A Perfect Day
This is not about beer.
I cannot be sure if it is the grayness of maturity creeping in, the been-there-done-that dance, or the tight-fist-clenching-few-dollars state of living, but my dining pleasures have changed. Increasingly I seek simpler meals, those without pretense cooked with ingredients that are flavorful but not exotic. Read “not exotic” to mean “local and seasonal.” The exception is the amazing tables set by friends who live to eat and cook. There, no rules apply.
I avoid food that is poorly prepared, lacking in honesty, and served in a manner that is as tepid as what’s on the plate. This particular aversion is not without its consequences where my social life is concerned, for a group of my friends frequently dines in these kinds of yawn-inspiring places. Needless to say, I meet up with them infrequently. I enjoy their company, but the food and service border on intolerable.
Increasingly, I enjoy food truck fare… Some of the best pizza, sandwiches, tacos, and shawarma emerge from the service windows of food trucks. I like sitting with a few friends, or even strangers, in gravel parking lots, under metal lean-tos, or on stumps by the roadside. During these moments, I am reminded of an old Louisiana oil man whom I knew back in Highlands, North Carolina. Even though he could have escorted his lieutenants into the rustic-chic dining room of The Frog & Owl Café, he chose, instead, to entertain them by catching trout out of Icenhower’s pond. He’d serve beer to his men while he prepared his bounty over a roadside fire. This is my style of dining al fresco. Food, when shared across an authentic common denominator, creates stronger, longer-lasting bonds of camaraderie, connection, and communion.
Offal: the entrails and internal organs of an animal used as food. I have a growing appreciation for “parts.” Fortunately, I am not a lone member of this acquired-taste club.Many folks avoid them, associating intestines, liver, heart, thymus, and pancreas with poor people, oppressed people. They insist on eating high on the hog. Some other folks can only afford to eat what’s discarded. I, however, insist that if you eat meat of any kind, then as an act of reverence and sustainability, you eat everything. As such, I learned the art of butchery in order to become a compassionate carnivore and ethical meat advocate.
I owe this growing appreciation for offal to a few friends, like Steve, who grew up eating this stuff, and another Steve, who dragged me to France where offal is anything but awful. (Side note: the French have butchers who specialize in horsemeat.) Over the years of my friendship with Steve and Steve, chicken and turkey butts (referred to as the Pope’s nose), fish skin, andouillette (a coarse sausage made with intestines), boudin and boudin noir, head cheese, and all kinds of other “parts” have been added to my plate. At The Market Place in Asheville, North Carolina, sweetbreads, liver, and kidneys were menu regulars, and there I found my fellow “parts” compadres. These foods impart a deep, underlying earthiness, a darkness of flavor, and a barnyard funk. They offer a bridge where flavor and aroma pass from primal and aboral to repugnant and disgusting. When diligent, these foods elicit yearning, but improperly handled, and they prompt retching. A good example of this spectrum is the aroma of coffee, sweat, and skunk spray, all of which contain some form of mercaptan, an organic sulphur compound. At one end of the spectrum, we experience euphoria, but at the other end, we find nausea. I swim in an ocean of aromas in my waking life as much as in my subconscious, for I dream in scents as much as I dream in scenes.
I was told by Serge Chollet, my chef at Le Moulin de Mougins in Mougin, France “Mark, it is not WHAT you cook, but how you cook it!” Preparation and proper cooking is especially important. This conversation was instigated at the staff dinner table. Earlier in the day I had informed Serge that a food I did not like was tripe. It was coincidental that is what was served for our evening meal. It was delicious. It also takes eating something a few times to enjoy and appreciate different flavors and textures
So it was with delight that I accepted an invitation to celebrate my birthday with a pal, who insisted upon taking me to one of our regular lunch haunts, Taqueria Mexico in Hendersonville. On the way, Steve informed me that the taqueria had received an upgrade, a new look. I was concerned. I prattled on that the death knell for small restaurants is expansion and pretentious decorative froufrou. As we parked and made our way to the counter, I was intent on discovering the changes. No new paint, same seating and metal roof, one table to the side in the sun where I always preferred to sit. Gazing in every direction, I still could not detect anything that appeared to be upgraded.
We gave into our hankerings for the trippa, lengua, cabeza, and chorizo (intestines, tongue, cheeks, and fermented and smoked pork in a natural casing), the “parts” that spur our repeat visits here. They prepare them properly. At Taqueria Mexico the trippa is first washed thoroughly, then slowly simmered for 3 to 4 hours with onions and lots of black pepper. After draining, they are quickly seared in hot oil. This makes them crispy while retaining a smooth creamy texture in the middle. In an authentic form, this final searing is accomplished on top of a discarded harrow disk. (In Colonia Suiza, Patagonia there is a restaurant; La Paz that specializes in this style of cooking).
It wasn’t until after we placed our orders that the upgrade became evident. Steve, pulling out two china plates from their hiding place inside his satchel, inquired to the man taking our order, “Will you plate up our tacos on these?” With a smile and a nod, Steve passed the plates to the cook, and I stood in awe over the thoughtful gesture of my friend.
Seated at the table in the sun were two compañeros who allowed us to join them. As if part of a magic act, cloth napkins and two bottles of beer appeared at Steve’s hand, which spurred the revelation to our table mates that it was my birthday. I noted my surprise that the beers were Pacifico Clara and not IPA’s, the well known favorite of Steve’s. “IPA does not go so well with food.”
Our tacos arrived, plated on the china dishes. We added a squeeze of lime, and a dash of green sauce (the milder of two that are offered) and dove in. We reveled in the perfect balance of textures--crispy on the outside, creamy middle, the earthy flavors of summer heat on clean barn hay and animal, a double thickness of fresh corn tortillas, and the rich condiment of conversation of old friends.
All the important things for a birthday celebration converged at this table, all the things needed for a full life--delicious food in its simplicity and authenticity, no pretense or jaded expectations, a pleasant surprise, some friendly strangers, warmth of the sun, the right beer, and dry humor.
And the best gift of all--a true friend.