First of all, a thousand apologies to foodie readers, but I didn't take a single picture of the amazing-looking and -tasting food at Alinea. I enjoy seeing other people's food pix, but I just can't do that in fine-dining situations ever since I once saw Chef Pete scowling at a diner who was happily clicking away, and anyway you can see better pictures on their website.

I did, however, manage to take a few goofy camera-phone pictures of me and Neil:



This one is blurry, but I like the contented, slightly dazed look on Neil's face, which pretty well represents his expression throughout the meal:



And here's Neil in the photographic style of Nick Rhodes (yes, I was enough of a Durannie to buy Nick's incomprehensible photo book):



Here's a Magnificent Mile skyline near our hotel:



Mr. Beef from the outside:



Mr. Beef from the inside:



And the winner is ... Portillo's!



(I know I said I hated taking food photos, but Mr. Beef was empty and nobody notices what stupid touristy shit you do at Portillo's.)

In keeping with its Richard Bachman theme, this scary scale in my hotel bathroom weighed me ten pounds lighter than I weigh at home despite my having consumed a 23-course meal the night before:



Garden photos coming soon, I promise.

And when I got back, the city and my street and my house and everything were right here where I'd left them. This sounds like an obvious statement, laughable even, until the alternative has happened to you. I am glad to know I can travel. This trip was very much a baby step but still scary, and I'm not planning to go jetting off on a regular basis, but at least I know it's possible.

Ah, but I do love Chicago. Apart from the food, which I believe to be as good as anywhere in the country, I never seem to hear anyone talk about what a beautiful, welcoming, walkable, generally user-friendly city it is. Obviously that changes some in the winters, which I have not yet dared since Neil says I would need special clothing to avoid death or at least severe frostbite.

I want to extend a special thank-you to Elyse Marshall, Neil's publicist at Harper Collins, who took the incredibly generous step of arranging to stay with Chicagoland friends so I could have her room for the night. She looked very much like most of the publicists I've had over the past several years -- young, female, and gorgeous -- but, unlike the majority of them, I know she must be better than competent or Neil wouldn't have her. In addition to the hotel room, Elyse, you have given me a shot of new hope for the publishing industry.

Well, I did it. I flew 927 miles from home, only really freaked out once, had a truly lovely dinner with Neil (more details later, or see his journal), and am now at O'Hare waiting to please God fly home. Before coming to the airport today, I had time to conduct an important taste test: half an Italian beef sandwich each at Mr. Beef and Portillo's. I'm sorry, Chicagoans; I know you think it's fast food, but Portillo's is about a million times better.

As of today, The Green Goddess officially has its liquor license! Swing by 307 Exchange Alley and have a Green Fuse, a Sultan's Dream, or one of their many other delicious specialty cocktails to celebrate. If you do not imbibe of the grain and the grape, they have lots of virgin cocktails too.

Me, I'm off to eat "transparency of raspberry and yogurt" and "black truffle explosion," along with twenty-one other tiny fabulous things.

A few years ago now, I made a bet with Neil that I could build him a helicopter that wouldn't crash. I lost. Thankfully, Neil survived the disaster, and ever since then I have owed him dinner at Alinea. It turns out that he will be at some big book thing (American Library Association? I think that might be it) in Chicago this weekend, and I'm not busy, so I am flying to Chicago to pay off my bet. I'm greatly looking forward to seeing Neil and eating at Alinea again, but aside from that other little trip to Chicago when we were still in post-K exile, just to see civilization again, this will be my first trip outside Louisiana/Mississippi since 2005. I'm certain I'll have a good time once I get there, but I'm also certain that the only thing that will compel me to get on that plane will be the thought of my dear friend's disappointment if I don't show up. Scared. I'm really doing it and I am flat-out dead-eye Jesus-praying scared, even though I'm only staying overnight. Oh well, it will be good practice for the Amsterdam trip in November ...

(By the way, anyone who wants to see an actual display of courage, as opposed to my whining about a four-hour jaunt, should go to Alinea's press page and read the second story from the top, "Burned" from Chicago Magazine. It's a grueling and fascinating account of 33-year-old Chef Grant Achatz's battle with stage 4 cancer of the tongue, of all things, his insistence on individualized treatment, how the experience has changed his already complex food theories, and his journey back to taste, which is still in progress. May God and all the saints bless him.)

Just wanted to mention that Chris is doing something really cool at the Green Goddess for the Independence Day of the Colonialist Power (a.k.a. the 4th of July): they've rented the penthouse apartment on the fourth floor of their building and will be serving a Persian buffet in honor of the people's struggle for independence in Iran. As Chris points out in his entry, "This will be a private RSVP party, and the only way to find out how to attend, with a lush Persian banquet, a clear view of the fireworks display on the Mississippi River during the night of Independence Day, and a preview of a few of our creative cocktails soon to be available at The Green Goddess, only happens if you get an email invitation from us. The only way to score an invitation is to ask me for one on our website email listing for your chef correspondent." Or you can just call for reservations at (504) 301-3347. There's a reason he is being all 007 about this, but I'm not allowed to say it here.

He will also be running a Persian tasting menu all this week and probably next week too. Here's the drool-inducing part of the post:

Our 4th of July Tasting Menu, to Persia and her people,
Let us remember their courage this Summer 2009

Chilled Cucumber Soup (for Rumi)
Blended with Yogurt and Sumac,
Finished with “Snow” from Lemon Balm,
Crenshaw Melon, & Pimm’s #1 $8

Shamsi’s Refreshment
Watermelon Juice, Izze Sparkling Pomegranate & a Big Sour Cherry Ice Cube $8

A Fragrant Slice of Koukouye,
A Persian Frittata redolent with herbs, &
Homemade Havashu Naan Flatbread $9

A Pair of Stuffed Vegetables
Eggplant filled with Roasted Red Peppers and Pomegranate,
Swiss Chard Dolma filled with Zeresk Pilaf of Barberries, Basmati Rice,
Saffron, Ivory Lentils, Pistachios, and Black Lemon $15

Peach-Passion Fruit Tea with Green Cardamom $4

Oasis Sweetmeat
Medjool Date stuffed with Rose-Scented Almond Filling $8

Pistachio Gelato in a “Nest”
Shredded Phyllo, Orange Blossom Water,
Saffron, & Candied Yuzu Peel $9

Tasting Menu $54 (including drink pairings)

I had a lovely, relaxed day with Chris. Over coffee he gave me a mushy card and a crazy Indonesian mask, whose picture I will have to post soon. Then we had lunch at Piccadilly Cafeteria (From "Crown of Thorns": [Dr. Brite] wouldn't take himself anywhere nice; he'd drive out to the Piccadilly Cafeteria on Jefferson Highway and have a Spartan four-vegetable plate, poking sadly at his corn niblets while some poor fucker played the hits of the forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies on a Hammond organ. There would be a smattering of other lonely souls in booths around the room's bleak perimeter, and inevitably some old bat would be celebrating her ninetieth. The organist would segue from "It's A Wonderful World" to "Happy Birthday," trolling for a tip. Altogether, it was about the most depressing thing Hank could think of. I happen to like it better than self-righteous young Hank, including the corn niblets) and Chris treated me to a shopping spree at Lowe's, where I got my romantic hose reel, exactly what I wanted. I watered the whole garden with it today and I love it; it will be my poor old back's friend.

We didn't feel like going back out later, so Chris fixed us steaks and twice-baked potatoes and birthday cake. That's what a man likes to eat! Now I don't feel so bad about forgetting Steak & A Blowjob Day this year.

Still later in the evening, I lamented that I was now 42 and still didn't have the answer. Chris looked up and said offhandedly, "Maybe it's just love." Exactly like him to cut through the Gordian knot of life, the universe, and everything in four words!

chefcdb: [Huitlacoche is] one of the most common foods for ignorant ass food bloggers who think they're the person "who will try anything" to go and say a bunch of stupid blather about how it looks and tastes, invariably from canned product (which has usefulness in sauces and mashing up) and get self-righteous about how brave they were in the face of such disgusting goo. Those people crack me up as they never have a clue how to cook anything nor bothered to glean a little cultural info about how the disgusting ingredient actually functions as food in its society.

This is only one of the many, many reasons why I love the guy. I like his description of the flavor, too; it is nothing like truffles, more like hominy in texture, with tones of wild mushroom and corn. The first time I ever had it was at Marisol's Fungus Feast, where I also drank seven or eight kinds of wine and Wild Turkey and tequila. It ended up being an unfortunate night, but that wasn't the huitlacoche's fault.

I feel better today than I did yesterday, but still tired and sore. Last night I happened to recall that I accidentally inhaled a small amount of malathion vapor on Tuesday, and wondered if that could have made me suddenly sick. I avoid pesticides as much as possible, but my pepper seedlings were getting devoured despite applications of diatomaceous earth and habanero oil/soap spray. At any rate, the eggplant seedlings are ready to go into the ground, but I think they're going to have to wait until the weekend.

Oh, and someone (possibly several someones) wanted to know how I managed to get stung on the ass by a buckmoth caterpillar. Well, I was removing the flat tire from my wheelbarrow, and it came off more easily than I expected, and I tipped over backward and my left buttock landed square on the nasty, spiny thing. They are the only creatures I regularly kill in my garden, because they damage the oaks as well as stinging.

Speaking of plant matters, thanks to txtriffidranch for the cool propaganda! Your sticker will be the first one on my new computer.

Finally got the damned cucumbers in. My mother told me not to plant in the ground until Easter, and yesterday there was too much loud shitty rap* coming from a street party to work in the yard. I'm growing Yamato Long (a lengthy, thin-skinned green cucumber of the type I know as "English," but which I'm guessing from the name is actually Japanese) and Crystal Apple (a white, egg-shaped cuke). Also tried to grow Mexican Sour Gherkins, which look just like tiny watermelons, but found them too challenging (translation: all the seedlings fell over and died). Maybe next year. I hadn't really thought out where I was going to put the seedlings, so I just dug out and tilled a new, narrow bed about six feet long next to the Bed of Dangerous Plants (which is now a misnomer, since I've made much of it over into my tomato bed, and as George Washington Carver taught us on U.S. of Archie, tomatoes will not poison you. After that my back hurt, so I ate half a pot brownie a friend gave me last week, and it's starting to come on nicely -- that relaxing full-body high you feel in your joints and spine. Thanks, old pal, I needed that.

After reading chefcdb's most recent post, I think he needs to be clearer about the fact that, though it will feature many vegetarian options including a really brilliant tasting menu, The Green Goddess will not be a vegetarian restaurant. He had one in Athens and is an excellent vegetarian chef, but the Goddess' menu will include lots of tasty meat and seafood dishes too. Not that there's anything wrong with having a good vegetarian restaurant, but in practice, those are unfortunately so rare that the very concept will turn off a lot of potential diners. In my entire dining life, I've eaten at one great vegetarian restaurant (Pyewacket in Chapel Hill), a few very-good-to-OK ones (a swanky Korean place in New York City particularly stands out in my memory, but sadly its name does not), and several that were mediocre or below (how many ways can you serve veggie burgers and tofu bowls?). Granted, I've never had a chance to explore the wider vegetarian options of a large, more "green"-oriented city like San Francisco, but I'm always interested to see what chefs can do with vegetables/grains and have tried a fairly wide range of places, most of which disappointed me. It's a shame, because as much as I love being an omnivore, I do think that in the hands of a creative chef who knows his ingredients, vegetarian cuisine can be as interesting and delicious as any other type. When the Green Goddess opens (no, I don't know yet when that will be; keep an eye on chefcdb for news), try Chris' tasting menu and see.

*Well, mostly shitty. I admit a certain fondness for the current local bounce hit "Do the Stanky Leg," which I heard approximately 4536 times yesterday, though I still have no idea how to actually do the Stanky Leg.

My palate has no conscience, so I don't need a justification to eat foie gras, but in case you've ever felt morally iffy about it, here's an excellent and informative article in its defense from Incanto Restaurant of San Francisco. My favorite bit:

Working to ban something that 99% of people never eat is not an act requiring great moral or physical courage in the same vein as was, say, the fight for civil rights in the U.S. or the fight for self rule in India. By comparison, the anti-foie gras movement is – at best – founded upon a shrewd political calculation in which the professed indignation of a few is used to harness the indifference of the many to the inherent political cowardice of elected officials, in order to achieve a desired political outcome. In essence, it's a confidence game in which participating meat-eaters, by agreeing to condemn something that they don't care about, receive the equivalent of a get-out-of-jail card, i.e., the right to feel slightly less guilty as they bite into that factory-farmed McNugget. Guilt and moral superiority are tradable currencies; the anti-foie gras camp exploits this to the hilt. And we let them.

While I obviously don't agree with vegetarians who are anti-foie gras, at least they are consistent. I think it's ill-thought-out at best and hypocritical at worst to oppose foie gras while tacitly condoning battery chicken/egg production and such. Whatever your opinion of the gavage technique, it does lead to delicious food. Battery chickens go through all that misery only for their meat and eggs to end up with virtually no flavor compared to meat and eggs from chickens who have led less restricted lives.

Thanks to tamidon for the link. I guess. Now I'm hungry and it's Friday and I am doing the Lenten thing, so I can't have any foie gras right now, dammit.

Nothing much to say, but I'm tired of looking at that kitten entry. We're having my mom and our friend Harry over for Christmas, and my old mortician friend Dale may be dropping in as well. I'll make the house look beautiful today and tomorrow, and Chris will cook dinner on Thursday. His menu includes cauliflower soup with black truffle-Parmesan grissini, osso buco (a.k.a. "Bone Hole," if Pete V. is reading this), butternut squash risotto, and some amuse-bouche type of doodad involving paper-thin slices of that superkill Iberian ham from special black pigs that are fed on acorns. I'll be making a chocolate pecan pie, but after all that, who really cares?

I have no idea if, or where, I'm going to midnight Mass. I go to the Sunday rosary service at Our Lady of Good Counsel almost every week, but I haven't been to Mass since a wedding at the church in November. I miss it.

I haven't had a chance to sit down and catch up on reading my friends list in days, and probably won't until after Christmas. I hope you all have/had a festive and wonder-filled holiday season.

I didn't really get to finish earlier because I had a friend coming over. My previous post was provoked in part (accidental alliteration!) by coming across a reference to my alleged habit of "demanding" drugs via my journal. While I never "demanded" anything, there were certainly times when I was in severe pain, couldn't get in touch with my orthopedist, and hinted very strongly that I wouldn't be averse to pharmaceutical donations. Little pain-vacations, as I thought of them. I remain hugely grateful to the people who helped me at those times -- and someone almost always did -- but it was still a tacky, distasteful habit, and I'm sorry the rest of you had to read it.

The thing is, I knew there were readers out there who could and would help me, and I didn't always know how else to get in touch with them, and even if I did, it wasn't always easy for me to ask them directly for help. (Why it should be easier to embarrass myself before thousands of readers is a good question, but I don't have an answer for it at the moment.) And they did help me, and saved me a lot of pain. I really, truly tried to post the "hints" only when I was in serious physical pain, not when I just wanted the shit, though what with rebound pain and all, it isn't always easy to make that distinction.

Of course, the person to whom I owe the most gratitude is Chris, who put up with all this stupid behavior and kept loving me and did not leave me even when he spent every day worrying that he might come home from work and find me dead. Without him, my family, my closest friends, and Our Lady of Good Counsel (especially Father Pat), I probably would have been.

What else? Well, I heard a secret I'm not allowed to tell. I hate it when people say that, but if this one turns out to be true, it could seriously rock my world. In a good way. I hope to be reporting more fully on this within the week. And I had a prime bone-in ribeye dry-aged for 45 days at Delmonico a few nights ago. It arrived a bit rarer than I had ordered it (I said mid-rare; it teetered right on the edge of Pretty Goddamn Rare), which did not bother me at all, but did awaken certain primal urges I'm still trying to quash.

I find it weird how other people, especially those with Catholic backgrounds, keep referring to me as a "convert." I suppose technically I am, but I never think of myself that way, since I wasn't raised in any particular religion (I've been a Subgenius since 1991, but it is compatible with all other religions) and didn't have anything to be "converted" away from.

Speaking of which, here is a feature article from today's Times-Picayune about the occupation of OLGC and St. Henry's. I'm not in this one, but it gives a good idea of how we coordinate the vigils and how they work.

Tomorrow we're having Thanksgiving with my mother and two Irish priests. That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, but it's true: when my church closed, Father Pat from OLGC was transferred to a church in Bogalusa. That's not too far from where my mom lives, so I decided to invite him for Thanksgiving dinner, and he's bringing his old friend from seminary, Father Terry, who's visiting from Ireland. Our menu includes Cajun fried turkey, cornbread dressing, Opelousas yams, peas in a roux, my whole-berry citrus cranberry sauce, and Cajun syrup cake. I need to get off the computer and make the latter two items, but one more thing first:

Now that the vigil schedules seem to be running more smoothly and we've got more people involved, I've finally found time to start eBay auctions again. This round includes the handmade possum-skull voodoo doll I've been talking about for months, copy AA of the signed/lettered edition of Used Stories, a hardcover first edition of Drawing Blood, and a copy of Liquor For Christmas, the rare giveaway chapbook from Subterranean. I've also put up six copies of the Spanish edition of Prime, rather unfortunately retitled Prime Rib, on my eBay store. Oh, and for you gun nuts firearm enthusiasts out there, I'm also auctioning a shoulder holster that fits a small revolver. (We were stocking up for Hurricane Gustav and I grabbed the wrong size -- way too small for Big Steve!)

This began as a response to a query on nextroundsonme, but it occurred to me that other holiday visitors to New Orleans would find it useful as well.

I failed to mention it sooner because I've scarcely been drinking lately, but Cajun eggnog daiquiris are in season again (we had our first ones today). When someone planning a trip asked about them, though, I realized that I don't know if the daiquiri places in the Quarter carry them. I've never noticed them there, but then again, I've never particularly looked. For a fail-safe Cajun eggnog daiquiri experience and all-around good time, take the streetcar from Canal all the way up St. Charles to Riverbend. At the Carrollton intersection, you'll see a bunch of businesses including a La Madeleine bakery, the Camellia Grill (a good place for a snack), a gas station, and a small strip that includes a Thai restaurant and the great (if slightly sticky) sports bar Cooter Brown's with its amazing beer selection. Kinda diagonally across the intersection from Cooter's and the Thai place is a New Orleans Daiquiris that is guaranteed to have Cajun eggnog. Since you've made such a long trek for it, have an extra shot of Southern Comfort, and tip before the bartender pours it so she'll give you a nice big one.

Busy, busy, busy day. But fun. Due to cats squabbling and squalling under the bed, Chris and I both woke up around 8:30 and couldn't get back to sleep. After coffee and newspaper, I took advantage of the (relatively) cool morning temperatures to plant some ham & eggs (a.k.a. lantana -- I don't know if they go by that nickname elsewhere). Later, we had lunch at Casamento's (raw oysters and fried oyster loaves), where we saw famous Carnival historian Henri Schindler. We were headed uptown to the Green Parrot Nursery, my favorite local place to buy plants, when I got a call from Courtney at the Garden District Book Shop saying a book Chris had ordered was in: Krakatoa: the Day the World Exploded by Simon Winchester. After hitting the nursery, we stopped by the bookstore and, well, went a little crazy. Here's what we came home with (besides Krakatoa):

The Good Pirates of the Forgotten Bayous: Fighting to Save a Way of Life in the Wake of Hurricane Katrina by Ken Wells (this is about the fisherman and shrimpers of St. Bernard Parish, and if/when I take up Dead Shrimp Blues again, I'll certainly find it useful)

Sex With the Queen: Nine Hundred Years of Vile Kings, Virile Lovers, and Passionate Politics by Eleanor Herman

Taj Mahal: Passion and Genius at the Heart of the Moghul Empire by Diana and Michael Preston

Month-by-Month Gardening in Louisiana by Dan Gill

Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself by Alan Alda

Flower Confidential: The Good, the Bad, and the Beautiful by Amy Stewart (a look at the cutthroat business of commercial flower cultivation, apparently)

Dry Ice by Stephen White

Obsession by Jonathan Kellerman

The Brass Verdict by Michael Connelly (Harry Bosch and Mickey Haller!)

The Anatomist: A True Story of Gray's Anatomy by Bill Hayes

Then I came home and planted two colors of purple petunias, repotted a succulent whose name I don't know, planted some garlic, and basically gardened my ass off. Tonight I want to make a pizza with sun-dried tomato tapenade and habanero-green chile sausage, but I'm so tired that I had to correct several dozen typos while writing this. Well, pizza's not too labor-intensive except for cooking the sausage, which takes forever to brown.

Also, we have two neighborhood cats who seem uninterested in becoming indoor cats, but for whom I put out food and water. The big mackerel tabby who mostly stays under the house is Mr. B. Today I named the black and white cat who likes to hang out in the garden. His name is Valomilk Hussein.

I did go to the shooting range yesterday, but Chris decided not to go with me; he wanted to stay home and "watch politics on TV." This was hours before the debate, which I did not watch (though I had some peripheral awareness of it, since I was in the kitchen making a potato gratin* while it was on). I know what I have to do in the voting booth on November 4; that doesn't mean I have to subject myself to all that blather between now and then.

My shooting wasn't as good as last time -- my hands were shaky all day yesterday, I don't know why -- but 50 body shots out of 62 rounds is not too bad, especially considering that I positioned my target much farther away than I've previously done.

*Jeffrey Steingarten's Gratin Dauphinois from It Must Have Been Something I Ate. Most luxurious, decadent potato recipe ever.

For the first time in ages, I am full of sushi. We haven't had sushi in months -- I think we just sort of forgot about it. Today we finally went to our favorite place, Ninja, to feast on mackerel and yellowtail and Godzilla rolls (avocado, asparagus, cucumber, and several kinds of seaweed topped with green tea powder). The former sushi chef, Moriake, left a while back to head the sushi bar at Hoshun, a new pan-Asian place on St. Charles. (Is it just me, or has New Orleans recently been plagued with "pan-Asian" joints that don't do any of their various cuisines authentically or well?) Apparently this didn't work out, because according to Steve, the new sushi chef, Moriake is now at the decidedly non-Japanese Redfish Grill ... WAITING TABLES.

Well, that was a sock in the gut. It was like hearing that he'd taken up torturing animals or become a Cowboys fan or something. Or, alternately, that he had contracted a terrible disease or become homeless. It made me realize just how deeply entrenched I still am in the "pro-kitchen" mindset, and unless Chris decides to give up cooking and help me start that alligator farm out in St. Bernard, I suppose I always will be. I recognize that waiting tables is hard work. I could not do it. I tip excellently. I like my favorite waiters. I have even loved a few of them. And yet ... my first thought was, "HE HAS GONE TO THE FRONT OF THE HOUSE ... THE DAAAAAAARK SIIIIIIIDE."

I just hope he's making all that money Chris always mutters about.

[ETA @ 9:20 PM: I talked to Moriake tonight and it turns out he loves waiting tables. He's one of those crazy people like Chris who actually enjoys talking to his customers. Selah.]

The pluots and plumcots are entirely gone, and the last of the white peaches were so mealy and horrible-tasting that I slang them forth. I only got Honeycrisp apples last time I made fancy groceries, but next time I will select a variety of apples and pears. They don't give me as much visceral pleasure as great stone fruits, but to everything there is a season, turn, turn, turn, eat seasonally, buy locally, U.S. out of New Orleans, blah blah blah. There is also a lone, very fragrant guava on the counter, seeking my attention. I think I'll have it later tonight or tomorrow night with some cave-aged Gruyère and hatefully-expensive-but-totally-worth-it Marcona almonds.

[ETA: Raw guava flesh is tasty, but filled with dozens of tooth-cracking little seeds, which is why it is usually made into paste or otherwise cooked and strained (I'm thinking of delicious guava and cheese turnovers we always get at Zaguan in Dallas). Chris knew this but chose, for reasons of his own which remain unclear, to let me learn from sad experience.]