Lost Sailor

Throughout my life I've been lucky to have friends with boats or friends whose parents had boats. I wouldn't describe myself as a water person or even sailing enthusiast but being on a boat away from shore feels good and the sea air smells like freedom. My early childhood experience with boats involve the pristine, brown-grey waters of Lake Erie and shitty AMF Sunfishes which we used to attempt to flip over for laughs.

Later as a high schooler my friend Tommy would take us out on his dad's Pearson and we'd drink thousands of Molson Goldens and smoke hundreds of Marlboro's thinking we had life figured out. We also used to eat pretty nice food back in those days. OK we were in Buffalo so things were pretty limited but it was early origin of gluttony for me.

Years later I began the good fortune of sailing with my friend Antonio. The first trip was almost exactly ten years ago. I had job turmoil, was searching for direction (or beer one of the two) and I'd been dying to spend time sailing in Mexico. The premise was simple: join a famous race sailing from Zijuatenejo to Acapulco. We really weren't racing or on a racing boat so felt pretty good about the 100+ mile endeavor.

What I really felt good about were the provisions: 4 cases of Modelo beer, 2 bottles vodka (I hate vodka), 4 bottles Herradura silver tequila, 2 bottles random whisky, 3 bottles dark rum, 2 bottles miscellaneous gin, various mixers, bag of limes, 1 liter bottled water, a few cans of olives, some fresh tortillas, and a bag of avocados. Perhaps the scary thing was that all the alcoholic provisions were just for two of us and the crew of two who did most of the actual sailing. Perhaps the scarier thing was that by day three only the vodka was left. OK even more horrifying was the fact that the crew only drank water. Sort of astounding that I can even remember this trip ten years later.

One especially vivid memory I have was our tuna sushi feast. We did a fair bit of fishing off the back of the Refuge. When I say fishing I mean heavy gauge test nailed to piece of 2X4 with some live bait, likely sardines on the end of a pretty big hook attached to the stern ladder. Every once in a while we'd put on gloves and "reel" in the line. This crude technique was incredibly effective in pulling in beautiful smaller sized Yellowfin and Skipjack tuna. Pulling in a couple of each we (and by we I mean not me) cleaned and gutted the tuna, cut the fillets and loins and put the fish on ice. A few hours we feasted on some of the most amazing sashimi I've ever had. The Skipjack is a bit darker, stronger in flavor and was cooked on the mini grill with olive oil, salt and soy sauce. Gluttony at sea...need a reprise.

The Cradle Will Rock

Tonight was one of the best rock and roll experiences of my life. I didn't meet Keef backstage or at the bottom of a coconut tree, nor did I eat sushi off naked women in Tokyo with the boys in Metallica. I didn't even run into Patterson Hood in the men's at the recent Seattle Drive By Truckers show.

Tonight I rocked out with my five year old daughter and got real feedback on who rocks and who is too slow, too rocky (whatever that means), and totally rockin'. Since most of her musical time has been in the car with some dubious adult musical supervision with playlists ranging from Shakira to Pink to Anastacia I've been concerned how things might turn out for the little.

Out of sheer desperation and hope, I'd bought her a seriously bitchin', pink, Hello Kitty Strat for her birthday and even tried to teach her a few chords but a full scale electric is probably not the wisest form of musical encouragement for the under five set.

So when she suggested we put on some of Daddy's music and dance, I was filled with a weird combination of excitement and fear. Would she love the Stones and hate the Old 97s? Who knew. I've been sadly remiss in playing much music around her for the last few years as I felt talking and relating was likely a more worthy exercise than brainwashing my musical taste into the poor kid.

My technique was simple, give her a several ounces of benadryl, a few dozen sugar cubes, a small trampoline and crank up the Bose system. OK fine, there was no benadryl, just a half dozen Paul Neuman O's. Turns out the best trampoline bouncing tunes for my child were the first two Van Halen records, some random Zeppelin tracks (I tried like thirty...Heartbreaker was big), a bunch of Old 97's cow-punk rockers, the new Hold Steady record, and a couple of tracks from Thin Lizzy's greatest hits. Come on who can resist Cowboy Song? Sadly the Stones were a bust but I didn't fully get them until I was 20 so what can you do?

When I was a kid, my folks played incessant Stones, Beatles, CSN, Simon & Garfunkel, and various and sundry folky things and it made a lasting impact on me. My dad's fleeting interest in Ray Coniff never touched me. The moral of the story is that the lasting bands are just that...passing pop music will become a fleeting memory but the visceral reaction of a great song will affect your kids the same way it did for you. Just ask Elise about Runnin with The Devil.

Spirits in the Night

I've always felt there was a seasonality to enjoying wine and spirits. A Tavel or Navarra rose wouldn't make too much sense in the dead of winter but when it's balmy and humid in the dog days of summer, it's the perfect pairing with grilled fish and vegetables. Same goes for damp Autumns and Burgundy or winter chills and Bordeaux inspired blends.

In Seattle, the days get short and damp in early November and almost without warning you leave your home in darkness and return home in the same bizarre vortex of despair. To me this is where the seasonality of gin martinis and the joys of all things tonic-induced come to a close. This is where our winter friends, bourbon, scotch and rye move in. Although they may appear brooding...truly they are gentle, unassuming and frankly relatively polite.

Think about the names of our fall friends here and the emotions they evoke. The Manhattan, Rusty Nail, Old Fashioned. What's not to like? OK you don't want to step on a rusty nail but hell in a glass it must be good.

I was recently in New Orleans with some friends and tried the Sazerac in its native environment...repeatedly. This cocktail dates back to the 1800s and was reportedly invented by Antoine Amadie Peychaud, a Creole apothecary who sold a mix of aromatic bitters to relieve ails of his clients. He ultimately mixed his bitters with French brandy, a bit of water and sugar and the drink was born.

Rye, Absinthe and bitters can be pretty tasty as it turns out. I sampled dozens looking for the perfect expression but there really wasn't one. The absinthe or herbsaint is a defining factor as is the rye. Many of my colleagues thought the drink was cough-syrup inflected shite. Fortunately I love them and won't pass judgement: shitheads.

One final thought as I close out. For all the bartenders and brown booze advocates. A public service announcement: brown alcohol should never be shaken, shook or tormented. It gets bruised, hurt feelings and shows its disdain in your glass. If you order a Manhattan, Sazerac, or Old Fashioned and your barkeep is violently shaking your drink like Mr. Scientology in the movie Cocktail either politely correct him/her or get violent if necessary. Remember you ordered the drink, he doesn't know any better.

P.S. I love the transition to fall drinks though rumor has it excessive snoring and/or sleep apnea may attach themselves to these lovely libations and cause certain marital distress.

Dropping Some N.Y.C.

I was recently in New York with some (extraordinarily lovely) colleagues and am always struck by how it's nearly impossible not have a great time there. I was there promoting the release of a book which I contributed to in a small way. I go to the city usually a few times per year and given my proclivity for ruts, I usually go to the same places. It's a slightly larger list than my normal Seattle haunts but nevertheless I continue to be blown away by these establishments. Despite the relative hype and general racket associated with celebrity chefs some of the establishments owned and operated by the likes of Mr. Batali and Mr. Flay are exceptional.

This marked my fifth visit to a Batali/Bastianich temple of Spanish food and wine called Casa Mono. The food is pretty authentic drawing on Basque, Catalan, and regional influences. What's really fun is the 600 bottle winelist which has won the team numerous awards including a Wine Spectator Grand Award in 2008. If you have the sheckels, they have the Pingus. A trip to New York would also not be complete without a stop at Balthazar where the tartare and moulles frites can make me weep openly. Or maybe that was the gin...can't be certain.

I didn't make it to the meat packing district this trip which was sad because of the proximity of Batali's Del Posto and Masaharu Morimoto's eponomous place across the street. While mixing Italian and Japanese may not seem like a good plan, trust me it works. Start with the toro or yellowtail tartare and then head across the street for the Tris, three tastes of pasta for the table. Del Posto's winelist is epic and exclusively Italian which the only exception being a carefully crafted sparkling list. To find a bottle of anything under $100 takes some skill.

Though I've never really formally met Batali, I've had the opportunity to spend some time with Morimoto in the kitchen and at the Aspen Food and Wine Festival and he's unbelieveably cool and funny as hell. If you watch him on Iron Chef it's almost laughable how serious and stern he is. It's definitely a persona made for TV. As you can see from the picture above he's a randy bastard.

Passenger Side

What happens when four middle aged men load up a truck with food, beer, wine, gin and weapons? OK so the only weapon in question was Cheppe's fly rod but the thing is pretty tough looking when you first see it in its leather case and brass lid. The idea was to road trip down to Bend to catch Wilco, maybe a few trout and in the process eat and drink like like the gluttonites we are. To celebrate the event, we unearthed some serious wines which would be methodically tasted and paired with the meals we were having. There were Barolos, Viader, Leonetti, Ridge, some Bordeaux, Buty and Oregon pinots. Is it wrong to admit that we didn't make it through the wines? After all, we finished all the Tanqueray, Heineken Light and bottled water. Who's keeping score anyway?

Without a boring and tedious travelogue attached let's just say we "whacked some lunkers" at Lava Lake (Lil Antony quote heard ad naseum) with the help of a guide (future posting), saw the Wilco summer tour ender (which after seeing these guys for a decade was still epic), and drove our tired asses back to Seattle on Sunday.

Post show Saturday we ate those lunkers with thyme, slab bacon, shallots, and lemon slices on the BBQ. We had hedged our bets though at the Bend Whole Foods (Wild Oats) and bought sausage to ensure the sausage fest would be alive even without the presence of the nice Rainbows.

It's cleansing to spend time with the boys and Big Jim was our leader and frighteningly goateed catalyst. No topics were safe as usual and I have to say if you haven't spent time with your mates (even if you just eat meat and drink wine or whatever) get off the couch and make it happen...life's too short.

Postscript Deep Thoughts:

• Don't be the first to pass out on the couch
• Know the entire Lennon back catalogue
• Never draw straws for rooms when one "room" may involve a pullout couch in the kitchen
• Don't think your fishing skill is more effective than a worm with a marshmellow
  
  

Impossible Germany

You've got to hand it to the Germans in a few areas: cars, beer, and well...cars. On a recent trip to Bonn, I got to reacquaint myself with German beer IN GERMANY. Very important distinction as some of the imports get a bit swampy or skunked from being warm and cold multiple times before the beer hits your glass. Around the city of Bonn and Cologne (Koln) the regional beer served is called Kolsch.

This delicious, crisp, slightly hoppy light ale is traditionally served in skinny, small glasses. In most restaurants and bars if your glass is empty a new one is brought almost automatically. A German colleague told me the basic idea is that the beer is meant to be fresh, cold and consumed quickly. It's a bit hard to keep track of your consumption however given the tiny glasses. At the end of the evening you may have had twenty glasses. Or maybe that's just me.

The list of beers I sampled is to big to include here but I did want to give the nod to Schneider-Weisse, arguably the best wheat beer in the world. This is what hefeweizen is all about. With its amber-mahogany coloring and streaked with fine top-fermenting yeast, this beer has a fine, persistent head that adheres well to the glass. It is pleasantly spicy with a typical top-fermented smell. An aroma of clove and nutmeg apple tantalizes the nose. On the tongue it is fresh, clean, full-bodied, harmonious and well-balanced. It finishes lightly sparkling with a light and fine bitterness. I feel a beer coming on...

The Tinyness of Shrimp

Is there a food item more overrated than the shrimp? These decapod crustaceans are expensive and often frozen multiple times before you buy them from your fishmonger. My friend Tim is convinced that if they cost about .40 cents/lb. nobody would buy them. I'm not sure that's true since their unearned reputation as a luxury food item has gone unchecked for years. Shrimp farming has become a huge environmental issue in many countries as native reefs and habitat have been destroyed to make room for these "farms".

I remember as a kid on vacation in Florida eating amazing, huge, sweet shrimp from the Gulf of Mexico being sold by fishermen with coolers who had just returned from their day boats. I also remember buying so called "rock shrimp" while I lived in California which were cold water shrimp or maybe they were technically prawns. Either way these items seem to have disappeared.

There is some hope however...Recently a group of shrimp fishermen joined together founded a collective of sorts called Wild American Shrimp. This group claims that 85% of the shrimp on the US market is imported and pond raised. Wild American Shrimp are certified to meet specific criteria which include the environment, size specifications, flavor and texture. I'm not sure certification is really the answer for quality in the shrimp world but raising awareness about the realities of the industry seems to make sense. The missing link of quality though is the constant thawing and re-freezing which ultimately makes the flesh turn into mealy mush.

I've had the chance to taste a few of these certified varieties including the "Royal Red" and "Pink". They were both sweet, had great texture, and worked nicely on the grill or saute pan. Check out the site. http://www.wildamericanshrimp.com/main.html

Clinica del Dolor

Another long one...In 2000, I was down in Tuxtla, Mexico in the state of Chiapas on an important trip to visit some small cooperatives in the Zapatista-ish zone of the Sierra Madre de Chiapas, specifically the town of Jaltenango. I'm not sure how much Zapatista activity was there but since we drove past the known conflict area of San Cristobal on the way I'm taking some liberties. On the night before our journey my colleague Andres and I met with some friends to have dinner at a Spanish restaurant I'd been to a few times in Tuxtla. The Casa Asador...it may still be there if it hasn't killed more than a few dozen locals and visitors and if it is still there it can kiss my asador.

We had some nice queso fundido con chorizo and champignons, great shrimp paella, and a few dozen Modelos and Herraduras. The food was delicious and lived up to all the bragging I had done earlier. We left at about 11:00 p.m. knowing an early start of 5:00 a.m. was required for us to arrive for our mid-day speeches in Jaltenango. When we arrived back at the Camino-Real that Monday evening, my home squad, the Buffalo Bills were on Monday Night Football at the hotel bar. YES!

Following the game Andres and I retired to a long night of agony. I got the hot stomach followed by gastric distress within a few hours while my friend was doubled over with cramping agony most of the evening. Funny enough when we met for our ridiculously early departure we initially had no idea of our respective suffering. I said simply "how are you brother?" which was met with a very green-faced reply "fuck, dude, not good".

Although I also felt pretty bad, I felt that I could power through it during the five hour drive. Andres however had no such pretension. We loaded into the new but extraordinarily crappy Geo Tracker and crossed our fingers. Up until this trip I really had no idea that my friend spoke spoke much Spanish. It turns out he was was pretty familiar with the words he directed at our driver..."senor, alto, emergencia!" This repeated chorus led to numerous rapid evacuations from the Tracker and extreme retching.

On my side, I was meditating/hallucinating in the front seat, and despite waves of nauseous dementia I thought I was cool. Ten or so stops later we arrived in Jaltenango. Andres was pretty exhausted but stable...I on the other had was catatonic. All the holding it in pretension was over. I was going to detonate. I walked into our hosts offices and proceeded to wretch loudly and strongly. I'm not going to lie: It was loud and scary and the indigenous people wrote a couple apocalyptic folk songs about what they heard.

When I emerged, a few people looked at my pale, bald head and screamed. This happens from time to time so wasn't that freaked out. When I saw a mirror a few hours later I realized the cause of the reaction. My eyelids and eyes were black as the force of my vomiting had caused a full rupture of the blood vessels around my eyes. Picture a goth Shrek and you've got the idea.

The Mexicans we were with were clearly freaked out and being a friendly bunch wanted to help out or at least make sure these two lame, sick gringos didn't die on their watch. Andres and I were dispatched to the rooms of our hotel; a pretty decent place with sinks, toilets, air conditioning and cable (OK HBO and 15 channels of static but whatever). We were visited periodically by concerned citizens. These were colleagues, mamas, cooks and delightfully a "doctor".

The doctor in question was an enourmous piece of humanity, he was no more than five feet tall and weighed in at 350 lbs. easily. He asked us how we felt respectively and said we probably needed some rest and antibiotics. Alberto Einstein in the house, pay attention. The kicker was his prescription/credentials which read: Clinica del Dolor. (The Pain Clinic) Like I'm taking advice/meds from a heart attack waiting to happen in the middle of Chiapas. Good times.

Moral of the story: my sickness ran its course and I was eating sopa de tortilla by nightfall. Andres, well he had to suffer a little bit longer...

The Bottomless Bowl

One of the best and worst things about traveling to a developing country is trying all the odd and occasionally frightening culinary finds and traditions. I had one of these experiences on a trip to Indonesia. This particular trip brought me to the Aceh Province in North Sumatra. The Acehnese are a proud people and take their Islam pretty seriously. As a result, after a hot day of travel over many hours of driving, finding a place for a decent meal accompanied by a cold beer can be challenging.

My traveling colleague, an enormous, sweaty, ill-tempered Dutchman was kind enough to direct our driver to an innocent looking roadside restaurant-gas station-mini mart. It was just past lunchtime and the sun was at its hottest point of the day. We walked into the sweltering dining room-motorbike-repair station-kitchen and I noticed that some of the lunch menu items were proudly displayed in large decorative bowls. The bowls were then placed inside a large glass display cabinet with sliding doors.

We ordered some rice dishes, some chicken curry, and some kind of bonefish curry. Our order was wheeled out a few minutes later on an elaborate cart in those fancy type bowls we had seen earlier. The food was actually pretty good though needed some liberal spicing up with the ubiquitous sambal sauce. We were pretty confident they had no alcohol in the joint but jokingly asked if they had any cold Bintang. By some miracle they did have the beer but it was so hot it could have passed for malt soup.

After we finished eating our rice and picking gingerly at the chicken and bony fish curries, the cart returned and the waiter-mechanic-head chef cleared our plates. What unfolded next was truly horrifying. The big bowls returned with the cart and our leftovers were scraped back into their respective bowls. I sort of thought maybe they didn't want to mix the food types because they would feed them to the local cats or maybe their goat or something. When we walked out we saw what really happened to our leftovers. They went back into the display cabinet and into their original bowls. No wonder there was not meat on that chicken. I was probably the fourth person to gnaw on that chicken leg that day.

Epoisses, Vacheron Mont d'Or and Boone

During my exile in Lausanne I enjoyed doing all the typical things American expats do living among the Swiss. These hobbies included unintentionally breaking the thousands of inane rules which define the Swiss social contract, mispronouncing French words, jaywalking, dissing the overpriced chasselas-based white wines, asking why all the stores are closed on Sunday, declaring the superiority of America, etc. While I'm quick to dismiss a culture who's highest achievements are cuckoo clocks and fondue, the Swiss do know their cheese and most cheesemongers carry a vast selection of Swiss, French, and other types from around the EU.

I'm a self professed fromage-o-phile and if I had to pick a general style of cheese to spend the rest of my life with it would be the soft, washed rind, aromatically offensive, runny varieties. You know the ones, they melt into a pile of goo on the cheese plate when they hit room temperature, smell like a strange mixture of feet, musk and barn and stink up the refrigerator within minutes of storage. They also get more ripe with a bit of age. A friend of mine who is an Epoisses fanatic claims that they aren't worth eating until a deep inhale of the cheese wakes up the nostrils like smelling salts.

But as usual, I digress from the point of the story. One night in Lausanne my fellow glutton CJ was preparing a cheese plate with some of the amazing finds we'd had earlier in the day at the market. Some of these outdoor markets have incredible cheese vans; essentially an enormous mobile cheese counter which sells their products like a roach coach would here in the states. We'd purchased a nice assortment and were looking forward to pairing the plate with a 2000 Ridge York Creek, Late Harvest Zin.

CJ had always been fond of our dog, Boone, a black Poodle. This particular evening Boone wouldn't stop following CJ around and at one point his affection turned to licking. This wasn't just the gentle peck or nuzzle, the dog was getting after him and it was starting to get a little embarrassing. He started to focus his licking on my friends jeans, specifically near his inner thigh and had no interest in stopping. I'm not sure if you've ever experienced one of these annoying crotch sniffing dogs who won't take the hint to knock it off but that's not Boone's gig.

We eventually realized that the source of the lust for CJ's groin was not some sort of gay tendency coming from the Poodle but rather the unintentional dribbling of the Vacheron Mont D'or which began on CJ's waist and ran down his pant leg. Mystery solved.

Postscript: despite the fact that Poodles have a European ancestry, their digestive systems are still not refined enough to process a fine French cheese of this magnitude. The next day he looked like a dog with a hangover...his ass was dragging. Quite literally. Enough said...

The Dog Diatribe

There is something to be said for the simple albeit lowly food and drink item that is classically part of our culture and inspires fierce loyalty, dialog and occaisionally some mild violence. I submit the humble hot dog as evidence. Let me explain a few things here.

1.My Uncle is a fourth generation meat packer in Buffalo. He is the owner of Sahlen's Meats, a 125 year old company making hot dogs, polish sausage, and hams. His company and many others like his embrace the European tradition of quality hot dog production. The dogs are slightly smokey, packed in natural casing, have complex flavor and slightly sweet aftertaste. Despite the fact that Uncle Joe never gave me a damn free dog in his life, I still brag being related to him becase of the quality of his hot dogs.

2.No respectable human being should ever eat a tofu dog. I like tofu plenty but it doesn't belong in any shape resembling a hot dog or other meat form. You gave up the rights to eating hot dogs when you became a vegan.

3.The words "beef" or "rendered beef" should also be omitted from any hot dog ingredient list. Beef belongs in a steak, rib, chop, tenderloin, strip, hanger or burger...not a hot dog. The quantity of labels boasting the 100% pure beef is horrifying.

4.Real hot dogs, or the ancestral wurst or wiener are made from PORK with perhaps a tiny percentage of veal or beef. Not chicken or turkey or salmon or any other mystery filling. Put whatever you want in a sausage I don't really care but let's stop calling every unworthy shit stick in a bun in this country a hot dog.

5.Hot dogs should be cooked on a grill preferably with charcoal. You need to see grill marks and have the dog actually blister and split while cooking to know you're on the right path. It's a thing of beauty. Try this with an Oscar Meyer or Hebrew National fake hot dog and watch them shrivel flaccidly with fear on the grill. Don't even get me started on boiled or steamed dogs.

I hope this has been helpful and by the way don't let me catch you with any ketchup on a hot dog or I'll be forced to smack it out of your hands. I said this topic may lead to mild violence...

10 year anniversary

I recently celebrated my 10 year anniversary with Turley Wine Cellars, the esteemed producer of fine Cailfornia Zinfandels. There was no party, exchange of gifts or hope for a happy ending just me with my glass of 2002 Ueberroth Vineyard Zinfandel. This wine is full of complexity on the nose with mixed black/red berries, asian spices, briar. The palate echoes the aromatics but also includes a touch of green herbs and white pepper rounding out the complex flavor. Turns our former MLB commish Peter Ueberroth owns this property chock full of old vine zins planted near the turn of the century. I like baseball and Turley so I'm going to assume this is a happy coincidence and not begrudge Mr. Ueberroth's luck and ability to procure killer California wine real estate. My first bottle of Turley was in 1998 which makes me a bit late the game but early enough to get on the allocation list before finding this heavenly nectar became extremely challenging.

That first bottle for me was not a zinfandel at all but a 1994 Hayne Vineyard Petite Sirah which was arguably the most profound, mind blowing wine I had ever had. The explosive fruit and profound aroma was leaping out of the glass and the aggressively edgy tannins were taunting my impatience and inexperience like a first show deadhead who came to hear "Touch of Grey" and "Sugar Magnolia" and was subjected to a 60 minute "drums>space>Dark Star" tease without context. Simply stated, I didn't really comprehend what was happening.

The debut PS vintage for Turley with Hayne was 1993 and apparently the '94 impressed Mr. Parker with the efforts of Larry and his winemaking sister Helen to garner a 97+ rating. After that first glass my acquisition of these wines turned into an obsession. You need money and connections for these wines and both were and are still are in short supply but if you can track these down (most likely in a fine restaurant where much of the production ends up) order it! Ironically, they're challenging with food as the deep extraction, complexity and sweetness often makes them a better pairing with cheese than as a compliment for meat, foul or fish. Though I've had success with curries and grilled foods depending on the sweetness of the marinade. More stories to come including pissing off Europeans with Turleys...

The Glutton Goes to Africa, Gastric Distress Ensues

In 2003 I took a work trip to Ethiopia and Tanzania; two beautiful countries steeped in history, culture and tradition. It was an amazing and intense experience engaging the five senses but the most memorable evening was dinner at Handi Indian restaurant in Nairobi, Kenya.

With my generous host, I drank Tusker Beer and an outlandish (and ill-advised) quantity of Chivas whisky. Sure maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to eat fiery Madras Curry and mystery meat samosas before boarding an all-night flight but I love a good adventure. After taking two pills provided by my host I hoped to end what were the very early stages of dysentery. You know the ones, risky gas seepage, very hot stomach.

I vividly recall walking up to the BA counter in Nairobi airport after several delayed entries to the departures wing of the airport as our vehicle was stopped and searched for bombs repeatedly while I longed to run out of the car and relieve my increasingly pressurized bowel cavity in some nearby bushes.

Once I reached the third from the front position in the BA lineup I realized I could go no further and proceeded to haul my extraordinarily heavy and expensive, new, khaki-colored Filson garment bag and outfitter bag to the nearest men’s room I could find. Naturally, my nearest hope for relief was down at the far end of the terminal which without air conditioning was proving to be pretty hot.

Or at least I thought it was hot because my white cotton oxford was stuck with sweat to my back and my body was starting to do some strange dance I have since come to name the gotta shit shuffle. Not an easy thing to do walking with the gotta shit shuffle while carrying heavy luggage, sweating profusely, clenching ones butt cheeks closely together, and muttering profanities about the British being so polite that it takes hours to check in each departing passenger to avoid completely soiling my Bill's Khakis.

Once I reached the men’s I burst through the door, opened a stall and began to frantically disrobe. It was no sooner had I sat down and released the contents of my being that I began to take stock of my surroundings. The bathroom was actually one of the filthiest cubicles I have even seen. A dim light shining overhead exposed flies and mosquitoes who bore unknown filth and disease and were waiting to bite my fat ass as I sat in gastric misery.

But then I noticed something else: the place really stunk and the walls and floor seemed to be covered with this yellow substance as was my precious piece of luggage loaded with my dirty clothes. I got up and looked behind me and to my horror realized what had happened as I stared at the wall above the toilet. I had literally exploded in that stall covering everything with my own feces. I think if I wasn’t so disgusted by what I saw I would have wept openly.

Instead I tried to look on the bright side: I felt better, I was flying Business Class back to Geneva via London, a cold beer awaited…etc. I just needed to clean myself up with some toilet paper and paper towels, wipe off my luggage, splash some water on my face and I’d be good to go. Then another horrifying piece of reality hit me as I glanced over at the various paper dispensers adorning the rest room. No paper. Anywhere. I scurried to take off my socks and boxer shorts, which by some divine intervention remained poop-free. I then “used my available resources” as they say and proceeded to leave the scene of the crime with my slightly less clean khaki luggage.

As I walked back to the check-in counter I was noticed something following me. My smell. How I was going to fly 9 hours on an airplane without offending an entire cabin full of passengers was a mystery to me. Maybe it wasn’t that bad I kept telling myself. I had no visible evidence on me of what had happened so maybe I was OK. As I cleared customs and security I began to feel that rumble again. I knew there was no way out now and I would just have to hold it together (so to speak) until I got on the plane.

I managed to drop my belongings at my seat and dash to the men’s and literally bathe in the tiny sink after exploding again. For the next 8 hours 40 minutes, 4,250 miles I repeated this exercise 7 times. Fortunately I was seated just one row back from the toilet so my walk was pretty short. Needless to say by the time the plane pulled up to the gate at 5:30 a.m. I was dehydrated, exhausted, humiliated, and needing someone to be nice to me.

Since I hadn’t had too far to walk in the plane I missed another startling piece of reality which I quickly discovered once I had disembarked the flight and was heading toward UK immigration. It turns out that after nearly 9 hours of shitting your legs and posterior are raw and extremely sore. In fact, I walked gingerly at first then found myself in some sort of bowlegged crab walk designed to reduce the sparks and flames that were firing simultaneously out of my nether regions. Some of the passengers from my flight were now passing me muttering sympathetic phrases like “check out The Ministry of Silly Walks” or “fire in the hole”.

I was concerned with just one thing at this point. Powder. Need lots of powder and maybe an ice pack to extinguish the fire. I hobbled over to the nearest Boots, what the British call a chemist and what we call a drug store only to see the harsh reality of the chains drawn down across the storefront. “Ahhhhhhhhh” OK plan B. I go to the BA lounge and take a shower and try to relax. Since the British are so civilized they have a drinks station which has all the fixings for a Bloody Mary. I pour a gigantic tumbler of Smirnoff over a few ice cubes, an ounce or two of tomato juice, a dash of Worcestershire sauce and a healthy quantity of Tabasco. I finish it off with a lemon slice.

Eventually I reassembled myself with my old clothing and bolstered by the vodka at least I felt temporarily better. My next mission was to hover in front of the Boots store and fake some sort of life threatening illness which could only be cured by the repeated application of baby powder. Fortunately, the store was opening as I walked up so my charade was not required. I stocked up on powder, rubbing alcohol, Neosporin, Cortaid, and antifungal cream unsure what sort of maltov-crotch cocktail would be required to soothe my radiating baboon ass.

At this point I was so happy I was hugging strangers in the terminal and singing victory songs. I walked into Thomas Pink and picked up two new pairs of cotton boxers (I still had the 2 hour flight to Geneva so wasn’t taking any chances), a fresh shirt and socks. Despite everything, I was feeling pretty confident that the worst was over. After another shower and re-application of various and sundry powders, lotions, and salves I was a new man.

I then concentrated on the trying to re-hydrate and take some sustenance. One of my favorite things about Heathrow is that the weary traveler is rewarded with a Caviar House & Prunier in all four terminals. These little Oasis’s in the desert of fast food and airport lounge leftover snacks are a godsend. At Caviar House they sell beautiful little combinations of finely smoked salmon from Ireland, Scandinavia, and delicious oysters. They also sell expensive and delicious caviar in case that wasn’t obvious given the establishment’s moniker. The great thing about Caviar House is that you can sit in the terminal and watch the throngs of plebes walk by from the comfort of your bar stool in a cordoned off paradise as you enjoy some truly remarkable seafood and sip champagne or cold European beer.

All in all a great trip with a few key lessons. Always travel with your pals: Ciprofloxacin, baby powder and ointment, and be wary of strange pharmaceuticals in strange lands.

rut boy

Despite my love for trying new foods, restaurants and experiences I have this habit of discovering a new place, menu item or whatever and doing it to death and never returning to it. Has this ever happened to you? Maybe it's like falling in love and recognizing later it was only lust or temporary infatuation. As an example the first time I ate a Midnight Cuban at Paseo Caribbean in Seattle, I was so blown away by the sweetly smokey ham and pork, the tangy zip of the banana peppers, and the rich combo of melted Swiss and aioli that I almost ordered another one out of disbelief. Then the rut set in. I was eating them on an almost daily basis. Sometimes I'd get one for lunch and then swing by for another for dinner. My frequency of visits got me on a first name basis with the manager Shawn. He didn't seem concerned that I was heading for another rut which would eventually lead to me hating the very sight of the sammy that I had worshipped as a diety for months. If you haven't been to Paseo, let the rut begin...4225 Fremont Ave., North, Seattle, (206) 545-7440

Enormous Cranium

Hi. Yes my head is huge and may well be an unnamed planet. This above picture is me tasting coffee and earning an income for engaging in said activity. I promise I'll eventually find more interesting pictures displaying my enormous cranium performing other gluttonous activities.

Welcome Gluttonites

Greetings and welcome,

I'm Scott your official host and moderator of The Sensory Glutton. When I get my act together I'll post some general themes and take suggestions on topics you'd like to see covered on these pages. I do have a job and life though so I'm probably going to let you down with my inability to actually follow through on these hollow promises in anything resembling a reasonable timeline.

OK here's why you should care (or not): I've spent the majority of my professional life tasting things and getting paid for it. I remember holding up the production of an entire factory while the process engineers, factory managers, and chemical engineers sat waiting for me to pronounce subjective, sensory oriented judgement on products they had painstakingly made. For a person with a BA in History and Philosophy this is a pretty high achievement no matter how juvenile it may seem. Prior to that I told my mom her cooking sucked and used to hide food I didn't like in my tube socks and various house plants and/or pockets, furniture, etc. occaisionally trying to pawn it off on the dog who wouldn't take it ...the bastard.