You Should Go to Napa Right Now

With a late January 10-day forecast residing mainly in the mid-60s, and world class wine and restaurants available down pretty much any path you chose to roam, Napa is looking like a pretty good place to be right now. Here are a few of the highlights for those looking to throw caution to the wind and take the pre-spring excursion.

WINTER IN THE WINERIES

Still going strong in its 12th year, this wine-tasting extravaganza allows participants to explore 14 featured wineries across the Calistoga, Lake County, Pope Valley, and St. Helena regions. Enjoy complimentary tastings, spa discounts, restaurant discounts and complimentary corkage with the cost of your WITW Passport. Make your reservations here, but hurry because the February 6th end date is coming up fast! #napavalley #napavalleywineries #winterinthewineries #calistoga #turo #visitnapavalley

CABERNET RELEASE WEEKEND

Did someone say February 6th? Besides being the born date of the king of irie vibes, one Robert Nesta Marley, and also Aaron Burr, sir, it’s the last day of Cabernet Release Weekend at Bennett Lane Winery in Calistoga (Feb. 4-6, 2022). They’ll (Bennett Lane, not Bob or Burr) start you off with a splash of their 2018 Brut Sparkling wine before leading you through an incredible flight of 2018 and 2019 Cabs. #bennettlanewinery

CHARCUTERIE CLASS AT CARNEROS

Pretty food on fancy trays more your speed? Head on over to Carneros Resort and Spa for a hand-on charcuterie class demo in the resort’s beautiful culinary gardens. Of course, they’ll pour you a glass to enjoy just for being an onlooker. #carnerosresort

VALENTINES DINNER AT CARNEROS

The hits just keep on coming from Carneros. Make your Valentine’s Day dinner reservations at FARM on the Carneros property to enjoy the seasonally-inspired tasting menu and exceptional cocktail and local wine pairings. Trust me. You want this romantic atmosphere. You NEED this romantic atmosphere. For reservations, email farm@carnerosresort.com or call 707-299-4880 .

WINE COUNTRY COLLECTORS’ DINNER

Need more time? How’s March 12 at 6pm? Perfect. This world-class 4-course experience at Duckhorn Vineyards will be just the culinary treat that the serious wine lover in you needs to close out Q1 in style. #duckhornvineyards

Need to get there in style? Rent this Car

Strictly High End: Turks and Caicos

A vacation, or visit to a renown vacation spot by a business traveler like myself is never really complete without getting a taste of the local flavor. As you can imagine, my visit to Turks and Caicos would be no different. This trip was so highly anticipated that my boss probably could've sent me here with marching orders to work at the sanitation facility (aka The Dump) and I would've gladly gone. I had seen the pictures and I had heard the tales of wretched excess from the Entertainment Tonight/Access Hollywood crowd as well as the hip-hop set.

Young H-O pitch the yay faithful
Even if they patrol I make payroll
Benz paid fo', friends they roll
Private jets down to Turks and Caicos

Jay-Z from What More Can I Say on The Black Album

I was going to be all about the poppin' bottles with models and the larger steaks on large estates. I mean, a movie star is the first lady for cryin' out loud! (Well, maybe "star" is a bit strong. She's a good lookin' actress well known by the BET set). Oh yeah, and I was going to work too. Well, if you're up on your D's Daily ( and ) you already know how that went.

So I was a little mis-informed, but let's not dwell on that. Instead, let's spend some time talking about the very accomplished expatriate chefs and restauranteurs that have done quite a remarkable job in bringing some world class dining experiences to this tiny island. There are reportedly more than 100 restaurants, cafes, beach bars and bistros on Providenciales alone. By the way, the locals call it Provo and its the capital of Turks and Caicos.

A definitive local cuisine shall remain a mystery for now, but as you can imagine for an island, seafood is very available. Like the Bahamas, Conch is very much available with every meal. I had no shortage of spectacular meals in this very chic resort community, so without further adieu, I'll give you the day by day rundown.

I started each day at the Seaside Cafe, which was my hotel's(Ocean Club West) seaside/poolside restaurant. The very friendly staff was always ready to whip up some eggs, french toast, or pancakes on the double.
Since daylight was scarce given my work schedule, I was usually coming from my morning jog on the beach when I placed my order here. In the evenings, they had various happy hour themes and even some live music under the starlight. It wasn't the island vibe that I was looking for however (one night it was a one-man-band playing an electric piano and covering everything from Van Morrison to Al Jarreau to Barry Manilow, and a "unique" version of Eric Clapton's Lay Down Sally that I haven't been able to get out of my head since...aaaaarrrgh! ) so I rarely hung out longer than it took me to devour an order of conch fritters and suck down a rum punch or a Heineken.

The only reasonably priced meal that I ate during my 8 days in Provo was the very first one at Hemingway's On the Beach. Every other meal absolutely broke the bank, but at least the food was very good. Hemingway's does salads, sandwiches and burgers very well, and with a view to die for. You'll notice that will be a common theme here. The seating is largely outdoors, except for a few tables near the little open-air room by the bar. I was amused by the fact that the people that had sat near me on the plane were at an adjacent table. All of us feigned indifference, pretending not to notice one another and blend in as if all of this decadence were old hat.

My client, Jeff, was a great source for information during my 8 days in paradise. Almost immediately he let me in on a little secret amongst the residents of this place. Discussing something as trivial as the weather is pointless in Turks and Caicos. The weather is ALWAYS good and it almost never rains (except for 2 of the 8 days that I was around...go figure). "So we talk about the food," Jeff explained. There is an amazing dining experience to be had nightly. In the resort part of town, this is an understatement. Nearly everything is a five-star establishment, or at least similarly priced. Jeff knew this and made sure to ease me in slowly. We'd usually talk about the day's work and maybe what we hoped to get accomplished the next day until we reached Governor's Road (where mine and many other hotels reside) and then he would go deep in though trying to decide where I should eat that night. The first night that we were not in the office burning the midnight oil and eating pizza or chinese food, he sent me to a place called Coco Bistro.

Hidden down a little dirt driveway and surrounded by palm trees, Coco Bistro looked unassuming enough. From the outside it was a quaint little brightly-colored house with some rocks creating a pathway to the front door. Once inside, it doesn't look like much but a bar with a very small dining area until you realize that this is actually just the waiter's and bus boy's station. The dining area is outside under a canopy of coconuts, palm trees, and starlight that is perhaps one of the most romantic settings you can imagine. I was dining alone, but this was not lost on me as they set the white napkin on my lap and handed me a menu. For some reason, I was in the mood for something mildly Italian, so I had some scallops and pasta. Absolutely delicious! I was sure that Jeff sent me here as a warm-up, so I tried not to overdo it and promised myself that I would come back again to try something else from the menu (but I didn't get the chance).

My next experience was Grace Bay Club's Anacaona. As with most locales on this island, this place could be summed up in one word: Spectacular. Dining alone again, I sat at the 90 foot long Infiniti Bar that seems to continue right on into the water where I could still order from the restaurant's full dinner menu. The outdoor dining area (again, not a risk here since it rarely rains) was outlined by tiki torches which were quite striking as they accompanied the moon in dimly lighting the white table-clothed settings. Another nice visual touch were the brightly colored, yet elegant chairs. The appetizers here were too enticing to skip and I even lost my composure and ordered two of them in the Conch Chowder (made with cherry pepper and aged rum) and Crab Assortment (blackened Alaskan King crab with tomato marmalade, lump crab tempura, and king crab salad with creole salsa). I opted against wine and instead indulged in one of their specialty rum-based cocktails. At a bar like this, how could you not order something? For my entree, I went to an old standby, Chilean Sea bass, that chefs Joel Rheaume and Eion Laird clearly "put their foot in". (For those of you not familiar with that phrase from African American Southern vernacular, that means they really did a fine job in cooking it to perfection and it was quite tasty.) I had been warned about the dessert and made sure to save room. Let's not kid ourselves, anytime somebody has a warm chocolate centered cake that brings back fond memories of the Godiva chocolate cake at Mortons, I'm all in...whether you have to air lift me out of there or not. This one did not disappoint.

The next night it was on to the Caicos Cafe which I would've tried a few nights earlier had I not taken a left instead of a right and walked way down the street before somebody set me straight. When I finally made it on that night, the kitchen was closed. The great thing about being 6'7" is that people don't usually forget you (unless of course, you're a criminal and you want to go unnoticed so that you can stay out of reach of Johnny Law) and they greeted me accordingly when I did finally dine there. "You made it back!" the hostess exclaimed upon my return down the walkway of multicolored gravel and up the steps. I showed up in shorts and sandals here and felt just fine about it. Actually, you can do that at most of these places but at this one especially. It definitely has an island feel, but the menu has a sort of French/Mediterranean twist to it. Of course the seafood is great, and I chose to partake in a crab salad. The portions are huge here, so you don't feel nearly as bad when the bill comes, and you're definitely full. This place wasn't nearly as swanky as Anacaona, but somehow, the bill was almost as much. Don't come to this island on a budget. Upon that much we can be certain.

Although we had pizza delivered to the office at about 630pm so that we could continue working, I had a hankerin' for some more food at about 930pm so I trucked it on down to Bella Luna for some outstanding Italian fare. I hate to keep calling everything spectacular (it kind of takes away from the word, like when actors and actresses call each other "Amazing" whenever they are on the red carpet at awards shows) but it was. The food was quite good, but not the best Italian I've ever had, but coupled with the ambience it gets a definite thumbs up from me. I got there about 10 minutes before closing time and was still treated like a first class guest, and greeted with some peligrino and bruschetta almost immediately. Go ahead and kick me now for not bringing my camera to this one. The dining room sits atop a second floor patio overlooking a palm-tree lined courtyard accented with beautiful flowers. If you've got the loot and a date, you could win major points for booking reservations at this place. But then again, you're probably way ahead if you've got a date with you on this island.

You might say that I've saved the best for last, although any one of these places would've made my week in any other place. Arguably, the best food on the island, Coyaba was to be the crown jewel in my tour of Provo restaurants.
As it turns out, Coyaba is an Arawak Indian word that means "heavenly". That this restaurant was given this is a name is oh so apropos. First, however, I have a confession to make. Similar to the way that I've often got more month left at the end of my money back home, I was in a similar pickle here. I had one night left, and still had two must-visit places on my agenda to choose from. But how do you choose? Do you skip the best restaurant on the island so that you can get to the one place that is the unanimous choice by the locals, Smokey's, for the real live Turks Islander experience? You've already gone to several other outstanding restaurants with million-dollar views. On the other hand, do you skip the only true local experience when you're a person that lives for that kind of thing? A lesser foodie might have made a tough decision and chosen one. I got an early start.

The service at Coyaba, like the rest of the places was impeccable, but somehow even a cut above. It was a fairly small place but it seemed like there wait staff numbered in the hundreds. Servers and waiters were coming and going from all directions all the time. One of them brought me one of the chef's creations while I contemplated the menu choices. It seemed simple enough, baby carrots, slices of red peppers, and pita bread wedges placed just so around a dipping sauce. The pita bread wedges were warm, however, and the sauce was out of this world. I asked 3 different members of the wait staff what was in it just to make sure that I didn't forget. It was a white sauce (well, i think it was white, but couldn't really tell by candlelight) made from cream cheese, sour cream, and coconut, but somehow tasted like honey butter...but BETTER! I think I could've left right after tasting this and been satisfied. I ordered a lobster bisque that seemed to be the gold standard for lobster bisques around the world, served in all of its steamy perfection in a large white bowl with colorful designs around its rim. I accompanied this with a hearty duck confit salad and told them to keep the pitas and dipping sauce coming. It was really a shame that I couldn't stay longer, but even in that short time, I was very impressed. It's a good thing I did leave though, because it surely would've broken the bank. As it was I left there $74 lighter and hadn't even peeked at the entree menu yet.

So that you're not brow-beaten by my verbosity any longer, I'll summarize some other nice spots to drop in on if you make it down to Provo:

Lunch/Casual Dinner:
Mango Reef- a great bar and grill spot right on the beach with a pleasant dining area that makes a good soup/salad and sandwich.

Da Conch Shack- as authentic as you can be without being authentic, but deceptively good. (See my Who Stole the Soul in D's Daily). The Curry Conch is a must. Bring your camera because the views don't get any better than this.

Corner Cafe- A great sandwich shop attached to the grocery store off the main drag. Try the prosciutto if you go there a few times, but definitely do not skip the Corner Club or the Smoked Turkey Club.

Ports of Call/Dive Bar- these are right near the Caicos Cafe and they are your basic low scale eateries that still do a pretty good job on the grub, make a stiff drink and still charge you like you're at the Ritz.

Smokey's- This is the spot where the locals eat. If you like your common rib shack, jook joint, mama's-kitchen-soul-food-spot in any rural part of the Southern United States, this is your spot. Surprisingly, there aren't any $3 entrees, but if you haven't noticed by now, the economics on this island are all screwed up. Wednesday is Fish Fry night and the parking lot is the see and be seen spot for the brothas that like to play the funky beats out of the back of their jeeps.

3 Days in Paradise (Island, that is)

I doubt that there are too many things more pleasing for tired eyes to see than the heavenly aqua blue waters that surround the 700 tiny islands that are the Bahamas. As the captain instructed the flight attendants to prepare for landing, I raised the shade on my window to witness this spectacular display of chromatic brilliance, this rhapsody in blue.

Breathtaking comes to mind, but still might not fully encompass the magnitude of the vision. My stomach got the same butterflies that I felt each time I saw that "most beautiful girl I've ever seen" when I was 14 or maybe that was the captain adjusting the altitude for turbulence. It's almost magical, like that feeling you get as a six-year-old when the electric light parade starts on Main Street at Disneyland.

Some say these waters have healing powers. The crick in my neck from being wedged between the headrest and window seemed to be improving with each passing second and not even my pinkie toe had touched the pristine, bone-white sand yet. Remember when you wanted to help your mom bake the cake and she, fearing total decimation of the whole dessert project, put you in charge of sifting the flour (something that you can't really mess up) and you marveled at how the sifted flour was so fine and you wanted to put your hands in it and play but she realized it just in time and snatched it back so that you'd actually have cake to enjoy? The sand was like that, a crisp white shirt fresh from the dry cleaners that sets a nice backdrop for the silky aqua-blue tie that is the Caribbean Sea. When the water hits the shore, like the Revolution--according to Bunny Wailer, you feel no pain.

I was treated to a mild, friendly Sun. It was no more than 85 degrees the whole time I was there, a gentle breeze tickled the skin making it oh so comfortable to be out and about. And out and about I did go! If you've been paying attention, you know that out and about seldom are far from a hearty plate and amazing sights. Daylight was wasting away and I had a date with exquisite locale number 1: The One and Only Ocean Club.

Wow! So powerful, so profound and all encompassing, and yet only three letters, this word. The shuttle driver stopped in a turnabout at the Ocean Club's golf course and I was awestruck. Walking through a courtyard and past the pro shop the magnificent blue coupled with the Augusta National quality manicured fairway just below me was so spectacular it almost made noise. It’s as if the rest of your life your eyes have been watching regular TV, and then you get here and LIFE is in HD. Even one of my 5 hour, triple bogey-laden rounds would be exciting here. I’d probably not care much if I lost a ball or if I even hit the ball. But what should I expect from a place that is run by One and Only Resorts, which has properties in some of my most desired wish-list “M” locations (Maldives and Mauritius). Everything here was truly first class. I was glad to have a reason to be on the grounds as a family friend had a residence here. Only in Nassau for 2 hours now and it’s already better than my previous visit. Back in 2004 I came on a Carnival Cruise line and spent a day here. I did quite a bit in that day, but it was just too rushed. For my money, getting to your destination and checking it out thoroughly for a few days is much better than wasting days on a boat and watching it knife its way through the sea.

One thing that I have still yet to do is partake in a local night spot. I daresay that if the folks at the nightlife spots are 1/5 as lively as the ones that I sat and watched football with on my first day, then a good time will surely be had by all. It never occurred to me that people in another country would be tuned in and quite die hard about their allegiances with teams like the Cleveland Browns and New York Jets. I don’t think I’ve EVER met a real live New York Jets fan, at least not one that’s younger than 60 years old . This was one of those trips where a relative told you to “call so and so,” when you get there and you actually do and it ends up being real cool. I was fed quite extensively, and whisked away to a comfortable seat in front of the television to watch Tom Brady’s Patriots dispense of the Steelers while on the other TV, the Jets fans barked out orders as if the quarterback could hear them. It was nuts. There’s a festival called Junkanoo that happens the day after Christmas and also New Year’s Day. This looks like the party to end all parties, so schedule accordingly if you’re able. They were setting up the grandstands a full 2 weeks in advance and the cab drivers and all other locals I encountered were all abuzz about it.

On my second day, I got down to the business of eating as you knew I was bound to do sooner than later. One thing I did manage to do the last thing I was here was get to some of the good local spots where the locals actually go, in Double D’s and The Fish Fry. Double D’s is along Bay Road near the bridge that takes you to Paradise Island. It’s your basic greasy spoon, but when the spoon is stirring up Caribbean food, you’re in for a special treat, and they make a great drink. You can get a good Bahama Mama at most places in Nassau, but especially here. Also, make sure you try at least one Goombay Smash while you’re here, for pure rum goodness!

The Fish Fry on Arawak Cay, just beyond the tourist trap that is the Central part of town along Bay Street, is THE spot. If you time it right, you’ll see what I’m talking about. This is where folks go when they get off work. Come by around 4 or 5pm for some real local flavor. I think I ate at Twin Brothers last time I was here, and this time it was Oh Andros! The favorite at most places in town and especially here is the Conch Salad and Conch Fritters. Conch is the mollusk that resides in that marvelous shell that you always see on television with the guy standing on a big rock and blowing into it with the sun setting behind him. The Conch Salad and Crab Salads are terribly fresh and usually made right there in front of you, at a separate window, since their demand is so high.
The Conch Fritters go great with the remoulade dipping sauce they provide, and a Bahamian Iced Tea or the requisite Bahama Mama. Come hungry, because you will get plenty to eat. I made the mistake of getting my entrée plate of boiled snapper, rice and peas, plantains, and conch fritters and thinking that my crab salad was going to be a small side salad. It wasn’t! It was a meal within itself. I couldn’t nearly finish it, but tried to put forth my best effort. It’s a good thing that there was a nice stretch of beach nearby to walk some of that food off before folding myself into a taxi.

Even the taxi rides are an experience. The drivers are so friendly and quite a bit more casual than cabbies you’ll see in other places. The guy driving on the way back from the Fish Fry was going on and on about his costume for Junkanoo and then suddenly pulled over to pick up a lady friend of his who rode with us the rest of the way. It was hilarious. If you don’t want to take a taxi everywhere, those going to or from Paradise Island can take the ferry. As with the taxis, the ferry rides have entertainment of their own. Tour guides like Clarence or Motley provide you with a historical perspective of the sites visible from the Bay, complete with gossip about stars and locations of their humble (and not so humble) abodes. Throwing these guys a dollar or two at the end of the ride is more than worth it, as they work on tips and add spice and humor to the 10 minute ride.

I stayed at the Atlantis Resort which, I must admit, is one of the most spectacular hotel resort property’s that you’ll find anywhere. The place is beautifully kept and its friendly staff are more than willing to do their best to make your stay as enjoyable as possible. This quality costs though. Unless you’ve got money to burn, I’d avoid doing too much casual eating on the property. There are a few little restaurants right outside the doors of Atlantis that make a decent meal and at a much more reasonable price. Anthony’s Grille and Bar is such a place. I had breakfast at Anthony’s twice and was very pleased with the quality of the food as well as the décor and the service.
For overall appeal, though, you can’t really knock Atlantis. It’s got a little something for everyone, with full service Spa, exercise facilities, several swimming pools and bars, and restaurants. The Bahamian Club is supposed to be a very upscale restaurant recommended to me by several locals as one of their favorite “special occasion” spots. Unfortunately, it was closed on the night I thought about going. It was low season, so they shut down parts of the resort on certain days. The place is so big and complete though, that you hardly feel cheated. For the high rollers among you, check out the Cove, the newest hotel wing opened. It is decidedly more upscale than the other hotel areas and has some of the swankiest looking bars (Seaglass) and restaurants (Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill) in the whole resort. It looks like a place where P-Diddy might film a video. The beach behind the Cove somehow seems even nicer than the rest, its sand slightly less trodden upon perhaps.

On my last full day, after I had worked up a pretty serious appetite shopping for souvenirs, I stumbled upon another rare find in Brother Eddie’s Bahamian Kitchen. Well down Bay Street (at Elizabeth) and out of the tourist strip, my nose for local fare must’ve led the way. It didn’t look like much, but again, I saw the locals crossing the street to get there in the distance, so I went in too. Curry goat, rice and peas, salad and plantains hit the spot this time. The thing I love about this and so many of the other places is that it always tastes like somebody’s mama is cookin’ for ya. Another very storied place that I’ve failed to make it to during my two visits is the Poop Deck, also in the vicinity of Double D’s. It comes highly regarded, so I will surely make it my first stop on the next visit.

With one night left, some upscale dining was in order. Chez Willie bills itself as the “Finest in French and Bahamian Cuisine”. Another highly regarded establishment, I had seen it several times going to and fro on both trips. Unfortunately, I have to give Willie a B- for this visit, as they were out of many things. Well, let me ease up for a moment. I partly blame myself for going late on a Tuesday night, not exactly a busy time. I suspect that most of the kitchen staff had gone home. My waiter was excellent however, recommending a nice Pinot Blanc and pointing out some of the high points of the limited menu. After dinner he even had me autograph the bottle and placed it on a shelf with others in the very cozy sitting room just off the bar. He made me realize just how crucial a knowledgeable and courteous wait staff can be to the success of a restaurant. Without his friendliness and candor, I think I’m way more upset that they couldn’t make the Guava Duff that I wanted for dessert. Guava Duff in the Bahamas is like Apple Pie or Chocolate Cake in the States, so make sure you try some. It would’ve been nice to end my trip on that note, but the waiter informed me that with the main chef already gone for the evening, he didn’t want to attempt it and risk serving me a subpar product. I can respect that. It gives me yet another thing to come back for in Paradise.

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.

At least it wasn't more meat and potatoes...

So moved was I (not!) by this dining experience at Cuba Libre in Littleton, CO (about 20 miles south of Downtown Denver) that I had to add my own review to the Citysearch website. Okay, okay...what I was really moved by were the entertaining reviews that preceeded mine. Check it out...

When I arrived at Cuba Libre, the first thing that struck me was the very odd decor for what I expected would be a Cuban (or at least Cuban Fusion) restaurant. Of all the Cuban restaurants that I've ever patronized in North or South America, I have to say that this is the first to have the "Breckenridge-Ski-Lodge" look. Sorely lacking was anything remotely Cuban. No Cuban flags, no cigar memorabilia, and no salsa music, although I didn't mind the reggae. I hoped the food would contain enough Latin flair since they had clearly overlooked that detail when they designed the place. (Actually, this building MUST have been home to some other restaurant in a previous life, unless Fidel has some Ski Resorts outside Havana of which I am not aware.)

I arrived after 9pm on a Thursday, and there was not much of a crowd. After being greeted by the now legendary owner (thanks to lady_port 's citysearch review from 10/7/2006), we were promptly seated in one of the booths. It was no surprise that the list of specialty cocktails contained the obligatory mojito as well as some other ambitious takes on some caribbean libation favorites. However, neither of the 3 drinks ordered by my party was particularly spectacular, nor was their presentation terribly impressive. (This bartender wouldn't cut the mustard on either coast.)

The food was by no means the best Cuban food I've ever had, however, I must say that the chef was much more meticulous in his presentation than was the aforementioned bartender. Unfortunately, however, neither the tostones appetizer , nor the rack of lamb and yucca churros (curiously, no hint of yucca was detected) left me anticipating my next visit. While mediocre, the food was at least a sharp departure from the meat and potatoes fare that is the norm in metro Denver. Since that's what I was looking for on this night, the experience was not a total disappointment. Dessert was, however. Their interpretation of Tres Leches cake was barely recognizable. It was neither wet, nor sweet, looking more like something that Hostess might sell in bulk, than a sweet treat at a nice restaurant. Like I said, it’s not the best Cuban food, but at least its not meat and potatoes.

Feliz Dia de los Muertos

Clearly, not all the freaks come out at night. Some were definitely still lingering on Wednesday morning at Oakland Int'l Airport. Perhaps it was the revelry of the Spirits in effect as the supernatural was no doubt behind the oddities that occurred right before my eyes.

3-headed Freak: First there were the United Airlines employees that put the "S" in customer Service, as they proved to have no compassion, nor desire to see to it that I, as their customer had a pleasurable experience on their airline. Both the ticket counter agent, the gate agent and the flight attendant uttered the ultimate service industry no-no ("Hey, I just work here...") before they decided NOT to attempt to get me a better seat when better seats were indeed available. It's not like I'm 6'7" or anything. Oh, wait, I AM 6'7". It wasn't until, when asked to produce my ticket and nearly needing the jaws of life to unwedge me from my original seat, I stood up and towered over this diminutive woman (she subsequently gasped and said, "Oh MY!") that she decided to see what she could do. Never mind the fact that the bulkhead seat in row 3 had been vacant all along. United insists that sitting in any exit row or so called economy-"plus" section is worthy of the customer shelling out additional dough. Enough of that.

Freak #2 (Lunch Money Freak): There are 3 major unwritten rules that all business travelers obey. We live in a world that requires such rules. We, as business travelers have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You scoff and curse at our Executive Platinum status, and our President's Club memberships. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what we know, that, while tragic, our business travel is driving new business opportunities, and that our efforts and tactics, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you drive REVENUE. You don't want to know the truth because deep down in places that you don't talk about at staff meetings or PTA meetings, you WANT us on that plane. You NEED us on that plane. We use words like bulkhead, first class, and upgrades. We use these words as the backbone of the time spent evangelizing our corporate missions to the masses, and negotiating something. You use them as punch lines. We have neither the time nor the inclination to explain ourselves to people rise and sleep under the blanket of the income that we provide and then question the manner in which we provide it. We would rather you just said "thank you" and went on your way. But, I digress.

Okay, so, I'm in line at the Pizza Hut across from Gate 5 before I boarded the aforementioned flight. I decided that I might as well get on this soon to be miserable flight with a full stomach. Yeah, I know it was 7:20am, but believe it or not, even Pizza Hut has a breakfast croissant, and no, there is no tomato sauce OR pepperoni on it. Freak #2 had apparently received the memo at the Conspiracy to Destroy Destah meeting. Being the last person standing between me and said breakfast sandwich, he proceeded to produce a zip-loc baggie full of small change from his satchel. Counting dozens of pennies and nickels in the palm of one's hand is a blatant violation of one of the 3 unwritten rules, especially when there are 11 people in line behind you. Not 11 ordinary, lolli-gagging, Crocodile shoe sporting(not Gators, but the oft-brightly colored plastic Crocodiles fit for the beach), bermuda short wearing leisure travelers, but 11 BUSINESS travelers. Who else inhales recently nuked food at this hour as if Hoover were written on their foreheads? Draw your credit card from your hip as if your name were followed by "The Kid" or preceeded by "Wild", let the person on the register swipe it, and keep it movin'!
Even the lady at the register rolled her eyes, made eye contact with me while making a face that displayed the incredulity of a person that had just witnessed the Washington Generals storm back from 30 down to beat the Harlem Globetrotters at the buzzer, and then looked back at Freak #2 in disbelief. By the way, rules #2, and #3, in no particular order prohibit attempting to ram a "rolly" bag the size of a Hyundai, that has no earthly explanation for being considered a carry-on into the overhead compartment while blocking the row like fatty tissue in an artery, or ever , ever , ever, EVER bringing kids into the first class cabin. (Also receiving votes: talking to the person seated next to you that is clearly trying to read or sleep; getting up to use the bathroom if you are not seated in the aisle; asking somebody to let you cut in the security line so that you don't miss your flight, as if the rest of us have chosen to arrive at the airport the recommended 2 hours in advance).

Freak #3: As a fitting end to this day, I called a restaurant called Aji in Boulder, CO to see if it were busy, and if it were necessary to have a reservation for a party of 2. The hostess that answered the phone very enthusiastically replied that there was no wait, and that reservations were absolutely not necessary. My co-worker and I left the hotel and arrived at the restaurant not 5 minutes later eagerly anticipating the latin-fusion cuisine, only to be scooted aside and told that there would be no table ready available for at least 20 minutes.

"Would you like white meat or dark meat?"
"Dark Meat."
"We're all outta dark meat."
"Then why'd you ASK???"-- from Spike Lee's School Daze

One in a Million

I started this about a week ago, and then proceeded to leave my notebook in the seatback pocket of an airplane. So, I gave it another try and here it is. Enjoy.

Looking up from my steaming bowl of Quaker Oatmeal this morning, I gazed not through the blinds and out the window that peers out over the MacArthur freeway that is a mere stone’s throw from my building, but at the black-framed front page of an old Washington Post that sits just above the elevated bar table in my breakfast nook. I’ve stared at this newspaper hundreds of times, to the point that I have nearly memorized the headlines as well as the faces in the photographs that appear. On this morning, however, I was actually struck by not only the significance of this particular edition, but rather by the fact that this paper was dated exactly 11 years ago today: October 17, 1995.

After wiping the “wow!” expression off my face, I immediately began to peruse that day’s headlines with renewed interest. Oh, how the world had changed. One headline talked about an impending meeting between Hamas and the late Yassir Arafat. Ground was to be broken for the downtown D.C. arena that would come to be the MCI Center, according to another. In another, still, then President Bill Clinton urged America to put an end to racism. A cursory glance seemed to reveal that the day’s news had no new themes, only new characters being featured.

Certainly my life has changed tremendously. On this day in 1995, I was in the midst of my 2nd year of Super Senior-dom, still chasing the elusive and excruciatingly painful Electrical Engineering degree that would eventually make a mockery out of my grade point average. Back then, my life consisted of midterms, midnight runs to SavOn foods with my roommates, fraternity parties and an occasional woefully under-funded roadtrip. Surprisingly, the duality that is my current routine as serial business traveler and car-pool driving soccer Dad is no less exciting, as I’m often called to duty as referee of the epic battle that often rages on in the backseat of my SUV, between rival factions “She did it first” and “he broke mine” . At least I now regularly experience the forbidden world on the other side of the curtain when aboard airplanes, and give not 2 seconds of thought to why I should not consider driving somewhere for 5 hours that I can fly to in 1.

I feel an almost familial connection with the man whose image is featured prominently in black and white newsprint on this edition. Not only has he been on the wall at all of my residences the way a family member might, but the emotion splashed across his face and outstretched arms sang a song of many that were in attendance for that day’s events on the Mall in Washington, D.C. that day. I’m talking about none other than the Million Man March. As the brass label on the frame that encloses this historical periodical states, “I was One in a Million”.

I can remember stumbling upon a Final Call as I rummaged through all of the reading material at the barber shop, having already brought myself up to date on that week’s top 25 in College Football as well as all of the “Beauty of the Weeks” that had graced the pages of Jet since my last fade. On the cover of that issue, Minister Louis Farrakhan had boldly challenged black men from all across the land to descend upon the Chocolate City for a Day of Atonement and to renew the commitments of our forefathers to uplift our communities. Somewhere between the Freedom Marches, Afros, bell-bottoms, crack cocaine and slain leaders, the light at the end of that tunnel had grown very dim. Ours was a generation that was apparently less willing to resist, struggle and sacrifice like Malcolm, Martin, and Huey, instead choosing to be more like…well, Mike. Hip-hop music, one of the last bastions of transcendental positivity, able to entert-, er…excuse me EDU-tain the masses, unfortunately was exiting the period where consciousness and afro-centricity were en vogue, giving way in most cases to gangsta rap and non-sensical anthems that applauded and glorified pornography and promiscuity.

Although I was nearing the half-way point of a stretch of 11 years in which no pork products would touch my lips, I was not one with 2 feet firmly in Farrakhan’s or the Nation of Islam’s camp. However, I knew almost immediately that this was an event that I must not miss. It was not surprising when my roommate came home from work that day with the same notion, as if we were both struck by the same thunderbolt at the same time. After all, as two young, collegiate, black men , this day’s Talented Tenth, it was almost our duty to be there. So, after making a few phone calls and securing some accommodations with friends, we purchased our tickets from San Francisco to Washington, D.C.

When we arrived, I was overcome by a feeling of homecoming. Immediately, Washington’s National Airport (I STILL call it National!) was like a big family reunion. At Continental Airlines baggage claim, I ran into a former teammate of mine from UDC that was working for the airline. Before I left the airport, I saw another guy that I knew from my time in L.A. It seemed like everyone there was a familiar face. As we would discover later that night, the family atmosphere would even carry over to the night club scene. Unfortunately, my generation has almost come to expect at least the possibility of a physical altercation each time we are at a club, and even more so when it is very crowded like it was that night. To my amazement, not even the cold reality of the night club scene could extinguish the love that was seemingly apparent everywhere on this weekend. The same cutting in line, or stepping on a shoe that would ordinarily lead to posturing or fisticuffs, was instead followed by very gracious, “My bad…excuse me, brotha,” or “no disrespect….” It was unbelievable! Of course, there’s always that one brotha that takes the “spirit of the season” a bit too far, chastising anotha brotha with, “Aren’t you down with the March!?” when that brotha took exception to this brotha’s advances on his lady friend.

It was an incredible weekend culminated by perhaps the most amazing feat of all, as we right in the middle of the peaceful assembly of more than 1 Million black men captivated by the words of one Louis Farrakhan. Although the media tried to belittle the occasion, claming that a mere 300,000 to 400,000 were on hand, all of us on hand had no doubt of the true attendance figures. Minister Farrakhan spoke of atoning for the sins that had made fatherless households, objectification and disrespect of black women the norm rather than the exception in the black community. Farrakhan urged black men to look within themselves and take responsibility for repairing their relationships and become the positive role models that were ever so present in the communities of years past.

So as I finished that bowl of oatmeal, I reflected on what has transpired in the 11 years since then. Yassir Arafat has since passed away, but Hamas and other such organizations continue to grab headlines on the myriad of news channels that seem to exist for no other reason than to incite fear and justify American military activity around the world. Bill Clinton, the greatest president of my lifetime, left the Nation’s highest office under a cloud of shame. The MCI Center became the home of the Bullets who would subsequently change their name to Wizards, who, despite their name have yet to perfect the magical, mystical feat of making the numbers in the loss column disappear (POOF!) in a puff of smoke. In the grander scheme of things, the black community does not appear to have been able to sustain the incredible momentum that followed this event. The city in which I live has continued to outdistance itself, setting records 3 of the last 4 years for total homicides. A very well known member of perhaps the most prominent of the conscious hip hop groups, has become a weekly spectacle on cable TV, objectifying and continually disrespecting hordes of scantily clad black women, who seem not to mind. Closer to home, I find myself constantly trying to keep my children from listening to the misogynistic, denigrating strip club anthems that are no longer relegated to the parental advisory section of the record store, but rather are prevalent on daytime radio. Rather than give up hope though, I instead choose to at least step up to Minister Farrakhan’s challenge and be a very involved father and role model. Furthermore, and perhaps most amazing to me is the role that my faith has played in my striving for daily improvements. That 23-year-old, much less worldly, and much more footloose and fancy free kid was not very likely to have prayed for much more than a passing grade on an exam in 1995. In 2006, this 34-year-old, regular fixture in the church on Sundays prays for the day when we will all have the faith to collectively renew the atonement that we sought so many Octobers ago.

Setting the Record Straight: Tio's alright with me

“No one has EVER caught a fish with him around,” chuckled my father from the background. I was on the phone with my mother, allowing her to live vicariously through my experiences, and she yelled to the other room to inform my dad in the other room, “..your son went deep sea fishing!” She often gets greater excitement out of my adventures than I do. Actually, that’s not true. I get excited. Sometimes. I just keep a really even keel, as they say. The act of being on a 33-foot fishing boot called the Reel Hooker, 15 miles off the coast of Lana’i , knifing through the very choppy Pacific Ocean waves on a sun splashed Sunday morning would do it for most people. I guess the prospect of catching a 500-pound fish took some of the bite out of the moment for me. I enjoyed it though. Honest! What’s not to like about such picturesque views. It is truly amazing how these land masses jut out of the deep blue sea, and how the thick, rich foam of the crashing waves explodes on the rocks. Clearly, just such a view must’ve been one of the things that the Lord threw in as an added bonus following my nightly prayer thanking Him, in advance, for waking me the next morning. There are certainly a whole lot worse things to look at.

I made it. That’s the important thing. Mr. Tio was a very gracious guide and host. He provided very useful insights and wonderful “fish” stories about voyages past, talked about some of the colorful characters that frequent “the ‘Goose” and even let me drive the boat! Yes, a 6’7”, baggy-short wearin’, Gucci shades havin’, freshly lined and faded beard sportin’ Captain Jack Sparrow; although my hat bore a Swoosh instead of a Jolly Roger. After awhile, I actually thought I knew what I was doing. I convinced myself that I could go “with the grain” of the waves for a smoother ride. (Give a brotha a rope, he thinks he’s a cowboy…)

Sensing how much pleasure I was deriving from being in charge of this voyage, I think Tio let me stay at the helm longer than he might have. After awhile, he hardly gave any instruction, unless I got too close to some scuba divers in shallow water (“Sorry…”). But the great stories continued all day. Although he kind of resembled a shorter, chubbier, poor-man’s Michael Douglas, the lore of days gone by made him sound a lot more like a modern day Huck Finn. As legend has it, at 17 he ditched his classmates on a senior trip in Santa Cruz to join a surfing competition, and never returned to his native Southern California. He’s surfed all over the place, although not much anymore, and has even held some Hawaiian state records for the largest fish caught. We didn’t catch anything but it made for a much more memorable Sunday morning than sitting in my boxers watching the NFL on Fox on a 19” hotel TV.