Charleston

For my birthday dinner--and do not, dear reader, inquire which one--Rod took me to Charleston in Baltimore. The flagship of Cindy Wolf's impressive array of Baltimore restaurants, which include Petit Louis, Cinghiale, and Pazo, it is well known for a superlative tasting menu and excellent cellar.

We went with high expectations, and we were not disappointed. Service was superb, a perfect blend of formality and friendliness. Food was exquisitely presented. I was especially taken with a goat cheese flan and grilled pheasant breast on a crispy corn cake. Many of the dishes are inspired by the time Cindy Wolf spent cooking and refining low-country cuisine in the Charleston area, as evidenced by the corn cake or the addition of grilled vidalia onion. Desert was equally impressive: Rod indulged in a chocolate bombe, while I greedily consumed a buttery fruit tart.

The ambiance of Charleston, the attention to detail, and the excellent cuisine made for a lovely birthday dinner except . . .

I think I came down with food poisoning. Awakened at 3:00 a.m. with, to put it politely, gastrointestinal upset, I spent the subsequent twelve hours doubled over in bed or rushing to the bathroom. I sent an e-mail to Charleston, but, so far, no one has responded. On Saturday, when fetching my weekly bag of groceries from our CSA, I chatted with Craig about the unpleasant aftermath of my birthday dinner. He suspected the pheasant which, as he pointed out, is only harvested in fall and therefore had most likely been sitting in the walk-in freezer for eight or nine months. Of course, I have no way of knowing what made me sick at Charleston, but I am disappointed that a restaurant of this calibre has not followed up on a likely case of food poisoning.

Jalapenos

Finally, a good mid-priced restaurant in Annapolis!

Some women at the local knitting shop (where I am spending far too much money these days) told me to try Jalapenos in the Riva Road shopping center. I was skeptical, given that other recommendations haven't panned out. Either I'm incredibly fussy or most people have indifferent palates--I'm not sure which.

A week ago, on a steamy Friday night, we decided to forego cooking for a meal out, and so we ventured to Jalapenos. The entrance isn't promising--the restaurant is in a strip mall, sandwiched between other businesses--but the handsome interior belies that first impression.  I'm delighted to say that the food was very good, reasonably priced, and beautifully presented. 

Our waiter was delightful, bantering with us in Spanish and explaining various dishes. When Rod questioned the heat index of a chicken mole, he promptly brought a sample from the kitchen. Amused that Rod didn't consider it sufficiently spicy, he instructed the kitchen to make it muy caliente. I had one of the specials, a piece of tuna marinated in olive oil and lightly grilled. Presented on a bed of greens, it was the perfect dish for a hot summer evening. Rod's flan was equally tasty, rich and dense with a hint of mango on top.

My margarita was a little heavy on triple sec, giving it an unpleasantly sweet, syrupy flavor; otherwise, everything was first rate. We're delighted to have finally found a good restaurant that is close to the house and won't break the bank. Bravo, Jalapenos!

Crazy Diva Farriers

I have concluded that craziness is a prerequisite for being a farrier.

I just lost my farrier of the last nine months, a man I will simply identify as #2. A little bantam cock of a guy, he swaggered and talked a good line. Addicted to neo-con talk radio, he assailed us with his extremist right-wing views. Radio blaring, voices screaming, and tongs hammering: this is the auditory experience I came to expect from #2.

Generally #2 did a good job on my horse's feet except for the time he hot-nailed Beau. I was assured that even the best of farriers sometimes miss, so I chalked it up to bad luck. Beau had a bit of an abscess, but got over it soon enough. I didn't appreciate the vet bill resulting from #2's mistake, nor did he offer to help defray the additional costs. This didn't seem quite right to me, but, again, I was told by knowledgeable horse people to suck it in, and so I did.

#2 dumped me and Mr. Beau last week, leaving a note to the effect that my horse had put him in a dangerous position where he could have been hurt. I'm still puzzling over that statement. First, Beau is in cross-ties, so just how mobile (and therefore dangerous) can he be? Second--and more to the point--previous farriers and vets have all commented on Beau's easy-going and gentlemanly behavior. He normally stands stock still. Jim Lewis, my vet, calls Beau "the saint" and never ceases to marvel at his docility, no matter how uncomfortable the medical procedure. If Beau did misbehave, then I'm suspicious of #2's handling of this normally cooperative creature.

I have since learned that #2 left a similar missive for a woman at another barn two miles down the road. The likelihood that both of our horses suddenly chose this moment to behave badly is, to put it mildly, slim. The weather is stinking hot and humid, and most of the horses look half-dead. July and August in the greater Washington area is not conducive to frisky, mischievous behavior. #2 also won't return the messages left by another woman at my barn, nor did he indicate a date for a return visit. Do I smell I rat?

I suspect that #2 simply doesn't want to drive down to Damascus any longer given the cost of gas. He has a huge truck and hauls an enormous trailer, replete with forge and heavy instruments. I'd be surprised if he gets 5 miles a gallon. Why not simply say so? Why leave bizarre notes about horses behaving badly?

#2's odd manner of jettisoning clients is rivaled by the disappearing act of #1, a farrier whose brilliance was matched only by his equal strangeness. More interested in playing blues than shoeing horses, he handpicked clients, limiting appointments to a few each week. I was warned by my former trainer Carol that he sometimes went AWOL--he disappeared after shoeing her horse for several years--and her words proved prophetic. An appointment rolled around; I waited dutifully; and #1 never showed up. Successive calls were in vain. For whatever reason, I was expunged from his practice. Did he go on a bender? Did he throw out his back, a chronic complaint for this mercurial personality? Did he give up blacksmithing for the blues? I'll never know.

So now I gird myself to meet #3 on Sunday, a man who is reputed to practice yoga in the aisles between appointments and evidently expects his clients to hold their horses during shoeing while praising his mighty efforts.  Sigh.

I keep thinking of some women I met at a little barn down in Harwood who were so desperate to lure a particular farrier out of retirement, they plied him with gift baskets and very good single malt whiskey. As one of them remarked to me, "Farriers are the rock stars of Anne Arundel County." And, it would seem, of Montgomery County, Baltimore County, Howard County and just about everywhere else. Much more of this, and I'm going to think about attending blacksmithing school.

Reno

I'll admit upfront that I don't much like Reno. People here are mighty friendly, the skies are blue, and the humidity low, but I find this kind of barren, stark landscape soul-withering. When I drive to my brother's restaurant in Verdi, a tiny town on the outskirts of Reno, I see a landscape so spare that it might as well be lunar.

I'm not a gambler, so the casino culture that dominates downtown has little appeal. Reno lacks the high-end casinos and Disney-like fantasia of Las Vegas: it's far more down-market. And there's not much to do outside of gambling. If you're a skier, the very nice slopes around Lake Tahoe beckon, and other outdoor sports, such as biking or skateboarding, are eminently doable part of the year. Otherwise, there's not much here: a small, mediocre museum; a so-so branch of the state university; and the occasional road show floating through town.

I come once a year solely to see my mother and one of my brothers. I stay at the Peppermill Casino and Hotel, largely out of habit. I suspect they aren't entirely happy to see me return, given how little money I spend. I don't like gambling--I don't see the point--and I don't like casinos. In Reno, though, your only options are sleazy motels or casinos, so I pick the latter.

I'm happy to see that the Peppermill has replaced the ghastly orange-and-purple decor from the 80s (sort of New Orleans whorehouse meets psychedelia) with what they're dubbing a "Tuscan" theme. It's a huge improvement: my room is done in cool whites and beiges with subtle splashes of gold. I could do without the gilt, but it is, after all, a casino. One can only hope for so much.

To the credit of this establishment, they run things very well. The staff are unfailingly polite and helpful; rooms are immaculate; and food is surprisingly good. Tonight my mother and I will eat at Romanza's, an Italian restaurant that in the past has done very well by us. I don't get the appeal of squandering hard earned money on slot machines or blackjack, but I'm clearly in the minority. The array of visitors is quite astonishing, ranging from older couples to families with children in tow. One sees representatives from every ethnicity and class. Personally, I'd rather be in Southern France, with a nice glass of bordeaux and a good book, but I suppose that's why I ended up in a university: my tastes are rather rarefied.

So while the Peppermill has certainly done a nice job of taking care of their customers, I will be very happy to leave Reno and casino culture behind tomorrow morning.

The Russian River

As part of my continued journey down memory lane, Alex and I went to the Russian River, another site of happy reminiscences. My great uncle and aunt, who put up with me for long stretches every summer, owned a cabin not far from Guerneville. My holidays with them fell into a predictable pattern of staying in the city during the week and then, on Friday, driving 90 minutes north on Highway 101. On the way, Hank and I would stop off at an ice cream parlor in Santa Rosa. Always I would deliberate carefully, but inevitably I would order rum raisin, my very favorite. I suspect the dash of rum seemed the height of sophistication to my thirteen-year-old palate.

Our long weekends consisted of lazing around the cabin and reading; looking at the stars through Hank's telescope, one of his few indulgences; and floating down the river in inner tubes. Temperatures easily run fifteen degrees higher than in the city, a fact I forgot one summer. I ended up with a sunburn so bad that I ran a high fever and nearly ended up in an ER. This excruciating experience made me swear off tanning subsequently and taught me to cover my fair skin, no small feat for an adolescent growing up in Southern California. From that summer onward, I was resigned to life as a pasty-faced person.

Overall, I was struck by the relative lack of development in the area, something entirely unexpected. While the proliferation of ugly, largely frangible, tract homes and malls have ruined the Peninsula and blighted former farm land in what is now Silicon Valley, the same has not happened north of the city. On Saturday when we hiked through Muir Woods and then lunched in Sausalito, I was startled to see that Marin County looked unchanged. The same is true for areas further north, as one drives up 101 through Tiburon, Petaluma, and Santa Rosa. Huge swaths of land remain untouched, and farms (many quite neglected) dot the landscape. As for the Russian River itself, the most notable change is the profusion of wineries and vineyards everywhere; if anything, cultivation has beautified the area.

If Healdsburg is any indication, the small, sleepy towns that once typified the Russian River have grown nicely. I remember in my youth being hard pressed to find a decent restaurant. Occasionally we went into Occidental to eat at a family-style restaurant where the Italian-American waiters plunked down heaping bowls of pasta on picnic-style tables. The food was hearty and plentiful but hardly gourmet. With the influx of wineries and vino-tourism, that has, of course, all changed. Excellent brasseries and cafes are everywhere. We had lunch at Bistro Ralph, one of the places recommended to us, and we were not disappointed. Our good-natured waiter, a friendly bear of a guy, gave us excellent service, and food came piping hot out of the kitchen. Alex had a very good salad; I had a superb pasta with smoked chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, and a fennel cream sauce. Our waiter suggested we try the strawberry shortcake for dessert. I hesitated since I do a pretty mean shortcake myself, but caved at his urging. I grudgingly admit this shortcake trumps what I make at home, something that happens too rarely (and one of the reasons I rarely order dessert in restaurants--frankly, I usually do better).

Invigorated by the lunch, Alex and I spent the rest of the afternoon, map in hand, driving to various wineries. We only got through five and there must be at least fifty now in the area. By far, Rosenblum was our favorite. A brilliant winery, they do fabulous reds and whites, in addition to extraordinary dessert wines. I put together a case and arranged for shipping to some friends in Virginia since we're not allowed to receive wine across state lines in Maryland, a barbaric law. Among my finds at Rosenblum is a dessert wine that smacks of chocolate and coconut: it's like drinking an exquisite version of an Almond Joy bar. Unfortunately, none of the other wineries we visited came close to Rosenblum. Several produced wines that left a funny metallic taste on the tongue, something Alex noticed as well. We liked the sparkling wines at J Winery--the rose is especially nice--but I wasn't sufficiently convinced as to order another case. 

I've noticed that people working in wineries are, without exception, delightful. This appears to be a universal phenomenon, if my experiences in France, Italy, and South Africa are any indication. I suspect the lifestyle is largely responsible. Good wines flourish in beautiful surroundings and great climates, so one gets to live in paradise and pour wine for happy, eager customers. True to form, we met some lovely folks on our little tour. The man who helped us at Rosenblum had a superb palate, and I ended up purchasing nearly everything he poured for us. The woman who assisted us at J Wineries turned out to be a graduate from AU. She was so delighted to encounter an AU professor that she poured us samples well beyond the requisite four wines covered by our tasting fee.

At the end of the day, sated and tired, we drove back into the city. As we approached my hotel, I became teary at the prospect of parting from my adored and adorable son (who was the consummate host and gentleman throughout my stay). We had a tearful parting and, crying lightly, I went into the hotel only to be dragooned by a group of Aussies who were dismayed at my discomfiture. I have to say there's nothing like drinking with a bunch of blokes from down under to cheer one up.

'Tis Pity She's a Whore

Even by Jacobean standards, John Ford's plays are wonderfully strange. Plots twist and coil, as revenge piles upon revenge; siblings lust after each other; and characters spontaneously expire, keeling over from shock or, even weirder, willing themselves to die, as occurs with Calantha in The Broken Heart (1625?).  She appoints an heir, sits down on her throne, and then painstakingly describes her death as it occurs.  As I said, this is strange stuff--and I love it!

Thus it was with great eagerness that I accompanied Alex to see 'Tis Pity She's a Whore (1633) at American Conservatory Theatre (A.C.T.).  The play is rarely staged, and A.C.T. used to have a fine reputation. I haven't seen one of their shows in twenty years, so this was a particular treat.

Overall, I was quite pleased.  We saw a preview, so I fully expect the minor problems with pacing, tech, and entrance cues will vanish once the production gets further into the run.  The director, Carey Perloff, made some fascinating choices.  She hired the cellist and singer Bonfire Madigan Shive (who does "punk chamber music") to accompany the show with haunting melodies and otherworldly moans and screams, a terrific effect. Shive is fully visible throughout the performance, sitting aloft on a raised platform integrated into the set. I liked too that Perloff didn't update the script by transposing it to another period. She left language intact, trusting her audience's comprehension. 

The set is semi-industrial, as seems to be the fashion right now in staging Shakespeare and Elizabethan/Jacobean plays, but for the most part it worked.  A strange series of tubes hung in a cluster from the ceiling, and tiny glass balls dotted fishing line that was also suspended throughout the space.  At first, I didn't get their significance; then I realized that Perloff and the designer, Walt Spangler, were giving us visual metaphors for blood, with the tubes signifying arteries running to the heart and the glass balls standing in for corpuscles.  These visual references are obscure but smart: blood is everywhere in 'Tis Pity, literally and figuratively, from the bodies littering the stage to the "hot blood" inflaming the incestuous siblings.

Overall, I thought the women were stronger than the men. Susan Gibney is simply fabulous as Hippolita, the sexy, wayward wife who dispatches her husband (or so she thinks) for her lover, only to have him dump her for another woman. Rene Augesen brings a complexity to Arabella, the incestuous sister, that I never saw when reading the play. While Michael Hayden does a fine job as Giovanni, the incestuous brother, he has an unfortunate tendency to swallow words at moments of high passion. His gradual descent into madness, though, is absolutely believable. I wish some of the other men were as strong. Steven Anthony Jones is downright embarrassing as the friar; Michael Fajardo phones in his performance as Soranzo; and Gregory Wallace is painfully bad as Bergetto, the foolish nephew of a wealthy citizen. I think Anthony Fusco will improve as Vasques. He strengthened as the performance progressed, always a good sign. I don't have much hope for the others.

I was pleased to see A.C.T. still going strong after nearly 45 years. It's a shame that this very smart production will just miss being superlative because of several weak men in the cast.

Muir Woods and Sausalito

It has been many a year since I last hiked in Muir Woods, that stunning national park just over the Golden Gate Bridge.  This morning Alex and I spent a couple of hours walking along manicured paths and taking in the redwoods.  I had forgotten how much I love the smell of eucalyptus trees.  I also forgot how wildflowers perfume the air in California. The weather was perfect: low seventies with little humidity.  One could not ask for a better day.

Later we drove to Sausalito for lunch.  Alex recommended Fish, a casual eatery overlooking the marina.  Alex had a sandwich with crab rolls; I had a crab louis salad, a dish I always ordered when I visited SF in my youth. Both were excellent.

Later we hiked into town, where I was sorry to see that the once chic shops have been replaced by tacky tourist joints. Unfortunately, the Fisherman's Wharf syndrome has spilled over to other parts of the Bay area. Around 3.00, we found a bar where we could watch Big Brown run the Belmont. I knew immediately that something was wrong: BB's gait looked nothing like his customarily easy, loping gallop, and I'm happy his jockey pulled him up, perhaps preventing a tragedy like the one that doomed poor Eight Belles. Big Brown didn't win the Triple Crown--but he's still alive.

Tonight we're seeing John Ford's wonderfully strange Jacobean play, 'Tis Pity She's a Whore at American Conservatory Theatre.  I haven't been to ACT for years--I used to go regularly with Hank and Ruth--and I'm curious to see how this classic repertory company has fared. Aside from ACT and Berkeley Rep, there's little serious theatre in San Francisco. It's telling that Beach Blanket Babylon, now in its 34th year, has outlasted every other form of drama.