This Must Be the Place

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.

Excess in the Crescent City

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.

Night of the Michelada

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.

Dear Reader

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. 

And We'd Love to Take a Bath!

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!

Stay On Target

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?

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 Mountain Comes To Me

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. 

Tasting Notes: Dangling My Stash

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. 

Sunday Lunch

When I was in England last year, one of my favorite discoveries was Sunday Lunch. This, of course, was dinner, not lunch, but the Brits can do as they please with the English language, so let's not question them. You could also call it Sunday Roast, if you'd like, and the idea is very traditional. You have roasted meat (pork, or beef), all the trimmings (roasted potatoes, carrots, haricot verts, and cheesy cauliflower), gravy, and Yorkshire pudding. 

Sunday Lunch at the Cock and Hoop, Nottingham, England, UK.

The Yorkshire pudding was the most recent addition to this traditional British meal, serving as a filler during the hard times from the beginning to the middle of the last century. Meat was expensive, and everyone looked forward to eating this delicious roast every week. When England was rationing food during the first World War, the yorkie appeared. From what I've read, it was originally served before the meal, to take up some space in your belly, ensuring that there would be left overs to eat throughout the next week. 

Sunday Lunch at Chez Flapjacks, Austin, TX, USA

Poppin' fresh.

Yorkshire pudding is really a biscuit-souffle hybrid. It's predominately egg, and thanks to it's hollow middle, it is a great vehicle for delivering gravy to your mouth. Nowadays, the Yorkies have made it on the plate with the rest of the goods. I really like them, and after trying a few recipes, feel that I found one that really works, which I will share with you now. 

Yorkshire Pudding

To be served with roasted meat

Yields about eight puddings

Indgredients:

2 cups flour

2 Tbsp milk

4 eggs

AN salt

Method: 

Pre-heat oven to 400º. In a medium size bowl, lightly mix egg and milk with a fork. Whisk in flour until a thick, smooth batter forms. You want the batter to be easy to pour, if it is too thick, add more egg, not milk. Let rest for fifteen minutes to hydrate the flour. Fill muffin pans 1/5 of the way with oil (or fat from the roast), place in hot oven for 10 minutes (should be done while batter is resting). When the oil is starting to look hazy, but not quite smoking, remove muffin tin from the oven, and pour in the batter. If it doesn't sizzle, place the tin back in the oven for a few more minutes. Bake for 12-15 minutes, until the puddings rise. If they start to fall when remove, you can put them back in the oven for a few minutes. Pour out excess fat, and fill with gravy/drippings, and serve immediately. 

From what I've read about these, if you need to thin the batter, use egg, not milk. You want it to pop. The hot oil will keep the center hollow, and you want them to be browned and crispy, but not too crisp; they should retain some of their chewiness. You can reserve the hot fat to reuse if you like. Happy eating!

NaNoWhatO?

November has come and gone. It seemed just a short while ago that I had the ambition to be a short time novelist. Riding high on the success of last year's NaNo, I felt as though it would be an easily accomplishable feat to write fifty thousand words in thirty days. Then life got in the way. 

I fell short of the goal by about twenty thousand words, maybe thirty. It was a poor showing for me this year; there's always next year. This November was possibly better spent traveling dark cities, scrounging for offal, and swilling perfectly pulled pints of cask aged, well brewed, craft ales. Life is hard, I do these things so you don't have to. 

Be Here Now

Welcome back to the present. I'm done with London postings. I will post about Cohen when I've fully processed the experience. So. It's Thanksgiving week, and for those of us in the grocery biz, this is our busiest time of year. It can be fun, stressful, and a bit nerve racking at times, which is all the better to keep you on your toes. Service must be great, we do not want to disappoint our patrons, for they are shouldering an equal burden, often involving in laws. 

London Calling: Lost in the Supermarket

My final day in London found Sian and I on a pilgrimage to the Borough Market. The market was much like a food heaven, or amusement park, absent height restrictions or necessity of death. I enjoy a good farmers market, or even just a proper roadside farm stand. As a grocer, one comes to appreciate these things. Those places are destinations for sleepy Sunday afternoons. Borough Market, on the other hand, is like Mecca. You go there, and you worship every aspect of food; the craft behind it, the serving of it, the preparation of it, and eating it.

The first thing we saw, as we began to navigate the hurried, narrow passageways, was a giant paella pan full of delicious smelling paella. I have been weary of paella Stateside since my last encounter with the soupy saffron rice pilaf I was served at Saba in August. This was a redeeming image for me, I could see the crusty goodness with my very own eyes.

That is a huge pan.

This table was immediately followed by an oyster and Prosecco stand. Could there be a better way to get the stomach conditioned for a long walk through a magical wonderland of gastronomical delight? Probably not. I bought Sian and myself one massive oyster each, and a glass of bubbly. She'd never tried oysters, so this experience could have gone several ways. These were Scottish rock oysters, a variety I've never had; they seemed to be rather fresh, and massive. A little malt vinegar and a toast later, and they were down the hatch. Briny and delicious. I heart oysters. Sian... not so much.

Would this fly on Sixth St.?

Slurp.

Wardrobe malfunction.

Fear.

Unsure of the results...

From there, bubbly in hand, we made our way into the heart of the beast. It was throbbing with intensity; people shouting, chewing, laughing, drinking, and making deals, all creating some sort of supernatural hum. The next stop was at the terrine booth. The man behind the counter had a nice selection of terrines, from a variety of animals. There was a pork terrine that was done in the chunky, country style, that did not contain any offal, which, after some time, I was able to convince Sian to try. She was surprised that she actually liked it. It was very delicious, but, I'm sure she thought that there had to be some kind of guts in there, which made her apprehensive from the start.

Terrines are amazing.

We moved on, tasting fresh cheeses, and meats. Each cheese I tasted was amazing. A great representation of an old British skill. Stilton was everywhere, and there were even a few booths selling gruyeres and alpage style cheese. I love samples. I even had a smidge of some black pudding along the way. This was the only time that I saw any of it on my trip, otherwise, I would have eaten it somewhere... It was amazing. I don't get why we don't eat more blood and guts in this country. They're delicious! I'm not even joking, and I'm sure you, Dear Reader, will be hearing about my pursuits for gore in the future.

British Cheese is great.

More mushrooms than Dead tour.

Look at those brussels sprouts.

Meat from the land of Mad Cow.

Eventually, we stumbled upon a booth selling cider. I love the British ciders. I opted for the dry cider, and it was very, very, dry. It was convenient that my trip managed to correspond with the beginning of the cider season. I was fortunate to have a few over my time across the pond. There was a small beer store set up in the market, that had a great selection of craft beers on hand. Yay, beer!

Cider is easier to make than beer, or wine.

"Please buy my tofu..."

Why didn't I buy one of these?

Cheese never sleeps...

The fish mongers, and meat purveyors, were all selling what appeared to be high quality, super fresh product. There was an abnormal amount of ostrich meat around, which was interesting. I remember that being a fad here over a decade ago, but haven't seen it around in a while. Who knows? Maybe they like the climate.

Fresh diver scallops!

Monkfish are ugly.

Fresh fish.

So many olives.

Produce.

We walked around in circles for about an hour, before deciding that we should probably have lunch. I chose the paella with prawns, and Sian had some sort of Greek wrap thing, that was filled with feta, and lamb, I think. What ever it was, it was good. The paella was very nice; crusty, and full of flavor. The prawns were large, and tender, with a taste reminiscent of well prepared crawfish. Success...

The tin container made this classy.

What we needed was some booze to wash all this food down. Fortunately for us, there was a wine bar right there! La Cave. Despite having just stuffed ourselves on loads of high quality food and drink, we went for a five cheese cheese plate to compliment our bottle of Cabernet Franc. I used to be known for good judgement, but I may faltering these days...

Remember your failure in the cave...

I cannot find this wine on the interweb.

Cheese is the best dessert.

Cab Franc... You just don't see much of this guy around. My first experience with this grape was about three, maybe four years ago, when Shaddley, Mitchell and myself went out on a little Hill Country winery jaunt. We ended up at the Spicewoods Vineyards, where we had our third tasting of the day. I remember that this wine stood out to me, and I picked up a bottle. I saved it for a while, and cannot recall the particulars about when, how, with whom or what it was consumed.

Anyway, it is a very drinkable wine, with a far less heavy body than its offspring, the Cabernet Sauvignon, and a flavor profile that lends its flavors complimentarily to foods, rather than completely dominating them. Something you could have with a meal that didn't consist of heavy sauces and steak. I would like to find some more of this and drink it. Shadd? Get on this, if you aren't already. Please and thank you.

La Cave was a nice way to end the trip to the market. I felt content with what I'd seen that day: the love of the art of craft cuisine, each little booth representing specified skill sets executed with perfection and care. We sat and enjoyed our wine, ate our decadent triple cream bries, goat cheese and grapes; laughing in the face of the fleeting nature of time as it slipped into the abyss on this voyage that is life. Vacations are cool.