Ruths's Chris's Rants's

How Many Esses Can You Find?

So we went to the new, two-week old Ruth's Chris Steak House last week for Happy Hour in Uptown Dallas.  I have never really been a huge fan of the Ruth's Chris concept.  They do something weird to their steaks after they grill them, like soak them in melted butter and then toss 'em into some kind of molten inferno that heats up to 1600 degrees.  The servers come out wearing oven mitts and haz-mat suits and when they set your plate down, hot, sizzling butter spurts onto the front of the new shirt you just bought last weekend at Nordstrom Rack. Apparently, I am the only person in the world who finds collateral clothes-ruining unpleasant, because there is at least one Ruth's Chris for every four Starbucks in America.  I like Starbucks better though: they don't butter my coffee or stain my clothes unless I spill it on myself, (which has happened more than once) and I would be remiss in my responsibilities as a non-accredited journalist to blame Starbucks for my chronic clumsiness.

And here's another thing that bugs me. Why is it called Ruth's Chris Steak House?  I've never heard of a steak called Chris, though I once knew of a cow named Bernice. There is some kind of urban legend about a woman named Ruth who spent all her money buying a place called Chris Steak House and she couldn't afford to change the sign so she just slapped a "Ruth's" on top.  But I am not buying that because most steak houses are named after family last names like Smith & Wollensky's or Gallagher's or Morton's.  And those all have apostrophes to indicate they belong to said family.  So if the story were true it would have been Ruth's Chris's Steak House, which, besides being unattractive is really hard to say (especially if one lisps).

And while we are on the subject, most people call it Ruth Chris anyway, leaving out all ownership and possessive indicators entirely.  What is it with people and their consarned insistence to omit or insert random esses in place names?  If  a certain martini bar in Puerto Vallarta is called Garbo, for instance, why do people refer to it as Garbo's?  A guy named German owns it (which is funny since he's Mexican, although come to think of it I know a Mexican named Erica, which sounds kind of German or Norwegian or something.)  It's not like Greta Garbo opened the place and then sold it to German before she died.  If that were the case it would be perfectly acceptable to call it Garbo's, but probably more accurate to call it German's Garbo, which brings us back to the same random silliness as Ruth's Chris. (Yet I am much more likely to believe there was a martini called Greta than a steak called Chris.)

Oh yeah, happy hour was fun--everything on the "Ruth's at the Bar TM" is $8 including pomegranate martinis and a half-pound prime hamburger. I badly chose the steak sandwich, which was kind of tough and dry and consisted mostly of gristly butchered end pieces. Perhaps it needed butter.

Asian Con-Fusion

Work took me to Miami this week.  (Started off kind of rough:  I had to wake to a 3:30 AM alarm to catch a buttcrack of dawn flight, and our power went out inexplicably at 3:45.  It came back on about 5 but by then I had already showered and dressed by flashlight.  On my drive to the airport I prayed to the grooming gods that my socks matched.)

After working a full day I finally knocked it off about 7.  I changed into a tee shirt and shorts (it was about 90 degrees in South Florida and so humid it seemed like it was raining sweat.)  I wondered around the neighborhood looking to scare up some dinner (relatively safe--I was in Miami Lakes, a sort of stopped-in-time version of Pleasantville, with much less glamor and far fewer crazed drug lords than the real city of Miami 14 miles and 100's of murders south.)

First I ambled over to the Ale House but the $13.99 prime rib special made me suspicious of its provenance and the odor of rabid sports fans wearing the uniforms of their favorite player (I always wonder if they are "going steady") amped up on cheap beer and Thursday Night Football made me opt out.

A Purrfect Sense of Arrival

I walked by a place that didn't seem to have a name.  Instead, there were just giant signs on the exterior windows that screamed out all the delights one could find inside.

 HIBACHI!  SUSHI! SEAFOOD! TEMPURA!

I figured I could find something in there I would like and opened the door to be greeted by a humongous Hello Kitty. The hostess put down her cell phone (with just a soupçon of attitude, IMHO) and said something so heavily accented I just guessed she said "table for one?" and nodded my head vigorously, hoping she hadn't really asked me something embarrassing, like "alone and pitiful?"  She was wearing black tights and a short pleated skirt and a denim jacket and I noticed how shiny her hair was as it swung it back and forth in rhythm with her sashaying hips.  I was so mesmerized I almost didn't notice we were traversing a huge dining room that probably seated 300 people.  Sadly, I was one of maybe ten paying souls in the entire place.  The staff outnumbered us 5 to 1.

Another pretty Japanese girl smiled at me as she plunked down a large plastic tumbler of water with a white paper napkin wrapped around the base and handed me a white paper napkin and some chopsticks in a white paper sleeve.  She said something like "drink?" and I inquired "martini?" and she might have said "okay?" A couple of minutes elapsed and then she brought me hot sake in a white jug wrapped in a white paper napkin.  Apparently, white paper napkins are considered essential to the success of Hibachisushiseafoodtempura Restaurant.

I sat there, drinking sake and waiting for a menu.  With all the staff hanging around I thought it strange that no one was trying to get me to order something.  I flagged down my server and asked for a menu.  She was mute with incomprehension.  I mimed opening a menu and reading a list of entree selections, summoning the Stanislavsky method to appear as if I were  trying to decide between fish or pork, or possibly a stir fry with tofu.  Clearly my acting chops were spot on, as she suddenly brightened and waved her arm expansively towards the other side of the dining room, where I could see about a million food items on display. She nearly screamed some unfathomable word with such joy that I just gave "buffet" to her for enthusiasm. (I do want to point out here that my Japanese is far worse than their English, so it is with self-awareness of my own lingual shortcomings that I describe these conversations.)

Sushi-a-gogo

I don't like buffets.  There's no nuance, no crispness, no intangible balance or contrast of flavor and texture. Everything tastes the same, and it's all mushy.  But I was already there and slightly sakeed so I ventured forth and found 17,000 different species of sushi glistening in a ton of crushed ice spread on a table the size of a basketball court.  It occurred to me this could be my last meal ever, since it was possible the raw fish had been sitting there for days.  It passed the sniff test, however, so I loaded up my plate with a daunting number of selections and returned to my seat, hoping no one would notice what a pig I had made of myself.

It was delicious.  I had eel, and crab and salmon.  I devoured sea urchin, and tuna and shrimp.  I ate every fish that swam in the sea, and then I ate them all again. I had sashimi and dragon rolls and rainbow rolls and a bunch of stuff I didn't even recognize.  I was shameless.  It was ugly.

Same Taste, Different Shapes

At the time I should have been rolling out the door, I decided to go back and see what else was available.  There was a mile long display of desserts, which tempted me not, but I couldn't pass up the massive Chinese feast featuring spare ribs, spring rolls, fried rice, sesame chicken, spinach pie (huh?), noodles, lobster chowder, hot and sour soup, and crab rangoon, along with hundreds of other selections so vast and varied it made me dizzy.  I piled up another plate, went back to my party of one, and dug in. Yecch.  Buffet food.  Everything tasted the same and it was all mushy.  Having given up on language as a viable means of communicating, I just pantomimed signing my check, which she brought forthwith, and I signed out and we smiled at each other. (I was so shocked I had eaten my body weight in sushi for $17.99 that I tipped her $10.)

I hadn't planned on returning to Miami until much later this year but I think the raw bar at Hibachisushiseafoodtempura Restaurant will make me rethink those plans.  And possibly bring an interpreter.

I Do Declare, Ida Claire

"By the Wigs of Cher, Ida Claire"-Jef w/one f

Yesterday I ventured out of my comfort zone (within three miles of downtown) to meet a colleague for lunch at a place she'd suggested called Ida Claire.  It was sort of halfway from her workplace in Oklahoma Far North Dallas and my office, give or take a few hundred miles.  (I giggled like a school boy when I heard the name of the restaurant because as a child, I thought the expression was "Howdy Claire" instead of "I Declare" and my family never corrected me because they thought it was cute.  I also said "Cart Milkon" for "Milk Carton" and "Flutterbies" for "Butterflies." After some time cute became kind of dumb; thankfully my big brother clued me in.)

Ida Claire wasn't really on my radar so I took a peek at its website before venturing up and over and saw that it was Southern Food and had a lot of good reviews. So I'm thinking fried chicken, shrimp and grits, maybe some okra. Pecans, chow chow, sweet tea, you know the drill.

I'd miscalculated the time it would take me to get there and arrived about 30 minutes early so I had plenty of time to case the joint.  The servers posed as small town girls in gingham blouses and jeans sporting jaunty aprons and saucy Aunt Jemima checkered headgear.  The dining room was big and airy and filled with wooden tables stacked with homey Homer Laughlin share plates and cutlery rolled up in dish towels.  There was huge assortment of little tea plates nailed to the wall over the bar, but  there was a kind of eerie display next to where the chirpy hostess had seated me. There were perhaps twenty-five or thirty life-sized, wooden arms sticking out of the wall in precise rows holding different kitchen implements like wire whisks and spatulas in their creepy wooden hands.  I looked away quickly and found a cluster of empty, ornate bird cages hanging from the ceiling on the other side of the room to be a little more pleasant.

I don't think Faulkner wrote this

My server, whose name was either Lauren or Eula-Mae, asked me very nicely if she could bring me some sweet tea while I waited for my guest.  I said I'd prefer tap water and she had to blink back tears when she said she'd fetch me some. The menu looked like an old-fashioned book and had a tagline that said "As I Lay Eating" which made me laugh out loud. I glanced inside  and found Fried Chicken in a Biscuit with a Fried Egg, Pickled Okra and Chow Chow (surprise!), a Fried Chicken and Cucumber salad (huh?) and their apparently famous Ida Like A Burger that had Pimento Cheese, Lettuce and Tomato on a Sweet Potato Bun with Cast Iron Okra Salad (Okay, so I nailed it, sue me.)

The drinks book was a work of art.  It had imaginary love letters, faded post cards, a long and winding tale from a woman whose man had done her wrong, and fun drawings and maps and funky sayings.  I loved it so much I almost stole it.

My guest arrived and sat down breezily.  I noticed she kind of shuddered when she saw the lifeless utensil-holding arms and redirected her gaze to the cheerier birdcages,as I had.   She ordered the Fried Chicken and Cucumber Salad and I ordered the Knife and Fork Chicken Biscuit. We talked about the Texas State Fair, and work, and life, and then a grinning runner brought over our lunch.

Which came first?

That was the largest danged biscuit I ever did see!  It was cut in half and literally dwarfed the plate.  It was crammed with about 4 ounces of fried chicken breast, a roasted tomato, spinach, some peppery gravy and bedecked with a sunny side up fried egg.  My heart missed a beat and I wondered briefly if I'd taken my cholesterol pill that day.  Gamely, I dug in and it was absolutely pure-D Southern deliciousness. The mammoth biscuit was flaky and light and the chicken reminded me of my Aunt Mary's.  Friend had the weird fried chicken and cucumber salad which she enjoyed for about ten minutes until suddenly, she choked, turned red, and grabbed her water glass while tears ran down her cheeks.  I thought perhaps she had been besieged by a slight seizure but she managed to eke out the word "vinegar" in a raspy, struggling-to-breathe whisper.  I half-heartedly offered a tiny Heimlich maneuver, which she silently refused. Eula-Mae seemed a little skittish as she poured her glass after glass of water but managed to murmur comforting words in a sing song voice until my friend could breathe again.

Five minutes later it was like it had never happened.  Sometimes house-made vinaigrette separates and unfortunately she had swallowed a mouthful of vinegar. I yanked a whisk out of one of the mannequin hands and quickly restored her salad to edibility.  I was less than halfway done with my biscuit but had to stop for fear of splitting a seam in my trousers.  The dish was $12 and I think I left $7 worth on the plate even though it was really good.

If it was closer to home I'd go back often, at least on gym or cheat days.  I hear they have a wonderful brunch and a lively bar scene on their expansive back patio. I enjoy my southern heritage and the food (minus the vinegar mishap) was truly outstanding and clearly authentic.  Yes, I will definitely return some day for more of that grub.  And also to steal that book.

Cheddars R Us

I avoid chain restaurants like most people try to avoid catching a cold from some sniveling wretch on an airplane who uses their sleeve to stifle a sneeze.  This is not said in the same smug way a Vegan Atheist Crossfitter announces to anyone they've just met that they don't own a television.  Rather, there are so many chef-driven, inspirational dining destinations available that I don't want to waste caloric intake amongst formica and cryo-packed pre-portioned entrees concocted by a committee in some generic boardroom with menu abstracts, flip charts and white boards. (Wow, that did sound sort of smug, sorry.)  But we dined in a place called Cheddar's yesterday which apparently is part of a very popular highway diner conglomerate that aspires to make Cracker Barrel less relevant, which to me seems like somewhat of a low bar to clear.

It all started when I had the bright idea to waste a perfectly good Saturday making a trek to the hinterlands to explore the vast temple of unsold merchandise at the newly opened Nebraska Furniture Mart.  We rented a minivan, slapped on a couple of "Baby on Board" stickers, and packed a light lunch before venturing out to a far North suburb called The Colony.  (Basically, you have to drive from Dallas to Oklahoma and make a u-turn at the Red River and then take the first exit on your right.) The Nebraska Furniture Mart is so big that when you walk in, you can't see the whole store because it extends beyond the curvature of the Earth.  There is parking for about 1,000,000 cars I think, though upon reflection, that might be a slight exaggeration.  We opened the doors on 70 different refrigerators even though we don't need one and marveled at the impressive display of about 600 80-inch flat screen TVs.  We watched an Amish family caress the surface of at least 250 ceramic tile samples while nearby, a chubby little boy ate a waffle piled with whipped cream. Several heavily made up, older women were pushing around shopping carts with factory designed home accessories like pillows embroidered with "&" or "etc."  I kind of wanted to find an "M" like Mary Tyler Moore used to have in her apartment but we didn't see any.  And then suddenly, we were done.

Salad Daze

Next door to the shopping megaplex was a restaurant called Cheddar's.  I was dimly aware of them from past road trips and had a vague impression that they were like a Denny's or an IHOP but hired waitresses with more teeth.  Since all day  I had eaten just 6 crackers and some creamy pimento cheese, I implored D to stop in for some road trip fuel. (Admittedly, I was a little spacey from the long drive and the unfathomable displays of stuff that no one really needs. Plus, we were in the midst of a suburban adventure and I wanted to continue the excitement.)

Sandy, Mandy, and Brandy were three young, blonde hostesses who looked bewildered when I asked for a table for two.  It was 4:45 and the place was packed with huge, multi-generational families.  I think it was Brandy who brilliantly remembered there was a two-top by the server station adjacent to the emergency exit door.  We followed her through the enormous restaurant which was surprisingly sort of industrial chic and quite dimly lit.  Air Supply was lamenting a lost love on the Muzak system.  Our server invented the word "perky" and praised us lavishly on all of our menu choices. Her first name was one of those masculine sounding last names like Connor or Peyton so popular with the parents of millennials these days.

Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez

I ordered a delicious Bloody Mary (it was 5:01 by this point, don't be judgey) which boasted a lime wedge, skewered olives and an entire stalk of celery, so I considered it my salad course.  I really liked it and if I hadn't had an hour of driving home in front of me would have had another.  D ordered the New Orleans Pasta--Penne, Chicken, Shrimp, Sausage, and Creole Alfredo sauce with a thick slab of Texas Toast.  Connor high-fived  him and said it was her favorite item on the menu.  I ordered the half rack of Baby Back Ribs and the house-made Chicken Tenders, which came with a Loaded Baked Potato and freshly steamed Broccoli.  Peyton nearly swooned with my impressive menuography skills.

Guess what?  Both dishes were super tasty and fresh (though portioned for a family of twelve.)  Feeling virtuous, I ate all the broccoli, a fourth of

Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love

the potato, all three chicken tenders (as good as any I've ever had) and three of the ribs, which were spicy and tender and juicy and fell off the bone when I picked them up.  I made a little sculpture out of the white, meatless bones that looked like a scary pagan totem, which the bus person rudely swept into a tub, oblivious to the inherent artistry of my creation.

Peyton-Connor brought our check which was some ridiculous amount like $32.  I tipped her a generous $7 based on her smile and sheer exuberance in bringing to-go containers for all of our uneaten food, which would be enough for the next fortnight of dinners if we hadn't forgotten to take them out of the car when we got home on a scorching 99 degree day.

Based on this unexpectedly savory experience, I am reconsidering my stance on chain restaurants and shall never again pronounce them pedestrian and banal.  I encourage everyone to motor outside their comfort zone and indulge their unacknowledged yearning for highway food. Go to Joe's Crab Shack if you wish.  Rediscover your devotion to Red Lobster.  Heck, why not give Olive Garden a chance? The CEO's of these gigantic chains need your dough more than some ragtag, foraging, seasonally inspired chef driven kitchen does.  Plus, it's important that we retain our status as the most obese country in the world.

What's The Buzz?

The fourth incarnation of BuzzBrews, a local Dallas institution, opened up this week right in our neighborhood--in fact, just a block down at the end of the street.  I've been to a couple of the other BuzzBrews before, and appreciated their hippy dippy vibe, zealous coffee program, and healthier approach to diner fare.  They are open 24 hours and have a breakfasty inclination around the clock, though they do feature sandwiches and some entrees. It also has a full bar, which is kind of contrary to its egg white omelet DNA, but whatever. It's the kind of hipster dive that develops a cult following comprised of unpublished poets, Duck Dynasty enthusiasts, and at three in the morning, stumbling club kids hanging by glamorous drag queens with runs in their nylons.

Our neighbor had told us it had opened last week while we were out of town so we strolled over last Saturday for lunch to check it out.  Turns out neighbor was wrong, but the very earnest Manager (appropriately named Ernest) invited us to look around at all the changes they'd made. (This cat has already had several lives--it's been two different Irish pubs and and a southern comfort food establishment since we've lived in the hood.)  They kept a lot of the beautiful old millwork that looks like it came straight out of a western saloon (speaking of cats, Hellloo Miss Kitty!) but they rearranged it into different configurations.  There's an open stainless kitchen and a lot of white tile and vivid, pretty artwork and very sturdy tables (presumably so the overnight drinking crowd won't overturn them.)  We thanked Ernest for his hospitality, said we were neighbors, and vowed to come back.

Tipperary Inn/Mecca/BuzzBrews

So we walk in last night around 7:30 and were greeted by a millennial version of a flower child from the 60's.  She gave us a vague smile and a languid invitation to follow her as she led us to the back of the big room.  We noticed the place was jam-packed with families with hordes of small screaming children. This was surprising given the numerous references to "getting your buzz on," the full bar, and the overall "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" ambience of the place.

Our waiter's name was Paul and he looked like he could play someone's dad on TV, like a Ward Cleaver minus the necktie and sage advice for the Beav.  He had glasses on a string around his neck, baggy shorts and white socks with tennis shoes.  He was kind.  I said I thought we had been given the breakfast menu by mistake and we were looking for dinner.  He said "let me check" and then came back and said "dinner is from 3 to 7." Apparently we are hideous at poker, because the flat out confused looks on our faces prompted him to go ask someone else, and when he returned, he said "we will be serving dinner soon but right now we just have the 24 hour menu.   Well all righty then.

We ordered a vodka seven with lemon and a martini straight up with a twist.  Paul wrote every word down on a notepad with the stub of a number two pencil.  Moments later a friendly bearded fellow brought over a vodka seven no fruit and a martini with olives.  He happily replaced them after we gently pointed out both orders were wrong.

Th-th-th-that's all, folks!

The menu is written in code but there is a deciphering page to help you navigate it.  "Marbles" are garlic soaked roasted potato pieces, and "Hangover Cure" is chicken soup that will make you sweat.  D had the Porked Pig--a spinach and pulled pork quesadilla with mushrooms and cheese in a wheat tortilla served with "marbles" and pico.  Although it was listed as an appetizer, it was served on a dinner plate and was plenty of food.  I sort of whispered my order because it seem rather undignified for a man of my age to say "I'll have the Hippie Miss Piggie Crepes, please." They were good with 10 spice-rubbed pork butt stuffed with egg whites, onions, jalapeños, tomato, cilantro, and cheddar cheese in corn tortillas. They were topped with fresh avocado slices and served alongside BuzzBrews Killer Black Beans, which I think they should have called BBKBB, but they didn't ask.  As I was eating a waitress who looked a lot like Marilyn Monroe in black stretch pants sauntered by and started talking to the expediter, who had a large colorful tattoo on his neck. Another server was wearing a Pam Grier style sparkly baseball cap.

About the time we were finished Ernest came 'round and asked how we were doing, and we reminded him we'd met him the weekend before.  Either he remembered us or he did a believable job of pretending he did.  He filled us in on upcoming expanded services (like a real dinner menu) and seemed genuinely excited about the new location.  I mentioned we had been surprised by all the families and he was like, I know, right? with a conspiratorial wink. Then Paul brought us our receipt and gave us both BuzzBrews logoed ball point pens which we shall treasure for years to come.

BuzzBrews is a somewhat confusing if refreshing change from Dallas' flashy, trendy dining scene. I think we'll give it a couple of weeks to work the kinks out, and maybe go back there one night with our dear friends Linda Richman and Princessa Quesadilla.

Is There a Cure for Remedy?

Is There a Cure for Remedy?

Last weekend we went to Remedy, a newish eatery in the sizzling hot new restaurant destination called Lower Greenville. In the last couple of years it seems like another dining option pops up out of nowhere like a pesky stray eyebrow hair every week or so.  In Lower Greenville there are more valet stands than cars and it takes about 2 hours to inch along one block.  Okay, I'm exaggerating, maybe an hour and a half, tops.

I have to say when I first walked in I thought "I don't really get this place."  It's long and narrow with really high ceilings festooned with some elegant, ballroom-type chandeliers. There are leather couches and wooden tables and a retro lunch counter you can sit at like at  a pharmacy that sells milkshakes and fried bologna sandwiches.  It was like three designers worked on it who were no longer on speaking terms.  Ah well, everyone's a decorator, what do I know?

The hostess chirped a cheery hello and led us into the densely packed, high decibel interior.  I guess because we are such manly men she showed us to a sturdy wooden table instead of one of the slinky couches or the lunch counter.

Howdy Christopher!

Our server was so awesome I am going to post his picture and tell you his name is Christopher.  He is going to be the richest server at Remedy because my legion of readers are going to flock there and insist that only Christopher is worthy of them.  He shall knock every other server to the curb.  He shall rule Lower Greenville.  He shall be knighted by the Queen of England.  He shall become Immortal.

After ascertaining that it was our first time there and fortifying us with liquid refreshments he asked us if we needed help navigating the menu.  I said sure, and he recommended the Deviled Green Eggs and Ham and the Jalapeno-Chive Hush Puppies for appetizers.  Sold! Then he pointed out his favorite menu item, which was a house-made FRIED BOLOGNA SANDWICH! (Am I clairvoyant or something?  I knew it reminded me of Woolworth's!)) Apparently, we looked somewhat apathetic about that option so he thoughtfully suggested the Nashville Hot Duck and the Texas Shrimp and Grits.  Those sounded tasty so we followed his lead.

Will You Marry Me?

The hush puppies were so crispy and light they started floating out of the little basket that contained them. Luckily, I had a collapsible butterfly net in my pocket and fetched them from midair.  I fashioned a tiny wedding veil out of a paper beverage napkin and placed it on the plumpest one and asked for its hand in marriage.  Having no hands and therefore unable to accept my proposal, I had no choice but to just bite it in half and swallow it.

The Eggs were Deviled with Green Goddess dressing, fresh chervil, tarragon, avocado and garlic. There were five to an order so I pretended to knock one onto the floor but secretly hid it in my lap until nature called D away momentarily and I popped the whole thing in my mouth.

One Is In My Lap

So far, so great.  Then the entrees came, and although the shrimp proved swoon worthy (how could they not with bacon cheddar grits, smoked shrimp butter and marinated baby tomatoes?) the duck was so tough I couldn't slice it with a steak knife.  Then I stuck my fork on top of it and tried pounding it into the top but it bent the tines sideways.  Captain Awesome Christopher swung by and noticed my plight.  Making a tsking sound and frowning with concern, he said "hmmm, that doesn't look right --how about a pork chop?"  I readily surrendered my duck concrete confit and in just a few minutes, a good sized pork chop braised in brown sugar cider arrived on top of jalapeno sweet potato hash, mustard greens with roasted peanuts and a hot sauce vinaigrette.  Oh, and a big fried onion ring on top.

Frankly, I found the whole dish bewildering.  It was like the chef had closed her eyes and randomly pointed out different ingredients listed in the The Chefs Companion and bade her minions to create something unique.  They succeeded in that it was one of a kind but it tasted like the dog's breakfast to me and the eye appeal was rather appalling.  I felt bad for Christopher so I sliced up most of the pork and hid it in my shoe and scraped the rest of the mess into an empty water glass on the recently vacated table next to ours.

Koo Koo for Coconuts

D loved his coconut cream pie and Mr. C comped my martini, so all in all, it was a pleasant night despite the wretched entrees I endured.  I am pretty sure we'll be back.  Maybe we will sit at the lunch counter and eat fried bologna sandwiches and scarf down hand-dipped chocolate milk shakes. I am pretty sure that will cure any misgivings I have about Remedy.

Sushi in Tuscaloosa

Having grown up in the midwest and now living in Texas, it irks me when I hear cranky sophisticated New Yorkers or loony laid back Californians refer to the "flyover states" that exist between them. Hey, I've lived on both coasts and although I appreciate their charms, there are lots of great things happening in those places the self-proclaimed cognoscenti so arrogantly dismiss.

However, recently I've realized I was guilty of the same clueless snobbery about the deep south, which, other than boasting the intoxicating heritage of New Orleans, I thought contained nothing but bigoted bubbas in bib overalls and girls who were called by two names like Elly May or Bobby Sue twirling batons.

Business has taken me to Alabama of late, specifically Tuscaloosa, and I've begun to appreciate the hidden treasures of this small southern town.  First off, everyone is super polite.  I've never heard "no problem" after thanking someone; instead I hear a sincere "you are so very welcome."  If you ask anyone under 30 a question, they start their response with Yes, Sir or No, Sir.  Even a panhandler at a gas station asked me for money from ten feet away for fear that his wretched body odor would prove mightily offensive. (It was.) These niceties are extinct in most other parts of the country.

A good number of your everyday type restaurants in Alabama feature a "Meat and Three." (At first I thought they were saying Mate 'n Thray because my ears were unaccustomed to the quaint dialect. People up north give me amused looks when a drawled "y'all" comes out of my mouth, so I've no room to talk.)  Somewhat like a blue plate special the "meat" can be any kind of protein--even fish! The "three" are the sides that come with it, like turnips, grits, and crackling cornbread doused with sorghum molasses. The waitresses at these places really do call you Honey or Sweet Child and they seem like they mean it.

Hare Today, Gone Tomorrow

My company recently opened The Side by Side restaurant in Tuscaloosa with the assistance of uber chef and James Beard Award winning Chris Hastings of Birmingham's Hot and Hot Fish Club.  It's like Chef Chris has written a love letter to the state of Alabama by opening The Side by Side.  A big seller is the Hare Tamale appetizer.  I had to suppress mental images of Bugs Bunny before I could bite into it, then hungrily gobbled it all down.  Another stand out is the "Pork and Beans"--tender, caramelized slices of Duroc Pork Tenderloin draped on a pile of Great White Northern Beans braised in Ham Hocks and Pork Shoulder alongside a heapin' helpin' of Collard Greens.

Chuck Chuck Bo Buck

I was in Tuscaloosa this last time for four days, so good as the food was at the SBS, I had a craving for something a little less certain to spur early onset arteriosclerosis.  So my last night there I went across the street to Chuck's Fish.  Downstairs was full so the comely lass at the hostess stand suggested I find a seat upstairs at the sushi bar. Sushi?  Really? Isn't that something most people in small towns refer to as bait?

Gamely, I ascended the stairway and seated myself next to an Asian gentleman who was enthusiastically tucking into some seaweed salad and a fair amount of eel.  I figured that was as good a testimonial as seeing Mexicans at a Des Moines taco stand so said what the heck and started considering my options.  I'm somewhat of a sushi purist and usually sniff dismissively at the crazy Americanized rolls that non-sushi lovers order like Philadelphia Cheese Steak or K-rab and Avocado. But as I was perusing the sashimi and nigiri list, the blond University of Alabama senior dressed in the traditional Japanese garb of a sushi master chef set a steaming, fragrant plate on the counter near my head.  It smelled so divine I asked him what it was.  He replied "That's one of our best sellers, Sir. It's called the Red Light District, and it has Spicy Tuna and Tempura rolled inside the Rice and Seaweed, then it's slathered with Hot Chili Paste, and topped with a rich Crab Dip that I broil for a few minutes in yonder toaster oven."  So I ordered it, arteries be damned.

Let me just tell you the contrast of the rich, hot crab and the cold, silky raw tuna was amazing. I believe they named it the Red Light District because most people would be in a hurry to completely compromise their moral standards to get their mitts on another one. It was so good that when I finished it I stood up and leaned over the display of raw fish and kissed the sushi chef full on the mouth.

"Thank you, Sir," he politely mumbled, blushing furiously.

Henry's Majestic--Man, That Was Fast!

A couple of weeks ago we ventured over to Henry's Majestic, a newish addition to the Dallas dining scene.  I had read somewhere that their motto was "Good Food. Strong Drink" and I scrolled through their website, finding the copywriting rather ironic and amusing, with its stilted, Olde English cadences and manly man persona. Their regal crown logo transported me into a short daydream about buxom serving wenches sloshing out pints of ale and eating roasted meats with my hands before throwing the bones into a corner for two unleashed hounds.

The Outer Entrance To The Palace

We valeted in front of what instead looked sort of like a 1980s fern bar. We entered the dimly lit, very noisy restaurant which has two long bars in two big rooms with a bunch of scattered tables and chairs.  The decor is kind of steel and woody with odd found objects used as accent pieces; a pretty good stab at shabby chic.

A rainbow butterfly unicorn kitten came prancing up to the host stand with a friendly smile that didn't leave his face as he gave us a quick once over.  I said we had reservations at 8:30 (it was 8:29) and he trilled "Perfect! Follow me!" and capered all the way across the darker back room and out the door to the patio, alighting at a high round cocktail table with two bar stools situated immediately adjacent a long gas pipe with holes cut in it spouting flames. The outdoor space was draped in thin plastic to ward off the cold, but it was about 25 degrees outside so it was a challenge that could not be met.  The side of my body next to the flame was burning hot and my other side was freezing.  It reminded me of my grandparent's house in the country that had a pot-bellied stove as its only source of heat, resulting in facing it and facing away from it in equal turns to feel moderately comfortable on the coldest nights. As we had walked through I had noticed the place was packed so I didn't ask to be moved. I'm cheerfully cooperative that way, even though I had also noticed everyone inside was 25 years old and everyone on the patio could have been their parents.  A coincidence, surely.

Meatballs. Good.

We might have been our server's very first table.  Not just that night, but like his very first table in any restaurant ever in his entire lifetime. He was earnest and really tried to do a good job but to be honest the word "inept" is the only one I can use to describe his table waiting ability.  We ordered some drinks, which took ten long minutes to come out, and then ordered our food.  I said we'd start with the Maple Bourbon Meatballs, then split some Market Oysters, and finish up with the Texas "Pho" and a Peppered Pastrami Reuben.  

Five minutes later, out came the Akaushi Beef Meatballs with Fennel Slaw.  We each had one bite and pronounced them good. Then the server came right back to the table with the Oysters, "Pho" and Reuben.  Not only was it not sequenced, the small cocktail table was nowhere near big enough to hold all the serving plates, our drinks, and a stack of sharing plates with rolled silverware. So he just started piling dishes one on top of the other.  I rescued the oysters with one hand and gulped all six down real fast while they were cold and handed him their tray, brimming with crushed ice.  D snatched the meatballs and ate those mid-air as well so at least now we had a little elbow room.

Salty Faux Pho

The Texas "Pho" was "Faux" in that it had Texas Brisket in it along with Flank Steak, a soft boiled egg, rice noodles and the traditional pho accoutrements.  The first bite was repugnant. Chewy beef parts swam in what I think was an entire jar of bouillon cubes stirred into tepid water, the soft boiled egg was rubbery, and he had forgotten the sauces and cilantro that you could add to taste.  I didn't ask for them because I was still struggling to swallow the liquid deer lick and had no intention of eating any more of it.  I left the bowl on the table and had a couple bites of the Reuben, which was nicely done. Then our server came back to check on us, or so I thought, but instead, he plopped down our check and said we could pay whenever we were ready without noticing my veritably untouched "Faux".  It was 9:00.  Slam, Bam, Thank You Ma'am, two drinks, four plates and our check in exactly 30 minutes.  I've spent more time waiting in the drive through lane at Starbucks.

Since we were shivering and sweating at the same time we decided to leave and paid our check.  I was more than generous with the tip considering the service but I chalked that up more to his lack of training and darkly imagined his managers being horse-whipped out on the freezing hot patio.  As we left the rainbow butterfly unicorn kitten called out "farewell and please return soon" quite exuberantly. 

From their website:  We all need a place to imbibe and feast, to relax and reflect, a place that offers the riches of cultured setting and genuine southern charm.

I ain't got time for dat.