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 pBeef Bourguignonolenta 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.

Dinner PreparationsThis 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.

The Art of Sitting Still

Memoirs of a Store-Front Mannequin:
Thoughts and Observations from a Live Window Model

Yes, I’m that girl-in-the-window who sat with hot-pink bow in my hair, rattling presents and waving at passers-by of Hawk & Sparrow on James Street North; the lady in white sitting miraculously still while searching my heart and mind and all of you for something to write in my pretty brown notebook; the statuesque woman in an antique brown gown perched ever-so-silently on a vintage cream-and-yellow settee.

I sit and watch all of you, wondering at your bustle, peering just as queerly at those children and teenagers making strange faces, jumping up-and-down and beating on the window just to get me to blink. The window is old, and so I ask that you not beat upon it just to get a reaction from me – as that glass might break before I do.

You make me blink, I assure you; I just manage to hold it within until a better time. Now seems such a time.

“How does she sit so still?” I hear children ask mothers and mothers ask Sarah Moyal, the owner of Hawk & Sparrow. There was a time in history, I’ve read, when ladies used to sit with poise and grace for hours, needing not to speak nor to be spoken to, when we were content with simply observing. Such times fascinate me, have always fascinated me; sitting still, I’ve learned, provides more opportunity for discovery than motion, talk, bustle.

I wonder, when I hear mothers comment to their children that they wish the little ones could only sit so still as I: are these children ever taught the value of sitting still? With constant motion, constant activity, constant stimulus through TV, movies, computers, video games, baseball, basketball, hockey – when do these children ever have a chance to sit? I remember, as a child, I sat and read; I sat in trees and watched the bugs; I sat on my mother’s antique settees to escape the bustle and noise of my seven siblings, and was grateful for the silence. I sat in the car or in our van on long road trips and watched the Florida palms, the passing cars, the billboards. I learned to sit and sit and sit, to take in details and beauty and all the world.

I would ask you mothers of bustling children: when do you sit? When do you stop moving, stop going, stop running from place to place to place? When do your children ever see you enjoying your time by yourself, that they might learn to do the same?

I watch these children-turned-teenagers who cannot believe that a person can sit so long, never moving a visible muscle, never giving evidence that she lives or breathes, never showing a thought on her face or in her eyes; I see these restless beings bouncing, beating violently upon glass, begging and demanding for attention, for a response; and I wonder if they have ever been asked to find a response of their own, within themselves. I wonder if they have ever given attention to themselves; I wonder how violently they beat upon the glass of walls around themselves, that they may be free.

It is likely no wonder to those who can sit and marvel at such things as the patterns of growing condensation on drinking glasses, that one might sit and sit as I do in the window of Hawk & Sparrow each ArtCrawl. For those with deep interests, deep lives, deep hearts, the sitting comes naturally, and life in all of its variegations pours in relentlessly.

For those who yet wonder: I sit to model clothes that I find beautiful, for a store that I find beautiful, so I might share and help share with a world that can be beautiful a place that I find beautiful. I am nothing but a model; and so I can sit for hours and be nothing but a model.

Why then should I move? Why should I react, and how can I, if my purpose is to model?

Hawk and Sparrow

What’s your purpose, little ones? What’s your purpose, young ones who twist your faces and beat and shout? What’s your purpose, mothers and fathers with wishes for still children? What’s your purpose, all of you who walk in front of my view upon the world, all of you meandering from place to place to place, wondering and marveling momentarily at one who sits and sits and sits…?

Thanks to Sarah Moyal, owner of Hawk and Sparrow on James Street North in Hamilton, Ontario for the photo and experience, and to all of the visitors to Art Crawls who enjoyed watching me do what comes naturally.

Sketches of the South

It’s on days like today that I understand my laziness, my hesitance to move, to do anything but bask and take in this hot Georgia sun, to await cool breezes petting my skin and dancing through my hair and through the shimmering leaves, carrying the sweetness of roses and gardenias and dying lilies and fresh-mowed grass, of simmering pine and leafy trees of deepening green, soaking up the sun as I do….

On days like this, I don’t even wish to speak, to disturb this lovely prelude to summer.  I sit and watch glistening leaves and pale petals, and listen to nothing:  tinkling wind chimes and calling birds, and the soft percussion of leaf clapping upon leaf.  Every moment of this is a vacation – with the dilettante-like luxury of never needing to go anywhere, of never wishing for escape, of never tiring of the same things:  blue skies and billowing clouds and fluffy roses.

It’s a cultural thing, I’m sure:  this laziness arising with drawled speech and meandering stories and long supper tables laden with food at small white churches and old family reunions. The Old South is alive and well in me, and in this land; and, returning to this lazy world after half my life spent no farther south than Southern Ontario, the scents and sensations and simplicity of this land are irresistible.

The trees beckon, waving full boughs to those inside, whispering songs to which no words can reply.

So I return, realizing that I always return, always wished to return to this place that breeds laziness in the most beautiful of ways.

For Sarah M.

Vanity & Inspiration

Spring Salad

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!

Too Close to Move

…It’s an experience.  Music is always an experience, for me.

I’d shared Alex Clare’s “Too Close” video; my interlocutor is in Europe and hadn’t seen it, hadn’t heard the song.  Not unusual, since so much of US pop isn’t necessarily popular in Europe at exactly the same time.  And he’s constantly working; I doubt he hears much music that he doesn’t choose.

“So, the melody, tone, harmony/chime?” he asked, alluding to how music hits me, to why this particular song moves me, curious as to why I would choose to share this with him.

He still hadn’t heard it; with the restrictions on YouTube videos differing in Europe from North America, this version was off-limits.

“Everything,” I replied, listening for the fourth or fifth time already, watching, rapt as Alex gradually let loose his soul upon my ears.

“Everything hits me.  His depth, his tone, his melody, the corresponding harmonies, beats…”

The video’s director is genius: two warriors strike each other in time with Alex’s soulful melodies, and I feel myself shaken; I relate.  I know that fight, that struggle to win against an opponent one knows, one loves so well.

“In this case,” I continue in time with the fight, “the video is striking, literally and figuratively, as well.  So well-paired.  So passionate.”

I adore passionate music.  Alex Clare’s music simply sweeps me up; I find I can’t move except in time with his voice, with the pounding beats, with the calls his soul and the music demand.  And I must move in time with those calls, those demands.

I sway, undulate, writhe, free myself in time with the music, even as I sit here, as I always do with such danceable, passionate stuff.  I must move….

“I don’t care if it’s sad or not.  There must be truth and passion,” I respond almost involuntarily, my mind flashing immediately to Jacques Brel’s “Ne Me Quitte Pas” and how it affected me so deeply when I first heard it, years ago, though I understood little of French.

I return to speak of Alex:  “There’s so much truth and passion in this song; you can hear it in the way he sings it, in the rise and fall of the music…”  …I listen again, held.  He takes my heart, moves my body, grips my mind with his matter-of-fact words, with his tender statements-of-fact, with his perfect decision-in-indecision; I feel he speaks so much for me, for my half-lost relationships of the past, releases and explains so much with this song.  “…In the changes of the tone, from more-or-less acoustic to electronic, the back-and-forth of it….

“It’s a song of great conflict, played out perfectly,” I analyze.  “He’s decided, but he’s still greatly conflicted.”  In awe at their skill and deftness, at their power and intent, and removed from the fight, I watch the well-timed dance of the two in black:  “The video shows the same conflict,  between the warriors.”  They’re almost the same, but fighting each other, I realize.  Even in the contrast between the shots of the warriors and the singer, them in black, him in white, it’s clear the conflict lies in Alex:  he and the warriors, they’re two parts of a whole.  “…And, of course, in a sense, I can relate to the words, to the meaning.”

I find myself revealing my life much more intimately:

…Songs like this literally pull their expression, my own interpretation, out of me.

I had a friend who was a DJ; I made friends with him on the basis of the music he most enjoyed playing and my response to the tracks he played.  I used to go into this lounge at the bottom of a bar I frequented, he’d be playing music; the place was mostly – if not completely – empty when I arrived.

I’d go to the front of the room, near the DJ booth; there was a fireplace set in the wall and a very small dance floor before it.  I’d start swaying to the music he played.  He’d play music just for me – always his favorites, and they became my own:  always soulful, always passionate, always moving my body for me, as if I had no control.

I’d close my eyes and forget about everything but the music.

I’d wind up loosening up, usually without any alcohol to assist, and flay my body rhythmically to the songwriter’s demands.  I’d pour my emotions out on the floor, let my tensions flow free, expressed by every beat and rhythm and word in the depth of every song with soul; he loved to watch.  So did others… one of the bartenders crushed hard on me because of my dancing.

When it would get busier, later in the night, I’d find guys and girls joining me until there was no room for me to move.

I’d smile and laugh and leave, go sit with the DJ and chat… because, by this time, he was playing Top 40s music instead of the passionate stuff I liked.

But my end was achieved:  I’d had time and space to empty myself, burn my passion for a bit, and I’d brought the vibe of the place to a pitch where others were dancing, drinking, enjoying themselves more.

There were always some girls, and some guys, who would ask me where and how I learned to dance in such a way.  One older gentleman was convinced that I’d been formally trained.  He danced with me, was a fantastic partner.  Danced with me in a formal way, led me; it was wonderful.

He was in his seventies.

…I miss it.  There’s nowhere I feel comfortable exposing myself, here in Atlanta.

The guys here won’t allow me room to breathe, I’m sure of it.  I’ll dance, and they’ll think I’m looking for a… bed-partner.  They’ll crawl all over me, I’ll be miserable.  I always have to have a bodyguard – when I dance in this way.

At that lounge, I had two:  the DJ and the bartender, plus all the girls who also worked there.  Not to mention that it was a rich town, and people just didn’t mistreat girls, even if they were throwing their hips, their arms, their bodies around as I did…

…These are my lyrics to this song.  These are my responses, the movements of my own conflict, my own desire to be, and my decision not to be – with men I’ve loved, with places of work I’ve loved, even with dancing in public and expressing myself in such visual, tangible ways; but inside me, my heart still loves, my body yet yearns to move, to let free the expanse I feel in response to Alex Clare’s songs, in response to his passion that is so familiar…

And, when I hear him, see him pulled by the intensity of his music, I  move, can’t help but move, find a place to move.  That love, that passion we feel must escape somewhere, must have expression, even if elsewhere it’s just too close to move.

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 and2010 Calina Carmenere 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.

Tilapia with Sweet Corn Risotto and Shrimp Burre BlancOver 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.

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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)

From Southern Art
From Southern Art
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)

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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

FlowersMy 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.”

The Tao of Krazy::The Way of Love

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I forget, sometimes, what wealth there is in the world, and how very many things inspire me, have inspired me through the years – and inspire me still, when I remember them.

George Herriman’s Krazy Kat is one of them….

I drank up Krazy, when I first laid my hands on our copy of The Art of George Herriman. I drank in the images, drank in Herriman’s love for his creations, drank in Krazy’s complete adoration of Ignatz, drank in Ignatz’s utter – if crazy – love of the Kat.

(Krazy, I understand; I’m a bit krazy, myself, when I’m in love… Which is usually. …Erm… always. Ignatz, though… Well, don’t we always love enigmas?)

I thirsted for this reflection, for this justification, for this legitimization of life; and Herriman’s dry wit and charming rapports were, and always are, a refreshing, delicious tonic.

I have, at times since, dared new acquaintenances with one of the more …passionate expressions of Ignatz’s and Krazy’s love, testing their sensitivity to nuance; most all start, twist their faces in perfect alignment with their minds in the attempt to comprehend this very gentlest of arts.

I smile and reassure myself of my suspicions: they don’t know Love, don’t know how to Love.

I wonder if I should explain… as words are redundant, clumsy to those who understand and do little for those who don’t.

It is somewhat like the Tao Te Ching*: “The way that can be spoken is not the Way.”

But, they did try to explain, in the Tao; so I shall, too, in my way,though you must be still to hear…:

Love is everything.
Love is quietly listening to birds waking on a foggy, still-dark morning, the cool air seeping in through the windows and chilling fingers, kissing arms….
Love is writing when no one can hear you, never knowing if anyone will understand you, spilling words onto paper, onto an ethereal page-of-sorts just to let go the flow of words, to portray the passion….
Love is hopeless, miles-away and timeless connection,
The mind’s eye wide, ears ever-pricked, heart stretched out to caress a quarter-, even half-a-world away….
Love is a thousand questions held infinitely ’til answered, a million questions asked and refined, a single question answered and known….

…Love is a cat in love with a mouse, and he in love with her, and the ever-expected brick that flies between.

…I could try harder, write more….

Or I can bask in the beauty that is this cool morning, in the tides of such quiet mornings that are yet captured in this art….

Thank you, George Herriman.

* This link to the Tao Te Ching is not the one I quote, though it is a more beautiful interpretation, and far more simple – and true to the concept of Love about which I write; the one I quote is from memory of a book whose translator I do not recall.

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….

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1922: Why I Quit Being So Accommodating

Absolutely fantastic piece; I love the depth, honesty and length to which the author goes to explain the need to end self-sacrifice.

It makes me wonder at the small ways in which I still accommodate and indulge the world….

Mike Cane’s xBlog

Update: See this post for a free ePub eBook version of this long post.

A very odd essay from a 1922 issue of The American Magazine that seems to go against the general grain of most of the articles published then. There is also no name attached to it.

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Why I Quit Being So Accommodating

Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of my retirement from the business of being a Good Fellow. I use the word “business” advisedly. Until five years ago, if the city directory had told the truth, it would have listed after my name, as my real occupation, something like, “General Attender to Things,” or “Pinch Hitter,” or “Fine Old Scout.” I hope I am entitled in some measure to these designations even to-day. But I have quit being an accommodator and nothing else.

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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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This New Year’s Eve, Do It Wrong

I’m sure I would have hated this drink at some point in my life, the strongly bitter liquid with a finish reminiscent of that thick, nasty, red cough syrup that my mother would dose out in big tablespoonfuls when I was a child. Heck, Campari even resembles that disgusting cough syrup in color; I wonder suddenly if it’s not some secret component of of the medicine, with Campari‘s known quality as an aperitif derived of herbs that are actually good for you.

If I hated the bitter, medicinal quality as a child, it is surely this very aspect that I now adore, for my adult body craves only what is good – and I don’t mean sugars. I would choose bitter salad greens over creamy sauces, naturally-sweet fresh or dried fruit over sugar-saturated pastries on almost any day.

Whatever the reason, my palate is developed enough to now enjoy the strong, tangy, bitter complexity of the Negroni in any form I’ve yet tried.

And apparently there are many variations on the theme.

Obviously Italian in origin, the common belief is that the classic beverage of the early nineteen-hundreds is a concoction of the Count Negroni, who asked for a beefed-up version of the typically-drunk cocktail, the Americano: a blend of bitter Campari and sweet vermouth, served over ice with a lemon twist. In the Count’s Negroni, gin is the ‘beef,’ added in equal parts to Campari and a sweet vermouth, garnished with an orange slice.

Since then, a ‘perfect’ version has been devised, with double the amount of a better-quality (but not best-quality) gin added to equal parts Campari and sweet vermouth and, as always, served over ice with a hearty wedge of fresh orange for sweetening the cocktail.*

Generally, though, I prefer the ‘Raultini,’ introduced to me by an Italian-Canadian friend at his restaurant in Ontario, wherein the very orange-colored and citrus-flavored Aperol replaces the more intensely-bitter Campari. The result is a version sweeter than the classic Negroni, and slightly less potent.

Ah yes, this is a potent drink. Clearly, as it comprises three equal parts of different alcohols, with nothing beyond a good squeeze of fresh orange and what ice melts in the glass while one sips.

When first reading of this cocktail, I read it listed as a classic ‘man’s drink’, one of those traditionally not served to the more gentle, delicate palates (and constitutions?) of early-twentieth-century ladies. This was a serious drink for serious drinkers; women were surely not desired to be so impaired by nor considered to be able to withstand the effects of hard liquor as were men. Which made it, of course, all the more appealing to me; my notions of classic femininity are well-tarnished with the free-wheeling rebellion of modern feminism – and blended well with a love of joining men in any situation where I might bask in their gentlemanliness while sitting pretty and participating in what they do, in a more observant, genteel and feminine way.

That being said, I tend not to knock back more than one classic Negroni (or Raultini); even sipping slowly, I start to feel the effects fairly well within about half an hour.

Which brings me to the wrong Negroni, the sbagliato.

“Did I ever tell you my favorite cocktail is a Negroni?” I posed to my Italian friend who resides just outside of Milano.

“A regular Negroni, or a sbagliato?” he returned.

A sbagliato?? I’d never heard of such a thing, yet his tone was as if it was as common as a gin-and-tonic.

The sbagliato, it was revealed in my first google attempt*, is Italy’s answer to the kick of the classic Negroni: remove the gin and replace with prosecco. The word literally means “wrong” – it is the Negroni, done all wrong. But the result is a beverage about half as potent and far less bitter, with all the stomach-soothing benefits of the original aperatif. Which explains the current popularity of this truly-Italiano cocktail; it may be wrong, but some mistakes are brilliant.

I don’t know if they’re better made with sweet or dry prosecco; I’ve tried mine with an off-dry organic one (and am blasphemously curious about attempting it with Champagne!) and substituted a couple wedges of California satsumas for orange slices (being sweeter and far juicier than naval oranges). The result is fresh, bitter-sweet and probably more suited to a Californian or Monacan climate in mid-December than to the chilly-cool air of Atlanta.

Regardless, this mistake suits, too, and feels very festive in sparkling red dressed with fresh winter citrus.

Perhaps another lovely version, especially for the holidays, might be served chilled and neat in a champagne flute, with macerated satsuma and decorated with a satsuma leaf… Or, for larger parties, mixed in a silver punch bowl with floating satsuma leaves and stems for ladling out into pretty glasses. Mmmmm….

As blasphemous as this may sound to Italians, it’s clear that the Negroni has been an evolution since the beginning, a search for something special and uniquely grown-up.

And that’s the beauty of mistakes, of sbagliati: they’re opportunities to find perfection in imperfection – making them the perfect New Year’s drink.

Happy New Year.

*Bitterman, Mark. The Definitive Negroni Spagliato Cocktial Recipe, http://www.inthecupboard.com/2008/08/05/the-sbagliato-cocktail-recipe-strikes-the-new-world. August 5, 2008.

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To Blog or Not To Blog…

That has been the question for so many years as I’ve observed the Internet filling with so many posts and blogs of minute-by-minute exploiters-of-lives, discarding thoughts, feelings, moments in the same way we toss refuse into the garbage.

Writers, especially, are expected to join the slough, self-publishing and -promoting to show that we can, indeed, write.

And that is what finally drew me back, though resist I have. Jefferson never promoted his writing, so why should I?

In the end, Jefferson’s first love was farming; mine is to write.

So I write here because I love to write, because I love finding that passing interests and readings arise in timely and well-suited fashion, because I love the rhythm and timing of well-chosen words, because the world is a curious place and I love to share.

Take this for what it is, then: an online résumé and profile showing my ability to write, showing the ways and rhythms of my mind.

I aim to write as voluminously and with at least as much interest and passion as T.J. – since he did not even love this so-called “drudgery.”