tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14968998342332235142024-03-13T19:18:05.072-05:00The Bearded GourmandAn Austinite's journey through the deepening culinary abyssFlapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.comBlogger177125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-39669781473407487872012-04-18T09:44:00.010-05:002012-04-20T03:41:39.758-05:00Have Knife Will TravelIt's hard to keep up sometimes. Too many plates spinning at once, and if you're not careful, you'll lose focus and start breaking them, the audience will gasp, possibly boo. Then what? It's mid-April already. How did this happen? How wide and deep is this abyss that consumes time? Does anyone care anymore, or are we all on auto-pilot, pulling days of the kitty calendar and throwing them in the bin? I think I care, but I learned a long time ago that time is ever the victor and we just have to deal with it rolling away like it does. It's like a bad trip. You just have to go with it; to fight it is to end up under the covers, alone, while your friends sync up <i>Atom Heart Mothe</i>r with the <i>Goonies</i> and laugh and scream as One Eyed Willie eats "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast". Who wants to miss out on that?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Blogging when you work in the industry at this level of immersion is hard. It's an afterthought, at best it's a quarterly post, which is barely comparable to the three or four posts a week I had before I was in a serious relationship, before I was married, before I opened a restaurant and became chained to the line like one of Madame LaLaurie's cooks before the <a href="http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/a-torture-chamber-is-uncovered-by-arson">fire</a>. It's like that. The rules changed once I was on the other side of the window. You can't blog the same way. You can't say the same things. You can't. There is a thin line already between pride and pretense on a blog, and the line is thinner once you are a cook. It's one thing to post a pic of your plate when your a prideful home cook, but that same pic as a professional is just douchey. "Hey, look what I did." It gets old. But, you do want to put yourself out there. You want that recognition, because you're human, and you have an ego, and you know someone's getting off on that. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This year has been all about learning. As a student on the path, you can't stop. To stagnate is to die, to be a relic. It's nice to be reminded that you are but another brick in the culinary wall, and that that in its own way is inspiring. I've done a good amount of staging this year. Not because I'm job-hunting, but because it's good to get outside of your comfort zone and go cut veg for someone else and start back at the bottom. I've also spent some time in a few food trucks, which is interesting, different. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The <a href="http://johnnyflapjacks.blogspot.com/2009/01/draped-up-and-dripped-out.html">Butcher</a> is now getting <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/blogsandforums/blogs/bafoodist/2011/12/the-best-charcuterie-for-your.html">recognition</a>. I'm glad he's been a character on this blog for as long as he has. He is finally getting some credit for his skills and not being ignored, or having ideas brushed over by those with less experience. His partnership with Ben at <a href="http://www.saltandtime.com/">Salt & Time</a> seems so perfectly timed (I introduced them, which is great), and well suited. Things are going well for them, but that's not my story. I've gone out to the shop in Neiderwald, a temple of cured meats in our area, and made sausage, prepped, watched, learned. I've long been a student of his, so it's great to take it further, to keep learning from a master. I was really stoked to help them pull off a successful stint in the SquareSpace food truck during SXSW, where I worked the flat-top making almost a thousand pig face sandwiches. It was a great experience. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I did a night at Hudson's. It was bittersweet, but a great experience. Kelly was a gracious mentor for the night, yet it was eye-opening to see what was going on behind the curtain. They have a great crew, and are still doing great things. I liked working the pantry. Again, it's nice to be on the bottom. Old friends and new out there. I enjoyed the real life dramatic irony of being just another loser stage to the line cooks. The twenty-one year olds with their egos, and their questions about "why are you interested in cooking?" It was great to see their faces when the FOH showed up, most of which I grew up with, and everyone came by and gave me a hug and we talked shit. One of the kids came up to me later and asked how I knew everyone. I know everyone. It's that simple. We had one of the kids come stage at Black Star, and he would have gotten the gig, too, but he's moving in less than a year and we need more commitment. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
SXSW came. Came hard. All over this town's face. I took that opportunity to help out <a href="http://eskaustin.com/">East Side Kings</a> for a week. I made new friends, and again, saw the real Wizard behind the curtain. It's fun. It's hard work in a tight space, like sex in the back of a Volkswagon. Those kids, and they are kids, are the real pirates. Sure, their captain gets all the credit, but their out there 14 hours a day manning the sails and making sure the hordes of <a href="http://www.travelandleisure.com/articles/americas-best-cities-for-hipsters/8">hipsters</a> don't overrun their bows. I liked working the fryer, and doing prep; lending my hands to an institution that gets a lot of recognition for <a href="http://www.8asians.com/2012/03/05/paul-qui-wins-top-chef-texas/">Paul's</a> successes in other arenas, and in turn, long ass lines. I got to work the window for about seven hours one night, just doing customer service, and that too was great. A real trip back to my roots. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of course, the chip shoppe, Black Star, is home. It's busy. We've doubled our old food sales records. Fridays and Saturdays feel like the battle of Helm's Deep, and we are the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZpwsKRpKS_M">Rohirrim</a>, looking out on a see of faces crashing like waves against our walls. It's badass. We kill it. Lately the focus has been on the future, and new programs, Spring menu, and communication. It's hard to be a team in an industry that is used to having a head man in charge. But that is the point. That's the challenge. The beauty of the fucking thing, ever changing around you, constantly needing attention to sustain. I love it. I love my crew. We're not the pirates of ESK, even if we've stolen a few, but we're similar. We're not adrift either, we have a mission, a vision, a membership to feed and titles to <a href="http://www.blackstar.coop/blogs/workers-assembly/kitchen/nothing%E2%80%99s-ever-gonna-keep-you-down/">win</a>. Like I said, this, this forum, has to change to stay consistent with that world. I can't just spout off nonsense. There is decorum that must be observed. No more "whites for Tyson." I'm digging around in my bag to find my shades, because the future is bright. </div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-43869071096795097792012-02-18T11:20:00.004-06:002012-02-18T11:28:29.368-06:00What We Talk About When We Talk About Communication-Part TwoIf you have ever worked the line in a kitchen, you know that one thing is more feared than any other—you know it, your co-workers know it, and it really scares the front of house people: SILENCE.<div><br /></div><div>Our jobs require constant, up-each-other's-ass communication, but when there is an argument or a fight (just like in relationships), there is usually a long, awkward, service-fucking silence. Last night was one of those nights, yet it didn't fuck up service too much. </div><div><br /></div><div>Granted, it was my fault, which is why I'm writing this—as a means of both processing and, I guess, public confession. Miscommunication blows. That's the moral of the story. When you're slammed and focused, all it takes a little miscommunication to crash the whole fucking house of cards you've built in your head. Tonight, please, be gentle on us all. Self, let go, be excellent to each other. </div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-11846766070410456162011-10-14T11:46:00.005-05:002011-10-14T12:43:34.915-05:00Just the Tip?<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X7Y9BlFUs9Q/Tphu8-hd3hI/AAAAAAAABU8/tACVTat7I6M/s1600/DSC03091.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X7Y9BlFUs9Q/Tphu8-hd3hI/AAAAAAAABU8/tACVTat7I6M/s400/DSC03091.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663398525272972818" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><i>What ever happened to baby king cake?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>The Austin Chronicle's Best of 2011 came out yesterday, and we are honored to have received an award from the critic's pick: <a href="http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Awards/BestOfAustin?Award=1215534">Best tipping policy</a>. <div><br /></div><div>You read that right. Best. Tipping. Policy. We don't take tips. Years ago, Steven Yarak and I were sitting at Spiderhouse debating this concept (as we did so many other topics), and how restaurant owners had used this institution to bypass having to actually pay their servers (read: the people who make them their money), and let that obligation fall on their patrons by means of supplementing their $2.13 an hour wage in the form of gratuities. We thought it was shitty. I still think it's shitty. I worked for tips for years, as did many of you, and you know that there are those who tip no less than twenty percent at all times (industry folk) and those who tip between ten and fifteen percent. It's the worst type of prostitution. In fact, hookers get a flat rate regardless of performance, so when bartenders and servers go the extra mile and take a load in the face, they have to smile and act like their eyes aren't on fire, and their hair isn't fucked. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway. Our system isn't perfect, but since we are a member-owned business and they already pay us our salaries, why charge them a double tax? Granted, we have plenty of non-member customers that benefit from this system, however, I would argue that you can't change the system by falling in lockstep with the dominate paradigm. Hooray for <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/black-star-co-op-pub-and-brewery-austin#hrid:f19LjAvPaxtHW88t_P-Cfg">pseudo-socialist poserdom</a>! </div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-17096848935369353442011-07-10T12:25:00.010-05:002011-07-13T00:50:00.499-05:00Proof of ConceptIt was in the middle of the night in September of 2008 when I first learned of the existence of bacon toffee. I was in the depths of a <a href="http://themastercleanse.org/">Master Cleanse</a>. Not eating had me thinking of nothing but food. That was when I stumbled upon Derrick Schneider's <a href="http://www.obsessionwithfood.com/2006_12_01_blog-archive.html">An Obsession with Food</a>, and with it, <a href="http://johnnyflapjacks.blogspot.com/2008/12/how-to-make-bacon-toffee.html">bacon toffee</a>.<div><br /></div><div>I had somehow linked to An Obsession with Food from another blog that I had completely scoured, <a href="http://www.poubelle.com/butterpig/">Butter Pig</a>. I had been staying up until five in the morning for several nights, incessantly reading food blogs and thinking of all these things I would make when I started eating food again. When the ten day fast had ended, I set out to knock things off my list. </div><div><br /></div><div>The idea of a bacon candy intrigued me. I had had bacon and chocolate, and it was as good as it sounds, but bacon and toffee!? I made a few batches, some sucked: not reaching the right temp, not cracking, pulling fillings out, leaving napalmesque wounds on extremities, etc.—all the good stuff that can happen when making candy. Then I found my stride. It was about that time that I decided that I wanted to make cookies with chocolate chips and bacon toffee. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nearly three years later, this idea has finally come to fruition. Since I now work in a kitchen, this idea has become more and more nagging in my mind. The idea was poo-pooed by a co-worker a few times, but now he's gone. We have a burgeoning ice cream program, too. The Universe spoke to me, and it said: "Flapjacks, you must make bacon toffee chocolate chip coffee ice cream sandwiches, it is your destiny."</div><div><br /></div><div>I listened. </div><div><br /></div><div>This first batch was a small batch, but they will return soon. The cookies are pretty damned amazing (think heath bar chunk cookies, but with bacon goddamnit), and mixing them with thick, custard based coffee ice cream creates the richest shit you can put in your mouth besides Warren Buffet's penis. I win! Wait, or do we all win?</div><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ahilPI8PyBA/Thpb9pKCSEI/AAAAAAAABS4/_IeA2iiLI6A/s1600/sando.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ahilPI8PyBA/Thpb9pKCSEI/AAAAAAAABS4/_IeA2iiLI6A/s400/sando.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627911798930950210" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Maybe we should dip them in chocolate next?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-5117251907809239212011-05-27T10:53:00.006-05:002011-05-27T11:31:45.308-05:00Too Many Maters<div style="text-align: left;">It's not even June yet, and here at the Shortcake-Flapjacks estate we've been eating homegrown tomatoes for a month. It seems, as with our wars, there is no end in sight. Those crazy winds from earlier in the week broke the better part of my black cherry and yellow pear plants, and today it seems that spider mites are taking care of the rest of those two former belles-of-the-garden-ball.</div><div><br /></div><div>Annoying? Yes. Yet, if the Mr. Stripey, sungolds, purple cherokee, romas and early girls can hold out a little longer, we could be harvesting deep in to the fall. Here are some photos:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NPN771sfJjU/Td_OEOqwtRI/AAAAAAAABR8/5jlescaKSrw/s1600/DSC03207.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NPN771sfJjU/Td_OEOqwtRI/AAAAAAAABR8/5jlescaKSrw/s400/DSC03207.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611430232779175186" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Sungolds are the bomb.</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nMEu994y9ng/Td_PoTytSAI/AAAAAAAABSs/PmgpUOdDrbk/s1600/DSC03238.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nMEu994y9ng/Td_PoTytSAI/AAAAAAAABSs/PmgpUOdDrbk/s400/DSC03238.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611431952141600770" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">One day's worth. This was all turned into pico.</span></i> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n1S2yhndh5I/Td_PoEeepAI/AAAAAAAABSk/XBp49vv6rHE/s1600/DSC03237.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n1S2yhndh5I/Td_PoEeepAI/AAAAAAAABSk/XBp49vv6rHE/s400/DSC03237.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611431948030223362" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Cucumber, cherry tomato salad. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ur4TWj_OnX0/Td_Pn8mdWtI/AAAAAAAABSc/wRCT9HX2C8Q/s1600/DSC03222.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ur4TWj_OnX0/Td_Pn8mdWtI/AAAAAAAABSc/wRCT9HX2C8Q/s400/DSC03222.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611431945916209874" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Gluten-free pasta primavera with poached eggs. </span></i></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-57462629488997434522011-05-24T16:46:00.007-05:002011-06-17T13:25:06.648-05:00This Must Be the PlaceEither the cat or the heat had put me in a bad mood. It was way too early to be that aggravated, but I was and it was annoying. Blackberry Shortcake's car had crapped out and it was only day two of the summer class she was teaching in San Marcos. I had a meeting, cancelled it and volunteered to drive her down there. I needed to get out of Austin. I needed to be healed.<div><br /></div><div>When I was just a boy, we briefly lived in San Marcos, in an old, creepy, high ceilinged house on Belvin St. Our short time there was very memorable: I burned myself badly on a cast iron skillet reaching for johnnycake, fell from the top bunk to the floor, got a pebble stuck way up in my nose from making a snow angel (think winter of '84, the year it snowed in Texas), and almost choked to death on a bite of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PyxACp42BTM">Rainbow Brite cereal</a>. I also strongly believe I saw a ghost, or something, and still think the house was haunted.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was in this house that my mother believed she had killed my grandma on Thanksgiving—she'd had put an ounce of pot in the stuffing and grandma was out cold for an uneasy amount of time. Story goes, that mom was continually sneaking into her room and checking to make sure she was still breathing by placing a mirror under her nose, waiting for the steam to come. Sounds like she was paranoid. Must have been good shit.</div><div><br /></div><div>My favorite swimming hole in the entire world also happens to be San Marcos. We call it the Icehouse. It is a magical place, a convergence of two waterfalls of crystal clear water flowing straight out of Aquarena Springs. This is where I would go to be healed. Times had gotten rough for my future bride and I. Not between us, just that our recent job changes had us shaken a bit, and this car breaking down bullshit had spurred talk of money.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had realized during this money-talk that my new found bill laden life linked directly to my purchasing a car last year. A double-edged sword of convenience and sloth. Now, with the gas prices shitting on us, and my heavy footed driving shooting my insurance rates skyward, I was annoyed with my situation. Not worried, just annoyed. I plot, plan and scheme, but I don't fret or worry. Things have a way of working themselves out and I believe that sometimes it is just better to wait and see what happens rather than making up what will.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was excited to go to San Marcos, even if only for a few hours. After the sting of fueling up, we were on the road and ready to rock. After dropping off the Shortcake, I made my way into town. I drove to the swimming hole and saw that no one was there and decided to go down to Belvin St. and find the creepy house we'd lived in back during that winter that it had snowed in Texas. I drove up and down the street, but could not find the house.</div><div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CgGERcFSX1c/Td2R2cKXpGI/AAAAAAAABRc/63PhKK-w1w8/s1600/DSC03256.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CgGERcFSX1c/Td2R2cKXpGI/AAAAAAAABRc/63PhKK-w1w8/s400/DSC03256.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610801075232154722" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Amityville borer</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></div><div>I was looking for a house with a porch and a little balcony on top that you could only access from the roof. It wasn't there. More accurately, the porch and balcony weren't there—they'd been removed. The house sat there boarded up and looking forgotten. I walked around and looked in the windows to make sure it was the same house. I saw the high ceilings I remembered as a kid, and found my old room. It was creepy, too. In a bathroom, a lone, beautiful claw-foot tub sat waiting for a <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7r69TrIecR8/TMR9FG88xaI/AAAAAAABpu0/QJbYruwP6fU/s1600/Cowboy_BathTub_BrettTucker.jpg">naked cowboy</a> that would never come. </div><div><br /></div><div>I split. </div><div><br /></div><div>That place always freaked me out. </div><div><br /></div><div>I thought that I would find a cheap beer and finish this Bukowski story I had started that morning. I struck out at the first two places I tried. It was one in the afternoon and it seemed most bars opened at either three or seven. I found a book/comic/collectibles store and was lured inside by some Star Wars toys. They had a lot of them. Even the super rare <a href="http://illogicalcontraption.blogspot.com/2009/05/80s-action-figure-corner-amanaman.html">Amanaman</a>. I looked around for a bit after announcing that I brought in a book. They had an awesome selection of books and games and comics and toys. Seeing the Star Wars toys reminded me that mine were all stolen a decade ago. That always pisses me off. </div><div><br /></div><div>I asked about the bar and they said it was happy hour right behind there at the Tap Room. It was dark in there and smelled like old beer and cigarette smoke, something you can only find at a few places in Austin these days. Atop the tap wall was a scene made of out old toys, ships, trophies and other nostalgic ephemera. Years of smoke and grease and dust had formed beards and stalagtites on the items. It seemed a fitting place to finish the short story. The beer cost less than a gallon of gas and I enjoyed that. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I read, I looked around at the crap. I found the Beatles. Three of them, but not Ringo. John was missing an arm. I asked about Ringo, and the bartender said he was behind a trophy, which he was. I commented on the ship and how it's dust compared to the <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/SRd3kR09lRI/AAAAAAAAAbY/SV0VUjPlzJY/s1600-h/IMG_4122.JPG">ship</a> from the Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem (est. 1189) in Nottingham. We both decided that it would need more time to even be comparable. I finished the story and the beer and emerged back into the sunlight. </div><div><br /></div><div>Above the Icehouse is a restaurant that has changed many times over the years. It was "Pepper's on the Falls" when I was a kid. Then a Joe's Crab Shack, and now it's a Salt Grass Steak house. I parked in the far corner of the lot. I could not get towed. That would seriously fuck me. You used to be able to park in a lot behind the tennis center, but that now required a Texas State parking permit. I've never been towed there, but it would really be inconvenient. </div><div><br /></div><div>There it was, the Icehouse, shining like a beacon. The waterfall chugging away with it's load of airy whitewater. You could see every stone on the bottom and each fish. It was like a painting. I laid my book and towel and crap on the ground and striped down. A few years back the retaining wall was washed away by an epic flood and it was replaced with some fairly safe, fairly modern version of its former self that stepped down to the water. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XFk_u4adlNs/Td2R2mglgzI/AAAAAAAABRk/Zs15lUSm6gY/s1600/DSC03273.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XFk_u4adlNs/Td2R2mglgzI/AAAAAAAABRk/Zs15lUSm6gY/s400/DSC03273.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610801078009692978" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Holy water.</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></i></div><div>I stood on the bottom step and stared into the center of the center of the pool. It bubbled and festered where the fall and pool met, as if someone had thrown a hundred billion alka-seltzer tablets in there. The words THANK YOU JESUS went through my head. Probably what my dad said every time right before we dove in. It seemed appropriate as I was seeking salvation. I thought that it was amazing that I'd been swimming in that same spot since I was at least three. Maybe four. </div><div><br /></div><div>I dove in and was enveloped in what felt like champagne. I swam across and sat on this large cement wall portion that juts out of the water near the fall. At this point I had had a rather heady day; my annoyance from the morning had dissipated, and I was feeling quite healed, yet the strange record of "who are you? what are you doing?" was playing in my head. I sat on the wall and contemplated. The sound of the fall roared like a freight train beside me. </div><div><br /></div><div>A young couple swam up and chatted with me about whatnot. They were moving to Austin. They'd graduated a few years back and never made it out. I could see that about San Marcos. The river. It could pull you in, keep you there. They were nice and after a few minutes they swam away leaving me alone again with the thoughts of who I was and what I was doing. </div><div><br /></div><div>The alka-seltzer pushed my feet around. After a while, I stood and dove right into the heart of the maelstrom. It felt so good, like a thousand feathers cascading up and down my body. I came up to the surface, washed my face and slicked back my hair, just before dunking myself again like I was John and Jesus at once. I came up for air and had the answers: I AM LOVE, I AM LIVING.</div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-13016329047853112872011-04-25T22:36:00.004-05:002011-05-19T11:34:27.854-05:00Tasting Notes: On the WagonEver since the first time I woke up in a pool of my own vomit, I've known drinking was for me. I was to join the ranks of hardened men and women who sat at the ends of bars as dead as their lives, chain smoking Marlboro Reds and swilling Gilbey's Gin. This was my future ilk. Each one of my neighbor's mother's Coors Light I stole and chugged put me that much closer towards my destiny. Every shot of 151, another step on the path. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre">I</span>'ve had some good times drinking. I've even had some bad times. I've had a lot of bad times the day after drinking. Heavily. All this being said, this April I took a break from the sauce, not knowing if I would find something, miss it, care, or anything really. Sometimes you just know you should take a break. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, don't let this lead you to believe that I'm a drunk or anything, or that I had to intervene on my own party. No way. More that I work in a bar, and it's good to know where you and your vices stand. Is it an amiable relationship, or is it destructive; Paul and Linda or Ike and Tina? I thought going into the month that I would really miss my shift beer at work. There is something about that first sip of a beer after you've busted your ass on the line that is truly special, much like a large belch after a fine meal, only more refreshing and lacking humidity. </div><div><br /></div><div>What I found surprising was—it didn't really matter. I did, once, strictly out of habit, order a drink during brunch. A greyhound. I took a sip, the vodka lighting up my mouth up like Clark Griswold's house, and I remembered that I wasn't to do that. I passed the tasty beverage over to Blackberry Shortcake, and resumed my drinking of virgin grapefruit juice. It didn't matter. </div><div><br /></div><div>May is back, and with it the alcohol. I have put some time in reflecting on this month of sobriety, and found that if I ever was to walk away from delicious libations, I would probably be okay. However, I do not generally believe in placing such longterm limitations on oneself, and would probably always allow for the enjoyment of Scotch or good beer and wine on a special occasion, like a wedding, a feast in my honor, or a Saturday. </div><div><br /></div><div>I saved some money by not drinking, yet had to give that to the city for speeding on Lamar like a dumbass. I didn't lose any weight, nor did I drink soda to compensate or start huffing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EI6XnU8leA">computer cleaner</a>. I drank a billion Topo Chicos. I continue to swill them with abandon. All in all though, I felt good. Clear head, deep, dark dreams, a little more energy, and I ate more. I think I was replacing a good amount of my calorie intake with beer rather than food prior to the month off. </div><div><br /></div><div>I do recommend this practice to you all, even if it is just once in a while. Just to remember that you can. To see that you don't have to drink when you go out to have a good time. In fact, if you're not drinking, and everyone else is, trust me, you'll have a great time. People are dumb when they're drunk and dumb people do funny things they won't remember, but you will. These are good odds. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I sit here, drinking this fine IPA, I feel good knowing that at anytime I could close up shop, and move on. Chances are, however, that that won't happen and the bottle and I will live happily ever after in a castle on a hill surrounded by a magical forest of liquid delights. Cheers!</div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-17946478719698230932011-03-17T12:54:00.007-05:002011-04-05T23:40:07.584-05:00Get SprungThe ol' timers around these parts have a saying: "If the redbuds are bloomin', the white bass are runnin'." If you've looked around in the past few weeks, you can see that the redbuds are in bloom, and I can assure that the white bass are biting, even if a bit more discriminately than I may like. Does this mean it's Spring?<div><br /> <div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aJqadVBsSX8/TZih4TfdfWI/AAAAAAAABRU/00Ji8DUK-_U/s1600/DSC03124.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aJqadVBsSX8/TZih4TfdfWI/AAAAAAAABRU/00Ji8DUK-_U/s400/DSC03124.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591396926057446754" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Where do trees come from, mommy?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ldeTpiJDjLE/TZih3gFOlII/AAAAAAAABQ0/fQABRmciTmo/s1600/DSC03079.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ldeTpiJDjLE/TZih3gFOlII/AAAAAAAABQ0/fQABRmciTmo/s1600/DSC03079.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ldeTpiJDjLE/TZih3gFOlII/AAAAAAAABQ0/fQABRmciTmo/s400/DSC03079.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591396912257209474" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Look at that fat sow. </i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div>Technically, no, not until next Monday, but I say fuck it, it's close enough. The winter garden has come and gone, those wonderful four days below freezing in February did a wonderful job of getting rid of some plants that I would gladly have eaten; no joy was derived from pulling their goopy, burnt carcasses from the soil. Bummer. This decimation left ample room for Spring crops to rise up and take over. This year, we've planted a good variety of tomatoes (early girl, purple cherokee, mr. stripey, viva italiana, sun gold, yellow pear, and something else that I can't recall), a few strains of beans, some carrots, radishes, and herbs. </div><div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UI9HvhJS-PQ/TZih4CxkuaI/AAAAAAAABRE/OMfYAjr9yjY/s1600/DSC03108.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UI9HvhJS-PQ/TZih4CxkuaI/AAAAAAAABRE/OMfYAjr9yjY/s400/DSC03108.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591396921570015650" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Little maters.</i></span></div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K1UvLx8oeR0/TZih4Zp7mJI/AAAAAAAABRM/3T51FrOkFpA/s1600/DSC03128.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K1UvLx8oeR0/TZih4Zp7mJI/AAAAAAAABRM/3T51FrOkFpA/s400/DSC03128.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591396927711975570" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>One week of molasses fertilization later. . .</i></span></div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sWsEONjpT8o/TZih33HrGDI/AAAAAAAABQ8/1AaSjFdzGEA/s1600/DSC03096.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sWsEONjpT8o/TZih33HrGDI/AAAAAAAABQ8/1AaSjFdzGEA/s400/DSC03096.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591396918441482290" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Thumbs up from this guy. </i></span></div><br /></div><div>With the weather getting a little warmer at night, I've started germinating seeds for chiles and basil. I am hoping to over produce and can, a dream that never reaches fruition for me, due both to crop loss, and improper canning equipment. Yet, with this many tomato plants in the ground, and them already bearing some fruit, it may happen this year. I long to reach for my own jar of strained tomatoes, or tomato paste, or just whole tomatoes. I also want to pickle some beans and peppers, preferably together, as Blackberry Shortcake loves a spicy green bean in a well deserved bloody mary. </div><div><br /></div></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-6815549811911254082011-01-28T09:04:00.003-06:002011-01-28T11:27:05.865-06:00The Week in ReviewWe've been open for just over five months now and the reviews have finally come in. Things are favorable for the kitchen team and that makes me happy. We are definitely helping to bring people in to drink beer and we need that. <div><br /></div><div>I'm glad people are out there eating, and enjoying, the food we are putting up. We're having a good time doing it, and the business is steady and increasing at all times. We're able to deal with it in a manner that wasn't possible at the outset, and that makes me feel good. And that's the point, right—pleasing others while doing something you love?! That's like a <a href="http://www.myspace.com/video/vid/51390433">double super buzz</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>In one week we've gotten some love for our <a href="http://sweetleafteablog.com/2011/01/24/for-the-love-of-bacon/">bacon toffee</a>, and larger, favorable reviews from the <a href="http://www.austin360.com/food-drink/dining/atlas-chugged-the-black-star-co-op-experience-1210966.html">Statesman</a> and the <a href="http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/issue/review?oid=oid%3A1139567">Chronicle</a>. Someday we'll figure out the music thing, and people just might have to live with the modernity of the place until it gets a little more character over time. Yet, all things take time and we'll get there when we do. Until then, we'll keep up the hard work, and sacrifice that makes it all happen and love every minute of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks y'all. </div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-16670388926863910632011-01-27T10:34:00.006-06:002011-01-27T11:31:49.563-06:00Winter Garden Comes Along, You Must Pick ItAfter about a year and a half of back and forth, home, girlfriend's, home, girlfriend's, a <a href="http://johnnyflapjacks.blogspot.com/2008/11/weather-has-been-kind-to-my-garden-this.html">garden</a> can severely fall to the wayside. A return to stationary, sedentary living and a pre-existing raised bed are highly conducive to planting and reaping the benefits of a small, high-performing, backyard vegetable garden.<div><br /> <div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGp5bJ007I/AAAAAAAABQA/6chpjovoUT8/s1600/DSC03007.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGp5bJ007I/AAAAAAAABQA/6chpjovoUT8/s400/DSC03007.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566917418413249458" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Only the beginning. </i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div>I love gardening. Two reasons: nostalgia and bridging the gap. We had a garden growing up, and my mother would pick the goodies and cook them. I thought that was pretty cool. As someone who loves food, has worked with food forever, and has gained an assload of knowledge about the woes of the industrialization of the food chain and all of the bullshit related to that, it just makes sense to turn eight by four feet of yard space you aren't using otherwise into something that can feed you. Healthily. </div><div><br /></div><div>What I mean by bridging the gap is simple: the end user is the producer. In most cases where end user is also producer, the product is better. People want good shit, that's why they do it themselves. Gardening is no different. It's your garden; grow what you want to eat. I like greens, so that's what I've got right now. Plenty too, and some broccoli, <a href="http://johnnyflapjacks.blogspot.com/2008/12/mother-nature-laughs-long-and-hard.html">radishes</a> and snow peas. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGp59FgG8I/AAAAAAAABQI/PiPl9KyEDV8/s1600/DSC03008.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGp59FgG8I/AAAAAAAABQI/PiPl9KyEDV8/s400/DSC03008.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566917427521919938" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Best garden gnome ever! </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGp6FE_03I/AAAAAAAABQQ/Usy3BnDlyeM/s1600/DSC03015.JPG"></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGp6FE_03I/AAAAAAAABQQ/Usy3BnDlyeM/s1600/DSC03015.JPG"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGp6FE_03I/AAAAAAAABQQ/Usy3BnDlyeM/s400/DSC03015.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566917429667287922" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Pea shooter.</i></span></div><br /></div><div>With spring coming soon, I'm getting excited about starting seeds indoors for all the chiles and tomatoes I'm going to grow, and plans for my new <a href="http://johnnyflapjacks.blogspot.com/2009/01/garden-banter.html">compost bin</a> are in the works. As for now, it's all brassicas and lettuce. Perfect for a salad. Poach a few farm fresh Alexander Family Farm eggs and you're in business. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGnxFFlqOI/AAAAAAAABPw/MNBiNHZWA2c/s1600/DSC03020.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGnxFFlqOI/AAAAAAAABPw/MNBiNHZWA2c/s400/DSC03020.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566915076027689186" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Aigs.</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGnxQeGEWI/AAAAAAAABP4/IQNNWxxZxfk/s1600/DSC03028.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TUGnxQeGEWI/AAAAAAAABP4/IQNNWxxZxfk/s400/DSC03028.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566915079083266402" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Money shot.</i></span></div></div></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-61786713735892692162011-01-06T09:38:00.004-06:002017-10-31T23:18:40.267-05:00What We Talk About When We Talk About Communication"Will you drop for two burgers medium and a grilled cheese?"<br />
<div>
"Heard."</div>
<div>
"Is that going with your fish and chips. . .what's that going with?"</div>
<div>
"Yes."</div>
<div>
"Drop that too."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"New in. . .burger, well done, no cheese, no mustard, no lettuce, no tomato, no onion, on a wheat bun."</div>
<div>
"The wheat bun makes it healthy."</div>
<div>
"Is that for a child?"</div>
<div>
"Hockey puck."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It's just for decoration, man, that's it and that's all."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Are you putting lime juice in the chili? There's no lime juice in the chili. Apple cider vinegar."</div>
<div>
"Sorry I like to party."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"From where I'm standing, it looks like you're masturbating behind that wall."</div>
<div>
"I'm peeling the fuck out of these potatoes."</div>
<div>
"Cranking out the chips."</div>
<div>
"Best euphemism for masturbation. Ever."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Hey."</div>
<div>
"What?"</div>
<div>
"Go fuck yourself."</div>
<div>
"Thanks."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Chicken pot pie. . .[sung to the tune of <i>Live and Let Die</i>]"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Are you ready for chips for those two burgers medium?"</div>
<div>
"Cheesing them now."</div>
<div>
"Run tell that."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"FUCK."</div>
<div>
"What's going on?"</div>
<div>
"I broke another fucking yolk. What the fuck? I can't flip a fucking <i>egg?</i>"</div>
<div>
"Yeah."</div>
<div>
"That's the third one tonight."</div>
<div>
"You want me to flip that for you, papi?"</div>
<div>
"Fuck you."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"That salad was really good. It could have had more of that cheese, though."</div>
<div>
"What cheese?"</div>
<div>
"The cheese on it."</div>
<div>
"Dude, that's avocado."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"When no one is looking, I put bacon fat in the hamburgers."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Drop that fish and chips for my bar steak."</div>
<div>
"Heard, papi."</div>
<div>
"Thanks, papi."</div>
<div>
"Run sell that."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"RUNNER!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Can I get a coldy?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Snack plate. New in. . .Snack plate."</div>
<div>
"Must be Friday."</div>
<div>
"New in. . .snacken platen."</div>
<div>
"Fuck."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Fuck me (sound of a ticket printing)."</div>
<div>
"Right now, that is the most demoralizing sound I've ever heard."</div>
<div>
"It just doesn't stop."</div>
<div>
"I guess that's the point, right?"</div>
<div>
"Run tell that, homeboy."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"The whistles go <i>woooooooo."</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
"Hey, y'all. This pork roast was supposed to be a roast chicken."</div>
<div>
"Ticket said pork."</div>
<div>
"I know. I need it on the fly."</div>
<div>
"That's a ten minute pick-up? On the fly my ass."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What do you want?"</div>
<div>
"High Esteem."</div>
<div>
Time passes.</div>
<div>
"Where's my beer?"</div>
<div>
"I got you an iced tea?!"</div>
<div>
"Iced tea?"</div>
<div>
"That's what you said."</div>
<div>
"High Esteem. Why the fuck would I want an iced tea right now?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'm going to the walk-in, y'all need anything?"</div>
<div>
"Sanity."</div>
<div>
"Self-esteem."</div>
<div>
"Right, thanks."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"86 the will to live."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Wings in a bar? Who knew!?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Is there anything else y'all need from me?"</div>
<div>
"Yeah, get the fuck out of here." </div>
<div>
"Ok, papi."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"New in. . .fish and chips, fish and chips, fish and chips. FUCK."</div>
<div>
"There's a new ticket."</div>
<div>
"New in. . . fuck me. . .fish and chips, mixto, fish and chips, burger medium, bacon, fried egg, add chili."</div>
<div>
"Whoever ordered that is my hero right now."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'm out of sautés."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What the fuck is that?"</div>
<div>
"Pig face."</div>
<div>
"That looks disgusting."</div>
<div>
"Wanna try some?"</div>
<div>
"Fuck no."</div>
<div>
"It's really good."</div>
<div>
"I don't care."</div>
<div>
"You vegetarians are all the same."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"<i>RUNNER!!!"</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
"New in. . .wedge salad, sub cheddar, and ranch."</div>
<div>
"Is that necessary?"</div>
<div>
"I didn't think you could make a wedge more white trashy."</div>
<div>
"Whoever that was just did."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"FUCK."</div>
<div>
"What?"</div>
<div>
"These fucking eggs are <i>killing</i> me. Why can't I flip an egg?"</div>
<div>
"You have to be more confident. The eggs sense your fear. Just like a dog."</div>
<div>
"Heard."</div>
Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-25007170363634377562010-11-22T09:54:00.005-06:002010-11-22T10:49:18.028-06:00One Day Closer to DeathBack when we had just opened, one of our Pub Team members—who I will refer to as The Guns of Brixton—showed his daring colors by asking simply for 'cool-ass-shit' on his burger without a bun. What he got was a thing of beauty.<div><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOqd5VSMXgI/AAAAAAAABPQ/SQQdiUtqMFg/s1600/DSC02746.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOqd5VSMXgI/AAAAAAAABPQ/SQQdiUtqMFg/s400/DSC02746.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542415899724373506" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Two pieces of lettuce to make it healthful. </i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div>A burger, beer-battered, cooked rare, with beer-battered lettuce, tomato and avocado, and, naturally, to avoid excess carbs and stay on the safe side—no bun. With mac and cheese. We called it the Jared. It was awe-inspiring and one of those moments where we started to find a niche in our kitchen. </div><div><br /></div><div>He ordered another one the other night, and still wanted some cool-ass-shit on it. No bun, of course. I got to make this one, and it was fun to hammer a nail in my homey's coffin. Deep-fried burger, avocado, bacon, tomato, onion, topped with a fried egg and glazed with melted bacon toffee. Side salad to round it out. </div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOqd5GXsRFI/AAAAAAAABPI/wigFB7sZsIQ/s1600/DSC02900.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOqd5GXsRFI/AAAAAAAABPI/wigFB7sZsIQ/s400/DSC02900.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542415895720903762" /></a></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOqd5GXsRFI/AAAAAAAABPI/wigFB7sZsIQ/s1600/DSC02900.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Oh, me-oh my-oh, I'm in love with you. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div>Oh, The Guns of Brixton, we salute you and your glory. May your arteries stay unclogged and your days be long and filled with deep-fried sensual delights. </div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-52128288396373547542010-11-09T09:39:00.006-06:002010-11-17T09:39:53.998-06:00How to Get A Head in BusinessThe name isn't very appealing, nor is the process—but the end result is delicious. It doesn't necessarily look that great to the lay folk out there, as most people are probably turned off to a loaf of meat suspended in it's own jelly, but head cheese is really fucking good. For real, and you can <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMtZfW2z9dw">run tell that</a>, homeboy.<div><br /></div><div>We've made a few batches at work recently and there is a highly visceral reaction every time we get the heads out. After they've cooked for a few hours they tend to look like a prop from a Sam Raimi <a href="http://thetorchonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/ed-evil-dead-zombie.jpg">movie</a>, or maybe early <a href="http://www.gutzngory.com/singlepages/images/sumatraratmonkey.jpg">Peter Jackson</a>. Sometimes the snout falls off.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOPvzv2u_kI/AAAAAAAABOo/mhZmzTujZTQ/s1600/DSC02800.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOPvzv2u_kI/AAAAAAAABOo/mhZmzTujZTQ/s400/DSC02800.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540535638894247490" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Face off.</i></span></div></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOPvy-ln06I/AAAAAAAABOg/JNI1deYcTVs/s1600/DSC02799.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOPvy-ln06I/AAAAAAAABOg/JNI1deYcTVs/s400/DSC02799.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540535625669137314" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>You can pick your friends. . .</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div>The last batch we made was by far the most beautiful to date. There was a bit more love and care taken in reducing and clarifying the pot liquor, as our previous batches had a darker, greenish aspic, but this batch has a nice, clear aspic. The process of refinement requires more discipline than simply boiling the shit out of the pot liquor until it is reduced. You must skim and skim and skim the scum.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOPv0O3ud0I/AAAAAAAABOw/2w_NPc8KXEk/s1600/DSC02804.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOPv0O3ud0I/AAAAAAAABOw/2w_NPc8KXEk/s400/DSC02804.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540535647219906370" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Meat Jupiter.</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div>Head cheese is one of those food items that doesn't call to you if you are the normal restaurant goer. I think you have to know, and be just adventurous enough to go for it and taste its deliciousness. To me, it resembles dark meat turkey and giblet gravy, only with a beautiful meat jelly holding it all together. Like dark matter, or the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3ScAq-l1dc">Force</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Last weekend the Butcher—who also recently made a significant career move—attended a European-style seam butchery class. He was enamored with the new techniques he learned as well as with the kind Austrian folks that put it on. Naturally, part of the class on breaking down whole hogs centered around making delicious things out of the oft discarded parts of our friend Babe. I was so lucky as to get to taste these Austrian-style headcheeses, both a red, and the straight-up, as well as a meat spread (this resembled whipped pate du campagne or a highly aromatic potted meat). We had a beer and ate our little charcuterie plate and caught up on the state of our respective career shifts and life was good. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOPv2Ofy-xI/AAAAAAAABPA/F97z4H7qSeo/s1600/DSC02829.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOPv2Ofy-xI/AAAAAAAABPA/F97z4H7qSeo/s400/DSC02829.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540535681479277330" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>More like moistard. </i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div>There were noticeable differences in the schools of head cheese here. The one we've been making is of British lineage, and you could see a difference in its Austrian cousin. I won't be so presumptuous as to say that one was better than the other, but they were different. For starters, the Austrians used a fresh pot liquor to make the aspic that the head meat is set in. The logic here is that when you use the original pot liquor you have all the "stuff" from the head in there: cranial fluid, mucus, potential hair, etc. Now, sure, this sounds gross to most people, but lets not forget the refinement process of skimming mentioned above and the temperatures at which this is prepared. Most of this "stuff" is going to be be removed and through straining you should get any unwanted hairs out of there. Using fresh aspic seems like a waste, since the original pot liquor is so heavily saturated with <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GStgQ1OSSx4/S5E4j8_nXQI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/CCBG6oxnsg4/s320/mickey_rourke+after.jpg">collagen</a> and flavor from the head. </div><div><br /></div><div>Secondly, they set fresh herbs in the aspic, which is something to look into for the finished product. Since it is eaten cold (it is a luncheon loaf after all), flavors are subdued and therefore a little extra greenery may be beneficial. Time will tell. Also, there were pieces of meat that were not of head origin in there, which is great when you have a whole hog to deal with, but we've had no need to use extra meat since these Richardson Family Farm hog heads are enormous and have the cheeks of John Goodman. </div><div><br /></div><div>The red head cheese was something of dreams. Face meat and blood sausage! Yes, please. I love blood sausage, and this combination made for a rich snack full of ferrous goodness. I left the rest at work, otherwise I would have eaten it with a fried egg. Very good. I don't know about making it at work, as those who freak out watching us fillet a fish would not do so well watching me slowly cook a pot of pigs blood until it thickens into deliciousness. I'll have to save it for the prom. </div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOPv1XAI1LI/AAAAAAAABO4/KtMw2AKCvbo/s1600/DSC02831.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TOPv1XAI1LI/AAAAAAAABO4/KtMw2AKCvbo/s400/DSC02831.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540535666582541490" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Bloody hell. </i></span></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-66203664289464552472010-10-31T10:12:00.001-05:002010-10-31T10:15:40.736-05:00Somewhere Between Meat and Fat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TM2HxC3F-FI/AAAAAAAABOQ/PabSxIUjMfM/s1600/DSC02796.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TM2HxC3F-FI/AAAAAAAABOQ/PabSxIUjMfM/s400/DSC02796.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534228793759496274" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>I've got your nose. </i></span></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-85015142193254265102010-10-26T10:39:00.007-05:002010-10-27T09:41:21.455-05:00The Return to the Life and Times<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TMb6jbJXI7I/AAAAAAAABOI/a_nD8OTyq2c/s1600/DSC02747.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/TMb6jbJXI7I/AAAAAAAABOI/a_nD8OTyq2c/s400/DSC02747.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532384678760620978" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Don't be duped. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>It seems that we often are waiting for the dust to settle—I'm starting to think that it is wiser to live as if you are the settling dust. Besides, isn't that the sparkly shit that is always suspended in some living room dissecting sunbeam? That's stuff's alright, so why not?<div><br /></div><div>I'm out of the grocery biz and back in the Life. Only this go round I'm on the other side of the window, putting up the food instead of taking it away. Fruition. I'm having a good time back there, learning a lot, and generally taking it all in. Making a career switch near thirty seems risky, but if there was ever a time to do so, it is now. </div><div><br /></div><div>After nearly five years of hard work from an entire community, we have opened the world's first cooperatively-owned and worker self-managed <a href="http://www.blackstar.coop/">brew pub</a>. I am on the kitchen team, and work with an awesome group of people with ranging experience and a common dedication to making Black Star successful. Our food is pretty damned good, and our beers are coming soon. </div><div><br /></div><div>We are currently in our soft opening phase, as we are waiting for our house beers to be available before having a grand opening. I don't think it is technically possible to have a brew pub grand opening without the brew pub's beer. This phase been prolonged due to some minor construction issues, yet this extra time has been a good period of refinement for our kitchen team as we work out a few kinks on the menu. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since we are a worker self-managed organization, we are completely lateral. There are no positions and the only titles are that of Brewer, and leads for each of our four teams: kitchen (back of the house), pub (front of the house), business (administration), and beer (beer production and selection). It's safe to say that no one has been in this type of work environment (partly because the combo didn't exist, and because working for the Man is the far more dominant paradigm), so we have been working with our established protocols as a base for making it up as we go along. It seems to be working fairly well thus far, and will continue as long as we make communication one of our primary focuses. </div><div><br /></div><div>So far the hours have been long and the business good. We've done no advertising, yet still have a packed house on the weekends and steady service on the weeknights. We've been working towards presenting our first Irrational Menu (locally sourced, seasonal fare - specials from around here) and have a few special tasting/pairing meals in the works for Austin's First Annual Beer Week (this week). </div><div><br /></div><div>Local, seasonal produce and proteins aren't only on Irrational Menu, they have a dominating presence on our Rational Menu as well. Other than stock items (potatoes, onions, celery, etc.), all of our produce is local and is rotating. We're right on the cusp of seasons, so we still have some summer hold outs like zucchini and yellow squash and cucumbers around, but are also seeing the slow creep of fall crops like yams, butternut squash, radishes and greens. </div><div><br /></div><div>The only meat proteins (I say this because we have tofu) on the menu that aren't sourced from Texas are the Niman Ranch beef and bacon, which are of superior quality, and therefore exceptions were made. All of our uncured pork comes from Richardson Family Farms in Rockdale, and it is amazing. We source sustainable farm-raised redfish from Lone Star Aquafarms in Palacios and our shrimp are from the gulf. The chickens and the eggs are from Gonzales. We also occasionally mix in beef from Windy Bar Ranch for our burger blend and chili (broke down a chuck roll yesterday). Also featured are the delectable cured meats from Ben Runkle at Salt and Time. Yum.</div><div><br /></div><div>Using products of this quality and sourcing is crucial to both our mission and my own peace of mind. </div><div><br /></div><div>The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Star_Line">ship</a> has finally left the port and is on a course straight into the heart of the uncharted waters of cooperation. I'm feeling pretty good about it all. People are excited, and this is, after all, for the people. I've been delinquent in my blogging, yet wasn't inspired nor had the time to put any serious efforts into this. I still don't have the time, but the inspiration is there and I'll have to make the time. Thank you for your patience, as I hope I can produce something that will bring you, at best, moderate levels of entertainment. </div><div><br /></div><div>Stay tuned. </div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-55274718444615579332010-04-30T13:08:00.006-05:002010-05-14T13:32:36.146-05:00A Tale Of Two ChiliesIt's the official state dish of <a href="http://www.capitol.state.tx.us/Resources/StateSymbols.aspx">Texas</a>. It does not contain beans. There are no tomatoes in it. It is best friends with ice cold beer, preferably Lone Star. Texas chili. Red. The best. <div><br /></div><div>Growing up in Texas, chili was a staple. My father would make really spicy venison chili. One time, he entered a chili cook-off at the local bar. His chili was dubbed "John Wayne's Nuclear Chili" and it was hot. After they announced what the prizes would be, he tried to change the name to "Third Place Chili" due to the prize for third place. It was some gift certificate to somewhere, maybe the hardware or auto parts store. He won second place which awarded him the prize of a gift set of boating equipment—life preservers, some ropes and a few of those rubber bumpers you throw over side when you tie-up in a boat slip. We didn't even own a boat. </div><div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, I must have not paid much attention when Pops was making that chili. My first go at chili many years ago was a complete failure. Epic, epic fail. For some reason, I thought that chili was water based. I had browned the meat, and cooked the onions and garlic and peppers (which were jalapeños, serranos and habeneros—no dried chilies or anything like that) and added the chili powder. Then I filled up the pot with water. The end result was like a thin, hot-as-shit broth that, after some minor excavation, would yield a piece of meat or maybe an onion. I tried to thicken it with flour to no avail, but we still ate it because there were four of us in a two bedroom apartment, we were all in college, and were pretty damn broke. </div><div><br /></div><div>Years later, a co-worker of mine from the Land of Enchantment opened my eyes to two ways to make chili, both of which have merit and yield a similar result, yet one is far superior in flavor. One way is to take red chile powder—not chili powder—and toast it. Then you make a little roux, combine with the toasted chile powder and then add beer and stock and your own secret goodies until the consistency is to your liking. The other involves a variety of dried chiles, reconstituted in water or stock (save that shizz) that you then puree in a blender. This is the chile base for your chili. I prefer this method. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few weeks ago, Co-Chef and I were going to prepare a lunch for the workers of the <a href="http://www.blackstar.coop/">Black Star Co-op</a>. Frito pie was our choice dish. We discussed chili methods and he made the batch that was to be served that day. It was delicious. It contained beef and pork, and had some really beautiful subtle notes of clove and cinnamon. He used ancho and chipotle chiles and some serranos and jalapeños for some heat. There was an excellent underlying smokey quality to this chili. I can't recall the beer he used. Near the time of service, he added a little masa to thicken it up. These made great frito pies enjoyed with a <a href="http://beeradvocate.com/beer/profile/147/30928">Stone 2006 Vertical Epic</a>. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S-2WWiPuW8I/AAAAAAAABNc/ovWFqEbswms/s1600/DSC02229.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S-2WWiPuW8I/AAAAAAAABNc/ovWFqEbswms/s400/DSC02229.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471194436219067330" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Fuckin' A right!</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div></div><div>When he was making the chili, he reserved a bit of the base that was used to make a vegetarian version with chayote squash, portobello mushrooms and golden beets. This vegetarian chili had some balls. It was really substantial. The sweetness of the chayote and the golden beets played really well with the earthiness of the mushroom and the smokiness of the chiles. Total win. </div><div><br /></div><div>Last week, I wanted to make some chili. To be honest, I wanted to make some clear-the-freezer-out-chili. There was ground lamb, feral hog sausage, and some pork stew meat that needed to be used up. For the base of the chili I used guajillo, ancho and de arbol dried chiles and fresh serranos and jalapeños. Samual Adams Boston Lager for the beer and beef stock were used as well. For some reason I feel lager needs to be used in chili, not a big stout or something dark or roasty—I want that roasty, smokey flavor from the chiles to stand out. </div><div><br /></div><div>The resulting color was a glorious red. I like to use some coffee grounds in my chili, as well as some cinnamon and a bit of clove in addition to coriander and cumin. The spices really give the chili a warm, welcoming aroma as it approaches your feed-hole. Some acid at the end sets the whole thing off. Oh, and buttermilk-serrano cornbread. Ice-cold Lone Star was invited to join in the fun. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S-2WXEfpo7I/AAAAAAAABNk/Yf3WNtGWO9s/s1600/DSC02257.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S-2WXEfpo7I/AAAAAAAABNk/Yf3WNtGWO9s/s400/DSC02257.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471194445412672434" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>featuring Way Back When butter. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div></div><div>The subjective nature of chili recipes leads me to believe that there really isn't a wrong way to make it. That is, so long as it doesn't contain tomatoes. Beans, when I want them, are on the side and can be added as an extra. They are not necessary for the flavor profile or the thickness or anything, really. Just farts. My girlfriend frowns on farts, therefore, I frown on beans. Plus, there are no beans in Texas chili and I'm from Texas. You can still be hanged in Texas for things like that, so there's some powerful incentive to do right. Chili recipes are more than likely cultivated over a lifetime much like a writing style, <a href="http://www.historynet.com/weaponry-samurai-sword.htm">kendo</a>, or calf-ropin'. For now, I'll keep tweaking this recipe and see where the road takes me. As long as there's cornbread and ice-cold beer involved, I hope the road goes on forever and the party never ends. </div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-6401488525909365622010-02-20T13:21:00.019-06:002010-03-13T19:53:40.228-06:00Excess in the Crescent City<div><div>We went there to party. <div>Of all the places in the world you can say that about, New Orleans is at the top of the list of most likely to succeed. If you find yourself in a daiquiri bar at three a.m. taking photos of WHO DAT? flavored daiquiri, you will know a feeling of success and satisfaction rivaling that of winning an election or getting the girl.</div><div><br /></div><div>New Orleans. </div><div><br /></div><div>I could never live there. I'd be dead in three weeks. They say that when you live there, you don't eat and drink to excess every night like you do when you visit. Then why live there?</div><div><br /></div><div>We were only there for three days and as many nights. It may have been one night too many. I hadn't been since I was nine, and was naive about what to expect. We arrived on a Thursday afternoon. After a meandering shuttle ride, we made it to the Hotel Saint Marie Antoinette on Conti St. (kahnt-eye). Black Berry Shortcake, the Birthday Girl, and I were all famished. We went to a little dive one door down from the hotel that was known for it's crab cakes. More like crap cakes. The French bread my po'boy was on was soft and whole wheat, the blood marys were more like cocktail sauce than a beverage and there were shell bits in the dried out looking oysters. What. The. Fuck? This was all wrong. The crab cakes, as terrible as they were, were the only redeeming aspect of the place. A sad turn of events for our first outing for bloodies, po'boys and oysters. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Birthday Girl had plans for us go out for barbecue shrimp. I didn't understand what the fuss was about, I mean, I've had barbecue shrimp, big deal? We met her parents at the revolving bar of the Monteleone hotel. Before the meal, her father was persistently talking about the sauce that the shrimp came in, and instructed us how to sop it up properly, which is to say to his liking. He was persistent about everything. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'd never heard of Pascal Manale's, or this famed bbq shrimp. Upon seeing it, I was confused. These are not barbecued!? These are not shrimp! The sauce was all butter and white wine. The shrimp were the size of small lobsters and the french bread was as perfect as the pattern created by the buttery sauce on my bib. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was serious business and getting through the entire portion was hard labor. Papa Birthday was insisting I drink rum like he was, so I did. Despite our previous road bump, this meal seemed like an appropriate start to a weekend of excess and over-indulgence. </div><div><br /></div><div>After a late night, Blackberry Shortcake and I awoke and went to Cafe Du Monde for café au lait and beignets. Unsure of the procedures, we wound up in the to-go line, taking our fried doughballs and chicory coffee off premises to enjoy. Watching people eat these beignets was hilarious, a mound of powdered sugar collecting on and between their feet. We soon became those people. </div><div><br /></div><div>That night, after more drinks at the revolving bar in the Monteleone Hotel, we went to Jacques-Imo's. Their chicken livers were phenomenal. My panned rabbit wasn't nearly as delicious as Blackberry's cajun bouillabaisse. Overall, I enjoyed my meal. The tasso cream sauce and pasta that supported the rabbit left tasty bits to enjoy all night. After a concert across Lake Pontchartrain, I found myself in a beer bar on Bourbon Street with the Birthday Girl and a man named Mayo, Donovan Mayo. </div><div><br /></div><div>He looked like part of the chorus in <i>Guys and Dolls</i> and was in from Baton Rouge for a wedding. Sometime around five a.m. a man walked into the bar that sold gumbo from his truck. The staff suggested I buy some of his seafood gumbo, as it was the "best in the city." </div><div><br /></div><div>The late night gumbo peddler brought me a stryofoam cup filled with goodies, inside half of a soft shell crab bobbed in the thinnish, dark broth. It may have been the best in the city. I don't know. At the time, it seemed like salvation in a non-biodegradable grail. It was five a.m. and our beers were eight dollars. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning came too soon, in fact it was already there. Saturday. The big day. I was going to Cochon's Butcher. I had been wanting to eat there for some time, ever since my own Butcher had made the pilgrimage to this palace of meat. They specialize in house-made charcuterie and offer their art by the pound, to go. They also had a small menu of items you could enjoy while sipping fine French wine and selected beer and spirits. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ordering the charcuterie plate was obligatory, as was the cheese. Blackberry Shortcake had the Cubano sandwich, the Birthday Girl got the house-made hot dog, and I had the meatloaf sandwich. We shared an order of in-house boudin with homemade mustard. Everything was amazing. The charcuterie that day featured pork rillettes, two salamis and something resembling proscuitto. Almost everything came with spicy bread and butter pickles that were unbelievable.</div><div><br /></div><div>After a few more drinks we were off to meet Birthday Girl's parents and some fresh-blooded friends for more food and booze. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S5vOQIXugjI/AAAAAAAABNU/llPRhoTiATQ/s1600-h/DSC01990.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S5vOQIXugjI/AAAAAAAABNU/llPRhoTiATQ/s400/DSC01990.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448174950754976306" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Gout fest!</i></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S49ZdkBwiPI/AAAAAAAABM0/5xP7T45ltRQ/s1600-h/DSC01987.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S49ZdkBwiPI/AAAAAAAABM0/5xP7T45ltRQ/s400/DSC01987.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444668838936348914" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Boudin!</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S49ZdLhqGEI/AAAAAAAABMs/r899PID-39M/s1600-h/DSC01986.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S49ZdLhqGEI/AAAAAAAABMs/r899PID-39M/s400/DSC01986.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444668832359258178" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>An oozing, meaty loaf. . .</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div></div><div>We walked around the Quarter, confused, looking for Birthday Girl's sister. Krewe de Vieux was that evening and we were set to see some of the action. Unfortunately some damned fool fouled up the party with conflicting plans. As we waited for the parade, we stepped into what must have been a trap laid by Disney or Ted Turner: Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville. Never go there. Never order a bloody mary there. You may as well drink your own urine. </div><div><br /></div><div>After that mishap, it was off to Lüke for more meat and booze. By now my body was getting accustomed to consuming at least nine thousand calories of food and alcohol per day. At least we were walking to most places. Lüke was a success. Like round two of an epic prize fight between my liver and the world. Winner take all. </div><div><br /></div><div>They served duck and rabbit paté in hermetically sealed jars, the texture was elegant; the rosy insides were meant to be inviting. More charcuterie was ordered: headcheese, paté du campagne, stuffed trotters, more rillettes and paté and salami. Then came the order of choucroüte garnie that had been halved f0r me and my new friend, Pappas Chef. For some reason, we added extra portions of duck confit and cochon du lait. The half portions were massive, yet, undaunted, we dove in. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S49ZedNHplI/AAAAAAAABNE/WQbw7jDuh-I/s1600-h/DSC02016.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S49ZedNHplI/AAAAAAAABNE/WQbw7jDuh-I/s400/DSC02016.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444668854284822098" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Do you see the confit?</i></span></div></div><div><br /></div><div>After this ridiculous feast, we went uptown to Tipitina's (after more confusion and jackassery) to watch the Radiators. Much jager was consumed. There was rum and dancing. Old men raged on old instruments. Afterwards, we went to a dive called the Apple Barrel, where we listened to a little band and suffered from bad service. After a few more bars and many more drinks we were asleep.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S49Zeg34gjI/AAAAAAAABNM/2nwaFPulJGI/s1600-h/DSC02076.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S49Zeg34gjI/AAAAAAAABNM/2nwaFPulJGI/s400/DSC02076.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444668855269491250" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Radiating.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div></div><div>A brass band rattled me out of bed. I was hoping they would keep walking, but they didn't. They just kept playing. We went for more coffee and beignets. There was a stage set up below our window. Men were wearing dresses. We decided we needed breakfast first and ducked into a convenient eatery for gumbo and jambalaya. Afterwards, we had some coffee and beignets at Cafe Beignet, which in some ways was better than Cafe du Monde.</div><div><br /></div><div>The sickness hit at the airport and I was down for the count. I wallered on the floor like the pig I was. Over two hundred pounds of filth and debauchery. I consumed an inordinate amount of fluids and felt somewhat better by the time we made it back to Houston. </div><div><br /></div><div>New Orleans is the <a href="http://i164.photobucket.com/albums/u5/thaoworra/movie_bg.jpg">Mos Eisley</a> of Earth: you'll never find a more wretched hive of scum, and villainy. Even the music is similar. I'll go back, and I'll know what to expect next time. I know which bar that gumbo-truck-guy was in, how to get to the Faulker House bookstore, where the best guts and bloody mary's are, that the bar is actually moving, and that hats are definitely a must. </div><div><br /></div></div></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-13218994970474339692010-01-24T16:14:00.003-06:002010-01-24T16:24:54.061-06:00Black to the FutureSometimes keeping things close to the chest is much more difficult than expected. Of course, there are deviations from this (Kennedy? Roswell? Both Bush elections...), and I should feel proud that we're getting our names out there. If you don't know, now you <a href="http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/story?oid=oid:940758">know</a>. Welcome to the future, where are my shades?Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-17499856109062471742010-01-04T10:16:00.006-06:002010-01-04T15:40:25.774-06:00The Darkness of Future Past<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S0IX9QcjmyI/AAAAAAAABMk/snzFVglMT8k/s1600-h/DSC01877.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/S0IX9QcjmyI/AAAAAAAABMk/snzFVglMT8k/s400/DSC01877.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422923242461698850" border="0" /></a><br />I tend to spend the first few days of a new year thinking back on the last—a practice I that developed over time as a tool for being a better person—and the experience leads the mind down many paths towards some ultimate goal that I may not have codified yet. I spend a little bit of time examining my successes and accomplishments, yet go to great lengths to really look into my failures, mistakes and poor decisions—it is this practice of introspective reflection that is the cornerstone of my personal growth. <div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I get down on myself in the process, yet it is mostly a positive experience with each failure or mistake being an opportunity for potential growth or self actualization. I just can't feel badly about learning a lesson, even when I was really, really in the wrong. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the kitchen in 2009 there were many successes, even a few accomplishments, yet there were failures both epic and minuscule in abundance. This is inevitable when you are taking risks and trying new techniques and combinations of flavors. Each food fail has pushed me forward to this point, an event horizon from which there is no turning back, and 2010 will usher in a new era of my culinary <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMJYhvz3P7o">awakening</a>. Consciousness and deliberate action must be the foundation for what will be achieved this year. Are we ready?</div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-42665283915362661242009-11-29T16:28:00.004-06:002009-11-29T16:40:04.712-06:00What to Do?I didn't make a pie this year for Thanksgiving. For some reason it's the only time of year I ever get the <a href="http://johnnyflapjacks.blogspot.com/2008/11/thankgiving-is-over.html">itch</a> to make one. Well, I guess I should have made one or used protection, 'cause this itch isn't going away and I need to take care of it before it festers.<br /><br />On the way to work this morning I contemplated pie making and it's place in my near future. I have some ideas for pies that I want to do. Possibly gluten-free pie crusts (but she doesn't like pie?)? Just like the post in the link above, my mind has turned to savory pies. Meat pies. Yummy meat pies filled with goodies (offal). Maybe that deer heart my Pops brought me will go to use in a pie.<br /><br />Right now I'm just thinking about it (a lot). I usually do an apple pie. "Fancy" apple pie, some might say, but really it is just simple, traditionally produced scratch pie. With my finger more or less on the pulse of glorious seasonal fruit, I find myself thinking about foregoing apples all together. Maybe persimmons would be better, more appropriate? Or kiwi? Or. . .Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-78782469249572283722009-11-26T09:39:00.003-06:002009-11-26T09:46:21.802-06:00Nature of the BeastGourmets and gourmands share several defining characteristics, what sets them apart is that the gourmand's love of food is so intense that it often causes them to eat to excess. Today is our day, get to it.Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-24563797978004032082009-11-08T22:26:00.007-06:002009-11-08T22:52:21.319-06:00No NaNoIt's November and that means that NaNoWriMo is in full swing. I can imagine the entire legion of the makeshift novelists click-clacking away on their laptops, looking broody, brows furrowed, hands unsteady from drinking way too much caffeine, while watching their word-count plummet as their blood-pressure skyrockets. That's how it works though. You type a lot of crap and you write a novel in a month. Or at least 50,000 words of a novel. <div><br /></div><div>I am not participating in <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">NaNoWriMo</a> this year, but plan on being back in action by next year. Last year's trip to <a href="http://johnnyflapjacks.blogspot.com/2008/11/london-calling-career-opportunities_20.html">London</a> pretty much killed my chances last time around, but I still know the taste of victory from crossing that fifty "K" mark back in ought seven and it is kind of like when you find a morsel of bacon in your teeth later in the day—nostalgic and delicious. This is a very challenging competition to impose upon yourself, yet I suggest everyone try it at some point just for the hell of it. You occasionally will write something that will impress you later, but for the most part it feels like you are writing crap and desperately trying to carry a narrative. Good fun!</div><div><br /></div><div>I recently landed a cookbook reviewer gig for <a href="http://www.cheftalk.com/">ChefTalk.com</a>. Should be neat. You can read my first review <a href="http://www.cheftalk.com/cookbook_reviews/1046146-The-Whole-Beast-Nose-Tail-Eating.html">here</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-75984165637259600732009-10-21T16:33:00.002-05:002009-10-21T19:05:14.544-05:00The Things You Overhear in a Grocery Store<div style="text-align: center;">SON</div><div style="text-align: center;">Can we get some of these bananas?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">FATHER</div><div style="text-align: center;">No. . .they're Dole.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">SON</div><div style="text-align: center;">But I want bananas. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">FATHER</div><div style="text-align: center;">NO. They're Dole bananas.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">SON</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>But we always get those bananas</i>.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">FATHER</div><div style="text-align: center;">No we don't. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">SON</div><div style="text-align: center;">Why can't we get them? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">FATHER</div><div style="text-align: center;">Cause they keep South America down. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-4041711365034701602009-10-17T13:31:00.009-05:002009-10-17T18:13:22.141-05:00From One Belly to AnotherIt's interesting how food trends seem to permeate all media at once in what seems to be a bizarre widespread synchronistic event. I've been waiting for a few weeks to cook this piece of pork belly and while I waited, everyone else was digging in. The <a href="http://www.austin360.com/food_drink/content/food_drink/stories/2009/09/0930relishaustin.html">Statesman</a> ran a piece on pork belly and this week's <a href="http://www.bravotv.com/top-chef">Top Chef </a>featured <a href="http://www.hotelhealdsburg.com/pigsandpinot.php">Pigs and Pinot</a>, with two cheftestants doing belly. <div><br /></div><div>Interesting. Of course, pork belly is nothing new, but it has been getting a lot of play over the past year or so. If you've ever enjoyed it then you understand why. This is one of things that lets you use the word unctuous in a positive way. Yum.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/StohTqE3FdI/AAAAAAAABMA/1cMFhQ57Q3U/s1600-h/DSC01390.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/StohTqE3FdI/AAAAAAAABMA/1cMFhQ57Q3U/s400/DSC01390.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393660125325497810" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Slabbage. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div></div><div>Last week I ventured down to the North Buda Bungalow to feast with Shaddley & Co. I already had this nice piece of Niman Ranch pork belly so we were going to go about the evening in the usual fashion of multi-course Dionysian decadence. After a brief stop at a centrally-located market, it was off to the newly revamped kitchen of Shaddley and YogaMarketingBrownieGirl. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was really excited about the pork belly and even the late start time couldn't deter me from braising it in the loving way it deserved. Yes, we had a late start, around eight or so, which made for an extended evening of dining and drinking. </div><div><br /></div><div>There was much prep to do for all the other dishes, so I got the belly in the oven as quickly as possible, reserving a small amount for use in other dishes. The belly was the fourth course of this small plates feast. I had time to drink some wine and go about my business preparing the rest of the meal as the pork belly sat in the oven discovering itself.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was a gap of time between the third course of lamb and tiny dutch potatoes, and the belly. A gap that was long enough, apparently, for one of the guests to suggest that they watch <i>The Dark Knight</i>. I think this time out of the eating and drinking pocket was the demise of two of our feast mates. Shaddley came back from the realms of dreamy floor land just in time to eat this dish. Of course, being that some of the inspiration for this plate was a play on bacon and eggs, it's almost appropriate to eat it after waking up. Then again it was one thirty a.m. and not noon. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/StohUJ5YSGI/AAAAAAAABMI/5tHus3REUMA/s1600-h/DSC01411.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/StohUJ5YSGI/AAAAAAAABMI/5tHus3REUMA/s400/DSC01411.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393660133867276386" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Pork belly, I love you.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div></div><div>The braised belly was lightly fried, then coated in a sweet and sour Shochu glaze and served with rutabaga puree, egg white, an egg and apple emulsion and parsley puree. The pork was fun to eat, sticky and sweet with grounding, earthy flavors of pork, star anise and cinnamon. Like the best bacon you could eat. There was something reminiscent of sweet and sour pork as well, which is often made from this cut. The sticky Shochu glaze paired well with the pork belly's unctuous nature.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/StohUogOdfI/AAAAAAAABMQ/mdrqpw4Zs1I/s1600-h/DSC01416.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_wHtg0xIctN4/StohUogOdfI/AAAAAAAABMQ/mdrqpw4Zs1I/s400/DSC01416.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393660142083274226" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>Bacon candy. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div>Unfortunately, only YogaMarketingBrownieGirl and I were able to feast on the desert of bacon toffee and panna cotta. I crisped some of the reserved belly for use in the toffee, which came out nicely, redeeming my last overdone batch. Shaddley was forced to enjoy the dessert after coffee the following morning. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1496899834233223514.post-21691804906129357562009-10-05T09:01:00.009-05:002009-10-05T09:57:12.146-05:00Bold Moves<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I've never even heard of</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> Eater</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">. Maybe that says something about me or how little I care for the foodienistas out there in the abyss, but I do find it to be a bold move to put a call out for bloggers to hang up their keyboards</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> "in order to make way for stronger reporting of the food world."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:14px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sure, not all blogs are created equal—I actually don't read more than a handful and haven't had the time to keep mine up and running over the past few months—but there is something disconcerting about a food related website asking bloggers to shut it down for a nominal fee. Poking around on this </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Eater</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> website, I found the usual poorly written foodie crap that I personally don't care about or write about (who cares about </span></span><a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/dailydish/2009/10/blogher-rocco-dispirito.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Rocco DiSpirito's newest pitch</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> on his long road to selling out?). So, this leaves me poised to ask why—why ask us to stop writing about our passion? Sounds wack. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://eater.com/uploads/2009_10_edoh.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 528px; height: 619px;" src="http://eater.com/uploads/2009_10_edoh.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">I'll ramble about whatever mundane shit I want to motherfucker. </span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;font-size:x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Food bloggers out there, don't do it. Resist the temptation of making a quick $25 bucks and don't stop writing about food. Food bloggers in Austin seem more apt to cover locally produced foods, locally owned restaurants and the scene than some shitty national website that thinks it has its finger on the pulse. This move is nothing new. Eater seems to have a lot of advertising dollars coming in from the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Food Network</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> and the like, folks who have turned eating into a sport and homogenized food trends and styles into neat little marketable packages with frosted blonde tips, like Guy Fieri. The idea that they will be releasing an 'Eater's Bill of Rights' today, and that it should be in any way taken serious, is a joke. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Keep writing and cooking and eating and loving food the way you want to, not the way the Big Foodie in the Sky tells you is cool. Fuck that shit.</span></span></div>Flapjackshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06165476200123314320noreply@blogger.com5