Peter Green
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Posts posted by Peter Green
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I think it would be GREAT!
Around here, we make something called "mush". It's similar to grits except you put it in a loaf pan and chill it. After that you take it out and fry slices of it in bacon grease--great with butter and syrup, or cheese and peppers.
That's why I like egullet! We get (and give) the best advice on healthy eating!
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Mmmmmmmm......grits......... I love 'em with cheddar cheese and jalapenos.
Hmmm, how would shredded parmesan and some olive oil do with grits? We're sort of working on the same lines as polenta.....kinda...... I wonder if I have room left in my luggage for some to take home?
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This link to part 2 will take you to what I think is a better start (at least a more coherent one) for the Bogota section of this trip.
I think we'll be seeing more and more of this city as a food centre, and so I'd like to do it full justice.
I was also being overconfident in keeping three narratives going on at the same time. Obviously, I shouldn't be letting work get in the way of things like this.
More soon.
Peter
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Movin’ On
I’d been good. I’d done all of my packing the night before, had everything ready, and had time to spare. I figured I deserved a last bucket of crawfish.
I was wrong.
The Ragin’ Cajun does not open that early in the day.
I considered my options, and there was really only one choice that might work, and that had been on my list of “wanna tries”.
I headed down town to the Breakfast Klub
I’d heard about this place for some time. Marcus Davis had opened it in 2001. He’d been in the food industry for years, but more on the industrial chicken side of things, and then had gone into teaching for several years, before coming back to food and opening this place.
After opening it quickly developed a loyal clientele, and became known for good food, poetry readings, happy service, and long lines.
Now, I wasn’t there at a peak time, so the long lines weren’t a concern for me. However, I did have to get lectured. Not that I minded, as everyone that talked to me was in an amazingly good mood.
The two dishes they’re proudest of are the waffles and wings, and the catfish and grits. For both of these they have Japanese style models up front, so we newbies can know what we’re getting into.
Now, I get pretty good waffles at home courtesy of Tita Sonia, but catfish isn’t something I can buy locally, and grits are on the list of “maybe I’ve eaten them before, but darned if I can remember when or where”. And if I can’t remember what I ate where, then it was a long time.
The smiling face went on to explain the ordering system. You put your order at the counter, you receive a number on a clip, you get your own condiments and cutlery, and then you wait for them to bring you your food.
I could follow that.
Along with the catfish, I also ordered a side of pork chops. Just because I could.
My cappuccino came first (yeah, I know. That mental image of cappuccino and grits just seems wrong, but work with me on this), and I nursed this while waiting on the food.
The room is kid friendly (there were a couple there), bright colours, big windows, and a sort of Jamaican feel to it all that I can’t quite put my finger on. Lots of laughing, and people in just plain good spirits. The line up at the door wasn’t unreasonable, and they seemed to be doing a regular business in ladies from the convention center nearby, as there was a steady stream of well-dressed older ladies with name tags on.
When it came, I had a bad feeling. I had a feeling that I’d ordered too much food. But it was one of those things that I knew I was going to get a scolding if I left too much food on the plate.
I had a biscuit for my eggs, and there was a magnificent puddle of butter on my grits. The pork chops were leering at me as well.
I started on the catfish. Nicely fried, with the meat cooked through and tasty. The grits were good as well, so I can now order them again without getting confused.
But my real favourite was the pork. Those two chops up there were a thing of beauty. I daintily sliced into one, and found it to be pan fried, cooked through, but marvelously soft and moist, not the dried-out shoe leather you usually get with a pork chop. I went to cut another piece…..
“Sir, are you enjoying that pork chop?’ A large hand clapped me on the shoulder.
“Yes, yes I am.” I assured the large gentleman who was smiling at me.
“I need to tell you the rules here at the Breakfast Klub. We never use knives and forks with your pork chops. You use your hands and just eat.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” I picked one of the chops up with my fingers and bit in to show him that I was with the program.
“Good. You enjoy now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Damn they were good pork chops, though. I finished them off, wolfed down the catfish, and did a manly attempt at finishing the eggs. Figuring that I was close enough to done, I made a break for it before anything else happened.
Driving back, I could feel the mass of food working my system. It had been a lot of food to get through, but I felt I’d done well enough. Hopefully, I’d make it through the upcoming plane trip without anything going too wrong.
Really good pork chops.
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Feeling crabby?
Dinner that evening was at Truluck’s, close by the Galleria.
They’d used to be further down Westheimer, but they’d moved out here a year or so ago when the old lease came up, taking advantage of the lunch business you can draw from the Galleria and the surrounding offices.
Naturally, I walked. The front desk was aghast at this. “You’re not taking your car?”
I wonder about this place at times.
Amazingly enough, I found it without getting lost. Or run over. Or cannibalized. Or whatever other reasons would’ve precluded me from making a five-minute walk.
The new place is posher than what I remember of the old. It’s got that approach where they try to make you forget you’re in Houston. Or at least try and get you to forget you’re effectively fronting a street of strip malls.
We started with martinis, mine a sapphire, and then ordered a bottle of the Oregonian Willamette Valley Domain Serene 2005 Pinot Noir. We figured the Pinot Noir would satisfy the red wine part of our crowd, while still working well with the seafood.
I started with half dozen oysters; two each from Connecticut (Blue Point); Rhode Island (Quonset Point); and Prince Edward Island (Rocky Bay). The waiter tried to convince us at first that P.E.I. is off the coast of B.C., but we know our geography a little better than that.
Of these, I’d have to say the Quonsets were my least favourite, while the Blue Points had just the right thickness to go with the horseradish. The Rocky Bays were acceptable, but given the choices in town, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to order more.
One of my compatriots had order the Stone crab claws as an appetizer. Truluck’s is best known for their crabs, the local Stone Crabs in particular. They have a fleet of boats working for them that keeps them supplied in crabs and fish during the year.
Another member in our party had ordered the prawn cocktail. This was cool. Two mutant sized prawns in dry ice, the dish doing a Morticia Adam’s on our table top.
For my main course, I went simple. Just a couple of crab claws. Dungeness I eat in Vancouver, and we’d been binging on King Crab in Korea. Luckily, they had the Colossals in their latest shipment, so two of those were about right for me.
Precracked, these were an easy meal. And two was the right amount. With crab, I just find that you can suddenly come up against that wall that won’t let you eat anymore.
It’s a horrible thing, that wall.
Dinner done, we contemplated leaving. But it just seemed wrong not to take something from the dessert menu, so we settled on something that looked vaguely like a chocolate skyscraper. We quickly toppled it, and savaged the cream and fruit on the inside. It was definitely a chocolate lover’s dish, as the slabs of chocolate on each side were fairly heavy.
That was my last dinner. There would be time for breakfast the next day, if I had my packing in hand, but for now all I could hope for was perhaps two more evening meals when I returned.
People had been recommending Reef, so I had the hotel make reservations for me for my Saturday night return. Sunday would be dinner with friends, so things were pretty well taken care of. I would try and get in a last bucket of crawfish the next morning, and then I would say a temporary farewell to Houston.
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Columbia,
Or, rather, Bogota. I can’t claim to have seen much of Columbia, other than the capital, and the nearby town of Chia (and that was just a drive through).
I’d come with mixed feelings. On the one side, there are the tales of crime in the streets, of kidnappings, of the actions of the FARC out in the jungle - true terrorists in that their only purpose is to create terror, with no real purpose beyond that anymore.
Our lives are, obviously, coloured by a diet of “if it bleeds it leads” newscasting, and the digital eternity of movies focused upon the negative elements, such as Scarface. (By the way, it’s out as a really cool video game. Scud was showing me the G4 review on a podcast a few months ago).
But countering that were words I’d read in Bourdain, and elsewhere – “If you go to the kitchen of any successful restaurant in the the US, you’ll find Columbians hard at work making certain everything is done well.”
With a population of 8 million, and with many returnees from the cities of El Norde, shouldn’t I expect to see some stunning food?
Obviously, this side of things held far more attraction to me than any views the Northern press may be putting about.
The airport was more or less as expected. We were disgorged from our miserable Continental flight (I admit, it’s hard for me to readjust to the proactively low levels of service of US carriers) and were processed through with no real concerns.
Our agents were on hand to pick us up, guiding us through the crowd of eager families, all jostling to catch the first sight of their father, brother, mother, daughter, sister, son, whatever, who was returning.
After that, it was trolleys up the road, and we were packing out a van in the time honoured tradition of travelers everywhere. I could have been in Nairobi, or Amman, or anywhere in the 3rd world as far as airports went……I take that back, everything was fairly tidy, so it couldn’t be Cairo or Mumbai.
The aspect of cleanliness stuck with me as we drove in. Good quality roads (Houston’s roads were far worse than this), and no litter to speak of. The buildings near the airport were clean and modern looking, and there was an air of prosperity about the place.
Globalization may have its problems (making the world boring, being one of them), but I know (from living without them) that there downsides are offset by the benefits they provide. There were easily recognized chains as we whipped past – Carrefour, Home Centre, and others, all much like what we see everywhere on this planet.
But there were also the hole-in-the-wall restaurants and cafes that were lit up and alive, and these were what intrigued me (Oh, if only I’d had time to hit up the Café Armaggedon). And then there was the graffiti. This wasn’t the moronically simplistic tags we see in North America, but detailed paintings with meanings and concerns, beautifully executed. I was thinking there was money to be made in selling custom spray paints here.
There’s a thought. Is there a parallel between Northern Graffiti and Islamic art? Both avoid expression of the material form, and rely upon geometric designs and use of the word as art? Beautiful in their own right, but lacking the graphic element I was seeing on the walls of the city of Bogotá.
Leaving the freeway, we found ourselves in a setting reminding me more of parts of Madrid, or of Italy. The buildings showed some age, but everything was still proudly clean, and taken care of.
As I took in the signs and postings, I was entranced by the language (I did mention I’d not spent time in Latin America). There was the familiar about it, given my (poor) French, but there was a romance to the language that just made you smile as I tired to annunciate “charcuteria” and other signs.
It’s these first arrivals, usually in the dark, usually jammed up against the window of a vehicle, that set the tone for a trip. I was growing very comfortable.
At the hotel, the Radisson, in the North of the city, we checked in, did a short debrief, on the next few days’ work, and then thought of bed.
Yes, we’re getting old.
But we’re not that old. We took in a few drinks in the lobby. I tried a Club Columbia that wasn’t bad. It lacked the high notes of a bitter, or the depth of a dark, but was perfectly drinkable, and very welcome after the last couple of hours of transit.
There was also a very nice Spanish brandy. The Gran Duque D’Alba . That was just to help us sleep well, of course.
When the opportunity arose, I took a glass of the red they had in the lounge. I had taken the impression that this was local, and was well impressed, but I’ve since been told that there are no wines in Columbia, that the soil and climate lack the elements that are so successful in Chile and the Argentine.
No place can be perfect.
And I was looking forward to the wines of South America. I’ve grown fond of Argentine wines of late (having been pampered by the Four Seasons in Bangkok), and wanted to try more of these, especially the ones that aren’t finding their way North as easily as the Chileans.
As you’d expect of me, I was also looking forward to the food. I’d never been this far South, and I expected things to be, well, different.
I was not to be disappointed.
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I'm back in Houston for Superbowl Sunday, and then off again tomorrow for the next part.
Miami afforded me the time both to organize my thoughts on Bogota, and to complete the earlier Houston segment.
As I finish the Houston posting, I'm going to go back a little and take up this trip as a narrative, confused and jumbled as mine usually are.
Also, I'm ashamed to see so many typos and misspellings in the first few entries. Not that I'm going to get things right from this point on, but maybe I can stop treating "3" as a vowel.
So, let us begin again.
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I’ve a soft spot for brunches.
It’s called my stomach ( I really must find time for a gym session or two on this trip. Heck, even a pool).
I’d made reservations for Hugo’s the day before. I’d been intrigued by their sideline of “regional Mexican specialties” on the menu earlier.
I was also interested in their flights of Tecquila, and in being able to read the menu in the light.
This was also an opportunity for me to catch up with some old friends (at my age, many of my friends are old), and so brunch made a good opportunity.
The room is far prettier by day than in the dark. Mind you, the view would be improved by swapping out Westheimer and replacing it with some pastoral setting, or perhaps bricklined roads, but then, again, you can’t have everything.
I’d arrived a shade early, and so was able to relax in relative quiet as I waited for my friends. There was that quiet happiness of a well organized staff getting things set up that gives you a feeling of confidence before a meal, and I was content to enjoy my lechero (Oaxaca coffee and steamed milk) in this moment of quiet.
The lechero (which I used to think was just something the young girls called me) – coffee strained through cream – is a perfectly good way to get over a really rough night of Zydeco. I recommend it to one and all in this situation. I do appreciate that it’s quite common a situation.
A word of caution. Unless there’s a strict timetable to the meal (which there is not with a brunch) then don’t expect me to wait upon people (in any sense of the word). I hit the line early, and concentrated upon the first table.
What I had was all good. There was zucchini huilla coche - stuffed and topped with cheese, then roasted. Some marinated mushrooms; a bit of marinated chayote; a wonderfully biting chicken stuffed poblano pepper; and, something from the years that Yoonhi has taunted me of – octopus (pulpo) salad.
Maybe it was octopus that set me on this path? Eating at my Japanese friend’s home when I was very young, I was always impressed at what they had on the table, and how much more interesting it was than what I had at home (in retrospect, my mother was a very good cook in a lot of ways, but don’t tell her I said that).
One day, my family went out for dinner, at the Seven Seas, a floating restaurant moored on the North Shore at the foot of Lonsdale.
My brothers, heathens the both of them, ordered hamburgers, as I recall. For me, I rooted about through the buffet, and found marinated octopus. I took a couple of pieces, and scurried back to the table.
It was great. It was chewy, it had the taste of salt water in your mouth when you’ve been swimming in the ocean, and, best of all, I could gross out my family by having a tentacle stick out of my mouth.
As I recall, I pocketed a few pieces to take to school the next day to gross out my friends.
What more do you want out of life when you pre-pubescent?
Once my friends showed up (they weren’t really late, I’m just impatient) we ordered some drinks to get us started. Myself, I tried a marguerita, as I’m fond of lime and tequila ( not necessarily in that order). As this one was made with Hussong’s Reposado and some GM, I felt it was purely a matter of professional duty to try one.
With drinks in hand, we drank a solemn toast to old George McDonald Fraser, famous for his Flashman Papers, who had just recently passed away. His books, introduced to me by my friend across from me, have given me countless hours of fun, and a far better appreciation for the history of the 19th century than anything I picked up in school.
And then, after a bit of catching up (it must have been around a decade since last the three of us had talked) we waded back in, the restaurant now becoming much fuller.
What a wonderful menu this was. Green rice, fseafood tamales, corn pudding, brisket, slow cooked pork….
And there was an oxtail soup – mole de olla - I couldn’t turn down, meatballs in an chipotle sauce, a whole baby pig, and, still coming off of the Korea trip, a nice chili to nip at to get the spices just right.
The selection of meats was excellent. Braised briskets and other selections slow cooked and served up. More stuffed peppers were up there, and steamed egg. Plus tamales, chilaquiles, and probably two or three more things I didn’t write down correctly.
I did mention that flight of tequilas, didn’t I? I did the anejos – 1800, Gran Centanario, and Don Julio. Small differences in the smoothness, and what I can only describe as the “colour” they present on the tongue, set them subtly apart.
During one of my rounds of the food (I was back for more of the octopus and the meats) the waitress prematurely cleared my tequilas. I was panic stricken, as you would well imagine. But, capable young lady she was, she was able to recover them in time.
That was close. I might’ve been able to argue a completely new flight.
Dessert was some chocolate pie, rice pudding, and churros. There was lots of more stuff up there, cakes, pies, and other sweets, but I was beginning to fade, and my guestts had stopped eating (always a bad sign).
My one caution regarding the meal, and nothing to do with the food, which I enjoyed very much over several plates…don’t sit under the balcony.
I like having live music, but I also like to talk with my friends, and we did find that the volume, adjusted to reach to the far corners of this room, was somewhat overwhelming for us.
Lunch done, and the afternoon well under way, we parted and I set about getting more done.
Like planning for dinner.
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What’s In a Name?
I still had that horrible congealed taste in my mouth when I got back to my room.
Like the day before, I needed something to cheer me up.
I got on the phone and tried to make a reservation for Reef. It’s developed quite a reputation, and I figured it should be on the list.
I’d waited too long, though. They were booked out for the evening. I considered my options, and decided that, with the Sunday stretching ahead of me and no work to worry about, I might as well go for controversy.
Monica Pope’s latest venture has been a subject of discussion here in the Texas threads. Amongst my friends I here good and bad, but I will say that items on the bad side are generally not under her direct control (service at T’afia was one complaint). On the good side, I’m curious about her market, and the Milk Maids in particular.
I approach the subject with an open mind (and mouth). In terms of food, I’m curious, and in terms of mixology, the credentials seem very solid.
I did the freeway to save time. I’d thought, at first, that it was downtown, but once I checked the maps, it appeared to be closer to the Heights. I parked the car in one of those behind the store lots with only one entrance that ensures sobriety, and then walked around the building to enter by what was posted as the “entrance”.
The room is, as declared, an ice house. They’ve partitioned lengthwise down the middle, and then cut off one third into bathrooms, the middle third was opened up for the bar (literally, the centerpiece), and then the kitchen took the rear left corner.
Simple tables around the edges, padded benches on the outside, pull up metal chairs, and a few stand-up/stool pedestals over at the bar. A fair bit of seating, but I could see this place getting pretty crowded pretty fast.
I was stunned by the beer list. I spent ages just writing it down, and then smartened up and asked if I could steal one of their menus. They’re just paper. My waiter obliged by stealing the one on the next table over for me.
I’ll save the gory details for Dipsophilia, but they had three good small brews on tap, and what I’d count as 75 bottles (of which only 13 are what I’d classify as “industrial”).
But I’d heard a lot about the cocktails, and I wanted to see how things were done. They were doing their own syrups here in-house, I knew, and I was curious to see. Of course, I should’ve gone up to the bar, but I was wedged in against my table, and was hungry enough that I wasn’t in a mood to budge.
I started with a Dax’ Obsession. This had caught my eye with the Hendrik’s gin. With that went tamarind syrup and orange juice.
This was to give me something refreshing to put away while I waited on my stuffed pepperoncinnis.
This little peppers came out nicely stuffed with cream cheese and pork. Very mild, and fried crisp, with a good batter (why can’t I get a decent batter? Lack of talent, perhaps?).
I followed that with a Texas Lemonade; Citadelle Gin, Paula’s Texas lemon liquor, lime, agave nectar, and some soda.
I felt the cocktails would go well with the deep fried started, but for mains, I’d gone out on a limb and went with the evening’s special, the slow cooked (5 hours) boneless pork chop, topped with smoked PEI oysters and horse radish pan sauces.
With this, I switched back to beer - Real Ale’s Fireman’s 4 Pale Ale. A good enough beer, with nothing objectionable about it (damn, there I go again, writing about booze).
The pork dish was not quite right. The mussels didn’t really work with the (extremely soft) cut of pork. It had seemed like an odd coupling (I’d been reminded of when Sam Mason was talking about the chemical grafting of foods at the 2005 WGF), but the flavours didn’t work. It’s one of those things I could see myself doing.
“I like pork. I like mussels. Why not put the two together? It worked for Reese’s!”
Not this time.
Nice pork chop, though. It’s under there somewhere.
Now, I had been warned that the servings weren’t an overload at her places. Normally, I’d be happy with that, but I’d gone the day without food, so I needed a bit more.
The choices looked good. Beef brisket, shredded pork shoulder, pork sausages, and pork ribs.
I decided to go with the pulled pork shoulder. You can never have enough pork in your diet.
And Saltines. Gotta have saltines.
They’d offered to do this as a sandwich, but I knew my appetite would be decelerating, and went with the carnivore concept. Not being a bbq expert, I can pass no judgment on this other than to say that I quite liked it. The pork had a good consistency, and the vinergar in the sauce gave a nice sauerbraten-type feel. I like vinegar in my food.
Dessert I passed on. But I did make certain to finish the cookie.
Dinner done, my appetite slaked, I set off to do the drive back out West.
En route, I stopped off at one of my old favourites, the Big Easy, on Kirby. Really, the proper name would be The Big Easy Social and Pleasure Club. Tucked away in a traditional cinder block building next to an auto shop, it has the sleek, clean design of, say, trailer park. Over 20 beers on tap, and some of the best Blues and Zydeco to be had in the city.
But, I didn’t eat anything there, so I’ll save that for the dipsophilia side of things.
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I've been falling behind. Like I say (and many of you don't believe) I do have a day job.
Of course the fact that are evenings here in Bogota have been way fun as our agents here are taking us about may also factor into things.
However, American cancelled our flight today so, after a charming 5 hours at the airport, we're back in town, and I have the extra night I was wishing for.
I do really like this town.
Heck, I may even spend my own money to come back here (stop gasping, you lot).
There's a long layover in Miami on the way back tomorrow (if there's a flight) so that should allow me to catch up a bit.
Cheers,
Peter
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Bogota
My first impression, driving in from the airport two nights ago was of slick, modernistic buildings, clean avenues, and roads in far better condition than what I’ve been used to in the Gulf (or Houston for that matter).
My second reaction, after getting into the city proper was “Hey, you could make serious money here selling custom spray paints for graffiti”.
But that was just a passing thought.
I found myself trapped in the Radisson’s meeting rooms for the day. Still there are things that you can find to keep yourself amused.
One item was the interesting glass of juice on the hospitatlity table. Green and thick, it had already separated so that I used the butt end of a fork to get the suspension back. The flavour had a very pleasant tang to it, coupled with a pulpy thickness. And an interesting smell – sweet. How do you describe something you’ve never tasted or smelled before? It’s like detailing a colour no one has seen (okay, you could work on the wavelengths for that one, but you know what I mean).
I’m looking forward to seeing some of these fruits. The basis for this one is feijoa, a guava-like fruit native to Columbia. It appears that there are a lot of fruits you’ll only find here, so a market trip (if I can get away) is going to be fun.
The coffee is also a delight. I’m going to have to pick up a few kilos to take back fresh. Black and biting. As a standard drip it’s good, but I’ll need to be drinking more espressos on this trip.
And, as the afternoon found me with a slight bit of time on my hands, I checked out a curious pot simmering on the side of the service. This was a coffee urn packed with strawberries and other peeled fruits, and sealed at the top with a bundle of lemon grass.
This is called aromatica (this shot was from the following day, and was more a thing of mint and pears….and very good in its own way).
Talking with our agents (later) there is aromatica of every sort and p3rsuasion. When I asked, it was described as “boiled fruit juices”. No tea, just herbs and fruit. A beautiful smell of the garden, and a clean taste. Like the Chinese and their pots of hot water continually topped off all day long, the Columbians always have one of these on the go.
I didn’t mention it, but this place smells nice. Cool clean air coming up the valley as nestle against the sides of the hills. With an elevation of around 2600 m the air is a little thinner, and you’re momentarily short of breath (but that may just me be getting older).
I have some trepidations about our dinner plans. Harry Sasson is spoken well of, but I’d hoped to dine on Columbian cuisine. Still, I hate to disappoint, and they do say he is one of the best chefs in the country……
And it is a chance to dress up.
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Peace has broken out about me, and I find myself with a 45 minute lag before the next flurry of activitiy.
Let’s take a look at what happened on Saturday, January 26.
Life in the office kept on getting better and better. We’d run solid, but one of the people providing support had been kind enough to secure some meals for us from the cafeteria before it closed.
This was a masterpiece of congealement. Chicken fried steak with something rather mucal coating the whole affair. A bun that had come to expire gracelessly, and some potatoes of unknown origin.
I took one bite, purely in the interests of science.
The taste was as graphic as the image.
Next: Redirections
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Part 2 has started up.
Now I can try and keep two threads going, and get some info back to dipsophilia on the drinks.
And work.
Why do I do these things?
Peter
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Picking up from Part 1, which is a little cheeky seeing as part 1 still isn't completed - we take up the next part of this road trip farther South, in scenic Bogota.
We arrived late last night, were escorted to the Radisson, given an briefing, and allowed to collapse shortly thereafter.
My exposure to the cuisine so far is a couple of beers, a pleasnant Cabernet Sauvignon, and a brandy - Duque De Alba, I believe - and just now tuna and cheese sandwhich.
Unfortunately, our schedule will be quite hectic, and our meals limited.
Andres, blast the luck, won't be open during our days here. They only do weekends.
Still, I will do my best to enjoy myself, and report appropriately.
Cheers,
Peter
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Alright, they're boarding soon.
I'll disconnect, and open the next stage of this travelogue of America once I get back online. It won't be Texas, so I can't really follow it here.
Mind you, I still have Saturday, Sunday, and this morning to catch up on, so I'll keep this going, too.
One comment, I am shocked to be charged for wine in a business class lounge. Shocked, I say.
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January 25
It was a long day of work, and a sad lunch indeed. It had started off well, with us taking a break and hitting up the office canteen. Like a fool, I made for the Tex-Mex corner again, thinking I’d have a quesadilla.
Butt today they had tamales. Tamales sounded good. I have fond memories of those canned tamales from days gone by, unctuous beyond belief, we’d microwave them and dump the oil and goo out on top of some rice.
Okay, I have odd memories. But still, the tamales looked good. Then I did the Canadian thing. When someone says something you don’t understand - and I can’t figure out what people are saying down here around 25% of the time – I tend to smile and just say, “yes, please” and hope for the best.
What “Yes, please” got me this time was a bunch of chili (with beans) dumped over the tamales, and then what looked like Velveeta (but greasier) ladled out and dumped in.
This one I balied on. I managed about three bites, and figured I’d just hold my appetite for better things.
Those better things turned out to be quite a bit later. I was hungry when I got back at 6:30, and figured it was time for some big.
Tony’s
I hadn’t been to the new place yet, and was interested in seeing the newer, shinier Tony’s. I changed, put on the big coat and the slick black tie on the black shirt and black suit, and headed over in the Mustang, Dengue Fever’s Escape From The Dragon House blasting on the stereo, Chhom Nimol wailing out Sni Bong. ( check out http://www.myspace.com/denguefevermusic )
Yoonhi won’t let me play this kind of stuff in the car when she’s driving with me.
Out of the car, keys with the valet, and I entered.
Big room. Lots of art. Big art. The tall standing type of pieces that fill out space. Earth tones to give the place a bit of warmth, and to take away the cavernous feeling. The kitchen is on view, behind a 20 foot (or more) stretch of glass. Lots of copper, in addition to the stainless I’d expect.
Now, here’s some really good news. I talked to Josh, the assistant manager, about taking photos, and he said they were happy for people to do so. They considered it a compliment.
Here’s the really bad news. I forgot the ^*! camera. I’d left it plugged in when I was downloading and charging.
Tough. We’ll soldier on.
They had a good selection of gins, including several Dutch, which is nice to see. I ordered my standard. Hendrik’s martini, hint of vermouth, two olives, shaken, straight up. No fuss. This would give me time to contemplate the menu once I had one. In the meantime, I took in the room, still only sparsely occupied at 7:30, but there was a regular stream of people coming in. From the greetings, it sounded like a number of them were regular patrons.
There was a cheese tray parked over to one side. It’s good to see a relatively well-loaded board. I was squinting to make out the mix, when they brought the shaker to the table and poured my drink for me.
I started by looking at the specials, on a small metallic board. Interesting selection, and I was getting into the mood. They had scallops on, seared and served on French lentils, which I can always make room for. But I appreciate that I was lingering a bit on certain items, so I set that aside.
They had a noisette trio, a selection of different meats that would have settled the carnivore in me, so I made a note of that.
For braises there was an osso bucco style for the short ribs. But we eat that at home all the time. Likewise there was a lamb shank, but I’d just had that the week before.
Live caught Maine Cod sounded good, but it had been seafood last night, and I wanted to give some more thought to this. The reggiano puff sounded good, though.
The Rabbit Calabrese and the Crisp Roast Duckling looked more up my alley, the duck in particular, but it would only be served for 2. I figured I could argue them on that one, though, as I was pretty certain I was hungry enough to do the whole thing.
I switched from the specials to the regular menu. The tuna Ribbons and Squares, a mix of marinated tunas, sounded good, and would make a light opener. Likewise the scallop emince would give me a different take on the seafood side of things.
For simplicity, I was considering the Reggiano Risotto. I was just slightly wary about filling up, though. Still, it came with a well-aged balsamic, which would have made a thick treat for me.
But the foie gras banished all other thoughts. As soon as I saw it, I remembered that one of my friends had been ranting about it here. We’ve been out of foie gras at home for months now, and I was feeling the need, so the matter of an appetizer was settled.
They had Kurobota Boar Chops. This was another meat I’d read about, and I was giving this some serious thought, but only thought. My eyes had been caught by something I’d been looking for for a couple of years now.
Ever since Singapore in 2006.
Wagyu.
They carried a sirloin of Akaushi, as well as a filet. I chose the sirloin as I find the filet doesn’t stand out as well as the lesser cut.
This just had to be done.
Talking with the Josh and my waiter, Adrian, they said that the decision to carry the Akaushi, a decision only made a few months ago, had been a tough go. Would people pay that sort of money for a steak?
The jury was still out on this. There is a certain demand, not just for the taste, but also for the health benefits, which allows them to market to the health conscious.
Me, I just care about the taste.
Talking things through with Joe, their sommelier, we decided to go with a late harvest 2002 Lillypilly Sauvignon Blanc/Semillon. The foie gras they do is a Hudson Valley, oven roasted (something Michael Ginor has taught me to love). The sweetness of this would go with the foie on the caramelized pineapple. This is a fairly straightforward approach, and one you know will work. We’d done much the same with a sauterne pairing at the Square a couple of years back. Plus, I could push the wine back when the foie was done, and come back to it at the end of the meal.
For the meat, we went with another Australian – Henry’s Drive Pillar Box Red, a blend of cab, shiraz, and merlot. This is one of Chris Ringland’s creations, and it’s been getting a very fond following. The 2005 had a good rep, and this should also be quite drinkable.
The chef sent out a scallop ceviche as an amuse, so my scallop fix was, indeed, taken care of. I am a fond believer in synchronicity. The ceviche is very light, obviously just done a few moments ago, not allowing the scallops to “cook” too much. The tang of the lime is there, but there’s no bite to distract from the basic goodness of the scallop. The coriander (I must learn to call it cilantro over here) was chopped fine and there in the nose, where it should be.
I enjoyed this with my martini, which I’d been slowly working at. I was saving the olives up for a special moment.
The wines were poured, the semillon ready for the foie that was en route, and the Pillar Box Red (with its label in imitation of a mail box) was allowed to open up.
The foie came out atop a splayed pineapple, with cherry sauce and chopped cherry bits about the periphery. It looked like some marvelously corrupt flower, with a diseased organ waiting to start pounding as the pineapple petals anguish their lives away……
Okay, I’ll stop writing such flowery prose.
Very good. Quite rare, with the warmth from the roast. After I finish off the pineapple and foie, I use some of the bread (excellent on its own) to sop up the fat from the liver. I’m not one to worry about couth.
I’d been allowing my nose to wander into the red from time to time. It did have a great smell, and I was content enough to just rest there.
But, as I was doing this, they tried to steal away my martini. I had to explain that no one, no one touched my martini until after the olives were gone. A man has to draw the line somewhere.
Adrian made amends right away, though, by offering to bring out some cheese-stuffed olives for me later.
They brought me a proper knife in anticipation of the steak. One you could get into a serious fight with down at the Ship Channel on a Saturday night. I thought of palming it, and then thought better. I might want to come back here.
The steak arrived. A simple affair, Spartanly presented, with no frivolous distractions. As a side, I had ordered the truffled mac and cheese, on Adrian’s recommendation.
The meat gave way wonderfully as I cut through. I had ordered it rate, and it was slightly blue in the middle. It was just like the one I’d had on the WGS safari in Singapore. A beautiful bit of flesh, and one that I was content to eat little by little, a splash of wine, and a taste of the mac.
And something wonderful was happening. With every sip of Henry’s Drive, the truffles were coming up in the palate in a big, big way.
I was very happy.
The restaurant had filled out well by this time. At the table next to me an older couple were taking the duck service. It, too, looked like something I should be eating. Considering that, for two, it was half the price of the steak, perhaps I might consider ordering it for myself next time.
I finished my olives and let my martini go. The meat, mac, and red I allowed to linger, and took my enjoyment over considerable time. The staff were happy to chat, and seemed to have no problems with staying on top of what was now a very full restaurant. You have to appreciate that. It takes a lot of work for things to be effortless.
The olives came as promised, two large ones stuffed with blue cheese and lanced to hold position atop a glass of ice. This was a nice contrast, wreaking havoc with my gums as the flavours did their business about my mouth.
For dessert (I still had 1/3 of a glass of the semillon) I decided to try the tiramisu. Yoonhi always considers it the test of a restaurant. There’s came with an espresso flavouring, the smell of which captured me from the moment it hit the table.
This came with an impalement of berries – black and straw – that looked like some tortuous candelabra, each spike holding a perfect berry for me to snatch and devour.
A fine meal, one I would not fault.
Now, will I have enough time to return?
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January 24
Dinner on Thursday was a rare treat.
It had been another full day at work with us getting away after 6. Jet lag still creeping around my eyeballs, I was only looking for a good meal and some rest.
I found it.
On jscarbor’s recommendation I’d decided to go with the French-Belgian place across the steet from Hugo’s.
Perfect.
I hadn’t realized what it was, but after 15 minutes in the Café Montrose, I could feel the load lifting off of me. There were no big screens, no wall of sound, no clattering of dishes off of tiled floors. The pressure of the Western audio world was off of me. Everything was hushed. The waitress, a most charming Francophone, spoke in a subdued voice, almost a whisper, as did the more mature lady who was managing the room.
I dunno why, but I have selective hearing. Sometimes I’ll crank the sound up and deafen myself in the car, but at other times the din of a poorly controlled restaurant (or swim meet) will drive me nuts.
I’m just fussy.
This place was close to heaven. No overt pretensions, other than the honest act of trying to throw a Belgian feel onto an old strip mall diner. Jacques Brel, or some sound-alike, on the music system, and the patons and staff keeping thei noise down to the near mortician levels.
Their beer selection was perfectly acceptable. Four Belgians on tap (I had the Maredsous), and 8 in the bottle, with an additional 5 Trappists and 4 Lambics.
Along with beer, the other thing you expect in a Belgian restaurant is a selection of moules. They had many, including mariniere, curried, in tomato, and other selections.
Moules escargot, the mussels prepared and presented in a garlic butter sauce. I demolished the bivalves, and then made happy use of the baguette to sop up the remnant jus.
Following this, it was simplicity itself. Steak frites. I’d considered the rabbit, and was interested in their beer-based stew, but I felt the moment needed no real clutter.
The filet I ordered was so good that the waitress came back to check if it was okay, as “many of the Americans don’t like steak rare like this”. It had been seared, then pan roasted with butter. The middle was just seeping blood, and the exterior perfectly crusted, parsley giving off its signature scent.
The Roquefort sauce was a pleasant addition. I’m a heathen, I admit, and I freely dipped my meat into the sauce, rather than pouring ot over. This way the sauce stays hotter, and I can have more control on its distribution. However, I’d switched over to a Cotes du Rhone Shiraz, and found it not quite aggressive enough to stand up to the sauce. It was fine with the meat on its own, but lost itself when faced with the strength of the cheese.
The fries were a slight disappointment, not quite as spot on as what I’ve had in Brussels But they were kind enough to bring mayonnaise without any prompting, so that cheered me back up.
I was tempted to do dessert, but, I figured, why bother? I was full, I was happy, there wasn’t much reason to push beyond the comfort zone (although I suspect their crepes would be some of the best).
It was still early, and I was conscious and in a blissful mood. I was looking for the right experience to make the evening perfect. That sort of close, personal encounter that can punctuate your life.
I found it.
The Central Market.
Dan had spoken well of this place, and once I’d entered, I understood why. The bakery smell took me on entry, and I spent ages staring at the cheeses.
I finally couldn’t hold back anymore, and bought a small tub of extremely runny, smelly French cheese, a loaf of dark Russian bread, a six pack of St. Arnold’s Elissa, and a Small 417 Batch Extra Hopped IPA. So what if I didn’t have a fridge in the room. This wasn’t going to take long to finish.
I wandered the wine and beer selection for quite some time, and then lusted after the different mushrooms that were on sale. Finally I checked out and headed for home, feeling much better about things than I had when I’d left work.
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Oh, well. The Cajun doesn't open early enough, and I know this is going to take me some time to get this place policed up.
I did the Breakfast Klub instead. Excellent pork chops.
Now I just need the grits to settle a bit....
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just for anyone who happens to be searching through this thread later on, i'm gonna go ahead and say: DO NOT GO TO PEN... a completely empty restaurant at 8:30 on a saturday night doesn't exactly corroborate the claims i read of this seafood restaurant being where thai people go to celebrate.
Tupac,
Where and what is this place? I hadn't heard of it. I thought at first you were warning us off of Cambodia's capital city (an horrible thing to do), but it appears that isn't it.
Was this someplace down on the river, or was it one of the "seafood market" places?
Please advise,
Peter
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Hi Peter!
As with all of your travelogues, I'm loving this one! I'm just two states to the north of Texas so it's nice to have you here!
I had no idea that Houston had such nice places.
I'm having oyster and crawdad envy
Thanks, Shelby!
I've got to get on a plane tomorrow, and I'm trying to figure a way to get one last meal in at the Cajun before I get out to IAH.
Crabs tonight at Truluck's (they had some of the collosals in). Plus, I snuck in another half dozen on the half shell.
And I did the brunch at Hugo's (pictures later). Excellent, excellent meats. I was just disappointed that there were no bugs out there. I think I still have some of Jiminy Cricket to floss out.
Cheers,
peter
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January 23
Lunch was, well, unfortunate.
As we were working (yes, I actually do have a day job), we made do with the company cafeteria.
Actually, this was quite good, and only shows me that I have been gone to long from the world. There was a salad bar, a grill section, sandwiches fresh made to order, and fried chicken, stews, and meats that you’d also expect from a café.
And they had a Tex-Mex station, specializing in quesadillas today.
So, being me, I had to have a quesadilla.
It wasn’t bad. I was entranced with the grill plates they were using, and I like the idea that you could pick out your own ingredients.
But, after eating (having dutifully put as much food into my beard as I could) I felt very much like someone had poured cement into my gullet and left it there to harden.
It wasn’t pretty.
And, with our schedule, there wasn’t much of a chance for me to work this off.
So, given this, when Dan offered to pick me up at the hotel, I declined, and took the opportunity to walk over to the Galleria and do a stroll through there.
I wasn’t certain about getting into the mall. It says something that the hotel staff had to ask me if I was walking there or driving. It’s only across the street, for Pete’s sake!
Dinner tonight was the Oceanaire, tucked into the side of the Galleria. You have to exit the mall to get into the place, but that’s okay. A nice young lady, giving away free samples of something, insisted on giving me directions.
I must just look befuddled in my old age.
The Oceanaire….their intention is to recreate the feel of a 1930’s luxury liner, and they, for the best part, succeeded. Great lines, the cursive script for the signage, waiters in white aprons, crisp linen, and a view of the poor people outside (people like me who actually walk places).
I was early, so I ordered up a gin martini (Hendrik’s) with a couple of olives, and an assortment of a half dozen oysters from the nine freshly flown in they had on offer.
That’s their other plan here. The group leverages their chain status by contracting with buyers around the world to air express them good fish as they find it. That was why Dan was excited about the place, as he’d had a number of fish here that he hadn’t seen elsewhere.
Now, like many of us, I’ve been raised to disdain “chain” of any type (well, not the Rotisseurs). I’m changing my mind with this regards, however. The Ragin’ Cajun has franchised, but has kept things under fairly good control. And in this case the Oceanaire group is using their size and buying power to get their customers things they wouldn’t see otherwise. It’s not like there’s one of these on every block.
From the top and then clockwise, I had a Summerside and then a Conway Cup, both from Prince Edward Island. Then the big boys are a Marionport form Massachusetts, and a Blue Point from New York state. Then I was back in Canada with a Malpeque from PEI (must’ve been a full plane), and finally, under the lemon, a Wellfleet, again from Massachusetts.
If you’re curious, I missed out on the Bristol Bay from Rhode Island, the Chesapeake, and Taylor Bay and Martha’s Vineyard, which takes us back to Mass.
These were more what I was looking for in oysters. The Ragin’ is good for an afternoon, but when I have a good gin buzz going, I want something that I can work my teeth over and taste against the juniper berries.
Dan and his wife arrived in good order, and joined me in cocktails, holding to their current favourite, vodka with a splash of Grand Marnier. These were shaken tableside and served in frosted martini glasses.
The fish selection was very good, although Dan was saddened that there are no surprises for him this evening. (You can check ahead on their web page, and find out what fish are going to be available, for the really compulsive eaters). I was pleased to see wild catch BC King Salmon on the list, but I’ve got five Spring in my freezer back home, so I passed on that (but, it was tempting).
Dan went for the haddock, as we were curious. Outside of Tintin, I can’t say that I’ve actually come across it in a restaurant. His wife chose the grouper (hamour to me), and I went for the Monkfish, primarily because I’ve watched way too much of the Food Channel.
We started off with crawfish hushpuppies. These were really, really, really good.
If you didn’t catch that, we liked them.
Crispy, hot, and the flavour of the lumps of crawfish meat came through against the fried exterior.
I was still on a shellfish binge. I think I’ve been on it for the last twenty or thirty years. They had mussels from PEI, so I had to order these. Small, tasty little bits of meat, wrestled out by the fork.
Dan’s wife had the chowder. With an invite, I dug deep and had to force my spoon through the mass of clams in there. This was a very good soup, with the rich, milky broth and the taste of the sea.
The fish were, likewise, satisfying.
Dan’s haddock was probably the least of them, but not bad, as was. Basically fish and chips, but they’d recommended this as the fish quite gentle, and needs something in term of texure and flavour to set it off properly. The batter had been done up with a Shiner Bock, and was, really, quite perfect.
If only they’d served vingegar with it.
My monkfish was quite fine. The fish had the thickness and consistency that has been much touted on the food programmes. This had been oven-roasted, and served with a sauce neuberg to highlight the lobster tones in this bottom feeder of a fish. A couple of chanterelles and some watercress for looks, and you had a very competent product.
But Dan’s wife’s grouper was the highlight. Black & Blue – Cajun style blackening, worked perfectly with the firm meat that we get out of this fish. Not only well spice, but moist, giving up juices with every bite (of which I took several). I’d have order this except that I eat grouper all the time. This has given me ideas about what to do when I get back to my own kitchen.
We’d all started with martinis (they just fit with the décor), but I’d switched over to a MacRostic 2006 Chardonnay for my fish. Very acceptable, with enough fruit and character to set it apart from the industrial sameness of many of today’s chardonnays.
The wine list was proudly domestic, strong on the Californians. But there was a good presence of Italians, and a Cerutti that I wouldn’t mind taking in at some point in the future (they’d done a very good job of presenting their wines a few years back in Bangkok).
There’d been one mistake in getting the orders translated, and rather than getting the mashed potatoes, we received the hashed brown potatoes. This, however, was no hardship. They were crisp, browned, and buttered through and through. I would put these up against the Marge Simpson Hair-Do Potatoes I”d had at Dark & Duck in Beijing.
Dessert was the prime draw for Dan. The Oceanaire is one of the few places where you can find a Baked Alaska in this day and age.
Not quite traditional, it was still very good. The burning sauce played like fairy lights down the soft peaks of the Alasks, shimmering as the alcohol spent its spirit. The one was more than adequate for the four of us, and it was with some guilt that I, the non-dessert person, went back in for the last quarter (but I do like ice cream).
And how would you top off a fine meal like this? Well, of course you would go back to your friends’ house to wheel the garbage cans back out across the lawn.
I’m growing much more comfortable with this town.
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This is something I'd also wondered about, and I intend to look into fairly soon.
But, given the Japanese nature of putting themselves 100% into being the act, and given the long gestation period of fine dining in Tokyo, maybe it's not that strange?
In any case, I should have fun.
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Great food scenes in non-food movies?
Not in any particular order:
- The chicken eating scene in Lord of the Rings III. Admit it, we all look like that when we eat bbq chicken with our fingers.
- 5 Easy Pieces is the standard reference piece on how to order food
- The Challenge has a wonderful kaiseki section
- P ( shameless plug) has some great liver eating scenes. Mind you, so does the original Night of the Living Dead. but maybe these qualify as food movies?
- Indiana Jones II for outre dining
- The dinner scene in Besson's La Femme Nikita where she finds out about her first mission
- Besson again, in Wasabi, were Reno does the finger grab into the wasabi
- I don't know if it qualifies, but in the Dune film, there a part where Rabban Harkonnen takes a bit out of a cow (if my memory doesn't fail me). That seemed oddly Ethiopian.
This is fun. I'll have to think of more.
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Café Le Jadeite
We weren’t going here for the food. Dan had talked this place up as being perhaps one of the more over-the-top establishments in town.
Every now and then you have to do things like this.
It’s a fusion attempt, trying to meld Chinese and French cooking methods. The place was set up, as I understand it, by a Taiwanese businessman with way too much money. Ostentatiously enough, it was in River Oaks on West Gray, holding the corner position on its block.
It is striking, a fascinating study in schizophrenia. The room’s structural lay-out is very 1950’s, with the double layer wave running down one wall and framing in the piano player. In the back there’s a brick fireplace, which was quite welcome with the frigid weather here. The lines are very slick, and, as I said, very 1950’s.
Now, imagine if you had a huge wallet, and you were in Xi’an at one of the factories on the way to the tombs that proudly advertised themselves as “counterfeiters of terra cotta warrior statues”. Then imagine that you could magically transport the contents of that factory to Houston (okay, it’s not magic, we call it shipping).
I won’t bother with photos. Their website has “décor” proudly in place beside “menu”, so you can check out the shots there. They do much better justice than anything I would do with my Nokia (Yoonhi’s got the Canon with her in Paris right now, so I’m making do with the phone).
You pass under a twice-life-sized statue of the Buddha in order to enter, and then you move back a dynasty and a couple of hundred years to the Qin Terra Cotta warriors, a rather disorienting shift in timelines.
Where we sat we were overseen by a life-sized battle chariot with horses that was raised up towards the ceiling. It was only one umbrella, so it wasn’t that big, but it was still slightly unnerving.
Juxtaposed with this were a couple of realistic Bactrian camels that kept me nervous, looking over my shoulder from behind (at least they weren’t life sized).
And then there was the blood red bubble display, looking sort of like some odd hemoglobin model. It was striking, I’ll say that.
There’s nothing wrong with the menu, other than that it carries with it the issues of multiple personality syndrome that the room also expresses. Listening to the specials of the evening (of which there were far too many), I take the impression not of fusion, of the melding of techniques and flavours, but rather of the classic “Western and Chinese dishes available here”. There are a number of dishes that just appear to be straight outtakes from a French cookbook. This is a problem for a restaurant like this, not providing enough information on what they’re trying to do. Perhaps its more appropriate to leave it fully to the diner, but I can find meals like are like very good Asian movies – most of us need the subtitles to appreciate anything beyond the pretty pictures (and big explosions).
Still, let’s put all that aside for the moment, and just consider the meal on its own merits.
The three of us debated just doing a meal of appetizers, as the Chinese choices did look quite good. And if you’re going to experiment, it’s safer to do so in smaller portions. Dan and his wife had had the oysters before, and they had thought well of them. There was a flambéed quail, which sounded interesting; and the Dan’s wife was interested in the seared tuna rolled in sesame.
I can’t say that I was thrilled with the tuna. The piece they had worked up was off the size of a maki, done up as a tataki, and suffered from the surface to volume ratio in the searing, cooking just a bit too much. Perhaps, though, this is just a reflection of the local taste. The sauce that it came with was a little heavy, more of the French study, for this dish, and the sesame crust left you with a rather ambiguous feel. Compared, for example, with T8’s seared tuna that we’d had in Xin Tian Di, and it doesn’t do very well. (However, I’ll take the service here over T8’s waitstaff any day).
The quail, however, I did enjoy. Perhaps it’s just my inner pyro, but I found the sauce reduced well, and the meat of the quail, with its slight gaminess, picked up the citrus and remnant liqueur in the sauce very well. Obviously, with three of us, one quail did not go too far. When I cook quail at home (marinated then crisp fried, finished with chili oil) we’ll serve up a dozen or more.
But, I’m not at home.
But, just as the quail was better than the tuna, the oysters were better than the quail.
There was nothing wrong with this dish. The oysters had been “flat grilled” as with a Thai omelette, and came with a reduced sauce of soy with ginger and green onions. A good dose of cilantro gave a pleasing smell, and in this case the mix of flavours worked quite well, evoking the feel of eating sweetmeats, but with that slight sense of the sea from the oysters. This was good enough to justify ordering another plate.
I wonder if there’s a place in town to get sweet meats and other offal prepared well?
Frangelica scallops sounded good, and, as this was only my second dinner on this trip, I was quite content to try a counter to the very nicely seared scallops I’d had the night before.
The scallops had been grilled in this instance, and came with lung crab meat. The Frangelica liqueur found its place in the cream sauce, along with some hints of apricot. A balsamic was used in the drizzle, and the rice was a slightly dry risotto-like approach that had been molded and wrapped with eggplant (I believe).
The final dish was the duck. A half a duck slow roasted with 5 spices, and served on a bed of green beans crisp cooked in the Sichuan style. A couple of pieces of Beijing style steamed bread were on the side, and there was a reduced sauce from the duck scrapings. Topped off with coriander and you had a presentable dish.
The duck was good enough to satisfy even me. I came away with no complaints.
We departed without dessert. It’s not a place know for its after dinners, and I was already on the verge of unconsciousness.
I’ve read that people have complained of the cost and sizings of the dishes here. While not cheap (by any means) the cost wasn’t extravagant, at least not when compared to some of the other places that are trying this sort of thing.
But was the dinner a success? As I said, I would have appreciated a bit more description of the intent of each of the dishes. One of my favourite meals in this vein was at Paul Pairet’s excellent Jade On 36in Pudong. There they had taken the time to explain the cross-overs in methodology that they had taken, and instantly the meal was accessible. I believe their intentions here are good, and there may be other items on the menu that I would want to try out, but with the guidance we had, I could not call the meal memorable. Pity. It would be interesting to see what they could do here with a tasting menu.
We took a short stroll down West Gray to settle our digestion, and considered our options for the remainder of the evening.
Marfreles was still there, hidden, and we considered dropping in for martinis, but it’s changed so much in the last decade, adding lights and changing out the couches (I wonder how they disposed of them? There’d be a horror movie in the making there). I made do with a brief look at the River Oaks Theater – rumoured to be on its final notice (alas). The Alabama went the way of a book store ages ago, and now the RO may pass, too. I think only the beer license has kept it going this far.
We made do with pressing our faces up against the glass windows of Sur La Table and gawking at the cookware (I’m sad, I know). SLT is rumoured to have table top MI units, so I may well be back here to pick up souvenir to impress the wife.
And the omnipresent Manola family is here on the block, with Tony Manola’s Gulf Coast Kitchen. This looks good, too, and may draw me back.
We drove back to Dan’s place to help wheel the garbage cans out to the street, and then remembered that it was MLK day coming up, and the City would be on holiday, so we wheeled them back up across the lawn.
And somehow I found myself back in my hotel room and waking up at 4 a.m.
Life is grand.
Travelogue: the Americas (part 3)
in Texas: Dining
Posted
Just to tag the next part of this picking up from part 1 and part 2 of this latest roadtrip, undertaken, thankfully, with someone else's money.
Darlene, and elderly lady, has the A-1 Taxi Cab Service, and drove me in from the airport after a dawn patrol flight that had me driving out on I45 with the Mustang crunched down burning gas pulling a full load, while I listened to a Nuevo Latino CD.
The A-1 has four cars and five drivers, but the problem right now is that some of them are out sick.
It's a flu. It takes you off your feet for several days, and then you wake up feeling fine. Of course, with some of these drivers, they're just worms. Can't find their way to a destination to save their lives.
Just to give you some of the ambience.
Darlene, fine soul she is, filled me in on a few good places to eat in town. She can't eat at many of them any more, as she's suffering from acid, which hurts something awful, but she did enjoy the food before.
Darlene has advised me to take in the Wall Street, and for Mexican, to try Donna Anita. She also recommended Hernandos, and she says the ribs at The Bar just fall off the bone.
And for BBQ, there's Johnny's, not far from the Hilton, where we're camped out.
With Darlene as my mentor, my trepidation is passing away.
I'll fill in more of this as I go. I really have to concentrate on getting Bogota done up properly.