reverendtmac
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Posts posted by reverendtmac
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(here's your trailer - the R rated theatrical version, of course...)
Typical North American "Irish" pub; typical harried detective type sitting at the bar, Marly Reds and Guinness close to hand. He alternates taking huge hauls off of the pint and bigger ones off the smoke.
LUCAS
Cute kid, the one that fucked up Christmas.
Cute, but he wasn't near normal, that's for sure...this kid was bein' primed for something huge. His parents gave us the full Earl Woods treatment after we picked him up.
CUT to MOM and DAD, holding hands, sitting in front of an institutional blue wall
DAD (medium-loud and shaky)
That kid is gonna make Thomas Keller look like Rachel Ray.
MOM (softly)
He...he really loved what he was doing! He had this...this...little starter...with the hickory smoked bacon...and the...the...the capers(bursts into tears)
CUT back to the bar.
LUCAS (lighting a fresh smoke off the old one and talking around it)
Kid doesn't get what he wants the year before, right? Asked for a 6-inch santoku - one of those Globals, he wanted light - and got an XBOX. Most kids'd be doin' roundoffs down 8th, that happened to 'em...but not this kid. He spends the year chewin' lead and shittin' bullets. The whole year. I don't know if I wanna know what kinda fucked up you gotta be to do that at eight.
CUT to ELF ONE and ELF TWO, sitting in same chairs in front of same blue wall
ELF ONE (incredulously)
You think Santa was gonna give an eight year old a knife?
LUCAS (o.c.)
Apparently this kid was special...
ELF TWO
Listen, pal, I don't know if you know how this works. Special or special olympics, knives are on The List - and he doesn't give out. Stuff. On. The. List.
LUCAS (o.c.)
What's on The List?
ELF ONE (rattling it off by rote memory)
Anything that'd get us in trouble with the press. Guns, knives, booze, drugs, Burger King gift certificates.
LUCAS (o.c., sarcastically)
No hookers?
*beat*
ELF TWO
You've never been that good, bud.
CUT back to the bar. The Guinness has been replaced by a bottle of Talisker and a half-full glass.
LUCAS
Kid sets up a little feast for Jolly St. Nick. Shortbread, produce for the reindeer, and a glass of eggnog that'd been...
CUT to MOM and DAD again
DAD
Listen, whenever he asked for a bunch of food, we brought it to him! He asks for veal bones, we're swimmin' in some of the best demi-glace you've ever had. He wants special milled flour, bam! Piles of cookies you'd die for, pal. *beat* All he wanted was some peaches. We thought he was gonna bake!
CUT to the bar. The glass is empty, and he's massaging the bridge of his nose.
LUCAS
The kid copped to everything...went into detail about how the ground glass in the shortbread would have got him eventually, the whole nine. Should have been a closed case.
Then...then came the hitch.
CUT to a prison cell, set up Silence of the Lambs style - Plexiglass walls. THE KID sits inside, surrounded by cookbooks (Larousse, CIA's Pro Chef, Julia, Jacques, Keller, Alton and that sexy Aquavit one)
THE KID
The guards kept Nigella.
LUCAS (o.c., agitated - you can tell this isn't the first time he's asked this question)
Where's the catering?
THE KID (oblivious to LUCAS's tone)
Perhaps you could help with that...
CUT to the bar.
LUCAS (long look at the camera, then shrugs)
Hey, it beats the mother in law's turkey surprise.
CUT to explosive montage of SWAT teams kicking down the kitchen doors of high-end hotels, LUCAS screaming at THE KID while pounding on the plexiglass walls, car chases, explosions, food being batted out of people's hands, etc.
ANNOUNCER
This Christmas...don't stuff yourself.
THE CATERER
CHRISTMAS 2005
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The best service I've ever had was at Bandon Dunes (the golf resort on the Oregon coast) on November 1. We were down for The Family Game - three of my best friends in the entire world and I get together at least once a year to play a lot of golf, drink a lot of scotch (or apple martinis, in Kelly's case) and laugh hard enough to tear your ab muscles. So we did 36 at Pacific Dunes that day, came home, got dolled up and hit the nicest resto on the property...
Six of us for dinner (The Family and two of the caddies we'd met that week); only hiccup is that we made the reservation for four. So we show up kinda hopin' and wishin' that they could sqeeze us in, and they assure us that if we'd be willing to wait until they turned a six-top over, etc, etc. We say sure and thank you soooo much, hit the bar for a cocktail - hard life when you've got a Tanq Ten martini in your hand and a staff that's doing you a favor - and within minutes, we're being shown to the finest table in the place, a huge six-top dead smack in the middle of the dining room.
Nicolas, our server, never missed a beat - big smile, an encyclopedic knowledge of the menu and wine list, and a knack for the occasional side comment/dirty joke (which, as our caddies will attest, is the direct line into the Family's heart). What can I say...he read us, and became Family immediately. Meal was awesome - duck and orange dumplings, dungy crab cakes, the best creme brulee I've ever had, and lots of good wine - and he made us feel like we were the only folks in the resto, did everything personally. Anyway, I snatch the check, tip hard, and thank him (and his manager) for the great night.
Best part.
We're staying in the Lily Pond cabins, and each cabin has 8 hotel rooms in it. Well, I sneak out for one last smoke around 1AM, and as I'm coming back in, I see Nic in the hallway. "Man, they got you workin' room service too?" I say. He laughs (god, what a laugh - big man and he laughs all the way down from his feet, so it's a roomshaker) and says "No, sir. The family and I are staying here tonight...house is being renovated." Turns out he's two rooms down from us. "Sir's my daddy, Nic, and I ain't my daddy. It's Todd. Got time for a drink?" I ask. So I snuck into the room past the passed-out Texas, and we had a snort of my Highland Park 1977 out on the front porch...and he told me all about his three kids and how much he loved working there, and made a point of thanking me for the tip without making me feel embarrassed - which, by the by, made him the only person to ever pull that off, 'cause I embarrass about that kind of thing real easy.
The next night, Tex, Scotty and I had dinner in the bar. Nic served us - as well as his tables in the resto, two physically different locations - and when I asked about it, he just laughed and said "You guys make me smile. You play in the rain today?"
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I also like Jack Daniel's: but less of a "sipping and enjoying" whiskey and more of a "getting trashed at a bar and waking up in another state" drink.
That's Wild Turkey 101 for me.
Jack Daniels is just mood accellerant, which normally results in the Cineplex Special: anything from Rick at the bar in Casablanca ("yew played it fer HER...") to an unique interpretation of Roadhouse (that nuanced and subtle classic.)
All of this has combined to make my bourbon of choice Maker's or Knob :)
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Faves: Tony (I don't read as well as that guy writes), Alton, Nigella, the gang on Cook Like a Chef (including Caroline McCann-Bizjak, my current culinary object of lust - accents, ass pants and full-fat French cooking. I'm a simple man). Torres, Pepin, Julia. I like Michael Smith a lot, too.
Not so faves: Oliver, Rob Feenie (solely on personality, 'cause the food is amazing), Batali, Florence.
If their gut was on fire, I wouldn't piss down their throat to put it out: Emeril, Flay, Martha, Rainford.
Actually, my brother and I have an Emeril drinking game. Every time he bends down towards the camera and you see his bald spot, you take a drink.
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I have a bunch, actually.
- 3/4" thick moose steaks (imported from Newfoundland) on a hibachi barely big enough to do one at a time at my brother's apartment in Halifax, Nova Scotia. The preparation was easy - salt both sides, wait ten minutes, grill. Cooked blood rare with a case of Keith's and some salad...
- Also in Halifax - I was the best man for one of my best friend's weddings...staggered into a pizza joint at four am, tux still on but being worn Ocean's Eleven style (tie's undone but still around the neck, shirt's a little open), I'm roughly five-point-eight sheets to the wind due to shots of straight white rum. The waitress - Sarah - looks me up and down, grins and says "Jesus, I hope you weren't the groom." I smile, order a slice of veggie (that'd be tomato, red pepper, broccoli, onion and mushroom), way overtip and sit outside on their patio, watching a quiet Quinpool Road for the first time in my life.
...y'know, I've got more - piles more - but they're all based around the people I'm with and the things we did. We just happened to be eating. I remember the first time I really drank wine - twelve of us at school decided that we'd make supper for ourselves one night, and while the chicken, mashed potatoes, turnip, and salad was marginal at best, the eight bottles of wine and the scotch afterwards and the company...perfect. My little brother made an absolute masterpiece of a BLT with crap bacon, bottled mayo, plastic bread, iceberg lettuce; the roma tomatoes fresh from the garden helped a lot, but not as much as the Talisker did.
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Note to the golfers in the house: investment cast irons work very well for this. Forged irons do not.
Todd, who now uses the metal part of the benches and the pop-down method...
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There are NO dive bars in Canada.
Come to Regina. There are actually more dives than 'regular' bars, including some that even the most hardened folks I've met won't drink in. Guy who my brother worked with last year was as alcoholic as a functional alcoholic can be, and even he wouldn't go near the Jolly Roger or the Empire Tavern. Dives = "getting a bottle to the back of your head while you're having a piss" around here, and then the next level up is sort of so much of an upgrade that they're not really dives (they clean, turn on lights, don't smell like piss). Right across the lot from our office is The Gaslight, which is your typical Hell's Angels owned biker bar. Best pub food in the city, dead cool staff, cheap drinks, live music and no bullshit - but it's way too clean, bright and well behaved to be a dive.
Hell, maybe you're right, Geoff :)
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The heat kept me off the golf course, so I finally got around to making dad one of his favorite meals:
Gumbo Ya-Ya (from the Commander's Palace cookbook) - chicken and sausage (had to use chorizo 'cause you can't get andoullie (sp?) in this town - not that I'm complaining, I could live on chorizo), fresh green peppers, onions, garlic and celery from the farmer's market, and a sore shoulder from the course that just got worse stirring a dark brown roux :) I also got the new experience of butchering a chicken, which was a lot of fun...my everlovin' ma did all the shopping, and because I was exceptionally hungover when I wrote out the grocery list, I forgot to put "a cut-up chicken" instead of "a chicken". Jacques Pepin's Complete Techniques, you're my bestest friend :) Anyway, it came out fabulous...even my mom ate a load of it, although she mentioned that it was a bit spicy. Mind you, this is as she's sopping up the remainders of her second bowl :)
Had fresh corn (market again) with it and a nice bit of bread and a green salad and a pint of Alexander Keith's finest. It's 8:40 the following morning and I'm still full.
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The only food I keep in my desk is a Costco-sized box of Nature Valley granola bars, but they're mostly used as a meal replacement on my way to the golf course...unless you count ketchup packets a la The Sopranos
What shocked me was the 1 in 20 that keeps booze in the desk. I've got a bottle of Aberlour that'd make the afternoons disappear like a treat...
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Finally decided dinner should be more than a hot dog at the turn (even as wonderful as the dogs at my course are!), so last night my bro and I cooked; ground chuck burgers (bloody as hell) with carmelized onions, twice-baked oven fries and some salad to mop up the blood with.
Then I did what any good older brother would do - left him the dishes and got nine in :)
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On-topic - The Supper of the Lamb, Robert Ferrar Capon. He's a little long-winded in spots, but it's worth plugging through the wanking to get to the good stuff. Oh, and the Commander's Palace Cookbook by Ella and one of the other Brennans...
Off - Potter 5, naturally...and Courses for Golf by Geoff Shackleford (Golf course architecture - history and practical application for the player).
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Like a durian fart in an ashtray, the stench of the bar slapped you as you walked in the door. Ma always said never to walk into places that had chewable smells...'course, judging by the trajectory of my life, listening to Ma never was too high on my things-to-do list. What was high on the list currently: drag my clothes into the woods and have them shot.
"Double scotch, neat," I said to the bartender, settling onto the one stool that wasn't hooker-glazed or christened with diced carrots and stomach acid. He fished out a sickly green bottle with a faded label and free-poured a shot and a half into a crusty glass, plunking it into a drool puddle in front of me. I stared at it, then up at the scar wormed through the bartender's unibrow, then back down at it.
"Problem?" he growled, the one light in the place hitting his working eye and glinting back at me.
"Maybe," I said, picking the glass up and sniffing at it; the nose was mostly paint thinner, with a lingering note of pit bull sweat. Still couldn't overpower the room. "Don't know that I could drink this without seeing the bathtub it was brewed in," I said, setting it back down. "Oh, and the stuff on the glass...that yours or your boyfriend's?"
Ma also taught me to watch my mouth, but me, Ma, listening...yeah, we've been over that. Maybe if I listened better, I'd be seeing the business end of a shotgun a whole lot less...
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Last May, my brother and I moved from Halifax (him) and Fredericton (me) to Regina (it was a mistake and we'll never, ever do it again); so over the course of five days, we got to see 4300km of the Trans-Canada. The whole raison d'etre of the trip was to stay in shitty motels and hit every tourist trap that looked remotely interesting along the way.
Anyway, being guys in our early twenties, restrooms aren't exactly...well, let's just say that actual 'facilities' are unnecessary when you're surrounded by trees, so we didn't wait. I also showed I was the talented one of the family by managing to pee my name into a snowbank - first and last (and with a name like McGillivray, you're saying something).
So, bathroom aside - what we looked for when we stopped:
a) A casino. Seriously. We made enough at the blackjack tables to pay for our hotels and food. The Thunder Bay casino was exceptionally good to both of us; so was Sault St. Marie. Winnipeg, however, is the kind of place where you'll end up splitting five aces and watching the dealer hit to 21 (sigh). Clean facilities (can't always pee!) and cheap beer.
b) A mom n' pop style diner; always fun in Northern Ontario. That'll be the kind of place where everyone's named Fred (even the waitress), most folks have more tattoos than teeth, and the coffee can be used to skin a hog. Had the best meatloaf in my life (sorry, ma) in...god, I don't know where. Northern Ontario is a magical land of snow and ice, and it all blends together. Marathon, maybe, or Wawa...
c) A Robin's Donuts. Timmy Ho-ho's is desperation indeed, and Robin's isn't much better, but I'd take the latter over the former every time. I'd usually wait until we hit a town big enough to have a Chapters, because that usually means there's a Starbucks and I can get some real stimulants thermosed up and laid into reserve. Note I didn't say "good coffee" - I was usually just looking for the hit by that point.
But to be fair - last month I pulled a 3300km trip to Washington State for a golf tournament, and the only thing I looked for was food I could take in the car and where I was gettin' to. Coffee, occasionally. Threw a case of bottled water in the back and I was good to go. Must be gettin' older...
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How'd you shoot?
101 (41-60). My worst round in two and a half years, including a back with an eight, a ten and a thirteen. I'd love to blame the night previous for the score (believe me, I would), but it had absolutely sweet F.A. to do with it. The guy I was playing against and his memory lapses when counting shots, however, might have contributed to some variety of anger...would you believe my other rounds on the weekend were 81 and 82, and somehow my handicap stayed in single digits? :)
Maggie - I'm convinced this was a really, really crap example of food that could be great. That's why I'm asking about it...I want to try this done right!
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A story, then.
I spent Saturday night carousing all over Regina during Mosaic, a multicultural festival. All the cultural socieites set up pavilions all over Regina, and you go around and nail a bunch of really, really good food and booze. It's fabulous, a really, really good time...so anyway, this young Scottish/Ukrainaian half-breed found himself inflamed with potato vodka, spiced vodka, a couple Red Stripes and a Guinness in each fist, staring at the menu at the Scottish pavilion and thinking "Haggis, eh? Just. Bring. It." And it was brought; two baseball-sized mounds of this dense, dark gray-brown...matter. Didn't exactly look appetizing, although the rather minimalist presentation (mounds at 6 o'clock on a styrofoam plate, no garnish, nothing) might have had something to do with it. The smell. Sweet frigging Jaysis, the smell. I thought Durian was bad...no, scratch that, I still think Durian is bad, but this...man. An olfactory kick to the temple. My Braveheart moment was over as soon as I got a whiff of it.
To my alleged credit, I managed to eat well over half of it. The taste wasn't bad...I still think dense is a good word. Bloody, livery, with the wrong texture 'cause of the oats, and kind of sour and underseasoned. The thought that kept going through my mind, though, was "This can't be right". It didn't taste like Bourdain described. It didn't taste like anything else I've ever read about it, come to think of it...it just tasted kinda nasty.
So, to those of you that have had good or great haggis - what does it smell like, and what should it taste like? I'm at work and Bourdain's Cook's Tour is at home, so I can't consult it...but if someone could fill me in, that'd be great.
PS - I drank what can only be described as a heroic dose of alcohol that evening, and woke up without a hangover (was on the course for 7:21). I'm inclined to believe that's the haggis's fault...
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I could memorize Tiger Woods' book on playing golf, get hours of personal instruction from him and/or his coach, practice until by hands bled for years and never be anything like the player he is, although I might be a better than average amateur.
To pick up on that, and to try to drag it back towards the kitchen - that's exactly like saying you could go to culinary school, do stages in a bunch of three-stars, sous at a bunch of ultra-super-great kitchens, etc ad nauseum - and still not turn out like Thomas Keller. Keller and Tiger have something the rest of us don't. I don't know as much about Keller as I should, but as a nine-handicapper going towards scratch, I've put some time into learning about Tiger...and while he's got some amazing physical tools and a body of knowledge/experience about the game that's unparalleled, what makes him demolish tournaments is creativity and self-belief (unteachables). He knows he's gonna beat you, you know he's gonna beat you, and you know that he knows that he's gonna beat you. From what I've read about Keller - same deal. Firm and total self-belief in what he's doing and the way he's doing it, added to a willingness to experiment (and through that: to fail), and a body of experience that allows him to cook intuitively.
There is a 'recipe' for a golf swing, as well; one glance at the golf section at your local B&N or Borders or Chapters/Indigo will tell you that. Some of these 'cookbooks' are good, some are, well, not so good; some are exactly like the recipes you find in your cookbook, leaving out things that you really need to know (ie: wanna swing like Tiger? Better be over six feet tall and be flexible enough to touch your elbows behind your back.) The instruction industry has been struggling with the same problems the cookbook industry has - people buy a book, don't quite follow the system or just don't have the tools to do so, and then blame the author...but is there a middle road, as Mamster suggests, something between Golf for Dummies and Hogan's Five Fundimentals? I think so, but I haven't found its culinary equivalent. A guy named Dave Pelz has created two Bibles, one for putting and one for short game stuff (chips, pitches, and shots within 100 yards). His approach is to be as clear and as explanitory as possible - and to create technical solutions that almost anyone can execute well by studying where people have problems. He presents methods that, if followed, are the foundations of a good stroke - and from there, through experience, you can adjust what you need to. Alton Brown seems to try to do this, too...the recpies in "I'm Just Here For The Food" are all clear, tight, and adjustable once you know what you're doing, but are always preceeded by the information you need to know (how heat actually cooks something, why and what you'd use that particular method for...) Maybe the only problem with this approach to cooking as compared to golf is that golf can have quantifiable results (how close to the hole are you? What have you left yourself with?) whereas cooking's much more subjective (how does this taste? Look?) But there's no such thing as perfect, and attitude goes a long way in both...
(I'm gonna stop visiting Starbucks...too early for this kinda thought
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It's 8:35 in the mornin', and I would absolutely love to tuck into a heavily marbled steak, black n' blue; little bit of crusty bread to mop up the juice with; and a good glass of cab sav. Actually, screw the glass - a good bottle. No sides - this is breakfast...
I'm making due with a Mocha Valencia and a Powerbar, but, man...
...I never should have looked into this thread :)
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Weekend: Preferably I'm in Halifax, where I can head to the Apple Barrel and get the Barrel of a Breakfast: three scrambled eggs, three pieces of overbuttered wheat toast, six strips of close-to-raw bacon and two slabs of back bacon. They have other options for the artery-hardening portion of your complete breakfast (if you're hardcore, you can go the Legere route: nine sausages. I think I'd rather staple my nuts together, but it works for him). Pint of Keith's or Guinness and then lots of black coffee. Huevos Rancheros are another favorite, but that depends on the reverse-digestion-content of the previous evening's activities.
Weekday: Call in dead. However, this isn't always practical - so it's Powerade (pref. the silver kind), a couple slices of toast with crunchy peanut butter, and a small arseload of painkillers. If it's desperate, try Celebrex: you'll be so loopy the hangover will seem like a joke by comparison
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My brother went to Dalhousie, so 'fine dining' doesn't usually enter into the vernacular when you're going out to eat with five or ten degenerates.
However, I did manage to stumble into some of the better cheaper spots...Momoya on Barrington Street is fresh, wonderful sushi, and the best barbeque pork udon I've ever had in my (admittedly short) life. Not that expensive, either.
If you're into pub food, Your Father's Moustache is good (Skin Gar...er, Spring Garden Road); so is the food at Tom's Little Havana (underneath Planet Pool on Spring Garden). Of course, whenever I wander into Tom's, I usually end up drinking my lunch...30-40 different single malts will do that to a lowly little drunkard like myself.
Definitely grab the fries at Bud the Spud's wagon; Fat Guy is right on. If that's the chip van I'm thinkin' of, he's usually in front of the library at the foot of Spring Garden (a block from Tom's and two or three from Your Father's). If it's after midnight, though, and you require a salt-and-spud hit, the guy to look for is usually a block from Pizza Corner, in front of the church on your left if you're lookin' up the Hill. Which Hill? You'll know it. :) There's a guy with a fryer cart who spiral-cuts PEI potatoes right in front of you and then drops 'em in the frier...I swear it's got medicinal hangover prevention properties. And if you're up that late, the best slice in town is nowhere *near* Pizza Corner - it's at Freeman's on Quinpool Road. They're open until five am 4 days a week, I think. Walk *around* the Citadel, no matter how good of an idea going straight over is.
Oh, and another thing Fat Guy's right on about - Ozzie's Lunch on Highway 1 south of Saint John...I grew up in SJ, and we used to sneak down the coast every now and again to eat there. The other killer seafood place down there is King's in Black's Harbour...I seriously don't know which one is better, which says a lot about how good they are. And Suwana is an absolutely *lovely* Thai restaraunt in Saint John (give absolutely fresh seafood to some Thai cooks? Sounds like a good idea to me!
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The best thing I've seen done with scotch involves fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. Grab the cookies while they're still warm, have a sip of scotch and then follow with the cookie while the scotch is warming you throughout. Absolutely lovely (and kills the scotch taste, by and large).
Oh, and if your father in law ever brings over a bottle of something called Talisker, please PM me for disposal instructions
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Hey Varmit - thought I'd give you my golf diet, if you're gonna be out for any other tournaments in the near future. I was down in the Tri-Cities of Washington State for a tourney this past weekend and managed to lose 5 pounds in 3 days. The simple and skinny:
Friday - 4 bottles of water on the drive down, thanks to my friend Scott in Pullman feeding me a steak and salad made bloody with the juices, two Manhattans, three Guinness and half a pitcher of some microbrew called The Arrogant Bastard the night before. Got to the course, teed off - two more bottles of water, two Henikens and a MGD. Hot dog at the turn. Between rounds: BLT, fries. More water. Second 18 - more water, more Heni's. After round: Atomic Ale brewery - two slices of 'za with alfredo and portabello mushrooms, three pints of porter and a shot of Jack.
Saturday - 2 1-liter bottles of water and a powerbar before I teed off. Another powerbar after nine. Lunch was a hot dog between 18's. Dinner was a burger, chili, fries. After the second round: the annual RSG-NW beer exchange; so at *least* six different microbrews. I lost count.
Sunday - Couple powerbars, two liters of water before I teed off; liter on the course; this was the big money skins game ($1-3-5, going up after every six holes). Chicken sandwich, chips, potato salad afterwards, two big cans of Fosters, a Heni, a cigar, then off to a shithole dive bar for more pitchers. A cheesesteak thrown in there somewhere.
I don't think the fact that I walked and carried for 90 holes had anything to do with it, huh?
Keep up the good work!
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What is whiskey shit anyway?
Drink a bunch of whiskey, preferably preceeded by an absolute greaseball of a burger. You'll know. Or, for those of you who want foreign credit, replace whiskey with Guinness...
Todd <-- helpful
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Speaking of 'taters, I made oven fried wedges using your method, Rev, and they were awesome.
Hey, deadly. Glad they turned out - I was typing that method by memory :)
Claire: could be the high-quality spuds. My method is one that's kinda reserved for making crappy potatoes better, and it does a bangup job on a Grocery Store Russet.
And I am totally trying the baked mashed potatoes.
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I'm very curious about this myself...my usual baked potato is done in the exact same manner, except without whacking the ends off and standing it upright. But 400 degrees in a cold-start oven for one hour is my usual, and they come out great...can't wait to hear how this turns out!
Hangover Breakfast Solutions
in Food Traditions & Culture
Posted
The thread on chicken fried steak prompted memories of the restorative power of white gravy and biscuits. On our way down to Bandon Dunes in October, my friend Kelly and I accidentally closed the bar at our hotel in Salem, Oregon (Guinness and trip neat Bushmills for me, vodka something-or-others for her - I SWEAR one of us said 'C'mon, we'll go have a drink' at like 10) - hit the sheets at 2:30, up and in the resto for 6. CFS, some absolutely outstanding cream gravy and beautifully fresh biscuits...I suspect the cook wasn't an Oregon native