Savour – Oceans of Mine

Run, Beer, Run!! The First Monday Night Mile

It was far more nerve-wracking for me than I anticipated as I sat on a red metal bench outside of Monday Night Brewery, dolled like a go-go girl in my new Detective Comics dress and knee-high black boots, awaiting the start of the Monday Night Mile. Was I the only one who felt nervous in my get-up? Surely not, I thought as I watched a man in a flowing yellow-and-white sundress wander back-and-forth from the patio bar. I marveled at the nonchalance of girls in rainbow-colored tutus and a couple of guys with Afro-style wigs and giant, horn-rimmed glasses.

We were the anomalies in Atlanta’s first official beer run: most everyone was dressed in running gear, occasionally bespeckled with colorful long socks or wild laces on their shoes.

Though a beer before the race would settle my nerves, I know my tolerance for alcohol and preferred to start the race on an untainted stomach. I’d had a big lunch and snacked on a few handfuls of nuts immediately before the race, drank half-a-liter of water on the way down… and was still sure I was going to be drunk well before crossing the finish line.

There’s a chance that everyone was nearly as flustered as I, for there was a lot of pre-drinking. Almost no one knew what to expect, but we all surely knew it was crazy. Runners milled about in groups, inside and out, flicking eyes at the costumes and traditional running getup; I wonder if those who didn’t dress up felt as if they should have, and how many of us who did questioned if we shouldn’t.

I certainly yearned for something to keep me safe from my dis-ease, for some companion in this race since I was “running” alone; perhaps the Hatian-made superhero dolls displayed near the start line. They laid, smiling, next to hand-made clutches, pillows and screen-printed T-shirts; and I felt childishly like I would be okay if I just had one in my arms.

We were all giddy and nervous, I think, crazy to be doing something so foolish on an early Monday evening; crazy to be experienced grown-ups, many of whom had to work the next morning, knowing perfectly well the dangers of downing four full beers with university-student-like abandon and running – yes, RUNNING! – in between draughts.

Seven o’clock couldn’t come soon enough; and, finally the 16-oz pours of Monday Night’s newest beer, the 5% ABV Nerd Alert, filled tables before the start line. We gathered, chatting with each other about what to expect and how we came to be in the race; I happened to wind up next to Wolverine (AKA “Logan”, AKA “Marshall”) and his more-human buddies. Then I spotted the incarnation of my dress’ superhero, Batman; I had to go see.

Wolverine (AKA "Logan", AKA "Marshall") — Wolverine (AKA “Logan”, AKA “Marshall”)

Now, I was okay. Now, we were together, all a group, all unsure about what was happening next, all waiting to chug our beers and step across the start line.

…And we waited….

Finally, they instructed us to take a beer, “But don’t drink them!!” Hell’s bells; they were making us wait LONGER!

How long do they expect us to hold onto these things without drinking...?? — ‘How long do they expect us to hold onto these things without drinking…??’

There must be an instinct in people, especially those gathered in a large group on a warm evening, to sip the cool beverage held in hand, the girls next to me confirmed as they related their conscious and deliberate efforts NOT to raise their cups to their lips and sip the golden effervescence. I was definitely finding it difficult; and, as I looked around, noticed that others did not even bother to resist the temptation: several cups were half-empty or more within minutes, despite admonitions.

With a final top-up by event coordinators for those who’d “cheated” and couldn’t help but sample their bevvies, we were allowed to drink up and start the race. There were well over two hundred of us gathered, some tossing beers back with the ease of experts and others – like me – drinking more quickly than normal, but by no means sucking our beers down. I watched as my compatriots took off before me, dropping their empty cups on the ground and running across the start line; I felt urged to finish my beer quickly, before I was last across the line.

Really, Meredith? I heard myself internally. Yep, really, I responded. I was here to do a beer run, whether I was running or not. I downed the last of my beer within two minutes and dropped my cup, grabbed the hem of my mischievous, inching skirt and actually jogged over the start line.

…For about a thirty seconds.

The first-place runner broke past me on his way down as I was ¼ up the ¼-mile hill, running at a speed I’d likely match even if I was dressed as race-appropriately as he. I grinned, watching those on his tail continue the race-pace as if they’d not just chugged 32 ounces of brew. Their seriousness was silly to me; but I’d been warned to expect such dedication from at least a few.

More amusingly wonderful were the trios and quintuples of over-fifty aged friends, jogging up the hill ahead of me. I was settled in my pace, comfortably not-last and happily not-first. This was way more fun than I anticipated, and I was only one beer in!

Reaching the beer station much faster than expected, I grabbed a beer and watched the gathering as nearly everyone drank this one more slowly than the last. We watched the more serious beer-runners suck-and-bolt, and I noticed one taller guy in race gear struggling with perhaps his last pint, panting and almost doubling-over as if he’d run five times as far as he’d most certainly run thus far. The beer was the challenge here, and the strategy was in how one handled it, not the hill.

My strategy pleased me more at this point: I’d been asked already by several people how I planned to run in “those boots.”

“I won’t!” I always replied; and now I was happy that the temptation to join in the stomach-sloshing activity was virtually removed for me by my own brand of ridiculousness.

Yet, the beer was still a concern: two beers inside of five minutes is WAY more than my body likes to handle, more than my palate demands, more than my mind has had to find ways with which to cope. Drink, drink, drink, I cheered myself on. Hmm… this pour was larger than the last.

And then there was the quality of the beer, about which I was now fully aware:

Nerd Alert is a “Pseudo Pilsner”, though I’m not entirely sure what that means. Thank goodness for the BeerStreetJournal, with an explanation from the brewery:

Technically speaking, Nerd Alert is an ale. And if you want to get reeealIlly technical, we fermented this beer with ale yeast at low temperatures to achieve an incredibly clean flavor. However, if you bring up this knowledge in normal circles, you will, in fact, be labeled a nerd. So just enjoy the straw-blond appearance (Like the hair of the girl the nerd could never get) and the crisp, safe essence (like the nerd’s comic book room).

I guess I’m not yet beer-nerdy enough to understand… even if I am blonde.

What I did grasp was this: Nerd Alert IS fairly easy to drink, if we’re talking about heaviness. When poured with a good head, the ale is much more tasty, with a creaminess that balances out a mild bitterness. However, I always prefer something with a bit more texture and flavor, and Nerd Alert was simply… a regular beer. Not particularly crisp, not particularly delicious; it was something I’d expect while at a summer beer party in someone’s backyard – and I’d likely mix it into a shandy with a sharp ginger beer, simply to give it more foam and bite. But it would make a REALLY good shandy. Or perhaps a great beer-based cocktail.

Which is why I didn’t finish all of the second pour: my palate was still too awake, too aware, too sensitive and demanding of why I was drinking TWO of this particular beer – because, though I might drink one, I never drink two pints of something I don’t REALLY like.

Down the hill again, with much the same amusement as when I went up; and the third beer was considerably easier. I’d made it half-way in just under 14 minutes; I was making FAR better time than the hour I’d expected to take for completing the race.

I think the beers were starting to hit me, or I simply enjoyed too well watching as people swept across the finish line two lengths ahead of me, for I don’t remember much about drinking that third one – except that I finished it with ease. Back up the hill, boots making stride after stride, hiking down my ridiculous dress that was certainly not made for walking (even if it was just about the most comfortable thing I could be wearing on an almost-hot summer night).

I nabbed my fourth beer and started chatting up someone in the group who challenged me to finish my beer and make it down before them “in those boots.” Clearly, men don’t realize how easy it is to walk in high-heeled boots, especially boots tall enough to nearly reach one’s knees. For those reading: Consider that one’s entire foot is covered, along with one’s ankle, and the motion is as easy as walking normally. The challenge may come with stilettos – whether boots or sandals – but these boots were not.

As we loitered at the top of the hill for the fourth round, we watched as a real-life, car-to-UPS truck chicken standoff manifest. We stood around, incredulous and laughing as an annoyed-but-busy UPS driver waited, then decisively wove his way around tables littered with still-full pints of beer while a ticked-off-and-stubborn girl and her friend sat in their car facing him, unmoving, silently demanding that the heavens open up the earth and we all – including Mr. UPS – sink into it so they could pass.

Miss Priss finally decided to move so Mr. UPS could manage to his drop-off down the hill, then I strolled to the finish line with some new friends in their beautiful mariachi costumes and similarly-inappropriate shoes while we each finished up our last pints. This beer run was more fun than a pub crawl, I’m sure (though I’ve never been on a pub crawl). It was at least completely unusual and far more rare.

As we reached the finish line, I dumped my empty cup in the trash can and remembered suddenly to take note of my time: a speedy 29 minutes and 40 seconds to make the “run,” and I’d even watched a spectacle and made friends along the way.

I’m sure my official time reads later than 29:40, since we wound up chatting more and forgetting to actually step across the finish; I remembered to walk across, finished the race and was bedecked in my finisher’s medal.

Blissfully buzzed, we were all friends now. It was easier now, and I met more wonderful people as I strolled around, my naysaying mind gone quiet enough after of 64 ounces of social lubrication and an entertaining mile of exercise.

Me, Three Beers Into the Beer Run (and still camera-shy!)

But I wasn’t drunk, though I thought surely I would be.

The Organizers' Finish Their Heat!! — The Organizers’ Finish Their Heat!! (Left to right: Marc Hodulich, ??, David Maloney, Matthew ?)

I lucked upon a new friend who bought me my favorite Monday Night beer: the delicious, gingery wit, Fu Manbrew, and – grateful to have my brother in town to act as my DD – I stood at the Start/Finish line and enjoyed this beer, watching as the organizers ran their heat, decked more ridiculously than almost anyone I’d seen, finishing four beers and one mile before I managed even half of my fifth and favorite brew.

It’s easy for me to see, now, the attraction to such events. My mom, in her great love for me, related my general fervor for life to a woman whose family lived in China for a time, who learned to let go from a culture of people who gather in parks and “play,” doing whatever they enjoy in front of everyone. It’s not normal, she observed, for Americans to allow themselves such freedom: to do and be and play in whatever manner they like best – no matter what their skill or ability.

This beer run was our version of that: a bunch of people at all levels of experience in running and drinking, getting together to play.

Perhaps we yet need the alcohol to give ourselves the excuse and freedom to let go…

Or perhaps we’re learning from it that we won’t need it, and can just let it be part – instead of the instigator – of fun.

John & Ashley Zintack with me (clockwise from top) — Shoe Styling with John & Ashley Zintack (clockwise from top)

The Squirrel (Marc Hodulich) and His Friend

I must thank Marc Hodulich and Dave Maloney of CharityBets for organizing the Monday Night Mile, for allowing me to participate while helping market one of the most fun events I’ve ever attended – at one of my favorite local breweries.

Dave Maloney of CharityBets and Monday Night Mile Organizer

Halving my time, I doubled my sponsors’ contributions to Ties That Matter, the Hatian charity organization created and managed by Monday Night Brewery. Thanks also to my sponsors: my new foodie friend, Lon Snider (@Heelcorkdork), who I met during my regular Monday night activity, #Foodiechats; and my dear friend Mark Shekerow, a passionately vivacious man who is always up for a great conversation and great fun, and is so incredibly supportive of all I love to do. I’m so grateful to you both!

And a special thanks to my older brother, David McGuire, for driving to and from the event so I wouldn’t have to worry over myself; and to my parents for tolerating such uncommon nonsense from me.

Post Script: If you know the names of any pictured here who I’ve not correctly identified, please introduce them to me in the comments section below! -xo, M.

The Gods’ Portion

I actually found myself depressed as 5pm rolled around and the number of people at the cafe thinned out. The guys next to me moved to another empty table where they’d have more room to spread out and discuss whatever Internet venture they were concocting, one guy a very obviously-artsy type and the other, with his laptop, moved and dressed like a prototypical modern nerd: khakis and a colored button-down with comfortable shoes, and practical, monotone-rimmed glasses, all covering his smooth, mocha skin and slight frame.

I gathered my things as the guys were readying themselves to move, feeling a dank heaviness in my stomach and a thickness building in my head. I didn’t want to leave, but what was I going to do? Move in here? I’d been at the cafe all afternoon, reading and highlighting my journals in a long-overdue task from The Artist’s Way, feeding off the ambiance of this corner of the reclaimed warehouse that is The Jane, sipping really good pour-over coffee and a mediocre Americano and a plastic restaurant-style juice-cup of water, nibbling extraordinary French butter cookies called sablés. And trying to write while watching people come and go.

I’m not really a people-watching kind of person, in that I don’t deliberately go out to watch people. I’d rather be more active in just about any circumstance, and this case was no different: I listened to conversations between business people, between a father and his two young children, between the baristas and bakers, and I wished I had some reason to be involved. I’d rather be conversing with any of them on just about any level instead of sitting alone in this incredibly-cool coffeehouse, rather than watching slightly-enviously the stylish girl at the table next to me as she typed away on her Macbook, somewhat snobbishly-resistant to the rest of the world and projecting enough of a sense that she didn’t really care what anyone else was doing.

I, on the other hand, was far too aware of the entire scene. The buttery pastries being rolled and cut on the corner-counter by two cute college-aged girls lured me, as I know enough about baking to love the task of it, to hunger as I watched for more knowledge about baking such fine pastries as these. The melded scents of toasted flour, caramelized sugar and melted butter wafted from the kitchen and through the room in a constant, unmistakable fragrance, tickling familiar memories of joy. I sipped my pour-over and watched the baristas playfully drizzling hot streams of water over filters full of ground coffee beans, two boys and their fun, transforming mud-colored grounds into addictively-acidic, bittersweet cups of black coffee.

My eyes found fascination drinking in every aspect of this cafe, wherever I gazed: at long, manila-colored wooden counters; at the age-pocked concrete floor that groped persistently its antique green paint; at huge, antique-framed mirrors hanging in portrait behind the pastry counter and tilted in landscape above the registers. Cute souvenirs are arranged attractively near the pastry counter: bags and coffee cups and more; and, under the registers one can find pour-over kettles and stands identical to the ones used by Octane’s baristas, and fanned-out copies of my favorite local foodie journal, Brother.

The thought gripped me as surprisingly as it did strongly: I wanted to work here; the feeling followed firmly that I would not. This was a place for me to enjoy; but with every moment of enjoyment, I craved that the moment would continue longer than it would. Everyone enjoying his or her coffee here was a part of this place, a part of this community, and I was not. I was a stranger, a visitor, even if the baristas and bakers were kind to me: I lived in the ‘burbs, an hour away, and everyone here was within walking distance, within biking distance, within short driving distance. They belonged.

I realized, later, how much it reminded me of the coffeehouses in my former home of Hamilton, Ontario: artsy, hip places with such a fun vibe and shabby-chic decor; only this was more friendly, more open, with much better quality goods. It was all I ever wanted in a coffeehouse and more, and so inaccessible to me in the ways I most wanted.

I finished my Americano and my cup of water, savored several bites of a lavender-lemon sablé as the unusual floral scent filled my palate unexpectedly every time, and left half of the delicious cookie in the 9” metal cake pan acting as a plate, wondering why I would do such a thing.

But I gathered my bag and slipped out from behind the table along the giant roll-up door with large windowpanes, savoring for the last time that day the wrap-around bar and tall case full of liquors that I noticed only halfway through my stay, admiring the remarkable transformation passion can achieve, especially in a corner of Atlanta once dangerous enough that none of these people would spend hours, as they did regularly, in this corner of this warehouse.

As I stepped from the glass-framed entranceway and into the light of an overcast sky, I knew why I’d left that half of the most exquisitely unique cookie I’d ever tasted:

I was leaving a piece for the gods to savor, as I recall some culture was said to leave the last sip in their glass.

And, since I am the only god I believe in, I knew I’d be back, to have another one.

*Edited 4/10/2014: Thanks to The Little Tart’s General Manager, Sarah, who corrected me. The name of the exquisite cookies I enjoyed are “sablés”, not “santés”.

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Just Moments of Falling in Love

He told me to meet him at F&B; he was sure I had mentioned wanting to go there, but I knew I hadn’t.

I wanted to go there; I’d wanted to visit for a proper meal since the night of hors d’oeuvres and drinks with my mom and the editors and publisher of FLAVORS Magazine. I’d wanted to visit long before then: since first driving down Peachtree Street into Buckhead one late October night, not long after returning to Georgia. I’d spotted its black patio peeking across the street from under the boughs that drape Roxborough Road and frantically searched the building for the name before the light changed; the white letters stood just where they should, above the black cloth awning.

The valet service impressed me, as it always does, as it did the first time. I stepped out of Dad’s black 1990s Mercedes feeling excited and luxuriously spoiled, relinquishing my responsibility to a young man in black and felt my mind turn powerfully to the clicking of strappy high heels laced around my ankles, vaguely noticing myself placing them one-before-the-other as I’d learned to do in modeling class as a teenager, the better part of my mind swirling with what-to-do-when-I-saw-him.

That’s the funny thing about falling in love, isn’t it? You focus on so many small details that normally don’t seem to matter with anyone else, at any other time. You try to pull away and find yourself again, and you just get swept back into the madly powerful emotion.

The restaurant mattered so much to me; being there with him was like having dinner with two favorite men, each competing for my attention. I had been so aware of the decor, the first time: the small French pots on an overhanging shelf near the bar charmed me intensely; the lighting from the darkened windows made the nook where our group sat on high stools at a long, high table feel all the more intimately intense. I had lightly teased the server for his small negligences of my mother’s non-alcoholic beverages and later connected with the owner, impressed with his charm, grace and hospitality; had indulged in bite-sized appetizers that I’d enjoyed more and less. But my attention was entirely on this place.

This time, my companion fought for my mind, first teasing the hostess and then our server on my behalf – the same server I’d teased on my first visit; my date worked hard to alight my senses with gestures, conversation, attention I’m unused to. My mind and heart were caught in a massive tug-of-war between my way of typically experiencing meals, during which no one really pays me attention, my mind and senses becoming one, savoring every drop of a meal and the environment – and this new man, who both wanted me to enjoy myself and yet somehow demanded to sample and intermingle with every drop of my delight.

The subtle became nearly lost: I drank a bold, organic red wine with our meal of appetizers, my palate finding, despite my distraction, the hints of tobacco, currants, blackberries amidst the dry tannins. We discussed the merits of the puff pastry, which I enjoyed with its fresh arugula, broiled grape tomatoes and creamy, warm goat cheese atop eggplant paste; he thought it needed to be stuffed with cheese. The mussels in their light white-wine-and-cream broth we agreed, as we fed each other on half-shells, needed more depth; he asked for a plate of lemons and some fresh thyme.

My mind flitted to the other guests as he improved the meal for me, bite-by-bite, and I enjoyed it more; I found myself worrying, at first, and then accepting our irreverent indulgence and obviously sensual enjoyment of the food and each other that was, at this point, no longer for the other’s seduction; he’d captured my attention and won me from the restaurant.

It is a strange game, to be captured by a man, especially when one’s interest is native and well-entrenched; stranger still to be stolen from something as inanimate as a restaurant. And even more strange to have the restaurant turn around to compete again….

I had an unspoken taste for something rich and chocolaty-sweet, though I was settled on going home. A moment later, with no instigation on our parts, our server brought us a sample platter of desserts, on the house. The plate contained three delicious desserts, none of which I remember so well as the dark chocolate ganache that was precisely what I had wanted; my senses were now reeling, spinning out of control at the madness of this night, at the dizzying vie for my attentions and affections. I sipped a double-espresso in an attempt to balance my mind, steeling myself against the sweet delights and my companion’s deft and intriguing conversation with the female half of F&B’s ownership – again, on my behalf – by focusing on the hot, bitter liquid.

It was clear, by the time we exited, who had won me this night, though I regretted the loss for the restaurant I had loved so much since first seeing it, to which I felt such a strange connection, that had left me with so little to applaud.

I hear it’s since changed owners, which makes sense from the new look and feel of their website, from the new, white awnings above the black-glassed patio.

He won me that night, my gentleman; for the night and for most of the following months. And I lost that restaurant, lost F&B….

“Won the battle but lost the war,” they say….

For there’s not yet a man who can take me from my love of being, of experiencing a moment in its fulness, be the moment good or bad, passionate or blasé, deep or shallow, intimate or excruciatingly distant; and not many restaurants that fail to indulge.

Tempted as well as I am, they’re all just moments of falling in love.

That Wasn’t “Ketchup”

I don’t really like veggie burgers.

They were alright when I first tried them, when they were novel and restaurants like Hard Rock Cafe served grain-based GardenBurgers instead of soy-based Boca Burgers. But someone got the idea that soy-burgers are more flavorful, desirable, something than whole grains… and now that’s what everyone serves.

Including my parents, who have had the idea since I stopped eating meat at fifteen years old that I would wind up malnourished if I didn’t get enough protein, and who like to buy me Boca Burgers when the family is grilling hamburgers.

It’s not that I won’t eat them; it’s just that the grey, frozen patties are pretty darned flavorless, even when cooked up and layered with cheese, greens, tomatoes, ketchup, mayo and mustard… in which case, I usually feel like I’m eating the ‘burger’ just to get a little texture out of the meal, and perhaps a bit of protein.

I’d rather eat eggs. Or a salad. Or a salad with eggs, sans condiments.

I’ve also stopped eating most condiments since I don’t often eat sandwiches and I tend to prefer the flavor of my foods added to them while cooking rather than poured from bottles at the table.

Yet, during my first #Foodiechat on Twitter, when the subject of gourmet condiments arose and Traina Foods started throwing around that they make sun-dried tomato ketchup, that they were even willing to give away samples of the product to some of the #foodie participants, I couldn’t resist asking for some.

About a week later, an 8x5x5” box arrived from California, to my utter surprise. I’d forgotten about the samples and had been sure I’d receive, at most, some ketchup packets; I opened the box curiously and laughed, finding two full-sized ketchup bottles tucked between huge pockets of bubblewrap.

But what to do with so much ketchup? I hadn’t so much as poured a dab of ketchup on even my Waffle House hash browns in years, didn’t dare contaminate the sweetness of decent fried potatoes – especially sweet potato fries, which I most commonly ate – with anything besides salt, pepper and perhaps some rosemary… and I almost never eat fast-food fries.

I gave one bottle to my intrigued brother and his girlfriend and set the other on the counter until I could figure out what to do with it.

Weeks passed. I’d notice it on the counter occasionally and would remind myself that I needed to try it… But it was ketchup, for goodness sake, and when was I going to make french fries? When was I going to even go to the McDonald’s down the street to pick up a small serving, so I could taste the sun-dried goodness that surely awaited inside that plastic bottle…?

I wondered what it would taste like, knew I could just open it up and taste it by itself… but the thought seemed obscene, ridiculous. And what if it was only good ON something?

The longer I waited, the more my mind filled with contrasting ideas of what was inside that bottle: overly-sweet ketchup like I grew up with; some combination of that and the richness of sun-sweetened Roma tomatoes like I loved pulling from small jars in their oil packing…. I became so lost in my expectations and ideas that I was no longer sure whether or not I wanted to try it anymore. Maybe I’d wait to hear my brother’s appraisal….

I guess it’s easy to put off anything, no matter what you do; but this taste-test became so much easier to delay with my regular outings to restaurants and my busy schedule of helping paint and pack up my parents’ house.

Still, the Traina Sun-dried Tomato Ketchup sat on the counter. Waiting for me.

I was not expecting to try it today. This was not in the plans. In fact, my only plans for today entailed writing an overdue piece about my first experience of Decatur’s The Pinewood Tipping Room, and relishing in the excitement of this evening’s dinner reservations at Ford Fry’s latest offering to the world and Atlanta: St. Cecilia’s, in Buckhead.

I peeked at my phone when it notified me of a Tweet. It was Traina’s social media staff member: “Hi Meredith! Any plans to write about our CA Sun Dried Tomato Ketchup? What did you think? Thanks!”

Oh heck. Yes, definitely; I’d delayed this for long enough, and I’d only refrain from writing about it if it wasn’t good. What the heck was I gonna eat this on??

“Definitely planning to write something, haven’t had a chance to try it yet. Any suggestions for a tasty combination?” I presumed it’d be word-worthy, but, for goodness sakes… what the heck was I gonna eat this on?

“Aside from elevating burgers, it is great on grilled cheese sandwiches….”

I don’t do ketchup on grilled cheese sandwiches, but what the heck? Why not….

The problem is the cheese. I’d made so many grilled cheese sandwiches for yesterday’s lunch that we hardly had enough left. So, I was stuck with the Boca….

…Which I grilled, set on sandwich bread with some mustard and fresh spinach, topped with Traina’s Sun-dried Tomato Ketchup….

Oh my gosh.

To call it “ketchup” is to really lower this condiment’s value significantly. “Ketchup” is what kids put on oily french fries and dry hamburgers and meatloaf and steaks and fried chicken strips and fish sticks to make them somewhat edible. “Ketchup” is what teenagers put on Kraft macaroni-and-cheese to give themselves more calories. “Ketchup” is what weirdos put on their grilled cheese sandwiches because… well, who understands why anyone would spoil a perfectly good grilled cheese sandwich with an overly-sweet tomato paste product – unless the “cheese” was oil-based American “cheese” slices?

This was not ketchup.

I found myself repeatedly squirting more of the rippling, textured tomato puree onto my plate, dipping my Boca burger again and again into the mound as I would dip corn tortillas into an addictively fresh salsa, the ‘ketchup’ making my veggie burger taste more like an Italian sangwich than the ordinary soy-burger I was used to eating. I’d put this stuff on Eggplant Parmesan as a quick sauce; it would surely do wonders for breaded veal or chicken cutlets with sautéed peppers and onions…. I bet I could even convince some of my Italian-American friends it was homemade…!

My mind kept rippling with ideas for this sauce: pasta, pizza or calzone sauce….

I don’t know how much I used as I reveled in it; I tried to remember as I somewhat guiltily read the back label to find the calorie content (20 cals/Tbsp), as I scanned the remarkably-simple list of ingredients, finding that only the use of corn syrup in the recipe made me start.

But the taste, the texture made the use of corn syrup forgivable; this stuff was amazing, especially if I ever needed a last-minute solution.

And to think, I gave away a bottle….

They must know how good it is, to have given me two.

By the way, don’t ask me where you can get it; I don’t know. I’d guess you could probably find it at Whole Foods and other gourmet food stores; but, with the friendliness of their social media staff, I’d suggest you just follow them on Twitter to find out more about this and other products by Traina.

Heck, “other products.” What else do you do right, guys?

***Please note: This is not a paid advertisement; the most I got out of this deal was two bottles of amazing so-called ketchup. Which I’ll be out of before I know it. And then I’ll have to buy it like the rest of you….

For The Love of Chicago-Style Pizza

He was like a little kid, leading me into the dark, underground restaurant where we were seated at a small, square table; his excitement overtook me. “Have you ever had Chicago-style pizza?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, feeling somewhat guilty for having never experienced this thing that so excited him. I opened the manilla menu covered with black print, searching for the answer to this obvious culinary delicacy that I’d somehow, in my naivety, missed.

He was undeterred: “It’s a deep-dish, stuffed pizza. They lay a crust on the bottom of the pan, fill it with tomato sauce and cheese and whatever you like, put another crust on top, like a pie, more tomato sauce and cheese…. It’s amazing.”

I could almost hear him salivating in his description, if such a thing is possible. His excitement slowly transfused into me; I groped for understanding. “Oh, kind of like Pizza Hut?” I asked, hoping.

“No, not at all. Their crust is somewhat fried and oily….”

The server interrupted, asking for our drink order.

Less than half-an-hour later, a small pan sat before me, filled with the obligatory baked dough and tomato sauce, cheese and spinach layered an inch-and-a-half thick, tucked beneath another crust with more sauce and cheese, the whole thing only six inches in diameter. There was no way I was going to finish this thing.

I dug my fork into the pan, pierced the layers with knife and pulled up strings of cheese, sauce, strands of spinach falling over the tines, layers of crisp and moist crust….

Overwhelmed with flavor, with the intensity of this steaming depth of pie, the experience of the best pizza I’d ever tasted rooted itself in my memory.

―

It was all I could talk about for years. We loved going out for pizza, starting in Montreal at the tiny shop where his friend served slices and fries; at the restaurant a few streets away where I first tasted poutine on a picnic table outside; at Pizza Hut on ‘the mountain’ in the middle of winter, where we’d devour an entire pizza between ourselves. There was no comparison in the experience; each pizza delicious, each place beautiful for itself, for the company, for the conversation, for the simplicity.

But I’d told him about the deep-dish pizza that plugged itself into my memory, wanting desperately to share this magnificent thing. He loved food, ate like a king when it was worthy; he would surely enjoy it.

I whined and begged for long years in Hamilton, wishing to him and to the universe for Chicago-style pizza, or at least a chance to take him to this experience somewhere in the North. Perhaps we’d even make it to Chicago, to taste the thing in its original.

―

We ordered out often enough, and tonight we wanted pizza. I had it in mind, as I always did, that I wanted that deep-dish delicacy, layers of sauce and cheese and stuffing. It dawned on me, at last: just check online. Just see.

What are the chances that Hamilton would have a Chicago-style pizzeria? I thought, my fingers typing.

―

The delivery guy came to the door, revealed from his red-fleshed envelope a white-and-red pizza box, and handed it to me. I was shocked at the weight, what must have been five pounds or more of meat and cheese and sauce. But it made sense: we’d found it.

Somehow, tucked into a brick building on Hamilton’s East Mountain, Chicago-Style Pizza (named just so obviously) existed, successful for years and seeming in no hurry to go anywhere. Except while on deliveries.

He paid, surprised that it shouldn’t cost any more for this insanity than for a single-crusted deep-dish pizza from Pizza Hut at a fraction of the weight.

The excitement of my finding overwhelmed me; we opened the box like two kids at Christmas. The scent of rich, spiced tomato billowed out, demanding.

We dug in, gorging ourselves incredulously.

―

It’s a thing of sharing, this pizza, this enormous luxury spilling over with love, spilling over into love, from one love to the next. There must be something to this style of pizza, something in the original creation of overabundance of love, like the overabundance of sauce and fillings and cheese, tucked into a crust to hold all of that great love in.

For the sharing continues from our love to our next loves and to our friends and family, always in excitement that never ceases, always celebrating in wonder and surprise this incredible, voluminous thing.

Creation Amidst Nothing

As soon as I could when I got back to Hamilton, I went to visit my friend’s used-and-vintage clothing boutique. She loves clothes, was formally trained and worked with high-end designers in Milan, and opened Hawk & Sparrow in Ontario’s steel town two years ago so she could run her own store. Aside from curating the city’s best selection of stylish clothing, she’s now designing, making and selling clothes and jewelry; and I found – and purchased – a silver-and-brass two-finger agate ring that rivals and even increases the beauty of my silver Swarovski bracelet (that, while I like it, cost four times as much as the ring and is far from being a genuinely unique piece).

Being back in Hamilton has been wildly creative for me. Perhaps it is the isolation from indulgences or inspiration from highly-creative friends, or perhaps being in a city that was founded on and steeped in production for so many years sets a standard for those living here.

Necessity being the mother of invention, such worn-down cities as Hamilton seem fantastic fodder for creatives: they have beauty in the raw, luxury is minimal and materials come cheap. Those with eyes to see and hearts willing to express themselves may find places like this a wonderland, even in its difficulty.

The can of Scottish steel-cut oats was tucked on the top shelf; autumn’s chill inspires in me a desire to begin the day with a bowl of hot oatmeal. I popped the lid open and found it still sealed; I’d wait to raid the cabinet until I’d talked to its owner.

We were inspired, playing off one another’s preferences and ideas, and the not-so-little-one piped in, too; the recipe was developed, in theory, at least, and I had the plan ringing in my ears. I couldn’t wait to try it.

What developed in the kitchen the next morning has become our favorite breakfast, a medly of unexpected flavors playing off one another that nourish well; we’re not hungry until late in the afternoon.

A bed of hot, creamy, cinnamon-and-clove-spiced oats holds a spoonful of ginger-lemon kale touched with a bit more cinnamon, drizzled with a bit of lemon-molasses syrup, topped with a warmed, candied, canned sardine and served with a heated lemon slice. Perfection. Gourmet flavors. At a minuscule price.

I was shocked at the first spoonful, at the range of flavors and textures that hit my palate: sour-creamy-salty-bitter-sweet; they continued and varied in intensity, bite after bite, layers of chewy oats and crunchy kale, pungent molasses and spicy ginger, of tender fish flesh melding in a way that commanded my attention and demanded addictive eating. Even when the bowl was finished and my appetite sated, I wished for more – to continue tasting the unique, unusual balance of a never-before-experienced-or-imagined meal.

Had I not made it myself, I’d have paid a good deal for this meal, as simple as it was. Had I not tasted it, experienced for myself the flavor balance of this savory-sweet breakfast, I might have scoffed at this twist on ordinary, sweetened oatmeal.

This was the genius of the chefs I’d watched on Top Chef and Chopped, the creative ability to come up with something incredible and unique with commonplace ingredients.

We’ve since experimented with cod liver, with tomato-chili-soaked sardines and with canned salmon; all are just as good, in their own ways.

One added benefit I personally love is the silkiness of my skin, now that my diet is rich with omega-3s from the fish and with silica from the oats.

I should note that my girlfriend, who does appreciate good food, is not crazy for this dish – so maybe it’s an acquired taste, or one for those with adventurous palates. I am, no doubt, of the latter.

Savory-Sweet Oatmeal with Ginger-Lemon Black Kale and Molasses-Candied Sardines

1 cup organic steel-cut oats

1 Tbsp olive oil

1/2 cinnamon stick

1 cup 2% or whole milk

3 cups filtered water

1/4 tsp sea salt

5 whole cloves

5 leaves organic black kale (or 3 leaves green kale, ribs removed), washed and chopped well

1×1.5-inch piece ginger, minced

1 Tbsp olive oil

2 Tbsp lemon juice

1/4 tsp ground cinnamon

dash salt

2 Tbsp filtered water

2 Tbsp blackstrap molasses

1 Tbsp brown sugar

1 Tbsp lemon juice

1 Tbsp butter, cold

4 slices fresh lemon

1 can sardines, drained (or tomato-chili sardines, or cod liver, or salmon)

In a medium-sized pot, combine milk and 3 cups water; heat over medium-high until simmering. Meanwhile, in a medium skillet, heat 1 Tbsp olive oil until hot. Cook cinnamon stick and cloves in oil until cinnamon uncurls; add oats and stir constantly until oats are toasted, golden and fragrant. When milk mixture is simmering, add oats and cinnamon stick; stir to combine. Cook on medium-low, stirring occasionally to keep oats from sticking to pot, for thirty minutes. Stir in 1/4 tsp salt. Then, using the handle of a wooden spoon, stir oats consistently for seven to ten minutes, until most of the liquid has been absorbed. Remove from heat.

While oats are cooking, wipe skillet clean with a paper towel. Add 1 Tbsp olive oil to skillet and heat over medium heat. Add minced ginger and cook for 1 minute. Add chopped kale, lemon juice, ground cinnamon and salt; sauté for 2-3 minutes or until kale is deeply green and wilted. Place mixture into a bowl and keep in reserve.

Divide cooked oatmeal into four bowls; spoon ginger-kale mixture on top of hot oats, splitting evenly.

Return skillet to medium-high heat and add 2 Tbsp water, whisking well to deglaze pan. Whisk molasses, brown sugar and lemon juice into water and cook, whisking constantly, for 30 seconds. Remove from heat and quickly whisk cold butter into the glaze. Drizzle approximately 1 teaspoon of molasses syrup over kale and oats in an X pattern.

Return skillet, with any leftover molasses syrup, to medium heat; heat fish and lemon slices in molasses for 15-30 seconds on each side, coating the fish and lemon lightly with the syrup. Lay fish and lemon slices on kale mixture* and serve immediately.

*If using cod liver, optionally drizzle any additional cod liver oil over the top for added nutrition.

Serves 4.

For the Love of Simple, Southern Cooking

I’m pretty lucky to have been raised in the South, where so many dishes are basic, simple to make, easy to recreate. I’m sure I learned to enjoy vegetables from the way my mother cooked them, steamed or boiled with nothing more than a little salt-and-pepper to enhance the flavors.

Mom must have figured out I had a good palate when I was a teenager, for I somehow earned the regular role of Taster of Mayonnaise-Based Sweet Dressings for cole slaw, carrot-raisin salad and apple salad – which are all essentially the same basic recipe with variations on the acidic ingredient – though, in proper form for someone in such a role, I created ‘rules’ for which acid went best with each salad.

I still love these rich, creamy, sweet salads with a hint of sour and so much crunch, and I was pleased to take over making both the dressings and the salads as I grew older. The trick, I learned, is to balance the creaminess of the mayonnaise with the sweetness of sugar (or whatever sweetener you’re using) and the bite of the acid. I started by using white vinegar or lemon juice, but have recently begun experimenting with apple cider vinegar because of its profound health benefits and presently wonder at the flavor complexity that lime juice might create.

My favorite cole slaw is super-simple: hand-shredded cabbage, grated carrots, a (very) little salt and pepper, and the dressing. And, though it’s good pretty much immediately (and sometimes far too hard to resist), I always like the salad best when it’s marinated for a day or two, after the carrots and cabbage start to soak up the vinegar, pickling just a bit.

Southern Cole Slaw, Meri’s Way

1/3 head cabbage

2 medium carrots (skins on), cleaned well

4 heaping Tbsp real mayonnaise

3 Tbsp apple cider vinegar

2 Tbsp white vinegar

5 Tbsp dark maple syrup

salt and pepper to taste

Using a chef’s knife, carefully shred the cabbage along the grain into 1/8 to 1/16-inch-thick lengths. Cut lengths into 4-inch pieces; place in a large mixing bowl. Grate carrots into bowl; toss with cabbage to distribute well. Season lightly with salt and freshly-ground pepper; toss again to mix.

In a small mixing bowl, add mayo, vinegars and syrup; whisk to combine. Taste and add, a teaspoon at a time, more mayo, vinegar and/or syrup to taste, whisking well between additions.

Pour dressing on slaw; toss and stir to coat. Taste for seasoning.

Cover bowl and let rest in refrigerator for up to two days; mix to coat at least once each day, and immediately before serving.

Serves 6-8

Un café, s’il vous plaît

There is something intensely social about coffee:

I remember an Arabic friend for whom I strived to make the perfect espresso, who told me the story of visits to his homeland, of drinking multiple cups of strong, black coffee poured ceremoniously for each man during gatherings.

I remember, as a youth, waiting with great groups of people outside of crowded, luxurious Austrian-style kaffehauses in Atlanta’s Buckhead and Dunwoody areas to sit with friends and sip hot cups of espresso-based beverages and nibble on tall cakes and rich pastries.

I remember spending late nights in chilled trucker-style diners, crowding three-to-each-bench with friends, drinking countless ounces of dark, watery, acidic liquid to warm myself with the cheap, bottomless cups.

And driving nearly an hour at least twice a week to low-lit white rooms while handsome twins cooed melodies to my sister, our friends and me as we sipped rich, bitter broth from large, matching, ceramic mugs.

I was never one to drink coffee alone, never brewed a pot or ran a cup from my rarely-used espresso machine unless someone shared with me. The Unmentionable Shops opened, quickly becoming a worldwide fad and taking so much clout from our pretty, artsy coffeehouses, yet I never went to drink alone; absently nibbling dark-chocolate-covered espresso beans while laughing, watching wondrously as the stage of five or six improv actors entertained a cafe of strangers who all felt like friends was far more addictive.

I’ve loved every eclectic coffeehouse I’ve ever entered for its potential, even in the cold of Cincinnati’s winter, even that bohemian, blue room and its droning spoken-word poets where I felt like I had stepped back in time, where my well-dressed friends and I were clearly overdressed and out-of-place.

Perhaps it was when I was alone that I stopped going to coffeehouses, when I stopped drinking coffee: after I dumped my boyfriend (or he dumped me; I’m still not sure), and when, returning to Atlanta, I found no one close with whom I wished to share such intimate things. I always claimed it was the aching belly I would have after the second or third cup, that it was the yellow-and-black diners’ white-and-black mugs of tannic acid that turned me from every single drop. But maybe I was wrong…

Since, after six years of swearing it off, it was in the company of three close friends that I returned.

“Are you sure you don’t want to have some?” he asked. “Here, try mine.”

“I don’t like it; it makes my stomach hurt,” I protested. And still I gave in: his cup looked, smelled so delicious, so richly tanned, so perfectly balanced in the pretty white cup of this opulent hotel restaurant. I lifted his cup delicately to my lips, sipped… and fell in love.

It was clear he loved his café whenever I saw him drink it, and clear now why he enjoyed every cup he sipped, whether from a diner or from a fine place such as this: he drank it like a prince and had the sensibility to distinguish whether it deserved to be drank or not.

He saw my face change subtly, saw the unspoken surprise, the acceptance. “Do you want one?”

“Yes. Please.”

In taking that small porcelain cup of heavenly-rich, creamy, sweet liquid, I suddenly felt a part of this group, taken into their realm of enjoyment, lifted to a higher plane of sensibility that included the ambiance and the conversation between these men. It was not that I did something that I did not wish, that I forced myself to fake belonging; but rather that I found my place again in something forgotten, discarded years before when it became unsatisfactory in every aspect.

My wealth was given back to me in this place, with these men, at this table, in this gesture – in my acceptance of this cup.

It surely seems silly, exaggerated, to think that a mere cup of joe could change so much. Even until this moment, I only peripherally felt, thought, knew it did. All I knew was that I was awake, that it was beautiful: that moment, that day, that place – that cup of coffee – and that I would drink it on occasion afterwards.

I do crave coffee now, from time-to-time; and I do go for it alone. But I think it is not the caffeine I desire, since I never suffer from its lack; nor even the taste, since I rarely get it quite right. I am even more sensitive now than ever to coffee’s effects, my heart pulsing and racing frighteningly if I drink an ever-changing and indistinct “too much.”

It is the experience of coffee that I crave: the social aspect, the craft of coffee-making, of serving coffee, the interaction of one human offering a simple pleasure for another, of one person enjoying a simple pleasure with another, wherein, I’ve learned, nuances can be so distinct. It is the act and gift of pure pleasure in commonplace things that makes even the caffeine rush so poignant and close, that makes coffee so good; that makes me yearn for every coffeehouse, for every friend with whom I’ve shared a cup; that makes me love coffee.

Arepa

This heat stirs memories in me of handsome men in linen suits and khaki shorts; of a long, hole-in-the-wall, easily-missed Venezuelan restaurant with roll-up garage door that lets sunshine and breezes flow through on the hot summer days of Queen Street West in Toronto.

We were all in Toronto for the day and I the luckiest girl in the world, with the most fantastic men who would ever exist: all three dark-haired and tall – though the youngest not yet as tall as he would be. We’d made a day of it, as we loved to do, taking the express GO bus from Hamilton to the city in comfort and speed, an hour-long trip where I’d cozied up to the tallest and broadest of the three in the seats before the two, and we’d happily turn our heads ‘round to converse with them from between.

It was a grand time, every moment we spent together. There was nothing so luxurious as strolling through the city with The Man Who Wore Suits, with Mr. Casual Philosopher and the young Sir Curls, and I, Blonde-and-Breezy, in one flowing summer dress or another. It was the thing films are made of, of which stories are told; and I lived it every day.

Mr. Casual took us through the city; he knew it best, had walked it hundreds of times and knew where this restaurant hid. From the columned train station of Front Street we walked, two-by-two in our little pack, my short legs keeping up only because I’d trained them in so many walks over the years. Amidst tall glass-and-steel skyscrapers catching light and reflecting it from one to another mirrored pane, lighting the wide column of asphalt and concrete that lay at our feet, we walked like no one else was there. One conversation or another took us as we strolled – then paused as something in the refracting light caught our Philosopher’s eye, and, swinging his bag from his back, he’d retrieve a black box-and-lens and catch gem after sparkling gem. He turned his box to us, sharing the pieces he’d found; then, just as easily: legs and speech flowed on, taking us deeper into the city.

It was always the best with him, made better still by the company of our handsome companions. We were a force like the wind, and just as casual, weaving around pedestrians and bikers and so many tourists. Up the east side of Queen from University we strolled, the sun blessing us, bronzing my bare shoulders and arms and the faces of all four. Through the crowded, narrowed sidewalks of Chinatown we meandered, where treasures flow like mounds of flowers from the stairs of shops, curiously enticing in their multitudinousness; where rich, salty scents tantalized from so many Asian restaurants like magical dragons flicking wily claws to pull me by the nose and beckon me to indulge in mounds of rice and saucy, vegetable-laden dishes.

My men are more enticing still and pressed on hard, unaffected, it seemed, unlike me. It was a hunt, every time with them; an adventure to a certain destination of which we sometimes only knew by the stopping of our feet. The walk was purposeful, deliberate; we did not linger, did not shop, did not browse in the bright stores we passed but kept on while the Philosopher chanted on and on in enlightening ways. It was ethereal, and we were all pulled by the others, by our will to be together, as one.

My eager eyes scanned everything, took in giant fashion icons in print looking down from the sides of buildings, punks with heavy black eyeliner, sporting tall Docs on their feet in this blistering heat, the vast plethora of beautiful and mediocre and ugly people crossing woven snakes of streetcar tracks at crosswalks.

Down Queen Street West we strode, past the chromed jazz club that always caught my eye and ear, past the blacked-out corner bar that felt like it could suck people in, past windows filled with rolls and layers of ornate fabrics draped over antique mannequins….

We were famished when we finally came upon the small chrome tables spilling out onto the sidewalk, and Mr. Casual announced we were there. The place was clean with plenty of seating around the meandering counter and the pretty dessert case filled with imported pop and sweet things. We sat down and he ordered for us: fried cassava with guasacaca and tequeños.

Long, thick wedges of golden yucca sprouted from a paper cup, so hot I singed my fingers as I gingerly lifted and lowered one into the cool, green dip. Guasacaca is thinner than guacamole and tastes more of lime; the cassava was addictively similar to potatoes but less starchy and more densely fibrous, with none of the sick feeling one has after consuming the equivalent of french fries. I singed my palate badly on that first delicious bite, then helplessly blew billowing steam from the wide wedge of root dangling from between my thumb and forefinger. I wanted more; it tasted so good – and suddenly, the heat of the day was indistinct, imperceptible on account of the superior heat between my digits. I couldn’t wait; I gobbled it up and kissed my pinkened fingertips, watching the guys go in for more.

The little cheese pies were cooled; I lifted one and took a bite, two bites and it was gone, melted cheese between baked half-moon crust being just too tasty to savor for long after such a walk. Making short work of these, Sir Curls and I stepped to the Venezuelan girl at the counter and ordered something new. Pabellan arepa for the guys and pabellon veggie arepa for myself.

I was brought a dish with fresh, sliced avocado, white rice and black beans, and a round bread that looked like a dense corn tortilla – an arepa. The boys found my meal bland, but I loved it. It was like Mom’s Southern cooking when I grew up: simple, basic, nourishing, and tasty in its forthright healthiness. The arepa was my favorite (after the buttery avocado, of course), somewhere between soft and dense; it was cornmeal-based, of course, like cornbread, but softer and less airy, and certainly not sweetened – just like Southern cornbread. White cornmeal was used, just as in true Southern cooking; it was like home, but exotic in its unique way. I was in the South, but deeper South than my home; and I imagined myself to eat such things happily in the company of red-skinned, dark-haired people with wide eyes and full smiles.

My own dark-haired loves ate their pulled beef happily, relinquished the comparatively-bland arepa to me; and the Philosopher took up his speech again, remarking on new inspiration from this place. I sipped iced lemonade from a glass, felt cool breezes caress the singed waves of my shoulders and my back… and relaxed easily into happiness.

Violette et Lavande

I’ve always longed to taste French cuisine.

Violette

There’s such romance about it in books and movies, and such depth in French music, such perfected passion in everything French that I’m sure I long ago deduced that such lovers of elegance and finery and enticement must surely have infused all of such ways into their cooking, too.

My favorite way to eat was romantically-inspired: a torn baguette and some cheese, served on a plate with fresh fruit and olives or other nibbles. My first, and still favorite, alcoholic beverage was Cognac, warmed and sipped from a snifter – having read of it in some long-forgotten book. My favorite music is French, especially from the ‘50s and ‘60s: I adore the painful melodies sung richly by Jacques Brel and the lilting parodies rolled off the tongue of Georges Brassens; my favorite author is Victor Hugo, whose stories reach deeply into the greys of life, of right-and-wrong; and my favorite films are French: wave-like rhythms full of life and love in Claude Lelouch’s beautifully-crafted tales and in the warm camaraderie of Brel and his compatriots in L’aventure, c’est l’aventure.

I’ve dreamed of déjeuner in the fields outside Paris, of lost roads amidst old vineyards, of rich wines the likes of which my palate has never tasted.

And have never been to France, had never tasted authentic French cuisine.

Upon my return to Atlanta, my mother advised a visit to a French restaurant on Clairmont where she and my father enjoyed an anniversary dinner a few years ago. I was surprised: what true Southerner could have a taste for French food when the South is known for simplicity and good, honest fare? Skeptical yet curious to test my beliefs, I saved the idea for another time.

We found the square, concrete building easily, just across from the exit off of I-85 S. My friend, wishing to take me for a nice lunch, knew of Violette but had never eaten there; I was surprised to find a French restaurant in such a modern – yet plain – building. Stepping inside, I was enchanted by high ceilings and a lovely, long bar running the length of the foyer, beautiful and opulent, even if not ornate. We were greeted with a genuine smile by a tall, handsome gentleman; I immediately felt spoiled and wealthy, appropriate and appreciated for my vintage caramel-colored suede pencil skirt and matching caramel suede ankle boots by Michael Kors.

The dining room was nearly filled with pretty people pleasantly conversing in quiet, happy tones that somehow didn’t overwhelm the ambience despite the possibility in a room with high ceilings and no music. We were seated perfectly in a quiet corner near the front where I felt comfortably private enough to enjoy the company of my companion while still observing the goings-on of the room.

It was so lush, though sparsely decorated: the dark-wood tables and chairs contrasted beautifully with grey walls, floor-to-ceiling windows filled the room with sunlight and French doors enticingly displayed a long, planked patio and small wooded patch that begged a glass of white wine and warmer weather.

I ordered a sparkling rosé to begin, sipped it while we nibbled fresh pumpernickel rolls and sweet cream butter. I mused over our waiter, a well-mannered middle-aged gentleman with a distinctively French accent: could he really be from France, or was he originally Moroccan or from some French-colonized island? His quiet, polite way impressed me, and I wondered how long he’d been in the city.

Tomato Ragout

Our lunch came before long; I enjoyed Polenta avec Crêpe Tulipe, a ruffled, toasted-crepe bowl of roasted-tomato ragout decorated with two triangles of olive-and-goat-cheese polenta paired with a glass of Bordeaux across from my friend’s Boeuf Bourguignon and Cabernet. The polenta was regrettably stale and the ragout, while tasty, was not quite hot, but I enjoyed it nonetheless and ate well, savoring the play of tender-crisp zucchini and rich tomatoes, sure from previous experience working in fine restaurants that this dish may be astounding on another day with other staff on the line; my friend assured me his meal was superb. Most remarkable, I found, was the simplicity of both dishes, easily produced yet accentuated by presentation, something I could easily and impressively produce at home.

The number of guests thinned out, but I was enjoying myself too much to leave this pretty room before ordering une café and the house specialty: Crème Brûlée à la Lavande. The coffee was excellent, rich, dark; the cremé brûlée was a perfect delight and an utter surprise. Crisp, brittle, toasted sugar laid atop a dense, mellow cremé with flecks of lavender throughout, wafting delicate floral scents as I lifted the tiny spoonfuls to my lips.

Each tender bite was a complete moment to be adored, every sensation was pure love: from cracking the thin, caramelized crust to discovering the tenderness beneath to the perfection of flavors melding, melting upon my palate and alighting my senses with the complexity of textures, flavors, scents, the dish was a composition of joy.

We shared it, of course; and I was blessed with the final spoonful, as is suitable with a lady and a gentleman.

I finished my coffee in silence, ruminating over the past minutes and hours, then indulged in more; it was so deliciously bitter after the sweet creaminess of our dessert. I came to learn from our excellent waiter that he was, indeed, from France, living in Atlanta with his American wife and blessing Violette with his fluid ways and pleasant demeanor for the past number of years.

This is the way to eat, certainly, I thought as I sipped coffee and watched tables around the room dressed with crisp, white linens for the coming dinner service. Quietly, with friends – as I had dined, as those around me had dined; with gentlemen and lady servers who come and go with a whisper; with at least one unforgettably delightful aspect – this is truly the way to eat.

At Violette, I’d enjoyed so many unforgettable aspects, so many memorable moments touched – and finished – with the romance of France, infused into every last thing.

Vanity & Inspiration

I’ve always been shamelessly vain. I quit playing the viola while in middle school, despite my parents’ and teacher’s assurances that I was skilled, because I didn’t want callouses on my fingers. I’ve never colored my hair (aside from occasional sun-bleaching with a little lemon in the summer) because I love my amber-golden tresses and don’t want to lose my natural color and highlights. I rarely wear make-up, too, resulting in fresh, youthful skin that’s hassle-free.

Despite this, I’ve always been fairly modest about my skills.

Until now, it seems.

Though the idea of writing about my own food concoctions seemed a touch too vain, a bit too self-glorifying, I found today’s salad a masterpiece.

The idea for it came from utility: I needed something to eat, wanted something healthy that would boost my metabolism, and we have a boxful of salad greens in the ‘fridge of which I’ll be the greatest consumer.

Grabbing the box of greens, I discovered a small container with a few boiled new potatoes from a previous dinner; my mind flashed to one of the best salads I’ve ever eaten: potatoes in a creamy mayonnaise-and-dijon dressing nested on a salad of greens, over which lay a warm side of trout with dripping maple glaze….

Skip the mayo; I have no need of something so fatty, this afternoon. And skip the trout, since I haven’t any; I’ll poach some eggs, instead.

Three handfuls of clean, organic spring greens into a metal mixing bowl, a pot of water-and-vinegar heating on the stove and the inspiration starts to take form.

Hemp hearts, yes; they’re always good in salads. And pine nuts, and… ah-yes! Dried apricots, since I adore dried fruits in my salads, which I discovered at local salad shop while in high school.

Olive oil in the small cast-iron pan as the base of the vinaigrette, I toss in a good handful of pine nuts while small air bubbles start to stick to the sides of the pot nearby. Quarter the apricots and toss them in quickly, stir well, and realize they’re browning with the pine nuts far more quickly than I’d anticipated….

Inspired recipes are never precise, though we grow used to measuring carefully through cookbooks. Let the ingredients flow like ideas; timing and heat comes only with instinct and watchfulness.

In goes the honey, a quick stir as it starts thickening, caramelizing; a good splash of apple cider vinegar and the inevitable sizzle rises, lifting sweetly-sour scents from the pan. Stir it quickly and turn off the heat; it’s time to poach the eggs while the dressing cools a smidge.

I drop the eggs, separately, into almost-boiling water, pour and toss the dressing on the greens. A sprinkle of love (aka, salt and pepper – but I like it hot, so chili pepper it is), toss, taste and gauge…: Needs something. Ginger; I recall a friend who loves ginger. A dash of ground ginger tossed in, taste again: Mmmmmm…..

Onto a plate goes the salad; greens, having risen to the top in the bowl, lay the foundation for the salad on the plate with pine nuts, apricots and potatoes piled on top.

Eggs are finally done; I scoop the perfect white mounds from the water, set on top of the pile of goodness and give them a final sprinkling of sea salt and chili powder. It looks delicious.

My vanity does not set in yet, even though the salad looks delicious. One can’t know, until one finally eats the whole meal, whether it was success or failure. It is pretty, though, so I take a photo….

And sit down to eat.

The meal hits me like I’m in a restaurant: the eggs are the perfect texture, poached at medium, spilling golden yolk onto the salad while maintaining their shape as I cut bite-sized pieces with the edge of my fork. I know this idea: Earth-to-Table’s Jeff Crump speaks in my memory of a type of salad we served in which the yolk becomes part of the dressing; it occurs that, mixed with this sweet-and-spicy vinaigrette, the creamy-rich yolk will be bliss, making up for the mayo I forsook.

Tender, pure egg whites bear the chili powder beautifully; there is no taint to cover the slightly-smoky flavor or the singeing heat, except the small curve of barely-firmed yolk. Bites of barely-wilting greens become necessary; I desire the dressing, the crunch of greens, of young spinach and chard and bitter radicchio , the nutty hemp hearts and toasted tender pine nuts, the caramelized flesh of dried apricots giving between my teeth.

I’m quickly addicted: waves of sweetly-dressed bitter greens overtake my palate, washed away with clean, tart vinegar to reveal to my tongue a warming chili-heat that lingers and grows in intensity so long as the sweet waves do not crest upon my tongue again. It tastes like spring on the beach: cool, sweet, tempting, and gradually warmer so long as one stands in the sun.

I can’t wait to share it; it matters no longer whether I’m vain or not – as it never seems to matter, in matters of true vanity with me; the truth is in the result.

And it seems that, in truth, the inspiration isn’t so vain; it hasn’t come from me. I owe this dish to my friends, to my teachers, to the restaurants where I’ve served and eaten; it’s the culmination of experiences and knowledge shared by so many with me.

So, I share this with you, if you should like to taste my version of the coming warmth, of my long-ago seeded mind: my inspiration of spring.

And hope you’ll enjoy, as I couldn’t help but enjoy. And share.

Meri’s Spring Salad Inspiration

Serves One – Two

2 Fresh Eggs

2 Tablespoons White Vinegar

3 large handfuls Organic Spring Salad mix

½ cup New Potatoes, boiled, chilled and quartered

¼ cup Organic Hemp Hearts

¼ cup Olive Oil

¼ cup Amber Honey

¼ cup Apple Cider Vinegar

3 Tablespoons Pine Nuts

12 Dried Apricots, quartered

1/8 -¼ teaspoon Chili Powder, plus more for sprinkling

1/8-¼ teaspoon Ground Ginger Powder

Ground Celtic Sea Salt

For Poached Eggs:

Fill a medium-sized pot with water, 2-3 inches from top. Add white vinegar; bring to a light boil. When water is boiling lightly, crack 1 egg into a small bowl or dish; then, bringing the bowl just above the water’s surface, carefully pour egg into the water. Repeat for additional egg(s), leaving at least 1 inch between each egg. Lower heat and simmer carefully for about 7 minutes.

For Salad:

Place greens into a large mixing bowl. Add quartered potatoes and hemp hearts; set aside and prepare vinaigrette.

For Vinaigrette:

Place a small frying pan (preferably cast iron) on medium-high heat; add olive oil and heat for about 30 seconds. Add pine nuts and cook until just turning golden, stirring constantly. Add quartered apricots; continue stirring until pine nuts are richly golden. Add honey; cook and stir for about 30 seconds or until mixture starts to thicken. Add apple cider vinegar; allow spattering to settle somewhat (about 5-10 seconds) and stir well. Cook and stir for 1 minute; remove from heat and cool for about 3-4 minutes.

Pour vinaigrette onto salad mixture; sprinkle 1/8 tsp each chili powder and ginger, add sprinkling sea salt; toss well to coat. Taste for seasonings; add more as desired and toss again.

When seasonings are to your liking, pour salad onto plate(s), ensuring potatoes, nuts and apricots are well-distributed between plates if serving more than one.

Using a slotted spoon, gently remove poached eggs from the water bath and allow to drain; gently arrange egg(s) on top of the salad(s). Sprinkle each egg with a dash of salt and chili powder.

Serve and enjoy!

Being a Beer Babe: Better Bitters Beer School and Maple Porter Floats

In all the days of my youth, I’m sure no one guessed that one day I’d advocate beer. I disliked beer, couldn’t stand the stench of it: sour and bitter on the breath, always reminiscent of my grandfather’s perpetual Budweiser that silently upset my grandmother and both my parents, that made him unpleasantly curt though he thought he had wit. Beer was only good for boiling crabs, Grandpa taught me; and for that skill and sailing, he made me proud.

…My gall, when I’m interested, knows no bounds. Especially when I meet someone as sweet and engaging as John Romano of Ontario’s Better Bitters Brewery, located just up the street from the restaurant where I worked last year.

We sold scores of craft beers in Burlington’s Red Canoe Bistro; Chef / Owner Tobias Pohl-Weary is passionate about fare originating in Canada, and beers are no exception. Or, perhaps, they ARE the exception: he carries nothing but craft beers in his fine-dining restaurant. Getting to know the beer and wine selection was an implicit part of serving there; he and his award-winning sommelier, Sharon Correia, prided themselves on selecting the best that Ontario, and Canada, had to offer.

During a tasting with the Chef and Sharon for Red Canoe’s forthcoming Beer School, John – and his beers – changed my heart. John takes his role as owner of Better Bitters seriously: he brought several new brews – a Saison (yet unnamed), Naughty Neighbor (an APA) and Bolshevik Bastard (Imperial Stout) – in addition to their very-popular Green Apple Pilsner, Headstock IPA, Organic Lager and seasonal Maple Porter to be paired with the Chef’s choice of food. John is enthusiastic about his product, bursting with energy; he can’t wait to talk about the various notes to expect and the brewing methods, and is quick to offer a suggestion for new recipes made with his beers. He’s brewed and helped others brew for most of his life, between assisting his grandfather as a youth and opening his brew-your-own facility with his brother, Pete.

I was quite the beer novice when I encountered John; I only really knew and very occasionally enjoyed Toronto’s Mill Street Organic with its crisp, clean finish or Creemore Springs Premium Lager, a rich, amber beverage with creamy head and faintly-bitter notes; though I was lucky enough to try a couple intriguing pints (a Red Ale and a Mocha Porter) from northern Ontario’s Lake of Bays Brewery while working the Niagara Food and Wine Show. But Nickel Brook beers (the trade name for Better Bitter’s brews) completely surprised me: apple beer that smelled, tasted so much of fresh apples that I could probably drink the stuff like juice while enjoying the soft buzz of brew. And Maple Porter with bitter chocolate and coffee, malty vanilla and caramels that opened smoothly as it warmed, filling my mouth with strong flavors long after I sipped? Uncanny. I even enjoyed the citrus-hoppiness of Headstock IPA, a beer both refreshing and strong, and enticingly bitter without being overpoweringly so. These were not my grandfather’s Bud, nor could they be drunk with the casualness of one.

Having paid attention to complaints of John’s events-packed schedule, thinking to learn what I might from him while on one of the brewery tours, and planning to buy a case or two of their beers to sample over dinner at my sailor-friend’s boat, I plotted in my mind to chat with John again.

Within two weeks, my plan was sealed: John was working the VIP tent at Burlington’s Sound of Music Festival, the country’s largest free music fest. After a long day at the Red Canoe, I made my way to the VIP tent, where Tobias’ fare delighted artists and musicians and, as one of his staff, I gained entrance for a post-shift pint. I’d run into John already on my way down; he instructed me to tell his boys to pour whatever I wished.

Such are the perks of working events, easy to abuse, should one be inclined. For me, though, it was a chance to taste.

Hours later, two beers down and a pizza shared with John’s lovely and equally-charming wife, I found myself agreeing to drive a van the following morning to Toronto for the last day of a craft-beer-and-rib-fest. I couldn’t believe my luck!

The best way to learn about anything is to get in tight with those of that kind. John and his wife, their staff and friends are all passionate beer-lovers, more than just beer-drinkers. They love every step of the process, from grain to drain; and it is as intoxicating to me to listen to them talk as it is for others to savor beer-after-beer.

And there’s something special that happens particularly between craft beer-sellers that most people probably don’t realize happens while working rib-fests and other such events: Those poor souls pouring beer-after-beer through heat and rain, those guys-and-gals selling rack-after-rack of grilled-and-slathered meats do it because there’s nothing like it, nothing like the exchange between vendors of tales, nothing like the behind-the-scenes bartering system that happens quite naturally, nothing like the innate friendships that grow when working towards the same end. We all become friends, especially between breweries.

It was at that first brew-fest that I finally enjoyed Beau’s, the brewery nestled beside mine, with their fresh, unfiltered beers, and met the cute blonde girl and the brewer from Ottawa who looked after me while I was alone. It was there that I fell in love more deeply with Flying Monkeys, whose grapefruity Hoptical Illusions and rich Netherworld Cascadian Dark Ale tantalized me on tap at a previous restaurant job, sealing my love for IPAs; whose striking beer babe held me in wonder with her clean-shaven head, enormous eyes and conspicuous confidence. Several other microbreweries stood to the left, but, knowing little of them, now smitten by Beau’s brews and Flying Monkeys’ babe with greater gall than mine, I took to the slow enjoyment of my beverage and let them fade into the recesses of my awareness.

Pete Romano arrived, and we hit it off; chatted through the remainder of the rather slow day, nibbled trades from the rib shacks between pours for patrons and their enthusiastic conversations; until I was finally indoctrinated in the art of the beer float.

Yes, you read correctly: Beer. Float.

I don’t know any other brewery that claims such a thing is possible, much less delectable – unless they’ve tried Nickel Brook’s beer floats. Maple Porter is my favorite, but the Apple Pilsner Float is pretty tasty, too.

Ridiculous as it may seem, here’s what you do: Take a hefty scoop of vanilla ice cream, partly thawed. Drop it into a tall glass. Carefully pour over it a tasty beer – preferably something with some unusual notes like caramel or coffee or mocha or rum… or apple (or any other kind of fruit, really); stir carefully, sip and enjoy.

Pete had me taste my first Maple Porter Float, his eyes twinkling expectantly as he watched me spoon the dark liquid pool surrounding white hill of frozen cream into my mouth for the first time. I’m fairly sure I moaned or something; I know for sure I dove back in for more, shocked pleasurably by the delightful combination of vanilla-chocolate-caramel-mocha-crème. I could eat these all day, and not a bite of anything else.

To say I was an advocate is an understatement. I became an angel.

We couldn’t sell them at this event, so we blessed the line of breweries with sweet treats that sent them rushing back for more.

Nothing makes me happier than making others happy, and this was surely the thing. Beer plus ice cream; what could be better, even if absurd?

So, in the end of my first beer-fest, my grandfather’s habit turned ‘round in me: beer became a thing of joy, of unity, of togetherness, of pleasure and delight; not an escape, but an awakening.

I couldn’t wait for more.

Mysteries In Plain View

I’d never peg my mom as the “foodie” type: She starts each day with a Diet Coke, munches popcorn for dinner when my dad’s out of town, and thinks nothing of eating at the same few restaurants whenever she goes out.

It was, therefore, with great skepticism and surprise that tonight I found myself enjoying the second of her restaurant recommendations since my return: Park Café in my hometown of Duluth, Georgia.

We were nothing but an old Southern pre-Civil-War town when I grew up, almost a hick-town, dotted with farm lands amidst thick woods of pine; a sleepy little town with elementary, middle and high schools within a few short miles of one another. And, in the midst of “downtown” Duluth: Parson’s Gift Shop, Ace Hardware Store, Ted’s Fruit Stand and the railroad track running straight through from which the late-night trains’ blaring horns sang all the way to my bedroom window.

The library where I once researched the anatomy of flowers is now a consignment furniture store, and in the pretty white house across the street – one I always knew to be historic but never knew why – a Canadian chef runs Park Café.

This summer, the wide wrap-around porch of the old Knox House will surely be glorious with overhanging arbors and pristine views of vast green lawns in the new town square. But this cool Southern winter eve was at least as enchanting from the moment we walked up the cobblestone path to the whitewashed stairs lit by oil lamps and into the fairy-lit foyer acting as bar and hostess station.

One doesn’t quite know how deep this house goes, nor the number of tables within, from this vantage; and the usual din of conversing couples is equally obscured. So, arriving early for our reservation – which we found from a previous lunch attempt absolutely necessary – forced us to enjoy the quiet solitude of Old Duluth from high stools at the marbled bar while the owner-turned-bartender suggested glasses of wine, shared easily in our love of sports cars, and conversed with the regulars who followed us in.

With no organic wine in the house (which they used to carry, but patrons wouldn’t buy – “It is Duluth,” I conceded), our host offered me tastings of his Old-World wines, uncorked an unopened bottle of 2010 Calina Carménère and poured. I was impressed: this is clearly a small place and might not go through much wine-by-the-glass, yet he pulled out the bottle without a thought.

The nose was ripe, full, sharply-fresh and resplendent of cherries, blueberries, blackberries. I was unsure of my tolerance for this wine, at first scent, its bite catching in my sinuses; but the acidity lingered more on my palate than grating my throat, and I knew this wine would do.

We ordered the bottle.

The tiny front dining room sat only twenty-two at its six linen-covered tables and we enjoyed a four-top by the door, near a small, original closet that wouldn’t quite stay shut. “I love re-purposed old houses,” my companion remarked, and I agreed, appreciating the painted, wooden-slatted walls, richly re-finished hardwood floors and obviously original setting of the window.

We turned our attention to the single-sided menu, offering plenty of choices for my pescetarian diet and plenty more for carnivores; opted quickly for the house-specialty, Fried Green Tomatoes with warm brie and candied pecans drizzled with bacon-balsamic emulsion.

Bacon-! My diet is neither fixed-in-stone nor ideologically-based, thank goodness; and the appetizer was simply addictive.

The stack of five crispy, piping-hot tomatoes layered intermittently with brie and smothered with a rich, sweetly-sour, reddish-brown sauce lasted only as long as it did because we’d both scalded our palates on the first bites – yet we continued rapturously. Sips of red wine managed the temperature, but I, for one, wanted nothing to taint the remarkable contrasts of crunch-and softness of the breaded fresh tomato and sour-and-sweetness of tomato-balsamic-and-candied pecans.

It was over before I knew it; I could have eaten an entire plate on my own – or two plates, even. But I’d only just begun.

The mains came: potato horseradish salmon with braised spinach and my very full plate of sweet corn risotto with a generous filet of tilapia bedecked in shrimp and burre blanc.

Over reminiscent tales of sailing Southern seas and shrimp-and-fish feasts of yore, we ate; the mellow white tilapia melded so well with creamy corn risotto, the crisp pan-fried crust gave just the right contrast every bite-or-so as to hold me spellbound by its delicate flavors and demand a conscious effort to force me from my reveries and back to my friend’s words.

The night so far was bliss, and, had we not spoken a word to one another, I’d have been as pleased.

Pouring wine between us, I relinquished this entrée; it was an enormous portion that I’d have to enjoy again later.

And there was dessert to consider; a must, after this fare, with which the café claimed a right to me.

The final glass of Carménère and dessert choice left to me, I ordered the only pair-able sweet: the Chocolate Ganache Tart.

Our friends from earlier in the evening – the couple who followed us in – I found sitting at the table next to ours. Presenting their opinion of the dessert menu and recommending the ganache, the elderly couple reminded me of the sweet pleasantness and comfortable affability of Southern-bred folk. I was as cozy as could be, and well-fed; had I been any more, I’d have been in my Great-Aunt Teal’s home in South Georgia.

The ganache was stunning: thick and glossy, richly-brown and speckled with flecks of sea salt, a puddle of chocolate held firm in a wide mouth of rippled pastry. It was a dream just to behold, and we could barely wait to sink into it our spoons.

It was… the perfect pair. The perfect finish. The perfect dream of richness, perfectly-balanced chocolate smoothness with a hint of salt – the only way I truly enjoy chocolate – married with a substantial-but-tender crust, and made simply divine with sips of Calina’s berries lilting playfully in my mouth.

I needed little of this treat, and took little, chattering happily about I-don’t-know-what. (Politics, I think; and passion.)

The last bite was mine, finished with the last sip of my well-made espresso; and the place was nearly empty.

We stepped from our table and back into the foyer, where we found chef, owner, manager and other staff gathered comfortably at the bar, enjoying the spoils of their evening. The sight was as warming to me as had been all of this evening, comfortably reminiscent of happy times with dear friends in Canada after long evenings of serving others good food.

Curiously, it all makes sense. The simple elegance of Park Café is a harmonious marriage of cultures: through Southern-inspired French cuisine in a renovated heritage house, Chef-Owner Michael Ganley and his head chef blend European culinary techniques with American soul food, pragmatic Canadian business sense with American charm, and serve it in an antique setting tinted with modern style.

The place and food are lovely, and have won my heart.

Epilogue

…My mother served a teriyaki stir-fry with quinoa last night, to my father’s gentle censure; he prefers meals he knows with ingredients he knows, in ways he’s grown to enjoy.

And, in our mutual enjoyment of this new twist on a simple dish, I understand her a little better, and think she might be a little more “foodie” than I’ve ever known.

Tawse vs. Toxins

Don’t try to convince me that pain is not a means of temptation. My body says differently.

In the last forty-eight hours, I’ve suffered such pain that I want only what is good, delicious, healthy, clean, pesticide-free. The thought of anything less turns my stomach.

You see, I’m very allergic to chemicals. Don’t get the stuff near me, in spray or concentrate, on foods, and especially not steeped in beverages such as beers or – worst of all – in wines.

I learned of my allergy fourteen years ago, while I was cleaning houses to make extra money. I thought nothing of cleaning without latex gloves; I had cleaned my house, growing up, without them, why should I need them now?

But the sprays I used on bathroom tiles started stinging my sinuses painfully, and my hands would soon break out in tiny pimple-like rashes that would itch and burn for three weeks at a time within an hour of using even the “mildest” of household cleaning products – whether I later wore latex gloves or not. It was hard to breathe, being near such chemicals; my throat would close, and I’d have coughing fits.

I stopped using them, whenever possible, opting instead for benign combinations of white vinegar and baking soda, and lemon juice to clean and disinfect.

Eventually, chemical-free products were developed; apparently, I wasn’t the only one being affected.

Never, though, did I consider that foods, wines, beer could have the same effects upon me. Not foods, and certainly not the things people laud as culinary delights.

I was sure it was just me, just my inexperienced palate that was the reason for my distaste of beers, wines when I’d sip one while my girlfriends raved, and I would taste – not the exquisite beverage they adored – but sharp abrasiveness that made my throat clench involuntarily when I swallowed.

It was me. I was convinced, it was just me.

So, I stayed away from wines, both red and white; both had the same effect, caused my shoulders to tense, elicited a shudder of revulsion when I dared put the sharp liquid past my wincing palate.

Still, I’d test, sample, try; I worked in restaurants, after all. It was expected that we know something about wines.

And they did get such renown, there had to be something to it.

Then came the Tawse tour. The group of us drove along Niagara’s escarpment, six girls plus Brian: our host, tour-guide, educator, and local rep from the country’s finest winery.

I’m always crazy for men of passion; I can’t wait to learn everything they know, to hear all that they can share with me. I revert to the girl I was in school with such men, rapt and spellbound by all their wondrous teachings. (It is usually men, these days, who put me in such states; the women I’ve met are generally so wrapped-up in their own worlds that they have no time for passions beyond themselves.)

And I was spellbound by Brian’s tale of the Niagara escarpment, of the layers of limestone that were once creatures of the great ocean covering all of the land around and melding the Great Lakes into one huge body. I was thrilled to learn about terroir, to understand how wineries seek to cultivate their vines by forcing them to grow their roots deep into the soil, into the limestone and minerals to find new sources of water over spans of time, to begin to understand how such minerals make the grapes more distinctly flavorful, rich, voluminous in texture though not necessarily in yield.

It started to come together for me, that such land was precious to wineries; I started to comprehend the necessity and desire for precise locations that would shield the vines from weather too harsh, yet would force the plants to work to produce plump grapes that would eventually become magnificently-balanced, richly-flavored wines.

I was, of course, the nerd of the group – Brian excluded.

He handed us a rosé, and we walked around the sloped grasses to the strings of vines. I almost winced at my glass; I had no desire for the pink thing; it would surely rip at my palate abrasively, or coat it in syrupy sweetness.

I sipped.

I blinked, astonished. Sipped again.

What was this? Not wine as I knew it in any form.

It was too good, this flowery flavor, sweet-and-not, dry-and-not, filling my cheeks with refreshing, mellow minerals and faintly-fruity notes, making me wish to sip again and again.

As we headed to the first level of the gravity-flow building, I dropped my pace to walk with him and asked: “What is it about this that is so different from all the other wines I’ve ever tasted? It doesn’t sting-!”

He smiled, subtly proud, and gave me an inadequate response that I quickly forgot, dismissed. There was something different here; I needed to know what it was.

We sampled eight more wines that day: three whites and four reds, finished with an ice-wine.

Through each, I expected the typical abrasiveness, the gag-reflex in the back of my throat that told me definitively that I was an inexperienced wine-drinker, that I’d never understand this art, that I was and would always be a child.

It never happened.

Brian talked us through a Riesling (a wine I had already discovered at the restaurant as utterly palatable to me, yet relegated to the realm of isolated instances, in my mind) and two Chardonnays, surprising me with my ability to not only taste the flavors before he suggested them, but with my capacity to enjoy them-!

The reds would be awful, I was certain. Reds are always awful; must be the tannins, I’m always told.

He poured the Pinot Noir, a pretty, twinkling garnet color. Maybe this was easier to drink because of its lightness in color, texture, flavor. Maybe it didn’t have the same strong tannins; it was the dark-red wines I don’t like, I decided.

I braced for the Merlot, commented to my friend beside me that I don’t like Merlots. I watched as everyone else sipped from their glasses, hummed in enjoyment as I winced expectantly; oh, I really hate Merlots….

I sipped anyway.

I was astounded by the roundness of this flavor, the fullness it produced in my cheeks, the drying texture on my gums near my teeth. And, most astonishing: the liquid passed my palate in all smoothness, leaving a heavenly breath of berries, dark chocolate….

I demanded of Brian again: “What is this? Why,” I asked emotionally, “does this not hurt my palate like every other red wine??”

He gave me his eyes. “The winery is organic, and bio-dynamic. We use no pesticides on the grapes but what come naturally from the land around them. We use chickens to eat the bugs, and sheep to trim the low-hanging leaves, and their manure fertilizes the soil.”

This was the answer that I sought. I swirled my glass again, breathed in deeply, enjoyed at last the scents from this perfect wine… and drank.

I did not want to waste a drop of this, or any glass following. I swirled, swished, breathed, sucked, sampled, tasted every glass poured for the rest of the afternoon, unafraid.

There are reasons for our distaste in things; we are not as mad as we may believe.

It turns out that my maternal grandmother was so allergic to pesticides that she had to abandon her farm for most of the day, until they had settled; was so intolerant of petroleum-based products that she could not wear garments made with elastic or polyester. It turns out that something of this was passed to me.

So, coming upon a New Zealand-made wine two nights ago and mistaking it for something that might be safe for me to drink, I consumed but a glass and a half, inducing two days-worth of pain and agony, making me averse to anything even remotely unnatural.

Red wines, of course, are the worst: seemingly-innocent grapes are fermented on their pesticide-coated skins for days and weeks, steeping the juice in all that makes wine crimson – and passing on what is, to me, toxic.

It’s likely toxic to you, too, you know. You just don’t have the allergic reactions I have; your head doesn’t rip within a quarter of an hour after being tainted.

But, do you really need it to?

A Touch of Madness (Or: Some Things Are Better Off Alone, Part Two)

Continued from Twitterpation (Or: Some Things Are Better Off Alone, Part One)

The brilliant thing about being ignored for the bulk of one’s life is that you have so much time and space to develop yourself, to give great attention to all the little things that strike your fancy, that take your heart. Fortunately for me, my wildest passions are interdependent with those of truly great artists; and some of the greatest artists existent in our age are chefs, brewmasters, winemakers, distillers of spirits. Perhaps it is because this is wherein our gratitude lies.

The two previous bourbons set me to giddiness with their individual degrees of heat and caramelization; I couldn’t wait to see their effect upon the cheeses, couldn’t wait to try the third and most-lauded, prized bourbon in Southern Art’s collection: Four Roses Private Label, made especially and exclusively for the Bourbon Bar.

My palate primed, the glass swirled and bourbon opened, I lifted the coolly-gold liquid and breathed in deeply: there was nothing of the sting of the first and no trace of heavy caramel notes, replaced by a quiet nectar so light and clean that the aroma needed to be scented twice, thrice to derive the faint honeysuckle perfume. Alcohol carries the scent through the sinuses; this was surely as potent, but so incredulously delicate!

Soft, faintly-sweet liquid poured over my tongue. I held the fluid behind my lips, rolled it across my palate, watched as the innocent tonic gradually roused its heat and revealed distinctly cherry-and-honey tones. This piece must be relished on its own; this bourbon would be dessert.

Cream and acidity are perfect compliments, which is why we love such combinations as peaches and cream, strawberries dipped in milk chocolate, dry red wines with fatty meats. The fats slip across our palates lusciously, the acidity bracingly washes it clean, and we are left thirsting to repeat this sensual rhythm.

As soon as I was introduced to the trio of cheese – Blue, Gouda and something like a Brie (but not, of course; it was Southern-bred) – I knew these bourbons were the perfect choice to pair. The silky textures were apparent, shining in the low light of this room. Served with the cheeses were crackers and four condiments: honeycomb, jalapeno jelly, green tomato chutney and fig preserves.

“No great genius ever existed without a touch of madness,” said Aristotle. If that is true, and it surely is, then Southern Art’s Art Smith must be a little mad.

And his madness is infectious, for I am still stricken by the experience.

The earthiness of these fig preserves hit my palate immediately as I bit into saltines that defy their Southern name, through (what was that brie-like cheese?!) silky cream spreading dark fruit across my tongue. I think I gripped the armrest in reflex; I certainly felt shoved against the back of my chair, my opened senses punched with the intensity of this meal.

Yes, a single bite can be a meal, when it nourishes so deeply.

I felt like a fool, so vulnerable to such a base thing as food. But excited, eager to experiment with my bourbon flight, I plucked the Yellow Label and tasted….

The intense heat mirrored the intense flavors of the food, felt even gentle in comparison, cleared my palate and readied me for my next bite.

I had a plan: a slice of each cheese, with each condiment, in rhythm from right-to-left, until all were sampled. Next was the Gouda.

Coupled with the tangy green tomato chutney and accentuated by the salty, nutty crackers, the Gouda’s creaminess shone; this was heaven.

…The flavor combinations continued incessantly, putting me in mind of food experiences as related by Remy in Disney’s Ratatouille: explosions of fireworks in the brain as one beholds new flavors blending in ways previously unimaginable. Dripping jalapeno jelly on Blue sent a spicy-sweet fire through my mouth in one of my favorite combinations, followed and stoked lustily with spicy-sweet-heat of Four Roses’ Yellow Label; Gouda and honeycomb layered on delightfully nutty saltines resulted in a bite-sized delicacy somewhat reminiscent of baklava; bites of silky cream next provided the perfect backdrop for sweet-and-sour green tomato chutney….

I was overwhelmed, rapt, swept up in sensuality the likes of which I hadn’t felt in ages, driven to the next bite and lingering on the last; I forgot the room and the people around me, lost to the madness of perfection in fare such as this. I became shyly aware of my rapture a few times, but truly, this was too good; I pushed the feeling aside and kept to my meal, to the task of tasting every single combination….

…When I became starkly aware that someone was watching. I felt jealous: this was my sensation, my passion, my meal; I caught his eyes and asked, wordless, of his interest.

He stammered, tried to explain that he wondered only what I was drinking.

Indeed.

The charm of my meal was no longer my own; the madness of my intent, of this meal, of this place had infected someone new. I indulged the man’s conversation; I was in the habit of being mad, wanted to share; I was so rich from my love-affair with cheese. And bourbon, of course.

He bought my dinner, indulged me in more servings of Four Roses’ Private Label bourbon – which I did drink for dessert, amidst forkfuls of sinfully-rich Red Velvet Cake; and we conversed while he ate and enjoyed his meal.

The sensuality of my meal naturally returned to me in never-ending forkfuls of tender, rich, scarlet cake twelve layers high, interspersed with ivory, sweetly-decadent cream cheese frosting (a type of cake that helplessly brings Gone With The Wind’s tragic heroine to mind), kept demanding my attention with its dreamy perfection, cleaned with cool sips of the bourbon I’d come to love.

The night lingered; the cake lingered; the bourbon lingered.

And Southern Art lingers, to be experienced in depth again and again….

…Where some things are better off alone and gifts may await in the ways of genius; the price: just a touch of madness.

Twitterpation (or: Some Things Are Better Off Alone, Part One)

I usually hate the idea of eating alone, unless it’s in my house or in some restaurant where I know someone; and the prospect of walking, unaccompanied, into a bar fills me with such trepidation that I have chills even now, thinking of it.

Which is why I give myself almost any excuse to bring a trusted companion, or, lacking an available one, to develop an easygoing connection with the server or bartender where I dine.

Monday’s companion was uncertain he’d make our dinner date, but the prospect of his presence was enough for me to make the drive into Buckhead for drinks and, potentially, dinner at Southern Art & Bourbon Bar, the restaurant with which I’ve been Twirting for the past few weeks.

Twirting, for those who don’t understand, is Twitter-flirting.

I follow @SouthernArt and read their posts with the heated and intimate interest of one crushing hard on a new-found love; I virtually taste the beverages and foods they post on Twitter and Facebook and reply with all forthrightness, openness and immediacy, relating in 140-character responses my intense intentions to indulge.

You might say I’m Twitterpated.

This eagerness was enough to steel my nerves when walking, alone and slightly lost, from the fog-shrouded parking garage to ask someone the way.

It impelled me through the revolving glass doors into the immediate lobby of the InterContinental Hotel, where Southern Art is situated.

Assaulted directly, I stood startled: two lines of finely-upholstered high-backed chairs face one another across singular short tables under a towering arched ceiling, opening to a yet larger room of various tables-and-chairs, all in shades of ivory and tan. I desired shelter in the Bourbon Bar, discovered it with a glance to the right, and found no such prospect in the line of rich, high, dark-wooden tables and leather-covered chairs directing the eye inward to the well-lit display of bourbons shelved in solitary squares behind two bartenders nurturing the string of men and ladies in dark suits filling the space with vigorous tones.

I felt naked in my simple desire to be here. I did not wish to drink and eat with all of these boisterous souls; yet I was mesmerized by and wished to take in the entirety of this place, to drink in the golden-lit room and its eclectic placement of so many tables and chairs, and even those excited people enjoying the Bourbon and Ham Bars on either side of me.

I moved further into the hotel lobby, feeling as drunk as I imagined did many of those at the bar; I struggled, it felt to me, to sway gracefully between groupings of furniture and find a seat at a narrow writing desk with two tall-backed chairs where I dizzily placed my small frame and let wonder overtake me.

I had not yet consumed so much as a drop of alcohol.

When I did, it was the week’s specialty cocktail, the Appalachian Old Fashioned concocted of corn whiskey, honey water and peach and Bolivar bitters, which settled my palate and my nerves, sweetly confirming with delicate notes and undeniable potency that I had not been wrong in my assessment of Southern Art’s skill. I chose the cocktail because, well, it’s old-fashioned, which intrigued me, and would presumably be stiff; but, while the smooth, ever-so-lightly-sweet beverage easily affected me in just the way such drinks are meant to affect, this was so easy to swallow that any Southern belle might deign to let this man’s drink pass her tender lips. There was not so much as a burn to the beverage, not so much as a brash note to pass my palate or scour my throat, as I had expected. Yet, the result was the same: my shoulders soon relaxed, my flesh began to flush and my sinuses opened; I was ready for whatever taste and scent and experience next to be encountered.

The thoughts that pass when one is alone are so contrary to those that rise while entertaining even the fondest of companions; mine were no different, as I observed with curiosity and amusement the acoustic magic of this architecture that presented conversations to my ear from across the room as clearly as if the speakers were by my side, entertained myself with the lighthearted irony of an age when chocolate martinis may be ordered and enjoyed by good-ol’-boys such as those at the table next to mine.

Then turned to Southern Art’s Twitter relay as the only companion with whom I could deliberate over the expansive and wildly-tempting menu, ideal for pescatarians such as myself, offering four varieties of fish and one seafood dish. And, true to form, let my desire move me instead to the Cheese From the South, pairing with it the Four Roses Bourbon Flight.

I am still shocked by the impact of these three small servings of bourbon, a liquor I had heretofore dismissed for the same reasons I once dismissed my Southern accent. But it was Southern Art’s base-liquor-of-choice; how could I not sample the origin of my infatuation’s very name; how could I judge it entirely by the unimpressive versions I have known?

Before me stood three delicate, stemmed glasses proffered shades of golden nectar in their bulbs; I swirled the Yellow Label and lifted the flowering glass to my nose. This would be the brashest of the three, indicated by the heady, spicy aroma of honey-touched petrol. Having been denied the anticipated burn by my Old Fashioned, I was pleased, and longed to see if my nose was as accurate in its assessment as I expected to be.

I was graced with a firm-but-smooth spirit that lit a slow, searing flame on my lips where the liquid had touched, demanded my patient submission while I held the fire flickering on my palate, burning faint caramels in its wake and lingering in smoky notes and lasting heat that claimed full minutes of appreciation.

Was I not so eager to run the gamut of this trio untainted by food, had I not known how flights tend to run – in sequence of light-to-heavy with wines and rough-to-refined with spirits – I may have been inclined to return to the deep burn of the Yellow Label.

Instead, I moved to the Small Batch, could tell from the paler color and clean, light, caramel-dressed nose that this would be more refined, smoother, easier to drink. It was delicious, cool across my lips and smoldered richly in my mouth, rewarding the time spent savoring with a deeply-rich caramel heat lasting longer than the liquid remained on my palate.

The cheese board arrived just in time to distract me from my excited reveries. There was no way, I knew as the server slipped plate, tools and board onto my now-laden table, that any live companion could possibly allow the space I needed to give these libations and creations their due.

Little did I know how right I’d be.

…To Be Continued….

Bending Thumper’s Rule

My favorite character in Disney’s Bambi always was Thumper … after Flower, actually, but Flower never got as much airtime as Thumper, poor baby skunk that Flower was.

So, Thumper won by default; and I took his life to heart in my childish way, as I did with all of my favorite anthropomorphized friends.

His mother was wise, and wisdom always has been as important to me as friends; the two are as tandem as Thumper and Bambi.

I must have listened well, learned well enough – from Thumper, that is, if not so well from his parents. For, though I’m not always “nice,” I’m certainly honest almost always – which is far more valuable a trait in friends, I’ve found. And honesty is far nicer, in the end, than lies – as Thumper surely knows.

…I kept trying to lose the gift card I received for Christmas. Not deliberately, but I kept leaving it out, anywhere but in my wallet. The card was a thought, well-intentioned for sure. But I tend not to eat at corporate-style restaurants, if I can help it; I’ve worked in one, eaten in far too many, and know too well that the passion for food is severely lacking in nearly all who work there. They’re glorified fast-food restaurants: stressed patrons fly through the doors to scarf down meals and fly back to their cars, calling that “a night out”; and servers are likewise tense, miserable creatures who only take such jobs for the fairly-guaranteed presence of tipping customers. And the kitchens are filled with those poor souls who want to get their foot into the industry but are rarely good enough to stage in finer kitchens.

It’s no wonder the food is always mediocre. At best.

There’s never a challenge to the diner’s palate in the food, beyond, sometimes, an ethnic name used for the kitsch of it, to make the place seem more authentic.

But I’m a challenge in this place.

My companion loved his bottomless-glass of house-made Italian soda; I asked for a doppio macchiato – a double-espresso with foam on top. My companion, not a coffee drinker, understood my instructions precisely; our server, and the bartender who made the beverage, did not.

I was served, and drank, a cold pseudo-latte (that was more like a wet doppio-corto); I needed the caffeine. At least it was not sour, as I’ve found America’s Favorite Coffeehouse and so many other so-called Italian restaurants serve. But it is always surprising to me that any establishment claiming to be Italian, or claiming to serve Italian-style coffee, should produce a cup more revolting than the ulcer-inducing bottomless cups at American-style diners – and that the “baristas” should fail to be educated in how to produce hot steamed (not scalded!) milk and the thick, creamy, sweetly-rich beverage actually called “espresso”.

And we ordered.

Rather than falling into a diatribe, revisiting every detail of a wholly mediocre meal, I’ll instead relate how I made it right.

It occurred to me, as my companion laughed throughout the meal at my improvement of every single dish, that most people do not consider the possibility of correcting kitchen neglect with some of the very simple things one might acquire from that kitchen or from the bar. In this specific case, the addition of olive oil (already on the table) and chili flakes (requested) dramatically improved the flavor and texture of bland, pasty marinara served with the appetizer, and again the not-so-spicy arrabbiata on my pasta. Half-a-dozen fresh lemon wedges made the Caesar salad quite delicious and a nice end to the meal. Naturally, it wasn’t served last, but I prefer to eat my salad in the Italian style; it makes for a fresh taste lingering on the palate if you’re not going to indulge in sweets, and a nice buffer if you are.

There are some things, like pasta, about which one can do little to improve. In most places it’s unnecessary, and most people don’t really notice the difference unless they’re really looking for it. And, to be frank, most diners don’t like truly fresh, house-made pasta when they have it; it will never achieve the firmness of dried pastas that the average person eats.

Other aspects of meals are easy to make palatable, as I did. Which begs the question: why not improve them in the kitchen, before they arrive at a diner’s table?

Because, of course, the conception is that the North American palate cannot handle a challenge, does not know the difference between a zesty, fresh Caesar dressing and a one that tastes and looks bottled, regardless of whether or not it is.

And because we confirm that notion by going back, solidifying the mediocrity of America’s dining experience with our money while adhering firmly to “Thumper’s Rule.”

It’s not Thumper’s rule, remember; it’s his parents’. He’s the honest one, who simply noticed the obvious.

As for me, I have my opinions, and I make do while I must; and, for my own reasons, I mind Thumper’s parents’ rule:

If you don’t have “nothin’” nice to say … Don’t say “nothin’” at all.*

Having worked in the industry for long enough, I know this is the worst thing possible for a restaurant, of any kind.

Because they’ll never know what’s wrong with their dishes, and I’ll never return.

*Interpreted into grammatically-correct language, Thumper remains true to himself. Double-negatives removed, Thumper’s rule is actually: “If you have something ‘not nice’ to say, say it.”

Should Angry Shrimp Start Callin’

There were enough times in my youth that I’d passed the dingy crate-like box that was Buckhead’s Taco Mac – skeptically, though my high school chums kept assuring me the food was great and the burritos were huge.

It wasn’t ’til I was nineteen that I ventured into the place, hungry after many hours spent wandering the maze of the now-sorrowfully-closed Oxford Bookstore on Pharr Road. I spent a lot of time on my own then, as I do now; I walked, trepidatious, into the large, dimly-lit square wondering what good could come of such a windowless place that felt more like a cross between a Southern BBQ joint and a country music club, the long, wooden bar interspersed with Southern not-so-gentlemen.

I walked directly to the bar and ordered my lunch, aware that the other customers were aware of the young blonde girl who had entered their dark realm; I imagine now the attention I received as similar to that of a ray of light streaming into a normally-shadowed cave. No one bothered me, but everyone looked….

I turned to one of the high tables midway between the bar and the door, covered with red-and-white gingham plastic and stapled down; climbed to perch on the high stool there.

Waited.

I somehow tuned out my neighbors and they somehow accepted me into their realm; and presently I was delivered a metal platter lined with red-and-white gingham paper, upon which lay the enormous burrito that still sits in my memory.

I was used to eating waxed-paper-wrapped burritos from Taco Bell or, preferentially, the Del Taco near my home; I was expert at munching them left-handed, my right hand shifting through the gears of my 1979 VW Rabbit hand-me-down while my feet somewhat miraculously flicked the clutch and gas pedals in a perfectly-timed dance that ended with a bite of the bean-and-cheese burrito and my left knee guiding the steering wheel.

The burrito I’d just been delivered was nothing of the sort. I briefly considered picking it up as I was used to doing, then found myself grateful for the knife-and-fork laying neatly on the nearby paper napkin.

It was huge; I don’t remember that I finished it all in one sitting. And it was CHEAP; I paid somewhere around $10 for the burrito, an endless supply of cranberry juice, and tip.

For sixteen years, the memory has lain with me; only Hamilton’s Che Burrito remotely challenges the memory, with their personalized burritos ordered by ticking off choices on photocopied slips of paper. But Che’s burritos, though adequate, can’t compete in size.

And now I return to metro Atlanta, with no intention whatsoever of returning to Taco Mac, but with the unspoken reassurance that, should I want good, quick, hearty food, there’s always the Taco Mac in Buckhead. Or at one of the other few locations in downtown Atlanta.

The neon-orange block letters spell a familiar name as I drive past one of the many strip malls near Peachtree Industrial and Pleasant Hill; I think nothing of it, except that the chains of restaurants have expanded and seem to be taking over. It’s nearly five miles later that the name clicks in and I remember: Taco Mac. Wow, they must be doing well for themselves. And, I think, looks tacky. The sense of the place is to me like a modern plastic version of a Hotwheels car: it’s supposed to be cleaner, more accessible, but it just smells toxic, has none of the character of the original.

I write it off immediately; I’ll never go there. I’m offended, angry that my memories have been tarnished so by this ridiculous bastardization.

But a late-night recommendation from a colleague insisting that TM carries the largest selection of craft beers on tap makes a moratorium of my boycott, and I give the very plasticized bar I’d snubbed a chance to prove itself. Anyway, there are still the burritos.

It does feel plastic – inside, too. The huge box of a space with blacked-out windows and over-bright lights is filled with vinyl-seated booths and plastic tables, a long, nondescript bar and floating flat-screens everywhere like so many comic-strip thought bubbles flickering images of the latest sports event. My stomach turns, but my frustration with the evening’s prior events keeps me here; I strip off my jacket and slide deliberately onto a high chair at the bar.

I know they’re looking at me now, the guys and girls peppered around this candied version of an Atlanta classic: I’m utterly out-of-place with my skin-tight, flesh-colored cami and fitted black slacks, while they relax expectedly in jeans, t-shirts and baseball caps. And I snub them just as surely as I snub this bar, barely giving either a chance to make an impression, and knowing that I’ll be helpless to the impression, should one possibly be made.

The bartender, a beanpole with long, neat dreds and a flat, Northern accent, offers me a menu; it is only when I see the enormous selection of beers that I actually relax, struck that this place indeed has something to offer. TM will let you sample any number of beers before you buy – or that’s the impression given by the menu, anyway, with its advertisement as a beer school of sorts. This location offered probably a hundred different beers, mostly craft beers, most available from taps along the long wall behind our bartender.

I sampled a few, especially enjoying a chocolaty stout but passing it up for a citrusy, amber IPA that I thought would pair better with my Angry Shrimp.

They still have the burritos, you see – but there are no longer choices for the fixin’s, no longer shrimp or vegetarian versions.

Angry Shrimp are Buffalo-style shrimp: beer-battered and fried crisp, tossed in your choice of spicy sauce and served with a side of ranch or blue cheese dressing and fries. They’re a natural fit for TM, I later learned, since the original location in Virginia Highlands opened to offer Atlantans an initial taste of Buffalo wings. Taking the bartender’s suggestion, I had the spicy sauce on the side, too; chose a medium-to-spicy habanero barbecue with a sweetly smoky heat, and – as always – the richer, chunky blue cheese. I can’t help but wonder if they’re made in-house or merely doctored-up versions of processed stuff.

They’re more than edible; they’re quite good, in fact: crispy nuggets of tender crustacean, the coating crunching and flesh yielding in a sweet, popping kind of way that comes only of shrimp when fresh and cooked just to opaqueness. I devour them all slowly, letting myself ease into observing the bartender’s routine of jokes and closing up the bar.

The problem with today’s Taco Mac isn’t what it offers, of course; it’s what it doesn’t offer. It always was a sports bar, always offered a plethora of beers on tap – now that I recall. But innocent recollections of good food make quite the impact, especially on one less interested in forgetting one’s troubles and more in living the good life.

So I forget the beer; it’ll always be there, with plenty of others to try.

…But, should those Angry Shrimp start calling….

Finding Wonderland

Duluth, Georgia has never really offered much in the way of nightspots, neither sixteen years ago when I was growing up nor today, with its great influx of Hispanic and Asian culture into this once-sleepy pre-Civil-War town. I mean: I’m sure the karaoke bars are fun, and the Latin salsa nights likely rival any around Atlanta, but when you’re looking for a pub with a little character in which to have a conversation and a dram of scotch, Duluth is not the first place one would consider.

Siri was no help, either, directing with her mechanical lilt from the iPhone 4s’ speaker: “I have found fif-teen bars near your location” – all of which were closed, obsolete, ethnic, or dingy hick-type pool halls surrounding Gwinnett Place Mall, the now-low-end area where only America’s corporate chain restaurants and scores of ethnic stores claim presence.

Strange that they should intermingle, the low-quality, high-volume places of America, Asia and Mexico, all within a few square miles, now the sickening sign of someone’s lack of care for anything but the pennies and dollars they can stuff into their pockets at the expense of producing anything of quality. Yes, there is a market for the stuff….

But we drove past, my nose wrinkled slightly as if at an unpleasant scent.

“Keep going straight,” I overrode Siri’s mechanical expertise with my natural instinct and sense of direction, not really knowing to where the vehicle was headed but feeling that this was right. My companion, no more familiar with the area than I, continued, trusting my instinct and content to simply keep my company on our drive down the lonely road on this chilly night.

Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves in downtown Lawrenceville, its tall, grey brick buildings and small, curving streets more quaintly maintained than in my hometown. And drove – the wrong way – up a one-way street to park near the tavern I’d spotted on the corner.

The sign, the lights above, the big glass window in front all told of a wealth of wood within, of a traditional British-American pub where two friends might sit and enjoy each other’s company over scotch or beer or – maybe, if the bartender was skilled – a classic cocktail.

My companion was impressed as we walked up, found half-a-dozen leather chairs circling a small oval table beyond the large square of glass; I worried that the deserted half of the pub we saw was closed.

We pulled the door to McCray’s Tavern On the Square and entered the large wooden space lined with long booths and tables, the expansive bar tucked directly ahead and crammed, in that narrow quarter of the room, with twenty-somethings boisterously drinking. I almost reeled in more than just my mind, struck by the great noise of pop music and loud university students obviously reuniting with hometown friends on this day-after-Christmas. And scanned the room for a place to tuck ourselves away from this crowd.

Invited in by a girl in a red T-shirt, we were escorted to one of the long, wooden booths near the empty room we’d seen behind the glass, a table large enough to fit eight or ten on its double benches. I was struck by the complete lack of awareness of this girl but was willing to let the evening play out; as I tossed my purse in the one side, my companion graced me with his common sense and suggested that it was far too large. I took over and, retrieving my purse, asked if we might sit on the leather chairs I’d seen before entering.

So we were guided up three steps into this long room, full of empty tables and chairs that were gratefully distant enough from the bustling youths, asked about drinks. I opted against a cocktail, guessing that the bartender in this establishment probably knew vodka-cranberries better than gin gimlets or Tom Collins’; Lauren, our waitress, knowing nothing of scotch, offered a menu containing a fairly-broad selection including The Macallan 12, 15 and 24.

We chose the 12, mine neat with a side of water (poor Lauren betrayed her absolute inexperience by bringing me first a tall classic Coke glass filled generously with ice water and garnished with lemon and a paper-capped straw), his on the rocks. We upgraded to the 15 when informed they were out of the 12 and I politely redirected my request for a sidecar of water, instead of the glass of water-and-ice.

And, over sips of strong liquor, we took in the room, at last.

Our respective views were something of mirrors to the scotch. It was pitch-black outside, a tall, old pine thoroughly-laden with candy-colored lights played tug-of-war with the wind, its frenzied game framed perfectly in the center of this great pane of glass gave evidence of the strong gusts held just outside; the twinkling scotch-on-the-rocks held just as safely beyond the walls of my companion’s glass was equally strong and sweet and smooth, candied in its own right with caramel and honey notes that burned cheeks and lips in cool feverishness as surely as the wind outside might had he stood beyond that pane.

My own partially-obstructed view was luxurious: I basked in the richness of black leather chairs with sturdy, wooden block feet, long planks of golden wood that lined the floors of this room, the quiet knowledge that no one but ourselves bothered with this room to the right. And I sipped clean scotch improved with only a splash of water, its caramel-and-honey flavors and colors like luscious reflections of varnished wood purified into essential liquid and poured into this glass; the smooth, rich texture of scotch was an exact replica of the smooth, rich leather on which I relaxed.

For myself, this luxury in the simplest form was incredibly sweet: an empty room devoid of distraction where I sat comfortably, to sip and scent a challenging beverage in the midst of a challenging interlocutor; I am yet enchanted by such things classical and timelessly charming.

Being what it likely usually is – a bar to draw those looking for interesting beers-on-tap and cheap-but-tasty pub fare to soak up copious draughts of alcohol while tossing tales with the boys and girls of town – the girl who served us was quite right with the place, and we had lucked into something special.

On any other night, I question whether McCray’s of Lawrenceville would have such draw… But for one night only, it was the perfect choice.

We’d stepped through the glass; I’d found Wonderland.

With A Smile on My Lips

A frustrating restaurant shift leads me to Alon’s in Dunwoody, craving an Asian Salmon Sandwich and Edmame Salad, the sweetness of dripping teriyaki sauce over tender chilled salmon filet, the salty soy vinaigrette over bitter greens and plump young soybeans.

For an hour and a half, I lose myself in these flavors, burn my frustration with a cold, pale golden glass of organic Gewürtztraminer.

I have a slightly guilty conscience about the glass of Gewürtz; I’m heading back to the restaurant for the night shift and I’ve never once indulged in alcohol between a double. But it is delicious….

Grapefruit on my tongue and the bitterness of pith meld with a slightly-sweet finish that lingers and smooths into rich velvet. Another sip and the sparkling effervescence pricks my tongue, cool and zippy; I forget the guilt, forget the job.

The sandwich demands my attention, ripples of focaccia shimmering with olive oil, perfect dimples of tenderness that I know from my last experience of this sandwich (while driving at 65 mph down I-285 in my father’s manual Ford truck) pair irresistibly with cucumber, sprouts, salmon and sesame teriyaki.

I take a bite and the sweet sauce immediately drips over my fingers; the flavors overwhelm me. Through spongy-soft rosemary-flecked bread and chilled, medium-rare poached salmon, my teeth break the tender-crisp cucumber shaved clean of its skin and meet again after piercing the second layer of luscious Italian bread clearly baked fresh today.

I am ravenous: I want to devour the entire sandwich all at once, to savor every bite infinitely.

I hate being ravenous, hate being consumed by lust for anything; my eyes find the plastic container of Edmame salad. I lick the cool sauce thoroughly from my fingertips, peel the plastic lid from the salad.

A forkful of spicy arugula and gorgeous, bitter magenta-and-white-striped radicchio, wilted in the dripping brown liqueur of soy and rice wine vinegar awakens my senses, and somehow a slick, tender edmame pops between my teeth, fresh and sweet. I love the texture of edmame: it’s ethereal in its perfect smoothness, I’d expect it to crack brittlely between my molars instead of popping apart and sinking, sponge-like, between my jaws’ gradual pressure. I’m quickly addicted to the refreshing bite of this dish; I crave the richly nutritious lettuces and beans and forget all about the Gewürtz… though not quite the luscious oily-sweet sandwich that yet beckons.

On principle, and for the sake of curiosity, I pause from the salad to sip the Gewürtz, deliberately avoiding the temptation of that focaccia-lined pile. And blink in surprise; the German white cleanses even this healthy freshness from my palate, demands attention in its own right with fresh citrus and mellowing lees as the liquid slowly warms to cellar temperature. My interest is piqued by its growing complexity; I wonder if it will show more mineral notes as it warms, as my favorite Niagara Gewürtztraminer does.

I sit with the white for a while, sipping and rolling the now-creamy liquid on my tongue, sucking it into my cheeks, amazed at the slick drying effect it has on my teeth and gums. Suddenly, I’m slightly embarrassed at the awareness of others in the vicinity, businessmen scattered around at nearby tables who, I’m afraid, may be picking up on my sensual experience. One more sip and I feel my cheeks flush with the effects of alcohol and of my mind.

I’m conflicted now, my eyes flicking between sandwich and salad, knowing that either will be a delight….

I pick up the remaining part of this half of the sandwich, sink my teeth into it dutifully, reluctantly – I need the protein, I know – and reel from the mixture of flavors flooding my palate again. I’m in it, now; I simply take bite after bite, not pausing to savor each individual component, not taking time to relish in the play of textures upon one another – and still, the perfection of mid-rare salmon brushing against teeth and tongue sends rushes of satisfaction through me, the delicate sesame flavors rise, the crunch of cucumber tickles the corners of my mind wondrously at the brilliance of this incredible meal.

There is love in this sandwich, surely; and not just my own. To create something so lovely, so delightful to so many aspects of human enjoyment is a feat, even if it is sold so casually as in this corner-artisan-bakery and gourmet food shoppe.

I find a small brown box and tuck inside the remaining, untouched half of my Asian Salmon Sandwich, perfectly preserved for later enjoyment; press the round plastic back onto the last forkfuls of Edmame Salad. And sip the last ounce or so of this tart Oregan-made Gewürtz that is the first clean wine I’ve had outside of my favorite winery’s selection.

I’m impressed, satisfied, warm and elated; it’s back to work I go.

With a smile, teriyaki and Gewürtztraminer on my lips.

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