food reviews – Oceans of Mine

That Wasn’t “Ketchup”

I don’t really like veggie burgers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my gosh.

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

This was not ketchup.

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

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

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

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

And to think, I gave away a bottle….

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

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

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

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

For The Love of Chicago-Style Pizza

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

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

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

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

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

The server interrupted, asking for our drink order.

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

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

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

―

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

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

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

―

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

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

―

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

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

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

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

We dug in, gorging ourselves incredulously.

―

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

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

Saturated in Subtleties

It’s greaaaat… to be alive…!

– Jo Stafford and Johnny Mercer, 1949

It’s been over a year since I last set foot in Hamilton’s Baltimore House, an eclectic coffeehouse overlooking King William Street a block down from James Street North, the 1940s music cooing from the doors to the left and right contrasting sharply with the ‘seventies-style rock blaring from my earbuds. I stepped into the cafe side (to the left, please) and up to the counter where I clearly interrupted a conversation between the barista and her gentleman visitor.

It’s a queer place, but stylishly queer – like Edgar Allen Poe and Sherlock Holmes; I heard, when it opened over two years ago, that the decor was supposed to resemble something of Poe’s time. I wouldn’t know whether it does or not, but plush-and-wood antiques are scattered everywhere on the side with the long, wood-and-stained-glass bar.

I wonder if I’d enjoy it as much here if it was more occupied; I was clearly the only paying patron when I entered today, and I came in specifically for their beautifully-presented coffee and quirky atmosphere. But, imagining the bar room filled with conversing people – queer types, of course, and ordinary ones made intriguing by their presence amongst oddities – I think I would like it as much or more.

For now, it’s the copious artifacts that tickle me, my eyes running across velvet chairs and exposed-brick walls, down well-worn, hardwood-planked floors, my imagination running wild with the possible histories of furniture, lamps, photos intermingling from so many eras. I want to know the stories of each piece, to know how and where they were found, to have the room turn into an Alice-In-Wonderland where plush pink wingbacks balk at being sat upon and speak offendedly at the numbers of rude folks who’ve mistreated her, of how vibrant were her colors and how pristine was her varnish in her prime.

My mind murmurs stories in time with the lilting tunes as I watch the “famed” bartender, Kevin Delaney, with his thick moustache twirl the ends in a looking-glass at the end of the bar, the only human to suit this decor, and I wish I was somewhat more apropos, too.

Coffee Service at The Baltimore House

There are other things that draw me here, other subtle fineries that the owners of Baltimore House must have known would charm someone, and they certainly charm me: The coffee and tea service is unparalleled in the city with (bottomless) coffee mug, antique creamer pot for dairy, the cutest tiny spoon, a small side glass of water and a wrapped square of dark chocolate, all presented on an oval metal plate with white paper doilies. How quaint.

The food is tasty, too: grilled sandwiches, muffins and cookies presented in like manner; but this place – especially with Edith Piaf’s “La Foule” playing in the background – demands social drinks such as coffees and teas, or a classic cocktail such as our moustached bartender might shake. Poor soul, he’s almost comically alone at the end of the bar, awaiting his first customer of the evening.

And they finally enter, a pair of oddly-normal business types in suit-and-tie for an early Thursday happy hour, eager to douse their normalcy in an outlandish place.

Surely this is why we enjoy it here, those who know of Baltimore House: it is the place just outside the bend, on the other side of standard – even in a city of so many coffee houses, even when this type of cafe isn’t so hard to create, isn’t even completely unique. It’s off-beat enough that one thing or another will light our imaginations, will take us away into the ambiance, music and hospitality of another place and time, saturated in subtleties.

Arepa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violette et Lavande

I’ve always longed to taste French cuisine.

Violette

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomato Ragout

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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….

Bending Thumper’s Rule

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I’m a challenge in this place.

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

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

And we ordered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Should Angry Shrimp Start Callin’

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

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

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

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

Waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…But, should those Angry Shrimp start calling….

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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