As some of you may have figured out, I really like to eat. Too much really, so I'm back on a diet which precludes sugars and simple carbohydrates. What better time to clear out the pictures of epic culinary delights from my phone.
Here's a work of literally heart-breaking genius. From a little joint in south Austin that gets enough press so I won't mention it, witness about 2 pounds of bacon, smothered with diced tomatoes and topped with a spicy chili con queso served on two pieces of thick Texas toast. I've had two of these thus far and I pronounce that quite enough for this lifetime.
I may have mentioned it before, but it bears repeating. This is the finest Chicken Fried Steak I have ever encountered. At the evocatively named Johnny Reb's Dixie Cafe in Hearne TX. Great sides too. Not to be missed, I'll be breaking the diet and driving 50 miles out of my way on Saturday to feast upon this plate once again...
While in Portland OR for the Bad Livers gig at Pickathon, I stumbled across a little Arabic joint whose name I did not note. This meal, once again can't recall what they called it, is unlike anything I had eaten. It's a mixture of spiced ground beef, bulgar, rice, shredded chicken, pine nuts and raisins. Unbelievably wonderful. Anybody know what it is called?
Speaking of Arabic: Frank London ordered this Lebanese hot sausage plate at a fine little joint right around the corner from the West London Synagogue when we were there on staff for Klez Fest UK. When a lemon is served with meat, be looking for some heat!
Back to Portland, the dreaded Bacon and Maple Frosting long john from Voodoo Donuts. I have never felt more ashamed about enjoying something I ate. Maybe the most self loathing moment of my life thus far....
With the dollar in the tank, travel in Europe can be daunting for the broke ass Yiddish musician. For reasons that I cannot fathom, there are no Turkish Ibiss's in the Frankfurt Airport, so $19 US gets you a Bitter Lemon and a pretzel covered in cheese.
And now, a clear signal to the return of the Adkins plan:
The Texas Hill Country is dotted with literally hundreds of these little meat markets and smokehouses, many founded my Czech Bohemian, Moravian and Polish immigrants. I regularly speed past these places on my way to Polka gigs in Schulenberg and honky tonk gigs in Walburg. But last week I decided to mosey along between the K of C and SPJST Halls. I was richly rewarded with this haul of dry sausage goodness.
Restaurateur, rub board player with the Cornel Hurd Band, and bon vivant Danny Roy Young passed away yesterday.
To me, Danny was one of the last "good guys" here in Austin TX. Cut of a different cloth than they make folks from these days, he was always generous and kind, respectful and respected. To my mind he was a walking embodiment of the contradiction of Texas Good Ol' Boy and Hippie, displaying only the best aspects of each backround and none of the flaws, the very sort of person that made Austin the unique place it used to be. They called him the "unofficial Mayor of South Austin" and that was no idle honorific. His sudden and untimely passing marks the further erosion of Austin's creative culture, and creates a void I don't see anyone stepping up ti fill.
In happier times, I used to gather with Cornell, writer John Morthland and a rogues gallery of old honk tonk musicians for a weekly lunch at Danny's Texacali Grille. I would listen in as these old salts would trade war stories and tall tales over plates sweet potato fries and other comfort foods, with Danny's homemade root beer flowing all the while. It was a finishing course in music, show business and the manly arts, all of which Danny had a wise word for.
I've been going over it in my head since I heard the news and I cannot recall anything other than a smile on his face and a hearty laugh on his lips. We should all be so well remembered.
Best damn Gorditas, ever. I'm am not a huge fan of the Tejano meat stuffed "Lard Cookie," but at $2.75 per I had to try 'em. It's a new joint on far East 6th street and I forgot the name, but I reckon my belly could drive straight there.
So amazing a meal at the Walburg Restaurant, that I literally forgot to stop and take a picture. I go to southern German and Austria more often than I'd like to admit, but in my humble opinion, this is the finest squarehead grub I've been served. Well, not really served, as it's an ALL YOU CAN EAT buffet. Homemade kraut and cabbage, Weiner schnitzel and local brauten. Washed down with a Warsteiner Heffe Dunkel. I play there regularly with either a bluegrass band made up of German expatriates, or a Polish polka combo lead by a guy best known for Tex-Mex and Cajun music. Its true, lead a very interesting life.
The "Hercules" plate at Niko Niko on Montrose in Houston TX. Long my favorite paper plate Greek joint in Texas, I stopped by the recently remodeled (and always packed to the gills) joint and noticed a new menu item. "We dare you to finish it.." A poor bet indeed. Besides playing killer real-deal Greek music over the house speakers, they have the best advertising graphics as well, mostly cartoon images of the owners ever increasing stomach.("We're expanding...")
OK, I have raved about Fuegos Authentic Mexican for many months. The local papers recently picked up on them as well and gave them what I can only characterize as an appropriate description of this Mom, Pop and Daughter operation. I get the same thing every time I go, but in a fit of curiosity, I went for their "Fat Burger." It is just as the review says: the best burger in Austin. (I can't believe I said that, but it really is so.) The perfect marriage of chuck and ground, I could not get my ample maw around it.
Here's a fine Polish Gorale ensemble that appeared at the Houston Polish Festival last week. They were accompanying a large folk dance dance troupe that had come down from Chicago (Góralski Zespół Pieśni i Tańca "Holni" pod patronatem parafii Św. Krzyża). The local Poles really didn't know what to make of them, as they are mostly descended from the Lowlands and share the traditional Polish distrust of the hillbillies of the Tatras Mountains. Like the dancers these boys here are are FOB (fresh off the boat in the local vernacular) and didn't speak a word of English. Brian Marshall and his boys waited patiently for them to clear out so they could crank up the Texas Lowland fiddle sound.
Me? I thought they were ASS kickingly good. What's hard to see in this picture is the "maly bassy," or small bass; a three string cello actually played with clubby underhand bass bow. The dude could rock it and along with the twin rhythm fiddle section it was a mighty. mighty skronk. You can hardly make it out but one of them is playing a regularly tuned fiddle left handed. (Follow this link for some nice pictures from the event.)
So out of the blue the other day my old buddies Katie Moore and Josh Doglin (aka DJ SoCalled) give me a ring to tell me that they at the SXSW Conference site and are literally begging to be picked up and "rescued." This is not an uncommon experience for me actually, so I have a game plan all laid out for the out of town guest who has become overwhelmed by the crush of the conference. I haven't see either of these folks since they were on the bill with me in Krakow last summer, so we have a lot to catch up on.
The enchanting Ms. Moore wrote of the evening's hi jinks at her blog at the Montreal Gazette entitled "Drive By Mariachi" and Josh at "Austin Heats Up."
OK, let's assume your done with the turkey leftovers like we are here at Casa Hasta no Vista. While everybody else seems to head for the malls, we sleep late, crawl into our PJs and head up Lamar Blvd. to Fuego's.
It's kinda tricky to get to as they are in a terrible location, accessible only from the south bound access road where Hwy 183 meets Lamar. But people, it's well worth the hassle. The menu is California style Mexican which is quite a bit different than the manteca based Tex-Mex we have around here mostly. Pictured is my favorite, the Carne Asada Fries, which are just what is says it is. They have possibly the finest salsa verde in town, though Taqueria Arandas #3 on Burnet Rd. may still hold that title.
It's a little Mom and Pop operation dedicated to the slow food experience of fresh ingredients prepared to order. The experiences we've had there routinely rival the finest gourmet restaurants. Like many small independent businesses, they're struggling to stay open, but folks seem to be catching up with the place. Do your self a favor and check it out. The Cheese Enchilada plate, the Shrimp Scamp and the entire breakfast menu (Lemon Ricotta Pancakes!) all get high marks in our household. Call ahead as they are closed at some mighty odd times. (512) 524-1164
As I mentioned earlier, we get out of the camps relatively unscathed, and I am now to be the guest of Mr. Sapoznik in his Upstate Hillbilly compound. Hank is the consummate host and an ace chef to boot. Once again, I am more than well fed.
The chef at work
Grilled Lamb, veggies, the Sapoznik Family recipe bulbes all served with the National drink of Texas.
A few days later, and several more home cooked meals and we’re off to the East Hampton to meet back up with Steve and Cookie, but with this time Cookie’s BF Josh Horowitz in tow. Hank got a speaking gig at the Reform schul there and he talked them into booking the whole Klez Kamp Roadshow to do a foreshortened version for the weekend.
On the way over there from Hank’s place, we decide to stop in and check on the old Klez Kamp location, the Paramount Hotel. Whoa. What a mess. You could see old place under where it burned down a bot and then the new building project that was basically abandoned in mid construction. It was more than eerie and we were glad to put our backs to it.
The drive to the Hamptons was amazing. 6 hours total and the last hour and a half were speant on the last 30 miles, traffic was so bad. We’re being housed in a fine old Victorian house conveniently located right next door to the synagogue. Our first service is to be part of their Kabbalat Shabbat, which was held right on the beach, not but 3/4 of a mile from the house. Not knowing how to dress for such, we are decked out in stage wear while the congregants are in “beach casual.”
They introduce us and we play a few dance numbers, out on the sands, with little kids running all around. Wild!
Afterwards and back at the big house, we cook up some leftovers found in the fridge from the Kosher cooking classes, drink a few of Steve’s signature martini’s and then sit down to pick a few tunes. Cookie and I work out a couple of really great Beregovsky collected tunes for a duet, though I usually play the string bass. Now I have to transpose to 3 string cello (tuned in 5th) and you all get to hear my thought process as we play down the number.
Shabbes tomorrow will be spent by us resting and by Hank lecturing. Steve, Susan and I make the Saturday morning service, chow on the fine bagels and schmear afterwards and then head off on foot to the beach. This is a rare occurrence for me. I haven’t frolicked in the surf in over a decade and that was the gentle beach of Galveston Bay. This is a beach of another type altogether and until I figure the breaks, I get battered by the crashing waves worse than I have ever experienced. It was, in a word, a solid blast. After a few hours we walk back to the house to nap and be prepared for our post Havdala performance.
Hunger and the need for treyf gets the best of us and we take off down the road in search of a new BBQ joint that just opened up. I had a real hard time being understood at the counter as the prices listed looked like by the pound where I hail from, but they only go by the plate (silly Yankees.) My inquiry about the sausage made the owner nervous, but he swore up and down it was his own version of Elgin (TX) style. Whatever. I order for the team getting ribs, chicken, fatty slices and even burnt ends, all served with taters, pickles and slaw on butcher paper (a technique that well heeled locals seemed to not be able to abide.) The house sauces were disappointing to put it charitably, but the meat was happening and the burnt ends a hit. For rich, disaffected East Coasters, it was just this side of alright However, it's the most I've ever spent on cooked meat in my life. And that was no part of Elgin sausage, btw.
Back at the Schul, they are expecting a big crowd as this band packed the place just 2 years ago. But for reasons unknown they’re staying away in droves tonight. No matter however, the expanded Youngers with PJ’s accordion sounds wonderful and Susan Leviton was great as usual, so the small audience was treated to a very intimate experience in a great sounding room.
The dance classes set for the next afternoon are similarly light, which only 7 or so folks showing up. We set up in a corner of the old schul there and Steve gives them everything he’s got, as if there were 100 of them. Our little quartet does the same, playing over these little gems of tunes from German Goldenshteyn and others. Really, can you beat playing for dancers, no matter how few?
Susan, Jerry, Cookie and PJ all head off for thier respective homes right after the show, leaving me with Hank and Steve. In the morning we find a diner on the way out, Hank hands me off to Steve who will be taking me back into the city. From there, I will catch a flight back to Austin, to languish 4 days at my violin shop.
Then it's back on a plane, this time to London to join the staff of Klezfest UK for a week. Then a stop over in NYC to play dates with Andy Statman. I'll be lucky if I recall half of what actually happened. What I do recall, I'll share with you soon.
AKA "Tis Sweet to work with Friends, ” July 26 through August 1st, 2007.
I caught the Block and Hexter shuttle bus out in front of the 92nd Street Y, which I guess is some kind of Jewish Community Center which puzzles me, as “YMCA” back home stands for Young Men’s Christian Association. New York really is Jew-ville after all, so Y means whatever they like up there. I waltz past the metal detectors (what the Fxxx??) and seek out a place to stach my gear. In no time flat, a stern matron kicked me out of the "community room," which had killer fast Wi-Fi and free bad coffee, so I relocated my bass, tuba and packpack to the the front steps of the place. In a town famed for its slice, I find a Israeli run kosher pizza joint and had possibly the worst slice of pizza I’ve ever had in my whole life. This will be an omen of things to come as it turns out.
Dance teacher-martini maker extraordinaire Steven Weintraub has wrangled a gig for the new “Klez Kamp Roadshow” concept at the Block and Hexter Center. They pulled it off a version of this gig last year without me, but this they budgeted enough to make it worth my while to head up there and I look forward to any opportunity to hang out with my Youngers of Zion band mates, no matter what the circumstances. After this week in the Pocono’s we’ll head up to East Hampton NY to glom onto a speaking gig that Henry booked and then subsequently got them to book the whole KK Roadshow experience for a weekend. That’s two whole weeks and I’m not sure my buds can take so much me in such a high dosage.
The week of instruction at Block and Hexter was a new skill set for me. We were essentially to be the live music for Steve’s dance classes and then provide entertainment at night, as well as give the odd lecture on differing topics associated with Jewish and Yiddish Culture. Kind of like a cruise ship gig when I think about it. Only this cruise liner has a median age of 80, keeps glatt kosher kitchen and runs on a fuel procured from incessant complaining. Don’t get me wrong, I dig old people. Just not in these sorts of high concentrations and especially not cranky old Yankees, frumme Jews to top it off. The complaints began even before the bus got to the campsite when the AC unit went kaput some 100 miles away from NYC. Gevault, indeed.
Ok, I’m not going to harp on any of the typical things that you can say about a summer camp arrangement. Anyone who has ever done time at a kosher Jewish Summer camp knows the drill. The food was exactly what one would expect to serve an elderly Jewish couple. That is to say cooked within an inch of its life and utterly devoid of any discernible flavor. But to speak to the positives, I had a clean room with an AC unit, Wi-Fi on demand, a lovely pool and an even lovelier pond which was well stocked with canoes and other water craft all of which I availed myself to. It was generally pleasant and run by decent, mostly happy people. In other words, it wasn’t anything like Circle Lodge.
There was a genuine wild card present however in the person of the camps staff entertainment director, a burly Israeli dame named Esther. Teaching folk dance and programming the evenings shows were her purview all summer and one got the feeling right quick that we were in her house and only just barely tolerated at that. She was all right and everything, but she was a force there when we got there and she’s still there now that we’re gone. Watching her lead dancing was truly a sight to behold, a mixture of enthusiastic prodding and borderline physical abuse. We reckoned she had become entirely immune to the cries of complaint from her elderly charges and had learned to simply manhandle them into submission and quiet, fearful subservience. (When one old lady came to her to tell her AC wasn’t working, Esther’s response was a loud “Are you threatening me!?”) Steve however has experienced working with her many times over the years and has developed his own system of coping mechanisms, which served him well all week.
The only controversy that occurred during our time there was on our very first evenings entertainment. We scheduled a staff concert of sorts where each of the guest lecturer-musicians performed a little something to give the attendees a taste of what to expect from our programming. Susan Leviton, our Yiddish vocalist and visual artist, was well received with her wonderful, unaffected singing. (She’s a real gem actually and was glad to have a whole week to hang out with her and her hubby Jerry.) Youngers played a tune or two and then Michael Wex got up and told a story from one of his books. It was damn funny too, something about having his first nocturnal emission make a stain in the shape of the Israeli flag, or something along those lines. Typically hilarious Wex material.
Funny to me maybe, but incredibly insulting to not but a few of the old frumme couples (not folks who had signed up for the Road Show I am quick to point out, but liggers left over from the week before) who stormed out in a public huff. Most of these people all turned up the next day at his lecture, hectoring him mercilessly with silly questions, and asking loudly I’m not making this up, ‘Why do you hate the Jewish People?” and “How did they let an Anti-Semite like you here?” It got even worse after his lecture when these nut jobs button holed him, screaming at him in English and then talking to one another in front of him in Yiddish AS IF HE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THEY WERE SAYING. When he responded to them in his native tongue they quickly switched to Hebrew, to which he again retorted to in kind. Ironical, as they say in my native Oklahoma. With this sort of crowd, Wex kept a low profile for the rest of the week and had lots of great material for his next article in the Jewish Week.
As the food there at the job site was a no go, we made several trips out into the countryside to find good burgers and booze. We were told of a particular joint called the Beacon Bar & Grill and after our first experience there, we came back again and again. Actually, I ate too much. No really, way too much. This whole being away from home and my regular surroundings and Mexican food and stuff, it was all catching up with me in this TV-less, shomer-shabbat rustic retreat. When I wasn’t working, I was writing this damn blog or eating and that was about it. The Beacon provided comfort food in every respect. We ended up there 3 nights in a row and with my taking pictures of everything ordered, I do believe the staff thought I was a food critic or something. It was midway into the signature Beacon burger, a massive meat fest made to resemble the Beacon's logo of a lighthouse, that I realized that I have as very deeply twisted relationship with food and it’s gonna screw me up if I don’t get a handle on it eventually. That said, here's what we ate:
The Beacon Burger, the house's signature dish, served with a side of chili cheese fries. "Angina on a platter." Seriously, I had a hard time downing this mammoth tower of meat.
Cookie contemplates the desert plate.
Hank goes for the Peanut Butter Pie, naturally...
Before...
and after....
Henry and Wex discuss the joys apple sauce and rare steak.
It wasn't on the menu, but I was craving a Patty Melt, which the chef made for me special. Again with the chili cheese fries....
Really, the Beacon was just that, a Lighthouse of well prepared meals in a vast sea of institutional kitchens. I'd drive 100 miles out of my way to eat there again.
We play every day for Steve’s dance class, we host lecture-talks on various subjects, including a lively talk about playing Jewish music in Eastern Europe and looking out to see mostly Holocaust survivors in the audience, and basically keep to ourselves. Cookie and I, Midwesterners by birth, avail ourselves of the private ponds many watercraft, including a hilarious attempt at a paddle boat. I redeemed myself later by taking a canoe out solo for a good long trip. The cool of the dark waters of the pond where a welcome respite to the heat of the mosquito-laden airs around the camp.
One evening after our labors, Steve shows up with a DVD collection of a 1950's era cartoon that I had never heard before. We loaded up on snack foods and liquor, moved a TV set into a unused conference room and the proceeded to watch episode after episode of Colonel Bleep. Evidently it was the very first color cartoon for TV, which is mighty odd when you consider less than 10% of the viewing public had a color TV to watch it on. Hank remembers seeing it as a young child, but in black and white. The episodes are in a word, pretty damn weird, with a mix of outrageous scripts interspersed with pointless "educational" content ("Today we go to the Belgian Congo....") Crude, bizarre and amazingly compelling. Especially if you are really, really high. Look it up on You Tube or some such and check it out for yourself, as could go on for hours about it.
Here's some stills that I took in a much addled state:
By the end of the week, we had won the campers over completely, even amongst the frum who gave us static at the beginning.The final concert went great, and even Wex's bit got laughs. Afterwards we experience the "let me tell you a story" session so prevalent at these sort of gigs.
Soon it was off to Henry's cabin in upstate NY to chill out and eat cooked meat for a few days and then we all regroup in East Hampton to do it all over again.
But for now, presented for your edification, Block and Hexter Camper Talent Night featuring Leon on the Accordion.
Frank London ordered this Lebanese hot sausage plate at a fine little joint right around the corner from the West London Synagogue when we were there on staff for Klez Fest UK. When a lemon is served with meat, be looking for some heat!
The Texas Hill Country is dotted with literally hundreds of these little meat markets and smokehouses, many founded my Czech Bohemian, Moravian and Polish immigrants. I regularly speed past these places on my way to Polka gigs in Schulenberg and honky tonk gigs in Walburg. But last week I decided to mosey along between the K of C and SPJST Halls. I was richly rewarded with this haul of dry sausage goodness.
