The Lunch Encounter

Thanks for the alert and the research go to intrepid sandwich correspondent Michele.

For today’s Geo Quiz (May 15), we’re in search of a good sandwich.

What’s simpler than a sandwich? A slice of bread, something in the middle, another slice of bread. This humble yet elegant snack, nay, meal is enjoyed in countless variations the world over.

British food blogger Simon Majumdar recently asked his readers this question:

What’s the world’s best sandwich?

Name the city that matches the GPS coordinates of this mackerel sandwich!

And for the answer….click here.

(Psssssst. Istanbul)

Yer welcome. So welcome. You have no idea. We ate eggs in Champaign. I did anyway. You ate pancakes. Eggs in ’em. We were an egg’s throw from an iconic sandwich, the Horseshoe, just a few hours too late, cause you know, if you wanna be a hot chick who does not live in a coop, you gotta get your beauty rest. We were not up till morning-that-is-truly-night with a Hangover Horseshoe (it’s a sandwich look it up), greasy-chinned, glassy-eyed, salt-deprived. Nope. We used facial astringent and slept. Ate our eggs at a respectable hour in the a.m.’s. Do so hope I am not setting a permanent pervasive personal trend with that grown-up, eggs-only-in-the-morning thingy. I’m okay with occasionally having to learn about the evening before second or third hand.

Hot Chicks: Legal or Not, Chickens Are the Chic New Backyard Addition

I do want chickens. I do, I do, I do. They are illegal, unless you can keep ’em 100 yards from your fence line. One hundred yards is pretty far if you are talking sous-urban fence lines. I feel like pecking holes in the walls over this. Ain’t this the blinkin’ suburbs?? What the *#$%@? Someone sold me a bill o’ goods when they rhapsodized about the absence of broken glass, barred windows, panhandlers and metal-detectors. The picture of bu-cow-lick nirvana is distinctly out of focus without egg layers. The ones who lay big eggs within arms reach.

Getchyerself a few ostriches, the neighbors would welcome a chicken or five. Just enough to give eggs enough for late night fried egg sandwiches with onions. Before I leave this earth I want to wake once more, just once, on a Saturday morning and reconstruct the previous evening from the eggy clues on the stove. We had sandwiches – ohmyachinghead – oh yeah sandwiches – ohmyachinghead – fried eggs Watson – ohmyachinghead – onions, butter, grilled sourdough, drip, splatter, smear, eggs. Eggs! In the middle of the night when you are staggering, elated, inspired, hungry. Hours, at least 3, before the achinghead.

Ya think we could have a few ostriches? Those eggs make a humdinger of an omelet and an ostrich is not poultry. Quiet too.

The Mayberry Sparrow

*It’s a good story, that I cannot tell well. Birds are funny. Birds are funny, but I did not originate that. Apropos of nothing, nothing discernibly about birds, a landlord said it, in a moment of extreme awkwardness. All purpose that remark, and omni-compassing. Funny peculiar. Understood? Understood.

Today, in honor of Mother’s Day, I was. A mother that is. As a reminder for years to come I have made a list for myself.
Honey Don’ts (talking to myself. aLOUD):
Bandaids
Vacuum cleaner
Fly swatter
Apron
Sponge
Legos
Pancake batter
Weeds

He did, however, make his own sandwich.

And in spite of the slumber party for himself…the lunch for my mother and sisters…the Friday night school activity capping our event fatigue…the making of the birthday cake, bridal shower invitations, and pretzel “gazebo”… and the burying of our dog’s ashes… in spite of….no, because of these familial responsibilities I feel gratefully parametered, as a mother, a daughter and a sister to mothers.

To put a finer point on it I turn to Along-for-the-Ride Heidi and a laundry list of fine wordables she gifted me. A series of transformatively good words, positively put: evitable, wieldy, exorable, gainly, and corrigible. They are unexpected without their typical in-and-un escorts. And strong. Surprisingly fresh.

The joy of motherhood was magnified for me today. 500%. Five words for five boys times 100%. They were, unquestionably, evitable (yes, what would I do without them?), wieldy (yes, Miss Lisa, whatever you say, Miss Lisa) , exorable (it’s a good age, nine, so much less coersion needed.), gainly (gorgeous is more like it, whew), and corrigible (I will always be your mother. Be afraid. Be very afraid). Today I was in love with being a mother. Inexorably.

My Mother’s Day card read, “Roses are red vilest are blue I do like you.” He did, however, make his own sandwich. Next year perhaps he will make one for me. And perhaps I will buy him some pajama pants that fit.

Roadtrippin’ to Champaign, Illinois for a Bottle Rockets show at the swanky High Dive last week with Heidi, our first stop was Cumberland, Maryland, where we were mighty tempted by the Slumberland. Wordplay does so lend itself to motels, taverns and beauty parlors. Locally owned motels summon me. Just how many shades of tile will be interlocked in the shower? And tell me, what is a CDNT DIS and do I qualify? Maryland Masala, we will miss you.

Wheeling, Double U Vee Ay, Coleman’s at Centre Market, was our intended stop for lunch. LUNCH!?! We squeaked in one hour before closing on Friday evening, after sitting, ignition quieted, for two hours, reasons unknown, in western Maryland. A nail biter for the tour director, me. Eeeeek.

Heavily overcast skies blanketed Wheeling’s small town, down-at-the-heels somberness. A dozen classic cars and hot rods lined a sloping street, while that-side-of-middle-age admirers slouched about or hunched over the PA. Beige folding tables, a handful of plastic chairs. One size fits all tees and wisping white bits or boinging grey pincurls emerging from unisex ballcaps.

Inside, Coleman’s at Centre Market hopped. Not a sock hop.

Built in 1853, the Upper Market House is the only cast iron columned market house in the country.  The building has 54 hollow Roman Doric columns cast in Wheeling, Virginia.  Every other column innovatively acted as a downspout for the roof. The building was constructed as an open market, but was enclosed in 1886.  This market house has been in continuous operation since the mid-nineteenth century.

A popular notion, Friday evening Fishwiches, in Wheeling, come to find out. Busyness prevailed. A hatted, hair-netted lady up to her elbows in SBP (standard breading procedure) kindly directed our snapshotting to the ordained below-sign, outdoor location. Getouttahere, she smiled, between the lines.
Heidi was on a bit of a slaw jag, even going so far as to state, “I love cabbage.” Quite bold of her. Dang those fries are perky, but we were unswayed as we had already payed, and the potato cheer squad was situated beyond the cash register.

The meal was sand cheap, so to speak. I hadda regular. Separate line for the deluxe and I would have suffered separation anxiety from Heidi who was feeling her irregularly regular self. Chowda. Did they mean that?

That girl Heidi, my partner in dishdemeanors takes such elegant photos. She ate chicken of the earth. Shhhhhhh. Regularly irregular.


I conformed. Fishwich, chowdA, (they were all outta oyster stew, which I have craved since), and oyster crackers, or, er, um, clam crackAs. Tartar, tA tA!

Whatever floats your boat.

Once you’ve got the deadman’s float down, it’s on to propulsion. Considering the intense hankerin’ I feel for the Bottle Rockets lately while I wait, drained dry of patience, for their new album to debut, I have not mentioned them over at the Lunch Encounter since, hmmm, since, hmmmm, it’s been too long. In my mind, I am pacing the widow’s walk for Lean Forward, the album to come. Leaning, leaning, into that curve, giving it the outrigger’s turn so as not to scrape my pedals on the pavement.

The Bottle Rockets will propel you, put the wind at your back, point your spyglass toward lesser known, land-locked meccas such as the High Dive in Champaign, Illinois. Those fellas give me reason to live, to live more, and to drive in search of sandwiches.

En route, an Indiana pork tenderloin sandwich – maiden voyage for me, a roast beef sandwich in Wheeling going out, a fish sandwich in Wheeling comin’ home. Every kinda pie in between.

Photos for Record Store Day at Euclid Records by prettywar-stl
If anyone can link the Bottle Rockets to toast on a punt, I can, doncha know. All rivers lead to toast.

She is the source of (nearly) all nourishment.

(My all-time favorite word? Iloveyoumom. Spoken at lightspeed.)

Okay, light. That you gotta get from King Sun. It takes two. Yes it dwo.

Today, tiny hail BBs dropping and ferocious skies overhead, were our little patch of earth to be any greener, it would vibrate. 

Gentlemen, start your global positioning systems! Big Momma Earth makes one mother of a sandwich. 

Zefrank

Ze is a perfomer, satirist, essayist, composer, dancer and wonderfully weird guy who challenged his audience last month to create the world’s first “Earth sandwich.”

To make an Earth sandwich you must:

1. Put a piece of bread on the ground.
2. Have someone else put a piece of bread on the ground directly on the other side of the Earth from you.
3. Do this at the same exact time, so the Earth at that moment is “sandwiched” between two pieces of bread.

To inspire his audience, Ze composed a ballad, “If the Earth were a sandwich…”
It’s hummable. Beautiful even.

Robert Krulwich on Science

(What sort of a wich is a Krulwich? One too – one two – coldly beautiful to eat?)

Please excuse my ignorance, I can find so little online about this book or about Ms. Handslip. Please excuse the fussy tomato rose, I believe Ms. Handslip is British. Just a little Slip-‘o-the-Hand, that rose, paring knife in hand. No reviews on this, no sample recipes. Scratch, zilch, zip, zot.

When the Piper holds out his hand and demands, “Pay up!!” turn towards pork.
Click here for proof that bacon butties cure hangovers.That’s right, I said proof. Proof. Hard and fast.

Scientists Say the Best Hangover Cure  Is a Bacon Butty

and remember, Bingeing on alcohol depletes neurotransmitters. Bacon contains a high level of amines which tops these up, giving you a clearer head.

Elin Roberts, science development manager at the Centre for Life in Newcastle, says: “Food doesn’t soak up the alcohol, but it does increase your metabolism – helping you to deal with the after-effects of over-indulgence.

“So food will often help you feel better. Bread is high in carbohydrates and bacon is full of protein, which breaks down into amino acids.

“Your body needs these amino acids, so eating them will make you feel good. Bingeing on alcohol depletes neurotransmitters too, but bacon contains a high level of amines which tops these up, giving you a clearer head.”

There’s even a scientific formula behind that tantalising aroma of a bacon sandwich, reports the Daily Mirror.

Elin adds: “If you’ve got amino acids and reducing sugars at a heat above 150 degrees centigrade, it kickstarts the Maillard Reaction in the pan.

“That means lots of lovely smells are released and it’s this which draws us in. I know of three vegetarians who have been broken by the smell of bacon.”

Courtesy of My Main Sandwich Man in NYC, JAF, who sez he is “glad to be of service.”

MSMINYC strikes again …

Building On Layers of Tradition

Bánh Mí is in. Check out Song Que in Falls Church, VA and Banh Mi in Annandale, VA. You can look at my Banh Mi post here.

I am partial to a banh mi place out Route 50 in Annandale, Virginia (see link above) where they serve, atypically I believe, a tofu banh mi. Tastier than one would expect. Way tastier.

“T.O.F.U. = Too Old For Use”
Jeff Cesario, Funny Guy, sat in sometimes with Regalia, right? or was it only with 4 Chairs No Waiting?

Clarification/Correction

Cesario was a member (conguero) of Regalia, not 4 Chairs, and played with us at the Brathaus and Cardinal.

(Us is Regalia).

Brat With, Ordering!

Those were the days. Some days. Spudnuts in the morning, Cardinal Bar at night. I ate my weight in onion rings every week.

Did a little joyful time traveling with Frank Zappa’s Peaches and Regalia on a dreary wet April morning. This morning. Cruel. Cruel. Cruel. April will make your heart ache from the vibrancy of wet tulips.

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?

Choices. Often they are our only power. No matter how much research, thought, consideration, investigation, imagination goes into our choices, they are a crapshoot. There are bad choices, yes, and, according to my sister Mara, and I concur wholeheartedly, many supposed bad choices have pleasing consequences.

Or fester like a sore – and then run?

Choices. When bad ones are imposed on you, well, you do your best to forgive, if you know how, and to be empathetic, compassionate. Mostly the bad choices could not be helped. Or, if you ask my hard-hearted id-twin, the instigator could have helped it, but didn’t. Point being, they didn’t. It couldn’t be helped.

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Choices. The power of making one can be paralyzing, intoxicating.
Watching Shriners zip about in tiny cars at the St. Patrick’s Day parade, I was reminded of the stream of Shriners in red Corvairs who passed below my Greyhound window in a dusty corner of Colorado in 1986 and of a tiny, silly dream/fantasy I used to nurture. 
“Unsafe at any speed”, the Corvair was/is my dream bed. Park it in the center of a sprawling, concrete-floored living space, fill the trunk with 8354 thread count linens, engineer the dash to accomodate a 10W-30 coffee maker, a woofered iPod dock, and a GPS that sends you out risin’ and shinin’. Highly octanible dream/choice.

This dream, conversely, fell out of sight in my riew view mirror many years ago: A Lunch Encounter to call my own.

It is never gonna happen and I have put it to bed.

Or crust, and sugar over – like a syrupy sweet?

I’m updating my short list, the chain letter of my life. Some dreams are dropping off the bottom, while up at the top pop simpler, more finite possibilities. A Lunch Counter seemed so likely 25 years ago, while a Corvair bed not so much. Seeing the continuum in my head now, the bed, well, it’s imaginable. More than imaginable. Shoring up the second floor now to sustain the weight. Vee eight weight. The kind to put a person into heavy, heavy sleep.

Langston Hughes is laughing at me in his grave. Laughing at my indulgent dream of ownership. More ownership, I should say, as I live a life of great privilege and much ownership. Having dreams to put to bed is in itself sayin’ somethin’. At any rate, it is not the specifics of my dreams that bear weight, it is the fact that those times and opportunities are long past. I made other choices, some were made with intention and others were imposed. Your days of reckoning come long before the grave, bit by bit, piece by piece, as you tuck your long gone, tightly-held dreams in forever. 

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?