A Picnic in the Park

I was going to write a Destination Dining blog post today to review the restaurant The Front Room at the Hotel Lumen in the Park Cities of Dallas but the experience was so boring that I realized there weren't enough synonyms for the word Yawn in the English language to trash it properly so instead I am going to talk about picnics.

Peel Me A Grape

According to Wikipedia, the first usage of the word picnic is traced to the 1692 edition of Tony Willis, Origines de la Langue Française, which mentions pique-nique as being of recent origin; it marks the first appearance of the word in print. Whether picnic is actually based on the verb piquer which means 'pick' or 'peck' with the rhyming nique meaning "thing of little importance" is doubted; the Oxford English Dictionary says it is of unknown provenance.  Frankly, I am thinking the OED is dead wrong in this case because Gauls throughout history have picked at things of little importance (remember Freedom Fries?) but I am not going to pique a fight about it.  Ce n'est pas ma guerre.

In British and American English, the phrase "no picnic" is used to describe a difficult or trying situation or activity. For example, "Watching other people picnic while you are not picnicking is no picnic."

In Information Technology, a "PICNIC" is an acronym meaning "Problem In Chair, Not In Computer." Help Desk workers use "PICNIC" to refer snottily to a situation where they helped someone fix a problem with their computer where there really was no problem with the computer, but the user was to blame for the problem.  This is also known as PEBKAC (Problem Exists Between Keyboard And Chair.)  Those I.T. people can get pretty haughty if you ask me and probably need to be occassionally stabbed in their mouse hands by one of those corn-on-the-cob holders you use at picnics.


Stoned Soul Picnic

Yesterday we picnicked to celebrate the late April birthdays of two guys named Joe (although oddly, no one brought coffee.) We had reserved a 1930's WPA-constructed shelter twixt a babbling stream and a canopy of ancient pecan trees in White Rock Lake Park.  It would have been a tranquil, prosaic throwback to simpler, gentler times if not for the incessant rap music thumping from a sadistic boom box owner one picnic spot over and the droning chants emanating from what seemed to be a prayer circle of Branch Davidians on our other side.  (I guess if your cult's name starts with the word branch it makes sense to meet and mutter beneath one.)

There is no alcohol allowed in Dallas city parks so we brought sangria punch and spiked lemonade water and beer soft drinks.  I got there first to decorate ( and by "decorate" I mean impaling two HAPPY BIRTHDAY streamers on rusty nails pounded unevenly into the badly-in-need-of-paint ceiling of the shelter and blanketing two picnic tables graffitied with dried bird doo doo with festive plastic tablecloths.)  I neatly displayed the beverages, buns, condiments, salty snacks and deviled eggs in a sort of Great Gatsby motif, fanned out the paper napkins and artfully arranged plastic utensils in a red solo cup.  It was all very Martha Stewart until I noticed the grill was not where it had been four years ago when we had rented this exact shelter. In fact, it was not there at all.  I panicked since I couldn't ask to use one located nearby because I'd already alienated all of our fellow picnickers by shooing them out of our shelter when I arrived, brandishing my rental agreement indignantly and yelling out "I paid for this IN ADVANCE." They gave me a collective stink eye while they gathered their meager belongings to their weary bosoms and scurried over to sparsely grassed, inferior grounds unprotected by our sacred stones.

I dispatched D to a grocery store, urging a speedy retail transaction and swift return with a suitable appliance upon which to grill dozens of brats and burgers while smilingly welcoming the arriving guests.  Stalling for time, I suggested a quick game of bocce ball, but I had no equipment or any idea how to play it so the reception to my idea was tepid at best.  I told a few hilarious jokes and then, dramatically interpreting all of the roles, I acted out the following scene from the 1955 Cinemascope production of the movie Picnic, based on William Inge's Pulitzer Prize-winning play:

Middle-aged schoolteacher Rosemary (Rosalind Russell), who rents a room at the Owens house, has been brought to the picnic by store owner Howard Bevens (Arthur O'Connell). When the band plays dance music, Howard says he can't dance, so Rosemary dances with Millie. Hal and Howard then start dancing together, which nettles Rosemary. She grabs Howard, who then dances with her. Hal tries to show Millie a dance he learned in Los Angeles, but Millie can not quite get the beat. Madge stumbles upon this, begins clapping handily to the beat, and the two begin dancing together. Having been cast aside and ignored by both Rosemary and Hal, Millie sulks off and starts drinking from a whiskey flask hidden in Howard's jacket. Rosemary, drunk from the same whiskey, jealously breaks up the dance between Madge and Hal. Rosemary flings herself at Hal, saying he reminds her of a Roman gladiator. When Hal tries to ward off the schoolteacher, she rips his shirt then bitterly calls him a bum.

Much to the relief of the hopelessly confused, highly embarrassed and now-starving guests, D finally returned with a large cardboard box containing the approximately 540 pieces of a charcoal grill which two of our more gifted friends assembled with a Swiss Army knife and a broken plastic spoon.  As the sun was setting I lurched toward the smoking grill and blearily threw all the food on it and slammed down the lid.  (I guess all that punch had made me a tad light-headed.) 25 minutes later the brats were beautifully blistered, the burgers perfectly browned, and we were lying on the ground comotose from having already eaten three dozen cupcakes and a gallon of artichoke dip.

You might say that putting that picnic together was no picnic.

Destination Dining: Steel

Steel, an "Indochine, Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese and Korean Restaurant" has been around in the trendy Oak Lawn neighborhood of Dallas for as long as I can remember (which is not long due to the countless brain cells I've destroyed by living life to the fullest in the manner of an impish yet sincere frat boy.)  About once a year we remember to go back to Steel and we always enjoy it but last weekend it reached a new level of gastronomic greatness for us.

Me Llamo Guapo

It all started at the bar (natch) when (brain cell malfunction alert!) Ernesto/Rodrigo/Jesus, the smiling and hospitable bartender, concocted the best Ketel One Martini Up with a Twist I've ever gulped in two swallows.  I don't know what he did to it except smile brilliantly as he made it but it was crisp and cold and completely right.  It seemed a little unfair to limit his chances of showing off such bartending brilliance to just one display so I had another due to my generosity of spirit(s).  (Pun intended,but admittedly not particularly clever.)

The dining room is smart and sassy and so Sex and the City I always look around for Carrie or Miranda or Charlotte or Samantha but never see them.  The shirt guys and the balloon smugglers are there as well as silver foxes with yoga moms mixed with professorial types who wear leather patches on the elbows of their sweaters plus a smattering of gays getting their sushi on before a night of sophisticated debauchery.  In other words, Uptown Dallas.



What IsThat Ring Thingy?

We were seated after 20 minutes or so and were tap watered but not breaded.  I love the napkin presentation at Steel,which is rolled around both chopsticks and a fork, then secured with a metal, adjustable ring that probably all of you know the name of but I don't. It suggests "cool" and "don't be embarrassed if you can't use chopsticks" and "this place is well thought out and has great attention to detail" without saying a word.

Calamari Chameleon

Steel's Calamari are perfect.  The breading is wonderfully light and the polar opposite of greasy. They are served with Julienned Carrots and fresh, Sliced Jalapenos but they could be served with Raspberry Pop Tarts and they'd still be remarkably tasty. We also started with Spring Rolls which are stuffed with Chicken and Shrimp and Vegetables and wrapped in what seems like a layer of skin that was gently lifted off a recently sunburned albino. (I mean that in a metaphorical rather than a cannibalistic sense.) Those came with  Thai-spiced Peanut Dipping Sauce.


Spring Forward, Throw Back

I had the Roasted Miso and Sake Marinated Sea Bass with Tempura Asparagus that was so delicious I spontaneously belted out a rousing refrain of Sitting On The Dock of the Bay until I was rudely shushed by my spoilsport table mate. He had Vietnamese Shaken Beef (despite my warning that shaking beef is looked down upon on certain cattle ranches) and pronounced it a perfectly palate pleasing plate.  (No he didn't, I just made that up--he never alliterates.)

I can't believe I didn't have the Sushi this trip.  It is probably the best in town and the line-up of sushi chefs with their matching headbands and tae-kwan-do costumes lend authenticity to the experience.  They really get their raw right and it looks nothing like bait.

This blog post has made me realize I should go there more often and support Steel's unflagging hospitality and delicious cuisine with wads of cash.  In fact, I think I'll go there after work.  Ernesto/Rodrigo/Jesus no doubt misses my admiration for his unsurpassed mixology skills and I'm Jonesing for a Rainbow Roll.

Destination Dining: ACME Food and Beverage

Dynamite, anyone?

According to www.dictionary.com the word acme is defined as: the highest point or stage; also: one that represents perfection of the thing expressed.  So when you name a restaurant ACME Food and Beverage, you better make sure it is the finest example of its craft, at least in its own category, like Starbuck's is to coffee or George Clooney is to suave.  So as we bounded into ACME for the first time Saturday night, I was expecting something a hundred times better.  I probably would not have been so disappointed if they had named the place LACKLUSTER Food and Beverage.  Or if that is too harsh, perhaps MEH Food and Beverage would suffice.  But ACME made me think of FT33 or Cane Rosso or the mail order house where Wile E. Coyote bought TNT and anvils in his fruitless quest to exterminate the Roadrunner.  Sadly, none of these notions proved prophetic.

The two chirpy hostesses smiled and greeted us in unison and seated us at a nice corner booth, or what I thought was a nice corner booth until my teeth started chattering and my lips fell off in the non-stop assault of Arctic blasts from their evil seven-ton A/C unit positioned directly over our heads.  It was a balmy 72 degrees outside so I had worn a sporty, short-sleeved Polo which proved completely incapable of keeping frostbite at bay.  I tried using our cloth napkins as emergency sleeves but they were so stiffly starched they kept falling off and clattering to the floor.  Despite the frigid conditions, I lived.

Pull-eeze

Starters were troublesome.  D had the Warm Mozzarella with Grilled Toast, which was a big disc of bland fondue swimming in olive oil.  If I were to compliment it I would say it was stretchy.  I had the Tuna Tartare, which looked like a bright pink, mealy meatloaf garnished with micro greens and pears.  It was enough for a family of four if they liked their tuna raw and sweetened with fruit.  I didn't.

Entrees were equivalent to a meal grilled at home when you've had one too many glasses of wine and it's getting dark and you can't see or tell or care what you are doing.  My Berkshire Pork Chop with Sweet Potato Puree was good the first bite, okay the second bite, and dry as Mitt Romney during Happy Hour at Hooters on the third.  The puree was sickeningly sweet and glowed with a weird, alien orange color the exact shade of Ronald McDonald's hair.

D had the burger and he said it was good except we couldn't figure out why they said it came with

You can tune a piano but you can't tuna fish

"redneck" cheddar. There was nothing redneck about that cheese; it knew several foreign languages and loved opera and had been to Paris twice.  The fries were delicious.  (I ate more of them than the desiccated pork chop.)  D had also ordered the Mac N' Cheese (also slapped with that loathsome redneck label) and they were okay except for the unctuous topping of sticky sweet chutney.  I then realized the kitchen had this thing for complicating savory dishes with inexplicable cloying and distracting sugary flourishes.

The braying of the bottle blonde next to us, the frigid, Icelandic conditions and the unremarkable, childishly sweetened food had us outta there faster than Kim Kardashian's greed-induced but perfectly legal wedding which upheld the long-standing, accepted belief that true marriage is between one man and one gold-digging, 15-minutes-of-fame sex tape entrepreneur.  

At ACME, I wish I could have at least scored some of Wily's TNT since the food itself was definitely not dynamite.