Sunday, March 30, 2008

In the West, Cuisine ist Krieg

Cuisine ist Krieg in Portland

Portland.
In terms of its climate and overall disposition, the Pacific Northwest is as close as our miserable little country gets to the greatness of Scandinavia. The climate plays some small part of it, I am sure. Gottenburg and Portland share a similar, gloomy, cloudscape, with a grey ocean thundering just a ram's run away. Just think of it. Giant trees covered in moss, on which to tie captive maidens. It wrenches the heart to know that the churls and cretins that founded this stupid berg thought not to preserve a single oak, fixated as they were on farming every square meter with the humble harvest of corn, corn, and more corn.

Formerly a logging town, haunt of junkies and hippie burnouts, Portland was a place where a wretch with a methamphetamine addiction could while away his or her last days thumb-strumming an acoustic guitar with a loyal dog barking to the broken rhythms. The benevolent, yet not overtly sunny weather and relative lack of ultraconservative mongoloids has been good to the town, of late, and it is now a city enlightened enough to sport a performance venue dedicated to Metal-the Satyricon. Eager to settle a score with our old Black-Metal Enemies, Indian, my bandmates drove our tourbus overnight to reach the place, but I digress.

Portland is possessed of the most incredible cuisine. Among other things, the Starbucks there are empty. Barely a soul in those terrible cafes. And no wonder, the one Starbucks coffee I had there was particularly atrocious-not the standardized, solid, boring but effective flavor of a typical Starbucks house coffee, but a pale, watery, brew tasting of dishsoap. Clearly, they have given up. Vanquished, but a hoard of independent coffeehouses that brew coffee fit for the mighty Thunder God himself, the empty green rooms are a laughing stock there. Stump Town, the mightiest of them all, is a formidable coffeehouse. Stump Town is the equal of our vaunted Intelligentsia, and is is one of many independent coffeehouses there. One by one, Chicago has let its independent operations go, and lameness is triumphing here. Sad fate. Northwest Coffee Roasters, on Burnside, is a pleasant room with admirable lattes. I caffeinated there daily and contemplated the sad fate of Filter-closed, by an idiot who had so little respect for his customer base, and the generosity they had shown him by patronizing his business, that he neglected to renew his lease as a Bank of America usurped his spot. Fool. Ungrateful, short-sighted fool.

It seems that, to triumph over mediocrity, one has to wage constant war. Customers need to be educated at every opportunity, to avoid equating a homegrown Chinese Restaurant with tacky decor and strange fortune cookies, from a Panda Express. Burger Baron is not the same as Mc Donalds, and yet the cretins will have you think otherwise because they fill the airwaves with their shit.

For now, good food, and the nuanced, pleasant lifestyle that goes with it, triumphs in Portland. Among other things, there are more strip clubs there than any other place I can imagine. These are colorful places, not the fleecing operations of Atlanta, or mere JerkOff dens. Each is different. Again, I digress.

Easily, the best Tapas I have had outside Spain, was at El Torro Bravo, on the City's West Side. They serve incredible Paella as well, have an appropriate wine list, and the servers do not flinch at the sight of a seven-piece black metal band, in corpsepaint, sitting down to dine.

I wish I could say I liked Farm, but I did not. The operation was buckling under the strain of its own success, and they made mistakes like undercooked lentils, unattentive service, and a Dungeness crab risotto that tasted like risotto, yes, but not Dungeness crab.

Other culinary highlights include the city's battery of "roach coaches". These hardy operations, based in trailers, delivery vans, and mobile homes, line the inner-city parking lots, serving a dizzying array of foodstuff in a kitchen smaller than a decent amplifier. In Chicago, we persecute gyros vendors for the fun of it, so enthralled are we with regulating away charm and adventurousness, in the name of cleanliness, that we forget that each of these operations is a small microcosm of cuisine-a world of possibilities from which greater things might sprout.

Sadly, the city's churches were mostly stone, and well-guarded, but again, I digress.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Brunch

BLACK METAL BRUNCH
A Culinary Review by the Illustrious and Infernal Psycho Butcher

Since my unfortunate period of incarceration, I have made a point of appreciating the small things in life that a person might otherwise ignore: candlelight, black nail polish, wood smoke. One of the greatest of these small joys is the ritual of brunch. It compares favorably to a Sunday afternoon, spent on the floor of a prison cell, administering a homemade tattoo with an unraveled bass string and the broken contents of a Bic pen, though I must admit, the latter has its charms as well.

Regarding the reasons for my incarceration, my attorney has advised me that, if I am to stay in the country, I should not comment. Suffice it to say that my actions were ethically justified, and aesthetically as well. Ahhh, wood smoke.

Brunch is, in fact, a perfect example of “Nature Red in Tooth and Claw” as the Englishman would have put it. The better the brunch, the more a person is forced to wait, in the cold or the rain, or for enduring hours spent crouching on a charming Wicker-Park sidewalk, reading the vapid nonsense the publishers of Red Eye choose to print rather than real news. In fact, the longer the wait, the better the food, because the gluttonous hoards of humanity do not assort themselves randomly. Those cretinous individuals happy with a Waffle House stack of pancakes, or Moons Over My Hammy sit comfortably, stuffing their obese bellies without so much as a hunt for a space to park their minivans, while the truly astute breakfast enthusiasts all flock to a tiny cluster of establishments. Among the best of these is the Bongo Room. I have not been there since before my incarceration, and in truth, it was at its best before my original incarceration, in the 1990’s. I am told that the lines for brunch have stretched two city blocks, down Milwaukee Avenue and through the parking lot of an adjacent Burger King, (now closed, thank Odin). Many was the Sunday morning when my bandmates and I were forced to wait outside this place, cigarettes in hand, for hours, for a mere taste of the heavenly pleasure of the chocolate chip pancakes there. I am sure they are still divine.

In essence, the weak do not deserve to eat good food. The stupid eat bad food without realizing it.

I write all this because I recently dined at Hot Chocolate, for brunch, and it was worth the hellish wait. In fact, they provide free coffee, and fragments of delicious pastries, while encouraging the would-be patron to sit on comfortable furniture. This was, frankly, amazing to me. When brunch came, I was delighted. Each member of our party had a dish that amounted to a novel interpretation of a classic delight. The grilled cheese sandwich was delightful. The real trick was the analog of the Egg Mc Muffin that my drummer was kind enough to share with me. It was heavenly. The donuts there live up to their reputation- for them it is perhaps worth waiting ten years in a cramped cell.

Very recently, we repeated the brunch ritual at Café Lula. Before my incarceration, this was a small, hipster, diner. It was the sort of place a person would pretend to read the Onion as they waited for an inexpensively-priced and expertly-rendered interpretation of eggs and potatoes, as they nursed a hangover from hours of drunken screaming. It has come up in the world, rising to the top of a culinary food chain that has sent formidable phonies to their dark demise. The brunch there is truly magnificent. The French toast, for instance, was an infernal delight, with layer after layer of mysterious pleasure stacked neatly for annihilation at the business end of a fork. The trout was magnificent. The fish did not die in vain and must have gone to Valhalla for its contribution to the pleasure of a greater being.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Black Metal Restaurant Review

Mr. Psycho Butcher wrote this in 2003, I think. He is out of prison again. It is worth reprinting because he has voiced a desire to continue writing these dispatches.

BLACK METAL RESTURAUNT REVIEW

By PSYcho ButchER

Avec

The Mediterranean is not populated by Teutonic hordes, but I am willing to grant them a certain dark imagination. After all, where would we be without the Spanish Inquisition, Niccolo Machiavelli, and the genius of the Borgia family? After a hard day of plotting destruction, nothing sates my dark desires more than a nice bloody sausage and a glass of DARK RED wine.

Avec (which simply means "with" in French, an unfortunately trendy name. It seems to be a reference to the way the place is paired with its older neighbor, Blackbird, to the West, or perhaps it is a reference to the way food is supposed to be shared at the place. Ahhh, blackbird, such a dark name.) is in a particularly cavernous part of Randolph Street, just on the precipice of downtown's urban jungle. Its interior is tasteful woodwork all around, much like that of a Viking ship. I found the wood soothing, and I almost cracked my corpsepaint smiling at the breezy interior backed by emerald green bottles.

The last time I went, it was on a Monday night, just as the sun was setting beneath the horizon and I could walk about under the cover of darkness. For the money, the place is one of the best "nice" restaurants in the city, so I expected the place to be crowded with the teeming hoards of foodies. I was not disappointed. The Chef, Koren Grieveson (hopefully, she is Nordic, such a powerful menu full of the Nichean ethic), designed a whole menu around small plates that are meant to be shared. To the uninitiated, this means you spend money on a ridiculously small dish and get pissed off, stabbing someone on your way out. To the culinary ubermensch, however, it means you can partake of a few small culinary masterpieces and share them, leaving with your hunger sated and yet not bloated to the point of loosing your pale, drawn figure.

If you have weak-willed plutocratic tastes, you will hate this place and you should stay away and suffer. They will make you share a table. I despise the weaklings who will not sit next to their fellow man. What are they afraid of? A dark clad figure in facepaint reeking of EVIL? The long wood tables are so that you can commune with the horde, supping together as in the great MEAD HALLS of old. This is one of the most magnificent aspects of eating in a great gothic metropolis such as Chicago or Paris. Those who are too timid to share my space should go to some horrible suburban hell or eat at the Cheesecake Factory and grow fat and stupid.

The garlic sausage on the menu is incredible to behold, savage and imbued with the spirit of the animal. The most magnificent dish is their seafood soup, an incredible and strong food that will leave you gasping for want of more. Their cured meat is excellent as well, and I liked watching it hang forlornly in the case they use to age it to perfection.

They have an excellent choice of wine at Avec, and for an elite restaurant, most of it is decently inexpensive. This is good; I like to imbibe hearty swallows of wine without wondering whether I will be able to buy the new Dimmu Borgir album when it comes out. Last time I was in, it was a MONDAY, and the first three bottles I ordered were sold out. The one I finally got was a superior bottle, however, and my fine serving wench was versed enough with the menu to keep steering me toward the BLOOD RED vintages I prefer. If you prefer to swill and waste your money drinking at Cru, to hell with you, you are weak.

If you have beer and pretzel tastes, you should have the knowledge of self and purity of purpose to stay away. This haven is not for you. If you are a plutocrat out to impress a date with your taste for luxury, drive into the lake and die and leave this place to those truly hungry to taste life before Armageddon takes all the fine food from us and replaces it with hell and turmoil.

Avec is at 615 West Randolph Street, Chicago. If you drive, you are weak, and you will have to hunt for a parking space or pay the Valet parking guys.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Sharpie Art

I had coffee with a friend yesterday, and I bored her senseless with some yammering. By decorating a Caribou cup, she reacquainted me with the joys of sharpie art. It is an all-or-nothing proposition, like watercolor. Here is a stupid band logo. I need to work on my metal lettering.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Bees


What, Exactly, is a Bee?

In essence, a bee is a glamorous wasp. This is not to say that there is anything unglamorous about wasps, but most people draw a sharp distinction between those seemingly friendly, apparently joyous little creatures that go about visiting hollyhocks on summer days, and those ferocious and sometimes threatening denizens of the soda can, the eaves of the house, the sand dunes back behind the swimming beach. Bees are a particular lineage of wasps, composed of several distinctive families, all sharing a common ancestor. This branch on the tree of life fits within a larger bush, a lineage called the superfamily Apoidea. The Apoidea includes predatory wasps as well as bees, and its members share so many distinctive characteristics as to indicate that this bush is simply one branch within a much larger bush called the suborder Apocrita, which, in turn, fits within the insect order hymenoptera, et cetera. The branch that includes bees is sometimes called the Anthophila, latin for “flower lover.” As a branch, the Anthophila have done very well for themselves. The nine families of bees include approximately 30,000 species, outnumbering their various distant relatives that still carry on a predatory lifestyle.

These predators, called Sphecid wasps, include about 8000 species worldwide. They are still out there, making a living much way the Mesozoic ancestors of the bees probably did. Sphecids are ferocious creatures, hunting spiders, grasshoppers, and other unfortunate arthropods. They are very diverse their methods of doing this, but a clear pattern of simple to complex in their evolution. The rapacious habits of sphecid wasps are all variations on a single theme. They go out and find a victim. They sting it into a state of paralysis. They drag it home to a nest. They lay an egg on it. The larva hatches, devours the victims, and reaches adulthood. This new adult goes out to kill and kill again, just like its mother, or to mate and die, just like its father. The nest may either be previously constructed, constructed on the spot, or the result of an opportunistic decision to use whatever crevice is nearby when the mother wasp dispatches her unfortunate victim. This nest may be excavated in the soil, chewed into a rotting log, carefully crafted out of mud, resin, or something resembling silk. Within this nest, there are cells; particular enclosed chambers where the unfortunate victims of sphecid maternal instinct wait, in isolation, for the growing wasp larva to consume them alive. A nest may have a single cell, or many. A cell may have a single prey item, or many. These victims may all be members of the same species, or members of an assemblage of arthropods that, to the mother wasp, looked sufficiently similar to warrant killing. No matter what the contents of the call, an egg is laid within, either before or after it is stocked with tortured victims, and that egg is intended to hatch and ultimately devour the contents. Typically, the focus of sphecid hunting is very narrow. The mother wasp will focus obsessively on hunting a particular type of prey, such as spiders of the genus Neoscona. Different wasps hunt different victims, though there is a tendency for particular lineages of sphecids to focus on a particular kind of prey. Members of the family Ampulcidae, for instance, terrorize cockroaches. Members of the genus Ammophila, for instance, hunt crickets.

This hunting behavior serves one purpose, to ensure that the developing offspring of a wasp have enough to eat. Adult sphecids wasps do not actually eat the creatures they kill. Like many flies, beetles, vespid wasps, Lepidoptera, and bees also, sphecid wasps have a very distinct dietary dichotomy between adults and offspring. Adults drink nectar from flowers. Nectar is basically all sugar and no protein. Carbohydrates are an excellent source of energy. The lack of protein is nearly irrelevant, because the animal has stopped growing, and nectar is sufficient to keep the animal going as long as it hunts victims and digs nests. This nectar feeding habit might actually be even older than the prey-hunting habits of the sphecidae, an evolutionary holdover from some primitive hymenopteran ancestor that drank sap from sap flows as a supplementary energy source.

The common ancestor of the bees evolved a trait of enormous ecological significance, a trait which was to enable the diversification of bees into a tremendous number of species, and to influence the future evolution of almost every other plant and animal on land. It was right under the noses of the sphecid wasps as they drank nectar before their next foraging run-pollen. Rather than hunting unfortunate insects as prey for their offspring, they evolved the ability to gather pollen, roll it into balls, soak it with nectar, and lay an egg on this mass. Animal material took the place of plant material in the cells of these new wasps. Basically, their life cycle stayed the same, though this switch in behavior precipitated the rapid evolution of various, diverse, structures and behaviors for pollen gathering. Pollen from some plants is stickier than pollen from other plants. Some plants have pollen that is much easier to reach. Suddenly, it became relevant which particular species of flowers these proto-bees were visiting. Some lineages of bees specialized on particular flowers, others did not.

Besides being less inherently ghastly, this provisioning behavior opens up a wide range of ecological possibilities. Pollen is a high-protein food full of nutrients, and when combined with nectar from flowers, it is ideal food for developing bee larvae. Unlike, say, a particular species of arboreal katydid, pollen is very abundant in the terrestrial environment, though pollen from a particular type of flower may not be. The insects their sphecid ancestors hunted, pollen from particular flowers is seasonally superabundant, but absent for most of the year. It is quite possible that the first bees inherited the ability to be dormant for long stretches of time, only emerging during the optimal window of time, from their sphecid ancestors. Not all bees do this, however. Some are present all year long, visiting a wide variety of flowers. Most importantly, however, this new specialization on pollen feeding exerted tremendous evolutionary pressure on the flowers the bees visited. An incidental effect of pollen feeding is the transfer of pollen, something of enormous consequence to the plants visited by bees.

Not all wasps that collect pollen are called bees. This remarkable shift in behavior and ecology has evolved at least twice. A second group of wasps, this time a lineage of vespoid wasps called the masaridae, has also evolved a pollen-gathering existing. Masarids resemble bees in many respects. For reasons that are unknown, perhaps simply because they were co-opted from many ecological niches because bees got to them first, the masaridae are not particularly species rich or ecologically important. Masarids are widely distributed in the tropics, but they are nowhere as important as bees in their ecological impact.

Likewise, not all bees gather pollen. Many have switched to an existence that is essentially parasitic upon other bees. This transition has happened many times in the evolution of bees, and it seems to occur whenever there is a clear opportunity for one species of bee to enter the nests of another species, usually a close relative, and to lay its own eggs in the cells built by another species. They are not like the usual parasites, flukes, tapeworms, ticks, and such, in that they rob parental care from their host, rather than nutrients, blood, glucose. Instead, they rob their host of parental care. In doing so, these villains of the bee world joined a long list of insect lineages that parasitize the cells off bees, and the pollen-collecting bees, the wasps.

Most people have a fairly clear idea of what a bee looks like. They are fuzzy or hairy, they are about the size of a honeybee, they are black and yellow, they have two pairs of wings, and they sting. Some people go even farther and tacitly assume that the only type of bee out there is the honeybee. If they stop to think about it farther, they add bumblebees to the list. This is not so much a reflection of a vast, aesthetic void on the part of the general public, much as the author tends to view it that way, as it is a reflection of exactly how efficiently bees go about their business without any need on our part to oversee their activities.

In fact, a honeybee is on the large size, as bees go. Bees occur in a range of sizes, from tiny members of the genus, Dialictus, which could easily fit on the head of a pin (maybe with their abdomen sticking out a bit), to very large carpenter bees of the genus Xylocopa, and queen Bombus, who would not be dwarfed by a golf ball if set right next to it. They come in a variety of stunning colors. Metallic blue and metallic green are favorite color schemes in the bee catalog, as are a range of silvery whites and greys, rusty reds and oranges, and amazing jet black, with or without red or yellow markings. Many bees are hairy, many bees are not. Hairs are thermoregulatory structures to bees, as well as pollen-gathering apparatus, and different species have evolved different levels of hairiness to accomplish an optimum thermoregulatory balance. Hair can be inconvenient under the soil, and in very tiny crevices as well, so there are a great many minimally hairy bees that, to a casual observer, resemble wasps. Bees are, in fact, quite diverse in their appearance.

Not all bees are social, in fact, most bees live solitary lives. Only a small fraction of bees live in colonies, and most social species live in colonies about the size of a football team or a metal band.

Octopus egg hatching. Octopus opening a jar.

Because you needed to see this.