My conviction continues that TV's where the culture is flourishing these days. I've been paying nearly as much attention to my idiot box as I devoted to restaurants in the 1990's. It's not that everything on TV is great now, or even good. Nor was all jazz great in 1953, or films in 1971, or lasagnas in 1996. It's not a universal thing. It's just a matter of reaching a tipping point with a migration of inspiration into a particular realm. At that point, the human flocking instinct kicks in and quality can soar. I'm not a big fan of flocking humans, generally, but in this sort of scenario, it's downright thrilling. Remember how once Roger Bannister ran the first four minute mile, everyone else could suddenly do it?
Film people are recognizing this, and are flooding into TV en masse. Movies have become increasingly formulaic and cliched; it's hard to get much depth in two hours, and the industry's in a state of creative stagnation. The best television series are now akin to really long movies (here's how that came about), and the longer form offers freedom - the opportunity to fully develop characters, and to engage in fine subtleties.
Consider "Luck", the HBO series directed by Michael Mann and starring Nick Nolte and Dustin Hoffman. You've heard about this as "the show about horse racing where horses died so they had to cancel it". That outrage was a publicity stunt trumped up by PETA (the Westboro Baptist Church of animal rights). For what it's worth, here's the real story with the dead horses.
I just voraciously viewed the series, and I think Luck's a masterpiece. Its ratings were microscopic, because it demands a lot from viewers. First of all, writer David Milch ("NYPD Blue", "Deadwood", etc.) is quirky as all get-out, and plies a syntax all his own. But that can be a great boon for actors this good. Just as negotiating the tricky linguistic terrain of Shakespeare can bring out an actor's best, Milch makes his players work deeply. Also, Luck plunges viewers into the arcane rituals of horse racing without much hand-holding (this helpful tutorial is de rigueur, and I recommend studying the great Alan Sepinwall's episodic run-downs after you see each show, and perhaps Todd VanDerWerff's, as well).
The first four episodes can be maddeningly confusing, the language is hard to parse (I watch with the subtitles on), and you'll need to rewatch certain scenes (and want to review whole episodes), but it's all chewy-rewarding rather than chewy-opaque. By the middle of the season you'll find yourself drawn in as with a great novel, and by the end, you'll be mourning the show's premature cancellation. Quality's so high that, as I viewed, I kept flashing back to the Shakespeare analogy. The first season doesn't always hit "for-the-ages" heights, but it's certainly headed there. It's a tragedy that there'll be no second season.
Nowhere near the same league, but still damned good, is "The Americans", on FX. It's a new espionage thriller that premiered this week, set in the 1980's, about a Russian sleeper cell in the American suburbs. It's a seemingly normal American couple under such deep cover that they don't even speak Russian, or reveal their earlier lives, to each other, even in private moments. And the show's as much an exploration of their sixteen year marriage (even they're not sure what's "cover" and what's "real") as of their spycraft.
There are little flaws - e.g. an FBI counter-espionage agent just happens to move in across the street (wince). And it's become popular on the Internet to dissect and excoriate a series' flaws. But in spite of our massively networked culture of criticism (which, god help me, I helped start), here's an essential truth, which I hope to write more about: the best stuff isn't stuff with the fewest flaws. The best creations are created with great love and care and talent. Flawlessness, in and of itself, is worthless. The pianist who makes no mistakes is, more than likely, a boring pianist who takes no chances. What matters - all that matters - is the magic.
Also, big news: did you know David Fincher's "House of Cards", starring (speaking of migrating film people) Kevin Spacey, is available, starting today, exclusively via Netflix streaming? I haven't seen it, but it sounds terrific, according to my go-to television critic, the aforementioned Alan Sepinwall (here's his rundown). Per Netflix's business model, they released the whole season at once, so you can "binge view" to your heart's content. This could be the start of something big.
Finally, three great series few people know about: "The Hour", Britain's "The Sandbaggers", and CBC's "Intelligence" (dubbed "The Canadian Wire" by Slate).
"Game of Thrones" third season begins March 31, and season two of "Veep" airs in April, and, best of all, "Breaking Bad" is back for the final arc this summer.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Told You So
A few years ago, I wrote a long series of articles titled "How (Perennially) Fat People Diet", sharing lots of information I'd acquired while losing 35 pounds. Every statement in that series had a basis in science, with one exception (which I'd found to be empirically true, though scientifically unproven):
If you're trying to lose weight, have a look at that series, starting here (and do read the three articles linked atop that page).
Ayurvedic medicine suggests losing weight by eating larger lunches and smaller dinners. I can't explain why, but it's true. Eating at night is more fattening and jarring to the system.Well, now that's been proven.
If you're trying to lose weight, have a look at that series, starting here (and do read the three articles linked atop that page).
Saturday, January 26, 2013
The Cold, Hard Truth About Obesity
We can talk about metabolism and heredity all we want, but if you'd care to view the cold, hard truth about obesity, stand around any location where an escalator and a staircase are side-by-side. And just watch the size of the people choosing each respective option. Within thirty seconds, you'll see what I mean.
You might protest that heavier people choose the escalator because their extra weight makes them more sluggish (i.e. weight is the cause, not the effect). But that observation can be demolished by going anywhere bells are rung to signal meals. You'll see how fast fat people can move. I've done this, and noticed, to my horror, that the first wave to arrive is always overweight. Thin people come last.
You might protest that heavier people choose the escalator because their extra weight makes them more sluggish (i.e. weight is the cause, not the effect). But that observation can be demolished by going anywhere bells are rung to signal meals. You'll see how fast fat people can move. I've done this, and noticed, to my horror, that the first wave to arrive is always overweight. Thin people come last.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
The Key to Saltless Cooking
For the past few years, I've been cooking salt-free. This has been for a number of reasons:
But every once in a while, I'll make a dish that turns out horribly bland-tasting, though I can never figure out why. I usually just sprinkle some salt, and chalk it up to juju. But last night I figured it out. I've gravitated to using carrots, corn, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, apple cider, and onion in my cooking. All these ingredients are sweet. And whenever I don't use at least one of those items, the result tastes bland.
Last night I made chicken thighs cooked with vegetables and heirloom tiny rice. There were onions, but not many. And there were diced carrots, but they weren't evenly distributed. And my first bite, which contained no carrots, painfully lacked for salt (though it brimmed with kala jeera, ginger, cumin, black pepper, and Turkish aleppo pepper).
My second bite included a clump of carrots, and it tasted just fine. My third bite was carrot-less, but it still worked. And that's when I realized that we're conditioned to saltlessness in sweets. Sweetness is a trigger: with it, we crave no salt. Without it, we cry out for salt.
Fortunately, it doesn't take much. A shred of caramelized onion, a dab of tomato, a splash of cider in the sauce, any of these things are sufficient to reprogram the brain and make it accept a lack of salt. Everything needn't be sweet; there just has to be a dash. Think of the raisins in the pilaf; the prunes in the tajine, the parsnips in the stew (all dishes developed before salt became widely available).
- My mechanic's mom, who's as good a chef as I've ever met, uses no salt. This intrigues and inspires me.
- Reducing salt makes food taste "cleaner", and clarity's not always a good thing. So salt is often used like makeup - a fast, cheap way to blur and mask the truth. I'd rather cook honestly.
- I don't have high blood pressure, but I retain water when I eat salty food.
- As I wrote a few months ago, "When cooking at home...I want healthy food that leaves me not impressed but deeply nourished, my batteries refreshed."
But every once in a while, I'll make a dish that turns out horribly bland-tasting, though I can never figure out why. I usually just sprinkle some salt, and chalk it up to juju. But last night I figured it out. I've gravitated to using carrots, corn, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, apple cider, and onion in my cooking. All these ingredients are sweet. And whenever I don't use at least one of those items, the result tastes bland.
Last night I made chicken thighs cooked with vegetables and heirloom tiny rice. There were onions, but not many. And there were diced carrots, but they weren't evenly distributed. And my first bite, which contained no carrots, painfully lacked for salt (though it brimmed with kala jeera, ginger, cumin, black pepper, and Turkish aleppo pepper).
My second bite included a clump of carrots, and it tasted just fine. My third bite was carrot-less, but it still worked. And that's when I realized that we're conditioned to saltlessness in sweets. Sweetness is a trigger: with it, we crave no salt. Without it, we cry out for salt.
Fortunately, it doesn't take much. A shred of caramelized onion, a dab of tomato, a splash of cider in the sauce, any of these things are sufficient to reprogram the brain and make it accept a lack of salt. Everything needn't be sweet; there just has to be a dash. Think of the raisins in the pilaf; the prunes in the tajine, the parsnips in the stew (all dishes developed before salt became widely available).
Friday, January 18, 2013
Web Design Finally Trends to Simplicity
Chowhound, before it was redesigned by CNET, had a look and feel that was widely considered dowdy. And I remain a dinosaur to this day. Consider my home page, which has the same 1997-ish, typewritten look.
It's intentional. I like that approach. I still think of the Web as a place to go for ideas, data, opinions...stuff. I'm thirsty for data, yet most Internet data is doled out in distracting and inaccessible ways in order to serve design, which has become a tyrant. As someone who remembers an Internet surfed entirely via text prompts, this exasperates me. The vast majority of web pages strike me as gussied up beyond recognition. That's why I've retained my curmudgeonly fixation with the typewriter model.
But, as I noted a few years ago, "Just because people keep proposing really bad solutions doesn't mean there isn't a problem!" There's finally a new movement, and it makes me very happy...and also abashed. They're calling it "flat" interface design. The LayerVault Blog describes the credo:
Whether graphical or text-based, web pages from this new vanguard share these traits: 1. simplicity, 2. directness, 3. accessibility and 4. tiny cleverness (by which I mean that design decisions are subtle and unobtrusive; they support, rather than override, the message). Plus, they're elegant. There's been no shortage of pretentious, fussy web design in the past twenty years, but there hasn't been much elegance.
All these pages fit my bill. But I'm abashed, because I see that typewritten was never enough. Data-accessible, lean, simply accessible sites can also be extremely attractive if you're willing to apply tiny cleverness. So I shouldn't have been so dismissive. Design's not the enemy....just ditzy, inappropriate design.
More on this from John Gruber
It's intentional. I like that approach. I still think of the Web as a place to go for ideas, data, opinions...stuff. I'm thirsty for data, yet most Internet data is doled out in distracting and inaccessible ways in order to serve design, which has become a tyrant. As someone who remembers an Internet surfed entirely via text prompts, this exasperates me. The vast majority of web pages strike me as gussied up beyond recognition. That's why I've retained my curmudgeonly fixation with the typewriter model.
But, as I noted a few years ago, "Just because people keep proposing really bad solutions doesn't mean there isn't a problem!" There's finally a new movement, and it makes me very happy...and also abashed. They're calling it "flat" interface design. The LayerVault Blog describes the credo:
"Well-loved products on the web share a similar design aesthetic, with roughly the same kinds of bevels, inset shadows, and drop shadows. For designers, achieving this level of “lickable” interface is a point of pride. For us, and for a minority of UI designers out there, it feels wrong...[so] we stripped the design down to the bone. It looked closer to a wireframe than a final interface — but it was a start, and it was damn honest."Count me in. Unless I'm shopping Ben & Jerry's site, I don't want lickability. I want a personal voice conveying data in a lean and forthright way. Click that last link for an example. It's my beloved typewriter model....with deft touches, nudges, and decisions making the page also look inviting. Snipping examples from the bottom of that same page, have a look here and here and here.
Whether graphical or text-based, web pages from this new vanguard share these traits: 1. simplicity, 2. directness, 3. accessibility and 4. tiny cleverness (by which I mean that design decisions are subtle and unobtrusive; they support, rather than override, the message). Plus, they're elegant. There's been no shortage of pretentious, fussy web design in the past twenty years, but there hasn't been much elegance.
All these pages fit my bill. But I'm abashed, because I see that typewritten was never enough. Data-accessible, lean, simply accessible sites can also be extremely attractive if you're willing to apply tiny cleverness. So I shouldn't have been so dismissive. Design's not the enemy....just ditzy, inappropriate design.
More on this from John Gruber
Thursday, January 17, 2013
St. Louis: Disneyworld for Beer Geeks
I've already recounted my food finds in St. Louis. Here's the beer side of things:
In my food roundup, I described the great mashed potatoes (and very good mahi-mahi tacos) at Schlafly's. Their beers are also winners: artfully crafted, with great balance and consistency across their long line of offerings.
Tasmanian IPA was a delightful evocation of New Zealand's aromatic, tropical fruity hops, and Tripel was as close to the classic Westmalle version as I've ever tasted from an American brewer. The beautifully balanced Single Malt Scottish Ale avoids the excessive booziness that's trendy in barrel-aged brewing, and the Barleywine's Tootsie Roll-ish mellowness ably cloaks its daunting alcoholic heat. And the Rauchbier, though just a bit light in the smoke, is eminently drinkable. Ask for Phil, the most knowledgable bartender; he loves to guide and discuss.
Urban Chestnut (3229 Washington Ave; 314-222-0143) is another local brewpub, this one run by a guy who's put in time at Germany's Weihenstephaner brewery, reknowned for its skilled lagers and characterful yeast. Yeast is put to good use here, too, and while a few English styles are available, I stuck to Germans and was impressed.
Their Hopfen is the first-ever "German IPA", and is one of the most creative beers I've tried lately. It's a full-bodied German lager with a big blast of hops...but there are no American hops. Instead, it's all Hallertau, so the result is nothing like hoppy American IPAs, with their citric hops and gripping bitterness. This one's delicious and utterly unique.
Urban Chestnut also makes what may be America's finest kellar beer, which they call Zwickel (served, appropriately, in pewter mugs). Kellar is an ancient style that's unfiltered, subtle, slightly earthy, and oh-so-drinkable, and their's is catching on; it's available all over town.
The only Urban Chestnut beer I didn't love (in fact, the only beer in St. Louis I didn't love) is their eponymous chestnut beer, which I found sweet and nebbishy.
Perennial Artisan Ales (8125 Michigan Ave; 314-631-7300) is yet another great local brewpub, this one an intense out-of-the-way spot for serious beer geekery. I got a laugh from the online reviews frowning at the lack of pool tables, TV sports, and fried foods.
Saison de Lis, brewed with chamomile flowers, manages to meld the slightly cloying aroma into a balanced, drinkable quaff rather than a mere novelty. It's the best chamomile beer I've had. Aria is a saison with just a touch of brettanomyces - lending funk rather than full-out sourness. Heart of Gold, an ultra strong wheat beer ("wheat wine"), is beautifully lush though still drinkable.
These are intense, mostly high-gravity beers, so you'll want to have a bite. The menu's not exactly ambitious, but I loved Prairie Breeze cheddar from Iowa's Milton Creamery.
I tried to hit The Civil Life (3714 Holt Ave; no listed phone), but was crestfallen to learn they close early - 10 pm even on weekend nights. These guys specialize in "session" beers - the term for friendly, lo-alcohol beers that can be enjoyed all night without getting blotto (not an issue for me on this trip, as I was trying tiny samples). Hence their name.
Mild needn't mean watery; marvelously tasty beers can be brewed at low strength. Their line-up of German kellars, alts, kolsches, and dunkelweizen, and British milds and milk stouts are supposed to be quite good.
It's a timely business model, getting in ahead of an incipient trend (in a year or two you'll see low-alcohol session beers trending everywhere). And it's also an indication of how far the craft beer market has come in the Midwest.
The first wave of local craft brewers specialized in big, bombastic ales in backlash to the insipid output of hometown villain Anheuser-Busch. A new market was established, but there was a hole, and the success of Urban Chestnut's Zwickel, and of The Civil Life, proves there's demand for subtler, mellower beers. Neophytes might superficially compare them to mass-market American lagers, but they have all the quality of fine craft beer. And since local beer lovers have grown savvy, local brewers no longer feel compelled to scream in their faces to stake out turf. No more proving yourself the "Anti-Bud". This means the market's maturing. Much more so than NYC, SF, Denver, and lots of other supposedly sophisticated markets.
I missed 4 Hands Brewing Co (1220 South 8th St; 314-436-1559), whose IPA comes very highly recommended.
It should be no surprise that St. Louis' beer is so good, given that the Midwest has, recently, transformed into an epicenter of great brewing. Nor is it surprising the town's so under-radar, with Anheuser-Busch casting its dark shadow of sudsy shame. But I know no American city boasting a better, broader, and more consistently delicious bunch of brewpubs. I really liked nearly every beer I tried (and I'm a hard-ass).
You won't find any of the listless blond ales, pandering apricot weizens, or ashy oatmeal stouts so endemic to most American brewpubs, nor any noxious beer snobbery. Terrific beer, cutting across all styles, in four very different settings, with serious beer geeks next to you at the bar, everyone friendly, easy parking, low prices, and some very good food. St. Louis is Disneyworld for beer geeks, and I'd recommend it for a special trip.
In my food roundup, I described the great mashed potatoes (and very good mahi-mahi tacos) at Schlafly's. Their beers are also winners: artfully crafted, with great balance and consistency across their long line of offerings.
Tasmanian IPA was a delightful evocation of New Zealand's aromatic, tropical fruity hops, and Tripel was as close to the classic Westmalle version as I've ever tasted from an American brewer. The beautifully balanced Single Malt Scottish Ale avoids the excessive booziness that's trendy in barrel-aged brewing, and the Barleywine's Tootsie Roll-ish mellowness ably cloaks its daunting alcoholic heat. And the Rauchbier, though just a bit light in the smoke, is eminently drinkable. Ask for Phil, the most knowledgable bartender; he loves to guide and discuss.
Urban Chestnut (3229 Washington Ave; 314-222-0143) is another local brewpub, this one run by a guy who's put in time at Germany's Weihenstephaner brewery, reknowned for its skilled lagers and characterful yeast. Yeast is put to good use here, too, and while a few English styles are available, I stuck to Germans and was impressed.
Their Hopfen is the first-ever "German IPA", and is one of the most creative beers I've tried lately. It's a full-bodied German lager with a big blast of hops...but there are no American hops. Instead, it's all Hallertau, so the result is nothing like hoppy American IPAs, with their citric hops and gripping bitterness. This one's delicious and utterly unique.
Urban Chestnut also makes what may be America's finest kellar beer, which they call Zwickel (served, appropriately, in pewter mugs). Kellar is an ancient style that's unfiltered, subtle, slightly earthy, and oh-so-drinkable, and their's is catching on; it's available all over town.
The only Urban Chestnut beer I didn't love (in fact, the only beer in St. Louis I didn't love) is their eponymous chestnut beer, which I found sweet and nebbishy.
Perennial Artisan Ales (8125 Michigan Ave; 314-631-7300) is yet another great local brewpub, this one an intense out-of-the-way spot for serious beer geekery. I got a laugh from the online reviews frowning at the lack of pool tables, TV sports, and fried foods.
Saison de Lis, brewed with chamomile flowers, manages to meld the slightly cloying aroma into a balanced, drinkable quaff rather than a mere novelty. It's the best chamomile beer I've had. Aria is a saison with just a touch of brettanomyces - lending funk rather than full-out sourness. Heart of Gold, an ultra strong wheat beer ("wheat wine"), is beautifully lush though still drinkable.
These are intense, mostly high-gravity beers, so you'll want to have a bite. The menu's not exactly ambitious, but I loved Prairie Breeze cheddar from Iowa's Milton Creamery.
I tried to hit The Civil Life (3714 Holt Ave; no listed phone), but was crestfallen to learn they close early - 10 pm even on weekend nights. These guys specialize in "session" beers - the term for friendly, lo-alcohol beers that can be enjoyed all night without getting blotto (not an issue for me on this trip, as I was trying tiny samples). Hence their name.
Mild needn't mean watery; marvelously tasty beers can be brewed at low strength. Their line-up of German kellars, alts, kolsches, and dunkelweizen, and British milds and milk stouts are supposed to be quite good.
It's a timely business model, getting in ahead of an incipient trend (in a year or two you'll see low-alcohol session beers trending everywhere). And it's also an indication of how far the craft beer market has come in the Midwest.
The first wave of local craft brewers specialized in big, bombastic ales in backlash to the insipid output of hometown villain Anheuser-Busch. A new market was established, but there was a hole, and the success of Urban Chestnut's Zwickel, and of The Civil Life, proves there's demand for subtler, mellower beers. Neophytes might superficially compare them to mass-market American lagers, but they have all the quality of fine craft beer. And since local beer lovers have grown savvy, local brewers no longer feel compelled to scream in their faces to stake out turf. No more proving yourself the "Anti-Bud". This means the market's maturing. Much more so than NYC, SF, Denver, and lots of other supposedly sophisticated markets.
I missed 4 Hands Brewing Co (1220 South 8th St; 314-436-1559), whose IPA comes very highly recommended.
It should be no surprise that St. Louis' beer is so good, given that the Midwest has, recently, transformed into an epicenter of great brewing. Nor is it surprising the town's so under-radar, with Anheuser-Busch casting its dark shadow of sudsy shame. But I know no American city boasting a better, broader, and more consistently delicious bunch of brewpubs. I really liked nearly every beer I tried (and I'm a hard-ass).
You won't find any of the listless blond ales, pandering apricot weizens, or ashy oatmeal stouts so endemic to most American brewpubs, nor any noxious beer snobbery. Terrific beer, cutting across all styles, in four very different settings, with serious beer geeks next to you at the bar, everyone friendly, easy parking, low prices, and some very good food. St. Louis is Disneyworld for beer geeks, and I'd recommend it for a special trip.
Why Your Health Insurance Premiums Went Up
Are you on an individual or small business health insurance plan, and found that your rates went up this year?
The reason isn't widely-known, and it's interesting: The recession's so bad that healthy people are choosing to forego health insurance, leaving a higher proportion of higher-cost, sicker people on the rolls, driving up premiums for all.
The reason isn't widely-known, and it's interesting: The recession's so bad that healthy people are choosing to forego health insurance, leaving a higher proportion of higher-cost, sicker people on the rolls, driving up premiums for all.
NYC Parking Data Bonanza
Did you know there's a web page that will tell you parking regulations for any block in New York City?
Plus, check out all the delicious data on this page, including a downloadable csv file with all the street parking data used by the search engine linked above. God bless our technocratic mayor.
Plus, check out all the delicious data on this page, including a downloadable csv file with all the street parking data used by the search engine linked above. God bless our technocratic mayor.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Postcards From My Childhood Part 6: Guileless Clunk
Previous installment
First installment
All installments in reverse chronological order
"The child is the father of the man", they say. Surprisingly, I understood this even as a child. And so I willfully sent forward to my elder self some thoughts and images which I knew would be helpful, and which I suspected I'd otherwise forget.
At age 12, I signed up for a ping pong competition. The best player, Ricky, was an arrogant, tanned, broad-shouldered 15 year old California adonis with a custom-made paddle. I, pallid and short for my age, was not deemed a hot prospect, so they matched me against Ricky in the first round. I was a pawn to be plowed through en route to Ricky's inevitable triumph.
Ricky sneered at me and launched his famous serve, tossing the ball very, very high into the air, then slicing it so fast the eye couldn't follow the motion. It tore by me. I never even moved. And it dawned on me that I could never beat Ricky on his own terms. I couldn't match his vicious slams, or counter his esoteric spins and slices. I'd miss a lot more of those shots than he would. So I decided to concentrate entirely on missing less than him.
When Ricky's shots, humming with topspin, sizzled toward my side of the table, I'd simply return them. Clunk. Right down the middle of the table. Nothing fancy. No english. No pace. Just a big, dumb, clunking return - volley after volley, point after point. And Ricky, sensing my strategy, began tightening up, returning my cloddish volleys with increasingly hostile smashes....some of which missed. Meanwhile, none of mine missed. Clunk. Right down the middle. Clunk. Clunk.
I won, of course. And, of course, he refused to shake my hand. Poor guy. I may, to this day, be the worst thing that ever happened to him; the sole blot on Ricky's otherwise immaculately golden life record. Here's to you, Ricky, and the botoxed pilates teacher with whom I visualize you sipping overly buttery Chardonnay in your Malibu hot tub. Remember me by my sound: "Clunk".
Sometimes a person works hard, learns all the moves, develops talent with arduous training, and some lazy, no-talent shmuck comes along and finds a way to undercut you. While it's important to develop one's talents with due discipline (as I've done in a number of realms, myself), it's also fun to sometimes be the undercutting shmuck. The guy who gets there via guileless clunks.
Consider my little video, "The Enigma of Von's Magical Cookies". It's dreadfully shot and edited, the sound's abysmal, and the whole thing seems pretty aimless. I'm incredibly bad at every necessary skill, and used lousy tools to record it (a smartphone camera and a Radio Shack microphone).
Yet it's got something. As time has passed, and I view it with a fresh eye, I see that it's actually good - in vibe and overall effect, if not on any actual merits. Guileless clunk won the game. Lots of people really like it (I got a beautiful note from Von's surviving daughter - Von, alas, passed away shortly after the video was shot), but a friend who's a legendary film director, and who otherwise likes my endeavors, detests it. In fact, it makes him apoplectic. He's certainly not jealous, any more than Ricky was jealous of my table tennis skills. After all, my video's not 1/1000th as good as the worst of his films. But all he can hear is the "Clunk", and it's pure anathema. He wouldn't hate it this much if he didn't recognize that it works. Failure doesn't provoke hatred.
Guileless clunk can be used even at higher skill levels. For instance, I've played piano since age six, but never really learned piano technique. My left hand is kind of gimpy, and where a serious pianist might have nine hundred different ways to do a certain thing, I have only four or five. But that's enough to get by. I'm no clod; I've put in my 10,000 hours of practice. But I'm not versatile or elegant or well-taught or "proper". I take liberties and cheat with quirky shortcuts. Never having taken the pains to become a "real" pianist; I opt for the easy route. If you heard me, you'd think I was professional. But when pro pianists hear me, all they hear is the "clunk". And they want to strangle me. Because it works.
My father, a wonderful sculptor, always wanted to try painting, but he knew he had no facility with color. Finally, he came up with a dazzlingly creative solution: he'd paint only with primary colors. Brilliant! And the results were distinctive and appealing, though not very painterly. But they antagonized his second wife, a well-trained serious painter. Noticing months later that he'd stopped painting, I asked him why, and all he'd say was that his marriage was more important.
Read the next installment
First installment
All installments in reverse chronological order
"The child is the father of the man", they say. Surprisingly, I understood this even as a child. And so I willfully sent forward to my elder self some thoughts and images which I knew would be helpful, and which I suspected I'd otherwise forget.
At age 12, I signed up for a ping pong competition. The best player, Ricky, was an arrogant, tanned, broad-shouldered 15 year old California adonis with a custom-made paddle. I, pallid and short for my age, was not deemed a hot prospect, so they matched me against Ricky in the first round. I was a pawn to be plowed through en route to Ricky's inevitable triumph.
Ricky sneered at me and launched his famous serve, tossing the ball very, very high into the air, then slicing it so fast the eye couldn't follow the motion. It tore by me. I never even moved. And it dawned on me that I could never beat Ricky on his own terms. I couldn't match his vicious slams, or counter his esoteric spins and slices. I'd miss a lot more of those shots than he would. So I decided to concentrate entirely on missing less than him.
When Ricky's shots, humming with topspin, sizzled toward my side of the table, I'd simply return them. Clunk. Right down the middle of the table. Nothing fancy. No english. No pace. Just a big, dumb, clunking return - volley after volley, point after point. And Ricky, sensing my strategy, began tightening up, returning my cloddish volleys with increasingly hostile smashes....some of which missed. Meanwhile, none of mine missed. Clunk. Right down the middle. Clunk. Clunk.
I won, of course. And, of course, he refused to shake my hand. Poor guy. I may, to this day, be the worst thing that ever happened to him; the sole blot on Ricky's otherwise immaculately golden life record. Here's to you, Ricky, and the botoxed pilates teacher with whom I visualize you sipping overly buttery Chardonnay in your Malibu hot tub. Remember me by my sound: "Clunk".
Sometimes a person works hard, learns all the moves, develops talent with arduous training, and some lazy, no-talent shmuck comes along and finds a way to undercut you. While it's important to develop one's talents with due discipline (as I've done in a number of realms, myself), it's also fun to sometimes be the undercutting shmuck. The guy who gets there via guileless clunks.
Consider my little video, "The Enigma of Von's Magical Cookies". It's dreadfully shot and edited, the sound's abysmal, and the whole thing seems pretty aimless. I'm incredibly bad at every necessary skill, and used lousy tools to record it (a smartphone camera and a Radio Shack microphone).
Yet it's got something. As time has passed, and I view it with a fresh eye, I see that it's actually good - in vibe and overall effect, if not on any actual merits. Guileless clunk won the game. Lots of people really like it (I got a beautiful note from Von's surviving daughter - Von, alas, passed away shortly after the video was shot), but a friend who's a legendary film director, and who otherwise likes my endeavors, detests it. In fact, it makes him apoplectic. He's certainly not jealous, any more than Ricky was jealous of my table tennis skills. After all, my video's not 1/1000th as good as the worst of his films. But all he can hear is the "Clunk", and it's pure anathema. He wouldn't hate it this much if he didn't recognize that it works. Failure doesn't provoke hatred.
Guileless clunk can be used even at higher skill levels. For instance, I've played piano since age six, but never really learned piano technique. My left hand is kind of gimpy, and where a serious pianist might have nine hundred different ways to do a certain thing, I have only four or five. But that's enough to get by. I'm no clod; I've put in my 10,000 hours of practice. But I'm not versatile or elegant or well-taught or "proper". I take liberties and cheat with quirky shortcuts. Never having taken the pains to become a "real" pianist; I opt for the easy route. If you heard me, you'd think I was professional. But when pro pianists hear me, all they hear is the "clunk". And they want to strangle me. Because it works.
My father, a wonderful sculptor, always wanted to try painting, but he knew he had no facility with color. Finally, he came up with a dazzlingly creative solution: he'd paint only with primary colors. Brilliant! And the results were distinctive and appealing, though not very painterly. But they antagonized his second wife, a well-trained serious painter. Noticing months later that he'd stopped painting, I asked him why, and all he'd say was that his marriage was more important.
Read the next installment
Chowhounding St. Louis
Here are the highlights from fifteen hours of chowhounding in St. Louis:
The Buttery Restaurant (3659 S Grand Blvd; 314-771-4443)
I'm not often thrown into rapture by restaurant names, but I got all Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs about The Buttery Restaurant. Veering off of Grand Blvd and tearing through back streets to circle back to the Buttery parking lot, I worried I was losing my mind when everything for several blocks around appeared to be butter-colored - buildings, streets, the ground, everything. Maybe it was real, or maybe it was hysterical faux-glaucoma. I'm just reporting what I saw. In my saturated stigmata, there was butter in the streets.
Inside The Buttery Restaurant, things are crusty (one might even say congealed). The vibe augured low deliciousness, but just when I'd surmised that a great little greasy spoon had been shot to hell by management changes and long neglect, I spied the cook laying on hands for an elderly gentleman at the cash register, the vignette illuminated by a beam of cold white January sunlight filtered through the filthy front window. I'd been considering bolting, but, after that, no. I'd strap in for the ride.
Big prize for anyone who can parse out number 40 for me
And what a ride it was. The cook, a tough-as-nails/heart-of-gold woman of a certain age with more odd procedural ticks than Art Carney, was a joy and an enigma to watch. One hopes that the small pitcher serving as both source and disposal tank for cooking grease gets changed every few months, but the proof's in the eating: her grilled cheese sandwiches are perfect. Perfect! They're made with white bread that makes Wonder seem like a hearty peasant loaf. This is bread so irredeemably shitty that the sides of your crisp sandwich flop out dejectedly around your fingers. But her culinary techniques have evolved amid these woesome provisions, and she makes it work. My sandwich, consisting of Satan's own white bread, government surplus orange cheese, and The Grease of Perpetual Resurrection, was, again, perfect. Forgive my lack of specificity, but perfection's inherently indescribable. It's simply the grilled cheese you dream of in your deepest, most archetypal grilled cheese dreams.
The hash browns accompanying skillfully-cooked, oh-so-buttery eggs were frozen processed grey tuberous shreds which clearly hadn't experienced Mother Earth in a very, very long time. They were put through a grilling procedure both deft and daft, involving plump-ups within cooking rings, subsequent smashing-downs, and endless tides of inbound and outbound resurrection grease. They, too, displayed a sort of perfection, despite their blandness (the Buttery Restaurant does not cook for a sodium-tolerant crowd).
The individually-wrapped cupcakes positioned by the cash register were baked from an off-brand, veterinary-grade mix. But they were so startlingly fresh, and so heartbreakingly tender (from, no doubt, a goodly injection of resurrection grease). Chocolate chips had been conscientiously added to the batter to compensate for the mix's utter flavorlessness. I'd approached the cupcake with purposefulness, as one of many data points to be dutifully captured in my greater chowhounding mission, but by mid-bite I found myself transported to a treehouse full of five-year-olds all wondering, with confused frowny concern, why I was acting so busy and grown-uppish. I slowed down, slackened my jaw, and felt a sudden urge to pet kittens or do some finger painting or practice my whistling or something.
It's hard to describe the glow I felt leaving The Buttery Restaurant. But I'll say this: this place truly does have the power to transform an entire neighborhood into butter.
[see my short film, The Enigma of Von's Magical Cookies, which explores the mystery of how lousy ingredients and humdrum recipes can yield culinary magic]
Celeb spotting: the guy who produced the original Beggin' Strips commerical leaves The Buttery Restaurant
Nasiib (3445 S Grand; 314-664-4143) serves Somalian food, one of the more interesting African cuisines. With culinary influence from India, Italy, and Ethiopia, you'll see things like goat curry served over spaghetti, eaten with one's hands. We were too early for goat, but the sambosas (the local samosa variation) were meticulously fresh and crisp, and fiendishly flavor-nuanced. They come in various configurations - served with homemade excruciatingly hot sauce - and we opted for fish-flavored, which were remarkably unfishy. Also: sukhar with beef - a deceptively simple stir fry of beef chunks, onion, and green pepper. It was so simple, yet deeply satisfying, thanks to a caring touch. I hate green pepper, but here, and only here, I appreciated its inclusion. I temporarily forgave the grievous damage it's long done to home fries. Which is to say, I loved the sukhar, eaten with pinched morsels of spongey injera and flakey chapati. This place was surely the best find of the trip.
The people working there (as well as folks just hanging out) could not have been friendlier. And the "The Safari Sandwich", an original invention that's essentially a Somali chicken sandwich, looked great. I suspect everything here is great; I would have liked to have worked through the whole menu. It'd be a kick to do so, seeing as how this is the sort of place where if you stopped by three times, you'd find yourself warmly accepted into the local Somalian community. But, alas, it was time to move on. No full meals - and no lingering - in the midst of serious chowconnaissance!
Every other place in this report was discovered on the fly, without consulting guidebooks or web sites. but I did want to be sure to have great ribs, so I did fall back on just one found tip: on the north side of town, Roper's Ribs (6929 W Florissant Ave 314-381-6200) has won impressive awards, is greatly admired by locals, and is owned by the nicest people on planet earth. So I'd have loved with all my heart to report that their barbecue is great...but it isn't even close. But they do make terrific snoots - pig snouts flattened and fried, they're like pork rinds that went to grad school (likely Harvard, for maximal snootiness).
There's better barbecue in the north, I can feel it (I didn't give the jive big box downtown rib spots a second glance). But that's a discovery for another trip or another hound. I did spot Taylor's Place (4064 S Grand Blvd, 314-457-0130), a barbecue joint which hardly googles (and is super easy to miss driving by), but it was closed. I'll bet you it's at least very good.
Who can resist a town with not one but two pinball lounges? I hit The Silver Ballroom (4701 Morganford; 314-832-9223) - 'silver ball' room, get it? - which boasts vintage machines (including the legendary "Adams Family") in the back room, and punked-out (yet impeccably polite and cheery) bartenders in the front room, and some of the best Australian meat pies I've ever had. Their fillings (choose your favorite: meat/cheese or meat/bacon/cheese) are just ok, but the pastry, my god, the pastry. Even better than NYC's Tuck Shop. The other pinball spot, which I didn't try, is Orbit Pinball Lounge (7401 Hazel Ave; 314-769-9954).
There's really good, really strong, really funky Vietnamese ice coffee at a barebones cafe a block or two south of Banh Mi So 1 Saigon Gourmet (4071 South Grand Boulevard) and on the same side of Grand Blvd.. Non-Vietnamese make splashy entrances, but one great thing about Southeast Asians is how relaxed they are toward outsiders once they get used to you. This would be a great place to spend an afternoon, playing pool and sipping thick, sweet, dark, creamy coffee.
I noticed a Bosnian population, sparking a sub-quest for boureks (savory pastry pies). Alas, the only lead I got (from a family at a Bosnian supermarket) was Asw Bakery (5617 Gravois Ave 314-832-2212), which was closed. I later felt good vibes from Grbic Restaurant (4071 Keokuk St; 314-772-3100), a full-service Bosnian restaurant which I'm guessing doesn't do boureks, but has a great-looking menu.
Another looked-good/didn't-try: Thai Pizza Company (608 Eastgate Ave; 314-862-4429), which offers creations like chicken satay pizza. Not in a clever, exotic way, but in an unprepossessing way in a semi-cavernous gin mill. Nice!
Saint Louis Brewery / Schlafly Tap Room (2100 Locust St; 314-241-BEER) is a huge, famous, commercialized, institutionalized, fervidly merchandising monster in a suspiciously good location. They even have a branch at the airport. If ever a place should suck, Schlafly Tap Room is it.
But no. Food's great, beer's great, service's great. How do you keep quality so high for twenty two years in such a bean-counting, branded-up-the-wazoo operation? Easy. Put it in the Midwest, where people can't help being human.
Mahi Mahi tacos radiated a gaping Midwestern/Hispanic disconnect, as I'd feared, having been drizzled with hideous-looking day-glo orange sauce, but they ate like a dream. As a spud-o-phile, I can't not order mashed potatoes when offered as a side dish choice, however repulsive a combination they might make with, say, mahi mahi tacos. Good move in this case. These were the Enigma Spuds; chunky, waxy, and pleasingly near-al dente, they came with a side car of brown gravy, which I naturally expected to lend meaty/roasty flavors. But, no. The gravy was, magically, unbrown-tasting. In fact, it had the effect of liquid potato. It was like pouring potato on potato, yielding a hyperpotatoey result. This was brown gravy that had sacrificed its brownness to buoy the tuber, like a ballet dancer selflessly hoisting his graceful female partner. I can't recall ever having eaten better mashed potatoes. God, how I love the Midwest.
I'm compiling my beer notes (including Schlafly's offerings) into a separate article, which will hopefully go up tomorrow. (Update: here they are]
Would someone please find the great, unsung, rib place?!?
Similar Reads:
Follow vicariously my epic continental Chow Tour, with lots of food-porn photos.
Highlights:Attempted Culinary Seclusion in Florence, Alabama
Madly in Love with Maxine's (a dive in Kentucky)
36 Sublime Hours in Newfoundland
Vacation Tamales in Puerto Vallarta
and, of course, The Greatest (Chowhounding) Story Ever Told
Previous trip reports here on the Slog:
New Orleans
Spain (with a Brussels layover)
Chicago
Budapest (in reverse chronological order)
Oaxaca (in reverse chronological order)
The Buttery Restaurant (3659 S Grand Blvd; 314-771-4443)
I'm not often thrown into rapture by restaurant names, but I got all Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs about The Buttery Restaurant. Veering off of Grand Blvd and tearing through back streets to circle back to the Buttery parking lot, I worried I was losing my mind when everything for several blocks around appeared to be butter-colored - buildings, streets, the ground, everything. Maybe it was real, or maybe it was hysterical faux-glaucoma. I'm just reporting what I saw. In my saturated stigmata, there was butter in the streets.
Inside The Buttery Restaurant, things are crusty (one might even say congealed). The vibe augured low deliciousness, but just when I'd surmised that a great little greasy spoon had been shot to hell by management changes and long neglect, I spied the cook laying on hands for an elderly gentleman at the cash register, the vignette illuminated by a beam of cold white January sunlight filtered through the filthy front window. I'd been considering bolting, but, after that, no. I'd strap in for the ride.
And what a ride it was. The cook, a tough-as-nails/heart-of-gold woman of a certain age with more odd procedural ticks than Art Carney, was a joy and an enigma to watch. One hopes that the small pitcher serving as both source and disposal tank for cooking grease gets changed every few months, but the proof's in the eating: her grilled cheese sandwiches are perfect. Perfect! They're made with white bread that makes Wonder seem like a hearty peasant loaf. This is bread so irredeemably shitty that the sides of your crisp sandwich flop out dejectedly around your fingers. But her culinary techniques have evolved amid these woesome provisions, and she makes it work. My sandwich, consisting of Satan's own white bread, government surplus orange cheese, and The Grease of Perpetual Resurrection, was, again, perfect. Forgive my lack of specificity, but perfection's inherently indescribable. It's simply the grilled cheese you dream of in your deepest, most archetypal grilled cheese dreams.
The hash browns accompanying skillfully-cooked, oh-so-buttery eggs were frozen processed grey tuberous shreds which clearly hadn't experienced Mother Earth in a very, very long time. They were put through a grilling procedure both deft and daft, involving plump-ups within cooking rings, subsequent smashing-downs, and endless tides of inbound and outbound resurrection grease. They, too, displayed a sort of perfection, despite their blandness (the Buttery Restaurant does not cook for a sodium-tolerant crowd).
The individually-wrapped cupcakes positioned by the cash register were baked from an off-brand, veterinary-grade mix. But they were so startlingly fresh, and so heartbreakingly tender (from, no doubt, a goodly injection of resurrection grease). Chocolate chips had been conscientiously added to the batter to compensate for the mix's utter flavorlessness. I'd approached the cupcake with purposefulness, as one of many data points to be dutifully captured in my greater chowhounding mission, but by mid-bite I found myself transported to a treehouse full of five-year-olds all wondering, with confused frowny concern, why I was acting so busy and grown-uppish. I slowed down, slackened my jaw, and felt a sudden urge to pet kittens or do some finger painting or practice my whistling or something.
It's hard to describe the glow I felt leaving The Buttery Restaurant. But I'll say this: this place truly does have the power to transform an entire neighborhood into butter.
[see my short film, The Enigma of Von's Magical Cookies, which explores the mystery of how lousy ingredients and humdrum recipes can yield culinary magic]
Nasiib (3445 S Grand; 314-664-4143) serves Somalian food, one of the more interesting African cuisines. With culinary influence from India, Italy, and Ethiopia, you'll see things like goat curry served over spaghetti, eaten with one's hands. We were too early for goat, but the sambosas (the local samosa variation) were meticulously fresh and crisp, and fiendishly flavor-nuanced. They come in various configurations - served with homemade excruciatingly hot sauce - and we opted for fish-flavored, which were remarkably unfishy. Also: sukhar with beef - a deceptively simple stir fry of beef chunks, onion, and green pepper. It was so simple, yet deeply satisfying, thanks to a caring touch. I hate green pepper, but here, and only here, I appreciated its inclusion. I temporarily forgave the grievous damage it's long done to home fries. Which is to say, I loved the sukhar, eaten with pinched morsels of spongey injera and flakey chapati. This place was surely the best find of the trip.
The people working there (as well as folks just hanging out) could not have been friendlier. And the "The Safari Sandwich", an original invention that's essentially a Somali chicken sandwich, looked great. I suspect everything here is great; I would have liked to have worked through the whole menu. It'd be a kick to do so, seeing as how this is the sort of place where if you stopped by three times, you'd find yourself warmly accepted into the local Somalian community. But, alas, it was time to move on. No full meals - and no lingering - in the midst of serious chowconnaissance!
Every other place in this report was discovered on the fly, without consulting guidebooks or web sites. but I did want to be sure to have great ribs, so I did fall back on just one found tip: on the north side of town, Roper's Ribs (6929 W Florissant Ave 314-381-6200) has won impressive awards, is greatly admired by locals, and is owned by the nicest people on planet earth. So I'd have loved with all my heart to report that their barbecue is great...but it isn't even close. But they do make terrific snoots - pig snouts flattened and fried, they're like pork rinds that went to grad school (likely Harvard, for maximal snootiness).
There's better barbecue in the north, I can feel it (I didn't give the jive big box downtown rib spots a second glance). But that's a discovery for another trip or another hound. I did spot Taylor's Place (4064 S Grand Blvd, 314-457-0130), a barbecue joint which hardly googles (and is super easy to miss driving by), but it was closed. I'll bet you it's at least very good.
Who can resist a town with not one but two pinball lounges? I hit The Silver Ballroom (4701 Morganford; 314-832-9223) - 'silver ball' room, get it? - which boasts vintage machines (including the legendary "Adams Family") in the back room, and punked-out (yet impeccably polite and cheery) bartenders in the front room, and some of the best Australian meat pies I've ever had. Their fillings (choose your favorite: meat/cheese or meat/bacon/cheese) are just ok, but the pastry, my god, the pastry. Even better than NYC's Tuck Shop. The other pinball spot, which I didn't try, is Orbit Pinball Lounge (7401 Hazel Ave; 314-769-9954).
There's really good, really strong, really funky Vietnamese ice coffee at a barebones cafe a block or two south of Banh Mi So 1 Saigon Gourmet (4071 South Grand Boulevard) and on the same side of Grand Blvd.. Non-Vietnamese make splashy entrances, but one great thing about Southeast Asians is how relaxed they are toward outsiders once they get used to you. This would be a great place to spend an afternoon, playing pool and sipping thick, sweet, dark, creamy coffee.
I noticed a Bosnian population, sparking a sub-quest for boureks (savory pastry pies). Alas, the only lead I got (from a family at a Bosnian supermarket) was Asw Bakery (5617 Gravois Ave 314-832-2212), which was closed. I later felt good vibes from Grbic Restaurant (4071 Keokuk St; 314-772-3100), a full-service Bosnian restaurant which I'm guessing doesn't do boureks, but has a great-looking menu.
Another looked-good/didn't-try: Thai Pizza Company (608 Eastgate Ave; 314-862-4429), which offers creations like chicken satay pizza. Not in a clever, exotic way, but in an unprepossessing way in a semi-cavernous gin mill. Nice!
Saint Louis Brewery / Schlafly Tap Room (2100 Locust St; 314-241-BEER) is a huge, famous, commercialized, institutionalized, fervidly merchandising monster in a suspiciously good location. They even have a branch at the airport. If ever a place should suck, Schlafly Tap Room is it.
But no. Food's great, beer's great, service's great. How do you keep quality so high for twenty two years in such a bean-counting, branded-up-the-wazoo operation? Easy. Put it in the Midwest, where people can't help being human.
Mahi Mahi tacos radiated a gaping Midwestern/Hispanic disconnect, as I'd feared, having been drizzled with hideous-looking day-glo orange sauce, but they ate like a dream. As a spud-o-phile, I can't not order mashed potatoes when offered as a side dish choice, however repulsive a combination they might make with, say, mahi mahi tacos. Good move in this case. These were the Enigma Spuds; chunky, waxy, and pleasingly near-al dente, they came with a side car of brown gravy, which I naturally expected to lend meaty/roasty flavors. But, no. The gravy was, magically, unbrown-tasting. In fact, it had the effect of liquid potato. It was like pouring potato on potato, yielding a hyperpotatoey result. This was brown gravy that had sacrificed its brownness to buoy the tuber, like a ballet dancer selflessly hoisting his graceful female partner. I can't recall ever having eaten better mashed potatoes. God, how I love the Midwest.
I'm compiling my beer notes (including Schlafly's offerings) into a separate article, which will hopefully go up tomorrow. (Update: here they are]
Would someone please find the great, unsung, rib place?!?
Similar Reads:
Follow vicariously my epic continental Chow Tour, with lots of food-porn photos.
Highlights:Attempted Culinary Seclusion in Florence, Alabama
Madly in Love with Maxine's (a dive in Kentucky)
36 Sublime Hours in Newfoundland
Vacation Tamales in Puerto Vallarta
and, of course, The Greatest (Chowhounding) Story Ever Told
Previous trip reports here on the Slog:
New Orleans
Spain (with a Brussels layover)
Chicago
Budapest (in reverse chronological order)
Oaxaca (in reverse chronological order)
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