Clean Up, Aisle 3

I’ve you’ve ever heard this SNL digital short then you know how I felt today about finding a bottle of Brooklyn Local 2 in Boston this afternoon. I stopped by the Publick House Provisions and spotted 3 bottles of the stuff sitting comfortably next to Local 1. The gentleman at the register informed me that 72 cases made their way to Boston yesterday and no one knows when they’ll receive more.

I was ecstatic, happily babbling as I paid for my bottle.

If you want to try the brew and, like me, live in NY where it is impossible to find, head over to Brooklyn Brewery this Friday for the official Local 2 Launch party. Brewmaster—and my culinary man crush—Garret Oliver will be there to talk beer for a bit.

Antisocial Eggs No More

After prepping up some Crème Brûlée last night in hopes to impress some friends for dinner tonight, I found myself with a bunch of eggs whites sitting solo in the fridge. Luckily, a bit of onion and garlic, chili, mushrooms and parsley came to their rescue. Some lemon squeezed on top and the lonely-no-more eggs happily made their way into my stomach.

Old Faithful: Peanut Butter and Bananas

This is my I’d rather spend time eating than cooking breakfast.


Toast, peanut butter, bananas, raisins, honey and some cinnamon-sugar to top it all off.

Nutty, sweet and delicious.

Fatcakes

Since today is National Pancake Day—the day before the intense fasting season for devout Christians, or just for whoever wants to celebrate Mardi Gras—I’ve decided to make…pancakes!

The recipe was created my Craig Claiborne in the mid-sixties for the New York Times. It consists of eggs, flour, milk and some butter, all of the things you shouldn’t eat on a fast. Whip everything together, toss in a bit of nutmeg or cinnamon and bake it for fifteen minutes. It's fluffy, crispy, dessert sweet and isn’t a bad way to end the day either. Topped with a dollop of strawberry jam I made over the summer, I’ll definitely be able to skip a few upcoming meals.

The Most Important Meal of the Day

For years I have been chanting the same mantra to various nonbelievers: “Eat your breakfast!” I preached the necessity of the morning meal to co-workers, friends, fellow-musicians, students, bosses and just about anyone I happened to pass in the early hours of the day. I know that the advice of some satiated do-gooder is the last thing a cranky sleepwalker wants to hear but I can never resist spreading the good news. It’s been proven multiple times that breakfast is good for you, so I am always baffled when people neglect to take advantage of this nutritious day starting habit.

Last week—while enjoying a hearty breakfast myself—I was reading a New York Times article about an alternative, savory look at breakfast. I’ve never had a problem experimenting with breakfast foods, but lately the time constraints of work have prevented me from changing things up as much as I like. As if a wise hand of culinary authority reached out of the paper and smacked the oatmeal out of my mouth, I knew I had to mix things up. I decided to take an early morning journey and document the trip, creating and sampling various breakfast ideas inspired from different cultures. If for nothing more than my own curiosity, I’ll keep a digital journal of my meals to see just how varied breakfast can be. Let’s see how this one goes.

Sizzling?

I spent some quality time with a Columbian artist while mixing caipirinhas, eating empanadas and learning to tango last Friday. Although the thought of a tall, gawky individual attempting the dance of love after a few cocktails and meat patties seems like a nightmare, my evening was as real as the sex appeal I radiate on the dance floor.

John Keller hosted the evening in cooperation with CityDusk—the company I’m currently working on beer events with. Despite my relationship the CityDusk, I didn’t shell out for the event just to show home team support. The event, titled Sizzling South America, seemed unique; different from most of the events I see posted on various Manhattan websites.

The evening started at the Praxis art gallery on the Upper East Side for an exhibit by artist Alexis Duque. Duque’s art was polished but his themes of destruction and desolation seemed at odds with the cheery vibe that flowed between the guests and the bottles of South American wine. Nevertheless, I found myself staring at his beautifully bleak urbanscapes and depictions of Dr. Seuss for adults city life. After chatting with the other guests and getting the lowdown on Alexis’ art and the gallery, the group headed downtown to Trangulo Dance studio to mix some drinks, have some eats and learn a step or two in the art of Tango.

The evening was enjoyable, but I have to look at it with a critical eye. CityDusk is a new and upcoming company, and like any newfangled business venture, it needs some polishing. Yes, I had fun, but was it worth the cash I shelled out? I met a few interesting people, learned how to tango and now can add caipirinhas and caipiruvas to my repertoire of cocktails, but I don’t feel as if I got a huge financial bargain. Perhaps it is because the event wasn’t as smooth as I hoped, or maybe because I had to schlep from the Upper East Side to Chelsea in thirty-degree weather. Whatever the reason, CityDusk has a way to go. Despite this bleak description, I’m not disappointed with the company. This event felt like a shaky first date; nothing went exactly as I planned in my head, but there were many happy little surprises and I’m hoping to get a little luckier on the second date. Until then I’ll make sure to call and cross my fingers.

Portland Has Great Beer...and Food!

"We've done a Seattle/Portland show. I love Seattle. As far as I'm concerned, that's where everything is happening: Seattle, Portland and Vancouver. That whole part of the continent is the epicenter of the whole new food scene."

-Anthony Bourdain on shooting No Reservations the Pacific Northwest

Meet Ale Street News

I entered the bar several minutes after 5:30, releasing a gigantic sigh as I realized I wasn’t the only one late. The fellow behind the bar was hunched over his laptop, chatting with a thin Asian about the wedding ring he wore on his skinny finger:

“Jesus! I didn’t know you were married?!”
“You knew I was engaged last time I came in.”
“Yeah, but you were getting married. You weren’t married yet.”
“Shit happens, you know?”

At this point the former bachelor sighed and sipped his pint. He was looking a bit forlorn. I was pretending to browse the taps while trying to understand the “shit happens” part of this guy’s marriage theory. I was under the impression the getting hitched was very unlike hitting a pothole, getting splashed by a puddle or stepping in a steaming pile left by the neighbor’s dog. Asking someone to spend the rest of their life with you is very different from any of these situations. Shit does happen I guess.

The computer geek/bar tender snapped me out of my thoughts and I ordered a Penn Dark Ale while sitting down. Checking the place out I noticed team banners hanging from the walls and a huge erase board full of NCAA standings. “Clever,” I thought as I saw the name of the bar written in type over the bar—STANDINGS.

After fifteen minutes of anxiously nursing my beer Cal, the guy in charge of CityDusk, tapped me on the shoulder. He had a look of relief on his face while I wore a nervous grin and two damp marks under my arms.

“Good thing you’re here,” he said.
“Good thing I wore a dark shirt today.”
“What?” Cal asked me, obviously confused.
“Nothing…Uh, where are Jack and Tony?” I stammered.
“Next door, leave your beer here, I’ll get them.”

Jack and Tony are the two founders of Ale Street News, a long running publication about beer and all things beer. Being an aspiring writer of sorts—not to mention an aspiring drinker aficionado of beer—I would very much like to work with them. Several months ago Cal held a meeting with them and we started working on a partnership. Ale Street would do some events with CityDusk and, in turn, I would do some writing for Ale Street. The meeting was going to decide exactly how we would work together.

For whatever reason, I pictured the Ale Street founders to wear full beards. I have this idea—these Green Bay Packer Ideals if you will—about the “perfect” version of things. I can’t envision an organization that more embodies the perfect example of football than the Packers and their cheesehead fans, so I use the franchise to describe other perfect things.

In my head, the Green Bay Packer beer publisher has a full beard, loud voice and a larger than life swagger. As I was introduced to Tony and Jack I was only half wrong. Tony was a smallish, thin man who wore a Delirium beer hat and spoke with an accent I couldn’t place. Jack was decked in business wear with a thick mustache under his nose and held himself like an expert car salesman. Despite these two not meeting the picture in my mind, they did not disappoint. The meeting started with a round of beers, the clinking of glasses then getting down to business.

I don’t know the effect they have on people when apart, but combined Jack and Tony seem like old drinking buddies who just happen to have a newspaper to run. They argue, joke, completely disregard the other’s advice and continually order beers. Throughout the evening they scolding me for my writing, immediately thereafter complimenting me for my writing, traded anecdotes about brewers, bars and woman’s cleavage. Upon discovering I was a Jet fan and discussing the future of the team’s vacant quarterback slot, Jack sort of took me under his wing and began blurting out ideas about a weekly Ale Street column online. I doubt this will see the light of day, but after a few beers with the publishers of a paper you want to write for, even a not-so-realistic writing assignment can fill you with joy.

After finishing our pints and saying goodbyes, we agreed to have the venues and some themes for future events down in two weeks. I literally skipped down the street with Cal as we discussed the evening. (While this may seem humorous, seeing a scrawny tall drink of water like myself skipping up 2nd Ave with another full-grown man is a little off-putting.) In honor of my happiness, we ducked into Momofuku Ssám bar where I ordered a French country ale, some lamb sweetbreads and Cal smiled nervously as I proceeded to chow down some offal. Nothing says “here’s to the future” like braised thyroid glands.

Question for the masses...

Is it strange that when I go to bars, women twice my age love me for my juke box selections?

Some Photos from Vegas

24 Pour. The most varied--and only--twenty-four hour bar. I want to thank the New York-New York Resort and Casino for opening this place and apologize to that group of kids who I yelled out for ordering Bud Lights there; it was 4am, I had a few too many to drink and--come on!--you were ordering Bud Lights.



Enoteca San Marco. This is Mario Batali's Vegas version of Otto near Washington Square Park. The Pasta Puttanesca was tasty and that chicken, eggplant and ricotta dish was on of the juiciest things I've ever tasted.



Asian tourists. This has nothing to do with food or drink besides the fact I was watching them while I ate the meal pictured above. I don't know what the hell you were taking pictures of--and there were many pictures--but thanks for the entertainment!

Gasoline for the future

Although this has nothing to do with Vegas at all, drink some beer and go a little green!

VIVA LAS VEGAS!

Today in I lost $200, drank at a to-go Sin City Brewery beer stand in the middle of a mall, saw Alice Cooper running a roulette table, ate at one of Mario Batali’s restaurants (it was just like Otto in Manhattan), watched Elvis and Temptations live in concert, drank a six-pack worth of Sam Adams for free, won enough money for gambling tomorrow, purchased a Hawaiian beer—a Kona Pipeline Porter, made with 100% Kona coffee—at a 24-hour beer bar in the New York-New York casino and accompanied my father to a Fatburger at 2:30 in the morning while he purchased some late-night munchies and drank a beer.

I love Las Vegas.

The Burger Bar in Heaven

Burgers and beers, what good ol’ fun loving American doesn’t love this classic combination? It is such a delicious pairing that even the French are getting on the bandwagon:

Don’t believe me? You think those snooty French can’t get down with some sliders and a cold one? Well, just ask Hubert Keller, a French born pastry chef who opened the Burger Bar at Mandalay Bay on the Vegas Strip. The Burger Bar gained notoriety during the let’s-see-who-can-pile-absurdly-expensive-ingredients-on-a-burger war a few years ago and will forever hold a place in my heart. Besides serving up delicious and juicy burgers with a smorgasbord of toppings spanning every grocery store aisle (plus foie gras and black truffles for good measure), Burger Bar has some one of the best beer selections I’ve ever seen. The place is in the shopping mall between the Luxor and Mandalay Bay Casinos, but like everything in Vegas, you let your normal discriminations, morals, ethics, beliefs, good judgment and common sense go and give it a shot. Unlike everything else in Vegas, however, I didn’t regret my decisions afterwards.

After being seated, I was handed a red leather bound book engraved with the Chimay logo. The first page lists over thirty fine beers and those are just Belgians. A few flips will reveal a drool worthy sampling of some of the finest brews around the world. After reading through the menu my sentiment towards Burger Bar are best described by a rotund, middle-aged Caucasian male who was sitting at the tables with me yesterday. He exclaimed that he felt like a “virgin in a Vegas whore house” to his young, African-American prostitute after hitting two Blackjacks in a row and it is safe to say that this was the feeling worming its way through my body while I perused page after scintillating page of beers awaiting my glass. Overwhelmed as I was, my balloon of anticipation was pumped up even more when I noticed the end of the leather bound beer gospel before me—notes, explanations and histories of each of the breweries and beers offered. It was as if the Burger Bar foresaw all of my inquiries and had composed and a hardcopy encyclopedia to answer my questions. After requesting “a few more minutes” from my waitress several times—and receiving my fair share of disgruntled sighs—I rambled off the names of fives burger worthy ales and returned to my novel worthy menu.

I was waiting as patiently as an eight year old waits for Santa Claus when my sampler finally arrived at the table: Burger Bar Ale, Sin City Amber Ale, North Coast Red Seal Ale, GrünbergerDopplebock and Deschutes Jubeale. I attacked each beer like that whorehouse virgin until my burger was brought to the table. A stark white, oval shaped plate was piled high with fried zucchini fries and one of the most gorgeous pieces of meat I’ve ever seen. Bulging between toasted onion buns was a juicy org of blackened Angus beef, sweating with flavor while balancing a mound of sautéed portobello and oyster mushrooms. I attempted to hold back a tear while sipping my two-ounce beers and brainstorming my plan of attack.

The burgers were far too large to take head on, and I didn’t want to risk blowing my red onion, lettuce and tomato ratio out of proportion by squeezing the thing together. Throwing aside my fears of looking like a ninny, I pulled out my knife and cut the beast in two. Yes I was cheating—real men eat their burgers whole—but I felt cheating my macho idealisms was better than short changing Mr. Keller’s masterpiece that graced my plate. After completing my culinary surgery I commenced eating.

You don’t need a degree in culinary arts to understand how tasty my Angus masterpiece was. The ketchup and mustard bottles sat disappointed and untouched on the table as I made my way through each juicy morsel, washing down the grass-fed goodness with a swig of beer. After finishing the behemoth there was nothing left to do but wax romantically about the flavors dancing on my taste buds and get back to my literature in order to pick a dessert. A bottle of Troubadour Obscura, a Belgian mild stout, caught my fancy and after accepting my invitation to the palate party, I made my way back to the casinos, smile on my face and leather bound beer tucked clandestinely under my shirt.

Shaking all the way to the poorhouse

Although my first full day in Las Vegas wasn’t anything earth shattering food wise, my taste buds rejoiced during my morning cup of coffee. Perhaps it is Nevada’s proximity to Hawaii or South America, but the coffee they serve in the restaurants here is some of the smoothest, most tasty java I’ve ever sampled.

After praising the coffee numerous times and drinking about a pot and a half I jittered away from the breakfast tables and off towards the blackjack tables. At least the coffee is more reliable than my luck.

Debauchery in the Desert

Approximately 12 hours ago I landed in Las Vegas for a week of revelry. Most likely I will go home with a much lighter wallet, but it will not be in vain. Despite its overly brash consumerism and celebration of excess, Vegas has a few restaurants and breweries worth their salt and I’m armed with a few magazine articles and a laundry list of must-try places to try before boarding a return flight to NY next Friday. Fortunately, I’ve discovered that the Casinos have Newcastle Brown Ale available for consumption at the tables and slots. Although I am faced with the imminent loss of all my savings, I can find solace in the fact that I’ll be awarded “free” brew while I lose every chunk of cash I own to the blackjack gods.