productivity killer

92.  Croaker's Spot.  If you plop me down in any town for any length of time I will soon seek out where the locals go to eat.  Not the touristy shit, not the chain restaurants, but the local places that don't often end up in the hotel menu guides.  A few years ago I had a project in Richmond, Virginia, and remembering that a good friend of mine lived there for a time, asked her where I should go.  She had two recommendations:  a Thai place in a strip mall (also a winner for some other post) and Croaker's Spot.  Maureen further instructed that I order the Fish Boat, but warned that no one can finish the 4-piece, the 3-piece will hurt you, and so stick with the 2-piece.
Walking into Croaker's Spot that night with my colleague (now also a Devoted Convert to the Mighty Power and Draw of the Fish Boat Plate) we had high hopes.  We were not disappointed.  I dove into a 3-piece and Warren went for the 4-piece.  He could not finish it.  We gorged ourselves and had several beers, staggering out some time later in near catatonia from our well-deserved gluttony.
Let me walk you through a typical visit (as I've now had four):  a few people are usually standing around the entrance, inside and out, either waiting for a table or, more typically, picking up food to go.  There are few tables to be had and they do brisk business with the take-away crowd.  Those who stay can soak up more atmosphere than a biscuit can sop gravy.  The walls are covered in dark, beaded board up to the chair rail, and the tiled floor, solid wood high-backed booths, and marble tables and bar are from a better, earlier era.  There is an enormous mirror behind the dark wood bar.  Music blasts from a few speakers.  The furnishings, the clientèle, and the music reminds me of a modern-day juke joint.  The kitchen set-up is adjacent to the bar and visible from the street, too.  It takes up maybe less than 100 square feet in the corner - how so much magic happens in such a small space should be studied by science.  From a perch at the bar you can observe the two cooks plating up the orders, frying fish in a small fryer, sauteing other dishes on two small burners, and, most importantly, reducing great heaps of onions, peppers, and tomatoes into a savory sauce on a large flat griddle.  (This vegetable sauce tops the generous portions of fish on the Fish Boat plate.)  The bar man takes verbal drink orders from passing waitresses and the woman at the front counter (who seats people and passes out the to-go orders), including many many glasses of freshly made lemon and lime ades.  He squeezes several halves into a glass, adds some syrup from a big pitcher, then adds ice and water. 
This latest visit, although solo, was especially nice.  I walked about 7-8 blocks from my hotel off Cary to the corner of 1st and Leigh.  The weather held and Richmond didn't get any of the rain I'd left behind in Norfolk earlier that day. Although it was relatively early for a Southern dinner hour, the place was already packed.  There was one last space at the bar, and although the lone white face in the place, the patrons and staff were very welcoming.  There were two small TVs at the corners of the bar and, thankfully, the volume was off.  A news story about Barack Obama and John McCain got a raised head or two, but apart from the gents on either side of me, no one paid much attention.  The three of us exchanged a few thoughts about the upcoming election (their sentiments ran from "this election cycle can't end soon enough - sick of it already" to "doesn't matter if he [Obama] does win - someone is going to assassinate him within 2 years"), but we kept it friendly and got back into our drinks and plates soon enough. 
The Fish Boat consists of the following elements:  2, 3, or 4 portions of breaded, fried trout (enormous pieces - a 2 piece looks more like 4), the accompanying vegetables on top, a scoop of semi-mashed-semi-scalloped potatoes, a few fried onion rings, and a block of "cornbread like cake" (as Maureen and I describe it), all served on a big oval plate (the cornbread usually sits on a single leaf of romaine - not much room for foolish and unnecessary garnishes!).  This cornbread is atypically sweet for a Southern establishment.  In Georgia, for instance, the cornbread can be bland or slightly salty, but never sweet.  Croaker's cornbread might give a diabetic pause... 
I hung onto this receipt as proof that I had indeed been so fortunate as to visit this culinary mecca.  They do not lie, Croaker's Spot is the soul of seafood.

Croaker's Receipt

I'm not that into competitive eating and so I'm not viewing the above site as having thrown down some kind of gauntlet (or has he?).  Steve is eating stuff that probably shouldn't see the inside of anyone's digestive tract.  Steve has eaten stuff I never even knew was offered commercially as some sort of food product, much less would even consider eating if I had seen it (even if drunk and if bet a large sum of money by a fellow drunk - say, $5).

Can I even rise to this challenge?  I mean, I feel a little like I'm in a recent episode of WIGU in which our hero's father enters a fight with this retort:  "'Challenger' means there might be some kind of 'challenge' -- which there ain't gonna be!"

http://www.wigu.com/?date=20080711

Thanks to sis-in-law Sara for the link.  Gads.  I need to go wash out my brain.

93.  The amazing combination of COFFEE and PEANUTS.  There must be some kind of magic that happens when the volatile compounds in coffee mixes with those of peanuts.  The incredible depth of flavor that emerges when you eat a handful of peanuts (try the "hot" or "spicy" nuts for this experiment for an added bonus) followed by a swig of coffee.  A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is a feast with a cup of joe.  Every sip seems to interact with the peanut flavors left on the palate, making even shitty gas station or office coffee taste amazing.

Clearwater Bay, Saturday, June 14th, sundown.  Speckled trout taken on small imitation shrimp.  Yeah, boy.

Dad's Day Speck 08

94.  Adventures in Food.  I found a little Vietnamese restaurant tucked into a strip-mall in Tamarac (a 'burb north of Ft. Lauderdale) that has a great menu layout.  The breakdown their offerings of pho (a noodly soup) into "For Beginners," "Regular," and "For the Adventurous."  This latter category is headed with not so much a disclaimer as an explanation - the Vietnamese eat a lot of parts of animals that we in the recently sterilized West do not.  (i.e., we left the farm and no longer eat anything but the major cuts, where once we used "every part but the squeal")  Here they offer cuts of beef with tendons and fatty layers, tripe, and the like.  Never having had tripe before (but having heard absolute horror stories of bad soups from Mexico filled with huge, inedible chunks of the stuff), I decided to strike out into new territory.  My pho had tendon (looked like a couple of cross-sections of ox-tail), tripe, brisket, and the usual assortment of noodles, veggies, and condiments.  The tripe was presented as a couple of small, thin strips, cut into a curtain of fine ribbons - almost noodle-like.  Tasted much like the soup it was in - the Rooster Sauce gave it a needed kick.  They provide a small plate of bean sprouts, a couple of slices of jalapeño, a few stems of basil, and, this time, three spiny leaves - looked like dandelion but the spines made me think of some kind of thistle?  I tossed the lot into the pho and saved those spiny leaves for last.  Either the soup wasn't hot enough or I didn't soak them long enough or they were too tough... I ended up with a mouth full of spiny pain.  Not exactly pleasant, but not wholly unpleasant either.  I wonder if the pain was to enhance or accentuate the heat?
Other meals I've had that might fall under the "food adventure" category:  shark fin soup in a Chinese restaurant in Milan, Italy (I KNOW, I shouldn't have ordered it.  For the record, apart from the horrific practice of finning my soup purchase was supporting, it was really rather nasty tasting.); mustard-based bbq from a really sketchy gas station somewhere southeast of Columbus, GA; any of the many many triangular sandwiches I've consumed from gas stations across the eastern U.S.; raw sea urchin from the lone sushi joint in downtown Athens, GA, easily the nastiest thing I've ever put in my mouth.  Ask my friend Cam, who immediately ordered a second helping just to confirm that it was as awful as he initially thought...

95.  Products of the Swine.  Prosciutto, bacon, pancetta, ham, pork chops, loin, barbecue, sausage (bulk or links)...
I think Homer Simpson sums it up most succinctly:
Homer: Are you saying you're never going to eat any animal again? What about bacon?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Ham?
Lisa: No!
Homer: Pork chops?
Lisa: Dad, those all come from the same animal!
Homer: He he he... ooh... yeah... right, Lisa.  A wonderful... magical animal.

I long to try acorn-fattened Spanish ham.  I wonder if a body with a relic pecan orchard (and here I'm thinking about the countless ones I've seen in Georgia) couldn't raise some free-range swine for an American twist on this same process?  Of course, in Georgia the same person might just turn that pecan-laden pork into bbq!  Hmmm, maybe I'm onto something here...

96.  Grazing meals.  We usually do this when we have company at the last minute, or are just not in the mood to cook anything.  We put out the graze, which consists of one or more types of cheese (usually one hard, one soft), bread for tearing or slicing, and an assortment of fruits and veggies.  These can be as simple as some grapes and strawberries with some green peppers and carrots.  It's whatever looks good at the grocery store (or Issac's Produce stand on Old Coachman Rd.) that moment.  It's almost a prerequisite to have a bottle of wine (red, please), though often enough it's a bottle of seltzer water drunk straight out'tha bottle.  We can pick over a table like this for hours.  When the occasion warrants a fancier spread, nuts and olives and a wider variety of fruits and veggies usually appear.  There is something surprisingly satisfying in grazing - maybe some psychological throw-back to our gatherer-hunter ancestry.

97.  Really good cookies.  As my better half will attest, I can go without a dessert after every meal (unlike her lovely self).  I'm no fool, though, for when I've got the goods in front of me, best keep your hands from betwixt the treat and my pie-hole.  (It's not called a pie-hole for nothing.)  To whit, No. 97:  Really good cookies.  The aforementioned better half makes one MEAN ultimate-chocolate-chip-cookie.  It's got the chocolate, sure, but also walnuts and lately, coconut.  They're a little fluffy due to some baking soda and lemon juice, and are just the right combination of chewy and crunchy.  Our current oven has a defective thermostat which makes achieving this perfect dental state a little tricky, but she manages somehow.  Uh-huh.  Mmm-mm.
Store-bought cookies just can't compare.  Where does that chemically taste come from, anyway?  The shortening?  The preservatives?  Blech.
A close second - grandma Norma's chocolate chip cookies.  Straight off the Toll House package, I'm certain, but somehow soooo much better than anything I manage to pull together.  Maybe it's the aging process they go through in her deep freeze?

While I have a few more minutes before the plane loads...

98.  Good knives.  When I worked briefly for a French restaurant in Charlotte, NC, I was introduced to the need and beauty of a couple of really good knives in the kitchen.  The prices on these objets d'art put most of them well out of my reach, but over the years I've managed to find a few that get the job done and done well, and hold an edge for a reasonably long time between sharpenings and maintenance.  I'm always on the hunt, though, for that neglected, forgotten knife tossed into a yard sale or junk shop.  A little TLC, a few minutes on the stones and steel and voila - great knife.  These neglected beauties hold a lot of history, from the typical worn wooden handle to the occasional nick or odd curvature due to sharpening.  My parents have two old Chicago Cutlery paring knives that are practically like filet knives now - honed again and again over the span of a 35 year marriage.  I always take a look for them when I visit the house.

Bad knives, by the way, like those 2-for-$2 packs you see hanging in the grocery store aisles, are good only for the tackle box, and then only for a brief time.  They hold an edge for about 2-3 uses, snap easily, rust even faster than they dull, and are a waste of steel and plastic.