Duck Soup & Dead Bodies

 This is a potpourri posting of reviews for things totally unrelated, but which gave me pleasure, and by inference, may give you pleasure as well, should you choose to partake of any of the opportunities described herein.

Food

Persistence pays.  I have been advocating for duck pho on the menu at Soy House for a long time, and my persistence has come to fruition, sort of.  After weeks of tinkering with the recipe, they finally introduced it to the menu.  As their unique and delicious pizza was in the beginning, this item is an 'experiment', for now.  You need to ask for it, and it isn't available every day--yet.  I suggested they make a Facebook post on days it is on the menu, and trust me, you will want to try this.  This pho, like all of their soup offerings begins with it's own broth.  Most restaurants (including a lot of very pricey haute cuisine joints that should know better)  use a 'base' as a short-cut for broth or stock.  Imagine that little bullion cube from the red or green can on steroids and you get the idea.  Not so at Soy House.  I have actually seen  roasted bones heading for the stock pot for the beef pho, and each broth is carefully constructed for fabulous flavor to enhance the principal ingredient in a given dish.  This duck is delish, full of rich but nuanced flavor.  Served on the side is fresh lime, jalapeno slices, mung bean sprouts and leaf lettuce (instead of Thai basil, which isn't really suited to this soup). Made with your choice of rice or egg noodles (get the egg noodles, they work with the flavor profiles better) this is a must-try for lovers of pho.

Now, let's take a moment to ponder the humble duck, and dispel a couple of the myths surrounding the eating of same:

1.  Duck is gamey.

     WILD duck can be a little-or even a lot-gamey, but farm-raised duck is just a rich tasting dark poultry meat.  It can, and should, be served medium rare when prepared as a grilled duck breast, something you dare not do with chicken.  But grilled, smoked, marinated or roasted, it opens up your taste buds to a bevy of palate pleasing classics of cuisine.  Don't be afraid, embrace your adventurous tendencies.  Order the duck-forget the veal.

2.  Duck is fatty.

      The muscle meat of duck is nearly fat-free.  Ducks and geese reserve almost all of their fat in their skin, which is what makes rendering out the fat possible, and yields--when done correctly--a fabulous taste, and far less fat and calories than the generic burger and fries you have no problem pounding down for a quick lunch.  What little fat remains become about the best flavor-transport mechanism every designed by nature.  Eat the skin, it's tasty!

Their innovative Vietnamese influenced pizza made it to the regular menu (read my review in an earlier post Mason Jar Madness ) after a long introduction period, and I remain hopeful the same will be true for the duck pho.  Asian cusine without duck somewhere on the menu is like BBQ without ribs.  You can do it, but something important is missing.

FILM

'RED' is entirely implausible and predictable to a fault, and yet it has an irresistible element of big explosion, high body count, wry comedy and an almost believable May-September romance element to it that I found fun.  Bear in mind, this will not be laden with statuette nominations from the Academy, nor will it get much notice from snooty reviewers, but people of a certain age and gender (male boomers, for instance) will not feel cheated.  There is lots of Wile E. Coyote v Roadrunner violence, just enough CG to be entertaining and a star-studded passel of cast members with their tongues planted firmly in their cheeks while delivering their lines.  The locations are interesting enough, mostly edited in from second-unit-no-principals-in-sight footage, and enough shell casings are scattered to keep an armorer reloading for about five years.  This is 'Space Cowboys' recast in CIA garb.  Great movie making?  Not so much.  A lot of fun for men of a certain age (and the women who love them)?  You bet.  It was for me, anyway.

Fatalities  (ok, I couldn't come up with a decent alliterative for the last book I read, so sue me.)

Damage Control by Robert Dugoni.  Bob is quickly becoming one of my favorite contemporary authors.  Mostly writing legal thrillers, his characters and situations--while sensational and intense, as a thriller should be--also have a ring of truth to them.  Dialogue is natural, plot lines flow evenly, leading to a crescendo of action with a finely crafted resolution leaving the reader fulfilled.  This is not an easy task, so as a writer myself, when I encounter it, I particularly enjoy quality .
Damage Control is Dugoni's second book of fiction and yes, yours truly, ever behind the curve, is commenting on a book published four years ago.  There are two reasons for this:  One, I opted to start at the beginning of his series when I gave a brief thumbs up to Jury Master in an earlier post, Reading to write right, right?  I met Bob at a book signing and writer's discussion sponsored by the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, to which we both belong.  He was signing his latest, Wrongful Death, (a shiny new copy of which awaits my attention) and I was a boy on a budget, so it was paperback for me.
Two, I wanted to try reading a thriller on my new Nook e-reader, and again, being on a budget it was the perfect choice.  $7.99 for the download, forever available to me, and not an inch of already groaning bookshelf space occupied.  I finished the last hundred pages of the book during a two-hour back up at the Canadian border waiting to get back into the U.S.  I won't spend any time recounting plot details or characters, that was done by the NY Times years ago, I'll just say I was fully engaged by the book, enjoyed it for what it was--a diverting drama full of the requisite protagonists in peril, dead bodies piling up and mischief and malfeasance in high places.  It was a great read and, after all, isn't that what most writers hope for when they put their babies out for the world?  Thanks, Bob.  Keep 'em coming.

       

Why Liberals Fail

After the primary a few weeks ago I was chatting with a liberal friend about the post-election washout of candidates.  I imagined out loud that since her candidate had not advanced, she would be supporting the Democratic candidate that had moved on to the general election.

"No," was the firm reply.  "He voted to fund the war [in Iraq & Afghanistan].  I can't support that.  I have to vote my conscience.  I am for peace, I will write in the name of my [failed] candidate, and vote for him."

"So," I said, "you will cast a ballot that indirectly favors the candidate whose party started the war under false pretenses.  The party that offered no apology or even reasonable excuse for same, whose executive leadership created a torture camp in Cuba and under whose lack of supervision crashed the most vital economy in the world?"

"I have to vote my conscience."  End of discussion.

This is why liberals fail.  It is a political truism that liberals fall in love; conservatives fall in line.  My friend has fallen in love with the candidate and been blinded to the forest by a single tree.  This phenomenon has had many names over the political years:  Peace & Freedom, Green, Progressives, the Mary Janes and others of a similar splinter mentality.  They, and others like them, succumb to the siren song of the 'protest vote', somehow imagining that those votes will be seen with all seriousness in Washington or at the state and local level at least.  They are correct in one assumption:  They will be seen all right, and promptly dismissed as a constituency that can, and will, be ignored.

As a group, liberals have an astonishingly short collective memory.  Only one election cycle ago the most diverse group of voters in my living history accomplished what many believed impossible; they elected an avowed liberal black man to the Presidency of the United States of America.  With him they swept into power a huge Congressional majority of Dems and between them--in spite of fierce and almost unanimous opposition from Republicans--managed to enact some of the most important fiscal and social legislation in half a century.

But, alas, Barack Obama proved to be human.  He didn't march into office and sweep away 220 years of political bickering with a single blow.  Don't Ask-Don't Tell still lingers, as do dozens of left and far left honey-dos.  The agenda is incomplete and you are an impatient and fickle crowd.  You liberals have lost your understanding of the power of incremental-ism.  Like children, you want it all now, or you will sulk in your room.

Republicans are counting on this.  The RNC is collecting and spending hundreds of millions of dollars on candidates, that in any other cycle, wouldn't merit a one line obit buried deep in the political pages.  They hold their noses, open their checkbooks and fall in line.  Most of the mainstream Republicans seeking election, or re-election, are espousing views they cynically don't believe themselves, in order to appeal to a general anxiety amongst the electorate.

And you are letting it happen.  You are so busy feeling sorry for yourself that the entire country isn't on board with your goals, that you have fallen into a malaise, that in just a few weeks, threatens to undo what you worked so hard to achieve.  If you are disillusioned and frustrated now, imagine how eviscerated you will feel when a cadre of elected representatives come into power that have the avowed goals of re-instituting school prayer, rolling back abortion rights, eliminating Social Security and Medicare, trying to deport millions of undocumented aliens and expanding tax cuts and deregulation to the wealthiest companies and individuals in the country. Don't be misled, these are the central tenants of their governing philosophy.

As a moderate Republican, sidelined by my own party, I find myself watching this slow-motion train wreck in the liberal wing with horror.  Oddly, the best hope I, and millions of center-righters like me, have of regaining the reigns of a GOP careening madly out of control to the reactionary right, is a united liberal front.  If you throw up your hands and walk away from the process it may be two generations before equilibrium can be restored, and reclaiming sanity in governance likely won't return in my lifetime.

Think about this; after the dust has settled from the upcoming election, states will begin the process of reapportionment and redistricting.  It is a little-understood, but critically important, constitutional process that affects the makeup of the House of Representatives and subsequently influences elections not just for ten years, till the next census, but for a generation or more, as Members become the ruling class, and re-election becomes a foregone conclusion for 90% of those running.

I'm trying to regain control of my party one blog at a time, but liberals, I need your help.  Don't screw this up, get out the vote.

Moderate Republicans and Independents are counting on you.

Ironic, no?

I have been absent from this blog for some time now.  Not from lack of material, or even desire, but initially from a balky computer which was finally retired and replaced, and lately as the result of pressing family considerations.  I don't, as a general rule, do a lot of writing about personal matters on these pages, though I do see fit from time to time to make an exception.  This is one of those occasions.  

On September 7th my father-in-law was called home from the frailties of this corporeal life.  While at 93 years of age and having suffered a broken hip barely a month before, his release was not wholly unexpected, it was nonetheless an occasion of great loss for the family and friends who had the privilege of knowing Jack Brown.  For those who are interested in a description of the ceremony honoring Jack, please follow this link, http://notdrowninganymore.blogspot.com/2010/09/life-remembered.html 
to my son's blog.  It has been requested by some that I post my remarks for the occasion.  To honor Jack's memory, my comments are posted below.

I met Nancy on a December 12^th.  I had been invited to a holiday party by a business associate.  We arriving unannounced at her home, I was tagging along with her date for the evening.  Unannounced, because we all lived in Central California, where in the winter if three people sneezed simultaneously while it was raining the power or the phones went out.  In this case it was the phones.  For you younger folks, this was before the internet & personal computers, phones still had cords, and the keypads only had numbers and no color touch screens or cameras.

Our first official date was on December 17^th, and on December 19^th I put her and her three children on the train in San Jose, ultimately headed for Florence, Oregon where they would spend Christmas with her parents, Jack and Dorothy.  They returned December 29^th.  By the second week in January we were engaged to be married, scheduled for late June.  That was nearly 28 years ago.   

I tell you that story so I can tell you this one.  In mid-February Omi and Opa as they are affectionately known, contrived the flimsy pretense of bringing a used sofa to their daughter.  Of course, it made perfect sense, drive nearly 1,300 miles round trip in the dead of winter to deliver a piece of furniture that $50 would have purchased locally.

Although they never admitted it, I’ve long suspected that a thorough inspection of this son-in-law in waiting, that had so completely swept their daughter off her feet, was the true object of this odyssey.

By any measure, Jack Brown was a big man.  6’5” tall, size 14 feet, that gravelly, baritone voice, firm handshake and welcoming hug.  I was more than a little nervous, I’ll admit, but as we talked, I discovered he had a way of putting people at ease.  We shared interests in baseball and fishing.  We could talk about politics from differing points of view without rancor.  He listened thoughtfully; spoke respectfully with someone less than half his age.  He laughed at my jokes.  A deep, rumbling laugh that revealed his great sense of humor:  And finally, he asked the question, ‘Do you love my daughter?’

I told him the truth-then and now; ‘Yes, I do; with every beat of my heart.’

We sat silently for a while as he contemplated.  Finally he said, ‘Then welcome to the family, son.’  It was that simple.  He took me at my word, gave me the benefit of the doubt, and just like that I was swept into this remarkable family.

I'm a small-town, conservative, adoptee from Idaho, mostly self-educated being embraced by a liberal, college educated California family.  I owned guns, they owned ukuleles.  My genetic family consisted of a few names on a sheet of paper yellow with age.  Their family history can be traced back centuries to the clan McDougal in Scotland.  But the patriarch, with a firm handshake and a six word sentence invited me into the warp and weft of the tapestry of his family-my family.

Over these years it has been my great privilege to know Jack Brown. His generosity, his wise counsel, his unconditional love and affection and most of all his leadership by example will be sorely missed.  Ever the educator, he taught me that the stature of a man isn’t measured in feet and inches, but in tolerance and forbearance, grace and kindness, and courage and respect.  Jack is standing tall in the presence of God now, and with his permission I’ll close with this:

Rewarded in Heaven is Jack.

Kudos from life, he’ll not lack.

For a goodly long time,

He enjoyed a good rhyme,

And now, he’ll be watching our back.

It should be noted that Jack was famous for his limericks, sometimes composed on the spot, and always displaying his humor and affection for the target of his poetry.  In many ways he was the father I yearned for at an intellectual level.  Intelligent, thoughtful and conversant with the diversities and dilemmas of life, and always ready to lend an ear (if you spoke loud enough) and offer his advice when asked.

I will miss much, but most of all his unconditional love and affection for everyone he could touch in his remarkable life.  Fare thee well, Dad.

Techno Blues

For the last month I have been dealing with technologically fatal problems with my old computer.  After a great gnashing of teeth, and a considerable financial expenditure, this problem should resolve itself by the end of this week.  My new computer should be up and running with mind-numbing speed (far outstripping my capacity to utilize same) and I should be back in the rumination business forthwith.

It's not that I haven't had anything to say, I just lacked the ability to make the posts.  Thanks to all my faithful, and casual, followers for your patience.  I'll be back soon.

Warts And All

Last night I watched an awards show.  Not a glitzy Hollywood production (although there is a tragic connection to that fabled city of dreams), but a PBS presentation of the Library of Congress Gershwin Prize for Popular Songwriting.

Onstage, Sir Paul McCartney-son of a midwife and jazz musician-from humble beginnings in Liverpool, England became the third recipient of a prize named for the Brooklyn-born son of Russian -Jewish emigrants who fled pogroms in their homeland for the promise of a new chance in America.

George died tragically young-at the height of his compositional powers and popularity-from a brain tumor, in Hollywood at the Cedars-Sinai Hospital on Fountain Boulevard.  He was thirty seven years old.

Stevie Wonder-second winner of the prize last year-was born blind in Saginaw, Michigan-the product of a broken home in a racially charged era.  He performed 'Ebony & Ivory' with Sir Paul, who had written the song as a duet specifically for the two of them.

The evening was filled with high profile musicians performing McCartney's songs, him singing a few of his own, and even Jerry Seinfeld poking some gentle (and very funny) ribs.

All-in-all, it was very entertaining, and the sort of thing that makes me think about who we are and what we have become as Americans.  And how far we have yet to go to perfect this union.

Imagine, the first bi-racial President of the United States, presenting an Englishman with the most prestigious popular music award America has to offer.  An award named for a Russian Jew, George (and his lyricist brother, Ira) children of an immigrant family.    Onstage was the blind boy from Saginaw with family roots in slavery in Dixie.  

The first honoree was the Newark-born son of Hungarian immigrants.  His name is Paul Simon.

We have come so far, yet the road is longer still.  The immigration debate will go forward, let's hope the policies to come don't lead us to a darker past, best left to the dustbin of history.

Still though, last night I was reminded again just how great it is to be an American.  Warts and all.

I'm sorry, so sorry....

...are the opening lyrics to a classic country-western song, and express my sentiments for the lengthy delay since my last posting.

 In my defense, I have been crazy busy in the month of July, and August looks pretty jammed too, but I will have more pithy-ness in the future, I promise.  As soon as I finish repair projects, editing projects, video projects, and a performance doing the announcing and foley (sound effects) in a re-creation of an old radio drama.

 Then in August, I get really busy.

My Pixar Moment

My range oven hasn't worked since it went crazy Thanksgiving day last year.  It's electronic brain just couldn't take it any more, so the default setting became EVERYTHING ON ALL THE TIME!!!  This turns out to be a very fast method of cooking, which would be fine if you planned on having dinner at 9:30 a.m.  We hadn't.

Most people opt for a meal time in early to mid afternoon on Thanksgiving.  The perpetual parade of football bowl games sometimes lingers in the background; the soundtrack of an American holiday.  This timing gives all gathered a chance to gorge, unbuckle, swoon & eventually head back to their own humble abodes down ribbons of highway engulfed in the gloom of a Pacific Northwest November.  I work on holidays, and by the time I got home, the frazzle effect on my spouse of the recalcitrant appliance was fully deployed.  Her immediate solution had been to turn off the breaker for the stove.  Then turn it on again when the oven cooled some, then off, then on.  Ingenious to be sure, but not very efficient, and it deprived her of practical use of the stove top, which otherwise worked fine.

I should mention that I am the go-to-guy for fixing things in my family.  I have tools of every description and actually know how to use them.  Upon arrival I deployed my diagnostic skills to great advantage and tackled the problem.  After several quick tests I had reached my conclusion:  "It's broken", I announced.  Apparently that had already been ascertained by the assembled hungry hordes.  My assessment was greeted with stifled yawns, glances at watches and an exhortation of exasperation from my beleaguered wife.

The immediate fix was to deploy some portable gas burners left over from our catering days, and fire up the BBQ to use as a makeshift roaster.  Dinner was achieved, gorge ensued, and the day ended happily enough.  The aftermath was this:  To repair the oven by replacing the computer board-$400.  Disconnect the oven elements-$-0-.  No-brainer, we now have a range-top with a large central storage capacity.

I told you that story so I can tell you this one:  For reasons irrelevant to this post, we don't own a microwave.  We do, however, have a toaster oven.  A nice toaster oven with a convection function we never use.  Another relic from catering.

A couple of days ago I was giving this little gem a thorough cleaning.  The sort of OCD cleaning that guys who fix things occasionally do, with the lingering notion of a full restoration.  OK, I'm probably not going to get the '63 Caddy Coupe deVille I've always wanted to make better-than-showroom, but I will by-gawd get this '98 Cuisinart Convection Toaster Oven pristine.  This is when I had my Pixar moment.  

I found myself imagining the toaster oven as Woody in Toy Story 2.  Paint worn, arm coming un-stitched,  stuffing falling out.  Then the oven chimed in.

"Oh, sure," it huffed.  "Little Miss Cuisinart gets the royal treatment.  Look at you, shining her chrome, polishing her glass.  I had one little problem and now I get the cold shoulder."

"But she's earned it!"  I exclaimed in my mind.  (I get enough crazy looks from my wife without trying to explain defending a toaster oven to a range.)  "She's never let me down.  She's done so much more than just toast.  I've even used her to cook ribs low and slow overnight.  And bread pudding!  Don't forget the bread pudding."

The stove just sat there and stared at me.  Then quietly it said, "I know what you're planning."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You're gonna trade me in.  I know, I'm not a youngster anymore.  I'm not as stylish as I once was."  There was a wistfulness in her voice that was hard to miss.

 "No, I'm not," I said a little too quickly, trying to hide my guilt at having had that thought exactly.  "It's that your repair just isn't in the budget right now.  There's just Nancy and I, and we simply don't need a big oven all that much."

Stove eyed me closely, trying to decide if I was telling the truth.  I could see the doubt in her burners.

"Truly, we'll get you fixed before the next big holiday.  Besides, you know we cook outside a lot in the summer.  Think of it as a vacation."

"Ooooh, listen to her!"  The shrill voice of Cuisinart broke in.  "Those big, bright burners on top.  They're so showy, but she can't control herself when it really counts."

Oh, great, I thought, a feud between my range and my toaster oven.  This isn't going to end pretty.

Stove pulled in her bottom drawer a bit to draw herself up.  "You listen here, pip-squeak, you may be Ms. Reliable, but you can't cook a pizza.  You're too small, dainty, even." 

 "Okay, that's enough!  This discussion is closed," I announced.  I went back to cleaning Miss Cuisinart, and Stove sat fuming in silence.

When I had finished, I returned the toaster oven to its customary place of honor.  I plugged her in and set her clock, then stood back to admire my work.

"You know," I mumbled sotto voce to the little appliance, "Stove is right.  You can't handle a pizza."  Her clock flickered with a passing shiver of fear.

As I left the kitchen I thought I heard Stove say, "You just wait, both our days are numbered here."  Must have been my imagination.

Yesterday I was strolling the aisles of BB&B, looking at the housewares, thinking about sushi plates and wasabi bowls when I happened to wander through the small appliance section.  Sitting there among her lesser rivals was Cuisinart's granddaughter.  She was sleek, modern, sexy.

"I can cook a pizza," she cooed as I walked by.  I stopped and turned to look at her.  I fondled her price tag.

"Ooooh, shiny!"  I said.

Reading to write right. Right?

Among the things of which I am sure-and those diminish at an alarming rate as I age-is that writers read.  Good writers read a lot, great writers read obsessively.  I daresay you could ask any serious writer what they are currently reading and most would give you a laundry list of novels, non-fiction, magazines, blogs, newspapers, cereal boxes, trade publications, political opinions and even other peoples' shopping lists.  This would most likely be in addition to the material dedicated to research on whatever projects are ongoing in the writer's own work.

Writers read for the same reason non-writers do:  To inform themselves, to derive entertainment, to escape from their own work and world for a moment to inhabit another, and often, for inspiration.  Most of us in the writing life have the requisite number of How-To books, Strunk & Whites, dictionaria, thesauri, Bartlett's Quotations, a few atlases, and sagging shelves of classic and contemporary authors.  We also read for the sheer pleasure of seeing the language used gracefully; for that sweet turn of phrase and, of course, to see where we might pilfer an idea or just steal a grand metaphor.  Unlike most businesses-writers don't have trade secrets-we pour our recipe ingredients onto the pages of our work and pray that the world will come to taste our creation.  The cruel reality is that many deserving writers will labor in obscurity.  Their work will never go beyond their circle of family and friends not because it unworthy, but just because it is unlucky.

I have long since abandoned the notion of 'catching up' on my reading.  There is just too much.  I won't have the time to get to everything F. Scott Fitzgerald or Jane Austen wrote.  I'm particularly fond of Dickens and Shakespeare, but can't imagine I'll ever finish my studies.  My imagination was fired and illuminated by Bradbury and Asimov;  educated by Chekhov and Poe on the short-story.  Harper Lee and Upton Sinclair kindled a modern social conscience.  And these were all writers of fiction.  I haven't even begun on the writers of biographies, science, politics, history and music.  Nonetheless, writers have fans, and are fans.  In the contemporary writers of fiction category I'm a fan of Ken Follet, Khaled Hosseni, David Guterson, and two fellow laborers in the literary garden, Robert Dugoni and Mike Lawson.

At a recent Northwest Pacific Writers Association event I had the opportunity to meet both of these authors and introduce myself to their work.  I'm glad I did.

Robert Dugoni is a New York Times bestselling author of legal thrillers that should put Scott Turow and John Grisham on notice:  There's a new voice in town and he's taking no prisoners.  Introducing attorney David Sloane in his breakout work The Jury Master, Dugoni showed that, well defined characters, crisp pacing, relentless action and page-turning excitement is just the beginning of a well-plotted, suspenseful series.  In this case I decided to start with the first book in the series.  Robert followed with Damage Control, Wrongful Death and is well into the promotion phase of his fourth, Bodily Harm, with this character--and now I have a new must-read author on my list.  Thanks, Robert, for the encouragement in my own work, and the entertainment I derive from yours.  Now all I have to do is catch up.  Sigh..a reader's work is never done!

Mike Lawson, also a New York Times bestseller, was gracious enough to sign and gift an ARC copy of his latest political thriller, House Justice, (ARC is publishing-speak for advanced readers copy-what is usually sent out for reviewers prior to publication).  This time I found myself engrossed in established characters, with back-stories I now must explore from his previous books.  Political intrigue in high places, shadowy figures, dead CIA operatives, bodies piling up, all linked to the mysterious 'unnamed source' of a journalist desperately trying so salvage a failing career, add up to a splendid yarn where no one in the book is quite sure who all the players are until the dramatic conclusion.  His style is straightforward, filled with tension, insight into the machinations of Washington D.C., and a firm grasp of unremitting motion in plot and characterizations.  Unforgettable and another fun read for thriller fans.  I highly recommend it, and look forward to catching up with his series, starting once again at the beginning with Inside the Ring.  From there I'll move on to The Second Perimeter, House Rules and House Secrets, while the rest of you are reading his latest.  Again, my appreciation to Mike for his motivation and kind words.

There you have it, this is just a peek at what writers do to write right.

The Art of Dining Fine

You can tell a lot about a restaurant without taking a bite. These days that can start without leaving your computer screen. Does the eatery in question have a web site? Is is professionally done with great photos and enough information to make an informed dining decision? Great looking interactive websites are important since this is increasingly that 'first impression' every business owner wishes to make. If reservations are recommended, is the phone answered promptly and courteously? When your preferred time and/or day isn't available, do they have an alternate suggestion? It may seem counter-productive to suggest a competitor to a caller, but I certainly remember and appreciate that effort. And I reward it by making sure they get first chance the next time I'm looking for a dining spot.

Discounting multi-nationals that crank out dyspepsia by the bucketful or palatable but entirely predictable chow chains, let's focus on local establishments with maybe six or fewer locations (wherever you are) and how to ferret out the good from all the others. After all, it's your hard-earned money, and now, more than ever getting value for the bucks is important.

Some things are obvious: Well cleaned, pleasant appointments, prompt attention upon arrival and adequate lighting both inside and out are essentials. I can't tell you how annoying it is when I find myself trying to peruse a menu by the light of a single guttering candle. I'm all for ambiance, but unless the Maitre d' or waiter offers a flashlight, forgo cave-like interiors. Who knows what else the dim lighting may be hiding?

So now we're in the door and in our seats. That seating should be comfortable and appropriate to the price point. A high end restaurant should extend guests a leisurely pace. Done perfectly, the dining experience will seems to flow seamlessly, taking exactly as long as it should. Not rushed; well attended but without having staff hovering like bees pollinating a flower. In a casual dining setting expect things to move a bit quicker, but if it ever feels like you're getting the bums rush, cross them off the futures list.

A well designed space will try to avoid having tables next to swinging doors from the kitchen and work space for waiters. The higher up the $$$ list you ascend the more important this becomes. Casual dining is sometimes done in small spaces and accommodations should be allowed. But in the bleak midwinter they should simply take down tables within leaf-blowing or Arctic blast range of the entry door.

I should admit to a pet peeve. When my spouse and I dine out we don't appreciate being referred to as 'You Guys'. I've earned my gray hair and my lovely wife is certainly not one of the guys. Well trained wait staff should NEVER say that phrase unless confronted by a bunch of college frat boys at a pizza joint. Please don't misunderstand, I don't mind an informal greeting, or even a little kibitzing if I open that door, but 'you guys' is just plain laziness in training and reflects poorly on management. It's just one of those things that starts a dining experience for me with a clunk.

By now you should be ensconced in a comfortable seat, with adequate lighting, out of the flow of work space with a menu and beverage list in your hands. If the menu is decoupage on a plank two feet square, this is not a good sign. Neither is it encouraging if it is laminated plastic with fading photos of food and in a corner somewhere tiny letters with something like: 'rev 2/3/91'. The words 'No Substitutions' suggests a less than accommodating kitchen and now, before any commitment has been made, would be the time to reassess your choice and flee.

Menus should be clean and in good repair. Menus should be limited. If the selections available are a laundry list that looks like it is trying to be all things to all diners, chances are excellent that it will present a mish-mash of frozen, dehydrated, concentrated, reconstituted box-o-food.  It will, for the most part, miss the mark entirely. Local restaurants should focus on doing a few things very well. Two cases in point here in Bellingham are Flats Wine and Tapas Bar and Tivoli. Both places focus on great food and warm service, yet are miles apart in ambiance and offerings.

At Tapas in Fairhaven cozy seating and tasty treats are styled on that most casual, yet culturally important aspect of Spain, the tapas bar. In Spanish cities there might be dozens, even hundreds of little places, each specializing in one particular item. Patrons can make a quick lunch (mostly standing up) or make a leisurely evening tasting tour.

In Fairhaven that tour is taken from your chair. The menu evolves continuously, taking full advantage of what is best both locally and from afar and in my experience always produces a superior result. Fine dining should be a fully rounded sensory experience engaging your eyes and olfactory first and paying dividends on the palate. The El Greco, bright red Spanish piquillo peppers stuffed with seasoned lamb and rice arrived on a plate with a roasted yellow pepper sauce and was topped with feta and fresh mint then bracketed by garlic yogurt and a balsamic reduction. It stole the show for me, but my partner was equally smitten by the pan-seared divers scallops served on pureed cannellini beans with caramelized onions, allioli and hazelnut pesto. There was more, including a nice wine list of both bottles and by-the-glass selections, but you get the picture. It was a great meal at what is becoming an institution on the South Side.

Tivoli in downtown, on the other hand, has a decidedly more Continental flair. It is a casually formal bistro (about as dressy as Bellingham ever really gets is a jacket and slacks, but an REI inspired outfit would fit in just as well). Service is superb. the wine list subtle yet accessible, the menu limited and the execution of the dishes spot on. On my last visit I began with a silky duck & chicken liver pate' (something not seen nearly enough in my opinion) then placed myself in the hands of the Chef d'cuisine.  I was rewarded with a succulent duck breast cooked to medium-rare perfection and sauced perfectly. Haricots vert and a fascinating cauliflower mash rounded out the plate. My partner, opting for the classic Coq au vin, found it a treat for the eyes and sensation on the tongue. I finished my evening with a dessert of pear, poached in zinfandel wine.

What both of these fine places have in common is a well trained staff, a few selections done to perfection and an ongoing effort to re-invent and improve themselves periodically. Any eatery standing on its laurels is losing ground.

Lest you imagine everything is up to the beanery for your dining experience, let me suggest a few ground rules for the customer to follow.

1. When you make a reservation--keep it. Don't double book, and if for some reason you can't make it, have the courtesy to call. They had the courtesy to save a spot for you, return the favor.

2. Don't take out your personal problems on the staff. If you are in a cranky mood or mad at the world save everybody the heartburn. Drive thru Burger Bomb then go home and sulk watching reruns of Seinfeld.

3. Choose your dining options with some common sense. A steak house is not the place to expect to find great local seafood. Do a little homework, see what's on the menu. If you have the time, call and ask what's fresh.

4.  Try something new.  I cannot stress this enough.  Expand your horizons, try something of which you've never heard paired with a wine you haven't tried.  Read recipes once in a while.  You cannot know what you don't know.  If you never swing you won't hit a home run.  (Insert additional cliche's here, if needed, as a prod.)

5. Don't get drunk and loud. Don't get drunk and loud. Don't get dru...sometimes this needs repeating.

6. Don't be a cheapskate. Dining dollars are dear these days for many of us, but workers in the hospitality industry generally make minimum wage and often cobble together two or three jobs to make a living. Most have families and don't get health care. Ante up a decent tip.

7. Remember to have a good time. Turn off the cell phone, engage in conversation with your partner, resist the urge to watch ESPN on the tube in the bar (okay, I still have trouble with this one). Relax for an hour or so and forget about your worries, they'll still be there waiting for you after dessert.

Verse...or worse.

April is National Poetry Month, so I thought I might reach back into my archives & give readers a glimpse of what was on my mind 33 years ago (gasp!).

Dietary Blues

If I act a little cross,
and for reason you're at a loss
let me put your mind at ease,
while I explain the dread disease.

Alas, I must admit
that I'm more than just a bit
shorter with my fuse,
'cause I got those dietary blues.

You see, I'm on a diet;
where you poach instead of fry it.
The eggs you eat are coddled
and your stomach's nearly curdled.

My open mouth now lingers
near a plate of Lady Fingers.
What tortures we endure
with our motives saintly pure.

We passed up ala'mode,
past gravy strongly strode.
But taste buds they did flutter
as the roll we missed had butter.

On we march past hot dogs,
no brownies or pecan logs.
I'm possessed of will of steel
when kept away from any meal.

Oh the things I now forgo
to keep my calories low
are not just simply a few
but fill a cookbook, or two.

There's pies and cookies and cakes
and other things you bake.
I passed up Duck L'Orange
and the BBQ at the Grange.

There's no end to my love of pasta,
and for soda, it hasta be Shasta.
No champignons in sauce,
no cotton candy floss.

The days are rolling by.
My mouth keeps getting dry.
Thinking one day in the park,
"Hmmm, I could eat that meadowlark!"

The fat friends cheer you on,
the thin ones think you're drawn.
Yep, got those dietary blues
from my head down to my shoes.

"It's worth it" my friends say,
the pangs I suffer through each day,
when I see myself much thinner
cuz I ate a lot less dinner.

Of this fact they're so sure,
but I wonder if the cure
isn't worse than the disease
of going without split peas.

So if you see me on the loose
looking for lettuce or some juice,
if I reach for something else
just give me a little goose.
Or turkey, or chicken, or rice, or spaghetti...perhaps a nice marmelade on a brioche.......



Okay, the L'Orange and Grange thing was just because there isn't supposed to be any way to rhyme orange, and I'm stubborn that way, and the pasta and Shasta works much better up here near Canada. Give me a break, I was a kid.

Happy doggerel month one and all.