The Lunch Encounter

There will be an answer. Letter B.

At the farmer’s market we bought bun bread. Bun bread? Dunno either, but it made for a tasty BLT. Quizzing the bread man for the third time on the bun bread’s sweetness factor, he grabbed a knife in exasperation and hacked away at a loaf. Poor loaf. “Taste it, taste it,” he begged. Well, it did taste a little on the sweet side for a BLT, but I bought a loaf and skidaddled, cowed. Cowed by karma. Poor loaf.

The bacon came from the market too and the nice organic meat man let me trade a velvety, wrinkled dollar bill for a shiny gold dollar coin to take home to my kid. Cost me extra for the bacon. Seven bucks. Burned about $2.53’s worth in the first batch. It’s not wise to walk away from sizzling bacon.

Ever so slightly sweet, toasted Arnold’s thin-slice is perfect buttered for caviar.

Bread/butter/caviar
= softly-sweet/dairy-rich/lifeforce-salty
= Bread/mayo/bacon.
The formula balances. Get my drift? Bun bread BLT’s = summer Sunday supper.

When I had a hockey playing boyfriend he took me to games. He liked having me there next to him, but did not want me shouting. He did not want me shouting, “Put that bun in the oven!!” Bun in the oven, biscuit in the basket, muffins in a bundle, knickers in a twist. Whatever, right? It’s the exuberance that counts. Kinky Friedman says, “Get your biscuits in the oven and your pucks in the bed.” (Or something like that.) Hockey’s not big in Texas, but the biscuits are. Buns too.

The Bunn-O-Matic will no longer do, will it? Oh no, now we have to have good coffee. When I was a waitress the orange-handled-carafe kind was just fine. Everyone needs a bunn-o-matic. Bring me a bunn, please. Made just for me. Fresh and warm. With fine bunnaroma.

anything not organic would require a label. Food would be food. Nourishment, taste. You know, food.

All that other stuff, the unfood, would be stamped like this:

Not subtle. A nice quick visual read. To the point.

or·gan·ic [awr-gan-ik] – adjective
1.Noting or pertaining to a class of chemical compounds that formerly comprised only those existing in or derived from plants or animals, but that now includes all other compounds of carbon.

How could something so essential change? Forgive me for being such a dinosaur, but when did the world of organisms start taking on new members? Did an elected official, representing a majority of the populace, make this decision? Well, come to think of it, my world is organic too, and we are welcoming new members. We are universalists.

Did some work for Greensbury Market recently – their site just launched – and I’m proud of the images. Take a look and take a shop. Greensbury is loaded for bear, should you be an omnivore. (BYOB – bring your own bread.)

The homework wars have started – three weeks ago – and I am letting loose of my last thread of summer vacation. Raising just one single child can deflate a person, so I hang onto threads of glory. Summer trips are woven of especially strong fiber.

We were in Wisconsin. If there is a place less exotic I cannot name it. We like it like that. Mickie’s Dairy Bar is in Madison, 100 miles south of, and world’s apart from, Appleton, where I was born and spent my first nine years.

When I was a collegiate dilettante in Madison I could never get enough to eat. Teen metabolism is a miracle. Mickie’s malts were a mainstay (morning-after medicine) and they taste just as good now. The burger buns have improved – immensely. Homemade now, slightly sweet and tender, with a dairy-state butter burnished top, they are the perfect burger envelope. We were not unhappy with the potato salad either.

Meal times in Wisconsin can be brain stumpers. Do you have room for a sandwich before that dessert?? The dessert part was a given.

The gateway to Door County, Sturgeon Bay, is a short ways up Wisconsin’s “thumb” and home to Perry’s Cherry Diner, where they do make excellent pie. I’m suspicious of pie in public places – have to inspect it closely from all angles, smell it, and poke at the crust a bit before venturing a taste. Ate it all up at Perry’s, same as the last 10 years.

“North of the tension line” is Washington Island, remote, windswept, bright and beautiful.

A snappy, mustard-dressed brat to wet my whistle for the…

ice cream! At the Albatross, a 32-year-old drive in on Washington Island.

About bringing up a boy, I’ve said this before and now I’ll say it again (these are not my words, alas): The hours are interminable and the years evaporate. An hour spent with a third-grader in front of a mess ‘o homework is in-effing-terminable. The homework itself is not the obstruction. It’s the getting to, sitting down with, finding the pencil, remembering the assignment, messing around, fidgeting, resisting, objecting, daydreaming, mom mom momming, that drains me dry. I believe the same is true for much of daily life. Resisting compounds the difficulty.

And now back to ranting about the Olympic athletes promoting McDonald’s. Try explaining that to an 8-year-old.

From Richard “Words Fail Me and Drawing’s Too Hard” Thompson

“And that bologna rind. Blah,” says Mike Rhode.

Coincidentally, I stopped by Mike Rhode’s today and who should appear but Richard Thompson! With his new book, Cul de Sac! He doesn’t look a thing like this guy in the strip, other than being a guy, a skinny guy.

Richard says all the restaurants at the beach serve either pancakes or seafood. I believe it. Do YOU like pancakes that much? I don’t. Does anyone? What gives with all the pancake joints?

Standing around chatting in the sunshine, mulling over the pancake/seafood combo, a weird meal from the past sprang to mind. There is a seafood spot on Ocracoke Island, the Pelican, a place we’ve been many times for ever-so-slightly Southern style cooking, including hush puppies.

Tuesday nights the Pelican used to have a special sushi menu. Wellll….went with a crowd, humans of all ages and gastronomic persuasion. Had a feast of….sushi and hush puppies! It was wonderfully odd. Shush puppies.

Toast Magnet!

This sand toaster was more firm and vertical before I dashed across the street for my camera. Waves or no waves, water erodes wet sand faster than you can say cinnamon sugar! It sure is cute though, and a swanky beach construction concept sparked by a bit of plywood “toast”.

I swear to the-bread-which-is-god, this is the (next to last) summer post featuring the face of my son. Vacation is over, alas, and I have just one final batch of snaps. We did a Wisconsin swing, not sandwich-centric but not without it’s bread-loaded high points. Stay tuned. On the edge of your seat, I’m sure, nails bitten to the quick. Ha.

And now, after many words about sausages, back to sandwiches. Seems I’ve been on a tubular-foods-and otherwise-jag for eons. Got stuck on hotdogs, mustard, corndogs, relish, sausages, street meat, hamburgers, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.  Where have all the sandwiches gone?

Well…. Here’s one. I made it yesterday. Labored over it lovingly so I could bring home the bacon to my boy and beast. Lots of bystanders but no sandbiters, as in, no one ate this sandwich. Salmon may be brain food, but this sammy was all beauty. It gleamed and glittered, then met the fate of a faded Hollywood queen. Cavalierly cast aside.

This did look so much better on a gigantic monitor, the kind you find at a photo studio, in pairs or triplets or quints. But it’s not too terribly shabby here on my minimalist knee-top screen. (I can cross my legs and this mac still settles comfortable atop.)

The lighting is lovely. Heard it was a bit of a geometric, pool table, bounce around, richochet, beam bending challenge. Dan Whipps whipped it all into luminescent shape, as always.

Blithe She-Does-Her-Best-to-Suit-Herself Correspondent Cynthia queries:

Is a corn dog a sandwich? How bout a foot-long corn dog?

The foot-long-er repulses me a little, but Jon loves em. Once he actually ate TWO. They were good corn dogs tho — dipped in batter and dropped in oil right in front of our eyes.

This brings to mind a dentist I used to see, a Dr. Footer. That name always seemed so…wrong. 

sand·wich  [sand-wich, san-] –noun
1. two or more slices of bread or the like with a layer of meat, fish, cheese, etc., between each pair.
2. open sandwich.
3. something resembling or suggesting a sandwich, as something in horizontal layers: a plywood sandwich.

Key words in solving this conundrum: “the like”, “resembling” and “suggesting”. After pondering, I am still puzzled, although”horizontal” has got me thinkin’ that it’s all in the angle. Freya’s got the resemblance of a sandwich while her dad has a slightly uncommitted corndog.

Washington City Paper

Ben’s Chili Bowl 50th Anniversary

Thursday, August 21, at the Lincoln Theatre

By Tim Carman

When Anthony Bourdain was recently in town filming an episode of No Reservations—which, yes, included the requisite visit to Ben’s Chili Bowl—he was perplexed as to why the half-smoke institution has so many online haters. He wanted my opinion on the matter. Here’s what I said: D.C. is a political town; we love tearing down our leaders. (Actually, I think I said something more cliché, about killing kings.) No matter. Ben’s has withstood 50 years of mudslinging, not to mention riots, Metro construction, and countless visits by former mayor Anthony Williams in an effort to establish street cred. What more do people want? Ben’s is one of the few culinary landmarks in this town not associated with JFK trying to shtup some bimbo, it remains a steadfast supporter of its Shaw neighborhood, and it still serves the best half-smoke around. It’s OK to love Ben’s, particularly on its 50th anniversary. A series of celebratory events kicks off with tonight’s gala, hosted by Bill Cosby.

THE EVENT BEGINS AT 8 P.M. AT THE LINCOLN THEATRE, 1215 U ST. NW.

FREE. (202) 397-7328.

STREET MEAT

From Itinerant Correspondent Nick in Toronto:

Toronto Street Meat is an altogether different animal than the
hallowed smoked meat to be found at Schwartz in Montreal.

Keep in mind that… the further from the centre, the
more drastic the drop-off in quality. No such thing as suburb sausages
for me. As Petula Clark might sing:

“When I’m alone and my stomach is feeling empty and lonely
I can always go…
DOWNTOWN”

That said, there are only a few street sausage vendors in downtown
Toronto where I am willing to spend my time and money. Key factors to
lure me into the Venus Flytrap:

a) type of bun – for me, it’s egg bun or bust. The texture of the bun
is important, I shouldn’t have to fight the bun to enjoy the gristle
of the sausage. I should be biting into the sausage, not the flaky
crust of a cheap bun. The egg bun also has a nice yellow hue that
complements the charred colors of barbequed tubed meat.

b) condiments – I love making a mini-salad that sits on top of my
sausage as well as having a variety of sauces to complement the spices
in the meat. The guy with 150 condiments is loaded with different
spices, sauces, and pickled vegetables so it’s always a new adventure
visiting him.

Basic condiments to ensure my patronage: sauerkraut, onions, mayo,
honey mustard, bacon bits (artifical or real), banana peppers, hot
sauce, and any kind of BBQ sauce. Anything else beyond that is gravy.
Normally cheese is an essential condiment but Toronto by-laws have
removed the availability of cheese on the street. The pricks. The
concerned vendors will have the squeezable cheese, which is passable,
but the vendors of high distinction have a supply of grated cheese
“under the table”.

My favorite Toronto Street Meat vendor offered to fry your onions for
you, as well as offering her own freshly homemade salsa. I’m a cash
cow for her…

Call me a connoisseur of cholesterol clogging.

-Nick

Before too too long Toronto street food may grow beyond m-m-m-meat according Toronto Sticks Fork In Street Meat Rules. Are You Gonna Eat That comments on street meat here and took this atmospheric snap.

From that tall, handsome sandwich man in Ohio:

Imagine the joy in my heart-of-cheese when I learned that the Hamburger Handbook listed one of its prime havens in Columbus’ own German Village.

Here’s the menu (it’s sideways, don’t ask me why), but don’t get confused. You will be ordering a hamburger. I’ll tolerate no dissent on this. Behold, the sculpture below:

Alongside Mount Thurman, you will want napkins. Lots of them. Perhaps ALL of them. And maneuver carefully. You need finesse to manage this mess.

I’m a recovering saltaholic, but none was required here. Perfection barely restrained by a bun.

I imagine Mount Thurman disappeared into thin air. No trace ‘cept dual frillpicks.