Homeland and Other TV Stuff

If you've been watching Homeland, you've seen the wheels come off the cart in various ways over the past two seasons, as capably documented by the great Alan Sepinwall.

But there's a seldom-linked resource I just stumbled into, where The New Republic discusses each week's episode with a real-life CIA case officer. Great stuff. Analysis of last night's episode is due up at any moment, but, meanwhile, here are the previous installments.

I'm still finding the series worth watching, but among the current crop I'm more into (in no particular order) Masters of Sex (Showtime), Key & Peele (Comedy Central....catch the 10/16 episode if you can); Veep (HBO), The Bridge (FX), Hannibal (NBC), Orange is the New Black (Netflix), Louie (FX), The Americans (FX, which I wrote about here), Game of Thrones (HBO), and, while downhill, still possibly the greatest TV series ever (even if you don't love cars): Top Gear (British version only, on BBC America).

Also, I should point out that I was recommending Breaking Bad way before it became popular, back in 2009!.

Spain, Morocco, London, Part 4: Sunday Dinner in the Faux Countryside

Part 1: I Eagerly Kiss Your Cheeks
Part 2: A Paella By Any Other Name...
Part 3: Scoring Some Coca

As in many Mediterranean cultures, Catalan families enjoy the tradition of a Sunday drive in the country, highlighted by a simple, rustic meal. But Barcelona has sprawled so heavily that much of what was previously "country" now lies within city limits. So if you simply drive over Tibidabo mountain, which hovers over the north end of town, you can feel as if you're a hundred miles away.

Photo of Tibidabo snarfed, with permission, from here

The far side of Tibidabo boasts a number of eateries. All are filled to capacity on Sundays, though otherwise sleepy. And they make urbanites pay dearly for their laziness. If you drive an hour or two into actual countryside (e.g. the place where I had calçots a few years ago), you'll pay a fraction of the price.

But drummer Pablo Posa has made a rare score, discovering the one Tibidabo place with reasonable prices. We enjoyed a very typical Catalan Sunday dinner at Can Jané, which, for extra bucolic-ness, boasts a small menagerie of animals such as emus and ponys.

Tourists never know what to do with the big pile of toast.

Naturally, you rub tomato all over it! (Pa amb Tomàquet)

Setas (Oyster Mushrooms)

Mongetes Secas i Panceta (White Beans With Pancetta)

Not uniquely Catalan, but I know many of you come here for the spuds.

Mel i Mató (A Catalan fresh curd cheese similar to ricotta, served with honey).
So simple but so delicious.

I didn't get photos of the grilled meats. They were very good, though not up the level of La Llar De L'all I Oli.

What's more traditional than chocolate ice cream?

Martina, our master of ceremonies, shows us how it's done

I need to explain why I'm showing you this rather unflashy meal.

The term "Catalan Cuisine" has become associated with sexy shiny high-end cooking, but that's all made up. It's artificial. It's a contrived, stylized fashion plate for selling food magazines and cookbooks, and it has as much to do with real Catalan food as "jazz dance" has to do with jazz.

To be sure, at this point you'll find shiny places here trying to sing that tune. But they're merely copping the style; cashing in on a foreign trend that is Catalan in name only.

Dowdy cabins like this - where kids meander around the floor and moms and dads slump at tables nibbling distractedly on great big loaves of toast with tomato - are where you taste actual Catalan cuisine. The House of Garlic Mayonnaise...that's Catalan cuisine. The calçots I had last time in a similar rustic venue...that's Catalan cuisine. David's arroz...that's Catalan cuisine. Forget the contrived lacquered nibbles you see on TV and in the high-end food porn magazines. If you take away one thing from everything I've shown you, make it this: Catalan food is not sexy. It's soulful.

Martina (see final photo) may one day grow up to wear slinky cocktail dresses and flirt poutily with Eurotrash socialites in shiny trendy Barcelona cafes. She may run into that alien trend. But in her heart of hearts, the phrase "catalan cuisine" will always evoke meals like this. This is ground zero, though it's nothing you'd ever see on the Food Network.

Less Delighting, More Prodding

The best-loved advertisements of my lifetime, the "I can't believe I ate the whole thing" commercials for...wait, was it Pepto Bismol? Rolaids? Ah, here, I found it: Alka Seltzer!




I just proved the point I was about to make: the commercials flopped. I understand they did nothing to increase sales.

Great ads, though! Before that, commercials were inane and mind-numbing. After that, they became relentlessly ABC - i.e. they'd always be closing:




You know those subscription card inserts in magazines that fall out and annoy the bejesus out of you? Publishers hate to annoy the bejesus out of you, but the problem is that those cards work really really well. Better than just about anything.

Advertising and marketing are rewarded not for pleasing us, but for successfully manipulating us. In an ideal world, the two would be one and the same. But they, alas, are not.

Spain, Morocco, London, Part 3: Scoring Some Coca

Part 1: I Eagerly Kiss Your Cheeks
Part 2: A Paella By Any Other Name...

After the paella rice, we strolled into the center of David's village, l’Estany, where the annual celebration of Catalan independence was underway. It seems, for some reason, to involve lots of drag queen karaoke performed in the civic auditorium by otherwise straight, uptight villagers (per my previous Barcelona report, when staid Catalans let their hair down it's like how in Star Trek Vulcans get totally emotional every seven years) and a profusion of the special holiday bread called "coca", eaten with a bit of llanganissa, one of the many local sausages.

Then it was back to Barcelona, where I discovered a sublime new artisanal beer bar called La Bona Pinta (The Good Pint). Tiny and intimate, the owners curate a hand-picked selection of only really good stuff. Bars boasting hundreds of beers are 95% crap (reality check: Stella Artois is like fancy-looking, smartly-marketed Schlitz). Give me a place like this, with a few dozen stellar bottles - some so rare and obscure that I couldn't stop giggling maniacally while perusing the shelves - plus three glorious tap beers. I heard about two other new beer bars (Ale & Hop and La Resitencia), but I felt way too loyal to La Bona Pinta to check them out.

I had my first-ever taste here of London's Kernal Brewery, totally unknown in America but starting to build a tremendous following in England. Also: beers from one of my all-time faves (also unknown in America), Buxton.

And, of course, some esoteric Catalan beers. I loved the Amber Pale Ale from Cerveses Almogàver and Lupulus from Montseny. Spain's not yet Italy (which is the new Belgium), but it's getting there. And, for now, the best brewing is being done in Catalonia.

I made another pilgrimage to Italian/Spanish guitarist/electrician/chef Andrea Grimaldi's mini-hacienda an hour north of Barcelona. This time, he whipped up pizzas in his handmade wood oven. Behold some of the best pizza I've ever eaten:

Squash Flowers

Tuna and Onion

Ceps

For the Kids


Go to part 4

The Quandary of Unacclaimed Genius

One of the world's greatest musicians plays, utterly ignored, in the DC subway:





One of the world's greatest artists has his work - on sale for $60 - utterly ignored in Central Park:


(see more info about Banksy's current NYC hijinks)


These stunts raise deep questions for most people. But for those who work in the creative arts, they hardly merit a shrug. We know people don't appreciate greatness unless they're told to. Or unless there's already a flock accumulating (for reasons largely unrelated to talent). Or unless someone's made an arrogant, noisy big deal about him/herself. The only thing that would surprise a musician about violinist Joshua Bell's stunt is that no one chased him away...or indignantly demanded he play softer. The only thing that'd surprise an artist about Banksy's stunt is that he actually sold six works, and no one had his vendor arrested for trying to hug them. $32 for 45 minutes of busking, and six prints sold in an afternoon? That's damned good! Only a genius could make out so well!

But here's the narrow sub-issue which fascinates and infuriates me about the phenomenon such stunts illuminate: If these guys were to keep it up, day after day, they'd eventually attract small followings. They would be recognized for their talent. A few perceptive, sensitive souls would notice them and feel troubled by the lack of recognition. It'd strike them as obvious these guys deserve to do their thing in more respectable settings.

It's not that no one recognizes quality. A tiny minority usually does. But among even that tiny minority, I'd bet my house, my car, and the happiness of my unborn children that none would ever suggest that these anonymized artists are world-class. "Too good for the subway," sure. Talented, yes. Deserving wider acclaim, you bet. But "best in the world"? Well, geez, hold on a minute, I don't know if I'd go that far!

Yet both Bell and Banksy are world-class. It's not empty laurels; they truly are. But, viewed in a vacuum, even by someone clear-eyed and appreciative, it would require chutzpah - courage, even - to recognize and proclaim their full magnitude. And, alas, we humans are modest beings. Our discernment tenaciously reverts to the mean as if spring-loaded (with an awfully tight spring).

I've long been criticized for my "lack of restraint". Residents of Avenue J in Brooklyn still don't understand why I made such a big frickin' deal about Difara's Pizza, attracting all those hipster kids to the nabe and driving up the price to $5/slice. It seems utterly delusional! Sure, Dom makes perfectly good pizza, but he's not all that! He's just....Dom!

I was once ridiculed in print by Sam Sifton - my editor at the time - for overpraising the unacclaimed, unanointed, and unmonied. Just generally, I am known to go apeshit for any little thing....when, really, we're only supposed to go apeshit for the things we've previously been told to go apeshit about. Independent, uncorroborated apeshit-going is the mark of a crazy person.

---

My plumber is one of the greatest brewers in the world, if not the best. Doesn't that sound like an odd claim? Doesn't it reek of hyperbole and breathless excess? Well, he's won many ribbons in local home brewing competitions, and one sip of his beer easily confirms his serious talent. You'd surely agree he deserves some level of acclaim. But "one of the greatest?" No observer would ever go that far on the basis of what someone actually does. No sip of beer - no minute of Beethoven, no bite of lasagna, no work of art - ever triggers the full recognition of an anonymous genius - even among the .1% that takes any notice at all.

Acclaim is entirely based on how one is perceived. And, of course, the process of perception-building has very little to do with intrinsic talent. Cream, alas, does not rise.

Spain, Morocco, London, Part 2: A Paella By Any Other Name...

Previous Installment

I wrote recently about some paella misconceptions. Well, here's the real deal, complete with recipe and step-by-step documentation.

The problem is that in this case we can't call it paella, because the cook - animation wiz and all-around cool dude David Cid - insists on calling it "Arròs", the Catalan word for rice. The distinction is obscure, hopelessly complex, and, in the end, meaningless, but I'll take a stab at unravelling it (feel free to jump ahead past the italicized section).

---

Political/Cultural Digression
Catalans (the folks who live in the autonomous Spanish region anchored by Barcelona) are gargantuanly proud of their language and culture. So much so that many pretend not to speak Spanish at all (they're fluent) and to dislike Spanish things like bullfights (a fixture in Catalonia for centuries, but disowned as it became associated with Spain) and gazpacho (which Catalans privately love).

Just to the south is another state, Valencia, where everyone also speaks Catalan, but only a fool would dare say so out loud. While it is indistinguishable from Catalan, they insist, per mass delusion, that they're speaking an entirely distinct language: Valencian. Two things about nationalism: 1. it can - and will - always be sliced ever finer, and 2. it always involves xenophobia. And so the two communities can barely stand each other.

And the problem is that paella started in Valencia. So David, being a proud Catalan, refuses to call his paella "paella". Instead: "arròs". The reasoning is akin to "freedom fries". But what he's cooking is totally paella, as even he acknowledges.

David cites other, cheerier factors, as well: "I say 'arròs de peix' (rice with fish) out of respect for the grain itself ['paella' is named not for the rice but for the pan it's cooked in], and perhaps, even more so, because it strikes me as poetic. If I cook rice with meat, vegetables and legumes, I call it 'arròs de muntanya' (mountain rice). Saying 'arròs' is a tribute to the people who grow it.

---

Anyway....

The element I hadn't heard of before is "el Llamàntol", a tradition which moves David to rhapsodize:

"The meat of the first shellfish, el Llamàntol, is the seafood sacrifice. Only el Llámentol has its meat extracted and added to the pan (after adding the tomato). El Llamàntol has all the flavors of the Mediterranean sea; we say el Llamàntol is independent, singular, and special, with a character that's very Catalan (the next time you visit, I'll cook an arròs made only with el Llamàntol, which is quite soupy and super super especial!)"

You can view el Llamàntol along with the rest of the process in this weirdo slideshow (created by David using my photos). You might want to follow along with the step-by-step recipe just below, perhaps in a second browser window.

Beware: it moves fast!

---

ARRÒS DE PEIX A L’ESQUERRA*
This title is a bit of a joke. My name in Spanish translates, very roughly, to "Jaime Izquierda". In Catalan, it's "Jaume Esquerra". And since this particular paella rice was whipped up in my honor, David has whimsically named it for me.

Add olive oil to the pan.

Sacrifice el Llamàtol to the hot oil

Remove el Llamàtol

Extract the meat from el Llamàtol

Add prawns and cook

Remove the prawns and set aside

Add cuttlefish and squid and cook

Remove cuttlefish and squid and set aside

Add onion and garlic and cook until very brown, but not burnt (this is David's signature move).

Add tomato

Add squid ink

Add the meat of el Llamàtol along with the cooked cuttlefish, squid, and prawns

Adjust salt and pepper, and add some hot red pepper
[Note: David doesn't like saffron, which is one reason his paella rice turns out brown rather than yellow, though with all that squid ink and deeply browned onion, brownness is likely inevitable).

Add clams and mussels

Leave everything to integrate with the sauce for around ten minutes

Throw in the rice (80 to 100g per person)

Let the rice integrate with the sauce for 3-4 minutes

Add fish stock

Raise the heat to maximum and cook for 13 or 14 minutes

Turn off the flame

Cover the pan with cloths

Allow to rest 5-7 minutes

Serve

Eat

Enjoy

---

Note that there was no socarrat (the crispy stuck-to-the-pan rice). I've had nearly a dozen great paellas within an afternoon's drive of Valencia over the years, but have never once come across socarrat. I'm not suggesting it's a myth; just pointing out that 1. it's not essential (contrary to what some experts say), and 2. paellas are like snowflakes - every cook's version is unique - so beware of dogma. It's possible to break any given hard/fast paella rule and still achieve stellar and authentic results. This staunchly authentic paella, for example, had no saffron, no socarrat, and was cooked over gas heat rather than a fire from the traditional orange tree twigs.

This 20 second video captures a particularly poetic moment:



Ladies and gentlehounds, here is your Arróz:

Go to Part 3

Criterion Collection on Sale at Amazon

Criterion produces DVDs and blu-ray editions of great films. They seek out the best possible prints, transfer them with care, and package them beautifully with copious extras, features, and notes. Their aim is to give great films the definitive treatment, and most agree that they've succeeded.

The problem is they're expensive. But not right this second! Amazon's got the entire catalog on sale for up to 40% off right now. The new price is often lower than the cheapest used price.

As I wrote here, Barnes and Noble sometimes does 50% off Criterion sales. But I don't know if they still do, and I've never seen them offer the entire catalog at discount. (Note: also see that link for a short list of recommended titles).

For Whom the Fat Rolls

I recounted a few years ago that I'd managed to lose 35 lbs and fit into high school pants (here's how I did it). After a couple of injuries kept me out of the gym, coinciding with the resuscitation of my music career (necessitating rushed meals and late nights in gin mills) plus, as the crowning blow, the epic chowhoundish trip I've begun to recount here, I've at this point gained it all back. You can spot the mournful disappointment in the faces of my friends and loved ones.

Aside from the trip, I've been eating quite healthily. The crazy thing is that if I eat immaculately plus hit the gym four times per week, I can shake off a little under one pound a week. But if I eat with merely reasonable care and skimp on the gym (or vice versa), I slowly gain. And since I'm no longer focused on health and weight loss, and am concentrating on playing jazz in smokey nightclubs and grabbing a slice of pizza here and a beer there, I've averaged three weekly ounces gained over four years. That includes plenty of weeks where I ate nearly nothing and worked out like a banshee...but they were balanced out by the occasional lasagna. When one's best possible outcome is 3/4 pound/week lost, one must be an absolute hard-ass to keep one's ass hard. It doesn't take much to tip me over by 3 oz/week; it's not like I've thrown caution to the wind.

I'm nonetheless in good condition, with limitless energy. I'm not morbidly obese and still eat healthfully, so my cholesterol and blood pressure are fine (I suspect many overweight health risks stem more from poor diet than from body fat itself). And plenty of science indicates that I'd be smarter to remain at this weight than to keep yo-yoing. But, geez, I have to face the disappointment of friends and family each time they glance at my waistline. They were so happy before!

I have, over the years, served these people sublime food and drink, engaged them in witty conversation, turned them on to all sorts of books and films, played heartfelt trombone rhapsodies for them, etc. etc.. Yet while they enjoyed that stuff, none of it elicited much in the way of deep joy. My weight loss, however, seemed to make them oddly ecstatic.

But aside from the brief period of shimmering tribute, I myself got very little from the experience. To my enormous surprise, I failed to garner the instant torrid affection of every woman I met. Nothing else of substance changed, either. The things I grapple with were no less grapply*, and the qualities I cultivate were unaffected. I didn't play better, write better, create better. I wasn't kinder or more equanimous. There was no transformation in my contribution to the huge collaborative art project we call life on Earth. The only change was the buoyant joy my weight loss had, for some unfathomable reason, brought those around me.

And now, here, I've heartlessly gone and plunged them once again into darkness. While I love my friends, and want them to be happy, it seems a bit silly to put myself through another round of deprivation purely for their benefit...


* - if you suspect that I'm paddling back toward this murkily-expressed insight, you'd be right.

Spain, Morocco, London, Part 1: I Eagerly Kiss Your Cheeks

Shortly after my last trip to Spain, I came across a blog rave for a new dish at my favorite restaurant, La Llar De L'all I Oli, just outside Barcelona (see my photo essay): galtes a la brasa, or grilled pork cheeks. I resolved to go back and try them.

Anyone might say such a thing, but one thing about me is I actually follow up. Perhaps to an odd extreme, but this is the very basis of my chowhounding prowess. As I once wrote, the times in my life when things worked out all had something in common: "I was simply caring...a lot. Possibly too much. Likely to a degree the mainstream would consider odd."

My questing may resemble obsessive compulsion, but there's no stress or fraught neediness. The distinction between revelation and insanity is that the latter's never happy...whereas I experience pure joy from this stuff. If I fly all that way and they're out of pork cheeks, no problem; I'd serendipitously find something else great. I'm cool either way!

My motivation in all this is quite simple. I'm a counter-curmudgeon. My deep-seated view of life on Earth is that nearly everything sucks and disappoints. I was disenchanted very early on, but at some point in my childhood, as I noticed myself sinking into bitterness, I did a little flip and opted to focus, with vise-like intensity, on the brilliant exceptions, geniuses, and holdouts. I became a treasure-hunter, a seeker, an aficionado, an appreciator, a chowhound who'd gladly drive a hundred miles for a splendid doughnut.

That grit allows me to live in an artificial bubble of quality densely packed with greatness and inspiration. It requires plenty of energy, but, hey, anyone can shloomph into idle bitter curmudgeonliness; I've decided to actually do something about it! So I work to find (and admire and evangelize) the good stuff. And a big part of that involves simply following up on tips, vibes, and hunches.

So this month, I cashed in some more frequent flyer miles and flew 4000 miles to try those pork cheeks. And they were amazing:

The chicken was as great as ever. This is the best roast chicken I know (see more smutty photos in the aforementioned photo essay). The spuds may be mere background, but I hope they're speaking to you:

A surprising new item has been added as part of an effort by this staunchly Catalan spot to branch out. They're now making migas, an Asturian dish (very different from what Hispanics call migas). These are breadcrumbs pan-fried with a few stubs of gristly meat or sausage; the ultimate soul food of deprivation (here gussied up with a fried egg). Asturians are careful never to drink fluids with their migas, out of a conviction that stomachs could swell or even explode.

A dessert none of our party (all locals) had ever heard of: nata cremada (burnt cream, or "nata quemada" in Spanish). Utter simplicity. It's not glazed/burned custard (ala creme brulee, aka Crema Catalana, which is also delicious here). Just burnt cream. Pretty great, though not something you'd want to eat a mountain (like this) of:

Of course, after flying all that way, I pursued some other adventures, as well. Stay tuned!


Go to Part 2

Breaking Bad Stuff (and apology for recent opaqueness)

Sorry, I realize that last item was about as clear as salad dressing. I'm convinced there's an interesting observation in there, but it's tough to articulate. I'll take another crack at it someday. Thanks for tolerating the occasional half-baked idea here on the Slog!

If you're a fan of Breaking Bad, you thrilled to the uber-exciting episode titled "Ozymandias" a couple of weeks ago. If, like me, it left you thinking about the Shelley poem, don't miss this fascinating explanation about how the poem - which is way deeper than I'd ever imagined - is a tale of not one but six egomaniacs.

Also, I know this is a bit late, as the Emmy's are over and neither Aaron Paul nor Peter Dinklage won, but, still, don't miss "Aaron Paul vs. Peter Dinklage: An Awesome-Off Far Bigger Than The Emmys". Love both those guys.