought I should get serious about winning, instead of being serious about exploring. Failure.


Unsatisfying indeed.

Chicago: A Four Star Weekend

Last month the coffee business brought me to Chicago for a few days to attend CoffeeFest, the Great Lakes Regional Barista Competition and Executive Council meetings for the Barista Guild of America. I decided that I would make a crazy weekend of it by staying at the W Lakeshore and dining at both Charlie Trotter's and Alinea on consecutive Saturday and Sunday nights. Then, if I had it in me, I might go for a third night at the always enjoyable Chicago Chop House.

In the end, I never made it to the Chop House. I ended up gorging on pedestrian fare like the Chicago Hot Dog and Portillo's Italian Beef - both of which were quite tasty and a wonderful, greasy and cheap counterpoint to the rest of the weekend.

I've compiled the experiences a bit differently than Blogger likes to display posts. I've combined all four articles (including this one) in a time cascade meaning that you read the articles down the page in column format like you would a newspaper article, rather than the up reading, chronological format that is typical of Blogger.

So, in a nutshell, after finishing this, read the Trotter's article, then Alinea and then Compiled at the bottom of the page.

In short, the restaurants were amazing, educational and inspiring. I hope that all of you enjoy the images and the thoughts.

Jay

Chicago: Charlie Trotter's

Ever since I read the book Lessons In Service from Charlie Trotter I've been intrigued to eat at his restaurant. His approach to service and hospitality, not to mention food, seemed beautiful. Servers in suits, attentive service and top quality food. It was a scene made just for me to dine.

The weather in Chicago was crappy that weekend. O'Hare had been shut down and our friends from the West Coast just didn't make it. Had I not left Baltimore on the 2pm flight, I would not have made it to Chicago and my visions of dining grandieur would have been flushed.

But that was not the case and I found myself, along with Barista Matt, on our way through the snow to the remodeled rowhomes on West Armitage. Two short than our reservation for four, we hung out a bit by the bar while they arranged our table then we were on our way.

The decor is refined and tasteful. Subdued incandescent lighting produces a warm light that puts you at ease - even though the dress code requires a coat. But I guess it would be weird if the staff was dressed nicer than the guests. Luckily I brought a comfortable jacket.

Won't waste time chatting about inane subject matter, it's time to get to business. The Grand Menu of 8 courses was $175. The wine pairing was an additional $85. Both Barista Matt and myself went with the Grand Menu and Tasting.

Artic Char with Savoy Cabbage & Mustard
Henriot "Blanc Souverain - Pur Chardonnay" Brut NV

Four Story Hills Farm Avian with Poached Egg, Truffle Chutney & Pumpernickel Crisp
- Santiago Ruiz "O Rosal" Rias Baixas 2005

Okay, I'll say it now. The poached egg blew me away. Poached for ten hours at 40C. The texture was immaculate. It was sublime. It is almost impossible to describe the mouthfeel and the exquisite texture and how I dream of an egg such as this.

Japanese Tai with Grapefruit, Clams, Shima Mikan & Pink Peppercorn
Monthelie "Premier Cru - Chateau Gaillard" Domaine Annick Parent 2002

My first real experience with foam and it was, well, weird. Don't think I like the foam thing. Nothing of substance - just fleeting.

Roasted Monkfish Tail with Parsnip & Iranian Pistachio Emulsion

The roasted tail was wild. Who would have thought of this? Kinda like strange crisps. Crunchy. Interesting. And kinda tasty. Wonder how it would go with salt and a Coke.

Axis Venison Loin with Quinoa, Black Cardamom Mole & Ash Baked Eggplant
Felton Road Pinot Noir, Central Otago 2004

The venison was good, but the Pinot Noir was BAM! Bangin'! A beautiful pairing of bold flavors. Amazing.

Grilled Blood Orange Sorbet with Jicama & Cilantro
Seven Hills "Pentad" Walla Walla 2003

Again, the wine pairing was BA-BAMM! Fuckin' rockin'.

Organic d'Hiver Pears with Carmelized Endive & Burnt Hickory Syrup Ice Cream
J.J. Christoffel Erben "Urzinger Wurtzgarten" Riesling Eiswein, Mosel 2002

Eiswein - BAM! Again. Who is this sommelier and why won't he let up? I need more. Easily the most challenging dish of the night. See that white sauce second from the left? It was some sort of cheese sauce that was just challenging. Here's this sweet dessert kind of dish with this savory, salty kind of cheese that totally clashes with the sweetness and you're trying to find its' meaning. Challenging. Amazing.

Later, 2003 Barista Champion Heather Perry would ask me over breakfast - if I had experienced this dish anywhere else, would I have hated it outright or did I like it (or try to like it) merely because I was dining at Charlie Trotters?

Great question and I still don't know the answer.

Chocolate, Tea, Caramel
Warre's Late Bottled Vintage Port 1995" Brut NV

Oh, LBV 1995 - now you're killing me. Who keeps this stuff? If it was mine, it would have been long gone. Barista Matt couldn't get enough and asked for another round of chocolates. Didn't know you could do that! But I was pleased.

Easily one of the best meals I've ever had. The flavors were rich. The textures were varied and the wine pairings were the best I've ever experienced. A true compliment to the food. I've never experienced that before. Amazing.

The service was top-notch and everything I had hoped for after reading the book. Barista Matt asked to tour the wine cellars, so into the recesses of Trotter's we went. Down, down,down, past the kitchen, past the locker room and into the cellar where I came face to face with a mid-20th Century Petrus. Amazing. If only I understood wines more...

Chicago: Alinea

When I was trying to figure out how difficult it would be to obtain a reservation at Charlie Trotter's, Jay Cunningham suggested Alinea as an alternative. At the time I knew nothing about Alinea or it's chef, Grant Achatz. A little internet research yielded some dramatic results. Started at Trotter's, worked at The French Laundry, staged at El Bulli and then was Sous Chef at French Laundry before heading off to Chicago to first work Trio and then open Alinea.

Read the experiences on eGullet if you want to know more about the ambience. It's modern and refined and everyone is sharply dressed. The open kitchen with its' modular design is just gorgeous. It has quickly become the inspiration for the modular design of Nail Salon Espresso.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After the completely fabulous (and expensive) meal at Trotter's the night before, I was about to leave my hotel room with $300. Then I thought better of it. Perhaps I'll need another hundred, just in case. Tucked another hundred into my wallet and I was off with $480 in my pocket. That's $400 for the dinner and $80 for cab fares and incidentals. Plenty of cash for this Bling Bling Barista.

Forget the extaneous stuff. You can read about the layout, design and ambience on the Internet. Let's get right to the nitty-gritty. Everything you've heard about Alinea being one of America's cutting-edge restaurants is true. The food is wild. The food is good. The pairings are tasty and subtle. There was no blasting chorus of wines like at Trotter's. Everything just fit nicely together in a smooth and subtle symphony. My team of captain and sommelier were wonderful. Everyone in the dining room spied on each others' tables to see either what was coming or fondly reminiscing about that same dish.

Originally, I had planned on dining with Bronwen but when her flight from the West Coast was cancelled due to Chicago weather, I ended up dining solo. They graciously accommodated me at a luscious dark walnut table as I sat on the wall-length couch, arms propped with pillows. How nice.

You have a choice at Alinea. Some sort of short menu or The Tour. Of course, having travelled all this way, I was choosing The Tour. Then there's the wine pairings - $85 for the short pairing or the same amount as The Tour for The Tour Pairing.

The Tour is $195. The Tour Pairing was an additional $195. A quick head calculation and I was glad I brought that extra Franklin. The Grand Tour it would be.

And here it is, The Grand Tour as it was presented to me on Sunday, Februrary 25, 2007:

Note: if the course was paired with a wine, that wine is listed below.

Croquette - Smoked steelhead roe, several garnishes
Chartogne-Taillet "Cuvee Ste-Anne" Brut with Pineau des Charentes

Octopus - shiso, papaya, toasted soy

Chanterelle - Carrot, curry, ham
Quinta do Alqueve Fernao Pires, Ribatejo, Portugal 2005

Apple - horseradish, celery

An encapsulation of the celery juice inside a horseradish sphere sitting in apple juice. Trippy.

Monkfish - banana, onion, lime
Vincent Danver Chassagne-Montrachet ler Cru "La Romanee" 2004

This one was three preparations of monkfish - poached, fried and mousse.

Duck - mango, yogurt, pillow of juniper air
F.X. Pichler Gruner Veitliner Smaragd "Loibner Berg", Wachau 2004

Just wild. Get close and smell the juniper as it emanates out of the pillow.

Black Truffle - explosion, romaine, parmesan

Far out. The truffle juice explodes out of the ravioli onto your tongue. One of the most gushed about courses on eGullet.

Short Rib - Guiness, peanut, fried broccoli
Paolo Bea Montefalco Rosso Riserva "Pipparello", Umbria 2001

Yuzu - frozen and chewy

Chestnut - Blis maple syrup

Persimmon - brioche, mace, grapefruit
Weinbach Gewurtztraminer "Altenbourg" Vendanges Tardives, Alsace 2003

Licorice Cake - muscovado sugar, orange, anise hyssop

Definitely the wildest preparation.

King Crab - vinegar, aromatics, rice
A.R. Lenobie "Rose Millesime" Brut, Damery 2000

Skate - caper, lemon and brown butter powders
Francois Villard "Terrasses du Palat" Condrieu, N. Rhone 2004

That swirl that looks like the galaxy were the powders. Mind-blowing.

Pineapple - bacon powder, black pepper

Lamb - date, mastic, rosemary aroma
Jean Royer Chateauneuf-du-Pape "Hommage a mon Pere" S. Rhone 2001

Hot Potato - cold potato, black truffle, butter

Venison - encased in savory granola
Azelia Barolo "San Rocco", Castigilone Falletto 1998

Foie Gras - spicy cinnamon, apple pate de fruit

Orange - olive oil, green olive, almond
Disnoko Tokaji Aszu "6 Puttonyos", Hungary 1997

Coconut - saffron, kiwi, cornmeal
Cavalchina "Le Pergole del Sole" Muller-Thurgau Passito, Veneto, Italy 2003

Notice the translucent brown jelly on the right corner. It was a roasted corn gelee and it rocked the house.


Chocolate - passionfruit, kaffir lime leaf, soy
Abbazia di Novacella Moscato Rosa "Praepositus", Alto Adige 2004

- I apologize about this course. I guess I got so carried away (not to mention blitzed on the flowing wine) that I must have forgotten to snap a photo.

PCaramel - meyer lemon, cinnamon perfume

That's it. That was the complete 23 course Tour at Alinea. Grant wasn't in that evening but the food was wild. The utensils were wonderful and that roasted corn gelee rocked the house. Twice. Somewhere along the way, I enjoyed some sort of bottled water and a sort of French pressed coffee from Intelligentsia. I say 'sort of' because even at this grand restaurant they still don't quite "get" the nuances and finesse of great coffee.

The dining room was full when I arrived so I mainly kept to myself and tried to snap the pics as unobtrusively as possible. The friendly ladies dining next to me asked if I was a food critic. Perhaps I should have said yes. Then again, I later noticed the couple across the room snapping images of their meal as well. Just label me "tourist."

I ended up being the final diner in my dining room which allowed me to actually chat with Olivia, the captain and Scott, the sommelier and ask them their thoughts on service and their experience working in one of America's top restaurants. Passion and commitment to service seemed to be the predominant thought. Throughout the evening the service was friendly but reserved and respectful. I think I would prefer service slightly (and I do mean slightly) more colloquial, but that's a personal preference on the way I would like to be treated and not a criticism on their approach.

In the end, I was glad that I brought the extra hundred, but distressed that I didn't bring another hundred. Here's the breakdown of my bill:

Menu - $195
Wine - $195
Bever - $8
Sub - $398
10.25% tax - 40.80
Total - 438.80

Now remember, I only had $480 in my pocket, lose $30 for the round-trip cab ride to and from Alinea and that leaves me with $450 in cash. Quite a bit short to cover the tip. Ended up charging $100 to my credit card and covering the balance in cash and I spent a total of $540.00 on dinner for one.

Holy Crap.

This was easily the most reckless dinner I've ever spent money on. Five Hundred and Forty Dollars. I must be insane. There must be something wrong with me. Yes, it was a business trip. An exploration into understanding the level of service and approach to service at the top echelons of the hospitality industry. But it was expensive for a dinner. True, it was cheaper than the Culinary Boot Camp at the Culinary Institute of America. But it was an expensive dinner.

But was it worth the Five Hundred Dollars? That is the question.

It was absolutely one of the wildest meals of my life. I'll say that for now and leave the analysis to another post.