Some tasting notes from beers I’ve tried over the last couple of months, but haven’t had a chance to write up until now.
Flying Dog Kerberos Triple
Appearance: Almost orange color. Murky, but noticeably clearer than my reference American Triple – Victory Golden Monkey. No head to speak of.
Nose: Fresh, grassy, slightly metallic. A little caramel in there somewhere.
Palate: Subtle. A little sweetness, but not clying. A touch of hops is noticeable – slightly more than Golden Monkey, especially on the finish.
Comments: The understated Triple. My initial reaction was to be disappointed, but it grew on me. Not very memorable, but pleasant while you’re drinking it.
Flying Dog Dogtoberfest
Appearance: Gorgeous reddish amber color. No head – completely flat.
Nose: Flowers. Slightly sweet. A touch of strawberry? No yeasty smell at all.
Palate: Smooth, slightly metallic mouthfeel. Good balance. Hoppier than classic German Oktoberfests. Long finish.
Comments: Delicious. I could drink way too much of this stuff.
Gouden Carolus Chrismtas Ale 2008
Appearance: Mahogany, very dark amber. Light head with a few medium-sized bubbles.
Nose: Molasses with a bit of smoke. (Mesquite? Maybe it’s all those years in Arizona talking).
Palate: Creamy but not syrupy. Tootsie Roll. Sweet. Can definitely taste the alcohol (ABV is 10%). Vanilla? Complex, deep flavor.
Comments: Definitely a once a year indulgence. Screams for a fireplace.
Weihenstephan Dark Hefeweisen
Appearance: Murky medium brown. Huge foamy head.
Nose: Yeast, unbaked bread, just a touch of barnyardy funk.
Palate: Smooth. Medium weight. A bit dense. Tastes like the wheat beer that it is. Tangier than a regular hefeweisen. A touch of brown sugar?
Comments: Tasty, but not as refreshing as a real hefeweisen.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Stefan Fatsis
Finished Word Freak: Heatbreak, Triumph, Genius and Obsession in the World of Competitve Scrabble Players by Stefan Fatsis the other day. Excellent, for the most part. Fatsis explores a world most of us are not even aware exists – professional Scrabble. And what a world it is.
Fatsis, who is ordinarily a reporter for the Wall Street Journal, had always been a decent Scrabble player, but had no idea it could be played competitively, until he happened upon some players in Washington Square Park in Manhattan. He started playing more frequently and meeting more and more advanced players, observing them, interviewing them, and researching the history of the game. What made the book possible, however, was that Fatsis got completely obsessed with the game and became one of “them.” He took a leave of absence from his WSJ job and started studying and practicing in earnest and playing tournaments, eventually winning two and reaching a rating of 1733 (out of a possible 2000).
Along the way, Fatsis introduces us to the most colorful characters in competitive Srabble, some of whom he gets to know pretty intimately, and colorful they are. Their extreme eccentricity is not surprising. Any game, especially one that requires the mental pyrotechnics, memory and pattern recognition skills of Scrabble, attracts the extremely dedicated, the obsessed, and the just plain weird at its highest level. Fatsis portrays them well – charitably but fairly. He also expounds on the origins of the game, its inventor Alfred Butts, and the issues raised by Scrabble’s unique position as the only commercial, trademarked game that has a thriving international competitive scene surrounding it.
A large part of the book, however, is dedicated simply to words. Words in their infinite variety, their acceptability (or not) in the game, the various dictionaries and lists that have been used to play the game over the decades, and the differences between US and non-US Scrabble dictionaries (and the fact that the World Championship uses a combination of both). Fatsis spends many pages (too many, some might say), describing the overwhelming numbers of words and letter combinations one must memorize and be able to recognize in a mess of Scrabble tiles to play well, the methods top players use to study them, and their superhuman skills at anagramming. For me, one of the more interesting, and somewhat sad, conclusions that emerges is that being good at Scrabble has little to do with being good at English. If you have any ambition at all to become competitive, you will never have time to learn the definitions of the words you’re studying. You memorize strings of letters and learn to recognize patterns. Hundreds of thousands of them. The official dictionary used in US tournaments – the Official Word List (OWL) – contains no definitions. Many of the world’s top players have minimal command of spoken English.
If I have any complaints about the book at all, it is the fact that Fatsis recounts too many individual games in too much detail. He is obviously really into Scrabble, and is clearly fascinated by every single game. He also brings his experience as a sports writer to bear and does a convincing job of depicting a game of Scrabble the way someone might do with an exciting basketball match or a close car race. But after a while, it got a bit too much for my taste. I do play Scrabble recreationally (and very poorly – I enjoy learning the meanings, etymology and use of new words way too much to learn very many actual words), but after a while all the game descriptions started to sound the same. On balance, however, the book is thoroughly enjoyable, and with just a bit more editing, could have become a non-fiction classic.
Fatsis, who is ordinarily a reporter for the Wall Street Journal, had always been a decent Scrabble player, but had no idea it could be played competitively, until he happened upon some players in Washington Square Park in Manhattan. He started playing more frequently and meeting more and more advanced players, observing them, interviewing them, and researching the history of the game. What made the book possible, however, was that Fatsis got completely obsessed with the game and became one of “them.” He took a leave of absence from his WSJ job and started studying and practicing in earnest and playing tournaments, eventually winning two and reaching a rating of 1733 (out of a possible 2000).
Along the way, Fatsis introduces us to the most colorful characters in competitive Srabble, some of whom he gets to know pretty intimately, and colorful they are. Their extreme eccentricity is not surprising. Any game, especially one that requires the mental pyrotechnics, memory and pattern recognition skills of Scrabble, attracts the extremely dedicated, the obsessed, and the just plain weird at its highest level. Fatsis portrays them well – charitably but fairly. He also expounds on the origins of the game, its inventor Alfred Butts, and the issues raised by Scrabble’s unique position as the only commercial, trademarked game that has a thriving international competitive scene surrounding it.
A large part of the book, however, is dedicated simply to words. Words in their infinite variety, their acceptability (or not) in the game, the various dictionaries and lists that have been used to play the game over the decades, and the differences between US and non-US Scrabble dictionaries (and the fact that the World Championship uses a combination of both). Fatsis spends many pages (too many, some might say), describing the overwhelming numbers of words and letter combinations one must memorize and be able to recognize in a mess of Scrabble tiles to play well, the methods top players use to study them, and their superhuman skills at anagramming. For me, one of the more interesting, and somewhat sad, conclusions that emerges is that being good at Scrabble has little to do with being good at English. If you have any ambition at all to become competitive, you will never have time to learn the definitions of the words you’re studying. You memorize strings of letters and learn to recognize patterns. Hundreds of thousands of them. The official dictionary used in US tournaments – the Official Word List (OWL) – contains no definitions. Many of the world’s top players have minimal command of spoken English.
If I have any complaints about the book at all, it is the fact that Fatsis recounts too many individual games in too much detail. He is obviously really into Scrabble, and is clearly fascinated by every single game. He also brings his experience as a sports writer to bear and does a convincing job of depicting a game of Scrabble the way someone might do with an exciting basketball match or a close car race. But after a while, it got a bit too much for my taste. I do play Scrabble recreationally (and very poorly – I enjoy learning the meanings, etymology and use of new words way too much to learn very many actual words), but after a while all the game descriptions started to sound the same. On balance, however, the book is thoroughly enjoyable, and with just a bit more editing, could have become a non-fiction classic.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Iceland
This is the scary part of the economic crisis. When Eastern Europeans demonstrate and topple their governments, no one bats an eyelash. When our own unemployment rate edges towards ten percent, that's hardly unprecedented. But police in Iceland -- ICELAND, for crying out loud -- tear-gassing protesters?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Gaza, Slight Return
A reader has recently left an extensive comment on my recent post on the situation in Gaza (as it was at the time of the post). While much of what he said really went well beyond the very limited scope of the original post, I only have myself to blame for having opened that can of worms in the first place, so I feel obligated to respond. Since a proper response would have been too long and unwieldy to leave as another comment, I am doing it in this post instead.
Before I get to the individual points, however, I think it would be useful to remind ourselves of two facts. One is simply that Israel exists. The other is that although Gaza and the West Bank were acquired by force, Israel itself was not. Its founding was certainly enabled by the European colonial powers, but in physical terms, it was largely bought, one plot of land at a time, from local Arabs. With those facts as a backdrop, I will consider my commentator's points one by one.
While I could (and should) challenge some of the terminology, that is not my intent, neither here nor in the original post. Fact is, I agree with this... mostly. If there are any good guys here, it is the ordinary Palestinians trying to live some semblance of a normal life under adverse conditions. Given that Hamas's embrace of reason and reality is not forthcoming, it is they, and only they, who have any chance of changing the situation by taking matters into their own hands. That is really all that I was trying to argue in the original post. Nothing more. I certainly did not set out to propose a comprehensive Middle East policy.
It's simple, really – Israel's tactical aim is to stop the rocket fire, but the strategic one is to topple Hamas. I think we all know this. I personally think that aim is reasonable as long as Hamas refuses to recognize Israel's right to exist. Changing that is fundamental, and a prerequisite to anything else. I know many will disagree, and that's their right, but I really do believe that with respect to Gaza specifically (not the entire Palestinian problem), Hamas must either recognize Israel's right to exist or be eliminated. Both Israel and the West have failed to achieve the former either by negotiation or by isolation; the next step is war. This really opens up a huge topic that I am not prepared to get into here. Suffice it to say that if Hamas provided de facto recognition by stopping 100% of the rocket fire, stopping 100% of the weapons smuggling from Egypt, etc., Israeli tanks would not be rolling into Gaza. Yes, I know that had Israel not conquered Gaza and the West Bank in 1967 in the first place, we would not be where we are right now, but like I said – a whole separate discussion. The facts on the ground are what they are, and both sides need to deal with them as they are.
The Palestinians' decision to elect Hamas, however democratically, was, in my opinion, a grave mistake. I understand why they did so, and can sympathize. But short term gains in basic necessities have carried with them the cost of a long-term threat to their lives. Note that I am not exonerating Israel of anything by making that statement – I am merely pointing out the predicament in which the Palestinians placed themselves. I suppose I am expecting an unreasonable level of political sophistication from an ordinary Palestinian by expecting him to reason as I do. Perhaps.
Yes, of course it would be better if Israel offered all of these things. But the fact is, that is not about to happen, and hoping for it to happen in the short term is naïve in the extreme.
As to the New Republic, I have never read it, so cannot comment.
This seems to equate “Hamas” with “Palestinians” -- an equivalence I am not willing to endorse. I am, in fact, saying to Hamas, give up and recognize Israel, or be eliminated. There is no third permanent solution. What I am saying to the ordinary Palestinian, however, is exactly the opposite – you need to worry more, because no one else will do it for you, not the people you elected, nor their adversaries.
The American Indian analogy still does not make sense to me. As to the last sentence – I am not going to take that bait. Sorry.
Before I get to the individual points, however, I think it would be useful to remind ourselves of two facts. One is simply that Israel exists. The other is that although Gaza and the West Bank were acquired by force, Israel itself was not. Its founding was certainly enabled by the European colonial powers, but in physical terms, it was largely bought, one plot of land at a time, from local Arabs. With those facts as a backdrop, I will consider my commentator's points one by one.
Saying the goal is to "stop the rocket fire" is a very one sided way to look at it. One side fires rockets, and that upsets the other side. The other side, meanwhile, practices its own brand of genocide and terrorism, and that upsets uh... I lost track. There aren't any good guys here.
While I could (and should) challenge some of the terminology, that is not my intent, neither here nor in the original post. Fact is, I agree with this... mostly. If there are any good guys here, it is the ordinary Palestinians trying to live some semblance of a normal life under adverse conditions. Given that Hamas's embrace of reason and reality is not forthcoming, it is they, and only they, who have any chance of changing the situation by taking matters into their own hands. That is really all that I was trying to argue in the original post. Nothing more. I certainly did not set out to propose a comprehensive Middle East policy.
Israel tried this: unilateral withdrawl, but hey we'll keep up the siege, not allow you to leave, and make sure you can't feed or medicate your kids. Hamas responded with what, 98% less rocket fire? Who is being unreasonable here?
It's simple, really – Israel's tactical aim is to stop the rocket fire, but the strategic one is to topple Hamas. I think we all know this. I personally think that aim is reasonable as long as Hamas refuses to recognize Israel's right to exist. Changing that is fundamental, and a prerequisite to anything else. I know many will disagree, and that's their right, but I really do believe that with respect to Gaza specifically (not the entire Palestinian problem), Hamas must either recognize Israel's right to exist or be eliminated. Both Israel and the West have failed to achieve the former either by negotiation or by isolation; the next step is war. This really opens up a huge topic that I am not prepared to get into here. Suffice it to say that if Hamas provided de facto recognition by stopping 100% of the rocket fire, stopping 100% of the weapons smuggling from Egypt, etc., Israeli tanks would not be rolling into Gaza. Yes, I know that had Israel not conquered Gaza and the West Bank in 1967 in the first place, we would not be where we are right now, but like I said – a whole separate discussion. The facts on the ground are what they are, and both sides need to deal with them as they are.
What if Israel offered a real peace solution, like: we'll make you a proper country; you have the right of return; you can leave; you can import food and medicine and we won't even look at it; you can have a real government and we will stop pretending that you aren't legit even if you were democratically elected? Then if Gaza still started firing rockets, I might join in with our friends at the New Republic and say kill 'em all. (disclaimer: I haven't read the trash at the new republic since Michael Kinsley left so maybe its all peace and love over there now...)
The Palestinians' decision to elect Hamas, however democratically, was, in my opinion, a grave mistake. I understand why they did so, and can sympathize. But short term gains in basic necessities have carried with them the cost of a long-term threat to their lives. Note that I am not exonerating Israel of anything by making that statement – I am merely pointing out the predicament in which the Palestinians placed themselves. I suppose I am expecting an unreasonable level of political sophistication from an ordinary Palestinian by expecting him to reason as I do. Perhaps.
Yes, of course it would be better if Israel offered all of these things. But the fact is, that is not about to happen, and hoping for it to happen in the short term is naïve in the extreme.
As to the New Republic, I have never read it, so cannot comment.
What you are saying to Hamas is this: give up, its hopeless, the Israels are much more powerful than you, don't worry so much, and just keep moving west. The problem is that eventually there's an ocean out there, and the Israelis will be perfect happy to drive the Palestinians into it.
This seems to equate “Hamas” with “Palestinians” -- an equivalence I am not willing to endorse. I am, in fact, saying to Hamas, give up and recognize Israel, or be eliminated. There is no third permanent solution. What I am saying to the ordinary Palestinian, however, is exactly the opposite – you need to worry more, because no one else will do it for you, not the people you elected, nor their adversaries.
Its very much like if we took all of the native americans and pushed them into tiny reservations, and then surrounded those reservations and said: you can't leave here, and btw you can't import enough food or medicine either. "Suck. On. That." Or "Don't Fuck With the Jews", or whatever is fashionable in the "mainstream" Amero-Israeli press world these days.
The American Indian analogy still does not make sense to me. As to the last sentence – I am not going to take that bait. Sorry.
More Obama
Ah, good to know that even artificial gods (not that there is any other kind) fall quickly. Obama t-shirts are already 50% off at the aforementioned kiosk.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Rant: Obama
I don't get it. To say that the inauguration frenzy has reached fever pitch would be an understatement of colossal proportions. Four and a half million people expected to attend? There aren't that many Christians that would attend the second coming of Jesus, I bet. The deification has gone through the roof. We have seen our God, and his name is Barack Obama.
The hagiography was already in high gear throughout the campaign, but at the time, at least the mainstream press would include some substance in its coverage at regular intervals, making it at least possible to ignore the vaguely constructivist-looking blue and red posters – the less charitable among us might call them WPA-style, or, dare I say, Socialist-realist – plastered on walls. But now that the papers have moved onto things they are supposed to cover, like cabinet picks, Obamamania has got downright tawdry. In a nearby shopping mall, on the food court level, an enormous kiosk has sprung up, selling nothing but Obama souvenirs. The kiosk occupies the same spot where the Photos-with-Santa station was at Christmas time, and it's about the same size, if you include the tree. And that's in addition to the permanent gift kiosk a hundred or so feet away that a couple of months ago has switched from its normal mix of international flags, Washington Memorial calendars and FBI t-shirts to an all-Obama inventory. The examples go on on. Some people are using Obama's photo on their Facebook profile. Since we no longer seem to go to each other's houses much, but instead socialize on Facebook, this becomes the equivalent of hanging Obama's portrait in a prominent place in one's house. I can think of a very similar phenomenon. It's called Dear Leader.
The frightening thing is that unlike the North Koreans, we are not required to worship Obama. We do it all on our own. Yes, I appreciate the historical nature of his election. But come on – this is a guy whose only claim to fame is a brilliantly-run election campaign. I can't believe I even need to spell this out. Are we so desperate for an external source of moral validation that we make one up? Have we none left in ourselves?
The hagiography was already in high gear throughout the campaign, but at the time, at least the mainstream press would include some substance in its coverage at regular intervals, making it at least possible to ignore the vaguely constructivist-looking blue and red posters – the less charitable among us might call them WPA-style, or, dare I say, Socialist-realist – plastered on walls. But now that the papers have moved onto things they are supposed to cover, like cabinet picks, Obamamania has got downright tawdry. In a nearby shopping mall, on the food court level, an enormous kiosk has sprung up, selling nothing but Obama souvenirs. The kiosk occupies the same spot where the Photos-with-Santa station was at Christmas time, and it's about the same size, if you include the tree. And that's in addition to the permanent gift kiosk a hundred or so feet away that a couple of months ago has switched from its normal mix of international flags, Washington Memorial calendars and FBI t-shirts to an all-Obama inventory. The examples go on on. Some people are using Obama's photo on their Facebook profile. Since we no longer seem to go to each other's houses much, but instead socialize on Facebook, this becomes the equivalent of hanging Obama's portrait in a prominent place in one's house. I can think of a very similar phenomenon. It's called Dear Leader.
The frightening thing is that unlike the North Koreans, we are not required to worship Obama. We do it all on our own. Yes, I appreciate the historical nature of his election. But come on – this is a guy whose only claim to fame is a brilliantly-run election campaign. I can't believe I even need to spell this out. Are we so desperate for an external source of moral validation that we make one up? Have we none left in ourselves?
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Gaza
I am surprised that the vast majority of writers and commentators, when talking about the current Israeli invasion of the Gaza Strip, use the word civilian without even pausing to consider that in the context of the Israeli-Hamas war, it has become meaningless. After September 11th, many pointed out that the nature of war has fundamentally changed. Wars had once been fought between two or more identifiable political entities such as nation-states and their governments. Even civil wars more or less fit that definition – the fighting was between a government holding power and another believing that it should be holding it instead. Wars against terrorists do not fit that definition, as just about everyone who had anything to say about the topic has been pointing out for the past seven years. What most of them failed to recognize, or at least state, was that this change of the nature of war has an inescapable corollary. If you cannot identify a political entity capable of raising and maintaining an army, you can no longer distinguish between soldiers and civilians.
This is exactly the case in the Gaza Strip today. The Qassam rockets that Hamas is firing at Israel are launched from people's yards, as the rocket man's family cowers in fear inside the house, or, more chillingly, goes about their business. The rockets are built in the basements of shops even as regular Gazans are buying groceries or clothes upstairs. How do you distinguish between civilians and fighters in cases like this? How do you target the rocket launching operations without killing “civilians?” You don't.
So what is the solution? Absent Hamas's abandonment of the core principle on which it was founded – the refusal to recognize Israel's right to exist, the abandonment that is obviously not forthcoming – I see two possibilities. One is a scorched earth policy on the part of Israel. Simply razing Gaza to the ground and killing all of its inhabitants will stop the rocket launches. For obvious reasons, Israel will not do this. This leaves only one other – Gazans themselves overthrowing Hamas. Hamas gained public support and eventually power by addressing people's basic needs – medical care, rule of law, a modicum of economic opportunity -- better than anyone else at the time could. However, they need not, and should not, continue to receive this support now that their mere existence has made Gaza a magnet for Israeli bombs and missiles. If enough houses are destroyed and enough people killed by the Israeli offensive, Gazans whose neighbor has a Qassam launcher in his yard need to walk over there and tell him stop immediately, or stop it for him. For their own good, they need to do this now, and in large numbers. It's not Tony Blair's babbling that will stop the war. It is only a grass-roots anti-Hamas revolution in Gaza that has even a remote chance of doing so.
This is exactly the case in the Gaza Strip today. The Qassam rockets that Hamas is firing at Israel are launched from people's yards, as the rocket man's family cowers in fear inside the house, or, more chillingly, goes about their business. The rockets are built in the basements of shops even as regular Gazans are buying groceries or clothes upstairs. How do you distinguish between civilians and fighters in cases like this? How do you target the rocket launching operations without killing “civilians?” You don't.
So what is the solution? Absent Hamas's abandonment of the core principle on which it was founded – the refusal to recognize Israel's right to exist, the abandonment that is obviously not forthcoming – I see two possibilities. One is a scorched earth policy on the part of Israel. Simply razing Gaza to the ground and killing all of its inhabitants will stop the rocket launches. For obvious reasons, Israel will not do this. This leaves only one other – Gazans themselves overthrowing Hamas. Hamas gained public support and eventually power by addressing people's basic needs – medical care, rule of law, a modicum of economic opportunity -- better than anyone else at the time could. However, they need not, and should not, continue to receive this support now that their mere existence has made Gaza a magnet for Israeli bombs and missiles. If enough houses are destroyed and enough people killed by the Israeli offensive, Gazans whose neighbor has a Qassam launcher in his yard need to walk over there and tell him stop immediately, or stop it for him. For their own good, they need to do this now, and in large numbers. It's not Tony Blair's babbling that will stop the war. It is only a grass-roots anti-Hamas revolution in Gaza that has even a remote chance of doing so.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Philadelphia, Day Two
Our second day in Philly was low-key, and centered around brunch. We slept in a bit, stashed the bags at the hotel’s front desk, checked out and headed for Morning Glory, a gourmet diner on the edge of South Philly. The weather had turned dramatically overnight – it was now in the 30s with buffeting winds – but we decided to walk nonetheless. I was reminded how much I liked the character of the city. It’s very walkable, and the neighborhoods flow right into one another. Colonial-era townhouses intermingle with utilitarian International Style high-rises. This might strike some as unfortunate – the beautiful historic architecture being polluted by the worst that urban renewal of the 50s and 60s had to offer. To me, however, it spoke of the city’s vibrancy and its preoccupation with the present at any given moment in its history. It was a sign of a desire to make a place where a wide variety of people could live and function.
The walk was long but largely pleasant despite the weather. We arrived at Morning Glory to find a crowd of intimidating size waiting for tables. Our friend C.S., who suggested the place, warned us of this, and recommended going early, which we didn’t. But it wasn’t as bad as it looked – most groups were large, and we were seated in a little less than a half hour. The brunch was well worth the wait. I had an amazingly delicious egg scramble with smoked salmon, sautéed onions and goat cheese. In addition to the usual choices of bread for toast, olive bread was on offer. It was excellent – fresh, seriously crusty, and chock-full of moist, salty black olive slices. J. – the world’s biggest lover of pancakes, I think – ordered the version that came with granola and bananas. They were very good as well. Even the coffee was top-notch, and came in metal mugs.
After brunch, we walked around South Street a bit, stuck our heads into a couple of shops, then walked back downtown to claim our bags and take the subway to the train station. The subway proved to be much nicer than the street car – quieter, cleaner and more spacious. Our train was late, but we did eventually make it home in time for a late dinner at the neighborhood Vietnamese noodle shop, happy to have got a change of scenery, but sad that we couldn’t stay longer.
The walk was long but largely pleasant despite the weather. We arrived at Morning Glory to find a crowd of intimidating size waiting for tables. Our friend C.S., who suggested the place, warned us of this, and recommended going early, which we didn’t. But it wasn’t as bad as it looked – most groups were large, and we were seated in a little less than a half hour. The brunch was well worth the wait. I had an amazingly delicious egg scramble with smoked salmon, sautéed onions and goat cheese. In addition to the usual choices of bread for toast, olive bread was on offer. It was excellent – fresh, seriously crusty, and chock-full of moist, salty black olive slices. J. – the world’s biggest lover of pancakes, I think – ordered the version that came with granola and bananas. They were very good as well. Even the coffee was top-notch, and came in metal mugs.
After brunch, we walked around South Street a bit, stuck our heads into a couple of shops, then walked back downtown to claim our bags and take the subway to the train station. The subway proved to be much nicer than the street car – quieter, cleaner and more spacious. Our train was late, but we did eventually make it home in time for a late dinner at the neighborhood Vietnamese noodle shop, happy to have got a change of scenery, but sad that we couldn’t stay longer.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Philadelphia, Day One Continued -- Pumpkin
Showered and changed (and recovered from the torrential thunderstorm that caught us as we walked the last four blocks to our hotel), we caught a cab to head out to dinner. Our original plan, on the recommendation of our friend C.S., was Mattyson, but apparently it is the hot place in Philly right now, and was completely booked up by the time I called. We settled for Plan B, which was a restaurant just South of downtown called Pumpkin. We had gone to Pumpkin on out first trip to Philly four or so years ago and had an amazing meal, so I did not hesitate to go back.
Pumpkin is a part of Philly’s vibrant BYOB scene, which alone makes a trip to the city worth it. Why couldn’t it be more widespread? Anyway, Pumpkin is tiny – a single minimally-decorated room that seats 26 if memory serves. The menu changes daily based on the ingredients at the chef’s disposal. Though nominally divided into appetizers and mains, all the plates are about the same size. Our waitress – one of only two working the room – was friendly and knowledgeable, and her service was excellent throughout the meal. I started with the Mediterranean rock octopus (a smaller variety with a more tender flesh compared to the giant “regular” octopus) served with chorizo, fingerling potatoes and romesco (tomato and bell pepper) sauce. It was unbelievable. Definitely the best octopus I have ever had. Up until then, my reference was the giant grilled octopus tentacle I had in Toronto’s Greek Town about ten years ago, but Pumpkin blew it, pardon the pun, out of the water. J., on the waitress’s recommendation with my enthusiastic encouragement, opted for razor clams. They proved to be delicious as well – large and plump and very clammy-tasting.
My second course was the most unusual thing I had had in a while – fresh sturgeon. It came from the Columbia River in Washington. I had no idea there were any sturgeon species in North America. It was excellent – very firm, with a deeply flavored, dense and oily flesh. It had some swordfish and some tuna in the taste, but in the end was its own animal. It was served with brussel sprouts and salsify, scattered with a few corn kernels, and accompanied with a dollop of a creamy sauce I could not quite identify. J.’s choice was the skate wing, which was also very good – tender, with a powerful lemon kick and served with the largest caper berries I have ever seen – they looked like figs. My only complaint, if it can even be called that, is that my sturgeon clashed mightily with the wine we had brought -- a half-bottle of the 2006 pinot noir from Baileyana in the Edna Valley of California. It was crisp, light-bodied and spicy with a pronounced flavor of cranberries on the palate, but the fish was just too, well, fishy for any red, even one as versatile as a pinot noir. That, and the fact that after the two courses, J. and I were too full to have dessert, delectable though it looked.
By the time we left the restaurant, the rain had stopped, and we walked back to the hotel through the rapidly cooling night, past a few inviting-looking bars and restaurants and across Rittenhouse Square. We had initially thought about going to the Apothecary – another happening place and Philly’s outpost of the burgeoning craft cocktail scene, but realized we really were not in the mood to deal with crowds of hipsters, so we got our nightcap back at our hotel’s bar. Situated as it was in the lobby of the hotel, separated only by a large divider, it retained some of the hotel-like sterility of most bars of its ilk. A few small round tables with two deep leather chairs at each helped a bit, and that is where we settled. I must say that the unremarkable atmosphere was deceptive – our drinks were excellent. Our waitress, who looked too young to know anything about real cocktails, looked confused when I asked if they had rye, but the bartender – a middle-aged guy who clearly knew his job and took pride in it – overheard me (the music was mercifully quiet) and nodded. I got one of the best rye manhattans I had ever had. J.’s French 75 – a forgotten classic if ever there was one – was very good as well. We sipped our drinks, mellowed by the long day and the delicious food, contemplating the fact that we were now married and attempting, unsuccessfully, to find some difference in how we felt.
Pumpkin is a part of Philly’s vibrant BYOB scene, which alone makes a trip to the city worth it. Why couldn’t it be more widespread? Anyway, Pumpkin is tiny – a single minimally-decorated room that seats 26 if memory serves. The menu changes daily based on the ingredients at the chef’s disposal. Though nominally divided into appetizers and mains, all the plates are about the same size. Our waitress – one of only two working the room – was friendly and knowledgeable, and her service was excellent throughout the meal. I started with the Mediterranean rock octopus (a smaller variety with a more tender flesh compared to the giant “regular” octopus) served with chorizo, fingerling potatoes and romesco (tomato and bell pepper) sauce. It was unbelievable. Definitely the best octopus I have ever had. Up until then, my reference was the giant grilled octopus tentacle I had in Toronto’s Greek Town about ten years ago, but Pumpkin blew it, pardon the pun, out of the water. J., on the waitress’s recommendation with my enthusiastic encouragement, opted for razor clams. They proved to be delicious as well – large and plump and very clammy-tasting.
My second course was the most unusual thing I had had in a while – fresh sturgeon. It came from the Columbia River in Washington. I had no idea there were any sturgeon species in North America. It was excellent – very firm, with a deeply flavored, dense and oily flesh. It had some swordfish and some tuna in the taste, but in the end was its own animal. It was served with brussel sprouts and salsify, scattered with a few corn kernels, and accompanied with a dollop of a creamy sauce I could not quite identify. J.’s choice was the skate wing, which was also very good – tender, with a powerful lemon kick and served with the largest caper berries I have ever seen – they looked like figs. My only complaint, if it can even be called that, is that my sturgeon clashed mightily with the wine we had brought -- a half-bottle of the 2006 pinot noir from Baileyana in the Edna Valley of California. It was crisp, light-bodied and spicy with a pronounced flavor of cranberries on the palate, but the fish was just too, well, fishy for any red, even one as versatile as a pinot noir. That, and the fact that after the two courses, J. and I were too full to have dessert, delectable though it looked.
By the time we left the restaurant, the rain had stopped, and we walked back to the hotel through the rapidly cooling night, past a few inviting-looking bars and restaurants and across Rittenhouse Square. We had initially thought about going to the Apothecary – another happening place and Philly’s outpost of the burgeoning craft cocktail scene, but realized we really were not in the mood to deal with crowds of hipsters, so we got our nightcap back at our hotel’s bar. Situated as it was in the lobby of the hotel, separated only by a large divider, it retained some of the hotel-like sterility of most bars of its ilk. A few small round tables with two deep leather chairs at each helped a bit, and that is where we settled. I must say that the unremarkable atmosphere was deceptive – our drinks were excellent. Our waitress, who looked too young to know anything about real cocktails, looked confused when I asked if they had rye, but the bartender – a middle-aged guy who clearly knew his job and took pride in it – overheard me (the music was mercifully quiet) and nodded. I got one of the best rye manhattans I had ever had. J.’s French 75 – a forgotten classic if ever there was one – was very good as well. We sipped our drinks, mellowed by the long day and the delicious food, contemplating the fact that we were now married and attempting, unsuccessfully, to find some difference in how we felt.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Philadelphia, Day One
The morning after our wedding in mid-November, J. and I took the train to Philadelphia for the weekend, for a micro-honeymoon of sorts. The trip was largely symbolic – we’re planning a real, albeit much-delayed, honeymoon, this coming spring – we mostly wanted to get away from the over-excited visiting families and get a change of scenery.
The train was a bit late to depart, but once on the way, the ride was trouble-free, and a hair over two hours later we pulled into 30th Street Station in the city of brotherly love. We took the streetcar – one of a seemingly endless variety of public conveyances in Philly, and a gross misnomer, for it spent not a moment of its trip above ground – downtown, checked our bags at the hotel and set out in search of lunch. Owing to the wedding, I did virtually no research on Philly before we left. We had been there once before, but it was several years ago, and we went with our friend C.S., who knew the city really well, so we were content just to follow him and his girlfriend around. This time, we were on our own, and in the absence of any information on lunch-appropriate spots in the vicinity of our hotel, ended up just grabbing a slice of pizza around the corner. It was surprisingly good – very much in the style of the New York’s famous slices, and though not quite that good, it was close. Our friend N. would later comment that she found Philadelphia to be an unfriendly city. I believe it stems from its frustration over its desire to be a New York in some important ways, but never quite reaching that ideal. The pizza was just a small manifestation of that.
Our lunch consumed, we set out for the Philadelphia Art Museum. According to the map we had picked up at the train station, the Museum occupied a location somewhat akin to the Kennedy Center in DC – not that far from anything, but not easy to get to. There was no Metro station anywhere near the museum, and Philly’s bus system looked intimidating even to a transit rat like me, so we walked. The weather was unseasonably warm – it would reach 71 degrees that afternoon – and the walk along Ben Franklin Parkway (more of a boulevard) pleasant.
The Museum is vast – the third largest in the US, after the Met and, I presume, either the National Gallery or maybe the Chicago Institute. There was no way we could see the entire thing in an afternoon, and we would not have wanted to, but we saw enough to make the visit memorable.
The current Classical style building was completed in 1928, though it looks older, and was the product of multiple architects and firms, which accounts for its generic architecture. It is enormous and is more functional than beautiful. Though superficially similar to the Met, it lacks the latter’s sense of proportion, especially when viewed from the front.
Some of the highlights and pleasant surprises we encountered were some early Miro from roughly 1920 that looked nothing like what we think of when his name is mentioned, some late, non-Cubist work by Georges Braque, and some seriously creepy modernist Mexican paintings by artists I was not familiar with. There was also a large gallery dedicated to the sculpture of Constantin Brancusi, which I enjoyed thoroughly, though J. was less enthused. Philly’s collection of Asian art, which we had to see selectively for lack of time, seemed heavy on Chinese artifacts, including, improbably, a complete study of a Chi’ing Dynasty scholar, but we did eventually find the Japanese stuff we were looking for. This included some beautiful ink-on-paper scrolls and some classic pottery. Unfortunately, we had to rush through the decorative arts galleries, but we saw enough to whet our appetites. All in all, a decent introduction to the monstrosity that the Museum is. We’re sure to be back more than once.
We walked back through the warm late afternoon, stopping for a cup of coffee on the way, then checked into our hotel. It being a special occasion, we had splurged a bit and booked a room at the Sofitel, which was far nicer and more expensive than what we normally allow ourselves. There was some history to the place. Though the building looks newer, it was originally built in 1964 to house the Philadelphia Stock Exchange (now owned by NASDAQ). After acquiring the property several years ago, Sofitel did a nice remodeling job, managing to avoid the generic hotel feel for the most part, especially in the guest rooms. Ours was nicely appointed and tastefully decorated in dark woods and bright but not garish fabrics. Far nicer than what we’re used to when traveling. The biggest difference, however, and one that almost made the room worth the high price, was the bed. It was incredibly comfortable. Hands down the best of any hotel we’ve ever stayed in, in the US or abroad, and, to be perfectly honest, better than ours at home. After a day on our feet, it would prove to be a godsend.
The train was a bit late to depart, but once on the way, the ride was trouble-free, and a hair over two hours later we pulled into 30th Street Station in the city of brotherly love. We took the streetcar – one of a seemingly endless variety of public conveyances in Philly, and a gross misnomer, for it spent not a moment of its trip above ground – downtown, checked our bags at the hotel and set out in search of lunch. Owing to the wedding, I did virtually no research on Philly before we left. We had been there once before, but it was several years ago, and we went with our friend C.S., who knew the city really well, so we were content just to follow him and his girlfriend around. This time, we were on our own, and in the absence of any information on lunch-appropriate spots in the vicinity of our hotel, ended up just grabbing a slice of pizza around the corner. It was surprisingly good – very much in the style of the New York’s famous slices, and though not quite that good, it was close. Our friend N. would later comment that she found Philadelphia to be an unfriendly city. I believe it stems from its frustration over its desire to be a New York in some important ways, but never quite reaching that ideal. The pizza was just a small manifestation of that.
Our lunch consumed, we set out for the Philadelphia Art Museum. According to the map we had picked up at the train station, the Museum occupied a location somewhat akin to the Kennedy Center in DC – not that far from anything, but not easy to get to. There was no Metro station anywhere near the museum, and Philly’s bus system looked intimidating even to a transit rat like me, so we walked. The weather was unseasonably warm – it would reach 71 degrees that afternoon – and the walk along Ben Franklin Parkway (more of a boulevard) pleasant.
The Museum is vast – the third largest in the US, after the Met and, I presume, either the National Gallery or maybe the Chicago Institute. There was no way we could see the entire thing in an afternoon, and we would not have wanted to, but we saw enough to make the visit memorable.
The current Classical style building was completed in 1928, though it looks older, and was the product of multiple architects and firms, which accounts for its generic architecture. It is enormous and is more functional than beautiful. Though superficially similar to the Met, it lacks the latter’s sense of proportion, especially when viewed from the front.
Some of the highlights and pleasant surprises we encountered were some early Miro from roughly 1920 that looked nothing like what we think of when his name is mentioned, some late, non-Cubist work by Georges Braque, and some seriously creepy modernist Mexican paintings by artists I was not familiar with. There was also a large gallery dedicated to the sculpture of Constantin Brancusi, which I enjoyed thoroughly, though J. was less enthused. Philly’s collection of Asian art, which we had to see selectively for lack of time, seemed heavy on Chinese artifacts, including, improbably, a complete study of a Chi’ing Dynasty scholar, but we did eventually find the Japanese stuff we were looking for. This included some beautiful ink-on-paper scrolls and some classic pottery. Unfortunately, we had to rush through the decorative arts galleries, but we saw enough to whet our appetites. All in all, a decent introduction to the monstrosity that the Museum is. We’re sure to be back more than once.
We walked back through the warm late afternoon, stopping for a cup of coffee on the way, then checked into our hotel. It being a special occasion, we had splurged a bit and booked a room at the Sofitel, which was far nicer and more expensive than what we normally allow ourselves. There was some history to the place. Though the building looks newer, it was originally built in 1964 to house the Philadelphia Stock Exchange (now owned by NASDAQ). After acquiring the property several years ago, Sofitel did a nice remodeling job, managing to avoid the generic hotel feel for the most part, especially in the guest rooms. Ours was nicely appointed and tastefully decorated in dark woods and bright but not garish fabrics. Far nicer than what we’re used to when traveling. The biggest difference, however, and one that almost made the room worth the high price, was the bed. It was incredibly comfortable. Hands down the best of any hotel we’ve ever stayed in, in the US or abroad, and, to be perfectly honest, better than ours at home. After a day on our feet, it would prove to be a godsend.
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