Long as I have my plastic cheeses

Riding on the dashboard of my car.

And remember:
What a friend we have in cheeses.

Banh Mi in DC?

Can the classic Vietnamese sandwich be rescued from Northern Virginia?

Rescued?? Nice choice of word. Hey, ain’t we all in this together? Last time I looked out my NoVa window, we were not under water, or under threat of siege, or under anything but the big blue sky that umbrellas us all.

Lookie here for Mark Furstenburg’s new adventure. G Street Food. Gee. I mean GEE, been here so long that G Street is not the street I knew. No 3 story, warren of treasures that was G Street Remnant. My mind’s nose smells G Street and conjures discarded food. After hours street scents and scenes.

This is a new day, however, and DC is re-re-re-born. You go, Mr. Furstenburg. And go and go and go. 71 is the new 69. In my family that is 43. When we utter, “Oh, to be 81 again”, it means something.

Nevermind. Whatever. No bundle in my undies over this slight slight. Banh Mi is the It Wich, according to my Sandwich-O-Meter, and she is a fine choice. Bout time she left the safety of the suburbs, grabbed her trendy bag, and teetered the downtown sidewalks in spike-heeled boots. You go, Miss Banh Mi. Banh Mi Mi to you, Handsome!

Thanks a banh million to Mike of ComicsDC for the linkety link.

Seems both distant and near. Summer. The shortest day of the year is upon us, a mere three weeks to go, followed by MY SECOND FAVORITE DAY OF THE YEAR, December 22, when the days begin to stretch again.

Last summer, summer 2009, Heidi and Teddy and I went to Wisconsin. Heidi took Wisconsin 101 and so there was no avoiding ice cream, Bucky Badger, knitting and other of my personal touchstone Wisconsin esoterica. She suffered, poor thing, through the tour of my former apartments, the long gone tables upon which I waited, on and on and on, interminably I waxed nostalgic.

Lakeside Fibers, however, has not a thread to do with my past, although my past and present are looped together through knitting. All that I have been, I am still. A more perfect knit shop, you will not find, according to me. Yarn, buttons, books, advice, a view, and sandwiches!

Lakeside Fibers is the sister to The Washington Hotel, on Washington Island, where they grow their own wheat and hops, make their own bread and beer, and anything else they can get their sustainable hands on.

Good food prevails at both places. Word to the childless wise – do not tell the child that the “red things” in his quiche are red peppers. Just play dumb. Red things? What red things? We LOVE red things. Go big Red!When in Madison, you gotta getta Bucky Badger shirt. I am partial to F-k ‘em Bucky, but nobody else wanted that.

Now, this set of table and chairs takes me back. Coffee shops and cafes so rarely have these rickety sorts of things anymore. Got a coffee jitter flashback. Flashback to a time when I could and would drink ten cups of coffee in a sitting. Sitting and talking and feeling so smaaart and collegy. Shortlived, but vivid.

Was in the market for Go Big Dread, although I understand that has been unavailable since about 1979. When did I become so declassé and passé? Appalling to face the demise of my coolness factor.

Very remote and windswept, The Washington Hotel creaks at its seams with pride, and rightly so. I am in love with its restrained luxury. Luxury for a puritan. Just my speed. No, I have not slept in its beds, nor eaten its bread, or toasted my chilly bones on its sun-leaning lawn, but I can picture it. And we always have Lakeside Fibers, where the menu is identical and I ate a sandwich and warmed my bones in the luxury of colors, colors, colors in wool, cotton, alpaca, bamboo, rayon and silk.

Washington Island is a place to go slow. Knit one, chew a bit, purl one, look about, knit one, sip sip sip, purl one, tuck the greens back into the bread, knit one, stretch from tip to toe, and so on, slowly it goes.


Speaking of Washington Island, off the tip of Door County, in the waters of the devil’s door…speaking of it brings one’s mind round to cherries. Limestone, the stuff of which Door County is made, is conducive to growing sour cherry trees, should you be inclined to blast a few holes. “Live fast, die young” could be a Door County cherry tree’s motto. They do not live long there, but do they produce a heavy crop! They do.

The ruby, nearly translucently so, cherries are not sour to my taste. Delicious warm, off the tree, unwashed-who-cares. Transformed into pie, sour cherries restore my faith in humankind.

We did this too while on vacation. No rush. Lacing lattice is a zen experience on the holiday clock.

Pie is to share, doncha know. This person eating pie, Morsty, is proof in the flesh that when worlds collide, a feast results.

Local Restaurant World Tour: Vietnamese Cuisine

The Banh Mi has become ubiquitous in DC. Kojo whets your whistle for this Vietnamese sandwich.

Good day to be home baking 2000 cookies and lunching vicarously.

I ask you. In Nowheresville. Dullards Central. Slobbering through a sea of Subways and 7 Elevens. Thank you, JAF, my MSMINY, for the strong link to what counts. Counting, one sandwich at a time.

SAVING NEW ORLEANS CULTURE, ONE SANDWICH AT A TIME
By John T Edge the lucky devil

At the New Orleans Po-Boy Preservation Festival on Nov. 22, as brass bands play and celebrators hoist drinks, serious-minded panelists will tell tales of long-lost po’ boy shops. They will speak of the import of this city’s signature sandwich, piled with roast beef and gravy or corn-flour-breaded and fried shrimp, slathered with mayonnaise, paved with sliced pickles and slicedtomatoes, strewn with shredded lettuce, wrapped in butcher paper.

Wanna know whereta getta good one in NO? Look here.

He made it, I ate it, it was pitch black on the bottom. How could I take a pass on a two-inch round grilled cheese and pepperoni? The pepperoni, our all-purpose food, met its snug destiny so neatly.

You make a coupla eggs in a frame, you got a coupla spare bread holes. Actually, they are not holes, as donut holes are not. The egg in a frame by-product is a bread round. A bag of donut holes would be lighter than a slice of bread and leave no grease spots, Watson. I believe the so-called donut holes at Dunkin’ Donuts have never made contact with a donut. Those hole thingys are too round and too big to squeeze inside a chocolate glazed, for instance.

Indulging in a post that is more personal than is typical for me. After all, it is Thanksgiving. Time to get teary-eyed over the gorgeousness of my own life.

The mashed potatoes were riced, nice and glamoured thrice – butter, cream and salt.

We raced through the thankfulness for family and friends. While it goes without saying, if you don’t say it, it might go, via the bad luck of taking it for granted.

BUYER BEWARE

Look out ahead. As Chris Smither said, You get kids, you get maudlin.

BLACK FRIDAY ALERT

o. k. i am thankful.

for the exuberance of my child. for the peaceful passing, after lives joyfully lived, of my two sweet dogs. for my continued health and ability to do what needs to be done, far as i can tell. for a tiny taste of what might, maybe be human beings rounding the corner towards thinking about possibly, perhaps, preserving and restoring and protecting mother earth. believe you me, that is one mother who is entitled to be maudlin. for the gorgeousness of all life. for being older, wiser and alive in it.

do wish I had a bit of leftover turkey and a coupla slices of bread….

Subzilla! A big sandwich garners a big price tag. Sticker shock! SUBZILLA!!!! I was shockingly sticky from the manhandling of this mammoth wich. SUBZILLAD!

Party hero. You can say that again. A three-footer.How can you tell a boy photographer from a girl photographer? From the size of their rig. Boys just love a rig, don’t they? Can’t say I mind. We put this braided baby on the slicing rig for maximum precision, and I went at it with the unmanliest of all tools, the electric knife. No guy would touch that silly thing for fear his Mancard would be revoked. Jeez, you’d think I could spring for a new apron or two, stead of this ratty thing. Easy does it. As my favorite dyslexic says, “Viola!” Ta dahhhh!
You need only look presentable from one angle, dear.
It looks like a person just slaps this together, but that’s not how it goes. Lots of looking, squinting, balancing. “Is it loopy enough on the right? Is it too dense on the left?”
All photos by Claudia Barac-Roth It turned out well. Not too painful a construction. Doesn’t hurt to have a client whose mantra is, “Perfect is the enemy of good.”We couldn’t bear to throw it out. For all I know, that bear of a wich is slowly decomposing in Baltimore.

Have heard it said that foodstyling is a bit like embalming a body. You only gotta see it from one side, and you gotta keep it looking alive. Moisture is key. “Shout all you want it doesn’t matter. Don’t you know that I am mostly water? Seventy percent, don’t worry about the rest.” Nope, not to worry.

Signing off now from Studio Goodenough.

Googie-of-the-Month Club

Chip’s Diner 1955 by architect Harry Harrison | 11908 Hawthorne Boulevard | Los Angeles

Googie Style

Man Says Bear Mugged Him for His Italian Sandwich

Woman Says Seagull Committed Assault and Battery on Her Humphreys Beach Picnic Sandwich

That would be me. Us rather. And our king’s ransom worth of holy-moly-that-took-a-bite-out-of-my-wallet beach resort sandwiches. Turned away to bask in the beauty of my son at beach dusk, turned back to squawk squawk squawk at the birds going at it! Ripping, tearing, swiping, swooping. Gone daddy gone, the love is gone. Gone daddy gone, our dinner’s gone. The birds took it away! Damn expensive sandwiches too. Island prices. Nothing is ordinary there, even the seagulls are exceptionally cunning and gutsy.

Lately it feels like work, work, work and die around here. Focused on getting through it and not letting my son slip through the cracks while I’m at it. Got to make hay while the sun shines and, hey! he is my sunshine while I am making hay. Thankfully, as the sun is shining its favor on another hemisphere this time of year.

So, enough about that, let’s get back to the light of my life, my son. Ha! Speaking of bears, let me tell you yet another besotted mother story. Sitting at dinner. Teddy is about three. “Mom, how bout we get a baby brother around here! How bout a baby sister! How bout………………………………bears!?!” Bears? Now we’re talking.

J Lemon’s Rabbits Against Magic here, no here, no over here. Now you see it, now you don’t. Here! Pouf! Now conjuring Leo Baxendale. Nothing up my sleeve, atall. Mr. Baxendale is rightere, on yer screen. Our toast-r-oven does not conjure, or perform tricks, although it does sing. Frightening, the pitch that it hits. Not on cue, not on command, not on a dime, not on time, apropos of nothing, it sings. Or chants perhaps. One long, hiiiigh eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, till I give the cord a yank. That’s whatcha get, buying a toast-r-us offa eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeebay.

A pepperoni roll is a kissing cousin to the sandwich, it’s tucked-in, tidy, tote-friendly sibling.
Fast Food Even Before Fast Food

(Along-for-the-Ride Heidi, if you are reading, do you remember that we made a stab at pepperoni rolls while driving back from Champaign? Our timing was off. Next time. Next time. Next time.)

So I went to Cinncinnati and I walked around the block,
And I walked right into a doughnut shop,
And I handed the woman a five cent piece.
Said I to the woman, “One doughnut please.”

Well, she looked at the nickel and she looked at me,
And she said, “This nickel’s no good to me.
There’s a hole in the middle and it’s all the way through.”
Said I, “There’s a hole in the doughnut too.”

“Thanks for the doughnut. Good bye!”

The Nickel Diner is in downtown LA and it was the first stop off our flight. Supremely gracious Jennifer charted our weekend on a breathtaking tour of LA and Palm Springs. Where does one go from meringue-towered wig heads, you might ask. On to Cole’s, Osteria Mozza , and Clifton’s Cafeteria. For the amuse gueule only, mind you, cause there was more, MORE, MORE. 

I came face to face with a painful truth at the Nickel Diner, finding a hole in my middle that is all the way through. Ouch, that smarts. Such a delicate balance between our inner and our outer lives, sometimes tipping – whoaaaa, whooooaaaaa, whhhhooooaaaa – to the interior, and sometimes – thud, bam, whomp – bustin’ hard against our exterior shell, the safer surface, impenetrable. Sometimes the key to the balance is distance, and artificial distance is fine. Turn the binoculars inside-out on yourself and, aaaaah, you are tiny and insignificant. What do you feel? Nothing. All the long CA weekend, my sandwich monitor was at a constant peak, with no chance for a dip, other than a French Dip at Cole’s. More about that later. For now, for this post, we are smacking our mental lips at the Nickel Plate’s Patty Melt and the BLT with Avocado It was not, thankfully, called a BLAT. Now what in the name of  tropical veggie-fruit was that thing called? Take a look for yourself up above, the lovely Jenn is glowing over it. And then we must check the clever menu. Our accommodating waiter could strike a pose – boy, could he! – with the homemade (were it someone’s home) doughnuts, ironically-yours poptarts, and fantastical cakes, this one with chocolate, salted peanuts, potato chips, icing, and….shoelaces, silver dragées, caper berries and fairy dust.

That cake-a-roonie had staying power, in my mind, on my lips, and in the box. The last 4 lbs we could not eat were boxed for us. Staggering around Jenn’s schwanky, thank you Mr. Alexander – Palm Springs kitchen two, or was it three, nights later, rustling about the frigerator, found that box, a cute white cardboard cake box, with a hunka hunka chocolate-peanut-potato-chip-911SNACK cake inside. Polished off all but one big bite and then spent several minutes pondering whether or not to toss the last big bit into the trash. I did not. Seemed bad karma. Bad karma in my quest for an Alexander house.

I want one. I want one. I want one. I want one.

It can be small. Small enough to fit in my Christmas stocking. Thank you.

Hot Dog: A Global History

London: Reaktion Books Ltd. 2009 (Hardcover)

Hot Dog Hootenanny with Bruce Kraig

When Bruce Kraig, a Chicago culinary historian and recognized authority on the history of hot dogs, e-mailed to say he was going to be in Washington, D.C. to participate in a Library of Congress symposium on baseball and its essential elements, he suggested we find an outstanding hot dog venue for lunch. My immediate response was that in D.C. the ultimate sausage experience is a half smoke, not a hot dog.

Photo by Bruce Kraig

So on Friday, October 2, we headed for Ben’s Chili Bowl in the U Street/Cardozo area where we were joined by Janet Riley, president of the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council and self-described “Queen of Wien,” as well as another of Bruce’s local friends, Joan Nathan, who brought along a visiting friend, Betsy Apple. Betsy, who shared her late husband’s food adventures for years, reported that his last book, Food Stuff, a collection of his essays from the New York Times, has just been published.

Photo by Bruce Kraig

Ben’s was crowded, as always, with a line of people waiting to order, so we were seated in one of the back rooms where it was the famed chili half smokes all around, accompanied by potato chips and a lot of paper napkins, and a chocolate malt, a “sweet [iced] tea,” a Coke, plus other beverages. With 2-hour parking meters demanding attention, we all left reluctantly but well-satisfied with the food and the lively conversation.

Shirley Cherkasky

My mother was kind enough to invite me to join them for lunch. Alas, I was at work that day. Will need to get a smoke in soon enough on my own.

We have been living in Zombieland. Take a 3 day flu, add 20+ hours of Wii. Whaddya got?

A zombieboy.

As opposed to a Zombie Hot Dog

Alacritous Chicago correspondent Bottle Rocket(s) fan Linda got her Halloween copy in way before deadline. Waylaid on the editor’s desk, it was, and now made undead on time for  El Dia de los Muertes.

Time Out Chicago
Hot Doug’s and Lula channel Zombieland

Lula Cafe has earned a cult following for its brunch, but even more so for its Halloween transformations. Each year for the holiday, the restaurant gets in costume by dressing up as an entirely different restaurants—one year it became Olive Garden, complete with all-you-can-eat breadsticks and servers in loud ties; another year Houlihan’s took over, bringing its tacky fake ferns and stained glass table lamps with it. We just learned that this year the Lula crew will team up with Hot Doug’s to turn Lula into “Zombie Doug’s,” with an undead Doug Sohn manning the counter in his usual order-taking mode and zombie servers delivering signature haute dogs rechristened with classic zombie names—basically Doug’s sausages and dogs topped with Lula’s product for gourmet Doug’s-style dogs. Given the typical popularity of Lula’s Halloween night festivities, we expect the line to look eerily similar to that at Hot Doug’s, so at least they’ll win points for realism.

As opposed to a zombie dog.

Yes, I know this is out of focus, even without my glasses, even while wearing a pirate’s eye patch. It is not me. It is the snapshot. Blurrrrry.

Went to hear David Sax talk about his new book, Saving the Deli, at Sixth and I the other night. Ezra Klein interviewed him, and both men had precisely-chiseled personalities. Types. Types I could wrap my intellect around with ease, leaving the conduit between ear and brain free to absorb their words and expressions.

* fress  [fres]
–verb (used without object) Slang.
to eat or snack, esp. often or in large quantities.
Origin: Yiddish fresn or G fressen (of animals) to eat, eat ravenously

There is no saving the deli. There is keeping those that persist. And then there is boutique deli. Or artisanal deli. Call it what you will, we are in the era of either/or. Authentic is, well, um, ugh, overused, sadly. A sad comment on where we are as people, that we have to work so hard for authenticity. There is no saving the deli, less you want to look at it behind bars. Start again. Here’s one, for instance. Take it to its essence and begin again.

When I cooked at the Tabard Inn the mid-eighties I had a reputation among the cooks for being able to make lunch specials out of seemingly incompatible odds and ends. As we cleaned out our reach-ins first thing in the day, drinking coffee, blasting music, shouting “I’ve got a some coulis-this and eggplant-jam-that”, the lunch specials codified in our fertile cook’s minds. “I’ll take it!!”, said I, not to anything, but to lots of things, and they all came together in a lunch collage that made perfect, edibly-understood LUNCH.

Dr. Evermor makes sense to me, other than what looks like a missing e. My mind is dogged by the lack of that e. Good for me perhaps, so says Oprah, to be outside of my comfort zone. Little does she know though, that I have never found a comfort zone. That  in itself, must be one. For Dr. Evermor too, one might surmise.

The lunch special last August at the good doctor’s was made of seemingly incompatible odds and ends. Trash, refuse, leftover, orts, till they are brought together. Imagination’s fairy/troll sanitation worker works magic on the stuff, and it is new. Newer than new.

We had been out to Dr. Evermor’s before, but we wanted to go back. Fresh blood was along, and we knew we would see it with fresh eyes. 

The sanctuary is outside Madison, WI. Not a very long drive. A quiet 4-lane. Seems to me that Wisconsin traffic has not kept pace with the east coast. They are not, I repeat NOT, doing their duty in producing greenhouse gases. Sheesh. What shirkers. 

Eating in Madison, A to Z

We walked and smelled the rust and the sun and the clover-grass. Minerals standing on vegetables in the form of animals. Marvelous to marvel over, on and in. Smaller than a bread box and bigger. Very largely hugely manificently bigger.

Our fresh appetites took us by the nose to the Union Terrace for brats and lemonade, a mythic obsession.

The boy may have been born Korean and raised by a mother who is half (the wrong half) Jewish, but he speaks the universal language of brats. All communication is conveyed with a wide-open mouth and a mustard grin.

And the reveal…

Canned Sardinewich

And when she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid. Was every kinda mad today about every little thing. And then we went to get pumpkins. So I was bad, very, very bad, and then we went to get pumpkins. Good then, very, very good.

The little things, well, the little things are microcosms of the big things. Don’t sweat the small stuff, sez they. Okay, I can work with that. The catch is – and it’s a catch big enough to fill the hold of a seafarer – the small stuff is often a microcosm of the big stuff. And that, I can’t work with, around or after. I get mad. Horrid.

And when I am good, I am very, very good. Do so love vague cooking instructions. They are, after all, after all the small stuff and all the big stuff, much more precise than precise cooking instructions. Vague cooking instructions such as “At the right cooking point it must be removed from the heat” are quintessentially precise. Smell, listen, let your sense of time tick away methodically, you will know, or you will be checking often to be sure that you know, when the “right cooking point” has arrived. Precisely. I can work with that.

Today was the day to get pumpkins. We knew. And too early for carving. Sprayed down those blue, white, orange, knobby, smooth, and lumpy beasts with hair spray to keep the squirrels from munch, munching, munching them to rot. Squirrels are on the raw food diet and perfect timing is their MO. The thing drops, THUD, a squirrel appears on cue, stage left, chippety, chippety, chippety, munched to mulch and chips. We have seen our jack-o-lanterns disappear from the inside out, squirrels doing the incisored microwave. Wave. Wave bye bye bye.

All by way of saying, everything must be stirred from time to time, and everything must be removed from the heat at the right cooking point. When it’s getting stuck to the bottom, stir it up! When it’s about to boil over, stir it up! When all the good stuff has settled, stir it up! I can work with that. watchit. Watch it. Watch it! WATCH IT! WHATCHIT!! Remove from heat, please. Done. I can work with that.

“I don’t see what’s so odd about spaghetti sandwiches,” says Hachihiro, the older of the Yonekura brothers. “Japanese like them,” he says, eyeing a pile of left-over spaghetti sandwiches from the lunch rush. “Well, at least, some Japanese like them.”

I had a sustaining lunch from Z Burger, giving me the spark to build this ginger thingamajig. Quite proud of the result, part of a series of eleven. More to come, when I am feeling boastful.

Z Burger is not too shabby.

Among the plethora of reasons that my job is not too shabby is the quality of lunch. Always high.

Googie-of-the-Month-Club

Algemac’s Coffee Shop + Dining Room |  Googie Style  |  3673 San Fernando Road  |  City of Glendale  |  California
Googie Style