Category: Pork (Page 1 of 2)

Nantucket Eats: Pork Belly, Duck, and Lamb at Oran Mor Bistro

The wedding is over, the guests have all left the island. Angela and I remain, enjoying the warm breezes blowing on Nantucket from the Atlantic (the temperature reached 69 Fahrenheit yesterday). Abundant sun, cool evenings, walks on cobblestone streets. The season is over, many shops are in the process of closing, and quiet calmness is everywhere.

We have devoted a portion of our evenings to restaurants, with mixed results. Several nights ago we went to Oran Mor Bistro & Bar, a small place on the second floor of a building a short walk from the house in which we are staying. I’d read a review of Oran Mar in The New York Times, and a few people who had dined there told me they had enjoyed the food. (I phoned the restaurant during the day to ask about its corkage policy. A woman’s voice on the other end of the line replied: “We do not have a corkage fee because we have a wine list. I hope you will be able to find something you like on our extensive list.”)

We did find something on the list, a 2012 Laetitia Estate Pinot Noir, which we ordered after being led past a small bar to our table in the corner of restaurant’s front dining room. The interior space is warm, earth tones on the wall, low ceiling. (I could imagine Thomas Jefferson sitting at the table next to us, wine glass at the ready.)

A wine we drank with pork belly, duck, mushroom ravioli, and lamb.

A wine we drank with pork belly, duck, mushroom ravioli, and lamb.

Our waitress, whose voice I recognized as belonging to the woman who informed me of Oran Mor’s (non)-corkage policy on the phone earlier that day, displayed a perfunctory manner throughout the evening, smiling in what seemed a forced manner whenever she approached our table and declining to reply “You are welcome” when I thanked her for pouring the wine. All of which would have been fine if we had ended the meal after our very good first courses.

Shiitake mushroom ravioli, with squash and parmesan broth

Shiitake mushroom ravioli, with squash and parmesan broth

Smoked pork belly, radish, egg

Smoked pork belly, radish, egg

The smoked pork belly was some of the best I have had, at least since moving to Houston in 2013. The meat was cooked well, and retained a moistness that is often lacking in pork belly. The fatty parts were excellent, as well: they melted in my mouth with a pleasing flavor. The broth was a touch too sweet for me, but the radishes were crisp and a welcome addition to the plate. The ravioli was easily the best thing of the evening. Fresh, strong-tasting mushrooms, rich parmesan broth, and delicate fennel. The pasta was thin yet firm, and each flavor component of the dish melded agreeably.

We were in no hurry on that evening – unless it is absolutely necessary I firmly believe that one should never rush while dining – and several times had to tell a server that, no, we were not finished “working on” our plates. Oran Mor is not an inexpensive place – our bill before tip was $182 – and the service should better represent the niche the restaurant occupies.

While we waited for our main courses we talked about the wedding and the weather on Nantucket and the utilitarian beauty of the Cape Cod architectural style. Our experience at Oran Mor soon took an unfortunate turn.

Hard potatoes, passable duck (save the lackluster confit).

Hard potatoes, passable duck (save the lackluster confit).

I ordered the Pekin duck – breast and confit, sweet potato purée, Brussels sprouts, huckleberry compote – and Angela decided on the lamb. (She was attracted to the Kalamata olives and tomatoes, but, we later discovered, there was perhaps all of one olive in the dish, minced.) Again, if our meal had ended after the first course we would have been incredibly happy. Instead, I was served hard potatoes, bland Brussels sprouts, and dry confit. Yes, dry confit. Angela’s lamb was satisfactory, medium-rare, lacking salt. And those olives were nowhere to be found. I must state that my duck breast was good, but it was not enough to salvage the overall lack of attention to technique and flavor.

Dessert was Elvis’ Doughnuts, and if they had all been at least warm, we would have loved them. Banana cream, chocolate, and fried dough, but two of the doughnuts were warm.

Oran Mor is attractive, and, judging by our ravioli and pork belly, can put out good food. I will reserve a final verdict until after my next visit.

A Perfect Day For a Tamalada, and Friends and Wine and Food

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There are days that not only seem perfect, but are perfect. Yesterday was one of them. Sun was out, air was cool(er), light angled just so, slicing through the air with a briskness that spoke quietly of ease. On those type of days all I require is to be near good people and good food and wine. Simple, and honest. Nourishment for soul and body.

You don’t know how good homemade tamales are? Never made any? Angela and I did yesterday. She did. I watched and observed. We joined in a tamalada at Sylvia’s. Sylvia Casares, AKA Enchilada Queen, shared her method with us, told us stories of her days spent working in a lab for the Mars corporation, how a stranger on a plane gave her the final push she needed to follow her dreams and how she opened her first restaurant and how it feels to now operate three and what she felt like when the bullet entered her abdomen and she knew she would not die in that way. Not that way.

A woman of taste and substance.

Sylvia Casares, a woman of taste and substance.

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A pork butt and a guisado were cooking, their aromas filling the room. Masa was being mixed, husks were steaming. You know those scents? They have the ability to make one happy. The masa was delivered to our table and Angela and Jack and Sally set to making tamales. It was a tamalada, and Sylvia told us about her father and the recipes her grandmother passed down.

Angela makes a mean tamale.

Angela makes a mean tamale.

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Masa is putty in their hands.

Masa is putty in their hands.

The day continued and Angela and I sat in the sun and drank some rosé and talked and watched people live their lives and go back and forth toward their happiness and desires.

Judy smiles at Brockhaus.

Judy smiles at Brockhaus.

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Jack mesmerizes the Brockhaus table.

We had been invited to a dinner that evening by Russ and Judy, two people with whom Angela and I share a passion for food, wine, and travel. I was not aware that it was a 10-course meal with wine pairings, for 10, but I certainly did not mind when I discovered it was so. We had scallops and duck and foie gras mousse and some Catena and Hunt Cellars (a 2000 Cabernet Sauvignon that Russ had given Angela for her birthday). We spoke of empanadas and Brockhaus and heard a tale about a tasting of some 1945s. We toasted Russ and Judy and left the table happy and sated.

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Duck sofrito …

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A scallop is never a bad thing.

One final venue made the evening complete. Russ and Judy had never been to Camerata, so we took them there and shared a bottle of my favorite wine (favorite now and for about the past year). You can see a photo of the bottle at the beginning of the tale of a perfect day.

Saturday’s Breakfast, and a Great One at That

A sign for the times. (Photo by James Brock)

A sign for the times. (Photos by James Brock)

One of the pleasures of moving to a new city is that everything is just that, new. That means new people and new restaurants, and I have encountered many of both since I’ve arrived. (It seems that at least five times a day I add another restaurant to the “must-visit” list I maintain in the Notes app on my iPhone, recommendations from nearly everyone I meet.) This past Saturday I met a new friend at a new (for me) restaurant for breakfast, a place he had told me about a few weeks earlier. We were going to Gerardo’s, and I was hungry.

It’s been open since 1977, and is a family affair, father and son, and that shows in the attention paid to the food and the customers. When I arrived at 609 Patton Street, the small space’s tables were almost completely full, couples and families enjoying barbacoa and carnitas. Chris was there when I walked in the door — I was thinking a beer would go well with the food, but while one can buy beer at Gerardo’s to take away, its license does not allow one to drink it on the premises, so I opted for a Topo Chico.

Some of the best Barbacoa – if not the best – in Houston.

Some of the best Barbacoa – if not the best – in Houston.

Sweetbreads and peppers.

Sweetbreads and peppers.

Chorizo with eggs – a great way to start the day.

Chorizo with eggs – a great way to start the day.

Jose Luis Lopez and his son Gerardo are the men behind this food, and the elder Mr. Lopez has been in the kitchen processing pounds and pounds of cow heads and pork and other meats for nearly four decades. Gerardo greeted us at the table and asked what we were hungry for; a few minutes later he brought over three or four small containers of hot goodness, including chorizo and eggs, babacoa and fried tripe. And foil-wrapped warm tortillas, of course.

“I remember coming here after school when I was 6 or so and taking a nap right there, behind the counter,” Gerardo told us, pointing to the floor. “I started helping out in the kitchen a few years later, and have been here ever since.”

Chris and I began with the chorizo, and the rest of the meal was a whirlwind of flavors and spices and textures and sighs. The barbacoa, which is famous and loved – rightfully so – was moist and rich and deep in flavor. Mr. Lopez told me that he goes through on average 160 cow heads a week, and the long process of cooking them results in this amazing dish.

They come from Dallas ...

They come from Dallas …

and become some great barbacoa.

and become some great barbacoa.

I love sweetbreads, and the ones at Gerardo’s are good, cut into small pieces and sautéed along with peppers and onions. The carnitas was a highlight, coming in, in my opinion, second only to the barbacoa, and if the carnitas had been my only dish that morning I would have been more than happy.

Family, tradition, attention to product: Gerardo’s has been around since 1977 for these reasons, and I am confident that if I return there 20 years from now a Lopez will be manning the kitchen and I will sit and eat like a king.

Jose Luiz Lopez, the man of the house.

Jose Luiz Lopez, the man of the house.

Standing behind his products.

Standing behind his products.

Provisions, I Hardly Knew Ye

A fine pizza, from December 2013, when Provisions was my favorite restaurant in Houston. (Photo by James Brock)

A fine pizza, from December 2013, when Provisions was my favorite restaurant in Houston. (Photo by James Brock)

I am sad today. You see, I once had a favorite restaurant in Houston, the restaurant to which I returned many times, so often that Angela refused, at some point, to ever go with me again. I, however, loved it. I have dined there perhaps 10 or 12 times, alone and with others. I have introduced a number of people to the place and its food. I have spent an evening at its “sister” restaurant, The Pass. Indeed, I have spent more time at Provisions than at any other restaurant in Houston. And all was good, at least for a few months.

Something has happened to Provisions, my go-to restaurant. I first noticed things were amiss about two months ago, when I ordered a pizza (Mushroom-Truffle Pizza/Black Trumpet Mushrooms, $18), which at the time was my favorite pizza in Houston. This pie, however, was soggy. I picked up the first slice and it was limp. It drooped down toward my plate, and when I bit into it the usually crisp crust was wet and sticky in my mouth. I asked a cook about it, and he told me they were having problems with the oven that night, something about maintaining proper temperature. Okay, I said, good to know, because I love that pizza.

The next week I was back, at the bar at the rear of the restaurant, a great little perch that seats two guests and affords a view of the kitchen and the dining room. I ordered the duck confit pizza. And again, limp crust, from the first piece. What was going on, I thought. The oven, which is very near my seat, looks impressive, and I know it can make great pies. But two in a row?

Until this past Thursday night, I had not been back to Provisions since the second poor pizza. I will estimate that a month or so had elapsed. I made plans to have dinner with a friend, and he recommended Provisions, then our party of two grew into a group of four, all good eaters whose palates I trust. Three of us arrived at about the same time, and while we awaited the fourth we shared a bottle of a very good South African red (AA Badenhorst, “Secateurs,” Coastal Region, 2010), a shiraz. And a good value at $36.

Roasted Shishito Peppers, most of which remained uneaten. (Photo by James Brock)

Roasted Shishito Peppers, most of which remained uneaten. (Photo by James Brock)

And here is where the sadness began to set in. We also shared some roasted shishito peppers. They are described thusly on the menu: Roasted Shishito Peppers/Cotija/Cilantro/Corn/Yuzukoshu. They cost $14. I love shishito peppers, had some really good ones at Caracol recently. But the peppers that night were barely roasted, and entirely devoid of salt, which we all agreed was needed. In fact, the best component of the dish was the onions. Where was the acid? Where was the delicious char?

Our fourth, Ms. S., arrived, and we ordered. I chose the sweetbreads (Crispy Veal Sweetbreads/Pickled Root Vegetables $18), because I eat sweetbreads as often as I find them. The other dishes? Lamb Merguez Pate en Croute/Yogurt/Cashew/Citrus $16; Broccoli Strozzapreti/Fennel Sausage/Tomato/Parmesan $13/22; and Uni Fettucini/Guanciale. All, in my opinion, mediocre at best. Seriously. Let me explain.

As I wrote, I love sweetbreads. But this dish, with one medium-sized sweetbread on it, was not good at all. The main problem: The sweetbread was overcooked. In fact, the exterior “crisp” of the breading obliterated any taste of the delicate organ. What I put in my mouth tasted as if it could have come from the fry basket at a fast-food joint. (The pickled vegetables were fine, and I enjoyed them. But the star of the plate was a waste of a sweetbread.)

It was a sin, to waste such a beautiful organ.

It was a sin, to waste such a beautiful organ. (Photo by James Brock)

As I was making the first cut into the sweetbread, across the table one of my dining companions, Ms. B., was putting the first bite of the uni pasta into her mouth. Then this came out of her mouth: “Where is the uni?” There was absolutely no taste of the uni in the dish. All one detected, and it was not a bad taste at all, was the guanciale. She asked the waiter about the dish, and was told that the uni was used to prepare the pasta. She later said, forlornly, “I tried to pay attention to the taste of the noodles themselves, and did not get any earthy, uni ‘funk'”. We left it at that. I did not have the heart to tell her about the uni pasta I had earlier in Dallas this year at Spoon Bar & Kitchen, but here are a few photos of it. It was a very good bowl, and John Tesar has a great thing going there. I am already planning a return visit.

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Spoon Bar & Kitchen's uni with trofie (Photo by Surya Bhattacharya)

Spoon Bar & Kitchen’s uni with trofie (Photos by Surya Bhattacharya)

And the Broccoli Strozzapreti? It came to the table lukewarm at best, to begin. Ms. S. told the waiter that it was not warm enough, so he took it back. Meanwhile, Mr. R. was tucking into his Merguez en Croute, and he said he liked it, adding that perhaps it was a bit too salty. I tried a bite, and concurred. I also thought that it was a bit too dry.

At about that time we ordered another bottle of the Shiraz, and when the waiter brought it to the table he opened it and proceeded to pour from the bottle into my glass, which still contained an ample amount of wine from the previous bottle. We did not bother telling him that it might have been more proper for him to have brought a clean glass to the table so that we could taste the new bottle before he poured from it. Neither did we remind him that it would have been best to serve the women first.

We did not order dessert. The uni was not finished; the strozzapreti languished in the bowl.  Ms. S.’s comment? Bland and overcooked pasta. My sweetbread was gone, as Mr. R. had taken a bite of it, agreeing with my assessment.

So, what is going on at Provisions? I don’t really have an answer. I am well aware that things can from time to time become chaotic. Even the best restaurant can, on occasion, send out a dish that is not as it should be. But two limp pizzas – after five or six perfect ones – and then a table full of mediocrity a month later? I am at a loss. And I write this as someone who has extolled the virtues of the food at Provisions, someone who has dined at The Pass and found it quite good. I am sad about the goings-on (at least as far as my past several experiences are concerned) at the restaurant that once was my favorite in Houston. And I so want to be happy again.

A German Repast

All one needs for sensual nourishment.

All one needs for sensual nourishment.

In a small town — perhaps it is technically a village — in Germany, near Kaiserslautern, lives a family to whom I am very close. I have known them since the 1980s, and think of them often. They have told me to consider their home my home in Germany, and I do. I wish I could see them more often.

Whenever I am with them I am reminded yet again how rich and diverse Europe’s food offerings are. Gudrun always sets a fine table, and the dinner pictured above was no exception. You sit in the dining room, snow falling outside, and the cheeses and meats and wines – and conversation – make the evening something you want never to end.

A Fat Bao Evening, or, My Kind of Surf and Turf

Houston is delighting me. I have met, in my few months here thus far, some great people in the restaurant and food world, and I’ve been led by them into a diverse and exciting universe. The list in my Notes app that contains places I intend to visit is growing by the day – it now contains 67 restaurants and bars – and I look forward to discovering many more great dishes.

Speaking of which, earlier this week I walked through the doors of Fat Bao, a restaurant that more than a few people had told me I must try and which was at the top of my list. It was a cold night, and I was looking forward to the soft shell crab a colleague had raved about. She was right.

You have pork and soft shell crab. You need nothing else.

You have pork and soft shell crab. You need nothing else. I give you the Pork Katsu Bao, left, and the Crab Daddy Bao.

I waited for a few minutes in line to order my bao, and the staff was courteous and friendly, and efficient. Fat Bao stocks a great selection of beers, including Hitachino Nest, many bottles of which I enjoyed in Hong Kong and Tokyo earlier this year. The menu, written on a blackboard, is a broad one, but I was there for the soft shell crab and the pork, and that is what I chose.

I took a number and a seat, and waited for my food. A few minutes later it arrived. The buns were warm and soft, and the proteins were excellent … and accompanied by crisp cabbage and perfect, slightly spicy, sauces. Freshness, warmth, a little heat. Total satisfaction for 15 minutes.

I will return to Fat Bao, as soon as I reach the end of my list.

Dining on rabbit and lamb with Chris Stanton

I’m in Houston, and I’m eating a lot, immersing myself into this sprawling city’s culinary offerings. Angela and I have dined at several places recently, and I have been solo at some others. With one exception – Triniti – the food has been good, some of it very good, including an excellent snapper at Reef and some wonderful Thai (including a soft shell crab) in the waterside town of Seabrook, south of Houston toward Galveston. Angela especially loved her scallop and shrimp curry there, and the evening ended up at the bar with two of the town’s finest, one of who gave us his recommendations, which included a sushi place in Houston.

Yesterday for lunch I had tacos at Tacos A Go-Go … pork and chicken guisado (stewed). Perfect bites, long, slow cooking, corn tortillas. All for $4.00. Last night Chris Stanton, a friend and former colleague of mine from the Abu Dhabi and Dubai days, and I shared a table at Provisions, and the meal began with Bone Marrow Brioche/Tomato Jam/sheep’s cheese, followed by Ham O’ Day (a prosciutto from America’s Midwest).

Provisions' Ham 'O Day

Provisions’ Ham ‘O Day

I would have liked more marrow and marrow taste in the bread pairing, an opinion that Chris shared, and the tomato jam was a tad too sweet, but the cheese was excellent – a bit crumbly, soft mouth feel, slightly creamy yet pungent. The ham, which came atop a light mustard sauce, imparted a salty taste at the back of the palate, which at first Chris and I did not like. But then a funkiness set in, and that made us hunger for more. We agreed that the curing was carried out well, and we were happy.

We were drinking a 2008 Bodegas Aster Crianza, and the ham’s funkiness enhanced its taste. At $32 a bottle it is one of the least expensive wines on Provisions’ list, and is a good value.

Sweet (overly sweet) lamb ribs at Provision

Sweet (overly sweet) lamb ribs at Provision

To the lamb. And to Korea, because that’s the first thing my brain thought of when I put one of the ribs in my mouth. They were crisp on the outside, and fairly tender meat was underneath. Unfortunately they were overly sweet. We tasted plum and brown sugar, and I would swear that some molasses was in the mix. We wanted less sugar, richer meat. But that did not stop us from finishing the dish. (We turned our attention to the paté before we finished the ribs, and when we returned to them they had cooled off, which enhanced their taste. They were better close to cold.)

Rabbit paté en croute, fit for a fine Spring

Rabbit paté en croute, fit for a fine Spring

A first bite of the rabbit paté told us that, while excellent, it should never be ordered with the lamb ribs. Pea tendrils graced the top of the rabbit, and a bite of that dish, followed by a taste of the ribs, took us from the freshness of spring to a brisk and smoky autumn evening. Too jarring, too discordant. Both great plates, but if they eloped their romance would never last.

How many people does it take to make pasta?

How many people does it take to make pasta?

Chris prepares pasta, in the Dubai kitchen that Angela and I shared.

Chris prepares pasta, in the Dubai kitchen that Angela and I shared.

Chris and I shared an apartment in Abu Dhabi in 2008, and when I first met him I considered myself very fortunate, because he loves food, and he loves to cook. And he is a good cook, intuitive. We teamed up well in our kitchen, and produced some great plates together, including a salmon tartare cone (thank you, Thomas Keller) and, with the help of his parents, a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner for 14.

During our dinner at Provisions Chris asked me as we were eating the ham how much I knew about curing meat, and told me that a visit to the Staten Island home of a friend of his father’s marked the beginning of his passion for food. Chris was 8, and they made fresh pasta and sliced some homemade prosciutto and drank some wine made by a grandfather from Italy. Chris showed me a photo of the salumeria in that Staten Island home, and I share it with you. (Please notice the crucifix at the upper left of this photo. It is indeed blessed meat.)

Meat cures on Staten Island. (Photo courtesy of Chris Stanton)

Meat cures on Staten Island. (Photo courtesy of Chris Stanton)

I replied that I knew a lot about the process of aging and curing, but other than dry-aging a steak I have never had the opportunity nor time to do it. That is going to change, however, and Chris and I are making plans to create a salumeria of our own, so stay tuned.

Triniti fails, on two counts

I’ve been, for the past few weeks, throwing myself into Houston, into restaurants and museums and food markets, looking for the good stuff, the places to which I’ll return for the things I need for sustenance and inspiration, my fixes.

Last night, after a screening of Blue Jasmine (my Woody fix), Angela and I drove to Triniti, about which I had read a few good things, for a food fix. The restaurant looks perfect, all light wood and subdued illumination in the right places. A low exposed-concrete wall separates the open kitchen from the main dining area – a design element I found particularly satisfying.

But the food. Disappointing. Except for Angela’s pea soup, served wonderfully chilled, the rest of the plates were lacking in taste and technique. For $31, I expect beans properly cooked, faro that is not dry, and pork that is seasoned. (My dish on the menu: pork chop – parsnip puree, collection of summer beans, heart, faro, plum sauce.) A cook must show confidence in his use of salt. Whoever put his (or her) mind and hand to my pork seems to have none. The beans in the bean and faro mixture were hard, and if anyone in that gorgeous kitchen tasted those beans and still allowed them to enter the dining room on a plate, he or she should be assigned a bean-cooking class, for at least a week.

To Angela’s plate of snapper (on the menu as “Snapper – artichoke, olive, tomato fondue, white bean puree, fried oyster). It was, in her words, a poorly deconstructed version of the description, with each of the ingredients in a clump on the plate. The tomato fondue was overly tart and bitter, and the sole olive on the plate small and lonely and dry. It was as if the cook cared more about the “art” of the plate than she did about the taste of the ingredients. The fish was moist, but it lacked the bite of freshness, and the $29 plate was disappointing overall, especially coming after the excellent soup. The fried oyster was crisp, the interior bland, as if all the salt and ocean had been drained from the bivalve.

Art over taste. Plate design over cooking technique. I have been noticing this more and more, artfully designed plates that ultimately disappoint when one disturbs the masterpiece by eating it. Joyce had to master the language by writing Dubliners before he could move on to Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. I appreciate beautiful plates, food artfully arranged with passion and playfulness, but if the food art disappoints on the palate, the art is a contrivance, worth nothing.

It was a Sunday evening, so perhaps that had something to do with the food, and the service. Yes, in addition to the lacking food, the service was a bit slipshod. When my pork dish was delivered I had to wait five minutes for a knife and fork. When our dessert was placed on the table, the waiter overlooked the fact that we had no cutlery. Minor issues, yes, but restaurants of this caliber, or restaurants that aspire to be in this caliber and charge $48 for a lamb dish, must also aspire to perfect service, service that is so amazing as to be invisible. Nothing should disturb the guest’s relationship with the food. This service did.

I am going to visit Triniti again, on a Wednesday or Friday. I am certain it does better than it did on this evening of our first visit.

A Corkycue weekend in Texas Hill Country

Texas Hill Country. Beef and pork, brisket and ribs. Undulating landscape, green and brown, and blue skies full of cotton-white clouds. A van full of people hailing mostly from Texas, with some Canadians, a Colombian, and me thrown in. Political leanings vary, though Democrats (Liberals) outnumber those of less lofty persuasion, and when the conversation turns to the Trayvon Martin/Zimmerman trial and women’s reproductive rights the van suddenly becomes a rolling (and roiling) marketplace of ideas.

But we are here for barbecue, not debate. (Unless it’s debate about the meat.) Texas barbecue. It’s Colby’s birthday weekend, and a dozen or so of his friends have gathered in Austin for a Man Up Barbecue tour, which will also take in a few wineries.

A room fit for barbecue aficionados. ( (Photo courtesy of Hotel San Jose)

A room fit for barbecue aficionados. (Photo courtesy of Hotel San José)

Muted colors and tranquil paths welcome guests to the hotel. (Photo courtesy of Hotel San Jose)

Muted colors and tranquil paths welcome guests to the hotel. (Photo courtesy of Hotel San José)

A walkway at Hotel San Jose is bathed in sunlight.  (Photo courtesy of Hotel San Jose)

A walkway at Hotel San José is bathed in sunlight. (Photo courtesy of Hotel San José)

We gather on Friday afternoon at the Hotel San José, a great little place to stay on Congress Avenue, complete with a small concrete swimming pool, excellent music (Gram Parsons, Buck Owens, Emmylou Harris, Jimi Hendrix) and comfortable rooms. Some might find it a bit pretentious, and the average guest does try diligently to exhibit the proper sense of cool, but the beer and cocktail list is more than ample and the customer service friendly and professional.

Colby had arranged a dinner that evening at Parkside Restaurant, so we get two cabs to take us to the location, a few miles away. Sweetbreads, heirloom tomato salad with compressed watermelon, seared sea scallops, great cocktails. I differed with the sweetbreads: They were too chewy, and I will venture to say that the cook had not prepared too many sweetbreads before he plated mine, but it was not a wasted evening, because the rest of the food, including oysters, was more than passable.

All was well on this first night of the weekend Birthday Bash, but that was soon to change. We left the restaurant and hailed cabs, and as I slid into the back seat I heard a yell and turned to see Angela fall with a thud: She had stepped off of the curb and had not counted on a gutter with a long and steep downward grade. Sprained ankle was the diagnosis. We sped back to the hotel and bandaged and iced her ankle, which was swelling rapidly. (Thanks to the ministrations of Dr. Catalina Sanchez Hanson, Angela was well on the way to recovery later that evening.)

Angela sits at the tasting bar after an unfortunate fall in Austin.

Angela sits at the tasting bar after an unfortunate fall in Austin.

The next morning we assembled outside the hotel, coffee (and in some cases, beer) in hand, ready for the van and the ride to  barbecue. I carried Angela piggyback-style down the stairs of the hotel and we were on our way. (That was the first stage of Angela’s assisted tour … a few of us took turns conveying her to and from the venues, which included a fairgrounds, where we wagered on some horses, and where one of us turned a $15 bet into $198, a peach store run by a family of farmers, and a general store/liquor emporium where we sampled some tequila, wine and beer.)

A few hours at the races: Cal's lucky ticket. (Photo courtesy of Cal Lacasse)

A few hours at the races: Cal’s lucky ticket. (Photo courtesy of Cal Lacasse)

A historic spot, full of beer, wine and tequila and bourbon. (Photo courtesy of Colby Walton)

A historic spot, full of beer, wine and tequila and bourbon. (Photo courtesy of Colby Walton)

To the barbecue, the main reason for the weekend. For lunch we stopped at Cranky Frank’s, which is in Fredericksburg. It serves up brisket and ribs and chicken in a small restaurant with eight tables in the dining room and a long picnic table outside. The pit is in an adjacent building, and the smoke that greeted us as we exited the van was a great introduction to the day’s dining. Drew Thornley, one of the men behind Man Up Barbecue, arranged our orders, so all we had to do was wait patiently outside at the table for our meat. (Some of us had already procured beer from Cranky’s, so the wait was more than satisfying.) The brisket here was the highlight, at least to my taste, but a few of my fellow travelers loved the sausage. Sunny day, a crowd gathered around a picnic table, and smoky meat … nothing else is necessary.

Colby brings the brisket.

Colby brings the brisket.

Our meat awaits, and it was good.

Our meat awaits, and it was good.

Slicing the brisket at Cranky Frank's: Great things come to those who wait.

Slicing the brisket at Cranky Frank’s: Great things come to those who wait.

The birthday boy shows his appreciation of Cranky Frank's ribs. (Photo courtesy of Ronnie Packard)

The birthday boy shows the rest of us how to eat ribs at Cranky Frank’s. (Photo courtesy of Ronnie Packard)

We loaded ourselves back into the van and headed for our next stop, the Stone House Vineyard. It was the second winery, and the best one … mainly because we had a rather unfortunate and rude encounter with the owner of the first winery we visited. Seems that she expected those of our party who were responsibly imbibing beer to see the invisible sign stating that beer was not permitted on the premises. Instead of politely asking her guests (and prospective customers) to finish our beer in the van, she demonstrated considerable ire, in the process transforming our visit to her establishment into something odious and uncomfortable. Needles to say, I purchased none of her wines.

Back at Stone House Vineyard, we gathered at a long table in the elegant yet rustic tasting room and sampled five or six bottles of wines made in South Africa. All decent, all certainly drinkable, if unremarkable. Stone House does does produce one wine made from Norton grapes grown on its property, and it was certainly worth the taste.

Bottles, friends, sunny afternoon, all at the Stone House Winery. (Photo courtesy Colby Walton)

Bottles, friends, sunny afternoon, all at the Stone House tasting room. (Photo courtesy Colby Walton)

We had before us the highlight of the day, though those of us who had never darkened the doors of Opie’s Barbecue were blissfully ignorant of what lay ahead. As dinner time approached we rolled into the parking lot of Opie’s, having been told what was expected of us, which was to walk through the doors and immediately turn our attentions to the giant black metal container into which meats of all sorts were being loaded, including sausages containing cheese and jalapeño peppers, beef ribs (both spare and short), chicken, and brisket. Oh, that brisket … Kristin and Todd Ashmore have their hands on one talented pit master.

Drew had arranged Opie’s feast, and all we had to do was tell the meat attendant what we wanted and watch him arrange our selections in a tray. That, and graciously accept the cans of Fireman’s #4 and Tecate that were offered. Angela and I chose a little of everything except the chicken, and our barbecue then disappeared into the kitchen, where it was trimmed and wrapped in butcher paper. We walked over to the long counter and waited for our dinner, all the while admiring the desserts – banana pudding, carrot cake, peach cobbler – and taking in the crowd. The place is huge, and it was full of hungry people.

Look at that char: Brisket at Opie's.

Look at that char: Brisket at Opie’s.

Food with a built-in handle: Ribs at Opie's.

Food with a built-in handle: Ribs at Opie’s.

We again found ourselves at a long table, and set to unwrapping our bounty. The brisket was my first choice, and it was nearly perfect: beautiful char, a slight spicy undertone, wonderful bouquet – think espresso and very faint vinegar. My only criticism was that it was a bit too moist, the tendrils of the meat approached something I could term “soft,” as opposed to tender. Minor quibble, however. This brisket was beautiful, and as I chewed I looked around the table at my happy companions and we silently agreed that all was well. Drew was high on the sweet-and-spicy baby back ribs, which were quite good, and I was enjoying the tater tot casserole and spicy creamed corn. We ate well, had some leftovers, which I wrapped anew and the next morning gave to the room attendant at the hotel, who said he had not been to Opie’s recently and would look forward to a great lunch. The carrot cake and banana pudding ended the meal, and we paraded out to the van, ready for the ride back to Austin and the comfort of the San José.

Colby is lucky to have such good friends, and his friends are fortunate that Colby likes to eat good food and is an enthusiastic party planner. As for me, I am planning to take another Man Up Barbecue tour, and If you like good food and good people, you could do much worse than doing the same.

My kind of third party.

My kind of third party.

An Italian winter’s tale of grace

I was in Florence for a few days, a stopover of sorts before I traveled on to Umbria. I was staying at the Hotel Hermes, hosted by Patricia Baglioni, the wonderful woman who owns the small hotel. She steered me toward her favorite places in the city, restaurants and otherwise, and told me some fine stories about her childhood in Texas and Mexico and coming to Italy to study and falling in love with an Italian man whose family owned hotels. He sadly died a while ago, too young, but not before they had a marriage full of adventure and travel and great meals. (Her husband was a hunter, and she showed me some photographs of him with wild boar and pheasant and deer, all of which ended up on their family table.)

Patricia Baglioni, the consummate hostess of Hotel Hermes. (Photo courtesy of Patricia Baglioni)

Patricia Baglioni, the consummate hostess of Hotel Hermes, and a guest. (Photo courtesy of Patricia Baglioni)

It was in the middle of December, and Florence was beautiful. Florence is always beautiful. It was to be my final day in the city, and the next morning, the 17th, I would depart for Umbria and Brigolante, the agriturismo near Assisi that Angela and I would use as home base for the winter holiday season. I went for a walk along the river after breakfast, over the bridge and up toward the Uffizi. For lunch I had coniglio fritto at Al Tranvai, a small place I had read about in Saveur. If you are in Florence you must go, and please order the rabbit. I spent the afternoon wandering, no destination in mind, and ended up at a bar run by an American, a guy who had fallen in love with the city when he and his girlfriend had passed through two years earlier. He told me she had left him to return to California. He thought about her rarely, he said.

Rabbit and zucchini at Tranvai.

Rabbit and zucchini at Al Tranvai.

In the kitchen at Sostanza. (Look at the bottom right corner of image and you'll see a perfect piece of beef.)

In the kitchen at Sostanza. (Look at the middle-right section of the image and you’ll see a perfect piece of beef.)

For dinner I went to Trattoria Sostanza, and, of course, had a bistecca. (I will revisit Sostanza, both corporeally and on Mise en place. It is deserving of that, and more.) Communal tables, two seatings nightly, excellent food. I had a view of the kitchen, and my steak was cooked semi-vertically on a grate over charcoal. It is in the top 5 on my best steak list. After dinner I walked along the river and admired the duomo, thinking of Dante and Beatrice.

I was excited about my drive to Umbria, and after a late breakfast at the hotel headed to the rental agency to pick up my Fiat. As I walked past the window of the German shoemaker snowflakes began to fall, wispy flakes that melted as soon as they landed on the street. I ambled along, not quite wanting to leave Florence behind. I stopped at several food stores along the way, and decided to have an early lunch: fried squash blossoms, a few slices of ham, and a half-bottle of Montepulciano.

Blossoms from a vegetable on a snowy day

Blossoms from a vegetable on a snowy day

While I sat eating the blossoms at a table covered in butcher paper the snow grew heavier, the sky darker. The thin slices of ham melted on my tongue and the red wine warmed me. People rushed along the sidewalk, looking up at the sky. I bought a few tins of pâté and some sausages and cheese for the trip, then continued on to the rental agency.

The car, a white Fiat 500, was small, but just big enough for Angela and me and a bag or two. I drove the short distance back to the hotel and loaded my things, bid farewell to Patricia, then took off toward the river. It was snowing heavily, but I had no worries, and entered the traffic stream, the radio playing a Count Basie number.

Five minutes later it all came down. Snow mixed with ice, heavy. The little car’s windshield wipers struggled to keep up, and the traffic came to a standstill. I endured at least an hour moving at a crawl. We were headed up an incline, toward the autostrada, out of the city, but nature had something else in mind: by the dozens, cars began pulling to the side of the road, unable to make it up the hill. The snow grew heavier, and I thought to myself that I was glad I had brought my hiking boots. I parked my car in the best location possible, its nose still jutting into the street. I, along with other drivers and passengers, emerged into the icy early afternoon.

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I began walking down the narrow, icy street and saw cars parked on both sides of it, two wheels on the sidewalks, two on the one-way thoroughfare. The neighborhood in which I interrupted my journey was just outside one of Florence’s old gates, and as I walked down the hill toward the massive structure I began thinking about where I would spend the night. My first thought was to phone Patricia at the hotel, but when I took my iPhone from my pocket I discovered I had no credit remaining. I kept walking and soon saw a restaurant to my right; it was closed, but lights were on in the dining room and I saw a man in a chef’s jacket standing behind the bar. I knocked on the door and he motioned for me to come in; he was on the phone, and pointed to a bar stool. As I approached him I noticed a group of people sitting at a large table at the rear of the restaurant and realized I had interrupted family meal.

A family meal in a warm place.

A family meal in a warm place.

I sat and looked at the wines on the bar, and a minute or so later my host put down the phone. We shook hands, and he said his name was Paulo. He mentioned the ice storm, and I told him I was stuck, had been forced to park my car on the side of the road, and that I was looking for a place to spend the night. I asked if I might use his phone, but he had another idea: he began calling friends who lived in the neighborhood, asking if anyone could put me up for the evening. I tried to stop him, to tell him I would call back to the hotel in which I had been staying, but he ignored me. After a few calls he put the phone down and smiled, offering me a glass of wine. “Don’t worry, a friend has a bed and breakfast one street over, and he has a free room. He told me I could have it for 35 euros.” Perfect, I said, and we toasted the weather.

He then asked me to follow him, and we walked toward the kitchen, stopping at the occupied table. He introduced me to his father and mother, and some of his employees. His father, who had the year before handed over the kitchen to Paulo, had worked in a restaurant since he was 17, and had opened his own, this one, 15 years earlier. I shook hands with everyone and admired the food on their plates, refusing an offer to eat with them … they had already done enough.

Paulo wrote an address down, then told me that I should come back that evening for dinner. How could I refuse? I was reluctant to leave the warm restaurant, but wanted to find my room before it grew dark. I walked back up the hill to the car and retrieved a few things, then followed the directions Paulo had given me.

It was indeed one street over, one snow-filled street. I saw the number and rang the bell, and was met by a man in his 20’s, who welcomed me in and showed me the room. It was wonderfully decorated, warm, large bed, tasteful fabrics – dark green and an interesting shade of red. He told me his mother and he owned the building and that they were glad to do a favor for Paulo. He seemed to be in a hurry, so I thanked him and walked him to the door. I opened my Mac and found an email from Patricia; she wanted to make sure I was safe, and I told her my tale. She laughed and made me promise to stay at Hotel Hermes when I next was in Florence.

I put my bag away and saw a bottle of wine on the table near the window, poured myself a glass, and sat down, watching the snow fall. (The image of that snow at that moment is in my mind still, and when I wish to evoke a feeling of peace I can conjure it up. I see the snow fall, watch it accumulate on the balcony rail outside the window, silently.)

My room with a snowy view.

My room with a snowy view.

After enjoying another glass of wine I showered, then traced my steps back to the restaurant, which was full of people. Paulo had reserved a place for me at a table along the wall, and I sat, enjoying a perfect view of the entire room. The barstools were occupied, and all but one table was full. I ordered some prosecco and looked at the menu, my eyes landing immediately on wild boar, one of my favorite proteins. They were serving Cinghiale al Ginepro, and I ordered it. A leg of a fine animal ­– Paulo told me they had marinated it in red wine – that had once roamed woods not far from Florence. I was deciding on a first course when a waiter came out with a bowl of pasta and set it before me. I looked down and saw truffles. Tartufo. White truffles, alba madonna. Shaved truffles on top of thin, wide noodles, in a rich sauce that tasted of olive oil and shallots. I lowered my head over the dish and inhaled, and tears came to my eyes.

Those tears were not caused by sadness or tiredness, but were provoked by a profound sense of gratitude, a feeling that was almost holy, sacred. I was sitting among strangers, in a warm restaurant whose chef had housed and fed me. That morning I had checked out of a hotel whose owner, concerned about me in the ice storm, called to make sure I was safe, a woman with whom I still correspond and will surely see next time I am in Firenze. I drank and I ate, and thought of nothing else.

Yes, the truffles and pasta were sublime, as truffles almost always are. The wild boar I remember still: gamy (as I like it), rich, perfectly cooked. But on that evening in Florence, as the snow fell and I sat at an unfamiliar though perfect table surrounded by happy people talking and enjoying their food and wine, I was the recipient of kindnesses that outshone even the finest truffle.

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