Travels with Fosco

2011-05-21T16:04:00.000-07:00

Today's itinerary: Pioneer Square

So as I ran around Pioneer Square like a headless chicken with a deadline I noticed that nagging little "oh my god if I don't eat something very soon I'm gonna puke my breakfast all over my shoes" feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew something needed to be done and done soon. But what? I like eating new food. I like eating cheap food. In fact I'm big on finding places to eat during the workday that fit within certain parameters:

1) I don't want to sit down and deal with waiting to be served at my table. I want to order, pay, and eat.

2) I generally don't want the typical American burger and fry fast food artery clogger. Not that I mind a good artery clogger, mind you, but I sure as hell don't want THAT.

3) I like to try either a new food or a previously untried place's version of an old favorite.

4) Shit best cost less than $10, including drink.

So with this in mind I figured I'd give the schnitzel a try at The Berliner located at 221 1st Ave S.

Of course, after examining the link, you are probably imagining my surprise at finding they have no schnitzel at The Berliner, but instead have something called Doner kebab. (the o in doner should have a sideways colon thingie above it in that German fashion....and doner is, as I understand it, pronounced duna, like tuna but with a D. Got it?) Well, OK then! This was quite possibly perfect.

First of all they have a counter with a lovely sign above it that says "order here". Number 1, check!

I took my place in line where I would casually peruse the overhead menu which did NOT advertise burgers and fries. Number 2, check!

My mouth was quickly set to watering at the sight of giant rotating skewers loaded from bottom to top with slab after slab of thinly sliced and wonderfully marinated and aromatic meat. Now I had had Gyros before, cut from similar skewers, but never had I seen the meat sliced and stacked in this fashion. Gyros always seems to be more of a chopped meat, mixed with spices and such and then formed into a huge cylinder before being skewered. This was different than that by far. Number 3, check!

And last but not least, a quick glance at the menu told me a sandwich and drink would likely cost me somewhere between $7.50 and $9.50. Number 4, check!

So, I stepped to the counter at my turn and ordered the Berliner, with lamb, please, for $7.49, and a soda. Perfect. Moments later I sat down by the window with my newly discovered treat of classic lamb döner with garlic yogurt sauce, fresh cilantro, tomato, cucumber, red cabbage and onions, tucked my napkin into my shirt like a good boy, picked up my gloriously stuffed and fantastically drippy hunk of flatbread and dug in.

Oh hell yeah!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Cheesy.

2011-05-13T22:55:00.000-07:00

Today's itinerary: The "U"

What did I eat?

"Paneer (Hindi: पनीर panīr, from Persian پنير panir) is a fresh cheese common in South Asian cuisine. It is of Indian origin. In eastern parts of India, it is generally called Chhena. It is an unaged, acid-set, non-melting farmer cheese or curd cheese made by curdling heated milk with lemon juice or other food acid.
Unlike most cheeses in the world, the making of paneer does not involve rennet as the coagulation agent,thus making it completely lacto-vegetarian and providing one of the sources of protein for vegetarians in India. It is generally unsalted."*

I'd heard of paneer. I'd read reviews of Indian Restaurants which focused on the paneer served at said establishment. I'd seen recipes for dishes using paneer in different cookbooks. I'd seen paneer on menus and in magazines.

I had never eaten paneer.

So as I walked past Garam Masala, a small 7 or 8 table restaurant on The Ave, this afternoon and saw the readerboard proclaiming a "vast array of vegetarian dishes" I thought to myself, "Self, my friend, it is now time to try that paneer cheese type Indian food thing you've been wondering about."

So I stepped inside and to the counter where I asked, "Do you have paneer?"

Where does it come from? Can I make it at home?

"Of course we have paneer," was the friendly reply. "Please, here is a menu. You will be finding the paneer on the back with the vegetarian dishes."

So I looked. And what do you think I found? Yup. Paneer. I found Mattar Paneer, Saag Paneer, Shahi Paneer, Tikka Paneer, Chili Paneer, and even Shahi Tudka, a dessert of fried paneer. They did indeed have paneer, but I had no idea which paneer I would like to try. I was hoping for a single line item of "Paneer". No such luck.

"The Chili Paneer is very good," came the friendly voice of reason from behind the counter. "perhaps that would be to your liking, sir?"

"Yes, friendly voice of reason, I do believe Chili Paneer would very definitely be to my liking. I'll have that."

"Would you be liking mild, medium or hot?"

Now I'm going to need a moment here, reader, to explain myself to you. I like hot food. I like challenging myself with hot food. I like for my head to perspire and I like to ask for another beer to help cool things down. Most restaurants do not make their "hot" food hot enough in my opinion, so I almost always order my meal at whatever spice rating is at the top of that particular kitchens heat index. Generally, I still expect to be disappointed. So in this instance, as I stood there looking into the eyes of the owner of the voice of reason, I said, defiantly and with authority,

"Hot please. I like my food hot."

"Of course, sir. A glass of water while you are waiting perhaps?"

"That would be wonderful. may I sit at that table over there?"

"Certainly," was the VOR's reply, and as I sat down with my back to the back wall so I could soak up the ambience a tall glass of water was poured and set before me. I was happy. I generally do not take sit down lunch breaks so this was going to be a treat. I intended to relax, take my time, and enjoy every bite (hopefully) of this new (to me) food I had so often considered but never eaten. Kicking back, I took a picture.

About that time the friendly VOR returned to my table with a plastic bag, inside of which were two "china to go" style take out boxes and a small plastic container with a lid full of an off white unidentified substance.

Wait! Bag? Boxes? What the hell? Do I smell? (shh....don't answer that) Was I not wanted or welcome? I was comfortable. Must I leave?

"Here is your food sir. I also have included a free order of rice pudding for your dessert." (off white mystery solved)

Free rice pudding? Well then, OK! So I grabbed my lunch, paid my $8, and scurried out the door to the comfort of my waiting car where I hurriedly opened my nifty to go boxes to see what I would be eating.

Lovely. In one box was some beautifully prepared Basmati rice, flecked with the kinds of orange and yellow saffron colored grains that immediately bring thoughts to mind of Spanish fields of crocus spreading as far as the eye can see. I knew immediately I would be enjoying this. In the other box were these beautifully white, glistening cubes of what looked like tofu...the paneer...swimming in an aromatic chili sauce from which the steam alone was enough to make a fella's eyes begin to water. Also swimming in that sauce were chunks of onion and green bell pepper as well as large slices of green chiles. The odor of lime pickle seemed faintly evident in the tear inducing steam rising from the paneer. Lime pickle? Bonus. Now I dont know if lime pickle was used in the preparation of my Chili Paneer, but it tasted like it had been. And as I spooned the second bite of this temptingly tongue scorching treat of homemade cheese and chile sauce into my mouth my head began to sweat....profusely, and my tastebuds began to dance. Good thing I had a growler full of beer in the car.

If tastebuds could dance how would it look?

Yes those are my tastebuds. Don't be an ass.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

* wikipedia

"Lets go make a picture"

2011-05-10T18:06:00.000-07:00

Today's itinerary: Spokane, WA

As I pulled into David's Pizza, across the street from Gonzaga University, this morning, I was happily anticipating the bi-weekly lunch slice my friends are always happy to offer, but as I walked inside and saw all the stromboli in the hot case my mind began to race. Now I admit I am no stromboli aficionado, but I am certainly willing to make the required effort to become one, and my journey began today. As I stood contemplating.... Pepperoni? Pep and sausage? Spinach and....wait....spinach? Yeah, screw spinach. I ordered pepperoni and sausage and a bottle of water, pulling cash from my pocket.

"Bottled water, dude? Aren't you from Seattle? Here's a cup."

Nothing like a good guilt trip with lunch, I always say. So I took my stromboli, my cup of ice water, and my guilty conscience and headed out to the van to enjoy my meal. What is a stromboli, you ask?

Well, apparently stromboli is a turnover made of Italian bread dough and filled with cheese and meat as well as whatever else might go on a pizza, and it's glorious. It's buttery and crispy on the outside, chewy on the inside, as well as cheesy and meaty with a touch of sauce to tie it all together. Marinara is served on the side for dipping. Its very tasty, very filling and, I assume, incredibly healthy......but where did it come from?

As I ate I researched this question in order to bring you, the faithful reader, up to speed.

Stromboli was, possibly, invented in Pennsylvania at a place called Romano's in the late fifties. Legend has it (and who am I to argue) that the dish was named after the movie of the same name made in 1950 and directed by Roberto Rossellini (see clip) which starred Ingrid Bergman .

It seems there is an island named Stromboli, and on it a volcano also named Stromboli, on the side of which Roberto's very own "volcano" may have erupted in a moment of intense passion. (please watch the following clip. It explains so much)

Who the hell knew? And who knew that without Stromboli we wouldn't have the brilliant acting of Isabella Rossellini to enjoy as we have for the last 35 years?

Of course there is also a rumor claiming stromboli was invented in Spokane, WA by a man named Mike Aquino, Jr. in 1954. Hmmmmm

I'll research this rumor at lunchtime tomorrow.

Its Fosco, Dammit!

Refuge

2011-05-02T21:26:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: West Seattle

Mondays suck! We all know it's true so please don't pretend you're the sorry sonuvabitch who likes this rotten pile we call the beginning of the week. No one will believe you. Everything negative is magnified on a Monday. Headaches are that much more debilitating. Drivers who refuse to use turn signals are that much more dangerous to others, and that much more clueless as well. Those pedestrians who live with their false senses of entitlement seem that much more suicidal when they step from the curb into the street without looking to see if crossing will be safe. (This, of course, would be perfectly fine by me if I wasn't so sure hitting said pedestrian would net me a few years in prison for vehicular homicide.) Even the slightest traffic tie up can be enough to set the most even keeled of us off on one of those -sitting in the car alone waving hands and cursing at no one in particular yet at everyone who has ever given us reason to be angry- hissy fits. Mondays suck!

But every second Monday I find refuge. I find shelter from all that beleaguers me as I negotiate the roads and sidewalks and alleyways and prep kitchens and cook lines of Seattle. I find Bakery Nouveau. More specifically, I find lunch at Bakery Nouveau. Even more specifically I find, and absolutely bask in the glory of, the Ham and Swiss Baguette at Bakery Nouveau. Ahhh, yes. So beautiful and intriguing in its perfect simplicity, this sandwich has become my failsafe respite from the pressures of work and, quite frankly, from the terrors of a Monday. A gloriously crunchy yet light baguette, (one of Seattle best?) sliced in half, smeared with a motherlode of creamy butter, and loaded with just the right amount of sliced ham and swiss cheese, is then topped, in keeping with the French practice of counterpointing the fat of the ham and butter with something more acidic, with the lovely cornichons that set this sandwich apart from so many others. Stand in line for a few minutes, ask for the ham and swiss baguette, and as you pass the pastry case you might want to pick something out for dessert. I like the Twice Baked Almond Croissant. A temptingly flaky croissant is filled with almond cream, dipped in simple syrup, topped with more almond cream as well as some sliced almonds and then baked to a delectable sticky crunchiness to which words will never do justice. Truly epic, in the broader sort of more made up sense of the word.

So, come noon on a lousy Monday I am generally sitting in my car, enjoying my most anticipated of lunches, looking out at the world and all its stupid little annoyances, and saying to the troubles which moments earlier had me looking around for the proverbial ladder and rope...

Au revoir, mo********ers!

It's Fosco, Dammit!

Chili and a side of fries...

2011-04-28T18:18:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Somewhere out there on that ol' open road.

The truckstop. A refuge typically populated by men who have come in after possibly days on the road in search of something that reminds them of home. Perhaps an hour or two of flourescent lighting and Naugahyde, bacon and aprons, hey darlin's and coffee rings on the Formica dinette will amount to enough civilized activity to set a lonely, road weary fella straight. Incredibly large, in fact gargantuan men, furry men, are forced into booths at tables which are unfortunatley attached to the floor, unable to be moved to make room for what seems to be the typical truck drivers belly. You see it everywhere. Lots of trucker's caps protecting the world from the unruly hair that lurks underneath, and fingernails caked with the grime of a hard days work. Flannel shirts and suspenders are not scarce, and neither are biscuits and gravy, by the way, much of which seems to often be visibly smeared into copious amounts of facial hair and Elvis style sideburns. A polyester clad woman with Aquanet hair and aching feet is likely to be languidly moving from table to table refilling coffee cups, delivering steaming bowls of chili, and laughing at the slightly off color jokes she has heard so many times over the years. It seems like a thankless job, but that truck driving king of the road is likely to feel a little bit more normal with a hot cup of coffee and a reasonably friendly "Whatcha gonna have, Sweetie?"

Of course the sausage and eggs don't hurt neither.

Lookin' at that'll get to ya.

It's Fosco, Dammit!

I just don't get tired of this.

2011-04-26T18:27:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Spokompton

So here I sit, another afternoon at Flamin' Joe's waiting for my baskets of wings and waffle fries. Don't get me wrong, now. The wings are very good. Hotter than hell, and flavorful enough to make the experience worth every minute of pain and suffering, as well as worth the gallons of bodily fluids lost in the form of the perspiration that beads up on top of and falls off of my head. And the waffle fries? Heaven. Seriously. If I could be assured that life after death for those who have given their souls to their Lord would include day after day of consuming Joe's waffle fries I'm pretty sure I could be convinced to change my ways. Of course I would not agree to this heavenly afterlife if I am not first assured the fry sauce is included with my time in eternity.

So here I sit. Another Coors Light, please.

I had other plans for this afternoon. A place here in Spokane named Post Street Ale House is running a half price food special for the entire month of April, and seeing as how PSAH serves The Best Patty Melt ever made (kiss my ass if you don't believe) and has upwards of 25 taps pouring mostly first rate ales, I thought it seemed like the place to be, but at 3:25pm when I walked in the front door there was not a single empty seat in the house. Seriously? Bastards couldn't save me one sorry seat at the bar during half price month? Ok then. Let me take this moment to cordially invite the Post Alley Ale House to blow me at their earliest convenience. I mean, hell, what is there to say about a goddamned patty melt anyway? Like, its beef and onions and cheese on rye with thousand island all grilled up and runny caramelized melty drippy carniverous sextasy hot grease dripping down my arm and puddling up on the bar in a beautiful little pool of fat...oh damn...did I actually make the right decision today or didnt I?

Study the beer caps, Fos. Study the beer caps.

Flamin' Joe's.....Damned straight!

It's Fosco, Dammit!

Hola!

2009-10-25T21:20:00.000-07:00

Alright, here's the deal. You need to go out and find your "Mexican Me". You need to go out one Saturday or Sunday morning with the sound of empty bottles still clanging in your head and the haze of the smoke filled rooms of the night before still clouding your tired eyes and find a steaming bowl of hot pozole.(pronounced po-so-lay) It is absolutely essential that you take my advice and do this. Start by finding your local Mexican community. Trust me, I don't care where you live there's a local Mexican community. Find out where it is, get your ass in the car, and go there. Look around. For what, you ask? For food. Start by looking for a taqueria, because the problem is this: You eat at the wrong Mexican Restaurant. Sure, I'm just assuming here, and I may be incorrect regarding one or two of you, but for most of you....well let me put it this way: If you walk into your favorite Mexican place and you are greeted by piped in mariachi music you are in the wrong restaurant. If you are greeted at the door by a bubbly blonde in some tri-color bull-fighter dress who says "O-la ah-mee-goes. How many today?" then you are in the WRONG restaurant. If you look around and all your fellow diners are caucasians eating crunchy tacos and combo plates covered in puddles of thick red sauce you are most definitely in the WRONG restaurant and you need to run like hell. Run my friend, as I said before, to your local Mexican community. Find the taqueria. It won't be fancy. It won't be pretty. There may not be any music and there will be precious few blondes, no doubt, and there likely will be a parking lot full of pickup trucks and SUV's. There WILL be good food. Upon entering the restaurant you should see Latinos. At the tables. Behind the counter. In the kitchen. Latinos. If you want good Mexican food you need to go where the Mexicans go to eat. And if its la fin de semana (the weekend) many of those people will be eating pozole, that gorgeous healing red stew of pork, hominy and chiles that has been served on weekends and special occasions for...well, forever... in Mexico. Step to the counter and just say "pozole". Don't screw things up by trying to have a conversation (unless you speak good Spanish) and don't start asking for substitutions and all that wimpy crap. No one needs to put up with all that in the morning. Just say "pozole", pay the lady, and find your table. Soon you will be served something that looks like this:

Oh hell yes! See now, look closely. That is a beautiful bowl of pozole, served with three taquitos de papas (fried potato tacos), a small pile of shredded cabbage, along with some dried chile, oregano, diced onion and chopped jalapeno. Breath in, my friend. Just stick your face over the bowl and enjoy the eye opening aromas and the comforting feel of the steam as it envelops your face. Breath it in....
...then dump all those chiles and onions and oregano on top, stick your spoon into that amazing bowl of Mexican lovin' and stir. Take a look at what you now have before you.

Oh man. Look at that chile laden broth just swimming with plump white hominy. Look at the mountainous hunk of pork, tender enough to cut with a spoon, rising from the center. Look. Admire this unbelievably delectable looking weekend breakfast. Look...

Oh for criminy's sake, man! How long are you gonna sit there staring at your damned food? Pile that cabbage on top and dig in, why doncha? Its good. You'll feel its rejuvenative powers as it runs through your body, loosening your tired joints and warming your aching bones. Eat, my friend. Eat. Dip those taquitos. Concentrate on this task for it is incredibly important. Every proverbial fiber of your sad, sorry being will thank you for this, and chances are those fibers will thank you in spanish as your "Mexican Me" begins to come forward and make his presence known. Embrace him. He is bueno. Then finish your pozole.

Now look for the Mexican Grocery on your way out. You're gonna want to shop there soon.
--It's Fosco, Dammit!

What? I Can Do It!

2009-10-23T20:22:00.001-07:00

Disclaimer: I did not have my secret agent super low res camera today so any images have been swiped from the interwebs.

I have come to the realization that I do not appear to be even reasonably adept as far as the use of chopsticks is concerned. I always thought I was pretty handy with a pair, and often imagine my fellow diners to be gazing in wonder at my skills as I eat whatever Asian food I may be consuming at the time, but these delusions of grandeur I enjoy no longer.

My chopstick incompetence was brought to my attention today as I enjoyed my lunch at the local Korean Supermarket by the name of H-Mart. Now let me explain to you that H-Mart is a gigantic store which sells pretty much anything and everything Asian, from the simplest produce to live abalone and sea urchins. Just wandering through this incredible emporium of far east delights is enough to entertain even the most ignorant of Americans. Spread temptingly before the wide eyed American shopper are vegetables never before seen, pork bung in the meat aisle, miles and miles of snacks and staples, all in brightly colored packaging that captures the eye and whets the imagination in ways nothing in your local Winn-Dixie could ever equal. It is really more than impressive while at the same time somewhat intimidating. Asking for help is typically useless. Employees are either Korean or Mexican and generally will have no idea what you are asking, no matter how loudly you say it or how ridiculous your hand motions become in the midst of your frustrations. I, for one, love it and often choose to cook something exotic just so I can make the trip.

At one end of the store is a food court. Restaurants include a sushi bar, a Mandarin Chinese restaurant, a Korean bakery and a Korean "deli", I guess you would call it, which is where I decided to order today's lunch. Stepping to the counter I perused the colorful photo-menu board overhead and found myself struggling to make my decision. Unpronounceable names and unidentifiable pictures of such never before tasted foods as bibimbap, makguksu, dakbaeksuk, and yukgaejang had me stumped, but I did notice number 15 was labeled "Ck Bulgogi (hot)." I had heard of bulgogi, the korean grilled delicacy of grilled beef, and being a sucker for anything hot I pointed to the sign and said to the tiny lady in the hairnet, "Number 15, please."

"Nomba 15? You wan awder chickie? Nomba 15 chickie."

(Duh. I had forgotten that "ck" is the universal abbreviation for chicken.)

"No I don't want chicken, but I do want bulgogi, please."

"Ohhhh, yes yes. Then you wan nomba 13. Beef! Nomba 13, yes?"

"Is it hot?"

"No. Chickie hot. Beef no hot. You wan hot? Nomba 14. Pawk! Dat hot. You wan pawk?"

"Yes, please. Number 14. Perfect. and something to drink?"

"No. No drinkie. Only tea and water. Help yousal! Seat anywhere. Fivey dollar and-a six four."

So I payed my $5.64, filled a small styrofoam cup with some insipid flavorless tea from the large industrial sized tea server, and picked myself a table where I proceeded to wait, and wonder what the hell it is with these people that they don't sell beverages. I didn't think long however, because little hairnet lady soon brought my tray to my table, complete with bulgogi, miso soup and a small serving of kimchee.

She asked me, "You wan fok?" and my blank stare must have signaled my lack of comprehension because she immediately repeated, only louder this time, "Fok! Fok! You wan fok? Chopstick no good foh you?"

"No, no. Chopsticks are fine. I don't need a fork. Thank you," I replied as I immediately dug into my lovely meal of Dwaeji Bulgogi. Delicious thin strips of pork marinated in a mixture of sesame oil, soy sauce, black pepper, garlic, sugar, onions, ginger, and wine and then grilled to perfection along with more onions and a colorfull array of red, yellow and green sliced chili's that added just enough heat to leave me wiping my head continuously with the tiny napkins provided.

Shortly another hairnetted lady who was busily clearing tables looked in my direction and, stopping what she was doing, said to me,

"You wan fok?"

What the hell? The food was all going into my mouth. I wasn't struggling at all was I? I was following all the rules as I understand them. I know I was holding them correctly. I wasn't sticking them in my nose and pretending to be a walrus.

I didnt notice any of the other diners staring at me and shaking their head in pity and disbelief. What the hell? Seriously....what the hell?

"No, thank you. Chopsticks are fine."

She nodded, clicked her tongue a couple of times and walked away. I really didn't get the impression she believed me, but I went ahead with my lunch and quickly forgot about her.

Truthfully, the only problem I was having, and it was an insignificant problem at that, was the lack of an adequately sized beverage to wash down all the damned chili heat I was shoving into my mouth. Good Lord, it was getting toasty at that table, and all I had to cool things off was my third tiny cup of flavorless hot tea and what was left of my miso soup. I was sweating profusely by this time. The tiny Korean napkins were quickly losing all absorbency. In fact I was considering using my shirttail to mop my brow when i noticed a third hairnetted lady. As I looked in her direction she opened her mouth as if to speak, but I cut her off before she could even ask....

"No. Chopsticks are fine, thanks. What I need, I mean what I really, really NEED at this time, if you actually give a damn, is 44 fizzy fluid ounces of ice cold high fructose corn syrup with caramel color and artificial flavors.....and a straw! Please."

Shaking her head and making tsk tsk-y sounds, eyes expressing something between distaste and compassion, she walked away wondering, I'm sure, why that knucklehead just insists on trying to eat with chopsticks.

Dumbass American.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Gus, Sneaky Pete and My Boy... Matt

2009-08-28T21:10:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Heaven on God's Green Earth.

The Northwest has no love affair with hot dogs. I don't know why. Maybe they're just ahead of the curve, what with all the new info on processed foods and their carcinogenic qualities, but whatever the reason its a tough hunt if you are looking for the official food of America's national pastime on the streets of Seattle. I mean, there are places like The Frankfurter on the city's waterfront where you can get some sort of a "gourmet" sausage on an oversized bun for a price somewhere around $6, but thats really a joke isn't it? If you actually ever lived somewhere with real hot dog stands then you know $6 for a dog is insane. Thats even higher than ball park prices. No dog lover with any sense would pay that, at least not if what they really wanted was a hot dog. You know, that skinny sleeve of whatever a natural casing really is (intestine) filled with that pinkish pudding made of all the ground up trimmings that hot dog eaters probably wouldnt eat otherwise. That lovely tube of mystery meat, that when prepared right actually SNAPS when you bite into it. That precooked labor of love prepared by butchers across the nation to be consumed by basically everyone. I mean, trust me, if someone tells you he doesnt eat hot dogs he's lying. He just wants to tell you he knows what's in 'em. He can't do that and admit he eats them, can he?

EVERYONE eats hot dogs...except for maybe here in the northwest. At least they dont eat them in public here. They buy them and eat them at home, usually smothered in ketchup, I imagine (ick). And you might see someone eating a dog at the ball park, but its a nasty dog with a soggy bun and some sort of reconstituted onion and relish. It really is just nasty how these people eat.

I remember growing up in Birmingham, AL where people weren't afraid of a good dog. As a child I would be forced to run errands with my mother as children so often are, but I can remember the joy as we headed into Crestline Village where I knew I would be within walking distance of Gus's, home of the greatest chili dog I ever put in my mouth. My mother would pull into the drug store parking lot or the library or wherever and I would just look at her with those I'msohungrypleasemamacanIhavesomemoney eyes and she would slap a few bucks in my hand sending me off at a gallop. I would run full speed throught the oppressive August heat and chest crushing humidity only to burst through the door into the air conditioned comfort of Gus's where the woman behind the counter, complete with 60's high school hairdo and clear framed horn rimmed glasses would say in her thick Southern trailer park drawl, "Hey honey. Two chili dogs and a coke today?" Nodding, I would place my money on the counter and take my ice cold Coca-Cola in the 8oz old style bottle and find a seat at the counter along the wall to wait (for no more than a minute or two) for my perfectly cooked hot dogs covered in that shimmering concoction of ground beef, spices and fat that Gus called chili. These were always served wrapped in a sheath of paper that would collect enough of the chili to make it worthy of a good licking afterwards. Pure heaven. I could gobble these up long before Mom ever finished her shopping, but for a few minutes of my day in shopping hell I would be as happy as could be, and life was good.

As I hit my middle teens and started driving and developing serious cases of the munchies, and my tastes became more refined, I found myself driving a little further to Sneaky Pete's for a Chili/Slaw dog. The chili was much the same but it was then topped with a pile of creamy cole slaw and drizzled with Sneaky Pete's "Famous" Sauce. And for a few minutes my confused and awkward pubescent hell was forgotten.....my life was again good.

About the time I hit 19 years old I had the chance to visit New York City, and it didn't take long in Manhattan to find out I couldn't afford the $4 cokes in even the seedienst diners. What I could afford was a fine meal at the pushcart hot dog vendor, located on what seemed like every corner in the city. For almost nothing I was able to eat a fine Sabrett dog smothered in mustard and red onion relish...along with an icy can of Coke. And in the overcrowded hell that was New York City I found heaven...life was once again good.

But at twenty years of age I moved to Washington State, and my days of enjoying good hot dogs seemingly ended. For 25 years I struggled through life without my glorious tube steak fixes on which I had come to depend, and then Matt's appeared. Matt's Famous Gourmet the sign said, and for a short while they were on corners in nearly every neighborhood of the city. And with a motto like...

"Welcome to Matt's Famous Chili Dogs, a world class hot dog stand. As is always the case at Matt's, the customer comes first. Unless we have something better to do, like read the paper or take a nap. Or perhaps you might be bugging us. But other than that, the customer is always our top priority."

...you knew they had to be good. And they were. Someone, I assume it was Matt, had done his research, and here one could buy an authentic Chicago style dog, complete with dayglo green relish, tomato slices and sport peppers on a poppy seed bun, or a first rate New York Style with red onions and mustard. But these are not the dogs I craved. I wanted that damned chili dog. More than anything in the world, when I got to craving a dog, I wanted that damned chili dog I remembered from my youth, and as I stepped into Matt's for the first time and scoured the menu for something familiar I was not expecting miracles. Then lightning flashed and thunder rolled and glowing on that menu, shining in brightly lit neon letters rightn there on that little plastic and paper menu was something I really expected never to see in Seattle...

The Southern Style (I admit my vision clouded over from the tears of joy and I truly am not sure what they called it at Matt's). A hot dog smothered in beanless fat laden chili, and.......

...you guessed it, sporting a healthy pile of creamy cole slaw on top. And in my evergreen and sea blue hell of unparalleled natural beauty I had found heaven. Life was good once more.

Son of ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh bitch.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Deconstructed

2009-08-27T14:57:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Bellevue, WA.

Equipment used: Super secret agent low definition spy camera disguised as a common celular phone.

As I sat in my comfy chair last evening wasting my time on the internet as I tend to do I started to think about Gilbert's on Main, home of the largest, the messiest, the most glorious knife and fork required corned beef sandwich I may have ever eaten in my life. As I was wiping the saliva from my dripping chin I began formulating a plan for dining at Gilbert's again....soon. Now, Bellevue is a bit of a jaunt for me and I can't just go whipping over for a quick bite so I needed something a little more devious in order to make the whole trip at least somewhat justifiable. About this time my lovely 6 year old daughter Gracie came bounding into the room to jump into my lap and wish me her normal boisterous goodnight before going off to bed, and the idea hit me. A father/daughter morning was just what I needed.

"Honey, how would you like to go play at a really great park tomorrow?"

"A pawk, Daddy? A weally gweat pawk. Woo-hoooooooo!"

And out of the room she ran to tell her mother of our newly formulated plan. Heh. I'm good. Weally good.

When it comes to eating, though, I can be a little impatient so about 8:30 am we headed out to the car and proceeded to make our 50 minute drive, with me cussing a blue streak at other drivers and Gracie complaining of her usual car ride headach, thru rush hour traffic to beautiful, perpetually under construction downtown Bellevue where after only 2 laps around the block, navigating my way between orange cones and stop sign holding construction groupies I was able to find a parking place within walking distance of Gilbert's.

Hallelujah! We were there. But, dammit, it was breakfast time. Ok, no matter. I had heard Gilbert's serves up a fine breakfast. No reason I couldn't give it a try.

A voice from the back seat: "Daddy, wheah's the weally gweat pawk?"

Ah crap! I guess I had forgotten to explain the food related portion of our little excursion to my small companion. Quick thinking and detailed explanation would certainly be required to right this situation. Hmmmmm......

"Pancakes."

"PANCAKES? Woooo-hoooooooooooooooooo!"

As we stepped inside to the counter I realized the menu was almost completely written on whiteboards above the counter, and not knowing what I wanted, I would have to make a quick decision as a line was now forming behind us. Spotting something that I vaguely recognized as the words "mini-pancake" at one end and "Leo's Scramble...blah blah....lox" at the other I ordered those particular items and paid the lady my hard earned $19. Grabbing silverware, napkins and glasses of lemony ice water I noticed Gracie was shivering so I ushered her to a table outside in the sun where we watched construction workers next door and chatted about silly things while awaiting the delivery of our highly anticipated, whatever it was gonna be, pancakes and lox something breakfasts.

We were enjoying our lovely time together, watching the various forklifts and purple bulldozers and cherrypickers alone as no one else wanted to sit outside with the noise of the construction; noise loud enough to entertain Gracie and require her to put hands over her ears at the same time. What great fun! And as we sat talking beautiful food laden plates magically appeared over our shoulders. Gracie was served a beautiful fluffy pancake and some of the most incredible scrambled eggs I have ever had the plaeasure of tasting, and was she the happiest kid on the block? Absolutely. She was even happier after I spread a motherlode of butter and real maple syrup on that pancake.

As she was happily gobbling up her kid friendly yet adult pleasing (no chocolate chips or ridiculous amounts of sugary IHOP fruit and whipped cream) I was able to turn my attention to my plate which amounted to something of a deconstructed lox and cream cheese bagel, but with eggs. On a small plate to the side was a beautiful toaste bagel schmeared generoulsly with cream cheese Outstanding. But directly in front of me was the show stopper. A gorgeous plateful of eggs scrambled with copious amounts of moutwatering lox and sauteed red onions along with some of the most delectable homestyle potatoes upon which I've ever laid eyes or tastebuds.

"Daddy? That pawk?"

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Let's Cook...

2009-06-30T08:55:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: Grillin' in my backyard

Comes a time each year in the Pacific Northwest, after the sparkling newness of Spring has worn off and before the thick, lazy languor of summer has imposed itself on our lives. A time when children run and play with barefoot abandon, and adults do nearly the same. A time before the whining begins over the sleepless and sweaty un-air conditioned nights. A magical time when life is easy and days seem as though they will never end. During this time the mouthwatering aroma of grilling salmon wafts through the backyards of neighborhoods throughout the Puget Sound region as the general populace desparately clings to the last vestiges of what has come to be known as Copper River Salmon Season. And if you are like me, this is your time. Your time because you know Copper River Salmon is some truly glorious fish which should be enjoyed to its fullest, yet you also realize Copper River Salmon is NOT worth the $50/lb so often charged at the onset of the season which arrives sometime in May. Yes, this, my friend, is your time, because Copper River Sockeye is on sale for $7.99/lb and it's still fresh enough that it smells of nothing more than the sea.

This is the time people like us can finally cook this beautiful fish with its lovely layers of flavorful fat alternating with its distinctive red/orange flesh without feeling like we need to take out a second mortgage to do so. This, my friends, is a monumental time of the season, let's make the most of it.

Now while a fish like a fresh CR Sockeye is generally outstanding if cooked with nothing more than a sprinkling of sea salt and freshly ground pepper, prices as low as $7.99/lb give us the opportunity to be a touch more adventurous, and I've found this combination to be quite tasty and one my family greatly enjoys

Grilled Mustard-Horseradish Sockeye

Prepare your grill for indirect cooking. While you wait....

Mix equal parts... Horseradish

Whole grain mustard

Soy sauce

Olive oil

Spread this mixture evenly over the flesh of a whole Sockeye (trust me, you want sockeye) fillet.

Place the fillet on the grill, away from the coals, and close the lid.

Come back in 15 minutes and carefully remove the salmon from the grill using two spatulas. The fish should be firm, but not hard when poked gently with your finger. If it flakes easily with a fork you can be sssured it is done, but it may be even better if removed before this point. Prior to removing, you may want to run one of the spats between the flesh and the skin of the fish to seaparate the two. This will make for easier serving.

Enjoy with a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc, or possibly a well made Northwest Pale Ale.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Bon Who?

2009-05-31T14:28:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Somewhere in Federal Way, Washington

So as I sat in my easy chair the other night sipping a slightly cooler than room temperature Samichlaus and watching my favorite show, Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations I was relaxed. I was comfortable. I was perfectly happy to sit without worry, while sipping on my fine lager and waiting for the sandman to sneak up behind me and sprinkle me with whatever that stuff is he uses to send me dreamily into the land of nod. I was content. Tony Bourdain was riding through Saigon or some other city in Vietnam on the back of an irresponsibly driven Vespa, the fear quite evident in his eyes, if not actually in his facial expression, in search of various exotic eats and drinks which he would surely consume while expounding as he does on the cultural signifigance of it all.

I love shows about food in Vietnam. The way I see it, anytime you take an Asian country's lifestyle and inject a heavy dose of French culture (through colonization, of course) the results are certainly likely to include some of the most excellent fusion cuisine imaginable, and I for one am more than happy to explore, discover and enjoy the various styles and nuances of any food that might result from the combination. I have always felt that really great cuisines are borne of poverty, and if ever there was an environment in which the hybrid seedlings created by the melding of two cultures could germinate and succesfully sprout into peasant food fit for the likes of Kings I guess Vietnam is that environment.

So, I sat back, took a long pull off my incredibly strong lager, and prepared myself for what promised to be a great hour with my boy Tony.

Then he did something that changed everything. He strolled along a sidewalk to an open air restaurant with a big sign above reading Banh Xeo. Little old ladies stooped over steaming woks while what was surely some incredibly appetizing smoke wafted over the sidewalk and into the adjacent street full of speeding motorcycles, scooters and taxis. Sitting down at a table with a couple of local acquaintances, Bourdain dug happily into a dish of vietnamese food which I had never heard of nor seen.

What was this exotic foodstuff? A beautiful steaming Banh Xeo. A kind of fried crepe made of rice flour and coconut juice, stuffed with the flavors of Asia is what it was and I knew immediately this was going to require my full attention. Pork, shrimp and onions were sauteed quickly in the wok and then the batter was poured sparingly around and over these. As the crepe fried, a nice handful of bean sprouts was tossed in along with some saffron and julienned carrot. Soon the whole thing was folded over to form a half moon shape and slid onto a plate. This was all served with a big pile of lettuce and herbs as well as a small bowl of nuoc cham, a dipping condiment made of fish sauce with chile and garlic. My interest was piqued, but how was I to begin my search for something I didnt even know how to pronounce? Who would I contact to gain the crucial sensitive information required before I would be able to enter a restaurant confidently and order this amazing looking meal. Who?

Phuong, thats who. So I immediately dropped everything (except for my beer and Super Hero Communicator device, of course) and dialed the Vietnamese Relations Department down at TwF Headquarters. Shortly after the phone began ringing on the VRD end Phuong answered in her usual manner--by happily yelling the name of the caller as identified by caller ID,

"FOSCO!"

"Phuong? What is Bon Exee-oh?"

"What what? What you talking about? You so weird."

"Bon Exee-oh, Phuong. Vietnamese food....looks sort of like a big taco? What is it?"

"Mr. Fos, you don't talk my language real good, huh? You spell dat word for me, pleece?"

"Sure Phuong. B-a-n-h -x-e-o."

"Oh no!" Laughing hysterically now and having trouble speaking, Phuong was able to choke out a quick explanation. "You talk about Banh Xeo. "

She pronounced it sort of like bon sayol, sliding her tongue quickly over the "ay" sound and ending the word just prior to finishing the "L" sound at the end. Got it now faithful readers? Go ahead and practice....I can wait.

Ok, thats enough. Done? Lets proceed.

"So where can I get this delicacy Phuong? You know a good place?"

"I think Pho Tai in Federal way have dat. It right by H-Mart? The big Korean store? You know?"

"Thanks babe, gotta go!" and with this I hung up and hit the internet for reviews of Pho Tai, which turned out not to be very promising. I was disappointed. I was distraught. Ah screw it, I was determined. I was certainly not deterred, so off I went to try this new food find I was craving so unreasonably. Time was a-wasting, and I felt suddenly as if I were wasting away.

Once at Pho Tai I found a seat at the windowside counter and sat down to wait for a server to notice my arrival. As she silently placed a glass of ice water in front of me I ordered my Banh Xeo (which I must have mispronounced judging by her laugh) and studied the obligatory condiment tray, noticing that, as in every other Vietnamese restaurant I have visited, this tray held a bottle of Huy Fong Sriracha Sauce along with various bottles of sauces which, apparently, the diner is expected to recognize without the aid of labels or other identification of any sort. Someday I intend to learn just what the unidentified bottles contain, but for now I stick with the Rooster.

Soon my meal was placed on the counter before me. As I took it all in and began to form my strategy for consumption the server asked me,

"Do you know how to eat it?"

"I think so," I replied, "Any tips?"

"I don't know how" was the unexpected answer.

"Shut up. Yes you do!"

"Don't tell me shut up."

Sheepishly I apologized but I guess she didnt hear as she walked away, never to return.

I felt sort of bad, even if I had been kidding, but I soon forgot the entire incident as I held a leaf of lettuce flat in the palm of my hand and placed 2 leaves of basil on top. I then broke off a nice hunk of the Banh Xeo and placed that on the lettuce and rolled it up. After dipping this into the nuoc cham I took my first bite of my incredible new discovery. It was crunchy. It was moist. It was sweet and it was sour. Sauce ran down my chin and also down the back of my hand and on down my forearm all the way to my elbow. Then I think I did something amazingly un-American and at the same time quite authentic. I slurped. I mean I slurped quite loudly as I attempted not to let one bean sprout or a single drop of sauce escape its destiny, and as I quickly turned to say excuse me to the man eating pho next to me I became aware he hadn't noticed my table manner faux pas. Scanning the room I saw that no one seemed bothered by my slurping at all. So I dug in with the wild yet somewhat controlled abandon a meal of this caliber deserves.

Man, it was messy. Good Lord, it was delicious.

Colonialism...don't knock it until you've tried it.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Glutinous what?

2009-05-19T22:12:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Driving around in the cold November rain.....in May

Another day in Everett means another stop at Pacific Asian Market. Another stop at Pacific Asian Market means another delectable treat common to the jungles of Southeast Asia. Another of these treats means another afternoon wondering what the hell I just ate, and today I'm wondering about these lovely little packages of Vietnamese tasty goodness wrapped lovingly in banana leaves and found sitting amongst the other various neon colored fruit filled jello looking finger foods and plastic cups full of unidentifiable concoctions previously unseen and, if seen, possibly deemed unfit for consumption by most Waspy American Winn Dixie/Safeway/Kroger shoppers such as you and me.

Hell, the label didnt seem to advertise ingredients that would prove inedible, or even undesirable though, and realizing the banana leaves were just used to create some sort of homemade China-to-Go container and I would therefore not be required to eat them, I grabbed a package of Banh It Nhan Dua trotted to the register to hand over my day's wages of $1.75.

But what the hell IS glutinous rice flour anyway? I certainly had no idea, so as I got into the knifemobile I whipped out the handy superhero communication device and contacted my friend Phuong, head of my Vietnamese division for foodstuffs identification and label translation.

"Hey Phuong. What the hell is bon it non doo-ah?"

"What you say? Bahn who? You spell that for me?" Which I did thereby prompting Phuong to explain in full, "Oh that good. You like that."

"But what is it, Phuong?"

"It good sweet. My family like to eat that a lot. Have a good day now. Very busy here." And with a click my vietnamese friend hung up the phone leaving me so much more knowledgeable than I had previously been. She always does. I do love her for that.

At this point I decided I may as well just dive in to these uncharted waters, alone if that was what was required, so I picked up one of my neat green pyramidical packages and began to unwrap.

Ee-yew. It was slimey on the inside of the banana leaves, and as I unwrapped the first of three layers the odor was most unappetizing, but I couldnt stop now, could I? What kind of exotic foodstuffs and jungle delicacy correspondent would I be if I just gave up? So I kept unwrapping until finally, holding my breath and with banana leaf slime covering my hands I uncovered this cute little green cone of.....of.....well, of glutinous rice flour, I guess, and somewhere in there was surely some sugar and coconut, right? God, I hoped so. I really hoped so.

Having a consistency on the outside something like that of fresh taffy, rubbery and sticky, my banh whatever it is really couldn't be eaten with a fork so I picked it up with my hand (slime neatly removed) and, holding my nose just in case, took a big bite. And you know what? It was pretty damned good. The sticky green outside was nicely, not cloyingly, sweet, and the inside absolutely chock full of coconut along with the unadvetised surprise of mung beans and peanuts ( I was sure these were bugs upon initial discovery) which added a welcome crunch to the overall explosion of sweet coconutty flavor.

Now I am, of course, still not entirely sure what I ate this afternoon. Nor am I sure if it was truly safe for human consumption. I am, however, sure that I have found another exotic Asian treat which I will continue to enjoy for years to come. Mission accomplished, I guess.

Moi tat ca cung an!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Can You Spell Redneck?

2009-04-28T17:25:00.000-07:00

giz⋅zards

/ˈgɪzərd/ [giz-erd]
–noun Zoology.
1.
Also called ventriculus. a thick-walled, muscular pouch in the lower stomach of many birds and reptiles that grinds food, often with the aid of ingested stones or grit.

Todays Itinerary: Some dive just north of downtown Spokane

Ok, I have a problem. I have a problem with the way Americans eat. I have a problem with the way food is grown and the way food is harvested. I have a problem with the distance food is transported. I have problems with flavorless, insecticide laden, Mexican grown tomatoes being sold in supermarkets in January and December. I hate seeing fresh strawberries being sold by my local grocer if said strawberries were not grown in my home state. I have problems dealing with the lack of humanity and dignity with which we treat the animals that bring sustenance and nutrition to our lives. I don't like driving to work on a 15 degree morning and looking at the truck next to me to see chickens huddled together for warmth in cages stacked 5 high in an open air trailor. I don't like driving by cattle packed shoulder to shoulder in corrals of mud and cowshit waiting for death. I don't like that the meat from these cattle is sold in shrink wrapped packages in brightly lit, sterilized grocery stores to people who are being willingly duped into believing their food doesnt actually come from other living creatures. I really have a problem with the fact so much of these animals that have given their lives so that we may survive is wasted in the name of ignorance and profit. I've seen the wheeled garbage cans full of green steaks and chops pushed from the Safeway and Top Foods meat markets every morning, only to be tossed into some nasty ass dumpster full of other useless overstock no one was able to sell. I've also seen meat thrown out days before it had spoiled in the name of self preservation of whatever corporate entity is profiting off the dead animal whose flesh is now going to waste.

Please don't misunderstand me here. I'm not claiming to know what I'm talking about. I'm just sayin'.

And don't get me wrong. I'm no PETA member, nor am I a vegan or vegetarian. I don't think the eating of animals should be outlawed, nor do I believe the Government should outlaw the factory farming responsible for so much of what I've just described. But I do think people should think about the sources of the food they eat. Think about the crap sprayed on the fruit and vegetables we feed our children so those vegetables can look pretty as they sit stacked in huge piles in the produce sections at the grocery store, especially the fruit and vegetables grown in other countries where regulations on pesticides and whatever other crap being used are less likely to be understood by Americans or enforced by the governments of the countries in which they are grown.

Imagine intead if we bought our produce from farmers just up the road a mile or two. Imagine if we could talk to the actual farmer who grew our beans and our corn and ask him what he uses for pest control. Imagine if we, the people buying the fruit and vegetables, could decide which farmers and communities we wanted to support with our food buying dollar. Think about that, please. Think about the fact that 2% of our population is growing the food for a country of 300 million. Think about the amount of corn being used as an additive to our gasoline while people all over the world starve. Think about the amount of fuel then being used to ship the rest of the corn to stores across the land when undoubtedly there is a farmer near you with ears and ears of corn for sale that is surely fresher and more flavorful.

Again, now, I don't claim to know what I'm talking about. Really, I'm just kind of rambling here.

Possibly more importantly than the vegetables, think about the lives of the animals we eat. Think about whether they are allowed to live any sort of a dignified and happy existence before they are slaughtered, so they may be sent to your local grocer to be butchered and shrinkwrapped. Think next time you buy a T-bone steak of the animal which died to provide you with dinner. Better yet, think about how it would be if we bought our meat from local farmers we knew and who we trusted to treat the animals whose steaks we grill and whose bacon we fry in the manner in which living beings deserve to be treated. Farmers we could trust not to pump these animals so full of whatever the hell it is they pump them full of to maximize their profits by creating such fat and beautiful animals as nature never intended. Imagine animals allowed to live happy, normal lives up until the time they are sacrificed. Imagine bringing home the whole cow (in pieces, of course) to place in your freezer, knowing you will finish him before another is sacrificed in your name. Is that so hard? I bet it is because to do this you would have to eat those nasty things you refuse to even consider. You would, in order to do justice to the killing of your cow, be forced to eat the nasty little parts of the animal for which we havent come up with distracting names the way we have with top sirloin, tenderloin, bacon, and ham. You would have to eat parts like tongue. Like liver. Like tripe (which interestingly enough has a fancy name already). You would have to eat kidneys, and feet, and tails....and you arent ready to do that, are you?

Too bad. Because, really, does any of this seem right? And if not then how do we go about making it right? Should the government make laws to guarantee the right of our cattle to live happy lives? Should the government fix it? No. We should fix it. Food should be produced and consumed locally, should it not? You fix it. It can't be that hard to do, though it may be slightly less convenient than shopping at the local Albertson's or Winn Dixie. Do some research. Find your local farmers. Eat locally and in season. Think about it...thats all. Its the first step. I think about it, and I take some of the steps I would advocate to you. Not all, but some, and I'm working on the rest.

[stepping off soapox now]

And it was with these ideas I've just related to you in mind that I decided today to try something new. As I stood waiting for payment for the services of the Knifeman at a local watering hole...(the kind of watering hole where everyone wears a truckers cap and a flannel shirt. The kind of watering hole where most of the men and some of the women have two beer bottle in hand at all times, one to drink from and one to spit into. The kind of watering hole where you can watch the game on Saturday, so long as "the game" is a NASCAR race. The kind of watering hole....)

I noticed a sign I had seen many times but ignored. A small blue sign. Not an extravagant sign by any means, but a small printed sign with a hand drawn picture of a chicken and only four words. A sign that said:

BEST GIZZARDS IN TOWN!

Well, I try not to be a hypocrite as I go through this life, so in the interest of providing a few chickens with the peace of mind that comes with knowing one's life was not wasted I choked back the bile I was tasting in the back of my throat and ordered myself a basket of those aforementioned gizzards.

I also ordered up a cold longneck of Coors Light, in an effort to look genuine you understand, and headed to a table by the window to wait, like a child on his birthday, for my big surprise. I had all kinds of visions running through my head of the lovely breaded and fried bite sized morsels of southerny goodness that would soon come to my table. Visions of the lovely Pavlovian aromas of Southern Sunday afternoons. Tender little nibbles literally exploding with concentrated home cooked fried chicken goodness I grew up with and have spent years recreating in my very own kitchen. Just the thought and I was drooling with anticipation, and as I sucked the last drops from my first bottle of beer the lovely waitress brought my basket to the table, another Coors in her other hand.

I eagerly picked up my first gizzard and popped in into my mouth and began chewing....and chewing....and chewing.....and chewing....and....I realized something. I realized gizzards are not tender. I realized gizzards are not basically just concentrated fried chicken flavor like I suspected they would be. And even more importantly I realized gizzards are not bite sized. Some of these monster rock grinders were so damned large it took two or three bites to finish one.

WTF? People actually eat this crap? Are you friggin' serious? I mean damn! Some parts of the chicken are DEFINITELY NOT meant to be eaten. The beak is not meant to be eaten. The feathers are not meant to be eaten. The talons at the end of the birds feet (chicken feet are definitely meant to be eaten) are NOT MEANT TO BE EATEN! And you know what? The gizzards are not meant to be eaten.

I really need another beer to wash this crap down.

--Its Fosco, Dammit

Stop this Pain

2009-04-26T21:49:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Anywhere that has what I need.

So say you wake up at 6am the morning after a dinner party with friends. You cant go back to sleep no matter how you try, but you can barely open your eyes thanks to the splitting headache last nights overindulgence has forced upon you. Your stomach is feeling more than a touch sour and as you lie there trying in vain to hide from the stiletto of daylight stabbing you between the eyes and wondering why you have done this to yourself once again you realize that not only are you going to have to get out of bed, but you will have to actually go to work. Life sucks sometimes, doesn't it?

But have no fear, my friend for there is a cure, and a relatively simple one for that matter. Just tell any Mexican you were muy baracho (very drunk) last night and look half as miserable as you are and he will certainly suggest the well known antidote for your pain. There is even a good chance he'd be willing to tell you where to go if you were in search of relief from the agony last nights bottle of whiskey is now inflicting.

What cure? Menudo, mi amigo.

That steaming bowl of beef guts and glory. That bowl of beautiful chile spiked broth shimmering with golden pig fat and swimming with little bite size pieces of beef tripe so tender and delicious you may even be thankful for the hangover that only moments earlier had you considering something as drastic as suicide. One heaping spoonful of that spicy and aromatic chile laced stomach lining and you will feel the relief as it courses through your bloodstream like morphine from an IV drip. And as you sit there dipping your fresh hand made corn tortillas and contemplating the large pigs knuckle protruding from the center of today's Mexican prescription while you wash it all down with a tall glass of iced hibiscus tea.....What? You don't eat tripe?

You poor, poor son of a bitch.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Hot Mama's Revisited

2009-03-26T21:13:00.000-07:00

Todays Itinerary: Somewhere on Capitol Hill in Seattle, Washington

OK, so I can be a snob when it comes to food. I admit it. If it's not cooked over a live fire it's not barbecue. If it's got ketchup on it then its a really nasty hot dog. Tomatoes in December are not worth eating. The list goes on. I know this. So when I say to you that I enjoy a Hot Mama's slice of pizza I realize this may be surprising to some.

I mean, its not like HM's uses top of the line ingredients or follows any of the pizza making standards set by the Associazione della Vera Pizza Napoletana. Is the crust purely a Napoletana style crust? I think not. The olives are obviously taken from a can, already sliced. The sauce tomatoes are likely NOT of the San Marzano variety. Never have I seen a Pizza Margherita at HM's, let alone any fresh mozzarella, though they may use it on a pizza or two of which I am not aware. Hell, they'll even slice up some of those plasticized hot house MexiCanadian winter time tomatoes and toss them on as a topping (in the middle of a Northwest March) and try to make you think they're doing you some kind of a favor.

But in spite of all this nonsense I eat the pie at Hot Mama's, and I enjoy it.

I mean, hell, just look at it. Sitting there resplendent in its mediocrity. Wearing just enough of that melted cheese to leave its sauce exposed in all the right places and in amounts perfectly suited for fueling the imaginations of diners out cruising for a hot pizza hookup. It lies there seductively with its steaming top sliding off to one side, begging to be loved by anyone with vision blurred and standards lowered by that overpowering hunger we sometimes allow to compromise our judgement in ways we are reticent to relate to our friends, roomates and wingmen the next morning. And the longer you sit looking out of the corner of your eye, the hotter that pizza looks until finally you just can't restrain yourself anymore and you, almost as if in a dream, reach out with your hand and take that slice along with its implied promises of emotional fulfillment and sensory satisfaction, knowing all along this encounter will not reach the standards you typically set for yourself.

And you're even willing to pay for it.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Some Flowers are Edible

2009-03-19T20:49:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Somewhere in the "U"

The University District. The world's varying cuisine virtually at my fingertips, and all of it for under ten bucks. What more could a guy want? Well, to be in the "U" at lunchtime would be a bonus, would it not?

If you do happen to be on The Av for lunch it might behoove you to try a little place named Flowers. Why is it named Flowers? I think because it occupies the space previously used by a florist, and the old sign still hangs above the door. You guessed it. A sign that reads "Flowers". So you better be careful or you may not notice the restaurant at the corner of 41st Street and University Avenue, and that really would be a shame, because Flowers regularly puts out one of the more interesting vegetarian buffets in this wet, dirty city. You really don't want to miss it.

As you enter through the swinging glass door you will notice it doesnt really fit the doorway just right, sticking on an upward sloping floor just inside, but its ok. Just ignore it and close the door behind you. Not all restaurants can have the classiest digs in town. As you step inside you will notice the old ice cream parlor style black and white checkered floor. Certainly you will notice the stains, smudges and somewhat unkempt look of said floor, but you really needn't be concerned. They mop every morning. I've seen it happen. So its cool. Really. Just stop looking at your feet and watch where you're going before you run smack into the multi-tiered buffet as you head to the back to pick up a plate and a glass of water. Be sure to get your water first and place it on your choice of empty tables, because if there is an empty table chances are it won't be empty for long. Then take your plate and head for that buffet....

...where you can load your plate as full as you like with all manner of veggie dishes including sautees, curries, noodle salads, tossed salads, other salads, etc.,etc. It really can be a bit overwhelming as you know you only have so much room in the ever growing gut of yours while also realizing you would gladly put some of everything in there now if you could only find the space.

As you can see here my plate for today consisted of a pile of saffron rice in the center surrounded by 5 or 6 other delicious dishes. My lunch today, starting from the bottom and moving to the right, included taboulleh salad, okra, a curried cauliflour and broccoli dish, a few pieces of storebought pita bread, spinach and potatoes (barely visible in the back) and some sauteed red bells, zuchinni and tofu. I also tossed a couple falafels on top for good measure.

I have developed a system for eating a Flowers. Its a simple system, so as not to cause too much consternation or confusion for the diner (namely me). What I generally do is take my plate straight to the saffron rice and place a heathy scoop right in the center of my plate. This will be the foundation of the meal which will now be constructed around the outside, and possibly across the top. Next I start working counter clockwise around the buffet, placing a spoonful of each item in an empty spot alongside the rice. About the time I have room for only one more item I scan the salads (I generally go for the hot veggies otherwise and only one cold salad) and choose one to fill the extra hole. Of course I never come close to giving myself the opportuinty to try everything, but at least I get a nice variety, and its different every time. And on top of that I get to sit and eat with the U-District polar fleece and birkenstock crowd of reconstituted hippies that make living in Seattle so much fun. That plus the mirrored ceiling make the whole experience, well...

...almost naughty.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Mozoltov!

2009-03-17T22:03:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: County Cork, Ireland via Spokane, WA.

St. Patrick's Day. I love St. Patrick's Day. People are different on St Patrick's Day. Friendlier, warmer, more interested. Everyone asks about your plans for the night or why you arent wearing green. Where's the best pub? Which do you prefer, Guinness or Jameson's? Why can't I like both? Where will you be drinking tonight? The question isnt where, but WHEN? And how much? And how will you get home? Do you have to work tomorrow? Oh man, don't you hate that?

Well, lucky me. After getting past the sad fact I am in Spokane for the annual tradition of celebrating everything that is Irish, that is called Irish, that looks even remotely Irish, or even anything merely claiming to BE Irish, I realize that with my Hotel being situated smack on the edge of downtown I might as well at least stop into one of the local watering holes before dinner and have a wee nip to warm the bones after walking across town in the biting cold that is a Northwest March. One of my favorite Spokane places for this type of sordid activity, especially if you're a beer lover, is The Blue Spark.

At 3:45pm The Blue Spark isnt crowded yet, even on St Patrick's day. At the bar I order a pint of Guinness and a shot of Jameson's Finest and take a seat at one of the counters along the back wall.

All barstools are full with the afternoon sweatshirt and jeans crowd, some with stocking caps on their heads as a feeble protest against the snow outside, all with two hands on the beer in front of him and both elbows on the bar, pushed out at right angles from his body like a point guard protecting a rebound. Turf. Even amongst friends at the bar on this friendliest of all friendly days, turf is important, and the S&J crowd isn't giving its turf up without a fight. "Fight" you ask? Oh you bet its a fight. I'm sitting in a local pub, downtown, at 3:45 in the afternoon. Communication between the patrons at the bar is congenial, but subdued, with an occasional snicker rising above the otherwise guarded conversations. Definitely going to be a fight. This is just the calm before the storm.

As I go to the bar to order another round (the spirit of the day is catching hold) a group of four twenty somethings comes laughing through the doors and grabs a table by the window. One couple goes to the bar and orders a pitcher of Harp Lager, something I'm sure they wouldn't do any other day. The other couple stops off to drop some money in the jukebox. Both are tall, thin and with close cropped red hair. She in a short sleeved green tee shirt with the sleeves of her thermal top protruding to cover her arms, he in one of those heavy cableknit cardigans commonly associated, at least in my mind, with sailors, or pipe-smoking old men playing checkers at the General Store in a small New England town, they give me the impression they will take the responsibility they are thrusting upon themselves seriously. I feel confident they will not completely botch the choosing of the first songs of this St Patrick's Day celebration. They don't let me down, and as the lilting first piano notes of The Pogues' "Fairytale of New York" begin to poke out from the speakers like the whiskers of a hungry feline about to pounce, I take the moment to order another round. And as I hear the thick accent of Shane MacGowan as he croons the first romantic lines of the song,

"It was Christmas Eve, babe,

In the drunk tank"

I am well aware of the cat wiggling its butt before the attack. As the band bursts forth in full form and Kirsty MacColl's Irish brogue sores I pick up my stout and whisky, and smiling broadly in appreciation of the moment, head back over to my spot at the counter on the back wall.

As this moment of personal satisfaction is occuring the first wave of attackers hits The Blue Spark (remember, there's gonna be a fight). Four men, all wearing some approximation of the typical business attire saunter through the front door, jackets unbuttoned or hanging over a shoulder, ties loosened and askew, shirtleeves rolled to the elbows and green boas wrapped around their necks, flowing wildly in the draft of the open door. You can feel the testosterone level in the room rise as two of the businees crowd race to the bar, crowding in between members of the S&J's on the barstools. Backs hunch and elbows flash as turf is immediately maximized, but thats not a problem for these new guys. They just put one hand on the nearest S&J's shoulder as they lean between patrons and across the bar to demand pitchers and whiskies. The other two suits pile all their jackets and glasses and keys, etc. on the first table they see, smack in the middle of everything, and head to the back to find the restroom. Meanwhile more suits are piling through the door with effusive greetings for recognized suits already here or coming through the side door simultaneously. Backs are slapped, hands are shaken, fists are bumped. More suits lean across or force their way between the battling S&J's who are now realizing they don't have the bartenders undivided attention anymore, and as they wait politely for an opening they are continually frustrated by other suits hanging across with money in hand and a presence that won't be denied. The Sweatshirts & Jeans have the Turf, but not the numbers nor the will to hold it, and one or two of them retreat meekly, leaving money on the bar and slowly walking out into the cold to search for a quieter establishment. As they leave two barstools vacant 4 to 5 suits fill that hole at the bar, still slapping, bumping, and shaking, and now adding flirting with the bartender to their arsenal of bar storming tactics.

I can see time is running out for the S&J's, and I can't help but watch, so I order up.

By the time I get back to my spot at the counter in the back, the jig is up. S&J's who had ill-advisedly gone to the restroom return to find their spots taken by three to four-man squads of suits and resignedly make their escape through the side door, victims of a lopsided battle which they had no chance of winning from the start. By this time a scattered few of the defeated group remain, but it is obviously no more than a matter of minutes before they too will be dispatched with a slap on the shoulder and a St Pat's friendly, "Have a great night, brother," from the nearest suit soldier as he sends him into the chilly afternoon to regroup with his compatriots. The battle was short, and it was bloodless, but the war is far from over. Battles like this will surely take place day after day here in the downtown business district of Spokane.....or in Seattle. Atlanta. Boston. Or Boise. Salt Lake City. Cheyenne......

At this point I'm getting hungry, and realizing the bar will soon be full, as in shoulder to shoulder, and I will either be required to fight for my counter in the back or retreat, I take a look at the paper menu left conveniently for such developments. Deciding to order some food I head to the bar. Upon returning to my little counter in the back, however, I realize something is amiss. Now, how did this happen?

Ah, well. No matter. Its the friendliest day of the year.

'Beannachtam na Feile Padraig!'

--It's Mick Fosco, Dammit!

South End Again...

2009-03-13T16:37:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Kent, WA.

It never fails. Every time I leave the house on Friday to make my rounds of the South End I have visions of Vietnamese pho or Korean tofu soup floating around in my head. And it never fails. Every time lunch time comes around when I'm protecting the South End from the evils that lurk I find myself at the counter of one of the myriad local taquerias ordering Mexican food. Why is this? Well, because its so damned good, of course. Mind you now, I'm not talking about a sit down Mexican restaurant where you order the enchilada/tamale/relleno platter and receive a mound of unidentifiable tortilla wrapped solids surreptitiously covered in a blanket of red sauce and melted cheese served on a 900 degree plate along with broken English warnings of your friendly server.

"Please careful, senor. Plate is berry muy hot, ok?"

No, I'm talking about the taqueria, where most of the food is served on paper plates or in styrofoam containers if you're taking it to go, and the staff speaks very little if any English at all. Of course I've been over this with you, my faithful readers, many times so no need to rehash the whole experience. Lets just say that no matter how I try to order in Spanish, no matter how I strive to clearly enunciate, no matter how I point and wave my arms and make gestures and dance and sing even, the person behind the counter always requires three repetions of my order before we are both at least reasonably sure she has it right. Even then I'm never certain.

Today I pointed, gestured, danced and sang for three sopitos with adobada or spicy pork. For those of you who don't know, and I'm betting there are many of you, a sopito is sort of a crispy little cross between a corn tortilla and cornbread in the shape of a round little boat. About a quarter inch or so thick, the sopito has a rim that extends upwards another quarter inch or so and is about a quarter inch wide also. The whole thing is approximately 4 or 5 inches in diameter and is perfectly proportioned for loading with the wonders of Mexican cooking that can make eating so damned much fun.

On top of each sopito is smeared a healthy glob or refritos (refried beans for you unilinguals). Atop this is piled some of whatever meat you have ordered, adobada in my case, along with lettuce, onions and tomatoes. This is then finished off with some Mexican Crema and queso cotija and served with radish slices, lime wedges, and a bit of salsa picante. These are perfect for picking up and eating with your fingers, though if you are worried about stains and the like you may want to use a knife and fork. Wash it all down with a whole pickled jalapeno and you, mi amigo, will surely find yourself sitting happily in lunchtime heaven. And all for about five American dollars.

Sabroso!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Gettin' Comfy

2009-03-12T18:08:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Pioneer Square, Downtown Seattle.

It wasn't that long ago someone told me he didn't believe Seattle was suffering much from the current economic setback the U.S. is enduring.

"Really," he said to me, "As you look around how severly effected is your life or the lives of others around you? It really isn't nearly as bad as people are making it out to be."

Well, I'll tell you this much now. Don't say that to a local restaurant owner or you may find yourself getting up from the floor with a very sore jaw. And I mean this quite seriously. Today as I spent the lunch hour wandering around Pioneer Square I was struck by just how lifeless the area was. Here I was in an area usually teeming with people going about business or going out to lunch and I felt nearly alone. The place was basically a ghost town and if one were to hold his breath for a minute and listen closely I'm quite sure that old theme song from the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns would be audible as it whistled its way through the trees that line the center of First Avenue.

It really is a bit depressing to see the restaurants usually full to the point of bursting sitting absolutely empty at the height of the noon hour. Trattoria Mitchelli? Dead. Zaina, usually with patrons lined up out the door? One table of customers in the whole place. Longhorn Barbecue? Empty. The drinks arent flowing and the horns aren't blowing at The New Orleans, and at Med Mix the employees were actually mopping floors and washing dishes....at lunch time. Its unprecedented. So as I walked up Cherry towards Second Ave. to make my regular lunchtime call on Bakeman's restaurant I shouldn't have been surprised by the empty sidewalks, but I was.

And I suppose I should have expected this depressing sight that greeted me as I walked through the front door, but I didn't.

Empty tables. One person in line. Oh woe is us, Seattle. This is not a good sign. Generally the line at this hour of the day runs up the stairs you can't see and right past where I was standing as I took this picture with my super low resolution secret agent camera disguised as an everyday cel phone. Upon arriving at the spot where the lone customer is standing you, if you were standing in said line, would place you order and continue with a tray around the corner of the counter and off to the left to the cash register and the very demanding owner who would likely say something to the effect of,

"What? Just a sandwich today? What kind of soup you want? No soup? You sick today? Maybe pie? No? Ok grab a drink and I'll just charge you full price."

All this is, of course, said with good humor and a smile in his voice if not on his face, but not so much today. In fifteen years I've never seen Bakeman's so dead, and I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach upon seeing it now.

But then something hit me. This was an opportunity for the knifeman. This was my chance. I had no line to negotiate. No 10 minute wait to endure on what is typically one of my busiest days. No reason not to.....

Immediately all visions of pizza and falafel and tandoori chicken and cream cheese laden hot dogs (Seattle Style) vanished from my head, and as I handed a sharp knife to the girl behind the counter I just went ahead and did something previously unimaginable. I asked her if she had any meatloaf. And without and kind of a whythehellareyoubotheringmeinthemiddleoflunchrush look at all she told me yes she did have meatloaf. Well, hot damn!

"Can I get a meatloaf sandwich then, please?"

"Yep. Mayo and mustard?"

"Mayo and ketchup would be better."

So there you have it. Knifeman is nothing more than a sleazy opportunist taking advantage of other people's misfortune in order to make some good fortune of his own. And as I was standing there considering my incredible luck on this Thursday afternoon I became aware of a far away sound....coming closer and getting louder by the second....a demanding sort of sound which would not be ignored....the kind of loud noise that kicks the walls in on your daydreams and reminds you that real life is happening all around and its time to snap out of it and get back to the world. It was a sound something like this:

"Hey! Hey, you having a meatloaf sandwich? Meatloaf? Hey! C'mon man! Meatloaf? You having meatloaf? You want pie? No pie? Ok, for you, two dollars, now get out of here, I'm trying to run a business, ok?"

So I handed over my two bucks and scurried out the door, box of knives in one hand and meatloaf sandwich in the other, in search of the relative quiet and safety of the knifemobile where I would be able to eat in peace. And eat I did. Was it a beautiful gourmet lunch? Nope. Tantalizingly ethnic? Nah. Interesting in that, "hmm, I've never tasted anything like this in my life" sorta way? Not even. But damn it was comfortable, and as I sat there in the van slowly chewing away at my warm meatloaf with mayo, MUSTARD and lettuce on regular out of the plastic bag pre-sliced because it came from the grocery store whole wheat bread I could only think of one thing to say.

Thanks, Mom.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Grindin' on the Kitsap

2009-03-11T21:17:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Poulsbo, WA

Situated along Liberty Bay on Washington's Kitsap Peninsula is the charming litlle town of Poulsbo. Norwegian by heritage and small town touristy by trade downtown Pouslbo provides the visitor with a quaint shopping area chock full of various restaurants and gift shops all set against the scenic backdrop provided by views of the marina and bay which may be enjoyed from an adjacent waterfront park. Architecture in town is decidedly Norwegian in influence and views such as these are certainly not uncommon.

But on the other side of Liberty Bay is a somewhat less scenic portion of Poulsbo. A neighborhood of seedier restaurants and dive bars. A neighborhood bisected by a road named Viking Way, and it is on this road that you will find, if you are looking, a small Italian restaurant by the name of Campana's. Seemingly under perpetual renovation, Camapana's appears to occupy something along the lines of an old farm and feed store or possibly even an old farmhouse. The parking lot is dirt and the paint is peeling, but maybe you shouldn't let this deter you from a lunchtime trip around the bay if you're spending the day in town.

As I walked through the service entrance today (being The Knifeman is a back door job) I had the rare pleasure of running into Chris Campana himself. Back in my formative days as The Knifeman Chris was always in the kitchen to give me a hard time, and today it took mere seconds for him to return to his previous form.

"Knifeman! I havent seen you in years. You look pretty much the same except maybe a bit balder."

"Thanks for that, Chris. For this shot you get the priviledge of buying me lunch."

"Damn, man. You don't miss an opportunity do ya? What do you want then? An Italian Grinder? OK, grinder it is. Hey bud," he hollered around the corner to the line cook, "Make my friend a grinder and make it the way I make it."

The way he makes it? Hmmm....and as I wondered exactly what kind of special additions to my sandwich this might get me Chris turned to one of his employees and said, "'The way I make it' is the code for spit on it."

"Oh great, Chris. Maybe I don't want that grinder after all."

At about this point the teenage line cook popped around the corner, threw his hands into the air in frustration and asked, "OK, I give. How exactly do YOU make it?"

Chris kind of sighed and proceeded to explain to the cook who apparently never really listens,

"Lay the bread out and smear it generously with the good olive oil. Pile some meat on one side and top it with mozzarella. Pile more meat on the other side and sprinkle it with pepper and oregano. Stick the whole thing under the broiler until it looks just perfect, top it with some CRISP tomato slices and lettuce. Then put it all together and give it to this man because he just brought you that sharp knife you're gonna use to cut it in half."

It was at this point I decided I would actually have that sandwich after all and proceeded to lean my lazy butt against a counter while I waited, mouth now watering profusely, for my free lunch.

A short 5 minutes later I was sitting in the knifemobile looking at the toasty layers of salami, pepperoni, mortadella, mozzarella, and veggies piled on this wonderfully light french roll which was perfectly oily on the inside while being delectably crispy on the outside. This was sure to make my day complete.

Mangia, my brutha. Mangia!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Bao Wow

2009-03-10T18:35:00.000-07:00

Today's Itinerary: Everett, Washington

So who's had hum bao? Not the toasty brown thing with the tiny morsel of mystery meat and BBQ sauce you get at the Goody Goody Kwik Mart from the glass case full of fried foods and chicken gizzards, but real honest to goodness Chinese steamed hum bao. Its an interesting food to eat, I have to say, and every time I'm working in Everett and am lucky enough to stop in at Pacific Foods Asian Market I am sure to pick one up for lunch in order to quell the craving I develop during the two week periods I endure between visits.

So, "what is it" you ask? Well, damn, I never really figured that out exactly. Its generally a sticky sort of bun made from seemingly uncooked, at least upon first glance, dough. Appetizing, huh? Well, trust me, the bun is cooked. Its just steamed, I guess, thereby leaving it with the uncooked appearance. And its usually a pretty tasty bun. Not delicious by any means, but tasty, however the really flavorful and somewhat addictive goodness that keeps pulling me back is whats inside that white, sticky bun of steamed dough. Thats right. Resting inside is always something to leave you satisfied while at the same time just a tad worried. The hum bao at Pacific Foods is generally stuffed with ground pork sausage, onion, slices of Chinese sausage and s generous bit of hard boiled egg. Now dont ask me whats in the Chinese sausage, but you can read about it here if you feel the need.(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_sausage)

The question I always, and I do mean always, have about my hum bao as I savor the mouthwatering flavor is this: Is the ground pork cooked? It never looks cooked, but when I ask anyone responsible for serving it to me about this I always get the same answer, "Ummhm", followed by a nod of the head. This I take to mean yes, but the always averted eyes of the Ummhm'er tends to leave me with the question still in my mind as I eat. So what do I do to convince myself everything will be ok and I won't catch some sort of death inducing food poisoning?

Eat fast and try not to look, of course. What else?

--Its Fosco, Dammit

Q in the Y's V

2008-07-07T20:15:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: Moscow (dum dum dum DUMMMMMM) OK, so it's just Idaho.

Imagine the letter "Y". Now look at the top of that "Y" and you see the two arms extending upward with little "V" shaped opening in between, right? Now imagine a "Y" in the roadway, where the road splits into two roads veering away from each other. Got it? Now right in that little "V" place a small, white house with an aging BBQ trailer and a couple of umbrella shaded tables in the front yard. That would be VJ's, and if you take a right hand turn in downtown Moscow, Idaho and head towards the Safeway you will certainly drive right past. Try not to stop. Go ahead and try.

I tried not to stop. Drove right by on my way to Safeway. As I went by I considered stopping but reminding myself of the high crappy/good barbecue ratio here in the Northwest I decided instead to cruise on by and not risk it. Too many disappointments and I can always just get good 'cue at home so why waste my hard earned $10 on soggy microwaved pork cooked sometime over the weekend and held for the occasional stray customer who wanders into the restaurant during the week?

As I drove back by VJ's after leaving Safeway I tried not to stop again, choosing instead to continue on to Lewiston, Idaho where I would finish my days work before beginning my boring trip back across Eastern Desert Washington on my way home to Seattle later that evening.

Both of these times I was successful. Both times I was able to fight my natural urges and do what my head, as opposed to my stomach, told me was best. I was proud and stuck my chest out and held my chin high as I patted myself firmly on the back in praise of my responsible finacial decision. I drove on.

But I'm not perfect and I had to drive by VJ's one more time on my way home, and 3 times past the smell of hickory smoke and roasting pork fat is just too much for a relocated Alabama boy to bear so I circled the block once. I soon spotted the sign saying to park across the street behind Jimmy G's Motorcycle shop, turned in, found the lot full, turned back out and circled the block another time before finding a parking space on the road that makes up the lefthand arm of that "Y" we were talking about.

And then I did it. I went inside to what I found to be a very full dining room with a long counter in front under one of those "Order Here" signs we know so well. The smell was unmistakable. Barbecue. Just that mouthwatering aroma of slow cooked pork intermingled with the lovely scent of hickory smoke, and nothing else. Things were looking up. All around I saw men, women, and children happily chomping, gnawing, talking and laughing as well as occasionally taking the time to wipe messy faces with napkins in between bites and slurps. I stepped to the counter...

...and minutes later I was finding my way through the crowd to my lonely table in the front yard where I would enjoy my large pulled pork sandwich, complete with a half pound of meat, coleslaw, and just enough sauce to compliment the meat without turning the meal into a soggy mess. This gorgeous pile of pig meat, cabbage and bread along with a bag of chips and an ice cold Barq's was all purchased for less than $10 and consumed in the shadow of the smoking BBQ trailer.

As I sat there eating in the "V" cars would occasionally pass by on the road to the right of the "Y", blowing hot air and fragrant hickory smoke from the cooker across my table. I noticed the sandwich would somehow taste a bit better at these moments, but when a car would then whip by on my left, blowing all that smoke the other way and replacing it with the hot air and exhaust fumes normally associated with sitting by the side of the road...

...that barbecue still tasted damned good.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Eat Your Veggies

2008-05-06T18:39:00.000-07:00

Today's itinerary: Sunnyside, Washington

Little more than a brown dirt town in a brown dirt portion of this grand state, Sunnyside lies sandwiched between Yakima (the Palm Springs of Washington) and the regimented and seemingly endless rows of espaliered grapevines of the vineyards Yakima Valley Wine Country. The inevitable first impression of Sunnyside is not a good one and as one drives through the outskirts of town the first sight to be seen is likely something along these lines:

Cows. Hundreds of cows standing in mud as they crowd their way to the rails of the corrals so they can stick their heads through to get to the trough full of whatever it is they're lucky enough to be eating on that particular day. Now if this sight doesn't bother you, and it may not (many people love cows) the smell most certainly will. Try it in August.

As you continue along the main road into this bustling metropolis of what must be low return on sweat equity you'll see....

OK, you won't see anything until you get into Sunnyside proper at which point you may see something like this:

If you keep your eyes open you may get a glimpse of the new supermarket. Fiesta Foods stands like a beacon of hope and future prosperity, beckoning Washington's Latino population with promises of fresh carnitas and a lovely air-conditioned shopping experience. "Come to Sunnyside," it calls, "and after toiling in the dirt and the heat of the desert sun by day you can come here for a cool and relaxed shopping experience."

Continuing through this single story town seemingly constructed entirely of concrete, cowshit, and sunshine you may find yourself desparately searching for signs pointing the way to the nearest freeway. You may be looking for a way out (and who could blame you?), but in your efforts you may miss something important. Look! Just up ahead! Holy crap! Hit the brakes and hang a left. This looks like it might be worth hanging around a little while longer.

Now, its not that its a Burger Ranch that has me all excited. And its not the sign advertising a New Balance Shoe Sale, either, but the other signs got me all worked up. If you know whats good for you it'll have you all worked up too.

Fried Asparagus? What the hell? How in the name of all that is holy on this earth could a person drive by a sign like that? How could you NOT want to stop and see for yourself? Don't ask me, I don't know.

I pulled in, same as you. I went in just as you would. And as I stood at the counter reading the menu board I was met with a sight I would never have expected. A piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook hung by a piece of scotch tape from the bottom of the obligatory fastfood joint overhead menu, and on that piece of paper were written these words:

Eat Your Veggies: Fried Asparagus

Fried Green Beans

Fried Bell Peppers

Fried Jalapenos

"May I take your order sir?

"Yup, I'll try the asparagus and the jalapenos, please. And a big ol' cup of your fresh lemonade."

"Do ju wan' tartar sals or fry sals?"

"Which is better?"

"Well, I no like tartar so I gonna say fry".

"Fry it is then, and I'll take it to go, please."

As I watched Juanita squeeze my lemons for my lemonade my mouth was truly watering over the thought of this unknown meal to come. Within a few minutes I had unloaded the greasy paper bag of mid-afternoon treats onto the passenger seat of the knifemobile and dipped my first deep fried jalapeno into that internationally recognized concoction of ketchup and mayo known as fry sauce.

I think the jalapenos must have been preroasted as they were very tender and sweet with almost no chile heat to them at all, but they were tasty as hell, and I would definitely have them again.

The asparagus were outstanding. The batter was crispy, light, and airy on the outside while being wonderfully moist and chewy on the inside. The asparagus themselves were still crisp and full of that wonderful flavor, the memories of which are at times the sole driving force that pushes us forward through the cold and soggy days of Northwest Winter and on towards Spring.

Yes, my pee smells funny.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

For those who'd like to know...

2008-03-20T20:56:00.000-07:00

..As I strolled along today in downtown Seattle I was hailed by a familiar smiling face. It turned out to be a friend from the past whom many of you will remember from the pages of this very blog. Can you guess?

Correct. Terry the Self Proclaimed Sandwich King was standing there in front of me sporting that famous smile I saw so rarely before he sold his old restaurant the Brooklyn Grinder.

See the original post about Terry here. (that means click the word "here" over there)

See the followup concerning the King's downfall here. (Again, click that word)

Seems Terry is now working at O to Go, an organic grab it and go sort of quickbite chain that caters to the busy professional in Seattle. I'd been wondering when I would run into him again, and now it looks like I'll see him a bit more often as O to Go is one of my clients. Terry seemed happier today than I can remember seeing him in a long a time. He's very proud of his band "Man Alive" and seems to think they are really going somewhere. I think being a working stiff as opposed to a business owner agrees with the old Self Proclaimed Sandwich King. It was nice to see him smile.

Sorry, no pictures.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Have I Mentioned that I like Mexican Food?

2008-03-05T21:46:00.000-08:00

Today's Itinerary: San Jaun de Spokane

I woke up with a headache. Not just any ol' everyday headache but one of those big mean sonsofbitches that leaves me wondering "why, if this misery was unavoidable anyway, did I not just go out and get shitfaced last night?".

After four hours of working and eating Tylenol chased with coffee I was starting to second guess my memory and think that maybe I really DID go out and get drunk the night before, and that if this was the case then I was surely hungover (which I wasn't) and if I was really hungover then what I needed to set me straight would be........? Yup. Messican food.

With this in mind I began scanning my surroundings in search of a suitable little south of the border type fondita that might be serving up the greasy meat and tortilla brunch for which I was now yearning, and, coincidentally, as I was driving up West Francis (in my new home away from home, Spokane) a distinctly Mexican voice came riding the radio waves through the fog encircling my brain and said to me, "Thee best Mexican restaurant een Spokane ees no restaurant. Ees thee deli counter at DeLeon Foods on East Francees."

East Francis? No kiddin'. This was just mere blocks from my location at the time and within minutes I was sitting in the parking lot and salivating all over the front of my sweatshirt in anticipation.

See...I tol' y'all it was pretty damned coincidental.

As I entered the store I noticed the line of people beginning to form off to my right. Now at noon I wouldn't have thought too much of this line. In fact I may have even been put off by such a short line at "the best Mexican restaurant in Spokane" at noon, but at 10:15am on a Tuesday I had to think a line of such unprecedented magnitude was probably a good sign so I took my place at the back began the patient wait for my crack at Heaven on East Francis.

Arriving at the counter after only a few minutes I began studying one of those pegboard menus meant only for the uneducated or uninitiated. I must have appeared somewhat befuddled as I perused the few choices of burritos and combos because the man behind the counter whistled at me and said,

"Senor. If you would taste the puerco, por favor",

Turning, I saw he was offering to me, precariously dangling on the end of a toothpick, a hunk of braised pork shoulder the size of a woman's fist. Offering a weakly mumbled "thanyou" I took and tasted this piece of mouthwateringly moist and tender, yet wonderfully crisp and perfectly charred pig and I guess my eyes must have rolled back into my head in some sort of carnivorous ecstasy as I revelled in the flavors of chiles, tomatoes, cumin and of course, pork because my new amigo asked me in a concerned voice,

"You okay, Senor? You need maybe some tacos?"

Jolted back to reality I replied, "Three. Please."

"Si, amigo. Do you want the grilled onions and jalapenos? They are very tasty."

"Yeah yeah yeah. Put it all on there, please. And muy rapido, amigo. I'm suddenly hungrier than I thought."

At this point I noticed 3 hotel pans of eggs. Scrambled eggs, and the eggs in each pan were mixed with different special guest star ingredients. Settling on the eggs with sausage and cheese I asked for some.

"Si, Senor? That's a lot of food. You must be very hungry"

"Hell yes I'm hungry, dammit, and I nee....oh damn, are those fresh tamales?"

Lowering his voice, my amigo behind the counter now said to me,

"The best een all of Spokane, senor. My wife gets up very early to come to work and make them each day. They are very popular."

"Well, toss one of those babies on my plate then, my friend. I just keep getting hungrier by the minute."

Laughing out loud now, my short and chubby little mustachioed friend took my $9.57 and sent me happily on my way to my table by the window where I would now perform one of those heart stopping, death defying feats that only a culinary daredevil such as myself could possibly pull off. Thats right...

I ate every last bite.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

I must write An Ode...

2008-03-04T19:58:00.000-08:00

Ohhhhhhhhhh tamal!

Owner of my heart.

Bread of peasants enveloping
El carne de los reyes, all the while betraying the

poverty of your creators.

With your glorious aroma and promises of

the fulfillment of my darkest desires,

You beckon.

Tender fatty pork dressed

becomingly in your coat of hominy, and lard,

concealing your smoldering undergaments of

chile and tomatillo.

I am yours today,

and for as long as you deem

it proper to have

me.

I love you, Tamal.

Truly.

Dang....

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

I'm Not Tryin' To Change the World

2008-02-18T17:56:00.000-08:00

Today's Itenerary: Friggin' Spokane...again.

"I never thought we would reach this point, did you?"

"And what point is that?"

"A black man and a woman, for President...or at least the Democratic nomination. Can you believe it? Here in the United States there is actually a distinct possibility that one of our final choices will be either a black man or a woman. Friggin' amazing"

"Yeah, I guess. You gonna eat that biscuit?"

This was the conversation, or at least the jist, coming from the table across the aisle from me in my newfound Spokane hole in the wall called Chicken-n-More.

And it seems to be the conversation everywhere I go these days. Everybody everywhere seems to be somewhat overwhelmed by this great nations sudden enlightenment in that interesting area where politics and human rights overlap. I guess I just don't see what the hubbub is all about. Well, I understand the amazement when it comes to Hillary, and we won't begin to study that side of this equation, but its this disbelief I'm sensing over the possibility of having a black President that has me somewhat bewildered. Its almost as though folks believe we're living in a country full of racist kooks. Its as if they think everyone (everyone but themselves, of course) has some kind of an -ohmygodnowaycouldablackmaneverbecapable- glitch in their mental makeupthat can never actually be overcome. I don't see it.

I never did see it. Racism? Where? Hell, I grew up in Alabama in the 1970's and I never did witness the corruption and mistreatment that one would imagine to be so evident in what was supposed to be one of America's great hotbeds of racial tension. Tension? Shucks. It was nothing like that. In fact, while growing up I attended a public school system in which there were no black students at all. Not one! Four elementary schools, one junior high school and one high school and not a single African American. No black teachers either. Or administrators. So how could there have been any racial tension? It was all lies I tell ya. Looking back, I guess there were some black janitors at the schools, but no one hassled them or abused them at all. In fact, we pretty much just ignored them completely, and when they would yell at us for walking across the freshly mopped section of floor, or kicking the pile of dust and dirt recently swept, or for absent-mindedly tossing candy wrappers on the floor we never talked back or smarted off or called them any kind of names. No, we would just keep on walking as if we didn't hear them at all. It was never tense. Quite the opposite, in fact.

And of course if there were no blacks in the schools there weren't any living in the neighborhood. Nope. This really kept the tension at a minimum, I suppose, as it heavily reduced the level of crime and drug usage in the area. In fact, the only African Americans we were likely to see around our houses were the maids as they would get off the city busses on the way to their jobs cleaning the houses of our neighbors. They would ride the city busses into the neighborhood in the mornings, and as they would get off we would climb on for our ride to school, noisily pushing our way past the maids still seated at the front of the bus so we could claim our favorite seats back in the back (the irony of which was lost on us kids, but certainly not those women).

And I loved my friends house-boy, Harley. Heck, he taught us to whittle, and he would take us in his orange Pinto down to the Old Mill to go fishing. Harley was always smiling, and he never would seem to get angry with us, no matter how we smarted off. I guess he just knew kids and realized we were bound to think we knew everything. Nope, things never got tense with Harley. He loved us and he loved working there and mowing the lawn and fixing things and entertaining us boys. I'm sure he couldn't have been happier.

And I remember when I was 15 or so I was given my first real summer job down at the Birmingham News. Of course I wasn't an editor or anything. No they started me out at the bottom of the totem pole, working in Customer Service. They gave me a desk and told me to answer the phone and take complaints from all the angry people whose paper wasn't delivered that day. And do you know what? I was the only white person in that whole department. And the only male, too. There were lots of white men working at the news, just not in customer service, I guess. I used to sit there at my desk in that office with Gloria, Liz, Ester and the others and we would just have the grandest time taking those complaints and bitching to each other about the way that last caller needed to get an attitude adjustment or how that woman was just so nasty, etc., etc. I never noticed the least bit of racial tension in that office. And those women were really nice to me too. Liz would bring me a big ol' plate of ribs and beans on the 5th of July. She said that was what all the black folks cooked on the 4th. And they would let me go off to the bathroom as many times as I wanted. If I felt like shirking my duties and making them do extra work while I made 15 trips to the snack bar they never complained. They would just do that extra work without even letting on they knew what was happening. They sure were good to me. They really must have liked me a lot.

And as I sat at my table at Chicken-n-More, I was reminded of going over to Fife's for lunch with Ester and Liz. We would wander over for what is known in the South as "meat and three". I had never even imagined walking into a place as dirty looking as Fife's until I started working at the News, but when Liz took me in for the first time I was hooked. Meat and three is a wonderful meal served cafeteria style. You pick your meat from whichever 2 or 3 were being served on that particualr day, and then you get to have 3 sides with it. Choices include such wonderful southern vegetable dishes as green beans (simmered for hours with lots of pork fat), squash, collard greens (simmered for hours with lots of pork fat), butter beans (yep, more pork fat), macaroni and cheese (damned right its a vegetable) and fried green tomatoes. I could never eat the collard greens in those days. I just couldn't tolerate 'em, and Gloria would always kid me, saying "Why you white boys won't eat no greens?" We would all laugh then and have a great time and tension just didn't exist. We all got along fine. Those were the days, and I couldn't help thinkng about those days as I sat , surrounded by the lily white clientele of Spokane's number one soul food restaurant, eating my fried chicken with red beans and collard greens, which certainly tasted as though they had been simmered for hours with lots of pork fat.

Racism? I just don't think its as prevalent as everyone seems to think.

Dang, those black folks sure can cook.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

The Continuing Adventure

2008-02-05T18:15:00.000-08:00

Today's Itenerary: The frozen tundra of Riverfront Park

Another big day for our friend, Tigger. After working for a few hours he really was getting fidgety and started asking me about that park I'd told him about.
"Couldn't we just go there now?" he kept asking me until I couldn't stand it anymore.

So I drove downtown for a walk through the park with Tigger. I had told Tigger about the giant Red Wagon Slide so when we got there and saw that it was closed for some kind of repairs he was very disappointed. He just sat there on that bench looking at that great big red wagon for the longest time.

I was finally able to coax Tigger away from the wagon (I think he wanted to sit there until Spring when they will re-open the slide) when I told him we could go feed the ducks. Let me tell you, that was just what Tigger wanted to hear. He forgot all about that red wagon slide and with a big grin said to me, "Feeding ducks is what Tiggers do best." There must have been a hundred of those cute little ducks all waddling around and quacking at Tigger for more food. Tigger thought it was all so funny he just couldn't stop laughing. He just laughed and laughed and laughed.

After feeding the ducks for a few more minutes Tigger noticed music playing from the other side of the park so we went and "had an inspection". And do you know what we found? An ice skating rink! Tigger was so thrilled he could hardly stand it. I think he may have wet his pants...if he had pants. Unfortunately they didn't have skates Tigger's size so we just had to sit and watch the other skaters. Tigger and I didn't mind, really. We both had to admit we were a little bit scared to ice skate. But, boy, that guy in the black sure was good. Tigger was very impressed by his supercool gloves.

We followed the trail through the park for a minute and we came to a bridge over Spokane Falls. Tigger thought the view was breathtaking and asked if we could sit and look at it for a few minutes, so we did.

Well, I don't have to tell you that after all that walking Tigger had really worked up a healthy appetite so we stopped in for a bite and a cup of Coffee at 4 Seasons Coffee House across the street from the park. Tigger asked if I would get him a jalapeno and cheese bagel for lunch so I got one for him and one for myself and we sat at a little table to eat and watch the new snow pile up outside. He really liked his bagel (I guess Tiggers like spicy food) but he said he was having trouble drinking from that great big coffee cup so I had to get him a straw. Do you know he ate almost that whole bagel?

Apologies to Al Kaplan.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Traveling Companion

2008-02-04T21:45:00.000-08:00

Today's Itenerary: Holiday Inn Express. Spokane, WA again.

As I was getting ready to go out of town this morning I thought to myself that I might like some company this trip. It gets kind of lonely when I'm on my trips so I asked my good friend Tigger if he would like to come with me and he said "Yessiree buddy boy! That would be Tigger-iffic!"

So I found him a place on the dashboard of the van so he could look out the window and he had a great time watching the world go by.

But when we got to the mountains and he saw all the snow that has fallen in the last few days he really got to be a bother with all of his begging to please pull over somewhere so he could play in the snow. Finally I just had to stop so Tigger could get out and have a little winter time fun. Here he is trying his best to make snow angels. He soon got very wet and cold, however, and I had to take him back to the van so he could sit on top of the heater vent to get good and dry.

After another couple of hours of driving Tigger was all warmed up and getting thirsty so he started asking if we couldn't stop somewhere and get a nice drink. As luck would have it I was able to find a rest area and we pulled off for a nice cold bottle of Sprite. I bought one for Tigger and one for myself. Tigger thought having a whole bottle of Sprite for himself was abso-tively fantastilicious! He loved sitting in the snow in the warmth of the bright sun and drinking his soda and having a lovely chat with me about snow and where he thinks it comes from. Silly Tigger.

When we got to the hotel tonight and checked into our room Tigger was thrilled to find that they leave candy in the rooms for the guests. Look how excited he was! I let him have all four pieces for dinner because he was such good company all day long.

Well, as you can imagine, Tigger was very tired after a big day like today so he is already in bed and snoring happily. He was a little irritated with me because he said he wanted me to turn off the light so it wouldn't shine in his eyes, but I did that for him as soon as I was done taking his picture and he seemed to feel better. He said he was looking forward to another day of making deliveries with me tomorrow, and he hopes we can stop at the park to play in the snow. I told him I'd see what I could do. Maybe I'll take more pictures tomorrow.

Heh heh. Just call me Mr. Original.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Let's Cook Paella

2008-01-13T14:24:00.001-08:00

Let Them Eat Cake

2008-01-09T21:05:00.000-08:00

TODAY'S ITENERARY: The Filthy Streets of Spokane

Snow. Everywhere, snow.

As I started over Snoqualmie Pass on Monday morning I was expecting to run into a bit of snow as I crossed the Cascade Mountains. After all, it is January right? Typically, the snow begins to dissipate, though, as I head into Ellensburg on the eastern side, disappearing completely by the time I reach Vantage and the Columbia River.

But not this time.

No, this time the snow just hung around. I kept driving east as always and the snow just kept hanging around. At Vantage...snow. George...snow. Moses Lake...more of the same. Ritzville, Cheney, Medical Lake and on into Spokane...Snow, snow, snow, and more snow.

Honestly, I generally don't enjoy working in the snow, but knowing that the fine residents of the riverside city of Spokane are a tad more accomplished at driving in the white stuff than their counterparts back in Seattle I began to like the idea of a few days traipsing through this winter wonderland spreading out before me. Soon more snow began to fall and shortly after arriving at my hotel in town I looked to see a fresh 8 inches of fluffy frozen fun pillowing the cityscape outside the window of my warm and cozy standard room (a room comfortably equipped with two double beds and personal size bars of soap, I might add).

Eight inches? Hot damn! What does a fella do when he looks out to see eight inches of freshly fallen snow? Well, he grabs his coat and runs headlong into the blizzard for a little winter playtime, of course, and that's exactly what I did.

Outside the back door of the Doubletree Hotel in Spokane is the Spokane River. Along that river runs one of those pathways through town frequented mostly by joggers, cyclists and those business men and women who happen to live close enough to their place of work to enjoy the healthful benefits of a good foot commute. Pathways of this sort, it turns out, are also quite inviting to unfamiliar out of towners wanting to play in the winter weather, so down the path I skipped in childish glee with my camera bag slung over my shoulder and my tripod under my arm.

**ALERT, ALERT** Snow Emergency Condition RED has been declared for the city of Spokane, WA as I type this bit of drivel. **ALERT, ALERT** We may all freeze. Send blankets, coats, footie pajamas, and any stray cans of Campbell's Chunky Ham and Butter Bean Soup you may find in your closets and pantries. **ALERT, ALERT**

Now sure it was beautiful and all, but what I really wanted was someone to hit with a snowball, so down the path I went, in hopes of being drafted into someones snowball army only to be disappointed upon finding myself in the company of a flock of Canada Geese in an otherwise nearly deserted Riverside Park.

I tossed a few balls of snow and ice at the unsuspecting geese, and when it got dark I set up the tripod and snapped a few shots of the park in the glow of the quaint, old timey lightposts that keep the pathway cheerfully and safely lit for wandering thugs and strolling lovebirds.

And then I began my trek. From here in the well lit and seemingly safe center of Spokane I began walking the 2 miles or so to a not so inviting neighborhood on the eastern outskirts of the downtown area.

I had a craving. Not just a craving for a long walk in a snowstorm, but a craving for something so much more primal. A craving for something I try so hard to resist after luckily surviving the excesses of my youth. I'm not proud of this, mind you. Far from it, in fact, and my first instinct is to hide my disgraceful behavior from all of you readers, but I'm inclined instead to come clean and type out all the unattractive details for you now. Purely as an act of self preservation, you understand, as I would surely soon find myself living the seedy second life of an addict otherwise, and the idea of spending the rest of my life hiding my addiction from my wife and children, as well as the rest of you, is more than I can really get my head around. So as Barney Fife would have said, "I'm gonna nip it! Nip it in the BUD."

So I trudged. I slogged. I tramped through the unrelenting snowstorm towards that calling from my misspent youth. (I didnt spend my youth in Spokane, so its a similar substitute). I hiked through the brightly lit shopping district. Along the newly shovleled sidewalks of the hotel district. Into the slightly less illuminated smokiness of the bar lounge and tavern district, past t-shirted groups of young partiers and older, more seasoned drinkers bundled up with worn jackets haphazardly draped over hunched shoulders as they stood outside (as directed by state law)to smoke their quick cigarette before returning to the bar in hopes of finding their beer or scotch or Red Bull and vodka safely waiting. I shuffled along through the drifts, the streets quickly growing darker and far less inviting, past the Greyhound Bus Station and into that area all cities have, populated by the homeless and destitute. The only buildings that seemed to be inhabited at all were the missions and shelters, busier than usual I imagine, on an evening as cold and unforgiving as this. The streets were mostly deserted on this particular night, but I did pass the occasional ghostly soul standing bleary eyed and staring out at the snow while having hissingly quiet and sometimes violent arguments with that faceless voice that seems to constantly badger such people.

Keeping my eyes down and the hood of my navy blue sweatshirt pulled over my head and forward as far over my eyes as possible I hiked on along the garbage strewn, urine scented pedestrian underpasses and over railroad tracks until something caught my attention. An odor, or more of an aroma I suppose, reminiscent of the past yet definitely in the present. The slightly acrid aroma of smoke with an underlying and yet overpoweringly mouthwatering hint of beef cooking in its own fat.

My mission was becoming clearer by the minute as I negotiated the icy roads and sidewalks, trying not to fall flat on my ass, while following my nose towards my destination. And as I rounded the corner at the intersection of Sprague and 3rd I saw it. The lights were nearly blinding after my walk through the dark recesses of the Spokane underground, but I stood gaping at this beautiful sight. This haven of 1950's style teenage summer fun and fine dining. This virtual holy land of "grilled" beef and fried potatoes. This absolute respite from such worries of today's world as overpopulation, global warming, and the starvation of hundreds of thousands or maybe even millions in countries otherwise unheard of by many Americans.

The Drive In.

Dick's Drive In, in this case, with a sign featuring a giant Panda Bear happlily urging you to "Buy the Bagfull". Tiredly trudging up to the counter I smiled at the girl behind the window and ordered myself two Whammies and a large order of fries. That's a total of 4 greasy beef patties, 4 slices of what is probably Processed American Cheese Food, various chopped onions, pickles, ketchup and mayo all piled on two hamburger buns and accompanied by about 3 potatoes worth of french fries decadently fried in beef tallow. Mmmmmm-mmm. Now that's goooooooood eatin'.

My order (cooked by a girl who apparently eats where she works) was brought to the window within 2 minutes by the first girl (who appears to eat what she sells).

Smiling and surely wide eyed with anticipation I handed her my hard-earned $4.67 and turned back into the snow. They have no inside seating at Dick's, and only two or three snow covered picnic tables outside. So after wiping a spot clear enough, I snapped a picture of one of my whammies before wolfing it down as I walked through the storm back to my hotel.

So here you have it. The object of my desire. That evil symbol of American depravity. That much despised though so simple sandwich that alone seems to embody the greed, gluttony and avarice that so many throughout the world associate with the United States of America. That's right. The Double Cheeseburger, and surrounded by seedy gin joints, homeless shelters and Christian missions sits this purveyor of the very foodstuffs that are making Americans fat in a world of the starving. And they sell it for practically nothing. Buy the bagfull. Or something like that.

Eat a bag of Dicks!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Thank God for the Taco Truck

2007-09-01T22:22:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: Somewhere on Pacific Highway.

Let me begin by mentioning that on Thursday evening I headed down to the stadium to watch the Seahawks play football. Let me also mention that attending nightime NFL games does not agree with me. I can hang with the whole 1pm on Sunday afternoon event standard for the sport, but when they start throwing games at me in the evening it really messes with my constitution. Some of you will understand where I'm coming from here, but many of you won't so let me just say this: for alot of people in this world football means beer.

Before a Sunday afternoon game the beer is often consumed with, if not as, breakfast as one begins the pregame tailgate party at some local watering hole before arriving at the stadium early in order to find a suitable location to park the car and cooler for the day.

Once safely parked in a suitable pregame location the fun begins as amidst random hoots and throat punishing hollers along with high fives and chestbumps the true fan bounces and rambles from car to pickup truck to motorhome hobnobbing with the other team faithful while trying not to spill the alcoholic contents of his pretty red Solo keg cup anywhere other than into his mouth. As the early morning turns to late morning, grills are lit and steaks are burned as a fitting accompaniment to the football fans lunch of choice. Yep, more beer.

Sounds glamorous, doesn't it? Hell yes it does, and its this type of Hollywood glitz with which I can definitely hang. Another beer or two at the game (along with a $9 chili cheese dog from hell that I wouldn't even feed my dog)...

...and a good walk back to the car and I'm good to go home and begin an early recuperative rest so as to be ready for work on the following Monday. And come that Monday I am invariably fit as a fiddle and ready to perform my duty to the community as protector and defender against evil.

But an evening game.....Lord help the Knifeman. I'm not as young as I was 20 or even 10 years ago and the consumption of so many beers at such a late hour can leave me stuggling from my bed at 5am on the following morning while holding my head and wishing I was comatose if not dead.

So as I stumbled out to the Knifemobile on Friday, cup of strong coffee in hand, its no surprise that I was thinking of two things. One was going back to bed and the other was eating something suitable for a superhero in a not so super condition such as myself. Of course the former was not an option as my adoring public awaited my heroic appearance in the kitchens of the Northwest, but the latter....well, c'mon man! I can find me some food.

I knew what I was looking for, too. I was looking for grease. And where better to find grease but at the taco truck? And as I headed south along Pacific Hwy I kept my eyes peeled for that converted motorhome that would surely be my saviour on this headwrenching day of need. You know the taco truck, right?

The white and chrome truck parked in the dirt lot in front of the broken down abandoned building? The white and chrome truck sitting there innocently with the vinyl awning standing slightly awry as though someone had leaned against one of the support poles, nearly causing the whole thing to topple to the ground, but had caught himself at just the last moment and pulled away in time to avoid certain disaster. And you know the awning askew also, right? The one under which two long foldable tables are set with paper napkin dispensers and bottles of salsa picante placed haphazardly along their length for the use of customers who choose to take the food "para aqui"?

You know...Cocina Mexicana or La Fondita or Taco y Burritos del Rio Grande. The names vary but the trucks are basically the same. Painted with red and green lettering to let you know what's for sale and displaying various bottles of multicolored sodas and aguas frescas in the converted cooler built into the side of the truck underneath the long but narrow window fronted by a small counter (two feet above your head) behind which sits the Mexican lady waiting to take your order.

Yes! That truck! That glorious oasis of lard, offal and uncleanliness that a wandering superhangover such as myself needs on a morning when that universally recognized alcohol soaking sponge of grease and meat is required to bring him out of his slump. Ahhh, the taco truck.

As I climbed painfully from the car the presence of three obviously Latino patrons was enough to assure me it was not too early for food. I stuggled to lift my feet completely as I walked so as not to kick up dirt and disturb the three amigos, and as I neared the truck the aroma of the slowcooked meats and warm corn tortillas slowly enveloped me like a warm security blanket. It was at this point I realized all would soon be right with the world. Upon hearing the friendly (not really so much friendly as bored) voice of the woman behind the elevated counter ask me,

"Que quieres?"

it sounded as though an angel was speaking to me from heaven and my head cleared just sufficiently for me to reply,

"Quatro tacos, amiga. Dos de lengua y dos de pastor. And one soda".

"Bien, Senor. Cinco dolares, por favor" came the reply from heaven, and without lifting my head to look I handed up my $5, grabbed my soda and flopped into one of the chairs at the community table under the awning.

Looking around a my three Latino companions I stuggled to spit out a weak hello to which one replied with a knowing smile,

"Ay, primo. Maybe to much tequila last night? You no look so good".

"No tequila, amigo. Cerveza. Mucho cerveza hurts mi cabeza."

Apparently I had made a funny as the three amigos laughed heartily at my pain but with understanding and a certain amount of compassion in their eyes just the same.

"You order menudo, primo?" another of the latinos asked. He seemed disappointed to learn that, no, I had ordered tacos, but was still supportive of my efforts. "S'ok amigo. The food here is just what you need for your condition. Tacos will be helpful to you, but next time order menudo. Tequila tonight, menudo manana."

They all laughed and repeated the phrase a few times, "Tequila tonight, menudo manana," and they were still laughing at this as my number was called and I stumbled up to get my food. Oh glorious paper plate of tacos. Lovely steaming piles of braised tongue and marinated pork slow roasted with pineapple and onion all placed lovingly atop beautifully steamed corn tortillas. All this was garnished with a bit of cilantro and onion along with some radish slices and a wedge of lime. Salsa was served on the side in a small plastic container (which had been made, ironically, by the same damned company that manufactures those lovely red keg cups I was spilling beer from the day before).

In order to avoid the head splitting laughter that was still happily infecting the tarp covered seating area I carried everything back to the Knifemobile where I could eat in peace, and begin my road to recovery. And my road back to ...

...Beer!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Let's Cook Something #3

2007-08-26T00:11:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: The Backyard

Ok ok ok. Yes I've been missing in action for awhile, but hey, even knifemen have families and take vacations. "And what did I do on my summer vacation" you ask? Well, lemme see. I played Madden '06 with my 14 year old daughter. I played lazer tag with my son (and kicked his 10 year old butt, I might add). I took both of them hiking at Mt Rainier where while I scolded them for acting like babies over a few bees one of the buzzing little SOB's stealthily flew into the top of my bullet proof superhero hiking boots and stung my tender little ankle thereby rendering me nearly incapable of walking for the remainder of the day. And for the coup de grace I took both of them along with the 15 year old Sous Chef (sans Batgirl outfit) for a float trip down the Green River. And a wonderful trip it was. We got a late start on the afternoon and as we floated along watching the sun sink slowly behind the trees it became apparent to all of us that we may never see civilization again. As my boy talked of pizzas and frogs, my bikini clad daughters were slowly turning blue and shivering so hard the boat was shaking. An unforseen logjam created a portage situation in which I was forced to carry both boats a few hundred yards over gravel shoals and downed trees. Wilderness seemed to be everywhere as we were surrounded by sheer cliffs and unpenetrable forest for most of the trip. The occasional farmers' private beaches were always made to seem terribly uninviting due to the presence of large No Trespassing signs and unfriendly looking dogs so we were ever inclined to float on down the river in search of our predetermined stopping point 8 miles from where we had started. Always feeling certain that stopping point and the comfort of the family Jeep Wrangler would be right around the next bend I tried my damndest to put a smile on the situation until I was lucky enough to break both of my oars down to a length of no more than 12 inches or so. That, for some reason, was exactly the point in the afternoon at which I knew without a doubt that we were screwed and I was a rotten Wilderness Dad. Finally, just as the light was failing and my eyes were becoming unable to see what lay ahead of us we spotted what appeared to be an exit point unguarded by Rottweilers or Backwoods Redneck Pitbulls and with the strains of Dueling Banjos twanging in my head I drug the boats up a small rise and into the freshly plowed field of a local strawberry farmer. After a 10 minute walk carrying our boats around the field I was able to rouse this friendly old fella and convince him to give us all a ride in his pickup the final 2 miles to our car where we were greeted by my lovely wife who was at the time frantically dialing 911 in hopes of sending a search party out into the wild to find us before we all died of hypothermia or drowning or bear attack or worse....Deliverence Piggie Squealin'.

Hey! Some days are better than others.

So anyway, as I was floating lazily along dreaming of a comfortable sofa and a tasty meal it occured to me there was a long weekend coming up (namely Labor Day) and that some of you out there might want some tips on how to cook the perfect barbecue with the least headache so as to impress the hell outta your guests without even breaking a sweat. The way to achieve this is to cook your pork all night long (yes, while you sleep) and then hold it until your guests arrive and you're ready to serve.

"Hold it?" you scream defiantly. "Hold it and let it get all cold and dried out like some low rate restaurant style barbecue that even some ol' Yankee bastard from Rhode Island wouldn't eat?"

I see your point here, but with a little know how and a certain trick which I will impart to you before I'm done you can pull this off without ever having to reheat your barbecue. You will be able to flop it onto the counter still steaming in front of your slackjawed guests even hours after finishing the cooking process. This avoids that inevitable plaintive and usually often repeated,

"When's dinner gonna be served?"

To which you are forced to answer,

"Aw hell, its BBQ. Its tol' y'all its done when its done!"

It will also save you alot of money on the beer those hounds can consume while waiting hours for your meat to reach that pullable state of unbelievable tenderness required in order to be called Honest to God Barbecue

So....let's get started.

The Meat:

Now I'm assuming you don't have a pit in the back yard large enough on which to roast a whole pig so for the task at hand I will suggest that you run down to the butcher and ask him for the largest bone-in Boston butt roast he has on hand. Seven or eight pounds should do nicely.

You will also need a good rub. I like this one. Its easy to make but feel free to use whatever homemade or storebought version you prefer.

2 tablespoons salt

2 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons brown sugar

2 tablespoons ground cumin

2 tablespoons chile powder

2 tablespoons freshly cracked black pepper

1 tablespoon cayenne pepper

4 tablespoons paprika

Simply mix together. I usually double or quadruple the recipe since it is used liberally.

After eating your breakfast and washing your butt (the meat, dumbass) dump the rub all over the pork in very liberal proportions and rub it in. Don't be shy here. You want to really massage that stuff into the roast.

It's messy. It can be gross if you're weak that way. It will be worth it. Some people, including myself sometimes, spread yellow mustard all over the pork before applying the rub in order to help it to adhere to the meat. Try it if you want, you'll like it, but don't feel that its absolutely necessary, because its not. One of those matter of taste things.

After your done rubbing you butt (sigh...the meat!) it will look something like this.

Wrap that tightly in plastic wrap and stick it into the refrigerator. You won't need it again until an hour before you want to put in on the grill. At that point you need to take it out so it can come to room temperature.

The Cooker:

I use a bullet style smoker called a Weber Smoky Mountain, or WSM for short. The bullet style is perfect for home use for a couple of reasons. First, its small enough not to look like someone parked a trailer in the back yard. Second, its very efficient as far as fuel consumption is concerned. On a good day one load of charcoal will provide you with 12-15 hours of steady cooking time without the need to feed wood to the fire on an hourly basis in order to maintain a consistent temperature. This gives you the opportunity to go about other business you may have such as mowing the lawn, cleaning the gutters, reading a book, or sleeping as the case may be. Below is a picture of the WSM.

Other companies make reasonable versions of this type of smoker and sell them for very affordable prices. Run down to Lowe's and you can pick up a Brinkmann for under $60. The fuel consumption won't be as efficient and the fire control may require a bit more attention, however, so if you're serious about BBQ I recommend spending the extra $100 or so on a Weber. If, on the other hand, you are willing to spend the time manning the pit all day and don't plan on cooking all night long and such you can do what I'm about to show you on most any grill that will maintain low cooking temps and provide ample space for indirect cooking.

The Fuel:

Now I know what you're doing. While still in the process of reading the above you've simultaneously surfed on over to Amazon and ordered yourself a brand spanking new WSM and as soon as you finish reading you're planning on rushing down to the store to buy yourself a giant bag of those wonderful Kingsford briquettes. Right?

WRONG!!! Do not use briquettes!

Briquettes are evil. Filled with various artificial substances previously unknown to mankind along with petroleum products that will undoubtedly leave a bad taste in your mouth, briquettes are purely for the kind of drunken amateurs who think good barbecue-ing means cooking chicken legs smeared with K.C. Masterpiece over a hot fire and flipping them every time they carch on fire while madly spraying everything in sight with a Windex bottle full of water. Briquettes are not for YOU. They're for that guy.

What you do want is pure hardwood lump charcoal. Real wood burned down to a charcoal state and sold to you with no petroleum fillers to screw up your dinner.

Different companies make it. Different stores sell it. Your local Grocery Store may not. Mine doesn't. I have to work a little harder. Wal-Mart carries Royal Oak lump here during the Summer, but during the winter I generally have to trek to the nearest hot tub outlet (They usually sell upscale grills also) in order to find the fuel I desire. It also costs a bit more. Trust the Knifeman. Its worth it.

Along with the lump you will want a few fist sized hunks of hardwood for smoke. Hickory is nice, but other types like various fruitwoods, Live Oak, Maple and Alder will do fine.

The Fire:

So how do you build a fire that will last all night long and cook an 8lb roast to pefection? Easy.

Do you load it up with lump and douse it in lighter fluid and toss on a lit match? No.

Please, please, please, if you don't already have a chimney starter go get one. Again, we want to avoid those awful flavors caused by using petroleum on our food. Chimneys are easy and quick to use and cost a whopping $12 or so.

Now, if you go back and look at the WSM you'll see its devided into three sections. On the bottom is the charcoal pan. In the middle are the cooking grates. On top is the lid. Taking the top two off exposes the charcoal pan and here we will build our fire(duh). You'll notice that I've cut the bottom out of an empty coffee can and placed it in the center of the fire grate. Around the can I've placed a load of unlit lump. This will not be immediately lit. Once the lump in the chimney is burning a nice shade of orange-red you'll want to dump that into the coffee can.

Here you will, with a pair of tongs if you're smart, pull the can out, leaving the burning coals in the middle and surrounded by the unlit lump. As the fire burns the outer pieces of coal will light providing you with a slow burning fire that can be maintained at the desired temperature for extended periods of time. What is that desired temperature?

Oh, I'd say 225 degrees is just about perfect, but don't go gettin' all stressed out over it. A pork butt is an incredibly forgiving hunk of meat. Layered throughout with a marbling of delicious fat to keep the meat moist during what can easily become a twelve hour cook, a pork butt is very willing to withstand cooking temperatures in the 350 degree range. This makes the butt a perfect cut for beginning pit masters. With a little practice at fire control, however, you will soon enough be quite adept at maintaining a fire in the 220-250 degree range with only a little vent manipulation and a minimum of effort.

The Cook:

So now we move on to cooking the meat. As I mentioned earlier, you want to take the meat out of the fridge about an hour before you plan to cook it. This will allow the roast to come to room temperature preventing it from slowing the cooking time by cooling the surrounding area inside the cooker when you put in on the grate.

After you've built your fire and removed the coffee can replace the body and lid of the cooker and by manipulating the lower vents you will be able to stabilize to maintain a temperature of 225 degrees or so inside the dome of the WSM. At this point place the meat on the grate and close the lid. This is a good time to toss some of that smoking wood I told you about onto the fire also. you want to do the smoking part early as meat ceases to take on smoke flavoring at some point around the 140 degree internal temperature mark.

You will notice in the picture that I've taken a small piece of wood and drilled a hole through it to hold the probe to my remote thermometer. I place this on the grate with the meat to help me moniter the cooking temperature inside the smoker. an oven thermometer will work also, but then you have to remove the lid to check it and removing the lid is something you want to avoid as much as possible. Valuable heat is lost each time you do this thereby increasing your cooking time.

7pm

This roast was put on the grill at about 7pm. About 12:30am I checked the fire. I might have tossed on a few coals, I can't really remember, and then I closed the lid and headed off to bed.

12:30am

I usually will get up around 4am just to check the fire and add coals if necessary. I will also check the internal temp of the meat at this time. A pork butt is tender enough to pull when it reaches 190 degrees internal. Not before. Don't go getting impatient and screw things up, ok? BBQ is done when its done. Every roast is different and while one 7 pounder may cook in 8 hours the next one may take 13. You just have to deal with it. Have a beer.

Now, assuming the fire is cooking along nicely and everything is a-ok at 4am I go back to bed and sleep until 7 or so. At this time I go check things out one more time. AS you can see this particular butt was right at 190 degrees and ready to be pulled from the fire approximately 12.5 hours after beginning the cook.

7:30 am

The Trick:

Now for that trick I told you about. Unless your guests are scheduled to arrive for dinner sometime around 8am you're gonna need some way to hold this beautiful hunk of barbecued meat until dinnertime. I've got a plan. All you need is a little foil and a few towels along with a cooler. Wrap the meat in the foil. Wrap the foil wrapped meat in the towels. Place the whole bundle into the cooler. Shut the cooler. Forget all about it and don't look until later. Go back to bed.

Dinnertime:

Now all you need to do is remove the pork from the cooler. Place the whole thing on the cutting board, hopefully in front of some of your guests, and unwrap that glorious hunk of steaming meat so the aromas can envelop the room evoking a Pavlovian effect in all who are present. At this point what you want to do is reach over, grab the bone, and with a quick tug just slip it clean out of the roast. It will slide out easily and there won't be a speck of meat left on it. As you do this make sure you're listening to EVERYONE let out that collective fireworks type "Aaaaahhh".

You will notice a black crust, called the bark, on the roast. I like to cut this off first and chop it into little pieces. I then pull the meat (yes, with my hands. If you use a knife it wouldn't be pulled pork would it?) into chuinks about the size of my thumb. If the internal temp of your butt reached the 190 mark that pork will be so tender and juicy it will practically fall apart on its own. Once all the meat is pulled I mix the chopped bark in with it so as to spread that spicey smokey goodness throughout. Toss all this into a bowl or container and there you have it.

A big ol' mess o' bobby-Q!

At this point you might mix some sauce into the pulled pork before serving it, but ONLY if its a vinegar based sauce (sorry Judson). And even then not too much. My favorite recipe for a vinegar sauce follows. Its not a true Carolina sauce as it has a bit of tomato in it (sorry Jennifer), but thats the Alabama way. Thats the way I like it. This sauce goes especially well with pulled pork. It is also a pretty good dipping sauce for ribs.

FOSCO'S FAMOUS ALABAMA STYLE SAUCE

3/4 cup cider vinegar

1/4 cup white vinegar

1tbsp brown sugar

2tsp kosher salt

1/4tsp ground black pepper

1/2 tsp dried hot red pepper flakes

1/4 to 1/2 cup ketchup

1tsp onion powder

1tsp garlic powder

1tsp ground mustard powder

worcestershire to taste

Put it all in a Mason jar and shake it up really well. Allow to set for 15minutes before using.

Now make yourself a sandwich. You deserve it. Hopefully you used some of the daylight you saved by cooking all night to whip up a pile of coleslaw.

And give the kids some watermelon. They deserve it...

...for putting up with you.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

A Few Words...

2007-07-21T22:33:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to mention the links on the right hand side of the page. I do hope that if you guys have time to read you might check a few of them out.

"Where in the World is Bill?" is the fledgling blog of an old friend of mine who is now working as a chef on a megayacht somewhere in the Alaskan Wilderness. He hasn't mastered his camera or his editing program, nor does he blog very often, but the idea has potential. hopefully he'll find the inspiration and the time to let us in on his lifestyle in the near future.

"Chez Annie" is a great food blog written by a friend of mine whom I've not met. If you have any interest whatsoever in Asian cuisine, barbecue or photography you very well may enjoy this site. Check it out.

Saara's Gastroloco site, as I like to call it, is an exciting blog I've recently discovered (though I've been communicating with Saara for some time now). Saara lives in an igloo deep in the forests of the Cascade Mountains (not so much an igloo, but a round house to be sure) and she is a very competent proponent of the local food type movement thing. I find her blog to be incredibly informative and inspiring.

Ken Levine is a television writer who at one time worked on MASH and also created Cheers, I believe. I first heard of him when he was doing play by play for the Seattle Mariners 10 or 15 years ago. I stumbled upon his blog the other day and was thrilled to have found it. He's quite the prolific writer so there's usually something new every day. "Levine's Law: The lead off walk always comes around to score, unless it doesn't."

The Price of Silver: Al Kaplan...well, words just don't describe him. I've no idea who he really is, but I suspect he's exactly who he says he is. He's a photographer who likes to take pictures of himself living his life. He posts blogs about his daily routine, whether it be going to the dentist, getting a haircut, or chatting with strangers at the local Starbuck's. He has a couple of stuffed toy monkey's that make occasional appearances. I find the blog captivating is a strange sort of way. Maybe you will, also.

Flamin'!

2007-07-15T22:56:00.000-07:00

Note from The Knifeman: Hello everyone. Please notice my new poll feature over to the right. Just check your answer for me and you'll be entered into a drawing with a chance to win a brand new 1972 Oldsmobile.

Today's Itenerary: Somewhere in Spokane

So as I headed out to the Knifemobile I was gazing around at the glory of what was a 50 degree July morning here in the Great Northwest, and looking forward to what was sure to be one of those beautiful blue sky, take it easy and appreciate the beauty around you sort of days that make working outside of the office such a pleasure. I was wearing my super duty crime fighter shorts and Official Knifeman Dickies Workshirt along with my wrap around, black framed, mirrored lense, extra cool, try to look at my eyes instead of my receding hairline, sunglasses. I felt good, and what's more, I looked good.

After 4 hours of air-conditioned driving across the desert Eastern Washingtonians call home, I stepped from the Knifemobile into a stifling 104 degree Spokane afternoon and I realized appearances really don't mean much. Good Lord it was hot. I mean nasty hot. My beautifully coiffed and cemented hair immediately began to fall forward onto my forehead and stick in silly looking patterns unbefitting of a big strapping fella such as myself while my perfectly pressed OKDW (thats the shirt) sagged until it resembled something along the lines of a navy blue burlap sack. I won't tell you about the mysterious wet spots which began to form...that would be unnecessary. Oh well. No matter, right? Surely my adoring public would see through all of that and be able to respect me for the person I am on the inside.

Well, whatever.

I slowly (emphasis on slowly) went through the motions of chasing dull instruments of torture from the kitchens of Couer d'Alene, Idaho and Washington's Spokane Valley until at last I came to the final stop: Flamin' Joe's.

Now Flamin' Joe's ain't much. It's a dinky little place on a busy six lane road in a sleazy (but not too much) little industrial part of town. At first sight of the place's name one might mistake Flamin' Joe's for a gay bar, but after reading the fine print on the sign the truth becomes apparent.

Firey Wings and Cool Brews. Well, my friends, on a 104 degree day a saggy shirted guy like myself with hair stuck to his forehead might just be inclined to head on inside and pull up a chair. I was. And I did.

Looking around at all the firefighter memorabilia and paraphernalia which adorned the walls and cute little chain link fences used to divide the dining area from the bar I knew right away there wasn't a chance in hell I was gonna get any truly hot wings in this little joint, but I figured I give it a shot anyway. Looking at the menu I noticed something called the fireman's combo, or Joe's combo, or the little flamer's combo or something similar. Now being the kind of guy who sometimes enjoys a good combo I decided to read a little further and was intrigued to find that it included not only hot wings but something called pork wings. That did it for me. I was in, and when the waitress came over I ordered:

"I'll have the little fire amigo's combo, please. I can't wait to see a pork wing."

"Sure thing, Sweetie. What 2 sides do you want. We got cole slaw, beans, waffle fries, potato salad..."

In the words of everyone's favorites singer, Meatloaf, I said "Stop right there, before you go any further!" Then I switched to my own words, "I'll have the cole slaw and the waffle fries."

(Now let me stray from the original subject at this time to say to you folks that I have no understanding of waffle fries whatsoever. I don't get how they slice 'em to look so cool, or why. I don't think it changes the flavor and I can't for the life of me come to any kind of conclusion as to how it would cut back on food cost, but I like those little buggers. And while I like a good greasy, floppy, hand cut potato with the skin still showing, I have absolutely no problem with the frozen variety that cooks up all uniformly golden and crunchy. I realize there is a bit less potato flavor, but what the potato lacks the grease and salt replenish, so I guess what I'm trying to say is don't hate me for liking bad fries, Ok?.)

Now back to our story:

"Cole slaw and waffle fries. You got it sweetie. Now what heat level you want for those wings?"

"Heat level? Whaddaya have? Three? I'll take the hottest."

Looking at me as though I were an idiot she said, "Three? Oh no. We have nine levels, and then we have Code Red. You really don't want code red."

"Yeahyeahyeah. Code red. Thats the one for me. I'll have code red."

"You sure?" Even more incredulous.

"Yeah, code red. Please. And I'll have a hefeweizen also, please."

"Alllllllllllllllllllllllll-right, then honey. Code red it is. And you want a pitcher of that hefeweizen?"

"I think a pint'll do, dear. There's only one of me."

Dang. What's her deal, anyway? Well, seeing as how that argument with little Mama Bear was over I settled back in my cher to look at the Home Run Derby on the tee-vee and a-fore I knowed it my girl was settin' some baskets of food in front of me, along with my pint of beer.

"Have fun, sweetie."

My first thought upon seeing all this was "Damn! That's a buttload of food."

My second thought, however, had to do with pork wings and I picked up what turned out to be a slow roasted pork shank slathered in sticky sweet BBQ sauce that no one should have to eat. After wiping most of that sauce off and getting past the remainder on the outside of the shank I found the meat to be tender and actually quite good. A pretty neat idea, I think, selling pork wings. But now it was time to move on to my surely disappointingly non-hot wings. Picking up the first I slurped the meat off the bone in a single superhero bite and immediately did the same with the second, after which I took a sip of beer and settled back to watch some more home runs. As I marveled a the hitting prowess of Vladimir Guerrero I began to feel a slight tingling in my lips. I then noticed I was quickly running out of napkins as I was wiping inordinate amounts of perspiration from my forehead. Shortly after this realization my entire mouth seemed to go numb (except for the fire that was burning my tastebuds completely off my tongue) and just as I reached out for my beer my head blew completely off.

"Holy crap," I thought to myself, "Those are some hot wings!"

As I fumbled blindly around the floor beneath the table in search of my profusely sweating head I thought I recognized a certain flavor on my now flaming tongue,

"Oh yum. I think I taste habaneros in that Code Red sauce."

And as I returned my head to its proper place at the top of my neck and wiped the sweat from my eyes I was surprised to find the waitress standing there looking at me with an "I told you so" look on her face.

"So? How're the wings, sweetie?"

Trying desparately to look cool and calm I replied, "They're quite good, thanks. Could I get another beer?"

"Well, are they hot enough for ya?"

Wiping more sweat from my eyes and shrugging my shoulders in an effort to appear as though everything were completely normal I answered, "Um, yeah, sure. I guess they're alright. Could I please get another beer?"

"Comin' right up, honey. you want that pitcher now?"

"Oh for Christ's sakes, woman! Just bring me a beer! I'm on friggin' fire over here!"

Luckily there's a nice riverside park near the hotel with lots of shady trees to cool a fella off.

So maybe that pitcher wasn't such a bad idea after all.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

One More Thing...

2007-07-01T00:10:00.000-07:00

Just in case y'all were wondering...

(and I know you were)

...Cafe Marron serves up a pretty decent plate of duck, also.

I guess there's nothin' left to do after a meal like that but sit on the eighth floor and count the out of state cars as they go by.

It's enough to make a guy hungry.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

It Comes Down To Choices

2007-06-29T19:09:00.000-07:00

So it comes down to choices in life, doesn't it? I mean we can't have everything so we have to pick and we can't always be satisfied in the end. But we weigh our options, and we try our best to make an informed decision based on the information given us. We listen to whatever instincts may be screaming from way in the back of that part of the brain where those instincts reside. Then we hope for the best.

And sometimes we get lucky.

After careful consideration and much option weighing and instinct listening I was able to come to a decision. The menu at Marron, as you can tell, is wonderfully varied and the ingredients used are not exactly crap, so this decision was not really an easy one. First off, I ruled out poultry for the most part because I just haven't yet found a restaurant that could cook a chicken in such a way as to charge me seventeen dollars for it and make me feel like I'd received my money's worth. Now I realize Marron is serving up a lovely Cornish Game Hen and enhancing the flavor by resting it in a nice puddle of chicken demi-glace, but still...no. Yet somehow that same chicken demi-glace sounded like it would be just dandy under a pile of couscous with a seared duck breast placed on top. Hmm...Ok, so we wouldn't really rule out the poultry completely just yet. I did know that I wasn't gonna order spaghetti, so I didn't even have to read about the hand formed meatballs, etc.

So, moving on to beef, I guess. Surf and turf sounded tasty, but just the thought of coconut prawns brings Outback Steakhouse to mind and I wasn't going to be eating Aussie that night so...no. I couldn't possibly have eaten eat a steak or hamburger (even if it is kobe beef) after all those fried risotto balls so it was on to tortelinni. Now, even after speaking with the chef and being assured they don't serve prepackaged foods at Marron, I just couldn't imagine someone in back wrapping up all those little cheese and pasta packages so...no again.

Halibut? Blackened halibut? With figs, tomatoes, basil and a lemon cream sauce. Oh good Lord, now that sounded like dinner. I could get my grub on all up in here (Hi Bryn) with a meal like that. What's that? It's served with fettucine? Oh hell no! Again, I was too full of fried rice and cheese for a bunch of pasta. What's next?

Hmmm..salmon or tuna? Salmon or tuna? Well, seeing as it's salmon season here in the Northwest, and seeing as I was more than a little intrigued by the mustard beurre blanc I settled on the salmon and raising my arm into the air I snapped my fingers twice and whistled at the waitress to get her attention. (Ok, I didnt really snap and whistle, but its fun to think about.) As I ordered the salmon I did think to ask if it was fresh wild salmon.

"Well, no. Erm, I mean, yes it is fresh...err, no, I mean yes it is wild, but no its not fresh. Well its sort of fresh, but its frozen. Well, its not fresh, but it is wild." And with a big sigh and the most positive smile she could muster, my dreadlocked white pressed friend met my gaze and braced herself for my reply to her so incredibly well thought out answer to what I thought was a simple question. Lucky for her I was expecting the answer she gave so I said,

"How's the tuna?"

"It is sooooo good," she replied with another sigh (this time a sigh of relief), "and after that arancini I think its the perfect meal. I don't think you'll be leaving with a tummy ache this way like you would with a steak or the halibut."

"Perfect. I'll have the tuna then."

And as she walked to the kitchen to fetch me my food I took a look around and started snapping some shots with the camera. If you noticed the panoramic shot at the beginning of this post you got a good feel for the restaurant. From my seat on the back wall I was able to take 3 photos of the place and at home I was able, through the wonders of digital technology, stitch them together to form one picture of nearly the entire place. Notice the ghostly form of the blond who is only half there behind the bar.

Below is a pic of the wall to my right and a chalk drawing of a pink pig in a blue tutu. This lovely porcine ballerina seems to be a mascot of sorts. I was sitting in the booth on the back wall which, as you can see, runs the length of the restaurant. Tables for two and four are placed along the booth with black laquer wood and chrome chairs along the other side. As I mentioned before, I was eating early so no one was there. I've not been later in the evening, but I suspect business picks up quite a bit as the hours roll on.

Now remember that part about making choices and sometimes regretting them? Man, I was really starting to wish I had ordered that seared duck. It was all I could think about as I sat looking at the Pig Princess. I mean, the tuna sounded good but I just knew my man in the kitchen was going to overcook it and send out a big dry hunk of tasteless fish with a big pile of sticky rice. Hell, I can get sticky rice at the Teriyaki Hut. I didn't need to come here for that, did I? But seared duck, with couscous and seasonal vegetable ragout! That sounded satisfying. I don't know why I had changed my mind. I just had. I mean, maybe it was all the lovely fat of the duck skin that was tempting me, or the rich silky texture and concentrated flavor of the demi-glace. (is there technically such a thing as chicken demi-glace, by the way?) Oh yeah, that was sure to be better than this mistake on a plate that was soon to make its way out to my table, doncha think? Of course you think. Who wouldn't?

And then it came floating across the room. My plate. I'm sure Dreadlocks was carrying it toward my table but I was unaware of her presence. All I was able to see were perfectly seared slices of rare tuna piled majestically atop what appeared to be a fried brick of sticky white rice amidst a smattering of what they called Asian Slaw. As the plate alighted on the table before me the artful streaks of soy reduction and mango coulis became visible and the entire striking presentation was just enough to make me forget completely about the duck of my dreams. I was a tuna man, now. That duck...hell, she's a bitch anyway. I didn't need her. I would now devote myself, heart and soul, to my glorious plate of Hawaiian Ahi.

Oh well. Love hurts.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Old World Charm in an Old Neighborhood

2007-06-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

NOTE FROM THE KNIFEMAN: Hey everyone. Try clicking on the pictures this time. I'm in the process of learning to set them up with links to larger files so you can get a better view. Let me know how it works out for you guys.

Today's Itenerary: Browne's Addition, Spokane, Washington

Sometimes ya get lucky. Sometimes you're driving around in a not so great part of town and something catches your eye. Sometimes you decide to pay attention. Sometimes ya get lucky.

As I searched for the pernicious ones just east of downtown Spokane I came upon an old neighborhood by the name of Browne's Addition. "What is this place?" I asked myself, and proceeded to poke around. Large and once obviously beautiful homes led to the conclusion that this was one of those neighborhoods that once housed the most affluent and influential of Spokane society. Chipped paint and broken down front porches, however, immediately led me to believe that as urban sprawl brought the areas undesirable elements continuously nearer, these same homes were basically abandoned while the cultural elite went off in search of new and greener pastures. A little research shows that the area was developed in the early 1880's exclusivley for the city's upper crust, but as time went on many of these gorgeous homes were divided up into apartments and condos. The obvious question, at least to this crime fighter, is whether the neighborhood is in full decline or suddenly finding new life as the "young and upwardly mobile" move in and begin the rejuvenation of this historic and potentially appealing area as the young are so wont to do.

Hard to tell.

At what must be one of the main crossroads in the neighborhood (marked by the european style roundabout as opposed to the customary stop signs) are what I suppose should be some telltale signs as to which direction this district is headed.

On one corner is a run of the mill sort of pizza place. Signs hang in the window advertising slices and beer.

Moving across the intersection you'll see a place called The Elk. Possibly an old Elks Club remodeled as a tavern, The Elk is marked by a very large beer garden running adjacent to the sidewalk and it's impossible to miss the foulmouthed hootin' and hollerin' of all the tank topped, waitress pinchin', beer swillin', just gettin' this party started buncha mulletheads as they slap empty pitchers down on the wooden tabletops showering all in the vicinity with the lukewarm remnants of what was once a hard earned six dollars and fifty cents.

Next door to The Elk is a small storefront marked by a screendoor and two plastic tables with those flimsy resin garden chairs you see sitting on the porches of apartment buildings. Lazily sweeping the sidewalk is a slightly chubby girl in her late teens or early twenties. She wears a red Sex Pistols tee shirt and a black knee length skirt with red and black striped tights peeking out from underneath and disappearing into her black hightop Converse shoes. From her nose hangs a heavy metal ring, set off spectacularly by the sun and the contrast of her jet black and purple hair. She looks incredibly bored and completely oblivious to the raucous behavior next door. Just watching her is relaxing.

Now, look across the street from the girl with the Wicked Witch of the West tights and the broom and you see what appears to be a very cleanly painted garage with its roll up doors open to the world, but upon closer inspection you notice that in reality this little building in the sun may just be something else altogether.

Why would cars be parked directly in front of a garage? And why would there be shrubs planted right in the doorways of this same garage? And why in the hell would a garage have a sign painted over the doors that says "A Neighborhood Cafe"? Hmmmmmm.......could it be?

After trotting across the street to inspect this lovely little garage that appeared not to be a garage I was greeted at the walk-in entrance by a blue door nailed to which was the word "Welcome" stenciled on a brass plate.

Feeling just as welcome as the door suggested I should feel, I strolled inside to find a smiling girl with dreadlocked hair, faded jeans, and a pressed white shirt waiting for me.

"Hi. Welcome to Marron. Dinner for one tonight?"

"Yes, just one. Am I too early?" (I tend to eat early when on the road. I hate going back out once I'm securely deadbolted into my hotel room.)

"Of course not. Just sit where you like and I'll get you some bread."

And a beautiful hunk of bread it was. Baked fresh and served with a slab of softened butter that was good enough to eat with a spoon, this was a loaf to make a meal. A nice hunk of good cheese and a glass of wine and I might have been happy to stop right there, but I didn't. Upon perusing the wine list I was more than a little surprised to find that this little establishment was not afraid to serve a customer fine ale, and as my new friend returned to the table with my dinner menu I immediately asked for a bottle of Chimay.

"Not a problem, sir. And you'll be happy to know Chimay is included in our happy hour prices."

Yep, that made me happy. Very happy, indeed.

So as I sat there sipping on my Chimay, studying the single page menu and realizing that there was no way in hell I was going to have just one of these sparkling beauties, I came to the decision that an appetizer was definitely in order. Always up for something I've not tried previously I ordered the Arancine.

These lovely little balls of risotto (little like tennis balls are little) are stuffed with gruyere, parmesan, and sausage then fried to a golden crispness and served with a side of marinara. I found myself salting them out of the little bowl on the table as they were underseasoned a mite, but all in all they were quite tasty. I had to stop eating them, though, as I was growing far to full to enjoy my soon to be ordered entree. SOON, as in just as SOON as I could come to some sort of a decision as to just which of these wonderfully described meals I would have.

Don't go away. There's more to come.....same knife time, same knife channel.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Let's Cook Something #2

2007-06-23T22:50:00.002-07:00

Today's Menu: Shrimp and Grits with Redeye Gravy

Y'all got shrimp? Of course you do. Everyone has shrimp. Shrimp, or prawns as they're called in some parts of the country (this part for one) are everywhere. So go to the store. Bring home a pound of shrimp. I'll let you choose the size. You want teeny weeny little shrimps so you can feel like you're eating alot more of 'em, its ok by me. You want big giant shrimps so you can impress all your friends with your heroic shopping technique, well, that's just fine by me too. As long as you're happy, I'm happy. Just get some damned shrimp.

Once you've purchased your shrimp you'll need to decide how to prepare it and there are a myriad of ways to do just that. You can make shrimp creole, shrimp etouffee, boiled shrimp...well, if you haven't heard this before stop by Blockbuster on the way home from the seafood market and rent yourself a copy of Forrest Gump. I don't have time to sit here and list off all the different shrimp possibilities. I will say, however, that if you ever learn to cook Bubba Gump Shrimp please mail me the recipe. I'm dying to try it.

A particular favorite of mine is the old South Carolina low country favorite known simply as Shrimp and Grits. Now don't get confused and make this complicated, ok? But you don't wanna oversimplify it either. Don't run out and buy a box of quick grits so you can cook 'em up and toss some boiled shrimp on top. Lets do a little more than that. (I realize many of you already know how to cook this so just disregard my condescending tone here and read on. I do happen to be Seattle's favorite superhero. That makes me better'n you. I can't help myself.)

"Don't buy Quik Grits?" you ask. "What the hell kinda grits am I supposed to buy?"

I prefer stone ground yellow corn grits (of course they're corn, duh!), and depending on where you live these may be easy or difficult to locate. Here in the Pacific Northwest they aren't so widely available, so once you find a source write yourself a note and pin it up somewhere so you never forget. These things are like gold. Mail order is available, but as long as Bob's Red Mill is sold locally I will elect to save on the postage and handling.

You will, of course, need a few ingredients other than shrimp and grits.

Some of these other ingredients are butter, diced pork sausage such as andouille (or you can use ham), sliced mushrooms (I use shitakes), chopped green bell pepper, minced onion, finely chopped fresh thyme, Madiera (Sherry, Marsala or plain water will work) and some seeded and chopped tomatoes. Not pictured are chicken stock or broth, hot coffee, pepper sauce, freshly grated Parmesan cheese, and a little cornstarch.

So, ready to get started? Cool. Brew up some coffee (you can do this first part of the meal in the morning and refrigerate it until dinner time if you like. You only need a little coffee for the meal so you can just use some of your AM pot) and...

...pull out your trusty cast iron skillet.

You do have a cast iron skillet, right? Please don't tell me no here. I mean it. Just nod your head and lie to me. Say "Yes, I have a cast iron skillet. Of course I do."

You do have one? Good. Get it out and heat it up on the stovetop. Medium high heat should work fine. Once its hot drop in 2 tbsp of butter and let it melt, then toss in your diced pork and brown that for 3 or 4 minutes. Don't be afraid to let it get good and brown now. Browning meat is not all about appearance and sealing in juices. A ton of flavor is developed for your sauce during the browning process, so don't go all wimpy here.

Once you've got your pork nicely browned...

...you want to add the shrooms, bell pepper, onion and thyme. Continue to saute this for 3 or 4 more minutes...

...then add a cup of stock along with half a cup of freshly brewed coffee, some tomatoes and some hot pepper sauce.

Meanwhile...

You need to mix 2 tsp or so of corn starch with a quarter cup of whatever wine or water you have chosen. Add this to the sauce and stir until it comes back to a boil. At this point you can reduce the heat and let things simmer for a few more minutes to thicken.

Season to taste with salt and pepper and let it all cool a bit before putting it into the fridge for later.

--At this point what you need is relaxation. Watch baseball, take a nap, play with the kids. Do something, but make it look like you're being constructive. If you can find a way to watch baseball and drink beer (or shop) while appearing to clean the garage then you've really got life pegged. Everyone will be happy...especially you.--

Later in the day...

People starting to get hungry? Is a crowd beginning to gather? Let's get on with it then. Toss that sauce back into the skillet and bring it slowly back to a simmer while you cook your shrimp and grits. Start with the grits. I didn't waste my time taking pictures of this process, however, so I'll just give you the recipe in case you need it.

Bring 3 cups of water, 1 cup of milk and a teaspoon of salt to a boil in a large saucepan. Gradually whisk in a cup of grits. Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, stirring occasionally, until the grits are cooked and creamy. Stir in half a cup of parmesan cheese. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

While the grits is cooking (proper English dictates the use of the word is in this instance) melt about 3 tbsp of butter in a hot skillet. Toss in your pound of peeled and deveined shrimps and saute until just pink on the outside and opaque throughout. This only takes a couple of minutes so don't go turning the damn things to rubber. They really aren't very good that way. At this point pour the gravy (thats the sauce you made this morning, dodo) into the skillet and heat to a simmer. Throw in a tbsp or two of butter and stir until its all melted throughout.

How d'ya like that? You're done. At this point just spoon some grits into some shallow bowls and top with the shrimps and gravy. Sprinkle with some more minced thyme and garnish with a sprig and some grated parmesan if you desire.

Them's good groceries.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

A Day inna Hood

2007-06-06T20:01:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: Somewhere in the Ravenna Hood

What's crackin', mah homies! If y'all evah be rollin' the 20's up 35th in the Ravenna/Wedgwood 'hood with yo bee-otch and y'all's all hawngry an' sh*t, then take mah advice an' roll y'all's '98 on up to the curb in front of Grateful Bread. Y'all ain't gon' have no problem finin' the place, cuz, on account of there's a big ol' honkin' tag onna side of the wall sez Grateful Bread so's everbody kin see. Yo, Slick, ah only wish ah's that good with a paint can. Mah homey mussa been workin' on this damn tag fo' damn near fo' anna half minutes. He damn lucky 5-0 don't roll up and drag his cryin' punk ass downtown to da Po-lice station for this kickin' graffiti.

Now, y'all's gon' wanna be leavin' yo gats and yo gangsta limp in yo ride when you and the posse head in fo' yo grub, mah man, 'cause this here crowd is a peace lovin' bunch, yanudahmsayin'? These here folks's from the past, my man. These here folks is like hippies or some whack sh*t like 'at, and they ain't gon' be like to tolerate no damn 9's on the premises, yo! I mean y'all gots to see these mofo's t'blee dis. I ain nevah seed nuttin' like these peeps, holmes. They's all pachouli smellin' and decked out in tye die, bee-otch. They got them long matty head dreadlocks, and the damn kitchen always smells like a damned skunk died up in there an' sh*t. All the customers is allays wearing them whack-ass fleece jackets and teva sandals, and carryin' they babies all wrapped up in some sorta Mexican baby blanket sling hung over they stomach so the li'l critter like t'gon' fall right outta there any damn second and bang his li'l haid, but nobody don' give a damn 'cause they's all lookin' a the pictures of some damned fat guy playin' a guitar and actin' like he's the second comin' of Christ. Man, I tell ya these cats all gots t'be stoned.

But yo, yo! Check it out now, dawg. If these bitches is stoned they done come to da right place, my man, because the case what doubles as a front counter is full of some mad stupid munchies, holmes! They gots soups and sammiches if y'all wanna order that crap, but the baked goods in this case is enuf t'make any gangsta's mouf water, yahnudahmsayin'? Dey gots cookies of all shapes and sizes along with all kinds of different mini pizza thingies dey calls focaccia. Bagels of all sorts, even sorts y'all ain' ne'er heard of. I ain't lyin' an shit, now y'all. Dey gots pies, an' cakes an', an', an'....damn, holmes, I don' even know what all dey got. Dey just sit around gettin' all smoked up on the chronic and then spen' da AM bakin' up all these magic concoctions only some stoned ol' hippie chick could come up with. Ya'll know das right! So start slow, mah man, and just get chew somethin' y'all can wrap yo' mind around, fo' sho', and don' be wavin' yo shank aroun' while y'all tryin' t'order an' shit.

"Yo, dawg, I blee I be havin' one of them pesto focaccia things an'a quesadilla bagel, yo?"

"Right on, brother. The foccacia has a smearing of some damned good homemade pesto topped with tomato slices, mozzarella, artichoke hearts, and red bell pepper. All this is sprinkled with feta and baked to perfection. The bagel is sort of a folded over bagel dough thing with salsa and cheese in the middle. You're gonna dig it, man. I just know you are. You've got the right aura. Hey, you want a coffee or somethin' with that?"

"Nah, I gots' me a forty out in da hoopty, Holmes. I ain't gon' be drinkin' no damned coffee."

"Cool, bro. Here's your food."

"What I owe ya, dawg?"

"No way, man. You should let us feed you more often, man. Its on the house for the Knifeman. Peace."

"Yo, yo! Check it out. Check it out. You folks is good peeps, yo!"

Payce, mah bitches! K-dawg, out!

--Its' Fosco, Dammit!

Crab Shack?

2007-05-21T20:00:00.000-07:00

Note from the Knifeman: Sorry, folks, but posting problems are popping up again, preventing me from properly spacing my paragraphs, etc. I thought I had it all straightened out, but apparently I was wrong. Thanks for bearing with me.

Today's Itenerary: Alki Beach

So as I was making my rounds through West Seattle today it suddenly occured to me that I had once heard of a little place on Alki Beach that supposedly serves up one hell of an array of good local seafood at more than reasonable lunch prices. A no frills type of joint, The Alki Crab Cafe and Seafood Market has reportedly been catering to the cod and shellfish lovers of Seattle for some time now. Being one of those myself I was amazed at the fact that I had not actually caught wind of this little joint long before today, and seeing as how California Avenue (my crime fighting locale of the moment) runs perpendicular to the ridge overlooking lovely Alki Beach, and seeing as how I was going to be making a few of my evil hunting forays into the kitchens of quite a number of establishments at the end of the avenue nearest that ridge I figured I oughtta just take a few minutes out of my day and check things out. Risking one's life for the benefit of the ungrateful can get more than a tad wearisome at times, and every once in awhile I just find that I have to say to myself,

"Ahhh, screw 'em all for a little while. I need some lunch."

So I turned the wheel, pointed my vehicle toward Alki and plunged headlong down Admiral Way at breakneck speeds, with no concern whatsoever for my own wellbeing, relying purely on my razor sharp instincts, catlike reflexes and the trusty Chevrolet suspension of the Knifemobile, in search of what promised to be a truly delectable lunchbreak. Making a last minute death defying right hand turn at the bottom of the hill I was able to avoid a headlong crash dive into Elliot Bay and I began my cruise up Alki in search of this newly discovered old standard of Seattle lunchtime fare. After a bit of driving and just as I was about to give up I rounded a bend and there, at the shore end of the local fishing pier was my hallowed destination. The Alki Crab Cafe and Seafood Market.

Painted on the wall which you can't see in the picture were those very words, but hanging over the door which you can see seemed to be one of those temporary banners restaurants display when waiting for a new sign to arrive. you know, the plasticized canvas type banner with gigantic words usually advertising New Management or some sort of New Name for the place? This sign, as you can plainly see read Fish & Chips. Well, no matter, right? Fish & Chips is one of the things this lunch dive is known for, is it not? As long as they've got some Dungeness Crab at a good price to satisfy the cravings of Seattle's favorite Superhero then I'm good with temporary banners. Besides, any seafood shack that sells bait is okay by me, and judging by the sign in the window this is exactly that kind of place.

Sticking my chest out and flexing my arms in a most intimidating and awe inspiring caped crusader type pose I strolled through the door and up to the front counter where I asked in my most polite voice,

"I believe I would like a large steamed Dungeness Crab for lunch and I'll take a pound and a half of fresh Sockeye Salmon along with me for tonight's dinner. Just wrap the fish, I'll eat the crab outside at one of your lovely and oh so inviting picnic tables."

With a smile and one of those "Are you kidding me?" glances over the top of her eyeglasses, the middle aged woman behind the counter (I believe her name was Mariah) replied,

"Sir, the menu is right up here. We have no crab. We do, however, have some wonderful fish and chips. Well, we do have a 4oz crab cocktail would you like that?"

"No crab, Madame? At a crab cafe and seafood market? That is utterly preposterous! I'll have you know I drove a good 10 minutes out of my way, risking both life and limb, not to mention how I am neglecting those poor souls up there on that ridge who need me, purely in hopes of enjoying some of your crab and now you tell me I've wasted my time?"

"You haven't wasted your time, sir. We have wonderful fish and chips."

"Very well then. I will have the two piece cod and chips please with a side of cole slaw and a soda. And don't forget to wrap that sockeye fillet to go for me. I'll grill it tonight. My wife will be thrilled."

"Sorry again, sir, but we don't sell raw seafood here anymore. We turned the fish market into a

cute little gift shop. Perhaps your wife would like a colorful Alki Beach windsock instead?"

"Oh cripes!"

So I took my breaded (ick), not battered fish and chips, complete with the obligatory overload of grease and unidentifiable grey streaks on the inside, out to one of the lovely little picnic tables and tried to enjoy my lunch. A sign hung on the side of the building read,

"Come for the food, but stay for the view."

Well, the view was nice.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Lesser Seattle on the Half Shell

2007-05-20T15:39:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: Oh, hell, I'm still at The Market

If you ever do happen to be at Pike Place Market be sure and be on the lookout for some of my crime fighting brethren. Being something of a gathering place for members of the Intenational Brotherhood of Caped Crusaders for Truth and Justice, the IBCCFTJ for short, The Market is a real hotspot for those of you who may have a penchant for Superhero watching. On this particular morning I was lucky enough to run into my good friend Rubberman and he was kind enough to unknowingly pose for a photo. It really is a bad idea to let Rubby see you with a camera. He's really touchy that way. You see, his body is entirely rubberized and basically indestructible with the exception of his head. Luckily, his father was some sort of a super secret ultra hush hush triple confidential high security engineer for NASA back in the 1960's and was working with some sort of high tech space age filament made from some type of fibrous vegetation found on the third moon of Jupiter. Well, whatever the hell the stuff is, it seems he stole some of it from one of his Daddy's labs and created this helmet for himself. Not wanting to to be obvious about it lest he be caught by certain authorities, thereby possibly costing his father his job and bringing economical hardship upon the whole of his beloved family, he designed his new superhelm (much in the style of the times) to appear to the untrained eye as a beautiful black afro. Needless to say, as he has aged he has modified the color a bit, but the design is still basically the same as it was 45 years ago. 45 years ago, yes, but he still hates it when some unsuspecting tourist of shutterbug points a camera his way, and in the interest of the livelihood of his now long dead family will gladly wrestle said camera away and toss it into Puget sound. An amazingly interesting fellow, that Rubberman.

All this hero hunting is bound to make a guy hungry so you need to be on the lookout for a good place to eat. You can, of course, eat at some of the more lively and obvious spots such as Lowell's or Matt's at the Market, but if you are in the need of a quiet, relatively inexpensive spot to get a seafood fix then Emmet Watson's Oyster Bar might be more your style. Across the street from the sweeping Puget Sound views and stashed out of the way in the back of a building way down towards the north end of the Market, Emmet's can be a tough find, but if you are willing to risk tripping over the odd curb it will serve you well to look up as you walk. Read the signs. Read all the signs, because Emmet's sign doesn't jump out. It hides between signs for an Indian grocery and a Mediterannean gyros counter.

Upon spotting this tiny little sign, look through the doorway to your right. You should find yourself gazing down a long, dark, high ceilinged hallway at the end of which sits a most inviting sun dappled courtyard. Get there early enough and the choice of tables is yours. There are only six or so wobbling there on the unevenly poured concrete patio.

As you grab a table and begin to get yourself settled, a smiling (maybe) server will stroll lazily to your table with cute little menus printed on paper bags.

As you glance at the menu, what is sure to reach out and grab you is the prices. The incredibly reasonable prices for such everyday waterfront town food as fish and chips, salmon soup, fresh oysters, and peel and eat prawns are truly a breath of fresh air in the heart of an overpriced downtown tourist destination such as Pike Place Market.

So don't let that server get away. Order yourself a Pike Street Ale, or a glass of wine if thats your fancy, and sit back and peruse that menu at your own liesurely pace.

Decide for yourself. Do you want $7 fish and chips? A $4 bowl of soup? Or maybe some oysters on the half shell, served up fast and unpretentiously on just a plate. None of that ice filled platter on a chrome stand brought to your table crap here at Emmet's. Just 6 oysters on a plate with some lemon and cocktail sauce. Not even a teeny tiny little cocktail fork is delivered, prompting one to squeeze a bit of lemon, dab a bit of sauce with a knife, and slurp away. Right from the shell. In public. With others watching? Oh, God forbid! Well, Maybe it'll run off some of the tourists.

In the words of the late Emmet Watson himself, "Thanks for leaving!"

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Let's Cook Something

2007-05-15T18:38:00.000-07:00

So you've come home with a bunch of flowers and 3 lbs of fresh bivalves. Well, bully for you. I'm sure that's earned you some points with whoever it is you wanna impress, but now what the hell are ya gonna do? You could just toss em in a big ol' pot with an inch or two of water or wine and steam the crap out of the things until they all open up, but that would be boring. I mean, not only would it taste boring, but you're not gonna feel much like you accomplished anything worthwhile. Quite frankly, you will probably feel like you've wasted your hard earned clams and decide never to try anything so damned stupid again. Wouldn't that be a shame?

Of course it would. A damned shame! So.......

(In my very best vocal impression of Mighty Mouse) I have come to save the day!

I will now, out of the goodness of my oversized superhero heart, attempt to teach those of you who don't already know how to cook a Portuguese Cataplana, so pay attention. I don't want to have to say this twice.

This is a cataplana. Two copper bowls connected with a hinge, it is the pan used traditionally in Portugal to cook its namesake, a truly decadent dish of pork, shellfish and vegetables. The cataplana has clamps on the sides to seal it shut so the clams can steam in their own juices. None of that boring water is needed. A bit of wine, however, is never forbidden.

By the way, I suppose if you don't have a cataplana you could do this in a regular stock pot. Cataplanas are available from Sur la Table and The Spanish Table. Google, as I've mentioned before, is your friend.

These are some ingredients. you're gonna need these. Not pictured are olive oil and a bay leaf. Pictured are an onion, a bell pepper, a tomato, and some parsley. Also in the picture is some pimenton (thats paprika) along with some Piri Piri pepper sauce, six ounces of Seranno ham and six ounces of Spanish chorizo. Mexican chorizo will not work. The Spanish style is a cured hard sausage. The Mexican style is a raw sausage like Italian sausage and will only fall apart as it cooks and your cataplana will turn into a big ol' greasy mess. If you can't find Spanish chorizo don't sweat it. Who cares? Just buy some kielbasa or andouille or some other smoked pork sausage. It'll all be cool. No one will know but you, I promise. Likewise, if you can't find Seranno ham then substitute prosciutto. It'll work. As a friend of mine whom I never had the pleasure of meeting once said to me, "Don't be so damned anal. Just cook somethin'." He was a smart man.

Now before you really get started ya wanna thinly slice that onion and bell pepper. Dice your ham and sausage. Chop your tomato. This dish moves pretty fast so you want to be ready. You're not gonna have a lot of time to run around looking for your knife.

Oh, you're also gonna want to have that 3lb bundle of clams handy. I almost forgot.

So put your cataplana on the stove over medium high heat and get it good and hot. Once its really hot, and not before, add 4tbsp of olive oil and a bay leaf.

Once that is good and hot you wanna toss in those onion and pepper slices. Saute those until they are nice and soft. You know...

...until they look kinda like these. You'll know they're getting close when someone says, "Damn, that smells good. What ya cookin'?" This is a good time, incidentally, to scrub your clams. It takes a few minutes to scrub up 3 lbs of manila clams.

At this point you want to add your diced meat and cook until its all heated through.

Toss in that chopped tomato. I use romas, but I guess you can use what you want. If they're small use two.

Now add the pimenton. Just a pinch now. Don't get all carried away.

Also, add a few drops of the pepper sauce now. If you can't get piri piri sauce then either make your own, (just ask, I'll give you a recipe) or use some kinda Mexican style hot sauce. I wouldn't use tabasco here. That stuff has a tendency to make everything taste like cajun food or something. Who the hell wants clams jambalaya?

Now toss in those clams....

...close the cataplana and clamp it shut. Let that cook for about 10 minutes while you put a trivet on the table and throw a good loaf of crusty bread into the oven to warm up. Make it a good heavy, chewy sort of bread. You don't want any of that fufu French stuff for this meal. There's gonna be alot of dippin' goin' on, and you need that bread to hold up or its gonna be like eating a wet napkin. We don't want that.

Now you're done. Carry the whole damned thing to the table and set it on the trivet. Hopefuly you've left room to swing the top of the cataplana back onto the table. Carefully open it up. That steam is a bitch and believe me it will burn the hell out of the overzealous cook with his face to close to the action. No, really, trust me on this. I've done the research.

And there you have it. Ladle it into bowls and just dig in. Lucky guy is the one left at the table after everyone else gets full. He can take the ladle and just sit there and spoon that heavenly broth into his mouth. Manners? Oh no. There's no manners with a meal like this. Its all about eating with your fingers. Its about tearing off hunks of bread. Its about slurping and sopping your way into some sort of a rapturous culinary ecstasy. This is the kind of meal that sticks you there in your chair when you're done, trying not to let your eyes roll back into your head, and feeling quite sure that you've just died and gone to heaven. And you're good with that.

Vamos a cocinar!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Tourist Trap, or Local Perfection?

2007-05-13T21:45:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: Pike Place Market, Seattle, Washington

These are the best days. The days that I spend introducing myself to business owners and offering to sell them my protection services. What? You think superheroes work for free? You think I just pop into any kitchen and risk my life to make the cooks of Seattle's lives easier as I banish evil from their midst? Oh, hell no! I gotta get paid just like you, man, so I wander the sidewalks and alleyways, in and out of backdoors and service entrances, waving knives at chefs and kitchen managers and making offers they can't refuse. It's a dirty job.....

Anyway, these are the best days. The great benefit of doing "business" with chefs is that those white coat and clog wearing prima donnas get all fired up and red faced with anger and frustration if you show up in their kitchen during the lunch rush. This gives me somewhere in the neighborhood of three hours to kill in the middle of the day. Now I realize this would drive some of you more ambitious people out of your minds, but I relish this as a time to wander aimlessly about the city, seeking out new places to eat or enjoying older familiar favorites.

Today I went for one of those old favorites and headed on over to the Pike Place Market in downtown Seattle. I love the market, and often refer to it as "Seattle's one perfect place." Some of you may have been to Pike Place before, and its more than likely you were there at the wrong time. Mid-afternoon on a weekday, or most any time of day on a weekend are very definitely the wrong time. Walkways will be incredibly crowded with sightseers while the cobblestone street which bisects the market will surely be bumper to bumper with barely moving vehicles. Panhandlers will be buzzing around you like oversized, smelly gnats and the vendors will inevitably have slipped into that Screw the Tourist mindset, searching out their next marks in the hunt for easy profit. No, mid-afternoon is a no-no and so is the weekend. Instead, choose a day early in the week and go in the morning. Between 8 and 10am on a Monday is perfect. This will afford you the opportunity to wander casually amongst the stalls, chatting with vendors as they set out their wares and inquiring as to what is fresh at the seafood stands. People have time to talk in the morning at the market, and if you know who you're looking for you might find yourself in a conversation with one or two of the stars of the Seattle culinary scene. Morning is when Chefs come down to buy ingredients for the days menu and its amazing the info one can glean just by listening in on the conversations of Tom Douglas, Christine Keff, Eric Canella, or Matt Janke as they haggle with dealers in their attempts to obtain the freshest seafood and produce. Hell, I even said Hi to the Frugal Gourmet one morning, before the world discovered he had an affinity for young boys and he seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth.

A little farther down the way from the seafood and produce stands are yards and yards of flower vendors. Some deal in fresh while others sell dried flowers, but together they create a spectacular world of vibrant color and aroma that one can't help but linger and appreciate. Behind tables piled high with 10 and 20 dollar arrangements toil serious faced Asian women creating what appear to be masterpieces of floral design. A multitude of multicolored bundles wrapped in heavy white paper sit before you, begging to be taken home and placed lovingly into a vase for the enjoyment of the woman you love.

So now you have a giant bundle of flowers for your wife, but you need something to feed her. Remember those seafood vendors back down the way? Walk your smiling and oh so smug little ass back down there and, avoiding the theatrics of the fish throwers, find a little place called Pure Food Fish. Stand slackjawed for 10 minutes or more while you attempt to come to a decision, and then....just buy somethin', man. You can figure out what to do with it later.

Jus' holla. I'll hep ya.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Retraction....Retraction....Retraction!

2007-05-07T22:39:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: The Newsroom

It has come to this cub reporter's attention that false information was printed on this blog in the last 36 hours. As a responsible news organization it is our policy to correct any erroneous reports in as reasonable a period of time as is possible, and in the face of irrefutable evidence which has been brought forth such a correction is certainly required at this time.

Please let it be understood that Steven Wiener is not, I repeat, not a Muslim. He has always been Jewish. He is still Jewish. He shall remain Jewish for as long as this organization continues to be operational. Below I will repost the pics from the original story so that readers may study and see for themselves that the picture with the Muslim headgear is obviously a photoshopped copy of the original picture which was actually taken at Dreamland in Atlanta.

First the picture of Steve enjoying his ribs at Dreamland:

Second comes the photoshopped version of the previous picture. If you look closely you will surely notice the same similarities as noticed by this reporter. Look at the mouth, nose and eyes. It would require a ridiculous stretch of the imagination to actually believe that this was a different picture taken at a different time.

For my third picture I submit a photo of what we here at the newsroom like to call an Armadillo Turd. Its basically a jalapeno chile stuffed with cheese and chorizo then wrapped with bacon and cooked on a barbecue for an hour of so at a temperature of about 250 degrees farenheit. It's reasonably mild, as far as heat is concerned, after that much time over the fire, and the flavor is incredible.

Last but not least is the most convincing photo being put forth as evidence of Steven's identity as a non-Muslim. Below is a picture of myself and my tuxedo attired nephew saying to you:

"Ha! We got you good you gullible sonsabitches!"

In the interest of avoiding a future retraction I should state at this time that my nattily attired

nephew had absolutely nada (that means "nothing" for you unilinguals out there) to do with this whole charade. He just happens to be in the picture.

The press lies!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Visiting Friends

2007-05-05T20:26:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: Atlanta, Georgia (time travel posting is cool)

Finding myself suddenly at home and amongst family that day in Atlanta I could hardly fight the urge to visit with a couple of old friends, so I called my old hometown friend Steve and suggested we meet and have dinner with another old buddy of ours. Steve was agreeable to the idea so after setting the time and place we spent a bit of time discussing changes in Steve's life. Big changes, in fact. It seems Steve has at some point in the past two years converted to Islam and prefers to be known as Ibrahim Muhammed. I can only assume he chose the name Ibrahim in an attempt not to anger the rest of his family as the name is so closely related to the Hebrew name, Abraham. I am including two pictures of Steve. One is of his old self as I choose to remember him. The other is of Ibby Mo, as I like to call him.

I have to tell you, though, that its not easy to see Steve, or Ibby Mo, this way. He's not as fun loving as I remember him, and he seems infinitely more angry than could possibly be healthy for a man of his age.

Anyway....the friend Ibby and I had agreed to visit was actually not a person but a place. A legendary restaurant known as Dreamland. Now Dreamland is not exactly legendary everywhere. Certainly it does not qualify as legendary in Atlanta to anyone other than transplanted Alabama Crimson Tide fans, but in the State of Alabama, particularly in the town of Tuscaloosa, Dreamland is indeed legendary. Located in what amounts to little more than a cabin, Dreamland has been serving ribs to the Tuscaloosa public for years, and when I say serving ribs I mean just that. For the longest time that was all you could get. A sign hung behind the counter read,

"We serve ribs. No sides. Don't ask".

White bread is always included with the ribs so as to provide patrons with a well balanced meal, of course.

The restaurant has, fairly recently in the grand scope of things, franchised, and is in the process of opening locations throughout the South, now with 8 locations in Alabama and Georgia, thereby presenting Ibby Mo and myself with the opportunity to visit while in the midst of my 2 day power visit to Atlanta.

As you might suspect, Ibby Mo is a bit hesitant to eat pork these days so he opted for the chicken platter which he claims was pretty tasty. I couldn't tell you if Deamland's chicken is tasty. I will never be able to tell you if Dreamland's chicken is tasty. I don't even wanna know if Dreamland's chicken is tasty. Its CHICKEN for God's sake and I can't for the life of me figure out why even a Muslim would choose to eat chicken at Dreamland. I mean, hell, its not like there's any other Muslims in there munching away on southern barbecue. I told him he could get away with it but he just wasn't listening. Calims it has something to do with religious values. Claims those are important. More important than barbecue? Sh-yeah, right!

I, on the other hand, chose ribs. A half slab of spares and what amounted to about a half a loaf of white bread. I did slip a little and order a side of Brunswick stew which turned out to be less than ordinary. I should have expected as much and have since vowed never to order sides at Dreamland in the future. From here on out its ribs, baby. No sides. I won't ask.

Now understand something here, folks. Dreamlands ribs are not the best in the world. They are likely not the best in Atlanta, and I know for a fact they are not the best in Alabama. I can make better ribs here in the Great Pacific Northwest in the comfort of my own backyard, and I will never serve them swimming in sauce as Dreamland tends to do. Good ribs don't need that much sauce. Really good ribs need no sauce whatsoever, but the sauce is a huge part of the Dreamland experience. Its a runny sort of sauce. Vinegar based, not in the Carolina style but in what I like to refer to as the Alabama style, which includes some tomato, be it ketchup or paste or whatever. The sauce is not what I would call sweet, but leans more toward what some would call the tangy side. The closest thing I can think of that you might find on your local food factory superstore shelf would be Stubb's Original. You can, if authenticity is your bag, order Dreamland's sauce by the quart from the Dreamland website. Google is your friend.

You may have figured out by now that there is definitely a trick to enjoying that sauce without allowing it to ruin a perfectly good plate of ribs, and this trick involves that aforementioned half a loaf of white bread. Out of the goodness of my oversized Superhero heart I will now share that trick with you:

With one hand reach into the pool of sauce on the plate before you. Dig around in there with your hopefully recently washed fingers until you feel something hard and meaty. This is bound to be a rib, unless your friend is reaching into your plate from the other side of the table. (If this is the case grab a knife) Carefully lift the rib from the sauce, keeping it over the plate so as not to splatter any on your pretty white shirt or drip any in your lap.

With your free hand pick up a slice of the white bread.

Using the white bread, wipe and sop as much sauce as possible from the rib. The result will be a lightly sauced rib in one hand and an outstandingly flavorsome though somewhat soggy clump of bread in the other.

Eat the rib.

Eat the bread.

Repeat.

Grabaslabtogo!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Home

2007-03-28T19:33:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: Atlanta, Georgia

What is "home"?

Dictionary.com defines "home" as:
–noun
1. a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household.

I suppose that is one way of looking at it. That place you keep all your furniture. The house, apartment or condo in which you live, eat and sleep. That lovely little place you go at the end of the day after you've said goodbye to your co-workers, shopping buddies, bridge partners, etc. And you struggle to get there, don't you? Sitting for what seems like endless hours on the highway in bumper to bumper traffic. Busying yourself by changing radio stations in your car or by peeking over the top of your newspaper and watching other commuters on your bus or train. If all is right with the universe and the cosmic tumblers all click into place you may even get a moment of glorious nose-picking privacy as your car slips into obscurity behind some lumbering eighteen wheeler. In the end, though, all of this amounts to little as you turn into your driveway or up your walk and head for the front door, because as you open that door there may be a laughing child running to give you a hug. Or a wife to kiss you hello and offer you a beer. Maybe its a tailwagging dog, thrilled to find that, once again, his master has miraculously returned just in time to prevent a certain urinary accident. Or maybe its quiet. And maybe that quiet solitude is just what you crave after a long day of doing whatever it is you do in order to earn the money to pay your bills. Hell, I don't know. It's your place, after all, but whatever the circumstances its home and you are likely glad to arrive. And you should be glad.

Another definition I found for "home" follows:

home /hoʊm/ - the place or region where something is native or most common.

The place you grew up? Home, right? For me its Birmingham, Alabama. I lived in Tampa and Honolulu before I moved to Birmingham at age nine, but until I left Alabama 11 years later I lived there in the same neighborhood and house. I said hello to the same people on the street everyday. I hung out with the same friends from the same schools for most of those years. I continue to correspond with some of those friends to this day, mostly by telephone and email. When I go back to Birmingham I try to see at least one of the old crowd. I try to eat at a few of the old restaurants I remember so well. I take a drive through the old neighborhoods and just look around to see what has changed and, more importantly, what has remained the same. Yep, that's home. I've lived in Birmingham for eleven years. I've lived in Washington State now for twenty two. It is definitely the former that I think of as "home." I always will.

Recently I had reason to travel to Georgia. Atlanta is not home. It has never been my home, and it quite likely never will be, but I have family there and a chance to visit is not something I take lightly. So upon seeing the Knife Signal in the southeastern sky I quickly acquired an airline ticket for a redeye and packed my Knifeman Supersuit. As I settled into my roomy center seat in coach at 11:30pm and attempted to prepare myself for a little shuteye, (which I was unable to achieve) visons of grits and Honest to God Southern barbecue filled my otherwise cloudy head. I wasn't going home, but I was going somewhere close. I relished the opportunity.

Upon arrival in Atlanta sometime around noon on a Saturday I was quicly transported by Justice League Supercruiser to my sister's house. Bryn was preparing a lunch of turkey sandwiches, with meat cut directly from the bird, so I could fill my hungry stomach before heading off for a little afternoon shuteye. Erm....you guys got that right? Turkey sandwich. Meat cut off the actual bird. In March! Unheard of, I tell you, and an absolutely glorious welcome for a weary traveling superhero such as myself.

After finishing my lunch I retired for a few hours of much needed rest before what was to be a family dinner. There in Atlanta were not only my sister and her husband, but various nephews, friends of nephews, spouses of nephews, previously unintroduced sons of nephews, and my dear Mother. All were coming to dinner. I looked forward to it.

Later in the afternoon I wandered around my room on wobbly tired legs, trying to wake up while going through the motions of the "shine, shower and shave" process and trying to remember exactly where I was and why, but as I headed in for Bryn's family dinner all doubt was washed away.

As I was overtaken by the aromas of a homecooked Southern meal, memories of childhood and family started banging around in my cobweb filled head and I knew immediately where I was. As I spooned that pie full of chicken, glorious warm broth and slick dumplings (no vegetables in the pie as that would only ruin it)onto my plate I knew exactly where I was.

As I piled butter beans, squash (summer squash in March, no less)

and southern cooked green beans and bacon onto my plate alongside that chicken pie I knew exactly where I was. As I sat there eating, laughing, and reminiscing with family whose company I rarely have the chance to enjoy, there was absolutely no doubt in my tiny sleep deprived superhero brain as to just where I was in this immense and overpopulated world at that very moment.

I was home.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Long Live the King

2007-03-27T21:18:00.000-07:00

Its a sad time.

I was visiting Terry, the Self Proclaimed Sandwich King ( see Hail to the King, 1/29/07), the other day and it seems he has chosen to abdicate his throne. His business has been sold and next time I go in niether he nor sandwich chick will be there. That's tough.

I don't know this, but seeing as how the business wasn't doing so well I have to assume the new owners will change things drastically. Probably make such rash decisions as to begin preparing all the sandwiches on the same type of bread. Or maybe even allow the customer to decide on his own sandwich ingredients. Oh, horrors! It isn't right, and I may have to tell them so, surely losing their business in the process. Well, if they don't wanna pay me their protection money they don't have to do so, but its their future. I won't be responsible for what happens.

I've worked with Terry in some capacity for years here in the cesspool of Northwest culture and crime. He's been a cook as far back as I can remember. I was damned proud of the boy when he opened The Brooklyn Grinder and I've always wished him nothing but the best. I'm sure I will see Terry some day in the future, working the line and wielding a spat at some local eatery, much as I knew him in the years before his self-proclamation, but it won't be the same as having him make me one of his Muffaletta sandwiches with that gorgeous olive salad, whether it be the authentic Central Grocery's recipe or his own.

(Insert archival photo here)

As for now, the once and future Sandwich King is playing in an up and coming band known as Man Alive. He's excited about the group's future and I wish him well. Unfortunately, they don't play my kind of music. Terry definitely made my kind of sandwich.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Fill 'er Up With Unleaded Please...or Another Night on The Palouse

2007-03-25T21:59:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: Pullman, Washington

There's something about neon on a cold rainy night. It beckons. If you've spent a 12 hour day alone in the Pacific Northwest, wet from head to toe and chilled to the bone, you know exactly what I mean. The warm glow of the lights shine enticingly in the window while their long shimmering reflections reach out across the puddled pavement of the parking lot like multicolored fingers to grab you by your lapels. Drawing you steadily towards the front door, they whisper promises of a comforting meal and a tall, cool, refreshing beverage. Now I realize I've mixed up my similies and metaphors, (fingers can't whisper and stuff) but it can, nonetheless, sometimes be irresistable, much as it proved to be as I skirted the edges of the Washington State University campus in the Knifemobile one soggy night on the Palouse.

As I drove by the brightly lit Sella's I saw more than enough neon, most of it pink. Somewhere in all this pink I am sure I saw the word "calzone", because as I began my easy slide into the center suicide lane and clicked my left hand turn signal (You use turn signals right? I know you do.) it was calzone I had pictured in my mind. Looking back, I suppose it's altogether possible there was no calzone sign, but just a distant memory flashing in my head. A memory of a girl behind the bar at Applebee's two months earlier. I foggily recall asking this girl where to eat other than Applebee's when in town. The answer from the unhealthily skinny bartender with the oversized butterfly herpes badge tattoed strategically on her back, just above the incredibly low waistline of her uncomfortably tight jeans, was a simple and straightforward one,

"Sella's! OhmygodIloveSella's! Sella's is soooooooo good! They have these, whaddayacallem? They're like pizza's but the crust goes, like, all the way around? You know?"

"Calzone?"

"OhmyGodyesthatsit! Calzone! And they're like, sogooditsunbelievable! You have to go to Sella's! I mean, you, like, just absolutely have to!"

So it's to Sella's that I went on this rainy evening. Strangely enough, however, as I stepped to the counter with the menu in hand I wasn't really in the mood for pizza, and as the apparently very bored student turned pizza girl asked me lazily,

"Hey. You want somethin'?"

What I heard come out of my mouth was not what I had expected as I was pulling into the parking lot. Way down at the bottom of the menu was something a bit different, and after mentally bypassing all the tomato sauce, sausage, pepperoni, veggie, Italian type items (all listed with nifty little names like The Cougar and The Artisan) I came upon,

"The Texan, please. And I'll have that to go if you don't mind."

I'll let you think about what a Texan calzone would be for a minute, much as I was doing as I looked around the dining room and spotted this sign on the wall. At the time I took it as a good omen. Looking back, I'm not so sure it wasn't the opposite.

By the time I had carried my boxed up Texan out to the van, driven through the rain to my hotel, checked in, and settled myself in my night's hideout, I'm afraid whatever might have been even reasonably appetizing about my lovely Sella's calzone had long since deteriorated into a lukewarm, congealed, and nearly inedible mess.

By the way, what was it you imagined a Texan calzone to be? Would it have been a lovely crust stuffed full of cheddar and mozarella cheeses, along with a mansized pile of chili and a handfull of sliced red onions? Is that what you were so hungrily picturing in your incredibly perceptive little mind? And as you were envisioning this lovely little snack, did you for even a second conceive that it could be in the least bit appealing or even palatable? No? Well, then you are considerably smarter than a certain gas propelled superhero.

What the hell was I thinkin'?

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Yo, buddy. Spare some change?

2007-03-15T22:09:00.000-07:00

Today's Itenerary: Downtown

The city can be intimidating. We all know this to be true. What we sometimes forget, however, is that people in the city are often incredibly friendly and generous. I mean it can be a bit weird at first, but if you look past your inhibitions and open yourself up to people you don't know its amazing what can happen. Take today for example. I was walking along 6th Avenue in search of my villainous foes and what should happen but a fella, who I until now had no idea is named James, and who happens to run a local sidewalk espresso stand, yells out to me,

"Hey man! Ya hungry? Wanna slice a pie?"

Now I was immediately imagining a big sticky sweet hunk of blueberry or bumbleberry or some other nasty storebought unhomemade dessert concoction and therefore trying to come up with a polite way of declining when James says to me,

"Its got no meat but its still good pizza."

What could I say? Pizza? At lunch time? Hell yes I wanted a slice. I didn't really give a damn if it was an espresso stand and the guy never actually sells pizza. Nor did I give a damn that I had no idea of my newfound pizza benefactor's name. I wanted that slice. It looked so tempting with all the tomatoes, artichoke hearts and kalamata olives nestled in amongst the lovely melted and slightly browned piles of too much cheese that I didn't even give a damn about the fact that my buddy had his finger buried two knuckles deep in his left nostril.

Thanks, Bro. you givin' away root beer, too?

Stranger things have happened.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Really, I Didn't Take Any Pictures!

2007-03-03T15:10:00.000-08:00

Today's Itenerary: Little Cambodia, White Center, Washington

There's a little grocery store in the bad part of town. You know the one. And if you were to walk in the back door like superheroes do you would likely be greeted by a sight similar to this one:

Or on a good day the view just inside that same back door might look more like this:

A bit offputting, I know. I'll let you decide what the dried splatters are all over the walls, or why the moldy fan is sitting just above these yet to be cooked foodstuffs hanging at room temperature. Figure out for yourself what might be in those plastic bins on the shelf or for what that extension cord is used. I don't have the stomach for such images. The proprietors of said establishment seemed to feel you might not have the constitution for visual descriptions of such graphic food preparation techniques, either. Upon spotting my super secret low resolution secret agent spy cam, designed to look amazingly like a telephone, certain people began wildly gesticulating in my direction while talking to me quite firmly in a language I very definitely did not understand. Amazingly enough, however, their point was made and I shoved the camera quite quickly into one of the Knifeman Utility Pockets on the leg of my Official Superhero Old Navy Cargoes. After many pleading assurances from myself that no pictures were taken, there were smiles all around along with much back slapping and brotherly shoulder grabbing. Apologies were offered in English, which they only slightly understand, while these same apologies were accepted in Cambodian (or whatever language they speak in Cambodia) which I comprehend not at all.

As I headed out of the back room and through the store, lazily slapping down evil along the way, I noticed this by the front door.

Mesmerizing. I was suddenly quite hungry.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Fremont is for Lovers

2007-03-01T19:41:00.000-08:00

Today's Itenerary: Fremont, Washington (a small neighborhood in Seattle)

What's that smell? Could it be a vague but acrid blend of body odor and incense? Of course it could. Hell, when you're smack dab in the middle of the Socialist Republic of Fremont what else would you expect to smell? Being a somewhat dingy yet fascinating little area resting lazily in the shadow of a rather large sculpted likeness of Vlad Lenin, Fremont is home to a large representation of the more Bohemian of the city's yuppy population as well as a rather colorful contingent of the burnt out hippies (along with some pseudo hippie intellectuals) and overly tatted, matty haired, pachouli scented youth for which Seattle has become known.

Thai food as well as sushi and espresso joints make up a good number of the restaurant establishment in this little community, along with a smattering of Mexican and Greek. Bars and pubs of all sorts make up the overwhelming majority, and it was as I was bounding my way mightily from pub to pub saving the day that I suddenly found myself unable to continue my heroic behavior. Without warning I found myself leaning listlessly against a no parking sign and staring slack jawed through the window of Espresso To Go, or ETG as it is locally known, watching a more than middle aged woman in what must have been her daughter's hippie chick clothing (not that there's anything wrong with that) tying lovely bows of brown string around sloppily wrapped wax paper packages. Something was nagging. Some distant memory was knocking on the door that leads from the -locked away safe deposit box full of forgotten experience- section of my brain, trying desperately to make its presence known in the THIS IS WHATS HAPPENING NOW! section. I couldn't quite grasp it though. What was it I was so close to remembering?

And then she did it. That old, but trying hard to be young, espresso lady reached across the counter, ripped off a new square of wax paper and smoothed it flat across the work surface in front of her. She then reached back across the counter in the other direction, into the shadowy gloom behind her, and pulled forth something glorious. Lights started flashing and somewhere a band played as the memories swept back into my head.

That's right. I remembered.

Years ago I would stop in here in the mornings and purchase my lunch for the day. What was that lunch from the past that had me standing there today like a hungry urchin hoping for a handout? It was a sandwich. Yep, another sandwich. And as I stood there in the wind, imagining a big beautiful homemade sesame seed bun loaded with the organic love and environmental angst of the ex-hippie ultra liberal standing in that window making her sandwiches in hopes of saving the world, I thought to myself, "What kind of a hero would I be if I didn't do my part?" So through the door I went where I dropped my $4 on the counter and was handed my earth friendly wax paper and string wrapped treasure.

Upon arriving back at the Knifemobile I could hardly wait to open my package and gaze upon its ingredients. Unfortunately, I was somewhat disappointed. What had at one time been designer organic greens of varying sorts had now become regular green leaf lettuce. What had once been thick slices of fresh mozzarella had now become nothing more than a thin slice of what appeared to be deli havarti. But as I slapped the sandwich back together and took a big superhero bite I realized it had been long enough, and the damned thing tasted almost exactly as I had remembered. Why? Well, under all that lettuce is a sizable bunch of basil, and that mixed with the flavor of what is very definitely the same damned olive oil and whatthehellever dressing they were using ten years ago seemed to be enough to negate the ill effects of those less than first rate ingredients I had noticed only moments earlier.

Imagine whirled peas!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Tofu, but not Tofurkey

2007-02-26T21:28:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: Any similarity to any recent episode of "No Reservations" is completely unintentional and is not to be misconscrewed as plagiarism in any way, shape or form. This all happened to me first, dammit! (or at least before I saw the show.)

Today's Itenerary: Federal Way, Washington

Tofu, glorious tofu. Shimmering white protein laden blocks of pressed coagulated soy milk. Soft, silky, low in calories and cholesterol (and in many cases, flavor), tofu is an incredibly versatile food, and I admit to you now...I like it. That's right. The big musclebound caped crusader likes tofu. Go ahead. Call me sissy boy if you must, but what the hell do you know? I like stir-fried tofu. I enjoy deep fried tofu, all crispy outside and creamy inside. I like curried tofu and tofu served cold under a pile of dried fish flakes. Hell, you can even freeze tofu and then partially thaw it and slice it up to reveal a myriad of air pockets and layers that would not have been evident in its original state, and I like that also. I guess you could say that as far as tofu is concerned I am a fan.

No surprise, then, that when I spotted a new restaurant called MG's Tofu House I knew exactly what I was going to have for lunch, and as I sat there in my Knifemobile (pernicious emissaries of evil be damned. I'm hungry) staring at the sign over the door, visions of crispy golden cubes of french toasty goodness were floating before my eyes like some sort of narcotic induced hallucination...only legal. I was daydreaming of the quick and healthy asian style lunch of meat substitute and, quite possibly, unfamiliar vegetables which was sure to be placed before me, probably all in one bowl, and surely to be inhaled within minutes after its arrival at my table.

I lazily pushed my way through the front door and found myself an empty table. Dropping my rainsoaked bulletproof knifeman superhero jacket over the back of a chair I took a seat in the next chair and began perusing the menu so conveniently left on the table ahead of time. Excellent. This was sure to be the quick lunch I had imagined. These people had thought of everything, right down to saving time by already placing menus where they were sure to be of the most use. Now to decide just which of the aforementioned tofu preparations I would be enjoying on this rainy Northwest afternoon.

Dammit! None of the glorious dishes I had come to love in my past tofu experience were even on this menu. It quickly became evident to this (not so) caped crusader that I was in a Korean tofu house, and Koreans apparently eat their tofu in soup, something I had not tried. Well, I'm never against trying something new but I was going to need to rethink this situation, so when the young lady came over to take my order I confidently asked for a beer (the heaviest beer available, please) and a few more minutes with the menu.

Koreans apparently like their beer in the style of Budweiser and other similar brands of pisswater. (Sigh)

As I waited for my beverage to arrive I had time to decide on Korean tofu soup with bulgogi (grilled beef of some Korean sort) and octopus and told the girl this as she delivered my bottle of mildly flavored golden mineral water. I then sat back to attempt to enjoy this stuff they try to pass off as beer.

Shortly afterwards my new Korean friend emerged from the kitchen with a wheeled cart laden with dishes and proceeded to cover my table with food. After setting eight dishes of basically unidentifiable food items in front of me she turned briskly towards the kitchen as if nothing could possibly be the matter.

"Excuse me, Miss? I'm so sorry, but I did not order these items. I asked only for soup."

"Oh, no sir. This kimchee," she replied

"Kim who? I don't care who made it, I didn't order it."

"No, not order, sir. Korean way. Always kimchee with meal. These dishes kimchee."

"What the hell kind of scam is this? Young lady, I do not intend to pay for this whether all your Korean friends do or not."

"Not pay, sir. This all no charge." She smiled.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh. Free huh? Well lemme ask you this, dearie. If I asked you to take all this back then how much of a discount would I get on my meal?" (Free my ass. Nothings free in this world. This'll teach her)

Starting to pick the plates up and return them to her tray she said to me, still smiling, "No discount sir. Kimchee no charge. You don't want I take back. No problem."

"Whoa whoa whoa! Holdonacottonpickenminnit sis. You're tellin' me you're not gonna give me a discount but you're gonna take all this food back to the kitchen? Boy, this really is a scam. You're gonna get me comin' and goin' aren't ya?"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Oh forget it. Just leave kimmy here and nevermind."

With that she opened a stone bowl of some sort and revealed its contents of some greyish rice with a light sprinkling of green peas. Most of this she scooped into a small steel dish, leaving behind about a quarter inch layer of rice in the original bowl. Taking what I thought was a teapot, she poured hot water into the stone bowl, replaced the cover, and set the whole thing before me as though I might want it.

"What the hell? Is this my soup?"

"No," shaking her head at me like I was an idiot, "That not soup. That rice."

"Well, dear. I have no idea what to do with this food," I said with a smile, hoping for explanation.

"No idea? Oh, ha ha. You funny man," With that she turned and headed for the kitchen, never to return.

Before me now sat eight bowls plus those two damned bowls of rice. Damned good rice I might add. I have no idea what kind of rice it was, but it was tasty as hell, and the peas added a nice touch. In the other bowls were three kinds of kimchee (daikon, cucumber, and cabbage), some sort of seaweed stuff, some korean pancake (don't ask me) a sprout salad of some sort, a raw egg in the shell, and a pink liquid with jalapeno slices. What was I supposed to do? I picked up my chopstickes and dove in.

Shortly afterward, another girl emerged from the kitchen (I guess the first girl had had enough
Knifeman for one afternoon) bearing a cast iron bowl of boiling red liquid. As she set it before me I was able to see that it was chock full of octopus parts, beef pieces and tofu. Very carefully I picked up my spoon and sampled this bubbling liquid. Incredibly spicy, it tasted vaguely like tomato soup. The chewy bits of octopus and morsels of grilled meat were wonderfully flavorful, and as I finished eating the final bites of this lovely newfound cuisine it occured to me that what would have really put it all over the top would have been a raw egg cracked into the boiling mini cauldron immediately upon service.

Oh. So thats what that egg was for?

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

While I'm on the Subject of Sandwiches...

2007-02-23T17:05:00.000-08:00

...I should mention Mercado Latino's Torta Cubana. This is a meal that deserves more than an "Honorable Mention" when it comes to handing out the sandwich awards.

Some sorta Mexican bread is slathered in Mexican mayonnaise with lime and then packed full of ham, pulled pork and cheese. The whole thing is then tossed on the grill before being topped with a sprinkling of lettuce along with tomato, avocado and pickled jalapeno. This all adds up to a sandwich which packs a serious punch for people who have man sized mouths to go along with their man sized appetites.

At a very affordable price of only $4.99 no sides are offered. No sides are needed.

If you're really lucky yours will be prepared by a little old cook with less hair than he should have and only half of his fingers. Hard not to order that damned lingua en salsa roja, however.

El Afilador!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Somebody Say Sandwich?

2007-02-10T18:57:00.000-08:00

Today's Itenerary: Heaven on the East Side

Sometimes a guy needs a sandwich. I don't mean some crappy pile of white bread and watered down reconstituted thinly sliced turkey breast pressboard, either. I mean a real honest to God meal in hand. You know what I'm talking about, right? A sandwich so full of top notch ingredients, so stacked with good meat and vegetables and cheese it really does constitute a full meal all on its own. A sandwich like a Thanksgiving night, I'm so damned full I can't eat another bite, sure I'll have a sandwich, extra stuffing on mine, kinda sandwich. You know the one. Sliced turkey (real turkey, of course, sliced off the actual bird) a fistfull of stuffing, a golf ball sized glob of cranberry sauce along with an unhealthy smearing of mayonnaise all piled on the bread of your choice and shoved down your gullet mouth full after painful mouth full as you continually rearrange yourself in the chair so as to maybe create some sort of pocket of empty space in your overly extended and oh, so quickly growing belly. Now that's food. No snacktime sandwiches here. Chasing down the bad guys puts a hankerin' to a fella and a hankerin' like that needs to be addressed correctly. This can be easily taken care of...on a good day.

Like a day in Spokane. Maybe it's mid afternoon, and as you stand there looking down on your recently defeated adversary you notice a rumbling sound. As you desparately look up to see if a truck or maybe even a train is quickly bearing down on you, your leg muscles flexing mightily in preparation for the superhuman leap needed in order to escape certain obliteration, you notice a Schlotzky's Deli at the other end of an adjacent parking lot. With this discovery you realize the rumbling sound is your sadly neglected stomach and kicking your unworthy opponent to the side you begin to make your way across the pavement towards the door. It's sure to happen to you....happens to me all the time. Ok, so it happened once. Last week.

Now I've heard about Schlotzky's, and its been said the smart bet is on the pastrami. Not being one to wager on the longshot I slapped my $9 on the counter and ordered the pastrami, along with a soda and a bag of chips.

After drumming my fingers patiently on the countertop for a minute or five I was rewarded with a healthy pile of acceptable pastrami and swiss on a couple of slices of the stangest rye bread I've ever seen. The bread, or bun as Schlotzky's calls it (freshly baked daily is their claim to fame), was round and flat much like an English muffin. The crust was not just around the edges, but all across the top and bottom as well. The texture of the bread was light and airy like an English muffin though not as chewy. Flavor was nearly non-existent. So as I sat there eating my lovely round and flavor free crusty rye bun full of pastrami I couldn't help but be transported mentally back to a Saturday 2 weeks past and Goldberg's Famous Deli.

Located in Factoria Mall, deep in the heart of Bellevue Washington's most notorious ghetto, is a Jewish Deli of near heroic proportions. A deli where legends are born. Run by the transplanted son of the owners of the original Stage Deli in Detroit, Goldberg's is serving up some of the best sandwiches in town. I'd even venture so far as to suggest that these are the best sandwiches in the state. And while the Self Proclaimed Sandwich King may be slappin' meat and cheese around over in the University District, I'm tellin' ya now, the Northwest's true Sandwhich Kings are whippin' up some gorgeous deli over on the East side. You want knish? You want stuffed cabbage. Kishka and gravy? Smoked Sablefish or Matzo ball soup? How about some blintzes, latkes and lox and bagles?

What's that? "What about the sandwiches, you ask? Let's start with the West Side Story. The #32. First rate Jewish rye smeared liberally with Russian dressing and then piled sky high with corned beef or pastrami (or even a mix of the two) and topped with a huge pile of creamy coleslaw, this is a serious tribute to the Earl himself. For an extra seventy five cents they'll even pony up for a slice of swiss cheese. Why don't I just show ya. Words may never do this baby justice.

Have a Dr. Brown's Cream Soda, why doncha?

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Hail to the King

2007-01-29T22:11:00.000-08:00

Today's Itenerary: The University District, Seattle, Washington

Ah, the "U". A veritable cheap food lover's paradise. Located at the heart of what is the urban campus of the University of Washington, the U district is a beautifully grungy yet incredibly diverse area of Seattle bisected by a main drag known, interestingly enough, as University Avenue. If you live here you call this street The Ave. Students walk with purpose along the Ave, giant packs full of books and other implements of higher learning strapped to their backs, while runaways sit in small groups by the garbage cans and mailboxes looking as pitiful as possible and hoping for a handout. Coffee shops are always crowded with people getting themselves wired to the gills on caffeine while banging away on their laptops or reading some old Vonnegut novel. Bars are lined with patrons even at 9am, and a morning walk up one of the urine scented and trash strewn alleys will reveal a leftover drunk or two attempting to sleep it off behind some of the dumpsters. More often than you might imagine, groups of America's future can be spotted sharing bong hits and bottles of cheap beer in the doorway of some shoddy apartment building.

As you leave the alley and stroll up the Ave you notice restaurants of all persuasions. Samir's, Cedars, and Flowers; all Mediterannean in some form. Little Thai and the Thai-ger Room. Jewel of India. Alladin Gyro-cery and Alladin Felafel House. Costa's Greek. Sanchu Mongolian Grill. Sahara. Caspian Grill. Finn MacCools Irish Pub. Chipotle. Tokyo Garden....you get the picture, right?

But as you go along you might notice a little place sitting all by itself. Probably one of the only places along this stretch to occupy a building of its own. A non-descript little blue and white establishment with wooden chairs and tables placed haphazardly in front along the sidewalk. Red neon signs in the windows read "Open" and "Espresso". Above the windows and under the eaves of the building are painted the words Brooklyn Grinder, not because it has anything to do with Brooklyn, New York, but because his previous and far more lucrative location happened to be located a couple of blocks kitty corner to this one, on Brooklyn Avenue. This is the place, my friends. Don't miss it.

Owned by a fella named Terry Something or Other, the self proclaimed Sandwich King, Brooklyn Grinder is home to the best example I've had in Seattle of what is, in my opinion, the King of Sandwiches. The Muffulleta. My mouth waters as I type the word. Stuffed full of salami and mortadella and then topped with a layer of provolone and piled high with an olive salad made of mostly olive oil, garlic, and olives, the muffulleta is a true sandwich lovers dream and The Brooklyn Grinder is the place where that dream comes true.

As I push the door open a small bell rings and I hear Terry call out from the back, "Knifeman!"

"Yo Terry, what up?" I answer as I scan the room for signs of evil. "How's business?"

"Sux, Dude" Terry replies. "I don't know what it is about this location but it just ain't worth a damn."

"Sorry, man."

It just hasn't been the same for Terry since they forced him out of the old location. Apparently it wasn't zoned for restaurant use or some kind silly thing like that. He moved into this much larger location with high hopes, but it seems it just hasn't worked out. The self proclaimed Sandwich King doesn't do as much smiling these days as he used to do and that is a shame.

"You by yourself, Terry? Where's Sandwich Chick?"

"Can't afford for both of us to be here at the same time anymore, man. Doesn't make financial since."

Its friggin' depressing coming in here these days. Like watching your dog die or somethin'.

"Hey, Terry, make me a Muffulleta wouldja, while I go kick some evil ass in the back room?"

So as Terry started slicing up some bread and salami I headed into the back room to get some pictures of his honest to God muffulleta olive salad which he has shipped up from the Central Grocery in New Orleans in uncommonly large jars. Thats what I said, folks. The Central Grocery. Home of the original muffulleta sandwich, and there just ain't no salad like it. As I pulled my secret agent superhero miniature sized super low resolution camera from my utility pocket (cargo pants are good for utility pockets) and quickly scanned the room I found that I sadly could not locate the olive salad. This was a disaster of immense proportions. How could I stealthily photograph this stuff if my super knifey vision couldn't locate it?

"Hey, Sandwich King? Where do you keep that Central Grocery olive salad, anyway? I want to see if there's a website or something listed on the jar so I can order some." This ploy was sure to fool him and gain me some quick results.

"Oh man, I don't use that stuff anymore. Too expensive to ship. I've started making my own. You're gonna like this."

Oh crap. My heart sank. Making his own olive salad? This couldn't be good. Was Terry gonna try to fool me with some sorta black olive tapenade type schmear like all the other so called muffulleta makers in this damned town? Hell, even Salumi tries pulling the wool over everyones eyes by using some leftover excessively minced olive crap which was probably leftover from some sort of second rate crostini no one ordered the night before. Surely the self proclaimed Sandwich King wouldn't pull a stunt like that. Would he? I was soon to find out.

As I slowly walked back out to the kitchen, chin on chest and feet dragging like a child in trouble I saw the salad. My spirits soared. This wasn't black. It wasn't overly minced. It wasn't a schmear or tapenade. Nope, Homies, this was the real deal. I could smell it from across the room. All that lovely garlicky olive and oil goodness was wafting through the air like some sorta invisible heavenly fog, and Terry had the jar turned almost upside down as he dumped it all over the top of my now gorgeous sandwich.

"Oh jeez, dude, I think I love you. I was sure I was gonna get some crappy paste. I was miserable there for a minute, but you have now redeemed yourself."

"That's funny, Knifeman, because alot of my customers ask me why my salad isn't all chopped up like that. Unbelievable, huh? I just tell 'em, 'Because I know what I'm doing and you don't,' A few of them haven't returned. I guess the olives are just too much for there uneducated palate."

"Thank the good Lord you don't succumb to pressures of that sort, Terry. You are truly the Sandwich King. While I have you here, though, lemme ask you a question. How come you use ciabbata bread for your muffulleta as opposed to the more traditional French roll?"

"Its about getting as much use from as few products as possible, KM. I need to be able to use ingredients for more than one purpose or they just sit on the shelf and go to waste these days. Can't be wasting funds, y'know?"

"Well, I guess," I replied, "But the ciabatta is so chewy while a French roll is so soft and crunchy at the same time. And what's more, French rolls are traditional."

Terry, the self proclaimed Sandwich King looked at me with a withering glare, and then, as a rare grin began to take shape around the corners of his mouth, he said to me,

"Dude. Shutthehell up. I know what the hell I'm doin'. You don't."

Laissez le bon temp roulet!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Burns Night

2007-01-25T23:02:00.000-08:00

I'll not do the writing tonight, but instead leave it to Robert Burns for whom this night is named. A toast to those of you who allow your curiosity to override your better judgement.
Life is short. Best to live it.

Address to a Haggis
by Robert Burns

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive, '
Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi perfect sconner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

Tengo Mucho Hambre, Amigo.

2007-01-20T15:29:00.000-08:00

This Afternoon's Itenerary: Kent, Washington

After consuming my Cambodian Hockey Puck I decided to head over to Kent and La Huerta Market to pick up the ingredients for Tinga Poblana. Nothing takes the chill off on a snowy day like a nice spicy stew of pork, tomatoes, and chipotles. The ingredients can readily be found at my local factory food superstore, but shopping at a little Meximart just makes it all seem so much more satisfying in the end, and La Huerta is one of my favorite places as far as that goes. A land of habaneros, jalapenos, cactus leaves, jicama, chorizo, mojo criollo, manteca, and huge bags of masa flour, La Huerta is a like a foodie's Latin Fantasyland.

As I burst through the door with my camera flashing there was a flurry of activity and shouts of "La Migra!" I was suddenly under the distinct impression that people were running frantically through the back door and I noticed Juan and his lovely wife, the owners of this small establishment, glowering at me from behind the counter. Sheepishly I pocketed my camera, picked up a basket and began my shopping. I headed straight to the meat department for some chorizo. Made on site, La Huerta's chorizo will spice a stew nicely. It will also add a lovely sheen of glistening fat to the surface of a pot of tinga. Hot damn! Fat and spice. My mouth was watering. As I carefully lifted my camera from my pocket and began setting up my shot of the chorizo I heard a voice over my shoulder say,

"Amigo, are ju making a chorizo caleendar?".

"Jeezus, Juan! Don't sneak up on a guy like that. I just wanted a picture. I promise I'm not making a calendar or using it for a blog, or giving any of my pics to the authorities or anything like that. Ok? Now can I have a pound or so of this beautiful stuff?"

Chorizo placed safely in my basket, I picked up some pork shoulder, potatoes, tomatoes, chipotles and queso fresco and nonchalantly strolled over to the taqueria section of the store. The trouble with eating nom bei in a dangerous part of town is it leaves a guy hungry and my appetite needed to be satiated as soon as possible. Taqueria la Huerta is a guaranteed fix for this particular need. Tacos, chalupas, burritos and tortas of all varieties are a specialty here and believe me when I tell you they are muy bueno. Deciding what to eat on a given day, however, can be a difficult decision and today was no different from any other. Finally coming to an agreement with my stomach and tastebuds I ordered the #1. Three tacos and a soda.

"And could you make two of those with lengua (tongue) and one with tripa (tripe, or stomach), por favor?"

While waiting for my food I perused the chicharrones (fried pork skin) case and did a little drooling. Prepared two ways, with or without the fat still attached, these babies are not your average bag of fried pork rinds. Nope, measuring over a foot in length and up to 8 inches in width these babies might not even fit into a bag. Unfortunately my pockets were quickly becoming empty and these would have to wait for another day. I never did figure out exactly why they were displayed behind a big sign advertising carnitas for $5.99/lb.

After only a few minutes my tacos were brought out, and heading for an empty table I grabbed my Jarritos soda from the cooler, some extra radishes and salsa from the condiment bar and sat down. I love authentic tacos. Slow cooked melt in your mouth meats served on greasy corn tortillas with little more garnish than some onion, cilantro, and a few wedges of lemon or lime, these babies are a far cry from those crispy cornboats full of hamburger, lettuce and cheese we Americans are so accustomed to eating. They are also far more delicious. And if you happen to be a little squeamish about eating tongue and tripe that's fine. Ask for chicken or pork if it makes you feel better. Those are damned tasty too. You'll be missing out, though.

Sabroso.

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Real Food, Real People?

2007-01-19T17:15:00.000-08:00

Todays Itenerary: White Center, Seattle, Washington

Ah yes. Another day in the life of the Knifeman. Driving over snow and ice covered roads at breakneck speeds while attempting not to run my van full of unsecured knives into a ditch, thereby turning myself into some sort of bloody human pincushion. It ain't all so glamourous as this, lemme tell ya. No, at times this job can become more than a little bit monotonous. Day after day of rescuing the ungrateful from the clutches of evil. Drive. Park. Run inside. Run back outside. Drive. Park. Run inside....you get it, right? Its boring. Especially when you get stuck in some milktoast neighborhood full of burgers and fries and crappy deli sandwiches served with a cup of soup. Your choice, of course. "Would you prefer Cream of Brocolli or some sorta chicken cream mushroom noodle veggie flavor of the day barley bean and ham concoction that we all just realllllllllllllly love? Its our specialty".

Specialty? What exactly makes it the specialty? More big buckets full of this particular crap in the walk in? I guess that would make it special....well, not the point.

Point is: Boring!

So some days I get out of bed, grab my coffee and head for the van already in deep consideration as to where and what I'm gonna eat. Today was no different, and as I knew my first stop was going to be 13 Coins, (semi-gourmet open kitchen flame out cooking show food 24 hours a day) I could already taste those eggs. Maybe a Joe's Scramble today? Or maybe Eggs Benedict? Too bad its so early in the morning. The Smoked Salmon Fettucine at 13 Coins is really a helluva good meal, and there's always leftovers for later, but eggs it would have to be.

Well, eggs it would have been had I not completely lost the taste for such everyday restaurant food by the time I reached the Seatac area and 13 Coins itself. I mean, really, who eats a Joe's Scramble? Do you get up on a Saturday morning and head for the fridge to dig out all the potatoes, peppers, eggs and whatever the hell else is in that concoction so you can toss it all in a pan and whip up a big ol' platter of mess? I know I don't.

What I'm trying to say is that something like a scramble is purely restaurant food for restaurant goers. Real people don't eat crap like that, do they? And who are the real people, anyway? Are you real people? Am I? Maybe so, but on this particular morning what I started craving was real food from The Real People. People who come from places where everyday food doesn't come from a brightly lit factory outlet like Safeway. People whose everyday food doesn't come wrapped in styrofoam and plastic wrap packages. People who have an actual relationship with the food they eat and the ingredients they use. People who cook with ingredients grown in the back garden or bought from a local farmer who sells what's in season. People who are able to take what most of us Americans would call nasty or gross or just plain bland and turn it into a delicious home cooked meal, because thats what they have to do in order to survive. Thats right. I want food prepared by immigrants. Legal immigrants. Illegal immigrants. Immigrants from destitute nations where food is not so easy to come by as here in the USA. So where does one go for such food? I'unno, back to White Center maybe?

So off to White Center I went in search of something different. Some sort of international comfort food, I guess, and exactly that can usually be found sitting on the check out counter next to the cash register at New Angkor Market. A small, uninviting Cambodian grocery in a dirty inhospitable and, quite frankly, dangerous neighborhood, New Angkor is not your usual brightly lit supermarket with big signs hanging in the air to tell you what can be found on every aisle.

No, this tiny family owned store is somewhat dark with aisles stocked randomly with whatever the owner can fit into whatever little spot he can find on a given day. Most of the produce is unidentifiable to the average American. Products like bitter melon, lychee, choy sum and durian. Most of the seafood you might consider somewhat unappealing. The meat can usually be identified as the stuff down on the end of the Safeway meat aisle. You know, the stuff you usually look at and wonder just what the hell would that ever be used for? I mean, its almost all bone, right? Hardly any meat on that thing at all. What good is it? Of course there is also other stuff like brisket and maybe even top round but its almost always thinly sliced for a quicker style of cooking than what most of us WASPy Americans are used to. (assuming you fit that description). They have a hot case at New Angkor with shiny, incredibly crispy looking ducks, chickens, fish and pigs hanging on meathooks. Some of it is so mouthwatering one can hardly contemplate the thought of walking out without a trunkload to take home, but the language barrier combined with the relatively unsanitary condition of the rest of the market as well as the area behind the hot case might certainly persuade one to act otherwise. Its a confusing place. You look at this myriad of unusual and mostly unappetizing foodstuffs and wonder what it is you see while your senses somehow tell you there are good things here. Aromas unknown though still quite temptingly familiar start those juices flowing and before you know it you find yourself looking for something, anything, that appears safe enough to take out of the store so you can taste it and explore these new flavor frontiers which have so suddenly spread themselves before you.

"Excuse me. What's this?" I point at the only item other than spring rolls sitting by the register. It looks like a beige colored hockey puck with some sort of a red and yellow stamped design on the top.

"Nom Bei, sir"

"Is it sweet or spicy?"

"Ohhhhhhh, that sweet. You want try?"

"Yeah, sure. What the hell? How much?"

"Today on us, sir. you try out. You like, buy more for kids next time".

Discreetly pocketing my newly acquired hockey puck/food item, I headed quickly out the door and to the warmth and safety of the Knifemobile so I could unwrap, study, and even possibly enjoy this new treat I had discovered. As I prepared to peel off the plastic wrap I noticed an ingredients list. Flour, Sugar, Taro.

Thats it? How could this be? Isn't taro the stuff used to make that disgusting poi stuff they were always trying to force down my throat back in Hawaii? Oh, God, this couldn't be a good sign could it? Oh well, a guy needs his energy, and as I was starting to feel more than a little weak from not eating and lightheaded from an overload of caffeine I impatiently unwrapped my little nom bei and took a large bite. A little dryness on the outside was soon counteracted by the moist and slightly sweet taro and sugar center. Not too sweet, mind you, but just right for a big burly superguy such as myself. I guarantee you, however, that the Sous Chef (remember her?) wouldn't be found within 30 yards of one of these things.

Too bad it was no bigger than a hockey puck. I might have had another, but I wasn't about to venture out of the van again in this neighborhood. Once is enough. How do these people exist in this place day after day? Geez, its like a friggin' third world country around here. Good thing I carry knives.

Maybe next time I'll try one of those pigs.

--It's Fosco, Dammit.

Sous Chef to the Rescue!

2007-01-03T21:34:00.000-08:00

Today's Itenerary: Hire a deputy.

Seeing as how I'm injured and all I got to thinking that maybe I really needed to go out and do some recruiting for a new sidekick. I guess sidekicks are sort of required for people in this business so I took a few applications and finally settled on someone whom I believe will fit the bill perfectly. They call her The Sous Chef and I get the distinct impression she will be hell on the guys at the pizza and burger joints. I have a bit of an issue with the girl, though, as she insists on wearing this damned Batgirl outfit all the time. I've explained to her that aside from generating a variety of rude and insensitive comments from people on the street (See previous blog) she is really opening me up to some touchy legal issues. She shrugs and smiles and says something to the effect of "Hey old man. This is just me being me. Take it or leave it."

I guess I need the help.

--Its Fosco, Dammit!

Fingernail? What Fingernail?

2007-01-02T21:03:00.000-08:00

First of all let me just mention that I hope everyone had a great holiday season, but hiatus is over now and its time to get back to business. Lets get started.

Today's Itenerary: White Center and Beautiful Burien, Washington

Ah hell, damn and crap! What have I done to deserve this lousy excuse for weather I continually have to put up with this winter? If it ain't rainin' incessantly then either snow is falling or the wind is blowing like a bitch, and no one can drive in inclement weather in this town. I swear, as I spend my days cruising this wet, dirty city in the knifemobile its like all I do is dodge idiots and old people. The old folks I can let off with a dirty look but its hard to be nice to the idiots sometimes. I have to keep reminding myself that a good Hero never lets his emotions get the best of him. Road rage episodes are not an option if you want to maintain an adoring public, so when I really find myself ready to explode I tend to search for a port in the storm, as it were. Today, around 9:30am as I was dodging not only idiots and old people but gangsters and drunks in lovely White Center (also know by such colorful names as Rat City and Not So White Center) I began to feel one of those ready to run somebody down moments coming on so I swung the ol' stabbin cabin down the alley and into the chain link surrounded dirt parking lot of Carniceria Al Paisano on 15th Ave SW. As you may be able to tell by the name, this is a meat market of the Mexican variety. Dull knives are always lurking behind the counter and in the back rooms, so my amigos inside are usually happy to see me, and the rewards I am sure to receive for showing up are always enough to lure me in if I'm in the area. Sometimes fresh tamales. Sometimes chicharrones. Today it was Tacos Dorados. Ah yes, lovely little deep fried pockets of grease, meat and potatoes. They take a corn tortilla, spoon a dab of filling in the middle, fold and secure the thing with a couple of toothpicks and then fry the hell out of it until its crunchy around the outside and moist, meaty and chewy in the middle. Then they sell the little SOB's four for a dollar. Holy clogged arteries Knifeman, I'll take 8! Throw those in a bag for me Juanita while I grab a bottle of Jarritos Pineapple soda and I'll take 'em out to the car so I can watch the gangsters and hookers interact while I eat.

After that little break in the action I'm ready to move on through the rest of my day ridding this rainsoaked cesspool of evil. Its a dirty job...and a wet one. It poured all day and now that I'm without my waterproof Official Knifeman Superhero Suit I was soaked to the bone. Yep, thats right. No more leotards for this crimefighter. All the little comments were starting to get to me. You know the kind. I'd just be walking down the street and some loser would say something like:

"Hey Dude, whats with the fruity outfit?"

I mean, almost like maybe he'd never seen a guy in a cape before. Sheesh! Or some little kid in a grocery cart would say,

"Mommy? Why is that man wearing ladies exercise clothes?"

You know, some Scottish bastard in a goddamned kilt even had the nerve to ask me if I was a rent boy? What the hell kinda crap is that? A rent boy! God I hate those friggin' Scottish skirt wearing poofs!

So anyway, I've modified and modernized the Knifeman Uniform and am now wearing a fairly sturdy yet baggy pair of Old Navy cargoes along with a navy blue sweatshirt. I have, however, kept the water repellent super boots. I just can't work with wet feet. It wouldn't be sensible. I'd surely catch my death. Hell I get wet enough as it is even with the waterproof boots and today I was just that wet, so when I hit Burien around 12:30pm I had to head back to one of those warm and dry refuges I so often find myself seeking. Back to Mick Kelly's Irish Pub. Now Mick's gets a pretty good lunch business but they're usually happy to see me anyway and as I headed back to the kitchen I guess I didn't notice....well, let me start by showing you a picture of my knife box. Batman has his utility belt. Superman has his X-Ray vision. Spiderman has his stupid spidey sense (like anyone believes that). I've got a knifebox. Its a wooden box the dimensions of which are something in the neighborhood of 18"L x 5"W x 4"D. It about 10 years old. Its falling apart and rotten in some places and its held together by about a roll and a half of duct tape. I pile sharp knives inside and as I wander in and out of kitchens I put dull knives into this box and they magically come out sharper than hell. Ok, its not magic but I'm not telling you my secrets. Anyway, sometimes a knife gets hung up with the handle propped up on the edge of the box (see blue handled knife in picture below) and this is nothing more than an accident waiting to happen.

So as I walked down the line doing my thing for the cooks in Mick's kitchen I reached into the box and pulled out a knife. As I took my hand from the box I felt a tug and a twinge on my finger and naturally pulled my hand up to take a look. It seems I had caught my fingernail on that damned blue handled knife and as I surveyed the damage I could think of only one thing to say:

"Oh S#$t!" (This was no time for long winded eloquence.)

The chef, who was on the other side of the pass, or window, looked over and saw my look of shock and asked,

"You cut yourself Knifeman? Fire one sirloin, medium rare."

Me: "Oh s%&t!"

Saute guy: "Holy crap knifeman, you're bleeding!"

Me: "Oh s$%t!"

Grill guy: "Dude! Is this your goddamned fingernail?"

Me: (groaning now) "Oh s&*t!"

Saute: "Knifeman? You cut off your F%$^ing fingernail? Order up! Holy crap, Bro, thats awesome!"

Chef: "Bandaids are in the kit by the hand sink, Knifeman. You fire that sirloin, grillboy?"

Grill: "Dude! Knifeman cut his friggin fingernail off and its sitting right the f%$k here on my station! Thats sweeeeeeeeeeet!"

Chef: "Fire that goddamed sirloin and quit worrying about Knifeman. You've seen blood before. Knifeman get off my line with that finger. Kits in the back. Fire that sirloin, bitch!"

Grill: "Sorry Boss. Fire one sirloin, medium rare. I'm on it. Yo Knifeman, where the hell you goin'."

Me: "Bandaids. Oh s#$t!"

Saute: (Voice rising higher in pitch now like some sorta bad impression of a Mick Jagger falsetto) "Knifeman, you cut your goddamn fingernail off. Damn dude, thats awwwwwwwwwwwwe-some. Yo Miguel, get me some 'shrooms over here. Yo quiero mushrooms, amigo. Now!"

Grill: " Not so fast, Bro! Order up! Get over here and get this damned thing off my station. I got food to cook and I ain't touchin' it!'

And so thats how it went. I removed my fingernail and attached bloody skin from grillboy's station and tossed it in the garbage, bandaged myself up, and headed to the bar for a much needed pint. I pulled my Ipod out of my pocket (if you see a hero and think he's got some sorta super communicator thingie in his ears, its just an Ipod) and sat there drinking my Snow Cap Ale, listening to Sonny Terry and Brownie McGee sing "Walk On" while I fought back the tears that were welling up behind my eyes from the pain.

Yeah, right. Superheroes never cry, Bee-awtch!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Belgian Ale in the Backwoods

2006-11-26T20:40:00.000-08:00

Today's Itenerary: Kitsap Peninsula

So it was another day of rain. Not the usual misty, sorta wet, kind of a chilly nuisance like a buncha gnats flying around your face sorta Northwest rain we're so used to up here, but a windy, cold, blowing, soak you to the marrow kind of goddamnitIwannagohome sorta rain instead. Believe me, this screws up a guys day from the start. What is typically a 30 minute drive from the hideout to my first stop in lovely Gig Harbor, Washington took a grand total of 2 hours and 10 minutes thanks to an overturned pallet truck spreading his wooden wares across the highway. I'm glad I wasn't that guy. He must have really been miserable. Once past his little 4 mile backup, things went just swimmingly the rest of the way.

As I pursued the bastards out towards the town of Belfair I stopped at a little diner to see if all was well on the line and upon climbing the stairs to the front door...yes the stairs...I noticed they had posted a sign for the handicapped. I'm still trying to figure out just exactly how this arrangement works for the hungry, cold guy in the wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs.

As I headed on into Port Orchard I was treated to a view of just how inclement the weather was on this particular day. You see, when you are on the waterfront in Port Orchard you can usually look across, no, spit across a tiny bay that separates you from the friendly Navy town of Bremerton. Its a calm, dirty little bay along the shores of which you will see broken down houses with multicolored corrugated steel roofs. Holes in these roofs are often patched with the obligatory blue plastic tarp and the walls of these houses are either unpainted or well on the way to being unpainted. Small marinas dot the waterfront, port to the worn out and not so seaworthy looking boats of backwoods locals along with those who work fishing these waters, I suppose. Farther out in the bay are usually a few lonely, rusty and unmanned US Navy ships floating lazily like old men watching TV and rocking in their barcaloungers while waiting to die. Its not an awe inspiring waterfront and one wouldn't want to vacation there but it is a bit more scenic than say, Kent or Auburn or Bakersfield or Salina. Not this day however. On this day it was gray. Just gray. No Bremerton. No boats. No marinas. No houses. Just nasty, unrelenting rain and fog. A miserable day to be sure.

As I headed around the bay and into Bremerton I noticed it was almost noon and I started to think about lunch. Upon further contemplation I came to the conclusion that what I wanted for lunch was beer. The question was: where to get that beer? I cruised on into Bremerton and over to my first stop at Anthony's Homeport at the Ferry Terminal. I guess I could've had a beer at Anthony's but I didn't feel like a trendy sorta fish house was the place I wanted to sit down to get warm so back out into the wet, blowing, crap-ass day I went in search of my liquid lunch. As I wandered down the way looking to hit my next stop on my neverending search for those evil dull knives I noticed a sign that said Fritz..blah blah...Belgian Ales...blah blah blah...on tap...blah blah and so on. The arrow pointed into a narrow breezeway which I followed up some steps and into a rain drenched courtyard with a beautiful fountain and a Subway Sandwich Shop. Upon closer inspection I noticed a more discreetly marked door adjacent to the Subway. I turned the knob and what must have been a 25 mph gust of wind literally blew me inside where a happy little redhead was smiling at me from behind a counter.

"Hi," she said.

"Its warm in here," I replied.

And with that she explained to me that the specialty in this tiny little place was Belgian ale and frites. Aw shucks. Beer and fries. Well, when in Rome, right? And I was sure as hell not gonna step back into that downpour in order to head over to Venice. Rome it was, or should I say Brussels?

So I sat in the warmth of this little ale and fries bar listening to bluegrass renditions of Greenday songs and eating frites with wasabi mayo and slowly working on a draft Tripel Karmeliet. I was growing warmer by the sip.

Raincoat? We don' need no steenking raincoats!

--Its Fosco, Dammit.

Now this is kinda neat....

2006-11-19T19:47:00.000-08:00

OK, so I can just post blog entries directly from my nifty little photo editing program now? This is so cool. I may have to send ol' Natedawg a thank you note or somethin'.

By the way, this is a photo of the only interesting spot between Spokane, Warshington and the Cascade Mountains. Its right at the midpoint of the state and we like to call it Vantage but really its Wanapum Lake on the Columbia River. Created by Wanapum Dam and sitting somewhere on the bottom of a really cool little gorge, its a pretty neat place. This picture was taken from a roadside viewpoint. The road continues down the side of the gorge and crosses that bridge you see in the distance.

I had a bag of nuts in the car. Y'want some?

--Its Fosco, Dammit!

These are a Few of My Favorite Things (I swiped that title)

2006-11-17T20:30:00.000-08:00

This Week's Itenerary: Spokane, Washington and The Palouse

Thats what I said: The Palouse. Its like the breadbasket of this fine state I call home. Located somewhere over on the Southeastern edge of that Godforsaken desert called Eastern Washington, the Palouse is a no man's land of rolling hills and wheatfields. I call it a no mans land because, I swear, you can drive for hours and see no one but a few coyotes and pheasants, but you know someone's out there. The fields are plowed, planted and harvested, after all. I know this to be true as I've seen these fields after each of these processes has taken place. Seen a person doing it? Never, but I have to assume. Occasionaly a large farmhouse can be spotted beside the road giving creedence to my theory that the area is inhabited by someone other than the drunken students that attend Washington State University which is located smack dab in the middle of this loneliness.

My friends, this is The Sticks. The Boondocks. And the battle against evil often carries a guy far into the middle of this kind of isolation. Its lonely. Its boring. Its depressing. The food basically sux. Someday I'm gonna figure out what the specialty really is around here, but as for now I have to make myself happy with beer and bad burgers from the local Applebee's. Its a night of pure hell. Its bad enough having to go into the restaurant to rid those Applebee's bastards of their sinister foe, but to have to eat the food....its unconscionable. Its amazing I ever live to fight another day, but live I do. I will say this though. Those rednecks out there on that damned Palouse are going to have to make do without my help for a little bit longer than the average cook in the average town. I'm just not gonna drive my sorry ass over there any more than is absolutely necessary. Hell, let the knives turn into clubs for all I care. Don't they have rocks out there with which to grind a blade ? I know they have sidewalks, and I've seen people sharpen knives on sidewalks.

Luckily I only have to endure one night in that desolate wilderness.

On the other hand I still have to spend a couple of nights in lovely Spokane. Lets see, what can I say about Spokane? Erm......uh....well......Oh! They have a nice park. Oh who am I kidding? Lets face it, Spokane sux almost as much as that damned Palouse with one notable exception. The quality of the food picks up a notch or three in The River City (I think they call it that. its got a river that runs through it). After a hard day of driving the knifemobile through the dark streets of the city I usually stop at Sushi.Com (don't try, there is no website) for dinner. Henry is always happy to see me, or at least he pretends to be. Now I am no expert but I will say to you that until I found Henry and Sushi.com I always thought sushi tasted the same. Soy sauce and seaweed. Thats all I ever got from it and so I could always eat a ltlle but never could I just sit down for a meal of sushi and leave satisfied. Those days have changed thanks to Henry and his little restaurant in Spokane, 300 miles from the sea. After starting with a few small basic maki rolls and working my way up I have found sushi to be such a pleasure I can't help but spend entire Saturdays (thats always a day off work here in Heroland) shopping, prepping, and creating Ngiri and Maki in my own Knifeman kitchen. I haven't reached Henry's level of expertise yet and its quite possible I never will, but I'm having a good time trying.

On this particular night I started with a sushi selection consisting of 8 pieces of Ngiri, selected by the chef, along with a California roll. Outstanding as always, though rather sloppily sliced this time. Perhaps his knife was growing a tad dull? Oh well, not my problem. What do I look like, anyway?

After following this feast with a Red Dragon Roll and some tobiko, along with a few beers, I headed back to the temporary Knifeman Headquarters known as The Red Lion for a little shuteye. Another long and thankless day of chasing down evil and banishing its kind from our midst loomed unpleasantly before me. Rest was required. Besides, somewhere in the middle of all the evil chasing and banishing I knew I was going to get to swing by Frank's Franks for a coupla dogs, baby. And something like that is alot like Christmas. The sooner you get to sleep the sooner the day arrives.

"Frank's Franks?", you ask? Hell yes, Frank's Franks. Frank is a transplanted New Yorker with a hot dog stand. He pulls his old beat up van into a deserted parking lot in the Spokane Valley, sets up his cart with the blue and yellow Sabrett's umbrella just like you see in NYNY, and sells some of the best dogs this side of the rockies.What I can't figure out is why I have to drive clear across this damned desert in order to find a Real Honest to God New York Just Gimme Two and a Soda hot dog. Road Dogs, baby. Those lovely little delicacies created by pumping some sorta disgusting meat pudding into a big ol' bunch of whateverthehell that is they use to hold it all together. How it all comes out tasting so damned good is a mystery to me, but if its done right....well, its done right. And Sabrett's does it right. Don't ask me what makes it better, just order a dog, ask for mustard, kraut, and onions in red sauce (only available on a Sabrett's I believe) get yourself a soda and enjoy.

Its half hours like this one that make this damned battle against villainy worth the trouble.

Get yer own dog, Homie!

--It's Fosco, Dammit!

Will the Rain Ever Stop?

2006-11-11T21:03:00.000-08:00

Nah....probably not until sometime around July 5, 2007.

Today's Itenerary: Federal Way, Washington

It rained non stop now it seems for at least a week and a half. It will keep raining for months. As I drive around as wet as I tend to get on days like today I start thinking about warmth. About heat. About spicy food and sweaty heads. As luck would have it I can get all those things at Pho Hoa, and Pho Hoa was right on my way today. What I was really craving was Bun Bo Hue. (pronounced boon buh hway) Bun is the word for noodles. Bo means beef. Hue is the city in Vietnam where this glorious style of soup originates.

Most food in Vietnam is not spicy to begin with. Especially pho, or soup. The spice is usually served alongside the soup in the form of chiles on a plate to be added at the diners pleasure. Also on the plate are usually other veggies like bean sprouts, basil, cabbage, etc.
Bun Bo Hue, however, has the heat cooked right in, and I love that. Chock full of beef shank, Vietnamese Ham, meatballs and noodles, this soup will warm you right up when you're soaked to the bone.

The obligatory plate of extras can be seen in the picture.

--Its Fosco, Dammit