reviews – Oceans of Mine

Just Moments of Falling in Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That Wasn’t “Ketchup”

I don’t really like veggie burgers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my gosh.

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

This was not ketchup.

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

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

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

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

And to think, I gave away a bottle….

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

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

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

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

It’s Not Just Vanity, Gentlemen

Imagine relaxing into the complete care of someone else, finding that trust in yourself that babies have for their parents, that innocence where you can take every touch and gesture made towards you with the openness of a child who’s never been hurt by a single person, who’s never learned to cut themselves off from themselves or the world.

It’s not so easy, sometimes, to take the warmth of strangers, to allow others to care for us even when they will do us great amounts of good, when they might heal some of those past pains and difficulties of our pasts, when they might move us into a future of which we always dreamt but never knew how to achieve.

Today was my second visit to a day spa for the second-only mani-pedi I’ve experienced in my life, paid for entirely by a friend who makes it a habit to give generously to friends and family, who asks for nothing in return, who knows that gifts are even transitory and perhaps only moments of fleeting happiness for others – yet gives anyway.

I rested into the cushioned, leather chair, my feet soaking in warm, soapy, swirling water. This time, I knew the routine and relaxed into it, though I watched, fascinated, as the two ladies went through removing nail polish, cleaning and massaging my feet, calves, hands and arms.

There were long moments, last time, when I wondered if I deserved such treatment. Of course, it was being paid for… but that doesn’t necessitate desert. For long spans of time, I could feel my residual tension, built up over long months and years that had become a part of me that I just accepted – like the callouses on my heels and toes that annoyed me, that I promised I’d one day get rid of, yet never quite took the time or knew how to do it properly.

I scolded myself, last time, for accepting such a self-indulgent gift; I’ve never really cared for perfect nails, for painted finger-and-toenails, for silky-smooth skin – especially since, through my diet and natural health care habits, I manage to have clean, smooth and soft skin that is occasionally remarked upon, even if my fingernails are weak.

Last time, the treatment was nearly over, my naturally-pink nail polish glistening prettily on my fingers, my lower legs scrubbed and moisturized and warmly wrapped in steaming towels, my scalp being massaged deeply before I let go of thoughts and accusations to sink into the bliss of letting someone I didn’t know take care of me.

This time, my friend’s damp calves and feet being thoroughly massaged, I remembered how I love to learn. So I let myself learn: I watched as my pink fingernail polish was removed, finding myself at home in the answer to my week-long question of how gel polish is changed; watched and learned how to file, buff, trim my nails and cuticles.

The young-to-old ladies around all took this in stride, all are seasoned veterans of self-care; even pretty little girls scampered around the room, their fingertips dashed with the colored marks of hand care.

I’ve been caught between worlds, between caring for the health and condition of my skin and nails out of a concern for my health and well-being, yet thinking the world of mani-pedis was superficial, self-indulgent, consumerist and unnecessary. Yet, I never knew how….

I turned on the electric- masseuse-chair and felt a shock. Ripples and rolling balls moved up-and-down my back, under and between my thighs, and I forgot to watch my human caregivers. The merciless machine demanded me to give my tension, to give in to its waves of pressure that felt better than the best human massage I’ve received to date – which was months ago, all-too-infrequent and altogether too kind. It was all I could do to refrain from gasping and moaning as the strange machine hit so many nerves, released so much forgotten pain.

In self-conscious awareness of all the people around me, I instead breathed deeply, now increasingly sensitive to my human caregivers’ work. I was broken; I felt myself giving in with every touch, with every gesture to the beauty these women were being paid to create.

Being paid? It almost didn’t matter, didn’t feel like a fair exchange, no matter what price; my self-conscious pride threw itself back at me, retorting that this much care must be costing my friend a fortune.

It’s odd the way our minds hold to old pain, to old tension, even when we know it hurts, that it would be better to release it in love, to those capable of handling it in their strong and natural ways. I watched as my mind let go of pain only to recreate it in another way, as I acknowledged the bad habit and demanded, consciously, that my mind let it go in love for myself.

We strong people of the world, we forget sometimes that we need love too. We forget that others might care, that others must care, that others need to care and give what they may – especially to us, so we may go on, so they may go on in their small or large ways. We forget that we must let go, too, of the tensions that build from hard work or deep love; that we must indulge ourselves in care and love; that doing so will move the world as surely as our works.

It dawned on me that I’ve been taught by men, surrounded by men, loving men in all their strength, endurance and capabilities. That I am caught, too, in some of the prejudices and habits of men: of believing that self-care, especially of the physical sense, is particularly insignificant and superficial and to be ignored unless utterly practical.

Yet I recall tales of the Romans and Greeks, of their spas and daily massages as told of in Quo Vadis, of the great love and self-care that these men allowed themselves amidst and perhaps contributory to the great achievements of their societies.

It’s not just vanity, I realized today. It’s not just superficial to be self-indulgent, to allow someone to care – even if it’s a stranger in a day spa. The treatment is what matters, the allowance to let go and be cared-for, to re-open oneself to oneself and the world, so we can continue in our natural ways.

It’s not just vanity, gentlemen. It’s called: self-love.

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.

Too Close to Move

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I find myself revealing my life much more intimately:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was in his seventies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, you read correctly: Beer. Float.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I couldn’t wait for more.

Mysteries In Plain View

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

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

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

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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