food writing – 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.

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.

Creation Amidst Nothing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 cup organic steel-cut oats

1 Tbsp olive oil

1/2 cinnamon stick

1 cup 2% or whole milk

3 cups filtered water

1/4 tsp sea salt

5 whole cloves

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

1×1.5-inch piece ginger, minced

1 Tbsp olive oil

2 Tbsp lemon juice

1/4 tsp ground cinnamon

dash salt

2 Tbsp filtered water

2 Tbsp blackstrap molasses

1 Tbsp brown sugar

1 Tbsp lemon juice

1 Tbsp butter, cold

4 slices fresh lemon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Serves 4.

For the Love of Simple, Southern Cooking

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

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

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

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

Southern Cole Slaw, Meri’s Way

1/3 head cabbage

2 medium carrots (skins on), cleaned well

4 heaping Tbsp real mayonnaise

3 Tbsp apple cider vinegar

2 Tbsp white vinegar

5 Tbsp dark maple syrup

salt and pepper to taste

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

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

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

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

Serves 6-8

Arepa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violette et Lavande

I’ve always longed to taste French cuisine.

Violette

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomato Ragout

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vanity & Inspiration

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

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

Until now, it seems.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And sit down to eat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meri’s Spring Salad Inspiration

Serves One – Two

2 Fresh Eggs

2 Tablespoons White Vinegar

3 large handfuls Organic Spring Salad mix

½ cup New Potatoes, boiled, chilled and quartered

¼ cup Organic Hemp Hearts

¼ cup Olive Oil

¼ cup Amber Honey

¼ cup Apple Cider Vinegar

3 Tablespoons Pine Nuts

12 Dried Apricots, quartered

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

1/8-¼ teaspoon Ground Ginger Powder

Ground Celtic Sea Salt

For Poached Eggs:

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

For Salad:

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

For Vinaigrette:

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

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

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

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

Serve and enjoy!

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.

Tawse vs. Toxins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sipped.

I blinked, astonished. Sipped again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It never happened.

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

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

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

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

I sipped anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, do you really need it to?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You might say I’m Twitterpated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little did I know how right I’d be.

…To Be Continued….

Bending Thumper’s Rule

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I’m a challenge in this place.

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

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

And we ordered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Should Angry Shrimp Start Callin’

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

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

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

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

Waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…But, should those Angry Shrimp start calling….

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