West Texas Breakfast Insights / The Deeper Meaning of Salt

So aside from the Sturm und Drang of my operatic failure with regard to the Huckleberry breakfast in Grapevine, Texas at Old West Cafe, how was the show, Mrs. Lincoln?

I have many thoughts to offer; nuggets earned at steep physical and emotional expense, given the massive over-consumption (I couldn't get the Monty Python "Bucket" sketch out of my mind) belied by my seemingly feeble execution (the waiter, removing my plate, only barely concealed his contempt).

This was my first meal ever meriting two separate postings. And here, once again, is the "Huckleberry" - "a hand-tenderized, hand-breaded chicken-fried ribeye steak smothered in homemade sausage gravy served with two eggs, hash browns, and Texas toast":

Objects are larger than they appear; that golden disk in the background is an entire rib-eye.


OLD WEST CAFE
Old West Cafe appears to have one main function for the world: it's the closest real good meal to monster DFW airport, which half the world likely passes through in a given year. The restaurant is a mere 13 minute ride, so it's always recommended in those perennial "Where do I eat during a layover?" online forum discussions.

Alas, once the world has determined your function, you're stuck with it. What else is Old West Cafe? Well, it's super-delicious, if that counts for anything. And extremely well-run, with excellent service. And authentic; their chicken-fried steak is as good as any I've had. Deliciousness and authenticity aside, the kitchen's QA amid massive Saturday and Sunday morning rushes was remarkable. I highly recommend this place, and would certainly hit it up for lunch or dinner, as well.

Here's the web site, and here's the Yelp page. Note that there are also locations in Denton, Bedford, and Arlington, but I can't vouch for them. For southern food (which has considerable overlap), I'm an even bigger fan of Babe's Chicken Dinner House (particularly out-of-town branches) and Babe's semi-fast-food-ish outlet, Bubba's Cooks Country, which I covered last trip (I fly to Dallas any winter when I find an airfare under $80 round trip).


THE GRAVITY OF LARGE PORTIONS WARPS SPACE/TIME
Weirdly, I was out of there in about eleven minutes flat. And I wasn't the only one. The table churn in this place was like a hyper-accelerated time-lapse. That's unexpected given the landscapes of food. But I've seen this happen at dim sum, too, where super-hungry diners say "yes" to every cart lady, wail through their dumplings in a flash, and slink out woefully clutching their stomachs. Bigger portions may actually accelerate turnover (the higher food cost may be more than offset by this effect). It seems counterintuitive until you consider that especially attractive romantic partners seldom elicit more prolonged attentions. It's exactly, precisely, like that.


HASH BROWNS
These hash browns were the Platonic ideal of this type of breakfast spud. Fancy French chefs don't know how to wield the magic of cusp burntness. I could write volumes on cusp burntness. If so, this would be one of my primary examples:

CHICKEN FRIED STEAK
A seriously righteous chicken fried steak with sausage gravy. Flavor-wise, there is not a lot going on in such a simple dish. No big, bold flavors. Mostly fat, salt, pepper, and fat. But the subtleties are infinitely provocative.

Really, the main appeal was textural. Having been tenderized within an inch of its life, crunchy highlights gave way to a gummy, gravied inner stratum surrounding a core of infinitessimally chewy beef. Here's a cross-section:

When salt and pepper are pretty much the only things going on, and it works, you need to really consider that salting and peppering. So here goes...


PEPPER
I didn't grow up in a black pepper household. When it was used, it was with onion, for a flavor effect evoking grandmotherly/old-world (which tied together for me only this year, when I finally visited a Belarusian restaurant). Other than that, I don't really "get" pepper. It's the flavor of cheesy moderately upscale restaurants - assuming you've bent to the considerable pressure and cared to have some freshly black pepper with that, sir. I don't grok that bizarre ritual, and I don't grok the omnipresence. I get why people expect salt, but much of the time black pepper strikes me as gratuitous. Good dishes would be better without it, and lousy dishes are never saved by it.

But in this context, I totally totally get it. The pepper is necessary. It achieves miracles. It sophisticates the grease and offsets the salt. It lends personality - though, without onions, it's the personality of someone else's family. Who doesn't groove on the cooking of other people's families?

It's also added in great profusion, and I usually only experience massive black pepper in two contexts:

1. A certain type of nouvelle Texas BBQ where the entire outside of the meat is crusted in peppercorns - which are portioned to the customer along with the meat, which turns me off because I'm there for delicious, complex, expensive beef, not some pretentious, dull, monotonous, clobber of black pepper.

2. Certain Thai dishes which demonstrate that black pepper, in sufficient doses, can ignite a spicy roar of its own. Thai food reminds you that black pepper, the original trendy spice, still retains its enigmatic character even in an era when all of us are savvy spice veterans.

Chicken fried steak and sausage gravy is a comparatively new wrinkle in a 4000 year continuum, plumbing fresh profundities with the oldest of spices.


SALT
"Salt and pepper" is the mantra, and grease is the medium, but there’s another elusive flavor in there; a subtle complexity tying it all together. It took a few bites before I understood what it was. It was salt! But a deeper salt. This dish was obviously salty, but beneath the environmental saltiness lurks an inner kernel so unfamiliarly salty that it’s hard to identify, short-circuiting any “too-salty” response. The chef has actually hacked salting; altering the brain's reaction.

I kept taking bite after additional bite, trying to confirm a stealthy tang of vinegar. Nope. Beneath the grease and the meat and the black pepper and the big-picture salting, there's only a subtextual salt tang that I do not - and may never - understand. I am, culturally, 10% Latino, 10% African-American, 5% Spanish, 5% Mexican, and 1% lots of other things, but I've got precisely zero cowboy in me. Never even played one as a kid. Never saw a western film (no John Ford, no Sergio Leone...nothing). So don't ask me to explain this salt thing.

THE ENIGMATIC WALL SIGN
Dallas is Texas' most cosmopolitan city (Austin, the state's most provincial town, is merely the apotheosis of hipsterism, quite a narrow thing), and cosmopolitanism is normally the product of confusion and alienation. Too far west to be Southern, too far east to be Western, and too far North to be Hispanic, Dallas is everything and nothing, so you don't see much insularity. Despite my New York accent, no Dallas native has ever suspected me of being a tourist. And so I choose to attribute this wall sign to that cosmopolitan spirit:

DAY TWO: MIGAS
I returned the next day to try the migas ("Three eggs scrambled with chorizo, diced tomato and onion, crispy tortilla strips, cilantro, and cheddar cheese. Served with warm tortillas, fried potatoes, refried beans and salsa"). Killer. By the way, if you want to know the origin of migas - which are from Aragon, a lesser-known region of Spain - see my smartphone app, Eat Everywhere (migas are covered in the "Spain" section, under "The Short List").

"Cornered Rat" Report #8

Tuesday, January 30, 2018: The phrase "cornered rat" finds 83,200 google search results, a worthy increase over last week's 78,900, but a steep dip from the weird momentary peak of 307,000.


All "Cornered Rat" postings in reverse chronological order

Music Postings

I'm a writer and a musician, but am definitely not a music writer. But every once in a while I "go there". For those who enjoyed "Bolero and Breakfast", yesterday's foray into the music world, here are some of my previous rare musings on music:

Having dragged back to light trombonist Ron Barron's worst moment, here's the story of a bad night of my own: Bad Nights

The funniest classical music video ever inspired me to voraciously research the story of New Hero: Carlos Kleiber

I've written profiles of Our Ruggiero Ricci (BTW, Ricci's best friend emailed to say my story - small and juvenile though it was - would have deeply delighted him), the astounding ears of Arnie Lawrence, Richard Wagner: Pussycat, and tepid fusioneer but spectacular flamenco traditionalist Paco de Lucia (¡Venga, Paco!). FWIW, here are all my profiles of people from all walks of life.

The Quandary of Unacclaimed Genius, my take on the infamous Joshua Bell stunt of posing as a subway busker.

My weekly hangout with nonagenarian musicians at Charlie's Jam Session

A video of me playing a trombone feature on a gig back in 1992.

My heartfelt attempt to reclaim music after a decade off: Back From Band Camp

And, finally, "The Majestic Depths of Pop Star Justin Beiber"


There've been other postings tagged "music" (here they are in reverse chronological order, played out over three long pages), but they usually involve music more peripherally.

Bolero and Breakfast

One lesson I learned in the music business: if you're going to mess up, be bold. There's no place in professional music for a furtive, stifled boo-boo. Pros just don't do that. When they get into trouble, it's while playing full-out. The definitive example when I was much younger was Ron Barron's notorious "Bolero" entrance with the Boston Pops - the clam heard round the world.

Barron was a great player; a legend. But on this occasion, he stared down the most heart-stopping task in all of trombone-dom, and he blinked. He blinked and he slipped and he fell and he slobbered and he imploded and he decomposed. It was worst case scenario, the most dreaded nightmare any trombonist could imagine, come painfully to life. Luckily for Barron, the tale has faded in musician memory, but let me resurrect it for cheap perspective on a horrible blunder I recently made at breakfast.

The first note of the dreaded "Bolero" trombone solo is nearly the instrument's highest note. And the thing about high notes on brass instruments is that they're perilously close together, so it's extremely easy to overshoot or undershoot. Imagine selecting a knife from a high shelf on your tippy toes, when they're packed in tightly with one another. With training, you'll get it right 99% of the time, but failure is very messy indeed.

What's more, while Ravel splays out his sexy build-up, you sit there, not playing a single damn note, for nine long minutes. Your chops get cold, your horn gets cold, resolve weakens, and all you think about is that knife you'll soon be grabbing from the high shelf on tiptoes. Meanwhile, your two fellow trombonists sit there next to you, pumping out pheromones - a combination of pity, sympathetic anxiety, and better-you-than-me-dude shadenfreude. Such subtleties are palpable because Bolero's endless build-up contains no lushness or bombast in which to lose oneself. It's like being slowly ratcheted up to the top of a very tall rollercoaster, at the summit of which you'll need to let loose with the music business' most-exposed entrance. Tighten your underpants, redden your face and pop your eyes as you squeal along with me: "DWeeeeeeeeeeeeee...."

Oh, and the solo goes on forever, and stays stupid high the whole time, so you'd better not tighten up. And, man, why on earth wouldn't you be tight, selecting a high knife and broaching a cold horn, your colleagues silently clenching their fists in a paroxysm of stress you must entirely ignore so you can stay loose - not merely fearing, but fearing fear itself. After minutes of this, you must exhibit inhuman control to hit the damned note without ruining absolutely everything, and hope your instrument hasn't gone completely out of tune during the nine minute chilling period.

Geez. I almost blacked out, myself. Just don't be a symphonic trombonist. No one deserves this. I wouldn't wish it on Harvey Weinstein.

So here's what happened that fateful evening with Ron Barron. First of all, he came in like 17 bars early. John Williams, having spotted him hoisting his horn eons before the proper moment, had broken all decorum, wildly flailing his arms to stave off the catastrophe. "No! NO, Ron! Don't play now! Stop!! Don't do it!!" but Barron wasn't paying the least attention. And then, for good measure, he absolutely butchered the note as wildly as if his horn had been grabbed by a drunken 5-year-old. It was a slaughter. There was blood on the fur coats in Symphony Hall. It was frickin' EPIC.


So let me tell you about breakfast. I was facing a thirty minute wait to get into Old West Cafe (600 W Northwest Hwy, Grapevine, TX; 817-442-9378), and had come up with the bright idea of heading next door to a generic random burrito place for a quick tamal and coffee, just to give myself something to do and to tide me over. Over-enthusiastic, I decided to try both chicken and pork tamales. And they were larger than expected:

Soon after I'd polished those off, I received a text message saying that my table at Old West Cafe was available. I wandered next door, and soon confronted what was easily the most intimidating breakfast of my entire life. Behold the "Huckleberry": "A hand-tenderized, hand-breaded chicken-fried ribeye steak smothered in homemade sausage gravy served with two eggs, hash browns, and Texas toast". And, oh, look! They appear to have comped me an extra egg! Lucky me!

I had trouble fitting it all in the frame, so, as with a Mercator Projection, the ratios are off. That small seeming puck in the distance is an entire breaded and fried ribeye steak. The little pile of hash browns was the size of a cigarette carton. I couldn't do much more than nibble at the edges of this fearsome mass. Worst of all, it was sensational. I'd committed a humungous chowhounding blunder. But, like any good trombonist, I sucked it up. At least I'd messed up big.

More about this breakfast tomorrow. In the meantime, here's Bolero, fast-forwarded to the trombone solo:





More music postings

Black Republican Dining

This is a post-graduate-level chowhounding tip.

People who haven't spent a lot of time in African-American neighborhoods don't know about black Republicans. The only portrayal I've ever seen in media was satirical. The great Key and Peele absolutely killed it:



The cliche of Black Republicans is that they're square, uptight, irritable, hard-working, detail-oriented, and constantly stressing qualities like motivation, pride, and achievement. And if you ever come across a Black Republican-owned restaurant, you should eat there, because it will always be great.

How will you know? Because the place will be freakishly clean - to a level beyond any normalcy. The workers all hustle, and the place exudes an almost military efficiency. There's a certain palpable fear in the air. The boss looks for excuses to kick ass.

Same thing with Latin and Hispanic Republican restaurateurs. Of course, I'm not suggesting the reverse - that non-Republican Black/Latin/Hispanic restaurateurs are necessarily sloppy and slack. But the gleaming efficiency of their Republican counterparts is preternatural. It's boot camp level, and unmistakable when you spot it.

This rule of thumb doesn't work with white, mainstream American-owned restaurants. When such places are super-crazy clean and efficient, you should expect blandness. For their food to have any character, you actually want some grit. Also, this doesn't pertain to Black/Latino/Hispanic Republican-owned chain restaurants (of which there are vastly many). I'm talking about soul food (and Hispanic and Latin foods).

And that's why I ordered broiled fish last night. I'm not usually liable to order that in Mexican restaurants. Much less in Tex-Mex restaurants. Much less in a Tex-Méx Mexican restaurant in land-locked Dallas. But I know that the owner of Campuzanos (2618 Oak Lawn Ave) is more likely to chew his own arm off than to allow me to be served iffy fish.

It was slamming, actually. I'd written about their Waxahachie location a few years ago:

Stunning. Amazing. Magic. I understand that the place and the food look like a thousand other Mex-leaning Tex-Mex places, but....KILLER. I almost felt giddy from the quality. I understand it's a glossy big box suburban place on a big box suburban street. But if you eat the shrimp enchiladas and horchata and don't share my thrill, then I'm afraid I can't take you seriously. Just the chips and salsa had me nearly out of my mind trying to figure out how a food item with a short curve of declining results can be 10,000 times better than normal without literally adding crack.

The last time I tried the Waxahachie branch it was missing a certain inspiration. This Dallas location is now the good one, though I was worried by the Puerto Rican hostess and blasting meringue music (there is scant connection between Caribbean/Latino and Mexican/Hispanic cultures). But there's no mistaking the sense of zip - of military tidiness and efficiency

I needed that fish, too. I've been here only two days, and haven't eaten a bite of barbecue, yet my stomach's been roiling from all the meat and grease and cheese.

Hmm...I just realized: there actually was one very conspicuous media portrayal: would you imagine that Gus Fring voted Democrat?


No fish photo, sorry, because the lighting made it look radioactive.

Akimbo

Wouldn't you have thought the word "akimbo" (as in "arms akimbo") derived from Swahili or some other African language?

Nope. Old English, preceded, probably, by Old Norse.

Be the Change (Huncaina Tacos)

The sign read "Mexican/Peruvian Fusion", and I got a good vibe, so in I strolled to Fusion HK Bar and Grill (688 10th Ave between 48 and 49, Manhattan).

The place was empty, the chef was on break, but the bartender offered to cook for me. The menu wasn't anywhere near as fascinating as I'd hoped (when is it ever?). Just a bunch of hoary Peruvian and Mexican classics, at crazy Manhattan prices.

Inspiration struck, and I asked for chorizo tacos....with huancaina sauce. In case you don't know about huancaina, the Peruvian cheese sauce, my smartphone app, Eat Everywhere, explains it thus:

Papa a la Huancaína / Potato with Cheese Sauce [PAH-pah a la wan-kah-EE-nah]

So simple, and so unique. There's nothing like it in the world: slices of boiled potato, served cold and topped with bright yellow cheese sauce. The yellow is from the tasty, incendiary ~amarillo~ peppers that are a signature of Incan cuisine.

Understand: it is stark raving bonkers to ask for tacos with huancaina sauce. It's like ordering yogurt bolognese, or Cheerios with Thai curry, or samosas parmigiana. But I had been disappointed, and it bothered me a little, so inspiration struck and I came up with the kookiest, cleverest way to merge the two cuisines I could think of. My own Peruvian/Mexican fusion!

The bartender/temporary cook didn't have the cojones to actually apply the huancaina, so it was served alongside in an aloof little cup. You could almost smell the disapproval.

But I lathered it on, along with the fake Mexican chili sauce, and the tacos were fucking incredible:

(that's a shot of chilled pisco to the left)

"Cornered Rat" Report #7a

Oh, Google.

Three hours later, the phrase "cornered rat" finds 307,000 Google search results, compared to 78,00 this morning.

All "Cornered Rat" postings in reverse chronological order

"Cornered Rat" Report #7

Monday, January 22, 2018: The phrase "cornered rat" finds 78,900 google search results, the same as last week.


All "Cornered Rat" postings in reverse chronological order

Goat Korma, Great Karma

Geez louise. Behold the life-changing (i.e. "re-framing"!) goat korma from the Sunday buffet at Nawab Pakistani Indian Cuisine, 2 Hudson St, Yonkers, NY; 914-909-9700 (Here's the menu), the best Northern Indian restaurant I've ever found - including the once-great Jackson Diner, my first big published find:

(Click photos to expand for extra porniness):