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.