Boots in the Oven

An Early Morning Curling Fail in Austin, TX

What happens when you offer a FREE class in a popular cult sport to a bunch of people in a fitness-mad town?

Lone Star Curling found out at 9:30 this morning.

Logan and I showed up at Chapparal Ice, having just downed the first of our bounty of grapefruit, ready to learn how to elegantly launch large stones across an expanse of ice in a frenzy of sweeping.  Unfortunately for us, it appeared that approximately 700 of our fellow Austinites had had the same idea.

"Oh dear," said the very nice harried lady taking names.  "We can put five teams of six at either end, which is 60 people, and then they'll curl for 30-45 minutes, so...."

Her face fell, but then she added hopefully,

"But... this is a good problem to have, right?" 

Please, Lone Star Curling Club, on behalf of this (apparently) mad-for-curling town (who knew Texans were so crazy for ice sports?), add more learn-to-curl sessions.  Logan and I would even pay actual American dollars for the privilege of learning your sport, which I believe is one of the few Olympic-level sports that wouldn't mind if I had a glass of wine in my hand while participating.  (This restriction against alcoholic beverages is of course the only reason I'm not a speed skater.)

Mizu

Where do you go when you absolutely positively have to have white bean cassoulet with your unagi and strawberry or when you just can’t go another day without truffled mac and cheese on the side of your aji sashimi with crispy bones? Why Mizu apparently.

On the long hilly road between Austin and the tiled roofs of the villas of Lakeway sits a shiny new outpost of the Las Vegas dining scene. Except for the vast quantities of limestone and a sweeping Texas view, it would be easy to believe that Mizu Prime Steak and Sushi was just off the Strip waiting to serve you “New American” and “Contemporary Japanese” before you were swept away by the spandexed wonder of Zumanity (or Celine Dion. You know who you are.)

With its 13 flat screen tvs, 2 pool tables, mammoth seating capacity, sleek bar, steakhouse meets sushi menu and family friendly proclaimations, Mizu wants to make sure they’re not leaving anybody out.

How could we not go?

We showed up to a packed house. Since it was a bit of a trek, we’d luckily made reservations. One of several hostesses navigated us back to the sushi bar where the sushi chefs effortlessly took no note of our arrival. As a consolation we jumped right in to studying the extensive menu.

The bar after we outlasted the less committed diners.

After a vigorous debate (including super sneaky spying on our neighbors’ food), girlie and I decided to save most of the steakhouse part of the menu for another time, plowing forth through the Asian side instead.

We started with some miso soup because I’m a sucker for it, but also because if a place can’t make decent miso soup there’s slim chance they’re doing much else right either. Mizu’s version wasn’t bad. Not a lot of depth of flavor but at least it had some nice bonito and wakame notes.

Faring a bit better was the seared crab cake. Basically a huge pan-fried ball of lump crab, it had so little binding that it fell apart at the touch of a fork. Not a bad thing. The smoked habanero red bell pepper coulis was heavy on the red bell and not so much smoked or habanero. I did really like the lightly pickled shiitakes in the tomato and mushroom salad- they definitely helped to brighten up the über-rich crab.

The next dish had me really excited- an inspired pairing of escolar and goose liver unfortunately labeled “what the foie?”. I thought that the two similarly buttery ingredients with their contrasting textures would make a neat riff on surf and turf especially with the verjus blanc to tie it together. It was close.

More land and sea action after the jump...

Orange Wine and Valentine's.

A month or so ago, me and the wifey were out and about with the keen palated duo of Jeremy from Do Bianchi and his lovely fiancée (now wife!) Tracy P. We were passing a quite fine evening at Vino Vino and I was downshifting into coast mode when out of nowhere Jeremy popped up and announced that it was time for a seriously badass wine.

Huh? I thought we might be running out the clock, but apparently we’d just been warning up. He returned grinning impishly, cradling a bottle of mystery juice frenetically labeled in blue and white.

“You guys like orange wine?”

Well heck Jeremy, I just don’t know.

A few minutes later though, as I swirled my freshly poured glass of titian colored goodness, I had a strong suspicion that the ‘07 Santa Chiara and I would be getting along just fine.

This odd little wine, crafted as a white but then left to ferment with the skins for an extra couple of weeks or so, really appealed to me. It had a playful nose that wavered between spicy star anise and earthy tea, all with a bit of citrus in the background.

Drinking it blindfolded you might mistake it for a red. Light stone fruits, a little caramel and lemon rind shift around a rich minerality. Overall though, it’s just fun. As you drink it you get the sense that the winemaker's having a bit of an inside joke with you. If you’re ever feeling a little burned out or stuck in a rut, this is a great wine to re-peak your interest.

Flash forward a month.

I haven’t quite been able to put the Santa Chiara out of my head. It’s also Valentine’s Day and I’m feeling lobstery. Stereotypical maybe, but I sense an opportunity and an excuse. Nothing says I love you quite like “here’s a bunch of stuff I want.”

My plan: shell out for the Santa Chiara (splurging is totally justified by fabricated holidays), buy a giant crustacean (and keep it away from the cats), toil away at some homemade German pasta and then bring it all together with panache.

The result: Lobster with spaetzle in a saffron ginger cream sauce, one really great wine, one messy kitchen (complete with pissy cats), and an extremely happy wife totally convinced I did it all for her. And as long as she can’t read or work the internet I’ll get away with it too.

Hot Pot Jamaican Restaurant and a visit to Lauderhill, Florida

While you weren't looking (and I wasn't updating the blog) I hopped a Southwest Airlines flight to Florida!

Yup, portions of the family had a mini-reunion at my grandparents' retirement home last week, and I was there with bells and streamers on.  Or pants and sweaters.  It was COLD in Florida!

I can hear my Chicagoan father laughing at my wussiness right now.  45 degrees feels a lot colder in the land of citrus and swamps, you know.

While we were all there, my father, aunt and I bought nutritional shakes to fatten my grandfather up.  This is not a problem I have.   

We also spent a good bit of time in their IMMENSE retirement community getting lost and dodging slowly moving hordes of walker- and cane-bearing elderly on their way to mahjong or poker or Shabbat services.  

I couldn't help thinking of this picture of ours each time I saw the lines of mobility scooters or walkers parked in the long, meandering hallways.

My grandparents originally retired down to South Florida in 1983, and the neighborhood they chose has changed a bit since then.  In the '80s, there were lots and lots of little New York-style Jewish delis, selling bagels and smoky whitefish salad and lox and chopped liver.  Now there are few of those left.  Lots of these places have become Jamaican, Haitian, and Caribbean eateries.  

Actual Jamaican food after the jump...

Pho Saigon, Austin - Vietnamese Short-Order

That's all I could think, as I slurped long rice noodles from my giant bowl of beefy Phở and nibbled on jujube-like chunks of beef tendon.  This place is just like the Chicago Greek short-order joints of my youth, but Vietnamese.  I felt right at home.

Work with me here.  I know Vietnamese and Greek cuisines have very little in common except perhaps a love of the outdoor grill, but for some reason I felt for a moment almost like I was bending over a bowl of avgolemono rather than phở.  

Maybe it's the utilitarian look of the place.  Perhaps it's the speed with which food rushes from the kitchen, or the efficiency on display as you're bustled from your table with a quickness that is downright astonishing, yet somehow not at all rude.

A couple of weeks ago, I walked through the doors of Pho Saigon for the first time in months.  I was craving a big bowl of Bún, the noodle bowl that does a reasonably good impression of a salad.  There's a pile of peanuts, and crunchy julienned carrots, daikon, and cucumber atop a substantial mound of rice noodles, which as it turns out is resting on a double handful of shredded lettuce.  Thank goodness, because otherwise that would be a metric fuckton of noodles.

As you can see, that's not where it ends; you choose what meats you'd like to perch atop your bowl of plenty.  For some reason, I'm currently stuck on a combination of grilled pork (theirs is good, but not great; savory, with a bit of the smoky grill clinging to the meat) and chả giò, vietnamese fried spring rolls that are stuffed with minced meat and tiny strips of shredded vegetables.  You could also have this with chicken, or shrimp, or beef, or tofu.

It comes with a side of nước chấm, a small cup of powerfully flavored fish sauce which has a bit of sourness, and a bit of sweetness, and just a ton of umami.  I like to throw a lot of fresh chili sauce in the fish sauce cup, before dumping it all on top of my bowl of noodles and mixing everything together.

How can you resist that?  I know I can't.

A few days later, on Superbowl Sunday, I dragged Logan to Pho Saigon with me.  We were in need of something fast and filling, and this place was still very much at the forefront of my mind.