Shot Guns, Liquor and Organics

So I got a text from my cousin today. We call him Flick. Our relationship is an odd thing for people to understand. He's my brother, father, my social addiction, my worst enemy, my greatest ally,...He's not my other half...but he's a solid third. And in the way only men can manage love...I hate that mother fucker. There is another piece to our little clan...he is The Burch. But we will visit that another day. Today, we talk about the farm. And how it relates to the following text...slightly.


"The county came by the house today about that 12 gauge."

Well Goddamn.

There is a lot of talk out there about slow food, farm to table, organics, and all that jazz. And I'm a so happy that it's now chic to be reasonable when it comes to food.  But, I find it fascinating that the farm community that I come from is for the most part completely removed from this movement.

This band of goons listed above and myself ran a farm. It was called Serenity, and it was sometimes serene indeed.   But for the most part it was a train full of booze, guns, liquor, and bad decisions. The plan was one that fell from the sky...into the brush fire that was our lives. We all worked full time, we all lived like life was almost over, and we wanted to do both of these things in unison. So we set off to be the new American dream. In our own personal America that sat on 170 or so acres in the Georgia country side. Flick's family had been farming this land for a few generations. Mostly chickens, cows and the things you grow to sustain those arms of the farming business. There was land aplenty for corn...Silver Queen Corn to be exact. Still one of the finest flavors God has allowed on the planet. It grows in Georgia like it grows nowhere else on earth. No scientific fact will ever convince me otherwise...as long as I live. Flick's grandmother died and left him a house that has since been renovated by Flick himself. It’s beautiful. But back then it was 150 years old and either the hottest or coldest goddamn house in the fucking universe depending on the season. We called it home...and I still do in the deep corners of my heart that have life left.

The thing with that kind of farm though...is that with the type of machinery we had access too (tractors and such) tending corn was quick business. Sure, there were other things to do, clean out the chicken house after pickup, feed the cows, all that normal farm shit. We did all that too. We went to our jobs every day only to return to work that we loved.

The thought was to one day wake up and not leave Serenity...unless for grain. We started making our own moonshine, soap, food, etc, etc... And the oddest thing started sinking in. All of our neighbors knew we were "good ol boys"...but cutting hay with war paint made form soaked flowers while blaring James - Laid or any cut from a Beck Album seemed to clue them into the fact that we were fucking nuts. We made moonshine like their dads use to, so we had our place in their hearts. But we were the exception when it came to their perceptions of anything progressive at all. This organic shit was to them a bunch of liberal trash. It didn’t make a FUCK of difference to anyone within 50 miles what the fuck went in anything. The cow feed was made in part from chicken shit for Christ sake. No fucking around...I've made it.

As I've been drug down more and more into the world of food and beverage I can assure you that the majority of the chicken you eat, the steak you cut, or the pork you fry is produced in a factory.  Some of it however, is from the land of some yokel that looks back on those years of my life and wonders things like "I bet them fucking boys are six feet a under and smilin or locked in a goddamn cell...fuckin lunatics". It’s an odd thing for me to reflect upon tonight, sitting at a bar in Raleigh feeding my face with beer. The outlook here is so different. The food is looked upon with respect in this community...or at least the origins of the ingredients are. The farmers are held in great respect. And I just want to thank you dear Triangle. Because in an industry where the wrong things are cared about almost all the time, you're getting this part right. I wonder what would happen if Atlanta’s produce respect caught up with its cooking. I think some of those guys out in the Georgia hills would start holding their head a little higher. Might even hit the shine a little less....well...probably not that. But they might not look at us with disdain when we remind them were coming back some day.

And about that text message...I don’t know nothin about nothin.

The Grilled Asparagus...Oh how I love thee.....

http://www2.journalnow.com/news/2010/oct/19/grilled-asparagus-closes-ar-465873/
  


First of all you must read the above link before reading this post...so go ahead...

How utterly excellent was that!? I mean...SERIOUSLY. It’s not very common that those outside the inner workings of the ridiculous world of food and beverage get such an unadulterated view of the putrid soft white underbelly of this business. But here it is...laid out on the beach just sunning itself and celebrating its depraved state.

Commonly everyone seems to believe that around 90% of restaurants fail within the first year. This friends is simply not true.

I could site a multitude of university and business sites that tear into this issue. But I think for now I'll just provide two...or you can just trust me. Most people who do that end up hating themselves, me, and the two guys I grew up with that mangled my views on life...but that’s a blog for another page...

http://researchnews.osu.edu/archive/restfail.htm

http://www.businessweek.com/smallbiz/content/apr2007/sb20070416_296932.htm


The fact is that with the economic downturn we're sitting somewhere around a 40-60% fail rate for restaurants in the first year. The industry is quite honestly still compiling that data...and as you can see above...getting data from coked up abusive charity trained chefs, and their idiotic girlfriend/investors is quite challenge. IF they have anyone to even report such things too...privately funded outfits like this answer to no one...just like they want it.

"Fuck Yeah we do what we want! I designed that fucking window décor while I drank a Four Loco and rubbed my gums numb with some white girl!..Go DAWGS!!" - This quote is theoretical in nature...but I’m sure Darryl S. Murray might head in that general direction...oh, and here's the window. Oh...and yes, that was a knock on UGA fans.

The funny thing is that most likely 1/4 of every restaurant you eat at on a daily basis is teetering on such an outcome. Restaurants (relatively speaking) are one of the cheapest businesses to open in the nation. Cities and suburbs alike are flush with storefronts, turnkeys, and build outs just waiting for someone with a dollar and no clue. And the industry is LOADED with the coked out, drunk, lunatic fringe.

The same guy that had sex in the walk-in and then served you your crab cake benedict (If I see this on one more menu I will start carrying a loaded weapon); will be the guy running the new "best brunch in town" joint five years from now. And he will NOT BE MORE STABLE...he'll just be more desperate. And he will just want to open his own place. And his grandmother will die. And he will get his share...AND he's going to name it something much more terrible than The Grilled Asparagus....And yes that is possible.

Or perhaps....

Or maybe even...

Where does the madness END!!!  I hope nowhere....

I can keep going. The point is....Thank you food industry...I love your ever roving freak show of ridiculousness. I love how much you make me go home and stare at the wall when the day is over....And just drink beer. I love how a line cook smells like cooking wine...right now...on every line in town. I love how crazy it all is...all the time. And come to think of it....I need to open a place.

Cherry Bomb...just be cool.

I was having a conversation last week with a friend of mine named John. I have no clue why I began with that sentence...that was some weak ass shit…oh well...John and I were talking about the new movie The Social Network. Now I could pontificate all day on the general importance of this generation defining film...but I'll let the pros pump out that smoke...John summed up one layer of the films psychological take on the generation with a line almost borrowed from the movie itself. "Stuff just has to be cool". Well said Mr. Champlain (your cover is blown). So John works with the Wake Forest band, in fact he was previously the Drum Major.

This is not John...but oh how I wish it was.



Anyway...so The band has been playing Don’t Stop Believing at some point during games...the idea being that the crowd would catch on and play the part singer ...this could be cool. This could be a vaguely plotted idea that goes totally organic...and in 15 years its part of Wake Forest legend...it simply IS...because it was COOL. But some fucking asshole from Wake decides to announce over the PA something I imagine went like this "Hey there dadios and diva chicks...um...put down your facebook pods and get your sing along done…er...on... with this roof off! Yes let's sing along with the band!" And just like that...its not cool. Don't tell us what to do. Don't act like you know what we want to do. Because the fact is we don't....we don't till it just IS. We know we want something...We know we want more...We know we don’t like something that's hard to put our finger on....But we know it when it comes along. Just like facebook (author's opinion withstanding)...being born from a dork programmer ranting about his girlfriends tits...to the largest collection of human data EVER.

Talk about a long fucking segway...

Slims is cool because its Slims, The Jackpot is/was (when is that place fucking closing?) cool because its the Jackpot, and Mo Joes is cool because its Mo Joes, etc, etc....



Cherry Bomb does a few things very well. The chefs (Scotty No Sauce Schabot and Over Easy Keith Calise) can cook, this is pretty rare for this cuisine style...working a fryer doesn’t mean you can cook. The rollout of the food & menu mix, are some of the smoothest I've seen at a new restaurant in a long time....and I’ve seen a lot. There are obviously a few items that need work...but the best 2 burgers IN RALEIGH...and that’s not a typo (although my writing does...I’m well aware)...are on this menu right NOW. (Note: I haven't had the lunch burger at J Betskis yet...so I may have to revisit this after Tuesday) And they also happen to be the only two burgers I've had at Cherry Bomb...and they aren’t even grinding their own meat yet....when that happens I assume a dragon will attack the four useless towers in city plaza (what the fuck are they doing exactly?) and a mutant mastodon will defend our lives kinda like Gammera.

(Insert any ex girlfriend joke you want here)

I actually stopped by this morning on the way to brunch at Humble Pie, Scott flagged me down and offered up the following as opposed to whatever I was going to have:

Shaved corned beef, pumpkin, red potato hash, topped with a runny fried egg, and a tangy mustard drizzle. Fuck yes...I'll have four and a cigarette afterward....and a tiny, Asian woman to groom me when I'm finished with it.

It was spectacular....because Scott can cook. So can Keith. The guys may have a few holes just like all of us do...but they CAN COOK. I harp on this because people in Raleigh spend more time worrying about either being seen on a fucking patio or pretending a bunch of shit food is tasty than anywhere I've ever seen. And I've lived in Charlotte....and that place is full of college kids, bankers, and all other sorts of retards. I'm not saying NO ONE in Raleigh has taste...the opposite it actually true...this town knows how to enjoy good food and REALLY enjoy good spirits...but that is a discussion for another time.

Cherry Bomb makes the mistake that we just laid out above. They shove terrible service, poorly trained bartenders, a draft list that looks like an abortion, and a bunch of half assed attempts to be rockabilly joint down our throats...in a package BUILT to be cool.

It looks like a bunch of old white guys got together with whoever the fuck decided to broadcast a bunch of bullshit sing along directions at a Wake Forest football game, and draw a picture of what someone would like if they were into those kinds of bar/restaurants. I feel like I'm watching the head bangers ball as directed by Steven Spielberg...starring Shia LaBeouf. It's not cool. It's not cool because its trying to hard... It's time to just be.

No more rock bands on the weekend that my dad would really enjoy...playing Doobie Brothers Covers.

No more staff looking like they got dressed in a hookers closet...unless she's a hooker with taste.

No more beer list nightmares...organize, pick good beer, and train your staff.

Just be cool guys....



As for you dear readers...Please eat here...the food is VERY good. The chefs have talent, and if you don't like something... I guarantee very few work the floor as often as these guys...because they care. Let's hope whoever makes calls around there starts helping the heavy lifters do the heavy lifting.



Catch you on the flip side Raleigh.

酒, Vino, Vin, Wijn, Wein, Вино, ワイン, Wine…

Ordering Wine will not cuase vomiting or self urination.....A Guide...By Wolfgang.



So imagine if you will Lee Majors, and Sharon Stone on a raucous jaunt across the land with bloodstreams full of psychotropic drugs, a tank full of gas, and a long-winded editorial from Wine Spectator. This is better known as the modern day, live action, pop-influenced hieroglyph representing your relationship with wine. Let’s put the black out lens on this roving nightmare and get a hold of ourselves. Let’s order some wine. Suck it up and pick up the wine list, come on, it’s not laying on a side street in Falluja with a wire running to it. It is on the table. Lets Begin...



Picking your wine:

Use your budget as your starting point. If you know you can spend 40 bucks on a bottle…that eliminates the majority of the list. Then determine what you want. Red or White…the list narrows again. Don’t waste time panicking about the super Tuscan that’s 289 bucks on page 6…no one is going to make you order it jack ass.
Fuck what you’re eating. Order wine you like. If you know what pairs well with what you’re going to have with dinner then select away. If not, and your worried about it, ask your server. But don’t think it’s a cardinal sin; no one gives a shit if you order a Pinot with your poached mahi mahi. Besides, if you haven’t developed the pallet yet to determine what the hell the wine is doing with the flavors of your meal, then just experiment…everyone starts somewhere.
Ok, so we’ve got through Dante’s seventh circle of hell and our wine is ordered. Not to back track or anything…but you didn’t order a white zin did you? Please God don’t tell me you asked for something “sweet”. If you did either of these things…off yourself…thanks. Sweet wines are called wine coolers and Zinfandel is a red grape for Gods sake.
Now for the bottle presentation. The waiter or someone like him is going to bring the wine over and show you the label. Don’t panic. He’s simply verifying that this is indeed the wine you ordered and that the year on the bottle is the same vintage represented on the wine list. A simple nod will suffice. Don’t start sweating and try to crack a joke with your guests at the table. Just nod your fucking head. The end.
Here is the point where things fall apart for most people. As soon as the waiter starts opening the bottle everyone stares at him like he’s the closing act in the fucking cirque du solei; now he’s nervous, making you nervous. And now everyone at the table wants to be in a Denny’s ordering omelets. Way to go. Instead of this, just keep conversing with your table. He’s opening the wine. Big fucking deal. Act like you’ve seen it before.
When the server removes the cork from the wine he’s going to place it in front of you on the table. If you learn anything from this simple little blog for the rest of your life, please let this be it: Do not, under any circumstance smell this fucking cork. You have succeeded in two things by smelling the cork. You’ve needlessly verified that it’s a cork and you’ve made everyone in the vicinity, that’s not an idiot, aware that you indeed are a flaccid penis. The cork is only put there for two reasons: One, to identify the vintage and or winery listed on the cork so as to attest that the bottle has not been tampered with. And two, to feel for any mushiness on the cork. This “softening” of the cork is an indicator the wine is bad.
The server will then pour a small tasting portion into your glass. Its called a tasting portion because your supposed to taste it. Don’t mollest it, don’t gargle it, don’t tell everyone what it tastes like…just fucking taste it. A simple nod to the server and then he or she or it will walk around the table and fill everyone else’s glass, then return and top you off. Then the bottle goes on the table. They may come back to pour wine, and they may not. It’s up to the establishment’s style of service.
Do not ask for an ice bucket for your white wine…its already colder than it should be served…I promise.
If you orderd a red wine…your teeth are purple. This is a fact. Live with it.


See…nothing to worry about. Now get out there and look like you know what your doing, and if you still don’t…well then at least try to look good doing it.

So…Flying Biscuit…lets talk…

Ok so Im guilty here. I went through a whirlwind move from my beloved Atlanta to Raleigh and obviously took an eye off of the news feeds. I totally missed the whole "Flying Biscuit sold to douchie franchise pimping inc." storyline...My bad. So when I ran in to the Raleigh edition in Cameron Village I was overcome with mediocre joy! (I must admit I was not in love with the original...but it had its place). But here was some of home! I'm a breakfast guy. I think its completely underrated. So this killed two birds for me. Because Ed's and Finch's were simply not getting it done for me....oh...and if anyone cares...they still aren't.
So here I am...ignorantly walking into Flying Biscuit expecting the charmingly sunny bohemian flower grove of a cafe that it was for most in Atlanta, and I get the shit slapped out of me by the grim croakies wearing truth. This place was a fucking TGI Fridays. Its not your fault Raleigh...its really not. But do not be fooled. There is nothing charming, bohemian, or even remotely likable about what the "douchie franchise pimping inc." company has done with the soul of this place. Flying Biscuit was opened by Delia Champion in The Candler Park neighborhood of Atlanta in 1993 with the help of indigo girl Emily Saliers. It was vegetarian friendly, it was healthy comfort food, it was the best grits in town, and it was fun. I'm not knocking Delia...take the money and run baby! But this franchised nightmare of mass consumer middle class douchbaggery....is disgusting. Now on to the food. Biscuits are wrong and bad, grits are wrong and bad, my eggs were less than over easy...I think I would describe them as Over gently for just a sec. And that's all I'm saying. You don't deserve more detail. Go fuck yourself. FB you will serve as a memory for me. Even if I happen past your original Atlanta front again. You have sold your soul...and Raleigh appears not to mind at all...but they don't know...and that's ok. From the looks of the crowd in there...Outback was for dinner anyway.

NO STARS This place dosent deserve a rating.