tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39492708023344812692024-03-13T09:26:32.285-07:00Portland Food ComaEating and Drinking.... A Lot.Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-80136875288419980992012-03-29T21:40:00.001-07:002012-07-12T07:11:20.635-07:00We Have Moved!<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://www.foodcoma.me/" target="_blank">PLEASE GO TO FOODCOMA.ME KEEP THIS SHIT ROLLING!!</a></span></u></b></div>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-64015238447227106122011-12-10T16:22:00.001-08:002011-12-11T08:11:20.986-08:00Paris Food Coma Part 8 - And So It Ends...<br />
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<i>Before reading I would recommend re-visiting parts <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2011/06/paris-food-coma-part-one.html" target="_blank">1</a>,<a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2011/07/paris-food-coma-part-2-more-of.html" target="_blank"> 2</a>, <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2011/07/paris-food-coma-part-3-tale-of-two.html" target="_blank">3</a>,<a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2011/07/paris-food-coma-part-4-hallelujah-holy.html" target="_blank"> 4</a>,<a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2011/08/paris-food-coma-part-5-joels-playpen.html" target="_blank"> 5</a>,<a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2011/08/paris-food-coma-part-6-hellfest-begins.html" target="_blank"> 6</a>,
and <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2011/09/paris-food-coma-part-7-choose-your-own.html" target="_blank">7</a> - if you have a few hours to spare...</i></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Day 8 – Hell Awaits</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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The last thing that I remember before falling into a
coma-like sleep is Joel bursting into the room at 3:00 am like a gay carnival
on fire, dying to tell me all about what had happened on his way back from
Hellfest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“So I’m waiting for the shuttle busses and it’s the usual
shit-show of people trying to get the fuck out of there, right? Some white
trash bitch starts chatting me up, and it turns out she’s from Kentucky or
Alabama or somewhere along those lines. Her dumpy, sulky boyfriend is just
hanging out next to her, not saying anything. She starts complaining about
people being rude and not waiting their turn for one of the wildly infrequent shuttles,
just as one pulls up in the general vicinity of our group.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The girl, thinking she is somehow doing the right thing,
steps aside to let someone else, who she claims has been there longer than her,
get on the shuttle first, expecting to be let on shortly after. Instead, the
mob begins to shove her and her dead fish boyfriend out of the way, and in a
split second I saw one opening in the bus and I jumped straight in, forcing my
money directly into the hands of the driver. As the shuttle door begins to
slide shut, the girl catches a glimpse of me in the backseat, and just starts
screaming ‘HOW COULD YOU?!?! YOU EVEN TALKED TO MEEEE!!’ Oh well bitch, have
fun waiting patiently in line for the next three hours!<o:p></o:p></div>
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While telling his story, Joel has begun neatly arranging his
newly acquired trinkets, consisting of another plastic Hellfest pitcher and
four cups bearing the identical logo. He seems quite proud of what he has put
together, and joins me for a quick glass of wine, explaining our itinerary for
lineup of bands before turning the lights down. <o:p></o:p><br />
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With the eighth day of our adventure in France comes the
final and most exciting leg of Hellfest, featuring such rock legends as Judas
Priest, Ozzy Osbourne, and the reason we have travelled this distance to begin
with, Opeth. It is also the final time I will have to deal with being outside
all day drinking shitty beer and eating shittier food, all the while knowing
that there are about a million more preferable dining options only a half hour away
in Nantes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Though I only sleep for five hours, it feels like eighteen.
I feel rejuvenated, and even, dare I say, a bit hungry due to an early dinner.
I allow princess Joel get the remainder of his beauty rest as I shower up, put
on my increasingly beat up Cole Haans, and slip out into the streets of Nantes
in search of something reasonable to eat. I am painfully aware that it is 10:30
am, so the chance of finding anything remotely satisfying to snack on is about
as likely as me getting laid with my limited grasp of the French language. At
least with anyone worth writing about...<o:p></o:p></div>
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After about an hour of meandering about, I begin to grow
tired of being painfully reminded that only complete assholes eat at this time
of day in France. Just as I’m about to throw in the towel and start hammering
down beers instead of food, I catch a particularly tantalizing scent coming
from a block away. Further investigation reveals a rotisserie grill set up on
the sidewalk in front of a small cafe, with four beautiful golden birds twirling
and dripping juices everywhere. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I saunter closer, it appears that this is no mirage. The
only question is how the fuck am I going to get my paws on some of this yard
bird? There is no way that this place could possibly be open, right? I suddenly
become very self-conscious, not wanting to walk up and try the door for fear of
being told in a very condescending manner that it is not lunchtime yet. I’m not sure where this fear is coming from,
as I think it is readily apparent that I’m not from anywhere around here and it's not like I'll ever see any of these people again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Regardless, I decide to slink around the corner and watch
the door, waiting for someone else to go in first and give me the green light.
While lurking, I scare the living shit out of some poor woman in front of a
bakery window, as I bowl straight into her, knocking the baguette right out of
her hands. Honestly, I don’t think I recovered well from this, after picking
her bread up I stammer and mumble a few things in English before backing away
while barking “Have a GREAT day!” at this poor citizen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It has been seven minutes and no one has gone in the shop. I
want to give up but the chickens smell so good that I stick around, patiently
waiting for my opportunity to be inevitably disappointed. Three minutes later, a middle aged man in a
tweed sport coat makes a move towards the door, and after waiting a moment to
see if he is shooed right back out, I know it is time. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Inside the shop, a large elderly woman tends to several
roasted chickens in the case as the tweeded-up man purchases a few whole birds to go. She
seems to expect me to do the same, and appears puzzled when I ask her, in busted
up Franglish, if I can have an order to eat right now. I realize that I am
probably asking for the equivalent of a Bloody Mary at 9PM, but I have been
very patient to try one of these goddamn beak-wearing shitheads, so I follow
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She obliges me with a reasonable portion of chicken with
buttered potatoes, served in a small plastic container with flimsy plastic
flatware. Her mood doesn’t improve when I turn right around and perch myself on
one of her tiny stools to devour my meal right then and there. My first bite of
chicken is dry and lacking flavor, so I dip the next one in the accumulated
juices at the bottom of the container, with marginally better results. The
potatoes are lacking any kind of seasoning, and I find myself growing
increasingly upset, resisting the urge to turn around and start flinging them
at this fowl-ruining harlot of a cafe owner. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I take three deep breaths, finish a few more bites, politely
thank the woman, and take the rest with me to its final destination, the
nearest trash can. In my wretched newfound mood, all of the festive Nintendo mosaics on
the city walls are really starting to piss me off. In the distance, I see the
pastel-colored signage of the juice bar chain I had enjoyed the detox beverage
from at the train station in Tours. My spirits start to rise, kind of like the
man in the shower from the 1988 Coast soap commercial, as I begin making
headway towards what would surely make me feel much better about myself. As I
get within the final six feet of the sidewalk sign, it becomes obvious that
someone had left it out from last night and that they are, of course, closed. I
want to smash things, but wisely begin the long trudge back towards
the hotel, swearing in a colorful new language under my breath. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I get back, Joel is just waking up so I spare him the
details of my “Rotisseratastrophe.” Instead, I pretend as if I have not eaten
yet, complaining that I was waiting for him to get up before I ate because I
didn’t want him to miss anything good. Though I think he believes me, I do not
think, however, that he really gives a shit. Upon consulting his new Rail
Europe iPhone app, he discovers with horror that because it is Sunday, there is
a four-hour window with zero trains bound for Clisson, throwing his Hellfest
itinerary into a discombobulated mess.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I suggest that this allows for a long lunch, which cheers
him up a bit. Personally, I’m not that concerned that my outdoor festival time
is being cut short, as I know all of the bands I want to see are coming on much
later. It is now around 12:45, and our train leaves at 3:15, so we set out once
again to scavenge for an amazing lunch experience in the city. During my solo
wine drinking Internet time last night, I discovered the <i><a href="http://youtu.be/CeZlih4DDNg" target="_blank">Vegan Black Metal Chef</a></i>
episode involving the creation of an awesomely satanic Pad Thai. While watching
it for a second time with Joel, we had both decided that Thai food sounded
perfect, setting ourselves up for predictable disappointment when all ten of
the places we try to go are closed on Sunday afternoon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I begin to descend into Crankyland, Joel recognizes that
we must get situated soon to preserve the sanity of the group. We pass by Chez
Maman, remembering it as one of our reliable and pretty concierge’s recommendations. She
hadn’t let us down yet, so we decide to give it a try. The hostess agrees to
seat us, giving the impression that we have just made it in under the wire. She
promptly illustrates her point by denying another American couple entrance two
minutes later, informing them that lunch is done for the day.</div>
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Due to being quite famished, we are unfazed at first by the
fact that the entire restaurant is done up head to toe in Playmobil toys of
varying sizes and ethnicities. It is only when Joel points out the alarmingly
large angel poised right over my head that I begin to question the sanity of
whoever owns this godforsaken place, that and the fact that we are listening to
the Bee Gees at a fairly loud volume over the speakers.</div>
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While waiting patiently for our swashbuckler-looking server
to acknowledge our existence, I select a bottle of Domaine La Genestiere Tavel
Rose to put our heads back in the game. The musketeer’s demeanor changes when he
takes the order and sees that we are ready to do some serious mid-day drinking,
which seems to be common among French server folk. My advice to anyone
travelling in France – don’t be on the wagon. Save that kind of behavior for
India or your first day teaching kindergarten.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As Tavel is the AOC for rosé favored by French kings and
popes of Avignon, the wine, served in funky mismatched stemware, possesses a
fuller bodied character with flavors of berries, flowers, and spice. While
powering through glass number one, I consider a very difficult decision. There
is a Thai chicken curry dish on the menu, corresponding to the cravings I was
experiencing not long ago, and though I know not to order it based on the fact
that we are in a French restaurant, I also realize that this place is definitely
a little bit non-traditional so maybe, just maybe, it might be a specialty of
the chef. My language skills prevent me from consulting with the server so I
decide to take the plunge and get it anyway. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I consult my notes from this portion of the trip, I see
that I wrote down something about “Joel begins the sassington process, that is,
the process of being sassy.” Maybe he can shed light on these meaningless
ramblings, but probably not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My appetizer strikes me as the inspiration for whatever American shithead coined the term "Chef's Salad," though instead of the way Amato's does it with turkey, ham, cheese and hard-boiled egg, they have substituted creamy chicken livers, smoky bacon, soft house made
croutons, and a perfectly poached, runny egg. Joel, still not over
his fetish with meat spread, hungrily tears into his chicken liver terrine,
smearing it on the warm, crusty bread provided for the table. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We reach the halfway mark with our bottle, and I am feeling
great. So great, in fact, that I am almost prepared for my bad decision to come
to life as I am presented with a large dome of white rice surrounded on all
sides by a moat of acceptable but completely run-of-the-mill chicken curry. I
peer across the table at Joel, who seems quite pleased with his choice of beef
Carpaccio with elephant-sized asparagus and a small boat of frites. This makes
me feel like throwing something at him, but refrain by insuring myself that I
had plenty of time to make my decision and now I must live with it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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To ease my pain, I steal half of Joel’s fries, which I can
say in 100% honesty, are some of the best fucking fried potatoes I have ever
had in my life. They are perfectly seasoned, crunchy on the outside, soft on
the inside, and dripping with whatever fat they were cooked in. They are so
good that the thought of using a condiment is almost as unnecessary as playing
“Night Fever” while people are trying to eat. <o:p></o:p><br />
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When I am satisfied with my performance of decimating the
best part of Joel’s meal for him, I hit the loo, only to discover a large
Playmobil man with his hand reaching out towards me stationed right next to the
toilet. As I resist the urge to piss in its creepy, lifeless face, I notice a
portrait of who I perceive to be famous World War I French flying ace Rene
Fonck. Officially credited with 75 kills during the war, only 6 fewer than the
Red Baron himself, Manfred Von Richtofen, Fonck was the Allied “Ace of Aces,”
famously claiming that he “put bullets into his target as if he placed them
there by hand.” Though I cannot quite confirm whether the portrait is him or
not, I do enjoy speaking on the subject.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Dessert menus have been rested on the table, in the form of
small, leather bound novels with the first page replaced by pastry offerings.
It is refreshing to see that no one uses the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Copperplate Gothic Bold </i>font on menus here in France, as I more
than get my fill of it in Portland. Both Joel and I agree that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Le Kouing Amann</i> sounds like the most
appealing dessert, plus it is marked as a house specialty, so we pull the
trigger on one for each of us. This proves to be the most satisfying and
perfect confection of the entire trip. It is like a perfect sticky bun, served
with butter ice cream and tart cherry puree, a wonderful combination of
textures and flavors that actually leaves us wanting another.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Before we can act on such impulses, the swashbuckler
materializes holding two snifters, identifying them as “Almond liequer, on the house.”
I guess we have managed to make a favorable impression after all, so we try not
to look like pikers when it comes time to ask for the check, asserting when we
are ready for it rather than making hand gestures or just sitting motionless,
waiting for it to happen to us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The walk back to the hotel is uneventful, save for the Jap
N’ Go, a small shop advertising, most interesting to me, merchandise pertaining
to “Gothic Lolitas.” And, of course, there are more obligatory church pictures!<o:p></o:p><br />
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The time for departure to Clisson is drawing near, so we
change into our festival attire, enjoy a large shot of absinthe, and make our
way to the neighboring train station. The usual array of Vikings and marauders,
disgruntled with the Sunday train schedule chicanery, are packed into the
lobby. Again, I enjoy the views of Muscadet vines on the countryside as we
speed towards the village, where, this time, there are no police with
drug-sniffing dogs awaiting our arrival. It is actually quite peaceful and the
boarding of shuttles takes place in an organized and civil manner. When we
reach the festival grounds, I notice the mood to be equally subdued, especially
amongst those who have been camping out for four straight days, without sleep,
no doubt. Hellfest has finally begun to wear people down, and I am thankful for
my break from day 2.<br />
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While getting settled in, I decide to try the local wine
emblazoned with the Hellfest logo, testing it to find out if it is, at best,
drinkable. It is not, and reminds me of eating particularly old green grapes
from the supermarket. Discouraged, but with that mistake safely behind me, I
choose Guinness as my poison for the duration of the evening. I order three at
a time, shotgunning one immediately and quickly gulping down the other two, to
reduce risk of spillage when I am inevitably and repeatedly bumped into. Joel devises his own system of delivery, involving two cups at once, which, to me, has too much potential to end up
all over the used-condom and cigarette butt laden grounds. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The first main stage act we witness is Mr. Big, an American
rock supergroup popular in the late eighties and early nineties. Though I was
quick to trash on them when I first saw that they were in the lineup, I noticed
that all of my guitar-geek friends were swift to come to their defense. <o:p></o:p><br />
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“You just wait, you wait until you hear Paul Gilbert on
guitar and Billy Sheehan on bass. You’re going to shit yourself. Trust me” are
my pal Jeff’s words of warning in response to my statement that “Mr. Big sucks
ass.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And proven wrong I was. With Joel as my witness, we watched
these guys, clearly seasoned concert veterans, tear through a ridiculous set
that actually left me wishing I knew the words to any of their songs. This
image is from a face-melting duel between bass and guitar, complete with
bass-shredding and all. <o:p></o:p><br />
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For Doro, Germany’s crazy cougar bombshell answer to Lita
Ford, Joel insists that we make our way towards the front of the crowd, for
what I assume is an enhanced view of the former Warlock vocalists impressive
rack. Three minutes into the first song, I look up to see a man in a wheelchair
being passed over the crowd, towards the stage. Miraculously, he makes it all
the way, and the crowd goes berserk as he is grabbed and wheeled away by
security, wildly flailing his arms in an effort to get Doro to notice him. <o:p></o:p><br />
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It doesn’t take long for this show to get a bit repetitive
for me, so I signal to Joel that we are in desperate need of more beer. He
seems to share my sentiment, and we begin the long journey through a sea of
bodies to reach the Guinness kiosk. Judas Priest is due up in 45 minutes, just
long enough for me to drain five beers and join thousands of others for a good
piss in the woods/vineyards. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The sea of bodies has now shifted back to Maine Stage 1, so
we are forced to watch Judas Priest from afar, aided by the massive centrally
located jumbotron. As Rob Halford tears through all of the classics, not to
mention about 9 wardrobe changes – including an outfit made entirely of sequins
that he wears while revving a motorcycle on stage like some kind of Metal
Liberace – we notice a group of boys starting to make a scene about ten feet
away.<br />
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At first glance they might be mistaken for the band
“Silverchair,” three of them probably in their late-teens/early twenties, the
two more normal looking ones accompanied by fairly cute, metal-poser chicks.
The girlfriend-less boy, who by the looks of him is probably named “Gideon” or
“Yancy,” has long, dirty blond hair, light blue bug eyes, and is wearing
skin-tight leopard print jeggings. They are flailing and thrashing about, like
assholes, bumping into and spilling beer on several increasingly angry Vikings.
At one point, Gideon, in a feeble attempt to impress the girls and at the same
time demonstrate that he is comfortable with his sexuality, mounts the
shoulders of one of his friends. While he is up there, he yells and screams,
spilling yet more beer, before we all watch him get dropped, from about 6 feet
up, directly onto the side of his ugly face. He gets up, in a daze, and tries
to laugh and act like his entire world isn’t throbbing and ringing in his ears.
This makes the Alphas of Silverchair laugh, setting them into a fist pumping,
singing frenzy during “Breaking the Law.”<o:p></o:p><br />
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Throughout all of this, I have been observing a stout but
clearly rugged character standing in front of me, as he grows more and more
visibly angry about the beer that has been spilled on his denim vest covered in
Judas Priest patches by this group of wankers and poofters. Finally, after
being bumped for a third time, he has had enough. He winds up and shoves one of
the boys in the back, sending him flying about 10 feet, causing them all to,
without even looking back, quickly relocate about 100 feet away. We all pat
Judas Priest Berserker, who seems quite satisfied with himself, on the back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Joel goes on to explain, “When someone shoves you like that,
you either turn around expecting to fight or just move on without looking.” At
least these kids knew the rules, I guess...<o:p></o:p><br />
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I am finally hungry again, and I opt to seek out the Argentinean
Sausage stand, as it was my favorite amongst all of the disgusting shit that I
consumed on day one. To remedy the problem I experienced the last time, that
there was too much subpar bun for one sausage, I order two, throwing one of the
buns away and jamming two sausages at once right into the other, while
slathering it with chimmichurri and mayo. It is just as delicious as it sounds,
until about 4 bites in when I am covered head to toe in sand by a gust of wind.
I take one look at the sandwich, start to nibble, and then whip it onto the
ground before marching over the beer kiosk. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Ozzy Osbourne takes the stage, and I am happy to see that he
deviates from the whole “Randy Rhodes Tribute” set that I’ve witnessed him
perform over and over. Instead, he plays “Shot in the Dark,” “Road to Nowhere,”
and a few others that I know and love but aren’t completely fucking tired of.
As is his usual practice, Ozzy complains between every song that “He can’t
fucking hear us!” or that we are not going ‘Extra, Extra, Extra Crazy!” for
him, threatening to not play anymore if these demands are not met. I would like
to remind Ozzy that the reason he cannot fucking hear us is that he is 113
years old, and his ears are no doubt failing him. <o:p></o:p><br />
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At this point I’m completely running on empty, beer is doing
very little to alter my mood, and my feet feel like they are going to fall off.
I know that I must press on because Opeth is slated to begin at 1:30AM, the
last show of the festival, so I press on back to the beer kiosk. Some
goofy-looking French asshole, upon hearing me order, “Three Guinness, please,”
corrects me by saying “Don’t you mean,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Si
Vous Plait</i>?” I pretend that I don’t hear him, and after collecting my
drinks I turn and throw an elbow into the beer he is holding, knocking it to the
ground. He looks angry, but does nothing as I look him straight in the eye and
say “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merci.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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As Joel and I wander about, we notice what appears to be a
dead hippie collecting dust while the crowd walks around him. Upon further
examination, it appears to be a sleeping hippie, passed out in to the kind of
deep sleep that can only result from being up for three straight days blowing
meth, when you start to hallucinate and your body simply can take no more. In
my exhausted state I find this quite amusing, and kick a bit of extra dirt on
him, for good measure. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When Opeth finally takes the stage, I forget everything
about my surroundings and physical condition. The set list is exactly as I
hoped it would be, and at one point, during “The Drapery Falls,” I notice I’ve
actually got a tear streaming down my cheek. Both Joel and I are completely
mesmerized, until I snap out of it and observe that the show is drawing to a
close. I suggest we get a head start
walking towards the shuttles and taxis, about ¾ of a mile away, to hopefully
shave an hour off of our long journey home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The mass exodus from Hellfest begins, but thankfully a large
percentage of the festivalgoers are campers heading back to the site. When we
finally reach the taxi and shuttle area, there is the usual frustration
beginning to occur. A single cab driver, clearly waiting for someone specific,
fends off countless attempts for hire. We start chatting with two wispy British
college students, who offer to split a cab back to Nantes with us, which seems
like a fine idea to us. Joel and I get our money ready in our hands, and as two
taxis pull around we immediately rush to the door of one, completely ignoring
the police officer yelling for us to get out of the road. We shove money into
the hands of the cab driver, which welcomes us in, and we beckon to our new
British friends to get the fuck moving. One of them feels it is a good idea to
haggle over the price with the driver, a move that costs him dearly as two
women push by them and into the car with us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I really, really wish those kids had pulled it together as I
find myself wedged in the back seat with two awful French women, both reeking
of terrible perfume and each closely resembling Ursula from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Little Mermaid</i>. While Joel enjoys
the comforts of the front seat, I am forced to listen to these two wildebeests
whisper and giggle in French for about 35 minutes, all the while searching
around for some kind of “eject” button to send them both crashing into the roof
of the vehicle, before we are mercifully dropped off at our hotel. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It is now 3:30 AM, and with a 7:45 wake up call to catch our
train to Paris at 9:15, we should be heading off to bed, after draining a quick
bottle of Vouvray, of course. I feel completely wired with nervous energy that
is both keeping me awake and muddling my thoughts at the same time, leaving me
with no choice but to absently stare off into the distance while sipping my
glass of wine. My last memory is trying
to focus my thoughts by drunkenly playing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Angry
Birds</i> before finally surrendering to sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Day 9 – The Voyage
Home</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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The morning arrives swiftly and painfully, and I am at least
thankful for the quality of the showers at the Mercure as I let the hot water
run over my head for a solid 35 minutes. As we begin packing, I take one look
at my sneakers, filthy from the festival, and toss them into the trashcan. In
the name of travelling light, we have emptied all but 3 bottles of Champagne,
the remaining of which being reserved for consumption with privileged company
back home. I am also sure to leave the anorexic yet astonishingly attractive
maid a bit of absinthe, assuming that for her it probably won’ t take much to
have her bouncing off of walls and fucking random sailors. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The mass exodus from Hellfest is underway when we arrive at
the train station, but due to purchasing first class tickets we are able to
avoid the crowded sections of the train. Instead, we find ourselves seated
directly across from friendly old couple with a dog. Joel’s über gay side is
always at it’s most pronounced when he is exposed to cute little doggies,
prompting him to use his special “dog voice,” which sounds a little bit like a
high pitched Stewie from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Family Guy</i>.
At one point, when I point this out to him, he defends his behavior by claiming
that his dog is like his child, and I respond that I strongly dislike children,
officially rendering this comparison ineffective. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8nwXMndud1Y/TuTOVo2eelI/AAAAAAAACHA/ZgpFyX4U82k/s1600/Mr.+Doggie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8nwXMndud1Y/TuTOVo2eelI/AAAAAAAACHA/ZgpFyX4U82k/s320/Mr.+Doggie.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The elderly man yammers at length, in French, about the
Hellfest festivities he is currently reading about in the newspaper. Apparently,
attendance of the show reached 80,000, a figure that doubles our original
hypothesis. The man seems surprised that Joel and I were among the attendees,
and after listening to him for about four more minutes I signal that I am
“taking a break” by donning my headphones for the duration of the three hour
ride to Paris. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon arrival at Charles De Gaulle Airport, the plan is to
check our bags first before we try to scare up some lunch. This is going
smoothly, until the electronic check-in machine prompts me with an option to
upgrade my seat for 50 Euro, which I eagerly accept. When it asks for me to
insert my credit card, it becomes apparent, once again, that without the gold
euro-chip on the face of the card, this isn’t going to work. Because I am unable
to proceed, my transaction is cancelled. When I attempt to restart, it shows
that I am already checked in but not upgraded, and after repeating this process
several times with no success, I begin to descend into mental overload,
becoming a tad bit enraged. When I attempt to ask for help, I am rudely
directed to a very long line forming twenty feet away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By now Joel has been through checkout for about ten minutes,
and as I wait in line, growing increasingly “stormy” due to dehydration and
hunger, he sits on a bench mapping out the easiest method to calm me down when
I finally make it through. He is successful in this endeavor, as the first
thing out of his mouth before I can start a tirade is “Let’s get you some
lunch.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fQJRbNeUaxg/TuTOj9ue2GI/AAAAAAAACHI/xJk0pg9P9f8/s1600/Airport2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fQJRbNeUaxg/TuTOj9ue2GI/AAAAAAAACHI/xJk0pg9P9f8/s320/Airport2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our flight is slated to depart in three hours, so we decide
that a leisurely lunch is most certainly in order. Because I am pushing towards
the state of emergency, we settle on the first sit-down restaurant that we see,
a chain called “Paul.” The Maitre’d seems a bit out of place, with a sleek,
well-fitting black suit amidst the stewardess-style uniforms sported by the
wait staff. He leads us to our table, where we are abandoned for a solid 10
minutes until we are finally able to track down a server and order a bottle of
Riesling from Alsace. As we peruse the menu we debate whether “Paul” is in
reference to Bocuse, Prudhomme, or Newman, before deciding that it doesn’t
really matter as long as the burgers we are about to order do not suck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About halfway through our bottle of wine, my excessive use
of the word “fuck” begins bothering two elderly women seated next to us. One of
them makes little noises to signal displeasure, which only serves to elevate
the volume of my profanity. Luckily, before things get too heated, our food
arrives. The burger, surprisingly, is fantastic, cooked to a perfect medium and
topped with creamy béarnaise sauce and tangy cornichon. Coupled with the salty,
delicious frites, it is exactly what I required to quiet down my rage, and
tensions ease between the neighboring tables. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D3ufcFsqZmg/TuTOvVxbDaI/AAAAAAAACHQ/2pr8lvONBmw/s1600/AirportBurger.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D3ufcFsqZmg/TuTOvVxbDaI/AAAAAAAACHQ/2pr8lvONBmw/s320/AirportBurger.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joel picks up the lunch tab, claiming that he is officially
“Done spending money, babe.” We split up for a bit, and when I run into him in
the terminal twenty minutes later he has purchased a pair of Prada sunglasses.
“Well, NOW I’m done spending money,” he lies. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I seem to be developing a severe cold at an alarmingly rapid
speed, so to combat this I purchase two splits of Piper Heidsick Monopole
champagne and a bottle of orange juice from one of the cafes in the terminal.
As I quickly dispatch all three, I inform Joel that it is “Just what the doctor
ordered.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Which doctor? Doctor Feelgood?” is his typically bitchy
response. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfazed, I manhandle two more splits before we are informed
that our flight is being delayed by two hours. At this point we are both
getting pretty desperate to get our asses home, so we try to stay cheerful. I
go to the newsstand and purchase ten magazines; most importantly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Star</i> because I want to be caught up on
what has been happening in the States since I’ve been gone. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-41GaToqNXeU/TuTPBmv18KI/AAAAAAAACHY/l6-7TOS-zLo/s1600/Airport5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-41GaToqNXeU/TuTPBmv18KI/AAAAAAAACHY/l6-7TOS-zLo/s320/Airport5.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After an hour and three cans of Moretti lager, I check the
schedule to find out that we are now facing an additional two-hour delay, due
to Air France experiencing a strike. Now, getting a tad bent out of shape, I
chug three more Morettis, desperately trying to fend off a cold that is getting
worse and worse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tired of the options in the cafe, I suddenly become aware
that if I am allowed to drink anywhere in the terminal, what is to stop me from
going to the duty free shop and buying really good Champagne and just opening
it on the spot? To test my theory, I chat up the store clerk, who not only
directs me to a cooler with cold bottles ready to drink, but also supplies me
with plastic cups! <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rWQ9ZV8djM8/TuTPNzkYsYI/AAAAAAAACHg/67BjU5bRTg0/s1600/Airport6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rWQ9ZV8djM8/TuTPNzkYsYI/AAAAAAAACHg/67BjU5bRTg0/s320/Airport6.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I purchase two half bottles of Ruinart Rose, and hurry back
to tell Joel about my brilliant plan. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, that’s just what you need. Great job!” He mumbles
while happily accepting a glass of the Ruinart. I can barely feel my body as we
finally receive word, four and a half hours late, that our plane is ready to board.
I tip up the last of bottle number two, hoping to pass out the minute I reach
my seat. Unfortunately my “upgrade” with “more legroom” has actually just
landed us right in front of the boarding door, in seats that actually feel more
narrow and uncomfortable than the regular ones. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though ready to blow a fuse in my head, I sit calmly,
smiling at one of the stewardesses during takeoff. Once we are in the air, I
approach her, politely explaining that I am, in so many words, much too wide
for the seats we have paid to upgrade to, requesting, if at all possible and no
big deal if it isn’t, that we may move to a more comfortable arrangement. She
looks around, and whispers to me that if we remain quiet about it, she will
move us to the second floor of the plane, the “business elite” section, if that
is ok. Yes, I played the “fat card.” So what. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After we are re-situated, Joel genuinely compliments me on my
handling of the situation. Because of my now severe cold, I am unable to sleep
even after three more mini-bottles of red wine, and am subjected to several
gag-reflex inducing movies, including one particular pile of shit involving
Ashton Kutcher and Natalie Portman. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After what feels like three days but is actually only 7
hours, we arrive back in Boston, where it is a bit surreal to freely
communicate in English again. All I can think about is making it home to my own
bed. In my crippled state, I make the usual “on the wagon for a month after
this” kind of bullshit plans, knowing that all I really need is a good night’s
sleep and a bowl of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pho</i> before I’m
back after it all over again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Looking back, I can safely say we accomplished what we set
out to do in France. Though our French could use a lot of work, we managed to
get by speaking the universal language of drinking and eating. A lot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gVw9IxQl1tc/TuTPXLd9b0I/AAAAAAAACHo/ETkN6jresEI/s1600/IMG_0626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gVw9IxQl1tc/TuTPXLd9b0I/AAAAAAAACHo/ETkN6jresEI/s320/IMG_0626.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br /></div>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-77541508755452261482011-10-04T14:47:00.000-07:002011-10-04T14:47:07.556-07:00Third Annual Pumpkin Beer Tasting - Oh, The Horror
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Curiously, there's something about October that causes my consistent feeling of self-loathing to take a slight dip. Because being this content simply will not do, I began the annual tradition of gathering my beer geek friends
together and tasting every pumpkin beer available on the market, if for no other reason than to demonstrate why this product has no business existing in the first place.</div>
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If you missed out, here are the results of the <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2009/11/pumpkin-beer-tasting-dont-try-this-at.html">2009</a> and <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2010/10/second-annual-pumpkin-beer-tasting-why.html">2010</a>
“PumCaCaFest” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Our third official tasting brings with it many new and
exciting changes, not to mention a dramatic increase in offerings from various
breweries. First, due to the release of Shipyard’s "Smashed Blueberry," we have added a new category built around blueberries, not to mention we have aged some of last year's entries to see just how much worse they can get.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Each year brings new challenges for the tasters, and we are all looking forward to Shipyard's release of <i>Smashed Durian </i>sometime in 2016. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Let's meet the 2011 "Unlucky Six"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Nolan</b></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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The only veteran of each festival of pumpkininny bullshit thus far,
Nolan is the beer buyer for Downeast Beverage in Portland (who, along with our
pals at Novare Res and RSVP, supplied our materials), not to mention an avid
home brewer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Brad</b></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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Returning from PumKake 2010, Brad is also a seasoned home
brewer, farmer, and professional cook. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Chris</b></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o6YFgsAZcPQ/TotqpoaungI/AAAAAAAAB-U/LHRdKM2iuYU/s1600/Chris.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o6YFgsAZcPQ/TotqpoaungI/AAAAAAAAB-U/LHRdKM2iuYU/s320/Chris.JPG" width="271" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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A newcomer to the Pumpkin circuit, Chris brings extensive
home brewing knowledge to the table, in addition to being a dedicated drinker who
has much higher standards in beer than he does in people (he said that).<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Matt</span></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Also in his rookie year guzzling PumCrap, Matt works in the
retail beer world. As we soon find out, he is not afraid to share his opinion even
at risk of ridicule from fellow tasters.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dietz</span></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Anyone who reads this blog knows that Dietz, my roommate and a longtime
staple in the Portland wholesale wine scene , knows a lot
about drinking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Joe</span></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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Well, you know where I stand on this. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Moving right along into the first round of 2011’s nauseating
madness:</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qcfH4TJaydA/TotrXucEd8I/AAAAAAAAB-k/NAr1MOZJ0mA/s1600/lineup.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qcfH4TJaydA/TotrXucEd8I/AAAAAAAAB-k/NAr1MOZJ0mA/s320/lineup.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Pumpkin </b></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>(Unfortunately, Smashed Pumpkin was sold out, presumably purchased by
chefs to braise short ribs in as the package suggests, at the time of this
tasting).</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<u><b>#1 Woodchuck Hard Cider Pumpkin Private Reserve</b></u><o:p></o:p></div>
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According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Every once in a while
you know you stumble upon something glorious. That something just so happens to
be our Private Reserve Pumpkin. We have combined our signature taste with a
refreshing pumpkin finish. Limited to just two and half hours on the production
line this is a true connoisseur's cider<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<u>Judge’s Corner:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
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Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
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This has a pleasant, warm bile aroma with hints of angry
piss. It is much too sweet, displaying a foul, rancid flavor.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
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It smells like chemical cleanup after a rather large mess,
and the flavor walks the line between Pepto Bismol and rotten Big League Chew, if gum can go rotten?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is far to sweet and syrupy, and tastes much like I
would imagine eating a urinal cake would be like.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Reminiscent of the bathroom at Amigo’s, it is super oxidized and candy-sweet, and by candy I am referring to the multi-colored dots that used to be eaten off of paper strips. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hard cider smell, sweet shitty taste, kind of like an orange
Betty Rubble Flintstones Vitamin.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
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A sweaty, boozy nose that reminds me of Wild Turkey American
Honey. Sweet like apple juice with no flavors of pumpkin whatsoever, but rather
that of cough syrup.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1dAkSavxRPo/TotrmiW6S0I/AAAAAAAAB-o/GatjKX-KZSo/s1600/ChuckPost.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1dAkSavxRPo/TotrmiW6S0I/AAAAAAAAB-o/GatjKX-KZSo/s320/ChuckPost.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><u>#2 Brooklyn Brewery Post Road Pumpkin Ale</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Available from August
through November. Early American Colonialists, seeking natural ingredients for
brewing ales, turned to pumpkins, which were plentiful, flavorful, and
nutritious. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<u>Judge’s Corner:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Smells like beer and cinnamon, tastes like cinnamon and not
much else. It is mouth-strippingly dry and bitter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Smells like cinnamon, and is so overwhelmingly bitter that
it actually hurts your mouth. I can’t understand why anyone would drink this.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is like eating nutmeg flavored toothpaste.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Smells like pumpkin pie filling, with a nutmeggy, dry, bitter palate.
A little malt would go a long way here, and might make it a little bit less
soapy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Not much going on outside of cinnamon and nutmeg here.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Astringent, kind of like chewing an Advil tablet, and
tasting a bit like Gargamel’s asshole.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><u>#3 Shipyard Brewing Pumpkinhead Ale</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shipyard Pumpkinhead
Ale is a crisp and refreshing wheat ale with delighftul aromatics and subtle
spiced flavor. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<u>Judge’s Corner:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
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This smells like the brewers at Shipyard each took off their
socks, filled them with dead squirrels, and “dry-rodented” their beer. Tastes
like dirt and spicy shit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A perennial crowd pleaser here, it’s aroma reminds me of
what the jar would smell like after you caught bugs in it, when you were young.
The flavor, which reminds me of Dentyne gum, is actually making my eyes tear
up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Light beer with nice bitterness. Reminds me of pumpkin pie,
and I like pie.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tastes like Dentyne and Cinnamon Toast Crunch, I enjoy the
dark, urine hue. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
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It smells like moth ass – I’m not kidding this actually
smells like a dead fucking moth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Brad: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Stinkyard Blumpkinhead” has a nose of cinnamon and feet,
and tastes like Big Red gum.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>#4 Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Available
September-November<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">* Amber-colored ale<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">* Brewed with a bounty
of fall flavors like vine-ripened pumpkin, allspice, cloves, and nutmeg<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">* Together with a
touch of wheat, Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale has a smooth, lightly spiced
finish<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">* Pairs well with beef
dishes and seasonal soups<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Corner:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m sad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smells like a banana peel that has been hanging out in the
trashcan for awhile. This tastes like a combination of banana flavored Runts and caramel
made with Splenda.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rotten smell, super crappy, kind of gives me a stomach ache.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dark in color, light in flavor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shit<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smells like pumpkin guts, needs more malt, I’m actually not
overly offended by this one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gZfKCWu2KpQ/TotrwDB8RPI/AAAAAAAAB-s/ao9fcv2GUMQ/s1600/Jolly.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gZfKCWu2KpQ/TotrwDB8RPI/AAAAAAAAB-s/ao9fcv2GUMQ/s320/Jolly.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>#5 Jolly Pumpkin "La Parcella" Number One Pumpkin Ale</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Packed with real
pumpkins, hints of spice and a gentle kiss of cacao to lighten the soul. An
everyday easy way to fill your squashy quotient. Only available for a few short
months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not to be missed.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Corner:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nice tart aroma, with huge carbonation. It is buttery from
the oak, with a pleasant tangy and spicy character. I would actually drink this
for fun!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nose is mild, with a nice sweet and sour flavor more
reminiscent of citrus than pumpkin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like the sour funk and flavors of lime zest, but there is
no detectable pumpkin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Definite sourness, with more aromas of bubblegum (not sure where this is coming from). Violently foamy, with coriander and citrus notes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nice flavors of lime and butter to offset the sourness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has a sour nose, and appears to be a tad off. It is slightly
bitter, with notes of citrus, but no pumpkin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>#6 Wolaver’s Organic Brewing Pumpkin Ale</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Conveniently under
construction<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Corner:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Uninviting nose, mouth numbing clove flavors.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is like ripping a Djarum cigarette that you bummed off
of a sketchy goth chick.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chestnuts on the nose, with dull, overpoweringly bad flavors
of clove.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Allspice and nutmeg on the nose, with flavors completely
ruined by cloves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All spice, no back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Too much spice. It tastes like a bong hit after you’ve been
munching on cloves and Szechuan Peppercorns. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>#7 Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A perennial favorite
at our brewery Halloween party, Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale is brewed with
over 11 pounds of real pumpkin per barrel, adding a full body and sweetness to
this dark reddish amber brew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deep roasted
malts, including a smoked malt, lend a distinct roasted character while
traditional pumpkin pie spices give the beer a subtle spice note.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has an aroma of A&W root beer, it is actually much
less offensive than I expected and tastes mildly of pumpkin! It’s even a little
bit smoky, not too bad!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What really grabs me about this one is the lacing! Actually,
no – it’s the Sasparilla nose and the mellow flavors of caramelized pumpkin. I
guess Samuel Adams actually has the budget to buy real pumpkins!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smells like pumpkin, tastes like beer with a bit of
pumpkinseed oil. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Candy shell of Chicklets gum on nose, pie spice goes in an odd direction, with caramelized pumpkin and cola flavors. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tastes like caramelized pumpkin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nice, dark amber color with a great head. Root beer nose
with malty, rich, and sweet flavors, not half bad!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pIRegLa973k/TotsMiI1ofI/AAAAAAAAB-w/pc0UIuxjP74/s1600/UFO.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pIRegLa973k/TotsMiI1ofI/AAAAAAAAB-w/pc0UIuxjP74/s320/UFO.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>#8 Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shock Top Pumpkin
Wheat is the first seasonal ale from Shock Top. With a flavor that’s
refreshingly fall and distinctly Shock Top, it’s guaranteed not to be the last.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat
is a traditional Belgian-style wheat ale brewed with ripe pumpkins and a
variety of autumnal spices, including nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves. This
seasonal unfiltered wheat ale has a deep amber color and is crafted with a
refreshingly distinct pumpkin spice that fully captures all the flavors of
fall.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After watching my friends furiously spit this out, I’m not
sure I want to taste this. This tastes like a Miller Lite that was opened a
month ago, and a small orange man has been living in there ever since.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shock and Awful. I want this out of my mouth immediately.
The label looks like one of the bad guys from Final Fight 3. Apparently,
according to the label, we didn’t pour it properly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m actually afraid to taste this – it’s a lot like cinnamon
with Bud Light.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zero body, with a Budlightesque, cinnamon nose. This doesn’t
taste good at all. I feel physically unwell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fucked up, chemically nose.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bad, thin, and cheap tasting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>#9 Harpoon Brewery UFO Pumpkin</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Imagine a pumpkin vine
wound its way in a field of barley, and a brewer harvested it all to make a
beer. Add Northwestern hops and a blend of spices, and you've got UFO Pumpkin.
The malt combination provides a smooth body and slightly sweet flavor, which
balances perfectly with the earthy notes derived from the pure pumpkin. And
like all of our UFO beers, UFO Pumpkin is unfiltered so all the wonderful
flavors are right there in your glass. Cheers!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why did you do this?!?!?!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This smells like the comic strip out of a Bazooka Joe Gum
wrapper, and tastes like shitty beer that a small child mashed up his graham
crackers in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tastes like Shock Top, but with more bubble gum than
cinnamon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Slightly bitter, cinnamon nose with high sweet tones.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bubblegum and burnt sugar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet another awful wheat beer, with a bubblegum nose and
terrible spices - Not good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>#10 Dogfish Head Brewery Punkin Ale</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A full-bodied brown
ale with smooth hints of pumpkin and brown sugar. We brew our Punkin Ale with
pumpkin meat, organic brown sugar and spices. This is the perfect beer to
warm-up with, as the season cools.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wow! It’s Beer! Roasted pumpkin and spice, everything works
together here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is always a breath of fresh air during these tastings.
Mellow, chocolate flavors with notes of real pumpkin. Unlike many others, they
didn’t just steep the beer with shitty spice packets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This has great spice and actually tastes like pumpkin. I
could drink this warm or cold and be pretty happy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is actual beer!! I swallowed it (the only one)!! Chocolate malts, faint wiff of spice and brown sugar - not bad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Malty with a light body and a nice amount of cocoa on the
nose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mild, slightly hopped nose. Malty, roasted, vanilla
characteristics make it sweet but not unpleasant. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v8F0YcCTu8Y/TotsbwW7API/AAAAAAAAB-0/1Pd_vxmboWU/s1600/dogfish.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v8F0YcCTu8Y/TotsbwW7API/AAAAAAAAB-0/1Pd_vxmboWU/s320/dogfish.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><b>#11 Southern Tier Brewing Co. "Pumking" Imperial Pumpkin Ale</b></u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pumking is an ode to
Púca, a creature of Celtic folklore, who is both feared and respected by those
who believe in it. Púca is said to waylay travelers throughout the night,
tossing them on its back, and providing them the ride of their lives, from
whichthey return forever changed! Brewed in the spirit of All Hallows Eve, a
time of year when spirits can make contact with the physical world and when
magic is most potent. Pour Pumking into a goblet and allow it’s alluring spirit
to overflow. As spicy aromas present themselves, let its deep copper color
entrance you as your journey into this mystical brew has just begun. As the
first drops touch your tongue a magical spell will bewitch your taste buds making
it difficult to escape. This beer is brewed with pagan spirit yet should be
enjoyed responsibly. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This smells like amaretto, and something is very wrong here.
It tastes like beer that has been strained through a 90 year old’s cardigan,
did they just dump potpourri into this? Aggressively bad. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This immediately kicks my gag reflex into motion. It tastes
like eating an old person’s toilet seat that has been in use for thirty years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smell tater tots in this malty, potpourri tasting crap, It
smells like old people, and tastes like bad whiskey, which would be fine if it
were bad whiskey. I feel sick.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Crazy graham cracker on the nose, McDonald's Apple Pie spice profile, perfumey palate, <u style="font-style: italic;">super</u> shitty. Plastic or vinyl notes. Floral hops + pie spice = gross. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think I need a pair of Depends..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amaretto nose with absolutely no head. Sickly sweet
medicinal flavors make me wonder why this beer has been unleashed upon us,
maybe the brewer’s wife likes it or something? If you could drink plastic, this
is what that would be like.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V5CKvS_-A8c/TotsouZ2kAI/AAAAAAAAB-4/edJ2INaLVGo/s1600/pumking.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V5CKvS_-A8c/TotsouZ2kAI/AAAAAAAAB-4/edJ2INaLVGo/s320/pumking.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><b>#12 Cisco Brewers Pumple Drumkin Ale</b></u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Our Pumple Drumkin Ale
is a fall favorite on the island. A deep orange hue and a subtle pumpkin pie
aroma meet a robust malt character in this ale which, true to its seasonal
reveling, tastes like toasted pie crust in your mouth. It will finish clean and
dry on the palate and leave you wishing that every day could be autumn on
Nantucket!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mild, tastes like beer with a smoky, almost chipotle spice.
This is much less evil than some of the others.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smells faintly of cinnamon, and tastes nothing like pumpkin,
in addition to being fairly bitter. Meh...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like the beers from this brewery and this one is no
exception. Medium sweet, with flavors of coriander.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smells not totally unlike beer, tastes like beer but not good beer, with a bit of floral hops along with sweet, malty flavors. Again, some cola notes as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This tastes like it is only partially fermented.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get a lot of cola on the nose, and it tastes like beer
without much else added. Is this pumpkin getting fermented at all?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>#13 Heavy Seas "Great Pumpkin" Imperial Pumpkin Ale</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We add the pumpkin
during the mash at precisely the right time to create just the perfect balance
of malt, hops, pumpkin and spice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walks a fine line between palatable and shitty, with mildly
overwhelming spices.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This smells like pumpkin pie to me, but not the good kind.
It’s rich, but completely overwhelmed by vanilla. I’m going to jump ship on
this one..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smells like really sweet pumpkin pie, tastes overly
metallic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Good pumpkin pie spice, sweet and higher gravity with a cloying, spicy, and awful finish.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tastes starchy, with very unpleasant spices.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Warm, sweet and malty – not too spicy with flavors of
vanilla and anise.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><b>#14 Cape Ann Brewing Co. Fisherman’s Pumpkin Stout</b></u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fisherman's Pumpkin
Stout is a dark stout accentuated by flavors of the Autumn season. Using real
Pumpkin, cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice, the Cape Ann Brewing Company took a
fresh take at the common fall seasonal. This rich dark stout offers an inviting
pumpkin spice aroma that gives way to the delicate essence of real pumpkin.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Honestly, my glass still smells like Pumking. Tastes like a
roasty, mild stout. Meh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smells like vanilla stout, tastes like coffee. Not much
going on here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a weak stout that tastes like watery coffee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Tastes like cheap stout with a bit of spice.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chocolate malt, it’s thin with a tiny bit of spice. Though
we have had many beers today that are much worse, it’s still not my favorite.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-st13uiXziJM/Tots1y0wBFI/AAAAAAAAB-8/_ijlnkDPf9g/s1600/RockArt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-st13uiXziJM/Tots1y0wBFI/AAAAAAAAB-8/_ijlnkDPf9g/s320/RockArt.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><b>#15 Rock Art Brewing Imperial Spruce Stout</b></u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no info on website<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Root beer nose with mellow spices. Not a bad stout, though
its got a little bit of a metallic taste to it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smells like root beer barrel hard candy, and tastes like
burnt chicory, kind of like Cafe du Monde coffee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tastes like a stout with chicory and licorice but with no
pumpkin. I also get a metallic flavor out of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Not bad, really long finish of bitter chicory. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Metallic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The nose of this is quite worty and green. It’s boozy,
malty, and bitter – like burnt espresso. Where’s the pumpkin?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kZDt9u8HIdo/TottEjUPLNI/AAAAAAAAB_A/6_cTZOUf8ao/s1600/midway.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kZDt9u8HIdo/TottEjUPLNI/AAAAAAAAB_A/6_cTZOUf8ao/s320/midway.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Judge’s Results:</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>Top 3 </u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Jolly Pumpkin La Parcella<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Jolly Pumpkin La Parcella<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Shipyard Pumpkinhead<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dJ-HRKAQv0Q/TottTbjT0OI/AAAAAAAAB_I/i_Auya-0nFk/s1600/dietzmatt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dJ-HRKAQv0Q/TottTbjT0OI/AAAAAAAAB_I/i_Auya-0nFk/s320/dietzmatt.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Rock Art Spruce Stout</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Jolly Pumpkin La Parcella<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Samuel Adams Harvest Pumpkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Cisco Brewers Pumple Drumkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Jolly Pumpkin La Parcella<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bhs8loA2Erg/TottbQ8sAjI/AAAAAAAAB_M/rJ2H9pyz_kY/s1600/Joe2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bhs8loA2Erg/TottbQ8sAjI/AAAAAAAAB_M/rJ2H9pyz_kY/s320/Joe2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>The Bottom 3 (1 being the worst)</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Southern Tier Pumking<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Woodchuck Pumpkin Cider<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Southern Tie Pumking<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Post Road Pumpkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Southern Tier Pumking<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Harpoon UFO Pumpkin<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>1. Southern Tier Pumking</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>2. Shock Top Pumpkin Wheat</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>3. Post Road Pumpkin Ale</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Southern Tier Pumking<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Woodchuck Pumpkin Cider<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Post Road Pumpkin Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. Southern Tier Pumking<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. Harpoon UFO Pumpkin<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-et-JHHKagDA/TottMSJdNnI/AAAAAAAAB_E/WphKcIXVWis/s1600/chrisbrad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-et-JHHKagDA/TottMSJdNnI/AAAAAAAAB_E/WphKcIXVWis/s320/chrisbrad.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #783f04; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Aged Pumpkin</b></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After tasting through all of these, none of us were feeling
very good about ourselves. The morale of the story is:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re going to drink pumpkin beer to begin with, don’t
bother aging it. Those that aged gracefully were pretty much the same as last
year, and those that did not were just plain fucking hideous.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We will not be re-visiting this category next year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y5D2CwmvSFg/Tott6lhKIVI/AAAAAAAAB_Q/w0mZsh9BCVU/s1600/storytime.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y5D2CwmvSFg/Tott6lhKIVI/AAAAAAAAB_Q/w0mZsh9BCVU/s320/storytime.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Blueberry!</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><b>#1 Sea Dog Brewing Co. Blue Paw Ale</b></u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Our unique
contribution to the fruit ale category features the nutty quench of wheat ale
combined with the delightful aromatics and subtle fruit flavor contributed by
Maine wild blueberries.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The aroma is much like one of those smelly blue markers.
Fucking awful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is what it would smell like if I tucked several
blueberries under my scrotum and went jogging. It tastes like stale BOOBERRRY
cereal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The artificial blueberry in this reminds me of a scratch and
sniff book. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Holy fucking artificial blueberry, like a blueberry vodka snatch and sniff. Tastes like shitty warm beer, which it is - heavy on the BOOBERRY.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smell of this is
like plastic toy blueberries nestled in dirty laundry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This doesn’t smell remotely like real blueberries, and the
flavor is musty, moldy, and stale.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>#2 Atlantic Brewing Co. Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A light fruit ale,
made with Maine wild blueberries. As opposed to many of the sweeter fruit beers
on the market, our addition of fresh Maine wild blueberries in this light ale
yields a subtle blueberry aroma, without the sweet aftertaste. A mixture of the
following Mutton malts, pale, crystal, and Munich, are combined with wheat to
give this ale its lighter body, and we only use minimal amounts of Target and
Willamette hops.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mild, tastes like beer and real blueberry, but I still don’t
like it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think this is perfectly drinkable, as it tastes like real
blueberries. One of the best things we’ve tasted today, for sure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tastes like real blueberries, and that’s good enough for me!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Doesn't smell bad, and actually tastes like blueberries. Totally ok with this.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Light, malty nose with real blueberry flavor – who knew?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This tastes about right to me. I could drink this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><b>#3 Bar Harbor Brewing Co. “True Blue” Blueberry Wheat Ale</b></u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This beer is brewed
with a blend of barley malts and crushed wheat to gently lighten the body. True
Blue is a crisp blueberry ale with an assertive blueberry nose followed by a
more subtle blueberry flavor in the body of the beer. We feel you won't find
another beer quite like it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Judge’s Table</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tastes like rubber to me, too bad, considering these guys
make some pretty decent beers!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is like tongue-jacking a Michelin tire that has been
riding through a scorched blueberry patch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This has a very unpleasant bitterness to it, and the
blueberry comes through in an inappropriate manner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Not as good but still not shitty, wait, no - it is actually. I don't prefer it.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tastes like zinc and dirt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No likey. There’s blueberry flavor, and then something goes
horribly wrong with notes of resin and rubber. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><b>#4 Shipyard Brewing Co. “Smashed Blueberry”</b></u><o:p></o:p></div>
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According to the website:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smashed Blueberry is
the newest beer in Shipyard Brewing Company's Pugsley's Signature Series line.
This beer is a hybrid between a Porter and a Scotch Ale and has a rich mouth
feel and a body of complex intensity. Upfront, there are distinct flavors of
coffee and chocolate beautifully accentuated by the aroma of fresh blueberries.
The finish features a delicate balance of sweet fruit and dry hops. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This beer pairs well
with glazed duck, ribs, barbeque, chocolate, and blueberry deserts. To fully
experience all the flavors, Smashed Blueberry is best drunk at 55 degrees
Fahrenheit. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<u>Judge’s Table:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
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Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
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It has a medicinal flavor that makes me wonder if they
brewed with Robitussin instead of water. I don’t feel very good.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
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The nose reminds me of Dimetap, and it tastes like a purple
freezer pop cut with ink.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Medicinal, overly sweet, and just plain awful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p>Artificial blueberry with chocolate, porter style notes. It's like mixing Louis Blue Raspberry Otter Pops with shitty porter. </o:p></div>
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Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Let me start by pointing out that this beer has very poor
slamability. It is sweet like aspartame and Splenda, and is
over-carbonated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, the flavor is
more like currant, than blueberry. Can we be done now?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Judge's Results:</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Nolan:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
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Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
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Joe:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
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Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale</div>
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Matt:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
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Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale</div>
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Dietz:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
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Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale</div>
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Chris:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
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Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale</div>
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Brad:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Best: Altantic Brewing Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale<o:p></o:p></div>
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Worst: Sea Dog Brewing Blue Paw Ale</div>
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<o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Conclusion:</span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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All of the tasters are noticeably grumpier by the time this
is over.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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For a solid day following the tasting, my house continues to
smell like artificial spices and stale beer. Why do we do this to ourselves
year after year? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>So you don’t have to. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Earm1kyZW5w/TotuJ1vVlJI/AAAAAAAAB_Y/UUXRFdv1EmU/s1600/dump2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Earm1kyZW5w/TotuJ1vVlJI/AAAAAAAAB_Y/UUXRFdv1EmU/s320/dump2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Until next year....</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-40791327909759175902011-09-25T19:51:00.000-07:002011-09-30T12:24:22.264-07:00Paris Food Coma Part 7 - Choose Your Own Adventure<br />
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As I find myself lying awake shortly after the break of
dawn, despite laying my head down only a scant few hours ago, it becomes
apparent that my body is sending a very clear message that it is reaching
breaking point. Ten hours spent outside drinking shitty beer and consuming
equally shitty food in the pouring rain has taken it’s toll, and the thought of
doing it all over again today, coupled with the lack of sleep, overwhelms me
with nauseating waves of heart pounding anxiety.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Upon reviewing the array of bands at Hellfest on day two, it
appears that the Scorpions are the only act that I would really give a shit
about seeing. There is plenty of good music on the schedule, but none that
excites me nearly enough to want to deal with the train or the festival all
over again. Day three holds the meat of the lineup, with Opeth, Ozzy, and Judas
Priest, among others. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In order to preserve my sanity, and be in prime shape for
day three, I make the executive decision to be “Rocked like a Hurricane”
another time, and sit out day two in favor of flying solo in the city. When
Joel finally wakes up and is informed of my important resolution, he seems to
wholeheartedly agree, most likely relieved to not have to listen to me whine
all day, not to mention acknowledging the fact that a solo adventure may be
good for both of us. Relieved, and
comfortable with the fact that the state of my vagina will once again come into
question, I assess the almost full bottle of 2002 Rene Geoffroy Champagne that
I had foolishly opened shortly before passing out. The wine has actually held
up brilliantly, and is quite possibly even better than it was when the cork was
freshly popped. This makes complete sense, as I remember Jean Baptiste Geoffroy
explaining to me that he prefers to decant many of his vintage offerings,
letting them breathe and sacrificing a small amount of bubbles in lieu of much
added complexity in the flavor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After a few sips I already feel much better, and upon
getting out of bed and roaming about, I notice eight very large glass bottles
of Vitel mineral water on our small lounge table. I now remember becoming
insistent on room service last night, and the bewildered look on the front desk
clerk’s face, as he strained under the weight of nearly a case of water loaded
on to a cocktail tray, when instructed to “put them down anywhere.” Though a
tad awkward last night, I am certainly delighted to have them this morning,
successfully avoiding a repeat of day five’s “big bear attacks vending machine”
incident. <o:p></o:p></div>
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What happens next, at least in my opinion, is a very festive
morning at the Hotel Mercure. Nothing puts me in a better mood than drinking
Champagne on an empty stomach (although at this point, how empty could it
really be?), and I begin to mercilessly harass Joel, who can’t for the life of
him figure out how to work the coffee maker, declaring that he is no longer the
“Tranny Boss,” but rather the “Barista Princess.” I’m not actually sure if he
was ever able to get it working, but after being repeatedly asked if he had
“checked if it’s plugged in,” I observe him filling up a glass with Champagne
instead.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The bright red tray used to slog the case of
water up by the front desk clerk last night is actually quite nice. It has a very
“grippy “ surface, and I begin making plans to steal it and use it to wait
tables back home. I will be much like Manfred Von Richtofen, also known as the
Red Baron, descending out of nowhere on to unsuspecting tables and waiting the
living fuck out of them. Throughout the city, terrified diners will tell
stories about the rogue waiter “ace” with the bright red tray, who has the
potential to show up unannounced at nearly any restaurant and beat hapless
patrons into submission. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It becomes apparent at this point that I am yammering to
myself, as Joel has taken steps to mastering the vital skill, while travelling
and otherwise, of tuning me the fuck out. Excited at the prospect of a day with no
plans, I insist on returning to the Vietnamese restaurant I had scoped out the
day before for a breakfast of Pho. While I finish off the bubbly, Joel decides
that he is going to need caffeine regardless of whether the piece of shit
coffee maker works, and steps out to make this happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After cleaning up and getting our array of fixes, we re-group
and march into town. I vow that if the Vietnamese place is closed, I will proceed
to burn it straight to the ground and do an MC Hammeresque dance number on the
ashes. I suggest that Joel get ready to make a few phone calls explaining that “Joe,
may not be coming home for a long, long time” and “Well, you know how he likes
Pho, right?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Luckily for both myself, and the nice woman who is the
proprietor of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Restaurant Le Vietnam</i>,
they are open for business. Upon entering, the exotic scents alone are enough to
get me all worked up in a lather of joy. This may prompt some to ask why, if I am so
obsessed with the cuisine of Southeast Asia, don’t I go on a vacation to
Southeast Asia. The answer to that question would be that it simply makes too
much sense for me to really be onboard with it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The dining room is small and quaint, with two floors and
large, centrally located staircase. We are seated on the first floor, and presented
with a basket of crispy shrimp crackers while we take a gander at the menu. I
crank it up with a few Saigon Lagers, while the “Tranny Boss Barista Princess”
conjures up a Lychee Juice drink with a simple wave of her magic wand. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Though tempted to order one of damn near everything, I am
forced to observe the boundaries of reality and narrow it down a bit. My level
of excitement and high expectations makes me realize I might be flying a little
close to the sun and setting myself up for soul-crushing disappointment. I
begin to rehearse the Hammer dance in my head all over again, just in case. <o:p></o:p></div>
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To start we get spring rolls, beautifully presented on a
stone slab with pickled carrots and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nuoc
mam</i> sauce, garnished with peanuts. These are fresh and delicious, with the
shrimp providing a very pleasant snap. In addition to these, we fire up an order
of frog leg fritters, tender little morsels suspended in perfectly crispy and
airy batter, to be wrapped up in lettuce leaves and dipped in sweet chili sauce
before being hungrily devoured.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We each line up Pho as a “main” course, served blazingly hot in a
large bowl with Thai basil, fresh bird chilies, and wedges of lemon, which is
an interesting deviation from the lime wedge that I’m accustomed to. Neither
Joel nor I have eaten anything spicy all week, so we liberally shovel the fiery
bird chilies into the bowl, basking in the pleasurably Satanic sensation of our
mouths going numb while sweat forms on our brow and tears well up in our eyes. The broth itself is more of a
rich, meaty style, and not as sweet as many I’ve tasted, which compliments the
squeeze of lemon juice nicely. If I had to guess, I would say that judging by
the thickness and density of the noodles they probably make them in-house. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>I take the large bowl right to school, dispatching it in under
five minutes, to the point where I forget to order another beer to keep my buzz
going. The owner takes note of our
enthusiasm and comes over to chat, asking where we are from and what we are
doing here. I explain that I am in the wine business and Joel is basically just
here to look pretty. It’s refreshing to deal with the English to Vietnamese
language barrier instead of English to French for a change. I inform her that she may very well see me
again today, but that we must go because, motioning towards Joel, “she needs to
catch her train.”</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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On the walk back to the hotel I begin taking mental notes
for later activity. We discuss Joel’s festival itinerary, and I stress to him
that he should be careful and don’t make me worry, which in hindsight is just
adorable. He unloads his bag from the previous day, arranging his Hellfest “China”
in a neat fashion on the shelf near the TV. He promises to return with plenty
more, and I bid him farewell. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I proceed to take a four-hour nap that is more rewarding and
invigorating than all of the sleep so far on the trip put together. Physically and
mentally refreshed, I get dressed and head out into the streets, intending to
scout out a few castles before rolling downtown for some drinking. While wandering about, I speak to my mother on
the phone, explaining to her that yes, these are in fact real castles I’m
staring at and no, I don’t actually know where I’m hell I’m going. This of
course is untrue, as I am beginning to get a pretty good grasp of the cities
geography, based on the various train lines and a few landmarks, such as the
brothel, System X.</div>
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I have to be honest, I generally get tired of sightseeing
activities after about twenty three minutes, so I duck into a small beer shop,
with various bottles lining the walls. It turns out that if I purchase a beer,
I can actually drink it at one of the small tables in the shop. As I attempt to
order a bottle of Duchesse de Bourgogne Flemish red ale, my French completely
fails me, but after much accelerated English and Ricchio sign language, I am
able to obtain a bottle of Rodenbach Grand Cru, a delightfully tart effort from
Belgium. In this particular moment, it tastes better to me than any beer ever
has, and when I express my approval the shop keep, who looks a lot like the
singer from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Coldplay</i>, he attempts
once again to carry a conversation with me, admitting defeat and retiring to
the back room for a “quick break” after 32 seconds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Feeling self-conscious, I pay for my beer, over-tipping
dramatically, and am on my way. I walk up and down the many bustling alleys,
passing restaurants as well as a few more Nintendo mosaics, pausing to stare at
sidewalk menus while getting increasingly hungry and frustrated. I know deep
down that it’s only a matter of time before I break down and go back to the
Vietnamese restaurant anyway, so I’m not sure why I keep torturing myself. At least there we have already established
what the language barrier is, and they already know me, which at this stage of
the journey can go a very, very long way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the meantime, each time I consider entering a bar, I find
myself getting paranoid that everyone is staring at me, and as I look around, I
see that they are. After a couple of tries, I convince myself that this fear is
idiotic, and I should actually embrace being able to walk into a place where
people don’t assume that Joel and I are an outrageously mismatched couple, and
that “I must be the one with the money, or something.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I finally settle on a bar that looks from the outside to
have a reasonable selection of beer. I belly up to the bar, and seeing they’ve
got Rodenbach Grand Cru, order up a tall bottle. The bartender speaks a little
bit of English, and seems impressed that I like this particular beer so much. We
chat for a couple of minutes, and he decides to introduce me to the other
bartender, a guy in his mid-twenties who actually speaks very good English. I
take advantage of this to plug him for restaurant recommendations, to which he
begins to excitedly direct me to an Italian restaurant that his friends own.
Alas, it quickly becomes apparent that he does not know enough English to
insure that he won’t be getting me really, really lost. To make it up to me, he
happily buys me another “Bach,” as I will be referring to it from
here on out. I thank my new friends, and
after a brief and awkward French language fail with a very pretty girl at the
bar, I’m off to re-visit <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Le Vietnam</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The dining room is much busier this time around, but the
owner immediately stops what she is doing to come and greet me, seating me at
the exact same table from lunch, while referring to it as “my favorite.” I opt
to check out the wine list while shoveling shrimp crackers into my mouth, and
as it turns out my girl is into some pretty interesting producers. I order a
half bottle of Chateau Le Targe Saumur Rouge, Cabernet Franc, in honor of our
beloved farmland adventure on day four. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I lead off with the appetizer assortment platter, a treasure
trove of fried bits and what not.
Working my way from left to right, I encounter the following:<o:p></o:p></div>
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1. Shrimp parcel – folded up like so<o:p></o:p></div>
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2. Fresh Spring roll – out of place in the valley of the
fried but still delightful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3. Some kind of blood/offal cake – pleasing spongy texture<o:p></o:p></div>
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4. Egg roll – burn your mouth wonderful<o:p></o:p></div>
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5. Pork and Lemongrass curry parcel – much better than
passed hors d'oeuvres at a shitty wedding.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6. Fried shrimp tempura – like the frog legs from lunch, but
different because its shrimp.<o:p></o:p></div>
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7. Shrimp and scallion samosa – wonderful little satchel of aforementioned
ingredients. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Accompanied by more pickled carrot glockenspiels and of course,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nuoc mam</i> to dip in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In addition to stocking my pantry with shrimp crackers, I
also ponder swapping out all of the plates in my home with stone slabs. Maybe I
will take a hiking trip to Bradbury Mountain in Pownal, pick out several large
stones, and polish them down myself, much Roy Hobbs did with his bat <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonder Boy</i> in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Natural</i>. Just as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonder
Boy </i>tore the cover off of the ball, so too will my custom stoneware tear the skin off of my hands. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My entree is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bun Cha,</i>
tender, marinated kebabs of meat served with cold vermicelli noodles, mint,
carrot, and fried shallot, all wrapped up in lettuce like a taco and dipped in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nuoc mam</i>. These are very messy, but I hungrily rip
through them, giving up on the taco approach in favor of chopsticks. I
periodically look around at other diners, curious as to how often they utter the words "aren't you tired of French food?" to each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Without Joel around to rush me back to the hotel, I decide to linger for a bit and order dessert. The list is small, and I decide on the lychee beignet flambéed
with sake. I enjoy dishes that cause a spectacle, especially when dining alone, as it implies that maybe all of your friends ditched you on your birthday but you're not going to let that stop you from celebrating! It is for this reason I have always wanted to sit at a Hibachi table all by myself, cheering loudly and making the chef very uncomfortable. <o:p></o:p></div>
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To go with my beignet, which are actually a touch bitter, a glass of Cognac infused with almond seems like the appropriate route. It is sweet and delicious, allowing for the phrase "warm the cockles of my heart" to be recklessly brought into play. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As she rings up my bill at the counter, the owner suggests I visit a mechanical elephant, about a mile away but still in
the city. While thinking to myself that this sounds as fun as watching paint
dry, she sets a ceramic shot glass in front of me, fills it with sake, and
instructs me to look into the bottom of the glass, where depicted is a naked
Japanese woman spreading her vagina lips. She giggles as I do the shot, and
invites me to come back and see her anytime.
As I begin to say “how about around closing time?” I think better of it
and bid her goodnight.</div>
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Feeling great and not wanting to deal with speaking any more
French, I begin my happy and dreamlike walk back to the hotel, at a very leisurely
pace. When I arrive, I crack open the bottle of Domaine Hautes de Sanziers
Saumur Rouge obtained on day four, and drink the whole, delicious bottle while
listening to my headphones and staring out the window at the train station
below. This time spent lost in my head were absolute perfection, allowing for clear reflection and positive thoughts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Though I have been sleeping for a few hours by the time Joel returns around 3:15 am, I wake up to drink wine and hear about his day, which will be depicted and briefly discussed in the next post. I am still happy with my decision to skip day two, but am quite excited to get back to Clisson for the madness of day three of Hellfest.<br />
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Tomorrow is the final full day in France, before this epic
journey comes to an end.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-36064317057696607742011-08-31T06:55:00.000-07:002011-08-31T19:21:00.121-07:00Paris Food Coma Part 6 - Hellfest Begins.. It Rains A Lot.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i3jYD3WFSQo/Tl2e6ZvDNVI/AAAAAAAAB3o/QX5RIMNpmDA/s1600/JoeFest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i3jYD3WFSQo/Tl2e6ZvDNVI/AAAAAAAAB3o/QX5RIMNpmDA/s320/JoeFest.JPG" /></a></div>One may assume that after a day like yesterday - spent travelling, eating, drinking, and avoiding high-risk women of the night – that I would be out cold and dead to the world for eight solid hours of well-deserved sleep the minute my head hit the pillow. <br />
<br />
So you can imagine my surprise as I lie awake for three and a half hours before barely dozing into the kind of light and unsatisfying slumber that makes you question whether or not it actually just happened. A little over an hour later, I find myself wide awake. I contemplate opening a bottle of Champagne, but as I ready my glass the rarely heard voice of reason chimes in, suggesting that perhaps fresh air may be a better solution than getting drunk. <br />
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I take five deep breaths while struggling internally over what to do in this situation, finally arriving at the conclusion that slugging a few glasses of bubbly right now, at 6:30 in the morning, would accomplish nothing but to put me in a hurt locker before we even board our train to Hellfest five hours from now. A cleansing morning stroll it is then. <br />
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A mist hangs in the cool, morning air as I step back out in to the streets of Nantes, this time walking in the opposite direction from where we had gone last night. One thing that I have observed thus far about France is the scarcity of tattoos, but with so many people staying in the city attending Hellfest, I start to feel right at home again. After about an hour of rambling about, exhaustion and dehydration give way to hunger, which somehow materializes in the form of an insatiable craving for a Sausage McMuffin with Egg. I know this seems crazy, but at this very moment all I can think about is the comfort and nostalgia of America's Favorite Breakfast Sandwich. Nantes is a large city, right? There must be a friggin' McDonald’s somewhere, and I intend to find it, at any cost. <br />
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I am greeted with crushing disappointment after each corner I turn. I begin to feel like Sir Galahad in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, searching aimlessly for the "golden arch beacon." Of course, if I were to encounter the same scenario as Galahad in that film, I'm sure that Joel would play the role of Sir Lancelot, heroically "rescuing" me from the hordes of beautiful women who want nothing more than to please. <br />
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For whatever reason, I can taste the chewy English muffin, instant egg, melty cheese, and potentially burnt sausage, and I begin preparing a contract for my soul in order to make it a reality. I mumble to myself like a disgruntled insane person, unintelligible phrases like “what the fuck, why the fuck can’t I find a goddamn fucking English McFuck with the sausage and what not, in this day and age? Is that too much to ask? Holy shit.”<br />
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Looking back, I have no idea how long this madness lasted, but I do know that when I finally snap out of it, unsuccesful in my endeavour, I see that it is 9:10. I have worked my way back towards the hotel, and I arrive back at the room just as Joel is waking up. Rather than explain just how much I'd already been through this morning, I cheerfully suggest that breakfast would be nice. He concurs, and we set out, straight back to the area where my little “McBlackout” had occurred not long ago.<br />
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After meandering about for an hour and a half, all we are able to procure is another “Mega Detox” from Zoom Juice, due to the usual scenario of "every place you'd like to eat is closed." While seated in goofy, brightly colored plastic chairs enjoying our juice, we begin to notice random mosaics of classic Nintendo characters displayed throughout the city. Though I would personally trade all of these little bastards in for a Sausage McMuffin with Egg, I have to admit it that this is also nostalgic and comforting. <br />
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Substituting the Detoxe Juice for a greasy, unhealthy breakfast sandwich has actually put me in a much better mood, to the point where a sense of calm begins to settle in. We travel back towards the hotel and neighboring train station, in preparation for departure. My sense of calm is violently interrupted while attempting to get food from the hotel restaurant, by a bitchy little imp who informs me, in so many words that I don’t understand, that I’m certifiably insane if I think I’m going to "find anything to eat at this hour (11am)."<br />
<br />
Boy, I wish I could see the look on the Imp's face as I select pre-made sandwiches from a train station food kiosk. I can't get any food? Please! These are the best goddamn sandwiches I have ever had. In reality, I am so hungry that they could have been filled with live praying mantises and razor blades, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. According to Joel, however, the sandwiches were just as tasty for someone not currently worked up into a berserker-like rage<br />
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It is a fifteen-minute train ride from Nantes to Clisson, the small town that will serve as the venue for Hellfest. Once again, it pays to travel first class, as the rest of the train is packed with sweaty and loud Norwegian Viking/Magic-Users. Clisson is located smack-dab in the middle of Muscadet, a wine-growing region known for briny, quaffable whites that are perfect with oysters. As the train rockets by the vineyards, I mentally prepare myself for what lie ahead.<br />
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The train station at Clisson is a scene straight out of the Third Reich, with armed policeman and drug- sniffing dogs all over the place. Luckily, we stride past without being accosted, though a few unlucky festival attendees are dragged off into what appear to be interrogation cabins of some sort. What the show's promoters have promised to be a “highly efficient and readily available shuttle service to the show” turns out to be a “free-for-all fend-for-yourself circus.” <br />
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Each time one of the small and infrequent shuttle busses pulls in to the train station, it is immediately mobbed. Joel and I have learned by now that to travel in France, you must be aggressive, so we force our way in and push cash into the hand of the driver, who ushers us straight into the back seat of the shuttle. As the shuttle negotiates the narrow town roads, we observe many unfortunate people, loaded down with huge backpacks, who have decided to make the 30-minute slog on-foot.<br />
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Clisson is a small village of around 8000 people, and the spectacle of 80,000 Vikings, Magic-Users, Rogues, Druids, Battle-Orcs, and Drow Elves invading their space has caused the seemingly friendly townspeople to come out of their houses and watch us as if we are a parade. For more detailed info about the show, here is a link to the official <a href="http://www.hellfest.fr/artistes">Hellfest 2011 website.</a> <br />
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When we reach the festival grounds and manage to secure our 3-day pass bracelets, the walk begins towards the main stages. I am reminded of how I don’t like being outdoors, nor do I enjoy festivals, or come to think of it, large crowds of people - so this should be interesting. <br />
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Of the 80,000 people in attendance from all over the world, at least 50% are camping here for all three nights, the thought of which makes me cringe and thank some god that I’m not among that group. As we enter Hellfest, it begins to rain, and in my usual unpreparedness for the elements, I have only worn a t-shirt. I make a beeline to one of the many merchandise vendors to purchase a hooded sweatshirt, in an effort to "blend in."<br />
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After selecting a hoodie depicting what would appear to be a rabid mountain lion and the logo for the band Atheist, I ask the man for an extra large. It is 35 euro, and when I offer my credit card he seems confused, but tries to run it anyway. As has been the case with our cards sans-gold chip, it doesn’t go through, and he hands me the receipt to prove it, for my records. I hand him a 50-euro note, he makes change, and tosses me the shirt. He thanks me kindly, and as I walk away I see he has given me back my change of 15 euro in addition to my original 50-euro bill. <br />
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I spend the rest of the trip claiming that Athiest has paid me to wear their merchandise, and that I’m their emissary to Europe, until Joel quizzes me about any of their actual songs to which I reply “I only know the B-sides.”<br />
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The festival is set up with two large “Main” stages side by side, where headliners alternate, surrounded by several different tents, each housing a stage.<br />
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While I investigate the food and beer situation, Joel rushes off to one of the tents to start his "show schedule." He has a much more strict and organized agenda than I do, which is very important with over 100 bands on the bill, so I’ll catch back up with him in a bit. After cashing in some euros for neon green Hellfest coins, I am able to barter with them for a pitcher of Kronenbourg lager, that I will consume without the aid of a cup. <br />
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While assessing the various breeds of metal chicks from all over Europe, I order up what vendors refer to as the “American Sandwich,” a cheeseburger sub topped with french fries, ketchup, and mayo. This would have been fine if the bun weren’t so tough and chewy, causing the mountain of ingredients to fall out onto the ground. I am unfazed, as I know there is much eating and drinking to be done if I’m going to be stuck out in the fucking rain all day. As I stare off into the distance, a man taps me on the shoulder and points out that I've been unknowingly pouring my pitcher of beer out into the grass. I thank the friendly brigand, and proceed to pour the rest of it down my throat and all over the front of myself. <br />
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The first band to play that really interests me is The Cult, scheduled to go on in about an hour and a half. After finishing my first pitcher of Kronenbourg, I negotiate the line of urinals, mostly overflowing already, causing many to piss in the bushes. My initial thought is “I’m getting too old for this,” followed shortly after by “wait, after 80,000 people have been urinating in the soil for 3-4 days straight, I wonder what the 2012 Muscadet will taste like..”<br />
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I manage the locate the “Metal Coroner Tent,” an out of the way area where there are no bands playing, and a sign that says “Hell Bar.” Currently, there are only a handful of people around, not to mention I am able to scare myself up a Guinness and a bench to sit and enjoy it on. It becomes apparent to me that this is going to be a very long day. <br />
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Joel joins me at my bench twenty minutes later, and fills me in on what I have missed so far. Joel is a <i>diehard</i> metal fan, and he knows almost every single band involved in the festival. He has been forced to make many difficult decisions on which ones to see, as several overlap with each other on the schedule. I also love metal, but am familiar with far fewer bands, so for me the choice of who to see and when is an easy one. After a few more beers, I’m not feeling so cold from being rained on anymore. I load up my hands with three more Guinness, to drink on the trudge back towards the main stage. <br />
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It’s time for more food, and I stumble upon the “Argentinean” stall, grilling up what appears to be a lot of delicious meat. I start with a sausage sandwich with chimichurri sauce, which is quite tasty - definitely a “Rainbow in the Dark” amidst all of the other shitty festival food.<br />
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While bartering with neon coins for another pitcher of Kronenbourg at the bar, a drunken swede strikes up conversation with me, telling me how much he loves me and how amazing I am. Each time he demonstrates this with a hug, I spill beer, causing me to slowly back away. In hindsight, I could have recommended the IKEA hotel to him, back in North Tours...<br />
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For the next five hours I see several bands and drink a lot of cheap beer.<br />
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<i>My personal highlights, and lowlights, include:</i><br />
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<b>The Cult:</b><br />
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<i>They're getting old, but are still very, very good live. An extra added bonus comes during the first chords of “She Sells Sanctuary,” as the rain clouds parted and the sun came out from behind the stage. You certainly can’t plan for moments as amazing as this.</i><br />
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<b>Down:</b><br />
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<i>Black Sabbath-esque southern metal band made up of a former Pantera guys, including Phil Anselmo on vocals. I have to admit, they sucked, and played forever, yammering on in English about self-indulgent shit that no one in the audience neither understood nor cared about.<br />
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<b>Meshuggah:</b><br />
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<i>An experimental metal band from Sweden, brutal and mind-blowing, especially when vocalist Jens Kidman refers to the crowd as “French, frog-eating faggots.”<br />
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<b>Morbid Angel:</b><br />
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<i>Classic Florida death metal, in all of its glory. Around this point in the evening we notice many festival goers to be getting really, really fucked up - to the point where one would question whether they were just wasted or actually have a disability of sorts”</i><br />
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<b>Iggy Pop & The Stooges</b><br />
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<i>Appearing with the Stooges, I personally find it mind-boggling that he is 1,000,000 years old but still runs around screaming “fuck” at the top of his lungs. At one point, he berates the stagehands to give him a “fucking bottled water,” and when he receives it, takes a sip, throws it out in to the crowd, and begins complaining that he has “no fucking bottled water.” </i><br />
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<b>Rob Zombie</b><br />
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<i>I have to be honest; I was looking forward to this show. Apparently, he is even bigger in Europe than in the US, and even among the “serious metalheads.” Unfortunately, he seemed to be drunk, out of breath, off-key, and trying to invoke some kind of George Clinton-esque party vibe that the non-English-speaking crowd was completely confused over. Sure, we brought out naked goth-chicks at one point during “Living Dead Girl,” but even that couldn’t save him in my eyes. We left halfway through his set.</i><br />
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After being outside all day in the rain, eating crappy food and drinking crappy beer, I was ready to get the Hell out of there as soon as possible. This is when we first encountered what was easily the most poorly planned out element of Hellfest – the Exodus. <br />
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As it is now 1:00 am, the town is completely dark and as pockets of people trying to leave begin to form, it is not readily apparent that anyone is one the way to get us. After about ten minutes, a shuttle appears, quickly fills up, and speeds off into the darkness. After twenty minutes, we have witnessed two cabs, and have been unsuccessful in commandeering either. After forty minutes we manage to sneak up the road with two people we have just met, and cut a cab off before it reaches the fray. The driver agrees to bring us all back to Nantes, which is music to my ears, and for the next thirty minutes some Irish girl chats my ear off, which is not so musical.<br />
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When we finally arrive back at the hotel, I open a bottle of 2002 Rene Geoffroy Brut, pour a glass for Joel, and pass right out. When I wake up a few hours later, mind already plotting out the day ahead, I think back to Hellfest day one, and how bad of a performance that Rob Zombie gave. I remember his coming out and complaining about being stuck backstage for twelve hours, and how he didn’t know if he wanted to play now, and... all of this after we have been out in the rain for twelve hours. The fact that he had the nerve to suck so badly after all of that really pisses me off...<br />
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Time for at least one more hour of sleep before day seven begins..<br />
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Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-67825611921333933602011-08-16T20:04:00.000-07:002011-08-17T07:06:21.493-07:00Paris Food Coma Part 5 - Joel's Playpen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JT0uQV_MfPQ/TkH1grQP1QI/AAAAAAAABwM/qPAY6xcNJl0/s1600/JoeSingin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="239" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JT0uQV_MfPQ/TkH1grQP1QI/AAAAAAAABwM/qPAY6xcNJl0/s320/JoeSingin.jpg" /></a></div>It's as if French people have never witnessed a large bear-of-a-hungover-man barrel out of an elevator, and in a frenzy of curly hair and tattoos, purchase eight bottles of water from a vending machine. This is how I interpret the "deer in the headlights" stares I receive as I do just that. <br />
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Normally, I am always prepared with several bottles of water in the room, but after swimming in a sea of Absinthe last night, I have failed miserably at my routine. Upon opening my eyes to the new day, I am greeted with the sensation that I may have been eating both cotton candy and tree bark throughout the night. Water must happen, even if it is at the cost of whatever shred of dignity I may have had a chance at attaining with the terrified onlookers. <br />
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And so today begins, with the first crippling hangover of the journey thus far. After hammering down seven of the eight purchased bottles of Vittel mineral water and slowly consuming a Snickers bar, my process of recovery begins, and we gather up our belongings in preparation for departure. During check out, I consider informing the front desk person about the glory hole in our shower, but think better of it based on the fact that I don't know to explain this concept in French - or Swedish. <br />
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Joel is fighting off a significant hangover of his own as we wait in the parking lot of IKEA for our Taxi to the wine growing region of Vouvray. Today we have an appointment with Laurent Kraft, winemaker at Domaine des Lauriers, though after yesterday's farm adventure I'm not quite sure what to expect.<br />
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For those unfamiliar with Vouvray, here is little background information taken from <i>The New France</i> by Andrew Jeffords:<br />
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<i>The two great white wine vineyard areas of Touraine are Vouvray and Montloius. Vouvray is sited on the right bank of the Loire, and Montlouis on the left, sandwiched between the Cher and the Loire itself. The rivers have, over the centuries, cut fine, sunny sites in to the preponderantly chalky soils. Tuffeau or tuf are the terms used locally to describe the pale white-yellow rock, a distinctive soft limestone from the Turonian age (about 90 million years ago) in which calcium carbonate is mingled with iron and magnesium oxides. The exposed slopes, frequently covered with clay and gravel topsoils. allow the vines to bask in sunlight, with Vouvray in particular having some superb vineyards overlooking the river. The flat, lazy lagoons, ponds, and braids of the river, separated by vast and lonely gravel banks discovered by Summer’s low waters, in turn reflect light back up into the vines. This is more or less the point at which continental climate that typifies Sancerre and Pouilly Fume modulates towards the maritime, Atlantic climate of the Nantes region. In theory the result should be a gentle, sunny summer declining with slow grace towards a luminous, clear skied Autumn, perfect for bringing the late-ripening Chenin Blanc to perfection. Sometimes it is; botrytis develops; great sweet or semi-sweet wines can be made. At other times, the region is hit by intemperate rains and early chills, and the harvests then tend to be used to make sparkling wines or dry still wines.</i><br />
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What this means, in a nutshell, is that Vouvray is an ideal place for Chenin Blanc to grow, and also that the Earth is old and summer is nice.<br />
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Our fifteen-minute cab ride from Tours takes us up steep and narrow roads, past wineries built into the side of the hill, before reaching our destination. Initially, it would appear that no one is around. I am about to make a very angry phone call when we notice a man strolling casually down the street in our direction. This man introduces himself as Laurent Kraft.<br />
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He welcomes us into his courtyard, where we are able to ditch all of our luggage. As he escorts us over to what I can best describe as a "tasting nook," Laurent assesses our ability to speak French and gets a feel for what we are all about. He starts popping corks, inquiring of our preferences when it comes to Chenin Blanc, to which I reply "We kind of like it all."<br />
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This answer seems to satisfy him, and we start with a 2009 sparkling Vouvray. This makes for a refreshing and invigorating breakfast, elevating my spirits right away. Joel does not appear to share my sentiment at first, but the fog begins to lift after a second glass. <br />
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Laurent then transitions into still wines, starting with the Vouvray <i>sec</i> (dry), his only label that I represent in Maine. This is a perfect food wine, with great acidity balanced out beautifully by flavors of white peach and lime. To compare styles and illustrate the versatility of Chenin Blanc, He pours us a glass of Vouvray <i>moelleux</i> (sweet) as well. <br />
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Reaching the end of the lineup, I begin to suspect that our visit may already be concluded. Laurent begins to put the wines away before asking us, "What should we do next?" I explain that we are completely in his capable hands, to which he replies that we could "Check out the winery," in a tone that implies “but this will bore you to fucking tears.” <br />
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"Or," he continues, "We could go out and see Vouvray?" <br />
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He leads us to our transport, a small white box truck used for transporting grapes. Though I offer to ride bitch as I pile into the cab next to Laurent, Joel declines in favor of riding in the practically windowless box. And thus begins Joel's harrowing odyssey from “pretty hungover” to “very hungover” as he was tossed about for the rest of our Vouvray adventure in what I refer to as his “playpen.”<br />
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When Laurent fires up the truck, house music comes pumping out of the stereo, surprising the hell out of Joel and I. He smiles, a little embarrassed, and turns it down immediately. On the drive to the vineyards, I miraculously begin what is to be my finest effort in regards to use of the French language, and it would be all downhill after this. While Laurent and I chat, he points out various landmarks, many of which are greeted with a muffled voice coming from the darkness of Joel's playpen.<br />
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We ditch the truck upon arriving at the vineyards, exploring up and down each row on foot. It is an absolutely perfect summer day, and Laurent leads us around to his various plots, pointing out the oldest and most gnarled of the vines. Though the playpen has beaten his spirit down a notch, Joel still finds time to take his little flower pictures. I have finally learned my lesson in regards to outdoor excursions, ditching the Gucci boots in favor of only slightly more practical Skechers sneakers. <br />
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After milling about in the sun for awhile, the next leg of the journey invloves a drive over to the bottling plant used for Laurent’s sparkling wines. Many other producers share the large facility, which looks like a scene out of <i>The Wire: Season 2</i> from the outside. Once again, I get a little too snappy with the camera at the bottling line, and am almost plowed over by one of the many people just trying to do their job. Joel gives me the look. Again. <br />
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The final part of our tour takes us towards Montlouis, and includes a nice view of the most famous church in the area, Notre Dame et Saint Baptiste. We encounter a very old cemetery, housing the remains of Laurent’s grandfather among many, many others. As we tour the hallowed grounds, Joel remains fairly quiet, knowing that his hellish playpen experience may be far from over. As the wine from this morning begins to wear off, I suggest that it may be time for lunch.<br />
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Monsieur Kraft agrees, and after a quick stop at the winery to gather up bottles of wine, he brings us to Le Val Joli, a small restaurant in the heart of quaint downtown Vouvray. When we roll in with Laurent it becomes apparent that we are with a local celebrity, and a well-loved one at that. Our bottles are briskly placed into table-side ice buckets, with stems for each set on the table. We meet the owner, who appears to be in her late thirties or early forties, and once again I miraculously pull a barrage of French speak right out of my ass, impressing the living shit right out of her. <br />
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The dining room is small, and not very busy on this particular Thursday afternoon. While we peruse the menu, Laurent opens a bottle of 2007 sparkling Vouvray, which is a slightly older vintage of what we had tasted this morning. I notice that Joel is finally perking up, relieved that he is going to be provided with a hot meal before being ushered back into the dark confines of the playpen. Though I feel a little bad, I <i>did</i> offer him a seat up front in the very beginning, so I simply cannot accept any responsibility. <br />
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My ego begins writing checks that my body probably won't be able to cash as I continue to prattle away in French, ordering the escargot as a starter, and veal <i>rognon</i> (kidneys) as a main course. This confidence is cemented in place when Laurent selects the very same thing, explaining that when he and David Chang, owner of Momofuku and other restaurants in NYC, had dined here together, Chang had also completely fallen in love with the <i>rognon.</i><br />
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The bread is still warm and pillowy soft, with equally good butter served on the side, and is by far the best that we encounter on the trip. I hungrily rip into it, taking long pulls of my glass of bubbly between bites. Already, I am completely satisfied. <br />
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My situation continues to improve as I am presented with <i>escargot profiteroles,</i> every bit as delicious as the photograph make it look. Each buttery, garlicky, and perfectly cooked snail is enveloped in a soft and warm puff pastry shell. Joel’s foie gras terrine with spiced apples is also masterfully constructed, providing yet another excuse to devour more of the insanely good bread.<br />
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Laurent opens a second bottle, a 2008 Vouvray sec, just as my <i>rognon </i>arrive, accompanied by an unexpected little bonus of veal sweetbreads and crisp, buttery roasted potatoes. This is simply one of the best things I've ever eaten, and I even decline when offered a bite of Joel’s braised lamb over mashed potatoes, not wanting anything to potentially impede my enjoyment. <br />
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As we pack bottle number two's bags and send it home, we are handed a glass of Vouvray moelleux to sip while waiting to inspect the cheese cart. Though not an easy decision to settle on just three, I select the <i>Epoisses</i> and two different goat varieties that I can’t recall the names of. <br />
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Laurent buys us lunch, and after chatting with the owner a bit more, we make our departure. Before being very generously driven all the way back to the train station in Tours, we must make a pit stop at the winery to reclaim our luggage. <br />
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While we are lingering about in the courtyard waiting for Laurent, what appears to be a family of Australians – dad, mom, son, son’s hot girlfriend – stroll on in, claiming to have an appointment to taste wines. Laurent, ever gracious, obliges them and starts into the three-bottle lineup that it feels like we had tasted a week ago, but was in fact this morning. The dad engages me in conversation, making small talk about where I’m from and what I do, though I can’t recall my answers due to being entirely fixated on son’s hot girlfriend’s breasts. Joel, not into making new friends, walks around and takes pictures of a lemon tree. <br />
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Ten minutes later we are rid of the Aussies and on our way back to Tours, myself riding comfortably upfront while Joel sloshes about in his playpen. We are running low on time, but Laurent knows exactly where to park and escorts us all the way on to the train, giving us each hugs goodbye. When we are comfortably situated, Joel emerges from his emotionally battered state to declare, “That guy was really fucking hot.”<br />
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We are speeding west towards our final destination city, Nantes, which will serve as base of operations while we attend Hellfest, beginning tomorrow. It’s about two hours from Tours, and while Joel manages to fall asleep on the train, I do not. As a delightful alternative, I am allowed the privilege of feeling the alcohol slowly wear off as I slip into a mid-day hangover. Pure joy.<br />
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I have booked four nights at the Hotel Mercure Nantes Gare Sud, which is very conveniently located right next to the train station. This proves to be a godsend with the state of our Champagne-laden bags, which are getting fuck-all heavy at this point. I remind myself that this is the last slog with these, as only four bottles will make it out of the hotel intact. <br />
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As we chat up the front desk clerk, she explains that the room has one King size bed. We ask about getting a second bed wheeled in, and when informed that this would not be a possibility, I tell her that it’s no problem and that, motioning towards Joel, “She’ll sleep on the floor.” This seems to amuse her, and she happily provides us with a few options for dining during our stay. As we head up to our room, we are told by a maid resembling a skinny Meadow Soprano that our room isn’t ready yet, so back into the elevator we go for a few glasses of Champagne in the lobby. <br />
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While waiting, in a daze, we meet a couple of Americans, also here to attend Hellfest. After shooting the shit for awhile I, getting fucked up for the third time today, decide to put Joel’s tattoos (that I can’t describe and do justice to, but they’re fucking amazing) on show-and-tell, an effort that he responds to with a flat out “fuck no.” I begin to argue with him, causing our new American friends to grow uncomfortable, when we are informed that our suite is ready, effectively diffusing the situation. <br />
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The room is quite comfortable, and I take advantage of the opportunity to immediately crash out for a few hours, while Joel does whatever it is that he does. A few hours later the sun is still out, though it is getting well past eight, and we pull ourselves together to take off towards our first dining experience in Nantes, restaurant <i>Baron Maison Lefevre</i>. <br />
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Nantes is about four times the size of Tours, and reminds me a little bit of Miami, sans the cocaine. We easily locate our destination, and enter into what appears to be some kind of gift shop, hawking various goods bearing the Baron Maison Lefevre logo. The Executive Chef, Jean-Charles Baron, is depicted all over the walls, mingling with various 1980's celebreties. I am reminded of Chef Gusteau from the movie, Rattatouile, the author of <i>Anyone Can Cook,</i> and also it's much less successful follow up, <i>Anyone Can Blow Me.</i> <br />
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We are approached by a young man bearing striking similarities to Eddie Munster, who, after decoding my rapidly failing French, figures out that yes, we would like a table and no, we don't know what the fuck a reservation is. The dining room is fairly large, with a long staircase spiraling up the center, and as Eddie parades us by the open kitchen I notice that Chef Baron himself is expediting on this particular evening. We are seated and presented with the menu, in the form of a large chalkboard set up on a neighboring table. I order a bottle of Chenin Blanc, 2009 Clos de Coulaine Savennieres, shotgunning the first glass in an effort to boost my enthusiasm for yet another very decadent, and very French, meal.<br />
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Prior to our arrival in Nantes, Joel and I have vowed to "eat mostly fish" during our visit, due to the city being "right near the coast" and the fact that "all we've eaten so far is meat." <br />
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As we discover repeatedly, not many people order three courses from a la carte menus in France, so needless to say there is confusion each time that we do. Joel begins with Foie Gras mousse, while I settle on the lobster salad with shaved black truffles and spring onion. Trust me, no lobster dish that I've ever had in Maine can even attempt to hold a candle to this, that is, at least until I come back toss together my "signature" black truffle lobster roll..<br />
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Though becoming a touch hazy, I do remember discussing the merits of Nilla Wafers at great length around this point in the meal. I know this because it says so in my notes, right next to the phrase "Joe got hit by a car, and well.." I don't know what the hell this means, but perhaps Joel can shed light on this conversation at a later date.<br />
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To insure further loss of memory and heighten my risk of congestive heart failure, I fire up a bottle of 2005 Chateau Le Crock St. Estephe, because, as everyone knows, "When in the Loire Valley, one should always drink Bordeaux!" Though geographically ludicrous, it works with our next course, blood sausage with house-made whole-grain mustard sauce. Though the boudin noir we had eaten on our first night in Paris at Le Comptoir had set the bar fairly high, this was still quite good and, honestly, I could eat this blood sausage just about every goddamn day. <br />
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It is now when things begin to go slightly awry. While awaiting our main courses, we are approached by one of our four servers, and asked if we would like cheese. Though this seems a tad bit fucking stupid at this point in the meal, we agree to it and are brought two cheese plates, the contents of which I can't recall but I'm sure they were delicious. After clearing, another server inquires if we would like coffee.<br />
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It is now obvious that they have forgotten our entrees, which wouldn't be a big deal if we could explain this properly in French. Nobody knows what the hell we are talking about, until we get Eddie Munster, who is personally responsible for taking our order in the first place, back at the table. He understands what has happened, and we watch him slowly saunter over to Chef Gusteau, and, upon explaining his error, get ripped a gaping new asshole. The manager, a bit unnerved, approaches our table and apologizes, telling us that our meals will be out shortly.<br />
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Throughout all of this, Joel and I have been perfectly content just drinking our wine while being greatly entertained by the "verbal flogging of Eddie Munster." Our entrees arrive, and in my time-honored tradition of complete overkill, I have ordered veal rognons for a second time today. Joel has made an effort to uphold the original, "eat fish" plan, choosing the filet of turbot. Though neither are a revelation, they are perfectly fine and get the job done, that job being pushing us over the edge into a state of food-induced dementia. <br />
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Though the thought of taking another bite of food at this point makes me want to kill myself, the frazzled manager insists on buying us dessert. This, of course, is in an effort to pardon the sins of our beloved little Munster, who as far as we know is currently having his fingers dipped one-by-one into scalding hot frying oil by a very angry and unforgiving Chef Gusteau. <br />
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After somehow managing to finish my creme brulee, my shuffle through the dining room makes me feel not unlike a float at the Macy's Day parade, bobbing lazily between tables with a dull, listless look in my eyes. We wander around the city for about an hour, looking at castles, and I begin to get my second wind. Everything is surprisingly calm and quiet, making our drunken exploration that much more surreal. Here, Joel is photographed in front of what we have nicknamed the "Red Door by Elizabeth Arden." <br />
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We pass by what appears to be a brothel, called <i>System X</i>, where through a half-opened door I am beckoned in by what I remember to be a minimally clothed, stunningly beautiful brunette. In a daze, I immediately submit to her sirens song, but as I divert my path towards the friendly prostitute Joel grabs my shoulders and directs me back towards our original destination. I begin to protest, before recognizing, even in my drunken state, what a hugely awful decision that would have been. My prudence is rewarded when I wake up with plenty of cash still in my pocket, and my internal organs still inside my body.<br />
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And now - Hellfest Awaits. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eYcl0pIM024/TkgXw1T2TBI/AAAAAAAAB3g/CZPm4-10kBg/s1600/Nantes3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eYcl0pIM024/TkgXw1T2TBI/AAAAAAAAB3g/CZPm4-10kBg/s320/Nantes3.JPG" /></a></div>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-90724591155857991152011-08-10T15:15:00.000-07:002011-08-10T15:15:03.344-07:00Now In The Works! Food Coma TVYes, now you'll be able to follow your favorite drunk asshole all around the glorious state of Maine. Feel free to pledge on Kickstarter.com if you'd like!<br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="410px" src="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1907242405/food-coma-the-rest-of-maine-webseries-and-document/widget/video.html" width="480px"></iframe>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-2052865602741089222011-07-26T19:15:00.000-07:002011-07-26T19:23:39.483-07:00Paris Food Coma Part 4: Good Decisions & Bad Decisions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UYSTZh7HpJM/Ti9TQP-TJAI/AAAAAAAABt0/9phwFr9k4Nk/s1600/IMG_1562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UYSTZh7HpJM/Ti9TQP-TJAI/AAAAAAAABt0/9phwFr9k4Nk/s320/IMG_1562.JPG" /></a></div>Though I stand by my initial statement that I don’t mind having my alcohol consumption moderated by the restrictive hours of French nightlife, this doesn't stop me from being wildly irritated with my inability to fall asleep as a result. On a marathon of consumption such as this, indulging in a specific amount of booze serves to “wake me up and keep me going,” and, after reaching a certain point, each subsequent drink serves to bring me back towards “sleep.” You may call this "textbook alcoholism," but I call it "vacation."<br />
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Even after a scant two hours of sleep, it's still a beautiful morning in Tours. Unlike other hotels we have stayed at, The Mondial has Wi-Fi that actually works, rather than just providing us with false log in names and passwords. In an insomnia-inspired fit of data-usage paranoia at 3:00 AM this morning, I upgraded my plan to 100MB for $170, in addition to all of the international options I’d already put into effect. This, of course, proves to be a huge waste of money when all is said and done, but it serves to make me feel better about whittling away time on Facebook when I have trouble sleeping. <br />
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Our first destination today is Saumur, a growing region known for whites made from Chenin Blanc and reds from Cabernet Franc. Winery visits from here on out have been generously set up by my friend Carole at Robert Kacher Selections, an importer who makes up the core of our French portfolio. We have a 10:30 appointment at Domaine Hautes de Sanziers, a tiny producer that is new to Kacher's book. This, outside of our 9:00 PM dinner reservation back at Le Turon, is our only scheduled activity for the day. Due to it's proximity to our appointment tomorrow in Vouvray, we reach the painful conclusion that it will be best to spend the evening at IKEA, bidding the Mondial a very sad farewell.<br />
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Joel becomes hell bent on organizing some “spa time” in the late afternoon, to which my first reaction is, “What a fantastic idea!” He proceeds to suggest that I approach our Euro/gay concierge for recommendations on good massage parlors, a potentially indecent proposal that makes me cringe as I imagine myself, after failing miserably with my French, making massaging motions in the air with my fingers. There is also room for him to interpret that I am asking him to massage me, or, if my hand motions begin to mirror my frustration, that I’m offering to jerk him off. <br />
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The final nail in "Spa Day 2011's” coffin is the realization that we will be between hotel rooms, with no place to shower after having scented oil rubbed all over us, thus being forced to saunter about in the hot sun as such. Plus, my hair gets real fucked up after being massaged, so I offer up a suggestion of my own, “drinking in bars,” as a reasonable compromise...<br />
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After enjoying a hearty continental breakfast of granola, croissants, and yogurt, the first order of business is getting to Saumur. We head to the train station, on foot, with what appears to be plenty of time. On the way, I resist the temptation to re-enact Rocky I inside this meat truck.<br />
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We end up getting a tad bit lost, and our generous time window begins to narrow. Something you should know about the French rail system is that they pride themselves on punctuality, making early arrival a consistently prudent choice. Our train is to depart for Saumur at 9:15, and we are forced to scramble in order to purchase tickets. This is when Joel makes a crucial mistake that nearly costs him his title of “Tranny Boss.” <br />
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In the ticketing office, there are two rooms, one with a normal line and another with two windows, one of which displays a British flag, labeling it as “English speaking.” After waiting near this window for five very precious minutes, Joel realizes that he has failed to “take a number,” putting him right back to the end of the line. He asks an attendant in the other room, with no line, if he speaks English, to which the man shakes his head and points Joel back to the line in the other room. After three more agonizing minutes it is now 9:10, so I take matters into my own hands. I walk right up to one of the counters in the room with no line and say “Deux Billot Si Vous Plait, Saumur.” This sets the process in motion, and by the time the attendant realizes that I do not, in fact, speak French, she has been provided with enough information to complete the transaction.<br />
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Luckily, we are weighed down only by our “overnight” bags, and make it on to the train with about 15 seconds to spare. To show the Tranny Boss how things need to be done from here on out, I have upgraded us to first class. Now, free from the shackles of second class, I am able to enjoy a pleasant ride through the Loire Valley on a brilliant summer morning, observing castle after castle. It actually reminds me of Eddie Izzard’s rant on history in his classic performance, <i>Dressed to Kill:</i><br />
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An hour later we arrive in Saumur, completely relaxed and ready to slaughter some fucking wine. We have done our homework this time, and have the train schedule down pat. There is a 12:30 and a 4:30 back to Tours, so we plan on attempting to catch the earlier but are prepared for a later afternoon if things are going well at the winery. <br />
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We approach a group of three taxi drivers and inform them of our destination, immediately setting off a ten-minute frenzy of map consultation and phone calls, until they seem to have a rough idea of where we are going. They all appear so excited by this discovery that I begin to suspect that all three will be coming along for the ride. When the dust clears, however, we are left with a single driver. <br />
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After the equivalent of a seventy-dollar cab ride, we reach the remote farm location of Domaine des Hauts de Sanziers. As I get out of the car, an older woman greets me from one of the house windows, and upon introducing myself her expression becomes quite confused. She knows who I am, and why I’m there, but was not informed that neither Joel nor I speak French, as she speaks zero English. After attempting to communicate with each other for a few minutes, she welcomes me into the office so she can make a phone call. Just to be on the safe side we have outrageously over-tipped our taxi-driver, so he is happy to wait while things get sorted out. <br />
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I am put on the phone with a man named Guillermo, who works for Robert Kacher. He is very apologetic that, due to confusion with the holiday weekend, Dominique, the English speaking winemaker, cannot make it. He assures us that we will not run into this problem tomorrow in Vouvray, but wonders if we will be ok with touring the winery with Annee, his wife, despite the language barrier? <br />
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Of course, this is completely fine by us - I mean, what the fuck else are we going to do? Guillermo speaks to our cab driver over the phone, convincing him to wait, free of charge, for an hour while we see the caves and taste wine. During all of the confusion, Joel has been flitting about taking pictures of flowers like some kind of farm nymph.<br />
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A little background on the winery for you, from Robert Kacher’s website:<br />
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<i>Located south of Saumur, the Domaine des Hauts de Sanziers has belonged to the Tessier family for 2 centuries. Today the estate covers 85 hectares in the appellations of Saumur and Saumur-Champigny, all worked organically and covered with grass.<br />
The soils there are clay and limestone.</i><br />
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As Annee leads us to down a path to the ancient wine cave, we encounter several goats grazing about freely. Of course, when I try to get within photo distance, they are frightened by what they perceive to be a lumbering Sasquatch, hell bent on drinking their milk, and scatter. Joel gives me a look, implying, “that was very subtle of you. Sasquatch.”<br />
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Compared even to a small producer like Geoffroy back in Champagne, this cave is quite tiny, and extremely old. Annee does her best to illustrate with her hands, attempting to make optimal use of her limited number of English words. You may think that this would be awkward, but it wasn’t the slightest bit so - it was actually quite interesting and forced us to exercise our French as well. <br />
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While making our way to the “tasting room,” we run into the winemaker’s son, Jean, who then tags along to help Annee. He also speaks very little English, but seems happy to have us there all the same. Domaine des Hauts de Sanziers has two basic offerings – a white made from Chenin Blanc and a red made from Cabernet Franc. The Chenin is a drier style, very crisp, tropical, and refreshing, while the Cabernet Franc exhibits intense flavors of earth and black pepper to balance out the rich fruit. I would be happy drinking either all day on any given day.<br />
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Jean asks if we like sparkling wine, and I jokingly reply “only for breakfast.” My cheesiness is rewarded when both he and Annee start laughing. Jean breaks out three bottles to taste through, a brut, rose, and a demi-sec (sweeter style), and after a full glass of each, I’m enjoying life on the farm considerably more. Annee offers us two bottles, one red and one white, to take with us as a gift “for our troubles.” <br />
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Outside, several very attractive girls greet us on horseback. Annee introduces them as her daughters and, once again, farm life just keeps getting better... Alas, much like the porn-star cab driver in part 3, a photo-op threatens to send the wrong message here. Sorry.<br />
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We bid everyone farewell, and begin the long cab ride back to town. I notice that the driver has turned the meter off, and when I inquire as to why he explains that he is “going back to town anyway.” In hindsight, he was probably just enjoying the girls on horseback during the entire time we were off gallivanting through old caves anyhow. Regardless, this gesture is extremely generous, so we are sure to tip some more when he drops us off near the train station. <br />
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Joel cements his position as Tranny Boss back into place by purchasing our tickets 45 minutes in advance of departure back to Tours. We head over to “La Resto de la Gare,” which I believe translates into English as “Eat Some Fucking Lunch Before You Get on Your Fucking Train,” for a quick bite to eat. <br />
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A few carafe’s of the local vin blanc keeps me on track, and after a hearty plate of steak frites followed by fromage blanc with raspberry coulis for dessert, I am properly sated and in a delightful mood. We leave just in time to avoid two men at a neighboring table beginning to hungrily dig into heaping piles of stinky Andouillette. <br />
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Our first task upon arrival back in Tours is cabbing it out to IKEA to shower, change clothes, spend more time in the top bunk, etc. I add our newly acquired wines to our ever-growing collection, while pointing out that “We need to start drinking these, because schlepping them around is beginning to piss me right off.” <br />
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My showering experience at IKEA doesn’t go well. First off, the door feels like it’s made out of cardboard, and there’s a glory-hole style circle cut out of it that is meant to function as the handle. The last Swedish inmate to occupy our room must have found it quite hilarious to point the shower head directly at this glory hole, so the minute I turn on the water it fires straight through, soaking 75 of our cumulative 179 square feet of flooring. The situation almost gets much worse as the surprise from the blast causes me to flail my arms, nearly punching through the cardboard-esque shower “door.” <br />
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Joel seems unfazed as I tumble out of the shower and almost straight into a mirror, narrowly avoiding years of bad luck. Naturally, he has no problem negotiating the Swedish water torture, and soon we are ready to get the fuck out of there. <br />
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Because we shall be returning to IKEA again, late night, we are able to pack very lightly for our afternoon in Tours. We instruct our taxi to drop us off at Halles de Tours, a sprawling marketplace we had spotted the day before on our way to dinner. <br />
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Both Joel and I are immediately pushed into sensory overload as we step through the doors, and are confronted with cheese, meat, wine, spices, and veggies as far as the eye can see, not to mention a small Vietnamese market. We wander up and down the aisles, desperately trying to rationalize a large purchase. Of course, common sense wins out, seeing as we are without any means to cook these items. In addition to that, we still have hours to traipse around in the hot summer sun, and no matter how good any of these things look presently, it will be a different story at the end of a day without refrigeration.<br />
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For the next few hours, we roam about the streets of Tours. Eventually, I begin to grow hungry again, initiating the daily ritual of “everyplace you’d prefer to eat is closed.” We stop for a drink at a shitty sidewalk cafe that kind of reminds me of the American chain “Corner Bakery,” except that they serve booze. While sipping a beer that’s as large as my head, I point out a clearly insane passerby, stating that, much like the song by the band <i>Roxette</i>, “She’s got the look.”<br />
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“She’s got <i>A</i> look, but definitely not <i>THE</i> look,” is Joel’s response to the lady adorned in many shades of neon accompanied by tattered fishnets and pigtails. As we pay our check, I leave what I feel to be a reasonable tip, but what is interpreted by our server as just plain ludicrous. She appears to scramble a bit, before returning to our table with a bowl of offerings, consisting of spicy olives and mixed nuts. I am not actually in the mood for any of these things, and I begin to regret tipping a damn thing as I struggle through olive after olive, not wanting to offend by leaving the bowl untouched. <br />
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When traveling abroad, it generally takes me about three days to grow tired of eating the same style of cuisine. This was especially true when I was in Argentina, where after two days of consuming nothing but meat and empanadas, I would have given my left arm for a bowl of Pho. Though France offers more variety than Argentina, I can't help that today I have an almost irresistible craving for raw fish, and I insist on beginning the search for sushi. Of course, it’s still the "nappy time" hour of 3:45, and after passing about six Japanese restaurants, all closed, I begin to get a little bit grumpy.<br />
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While careening about, I call Melinda and rant about how my day has been ruined because I want sushi and I can’t find it. She is currently on her way to work, and seems unsympathetic to my “problems,” regretfully informing me that she is going to have to “let me go.”<br />
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After hanging up the phone, Joel politely reminds me that I have, in the last three minutes, narrowly avoided being run over by about five separate vehicles. While pondering a bitchy response, I am distracted by what I at first perceive to be a mirage, but what actually turns out to be a sushi restaurant, open for business. The “menu” is a small, glossy book, and more closely resembles a brochure for a new Aston Martin DB9 than a list of nigiri and maki rolls.<br />
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The decor of the entrance mimics the sushi catalog, the kind of super-sleek techno-hip theme that I personally find wildly idiotic for anything other than an Apple Store. The hostess leads us past an army of busy chefs at the sushi bar to a more visually palatable dining room, obscured from the entrance. Save for a lone diner staring at his laptop, presumably playing <i>Magic: The Gathering</i> online, we are the only souls here. This is a bit strange, as the chef’s were so busy, but I figure that the restaurant must do a lot of to-go business.<br />
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When our server greets us, a solid ten minutes later, I order a half bottle of chilled sake and two large Asahi beers. Initially, we run into a few problems with the language barrier, but the man with the laptop, who we now assume is the manager (probably using a blue and white deck, I would guess), chimes in from time to time helping with translation. <br />
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Though we continue to confuse the fuck out of our server throughout ordering process, eventually our food begins to arrive. First up are Maki rolls with caviar, nigiri with shaved black truffle and shitake mushroom, and nigiri with cured Foie Gras. I found these little treasures in the “luxury” section of our sushi brochure, and I have to admit, they are quite tasty.<br />
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Nigiri with tuna, dorado, and salmon are next in the order, in addition to maki rolls wrapped with salmon and filled with ikura, the cured roe of the salmon. Though the rice needs work, the fish itself is very fresh and satisfies my craving perfectly. We conclude our “snack” with crunchy tuna avocado hand rolls. While we are eating, the man with the laptop takes a break from playing Magic and comes over to chat. We learn that Sushi Shop is actually a franchise, of which he owns three. He tells us that they will be opening up a location soon in New York City, forcing me to refrain from replying that, though perfectly fine for Tours, this place wouldn’t last a week there.<br />
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Dinnertime is still a couple of hours away, so yet more walking ensues, led by Joel, my newly appointed “Moderaton Sensei.” On the day before, we had come across a hole-in-the-wall shop selling Christ-knows-what that Joel has completely fallen in love with. Today, he decides to return and actually purchase the Christ-knows-what, but, on four separate attempts throughout the day, the shop is closed - even though the sign on the door indicates otherwise. <br />
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To cheer him up, I suggest that we scare up some Champagne at a random cafe near the shop, that way if they open for even ten minutes we'll be the first to know. Ten minutes later, we are sipping from a bottle of sparkling Vouvray in what appears to be a lesbian sports bar. Though a little bit gruff at first, our server and bartender warm up to us when I offer them each a glass of wine. The subject matter of our conversation goes beyond the gutter, and I get a sneaking suspicion that tonight's dining experience may be a little bit different than that of last night.<br />
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Joel’s shop stays closed, but soon it’s time to make our way back to Le Turon for dinner number two. When we arrive, a small “reserved” sign has been placed on the table in the front window, an upgrade in seating from our previous visit. Once again, it’s quite busy, and Ke$ha looks to be tied up with a large party towards the back of the restaurant. <br />
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It’s been a very long day, and we’ve imbibed a fair amount, but this will not stop us from going the distance here for a second time. We start with a bottle of 2006 Chinon Rosé Cuvee Marie Justine, while we re-visit the menus. It’s interesting to know that this meal will consist entirely of the previous evening’s “second choices.” Personally, I’m tempted to repeat both the seven-hour lamb and the poached eggs with Foie Gras, but decide it’s best to explore new frontiers.<br />
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The first of my "second choices" is the Foie Gras terrine, accompanied by custy baguette and a confit of dried fruits. Joel starts with a perch and tomato mousse, served over greens and garnished with “tomato gazpacho.” Though both are quite tasty, I'm still thinking that our "first" choices were more memorable. <br />
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Ke$ha finally makes her way over to greet us, though briefly, apologizing that she is short on hands and stuck helping in the kitchen. She has brought in an entire bottle of Absinthe for me, however, and I brace myself for what is to come.<br />
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As the rosé goes, as Walter Donovan says in <i>Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade</i>, "the way of the Dodo," we move on to a bottle of 2008 Château de Targé Saumur Rouge, in honor of our big trip to the farm. It goes down real smooth alongside my thick and perfectly rare beef “rumsteak,” smothered in bordelaise sauce and served with roasted potatoes.<br />
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By the time I get a chance to taste Joel’s pork tenderloin with cider, things are starting to get a touch hazy. We finish up with assorted cheeses, while polishing off the red wine, before all of our plates are cleared and replaced with two snifters.<br />
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Throughout the trip and up until now, I’ve tried to be fairly discreet when taking pictures, turning off the flash when appropriate, etc. As our server presents us with our bottle of Absinthe, I ask if it would be ok to take a photo of her. Before she has a chance to respond, she is assaulted point blank with the flash from my point-and-shoot, to which she appears a bit shaken. She fills our snifters, and as she leaves the table Joel signals that it “might be the time to chill the fuck out with the picture snapping.”<br />
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Realizing that I’m getting rather inebriated, I whole-heartedly agree and put the camera away. While Joel paces himself, I plow through two snifters full of green deliciousness before Ke$ha waves me towards the back of the restaurant. When I get there I am greeted by the chef, who turns out to be Ke$ha’s husband, and two of his cooks. They claim to have heard stories about me, and wanted to see for themselves who was eating all this food and drinking all this wine. Because I don’t know how to say “Your food is great, and also I find your wife pleasing to look at” in French, I resort to “merci beaucoup, fuckin’ tres bien!” <br />
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They seem satisfied, if not delighted by this response, and as we prepare to exit, Ke$ha makes sure I take the whole bottle of Absinthe with me. After thanking her, we head back out into the streets in search of a taxi back to IKEA. I proceed to drink about another quarter of the bottle as we roam around, insisting on drunk dialing Dietz back in Maine. When Dietz answers, he happens to be with Drew and Nolan, and they are all equally amused with my fucked up ramblings before I thrust the phone into Joel’s hands with an abrasive “they want to talk to YOU.”<br />
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Allegedly, the cab driver finds me hilarious on the trip home, though I personally don't remember much. When in doubt, I assume I might have been doing some singing...<br />
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Back at IKEA, I immediately pass out in a heap of myself. France was not able to moderate me tonight, goddamn it. I’d shown them. Yup. Won’t THEY be surprised when I wake up with by far the worst hangover of the trip? Mission accomplished. Strong work.<br />
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I predict that by tomorrow, I will not have learned my lesson...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QlcZOBX4GNQ/Ti9YTGLCQNI/AAAAAAAABvs/jj8ve_UihU4/s1600/IMG_0445.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="238" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QlcZOBX4GNQ/Ti9YTGLCQNI/AAAAAAAABvs/jj8ve_UihU4/s320/IMG_0445.PNG" /></a></div>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-64457251500357714582011-07-16T22:30:00.000-07:002011-07-20T20:14:36.396-07:00Paris Food Coma Part 3 - A Tale of Two Hotel Rooms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ewjY0Jt-Ug0/TiHdUI5vEcI/AAAAAAAABkU/y18u-uvLdAI/s1600/BunkinUp2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ewjY0Jt-Ug0/TiHdUI5vEcI/AAAAAAAABkU/y18u-uvLdAI/s320/BunkinUp2.jpg" /></a></div>Upon checking out of the Hotel Castel Jeanson in Ay, we are greeted outside on the street by what I assume to be a model hailing us a cab, but is in fact our actual driver. She is tall and blonde, with a tough-looking black leather jacket, lots of mascara, and a trashy yet sultry look about her that implies “I may or may not have done a line of coke before picking you up" in addition to, "I’m the best fuck that you would ever have.”<br />
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I toy with the notion of snapping a picture of her, just to prove my point, but somehow I hold back with the assumption that she expects me to do it. My mind, after two hours of sleep and several days of being intoxicated, begins to spin a yarn about her sordid past. I imagine her complaining, in English but with a thick French accent, to her equally gorgeous friends about all of the controlling men who take photos of her after trying to solicit her for sex. She begins weeping and is "consoled" by three eager women who--<br />
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I am abruptly torn away from the land of make-believe by the sound of Joel’s car door slamming shut. We have arrived at Pierre Gimmonet, our final appointment in Champagne before making our way back to Paris. We are greeted warmly at the door, and informed that Didier, the winemaker, is currently on his way back from the vineyards and that we should make ourselves at home in the living room.<br />
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A little background on Didier Gimmonet - He is very well respected amongst grower producers throughout Champagne, with his oldest vineyards located in Cuis, Cramant, and Choiully – which all within the Cote des Blancs AOC. He almost exclusively grows and is a master of the Chardonnay grape, producing wines that are, according to importer and guru Terry Theise, “Suave, creamy, and refined, with a soft minerality dispersed throughout the fruit.” <br />
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As Didier arrives, he immediately apologizes to Joel and I for being late, even though he is all of three minutes so. He is quite proficient with his English, not to mention very friendly, urging us to sit down as he prepares to pop corks on what looks to be eight bottles of wine. We begin with the Brut NV, and he discusses the expression of the house and of its vineyards, and what he considers to be characteristics of great Champagne. <br />
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Joel begins with good intentions, taking two sips and dumping the rest into the spit bucket that Didier has provided. By the second glass, however, it becomes apparent that pacing is a lost cause and the bucket is forgotten about. <br />
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Throughout the next two hours we work our way through each of his different cuvees. He is fascinating to listen to, and I find myself hanging on his every word trying not to miss anything. He prefers to pick his Chardonnay grapes before they become too ripe, encouraging the signature “minerality” that his wines are known for. He pulls out a bottle that is unmarked, with exception of the word “Paradoxe” handwritten on it. One of the very few wines he makes with Pinot Noir, it is a rich and fruity style that I like to call a "breakfast quaffer." After all, what goes better with Ho Cakes than Champagne?<br />
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The 2002 Millesime de Collection, Special Club Brut is the hands down favorite for Joel and I. 2002 was amazing vintage to begin with, and despite consuming quite a but of bubbly thus far, this wine stands out as superlative, with bracingly fresh acidity complimented by creamy layers of toast and apples. <br />
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Though we are having an amazing time, and starting to get a smidge fucked up all over again, Joel and I regretfully inform Didier that we must catch a train back to Paris. Though he seems mildly disappointed that we must depart so abruptly, he happily arranges our taxi service to the train station. While we wait I request to purchase a bottle of the 2002 Special Club Brut, and as I attempt to pay him he dismisses my gesture with a wave of his hand.<br />
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“A gift, to thank you for selling my wine” he says, smilingly.<br />
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On the way to the station I reflect on this leg of the journey, concluding that I now feel more connected to the wines that I have been drinking for such a long time. It all started about 12 years ago, while I was living in Chicago, on a massive shopping spree for booze with a few of my friends who worked as sommeliers. While passing through the Champagne section, I picked up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Gold Label, prompting instruction from one of my friends to “Put that shit back.” I was informed of an importer named Terry Theise, who was bringing in Champagnes that were made like “real wine,” and advised to look for his name on the back label to insure a proper drinking experience. I still follow that advice to this day..<br />
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Here are the reasons, according to Theise, why you should put down the generic Ca-Ca and start slamming "farmer-fizz:"<br />
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<i>You should drink grower Champagne if you’ve forgotten that Champagne is WINE.<br />
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You should drink “farmer-fizz” if you’d rather buy Champagne from a farmer than a factory.<br />
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You should drink it if you’d rather have a wine expressive of vineyard, and the grower’s own connection to vineyard, than a wine “formed” by a marketing swami who’s studied in the nth-degree what you can be persuaded to “consume.” Do you really want to be reduced to a mere “consumer” when you can drink Champagne like a whole human being?<br />
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You should drink grower Champagne if the individually distinctive flavors of terroir-driven wines matter more than the lowest-common denominator pap served up by the mega conglomerates in the “luxury goods business.”<br />
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You should drink it because it’s price is honestly based on what is costs to produce, not manipulated to account for massive PR and ad budgets, or to hold on to market-share.<br />
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If you’d rather eat a local field-ripened summer tomato rapturous with sweetness instead of some hard as a stone January tomato you buy at the supermarket and tastes of nothing, than you should be drinking farmer-fizz!<br />
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Back at the Epernay train station, Joel repeatedly marches us up and down several flights of stairs, claiming the whole time that he knows "where the fuck we are supposed to get our train." By the time we reach the correct platform, I'm sweating and feeling as if I'm "on the threshold of Hell." In my defense, we <i>have</i> accumulated a fair amount of Champagne, adding greatly to the weight of our baggage, not to mention forcing me to question the wisdom of packing so many goddamn pairs of shoes. Once we are boarded, the “Tranny Boss” passes out immediately, leaving me to focus on my breathing and resist the urge to “lighten our load” by drinking one of the many bottles that we have in tow. <br />
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After returning to Paris, we cab it across town to Montparnasse station, where we will catch a train west to the city of Tours, our destination for the next two evenings. While approaching the bathroom at the station, I find it odd that each restroom-goer seems to be checking in with an attendant, a very assertive black woman in her late 40’s, on the way in. Of course, I think nothing of it and strut right on by, to which I am greeted with a very loud and abrasive “MONSIEUR!?” As I turn to face her, the attendant points to a pile of coins in front of her, implying that I must pay to relieve myself. Though this concept is foreign to me, I think nothing of it, pay the 50 cents, and leave. On my way out, I also think nothing of turning and snapping a picture of the line heading in towards the attendant, to illustrate how i'd added "a 50 cent piss" to my ever growing list of life experiences.<br />
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About a split second after doing this, I am also able to add "have crazy bathroom attendant flip the fuck out on you" to that same list. She points at me in an accusatory fashion, as If I'd snuck in and photographed someone's genitalia, though all I actually did was take a photo of the bathroom from 50 feet away. After being embarrassed, not to mention startled so the shot was completely ruined, I am left with no option but to laugh in the attendant's face while slipping my camera into a front pocket. She appears confused, but calms down and business resumes as usual, until I see a security guard coming my way. "Unfuckingbelievable," I mumble to myself as I prepare to somehow explain in English about how amusing I find their "pay-to-pee" system. The guard, however, walks right past me and gets in line to use the water closet like everyone else. I struggle with the urge to take a photo of him, but finally discourage this action based on the fact that my initial shot of the bathroom attendant had been ruined, thereby negating the importance of the second picture. <br />
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All of this criminal activity has left me completely famished, so we settle down for lunch in a random cafe at the station. We are seated in booths fashioned out of bright orange plastic, while being waited on by a goofy, yet efficient man who ever so slightly resembles Ted Nugent. My ham steak with Madeira sauce is decent, served atop a mountain of fries. Joel’s “pot pie with duck,” however, is pretty fantastic. This asshole has out-ordered me twice in a row now, and I secretly vow, while choking down two insanely skunky Heinekens, to step up my game.<br />
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Before boarding our train, I notice a kiosk hawking "Zuma Juice." Further investigation reveals the French version of "Jamba Juice," and I am immediately drawn to what appears to be a drink custom designed for the two of us, called "Detoxe." This concoction of mostly ginger, apple, and cucumber is both satisfying and refreshing, and after taking down one of the "Mega" sizes, in practically one gulp, my stomach is settled and prepared for the long journey that lay ahead. <br />
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The beautiful farmhouses and rolling hills of the French countryside lull me into a very pleasant, though brief, slumber on the lightning fast train ride to Tours.<br />
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Upon arrival, we lug our heavy bags towards what we perceive to be the taxi stand before agreeing to take turns using the restroom, not knowing that said restroom doesn't actually exist within the train station. This aggravating little detail is coupled with the frustration of not being able to figure out where the frigg we are actually supposed to stand to hail one of the infrequent-at-best cabs. Joel fights the urge to use the bathroom at a nearby McDonald's, saying that he vowed not to set foot in anyplace like that during the entire trip. Strong values do nothing to improve his condition, however, and by the time we get a cab fifteen minutes later he looks to be in a fair amount of discomfort. When I inform the driver of our hotel's address, he needs to consult a map - not a good sign.<br />
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<i>At this time I would like to explain how the fuck this all happened. About a week prior to the trip, I finally received confirmation for our appointments at wineries in both Saumur and Vouvray. I was aware that the city of Tours would be a perfect base of operations to access vineyards all over the Loire Valley, but wanted to be sure of our plans before booking a hotel.<br />
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My first choice, the Hotel L’Universe, is randomly booked solid for both nights that I request on the website. Further online searching reveals limited options, so I settle on the Etap hotel, based on it’s consistently five star ratings on Trip Advisor, and that the pictures make it look modern and clean. According to the website, our room is “perfect for three people,” featuring “two and a half beds.” Unlike the rest of our lodging choices, it is very reasonably priced, which I’ll admit made me a little nervous, but who knows? Maybe I’d stumbled on to a hidden gem!<br />
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After about ten minutes in the taxi, it becomes glaringly apparent that we are heading towards the outskirts of the city. Seven minutes later, we find ourselves in “North Tours,” which is not unlike the Maine Mall area. We pass a few car dealerships and a Kentucky Fried Chicken before arriving at the Etap, a seemingly ideal venue for a motivational business seminar. <br />
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Check-in confirms my suspicions about the Etap, or as it would be referred to from this point on, IKEA. Upon seeing our quarters, I begin to question the array of substances being abused by whoever coined the phrase “perfect for three people.” The "half bed" is actually a fucking bunk bed, and the decor very much resembles what I imagine a Swedish prison to be like.<br />
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Due to being on the verge of bladder explosion, Joel says very little until he is given the opportunity to use the magic water closet. Once he is back to normal, it takes us each about 3 minutes to decide that IKEA will become our storage unit for the evening, and begin searching for a more comfortable spot to lay our heads in downtown Tours. <br />
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After I damage the arches of my feet attempting to climb into the bunk bed for a photo op, we pack up, bid adieu to IKEA, and cab it back downtown. Upon seeing our new digs, the Hotel Mondial, our decision to get a second room is immediately justified. <br />
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Boasting a much better location and no sign of any furnishings from the Fjellse or Leirvik series, the Mondial is much more conducive to what we're trying to accomplish in Tours. The concierge is quite helpful, and not only does he give us several recommendations for dinner, but also prompts Joel and I to ask the age-old question, "Gay or European?"<br />
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After getting settled for the second time today, we head out to get the lay of the land. My advice to anyone planning on traveling in France: don't assume that anything will be open between two and five in the afternoon. This is an ideal time for you to catch up on sleep, make expensive phone calls, raid the mini-bar, or play Angry Birds. We roam around for a couple of hours, before I deem it necessary to balance out the exercise with alcohol.<br />
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Because we’ve still got about an hour before anything opens for dinner, we duck into a small bar to kill some time. I fire up a couple of large Kronenbourgs, despite the fact that, for a small neighborhood establishment, they have a fairly extensive selection of wines from the Loire Valley. The place is empty, save for a single, crazy looking old man hunched over his beer. After finishing our drinks, Joel steps outside to make a phone call while I settle the tab. <br />
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The man, motionless until this moment, perks up when he hears the rustling of cash in my pocket. I’ve recently been to the ATM, and he glances at me just as I pull out a sizeable stack of euros. I see his eyes widen, and he looks me up and down a couple of times, but then faces back to his beer with a defeated look in his eyes. I can only assume that he was thinking “Man, if this were twenty years ago I’d have beaten this fat fuck within an inch of his life and spent all of that money in a whorehouse.”<br />
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After crushing the spirit of an already broken eighty year-old man, I feel much better about myself and realize, with great excitement, that it is finally time for dinner. The concierge’s first recommendation is closed for a staff party, so we hoof it across town to Le Turon, a tiny bistro nestled in an alley teeming with bars and restaurants. The dining room is quite busy, a good sign, though we are able to get a table without much of a wait.<br />
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The first order of business is an ice-cold bottle of Alexander Monmousseau Vouvray “Turonien,” a crisp and refreshing white produced about forty five minutes away. Our server, a very tall and pretty blonde woman in her early thirties, appears to, as Joel points out when she leaves the table, be instantly enamored with me. My first thought in response to this is, “Yes – I am both exotic and pleasing to these people,” though the more realistic response would be that my enthusiasm with the food and booze are probably a little contagious. <br />
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Only a complete shithead wouldn't be enthusiastic about my first course, soft poached eggs with slabs of foie gras, served over crusty baguette. I’m confident that no explanation is necessary for you to imagine how good this is. Joel starts with a salad, topped with chicken gizzards and smoked duck. It would appear that our Euro/Gay concierge knows what he is talking about...<br />
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The Vouvray is almost kicked, so a bottle of Chateau de La Grille Chinon Reserve strikes me as a reasonable transition. This excites the pretty server, whom we now find out is the bistro’s owner, and while pouring the wine she goes on about her love of Cabernet Franc – almost to the point where I start expecting her to hug me. I look across the table and Joel is making a look that implies “I don’t know what you’ve done, but she LOVES you.”<br />
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There’s nothing not to love about the next course, a salad with thick, smoky slices of bacon and crispy parcels of creamy goat cheese, or as the menu translates into English, “crusty farm goat cheese.” Shortly after, While making my way towards the restroom, I am flagged down by the pretty owner, who inquires if I’m enjoying everything thus far. Robbed of my ability to properly communicate, I express my enthusiasm with a simple “tres bien,” but I also throw a “fuckin” in there, just for good measure. It turns out that she can speak a fair amount of English, though she claims that I talk “much too fast” for her to properly understand. I introduce myself, and when she tells me her name I hear the word “kirsch.” In an effort to get it right rather than just mumbling what I thought I’d heard back at her, I ask how her name is spelled, to which she replies “C-T-S-R-K.” Not wanting to cause any more confusion, I nod as if this word makes a lick of fucking sense, thank her, and return to the table. I inform Joel of what has just taken place, and we decide that nicknaming her "Ke$ha" will keep things simple for everyone.<br />
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Joel’s “seven hour lamb” entree is, without a doubt, the most tender and delicious lamb I’ve ever tasted, and it melts away at the touch of a fork. My duck breast with figs is also outstanding, but the lamb is simply unforgettable. Each is served with a side of potatoes and carrots, seasoned perfectly with a strong flavor of cumin. Both entrees elevate the flavor of the wine and vice versa. <br />
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Dessert happens in three stages for me, the first being a glass of Vouvray Moelleux, one of the sweeter incarnations of the Chenin Blanc grape. This is followed by apple crumble with salted caramel butter ice cream, whereas Joel opts for the pear tart. I find yet another amusing English translation on the dessert menu, when they refer to the creme brulée as “burned cream with flavors of the moment.”<br />
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Though they don't stock any Absinthe, Ke$ha informs me that they <i>do</i> have a large selection of Armagnac. I put my fate in her hands, and, as expected, I am not disappointed. While Joel goes outside to smoke, I sip my Armagnac and chat with her again, this time explaining that I work in the wine business, and that tomorrow we will be visiting wineries in Saumur. This gets lost in translation, and somehow she hears “I’d like to come back again for dinner tomorrow night,” to which she excitedly nods her head and asks what time I will be in. I decide to roll with it and tell her that nine O' clock will be perfect. She promises that when we return, she will have procured a bottle of Absinthe for me to drink and keep for myself. When Joel returns I explain to him that we will, in fact, be returning for dinner tomorrow night. We jokingly refer to Le Turon as “Our Place."<br />
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We thank Ke$ha and head out in search of more drinks, but it appears that the entire city is getting ready to shut down, despite the fact that it is only midnight. Within fifteen minutes, everything has gone dark around us. I’m getting used to this by now, so we shrug it off, take a few more obligatory church pictures, and head back to the hotel. <br />
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Once again, France does the work of regulating my consumption for me, and once again I have to admit it’s not so bad. Tomorrow we go to the wine-growing region of Saumur, followed by another night in Tours. I must not underestimate the importance of sleep..<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X9cdBjBZRzo/TiJO3CrSjDI/AAAAAAAABoU/F7ks1MNb-YA/s1600/IMG_0381.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X9cdBjBZRzo/TiJO3CrSjDI/AAAAAAAABoU/F7ks1MNb-YA/s320/IMG_0381.jpg" /></a></div>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-3054424216465274872011-07-03T11:30:00.000-07:002011-07-06T12:39:29.589-07:00Paris Food Coma Part 2 - More of a Champagne Coma, Actually<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--NgcG218idA/Tg_Wqhz4ksI/AAAAAAAABg0/V0H7nIglslk/s1600/BigSmall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--NgcG218idA/Tg_Wqhz4ksI/AAAAAAAABg0/V0H7nIglslk/s320/BigSmall.JPG" /></a></div>Armed with a full six hours of sleep, we are ready to make day two our helpless little bitch. There’s even a little bit of Champagne left in the bottle, and I happily pour myself a glass in lieu of coffee. After all, today's destination is the small township of Ay, located in the grape growing region of Champagne, a little more than an hour to the northeast by train.<br />
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Upon arrival to the train station, we encounter credit card trouble while attempting to acquire our boarding passes electronically. Apparently, all European credit cards have a small gold chip on the front of them that are required for any kind of automated system. Also, many retail stores will not accept cards without the chip either. Sans chip, we are forced to wait in line for tickets. Actually, Joel waits in line, as I have promoted him to the position of “Minister of Transportation,” or as it came to be known, the “Tranny Boss.”<br />
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Due to the highly irritating pace of the ticket line, I am only able to quickly shovel a pain du chocolat into my mouth before boarding the train to Epernay, one of the larger towns in Champagne. From there we will cab it to Ay, about fifteen minutes away. Once aboard the train, we find ourselves seated next to a cabin full of what sounds like thirteen year old French girls, singing along (in English) to what may have been Britney Spears or possibly Fergie. They are doing this at a volume that is generally found unacceptable in society. I take deep breaths and remind myself that the best move here is to put my headphones on and refrain from angrily bursting into the neighboring cabin and causing a very uncomfortable scene with these little bastards. Just let it go, and it will all be over...presently. <br />
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Upon arrival in Epernay we are able to stumble through enough French to convince a cab driver who was busy picking someone else up, to call us another car. On the ride to our hotel, I inform Joel of my plan to break out “Cajun Willy,” my wildly obnoxious alter-ego from Louisiana, at some point in the near future. He gives me a look and a nod, implying that “If Cajun Willy makes an appearance I will pretend that I do not know you and walk away very quickly, leaving you for dead.”<br />
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As we enter the township of Ay, all I can think of is the Pearl Jam song <i>Elderly woman behind the counter in a small town.</i> As this particular Monday is a holiday, there is a feeling of tranquility in the air that implies to me that "nothing is going to be open." We arrive at the Hotel Castel Jeanson, a gorgeous old house that, according to the hotel’s info pamphlet, used to belong to “regional famous families.”<br />
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As the "Minister of Lodging," I make the executive decision to upgrade to a suite. The hotel manager, who is quite friendly,explains the lay of the land and gives us directions to the wineries we are visiting. As we head upstairs to the suite, we pass by the "salon," perfect for, according to info pamphlet, “reading books, having peaceful times, and tasting a glass of Champagne.” Little did I know that this is to be a sign of things to come.<br />
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I immediately run into technical difficulties while trying to operate the key to my room, and ask for assistance from the friendly manager who, in addition to being so friendly, slides the key in and opens the door without any effort at all. Now that I’ve properly identified myself as a helpless American (though in my defense I will say that Joel couldn't get it to work either), it’s time to investigate the suite.<br />
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The room is easily the most spacious of any we would stay in on the trip. It is like a small apartment, with a full living room, bedroom, and bathroom equipped with a large tub, two sinks, and separate shower and toilet rooms. The minibar is stocked with Champagne from Goutorbe, a local winery who also happen to own the hotel. <br />
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I have made appointments with two wineries that I represent in Maine. These are both small houses that fall under the category of <i>Grower Champagne.</i><br />
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What does that mean?<br />
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The big houses, such as Veuve Clicquot, often buy their grapes from many vineyards throughout the growing region, or <i>AOC</i>, to make their wines. They are blended together in a very consistent manor from year to year and are produced, and consumed, in very large quantities. In his book <i>The New France</i>, Andrew Jefford discusses the reasons why the Champagne region finds itself in something of a conundrum going into the twenty first century:<br />
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<i>“It’s wine is one of the most successful processed agricultural products in human history. It is prized worldwide, and intimately associated with luxury and wealth. The average price of a bottle of branded, non-vintage Champagne is, to be frank, several times more than a wine of it’s sometimes modest concentration (made from France’s highest yielding AOC vines) should cost. It is able to command these exorbitant prices because it has built an impregnable image over the last 150 years, and because (thanks to its climate and soils) at present has no rival on Earth for piercing and disarming finesse. Champagne is France’s only region of strong brands; Champagne is France’s only region of monolithic, consumer-friendly simplicity. We are prepared to pay that much for Champagne not because it is worth it, but because there is no functional alternative and that is what the experience of drinking it costs.”<br />
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What this means is that many of the famous Champagne houses that everyone associates with "being successful", from Louis Roederer to Moët et Chandon, are basically resting on their laurels. They do this armed with the knowledge that you, the consumer, will purchase their brands regardless of the quality of the wine in the bottle.<br />
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This is where the grower producers come in, producing what Champagne guru Terry Theise lilkes to call “Farmer Fizz.” These guys are growing their own grapes, and making wine with an emphasis on terroir, a term the French use to identify flavors of a specific place. They have a much smaller yield than the big guys, and produce Champagne that is, in my humble opinion, far superior and much more interesting than bottles from big name producers that fetch quadruple the prices.<br />
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The first producer we are scheduled to visit is Rene Geoffroy, but we’ve got about an hour and half to kill before we need to be there. The winery is holding a yearly event called <i>picnique</i>, where the locals show up with hunks of raw meat to throw on the grill, while drinking away the afternoon. Of course, since it’s a fucking holiday, the butcher shop in Ay, which looks amazing from the outside, is closed. To be on the safe side, we decide to eat a "light lunch," just in case there is a meat shortage at Geoffroy.<br />
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After wandering around for thirty minutes, we settle, based on the fact that they are the only place that appears to be open, on a small corner bistro. Our limited grasp of the French language tends to cause more confusion in such a small town, but we are eventually able to express that we’d like to have lunch – even though we understood that everyone else in the town had already finished theirs and are probably taking a fucking nap.<br />
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I’m outrageously hungry by now, so I glance at the menu and, seeing andouillette, order it on the assumption that it’s most likely some kind of sausage. The waitress seems quite pleased with my decision. We order the house Champagne, and as I’m finishing my first glass my memory suddenly jogs, forcing me to recall that andouillette involves some kind of offal, though I can’t remember which. <br />
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My meal arrives, a plump sausage atop fries and the stereotypical French green salad. It definitely has a barnyard stink to it, that I don't normally mind, and upon breaking the casing with my fork tripe bursts out everywhere, much like a spring-loaded gag can of nuts. I love tripe, so I dig in hungrily, but this stuff turns out to be abnormally gamey, and a very difficult for me on an empty stomach. Joel is having a much better time with his spicy merguez sausage, and I struggle through a couple more bites of mine before surrendering, lesson learned, to the fries and salad. Joel tries a bite of the tripe orgy and agrees that yes, it’s a little on the rugged side.<br />
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I do what is, in my mind, a reasonable job of pushing everything around on my plate as not to offend the waitress when she shows up to clear them. I slug my second glass of bubbles and we head out to our appointment, about a ten minute walk away. En route we pass several Champagne houses, from Bollinger to Deutz, all very close together within the town. The vineyards themselves encompass the township, with small plots all owned by different producers. <br />
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There is a large tent set up in the courtyard at Rene Geoffroy, with several picnic tables full of people eating and laughing. We are welcomed at the door by Renault, a jovial man who looks to be in his late fifties, and when I explain that the holiday has prevented us from showing up with any meat, he laughs and waves his hand to imply that this won't be a problem.<br />
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He escorts us to a table situated away the tent, where there is a full lineup of Champagne. We taste through them all, while getting to know each other and establishing my role in selling the wines back home. We are greeted by the winemaker, Jean Baptiste Geoffroy, who has taken the reins from his father, Rene (in his mid-seventies and also in attendance). He thanks us for coming all this way, and encourages us to eat and drink our fill, in addition to inviting us on a tour of the vineyards later. <br />
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As you may or may not know, Champagne can only be made out of three grapes - Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Meunier. It can be a single varietal or a combination of the three, but only these three. A wine made up of exclusively Chardonnay is called a <i>blanc de blanc</i>, and if it is only Pinot Noir, Pinot Meunier, or a combination of the two, it is called <i>blanc de noir</i>. Geoffroy favors Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier grapes from the vineyard site of Cumieres, whose rugged terroir gives Jean Baptiste's wines their distinct flavor profile.<br />
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As we continue to drain glass after glass, Renault informs us that there is "great news." Apparently, they have plenty of meat for us, provided that we like a local specialty called andouillette. I politely attempt to explain that I generally enjoy tripe but am not a huge fan of this particular food, but it seems to get lost in translation, and Renault interprets this as "My pussy hurts." <br />
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I immediately regret not just going with the flow, as Renault laughingly conveys the message about the state of my vagina to the men working the grill. In an effort to repair the damage that had been done, I insist that they pile it onto my plate, attempting to explain, without success, that I'd had some earlier that had been fucking disgusting but i'd love to put this in my mouth again. They appear pleased with my decision to conform, and we are seated with Renault and Jean Baptiste's family, at a separate table away from the others. We are immediately handed down bowl after bowl of different side dishes, and two bottles are placed in front of us, one of bubbly and the other a still wine made from Pinot Noir, produced in very small batches and mostly consumed locally. The still wine actually pairs up quite well with the andouillette, which is much tastier this time around. Still, Joel and I agree that it isn't something we'd ever order again on our own. Upon doing a little research later, It turns out that the sausage is made with <i>pork</i> tripe instead of <i>beef</i>, which explains the unusual flavor.<br />
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After we've had our fill, several local cheeses are passed around, as well as more bottles of Champagne. I feel a little funny getting all bent out of shape about Brie, but holy shit, this was the best goddamn Brie I've ever tasted. It is delightfully rich and creamy, with intense flavors of white truffle. I slather an enormous amount on some baguette and go to town, washing it down with vintage bubbly. Life is good. <br />
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Renault is pleased that both Joel and I have finished our tripey goodness, and offers to give us a tour of the wine cave below. We descend into an ancient and cavernous cellar, passing rack after rack of bottles resting quietly. There are cube shape machines that turn the bottles a specific number of times per day, a task that used to be done by hand. The only exception to this is the rose, which, due to the shape of it’s bottle, is still dealt with the old-fashioned way. <br />
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We move into a large corridor, that for some reason reminds me of the old sewer system that Dan Akroyd gets lowered into in Ghostbusters 2, where 60,000 bottles rest on their sides. I tell Renault that I could easily drink all of them in a years time, to which he promises me the entire stock for free if I were to achieve this feat. I break out the iPhone calculator, and it turns out that I'd only need to drink 164 bottles a day. I tell Renault to arrange shipping and I'd take care of the rest.<br />
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After finishing our tour of the caverns, we ascend and return to the fray, where we enjoy a glass of wine with the winery's founder, Rene Geoffroy. It's safe to say that Joel and I are a little bit "lit up" around now, and after a few more glasses Renault informs us that the tour of the vineyards is getting underway. It appears that the whole group is coming along for the "walk," but Renault informs us that he is going to sit this one out. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6m7C-bLkrrA/Tg_YlrgYzXI/AAAAAAAABhk/lMecSVKlpRs/s1600/Rene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6m7C-bLkrrA/Tg_YlrgYzXI/AAAAAAAABhk/lMecSVKlpRs/s320/Rene.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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What ensues is a three mile excursion, that is both breathtaking and fucking exhausting, through the vineyards and hills of Champagne. This is all fine and great, but honestly If we had any idea that "tour of the vineyards" meant "fitness quest," than we may have taken it a little bit easier on the booze prior to departure. Actually, maybe Joel would have, but probably not me.<br />
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After about forty five minutes, my choice of footwear becomes problematic. Apparently, nori-green Gucci ankle boots are a very poor choice for hiking. To remedy this in my mind, I envision myself as the banker from the popular 80's video game, <i>Oregon Trail</i>. <br />
"The banker wouldn't know any better, and would have encountered the same kind of difficulty walking on rocky hills with leather soles that were clearly designed with restaurant floors as the preferred terrain."<br />
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After sweating out a large portion of the alcohol we have consumed, we reach the highest point of the vineyards and are presented with, surprise surprise, more Champagne. We attempt to chat with Eduardo, a very serious man who manages the vineyards for Jean Baptiste, but due to limited English this doesn't go very far. Standing on the hill and looking out over the vineyards to the town, accompanied by a cool breeze and glass of sparkling wine, is a rewarding and quite unforgettable experience.<br />
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There is still about an hour to go before arriving back in town, and I take advantage of this opportunity to chat for awhile with Jean Baptiste. We discuss many things, from his experiences with Terry Theise to his opinions on past vintages. He speaks of how his wines differ stylistically from those of this father, as does his level of involvement with the entire winemaking process. He points out which vineyards belong to who, all very small plots, and explains the characteristics of the terroir. It becomes apparent to me why the French don't actually have a word for "winemaker," but rather refer to them as <i>vigneron</i>, which means "wine helper." This is because they believe that mother nature truly does most of the work, and we are here to assist her in creating wines that taste of where they come from.<br />
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The differences between large and small Champagne houses is fairly vast, with Moet et Chandon, the region's largest producer, putting out 2,000,000 cases annually whereas Geoffroy comes in at merely 10,000. It's fairly obvious to me as to why you would seek these smaller producers out, here are a few of my personal favorites:<br />
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<center><i>Jacques Selosse<br />
Pierre Gimmonet<br />
Egly-Ouriet<br />
Rene Geoffroy<br />
Larmandier-Bernier<br />
Henri Billiot<br />
Vilmart & Cie<br />
Aubry Fils.<br />
</i></center><br />
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When we arrive back at the winery, we help ourselves to more cheese and bubbles before purchasing several bottles of wine, thanking Jean-Baptiste, and making our way back to the hotel. On the way, Joel makes ambitious plans to "take a nap, go swimming in the pool, read for awhile in the bathtub, go to dinner, and probably have more Champagne." <br />
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The nap goes according to schedule, but it turns out the pool is closed, throwing Joel's personal goals into a tailspin. Upon stepping out into the streets of Ay in search of dinner, it becomes painfully apparent that the entire town is closed for business. Every residence, every storefront, and even the front desk of our hotel have been locked up and abandoned. Apparently, people take their holidays quite seriously here. We walk around in the dead silence for about half an hour, take a few obligatory "church pictures", and inevitably arrive at the painful conclusion that food just wasn't going to fucking happen. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SfCY8PRIO2I/Tg_cncyUbmI/AAAAAAAABjk/6WFfkfrHeY8/s1600/AyChurch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SfCY8PRIO2I/Tg_cncyUbmI/AAAAAAAABjk/6WFfkfrHeY8/s320/AyChurch.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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This is actually a little bit surreal, as I can’t actually recall a time in my life when acquiring food was actually impossible. In most circumstances, one can at least call a taxi and go to a 7-11 or Cumberland Farms to get something, but in this case, it's a no-go. Our only option for dinner appears to be two bottles of Champagne, a Geoffroy Rose and a Goutorbe Brut, and two tabs of Prilosec - for heartburn. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZEOcBhi1V9M/Tg_dBtlrI8I/AAAAAAAABj0/_4pXvLKUezU/s1600/Dinner.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZEOcBhi1V9M/Tg_dBtlrI8I/AAAAAAAABj0/_4pXvLKUezU/s320/Dinner.JPG" /></a></div><br />
The prophecy of the hotel’s information pamphlet comes to life as we sit and read quietly while drinking Champagne. I actually find it fairly amusing to be forced to go without, but it definitely sucked that one of the last things I did eat was the stinky andouillette. Joel, after succumbing to a brutal case of hiccups, surrenders all of the wine to me and focuses on drinking water. He proceeds to actually read a Star Magazine in it's entirety, from cover to cover, a feat that we both agree is pretty impressive. Even after both bottles, I still have trouble sleeping - getting about an hour and a half of sleep before waking up and counting the minutes until 6:00, when I would strike out in search of a bakery. The town is still deathly silent, and each of my footfalls echoes up and down the street. Upon reaching the square, I am pleasantly surprised to find a single bakery open for business, and I rush in to purchase several pastries and five bottles of water. I inhale a croissant on the walk home, which is perfect to tide me over until the hotel begins serving breakfast at 7:15.<br />
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When I arrive back at the suite, Joel is still sleeping so I head down to breakfast solo. I'm very tired, so it takes me a moment of staring at the buffet to register what the hell I want to eat. After filling a plate with various meats and cheeses, I put a piece of bread in the toaster and begin to eyeball the “boil your own egg” station, contemplating whether or not I feel like dealing with this endeavor. I decide that an egg would be delightful on my toast, and proceed to load up the little baskets and submerge two into the water, while setting a timer. The helpful and patient hotel manager materializes, and quickly takes notice of the fact that I’m using the “egg cooker” before the water is actually ready yet. Because she is already familiar with the kind of trouble simple tools like keys and doors present to me, she explains that “letting the water boil and then leaving the eggs in for a little while” will achieve optimum results.<br />
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After my eggs are cooked, and I've carefully peeled them over the course of ten minutes, I consider my options. Because the only other patrons in the dining room are an elderly couple in the corner, who seem completely oblivious to my presence, I construct an egg, mortadella, and boursin sandwich on toast, and wolf it down before the manager witnesses my painfully American creation. I justify my actions with the knowledge that it may be awhile before I’ll be able to track down another breakfast sandwich. <br />
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When I return to the suite, Joel is readying himself for breakfast. I begin to explain the process of using the hard-boiled egg cooker, but he has already had some of the pastries I brought back and just wants coffee. While we are checking out an hour later, The owner of the hotel, who also owns Goutorbe, introduces herself to me. We chat briefly, and upon discovering that I’m in the wine business she comps our breakfast. I attempt to explain the rest of our travel itinerary, but trying to explain that we are going to "Hellfest" begins to confuse her, so I thank her and we are on our way.<br />
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We have one more appointment in Champagne, at Pierre Gimmonet, before beginning out journey to the city of Tours. Dinner will not be skipped a second time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s6qE3ihuvzs/Tg_dm-sqmrI/AAAAAAAABkM/XAClbuXj384/s1600/JoelChurch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s6qE3ihuvzs/Tg_dm-sqmrI/AAAAAAAABkM/XAClbuXj384/s320/JoelChurch.JPG" /></a></div>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-13553878566249492432011-06-27T20:27:00.000-07:002011-07-04T12:05:43.209-07:00Paris Food Coma: Part One<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zFfuv-ZCd8Q/TglKp-3tdpI/AAAAAAAABa0/82lMrQkY8KU/s1600/JoeJoel.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zFfuv-ZCd8Q/TglKp-3tdpI/AAAAAAAABa0/82lMrQkY8KU/s320/JoeJoel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623107694860531346" /></a><br />
As I sat in front of my computer drunkenly listening to the Opeth, a Swedish band that could be described as the "Pink Floyd of Death Metal," on a random evening in July of 2010, I became curious if they were going to be on tour anytime in the near future. The band’s website showed a single date, in Clisson, France, in June 2011. Further investigation revealed that this was part of a three day festival called “Hellfest,” featuring 114 bands including Ozzy Osbourne, Judas Priest, The Cult, Iggy Pop, Mayhem, Rob Zombie, and many others. <br />
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The gears start turning in my head and I phone my friend Joel, also a big fan of Opeth, with the assumption that if anyone would be up for a ridiculous excursion thousands of miles away, it would be him. He agrees without any hesitation whatsoever, and we buy tickets for all three days the minute they go on sale a week later. Now the stage is set to build a vacation around the show, spending time in Paris, hanging out with winemakers in the Loire Valley, all the while eating and drinking as if it were our job. Well, it actually <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> my job.<br />
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Because it was planned so far in advance, I keep assuming that the trip isn't actually going to happen. I continue to expect something to fall through, something to go wrong, and call the entire thing off. Only after actually getting off of the plane, in Paris, did I accept that it was, in fact, officially on. <br />
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When the day of departure finally arrives, it’s a little bit surreal. We decide to take my preferred method of transportation, the Concord Trailways bus, to Boston. It’s always comfortable and one can always rely on being exposed to a horrible movie that, if viewed at home, would be shut off and tossed out the window about five minutes in.<br />
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We toast with a glass of Nieport 10 Year tawny port before Dietz drives us to the bus station. Knowing that I won’t be behind the wheel of an automobile for ten days is comforting, though a little dangerous as having to drive my car is one of the few things that keep me “in line.” <br />
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While we are loading up the car, Joel complains about forgetting to procure any Valium for the flight that lay ahead, grumbling that someone had given him three 1mg tabs of Ativan but that “just wasn’t the same.”<br />
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When we arrive at the bus station, I hit the vending machines to for provisions. In a fit of nostalgia I purchase a bag of Cracker Jacks, which I don’t think I’ve had for over a decade. I may have had Poppycock or other brands of caramel corn, but not Cracker Jacks. Apparently, the CJ people are experiencing hard times because, as a child, I remember the “toy” in the bottom of the box to be far more exciting than a fucking “pencil topper.” This piece of shit, clearly designed by a cheap scumbag, would hardly keep a retarded cat entertained for 15 seconds. <br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y60DLSMVZ0I/TglLTGl3BvI/AAAAAAAABbE/NKNhK0tYm9o/s1600/FCrA8_CrackerJacks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 244px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y60DLSMVZ0I/TglLTGl3BvI/AAAAAAAABbE/NKNhK0tYm9o/s320/FCrA8_CrackerJacks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623108401307780850" /></a><br />
Once we are safely seated on the bus, I try to “re-gift” my new pencil topper to Joel, as a symbol of friendship before we start our epic journey together. He, of course, rejects my offering by throwing it back in my face and putting his headphones on. <br />
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The outrageously awful film for this particular ride would be “Tron: Legacy,” sequel to Disney’s 1982 techno-thriller, “Tron.” This “straight to Concord Trailways” disaster features the return of Jeff Bridges as Kevin Flynn, a rogue programmer who created an alternate dimension where people whittle away their time by indulging in deadly games of disc golf or zipping around on equally deadly motorcycles. I get about fifteen minutes in with audio before I’m forced to remove my headphones and watch the film with no sound, making up my own plot, which I’m confident is infinitely more interesting.<br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UqvveQul5OQ/TglLvcl5BhI/AAAAAAAABbU/nni6yl65d1I/s1600/tron-legacy-jeff-bridges-clu.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 167px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UqvveQul5OQ/TglLvcl5BhI/AAAAAAAABbU/nni6yl65d1I/s400/tron-legacy-jeff-bridges-clu.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623108888249828882" /></a><br />
Upon arrival at Logan we check our bags and proceed to the terminal, assuming we’ll have at least a few options for dinner and drinks. Dietz had mentioned the possibility of a Legal Seafoods, and I figure that Todd English must have an eatery close to every gate at this point. As it turns out, there is only once choice – a sad looking resto-pub called “O’Briens.” <br />
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“Don't get bent out of shape, there's going to be plenty of time for passable food and booze once we’re in France,” I think to myself. Once we are seated, we become foolishly set on drinking red wine when cocktails and beer are clearly the more prudent choice. I order a bottle of Mirassou Pinot Noir, based solely on the fact that, well, looking back I have no idea what the fuck I was thinking.<br />
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According to Mirassou’s website:<br />
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<span style="font-style:italic;">Our Mirassou California Pinot Noir displays fresh fruit flavors of pomegranates, cherries and currants with complementing aromas of strawberries, pomegranates and cherries. This wine is at its best if enjoyed within a year of release, but can age in the bottle for up to three years if carefully cellared.</span><br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R6xQmbNLXK4/TglMxih0xMI/AAAAAAAABbk/AhGapG-RQ0Y/s1600/259563_1995225194692_1065317799_32346706_7725793_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R6xQmbNLXK4/TglMxih0xMI/AAAAAAAABbk/AhGapG-RQ0Y/s320/259563_1995225194692_1065317799_32346706_7725793_o.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623110023714751682" /></a><br />
According to Me:<br />
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<span style="font-style:italic;">This wine displays about as much fresh fruit flavor as a Hall’s Cherry Flavored Coughdrop. It has extremely unpleasant, almost chemically, notes that cause the user to immediately recoil in horror upon tasting. The only reason to “carefully cellar” this abomination for three years would be to avoid having to drink it, praying for an earthquake to strike, knocking over the bottle and destroying it forever.</span><br />
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To pair up with our “wine,” I order Buffalo wings and onion soup (which arrives with what appears to be an egg floating on top but is actually just a strange crouton), while Joel decides on fish and chips. Though the food is not as bad as the “wine,” I begin to realize that if our plane were to crash, this would be my last meal. To put this awful thought out of my head, I order another bottle, this time a cheap but far more palatable Malbec. <br />
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A few beers and a shot of Jack Daniels later, we are ready to board our flight. After a very smooth takeoff, dinner is served. This proves to be one of the better airline meals I’ve had, featuring an appetizer of curried orzo with chicken, followed by beef with mashed potatoes and wild mushrooms. The simple vin de pays Merlot, served in 187ml bottles, tastes like Chateau Lafite-Rothschild compared to the Mirassou from earlier. <br />
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About halfway through the flight, Joel begins acting a little strange and stand-offish. Since I’d never flown with him before, I just assume that this was they way he gets and think nothing of it. Even after six mini bottles of wine, I am unable, as always, to sleep on the plane. At one point I get adventurous out of sheer boredom and try to sneak into business class in the middle of the night, which lasts all of 3 seconds before I am promptly shooed back to my assigned seat.<br />
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By the time we land in Paris, Joel has been knocked out for about 5 hours. After going through customs, he immediately rushes to the bathroom and vomits. It is after this that he informs me of his un-wise decision, being unfamiliar with the potency of the drug, to take all 3 of the Ativan he had brought with him. He claims to only have eaten 2 originally, but apparently the third was occupying a needed compartment in his contact lens case, so, you know. <br />
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Though I’m completely exhausted and still a little bit drunk, I’m in a much better state than “Ativan Beauchamp” to make decisions and get us to our hotel. Luckily, we’d commandeered a Mercedes with an English-speaking driver to meet us at baggage claim, so our exit strategy is already mapped out. To amuse myself on the drive to the hotel, I point out landmarks, such as the Arc de Triomphe, to Joel, just to watch him nod and act like he knows where the fuck he was. Trust me, I was worried about him at one point, but the worst looked to be over and he just needed rest.<br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_K2dVDTUCk4/TglNbA5Cr2I/AAAAAAAABb0/B0wx0uKW9yc/s1600/Triomphe.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_K2dVDTUCk4/TglNbA5Cr2I/AAAAAAAABb0/B0wx0uKW9yc/s320/Triomphe.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623110736239832930" /></a><br />
Of course the Le Bellechasse Saint-Germain, designed by Christian Lacroix, is the only hotel we have booked under Joel’s name. Check-in appears to be going smoothly until I notice Joel, still in a daze, fumbling through his bag, while his passport, which I presume he is searching for, hangs out of his back pocket. Upon pointing this out, check-out proceeds, and we are almost out of the lobby to get some fresh air without further incident when a British girl seated on one of the couches points out how much she likes Joel’s bag, asking where he got it.<br />
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“This bag?” Joel turns to face her, staring her down for what felt like five minutes, “I got this bag in the United States. In Maine. In the United States.” There is yet another uncomfortable pause before I usher him outside, leaving the poor girl freaked out and regretting her curiosity. It was still early and our room wasn’t quite ready yet, so we decide to wander around and get lunch. <br />
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French people love sidewalk cafes, and every city we visit is filled with cookie-cutter brasseries that all seem to have the exact same menu. Personally, I hate eating outside, but Joel was definitely in need of fresh air so I figure it is a better choice. <br />
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Service in France takes some getting used to. In the beginning, usually when you are quite hungry, it takes a long time for anyone to come to your table. When they do, it is to get your drink order, regardless of whether you’re ready to order your entire meal. You can be a pushy American and insist on ordering everything at once if you’d like, but it’s best to just roll with it and learn to be patient (god forbid). <br />
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Once you finally have drinks and order your meal, everything arrives in a perfectly timed, un-rushed, manner. Once finished, you should politely ask for the check rather than assuming it is en route just because the table is cleared. By law, the service charge is automatically added on to every bill, but this shouldn’t stop you from tipping a little more than the locals do, or, in some cases, a lot more. This somehow makes me feel better after being stiffed on the tip by Europeans time and time again in America, knowing that I'm that much more justified to "slap on the auto-gratuity."<br />
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Americans often complain about tipping, claiming that it isn’t their responsibility to pay the servers salary, and that this should fall on the restaurant’s shoulders. I would like to remind these people that in many circumstances, the fact that they are tipping the server is the only reason anyone is even attempting to be cordial and give good service. Without the tip, there is no motivation to put up with your bullshit, so good luck with that...<br />
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The transition into speaking French is a bit of a rough one, but through pointing and nodding we manage to order a bottle of Nicolas Feuillatte brut NV, steak frites (an easy go-to when in doubt), and salade Nicoise. Joel is still in a daze so I end up drinking most of the Champagne myself, and after a passable lunch we walk back towards the hotel. I insist on making a pit stop to purchase more bubbly, this time a bottle of Ruinart Brut NV. <br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yLrqdAsNhOY/TglOMnaJPuI/AAAAAAAABcE/Fkzc70O3b3o/s1600/Forgettable.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yLrqdAsNhOY/TglOMnaJPuI/AAAAAAAABcE/Fkzc70O3b3o/s320/Forgettable.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623111588392812258" /></a><br />
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The room turns out to be quite comfortable, and Joel promptly goes to sleep while I investigate the amenities. The shower is particularly exciting, with water coming at you from three angles all at once. I open the bottle of Champagne and start to unwind and unpack, only to discover that I’d foolishly forgotten to put my bottle of shampoo in a plastic bag. The next 45 minutes are spent rinsing off various toiletries, while attempting to avoid getting soap in my glass of wine. <br />
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Once the shampoo-tastrophe is dealt with, I take a much-needed nap before we head out for dinner. Based on the assumption that I’d be eating nothing but rustic French food for the next week, I’d planned on going to a Vietnamese restaurant called Than Din, known also for it’s extensive selection of Burgundy. Unfortunately, it is closed on Sundays, so we decide to wander around in the rain searching for an alternative, until Joel recalls a recommendation he had received back home.<br />
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It turns out that Le Comptoir, a busy higher-end bistro located in the Hotel Relais Saint Germain, is not far from our hotel. There is a decent sized line going out the door, a good sign, and after about twenty minutes of waiting patiently we are seated at an awkward sidewalk table. As the rain slides down our umbrella and directly on to my back, I start to get a little grumpy but assure myself that I just needed a drink and everything would be fine. <br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5F8lnba2bJ8/TglPdDIGq3I/AAAAAAAABck/Wk17OtMbgPo/s1600/PurSang.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5F8lnba2bJ8/TglPdDIGq3I/AAAAAAAABck/Wk17OtMbgPo/s320/PurSang.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623112970222873458" /></a><br />
After what feels like three hours, but is in fact only ten minutes, our server arrives to take our order. I decide to splurge and fire up a bottle of Didier Dagueneau “Pur Sang,” probably one of the best examples of Pouilly Fume I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting. Sadly, Dagueneau was killed in a plane crash in 2008, so anytime you have the opportunity to drink his wines you should do so, regardless of the price. The best way I can describe Pur Sang would be that it is fairly rich for Sauvignon Blanc, with vivid flavors of limestone and a finish that is somehow both sweet and tart.<br />
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This seems to impress our server because we are immediately offered a much better table located inside the restaurant and out of the rain. Once situated, I am able to focus on my game plan. I order a bottle of Vacqueryras from Chateau Des Tours, one of my favorite producers in the Rhone Valley, to send the message that we intend to do some serious drinking. Neighboring diners become fascinated by us and the amount of wine we begin to amass on our table, and they can't figure out why these two crazy looking, heavily tattooed assholes are getting so much attention. <br />
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My first course is lobster bisque, which would seem like an odd choice after travelling from Maine but sounded really good to me at the time. It is creamy and sweet, with a nice briny flavor from the coral. The only complaint I have is the presence of grape tomatoes, which I personally loathe as a garnish. Why does every restaurant in the world insist on tossing these little fuckers on everything? <br />
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Joel’s chicken terrine with artichoke has a velvety texture and wonderful flavor, which turns out to be spot-on with the Pur Sang. We pour some of the wine for our sever, who fawns over it, proclaiming it to be “perfect.” <br />
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Next up for me is boudin noir, blood sausage, served with béarnaise sauce and an apple salad, something I could be happy eating just about every day of my life. The boudin is perfectly spiced, and damn near perfect alongside the crunchy apples, landing this dish on my “best of” list for the trip. Joel’s salad of haricot verts, artichokes, and foie gras, which in his mind probably sounded like a "healthy choice," seems to me to be fairly similar to his prior course, but is delicious all the same. <br />
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At this point Joel and I discuss, at length, how sad it is that most Americans would find boudin noir to be appalling, but will happily shovel Cooler Ranch Doritos or Chicken McNuggets into their mouth, even though these foods contain ingredients that are far more fucked up than a little pig's blood. These are the same people who can't deal with seeing a fish with it's head on, love their meat well done, only eat chicken breast, and probably plow through tubs of Country Crock Shed's Spread instead of using real butter. <br />
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We switch to the red wine as the main courses arrive, mine being a braised veal dish served over white beans. It is rich and fatty, and reminds me very much of Cassoulet. Joel’s leg of rabbit is cooked perfectly, showcasing the flavor of the animal, and served atop peperonata. Both pair up brilliantly with the flavor profile of the Des Tours, which almost reminds me a little bit of Dr. Pepper, in a good way.<br />
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As we finish our Vacqueyras, our server brings us two glasses of a sweet sparkling wine reminiscent of Lambrusco, on the house. We keep it simple with dessert and order the crème brulée, and the kitchen sends out an additional dessert of Armagnac cream with orange peel, also bruléed, which, looking back, I would have been quite disappointed to miss. <br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a08dmVqTwkM/TglRzKU2uWI/AAAAAAAABd0/yL2WeTz839Y/s1600/Absinthe.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a08dmVqTwkM/TglRzKU2uWI/AAAAAAAABd0/yL2WeTz839Y/s320/Absinthe.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623115549135780194" /></a><br />
A glass of absinthe, prepared in the traditional manner, seals the deal for me, and we depart very happy and very sated. There is something to be said for wandering around Paris in this almost dreamlike state, imagining all of the things that have taken place on these very streets. Due to it being Sunday night, it is strangely quiet, and at one point we are scolded from a random balcony for being too loud. After an hour we end up back at the hotel and order a highly unnecessary bottle of Lanson Champagne from room service. In the morning we leave for the town of Ay, in Champagne, to meet up with a few of the grower producers I represent, so I figure that it's nice to have one last example of a mediocre offering just to prove how much better it can get. <br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ut2Q97cNZLY/TglSBHsXb0I/AAAAAAAABd8/SOZe6nBjfi8/s1600/Paris2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ut2Q97cNZLY/TglSBHsXb0I/AAAAAAAABd8/SOZe6nBjfi8/s320/Paris2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623115788947255106" /></a><br />
<br />
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fkNA7QvM6Zk/TglSN0_e5vI/AAAAAAAABeE/pjL6TSoChB4/s1600/Paris1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fkNA7QvM6Zk/TglSN0_e5vI/AAAAAAAABeE/pjL6TSoChB4/s320/Paris1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623116007265462002" /></a><br />
We have survived the journey and the first day, and have a very full week ahead of us that will range from vineyards and small farms to cities to an outdoor metal festival with 80,000 people in attendance. Hell yeah. <br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5s1nRxBGdxQ/TglSavp59kI/AAAAAAAABeM/PTlnx4_17uk/s1600/Lanson.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5s1nRxBGdxQ/TglSavp59kI/AAAAAAAABeM/PTlnx4_17uk/s320/Lanson.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623116229171082818" /></a>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-8847187179235020222011-05-29T14:02:00.000-07:002011-07-28T18:46:27.280-07:00100 Things a Customer Should Never Do -Part 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9B_B0Cj8XAQ/TeK09cQZtSI/AAAAAAAABaQ/oBq70vUxbys/s1600/IMG_0478.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9B_B0Cj8XAQ/TeK09cQZtSI/AAAAAAAABaQ/oBq70vUxbys/s320/IMG_0478.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612247053307065634" /></a><br />
Well, here it is, a year and a half later - part 2 of <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2009/11/100-things-customer-should-never-do.html">“100 things a restaurant customer should never do"</a>. We covered the basics on 1-50. now we get into more of what I like to call the “insider shit.” These are things that may seem harmless enough at first, but begin to slowly, or rapidly, eat away at restaurant employees over the course of time. Personally, I don’t feel that any of these requests are unreasonable...<br />
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One should never:<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">51. </span><br />
Request a “quiet table” when it’s painfully obvious that one does not exist.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">52.</span> <br />
Assume you can seat yourself before a restaurant is actually open - does any other kind of business let you in early? When you go to the bank, Staples, or the library do they let you just come in an hang out? Employees are busy setting up and trying to enjoy their last few peaceful moments before having to deal with people like you.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">53. </span><br />
Wear an asphyxiating amount of cologne/perfume. It is amusing, however, to know that there’s no way you could possibly complain about how the food tastes if your senses are so dead that you don’t notice how awful you smell.<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">54.</span><br />
Give me nasty looks when I offer you a cocktail and you happen to be pregnant. First of all, I’ve been avoiding having to look at you all that much, and second, a simple “no thank you” would be just fine.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">55.</span><br />
Blankly observe us pouring you water with ice, and then request water without. <br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />
</span>56.<br />
Frantically wave your arms to get attention. Blatantly ignoring people who do this is one of our favorite things to do.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">57.</span><br />
Freely grope and fondle your date at the table. This is behavior for the car, your bedroom, Happy Wheels, or the dumpster outside, but no one wants to see it in here. I think I’m speaking for all of us here.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">58.</span><br />
Make little scrunchy faces of disapproval when you don’t like the idea of something. It’s very unattractive.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">59.</span><br />
When ordering next to nothing, explain to me it’s because you “already ate,” and expect me to not be thinking “then why the fuck are you out to dinner, then?”<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">60.</span><br />
Eat bar garnishes out of the tray as if it were an Mediterranean-style buffet of olives, lemons, and maraschino cherries, all laid out for your pleasure, Baachus. <br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">61.</span><br />
Fold up menus when they clearly should not be folded. If you see a dotted line going up the center with an image of a pair of scissors, then by all means...<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">62.</span><br />
When told that reservations are only available at 6:30, repeatedly ask "what about 7:30? Nothing at 7:30?"<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">63.</span><br />
Ask for an entire rundown of the menu over the phone during service - this is a call to be made during the day.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">64.</span><br />
When told a restaurant is full for the evening and no tables are available, say moronic things like "you should save spots for walk-ins.” Oh we should? I guess you know best!<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">65.</span><br />
Talk about your gluten allergy as if it were a life-threatening shellfish or peanut allergy. It’s not. It causes discomfort, yes, and should be avoided – but stop acting like this is a life or death situation.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">66.</span><br />
Assert to anyone who will listen that because you've been to Japan once, for a week, that you know everything there is to know about their diverse cuisine and customs. Also, I’ll save your friends the trouble and tell you that when you attempt to speak Japanese, it makes Japanese people cringe and die a little on the inside. <br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">67.</span><br />
Assume that because you've read Kitchen Confidential you're somehow "wise to the whole restaurant scene." Please refrain from smilingly knowingly while using terms like “86’ed," "two-top," and “in the weeds.”<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">68.</span><br />
Say things like “What’s fresh here?” as this implies that we serve food that is not fresh. Funny, we’re fresh out of the entire menu though, how bout’ the check!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">69.</span><br />
Post negative reviews on the internet while hiding, in a cowardly fashion, behind the vale of anonymity. <br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />
</span>70.<br />
Steal things, such as salt shakers and votive holders. What? You don't think this happens?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">71.</span><br />
Assume we’re trying to gyp you out of something if we don't bring you a basket of bread right away... Calm it down, little piggy, the “bread basket helpers” are just a little busy right now.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">72.</span><br />
Assume that, although occasionally we can help you out, we are obligated to provide an outlet for you to charge your cell-phone.<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">73.</span><br />
Take what feels like an eternity to order your food, and then become insistent that you’re “trying to catch a movie in 35 minutes.” Looks like you’re going to be late for March of the Penguins IV after all...<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">74.</span><br />
Upon receipt of the “black” coffee you ordered, request cream and sugar. Upon receipt of the cream, insist that you wanted milk.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">75.</span><br />
Upon receipt of your “decaf” coffee, use the line “Are you sure this is decaf? Ok, I want your phone number because if it’s not I’ll be calling you at two in the morning when I can’t sleep!”<br />
You can call me at two in the morning, and I'll show up on your doorstep with a bottle of Don Julio. We're going to wake up your twenty one year old daughter and the three of us will be stay up drinking until you finally get that sleep you've been wanting so bad...<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">76.</span><br />
Be a dining martyr. While ordering your meal go on and on about how you wish you could have certain foods but you can’t, loudly inquiring about the ingredients on everything down to the ice water, so everyone in the restaurant knows about your terrible affliction or personal choices. Trust me - we're all tired of hearing about it. <br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">77.</span><br />
While being led by the hostess through the dining room to your table, decide you’d like to take the seating arrangement into your own hands and stop abruptly at the table you'd prefer. No, nobody wants to tackle you in the middle of the restaurant. No, no one would ever want that, everyone loves you and that shit-eating grin of yours...<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">78.</span><br />
Inquire, after the fact, about whether a tip was “good enough.” If you’re asking, chances are that you know it wasn’t. If you’re going to tip poorly, just do it and own it. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">79.</span><br />
Ask a server how much you should tip them. My standard response? One thousand dollars. Hey, you asked! The only exception to this rule would be if you’re from abroad, and truly have no idea.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">80.</span><br />
Upon sauntering into a restaurant with a full roadie of beer, become belligerent and insist that you’re the one who’s offended by having to take it outside.<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">81.</span><br />
Upon ordering, Provide an unsolicited explanation of what an Arnold Palmer is. This makes me want to substitute grenadine for the lemonade portion of the drink just to make you tell me again. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">82.</span><br />
Act like we’re here to accommodate your wildly disturbing iced tea/diet coke habit, and grow increasingly frustrated when you don’t receive your 12th refill in due time.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">83.</span><br />
Assume that we haven’t already guessed that you’re from “The City.”<br />
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<span style="font-weight:bold;">84.</span><br />
Become bitchy when you receive a stupid answer to a stupid question. Example, “what should I do if my car is at a 15 minute parking meter and I’m here for lunch?” and the answer is “move your car to a meter that isn’t a 15 minute one.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">85.</span><br />
Linger and bottleneck traffic in the dining room while all 15 of you say goodbye to each other.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">86.</span><br />
Ask questions that you don’t want to hear the answer to. Example, “Oh! are we keeping you all here late?” and the answer is “absolutely.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">87.</span><br />
Become belligerent when you’re credit card is declined, or treat us as if we’re ruining your entire dining experience because we don’t take American Express. Or Discover.<br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kvPOO64qXy4/TeK1DWgGLbI/AAAAAAAABaY/xhSQn9BQKD8/s1600/happy%2Bcustomers.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 203px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kvPOO64qXy4/TeK1DWgGLbI/AAAAAAAABaY/xhSQn9BQKD8/s400/happy%2Bcustomers.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612247154841497010" /></a><br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">88.</span><br />
Act surprised and offended that we won’t accept a personal check. Why are you out to dinner with your checkbook anyway?!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">89.</span><br />
Go to a sushi bar, in the current state of affairs, and ask which fish are “radioactive.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">90.</span><br />
Assume that we’re delighted by the fact that your child only seems to know one word and insists on shouting it repeatedly.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">91.</span><br />
Be surprised that I’m surprised that you have successfully made it to what appears to be 45 years of age being as seemingly helpless as you are. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">92.</span><br />
Forget that if you also work in a restaurant and we are aware of this, you need to behave accordingly. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">93.</span><br />
If seated in the lounge, remove shoes and put feet up. No comment really necessary here.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">94.</span><br />
Unless blind, wear sunglasses while dining inside. This is dangerous for two reasons, A. you may not notice a slight step down on the way to the bathroom, causing you to trip and fall or B. You may get the shit kicked out of you on your way to the bathroom. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">95.</span><br />
Leave little passive-aggressive notes scrawled on the check about how service could have been better. Then again, that’s just the way you are, isn’t it?<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />
</span>96.<br />
Become visually appalled by things like head-on shrimp or chicken feet, acting like we’re the ones in the wrong by “showing you things like that.” I know, in your mind, there are fields of chicken breasts and oceans full of fish filets, but welcome back to reality.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">97.</span><br />
If presented with an open kitchen, hover over the chef and question his every move. Yes, we understand that you are fascinated by what he is doing, but what you’re doing is about as annoying as it gets.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">98.</span><br />
Also in the situation of an open kitchen, blatantly ignore your server and try to order items through the chef, thinking this will get you some kind of preferential treatment. It won’t.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">99.</span><br />
Remember that the menu is there for a reason, and “just cook me something, whatever you want!” is not a proper order unless “chef’s choice” is on that menu. The same goes for drinks, “make me something good” does nothing but “make bartenders want to throw ice at you.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight:bold;">100. </span><br />
Request me as a server, as you can clearly see what an asshole I am.<br />
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<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--TmG7D6aeOc/TeK1J0k6C5I/AAAAAAAABag/f0baTJFo4OI/s1600/stacks_image_214-happy-customer-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 313px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--TmG7D6aeOc/TeK1J0k6C5I/AAAAAAAABag/f0baTJFo4OI/s400/stacks_image_214-happy-customer-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612247265993952146" /></a>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-49965345486556501662011-05-18T18:53:00.003-07:002011-05-21T05:59:36.445-07:00Certain Processed Foods Are Not To Be Trifled With...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XYYgr3-uI6c/TdcuxY2wZbI/AAAAAAAABZ4/OsCFOnxsGBU/s1600/800790.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XYYgr3-uI6c/TdcuxY2wZbI/AAAAAAAABZ4/OsCFOnxsGBU/s320/800790.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609003286933824946" /></a><br />There are people out there who would argue that one should avoid processed foods altogether, claiming that you should always know where your dinner comes from. They say that you should strictly eat foods with ingredients that occur in nature, and are “organic,” and prefer to make everything they eat from scratch. <br /><br />Unfortunately for them, certain joys just cannot and should not be attempted to be made at home or even in a restaurant kitchen. One could spend their whole life “chasing the dragon” with these items, at some point possibly producing a replica that is passable at best.<br /><br />Some things, like Kraft Blue Box Mac N’ Cheese for instance, that are delicious and comforting, but better Mac & Cheese can be created from scratch. What follows are the processed foods that are perfect the way they are, and, in my opinion, should under no circumstances be fucked with. <br /><br />We shall begin with the gold standard:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><center>Heinz Ketchup</center></span><br /><br />Ketchup, the original “Sauce American,” is one of my favorite condiments, therefore I insist on Heinz. It is perfectly balanced in flavor and texture, with an intensely satisfying combination of tangy and sweet. People who use Hunt’s brand can often be found drowning in a sea of mediocrity, badly in need of a life preserver but having no idea how to use it were you to throw them one. <br /><br />Users of Annie’s Naturals Organic are comforted by overpaying for inferior products, where as fans of generic crap like President’s Choice are just too stingy to purchase ketchup that they don’t deserve anyway.<br /><br />Lastly, those who attempt “house-made” or “farmhouse” ketchups seem to exist solely to both ruin the French fries that they’ve worked so hard to perfect, and to get me all bent out of shape. You simply can’t achieve the velvety delightfulness of Heinz’s vastly superior product.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><center>Hidden Valley Ranch</center></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_-uw3THSwT4/TdR4im3p0oI/AAAAAAAABYg/nfrsBN4MYQI/s1600/HiddenValleyRanks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_-uw3THSwT4/TdR4im3p0oI/AAAAAAAABYg/nfrsBN4MYQI/s400/HiddenValleyRanks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608239971927970434" /></a><br />Hidden Valley claims that their Ranch dressing is the “only way to get kids to eat their vegetables.” While this is a valid point, these kids also end up looking much like I do–pretty fucking overweight. <br /><br />Though clearly not the healthiest choice of dressing, it is the best Ranch ever, and one should never cheat themselves by purchasing the “lite” or “non-fat versions.” These are still terrible for you but have the extra added bonus of tasting just like shit.<br /><br />I will also add that when it comes to salads, putting ranch on anything but iceberg lettuce is completely ludicrous, as a dressing devoid of nutritional value needs a lettuce that is equally so. While your at it, don’t hold back with the Chatham House butter and garlic croutons, Kraft singles, and Baco’s.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><center>Nabisco Ritz Crackers</center></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j0rce-mz_QU/TdR4rlbfOyI/AAAAAAAABYo/uwfgwZkVTwA/s1600/68ritzcrackers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j0rce-mz_QU/TdR4rlbfOyI/AAAAAAAABYo/uwfgwZkVTwA/s400/68ritzcrackers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608240126160223010" /></a><br />I’ll say it once and I’ll say it again– I’m not happy until the spoon stands straight up in my soup. “Ritz Porridge,” canned Progresso or Campbell’s soup piled up with so many crushed Ritz crackers that it no longer resembles a soup, or even a thick chowder, is like a ghetto-fied polenta of sorts, and I don’t care what you think– it tastes delightful.<br /><br />Even Betty fucking Crocker herself, with help from Little Debbie, Mrs. Field’s, and Mrs. Dash, could never reproduce these ethereal buttery delights out of a non-factory kitchen. So don’t try, just give in to the red and yellow box at the end of the cracker isle.<br /><br />You can be comforted with the knowledge that you never had a choice.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><center>General Mills Cinnamon Toast Crunch Cereal</center></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mMA9UogVKwY/TdR4xC47lgI/AAAAAAAABYw/aAhhpKPAsTI/s1600/cinnamontoastcrunch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mMA9UogVKwY/TdR4xC47lgI/AAAAAAAABYw/aAhhpKPAsTI/s400/cinnamontoastcrunch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608240219967690242" /></a><br />These three chaotic evil magnificent bastard chefs have committed themselves to an eternity of enslaving children like myself with tiny wafers of real cinnamon and sugar, an important part of any balanced breakfast. Day in and day out they practice their dark magic, levitating boxes and luring children in with their siren’s song.<br /><br />Personally, I gave up this breakfast kryptonite a long time ago. I came to the realization that, with no adult supervision to tell me when to stop, the entire box of CTC didn’t stand a chance. Those first few minutes while the cereal is crunchy and reminiscent of real cinnamon toast give way to the pillowy comforts of stage 2, when it softens up and starts to work it’s magic on the milk. <br /><br />Truly the "King of Kid's Cereals," with Honey Combs being a distant second place. Attempt to bake your own and you will be visited in your sleep by the chaotic evil magnificent bastard chefs, who will proceed feed you to Cerberus, the three headed hellhound who has been re-assiogned to guard their bakery.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><center>Pilsbury Crescent Rolls</center><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f4n0hO6c6PI/TdUsKELIPkI/AAAAAAAABY4/fmMBA9d1ICY/s1600/Pillsbury_Crescent_Rolls.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 165px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-f4n0hO6c6PI/TdUsKELIPkI/AAAAAAAABY4/fmMBA9d1ICY/s400/Pillsbury_Crescent_Rolls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608437462390554178" /></a><br />In the film Indiana Jones and Last Crusade, the Holy Grail is said to be found in the Canyon of the Crescent Moon. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that theses flaky, buttery little trollops also claimed origin from that very canyon. Impregnate them with Hillshire Farm’s Lil’ Smokies, and, as the elderly knight would say, “You have chosen...wisely.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_2JyZVMpxa8/TdUs2U25qJI/AAAAAAAABZY/1mmBhxDBkSE/s1600/tumblr_lfja6iSUkI1qbhd4ho1_400.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 202px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_2JyZVMpxa8/TdUs2U25qJI/AAAAAAAABZY/1mmBhxDBkSE/s320/tumblr_lfja6iSUkI1qbhd4ho1_400.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608438222783359122" /></a><br />The undisputed, heavyweight champion of the dinner roll basket, they need no butter to shine but that certainly shouldn’t stop you from slathering an extra 300 calories onto each one. They also make a fine, though blasphemous, wrapper for Peking Duck.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><center>Nestle Drumsticks</center></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--Q1ydfQFU0U/TdUsuYSeMNI/AAAAAAAABZQ/__GaV6yNm3M/s1600/nestle-drumstick-ice-cream-cones-classic-variety-pack-8-4-6-fl.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--Q1ydfQFU0U/TdUsuYSeMNI/AAAAAAAABZQ/__GaV6yNm3M/s320/nestle-drumstick-ice-cream-cones-classic-variety-pack-8-4-6-fl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608438086265352402" /></a><br />When I’ve got a mind-numbing, soul crushing hangover, there’s nothing nearly as delightful as sitting very still and slowly eating a drumstick. My patience is rewarded each time as I get to the chocolatey, chewy and coney bottom, prompting me to tell anyone within earshot about how these little bastards are a fucking godsend. <br /><br />Though they come in several flavors, I prefer the classic vanilla. There are many who would argue that the Chocotaco, actually the best part of the drumstick through and through, is better. Personally, I enjoy working for that last, perfect bite.<br /><br /><center><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ferrero Nutella </span></center><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ozf0LY3k6vg/TdcmbqkqduI/AAAAAAAABZg/qvokYTEM8LI/s1600/nutella.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 273px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ozf0LY3k6vg/TdcmbqkqduI/AAAAAAAABZg/qvokYTEM8LI/s400/nutella.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608994117639632610" /></a><br />All hail the legendary hazelnut spread that, much like Sriracha, goes well on damn near everything and even makes this moronic child seem mildly amusing.<br /><br />Sure, you could make your own, but why? They’ve already done it for you! It’s perfect! Foregoing massive time-wasters like making homemade Nutella allows for more time to watch pornography (preferably with a mouthful of Nutella), season your wok, Zoomba (with a mouthful of Nutella), play Laser Tag, obsess over what a failure you’ve become, challenge friends to a Hypnotiq drinking contest, and maybe get around to directing that snuff film you’ve always wanted to do.<br /><br />I like Nutella. I like it maybe more than a friend.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><center>Frito Lay French Onion Sun Chips</center></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-md1skUP5r3s/TdcmjkcmZwI/AAAAAAAABZo/s61Wyp5K3c0/s1600/Sunchips-French-Onion1.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-md1skUP5r3s/TdcmjkcmZwI/AAAAAAAABZo/s61Wyp5K3c0/s400/Sunchips-French-Onion1.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608994253434152706" /></a><br />Until they introduced their “100% Compostable Bag” they were simply my favorite chips, hands down. Nothing pairs up better with a large pizza and an outrageously expensive bottle of Champagne. <br /><br />Now, avec new bag, they have also become the absolute fucking LOUDEST bag of chips in existence. Every deafening crunch of the packaging prompts yet another person in the room to ask “Is it just me, or is that the loudest fucking bag of chips ever?”<br /><br />I just can’t be sure of the origins of the “once you pop, you can’t stop – bleeding out of your ears” technology developed by the French Onion Sunchip Research Team, but I may venture to say that it’s causing me to lean more and more towards the Cooler (and quieter) Ranch Doritos camp each day...<br /><br /><br /><center><span style="font-weight:bold;">R.I.P. Special Tribute Selection:<br />Nabisco Crown Pilot Crackers</span></center><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BuJLrJSCt7s/TdcnILRccwI/AAAAAAAABZw/H-1vMBH7REE/s1600/crownpilot.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 194px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BuJLrJSCt7s/TdcnILRccwI/AAAAAAAABZw/H-1vMBH7REE/s400/crownpilot.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608994882331636482" /></a><br />The problem with “Nabisco’s Oldest Product” was that it’s fan base generally fell under the umbrella of “New England’s Oldest People.” Sure, there were a few of us who recognized it as what it was , the ultimate chowder cracker, but in the end the ignorance of the rest of the nation left Nabisco with no choice but to stop production on the Crown Pilot cracker..<br /><br />It was like a perfect cross between a Saltine and an Oyster Cracker, and I feel genuinely sorry for the new generation that will never know how much better their bowl of chowder could have been..<br /><br /><center><span style="font-weight:bold;">In Conclusion:</span></center><br /><br />I have chosen to express my views on a topic that i'm confident every single person In the world has an opinion about. Yes, I left out Goldfish, Milano Cookies, Goya Mexican Rice, Near East Rice Pilaf, Oreo Cookies, Twinkies, Cheez-Its, Flintstones Push-Up Pops, Flintstones Vitamins, Cookie Crisp, Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies, Snickers Bars, Take 5 Bars, Peach Flavored Snapple Iced Tea, and Dr. Pepper - but honestly I didn't have all night... and these Colt 45 pounder cans are making me a little woozy..Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-67870542126999406942011-05-13T18:44:00.000-07:002011-05-17T19:45:54.556-07:00Blood Into Wine - A Portland Food Coma Event<center><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ykWt2YhQr1I/Tc3fGQsZjzI/AAAAAAAABXQ/Zz3q7nJAxyk/s1600/BLOOD%2BINTO%2BWINE%2Bpic%2B1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ykWt2YhQr1I/Tc3fGQsZjzI/AAAAAAAABXQ/Zz3q7nJAxyk/s400/BLOOD%2BINTO%2BWINE%2Bpic%2B1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606382409799536434" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Come and join me for a screening of "Blood Into Wine," a documentary by filmmakers Christopher Pomerenke and Ryan Page, chronicling the endeavours of Tool/Perfect Circle/Puscifer Frontman Maynard James Keenan and his partner, Eric Glomski, as they transform a stretch of Arizona desert into a thriving vineyard. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Venue?</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.onelongfellowsquare.com/"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cXQ4SopcK50/Tc3lo2CUikI/AAAAAAAABXY/tyVhfaW4Oec/s1600/OLShdr.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 64px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cXQ4SopcK50/Tc3lo2CUikI/AAAAAAAABXY/tyVhfaW4Oec/s400/OLShdr.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606389601008912962" /></a></a><br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/R5drOkkCNT8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">We will be tasting six of Maynard's wines, with each available by the glass or bottle throughout the evening. Selections will include Caduceus "Naga," Merkin Vineyards "Chupacabra," and four offerings from Arizona Stronghold Vineyards.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yg1BCaHDXto/Tc3mVJ-puTI/AAAAAAAABXg/u_shruelnMo/s1600/blood-into-wine-original.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yg1BCaHDXto/Tc3mVJ-puTI/AAAAAAAABXg/u_shruelnMo/s400/blood-into-wine-original.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606390362276477234" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dinner will be prepared by none other than Josh Potocki, Deathmatch Chef and Proprietor of 158 bakery. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SQEPOpYjY6w/Tc3sMJdbaHI/AAAAAAAABYI/tDMV_LM6JU0/s1600/206468_2877745581827_1205622753_101490493_7208391_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SQEPOpYjY6w/Tc3sMJdbaHI/AAAAAAAABYI/tDMV_LM6JU0/s400/206468_2877745581827_1205622753_101490493_7208391_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606396804588071026" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sunday, June 5th, 2011<br />Doors Open At 6:00, Show Starts At 6:30</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">$50 gets you dinner, a tasting of each wine, and the film - including a Q & A with special guest Rod Young, CEO of the Winery.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">There are only 50 spots available for this event, for ticketing go to <a href="http://www.onelongfellowsquare.com/Details.asp?ProdID=1153">One Longfellow Square's website.</a><br /><br />Looking Forward to Seeing You There!<br /><br />-Joe<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Special Thanks To:<br /><br />South Portland Wine Company<br />& <br />Aurora Provisions<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></center>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-75533068822438906532011-04-01T06:44:00.000-07:002011-04-05T21:43:17.337-07:00Enter The 36 Chambers of Birthday Madness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nXDtwOlGNT4/TZXYFswDYyI/AAAAAAAABOw/sllA2sRa1SY/s1600/Priest.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nXDtwOlGNT4/TZXYFswDYyI/AAAAAAAABOw/sllA2sRa1SY/s400/Priest.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590612104873992994" /></a><br />For someone as self-centered as I am, <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2010/03/buddha-begins.html">celebrating</a> my <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2010/03/buddha-is-all-like-hey-whats-going-on.html">birthday</a> for an <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2010/03/buddha-starts-to-get-aroused.html">entire </a>month is an absolute<a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2010/03/dont-you-worry-about-buddha-hes-taken.html"> must</a>. Of course, the key to making this happen is constantly ensuring that those around you are having just as good a time as you are. It’s also ok to become defensive and judgmental if they aren’t having said good times, casting them down on to the <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2009/03/eating-in-argentina-described-in-one.html">birthday</a> black list for the rest of their sorry, empty, and lonely lives.<br /><br />Watch and learn from a true pro as I chronicle the events of my last few weeks, in an effort to help you properly celebrate when it's your special month:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Brunch</span><br /><br />The first meal of the day is the best time to tell the whole world, or at least your two dining companions in an otherwise empty restaurant, that you’re going to be drinking all day and nobody better stop you because it’s your birthday.<br /><br />Most people inexplicably seek out crowds of people they know, coupled with long waits and often screaming children, for brunch. I’ve simply never understood this, as I am without fail, tired, hungover, and, if you can actually believe it, hungry. The grueling purgatory of waiting to be seated quickly descends into hell for me, where I often think that somehow it will help my cause to complain that I’m so hungry that I’m considering gnawing my fucking arm off. Though ineffective in expediting the seating process, this strategy does generally cause most parents to attempt to herd their children in the opposite direction of where I’m causing my little scene.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_o-q1NxhuFc/TZXYWjQfuYI/AAAAAAAABO4/S1IsmgKV9wQ/s1600/SaigonSoup.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_o-q1NxhuFc/TZXYWjQfuYI/AAAAAAAABO4/S1IsmgKV9wQ/s320/SaigonSoup.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590612394383489410" /></a><br />To keep this kind of brutality to a minimum, and because the food is outstanding, I much prefer go to <a href="http://www.pressherald.com/life/audience/for-vietnamese-dishes-saigon-ranks-near-the-top_2010-03-06.html">Saigon vietnamese restaurant</a> on Forest Avenue for brunch. What’s not to love? First, you’ve got the holy trinity of recovery – cold beer, ice water, and Vietnamese style coffee with sweetened condensed milk. Also, before you can even look at a menu, a hot cup of hearty vegetable soup with strands of egg is delivered to your table, just in case you may be in “gnaw my arm off” mode as described above.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s15LayE3z5A/TZXY0yzW6uI/AAAAAAAABPI/exSsmNKgIas/s1600/SaigonDranks.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s15LayE3z5A/TZXY0yzW6uI/AAAAAAAABPI/exSsmNKgIas/s320/SaigonDranks.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590612913952320226" /></a><br />This year my birthday brunch dining companions are Dietz and Melinda. Dietz is in rough shape, not only from consuming copious amounts of crazy liquor drinks the night before, but also because he and a couple friends decided to put the kitchen at <a href="http://bodamaine.com/">Boda</a> to the test.<br /><br />In addition to ordering a hundred dollars worth of food at last call, Dietz also made the fateful decision to order the chicken wings and Pad Thai "extra spicy." When the server asked how many "stars" they considered "extra-spicy" the reply was a resounding “All of them. No seriously, if there's a star back there in the kitchen, we want it on those wings. We want all the stars." It turns out they take these requests seriously, as they should, and a few minutes later Dietz and his friends were staring at mounds of angry red chili paste which presumably housed their wings and noodles somewhere deep inside. Fueled by booze and bravado, they were then stupid enough to actually attempt to consume them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wDSp5P5o-9I/TZXZB--XKjI/AAAAAAAABPQ/Hr4ja0lKdNQ/s1600/SaigonWings.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wDSp5P5o-9I/TZXZB--XKjI/AAAAAAAABPQ/Hr4ja0lKdNQ/s320/SaigonWings.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590613140557998642" /></a><br />So needless to say, Dietz is also in dire need of the holy trinity here. We order a couple rounds of chicken wings, easy on the stars. I personally think the wings at Saigon are some of the best in town, perfectly crispy and slathered in sweet and spicy dipping sauce. Though there are three options for dumplings on the menu, I always order the crispy fried (c3) with fried ginger and scallion, because they are the perfect balance between a dumpling and a doughnut.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r0wu7L6ORts/TZXYoMVgimI/AAAAAAAABPA/QxSFJCAD0bk/s1600/SaigonOmelet.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r0wu7L6ORts/TZXYoMVgimI/AAAAAAAABPA/QxSFJCAD0bk/s320/SaigonOmelet.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590612697468144226" /></a><br />For an entree I roll with the special pork rib chop with egg omelet, or as I refer to it , “Vietnamese steak and eggs.” The pork chop is cooked perfectly, and has a nice snap to compliment the sweet and salty marinade alongside the runny egg. Pour a little fish sauce up on your rice and you’ll find on yourself on easy street, as if you’d just purchased a pound of pure. <br /><br />The beer and coffee keep me afloat despite being painfully full, but I exercise caution so as to not keep drinking all afternoon. Normally, I would have kick-fucked said caution straight to the wind, but I had a long night ahead of me in order to:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Spend a Leisurely Day in New York City</span><br /><br />Melinda and I decide to drive down to New York late night because I have no interest in losing a Saturday evening shift at Miyake, one of the few consistently profitable days to work this time of year. During work, I am presented by Gemma and Beth with one of the greatest gifts, or assortment of gifts, ever. Thank god, because my subscription to Smooth Girl had recently run out due to late-payment, and this is the Rookie Edition, bitch! While checking out them rooks there's nothing I enjoy more than rubbing the muscle milk into my glistening muscles. Handcuffs are perfect for restraining loved ones while putting their head in a bag and forcing them to huff Axe Body Spray. On top of all that, there's even a nice kitten card to say “I’m sorry.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R-_qWQr_TT4/TZXZsnhVTjI/AAAAAAAABPY/vmDxXzXb6-w/s1600/TheGift.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 255px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R-_qWQr_TT4/TZXZsnhVTjI/AAAAAAAABPY/vmDxXzXb6-w/s320/TheGift.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590613872996601394" /></a><br />When the last customer gets the hint that maybe I’ve got a long drive ahead of me, we are finally able to load up the family truckster and depart. For the ride down I have prepared a mind-blowing musical mix, ranging from the Sisters of Mercy to Satyricon to Gary Glitter. So good in fact, it causes us to completely forget about the time change. <br /><br />“Yeah, umm...you know how it’s 2:23 right now? Yeah, well...it’s actually 3:23. How about something more upbeat? Alannah Myles performing Black Velvet? Of course I’ve got it!”<br /><br />Since neither of us has eaten much since brunch, the executive decision is made to stop at what I refer to as the “harbinger of bad things to come” travel plaza in Massachusetts. I forget exactly what’s it’s called, but I do know that most people you encounter here seem like bad luck to even lay eyes on. As it’s extremely late, Fresh City, Papa Gino’s and D’Angelo’s are closed, leaving us with two options: McDonald’s and the Gift Shop. We decide that Big Macs sound pretty fucking good, and get in line right behind what appears to be some kind of sports team made up of Kobolds, Gnolls, Orcs, Umber Beasts, and several other creatures all defined in the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Monster Manual II. Their leader, who we’ll call the Goblin Shaman, is having a hard time rallying everyone to order. After six minutes the line hasn’t moved, and I begin to feel like the shaman has cast a "charm person" spell on the friendly McDonald's staff. We decide to relinquish our position, and make a beeline to the gift shop for Twinkies, Snyders of Hanovers Pretzel Dips, Cool Ranch Doritos, and bottles of Fiji water that taste like someone had opened them four years ago. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ok0_JcKarB8/TZXZ1amvKRI/AAAAAAAABPg/qQOk9ihYQ8I/s1600/MonsterManuel.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 297px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ok0_JcKarB8/TZXZ1amvKRI/AAAAAAAABPg/qQOk9ihYQ8I/s400/MonsterManuel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590614024148429074" /></a><br />Back in the truckster, we push on to our final destination, the<a href="http://www.eventihotel.com/">Eventi Hotel</a>, where I have booked the same suite as my last visit to <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2010/08/new-york-food-coma-part-two.html">New York</a>. I had informed them that I would be arriving extremely late, most likely around 3:30 A.M. Clearly, they thought I was kidding, and when I saunter in, exhausted, at 4:45, I am informed that they have given away our suite, but the manager assures me that he will make it right. In addition to getting us set up in a smaller room until our suite is available at noon the next day, he offers to take it a step further:<br /><br />“Do you like Champagne? Strawberries? I’m gonna hook you up!”<br />“Not a big deal, don’t worry about it,” I reply.<br />“No, no, I’m gonna hook you up!”<br /><br />After helping us unload the car, and seeing the numerous bottles I have brought with, he changes his tone,<br />“Oh, I see you’ve got it covered.”<br />“Yeah, I just want to go to my room now and have a drink. I’m tired, and I want a drink and then I want to sleep. That’s it. I’m easy.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qorio41bBH0/TZXaEFq0L0I/AAAAAAAABPo/_wSlooCw9Ps/s1600/Selosse.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 262px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qorio41bBH0/TZXaEFq0L0I/AAAAAAAABPo/_wSlooCw9Ps/s320/Selosse.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590614276226428738" /></a><br />He obliges and within fifteen minutes we are relaxing in our smaller but perfectly adequate room. I pop open the bottle of Jacques Selosse N/V Brut Champagne "Initial" that I’ve been drooling over the thought of all weekend long. Honestly, this shit is amazing, toasty and full bodied like Krug but not nearly as overwrought. To quote Andrew Jeffords in his book <span style="font-style:italic;">The New France:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“It is hard to think of a single individual in Champagne today whose work is more influential than that of Anselme Selosse. If the future of Champagne truly is going to be one in which terroir plays more of a role then the region as a whole will have to pay more attention to Selosse and less to its accountants and brand managers.”<br /></span><br />You’d be wise to heed my advice when I tell you that anytime you come across a bottle of this stuff, buy it. It generally retails for around $150 a bottle, but is more than worth it, especially considering how often people piss away similar amounts on generic bullshit like Dom Perignon. <br /><br />At first sip, I am instantly rejuvenated. the entire drive fades away and I begin toying with the notion of opening the bottle of Nigl Gruner Veltliner. Melinda reminds me that staying up until eight in the morning will only serve to ruin the entire following day, which I concur to be a sound theory. This also allows me to actually relax and take my time enjoying the Selosse, rather than making a race out of it to get to the Gruner, and drink as much as I possibly can before passing out from sheer exhaustion.<br /><br />I fall asleep to the drone of the weather report, only to awaken at ten in the morning, a mere four hours later. It appears that my subconscious didn’t stop thinking about that bottle of Gruner Veltliner, so I decide to say fuck it and crack it open. While savoring the lemony freshness of the Nigl, I realize that I’m definitely up for the day, so I help myself to another lovin’ glass full and proceed to linger under the gentle monsoon of a hot shower for about forty five minutes. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kV7nyJeGwa8/TZXaR4dOF6I/AAAAAAAABPw/C6FGNhTn_wY/s1600/NiglGruner.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kV7nyJeGwa8/TZXaR4dOF6I/AAAAAAAABPw/C6FGNhTn_wY/s320/NiglGruner.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590614513197914018" /></a><br />When monsoon season comes to an end, I see that Melinda is now fully awake, and being a very good sport about getting the day started on very little sleep. While making brunch plans at <a href="http://www.ippudony.com/">Ippudo</a>, we get the call from the front desk informing us that our other suite is ready, and that someone is en route to deal with our baggage, consisting mostly bottles of wine and the appropriate stems to pour them into.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dMNIrP_hLIE/TZXatYCqjVI/AAAAAAAABP4/17aejbjPAIs/s1600/EventiBedroom.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dMNIrP_hLIE/TZXatYCqjVI/AAAAAAAABP4/17aejbjPAIs/s320/EventiBedroom.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590614985532935506" /></a><br />The Premier Jacuzzi Suite is where I stayed on my last NYC excursion, and that experience definitely bore repeating, so I chose to book the motherfucker again. It consists of three rooms on the 17th floor with the kind of views that can tame even the most brutal hangover. As we are getting situated, our valet, Robert, tells us that this is the very room that he proposed to his girlfriend in a few months back. At first I presume that this went well, but don’t get a chance to ponder for long before my mind is assaulted with images of this guy fucking his girlfriend in the bed I was about to sleep in. Thankfully, he is Eastern European, which allows me to fantasize that his girlfriend is a strikingly gorgeous, blonde, Ukranian nymphet who loves rough, Gulag-style sex, putting me more at ease with the situation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P--gCu0-ICQ/TZXa6Pr_KYI/AAAAAAAABQA/GMxxcLgG7TI/s1600/EventiLounge.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P--gCu0-ICQ/TZXa6Pr_KYI/AAAAAAAABQA/GMxxcLgG7TI/s320/EventiLounge.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590615206628632962" /></a><br /><br />After we get situated we depart for Ippudo to eat ramen. It it doesn’t bother me in the slightest to revisit restaurants and bars from <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2010/04/new-york-food-coma.html">previous trips</a>, as I don’t always have the patience to be disappointed by new things. Also, I wanted to show Melinda what a real noodle house was like, to give her an idea of what we all had in mind when we opened Pai Men Miyake in September of last year. <br /><br />Upon arrival, I expect to encounter a wait, and we are told it will be about a half hour. We settle into the standing bar and order a round of Kirin draughts. I generally like Kirin, and it tastes even better on tap. I solicitously eye the whiskey selection, including Suntory Yamazaki, the famous Japanese single malt, but decide that maybe it’s a touch too early to delve down that path. We are surprised when, only a few sips into our beers, our names are called to be seated. <br /><br />Upon entry into the dining room, one sees what Pai Men Miyake will never be, based on location alone. The energy is contagious, with everyone, servers included, yelling out phrases in Japanese – even the non-Japanese employees. You get caught up in the whole experience, as it actually makes eating ramen fun. Personally, I think the noodles are great at Pai Men, though Ippudo does have a leg up by making their own in house. There just isn’t anyone in Portland to create, let alone maintain, this kind of scene.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-etZoBYPJdvs/TZXbJL-a0wI/AAAAAAAABQI/7cBmp79mP10/s1600/IppudoBartender.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-etZoBYPJdvs/TZXbJL-a0wI/AAAAAAAABQI/7cBmp79mP10/s320/IppudoBartender.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590615463330239234" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QjWgbfcCQf0/TZXbS3NpFEI/AAAAAAAABQQ/7VTcyoJDg0M/s1600/IppudoBar.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 141px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QjWgbfcCQf0/TZXbS3NpFEI/AAAAAAAABQQ/7VTcyoJDg0M/s320/IppudoBar.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590615629555635266" /></a><br /><br />We start our meal with fried Ahishito peppers, served with yuzu salt to dip in. Some are spicier than others, and they are a perfect way to awaken the palate for the deliciousness that awaits, Hirata buns. These are the original Japanese Big Macs, with pillowy wrappers enveloping meltingly tender pork, tangy pickles and rich, spicy mayonnaise. Fuck yes. It’s at moments like these that I feel genuinely sorry for vegetarians, and I picture them, in a frantic act of futility, trying to order them without meat, but to no avail. You know what? You chose this path, now deal with it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NUTSMhcoZwg/TZXbdTuQbzI/AAAAAAAABQY/DzNurjXFagg/s1600/IppudoPeppers.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NUTSMhcoZwg/TZXbdTuQbzI/AAAAAAAABQY/DzNurjXFagg/s320/IppudoPeppers.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590615809007316786" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kdu5RTjeVBE/TZXbmH4KNrI/AAAAAAAABQg/YoPrUigczGk/s1600/IppudoBun.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kdu5RTjeVBE/TZXbmH4KNrI/AAAAAAAABQg/YoPrUigczGk/s320/IppudoBun.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590615960446449330" /></a><br />For ramen I select the Shiromaru Hakata Classic, with a dense, cloudy, porky broth. Though I enjoy this style, it immediately gets my blood pressure soaring from all of the fat and salt, so I take it slow and focus on drinking lots of beer. Melinda opts for the Akamaru Modern, which I had on my last visit, featuring a more manageable and slightly lighter broth. The eggs and pork are damn near perfect, accompanied by noodles with just the right amount of toothiness. At this point I see parade of servers coming through the dining room with what looks like the glimmer of birthday candles, and I immediately become suspect of Melinda’s recent “trip to the bathroom.” Luckily, they bypass us and move on to some other unsuspecting shithead, who actually appears to be the kind of person who would be extremely disappointed if her friends <span style="font-style:italic;">didn’t</span> do something like this for her. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AtBPy1LV-Xs/TZXbyVhT9RI/AAAAAAAABQo/QXfZWXuZinw/s1600/IppudoTonkotsu.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AtBPy1LV-Xs/TZXbyVhT9RI/AAAAAAAABQo/QXfZWXuZinw/s320/IppudoTonkotsu.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590616170267145490" /></a><br />After leaving Ippudo, I insist on revisiting what, in my drunken recollection, I deemed to be the "greatest wine bar in the entire world," <a href="http://restauranthearth.com/terrior/Terroir.html">Terroir.</a> Not at my insistence, however, my drunken recollection also gets us lost on our way there. When we finally arrive at Terroir, we realize it's several hours before they'll actually be open and we'll have to kill some time. Melinda then proceeds to get us even more lost trying to find our way back to the hotel. My journal entry at this point read as such:<br /><br />Walking + Feet Hurt + Not Going in the Right Direction = Grumpy<br /><br />I finally decide I’ve had enough and hail a cab, which corrects the entire situation and gets us back to our hotel eleven minutes later. While laying into another bottle of Nigl Gruner Veltliner, we watch a movie and "recharge" for the evening that lies ahead. At this juncture, I find out the hard way that before defending Charlie Sheen’s honor to a woman, one should probably be more familiar with some of his exploits beyond just his captivating performance in the film, <span style="font-style:italic;">Men at Work</span>. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xR85QUYuGLc/TZXcOMcopjI/AAAAAAAABQ4/bwJDa777lWo/s1600/men-at-work.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 335px; height: 307px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xR85QUYuGLc/TZXcOMcopjI/AAAAAAAABQ4/bwJDa777lWo/s400/men-at-work.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590616648867948082" /></a><br />When next we sally forth from the hotel, our first stop is to see my brodel Sean at <a href="http://www.craftrestaurant.com/craft_style.php">Craft</a>, where he's got the bar on lock. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/18/dining/18tipsy.html">He recently wowed the pants off of, and had his way with, former NY Times food critic Frank Bruni</a> - by feeding him cocktails with no alchohol. He starts us off with glasses of Perrier Jouet Brut, followed by a 2001 Villa Tondonia Rioja Blanca. We snack on ankimo with spoonbill caviar, alongside a torchon of foie gras with pineapple salsa. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MtrvTNk2pNE/TZXcm4PaHtI/AAAAAAAABRI/ngbzl6er940/s1600/CraftAnkimo.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MtrvTNk2pNE/TZXcm4PaHtI/AAAAAAAABRI/ngbzl6er940/s320/CraftAnkimo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590617072940490450" /></a><br />I decide that it is, in fact, that time, and order an El Jimidor tequila on the rocks. Melinda puts her fate in Sean’s hands, and he doesn’t disappoint, bringing it on with a refreshing tequila concoction driven by an exotic citrus fruit called Kamala. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iUxUibRKmD0/TZXcJCKFCyI/AAAAAAAABQw/Q47wEhHF1Sw/s1600/CraftCocktail.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iUxUibRKmD0/TZXcJCKFCyI/AAAAAAAABQw/Q47wEhHF1Sw/s320/CraftCocktail.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590616560206416674" /></a><br />We depart Craft for the "official" birthday dinner destination. On recommendation from Chad at Miyake, we have chosen <a href="http://www.degustationnyc.com/">Degustation</a>. It’s quite cozy, with what I would estimate is an eighteen seat bar spanning the length of the dining room. The kitchen is entirely open and laid out in front of you, occupying a majority of the interior space. A single server expertly darts around the chefs, while a small support staff works it’s way around the perimeter of the bar. They feature a small, Spanish influenced menu with two tasting menu options: five or ten course. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YlQrk6oJCTc/TZXdItdH9YI/AAAAAAAABRg/30sPz27GEv4/s1600/DegustationLine.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YlQrk6oJCTc/TZXdItdH9YI/AAAAAAAABRg/30sPz27GEv4/s320/DegustationLine.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590617654160782722" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qx5-p89EJjU/TZXdP8JbZUI/AAAAAAAABRo/kWTvgtQkcNw/s1600/DegustationChef.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qx5-p89EJjU/TZXdP8JbZUI/AAAAAAAABRo/kWTvgtQkcNw/s320/DegustationChef.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590617778363786562" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rz-7kXWShws/TZXc0jeG7ZI/AAAAAAAABRQ/_3rHZaKodeQ/s1600/DegusationDrinking.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rz-7kXWShws/TZXc0jeG7ZI/AAAAAAAABRQ/_3rHZaKodeQ/s320/DegusationDrinking.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590617307883171218" /></a><br />Given the unlikelihood of this being our last meal of the night, the five course seems the best option. I order a bottle of Dominio do Bibei, Ribeira Sacra "Lalama". I love wines made from the Mencia grape, and this offering is no exception, redolent of black pepper and rose petals. Though I knew it wouldn’t necessarily pair up with every course, I did know I would be happy drinking it throughout the entire meal. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2w21eNwS3gA/TZXdAlFWU1I/AAAAAAAABRY/pgKx29lQ7NQ/s1600/DegustationWine.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2w21eNwS3gA/TZXdAlFWU1I/AAAAAAAABRY/pgKx29lQ7NQ/s320/DegustationWine.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590617514474623826" /></a><br />The first course is a crudo of Kampachi, with jalapenos and clementines. There’s a very pleasant heat offset by the refreshing acidity of the citrus that all balances well together with the clean flavor of the fish. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e6gFuugeH5A/TZXdWYAr5zI/AAAAAAAABRw/I_KJrpQXRKg/s1600/DegustationKampachi.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e6gFuugeH5A/TZXdWYAr5zI/AAAAAAAABRw/I_KJrpQXRKg/s320/DegustationKampachi.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590617888922527538" /></a><br /><br />Next up is a salad of greens, beets, and edible flowers, with house-made ricotta and a slow poached quail egg. This may be one of the best salads I have ever had, with all of the elements gloriously coated in runny egg yolk and playing off of each other brilliantly.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S7wIo5_pz8w/TZXdmomeMQI/AAAAAAAABR4/dnA55mN1PfY/s1600/DegustationWinterSalad.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S7wIo5_pz8w/TZXdmomeMQI/AAAAAAAABR4/dnA55mN1PfY/s320/DegustationWinterSalad.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590618168253886722" /></a><br />Not that I think it makes me fucking special or anything, but I do love sweetbreads. So upon noticing them on the menu, I decide to be irritating and inquire about the possibility of them showing up as part of my tasting menu. They graciously accommodate me, and present the third course as a split: sweetbreads with a cucumber and grape dill yogurt for myself, and Spanish Mackerel resting in an apple consommé with black radishes and apple-chervil puree for Melinda. It is truly the mark of a well executed menu when each course builds on the last, and makes you dripping wet with anticipation to find out what’s coming next. Degustation has this concept down to a science. It’s also impossible not to take notice of how fluid and seamless the service is, meeting every need before you even know you have it, without being the least bit intrusive. <br /><br />The rabbit course consists of the loin, crispy rillette, and tortellini that I think were filled with the braised legs. The rillete is particularly insane, crunchy and meltingly tender at the same time. Yellow foot, black trumpet, and maitake mushrooms complete the circle of life on the plate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a2_oQ25QPG0/TZXd3-M8l7I/AAAAAAAABSA/jrJlZQcflts/s1600/DegusationRabbit.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a2_oQ25QPG0/TZXd3-M8l7I/AAAAAAAABSA/jrJlZQcflts/s320/DegusationRabbit.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590618466110183346" /></a><br />I’d been eyeballing the squid stuffed with oxtail since noticing the filthy little bitch on the menu earlier, and, after watching it go out of the kitchen for the second time to less deserving patrons, decide that I must make it mine. This proves to be a wise decision, as this lil' cocksucker is just as good as it fucking sounds, proudly perched atop a sinister looking hill of squid ink risotto.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xi8vR_QOjWc/TZXeLbFwmgI/AAAAAAAABSI/yM4oEiaeiRM/s1600/DegustationSquid.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xi8vR_QOjWc/TZXeLbFwmgI/AAAAAAAABSI/yM4oEiaeiRM/s320/DegustationSquid.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590618800282180098" /></a><br />“Green eggs and ham” is the final savory course, consisting of soft scrambled eggs, serrano ham, gruyere cheese and spinach yogurt. It is difficult to resist savagely destroying the delicate little egg-shell presentation in order to retrieve the last scraps of creamy, eggy delightfulness.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MesIJrGcBng/TZXeV7yq4YI/AAAAAAAABSQ/d-tLOIVVFWc/s1600/DegustationEgg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MesIJrGcBng/TZXeV7yq4YI/AAAAAAAABSQ/d-tLOIVVFWc/s320/DegustationEgg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590618980859175298" /></a><br />When dessert arrives, Melinda’s graham cracker with toasted marshmallowt is quickly pushed to the side in favor of my caramelized brioche. I had watched the cooks douse it with sugar while laying the torch to it, and if you’ve ever wondered what it would be like if creme brulee and brioche had a child – this is it, and it currently resides on my top ten desserts of all time list.<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B95cMF959VM/TZXehfUIVJI/AAAAAAAABSY/LO7sYqNJo7I/s1600/DegustationBrioche.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B95cMF959VM/TZXehfUIVJI/AAAAAAAABSY/LO7sYqNJo7I/s320/DegustationBrioche.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590619179373319314" /></a><br />It’s now time to make our way back to Terroir to manhandle some serious Riesling. I know I won’t shut up about this place, but it really is the perfect bar, in my less than humble opinion. The extensive, white-heavy wine list is presented in a beaten up school binder, similar to the ones I used to scrawl my name all over, with a large pentagram in the “O." After what probably felt like four hours to Melinda, I finally home in on the 2007 Schafer-Frohlich Riesling Spatlese Nahe Schlossbockelheimer Felsenberg. Schafer Frohlich is a producer known for truly explosive wines, and this proves to be no exception, with sharp acidity dripping with apricots and limes, and each sip building in intensity over the last. Honestly, If you don’t like wines like this, there’s something wrong with you. You might think that taste is a subjective matter, but in this case you’re wrong, and there’s something seriously off about who you are as a person. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H8GJSoOwiBY/TZXe5z0y2FI/AAAAAAAABSo/8y7ALNcLR_U/s1600/TerroirRiesling.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H8GJSoOwiBY/TZXe5z0y2FI/AAAAAAAABSo/8y7ALNcLR_U/s320/TerroirRiesling.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590619597195892818" /></a><br />After sharing our S.F.R.S.N.S.F. with the bartenders, they pour us a glass of Hermann Wiemer (a.k.a. Hermann the German) late harvest Riesling. This is one of the better producers from the<a href="http://www.fingerlakeswinecountry.com/">Finger Lakes</a> region of New York, where the terroir is actually quite similar to that found in Germany.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e2PdxF64ZCM/TZXewOE0GKI/AAAAAAAABSg/sEbcQoSmL2E/s1600/TerroirList.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e2PdxF64ZCM/TZXewOE0GKI/AAAAAAAABSg/sEbcQoSmL2E/s320/TerroirList.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590619432443713698" /></a><br />When the 90’s music starts playing, starting with Weezer then progressing to Smashing Pumpkins and Spacehog, I get overwhelmingly excited. I start making song requests, and though they are happily obliged at first, I soon realize that I should be considerate of the other fifty patrons and the fact that they may not want to hear exactly what I want to hear, at exactly that moment.<br /><br />Though I could truly be happy sitting at this bar forever, we have friends meeting us back at the hotel for more fierce drinking. Arriving back at our suite, we see that the hotel has sent up a complimentary bottle of Penfolds "Rawson’s Retreat" Merlot, as a nice gesture to compensate for the mix-up the night before. Though I mercilessly make fun of it for being the supermarket ca-ca that it is, I secretly know It will end up in my belly once the other wine runs out. Sean, finished with his shift at Craft, and my friend Lola stop by to help us slaughter a bottle of 2003 Domino de Tares Mencia Bierzo "Exaltos," followed by a 2006 Sartori Rino Amarone della Valpolicella Classico. These are both outstanding, and make the transition that much harsher when the remaining options dwindle down to Stella Artois and bullshit Aussie Merlot. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pkGTLeFH7ow/TZXfGS6jFPI/AAAAAAAABSw/SAJfqONAme0/s1600/Exaltos.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pkGTLeFH7ow/TZXfGS6jFPI/AAAAAAAABSw/SAJfqONAme0/s320/Exaltos.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590619811699954930" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mwmbcSE7cgU/TZXfPYNfOYI/AAAAAAAABS4/v0fDqT_Rn1o/s1600/Rawsons.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mwmbcSE7cgU/TZXfPYNfOYI/AAAAAAAABS4/v0fDqT_Rn1o/s320/Rawsons.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590619967740393858" /></a><br />Lacking foresight, I decide to stick to wine and go with the Penfolds. Each sip forces me to strongly regret this decision, as it is not unlike cherry flavored Nyquil that has been poured through a potted plant and into my unhappy mouth. Strangely, nothing makes me hungrier than shitty booze, so around 2:15 we deem late night Korean fare to be a “must have” if we’re not going to “die.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4f67jXflo4c/TZXfqSp3hjI/AAAAAAAABTA/29T7fhZ809Q/s1600/KunjipSoju.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4f67jXflo4c/TZXfqSp3hjI/AAAAAAAABTA/29T7fhZ809Q/s320/KunjipSoju.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590620430105282098" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QcfDcQ8oQnc/TZXfzH1ztTI/AAAAAAAABTI/1iRwcC9rji0/s1600/KunjipProductDay.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 237px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QcfDcQ8oQnc/TZXfzH1ztTI/AAAAAAAABTI/1iRwcC9rji0/s320/KunjipProductDay.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590620581821396274" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--j2RJLGmpJg/TZXgM81lYAI/AAAAAAAABTQ/z8y6PARgXMU/s1600/JunjipApps.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--j2RJLGmpJg/TZXgM81lYAI/AAAAAAAABTQ/z8y6PARgXMU/s320/JunjipApps.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590621025544265730" /></a><br />Lola, being sober enough to know what is going on, wisely disbands to meet up with a friend, leaving me only with photographic evidence of what happens next. We end up at Kunjip, where Sean and I take the plunge and split a bottle of sweet potato Soju, which as it so happens was the “product of the day” from my first New York post. For grub, we begin with what appears to be some kind of simmering egg dish, followed by dumplings, seafood pancakes, and beef bulgogi – prepared tableside. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MNg1-DpnLTM/TZXhHb--rKI/AAAAAAAABTg/2ivT6_9AizE/s1600/KunjipDumplings.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MNg1-DpnLTM/TZXhHb--rKI/AAAAAAAABTg/2ivT6_9AizE/s320/KunjipDumplings.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590622030337584290" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-689Wqko-rGo/TZXgruf-koI/AAAAAAAABTY/7nvepPnqz7w/s1600/KunjipEggs.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-689Wqko-rGo/TZXgruf-koI/AAAAAAAABTY/7nvepPnqz7w/s320/KunjipEggs.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590621554271490690" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-osET0ZSBdu8/TZXhSB4j68I/AAAAAAAABTo/1sewSEVbOq4/s1600/KunjipBulgogiServer.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 255px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-osET0ZSBdu8/TZXhSB4j68I/AAAAAAAABTo/1sewSEVbOq4/s320/KunjipBulgogiServer.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590622212309904322" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HHj_zYdWAHc/TZXheKL-duI/AAAAAAAABTw/vaG_a8NfxL0/s1600/KunjipBulgogi.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HHj_zYdWAHc/TZXheKL-duI/AAAAAAAABTw/vaG_a8NfxL0/s320/KunjipBulgogi.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590622420697249506" /></a><br />The food turns out to be outstanding, and I manage to take notes after all. In review I see that I had written one line about the entire dining experience, “Melinda too drunk for chopsticks.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9IqgSqkijTY/TZXhsopFLMI/AAAAAAAABT4/x6DU_jV6iFs/s1600/KunjipCarnage.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9IqgSqkijTY/TZXhsopFLMI/AAAAAAAABT4/x6DU_jV6iFs/s320/KunjipCarnage.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590622669390556354" /></a><br />Sean mercifully escorts our inebriated asses back to the hotel, where another comp bottle, this time cheap but manageable Champagne, is waiting for us. Using sound judgement, we pass out rather than drink it, knowing full well the pain and suffering that will come around the time of our 9 A.M. wake up call. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KuLFTQQ0eS4/TZXh68XJJiI/AAAAAAAABUA/IhJMaBfFl9g/s1600/Skyline.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KuLFTQQ0eS4/TZXh68XJJiI/AAAAAAAABUA/IhJMaBfFl9g/s320/Skyline.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590622915202197026" /></a><br />We check out of the hotel in a tornado of hangover, and I decide to take the first stint behind the wheel. There’s something about driving in the city that’s easier to deal with when you can barely feel your own body. The escape goes smoothly, until I find myself stuck in traffic behind a hot dog cart, allowing me to revel in the local custom of laying on my horn for a solid ten seconds, causing the vendor's panties to get supremely bunched. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q5nkKdspG-M/TZXiIZBBf1I/AAAAAAAABUI/L0Ayrf95SqY/s1600/HotDogVendor.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q5nkKdspG-M/TZXiIZBBf1I/AAAAAAAABUI/L0Ayrf95SqY/s320/HotDogVendor.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590623146232348498" /></a><br />On the way back, we once again make a pit stop at Harbinger Rest Area, where I proceed to combine the best of McDonald’s and D’Angelo’s into what even I consider to be an “upsetting amount of food.” This, of course, makes short work of any kind of second wind I may have been experiencing, and Melinda is required to take over driving for the duration of the long trip home. <br /><br />I knew I had to rest up, because it was only to be a matter of days before...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Almost unexpectedly ending up right back in New York</span><br /><br />After a scant three days of silent lucidity, I am fully caught up on reality and ready to thrust myself back into bender-dome the following Friday night. I start out by attending a beer event at <a href="http://novareresbiercafe.com/">Novare Res</a> featuring Twelve Percent importers, whose portfolio I represent for SoPo. Arriving a bottle of wine deep, I do my best in the dwindling hour remaining before last call to do as much damage as possible to myself. Unsatisfied with my performance, I return home and drink wine for another two hours before succumbing to a fitful, dreamless slumber.<br /><br />Knowing I have plans for Sunday, I decide to take it easy on Saturday. However, at work that evening, the owners of the wine company that I work for roll into Miyake, with several great bottles and two prominent winemakers in tow. Naturally, I sample their wares, and make tentative plans to meet up with them later that evening. They leave almost a full bottle of Champagne behind, which I promptly pour into a pint glass and chug, in an effort to be “caught up” when I finish my shift a couple of hours later.<br /><br />By the time I head out to find them, there are only three left in the party, including an individual known as "the madman of Washington State wine.” I get a text saying that said gentleman would like to visit a bar exhibiting more “local color.” I tell them to meet me at Pizza Villa, and when I arrive twenty minutes later it appears this trio may not be long for the world. <br /><br />I decide to lift my spirits with an enormous shot of Jameson, but when It hits my lips there is painful evidence that the bottle may have been little too close to a heat source. It goes down real rough, as unexpectedly hot whiskey usually does, but I resist the urge to gag and barf all over the table. Instead, I hold it together and order another, this time on the fucking rocks. <br /><br />We continue to put away drinks for another thirty minutes before madman decides he's bored, and asks me where to go next. As it's almost eleven thirty, I explain that there isn’t much else going on and that things close down around one. Horrified by this news, he asks to use my phone, since his is dead, and informs all of us that we will be chartering a private jet to New York “right now” and rattles off our itinerary for the next six or seven hours. <br /><br />I have a rule: If someone offers to put you on a private jet, without forcing you to swallow condoms full of heroin, you get on that fucking jet. I promptly enforce this rule on the other members of our party, reminding them that we technically don’t need to be back until 11:30 Monday morning. They half-begrudgingly, half-excitedly, agree, and the waiting game is on, to see if madman can really pull it off. <br /><br />As it turns out, there aren’t actually planes waiting on the runway, all fueled up with pilots in cockpit, ready to be summoned at one's beck and call. The soonest we can get off the ground is going to be in three hours time, which is personally fine by me. This displeases madman, however, and I suggest that maybe we limo it down and fly back. He hands my phone back in a pouty maneuver, and it looks like my hopes of an impromptu return to Manhattan are being dashed on the rocks. I subsequently receive a few voicemails from the charter services, looking for the green light to fire the jets up, but three hours is simply too long for madman to wait.<br /><br />I finally say "Fuck it," and while the other two depart in a taxi, madman and I head to Matthew's to drink beer and Jagermeister until last call. After walking him to his hotel, I proceed to be up drinking, once again, until four in the morning. The next day, I can honestly say I am grateful to still be in Portland and not in some hurt locker in New York. This allows me to spend the whole day cooking and drinking with Dietz and my friend Josh. Throughout the course of the day, the three of us go ape-shit on no less than ten bottles of wine, landing me right back where I was the previous Monday, in the throes of a agonizing hangover. I have a few short days before the following Sunday to take it easy and let my body recuperate, before plunging into the final depths of the birthday abyss as I...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Load Eighteen of my Rowdy Friends on to a Limo Party Bus and Go To Tulsi For Dinner</span><br /><br />Sometimes you’ve just got to say "Fuck it" and rent a party-limo-bus.<br /><br />Over a 158 Pickett Street Cafe breakfast sandwich, Melinda and I hatch the idea that a field trip to<a href="http://www.tulsiindianrestaurant.com/">Tulsi </a>in Kittery must be part of the month-long birthday festivities. It is, after all, my favorite restaurant in the state, but the major drawback to organizing a large group outing to there is the lack of proximity to the greater Portland area. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5enmQnQqGds/TZXii9Mw7DI/AAAAAAAABUg/vvlm3-pKLhA/s1600/photo.PNG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 236px; height: 351px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5enmQnQqGds/TZXii9Mw7DI/AAAAAAAABUg/vvlm3-pKLhA/s400/photo.PNG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590623602621869106" /></a><br />This problem is easily solved by contacting <a href="http://mainelimo.com/">Maine Limousine Service</a> and renting the twenty passenger P.L.B. Stocked with ice and glassware, not to mention all the karaoke you can handle before your head implodes, it’s a safe, decadent, and delightfully cheeezy way to transport a large group of drunk assholes wherever you please. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--i0e3qZgP30/TZXicHFj56I/AAAAAAAABUY/CPtO-Vuru2E/s1600/jess.PNG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--i0e3qZgP30/TZXicHFj56I/AAAAAAAABUY/CPtO-Vuru2E/s400/jess.PNG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590623485016926114" /></a><br />A month in advance, I call Tulsi and make a reservation for 20 people, which will pretty much take up their entire dining room. The plan for the day of is to meet at the Franklin Arterial park and ride at 5:30 P.M., allowing the opportunity for heavy pre-gaming activity. Jess and Kelly rope me into an impromptu photo shoot at Kelly’s father’s studio, and suddenly I am transported back to any one of my fourteen prom nights, fourteen years ago. This time, however, I won't be ingesting five tabs of acid and buying booze for all of my classmates.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SgxfatWpp9E/TZXi8spVMPI/AAAAAAAABUo/TkTs0Zk-_cs/s1600/Prelude.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SgxfatWpp9E/TZXi8spVMPI/AAAAAAAABUo/TkTs0Zk-_cs/s400/Prelude.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590624044854882546" /></a><br />We shotgun a bottle of N/V Veuve Clicquot Pontsardin Brut Champagne Yellow Label in record time, without any annoying stemware getting in the way. I’m still very sore from getting my ribs tattooed the day before, so this eases the pain and primes me for my metamorphosis into “Karaoke Hero.” I’ve stocked the bus with a case of N/V Ferrari Brut Trento, sparkling wine made in Italy according to the methode champenoise, and upon arrival start doling out bottles. Before we depart for Kittery, I am presented with several amazing gifts, among them Katie and Josh’s offering of N/V Colt 45 Double Malt, beef jerky, potato sticks, and a Hustler magazine with bonus DVDs.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7mxX7JV1TYk/TZXjhUohpnI/AAAAAAAABU4/WyuXhbqWyKc/s1600/Deuben.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7mxX7JV1TYk/TZXjhUohpnI/AAAAAAAABU4/WyuXhbqWyKc/s400/Deuben.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590624674064213618" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y72TSAruv1g/TZXjKfTdHYI/AAAAAAAABUw/WS1ejncI55w/s1600/PartyBusHeadBang.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y72TSAruv1g/TZXjKfTdHYI/AAAAAAAABUw/WS1ejncI55w/s400/PartyBusHeadBang.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590624281791634818" /></a><br /><br />Once this rolling shit-show is on the road, I assume the role of "Leather Rebel" and careen my way through Judas Priest’s <span style="font-style:italic;">You’ve Got Another Thing Coming</span> to get the karaoke party off of the ground. Joel opts for the stark contrast of TLC’s “Unpretty” to provide a heartfelt and feel-good vibe along with a serious message for everyone. About eight bottles of Ferrari later, we arrive at Tulsi. <br />As I’ve mentioned several times before, Tulsi never fails to impress, serving up the best Indian fare I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating. We prepare to drink an entire case of 2009 Domaine St. Eugenie Corbieres Rose, and the kitchen sends out several waves of appetizers to get us started. There are plates of assorted kabobs, a hybrid vegetarian, tapenade-style dish served on French bread, and my personal favorite – shrimp Balchow, a fiery hot Goan dish served with naan on the side. Eric, our server, stays right on top of things and keeps the wine flowing freely, unhindered by the chaos.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i9tEvUSUJqw/TZXjn-cvIxI/AAAAAAAABVA/bfXdfCLahE0/s1600/TulsiEric.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i9tEvUSUJqw/TZXjn-cvIxI/AAAAAAAABVA/bfXdfCLahE0/s400/TulsiEric.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590624788368270098" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y60cVWUcpN0/TZXj9O2zWII/AAAAAAAABVg/fu1_hu2C9ew/s1600/TulsiFood.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Y60cVWUcpN0/TZXj9O2zWII/AAAAAAAABVg/fu1_hu2C9ew/s400/TulsiFood.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590625153549817986" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Dsno-z7Pgus/TZXj38J5_3I/AAAAAAAABVY/odClkzXLQGw/s1600/KellyBEth.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Dsno-z7Pgus/TZXj38J5_3I/AAAAAAAABVY/odClkzXLQGw/s400/KellyBEth.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590625062630326130" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lD-AxYoSu8M/TZXjzHDIfxI/AAAAAAAABVQ/BYpVf7gs0UE/s1600/TulsiShrimp.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lD-AxYoSu8M/TZXjzHDIfxI/AAAAAAAABVQ/BYpVf7gs0UE/s400/TulsiShrimp.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590624979655360274" /></a><br />With the exception of one couple dining in the corner, who turned out to be very cool and as fanatical about Tulsi as myself, we have the dining room entirely to ourselves, allowing us to be as loud and obnoxious as we prefer. Though we cover the gamut of the menu for our entree choices, I make certain that the Zaffrani Jhinga (tiger shrimp sauteed with garlic and simmered in a saffron cream curry sauce served with mint rice) and the Lamb Nilgree (lamb cubes cooked in a spicy North Indian mint sauce served with lemon rice) come my way. The sweet Peshawari naan, filled with nuts, coconut and dried fruit, is the perfect compliment to all of these foods from India, slathered in Raita, a cucumber yogurt condiment that makes damn near everything that it touches taste better.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tTmIzx1miBY/TZXjvpubiDI/AAAAAAAABVI/ZrPrM7EF1Sw/s1600/DietzKElly.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tTmIzx1miBY/TZXjvpubiDI/AAAAAAAABVI/ZrPrM7EF1Sw/s400/DietzKElly.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590624920244291634" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_6f5OmoMaw0/TZXkdD0f52I/AAAAAAAABVw/3DptMZhjvfU/s1600/NickJustin.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_6f5OmoMaw0/TZXkdD0f52I/AAAAAAAABVw/3DptMZhjvfU/s400/NickJustin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590625700343179106" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FvEwtMd9inQ/TZXkYh48E-I/AAAAAAAABVo/xtva-3tZ5mI/s1600/TulsiLamb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FvEwtMd9inQ/TZXkYh48E-I/AAAAAAAABVo/xtva-3tZ5mI/s400/TulsiLamb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590625622515520482" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BGH02GXD4zw/TZXkhgjwa9I/AAAAAAAABV4/0z1KPK4mJcA/s1600/SchierJosh.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BGH02GXD4zw/TZXkhgjwa9I/AAAAAAAABV4/0z1KPK4mJcA/s400/SchierJosh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590625776777063378" /></a><br /><br />Amidst the oceans of rose, I see many a Mango Lassi, an Indian-style smoothie, make its way to the table. Though I don’t stray from the wine on this occasion, I can tell you from past experience that they are outrageously fucking decadent. Despite the fact that I’m painfully full, and personally finishing up my fourth bottle of wine, I can’t stop grazing around the table. After all, It may be a whole MONTH before I make it back!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O7b1juYawy8/TZXkt2c_fvI/AAAAAAAABWA/OK8qQvr3SBk/s1600/JoelNapkim.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O7b1juYawy8/TZXkt2c_fvI/AAAAAAAABWA/OK8qQvr3SBk/s400/JoelNapkim.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590625988812701426" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pw1nBoGbdXE/TZXkyd3TsvI/AAAAAAAABWI/ZFUjTSSCtRo/s1600/MelindaJoe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pw1nBoGbdXE/TZXkyd3TsvI/AAAAAAAABWI/ZFUjTSSCtRo/s400/MelindaJoe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590626068111536882" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EqbTk3ko_Ss/TZXk5qzXHaI/AAAAAAAABWQ/XSochngUnv4/s1600/photo.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EqbTk3ko_Ss/TZXk5qzXHaI/AAAAAAAABWQ/XSochngUnv4/s320/photo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590626191843728802" /></a><br />We leave completely engorged, but decide to get one last drink at neighboring <a href="http://www.annekejans.net/">Anneke Jans</a> before getting back on the P.L.B. Ben, the bar manager, has been warned of our imminent arrival and is well prepared. Dietz, Drew, Brad and I opt for absinthe, served with the aid of their medieval-looking absinthe contraption. Though expertly prepared and very tasty, I can feel it taking me right over the edge and into a downward spiral. Other bar patrons seem very confused about the band of ruffians that have commandeered their personal space, and are equally confused when we are out the door ten minutes later. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2Mu1wVFsji4/TZXlNhGAv4I/AAAAAAAABWY/KshgB3FuRqk/s1600/Potocki.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2Mu1wVFsji4/TZXlNhGAv4I/AAAAAAAABWY/KshgB3FuRqk/s400/Potocki.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590626532834983810" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RoDBYmzeekE/TZXlSiGN15I/AAAAAAAABWg/nPEsIbebf5M/s1600/SchierJoelDrew.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RoDBYmzeekE/TZXlSiGN15I/AAAAAAAABWg/nPEsIbebf5M/s400/SchierJoelDrew.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590626619003623314" /></a><br />Back on the bus, the debauchery continues. I perform <span style="font-style:italic;">Highway Star</span> by Deep Purple, yet another epic, eight minute track hand-selected to allow me to remain the center of attention. Drew follows with a rousing rendition of <span style="font-style:italic;">Total Eclipse of the Heart</span>, by Bonnie Tyler. This offically kills the karaoke, and as we polish off the case of Ferrari, the music transitions into Q97.9 – leading off with <span style="font-style:italic;">Dynamite</span> by Taoi Cruz. What followed was the most epic dance party on a bus that I’ve ever personally had the pleasure to be a part of, and looking back, it’s quite astonishing that the large and top-heavy vehicle didn’t tumble the fuck over. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-npN8sPPPE_A/TZXlX4o2GqI/AAAAAAAABWo/MzrpuUDc8vM/s1600/Schier.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-npN8sPPPE_A/TZXlX4o2GqI/AAAAAAAABWo/MzrpuUDc8vM/s400/Schier.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590626710953794210" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iQvKRa7W4pk/TZXlbcbRCoI/AAAAAAAABWw/YXEeehZO-Lc/s1600/DanceParty.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iQvKRa7W4pk/TZXlbcbRCoI/AAAAAAAABWw/YXEeehZO-Lc/s400/DanceParty.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590626772100123266" /></a><br />Upon touching back down in Portland, we debus at Flask Lounge, where I am officially done in by a large shot of Jameson. After being asked to sign one of the patron’s boxer briefs, and obliging, I receive my cue to call it a night and sneak into a taxi. When I get home I contemplate keeping the party going by opening another bottle of wine, but wisely reconsider and collapse into bed, fading off into the darkness.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WBuW3CmG9Xs/TZXlglKpFLI/AAAAAAAABW4/JueqjGitVso/s1600/DanceParty1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WBuW3CmG9Xs/TZXlglKpFLI/AAAAAAAABW4/JueqjGitVso/s400/DanceParty1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590626860345660594" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--Ck3CD2KdLc/TZvsjQ0vncI/AAAAAAAABXI/9S8emDcUhk0/s1600/photo.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--Ck3CD2KdLc/TZvsjQ0vncI/AAAAAAAABXI/9S8emDcUhk0/s320/photo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592323452866371010" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">In Conclusion</span><br /><br />To the <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2010/03/critics-have-spoken-portland-food-coma.html">surprise/dismay </a>of many, I have surpassed thirty-two years of age, which I consider to be a milestone. Now here I am enjoying, to quote Axl Rose from the epic power ballad, <span style="font-style:italic;">Estranged</span>, <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“All the changing seasons of my life, maybe I’ll get it right – next time.”<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4m8BmOmgrkg/TZfmgwkP50I/AAAAAAAABXA/XVhmwv9UBb4/s1600/gunsnroses-estranged-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4m8BmOmgrkg/TZfmgwkP50I/AAAAAAAABXA/XVhmwv9UBb4/s400/gunsnroses-estranged-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591190912870901570" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">photo's of Limo Party Bus by Katie Schier, Jess Joseph, and Kevin Fahrman</span>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-53243311166283027332011-01-29T22:35:00.000-08:002011-01-30T10:20:35.930-08:00Primo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUHntp67mI/AAAAAAAABL0/NIuieFJw42o/s1600/tasting.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUHntp67mI/AAAAAAAABL0/NIuieFJw42o/s320/tasting.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567864893165203042" /></a><br />Most of the time when there’s a lot of hype surrounding a restaurant, I’m immediately inclined to regard the reviews with skepticism, especially when a large percentage are overwhelmingly positive. I feel this way because, honestly, so many people are just plain wrong about things. With Primo, I had heard “best restaurant in the state” so many times, that I actually never bothered to find out for myself until a couple weeks ago.<br /><br />It all started while Melinda and I were watching the Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations episode filmed in Maine. During the Primo segment, she expressed great interest in dining there, and I, being fairly drunk at the time, automatically went into “hater mode.” An argument ensued, with myself becoming belligerently adamant that I have no desire to jump on the “fucking bandwagon.” The next morning, during my usual routine of replaying in my head all of the stupid things I’d said the night before, I decided that it was high time for me to see what the fuss was all about.<br /><br />We opt to make the drive out to Rockland town on the first Sunday in January, which turns out to be Primo’s last night before closing for the season. Figuring that it would be a great way to unwind after having waited tables throughout the holidays, we get a hotel room and make a night out of it. Unable to locate a W Hotel in the surrounding area, the next best option seems to be the Hartstone Inn in Camden town. The “Carriage House” suite looks nice online, and the major selling point is the large in-room Jacuzzi, even though I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll someday drown in one after passing out. I envision empty Champagne bottles and chocolate covered strawberries bobbing gently around my lifeless body, as a Pavarotti’s Greatest Hits album blares on the stereo...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUIrjq6MdI/AAAAAAAABME/OvTz9hySxHc/s1600/Elexium.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUIrjq6MdI/AAAAAAAABME/OvTz9hySxHc/s320/Elexium.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567866058716099026" /></a><br />Keeping this possibility in mind I pick up a bottle of N/V Trouillard Champagne Cuvée Elexium Rosé, because I want to be horking down flute after flute of delightful pink bubbles before slipping into the darkness. Additionally, I purchase a 2005 Domaine Gourt de Mautens Rasteau from Jérôme Bressy, a gem of a bottle that seemed to be suffering from years of neglect on the shelves at Whole Foods. Knowing that I’m opening the Rasteau about 13 years too early, I pop the cork around 1 P.M. to give it a little time to come alive.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUIIENhoFI/AAAAAAAABL8/Z_kH2Q6Obsk/s1600/Rasteau.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 306px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUIIENhoFI/AAAAAAAABL8/Z_kH2Q6Obsk/s320/Rasteau.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567865448975933522" /></a><br />On the way up scenic Route 1 we pass the Monstweag Roadhouse in Woolwich town, as Danzig’s “Mother” is blasting on the car stereo. For some reason the combination of these two things makes me hungry, and we decide to stop for a quick snack, as I’ve always heard good things about this place but have never checked it out. Once inside, I immediately feel at home with the mix of customers, which ranges from bikers to old people, to old bikers, to me, hunched over the bar with my ass most likely hanging out of my pants. The wine selection is pretty damn good for a “roadhouse,” so I forget about trying to impress the bikers and order a glass of Selbach Riesling along with a cup of chili. As I’m finishing glass number one, I notice the football game on the TV, where there’s a player laid out cold on the field. In an attempt to blend in, I reference the film “The Craft” by whispering “Light as a feather, stiff as a board.” No one seems to know what the fuck I’m talking about, and I order another glass of wine.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUI_VMd1UI/AAAAAAAABMM/AN_UuRmDvhA/s1600/Montsweag.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUI_VMd1UI/AAAAAAAABMM/AN_UuRmDvhA/s320/Montsweag.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567866398427698498" /></a><br />After getting back on the road, we pass the Hannaford supermarket in Waldoboro town, which, in case you’ve never witnessed it first-hand, is the most uninviting supermarket on the planet. The exterior suggests that it may have been a carwash in a past life. I was forced to shop here for provisions for the past summer’s ill-fated “camping trip,” and I think I’ve seen a better selection of food in a vending machine. They don’t even have Doritos. Can you believe that shit? They don’t even have fucking Doritos! All they have for chips are crap brands like Bachman’s, and I personally wouldn’t have been surprised to stumble upon large displays of Pepsi Clear, Bud Ice Dry (though this would have made me happy), E.T. Cereal, or any other foods that time forgot.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUJTHLsHkI/AAAAAAAABMU/soOTAwLuJiA/s1600/WaldoHannys.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUJTHLsHkI/AAAAAAAABMU/soOTAwLuJiA/s320/WaldoHannys.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567866738263727682" /></a><br />At this point, Melinda feels that it’s probably best to stare blankly out the window as I launch into a tangent about how they should have based the book “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs” in Maine, and called it “Cloudy with a chance of Newburg.” I am only able to get her on board with the idea when I begin suggesting that she imagine what it would be like to be caught in a storm of Newburg, and just how awful that could be.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUJpTjSAcI/AAAAAAAABMc/MUfKT8ry1MU/s1600/Hartstone1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUJpTjSAcI/AAAAAAAABMc/MUfKT8ry1MU/s320/Hartstone1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567867119541027266" /></a><br />Though definitely leaning towards the “quaint” side for me, the Hartstone Inn turns out to be quite comfortable. While inspecting the suite my nerves start to inexplicably flare up, which I finally determine is due to a Joe Cocker CD playing on a stereo by the fireplace to “set the mood,” or as I interpret it “get me all bent out of shape.” I shut it off, take a deep breath, and begin organizing my thoughts in a calm fashion. We have about an hour until we need to leave for dinner, which is just enough time to slaughter the bottle of Trouillard rosé. It goes down real easy, with aromas of toasted brioche and strawberry jam followed by flavors of candy apples, tootsie rolls, and purple horseshoes. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUJ-oUFUAI/AAAAAAAABMk/EWuUo06aOlI/s1600/Hartstone3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUJ-oUFUAI/AAAAAAAABMk/EWuUo06aOlI/s320/Hartstone3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567867485891678210" /></a><br />Being ever-conscientious, law-abiding citizens, we cab it to Primo. While in the mid-coast I would highly recommend the Schooner Bay Taxi Co. (207-542-2076) to get around. They are very prompt and the cars are quite comfortable. When we arrive at the restaurant, the parking lot is total chaos, but that doesn’t stop our driver from flawlessly driving his Prius through a gap that I think I’d have trouble shimmying my fat ass through. <br /><br />As it is their last night of the season, the restaurant is booked solid. We are seated downstairs, which I like because it seems to be the calmer of the several dining areas, and I wouldn’t want to risk not being the loudest person in the room. I recognize many of the patrons from MySpace and Friendster, and am relieved to see that our table is in the corner by the fireplace, a little out of the way. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUKd-WVUMI/AAAAAAAABMs/kRmfiNUZVRk/s1600/Melinda.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUKd-WVUMI/AAAAAAAABMs/kRmfiNUZVRk/s320/Melinda.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567868024382640322" /></a><br />To get things started I order a bottle of 2004 Georg Breuer Riesling Berg Schlossberg from the Rheingau, seeing as the theme of the day is “wines that should be cellared for at least ten more years.” It takes a moment to open up, but is delicious, with razor sharp acidity pairing beautifully with flavors of limestone and white peach. At this time I also request a bottle of 2004 Alejandro Fernandez Tinto Pesquera Riserva to be decanted. <br /><br />Ok. Dinner time. First course is Cold Springs Farm steak tartare, served with white anchovy, quail egg, onion sprouts and black pepper rosemary crackers. This proves to be a perfect beginning, and an excellent companion to the Riesling.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUK4r_NRII/AAAAAAAABM8/mYtobz9arxc/s1600/Tartare.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUK4r_NRII/AAAAAAAABM8/mYtobz9arxc/s320/Tartare.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567868483310273666" /></a><br />I assume, like an idiot, that the wine will pair equally well with the next course, Hudson Valley Foie Gras Two Ways, but the rich and fatty duck liver completely demolishes the Riesling. This is only a momentary distraction, however, from how delicious this plate of food is. The cold preparation is a torchon, with quince paste and Marcona almond brittle, which compliments the healthy portion of seared foie served on pannetone pain perdu. Our server, Sarah, actually suggested that we end with this course, which in hindsight would have been a stronger move. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUULF_MzVeI/AAAAAAAABNE/xidmf3t1puw/s1600/Foie.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUULF_MzVeI/AAAAAAAABNE/xidmf3t1puw/s320/Foie.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567868711805867490" /></a><br />Next up is sunchoke soup with Nantucket Bay scallops and black truffles, and we switch over to the Pesquera that has been decanting for about forty five minutes. This wine represents what I love most about Tempranillo, silky fruit balanced out by dirty, smoky, and leathery flavors. The winemaker, Alejandro Fernandez, is not unlike a god in Spain. He makes stunning wines from the Ribero del Duero, Toro and La Mancha appellations, and I would highly recommend you seek them out. <br /><br />The soup smells so good that Melinda and I immediately dive in without even thinking about taking a picture. Three bites in I consider it, but decide that it’s just not that important to have photographic documentation of everything—as long as there are enough pictures of me. The earthiness of the sunchoke and truffle are damn near perfect together, and bring me to the unavoidable conclusion that this meal was well worth travelling for.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUKsgY1IBI/AAAAAAAABM0/jtowZwj7qsQ/s1600/Pesquera.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUKsgY1IBI/AAAAAAAABM0/jtowZwj7qsQ/s320/Pesquera.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567868274038087698" /></a><br />Clearly getting loved up and a little drunk, we begin eavesdropping on the conversation underway between our server and the couple seated at a neighboring table. It seems that the pretty young lady has a very serious “gluten allergy,” and because they are celebrating their thirteenth anniversary, although they look to be all of twenty-five years old, insist on relocation to a nicer table. I am relieved to see them go, so Melinda and I can begin speaking freely about the pitfalls of pre-arranged marriages, and what it must have been like to have a gluten-free wedding at twelve years old.<br /><br />Sarah suggests we take a break between courses and go upstairs to check out the bar area, since it’s our first visit to the restaurant. I heartily concur, and declare that maybe I’ll have some tequila while I’m up there, “you know, like a gentleman.” Sarah gives me a look, implying that I may have a hard time getting a drink, but to go see it anyway. The moment I reach the top of the stairs, I see what she means. The second floor, almost like a different restaurant altogether, is a shitshow. I take a look around, run into a few people I know from Facebook, but then start getting claustrophobic and, missing my wine, head back downstairs just in time for the next course. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUULvfuIMlI/AAAAAAAABNM/HAl1nzcjZQA/s1600/Squab.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUULvfuIMlI/AAAAAAAABNM/HAl1nzcjZQA/s320/Squab.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567869424910217810" /></a><br />Wood grilled squab with wild huckleberry gastrique, the first of two dishes to arrive, is accompanied by braised red cabbage, sautéed liver, and sweet onions. Though we’re “sharing,” I greedily slide the squab my way, a decision that I immediately regret upon tasting the other dish, lemongrass braised pork belly, now safely situated on the other side of the table. Don’t get me wrong, the squab is fantastic, but the pork is just plain ridiculous. I’ve eaten plenty of pork belly in my time, but this is more meltingly tender and flavorful than any I’ve ever encountered. Topped with a cardamom and sweet potato mousseline, and garnished with a nero tondo radish salad, I could have easily annihilated two plates all by my lonesome. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUL7iPtFJI/AAAAAAAABNU/vlxOna3HtLc/s1600/Belly.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUL7iPtFJI/AAAAAAAABNU/vlxOna3HtLc/s320/Belly.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567869631746348178" /></a><br />While trying to figure out desserts, we split a glass of 1996 Broadbent Colheita Madeira as well as a glass of thirty-year-old Noe Pedro Ximinez, a wine that seems custom designed to pair with chocolate. We settle on the butterscotch pudding with caramel fleur de sel, baci (a chocolate hazelnut semifredo), zeppole (Italian style donuts), and mini cannolis dipped in chocolate. I like the zeppole so much that I track down Melissa Kelly’s recipe when I get home, and proceed to fry donuts for three straight days, causing my entire house to reek of frying oil<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUMJSPnRwI/AAAAAAAABNc/GXpeVFyYAG0/s1600/Dessert.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUUMJSPnRwI/AAAAAAAABNc/GXpeVFyYAG0/s320/Dessert.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567869867969169154" /></a><br /><br />One of the best parts about dining at Primo on the last day of the season is the energy in the air. Not only is it very busy, but you can also sense the excitement of the staff, knowing that they only have one more dinner service to get through before starting a four month vacation. Personally, I admire this because, if it were me, I would most likely redefine the term “already checked out.”<br /><br />I take a moment to chat with Price Kushner, one of the owners, amidst busy servers darting in and out of the kitchen with plates of food. Having someone as large as myself positioned right outside a kitchen door during service is not unlike a car, or more accurately a bus, broken down in the passing lane on the highway. Price seems unfazed and invites me into the kitchen to “chat” with Melissa, who is of course right in the middle of a very busy rush. I quickly say hello and back off, not wanting to impede things further. I know my first reaction when someone foreign is in the kitchen and it’s slammed would be “who the fuck is this asshole, and what in Christ are they doing here?”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWpkuKSNrI/AAAAAAAABNk/e_ys3abEf3o/s1600/joe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWpkuKSNrI/AAAAAAAABNk/e_ys3abEf3o/s320/joe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568042962645038770" /></a><br />We leave completely satisfied, and though I could say I regret not dining at Primo until now, I’m glad I waited for the perfect occasion. On the way back to the inn, I begin badgering the infinitely patient taxi driver to somehow cause “Out of Touch” by Hall & Oates to magically play on the radio. Unfortunately reality prevents him from making this happen, but he humors me a little, so I spare him a personalized a capella performance.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWqNg7k9TI/AAAAAAAABNs/jhDQmSOzvrg/s1600/Hall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWqNg7k9TI/AAAAAAAABNs/jhDQmSOzvrg/s400/Hall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568043663468328242" /></a><br />Back at the hotel, the Rasteau has come around nicely after being open for nine hours. The flavors of blueberry and stones are brilliant even after all of the wine I’ve already consumed. I decide to celebrate how much I like it by accidentally smashing my full glass all over the floor in a fit of joy. Though I love Spiegelau stemware, it always amazes me just how many pieces they can break into, and how little I enjoy cleaning them up when I’m drunk. <br /><br />Once resting comfortably with another glass of Rasteau and watching season two of Breaking Bad, one of the best shows of all time in my opinion, I’m much happier. After dusting that bottle, I open a 2002 Kerpen Riesling Spatlese Wehlener Sonnenuhr. I begin to suspect that something may be horribly wrong as it smells not unlike rotten apple and farts. One sip confirms my suspicion, but luckily I never travel without backup. Though completely confident that I don’t need to drink any more, I pop the cork on a 2008 Cascina Ballarin Langhe Rosso “Cino”, and proceed to careen through about two glasses before “resting my eyes for a moment”, which resulted in “opening them the next day.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWqeIpDd-I/AAAAAAAABN0/mWeSGfnWE54/s1600/breaking.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWqeIpDd-I/AAAAAAAABN0/mWeSGfnWE54/s400/breaking.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568043949005961186" /></a><br />I always drink plenty of water, at least four liters per day, but it wasn’t enough to save me on this particular morning. In a daze, I exercise bad judgment and decide to use the Jacuzzi tub. The heat combined with the massaging from the jets immediately makes me nauseous and twice as hung-over. This leaves me no choice but to get out and lie motionless on the bed, under the ceiling fan, for twenty minutes. I come to the conclusion that the only remedy for me at this point is breakfast at Home Kitchen, in Rockland.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWqxux0FVI/AAAAAAAABN8/h2U1YO1aYc4/s1600/Sticky.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWqxux0FVI/AAAAAAAABN8/h2U1YO1aYc4/s320/Sticky.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568044285660763474" /></a><br />If you’ve not been there, it’s well worth the trip. They make enormous and delicious sticky buns, grilled before serving, that pair perfectly with a cup of black coffee from Rock City Roasters. I contemplate getting a beer as well, but know exactly where that decision is going to lead, so I refrain. “Better to wait until at least three in the afternoon”, I noddingly confirm to myself. After a delicious breakfast of lobster eggs Benedict, it’s time to head back to Portland and reality. On the drive home, Melinda and I discuss the usual “I’m not drinking for X amount of time” and “gym this and that,” with the occasional pause for self reflection. Of course upon arrival back home, I immediately crack a beer and get started.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWrE4oRdgI/AAAAAAAABOE/2oc_byv1xYI/s1600/Benny.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWrE4oRdgI/AAAAAAAABOE/2oc_byv1xYI/s320/Benny.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568044614722614786" /></a><br /><br />Another year begins—the right way. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWrzVVH66I/AAAAAAAABOM/P34Elymbhnw/s1600/Homies.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TUWrzVVH66I/AAAAAAAABOM/P34Elymbhnw/s320/Homies.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568045412700908450" /></a>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-57040374261253875652010-12-02T11:25:00.000-08:002010-12-02T13:31:38.961-08:00Hot Suppa, Tulsi, and Cracker Barrel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgC-2rHXkI/AAAAAAAABG4/vl3L4E5ogls/s1600/joelassi.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgC-2rHXkI/AAAAAAAABG4/vl3L4E5ogls/s320/joelassi.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546186219958263362" /></a><br />I find it funny how every year, during the Holiday season, at the exact same time that everyone else is getting ramped up to eat and drink at a furious pace, I’m always going on the wagon and laying low. I’m not sure what it is, Maybe I’m just so beat up by the time I get to late November that being drunk and full just isn’t that exciting anymore. Usually a month-long break brings back the enthusiasm, plus it’s good to do a yearly “oil change,” if you will. The last few days of a recent bender finds me at three very different restaurants…<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Thursday Night - Hot Suppa</span><br /><br />One of my favorite spots for breakfast and lunch, <a href="http://www.hotsuppa.com/">Hot Suppa</a>, has started doing dinner service Tuesday through Saturday. Normally I give a new concept at least a couple of months before I try it, but I didn’t think that they would have any problem transitioning at all, and I was right.<br /><br />Originally it was supposed to be my friend Beth and I, but quickly the party grew to include my friends Joel, Nick, and Katie (who can fill a room with noise just as easily as I can). Figuring this could be a little tough to accommodate in such a small space, I contact the restaurant to make sure it would be ok. The seating works out fine once I'm able to stuff my fat ass into the booth, the only drawback being that it slightly limits my ability to flail my arms around wildly while emphasizing points.<br /><br />I had just spent five hours getting tattooed that afternoon, so a drink is first on my list of priorities. I opt for the Abita “Turbo Dog” from Louisiana, a darker beer with slight chocolate and toffee notes. Hot Suppa also features a full bar now, as well as a small wine list, adding it to the few places where you can get a great breakfast with a cocktail.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgFQrEjQhI/AAAAAAAABHA/024OGSolSL4/s1600/boudin.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgFQrEjQhI/AAAAAAAABHA/024OGSolSL4/s320/boudin.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546188725104624146" /></a><br />The dinner menu is made up of mostly southern fare, with an emphasis on Cajun. We start out with the boudin balls, fried pork-and-rice sausage served with Creole mustard and pickled okra. What makes these different and better than other versions I’ve had is how light and airy they are without sacrificing flavor. The fried oysters served over baby spinach with bleu cheese vinaigrette are equally successful, with a crispy and delicate batter. It is also nice to eat a few greens, as it makes you feel better about yourself later.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgF2jcCYgI/AAAAAAAABHI/IkJNe7uk9Qo/s1600/oysterfry.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgF2jcCYgI/AAAAAAAABHI/IkJNe7uk9Qo/s320/oysterfry.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546189375890678274" /></a><br />Anyone who’s been to <a href="http://www.restaurantaupieddecochon.ca/">Au Pied de Cochon</a> in Montreal has probably had their mammoth portion of foie gras poutine, and the version they are serving as a special at Hot Suppa comes pretty damn close. Two huge slabs of foie with Pineland Farm cheese curds and a dense gravy atop a mountain of fries is a pretty good deal for $21. You can also get “poutine light,” without the foie gras, if you’re comfortable with being a pussy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgGVokBCBI/AAAAAAAABHQ/-MguzjsTRgU/s1600/poutine.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgGVokBCBI/AAAAAAAABHQ/-MguzjsTRgU/s320/poutine.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546189909842266130" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgG7HgxqgI/AAAAAAAABHY/cGEsAis7e-0/s1600/oysters.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgG7HgxqgI/AAAAAAAABHY/cGEsAis7e-0/s320/oysters.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546190553805335042" /></a><br />Now that I’m already kind of full we take down a few oysters on the half shell and prepare for entrees by getting another round of drinks. I order the fried chicken and waffles, because I like fried chicken and I like waffles. Nick follows me down this path and soon everyone is staring at our chicken and waffle feast with envy. Another standout at the table is Joel’s New Orleans style BBQ shrimp over creamy stone-ground grits, complimented with a delicious butter sauce. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgHhyewdKI/AAAAAAAABHg/oBjlUkbnu0g/s1600/waffles.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgHhyewdKI/AAAAAAAABHg/oBjlUkbnu0g/s320/waffles.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546191218174620834" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgIOk2qnpI/AAAAAAAABHo/LNZDbt-RbAg/s1600/shrimp.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgIOk2qnpI/AAAAAAAABHo/LNZDbt-RbAg/s320/shrimp.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546191987610918546" /></a><br />I become aware that my stomach is having more and more trouble fitting into the booth. Beth suggests that we go to some dance party at Space Gallery, which seems to interest Nick, while the rest of us agree that hanging out in Joel’s kitchen while drinking six bottles of wine is a much more sound idea. We head out to Whole Foods where I purchase, among many other things, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot because it’s the only Champagne that is kept in the cooler. I personally think Veuve is a bunch of mass-produced bullshit, but I had something to celebrate, so it did the trick nicely. Beth agrees, even though she still insists on going to previously discussed dance party...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgPDgrpf_I/AAAAAAAABJ4/FBcrUzEfsA8/s1600/beth.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 235px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgPDgrpf_I/AAAAAAAABJ4/FBcrUzEfsA8/s320/beth.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546199494093799410" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sunday Night -Tulsi</span><br /><br />Probably my new favorite restaurant in Maine, <a href="http://www.tulsiindianrestaurant.com/">Tulsi </a>has blown me away on two consecutive visits with some of the best Indian cuisine I’ve ever had. Plus they’re open on Sundays, which is an important detail for those of us who work in the restaurant business. My first visit was on Halloween night, and they were in a mild state of disarray due to being one man short in an already small kitchen staff. This was fine, we weren’t in any kind of hurry, but the drawback being that the missing person was, as our server put it, “the bread guy.” This meant no <span style="font-style:italic;">naan</span>, but I figured it was just another excuse to come back again very soon.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgI6D7cL_I/AAAAAAAABHw/c5zcyuM4w3g/s1600/jesskelly.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgI6D7cL_I/AAAAAAAABHw/c5zcyuM4w3g/s320/jesskelly.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546192734686818290" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgJ-H2KQnI/AAAAAAAABII/erj_2BF4Cwg/s1600/melinda.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgJ-H2KQnI/AAAAAAAABII/erj_2BF4Cwg/s320/melinda.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546193903969518194" /></a><br />After having such a great experience, my first inclination is always to expect disappointment on the second visit, because it’s just the way I am. The whole drive down I continue to remind my friends Kelly and Jess that it was amazing the last time, so hopefully it would hold up this time. Luckily I have one veteran of the last trip, Melinda, in the car to verify that I wasn’t crazy just in case it wasn’t as amazing as I claimed it would be.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgJLWDYN0I/AAAAAAAABH4/fwrw4EQ9a3o/s1600/tulsi.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgJLWDYN0I/AAAAAAAABH4/fwrw4EQ9a3o/s320/tulsi.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546193031609726786" /></a><br />It’s a little slower and more controlled than last time, and our server definitely seems more at ease when we roll in. The restaurant itself is actually a converted post office, which becomes evident when you access the bathrooms through the back hall and it has that look, feel, and smell. It’s a very cozy room, so I would highly recommend making reservations just to be on the safe side. We start out with a bottle of 2009 Domaine Sainte Eugenie Corbieres Rose, with the intention of taking down at least two more. When I picked Kelly up earlier, she had complained about not eating all day because she was saving room, which is great except for the fact that it made her a little on the impatient side. We attempted to deal with this by getting her some fries from McDonald’s before we left Portland, which would have worked if everyone hadn’t started eating them. I urge her to drink up fast while her stomach is empty, and then relax and enjoy the food. An order of <span style="font-style:italic;">papadum</span> arrives at the table, with two dipping sauces – spicy mint and tamarind. Kelly starts right in on these but quickly finds out that trying to satisfy intense hunger with airy and delicate crisps is a little bit of a lost cause.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgJrjN8GsI/AAAAAAAABIA/aJR5reyGOaE/s1600/balchow.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 248px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgJrjN8GsI/AAAAAAAABIA/aJR5reyGOaE/s320/balchow.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546193584899496642" /></a><br /><br />For appetizers we decide on two orders of the <span style="font-style:italic;">shrimp balchow</span>, sautéed in a tangy, spicy Goan sauce and served with crispy <span style="font-style:italic;">naan</span>, because it was so good on the last visit that one just wasn’t enough. These have a decent amount of heat to them, causing the first bottle of wine to vanish quickly and need to be replaced. We also have the <span style="font-style:italic;">malai kabob</span>—chicken marinated in sour cream and mild spices and then grilled in the tandoor oven. I’m not usually a fan of chicken breasts, much preferring the dark meat, but these are melt-in-your-mouth tender. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgKmnXIiVI/AAAAAAAABIQ/PW6wpcO8zpc/s1600/keema.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgKmnXIiVI/AAAAAAAABIQ/PW6wpcO8zpc/s320/keema.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546194599624083794" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgK9Y8RfaI/AAAAAAAABIY/Dx9Gek4cc6w/s1600/peshawari.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgK9Y8RfaI/AAAAAAAABIY/Dx9Gek4cc6w/s320/peshawari.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546194990890319266" /></a><br />Thankfully, the “bread guy” was in the house so we ordered three different kinds of <span style="font-style:italic;">naan</span>—<span style="font-style:italic;">aloo</span> with spiced potatoes, <span style="font-style:italic;">keema</span> with minced lamb, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Peshawari</span> with nuts, coconut, and dried fruits. I can only describe the bread as fucking amazing, perfectly crispy on the outside and moist and chewy on the inside, all served with a yogurt condiment, <span style="font-style:italic;">raita</span>, on the side.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgLaweQOFI/AAAAAAAABIg/_DJNzDzKZYA/s1600/nilgree.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgLaweQOFI/AAAAAAAABIg/_DJNzDzKZYA/s320/nilgree.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546195495423064146" /></a><br />For entrees we order the <span style="font-style:italic;">chicken korma</span>, simmered in a yogurt and cashew cream sauce, <span style="font-style:italic;">lamb nilgree</span>, cooked in a spicy north Indian mint sauce and served over lemon rice, and <span style="font-style:italic;">palak paneer</span>, spinach sauteed in spices finished with cream and homemade cheese. All are accompanied by large bowls of fragrant basmati rice. Though everything is outstanding, the lamb with the combination of lemon rice and a small salad with pomegranate seeds truly stands out. The food here is all intensely flavorful, yet has a delicate nature that sets it very far apart from other Indian food I’ve enjoyed through the years. Yes, it’s a little more expensive, but you really see why with the first bite you take. This food requires time and skill to prepare, and to fully appreciate it we feel we need a third bottle of wine.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgLwL__NXI/AAAAAAAABIo/g-zLMkIOpro/s1600/korma.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgLwL__NXI/AAAAAAAABIo/g-zLMkIOpro/s320/korma.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546195863589565810" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgMA-q3OfI/AAAAAAAABIw/xlZtX8E4ZZM/s1600/palak.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgMA-q3OfI/AAAAAAAABIw/xlZtX8E4ZZM/s320/palak.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546196152069077490" /></a><br />At this point the chef, Raj, comes out into the dining room to chat. I am starting to get a little drunk, but not quite drunk enough to tell him that he is my personal hero at that moment. Instead I rattle off something stupid and then clumsily introduce my dining companions, to which he smiles and shakes hands before thanking us and heading back into the kitchen. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgMPgQa_QI/AAAAAAAABI4/oVLwT4jsJUY/s1600/jesstakesitall.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 306px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgMPgQa_QI/AAAAAAAABI4/oVLwT4jsJUY/s320/jesstakesitall.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546196401603149058" /></a><br />Despite being painfully full, we have to share a mango<span style="font-style:italic;"> lassi</span>, a yogurt based shake, because it was so goddamn good on the last visit. We ask for four straws (I know, it’s so fucking precious), three of which end up in my mouth after a hilarious mix-up. Jess makes everyone proud by taking all four at once, I guess it helps that she was lubricated by the wine. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgMjYbTm4I/AAAAAAAABJA/ZafKpTB37MI/s1600/spencer.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgMjYbTm4I/AAAAAAAABJA/ZafKpTB37MI/s320/spencer.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546196743098702722" /></a><br />On the ride back to Portland we decide that calling it a night would be silly, and we head to a bar where I run into my pal Spencer and proceed to drink two more bottles of wine and seven shots of tequila. This utterly reckless behavior is brought on due to my frustration with a week–long cold, thinking “well, I’ll just show my body who’s boss around here!” Of course, this doesn’t work and when I awake in a strange room, dazed and late for work the next morning, I notice I am much sicker. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Tuesday Afternoon - Cracker Barrel</span><br /><br />Sometimes I feel the need to go to restaurants solely based on how ridiculous they are, so when I heard that there was a <a href="http://www.crackerbarrel.com/">Cracker Barrel</a> opening out by the Maine Mall, I started to get a little excited. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgMytwl9gI/AAAAAAAABJI/QFoKEAkhf2Y/s1600/crackersign.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgMytwl9gI/AAAAAAAABJI/QFoKEAkhf2Y/s320/crackersign.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546197006523168258" /></a><br />“Sure, I’m a fan of a good Christian time enjoyed amongst other fine Christian folk,” I think to myself. This prompts me to set up a lunch date with one of my favorite companions for absurd adventures, Gemma, informing her that “they’ve got a great gift shop where you can start your Christmas shopping early!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgNNAsBwII/AAAAAAAABJQ/khuiQVUbwPE/s1600/teddybears.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgNNAsBwII/AAAAAAAABJQ/khuiQVUbwPE/s320/teddybears.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546197458280890498" /></a><br />We arrive on a dreary and overcast afternoon, the perfect kind of day to load up on southern style country fare. The restaurant is located right next to the Wyndham Hotel, or “the twin trash cans” as we so lovingly refer to them. We enter through the gift shop, which immediately puts me on overload, with obnoxious Christmas smells, snowmen, teddy bears, and bad sweaters everywhere. My first reaction is “I don’t belong here, something bad is going to happen to me,” and I realize that I must get to the host stand quickly to reach the safety of our table. <br /><br />As we are seated I am disappointed to learn that they don’t serve any alcohol, as that would make it less of a “family friendly” environment. We decide to make do, and I order a Stewarts Orange & Cream soda, while Gemma opts for apple cider. The dining room is filled with the usual kitsch, and I observe what was clearly a five hundred pound man at a neighboring table consuming enough food for about ten adults.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgNhEHE79I/AAAAAAAABJY/fzduS16B4jg/s1600/cider.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgNhEHE79I/AAAAAAAABJY/fzduS16B4jg/s320/cider.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546197802797035474" /></a><br />I feel that most chain restaurants, no matter how shitty, can at least serve food that tastes good by using enough ingredients that are bad for you. I came here with the intention of getting country-fried steak, figuring that it’s impossible to fuck up. The menu is extensive and has many categories, taking a break between each to try to sell you additional things, such as frying pans, peg games, etc. My country fried steak entrée ($9.29) is under the “Fancy Fixin’s” category and comes with “made from scratch” buttermilk biscuits or corn muffins, “real” butter, and my choice of any three “country vegetables.” Vegetable choices include, among other things, macaroni & cheese, cottage cheese, steak fries, fried apples, and pinto beans. I go for the mashed potatoes and whole kernel corn, along with fried okra.<br /><br />Gemma initially is leaning towards country fried shrimp, but is then seduced by the prominently displayed “chicken n’ dumplins platter ($8.29),” which promises the “best of the breast” paired up with rolled by hand, made from scratch dumplins. Her country vegetable selections are hash brown casserole, fried apples, and turnip greens.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgODfNZXqI/AAAAAAAABJg/maKccI7hrd0/s1600/snowmen.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgODfNZXqI/AAAAAAAABJg/maKccI7hrd0/s320/snowmen.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546198394186849954" /></a><br />Just as I’m about to ask where the bathrooms are so I can go look myself in the mirror to affirm that I hate myself for doing this, a random customer pipes up and yells “through the gift shop, buddy!” I thank the friendly Christian as I slink back into gift nightmare Hell, and when I arrive back two minutes later I find our table is already littered with a shitload of food.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgOmjkkjZI/AAAAAAAABJo/krx8QaXbcyY/s1600/countryfry.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgOmjkkjZI/AAAAAAAABJo/krx8QaXbcyY/s320/countryfry.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546198996653215122" /></a><br />My chicken fried steak tastes fine, though the consistency of the gravy is like mashed potatoes. This turns out to be ok, because my mashed potatoes were barely “mashed” at all, filled with big lumps. To remedy this I mix my corn into them, hoping to disguise the potato lumps by telling myself that it is a corn kernel I just bit into, nothing more. My fried okra could best be described as “deep-fried Mushy Ca-Ca,” and after eating two I push them very far away from me. Biscuits and corn bread are wildly disappointing, being dry and not even salvageable with the small pat of “real” butter provided.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgO12Ft8iI/AAAAAAAABJw/vvGQ0Ewd-6M/s1600/fixins.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgO12Ft8iI/AAAAAAAABJw/vvGQ0Ewd-6M/s320/fixins.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546199259322118690" /></a><br />If you think this sounds bad, things are going even worse for Gemma over on the other side of the table. Her “Chicken and Dumplins” looks more like wontons that someone had blown their nose all over. The “Best of the Breast” blended seamlessly into this monochromatic mess, with the hash brown casserole being the only edible item on the plate. It is a very unfortunate situation, as we were very hungry to begin with, but ate just enough awful food to not be able to justify going somewhere else to eat again. I will say that the service was excellent, and at least we don’t have to wait long for our check to get the fuck out of there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgPWwrBQMI/AAAAAAAABKA/3AucyUVl1L8/s1600/dumplins.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgPWwrBQMI/AAAAAAAABKA/3AucyUVl1L8/s320/dumplins.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546199824803643586" /></a><br />If you’re still interested in checking out Cracker Barrel, you’ll be delighted to find out that certain days are better than others to dine there, such as:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friday Fish Fry</span>, with a choice of Haddock or Catfish.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Saturday Chicken N’ Rice</span>, featuring made from scratch Chicken N’ Rice.<br />Or<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sunday Home-style Chicken</span>, with boneless chicken breasts fried to a golden brown in our kitchen, as opposed to right next to your table.<br /><br />On the way out we explore the gift shop a little more, and find a few hidden treasures:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgPl2JpmmI/AAAAAAAABKI/Ev4RGgZoslE/s1600/horsey.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgPl2JpmmI/AAAAAAAABKI/Ev4RGgZoslE/s320/horsey.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546200083972332130" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgP1WQRzaI/AAAAAAAABKQ/TA4fOkd5O9A/s1600/weaselball.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgP1WQRzaI/AAAAAAAABKQ/TA4fOkd5O9A/s320/weaselball.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546200350288104866" /></a><br />As we leave I vow never to return, which is sad because I spend a fair amount of time at mall-side restaurants due to them being my safe-zone for any kind of family gathering. I respect certain chains because they are always consistent, which is comforting to me. My go-to list remains the same:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgP5kZ-alI/AAAAAAAABKY/016dT0h1oTM/s1600/longhorn.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgP5kZ-alI/AAAAAAAABKY/016dT0h1oTM/s400/longhorn.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546200422806350418" /></a><br />1. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Longhorn Steakhouse</span> (definitely the best quality, owned by Capital Grill)<br />2. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Chili's (</span>very bad for you but tasty – also good margaritas)<br />3. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Famous Dave’s</span> ( I like the ribs)<br />4. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Imperial China</span> (not a chain, but near the mall. tasty Chinese-American, loaded with MSG)<br />5. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Wild Willy’s</span> (I like the burgers here, and they’ve got very tall beers and a crazy drunk robotic piano cowboy)<br />6. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Texas Roadhouse</span> (just don’t bring kids with peanut allergies, unless you wish to harm them)<br /><br />The worst would be:<br /><br />1. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Cracker Barrel</span> (see above)<br />2. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Applebees</span> (bland, shitty food)<br />3. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Ruby Tuesdays</span> (wildly inconsistent)<br />4. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Pizza Hut Italian Bistro</span> (the name alone should piss you off)<br />5. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Olive Garden</span> (the only experience I’ve ever enjoyed here was in high school when I took acid with a friend and skipped school. We ended up here, ordering all you can eat breadsticks & salad while giggling uncontrollably for about an hour. I don’t recommend going here unless you’re tripping your face off)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgQCoeF8WI/AAAAAAAABKg/aIcoomzCKVI/s1600/playboy-olive-garden.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TPgQCoeF8WI/AAAAAAAABKg/aIcoomzCKVI/s400/playboy-olive-garden.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546200578516185442" /></a>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-87809077421521279242010-11-14T14:11:00.001-08:002010-11-14T21:18:39.571-08:00Epcot Center Food Coma - Yes, You Heard Right...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBhIuEZM5I/AAAAAAAABDQ/wfROarY8Nbk/s1600/joekids.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBhIuEZM5I/AAAAAAAABDQ/wfROarY8Nbk/s320/joekids.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539534344099017618" /></a><br />I'm not quite sure how this happened...<br /><br />About a year ago I found myself either drunk or in a really good mood, or quite possibly both, and I agreed to journey to a place that would probably be right above Antarctica on my list of places to visit. Envision a land where children roam free, the tank top is in vogue, and a giant mouse rules with an iron fist. That’s right – Orlando, Florida.<br /><br />Because no friend of mine would ever propose this idea to me, you may have figured out that it was my family, using as justification the fact that our last “family trip” was seventeen years ago. I had tried to forget about the disastrous “Ricchio European Vacation,” where we had successfully set Americans back in the view of the German people by fifty years. The highlights for me were forcing my family to visit Dachau, the fact that in Munich they serve beer to fifteen year olds, and realizing that eating at McDonald’s avoids lots of unnecessary confusion and embarrassment because my parents can recognize most of the menu options. It was supposed to be a two week adventure in the heart of the Fatherland, but that was mercifully cut down to a week when we all realized it was a complete failure. Interesting side note though, on the way there I discovered that it is, in fact, fun to do acid on a plane.<br /><br />This time I believed my parents would be in their element, or at least in a place where English was the primary language spoken, so I agreed to fly down for a couple of days to join them at Epcot center. I kept telling myself that “it’s not Disney World, and it may provide for some interesting stories,” but as the day grew closer I came to the realization that, much like last summer when I was talked into going camping, this was going to be brutal.<br /><br />I hate to fly, and I especially hate it when I’m not even going somewhere I’m excited about. I picture my embarrassment when people talk about “when Joe Ricchio died in a tragic plane crash on his way to Orlando.” My friends would laugh and play songs from the Little Mermaid soundtrack at my funeral, proceeding to decorate my grave as if it were the <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/It's_a_Small_World">it’s a small world </a></span>ride. My family had already been in Orlando for about a week, Thus I'm travelling solo and to make myself feel better I upgrade to first class, where all of the drinks are free. I park my car in the garage and slug two nips of Rumple Minz on my walk towards the ticketing booth, which starts to loosen me up. Once through security I choke down two large Old Thumpers and a shot of Jameson, while trying to eat a small bowl of disgusting and gluey mac n’ cheese, at the Shipyard Bar before my flight starts boarding. Though only travelling for about five hours, I purchase ten magazines to keep my mind occupied. Once we’re in the air, I take down three Budweisers while talking to a guy named Dave, who had been a pilot in the Air Force since 1987. When I asked him if he’d ever like to retire and fly commercial airliners he replied that would be like “trading your Ferrari in for a Saturn.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBh054UyeI/AAAAAAAABDY/2UOhzgHrpvQ/s1600/Rumpleminz.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBh054UyeI/AAAAAAAABDY/2UOhzgHrpvQ/s320/Rumpleminz.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539535103183866338" /></a><br />We land in Baltimore and I decide that I need one more beer and a double shot of Bushmills before catching my connecting flight. The bar is conveniently located right next to my gate, so I can monitor the boarding process. As it neared departure time I was noticing very little activity. I got up to go to the bathroom I heard my name being announced over the intercom, basically informing me that I was about to be spending the night in Baltimore if I didn’t board immediately. While observing my acknowledgement of this message from across the way, they continued to instruct me, over the loudspeaker, to “hurry up and finish my beer.”<br />After three more Buds and a nip of Canadian Club on the second flight I finally arrive in Orlando. I take a cab to the Marriot, where my parents had basically rented a large apartment. The accommodations are actually quite comfortable, so I decide to crack open one of the bottles of wine I’ve brought, a Chateau des Tours Cotes du Rhone, and prepare to unwind after a day of traveling. It doesn't take long to for me to fall asleep in front of the TV, and several hours later I awake from a bad dream realizing that <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0280590/">Mr. Deeds</a></span>, starring Adam Sandler, is on the screen. I watch, half awake, for about five minutes before I conclude that my nightmare was probably a direct result of what a piece of shit this movie is. I turn the power off and fade back into an Adam Sandler-free slumber…<br /><br />The next day I’m shaky and a little out of it, but I think that’s prime condition for a trip to Epcot Center. The discussion about where to eat lunch begins, and I dodge a few ridiculous suggestions from my parents, such as Pizzeria Uno. Frustration begins to mount, as I’m getting hungry and irritated, and eventually everyone, meaning me, decides that we just need to drive to Epcot, and see what’s on the way. As it turns out, nothing was on the way, and as we arrive at Epcot my father immediately begins groaning about the cost of parking. We pull up to the collection booth, and he asks the attendant “when did you start charging for parking?” As if this poor woman would have any fucking clue. Luckily, not speaking very good English, she misinterprets his question, thinking he has asked her “when do you stop charging for parking?” <br /><br />“Two hours before the park closes,” she replies. <br /><br />My father is forced to pay and continue on towards the main lot, where there are attendants dressed in obnoxious yellow and white striped outfits, riding Segways, directing traffic. “For eighteen bucks I should be able to park wherever the hell I please!” my father grumbles as he follows the parking instructions to a tee.<br /><br />After parking, the Disney adventure begins. We get to walk a quarter mile through the parking lot to find a tram waiting to transport us into the park. Once seated a man’s voice comes over the speakers at ear-bleeding volume, barking in unrecognizably distorted words for the duration of the seven minute and twenty-two second journey to the park entrance.<br /><br />At this point I’m starving and nauseous from a mild hangover, and starting to get very, very irritable. When we get through the gate my mother and sister decide that before lunch they’d like to go on the “Spaceship Earth” ride. I now realize that my only hope of salvaging any chance of having fun in a Disney-run theme park is to go it alone. As my family starts shuffling towards the rides, I stride off in the opposite direction, hollering vaguely in their direction, “I’ll call you in a little bit!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBi_q4aeHI/AAAAAAAABDg/-b-w5WiVfLE/s1600/mexico1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBi_q4aeHI/AAAAAAAABDg/-b-w5WiVfLE/s320/mexico1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539536387647895666" /></a><br />As most people know, Epcot Center is largely made up of several faux "countries” that have been built and populated in an effort to replicate the real thing. I decide that I will spend the next six hours eating and drinking my way through this mini-world, documenting it along the way, before reuniting with my family in faux Italy at 8:00 for dinner reservations. The first thing I do upon going solo is make a beeline for faux China to eat lunch, as I believe this to be a good gauge of just how “authentic” the food at Epcot can be. Each faux country has at least 2-3 places to eat, and I select what looks to be faux China’s flagship restaurant, Nine Dragons, to set the tone for the rest of the day. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBj0hyul8I/AAAAAAAABDo/G-Q77OsEwNw/s1600/dragondiningroom.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBj0hyul8I/AAAAAAAABDo/G-Q77OsEwNw/s320/dragondiningroom.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539537295741196226" /></a><br />The most interesting part of the faux countries is that everyone who works there has been imported from the non-faux country bearing the same name. It’s actually pretty cool to transition through each one and observe the change in spoken language, architecture, and food smells over the space of a three-minute walk. The menu at Nine Dragons is definitely heavily influenced by Americans, but I roll with it and order hot & sour soup and Kung Pao chicken. I generally don’t trust glass pours in restaurants so I get a split (187ml) bottle of Mumm Napa, a non-offensive sparkling wine from California, for an easy transition back into yet another day of non-stop drinking. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBkMScIf4I/AAAAAAAABDw/hvXd0OrN0c8/s1600/mummnapa.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBkMScIf4I/AAAAAAAABDw/hvXd0OrN0c8/s320/mummnapa.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539537703936753538" /></a><br />My waiter, a Chinese man in his fifties, is very friendly but having an extremely difficult time getting my bottle of sparkling open. I desperately want to help him, so I can have my fucking drink, but I feel like it will hurt his feelings. After what felt like a week, but in reality only about a minute and a half, he pops the cork and pours into a large Champagne flute, which is slightly dusty from prolonged storage. Two minutes later my hot and sour soup arrives, which isn’t anything special but given how hungry I am, tastes damn near perfect. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBk55YtbzI/AAAAAAAABD4/IAOMXPQBIB8/s1600/hotsour.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 286px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBk55YtbzI/AAAAAAAABD4/IAOMXPQBIB8/s320/hotsour.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539538487485493042" /></a><br />I start to look around the restaurant and observe the other patrons, who all look like pure, unadulterated brutality. If I ever give up on life, kind of like the movie <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0113627/">Leaving Las Vegas</a></span>, I will come to Disney and wait tables while drinking myself to death. These people make my parents, by comparison, look like experienced and savvy world travelers. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBmOK7m8QI/AAAAAAAABEA/Ll03BnqHolI/s1600/kungpao.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBmOK7m8QI/AAAAAAAABEA/Ll03BnqHolI/s320/kungpao.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539539935304282370" /></a><br />My Kung Pao chicken is actually quite good, with a perfect balance of sweet and spicy complimented by crunchy peanuts. I order another bottle of sparkling about five minutes before I finish my current one, to accommodate for the time required by my waiter's inevitable struggle. Though I have my camera with me, I need to have a few drinks before I'll feel comfortable taking a lot of pictures. I come to the realization that no matter what I do, there was no way I could possibly be any more irritating than the people they deal with on a regular basis. Once I'm at ease with this fact, I am able to start having a mildly enjoyable time. I even consider "practicing my Chinese characters" on the menu provided, but sadly I'd left my Calligraphy set at home.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBm2W1MsYI/AAAAAAAABEI/2i7iP_Uabkc/s1600/characters.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 190px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBm2W1MsYI/AAAAAAAABEI/2i7iP_Uabkc/s320/characters.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539540625693389186" /></a><br />During my visit, Epcot happens to be holding their annual <a href="http://disneyworld.disney.go.com/parks/epcot/special-events/epcot-international-food-and-wine-festival/">“International Food & Wine Festival,”</a> which really translates to "Celebration of Generic & Mass-Produced Easily-Recognizable American Brand Names"(CoGaMPERABN). I didn’t bother with any of the random carts set up for this, focusing instead on the permanent collections within the faux countries. Faux Germany is my next stop, where I begin to realize that all of the girls that work here are quite pretty, inspiring me to check out the wines they are pouring at the counter of the “weinkeller.” Amidst several Rieslings that are responsible for most people thinking they don’t like Riesling, I find a Selbach-Oster Kabinett, which I actually like. While waiting for a glass, I overhear a few members of the staff laughing amongst themselves and conversing in German. Every now and they wave their hands in the air and yell, “Oh, hi!” clearly imitating an obnoxious and very gay southerner who had just left the shop. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBnX7fwM3I/AAAAAAAABEQ/6xtKa1mre40/s1600/Japan1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 220px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBnX7fwM3I/AAAAAAAABEQ/6xtKa1mre40/s320/Japan1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539541202471236466" /></a><br />I exit the store with my Riesling in hand and wander around for a bit, ending up in faux Japan, where there is a particularly impressive display of drumming taking place on a replica of a Shinto shrine. I spend a moment taking it all in, but am inevitably drawn to the sake counter at one of the shops. My fetish for Japanese women makes this a very distracting place to be, so I decide I might linger for a bit. Once again, although the selection of sake fairly generic, there are a few diamonds in the rough to be found if you know what you're doing. As I pretend to peruse the shelves, I eavesdrop on the saleswoman talking to the man shopping next to me. She asks him if he likes sake, to which he replies “No, not really.” Staying friendly, she asks if he’d like to taste any, and he points to a bottle of plum wine. She explains to him that the only sakes available to taste are the ones on the counter, not the shelves, which seems to offend him and he storms away. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBnozBHcMI/AAAAAAAABEY/TVTGhBdIO_g/s1600/drums.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 146px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBnozBHcMI/AAAAAAAABEY/TVTGhBdIO_g/s320/drums.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539541492253028546" /></a><br />Unfazed, she approaches me and asks the same question, to which I reply “Yes.” She seems relieved and we go to the counter, where I try a vintage sake that is actually quite good. She asks me what kind of sake I like, and I get confused as to how to answer, not wanting to seem like I'm trying to impress her with my extensive knowledge of sake, so all I can think to say is “dry ones.” She smiles and nods in agreement, and I wander off with glass in hand. That’s one of the best parts of places like Epcot, being able to walk around anywhere with drinks, and I intend to take full advantage of this. At this point I notice a man shopping around in a ridiculous kimono (pictured) that he had clearly just purchased, somehow thinking it didn’t make him look like the “Ultimate Fuck-Stick.” He also didn’t think it was strange when I took his picture, at least for the first time (I’ll elaborate later).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBoLHwGN7I/AAAAAAAABEg/YqbloARwPxk/s1600/fuckstick1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 282px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOBoLHwGN7I/AAAAAAAABEg/YqbloARwPxk/s320/fuckstick1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539542081934342066" /></a><br />I begin to feel a little hungry, and head over to a restaurant called Mitsokoshi for a Nigiri snack. After what I’ve learned from Masa Miyake, I feel pretty comfortable in any Japanese dining setting, but unfortunately, because of Masa’s food, I’m also very easily disappointed. I just want basics so I decide to take a chance. The waitress, who was quite easy on the eyes, seems immediately relieved that I didn’t stare at her like a deer in the headlights when handed a warm cloth for my hands. She really opens up as I order simple items such as tuna, yellow tail, and omelette by their Japanese names, and then I'm pretty sure she wants to fuck me when I don’t ask for a fork. At least this is what I perceive, regardless of any basis in reality, as I dive into a half bottle of Junmai Ginjo sake and a Sapporo. The fish is actually pretty good, the rice and wasabi are not, but I am having a good time regardless, listening to the girl at the next table tell her parents about her “richest boyfriend ever.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCh5SqEjII/AAAAAAAABEo/pVyKx0ZNUNw/s1600/hanson.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCh5SqEjII/AAAAAAAABEo/pVyKx0ZNUNw/s320/hanson.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539605547298622594" /></a><br />As I exit the restaurant, I’ve got a pretty decent glow-on, so I decide to watch more of the drum performance before heading over to faux France. On my way, however, I’m distracted by an accumulation of people around a large stage, with the words “Eat to the Beat” prominently displayed. Upon further investigation I learn that the pop group <a href="http://www.hanson.net/site/sections/1">Hanson</a>, yes “MMMMMMmmmMMMM Bop!!!” Hanson, was about to play a free show in 30 minutes. This seems surreal to me, and I think it best to carry on and pretend it isn't actually happening, and that maybe I'm just drunk and hallucinating. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCibwSXEMI/AAAAAAAABEw/ZbXI7ycFv20/s1600/franceguy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCibwSXEMI/AAAAAAAABEw/ZbXI7ycFv20/s320/franceguy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539606139367788738" /></a><br />To get the thought of attending a Hanson show out of my head, I work my way over to the wine shop in faux France in search of Champagne. They have Pommery Brut N/V, which is totally inoffensive, amidst many other Ca-Cah brands that would be sold at a Hypermarche, the French equivalent of a Shop N' Save. I head out into the streets with my plastic champagne flute, and make early dinner reservations for myself at “Bistro de Paris,” the “high-end” restaurant in faux France. One more lap through the countries before it gets dark seems like a reasonable idea, so I check out faux Morocco. At this point I have also started to drunk-dial friends at home, in addition to sending photo updates of each faux country, just in case anyone wants to share the Disney Magic with me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCjBeAnSJI/AAAAAAAABE4/JvFyHvJ7D5I/s1600/morocco1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCjBeAnSJI/AAAAAAAABE4/JvFyHvJ7D5I/s320/morocco1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539606787296544914" /></a><br />Faux Morocco looks much like the set of Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, with aromas of spices filling the air. The Disney police happen to be on the scene outside one of the restaurants, investigating an incident involving a few Americans who felt that crimes committed in faux Morocco may not follow them into neighboring faux Italy, which I’m sure was a grave mistake. As I myself cross over the faux Italian border, I notice that my Champagne is almost gone and venture towards the wine shop for a refill. Upon discovering that they’re only pouring bullshit Italian wine, such as Bolla Amarone, I head back towards Germany for more Riesling. On the way, I cross through “The Great American Adventure,” which is the United States but presented in a more historic manner. There is a large beer kiosk that is only pouring Samuel Adams, which prompts a man pushing a stroller to yell out,“You got any American Beer?! Fuck Yeah!” while giving an enthusiastic thumbs up into the air. I pause to consider whatever creature is in that stroller and what it’s life is going to turn out like, but then realize that I’m badly in need of a refill and press on towards the faux Fatherland. This is when my second sighting of “Kimono Fuck-Stick” occurs…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCjbv0wlgI/AAAAAAAABFA/FEZ8254Ffmw/s1600/fuckstick2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 219px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCjbv0wlgI/AAAAAAAABFA/FEZ8254Ffmw/s320/fuckstick2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539607238755259906" /></a><br />They have swapped out the attractive German girls from my last visit with even more attractive ones. I quickly annihilate two glasses of wine while pretending to look the wine selection over but actually staring at the girls out of the corner of my eye. Sorry, I know I’m being creepy, but I’m getting drunk, and It's not my fault that they hire girls who look like this and dress them in these “outfits.” Plus it's definitely better than the alternatives:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCkuUhLikI/AAAAAAAABFY/4uaVbwARZRY/s1600/norwaywomen.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCkuUhLikI/AAAAAAAABFY/4uaVbwARZRY/s320/norwaywomen.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539608657354525250" /></a><br />It’s getting close to the time of my dinner reservation in faux France, so I quickly find a restroom. Here I’m treated to some very disturbing imagery, as I walk by a stall that’s half open with a man grunting and groaning while gripping the rail next to the toilet. I was unsure if he was grunting in German, thinking maybe it was part of the act here, but I get the fuck out and head for the faux Mexican border. I take a moment to watch a Mariachi band on the street, while desperately trying to get the bathroom incident out of my head.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCk_zQ0jvI/AAAAAAAABFg/G5qW2cqGV3o/s1600/mariachi.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 208px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCk_zQ0jvI/AAAAAAAABFg/G5qW2cqGV3o/s320/mariachi.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539608957665185522" /></a><br />When I arrive and am seated at Bistro de Paris, I’m the only patron in a dining room that redefines the word “sterile.” Knowing I have yet another dinner plan in faux Italy later, I decide to order three appetizers – smoked salmon, escargots, and butternut squash soup. The wine list is filled with vastly overpriced and uninteresting bottles, so I select the 2007 Comte de Lupe Bourgogne Rouge, mainly because it isn’t over $150 and seems like it will be drinkable and perfectly fine. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCn40DMSBI/AAAAAAAABGI/T0ClqI3IeDI/s1600/parisdining.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCn40DMSBI/AAAAAAAABGI/T0ClqI3IeDI/s320/parisdining.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539612136152254482" /></a><br />My waiter, Djibril, is very friendly and a little too enthusiastic, and I eventually have to tell him that I can pour my own water and wine so that he won't visit my table every five minutes. This seems to confuse him, so I explain that I am a very fast drinker, but in actuality I just don’t want my wine stem, which seems very cheap considering the price of the wines, filled up three quarters of the way. He looks at me like I have three heads when I ask if it's normal for them not to play any kind of music in the dining room, as it's dead silent at the moment, and then proceed to snap this photo of him.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOClbc5kOiI/AAAAAAAABFo/BtodxXuLRVM/s1600/djibril.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOClbc5kOiI/AAAAAAAABFo/BtodxXuLRVM/s320/djibril.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539609432698403362" /></a><br />Other customers start to lumber in, all old and miserable looking, with the stench of death about them. The bread girl visits my table and she is (surprise, surprise) very pretty, and very polite. As she makes her way through the dining room I hear her being asked all kinds of awful questions by the walking dead, such as where she’s from and how does she like America, and I hope for her sake that she can’t read minds. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCl1J6Ct5I/AAAAAAAABFw/jl7A4S9WO64/s1600/salmon.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCl1J6Ct5I/AAAAAAAABFw/jl7A4S9WO64/s320/salmon.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539609874276726674" /></a><br />I’m presented with an amuse, a cheese and leek flan, which is entirely forgettable. My first actual course is black peppercorn smoked salmon, with blinis and chevre, which is definitely the strongest dish I am to encounter. I guess it’s fairly difficult to fuck up smoked salmon, which is why I ordered it in the first place. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCmfCDniNI/AAAAAAAABF4/E3xwJtJLYLA/s1600/escargot.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCmfCDniNI/AAAAAAAABF4/E3xwJtJLYLA/s320/escargot.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539610593723910354" /></a><br />Escargots "cassoulet" with Porcini mushrooms and parsley butter does not fare so well, and would have been better if they had at least provided more of the buttery pastry to accommodate the large amount of snails. I love snails, but I don't want a big bowl of them, especially when the texture is off and every fifth one is filled with grit. The fact that everything is garnished with cherry tomatoes pisses me off as well, and they proceed to do it on all three dishes. Djibril looks hurt that I didn’t finish my escargot, and I politely explain that I’ve got another dinner to attend in two hours and I’m trying to save room.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCnB9yFY_I/AAAAAAAABGA/8WAhdLIqqBw/s1600/soup.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCnB9yFY_I/AAAAAAAABGA/8WAhdLIqqBw/s320/soup.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539611193872049138" /></a><br />Little did I know that I should have saved this excuse for my butternut squash soup with crème fraiche and chestnuts. The soup itself is ok, but I have forgotten about the chestnuts and am a little alarmed when I bite into something that has the texture of raw cauliflower, and it kind of ruins it for me. The accompanying gougere is completely devoid of flavor, a far cry from the ones I grew to love at Evangeline. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCoIwndA5I/AAAAAAAABGQ/esGwldYA7hk/s1600/beatlesband.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 297px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCoIwndA5I/AAAAAAAABGQ/esGwldYA7hk/s320/beatlesband.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539612410108511122" /></a><br />After clearing my half-eaten soup, Djibril seems to get the hint that maybe I think the food sucks, so I quickly ask for the check to avoid any uncomfortable confrontation with any kind of manager. On my way out I start beating myself up a little bit for not eating in faux Morocco instead, and probably saving myself eighty bucks in the process, but another glass of champagne puts me in a good mood again. I wander off to kill time before dinner in faux Italy and stumble upon a Beatles cover band performing in faux England. This is yet another surreal element to a day spent meandering around like a pilgrim in an unholy land, a land that keeps getting better and better with every drink I consume. The one question I’m left with after checking out the shops in faux Japan and England is, "Who the fuck actually buys these expensive swords?" They're <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> fucking expensive, and I can’t imagine, looking around, that any of these people are going to be doing any kind of battle anytime soon. I just don’t get it.<br /><br />Wandering the streets of Epcot at night can be dangerous, as you have to be constantly aware of reckless old people on motorized carts. I walk over to a dessert kiosk to take momentary shelter, and notice they’re pouring the Moet & Chandon Nectar Imperial, a demi-sec Champagne that seems perfectly suited to my state of mind at this juncture. As I take my first sip, I'm rudely interrupted by the vibration of my phone. It's my family, who have arrived at the restaurant 45 minutes early and are wondering where I am. For some reason this annoys me to no end, plus I am still a little full from my shitty French food, so I depart at an extra slow pace to meet them. Yes, I can at times behave like a five-year-old...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCokHP5A4I/AAAAAAAABGY/eJ7roqx4-og/s1600/nectar.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCokHP5A4I/AAAAAAAABGY/eJ7roqx4-og/s320/nectar.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539612880040166274" /></a><br />As I arrive at Tutto Italia, in a pissy mood, the cheesy Italian Maitre d' escorts me to my family’s table and makes a joke. “Hey, do you know this guy? He says he knows you – I can kick him out if you’d like!” I would have preferred if my family were laughing because they knew how annoyed I was, but unfortunately it's because they actually think this joke is funny. I say nothing, and immediately reach for the wine list. <br /><br />They have already ordered a meat and cheese plate for the table, from which I nibble a few pieces of Mortadella, because I can’t resist it no matter how full or pissed off I am. Looking over the wine list, everything is as wildly over-priced and boring as it was in France, so I opt for the 2007 Lucente, a Super Tuscan that is made in large quantities, but is still generally delicious. I’m not sure I could have been any less interested in the back-story about our waitress, but that doesn't stop my mother from filling me in. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCpFKEJbjI/AAAAAAAABGg/THhLtme_fFM/s1600/Lucente.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 306px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCpFKEJbjI/AAAAAAAABGg/THhLtme_fFM/s320/Lucente.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539613447731899954" /></a><br />We place our entrée orders. I choose Lasagna Bolognese, because it's difficult to fuck up, and also because I figure no one could possibly serve a $26 order of Lasagna that sucks, right? Wrong.<br /><br />I’ve had better lasagna in the cafeteria when I was in the second grade. The pasta is catastrophically mushy and the sauce tastes like it came out of a Manwich can. Everything else on the table is much better than what I ordered, and this further annoys me because I'm usually good at ordering the safe bet on the menu. Oh well, my family is having a good time and are enjoying their food, so I figure I should just shut the fuck up and eat.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCpWzdyTHI/AAAAAAAABGo/0LFKbOold8k/s1600/lasagna.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCpWzdyTHI/AAAAAAAABGo/0LFKbOold8k/s320/lasagna.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539613750903065714" /></a><br />The journey back to the car is arduous, as I am so full that I can barely breathe. Never have I wanted a giant glass of <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fernet">Fernet Branca</a></span> more than I do at this moment, but I'm not about to take the time to seek one out. All in all, I feel like I’ve done enough damage for one day, and I’m not sure the average Epcot visitor generally takes it quite this far. I’m not saying that there will ever be a next time, but if there is, I’m getting one of those fucking motorized carts.<br /><br />Just like I said after I was forced to go camping:<br /><br />Glad I did it, but excited that it’s over.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCppun7toI/AAAAAAAABGw/pxXpFJsMP-s/s1600/joetravelling.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TOCppun7toI/AAAAAAAABGw/pxXpFJsMP-s/s320/joetravelling.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539614076020962946" /></a>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-75477628475593829832010-10-19T21:05:00.000-07:002010-10-20T09:20:11.907-07:00Second Annual Pumpkin Beer Tasting - Why Do We Continue To Do This To Ourselves?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5si7WUuMI/AAAAAAAABBg/1XWXGfZTIZM/s1600/IMG_5157.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5si7WUuMI/AAAAAAAABBg/1XWXGfZTIZM/s320/IMG_5157.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529976739760224450" /></a><br /><a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2009/11/pumpkin-beer-tasting-dont-try-this-at.html">Once again</a> we embark on an epic drinking journey in an attempt to understand why the fuck people get so excited about pumpkin beer.<br /><br />The second annual Portland Food Coma Pumpkin Beer Celebration has arrived. Personally, I hate pumpkin beer, which is why I think it’s fun to torture my friends and myself in an attempt to locate at least one selection that we would actually call drinkable. This time we’ve upped the count from six selections to ten, representing breweries and bad puns from around the country. <br /><br />The tasting always takes place on a Sunday, to insure that everyone will be hungover - which makes the whole ordeal that much more brutal. Our panel of judges, in addition to myself, is as follows:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Brad</span><br />An seasoned home brewer with extensive background in professional kitchens, Brad has been part of Deathmatch and many other dinner events we’ve organized. He currently works full time for Rosemont Bakery in Portland<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Nolan</span><br />The beer buyer for Downeast Beverage in Portland, and also an experienced home brewer. Nolan is the only returning veteran from last years PumCaCa, and maintains that he is still approaching with an open mind.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Molly</span><br />Although not in the business currently, she is an experienced drinker that has, on occasion, drank me into a hurt locker. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The rundown begins with the one that started it all….<br /></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5tD2ZWRbI/AAAAAAAABBo/hZTVoJO-86k/s1600/IMG_5137.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5tD2ZWRbI/AAAAAAAABBo/hZTVoJO-86k/s320/IMG_5137.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529977305366414770" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">1. Shipyard Brewery - Pumpkin Head, Portland, ME</span><br /><br />Joe: This smells like a pumpkin-scented candle from the Christmas Tree Shops, and the flavor is reminiscent of nutmeg and shit. I imagine that this might be what it would taste like if you went down on the headless horseman.<br /><br />Nolan: Smells more like spices than pumpkin, the taste is light and foul. I can’t believe people actually like this stuff.<br /><br />Molly: Sugar and spice and nothing nice.<br /><br />Brad: It smells bad, tastes even worse, but at least you can take comfort in knowing that no pumpkins were harmed in the creation of this beer!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">2. Shipyard Brewery - Smashed Pumpkin, Portland, ME</span><br /><br />Joe: In some circles, having sex is referred to as “smashing.” That being said, I can’t think of anyone who would want to “smash” this pumpkin. The nose reminds me of a cigarette that has been snubbed out in a pumpkin, and the taste is like biting into a cinnamon stick with a rotten banana peel wrapped around it.<br /><br />Brad: The foil is nice, and the bottle features a flattering portrait of Alan Puglsey, however the beer tastes like a chemical spill and is, in fact, making me sweat.<br /><br />Nolan: Smells like the Ringwood Brewery packed a train with screaming, sweaty German tourists, drove them straight in to a brick wall, wrapped their bodies in horrible spices, and then bottled the result a month later. <br /><br />Molly: Worse than licking a rotten pumpkin dipped in piss.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5tVxbjpoI/AAAAAAAABBw/6Uy8AKEKcBU/s1600/IMG_5126.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5tVxbjpoI/AAAAAAAABBw/6Uy8AKEKcBU/s320/IMG_5126.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529977613271148162" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">3. Brooklyn Brewery - Post Road Pumpkin Ale, Brooklyn, NY</span><br /><br />Joe: Flavors of pumpkin pie, and actually not too sweet with a hint of bitterness. I could maybe drink one, but then again why would I want to?<br /><br />Nolan: Not over-done, with a trace of bitterness that actually makes it drinkable. Something’s a little strange with the finish though…<br /><br />Brad: Decent, slightly hoppy nose, and it has a good amount of cinnamon and a bit of malt. <br /><br />Molly: Smells better than it tastes, which is a little metallic to me.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">4. Smuttynose Brewing - Pumpkin Ale, Portsmouth, NH</span><br /><br />Joe: This one scores points for not using any puns in the name, however I get no pumpkin flavor whatsoever. The beer itself is fine, but not my style.<br /><br />Brad: Great Nose, smells like beer, tastes like beer with spice just on the finish. It’s nicely hopped, and not noticeably pumpkin flavored.<br /><br />Nolan: The spice is very mild and I enjoy the beer itself.<br /><br />Molly: Light spice without a lot of pumpkin flavor. I like it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5tooHTVzI/AAAAAAAABB4/8Yhu8pUXzGU/s1600/IMG_5121.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5tooHTVzI/AAAAAAAABB4/8Yhu8pUXzGU/s320/IMG_5121.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529977937187788594" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">5. Southern Tier Brewing - Pumking, Lakewood, NY</span><br /><br />Joe: I don’t think I can properly stress how awful this shit is, I can’t even swallow it. It’s like someone mixed vanilla extract with rubbing alcohol. I’m so angry right now.<br /><br />Nolan: Weird, what the fuck! I can’t even wrap my mind around this; I would rather drink Night Train…<br /><br />Brad: Strange nose of hazelnuts, the taste is sickly sweet – kind of like a Dunkin Donuts Latte with too much Splenda. It’s sad that someone was proud of this beer, did they taste it?<br /><br />Molly: The king is dead.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">At this point Brad states, “When I drink these beers I forget what pumpkins actually taste like.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">6. Weyerbacher Brewing Co. - Imperial Pumpkin Ale, Easton, PA</span><br /><br />Joe: Though the cardamom is interesting, it has an unpleasant medicinal taste in the finish. Honestly, it kind of makes me want to shit.<br /><br />Nolan: Similar over-the-top style that many Weyerbacher beers share, though it’s slightly astringent and steeped in the dark side…<br /><br />Brad: Sweet with a nice level of carbonation, and it has lots of spice in the nose. Thankfully, it’s not so big in the taste. Kind of boozy.<br /><br />Molly: Herbal in a bad way (picture drawn in notes of someone smoking a joint)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5uJTH6ymI/AAAAAAAABCI/6ZNTs8jyAis/s1600/IMG_5128.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5uJTH6ymI/AAAAAAAABCI/6ZNTs8jyAis/s320/IMG_5128.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529978498488912482" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">7. Rock Art Brewery Extreme Series - Pumpkin Imperial Spruce Stout, Morrisville, VT<br /></span><br />Joe: Pleasant and creamy with notes of pine in the finish. Once again, I can’t taste a lot of pumpkin but I think that’s a good thing.<br /><br />Brad: No spice on the nose, lots of malt, and a nice mouth feel with notes of anise. This one could fool you if you refuse to drink pumpkin crap.<br /><br />Nolan: Mild pumpkin aroma, and I’m getting a slightly numbing sensation from the finish. For the first time I’m finishing my glass!<br /><br />Molly: I had no idea that spruce trees were so delicious.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">8. Dogfish Head Brewery - Punkin Ale, Milton, DE</span><br /><br />Joe: Pleasant and dry, with very subtle pumpkin flavors. This was my favorite last year and it looks to be no different this time around.<br /><br />Nolan: Nice, roasty nose gives way to a mild, lightly spiced flavor. This is a brief gasp of fresh air before plunging ourselves back into the sticky abyss of rancid booze.<br /><br />Brad: Holy shit it smells like beer! Though referred to as”brown ale” I would say it’s more of a copper. Nice malt with subtle spices.<br /><br />Molly: Drinkable... oh my god. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5ucg1E7fI/AAAAAAAABCQ/XNenTco714s/s1600/IMG_5117.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5ucg1E7fI/AAAAAAAABCQ/XNenTco714s/s320/IMG_5117.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529978828585496050" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">9. Heavy Seas Mutiny Fleet - Great Pumpkin Imperial Pumpkin Ale, Baltimore, MD</span><br /><br />Joe: Honestly, people who drink “pumpkin head” should switch to this, as it’s packed with the pumpkin pie flavors they’re looking for. Not that bad, surprisingly. <br /><br />Nolan: Less offensive than you’d think, the sweetness is actually kind of bearable.<br /><br />Brad: Amber color with slight spices on the nose. Though a little sweet, I could drink this once a year. <br /><br />Molly: It’s got a taste that I like in booze, but hate in beer.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5urHl687I/AAAAAAAABCY/-n45DnD2ZY8/s1600/IMG_5144.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 279px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5urHl687I/AAAAAAAABCY/-n45DnD2ZY8/s320/IMG_5144.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529979079509078962" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">10. Heavy Seas Mutiny Fleet – Greater Pumpkin Imperial Pumpkin Ale, Baltimore, MD</span><br /><br />Joe: Aged in bourbon barrels, it’s got butterscotch, almost Werther’s Originals flavor that I’m actually kind of enjoying. I expected to hate this one, but I have to admit I might drink it after dinner.<br /><br />Brad: I get almost citrusy flavors out of it. Mellow and kind of delicious<br /><br />Nolan: Not bad, do you think we’re enjoying it because it’s the last one and our palates are shit?<br /><br />Molly: Sweet and boozy, much like myself. Can we be done now?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Final Results</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Joe</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5vBXgy8EI/AAAAAAAABCg/a3mgPMNaLOI/s1600/IMG_5090.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5vBXgy8EI/AAAAAAAABCg/a3mgPMNaLOI/s320/IMG_5090.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529979461739671618" /></a><br />1. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale<br />2. Rock Art Extreme Series Spruce Stout<br />3. Heavy Seas Greater Pumpkin IPA<br />4. Heavy Seas Great Pumpkin IPA<br />5. Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale<br />6. Post Road Pumpkin Ale<br />7. Weyerbacher Imperial Pumpkin Ale<br />8. Pumpkin Head<br />9. Smashed Pumpkin<br />10. Southern Tier Pumking<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Nolan</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5vaDWC-BI/AAAAAAAABCo/t9BlLN8FQns/s1600/IMG_5101.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5vaDWC-BI/AAAAAAAABCo/t9BlLN8FQns/s320/IMG_5101.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529979885822605330" /></a><br />1. Rock Art Extreme Series Spruce Stout<br />2. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale<br />3. Heavy Seas Greater Pumpkin IPA<br />4. Heavy Seas Great Pumpkin IPA<br />5. Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale<br />6. Weyerbacher Imperial Pumpkin Ale<br />7. Post Road Pumpkin Ale<br />8. Smashed Pumpkin<br />9. Pumpkin Head<br />10. Southern Tier Pumking<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Brad</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5vkAeOfZI/AAAAAAAABCw/_lMZMIwlwkc/s1600/IMG_5094.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 277px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5vkAeOfZI/AAAAAAAABCw/_lMZMIwlwkc/s320/IMG_5094.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529980056850300306" /></a><br />1. Rock Art Extreme Series Spruce Stout<br />2. Heavy Seas Greater Pumpkin IPA<br />3. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale<br />4. Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale<br />5. Heavy Seas Great Pumpkin IPA<br />6. Weyerbacher Imperial Pumpkin Ale<br />7. Post Road Pumpkin Ale<br />8. Smashed Pumpkin<br />9. Pumpkin Head<br />10. Southern Tier Pumking<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Molly</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5vxVn4ohI/AAAAAAAABC4/umqXzSneDvU/s1600/IMG_5086.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 288px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5vxVn4ohI/AAAAAAAABC4/umqXzSneDvU/s320/IMG_5086.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529980285866254866" /></a><br />1. Rock Art Extreme Series Spruce Stout<br />2. Dogfish Head Punkin Ale<br />3. Heavy Seas Greater Pumpkin IPA<br />4. Smuttynose Pumpkin Ale<br />5. Weyerbacher Imperial Pumpkin Ale<br />6. Post Road Pumpkin Ale<br />7. Heavy Seas Great Pumpkin IPA<br />8. Smashed Pumpkin<br />9. Pumpkin Head<br />10. Southern Tier Pumking<br /><br /><br />Thank god it’s over for another year…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5v_8BfU9I/AAAAAAAABDA/jommtPmBP4E/s1600/IMG_5161.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TL5v_8BfU9I/AAAAAAAABDA/jommtPmBP4E/s320/IMG_5161.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529980536692364242" /></a>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-12474637736453389472010-10-08T12:17:00.000-07:002010-10-09T08:41:33.286-07:00We have a lot of catching up to do, you and I...To make up for my lack of posting I’ve decided to include several pictures of this summer’s highlights, beginning with a video from a <span style="font-weight:bold;">campaign fundraiser for my friend Alex Steed</span> that my friend Drew and I cooked for out in Cornish, Maine at Krista’s Restaurant. It is one of the last pieces of video footage featuring the enormous sideburns that always reminded me of seventies porn bush adorning the sides of my face. <br /><br /><object width="400" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6VYxGKRw-g4?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6VYxGKRw-g4?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Champagne & Caviar Night<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">photos by Drew Seaman</span><br /><br />Six of us get together with 12 bottles of Non-Vintage Champagne to see which one reigns supreme. To accompany this we purchase 7.5 oz of assorted caviar that we serve with proper garnish, and eventually begin smearing on Papa John’s Pizza later that evening, which was decadent and delicious…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9yEyntDAI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/1MGx5FchMjU/s1600/threecaviars.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9yEyntDAI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/1MGx5FchMjU/s320/threecaviars.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525760694440233986" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9yYv3ZC1I/AAAAAAAAA-g/GjKiiLAK4R4/s1600/Laura.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 248px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9yYv3ZC1I/AAAAAAAAA-g/GjKiiLAK4R4/s320/Laura.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525761037298109266" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9yyks6f8I/AAAAAAAAA-o/j2eaKtpkAcw/s1600/champagnelineup.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9yyks6f8I/AAAAAAAAA-o/j2eaKtpkAcw/s320/champagnelineup.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525761480977973186" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9zlGVOngI/AAAAAAAAA-w/rsMwL-fvbd0/s1600/bite.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9zlGVOngI/AAAAAAAAA-w/rsMwL-fvbd0/s320/bite.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525762348998893058" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9zlRf_bKI/AAAAAAAAA-4/ubKcnzt2hEs/s1600/bluecaviar.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9zlRf_bKI/AAAAAAAAA-4/ubKcnzt2hEs/s320/bluecaviar.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525762351996824738" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Taco Night</span><br /><br />I wasn’t letting the summer go by without a proper taco night, and though a little less epic than the <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2009/08/taco-party.html">last one</a>, it was no less delicious. Carnitas tacos with all the fixings’, served alongside Goya Mexican rice, spicy black beans, and corn on the grill with crema and coteja cheese. To wash this down I got a bottle of Don Julio 1942, to this day the best tequila I’ve ever had. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9009qz_PI/AAAAAAAAA_Y/ZBlmrmPJEGg/s1600/carnitas.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK9009qz_PI/AAAAAAAAA_Y/ZBlmrmPJEGg/s320/carnitas.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525763721063038194" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK900rDJ8sI/AAAAAAAAA_Q/NaVd-koX2CE/s1600/corn.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK900rDJ8sI/AAAAAAAAA_Q/NaVd-koX2CE/s320/corn.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525763716064867010" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK91iAAa86I/AAAAAAAAA_g/O50Ev_Ms-Qg/s1600/julio.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK91iAAa86I/AAAAAAAAA_g/O50Ev_Ms-Qg/s320/julio.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525764494784656290" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK90z1fzTBI/AAAAAAAAA_A/JSpEXe3WITg/s1600/taco.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK90z1fzTBI/AAAAAAAAA_A/JSpEXe3WITg/s320/taco.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525763701689502738" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Goodfellas Night</span><br /><br />My friend Bill is as obsessed with <span style="font-style:italic;">Goodfellas</span> as I am, so to celebrate his birthday we all dressed up appropriately, cooked food from the movie, played bocce, and drank heavily. To enhance the mood I located every single track featured in the movie, and played them in correct order. Yes, I’m a little bit of a psycho.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK92S_340jI/AAAAAAAABAA/3qOfc8eLce8/s1600/milanese.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK92S_340jI/AAAAAAAABAA/3qOfc8eLce8/s320/milanese.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525765336562455090" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK92So8E7VI/AAAAAAAAA_4/QTYVFibotGU/s1600/grandmasauce.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK92So8E7VI/AAAAAAAAA_4/QTYVFibotGU/s320/grandmasauce.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525765330406010194" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK92SVgTh5I/AAAAAAAAA_w/coIk3fZQaEA/s1600/dietzgoodfellas.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK92SVgTh5I/AAAAAAAAA_w/coIk3fZQaEA/s320/dietzgoodfellas.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525765325189253010" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK92SN6WjwI/AAAAAAAAA_o/gez3yBYSGMo/s1600/bocce.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK92SN6WjwI/AAAAAAAAA_o/gez3yBYSGMo/s320/bocce.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525765323151019778" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK93o2rMbiI/AAAAAAAABAI/N4flwqAQKPM/s1600/goodfellas_22.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 187px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK93o2rMbiI/AAAAAAAABAI/N4flwqAQKPM/s320/goodfellas_22.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525766811562044962" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Camp Awesome</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">photos by Katie Schier and Jamie O'Sullivan<br /></span><br />Personally, I hate camping and everything camping-related, But when I got drunk and agreed to join my friends at their annual Camp Awesome excursion, they weren’t about to let me back out. By drinking six bottles of Broadbent vinho verde and eating some pretty great food prepared by Joel and Eric, I was able to persevere and make it through one grueling night in the wilderness. I slept for 16 hours when I got back.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK94Inwa76I/AAAAAAAABAo/Pjo6EJPOa5U/s1600/joeleric.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK94Inwa76I/AAAAAAAABAo/Pjo6EJPOa5U/s320/joeleric.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525767357313249186" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK94IWVtq9I/AAAAAAAABAg/_G7rDxLn6wM/s1600/mufalleta.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK94IWVtq9I/AAAAAAAABAg/_G7rDxLn6wM/s320/mufalleta.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525767352637828050" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK94IMpmIkI/AAAAAAAABAY/8NFlxtuNmGc/s1600/joeljoe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK94IMpmIkI/AAAAAAAABAY/8NFlxtuNmGc/s320/joeljoe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525767350036865602" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK94H_4YFnI/AAAAAAAABAQ/-mV_uwax0KY/s1600/campawesomesunset.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK94H_4YFnI/AAAAAAAABAQ/-mV_uwax0KY/s320/campawesomesunset.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525767346609198706" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Re-discovering one of my favorite California wine makers<br /></span><br />I used to drink Sean Thackrey wines when I lived in Chicago several years back, and had been very disappointed when I learned they were unavailable in Maine. I’ve since found a few bottles through a friend and they are just as great as I remembered them to be, and good enough to deserve mention as a highlight of my summer. Someone is actually making Rhone style wine from California that has great acidity and terroir, who knew?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK96CLT8p-I/AAAAAAAABBQ/s8SjRuAoKPw/s1600/thackrey.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK96CLT8p-I/AAAAAAAABBQ/s8SjRuAoKPw/s320/thackrey.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525769445621671906" /></a><br />Lastly, I will let you know that this Sunday will be the second annual <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2009/11/pumpkin-beer-tasting-dont-try-this-at.html">Portland Food Coma Pumpkin Beer Tasting</a>. As you know, I absolutely despise pumpkin beer, so the results of this torture will be posted next week.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK96eH5LSCI/AAAAAAAABBY/i2u4S4lklm0/s1600/pumpkinhead.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TK96eH5LSCI/AAAAAAAABBY/i2u4S4lklm0/s400/pumpkinhead.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525769925740415010" /></a>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-30478635709277678512010-08-24T21:25:00.000-07:002010-08-25T08:06:59.419-07:00New York Food Coma, part two<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSh_eiYcaI/AAAAAAAAA5w/4XVOUDiBD3c/s1600/choosingramen.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSh_eiYcaI/AAAAAAAAA5w/4XVOUDiBD3c/s320/choosingramen.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509206356082061730" /></a><br />It is only on day four of a recent detox spell that I am finally able to sit down and write this, after having a week of such reckless excess that it actually felt at times more like a dream than reality. All I know is that the morning after the final night, I awoke to find my bedroom floor littered with empty wine bottles and $100 bills scattered everywhere (not rolled up). Further examination of the crime scene reveals that 30% of the bottles are quality, and about 70% cheap and clearly purchased late night. I guess this explains how I had held on to so much cash, but it didn’t shed any light as to why it was all over the floor….<br /><br />It all started with the weekend of the second New York Trip.<br /><br />I caught wind while working at Miyake the previous Tuesday of an excursion to the city happening that coming Sunday. Masa was driving down to finalize a few things for the new ramen bar, <span style="font-style:italic;">Pai Men Miyake</span>, and Tina, who dates my co-worker Will, was beginning her move to New York to attend Parsons School for Design. I figured I would hitch a ride down, hang out with them for a bit, and then check into a ridiculous hotel room and go my own way. In the morning we’d all come back together and go straight to work that night.<br /><br />On the evening before the trip I had been out celebrating my final shift at the Old Port Sea Grill. After several drinks in the back office, I allow one of my female co-workers to apply eyeliner to my face. After a few more beverages we head across the street to Ri-Ra, where one of the bartenders asks me if I’ve “just been on stage?” <br /><br />“No, just wearing eyeliner,” I reply causally and order a glass of “white wine, whatever’s good!” <br /><br />I can only imagine what I must have looked like, sitting in a cheesy Irish-themed bar while wearing makeup and drinking white wine, and I’m thankful that I was at least with a group of friends. I begin to black out as I’m fed a few shots of Rumple Minz to chase my wine, and as last call mercifully approaches, I’m given a ride home. Of course on the way, I insist on stopping at Cumberland Farms so I can purchase another bottle of wine, a frozen cheeseburger, a large bottle of water, and a <span style="font-style:italic;">Star Magazine</span>. The beauty of purchasing trashy magazines when you’re this drunk is that you get to enjoy them twice, due to being unable to remember them the first time through. <br /><br />6:00 a.m. comes very quickly and painfully after 3 hours of sleep, and as I go to the bathroom to get ready I notice that I am, in fact, wearing makeup. It doesn’t really come all of the way off in the shower, which I then realize isn’t actually that bad because it makes me look more awake and less brutally hungover. <br /><br />Masa picks me up and we make it to the city in about five hours, which is great. I have trouble sleeping in cars, which isn’t so great. Just when I start to get my second wind we pull into one of the service stations in Massachusetts, where I am re-nauseated when I notice that the gift shop sells Banana Cream Flavored <span style="font-style:italic;">Muscle Milk</span>. Just the thought of how horrible this must be upsets me, and just the fact that this product even exists makes me uncomfortable and queasy. I start thinking about the things I would say If I saw someone I know enjoying one of these wretched concoctions, and then what would their breath be like? God, it just sounds so fucking gross…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS6DAd7SaI/AAAAAAAAA9A/AGv20VsBnps/s1600/60541.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 271px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS6DAd7SaI/AAAAAAAAA9A/AGv20VsBnps/s320/60541.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509232805008853410" /></a><br />When we arrive in the city the first thing we do is help Tina move into her new apartment, and even though it takes all of twenty minutes I’m in no condition to be carrying things up and down stairs. The fact that I’m wildly out of shape combined with anxiety from my hangover is causing my heart to pound out of my chest at this point, and I think I may throw up. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSjZJKVakI/AAAAAAAAA6I/cZ2Ad0jw3X4/s1600/mincawork.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSjZJKVakI/AAAAAAAAA6I/cZ2Ad0jw3X4/s320/mincawork.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509207896532281922" /></a><br />I keep it together and soon we are on our way to lunch, at a Ramen place called <a href="http://nymag.com/listings/restaurant/minca_ramen_factory/">Minca</a>. We decide to walk and I think the fresh air helps get me ready for the day I had planned, which was shaping up to be quite the endurance match. As we enter Minca, one of the cooks recognizes Masa (he worked there many years ago) and yells out “Miyake!”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSjFJcN1DI/AAAAAAAAA6A/kjD9QTp2Dl0/s1600/daikonsalad.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSjFJcN1DI/AAAAAAAAA6A/kjD9QTp2Dl0/s320/daikonsalad.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509207553009898546" /></a><br />The initial sip of Rolling Rock is a rugged one, but soon I’m back in the rhythm of things and ready to eat. The first course is a sesame and daikon radish salad, which is simple and refreshing, and then handmade shrimp gyoza. <br /><br />As beer number two arrives, so does the Ramen. On our <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2010/04/new-york-food-coma.html">first trip down</a>, Masa didn’t bring us here on purpose because he said that once you have a bowl of this, there’s no room for anything else. As I take my first bite I can see why – the broth is so rich with pork that you feel like you just took a bite of a rib. The slices of pork belly and soy sauce egg complete the equation, making it more of an “evening ramen,” as in “don’t plan on getting anything constructive done after finishing.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSjzwQjvXI/AAAAAAAAA6Q/0GzaTzTY3lI/s1600/Ramen.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSjzwQjvXI/AAAAAAAAA6Q/0GzaTzTY3lI/s320/Ramen.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509208353703968114" /></a><br />On our way out we are given a tour of the basement, which houses two gigantic walk-in coolers. While we’re down there, Masa tries to explain to his friend where Maine is, but he might as well have been talking about Lichtenstein or the planet <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melmac_(planet)">Melmac</a> (wow – an Alf reference?) because this guy truly had no idea, nor did he care. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSkFiqtkZI/AAAAAAAAA6Y/mkPusSGzOBw/s1600/Sakaya2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSkFiqtkZI/AAAAAAAAA6Y/mkPusSGzOBw/s320/Sakaya2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509208659293213074" /></a><br />We have a few more stops before we go our separate ways for the evening, and en route to the next watering hole we stumble upon <a href="http://www.sakayanyc.com/">Sakaya</a>, a small boutique that only sells sake. Though I have been researching and drinking sake for awhile now, places like this continue to remind me how little I know. The owner was very helpful, and I pick out a bottle of <span style="font-style:italic;">Kokuryu “Black Dragon”</span> Junmai Ginjo from the Fukui Prefecture to accompany the six bottles of wine that I had already brought down to stock my hotel room. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSkaaLoMNI/AAAAAAAAA6g/qLy5VmGMnYo/s1600/Beer%26Sake.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSkaaLoMNI/AAAAAAAAA6g/qLy5VmGMnYo/s320/Beer%26Sake.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509209017792606418" /></a><br />We then enjoy a <span style="font-style:italic;">Yebisu</span> beer and a carafe of sake to wash down a few pieces of <span style="font-style:italic;">Tamago</span> (Japanese style omelette) at <a href="http://www.sobaya-nyc.com/">Soba-ya</a> in the East Village. I will admit right now that my knowledge of NYC geography is poor, so don’t get too riled up if I fuck up when describing where I’ve been. I’m still pretty damn full from the ramen at this point, so I have some tea to aid digestion and we head out to shop for Ramen bowls and other noodle bar accessories at Korin.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSkzfJtngI/AAAAAAAAA6o/tvx7TMhcq_o/s1600/Knives1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSkzfJtngI/AAAAAAAAA6o/tvx7TMhcq_o/s320/Knives1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509209448623480322" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSlA1FspXI/AAAAAAAAA6w/MUo4FdQPRhA/s1600/knives2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSlA1FspXI/AAAAAAAAA6w/MUo4FdQPRhA/s320/knives2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509209677850518898" /></a><br /><a href="http://korin.com/site/home.html">Korin</a>, in addition to many other things, has the most amazing selection of Japanese knives I’ve ever seen. The walls are lined with them, with many fetching price tags of up to $7000 each. This makes me wonder at what point does one consider him/herself so proficient that they would feel worthy of utilizing such a blade?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSlU7Ke3VI/AAAAAAAAA64/wwI6UDg1Zpw/s1600/hotelbed.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSlU7Ke3VI/AAAAAAAAA64/wwI6UDg1Zpw/s320/hotelbed.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509210023078583634" /></a><br />After I was done drooling over knives, Masa takes me to my hotel and we all part ways for the evening. I decide to go over the top and get a one-bedroom suite on the 21st floor of the <a href="http://www.eventihotel.com/">Eventi Hotel</a> in Chelsea. It’s a gorgeous room, with a separate lounge area and a king size bed overlooking the city. The bathroom is pretty much three rooms, one for the Jacuzzi and shower, one with mirrors and sinks, and one for the toilet. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSlmuTHY7I/AAAAAAAAA7A/Ugc71z0zYsc/s1600/hotelliving.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSlmuTHY7I/AAAAAAAAA7A/Ugc71z0zYsc/s320/hotelliving.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509210328862778290" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSlzdFonNI/AAAAAAAAA7I/2lQHcKUGpIE/s1600/jacuzzi.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSlzdFonNI/AAAAAAAAA7I/2lQHcKUGpIE/s320/jacuzzi.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509210547581131986" /></a><br />I had a few friends coming by late night so I get to work chilling bottles and ordering up different stemware from the hotel restaurant (yes, I’m THAT asshole), and just settling in. I originally had the intention to take a nap, but I decided utilizing the Jacuzzi and then hanging out in the leopard print robes (another <a href="http://www.kimptonhotels.com/">Kimpton</a> hotel feature that I love) while drinking wine would be a reasonable substitute. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSmNgZT7eI/AAAAAAAAA7Q/2BmUq77AFuI/s1600/LaceyKate.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSmNgZT7eI/AAAAAAAAA7Q/2BmUq77AFuI/s320/LaceyKate.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509210995145567714" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSnEpPMeaI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/KSr_SxyPQl0/s1600/rieslingboobs.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSnEpPMeaI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/KSr_SxyPQl0/s320/rieslingboobs.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509211942411860386" /></a><br />As late afternoon sets in I roll out to meet my friends, Lacey and Kate, at <a href="http://www.wineisterroir.com/">Terroir</a> wine bar in the East Village. Lets just say this is my kind of place, with a wine list that only sells Riesling by the glass in the summer, and pictures of women’s body parts with the word “Riesling” tattooed on them on display everywhere. Lacey, a sommelier for one of <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/28/dining/28eataly.html">Mario Batali’s new ventures</a>, knows her shit and knew I’d love it here, with the wines lists presented in old-school binders with phrases like “bubble gum wine is better than your fake oak juice” scrawled all over them. I order a bottle of <span style="font-style:italic;">2009 Donnhoff Kabinett</span> from their extensive Riesling selection, and after a few glasses I begin to wish I could visit this bar every day. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSn_czD3JI/AAAAAAAAA7g/eD6FrnUGBPw/s1600/winelist.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSn_czD3JI/AAAAAAAAA7g/eD6FrnUGBPw/s320/winelist.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509212952684911762" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSoQ23T4SI/AAAAAAAAA7o/vK9_2EoQ7_E/s1600/Andrew.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSoQ23T4SI/AAAAAAAAA7o/vK9_2EoQ7_E/s320/Andrew.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509213251739836706" /></a><br />I had made dinner plans with <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/blogsandforums/blogs/bafoodist">Andrew Knowlton</a>, the restaurant editor for Bon Appetit, at <a href="http://www.frankspm.com/">Prime Meats</a> in Brooklyn. The owners, Frank Falconelli and Frank Castronovo, had been to Maine recently to do a <a href="http://www.frankiesspuntino.com/">book signing</a> at <a href="http://www.rabelaisbooks.com/">Rabelais</a> and we’d had a few drinks after, so I was curious to see what their whole operation was about. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSoltTGOTI/AAAAAAAAA7w/dXAmEXbkbzM/s1600/JulepChristina.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSoltTGOTI/AAAAAAAAA7w/dXAmEXbkbzM/s320/JulepChristina.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509213609949280562" /></a><br />After getting stuck in ridiculous traffic, which I guess is the norm, I finally arrived to meet Andrew and his wife Christina, the director of operations for the Frankie’s restaurants, with their daughter, Julep. Though not usually a fan of children, I have to admit that I enjoyed Julep’s company at dinner, and was honestly a little excited when she warmed up to me enough to begin giving me high fives (although not every time I requested, I guess she didn’t want me to feel spoiled).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSo3Vb2wvI/AAAAAAAAA74/25AWRrFIBDQ/s1600/Salads.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSo3Vb2wvI/AAAAAAAAA74/25AWRrFIBDQ/s320/Salads.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509213912781210354" /></a><br />We start out with an assortment of salads, the hands-down favorite of mine being the smoked trout, which is uncharacteristic of my usual tastes. It was so delicate and flavorful, which made me want to take some home and make a patty melt with it, in my typical fashion of extracting any kind of subtlety out of a dish. Then again we were drinking Syrah, <span style="font-style:italic;">Crozes Hermitage</span> from <span style="font-style:italic;">Domaine des Entrefeaux</span>, with it so I guess doing things the right way had already gone out the window. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSpfBbrz9I/AAAAAAAAA8A/07ZHfSGKIig/s1600/Marrow.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSpfBbrz9I/AAAAAAAAA8A/07ZHfSGKIig/s320/Marrow.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509214594606550994" /></a><br />Marrow bones were cut lengthwise to maximize the amount of roasted deliciousness to spread on toasted bread with salt and gremolata, a much better pairing with the wine. It’s the kind of flavor that you just want to linger in your mouth forever, salty and rich. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSprxuUAMI/AAAAAAAAA8I/318x0ETVESQ/s1600/marrowstuff.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THSprxuUAMI/AAAAAAAAA8I/318x0ETVESQ/s320/marrowstuff.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509214813728014530" /></a><br />It had gotten dark at this point, and because I’m totally ghetto and don’t have a flash on my iPhone camera, I don’t have much documentation of the rest of the dinner. I did take a few pictures with one of the server’s phones that had a flash, but according to Andrew they “sucked” though he blamed “the syrah and not my abilities.” This doesn’t surprise me, as I was getting pretty fucked up and was only taking pictures because I knew I’d be pissed at myself if I didn’t.<br /><br />For the main course we shared a mammoth Cote de Bouef, sliced and served with a chimichurri-style sauce. The quality of the meat was outstanding, dry aged to the point where, as Andrew pointed out, it had an amazing minerality to it. I had to agree, even though I was beginning to burst at the seams and couldn’t quite finish. <br /><br />After dinner, Christina takes Julep home and we retire to the bar, which is standing only. I think this is cool, because not having chairs keeps things moving and discourages camping out. I can immediately tell that Damon, the bartender, knows exactly what he’s doing and I let him make me a tequila cocktail of his choice, which turned out to be a delicious concoction of Milagro tequila and loganberries. We go next door to check out the neighboring restaurant, Frankies, and Damon joins us for a moment to discuss, among other things, people who <a href="http://portlandfoodcoma.blogspot.com/2010/03/critics-have-spoken-portland-food-coma.html">leave anonymous comments</a> online.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS5RBs9rSI/AAAAAAAAA84/Al9IgEbHytc/s1600/cheese.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS5RBs9rSI/AAAAAAAAA84/Al9IgEbHytc/s320/cheese.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509231946346900770" /></a><br />While at Frankie’s, we order a cheese plate which I believe were selections from <a href="http://www.saxelbycheese.com/">Saxelby Cheesemongers</a>, accompanied by figs that almost tasted like peaches, and an amazing compote made from grapes that they grow in their backyard. I remember the front of the house staff at both restaurants being extremely enthusiastic about what they were doing, to the point where it was contagious. The dining experience is concluded with a couple shots of <span style="font-style:italic;">Nonino Amaro</span>, a digestif that reminded me a little of <span style="font-style:italic;">Fernet Branca</span> (although my memory could have been failing at that point).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS3rAoAmKI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/pbHTDbmGkbc/s1600/SeanLola.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS3rAoAmKI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/pbHTDbmGkbc/s320/SeanLola.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509230193711028386" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS4D38kTSI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/U1MSDCHf8tA/s1600/MadForChicken.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS4D38kTSI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/U1MSDCHf8tA/s320/MadForChicken.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509230620878064930" /></a><br />Now it was time to tear through all that wine in my hotel room, and there to help me were my friends Sean and Lola. A few hours go by, and we decimate all the Champagne, red wine, and sake. At this point I am miraculously hungry again, so we head out to <a href="http://www.madforchicken.com/">Mad for Chicken</a> in Midtown for late night eats. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS4oFGPBpI/AAAAAAAAA8o/-ocISoBJiM0/s1600/JoeLola.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS4oFGPBpI/AAAAAAAAA8o/-ocISoBJiM0/s320/JoeLola.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509231242883565202" /></a><br />The entrance is fairly unassuming, but inside it’s almost a little clubby – but like I said at this point my memory is falling apart. One thing I’ll never forget, however, is how fucking great the chicken wings were. I almost want to describe them as having a “fried candy shell” and paired up with a bottle of <span style="font-style:italic;">Soju</span> I just couldn’t stop eating them. I will admit that when the server came back and told me they were out of the Champagne I had foolishly ordered along with the <span style="font-style:italic;">Soju</span>, I was a little relieved. The evening concludes with a few more drinks at the hotel, and then I can no longer stand. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS4Q0_5w1I/AAAAAAAAA8g/VSCHSX1lOQ4/s1600/Wings.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS4Q0_5w1I/AAAAAAAAA8g/VSCHSX1lOQ4/s320/Wings.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509230843425047378" /></a><br /><br />All in all, a great night…<br /><br />What wasn’t so great was the next morning, but at least it was nice to wake up with the view of the Manhattan Skyline from my bed. I stand in the shower room for about 40 minutes and think about how I’d like to live in a luxury hotel at some point. The ride home is just as brutal as I thought it would be, as is the work shift that follows, but I didn’t regret a thing. The week proceeds to be a blur and finally ends up right where this post led off.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS4-SXz7mI/AAAAAAAAA8w/JYOE5WX8rVE/s1600/hotelview.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/THS4-SXz7mI/AAAAAAAAA8w/JYOE5WX8rVE/s320/hotelview.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509231624404069986" /></a><br /><br /><br />I’m sure it won’t be the last time.Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-5639431175762364462010-08-01T09:50:00.001-07:002010-08-02T07:49:59.209-07:00The Maine Barbecue Pilgrimage<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWrcejRiwI/AAAAAAAAA3w/6VLWXhATGik/s1600/joeribs.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWrcejRiwI/AAAAAAAAA3w/6VLWXhATGik/s320/joeribs.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500491025628629762" /></a><br /><br />Most people will tell you that there’s no such thing as good barbecue in Maine, and to get the real deal, one must head south. I will premise this post by saying that I’ve never been to the south, but the one thing I will do before I die is a true barbecue pilgrimage to all of the major capitals. This was my warm up.<br /><br />The primary problem with Maine in relation to BBQ is that it doesn’t have a style of it’s own, and for the most part everyone that does it well is paying homage to Texas, Memphis, Kansas City, or the Carolinas. These are places where BBQ is religion, and I can imagine you’d be dealing with a very unforgiving group of locals if your restaurant produced a sub-par product. <br /><br />I started my journey at <a href="http://www.mainebbq.com">Beale St. Barbecue</a>, a Memphis-style staple currently at their second location in South Portland. Let me just say that one of my favorite elements of good BBQ joints is the full roll of paper towels that’s generally at hand. I personally have a paper towel fetish, and I almost always have both the Bounty Big Roll™ and Viva™ brands in my kitchen at all times, the Viva for drying my hands and Bounty for cleaning up spills. I use so many when I cook that it actually initiated a fight with a girl I was dating several years ago, and was what I believe finally prompted me to break off the relationship that was already going south.<br /><br />Because beer on an empty stomach helps me think, I start with an Ayinger Weisse (Germany) before I even pick up the menu. They have actually added a few nice selections to the usual parade of generic Maine stand-bys, so there’s something for everyone. The ribs on this particular visit had nice flavor, but weren’t as fall-off-the-bone tender as they have been on other visits. To compensate, I sauce the fuck out of them and I’m good to go. After liberal use of the paper towels, I was ready to retire to their game room for a few rounds of <span style="font-style:italic;">Big Buck Hunter</span> before getting on with my day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFXK5a1zudI/AAAAAAAAA5g/Wu_Pv3mLNgw/s1600/big-buck2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFXK5a1zudI/AAAAAAAAA5g/Wu_Pv3mLNgw/s400/big-buck2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500525607709293010" /></a><br />The next stop on my voyage was <a href="http://www.littledansbbq.com">Little Dan’s</a> in Lewiston, a roadhouse that looks like it may have the potential to get a little rowdy late at night. No sooner had I kicked open a cold bottle of Bud when a soul-crushing pop-country cover of the regular pop hit, “Life is a Highway” came blasting over the stereo. I already hate that fucking song, and to hear this version re-opened old wounds and filled them with salt and razorblades.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWsTTN0h7I/AAAAAAAAA4I/XgEY0QdrhUA/s1600/LitttleDans.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWsTTN0h7I/AAAAAAAAA4I/XgEY0QdrhUA/s320/LitttleDans.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500491967478663090" /></a><br /><br />I decided that I would take solace in cheap beer and pork, so I stayed put and ordered up some ribs, beans, and slaw. I tried to be as consistent as I could with my ordering throughout this ordeal to make it easier for comparison. A surprisingly delicious smoked chicken soup with rice began things nicely, and I start to think that maybe life IS a highway after all. The ribs arrive, which turn out to be decent, but it’s the sauces that stand out to me, one being spicy and the other very sweet. I admit that I’m a sucker for the sweet & savory, hence the fact that I’m so fucking overweight, and I slathered that shit onto every element of my plate. The beans are good, and the slaw is pretty run-of-the mill. I didn’t see any paper towel dispensers anywhere so I settled for having napkins disintegrating all over my hands. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWsfTpSKSI/AAAAAAAAA4Q/E2u2E59AHi4/s1600/DansRibs.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWsfTpSKSI/AAAAAAAAA4Q/E2u2E59AHi4/s320/DansRibs.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500492173752281378" /></a><br />After not going to the gym for a few days, I plan a very ambitious solo trip to Monson, Maine on the fourth of July to sample what was rumored to be the best BBQ in the state – Spring Creek. It had been featured on Anthony Bourdain’s show and had been a destination I’d been looking forward to reaching for quite some time. The fourth fell on a Sunday, so I called on both Friday and Saturday to confirm that they’d be open before I made the three-hour drive northwest. <br /><br />The drive was pretty uneventful, with the exception of a yard sale in the town of Abbot, featuring a picnic table full of shirtless trolls overseeing an operation of broken children’s toys, piles of clothes, tires, and a bicycle. I considered stopping, but then thought better of it when I realized I had no cell phone reception, and things may have got a little dicey… <br /><br />I arrived around 1:15 in the afternoon, and as I perused the chalkboard menu I saw a sign that read, to my horror, “out of pork ribs.” When I got to the counter I politely expressed disappointment over this after driving three hours from Portland. I guess I can’t blame her for not giving a fuck as she responded, “Well, you need to call and make sure we have ribs. Always.” At this point I begin thinking to myself that I had, in fact, called twice to make sure they were open but was unaware that I had to ask if they’d have any fucking food. <br /><br />In an attempt to make the best of the situation I ask her what she would recommend as a substitute. She says the barbecue beef or pork sandwiches are local favorites so I order one, along with slaw, beans, and corn on the cob (to which I’m greeted with a sigh and a “the corn’s going to take a bit,” to which I respond, “fine. I’ll be right over there,” but am thinking “it took a bit to get up here, so I think I’ve got time.”)<br /><br />As I’m seated I take deep breaths and try to convince myself that my sandwich is going to be delicious. They don’t serve beer so I pound water while taking in the scene. It was pretty slow, and I understand that it was the fourth of July, but if you don’t want to be open on the holiday then don’t open.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWsxadbN4I/AAAAAAAAA4Y/d1-6n8jO6ls/s1600/springcreek.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWsxadbN4I/AAAAAAAAA4Y/d1-6n8jO6ls/s320/springcreek.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500492484819236738" /></a><br />I’m prepared to forgive everything as my sandwich arrives, which looks fantastic. The first bite, however, reveals pork with charred, smoky flavor but in very dry chunks. I ask for a little extra sauce, and it’s handed to me ice-cold out of the fridge. As far as the beans go, I think they went the extra step and soaked their own, but they had no flavor. Even after loading salt, pepper and sauce into them they just tasted watery. The best part of the meal was the corn, which I ate while anticipating what I would treat myself to for dinner that evening to make up for this bunch of bullshit. <br /><br />The Maraschino cherry on my shit sundae of a day was that every place I wanted to eat for dinner was closed for the fourth. In a desperate attempt to salvage the evening I drink several expensive bottles of wine out of my cellar that I had been saving for a long time, order pizza, and watch some old Sopranos episodes. Calm sets in….<br /><br />The following BBQ experience four days later ends up being a direct contrast to the previous. My morning begins with my family celebrating my dad’s birthday at IHOP. Because of my parents love for consistency and “safe” food, I have a great working knowledge of all Mall-side chains, and this is one of my father’s favorites. Knowing what I’ve got in store for myself later, I politely eat half of an omelette, enjoy some people watching, and hit the road. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWtCKqzixI/AAAAAAAAA4g/KtLgJfbqzE0/s1600/smokingood.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWtCKqzixI/AAAAAAAAA4g/KtLgJfbqzE0/s320/smokingood.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500492772638165778" /></a><br />I head up to <a href="http://www.smokingoodbarbecue.com">Smokin’ Good BBQ</a> in Bethel (Formerly Bob’s) and am greeted with a trailer set-up that makes me immediately optimistic about what I’m about to get into. I meet Dan, the owner, who not only knows how to smoke some ribs but is also into wine. We hit it off, and soon I’m sitting down to a roadside picnic table meal eating some of the best Memphis-style ribs I’d ever had. Meaty and falling off the bone, with a spicy sauce spiked with fruity habanero pepper, I ate until I was going to be sick. Dan then presented me with a sample of his brisket, which even in my state of being so full that I was on the threshold of Hell, was fucking delicious. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWtOO0wj-I/AAAAAAAAA4o/VlczIXcDp58/s1600/smokinribs.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWtOO0wj-I/AAAAAAAAA4o/VlczIXcDp58/s320/smokinribs.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500492979912085474" /></a><br />I would highly recommend making the drive up here, and as with any BBQ spot I would suggest calling to make sure they’re open. Dan’s also got a great gourmet food shop next door with a few wine gems in the reserve case. <br /><br />I head down to Sanford on a dreary, rainy Thursday to the <a href="http://www.shawsridgefarm.com">Shaws Ridge Farm BBQ</a> Barn to continue my festival of pig. They have a mini-golf course, but it was raining so I figured I’d have to impress the other children with my skill and horrifying temper some other day. There is also an ice cream counter, which is a perfect place to rest your aching body and enjoy a frosty treat after 9 grueling holes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWtfq1mueI/AAAAAAAAA4w/XDkIFjO3XK0/s1600/shawsridge.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWtfq1mueI/AAAAAAAAA4w/XDkIFjO3XK0/s320/shawsridge.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500493279489604066" /></a><br />I opt for the combo platter of smoked chicken, pulled pork, and ribs. I’m obviously the first customer of the day, and I get the “what is this guy’s deal?” look from the very friendly girl at the counter. I am unfazed as I sit down by myself at a table that could hold six and wait patiently for my food. The barn is spacious, clean, and a little generic, with pig memorabilia that may have come from the Christmas Tree Shops but is made to look like it came from a yard sale.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWuSs8E47I/AAAAAAAAA44/dxKDyyp4v3o/s1600/shawsridgefood.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWuSs8E47I/AAAAAAAAA44/dxKDyyp4v3o/s320/shawsridgefood.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500494156226945970" /></a><br />The ribs were definitely the standout, and I wished I’d ordered them exclusively. The chicken and pork are both passable, but need lots of sauce due to being a little on the dry side. The dining room starts to fill up so I figure I should be on my way before someone recognizes me as mini-golf champion, and I have to start signing autographs for all of my rowdy 8 year-old fans.<br /><br />One of the best things I ate along during this odyssey was at <a href="http://www.hotsuppa.com">Hot Suppa</a> in Portland. The “Bennies in June” is a pulled pork eggs benedict with fried green tomatoes and holy shit – it was a damn near perfect breakfast. I went back a week later to have it again and when I didn’t see it on the specials board, I asked them to make it for me anyway. You know something has to be really fucking delicious for me to engage in the “make your own menu” behavior, one of the things that piss me off when customers do at my places of employment. I didn’t care. I needed it again. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWufzAUZsI/AAAAAAAAA5A/LA84hwa6ZYI/s1600/bennies.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWufzAUZsI/AAAAAAAAA5A/LA84hwa6ZYI/s320/bennies.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500494381193651906" /></a><br />By the time I arrived at <a href="http://www.bucksnaked-bbq.com">Buck’s Naked BBQ</a> in Freeport, I needed a few Coors Lights to get my head on straight. Earlier that day, while driving around looking for the Skinny BBQ Cart (that you’ll hear about shortly), I was waiting at a red light at Monument Square. I got distracted with a scene in front of the library involving a cute blonde girl in very short shorts, who looked to be an employee of the library, moving along some loitering homeless people who were trying to play bongos and guitars. I was in the right lane, and all of this was taking place to my left, where the neighboring lane must have had a green arrow because the cars started to move which prompted me, not paying attention, to hit the gas and drive right into the car in front of me. Turns out that the girl who’s car I hit was also quite pretty, and after realizing that the only damage to my car was my license plate, we had pleasant conversation and I was on my way.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWu08bB5sI/AAAAAAAAA5I/qt6XpdKXKjs/s1600/bucksribs.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWu08bB5sI/AAAAAAAAA5I/qt6XpdKXKjs/s320/bucksribs.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500494744498857666" /></a><br />I’ve always liked the ribs at Buck’s, they’ve got a really nice dry rub that tastes strongly of cumin (to me, anyway). The meat is tender, and though unnecessary they offer three sauces, of which I like the house BBQ the best. Buck’s has the feel of a restaurant that is aspiring to someday be a chain, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. “Fooze - ” their practice of putting ribs in cocktails - doesn’t appeal to me but certainly has me amused, Imagining the person who thought of it declaring “fuck it – lets put ribs in these fuckers.” I also visited the new Windham location, which doesn’t have the greatest location but will do fine once it develops it’s local following. <br /><br />My final stop is <a href="http://www.skinnycartbbq.com">Skinny Cart BBQ</a>, located currently in Portland on either India Street during the day or Congress Street on certain nights. Ronny G is the man behind the operation, serving up delicious pulled pork sandwiches and what he calls the “Bacon Bong,” a sandwich with bacon-wrapped sausage. I’m not sure if we were going for the whole “erect penis” look with the photo shoot, but that’s what we got. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWvEbeATKI/AAAAAAAAA5Q/MM7idouuCx0/s1600/baconbong.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWvEbeATKI/AAAAAAAAA5Q/MM7idouuCx0/s320/baconbong.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500495010530872482" /></a><br />Ron’s sauce has a really nice sweet, sour, and spicy characteristic that would go well on pretty much anything. If you’re having trouble finding the cart, just go to his website and shoot him an email asking where he’ll be. Who knows, at my next food event he may be set up in my driveway.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWvQmLTArI/AAAAAAAAA5Y/3DLmm-VDIVI/s1600/RonnyG.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TFWvQmLTArI/AAAAAAAAA5Y/3DLmm-VDIVI/s320/RonnyG.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500495219563627186" /></a><br /><br />I feel properly warmed up and ready to head south... Who's coming with me?Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-83720488720446041092010-07-01T09:05:00.000-07:002010-07-02T11:35:29.219-07:00Essays in Restaurant Debauchery, number four<span style="font-weight:bold;">Holiday in the Sun</span><br /><br />This is one of the many stories of my life that I feel better having in writing, because it would be a shame to forget. It also amazes me that I can remember any of it at this point.<br /><br />One of the people most responsible for the way I am today was my friend Andrew, a 30 year old, very gay, Vietnamese man whom I met when I was 21 and working in a shitty Chicago nightclub called “Pasha.” Andrew worked up the street at a much cooler venue, which we’ll call “Caviar & Blow,” that I used to frequent before and after my shifts. He became my mentor of sorts, teaching me the way to live an excessive lifestyle in the most decadent fashion and how to deal with the people I met along the way. He was the ultimate entertainer and introduced me to the joys of ethnic neighborhoods, Champagne, and beautiful Asian women. My tolerance combined with his know-how made for a very dangerous combination...<br /><br />When I finally got tired of Pasha and told them to fuck off, Andrew got me a job at Caviar & Blow, officially entering me into one of the most ridiculous periods of my entire life. <br /><br />“C&B” was a nightclub with a Champagne list that read like a novel. Each house had it’s own page, with bottles as rare as 1979 Krug represented. Caviar had it’s own section of the menu, and we used to present it in lavish crystal serving dishes with all of the traditional garnishes. Half bottles of vodka frozen in ice made a nice alternative accompaniment instead of Champagne. The bar had two floors, with the downstairs, referred to as “the boudoir,” having several booths with curtains that could be drawn (so you could have some privacy while you fuck or do drugs or both) and a large Victorian-style bed in the center of the room. <br />It was the kind of place where you would be working on a very busy night and your boss would yank you into the office, declaring that he had poured out way too much blow on his desk and that you would need to finish it – now. This was also the same person whom I eventually had a cocaine-induced threesome with involving a girl I was dating at the time (who did S&M porn, but she’s a another story). There were always coke dealers present, and the bar was so out of control that once I caught a busboy slugging Hennessey Richard (Cognac that was $275.00 a shot) out of a paper cup. <br /><br />Clientele while I worked there included Prince, Jimmy Page, The Cure, Stone Temple Pilots, and Simon LeBon from Duran Duran (who had a most memorable visit, when he fucked two twin sisters on the bed after-hours downstairs in front of everyone, after walking around the bar in his underwear playing the guitar). Others included this guy Mark who was one of the first salesmen of Viagra. He used to purchase ridiculously expensive bottles just for the staff to drink, which is how I drank vintage Salon for the first time (the second was with the pastry chef at another restaurant, when we stole a 1985 from the wine cooler and then drank it straight out of the bottle while driving up Lakeshore Drive blaring Motley Crue's "Too Fast for Love" on the stereo). <br /><br />"C&B" has since closed, last I heard my former bosses had sold it to two idiots who had run it into the ground within a few months. One of the last incidents reported back to me was that my friend Brett, who I had worked with at another restaurant for a long while, had become the "head chef" there. We had waited tables together, and had gotten along because he was from Boston so we felt like we had some kind of bond, even though he was kind of a fucking idiot. He was randomly one of the people who ended up at my house the day of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, because we had all been scheduled to work that morning and ended up closing the restaurant and watching the news while getting drunk all day. Anyway, apparently during his second week as chef at "C&B," he had gone to the bathroom, shot up a bunch of heroin, and died on the toilet. The rumor is that they took him right out the back door and continued service, but who knows if that's true or not.<br /><br />Now that this background is provided, I will tell you about this one particular Sunday…<br /><br />I had just finished a few fairly profitable days at work, and had managed to stash about $1400 cash in my nightstand even after partying all week. As I pondered the idea of the doing something responsible with the money, like starting a savings account or taking a trip home to Maine, my phone rang. It was Andrew, seeing if I wanted to join a crew for late lunch at a French-Vietnamese spot in our neighborhood called “Pasteur.” I agreed, and for some reason decided to put all $1400 in my pocket before I headed out, not knowing what I was getting myself into. <br /><br />Pasteur was a cool spot that was located in the North Side of Chicago, but when you walked in you felt like you were in what I can only describe as an “elegant jungle.” Andrew was there with a couple of other restaurant queens, Paulie and Wayne, who ran an Italian restaurant in Evanston. We hammered through three bottles of Veuve Cliquot with our lunch, and proceeded to roll to a nearby bar to discuss plans for the evening. <br /><br />As darkness fell we headed over to Wicker Park to eat at a trendy new sushi restaurant called “Mirai.” It was here that I learned for the first time that the sake should be enjoyed chilled, and that the stuff they served warm was the sake-equivalent of white zinfandel. A couple bottles later, we are definitely in rare form and decide to make a run to get some blow. Paulie’s connection is in a sketchy neighborhood on the south side of the city, and he refers to her as “Mama.” I could see why when I met her, a large Hispanic woman with two kids watching cartoons on the couch of her large apartment. She was very kind, and she doled out two golf ball-sized bags as if she were giving us fresh baked cookies. <br /><br />After doing several bumps in the car, we arrive back to our neighborhood and begin to drink furiously at a cool, old-school bar known as “The Green Mill.” Very prominently displayed on the piano is a sign that says: “Al Capone used to drink here – often.” 4:00 a.m. arrives quickly and we transition to Paulie’s house for more drinks. At 6:00 a.m., Wayne proposes that we could go to <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&safe=off&gbv=2&q=Chicago%20to%20Saugatuck&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=il">Saugatuck, Michigan</a> to hang out for a couple of days. This seems like a good idea so we pile into Paulie’s car, purchase a case of beer, and hit the road.<br /><br />Saugatuck is a lot like Oquniquit, Maine. It’s a tourist-driven predominantly gay town, filled with quaint little shops and lots of outdoor bars. We arrive after a two and a half hour drive, and settle in at a hotel called ‘The Dunes,” that Wayne suggested because they have an amazing pool bar.<br /><br />And right he was. I spent the entire day blowing rails in the bathroom and drinking probably about 15 Absolut Citron and lemonades poolside. I remember wearing these ridiculously large Helmut Lang aviator sunglasses, and the bartender, who was becoming quite friendly, giving me the heads-up that I had coke all over my nose and maybe I should go in the pool for a bit…<br /><br />The bag of drugs is still going fairly strong, and we decide to head out to town to check out a few bars. It’s now about 2:00 pm, and we’ve been up for a very long time now, so I’m not sure the tourists were very impressed with our behavior. Luckily, we were throwing around enough cash with the bartenders that no one bothered to “deal” with the four crazed demons from the big city. <br /><br /><br />We finally head back to the hotel around 5:00 p.m. for a 45-minute “disco nap” before waking up and going out to dinner at one of the higher-end restaurants in town. The nap did little for my sobriety, and I barely remember the meal. I do remember drinking red zinfandel with steak au poivre, and thinking it was good. The food definitely has slowed us all down, but we pull it together to go drink some tequila and finish off the bag, before eventually passing out in a heap by 11:00 p.m.<br /><br />The ride back early in the morning goes well with the warm beers that were left in the car, and I decide not to bother assessing my financial situation until I get back. I arrive home around 8:30 a.m., and decide to have a few beers in my sunroom to aid me in crashing into a deep sleep for about 17 hours. My roommate wakes up at this time, takes one look at me, and just says: “drug bender?” <br /><br />“Yeah,” I replied, “It was way more fun than opening a savings account.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TCzMYqDg4rI/AAAAAAAAA3o/5MAW86fshhA/s1600/crue.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 385px; height: 309px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TCzMYqDg4rI/AAAAAAAAA3o/5MAW86fshhA/s400/crue.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488986769835745970" /></a>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-755331776031934852010-06-20T09:14:00.000-07:002010-06-20T10:52:18.816-07:00The Dim Sum Party, and so much more....Let me begin by saying that, although it resembles one, this was NOT a Deathmatch. A few weeks ago I decided to throw together what I promised would be the last Chinese-themed dinner party before I moved on to bastardizing cuisine from another Asian country. This was the last hurrah…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5S5A-Bc7I/AAAAAAAAA3Q/LhL0GT_UY8w/s1600/joeljoetelephone.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 291px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5S5A-Bc7I/AAAAAAAAA3Q/LhL0GT_UY8w/s320/joeljoetelephone.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484912535650005938" /></a><br />I will also say that Mr. Panda, to quote Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes from <span style="font-style:italic;">Dirty Dancing</span>, “had the time of his life,” as you will see depicted throughout this post.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB4_VaY_qKI/AAAAAAAAAxw/M6_bQdb8fqM/s1600/chairmanmao.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB4_VaY_qKI/AAAAAAAAAxw/M6_bQdb8fqM/s320/chairmanmao.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484891033277802658" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB4_pHl8V1I/AAAAAAAAAx4/pJ8fte0Ny1g/s1600/roomlayout1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB4_pHl8V1I/AAAAAAAAAx4/pJ8fte0Ny1g/s320/roomlayout1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484891371829221202" /></a><br />Lauren and Aaron were given the task of decorating the house in a “sexy communist” theme, and they succeeded with flying colors (actually, pretty much just red). I had been at work while they were setting up the night before, so when I arrived home to Mr. Panda surrounded by “Communist Funtown,” it was fairly overwhelming.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB4_4diJd2I/AAAAAAAAAyA/82oDTh7QoUY/s1600/diningroomlayout.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB4_4diJd2I/AAAAAAAAAyA/82oDTh7QoUY/s320/diningroomlayout.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484891635416921954" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5AHlyw1uI/AAAAAAAAAyI/zk12zCzmwVU/s1600/lanterns.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5AHlyw1uI/AAAAAAAAAyI/zk12zCzmwVU/s320/lanterns.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484891895332132578" /></a><br />Because the theme was Dim Sum, I had scheduled the party to start at noon. Of course, no one took me seriously and everything got going around 3:30. In a desperate attempt to preserve the tradition of Dim Sum, and mask the fact that we’re raging alcoholics, Dietz and I purchased fourteen different kinds of tea for everyone to taste- and we only ended up brewing one. Instead we plowed through case after case of wine, a bottle of bourbon, a half gallon of tequila, and countless beers – just like we always do. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5AX2msMjI/AAAAAAAAAyQ/31JfZOJtjhs/s1600/joepandanice.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5AX2msMjI/AAAAAAAAAyQ/31JfZOJtjhs/s320/joepandanice.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484892174722806322" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5A4VJ1YtI/AAAAAAAAAyY/FCcih-iNoSI/s1600/joesoup.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5A4VJ1YtI/AAAAAAAAAyY/FCcih-iNoSI/s320/joesoup.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484892732679086802" /></a><br />We streamed in a “top 40” radio station from China to enhance the mood, and it turns out that people still listen to the Backstreet Boys over there. <br />When people arrived I greeted them with course number one, <span style="font-style:italic;">Bak Kut Teh</span> soup. This is a traditional Chinese breakfast dish usually consisting of a heavily spiced broth and several different parts of the pig. I chose to just serve broth garnished with cilantro as a meaty beverage designed to coat your stomach for some serious drinking. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5BRonNgHI/AAAAAAAAAyg/-xjcvGqx6bM/s1600/pandarape1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5BRonNgHI/AAAAAAAAAyg/-xjcvGqx6bM/s320/pandarape1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484893167399305330" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5Bvxw9-iI/AAAAAAAAAyo/TWsfJxqEIhE/s1600/pigsinblanket.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5Bvxw9-iI/AAAAAAAAAyo/TWsfJxqEIhE/s320/pigsinblanket.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484893685252225570" /></a><br />Next up was Otis & Marya, who made their own <span style="font-style:italic;">Lup Cheong</span> sausage and did a version of “pigs in a blanket” with steamed dough wrappers. Both a Chinese ketchup and mustard condiment were served alongside. You'll also notice Kate, Gemma, and Alysia starting to get pretty friendly with Mr. Panda...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5CBQCqJ8I/AAAAAAAAAyw/1VX1ScLpPsc/s1600/pandarape2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 273px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5CBQCqJ8I/AAAAAAAAAyw/1VX1ScLpPsc/s320/pandarape2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484893985437263810" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5CQgxRutI/AAAAAAAAAy4/yig0MBfe3X8/s1600/shrimptoast.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5CQgxRutI/AAAAAAAAAy4/yig0MBfe3X8/s320/shrimptoast.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484894247625800402" /></a><br />Leslie, who had per usual gone over the top in helping with party preparations, was next with deep fried shrimp toasts. They were delicious and heavy enough to keep people satisfied for awhile, which was good because now it was Dietz’s turn in the kitchen for what is lovingly referred to as ‘the Congee hour.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5CtF1iMMI/AAAAAAAAAzA/FT04f_fNNvk/s1600/dietzandfriends.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5CtF1iMMI/AAAAAAAAAzA/FT04f_fNNvk/s320/dietzandfriends.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484894738612105410" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5G4DBmoYI/AAAAAAAAA1o/vAIjGvgQuY8/s1600/joetequila.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5G4DBmoYI/AAAAAAAAA1o/vAIjGvgQuY8/s320/joetequila.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484899324882493826" /></a><br />In his usual fashion Dietz had chosen to prepare three different styles of congee with countless garnishes, an enormously time-consuming undertaking right in the middle of the party. Knowing how he works I cleared everyone out of the kitchen and declared it to be a “no fly zone” until the congee hour was over.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5C9A3Hp1I/AAAAAAAAAzI/DfpZSIrfGiU/s1600/karlcharcoal.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5C9A3Hp1I/AAAAAAAAAzI/DfpZSIrfGiU/s320/karlcharcoal.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484895012154484562" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5DKngSJuI/AAAAAAAAAzQ/jTt8mvn0_4I/s1600/karlcellphonegrill.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5DKngSJuI/AAAAAAAAAzQ/jTt8mvn0_4I/s320/karlcellphonegrill.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484895245865985762" /></a><br />During this period, Karl gets the grill going for his BBQ ribs and we start handing around the half gallon of Sauza Hornitos that Gemma and Josh had rolled in with. After destroying the ribs, which were fucking awesome, congee madness was still monopolizing all four of the stove burners, so we fire up the steamer on the grill. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5DYwdaF8I/AAAAAAAAAzY/aT48Dbn6b_4/s1600/ribs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5DYwdaF8I/AAAAAAAAAzY/aT48Dbn6b_4/s320/ribs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484895488788010946" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5DkkM5ovI/AAAAAAAAAzg/eLqZELs2-1k/s1600/pandarape5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5DkkM5ovI/AAAAAAAAAzg/eLqZELs2-1k/s320/pandarape5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484895691655979762" /></a><br />Next up is Stephen with spicy lemongrass pork sausage and sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaf. This was a very well balanced dish, and I felt bad because just as he finished and started serving, the congee circus was also complete, accompanied by a presentation from Dietz on what the fuck to do with what.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5D2p19bbI/AAAAAAAAAzo/eG646mMsqb8/s1600/stephendish.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5D2p19bbI/AAAAAAAAAzo/eG646mMsqb8/s320/stephendish.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484896002408017330" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5EFamSPUI/AAAAAAAAAzw/lYgC2-RbiVg/s1600/pandarape7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 305px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5EFamSPUI/AAAAAAAAAzw/lYgC2-RbiVg/s320/pandarape7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484896256013778242" /></a><br />The three kinds of congee were traditional, green mung bean, and black rice with red dates. They were served with a multitude of condiments, including a nuclear but delicious homemade sambal. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5ERftsDgI/AAAAAAAAAz4/QxFE9Dn7Nhg/s1600/congee1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 315px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5ERftsDgI/AAAAAAAAAz4/QxFE9Dn7Nhg/s320/congee1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484896463545437698" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5EZDWIImI/AAAAAAAAA0A/pDPcdQaV05c/s1600/duckegg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5EZDWIImI/AAAAAAAAA0A/pDPcdQaV05c/s320/duckegg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484896593369375330" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5EiSkHQUI/AAAAAAAAA0I/hphxWNkz_zI/s1600/congee2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5EiSkHQUI/AAAAAAAAA0I/hphxWNkz_zI/s320/congee2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484896752073392450" /></a><br />Melissa, who is an actual Asian person, was consulted on each dish, and knowing what was being served next I tried to distract her by (apparently, I don’t remember this that well…) licking her boot, because the next course was “Dim Sum Americana.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5EscaYGzI/AAAAAAAAA0Q/mqoK_CQcsKg/s1600/joemelissafoot.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 208px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5EscaYGzI/AAAAAAAAA0Q/mqoK_CQcsKg/s320/joemelissafoot.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484896926515600178" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5E6k1RAdI/AAAAAAAAA0Y/G8QyHKj9V8o/s1600/potockisquibb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5E6k1RAdI/AAAAAAAAA0Y/G8QyHKj9V8o/s320/potockisquibb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484897169294033362" /></a><br />Kate and Josh had created what would probably be the bane of any Chinese person’s existence: dumplings filled, separately, with Cheese Wiz, red hot dog, and pimento & ham. They were delicious and yet so wrong in so many ways, which is why I love everything these two come up with for pretty much fucking anything.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5FQkpOT1I/AAAAAAAAA0g/cw9qzJ1OXJU/s1600/dimsumamericana.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5FQkpOT1I/AAAAAAAAA0g/cw9qzJ1OXJU/s320/dimsumamericana.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484897547200646994" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5FYbdD_QI/AAAAAAAAA0o/FEB6joBthqc/s1600/americana.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5FYbdD_QI/AAAAAAAAA0o/FEB6joBthqc/s320/americana.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484897682172673282" /></a><br />At this point Masa shows up and upon being greeted with a cheesy dumpling, realizes he better get drinking to catch up with everyone. It seemed like a good time to have Melissa start on her dish, pan-fried daikon rice cakes, to show him that we did, in fact, have some authentic food to offer. I was getting full, but these were so good I had two servings against my better judgment, of which I have none anyway. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5Fkz6KwyI/AAAAAAAAA0w/qHK-CTv9tKc/s1600/masa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5Fkz6KwyI/AAAAAAAAA0w/qHK-CTv9tKc/s320/masa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484897894895633186" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5FtuuthII/AAAAAAAAA04/NEeUmvnVths/s1600/melissacooking.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5FtuuthII/AAAAAAAAA04/NEeUmvnVths/s320/melissacooking.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484898048124224642" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5F3jmH7YI/AAAAAAAAA1A/ZN2f1d7nAuQ/s1600/melissaserving.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 223px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5F3jmH7YI/AAAAAAAAA1A/ZN2f1d7nAuQ/s320/melissaserving.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484898216934108546" /></a><br />Outside Pieper was steaming up his pig’s head soup dumplings, which were delicious even though they started to fall apart. Honestly, I’ve never made soup dumplings and neither had he, so doing it for the first time for 35 people was quite a challenge.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5GIzo18qI/AAAAAAAAA1I/WersoCshzLw/s1600/piepersoupdumplings.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5GIzo18qI/AAAAAAAAA1I/WersoCshzLw/s320/piepersoupdumplings.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484898513298256546" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5GRafpxLI/AAAAAAAAA1Q/nhPQ6cO0a44/s1600/pandarape9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5GRafpxLI/AAAAAAAAA1Q/nhPQ6cO0a44/s320/pandarape9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484898661167645874" /></a><br />At this point I get <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icing_(drinking_game)">“Iced.”</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5GcZ7M6oI/AAAAAAAAA1Y/R0Vqlmp4ZxY/s1600/joegetsiced.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5GcZ7M6oI/AAAAAAAAA1Y/R0Vqlmp4ZxY/s320/joegetsiced.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484898849993321090" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5GmVaIDGI/AAAAAAAAA1g/AWb_EYxxQ7Y/s1600/courtneydumplings.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5GmVaIDGI/AAAAAAAAA1g/AWb_EYxxQ7Y/s320/courtneydumplings.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484899020579540066" /></a><br /><br />Courtney finally gets a stove burner and starts searing her duck dumplings. The bottle of Tequila is now gone, and the music is getting louder and louder. Knowing that my palate isn’t long for the world, Dietz and I open two bottles of Nicolas Joly Savennieres, just to say we had something ridiculous. It is one of the funkier wines I’ve drunk in a while, and it was a nice break from slaughtering tequila and vinho verde. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5KOk55mHI/AAAAAAAAA1w/d1wbty28w1M/s1600/pandarape12.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5KOk55mHI/AAAAAAAAA1w/d1wbty28w1M/s320/pandarape12.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484903010468993138" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5LbtLGqXI/AAAAAAAAA14/TypQgcZNDxQ/s1600/bbqpork.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5LbtLGqXI/AAAAAAAAA14/TypQgcZNDxQ/s320/bbqpork.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484904335538563442" /></a><br />Joel, the only man I know who can pull of salmon-colored shorts, steps up and serves his honey BBQ pork-stuffed puff pastry. These are outrageously delicious, and I’m pissed I didn’t stash a few away for breakfast. The Chinese radio has officially been jettisoned in favor of Heidi as DJ, and things start to go downhill fast.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5LuNlw48I/AAAAAAAAA2A/myT5zwRYvsA/s1600/brad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5LuNlw48I/AAAAAAAAA2A/myT5zwRYvsA/s320/brad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484904653477962690" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5L3QdQqBI/AAAAAAAAA2I/GQ-miE1-g5o/s1600/joejesskellygemma.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5L3QdQqBI/AAAAAAAAA2I/GQ-miE1-g5o/s320/joejesskellygemma.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484904808866424850" /></a><br />One of the most amazing moments of the party occurs when I decide to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icing_(drinking_game)">Ice</a> Nolan with a green apple Smirnoff I had in the fridge (the link will explain a lot). Gemma agrees to help, puts it in her dress, and asks Nolan for “assistance.” Nolan pulls his pant leg up to reveal a blueberry Smirnoff duct taped to his leg and officially <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icing_(drinking_game)">“ice blocks”</a> Gemma. What made me wonder is just how long he was going to walk around with an Ice taped to his leg - something tells me he would have gone all night.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5MBCW2klI/AAAAAAAAA2Q/1znVBgLUYus/s1600/nolanfrying.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5MBCW2klI/AAAAAAAAA2Q/1znVBgLUYus/s320/nolanfrying.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484904976880144978" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5MTHLHVnI/AAAAAAAAA2g/TvQlrOrJ6g0/s1600/shrimpballs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5MTHLHVnI/AAAAAAAAA2g/TvQlrOrJ6g0/s320/shrimpballs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484905287410734706" /></a><br />With the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icing_(drinking_game)">icing</a> out of the way, Nolan begins frying his shrimp balls to serve with a coriander dipping sauce and Szechuan pepper salt. I’m sure at this point everyone is tired of the sound of my voice, but I continue to entertain the entire group from the top of the stairs. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5MkBUG_SI/AAAAAAAAA2o/GfOhlmln7Xs/s1600/eggcustard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5MkBUG_SI/AAAAAAAAA2o/GfOhlmln7Xs/s320/eggcustard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484905577895623970" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5MsyUWOrI/AAAAAAAAA2w/olgy8f1AIp0/s1600/heidiparty.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5MsyUWOrI/AAAAAAAAA2w/olgy8f1AIp0/s320/heidiparty.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484905728488913586" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5M_l0rfnI/AAAAAAAAA24/3B6HbbY9u0I/s1600/joeltable.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5M_l0rfnI/AAAAAAAAA24/3B6HbbY9u0I/s320/joeltable.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484906051552378482" /></a><br />Brad just barely gets his egg custard served before the dance party erupts. As I enter the living room Joel is on the coffee table dancing to Lady GaGa so I decide to join him. Mr. Panda, probably a little sore now, keeps getting it hard as everybody gets in on the fun. I remember lying on my stairs and slugging out of a bottle of Woodford’s Reserve Bourbon in between songs, <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5Nb3u3sBI/AAAAAAAAA3I/UGmQzWIoIp8/s1600/dietzjoelpanda.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5Nb3u3sBI/AAAAAAAAA3I/UGmQzWIoIp8/s320/dietzjoelpanda.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484906537396187154" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5NLnlcqpI/AAAAAAAAA3A/4hLLQkR65N0/s1600/pandarape13.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5NLnlcqpI/AAAAAAAAA3A/4hLLQkR65N0/s320/pandarape13.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484906258183793298" /></a><br /><br />I can tell you that somehow I ended up on a couch that wasn't located in my house, and Mr. Panda was there - I can tell you that much. Once I figured out where I was I decided to leave Mr. Panda behind and come back for him, because I was way too out of it to explain the story to a cab driver.<br /><br />After pissing off the gas station attendant by paying for a bottle of water with a hundred dollar bill, I get a taxi home and gather up the rentals (glasses, tablecloths, etc.) to return to <a href="http://www.partyshopmaine.com">One-Stop Party Shop</a> before my hangover really kicks in. I then proceed to have an epic hangover meal at <a href="http://www.poboysandpickles.com">Po' Boys & Pickles</a>, and collapse into a deep sleep until work starts at 5. <br /><br /><br /><a href="http://forums.egullet.org/index.php?/topic/133638-deathmatch-dim-sum/">For a less Panda-Centric account, go to Johnny D's Egullet post here.</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5MI6pRpdI/AAAAAAAAA2Y/0qDOe9pV9UE/s1600/gemmaflag.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TB5MI6pRpdI/AAAAAAAAA2Y/0qDOe9pV9UE/s320/gemmaflag.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484905112248886738" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">All photos by Jessica Joseph & John Dennison.</span>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3949270802334481269.post-47838220730669674422010-06-04T12:04:00.000-07:002010-06-04T12:17:26.346-07:00Miyake Staff Meals Part Two<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlQyDU24gI/AAAAAAAAAxY/8Cfgjm5zlHk/s1600/photo-4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlQyDU24gI/AAAAAAAAAxY/8Cfgjm5zlHk/s320/photo-4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478999242489389570" /></a><br />Staff Meal continues to be a big deal at Miyake, where every night we start brainstorming the beginning of the shift as to what we'll be eating. Wine pairing is optional...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPsnSkx0I/AAAAAAAAAxI/jNGFzgWc7DY/s1600/photo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPsnSkx0I/AAAAAAAAAxI/jNGFzgWc7DY/s320/photo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478998049552648002" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPnxwNFUI/AAAAAAAAAxA/wB8Sf7yYmvI/s1600/photo-16.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPnxwNFUI/AAAAAAAAAxA/wB8Sf7yYmvI/s320/photo-16.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478997966461932866" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPiLt8nNI/AAAAAAAAAw4/O4Ntnhl7oOA/s1600/photo-15.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPiLt8nNI/AAAAAAAAAw4/O4Ntnhl7oOA/s320/photo-15.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478997870352571602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPRaCyt7I/AAAAAAAAAww/snH0zE10zPw/s1600/photo-12.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPRaCyt7I/AAAAAAAAAww/snH0zE10zPw/s320/photo-12.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478997582140323762" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPKA9yQyI/AAAAAAAAAwo/RS3-jUYefDo/s1600/photo-10.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPKA9yQyI/AAAAAAAAAwo/RS3-jUYefDo/s320/photo-10.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478997455149351714" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPFmH7-PI/AAAAAAAAAwg/vKWqRZmYvJo/s1600/photo-9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlPFmH7-PI/AAAAAAAAAwg/vKWqRZmYvJo/s320/photo-9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478997379224697074" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlO_u7EAuI/AAAAAAAAAwY/dQp3QSCYyro/s1600/photo-8.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlO_u7EAuI/AAAAAAAAAwY/dQp3QSCYyro/s320/photo-8.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478997278507401954" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlO3lhZPLI/AAAAAAAAAwQ/eH_FkntoMyk/s1600/photo-7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlO3lhZPLI/AAAAAAAAAwQ/eH_FkntoMyk/s320/photo-7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478997138544868530" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlOzSrZsFI/AAAAAAAAAwI/nfswjxwH9KE/s1600/photo-6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlOzSrZsFI/AAAAAAAAAwI/nfswjxwH9KE/s320/photo-6.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478997064767090770" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlOtTVdaBI/AAAAAAAAAwA/2-GHpyLmGFE/s1600/photo-5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlOtTVdaBI/AAAAAAAAAwA/2-GHpyLmGFE/s320/photo-5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478996961864280082" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlOoRJ4C7I/AAAAAAAAAv4/PU_yaNlpAXg/s1600/photo-3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlOoRJ4C7I/AAAAAAAAAv4/PU_yaNlpAXg/s320/photo-3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478996875379477426" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlOk2HXwAI/AAAAAAAAAvw/fVT7cGq8-us/s1600/photo-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlOk2HXwAI/AAAAAAAAAvw/fVT7cGq8-us/s320/photo-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478996816581607426" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlOaj1uDgI/AAAAAAAAAvo/4NjJkItFiCs/s1600/photo-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_88gTIXqZyBM/TAlOaj1uDgI/AAAAAAAAAvo/4NjJkItFiCs/s320/photo-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478996639877041666" /></a>Caligulahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11751655861571894706noreply@blogger.com0