Durian Duran: Life Back in Indianapolis

Late last night I was sitting out on the deck, eating my first Durian fruit and enjoying a bottle of Bell's Two-Hearted Ale when I quietly came to the consensus that it was good to be back home. It was September 7th, a month and six days since I moved back to Indianapolis and the first time I had been in Indiana for over a month in five years. It's nice to see my family on a regular basis. It makes me happy to hear classic rock being blared from open car windows at stop lights. It's a real comfort to be able to find some quality biscuits and gravy again. The real shocker, however, was the prevalence of ethic food in Indianapolis.

Back in Connecticut, I had one of my last meals with some friends at a Vietnamese restaurant, what I thought was effectively waving goodbye to Pho for at least the next four years. Au contraire, my friends, I have already found a great Pho restaurant. It's located in--of all places-- a struggling old strip mall, a few miles northwest of downtown. I admit to judging a book by its cover and somewhat dismissed the restaurant before opening the door. For some reason, I had the preconception that most good meals of any price are either in the inner city or at mom and pop style restaurants in smaller outlying towns. This was neither, in a marginally unsafe neighborhood and in an area that seemed to be in economic decline. These thoughts circled in my head until after opening the door, when they all changed. I must say that you can tell that the owners take a lot of pride in their restaurant. It's tastefully decorated and kept very neat and clean. It made me think about a news clip I saw recently of President Bush speaking with a working mother:

President Bush: What do you do for a living?
Working Mother: I work three jobs.
President Bush: I think that's uniquely American.

Although that go-get-em attitude that allows that woman to work three jobs is inspirational, the thought of anyone having to do so and, in the process, be away from their family to that extent is disheartening. I thought, no, this is uniquely American: a Vietnamese family running a beautiful, successful restaurant in some nondescript corner of Indianapolis. I had somewhat of a cold and was fiending for that belly-warming, sinus clearing feeling of pho . I scrambled through their smorgasboard of sauces and spices until I found what I was looking for: the Sriracha sauce, huy fong brand no less, with its rooster standing proudly. I spooned some into my soup and slurped away happily until it was gone.

But the adventure doesn't stop there! Connected to the restaurant is an Asian grocery. I decided I would make some pad thai for my family and assembled the ingredients into my hand basket, until, before leaving I made an impulse decision to buy some Durian and finally eat that famously stinky but delicious fruit. And how! Way cool I must say. Durian smells heavily of sulfur with a fruity acidic tinge but its flavor and texture are closer to a custard, with a slightly nutty nuance and some of the flavors you get from the slightly bitter white pulp you find in citrus fruits. Very interesting. I'm looking forward to trying the other species of Durian (apparently there are thirty or so).

Indianapolis has me excited again. I found an Egyptian restaurant close to Saigon Restaurant, my new favorite place for pho, and am looking forward to eating there. My parents curiously have a new-found interest in trying falafel so I've assembled a list of restaurants to visit. I recently discovered that Brugge, a hip Belgian beer bar in Broadripple, sells moules frites so you know I'll be up in that biz. I was ready to kill a man for some authentic Belgian fries served with european mayo and mussels and, thankfully, the socially responsible proprietors of Brugge will keep me in med school and out of jail for the next four years. It's good to be back home.

Much to say, no time now

I just wanted to jot this down before I lost it. I've been listening to Carolina in My Mind a lot lately for obvious reasons and did some research about when Taylor wrote the song. I knew he grew up in Chapel Hill and then moved to New England so, in that respect, I felt a sort of connection. What I found, however, brought the context of the song eerily closer to my personal experiences:

"I was recording that Apple album and I took a break and went to an island off the coast of Spain called Formentera. And I met a girl there named Karin, and she and I took a boat to the next island, which was Ibiza- a larger island. We were just walking around there and missed the last boat back and didn't have any money for a room and we stayed in the street that night and waited for next morning when the boat would run again... She was asleep... and I was up and... I was thinking about my home in North Carolina and what it meant and stuff and that just sort of came down out of the air."

Word, and I bet he was drinking Absinthe at Pacha too. WTF? Two summers ago Ben and I missed our boat out of Ibiza after partying all night. We spent hours in the harbor waiting for another boat. I just sat there nursing a massive hangover and listening to Old Crow Medicine Show which brought my thoughts to NC because I first heard that band with Hiram at the Cat's Cradle in Chapel Hill. I'd even be willing to bet that he was in the same city--Ibiza Town-- due to the fact that it's the port on the side of the island facing Formentera. I don't know.. that's a crazy coincidence. It just made me smile.

A Requiem and a Rant

I should note that today was the day I first found out that Fowler's Food and Wine has closed its doors after 82 years in the business. I can't express how sad and disappointed I am. Not only was the place somewhat of a home for me the past four years, I worked there and had friends there. They were great to me. They taught me about wine. I bought my first black truffle there for $40. Laney wrote me a recommendation for a grant. The last time I was in there Dawn gave me a huge bag of grits for free. Fowler's demise stands as another all too familiar reminder that the interest in sharing good food and good wine with others is something simply not embraced by our society. If it is appreciated at all, it's an afterthought. If you're a person who seeks those types of places out, you know what I mean. I've been in New England for five months and I haven't been able to find ANYTHING like Fowler's or A Southern Season. But that, I must say, is a testament to the curious nature of Durham residents and the appreciation of food in Southern culture in general. That community for years supported several genuinely fantastic gourmet markets whereas cities much larger and wealthier in New England can not. What made Fowler's special was that it celebrated food in an unpretentious way. Sure it had fancy imported foods and wines that were pricier than Whole Foods, but the atmosphere was noticeably low key and most customers were the eccentric sort of foodie who loved food, rather than seeing it as some sort of trapping of a financial or cultural aristocracy.

I remember talking to the head Goldman Sachs recruiting at Fowler's about this time last year. I sold wine at the time and he thought he was a true wine connoisseur (not that I am or anything. I have a lot of learning to do). He confessed to me that he thought Fowler's was a great place but they just didn't have any of the pricier wines he was interested in. He said he liked wines that cost around a hundred dollars. I wanted to punch him in the teeth... and then sell him a bottle of Charles Shaw for $100 (note that Fowler's didn't actually sell Charles Shaw). What a dumbass! We had several of the same bottles that I've seen marked up for over a hundred dollars in New York. We also had several bottles in that price range to begin with... but that's not the point. He saw value in the price, not the actual product. But sadly, people like him are dictating menus and wine lists in New York, Boston and, to a lesser extent, Chicago and San Francisco. If you have a clientele that simply wants expensive, exotic sounding food but who don't have enough actual interest in cuisine to tell when they're getting ripped off, the quality of haute cuisine in this country will suffer. This is where the Alice Waters style name dropping comes in. Alice Waters was a chef at Chez Panisse, and, from what I hear, a great one at that. But she made famous the way in which every product on the menu is pretentiously given its exact location of origin. You sound like Goddamn Rick Ross when you read off a menu nowadays. I eat my Kobe beef dipped in Hennessey, Word! Ever had Niman Ranch Pork? Hudson Valley Foie Gras? Maine Lobster? I'm sorry madam, where in Maine is this Lobster from? I mean is it closer to Portland or is it farther north? I only eat Lobsters north of Bangor, send this one back. The problem that this makes besides making me tired after I read a menu is that it causes exotification to take precedence over quality. I'm sorry, but you can't have fresh Maine lobster in Indianapolis or California for that matter. California is right next to the fucking Pacific ocean, why not eat out of it? In fine restaurants, the trend should be to eat locally: to use the freshest ingredients available prepared by the best chefs. This is not to say that any sort of culinary exportation should not take place. I'm not arguing against Chinese restaurants in the United States or any sort of culinary transplant; cultural exchange by way of food is one of our strengths. All I'm saying is that the tables in this country that are charging top dollar to provide the best food possible are doing a disservice by serving "fresh" Japanese oysters in the United States. I think New York is probably the biggest culprit of this crime. The glitzy metropolitan atmosphere lends to that sort of artificial exotification. In addition, there are virtually no local farms so everything has to be shipped in from far away... that and the fact that Wall Street is full of people who want to be sophisticated but probably couldn't cook a decent dish to save their lives, while, at the same time, are willing to throw down ridiculous sums on bullshit like Masa. Who pays $350 for sushi??? People that belong at the Ronald McDonald house, that's who. You bet this has an impact on the quality of the food in the city. The "eat local" difficulty can be worked around. The bankers sadly can not. Take Le Bernardin, for example, its a three star restaurant in New York run by a famous French chef. He did the smart thing. What does Le Bernardin serve? Seafood. Only seafood. New York is privy to an ocean and Eric Ripert was smart to capitalize on this fact. And due to his intelligence and skill its reputedly one of the best and one that I certainly am jonesing to visit. Or how about Peter Lugar Steakhouse in Brooklyn? That's a fabulous steakhouse and there sure aren't any decent cattle close to New York City. How do they get around this difficulty? They dry age their meat! It has to hang for around 60 days anyways, so freshness isn't an issue. These restaurants should be lessons for others aspiring to serve the best food. They've overcome the fact that they are essentially positioned on a rock in the ocean surrounded by hundreds of miles of farmless suburbs. If they can do it, so can others.

That being said, lets get back to what I call the banker problem. Say you're a person who rides a unicycle and you're decently good at it but it takes a lot of work to maintain your edge. Now you've performed for a large audience of connoisseurs in your home country for a while but you make the big time and move to New York. For some reason, no one here knows much about unicycles so you say "Fuck it" and parade around in a big wheel to a standing ovation of numbnut bankers who throw wads of cash at you, praising the magical streamers that flow from your handle bars. Who wants to bust their ass riding a unicycle, right? To me, this is why a reputable restaurant in France or Italy will kick the living shit out of the best restaurants in the United States.. and usually for the same price. There's something to say about a culture of people who cook from a very young age, are subject to the unwavering criticism of their peers and work with several others like them to produce the best food they can with the freshest ingredients. But Michelin gave 4 restaurants in the United States three stars you say? Ha, do some googling. People have already wrote about that. Even American critics will concede that Michelin was basically worried their guide wouldn't sell if the snubbed American restaurants. The French Laundry may be three stars, but that's about it. I've eaten at Daniel Boulud's, Charlie Trotters and several other well rated and received restaurants in the United States and the two Michelin rated restaurants in France I ate at were thousands of times better. So was the restaurant Ben, Ike and I ate at in Florence. It's simply a totally different playing field. And if you really want to know, I would take it as a huge source of national pride to say that a real American restaurant was worthy of three stars. But I can't delude myself. Right now all we have is a couple of fantastic French restaurants. We need to change our approach. We're currently trying our hardest to imitate French cuisine in our country. I hate to break it to you but do you know where the best French food will always be? France!!! We need to do something different and I think we're on the right track but the battlefield isn't in the air, its on the ground at the grassroots level.

I don't want people to think I believe that there's no merit in culinary invention in the United States, quite the contrary. I believe our finest tables don't cost $150 a plate but more like $8 a plate. There is substantial work being done in the United States today in smaller restaurants. We don't love food enough to give up the High Def Football watching machine for a year of great meals, but we don't like to eat shitty food either. This topic will be continued later but the culinary movement in the United States to refine comforting, cheap, lovely food is our version of the French Revolution. Bobby Flay may not have shit on Joel Robuchon but he's got the right idea: celebrate simple American food. I'm excited to see where this trail takes us over my lifetime.

I got that fire

Its a typical evening: I'm cooking carbonara, drinking some bourbon and listening to the new Jay-Z album. After crisping the bacon and sweating two cloves of garlic, I've got a nice little mix for my spaghetti noodles... and then the bright idea dawns on me: use that bourbon you're sipping to deglaze the pan. So I take a sip from the highball and toss half into the pan.. in midflight I remember I have a gas stove but, being it too late, the pan erupts into flames, pouring over the top of my microwave. Then, pulling some Backdraft style shit, I pull the pan off the range, and hold it until the flames subside, thereby saving my microwave from looking like some Gaudi-inspired bullshit. Of course the fire alarm in my apartment went off, but, as that was one of the coolest cooking experiences I've had lately, I've decided I'm deglazing everything from here on out.

Here's one of my favorite quotes from Kitchen Confidential that further illustrates the fun fire can bring here in the kitchen:

"We constructed our downstairs kitchen along familiar lines--as a faithful re-creation of the kitchens we'd grown up in: insular, chaotic, drenched in drugs and alcohol and accompanied by loud rock-and-roll music. When the restaurant opened, we'd begin every shift with a solemn invocation of the first moments of Apocalypse Now, our favorite movie. Emulating the title sequence, we'd play the soundtrack album, choppers coming in low and fast, the whirr of blades getting louder and more unearthly, and just before Jim Morrison kicked in with the first few words, "This is the end, my brand-new friend... the end..." we'd soak the entire range top with brandy and ignite it, causing a huge, napalm-like fireball to rush up into the hoods--just like in the movie when the tree line goes up. If our boobish owners and newly hired floor staff weren't already thoroughly spooked by our antics, then they were by this act"

Some thoughts

After watching an episode of No Reservations and having researched five or six food related topics courtesy of google and wikipedia, I sit and curse myself for not being daring enough to throw this bullshit to the wind and don a chef's uniform somewhere warm and with greater culinary interest than central Connecticut. I mean, what a cool job. Sure, you have to start at the bottom of the ladder and the work is long and difficult, but hey, you get to cook great food and party with some interesting folks. I distinctly remember working at Boulder Creek in high school, where I learned to appreciate oven fired pizza and the grateful dead. For some reason, the image of Hootner and I writing the name of our favorite phish songs on the moisture soaked cling wrap that covered a stew we prepared has stuck in my head and is something that plays every time I order soup in a restaurant. He was always high as hell, but so was the rest of the kitchen staff. Bourdain himself has admitted to cooking on LSD, Cocaine and Heroin. I mean, maybe he's a little extreme, but I wouldn't even say that that type of behavior is out of the ordinary. At Fowler's, the trend continued. We all boozed on the job and coworkers often took suspicious breaks from work. Maybe we're required to wear uniforms to cover up the tattoos, hickeys and bruises. It's an interesting subculture, kept completely under wraps. You could say that a deep interest in the pleasure of food is symptomatic of a deeper draw to sensuality. Sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll and... well, food. The scene in the Iceland episode of No Reservations where Bourdain goes out partying with all the Icelandic chefs in Reykjavik truly brought joy to my heart. There was a bar where all the food service employees in the city went to get hammered after work. Good food, good looking women and a lot of beer. What else do you need? But, its important to remember that part of being a true foodie is taking joy in what you do.

There may be hope in my desire to enter the culinary world. Michael Ruhlman, a fellow midwesterner and 1985 Duke graduate, is a successful culinary author who came from a similar background. If he can do it, so can I. I really like his blog, check it out at: http://blog.ruhlman.com/. He helped write The French Laundry cookbook with Thomas Keller as well as several other well-received culinary themed books. My entry will take some time. Right now I'm trying to figure out what to do with years of training in science and the problematic desire to help people. If medicine is the route I take, I plan to invest in restaurants as soon as the opportunity arises. Surely, there must be some way to use my training in science as a selling point in the food industry. I only need to drink enough wine to figure out how. For now, I'll focus on cooking and keeping my mind open while eating.

I've had a couple interesting culinary experiences lately: a huge pile of fruits de mer on ice at Max's oyster bar, fries at nyc's pommes frites, puttanesca and pastries in boston's north end, picking up some great basil at a farmer's market in Boston, making mac n cheese with chorizo, a huge serving of fried pork tenderloin with gravy at gray's brothers cafeteria in mooresville and breadsticks with the indy crew. Looking over that list I must say that my memories of the past month or so are tied up in those meals. Good times. I will comment on one experience, however. During a recent covert ops trip to NYC, I stopped by Pommes Frites on 2nd avenue. I saw this place on the food channel a couple weeks ago and, after my trip through europe this summer, I've been fiending for some authentic frites with european mayo. So I stopped in and was not disappointed. They had about 30 different frite sauces, including the ever elusive european style mayo. I love that shit. People always squak about how nasty it sounds to have mayo with fries. That's because fry connoisseurs aren't having them with miracle whip, dumbasses! European mayo, or simply frite sauce as they call it in Belgium, its more sweet and acidic and is delicious with fries. Pommes Frite's European Mayo was spot on and that made my day. I also had sweet mango sauce and rosemary garlic sauce. The sweet mango sauce tasted somewhat like a mangoy pimento spread, but in a good way. It was delicious. I also loved the rosemary garlic sauce. Rosemary is one my favorite spices, the name of my great aunt, and the name of Max Fisher's love in Rushmore. To me, that's reason enough to bestow that name upon an important female in my life. Ideally this would be a daughter, but as I'm not getting to that subject for about a decade and given historically my relationship with women, I should probably count on giving that name to a boat. A man can dream though. Anyway, to be very nitpicky, the fries were delicious but to be honest they weren't authentic. They were cut too thick which although it increases surface area for sauce dipping, it also changes the texture and taste of the food. To go completely overboard: the potatoes were also different. Belgian frites have a somewhat sweet taste, these potatoes had more of an earthy flavor. All in all the frites were great and I'll go back, but just watch out: they're not exact replicas. Culinary replication and Alice Waters style name dropping is a topic for another blog entry though. I'll save my tirade for later.

I will close with the reason why I love Belgian frites, or, specifically, the meal that smited me. After foolishly chasing the holy grail of beer into the deeply religious Belgian countryside on a religious holiday, I found myself stuck in the town of Poperinge on Ascension Day. Pretty much everywhere was closed except Hummelzak, a restaurant recommended by my girlfriend's and my host at the Talbot House, our inn and a World War I landmark. After watching cows for hours on the train ride to Poperinge, I decided I had to eat one of them covered in a brandy, mushroom and cream sauce. Sarah, with whom I shared this wonderful meal, had steak au poivre. With our meal we were served a large bowl of fries the way American restaurants serve bread. Accompanying the frites were ramekins of European mayo and sweetened ketchup (I think with pureed candied beets). To wash it all down we drank abbey style quadrupple ales. It was such a simple, cheap, and delicious meal. It was hearty in the way a home meal is cooked but at the same time executed with professional technique. I never really expected to eat that well in Flanders (and for that price) and that meal sort of broadsided me: I kept talking about it.. and apparently still talk about it.

Nouveau Americana

Lately, I’ve been interested in cooking gourmet versions of dishes regularly eaten in the United States. An emerging trend in American cuisine is health conscious dining. This can be seen everywhere from McDonald’s attempt to introduce more healthy options to top restaurants emphasizing the leanness of their beef or the prevalence of low calorie options. Yet, at the same time, we as Americans tend to cling to comfort food. My solution is to take healthy and gourmet twists on traditional fare, resulting in dishes like cheddar and mango chutney grilled quesadillas and seared but rare tuna burgers with blood orange and balsamic vinegar mayonnaise. To me dishes like these are interesting, familiar enough to be comfortable, healthy and delicious.

So you've suffered frontal lobe injury...

The following exerpt is from an article entitled "Lessons from Gourmand Syndrome" which strikes hilariously close to home:

It sounds like a joke. Someone suffers a stroke -- or a brain tumor or a traumatic head injury -- and is suddenly transformed into a gustatory hedonist.

Indeed, Zurich neuropsychologist Marianne Regard wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t stumbled across the first signs of this "gourmand syndrome" herself, 8 years ago. Since then, she and Geneva University neurologist Theodor Landis have tallied 36 Swiss patients who, after sustaining sudden-onset damage to the brain -- usually in the right frontal region -- developed a preoccupation with fine foods.

This is no simple, newfound appreciation of gourmet fare, she and Landis report in the May Neurology, but an intense, consuming passion for food -- addictionlike cravings for their taste, an inordinate interest in their appearance, a savoring of trips to shop for ingredients, and delight in the memory of particular restaurant experiences.

The first victim of gourmand syndrome -- or beneficiary, as the case may be -- was a political journalist who had never been particularly concerned about what he ate. He amiably consumed whatever his wife put before him. When he occasionally ate out, he exhibited no particular preference for one type of food over another.

Following a stroke, however, he at once began carping about the hospital’s meals and reported thinking of little but good-tasting food prepared and served in a nice restaurant.

In time, Regard asked the patient to record his thoughts each day. It was in going over them that she realized his interest in food had developed into an obsession. His diary was riddled with observations, like "it is time for a real hearty dinner, e.g., a good sausage with hash browns; or some spaghetti bolognese; or risotto and a breaded cutlet, nicely decorated; or a scallop of game in cream sauce with spätzle [a starchy, pasta-like side dish]."

Now describing himself as a connoisseur, he lamented being "dried up here, just like in the desert. Where is the next oasis, with date trees and lamb roast or couscous and mint tea, the Moroccan way -- real fresh?"

Four months later, when the man was fit to return to work, his old job awaited him. However, the preoccupation with food had overtaken his once-consuming enthusiasm for politics. So he resigned his job as a political reporter and became a columnist on fine dining. His food fixation even carried into his personal life, Regard and Landis report. For instance, his family found that the only way to pique his interest was to talk about food. Moreover, the Swiss scientists note, the man’s "desires for meals prepared at home became more precise and exotic."

What first suggested that the journalist’s case wasn’t a fluke, Regard says, was the finding soon thereafter of another patient who, following a stroke, also began waxing rhapsodic about food. Until then, the man had been concerned about his looks and tennis but never about what he ate. Immediately after the stroke, however, this businessman became consumed by food -- to the point of frequently initiating discussions of food fantasies.

And if I hadn't self-diagnosed myself already, the article goes on to list further symptoms:

Most of the newfound gourmands that Regard and Landis studied had other cognitive changes after their brain injury -- especially visual-spatial problems. Fully 26 of the patients also had impaired memory, and several, including the journalist, had a weakening on the left side of their bodies.

Behavioral changes also emerged. For instance, the businessman suddenly began making inappropriate sexual advances. Others became overly talkative, newly aggressive, more ambitious, or emotionally unstable. Landis now suspects gourmand syndrome "is just one aspect, probably, of a much broader disturbance of impulse control."

Months later

Wow, I haven't updated this thing in forever. Not that my longtime interest in food and cooking has somehow fallen out of my life, that will never happen... but it has, like many other aspects of my post college era, switched gears. My interest in beer which I've had the past year has given way to a pursuit of perfecting southern american and southern italian culinary staples. Dirty South, two ways. Beer was a natuaral thing to explore while I didn't have a fully stocked kitchen or the time to make daily meals. Working at Fowler's food and wine was also a help as I could booze on the clock with Old Rasputin in a solo cup. I do feel like its a natural breaking point though. I am happy with what I've learned about beer and want to try something new. Before that transition, I will do a quick DUI down memory lane and recount some of my favorite beers and things that I will take with me. First off, as a wino and someone who used to sell wine as well as a beer head, I really cant stand the snobbishness directed towards and the stigma associated with beer drinkers. I'm not talking about the people who like to unwind with some friends with a few bud lights. They could give less of a shit about the wine community. I'm talking about the beer heads, foodies who really enjoy beer. Wine drinkers hate on these people and for no real reason. Most wine folks haven't really tried good beer at all. Trappist beers pair as well with steaks and red meat as many full bodied wines, so don't give me any sass winos. Try some soft cheese dusted with celery salt, some dijon and a chimay blue and if you don't like that, we'll just have to call it a difference of opinion. Seasonal beer drinking is also a new thing for me. Just as you wouldn't want to regularly eat ice cream during the winter, its not a good idea to drink stout during the summer. Darker beers are best reserved for the winter and lighter ones for the summer. I will also use this space to publicly appologize to the american beer community for regularly dissing on their biz. America has some great beer. Its just that, like the rest of culinary culture in the US, its found at the grassroots level. America is all about craft beer which is microbrewed and sparsely distributed. You have to ask around to see whats out there. Three Floyd's in Munster, IN is actually one of the best breweries on the planet. Their dark lord imperial stout is actually the second best rated beer on beeradvocate.com. I have yet to be disappointed with one of their products. I hope to have someone get up to munster to secure me a shipment of Dark Lord.. They only distribute in person and their batch for last season sold out in 4 hours!!!!

To complete the story that I began two posts ago, I did make it to Saint Sixtus Abbey in Westvleteren, Belgium. Westvleteren 12 is simply amazing and must be tried. Its worth the ridiculous journey. Take a train from Brussels to Poperinge and then have someone at the train station who speaks Dutch call Bellbus to take you to Westvleteren for the In de Vrede Cafe. Damn, it really is the best beer on the planet. I won't even try to describe it here because I will sound hopelessly fake. Other greats belgians to try are: Duvel, Chimay Blue, La Chouffe, DeKoninck, Orval, and Leffe Blonde. My favorite German beer is Celebrator Doppelbock and my favorite Czech beers are Budvar and Klaster Lager. As for domestics, go for Dogfish Head 90 min IPA, Three Floyd's Dreadnaught, or Rogue Dead Guy Ale. Yep, I'm down with the American IPA's. Thats what we do well.

Ok, thats the end of my beer study. I look at those paragraphs and laugh. I swear I'm no alcoholic. Those beers are too expensive to be enjoyed in large quantities so you can't over drink anyways. I am happy with my knowlege base now and would like to move my interest to cooking meals again. Beer is also much easy to explore than wine. For the most part beers aren't vintaged and beer is easier and cheaper to try than a bottle of wine. There are also many more vineyards and wine regions. Its a good starter to wine, though, especially for a college student. The most expensive bottle of beer I've seen is like $30 (for a liter though) but the most expensive bottle of wine I've seen is $20,000. Finally, I'm trying to be more healthy now and in addition to to running more I'm curbing beer consumption. It was fun while it lasted though. Anyway, onto food.

My mom and I went up to Cape Cod and Martha's Vineyard this past weekend. I signed up for an online membership to the zagat survey and looked up a few places before I went. I took my mom to The Brewster Fish House in Brewster Mass and it was amazing. I had a plate of ridiculously fresh raw oysters and we both had five spice lobster done with sort of a asian-fusion vibe. The restaurant was tiny with great attention to detail and a baller white wine list (and I'm not big on white wine). It was great. The next day we went to mom and pop fried seafood restaurant in Oak Bluffs in Martha's Vineyard. It was my first lobster roll and damn was it good. My mom, an onion ring enthusiast, enjoyed their rings. We rented bikes and biked between Oak Bluffs and Edgartown, which is a beautiful ride along the ocean. At the end of the weekend, I begrudgingly said that the north east was "OK." I still contend, however, that the soul of this country resides in the midwest and the south. Oh, wait... bluegrass and bourbon are now cultured? Ya buncha no good johny-come-latelies...