SAL DeTRAGLIA'S VIRTUAL TAPAS BAR (aka, FAT SAL'S SMOKING LOUNGE)

ODE TO A SWEDISH MEATBALL

2011-11-19T01:32:00.000+01:00

Meatballs in hoagies.

Meatballs on pasta.

Meatball perogies.

Meatballs…ya basta!

Big, bad Tony Soprano.

Has no bloody idea.

That the finest of meatballs.

Are all found in IKEA.

A tomato-based salsa.

Might, to some, seem a dream.

But the best meatball sauce.

Contains fresh dill and cream.

And a true meatball master.

Much to many’s surprise.

Is eleven feet tall.

With blonde hair and blue eyes.

So, next time in your kitchen.

Embrace your inner Sven.

Fry a ton of Swedish Meatballs.

Stockholm Syndrome’s your friend.

THE TIMES THEY ARE A CHANGING.

2011-08-11T18:40:00.009+02:00

Ummm, hi. Remember me?

There was a time--seems like a thousand years ago--that I was living in Spain and blogging on a daily basis. This blog racked up hundreds of posts over a period of a couple years. It was easy to do. I was living in a foreign country and immersed in an interesting culture. Largely in isolation, with nothing to do but observe carefully, sharpen my wit on an oil stone and reduce the lot into a pithy 1,000 words for the benefit of a couple hundred indulgent (and highly valued) readers. It was all very satisfying, fun and therapeutic.

When I moved back to the US in 2008, it all stopped. Life in that joint is far too busy. Too hectic. Too exhausting. When the body and mind get tired, the first thing to go is the capacity for creative thought. It's true.

Other interests took over and competed for those precious-few morsels of time and energy. I can say with absolute certainty that it's much easier to run 18 miles than it is to sit down and write a respectable 1,000 word blog post. The 18 miles nearly always won.

Plus, the world changed. Blogging--which so quickly and completely enraptured millions of keyboard warriors around the globe--suddenly became a dinosaur. Facebook took over and asked the question, "Who needs 1,000 words when you can get away with 250 characters?"

I, too, fell victim to its charms. Instead of spending ninety minutes carefully crafting a blog post that I could be proud of, I'd bang out a Facebook status update that I could be proud of in literally ninety seconds.

Although when Twitter appeared to save those poor souls that viewed 250 characters as the equivalent of an IronMan triathlon, I drew the line.

So...what's the point of today's post--the first post in nearly a year? Well, it's three things.

Number one, I happen to be sitting in a hotel room in Spain at this very moment...with nothing to do. When I think "Spain" and "nothing to do," I immediately thing "blog!"

Number two, I saw an uncle over the weekend that I haven't seen in years. And he spent a few Scotch-induced minutes lamenting the death--or, at least, the hiberation--of Sal's Virtual Tapas Bar. I could do nothing more than agree...and lament mightily myself.

And number three, I got married last weekend. It was something that I never thought I would do again. It was also something that I couldn't imagine NOT doing with this woman. Blogging is a very narcissistic endeavor. The average blogger has to believe--rightly or wrongly--that the rest of the world gives a rat's ass about him, his life, this thoughts and his opinions. Oftentimes this belief is misplaced. The best bloggers--through sheer hard work and hard editing--make this belief a reality. Regardless of which to those two camps I fall into, Sal's Virtual Tapas Bar (and its brief incarnation as Fat Sal's Smoking Lounge) forced you to hear about a happy marriage, a fallen marriage, a long, solitary walk through the woods, a difficult parting of the ways with the country of Spain, and then three years of near-total silence. Oh yeah...and how NOT to build a smoker out of a flower pot.

I feel that I owe this update to the VTB.

And, so...I am pleased to announce to the Blogosphere that I'm married to Anne Elbaor, and I couldn't be happier.

This was fun. I'll be back.

SOMETIMES IT PAYS TO BE PERSISTENT.

2010-10-16T07:08:00.003+02:00

Top Chef Masters winner, James Beard Award winner, best chef in Chicago--Rick Bayless...and friend.

THE LOST WEEKEND: AN ENCASED MEATS LOVE STORY.

2009-10-11T22:56:00.001+02:00

ENTER "THE FINO COCKTAIL."

2009-09-14T03:37:00.005+02:00

When my beloved cat Fino went to live with "that nice young couple on a farm" last month, I resolved to create a cocktail in his honor.

Like its legendary namesake, the "Fino Cocktail" had to be cool, sweet, strong and, above all...a striking blue. Prrrrrr...

Last night, with the help of a sharp palate and a Telfon liver, the Fino Cocktail was perfected. And I have to say, it's a damn good cocktail. Here's the recipe:

THE FINO COCKTAIL

2 oz. light rum

1/2 oz. Simple Syrup

1/2 oz. Blue Curacao

1 dash Fee Brothers Orange Bitters

Silver Dollar-sized Lime peel

Step 1: Add rum, Simple Syrup, Blue Curacao and Bitters to a shaker.

Step 2: Add abundant ice to shaker, stir until ice cold and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

Step 3: Twist lime peel over drink to float the oils, and discard.

Step 4: Drink, purr and make love. That's what Fino would do.

Note: To make Simple Syrup, add 1 c. sugar to 1 c. boiling water. Off heat, stir until sugar is completely dissolved, cool and refrigerate.

BONEY DOG'S FIRST AND LAST ANNUAL BRATWURST SMACK-DOWN.

2009-09-08T03:38:00.009+02:00

Take fifty food fanatics, thirty-four varieties of bratwurst, a vacuum-sealed bag of homemade proscuitto, a Holmesian hot dog named "The Big Wally," four Weber kettle grills, three waffle irons and a man named "Boney Dog." Drop them onto a field in southern Wisconsin for seven hours. What do you get?

You get Boney Dog's First and Last Annual Bratwurst Smack-down...which you can read all about HERE.

And yes...it was I who brought the Ream's.

Here we have the infamous Boney Dog nearly cracking under the pressure of grilling the same damn sausage for five and half continuous hours.

Eating the same damn sausage for five and a half continuous hours was a much easier feat.

Contrary to appearances, we did take time to eat our vegetables. Pictured above is Mrs. Boney Dog's German Potato Salad. Teeming with grilled potato slices, bacon and vinegar, it was the best I've ever had.

Thanks again, Dog. It may not have been much fun for you, but it was a day on Fantasy Island for the rest of us. A really, seriously fabulous day.

EXIT THE LOVE MACHINE.

2009-08-05T03:59:00.006+02:00

SEPTEMBER 8, 1997 - AUGUST 4, 2009.

Irreplaceable.

A STATEMENT SO CLASSIC, ONLY A SIX YEAR OLD COULD UTTER IT.

2009-08-01T06:29:00.001+02:00

"Mommy [i.e., my ex-wife] doesn't like boys with muscles. So, I don't know why she married you."

HOLY CALCOTS!

2009-07-22T05:51:00.001+02:00

I got mentioned in the Telegraph.

And it took me two years to find out.

WISCONSIN? OR CATALUNYA?

2009-05-29T06:09:00.004+02:00

They both do white sausages. And they both do nice mosaic-work.

Although Barcelona has a much better football team.

ANOTHER FROM THE MOST INTERESTING MAN IN THE WORLD.

2009-05-26T02:12:00.003+02:00

And here's a Slate Magazine review on the newest installment.

SMOKE DAY 2009: EVERY BONEY DOG HAS HIS DAY.

2009-05-25T21:41:00.016+02:00

Girlfriend "Agatha" and I made our second pilgrammage to Wisconsin in as many years and celebrated "Smoke Day" with our congenial host, Boney Dog.

Last year's Smoke Day bash was great, but this year's...well, it smoked it.

In an example of product placement that should yield him royalties from the Weber Grill Company, Mr. Dog had four Weber Bullets chugging away--plus, two Weber kettle grills. Oh yeah, there was a Big Green Egg smoking turkeys--but that was hidden on the back deck.

All in all, Boney smoked 170 lbs. of swine, bovine, chicken and turkey hunks. That's not a typo. I said, 170 lbs.

In a stunning display of foresight avoidance, I stupidly booked a hotel room in Milwaukee for Saturday night and was unable to take home any of the leftovers--although, in hindsight, it would've been worth the salmonella risk.

Featured dishes were smoked pork butt (using Chris Lilly's six-time world championship recipe and, IMO, the best dish of the day), brisket flat, burnt ends from the brisket point, smoked chicken breasts with Big Bob Gibson's Alabama White Sauce, a perfectly chestnut-colored smoked turkey, spare ribs, hot links, Atomic Camel Turds (ACTs), Redneck Sushi (which is not only Boney's signature dish, but his intellectual property...and don't believe anything to the contrary printed in Wikipedia).

And then, there was a dish that I had never considered but just may change my pit-tending life forever. He smoked an enormous chuck roast to 195F-200F, then shredded it. In other words, pulled beef (pictured above)--which I didn't even know was possible!

It was so smokey and moist that I really don't see the point of ever wasting my time smoking another brisket. Yeah, it was THAT good.

Girlfriend Agatha not only loved the Q, but also the fact that she had a designated driver.

On a sad note, neither the One Armed Bandit nor The King were in attendance this year. So, I had no choice but to punish them by eating their portions.

And as my waist expanded from 31 inches to 31.001, Boney's wife Bobbie threw open the curtains to her beautifully remodeled kitchen and revealed something like 40 (yeah, seriously) homemade pies. Everything from fruit pies to frozen pies to cream pies. My personal favorite was, unsurprisingly, the Coconut Macadamia Pie. But...

...the Apple Bacon Pie was a stroke of genius. And the perfect way to cap-off Smoke Day 2009.

Thanks, Boney and Bobbie. We'd been looking forward to this for the past eleven months, and it exceeded expectations...again.

THE MOST INTERESTING MAN IN THE WORLD: ON PICK-UP LINES.

2009-05-07T01:34:00.000+02:00

Stay thirsty, my friends.

MORE OF THE MOST INTERESTING MAN IN THE WORLD.

2009-05-06T03:10:00.003+02:00

THE MOST INTERESTING MAN IN THE WORLD: ON LIFE.

2009-05-04T05:22:00.001+02:00

THE BEST TV COMMERCIAL IN THE HISTORY OF TELEVISION!

2009-05-04T02:37:00.001+02:00

Stay thirsty, my friends.

ANOTHER POST FOR POSTERITY: NONNIE’S FUCAZZO.

2009-04-08T02:15:00.008+02:00

And now for another installment of our continuing series.

This classic Nonnie recipe is for Fucazzo (pronounced, “foo-GOTS”)—an Italian onion and anchovy pie that, oddly enough, was one of my childhood favorites.

Nonnie made her Fucazzo in the form of a calzone—spreading the ingredients over a layer of pizza dough, covering it with a top layer of dough and brushing it with egg yolk before baking.

My riff on this dish treats it as a pizza; using the always-fabulous Boboli pizza crusts. I also modified Nonnie’s original by adding chile peppers, fresh herbs, goat cheese and a drizzle of extra-virgen olive oil.

However you choose to spin it, the soul of Fucazzo is the jiu-jitsu between the sweetness of onions and tomato sauce vs. the brininess of anchovies and oil-cured black olives.

Just don't eat a slice before a first date.

NONNIE'S FUCAZZO

1 Boboli Pizza Crust
2 Large Onions
5 oz. Tomato Sauce (just eyeball it)
Oil-cured Black Olives (remove pits)
Anchovies
Fresh Parsely
Fresh Basil
Chopped Green Chiles (Jalapeno or Serrano)
Goat Cheese (optional)
Salt & Pepper
Extra Virgen Olive Oil

Step 1: Saute onion in some olive oil until soft and translucent.
Step 2: Add salt, pepper and tomato sauce to onions. Let simmer a few minutes.
Step 3: Brush Boboli with olive oil.
Step 4: Spread onion mixture onto Boboli, leaving a 1 inch border.
Step 5: Arrange anchovies, chiles, olives and dollops of goat cheese atop of onions.
Step 6: Place directly on bottom rack of 450F oven and bake for 12 minutes.
Step 7: Remove from oven. Drizzle with extra virgen olive oil and top with fresh herbs.

PAELLA

2009-04-08T02:09:00.004+02:00

I never made Paella during the eight years that I lived in Spain .

Why would I? For a mere 15-20 Euros, I could go to any one of a thousand nearby bars and restaurants and just buy one. For the same reason, I never learned to make deep dish pizza during the years I lived in Chicago or a pick-up truck back-window gun rack during the years I lived in Pennsylvania .

But when I left Spain to live in another country, I realized that this chink in my cooking armor needed to be patched. So I arrived early to a lunch being hosted by a Spanish friend and took careful notes.

PAELLA

- Stock (fish or chicken)
- Meats and/or fish (prawns/calamari, ribs, chicken, rabbit, pork chops, chorizo, etc.)
- Vegetables (onions, tomatoes, garlic, green beans, butterbeans, etc.)
- Saffron, garlic, salt
- Approx. 1 c. rice per person

Step 1: Saute ribs, chicken, rabbit, pork chops, chorizo, etc.

Step 2: Saute and salt onions, tomatoes, garlic, green beans, butterbeans, etc.

Step 3: Add water till it reaches half way up the meat. Turn flame to high and cook until water nearly disappears (approx. 30 minutes).

Step 4: Add rice and sauté.

Step 5: Add 2 c. stock per each 1 c. of rice. If using bomba rice, then 2.5 c. stock per each 1 c. of rice. Stock should cover the rice.

Step 6: Add saffron or tumeric (dissolved in glass of water or stock).

Step 7: Bring to boil, lower flame to medium and leave untouched until syrupy and dry-ish (approx. 25 minutes).

Step 8: Add prawns, clams/mussels and calamari during the last 10 minutes.

THE JERK.

2008-11-12T01:55:00.003+01:00

When I was completing my MBA at the University of Illinois more than a decade ago, I had a classmate named Bigby.

Bigby was from Jamaica . He was in his late 40’s to early 50’s. He had a house with sound/light system, dance floor and disco ball in the basement. And he LOVED to throw parties.

At one of Bigby’s parties, his wife (also Jamaican) walked in carrying a silver platter piled high with Jerk Pork.

Now…I had eaten Jerk Pork many times beforehand—including at a roadside stand in Ocho Rios , Jamaica —and liked it. But Bigby’s Jerk Pork was on a whole ‘nuther level. It was thick, dark and heavy with spice. It had a pungency that would send your nostrils into spasm. And it was hot enough to melt your contact lenses.

In short, it was a Jerk Pork that I’d remember on my death bed.

And like a complete moron, I FORGOT TO ASK FOR THE FRIGGIN’ RECIPE!!!

This unforgivable, life-ruining, lapse of reason has haunted me ever since. In short, it was a screw-up that I’d remember on my death bed.

But alas…teeter-totter of life has a miraculous way of leveling itself. “Spoon”—the woman at Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc. whose office is next door to mine—recently emailed me a recipe for Jerk Pork that she claimed was barn-burner.

Last weekend, Agatha and I made the recipe. I still can’t believe it. It’s as good as Bigby’s.

Sing with me, bruhdahs!

Won't you help to sing
These songs of freedom
Cause all I ever have
Redemption songs
Redemption songs.

JERK [FILL IN THE BLANK]

The Marinade:

4 Habanero or Scotch Bonnet chiles—do NOT remove seeds or ribs
4 cloves garlic
4 scallions
1-2 inch ginger
1 sprig thyme
¼ c. packed brown sugar
4 t. ground allspice
4 t. chile powder
2 t. cinnamon
2 t. nutmeg
¾ c. vegetable oil
¼ c. lime juice (fresh)
2/3 c. soy sauce
Black pepper

Step 1: Puree the above ingredients in a blender until smooth.
Step 2: Reserve ¼ c. of marinade for the Dipping Sauce (see below)

The Meat:

If grilling: Pork tenderloin; Pork chops; Chicken parts; and/or Skirt steak.
If smoking: Pork Boston Butt; Pork spare ribs; Pork baby back ribs; Beef brisket; Chicken (whole, split vertically).

Step 1: If you haven’t already, reserve ¼ c. of the marinade for Dipping Sauce.
Step 2: Marinade meat for 24 hours in the fridge.
Step 3: Grill or smoke the marinated meat.

The Dipping Sauce:

¼ c. of reserved Jerk Marinade
1 c. chicken stock or broth

Step 1: Whisk together ingredients in a sauce pan.
Step 2: Reduce on stovetop until thickened.

AND NOW FOR ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF..."SILLY POEMS FOR IN-HOUSE ATTORNEYS."

2008-10-09T06:06:00.010+02:00

My employer—Acme Low-Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc.—takes Halloween seriously.

Each year, it throws a spirited Halloween party for employees. Festivities include a live band, food, drink a pumpkin-carving contest, costume contest and—the intended piece-de-resistance—a departmental skit contest.

I say “intended” because, in fact, only one department ever performs a skit—Human Resources.

This year, in an effort to stoke a bit of much-needed competition, one of the H/R Managers asked me to re-write the lyrics to The Supreme’s song, “Stop, In the Name of Love”—hoping that it would inspire a group frayed and frazzled lawyers to perform it at the contest.

Well…I knew that the odds of that happening were less than nil. But I wrote the lyrics, anyway—just to prove to myself that there remains some kernel of creativity in my increasingly weary brain.

The lyrics are set forth below. I suppose that you need to be an in-house corporate lawyer to fully appreciate it. But, hey…I guess that anyone can appreciate a good, silly rhyme. Plus...I wrote it, so I might as well share it.

STOP, IN THE NAME OF LAW.

Baby, baby, you call this crap a contract?
Seems it was written by a lemur that had smoked crack.
Participles dangle like a pair of fuzzy dice.
Your stilted prose would cause gastritis in both Strunk and White.

But this time before I start to red-line.
I’ll push your teeth in if you don’t push out the deadline.
(Think it over) I think you’d better take a seat and grab a tissue.
(Think it over) We need your input, this a commercial issue.

Stop, in the name of law.
Your logic has a flaw.
Stop, in the name of law.
Take my advice…withdraw.

Think it over.
Think it over.

Baby, baby, a lawyer’s task is bitter-sweet.
We fight our customers when they hold fire to our feet.
Business folks complain that I’m the deal-blocker man.
Then they come running to me when the poopie hits the fan.

But this time before the LD’s* fall.
And Finance VPs want to know just who approved it all.
(Think it over) It wasn’t Legal, it was you who granted your OK.
(Think it over) We can prove it, here’s your e-mail from June ‘98.

Stop, in the name of law.
Your logic has a flaw.
Stop, in the name of law.
Take my advice…withdraw.

Think it over.
Think it over.

Baby, baby, I write contracts both day and night.
At times it leads me to a troubling existential fight.
Is this the highest use of my dry wit and writing skills?
Why must my mind be ruled by IPR and poison pills?

But this time before I boot my Dell.
I have some breaking news that I must tell you.
(Think it over) No more customer fights or pleads or bent-knee grovels.
(Think it over) I’m gonna make my living writing romance novels.

Stop, in the name of law.
Your logic has a flaw.
Stop, in the name of law.
Take my advice…withdraw.

Think it over.
Think it over.

[* Note: The acronym “LDs” stands for “liquidated damages” (i.e., contractual penalties).]

LIFE IS A CORONET.

2008-09-23T03:10:00.006+02:00

When I was a wee lad at Thomas Jefferson Elementary School in Utica, NY during the early 1970s, my classmates and I were fed a steady diet of Coronet films.

Coronet films were produced, more or less, around the time that Howard Taft was contemplating a run for the White House. And they taught me important life lessons like...always stick with dad when using power tools. Or, don´t drink too much soda pop before bed. Or, how Billy keeps his body clean.

They also taught me that Thomas Jefferson Elementary School must've had a really, really paltry budget.

For years I've been telling people about Coronet films, hoping that someone...anyone...might leap to his feet and shout, "Coronet! OMG...you grew up with those, too?!!!" Instead, they crinkle their brows and mutter something about a revenue recognition meeting that they´re late for.

I was even starting to doubt my own memory when it hit me. YouTube! There might--just might--be a Coronet or two lurking in the bowels of YouTube.

Was there ever! I present an especially kitsch-o-licious nugget above. And no...it's not a parody. This is the stuff that made me what I am today.

Hat-making contest, anyone?

Thanks, but I think I'll go find that girl who was bobbing for apples on a string.

NOT ALL PALINS ARE CREATED EQUAL.

2008-09-04T01:52:00.000+02:00

The original, the best.

SMOKE DAY IV, A COMMUNITY DURIAN, AND A HEY...I FOUND A HEAD!

2008-05-26T15:33:00.016+02:00

My friend Jai asked me last Friday what I had planned for Memorial Day weekend.

"Agatha and I are driving to Wisconsin for International Smoke Day."

"What's that?"

"It's the one day each year that all owners of Weber Smoky Mountain smokers are supposed to fire up the pits and surround the earth with a smoke ring. A guy that I kinda know is having a cookout for the occasion."

"Have you met this guy?"

"Not really. I just sorta know him through the Internet."

[Snorts] "You've never met him? What if he kills you and chops you into pieces."

[Pondering for a moment] "Well... for sure he'd make me taste good."

Quite honestly, I wasn't worried. I have so far had proper, non-virtual, sight-unseen encounters Mr. and Mrs. The Big Finn, Ang, Nerd and Michael--and all have been most pleasant and cuddly.

So when Agatha and I met our host, The Headless Blogger, we were not surprised to find that he greeted us with a pair of bbq tongs--rather than a blood-encrusted chainsaw.

And he not only has a head, but also a name: "Boney Dog."

Boney put on an unbelievable spread. A master class of Q. He had (I think) three WSM's chugging away, plus three Weber Kettle grills.

In the dead flesh category, he served spare ribs, babyback ribs, brisket, burnt ends, chicken thighs, chicken breasts, a smoked turkey and Atomic Camel Turds (i.e., an almond stuffed into a date, stuffed into a jalapeño, wrapped with bacon and then smoked).

All world-class Q.

Approximately forty other guests converged on the Boney Dog compound--hungry for Q.

Boney Dog and Agatha--he, taking a break from smoking; she, taking a break from gorging.

This is a mere fraction of the side dishes that accompanied the Q. There was pasta salad with tomato and basil, black bean and corn salad, an outrageous macaroni and cheese (hey...it's Wisconsin, yah hey der'!), baked beans, creamy cole slaw, an assortment of fresh fruits, a selection of Q sauces, and hey! What's that thingee at the bottom right corner of the table.

Why, my god! It's a durian! How in the name of G. Gordon Liddy did a durian appear on the fruit table?!!!
Boney Dog eats a durian, and wow! He likes it. Actually, probably a dozen of the guests tasted the durian, and most liked it.

To quote Boney's brother, "That smelly stuff was pretty good."

Slicing a perfectly smoked brisket.

Boney's wife, Bobbi, is a way talented dessert cook. To spice things up, she prepared a wide assortment of Jello shots. Choices included mojoto, piña colada, tequila sunrise, root beer float, chai, pear, and...oh, I don't know. About a thousand others.

For dessert, she offered a "Build your own Tart" bar that had everyone's heads spinning. I dove into the rhubard mousse and didn't come up till morning.

I beg to differ. White men can, indeed, smoke.

The day after, Agatha and I stopped at a few roadside joints to stock up on cheese (hey...it's Wisconsin, yah hey der'!). I've never been able the resist the kitsch-o-liscious allure of roadside dives. Here we see Bobby Nelson's. Alas, Bobby has left for that great wrestling ring in the sky, but the dive that bears his name still dishes the goods.

Well...Ok. Perhaps just a wee bit more cheese, please. It's not for me. It's for Venti.

***********

UPDATE: To see Boney Dog's report on the event (and more pix, including food porn), go HERE and HERE.

A POST FOR POSTERITY: NONNIE'S 'SHROOM STEW.

2008-03-25T01:50:00.007+01:00

And now for another installment of our continuing series...

Here's yet-another recipe from Nonnie that screams to be released into the public domain. This time it's "Nonnie's Mushroom Stew."

You know, Nonnie has only one goal in life: That everyone can eat as well as Fat Sal, yet still fit into his ruffley, pea green High School prom tuxedo. We don't guarantee the latter, but the former is a piece of cake.

Nonnie's Mushroom Stew
* 2 lbs. veal--cut into 1 inch cubes.
* 2 lbs. bulk (i.e., without casings) Italian sausage--hot, mild or combo.
* 2 stalks of celery--diced.
* 1 each of red bell pepper, green bell pepper and hot chile pepper--diced.
* 12 oz mushrooms--psychedelic, non-psychedelic or combo--sliced or quartered.
* 3 cloves garlic--minced or crushed.
* 1 large onion--diced.
* 1 c. red wine.
* 1-28oz can plus 1-12 oz can diced tomatoes.
* 1-28oz can tomato sauce.
* Hot pepper flakes.
* Salt and Pepper.
* Parsely--chopped, a whole lotta
* Thick slices of Italian bread, or polenta, or rice.
Step 1. Fry veal and sausage in olive oil until browned. Remove meat and set aside. Retain enough fat in pot for Step 2.

Step 2. Fry the following in retained fat until softened: Onion, peppers, celery and 'shrooms.

Step 3. Add garlic to mixture and saute for 30 seconds.

Step 4. Add wine and reduce to approx. 1/4 cup.

Step 5. Add diced tomatoes, tomato sauce and meats. Cover, reduce heat and simmer until veal is tender. Could take awhile.

Step 6. Adjust for salt, pepper and picante. Stir in parsely.

Step 7. Place slice of Italian bread at bottom of each serving bowl. Alternatively, you can add polenta or rice instead of bread if you're a WASP or something. Ladle stew over bread slice, polenta or rice. If you're like me, hit it with a drizzle of chile-infused olive oil.

Step 8. Loosen the belt on that prom tuxedo, Cinncinnati-girl!

In our next installment...Nonnie's Fucazzo. Stay tuned.

DURIAN, AND ON...

2008-03-20T01:31:00.013+01:00

By this point, you were probably wondering whether my velvet fingertips would ever again stroke the nape of this lonely blog’s neck. To be honest, I was wondering the same.

My life has experienced a tectonic shift over the past few months. In most ways, it’s better. In some ways, it’s worse. But that’s the way life is.

A byproduct of that shift has been a severe curtailing of my blogging time…and energy. Especially blogging energy. I am, quite simply, much busier now. And when a sliver free time presents itself at the end of each day, I don’t want to sit in front a computer and write blog posts. I want to sit in front of a TV and watch “Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares.”

Christ! What a friggin’ great show!!!

But today I am forcing myself to post. Why? Because I’ve achieved an important life’s goal, and the world needs to hear about it.

* * * * * *

I first learned of durian during an episode of “Michael Palin’s Full Circle ” that I watched in the mid-1990’s. I was intrigued by the prospect of this exotic Asian fruit. A fruit that looked like a rugby ball covered with spikes and is reportedly so stinky that it has been banned from buses and airlines in some countries.

Mr. Palin described durian as being like, “A very smelly custard…rather revolting, really.” But my friends ChiChi and Daffy in Singapore describe it as, “Heavenly.” All things being equal, I don’t take food advice from Brits—Mr. Ramsay notwithstanding, of course.

The durian challenge had therefore lodged itself firmly in my psyche, and I would not rest until I had—for better or for worse—tasted a smelly mouthful. So I embarked on a fervent search for durian in Spain.

Spain, of course, isn’t exactly a “strongly-flavored food-friendly” country. The Spanish seem to believe that strong foods—much like that other risky vice, ice water—causes sore throats, pneumonia and, when conditions are right, death by spontaneous combustion. So…I spent a fair amount of energy criss-crossing Spain trying various means of scoring a durian.

I begged the owners of Thai restaurants in Barcelona and Madrid. Deal or no deal? Hmphff…no deal.

I asked my boss at Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc. if he would bring me some when he returned from a business trip to Singapore . He agreed! I was thrilled!!!

When he returned from the trip empty-handed, however, he explained. “I couldn’t bring it on the airplane. It smelled like shit.”

After several years of fruitless (literally and figuratively) efforts, I gave up. I resigned myself to the fact that my dying breath might be tainted with the perfume of absinthe—but certainly not with the funky stench of durian. I accepted fate. I was at peace.

Until.

My accordion-squeezing, babushka-wearing, Polka-dancing girlfriend Agatha and I were shopping at H-Mart—an Asian super, supermarket in the Chicago area. And RIGHT THERE—wedged between the fermented dung beetle sweetbreads and the yak’s dong carpaccio—was the King of the Fruits.

We scooped-up the booty, paid the cashier and rushed home.

I then sharpened an 8 inch chef’s knife, laid the durian on a cutting board, and…BONZAI!!! Split the elusive bastard in two before he could escape.

Gazing from afar, I was smitten by the pleasing aesthetics of its multi-chambered, creamy innards. And then—bending over and crinkling my nose—I took a good, long whiff.

I’ve read that durian smells like garbage. I’ve read that it smells like well-ripened gym socks. I’ve read that it smells like poo. But I disagree.

Durian smells like…rotting garlic. Yes, that’s exactly what it smells like. Rotting garlic.

But I wasn’t there to smell. I was there to taste. And once I became acclimated to the King’s formidable funk, I pulled-out a handful of its creamy flesh and took a bite.

Awesome! Addictive, even!

The initial retronasal blast of eye-watering foulness passed quickly. And once my vision and sinuses cleared—I was in heaven.

Durian’s texture is incredible. Rich…creamy…it feels on the tongue like a very firm crème brulee. The taste is mild and slightly sweet. But again…it was the custard-like texture that I couldn’t resist. Nor could Agatha. I ate an entire half of the durian; she nearly finished the other half.

If durian has a love/hate relationship with the human palate, it also (reportedly) has a love/love relationship with the human libido. There is a saying in Singapore that goes, “When the durians go down, the sarongs go up.”

So, you might ask, did the sarongs go up that night? Well…let’s just say that the aphrodisiacal properties of durian are more theoretical than practical.

I mean…would you really want to kiss someone with breath like rotting garlic?

DID YOU EVER?

2008-03-20T01:29:00.001+01:00

AND NOW FOR A MOMENT OF AWARENESS ABOUT YOUR AWARENESS.

2008-03-19T00:36:00.002+01:00

One of these days, I'll tell you guys what I've been up to lately.

I'll tell you about my first taste of durian. I'll tell you about my brush with the great Alton Brown. I'll give you a recipe for Nonnie's Mushroom Stew.

Those are matters for a different day. As for today, however, I want you to take this test.

WAIF, WAIF...DON'T TELL ME.

2008-02-10T01:34:00.001+01:00

One month in the US, and I've already gained six pounds.

Wouldn't you know it?! Just when opportunity finally comes knocking!

FAT SAL'S & PUMPKIN'S ANNUAL [RECYCLED] CHRISTMAS POEM.

2007-12-17T12:25:00.001+01:00

T’was the night before Christmas
And all throughout Spain
Towns were dry, scorched and dusty
Another year without rain.

Water bottles were placed
By the doorstep with care
Although nobody seems to know
Why they’re put there.

The Spaniards were nestled
All snug in their beds
A day’s intake of brandy
Left dull pains in their heads.

I sat at my Apple
Filled with dread; feeling blue
Yet another damn holiday
With NOTHING to do.

When outside the house
There arose such a clatter
Could it be those damn goats?
Spreading more fecal matter?

I ran to the window
Threw open the pane
T’was a man dressed in red
With a bushy, white mane.

He said, “My name is Santa”
“And I’m ready to scream!”
He seemed to be suffering
From low self-esteem.

He said, “The children of Spain”
“Don’t give a hoot about me!”
“They only want those Three Wise Men”
“I feel as small as a flea.”

I said, “Calm down, my friend”
“There’s no reason to bleed”
“A little re-branding”
“Is all that you need.”

I put my hand on his shoulder
And gave it a pet
And said, “I’ll go fetch my razor”
“Drink some chilled Freixinet.”

With a wave of my hand
And some shave cream to match
I trimmed his beard down
To a funky soul patch.

Then we drove to Madrid
To meet a biker I knew
I said, “My friend here’s in need of”
“A “Keep on Truckin’” tatoo."

A half hour later
His bicep was glowing
He looked in the mirror
And his face seemed all-knowing.

With a confident swagger
He walked into a park
And seized children’s attention
With a loud, mighty bark.

He said, “Listen up children!”
“Or I’ll give you a punch!”
“The fat man’s in town!”
“He eats Wise Men for lunch!”

The children were frightened
Yet they thought he seemed cool
Then they sat on his knees
As he sat on a stool.

With eyes like milk-saucers
Kids looked up to his face
“I’ll bet you’ve dated Madonna”
“And even got to third base!”

When the children disbanded
He wore a Cheshire Cat-grin
“So it’s true that it’s marketing”
“That makes the world spin.”

Then he rose to his feet
Donned Armani sunglasses
He puffed out his chest
And turned his back to the masses.

With a newly-found vigor
He hopped into his sleigh
And said, “From this day forward”
“Spain does Christmas *my* way.”

“There’ll be no more Roscón!”
“No more Wise Men parades!”
“The *true* Christmas ‘El Gordo’ ”
“Stands before you in shades.”

As he flew out of sight
I swear I heard him squeal
“Merry Christmas to all!”
“And to Sal...a BOOK DEAL!”

AND NOW FOR ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF..."NAIVE QUESTIONS FROM FAT SAL."

2007-12-15T14:32:00.000+01:00

Why exactly should I care about baseball players using steroids?

[Bonus question: If the media absolutely must cover this story, couldn't they limit it to ESPN?]

MY WEEKEND IN BASEL.

2007-12-13T23:09:00.000+01:00

“Don’t fuss!”

That was the only request that I made of The Big Finns before flying to spend the weekend with them in Basel. My request was completely ignored.

There’s no point in providing a blow-by-blow description of everything we did that weekend. Why? Because TBF and Canadian-Swiss did such thorough recaps on their own blogs that there is nothing more that I can add. Factually, at least.

I can, however, state a few thoughts and observations about the weekend.

AND THE NOBEL HOSPITALITY PRIZE GOES TO…

This brings me back to the “Don’t fuss” comment. The Finns bent over backwards to keep me well-fed—both in terms of quantity and quality—and happy from the moment I arrived in their spacious, candle-lit, tastefully decorated apartment.

Gastronomically-speaking, the Finns each have their own core-competency.

Mrs. TBF is a drop-dead great cook. She swung from Swiss cooking (an addictive cheese fondue spiked with white wine and cherry schnapps) to peasant Italian (focaccia with browned onions, garbanzo soup, ricotta-stuffed shells and meatballs) to a breakfast of champions (omelets as big as my head, stuffed with several cheeses and spicy Hungarian sausage; wheat toast with butter and sprinkled with coarse salt).

Mr. TBF’s talents, on the other hand, lean toward the liquid side of the spectrum. His Martinis are a thing of beauty. But more impressive than that…he can smell a rogue enzyme in a bottle of wine—even in quantities of less than .000001 ppm. And God help that unlucky bottle. It goes straight to the kitchen sink.

I can hear the outcry from bartenders throughout Spain: “NOOOOOOOO!!! That wine will make a perfectly good Sangria!”

SPEAKING OF “NOOOOOOOO!!!”

Hi, Jo Mama.

THE SWISS DO GOOD SAUSAGES.

Some things require no further comment.

SWISS PRECISION PRECISELY CONFUSES ME.

It was 11:55am on Saturday and TBF was rushing through the apartment with a bag of empty bottles. He was speaking in tongues.

“Gotta recycle! Gotta recycle! Only five more minutes to recycle! Woo, woo, woo, woo…nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.”

When he returned—looking exhausted yet relieved—he explained.

“In Switzerland , you’re not allowed to recycle between noon and 2pm.”

“Eh?”

“Yeah, really. You’re also not allowed to vacuum. Many buildings forbid you from using the washer, dryer or dishwasher. You sure as hell can’t mow the lawn.”

“B-b-b-b-b-but, why?!”

“It’s quiet time in Switzerland . There must be silence so nobody’s lunch is disturbed. The Swiss like silence.”

“You’re f’ing kidding, right?!”

“No. And there’s more. You can’t do any of these things after midnight, or at all on Sunday.”

“WHAT?!!! You can’t mow the lawn, vacuum or do laundry at all on Sunday?”

At this point, TBF handed me a Valium, laid me on the sofa and put a cold compress on my forehead.

Surely, this must have been a hangover-induced hallucination. I mean…no country outside of, perhaps, North Korea could have such draconian (and, dare I say, knuckleheaded) laws.

My head was spinning. I simply couldn't process what I was hearing. Cold sweat burst from my brow. My breathing became labored. And then, precisely at noon, the TBFs disappeared and all of Switzerland fell into an eerie silence.

I was scared. I sat-up from the sofa, enveloped in a crushing isolation. Even the birds seemed frozen like statues on the tree branches.

Searching for my hosts or any other sign of life, I staggered across the living room and peered around the corner. And there, from the corner of my eye, I spied a door at the end of TBF’s hallway. It was just barely cracked open, and seemed to be emitting an odd green light from within. An odd green light shrouded in swirling fog.

I tiptoed down the hallway. As I inched my way closer to the door, I could hear a droning hum from within. One reminiscent of a those fluorescent lamps in 1970’s era Junior High Schools—but this hum was different. It had an other-worldly tone.

I was at the door.

I know I shouldn’t have done it, but it couldn’t be helped. I gently laid my hand on the door and nudged it open.

Here’s what I saw:

NOOOOOOOO!!!

ARE THERE OTHER SWISS RESTRICTIONS THAT I’M NOT AWARE OF?

When I returned home, I did a little investigating.

It seems that the Swiss birthrate is 9.66 per 1,000 persons.

If this seems a bit low, could be that Swiss law forbids…?

Oh, never mind. I don’t even want to know.

THE ABE VIGODA OF CATS.

King the cat is nineteen years old. That’s 187 in people years. It seems preposterous that any creature should live so long, yet—much like his human equivalent, Abe Vigoda—King refuses to die.

Now, I’ve never believed that cats are anti-social critters. I have, after all, lived with The Love Machine for over ten years. But I also understood that the personality of any given cat is like the spin of a roulette wheel. And being as old as dirt, I was fairly certain that King would be pleased to avoid this intruder to his domain until such time as I returned to my EasyJet seat on Sunday afternoon.

So when TBF and I entered the apartment on Friday night, I was in for a surprise. One of the first things that Mrs. TBF said to me was, “And here is King.”

He was sitting on the sofa. And he gave me a look that said one thing: “Fat Sal…make love to me.”

I placed my hand on this head and ran it over his boney shoulders. Oh my God! Cats CAN have osteoporosis!

Then I slipped my palm under his chin and caressed. Within seconds, my hand was soaking wet.

It seems that King only has four teeth. To you they’re “teeth”; to King they’re “drool blockers.”

We were inseparable for the rest of the weekend.

You may be wondering what is the secret to King’s amazing longevity? The answer may surprise you.

It’s jasemine tea.

THE WEEKEND’S ONLY DISAPPOINTMENT.

Nobody could tell me who was Thomas Platter and why he is famous.

I’m sorry, but that’s just plain wrong.

WHAT LIES BEHIND THE CURTAIN?

2007-12-11T20:26:00.000+01:00

C'mon. Just click HERE.

You know you want to.

HOW TO GET AHEAD IN ADVERTISING: THE BBQ EDITION.

2007-12-08T11:59:00.000+01:00

Q: How to make the world's worst BBQ ad?
A: Use falsetto boy band music.

Q: How to make the world's best BBQ ad?
A: Look no further than Queen Bee. Mmmmmmmm, SO GOOD!

powered by ODEO

AND NOW FOR ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF..."CULTURE QUIZ!"

2007-12-05T13:10:00.001+01:00

You're driving your Mercedes SUV down a desolate country road in rural Spain. When suddenly...you see the man pictured above--who is a neighbor of yours--zooming down the street like a panther in pursuit of a jack rabbit. Do you:

(a) Honk your horn, pump your fist in the air and bellow a hearty, "Go for it, Fat Sal! Keep it up!!!"

(b) Drive across the median, roll down your car window and grab a heaping handful of cast-iron right buttock?

(c) Stop the car, ask if he needs a ride home, and then act surprised when he tells you, "Thanks, but that would pretty much defeat the whole purpose of my being here in these funny clothes and expensive shoes."

The answer couldn't possibly be (c), could it?

I mean...surely (c) could never happen in the real world.

Could it?

YODEL-LAY-HEE-HOO!

2007-12-05T11:19:00.000+01:00

Wow! What more can I say about last weekend in Basel, Switzerland?

The Big Finn posted a brilliant summary HERE.

Canadian-Swiss posted an equally brilliant summary HERE.

I'll do a write-up, as well--but probably not until next week.

See you then. I promise.

ADVICE FOR WOULD-BE EXPATS.

2007-11-17T20:06:00.000+01:00

My long, roller coaster of an expat experience is coming to a close.

Very soon, "Sal's Virtual Tapas Bar" will morph into "Fat Sal's Smoking Lounge" and my twisted tales of life in Spain will cease.

In fact, this may be my final Spain-centric post before closing this volume of the book and opening the next. The next most likely to be heavy on Q, pick-up trucks and Merle Haggard.

But before tugging the chain on the VTB's neon sign, I want to address all those would-be expats who have sent me the same email time after time after time during these past eight years.

That email being, "Hi! I live in the US and I want to be an expat. I so, soooo want to be an expat. How can I do it?"

Well, my young and idealistic friends, here is the best advice I can give you. And trust me, this the voice of experience talking here.

ADVICE #1: FORGET ABOUT BEING AN EXPAT. JUST BE A TOURIST.
Countries like Spain allow you visit the country for up to three months without a visa. So...if you so desperately want to leave your native land and live somewhere else, then come to Spain for three months and then go back. Trust me...three months will satisfy 90% of your expat fantasies.

But if that's not good enough, then stay the three months...go back home...do your laundry and water your plants...then come back for another three months. Trust me...a combined six months abroad will satisfy 99.9% of your expat fantasies.

But if you *still* insist that it's not enough, then you take the next step at your own risk. And don't say I didn't warn you.

ADVICE #2: THAT NEXT STEP.
If you insist on living abroard for more than (for example) a summer or a college semester, then here's the important thing to remember.

ALWAYS HAVE AN EXIT STRATEGY!

Know exactly when you will return home for good. And stick to it.

Do *not* move abroad with an open-ended return date--or, worse yet, with the idealistic notion that your move will be permanent.

Have an exit strategy! Know exactly when you will return. And stick to it.

Then--and this is the hard part, but the important part--don't do anything that would complicate or jeopardize that return.

Don't ship all your earthly possessions to your new country. Don't buy a house. Don't tie-up your savings in local investments that will be difficult to transfer back to your native country. Don't do any of those "grown-up" things that you would, as a matter of course, do if you lived in your native land. Just think of yourself as a wandering nomad--travelling light. As light as possible.

Why? Because every expat is like a carton of milk. There will be an expiration date stamped on your forehead. And when that date passes, you WILL start to curdle.

I know a lot of expats. I've seen it happen a million times. There is this syndrome amongst expats called "The Seven Year Itch." Few are immune.

You'll spend the first couple years in your new country being fascinated, charmed, mesmerized by the new culture.

You'll spend the next few years trying to make that culture your own.

By about year four, all those little cultural quirks that you once found so charming will begin to grate your nerves like an emery board.

By year five, you'll find yourself watching Fox News on satellite television each night and fantasizing about strolling down the "Lawn & Garden" aisle of Walmart. Any Walmart.

By year seven, you'll suddenly find yourself standing naked on the roof of your house--cloaked in a dusty coyote pelt--howling at the moon.

Trust me. I've seen it a million times.

Now, I'm sure that there are a couple of keyboard warriors out there who are reading this and positively frothing at the mouth. I can just see them--sharpening their talons and ready to pound-out a venomous message telling me how arrogant and wrong I am...and how THEY have been an expat for 897 years and it was the best decision of their lives, and yadda, yadda, yadda.

To those people I say, "Congratulations." You've achieved something that few people I know have managed. I am deeply, sincerely happy for you. So save your email. This VTB is neither a forum for debate nor a democracy. It's a dictatorship, and I'm Ming the Merciless. Your email will never see the light of day in the VTB Chat Lounge, so save your energy.

And that, my friends, is the best advice I can give on the expat issue.

And that, my friends, is also the end of my Spanish adventure.

This blog will continue (and it will continue to be funny), so keep checking in. But its focus is going to shift to other areas.

Spain was a great muse for a long time. But you know what what happens when a man gets the seven year itch.

He goes out and finds a new muse.

MEET MY NEW BABY.

2007-11-04T18:48:00.000+01:00

What can I say? Some men collect stamps.

Hey! Since we're on the topic, I have an important announcement to make. My official BBQ name shall heretofore be..."Fat Sal."

And if/when I should form a competition BBQ team, the team name shall be..."A Smoke & A Twelve-Pack."

As you might suspect, there's a story behind that team name. But as for today, at least...I ain't talkin'.

RAMBLIN' MAN.

2007-10-31T16:59:00.000+01:00

So...you're probably wondering if there's a good reason why I haven't blogged lately.

Yep, there is.

Now that we've resolved that...let's dip a pewter flagon into my stream of consciousness and take a little drink, shall we?

FIRST THINGS FIRST:

Happy Halloween. It's my favorite holiday.

CHICKEN KIEV:

I can't say I was looking forward to my recent business trip to Kiev, Ukraine. I envisioned it as being a drab, dour place--much like East Berlin when I visited it in 1988. Or K-Mart when I visited it in 2005.

Beyond that, I really didn't know what to expect--except that the trip would end with my lifeless body being stuffed into a industrial drum and tossed into the Black Sea by a neckless, hairy ogre purporting to be my taxi driver.

Well, I was a bit hasty in my pessimism. Kiev is actually a very nice town--even if my taxi driver (who, in fact, had a neck) did point down-river as we passed over a bridge and said, "Cherynobl."

Kiev's buildings were clean and brightly painted. Golden minarets shimmered. Highways were lined with old growth white birch trees. And the women?

O! M! G!

Guys, come closer and listen carefully. If your life's "To Do" list has an entry that says, "Find a tall, thin, ridiculously beautiful eastern European-ish babe," then go buy yourself a ticket on the first available flight to Kiev.

She's there. In fact, she's everywhere.

SPEAKING OF EASTERN EUROPEAN-ISH BABES:

Meet my girlfriend.

Her name is Agatha Szczykutowicz. Yes, yes, yes...it's pronounced as it's spelled.

What? You're shocked, shocked to discover that I have a girlfriend?! Why?

Oh, yeah...I guess I've failed to mention her up till now. You might even say that I was keeping her a secret. A secret, that is, except to Mr. & Mrs. The Big Finn and Michael. The five of us pigged-out on Q at a restaurant in Chicago last summer.

Thanks, guys...for invoking the cone of silence.

By way of history, I met Agatha when I worked for the Niagra Mohawk power company in 1979. I was inspecting some electrical wiring in the attic of a raised ranch in Buffalo, NY. Agatha was sitting at a spinning wheel in a far corner of the attic spinning cotton thread into gold.

I lured her downstairs with a freshly sauteed pierogi and into my canary yellow '73 Plymouth Barracuda. The rest, shall we say, was history.

Agatha has an adorable black schnauzer named after a beverage cup, and an adorable set of parental units. Her father is 8'4" and once rested his ashtray on Andre the Giant's head. Andre thanked him politely and offered to fetch him another beer.

In her free time, Agatha enjoys playing Baroque music on her accordian and cracking walnuts between the muscles of her six-pack--although not necessarily at the same time.

Agatha came to visit me in Spain a few weeks ago, and we spent a romantic weekend in Barcelona. She loved Barcelona. Said it was better than any K-Mart she had ever visited.

AND FINALLY...PUTTING THE "EX-" IN "EXPAT":

Yeah, it's true. More on that later...

HAPPY FIFTH BIRTHDAY, PUMPKIN!

2007-10-29T00:01:00.000+01:00

And many more.

Love,
Daddy

THE BEST INDIAN RESTAURANT IN MADRID.

2007-09-23T20:04:00.000+02:00

TANDOORI STATION
Jose Ortega y Gasset, 89
Tel: 91-401-2228

Hands-down, the best in town!

Of course, I've told you this before. But the chicken vindaloo with roti that I had for lunch today compels me to re-confirm.

BYE, BYE...POLISH-AMERICAN PIE.

2007-09-16T22:05:00.000+02:00

I've never understood why nobody in Spain makes or sells pies.

Adding to my confusion is the fact that the good people of France--a nation that borders Spain to the north--will dump just about anything into a pie shell, bake it and snarf it.

Having meditated on this curiosity for nearly eight years, I can only assume that the Spanish don't bake pies because they're using all of their pie plates to make paella.

Determined to lead the Spanish populace by example, I bought two Pyrex glass pie plates during my last trip to Chicago and brought them back here. My assumption, however, was that they would sit unused in my cabinet until such time as I moved back to the US or my home was burgled by a Frenchman--whichever came first.

But then I got a call from my neighbors yesterday suggesting that my daughter and I join them to pick wild blackberries.

Whoa! I saw an opportunity. Having recently picked MacIntosh apples with friends in Michigan, I was feeling quite in touch with my inner Grizzly Adams. Plus, I knew that six cups of blackberries would be enough to make a blackberry pie. So Pumpkin and I accepted the offer.

Little did I know, however, that picking six cups of blackberries is a task requiring six hours' labor and two pints of blood loss.

But we did, in fact, return with six cups of blackberries and today set about baking a pie--the first pie that either my daughter or I had ever attempted.

Now, I consider myself a pretty above average cook--especially when the menu is heavily skewed in the direction of dead animals. But baking has always been the weakest link in my armour. And today's project was a fitting example.

I used the pie crust recipe of a Polish-American grandmother whose baking skills I can vouch for--from third helpings of first hand experience. She makes a pretty mean czernina, as well.

But, unfortunately, her recipe was for one layer of pie crust and I needed two.

Simple enough, one would assume. Just double it.

Yes...but for me, doubling a recipe is a form of math. And for a lawyer who really wanted to be a gym teacher, math of any kind is fraught with danger.

And so it was that in the process of doubling this kindly Polish-American grandmother's cherished pie crust recipe, I remembered to double most of the ingredients--but not quite all of them. And to make matters worse, the ingredient that I forgot to double was milk.

Our end product was a gorgeous, gooey, deep-purple berry filling encased in...a sand castle.

Oh well. As I've so often told my niece and nephew, you have to screw up a recipe three times before getting it right. I've got two more shots at this pie crust before I'll get it right.

And when I finally get it right, who knows? Maybe I'll just dump a bunch of czernina into it, bake it and snarf it.

AS A MATTER OF FACT, I DO GIVE A FIG.

2007-09-10T21:58:00.000+02:00

I planted a fig tree in my yard four years ago. To date, it has produced nothing but fig leaves.

Now don't get me wrong. Fig leaves are lovely. I'm told that some folks have even used them to make clothing.

But as my Poppie used to say, "If I can't eat it, I don't want it growing in my yard."

I couldn't agree more, and had begun contemplating what pulled pork would taste like if smoked over smoldering fig tree chunks.

But just as I was about to pull the string on my chainsaw, I saw it. I mean, them. That seemingly infertile fig tree was bursting with figs.

Tonight, I harvested a basket--a mere fraction of what's still hanging from the branches.

Yeah...I'll take the fresh figs with jamón iberico and a glass of fino sherry.

You take the Fig Newtons.

CHICAGO…CHICAGO…THAT BLOGGIN’ TOWN (Installment One).

2007-08-30T23:28:00.000+02:00

I’ve just returned from a six week stay in Chicago—which seems like a lot, but passed uncomfortably quickly.

Half the time was spent trying to keep-up with my four year old daughter and her insatiable appetite for play. The other half was spent working at Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc.’s corporate headquarters—an experience that has me seeing putty-colored fabric walls in my sleep.

The six week stint was low on blog-worthy experiences. That is, unless you are one of the few who have a fondness for reading about shopping excursions to Target and Borders, or my endless hours spent vegetating in my parent’s Jacuzzi.

But there were two outings that are long-overdue for describing here on the VTB. Why? Because they involved other bloggers.

BREAKFAST WITH THE NERD:

Pam the Nerdy and I have enjoyed a Master Po/Grasshopper-type relationship for nearly two years. It is the evangelical Pam to whom I attribute my newly found, all-consuming passion for the ukulele.

Nerd was attending a women’s-only blogger convention in downtown Chicago during the weekend of my arrival.

We met in her hotel lobby at 8am on a Saturday—a proposed meeting time that I had assumed was a joke. It wasn’t—and I was naïve to think otherwise. After all, she lives in Seattle—the birthplace and headquarters of Starbuck’s Coffee. Presumably the caffeine content of the city’s water supply is on par with its fluoride content.

Nerd—like her blog—was great, quirky fun. We skipped across the street to a breakfast joint—where I ate blueberry and cashew pancakes, she ate a heap of eggs and mushrooms covered with cheese, and the rest of the patrons stared perplexedly at the ukulele that was the centerpiece of our table.

Yes, I brought my ukulele. My brand-spankin’ new, lava black, Flea ukulele. I had, for months, felt that it was time to upgrade Felix—who served me well as a starter uke, but alas…lacked the warm tone for which I yearned.

Nerd wholeheartedly recommended a Flea. She has one. Then again, she has about 29 ukes lying around her house. But she seemed especially bullish on the Flea. So I bought one. A black one. It rocks! It matches my shirt.

Nerd claims to be an introvert; and I, most definitely, am one. Yet we chatted non-stop for three hours.

We finished breakfast and commenced crossing the street back to her hotel. It was at that point when she stopped in mid-traffic, grabbed my left earlobe, twisted it until I dropped to a knee and—with crinkled brow—growled, “You WILL play your Flea for me.”

Minutes later, we found two cushy chairs in an abandoned corner of the hotel basement—where I made a good-faith effort to wrap quivering fingers around The Beatles’ “In My Life” and Joe Brown’s “I’ll See You In My Dreams.” It was the first time I had played in front of a live audience—albeit an audience of one.

Perhaps fearing a nervous breakdown, Nerd said something complimentary, grabbed the Flea and launched into a medley of tunes that included “The Rainbow Connection.”

She plays very well. I’d expect nothing less from my Master Po.

* * * * *

[Next installment… “Q with the Finns and Michael.”]

IN RESPONSE TO LISA'S QUESTION OF WHETHER I CAN DO A "CHINESE SPLIT."

2007-07-24T08:19:00.000+02:00

The Answer: Close, but not quite.

Maybe it's better this way. Those ceramic tile floors can be pretty cold.

[It's Ok to turn forty, as long as you do it with attitude.]

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE WORLD'S TEENS AND TWENTY-SOMETHINGS.

2007-07-17T07:07:00.000+02:00

In. Your. Collective. FACES!!!

[It's Ok to be forty--as long as you do it with attitude.]

To be continued...

STONEHENGE UPDATE.

2007-07-15T19:49:00.001+02:00

No time to write lately. My energies have been consumed with landscaping. Here are the results thusfar. Again...I know that most of you don't care about my yard. I'm really posting this for my parents and some friends.

This is the front yard, which I landscaped and planted in April. My-oh-my, how my little sprouts have grown.

BTW...that's an almond tree in the foreground and an olive tree in the background.

Same front yard from the other direction.

This is the side yard. I did the lay-out this weekend. Ahem...ALL weekend. I'll spread dark-gray pebbles (same as those in the front yard) over the landscape fabric next month. I'll plant various drought-resistance aromatic bushes (lavender, thyme, rosemary, santolina and sage...same as in the front yard) next Spring.

BTW...that's a fig tree.

Same side yard, from the other direction.

This is the far corner where my two side yards meet. I've ear-marked this large hunk of dirt as my daughter's vegetable garden--in the hope that by growing her own vegetables, she might actually eat vegetables.

I refer to that patio space in the foreground as "The BBQ Lounge." BTW...that's not a UFO sitting in The BBQ Lounge. It's a good ol' American firepit--bought at a Chicago-area KMart and hand-carried across the Atlantic Ocean.

And finally...my other side yard. This is a Weber Grill's-eye view.

In case you're wondering why I don't have a blade of grass in my yard, that's a good question. The entire yard used to be grass, but it would die like clockwork each May-October. The Iberian sun has a real mean streak.

That's why I opted for this desert rockscape instead. It's low maintenance and (IMO) looks kinda good. So if anyone wants to buy my house, the price just rose considerably this weekend.

And now...would somebody please give me a back and neck massage?

THE ZZZZZZ MEME.

2007-07-05T23:03:00.000+02:00

My Ricola-chawing, leiderhosen-wearing, perpetually-yodelling friend, Canadian-Swiss, tagged me on a meme recently. She also tagged Tiiiiina, TBFs and Michael.

Memes are always good fodder for easy, gratuitous blog meat...especially at the fingertips of a currently less-than-motivated blogger. So, here goes.

6 WEIRD THINGS THAT I DO WHILE GETTING READY TO SLEEP OR WHILE SLEEPING.

1. My pre-bedtime, metrosexual routine: Wash hands; remove contact lenses; wash face; brush teeth; floss teeth (it's important, folks!); wipe-down face with an astringent (preferably Aqua-Glycolic, but normally Clean 'n Clear); spot-treatment using AcneFree (because it has very little benzoyle peroxide and thus won't bleach my pillowcases). Yes...as you might've gathered, I have pretty oily skin.

2. For most of my life, I slept on my stomach. Over time, however, this proved to be murder on my neck. So with a considerable amount of effort, I trained myself--about fifteen years ago--to fall asleep on my back each night. To this day, however, I've almost never wake-up in the morning on my back.

3. I don't snore. I don't thrash-around. I almost never need night-time wee-wee breaks. I just don't. Wee-wee breaks were, for some reason, a source of fixation for the others who were tagged on the meme. I felt obligated to make some mention of it myself.

4. Falling asleep usually isn't a problem--mainly because of the excessive quantities of exercise that I get each day. During times of stress, however, waking up at 2-4am (and staying awake) is a frequently a problem.

5. Without an alarm clock, I'll wake-up between 7am and 8:30am. No later. This is true regardless of how late I stayed up the night before. To me, there are few feelings as utterly miserable as sleeping late in the morning. The day is wasted, and the mind and body feel like they're swimming in glue for the remainder of the day. Total, complete misery. Ick! Makes me shudder just thinking about it. I don't know how 99.999% of the Spanish population can do it.

6. I've more or less trained myself to realize when I'm dreaming that I am, in fact, dreaming. I can't always do it, but it happens often enough. It's called "lucid dreaming"--i.e., knowing that you are dreaming and controlling what happens in those dreams. Lemme tell you...it's fun!

BONUS FACTOID: Somewhere out there in cyberspace is another blog that I write. It's an anonymous blog. It's pretty much a download of the bizarre dreams that I've had--written in as much detail as I can remember, and written asap after waking-up. I haven't been terribly diligent with its upkeep. But there's enough material in there to be pretty interesting. Beside me, only one other person in the world knows where that blog is located and has read it. Only one.

Intriguing, eh?

SAL'S KITSCH-O-LICIOUS TOUR '07.

2007-06-26T20:53:00.000+02:00

[At the urging of a good friend, I've been persuaded to re-create this post.]

Doing my part to assure both the continued solvency of Iberia Airlines and the continued tenacity of global warming, I stuffed a disintegrating passport into my back pocket and--for the second time in three weeks--returned to Chicago.

What can I say? I have to get my "Malcolm in the Middle" fix somehow.

But watching television in a language that I can actually understand wasn't my goal for this trip. At least, it wasn't my main goal.

No...I had a more important mission. Specifically, to taste, savor, digest--and hopefully not regurgitate--as much midwestern US kitsch as would be humanly (if not humanely) possible.

Mission accomplished! As you'll soon see.

And, so...with that background in mind, I am pleased to present to my long-suffering, oft-neglected readers...SAL'S KITSCH-O-LICIOUS TOUR '07.

But first, a little something to put us all in the mood!

MY FLIGHT OVER: A BRUSH WITH GREATNESS.

I knew that my Kitsch-o-licious Tour would be a smashing success, and I knew it before I even left Madrid.

How so? Because as I walked down the airplane aisle in search of seat 27D, I noticed that my seatmate was a slumping, disshevelled dude who looked like the fruit of a coital coupling between Will Ferrell and Hellboy.

I gingerly lowered myself into the seat--hoping not to disturb him. And also hoping that the undercover air marshals were both nearby and fully-caffeinated.

But as it turned out, I had nothing to fear. My seatmate wasn't Satan's spawn. He was this man:

Santa Fe artist and documentary film-maker Adam Jonas Horowitz.

And what makes Adam great? Well, Adam is the artist that created this:

Fridgehenge (aka, Stonefridge)!

Perhaps you've heard of it. About a decade ago, Adam swaggered over to a Santa Fe landfill and built a Stonehenge reproduction made entirely of discarded refrigerators.

Loved and hated in equal parts, Fridgehenge has been the subject of a decade-long battle of wills between Adam and the artists community vs. Santa Fe's Sanitation Department and other humorless tight-asses.

Adam was the most fascinating seatmate I've had. He chatted half the flight away, talking about the documentary that he is filming for PBS (currently in the editing stage, it's about US weapons testing in the Marshall Islands)...talking about why he looked as frightening as he did (he had been partying in Morocco and hadn't slept for three days)...and making an omnious prediction.

His prediction was that Santa Fe officials would take advantage of his extended absence by whacking Fridgehenge once and for all--and then, blaming it on the weather.

Well, guess what? HERE'S what.

LET THE TOUR BEGIN! FIRST STOP ON THE TOUR: SMOKIN' JAC'S.

We all were introduced to Smokin' Jac's BBQ Shack in THIS post.

Remember? Smokin' Jac is the man that car-jacked the Partridge Family, stole their bus, sawed the ass off of it and bolted a smoker the size of Pennsylvania to its floorboard.

He then finds a cozy-looking parking lot, parks the bus, fires-up the smoker and slings Q to passers-by until his inventory is depleted or the local health inspector leaps from the bushes--whichever occurs first.

With the aid of a local intermediary, I made contact with Smokin' Jac a week earlier...and he confirmed that he would be peddlin' Q throughout the entire weekend of my visit.

Well...Smokin' Jac was either a liar, or narcoleptic, or had just completed a course in Spanish Business Practices.

Why? Because when I arrived at his bus--licking my chops and pining for a little "rib tips, chix and ore"--the only thing smoking was a well-tattooed woman in a tube top standing in the adjoining parking lot.

Still, a legend is a legend--even if that legend was lying dead in a ditch at that very moment. So I decided that I should, at least, seize the opportunity for an impromptu photo-op in front of the legend's arsenal.

NEXT STOP: DOGGIE DRIVE-THRU.

My mourning at the loss of Smokin' Jac didn't last long. In fact, it lasted only long enough for me to turn my head to the right.

That's when I saw a sight that cranked the kitsch-o-meter up another notch. Doggie Drive-thru!

I'm sure you'll agree that there are few things as dangerous as driving around with a hungry dog in the backseat of your Toyota Prius. What if he tries to eat your head at 65 mph?

But the good citizens of this sleepy midwestern town need not worry about Bowser's rolling blood lust. That's because Doggie Drive-thru sells a wide assortment of baked-goods to sate your famished pooch. And best of all, you can buy them without leaving the air-conditioned comfort of your car or--God forbid--making use of those archaic, outdated appendages that medical experts refer to as "legs."

Doggie Drive-thru even sells "holistic food." It says so right on the shack. That's good, because you never know when the aforementioned Bowser might have a taste for Free-range Alpo or gluten-free Milk Bone Dog Biscuits.

And for those of you wondering...MSG will be withheld upon request.

HOOKED ON LUNKER'S:

Lunker's is a sporting goods superstore. It's definition of "sport," however, is rather narrow--being limited only to those in which wildlife flesh is pierced with hooks or projectiles.

Lunker's is enormous. It is as big as that government warehouse in the last scene of "Raiders of the Lost Ark"--only much more well-stocked. Who would've thunk that garter belts come in camouflage?!

Hidden in various nooks and crannies of the store are glass pens holding a wide array of fierce beasts. In one corner, there is a live adult alligator. In another is a tank full of piranhas. And in another is...oh my God!...that well-tattooed woman in the tube top!

But there were two aspects of Lunker's that really got my juices a-flowin'.

One was this:

That's right! An 8,000 lbs. fiberglass large-mouthed bass smashing through a brick wall. Believe me, folks...this picture doesn't do it justice. Let's sit silently for a moment and bathe in the understated brilliance of this elegant masterpiece.

[Solemn pause.]

I wonder how many midwestern husbands have caught a frying pan to the skull for a firing-off a pearl of wit like, "Look, hon! His mouth is almost as big as yours! Yuk, yuk...THUNNNNNNNG!!!"

The other was this:

The Angler's Inn! A totally kitsch-o-licious restaurant located smack-dab in the middle of Lunker's.

It's decor is...let's just say, "eclectic." Imagine an "Ernest Hemingway meets Nanook of the North meets Mr. Roarke from Fantasy Island" motif.

The entire ceiling is packed with hanging Christmas lights, to give the joint a "dining al fresco under the stars" feel. But then, those Christmas lights are peppered with tiki dolls. And on a far wall is a stuffed moose head.

Each booth has its own fish tank. A different type of fish in each tank. Below the fish tank of my booth was an autographed picture of a barely-pubescent Cassius Clay.

Let me tell you about the food. Which, I should mention, wasn't half bad.

The Angler's Inn has a menu that offers....well, just about everything. I had the buffalo burger. I almost chose the elk burger, but the waitress wouldn't commit as to its gaminess. I'm told that the ostrich burger tastes just like ostrich.

It also offers frog legs...perch...walleye...blue gill...alligator.

But it doesn't stop there! The Angler's Inn serves Mexican food. And Greek gyros. And Italian beef. And sushi.

Sushi!

The Angler's Inn's signature dish is "Boom Boom Shrimp"--although I decided against this specialty because I feared that "Boom Boom" referred to its morning-after effect on the human colon.

So...by now you're probably thinking, "Fridgehenge, Smokin' Jac, Doggie Drive-thru and Lunker's. There's no way that Sal can top that."

Well, guess what? I can!

THE PIECE DE RESISTANCE: MODIFIED LAWN MOWER RACING.

Check it out! There are guys out there who spend their free time suping-up lawn mowers and racing them on weekends. And there are guys like me who pay money to watch them.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Jeez! What could be more boring than watching a bunch of middle-aged men sputter around a track on a lawn mower?"

Oh...how wrong you are. Because these are not just lawn mowers. They're MODIFIED lawn mowers. As one of the drivers proudly told me in the pits, "These babies can hit 40 mph on the straight-aways."

40 mph, my friends! This ain't your father's lawn mower.

Just check-out the looks of intense concentration on the drivers' faces. Or...maybe it's not concentration. Maybe it's the Boom Boom Shrimp.

I am tempted to poke fun at this "sport," but I won't. And I won't for two reasons.

First, this group of racers--and everyone else sitting in the bleachers--were about the friendliest, most genuine people you'd ever meet. It's ironic, because you'd expect a modified lawn mower race to be precisely the type of venue where you'd be beaten and left for dead just for something like...oh, I dunno...having the only car in the parking lot that was made in Japan.

But nothing of the sort! I'd bring my daughter to the races without hesitation.

The second reason for not mocking it is that...well, to be honest...I really got into it. It was damn exciting, and a helluva lotta fun.

My new-found love for this sport notwithstanding, I won't deny the fact that modified lawn mower racing is, more or less, the Holy Grail of kitsch.

Thank God that I could be a part of it, and God bless America!

But that's not all! The races had yet-another surprise in store. A pot luck lunch!

For $4 dollars a head, it was all you could eat. $3 a head if you brought a dish to pass. Pictured above is what I ate. A hot dog, a hamburger, a Ramen noodle salad, some black beans and corn taco salad, and...as promised...Hamburger Helper Stroganoff.

Bocuse certainly wouldn't approve, but it did taste kinda like stroganoff.

Not pictured above (because I inhaled it in the blink of an eye) is dessert: Rice Crispy Treats, and some magically--not to mention, surprisingly--delicious Lucky Charms Treats.

IN CLOSING:

Let this post be a lesson to all you pretentious foreigners who claim that the US has no culture.

The US has tons of culture! But finding that culture is a bit like finding slugs before a rainstorm. You sometimes need to turn-over rocks and poke-around in places where you might not normally care to poke.

Hey! How about song? One that really captures the essence of Sal's Kitsch-o-licious Tour '07!

Yawl come back now, ya hear?

SAL'S KITSCH-O-LICIOUS TOUR '07 HAS BEEN CANCELLED.

2007-06-23T08:55:00.000+02:00

Well...I spent two days (literally, two days!) writing my Kitsch-o-licious Tour '07 post. It was huge, with a thousand pictures.

And guess what? Blogger ate it. I lost it, and there is NO WAY I am going to re-write it.

So...you'll have to wait until Tour '08.

Sorry, but blame Blogger...not me.

OK, I GUESS YOU'VE SUFFERED ENOUGH.

2007-06-17T17:51:00.000+02:00

These notes are...hemidemisemiquavers.

That's it. That's the answer.

What's the big deal about hemidemisemiquavers? Nothing, except that I used this word several times in my "Sal Comes Up for Air" post and only one of you noticed. I guess the rest of you use the term "hemidemisemiquaver" conversationally on a daily basis. Sorry...my bad.

And now for yet-another teaser!

I just returned from Chicago this morning (yes...that's twice in three weeks) and will soon provide all the details on..."Sal's Kitch-o-licious Tour '07."

I won't spoil the surprises, but I will tell you that the story involves 40 mph lawn mowers, Hamburger Helper and a large-mouthed bass smashing through a brick wall.

OH, C'MON NOW!!!

2007-06-01T23:35:00.000+02:00

I can't believe that *not one* of you took the bait on this!

Q: HOW TO GET A FOUR YEAR OLD INTO THE TUB WITHOUT A FIGHT?

2007-06-01T11:01:00.000+02:00

A: Buy her a new bathing suit.

SAL COMES UP FOR AIR.

2007-05-29T21:30:00.000+02:00

One might speculate, from the dearth of new material on this VTB, that I've either lost my blogging mojo...or suffered a debilitating brain injury...or found some other, more satisfying outlet for my irrepressible creative impulses...or devoted my life to memorizing pi.

All of pi.

Well...those are all good guesses. But, in truth, the answer is 42.

Now that we've cleared the air on that one, let me tell you about my past month or so.

TOPIC I: FORTY IS THE NEW 39.

When we last parted ways, I had just turned 40. Many people have since asked me how it feels to be forty. Well...I can honestly say that it's a lot like being 39 and 11 months old; give or take a month.

Contrary to popular belief, age is NOT a state of mind. It's a state of body.

I'm feeling rather 17-ish from the mind down, so I greeted the arrival of middle-age last month with more amusement than panic.

My mind, however, *does* feel 40. I consider that a very good thing. Have you ever tried talking with a 20 year old?

TOPIC II: IT'S MY PARTY, AND I'LL SMOKE IF I WANT TO.

And, so...in order to prove that a bit of fizz remains in this old can of Dr. Pepper (and also to ensure an adequate supply of grief counselors in case I ceased to believe the questionable assertions that I typed in the prior three paragraphs), I invited a bunch of friends (pictured above) over for the type of meal that has killed plenty of other people before the age of 40.

I dusted off The Salivator and made 15 lbs. of pulled pork--7.5 lbs. of which was stuffed into Zip-loc bags and carted-off to four separate homes when the party ended. As Big Mamma says, "Better to make too much, than not enough."

The party went well. The food turned out kinda great. And I had such a good time that my heart was doing hemidemisemiquavers for much of the afternoon. And that, my friends, occurred despite the fact that everything I drank that day would be properly classified as a depressant.

But alas, there was one tragic element to the party. Felix, my beloved uke, broke his A-string a few days earlier. This meant that there would be no musical accompaniment to my guests' singing of "Happy Birthday" unless I could somehow coax a replacement string from Spain's notoriously one-dimensional retail industry.

Why "one-dimensional?" Because the only product that you're 100% assured of finding at a Spanish store is cigarettes.

Needless to say, my guests sang a capella. But it wasn't a total loss. I did get to blow-out all forty cigarettes on the birthday cake.

TOPIC III: FEET OF FURY.

Speaking of Felix, he has been repaired. I bought a set of replacement strings last week--IN CHICAGO!!!--and the passion between my hourglass-shaped lover and me burns brightly once again.

Hemidemisemiquavers are certainly more difficult when attempted with one's feet, but a piece of cake when compared with the earlobes.

TOPIC IV: DEATH BY JUMP-SPINNING BACK KICK.

And now for a picture of my beautiful daughter. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

She, by the way, is just a few short years away from having black belts in aikido, jiu-jitsu, muay thai boxing and another, as-yet undocumented martial art taught only to a select group of neckless yak herders living on a windswept mountaintop in southwest Bhutan. Bruce Lee had a pretty fast roundhouse kick, but my daughter...well, she will kick in hemidemisemiquavers.

So to any four or five year old boys out there reading this, heed my seven-year advance warning: Don't EVEN think about it! If she don't get you, I will.

TOPIC V: LIFE AFTER LEGAL.

My boss at Acme Low Carb Tongue-Depressors, Inc. recently forwarded me a Chicago Tribune article listing what each US presidential hopeful would like to do for a living were he/she not in politics.

Barack Obama would be an architect. John McCain, a foreign service diplomat. Mike Huckabee, a bass guitarist for a touring rock band [He gets my vote]. Tom Tancredo, president [Nice try, brown-noser...but I'm pretty sure that you'll have to settle for President of your local Moose Lodge instead.].

Hmmmm...what would I like to do for a living should this legal gig ever run dry? I was having trouble coming-up with an answer, until a friend in the midwest US sent me this photo:

An old school bus, a metal saw, and a smoker big enough to make Pulled Elephant.

I nearly wept with joy when I first laid eyes on this photo. And do you know what's the best thing about this set-up? If a customer should contract salmonella from your coleslaw, you and your smoker can be over the state line in a hemidemisemiquaver.

TOPIC VI: A RETURN VISIT TO CHICAGO.

Acme called me over to Chicago for some meetings last week, and I didn't need them to ask twice.

It was a typically fabulous visit.

I saw friends and family. I jogged several times with my boss. I bought a stack of Nick Jr. DVDs at Borders and sun dresses at Target (Jeez...cotton products are so much cheaper in the US!!!) for my daughter. Hertz was kind enough to give me a Mustang convertible. My brother, Frankenfeet, was kind enough to deep-fry a turkey.

And best of all, I got to eat...

...Mexican food at Frontera Grill.

And...

...Cajun food at Heaven on Seven.

Take THAT, Big Finn!!!

TOPIC VII: AND NOW FOR A CLOSING NUMBER...

Catchyawl soon.

THE F-WORD.

2007-05-13T01:04:00.000+02:00

Today's the day, and I'm it.

From this point forward, it's Ok to:
- Buy a Porsche Cayman.
- Grow a ponytail.
- Get a 22 year old Ukrainian girlfriend.
[I draw the line at Botox, however. For me, that is. The Ukrainian can use as much as she wants.]

But those are projects for next week.

What am I doing today, specifically? Oh...I'll provide details later this week.

STONEHENGE II, THE SEQUEL.

2007-05-08T22:44:00.000+02:00

Christina the Mausi set her ukulele down for a few hours, put pen to paper and proposed a layout of plants for my previously barren front yard, "Stonehenge."

After getting the requisite OKs from a select group of VIP(s), I implemented her proposal nearly verbatim.

And thar she blows.

Foreground to background, we have santolina (apparently, a relative of the citronella plant), lavender, sage, rosemary and thyme. The latter three, you can eat. The former two, you can't--but I'll try smoking them on Friday night.

So now, my garden is full of herbs. But there's one that will not--repeat, NOT--ever be found in Stonehenge...

JASEMINE!!!

HEY!

2007-05-08T07:50:00.000+02:00

Thanks very much to those of you who left messages of condolences in the VTB Chat Lounge. And also to those who sent them to me privately. Big Mamma and Uncle Sammy thank you, as well.

And now, let's exit the topic of death and return to living.

-Sal-

A EULOGY FOR POPPIE.

2007-05-07T09:43:00.000+02:00

My grandfather (aka, "Poppie") died last week at the age of 91.

Because of the distance, location, child-care issues, etc., I wasn't able to fly over for the wake and funeral.

However, the family allowed me to write the eulogy--which Big Mamma will read at the funeral later this morning. I present the text below, on this Virtual Tribute Bar.

If you like my sense of humor, then you'd have liked Poppie's.

If you don't like mine, then you really, *really* wouldn't have liked his.

Right, Big Mamma? Uncle Sammy? ;-)

A EULOGY FOR POPPIE.
May 6, 2007

My Poppie wasn’t the sentimental type. He was a private, introspective man with a biting, sardonic--yet hilarious--wit.

I, as his oldest grandchild, know this as well as anyone. And it presents me with a bit of a dilemma.

If I were tempted to get too sentimental in writing this eulogy, then I could clearly imagine him pulling me aside. And with his left hand clutching a half-eaten chocolate-covered cherry and his right hand balled into a boney-knuckled fist, he’d probably--mockingly--say something like:

“Listen, Harry! I’m not your grandmother. If you get too sentimental on me, I’ll punch you right in the mouth.”

And so, with that threat of karmic revenge hanging over my head, let me offer a few carefully chosen words.

Today is an undeniably sad day for my family and me. But there was nothing sad about Poppie’s life.

He lived 91 years. And during those 91 years, he didn’t have a single serious illness or injury.

He was married for 65 years to the same woman. And that woman was one hell of a good cook.

He had three children, eight grandchildren and twelve great-grandchildren. They all outlived him. Considering Poppie’s Kevlar-coated genetics, that was no small feat.

He served in World War II, during which he was neither wounded nor--to my knowledge--witness to any undue horrors. His service in the US Army’s 183rd Signal Corp was a source of understated--yet so plainly obvious--pride throughout the rest of his life.

Sooner or later, the ride always comes to an end. In Poppie’s case, the ride was very long and very smooth. What more can you ask for?

Still, however, a lot of us are feeling a lot of sadness. That’s Ok. Sadness is both rational and healthy on a day like today.

With regard to the sadness, I’d like to offer an analogy. And in deference to my Nonnie , it’s a food analogy.

The human cycle of life and death is like the baking of sourdough bread. An old loaf may disappear from the countertop...but you’ll find a bit of its “sourdough starter” in each new, subsequent loaf.

And, so…for so long as there’s an Inés loaf...or a Nicholas loaf...or a Mia loaf...or a Ryan loaf...or a Kira loaf...or the two Tony loaves—that crusty old Poppie loaf hasn’t really left the kitchen.

Oh, damn! That was a bit sentimental, wasn’t it?

Sorry, Poppie. Fifty or so years from now, you can punch me right in the mouth.

STONEHENGE (A.K.A., MY SATURDAY OF MUCH NEEDED LANDSCAPING).

2007-04-21T20:44:00.000+02:00

BEFORE

AFTER

Still needs plants, but that can wait for another day...preferably, one in which my muscles have recovered.

Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know that none of you really care about the landscaping of my front yard. This post is mostly intended for my parents.

A SIP OR TWO FROM THE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS.

2007-04-19T21:07:00.000+02:00

So, let's see...

- Acme Low-carb Tongue Depressors, Inc. sent me to Stockholm, Sweden earlier this week. It was my first time there. But that was only part of the excitement. The other part is that my old Oktoberfest-stalking friend, "Anders the Viking," made his triumphant return to Acme's payroll. Anders and I are pictured above, in front of the Royal Palace. Yeah, they have a royal family in Sweden...and it's not Benny and Agnetha.

- My friend Jesper was there, too. He played semi-pro hockey in his younger years, yet seems to have all his teeth. That, or he has a talented dentist. Say "Hello" to Jesper.

- Hey! They eat herring for breakfast in Sweden. And so did I. Man-oh-man, did I! About ten kilos of it. Every morning.

- Had herring for the last night's dinner, too. I'm still pissed-off that there was no herring for lunch.

- And now for a short primer on herring. The pickled stuff is great all by itself. Non-pickled (i.e., red) herring is eaten with minced red onions and creme fresh (sp?). In both cases, a bit of Aquavit goes well. Right, Trac?

- My first night in Stockholm was a free night, so Anders, Jesper and I went downtown in search of dinner. We surveyed countless restaurants and after compiling all the data, I was able to isolate and identify the three pillars of Swedish gastronomy (beyond herring, that is). Those three pillars are the following: (1) French bistros; (2) Mongolian Barbeque; and (3) TGI Fridays. Huh! Who woulda thunk?

- Methinks I'll keep my observations on Swedish obesity to myself. Why? Well, let's just say that Scandinavia isn't the only place where trolls lurk.

- If anyone should offer you a ride on a RIB, don't pass it up.

- Here's some good advice from the April 2007 issue of Iberia Airline's in-flight magazine:

"When the aircraft has attained cruising altitude, the atmospheric conditions inside are the same as those encountered in mountainous regions at a height of 1500 to 2000 meters, and there is less air pressure than there was in the airport. This favors the expansion of the gases and liquids in the body, leading to swelling of the extremities--especially the lower ones--and, in some cases, bowel discomforts and flatulence. It is therefore advisable to avoid heavy or flatulent food from the day before the flight."

- Oh?! So *that's* why my lower extremities swelled during yesterday's flight. Gee...I naively assumed that it was because of those Swedish girls in seats 34 A-D.

- And now for a public service announcement...

- Guns don't kill people; people kill people. However...it's a bit harder for one guy to kill thirty-two people using only his bare hands. For more on this topic, please see THIS EDITORIAL from my friend and uke guru, Pam the Nerdy.

- And finally...Happy Third Anniversary to my virtual BBQ buddy, Colin Minion. Sing with me peoples..."And many mooooooooooore!"

Well, that was refreshing. See you all the next time I'm thirsty.

Sal

LIFE'S MANY MYSTERIES: INSTALLMENT I

2007-04-09T18:52:00.000+02:00

This morning, for the four hundreth time in thirty-nine years, I woke up with an rogue eyelash in my eye. There was no eyelash in my eye when I went to bed last night. And--although I don't have the video to prove it--I'm fairly certain that I sleep with my eyes closed.

[This installment of "Life's Many Mysteries" was brought to you by the Peter Paul Candy Co.--makers of Almond Joy and Mounds.]

YO! IT'S A SMALL WORLD, AFTER ALL.

2007-04-06T21:55:00.000+02:00

My abysmal track record on 007 blogging isn't solely attributed to colossal laziness--although that's certainly a major factor. No...I can also blame it on travel.

My daughter, Pumpkin, and I spent last week at Disney World in Orlando, Florida. Sure, EuroDisney is closer...but there are no Waffle Houses, Cracker Barrels or Shoney's in France.

To some of us, that's a deal-breaker.

We flew from Madrid to Miami, and enjoyed a SIX HOUR lay-over at Miami International Airport--the highlight of which was the Pizza Hut personal pan pizza and $8 (EIGHT DOLLARS!!!) pint of Samuel Adams that I inhaled like a death row inmate while Pumpkin slept in her stroller at Gate D36.

We then took a one hour flight to Orlando, and arrived at our rented house in Kissimee at 2am--which, according to my body clock, was 7am. Twelve members of my family from Chicago were waiting for us at the house. Eleven of them were waiting in bed...asleep.

But the Disney empire waits for no man; regardless of his state of physical exhaustion. We therefore leaped out of bed at 6:30am the next morning (which amounted to three hours sleep for me; nearly twelve hours for Pumpkin) and made a bee-line for the Magic Kingdom.

Disney World's Orlando facility has four main parks: Magic Kingdom (the most kid-friendly of the bunch); Epcot (the most adult-friendly, IMO); MGM Studios (nice, but my least favorite of the bunch); and Animal Kingdom (a great park...not only does it have a mind-blowing reproduction of Mt. Everest, but also a BBQ stand that serves pulled pork).

Pumpkin bought a new hat during the first hour of the first morning, and didn't take it off for the rest of the week.

She bought something else every hour of every day for the rest of the week.

If you're between 3 and 83 and can't have fun at Disney World, there is something seriously wrong with you. Despite the $50 corn dogs, it's a really cool place to bring kids.

Cool for adults, too. The Magic Kingdom's "Rock and Roll Roller Coaster"--which accelerates from 0 to 60 in less than three seconds--won the Fat Sal family's "Best of Show Award" hands-down.

I do need, however, to mention one observation that I found a bit shocking. The Disney parks rent motorized wheelchairs, and they rent a lot of them. However, quite a few of those that I saw driving those wheelchairs were not "handicapped" as that word is commonly interpreted. They were obese. I mean profoundly, morbidly obese--and some of them were clearly younger than I am.

I've never been to EuroDisney, but I suspect that this obesity epidemic doesn't exist there. And if that's the case, then I think it's clear where the finger of blame must be pointed.

At Waffle House, Cracker Barrel and Shoney's.

A BIRTHDAY MESSAGE FROM PUMPKIN TO HER COUSIN, MIA.

2007-03-15T20:02:00.000+01:00

THE FIRST ANNUAL TBF TAPAS CRAWL: STOLEN PHOTOS.

2007-03-12T22:47:00.000+01:00

The Big Finn's write-up on last Saturday's Madrid tapas crawl is now posted.

Click HERE.

If you do go to his blog, you'll quickly realize that I've shamelessly stolen the following pictures from it.

Sorry, but he's a much better photographer than I am.

BIG FUN WITH THE BIG FINNS.

2007-03-11T17:43:00.000+01:00

Who says that the blogosphere is a vast wasteland of social misfits? A sorry substitute for real human interaction? Who said it? Bring him here, because I'm in possession of a roundhouse kick with his name on it.

Following on the heels of my excellent Madrid outing with Ang--Indiana's most trusted journalist--and her boyfriend, "The Boyfriend," I had the opportunity to meet another set of long-time blogger buddies.

That's right! Yesterday, in Madrid, I met The Royal Family--Mr. and Mrs. The Big Finn.

We hadn't previously met. Or spoken. To be honest, it's not clear that either of us was truly convinced that the other existed. It was a bit like "Santa Claus meets the Easter Bunny."

But at 2pm yesterday afternoon, I rounded the corner of the Melia Gran Fénix Hotel near Plaza Colon, and there they were! Live, in the flesh and just as cute and cuddly as they seem on the computer screen.

It hardly felt like a first meeting at all. It was more like getting together with old college roommates. They were friendly. They were interesting. They were funny. They were visibly very much in love with each other. And...most importantly...they brought gifts!

Yes, that's a floating COCONUT candle. Just what every bathtub needs--or, at least, just what mine needs. How long must Basel Airport security have stared at this sphere-shaped object with attached wick before finally deciding to let it pass onto the airplane?

But--moving into the "I'm not worthy" category--there was another gift. You see it above, but you probably don't believe it. Yep...I am now the proud owner of The Big Finn's legendary--and much-coveted--Gorilla Tripod!

I sprout goosebumps just thinking about it.

This is the same Gorilla Tripod that nearly got TBF bounced from a cathedral in Italy. And now it's mine! All mine! As if this VTB isn't already clogged enough with self-photos of my crow's feet and receding hairline.

BTW...TBF has a new, even more impressive tripod (see photo above). This one doubles as a back-scratcher.

Wiping the tears from my eyes and stiffening my spine, we commenced our tapas crawl. And in this respect, the Finns were good sports. Not only did they walk about a hundred kilometers (many of which were walked in circles, thanks to my hopeless navigational skills), but they ate anything and everything.

Snails, sweetbreads, cod, foie, pig ears (yes, pig ears!)--they tasted it all, and they did so without any peer pressure from me.

"TBF? Are you suuuuuure you want me to order the pig ears?"

"Yeah, Tragger! Bring it on!!!"

In case you're wondering, we did not--repeat, NOT--drink any absinthe yesterday. Not because we were behaving; but rather, because none of the bars had any. Doh!!!

Even without an absinthe hangover, I expect that both Mr. and Mrs. TBF awoke this morning remembering only 20% of what they ate yesterday. So, as a humanitarian gesture, I list below in chronological order exactly what we ate and drank, and where we ate and drank 'em.

BAR TEMPRANILLO (Cava Baja, 38)
- Slice of chorizo sausage on a round of bread.
- Pincho (i.e., slice of bread topped with...) of duck jamon and eggplant.
- Pincho of tuna belly with "stirfried" vegetables.
- Pincho of smoked bacalao with...uhhhh, help, TBFs?!
- Pincho of duck sweetbreads and pate.
- Wine: Les Terrasses (Priorat)

BAR REVUELTA (Cava Baja, near the Plaza off of Calle Toledo)
- We walked in hoping to order deep-fried bacalao hunks, but they stopped serving. We immediately left.

MATRITUM (Cava Alta, 17)
- Tomato bread with slices of jamón iberico.
- Croquettes stuffed with jamón.
- Kind of a crunchy, shrimpy, creamy, toasty thingee.
- Wine: Viñas del Vero Syrah (Somontano).

CASA DE AMADEO (Plaza Cascorro, 18)
- The bastard was closed. We felt dejected; deprived of our obligatory glasses of snail juice. But just when things seemed hopeless, Mr. TBF steered us into...

SOME RUSTIC, NEIGHBORHOOD BAR A FEW DOORS DOWN FROM AMADEO (see above photos)
- Pimientos de Padrón (little fried Galician green peppers with sea salt; some spicy, some not).
- Snails in a paprika broth.
- Calf sweetbreads sauted in olive oil and lots of garlic.
- Deep-fried cubes of pig ear (salty, crunchy and well-received by Mr. TBF).
- Navajas (i.e., razor clams).
- Cañas (i.e., little glasses) of Mahou beer.

TXACOLI (Cava Baja, 26)
- Wine: Glasses of Txacoli (a young, tart, white wine--similar to Portuguese Vinho Verde--from the Basque Country served in squat little Basque glasses).

LA CASTELA (Doctor Castela, 22--My favorite tapas bar in Madrid, BTW)
- Fried chistorra sausages with french fries.
- Chipirones Encebolladas (i.e., small calamari with sauted onions and drizzled with a nuclear green olive oil and squid ink). Personally, I think this was the best dish of the day.
- Pincho of apple puree, mushroom and foie.
- Pincho of bacalao with tomato "foam."
- Wine: Albariño (a tart white from northwest Spain).
- Glasses of sweet, red vermouth for Mr. and Mrs. TBF.

LA MONTERÍA (Lope de Rueda, 35)
- At this point, none of us were hungry and all of us were tired. So, Mr. TBF had a final caña of Mahou, Mrs. TBF has a glass of manzanilla sherry, and I had a caña of Laiker non-alcoholic beer. We watched a bit of the Real Madrid vs. FC Barcelona game on TV.

It was a fantastic day (IMO). Hey TBF's, let's do another crawl soon. But let's do it in Chicago, eh?

Kiitos for the visit. I had a blast.

TOMORROW...IN MADRID...I COME BELLY TO BELLY WITH...

2007-03-09T21:25:00.000+01:00

...The Big Finn.

Uhhh...would somebody pass the eucalyptus branch, please?

JASEMINE UPDATE: MARCH 007

2007-03-02T22:15:00.000+01:00

I had a date with my long-time girlfriend, Jasemine, tonight.

It was as much a humanitarian visit as it was social. Jazzy got "fixed" yesterday, and I felt that she might appreciate my loving/healing touch on a lonely Friday night.

Indeed she did. And despite the presence of numerous stitches on her freshly-shaved belly, she and I still engaged in our traditional post-greeting bout of Greco-Roman wrestling (middleweight division)--an event for which I always wear a nylon jacket, as it resists the stench of doggie drool more effectively than does cotton or wool.

If you're wondering why Jazz is wearing a Pittsburgh Steelers T-shirt, it was on the recommendation of her vet. It was intended to keep her from nibbling at her stitches. A fine idea in theory; although the reality is that Jazzy managed to disrobe no fewer than three times during the course of this photo shoot.

Jazzy! She's big. She's brassy. She's beautiful. And she's mine...all mine!

AND NOW...HERE IT IS...YOUR MOMENT OF ZEN.

2007-02-27T22:27:00.000+01:00

Impressive. But I'll bet that Keith Richards could do it with the spoon in his nose.

ASHES TO ASHES, STARDUST TO STARDUST.

2007-02-21T09:30:00.000+01:00

Today is Ash Wednesday--the day that all good Catholics resemble a pirate's treasure map.

And while taking a shower this morning, two questions popped into my head.

First, did Catholics borrow the idea from Hindus? Or vice versa?

And second, which of the two religions is Ziggy Stardust?

[Author's Note: Yesterday, for the 39th year in a row, I didn't get any fatter on Fat Tuesday. Am I doing something wrong?]

IN SEARCH OF...

2007-02-14T14:31:00.000+01:00

Me!!!

Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know! I've been catching hell from all of you in the VTB Chat Lounge lately for not writing much in 007. And I've been catching hell for the same from Big Mamma and Borat behind the scenes.

So...in an effort to publish a little sumthin' and try preserve the few Blogger buddies that I have left at this late stage, I am pleased to provide the following, largely unedited, stream of consciousness-heavy post.

Take it away, Don Pardo...

1. IS IT WRITER'S BLOCK...OR FOOD POISONING?

Pu-leeze!!! I don't do writer's block. This writing thing is as easy as breathing--and certainly, a lot easier than talking. So we can't blame my dearth of blogging on that.

Nor can we blame food poisoning. I wish that I could, but alas...there's not an Indian restaurant within 30 miles of my house.

No...the reason is simply colossal weariness. After publishing 300+ posts on the VTB, 70+ posts on Expatica (from which I've recently retired) and more than a dozen on The Spirit World (from which I'll retire after this month) over the past few years...I just kinda hit a wall of colossal weariness. "Lost the Eye of the Tiger," to quote that old guy with odd-looking face.

I therefore decided to take an unannounced blogging vacation. Not permanently, of course! That would be silly. I'd then have to do more talking permanently...which is twice as exhausting as writing.

And, ya know what? The nasty thing about relaxation is that it rarely achieves the intended goal of re-charging one's batteries. To the contrary, it causes lethargy and makes you crave more relaxation. It's a slow death by rusting. So...methinks [that was for you, Trac!] that I'd better take my hands off my belly and put them back on the keyboard.

Mystery solved! Is it writer's block or food poisoning? No and no.

"...or food poisoning?"

"...food poisoning?" Hey! How about a song?

Just can't resist those accordian players. Anyway..believe it or not, I saw this same guy play the same song live at a blues bar called The Station Tavern several times when I was studying in London in 1988.

2. HEY! TODAY'S VALENTINE'S DAY, ISN'T IT?

Well waddya know?! It *is* Valentine's Day!

Call me a hopeless romantic, but I really feel infected with VD today.

Hey! How about a song? Here's a Valentine's Day wish...from Felix, George and me...to all of you.

3. NEXT TOPIC...TAPAS TOUR 007.

For reasons that I doubt even they understand, Mr. and Mrs. The Big Finn are flying to Madrid next month solely (purportedly) for the purpose of visiting me.

When I asked TBF what he wanted to do when he arrives, he responded as follows: "We've already seen Madrid a few times, so let's spend the day eating tapas."

Clearly, he and I will be friends.

But still, a visit from a pair of VIPs like TBFs requires prep work. So I recruited my long-time friend and Madrid-area radio personality, Drew, to assist me with planning/executing a tapas tour dry-run last month. Well...it was a dry-run, but I can't honestly say that it was dry.

Please pardon my hair in the picture above and those that follow. It was very cold in Madrid, I was suffering some serious hathead, and--further aggravating matters--recently got a haircut that was far too closely-cropped for my liking.

Anyway...we started with coffee and croissants at Cafe Oriente, near the Opera House. Then had raisiny sweet wine and cookies at an old bar called "El Anciano Rey el los Vinos" (Calle Bailen, 19). Legend has it that the king's grandfather boozed there. Above we see a pale, yucky-haired me, Drew and his son Oliver. We are holding glasses of that "sweet wine."

We then wandered into the Calle Cava Baja neighborhood for a series of quickies.

We had tajadas de bacalao (battered and fried hunks of salt cod) accompanied by a hideous house wine at a bar called "Revuelta."

Then to an Andaluz-style bar called "Sanlúcar" (Calle San Isidro Labrador) for a glass--Ok, two glasses--of Manzanilla Sherry, a bowl of salmorejo (a very thick gazpacho topped with diced cured ham and hard-boiled egg) and chopitos (strips of deep-fried calamari).

Then to the highlight of our tour---Casa de Amadeo (Plaza de Cazcorro, 18).

Meet Amadeo! Cute as a button, isn't he?

Of all the tapas bars we visited that day, his was the most interesting--not just because of the food, but also (especially) because of his gregarious personality. Amadeo is like the mad great-uncle at Thanksgiving dinner who insists that you join him in eating the giblets--and then launches into a manically-animated 20 minute rant about how turkey livers are good for both longevity and virility.

Looking at the picture above, you can see the various plates and bowls of Amadeo's other tapas on display. Upon receiving your order, Amadeo will grab a handful (no spoon, no glove) of whatever, slap it onto a dish and hand it to you. Bacteria be damned! Starting from the left hand side of the bar, we see (or perhaps we don't see, but you'll need to trust me) the following: blood sausage with rice; snails (i.e., that earthenware bowl with the shiny red liquid); a large, white, oval plate of deep-fried bacon cubes (!!!); crawfish in the Amadeo's standard oily/paprika-heavy broth; and battered and fried hunks of bacalao (i.e., salt cod).

Drew is a frequent patron of his bar. So...the moment that we walked in the door, Amadeo seized Drew's hand, vigorously shook mine, and immediately poured us each a glass of "jugo de caracoles" (i.e., "snail juice").

Yes, I said "snail juice."

And here are those glasses of snail juice! The name is deceiving, however. It's not really the end product of a snail pushed through a RonCo juicer; but rather, it's the oily, paprika-heavy broth in which the snails were stewed.

Briny, spicy, earthy...probably a great tonic for someone suffering from a cold. Not bad in small quantities, although I wouldn't want to down a tumbler of it.

Aside from the snail juice and two rounds of beer (one of which was on the house...thanks, Amadeo!), we had a huge dish of stewed snails. And man-oh-man...those snails were good. Spicy, even...which is always a shock where Spanish cuisine is involved.

Those were the tapas bars that we hit (TBF...take note!). Here are some others that we wanted to hit, be didn't/couldn't:

- La Castela (Doctor Castela, 22): This, BTW, is my favorite tapas bar in the city.

- La Montería (Lope de Rueda, 35): Great salmorejo and other Andalucian-style, deep-fried fishies.

- Cerveceria Cervantes (Cervantes, 34): For shellfish and assorted pig parts. The "Torta del Casar" (a creamy cheese to be spread onto bread), Pulpo a la Gallega (Galician octopus) and Navajas (knife clams) are highly recommended by my ex-wife.

- Casa Lucas (Calle Cava Baja, 30): For tortilla española (potato omelette).

- Txirimiri (Calle General Díaz Porlier, 91): For Basque tapas...properly called "pintxos."

- Txakoli (Calle Cava Baja, 26): More pintxos.
El Almendro 13

- Almendro 13
Tel. 91 365 42 52
Metro: La Latina
En la calle hay muchos más, todos más que recomendables. Os nombramos éste, por ser uno de los veteranos en la zona, dedicado a las manzanillas y los finos que puedes acompañar con sus famosos "huevos rotos" o las "roscas". Pides y te avisan a toque de campana. Ojo, cierran pronto: 24.00

- La Taberna de los Cien Vinos
Nuncio, 17
Tel. 91 365 47 04
Metro: La Latina
Otro de nuestros preferidos, la verdad es que la zona no tiene desperdicio. Selección de vinos, y tapas elaboradas, calidad de embutidos y tostas excelentes. Los domingos no hay cocina ... caliente, puedes intentar la cecina con aceite de oliva.

- Tempranillo
Cava Baja, 38
Tel. 91 364 15 32
Metro: La Latina
Amplia carta de vinos, algunos por copa, debilidad por las setas y revueltos.

- La Salamandra
Alfonso VI, 6
Tel. 91 366 05 15
Metro: La Latina
Vinos por copas y en botella. Excelentes tapas, que varían por temporada. La cocochas de bacalao con trompetas negras estaban exquisitas.

- Taberna Matritum
Cava Alta , 17
28005 Madrid
Tel. 91 365 82 37
Metro: La Latina
Reciente descubrimiento a añadir a nuestra ruta croquetera. Croquetas variadas, de jamón y espinacas que puedes acompañar de una excelente y cuidada selección de vinos. Además muy recomendables los calçots con salsa romescu.

Methinks The Big Finn will leave Madrid bigger.

4. LOOKING FOR A REALLY SAVAGE, FUNNY NEW BLOG?

Well...remember Tiinakala? You know, our lurking friend from snowy Estonia. She has been quietly chugging away on her own blog, which I stumbled upon with no thanks to her.

And let me tell you...she is hilarious!

It's not for the faint-hearted. But if you like your humor wrapped in barbed-wire and marinaded in undiluted vinegar...then click HERE!

5. WHEN THE PARTY'S OVER.

That's enough. I think I've more or less fulfilled my blogging obligation for this week. Or, at least, for tonight.

Are you in the mood for one last tune? If so, then here's my favorite version of one of my favorite George songs (Billy Preston on vocals).

Forgive my flagrant abuse of YouTube in this post, but it's easier than writing. And it's definitely easier than talking.

Catchyawl soon.

MEET FELIX.

2007-01-29T14:43:00.000+01:00

I was watching The Beatles Anthology DVD box set a few years ago. Paul was presumably saying something profound to the interviewer.

But then...George, my favorite Beatle, suddenly whipped out a ukulele and proceeded to drown-out Paul with a tune that sounded like the fruit of a coital relationship between Don Ho and Muddy Waters.

I was excited! George seemed to be having such fun with his uke, that I felt a great urge to waste $50 on one for myself.

So, I did a bit a research--which unearthed both good news and bad.

The good news was that I found nearly universal agreement that the uke is the world's easiest instrument to play. Or, if it's not quite the easiest, then it's at least easy to the point of absurdity.

The bad news, however, was that the uke not only looks like a guitar...but is played like one. It requires memorization of chord patterns; which, presumably, involves the "P-word."

Practice!

This was disheartening. I played the cello between the ages 10-14, and played it badly. I also played guitar for two years in the 1990's, and played it badly.

Of course...if you were to combine the total hours of practice that I dedicated to those two instruments over that six year span, the sum total of those hours would be somewhere in the low two-digits. In fact, I believe that each of those digits would be the number "1."

And so--acknowledging the reality that if I were to buy a new ukulele, it would quickly join my dust-laden, Spanish-made, Aria concert guitar in "The Closet of Ever More"--I purged the idea from my mind and turned my attention to the equally preposterous topic of BBQ smokers.

Purged, that is, until I met "Pam the Nerdy."

Pam's "Nerd's Eye View" blog featured a number of posts detailing her passion for playing her uke. Correction: Her *five* ukes.

So, I shot Pam an email explaining that I, too, would like to start down the path to uke-phoria...but believed in my heart of hearts that the path would surely lead me over the edge of a cliff before my credit card billed had even arrived.

Then, my worst nightmare then came true. Pam responded.

Worse yet, she responded with a lengthy, comprehensive and [OH NOOOO!!!] *supportive* response.

In essence (and I'm paraphrasing here), Pam said the following: "Don't be such a sniveling, spineless, pessimistic wimp! Ukes are cheap, fun, and even a lobster can play one. You have nothing to lose. And besides, I'll help you."

Oh, damn! Thirty seconds later, I logged onto Amazon.com and bought an Oscar Schmidt OU2 Concert Uke. I also bought a copy of Jumpin' Jim's Ukulele Tips n' Tunes. You know...just in case I should someday have an insatiable urge to play "She'll be Coming 'Round the Mountain."

I named my new uke "Felix"--which seemed appropriate, given that it was manufactured by someone named "Oscar." I took it to a music shop and had the factory-issued strings removed and replaced with better ones.

Then--unable to think of any further stalling tactics--I sat down with a sigh and succumbed to the inevitable. I would have to play Felix.

And, so--in honor of George--I downloaded the chord transcription for "My Sweet Lord," made sure that nobody was around to hear me, took a deep breath...and just let it fly.

What happened next shocked me to the core. My attempt to play "My Sweet Lord" sounded like...like...like..."My Sweet Lord!!!" In fact, it sounded great! Felix and I were kickin' ass!

What a revelation! The uke *is* ridiculously easy to play. It may look like a guitar, but it doesn't frustrate like one. Granted, it's not nearly as cool as the accordion, but it is the perfect instrument for music lovers with no musical talent.

I am therefore throwing down the gauntlet. I must humbly demand that everyone reading this VTB go out and buy a uke. Christina already has, and now you must, too.

Why? Because we are going to start a new New Year's tradition just eleven short months from now. On December 31, 2007, all 61,465 VTB readers are going to record and post a uke-o-fied version of The Beatles' "In My Life " on their respective blogs.

Now, won't that be cool?

HERE'S MUD IN YOUR LONDON EYE.

2007-01-23T18:08:00.000+01:00

It's January, and that means one thing: Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressors, Inc.'s annual EMEA Sales Conference.

This year's edition wasn't in Scotland. It was in London; from where I've just returned.

Pictured above is your Virtual Tapas Bartender and his [strictly platonic] friend, Lisa Marie, taking part in the Conference's most important session--a game of cricket at the historic Lord's Cricket Ground.

Unfortunately, our game of cricket--and please, don't ask me to explain the rules...because they remain incomprehensible even after the Lord's staff's patient explanation--and planned post-game guided tour were interrupted when that well-publicized wind storm swept in and literally blew the roof off of much of the facility.

Pity, indeed. But at least I walked away with a sporty, new sweater.

Next stop was a round-trip journey--complete with Champagne and...well, more Champagne!--on the absurdly enormous London Eye ferris wheel.

Although the damn thing is 443 feet high, I felt surprisingly calm throughout much of the journey.

Unfortunately...around the time when our glass-encased cabin had reached an altitude of 441 feet, it suddenly occurred to me that London (i.e., *this* London...not London, Ontario) has been on the receiving end of an uncomfortably ambitious streak of hardcore terrorism lately.

A realization that, perhaps, goes a long way toward explaining why the photos below seem a wee bit unsteady.

But the boondoggle wasn't all fun and games. We focused--and focused intently--on a number of presentations discussing the present state of the low carb tongue depressor market and its projected trends.

At least, some of "we" focused intently on the market information. Others of "we" were more on the lookout for new and amusing corporate buzzwords. And, I'm pleased to announce, my favorite of the bunch was the following:

"BUDGET FLUSH!!!"

Noun or verb? I vote for verb...which would indeed describe, with frightening accuracy, how many Finance Departments throughout the world manage their companies' coffers. [But certainly not Acme's.]

And so, with yet another EMEA Sales Conference under my belt, I've returned to my home office for eleven more months of dotting "i's"...crossing "t's"...and lovingly running my fingertips over Felix's G-string.

Who or what is "Felix?"

My next post will tell all. ;-)

I, GARGOYLE.

2007-01-23T18:03:00.000+01:00

It's kinda nice to have an ex-father-in-law who is a talented painter. He sprung this latest work on an unsuspecting me last month.

How could I resist buying it?

I couldn't.

GLUTTONY MAY BE ONE OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS...

2007-01-13T22:26:00.000+01:00

...but some times, you just gotta sin a little.

Regular readers of this blog know that my trips to Chicago mean one thing--gluttony!

Indeed, it's amazing that I'm not clinically obese, given the typical itinerary of my visits to the new world.

My Christmas 2006 visit was no exception. I ate so many things from so many different restaurants, stands and greasy spoons that I'd surely bore my readership to tears if I attempted to describe these exploits in detail.

So, I'll just mention the two highlights (i.e., those above and beyond my already well-documented Christmas and New Years Eve pig-outs).

The first highlight involved--quite predictably--Q.

My law school roommate, Tony Soju, and I pillaged my favorite of all Chicago Q joints--The Smoke Daddy, at 1804 W. Division Street. [TBF...take note!!!]

Pictured above are the two protagonsists seated at a booth in Smoke Daddy.

And here's what we ate!

On the left, we have a Ribs Sampler--containing equal parts baby backs, spares and rib tips. Sides were cole slaw and baked beans. On the right, we have The BBQ Sampler--which proudly sports brisket, pulled pork, cole slaw and sweet potato fries. We split both plates between us and--with some pain and to our waitress's amazement--ate everything!

That was highlight #1. Here is #2.

Tony, Jai (my longtime high school and weight-lifting buddy) and I went to Sushi Station in Rolling Meadows, IL to snarf an ocean of raw fish. [TBF...take note!!!]

Behind us you can see Sushi Station's conveyor belt of sushi. It's pretty much an oval track running the length of a long, narrow, three-sided bar. The conveyor belt is covered with a plastic encasement. Each seat at the bar has its own door to the conveyor belt. When the sushi of your dreams is passing before your eyes, just lift the door, pull out your plate, and close the door.

Here we see Tony and Jai. I had to take the picture, because the waiter never returned as promised to take it for us. He must've been Spanish.

Each time you take a plate of sushi, you stack it. Plates are color-coated by price. Pink plates hold $2 sushi, blue plates $3, etc. At the end of the night, the waitress comes, counts your plates and calculates your tab. It's a task that would require me 45 minutes and a Kray supercomputer.

BTW...what you see above is around $100 worth of sushi plates. Boys will be boys.

Tony informed that a sushi meal should end with a bowl of noodles. He should know these things. He is, after all, married to a Japanese woman. So, I had no choice but to toe the Nippon line.

And boy-oh-boy, am I glad that I did! Why? Because of all Japanese dishes, noodles are my favorite.

I've had a special affinity for Japanese noodle dishes (not to mention, raw eggs!) since I first watched the movie "Tampopo"--which is a surreal, 1985 Japanese film about the search for the perfect bowl of Ramen noodles.

There were no Ramen at Sushi Station. Ramen, after all, is for truck drivers.

But Sushi Station does have Udon noodles. And the photo above shows the bowl of Udon noodles--with an outrageously flavorful bonito broth, a slice of fish cake and a tempura shrimp--that met a quick and violent demise just minutes after I grabbed hold of that spoon.

The sushi was great, but the Udon was the highlight for me.

And, now...I'm back in Spain. Wondering what, where and how much I'll eat during my next trip to Chicago.

I don't know the answer, but you'll be the first to find out.

NEW YEAR'S EVE AT THE PARTY PALACE.

2007-01-07T00:41:00.000+01:00

Now that you’ve all recovered from the shock of my Christmas Eve, I feel that you’re ready to learn about New Years Eve. As you might’ve expected, it involved another big family meal.

FrankenFeet and my sister had other plans, so the family unit was somewhat reduced that night. However, Arm and Butt made a triumphant return to my parent’s party palace for the event. And, courtesy of Amtrak because she's afraid to fly, so did my Grandmother.

We started off with crab cakes--using the left-over crab meat from Christmas Eve. The recipe is from Cooks Illustrated, and is a keeper. I've made it for each of the last several years. It is accompanied by a sauce of mayo, chipotle peppers, lime juice and garlic. I went heavy on the chipotle this year. Why? Because there ain’t much chipotle in Spain.

The main course was a rack of lamb, and a bunch of lamb chops as thick as my thigh. I grilled them rare. Big Mamma and Butt sent theirs back to the Weber (as they do every year) because they don't like their meat "raw."

Grandma had pork chops. She doesn't like lamb. It's too "spicy."

Here we see the dinner guests, sans Arm.

Here we see Arm...the Cajun.

Here we see the entire layout. Clockwise from top--(a) grilled portobello mushrooms; (b) lamb (“raw!!!”); (c) Trader Joe's risotto with asparagus; (d) white beans with tomatoes, garlic, scallions and thyme (I winged that one); (e) sauteed grape tomatoes with garlic and parsely; (f) asparagus; and (g) fennel bulb braised in white wine.

Big Mamma made apple pie for dessert. At midnight NY time, we ate twelve grapes in twelve seconds (a tradition in Spain) and got toasted--I mean, we toasted--with glasses of Sambuca and coffee beans.

Our next big holiday meal will be Groundhog Day. Believe me, you DON'T want to know.

A CHRISTMAS EVE BALLET.

2007-01-02T22:42:00.000+01:00

On the one hand...this photo might imply that I had one too many glasses of wine that night.

On the other hand...I doubt that this pose would be possible on one too many glasses of wine.

You be the judge...

CHRISTMAS EVE, VTB-STYLE.

2007-01-01T22:26:00.000+01:00

So...you're probably wondering what I did for Christmas Eve.

In a word, "EATING!"

My parents always host Christmas Eve, and it's not exactly a somber affair.

This year, the debauchery started at 4pm and ended at 11:30pm. We were sixteen for dinner; nineteen for appetizers. Aside from my parents and I, there were my brother FrankenFeet and his family, my sister and hers, FrankenFeet's step-daughter and her fiance, family friends "Arm & Butt" from my parents' ski club, Arm's daughter, and a few other drop-in's and drop-out's.

The night typically starts with drinks when the guests start arriving. We then slide into the appetizers. Above, we see a shrimp-based ceviche that my mother made. We usually have one new dish each year or so, and this was it for 2006.

Also on the appetizer table was a mountain of chilled shrimp, with two cocktail sauces. One was a standard cocktail sauce with horseradish, and the other was a mixture of wasabi mayo and ketchup. I tried, but Mom wouldn't let me add cilantro.

Smelt-o-rama! Smelt is probably the most important dish of the night. It has *always* been on the Christmas Eve menu. It has special meaning, because my Grandfather was the smelt chef when Christmas Eve was at their house during the 70's. For the last decade or so, I've taken over that job.

We treat smelt as an appetizer now--because they soften if left sitting around. I fry them up on "The Runway" (i.e., a section of my Mom's countertop that may only be used for food prep...at all other times, it must--under penalty of death--remain 100% free of clutter) while others inhale the shrimp and tortillas and salsa and dips.

Another appetizer (which somehow managed to escape my camera) were clams. Five dozen clams--most of which were snarfed by my nephew Nicky-baby.

Smelt-frying is a two man job, so I recruited my sister as my assistant--an assistant who was far too overdressed for such a messy task. She dredged the smelt in flour, dipped in egg and dredged in flour a second time while I manned the fryer. We did a split batch last night: half the smelt done the traditional way, the other half with Cajun spice spiking the flour. Most preferred the latter. Sorry, Grandpa.

Pardon the cheesy smile, but smelt brings out the nut in me.

More smelt-induced cheesiness; this time, with the help of Arm's daughter.

In between the appetizers and the sit-down meal, Santa always stops by with gifts for the kids. None of the kids ever questions why Arm has mysteriously disappeared during each of Santa's visits during the past ten years. Perhaps he's Santa-phobic?

After Santa leaves and Arm re-appears, we move into the dining room for the sit-down meal.

Which features spaghetti with oil/garlic/anchovy sauce, and spaghetti with red calamari sauce.

And also, Cajun crawfish and scallops.

BTW...If you're wondering why there's such an encroachment of Cajun food in our otherwise traditional Italo-American menu, the answer is simple. Arm is from Louisiana.

And also, an endless supply of crab legs. FrankenFeet and Dad boiled them on the deck, using the turkey deep-fryer to speed things along.

After dinner, we do the Secret Santa gift exchange. We each draw names from a hat in November, and buy a Secret Santa gift for that person. The tradition quickly turned into a contest to see who comes up with the cleverest (or most raunchy) gag gift.

This year, I drew my mother's name. I bought her a rather large, jolly, terra cotta Buddha for The Runway--whose belly Mom rubbed for about twenty minutes.

And finally, FrankenFeet's step-daughter (who is a pretty talented baker) brought dessert. I am proud of this girl, because it was I who began giving her baking and dessert cookbooks for Christmas since she was thirteen years old.

And that, my friends, was my Christmas Eve. Any celebration that combines Italian food, Cajun food and Buddha seems a night worth telling others about.

ENTER THE LOVE MACHINE.

2006-12-19T15:44:00.000+01:00

Before we begin, I'd like you to click on the YouTube video above and keep the music rolling as you read the rest of this post.

Done it? Ok, good. Then let’s begin.

You’ll recall that a few weeks ago, I posted a photo of my daughter asleep on the sofa with Fino--the bigger and sexier of my two cats.

Little did I suspect the outpouring of lust for that big hunka chinchilla-soft fur and bulging muscle-mass.

So overwhelming was the global infatuation with Fino, that I was strong-armed by the desperate masses to write a stand-alone post about him. Far be it from me to deprive the masses--desperate or otherwise.

Fino was born on September 8, 1997 in the Tonkatykes cattery in Lansing, Michigan.

His full name, as registered with The Cat Fanciers’ Association, Inc., is “Tonkatykes Fino La Ina.”

He is the son of "Kipkat White Knight of Tonkatykes" (father) and "CH Tonkatykes Rising Star" (mother). Perhaps you saw his parents in the off-Broadway production of "Cats on a Hot Tin Roof."

He is a pure-bred Tonkinese; which is, more or less, a mixture of Siamese and Burmese.

Fino never graduated from college, but he is a long-standing member of the Local 3420 Pipefitters’ Union. He is also certified fishmonger, a third degree black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and former bass guitarist for the rock band, "Moby Grape."

Aside from his Michigan birthplace, Fino has lived in Oak Park, IL, Barcelona and (now) Castilla-LaMancha.

Healthwise, I can make two interesting disclosures about Fino.

First, a veterinarian once told me that he was unlikely to live beyond the next few months because of some unpronouncable virus that turned-up in his blood test. That was in 1997.

Second, no veterinarian has ever--EVER--heard his heartbeat. No...it’s not because his heartbeat is weak or irregular. Rather, it’s because his purring--which can only be compared with the growl of a Harley-Davidson exhaust pipe--drowns-out every other sound that’s filtered through the stethoscope.

Yes, Fino is one helluva happy cat. In fact...were it not for his meticulous use the litter box, I might question whether he were a cat at all. He's more like a dog.

He comes when called. He refuses to leave when asked. If you’re ever looking for Fino, you need only take a step and will surely find him underneath your foot--a habit that will eventually cost me either a lawsuit or a broken hip.

If you sit on my sofa, he will be on your lap within three seconds. He will be on your chest within four. His left ear will be in your left eye within six.

Make no mistake--this boy lives to make love. And if you should ever visit, then he *will* make love to YOU--whether you want it, or not.

That’s why I call him, “The Love Machine.”

And if you listen closely to his deep, buttery, baritone purrrrrr--you, like I, will come to believe that Fino is more than just a cat.

He is the reincarnation of Barry White.

SAL'S NOT DEAD!

2006-12-13T19:09:00.000+01:00

He's just insanely busy!

- Housework.
- Childcare.
- Preparations for Christmas.
- Quick business trip to Germany the other day.
- Christmas party at Acme Low Carb Tongue Depressor, Inc.'s Madrid office tomorrow.
- Flying over to Amsterdam to hang with an old friend this coming weekend.
- Yadda-Yoda-Yaaaaah!!!

I still owe you a post about "The Love Machine." I haven't forgotten. I'm just waiting for the right mix of time, energy, caffeine and guilt to power me through it.

Well...at the very least, I should have something interesting to post about Amsterdam when I return Sunday night. If not, then I'll make something up.

Gotta run, now. The llamas need to be fed and brushed.

COCONUT!

A [SLIGHTLY RECYCLED] CHRISTMAS POEM FOR 2007.

2006-12-06T13:50:00.000+01:00

I don't foresee myself having the time or the energy to write a new Christmas poem for this year; so I'll recycle last year's--which, I think, was a pretty good one.

You need to understand a few things about Spanish Christmas traditions to fully appreciate the poem. Specifically, that Christmas (and the arrival of Santa Claus/Father Christmas/Papa Noel) isn't the huge event for kids in Spain that it is elsewhere.

Rather, Spanish kids get the majority of their gifts from--and thus, save the vast, vast majority of their enthusiasm for--the Three Wise Men (aka, Los Reyes Magos). Three Wise Men's Day takes place on January 6 (i.e., the Epiphany).

And, so..with that background in mind, I give you your slightly recycled 2007 Christmas poem.

YOUR EXPAT BLOGGER’S CHRISTMAS POEM.

T’was the night before Christmas
And all throughout Spain
Towns were dry, scorched and dusty
Another year without rain.

Water bottles were placed
By the doorstep with care
Although nobody seems to know
Why thery’re put there.

The Spaniards were nestled
All snug in their beds
A day’s intake of brandy
Left dull pains in their heads.

I sat at my Apple
Filled with dread; feeling blue
Yet another damn holiday
With NOTHING to do.

When outside the house
There arose such a clatter
Could it be those damn goats?
Spreading more fecal matter?

I ran to the window
Threw open the pane
T’was a man dressed in red
With a bushy, white mane.

He said, “My name is Santa”
“And I’m ready to scream!”
He seemed to be suffering
From low self-esteem.

He said, “The children of Spain”
“Don’t give a hoot about me!”
“They only want those Three Wise Men”
“I feel as small as a flea.”

I said, “Calm down, my friend”
“There’s no reason to bleed”
“A little re-branding”
“Is all that you need.”

I put my hand on his shoulder
And gave it a pet
And said, “I’ll go fetch my razor”
“Drink some chilled Freixinet.”

With a wave of my hand
And some shave cream to match
I trimmed his beard down
To a funky soul patch.

Then we drove to Madrid
To meet a biker I knew
I said, “My friend here’s in need of”
“A “Keep on Truckin’” tatoo."

A half hour later
His bicep was glowing
He looked in the mirror
And his face seemed all-knowing.

With a confident swagger
He walked into a park
And seized children’s attention
With a loud, mighty bark.

He said, “Listen up children!”
“Or I’ll give you a punch!”
“The fat man’s in town!”
“He eats Wise Men for lunch!”

The children were frightened
Yet they thought he seemed cool
Then they sat on his knees
As he sat on a stool.

With eyes like milk-saucers
Kids looked up to his face
“I’ll bet you’ve dated Madonna”
“And even got to third base!”

When the children disbanded
He wore a Cheshire Cat-grin
“So it’s true that it’s marketing”
“That makes the world spin.”

Then he rose to his feet
Donned Armani sunglasses
He puffed out his chest
And turned his back to the masses.

With a newly-found vigor
He hopped into his sleigh
And said, “From this day forward”
“Spain does Christmas *my* way.”

“There’ll be no more Roscón!”
“No more Wise Men parades!”
“The *true* Christmas ‘El Gordo’ ”
“Stands before you in shades.”

As he flew out of sight
I swear I heard him squeal
“Merry Christmas to all!”
“And to Sal...a BOOK DEAL!”

[This poem is dedicated to my fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Bailey. No, no, no...he's not dead. But he is the original silly Christmas poet.]

A SPANISH CHRISTMAS-TIME TRADITION.

2006-12-04T19:52:00.000+01:00

It happened last December, and now it has happened again.

Call me a buzzkill, but I think that I'd rather eat mincemeat than personify it.

WHY I GET OUT OF BED EVERY MORNING.

2006-12-03T11:55:00.000+01:00

Reason 1 of 1.

THE FIRST THOUGHT THAT POPPED INTO MY HEAD WHEN I WOKE UP THIS MORNING.

2006-11-30T23:30:00.000+01:00

If you are dreaming about listening to the radio, then will your clock radio wake you up when the alarm goes off at 6am?

CALLING ALL COCONUTS...

2006-11-28T22:38:00.000+01:00

Just wanted to inform all of you that Thanksgiving has passed, and as such...Tis the season of Vince Guaraldi.

Yep...I've listed to my well-worn, ten year old "A Charlie Brown Christmas" CD no less than eight times since last Thursday.

And you should, too.

COCONUT!

[God! I really need a painting or something for that wall.]

AND NOW FOR A PRIVATE MESSAGE TO THE AMISH.

2006-11-26T22:25:00.000+01:00

Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know that 99% of the people reading this already have a blog. And to those people, what I'm about to say will be 100% worthless.

But the fact remains that a number of VTB Chat Loungers and lurkers have not yet entered the 21st century. That's right...they have no blogs of their own. We'll call these people, "the Amish."

And the Amish are simply not carrying their weight around here.

So...I'd like to briefly enlighten the Amish on how they can quickly, easily and *anonymously* create their own blogs.

Step 1: Go to www.blogger.com

Step 2: Click that big orange arrow that says something like "Create a Blog.

Step 3: Follow the instructions and you'll have your own blog up and running in three minutes. Literally.

That's it! A whole lot easier than driving a horse and buggy. And a lot less messy, too.

AND NOW FOR ANOTHER MOMENT OF SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION.

2006-11-24T22:15:00.000+01:00

Have you ever found yourself wondering, “Why hasn’t Sal ever written about cocktails that are set on fire before drinking?”

Well, stop wondering...because now I have.

My scholarly dissertation on the flaming Galician cocktail called “Queimada” is now published in The Spirit World.

Check it out by clicking HERE.

THE OFFICIAL SONG OF “EXPATAPALOOZA 2007.”

2006-11-24T07:52:00.000+01:00

Support for our proposed “2007 Expat Reunion”—which I hereby rename “Expatapalooza 2007,” per Pam’s suggestion—has been overwhelming.

So overwhelming, in fact, that I felt that the event needed its own song. So, I wrote one.

I mean, I wrote the lyrics. The music is lifted from the classic pinko folk song, “Little Boxes.”

Click the YouTube video above to familiarize yourself with the music. And then, start memorizing the new lyrics below.

Why? Because *everybody* attending Expatapalooza 2007 will be expected to sing along as Pam and I play our ukuleles.

LITTLE EXPATS

Little expats.
In Sal’s basement.
Drinking shot glasses.
Full of ticky tacky.

Little expats.
Popping Prozac.
And they all whine just the same.

See them standing.
In the supermarket.
Searching vainly.
For JIF peanut butter.

Little expats.
Craving root beer.
And they all whine just the same.

They are lawyers.
And writers.
English teachers.
And photographers.

And they’re all.
Deprived of vegemite.
And Pep Chews.
And Almond Joys.

Later on.
When they’re gray and crusty.
They will move back.
To their native lands.

Where they’ll all pine.
For old Europe.
And they’ll all whine.
Just...the...same.

Learn it!

Live it!

COCONUT!

KLONDIKE KAT ALWAYS GETS HIS...ESTONIAN?

2006-11-22T20:39:00.000+01:00

We did it!

Through the magical, mystical forces of peace, love and COCONUT...the VTB Chat Lounge now has its very own Estonian!

Recall that in yesterday’s maiden voyage of the good ship, “Out That Lurker,” we made a desperate plea for the introverted Estonian who religiously checks this blog each day to step forward and join the party.

And he did!

Or she did.

Quite honestly, I’m still not sure about our new friend’s gender. But it really doesn’t matter, because most people in blog chat rooms don’t tell the truth, anyway.

So, let’s hear what our new friend has to say:

Hi,

A couple words about myself. (Gosh, that sounds like "English for beginners" course). My employer is Fish Murderers Inc. and I proudly pose as the Executive BS Tester for their 3 companies. `nuff said.

I enjoy your blog, Sal, with the COCONUTS and all. It is safely tucked in my IE "Favourites" and during my coffee brake I sometimes click on the link and say to myself quietly (Hannibal Lecter-like) "Sa-al. Hi Sa-al".

How I got here. I will probably be moving to Southern Spain in a year or so if all goes as planned. I had to do some research. After typing "life in spain blog expat" , i got all sorts of info. Expatica Spain had your article and I found your blog. Tadaa!

BTW it`s not that cold here yet. Around zero Celsius. The`re promising tons of snow for Christmas though.

I’m sure that I speak for the entire VTB family--and of course I do, because I’m the dictator around here--when I say, "Tere tulemast!"

Anyone who can mention Hannibal Lecter, Fish Murderers and COCONUT in the same four-paragraph e-mail message is certainly welcomed with open arms and open wines bottles.

AND NOW FOR ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF...“OUT THAT LURKER!”

2006-11-21T21:30:00.000+01:00

A “lurker” is a person who habitually reads a blog, but never comments.

In a sense, he’s the digital equivalent of that creepy guy behind the one-way mirror in a WalMart dressing room.

Now...in a perfect world, being a lurker here at the VTB should be a secure, relaxing activity—with said lurker being comfortably wrapped in the warm, cozy cloak of his own impenetrable anonymity.

But alas, the VTB world is far from perfect. Why? Because that little Site Meter box at the bottom of my blog knows all...and tells all.

What does it tell me?

Well...it tells me the city and country in which every reader of this VTB sits, how long was his visit, how many pages he viewed, and which Google search words got him here. And let me tell ya...that latter nugget of information can be pretty darn interesting. ;-)

So...with that background information in hand, I am pleased to announce a new VTB segment called, “Out that Lurker!”

That’s right...every now and again, I am going “out” whichever lurker has grabbed my attention of late. And today’s outting victim is...

THAT GUY OR GIRL FROM TALLIN, HARJUMAA, ESTONIA!

Yeah, that’s right. I’m talking to *you*! Stop looking over your shoulder! There’s only one person from Estonia who ever reads my blog. So...if you’re reading this and there's a snowmobile in your driveway with Estonian license plates, then congratulations! You’ve just been outted.

Now, get your ass over to the VTB Chat Lounge and introduce yourself. No need to give your name or political affiliation, but at least tell us what is your favorite candy bar and whether you have a tattoo.

And don’t worry if English isn’t your native language. Here at the VTB, we speak only the language of love.

And COCONUT!

SILENCE OF THE LAMB.

2006-11-19T12:09:00.000+01:00

I hate Sundays. I’ve hated them throughout my entire life.

I hated them as a kid, because it meant that my two sacred days of watching late night TV had ended.

I hated them as an adult living in the US, because it meant that I had to return to work the next morning—and, cruelly enough, it also meant that work-related stress would return right around bedtime.

But above all, I hate them in Spain. Why? Because a Sunday in Spain means that everything is closed and there is NOTHING to do.

It’s for this reason that I woke up this morning in a panic.

“Sunday! Nothing to do! Dangerous! Very dangerous!”

Believe me, folks—I really, REALLY don’t relax well. In fact, I can’t even begin to fathom what other people find so relaxing about relaxing.

My body tenses like an over-tuned violin string. My teeth start grinding like a mortar and pestle. And my mind starts wandering into neighborhoods where no mind ought to wander.

“Must occupy myself! Must occupy myself!” I cried as I leaped from bed and bounded down the staircase.

I started rifling through cabinets. I tore through magazine racks. I scanned the neighborhood for any signs of life. It was all for naught. Until...I opened the refrigerator door.

And there—staring me right in the face—were a leg of lamb, a whole chicken, a sweet potato and a COCONUT.

My trapezius softened. My head tilted back. I let out a long, drawn-out, quasi-orgasmic breath. And then—refocusing my gaze on those four objects sitting on the refrigerator shelf—I snarled, “You’re smoked!”

Enter The Salivator.

We all know the procedure by now. I fired up the charcoals (Minion Method, for those who are interested), and turned my attention toward prepping the food.

The first order of business was to name the meat. This is important, because Q’g can take anywhere from five to fifteen hours. And given that I live alone...I need someone or something to talk with during that long haul.

I named the leg of lamb “PATCHES” and the chicken “CORKY.” There was no need to name the other items, because—as we all know—lambs and chickens have a tendency to dominate conversations.

PATCHES had been marinading overnight in a mixture of one part Kikoman Soy Sauce and two parts vegetable oil. CORKY was in a brine of 6 T. table salt, 3/4 cup of sugar and 1 quart of water.

I removed and dried them both. I dusted PATCHES with a dry rub called “Magic Dust” (recipe can be found in the book “Peace, Love and Barbecue” by Mike Mills).

I washed the as-yet-unnamed sweet potato and jabbed it several times with a fork.

And then, I sawed the COCONUT in half. If you think sawing a COCONUT is easy, then think again. It took ten minutes and I’m damn lucky to have escaped with all my fingers.

I somehow squeezed all this food on The Salivator’s top grate, shoved a digital probe thermometer into PATCHES, and closed the lid.

And then I sat down, and commenced a conversation with PATCHES and CORKY that ran the gamut from middle-eastern politics...to animal husbandry...to the best method for making hats out of yarn and empty beer cans.

I removed the COCONUT after three hours—which was probably an hour too much, because it was a bit dry. But interesting, nonethless. Smoky COCONUT is very niiiice!

At hour four, CORKY'S breast was at 160F and her thigh was at 170F. Time for her to come off!

She was so beautiful, I almost didn't want to shred her. But shred her I did, because CORKY gave her life so that my daughter can have chicken salad for dinner tomorrow night. Sorry, CORKER. I didn't invent the food chain. I just follow it.

At hour four and a half, PATCHES hit 170F. He was drop-dead gorgeous. I wrapped him and the sweet potato in heavy-duty aluminum foil, and put them into an empty beer cooler. They sat in there for another hour...keeping toasty warm while PATCHES re-absorbed his juices.

Finally, I sliced and then chopped PATCHES into little bits, served him on Wonder bread and drizzled with an Owensboro, Kenucky-style "black sauce" (i.e., Worchester sauce, white vinegar, lemon juice, brown sugar and garlic).

And, so...I successfully navigated the pitfalls of another Sunday. All thanks to PATCHES, CORKY and COCONUT.

In case you're wondering, I'm going to have a salad for dinner.

DEER DIE-ARY.

2006-11-16T20:45:00.000+01:00

Congratulations to my much bigger little brother, FrankenFeet, for achieving his life's dream.

For each of the last ten Novembers, he has travelled to Michigan to hunt deer...and returned with nothing more than a chest cold and a case of foot fungus.

But this year was different, he--to quote Ted Nugent--"whacked" two deer during his first morning. And one of them was a six-pointer.

[For the benefit of any confused Europeans reading this, feel free to write me privately and I'll explain what a "six-pointer" means.]

Yes...most American families will sit-down next week to a Thanksgiving meal of roast turkey with stuffing.

But at FrankenFeet's house, the menu will proudly feature roast venison with stuffing.

COCONUT stuffing!

FOR ONCE...SAL'S TAPAS BAR DROPS THE "VIRTUAL."

2006-11-14T23:37:00.000+01:00

After two and a half years of diligent blogging, I finally got to meet a fellow blogger tonight. And we met the old fashioned way: in person.

That’s right… Angie—Indiana’s most trusted journalist—and her fiancé, “The Boyfriend,” made a triumphant return to Madrid to relive the days of her bygone youth and give me an excuse to stay late in the city drinking wine.

It’s always a risky proposition when you meet your heroes in person. I once met Andre the Giant at a bus depot in Fairbanks, Alaska and was crushed to discover that he was not only 5’10”…but also a classically-trained oboist.

But when those heroes prove to be as nice and as genuine as you’d imagined, it makes the risk worthwhile.

And such was the case with Ang and The Boyfriend tonight. They were the real deal.

We had several rounds of wine and tapas at a mercifully quiet, mercifully uncrowded Madrid bar and babbled-on like old friends for a full three hours—fifteen minutes of which were devoted to the all-important topic of COCONUT.

Oh, and by the way…Ang is about as tall as Andre the Giant. I have the stiff neck to prove it.

All this brings me to my next separate-but-related point—which is the very real need for a 2007 European Blogger Reunion. And since nobody else has jumped on this grenade, I’ll do so now.

Christina, Trac, Lady Di, Cream, Tat, TBF’s, C-Swiss, Nerd’s Eye, Bueller…Bueller…Bueller? What do you think? We can discuss possible dates and location later, but for now…just give me an indication of your general level of interest.

Does this idea sound remotely appealing to anyone?

If we build it, will you come?

AND NOW FOR ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF..."GRAMMATICAL ERRORS IN ELVIS SONGS."

2006-11-12T11:11:00.000+01:00

Critiquing the grammar in Elvis songs is something that has been floating around my brain for years.

I was just waiting for the right moment (i.e., a moment when I had nothing more interesting or intelligent about which to write).

Well, that moment has arrived. So...at the risk of incurring the wrath of Trac, I give you the first installment of "Grammatical Errors in Elvis Songs!"

Love me tenderLY, ["TENDER" IS AN ADVERB, ELVIS. IT REQUIRES THE SUFFIX “-LY.”]
Love me sweetLY, [OH DEAR, ANOTHER PESKY ADVERB.]
Never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
And I love you so [“I LOVE YOU” SO WHAT? SO DEEPLY? SO OBSESSIVELY? SO COCONUTILY?].

Love me tenderLY, [JESUS! DIDN’T I JUST CORRECT THIS SAME ERROR?]
Love me trueLY, [LOOK...NOW I'M STARTING TO GET PISSED-OFF.]
All my dreams ARE fulfilled. [OH GREAT! NOW WE’RE TREATING VERBS AS OPTIONAL, TOO?]
For my darlin'G I love you, ["DARLIN'?!" HEY, ELVIS...I KNOW YOU'RE FROM MISSISSIPPI AND ALL, BUT...]
And I always will.

Love me tenderLY, [ARGHH!!! LOLLY’S, LOLLY’S, LOLLY’S...GET YOUR ADVERBS THERE… LEARN IT! LIVE IT!]
Love me long, ["LONG?!" DO MEAN, "LENGTHILY?"]
Take me to your heart.
For it’s there that I belong, [WELL...AT LEAST HE USED THE PROPER CONTRACTION OF "IT IS."]
And we’ll never part.

Love me tenderLY, [I'M NOT READING ANYMORE. I AM NOT READING ANYMORE!]
Love me dearLY, [GRRRRR...!]
Tell me you are mine.
I’ll be yours through all the years,
Till the end of time.

When at last my dreams come true
Darling this I know
Happiness will follow you
Everywhere you go. [WOW! AN ENTIRE VERSE WITH NO GRAMMATICAL ERRORS! MAYBE THAT OL' BOY IS LEARIN' GOODER THAN I THOUGHT?]

AND NOW FOR A MOMENT OF...APPLE FRITTERS.

2006-11-09T22:18:00.000+01:00

Here's a little-known fact: I'm as crazy about apple fritters as I am about COCONUT.

Yep...happiness is a warm apple fritter. It's like a lifeline.

Just thought you should know; lest you were starting to perceive me as...you know, one-dimensional or something.

I'M SO WHAT?

2006-11-08T08:26:00.000+01:00

This VTB tends to be a politics-free zone. That's intentional, and I do it for several reasons.

First, I value all seven of my readers and don't want to risk alienating any of them.

Second, let's be honest. The only thing more boring than politics is being forced to listen to another person's views about politics.

And third...the last time that your virtual bartender ventured outside of the politics-free zone, he got his fingers burnt.

It's with that background in mind that I remained merrily aloof vis-a-vis the pivotal mid-term elections that took place last night in the US. And now that the results are in, please allow me one fleeting moment outside "the zone."

Jack, Eric, Ginger...take it away!

[Oh yeah. Don't forget...COCONUT!]

SOME DAYS, WE NEED IT MORE THAN OTHERS...

2006-11-07T11:31:00.000+01:00

...don't we?

COCONUT...COCONUT...COCONUT...COCONUT! ;-)

BORAT, MEET MY DAD. DAD, MEET...OH MY GOD!!!

2006-11-05T23:24:00.000+01:00

Well...I guess this explains a lot about your virtual bartender, doesn't it?

COCONUT!

AND NOW FOR A POST OF UNSPEAKABLE BANALITY.

2006-11-03T07:28:00.000+01:00

In a fit of post-divorce redecorating, I bought a new dining room table.

Why am I telling you this? Well, there are several reasons:

1. My brain—and in particular, that creative hunk of it with the Latin name—is barely running on fumes these days. Tossing-off an unspeakably banal post about an article of furniture seemed like an easy way to fulfill my semi-weekly publishing obligation.

2. This table spurred an interesting conversation with the woman who sold it to me. I bought it at a plant/tree nursery in town. They had no mosaic tables in stock, but agreed to place an order with the distributor. The saleswoman informed that they sell very, very few mosaic tables. I asked why? She said that Spaniards much prefer those hideous, molded-concrete table/bench combinations for their outdoor patios. But, I said, this table isn’t for my outdoor patio. It’s for my dining room. She looked at me as if I had offered to cook and eat her first-born child. Then she said, “Oh, no...nobody puts these tables indoors.” Go figure!

3. I have the same table—albeit, a smaller, round version—in my kitchen...and Angie has mentioned several times how much she loves it. So...there, Ang. This one’s for you.

4. And finally....that hairy little brown sphere in the middle of the table provides me with the perfect segway to say something of great importance: COCONUT!

OK! Now I can enter the weekend with a clear conscience.

OF BIRTHDAYS, BBQ'S, HARVESTS AND HALLOWEEN.

2006-10-31T23:25:00.000+01:00

Wow! The past week has been incredibly busy, but at least I can’t complain that I’ve been deprived of US culture. Or partying!

For starters, my daughter’s fourth birthday was Sunday. But that’s a deceptive statement, since the birthday celebration actually started last August when my family—in what is becoming an annual tradition—threw Inés a way, way early birthday party while we were in Chicago.

But party train hit full steam last week.

We had a birthday party for Inés’s friends and classmates on Thursday at the local kiddieland park. You know...it’s one of those storefronts in which 700 toddlers jump into a pit filled with 700,000 plastic balls and remain merrily submerged for 7-8 hours.

The only difference between US kiddie parks and Spanish ones is that the Spanish ones all have bars serving beer to the parents. No joke.

The next day (Friday), Inés had another birthday party with exactly the same kids attending—but this time, it was *in* school. Yes, Daddy dropped Inés off at school...along with an arm-load of grocery bags filled with pastries and juice boxes.

When Daddy picked-up Inés, she was wearing a large, cardboard crown and a even larger smile.

Then on Friday night, we were invited to a “Fall Harvest Festival” at an American-run, English-language, evangelical school a couple of towns over. Here’s where the American culture bit really kicked-in.

It was like stepping into Mayberry—only with much better weather. This Festival had everything that a homesick American boy could ask for. Bobbing for apples. Tractor-pulled hay rides through the moonlit corn fields. Face painting. Country line dancing (not for me, of course!). Apple pies. Pumpkin pies. And hot dogs and s’mores roasted over a campfire.

Do you know how long it’s been since I had last seen a God-damned marshmallow?! Let alone, setting one ablaze and stuffing the entire black-encrusted ball of molten napalm into my mouth. I almost wept with joy.

After the Fall Harvest Festival, I put Inés to bed and started cooking for Sunday’s Birthday BBQ.

Actually, that’s not true. I started cooking the previous Sunday, when I dusted off The Salivator and spent twelve hours smoking 11 lbs. of pulled pork—which I then froze, because I know that the art of smoking has no respect for tight deadlines.

But, anyway...on Friday night, I made the sauces—both a vinegar-based Carolina sauce and a tomato-based Kansas City sauce.

On Saturday night (again, after Inés went to bed), I made the salads—creamy coleslaw and a macaroni salad that nearly everybody on earth seems crazy about, except me.

Sunday morning was a whirl of activity. After weeks of waiting, I was finally able to give Inés her IKEA drafting table—which she put to good use by covering every square inch of it (and much of the floor) with masking tape.

Then, the manic cooking phase began.

Thawed pulled pork moistened with apple juice went into the 220ºF oven to gently warm. Beer went into the ice-filled cooler. Green beans, pimientos de padrón and bananas were tossed with olive oil, salt and pepper (and, in the case of the bananas, sprinkled with curry powder) and tossed onto the grill. Chicken thighs (for the kids) were brined in a salt and sugar solution and also grilled. And all the while...Inés appeared in the kitchen every seven minutes wanting my help stringing plastic beads onto pipe cleaners.

The guests arrived at 2pm—which was 50 minutes before I finished cooking. But still, that’s a much better on-time performance than I’ve exhibited in past BBQ’s.

We had two families over for the birthday BBQ. A British family whose son is in Inés’s class. And an American family from Pittsburgh that lives down the street.

The Americans are not only incredibly nice people and the closest thing that I have to a family over here—but they’ve also proven to be an invaluable source of peanut butter.

And thank God for the mother...who saved me from certain exhaustion by volunteering to bake the birthday cake. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles.

And then, just when I thought it was safe to rest...today was Halloween.

I’ve mentioned in past blog posts that Halloween is still a fledgling holiday here in Spain. But a Spanish family down the street seems hell-bent on changing that. They threw an incredibly ambitious, well-organized Halloween party this afternoon for all of the neighborhood kids (and for quite a few adults, also). Inés went as Superman. I went as Michael Myers.

After the party, the kids went trick or treating—which, judging by the perplexed-yet-horrified looks on the faces of seven out of every ten neighborhood homeowners, has not yet gained a foothold in the collective Spanish consciousness.

At least I was prepared. I had a bushel-basket full of chocolate chip and COCONUT granola bars sitting in my foyer.

And now that birthday and Halloween season is over, it really is time to rest. Inés is with her mother for the week. Thanksgiving is still a month away. And I’ve got 2/3 a bushel-basket full of chocolate chip and COCONUT granola bars vying for my attention.

BTW...does anybody want the chocolate chips?

HAPPY FOURTH BIRTHDAY, PUMPKIN!

2006-10-29T00:01:00.000+02:00