I Did the Mash, Part II

This time it was the Monster Mash. If you go to Naples, Italy you must have pizza, if you go to Scotland, you must have haggis. And that is just what I did. The Monster Mash was recommended to me by the nice young gentleman at the reception desk of our hotel at the First at Edinburgh University. He said it was a diner, the food was good, and the prices were reasonable. He also highly recommended the haggis. For those of you who do not know, haggis is the national dish of Scotland. It contains sheep organ meats mixed with oats, seasonings, and some blood. It is then sewn up in the sheep’s stomach and baked. Now, I know what a lot of you are thinking: eeeewwhhhh, that sounds gross!! Well, my friends, that is what some of the best foods on the planet are; leftovers and scraps. For example, sausages, salami, pâtés, terrines, and more are all just ways to use up the leftovers so nothing is wasted.

I must confess, organ meats can have a strong flavor, not all of which I enjoy. I am not particularly fond of liver or blood sausages. My aversion to both is for the same reason; the high mineral content (particularly iron) can cause a metallic taste. Foie Gras is better because the manner in which the liver is enlarged reduces the effect of the minerals on the palate. Haggis is not Foie Gras and I was curious about the flavor. Truth be told, it was quite good. The Monster Mash was actually the second time I tried haggis, the first was the day before at a pub on the Royal Mile. The menu item was called “A wee bit of haggis” and it stated that it was served with nips and tatties, meaning mashed turnips and potatoes. The first thing that struck me about the haggis was its flavor. It was both rich, yet mild in the absence of minerality and earthiness. It reminded me of meatloaf. While I was speaking with a local at a Scotch distillery the next day about haggis, she asked me if I had it with turnips and potatoes. This is apparently the holy trinity of haggis.

Which brings me to the mash, The Monster Mash. We entered, were sat, and ordered the Haggis for me and a Shepard’s Pie for my son. The haggis was a large mound of haggis, layered on turnips and potatoes and surrounded by rich dark gravy. The flavor was similar to my haggis of the previous day, but it was drier and a bit more crumbly. The gravy helped moisten the dish. The Shepard’s Pie was tasty as well; nicely browned potatoes atop ground meat in gravy. I like mine better, but it was good. The vegetables were al dente, a direct contradiction to all things expected in the United Kingdom.

Our shared dessert was an apple cobbler served with Byrd’s custard. My inquiry as to the nature of Byrd’s custard was answered with “it’s custard, a sauce”. “Like crème anglaise?” “Aye kind of, it’s very British” “OK, we’ll have that.”

The dessert came and it was indeed very much like crème anglais, only very hot and served in a small pitcher. We poured it over our soft, caramelized, appley mess of a dessert and dug in. This and strong black coffee was a good finish to the meal.

The Old "New" Kid in Town

I guess if you have done something successfully for more than eighty years, you can feel confident enough to branch out. That is just what Pepe’s did. The historic pizzeria has been making great pies since the 1920’s in New Haven. Their claim to fame is the white clam pizza. I have been away from the Northeast for many years and one of the things I miss the most is good pizza. No offense to those who grew up elsewhere in America, but if someone recommends a pizza place to me, I always ask them where they are from. If they answer Kansas, the Carolinas, Florida, hell most anywhere in America, yes, I am sorry to say even Chicago, their opinion does not count much. This is not rude, it makes as much sense as someone from Memphis, Kansas City, Texas, etc. not taking my opinion on barbeque with much weight. It simply was not part of my culture growing up. With deference to Chicago, it is part of the culture, but I do not care for it. The pies are thick and doughy, the sauce too sweet, and the overall experience lacking in my estimation. This is from eating pizza in Chicago and suburbs, not simply from eating at “Chicago Style” pizzerias elsewhere in America ( which is another entry, but I have a friend that says he does not like New York pizza, yet has never been to New York or anywhere near it, he has dined at “New York Style” pizzerias).

The point is, whenever I go home, I try to make it to New Haven for Pizza, specifically for the white clam pizza from Pepe’s. There is always a wait and they do not always have the fresh clams. They have opened a couple of locations since I last visited home and due to time constraints, I decided to go the location recently opened in Fairfield, Connecticut. We called ahead to see if they were busy as I was trying to get to the airport. The lady laughed and said no. We then asked if they had the white clam pizza today, which they did. So we stopped in on our way to JFK. Having visited the original location on Wooster Street in New Haven for some years, I was unsure of what to expect. My question as to whether or not the oven was wood fired was answered when we pulled into the parking lot and the telltale smell of a wood burning oven was not there. The location was more sterile than the original, as could be expected from a new suburban location. They do have a very large brick oven, with pizza peels that must be 12 to 15 feet long. The menu consists of a board over the main kitchen and a few more scattered about on the walls of the restaurant. The total age of any three employees does not equal the age of a single employee in New Haven, but we persisted and got a table. The waitress greeted us and took our order, asking us if we want mozzarella on our clam pizza or not. I must admit, I was somewhat confused as I had never been asked that before. I know the pie comes with minimal amounts of cheese and I wanted it the way they do it in New Haven. There was a little bit of a communication breakdown and I got it with a little bit of mozzarella, which is atypical. When I tried to correct the error, the pie was already in the oven and we got it with the mozz. Fortunately, it was very minimal amounts of mozzarella cheese. We also got a small sausage and mushroom pie.

The moment of truth arrived when she plopped down a full size sheet pan of pizza on our table. While there is a difference between a gas-fired oven and a wood-fired oven, the pie was good. It had the telltale sign of an oven that was hot enough- black bubbles on the crust. This is a constant pizza crime in the south. The pizzas are always undercooked. If pizza does not have a little black on it, it is not done properly. The south, who loves to overcook its vegetables, meats, and most things it serves, consistently undercooks pizzas in ovens that never see a degree over 500. But I digress.

The sausage and mushroom pie was less stellar. The toppings were soupy, and even after letting the pizza rest for a while, it was still just a sloppy pie. The ingredients were all good quality, but the execution was a bit off.

The clam pizza was almost as good as New Haven, and still better than most you will have in this country. I made the mistake of trying clam pizzas from other pizzerias, even acclaimed shops in the area, and they all fall short. The fact that the other locations can mean less driving, less waiting balances out the slight difference in the pies. In this humble chef’s estimation, this is worth the gas money. Go have a pie.

Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana

www.pepespizzeria.com

157 Wooster St
New Haven, CT 06511, United States
+1 203-865-5762

I Did the Mash

Not the monster mash, but mash house. My stay here in Birmingham, England started out on a very sour note. Although my Ryan Air flight was on time and flawless, and I picked up my Hertz rental car in short order, and I even had a nice lunch in a local pub along with a pint, I eventually found the Warwick Castle (pronounced Warrick), albeit after a few nerve shattering errors as I tried to get used to driving on the left side of the road. The castle was impressive, if expensive. The rooms were full of figures Madam Tussaud dressed in period clothing and staged in the midst of medieval tasks. There were weapon rooms, suits of armor, and lots of art and furniture spanning the centuries the castle has been in use, all the way up to the introduction of electricity and beyond in the latter part of the 19^th century. There was even of portion of the original castle built in 1068 by the order of William the Conqueror. The castle closed and we were off.

And that is when the trouble began. The plan was to take a quick drive to Stratford upon Avon, the namesake of the town were I spent my teen years. It is only about ten miles away so it seemed easy enough. The reality could not have been further from the truth. The A46 was closed due to an accident, and I spent the next four hours trying to get the forty miles to my hotel in Birmingham. I abandoned the idea of stopping in Stratford upon Avon after being grazed by a truck, scratching my rental car. The gentleman was calm as he explained that there was simply no way it could have been his fault, even though my car was not moving. I was sitting with my turn signal on trying to merge into the barely moving traffic.

So I spent a few hours in England, learning to drive on the left side of the road, in pouring rain, on country roads, wishing that every hotel I passed was my hotel. But they were not and I finally made it into Birmingham city center. The hotel I booked is under construction and has no sign. Another ½ hour was spent trying to find my hotel, which I finally did. After an overpriced meal at the bar of the hotel because I was too tired and stressed to go anywhere else, my son and I retired to our room. And retire we did. I awoke at eight in the morning and awoke my son, twice. Seeing the futility in this plan, I returned to bed, watched some television (The Rockford Files) and went back to sleep. We woke up around noon to the sound of a jack-hammer on the floor above us, putzed around and finally made it outside just shy of two P.M., heading off to the historic canals of Birmingham. The day got better. Birmingham seemed to be a great city, balancing its history with the city’s forward momentum and growth.

The historic canals are flanked by cafés, coffee houses, restaurants, and the very modern International Convention Center, Symphony Hall, and a mixed use development called The Mailbox. They are also building a massive square mixed use building aptly named The Cube.

After looking at a number of options for dining including what amounts to floating diners on converted long boats that used to carry so many goods up and down the canals, we settled on a place called The Mash. The instructions are simply laid out; 1. Choose for Pie or Sausage, 2. Choose your mash. Options range from cheddar mash, to horseradish mash, colcannon, house mash, and more. 3. Choose your gravy. Options included tarragon creamy gravy, house gravy, and more. You can also have additional veggies, salad, and a few other options for main courses.

I chose the steak and kidney pie because I am in England and no doing so would be akin to not having pizza when in Naples, Italy or not having haggis when in Scotland (which I will be trying in the next few days). I chose colcannon and tarragon gravy to go with it. My son had three sausage plate: lamb and mint, pork and apple, and honey mustard. He chose the cheddar mash and house gravy. Our food arrived promptly and displayed attractively enough. The steak and kidney pie was rich and flavorful, a dark gravy containing chucks of tender beef and the earthy flavor indicating the presence of the kidneys encased in a flaky, nicely browned pastry shell. The colcannon was very nicely prepared. The greens still had some texture and the potatoes were creamy and rich. The gravy was tasty enough, but lacked any flavor of tarragon. The sausages were nicely browned and very moist. The lamb and mint tasted as one would think, the pork and apple had a very subtle flavor of apples, and most surprising was the honey mustard sausage. I was nervous when my son ordered it. I have been inundated with grossly-sweet goopy honey mustard things in America and I was afraid that this might resemble those disgusting concoctions. To the contrary, the mustard has a hint of spiciness and the honey played a restrained supporting role. His cheddar mash was nicely balanced, not too cheesy, but had the flavor of sharp cheddar in every bite. The gravy was good too.

After our meal, I peered into the small kitchen and saw a Rational Self Cooking Center there. I pulled out my business card and handed it to the young man working there, informing him of my position with the company. After a series of questions from me, I learned that the food is prepared off premises and brought in frozen. The entrée items are placed in the Self Cooking Center on the “level control” setting. This setting is where each shelf gets its own timer that self adjust for recovery time each time the door is opened. The mashed potatoes were microwaved, and the gravy was remarkably tasty for being from a dry product that was mixed with boiling water.

The pies and sausages are cooked from frozen. I would have never guessed. This is exciting because I have been telling my customers and prospective customers that this machine could revolutionize the way they operate their kitchens. I have demonstrated this capability many times, but it is very theoretical in demo. Here I was witnessing a concept that was built around the Self Cooking Center and its advanced capabilities. They have already signed on two companies in America to franchise the concept. They will be opening 6 stores per year, half of which will be franchised, the others owned by the company.

It is only a matter of time before our country gets around to implementing what the Europeans have know for a long time: technology can increase quality, reduce food and labor costs, and allow your kitchen to be a fraction of the size of what we are used to.

If I can’t get my customers to see this, then I just might have to do it myself. Stay Tuned.

Is it me?

I ask myself that question with great regularity. I have a coworker who, after eating out with me a number of times, states rather matter-of-factly that you should not go out to eat with me because the restaurant will screw up my food. They didn't screw his food up, just mine. But he and I are both chefs and maybe it pains him to watch them serve me screwed up food. The screw-ups have ranged from shards of corncob in my corn chowder to "butter poached" lobster tails that seem to have been deep-fried to the point they would have made better shoes than food. And then there are less severe issues that I face with regularity. I travel a fair amount for my job and therefore I eat out a lot. I am currently in Savannah. It is a beautiful city that is full of historic charm. I have had many good meals of oysters and beer here. The beauty of good seafood is all you have to do is stay out of its way; don't screw it up!
Food that actually requires preparation is a different story. It takes skill and knowledge. Last night I went to the Six Pence Pub in Savannah. I had started to walk towards the river to get some seafood, but it was about twenty degrees and I decided to stop in the pub for a bite rather than brave a ten minute walk it the frigid night air. The pub was very cool. It had a classic pub look and feel and the beer selection was great. The whiskey and wine selection weren't too bad either. I order beef Guinness and a Guinness beer. The meal came out with near immediacy. I thought that was cool at first, but only at first. The beef Guinness was served in a small hollowed out bread roll, about the size of softball. The stew was a lumpy mess that was prepared with too much roux, the cooked blend of flour and fat that thickens gravy. A couple of pieces of beef were nearly inedibly tough. Perhaps the most egregious error was that they heated my food by microwaving it, in the bread bowl. As most home cooks know, if you microwave bread you have something suited better to a street fight than a food fight.

Tonight I went to Il Pasticcio, a very well renowned Italian restaurant located in the heart of the historic district. I ordered a pasta dish called Spaghettini Pasticcio. The menu described seafood pasta with concassé tomatoes and a saffron sauce. I ordered it because I wanted something a bit on the lighter side. The dish that arrived resembled a soup more than a pasta course. It was swimming in cream, not just cream, but cream that had no hint of saffron. I found the dish heavy, flavorless and bordering on unpleasant. I tried to pull the pasta out of the pool of fat and allow it drain before I ate it. I also left a full cup of cream and pasta in the bottom of the bowl, choosing not to finish it. In my experience, one of the most common offenses to Italian food in America is too much sauce. The surprising part of the evening is the restaurateur was sitting next to me and he is from Italy. He was speaking in Italian with a gentleman I perceived to be a manager, perhaps the general manager. The manager was eating at the bar with his American girlfriend and both of their dishes looked really good. Perhaps I should have ordered in Italian.

Does Huong Giang mean Gem?

I do not know what Huong Giang means, but I would translate it as gem. That is what this strip mall restaurant tucked away on Buford Highway is.

A few weeks ago a friend and I were driving around looking for dinner on a Friday night. I wanted Asian food. After passing on a few suspicious looking dives, we stumbled upon Huong Giang. We peered inside and decided it was worth a try. Although the decor said "strip-mall", it was about as tasteful as it could be without the budget that is truly required to give a strip mall shop any real character. The Asian accents were strangely offset by a couple of chandeliers with mermaids "holding up" the lampshades with fishing poles. The flat screen TV's were playing cultural appropriate programming. The only real downside is the chairs. The backs strangely lean forward, forcing one to hunch over a bit.

We were promptly presented two menus each, one written, one in pictures. The pictures proved to be very helpful. Our first course was Bahn Nam, little Vietnamese "tamales" of ground pork and shrimp nestled in a rice flour package and steamed in banana leaves. Not only were they tasty, but fun. Every little package was like Christmas morning after you peeked at your presents. Sure, I knew what was in there, but is was still fun to open the presents.

Our entree was a Thai Hot Pot. Large enough for two, the $28.00 entree was worth every penny. The pot of hot stock was placed upon a small gas burner and served with a plate of seafood and one of vegetables. The seafood consisted of shrimp, fish and calamari and the vegetable plate had baby bok choy and julienned strips of banana flower.

The waiter gave us a brief tutorial and we dug in. It seemed nice enough until I put the banana flowers in the pot and this incredible fragrance wafted across our table. The broth was nicely flavored with ginger, and the addition of the flowers made it a heavenly experience. I enjoy food that is also interactive, and this fit the bill nicely.

Throughout our dinner, the service was impeccable. At one point, I dropped my chop stick. Before I could bend over to pick it up, the server had a new set to me. Our table was maintained in a timely manner, without seeming pushy.

I wanted to try a little more before I wrote about it, so I went there for lunch today. The sour pig ear and beef was calling my name. I have never pondered the possible flavor and texture of a pig's ear, but I would say this was the ultimate expression of a pig's ear. The cold, stubby, spring roll shaped treat arrived with a few slices of hot peppers. It had a delicious, slightly sour, flavor and a unique texture. A hint of gelatinous spring was subdued by the firm bite of the finely shredded ear. A slight bite of heat rounded out the flavor. And at only $2.15, this was a bargain.

For my main course, I chose rice noodles with pork and seafood in a pork broth. As with my other items, this was very well executed. The shrimp and calamari were tender and the slices of pork were melt-in-your-mouth tender. With tax and tip, my lunch was $12.00. I look forward to returning to try the other gems that are hidden in this great little find.


Huong Giang
4300 Buford Highway NE
Atlanta, GA 30345
404-929-9838

Appetizers

$3.00 - $6.00

Entrees

$6.00 - $60.00 (Family style serving)

Hours

10 a.m.-midnight Mondays-Thursdays

10 a.m.-2 a.m. Fridays-Saturdays

10 a.m.-10 p.m. Sundays

A Note about No

One should not accept no too easily. When dad says no, go ask mom. The same approach is possible in adulthood.

While driving to Birmingham for my overnighter, I spoke with one of my clients who said he would not be able to meet with me as we discussed earlier. It would have to be the following morning. My overnighter had become a two-nighter. While checking in at the hotel, I said I needed to change my reservation from one night to two. The answer, in so many words, was no. The manager informed me that they were currently overbooked and I could check in the morning. I took my room key and found my room. I then promptly pulled out my laptop and signed onto the Internet, where I reserved a room for the second night.

The next morning, I went to the front desk stating that I was there to confirm that they would not be making move to another room. Sure enough, they did not.

I have had similar experiences in the past. I was told on the phone that there were no available rooms. So I went online and booked a room. The reverse has also happened. This just goes to show you, that no does not always mean no.

Pork in the Sun and Bagged Spinach

We take sanitation and food safety for granted. Everyone knows that you need to keep your meat refrigerated. Room temperature poultry is definitely to be shunned. Spinach is safe, though, as are canned goods. Right?

Having traveled a bit and sampled foods that seemed to suffer from less than proper handling without getting sick has made me question these beliefs. Don’t get me wrong, I am a fan of refrigeration and I think it should be used whenever possible.

“Surely that must be a refrigerated table,” I thought to myself as I gazed at the chicken parts piled high on the stainless steel table while shopping in a grocery store in Thailand. As I walked towards the table to check the temperature, I thought, “even if this is refrigerated, the bulk of the chicken is still not being held at a safe temperature”. No worries, it was not refrigerated. None of the chicken was held at a “safe” temperature. Yet people were buying it. Presumably, the grocery store was not in the habit of killing people with its food. That couldn’t be good for business.

On multiple occasions, I dined on a variety of “street meat”, as I like to call it. It was certainly a leap of faith to eat pork and seafood products that had been stored in the ninety-degree Thai heat without any visible means of refrigeration. Not only did it taste fine, it didn’t make me sick. There are many more examples that I could cite of times I gambled with my life for the sake of some local cuisine.

The real irony comes from the fact that we have been told not to eat spinach, peanut butter, and canned chili. Our developed nation that is full of oversight has repeatedly allowed tainted food to enter the marketplace; foods that reasonable people would always consider to be healthy. How can it be that we cannot feel safe eating spinach, peanut butter, or canned chili, yet much of the world eats perishable protein foods that sit without refrigeration and they do not get sick?

For starters, the folks at the supermarket in Thailand could probably tell you everything about the chicken farmer that supplied those room temperature chicken parts. They probably know his name, where his farm is, and the names of his wife and kids. While working in Italy, it was common for the chef to secure products from his neighbors. Pork, produce, wine, etc, all purchased outside what we would consider “normal” distribution channels. This is not allowed in America. One cannot simply buy a pig from your neighbor and sell it in your restaurant.

Our mega-farms with our mega-distribution channels ensure mega-exposure of unsavory elements like E-Coli and botulism. Perhaps the biggest shame of the recent outbreaks is the medias total failure to educate the public on the benefits of buying local. I never heard a single talking head say that you could still buy local spinach, provided you don’t live near the mega-farm. They didn’t even say you could cook your spinach. That kills E-Coli. They simply said throw all of your spinach away.

The more items get recalled, the greater the need for people to start buying local, the more opportunities are missed by our news media to inform people of the benefits of eating locally.

Keep your mega-farm products, your Wal-Mart meat, your canned chili, and give me some room-temperature pork.

Is Everything OK?

At what point did this question become rhetorical? I am amazed and dismayed by the blank stares I receive whenever my response is anything other than "fine" or the like. I recently wanted a healthy and quick meal after a long day of travel and work. I chose a Japanese restaurant near my hotel in Savannah. I sat at the sushi bar, as I always do when I dine alone. The waiter looked like a poor, disheveled version of a young b-list actor, whose name I can not recall and do not care to. His long sleeves where rolled up well above the elbow. The wrinkles in his clothing made me wonder if he had slept in them. He informed me that there was an all-you-can-eat sushi option. A somewhat limited menu was available for $25. I opted to fill out my little sushi card and slide it to the young, very American-appearing sushi "chefs" behind the bar. Another disheveled guy promptly put one of my rolls on the counter for me. It was followed shortly by the other roll I ordered. He then left the area, his destination unknown. The two other "chefs" continued to crank out sushi. I ate my rolls and waited. After an unreasonably long time, I still had no more food. The waiter came by and asked me " Is everything OK?". "Well, I am waiting for more food, and it has been a while", was my response. He said "Oh" and walked away. OH? That's it?

A little more time passed and I flagged down a guy behind the bar and asked him when the rest of my food would be up. "You have more food?" He then explained that he thought the other guy had finished my food. I informed him that he didn't. OK, my guy was not good at communication and they dropped the ball as a result. I can live with that. Now fix it.
Fix it he did not. He put one of my items up and then continued to work on other orders. Orders that had come in substantially after mine. All in all, it took another 35 minutes more to receive my remaining 4 orders of RAW fish.
Once again, the disheveled waiter came by to ask me if everything was OK. Well, I am still waiting on food, the couple there has ordered, eaten, paid, and left, those gentlemen are on their fifteenth plate of food, and I still do not have my unagi. After a bit of silence he said they are working on it. By now, the departed individual had returned, and put my sushi on the bar without a word.
Why are service individuals not trained how to handle responses that are not the best? I do not really blame my young, disheveled waiter, or the other people who have given me blank, uncomfortable stares when my response was not positive. Employees need to be trained to handle issues that arise, or at least to get a manager.

The Pizza Test

When ordering pizza from a place you are unfamiliar with, it is good to have a strategy. I believe that you can find out everything you need to know about a pizzeria by ordering a sausage and mushroom pizza. The quality of meat is a telltale sign about a pizzeria and sausage is most often the biggest offender of good taste. I do not like what I call "dogfood" sausage, you know, those crumbly, rubbery, processed little nuggets that look like they should be in a dogs bowl. When I get a pizza with either slices of real sausage, or crumbles of sausage meat that looks like sausage meat, this indicates a big step in the right direction. If I see the telltale fennel seeds in the sausage then I generally start the mental happy dance.

As far as the mushrooms, canned mushrooms are bland, watery little abominations that have no place on a pizza (or anywhere else). Slices of fresh mushrooms are the only acceptable mushrooms for my pizza.

Now that takes care of our meats and vegetables. The remaining items of sauce, cheese, and crust tell the rest of the story. Doughy crust, overly sweet sauce, and an inch or two of cheese are all indications that you should run away from the place and tell your friends to stay away. A crust that is slightly less then perfectly round is a very good sign. It has been my experience that Atlanta tends to undercook its' pizzas. A black bubble or two on the crust is desired. The best pizza ovens (wood or coal, I prefer wood) run very hot and cook pizza in just a few minutes.

There are too many places out there where the owner learned everything they know about pizza from their Roma sales rep. Premade dough rounds, dogfood sausage, strange cheese blends, and other abominations are the norm. It is good to have a strategy to sort the wheat from the massive amounts of chaff out there.

Shucker's Sucks

On Friday, August 3, 2007 at 5 PM, I stopped at Shucker’s for bite on my way back from out of town. I asked that my oysters be lightly steamed. My oysters were overcooked; they were without moisture and completely shriveled. I asked they be taken away. I also ordered crawfish, they were not very good, but I ate them. When I received my bill, I was overcharged for my crawfish. I approached a man behind the bar and asked if he was a manager or owner. The response was no. I asked him if he could help because I was overcharged for my crawfish. I also expressed frustration about my oysters being overcooked. "I saw your oysters and they were beautiful" was his response. Dumbfounded, I then pointed to the menu price and to my bill to demonstrate where I was overcharged. I then inquired, "You thought those oysters were beautiful?" "I deal with people like you all the time" was his response. “People who want quality food and their bill to be correct?” I asked. I asked him what gave him the right to be an asshole to me, since he was neither a manager nor an owner (yes, I should not swear, but he was very rude, and I had had a long day). He then asked me if I wanted to go to jail. "I do not wish to be mistreated.” was my answer. He hovered by the cash register as the waitress fixed my bill. It seemed to me that he was trying to be menacing. His rude behavior continued and I left.

I then called the owner, who was at the other restaurant they own. She was apologetic and said she would call the restaurant to resolve the situation. I received a call back in a couple of minutes and I was told that I “pushed the oysters across the table” and “threw the menu across the bar”, neither of which is true. I was told that the staff perceived me to be rude, which even if I was (and I do not believe that I was), is no excuse to insult, threaten and mistreat me.

The photo above is an actual photo of the bartender who mistreated me.

Shucker's Oyster Bar
660 W Bankhead Hwy
Villa Rica, GA 30180
(770) 459-2600

A New Old Discovery

There is a bittersweet feeling when you find something wonderful that has been available to you for a very long time. After all, think of the years you weren't taking advantage of the treasure. I had this experience last Friday night. After a week out of town on business, I wanted to go out for dinner. I did not want a big production and I did not want to spend a bunch of money. I decided to try Petite Auberge, a classical French restaurant that has been a staple on the Atlanta scene for more than thirty years. I had eyed the menu online before and was impressed by the options and the prices. The fact that it is less than twenty minutes from my house sealed the deal.

We arrived promptly at nine for our reservation and were cheerfully led to our table. I had a small amount of trepidation as I glanced around the room and discovered that we were about twenty years distant from any other patron in the restaurant. That is in both directions. The only people less than retirement age were the grandchildren of one of the couples. There was a piano player pumping out standards.

Our waiter, Sammy, stopped by promptly to greet us. Sammy blended perfectly with the somewhat dated environment and the older patrons. In fact, Sammy has been a fixture at Petite Aurberge since its inception more than 32 years ago.

The wine list was impressive in a regular haunt kind of way; lots of affordable options rounded out by some more impressive ( and expensive) selections. We chose a white Bordeaux for $25.
Our appetizers started out with a vichyssoise for me and a crab and shrimp cake for my date. The vichyssoise was an ample portion served in a glass nested in a silver container of ice. It was both rich and delicately flavored. The crab cake was nicely executed as well. It was made with very little binding and served on mixed greens and some rémoulade on the side.

As we dined, we observed other tables having their desserts prepared table side, à la 1973. Baked Alaska and Crepes were the choices of the grandchildren at the nearby table.

Sammy came by to clear our appetizer dishes and my wine glass was magically refilled. My date's pork chop with peppercorn gravy and black and tan pasta with tomato concassé arrived as a cart rolled up next to our table carrying my bouillabaisse. The server plated up my seafood stew and served it with toasted French bread and rouille.

In short, everything was nicely prepared. The bouillabaisse contained lobster, shrimp, mussels, salmon, and whitefish. Each individual ingredient was perfectly cooked, which is not always the case. Julienne strips of carrots and fennel provided color, texture and a sweet flavor to the dish.

Our meal was topped off with crepes served with hazelnut crème and chocolate sauce. A glass of Frangelico perfectly complemented our dessert.

The sad fact that I have lived in Atlanta since 1994 and have not been eating here regularly is overshadowed by my excitement with my discovery. Items such as Bavarian pork roast with a beer and caraway sauce, Bavarian meat platter, mustard crusted lamb chops, and classic escargots, all beckon my return. The menu is also chock full of the expected classics such as beef wellington and chicken cordon bleu.

Petite Auberge proves that some things are classic for a reason.

Petite Auberge
Toco Hill Shopping Plaza
2935 North Druid Hills Road
Atlanta, GA 30329
(404) 634-6268

Lunch
Monday - Friday 11:30 A.M. to 4:00 P.M.

Dinner
Monday - Saturday 4:00 P.M. to 9:30 P.M.

Appetizers $3.95 to $10.95

Entrees $14.95 to $26.95

Desserts $4.95 to $5.95

A Burger Blast from the Past

A bit over twenty years ago, when I was an assistant manager at Friendly's Restaurant in Orlando Florida, I had a watering hole located very near my restaurant. That watering hole was a chain called Red Robin. All I remember was I drank there when I was twenty-one years old with friends, many female, who may have been less than twenty-one years old. Apparently, Red Robin had been reported for serving under age patrons. They were fined. We continued to patronize Red Robin. They were fined again, this time more than the first. We continued to imbibe at the neighborhood establishment. Then they were closed. It was rumored that they were closed due to repeated violations of the law. Although I did not serve any underage person alcohol, I felt as though I contributed to the problem.

I had not seen a Red Robin for the ensuing two decades. Then they opened one up on Scenic Highway in Lawrenceville. So my friend of twenty two years and I went there for dinner. I do not recall a lot from twenty one years ago, but I am pretty sure that my watering hole did not look like a Chucky Cheese. I am equally certain that there was not a large costumed bird walking around scaring people. The bird seemed to be blind. An employee was leading this freakish creature around by the wing. I do remember there being very good looking young girls back then, and this did not change. The change was the fact that I was not a dirty old man when I leered at them twenty one years ago. The place was also full of families, teenagers and even the elderly on oxygen.
They proclaim to have the best burgers. We ordered our burgers from our friendly waitress after she gave us a brief tour of the menu including suggestions. She asked us: "you want that with pink or without?" I love that. It is a rare establishment that correctly cooks a medium rare burger. These folks make no assertion that they will do that. They will bring you a burger with or without pink. My friend ordered their Royal Red Robin, a burger topped with a fried egg, bacon, lettuce and tomato. I ordered the Santa Fe, a burger with roasted poblano, guacamole, fried tortilla strips, and chipotle mayonnaise. Both were delivered pink, as ordered. They also came with a bottomless portion French fries. Two large Blue Moon beers accompanied our burgers. Everything was very tasty. The service was friendly and efficient.
Although the experience was very different from two decades ago, it was an enjoyable meal. And they still didn't card me or my friend.

I Just Wanted a Pizza

Frutti di Mare Pizza, Pisa Italy

Photo by Dan Turro

After catering a brunch last Sunday, I did not feel like cooking dinner. I also did not feel like going out. I decided to get a pizza and bring it home. There are not many pizzas worth eating in Atlanta, and even fewer in my immediate area.

Mama Mia’s in Stone Mountain Village does a decent job, although they do not deliver. I called to order a pizza, which I would pick up. The woman on the other end of the phone apologized and said they close at 4PM on Sunday. She was there for a private party.

Bambinelli’s is another acceptable pizza. They, like the folks from Mama Mia’s, are transplants from New York. Both families have been in Atlanta for more than two decades.

I called Bambinelli’s in Lilburn, a location that has not been open that long. It is located 6.1 miles from me. The man on the phone informed me that they would not deliver to me, but the original location at Northlake would. I found it strange that they would not deliver to me because they are not that far, about ten minutes away. The man assured me that the original location would deliver to me. He used to deliver for them.

I called the original location and was asked for my phone number and address. The man then said, “You know we don’t deliver there?” Well, of course I know that! I was just bothering random retards on the phone and you are the object of my attention. Lucky you! Actually, no, I don’t know that you don’t deliver here. I told the guy that the man at the other location said I could get delivery from the original location. The next stunning response was; “Well, he doesn’t work here!” Really, both are Bambinelli’s restaurants owned by the same family. Somewhat taken aback by the employee’s curt attitude, I said the other man told me he used to deliver for the original location and he assured me that I could get delivery.

The next response was simply dismissive - “Well, I don’t know what that’s about.”

At that point, I simply hung up. It was not because I wanted to be rude; it was because I saw no merit in continuing the conversation. There was obviously no desire to secure an order from me, let alone provide any level of customer service. Here is the kicker; I started my search for an edible pizza with the intention of picking it up. Mama Mia’s does not deliver and I was prepared to drive there. I would have done the same for a Bambinelli’s pie. Perhaps a better approach would have been to apologize for the confusion and ask if I would like to place an order for pick up. Maybe they could have even delivered the pizza. I live ten minutes away.

This should not have come as a big surprise. Some time ago, while eating at Bambinelli’s, I ordered a bottle of Banfi wine and was delivered a bottle of Il Villagio wine. I informed the waiter and he apologized. He went to investigate and returned with the stellar answer – “That is our Banfi.” Really! I would like to sell you a Mercedes Benz. Yes, I know the car is a PT Cruiser, but is our Mercedes Benz. Both manufacturers have the same owner, but they are differing quality levels and therefore have different names. THEN, my wife found a large shard of hard plastic in her food. All the while, the owners where sitting at a table and enjoying themselves. No follow up was attempted, and the management never visited us once. It is a mystery to me how such a place can stay in business.

I ate polpette di melanzane (eggplant meatballs), and rigatoni with a spicy sausage and onion sauce; food that I made myself in less time than it would have taken to get a pizza delivered or picked up. I was just looking for a bit of convenience and a pizza.

A Good Samaritan Fest in North Georgia

All Photos by Doug Boyle

I am not a real outdoorsy person. During my twice-per-decade overnight camping outings, I always choose a campsite near the bathroom. I usually decide where to hike based on some other aspect of the area, such as easy driving distance, historical buildings nearby, or the food and drink I will have after the hike. Last weekend I embarked on a hike based on the last criteria.

Two of my friends and I decided to go hiking in White county, just north of Helen, Georgia. The seventh highest peak in Georgia was intriguing, as was hiking a portion of the Appalachian Trail. But, I had not been to Helen in a couple of years and that was the dominant determining factor. For those of you who are not familiar with Helen, it a strange little town in the North Georgia Mountains that looks like a Bavarian Village. More than three decades ago, in an effort to revitalize the economy of this logging town, they decided to give the town the appearance of an alpine village. My battle cry became “ I am just here for the beer!” as our day descended into chaos and uncertainty.

Our plan was to park at the Andrews Cove recreation area and hike to the top of Tray Mountain. The hike is seven miles round trip and the trail head is just north of Helen. But much to our chagrin, the Andrews Cove recreation area was closed. So continued up the road looking for another trail access. We came upon a parking lot were the Appalachian Trail crosses route 75. There were serious hikers here, the kind that hike to Maine. One of our group, naturally the female, asked a seasoned looking hiker about the trail. He informed us that Tray Mountain was 5 ½ to 6 miles away, making the round trip nearly 12 miles. As I was only there for the beer, this seemed like much too large of an investment. Another option was to hike to the top of Rocky Mountain, which was much closer. On the return trip we could come straight back or we could choose the Blue Trail, which would loop us around back to where we started. At least this was what our seasoned hiker-friend told us. The trail was beautiful and the hike was strenuous enough to feel like work. We reached the top of the mountain and rested while taking in the vast beauty of the mountains. Other than my new boots causing me some discomfort, all was beautiful until this point. Our trek back to the Blue Trail was easy enough. We ran into other hikers, both casual and die hard, and chatted a bit. One guy was headed to Maine and would arrive there in August. And I thought a Greyhound bus was slow.

We then embarked on Blue Trail. It was more pleasant than the way up, with gentler slopes and easier footing. Our conversation turned to the seasoned hiker, and the fact that we did not ask how long the trail was. Surely, I reasoned, it cannot be outrageously long because the hiker knew we had no interest in hiking the 12 miles back and forth to Tray Mountain. Certainly, he would not suggest a trail that is just as long. And we walked. Then we walked some more. By now the irritancy of the new boots was progressing into pain. We finally came upon a gravel road that was mentioned by our now disparaged hiker-guide. At least we should not be too far from our car.

As I sat to try to alleviate the discomfort caused by my boots, an old two-door Nissan with a young twenty-something couple stopped to chat. As it turns out, we were still some distance from our car. We were not sure how far, but it was clear that we were not close. They offered me a ride in their small car, so I grabbed the car keys from my friend and jumped in the car. And we drove down the gravel road. Then we drove some more, and then some more. We traversed a shallow stream in the old Nissan, causing steam to pour out from under the hood. And then we drove some more. Finally, we came to the road. We took a left and headed up the mountain. After about two more miles, I finally arrived at the car. I thanked the young couple profusely. I also mentioned how thankful my friends would be. They had no idea of how far they still had to go.

Limping towards the car, I became concerned when the remote wouldn’t unlock the car. My concern heightened when the car would not start. It seemed to be locked out by some security function. I called my friends, but they had no signal. I found the manual and read about a security feature that could cause the car not to start. I followed the instructions to overcome this feature, but to no avail. I called the dealership for guidance but the service department was closed. I continued to call my friends. A hiker was hanging out waiting for a friend and we chatted a bit. Finally, he could wait no more and disappeared up the trail to find his friend. “Hopefully you won’t be here when I get back,” he said as he left.

I was sure it was a security feature and not a dead battery. A dead battery usually gives some sign of life. Besides, why would my friend have the lights on during the day? While that question was never really answered, the lights were left on and the battery was dead. It was getting very cold and my left foot and ankle hurt quite a bit. And I could still not get in touch with my friends.

A short while later a car pulled up and out jump my friends. I informed them of our car dilemma. We had no jumper cables. I wrote on a piece of paper “JUMPER CABLES?” with lipstick and stood on the side of the road. The hiker had returned with his buddy. We asked the buddy if he had cables the response was “in Alabama.” There was a sign that listed phone numbers for the Ranger’s office and the Sheriff’s office. The Ranger’s office is closed on the weekend. That makes sense because probably no one hikes here on the weekends; it is mostly a Monday through Friday hobby. After overcoming my disbelief, I called the Sheriff’s office. The number was invalid, another fine example of our tax dollars hard at work!

The Alabamian hikers were on the other side of the road, hitchhiking. As one of them was snapping a picture of me with my little sign, I asked them to mention our predicament to their Good Samaritan, when someone stopped to give them a ride. A short while later, an SUV stopped to pick them up. Fortunately, they had cables. Long story short, the cables were short, the car was large, and we could not move our car because we could not get it out of park. I started to pull cash out of my pocket, to buy the cables from the man so at least we could get a jump later, as another car pulled into the parking lot. I approached the new car and explained the predicament. They were nice enough to pull into the space next to our car. The battery was on the closer side, and the car was much smaller than the SUV. Problem solved. The car started and everyone went on his or her way.

The lessons here are many, but the primary two are basic. Just like the scouts say, be prepared. Do not go out without maps. We had a compass with us but it was not consulted until we were very far into our journey. Wear boots you know to be comfortable. Secondly, people are good. Four carloads of people and a hitchhiker came to our rescue. Even our seasoned hiker-guide was probably well intentioned.

All is well that ends well. The Altstädter Weinstube & Biergarten had opened since my last visit. The food was authentic and delicious. The beer list was nearly all German. There are few stresses in life that can not be solved by good food and drink. We even stopped by their sister restaurant, Edelweiss, and stocked up on German sausages.

Welcome to McAsia, may I take your order?

Photo by Dan Turro

I often ponder the behavior of Americans. One of my enduring questions is about our reluctance to venture into realms less familiar. Many treasures can be found in these areas. A vast majority of Atlantans never venture past the local Publix or Kroger for their groceries. Just as many would drive past countless small independent, family owned restaurants to go to an Applebee’s. They would likewise dine at PF Chang’s rather than choosing the real food, cooked by real families in real restaurants. Beyond these scenarios, it is the proliferation of fast food that perplexes me the most. We live in a city that is rife with fast, inexpensive options for dining. From soul food buffets, to counter service Mexican joints, frequently the only challenge is overcoming small language difficulties. But hey, that’s what we have fingers for. Pointing is the universal language. While grocery shopping at Super H Mart recently, I encountered a beautifully executed alternative to fast food.

I call Super H “The Asian Whole Foods”. There is a beauty shop, a bank, an ice cream shop, and an area where they will freshly grind your choice of thirty-eight varieties of grains, nuts, dried fruits and more into a cereal. They even make fresh tofu and kimchi there. As you enter the store and look to the right, you see the food court. The wall of food starts with a sign labeled “Snacks”. It continues with Sushi, Korea, Chinese, Dumpling, and finally ends with “Café”. Each one of the counters has many offerings. For instance, the “Snack” counter has panels with pictures on them numbered one through thirty-three. Many items have a few choices per panel, such as whether to order your food with beef, chicken, tofu, or shrimp. I am always skeptical of tempura that is not cooked to order, so I ordered a combination order for $4.99. It included two pieces of shrimp, two pieces of squid, two vegetable and two sweet potato tempuras. It was crunchy and light. A small amount of tempura dipping sauce accompanied it in a small paper soufflé cup. There is also an item called Duk Boki. The English translation calls it a rice cake in spicy sauce. It is something like cylindrical rice gnocchi, and for just $3.95, it was a great little culinary adventure. Overall, the offerings are quite varied, encompassing a variety of noodles, soups, rice dishes, and more. And this is just the first counter. Next to the “Snack” counter is the one labeled “Sushi”. This counter is the thing of dreams for Publix and Kroger stores. Don’t get me wrong; there is nothing wrong with the sushi offerings of Publix and Kroger. They provide fast healthy lunches for many, myself included. The prices are lower than the supermarkets. You can get rolls from $2.75! And no, it is not even a cucumber roll. An assortment of 6 pieces of nigiri sushi and eight pieces of roll is just $8.95. There are fewer signs here because most of the food is prepared and labeled in the case. The few signs they do have tout the fact that they will make whatever sushi you want. They also offer sushi and sashimi party platters for $35, $50, and $75. The selection is larger than their supermarket competitors and includes items like seaweed salad and pickled baby octopus.

The Korean counter also has numbered panels with pictures on them ranging from 1 through 33. Several of these panels have multiple options, such as the “Soon Doo Boon”. This spicy soft tofu stew is available with kimchi, seafood, miso, beef, mushroom, and combo. All of your regulars are there such as bulgogi (seasoned beef on rice) and bi bim bop (assorted vegetables and pickles on rice). That is as much fun to say as it to eat. But there are also more unusual items such as Sam Gae Tong; chicken stuffed with sweet rice, chestnuts, dates, and garlic, and cooked in a ginseng soup. Not only is this dish tasty and different, it also the most expensive item at the Korean counter at $9.95. The traditional condiments are included, those little dishes of kimchi and other pickles and salads.

The Chinese counter is what one might expect. The menu panels number only about a dozen, but the food is freshly prepared and tasty. There are the usual suspects like fried rice, sweet and sour chicken, dumplings and more. I must confess that Chinese is my least favorite Asian cuisine because it has been so Americanized. The fare here is as good as you will get at restaurants that are more expensive. It also provides an option for those in your party who do not have the most adventurous palates.

Lastly, there is Café Mozart. This is a scaled down version of this concept, which has a couple of free standing operations around Gwinnett. There is a good selection of coffee based beverages, as well as Bubble Tea. When I inquired about the nature of Bubble Tea, I was given a one-word answer: smoothie. Bubble Tea falls into two categories, fruit based and milk based. The term “bubble” refers to the tapioca pearls that are in the beverage. The star of this show is the pastry counter. The pastries are beautiful. From the mocha cakes and fruit tarts, to the individually sized snacks, these are truly gorgeous. You could do worse than to bring one of these to a holiday gathering or a dinner party.

The unifying aspect of these restaurants is their ease of use. In addition to the native languages, everything is listed in English with pictures. The service is very prompt. You can get in and out of here in about the same time as the fast food restaurants generally take. And with the prices as low as they are, it begs the question…McWho?

About:
Super H Mart 2550 Pleasant Hill Road, Duluth, GA 30096

Go Ahead, be a Jerk

I love it when I stumble across a gem. A few weeks ago, I was driving to a friend’s house when I spied a banner draped across an old jalopy of a car.

“Jerk Chicken Center” proclaimed the banner. Meanwhile, the windshield of the car advised us of its $1500 selling price. The neon “Open” sign hanging from the tree was dark, so we drove on by. While on a trip to the same friend’s house last weekend, the sign beckoned me in all its neon glory.

A smoke-filled, dirt driveway, illuminated by Christmas light-wrapped trees led us to an old house fronted by four split 50 gallon drum barbeque pits. A hand written sign informed us that the food was inside. “Inside” turned out to be an old garage. Reggae music filled the Frenches-Yellow-Mustard room. The walls were covered in pictures of soccer teams and posters of reggae bands. On the ceiling, next to the tracks where the garage door used to open, a plus sign was formed by four fluorescent light fixtures. Two of them were even working, and one had wires dangling downward. A line formed from the small window in the wall and snaked its way past a pool table. The menu was hand written in black marker on the inside of the lid of a Styrofoam clamshell and posted above the tiny window. It consists of six items; chicken, pork, fish, soup, festival, and fried saltfish. As I tried to get a closer look at the small menu, a gentleman in line professed, “Just meat, but it is the best in Atlanta.” While my wife waited in line, I stepped outside. One of proprietors gave me a verbal tour of the restaurant. Standing in front of the smoking barrels, he dosed the chicken that covered the grill with a jerk marinade. It consists of herbs, spices, and peppers, among other things. The soup, he informed me, was pepper-pot today. It is a blend of peppers, chicken and callaloo. Callaloo are the leafy greens from the taro root plant and resemble collards. Yesterday it was fish soup. The fish is stuffed with okra, wrapped in foil and cooked en papillote. The pork is marinated loin and cooked on a separate grill from the chicken.

Back inside, the line moved slowly as vendors came in and opened their cases of wares. The ladies were hawking jewelry, fragrances and lotion. When we were approached by one the ladies, I informed her that I already smelled spectacular and therefore did not need any fragrance. The line had only inched along so I went back outside to chat some more. What kind of fish is it? I queried. Red snapper was the response. My informative friend from the line joined me and gave me more information. “This is based on the concept of “big yard”. In Jamaica someone in the neighborhood always has a big yard and that is where the neighborhood gets together to cook. You could show up with no laces in your shoes and get some soup.” “We would get a boat going. Not a real boat, but everyone in the neighborhood would be assigned something to gather…you get ackee, you get coconut…” Apparently, there is a rule that if the branches of a fruit tree extend over a fence then the fruit is fair game. But I digress…

Not only is this a carryout restaurant, but there is also a bar through a door in the garage-restaurant. Different reggae played in this room. There is a selection of beers including Guinness, Heinekin, and the obligatory Red Stripe, available from the residential refrigerator. All are three dollars. The Jamaican flag hangs over a small, dark fireplace and posters of Bob Marley cover the walls. Small tables and chairs are scattered around along with a couple of couches.

About forty minutes had passed from our arrival to our departure for home to enjoy our food. Not the fastest place going. The smell of the place already had me convinced that it was worth the wait. The chicken was moist and flavorful. It was served with a barbeque sauce that was just sweet enough and had a nice kick without being overly hot. The “festival” is basically fried logs of sweetish cornbread, very good for sopping up sauce or dipping in the soup. The pepper-pot was very a flavorful concoction with chunks of potato, bits of greens, peppers and chicken. This also had a nice spice to it. I assumed the fried saltfish would bear some resemblance to the salt cod known as bacalao in Spain and baccalà in Italy. Sadly, it did not. It had a yellow color and a still too firm and salty texture. It seemed to me that it had not been sufficiently reconstituted. The best salt cod is milky white and delicately textured when prepared well. For only two dollars, it was a long way from ruining my evening. Unfortunately they had run out of pork. It would have been thirty minutes for more to be ready, so we opted to double our chicken order. Is short, the food was excellent.

This is not just a place for food, but somewhere where you can experience a culture. My informative friend, who is a transplant from Kingstown, Jamaica, via a long stay in Hartford Connecticut, summed it up when he gestured to the barren yard outside the house and said “all you need is beach”.

About

Jerk Chicken Center

Address Highway 124, Corner of Rockbridge Rd and Rockbridge Rd.

Hours: Monday – Saturday 5 P.M. Until...

Price $10 and less

Cash Only

No reservations, no call aheads