Sure. Every asshole on the planet goes to New York and writes about it. That's a given. And, I've written about New York in the past, too. Negative, awful things about the city that doesn't sleep. And, as far as I'm concerned, when I factor in my reasons for visiting, plus the conditions of the visit, I still stand by my previous, assesment of the city.
Rising before dawn is easy for me these days with work time starting at 5 am. But, rousing myself for a 6 o clock flight after a half gallon of Snake Handler wasn't easy. Mix the hangover with a nervous stomach due to my fear of flying and you get a nice long session of deep breathing and self loathing.
Easy flight in. No big deal. Watching the Chesapeake Bay reflect the sky back up at me while I was in the sky put me in a nice space, mentally.
We got a cab from the airport and drove to little Italy, which is where we were staying. Right on Mulberry. Heart of the beast.
I am immediately wanting to write off the city as a fucking joke, because the tourist scene is out of control on such a gorgeous day. Yet, here I am, another fucking tourist, bitching about tourists. So, I suck it up and we set our sights on lunch. We are in a food-centric neighborhood after all.
We walk for a ways to get out of the firing line of all the sideshow barker clamor surrounding "World's Best Chicken Parmesan", and "Free Glass of Wine with any Appetizer." Gelled up guys looking right outta Jersey shore promising that the ladies will eat free.
I never understood that. The eating free thing. Even before I cared about food, or even started working in restaurants, that whole eating free thing always (and rightly so) just sang of sub par chow that can be slopped out without fear of profit loss. But, nevermind.
We settle on a little spot called Fiat cafe. Tidy and clean upon first impression. Menu looks alright. Glancing at other diners plates, I see homemade pasta and very good colors. I'm at ease. We catch up with old friends and make a new one. I have a beer in the sunshine and begin to decompress from the flight and subsequent Death Race 2000-esque cab ride.
Got a nice bowl of spaghetti bolognese and a wonderful plate of pruiscutto, parmesan olives and sopressa. Great way to start.
Spaghetti Bolognese, you ask? I went all the way to NYC to eat spaghetti with meat sauce? Sure I did. Here's why. A lot of times, places wanna dazzle you with all kinds of crazy shit. So, if I'm eating somewhere new, I'll usually go for the basics. Because, If you can't make a simple dish like spaghetti & meat sauce, why would I want to try your horseshit electric space pasta over cappucino essence of suvee'd penguin beak?
Wandered around the Village and the LES. Bought an Oscar Peterson record that I didn't have (Original pressing , too!) and settled in for a few beers at a bar right by some park. 2.50 tecates and good jukebox. I think it was the Horseshoe Bar or something like that. We caught up some more in the cool, darkness of the place. Goit a little giggly and decided to bail.
Took the train back and tried not to get pink eye.
For dinner, Liz and I struck out alone in search of something different. Since Iytalian was lunch, and we were in Little Italy, we were kinda resigning ourselve to a "same but different" kind of meal. Spotted a sketchy oyster bar with nobody in it while all the places surrounding it were packed. No thanks.
So, we cut up a side street and find a quiet, tiny little sushi place right in the heart of Italy. Perfect.
Quan Sushi. Fucking dynamite. 6 dollar 24's of Sapporo. Beautiful presentation. And, Black Pepper Tuna. Holy Smokes! So simple, yet, so incredibly good. I've never seen this anywhere else. Seriously, go there and check it out.
Beer and tequila followed at a nearby place where you could smoke and the night faded in to satiated slumber.
Day two was to be the event day. The whole reason we went to the city in the first place. A wedding party. We were greeted with yet another day of wonderful weather. Grabbed some pizza at a place with excellent music and watched a chinese protest go down on the street in front of us. A really cool protest that involved Thai Chi completely random music and of course, shiny stuff.
Recharge the batteries back at the apartment. put on a decent shirt and hit the subway for the party.
Pink eye successfully avoided day two.
Showed up early at Good Company (bar) to help set up for the party. It's a really neat sopt in Brooklyn. Nice interior. Excellent, enormous outdoor area. People started showing up and the party got started. And, it got started quickly.
We had the place from 3-8 with an open bar from 3-6. Bang bang, out go the lights.
More Birmingham people arrived and reunions floowed drinks and vice- versa. Made new friends and toasted to them. The sun is till shining. The drinks are coming now in twos and threes.
And then someone busts out the Corn Hole. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. I'm anchored.
We throw a few games among friends with mixed teams. Then, The Doctor and I get a challenge from some well groomed fellas with well groomed women in tow. The Doctor is already shit housed at this point. And, I am following close behind. We accept. Because, why not. We're drunk and throwing bean bags.
Game one goes down pretty neck and neck with The Doctor and I squeaking it out in the end.
Game two, they destroy us. We got sloppy. It was poor form.
Then, as they begin gathering their things and congratulating each other, the Doctor pipes up.
"Fuck that. Tie breaker!"
'What?"
"Fucking tie breaker."
They look us over and accept with a smirk. As they had just cleaned our clocks. Easy out, I'm sure they thought.
We hit out fucking stride. Every bag I threw was either in the hole, or resting nicely on the board. The Doctor was sinking them left and right as well. The well groomed ladies stopped cheering for the well groomed fellas. The previously mild mannerd well groomed fellas got deadly serious and really let their inner-jock come out. But, hair gel and a fucia golf shirt doesn't threaten the likes of the Doctor and I. I put it in the hole for a blowout win.
The well groomed fella on my box was gracious and jovial about the thing. But, the guy on the Doctor's box was having none of my handshake and cheer of "Good Game." Sheesh. It was a game of bean bag toss. We didn't even have money on it or anything.
After that The night goes as follows:
1. Standing out on the sidewalk, and through some very sketchy geneaology, figuring out that The Mexican and I are related somehow through Robert E. Lee. I've got to follow up on this.
2. The fourth tequila seemed like a brilliant idea.
3. Scene Missing.
4. Waking up in the cab, stuck on the bridge.
5. Scene Missing.
6. Coming to while eating pizza.
7. The End.
We decide that the best way to deal with day three is some greasy diner. it is approved by majority and carried out in full. Then, we retire to the aprtment to relax and read before the cookout. Then traain it back to Brooklyn.
Day three of avoiding Pink eye is a success. However, Union Station smells suspiciously like doo doo and bubblegum.
The cookout was for Bama folks only. It was so chilled out and nice. Another perfect day. We listened to Beastie Boys and poured out a little for MCA. Nobody told me that they had turned on the grill, so, of course I put my hand right on it. Genius. Our cab driver got in a fight with a cop on the way home. Fun stuff.
Since the President was in Manhattan on our final day, we decided to just take it all back over to brooklyn again and get to the airport in a more timely manner. And to avoid cops and motorcades and blocked off streets and all that.,
The rain settled in and we wandered around looking in the windows before eating lunch at Calexico. Excellent Tortas and Burritos all around. Good stuff. Cool interior. Good music. Get some.
Flying home later that day, I decided that I am not scared of Turbulence. I am mad at Turbulence. Because, after being successfully wooed back into the good graces of the Big Apple after so many bummer trips there, Turbulence wants me to die in a fiery heap of metal in some backwoods Maryland swamp.
Turbulence is a dick.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Dickface, Party of Infinity.
I'm Sorry.
Yeah, I know there's 26 of us, unannounced at 12:15 on Friday lunch. And, we need it on seperate checks. And we're just gonna push all these tables together. I know it's a pain in the ass. But, it's Debbie's birthday. And, all us gals from the office HAVE TO sit together even though we all hate one another in secret. Also, we need you to take up valuable space in your cooler for this awkward, shitty cake that your restaurant didn't make. Can you imagine what 26 individual desserts would set us back?! Yes, we're going to need all of your small plates. And candles. You don't have any birthday candles immediately ready for an unnanounced party? But, it's Debbie's birthday!
I need all of these wrapped individually. And, could you write the names of the week on each one? I plan all my meals on a weekly basis, and, apparently have no access to magic markers. Yes, I'm quite aware that there is a huge line forming behind me. Did you double wrap all of those? Could you pull them all out and double wrap them. My child has "allergies." Yes, I understand that not liking something doesn't really make someone allergic to something. It's just something I say to distance myself from ever having to tell my little miracle that fish is for dinner, whether he likes it or not. We usually make him a seperate hot pocket anyways. We want our child to be entitled.
Of course we've been sitting at the table for 20 minutes, not paying any sort of attention to the menu. Of course we're going to ask you to give us a few more minutes a few more times. Oh, we totally know you have other tables. We just don't care. Hey! You're gonna love this: You remember when you told us about the specials? Well, how about I use a random amalgam of ingredients listed on the menu and create my own personal dish from them? Doesn't that sound great?! I'll bet the kitchen and the chef is really going to think this is awesome. I know they planned the menu out and balanced it with corresponding dishes and paired it with beers and wines, carefully selected to compliment one another. BUT, I want strawberries and shrimp together on the same plate. Listen, I don't know if it's going to be any good or not. That's why I'm going to shit talk the restaurant to everyone I see over the next three days. I was planning on doing it anyway.
What do you mean, it's out of season? I just had it at Red Lobster two nights ago! My husband was a food buyer for prisons and high schools, so I know all about how all shrimp is farm raised in Vietnamese sewers. Oh, I can see it's still wriggling on the ice with a posted harvest date that says this morning. And the fella who brought it up from the coast is still in the building and can give me all the information I could possibly want on the subject of said shrimp's freshness. But, I'm still going to wrinkle my fake little nose and say no thank you. Remember, my husband was a bulk food buyer for mental institutions and hockey arenas. I KNOW about freshness. So, I'll just have the chicken.
You there! You're not our waiter per se. But, you are a waiter right? No? Just a busboy? We're going to need another round of drinks, regardless. The bartender knows what we're having. You know, the table drinking the wine and scotch. The WHITE wine. Goodness. I'M GOING TO TALK TO YOU VERY LOUDLY AND VERY SLOWLY. SINCE YOU ARE A BROWN PERSON OF INDETERMINATE LATINO DESCENT, I FEEL THIS IS THE BEST WAY TO COMMUNICATE. TWO, TWO WHITE WINES. I DON'T REMEMBER THE BRAND OR WHETHER IT WAS A CHARDONNAY OR NOT, BUT, IT WAS TWO WHITE WINES AND A SCOTCH ON THE ROCKS. Oh, there's our waiter, nevermind. That busboy was awfully rude. I can't believe that someone who had never laid eyes upon us or our table didn't know what we were drinking.
Even though I put on a tie and knew about this dinner beforehand, I'm still going to raise a stink about how much this steak costs. Shit, I can go buy a steak from the Winn Dixie, soak it in Dales for two days and eat it with some ketchup. Cheaper and better! My damn wife drags me out to these rip off joints. Sizzler! Now, that's a steak. Hey, buddy. You've got a penis, right? Well, then let me involve you in every single one of my hilariously misogynistic anecdotes. Goddamn women, right? Can't live with 'em and only sometimes do I give 'em a black eye after my team lost on gameday. HEY! Here's the best part: It's the part when I make a huge show of sliding a five dollar bill into your shirt pocket for your great service to the table. I'm going to shake your hand while I do it, too. You're welcome.
Yeah, I know there's 26 of us, unannounced at 12:15 on Friday lunch. And, we need it on seperate checks. And we're just gonna push all these tables together. I know it's a pain in the ass. But, it's Debbie's birthday. And, all us gals from the office HAVE TO sit together even though we all hate one another in secret. Also, we need you to take up valuable space in your cooler for this awkward, shitty cake that your restaurant didn't make. Can you imagine what 26 individual desserts would set us back?! Yes, we're going to need all of your small plates. And candles. You don't have any birthday candles immediately ready for an unnanounced party? But, it's Debbie's birthday!
I need all of these wrapped individually. And, could you write the names of the week on each one? I plan all my meals on a weekly basis, and, apparently have no access to magic markers. Yes, I'm quite aware that there is a huge line forming behind me. Did you double wrap all of those? Could you pull them all out and double wrap them. My child has "allergies." Yes, I understand that not liking something doesn't really make someone allergic to something. It's just something I say to distance myself from ever having to tell my little miracle that fish is for dinner, whether he likes it or not. We usually make him a seperate hot pocket anyways. We want our child to be entitled.
Of course we've been sitting at the table for 20 minutes, not paying any sort of attention to the menu. Of course we're going to ask you to give us a few more minutes a few more times. Oh, we totally know you have other tables. We just don't care. Hey! You're gonna love this: You remember when you told us about the specials? Well, how about I use a random amalgam of ingredients listed on the menu and create my own personal dish from them? Doesn't that sound great?! I'll bet the kitchen and the chef is really going to think this is awesome. I know they planned the menu out and balanced it with corresponding dishes and paired it with beers and wines, carefully selected to compliment one another. BUT, I want strawberries and shrimp together on the same plate. Listen, I don't know if it's going to be any good or not. That's why I'm going to shit talk the restaurant to everyone I see over the next three days. I was planning on doing it anyway.
What do you mean, it's out of season? I just had it at Red Lobster two nights ago! My husband was a food buyer for prisons and high schools, so I know all about how all shrimp is farm raised in Vietnamese sewers. Oh, I can see it's still wriggling on the ice with a posted harvest date that says this morning. And the fella who brought it up from the coast is still in the building and can give me all the information I could possibly want on the subject of said shrimp's freshness. But, I'm still going to wrinkle my fake little nose and say no thank you. Remember, my husband was a bulk food buyer for mental institutions and hockey arenas. I KNOW about freshness. So, I'll just have the chicken.
You there! You're not our waiter per se. But, you are a waiter right? No? Just a busboy? We're going to need another round of drinks, regardless. The bartender knows what we're having. You know, the table drinking the wine and scotch. The WHITE wine. Goodness. I'M GOING TO TALK TO YOU VERY LOUDLY AND VERY SLOWLY. SINCE YOU ARE A BROWN PERSON OF INDETERMINATE LATINO DESCENT, I FEEL THIS IS THE BEST WAY TO COMMUNICATE. TWO, TWO WHITE WINES. I DON'T REMEMBER THE BRAND OR WHETHER IT WAS A CHARDONNAY OR NOT, BUT, IT WAS TWO WHITE WINES AND A SCOTCH ON THE ROCKS. Oh, there's our waiter, nevermind. That busboy was awfully rude. I can't believe that someone who had never laid eyes upon us or our table didn't know what we were drinking.
Even though I put on a tie and knew about this dinner beforehand, I'm still going to raise a stink about how much this steak costs. Shit, I can go buy a steak from the Winn Dixie, soak it in Dales for two days and eat it with some ketchup. Cheaper and better! My damn wife drags me out to these rip off joints. Sizzler! Now, that's a steak. Hey, buddy. You've got a penis, right? Well, then let me involve you in every single one of my hilariously misogynistic anecdotes. Goddamn women, right? Can't live with 'em and only sometimes do I give 'em a black eye after my team lost on gameday. HEY! Here's the best part: It's the part when I make a huge show of sliding a five dollar bill into your shirt pocket for your great service to the table. I'm going to shake your hand while I do it, too. You're welcome.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
I'm not on the west side of town very often. I never go to the Galleria. And, I haven't been to a Baron's game since they played at Rickwood. There just doesn't seem to be very much for me to grab ahold of out there.
Every so often, though, you find out little tips and hints. People drop lines to tell you about a shop or a deli that nobody knows about. Like, if you just drove two miles further down the road past the clutter, you'd get the real thing, right?
So, as I piloted the vehicle past the spot where the abandoned water park used to be and alongside the beautiful, defunct trestles, I had such information tucked away in admittedly haphazard brain.
First stop on the tour was Muffaletta's. A pizza and sandwich shop tucked away in Bessemer. Iwas excited. because,a well made muffaletta is one of my all time favorite things in the world. I was not to be disappointed.
We arrived and found a spot in the tiny parking lot next to a huge work truck and went in.
What immediately caught my eye was the inclusion of "Papa Joe's" hidden neatly in their logo. Could this be the thing of legend? The original Papa Joes's was a magical spot from my youth. Post little league and a regular Friday night spot for my family. It was a pizza spot that never failed to kick ass. And yes, it WAS the sauce that sits at the forefront of my memories regarding the place. Well, that and the fact that they had a Zaxxon machine in the game room.
I ordered a muff and Liz got a calzone. It was dead in there, but the guy behind the counter was nice and we settled in for a "little bit of a wait." A wait, that turned out to be worth it for sure.
The muffaletta was exactly what it was supposed to be. On the correct bread, with no stupid sauce and an incredible and obviously homemade olive salad. Fan-fucking-tastic. Liz's calzone was in a unique crust that had sesame seeds dotting the top. And, it came with a healthy (meaning big, in this case) side of that legendary sauce. Out of control! It has to be the same family running the place.
We split that scene and cruised over to Cajun Cleaver on 150 to grab some specialty items. Hot Italian sausages? Check. House-made boudin? Check. Tasso Mac & Cheese? Check! Heck, they even had the original 1960's formula Schlitz in longnecks. A bit disorganized, but, all of the product turned out to be top-notch.
Next up was 2nd & Charles for some scrounging through the stacks for ancient cookbooks. Again, we came away with the goods. My favorite score of the trip is a cookbook called "Recipes on Parade: 200World Wide Favorites of Military Officer's Wives." First recipe in the thing is Mrs. Robert McNamara's Beef Bourguignon. pretty sick. They also carry new and used vinyl there. I found a reissue of Black Flag's "Slip it In", too.
A zip down Lorna found us at the Mercado, buying snacks we couldn't pronounce. Well, except for the chorizo flavored Fritos. Which, I might add, should be avoided at all costs. But, the store was cool and they had a pretty amazing butcher shop in there. Complete with all the offal and hooves you can handle. I'm still on the hunt for my favorite Mexican soda, Rio de los Suenos, though. If you come across any, anywhere else, please let me know.
The night was finished off at the new spot downtown called El Barrio. It's sort of an upscale-ish place featuring a nicely varied Latino menu. The decor is really boss. a big graffiti mural styles one whole wall of the place. Be prepared for a wait if you get there past six. It got stacked up in there, quickly.
Since we were still pretty stuffed after a long day of gorging, we settled on a couple of quesadillas. One shrimp and one braised beef and twoo sides of the red and green rice. Id like to know if they make their own tortillas, because it sure does seem like it. And, I mean that in a good way. The shrimp were cooked perfectly, and the braised beef didn't disappoint, either. Cool folks running and working the place made it out to be a seriously fun night. Points awarded for having Good People on tap. Brian, one of the owners, came by the table and chatted for a minute. I like that dude. He's a good egg.
So, all in all, the west side had a few surprises in hand for me that day. Can't say I didn't enjoy my trip out there. Now, if Vestavia would step it up and get shit going, (Besides the amazing Kool Korner)I might be tempted to cross it's town limits again.
Every so often, though, you find out little tips and hints. People drop lines to tell you about a shop or a deli that nobody knows about. Like, if you just drove two miles further down the road past the clutter, you'd get the real thing, right?
So, as I piloted the vehicle past the spot where the abandoned water park used to be and alongside the beautiful, defunct trestles, I had such information tucked away in admittedly haphazard brain.
First stop on the tour was Muffaletta's. A pizza and sandwich shop tucked away in Bessemer. Iwas excited. because,a well made muffaletta is one of my all time favorite things in the world. I was not to be disappointed.
We arrived and found a spot in the tiny parking lot next to a huge work truck and went in.
What immediately caught my eye was the inclusion of "Papa Joe's" hidden neatly in their logo. Could this be the thing of legend? The original Papa Joes's was a magical spot from my youth. Post little league and a regular Friday night spot for my family. It was a pizza spot that never failed to kick ass. And yes, it WAS the sauce that sits at the forefront of my memories regarding the place. Well, that and the fact that they had a Zaxxon machine in the game room.
I ordered a muff and Liz got a calzone. It was dead in there, but the guy behind the counter was nice and we settled in for a "little bit of a wait." A wait, that turned out to be worth it for sure.
The muffaletta was exactly what it was supposed to be. On the correct bread, with no stupid sauce and an incredible and obviously homemade olive salad. Fan-fucking-tastic. Liz's calzone was in a unique crust that had sesame seeds dotting the top. And, it came with a healthy (meaning big, in this case) side of that legendary sauce. Out of control! It has to be the same family running the place.
We split that scene and cruised over to Cajun Cleaver on 150 to grab some specialty items. Hot Italian sausages? Check. House-made boudin? Check. Tasso Mac & Cheese? Check! Heck, they even had the original 1960's formula Schlitz in longnecks. A bit disorganized, but, all of the product turned out to be top-notch.
Next up was 2nd & Charles for some scrounging through the stacks for ancient cookbooks. Again, we came away with the goods. My favorite score of the trip is a cookbook called "Recipes on Parade: 200World Wide Favorites of Military Officer's Wives." First recipe in the thing is Mrs. Robert McNamara's Beef Bourguignon. pretty sick. They also carry new and used vinyl there. I found a reissue of Black Flag's "Slip it In", too.
A zip down Lorna found us at the Mercado, buying snacks we couldn't pronounce. Well, except for the chorizo flavored Fritos. Which, I might add, should be avoided at all costs. But, the store was cool and they had a pretty amazing butcher shop in there. Complete with all the offal and hooves you can handle. I'm still on the hunt for my favorite Mexican soda, Rio de los Suenos, though. If you come across any, anywhere else, please let me know.
The night was finished off at the new spot downtown called El Barrio. It's sort of an upscale-ish place featuring a nicely varied Latino menu. The decor is really boss. a big graffiti mural styles one whole wall of the place. Be prepared for a wait if you get there past six. It got stacked up in there, quickly.
Since we were still pretty stuffed after a long day of gorging, we settled on a couple of quesadillas. One shrimp and one braised beef and twoo sides of the red and green rice. Id like to know if they make their own tortillas, because it sure does seem like it. And, I mean that in a good way. The shrimp were cooked perfectly, and the braised beef didn't disappoint, either. Cool folks running and working the place made it out to be a seriously fun night. Points awarded for having Good People on tap. Brian, one of the owners, came by the table and chatted for a minute. I like that dude. He's a good egg.
So, all in all, the west side had a few surprises in hand for me that day. Can't say I didn't enjoy my trip out there. Now, if Vestavia would step it up and get shit going, (Besides the amazing Kool Korner)I might be tempted to cross it's town limits again.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Ain't Never Been There Weekend Part One: Ollie Irene.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Birmingham is an amazing food town that gets little or no credence from the rest of the country. I dutifully defend it's culinary prowess to anyone who will listen. Also, I'm always looking for more ammunition, just in case I run accross another naysayer.
The wife's birthday was approaching and it fell over a weekend. I got off of work and we had loose plans to travel somewhere to have a really nice dinner. Atlanta is a fun getaway. Also, Chattanooga or Pensacola. Any of which would have been fine choices. Great towns all. Filled with good people and stuff to do.
But, after mulling it over, we decided to stay home and hit some unhit spots. I got recomendations from friends and added them to my existing "to eat" list. I wanted to keep it fairly close to Birmingham. So, some suggestions further out of town, while duly noted, were put on hold.
I got off work Friday and took a shower. It was time to begin.
Ollie Irene is in Mountain Brook where the old, well, the second Browdy's location used to be. It was freezing and the wind was way up. Ollie Irene was warm and they serve Pabst. Already, two thumbs up.
We were greeted cheerily and seated immediately. They serve dinner at 5:30. We got there at six. There was a wait by 6:15. Take note.
We started with fried boudin atop a house made stone ground mustard and some bread and butter pickles. Usually, I detest bread and butter pickles. Not these. These were outta sight. The boudin was cooked perfectly and the mustard was spot on. The thought of a whole basket of these things served like hushpuppies was too much for me to bear. Excellent, excellent pig. You beautiful creature.
So, naturally, we ordered champagne to celebrate the high five that was our appetizer. Duh.
Someone bought us a second round of beers. Thanks, whoever you were. We never caught the name.
Next, Liz got the mussels and I got the rillette. The mussels were good and had a nice broth. But, mussels don't really jazz me, so, I don't have much more to offer on them than "they were good." Rillette, on the other hand, jazzes the living daylights out of me. And, to find that this particular rillette was studded with green olives, thyme and garlic, had me grinning like an idiot. Also, as a bonus, I was going to get some more of that good-assed mustard and a bit of celeri remulade. The rillette was creamy, without being runny. It had just enough body to stand on its own, yet spread nicely on the crostini. Pig pate supreme. Hell, I even ate some more of those pickles.
After that, I had a bowl of the best French Onion Soup I've ever had. Hands down. No contest. All other bowls of French Onion will now be judged by this bowl of soup. And will subsequently fail to live up to the expectations this bowl has set forth. I'm not fucking joking.
Listen. I'm a soup guy. It's one of my things. Both as a diner and as a cook. I have a damn good sense for soups and stews. This soup was fucking mind-melting. It was rich and the onions were cooked exactly how they are supposed to be cooked and the cheese was crusted brilliantly and it gave me a backrub and fixed the brakes on my car for free. I cannot say one bad word about it at all. Nor would I. If I only had the soup to go on, It would have been enough to warrant a return. I could have eaten three servings. I want to eat it right now.
Did I mention that the soup was fantastic? I will go there just to eat the soup, alone, at the bar huddled up with a tallboy. I will repeat this process much sooner than later.
Liz had the cheese course. I didn't have any of that. I moved straight to dessert. Which, happened to be a wonderful carrot cake roulade with caramel. Carrot cake can often times be way too dense and/or gummy. I like it alright. Which is why I was surprised to find myself ordering it. You know? This place is batting a thousand so far. Why end it with a dish I only like so-so?
I'm laying the blame squarely on champagne. I don't really drink it at all anymore as it tends to put me right out. So, the lapse in judgement is resting solely on the shoulders of the bottle in front of me.
Imagine my delight to find that this carrot cake was not only light, but, moist without gumming up. And the caramel accompanying it made it that much more of a treat. It wasn't cloyingly sweet, either. It was the perfect way to cap off the evening.
Well, the perfect way to cap off the evening would have been to imbibe in some after dinner B&B's. So we did. And, speaking of alcohol, you can buy a round of beers for the whole kitchen for $15. Do that shit. They're earning 'em.
I had three courses, plus dessert. I did not feel heavy or coma'd out when I left. I felt warm. I felt sated. I felt good.
There are excellent people doing amazing things with food in this town. Ollie Irene is filled with such people and food.
Go eat there.
The wife's birthday was approaching and it fell over a weekend. I got off of work and we had loose plans to travel somewhere to have a really nice dinner. Atlanta is a fun getaway. Also, Chattanooga or Pensacola. Any of which would have been fine choices. Great towns all. Filled with good people and stuff to do.
But, after mulling it over, we decided to stay home and hit some unhit spots. I got recomendations from friends and added them to my existing "to eat" list. I wanted to keep it fairly close to Birmingham. So, some suggestions further out of town, while duly noted, were put on hold.
I got off work Friday and took a shower. It was time to begin.
Ollie Irene is in Mountain Brook where the old, well, the second Browdy's location used to be. It was freezing and the wind was way up. Ollie Irene was warm and they serve Pabst. Already, two thumbs up.
We were greeted cheerily and seated immediately. They serve dinner at 5:30. We got there at six. There was a wait by 6:15. Take note.
We started with fried boudin atop a house made stone ground mustard and some bread and butter pickles. Usually, I detest bread and butter pickles. Not these. These were outta sight. The boudin was cooked perfectly and the mustard was spot on. The thought of a whole basket of these things served like hushpuppies was too much for me to bear. Excellent, excellent pig. You beautiful creature.
So, naturally, we ordered champagne to celebrate the high five that was our appetizer. Duh.
Someone bought us a second round of beers. Thanks, whoever you were. We never caught the name.
Next, Liz got the mussels and I got the rillette. The mussels were good and had a nice broth. But, mussels don't really jazz me, so, I don't have much more to offer on them than "they were good." Rillette, on the other hand, jazzes the living daylights out of me. And, to find that this particular rillette was studded with green olives, thyme and garlic, had me grinning like an idiot. Also, as a bonus, I was going to get some more of that good-assed mustard and a bit of celeri remulade. The rillette was creamy, without being runny. It had just enough body to stand on its own, yet spread nicely on the crostini. Pig pate supreme. Hell, I even ate some more of those pickles.
After that, I had a bowl of the best French Onion Soup I've ever had. Hands down. No contest. All other bowls of French Onion will now be judged by this bowl of soup. And will subsequently fail to live up to the expectations this bowl has set forth. I'm not fucking joking.
Listen. I'm a soup guy. It's one of my things. Both as a diner and as a cook. I have a damn good sense for soups and stews. This soup was fucking mind-melting. It was rich and the onions were cooked exactly how they are supposed to be cooked and the cheese was crusted brilliantly and it gave me a backrub and fixed the brakes on my car for free. I cannot say one bad word about it at all. Nor would I. If I only had the soup to go on, It would have been enough to warrant a return. I could have eaten three servings. I want to eat it right now.
Did I mention that the soup was fantastic? I will go there just to eat the soup, alone, at the bar huddled up with a tallboy. I will repeat this process much sooner than later.
Liz had the cheese course. I didn't have any of that. I moved straight to dessert. Which, happened to be a wonderful carrot cake roulade with caramel. Carrot cake can often times be way too dense and/or gummy. I like it alright. Which is why I was surprised to find myself ordering it. You know? This place is batting a thousand so far. Why end it with a dish I only like so-so?
I'm laying the blame squarely on champagne. I don't really drink it at all anymore as it tends to put me right out. So, the lapse in judgement is resting solely on the shoulders of the bottle in front of me.
Imagine my delight to find that this carrot cake was not only light, but, moist without gumming up. And the caramel accompanying it made it that much more of a treat. It wasn't cloyingly sweet, either. It was the perfect way to cap off the evening.
Well, the perfect way to cap off the evening would have been to imbibe in some after dinner B&B's. So we did. And, speaking of alcohol, you can buy a round of beers for the whole kitchen for $15. Do that shit. They're earning 'em.
I had three courses, plus dessert. I did not feel heavy or coma'd out when I left. I felt warm. I felt sated. I felt good.
There are excellent people doing amazing things with food in this town. Ollie Irene is filled with such people and food.
Go eat there.
Friday, January 6, 2012
When The Moon Hits Your Eye.
The first real kitchen job of any consequence I got was in a pizza place. I think it's a rite of passage of any self-loathing pothead who dropped out of college to work in a pizza joint. I had worked in a chain pizza shop during high school. But, I quit it to go skateboarding one afternoon with my friends. Funny thing, though: I kept my uniform and for a few weeks, got away with "dressing out" and telling my folks I was going to work. In reality, I was going out, skating, partying and seeing a girl. Well, that ended when the paychecks dried up. Busted. Did I metion that I was a not a very educted fella at the time?
Anyways...
I had moved out of my parents house and into a punk house with my girlfriend (now wife) and got a job at a pizza place where a few other friends worked. It was an ideal job. Pizza, lax leadership, and no real rules against underage drinking.
The first shift I worked, a training shift really, I almost got fired.
My buddy who hooked the job up was in charge of training me and had me meet him there to show me how to open the place. We got down there and he showed me where everything was. Ovens, walk-in, prep area, dough maker, dish pit, dumpster, etc. Got it? Good. Let's do some work.
We had begun proofing dough and slicing veggies and had sauce on the stove bubbling away. The same busted jambox every kitchen has was blasting over in the corner. None of the other folks had shown up yet for lunch shift. Least of all, the owners. I knew a few kids on crew. But, had yet to meet the owners or even any of the managers.
Around this time, my friend suggests we have a beer and talk. I'm game, right? Everything seems to be under control and the prep is getting done. So, why not have an underage drink before lunch? We're sitting on the chest freezer back by the dish area, moving fairly quickly through a pitcher of beer when one of the owners walks in.
Obviously, she has no idea who I am. Let alone why a kid in a sauce covered apron is drinking beer in her kitchen at 9 a.m. Instant shitstorm. Miraculously, my buddy is able to chill the situation out by playing dumb and referring to it as a "shift beer." I still don't know how he did it, but, he did. However, i was eyed with suspicion for the next few weeks until I proved my mettle.
I settled in fairly quickly, learning the menu. Standard, typical pizza place stuff. Pizza, calzones, soups, sandwiuches and pretty terrible pasta dishes tha, for some reason, people loved. The menu itself was quite extensive for a place that size. There were all kinds of bullshit dishes that never got ordered. And, it was always a real scramble when they did, in fact, get ordered. You had to wonder about the folks who placed the order, too. Like, seriously? You want the cajun pasta at a pizza place? It's still a frozen block of absolute garbage! Nuke it for 10 minutes until it's molten mess and toss it with some linguine. Enjoy your fucking lunch, asshole.
To be fair, the pizza, sandwiches and calzones were good. I'll give 'em that much. We made our own bread in house and the sauce was home made, too. So...whatever. Decent stuff.
Getting to know the owners was a trip, too. A drunken father of indeterminite age. A nice, albeit shady son who may or may not have done time for insurance schemes. And an absolute batshit crazy mom from "South America" who would tear ass through the kitchen iun a full length black fur coat screaming at everyone in German. If all three of them were there, it would be a circus of nightmares straight from a Bosch painting. Screaming, throwing shit, fighting amongst themselves and with the staff. Gnarly scenes. Keep your head down and keep working. Shift's over in two hours. Let's knock it out and boogie home. For real.
If the son was running it by himself, it was always chill. He didn't give a damn about much except for getting the food out and getting out of the building so he could go do whatever he did at night. He would also jump in and help out without being a total pest, which was nice, seeing as how I was still getting my feet wet.
There were quite a few memorable scenes that went down there during my tenure as well. Like the night this huge fight broke out in the parking lot. It was after the dinner rush and we were all just hanging around the bar, smoking and talking when we heard a huge commotion outside. Sure enough, a pile of dudes were scrapping in the lot. The son looked at me and another cook and said, "Go grab something and meet me outside." So, I grabbed ab 2 foot long mezzaluna we used for cutting the large pizzas, and the other cook grabbed some kind of huge knife as well. The son, however, grabbed a bat and a pistol. We all ran out there with our weaponry into the unsuspecting crowd of drunks. My boss simply screamed "HEY!" and we showed our goods. The fight dispersed post haste and we never had any of that kind of trouble again. Word got out about it: Don't mess around there, or the staff will come at you with with certain death.
Another time, after I had been there a while, I had gotten a set of keys and was slated to open the place one morning. I showed up, let myself in, cut the alarm, and went about the normal opening duties. The phone started ringing off the hook. But, seeing as how it was 8 in the morning and no deliveries were slated to arrive that day, I ignored it. I just went about my business. The owners would be there soon enough.
About 10 minutes later, i hear a ferocious banging on the front door. I put down what I was doing and walked out to see who was making the racket. Turns out it was 3 police cars worth of officers (6 officers, to be exact.) with guns drawn and unhappy looks on their faces. I showed my hands and unlocked the door.
"Who the fuck are you?!" they asked.
"I'm the cook." I replied.
"We got a distress call from the alarm company on the silent line. The 9-1-1 line."
"Well, I turned off the alarm and started working. There's nobody here but me. And, I'm certainly not robbing the place. I don't know what to tell you."
"Get your boss down here right now."
"Okay. I'll try."
Foir the next 20 minutes I tried calling my boss. Falling dangerously behind on prep work, and generally getting pissed off in general. It should be noted that the cops had now obviously figured out that I wasn't knocking the place over. but, until an ownber confirmed my legitimacy, they had to stick around for the sake of safety. Remember, this was also the days before cel-phones. And, only doctors and drug dealers had beepers. To my knowledge, my boss was neither. But, for all I know, he could have been. Who knows, right?
He eventually pulls into the parking lot, freaking out about the amount of heat sitting on his property. The officers and I explain the situation. He confirms my employment and tells them that the reason the emergency signal had been sent was because he and his girlfriend had gotten in a fight the night before and he switched codes because she had keys and he was scared she'd go down there and torch the place or something. It was certainly, entirely possible.
Another instance involved me pinning another cook against the wall, holding a knife to his throat throat and telling him, in no uncertain terms that I would end his life if he kept talking about how the "filthy Jews control the world." This was the same guy who made open and unwelcome comments about any woman on staff. To this day, I have no idea how I didn't get fired or land in jail over the action. But, as soon as the first Gulf War kicked off, this dude disappeared, never to be seen again. Good riddance to shitty garbage.
All kinds of crazy shit went down there. Being handed the keys on a random night and told we (all underage) could drink as much beer as we wanted. Just as long as we stayed away from the liquor. In fact we were encouraged to drink up certain kinds of beer, just to "boost sales." "Yeah, y'all have all the Red Stripe you want. Take it!" Catching my owner staring at a couple enjoying a quiet dinner and asking him why he was straring at them so intently.
"I fucked a chick on their table last night after everyone went home."
Seriously. I could fill an entire book with the insanity that went on in that place.
Eventually, I got booted after getting in a fight with this dumb girl who had a job because she was realted to someone somehow. I kicked her off the line. She cried. I got fired.
I went back a few years later because I was desperate and really needed money. They gladly took me back in. Even gave me the kitchen manager's spot. But, they had ulterior motives. I was slated to be a hatchet man. They needed some folks cut and didn't want to do it themselves, so, the task fell in my lap. At first it didn't bother me. Some of these clowns really needed to go. But, then, any time they had some minor grievance, I was dispensed to do my duty. I hated it and eventually just walked out one night.
I've never worked in pizza since. What could possibly top that?
Anyways...
I had moved out of my parents house and into a punk house with my girlfriend (now wife) and got a job at a pizza place where a few other friends worked. It was an ideal job. Pizza, lax leadership, and no real rules against underage drinking.
The first shift I worked, a training shift really, I almost got fired.
My buddy who hooked the job up was in charge of training me and had me meet him there to show me how to open the place. We got down there and he showed me where everything was. Ovens, walk-in, prep area, dough maker, dish pit, dumpster, etc. Got it? Good. Let's do some work.
We had begun proofing dough and slicing veggies and had sauce on the stove bubbling away. The same busted jambox every kitchen has was blasting over in the corner. None of the other folks had shown up yet for lunch shift. Least of all, the owners. I knew a few kids on crew. But, had yet to meet the owners or even any of the managers.
Around this time, my friend suggests we have a beer and talk. I'm game, right? Everything seems to be under control and the prep is getting done. So, why not have an underage drink before lunch? We're sitting on the chest freezer back by the dish area, moving fairly quickly through a pitcher of beer when one of the owners walks in.
Obviously, she has no idea who I am. Let alone why a kid in a sauce covered apron is drinking beer in her kitchen at 9 a.m. Instant shitstorm. Miraculously, my buddy is able to chill the situation out by playing dumb and referring to it as a "shift beer." I still don't know how he did it, but, he did. However, i was eyed with suspicion for the next few weeks until I proved my mettle.
I settled in fairly quickly, learning the menu. Standard, typical pizza place stuff. Pizza, calzones, soups, sandwiuches and pretty terrible pasta dishes tha, for some reason, people loved. The menu itself was quite extensive for a place that size. There were all kinds of bullshit dishes that never got ordered. And, it was always a real scramble when they did, in fact, get ordered. You had to wonder about the folks who placed the order, too. Like, seriously? You want the cajun pasta at a pizza place? It's still a frozen block of absolute garbage! Nuke it for 10 minutes until it's molten mess and toss it with some linguine. Enjoy your fucking lunch, asshole.
To be fair, the pizza, sandwiches and calzones were good. I'll give 'em that much. We made our own bread in house and the sauce was home made, too. So...whatever. Decent stuff.
Getting to know the owners was a trip, too. A drunken father of indeterminite age. A nice, albeit shady son who may or may not have done time for insurance schemes. And an absolute batshit crazy mom from "South America" who would tear ass through the kitchen iun a full length black fur coat screaming at everyone in German. If all three of them were there, it would be a circus of nightmares straight from a Bosch painting. Screaming, throwing shit, fighting amongst themselves and with the staff. Gnarly scenes. Keep your head down and keep working. Shift's over in two hours. Let's knock it out and boogie home. For real.
If the son was running it by himself, it was always chill. He didn't give a damn about much except for getting the food out and getting out of the building so he could go do whatever he did at night. He would also jump in and help out without being a total pest, which was nice, seeing as how I was still getting my feet wet.
There were quite a few memorable scenes that went down there during my tenure as well. Like the night this huge fight broke out in the parking lot. It was after the dinner rush and we were all just hanging around the bar, smoking and talking when we heard a huge commotion outside. Sure enough, a pile of dudes were scrapping in the lot. The son looked at me and another cook and said, "Go grab something and meet me outside." So, I grabbed ab 2 foot long mezzaluna we used for cutting the large pizzas, and the other cook grabbed some kind of huge knife as well. The son, however, grabbed a bat and a pistol. We all ran out there with our weaponry into the unsuspecting crowd of drunks. My boss simply screamed "HEY!" and we showed our goods. The fight dispersed post haste and we never had any of that kind of trouble again. Word got out about it: Don't mess around there, or the staff will come at you with with certain death.
Another time, after I had been there a while, I had gotten a set of keys and was slated to open the place one morning. I showed up, let myself in, cut the alarm, and went about the normal opening duties. The phone started ringing off the hook. But, seeing as how it was 8 in the morning and no deliveries were slated to arrive that day, I ignored it. I just went about my business. The owners would be there soon enough.
About 10 minutes later, i hear a ferocious banging on the front door. I put down what I was doing and walked out to see who was making the racket. Turns out it was 3 police cars worth of officers (6 officers, to be exact.) with guns drawn and unhappy looks on their faces. I showed my hands and unlocked the door.
"Who the fuck are you?!" they asked.
"I'm the cook." I replied.
"We got a distress call from the alarm company on the silent line. The 9-1-1 line."
"Well, I turned off the alarm and started working. There's nobody here but me. And, I'm certainly not robbing the place. I don't know what to tell you."
"Get your boss down here right now."
"Okay. I'll try."
Foir the next 20 minutes I tried calling my boss. Falling dangerously behind on prep work, and generally getting pissed off in general. It should be noted that the cops had now obviously figured out that I wasn't knocking the place over. but, until an ownber confirmed my legitimacy, they had to stick around for the sake of safety. Remember, this was also the days before cel-phones. And, only doctors and drug dealers had beepers. To my knowledge, my boss was neither. But, for all I know, he could have been. Who knows, right?
He eventually pulls into the parking lot, freaking out about the amount of heat sitting on his property. The officers and I explain the situation. He confirms my employment and tells them that the reason the emergency signal had been sent was because he and his girlfriend had gotten in a fight the night before and he switched codes because she had keys and he was scared she'd go down there and torch the place or something. It was certainly, entirely possible.
Another instance involved me pinning another cook against the wall, holding a knife to his throat throat and telling him, in no uncertain terms that I would end his life if he kept talking about how the "filthy Jews control the world." This was the same guy who made open and unwelcome comments about any woman on staff. To this day, I have no idea how I didn't get fired or land in jail over the action. But, as soon as the first Gulf War kicked off, this dude disappeared, never to be seen again. Good riddance to shitty garbage.
All kinds of crazy shit went down there. Being handed the keys on a random night and told we (all underage) could drink as much beer as we wanted. Just as long as we stayed away from the liquor. In fact we were encouraged to drink up certain kinds of beer, just to "boost sales." "Yeah, y'all have all the Red Stripe you want. Take it!" Catching my owner staring at a couple enjoying a quiet dinner and asking him why he was straring at them so intently.
"I fucked a chick on their table last night after everyone went home."
Seriously. I could fill an entire book with the insanity that went on in that place.
Eventually, I got booted after getting in a fight with this dumb girl who had a job because she was realted to someone somehow. I kicked her off the line. She cried. I got fired.
I went back a few years later because I was desperate and really needed money. They gladly took me back in. Even gave me the kitchen manager's spot. But, they had ulterior motives. I was slated to be a hatchet man. They needed some folks cut and didn't want to do it themselves, so, the task fell in my lap. At first it didn't bother me. Some of these clowns really needed to go. But, then, any time they had some minor grievance, I was dispensed to do my duty. I hated it and eventually just walked out one night.
I've never worked in pizza since. What could possibly top that?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Scorched Earth Policy
Not paying any sort of attention to what was happening around me, I burnt a pan of cookies as I was setting up this blog. A simple-assed pan of cookies.
I need to get back on my game of cooking and creating dishes beyond my standard skill-set. I miss the feeling of standing in a walk-in, staring at racks of random ingredients and thinking: "What the fuck am I going to make with this?"
I left my position in a professional kitchen close to six months ago to persue a career in small batch, hand crafted barbecue sauce and creative barbecue catering. I also sell seafood at a large grocery store. Bills need to be paid, after all.
As of right now, there are no immediate plans to return to a professional kitchen until it is my own. So, probably like, never. But, I know that food is always going to be with me in some way, shape or form. (Even though I'm burning with a desire to omit that last stupid sentence, I'm going to leave it in. Fucking obviously food will always be with me. A: You need it to live. B: I live in America, where there is no shortage of food.)
If there is going to be a point to any of this nonsense, it is to discover, write about, and share food experiences with you. I plan on traveling around, eating at places I've never eaten at before. Both abroad, and right in my own backyard. I can think of three spots right down the road, right off the top of my head. And, they are quite tempting. Especially since the whole house now smells like burnt cookies.
Unless it is to relate a story of human ineptitude or abject hilarity, I won't feature any reports from chain restaurants. I'm no snob in regards to food. But, I'm pretty sure we all know what a drunken, 3 a.m. Taco Bell run is like.
So, it's a new year. And, this is a new blog. I'll keep you updated as to when things happen. I'll also add photos when I learn how to be a part of the 21st Century.
Life's too short for superstitions regarding food. Eat Everything. Even if it kills you.
I need to get back on my game of cooking and creating dishes beyond my standard skill-set. I miss the feeling of standing in a walk-in, staring at racks of random ingredients and thinking: "What the fuck am I going to make with this?"
I left my position in a professional kitchen close to six months ago to persue a career in small batch, hand crafted barbecue sauce and creative barbecue catering. I also sell seafood at a large grocery store. Bills need to be paid, after all.
As of right now, there are no immediate plans to return to a professional kitchen until it is my own. So, probably like, never. But, I know that food is always going to be with me in some way, shape or form. (Even though I'm burning with a desire to omit that last stupid sentence, I'm going to leave it in. Fucking obviously food will always be with me. A: You need it to live. B: I live in America, where there is no shortage of food.)
If there is going to be a point to any of this nonsense, it is to discover, write about, and share food experiences with you. I plan on traveling around, eating at places I've never eaten at before. Both abroad, and right in my own backyard. I can think of three spots right down the road, right off the top of my head. And, they are quite tempting. Especially since the whole house now smells like burnt cookies.
Unless it is to relate a story of human ineptitude or abject hilarity, I won't feature any reports from chain restaurants. I'm no snob in regards to food. But, I'm pretty sure we all know what a drunken, 3 a.m. Taco Bell run is like.
So, it's a new year. And, this is a new blog. I'll keep you updated as to when things happen. I'll also add photos when I learn how to be a part of the 21st Century.
Life's too short for superstitions regarding food. Eat Everything. Even if it kills you.
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