Wrong Way McDonald's

One of the strangest things I had ever done was to go through a McDonald's drive-thru backwards. Many of you have already tried to visualize going through in reverse either so the guy riding shotgun would be able to place his order directly but that's not what I meant. This relates to my first experience at the world-famous restaurant chain at one of their franchises in England. "Backwards" means that the drive-thru wraps around the building in the other direction, as in clockwise!

Many things are different about the overseas experience with fast food, all of which make it at interesting enough to almost be an adventure but certainly not the normal routine expected at home. In Germany a Filet-o-Fish is called a "Fisch Mac," for example. We all know by now that a country that operates on the metric system would therefore not have a "Quarter Pounder" on the menu so it might have a name like the French "Burger Royale" instead. Likewise they by now understand that the German word for big, "Gross," would NOT translate to steady sales from English speaking patrons who happen to stop by. Another reason for names like "Koenig'sburger" (King's Burger).

In England the product names tend to translate fairly easily so no worries about what exactly is being selected from the menu. The interiors of the restaurants from one country to another are also fairly innocuous and easily recognized, perhaps with a few local flairs thrown in just so the natives will feel more connected as well. While on business in London one time, though, we were in a hurry as most business travelers tend to be and decided we had just enough time to hit the drive through before going back to the office.

McDonald's was nearby, everybody knew the brand, the product and what to expect so in we go to the parking area, except I happened to be the one that was driving. Instinctively I started turn right to join the "queue" for the drive-thru. "No, mate, turn left!" my local companions warned before I completed my maneuver. In England with right-side drive (from the passenger seat to most others) the menu board and attendant speaker is on the right hand side of the car. To face it properly and not be considered a total "prat," the line for the window starts at the left side of the building.

Drive thru's in general tended to be more of a novelty at the time as opposed to something absolutely required in the design of the establishment. This is Europe, after all, where population density is much greater than America and land is certainly not to be frivolously paved over. Even at a lot of highway rest stops the logic leans towards entering the restaurant as opposed to pulling over in a drive-thru. One has to get gas in the first place, which means getting out of the car, plus the fact that a gallon of regular there is easily twice the cost in the United States. Not something to burn through so readily while idling in a drive-thru waiting on a burger and fries.

So here I am trying to navigate the narrow lane for the drive-thru near Heathrow Airport from the left side of the building while piloting a car from the right hand side of the front seat. Even though my favorite sandwich at Mickey-Ds is the Filet-o-Fish I knew better than to order something like that while in England, home and reigning king of fish and chips.

I went with a Quarter Pounder!

Gotta go.

Airline Dining - Such As It Is

For being the first airline to offer inflight meals the dumbest thing I've seen recently from United Airlines was an attempt to charge for meals on overseas flights. At least they backed down after the expected public outcry. As maligned as airline food is, however, a lot of thought goes in to every airline meal even if they are only found on overseas flights these days. Whether you paid two days or two months in advance at least the meals are exactly the same in coach. I also discovered on some airlines that except perhaps for a few extra touches, portion size and the plating style on some airlines there isn't much difference between Business Class and First Class. I mean literally, it's the same cut of steak, maybe a little larger but on a real plate in First Class instead of that oval all-in-one dish you get in the middle cabin. Good thing is, if you're really hungry and the passenger count is light there should be plenty of food for seconds and classier airlines like Singapore and Cathay will deny you nothing, however classless it may be to ask in the first place.

It takes several assembly lines in "flight kitchens" serving major airports to put together tray upon tray of meals, pack them in those skinny service carts and then make each meal is in the right cart for the right cabin and in the right place to be picked up for the right airline and flight on which the meal is featured and rotated that day. Cold foods such as salads and desserts in one line, hot items such as meats and vegetables in another, soups and sauces somewhere else with cutlery and glassware in still another. Special meals have their own preparation areas while, depending on the size of the market, kosher and halal will have their own sections!

Beverages, spirits and enough ice packed in dry ice so it won't melt is the neatest trick to make sure there is enough to handle a 15-18 hour flight because there is no 7-11 at 41,000 feet! Finally, keeping all those logo embossed dishes with unique designs straight adds to the fun as well - soup dishes on Lufthansa or bento boxes on Japan Airlines?

Portion control is the key to "packing" an airline meal. It ensures consistent servings for every customer and absolutely determines the cost of each meal which can range from as little as $8.00 per person in coach to over $200 a piece at the front of the bus where caviar, champagne, steaks and Maine lobster dishes created by the hottest chefs on the planet are the order of the day.

Airlines will sometimes share on their websites what meals are being served on which month and in which direction. It might be apple-glazed chicken on every British Airways flight from London to New York with almond-roasted ahi in the other direction - each and every day for all of October. Most customers don't fly the route every day of the month but they definitely don't want the same meal in both directions. Come November that meal pairing might switch over to the Chicago or South Africa route and so on and so on but there's more. It also has to match the printed menus as well as the manifests printed out for the flight attendants who need to know what to expect and how to heat it all up. Among other things now you have an idea what all that banging around in the galley is for while you're boarding the plane and finding your seat: meals counted and correct!

Logistics and organization are critical at every kitchen but airports like Baltimore with hardly half a dozen international flights a day have it easier than operations like London where nearly every major flag on the planet stops in at least once a week. Airlines also regularly inspect the kitchens to ensure food quality, refrigeration and sanitation requirements are met. Individual travelers have their own opinions about the quantity and quality of the food but everyone agrees that it at least has to be fresh and from as clean a kitchen as possible.

Gotta go.

Time To Wait

There are some restaurants in Europe that only offer one sitting. It is not hard to imagine that the prices are high but the atmosphere just as rarified as patrons wait weeks for a table and are never, ever rushed through their meal in order to seat a second or third party. The concept is that the meal is only a part of the experience of simply enjoying an evening out at a fine restaurant with good company, good food, wine and service...almost literally all night long. Not so much, the experience at a typical American restaurant.

The dining culture in the United States is typically one that features dinner as part of a larger evening, be it dinner and a show or dinner and home to the kids or a favorite program. Rarely it seems do Americans dine out simply for the sake of some time together as a couple or part of a group just for conversation, fellowship or what have you. We rush to get a good reservation, hustle for a good table and then, encouraged by both wait staff and the establishment itself, we hurry through a meal only to decide later whether or not it was all worth the effort. Anything over an hour at most restaurants in America is considered déclassé and a colossal waste of time.

High volume and low prices is the order of the day in virtually every business, particularly in the restaurant game where waiting tables is not a career profession in North America as it can be in Europe. Few people other than the restaurant manager make anything close to a comfortable living while the wait staff is often a healthy mix of Florence Jean "Flo" Castleberrys from the TV series "Alice" and bored, gum-snapping Generation Y'ers hustling tips to supplement their student loan money. And in the high-energy culture of dining out on this side of the Atlantic the only way for any waiter or waitress to earn a living is to keep the tables turning.

Service must be courteous and attentive but fast. It is not necessarily rude here to be presented with the check when the waiter perceives your dining experience to be over. The worst part to me, however, seems to be an increasing trend in wait staff at the end of their shift boldly asking tables to cash out while they're still on the clock so they can get the tip instead of their replacement. Even worse, some restaurants will ask to close the exiting ticket and open a second for as long as you with to remain.

Big problem here, of the kind that just doesn't happen in Europe, and not much of an incentive for the desert and coffee server, either. I don't necessarily see an issue with the waiters and waitresses who feel compelled to protect their earnings in this fashion. The issue I see is with the restaurant itself who do not have a system in place to support their staff better. Why seat parties in a section where the shift is about to change? Why not log tickets according to when they opened so the exiting waiter's work will be paid when that table finally decides to up and leave?

One abysmal summer during my college years I was a cater waiter, the lowest form of wait staff save that of the buffet server. Neither can ever expect much in the way of tips and we were never permitted to hint or overtly beg for gratuities. I got $10 once and was told by the customer not to share the news with my lead waitress. He didn't like her but thought that I was at least giving it a good college try to serve his table.

That event and the art of serving both seem so long ago.

Gotta go.

One Man's Heaven

When a friend comes in to town for business you always try to hook up over dinner. Oftentimes it is the only time you have a chance to visit and catch up as any number of meetings, conference calls and deadlines can and do get in the way during the course of the business day. Even though it was a noticeable distance from the house when the firm is picking up the tab for a chance to reconnect the time and gas are the least I can do. This time, however, was unlike none I have ever experienced before. We went to a brand new eatery and fun/hen house by the name of "Redneck Heaven."

I'm explaining to my suddenly very concerned father on the phone while waiting for my friend to show up that it is not 30 miles from the nearest paved road surrounded by livestock and open fields with strange burn marks in the soil. Along the lines of "Hooters," "Twin Peaks," and "Bone Daddy's," "Redneck Heaven" is a variation on a tried and true theme - breasts (not always chicken), beer and burgers served up by barely legal beauties only this time instead of wearing orange they're in bikini halters and "Daisy Duke" shorts. The only thing not in line with the full costume were the flat boots each wore instead of the spiked heels their namesake inspiration ran through the countryside in on the "Dukes of Hazzard." The roof of the General Lee, Confederate flag and all, hangs from one of the walls while the famous "Dixie" horn sounds anytime anything cheeky happens. The one and only establishment as of this writing sits right next to the Vista Ridge Mall in Lewisville alongside heavily traveled Interstate I-35 just north of Dallas.

"Not too popular with the brothas?" was the first question I got upon returning to work the next day to tell my office mates all about it. I was in fact the only customer of color in the place but there were two "sistas" helping with the serving and causing their fair share of mayhem with the men folk one would most definitely expect to find in a place with a name like that. My buddy, in from South Carolina, don'tcha know, practically squealed with delight when he came in, rubbing his hands together and hunching his shoulders like the proverbial kid with the cookie jar.

As he took his seat our "Daisy" plopped in to the seat between us as if it was the most perfectly normal thing to do. Apparently it was because the table next to ours had no open seat so their "Daisy" simply sat in one of the highly appreciative men's laps and took their orders without missing a second thought. The food was standard fare with one exception. I was convinced by our "Daisy" to try the "Mississippi Mud Burger," an open faced half-pounder cooked to order on a slice of thick, buttered Texas Toast and drenched in onions and brown gravy.

Oh my. Frivolous flesh was never my thing but I'd go back for that burger on a regular basis! Good thing I don't drink, either, because one classic sleeveless bubba in the back downed the house special without breaking a sweat. The "Minnow Shot" is a shot of liquor with a live minnow in the glass. He chewed the hapless herring b-e-f-o-r-e downing the booze that would have otherwise put the flapper out of its misery. Shrieks of delight from the "Daisy Chain" while the horn blared "Dixie" for one and all to cheer the cable guy on.

All this on a Monday night during the football game. Friday they plan to have a "She-Devil/Angel" costume party. Our "Daisy" didn't know which to choose so I gave her an idea to think about: red boots, black "Daisy Dukes," a tail and topped with angel wings and a halo. Best of both worlds.

Gotta go.

The Knock Kneed Lobster

Incongruity or things that don't always make sense right away come up rather frequently when you're traveling around for business or pleasure. In today's vernacular what I'm essentially saying is "Who'da thunk it?" In this case the two things that don't automatically come together in the mind's eye is Phoenix, Arizona's love for very English fish and chips.

One after the other, some one-off Mom & Pop "chippies" by the side of the road, others with a chain of outlets across the valley, one is never far from one of these greasy delights from across the pond. Having lived and traveled in Europe I've been accustomed to the joys of a golden fried filet paired up with thick, starchy planks of deep fried wedges since I was a child. I remember living in Atlanta and putting in regular calls to Arthur Treacher's for what remains some of the tastiest fish and chips on this side of the Atlantic.

I've been to Long John Silver's and Captain D's on many an occasion and have the gut to show for it but I simply didn't expect to see the number of local varieties that serve Greater Phoenix. Understand also that these are all restaurants dedicated to the art of fish and chips. Other food offerings are on the menu but these are not wanna-be pubs or airport taverns that ALSO serve fish and chips. These establishments and their customers LIVE for fish and chips - in the middle of the Arizona desert.

An uncle encouraged me to visit a favorite haunt of his since the days of his own childhood in Central Phoenix not too far from the airport. Every return trip he makes to visit family includes a stop at the Knock Kneed Lobster at 32nd and Washington for a taste of bygone days and a bit of fish. Who could resist such an endorsement as I made sure to include the place on my list of per diem options for dinner one evening.

To look at the place is to pass right by if you even notice it at all. A low white building sits at the northeast corner of the intersection looking for all the world like someplace only locals would know or care about. No immaculate landscaping, attractive architecture or over-the-top neon screaming to passers-by, it is a typical one-off shop that quietly goes about its business of serving large portions of golden fish and shoe-string potatoes, bottles of vinegar and sauce dispensers at the ready.

The menu was overloaded with other choices but if this is a one and only visit I go with the claim to fame signature dish for my evening of calories, carbohydrates and cholesterol. The verdict? Not bad. I honestly have a (ruined to some) taste for Long John Silver's over the meal I ate at "KKL" but I allowed that if it is something you grew up with there must certainly be nothing else like it. The filets were large but it seemed as if they were pounded rather thin and slightly crunchier than I prefer. They definitely were not in the same size category as those served in England which seem to be the whole fish instead of just one filet of cod. The meal was passable but no real great shakes.

Would I go back? Well, let's just say that I'd probably want to try Ed's, Pete's, Brad's, Mandy's, Lazy Lou's or The Codfather first, if only to have something to compare them with.

Gotta go!

Hello, Baltimore

I used to live in Baltimore. Heck, I used to live in a lot of places but those are other stories. Three times over the course of my life have I called this city and surrounding area "home." As a toddler in the late 60s I watched my older sister delight in frogging the stream that ran through our backyard. During high school I went through platform shoes, afros and silk shirts in the late 70s and early 80s. Finally, as a full grown adult in the aftermath of a major national crisis, I struggled to survive and redefine myself as a professional and human being in the early 2000s. Good or bad, Baltimore, affectionately off-kilter "Balmer," has always been there.

Founded in 1729 by Cecil Calvert, Lord Baltimore of the Irish House of Lords, for three months from 1776 to 1777 it was the capital of the United States! Most Americans will recall that the Star Spangled Banner were written here by Francis Scott Key after witnessing the failed British attack on Ft. McHenry during the Battle of Baltimore in 1814. The city has seen a few facelifts since then, including the Great Fire of 1906 and some notable riots spanning 1861 during the Civil War to 1968 when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. Though we lived just south of the city on Ft. Meade at the time my mother would not let her children out of the house for a few days that week. In almost lock step with blood and blight, however, there always seems to have been one savior after another coming over the horizon to reinvent the city, repaint the landscape and, most especially, revitalize the Inner Harbor.

Before moving to Chicago Oprah Winfrey anchored the evening news on WJZ-TV but the city's art scene has always been way left of center. Fells Point has long been a neighborhood of activism going back to Frederick Douglass. Tallulah Bankhead held court at select watering holes in town while Jada Pinkett-Smith ("The Nutty Professor"), John Waters ("Hairspray") and Barry Levinson ("Diner" and "Rainman") hail from the city. Hollywood got in to the act once via "Hot L Baltimore," a sitcom around a flophouse hotel starring James Cromwell, Conchata Ferrell, Richard Masur and Charlotte Rae.

Former Mayor William Donald Shaeffer is revered still as the contemporary equivalent of Lord Baltimore himself over 20 years after his last year in office.

Among too many achievements to list here, he presided over the creation of Harbor Place, which included the innovative National Aquarium and the new Ballpark at Camden Yards for the woebegone yet beloved Orioles. Most notably for the people of the city, he and City Commissioner Robert Embry offered what I call "The Dollar Deal" where anybody could buy any abandoned row house in select parts of the city for one dollar. The stipulation was to personally invest a minimum of $100,000 in renovations as a way to jumpstart the decayed inner city.

It reversed the population decline, beautified the city and gave a much needed boost to personal equity and city coffers in one fell swoop. Key note here: not a single city backed loan defaulted!

I am not from Baltimore but it is the closest thing to a family home that I have. Thanks to "The Wire" it doesn't always look its best and is indeed facing major challenges today but it is essentially the same city most people would recognize and that I remember from years ago. It is at once a little touchy in the underdog kind of way when mentioned in the same conversation as nearby Washington D.C. or Philadelphia; a little quirky in its love of Old Bay Seasoning on everything from its world famous blue crabs to ice cream and is justifiably proud of its place in American national and sports history - Pimlico hosts the Preakness the first Monday of every May, a part of the Triple Crown.

A lot of heavy industry is gone but the Bromo Tower, those famous marble steps and the people are still there, dancing to their own rhythm on the west side of the Chesapeake. Go for crabs, ballgames, fresh produce at one of six neighborhood markets or any of over 100 bars and pubs in Fells Point but don't expect to see too many beehive hair-dos!

Gotta go!

Greek in Phoenix

Ah, Phoenix in the Summertime. I told Boss Lady emphatically that I wasn't gunning for a trip to Phoenix for the sake of air miles. It was July - the locals don't want to be in town at that time of the year so why would I want to go there on purpose? Duty called, however, so off to the desert I went where I found to my surprise that the stated temperature of 108 wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. What turned out to be sadly worse than expected unfortunately was the meal I experienced in neighboring Tempe.

The collegiate among you will know that Tempe is the home of Arizona State University, the Sundevils where all along Mill Avenue, "The Strip" running north/south along the western edge of the campus are bookstores, incense and candle shops, clothing stores and restaurants from greasy spoons to major chains. Co-workers one evening suggested "My Big Fat Greek Restaurant" in the heart of the strip and I figured it would be an interesting evening, Mediterranean food in the middle of the desert.

Two of us arrived well before the third so it was conversation in the well appointed patio area where it was sufficiently cool not to require the ubiquitous misters. These nifty devices that Dallas needs more of spray cooling mist on the patrons to encourage al fresco dining or help in the transition from the swelter of outside to the air-conditioned comfort of hotels and restaurants. We were seated quickly and the waiter was on his game throughout the evening.

There was no Greek band or music playing which actually was quite fine with me. I enjoy "atmosphere" but like Louisiana zydeco, unless it is in my blood it gets old pretty fast.
I started with a bowl of "avgolemono," or Greek chicken soup which was crisp and flavorful while my companion needed to eat early and run (although she ended up staying) and ordered the gyros. Maybe I'm spoiled but I generally refuse to eat gyros in the United States as it consists of "pressed" meat combining lamb and either beef or chicken. In Europe the meat slowly revolving on the vertical spit roaster is clearly carved from something that had hooves and is far more flavorful despite being a tougher chew. Our third companion finally arrived who also ordered gyros while I went with the 20 ounce bone in lamb shank.

What a disappointment. What meat there was to be had was rich, flavorful and fork tender. The majority of the cut in front of me, however, was bone and fat. I enjoy bone-in steaks and am the kind of diner who will strip the bone completely before cutting and tucking in to the meat itself; that way I don't have to wrestle with it all through the meal. By the time I finished de-boning the lamb in front of me I was amazed at how much of it was inedible. Further and final disappointment came when asking the waiter if the 20 ounces was the entire dish or the net weight of the meat itself. It was the whole thing.

Well, it was good for my prodigious waistline at least, and I might dine there again but most definitely on something other than this "new" house specialty!

Gotta go.

A Texas Sized Wedding

Relatives and friends flew in from literally all over the world: Arizona, India, Singapore, Georgia, Maryland, Virginia, Nebraska, Iowa, Pennsylvania, South America, Canada and England as well as around Texas. Several of the officiates commented that not only was this the closest they had come in their lives to a royal wedding but that it also appeared to have been the most photographed nuptials they had ever seen. I tried to work with the official photographer at least in not firing off my flash at the same time as his so the subjects wouldn't appear washed out and shiny. Didn't always work but hey, the happy couple will have over 600 shots from me alone to choose from free of charge. He's a cousin so don't get any ideas I do this for a living or just anybody!

Yes, this wedding to me compared quite closely to a state dinner or an inaugural ball. Attorneys, orthopedic surgeons, insurance agents, pharmaceutical movers and shakers along with city planners and other usual suspects in an extremely well connected gathering of Dallas high society packed the church with close to three hundred guests. At the reception the group photo of just the groom and his friends from high school was the size of any well attended class reunion, each as successful as the other and remarkably still in touch one and all.

Simply put, Dallas, Texas knows how to throw a damned good party. The Ewings would have been pleased. Accommodations ranged from the Embassy Suites to the Adolphus Hotel. Venues included the Adolphus' Grand Ballroom, the Park Club and the W Hotel after hours. There was a Bridal Tea right out of England with summer florals, hats and heels preceded by a family "kick-off" at Cyclone Anaya's earlier in the week. The Summer weather cooperated in dry roasting everybody evenly at 100 degrees for one solid week with no rain to ruin day tours of the area, shopping runs, hair appointments, shuttles to the airport or afternoons in the pool for the little ones in tow or a part of the bridal party. The big news was the earthquake in Washington DC that week, of all places.

Then there was the food: fudge, curries, potato roti, cake, catered BBQ from Dickey's on one occasion, enough soda and beer to fill the pool outback and all this before three nights out on the town including the rehearsal dinner featuring tortilla crusted red snapper, salad and fajitas with all the fixin's followed by the reception itself featuring four "filling stations" with hand-tossed spinach or marinara pasta, more salads, breads and cheeses, carved roast beef and turkey or baked salmon over shrimp fried rice with an open bar at every event.

The Hebrews didn't eat as much after 40 years in the desert. Oh, and this was only the groom's side of the family. Whatever the bride's family and friends plowed through outside of the organized events is not on official record! The dress was gorgeous and the bride flawless so nothing else mattered.

At the end of the reception Saturday evening I drove away thinking how happy I am to live in this city and how proud that the best of Dallas was on display for family and friends from all across the planet. We laughed, we ate, caught up or met for the first time, ate again, of course the men watched the British Open, talked trash over football or rough housed with the kids while the women rolled their eyes, cooked and we all ate some more.

After moving back to Dallas over two years ago friends and family saw and commented on how my outward demeanor had changed so much for the better in comparison to years before. It is true but this week wasn't about me or Dallas, Texas. I stayed respectfully in the background while my city served as the backdrop for the beginning of a beautiful new life together. I'm pretty sure they were the happiest people of all.

Congratulations, "KMR!"

Gotta go.

On Eating Organic

The die-hard "meat and potatoes" folks don't know much about wanting or trying to eat right but most other people will at least on occasion pick up an apple or a raw vegetable if for no other reason than they simply taste good. Then there is California where raw, organic and holistic are almost lyrics to the state theme song. After the Galleria arguably the next shrine to west coast living is Whole Foods Market where I decided to go one day for lunch while in Orange County on business.

I remember when "organic" produce was a small table filled with shrunken and shriveled goods still caked in farm dirt at nearly twice as much per pound as the shiny, glowing options on display all around the produce section. Whole Foods Market is a green grocer in virtually every sense of the word "green." Their prepared food section is legendary, offering everything from true vegan to London Broil and the finest locally grown produce around. Me being one who could easily lose a few pounds and trying not to spend every dollar of my per diem at the fast food drive through Whole Foods seemed a perfectly sensible choice to make. Let the shopping begin.

A small green salad with balsamic vinaigrette was an easy choice to begin though it was pure dee murder resisting all of the delectable hot entrees and soups on display, including several chicken dishes, vegetable medleys and rice casseroles. I do love fresh fruit, however, and went for some seedless grapes, a couple of oranges and two organic "Fuji" apples, my favorite type of apple, subtle in flavor and always crisp and crunchy. I wasn't trying to go for a power mix of antitoxins, minerals and vitamins, I just picked up what I like along with a single serve bottle of Odwalla Orange Juice to wash it all down with.

Anybody who has ever purchased that single serve bottle of fresh squeezed Valencia orange juice knows the price of it alone is about the same as any single sandwich at McDonald's. Some twenty dollars later I'm rushing back to the office to eat before my next meeting, cursing myself for the impulse purchases and all the while trying to justify the cost in saying at least the oranges, grapes and apples would last me more than just one meal. A third of that and I could have had some sort of combo meal at Mickey-Ds or Chick-Fil-A, maybe even super-sized.

All of the products were delicious and certainly did a body good but I must admit I didn't notice much difference in taste or texture between my organic apples and the ones laced with carcinogenic pesticides, fertilizers and growth hormones. If the taste is the same and I'm paying a premium merely for not introducing those chemicals in to my body then why not pay less instead of more? Eating healthy with commercially grown produce is costly enough over fast food so why are organic groceries even more expensive than that? Seems to me that if they really wanted to get people to eat better then they would sit between those two options, pricier than a hamburger but healthier and less expensive than "Frankenfood."

Natural, organic food, it seems, has come a long way up. Now if only the price would come down.

Gotta go.

Ribs at Rendezvous

The hardest part of any long road trip is finally settling in to the car, turning the engine over and putting the gear in to drive. In what would eventually become a 1,870 tour around the "Upland South" part of the country involving five states, I began my drive at about 2PM one afternoon, lighting out from Dallas to Memphis, Tennessee where I would stop for the evening. My destination was Carbondale, Illinois which despite at least a ten-hour planned drive according to Mapquest.Com was actually easier and more affordable to drive to than fly in to any one of about four airports close by that would reduce the drive to three hours or less, Memphis included. I had all the time in the world and no particular hurry to be there so Memphis, here I come.

Memphis is a town I've been through on numerous occasions, nearly all at high speed on my way to or from Texas or the East Coast. I've never spent much time there outside of one day-trip visit to Graceland. On this occasion it would be another overnighter as I was again on my way somewhere else, leaving many offerings and attractions still to be discovered for another time. This time, however, after six and a half hours on the road, I rolled in to town looking first for a place to grab some dinner and it was a no-brainer where I most wanted to go. My only concern was at eight-thirty in the evening whether or not the place would still take seatings or if they would be winding up for the night.

I needn't have worried. "Charles Vergos' Rendezvous," or "Rendezvous" for short, was doing a roaring business on a Thursday night. I'm not a GPS kinda guy so it took me a bit of driving around the central part of the city. I'd eaten there once before and figured where it would most likely be, not too far from Beale Street or the Peabody Hotel. I found the alley entryway and headed downstairs where the exceedingly bored looking hostess suggested I try the bar if I wanted a table at all anytime soon.

Sweet tea and a mixed plate consisting of half a slab and chopped chicken did the trick for me. It was during this meal that I finally allowed myself to declare that I'm not a fan of the famous "dry-rub" style of ribs. Dry rubs need a very fatty meat to help them go down smoothly; the service was fast and the food piping hot but after two bones I reached for a bottle of the "mild" sauce to finish off the ribs and the sadly old tasting chicken. Almost thirty dollars later with tip I left quite full but not as satisfied as I would have hoped.

"Rendezvous" has a dedicated and loyal following so it is not just hype that keeps the place hopping. As one of the most famous restaurants in town its reputation is well earned. As one of the many tourist attractions at the same time I can easily say I've been there, done that and am ready to move on.

Gotta go.

HRPC and the Big Easy

It's always interesting - I'll say it that way, "interesting" to go out with co-workers for happy hour. One learns a great many things whilst unwinding from the job, especially in the age of "HRPC," Human Resources' Political Correctness. Crown Royal, Shiner Bock and Vodka-Cranberries do a lot to encourage the types of conversations that dare not speak their names before the last bell.

On this occasion about seven of us had gathered at some Gaelic watering hole featuring a performance stage with different bands each night. A remark went around the table that every bar should feature a fireman's pole for the adventurous, the brave and the foolish alike to "take a spin" to amuse the assembled masses. No professionals unless the professionals themselves happened to be off duty and were merely out on the town like any other patron of said establishment. Outside of that, the pole would be just an attraction to draw a crowd.

Of course the obvious desire was enthusiastically supported by many at the table, the thought being the chance to see all manner of inebriated femininity doing their worst to the hapless pole. "You guys are obvious and boring," I said, to which they challenged me to come up with something far more interesting to watch. I told my story:

There was a tradition at a previous employer that called for taking the employee who was leaving the company on a bender to New Orleans. The lucky soul who was moving on with his life happened to be me on this occasion as we saddled up and flew down to the Big Easy. Not even for a weekend but an all-nighter in the middle of the work week, landing that early evening with plans to catch the first thing back to Dallas in the morning. To this day I still don't know why we bothered to take rooms at the Royal Sonesta in the heart of the French Quarter.

This fine August evening New Orleans was in good form as we wandered the back ways and by ways between Bourbon Street and Jackson Square. A jazz band with the standard heavyset songstress-on-a-stool turned in a tight rendition of Tracy Chapman's "Give Me One Reason," while the Lady on the Swing scissor-kicked the early hours away like a metronome to the band across the street. We ate Cajun, of course, and washed it down with enough "Hurricanes" at Pat O'Briens to set off storm warnings in three of the Gulf states. All the beignets at Cafe du Monde did little to slow the gale of alcohol blowing through breath and body as we staggered back towards the hotel to find something in the way of rest before our early and extremely red-eyed flight back to Dallas.

Kevin, one of the guys in the group, happened to spot a cabaret on Bourbon Street still doing very late business and insisted we all go inside to see and assess the talent. Turns out we were the fresh meat as the scantily clad vultures swarmed the new table; there wasn't much else going on at the time as they offered us the usual menu of delights while the featured dancer took the stage to set the mood.

"You're not doing it right," whsp-hiccup-burp-shouted Kevin who proceeded most unabashedly to take the stage from the veteran vixen who was more annoyed than surprised. Her treatment of the fireman's pole wasn't up to Kevin's expectations who went on a tear and schooled the entire staff on what really needs to happen to take the shine off of your standard issue 3" fire pole. When his tips started to exceed those of the staff the duty manager bowed to convention and his whining wombats, inviting us to leave the establishment which between fits of laughter we were all more than happy to do.

Exactly one hour of alcohol-induced REM sleep at the hotel and we were off to the airport for our 6:30AM departure for home. Thanks for all the hard work, they said to me, and best of luck in the future.

Only now, eighteen years later, smiling sideways at each other and scratching at the sky with "air quotes," none of my present day and presently boozed-up co-workers believe that my friend "Kevin" really existed.

Gotta go.

A Dog and His Chicken

As travels take one around the country there is the inevitable encounter with a previously unheard of chain of fast food restaurants that intrigue, entice and excite. Aw, c'mon, you say to yourself, it's fast foot for crying out loud. What's to get excited about? Ask anyone from California who hasn't had an In-N-Out burger in a while and stand back for the reaction is all I can tell you. Now imagine my own delight when a co-worker and I stumbled across a place called "Raising Cane's" while on business in Louisiana.

Founded in the mid-90s by a college guy out of LSU in Baton Rouge who named it for his beloved pet dog, it has since grown to numerous locations over 13 states from Nevada to Virginia, strategically near college campuses where customers the founder understands are plentiful with budgets he also is very familiar with. The concept is chicken fingers, pure and simple and nothing else. Chicken fingers, fries and drinks. In-N-Out would be so proud.
We decide to dine in and enter the bright and cheerful dining area with a smallish serving counter to the left; just two register stations but a manageable line of only three or four patrons in line while most of the business was happening at the drive thru. The menu is fairly straight forward...how many do you want, from two for a kid's meal to 100 for a tailgate party, and what do you want with it which, in its simplicity is astoundingly astute in helping customers avoid that amazingly annoying question of "Let's see...jeez, I haven't even looked to see what I want!"

I went with the standard "Box" lunch, four fingers, slaw, a dipping sauce reminiscent of Thousand Island dressing and a humongous slice of warm, buttered Texas toast along with a regular sized drink. Orders are taken and a numbered receipt returned to you after which you pour your own drink and choose a table in the dining area. If they don't have time to bring your meal to you they'll call out your name over the public address system within a few minutes.
I was surprised that there was any wait at all considering how easy chicken fingers are to prepare: there's no shortage of customers during the lunch rush and none of those customers come with complicated special orders since there are no toppings to choose from. I expect fresh and hot food at all times from restaurants but can easily see speeding up the process that much more with a well-trained crew that knows how many fingers to "cook up" ahead of the busiest two hours of the day.

When our order came it was indeed hot, fresh and plentiful. The fingers were hefty and clearly from whole breast strips instead of processed parts. The mildly seasoned flavor is not as compelling as KFC's Original Recipe, Chik-Fil-A or even McDonald's Southern Style but I guess that was deliberate to allow the dipping sauce a free hand in the overall taste combination. The crinkle cut fries were right out of a 50's style diner, hot and crisp with plenty of ketchup for dipping.

Having driven all the way to Monroe, Louisiana before seeing my first Raising Cane's I have since happily discovered that there are four outlets in Dallas/Ft. Worth for me to choose from. Of course, that's not saying much at the moment; for an area of 6.5 million people that's only two more than all of Monroe!

Gotta go!

The Best of Boudreaux's

It is amazing to me how driving through some random hamlet on the highway that one sometimes finds oneself right back in that same town later down the road of life. Monroe, Louisiana sits astride Interstate I-20 halfway between Shreveport and Vicksburg, Mississippi and about five hours from my home in Dallas, Texas. It's too big to blink and miss but only just. My father and I stopped for dinner at the Cracker Barrel in West Monroe on the drive from Maryland to Texas a little over two years before but on this occasion I was in town on business and wanted to try some local establishments.

Near the office on 18th Street and Tower is "Boudreaux's" which my co-worker and I noticed heading in that morning and had received rave reviews from locals and other out-of-town co-workers alike. Despite the strong recommendations our first disappointment was in simply trying to go there for lunch on a Tuesday. They were closed the first three days of the week, we discovered so made plans to try again Thursday night for dinner which was our last scheduled evening in town. Nice way to wrap up an enjoyable trip to this previously unexplored part of Louisiana.

It took a few ticks to notice the signing inviting us to seat ourselves as the pay-at-the-door cashier was working a healthy line of sated diners on the way out. Where some might consider Dallas laid back compared to cities up North, I began to wonder how laid back things were in Northern Louisiana. It took a bit longer than I was used to, including two stops at the table by the now free cashier, to finally have our waitress for the evening make her first appearance for drink orders. Sweet tea, of course, but hmmmm. We perused the two-sided laminated menu for their offerings but both pretty much knew what we wanted and merely skimmed the choices to make sure ours would be on the list.

Despite offering fried alligator as an appetizer my co-worker and I went with two orders of the "Cajun Sampler" which offered a plate of three choices and bread. I was on the watch by now to see if there was any delay in receiving our order but it appeared quickly enough at the table, plate hot and heavily ladled. Red beans and rice, dirty rice and jambalaya, plate hot and generously portioned and there all the good pretty much came to an end.

The red beans, including andouille sausage, had almost no flavor to speak of while it was harder to tell if the dirty rice or the jambalaya was the most dry. The latter specifically looked more like it was from yesterday's batch instead of simply having been under the warmer too long. Of the three selections on my co-worker's plate the crawfish etouffee was the most disappointing which was the death knell for "Boudreaux's" as far as a return visit was concerned: that was the dish she had been most anxious to try.

Another long line to cash out awaited me while the co-worker went outside for a smoke after dinner. We both agreed, sadly, that "Boudreaux's," if they weren't serving lefteauxvers were at least eauxver-rated.

Gotta go.

Bodacious Bodacious BBQ

If you're going to eat barbecue in Louisiana is it naive to wonder if at least a few selections on the menu might be swimming in a cayenne infused blend of traditional sauce? Is that a combination that either hasn't been considered yet or has been tried and failed miserably, never to be revisited again. My co-worker and I didn't know what to expect when we first walked in to "Bodacious BBQ" in Monroe, Louisiana other than the fact that it was a hole in the wall BBQ joint, the best kind bar none, and it came highly recommended by colleagues in the city.

The greasy auto-mechanic behind us in line quickly sniffed out that we weren't from around Monroe but was enthusiastically cheerful in telling us that Bodacious made the best fried catfish up and down Louisville Avenue, the main east-west drag in Monroe. "Better than Catfish Cabin," I asked incredulously, one of many places I'd spotted while searching for someplace interesting to eat but not stopping at. I'm not much on fried catfish but the mechanic was so cheerful that good conversation, at least, was a good thing. We allowed him ahead of us as he wanted the Five-Fillet special while my co-worker and I were still shopping the menu.

True to form I always look for a sampler plate of some kind, wanting to run an establishment through its paces across the three mains of any self-respecting barbecue house. The co-worker went with chicken and crawfish etouffee while I called myself eating light by going with the two-meat sampler instead of the three-! Orders were taken and cut at one end of a high counter, sides added in the middle and the whole heap rung up at the register to the left, assembly line style and very quick and efficient as well.

Beef brisket and pork ribs were my selection along with dirty rice and green beans. The brisket was fork tender, the ribs fell off the bone, the sauce was finger-licking good and, as if that weren't good enough, the dirty rice pert-near stole the show! Moist, tender, generously spackled with sausage, this was the kind of Louisiana soul food no surgeon general would ever recommend as a regular part of the diet; it was that good and the beans weren't far behind, tender, sweet onions and tasty bits of salt pork the way Grandma used to do, sho'!

We were lucky, having decided to eat relatively early in the lunch hour, beating the standing room only crowd by about 15 minutes and no more than that. There were hardly ten tables in the small dining area and there was an unspoken understanding among the patrons that said eat quick, bus and clean your own table and free it up for others. And there were plenty of others, all standing around, plate in hand and waiting their turn to enjoy the barbecue goodness.

Bodacious BBQ of Monroe, Louisiana is a husband-wife family owned business that works hard and takes obvious pride in its product. She runs the register and keeps things humming up front while the husband works the back, is most likely the pit master and certainly a skilled one at that. For eating "light" neither my co-worker or I ate anything else the rest of the day!

Gotta go!

Death to Breakfast

There was a time when the power lunch was as much a part of the daily business routine as morning rush hour. A "per diem" or daily allowance pretty much meant whatever the traveling salesman or busy executive wanted so long as they got the job done and brought home the whale. The scene from the film "Pleasantville" comes to mind where the idealized world of the Nelsons, Cleavers and Andersons all sat down together for breakfast, a meal that would take all day to prepare and the rest of the night to sleep off: pancakes, ham, sausage, bacon, eggs, toast, butter, jam, milk, orange juice and coffee, don't forget the syrup. More than a bit over-exaggerated perhaps but the message was the good life in a land of plenty. Every meal featured meat and potatoes instead of granola and green tea.

The last holdout of this by-gone era seems to be the breakfast buffet at the larger business hotels around the country where even some of them have either eliminated the costly practice all together or, in the case of the Embassy Suites, offer a continental buffet with eggs cooked to order. Their thinking in the one price for all option is people will belly up to endless helpings of self-serve food but maybe make only one trip to the chef in the interest of time and self-discipline.

What is harder to find is a company willing to foot the bill for compulsive over-eating or the rates some hotels charge for that excess which with tip can equal the total daily allowance in just one meal. I once worked for a major company based out of Chicago that limited all meal expenses to $25 per day. We were "forgiven" for going over that amount up to $50 per day if we happened to be traveling overseas. For me in Japan on one occasion that meant the 900-Yen pancakes at the hotel for breakfast and the rest for dinner while hoping that our hosts would pick up the tab for lunch. They did, along with their counterparts on a subsequent trip to Paris later that year. I would have starved otherwise.

Part of today's office gossip around the water cooler amusingly includes interpretations on the meal expense policy of various companies around the country. Not only is there a question on how much is spent but also whether or not there are specific limits to each meal, if lunch is included or if there is simply a flat amount the employee can spend each day to cover all dining no matter which meal or how many.

To be sure, lunch, dinner and holiday buffets can be found from the smallest to the largest towns in America. Indian and Chinese buffets are not known for American-style breakfasts but must surely build their business model around the lunch rush where they go begging for business after 3PM. The bottom line is that in this day and age of rush and on-the-go, few of us have time for more than a McMuffin or a power bar in the morning. The full breakfast is losing its grip on our psyche as well as our stomachs.

But not completely for there will always be room for bacon!

Gotta go.

Lucille's Wasn't A Guitar

Put California and food together in the same sentence these days and it's hard not to automatically envision sculpted or anemic people counting the grains of wheat germ, eating sprouts with chop sticks or spritzing a carrot stick with a light vinaigrette and chasing it with a no-salt daiquiri. "Real food" usually comes with cut limes and a pineapple garnish, clay-oven baked at the most but never - not even tempura - fried. The Redwoods and Sequoias are preserved not from logging but from the locals seeking a high fiber diet to go with their organic tofu.

But I digress. And I stand astoundingly corrected. In Orange County, California, center of the world for barely breathing haute couture - Laguna Hills Mall is not even a mile away - sits "Lucille's BBQ." Despite today's international reputation for "light," "fusion" and organic foods that barely register with the digestive system the history of California cooking comes straight from the comfort cuisine and survival sustenance. From south of the border come tacos, gorditos and burritos while north of Fresno, 49er country, comes grilled meats over an open fire and washed down with pure spring water moonshine!

Lucille's is of the latter ancestry, originating in the kitchen of one Lucille Buchanan who came up at her grandmother's knee in Greenville, California, learning and perfecting the recipes patrons enjoy at a dozen restaurants around the state. My traveling companion and I found the one in Lake Forest while on our way south to San Diego and few road stops were ever worth the time as much as this place.

Never mind the atmosphere, which was typical for a barbecue restaurant with hard woods, nostalgic touches and oldies music. This place knows the money is in the meat and they do not disappoint. Whenever I try a new barbecue joint I go for the sampler plate, wanting to see how things go across the beef, pork and poultry groups. The combo platter was nearly a steal, plain and simple, with a smooth sauce that simply defied belief or expectation while the meats were fork tender and bone clean.

The one thing shared between this restaurant and other establishments right down to the hole-in-the-wall set-ups is "mopping." I don't know if it is a unique West Coast style but where the argument back east is between dry rub and wet sauces, the sauce is typically ladled, poured, infused, steeped or squirted on to the meat from bottles. Californians literally use a clean mop handle to brush paint the sauce over the meat before serving. The longer they use the mop the more saturated it becomes with sauce and the easier and faster it is to serve up one delectable plate after the other.

At first I thought Lucille's referred to a certain famous blues guitar since I'm from back east where the blues and barbecue go together like nothing else unless you add beer. After this meal I can easily believe and recall the glory days of northern California's gold rush but still wonder at the success of the place in Orange County! It's there and it's real so go and see for yourself if you want solid food in or near sexy Santa Ana.

And if you don't believe me, just have some guac with that heaping helping of ginger root and rosemary infused olive oil.

Gotta go!

Everybody Eat the Dinosaur

"Where can I find the best wings in town," I asked the 20-something counter girl at the Rochester Airport rental car desk. I was completely geared up for tasting something close to the original even if that was still in Buffalo, some 75 miles to the west of where I happened to be standing.

My employer sent me on a serious whirlwind tour of the United States doing meet-and-greets and data gathering at our various offices and this particular whistle stop dropped me in the great Great Lake city of Rochester, New York. That was exciting in itself because my previous experience in "Upstate" New York ended at West Point. Aside from Kodak I knew little about Rochester but wasn't going to be in the area long enough to add on a trip to Buffalo. Still, I learned enough about the signature dish of Rochester before going to know that I wanted absolutely no part of a "Garbage Plate." I can barely fit in a coach seat as it is!

"Buffalo Wild Wings," came the gum-chewing response along with the keys to my rental. I shook my head in the sigh of the aged when faced with the ignorance of youth and drove off in to town. Now I do enjoy "The BWW" but this is Upstate New York for crying out loud! I was truly surprised that one would be there and still in operation instead of failing miserably and being run out of town, polished chicken bones and coleslaw fringed garbage plates being heaved in its wake. What to do for dinner? I was only in town for the one night before pressing on to the next stop of the tour and wanted a strong memory of a town I might seriously not see again soon.

"Try the Dinosaur," said the desk clerk at my hotel. BBQ? In Upstate New York? Come on, now, said my expression. This is a Texan yer a-talkin' to. "No, really," they implored. Well, if nothing else, I can at least say I toldja so when I got back from dinner.

Toldja so, nothing, I was absolutely flabbergasted from the moment I smelled the place a full block before I got to the restaurant. Ahh...a smoke pit, I thought. Good start so far. Situated along the river, the wood and brick building advertised authenticity, wood flooring, wagon wheel and all, but how was the food?

The Dinosaur would more than hold its own in Texas, that's the simplest way to put it. I enjoyed, almost couldn't finish, the Smoke Pit Combo Plate of ribs, brisket and sliced pork. The ribs were meaty, the brisket fork tender and the sliced pork equally out of this world, all drizzled with a sauce of perfection and washed down with sweet tea by the gallon. The service was fast, efficient and team oriented; any one passing my table either cleared plates or topped off beverages. The price was in line with my per diem and other bbq joints back home.

Two other restaurants operate in Syracuse, the original, and New York City near the Cotton Club in Harlem. I'm just still shaking my head at the irony of smoke pit barbecue THAT good being available that far up north. I hope they don't over reach or grow too fast: the other secret to good barbecue is that it's worth traveling for!

Gotta go!

Eatin' Argentinian

Typically it is always a good thing to give a marginal service at least a second chance to confirm a questionable first impression one way or the other. I say "marginal" because in that instance there was something definitely missing or not right the first time and I want to go back to find out if that is the norm or the exception. On this occasion the second chance was dining at the Gaucho Grille on Canoga Boulevard in Woodland Hills, north of Los Angeles in the San Fernando Valley.

My first experience was back in late August as part of a nationwide business trip I was on at the time. My manager was with me on this leg of the trip and, having dined there the night before, recommended the restaurant to me as a good dining experience from one steak connoisseur to another. Just a short walk across the street from my hotel and offering a dining experience unique from The Cheesecake Factory I ambled in to the low lit, wood paneled establishment to be met with a California-ized version of gaucho-styled waiters in black pants, white shirts and red scarves.

The selection of the evening was the "Bife de Chorizo" which to Argentines loosely translates to the equivalent of a New York strip as opposed to the more familiar Mexican sausage. On a trip to Argentina many moons ago I discovered that not every country cuts its beef in the same style as the United States. A "T-Bone" is virtually unknown south of the border, for instance. I further discovered the different translations in Spanish for the various cuts as well: "chorizo" is a strip steak while "lomo" is more of a tenderloin.

Served a la carte, the steak was just a tad tougher than I prefer but strip steak tends to be leaner and meatier in most cases anyway. The service was professional and discrete but also on the robotic side of things as well: "What would you like, how would you like it cooked, bon appétit." Not much in the way of cultural immersion, explaining the beef tradition of the country or the nuances of each cut but I didn't know what to expect either. All in all, a good but not great experience.

Round Two was earlier this week in mid-December as part of a return visit to the project site I was working in August. A different colleague was with me on this occasion and I hosted the evening meal at the Gaucho Grille to get his reaction as well as give the place a second chance in my own eyes. His choice was the chorizo/strip while I went with the "traditional Argentine cut," the skirt steak or "entrana" served with steamed spinach and fresh broccoli.

My friend ended up cutting about a quarter of his away, describing it as "gristle" which I had not experienced the first time while mine was cooked to order but not nearly as flavorful as the Mexican style I'd come to expect for skirt steak. Again no real "presentation" of the food or the culture but we were able to enjoy a live broadcast of Thursday Night Football during our meal.

Having eaten steaks in Buenos Aires I was disappointed with this representation and my friend's reaction confirmed this as probably the last time I will dine at this chain. Too bad Argentina is so far away but the steaks they enjoy there are alone just about worth the 10 hour flight to get there.

Gotta go!

Schmeckt Gut im Wisconsin

For the first time in my life I was ordered to the great state of Wisconsin in late August on business. I'd lived three years in Chicago and had only traveled to the Land of the Cheese twice, once for dinner and once for a weekend at Lake Geneva. That dinner trip was to a German restaurant in Kenosha that a co-worker's family ordered. The most memorable thing about that trip was that the restaurant was in the same neighborhood as the Jockey underwear factory.

This time around my business was in Milwaukee, home of countless brands and traditions of beer in addition to at least Laverne, Shirley and the Cunningham gang. I was expecting one smoke belching factory after another lining the shores of Lake Michigan wedged in between row upon row of two-story brownstones. What I found was a surprisingly charming city with an attractive downtown area, upscale clubs and restaurants along the canal and row upon row of pubs, clubs, bars and restaurants along Old World 3rd Street. One highly recommended eatery on that road was Mader's German Restaurant.

Traditional German food is not for the faint of heart or the heart healthy so I wasn't expecting so upscale an establishment. Still, the old world, hardwood decor lined with the to-be-expected selection of animal heads, exposed beams and beer steins welcomed me warmly to a country I have long considered a second home. Waitresses in traditional bosom boosting dirndls flitted about the place bearing plates of food and flagons of beer - the only thing missing was the German language itself. Equally and thankfully missing was the polka band, which to me is always out of place anywhere other than a beer hall.

I had had a hankering for Cordon Bleu for the longest time and my taste buds were unequivocally set on the dish of pan-seared veal or chicken breast stuffed with ham and Swiss cheese. Imagine my surprise, then, when this signature dish was nowhere to be found on the menu. The other staples were there, including a hearty goulash, several varieties of sausages and schnitzels, rouladen and roast chicken but no cordon bleu. Imagine my delight when, upon sensing my consternation, the waitress returned to my table after telling the chef of my dilemma and informed me of his decision to prepare my request off-menu and from scratch!

For all of the things Mader's didn't have they truly have it where it absolutely counts the most: ultimate dining flexibility. The food was hot and plentiful with strong presentation and every measure of taste and flavor that I expected. With German food I don't want mild, subtle or suggestive hints of old world goodness. It has to be full bodied, robust and hearty to the last morsel, taking me back thru decades of good memories from nearly every corner of the country.

I went back to Milwaukee three weeks ago on business again for only one night. There was only one choice for supper that evening and this time, half an hour before closing time, the Wiener Schnitzel was even better than the Cordon Bleu.

Gotta go.

The Broken Barrel

I was in the middle of yet another week long trip around the country and had considered myself to be winding things up in Tampa when the call came from boss-lady. I was "invited" to stay on in Florida for another six days and pay visits to our operations centers in Melbourne and Jacksonville. The company was picking up the tab, I'd never been to either place and it would be a chance to see both sides of Florida in the same trip.

Well, I apparently didn't miss much in the translation between eastern and western Florida and the drive between the two was decidedly one of the most un-scenic I'd ever experienced in a state world famous for exactly that - its beaches and scenery! I call the area of central Florida (outside of Disneyworld, of course) marshlands trying to be forest but not quite making it because the trees weren't really tall enough. Sort of like a bald-headed man who wasn't really bald but whose hair wasn't long or thick enough to qualify for any other description.

But I digress. I'm from Texas and we love good barbecue. Driving south along Babcock Road I noticed "Memaw's" Barbecue. I didn't stop but when I got to the office I enquired about the place with building security and was advised that it was merely "ok." Better was available according to the guard in his neck of the woods but that was 20 miles farther north. One of the administrators overheard our conversation and all but ordered me to dine at The Broken Barrel Tavern instead only a few miles to the south in Palm Bay.

Was it ever worth it! Melbourne isn't the biggest truck stop on the highway and if you stayed on either US-1 or I-95 on your way somewhere else you'd miss it entirely. It looks and feels as if it were built to serve a wide variety of purposes, from banquet hall to big-screen sports bar with tables and chairs thrown in beside a room for darts and several pool tables in the back. Center stage to all of this is a massive serving bar that boasts over 340 types of beer in bottles and on tap from 15 countries throughout Australia, Europe (seemingly more from Belgium than anywhere else), North America and Asia. Prices by the glass ranged from suburban swill to hops haute cuisine for anything from Singha to Schlitz and Samuel Adams to Sapporo, Becks and back. One that caught my eye was a concoction called "Youngs Double Chocolate Stout?!" I'm just glad I don't drink!

No one working seemed over the age of 25 or particularly concerned about their appearance but the service was quick and the recommendations right on target. Who'da thunk to actually smoke chicken wings but theirs is done in a dry rub typically reserved for Memphis-style ribs with equally scintillating effect. My waiter admitted to never eating a fried wing again once he'd tried the house specialty and I couldn't disagree. Choose from one of four unique barbecue or hot sauces served on the side to dip ("Cuz ya won't really need it!") and this non-descript hole in the wall beside the Goodwill Store truly serves up Solomon's gold.

Melbourne in November is a ghost town compared to the volumes it must receive in the high season. I even asked what anyone would visit Melbourne for that couldn't be found in Daytona, Palm Beach or Miami. It is the closest major town to Cape Canaveral but that didn't convince me since it is possible to day-trip there from Orlando. What none of the other towns have, though, is the Broken Barrel: smoked wings (plus 340 types of beer) that should NOT be the best kept secret in town!

Gotta go!