Barcelona - Part 1

The streets of Barcelona were bombarded with tourists and the smell of the salty air with it's healing power fortunately had the ability to clense my pores from the toxins that my body acquired last night at the discoteca. It was a night that ended at 5 AM, and was one that consisted of exotic tourists, a $50 cover, a $100 Euro bar tab, and five floors of utter insanity. It was an American nightclub on steroids... or maybe on ecstacy... yeah that is probably more accurate. Techno music blasted until the wee morning hours, and that is all I remember. Not sure if that's a good thing, I have a sneaking suspicion it's probably not. My liver is screaming at me, as my head whispers angrily into my subconscious......

We awoke at noon attempting to sleep off the hangovers from last night's insanity. Glass was shattered on the floor beside me - how it got there, I have no clue. I am trying to piece back together the night. I fail miserably. Shots of absinthe coupled with local Spanish wine clouded my mind as we discussed our plans for the day. We decided on Park Guell - a park that sits atop Barcelona looking down over the beautiful, ever changing, though historic city with the water of the mediteranean as a backsplash to this wonderous setting. Extraordinary mosaics, and statues line the park that was created by the Spanish artist Gaudi - it is marvelous and an inspiration to every tourist that ascends those steep steps to the top of this park that gazes down on the world below. Cars are tiny ants, trees are blades of grass, and buildings, I suppose they are pebbles. The ocean is bluer than blue, and a pencil thin strip of white is the beach - the last bit of land before the vast, endless ocean. The view from atop is spectacular and my girlfriend and I wandered the park, hand in hand with a crisp white wine, that wasn't nearly cool enough. This didn't matter though. We were content, and without a care in the world.... nothing else seemed to matter.....atleast for the time being.

We wandered down to the bottom of the park, and in my broken Spanish I told the cabbie we were heading to Las Ramblas, the entertainment district - he smiled and responded in English, nodding his head. We weaved in and out of the narrow streets of Barcelona at a frightening pace and he pointed, showing us all of the local attractions that we wouldn't get to experience since we were leaving Barcelona in the morning. We would be off to a new, and different city on this cultural adventure through Europe. We arrived at our destination where the streets were lined with vendors, restaurants, bars and boutiques. The area was congested, overcrowded with tourists and full of energy. Locals and tourists alike lounge on patios sipping sangria and eating appetizers of pulpo, tortilla and an assortment of olives paired with local cheeses and artisan breads. The sun is decending upon this beautiful city as we decide to venture off the beaten path in hopes of finding some authentic cuisine... something real.... We find an alley that seems to lead to know where - exactly what we are looking for. The cobblestone streets are rugged, seemingly centuries old and are ill-suited for vehicle traffic. There are no street lights, and the only sign of life is restaurant employees - we are apparently on the back side of a restaurant and they are on a smoke break, joking in Spanish, living their ordinary lives. We smile and they motion for us to enter. Why not? We are lead into the restaurant through the back door, the chef glares at us as he diligently sautees local seafood in their undersized kitchen. The restaurant is dark, with wood, and stone..... one thing is missing though.......


This is the end of Today's Blog - Tune in tomorrow for the =continuation.......

A Perfect Meal

The rastafarian next to me on the train is banging on his bongos like we are on the beach somewhere tropical. He is wearing earphones and seems to be the only one not bothered by the insane ruckus he is making. We are very far from tropical - the middle of the urban epicenter of the south, Atlanta, on a train nonetheless. Some of us are heading to work....some to school.... me, I am off to the airport to return to the life of a restaurant manager - a life of unparalled absurdity..... one of long, often unappreciated hours. I have just realized I left my keys at my parents house. These keys grant me access to my house, the restaurant, and my car. I guess I should get off at the next stop and turn around. I can always board a later flight.
Besides, that gives me more time to write. I need this time......


***

After a three hour ride through the countryside of Georgia, up the foothills of North Carolina and around their mountains and cliffs with the prestigious view of the world below, we arrive in Cashiers, NC. This is my Aunt Cynthia's house and this place is a sanctuary, however on this night it was dark, rainy, and cold; never a fun or desirable combination. The reason for the trip was a family reunion
for my mother's side of the family, the Porters - a family that I had never met, and knew nothing about, except that a quarter of my genes came from here. In the preceeding weeks, we were all given a family tree and other tidbits of information that might prove useful in unearthing and explaining a side of me that I simply knew
nothing about. My mother passed away before I ever got to know her as an adult, and shortly there after my cousins, my only attachment to the Porter side of the family moved away, thus here I was in North Carolina, with 30 people who I had never met. At the same time we had so very much in common, and it didn't take long to realize this.
We were crowded around the kitchen, living room and porch, chatting, playing games, and drinking in order to warm our souls from the cold air outside, while the translucent smell of a dijon crusted pork tenderloin roasting in the over began toying with our taste buds, as the apple and white wine chutney simmered away on the stove, gracing us with the wonderous flavors and aromas of fall. Bluegrass music whispered softly from the speakers overhead, and I was nominated to carve the meat a mere moments after walking in the door, not yet having met all of the people who by the end of the weekend I could truly call family. I took a quick swig of Woodford Reserve and headed into the kitchen. I asked my cousin Seth for a refill, thinking I would need one. Yes, more alcohol please. We had 16 pounds of screaming hot pork cooked perfectly, though not by me - I was just here for my knife skills. Apparently a number of my relatives had begun reading my blog and were insistent on seeing my skills at work. Though, the real skill was my Aunt Cynthia taking the meat out at the exact right moment, allowing it to rest for a couple of minutes, and at this point it would be nearly impossible to screw up. They marveled as a sliced the meat in 1/4 biased slices, exposing the pink tinted flesh within. They all cheered as the final pieces were plated and a generous portion of the apple chutney was then sprinkled on top. It was beautiful, and tasted just as good. It was served with winter vegetables, and some salad. As we enjoyed the thoughtfully cooked meal, stories were told, jokes were had, and we caught up on the decades of life we had spent without each other. We drank whiskey, and wine, ate homemade apple pies, and enjoyed each other's company until the wee hours of the morning.

I think a lot about the meals of my life. I often sit in my kitchen with a glass of wine or a beer mulling over menu ideas and recipes. I often create a really unique meal for myself, and I always plate it up like I am in a restaurant kitchen - I squeeze sauce over the meat, garnish the plate appropriately, and determine how it would fare in any high end restaurant. This is a meal that I have chosen to eat alone, but have spent no less time or put any less effort into. I equally enjoy going to restaurants with a beautiful girl on a date, or having a summer bbq with friends under the hot sun with cold beer and a football, but the meals and times I most remember are the ones that tend to happen with special people in special places in unordinary circumstances. My favorite foods don't necessarily correlate to my favorite meals. But rather those meals are.....Sharing tapas in an off the beaten path tapas bar in San Sebastian, Spain with the girl I, at one point, thought I would marry. Christmas with my family eating Lobster, spraying lobster juices in every conceivable direction. My first oyster with my best friend in Nantucket as a frightened ten year old - that was for a bet, and I won. Shrimp and Grits at my buddy Rich's wedding - seeing him happier than I ever thought imaginable. These are meals, but more than that they are memories, and have positive feelings and emotions attached. They were in special places with special people. So, yes I love Foie Gras, and I can't tell you how many fantastic, perfectly cooked Filet Mignon's I have had at Hal's Steakhouse, but if you were to ask me what my dying meal would be, it would be one that is based on a very unique and special memory.. When the great chefs of the world are asked what their dying meal would be they almost always respond with their favorite soup from their mother as a child, or the fried chicken their grandmother made until she died when they were adolescents. Yes, food is fantastic, and has the potential to truly take us somewhere else, but more often than not the thought of my favorite meals take me somewhere else - maybe home.... maybe to the coast or to Europe, or maybe to the mountains of North Carolina with the glorious Porter family that I have come to truly love. I guess when you think about it..... The food isn't really that important if everything else falls into place.......

The next morning we had locally stone ground grits, venison sausage which was also local, scrambled eggs and sourdough toast. I had three cups of coffee on the porch and looked into the crystal clear valley below. The colors of red, orange and yellow hung from the trees below, and smoke faded upwards into the sky from the fireplace that was glowing a beautiful hue of orange, sending the smell of burning wood into my mind. It doesn't get any better than this. It is now time for a hike - I just hope I am not too full, or hungover.... Hell, if I am, it is Saturday and it is the fall.... there is always college football.....


*****
The plane is making it's initial descent into Virginia, and I should probably go ahead and send this before my computer batter dies or the flight attendant verbally assaults me. I hope you all enjoy. Who knew family reunions could be so much fun? I had a sneaking suspicion they could be.....

Tailgating - Does It Get Any Better Than This?

RVs roll in by the dozen. They exit off I-2o coming in both directions and head towards the outskirts of campus. They start arriving on Thursday, and on some big game weekends their influx starts on Wednesday - beginning their massive takeover of our institution for the next few days. The parking lots around our beautiful campus methodically fill up with die hard football fans who will soon begin their tailgating festivities. This is a cult following that every saturday during the fall season travels around the southeast following the Alabama Crimson Tide. Every university with any football tradition has these fanatics, the ones who take off half of the work week in order to start prepping for Saturday's big game. So, the campers get settled in, creating their impromptu homes for the weekend..... They set up tables surrounding their area, connect televisions and radios to the RV's power supply, organize coolers properly, align chairs systematically and do all of this with precision and exactness in order to accomodate the numerous groups of friends and family that will stop by in the coming days to eat, drink and share the joy of football in the South. After all, this is their home until Sunday morning.

Friday comes and Tuscaloosa is considerably overcrowded. The town of 100,000 is now bombarded with atleast 150,000. Hotels are full, dorm rooms are packed, and old college bungaloo houses hold students from neighboring colleges - sleeping on the floor, on the couch, wherever they can lay their heads. After all, it is Friday morning when they wake and they most likely went out drinking the previous night - played a game of beer pong, or funneled one too many beers, thus the sleeping arrangements aren't paramount.... They will sleep just fine. Their friends that actually go to school here are most likely too hungover to go to class, and are simply resting up for the coming weekend - trying to deter the oncoming headache - usually some wings at Buffalo Phils does the trick, or a hearty breakfast from The Waysider. But the restaurants are packed and have a consistent hour long wait, and if you are looking to make reservations for Friday night you are atleast two weeks late, because there isn't a chance in hell you are gonna get one. Even with cancellations every restaurant in town is overbooked. Streets are blocked off with police baracades as they direct traffic, trying to maintain some sense of order as old college buddies wander the streets bouncing from bar to bar reminiscing about the good ole days - the days when they wandered these streets as students, inhabitants of this utopia. Friday night comes and the energy on the streets and around town is electric with chants of "Roll Tide Roll", as drunken college kids scream the chorus to "Sweet Home Alabama". They will be hoarse before the game on Saturday even starts, and after a game weekend in Tuscaloosa you will vow to never enjoy listening to that song ever again - it is played that much. Sorority girls dab their makeup on, getting ready for the hoardes of fraternity parties they will attend where they will drink crappy keg beer and Hunch Punch - a lethal concoction of juices, rum and if I had to guess, lighter fluid, that with a couple sips makes me feel like a lightweight, like I am eighteen again, trying to choke down that first beer that I hadn't acquired a taste for yet. They will get drunk, be asleep by midnight and most likely not remember anything after 10 PM, but that means that they will get a good night's sleep, which is important because they will be awakened at 10 am to commence the tailgating festivities....Everyone in town is up at 10 AM to get ready for this game, afterall that is what all of the commotion and excitement is about.

Saturday morning comes and the streets are lined with crimson, and every passing car seems to have an Alabama flag hanging from it. Groups of fraternity guys in khakis, buttondowns and sports coats walk their cute sundress wearing dates over to Bryant-Denny stadium on this prototypical fall day. Vendors are on every corner with hats, shirts, and other paraphenalia. The quadrangle, surrounded by white columned buildings, has been held captive by football fans - Tents with tables, chairs and TVs begin to fill with food. Chicken wings are frying; this I know because you can smell the poultry flecked oil from a mile away. Charcoal brickettes are being dusted with the juice from hamburgers and hotdogs, igniting the air with smoke and the heavenly smell we are all so familiar with - the smell that is so very American. Beers are poured into sixteen ounce red cups and flasks are filled with whiskey as tailgaters ready for the big game. Faces are stuffed with food and the tables that were once filled with burgers, wings, brats and brownies are now being packed up - saving some for later, for the postgame festivities, assuming we win. The streets and sidewalks that were once crowded are now unbearably full as game time approaches. The band in perfect uniformity marches, following the cheerleaders into the stadium . They play the school's fight song as on-lookers cheer, knowing that in a couple short minutes the game will have begun, and there will really be something to cheer about. Fathers hold the hands of their precious young daughters who marvel at the cheerleaders. They are wearing a smaller version of the same uniform, cheering the same cheers, dreaming of being here, a student, as one of them a short decade from now. They were born to into being an Alabama fan.... it wasn't a choice, it was a birth right, a destiny of sorts.

So, the game plays, and chances are we won - unless the game I am recounting occured during my tenure at this beautiful university. I'm not sure what our record was while I attended the University of Alabama, but it wasn't good - this didn't matter though. I guess that is what I am writing about. Tailgating stems from a passion and a pride for an institution - college or professional. It is about sharing a common pride, a common loyalty. So yes, for me Tuscaloosa, Alabama will always be the tailgating epicenter, the mecca of football tradition and pride, but as you read this I know you will have your own set of memories, stories and understandings of football and the pride associated with truly being part of a team, a university, an institution. I guess, what I am saying is, we tailgate for football games, but at the end of the day it is about so much more. It is about being a part of something. My heart aches for those beloved Saturdays in Tuscaloosa as a student, rallying around our football team, our university and the cammaradie that is the Crimson Nation.

Post you favorite tailgating stories..... maybe it will come from this weekend.... I am gonna post mine on Sunday.... Alec and Seth.... this is for you...... Y'all have a great weekend..... I am off to spend my weekend in the mountains of North Carolina with a bunch of Ohio State fans. All I have to say is - who is undefeated and number one in the country? That's right. Roll Tide. I actually might get to watch the game this week......

Wine - In Georgia?

I keep trying to put together some good content for the next couple of days, but I am continually distracted by all sorts of things, as I am back here in Atlanta, only for a day or two, and then off to North Carolina for a family reunion where I will meet half of where I come from for the first time..... I have a lot weighing on my mind, and I have some decisions to make, so the words aren't flowing freely like they usually do. They are slowly making their way onto my page.....onto my computer.... type .... delete... type ... backspace.... Okay, I think I have it. Here goes.......

Some time ago I traveled to the North Georgia Mountains where I did a piece for a magazine on local wine, so I spent a lazy Sunday afternoon driving north up I-75 to Crane Creek Vineyards. Aside from a small college, in the town that I have now since forgotten it's name, not much is up there. It is farms.....agriculture... and more farms.... I assume this is how it has always has been up there.... Fields of cotton, corn, and the other commodoties that have supported the local communities for centuries. Then a few daring individuals said, "Let's make some wine" - Why not? There are a dozen or so vineyards that drape these mountains and roll through the foothills and valleys of North Georgia that put out a decent quality wine.

The emergence of quality wine making in regions aside from California, and Europe is a relatively new concept. While I am not typically a fan of Australian wines, they have some top notch wines - both red and white, and they have mastered Shiraz. The same can be said about South America, and their love affair with Malbecs. Me, I love Chilean red wines. Now, I am not going to go the extreme of saying that the wine I have tried on a regional level here in the American South is comparable to the heavy hitters on the other side of the country - the one's in Napa, Sonoma and the Russian River Valleys. This, however, isn't necessarily a bad thing. The climates are drastically different, thus the grapes are different, and you can tell. Crane Creek didn't have a full bodied, incredibly robust red wine like the kind I prefer to eat with a nice piece of red meat, but they had wines with interesting complexities, using grapes I had never heard of. I have included that piece below - I hope you enjoy.

Friday, June 6, 2008

Nestled in the foothills of the Southern Appalachian Trail is a vineyard that sits two thousand feet above sea level in Brasstown Valley - the silhouette of Georgia's tallest peaks. I visited this quaint establishment on a rainy day in early April when the clouds sat like blankets on the nearby hillsides and the sun was nowhere to be seen. The trip to Crane Creek Vineyards is a quick two hour drive through the Georgia countryside. Situated in its' own little world in the sleepy, quasi-college town of Young Harris. The vineyard, founded by Eric Seifarth grows an expansive variety of grapes; both new and old world varietals ranging from Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc and Chardonnay, to new world varietals of Norton, Catawba, and the recently engineered Chardonel, which is a hybrid Chardonnay grape that was created in the labs of Cornell University.
Eric Seifarth, a native Atlantian, spent several tours of his career in the Army in the northern countryside of Italy after his graduation from West Point. Exposed and educated in an old family orientated cultural, which cherish there food and wine, Seifarth decided to take the knowledge he had gained in the countryside of Tuscany and start anew; an entirely new, foreign career. Seifarth's vineyard, opened 13 years ago, and was originally merely a supplier of grapes to local vintners, but has since grown into a full service vineyard with, a tasting room, and a guest house that sits on the side of a knoll overlooking a pond stocked with fish, and more grape vine draped hills.
Seifarth commenced to tell me the story of how he and his wife met, while she was working for the Army as a veterinarian, which she still practices to date. The couple, which purchased the land in 1995 lived in the charming farmhouse that was built in 1886, which has since been refurbished and is home to the retail shop, and tasting room.

Seifarth's wines are what he calls "accessible", and for any number of palates. For being a mid to small sized vineyard, in a state not necessarily known for it's wine, Crane Creek produces a surprising number of varietals. For reds, they offer a Claret, their Brasstown Red, which is a Merlot/Cabernet Franc blend, and a Norton, which is a full bodied bold and hearty wine (atleast bold for this region) perfect for the enjoyment of a steak dinner. For whites they have their Enotah, which is an okay Chardonel, very reminiscent of California style chardonnays. Additionally they have a blush and a Vidal Blanc which is an off dry, fruity, fresh, and grassy wine that begs to be drunk on the porch of a blazing summer day. While being walked through the production process, and through the barn, festooned with Oak and stainless steel casks, I was offered a tasting of each variety alongside other visitors, and with each we were pleasantly surprised. All of the wines had a surprising balance to them, several were fruit forward, while others were dryer. Tannins, which often contribute a sharp, overarching imbalance to young reds, were unexpectedly nonexistent, and this anomaly he attributed to the malolactic fermentation (the wine's secondary fermentation).
Noting their geographic location in north Georgia, home to some of the world's worst soil, I was beyond curious in wanting to know the effect the infamous Georgia red clay had on the production and the outcome of the wine, and Seifarth exclaimed, "Oh, the grapes, they love the clay. Perhaps too much. The Georgia red clay retains a ton of moisture, which results in absorption of water that is completely dissimilar to places like Sonoma and Napa Valley and other semi-arid places." This response led to my next question regarding the recent and seemingly ongoing drought that has plagued this part of the country over the last year. He commented, "The drought was beneficial for me, and every other vineyard in this part of the country. It allowed us to monitor the development of the fruit unlike ever before. I have a feeling that the 2007 season is going to yield our best season yet."
Well, we shall soon find out, since the 2008 vintage is virtually ready to be bottled, and to that I can attest. I had the opportunity to try the Sevyl Blanc right out of the stainless steel barrel, where it has been maturing for months. This is their first vintage for this variety, and it is what Seifarth is most eager about. It is an old world variety that was created in the 1880's and was at one point an extremely popular grape for producing lush whites. The crisp wine, Seifarth describes as, "becoming dry, austere and a somewhat flinty white, much like a good northern European Sauvignon Blanc. Here at Crane Creek we like to produce a very simple, classic style. It is a 100% stainless steel fermentation aging and it is a perfect match with fish dishes and chicken or veal with lemony piccata sauces."
I will admit up front that I was skeptical and simply unconvinced that reputable vineyards even existed in the state of Georgia. On the rainy day that I made the trip up I-575 to Crane Creek Vineyards, I was reluctant and even contemplated delaying the trip for a spring day when the sun was out and the flowers were blooming. I realized the beauty of the drive itself is almost worth it, though wait until you are there; the wine will send your taste buds into a frenzy, and will undoubtedly test all of your senses with an assortment of distinct flavors. Dreams that were dreamt in the Italian countryside have been born in a very distant land to a man with a vision and a passion to follow them. La Dolce Vita - the sweet life seems to flow from every glass, which seems quite appropriate. After all, their motto, "Wine is proof that God loves us", reigns so very true.

Home Sweet Home

In Norfolk:
This place is vacant. There are literally 6 people in the airport right now, not counting employees. It is dark - of course it is - it is 5:15 AM. Starbucks wasn't open, so I had to settle for the generic magazine vendor coffee. I am actually surprised that someone was working the stand. It tastes stale, almost like it is leftover from yesterday, and it is entirely too hot to get anywhere remotely near my face. I am filthy, and tired - exhausted beyond belief. I still have my bar key in my back pocket, and my mismatched socks are wet from the dishwasher that overflowed behind the bar tonight, and I am pretty sure that there is a chard of glass penetrating the bottom of my shoe. My body aches. That is what the restaurant industry does to you, especially when you haven't slept yet, and worked 15 hours.. Maybe I shouldn't have gone to the gym today..... or yesterday... I am not quite sure what today is.... the last two days have kinda melded together, and have become one continuous episode in my life.....

In Atlanta.....
Keep in mind it was 5:30 AM or so when I boarded the Atlanta bound flight. I headed straight to the airport from work, and arrived in Atlanta by 7:30. When free time runs sparce you learn to make the most of it, so I spent the plane flight reading the most recent issue of Maxim, we landed, I headed over to baggage claim, and hopped on the metro heading northbound towards the city I dearly love. Fellow Atlantans head off to work, to school; to live their daily lives. The sun is as bright as I have ever seen it, moisture is kissing the windows of the train from the outside, and a cool breeze slides through the rail car at every stop as nameless passengers load and unload. I begin to think about the previous night - we had a really good night at the restaurant- but all I can think about is my family - how I miss them, and how I just want to be with them right this second. I'm almost there, 3 more stops a cab ride through the autumn leaves of Buckhead and im there. The crisp Autumn air is unparalleled and the spectrum of colors that are naturally created in the forests surrounding this beautiful city ignite my passion for the South whenever I am gone for any extended period of time. Anyway, this trip home will be a nice break from work. For the next couple days I get to frequent the bars and restaurants in which I used to work. I get to catch up with old waitresses, managers, dishwashers and prep cooks. Banter in Spanish with my mexican kitchen buddies, and perhaps choke down a mouth full of Jager with old bartenders. Things are always the same..... Some of the people will have changed but, not much, and in most instances that is a good thing. I will enjoy that, but first I am looking forward to a nap, and waking up to a drool soaked pillow..... To me that is always the sign of a good sleep. There is always time for family later.

Our Bread and Butter

It has been a long day already, and it is only 8:30 AM. Since typically I work until 3 AM, I'm usually not up at this hour, but here I stand in line at Starbucks and just received a phone call with some bad news. It is too early for bad news, especially when I haven't had my first cup of joe. The coffee shop is bustling with a line nearly out the door. The barista with efficient steps rolls drinks out from behind the bar one after the other, barely looking up. He is in the zone. By the time I reach the counter to pay for my drink it is ready. No one asked me what I would like. They knew, then asked if I would be having some coffee cake as well. I nodded my head, paid for my coffee and breakfast, and found my seat in the corner. I looked on, as this streamlined operation pumped coffee out of this tiny retail location with grace and efficiency. Then I realized that every single person in line appeared to be a regular, just like me. Some were in suits, some in workout clothes, and others appeared to just have rolled out of bed, as did I. They had been coming to this Starbucks location for however long on a daily basis, ordered the same thing, and by the time these regulars walked through the door their drink was nearly half made - their lattes, their cappuccinos and iced coffees. They were greeted with a smile by name, and every couple minutes I would hear, "Get So-and-So's drinks started, he is parking right now." I then began started thinking about our restaurants.... the way we do things... and how regulars are a staple, and the core of any good service operation..... our bread and butter......

Often, over the course of the night I will wander the dining room, in order to gauge the way things are going - who seems to be having a good time, who has had too much to drink, who is suffering from bad service, and who simply isn't enjoying themselves for whatever reason. It isn't hard to distinguish these four situations from one another, though more often than not it is a combination of atleast two. I think the ideal cross section would be happy and drunk. That is usually me, well, atleast off the clock. I then wander behind the bar, catch up with a couple of regulars, send a beer or a couple shooters their way, banter with the bartenders and mull over the crowd at the bar. Why do they choose to come here? What sets us apart? What makes this place, this bar, well, home to some people. I think about the drinkers and diners who frequent our establishment alone and think more about this. Often, in other restaurants I am the one alone - I love it. I love going somewhere and treating myself to a really good night out. It could be a burger, could be a three course meal, or maybe just a ketel one martini splashed with a hint of olive juice and the toss of an olive. I believe that this is the ultimate compliment to a restaurant - when someone, without the influence of someone else says, "you know what, I really feel stopping by XYZ for a Beer, for a glass of wine, for a bite to eat...." There is no business meeting, anniversary celebration, or the obligatory couple's night out with your wife's annoying friend and her tech-junkie husband who hasn't seen a live sporting event since his senior year of high school's homecoming game.

We all have the places that we frequent for one reason or another. We feel comfortable in these establishments, and the staff makes us feel like we are one of them.... that we belong. I guess that is why I am in this industry. I understand that at the end of the day we all have choices in life, and those choices are based on experiences. My goal every day is to make people happy. That is why I run a restaurant. That is why I write. If you believe in the product you are selling, and strive to make people happy then anything is possible....

Now off to get ready for my trip to Atlanta, then to North Carolina....There are a lot of loose ends to tie up....... I am starting to miss the real South... I don't think Coastal Virginia really counts, does it?..... See you guys tomorrow....

God's Gift to the Atlantic: The Blue Crab

I hope everyone had a great weekend. Mine was well, entertaining...... We had Virginia Wine Fest here in Downtown Norfolk..... I love wine, and it holds a special place in my heart, but for the love of God... Around 5 PM, both Saturday and Sunday, the restaurant was bombarded with drunken bafoons. Literally every person that walked in the door would have failed a field sobriety test..... Beer bottles were broken every couple minutes, restaurant napkins were folded and tied around guys heads and used as bandanas.... Patrons would leave the restaurant and urinate on the street in front of us.... Female patrons attemped to take their shirts off, while the wine spoke to other patrons as they provocatively kissed, and groped their dates in the corner. I can't count on one hand how many people fell out of their chairs, or tripped coming down the stairs. One guy got thrown through the front door.... he cut his head on the railing outside our door.... don't worry he totally deserved it.... Anyway... the weekend is now over.... and I am now winding down work... All I have left is the 3 block walk to my car through the gale force winds, and the unseasonably cold air that has been haunting us for the last week or so.....I just hope the misting rain has stopped, and the leather seats in my car aren't too cold....

There are so many reasons to call it the Holy City. Businessmen step down the front steps of their 300 year old, vibrantly colored, colonial homes onto Meeting Street and stroll towards their law offices, brokerage firms, and doctor's offices. They are laden in 3 piece suits, or perhaps searsuckers, carrying briefcases, and wearing Cole Hanns - living the same lives as their fathers, grandfathers and the generations before that lived in this tide swolen city. Embraced with salt marshes, barrier sea islands, and tidal rivers, Charleston is beautiful in every since of the word. Every bronze tinted sunset that collapses over this city is unprecedented, marvelous and a new miracle. As the sun begins to set, the fishermen exit the harbor heading inland up Shem Creek with a boat full of the day's harvest. They are stalked by herds of seagulls as porpoises occasionally surface, catching a breathe of air, drifting in the opposite direction.... drifting back to their homes in the vast Atlantic Ocean. Vacationing children look on from the front porches of the restaurants that line this creek , and gaze in wonder at the boats, and the fisherman below who have docked and are beginning to clean the fish that paddled this ocean only a few hours prior. For years I was one of these children - a vacationer, an outsider; one that so desperately wanted to belong and be a part of this beautiful, mysterious city. Something about it had a magnatic, radiating pull on me. My family spent our carefree summers on Charleston's beaches. Our mornings were spent splashing in the tides building sandcastles, while our afternoons were spent with my grandfather, Pop, religiously devoted to catching the sacred crustacean of the Atlantic - the blue crab. At the inlet where Sullivan's Island and Isle of Palms meet we would cast our crabbing lines into the salt water and wait patiently while marvelling at Fort Sumter in the distance. Our modest grossings of a dozen crabs was pale in comparison to the myths we heard of my father and uncle, when they were our age, in this same salty water some 30 years before. Growing up on the Chesapeake Bay they wrung in hoardes and hoardes of these tasty creatures. They pillaged these waters and in doing so created an unattainable standard in the eyes of my grandfather. When he felt like we had been adequately sunburnt or when he felt like we had captured enough sizeable crabs to yield a modest appetizer for our oversized family, we would pack up, and head back to our beautiful house over looking the vast ocean. For hours my grandfather meticulously picked crabs as we laid down for a nap, or maybe played cards in the living room - out of the danger of the sun - this was our parents orders that were intended to distract us from the sun, and the exacerbation of our sunburnt skin. Occasionally I would help my grandfather, but however mundane and tedious it was, I got the sense that he enjoyed the solitude of this task. Sitting on the porch, cooled by the slight breeze coming off the water, I got the sense that this was his time to reflect on the long, admirably lived life that was now in it's denoument - it's final chapter. Pelicans glided overhead dancing with kites in the sky, as his eyes chased cargo ships exiting the horizon in the east, heading off to sea, off to another port, another world , a world very far from here. Nevertheless, the crab was always picked flawlessly and we always had a homemade cocktail sauce to accompany it. Our parents would sip on whiskey sours, while us kids relished the gift of Coca-Cola. Life was good. The crab was great and will always hold a special place in my heart. Thank you Pop. Crab to me will always in a sense be, well, you.

I have been working on a couple different crab cake recipes that are a little more unique than the typical Crab Cake.... I will probably attach one at the bottom of this post. If y'all have any recipes to share leave them below, or search the Food Bar at the top of this page for Crab Cake Recipes - There are some good ones.... Just make sure you use Jumbo Lump Crab, go easy on the fillers, and easy on the mayo......

The Weekend - Important - Please Read!

Instead of posting additional essays, stories and tidbits on food, restaurants and life, I would rather have the weekend serve as a chance for everyone to catch up on my writings from the past week. The last thing I want to do is burn out, or burn anyone else from out from what I am doing. I want it to maintain a sense of freshness, reality and a feeling that it is alive. So, I will still be here in Starbucks writing over the weekend for next week, but I will save those stories for Monday through Friday when you are sitting at your office desks, or are sitting in the last row of class not paying attention to your professor's powerpoint presentation. Anyway, I have some great additions for next week that I hope you all look forward to.
When I began this blog I was unsure of the direction it would take. Perhaps I merely started it for myself, but with the response I have gotten, and the energy that has stemmed from it I have a hope, and a vision that it could turn into something special. Google advertises on my site, and sends me money when the ads they post generate click-throughs. For those of you who don't pay attention to those ads, there are some really good ones related to food - locally, and nationally. My thoughts are that if I am able to attain a strong readership through family, friends, work colleagues and get a true following on a national level this advertising income could turn into something substantial. What if I were to donate that to the community? I have a couple prefered charities, but some that stick out in my mind, and work with the ideals of the general topic of my writing are some of those that give back to the hungry, to the needy. Perhaps, that is another way to encourage all of your friends to check out the blog. I am here to write, to tell you about what I am passionate about, and get my name out there at the same time, and if I can create something positive for those who need it, I would jump at the opportunity. So, if you believe in what I am doing I encourage you to spread the word - it is for a good cause - and if any of you have suggestions for charity donations let me know - they will of course be considered. Have a great weekend. I hope it is warmer and dryer where you are. Here it is cold, and rainy. I want to lay on the couch and watch football all day... and all night. There will be time for that later... For now, back to the writing... Then off to work....

Barbecue - What It Means To Me -

I am consciously openning a can of worms that doesn't need to be opened. BBQ, potentially a topic that could be argued for the rest of eternity - with no right answer. We all have our favorite road side barbecue stops along the interstate that we insist on stopping at during road trips, even if it means driving twenty miles out of the way, just so we can indulge in the incredible smokiness of the beloved slow roasted pig... or beef..... Having gone to school in Tuscaloosa, Alabama it didn't take long for me to realize that Dreamland BBQ was an institution. For the first year and half I lived in this sleepy, college town I merely heard the myths of this BBQ sanctuary, because, of all things, I couldn't find it! Nestled in the woods, after passing through farms, and crossing streams there was an old wooden billboard with faded lettering signifying the appropriate turn for Dreamland BBQ. Drive too fast and you will miss it....this I guarantee.... Their slogan "Ain't Nothin' Like 'em Nowhere," is what I think we all feel about our favorite BBQ joints. They, however did things a little different - Fast cooked ribs, a homemade sauce, a stack of white bread, iced tea and Coca-Cola in cans. It was that simple - no coleslaw and no pulled pork or baked beans, or other seemingly obligatory sides and condiments that accompany barbecue. They had one type of sauce, one type of meat, cooked one way for years upon years. And it worked. People loved this place, though things have changed. Dreamland is now franchised and offers much more than the basic offering that they were once known for.......I always enjoyed Dreamland and would consider it heresy if I were to return to Tuscaloosa and not stop by this mecca of barbecue in Alabama, but it is not my favorite barbecue stop for several reasons. I much prefer a slow roasted, tender, ethereal and falling off the bone type rib, but also above that, I prefer pulled pork. I prefer those pulled or chopped bits that are slathered in dry rub that have then been tossed in pig juices, absorbing the incredible flavor of pork fat.

I went to Dallas for a wedding a couple years back, and naturally the first thing I ate upon my arrival was smoked beef brisket. This was the rehearsal dinner. We know they are serious about their meats in the Lonestar State, and to Texas BBQers, a smoke ring isn't created from the puff of a cigarette or a cigar, but is rather a heavenly chemical reaction that takes place in the meat when it properly smoked, cooked low and slow......a beautiful pink ring forms in the flesh of the meat, signifying the pitmaster's expertise. North Carolina BBQers bicker back and forth about vinegar based sauces versus tomato based sauces, and the state is essentially divided in half geographically between east and west regarding this controversy. In Memphis their Babyback ribs are served dry, and you head a couple states over to Missouri, and in St. Louis barbecue is made with spare ribs. They are equally passionate and convinced that their's is the best, and well, the only way to do barbecue.

A week from now I will be in the mountains of North Carolina. The autumn leaves in the mountains will be subtly turning from green to yellow, then eventually to red before falling to the ground below. This signifies that the air will begin to cool, and we will begin to drape ourselves in sweaters, cardigans and scarves. My favorite BBQ joint is in these foothills. It is along a windy road that connects two small towns, both of which are hung in the mountains and begin to look deserted this time of year. Cars are scarce, as the smoke from the hickory wood barbecue pit levitates towards the sky, spiraling into the abyss disguising istelf among the omnipresent fog. I gather with my cousins and huddle around the fireplace that is warming our hands as the barbecue warms our souls. Fog hangs lazily in front of us obstructing our view of the valley thousands of feet below, but we know what's down there, and we know it is beautiful. This is about as good as it gets. Time spent with family, eating some of the world's best barbecue, telling stories of the good ole days - back before we had jobs, responsibilities and college degrees. I am ready to be there now. I am ready to see them, and ready to eat barbecue. I'm just glad it is pulled pork, and there are two options for sauces. One vinegar based, and the other tomato. I know which one I am leaning towards.....It doesn't get much better than this..... It really doesn't....

The Way We Approach Life Does Make A Difference

I am extremely encouraged with the response I have gotten from many of you.... It is gratifying to track how many visitors have come to the site, and it is good to know that is not just me, my family and close friends! For those of you who don't know me well, or are merely getting introduced to me through this writing, thank you. I began writing, because I enjoyed it, and for no other reason than that, back when I was in high school - I spent time fantasizing about all sorts of things in class, not just girls, when I should have been learning of the French-Indian War, the marvelous poetry of T.S. Eliot, and spanish verb conjugations.

My mother, was a writer and a beautiful one at that. She was in the middle of writing a memoir when she passed on of cancer, that damned disease we are all too familiar with, when I was an awkward eight grader trying to find myself. Maybe this is me carrying on her legacy, or maybe I am now writing those words that she never got to..... That is what I would like to think atleast...



A Landshark beer is tucked between my legs, as I eat a sleeve of girl scout cookies watching the new episode of Top Chef Las Vegas. For those of you who don't watch, it is quality entertainment, and is one of few shows I watch religiously. Andrea Bocelli echoes softly in the background from my computer while my cousin sleeps gingerly on the couch across from me, letting out an occasion snore, awakening the dogs from their much cherished slumber. My head is now clear from the self inflicted torture I brought upon myself known as a hangover.....

Today is Blog Action Day, meaning that us bloggers are supposed to rally around a certain topic of global signficance and the idea is that, worldwide there will be thousands among thousands of folks with different points of view, coming from different cultures, speaking different languages, and praying to different gods - united in vision for atleast one day regarding a single topic. The topic this year happens to be Climate Change. I was very hesitant to participate. Very. Being new to the blogging community my goal was to create a loyal following of readers who would participate in what I was doing, and appreciate my writing for what it was. For the stories, recipes, imagery, and everything else that this blog is about. I then thought how much the restaurant industry is attempting to and striving towards minimizing it's impact on the environment and how at the very least I could discuss this, and maybe in the process get some positive PR for my participation.
So here goes, though instead of writing about climate change, all I am going to say is that if restaurants and superemarkets on an individual basis made choices that would support a healthy environment we would all be so much better off. Obviously we would be living in a healthier and cleaner world, but we would be healthier as people in general - no hormones in our meats, no sprays on our fruits and vegetables - everything would be natural, the way things were meant to be, but it falls back on us as consumers. Unless we consciously make the right choice as individuals we will be fighting a losing battle. Go support your local farmers. Think about the decisions you make on a daily basis and how that effects the world around you. Think about that impact, however big or small, then multiply it by, say, three or four billion. My favorite quote from my Mother's writing was this. Simple, and to the point - "The way we approach life does make a difference" - What difference are you making?

I am done preaching now - I think I am going to write about barbecue tomorrow......Always an enjoyable, nostalgic and ever controversial topic........

First of all I want to thank you all for your support - Feedback has been great, much appreciated and if you are reading this you are investing in me. So, thank you.






It is gloomy - there are no signs of the sun today and and the sky is one giant ribbon of gray. a soft drizzle of cold rain is enough to keep the sidewalks empty, though the coffeeshop is moderately busy with customers trying to warm their blood, and I guess their hands as well. My typical day in this coffee shop consists of two venti cups of coffee with enough ice so that I can drink it immediately and a piece of berry crumb cake - the coffee doesn't seem to be going down very easily today and I passed on the cake. My mind is clouded from the inordinate amount of alcohol I consumed last night, though thankfully my headache is slowly dissipating. The other day at the restaurant we were tinkering with some seafood gumbo recipes so maybe I will go home and work on that. Or maybe some chicken tortilla, or french onion soup with a creamy gruyere melted over the top. It is a comfort food kind of day. Chicken Pot Pie, Shrimp and Grits, Mussels in a white wine broth with rustic french bread....



I am longing for those foods that take me home. Back to my childhood of canned tomato soup and grilled cheeses, when we would on a weekly basis have breakfast foods for dinner - made from scratch biscuits, scrambled eggs, cheese grits and bacon. We had one nanny from England whose Shephard's Pie was otherworldly, and Virginia, god rest her soul, made the world's best fried chicken. Her arms were scarred with oil burns from a lifetime of frying chicken. Being dropped off at home after school as a young boy I would always sneak a drumstick fresh out of the fryer while she had her back turned. To me the smell of chicken frying is celestial in the most literal sense of the word, and it never fails in taking me back to my innocent, carefree childhood.



My coffee is just above room temperature, and I am now getting hungry for that piece of berry crumb cake that I passed on.... I need something in my stomach before I go to the gym ......





What is your favorite comfort food? Leave a note and vote in the poll to the right!

The People - The Industry - Restaurants Baby!

Kinda Long Winded - but I hope you enjoy....


Cars come and go, soccer moms stroll their children down the sidewalks gossiping of the Junior League as older couples walk their poodles and Yorkies. I sit on the patio of a Starbucks on the corner of a modestly busy intersection here in Ghent. Restaurants line these streets and the waft of baking bread scampers past me every couple of seconds as I check my emails, go over the sales numbers from last night’s dinner service, and chat with liquor reps about upcoming promotions and product launches. My night ended around 2 AM when the last, half drunk patrons stumbled out of the bar and into the safety of a cab. I ensured that the kitchen was ready for prep in the morning, and that the bar was reasonably clean, after all this is a restaurant and a working one at that – one that gets dirty then clean and dirty again – on a daily basis. I made sure all important equipment was adequately turned off, secured all exit doors to the world outside, and counted the money, assuring it was in order. I took a shot of whiskey at the bar hoping it would sufficiently sedate me so that my arrival home would be nothing more than a brush of my teeth, the guzzle of a bottle of water and a tumble into bed – maybe I should have made sure my cell phone was charging, because now it is only half full and it will undoubtedly die when I least need it to – probably when one of the cooks calls out, or when a supplier calls saying that he has ran out of god knows what. Murphy’s Law right? I think that defines our industry. I can’t remember the last busy night we had when at least something didn’t go wrong, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It is just the way it is…. And we know that……

I look at our lives as restaurant workers and the subculture that stems from it. On six hours of sleep, with my veins half pumped with roasted coffee beans I look at my life, where I am, where I want to be and how the restaurant business has helped me get here. Or has it hindered me? The lives of restaurant employees are albeit unique in the sense that we are in the business of making people happy, whether we stumbled into this business transiently or if we are in it by birth right, or we make a conscious, goal driven decision to be here. We do so by working some of the oddest most stressful hours conceivable, and by doing so create some of the strongest bonds imaginable under the most unique of circumstances. Things are frantic, and fast paced and after pouring drinks for 8 frantic hours, or grilling off steaks a dozen at a time while concurrently reducing sauces on a full stove during the dinner rush we can’t help but look at our lives and wonder how we ended up here, whether we were destined to or not. These are the things we talk about over drinks in the dimly lit ambience of the bar after the doors are locked, after the outsiders have long since come and gone. Some of us are in the restaurant industry because we are raising families and it is a decent, though challenging way to make a living and provide for the ones that need us. Some of us are here, because we are in school, are working for tips and there is nothing that pays comparable with such minimal amount of commitment and responsibility. Then there are some of us that are here because it is what we truly love. We love making people happy - Seeing our guests smile , cutting into that rack of lamb that is perfectly dressed with sauce sitting over a flawlessly cooked risotto, as the fragrance of rosemary and parmesiano reggiano liven the tastebuds of the neighboring tables. We love the hustle and bustle of the dining room on a busy Friday night – watching waiters slide by each other with inimitable grace- their nimble steps nearly missing each other and the guests as they weave in and out of the rows of occupied tables. Guests converse, laugh, banter, and are carefree, simply enjoying a night out at a place they truly love. It is their escape, and we know that. We love the chatter of orders incessantly pouring out of the kitchen printer signifying to the cooks that they are about to be buried with tickets and stressful waiters for the next couple hours in the 90 degree heat of the kitchen. This is the trenches. This is our moment to shine – our stage, our theater, where we are under the lights and are destined to shine. We love rejoicing at having made it through one of these nights…. Maybe the A.C. went out, a bad storm came through outing the power, or a ten top showed up 30 minutes late on a night where every table was accounted for, for at least 3 turns. Something happened, it doesn’t matter what - we all reacted with exuberance, resolve and determination. Why do we do this? Why do we work in this industry? We are here – for how long? It doesn’t really matter.

So, I am finishing up my paper work, here on the same patio where I started writing this piece a half a day later. The autumn sun has since gotten warmer, and my iced coffee is perspiring, nearly leaking over to my computer. My arms are a shade browner than they were when I woke up and my face has taken on a few subtle shades of red. Anyway, I did get a phone call, but it wasn’t a cook calling out, but rather one of my waitresses. What does this mean? Nothing really…. It’s the same old… nothing will change…. It will always be like this. This is why we do it. Because every day is different… an excitement, and utterly, well… a different world….. Roll with the punches, paddle through the storm, hell that is the only way to stay afloat - at least in the world of restaurants.
CCH.

A Night on the Town....

I sit at the 15-seat marbled bar, alone. The ponytailed male bartender, draped in all black, offers me a wine suggestion. I take it, he pours and then paces desperately, trying to find a way to occupy time until last call.
It is like a ghost town --or Christmas Eve or the day after Valentine's Day. No one is out. The faded sconces hanging overhead cast a dull haze as the light intertwines with cigarette smoke sifting from the couple at the other end of the bar.
I sit next to the service well, where every now and then chatter from the printer tells the bartender what he needs to make for one of the cute, college-aged female waitresses. These girls amble to their tables, inform their guests of tonight's chef's specials and reconvene by the computer terminal, where they talk about the weekend -- the prodigious amounts of alcohol each consumed, the hangovers that lasted all Sunday, and who got fired from the restaurant for oversleeping their brunch shift.
After all, it's a Monday and the economy is slow as hell. Just as the servers do for their customers, the bartender tells me the featured dishes for the night, some by-the-glass wines that would compliment each, and I nod in appreciation, take his recommendation and wait patiently for my meal.
A moment later, the middle-aged manager, dressed in a three-piece suit, walks over and asks his bartender for a taste of the new Napa Valley cabernet that will soon be added to their wine list. He pours one for the manager -- and one for me-- and I thank him with a nod. I swirl the glass, tilt my head and drain the oaky, succulent red. Maybe I should have ordered this instead. I have always had a love affair with Napa Valley cabernets.
My food arrives. The seared yellow-fin tuna is a purple-tinted red, attesting to its freshness. It's served over an ordinary, cold noodle salad. But the tuna is good. In addition, I order some bruschetta of artichoke hearts and heirloom tomatoes, which has a celestial balance of acid from the balsamic vinegar and sweetness from the perfectly ripe heirlooms.
This is undoubtedly the best food I have experienced in Virginia since I arrived. So I sit and enjoy the rest of my wine with a full belly and a slight buzz. As always, I contemplate dessert, though I will most likely order a 10-year tawny port, or perhaps an 18-year scotch.
A year ago, I moved here from Atlanta, home of Top Chef's runner-up Richard Blais, Iron Chef America competitor Kevin Rathbun, several five-star restaurants and a multitude of James Beard nominees. Tom Coliccio recently opened a restaurant there, and it is a town that eats out more than anyplace else per-capita in the U.S. In Atlanta, I could walk out my office onto Peachtree Street and there would be 10 top-notch restaurants within a block in any direction. So, I look at the quality of restaurants here, and the quality of chefs here, and the access to the finest ingredients and I have incredible hope.
I also look at the economy and how the population is eating out less and less, and how people are attempting to save and cope. One thing that won't change, assuming we support them, is the quality of food available from our restaurants, and the access to wonderful ingredients that line our shores and farms. Visit the local chefs! Rejoice in the passion of what they are doing! It will be well worth it.
***
Just so you know ... I went with the 10-year tawny port. As I wound down a great evening, by myself, and as I glanced over the empty dining room I wondered what will happen if things don't change. What if people don't start going out to eat more? What if the economy doesn't change? I don't want to find out.
***
The girls sweep their sections and the bartender cleans his bar mats and polishes the remaining glasses that were used during the night's service. They close down, leaving kitchen and dining room ready for service the next morning. Knives are polished, napkins are folded and salt and pepper shakers are filled. It didn't take much work since this 120-seat restaurant only did 25 covers tonight. The chef, still in his whites, wanders out to the bar, unties his apron and asks for some Gran Marnier. The bartender obliges, pouring it into a snifter, and pours himself one as well.
"Thanks, Barkeep," he says. "I hope you were busier than the kitchen tonight."
The bartender glances over the empty bar, except for me. He hoists his glass, makes eye contact with me, and his chef, and we raise our glasses to meet his. "Let's try it again tomorrow."
----Christopher C. Hill is manager of Baxter's, a restaurant and sports lounge on Granby Street in

The Epicureans Dilema: Welcome!

Thank you for embarking on this journey of food and restaurants with me.

Epicurean philosophy is rooted in the narcissistic idea of obtaining pleasure in order to obtain a state of tranquility and a freedom from fear. When I began thinking about it, I thought, isn't that why we indulge in food? From the succulence of Maine lobster, perfectly seared foie gras, or a glass of a '97 Napa Valley Cabernet, to the pulled pork from our favorite local barbecue joint, a shotgunned can of PBR while tailgating with old college buddies, to the butter soaked popcorn we so closesly relate to our neighborhood cinema, food, in a very real sense equals pleasure. That is why I am here today, because for me food goes way beyond pleasure, or contentness; it goes to the idea of making others happy. Since for many of you I will never cook, the least I could do is share my thoughts on food through my writing. Unfortunately, it doesn't and won't compare, but hell, it's better than nothing. I appreciate your feedback, support and thoughts - please spread the word. The first real post is coming soon....