Doing Research

Sorry that I can't write more, but I'm in the Bahamas at an internet cafe. I'll be sure to get the ball rolling again on Wednesday or Thursday when I return. I'd love to tell you all about it now, but the beach is calling me. =)

Destination: My House

Somewhere in the world, somebody is describing my seaside hideaway as unique experience on the international scene.(Okay, perhaps seaside is a bit misleading. I can see the docks at the Port of Oakland from my window). They’re talking about the abundance of culture, the richness of the diversity, and the very mild weather in the other city by the Bay. They might even call it exotic, in an urban chic sort of way. Okay, perhaps chic is too strong. Let’s try urban industrial on for size, as the majestic cranes of which the longshoreman are stewards each day, cut quite an imposing figure against a backdrop of the Bay Bridge and San Francisco skyline in the distance. Well, how ‘bout just…URBAN.

I haven’t been on a plane or even in or near an airport in 2 months. I’m well past withdrawal stage. The shakes, the screaming, and the need to be constrained by the orderlies are getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror of this spaceship. A few weeks ago as I stood on the sidelines at my daughter’s soccer tournament which happens to be about a mile and a half from the airport and not far from the flight path of the departing planes, I could feel those shakes coming on again. Each time a plane went over head I found myself staring at it, wondering where it was headed, and wishing I was to be soon on my way to somewhere. I even looked longingly at the FedEx and UPS planes.
I also haven’t been to any of the Au Manoir de Khai’s (see Souffles in Saigon link in archives)or Cuba Libre’s lately either. Don’t start playing that little violin with your thumb and forefinger for me yet though. I have been to a few pretty decent local eateries lately in the Latin themed Tamarindo and Cesar in Oakland as well as a nice little hole in the wall Jamaican place (Back A Yard in Menlo Park) down the street from my job. My absence from the restaurant scene has been partly due to my not having any business trips during this time period and my always being one missed paycheck away from poverty.
Fear not, faithful readers (crickets…) as I’ve been engaged with clients in Asia and the Caribbean already at my new job. I’ll be up to my old globetrotting ways very soon. I’m like a kid waiting for Christmas. I’m so antsy, you’d think I wasn’t actually going to be doing any work when I go. But you can’t keep a good man down. Since I haven’t been able to enjoy an incredible experiences, I had to create my own.


I get tired of making plain ol’ spaghetti or baked chicken all the time, so when I’m in my kitchen I try to draw from the vast international dining experiences that I’ve had . If I have a taste for something, I’ll often drive myself crazy running around town trying to find the ingredients to make it. Unfortunately, the local American grocery stores rarely have any of the “off the beaten path” items that I need for these concoctions. It’s not unusual at all for me to go on a quest for something like real saffron or malanga (a potato like root that I’ve got to search for at the various Supermercados in the Fruitvale District of my fair city). Tortilla Soup, Carnitas tacos (yes, the real taqueria style with the fresh cilantro a a whole jalapeno and some sliced radishes and carrots), Arroz con Pollo, and Chicken with Peanut Sauce are some of the things I’ve whipped up lately. When I’m at a loss for inspiration, the Food Network saves me. Good ol’ Molto Mario (Batali) made a dish that had me nearly putting my face up to the dusty glass of my 32” Sharp television and I was determined to make it come to life in my humble abode. Chez My House. I actually did it too. I surprised myself. The sweet aroma of the merlot , cloves and rosemary in which I prepared the chicken drifted out into the hallway of my condo and down toward the elevator. I overheard some people talking about how good it smelled and how they wanted to go out to a restaurant that night. I kept quiet, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that Chez My House not only had very limited seating , but also was running short on dishes, silverware, and …did I mention our credit card machine is down?

Ever since I ate at Paul K’s in San Francisco earlier this year, I’ve had the urge to try my own hand at cooking with the delectable pomegranates that were used to make the heavenly creations that made me lean over to the adjacent table and say “Oh my God! You’ve got to try this!” holding up a spare rib appetizer that had been glazed in a pomegranate barbeque sauce. Luckily they just forced a very uneasy smile and went back to their conversation. When I picked up a pomegranate at the store it touched off all sorts of inquiries by my children. “What’s that? Are you going to make us eat that? Is it good?”

I went on to explain that it was one of the absolute best fruits I’ve ever had (along with papaya, dragon fruit and the candy-sweet grapefruits that they have in Southeast Asia). I told them how I used to savor them when my mother put them in my lunch as a kid, enjoying each individual seed or just biting into them, leaving my face looking like the proud house cat after he has just made quick work of the family canary. But I digress.

It was Saturday night and my best entertainment options were cooking and enjoying ESPN’s College Football. I flipped between the sometimes Mighty Trojans of USC on one channel and the LSU Tigers on the other channel. When it was all said and done, I had cooked up a melt in your mouth Pork Tenderloin that I would baste in a mustard and pomegranate reduction sauce. I served it with brown basmati rice and some succotash (okay, okay, this was from the frozen section at Trader Joe’s…so shoot me!).

My kids eat GOOD! They’re my little international, culinary connoisseurs lately. I felt like a chef on opening night, with the tough critics sitting at my best tables. My 8-year old critic will eat almost anything, but is still quick to comment on the quality of the meal one way or the other, sometimes with a total disregard for tact or anything like that. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt since I daresay that tact is not yet in his vernacular. My 10-year old is really tough. She turns her nose up at everything, and will flat out refuse to even try many things.

The tangy fragrance created by the union of pomegranate, mustard, orange zest and honey got the best of her. Downright eager to try it, I had to withhold silverware so that I could snap this photo before the moment was gone and food devoured. Success was mine. I, the very humble chef of Chez My House had created another masterpiece to add to the portfolio, with only very minimal pretense as I tossed caution to the wind, and endeavored to create something so sophisticated as a reduction sauce in my very minor league kitchen. Did you hear me? I said REDUCTION SAUCE! Around these parts, barbeque sauce and maybe a semi-homemade spaghetti sauce have supreme. Now I’m making a reduction sauce. Big shots out to Linda W. on the AllRecipes.com website for allowing me to be imbued by her creation.

I doubt not that if such words and phrases were in their vocabularies, my young critics would rave about the masterfully layered flavors that came together while somehow managing to maintain their individuality, unfolding in the mouth like the exotic tales, that are often told here on this site; or like a good bedtime story, perhaps Where the Wild Things Are. They’d speak of the richness of ingredients that invite them to indulge more and more. They’d rush to proclaim Chez My House as a Tour de Force, unparalleled for the quality of its free dining and access to premium seating.

But more likely, they’d just smile and find comfort in the notion that unlike those other stuffy establishments patronized by the Restaurant literati, this one will indeed honor their request for some ketchup in which they will subsequently smother their food.

A J-a-z-z Thang

In yet another chapter of The Charmed, Delightful Days and Deeds of Destah, the other night proved to be a pleasant surprise. My whole life seems to be pleasant surprises. Call me optimistic, but I genuinely believe that good stuff is just going to happen to me, day-in and day-out. (Of course, I pray, well…religiously  several times a day to hedge my bet.) Big shots out to my employer, first of all, for even having me in this location on this particular day.

Here I was thinking that I was in for another ho-hum trip to Colorado. I wasn’t even going to be in Denver, but the much less glamourous locales of Greeley, Evans, and Thornton. (Note: Thornton turned out to be 15 minutes North of Denver). For many years, I have come to Denver on business travel with the notion that other than maybe attending a Nuggets game, I was going to bond with remote control in my hotel room and get some rest. Since my best friend moved to the Mile High City a few years back, it has been slightly more entertaining, but, make no mistake about it: I do not get excited about it like I might for Washington D.C. or Chicago. There’s not even a signature dining experience as far as I can tell, and buffalo burgers don’t count. Sure, you can get a pretty fair steak a few places around town, but it’s nothing to look forward to like, say, a cheesesteak in Philly, some mambo sauce with hot wings in D.C. or some deep-dish pizza in the Windy City. Denver is just, well…Denver. It’s a big city, but I’m still always secretly surprised when some mainstream, major metro-area entertainment or event rolls through town.

Alas, we’re talking about me though. I was there the night that Tubby Smith’s Kentucky Wildcats destroyed the #1 ranked Florida Gators at Rupp Arena in front of 24,000 crazed maniacs in blue. I lucked up into meeting and conversing with, on separate occasions, not one, but two Miss USA winners. Lest we forget, I was also there rapping away on my laptop in an adjacent room as a Kingston, Jamaica bank robbery was attempted, oblivious to the whole thing as the sounds of Roy Ayers and Donny Hathaway blasted through my iPod.

So, here I was in Denver the other night, fresh off a ho-hum dinner at a chain restaurant when my buddy calls and tells me to come hang out Downtown. We ended up going to have a drink at an Italian restaurant at the Adam’s Mark hotel, with the Branford Marsalis Quartet.

No, they were not performing. They were finishing dinner, and we pulled up some chairs and sat with them. Really! It just so happens that my buddy has known Branford for a couple years as both have roots in New Orleans.

Anyone that knows me knows that I’m a jazz enthusiast. Actually, some might argue that fanatic is a more accurate representation. When he told me that we were going to hang out with Branford, I had to “get my mind right” and make sure I didn’t turn into a groupie or something. (No, I just threw that in for dramatic effect. Showing emotion has never been a strong suit of mine. A friend of mine once said that if I were any more laid back, I might lay down and fall asleep.)

I was excited in my own little way. When recounting this evening’s events to another friend the next morning, she immediately asked, “Did you get his autograph!??” I don’t do autographs. I don’t have much use for someone’s signature on a piece of paper. I’d much rather just hang out and hear what’s on whomever’s mind or just soak up the whole scene than have some millionaire with an inflated sense of self hastily sign his name on a napkin while scarcely looking in my direction. That’s not my type of hype. I prefer the “un-plugged” type of situation. Off the record, unfiltered, no clichés, no prepared statements. Just a few cats choppin’ it up any number of topics: the Knicks, Al Sharpton, Single Malt Scotch-Whiskey, Chopin, taxi drivers in Southeast Asia, Mo’ Betta Blues. We were all over the place.


Another thing that all my close friends know is that Spike Lee’s Mo’ Betta Blues is my favorite movie. Again, some of my friends might say fanatic, but that has such negative connotations. At least I’m not like those Rocky Horror Picture Show clowns that dress up like a character and go to the movie over and over again and recite all the lines. Okay, so I do know all the lines of each character in the movie. Verbatim. But that’s only because I’ve seen it so many times. And I happen to like wearing nice suits and hanging out in jazz clubs. It’s not like I carry an instrument around or something. JEEZ!

It just so happens that not only did the Branford Marsalis Quartet do the soundtrack for Mo’ Betta Blues, Branford, and his drummer Jeff “Tain” Watts had roles in the movie.
“This was two masters of their craft playing at a time before their art was corrupted…,” well, not exactly. I just felt like throwing in that quote from Chad the Au per/Child Technician from one of my other favorite movies, Jerry Maguire. Two masters indeed, but not on the silver screen. But to a Mo’Bett-ologist like me, however, their lines are classic! The movie wouldn’t be the same without them. They even offered insight on some of the scenes, and the story behind their lines. Forget autographs. The best part of the night for me was hearing Branford tell a story about how the music being played during one of the most dramatic scenes was not exactly what the credits reported it as. “Everyone knows that Terrence didn’t play that, and that there’s only one guy who it could’ve been,” said Branford, grinning a knowing and pride filled grin, as he referred to a certain trumpet virtuoso that he knows very , very, very well. *wink*



Apparently, in one of those scheduling mis-haps that are often unavoidable in showbiz, the original musicians weren’t available to re-do that song during the film’s final editing. And now I know that. Vibe magazine doesn’t even know that story, and neither does Rolling Stone! (Not that they might care, but play along and let me enjoy this for a minute).

Real gracious cats. Branford did end up signing an autograph that night, but it wasn’t for me. Apparently, quite a few celebs come through the Adam’s Mark in Denver, and the waiter had a book full of autographs that he asked Branford to sign. Branford also left the guy some passes to see the show the next night.

Mr. Marsalis and Mr. Watts laughed about how Mo’ Betta Blues really glamorized the jazz scene. None of their venues are as spectacular as those in the movie. Theirs is not a profession accustomed to seeing upscale clientele. Perhaps it was in the ‘40s, ‘50s, or ‘60s when the Miles Davis’ and John Coltranes were headlining, but just like track and field gold medalists, jazz artists walk around in relative anonymity most of the time. (Speaking of which, I saw Carl Lewis walk through Salt Lake City Int’l a few weeks ago and almost no one noticed.) “If Spike showed the toothless lady, smoking the cigarette, and serving drinks to the overweight guy with severe body odor at some dive of a club, nobody would go see it,” remarked Branford.

It just so happens that I had seen the the group perform at a beautiful venue last year at the Philarmonik in Kuala Lumpur. (This spawned the conversation about the taxi-drivers and their penchant for directing you to the services offered by the local ladies). They put on a magnificent show in a beautiful hardwood architectured theater in the base of the Petronas Towers. Life is good!

Searching for Subway

I’m back! I know its been a rather lengthy hiatus, but here I am and ready to tell you all about it. So cue up the Curtis Mayfield. (I don’t know why but the theme from Superfly came to my head the instant that I got “inspired” to “get my blog on” again.) As fate would have it, I’m back in the state (no, not Confusion, but Colorado) that produced my last two entries. Correction…my last entry. The other one didn’t make it past the proverbial cutting room floor. I got caught up. It didn’t flow the way I wanted it to. It was arguably too much for my amateur abilities to adequately articulate. (Wow, I alliterated twice in the same sentence!) I had such big plans for it..such high expectations. I mean, really. Have YOU ever sat and talked shop with the members of the cast from your favorite movie? How ‘bout this? I’ll put it up after this one and you decide.

Back to the here and now. I’ve been away. You were afraid I wouldn’t be back. You were worried. You were…weren’t you? Did you even notice I was away? Were you even slightly concerned with where I was? Well, suffice it to say that I lived to tell about it. I survived the hustle and bustle of Roosevelt, Utah moving at the breakneck pace of the Uintah Valley. That was nothing compared with the international fare that I dined on at the Flying J in Willcox, Arizona. And how bout the bullet hole in the window of my fine accommodations at the Best Western there. It was a street level room, mind you, and (oh…the horror!) a door that lead not to a hallway but to the parking lot. But I really got the Z-List celebrity treatment when I waited in a line 17 deep to eat at the deli counter of Eddie Basha’s “grocery” store, on consecutive days at both the San Carlos Apache Reservation and Tohono O’odham Reservations, respectively.( I use the word grocery very loosely here. Who ever heard of a supermarket with no produce? All they offer the poor folks on the Reservation is junk food. I could get off on a whole rant about the crimes against humanity perpetrated by the U.S. Government here, but that’s a story for another day.) A far cry from Souffle’ing in Saigon, certainly.

Blame it on my day job (no, you’re too kind..and flattery will indeed get you everywhere, but I do in fact have a principal occupation that brings in oh..about 99 to 100% of my income. Really! I do) but on this day I was craving some good ol’ fashioned American fare. A burger to be exact. I’ve actually had a hankerin’ for a hamburger a lot lately. No, not anything that is served in a drive thru (although In N’ Out deserves special mention above those other despicable places…what with their Golden Arches, regal mascots, and red-headed, tree kicking little girls). Quite to the contrary, I have been trying to nail down the best gourmet burger around. Anywhere. Bar none. Period. I’ll give the full run down on the burger wars later. I know. My bad. I’m apologizing for sounding like a network television news or gossip show (what’s the difference?) that lures you in with the hot story in the opening credits and then proceeds to string you along with “coming up after this commercial break” for the next 40 or 50 minutes only to deliver a very anti-climactic tidbit that even you already knew. Look on the bright side. I’m setting the table. I’m giving you the table of contents. I’m whetting your proverbial palate with literary hors d’oevres. Just listen.

So, fresh off United Flight 154, and after dashing past the Hertz #1 Club Gold board to my usual road chariot (spelled F-O-R-D T-A-U-R-U-S) I found myself heading west on I-70 toward Vail, CO. I managed to inhale a breakfast burrito at the gate before boarding, but that was about 630am so I was definitely ready for lunch. Being mindful of the time schedule that I was supposed to be on, I figured I would stop at Subway, grab a sandwich and eat while I drive the 126 miles from Denver. Seemed simple enough. You can always find a Subway. Furthermore, all of the signs that I passed told of Inns, Gas Stations, and seemingly a Subway amongst the myriad of other usual fast food suspects at every exit. Following one of those signs, I got off the highway, drove to what was probably the only stoplight in this town and pulled into the parking lot where the McDonald’s, the Home Depot, and the Sinclair gas stations were, certain that Subway would be in this same little traveler’s oasis. Nothing. I left that parking lot and drove across the street to what looked like a recent addition to this collection of strip mall stores. Still no Subway. Feeling the pressure from the angry, hungry mob that raged within my stomach, I decided to cross that same intersection and search for the Subway over there. There was nothing over there but an old forest fire station, and a sign that said “The World Famous El Rancho”. Now, the fact that it was attached to the Best Western made my inner cynic a tad skeptical about its actual renown outside of say…5 miles in any direction. I had to remind myself of the “world famous” bar that Tom Hanks makes his way to in The Terminal, beneath a Manhattan Ramada Inn, in search of a performance and ultimately an autograph from jazz great Benny Golson. What the heck. The place had some character. I parked the car and walked in.




I should’ve had the special. Perhaps it sounded a little too down home. A little too greasy spoon. It was more likely that I had very low expectations for the place when a gravy-smothered, open-faced roast beef sandwich was probably precisely the thing that they did well. The potatoes made my decision more than anything. I was expecting some KFC quality, just-add-water-and-stir, fluffy , yet fake, mashed potatoes. I got suckered by the Kobe Beef Burger with the crumbled, smoked gouda cheese and heirloom tomatoes. You know how it is. Everytime you’re offered Kobe beef on a menu, you’re almost obligated to get it. Its like getting a filet mignon burger or so they’d have you believe. The Kobe cows are pampered for all of their natural lives, getting manicures, massages, sipping lattes. It would be like stepping up to the United Airlines counter and having them tell you, “for $5 more, we can seat you in first class….” You HAVE to do it. I’d love to be able to tell you that this was like the full service intercontinental first class flights on Cathay Pacific or something, but I can’t. In keeping with my metaphor, this more closely resembled getting the first class upgrade on a flight from LAX to SFO. A whopping 45 minutes of luxury. No food. No hot towel. No hot fudge sundaes. Just a little leg room. I shouldn’t be so hard on the El Rancho. The service was World Famous. The staff was very courteous and friendly. The place was very clean. It just wasn’t the best burger I’ve ever had. What I should’ve done, however, was stay around for dessert, because it sounded really good. I try not to order dessert at lunch too often though. Hey, I’ve got to exercise SOME discipline, or I’ll be racing Screech up some stairs in one of the challenge rounds on Celebrity Fit Club. (Yeah, I know that being a Celebrity is kind of a requirement, but why are you trying to burst my bubble?!)

I finally made it to Vail and began to carry out the orders of my latest mission. I was to collect data, using my laptop , from the wireless access points that were scattered most inconspicuously around the village, sitting in the car since the thunderstorms were in full effect on this Monday afternoon. I’m sure that I looked every bit of the CIA agent that my friends suspect me of being, going on all these mysterious trips to all of these mysterious locations, and quite frequently, I might add. There I sat, trying to blend in, in my American full-sized sedan, being mysterious once again. I got a call from a co-hort asking me to move my operation to the main testing area 30 miles away in Eagle, CO so that we might collaborate and take care of the very mysterious mission. All of this mystery is enough to make a guy hungry again. Don’t roll your eyes. It had been a full 3 hours since I left the World Famous El Rancho. Again, my thought process was to just find a Subway to save time, and hit the road. I found out that finding a Subway in Vail Village is a little like trying to find a Spago in Itta Bena, Mississippi. Luckily, I stumbled upon yet another establishment with an international following. I hopped down the steps to Joe’s World Famous Deli and Ice Cream just below street level and marveled at not only the very inviting menu, heavenly smells of freshly baked bread, and array of eclectic ice cream flavors, but also at the many pictures of folks both locally famous( a few autographed pictures of some cat on a snow board doing a flip) and world famous (athletes, musicians, etc.). Each of these pictures seemed to contain a message about which sandwich it was endorsing. All of the choices sounded so good, but I decided to keep it relatively simple with the roasted turkey on ciabatta. Otherwise, I could’ve stared at the menu for an eternity, mouth watering the whole time, as I tried to make sure that I had an amazing dining experience. Again, I had to remind myself that time was of the essence, and , well…its just a sandwich! I am happy to report that when I become “famous” I vow to bring Joe a picture of me doing whatever it is that I do (probably holding a fork and sitting with a napkin in my lap) and plan to give my own endorsement of his absolutely amazing sandwiches. This was no ordinary roasted turkey on ciabatta. Joe topped it with a tomato, sliced mushrooms, and provolone cheese before pressing it in a big device that looked like a fancy George Foreman Grill, sans lines, and garnishes with a substantial pickle slice. The pickle is always a nice touch. It is like the ginger slices that they give you with a plate of sushi, priming your pallet for the spicy tuna and rice roll that will follow. Its like a fluffer that gets the…um…Did I mention that I’m going to autograph a picture for Joe one day?

Dodging raindrops now, I hurried back to my conservatively colored non-descript 4-door American full-sized sedan with my roasted turkey on ciabatta and jumped on the freeway. I’ve never been so happy to see traffic, and everyone knows how I feel about traffic. It’s a lot easier to steer the vehicle with your knees when the flow of traffic is going at about 5mph. The road construction crew had the highway merged down to a single lane, allowing me to put both of my hands on either side of this deli dynamo. I’m sure I had some mayonnaise on my cheek as I passed by the guy in the orange vest and hard hat, holding the SLOW sign. I didn’t care. All I could think about was the marriage of the mushrooms and the provolone cheese, laid gently on the bed of roasted turkey. I not only have Joe to thank, but let’s not forget Jared from Subway for indirectly leading me to these infinitely more intriguing dining experiences.

I did finally make it to Eagle, and got a little done. Pretty soon, it was time to eat again. No, I wasn’t looking for Subway anymore, but my luck continued as I opted for cajun Italian at Bagali’s instead of chicken wings and fries at the sports bar. Call me a food snob, but Crawfish cakes sounded (and tasted) much better than a basket of chili fries.