Ernest's Orleans Restaurant

So my trip through the confederacy is over.  It was a long drive through dixie with none but Charles Dickens and Rudyard Kipling as company.  I'll try over the next few days to relate some other adventures along the way, but here is the first.

On the second day the road took me through Shreveport, LA.  Having never been to Louisiana I was eager to try some bayou food.  I exited Interstate 20 in what I figured was downtown Shreveport and my search began.  I stopped at a gas station and asked the attendant where a good restaurant was, she told me to go to a nearby casino and look around at the "Louisiana Boardwalk."  I found the board walk, which is anchored by a "Bass Pro Shops."  The food there looked like typical corporate, touristy garbage, so I took off again.  My GPS pointed me to "Ernest's Orleans Restaurant

."  I was getting hungry and I had already driven around Shreveport too much so I followed its prompts.

From the outside Earnest's looked like exactly what I wanted.  A steel building with limited parking in a dirt lot.  It looked a little run down from the outside, so I figured out that I had found a perfect local place.  After parking I noticed a white 1980s or early 90s, but well kept Cadillac limousine sitting under an awning in front of the entrance.  I was wearing my road clothes and was in need of a shave.

When I opened the door and stepped in I immediately felt like I'd come to the wrong place.  I stood in a dark hallway with gold and white wall paper, and gold and white linoleum tile.  Awards and newspaper articles adorned the walls these contributed to the baroque, gawdy tackiness that was just understated enough to be serious.  A maitre' d greeted me from a little table at the end of the hallway.  I told him that I felt underdressed and that I was just looking for some good cajun food.  He assured me that I was dressed just fine, and that they had the best cajun food in all of Shreveport.  (I realize that Shreveport is not the best place for Cajun food, but it is much better than my hometown.)  I apprehensively asked to see a menu.  The food was expensive, but I was hungry and in a hurry.   I asked for a table.

The Maitre' d, who wore a black suit with a vest but no tie, showed me to a table in the bar and begged my patience as the place wasn't quite opened.  I was the only customer there, but several staff were lounging at the bar.  As I took my seat and looked around I felt like an extra in a Wes Anderson movie.  Everything was top of the line twenty years ago.  It didn't feel like a theme bar, those places are always over the top.  It felt like they hired the most tasteful of decorators and spared no expense a long time ago, and then did nothing to update the look. One wall was adorned with mirror tiles speckled with harvest gold, just like the ones in my parent's dining room until I was in high school.  I do not mention a specific time period because the motif did not belong to a certain era.  It really did look like something out of The Royal Tenenbaums.  

When I sat down several waiters jumped up and finished putting on there uniforms, which were similar to that of the Maitre' d.  My waiter handed me a menu and served me a Dr. Pepper.   I really felt that I had missed out on the experience by not getting a cocktail, but I had a few more miles to go that day, and wanted no sleepiness.  I ordered the seafood gumbo.  While I waited for my food. the other waiters prepared the room for the evening.  I think that I might have had gumbo only one other time in my life so I really have no way of telling good gumbo from bad.

The gumbo was not all that good.  It was served in a huge bowl.  The shrimp and the crab was a little overcooked and I had to put a lot of tabasco in it to make it more tasty.  The sausage seemed a little mushy, and the rice was overcooked.  In Ernest's defense I was the very first customer of the day and was probably served Gumbo from the previous night.  The entree' came with a delicious garlic bread which I only ate a portion of.  Eventually I took up a conversation with some of the waiters, who were surprised that I wasn't Cajun.

While the main entree was a little lacking, the rest of the food was delicious, and the atmosphere was truly unique.  The service was superb and I really felt like they went out of there way to give me a very pleasurable experience in Shreveport.  If you are ever there I would highly recommend Ernest's.  Tell them that you're from out of town.

Wine Review: Poggio Vignoso 2007 Chianti

Friday night I was the recipient of some bad news regarding my weekend, so, in order to cheer myself up, I went to a wine tasting near my home. There was a distributor there from "Small Vineyards," who was showing some of their Italian wines. Number two on the list was Poggio Vignoso 2007 Chianti. I can't remember the tasters notes for the wine but I don't pay much attention to them anyway.
For me the first thing I notice about a wine is the price. I think most Americans pay way to much for table wines and am loath to pay more than $10.00 for something that is just going to complement a meal. There are exceptions, but for the most part I try to keep my wine purchases under $10.00.
Now that that's established I try to stay away from wines that have a perceivable tannic effect. When I drink a wine I don't want any burn associated with a sip. Usually this comes in the after taste, most (cheaper) wines have it and wine drinkers know what I am talking about. I think the effect is a result in the tannic acids present in grapes, good wines are able to mask the burning sensation associated with it.
This Chianti did well and only a slight hint of burn was noticed. It was a robust wine, but not one that would overpower more subtle foods. Fruity tastes were present, but not overpowering. The wine was by no means sweet, but it wasn't bitter either. I appreciated the oak aging as the wine was not overpowered by wood, but did not have a generic steel taste either.
Overall this is a nice wine that will compliment a wide range of dishes, but will not steal the show. I purchased a bottle for $8.79. Then took it home and prepared Macaroni and Four Cheeses, along with some sausage that I simmered in a splash of the wine. The wine did not hide any of the four cheeses, and it brought out the flavors in the sausage rather than diminish it. Consequently, I would be somewhat confident pairing this with something even more delicate like trout or salmon. (I don't care for white wines). I like this wine for everything from a casual dinner party, to a hum drum Friday night.

Trout Fishing on the Guadalupe River

I spent this Christmas in Austin, Texas with my wife's family. I was excited to be there in the winter time because there is a tail water trout fishery about an hour and a half south of where I was that supposedly fishes very well in the winter months.

There is a dam on the Guadalupe river that forms Canyon lake. The water that comes out below the dam is cold enough for trout despite being at 30 degrees latitude. Texas parks and wildlife keeps the area for fly fishing only, and in the best area the rules are for catch and release with one exception over eighteen inches. Perfect conditions for a peaceful day on the river. I borrowed a vehicle and drove down on the Sunday after Christmas to entertain the southern trout.

My first stop was at Action Angler. A wonderful little fly shop owned and operated by Chris Jackson. Chris would please Izaak Walton himself. He welcomed me as a visitor and told me that the inspiration for his shop came from a little shop at Lee's Ferry. He sold me a few local flies and I paid $5.00 for access to the river from his private land. We chatted a little more and then it was time for me to get on the water.

I set up my 7'9" 3wt rod (which was probably too small for the river, but it travels well). And walked up from the bridge where Chris's trail hit the river. Texas is full of limestone and the river bed was no exception. At first glance the Guadalupe seemed to shallow and tame for trout, but there are several grooves and channels cut into the soft rock that make excellent places for fish to hide. I cast into and around these groves with a copper beadhead trailing under an elk hair caddis with a gray hackle.

I like to move quite a bit as I fish but I quickly found that the only way to move up and down the river was by walking in it. This was difficult as I had no waders or wading boots. Off came my shoes and I rolled up my jeans. The water was painfully cold, but not unbearable. The outside temperature was around 55 and I think the water was at about 45. The limestone river bed was covered with ridges, and these hurt my feet as I walked over them. I was able to move up the river for a painfully slow quarter mile or so, fishing the channels as I moved.

In the channels and grooves I got a number of non-committal strikes on the beadhead. Most of these strikes came in unlikely places where the water was still and where no one would suspect a fish to be. I came to a place where the water got more swift and trickled over some rocks. This a more likely trout habitat I fished here for about an hour, but only got a few soft strikes. I talked to another fisherman who had a very pretty cast while at the rapids. He had had a similar time, but had seen a good sized fish up the river a ways. I fished a little more, then walked back to where I had left my shoes and broke down my rod.

There is nothing like time on a river to quiet one's heart and so I spent another half hour there praying. The canyon where I fished was most beautiful and it was very nice to get a mid-winter fishing trip in. I think better of Texas after my trip and look forward to another winter trip to Austin for some time on the peaceful Guadalupe river.

Salsa

Every Christmas my family celebrates on Christmas Eve with a Mexican feast. It was for this feast that I began making salsa several years ago. It took me a few years to perfect this recipe. Some friends have requested it, so here it is.

Dave's Salsa
2 (14.5oz) cans of whole or diced tomatoes.
1/2 bunch cilantro
2 cloves garlic
1/2 to 1 whole onion (to taste)
a few green onions
2 Jalapeños (taste these before putting them in to gauge their spiciness. You don't have to use Jalepenos, my favorite peppers are the ones from my neighbor's garden).
Salt
Pepper

Put the tomatoes into a blender. Chop all fresh ingredients and place in the blender. Add salt and pepper to taste. Puree using the blender until all ingredients are very finely chopped. Check the taste and add more ingredients as needed. Remember that the salsa will taste a little more spicy at first than it will after sitting for a few hours. Pour in a container with a lid and refrigerate for a few hours before serving. As time goes on the flavors will blend together and the salsa will taste better and better. When refrigerated and sealed the salsa will keep for over a month, but it will separate so shake well before serving.

Home made salsa is a sure bet to impress your guests, and it is so easy to make. I hope that you won't feel the need to buy generic canned salsa ever again after trying and perfecting your own salsa. Enjoy.

Chimichurri

A few weeks ago we went to a bring-your-own-meat barbecue at a very nice house with a spectacular outdoor kitchen and backyard.  I love bring-your-own-meat because everyone brings something different.  I always try to "crank it up a notch," thanks Emeril, at these things, so that everyone is jealous of my food.  For this Barbecue I made Chimichurri skirt steak.  Chimichurri is a latin meat sauce that I learned about in Steve Raichlen's book, How to Grill.  The following recipe is featured in the back yards of Argentina.  It came from Raichlen's book but I've modified it a bit.  Again, I can't recommend the book enough.  It's perfect for people like me, who are more interested in technique than recipes.

Chimichurri Sauce

1 bunch (the packet you get at the grocery store) Flat leaf parsley.

1 bunch cilantro

1 small plastic box mint leaves.

3 clove garlic or more depending on taste and how strong the garlic is.

Salt (to taste)

Pepper (to taste)

Red pepper flakes (the kind you put on Pizza)

A dash of Cayenne Pepper gives it a nice bite and I'd like to try putting a little fresh horse radish in but haven't yet.

1/2 Cup Olive Oil

1/3 (Or more) Cup White Whine Vinager

1/2 Cup water

Preparing the meat

Chop everything and process or use a blender (like me) to puree.  

Skirt steak works very well but you can use any thin, marbleized cut.  I'd also like to try the sauce with Chicken.

Butterfly the meat so that it is as thin as possible, then work it over with a meat tenderizer mallet.  (I don't have one so I use a cheese grader.)

Pour a thin layer of sauce in a glass pan, then put a layer of meat down.  

Cover the meat with sauce and put down the rest of your meat.  Cover this with more sauce.  Save 1/2 to 1/3 of your sauce to pour on the meat at serving.

Let the meat (refrigerated) sit in the sauce all day (the longer the better) until it's grilling time.

Grill the meat with the sauce on it to your liking.  (I recommend as rare as you can stand it.)

Serve the meat smothered in the reserved sauce (remember to get it out of the refrigerator when you start grilling.

Side dishes can be anything, try black beans and rice.  A hardy Wine, like Merlot or Cabernet Sauvignon goes well with the dish.   There are some delicious wines from Argentina.  Impress your guests with a wine from the same region as your cuisine.  Which you can get in most any decent wine vendor including some grocery stores.   Of course good beer goes with anything. Enjoy, and let me know how your barbecue adventures go.

We are the Children of the Eighties

A friend of mine gave me this poem when we graduated high school. For some reason, I've held on to it all these years. I am now facing simultaneously, and for the first time; my thirties, a serious career and fatherhood. The poem is a sort of call to action, a who are we, and where are we going. I wonder if the author, who has escaped into anonymity, is proud of what we have made of our times. We eighties children are prone, over the next ten years, to take over everything. The Baby Boomers are retiring in droves and more and more it will be left to us to run things. Are we up to it?

We are the Children of the eighties.
We are not the first "lost generation," nor are we today's lost generation;
In fact, we think we know just where we stand-
Or are discovering it as we speak.

We are the ones who gave Malibu Barbie crew cuts with Safety Scissors that never really cut.
We collected Garbage Pail Kids and Cabbage Patch Kids and My Little Ponies,
and Hot Wheels and He-Man action figures and thought She-Ra looked just a little bit
Like I would when I was a woman.

Big Wheels and Bicycles with streamers were the way to go,
and sidewalk chalk was all you needed to build a city.
Imagination was the key.
It made the Ewok Treehouse big enough for you to be Luke
and the kitchen table and an old sheet dark enough to be a tent in the forest
You world was the backyard and it was all you needed.

WIth yout pink portable tape player, Debbie Gibson sang backup to you,
and everyone wanted a skirt like The Material Girl and a Glove like Michael Jackson's
Today, we are the ones who sing along with Bruce Springsteen and The Bangles perfectly,
and have no idea why.

We recite lines with the Ghostbusters and still look to the Goonies for a great adventure.
We flip through T.V. stations and stop at The A Team, and Knight Rider and Fame
and laugh with the Cosby Show and Family Ties and Punky Brewster
and "what you talkin bout Willis?"
We hold strong affections for The Muppets, and the Gummy Bears,
and why did they take The Smurfs off the air?

After School Specials were only about cigarettes and step-families,
The Pokka-Dot Door was nothing like Barney,
and aren't the Power Rangers just Voltron reincarnated?
We are the ones who still read Nancy Drew, and the Hardy BoysThe Bobbsey Twins,
Beverly Clearly and Judy Blume, Richard Scary and the Electric Company.

Friendship bracelets were ties you coudn't break, and friendship pins went on shoes,
preferably hightop Velcro Reebox - and peeged jeans were in,
as were Units Belts, and layered socks and jean jackets and jams
and charm necklaces and side ponytails and rat's tails.
Rave was a girl's best friend; braces with collored rubber made youcool.

The backdoor was always open and Mom servedonly red Kool-Aid to the neighborhood kids-
never drank new-Coke.
Entertainment was cheap and lasted for hours.
All you needed to be Princess was high-heels and an apron;
the Sit'n'Spin always made you dizzy, but never made you stop;
Pogoballs were dangerous weapons
and Chinese jump ropes never failed to trip someone.

In your Underoos you were Wonder Woman, or Spider Man or R2D2
and in your treehouse you were king.
In the eighties, nothing waswrong.

Did you know the president was Shot? Star Wars was not only a movie.
Did you ever play in a bomb shelter? Did you see the Challenger explode,
or feed the homeless man?
We forgot Vietnam and watched Tiananman Squair on CNN
and bought pieces of the Berlin Wall. AIDS was not the number one killer.

We didn't start the fire Billy Joel. In the eighties we redifined the dream, and those years defined us.
We are the generation in between strife and facing strife, and not turning our backs.
The eighties have made us idealistic,
But it's that idealism that will push us and be passed on to our children -
The first children of the twenty-first century.
Never forget: We are the children of the eighties.

I hope that I haven't just stollen anyone's intelectual property. Wow what an anti-eighties idea. If you know the author of this please let me know so that I may give her (I presume) credit.

Instantaneous Summer

There is a profound difference between a "surfer," and someone who can ride a wave.  I barely fit into the latter category.  Since I was a kid though I have always been fascinated by surfing.  Due, perhaps to my first experience with Rock and Roll, the Beach Boys.  I learned how once, on a family vacation as a freshman in high school, and surprisingly took to it pretty quick. Alas, the break here in Southern Arizona is usually less than adequate for surfing, thus I was given little opportunity to practice.  I did rent a board a few times over the years during trips to California.  

Last week we visited Oahu, and I, as a Walter-Middy surfer, would have been loathe to miss out on a chance to  surf the famous "North Shore."  Through a very Hawaiian style arrangement, I hooked up with Doug the surf instructor.  (Literally, OK yaa, drive up the coast about 4 miles, then when you pass the Chevron station, look for this van, it's got surfboards on it.)  I'll let his website describe his credentials. He was exactly what I needed as he catered the lesson to my specific desires. I highly recommend him to anyone going to Oahu.  Interested patrons can book via telephone and avoid the cultural experience I had.  Though truly I would not have wanted it any other way.

I followed him further North and East to a little used beach where he went over some basics with me before we paddled out.  The day was beautiful, just some high, wispy clouds.  The break was perfect (for me), at between three and six feet high.  There was one surfer in the water.  A leather skinned Hawaiian who looked to be around 50, but I wouldn't have been surprised by 40 or 60.  He had a long beard that turned from black to white.  Long hair that had been matted into strings by saltwater.  He wore no rash guard, and probably little sunscreen.  His board was so unremarkable that I can not even remember what color it was.  I wish I had a picture.  He was out surfing when we paddled out.  And he remained there when we left, exhausted after more than two hours.  Doug spoke with him and he invited us to surf with him, then offered a few tips on the tide, and the break.  I got up on my first wave (with a little help from my instructor), then struggled on a few before catching the hang of it once again.  Some of the waves were easy, walkers that did little more than catch the board and bring me about half the distance to the shore.  Others were high (maybe six feet), mighty rollers that broke more than once and tossed me around easily.  I had a blast.

Surfing for me is a kind of romantic fascination.  At its heart, I believe that surfing is just another pursuit of wilderness.  I am a square, I'll never be a surfer, it's just not in me.  But I am attracted to that Endless Summer lifestyle.  Roaming around, looking for adventure, that's what I really want, and I really believe I'll get it one day.  The Beach Boys are all dead.  They died when they recorded Kokomo.  The people who held them up as rebels and icons are now collecting their pensions, and strapping their grandkids into car seats in Volvos. Surfing is another extreme sport.  Capitalized upon the same as the NBA and the NFL.  But that old Hawaiian, out there on some unnamed beach.  He personified surfing.  He wasn't out there to conquer, or show off.  I am sure he could have handled much bigger waves, he was just there.  Surfing lives.

That old man helped me, a wobbly-footed square, catch wave-riders' Nirvana for just an instant.  We had been out for a while, and I was more than a little tired.  I had just paddled back out after a particularly dynamic wave outmatched me, tossed me off the board and shot saltwater up my nose with migraine inducing force.  The next wave was large and powerful, it gathered speed fast.  I was going to let it pass under me, and wait for a more tame wave.  But the wave caught me and took me with it.  I was either going to ride this one laying down, or try and get up.  I struggled, faltered, and rose.  I was up and doing all I could to remain so when I looked to my right and there he was.  A little closer than I was comfortable with surfed the old Hawaiian.  He perched on the wave like a statue, his hair flowed in the wind, and I swear I saw him grin.  We surfed in unison, the shore in front of me, the wave over my head behind me, and the zen-master on my right.  It only lasted a second or so.  The wave bucked and I was tossed into the drink.  He surfed on.  But for that instant, I was a surfer.

I don't know who the old Hawaiian was.  But he exists in my mind as the pope of surfing.  He is out there now, dancing on small waves and big, offering advice to the young bucks, sitting on his board watching the rain storm hit the mountains.  Surfing.