The Bearded Gourmand

Just the Tip?

2011-10-14T11:46:00.005-05:00

What ever happened to baby king cake?

The Austin Chronicle's Best of 2011 came out yesterday, and we are honored to have received an award from the critic's pick: Best tipping policy.

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.

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 pseudo-socialist poserdom!

Proof of Concept

2011-07-10T12:25:00.010-05:00

It 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 Master Cleanse. Not eating had me thinking of nothing but food. That was when I stumbled upon Derrick Schneider's An Obsession with Food, and with it, bacon toffee.

I had somehow linked to An Obsession with Food from another blog that I had completely scoured, Butter Pig. 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.

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.

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."

I listened.

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?

Maybe we should dip them in chocolate next?

Too Many Maters

2011-05-27T10:53:00.006-05:00

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.

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:

Sungolds are the bomb.

One day's worth. This was all turned into pico.

Cucumber, cherry tomato salad.

Gluten-free pasta primavera with poached eggs.

This Must Be the Place

2011-05-24T16:46:00.007-05:00

Either 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.

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 Rainbow Brite cereal. I also strongly believe I saw a ghost, or something, and still think the house was haunted.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Amityville borer.

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 naked cowboy that would never come.

I split.

That place always freaked me out.

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 Amanaman. 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.

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.

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 ship 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.

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.

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.

Holy water.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Tasting Notes: On the Wagon

2011-04-25T22:36:00.004-05:00

Ever 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.

I'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.

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.

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.

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.

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 computer cleaner. 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.

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.

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!

Get Sprung

2011-03-17T12:54:00.007-05:00

The 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?

Where do trees come from, mommy?

Look at that fat sow.

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.

Little maters.

One week of molasses fertilization later. . .

Thumbs up from this guy.

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.

The Week in Review

2011-01-28T09:04:00.003-06:00

We'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.

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 double super buzz.

In one week we've gotten some love for our bacon toffee, and larger, favorable reviews from the Statesman and the Chronicle. 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.

Thanks y'all.

Winter Garden Comes Along, You Must Pick It

2011-01-27T10:34:00.006-06:00

After about a year and a half of back and forth, home, girlfriend's, home, girlfriend's, a garden 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.

Only the beginning.

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.

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, radishes and snow peas.

Best garden gnome ever!

Pea shooter.

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 compost bin 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.

Aigs.

Money shot.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Communication

2011-01-06T09:38:00.004-06:00

"Will you drop for two burgers medium and a grilled cheese?"

"Heard."

"Is that going with your fish and chips. . .what's that going with?"

"Yes."

"Drop that too."

"New in. . .burger, well done, no cheese, no mustard, no lettuce, no tomato, no onion, on a wheat bun."

"The wheat bun makes it healthy."

"Is that for a child?"

"Hockey puck."

"It's just for decoration, man, that's it and that's all."

"Are you putting lime juice in the chili? There's no lime juice in the chili. Apple cider vinegar."

"Sorry I like to party."

"From where I'm standing, it looks like you're masturbating behind that wall."

"I'm peeling the fuck out of these potatoes."

"Cranking out the chips."

"Best euphemism for masturbation. Ever."

"Hey."

"What?"

"Go fuck yourself."

"Thanks."

"Chicken pot pie. . .[sung to the tune of Live and Let Die]"

"Are you ready for chips for those two burgers medium?"

"Cheesing them now."

"Run tell that."

"FUCK."

"What's going on?"

"I broke another fucking yolk. What the fuck? I can't flip a fucking egg?"

"Yeah."

"That's the third one tonight."

"You want me to flip that for you, papi?"

"Fuck you."

"That salad was really good. It could have had more of that cheese, though."

"What cheese?"

"The cheese on it."

"Dude, that's avocado."

"When no one is looking, I put bacon fat in the hamburgers."

"Drop that fish and chips for my bar steak."

"Heard, papi."

"Thanks, papi."

"Run sell that."

"RUNNER!"

"Can I get a coldy?"

"Snack plate. New in. . .Snack plate."

"Must be Friday."

"New in. . .snacken platen."

"Fuck."

"Fuck me (sound of a ticket printing)."

"Right now, that is the most demoralizing sound I've ever heard."

"It just doesn't stop."

"I guess that's the point, right?"

"Run tell that, homeboy."

"The whistles go woooooooo."

"Hey, y'all. This pork roast was supposed to be a roast chicken."

"Ticket said pork."

"I know. I need it on the fly."

"That's a ten minute pick-up? On the fly my ass."

"What do you want?"

"High Esteem."

Time passes.

"Where's my beer?"

"I got you and iced tea?!"

"Iced tea?"

"That's what you said."

"High Esteem. Why the fuck would I want an iced tea right now?"

"I'm going to the walk-in, y'all need anything?"

"Sanity."

"Self-esteem."

"Right, thanks."

"86 the will to live."

"Wings in a bar? Who knew!?"

"Is there anything else y'all need from me?"

"Yeah, get the fuck out of here."

"Ok, papi."

"New in. . .fish and chips, fish and chips, fish and chips. FUCK."

"There's a new ticket."

"New in. . . fuck me. . .fish and chips, mixto, fish and chips, burger medium, bacon, fried egg, add chili."

"Whoever ordered that is my hero right now."

"I'm out of sautés."

"What the fuck is that?"

"Pig face."

"That looks disgusting."

"Wanna try some?"

"Fuck no."

"It's really good."

"I don't care."

"You vegetarians are all the same."

"RUNNER!!!"

"New in. . .wedge salad, sub cheddar, and ranch."

"Is that necessary?"

"I didn't think you could make a wedge more white trashy."

"Whoever that was just did."

"FUCK."

"What?"

"These fucking eggs are killing me. Why can't I flip an egg?"

"You have to be more confident. The eggs sense your fear. Just like a dog."

"Heard."

One Day Closer to Death

2010-11-22T09:54:00.005-06:00

Back 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.

Two pieces of lettuce to make it healthful.

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.

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.

Oh, me-oh my-oh, I'm in love with you.

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.

How to Get A Head in Business

2010-11-09T09:39:00.006-06:00

The 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 run tell that, homeboy.

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 movie, or maybe early Peter Jackson. Sometimes the snout falls off.

Face off.

You can pick your friends. . .

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.

Meat Jupiter.

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 Force.

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.

More like moistard.

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 collagen and flavor from the head.

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.

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.

Bloody hell.

Somewhere Between Meat and Fat

2010-10-31T10:12:00.001-05:00

I've got your nose.

The Return to the Life and Times

2010-10-26T10:39:00.007-05:00

Don't be duped.

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?

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.

After nearly five years of hard work from an entire community, we have opened the world's first cooperatively-owned and worker self-managed brew pub. 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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

Using products of this quality and sourcing is crucial to both our mission and my own peace of mind.

The ship 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.

Stay tuned.

A Tale Of Two Chilies

2010-04-30T13:08:00.006-05:00

It's the official state dish of Texas. 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.

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.

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.

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.

A few weeks ago, Co-Chef and I were going to prepare a lunch for the workers of the Black Star Co-op. 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 Stone 2006 Vertical Epic.

Fuckin' A right!

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.

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.

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.

featuring Way Back When butter.

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, kendo, 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.

Excess in the Crescent City

2010-02-20T13:21:00.019-06:00

We went there to party.

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.

New Orleans.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

He looked like part of the chorus in Guys and Dolls 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."

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.

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.

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.

After a few more drinks we were off to meet Birthday Girl's parents and some fresh-blooded friends for more food and booze.

Gout fest!

Boudin!

An oozing, meaty loaf. . .

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.

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.

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.

Do you see the confit?

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.

Radiating.

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.

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.

New Orleans is the Mos Eisley 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.

Black to the Future

2010-01-24T16:14:00.003-06:00

Sometimes 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 know. Welcome to the future, where are my shades?

The Darkness of Future Past

2010-01-04T10:16:00.006-06:00

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.

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.

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 awakening. Consciousness and deliberate action must be the foundation for what will be achieved this year. Are we ready?

What to Do?

2009-11-29T16:28:00.004-06:00

I didn't make a pie this year for Thanksgiving. For some reason it's the only time of year I ever get the itch 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.

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.

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. . .

Nature of the Beast

2009-11-26T09:39:00.003-06:00

Gourmets 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.

No NaNo

2009-11-08T22:26:00.007-06:00

It'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.

I am not participating in NaNoWriMo this year, but plan on being back in action by next year. Last year's trip to London 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!

I recently landed a cookbook reviewer gig for ChefTalk.com. Should be neat. You can read my first review here.

The Things You Overhear in a Grocery Store

2009-10-21T16:33:00.002-05:00

SON

Can we get some of these bananas?

FATHER

No. . .they're Dole.

SON

But I want bananas.

FATHER

NO. They're Dole bananas.

SON

But we always get those bananas.

FATHER

No we don't.

SON

Why can't we get them?

FATHER

Cause they keep South America down.

From One Belly to Another

2009-10-17T13:31:00.009-05:00

It'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 Statesman ran a piece on pork belly and this week's Top Chef featured Pigs and Pinot, with two cheftestants doing belly.

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.

Slabbage.

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.

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.

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.

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 The Dark Knight. 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.

Pork belly, I love you.

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.

Bacon candy.

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.

Bold Moves

2009-10-05T09:01:00.009-05:00

I've never even heard of Eater. 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 "in order to make way for stronger reporting of the food world."

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 Eater website, I found the usual poorly written foodie crap that I personally don't care about or write about (who cares about Rocco DiSpirito's newest pitch 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.

I'll ramble about whatever mundane shit I want to motherfucker.

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 Food Network 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.

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.

Night of the Michelada

2009-07-27T11:28:00.008-05:00

Summer in Austin. Been there, done that. This has been one for the record books, too. So hot and dry that sometimes I think I live on Tatooine. About a month ago, Blackberry Shortcake and I left this arid wasteland in search of cooler, more moist climes. We ended up in Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico.

I miss you PV.

When our plane touched down on the tarmac, the captain announced that it was 78º at our destination. It was about one in the afternoon. We ate before we crashed. I had tacos, she had nachos; we both had micheladas. The food was good, as were the micheladas.

Tacos and nachos. Just like at home.

A damn fine michelada from Costa Vida, I mean Playa del Sol.

The michelada. This version of the cerveza preparada seems to vary in composition nearly as much as the margarita—and becoming just as ubiquitous in Austin bars and eateries. Breaking it down to the fundamental ingredients, you have ice (helada), lime, hot sauce or some sort if spice, salt (if you like), Worcestershire sauce (no thanks), and beer (slang: chela)—preferably a Mexican lager, although any lager will do. I prefer Pacifico. In the end it is yours, or mine (mi). Thus, the michelada. My iced beer. Not a bad concept. Frankly, I don't mind adding ice to a beer that is already rather watery; I would never imagine doing this to a lovely IPA or Wisconsin Belgian Red.

Blackberry Shortcake and I have enjoyed many a michelada thus far this summer. We've even been making them at home—she contends that ours are better than most that we have had out in the world and I tend to agree with her. What's our secret? What makes ours better than the store-bought options? Trechas. Yes. You read right, trechas: the chile salt that little brown kids love to put on mangos and watermelons. I swear up and down that this is the key to a great michelada.

In Mexico, however, there was no trechas. Most of the micheladas that I had had some kind of hot sauce in them. A few had Worcestershire (salsa inglesia) and even fewer were served with tomato juice and no lime. A few times, our micheladas were served with some extra sauces for you to add to taste. Brown sauce, much like the Brit's HP sauce was served, as was hot sauce and Worcestershire. I can honestly say that I enjoyed them all, yet would have preferred to have one of our trechas jobs over any of them.

Worcestershire heavy at Vista Grill.

This is my favorite photo.

Lime heavy at Mariscos Tino.

Summer drinks are funny. Actually, seasonal drinks in general are funny. I used to get all bent out of shape listening to people talk about how they couldn't drink stouts or eat heavy food in the summer. I always got the point, yet out of shear irreverence adopted the attitude of: Fuck you, I'll drink and eat what I want, when I want, damn it—which in hindsight is as dumb as every other attitude or position that I've adopted out of irreverence or for the sake of being a contrarian.

Now, not only do I see the point, I chose to accept it and enjoy these seasonal treats when they come. Like stone-fruit—why the hell would I want to eat a peach in the dead of winter? I can ask that very question about the michelada or the mojito or Campari and orange. As I get older—and inevitably wiser—I'm coming to appreciate these types of things more and more. This doing of things when things should be done. Dare I say that I almost respect the appropriateness of it all. Coming from someone who has striven to be as inappropriate as possible as often as possible, I'd say I just added a +1 to my maturity rating. However, I find it rather ironic that thinking about an alcoholic beverage can cause one to contemplate how appropriate their behavior has become. Fuck it.

Things Done Changed

2009-07-27T11:10:00.003-05:00

Fear not, dear reader. We're still keeping it bearded and weird over here, just felt the need for a minor name change. I realized at one of those blogger events as I said aloud the former title of this blog that it was rather long and clunky to say. "The Life and Times of a Bearded Weirdo" doesn't even imply that this is a food blog, right? We don't plan on changing the variety of the content that gets posted here though—"As if you post any content. . ." You joke.

Seriously though, folks, things have been crazy busy around here. Work and food and work and food and work and beer and wine and food and work. You see how this goes. There has been more reading of words than writing going on, as well. So are the way of things. The way of the Force. Anywho, there are good things a coming (which, after all, is what you get for waiting oh-so-patiently).

Bacon and potatoes, bakin' in the Sun! Besos.

Something Summery

2009-06-27T07:21:00.009-05:00

This was the statement that Shaddley made as we g-chatted about cooking dinner a few Fridays back: 'something summery'. It had been a while since we had hung out and eaten and drank to excess. Annoying summer allergies had forced Blackberry Shortcake and I to cancel a barbeque the week prior and now, feeling better, it was on.

I had some ideas for something summery. I sell produce for a living, so knowing what was in season was already covered. When I think about something summery, I think about grills. I think about fish. I think about fruit and booze. Unfortunately, whenever we get together for these multi-coursed Dionysian affairs it tends to be on a Friday, which happens to be my day off. This means that rather than going to Wheatsville, where I work, we go to a more centrally-located market down south. The selection is good, but it is never the same. At least for me, being mostly concerning the produce.

Shaddley came by and scooped me up and we headed down to the grocery store. I had a few ideas, but wanted to see what kind of proteins they had to work with. I was thinking strictly seafood. I wanted to keep this thing light. I wanted to do several courses and have the ladies be able to keep up. This mostly means that I didn't want to bog them down in the first two or three courses as we have done a few times in the colder, distant past.

We spent a good amount of time in the produce section, selecting seasonal varieties of squash, eggplant, stone-fruits, berries, rhubarb, figs and snap peas. After that it was off to the meat market. Unlike my place of employment, this centrally-located market offers seafood that is not sustainable. I try and eat seafood in good standing according to the list generated by the Monterey Bay Aquarium—I even keep one of the guides in my wallet—so Chilean sea bass was a big no, as were a few other delicious looking items.

We sampled some wild caught sockeye and picked out some halibut, Gulf shrimp and Gulf red snapper (red snapper is on the avoid list, yet the piece was so small they gave it to us for free and I imagine it would have been thrown away otherwise—to me throwing away food is a greater atrocity then helping it go extinct). After our brief stint in the seafood section, we only had a few odds and ends to get from the rest of the maze-like cavernous expanse that is this southern, centrally-located market. This had Shaddley a bit freaked. "That's it? We don't need any _____ or _____ ?" Nope.

As soon as we got to YogaMarketingBrownieGirl and Shaddley's house, I got to work on sauces for the meal and dessert. After all the veggie prep was done, it was time to get started on individual dishes. Since 'something summery' was the goal, a good portion of this meal would consist of cold dishes that could be made in advance. The grill was lit, wine was poured, gazpacho strained and chilled. We were on the track for a great meal.

The ladies arrived, more wine was poured and I started to plate up the first course: cherry gazpacho. I really like gazpacho. I like it both ways that I've seen it served, strained with a velvety texture and chunky like salsa. I'd say the latter is the more commonly seen option around town. For this celebration of cherry season we went for the former. The result was a cooling, creamy, delicately-flavored soup that had a near bisque-like quality to it. It was very rich for a mix of vegetables, fruit and herbs. If I hadn't have made it myself I would have been certain there was some heavy cream in it.

Soup shooters.

Following the pallet-piquing gazpacho, we had a small portion of sockeye sashimi served with a sweet red miso-shozu sauce, toasted nori and a small slice of fresh Texas peach. I would have preferred the more subtle Coho salmon for this dish, but the option at the centrally- located market was farm raised and I don't play that either. The result was beautiful. I was a bit worried about the intensity of the red miso, yet didn't see the reasoning to purchase white miso when I knew that Scotts had the red on hand. All in all, it was good so I'll stop complaining about what-ifs and could-have-beens.

Sockeye it to me.

We had a small salad of snap peas, red onion and garlic dressed in a simple white wine vinaigrette. This was a delicious and crisp little salad, yet you can see from the photograph that I probably should have either cut back on the raw garlic or minced it. Some found it to be a bit too 'spicy'. I had one bite in particular that pretty much wiped out my palette for the rest of the dish. Fortunately, we had plenty of dry, salty Spanish white on hand to rinse out the overly acrid garlic sensation. If you see any of this Txacolina around while you are out and about you should get some. It has a refreshing saltiness about it like Gatorade without all the annoying colored-sweat laden commercials.

Raw garlic all up in yo face.

Chaw-koe-leena

After the salad, it was on to some lovely red snapper and strawberry ceviche. This was a really fresh ceviche, tossed with valencia orange juice and a sploosh of extra vigin olive oil right before serving as to not tense up the snapper and allow for its taste to still stand out. I love the combination of fruit and fish. This may be the islander in me, but for some reason it just makes sense. We had moved on to the Albarino and it was delicious and complementary to the subtle acidity of the ceviche. This dish was a hit.

Unsustainably delicious.

Delicious.

Just about the time that we finished up the ceviche, the paprika-rubbed halibut and summer veggies were ready to pull from the grill. Continuing with our theme of fruit and fish, the halibut was dressed with a spicy Texas peach relish and a grilled Gulf shrimp. The grilled eggplant and baby zucchini were dolled up with a little dollop of creme fraiche. This dish was a hit as well.

"Just for the halibut." - Blackberry Shortcake

Well, it wouldn't be a meal with Shaddley without fromage. The funny thing about this course was that we ate the cheese we bought for it before we started our meal. Good thing he is such a cheese head that he had an extra wedge laying about in his fridge. Grilled figs and balsamic were served with this chunk of semi-hard cheese. I had drank some wine by then, so I have no clue what we were having.

Figs et fromage.

Normally, I don't eat ice cream because it causes me to pass out in about thirty minutes, but I was feeling ballsy. After all, we live in Texas and nothing says 'something summery' like Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla. This lovable treat was served along side some nice fried plantains with a strawberry-rhubarb compote. Shaddley had said he'd never had something with rhubarb that was done 'right', so I endeavored to do so. When he and YogaMarketingBrownieGirl went back for a larger bowl of seconds, I knew I had won.

I also endeavor to take a photo of dessert that isn't blurry.

As usual, we drank way too much wine. I don't have any fancy list this time to prove it, but trust me, we did a damn fine job. This meal was the gateway to a summer full of culinary promise and seasonal revelry. The company was great and the food spectacular. It was yet another great night at the North Buda bungaloo. I sat on the couch eating my ice cream as the sustained notes of Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain put the finishing touch on a meal that fused Spain, Japan and Texas into a refined taste experience. Content, I went back for seconds too. I sat there on the couch amongst great friends, full from a fantastic meal and was able to stay awake to enjoy the rest of an evening that was a testament to everything I love about the life I am able to live.

Tasting Notes: Too Hot To Handle

2009-06-16T17:43:00.006-05:00

It is fucking hot! Here are some photos of beer. Maybe they will cool you down a bit.

Deschutte Green Lake or some shit.

Maharaja fucking rules!

Beer companion at the recently relocated Ginger Man.

Uncle Billy's Hefe and the Woo.

Michelada at Sazon. Summer is here, drink up.

Intervention

2009-06-11T11:45:00.008-05:00

It's true, I know. I'm an addict. I can't help it anymore. I'm sick. Not a day goes by where I don't think about using. In the morning. At work. After work. In the evening. I just can't stop. It's gone to far. I'm lost. It was just a recreational thing before I met her. She was already an addict. Together we just feed our addictions. I set her up in the morning with just enough to get her by until mid-day. She was already an addict. She was.

I started using when I was just a boy. It was like those shitty anti-drug ads from my youth. I learned it from watching my father. Sometimes I would use his stuff; sometimes he even gave it to me. Just enough to start my day. Then I started using with my friends. We would skip class and go down to a local spot known for being cool. They always had good shit there. Generous amounts for a good price.

Of course, everyone knew what we had been doing when we showed up late to school. But none of us ever cared, and no one ever said anything. It wasn't that our behavior was condoned, yet it was clear that it wasn't condemned either. We were on our own anyway by then. We didn't have any parents. We were free to make our own choices and mistakes. We knew we were lost when were waking up early and phoning it in — making sure they had what we wanted and knowing just when to get there for it. What times we had then. Good times.

I started working at a restaurant, the Iguana Grill. It was really easy to score there. The cooks would hook you up if the management wasn't around. Just a little pick-me-up to help me get through my shift. Those were desperate times. My habit was making me unhealthy. I knew it. Nothing could be done. Still, I wasn't an addict then. I may have had a problem, but I could stop at anytime.

Moving to town from the lake only made it easier to find the stuff. It was really easy in town. Damn near every neighborhood had a place you could score. Especially on the South and East sides of town. They were practically giving it way. I thought I knew where to get the best shit, but some other addict was always there to show me where better shit was. They pointed me to discrete businesses with odd hours. Street corners and shopping strips. Bodegas and hole-in-the-walls. Meanwhile, I was learning how to make the shit at home. I was getting good at it too. Ask anyone. It'll put you on cloud nine.

Yesterday, I knew I had a problem. Yesterday, it hit me. Yesterday, I knew something had to be done. I was invited to a party where they were giving the shit away! They even had a few different kinds of varying intensity, from mellow to really intense. I may have been a little greedy (I mean, it was free). After that, Blackberry and I went out and used some more. Each time was good, but not as good as the first time. It’s never as good as the first time.

Today, it's all I can think about, though. Where am I going to get it, how am I going to do it, when am I going to get it, what type will I get? Who has the best shit around here.? I'm down South where there are so many options. I can't blame her though; she was already an addict when I met her. She even told me I feed her habit. Oh what joy to see her smile as I cook the stuff for her.

One of these days it may get the best of me. What if I don't like it anymore? What if just doesn't do it for me anymore? What if I can't feel anything?

If it does get the best of me, then so be it. I guess I knew what I was getting into the whole time.

I just can't quit you.

Eat with Your Eyes

2009-06-08T09:28:00.002-05:00

Savor the season.

Smokin'.

Freebox fruit. Freebox cottage cheese. Summer.

No Such Thing

2009-05-29T09:02:00.005-05:00

Working in a grocery store makes for an interesting story. I won't tell it today, but I assure you it is interesting. Fortunately, the grocery store I work in happens to sell really high-quality (this term apparently means nothing anymore), local, artisan, organic, craft, and specialty items. We also have receptacles that house items that are damaged, out of date, or otherwise unsell-able for what ever the reason. For the better part of a decade I have relied on the free-box to supplement my purchases and get me through the hard times.

Vein-clogging goodness oozing into the abyss.

This sandwich was completely free-boxed. Fresh baked [day-old] baguette, meats [out-of-date], lettuce and tomato [wilted, soft — respectively], and Brazos Valley Local Brie [out-of-date]. This is the new frugality. This is recession eating. I am Dionysus.

Lengua en Mejilla

2009-05-22T11:04:00.006-05:00

It is no secret that I enjoy offal. I love it so much, I have even made the Hajj to the Mecca of all things offal, St. John. I. Love. Guts. They are good, and good for you. In our new hard times it makes sense to return to eating them. Frankly, if you are looking for flavor, heart and tongue and sweetbreads beat the hell out of a fillet, and they are far cheaper. Waste not, want not.

Of course, the reality is that people are very turned off to the idea of eating what is politely seen as "left-overs". However, I've seen the same people have no problem eating a hot dog, which is really the "left-overs". There are two exceptions in the world of offal that are worth noting: the heart and the tongue. These are muscles. Most offal consumed, such as liver, sweetbreads, tripe, and kidneys are organs. They have that organ-y taste and texture that made you hate your Grandma for serving you liver and onions. That chalky taste. That bit of giblet that you missed picking out of your stuffing. Chances are you've never had well prepared liver or kidneys or giblets. They are delicate and should be cooked very little. Grandma probably cooked the shit out of that liver, which not only destroys the nutrient content, but also affects the flavor and texture.

When Amenity invited me over to eat some tongue, I was stoked. I love tongue. And we're not talking some bullshit either. I mean, this was local grass-fed calves tongue. This is a delicacy. And again, this is a muscle, not an organ. The Butcher and I ventured over to Amenity and Adam's house over on the Eastside for what turned out to be quite the spread. A treat really. Homemade tortillas, awesome beans, tostones and sweet plantain, two salsas, and a whole slew of sides and accoutrements for our little lengua tacos. Cooking tongue is an undertaking, so I really appreciated that she wanted to try this for guests.

Tongue has to be boiled for several hours, cooled, then all of the furry taste-buds must be peeled off before you can do much with it. Or you can simply allow it to cool and slice it and eat it fur and all. That's a pretty standard way to do it for the Brits — cold slices of tongue with mustard or piccalilly. We live close to the Mexican border so it is fitting to want to seek inspiration there in the form of tacos. When peeled, the tongue falls apart, resembling brisket. Amenity then slow cooked this meaty goodness in a mix of spices and adobo. The flavor was delectable with notes of clove and cinnamon accentuating the delicate flavors of the beefy calves tongue. If I was James Brown, I'd say "Good Gawduh."

Tortillas frescas.

Spread.

Those fuckers had some heat!

Big ol' bowl o'tongue!

This was one of my favorite recent meals. For one, I was a guest. I like this. The food was excellent and prepared with care. Adam made the tortillas with locally produced El Milagro masa as we arrived. That's freshness you just can't beat unless you've got toothless old Mexican women stashed around your house grinding corn and mixing it with manteca. Seriously, what a treat! Such a treat that I had to bring a New Glarus Wisconsin Belgian Red to commemorate the event.

You've got the power and the glory!

These are hard times for some. I am a firm believer in using all parts of an animal. Indigenous cultures worldwide rely on this practice for survival. Why let it go to waste? You can't eat steak every night! Well, you can. I have done it. But it is at a premium. I digress. My point here is that these commonly discarded parts have utility and there is little reason to avoid consuming them. I don't want to seem pushy, and would never force someone to eat something they wouldn't enjoy, yet I would urge them to try new things and let old social stigmas fall by the wayside. After all, we are in a recession. . .

Tasting Notes: Little. Yellow. Different.

2009-05-03T15:15:00.003-05:00

Despite conventional wisdom, not all pilsners are created equal. The problem—the real problem, is that in our post-prohibition America, pilsners have turned beer into a despicable four-letter word. When you think about an American Pilsner, what comes to mind? Budweiser? Coors? Miller Lite? I live in Texas, so naturally Lone Star pops up amongst those other yellow, fizzy, adjunct-laden concoctions that are being passed off poorly as beer.

Really though. Bud, Miller, Coors. These are poor examples of what a good pilsner can be. When it comes to beer, you can basically break it down to two categories: ales and lagers. This is dependent on yeast type. Top fermenting, warmer temp loving ale yeast—which produces off-flavors that complement the beer depending on the intended style, and bottom fermenting, cold temp capable lager yeast. The pilsner lager has been around since the 1840's, ever since some Bavarian started combining new lagering techniques (keeping beer cool in caves for long periods of time) and paler malts. The result was a clean tasting, clear, refreshing brew. Thanks Plzen.

Fast forward to today. Sure, you can go and get a Pilsner Urquell and experience what a green bottled, poorly handled pils tastes like, or you can have one of the big beer industry's little, yellow, canned darlings. If so, you're drinking an adjunct-grain-laden soda. Big industry beers are full of corn and rice. Despite their ability to make this shit the same every time, it is hardly beer and would definitely not fly under the Rheinheitsgebot. Beer is supposed to be water, yeast, hops, and barley malt. It is only a matter of time before beer starts having soy added to it, and then it's just a short wait for the vitamin fortification. Well, probably not. Healthy bums anyone? Not on Bud's watch.

Oskar Blues' Mama's Little Yella Pils takes a stab at the old, adjunct free style of brewing pilsner in this canned brew. This beer is refreshing and easy to drink, like most of this brewery's beers, and when poured out of its can, it resembles the many fine pilsners of the world: yellow, crystal clear, with a lacy white head. What isn't like the many fine pilsners of the world is the taste. I found it refreshing, sure, but far too sweet. Where was the hop bitterness that comes with a good Bavarian-style pilsner? Lost. Lost to the New World I suppose. This beer is good, but it kinda falls flat for me. I like the hoppy bite of the pilsner (think Live Oak Pilz). I'll buy this. I'll drink it. I'll have it on a hot day. But, realistically, I could just save a few bucks, buy a Lone Star sixer and be done with it. Truth be told, I'm an ale guy anyway. If I'm going to be shelling out ten bucks for a six pack in this economy, I may as well get my money's worth and buy the Dale's Pale Ale.

Gilded Recession Pt. 5

2009-04-19T09:40:00.012-05:00

Spring evokes a sense of light food fare in me. Maybe it's because the little lip of my gut has grown a bit more puffy over the winter months, as if it's gotten a few bad Botox treatments. Maybe it's because it's suddenly too warm to keep my oven on 300º for six hours. Maybe it's because there is external pressure to cook something light for the ones I love. Maybe it's because I'm tired of eating beef five nights a week.

Regardless of the reason, I feel the urge to eat lighter meals. I also feel the urge to dip into a different skill set of cooking, moving away from the New American cuisine and French-inspired foods of the cooler winter months. I used to be really into East Asian cuisine: Thai, Japanese, and a few different styles of Chinese.

It was many years ago that I first learned to appreciate the simple flavors used in these styles of cooking. It all began with a Thai restaurant – Lemongrass – that opened out by Lake Travis. I ate there several times a week, and eventually wasn't allowed to order dinner off the menu. The owner and chef, Ped (Bahn Pommavong), would make me elaborate meals, using his mad fusion skills. He was like the Herbie Hancock of Thai cuisine. He was a classically trained chef with a French background and was from Laos. This made for some interesting towers of food. He was doing things nine years ago that Uchi is doing now. This may account for my lackluster appreciation of Uchi's food. I felt that it was a rehash of some creativity I'd already seen; an expensive imitation.

Anyway, Ped spoiled my palate. Unfortunately, he decided to expand his business and opened up a second Lemongrass at Sixth and Nueces (the current home of Thai Tara). This dragged his business down and eventually led to the closing of both restaurants. The best thing about this was that my interest in the flavors, textures, and heat of Thai food had been piqued, and I was on the hunt to learn more about them. Then came Japanese food.

Actually, then came my Nipponophile period. I was hooked on anything and everything Japanese. I started studying Zen Bhuddism. Zatoichi and Kurosawa dvd's were strewn about. I cooked elaborate, multi-coursed meals that thoroughly annoyed and impressed my roommates. I cooked for them, and after a while they were like, "Dude. Really. What's with all these noodles and shit that tastes like seaweed?" Fuck it. I was on a roll. I carried a wooden miso bowl and chopsticks in my bag with me everyday. It was a bizarre period in my life.

I had all but forgotten the wondrous flavors of sesame and dashi and tamari over the past few years as I worked on Mother Sauces and foams and gelees. It was time to come home. Time to get back to those flavors that had made deep roots for my passion for cooking. Shaddley had invited Blackberry Shortcake and I to dinner down in North Buda. We seemed to all be on the same page about this meal and met at a centrally located South Austin grocery store that shall remain nameless.

This crew has been on the same high caloric kick over the winter months, and it was time to lighten it up a bit. In the maze-like aisles of this supermarket, wells of inspiration sprung up. There were some nice tatsoi greens and micro greens and baby bok choy lurking about in produce. The seafood case was stocked with fresh (never frozen) halibut. Wonton wrappers and bittersweet chocolate practically leapt into the cart as we passed. Scallops and eggplants and chicken - oh my! After a cleanup by the courtesy desk, it was off to Shaddley's kitchen.

To start, we had a nice, light, refreshing salad: daikon and carrot ribbons with scallions, tatsoi and micro greens tossed in a sesame-rice vinaigrette. Soaking the daikon and carrot ribbons in cold water makes them curl up and take on a more malleable consistency. This salad would also be nice with some soaked arame or wakame, if you're into that kind of thing. Paired with the Daedalus pinot gris, this was a crisp, and acidic starter; definitely not a belly filler.

Get your daikon.

After this wonderful salad, we moved on to the fish course. To celebrate the freshness of the newly in season halibut, we ate it raw. This course consisted of halibut sashimi and wild salmon and tangerine ceviche. Being a lover of raw meat, I found this course delectable. There is an amazing difference in the texture of a fish that has never been below 32º Fahrenheit. (I will be buying Shaddley and YogaMarketingBrownieGirl a whet stone or at the least a steel. Merry Christmas!) Everyone seemed to love the sashimi, and cutting it left a good bit of leftover fish scraps. In this economy, every little bit counts. Welcome to the new frugality.

Right before your very eyes you can't sashimi.

I hadn't accounted for any soups in this meal, yet I didn't think about all the fish scraps either. I found some shochu in the fridge, and this combined with water, scallions, fish scraps, ginger and garlic would be the base for a spicy fish broth that would segue to the seafood courses. After being strained and hit with a glug of soy, this broth was served in bowls and garnished with scallions and thai peppers (two things that look rather similar when sliced incredibly thin). YogaMarketingBrownieGirl, who declared herself a "Vata" had a hard time sipping this spicy broth. Most vatas I know have no problem with spicy food. ¿Ay, vata? ¡Odelay!

¡Ah, Vata, si, es muy caliente!

The next seafood course featured an oldie but goodie from my Nipponophile days: Asian eggplant with red miso. This recipe is as simple as brewing green tea. Saute or stir fry a couple of eggplants sliced on a bias until soft, mix three tablespoons of red miso, two tablespoons each of water and sugar together, and combine. The result will amaze you in its simplicity. Sharing the stage with this miso treat were seared scallops with a watermelon gastrique. The scallops were perfect, evoking the following quote from Shaddley: "Those scallops are like little balls of mouth orgasms!" Nuff said.

Mouthgasm.

Finally coming out of the blue depths of three back-to-back seafood courses, we moved on to the entree. Tangerine and miso glazed roast chicken with brown rice and steamed baby bok choy. The chicken was as moist and tender as my eyes were the first time I saw Old Yeller put down. The glaze was flavorful but didn't outshine the flavor of the yard bird. You can't go wrong with either brown rice or steamed baby bok choy. Really. You can't! I don't even know which wine we had with this course. We always drink so much wine, and unlike the other food bloggers I saw at the last happy hour–thanks parkside! you rule– I don't scribble notes in little books. Maybe I should? Then I'd be one of their ilk. I don't know how I feel about that. Until then I'll rely on catch-all parenthetical lists of wine to get my point across.

Bok choy and bok ba gok.

We rested a bit after the entree. We all needed a little break. Besides, the ginger-watermelon ice in the freezer needed a little bit more time before it was broken into. We killed another bottle of something, and ate the ice. I was tired. Nearing the realm of spent. I noticed people were looking at me weird. Then someone spoke up, "I thought you bought chocolate?" Shit. Busted. Didn't they know I was tired? Didn't they see the line of spent wine soldiers on the counter (Apolloni Pinot Grigio (Willamette Valley, OR), Carabella Pinot Gris (Willamette), Daedalus Pinot Gris (Willamette), Apolloni Pinot Noir (Willamette), W.H. Smith Pinot Noir, Maritime Vyd (Sonoma Coast), Kerpen 05 Wehlener Sonnenuhr Spatlese, Merkelbach 05 Urziger Wurzgarten Auslese)?!

I begrudgingly got up off the oh-so-comfortable couch and went back to the kitchen. I heated some oil. Made some ganache. I took the Nada Moo vegan-maple-pecan 'ice cream' out of the freezer. After cutting them in little thin strips, I fried the wonton wrappers. Fake ice cream, plus fried wontons, plus chocolate, equals crazy delicious. Everyone loved it even though it was made hesitantly on the fly. Nada Moo doesn't give me the nods like real ice cream. Dare I say that vegan ice cream may be an answer to one of my food issues? Not in public I won't.

I went back to the couch. Shit, I may have even closed my eyes. This meal was an excellent first step on the path to what has become a fruitful spring season of light eats. Shaddley, host extraordinaire, didn't even say "charcuterie" or "fromage" during the six hours of feasting that transpired. We still drank entirely too much wine, which in no way is a bad thing.

If there was lesson or moral to this story, it was certainly lost somewhere between sashimi and roast chicken. Maybe that is the moral of this story? Maybe adding an extra course of spicy fish broth so as not to waste some expensive seafood perfectly sums up the current state of the American citizen's recession-based mind. Maybe this new frugality will stay with us after the recession recedes. Maybe I'll find a way to straddle the line between excess and frugality that will fuel my passion to cook Bacchanalian feasts for minimal dollars per head. And maybe I'll be first the American President elected who was born outside of the States. Maybe.

Dear Reader

2009-04-18T11:39:00.004-05:00

This has been an exceptionally busy month and my ability to set aside time to write has been near non-existent. I'm currently sitting in a greasy spoon in Burlingame, California, where I've just devoured a plate of biscuits and gravy and eggs and homefries. As a Southern boy I have a fondness for this very plate of food and must say that I was not let down by this West Coast interpretation.

Thank you for your patience and your continued support of my journey through this deepening culinary abyss here at the Life and Times of a Bearded Weirdo.

The Sacrificial Lamb

2009-04-10T17:30:00.007-05:00

Sometimes it takes a while to pull a plan together. Ruby had been pestering me for months for one of my "home-cooked meals." I wasn't exactly playing coy, yet I wasn't rushing it either. Not that cooking meals for my friends isn't a priority; it was more that timing was going to be crucial for what she was asking me to do. I can't recall whether the pestering began before or after I went to London. Her shattering her jaw in a tragic bike accident set back our engagement a month or so as well.

You see, some of my friends really, really, really like food; others would eat dog shit if it were deep fried and conveniently accessible. Ruby falls into the first category. She has been to France, learned to make cheese there, and lent me Nourishing Traditions. I knew that cooking a meal for her was going to be a production, a multi-course feast of Bacchanalian proportion. Good times. There was a leg of lamb involved in the pestering. She was sitting on it, and I knew that it would be a while before I was able to devote the right amount of time and attention to such a piece of meat.

The leg came from a Christian family farm out by New Braunfels: the Lamb's lamb. I really didn't want to fuck this up so the pressure was on. When I was finally able to devote the time to the leg and its bearers, I was excited to get to host a meal at my house. It had been since before my trip to Hampton that I had folks at my table. She delivered the little leg to me, and I let it slack. The day of our feast, I salted the lamb limb and let it sit for about eight hours. I spent the day thinking about how to do the courses, and what would be seasonally appropriate.

I decided on five courses. Salad, fish, lamb, fromage, and chocolate. This being springtime and all, I wanted the meal to be light - yet filling. I needed to use up some ganache that was laying low in my freezer like a member of the witness relocation program, so I thought that a mousse would be a nice way to utilize these decadent leftovers. With the garden being sparse, I got my produce from the co-op, as well as the mahi for the fish course and some other odd and ends. Citrus was still in season, and I wanted to work that into all of this as well.

There were to be four of us in all: Ruby, her boyfriend, Kyle D, Blackberry Shortcake, and myself. Kyle and Ruby brought some wine, and I was stoked to see the familiar yellow label of Vueve Clicquot make an appearance, as well as the Becker Vineyards Prairie Rotie. There was also some Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc, and something else that I can't quite recall. I was excited to meet Kyle D and realized later that I had heard several stories about him from our mutual friend Clifford. Austin is a small town in that regard, big enough to be another face in the crowd, small enough to suffer the perils of ubiquity.

Our salad was rather simple. Arugula, dried cranberries, pecans and shaved Parmigianno Regianno with a white wine vinaigrette. The acidity of the dressing was crisp and refreshing, pairing well with the dryness of the Vueve Clicquot Brut Yellow Label. With a salad, I feel that simplicity is key. This is not to say that there can't be a multitude of ingredients or flavors, but rather a statement about the end result. Even when there are several levels of orchestration and harmonies going on, I'd rather the end result be more Sketches of Spain and less Concert for the Comet Kohoutek.

Where's ya shava mate?

Continuing on with our small plate affair, we moved on to the mahi and sauvignon blanc. Mahi really is a wonderful fish, with one foot in the supple fish world and another in the dense, steaky red meat world. I wanted this course to be really simplistic in its flavors, evoking a real sense of the season. The mahi was rubbed with a little salt and pepper and paprika before being seared in clarified butter. Braised hearts of romaine complimented the little cuts of fish both in texture and flavor. The romaine hearts were braised in chicken stock, white wine with anchovies, garlic, shallot and thyme. To tie in the citrus, I made a grapefruit and jalapeño foam. Foams intrigue me. For such light, airy sauces, they can really pack a ton of flavor. This was a great example of this feat; subtle heat and intense grapefruit flavors complemented yet did not overpower the flavor of the fish.

Rabid mahi.

The lamb came out near perfect, medium-rare and full of flavor. I used some on-hand red wine to make a reduction with the pan jus which went really nicely with our heavenly meat. Some pan roasted fingerlings and snap peas tossed with garlic and chervil shared the stage with our unblemished lamb. The Professor had popped in and made short work of the leftover veg. Sometimes it is good to have vegetarians around. I am a big fan of lamb, and this was a rather fine specimen of its species. It was clear that this little guy hadn't had a hard life, which makes for a tastier mouthful.

Still working on that new camera.

After the lamb, it was time for the fromage. Thanks to Shaddley, I'll probably never call a cheese course a "cheese course" ever again. We had three nice cheeses: Chaumes, Pure Luck's Sainte Maure (possibly one of the finest domestic goat cheeses), and some Stilton. To round out the plate there were some raw cashews, slice d'anjou pears and my homemade apple chutney. Yum. J'aime le fromage!

Who cut the cheese?

Well, it wasn't all flowers and unicorns. It was clear to me that despite our long evening of feasting, the mousse didn't have enough time to set up properly. Maybe I didn't beat the egg whites long enough? Either way it was delicious, albeit a bit fallen. To take decadent to the next level, I made banana scallops with a bacon caramel sauce. This is one way to use failed bacon toffee - melt it down with heavy cream. The combination was divine, and something I will do in the future for sure. Playful and delicious.

Fallen mousse looks sad.

After our five course food extravaganza, we rested. Despite all of this food, everyone seemed to be comfortably full, which is nice on a warm night. I'm glad that we waited for this meal. I would have hated to rush the lamb. If I had, the meal would have been kept silent. Meals like this are very special, a time for new and old friends to rejoice in the simplicity of life; the little things. Bonds are formed over glasses of bubbly, and a good sauce can both capture and encapsulate the essence of a season. Life is beautiful and so are you.

Hold the Mayo

2009-04-05T16:33:00.010-05:00

After a perfect Saturday of tacos, walking around Lady Bird Lake, and hiking through the greenbelt, Blackberry Shortcake and I went to the Food Hole to get some provisions for a light meal. She had suggested artichokes, and being that artichokes are her favorite food, I was all for it. It feels good to serve someone their favorite food, and we had yet to have any artichokes in our meals together.

I had a wild hare and decided to make mayonnaise from scratch. For the first time. I was using the recipe from Fergus Henderson's The Whole Beast. It failed; I became frustrated. The instructions in the book–though whimsically written–just weren't that clear. I felt like the young kid in the obligatory scene in those old movies where he finds out that his hero, the Champ, or star quarterback was a fraud, or doper: "Say it ain't so, Champ, say it ain't so?"

I thought maybe it was the immersion blender generating too much heat, so I tried an ice bath and a whisk to cool down the oil. Nothing. Just a big messy bowl of olive oil and egg yolk snot. I gave up. We enjoyed the artichokes, cheese, and charcuterie nonetheless. Those things really are amazing, and I am intrigued about who first thought it was a good idea to eat the spiky things, and how many people suffered from the choke before figuring out to remove it. I mean, really?

It was just the day before that by chance, on a lovely South Austin walk, that the Shortcake and I had stumbled upon two bolted artichoke plants. The plants were huge, unwieldy looking things. Having gone to bolt, the artichokes that remained on the plants shot skyward on long stalks, standing erect like proud phalluses in the afternoon shade. The Shortcake was excited to see the very plant on which her favorite food grew (if we could just find that damned elusive taco tree, we'd be set), we had been talking about them shortly before coming across these fine specimens, which made the discovery somewhat surreal. Whoa. I love when things like that randomly happen. It feels like things are synching up; destiny unfolding.

I slept on the failure of the mayonnaise. I woke up way later than I ever would on a Sunday. I ate, had some coffee. There was work to be done in the garden and I was intent on knocking it out. After finishing my greenthumbery, I sat and relaxed a bit. I started thinking about the failed mayo, just sitting in my fridge. It taunted me like a beating heart beneath the wood flooring. It was getting to me. I cleaned the whisk and bowl and set out to beat this shit into submission. Nothing. Still nothing.

The information age is good for many things. I sought out a use for this spent mess. Perhaps there was a custard, or bread that needed over two cups of olive oil and three egg yolks. After a few videos I realized where the mayo failed in the first place. I never let the emulsion happen with just the egg and mustard. That is what suspends the fat. Ah ha! There it was. An answer, a hypothetical answer, but an answer all the same. Start over with one yolk, some mustard, and some salt, form the emulsion, then very slowly add the failure. The website said, "I heard if you... but I've never tried it." I've tried it. It worked.

Miraculously, the one egg yolk held all of the failed mayo. Now I have over twenty ounces of mayonnaise and a sore forearm. Understanding the origins of my failure shed light on the recipe itself, and knowing now the technique needed, it makes sense in its whim. I also have the feeling of satisfaction that comes from the tenacity to overcome adversity through deliberate and dedicated action.

Of course this was resuscitating mayonnaise, not climbing out of a canyon after cutting off my own arm, but I was really going to be bummed if I had to pour out all that spensive olive oil, and fancy egg yolks. After all, we are in a recession, right? Wasting that much food seems rather bourgeois to this ignorant pleb. And just like that kid in the old movie, I was vindicated; my hero, despite his transgressions, came through in the end. The curtains close, the lights come up, goodnight.

Ahem...

2009-03-31T19:57:00.003-05:00

The new addition to Wheatsville is open. Go. Play. Rejoice.

Gilded Recession pt. 4

2009-03-28T16:08:00.009-05:00

When laughing in the face of starving millions while eating and drinking like Bacchus, it's only a matter of time until you pay the piper. I thought it would be the food police. I figured they were on to me. There was no doubt in my mind. The sad reality was that my financial state had hit critical condition. I had been having cash woes since before I flew off into the sunrise to see Phish. That weekend only exacerbated the problem. Chicken and waffles and scotch be damned.

Decadence and depravity are to blame. I was in the hole. Leonard Cohen, bard and sage he may be, is also to blame. As is my landlord, the entire Phish organization, butter, and the byproduct of yeast and sugar. And the Dali Lama. The conspiracy runs to the top.

People came in town. We had some drinks. Put it on my tab. We go to the thing. Parking sucks, the free whiskey sucks; the music is good. We go to parkside. I eat marrow, and raw meat. Bearded weirdos come out to revel, feast. Cheese plates and bloody marys. I fall asleep on the couch, my guests go on without me.

Fail.

Echo and the Bunnymen

Deceit lies at every turn.

Rillette please.

What a fluke.

Tata.

See ya tamarrow.

To make up for the economic woes and fees, we go to UCHI. For some reason everyone has gift cards, making it near impossible to give away our spare. The food is good, but doesn't live up to the hype. This has more to do with the hype than the food. The food was really good. Very high quality fish. I feel like I can't go ten feet without hearing someone mentioning Mr. Cole. He deserves some accolades, yet he slowly approaching Bob Schneider-dom. This clouds judgements.

Me so hungry.

Maters. Panko. Green.

End over endo.

What angry villagers use to accost those who have transgressed upon them.

There is redemption, even solace in a plate of food that costs less than three fidy a person. Thanks to staff discounts, free boxes and pantries, you made the day. What better way to fill the gap of time between poetry reading identical twins and hillbillies with animatronic-animal-rock-band-fetishes than a home cooked meal wrought with care?

Seared butterfish and blood orange gastrique with kale and herbed quinoa.

$7 for a meal for two.

Back on top, I remember the view. I find the bar, order a drink. Oh, and I'll take a white for Tyson.

For the Kids

2009-03-27T12:11:00.006-05:00

Sausage, Fennel and Kale Risotto

Ingredients:

1/2 lb italian sausage, or what ever you prefer (I used Richardson's Family Farm), crumbled

1 1/2 cup aborio rice

1/2 cup dry white wine

2 Tbsp butter

4 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil

1/2 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

5 1/2 cups of hot chicken stock

1/2 bunch of lacinato kale, chopped

1 fennel bulb, sliced thin

1 medium onion, finely chopped

pinch of saffron

salt ad pepper

parsley for garnish

Method:

Cook sausage until browned; set aside. Put saffron in the white wine, and set aside. In a medium sauce pan or skillet heat oil over medium heat, add onions and cook until soft. Add fennel and cook until the onion is translulcent. Add rice, and stir to coat with oil. Cook until the rice is slightly translucent. Pull the saffron out of the wine, and add the wine to the pan. Stirring occasionally, cook until most of the wine is absorbed. Add stock one ladle at a time, allowing most of the liquid to be absorbed between additions. Continue this until the rice is tender, but still has tooth to it, stirring occasionally. Stir in sausage and kale until fully incorporated. Add butter and cheese, salt and pepper to taste. Garnish with chopped parsley, and more Parmesan if you desire.

Need a new camera.

My Friend Fuligo

2009-03-27T11:34:00.004-05:00

It was not unlike the feeling you get when reuniting with a close friend. I was surprised to see him. It had been a while; I'd nearly forgotten his face. He looked good, strong. He seem to be happy to see me too. The bad thing is he is a nuisance, harmless, but a nuisance nonetheless. He often overstays his welcome; tends to pop back up in my life at the wrong moment. He's somewhat unavoidable. Once you meet him, he's in your life forever. He seems to disappear from time to time, but you know he's around, waiting to resurface. Sometimes, he looks really bad, like dog vomit; others he looks as fresh and appealing as a warm pile of scrambled eggs. It's a shame he is such a lowlife. Slimy bastard. Dirt dweller. Well, I guess he's back. My friend. My friend Fuligo.

In some ways it's like he never left.

Taco Time: Most Important Meal of the Day

2009-03-22T09:42:00.007-05:00

I own a shirt that states: I heart breakfast tacos. Of course it is supposed to read I love breakfast tacos, but in the parlance of our times heart is sufficient. This is a true statement. I do, very much, love the breakfast taco. Not the breakfast burrito, or even the sausage biscuit can compare. Being from Austin, Texas, I could rightfully assume the title of Breakfast Taco Aficionado, however, that may be a step down the path to being absorbed into the hipster rank and file.

We could sit here and argue who makes the best breakfast taco in town, yet I tend to find such conversations pointless, therefore I will not waste more than this sentence's worth of your time on the topic. Besides, entire blogs are devoted to this, and you can go read them your damned self. I have a few favorites around town, yet always love to make my own at home.

The migas taco, that enigmatic, deconstructed taco within a taco, is by far one of the most widely disputed taco in the circles that I run in. Tortillas, or tortilla chips? Cheese in the migas, or on the taco? I really heart migas. I go back and forth on the tortilla-tortilla chip tip, and find that both have merit. I am just now realizing how long it has been since I've actually made migas, so maybe I should shut up about them. Perhaps once my garden starts producing chiles and tomatoes, I'll make a batch and actually post a recipe. As you've probably surmised by now, we here at the Bearded Weirdo can't be bothered by posting recipes, leaving that up to other kind folks out there in the ether.

Friday, prior to what would be day of galavanting around downtown at the thing, Blackberry Shortcake and I ate some breakfast tacos at my house. These were simple tacos made from mostly local ingredients: Margarita's corn torts, Richardson Family pork sausage, Alexander Farms eggs, and Austin Spice Company salsa. The only non-local item was the cheese, which was from Vermont. I like Vermont. You should go when you get the chance.

These tacos were all made to order, and wrapped in foil to keep them hot until we were ready to eat. Blackberry Shortcake tends to be a bit more of a purist when it comes to her breakfast tacos, so she got two egg tacos. I was feeling a bit more hungry, so I went with the egg, sausage and cheese variety. As jarred salsas go, I really like the Austin Spice Company's Smoky Hill Hot. It may not be as fresh as homemade, or even Ana's Salsa, but the flavor is nice and the heat is present but not overwhelming.

His.

Hers.

Good jar of salsa.

Saturday, we went to Taqueria Alayna's on Manor. I really like their tacos, and their special green sauce. The Shortcake had a migas taco, and an egg and bacon job. I went for the migas taco, a bean-bacon-cheese, and a chorizo-potato-egg and cheese taco. When we returned home to chow down on these, Blackberry was shocked to find that her bacon and egg taco was more like five or six tacos; a folded pile of pillowy eggs gently enveloping hunks of bacon that was more or less resting on a tortilla that had no chance of wrapping around its contents. I devoured mine in no time, and sat sipping Peaberry Reserve while starring out the window in a meaty daze.

Unfortunately my love of Alayna's was not shared by Miss Shortcake who is a Taco Deli fan. I have only had one experience with Taco Deli, but not at Taco Deli, just a delivered taco that was rather delicious. They have a similar sauce to the green sauce at both Alayna's and La Guera's–some kind of emulsion that does not have avocado in it, but looks like it does–which I thought that it was just as good, which says a lot. I will have to go to this mystery taco land and educate my self in their ways before making a decision on whether or not they are superior to my beloved magic taco window.

Musings on a Sunny Day

2009-03-21T15:45:00.005-05:00

I wonder how many political or social contracts have been discussed, negotiated, and decided upon as heads of state, tribal leaders, or warlords dined. What were these meals that they ate? Could something as intricate and impacting as say, the Yalta Conference, be worked out over caviar and creme fraiche, and borsch? Was post World War II Europe subdivided while Stalin sipped Ukrainian spirits as Churchill took tea?

Food plays a wide variety of roles in events of these kinds. At some events it may be the grand focus; others it may be merely on the table to give your hands something to do as you anxiously sit waiting for it all to end. We have all been there. I'd prefer to think that conquering peoples would throw a lavish feast for their newly acquired citizens; a celebration of the merging of their respective cultures, even if it wasn't consensual. Then again, this event would be far less exciting than a barrage of artillery, or the surprise decades later discovery of a forgotten, yet well placed, land mine. Probably why it is not in practice today.

Throughout my life I have met a variety of people over dinner. I've even negotiated business deals, evaluated employees, bargained for love, and thought up brand new business models while enjoying a light snack, or a well prepared portion of fish and chips. I've been responsible for introducing kindred spirits over meals, people who have been friends for years; others who were doomed to repeat mistakes made in their pasts. I've had the pleasure of being introduced to some special folks as well, some who are well loved, and some who are life inspiring. Food seems to be a constant through it all, a character actor who's abilities to adapt are impeccable and delicious.

New Roots

2009-03-17T10:13:00.002-05:00

My winter garden is gone. All that remains are some beets, bolted lettuce, and a few sticks that used to be luscious lacinato kale plants. They'll bounce back like a junky on payday. The Wheatsville Herb Fair was 'transplanted'–har-har–to the downtown farmer's market this past Saturday. Blackberry Shortcake and I went and picked up some starts for the spring garden.

These will be going in the ground shortly. I mostly got tomatoes, but some peppers and herbs were purchased as well. I am excited about this gardening season. I hope to fulfill my goal of producing enough tomatoes to preserve and use over the winter. Tomatoes don't get used too often in my cooking through the winter, yet I would like to dip into my own pantry for some DIY canned tomatoes rather than buy watery-out-of-season-tomato-flavored-cellulose, or expensive organic canned fare. We'll see. More on this as the situation develops.

Pork Three Way

2009-03-14T11:06:00.014-05:00

The Suidae family of animals were dealt a harsh hand in the evolutionary process: deliciousness. I can't think of one part of these tasty beasts that isn't flavorful. Pigs. They're smart too.

Once I knew guy with one of those pot bellied jobs that people had for pets in the Eighties and Nineties. His mom was out of town, and he was responsible for feeding the beast. He was definitely one of my less intelligent friends, and his idea of feeding the swine involved a casserole full of leftover lasagne, curdled milk, velveeta, and other culinary odds and ends from long forgotten tuperware in his refrigerator. He set the casserole down in the yard, and released the fat, wire-haired sow from her pen.

She sauntered casually to the casserole. Smelled it. Smelled it again. The pig was not impressed to find upon inspection that she was being given garbage to dine on. She placed a foot in the casserole then another, and another until her hind legs were evenly spaced in the pan, and her front legs were back on solid ground. She urinated. She then proceeded to peel out in the pan, strewing the contents around the yard in digust and anger before running wildly into the woods. This was one of the funniest things I've ever witnessed involving animals, second maybe to 'Kittens Inspired by Kittens'.

Last week I cooked some delicious Niman Ranch thick cut pork chops for a few folks. These chops tend to be very flavorful and juicy unlike other versions of this 'other white meat'. I don't really like that term. If you cook beef too much it turns grey, so what? Pork is a red meat, and when you eat GOOD pork you can tell the difference. Anyway, this was a great little meal, and everone seemed to enjoy it. I fried some fingerling potatoes in duck fat, yet refuse to call them coins. There was some asparagus–which I'd be smelling later–and a fresh picked salad with pine nuts tossed with a blood orange vinaigrette. The portions were small enough to be enjoyed by all.

No coins here.

Kitschy food terms tend to irritate me like Anglo dreadlocks do. Coins, cigars, lollipops, and anything of the like just seems unnecessary. Why not just call them fried potatoes, rolled whatnot, and chicken legs? Chefs out there in the ether may not agree with me. I understand that these cutsie terms help to jazz up a menu, or description, yet find them childish; sophomoric. Of course this is just a layman's critical opinion. One which could be easily shrugged off like dirt on your shoulder.

Earlier this week I cooked up some Richardson Family Farms bone in pork chops for Blackberry Shortcake and I (no photos were taken, I'm leary of the quality of the pics these days...). These were good too. I used some Asian five spice to season them, and served these beauties along side some brussels sprouts, steamed jewel yams, and roasted fennel. The flavor of the fennel was a nice compliment to the spices on the pork.

Last night down at Shaddley's, we braised some Niman Ranch country style pork ribs in the Gastronome fashion from way back in October. I added some of my homemade feral hog sausage to this recipe to beef it up a bit. One last attempt to get away with winter cooking during this random cold snap. Shaddley has gone to the Dark Side; part of him died in France, and what ever came back is not entirely human. Some strange Franco-Texan hybrid too perverse for public display. Charcuterie plate, soup course (potato-leek, very dairy laden), main course, fromage, and dessert?! A fucking truffle cake at that. I see fromage staying the course; weathering the tempest of the recession. The ladies were all filled to the gills. We ate like we tend to: righteously. We were constantly checking out the window for the food police. They'll get us one day no doubt.

Thoup!

Recipe for this side coming.

Bacon on pork ribs.

Fromage!

We drank too much wine; I awoke with the first real wine headache of the year. What gives? Fortunately Taco Deli tacos and peaberry reserve coffee saved the day. Here is why: Chateau Grand Bireau 2005 Bordeaux Rouge, Bourassa 2005 Rhapsody Syrah from Napa, 2004 Phillipe Faury St. Joseph Blanc (the best of the night fo sho), Sur de los Andes 05 Malbec Gran Reserva, Olivet Lane Chardonnay and Pinot 2006, Palacios Petalos Bierzo 2006. Seven bottles for four drinkers, and we killed them all.

Pigs beware. I've got your number. Bacon goes with everything. As soon as I buy a new candy thermometer, I'll make another batch of the toffee. I'll work on some spring desserts featuring that beast. I'm thinking of bacon toffee chunk cookies, similar to Heath bar chunk. I think that would be good! Am I crazy? Am I? You wouldn't tell me if I were, would you?

Hoity Toity

2009-03-13T11:01:00.003-05:00

I'm not much on the SXSW tip. I don't mind big crowds or anything, just don't usually participate too much. I usually attend a few films, or really special music events, yet generally avoid the scenester, overly hipster douchebag wrought environs of downtown during this week. This year I have something to look forward to that appeals to both my passions and my palate.

I would like to meet more food bloggers, and form an army of gourmands to eat this town out of house and home. This seems like a good first step, right?

And We'd Love to Take a Bath!

2009-03-11T22:54:00.005-05:00

Sunday. Strong coffee. Two French presses worth. The breakfast 'burrito' is never a proper substitute for a breakfast taco. Beer and British food for sustenance. It's always a wonderful day for a Guinness. What Virginian pub experience is complete without Nascar or complimentary Irish car bombs? Scotch and beers while standing in line for the show? Absolutely.

The dread beast falls to his knees.

I fucking hate clowns, even if they have my hat on.

Set One:

Sanity
Wilson
Foam*
Bathtub Gin
Undermind
AC/DC Bag
My Friend, My Friend
Scent of a Mule
All Of These Dreams
Maze
She Thinks I Still Care
Army of One
Tube
Cars Trucks Buses
Free
Frankenstein

Disco.

Set Two:

Down With Disease
Seven Below
The Horse >
Silent In The Morning
Twist
2001
Moma Dance
While My Guitar Gently Weeps
Wading In The Velvet Sea
Slave To The Traffic Light

Get that thing out of my face, man.

A reason to rejoice.

Encore:

Contact
Bug
Tweezer Reprise

The George Jones cover–She Thinks I Still Care–was done up proper like thanks to Mike and his country twang. Rumor has it that Phish will headline ACL this fall. I'll wait until then to see them again.

*A fugue with a view. Behold FOAM!

Woe Is Me

2009-03-11T14:56:00.003-05:00

If you are a regular reader of the Bearded Weirdo you may have noticed that the quality of photographs have recently diminished. As you may recall, I dropped my phone into a bowl of butternut squash soup a few months back causing some lens issues. I did some modifications of my own, removed the lens cover–which may have been dumb–and cleaned the inner workings of the lens housing. Despite my efforts, a strange, foggy, haze has developed around the perimeter of most photographs. Sad face.

Those of y'all who do something similar to this whole food blogging thing may have suggestions for a nice camera in the $200 to $300 range. I would like to hear them. I found a few for cheap on Amazon.com, but I like reviews from real people as well. If you have a suggestion please leave it in the ol' comment area, and life will continue as usual. That is all.

Stay On Target

2009-03-08T12:55:00.009-05:00

Saturday. Better living through chemicals. Coffee is better with espresso shots in it. Chicken and waffles is a genius idea–especially at 2 am. Seats. Seats are good. Sitting is good, preferably not on an indiscernibly wet surface. Planets aligned. Magic happened. Limb by limb is totally about coming off heroin. This was my grand epiphany.

Pastrami on rye. Marbled.

Before.

Set One:

Back On The Train
Runaway Jim
Brian & Robert
Split Open and Melt
Heavy Things
Punch You In The Eye
Gumbo
Reba
Mexican Cousin
It's Ice
Halley's Comet
Beauty of a Broken Heart
Guelah Papyrus
Lawn Boy
Run Like An Antelope

After.

Deep space.

That's no moon...

Set Two:

Rock & Roll

Limb by Limb
Story of the Ghost
Piper
Birds of a Feather
Wolfman's Brother
Prince Caspian
Mike's Song>
I Am Hydrogen>
Weekapaug Groove
Character Zero

Encore:

A Day in the Life

No, I am hydrogen.

What did you do this weekend?

Was it this cool?

Doubt it!

They're heading towards that small moon.

White out.

We were high up.

Sweet.

This encore was both poignant and impeccable. You can't beat Daylight Saving Time and Don Julio Resposado. An eleven AM check out is too early.

P.S. - Chicken and waffles slam.

Was It For This My Life I Sought?

2009-03-08T11:55:00.006-05:00

Friday. Phish comes out of the gates hard as fuck, exhibiting the tenacity and passion of a hobo looking for his next bottle. This is why I see Phish shows. If you don't know, you just don't know.

Ballin'.

Flapjacks descends on the Muthaship.

The Mothership awaits.

Set One:

Fluffhead
Divided Sky
Chalk Dust Torture
Sample In A Jar
Stash
I Didn't Know
Oh Kee Pah Ceremony >
Suzy Greenberg
Farmhouse
NICU
Horn
Rift
Train Song
Water In The Sky
Squirming Coil
David Bowie

If you were on drugs, you were probably afraid.

Ooooh. Step into space...

Ladies and Gentlemen: Dad.

Set Two:

Backwards Down The Number Line

Tweezer
Taste
Possum
Theme From The Bottom
First Tube
Harry Hood
Waste
You Enjoy Myself

Encore:

Grind

Bouncing Around The Room
Loving Cup

As crazy as it looks.

Hi.

Sick as SARS.

Beautimus.

The Beautiful People

2009-03-04T09:52:00.007-06:00

Last Thursday I had some friends over to eat dinner and revel in the beauty that is life. The cast of characters is a familiar one which in no way degrades the significance of the meal, or the moment. I was cooking dinner for Cory, Blackberry Shortcake, and YogaMarketingBrownieGirl. Since Shaddley was galavanting around France, I was taking on the responsibility of feeding his wife some delicious food.

This was a very casual, family style, multi-coursed affair. Good times. We started the evening off with a very simple salad of fresh picked lettuce with a balsamic vinaigrette, and some Parmigiano Reggiano. This was a nice, crisp way to start a meal that would get pretty heavy by the end. I was trying to embrace the last clutches of cool weather and feed my guests some wintery food as spring is looming on the horizon, and things like braises and soups will be retired for the next six months.

Smiling, happy, shiny people.

Did someone say soup? The night before this shindig, I made some smoked ham and green lentil soup. If you plan on making soup for a dinner party, or for any occasion really, you should make it ahead of time. It borders on cliche, but soup tastes better the next day. Period. This was a simple soup: chicken stock, green lentils, turnips, smoked ham, fennel, and kale. The last of some of my winter garden goods went in this soup. I will replant turnips and fennel for the spring. Both have been good providers and ingredients I really enjoy.

Thoup.

For our main we had two roasted Dewberry Hills chickens. You really can't beat these chicken's flavor or freshness. These two beauties were stuffed with rosemary, garlic, parsley, and Meyer lemons. This recipe hasn't failed me yet, and I plan on using it even when the Meyers are gone. The chicken was moist and delicious; the flavors of the herbs and lemon infused deep into the meat. The jus in the roasting pan makes a great sauce, and just for extra shits'n'giggles, I mounted it with butter to kick the richness up a few notches.

Choose your own chicken adventure.

Glistening Goodness.

Dessert was good, but wrought with failure on the back-end. The bacon toffee recipe is wrong. It states that 285º is necessary for a hard break, but really it is 300º. A failed batch of bacon toffee is costly mainly because I use organic bacon, organic butter, and organic sugar. It is still edible, but might fuck up your dental work. Take out the partials first! My ganache also didn't set up right, leaving my truffles–bacon toffee filled, and a pecan encrusted–a bit soft. I used the wrong chocolate. Never. Again. It looked pretty and tasted good though. A bit of balsamic reduction, organic raspberries, and fresh, organic local mint really tied the plate together.

A damn tasty shame.

This was a nice night. After we finished our meal several other people showed up, and we drank into the night. Life is beautiful and so are you.

New Month, New Horizons

2009-03-01T15:20:00.004-06:00

This blog fell off a bit last month. I was able to salvage its reputation with at least one good story before it shrunk away into the ether. March is here, and with it comes a myriad of adventures, and activities.

This coming weekend, Cory and I will be traveling to Hampton, Virginia, to see three Phish shows. The first three in five years. This experience should be interesting. I'm looking forward to eating some nice seafood while on the East Coast, and will blog about that, no doubt. The opening of the long awaited film adaptation of Watchmen also happens that weekend, which is something that me and my nerdy friends have been looking forward to for quite some time.

My father's birthday is in a few weeks. He will be older. I'll probably have to hang out with him, or something obligatory like that. Fuck it, if I do it now, maybe I won't have to later on down the line when he needs to be fed, and changed. Remember our agreement, Old Man! Also, we'll be moving parts of our operation into the new addition at work, which will bring much change, and excitement.

March means SXSW here in Austin. Another year for Lewis Black to rake in cash, and bring all the hipsters out of their stylistic caves so they can compete for most ironic shirt, and best rendition of the obligatory Sid Barrett hair cut. Will the prize go to New York or L.A. this year? Last year's tight jeans and white belt champion will be on hand to judge the "Who Looks Like They Want to be Here the Least" competition at the Mohawk, sponsored by Pabst Blue Ribbon. Soon these clowns will realize that it is us who want them here the least.

April is looking bright, too. I was able to score six tickets to see Leonard Cohen at the Long Center. F'n sweet!!! The Flight of Conchords will be here in May, and Avenue Q is coming, which I hear is offensive, depraved, crude, and lewd. Sounds like something I'd love.

Mostly, I'm excited about the seasons changing, and getting out in garden. My winter garden has been subjected recently to some violation of the rodent persuasion, ultimately resulting in some necessary fence mending, and bed building. Those rat bastards. Spring and early summer veggies are some of my favorite. Life is beautiful, and so are you.

Gilded Recession pt. 3

2009-02-27T08:50:00.007-06:00

We drank. Shaddley thought about taking the dog to the dog park, but motivation was lacking. It was a relaxing afternoon; as we sipped our beers, time slipped away into the abyss. We were doing nothing in particular, maybe playing on laptops, and making snarky comments.

"Do you need to go home soon?"

"No." I pulled on my beer.

"Do you want to go to the dog park?"

"I like dog parks."

"That's the hippest."

"Hey, if you don't need to go home, we should cook some gumbo."

"Alright."

"Awesome."

And just like that, it was time for round four of this evil weekend to ensue. Would it ever stop? Where were my stretchy pants? Was my liver ready for more fat and alcohol? Yes. Yes, it was. It has the tenacity of pigs devouring a lifeless body. After some time we went back to store for the second time that day. We listened to an album of our friend Louis from back in his High School days. It was hilarious. I cannot recall the name of the album, or the band.

Gumbo–a multi-species orgy of gastronomical delight. There are many schools of thought surrounding gumbo, ranging from outright orthodox, to free-formed liberalism. The purists tend to argue about the roux, and its color (each stage having a distinct flavor profile), the most. Others argue about proteins. We chose a sampling of animals for ours, representing land, air, swamp, and sea. Duck breast, crawfish, Gulf shirmp, and andouille sausage. I was excited. We picked up some collard greens, bosc pears, a nice variety of radishes, as well as some strawberrys, and dark chocolate.

Back at the North Buda homestead, Shaddely and I got to work. We started the roux. Slow and low, that was our tempo, like the song says. Prep work was done, veggies chopped, sausage cooked, duck breast seared off and alcohol consumed. I slowly stirred the roux from time to time, as it progressed through several very distinct states of being. White, blond, almond, red, peanut butter, ganache... We weren't going for brick, so we stopped it at ganache. The stew was ready for its mate. It simmered, we drank; time passed, life was beautiful.

Peanut butter.

While we were at the store, YogaMarketingBrownieGirl took the dog to the dog park, and had returned while we sat and imbibed. The dog had been a bad boy, and she needed to relax. The house smelled warm and inviting. Acro-yoga was performed.

Uh, yeah right.

Eventually it was time to start working on our sides, and desserts. Rice, natch, collard greens and bacon, red wine poached pears stuffed with goat cheese, radishes cooked in duck fat, and chocolate covered strawberries. After several hours of slowly simmering, the gumbo was ready. It was time to saute the shrimp and add them in, and break out the Tabasco. Ellen of Greenwood had come over, and the four of us sat down and ate this delightful meal.

I should paint this.

This dish is great. Try it for yourself.

The spittle is everywhere in rage...

We drank. We ate. Eventually, we had dessert consisting of strawberrys, chocolate angel food cake, fresh whipped cream, and the pears with goat cheese. It was a great meal spent in good company. The gumbo did not disappoint, its flavor deep and rich. The duck and andouille paired nicely with the flavors of the shrimp and crawfish. For some strange reason, perhaps it's just conditioning, I think that the flavor of gumbo is only complete when Tabasco is added. Full, buzzed, and completely satiated, this weekend of decadence and depravity had drawn to a close. All survived.

Gilded Recession pt. 2

2009-02-23T19:24:00.007-06:00

I woke to the steamy breath of my bed mate. We were spooning, an entanglement of limbs, and hair; our bodies intertwined. For a bulldog, he sure could cuddle. I apparently was in his space. He came and went, his toenails clicking on the hardwood as he made is way from my room into the hall and back again. I felt good. No hangover. Nothing. The true signs of an alcoholic, the absence of pain, and the thirst for more.

I was up for awhile before I got out of bed. YogaMarketingBrownieGirl had gotten up, leaving to go teach an early morning class somewhere. After some time passed, Shaddley could be heard stirring about. I got up. Coffee. I needed some, and he was on it. We briefly discussed breakfast. There was a little bit of steak and potatoes left from the night before, and I really wanted to make a hash with them. We had bacon, but no eggs, so we decided to go to the store.

It was Valentine's Day. The traffic in the store was heavy for 9:30 on a Saturday. We found the eggs, got some English muffins, more bacon and started to make our way back to the front, when we found ourselves standing in front of a massive display of lobster tails. We looked at each other, and thought, "Fuck it!" We took one with us. Shaddley picked up some flowers for the wife, and we were on the way back to his house with our early morning bounty.

Back at his house, we made another French press, and got to work. I diced the steak and potatoes and started frying them with some butter, onion and garlic for the hash. We prepared a nice hot tub of white wine and butter for the lobster tail to poach in. Shaddley got to work on preparing a delicate, and delicious Hollandaise. We fried some bacon, toasted some muffins, and cracked eggs for our Julia Child style omelets. We plated everything up, cracked the lobster tail, finishing the meat in even more butter. It was beautiful, this plate of food; breakfast. Steak and fingerling hash, bacon, english muffins, omelets smothered in Hollandaise, and topped with lobster.

Fuck your recession.

As we ate, we were in awe of ourselves. We both looked anxious. Fearful. I was certain that at any moment the authorities would be bursting through his door, taking us to some secret FEMA camp for those like us. Fiends. Gastronomical terrorists. How could we eat like this? People in the world were starving, and we were simply filling our arteries with fat, delicious, delicious fat. Each bite was like an orgasm for my mouth. One bite of omelet, Hollandaise, lobster, and bacon sat on my fork, poised to enter the gaping chasm through which so much other food had perished, I looked at it admiringly, lovingly, as if it were my lover on the tarmac, striding towards a plane that would take her from me forever. I took it in my mouth, closing my eyes.

"I feel like if your wife walked in right now, it'd be like she caught us having sex."

"I know..."

We cleaned our selves up, did the dishes, and sat there in awe. YogaMarketingBrownieGirl would be home soon. We were still high from our meal. After some discussion, we decided we had to make her something. Fortunately, we still had some lettuce that wasn't used from our dinner the night before, eggs, and bacon. We got to it. Carrots were diced put in a pan, smothered in duck fat, and roasted in the oven. The eggs got the nine minute non-boil method, this is where you boil some water toss in some eggs, turn of the heat and let them sit for nine minutes, resulting in creamy, cheese-like yolk, rather than a gray chalky one. Bacon was cut and cooked. Left over aioli turned into a vinaigrette, and the whole thing was dressed, tossed, plated and covered in Reggiano.

Salads are vehicles for perversion.

We were mad; in some states we would have been committed. The food had gotten to our heads. She came home excited as usual. We asked if she had eaten. She said 'no', just her luck. We presented her with the salad and sat with her at the table. She was excited about the eggs. She wanted protein after her day of leading complicated stretches. We stared at her. She noticed.

"What's wrong with y'all?"

"Nothing."

"Why are y'all watching me eat?"

"Just excited."

"You're kinda freaking me out..."

"Sorry, we're still high from breakfast."

"Oh? What did you have?"

That was a loaded question. We spilled our guts; our forbidden affair laid bare. Adulterous gastronomy, and we were the sinners. She ate. We watched. After she finished, we sat and relaxed. She left again, one of her millions of jobs beckoning to her from the ether. Alone again, Shaddley and I sat there.

"Do you have to be home soon?"

"Not really. It's my day off."

"Want a beer?"

"Of course."

To be continued...

Gilded Recession pt. 1

2009-02-21T19:35:00.009-06:00

Austin is one of the top ten best cities to "weather the recession" in according to Forbes magazine. A falling unemployment rate, as well as low median home prices, have landed us on this list, along with three other Texas metroplexes: San Antonio, Houston, and Dallas-Fort Worth. To date, only a few of my friends have been affected by the economic slow down, mostly those who work on the front of the house side of restaurants.

For others, it's business as usual. Wheatsville is growing strongly, which is extremely positive as we head into the final stages of our expansion project. Dan, or GM–and my boss–recently returned from a NCGA conference in New Orleans, where he learned that many co-ops around the country are experiencing a slow down to single digit growth, which is still positive, yet may be harmful to those in the midst of renovations or other projects. We are bucking that trend, so far, maintaining double digit sales growth, and a positive attitude that our owners will shop with us more as times get hard, and we are better suited to meet their needs than the big chain stores.

Even the wine business is doing well. Despite a bit of a lull around the New Year, things seem to be going okay, or so I have presumptuously surmised. Shaddley, wine rep extraordinaire–who is currently touring around France for winning a contest at his work–seems to be doing well, despite the fears being touted by Washington, and the rest of our country. Maybe Texas should secede? We'd be all right. Anyway, we had intended to do our first dinner club on Friday the thirteenth, but due to a change in plans, and then another, I went down to North Buda, to cook for Shaddley and YogaMarketingBrownieGirl. He was in the mood for steaks and fingerling potatoes. He had some big wines open, and that was the driving force behind the meal.

We went to the 'Ville earlier in the day, bought some provisions, including some beautiful locally grown organic brussels sprouts courtesy of Montesino Ranch in Wimberly, fingerlings, bacon, and some beautiful Niman Ranch strip loin steaks. I loaded him up with some other goods that were at my house, some backyard lettuce, aioli that I'd made earlier in the day, and a container of rabbit confit. I eventually made my way down to North Buda.

Once again, this meal was inspired by Shaddley's open wines, and his lust for steak, bacon, something 'garlicky', and fingerling potatoes. For me, that was an easy enough starting point. Big wines, and bacon! Steak and potatoes! I had this. Shaddley wanted to grill the steaks, and alas, grilling is not my strong suit, yet! I left that aspect of this meal to him. The wines we would be drinking that evening were a 2004 Haut-Carles Fronsac from Bordeaux, and a 2005 Pellegrini Milestone from Sonoma.

Oh, happy meat, happy soul!

We got to work. The steaks were seasoned, and seared off; the rabbit confit removed from its protective shroud of duck fat; dressings were made, brussels and fingerlings blanched, as we approached dinner time. I had a secret for the night up my sleeve, and my hosts were unaware of the madness that was brewing in my evil mind. They looked at me strangely as I started to heat up some heavy cream.

"What's that for?"

"This, oh, nothing, do you have any liqueur?"

"Yeah, Kaluha, or Cognac?"

"Cognac."

Ready for the grill, time to see Paul Wall.

As we neared dinner time, we had been drinking some other non-dinner-focused wines, helping to loosen us up, which would be a saving grace for the gastronomical madness that was about to ensue that weekend. The brussels were sauteed in some bacon drippings and finished with bacon; the fingerlings were pan roasted in duck fat, and tossed with some thyme, and parsley. The salad was dressed with a simple blood orange vinaigrette, garnished with rabbit confit, bacon and blood oranges; the steaks, wrapped in bacon, hit the grill to finish. Go time. I find it difficult to get good pictures in these cat's house, but we got a few! After a few minutes on the grill, and a bit of time to rest, the steaks were ready, so we plated up the food, smothered the steaks in the aioli, which over time covered the entire plate, complimenting all the sides with goodness of garlic.

We ate, we drank. The Bordeaux stood out; flavors of dark, ripe fruits, rounded out with that familiar taste of rich soil that I love in French wine, it was as if a child had served me a blackberry mudpie smoothie, and I couldn't get enough. Both wines held up to the richness of the steak, bacon, and duck fat, cleansing my palate and leaving me thirsty for more. The salad was a beacon of hope, full of acidity, sweet citrus notes, and rich rabbit confit. We finished up, opened another bottle, did dishes and sat down.

Confit, bacon, and blood orange... a good way to dress up that backyard lettuce.

. Roasted fingerlings are evil... Photo courtesy of the Scots

After a brief rest, I asked who was ready for dessert. They looked at me, crazed, perverse, and depraved; I knew they were ready. Chocolate and cheese is not just a great Ween album, this combination was our dessert that evening. Out came the Cognac ganache, three years aged sharp Canadian cheddar, and St. Andres triple cream brie. Shaddley, feeling inspired, pulled out a delicious dessert wine; a serious treat worthy of royalty. The 2000 Royal Tokaji, a Hungarian dessert wine, which had a beautiful golden color, a bouquet of apricot, wild flowers and a touch of orange peel. The mouthfeel was like thinned honey, viscous, and sweet. It was times to get our hands dirty, time to make truffles. YogaMarketingBrownieGirl and I got in to it, shaping our little chocolate friends before they were rolled in cocoa powder.

Mwuahahahaha!!!

Truffles are so rich, and delicious, that you need some seriously powerful cheese to help you slow your roll or else quickly you'll quickly fade into the depths of a food coma. Or at least that's what happens to me. After we finished this amazing combination of items, we sat around and drank a little more. Soon, I was nodding out like a mid-seventies Jerry after smoking some China white. Full, content, and drunk on life, I went to bed.

To be continued...

The Mountain Comes To Me

2009-02-21T00:08:00.002-06:00

First I went to the mountain, now the mountain comes to me. Last week I heard a rumor that Leonard Cohen would be kicking off his U.S. tour in Austin, at the Long Center, April 2nd. Roscoe Beck, Austin resident, and musical director for Cohen's nine piece accompaniment, apparently leaked this info to the Statesman. Today, they announced the tour on Cohen's website, confirming that the tour will begin in Austin. I do not know when tickets go on sale, but I will be trying to go see him again on my home turf.

Teach a Man to Fish

2009-02-20T10:52:00.016-06:00

I have been and avid angler for most of my life. Many of my best childhood memories involve fishing with my parents and friends. Being half Bahamian helped. My mother loved to catch and cook fish. She didn't care if they were regulation size, only if they could fit in the pan. Two weekends back, the Woo and I traveled out to Roundtop to fish on the ranch that my Uncle Fuji lives on. It's his brother's ranch, Doug, who is the CEO of El Paso Oil and Gas, and former COO of Haliburton. He lives in Houston and rarely makes it out there, so Fuji takes care of the place.

I love going fishing out there. It's kinda cheating, I mean, it is a small, stocked, private lake so the chances that you will catch something tend to lean in your favor. The Woo hadn't been fishing in about twelve years, so it would be a treat to have him as my companion that day. This wouldn't be the first occasion where the Woo and I did something involving fish and him breaking some streak without it. A few years back, I cooked a meal of fresh fish for three of my good vegetarian friends who were wanting to reincorporate meat back into their diets. All three are full on omnivores now, and don't seem to be looking back.

We got a little bit later of a start then we had planned, but with things like fishing that doesn't really matter. After a quick trip to Wheatsville for some Dale's Pale Ale, Lone Star tall boys–a must for any proper Texas fishing trip–tamari almonds, and coffee for Fuji, we headed east. Of course, any good day of fishing needs an anchoring meal to sustain such large men as they cast quarter ounce weights countless times with six foot sticks. Fortunately for us, Taqueria Alayna's was on the way out of town.

EAT HERE!

Located on Manor, Alayna's is home to the best, yes, best breakfast tacos in Austin proper. This joint is very discrete. It is just a window in a wall next to a laundry mat in a strip mall. The food is unreal; the salsa, divine. I got three tacos, and if you've ever been there, you probably think I'm insane, and I am, so glad we're on the same page here. Their migas taco is the best I've had, balancing out the egg and veg to tortilla ratio perfectly, for tacos with bacon they use huge hunks of bacon–the only kind for a really amazing breakfast taco in my opinion–and there is enough cheese to tie it all together. I fell in love that morning. It was perfect, my new love. My beautiful bean and bacon taco. I will know no other. The Woo had a chorizo taco that left his taco bag looking like it had been submerged in some unknown viscous fluid, covering the other tacos in it's rendered pork deliciousness.

After about an hour long drive out to the La Grange area, the Woo and I rolled up to Fuji's. After a brief round of salutations and introductions, we made our way down to the lake. It was a rather overcast day, but the temperature was nice; shorts and t-shirt weather. The lake is something like five acres, so there are plenty of places to try to fish, including a nice little lake on the other side of the culvert from the main lake. The last time I was out there it was the Fourth of July, and we had slain them over in the little lake. That's where I wanted to be. It wasn't long before we were catching both fish and a buzz. The beauty of Dale's Pale Ale is that it's a great beer in a can. Something that seems forbidden, but oh so right. The danger of Dale's is that it's a great beer in a can, which makes you want to drink it like that yellow fizzy stuff; fast enough to not let it get warm enough to actually taste it. Soon our stringer was looking like a meal or two.

Texas is great.

The Woo casts.

We tried our luck over in the sluice, but no dice. They just weren't biting over there. On the way back to the dock from the sluice I found a PBR koozie that I had lost to the lake in July. Providence! Now I could drink a Lone Star tall boy with out the fear of tasting the swill. Life is beautiful. After a bit more fishing, we cleaned up our fish, filleting most of them, and went back up to Fuji's. He had retired a bit before us, and had fried up some catfish that he had caught while we were out. It was sweet and delicious, his batter impeccable. I totally envy his fish frying ability. He is a master angler, and has been fishing with me since I was just a boy.

I'm on a dock!

A few days later, I decided it was time for me to cook my fish. Most of the fish went home with the Woo. I kept only one whole fish, the largest I caught, and planned on making one of my favorite, possibly even last meal worthy, dishes. Stewed Fish. This Bahamian stew is one the most amazing things to eat for breakfast. I know it sounds crazy to eat some fishy stew for breakfast, but it gives you energy all day. It is a fairly simple dish consisting of fried pieces of fish, a dark roux, potatoes, onions, bell pepper, a bit of thyme, salt and pepper. It is usually served with grits (hard or soft), or fresh bread and butter. I don't make this dish often, because access to good, whole fish isn't that great. Red snapper, whole for $17.99 a pound? F that. I'll wait and catch my own fish. Having done this it was time to rejoice.

Plump and juicy?

Whole fish just tastes better. Bones do something, that I don't understand. They make the meat sweeter, the experience more visceral, naturally slowing down how fast you eat so you can carefully extract bones from your mouth. One thing–a very important thing–that I've learned from time spent in the Bahamas, is a best practice for chewing a mouthful of boned fish. We here in the States, mostly eat fillets, which doesn't really prepare us to handle even the most minor encounter with a bone. The trick is to chew fish cautiously in the front of the mouth, and force bones out with your tongue. You have to try it to really understand, but it works, trust me. If you just go chomping into some nice fish with the speed and intensity of a dog eating it's own vomit, then you may swallow a bone now and again.

I would eat this for my last meal.

Anyway. Stewed fish. Unfortunately this batch fell a bit flat. I didn't darken the roux enough, causing both the color, and the taste to be just a bit off of what I was going for. Otherwise it was delicious, and had it been made for anyone but myself, no one would have been the wiser, as it often is with culinary mistakes. Sometimes, only you know, and as your guest say great things, you look down, shuffle some food around on your plate and think, "yeah, but I should have used more thyme..." Whatever, you learn, you move on; life is beautiful. So, now, I need to go fishing again and start over.

Let Her Sun Never Set

2009-02-12T10:09:00.006-06:00

Victoria Diana Carroll–February 12th (15th?), 1959 - June 26th, 1994

Today would have been my mother's 50th birthday. She is alive in the many hearts of those who loved her. She was an amazing woman; her impact on who I am, and who I want to be is tantamount to Life's itself.

"You are a child of the Universe. You deserve to be here." – Victoria Diana Carroll

Tasting Notes: Dangling My Stash

2009-02-10T07:18:00.004-06:00

I haven't cooked much food in the past few weeks. I have been fairly busy; life is moving faster than ever, pulling me along with it, rather than leading me. So are the way of things. I may not be cooking, but I have been drinking, which is similar to eating, right? This installment of Tasting Notes is once again focusing on beer from the land of Wisconsin. Soon I'll be out of these fine beverages, will no longer be able to tease you with tales of untouchable beers, and we'll be right back where we started.

Original Gangsta.

New Glarus has been getting a lot of play on this blog lately. They should be fucking paying me. All the beers we will be discussing today are New Glarus offerings. Up first is Organic Revolution. Revolutionary indeed. This is an American craft brewed beer that sites the Reinheitsgebot as an inspiration on the label; a far cry from what American craft brewing is all about. New Glarus makes several "crazy" beers, and do them well, yet it is nice to see that they can brew a classy, simple beer perfectly. This beer only has four ingredients, just like those made under the German Beer Purity Law. Organic Wisconsin barley malts, Organic German Hallertau hops, yeast, and water. That's it. Simple, and delicious. The end result is a clean tasting, well balanced ale. The malt and hops are there to lend support to each other like people in AA, and probably do a better job. This is a beer that you would wow a homebrewer with, not some adventurous drinker looking for the next high gravity hop bomb; subtle and refined like Nabokov's prose. This beer is perfect, and it's organic.

I was very drunk at the time...

I've been fortunate to be able to sample a fair amount of of New Glarus' Unplugged series. The beers in this line are fairly experimental, showcasing the opposite end of the brewing spectrum than something like the Organic Revolution. Recently, I sampled the Apple Ale. I thought that this would be more like a cider, but was astonished at the complexity of this fruity elixir. Apparently Daniel Carey starts with a brown ale base, and adds fresh pressed Wisconsin apple juice, resulting in an exceptionally clear, copper colored brew. Extremely clear. The nose on this beer is phenomenal; sweet, enticing, fresh apple notes hit you before your face even gets near the glass. The taste is a bit tart, but not Jolly Rancher tart; more like a pink lady than a granny smith. There is also a nice element of sourness, and a refreshing effervescence to the mouth feel that I would liken in similarity to kombucha. This is one of the finest fruit beers I've ever tasted, second only to one...

I would marry this beer.

The New Glarus Wisconsin Belgian Red. I've alluded to the magnitude of this beer many times on this blog, but haven't reviewed it. This is the Death Star of beers, and I am Alderaan. This beer is very special to me. I can't recall the first time I had it, but I'm sure I enjoyed it more than the first time I had sex. If I had a car, I'd drive to Wisconsin and stock up on it right now. I have shared about twenty bottles of this with my people since 2007. Do you get what I'm saying here people? Hell would be a life without beers of this caliber. So what makes this beer so fucking special? Wisconsin barley, and Wisconsin cherries (a pound in every bottle). Why don't I live in Wisconsin? Anyway, I digress. The malt is present, but merely as a stage for the fruit flavor to play on. The cherry dominates the nose, and the flavor; the sourness helps to add acidity to what would be a sickly sweet syrup without it. The mouth feel is velvety like a nice Malbec, or tussin. The color makes me think of Dorothy and her fancy kicks, and leaves me wishing I could click my heels and be in Madison where this shit flows like water. This is the perfect, perfect, marriage of fruit and beer. I only have one of these left, and no longer have a connection to procure more. Who wants to take a road trip? We could be in Wisconsin in about nineteen hours. I'll pay for gas.

Patience and the Art of Procrastination

2009-02-07T08:28:00.003-06:00

This year has been a very busy one thus far for your venerable Flapjacks, dear reader. His work has him thinking into the future, yet life has him reeling in the ether of the present. In constant motion the future is. Difficult to see. Back-logged blog posts nip at his heels like irritating little dogs, and time that could be spent typing has been squandered on social activities, reading, working; mostly drinking. It's all productive however, so do not get angry with him, just be patient. He has endured much worse. Inspiration is found in the most peculiar places. Stay tuned.

Cooking for Couples, Pt. 3: Logistics

2009-02-04T15:24:00.004-06:00

In an attempt to figure out some logistics for a potential dinner club in the works, Shaddley and YogaMarketingBrownieGirl came by my house for dinner on Friday night. We discussed our ideas, concerns, and plans briefly during our meal before the night quickly devolved into one of those grand Dionysian affairs that we all know and love.

I had spent that day playing in the garden, harvesting some snow peas, beets, and fennel, as well as making some chicken stock from the chicken carcass from the Friday before. My house smelled wonderfully warming as the stock slowly simmered on the range for hours and hours. I planned on making a mushroom risotto with the stock, but had no idea what else to cook. When I finally made my way to Wheatsville to pick up a few items that I had neglected to purchase when I'd left work the night before, I found myself standing in front of the meat case engaged in a full on mental eye roll. Everything looked good, so what to get? After about ten minutes of picking up and inspecting individual cuts of delectable Niman Ranch meats, I settled on a small, tied, center-cut pork loin.

The fennel finally grew up!

Rock the funky beets...

Back in the kitchen, I had big plans for the beets and fennel that I'd picked that afternoon. The golden beets got roasted in duck fat with a few cloves of crushed garlic, the red ones cut into vibrant little matchsticks; the fennel got delicately shaved and set aside. These veggies were to be used to dress up a salad of freshly picked greens from the backyard. I've eaten more salad in the last two months than I have in the last five years, which is definitely a good thing. With the salad's accompanying components prepped, I carried on about my business.

The pork loin was seasoned with a generous amount of salt, and set aside to rest for about an hour. As a salted roast sits, the salt will draw out the juices, which then combine with the salt before being reabsorbed into the meat, resulting in a more flavorful roast, inside and out. This waiting period allowed me to sit down, drink a glass of wine, and ponder some of the great mysteries swirling in my head that evening. Life is beautiful. After this cool down period, I worked out the timing for the meal based on when my guests would be arriving from North Buda, and got to work rubbing and searing the roast before sticking it in the oven.

With my stock finished, and maintaining a nice temperature on the stove, I was ready to get into the risotto. I had picked up some king trumpet and maitake mushrooms when I was at the market, two mushroom varieties that I find to be deliciously meaty and flavorful. This risotto stemmed from the same recipe as the last batch that I'd made, the only variance was the the use of red wine instead of white. As the risotto got close to finishing, the mushrooms were sautèed in some bacon fat and butter, and placed aside to be added when the risotto had finished. Timing appeared to be on my side, as the North Buda All-Stars rolled up right when the loin had finished resting, and the rice had achieved the right amount of tooth. Providence.

Tossed salad...

I heart risotto.

As always with this pair, we drank. Shaddley had brought two bottles of Sur de los Andes Malbec Gran Reserva, which was a perfect compliment to the earthy flavors of the mushroom risotto. This malbec, like many others that I've fell in love with, was moderately jammy, with a nice spicy backbone, and soft, velvety tannins that didn't over power the subtle flavors of the meaty mushrooms. I would like to have some of this wine laying around to casually sip on during one of these beautiful winter days. Shaddley, make this happen!

Vino.

The all seeing eye.

Choose your own caption.

Flapjacks.

Anyway, when we finished the wine, beers were pulled from the cellar [box in my closet...], and it was time for a tour of my New Glarus cache. A more in depth review of these beers will be featured in the next installment of Tasting Notes, but I'll quickly cover the bases here. We started with the Organic Revolution, which is a simple golden ale produced with organic Wisconsin barley, and organic German Hallertau hops. Malty, yet balanced, this was a great beer to segue from wine to IPA. Up next we tried the Hop Hearty, which I recently reviewed, and it was well received by YogaMarketingBrownieGirl, who loves IPA's. After this delicious citrus bomb we moved on to the mutha of the New Glarus line: Wisconsin Belgian Red. This beer is amazing. Fashioned in the style of a Belgian sour red, with a pound of Door county cherries in every bottle, this beer will make your toes curl faster than a wicked witch's under a displaced Kansas home. More on this abomination later. Full, intoxicated, and becoming increasingly tired, we should have stopped there, but we persevered and drank an Apple Ale from the New Glarus Unplugged line. This beer is not at all like a cider, but rather a nice brown ale with a massive apple nose, and finish. It is almost reminiscent of kombucha; effervescent, fruity, and delicious. Rosy cheeked and thoroughly pushed to the limits of excess, my guests fled for the safety of their South Austin refuge. They think they're safe, but I shall strike again, and next time it may be fatal. There'll be nothing to stop me, this time...

Just Like Narnia

2009-01-29T22:36:00.005-06:00

Today a construction worker appeared randomly in the back-store at work. He looked around confused, a bit dazed, and disoriented. His eyes met my face, and he asked. "How do you get out of here?"

"Outside?" I asked, sharing in his confusion.

"Yeah," he answered, his eyes darting around like a captive beast. I pointed to the doors and he scrambled out. A few of my co-workers and I just stood there looking at each other, pulling dumb faces. He had come from the meat room, but it was like he came from some other world, a dream world of magic...

The Lion, the Witch, and the Water Heater Closet

Transport yourself.

To the future.

This is only the beginning.

Cooking for Couples, Pt. 2

2009-01-29T15:19:00.002-06:00

Some of us out here really do believe that simple is delicious. Honoring the quality of the ingredients that I use is the foundation of my cooking philosophy. It is really easy to take great ingredients and muddle their subtle, delicious flavors by over-seasoning them, or improper cooking. It feels good when you know that you've let the quality of the food you're serving speak for itself, and your guests get to taste individual items that they're eating. Totally rewarding.

I've been wanting to roast a chicken for the past three weeks. At the outset of this desire, I had scored a Dewberry Hills Farms pastured bird from the free-box at work, but as it is with life, I was unable to get to it for a few days. When I opened it up, and inspected it, it was just not right. I tried an eight hour brine to possibly knock out what ever had made it off, and although the bird was looking plump, and saturated, I just didn't feel good about it. I do not like food borne illness, and as a certified food manager, trust my judgement about what should and should not go in my stomach. That being said, I also dislike wasting food, especially meat. That poor little chicken died for nothing, and that sucks.

Friday, I went up to the Ville and bought some groceries that I needed to cook my friends KJ and Bianci dinner, including a beautiful Dewberry Hills Farm chicken. Earlier in the week, we had gotten some of the most gorgeous brussels sprouts from the ladies out at Montesino Ranch in Wimberly, which may have been the first organic brussels I'd ever seen in the six and a half years I've been working in a natural foods grocery. They sold like crack rocks in drought season, and I, being the dealer, set some aside for myself. Always thinking ahead...

Ain't they cute, too!

Anyway, I've roasted my share of chickens, employed a myriad of techniques, and have always enjoyed the results. I chose to use the Gastronome's recently posted recipe, mainly because of its spotlight on one of the season's finest products: the Meyer lemon. Plumper, rounder and more sweet than its sour, oblong cousin, the Meyer lemon is a mid-winter treat that should be enjoyed as much as possible in its short window of availability. We'll have them for a few more weeks probably, but I can't guarantee that.

To compliment this beautiful birdy, I made some mac and cheese with gruyere, applewood smoked cheddar and Parmigiano-Reggiano, topped with homemade rosemary bread crumbs. The brussels--which KJ practically jizzed in his pants over--were blanched along with some orange chard and turnips from the garden, and finished in the chicken fat (a.k.a. schmaltz). Everything was served up family style, and I carved the bird at the table, ensuring that everyone got the pieces they wanted. The bird turned out rather perfectly; the meat was succulent and flavorful, and the skin had a nice crisp to it.

Not Mr. Bock-ba-gock!

On a non-couple feeding related note, this week has been kinda crazy, and not much cooking has transpired in my home. There will be some more consistent posting beginning tomorrow, and a few sweet food events going on this weekend including a pig roast and a venison dinner party. Please stay tuned.

Let Her Sun Never Set Redux

2009-01-28T15:13:00.001-06:00

The BBC news has a great little video about my friend Vicky who passed away earlier this month. Check it out here.

Cooking for Couples, Pt. 1

2009-01-24T14:46:00.016-06:00

As a man in his late twenties, it's inevitable that most of my friends are in relationships, or married. You get used that, yet it becomes difficult to hang out with one part of the whole, absent some designated 'boy's night out' thing, which leads to someone's partner asking, "What do y'all do when you're alone, anyway?"

Well, I'm not telling; I might get my bro-man card pulled, and then where does that leave me? Fortunately for yours truly, most of my buddies' significant others are pretty damned awesome, and a blast to be around. Of course there are exceptions, but I'm all about setting expectations, and managing the exceptions. This leads to a healthy lifestyle, free of conflict with your friend's lovers whom you cannot stand to be around. You know who you are, you swine!

Anyway, I've seemed to cook a handful of meals this month for some of these dynamic duos. Last weekend after softball practice, I had Jim Jam and the beloved Cici over for dinner. This particular couple happen to be a great match, fun to play with, and overall badasses. They had me over for dinner on New Year's Day, so it was time to repay the favor. Cici is an art grad-student, and Jim Jam is a musician, and co-worker of mine at the Wheats; good people.

Ain't they cute?

I wanted to do something that I could prepare ahead of time, and simply reheat after softball. I decided to braise some oxtail, and make some Tuscan bean stew. In order to serve up 'perfect' beans, free of explosions or cracked skins, I used a technique that in theory would simmer slow and low enough to avoid such annoyances. Unfortunately, I failed to take into account that the beans I was using had a shorter cooking time than the beans suggested in the recipe that I was basing this meal on. The end result was still delicious, but a few beans went the way of the Challenger. So. Be. It. Lesson learned.

We started this meal off with a nice Prosecco and salumi plate of mortadella, spicy sopresseta, and olives stuffed with feta or sun-dried tomato courtesy of Mandola's. This was followed by a simple salad straight from the garden, topped of by a traditional balsamic vinaigrette. After reheating and shredding the oxtail, it was time to serve up the bean stew. The flavors of the stew were complimented nicely by the oxtail; Old World flavors of salty pork and rosemary marrying the sweet, red wine and thyme infused beefiness of the braise. Simple and delicious, just like me. We enjoyed a nice, big, dry Ruffino Aziano 2006 Chianti Classico with our main; a well crafted Tuscan red to sip while eating food inspired by the same region.

Gotta love that kitchen lighting!

An island of oxtail amid a stormy sea of gastronomical delights...

Since you've been such a good reader this year, here is a recipe for you. Sorry, no braise for you!

Tuscan Bean Stew

Ingredients

1 lb dried canellini, great northern, or navy beans*, rinsed and picked over

1 Tbsp of extra-virgin olive oil

6 oz pancetta, cut into 1/4-inch dice (use bacon if pancetta is not available)

1 large onion, chopped medium

2 medium celery ribs, 1/2-inch dice

2 medium carrots, peeled, and cut into 1/2 inch dice

8 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed

4 cups of chicken or beef stock

3 cups water

2 bay leaves

1 bunch of lacinato kale, or collards, stemmed, and chopped into 1 inch pieces

1 14.5 can/package of diced tomatoes, drained and rinsed

1 sprig fresh rosemary

ground pepper, and salt as needed

crusty bread

Method

Dissolve 3 tablespoons of salt in 4 quarts cold water in a large bowl or container. Add beans and soak at room temperature for at least 8 hours and up to 24 hours. Drain and rinse well. Adjust oven rack to lower-middle position and heat oven to 250º. Heat oil and pancetta in a large Dutch oven over medium heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, until pancetta is lightly browned and fat has rendered, 6 to 10 minutes. Add onion, celery, and carrots. Cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are softened and lightly browned, 10 to 16 minutes. Stir in garlic and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute. Stir in stock, water, bay leaves, and soaked beans. Increase heat to high and bring to a simmer. Cover pot, transfer to oven, and cook until beans are almost tender (center still firm), 45 minutes to 1 hour. Remove pot from oven and stir in tomatoes and greens. Return pot to oven and cook until beans are fully tender, 30 or 40 minutes longer. Remove pot from oven and submerge rosemary sprig in stew. Cover and let sit for 15 minutes. Discard bay leaves, and rosemary and season the stew with salt and pepper to taste. Drizzle bowls with olive oil; serve with parmesan and crusty bread. Mangia!

*Reduce cooking time if using navy beans, they are smaller and less dense than cannellini.

Beans are finicky and may have adverse reactions to salt and acids. Some think that adding salt too early causes the beans to never fully soften, others think that adding salt too early causes the beans to be mushy. Same with the acids. Texture and tenderness of the beans seem to be affected most by salt, this is mostly due to the swelling of the starch granules within their tender husks, resulting in mealy or gritty beans. The skins also are affected, often resulting in bean skins that are thick and chewy, which doesn't contrast well with the creamy, tender innards. Brining the beans doesn't affect them the same way as adding salt to the cooking liquid. The skins stay soft, and the insides get tender; life is good. The slow simmer in the oven is meant to reduce the number of vigorous bubbles in the pot during the cooking time. A vigorous stovetop simmer is the usual suspect in the case of burst beans. I used navy beans--which are kinda small--so I had a few beans burst, but overall I got what I wanted. Enjoy this on a cold day, with loved ones, or at least someone and their loved one.

Tasting Notes: IPA From the Land of Fried Cheese Curds

2009-01-20T09:09:00.011-06:00

Two years ago I went to a co-op conference in La Crosse, Wisconsin--the city with the most bars per capita in America--and fell in love with the beers from that region. One brewery, New Glarus, shines above the rest. New Glarus' beers are crafted using mostly Wisconsin barley, and some feature other ingredients that are produced regionally, such as Door County cherries, and apples. I am very fortunate to have a friend and co-worker from Wisconsin, who has willingly shlepped trunk-loads of these fine beers back to Texas for me on several occasions. She recently went home for the Holidays, and sadly, this was my last chance to have her play courier, as she is moving back home in May.

When she returned from her trip, I was stoked to see what kind of goodies I was getting this time. I had requested the usual booty of Wisconsin Belgian Reds, Raspberry Tarts, and any Bell's beer she could find. I was like little boy on Christmas when I came home and saw a New Glarus sampler twelve pack on my porch, nestled next to a box containing the sour beers, a six pack each of Bell's Two Hearted Ale, and Consecrator Dopplebock, as well as the most recent New Glarus Unplugged series - Apple Ale. This was a major score.

For this edition of Tasting Notes, I'll be reviewing New Glarus' Hop Hearty IPA. I first had this beer in La Crosse at a party in a hotel room full of a wide spectrum of Co-operators. We had made a crazy, several hundred dollar beer run to the local co-op, buying them almost entirely out of their New Glarus stock. It was a great night. Flash forward two years to a chilly Texas 'winter' night, and a lone Flapjacks carefully selecting one beer to drink, and review. It was a tough decision, but Hop Hearty won out in the end.

Rob Baran laying down the mack.

Best picture of Steven ever!

Rose Marie of Wheatsville Board Prez fame, and Dill Pickle's Steven admiring bottles of Stone Soup

This Wisconsin IPA is not bashful by any means; massive citrusy hops aroma dominate the nose, but the rich, caramel malt backbone stands up to the Cascade and East Kent Goldings dry hop additions with the grace of a career alcoholic. The alcohol content is average for a New World IPA, weighing in at 6.2% ABV, yet due to its deliciousness, you could regretfully kick back a few of these with ease. One of the things that I really like about this beer is the tasteful use of the ubiquitous Cascade hops. Unlike craft brewers from the West Coast, Daniel Carey doesn't overload the flavor of the beer with this hop variety, instead, I feel he utilizes its strengths of providing aroma and lingering bitterness. Think of any beer produced by Sierra Nevada to get an idea of the abuse of the Cascade hop. Their beers, although consistent and often even great, rely too heavily on this hops variety, diminishing any true variety in the flavor and aroma of their products.

New Glarus wins for their simple, yet classy labels.

Unfortunately, this whole post is just a tease. New Glarus does not distribute to Texas, but if you're really nice to me, I might share one with you, or at least let you smell it. Safe and happy drinking in '09; don't drink and drive, you might spill your beer.

Musings on the Mysteries of Laundry

2009-01-18T22:53:00.003-06:00

Why do I have so many incomplete pairs of socks, and where does the other sock go? Where did all these t-shirts come from? How do I have more pillows than pillow cases? How close can a hole be to the crotch of shorts and still be acceptable? What type of activity led to each of my laundry baskets breaking or losing handles? I'll never know.

Draped Up and Dripped Out

2009-01-17T13:42:00.006-06:00

For the past three years, Wheatsville has held a staff appreciation party at the Clay Pit. Now, the Clay Pit is by far not my favorite eatery, but the upstairs room is a great place for a party. The format has been the same, more or less, for all three of these parties: greeting, eating, appreciation presentation from the Management Team, karaoke/dancing, the end. Despite this cloned line-up, this year's party was by far the best, free of incident, full of adoration, love, and respect, capturing the true essence of co-operation.

This year I wanted to play dress up, so I went and rented an all white zoot-tux which resulted in me looking either like an extra from a UGK video, or a Pakistani Colonel Sanders. You decide. Now, you may be thinking, "Flapjacks, why would you wear an all white suit to a dinner of saucy, multicolored Indian food?" Simple. That's how I roll. Draped up and dripped out.

The Butcher and I

Miss Cruz and the Colonel

A pre-dinner bottle of wine, and a shot of Scotch later, I was ready to go. I was looking forward to this year's appreciation presentation. The past two were so-so; at the first our Finance Manager stole the show with his fifteen minute speech, during which I heard a few, "Does that guy work with us?" comments; last year's banked on a comedy routine that staled faster than a luke warm Lone Star on summer day. We worked hard to try and keep this one fresh, sincere, and humorous. Hard. Three meetings worth of hard. We decided on a mad lib format that would mention every staffer's name, and be filled out at the dinner. The results were hilarious. It is impossible to avoid perversion, lewdness, or non-sensical word placement when you have prompts like: body part, verb ending in -ing, or nationality. After all the blanks were filled in, the managers read them aloud to entire staff, starting with yours truly. Beautiful.

Here are some hightlights:

"Alan was busily stocking the dicks."
"Marisa humped a box of ferrets on to the floor."
"Soutter sipped from his gourd full of purple drank."

Of course, there were many, many more. The ultimate comedic high-point for everyone was hearing our accountant say "taint." I doubt that anything, anything will as funny as that over the next fifty weeks. Good fucking times, dear readers, good times.

After party.

There were also some awards for various categories like Wheatsville Comedian, Best Kept Beard, Most Behind the Scenes Employee, Most Likely to Clean the Break Room, and Wheatsville Sweetheart. I won for comedian, the Professor won twice for his beard, and being the most likely to start a revolution, the accountant, John, for most behind the scenes, and Aldia for most likely to clean the break room. Well thought out gift certificates were given as prizes to each of us who won. Thank you Communications Team for all your hard work.

Love will keep them together...

Karaoke was also a blast, and the highlights too long to mention. In the end, it was a night of revelry, appreciation and warm fuzzies. No one made a scene, no one got too unexpectedly inebriated, and we all made it home safely. Cheers to the many merits of co-operation.

Shearing

2009-01-16T20:57:00.004-06:00

As I've mentioned in the past, I'm on the constant growth plan. Chances are if you're doing this thing right, you are too. Sometimes I like to mark periods of distinctive internal change by changing my external appearance, which helps keep the whole package in balance. You wouldn't want to go overhauling the interior of your pimped out '64 Impala, taking the time to really buff up those new cream leather seats, just to drive down the block with bondo and duct tape holding the rear quarter panel on. No sir, no you wouldn't. So, new year, new Flapjacks.

Snip it.

Holy shit! Kill it, kill it!!!

The rare flapjackius shornicus in its natural habitat.

I now realize how many of the great people around me that I love and care for I've met in the last two and a half years since my last shearing. Lots. The only real downside is that my head no longer has that nice, curly insulation that it had last week. Good thing is, that without that mop, I can once again fit a beanie (or any hat, really...) on my head. Cheers.

Gettin' Regal for the Biegel

2009-01-15T21:13:00.015-06:00

Of all the meals I've cooked recently, my lunch with the Biegs on Saturday was by far the most anticipated. In my opinion, cooking a meal for someone is one of the most sincere ways to show them that you care about them, and the Biegs is one of my most favorite people in the whole wide world. Ellie, who actually doesn't like being called the Biegs--which is why I call her that, of course--recently moved back to Texas from New Mexico. Unfortunately for those of us who would like to see her more regularly, she moved back to Arlington instead of Austin. Oh well, she's still closer than she was, and after not hanging out with her for several months, twice in a month is a treat.

Beigel at the table.

We originally were going to do dinner, but the cards were stacked against us this month. She didn't know when she would be heading back to Austin after that weekend, had a friend's birthday hoorah to attend on Friday, and I had picked up the second half of one of my employee's closing shift on Saturday in order to help them out of a delicate situation involving husbands and a forgotten couples' improv performance.

We decided that lunch on Saturday would work, which meant that I would be scaling down the meal I intended to cook, settling on a small plate affair instead. I had saved a duck breast back in December for just this occasion, so if we would have waited another month or so, it may not have been the best it could have been. I also reserved the stock that I made with the same duck for this meal, with the intention of doing a butternut squash soup similar to the one I made for Shaddley when we ate the other duck breast in early December. Yeah, I've been making a lot butternut squash soup lately... Fuck it, it's good; I like!

I planned ahead and made the soup the day before, which made a difference both in time saved on Saturday, and in the flavor of the soup. Everybody knows soup is better on day two, so score one for Flapjacks. We went out and picked the lettuce for our very simple and nutritious salad, as well as kale for our main. I still had turnips lurking about, so this meal was ready to go. After gussying up the soup it was time for service. I took one picture of the soup before I knocked my camera directly into it, lens first. The Biegs got a good laugh out of it, and the camera survived. I guess that's karma biting me in the ass for harassing my Dad about giving me that tripod for six months. After a little cleaning, it seemed to be okay; the lens cover still doesn't close properly, but it's functional.

Maybe if I just got a little bit closer...

Good job, dumbass.

After our light salad, it was time for the duck breast. I had marinated the breast over night in sherry and paprika, which gave it a nice, deep flavor that didn't overpower the natural flavors of the duck itself. The breast got pan seared; the crisp skin protecting the supple fat from the evils of the outside world. As it rested, I had time to finish up the turnip puree(which was loaded with Remember When Dairy cream and butter), the kale, and the blood orange gastrique accompaniment. The sweet and sour complexity of the gastrique really went well with the earthy flavors of the duck, providing just the right amount of acid to the dish. The turnip puree may have been the whitest food I've ever seen, but the whole plate really came together nicely, making for a fine lunch with great company.

Kinda looks like Stay Puft spooge.

I tried hard not to use the word unctuous in this post...

I realized as I sat there conversing with the Biegs, that pretty much everything but the components in the gastrique(blood orange, vinegar, wine, and sugar), butternut squash, spices, and the fats and vinegar used in the salad dressing I either grew myself, or was produced locally. The duck came from Countryside Farm Products, the pork sausage from Richardson's Family Farm, the yogurt from White Mountain, and the dairy from Remember When Dairy. This meal was the epitome of how I want to eat: seasonal cuisine with an emphasis on using fresh, locally-sourced goods. Michael Pollan would be so proud. Those of us living in, or around Austin are fortunate to have so many local sources for food, good, clean water(for now), and a well established food co-operative. These things are the backbone of the local food movement, and if we can get our shit together, we very well may be at the vanguard of such a movement right here in Austin.

Going Feral

2009-01-13T21:36:00.008-06:00

Eating wild game in the winter reminds me of my childhood. I grew up eating rich stews and chili made from elk, deer, feral hog, and aoudad sheep throughout the winter. We pretty much always had some frozen venison laying around, and would eat it fairly regularly. So, when my father came by work last week and dropped a bunch of frozen animals in my lap, I was stoked. My Uncle Fuji, who is in fact not my Uncle at all, but rather a friend of my Pop's since High School, had brought him some snook, catfish, and feral hog earlier in the week. Fuji lives out in Roundtop, TX on some of the most beautiful sprawling acreage that I've seen, complete with a several acre lake, and tasty wild life.

Feral hogs are pretty much pests, albeit tasty pests. Some people open up their land and let others come out and shoot these beasts. They can get pretty fucking big, and have nasty, Staph covered tusks that will fuck you up royally if they get close enough. Some people trap these things, and then shoot them, which seems kinda sketchy to me. Anyway, a gift of game is always appreciated, especially when the giver actually tells you that the snook has the scales still on it...

I went to check out the new Twin Liquors that recently opened in the Hancock Center on Friday. I was dressed to the nines in my blood striped navy track pants, green mesh tank top, flip flops, and top knot. Hey, after all, it is January, right?! I was instantly stoked to have such a nice liquor store across the golf course from my house. I was really excited to see that they had such an extensive wine selection. This year, I'm trying to get back to my wine roots that dug deep at the beginning of the Aughties. Less beer, more wine and Scotch; the makings of a great year. I called up Shaddley, to see what wines he was distributing to the jernt. After a few phone calls, he asked if I'd like to come down to North Buda to cook some food for him and his wifey. Damn right! I had plans to go see a co-workers show, but those plans quickly dissolved into the abyss as I headed down into the depths of the dirty South with YogaMarketingBrownieGirl.

A quick stop by the 'Ville to procure a few more provisions, and I was set to cook some grub. I had some leftover prepped butternut squash from some soup that I'd made that day for a meal set for Saturday, a bit of gnocchi, feral hog, guajillo chiles, and some Swiss chard. A co-worker of mine from New Mexico had shown me the proper way to make a red chile, not chili (no tomatoes here!), and I planned on braising the feral hog in this crimson deliciousness. I made a quick soup with the butternut squash, some stock, and sake, which turned out to be quite delicious. The sake provided a nice backbone for the sweet, subtle flavors of the squash. I'd like to try this again with kabocha squash, which is a little bit more flavorful, and shares a common origin to the sake.

Shaddley in his element...

Anyway, the wine was flowing freely, and we managed to drink nine bottles over the course of the evening. We started with with some open bottles of Porter Bass Chardonnay, and Zinfandel. The Zin was pretty jammy--some of which went into the braise--but not too overpowering. The exact order we drank the wine is a bit fuzzy to me, but I do recall some of the standouts. I've not been a fan of Rieslings in the past, but as I get older, I seem to like them more. The Joh Jos. Christoffel 2002 Riesling Urziger Wurzgarten Auslese was probably the finest I've had; crisp, sweet, and not overly fruity, I'd like to try this again with some wintry soup or goat cheese. I'm somewhat into Sauvignon Blanc at the moment, despite this cooler weather; Shaddley opened up some Domaine Mardon Quincy Sauvignon Blanc, that was from another world compared to the New Zealand Sauvingnon Blanc's I've been drinking recently. French wine is just, well, crazy. Dirty and dry, with complex flavors popping up all over the tongue. Thanks for sharing this one! The last standout for me was the Charles Krug Zin Port. I love port. Shaddley could have peed in the bottle and I would of lapped it up like a stray dog drinking out of a pothole. At his wedding I polished off a whole bottle of Becker Vineyards Port, so there seems to be a theme here...

She's got legs...

There were a few other folks hanging around, Siobhan (you extra points for correct pronunciation), a good friend of Shaddley's since High School, two dudes from Moving Matter, Chris Holland, and good ol' Chicago Fats, Ellen Greenwood (the Woo's sister), and some dude named Sham, who in fact was a sham. Only Chris ate with Shaddley, YogaMarketingBrownieGirl and I, and the food slammed. There were a few ideas popping up in my head about what I'll do the next time I do this braise. The color was so intensely red it was frightening, and the flavor of the chiles was a perfect compliment to the hog.

Flapjacks at the table.

Red is the color...

Big thanks to my Uncle Fuji for the feral hog, as well as my Pops for bringing it to me. Thanks again, Shaddley for the hospitality, and for being so generous with your wines, you rule. Stay warm, and happy eating in '09.