Atlanta – Oceans of Mine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…And we waited….

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

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

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

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

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

…For about a thirty seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Squirrel (Marc Hodulich) and His Friend

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

Dave Maloney of CharityBets and Monday Night Mile Organizer

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

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

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

The Gods’ Portion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Just Moments of Falling in Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Un café, s’il vous plaît

There is something intensely social about coffee:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

Violette et Lavande

I’ve always longed to taste French cuisine.

Violette

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomato Ragout

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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, a mile away.

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 my companion and I 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.

It’s hard to tell quite how deep this house goes; harder still to know 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 a bottle of 2010 Calina Carménère and poured. I was impressed: this is clearly a small place and might not go through much wine-by-the-glass, yet he pulled out the bottle without a thought.

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

We ordered the bottle.

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

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

Bacon-!? You may wonder at this breach from pescetarianism, but my diet is neither fixed-in-stone nor ideologically-based, thank goodness.

The appetizer was simply addictive:

A stack of five, crispy, piping-hot and deliciously underripe tomatoes were layered intermittently with brie and smothered with a rich, sweetly-sour, reddish-brown sauce. It 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 distract my palate from the remarkable contrasts of crunchy-tender, breaded tomato and the sweetly tart medley 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 the meal had 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 with shrimp beurre blanc.

We ate, sharing tales of sailing Southern seas and shrimp-and-fish feasts of yore. The mellow, white tilapia melded so well with the creamy corn risotto; and the crisp, pan-fried crust gave just the right contrast, every bite-or-so, as to hold me spellbound by its delicate flavors. I willed a conscious effort to tear 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 through the sumptuous meal, I’d have been just 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, for the establishment claimed a right to me.

My friend resigned the final glass of Carménère to me; and the dessert choice, as well. I ordered the only pairable 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, just as any genial Southern folk should want their family to be.

Then, dessert was served: thick and glossy, richly-brown ganache speckled with flecks of sea salt, a puddle of chocolate held firmly in a wide mouth of rippled pastry. It was delightful just to behold and we could barely wait to sink in our spoons.

It was the perfect pairing, the perfect conclusion. The perfect dream of richness: perfectly-balanced and sinfully smooth chocolate 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 a well-made espresso; and suddenly, the room 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, working with dear friends in Canada after long evenings of serving others good food.

Curiously, it all makes sense to me:

The simple elegance of Park Café is a harmonious marriage of cultures. Chef-Owner Michael Ganley and his staff meld 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 my mother a little better — and I think she might be a little more “foodie” than I’ve ever known.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You might say I’m Twitterpated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little did I know how right I’d be.

…To Be Continued….

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….

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.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: