A vortex is created from spiraling motion of air or liquid around a center of rotation. If you have ever witnessed a “dust devil” kick up in the desert, then you have seen a vortex. In Sedona, folks believe that vortexes are created, not by wind or water, but from spiraling energy. The vortexes of Sedona are named because they are believed to be spiritual locations where the energy is right to facilitate to prayer, mediation and healing. The four “vortexes” of Sedona are said to be found at Red Rock Crossing, Saddle of Cathedral Rock, Bell Rock and Boynton Canyon.
Well, can’t say as I know much about the spirituality thing. I keep looking but am just unable to find it. After spending several days on a recent family trip to Sedona, I can say that the place does bring a certain inner comfort and peace. Looking out at the place makes one just kind of feel good. I don’t really know another way to describe it.
With the spirituality thing out of the way, I can tell you that while in Sedona, I was able to find vortex of a different sort, based in the soul of the agave plant. Although the town’s night life seems to live and die with tourism, I was able to find a few vortexes of my own.
At the Cowboy Club in the downtown area, I washed down a nice plate of ribs with an old stand by, Tres Generaciones. Went with the plata, icy cold and backed it with a tall bottle of Bud. The family tried a little snake for an appetizer; personally I stay away from anything reptilian – dead or alive. The TG is nothing fancy – you can get it most anywhere and I am sure the aficionados who read this will call me a “poser”. Screw em. The stuff is sweet, refreshing and tastes pretty damn good.
A strong sense of spirituality was also wafting throughout the “Elote Café”. The Elote was apparently opened recently by a fairly successful LA /Phoenix chef. Don’t know much about him, but can say that the food was fantastic. You could fill a bathtub with the elote’ appetizer, a roasted corn kind of thing. Just great.
The bar at Elote’ was manned by a particularly skilled young woman, Celia. The house specialty, a grapefruit margarita, is hall of fame worthy – fresh juices, Herradura Reposado and Grand Marnier. Nice. Personally, I stuck with what I stick with – a nice tequila neat – in this case, the Partida Plata – and a cold beer – went with a local lager from the Oak Creek brewery. The Partida was just perfect with the beer. So perfect, I had two of each. We may have won that Mexican-American war thing more than a century ago, but I am sure glad those folks left a little to remember them by. And again, I just cant say enough about Celia, the barkeep. She filled every glass in the restaurant, and kept the bar patrons happy to boot. She could wear an apron in my place any time.
Our stay in Sedona was at the Amara Resort. A perfect intersection of spectacular scenery, comfort and Sedona location. The bar flowed nicely from inside to a spectacular outside view. In a seemingly fitting complement to the atmosphere, the bar was frequently manned by a fellow named “Merlin”. You heard me. Anyway, more magic was certainly found in a new tequila try for me, the Republic Anejo. A bit lighter than most anejos, but a real smooth taste that combined flavors of caramel, chocolate and some spice. Backed with another of those Oak Creek lagers, this was “good eats” from a TQB standpoint.
Our trip to Sedona was one all will remember. I did find a certain peace in the place and undoubtedly a great joy in its watering holes. The hunt for spirituality, however, continues.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
TEQUILA & GIRLS - A date with Don Julio's 1942
So, after yammering on for months in areas hardly of a tequila nature, the boys are are back, so to speak. The Tequila Boys cracking into a new bottle of agave, that is.
A few days ago, a good buddy who also happens to be a good client, stopped by at my divorceland doorstep offering gifts. Not wine, women or song. No sir. Now that I think about it though, maybe this gift does remind me of a woman I know.
At a fraternity party several years ago, I crossed paths with a tall dark haired beauty. Great smile, great legs, curvy thing she was. Ay, Captain! If you are on the "Mars" side of the gender equation, you know exactly what I am talking about. No metaphors needed.
As it turned out, the contents inside matched that unforgettable package. Funny, smart, just great to be around. Jeez, I loved that girl. Married her, actually.
I certainly don't want to minimize that memorable night when I met my little lady, now my wife of almost 25 years, by comparing the historic event to a little anejo in a short glass, but - hey brother - it fits.
The Don Julio 1942 Special Reserve anejo is , quite simply, outstanding. Eva Longoria in a bottle, so to speak. Great packaging, a trim,slinky, long legged beauty. Inside - well, my friends, pure Mexican magic. Creamy vanilla malt, oaky back and maybe a little spice and pepper all forged and blended into your own drinkable Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. Mmm.
Now listen fellows, this little darlin don't come cheap. Of course, nothing worth your while usually does. Dig deep and pay the price. She's worth it.
A few days ago, a good buddy who also happens to be a good client, stopped by at my divorceland doorstep offering gifts. Not wine, women or song. No sir. Now that I think about it though, maybe this gift does remind me of a woman I know.
At a fraternity party several years ago, I crossed paths with a tall dark haired beauty. Great smile, great legs, curvy thing she was. Ay, Captain! If you are on the "Mars" side of the gender equation, you know exactly what I am talking about. No metaphors needed.
As it turned out, the contents inside matched that unforgettable package. Funny, smart, just great to be around. Jeez, I loved that girl. Married her, actually.
I certainly don't want to minimize that memorable night when I met my little lady, now my wife of almost 25 years, by comparing the historic event to a little anejo in a short glass, but - hey brother - it fits.
The Don Julio 1942 Special Reserve anejo is , quite simply, outstanding. Eva Longoria in a bottle, so to speak. Great packaging, a trim,slinky, long legged beauty. Inside - well, my friends, pure Mexican magic. Creamy vanilla malt, oaky back and maybe a little spice and pepper all forged and blended into your own drinkable Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. Mmm.
Now listen fellows, this little darlin don't come cheap. Of course, nothing worth your while usually does. Dig deep and pay the price. She's worth it.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
"TASTE" ADDS TO OLNEY'S EXPANDING RESTAURANT SCENE
I know, I know. "Restaurant scene" in good ol' little Olney, Maryland? Not too long ago, that particular "scene" consisted of a Pizza Hut and , uh, a Pizza Hut. Sure, I am exaggerating a bit, but not too much. With the ongoing "facelift" on the town center area, new places for us Olney locals have been popping up. The most recent addition is the tapas restaurant, "Taste".
I purposely waited until I visited "Taste" twice in order to give the place a fair read. As I left "Taste" after my second visit last night with the lovely Julia, I could not help but be reminded of the title to one of Clilnt Eastwood's cool spaghetti westerns, "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly". A visit to "Taste", at least for now in its relative infancy, gives you just that.
Lets start with some "good". This is a really nice joint. Once entering, you completely forget that "Taste" is located in an old and dicrepit Olney shopping center, circa 1975. Great little bar, dim and sort of sexy lighting - always a plus for this bar fly. The dining area is separated from the bar by some etched glass type panels, giving the place a real "downtown" kind of feel. I like it.
More good. The food, tapas style, is not usually my cup of tea. As all who know me are painfully aware, I like my own dinner. I pick mine, you pick yours, I eat mine and you eat yours. You know, the way us Americans are supposed to eat. So it is a bit out of the box for me to have to "conference" with others at my table in order to pick items we all might like. But no matter - everything I have had to eat at "Taste" on two separate occasions has been delicious. The food is out quick, it looks great and tastes great. Absolutely no complaints. Even for the discriminating foodie type, which I am not, it is a winner. Hands down.
Now, lets turn to the bad. The wait staff is mediocre, and borders on incompetent. Dont get me wrong - as I said, the food comes out fast enough. The problem isn't with speed, its with knowledge of your menu, your bar, and attention to your customers. It took me three requests on both visits to get a glass of water. Last night, the complimentary breads and hummus did not come out until after our food arrived, and only then when we asked for it. When we were ready to go, the waitress walked by me about six times before coming over to see if she could bring a check. I finally had to wave, a la an elderly jewish fellow at a Brooklyn deli, in order to get my check. Unfortunate.
The real "bad" was my drink. I ordered a bourbon, light ice. It came delivered to my table, looking like a slushy, buried in ice and served in a brandy snifter. Get outta here. Seriously? Bourbon in a brandy glass? I think I went to a party once where the host poured me a little Jack in a Brandy glass. I broke his nose and burned the house down. Not really, but you get my drift. Anyway, in my nice daddy voice, I asked for my drink to be put in a short whiskey glass with two cubes of ice rather than the initial Big Gulp portion. The waitress looked at me a little cockeyed, but complied.
Now, the ugly. After all, this is a tequila oriented blog so I need to make a brief observation in that direction. The observation I made, quite simply, is that you get a better selection of tequila at the local Red Lobster. Cuervo (cheap garbage) and Patron (over priced garbage). Thats it. You want tequila in Olney, better bet is UBQ down the road a bit. Even better bet is to get an invite to my bar.
All and all, I think "Taste" is worth your time. I will most definitely return. One can only hope that the owner spends some time better training his staff and, of course, spends a few extra bucks to beef up the anejo shelf. If he does, maybe a different movie title will come to mind...
I purposely waited until I visited "Taste" twice in order to give the place a fair read. As I left "Taste" after my second visit last night with the lovely Julia, I could not help but be reminded of the title to one of Clilnt Eastwood's cool spaghetti westerns, "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly". A visit to "Taste", at least for now in its relative infancy, gives you just that.
Lets start with some "good". This is a really nice joint. Once entering, you completely forget that "Taste" is located in an old and dicrepit Olney shopping center, circa 1975. Great little bar, dim and sort of sexy lighting - always a plus for this bar fly. The dining area is separated from the bar by some etched glass type panels, giving the place a real "downtown" kind of feel. I like it.
More good. The food, tapas style, is not usually my cup of tea. As all who know me are painfully aware, I like my own dinner. I pick mine, you pick yours, I eat mine and you eat yours. You know, the way us Americans are supposed to eat. So it is a bit out of the box for me to have to "conference" with others at my table in order to pick items we all might like. But no matter - everything I have had to eat at "Taste" on two separate occasions has been delicious. The food is out quick, it looks great and tastes great. Absolutely no complaints. Even for the discriminating foodie type, which I am not, it is a winner. Hands down.
Now, lets turn to the bad. The wait staff is mediocre, and borders on incompetent. Dont get me wrong - as I said, the food comes out fast enough. The problem isn't with speed, its with knowledge of your menu, your bar, and attention to your customers. It took me three requests on both visits to get a glass of water. Last night, the complimentary breads and hummus did not come out until after our food arrived, and only then when we asked for it. When we were ready to go, the waitress walked by me about six times before coming over to see if she could bring a check. I finally had to wave, a la an elderly jewish fellow at a Brooklyn deli, in order to get my check. Unfortunate.
The real "bad" was my drink. I ordered a bourbon, light ice. It came delivered to my table, looking like a slushy, buried in ice and served in a brandy snifter. Get outta here. Seriously? Bourbon in a brandy glass? I think I went to a party once where the host poured me a little Jack in a Brandy glass. I broke his nose and burned the house down. Not really, but you get my drift. Anyway, in my nice daddy voice, I asked for my drink to be put in a short whiskey glass with two cubes of ice rather than the initial Big Gulp portion. The waitress looked at me a little cockeyed, but complied.
Now, the ugly. After all, this is a tequila oriented blog so I need to make a brief observation in that direction. The observation I made, quite simply, is that you get a better selection of tequila at the local Red Lobster. Cuervo (cheap garbage) and Patron (over priced garbage). Thats it. You want tequila in Olney, better bet is UBQ down the road a bit. Even better bet is to get an invite to my bar.
All and all, I think "Taste" is worth your time. I will most definitely return. One can only hope that the owner spends some time better training his staff and, of course, spends a few extra bucks to beef up the anejo shelf. If he does, maybe a different movie title will come to mind...
Saturday, December 11, 2010
FROM DARKNESS, A PROMISE KEPT
The year was 1978. A junior at a suburban Maryland high school, my musical taste, such as it was, ran from Barry Manilow to Hall and Oates and around the bend to the Bee Gees. My good buddy, now known to all as "Uncle Freddie", worked part time at his family's record store. I say "worked" in the loosest of terms as it is my distinct recollection that the good Uncle Fred spent most of his time behind the counter underneath gigantic Kazoo like headphones and listening to the latest Top 40 release all the while popping Goldenbergs Peanut Chews.
With or without the headphones - I really don't remember - it was Uncle Freddie who, while undoubtedly in the midst of a self induced chewy chocolate haze - introduced me to the music of Bruce Springsteen.
I am fairly certain that Badlands was the first Springsteen song I ever heard. I remember clearly having to dig deep - very deep - into my pocket for the six bucks it cost me to buy "Darkness on the Edge of Town". Freddie may have squeezed me a discount, but I cant be sure. The album cover was nothing memorable - just a guy in a leather jacket - looking out at me from some room in a beat up old house somewhere. I got my copy of Darkness, fled from the White Oak Waxie Maxie record store and raced home.
When I got home, I bounded up the stairs, closed my door, peeled off the plastic and dropped the vinyl disc onto my record player. Yes, I did say record player - not turntable, not stereo - a real plastic ten dollar record player with one tinny speaker next to the volume control. Trust me when I tell you that the sound quality -well, it wasnt exactly "Bose" like. I will also tell you, with no hesitiation, that it just did not matter. It seemed to me like every song was better than the last, every one hit a chord in a different way - music by a guy who was talking about life, about love, about stuff that really mattered. I can still spit out that setlist as fast as the dates that my kids were born - Badlands, Adam raised a Cain, Something in the Night, Candy's Room, Racing in the Street, The Promised land, Factory, Streets of Fire, Prove it all Night and Darkness on the Edge of Town.
Up until then, I of course had listened to music. I do mean listened, because until Darkness I never reallly heard any of it. It gave me this "feeling" - cant quite describe it. No journalistic metaphor here. No creative quip. It was just - different.
I saved more money over the next couple of months and built my collection - first with Born to Run, then Greetings from Asbury Park and finally adding The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle.
Over the years, Bruce went through marriage, divorce and marriage again. I bought all the albums, almost always on the first day they were available. From Born in the USA through Working on A Dream. Every one. Some I liked more than others. With each release and every purchase, from album to CD, my routine never wavered. Every time I was back to being that 17 year old kid - peeling off the plastic, looking at the jacket and whatever was inside, reading the lyrics and of course, running through the disc, one song at a time, never playing a song twice and, for god sake, never listening out of the order that Bruce intended.
Most Springsteen fans I know find Born to Run to be his best piece of work. Don't get me wrong, I love that record. And every time I hear The River, I turn it up - something about that song, written about his sister, always makes me quiet. But after all the years and all the music, it is always Darkness that I go back to when I want to just sit back and listen.
A couple of months ago, I read that Bruce was releasing a new "old" album - "The Promise" was to contain the "lost songs" that were written during the Darkness years. Songs that , for one reason or another I guess, never found their way "out of the vault" as they say on satellite radio. With record stores long gone, I put my "pre release order" in at Amazon and waited. My girl Julia tried to torment me when it arrived, holding it just out of reach like a kid keeping the Barbie away from her little sister. Of course, I threw her into a choke hold and snared it out of her grasp. Not really. She just handed it over mumbling something that sounded a lot like " big doofus".
You know the drill. In my office I went, peeling the plasitc, reading the jacket from cover to cover. Listened form start to finish, a few breaks, here and there - after all , I have a responsiblity or two that I didn't have in 1978.
What can I say? A bigger and better version of Racing in the Street? Hard to believe, but true. The Way? How did he not release that one? Reminds me of "colour my World" but with a much longer "slowdance". Truly, a lot of great songs. Some recorded when Bruce had the big voice, the voice that reaches way down and pulls at you if you listen close enough. Others were recorded today - more production, more back up, but still - - - you know, different.
Funny thing. One of the tracks is titled "Gotta Get that Feeling".
Yep. I got it all right. Thanks again, Boss Man.
With or without the headphones - I really don't remember - it was Uncle Freddie who, while undoubtedly in the midst of a self induced chewy chocolate haze - introduced me to the music of Bruce Springsteen.
I am fairly certain that Badlands was the first Springsteen song I ever heard. I remember clearly having to dig deep - very deep - into my pocket for the six bucks it cost me to buy "Darkness on the Edge of Town". Freddie may have squeezed me a discount, but I cant be sure. The album cover was nothing memorable - just a guy in a leather jacket - looking out at me from some room in a beat up old house somewhere. I got my copy of Darkness, fled from the White Oak Waxie Maxie record store and raced home.
When I got home, I bounded up the stairs, closed my door, peeled off the plastic and dropped the vinyl disc onto my record player. Yes, I did say record player - not turntable, not stereo - a real plastic ten dollar record player with one tinny speaker next to the volume control. Trust me when I tell you that the sound quality -well, it wasnt exactly "Bose" like. I will also tell you, with no hesitiation, that it just did not matter. It seemed to me like every song was better than the last, every one hit a chord in a different way - music by a guy who was talking about life, about love, about stuff that really mattered. I can still spit out that setlist as fast as the dates that my kids were born - Badlands, Adam raised a Cain, Something in the Night, Candy's Room, Racing in the Street, The Promised land, Factory, Streets of Fire, Prove it all Night and Darkness on the Edge of Town.
Up until then, I of course had listened to music. I do mean listened, because until Darkness I never reallly heard any of it. It gave me this "feeling" - cant quite describe it. No journalistic metaphor here. No creative quip. It was just - different.
I saved more money over the next couple of months and built my collection - first with Born to Run, then Greetings from Asbury Park and finally adding The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle.
Over the years, Bruce went through marriage, divorce and marriage again. I bought all the albums, almost always on the first day they were available. From Born in the USA through Working on A Dream. Every one. Some I liked more than others. With each release and every purchase, from album to CD, my routine never wavered. Every time I was back to being that 17 year old kid - peeling off the plastic, looking at the jacket and whatever was inside, reading the lyrics and of course, running through the disc, one song at a time, never playing a song twice and, for god sake, never listening out of the order that Bruce intended.
Most Springsteen fans I know find Born to Run to be his best piece of work. Don't get me wrong, I love that record. And every time I hear The River, I turn it up - something about that song, written about his sister, always makes me quiet. But after all the years and all the music, it is always Darkness that I go back to when I want to just sit back and listen.
A couple of months ago, I read that Bruce was releasing a new "old" album - "The Promise" was to contain the "lost songs" that were written during the Darkness years. Songs that , for one reason or another I guess, never found their way "out of the vault" as they say on satellite radio. With record stores long gone, I put my "pre release order" in at Amazon and waited. My girl Julia tried to torment me when it arrived, holding it just out of reach like a kid keeping the Barbie away from her little sister. Of course, I threw her into a choke hold and snared it out of her grasp. Not really. She just handed it over mumbling something that sounded a lot like " big doofus".
You know the drill. In my office I went, peeling the plasitc, reading the jacket from cover to cover. Listened form start to finish, a few breaks, here and there - after all , I have a responsiblity or two that I didn't have in 1978.
What can I say? A bigger and better version of Racing in the Street? Hard to believe, but true. The Way? How did he not release that one? Reminds me of "colour my World" but with a much longer "slowdance". Truly, a lot of great songs. Some recorded when Bruce had the big voice, the voice that reaches way down and pulls at you if you listen close enough. Others were recorded today - more production, more back up, but still - - - you know, different.
Funny thing. One of the tracks is titled "Gotta Get that Feeling".
Yep. I got it all right. Thanks again, Boss Man.
Monday, September 27, 2010
MY KIND OF TOWN
I spent my first year in law school living in Chicago. 1983 was a different time. I had no one depending on me, no one asking for anything from me. Pretty much nothing in the way of responsibilities. Unfortunately, I also lacked one other item. Money.
Fast forward to September, 2010. An auspicious return to the City of Big Shoulders for a buddy's 50th birthday. Dependants and responsibilities left at home. Unlike 1983, had some money in my pocket and ready to spend, as they say. And spend it, I did.
"now this could only happen to a guy like me, and only happen in a town
like this..."
Things opened up quite nicely, meeting with the fellas at the James Hotel bar. Those in attendance included my neighbor and traveling partner, the I Man, Downtown Johnny B, my TQB brother, the two Goldstein boys - Steven, the planner, and David, the Birthday boy himself. We were joined by a couple of guys I had never met - Donny, a guy who proves that people actually do live in Arkansas, and JP, a smooth talking guy's guy if there ever was one. Sometimes you dont know how things are going to mesh with strangers, but in this case, all it took was about 20 minutes and a few girls named Stella (Artois, that is) and I felt as if JP, Donny and I ran as wing men in some former life.
From The James, we wandered out to an old stomping ground - read "dive bar" - Mother Hubbards. Surprisingly, Mother's is no longer a purveyor of that great Chicagoland brew, Old Style, leaving us to knock back a few buckets of "canned Hamms", play a little video golf and catch the Yanks-Rays game on tv. Tough afternoon at the office. Great dinner and cocktails at The Gage. Not a huge tequila selection, but a little Don Julio did just right to wet the whistle.
It was at The Gage that a bit of my front tooth innocuously splashed into my beer, leaving me to look a bit like Richie Cunningham or David Letterman. Maybe even Anna Pacquin if you were drunk. Either way, I could whistle like nobody's business.
"...my kind of people too. People who smile at you..."
After a little gym time and a gut bending breakfast with the I Man, Friday proved to be a great day to roam the heart of town, up Michigan Ave and the Magnificent Mile, back down to the famed Chicago loop.
For lunch, the fellows chose the patio at a little joint called "The Purple Pig". If you are like me, "The Purple Pig" sounds like a great spot. Big dogs, smoked brats a little kraut on top, right? Buzzzz. Wrong answer. Instead, what you get at "The Purple Pig" is a bunch of little teenie weenie plates to share. Strike one. On the teenie wenie plates are little teenie weenie portions of things like mashed beets with some white glazed sour creamy stuff on top. Strike two. Their signature is essentially the same thing a guy can get transplated down the street at Illinois Massonic Hospital - a plate of bone marrow. Strike 3. Place was gross. For me, anyway. Enough said.
Not surprisingly, my pals' appetites were not completely sated and we zipped over to a real Chicago landmark, Portillos. There, for about 4 bucks, I got a nice sized Chicago style dog and a drink. My travelling cohorts, themselves food experts all, knocked back some dogs and a little italian beef. Back for Round 2 at Mother Hubbards and, having drank them out of canned Hamms the day before, settled for a few buckets of High Life. Miller High life, that is. That's real man's livin, brother, let me tell you.
"...I just grin like a clown. Its my kind of town..."
After a little napper, Friday night kicked off at the bar in the James. Excellent, well portioned cocktails all around, including a nice newcomer to my tequila experience,Deleon. The reposado was really, really nice. A sweet taste, dripping in vanilla, caramel and more. Definitely a keeper. The plata, not so much - a little bitter and a bit of a cheap whiskey burn going down - skip it.
The lobby of the James is really a great place. Tons of folks walking through, enjoying themselves. The women were gorgeous and, if it matters to you, there were plenty of guys roaming as well. At one point, we were engulfed by a bevy of California girls enjoying a little "bachelorette weekend". One young lady made an offbeat coment about "beer flavored nipples". Girls with short dresses and pink penis necklaces... Was that in The Sound of Music? Anyway, don't see too much of that in the normal work week, that's for sure.
Friday night also brought us a couple of additions. My old pal from my law school days in Chicago, Scotty "The Ring" Stephenson and another classic Chicago local, Johnny Z., were brought in to round out the crew. We meandered from The James over to Rosebud on Rush for a great old time Italian dinner. I knocked back a steer size veal parm and a couple of cocktails. Not only was the veal parm good eats for a simple guy like me, but it also served as a great big sponge for the swimming pool of beer that I was to ingest over the next few hours.
From the Rosebud, we hopped a cab over to a reinvigorated part of the city, affectionately known as "Bucktown". Out of the cab, into the bar. For the first time in two days, there it was - the famous "Old Style" sign. My man, JP, immediately "glamoured" a cute little bartender and convinced her to set aside their entire remaining stock of Old Style tall boys. Six 24 ounce cans of what is essentially a cold and pale PBR in a snazzy can. A couple of hours and, incredibly, down they went. What can I say? Classic rock in a sweaty old open air bar just does it to me. Every time.
After polishing off a backyard well worth of the Old Style grog, we taxied back downtown and stumbled into The Red Head. Not in a redhead, I promise. I am a good husband, after all. No, The Red head is a one of a kind in town Chicago bar where you can circle around a piano man, drink if you wish (I did wish) and sing along. Fun, fun, fun and no one had a T Bird taken away.
"My kind of razzmatazz. And it has all that jazz..."
I woke up surprisingly sprite on Saturday and readied for a trip north to Wrigley to see the Cubbies play the Cards. First stop, Murphys. Plenty of Old Style. Cracked one open, and did my best to choke it down, along with a nicely charred brat. From there,well, I struggled. The bleachers were great, the day nice enough and the stadium, well, it is Wrigley. A great, great place whether you like baseball or not. Unfortunately, the reverb from Friday night's festivities hit me like a club. Didn't even make it to the 7th inning stretch. Caught a cab and back to The James with JB, who was apparently feeling the same kickback. A few hours of napping with some Arkansas-Alabama on the tube and the ship was back sailing in the right direction.
Dinner was big, even by Chicago standards. A great mammoth sized T Bone at The Saloon. Unable to even glance in the direction of anything in a bottle or can, I stuck with tap water. Worked fine. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for our buddy Steven, who went down for the count just as his house salad arrived. JP later recalled the great Howard Cosell comparing Steven's fall from grace to a long ago title bout: "Down goes Frazier, down goes Frazier..."
Up early Sunday and back to reality. As we took off and circled over enormous Lake Michigan, I kept thinking of the Sammy Cahn lyrics, the Sinatra voice:
"One town that wont let you down. It's my kind of town."
Chicago IS.
Fast forward to September, 2010. An auspicious return to the City of Big Shoulders for a buddy's 50th birthday. Dependants and responsibilities left at home. Unlike 1983, had some money in my pocket and ready to spend, as they say. And spend it, I did.
"now this could only happen to a guy like me, and only happen in a town
like this..."
Things opened up quite nicely, meeting with the fellas at the James Hotel bar. Those in attendance included my neighbor and traveling partner, the I Man, Downtown Johnny B, my TQB brother, the two Goldstein boys - Steven, the planner, and David, the Birthday boy himself. We were joined by a couple of guys I had never met - Donny, a guy who proves that people actually do live in Arkansas, and JP, a smooth talking guy's guy if there ever was one. Sometimes you dont know how things are going to mesh with strangers, but in this case, all it took was about 20 minutes and a few girls named Stella (Artois, that is) and I felt as if JP, Donny and I ran as wing men in some former life.
From The James, we wandered out to an old stomping ground - read "dive bar" - Mother Hubbards. Surprisingly, Mother's is no longer a purveyor of that great Chicagoland brew, Old Style, leaving us to knock back a few buckets of "canned Hamms", play a little video golf and catch the Yanks-Rays game on tv. Tough afternoon at the office. Great dinner and cocktails at The Gage. Not a huge tequila selection, but a little Don Julio did just right to wet the whistle.
It was at The Gage that a bit of my front tooth innocuously splashed into my beer, leaving me to look a bit like Richie Cunningham or David Letterman. Maybe even Anna Pacquin if you were drunk. Either way, I could whistle like nobody's business.
"...my kind of people too. People who smile at you..."
After a little gym time and a gut bending breakfast with the I Man, Friday proved to be a great day to roam the heart of town, up Michigan Ave and the Magnificent Mile, back down to the famed Chicago loop.
For lunch, the fellows chose the patio at a little joint called "The Purple Pig". If you are like me, "The Purple Pig" sounds like a great spot. Big dogs, smoked brats a little kraut on top, right? Buzzzz. Wrong answer. Instead, what you get at "The Purple Pig" is a bunch of little teenie weenie plates to share. Strike one. On the teenie wenie plates are little teenie weenie portions of things like mashed beets with some white glazed sour creamy stuff on top. Strike two. Their signature is essentially the same thing a guy can get transplated down the street at Illinois Massonic Hospital - a plate of bone marrow. Strike 3. Place was gross. For me, anyway. Enough said.
Not surprisingly, my pals' appetites were not completely sated and we zipped over to a real Chicago landmark, Portillos. There, for about 4 bucks, I got a nice sized Chicago style dog and a drink. My travelling cohorts, themselves food experts all, knocked back some dogs and a little italian beef. Back for Round 2 at Mother Hubbards and, having drank them out of canned Hamms the day before, settled for a few buckets of High Life. Miller High life, that is. That's real man's livin, brother, let me tell you.
"...I just grin like a clown. Its my kind of town..."
After a little napper, Friday night kicked off at the bar in the James. Excellent, well portioned cocktails all around, including a nice newcomer to my tequila experience,Deleon. The reposado was really, really nice. A sweet taste, dripping in vanilla, caramel and more. Definitely a keeper. The plata, not so much - a little bitter and a bit of a cheap whiskey burn going down - skip it.
The lobby of the James is really a great place. Tons of folks walking through, enjoying themselves. The women were gorgeous and, if it matters to you, there were plenty of guys roaming as well. At one point, we were engulfed by a bevy of California girls enjoying a little "bachelorette weekend". One young lady made an offbeat coment about "beer flavored nipples". Girls with short dresses and pink penis necklaces... Was that in The Sound of Music? Anyway, don't see too much of that in the normal work week, that's for sure.
Friday night also brought us a couple of additions. My old pal from my law school days in Chicago, Scotty "The Ring" Stephenson and another classic Chicago local, Johnny Z., were brought in to round out the crew. We meandered from The James over to Rosebud on Rush for a great old time Italian dinner. I knocked back a steer size veal parm and a couple of cocktails. Not only was the veal parm good eats for a simple guy like me, but it also served as a great big sponge for the swimming pool of beer that I was to ingest over the next few hours.
From the Rosebud, we hopped a cab over to a reinvigorated part of the city, affectionately known as "Bucktown". Out of the cab, into the bar. For the first time in two days, there it was - the famous "Old Style" sign. My man, JP, immediately "glamoured" a cute little bartender and convinced her to set aside their entire remaining stock of Old Style tall boys. Six 24 ounce cans of what is essentially a cold and pale PBR in a snazzy can. A couple of hours and, incredibly, down they went. What can I say? Classic rock in a sweaty old open air bar just does it to me. Every time.
After polishing off a backyard well worth of the Old Style grog, we taxied back downtown and stumbled into The Red Head. Not in a redhead, I promise. I am a good husband, after all. No, The Red head is a one of a kind in town Chicago bar where you can circle around a piano man, drink if you wish (I did wish) and sing along. Fun, fun, fun and no one had a T Bird taken away.
"My kind of razzmatazz. And it has all that jazz..."
I woke up surprisingly sprite on Saturday and readied for a trip north to Wrigley to see the Cubbies play the Cards. First stop, Murphys. Plenty of Old Style. Cracked one open, and did my best to choke it down, along with a nicely charred brat. From there,well, I struggled. The bleachers were great, the day nice enough and the stadium, well, it is Wrigley. A great, great place whether you like baseball or not. Unfortunately, the reverb from Friday night's festivities hit me like a club. Didn't even make it to the 7th inning stretch. Caught a cab and back to The James with JB, who was apparently feeling the same kickback. A few hours of napping with some Arkansas-Alabama on the tube and the ship was back sailing in the right direction.
Dinner was big, even by Chicago standards. A great mammoth sized T Bone at The Saloon. Unable to even glance in the direction of anything in a bottle or can, I stuck with tap water. Worked fine. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for our buddy Steven, who went down for the count just as his house salad arrived. JP later recalled the great Howard Cosell comparing Steven's fall from grace to a long ago title bout: "Down goes Frazier, down goes Frazier..."
Up early Sunday and back to reality. As we took off and circled over enormous Lake Michigan, I kept thinking of the Sammy Cahn lyrics, the Sinatra voice:
"One town that wont let you down. It's my kind of town."
Chicago IS.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Captain Dunsel?
Never heard of him? I know you Star Trek fans remember the reference - you know, the episode where Doctor Daystrom and the M-5 computer replaced Captain Kirk at the helm of the Enterprise. You got to know that one. Anyway, for those who have not seen every episode of the original Star Trek series about 186 times apiece, let me fill you in. "Captain Dunsel" is a midshipman's term for a part which no longer serves a useful purpose. Think a politician whose newer and younger party members have party excluded him, a committee chair whose members have tuned her out. And of course, our good Captain Kirk, who was left to watch as a cardboard computer ran his beloved Enterprise.
I have thought much of Capain Dunsel over the last couple of weeks. Much like the ship captain, I was once at the helm of my own vessel right here in the Bulitt home. My crew was made up of little people, all scampering around looking to me for food, for fun, for love - for life. For piggybacks and "speed boat". For "chase me" and "cuss time". A tiring job, a challenging position, that is for certain, but one which I think I grew into and more comfortable as my time in the Captain's chair went by. I didn't think much about it then, but now I do. My days as Captain, my time as the center of my children's lives, it has most certainly passed. Today, my ship largely runs itself, my crew more often than not, much happier to be on their own, making their own way, walking their own paths.
I am Captain Dunsel. Or am I?
Does my oldest still call me every day from college, pretty much without fail? She does. Does my high school senior still rely upon me to help her with getting ready for her next steps in life - beyond high school? She does. And my 15 year old - doesn't she need me now more than ever to help her reach beyond and around her array of issues to be the best she can be? I think she does. And what about my baby? My 12 year old who looks and wants you to think she is really 18. Doesn't she need me to remind her that its okay to be a kid for awhile longer? I know she does.
Do all of my girls still laugh at my jokes? They do. Do they want to tell me about their successes, and sometimes even their failures? Yes.Yes. I believe they do.
Maybe I dont need to be the center of my children's lives to continue to be important to their lives. I think I can still make a difference without having to be the only difference.
Its amazing how a little glass of oaky anejo can give you clarity.
Captain Dunsel? Oh no. Not me. Not now. Not ever.
I have thought much of Capain Dunsel over the last couple of weeks. Much like the ship captain, I was once at the helm of my own vessel right here in the Bulitt home. My crew was made up of little people, all scampering around looking to me for food, for fun, for love - for life. For piggybacks and "speed boat". For "chase me" and "cuss time". A tiring job, a challenging position, that is for certain, but one which I think I grew into and more comfortable as my time in the Captain's chair went by. I didn't think much about it then, but now I do. My days as Captain, my time as the center of my children's lives, it has most certainly passed. Today, my ship largely runs itself, my crew more often than not, much happier to be on their own, making their own way, walking their own paths.
I am Captain Dunsel. Or am I?
Does my oldest still call me every day from college, pretty much without fail? She does. Does my high school senior still rely upon me to help her with getting ready for her next steps in life - beyond high school? She does. And my 15 year old - doesn't she need me now more than ever to help her reach beyond and around her array of issues to be the best she can be? I think she does. And what about my baby? My 12 year old who looks and wants you to think she is really 18. Doesn't she need me to remind her that its okay to be a kid for awhile longer? I know she does.
Do all of my girls still laugh at my jokes? They do. Do they want to tell me about their successes, and sometimes even their failures? Yes.Yes. I believe they do.
Maybe I dont need to be the center of my children's lives to continue to be important to their lives. I think I can still make a difference without having to be the only difference.
Its amazing how a little glass of oaky anejo can give you clarity.
Captain Dunsel? Oh no. Not me. Not now. Not ever.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Key West, FL
Well, it has been far too long since yours truly (TQB South) has posted anything to our blog. Plenty of life getting in the way of posting, but hopefully I'm back in gear now.
Several weeks ago the TQBs got together for a road trip to Key West. It has become a favorite party spot for the boys. I've been heading down to Key West since college Spring Break days and I've always loved the town. It remains a highly recommended destination for all Tequila Boys - young & old.
Things I like about Key West:
* It feels a lot like New Orleans to me (another TQB favorite), but with better weather. It doesn't have the same unbelievable music scene, but the mentality of the folks in Key West is "party-time!" all of the time.
* One of the Key West traditions that leads to that party mentality (and reminds me of New Orleans) is the Go-Cup. Is there anything better than being able to take your cocktails to the street in-between stops?
* There really is a mile-marker "ZERO" at the beginning of Route 1. I don't know why I think being at the southern most tip of the US is so cool, but I do.
* The beautiful Julia and Big Red in their scanty swim suits. I'm sorry all of you can't experience this on your Key West trips. What can we say? We're lucky guys.
* Scootering around town is a blast. It is a great way to see Key West. Although, watch out for elderly Cuban men in the crosswalks.
* The drive down from Miami. I know a lot of people that hate the drive, but I find it part of the magic. The second we hit the outer Keys I'm on "Keys Time" and I truly love the whole drive down. The beautiful blue/green water on either side of the road, the funky old-school bars/restaurants along the way, 7-mile bridge, etc. I just love it all.
* Key West's ability to bring out crazy costumes and body painting. Yeah, there are some women that shouldn't do the body painting, but there are still plenty that should. The only exception for me are the really B-I-G drag queens. People that know me, understand that I have no problems with alternative life styles. But some of these big queens scare me like angry clowns and carneys.
* Reading in the local papers that the "The Man Painted Silver" is seeking a ruling that will force "The Man Who Tells Dirty Jokes" to stand a minimum of 20 yards for him at the Sunsets - only in Key West. Oh yeah, nice sunsets too.
* There is an actual rope swing in my favorite restaurant on the island - Blue Heaven. BTW, if you visit make sure you order the Sauteed Yellowtail Snapper with Citrus Beurre Blanc Sauce. Food doesn't get much better.
* Live music in almost every bar - 'nuff said.
One thing I don't love so much about Key West:
* Key West is actually not a great tequila town. Yeah, every bar has a "top-shelf" of Patron (has any tequila even come close to a better job of marketing and placement??), but beyond that the pickins' are a bit thin. On this trip we discovered that Cowboy Bill's has one of the better selections (although we we forced to endure the tool bartender that was trying to do his best Tom Cruise in "Cocktail" impression). The bar is a bit off the beaten path on the northern end of Duval, but worth the walk - especially on sexy bull-riding night - yowza!
The good news is that we brought our own bottles of Dos Lunas Anejo and Corralejo Reposado for the trip - two TQB favorites. At the least, we always knew we had tasty nightcaps back at the rooms. What a great weekend with some really great friends.
Ahhh, now Sunday night is ahead - time to spend a few hours with Sookie Stackhouse, Vince/Ari & the Entourage and of course, Mr. Don Draper.
Several weeks ago the TQBs got together for a road trip to Key West. It has become a favorite party spot for the boys. I've been heading down to Key West since college Spring Break days and I've always loved the town. It remains a highly recommended destination for all Tequila Boys - young & old.
Things I like about Key West:
* It feels a lot like New Orleans to me (another TQB favorite), but with better weather. It doesn't have the same unbelievable music scene, but the mentality of the folks in Key West is "party-time!" all of the time.
* One of the Key West traditions that leads to that party mentality (and reminds me of New Orleans) is the Go-Cup. Is there anything better than being able to take your cocktails to the street in-between stops?
* There really is a mile-marker "ZERO" at the beginning of Route 1. I don't know why I think being at the southern most tip of the US is so cool, but I do.
* The beautiful Julia and Big Red in their scanty swim suits. I'm sorry all of you can't experience this on your Key West trips. What can we say? We're lucky guys.
* Scootering around town is a blast. It is a great way to see Key West. Although, watch out for elderly Cuban men in the crosswalks.
* The drive down from Miami. I know a lot of people that hate the drive, but I find it part of the magic. The second we hit the outer Keys I'm on "Keys Time" and I truly love the whole drive down. The beautiful blue/green water on either side of the road, the funky old-school bars/restaurants along the way, 7-mile bridge, etc. I just love it all.
* Key West's ability to bring out crazy costumes and body painting. Yeah, there are some women that shouldn't do the body painting, but there are still plenty that should. The only exception for me are the really B-I-G drag queens. People that know me, understand that I have no problems with alternative life styles. But some of these big queens scare me like angry clowns and carneys.
* Reading in the local papers that the "The Man Painted Silver" is seeking a ruling that will force "The Man Who Tells Dirty Jokes" to stand a minimum of 20 yards for him at the Sunsets - only in Key West. Oh yeah, nice sunsets too.
* There is an actual rope swing in my favorite restaurant on the island - Blue Heaven. BTW, if you visit make sure you order the Sauteed Yellowtail Snapper with Citrus Beurre Blanc Sauce. Food doesn't get much better.
* Live music in almost every bar - 'nuff said.
One thing I don't love so much about Key West:
* Key West is actually not a great tequila town. Yeah, every bar has a "top-shelf" of Patron (has any tequila even come close to a better job of marketing and placement??), but beyond that the pickins' are a bit thin. On this trip we discovered that Cowboy Bill's has one of the better selections (although we we forced to endure the tool bartender that was trying to do his best Tom Cruise in "Cocktail" impression). The bar is a bit off the beaten path on the northern end of Duval, but worth the walk - especially on sexy bull-riding night - yowza!
The good news is that we brought our own bottles of Dos Lunas Anejo and Corralejo Reposado for the trip - two TQB favorites. At the least, we always knew we had tasty nightcaps back at the rooms. What a great weekend with some really great friends.
Ahhh, now Sunday night is ahead - time to spend a few hours with Sookie Stackhouse, Vince/Ari & the Entourage and of course, Mr. Don Draper.
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