Have Knife Will Travel

It's hard to keep up sometimes. Too many plates spinning at once, and if you're not careful, you'll lose focus and start breaking them, the audience will gasp, possibly boo. Then what? It's mid-April already. How did this happen? How wide and deep is this abyss that consumes time? Does anyone care anymore, or are we all on auto-pilot, pulling days of the kitty calendar and throwing them in the bin? I think I care, but I learned a long time ago that time is ever the victor and we just have to deal with it rolling away like it does. It's like a bad trip. You just have to go with it; to fight it is to end up under the covers, alone, while your friends sync up Atom Heart Mother with the Goonies and laugh and scream as One Eyed Willie eats "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast". Who wants to miss out on that?

Blogging when you work in the industry at this level of immersion is hard. It's an afterthought, at best it's a quarterly post, which is barely comparable to the three or four posts a week I had before I was in a serious relationship, before I was married, before I opened a restaurant and became chained to the line like one of Madame LaLaurie's cooks before the fire. It's like that. The rules changed once I was on the other side of the window. You can't blog the same way. You can't say the same things. You can't. There is a thin line already between pride and pretense on a blog, and the line is thinner once you are a cook. It's one thing to post a pic of your plate when your a prideful home cook, but that same pic as a professional is just douchey. "Hey, look what I did." It gets old. But, you do want to put yourself out there. You want that recognition, because you're human, and you have an ego, and you know someone's getting off on that.

This year has been all about learning. As a student on the path, you can't stop. To stagnate is to die, to be a relic. It's nice to be reminded that you are but another brick in the culinary wall, and that that in its own way is inspiring. I've done a good amount of staging this year. Not because I'm job-hunting, but because it's good to get outside of your comfort zone and go cut veg for someone else and start back at the bottom. I've also spent some time in a few food trucks, which is interesting, different.

The Butcher is now getting recognition. I'm glad he's been a character on this blog for as long as he has. He is finally getting some credit for his skills and not being ignored, or having ideas brushed over by those with less experience. His partnership with Ben at Salt & Time seems so perfectly timed (I introduced them, which is great), and well suited. Things are going well for them, but that's not my story. I've gone out to the shop in Neiderwald, a temple of cured meats in our area, and made sausage, prepped, watched, learned. I've long been a student of his, so it's great to take it further, to keep learning from a master. I was really stoked to help them pull off a successful stint in the SquareSpace food truck during SXSW, where I worked the flat-top making almost a thousand pig face sandwiches. It was a great experience.

I did a night at Hudson's. It was bittersweet, but a great experience. Kelly was a gracious mentor for the night, yet it was eye-opening to see what was going on behind the curtain. They have a great crew, and are still doing great things. I liked working the pantry. Again, it's nice to be on the bottom. Old friends and new out there. I enjoyed the real life dramatic irony of being just another loser stage to the line cooks. The twenty-one year olds with their egos, and their questions about "why are you interested in cooking?" It was great to see their faces when the FOH showed up, most of which I grew up with, and everyone came by and gave me a hug and we talked shit. One of the kids came up to me later and asked how I knew everyone. I know everyone. It's that simple. We had one of the kids come stage at Black Star, and he would have gotten the gig, too, but he's moving in less than a year and we need more commitment.

SXSW came. Came hard. All over this town's face. I took that opportunity to help out East Side Kings for a week. I made new friends, and again, saw the real Wizard behind the curtain. It's fun. It's hard work in a tight space, like sex in the back of a Volkswagon. Those kids, and they are kids, are the real pirates. Sure, their captain gets all the credit, but their out there 14 hours a day manning the sails and making sure the hordes of hipsters don't overrun their bows. I liked working the fryer, and doing prep; lending my hands to an institution that gets a lot of recognition for Paul's successes in other arenas, and in turn, long ass lines. I got to work the window for about seven hours one night, just doing customer service, and that too was great. A real trip back to my roots.

Of course, the chip shoppe, Black Star, is home. It's busy. We've doubled our old food sales records. Fridays and Saturdays feel like the battle of Helm's Deep, and we are the Rohirrim, looking out on a see of faces crashing like waves against our walls. It's badass. We kill it. Lately the focus has been on the future, and new programs, Spring menu, and communication. It's hard to be a team in an industry that is used to having a head man in charge. But that is the point. That's the challenge. The beauty of the fucking thing, ever changing around you, constantly needing attention to sustain. I love it. I love my crew. We're not the pirates of ESK, even if we've stolen a few, but we're similar. We're not adrift either, we have a mission, a vision, a membership to feed and titles to win. Like I said, this, this forum, has to change to stay consistent with that world. I can't just spout off nonsense. There is decorum that must be observed. No more "whites for Tyson." I'm digging around in my bag to find my shades, because the future is bright.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Communication-Part Two

If you have ever worked the line in a kitchen, you know that one thing is more feared than any other—you know it, your co-workers know it, and it really scares the front of house people: SILENCE.

Our jobs require constant, up-each-other's-ass communication, but when there is an argument or a fight (just like in relationships), there is usually a long, awkward, service-fucking silence. Last night was one of those nights, yet it didn't fuck up service too much.

Granted, it was my fault, which is why I'm writing this—as a means of both processing and, I guess, public confession. Miscommunication blows. That's the moral of the story. When you're slammed and focused, all it takes a little miscommunication to crash the whole fucking house of cards you've built in your head. Tonight, please, be gentle on us all. Self, let go, be excellent to each other.

Just the Tip?

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

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?

The Week in Review

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.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Communication

"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 an 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

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.

Somewhere Between Meat and Fat

I've got your nose.

The Return to the Life and Times

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

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.

Black to the Future

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?

No Such Thing

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.

Ahem...

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

Gilded Recession pt. 4

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.

Just Like Narnia

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.

Tasting Notes: IPA From the Land of Fried Cheese Curds

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.

Draped Up and Dripped Out

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.

Gettin' Regal for the Biegel

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.

It's the Woo Mutha Fucka, Greenwoo Mutha Fucka

I had an excellent weekend cooking meals for friends, old and new. Thursday night, I got to hang out with my buddy Greenwood, or the Woo, if you're into that whole brevity thing. The Woo gave me the arbitrary nickname of Flapjacks, which at the time--2002--was actually Jihad Johnny Flapjacks. This name, which is banking on my ethnic ambiguity and fondness for facial hair, is not too safe in our modern political climate. So, Flapjacks, Flappy, or Flapper it is.

The Woo works at the north Whole Foods, in produce, and used to work at the Wheats about five years ago. We hadn't kicked it in a while, and both of us are going through some life changes right now, so it was a good time to get together and reflect on our states of being over a nice meal and some wine.

The Woo helped me pick some lettuce, and other veg for our meal. He did a damn good job holding the flashlight, and I even let him shred some cheese. I had picked up some Niman Ranch center cut pork chops, which got a quick marinade in some olive oil and sherry, as well as some organic shrimp, which also got a quick citrus bath, from work that afternoon. I wanted to do a simple salad with blood oranges, and a play on some Southern comfort food, Flappy style. The salad was indeed simple, as well as quite fresh and delicious(and nutritious!). Nothing beats fresh picked lettuce, and herbs. Nothing.

Tossed salad...

The main was pretty straightforward, I suppose, but damn good. I think you could run over this Niman meat and it would still be amazing. No lie. It's like meat heroin, and I'm the man with the golden arm. I had an abundance of fresh picked turnips, and some fingerlings on hand, which were blanched and roasted in duck fat until golden and delicious. I added some lacinato in at the last minute, which was plenty of time for it to wilt and marry flavors with the unctuous duck fat. What Southern meal is complete without grits? Cheesy, jalapeño, grits at that!? Yum. The pork got dressed up like a coming out debutante, with some of my homemade apple chutney, shrimp, and a nice chile ginger foam.

Clutter

Fuck, someone spit on my meat!

Woo Tang Clan ain't nuttin' ta fuck wit

I'd like to take a moment to discuss the merits of the fine products from the folks at Remember When Dairy. Really, this shit is bananas! B-a-n-a-n-a-s, bananas. There milk is more like half and half, the butter smells like butter flavoring, and the cream is the ridonkey-donk chronic shit. I would take a bath in it. Hell, it would probably be great for my skin. Wheatsville has been selling so much RWD, that they've stopped selling at the Farmer's Market. They make the only whole milk buttermilk available in Austin, and I foresee their chocolate milk taking the town by storm(now available in a dairy cooler at a co-op near you!). Anyway, if you haven't tried these products, you're missing out, and you should treat yourself to some of their dairy goodness. Happy eating in '09.

Tasting Notes: Home for the Holiday Ale

For the past few years, I've had a great holiday party that centered around tasting the season's special beer offerings to look forward to. My friend Chris, who I met through the Black Star Co-op, is  an outstanding homebrewer, and host, opening his home up to other zymurgist and drinkers alike. 

Shiny.

This year there were some standouts from the usual suspects of well respected seasonal specialties. This is one of those parties where guests dip into their reserves and bring out something special, well aged, and appropriate or the occasion. I brought a New Glarus Raspberry Tart, my last, to share with these fine people. The taste I had of the 2002 Sierra Nevada Bigfoot Ale, may have been one of the best beers I had that evening. Stone's Bitter Chocolate Stout was very nice as well. Someone was kind enough to bring a magnum of Anchor Christmas from 2005, and was doling out the glasses of this sprucey, spricey seasonal rather generously. 

Blurry tart.

Proof  he was near!

Sweet.

Of course, there was plenty of homebrew on tap. Chris' amazing kegerator had a variety of beers to offer. He had brewed a delicious holiday ale, which I really enjoyed, and there were two versions of a Black Star beer, Cul Sec, that were fermented using different strains of yeast. I like them both, and if I had to chose a favorite, it would be the "b." As usual, the label maker was floating around, and we were all having fun making up names for each other. Unfortunately, I don't seem to recall any other than my own. I was dubbed Fidel Garcia, the label now attached to some Food and Wine mag in my house. The food that was available was very good as well. I ate the hell out of some sausages and cheese. Yes, please. I can't wait until next year!