Blogging the Brasserie V

A and I have a new-fangled eating out plan that involves more lunches in place of dinners. There used to be a time, about 3 years ago, when we ate lunch out every Tuesday, which was (and is) my afternoon off. This was choked off when I expressed a compulsion to be more collegial with my colleagues at work, where lunching together is a daily ritual that involves all present; the commencement of the parade to the cafeteria is signaled by cries of “Any eaters?” and “Let’s eat!”. There follows about half-an-hour or so of convivial bull-shitting that can run the gamut from splashing about in cultural cross-currents to outright high-dives into political demagoguery, with The Polymath usually assuming the bridge as helmsman of the conversation. (His occasional absences, through vacation or otherwise, are keenly felt.)

I eased myself into the new-old eating-out routine by taking A out to the Brasserie V, which is a wooded re-incarnation of the Relish Deli (which used to be a cozy breakfast haunt and purveyor of hams and cheeses extraordinaire). What they’ve done is take out the entire counter (and its itinerant hams and cheeses) and replace it with a shiny new bar that features an impressive variety of beers, the majority of them Belgian, with many being on tap (14 that I counted). A still larger bottled selection is arrayed under the taps. They have a lunch menu that features one soup-du-jour and a selection of sandwiches, and a dinner menu that has continental offerings that might perhaps best be described as appealing to the discerning beer drinker. Straight-forward pan-searings of chickens and salmons seemed to leap out at one. None of this is meant to be a put-down; I haven’t tasted any of it, and it might well taste fabulous after a beer or three.

We did have lunch, though. I had a half-half order of the soup, which was chili, and the roast beef hot sandwich. The chili was delicious. Even A was impressed by it. They forgot to grill my sandwich but it tasted fine after two beers and samples of four or five other beers, cheerfully provided by the bartender (the service was uniformly neighborly and good-humored). A had an avocado BLT which she had no complaints about (no littote).

As for the beers, I had a tepid- just as it should be- Fullers London Pride for old times’ sake, followed by the Wittekerke, a pleasant and much lighter beer. I also had a half-pint of the Corsendonk brown ale, which was okay. A had a New Glarus Dancing Man, which is a fun wheat. She followed that up with a half-pint of the Wittekerke. Finally, we girded our loins and tried the raspberry lambic- I think it was Lindeman’s- and it was utterly vile. A “girly fruity beer” is one thing, and an abomination is quite another. Girls – and fruits- have their pride, too.

What about that game, huh!

Amidst the brouhaha of disbelief that accompanied Appalachian State University's win over Michigan (see, I'm not entirely ignorant of sport), a key point was lost: this is a fine institution of learning. Also, they have indoor heating.

Bush, Rove, and the bathtub

Grover Norquist, the conservative ideologue who serves as the fountainhead of many of this administration’s domestic policies, likes to quote himself as saying that he doesn’t want to abolish government, but simply reduce it to the size where he can drag it to the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.
On the second anniversary of the submersion of New Orleans by Hurricane Katrina, it might be time to stop and reflect, once again, on the effect that the Bush-Rove axis has had on the perception of the role of government.
It is simply too easy to dismiss this as an inept administration, and the response to Katrina as symbolic of it. What happened in New Orleans is, I believe, part of a larger picture. Conservative idealogues like Norquist, and his old buddy Karl Rove, are happy to make policy that starves government; the horse is now not only ridden by an unwilling jockey, but is also hobbled. Then, when an occasion demands action that only government can supply, such as response to disaster, its pathetic performance is denounced by everybody as how all government is good for is taking your tax money and buying guns for psychotic postmen with it, and none denounces it louder than the very people who crippled government in the first place.
Now, it may be coincidence that a fool became president and an ideologue his vizier; it would not be the first time. I am not one of those who say that black people do not matter to Bush. (Although I am one of those who say that nobody matters to Bush but his closest buddies, some of whom are pigmented.) Neither do I say that Rove was responsible for the non-response to Katrina. I do say, however, that Rovian policy of starving funds to government agencies diminished government response, Bush’s ineptitude (in the appointment of Brownie, and in the aftermath of Katrina) ruined the public face of government, and what drowned, in consequence, along with New Orleans, was government credibility. Nice for Mr. Norquist, isn’t it?

Herbivores gone wild

Nasty, brutish, but not as short as you might think...I saw an amazing video on YouTube today; it's about 8 minutes long...if you have the time, it's worth it. Pay special attention to the know-it-all in the background.

Naahahahaice!

We're having our windows replaced and the house has been a veritable maelstrom of sawhorses and utility belts, rendering the preparation of nutritious -but delicious- meals a non-starter. In addition, A has a whole new Plan For Budgetary Victory, which involves eating out 6 times a month (as opposed to 6 times a week).
Which is how we found ourselves headed to the Inka Heritage last Friday. This is a place of Peruvian delights that A and I had visited once before with Wonder Boy and Attorney Adorable, following a fundraiser at the High Noon Saloon, early this spring. Being that it's located within a 10 minute walk and given that we loved the food, how come we hadn't gone back again and again? The reason was the slow service; on our last visit, it was close to an hour before we got our food, although it's a testament to how good it was that we ate it in great good humor and loved it all. I don't remember what I ate all those months ago, but I do remember the grilled beef-heart appetizer, which was good. I also remember being struck by what should have been obvious, which was the heavy accent on sea-food, potatoes, and corn, the latter of sizes and varieties that I had not seen nor imagined existed before I saw them here.
A and I tried going back once again, in the early summer with The Boy, but it was too crowded, so we decided then to come back at a later date, early in the evening.
Which is what we did on Friday. The Boy had a chicha morada to drink, which is made from fruits and purple corn; A and I had the house cabernet. All three of us were pleasantly surprised at how good our drinks were.
We asked our waitress to spice up the ceviche that we had ordered as an appetizer, and did she ever. In my opinion, to its advantage. The Boy could not eat very much of it because it "spiced his tongue", but he did profess to like what he did eat. A joined the consensus in agreeing that the ceviche was quite delicious; in my humble opinion, if all the Inka Heritage served was the spicy ceviche, I would still rate it among the top 5 Madison restaurants. This is a dish that deserves to be eaten sitting outside, preferably on a balcony overlooking the sea, with a cold brewed beverage as an accompaniment. The Seagulls restaurant in Pondicherry springs to mind; the Seagulls of two decades ago, that is... on a recent visit to that wild and heedless city, I was warned that it was hang-out for the "local rowdies".
The Boy ordered the arroz con pollo (my memory for Spanish names is weak; I might be making some of this up), which was coriander flavored rice, green in color, with chicken in it. he declared it the best thing he had ever eaten, but he often says that when he eats something that he likes for the first time. Still, he had what he couldn't finish packed up and ate it for two more meals over the weekend. A ate the Cai Cau de mariscos, which was a seafood stew with potatoes in it. She said it was very good, and seemed to be flavored with some spice that had elements of curry powder in it. I had the pescado a lo macho, another sea-food dish with clams, calamari, mussels, crab-legs and fish in it, that was made in a lighter, milder sauce than A's dish, but which went quite well with the steamed white rice that accompanied it.
Later that night, I went out with Sailor Man and Mr Red-Headed League, and learnt a new word... "Naahahahaice!"

But what does it all really mean?

Barry Bonds, we are reliably informed, is a large and well-known person who hits balls around a field with a baseball bat; as it happens, the larger he grows, and the harder he hits them, the better he is known.
Opinion among the cognoscenti is divided right down the middle about whether or not his record of home-runs deserves any respect, being that Mr. Bonds may have juiced himself up on steroids to get this far. In fact, scratch that “may”. Nobody disputes that he did; the dispute is only about whether or not the record counts. Counts in their hearts, that is: because it sure as hell does count for the official record.
And that is what the entire debate is all about. Everyone is asking himself (the askers are almost all male; most females apparently do not have the time for America ’s Pastime) whether or not the record counts for him, personally.
People often say they follow sports religiously, or are fanatics about their team. Here is another religious metaphor for that sporting experience: the record may be official, but does it *really* exist for you? It’s all a matter of personal faith.
Both sides have pretty good arguments, but what does it matter? We’re all going to hell anyway.

Domo Arigato, Wasabi-san!

Last Thursday, after the Inka Heritage was voted out of contention by a coalition comprising of A and The Boy, we visited one of our favorite Madison eateries, the Wasabi on State Street. This campaign was celebrated by the victorious parties by chanting, first, “Wa-sa-bi! Wa-sa-bi!” in the car, and then, as the venue approached, “U-don! U-don!”, leaving the reason for the visit in no doubt.

The Wasabi is my favorite place in Madison for Japanese food. We’ve also eaten at the Edo, which leaves pretty much everything to be desired; and we haven’t yet managed the trip to the Muramoto.

Past visits to the Wasabi with the Boy have usually occurred on weekends and have often involved pre-medication at the Blue Velvet. The latter is, of course, an old haunt of mine and A’s, since the days she lived right behind it on State Street, and I on Morrison Street in the Wil-Mar neighborhood. The thing about the BV is that it has almost nothing going for it except that it’s a quiet place with no TV and friendly service, at least at those times of the evening that A and I went to it and settled ourselves at the end of the bar with our drinks, me with a martini (Bombay Sapphire, not too dry, with olives), and A alternating between a mojito, a margarita, or a side-car. In those early days, when we first met, the BV sessions could feature more than the planned-for single aperitif; on one occasion, we ended up going back to her place after rendering ourselves unfit to drive and eating ice-cream and cashews for dinner.

Needless to say, we could not wait to introduce The Boy to this romantic haunt. I’m not sure if the other customers look at us funny when we order up our usual and a Shirley Temple for him, but we don’t care. We behave ourselves, stick to the single drink plan, and proceed to the Wasabi in reasonably orderly fashion.

I’m glad to report that his chopstick skills are nearly as good as mine, although his palate will still not admit raw fish. But no matter; it’s nothing time won’t cure.

A perfect summer evening

A and I decided to go to Osteria Papavero without much ado on Friday evening.
We started with a poached chicken appetizer. For the entree, she wanted the clam spaghetti but ended up with the Gramigna con Salsiccia, a pasta with sausage ragout, because they ran out (at 6pm). I had the roast quail special. She drank a chianti with hers, I had an Italian pilsner, Moretti (I switched to Bell's Oberon in the next round).
This is the second time, in a row, that the OP has blown my socks off. I had the Polipo in Umido, or octopus in tomato, last time. At this rate, my sock drawer may well be empty before fall. Is this place Madison's best kept secret? How could it be, since it sits right in the middle of the restaurant district? Or did I merely come to this place late, and that too by word from Lethal's mouth? Thank you, dear Lethal. You have made me want to sell my house and move back into the Bellevue, from where I could walk out the lobby of one and into the bar of the other without soiling what remains of my socks. Thanks.
Later, we strolled down to the Orpheum and saw The Simpsons movie. A declared it the best movie she's watched in a while. Certainly the fellow in front of us was enthusiastically appreciative of every plot development. Apu did not feature much at all, nor even Ralph Wiggums or Mr Burns, and those are my favorite characters; despite this, it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, and went a long way in erasing memories of the idiotic Hustle and Flow that we had watched the previous evening.
On the way back, A, now tired and yawning, consented to sit outside at The Local (remote and strangely apt memory...it used to be a comic store back in the day when the ladies of the night still patrolled King Street... Comic Store Guy got a good scene or two in the Simpsons movie) and have a drink with me, before we came back home.

Thair saadam, macha

We had a long day (A, The Boy, and I) on Saturday, putting up the screens for the porch. Not for the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last, was the realization brought upon me that I am simply not a real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness three-fisted humdinger when it comes to DIY. We took two hours to put up the first screen (of ten total), which, five minutes later, we had to take back down because I walked through it. No bona-fide supraman me. So we downed tools and had lunch at Amy’s Café; I had the Texas Burger with spicy fries and a cold Bell's Oberon; A had the Mediterranean ragbag, and The Boy had, as I recall, a turkey sandwich; we also shared onion rings all around. Set just back from State Street, so it’s close enough to the action (but not too close), and serving up an eclectic mix of well-made fried foods from hither and yon, Amy’s is the perfect place for lunch on a warm (but not hot) sunny afternoon.
Pleasantly bursting with food and goodwill, we napped in the afternoon and worked some more in the evening; but when it came to dinner, we were still full. At this time, when asked what I could rustle up for a light dinner, The Boy suggested yogurt and rice. This put me in the mood to make some thair (pron. THA-yeer) saadam, a much-loved and long-uneaten preparation from college days in Pondicherry. Thair saadam is essentially cooked rice mixed with a few pungent spices (asafetida, dried red hot chillies, mustard seeds and curry leaves), a fried dal or two to lend it some crunch (typically urad and/or chana), cucumber, fresh ginger, green chillies and coriander (and green mango if you have it, I used amchur, or dried mango powder) for a bit o' zap and texture, and, most important, yogurt. NOT non-fat. The simple nature of this dish, which is universally beloved in southern India, means that virtually every home has its own secret recipe which is, naturally, the “best in the world.” In warm and humid Pondy, it was served cold for Sunday lunch with hot spicy fried chicken in the grad student dorms; we wolfed it all down with a bottle of Kalyani lager… ahh! You know, some memories are as indelibly associated with food as others are with smells… to me, the words “hot Sunday afternoon” mean thair saadam, and vice versa.
The Boy, naturally, being flesh of my flesh, loved it, and took some with him to camp on Monday, for lunch. A was not overly impressed; I think it fell somewhere in the general category of “Weird Indian Snacks” for her (other preparations that howl like lost souls in this purgatory of the palate include all milk-based sweets, kheer (a rice pudding), and kulfi, which is the Indian take on ice-cream – except it’s on a stick and has cardamom and almonds in it. Also included are all the salty crunchies that Indians of a certain age love to munch when having a glassy).
“Macha” (also spelled machaan) is the Tamil word for “brother-in-law”; it’s used as an affectionate or pejorative term of address, depending on the tone. It does not refer to the teahouse of the same name on Monroe Street. Although the fellow who owns it might well be someone’s brother-in-law, I doubt if that is its name’s provenance.

Post interim

Whilst I'm still contemplating my navel, to those of you who are chary of commenting, it should be apparent that the tedious log-in and account-creating gremlins have been banished. The toothsome delicacies I describe will be back; this jackanape is going nowhere. I'm not promising that attitudes of old are going to be swept away like freshet under a culvert, but I'll say this: A and I are looking forward to visiting the Osteria Papavero next week ( I had an octopus stew that blew the mind to parts eternal the last time), and I will have a full report.

As to the rest, I refer you to the font of eternal wisdom - and vocab.

What not to blog, part deux

When we ate at the Thai Orchid the other night, I realized I was there less for the food, which was terrible, and more for the insults I would heap upon its head when I got to blog about it.

Eating out merely to write about it is a waste of time and money. Here I was, sitting with A, enjoying my life, enjoying the time I spend with her, feeling good about the long snarky ride through the 'burbs to get to this place. Instead, The Word Beautiful Bomber was already on the runway with the arrival of the spring rolls; all thoughts of the here and now slipped away and the searchlights switched on; at the first sight of a wilted spring onion (and there were a few) the sirens began: the air-raid was on, the bombs were falling and, with the arrival of the lacklustre pad thai, The Thai Orchid was on fire.

My growing unease with laying waste to a part of my life that I really enjoy found words last night at Jolly Bob's, as I was chatting with Wonder Boy. Living life while savoring every second is difficult enough without having to commit everything to memory. Imagine eating an oyster, that quivering sight, the smells and tastes of a life lived in a mysterious, somewhat scary world, that mix with your own memories of the sea (dancing beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, or a variant thereof), that feel of the rough shell on your fingertips as you tilt that entire universe into your throat and feel your eyeballs rotate in their sockets as the sand and brine hit the roof of your nasopharynx... all this, and then you have to write about the not so good champagne that you drank with it? Doesn't that introduce, as it were, some sand into the oyster, and not one that's going to produce a particularly good pearl, either?

The way I'm thinking about it is, I'm going to try and continue writing something about the food that I eat, but in a more hands-off, unreview-y, way. Wonder Boy was at least empathetic to my predicament (he might even have been sympathetic). Attorney Adorable was more skeptical: "How can you have a food blog without food?" We'll see. Maybe it won't be a food blog; after all, it does say " ...and other things I like doing around Madison, Wisconsin" right under the title, doesn't it?

Food-filled weekend

The Boy was with us this weekend- it seemed like he had been away forever, but I checked, and it was just the usual schedule- and we had us some food adventures- foodventures?-.

On Friday, The Little Bruiser was over for a sleep-over, and I was gratified - as always - to note that his appetite for what he still calls "Dal-bhat and rice" (for those of you who are not Nepali, dal and bhat often get said together because the one is usually served with the other; but they are two words, and bhat means rice, in Nepali and in many Indian dialects) remains undiminished. A made a delicious raita to go with the dal and green-pea and cumin pilaf. The temperature was in the 90's and, altogether, a quintessential northern Indian down-home experience was had by all. A capped the evening in grand style by producing a blueberry pie that she had made earlier, which I could, Goodness Gracious Me-style, claim was also Indian (like a samosa except with berries. And sweet.) in origin, but I'll spare it.

Owing to a scheduling snafu, The Little Bruiser had to return to his mother's rather earlier on Saturday than we had planned, so we couldn't go to Ella's Deli, a ritual from ancient times that the boys love. Nevertheless, we got over our disappointment and went to the first movie of the weekend, Deep Sea 3-D. This was an excellent show that A had seen once before, in the company of L, M and N, in London last year, and had been talking about ever since. I thoroughly recommend taking your child to this show, but only if you have confidence in their sea-legs. Bring a sick-bag just to be sure. Also, be prepared for squealing children grasping at jelly-fish. Vaseline works.

After the movie, we made a second trip to Hilldale in less than a week, determined, this time, to do it right. Thus, a drink was enjoyed at the Bistro, this time in the company of the Boy, who had a lemonade. A and I had mojitos, which were remarkable for their lush minty foliage. Well-sweetened and flavored, they were a great accompaniment to the discussion, which revolved mainly around the question that remains after all the questions of life, the universe, and everything have been answered. Mainly, we were having a hard time deciding between Muramoto and the Flat Top Grill. A favored the former (as did I), whereas the Boy favored the latter. After much airing of pros and cons, we decided on the latter. A and I decided to come back to the Muramoto at another time.

The Flat Top operates on the conceit that you, the average pasty-faced mid-westerner, have a pretty good notion of what you like in your stir-fry. Just so no taste is left behind, your choices of what goes into your noodles/ rice/ beansprouts/other veggies range from Filipino sausage (longganisa) to prime rib. Your sauces cover the gamut from plum sauce to something called horse-radish water, touching on curry-sauce along the way. You then balance your bowl in one hand with your shit-eating grin in the other and proffer it to Imelda and Ferdinand, who stir-fry it with great aplomb in front of your child's wide eyes. Back at the table, you blanch and silently curse yourself for adding too much horse-radish water. And make a mental note to look it all up on-line, if a return trip has to be made. I will say this: the Boy had an excellent time, finishing all his food (which he rarely does) with every evidence of relish. Perhaps we did do it right. As The Polymath says,"Even a blind sow will stumble upon an acorn once in a while".

We had begun making plans to eat the brunch buffet on Sunday at the Concourse Hotel's Dayton Street Cafe while sitting at the Bistro. Accordingly, that's what we did. This buffet is one of the pricier ones in town, and compares favorably with the offerings at other places, such as the Great Dane in Fitchburg, where all three of us had eaten last year (and never returned), and the Orpheum Cafe (which has a much better setting but a slimmer display). Slim is certainly not the adjective I would use to describe anything to do with eating at the Concourse. The dessert table is the pick of the four stations (meats and eggs, more fried stuff, and omelets being the other three). A cocktail is included in the price of the meal; does that make it complimentary, as the waiter averred? A colleague from long ago used this phrase to describe the advantages of a meeting he had been to: "...and what's more, the pizza's free once you've paid for (the meeting)."

The last big event of this weekend was a movie; appropriately enough, it was Ratatouille, a movie about a rat who wants to cook. I join all the other reviewers who raved about it. Indeed, "anyone can cook". It just requires a special someone to eat it with good grace.

Independence Night

We decided to go see a movie on July 4th, and eat out, maybe at the Flat Top Grill, later.

We began the evening with a drink (I had a martini, A the mojito) on the roof garden of the Sundance, aka the Bistro. The martini was made to order; the mojito was remarkable for the size of the glass in which it was served (a pint glass; most restaurants in Madison will serve it in a highball glass). Thus fortified, we survived the movie- Waitress- which was a wall-to-wall cliche fest (just read the plot summary here... need I say more). A deduced that it was a Mystic Pizza re-make. We chatted about movies for women vs. movies about women vs. movies for men. All three feature mainly women; the story line of the first can usually be summed up with some synonym of the word "empowering" (exhibit A: Steel Magnolias). Of the third, one can safely say that the storyline, like the clothing, is skimpy (exhibit B: Barb Wire). The works of Pedro Almodovar are glorious testimony to movies in the second category.

Later, finding ourselves stranded outside the Flat Top at 9:01pm (it closes at 9:00pm), we decided to take a chance with the "small plates" at the Bistro. We started by ordering crab cakes (passable) and a california sushi roll (okay; major negative: niggardly gari and wasabi garnishes). We were well on our way into these offerings when the fireworks started up. Although I would never call this location the best place in the city from which to watch the fireworks, because there are too many obstructions in the line of sight to the parks where the fireworks were, it still wasn't bad. And for A and I, who are not given to falling over in joy, foaming at mouth and twitching in limb, each time the word "Fireworks!" is mentioned (and trust me, in this town, there are a few who do), the subdued patter of the distant lights was quite all right.

We finished the evening by over-reaching with the food. I ordered fried calamari (over-cooked and under-blotted); A ordered pizza which I was too full to try, by then.

We'll likely be back, to enjoy what this place does best: a summer night after dinner, for drinks.

It was non-fat yogurt...

... fuck!
Yesterday, I made chicken in mint and coriander sauce for the second time.
This is a recipe from the Book of Vij, a holy text of great offerings. Unlike other holy texts, it is not infallible... notably, its vegetables in coconut sauce, as also its curried Brussels sprouts. The cooking times and heat intensities are often off. Despite this, the things it does well are outrageously good: the Vij family chicken curry, among many others. The chicken in mint and coriander sauce is one of these.
The first time I made it, it was my first week with the book, which was loaned to me by Erik the Widely Traveled. At that time, as often happens with new loves, it seemed nothing I could do would go wrong. One after another, the preparations flew from my hands like well-seasoned doves. This dish was special, in the sense that it was a delicately flavored curry that The General and A were unanimously, and vociferously, enthusiastic about.
Delicate flavors are not a strength of Indian cooking, which tends to box one about the ears with its character. (Not that I'm complaining: I'm a boarding school product, and I understand well that strength is not necessarily evil.) And that's what, in a nutshell, I like best about this book; it's a great amalgam of traditional (like the kala chana- black chickpea- curry) and innovative (like the eggplant and green onion curry).
So when I made the chicken in coriander and mint sauce for the first time, it was great; but then, yesterday, when I made it again, it was marginal, barely teetering on the edible. And the difference was (full credit to A for pin-pointing the problem) the yogurt in which I cooked the chicken. The first time, I used Greek yogurt; the second time, I used non-fat yogurt. Watery and tasting like chicken dipped in mint-coriander chutney, it was all I could do to throw the whole lot out with notable kicks upon its breech.
So listen up, yo (I'll be candid); there is no such thing as healthy good food. In other words, you can live free, or die old.

Summer Holiday

The Boy and I are enjoying a brief summer vacation, after The General and Sid's departure. Yesterday, we went swimming at the city pool, which was crowded but fun. The Boy demonstrated his "dives" to me, which mostly meant a running jump off the springboard with his arms outstretched and body leaning forward. Landing in the water like a lop-sided parachute, he would emerge with a grin splitting his face from ear to ear.
Today, we went and played "real" golf, i.e. not mini-golf but the adjacent par-3. He played with the only club in the loaner kid-set for which he was big enough, the sand-wedge. His putting was impressive, but not as impressive as the fact that he lasted all 9 holes. At the end, he said."Man, that was harder than I thought it would be; when you see it on tv, they make it look so easy."
That, in a nutshell, is the tragedy of golf.
Nothing that a grape slushy can't cure, though, which is what he had for lunch, and came back home and made a "Get Well Soon" card for the Dwag and another for his mother's birthday.

Maun Vrat

Caution: Severe Bullshit Alert at the link that explains the title.
Looking for a quick KCRW fix this morning, I discovered they (and every other internet radio station I listen to, including radio David Byrne) were observing a "Day of Silence" in protest against the soon-to-be-levied royalties, in support of the Internet Radio Equality Act. Read all about it here.
After agonizing for about 30 seconds over whether or not, as a permanent resident, I was entitled to do so, I called Senator Kohl's office. Apparently the Kohlster had stepped out, but the nice lady at the phones promised to convey my concern to him.
I justified my temerity thus: if I could blog about it, I could call the senator. After all, I wasn't, heaven forfend, voting for the senator; I was merely stating my opinion to him, just as I'm doing on this blog to all of you out there, blessed citizens of this (and/or any other) Great Nation(s). Just so the Senator wasn't led astray by some dastardly immigrant, I clarified my status here with the nice lady on the phone.
You should call your senator, too, if you want to be able to listen to good music, or new music, often both. Oh, and vote in the next election.

Well, I'll be Daned.

A, The General and I had lunch at the Great Dane Brewpub in Hilldale today (Sid and The Boy were visiting with the latter's mother), and I could dismiss it by saying that it's exactly the same as the Great Dane Brewpub located downtown, except that it has no garden, doesn't brew it's own beer, and is located in a mall.

And I would, except that I wanted to rave about their blackened tuna sandwich, which is definitely worth eating. Charred to medium-done with Cajun spices and served garnished with gari (japanese pickled ginger) along with the usual tomato and "wasabi" mayo, this sandwich, to me, is the pick of their menu. It comes with "Kohl slaw" (according to the menu... Is that slaw made with kohlrabi? Or is Kohl's where they buy it?) or french fries, and I wanted the latter to go with my Bitter Woman IPA, a favorite beer. The fries were average; nothing, so far, has matched the fresh crunchiness of the fries of The Dog House at the Belvidere Oasis.

A had the falafel sandwich, which she liked. I thought it was soggier than it had to be, but she didn't. The General had the fish and chips and he expressed satisfaction.

What Not to Blog

I just had a terrific meal featuring Turkey-to-die-for at Chez Kenny; but I've decided, for political reasons, to not blog about meals I've had in peoples homes, or indeed about meals that anyone other than I have cooked.

That said, here is a recipe for dal that I know certain people of my acquaintance (litote alert!) would not be utterly disappointed to have:

Ingredients:
2 tbsp vegetable oil
1 tsp mustard seeds
1 tsp cumin seeds
1/2 a medium onion, finely sliced
1/4 tsp turmeric powder
1 cup red lentils, aka Masoor dal, aka Dhuli Masoor dal, aka Malka Masoor Dal
3-4 cups water
1 tbsp Granulated or cubed Chicken stock, adjusted to desired saltiness
1/2 cup coriander (cilantro) leaves, torn or chopped (preferably torn)
Method:
Heat oil on medium-high for a minute or so, then add mustard seeds. As soon as the first popping begins, add cumin seeds. When they start to sizzle, add onions, and saute until nicely limp and translucent. Stir in turmeric. Add the dal, stir well until all the seeds are nicely coated and shiny, about 1 minute. Add water; after it warms up, add the chicken stock granules or cube(s). Let it come to a boil, then cover and simmer on low for 8 minutes. The dal should flatten out to a silky soft consistency. Check salt, and garnish with coriander leaves before serving.
Comment: This is really not the dal of my people. I do it in reverse order, where the onions, mustard seeds and cumin seeds serve as a "masala base" rather than as a "tadka" or garnish as conventionally prepared. Also, the observant Hindoo would rather slide down a rung on the caste-ladder than countenance dal with chicken stock in it. In this regard, I have maintained a don't-ask-don't-tell policy (until now).

A Tale of Two Mills

This was a long day which started with breakfast at home (scrambled eggs and plain parathas, which I've been jonesing for for a few days, see last post); a mid-morning snack at the Fiesta Fe Cafe in Richland Center, lunch at the cottage near Gays Mills, Wisconsin, and dinner at The Old Feed Mill in Mazomanie. The folks involved were, besides myself, A, The Boy, Sid, and The General.

Here is how I like to make the scrambled eggs for which I am world-famous in Madison:
Ingredients:
2 tbsp vegetable oil
1 tsp mustard seeds
8-10 curry leaves
1 medium Onion, thinly sliced
1-2 hot green peppers, chopped
1/4 tsp turmeric
2 tbsp heavy cream
2-4 eggs, briefly beaten
Pepper
Salt to taste
Method:
Heat oil on medium-high for a couple of minutes until hot. Pop mustard seeds, then add curry leaves for about 30 seconds. Add onions, saute until translucent, then add green peppers. Add turmeric, stir briefly (30 seconds or so). Add heavy cream, stir briefly. Turn heat to medium-low, add eggs, and scramble as usual. Add pepper and salt; serve to cries of delight.
I occasionally add garam masala, about a pinch, if I feel like it.

As for the parathas, I buy the "Deep" brand from the Maharani Indian grocery, owners, incidentally, of the restaurant of the same name, and either heat 'em up in the oven or, as The General showed me, microwaved them in a damp cloth or paper towel for 1-1.5 minutes. They taste great and I recommend, even more heartily, their "Aloo parathas".

The Fiesta Fe; as usual, underwhelming. The best thing I can say about what we had today (chips and salsa, shrimp cocktail...yes, yes, I know, it's getting predictable) is that the salsa was not inedible. The rest of it was forgettable; the "cocktail" part of the shrimp cocktail seemed to have come mostly out of a glass bottle marked "Heinz". I lost interest at that point; Sid, always a good indicator of what not to eat, loved it.
Up at the cottage, we flew a kite and explored; later, A made us sandwiches for lunch (turkey pastrami and salami) which went down easy with some beer.
Expectations ran high for the Old Feed Mill. I had heard good things about it. A's parents apparently eat at it all the time and like it; but they also favor Fiesta Fe and A says they are easy to please. I believe her. Although I don't understand why A's ma, who cooks up some really good home-style meals featuring salmon and turkey, allows this.
Let me get on with the story. I ordered the lamb "rayshele" with blue cheese; it was served cold. Even the mashed potatoes it came with were cold. Garlicky and creamy, the temperature of the latter was a real tragedy. The lamb was served in a treacly mushroom sauce. The lamb was done just right, and warm, it might well have tasted just fine. The salad that preceded it was less than fresh. A had a cider-roast chicken that she could not finish; she says it was alright (I'm guessing this is less than a ringing endorsement). Her mashed potatoes were nice and warm. The General had the pork chop which he tolerated; he said it was bland and served too sweet: with regard to the issue of "blandness", I am willing to give the benefit of the doubt to any purveyor of white-people-food who's trying to feed Indians fresh off the boat, so I will say no more. Sid had the chicken pot-pie that he really loved, so the less said the better. The Boy wanted chicken strips and fries off the kids menu. A and I read him the Riot Act in re dining at "proper" restaurants: from here on out, no more "junk food" except when we were at rest-stops, "Oases", or similar. Kids menus are a travesty and I have a new theory for restaurants that have them (in the form that I'm talking about: mac and cheese, burgers, hot dogs and the like): they do not like to take the time. The Boy has happily dined off the regular menu at Japanese and Indian (among others) establishments that do not have kids menus and there seems to be no reason to fear challenging his palate at any other place. Sid was still hungry after finishing his entree, so The General, A and I gave him tastes of ours; his pronouncements were thus : Dad's: "not good"; A's: "did not like, because it was tasteless"; mine: "don't like it". Consistent across the board, he roped The Boy's name into a petition for dessert that I acceded to with poor grace; as it turned out, The Boy barely touched his (a chocolatey confection that appeared to be made of melted fly-paper).
The common denominator seemed to be the poor service. The maitre d' surprised me by announcing the "specials" before we even entered the dining room. Later, it turned out that there was but one server for the entire dining room, which, although granted it was Wednesday, still had people on at least 6 tables that I could see. That was the probable reason for my cold food, and also for the lack of butter with the bread, and for a missed order of wine for The General. There is only so much a single server can do; I felt bad for her as I left her a 15% tip, but I wasn't going to complain, was I?

Mid-morning, south of the border

As usually happens on Sundays, A and I got hungry in the late morning. This often results in one of three or four options: Bluephie's by default; Relish if we don't feel like Bluephie's; and Tex Tubb's if A gets her way (occasionally; she will not hesitate to rope in The Boy to this end). We will have the occasional disaster like the one at Willalby's... a two hour wait for a very average greasy spooner. What I really wanted this morning was to cook my World Famous scrambled eggs with mustard seeds and curry leaves and eat them with plain parathas, but we had no eggs and Trader Joe's wasn't about to become Destination #1.
Which is how we found ourselves at Juanita's Tacos, south of the beltline in a strip-mall that I did not know existed. The Isthmus had given it a good write-up and I was looking for an opportunity to try it. Specifically, I wanted to try the grilled goat, apparently a week-end special.
So the way it turned out was that there was no weekend special; and they were missing other things on the menu, too, like the flavored rice-milk thingy that I love, I think it's called Horchata (I always feel like Bertie Wooster going on about his Scripture Knowledge prize when I talk about the Spanish classes I took in the winter of 2003-4; but I did, and I still don't speak any Spanish, and it's always impressive to me to see someone speaking a language not native to them, like A speaking Spanish to the non-English speaking waitress); A wanted chorizo with her eggs and beans and that was out, too. Besides that, though, it was a pretty good experience. They serve you deep-fried tortilla chips (pronounced "authentic" by A) with two sauces; the green, or avocado+cilantro+peppers, is excellent. The red, or chile+lime+tomatoes, is pretty good. A got her favorite breakfast of scrambled eggs, beans and tortillas, which to me was neither here nor there... but hey. I got something that was named like it was a villainous scheme in a Bollywood pot-boiler, a "Robert's special torta", which turned out be something like a combo hot sandwich; a bun packed with excellent garlic-and-citrus marinaded steak, pulled pork, ham, possibly chicken (it got difficult to tell), lettuce, mayo, tomato and pickled jalapenos. There was probably more but I couldn't tell for sure. It was really good but I could eat only half of it, meaning that I had to waste the other half... which always upsets me a bit. To drink, I had a flavored hibiscus iced-tea, which did not make much of an impression to start with but became a very pleasant accompaniment to the sandwich.
The ambiance is that of your standard strip-mall; vinyl perma-chairs and tables, salmon-y paint-jobs, the cooler behind the counter and the very large trucks outside the plate-glass window.
I do intend to go back and try those interesting looking shrimp-cocktails that a couple of other customers were having. I think A might have her sights set have on the frosting-covered cake, but after yesterday's long jabber about healthy eating, I can't be sure.