Traveling Feast

Last week I followed up on a tip from Josie Urbick about a Seattle taco truck with a unique item on the menu: a Mexican hot dog ($4.50).  She described it as an almost unthinkable gut bomb that had to be eaten to be believed.

At 9 pm last Thursday I decided it was time.

I found Flair Taco on just off the main drag between Fremont and Ballard (North 36th Street that turns into Leary Way).  The beat-up truck sits in a parking lot at the corner of North 36th and Phinney Avenue North.  When I arrived, 0wner Angel Aguilar was unloading food for Flair’s Friday and Saturday bar close rush.

“The cops stand right over there on the corner,” he said, “and when guys come out of the bars they have a decision to make: try to drive or come eat tacos.  Most choose tacos.  This parking lot will be packed tomorrow night.”

I had already ordered my Mexi dog, and asked about the story behind it.  I make it a point to eat at nearly every taco truck I drive by and never had seen a hot dog on another menu.

“These are how everyone eats hot dogs in Mexico,” Aguilar said.  “I grew up eating them just like this.  Then I came to the states and saw a hot dog on a menu.  I ordered it only to be stunned.  This wasn’t a hot dog.  It had nothing on it!  Finally I saw the relish off to the side and thought at least they had jalapenos. But when I took a bite, I said ‘What the hell is this?’”

Long story short, when he opened Flair Taco with Johnny Flair, Aguilar added to the menu a hot dog the way Cardiac Arrest intended it.

I doubt I’ll eat another dog again without thinking about Aguilar’s Mexi version.  I’ll also be back with friends.  Sure it is a gut bomb, but some gut bombs are worth it once in a while.

I’m also making a note to bring my passport because Flair has another unique item on the menu called the Passport Meal ($9.00).  It is whatever Aguilar decides it is when someone orders it, but he categorically refuses to sell you one without seeing your passport.  His iPhone has picutres of everyone who orders the meal and comes with proper documentation.

I’m in love.  Mocha love.

This comes from a guy who only orders coffee if it might go well with what I plan to eat.  It is a good thing I don’t live anywhere near Redmond WA or my wife might look at our VISA bill and begin to ask questions.

“What are all these charges at Kitanda Brazilian Bakery and Espresso?”

“Uh…”

“This isn’t like you.  Are you meeting someone?”

“Well… um…”

“What is it?  Tell me! There are 100s of dollars of unexplained charges here.”

“I’m too embarrassed.  I didn’t think it would go this far.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m in love… but wait… before you do anything rash.  It is only coffee.  Nothing more.  Delicious, beautiful Brazilian coffee, but that’s all.”

Counseling would probably be required.  Things would be rough for a while.  We’d make it.  I’d probably be drinking green tea again within a few months, but there would be times I would break down and cry.

Yet since I live in Spokane I hope to never need to have the imagined conversation above.  Our VISA bill won’t reflect daily charges at Kitanda and I won’t need to invent excuses to drive to Redmond day after day.  But you can be sure I’ll be back when I’m in the Seattle area and I suggest you do the same.

One sip and you just might be in love too.

I claim that Spokane’s Donut Parade has the best maple bars in the Western Hemisphere (possibly the planet since large swaths of the world have no access to this pinnacle of raised donut perfect).  Yet food gurus Jane and Michael Stern have a different opinion in their fun volume entitled 500 Things To Eat Before It’s Too Late.

They claim the best maple bar they’ve had is at Voodoo Doughnuts in Portland where the iconic bar comes topped with strips of bacon.  I’m looking forward to trying a Voodoo bar, but believe a truly classic maple bar needs to stand on its own without a pork assist.

This leads me to their second recommendation: Countryside Donut House in Mountlake Terrace in the Seattle metro area.

Chance would have it that I’m in Seattle today for a family emergency, but I have a break this morning in my duties long enough to head to Countryside.  Who knows?  Maybe a fine maple bar delivered at the right moment could help in the family emergency.  I’m willing to try.  And I’ll get a chance to see how the bars at Countryside compare to Donut Parade.

One of the best moments of my East Bay eating tour last week was the first bite of the Zachary’s “pride and joy.”

That would be the Spinanch and Mushroom pie that you can’t even order thin.  It is deep dish or nothing.

Up to that moment, the only Bay Area pizza worth a drive was the New York style pies served up with a bit of borough attitude at A Slice of New York in San Jose.  But Zachary’s Chicago Pizza is a real contender.

New York pies and Chicago pies really are only distantly-related culinary cousins.  Comparing them is essentially impossible.  You find your favorite NY pie and compare other thin crust pizzas against that standard.  The same is true for Chicago deep dish pies.  I have a vivid taste memory of my first real Chicago pie.  On a tip from a friend I left the Interstate and drove into downtown Chicago in September of 1990 and ordered a sausage pizza at Gino’s East.  It was a revelation.

Zachary’s Spinanch and Mushroom pie didn’t recreate the Gino’s sweet crust, but it is a remarkable pie in its own right and one I’ll be back to eat again as soon as I can find another excuse to fly or drive to Berkeley or Oakland.  If you beat me, expect a wait and enjoy the art while you do.

The text on The Forbidden Pizza poster:

The Forbidden Pizza
In Gargantuan Portions
Staring Psycho – Mad Max – Bleu Velvet
Spinanch Mushrooms – Cheese
Directed to your Alien Jaws
Produced by Zachary’s

The second to last day of 2009 started with an early morning visit to Psycho Donuts for the Cereal Killer and my first ever “hamburger donut.”

Psycho opened in 2009 to community protest and picketers on the sidewalk of their tiny strip mall at the corner of Winchester and Campbell in California’s South Bay Area.  It could have been the name.  Or offense at a case of donuts with names like Jekyll & Hyde, Headbanger’s Evil Twin, and Psycho Panda.  Maybe the protesters don’t like fried food.

I’m guessing, though,that the protests just helped business, and I would humbly suggest that there might be more urgent targets for protest than a donut shop with a slightly deranged theme.  Psycho Donuts staff wear nursing outfits reminiscent of Halloween, and they have an actual padded room inside the door (okay, it is more like a three-sided padded phone booth designed for photo opportunities).

Just for the title we had to try the Cereal Killer with its cargo of Cap’n Crunchberries on top.

The title is better than the donut truthfully.  But just the opposite should be said for the Apricotology.  It has my vote for the worst name on a menu with some other doozies, but the donut itself is brilliant.  I’ll never eat another apple fritter again without wishing it was a Psycho Donut apricot monstrosity.

Yet there is another great reason to go out of your way to visit Psycho and cross the picket lines (if they happen to reappear).  It is the Hamburger Donut.  For the sheer cheek of saying you ate one, it is worth $2.50.

But the truth is that this donut actually works: a donut sprinkled with sesame seeds is sliced in half and slathered inside with honey butter and strawberry jam before several sliced of bacon are slipped inside.  It is not what your taste buds expect of a donut, but by bite two or three, you just might have an epiphany and begin to ask why donuts are typically sugar bombs rather than pastries that combine sweet and savory in creative ways.

Or you can dismiss me as ‘nuts.’  You won’t be the first or the last.

Lakeside  MT: Signs are critical when you are traveling.  GPS devices can be brilliant, but I still appreciate a physical sign to confirm where I’m headed.  In Montana, some of the best signs are nailed to trees alongside dirt roads.

Near my parent’s and my uncle and aunt’s homes south of Lakeside is a cluster of signs nailed to a tree, and some of them have been hanging there my whole life.  But every now and then a new one is added.  Not too long ago one in particular appeared.  I noticed it again today because it simply stands out.

I have yet to meet Mr. or Mrs. Von Schledorn, but if their sign is any indication, they are colorful people.

I regularly ask friends who traveling to send in pictures from their eating adventures abroad.   Here are a few posted from France by Charley and Pam Bartlett.

First is a crepe storefront that is offering brilliant product placement for Nutella and several soft drinks.

Then there is a meat case with whole rabbits… a great protein that makes most Americans a bit squeamish.  The “fluffy bunny” effect.

And finally a lunch spread… I particularly love the Instant French guide under the bread basket.  Thanks Charley and Pam.

I hear stories about how awkward it can be to eat alone… stories of being shuffled into corners or tables back by the door to the kitchen, rude wait staff, and uncomfortable moments on loneliness in the midst of others so obviously together.  And I can imagine that eating alone all the time could be hard.

Yet so many of my meals out… reviewing restaurants… require me to eat with others, and this admittedly warped perspective has allowed me to discover the gift of eating alone.  Two of the best meals I’ve eaten this year have been meals alone: one in New York City on Memorial Day weekend (Eleven Madison Park) and a second tonight on the west coast in Seattle’s Le Pichet.

The food on both occasions was wonderful, and, come to think of it, French.  Elegant and daring at Eleven Madison Park.  Rustic and simple at Le Pichet.  Not that I’ve come out of the closet as a Francophile… I haven’t.

In fact, what was most memorable about both meals wasn’t the great food at all, but the wait staff and specifically how they treated me as I dined alone.  At Eleven Madison Park it was Reilly and Chris who went out of their way to describe the food and discuss the wine.  Tonight it was Aaron who did both.

I got to glimpse briefly their delight and expertise as they described the possibilities represented by the menus and my interest was met with enthusiasm and a willingness to take extra time pointing out details I’d surely have missed if I’d been at the table with a party rather than alone.

In fact, in the end it didn’t feel like I was eating alone at all.  They made space for me, offered real hospitality, and set a table that felt a lot like home.  The food was more refined, but what in the end I’ll remember long after I’ve forgotten the flavors is their grace.

The last time I was driving through Vancouver WA I went out of my way to find a Burgerville location.  I was hungry (not all that surprising), but I specifically sought out Burgerville because of all I’d heard about how the company cares… for its customers, for the environment, and for its employees.  For a number of years the company has purchased premium ingredients and they try to celebrate local foods.

After a visit I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a fast food chain with a more obvious commitment to minimizing their environmental impact.  Clearly this makes for great marketing in the current cultural climate that celebrates all things green, but I believe Burgerville decided they cared before it was a marketing home-run.

Then today I came across an article in the Wall Street Journal praising Burgerville for not only offering health care to their employees, but for paying 90% of the premiums for any employee working 20 hours or more a week.  This doubled the cost to the company of their health insurance in 2005, but the company feels the end result has been great for employees and also positive for their bottom line.

The Wall Street Journal article notes that fewer than half of restaurant chains report that they provide any kind of health insurance and those that do typically pay less than half of the premium costs and limit enrollment to only employees working more than 30 hours a week.  Given this, Burgerville’s choice is that much more striking.

The impact has been equally striking.  Typically, very few restaurant employees enroll in company health plans even if they are offered.  This is due to the prohibitive cost of the plans even when the company kicks in half the money.  Burgerville before the change typified this generalization.  Only 3% of their hourly workers were enrolled in the company plan.  Contrast this to now.  Today 98% of the hourly workers and 97% of the salaried employees have opted into the plan.

Equally striking is the apparent direct link to employee retention.  In 2005, Burgerville’s employee turnover was 128%.  In 2006, after the company chose to cover 90% of the premiums, the turnover rate plummeted to 54%.

Overall sales and average ticket prices both increased at the same time.  While it might be simplistic to suggest that this was only due to the gutsy move in health care, it seems reasonable to suggest that this move contributed to both increases.

This probably means there will be plenty of Walla Walla onion rings waiting for me next time I’m in the Portland/Vancouver area along with a burger made from beef that is 100% antibiotic and hormone free.

Polson, MT: A tip from a friend in Spokane sent me out Highway 35 to hook up along the east side of Flathead Lake.  The mission?  Taste the smoked Prime Rib at the East Shore Smoke House.  It was out of my way, but the friend in question has opened and managed more restaurants than some people will visit in their lives.  If he suggests a place, I’m willing to go out of my way.

The low-slung Smoke House now looks nothing like the pale blue building that used to house a German restaurant before Jim Bassett bought the property.  “I don’t think there is a single thing in the restaurant that you can see that we haven’t redone,” Jim says with a grin.  “I didn’t intend to do this much.  Originally I planned to just open a hambuger joint.”

I, for one, am delighted Jim got carried away.  The restaurant… both inside and out… invites you to forget what is beyond the gate and settle in for a meal in a space designed to be both visually intriguing and down-home comfortable.

There is bar and dining area outside and both are completely enclosed with tall log slab fences.  The eating area offers welcome shade in the summer – much of it from trees and bushes carefully built around rather than removed.  In fact, if you spend any time looking around before you dive into the menu, you’ll notice careful details and quality everywhere.  The corrugated metal up in the eves was salvaged locally with Jim and his family digging much of it out of the ground where it was buried.  And Jim designed and built just about every light fixture in the restaurant.

In addition to using this steer skull, he created another wall fixture using the old boiler door from the Lake City Home Bakery in Polson.  Next time I come I might ask to sit inside near said boiler fixture for reasons of pure nostalgia.  I worked as a short-order cook at the bakery during high school, and occasionally had to venture down in the basement near the old boiler for supplies.

Yet all the architectural love in the world can’t keep a restaurant open if the food is forgettable.  Thankfully, Jim and his staff seem to know this.

Bassett did his homework for the barbecue, and Chef J.R. Daniels is turning out some great, straightforward food that begs for a cult following.  Three days out and I’m already wishing I’d smuggled out several bottles of the their house-made rum barbecue sauce.  It provides a sweet-savory counterpoint to the each of the meats I tried.  This included their (1) chicken (2) chopped pork and (3) St. Louis style ribs as well as (4) their smoked Prime Rib.  All four were cooked perfectly, still moist, and touched with a distinctive smoky tang.

The prime rib sandwich ($13.95) comes with whipped cream horseradish sauce, but the barbecue sauce was close enough to addictive that I felt compelled to slather it on the Prime Rib as well as on the chopped pork and St. Louis style rib.

The spot probably isn’t the place to host a convention for vegetarians, but feel free to drag along a couple friends who are avoiding charred beast.  There are several good options absent the meat even if the most compelling culinary reasons to show up come out of the smoker.  I plan to try the brisket next time, convince someone with me to order the smoked Prime Rib so I can steal a bite or two, and then I plan to turn my attention to the generous number of microbrews offered on tap.

St. Regis Travel Center Edition: Western Montana travel kitsch seems to lean heavily on huckleberries and outhouses for the local items, but a number of more generic items also caught my eye in the food-related kitsch category.  Weigh in with which of the items you think should take top honors.

Entry #1: “Chili Makins” that claim to not to contribute to global warm or ozone depletion.

Entry #2: Silicone bakeware with a conscience.  “Let them eat cake” takes on new meaning.

Entry #3: Ice cube nostagia for the early video game addict.

Entry #4: Possibly the strangest of the items in the expansive local huckleberry line-up.

Entry #5: For the butter challenged who appreciate single season, single action gadgets, comes the Butter Boy.  I believe it runs on ethanol.

Entry #6: When just a state-branded shot glass won’t do, go for the one with the miniature bear camped inside.

Entry #7: The Celene Dion soundtrack is optional.

And our final St. Regis Travel Center entry, #8: The moose-chugger bottle holder.

Your votes please.

I tend to be a bit incredulous on my way to the bathroom at most travel centers.  Why?  It is the nick-nacks offered for sale.

Yesterday though I decided to take a more studied approach to travel center commerce.  On the way from Spokane over to my parents home on Flathead Lake, I determined to try find the MOST OUTRAGEOUS food-related item offered for sale wherever we stopped to visit the loo.  I did just this, took pictures, and intend to let you vote on what you think should be #1.  Yet just the idea of looking for the most outrageous item on display gave me a new clinical distance that offered up general observations as well as some real kitsch contenders.

Observations First: Travel kitsch tends to fall into categories.  There are all the locally-branded items from tee-shirts to mugs and shot glasses.  My favorite in this category yesterday was the Montana mug trying to impersonate a tree trunk.

Most of this seems to be made in China, but is intended to evoke a sense of place far far from Shanghai.  Second there are all the vanity items embossed with your name.  My son Peter’s name is always available on key chains, pens, pipe bombs and the like.  Daughter Megan’s name is equally popular.  It is only our third child, Brendan, who is left out.  Apparently there are enough Brandons in the world to justify a print run, but the Brendans are out of luck.

The third category is the humor category: items intended to make you laugh enough to forget you have no place to put said sign or item when you get home.  For some reason a high percentage of the travel kitsch in the humor category seems to skew toward the crude.

Fourth comes the cheap home decor category with a line up of items destined to gather dust on mantle pieces (much of it with a country/folk/old fashioned feel).

Fifth are the toys guaranteed not to break only until at least the next exit on the Interstate.

Sixth: jewelery.

Seventh: unique local items… often food like hot sauce, jams, candy, and a pancake mix supposedly made by Aunt Alice.  In the case of western Montana, apparently the critical ingredient is a huckleberry.  Maybe in Minnesota it is a walleye trout.

What I’m curious about at the moment is what categories I might have missed.  The specific kitsch from St. Regis should show up for comment soon, but right now let  me know what classic travel kitsch categories I’m missing.