Cooking is Manly

For me there is nothing more enjoyable than cooking for people. Well, maybe one more thing...That would be hanging out with my daughter. I know what you were thinking...degenerates. I've always thought that being a chef would be an amazing vocation but I'm pretty sure that this activity is best enjoyed as a hobby. The long hours, constant pressure, difficult patrons...no thanks.

For me and my gluttonous circle of friends, cooking elaborate and often thematic meals for one another is the highlight of the week. I'd like to give myself the credit for being so culinarily clever but the truth is growing up my parents hosted elaborate monthly parties with their circle of friends and dubbed the group "Gourmet" in a nod to the magazine. As a kid I was blown away with the painstaking and authentic culinary and cultural detail involved...and at times the brazen drunkenness that accompanied the events when they were held at our house. The 1970's were indeed a different time.

A French friend of mine said that for a man cooking can be a pleasurable hobby and for the women, it is often just another task to be performed on a long list of daily drudgery. Not sure about that but the theory is interesting. I recently cooked dinner for an old friend and one of her lovely friends who I've come to fancy as the Brits would say. I'm pretty convinced that women like it when a man knows his way around the kitchen. Or at least his way around the dishwasher.

Fortunately, the idea that cooking is unmanly seems to have vanished. It is indeed a noble job from the line cook to the sous and executive chef. A couple of years ago I met Jacques Pepin, and let me just say, the guy is more manly than most construction workers I met working demolition when I lived in California.

Terminal Bliss

Been on the road a bit lately and it strikes me how much I really enjoy the airport. Yeah, I know this may be a sign of early dementia but the escapism associated with a trip is better than anything Walt Disney ever cooked up. We all have jobs, family, spouses, etc. but let's face it getting the hell away from it/them/her/him is a little indulgence which is hard to beat. Fine, don't believe me, but you're deluding yourself or have a prescription for some medication that I need.

I've come to the conclusion that I love a good airport terminal. You really have it all in front of you: human drama...family reunions, lovers saying goodbye, kids being kids, stressed out families, business travelers making deals or acting important, young adults on spring break, retirees finally making that trip to Europe that they've always dreamed of.

As an observer, it never grows tiresome. Of course being your loyal glutton, this voyeuristic nonsense can only be appreciated from the perch of a bar stool or restaurant serving fine food and drink. This unfortunately is not as predictable as the unavoidable human condition present at every airport. I could probably dedicate many pages to which terminals and airports are good and bad so consider this the first installment. I just got back from a three city European trip so allow me to rate the facilities involved.

Departure Seattle: S-Gates. All restaurants and one "under construction" bar close at 6:30 p.m. approximately 1.5 hours before the flight time of the last departure in the terminal. The faux Mexican food was delicious with my $7 Heineken. Such hospitality, and welcoming spirit! "Welcome to Seattle, we don't want your money...now get out". I was actually glad to board the plane to escape the grim environs of Seatac.

Departure Kastrup,Copenhagen: main terminal. "Hi, yes we're Scandinavian and numerous, beautiful blond women live here, are you envious?" Well, yes to be honest but I get over it because you have a Caviar House & Prunier Seafood Bar in the terminal. Bavik salmon sampler with a Tuborg? Don't mind if I do. Also in your Dwell-magazine space I can wander about and buy electronics and a Samsonite Black Label bag for the high end wines and Daim candy bars I purchased for no apparent reason. Then I can relax in the SAS lounge, grab a shower, have nice food and a Carlsberg on tap.

Departure Amsterdam: Schipol. "We've tried to make it better so now you can buy wooden shoes and tulip bulbs in only 75% of the shops. What else do you want from us? Oh yes, how about a bowling ball sized hunk of our Gouda cheese? Really you don't like Gouda?...then have a crouquette and a Heineken because we're hiding all the Grolsch for ourselves."

Departure Heathrow: Terminal 5. I know BA is really proud of this expensive debacle but my first experience here was grim. My bag was overweight, go repack it, go to the next agent. Seriously, security clearance took over an hour and no signage was present to even help. Many of the employees even seemed confused as to where to direct me. And I'm a veteran traveler with patience! What about the average tourist? Crikey! The terminal, once I got in there was pretty nice. Great shopping with all the big players represented. Thanks Paul Smith for the great shop which extricated another hundred pounds from my wallet.

Departure Geneva: The more things change, the more they stay the same in Switzerland. This former Luftwaffe stopover hasn't changed since the 1970's. OK, that's not a nice thing to say about my former home airport but seriously. How about a wardrobe change to this facility? "Come on in we're neutral and have lots of watches for sale...no they're cheaper here. Don't look at your iPhone and check U.S. prices. Don't you believe us? OK, fine just go to one of our ski villages and then get out. And yes we speak English, but we're pretending we don't because it's our national sport. Now leave."

So the winner of the glutton airport sweepstakes...Kastrup, Copenhagen.

Tsukiji dreams

Sorry about the absence of posts lately been concentrating on staying employed...no small feat these days. I realized I'm not quite done with Japan yet because I failed to talk about a place so special that I've dragged my shochu-addled, hungover body out of bed in the middle of the night to check out, twice. A place so full of blood, knife wielding lunatics, and frenzied activity that sensory overload is unavoidable.

I first visited the Tokyo's Tsukiji Market with a Japanese friend and her American husband who live in the city. I'm not sure they actually believed my enthusiasm for seeing this legendary fish market which dates back to the 16th century and the beginning of the Edo period. OK, I'll admit it I saw the place on Bourdain's first show on the Food Network but that doesn't make it any less interesting.

Arriving just before before 5:30 a.m. to the tuna auction was a highlight. Beautiful, glistening and at times gigantic yellowfin, bluefin, and big eye tuna were being sampled and bought and sold by serious men representing fishing vessels, seafood companies, restaurants, processors, exporters, and other middlemen. They've actually cracked down a bit on tourism at the auction as morons (like yours truly) with gaping expressions jostling for a great camera shot get in the way of these guys doing their jobs.

The market itself is divided up into various sections of fish stalls and there's literally an uni section, unagi section, tuna section, etc. The middlemen here can be seen slicing and sorting and preparing their specialties for sale. I didn't see many individual buyers sort of picking up the evenings supplies but rather larger buyers likely representing restaurants, shops, etc...On the periphery of the market merchants sell everything from cookery to cutlery to bonito flakes. On one visit I bought a beautiful hand-forged, high carbon stainless steel chef's knife which I use pretty much every day.

Perhaps the highlight of that first visit though was breakfast which involved eating some of the freshest sushi imaginable...all before 6:30 a.m. I remember this one tuna preparation which I've still not been able to find elsewhere called aburi chutoro. The tuna is actually lightly seared with a blow torch then lightly seasoned with salt and pepper and drizzled with a light soy with citrus or light ponzu sauce. I ate about ten pieces of this dish easily making it the best breakfast sushi ever. It's a haul to get there and you've gotta get up pretty early but Tsukiji is worth it.

Turning Japanese

I've got an admission to make here: I'm in love with Japan. I'm pretty sure it's unrequited although being 6' 3" and bald may make me at least a Gaijin curiosity worth staring at. I was in Japan last week for work marking my 10th trip over in since 2002. The culture, precision, and appreciation for tradition and quality make Japan a place I can't get enough of. I'm far from an expert on the country but feel compelled to share some experiences since every trip has involved some sort of high quality gluttony, or at least low quality karaoke.

My exposure to the country outside of brief stops in Osaka, Kyoto, and Yokohama has largely been in Tokyo. Sort of like basing an opinion of the U.S. on visiting Pittsburgh, Tacoma and New York City. Since my opinions are virtually flawless if not laughable, I'm hopeful you'll allow me some latitude.

In retrospect, I've consumed some seriously odd food and drink while visiting Japan. As a tourist and visiting company colleague the quantity of random food that my incredibly hospitable hosts have put in front of me is staggering. There is a reason though: I'll eat and drink any weird shit these men and women are willing to put down their own gullets.

I've eaten various forms of "nankatsu" also known as soft bone. This is usually a meat item with some sort of bone still involved which you're expected to eat. Is it juvenile to admit I blushed when when of my more attractive female hosts asked..."Scott San do you like the soft bone?" The chicken nankatsu is sometimes found in yakitori restaurants and is pretty gag-inducing if you don't know what you're in for. I actually ate some sort of chicken sashimi once too. Better have an alcohol-based beverage handy...

Speaking of which, Japanese beer is a good accompaniment and dry and innocuous enough but the real libation worth checking out is Shocho, a clear distilled spirit in theory vodka-like. The primary difference between sake and shochu is that sake is brewed while shochu is distilled. Shochu is distilled from various ingredients which have some form of fermentable sugar to be converted to alcohol before the distillation process. Typical shochus are made from potato, rice, wheat, and barley. Without getting too technical, there are two types of shochu: Otsurui (single distilled leaving good flavor of source ingredient and served straight) and Korui (distilled multiple times and usually used in cocktails).

This beverage is fantastic and isn't quite as strong as gin or vodka and has amazing flavor and usually comes served with one or two giant, carved, pure ice cubes. Shochu came in handy last week when I ate one of the more odd items I've consumed at a sushi-oriented restaurant. No it wasn't some uni-infused item, highly overrated fugu or saba liver sashimi rather it was ika no oduri gui...live or dancing squid from the Izu Peninsula, 60 miles south of Tokyo.

The squid was brought to the table still alive with part of its flesh cut up and placed on it back. It was still breathing at this point, its tail and eyes still actively moving. I have to admit as your loyal glutton, this was weird as hell and for a fleeting moment I felt bad. After we ate the delicious top layer the plate was removed and the balance of the sea creature came back later delicately fried with panko. Fantastic! The night ended in Rappongi district with the requisite karaoke which is always a highlight.

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.