Falmouth is DELICIOUS!

Our day in Falmouth, Cornwall in southwest England was supposed to involve a long bus ride to the western most point of England (“Land’s End) and the town of St. Ives – which I knew nothing about other than it’s a brand of relatively inexpensive lotions and soaps.  And I still don’t know anything about St. Ives because we never made it there.  Because this:

Visibility was reportedly less than 50 meters
(about 160 feet)

Due to immigration requirements, we were up, dressed, and standing in a long line heading towards the Bayou Café & Steakhouse on Deck 7 by 7:00 this morning. We are still yawning. Three hours later, we had cleared customs, our tour had been canceled, the fog was only sort of starting to lift, and I was hungry. 

Suddenly free for the day, we decided to plod through the fog into the seaport of Falmouth to see if we could satisfy my dad’s one request when we told him our cruise itinerary.  Which is to say, we went in search of an authentic Cornish Pasty.

To those unaware, a Cornish Pasty is a delightful edible. It is sort of an empanada, which means it is meat and veggies stuffed inside a pastry crust which is folded and crimped like a pie. Legend says that the hearty snack was invented and loved by the tin miners in Cornwall since it was filling and tasty while also being easy to eat without utensils or even the need to necessarily scrub tinny hands clean.

When I was in grade school, my family spent a couple of years living in Butte, Montana – known mostly as Evel Knievel’s hometown but also for its rather sizable copper mine. Since Butte was a mining town, it attracted miners who brought their traditions with them. Although my dad was not a miner (instead, he designed computer programs for the mine’s operations), he quickly discovered and fell in love with the pasties available in the older part of town. Hence his request we search for the original version of a lunchtime favorite.

Thanks to some quick Googling and an impressively walkable port area, Rob and I descended upon The Cornish Bakery at 7 Arwenack Street and had BY FAR the very best food of our trip. OH MY GOSH!

Imagine the best beef stew you have ever had, stuffed inside a thick croissant. That is what I had for lunch today. It was insanely delicious. The meat was flavored with all sorts of spices and especially black pepper.  It was accompanied by onions, potatoes, and carrots. And that was it. It was super simple and incredible and probably easy to make and definitely impossible to replicate. I may never have another pasty again since I can’t imagine I will ever find one to match the perfection of the one I had just hours ago.

Grateful for a good knee day
that allowed us to climb some 
steep stairs to allow this lovely
lunchtime view

I quickly determined this is NOT how
you should eat a pasty. I should have
been holding it vertically, in a wrapper.
Since I had been given a plate and utensils,
I quickly began using them.

The inside

This was not posed. I shall forever
remember Falmouth, Cornwall, England
as home of the Gold Standard for all pasties

Still in a happy food coma, we wandered down the street a bit and into a Cornish Cream ice cream store. We finished up The Best Meal All Year with a scoop of Cornish Cream Fudge ice cream made with clotted cream. It was rich, caramelly, just sweet enough without making my teeth hurt, and the inside of my mouth felt like velvet when we were done. It was so delectable, I didn’t slow down to take any photos.

I managed to take one photo while our scoop was
being placed in a tub (really a cup but I like their
word better -- it sounds more indulgent)

If I lived in Falmouth, I would double in size in a matter of weeks. Instead, I will take my memories and calories with me as we sail to our final port before offboarding and embarking on Bucket List Item #3 of our trip.  In the meantime, THANK YOU FOG!! 

The Cornish Bakery lurks near the 
corner

My profile picture is from The Fair

Late last year I took up a new hobby of writing reviews for TripAdvisor. It started while we were on our Lewis and Clark roadtrip. We relied heavily on the travel website to find hotels and restaurants in tiny towns across Montana so I decided I should return the favor and submit a few reviews.

It turned into great fun, especially when the website sent me some motivational TripAdvisor luggage tags as a thank you. That swag plus the competitively enticing status levels based on the number of reviews you write got me hooked. It took me about 7 months to achieve the highest status as a "Top Contributor" with 53 reviews. This means I now have a bright gold star next to my name and a cool logoed tote bag is on its way. Did I mention I am goal-oriented? And easily swayed by star stickers?

Hungry for a burrito and needing to find something near an appointment, Rob and I recently tried a local Mexican place. It was new to us but was otherwise really, really old. The carpet was thread-bare, the pinatas were dusty, and the heavily tiled restroom reeked of Pine-Sol. Got the picture?

The food was eh. Mediocre at best. I took mental notes for my review: The salsa was too sweet, the verde sauce was bland, and the pork chunks were fatty. The chips were pretty good, though. And the service was friendly. But it is really, really unlikely we will ever return.

Eager to solidify my hard-earned status as a Top Contributor, I logged into TripAdvisor when we got home. I was very disappointed to discover the Mexican restaurant was not listed, probably because it is under new management and a new name. There is a process to get places added to the TripAdvisor database, but it didn't feel very sporting to get a place listed simply so I could pan it. Too bad, though, because as we left the restaurant I discovered a new, fast way to discern a clunker without having to order anything. Although I can't share this brilliant tip with TripAdvisor, I can share it with you.

I had only eaten half of my boring burrito when I was asked if I wanted a "To Go" box. I said yes so as not to hurt any feelings or be asked for an awkward explanation. I left with my Styrofoam container in hand, scanning the area for a trash can as I opened the door. I found one not far from the entrance. I approached it, glancing around to make sure none of the staff inside could see me. I quickly and casually placed my Styrofoam in the trash only to discover it wasn't the first container there. It wasn't even the second one there. Three discarded containers of leftovers and it wasn't even 1:00pm yet.

So, the handy gold star tip when evaluating a new restaurant: first peek in the nearest trash can for signs of politely ditched leftovers. If you see any, consult TripAdvisor for something better.

Pre-Season Training for the Fair?

We started at 11 and hit 7. By that I mean 11am and 7 7-Eleven stores. I have the empty cups and the tummy ache to prove it. YAY Free Slurpee Day! Some observations from this year’s trek:

• It is way more fun to have company. Last year I trekked alone. This year a friend home from college joined in the adventure. It was great fun to have someone to compare flavors with, chat with, and concede overload with.  I'd say there's a really good chance she will join me again next year except, well...

• Slim Jims aren’t what they used to be. Or, actually, perhaps they are exactly what they’ve always been. But wow, I used to eat those? On purpose? The whole thing? I’m sorry, Robyn. You are a trooper!

• The first ingredient listed for Slim Jims is, surprisingly, beef. The second is, horrifyingly, “mechanically separated chicken.” Whaaaat the heck is that? Wait, don’t answer that. That head-scratcher plus the orange grease oozing from the package plus the not entirely pleasant squishy chewy texture resulted in a childhood memory that really shouldn’t have been revisited. Or introduced. Really, so very sorry, Robyn.

• It took about 3 hours to run the route and about 1 hour to come down from the sugar high. No idea yet on the stomach ache.

• Blue-flavored Slurpees are hard to find. Sadly, they were only offered at our first stop. Had we known we wouldn’t see Blue Raspberry Bubble Gum Something Or Other again, we would have chosen our inaugural Slurpees accordingly. On the other hand, Coke and Cherry flavored Slurpees are standard and abundant and always a safe bet.

• Grape Slurpees stay with you the longest. It’s hard to shake that taste…until you have some Slim Jim. Still trying to find something to shake the Slim Jim afterglow.

• Pina Colada Slurpees are actually quite good. Strawberry Banana tastes like the strawberry-flavored Quik mix I didn’t like as a kid either. Banana by itself is surprisingly slurpable despite my typical avoidance of all things artificially banana flavored. Mountain Dew is not nearly as potent as I expected.

• Five free Slurpees is optimal. Six is pushing it. Seven is not advised, especially when mixed with a Slim Jim.

• Best Way to Join ‘Em if you Can’t Beat ‘Em: The sales guy at the Verizon store next to Stop #5. He came out of his store every time a new car pulled into his parking lot so that he could hand out flyers for a new phone deal. He chatted folks up, talked Slurpees, mentioned last year’s fist fight (huh?), and before we left had at least one trio of Slurpee-toting customers browsing his store, flyers in hand. Brilliant!

• In related news, apparently there is a PlayStation phone?

• Nearly 55 ounces of Slurpee…even if it is free… is perhaps a tad much. Did I mention that already?

Before I slip into an artificially flavored and colored coma, here’s my list of today’s concoctions.  I think I'm set for Slurpees for a spell.

• Stop #1: Cherry and Banana
• Stop #2: Pina Colada and Lemon Crème
• Stop #3: Grape and Coke
• Stop #4: Mountain Dew
• Stop #5: Cherry and Coke (a classic!)
• Stop #6: Cherry and too much Slim Jim
• Stop #7: Strawberry Banana and Lemon Crème

Food Cartlandia!

According to Wikipedia, “a food cart is a mobile kitchen that is set up on the street to facilitate the sale and marketing of street food to people from the local pedestrian traffic.”

I had actually never heard of food carts before we moved to the Portland area. The closest I got was “hot dog guy” vendors while occasionally visiting New York City. But in Portland, these food carts are a huge deal. There are blogs and Facebook pages and news stories dedicated to them. In fact, that Wikipedia entry has a paragraph solely about Portland’s food carts…now apparently numbering over 400. I know they are trending in other cities now, too. I had me some pretty tasty crepes out of an Airstream in a gravelly parking lot in Austin, Texas a few years ago. La yee haw!

I have been wanting to immerse myself in Portland’s Food Cart culture for a few years. I have visions of making weekly treks in the summer to scout out different carts for lunch. There are pods of these carts scattered all over the city, so it would also be a great way to scope out some of Portland’s more quirky neighborhoods. Sadly, the furthest I’ve gotten with this dream is repeated visits to The Grilled Cheese Grill and a failed attempt at using a Groupon at PBJ’s (lesson learned: never try to use a Groupon on its expiration date…unless you don’t mind waiting 90 minutes for them to acquire more provisions). Yes, two childhood favorites: grilled cheese and peanut butter and jelly, done fusiony gourmet-style. No word yet on a cart featuring bologna sandwiches on Wonder bread smeared with Miracle Whip.

With this as a backdrop, it should be no surprise that I was logged in and ready to “Submit” the minute tickets went on sale last month for the 5th Annual (where have I been?!?) “Eat Mobile: Portland’s Food Cart Festival.” For one entry price, you freely sample from 50 of Portland’s most popular carts. One-stop-feasting! With more than 3 agonizing months before the County Fair, I was drooling all over this.

Rob urged me to pay a bit more for VIP tickets. They allowed a limited number of folks to enter the Festival an hour early, promising more leisurely sampling and free drinks. I hesitated. I’m a tight-wad. But upon seeing a photo of the dense crowd from last year’s festival, I decided maybe my back would appreciate not being jostled and bumped and mosh-pitted. As it turns out, Rob was right. Not just right, brilliant right. He seems more aware than I am that we are at that age where spending a little more for convenience and comfort is not only worth it, but strongly correlated with having a fabulous, Vicodin-free time. Not to mention, in this case, also accumulating some swag (KEEN back packs and Vitamin Water tasting trays) and the opportunity to discover, for free, that I really am not a fan of the űber-trendy Pabst Blue Ribbon. Why PBR is considered so hip and cool among Portland hipsters remains a mystery to me. I thought perhaps it was the recession-friendly pricing. But even priced at free, I didn't come close to finishing it.

However, the food… THE FOOD…was fantastic!! We ate curry potato chips and a Korean Reuben sandwich and reindeer sausage and basil/pineapple ice cream and sautéed plantains and Greek salad and Italian meatball sandwiches and biscuits and gravy and green chile chili and the Egg McMuffin of sausage waffle mcmuffins. We were gleefully sticky and messy and covered in sauces and condiments.

We were just about done with our first grazing when the doors opened to the masses. Suddenly, lines developed. Really long lines. Really long lines in front of the carts I had asterisked in my notebook with the heading “VISIT AGAIN!!” Apparently we were among the last to know that Flavour Spot (waffles), Shut Up and Eat (Italian comfort food), and Scoop (o.m.g. organic ice cream) are must-eats. And that awfully healthy juices…and I do mean awful…really have no place at a food festival featuring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches stuffed with bacon and jalapenos. And, judging from the instantaneous line, we totally should have tried the Lardo cart featuring “cured fatback, cut from the back of a pig that is kind of like bacon without the meat.” Obviously, word of mouth trumps truth in advertising. “Cured fatback”? Ewww. But I will dutifully be heading to SE 43rd & Belmont in short order to find out why the fascination with fatback.

While finishing our free boxed wine and second round of heavenly waffles, Rob and I sat on some awful chairs under the freeway and observed Portlandia feeding itself. I noted a few things:

1) Portlanders dress in the colors of their surroundings; namely, green, grey, and brown. I was conspicuously colorful and noticeably from across statelines with my red earrings and necklace.

2) I missed the boot memo. Boots, boots, boots, everywhere! And not of the farm and mucking variety.

3) Only in Portland (?) would the trash cans be staffed by a Recycling Nazi making sure you put your refuse in the proper of the three available receptacles.

4) In an interesting cross-promotion, the line to get into sample all the munchies was being worked by a petitioner lobbying to legalize marijuana.

Rob and I agreed The Food Cart Festival was a fantastic outing and one we will absolutely do again. However, we might only go every few years, to increase the variety as the food carts come and go. We will definitely spring for the VIP tickets again, though…and will load up on the free Vitamin Water while skipping the bittery water that is PBR.

Best use of a GPS to date

You see my picture over on the right there? The one with the llama and a Slurpee? Yep, I love me some frozen artificially flavored goodness with a spooraw (spoon straw). And I love me a brilliant marking concept. So, of course, aside from County Fair Week (25 days and counting!!), one of my most favoritest days of the year is 7-Eleven Day. The hallowed day in July when 7-Eleven stores everywhere offer free Slurpees until they run out of the specially designed 7.11oz cups. Oh, Thank Heaven for Free 7-Eleven!

I got my hair cut at noon. My stylist reminded me of a new 7-Eleven where a lonely miniature golf course used to be. “I’ll add that to my route!” I promised as she adorned my hair with the only hair spray it ever sees. Forty minutes later, I was punching in “7-Eleven” into my car’s GPS and was heading 7.2 miles west to my most proximate Slurpee den. The quest was on!

Last year on This Day we were heading back from a family reunion in southern Oregon so we stopped at several 7-Elevens in Oregonian towns along I-5. No lines, plenty of cups, a wide variety of flavors. I heard from a teen friend that the stores in our area ran out of cups early. As I headed west it was with a touch of anxiety that I would be too late.

The parking lot was quite busy and filled with people mostly younger than me. I snagged a coveted cup at the register and joined the line behind a church youth group in matching bright green t-shirts. When I got within viewing distance of the Slurpee machine, I sized up the offerings and opted for a Cherry-Apple/Coke combo. Sadly, they didn’t have those dome lids to allow for a heighten Slurpee so I overflowed mine just enough not to make a mess and headed back to the car to consult the GPS again.

Less than 2 miles later, I was at the next 7-Eleven and recognized a couple from my previous stop leaving the store as I was entering. Behind me was that green shirted youth group again. One kid asked the adult ring leader, “Why are we getting Slurpees?” “Because they are free, dude!” explained the guy with just enough grey hair to make me cringe at his dude use. I left the store with 7.11oz of a free Grape Slurpee. As delightfully artificially grapey as a grape Popsicle. YUM!

The GPS directed me to the next 7-Eleven about 3 miles to the east. At a stop light I realized I was following the youth group van. As I entered for Free Slurpee #3, I smiled at the grey-headed dude in a green t-shirt and asked, “You making the circuit, too?” He seemed a little perplexed as he sized me up, as if looking for my gaggle of kids bearding my Slurpee addiction. Instead, I joined the line alone with a smile of appreciation from one of the employees. As I left with my Alienade (raspberry, strawberry, and lemonade)/Watermelon-Lime combo, the employee looked up from the nachos and told me to have a nice day. He seemed amused and appreciative that I was there without any kids as an excuse.

I managed to ditch the youth group on my way to Free Slurpee #4. It was a slightly more…edgy…crowd in the parking lot. I had to do a U-turn to kill time to get a parking space. I waited mostly patiently at the register for my free cup as a customer tried to explain the Lotto games to the employee who apparently had never sold nor purchased a lottery ticket before. My coveted cup finally in hand, I chose a Berry Blaster (cherry and raspberry)/Banana concoction and headed to the car amid the constant ding-ding of the door being opened and closed. As I approached my car, I overheard a teen girl say to her friends, “Why are we just standing around?!? We are wasting time!” Had I met her at my first stop, I would have offered her a ride. She was my kind of Slurpee gal.

Studying my GPS map, my route seemed at its natural conclusion. Well, aside from that new store Darcy told me about. So with 28.44oz of sugared happiness, I bopped down a few more miles to my final free Slurpee of 7-Eleven 2011. I pulled up next to a car with two teenaged guys busy finishing their free Slurpees from a prior stop. We got out at the same time and got in line with our free cups, still in plenty supply. Stunned that I actually enjoyed the banana Slurpee at stop #4, I decided to cap off my Slurpee Round-Up with a combo of my two favorite flavors of the day: Banana/Cherry-Apple.

It was a hoot of a few hours. I was bemused that I was not the only one driving all around my county in search of free frozen sugar. I was surprised that I was by far the oldest person to be doing so without kids or teens in tow. The inside of my upper lip is still a bit raw and fuzzy from the rough edges of the spooraws I used to get every last free drop. I was a little sad to have left at least two local 7-Elevens unvisited. Were it not for imminent dinner guests, I would have gone for another 14.22oz. As it was, I crashed pretty impressively and crankily from my sugar high in the midst of preparing dinner. Next year I’ll remember to eat lunch first. And maybe see if I can convince my church’s youth group to join me…as long as I promise not to call them dude.

Red wine and chocolate torte will be there, too

When people ask me what my favorite type of food is, I either answer “Spicy” or “Carbs.”

In my version of heaven there shall be – in addition to friendly fuzzy llamas and perfectly frozen Slurpees – an endless pasta buffet. And like in the movie “Defending Your Life,” it will be the most insanely delicious pasta in creation, without any bothersome impact whatsoever on body fat, triglycerides, or blood sugar levels. I shall wear one of those beer can baseball hats where the Schlitz is replaced by bottles of Tabasco, accessorized by a Camelbak water pack thingy filled with tangy marinara sauce. Oh, Lord, take me now!

Ok, fine. I can wait. But until then, please God, can you make me a marathon runner? Please??

We were at dinner last night at a favorite Italian place in Portland. It is the home of one of The Best Dessert Experiences I have ever had (see January 25, 2008 post). Sadly, My Little Spuma is a rotational item and it wasn’t on the menu last night. Boo!!

Our dinner plans were very spur-of-the-moment, so we breezed into the restaurant at about 6pm, totally clueless that the Portland Marathon was today. The restaurant was thusly packed. Nevertheless, we managed to quickly snag a first-come-first-serve table in the noisy bar and settled into a tasty dinner with friendly but frantic service. Our waitress was a blur of black linen in hipster eyewear.

We enjoyed our gnocchi and tortelli immensely. It was about 7:30p when our waitress brought our check and paused -- for the first time -- for some idle tip-inspiring chit chat. She apologized for everything having taken so long. She explained that the restaurant was a lot busier than normal due to the marathon being held in the morning. “There is a 2 hour, 45 minute wait right now just for pasta.” Huh?

Oh, that’s right! I’ve heard of this! Marathon runners often do this thing called “carbo-loading” the night before a race. They gorge on as many carbohydrates as possible to store as fuel for running. So pasta, pasta, and more pasta! Guilt-free!! Oh, that does sound so perfectly heavenly. Except for that pesky running part. Ok, fine, I’ll wait for heaven.

Imagine a Peep crossed with a 3 Musketeers with a dash of Kahlua flavoring

With two days to spare, it is FINALLY feeling like Christmas! Ever since I was a little kid, the season really doesn’t feel holly and jolly until I eat my first Spud Bar.

My mom grew up in Idaho and my grandparents had a farm. Over the years they grew all sorts of things but beans and corn are what I remember most about their farm. Well, aside from the creaky barn, the rusting ag equipment scattered about, the cats hanging around the back door waiting for table scraps smothered in bacon grease, the irrigation ditch the cows drank from, and the ever-present smell of dusty fertilizer. I’m not sure if Grandma and Grandpa ever actually grew potatoes.

Until recently, I actually can’t remember a Christmas that didn’t include a Spud Bar. Early in the holiday season, a box of 24 of this oddly spongy, chocolate covered, coconut-sprinkled confection intended to resemble a potato would arrive on our doorstep to glee and groans. Spud Bars seem to be a love ‘em or hate ‘em treat and I fell into the love ‘em category. Mom and Dad would usually each get their fill after a bite or two. Which left 22 Idaho-imported Spud Bars for me to devour or disperse amongst the curious and/or unsuspecting.

When I was in school, I would excitedly share my Spuds with my friends. When I got older, I would take them to work. I was at one company for seven Christmases. By the time I moved onto a new, uninitiated pasture, I actually had co-workers who would run down the hall in the other direction when I came bearing Spud Bars…and others who camped out at my office door wondering when my shipment would arrive.

Years ago, with a few Spud Bars still yet to find homes, I was inspired by a sugar high and poked an ornament hook through the top of one bar’s wrapper. I hung it on the tree and it is now one of my most treasured ornaments. It wouldn’t surprise me if it hasn’t aged a bit.

Grandma and Grandpa died about a year apart a couple of years ago. As it goes with people you dearly love, I still feel their absence. So it was with a certain poignancy that I got very excited earlier this month when we were in an old-time candy store in Oregon. Browsing among the Bazooka gum and taffy and Pez and Pixy Stix, I was shocked to find a small display of Spud Bars. I bought just one and ate it tonight while driving around looking at Christmas lights.

Merry Christmas, Grandma and Grandpa!

So worth only 3 hours of sleep

Top 3 Best Desserts I've Ever Had in My Life, in chronological order:

• Lemon Mousse I knew I loved chocolate mousse, and I knew I loved lemons. I didn't know you could sort of combine them. I had this dessert at the Lark Creek Inn in Larkspur, CA on my 16th birthday. Smooth, creamy, fluffy, perfectly tart and acidic little parfait glass of heaven. It was admirably replicated at Savoury's in Mariposa, CA (near Yosemite) in April 2003.



• Chocolate Turtle Pie Served at MacArthur Park in San Francisco. I'm pretty sure the first time I had it was on my first date with Rob on March 10, 1990. Homemade buttery graham cracker crust topped with dense chocolate piped in a basket weave pattern, smothered in hot caramel sauce. One piece was never nearly enough.



• Spuma Served last night at an Italian restaurant called Pazzo in Portland. A volcano-shaped mound of frozen chocolate mousse imbedded with brandied cherries, dusted with cocoa powder, sitting on a lava flow of amaretto cream sauce. Rob stopped talking to me about half-way through when he realized I had stopped listening -- to anything -- so as to hone my senses on my tastebuds. If we hadn't been in public, I truly would have licked the plate clean. The sugary caffeinated richness woke me up at 2:30 this morning -- and I still can't sleep -- but my little spuma was soooo worth it.

A sweet little earful

Rob just came in with the smallest little corn cobette I've ever seen in my life. No, it's not one of those mini-ears that Tom Hanks ate like he was playing the harmonica in "Big." No, this was a teeny tiny version of the regular ears Rob grew in our garden this year.

Last year, we grew corn but didn't get to harvest it in time. First a big wind storm came and knocked down all the stalks. Then mean black crows (are there any other kind?) came and dined on the apparently ripe cobs. So wisely, with only gentle breezes and no crows to caw at, Rob went out this afternoon to harvest our 2007 bounty.

I believe I can now say I have experienced Corn Cob Heaven. I thought it was at our County Fair (see Fair Watch 2007 postings). No, it's actually in my back yard. I didn't know until today that you could eat an ear of corn raw; no boiling, grilling, or other heating necessary. Rob simply picked my 1.5 inch ear (2 inches if you count the handle), washed it, and handed it to me. It is now just a fuzzy, nibbled, nibblet-free husk. Sweet, sweet, sweet. Not to mention crisp, crunchy, and juicy.

Rob just told me the official variety of corn I'm now addicted to: Sugar Dots. A true marketing genius came up with that name; I couldn't have said it better. Other than, "Mmmmm!"

Mother's Day at Hooters

It was my choice to go. It seemed like a smart move, really. Where else could we go on Mother's Day and be certain not to run into long lines and big family celebrations? Sure, we found lots of single guys and divorced dads whose kids were with Mom for the day, but that’s what we expected when we entered the Hooters over in Portland yesterday. Having Hooted once before, I thought I knew what we’d find. I now understand that my tame sports-bar experience at the Fisherman’s Wharf coop several years ago was probably an enlightened anomaly.

Lowlights of our Delightfully Tacky Yet Unrefined lunch:

• When we walked in, I felt very conspicuously female. And overdressed. And decidedly approaching 40.

• Hooter Girls wear too much make-up, little missy. And their pantyhose are thick like the ones ice skaters wear. Hooter Girls actually don’t show nearly as much skin as you are supposed to think they do. But their bras are indeed gravity defying.

• When Britnee or Tiffanee or Kimmee -- can’t remember which ee name -- came to take our order, she pulled up a chair and sat with us. I was tempted to ask her if she wanted to split an appetizer...or borrow my coat.

• The music was blaring. The only song I recognized, at least at first, was “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.” I only know that song because Drew Lachey and Cheryl Burke did their Freestyle Dance to it two seasons ago on “Dancing with the Stars.” Now that was some class with a capital K.

• Some time after placing our order, a Hooter Girl randomly grabbed a wooden bar stool, put it upside down on the floor, and proceeded to sit between the legs and spin herself and the chair around and around and around. It sort of looked like assisted break dancing. She looked a bit ditsy, I mean dizzy, while basking in the applause.

• Every time a Hooter came by our table to ask if we needed anything, she signed her name on a paper napkin. By the end, I think we had been visited by about five different Hooters. And there was at least one heart on our napkin. I guess the napkin was supposed to be a souvenir. I’m devastated I didn’t realize that at the time. Otherwise, we’d have a fabulous scanned photo right here.

• As "The Chicken Dance” music started, a Hooter grabbed a very willing rooster from a neighboring table and instructed him to stand on a chair. She and about four other Hooters gathered around and showed Mr. Rooster how to wear a Styrofoam cup as a beak and flap opened “to go” boxes as his wings. Mr. Rooster’s friends all gathered with their camera phones to take pictures. Either because he was drunk or because he was in his 60s and felt he had earned the right to speak the truth, Mr. Rooster yelled, “What? What am I supposed to do? I can’t pay attention to what you are saying because I’m looking at your ….” And no, he didn’t have the ellipsis.

• The burger was pretty good. The onion rings were industrial. The hot sauce was kicky.

• Rob was distracted by a billiards game showing on the TV behind me. At least that’s his story and he’s sticking to it.

• We decided to leave when “YMCA” started playing and Mr. Rooster was looking rather itchy to join the group dance.

For several hours later, I felt very greasy. I’m not convinced it was the onion rings. I'm thinking maybe we'll go to Joann's Fabrics or Michael's on Father's Day, just to even out the cosmos.

THIS JUST IN:
Courtesy of a long-time friend, here is a photo of that friend doing the Mr. Rooster Chicken Dance in a Floridian Hooters. Guess the schtick is the same coop to coop.

A whole new meaning for "Flame Throwing"

The first sign of trouble was when our waitress asked if I had to work the next day.

“No,” I said matter-of-factly without any explanation.

“Good.” She sounded sincerely relieved for me. “When I ate just half of one of these, it changed my entire system the next day,” she explained as she waved her hands up and down her torso, lingering in the gastrointestinal area. “Good luck!”

And with that, the challenge began. We were in a restaurant in Portland last night that bills itself as Pirate Cookin’. It’s a cross between New Orleans Creole and Caribbean food. My entrée was a Mac Pie which was elbow macaroni with a bunch of cheeses, roasted tomatoes, sweet peppers, and habanero chilies. Doesn’t that sound yummy? I’ll let you know how it is when I have the left-overs for lunch. I never got around to eating it last night.

The purpose for our excursion was the restaurant’s “Great Balls of Fire.” Still moping around after the disappointing trip to Albuquerque a few weeks ago (see March 6 post), I was desperate to find some heat. The Balls have a reputation – as do I – so I was eager to put both to the test. I'm calling it a tie.

Listed at the top of the menu was:

The Infamous Great Balls of Fire – Many have tried, some have died! Eat all 5 habanero-cheese fritters with the sauce and get your picture on the Wall of Flame!!

So with five witnesses, I cut the first meat-ball-sized fritter in half. It was deep-fat fried and dense, sort of like a hush puppy. The cheese wasn’t gooey. It was more bready and there were little orange flakes of chopped habaneros throughout. I took my first bite. Not really all that hot. And honestly, not all that flavorful. The instructions clearly stated that I had to finish not just the Balls but the salad-dressing dish of sauce as well. I dipped my fork in the sauce. Whoooo doggies!!! Now THAT was some heat. It was immediately clear that the challenge was the sauce, not the fritters. Having assessed the situation, I put my game face on and dug in.

Meanwhile, the five friends were “enjoying” one shared Ball among them. My smelt dipping friend (see February 6 post) asked me if it was hot. Still able to speak at that point, I said, “The ball isn’t so bad, but be careful of the sauce.” She confidently plopped a forkful of unsauced Ball in her mouth and immediately turned bright red. Her eyes watered. After delicately removing most of what had gone in her mouth, she started coughing and her hands flew around reaching for napkins and drinks. She then uttered a few choice words, thankfully none aimed at me.

At this point, I think I had finished one Ball and I had already removed my coat. Somewhere around Ball 2.5, my hair was sweating. On my recommendation, my friend summoned some milk. She was very kind to get me some as well. Midway through Ball 3, I blew my nose and that dish of half-finished sauce suddenly looked huge. About half of my milk was gone. Another friend declared me muy loco while aiming his camera phone at me. At Ball 4, my forehead was sweating. Not just a glisten, a sweat. And my legs were bouncing. Like a swimming duck, it was pretty calm above the table but below the table my legs were like jack-hammers, trying to release some of the accumulating pain, energy, and flight response. As I cut Ball 5 in half, I was very ready to be finished. I could see the bottom of the sauce dish but I still had enough for my final Ball. Staring at the photos of previous idiots, I defiantly mopped up the rest of the sauce and put the last pieces in my mouth. And this was when the real fun began.

I knew that as soon as I stopped, the pain would really set in. The waitress had been kind enough to offer some sugar packets, “A little secret if you find yourself ‘in a situation’ if you know what I mean.” I had never tried sugar before. I used maybe half a packet and it eventually did help. As did the smoothy, the full glass of milk, the half-glass of water, and the half-glass of margarita. My friends noted that my chest was a little red. Upon further inspection, I determined it was a heat rash. Shortly thereafter, my picture was taken.

Somewhere along here, our entrees arrived. That wonderful sounding Mac Pie wrapped in a banana leaf now looked really unappetizing. As the rest of the table enjoyed their meals, I sat in a daze. I managed to get the heat under control but the roof of my mouth was raw and numb. My tongue was doing ok, mostly because I had elected to eat the balls sauce side up, so the roof took the heat instead of my tongue. Yes, I’ve had practice. And then, blissfully, the coveted Pepper High set in. Really hot foods release endorphins. These are happy chemicals. Now you know The Secret.

The rest of the meal is a bit fuzzy. I just sat there, buzzing and mellow. Several times the waitress reiterated how fortunate it was that I didn’t have to work the next day and that I really must have an iron stomach. All I could offer was that time would tell.

We almost made it home. Without going into too many details, I’ll admit my throat is a little sore this morning and my back hurts. Rob assures me that I can still claim victory since I managed to get the Great Balls of Fire and the Liquid Sunshine Sauce into my system. It was just a matter of time before they all made a hasty exit one way or another. I am indeed happy I don’t have to work today, though. It would get in the way of my two exercise classes.

UPDATE as of 10:41am: I went to the gym. I was an even more esquisite example of "low impact" than normal in Class #1. I skipped Class #2. I'm now on the hunt for toast and chicken soup.

Nothing like a woman unscorched

I’m sorry to say I still have all my taste buds. Despite valiant efforts to burn a few off, nothing kicked me to the curb at the Fiery Foods Show in Albuquerque on Saturday. Yes, that’s right, Rob and I flew all the way to New Mexico just so I could follow my passion of eating condiments that require protective clothing and toothpicks to dispense.

I went with such hope. One friend asked what I was most looking forward to at the festival. My reply: Having my butt whomped by some ungodly hot salsa or sauce. I really wanted to be taken down. And I was prepared. I wore my glasses so that when my eyes burned, my contacts wouldn’t curl up. I had two brand new travel packs of Kleenex. I lugged around a pound of authentic New Mexico tortillas (SO fluffy from all that tasty lard they use) to cut the heat. I wore a dark red t-shirt so that my spills would be camouflaged. I had our camera so Rob could document my defeat. And the result? Ho hum.

The hotel ballroom, whose carpet was covered in plastic tarps and duct tape, was a tad crowded with wall-to-wall fellow masochists. We all bustled around in a frenzy, each desperately seeking our own personal little pepper high. Vendors at each booth were eager to pitch their concoctions. It seems every last one of them won a Scovie award of some sort, calling into question just how discriminating this contest of hot and spicy foods really is. Smells a lot like a marketing ploy to me. Anyway…

I did manage to bring home a few favorites. Drat the airline security rules limiting my carry-on liquids. And drat those numerous vendors for only taking cash. I did NOT appreciate these restrictions, although I’m quite sure Sherpa Rob did.

So making the sadly undefeated trip home with me were: a tangy bottle of Danny Gash’s “Bottled Up Anger” (habanero garlic hot sauce); a can’t-wait-for-BBQed-hot-dog-season jar of NunDunBetter Chile Mustard; a bag of Texas Choice Chili Mix Hot that Rob tried and agreed he could tolerate; and a little bag – 3 whole servings worth – of a really creamy Sunny’s Holiday Green Chile Cinnamon Hot Chocolate Mix. I also have business cards for future online purchases of Byron Bay Chilli Co’s “Fiery Coconut Chilli Sauce with Curry and Ginger,” and Grumpy’s “Goodnight-Loving BBQ Sauce." So, the trip was not a total loss by any means. It just wasn’t quite the beg-for-mercy extravaganza my calloused taste buds were hoping for. Tra la la.