A couple of weeks of Spanish class to catch up on. Going well, mostly. Several people have given up, so the class is now noticeably smaller. This is a good thing -- everyone gets to talk more. Last week, more than half the class was spent on nothing but speaking. The instructor conducted a relatively extensive (by intro standards) interview with each student, using everything we have learned so far, plus additional words and expressions that he defined as he went along. Two patterns emerged.
One -- most students are extremely frustrated not to be able to say what they think. They are thinking in complex terms -- full vocabulary, past and future tenses, etc. Of course, they have none of this in Spanish yet. But they seem to be unwilling, or it just doesn't occur to them, to simplify intentionally and reduce their answer until they can say it, even if that leaves the nuances out. They try to say it all, and immediately get stuck. This is annoying, but I can relate -- my initial reaction is to go complex too, especially since I could say it all perfectly adequately in French, and some part of my brain somewhere must think "If I can say it in one foreign language, I ought to be able to say it in another." Takes some effort to accept that it doesn't work like that.
The other pattern is far more irritating -- when students can't say something in Spanish, they immediately blurt it out in English. To them, it's better to say it in some language than not to say it at all, and they are either too lazy, or just too overwhelmed, to pause and ask. To me, it's infinitely better to use ¿Cómo se dice? five times in a sentence than to use a single English word, but evidently others don't feel that way. That drives me crazy, but what can you do...
Last week's exchange of the evening:
Instructor to student: ¿De dónde es tu esposo?
Student: De Toledo
Instructor: ¿Si? ¿España?
Student (pauses): No... Ohio
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Monday, March 3, 2008
Footprints: The Life and Work of Wayne Shorter
I finished Footprints: The Life and Work of Wayne Shorter by Michelle Mercer last night. I enjoyed it for the most part, though the book is not without its problems. If I am remembering correctly, this is the only biography of a person still living that I've read to date. It is also the only authorized biography I have ever read, in the sense that Shorter himself actively participated in its creation by granting hours of informal interviews to the author. As such, it raises some obvious questions.
I must admit that I initially found the idea of helping to write one's own biography distasteful. Throughout the book, Mercer paints Shorter as an excessively humble, self-effacing guy, yet here he is, contributing copiously to his own biography. Can there be anything more self-indulgent? Also, on some level I question the very premise of writing a biography of a living person. Anyone whose life's work is not complete, and, more importantly, has not had a chance to be analyzed fully and influence those who come after, does not deserve a biography, one might argue. But then, one could probably argue the opposite just as effectively, assuming the subject has made sufficient achievements in his lifetime. And on that count, Shorter definitely qualifies. While not unique, he is one of a very small group of musicians still living that have a direct link to the “magic” jazz age of the 1950s and 60s. And of those, the group that is still actively recording and performing is even smaller. In fact, besides Shorter, the only one I can think of readily is Herbie Hancock (widely discussed in the book). Since jazz, even the most accessible kind, has a very tenuous connection to the mainstream, we have no idea whether in twenty or thirty years anyone will be capable of writing about someone like Shorter, much less inclined to, so I suppose it makes sense for someone to do it while the opportunity is there.
Mercer is definitely a fan, and that, combined with the authorized nature of the book, makes the writing laudatory. A little one-dimensionally so. Throughout the book, Mercer paints Shorter as a really nice guy, and downplays what a more impartial biographer would emphasize. It's not that I'm looking for “dirt,” but deployed judiciously, it can help the reader form a more complete picture of the subject. The most glaring example is that if Footprints is accurate, Shorter is the only major jazz musician in history who has never used any drugs. I find that difficult to believe (though not impossible – even today, at 74, he seems to be in excellent shape). His first marriage gets exactly one paragraph. And, perhaps most disappointingly, I would have loved to know more about Shorter's brother Alan.
Alan appears to have been a professional musician too (it's not entirely clear), a trumpeter, but his style was so avant-garde that he had no public success at all in the US, and even in Europe, where he lived for most of his life, it was marginal. Was he a good musician, just misunderstood? Or did he never acquire real skills as a player and compensated by simply being weird? Did his personal idiosyncrasies, which Mercer examines just enough to give her readers a taste, contribute to his bizarre style? We don't know. Granted, this is a biography of Wayne Shorter, not his brother. Still, since it's pretty much a given that Alan himself will never get a biography of his own, I would have been interested to know more.
All that said, the book is far better than just about any other fan-written biography I've come across. First of all, Mercer is a solid writer. She makes extensive use of direct quotes, both from Shorter and many other people who knew him, but she works them expertly into the text, and the narrative flows smoothly. She also deserves credit for some coverage of Shorter's demons. While drug use is conspicuously absent, Mercer makes no secret of his drinking, and eventually the admission comes that it was a serious problem that plagued him through most of his life. What “dirt” there is, it is entertaining, like the incident when Tina Turner came to stay with the Shorters to escape her abusive husband.
Mercer's biggest accomplishment for me, however, is tying the arc of tragedy in Shorter's life to the decisions he made as a musician. And tragedy there was, in spades. Severely brain-damaged daughter who finally died at fourteen, after being cared for on a daily basis by Shorter and his wife. Father being killed in a car accident on his way to see Wayne. Brother dying prematurely of a ruptured aorta. Seeing great jazz musicians and close personal friends go one by one – Coltrane, Lee Morgan, Miles. And finally, Ana Maria, his wife of 26 years, mother of the brain-damaged daughter, with whom he reunited once after a separation, and who had serious drinking problems of her own that they overcame together, being killed on TWA Flight 800 in 1996.
Through most of his career, Shorter was excoriated by critics for many of his solo recordings. Too electric. Too rock-n-roll. Then, ten years later, not rock-n-roll enough. The writing is too dense. Live shows are a mess (because the musicians can't play the dense writing). Touring with Santana cheapens his value as a jazz improviser. Etc., etc. I haven't heard most of his solo recordings of the 70s and 80s. But Mercer, to her credit, has. According to her, there is real depth to the music, especially compositionally. More than occasionally, that depth was too personal – accessible only to Shorter himself, unless explained – hence the lack of critical acceptance. After reading the book and learning what he went through, I cannot begrudge him the opacity of his solo output.
On purely musical terms, the book mostly satisfies. I'm not sure if Mercer is a musician herself – I suspect not – but she understands enough to discuss the music intelligently. Someone looking for really deep analysis of the minutia of Shorter's composing and improvisation will not find it here, but that allows Mercer to avoid entirely the turgid, high-falutin' commentary that some supposedly great critics have indulged in in the past (Martin Williams comes to mind).
My final criticism has to do with the way the book discusses the way Shorter talks. Mercer makes a big deal of Shorter's oblique, oracular way of speaking, about music as well as everything else. When one of his short-term bands in the early 80s botches a tune when trying to improvise multiple lines simultaneously, his assessment is “sometimes a rabbit runs down a hole, and sometimes he falls down a hole.” “Put more water into those chords,” he tells pianist Danilo Perez. Perez contemplates for a while, thinks he knows what Shorter wants; they do another take. “But the water has to be clean,” Shorter says. Mercer paints this as a positive, a sign of his unorthodox, all-encompassing thinking, and a skill at incorporating all experiences into his music-making. In fact, she implies a bit of a special status for herself when she enthuses that Shorter talks to her like that, too, and that she understands him. The anecdote she uses that illustrates this well is a phone call that interrupts one of their interviews. A journalist wants to ask Shorter questions about his new album. Shorter tries to talk his abstract philosophy, but the journalist persists. Finally, Shorter gives up and gives him the direct answers he wants. When he hangs up, he asks Mercer, “you don't want me to talk to you like that, do you?” Maybe she doesn't, but as a reader who does not know Shorter personally, I want her to. Yes, the fact that he has a tendency to speak in cryptic koans is telling, but I cannot imagine at least some people's reaction not being simply "that dude is weird. Can't he talk like a normal person?" True, his insistence on a broad-terms approach is a sign of an advanced mind, but it is also, I am sure, an explanation for many failures and misunderstandings in his music and his life, and deserves to be examined as such.
I must admit that I initially found the idea of helping to write one's own biography distasteful. Throughout the book, Mercer paints Shorter as an excessively humble, self-effacing guy, yet here he is, contributing copiously to his own biography. Can there be anything more self-indulgent? Also, on some level I question the very premise of writing a biography of a living person. Anyone whose life's work is not complete, and, more importantly, has not had a chance to be analyzed fully and influence those who come after, does not deserve a biography, one might argue. But then, one could probably argue the opposite just as effectively, assuming the subject has made sufficient achievements in his lifetime. And on that count, Shorter definitely qualifies. While not unique, he is one of a very small group of musicians still living that have a direct link to the “magic” jazz age of the 1950s and 60s. And of those, the group that is still actively recording and performing is even smaller. In fact, besides Shorter, the only one I can think of readily is Herbie Hancock (widely discussed in the book). Since jazz, even the most accessible kind, has a very tenuous connection to the mainstream, we have no idea whether in twenty or thirty years anyone will be capable of writing about someone like Shorter, much less inclined to, so I suppose it makes sense for someone to do it while the opportunity is there.
Mercer is definitely a fan, and that, combined with the authorized nature of the book, makes the writing laudatory. A little one-dimensionally so. Throughout the book, Mercer paints Shorter as a really nice guy, and downplays what a more impartial biographer would emphasize. It's not that I'm looking for “dirt,” but deployed judiciously, it can help the reader form a more complete picture of the subject. The most glaring example is that if Footprints is accurate, Shorter is the only major jazz musician in history who has never used any drugs. I find that difficult to believe (though not impossible – even today, at 74, he seems to be in excellent shape). His first marriage gets exactly one paragraph. And, perhaps most disappointingly, I would have loved to know more about Shorter's brother Alan.
Alan appears to have been a professional musician too (it's not entirely clear), a trumpeter, but his style was so avant-garde that he had no public success at all in the US, and even in Europe, where he lived for most of his life, it was marginal. Was he a good musician, just misunderstood? Or did he never acquire real skills as a player and compensated by simply being weird? Did his personal idiosyncrasies, which Mercer examines just enough to give her readers a taste, contribute to his bizarre style? We don't know. Granted, this is a biography of Wayne Shorter, not his brother. Still, since it's pretty much a given that Alan himself will never get a biography of his own, I would have been interested to know more.
All that said, the book is far better than just about any other fan-written biography I've come across. First of all, Mercer is a solid writer. She makes extensive use of direct quotes, both from Shorter and many other people who knew him, but she works them expertly into the text, and the narrative flows smoothly. She also deserves credit for some coverage of Shorter's demons. While drug use is conspicuously absent, Mercer makes no secret of his drinking, and eventually the admission comes that it was a serious problem that plagued him through most of his life. What “dirt” there is, it is entertaining, like the incident when Tina Turner came to stay with the Shorters to escape her abusive husband.
Mercer's biggest accomplishment for me, however, is tying the arc of tragedy in Shorter's life to the decisions he made as a musician. And tragedy there was, in spades. Severely brain-damaged daughter who finally died at fourteen, after being cared for on a daily basis by Shorter and his wife. Father being killed in a car accident on his way to see Wayne. Brother dying prematurely of a ruptured aorta. Seeing great jazz musicians and close personal friends go one by one – Coltrane, Lee Morgan, Miles. And finally, Ana Maria, his wife of 26 years, mother of the brain-damaged daughter, with whom he reunited once after a separation, and who had serious drinking problems of her own that they overcame together, being killed on TWA Flight 800 in 1996.
Through most of his career, Shorter was excoriated by critics for many of his solo recordings. Too electric. Too rock-n-roll. Then, ten years later, not rock-n-roll enough. The writing is too dense. Live shows are a mess (because the musicians can't play the dense writing). Touring with Santana cheapens his value as a jazz improviser. Etc., etc. I haven't heard most of his solo recordings of the 70s and 80s. But Mercer, to her credit, has. According to her, there is real depth to the music, especially compositionally. More than occasionally, that depth was too personal – accessible only to Shorter himself, unless explained – hence the lack of critical acceptance. After reading the book and learning what he went through, I cannot begrudge him the opacity of his solo output.
On purely musical terms, the book mostly satisfies. I'm not sure if Mercer is a musician herself – I suspect not – but she understands enough to discuss the music intelligently. Someone looking for really deep analysis of the minutia of Shorter's composing and improvisation will not find it here, but that allows Mercer to avoid entirely the turgid, high-falutin' commentary that some supposedly great critics have indulged in in the past (Martin Williams comes to mind).
My final criticism has to do with the way the book discusses the way Shorter talks. Mercer makes a big deal of Shorter's oblique, oracular way of speaking, about music as well as everything else. When one of his short-term bands in the early 80s botches a tune when trying to improvise multiple lines simultaneously, his assessment is “sometimes a rabbit runs down a hole, and sometimes he falls down a hole.” “Put more water into those chords,” he tells pianist Danilo Perez. Perez contemplates for a while, thinks he knows what Shorter wants; they do another take. “But the water has to be clean,” Shorter says. Mercer paints this as a positive, a sign of his unorthodox, all-encompassing thinking, and a skill at incorporating all experiences into his music-making. In fact, she implies a bit of a special status for herself when she enthuses that Shorter talks to her like that, too, and that she understands him. The anecdote she uses that illustrates this well is a phone call that interrupts one of their interviews. A journalist wants to ask Shorter questions about his new album. Shorter tries to talk his abstract philosophy, but the journalist persists. Finally, Shorter gives up and gives him the direct answers he wants. When he hangs up, he asks Mercer, “you don't want me to talk to you like that, do you?” Maybe she doesn't, but as a reader who does not know Shorter personally, I want her to. Yes, the fact that he has a tendency to speak in cryptic koans is telling, but I cannot imagine at least some people's reaction not being simply "that dude is weird. Can't he talk like a normal person?" True, his insistence on a broad-terms approach is a sign of an advanced mind, but it is also, I am sure, an explanation for many failures and misunderstandings in his music and his life, and deserves to be examined as such.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Babies
Could someone explain to me why babies make people smile? There is a gentleman who works at my office. He is the surliest, most sour-looking person I have ever met. Far more surly than I am -- and that's saying something. He is not just serious or even dour -- he wears a permanent grimace of haughty disgust that by now has probably etched itself into the tissue of his face like botched plastic surgery. Until today. When another co-worker's wife stopped by the office with her one-year-old twins, the man smiled. I could not believe it -- I did not think it was possible. Am I a freak of nature for taking a groundhog or even a squirrel over a baby for cuteness any day?
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
NY Phil. in North Korea
The New York Philharmonic is in Pyongyang, North Korea right now, to play a concert, apparently at the invitation of the North Korean dictatorship. What could they possibly hope to accomplish by this? Evidently, the project was hatched last year, when there was a “thaw” between the US and North Korea. A handful of multi-party talks chaperoned by supposedly non-aligned governments at least one of which (China) is friendly to North Korea and is widely believed to be the only reason the Kim Jong Il dictatorship hasn't collapsed yet, taking half of Asia down with it, qualifies as a thaw? A little flexible with our definitions are we? But never mind that.
Cultural ambassadorship has a long history, some of it distinguished, or at least innocent. Exposing a foreign society, particularly a non-Western one, to Western artistic achievements is considered to be the most direct, and the least political, method of appealing directly to the general population of the target country. Classical music seems to fit the bill especially well – it is supposed to be the art form that captures humanity's highest hopes and ideals, and it does not depend on written or spoken language to deliver its message. In practice, however, these same qualities are the art form's greatest liabilities, and in the case of North Korea at least, the project will backfire.
There is a reason why Kim invited a symphony orchestra – classical music is an art form that most people in any society don't understand. It is safe, precisely because it does not depend on conventional language while wearing very convincingly the cloak of great culture. If there is anything a Stalinist dictatorship knows how to do, it is how to create an illusion of benevolence without actually granting its people anything meaningful, and the NY Phil. and its music director Lorin Maazel have played into Kim's hands by agreeing to go.
“It would have been a great mistake not to accept this invitation,” Maazel was quoted as saying. And why is that, may I ask? You can't seriously believe, Maestro, that you are actually contributing to the well-being of an average North Korean in any meaningful way, do you? I am willing to bet significant amounts of money that every single attendee at your supposedly historic concert is going to be a carefully screened party apparatchik. Yeah, they're going to show it on state television. Big deal – how much can you really communicate to a group of half-starved North Koreans, indoctrinated to automaton level, gathered around a grainy black and white set in someone's communal kitchen? It makes no difference that you're playing Gershwin's “An American in Paris.” Actually, it does make a difference – a negative one. A rousing Beethoven symphony at least has a chance of coming across on a purely emotional level – its essence of human struggle and drama is universal and timeless. Gershwin, on the other hand, will be completely lost on your North Korean audience. Heck, it's lost on most Americans.
In the meantime, you, and your entire orchestra are made to surrender your cell phones and “publishing of all kinds” at the airport. Is this the kind of government for which you want to show respect? For that is precisely what you're doing. Accepting any invitation is a show of mutual respect by both parties. Someone invites you to dinner at their house. They do this because they like you and want to do something nice for you. You accept for the same reasons. That is a show of respect. Or they do it because they want to get something out of you for their own benefit. In that case, you do not accept, unless you're too naïve or too full of yourself to recognize it. Guess which category Kim falls into, making you fall into the coresponding one? Thankfully, a Western artist cannot be compelled to do something he does not wish to do. So the responsibility for legitimizing, however apolitically, the North Korean regime, falls squarely on your shoulders, Maestro Maazel.
What do I expect you to have done instead, you ask? I expect you to have stood up and declined the invitation outright, saying that your moral standards do not allow you to accept an invitation from a government that is directly responsible for starving two million of its citizens to death.
What is equally worrisome is that apparently not a single orchestra member declined to go, citing North Korean human rights abuses as the basis for their decision. I attribute this to the tyrannical powers conductors sometimes have over their orchestras, and the musicians' pathological fear of losing their jobs. Still, this is very sad. Great artists, great conductors in particular, are known for allowing their outsize egos to disconnect them from reality. An average musician has no such excuse. Sheepishly surrendering your cell phone at customs, and allowing oneself to be bussed around for two days to performances of folk dances by girls with pasted-on plastic smiles, by a government that would not hesitate to lob a nuclear missile at Japan just because it has nothing to lose, is cowardice at best, moral decrepitude at worst.
P.S.: Evidently, even after the US-North Korea talks collapsed, Maazel was told by the Bush administration he could proceed with the visit. I suppose it is possible that he wanted to cancel, but for mysterious reasons of its own, the administration, ahem, encoraged him not to. But I am not enough of a conspiracy theorist to believe that seriously. Politicians are even worse than great conductors when it comes to disconnecting themselves from reality.
Cultural ambassadorship has a long history, some of it distinguished, or at least innocent. Exposing a foreign society, particularly a non-Western one, to Western artistic achievements is considered to be the most direct, and the least political, method of appealing directly to the general population of the target country. Classical music seems to fit the bill especially well – it is supposed to be the art form that captures humanity's highest hopes and ideals, and it does not depend on written or spoken language to deliver its message. In practice, however, these same qualities are the art form's greatest liabilities, and in the case of North Korea at least, the project will backfire.
There is a reason why Kim invited a symphony orchestra – classical music is an art form that most people in any society don't understand. It is safe, precisely because it does not depend on conventional language while wearing very convincingly the cloak of great culture. If there is anything a Stalinist dictatorship knows how to do, it is how to create an illusion of benevolence without actually granting its people anything meaningful, and the NY Phil. and its music director Lorin Maazel have played into Kim's hands by agreeing to go.
“It would have been a great mistake not to accept this invitation,” Maazel was quoted as saying. And why is that, may I ask? You can't seriously believe, Maestro, that you are actually contributing to the well-being of an average North Korean in any meaningful way, do you? I am willing to bet significant amounts of money that every single attendee at your supposedly historic concert is going to be a carefully screened party apparatchik. Yeah, they're going to show it on state television. Big deal – how much can you really communicate to a group of half-starved North Koreans, indoctrinated to automaton level, gathered around a grainy black and white set in someone's communal kitchen? It makes no difference that you're playing Gershwin's “An American in Paris.” Actually, it does make a difference – a negative one. A rousing Beethoven symphony at least has a chance of coming across on a purely emotional level – its essence of human struggle and drama is universal and timeless. Gershwin, on the other hand, will be completely lost on your North Korean audience. Heck, it's lost on most Americans.
In the meantime, you, and your entire orchestra are made to surrender your cell phones and “publishing of all kinds” at the airport. Is this the kind of government for which you want to show respect? For that is precisely what you're doing. Accepting any invitation is a show of mutual respect by both parties. Someone invites you to dinner at their house. They do this because they like you and want to do something nice for you. You accept for the same reasons. That is a show of respect. Or they do it because they want to get something out of you for their own benefit. In that case, you do not accept, unless you're too naïve or too full of yourself to recognize it. Guess which category Kim falls into, making you fall into the coresponding one? Thankfully, a Western artist cannot be compelled to do something he does not wish to do. So the responsibility for legitimizing, however apolitically, the North Korean regime, falls squarely on your shoulders, Maestro Maazel.
What do I expect you to have done instead, you ask? I expect you to have stood up and declined the invitation outright, saying that your moral standards do not allow you to accept an invitation from a government that is directly responsible for starving two million of its citizens to death.
What is equally worrisome is that apparently not a single orchestra member declined to go, citing North Korean human rights abuses as the basis for their decision. I attribute this to the tyrannical powers conductors sometimes have over their orchestras, and the musicians' pathological fear of losing their jobs. Still, this is very sad. Great artists, great conductors in particular, are known for allowing their outsize egos to disconnect them from reality. An average musician has no such excuse. Sheepishly surrendering your cell phone at customs, and allowing oneself to be bussed around for two days to performances of folk dances by girls with pasted-on plastic smiles, by a government that would not hesitate to lob a nuclear missile at Japan just because it has nothing to lose, is cowardice at best, moral decrepitude at worst.
P.S.: Evidently, even after the US-North Korea talks collapsed, Maazel was told by the Bush administration he could proceed with the visit. I suppose it is possible that he wanted to cancel, but for mysterious reasons of its own, the administration, ahem, encoraged him not to. But I am not enough of a conspiracy theorist to believe that seriously. Politicians are even worse than great conductors when it comes to disconnecting themselves from reality.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Some tasting notes
Here are some tasting notes for a few beers that I have collected over the last several weeks and haven't had a chance to write up until now.
Green Flash Trippel
8.5% ABV. Darker than most triples, sort of peach-colored. Pours with a thick, dense, almost white and very vigirous head. Yeasty and slightly musty on the nose, with hints of perfume. Fairly creamy on the palate, with a pronounced flavor of dried fruit. Beautifully balanced, not too sweet, not too bitter, with a very long finish. Two thumbs up.
Smuttynose Barleywine
ABV not listed, not even on the brewery's website, but tastes strong as a barleywine should. My estimate is around 9-10%. Fairly dark reddish-brown color. Not much in the way of head. Quite hoppy on the nose, but with a strong fruity character, especially raisins. A little musty. Hoppy bitterness on the palate (by barleywine standards, anyway). Acquired a metallic taste when served with very sweet things (I tried dried fig). On the other hand, delicious with a washed rind cheese.
Flying Dog Imperial Porter
9.2% ABV – Imperial indeed. Almost black color. Short beige head, dissipated quickly. Rye bread and molasses on the nose. Exquisitely balanced on the palate, very long finish. Smoother than a beer of this strength ought to be.
Fiddler's Green IPA
ABV not listed, but doesn't taste that strong. My estimate is no more than 6.5%, probably less. Clear amber color. Thick head, but dissipated very quickly. Very fizzy. Slightly sweet on the nose. Pronounced honey flavor on the palate. Not nearly hoppy enough for an IPA. Pleasant, inoffensive, decent everyday quaff, but not that distinctive. Apparently, this stuff is made by F.X. Matt in Utica, NY, where Saranac and Utica Club are also made.
Green Flash Trippel
8.5% ABV. Darker than most triples, sort of peach-colored. Pours with a thick, dense, almost white and very vigirous head. Yeasty and slightly musty on the nose, with hints of perfume. Fairly creamy on the palate, with a pronounced flavor of dried fruit. Beautifully balanced, not too sweet, not too bitter, with a very long finish. Two thumbs up.
Smuttynose Barleywine
ABV not listed, not even on the brewery's website, but tastes strong as a barleywine should. My estimate is around 9-10%. Fairly dark reddish-brown color. Not much in the way of head. Quite hoppy on the nose, but with a strong fruity character, especially raisins. A little musty. Hoppy bitterness on the palate (by barleywine standards, anyway). Acquired a metallic taste when served with very sweet things (I tried dried fig). On the other hand, delicious with a washed rind cheese.
Flying Dog Imperial Porter
9.2% ABV – Imperial indeed. Almost black color. Short beige head, dissipated quickly. Rye bread and molasses on the nose. Exquisitely balanced on the palate, very long finish. Smoother than a beer of this strength ought to be.
Fiddler's Green IPA
ABV not listed, but doesn't taste that strong. My estimate is no more than 6.5%, probably less. Clear amber color. Thick head, but dissipated very quickly. Very fizzy. Slightly sweet on the nose. Pronounced honey flavor on the palate. Not nearly hoppy enough for an IPA. Pleasant, inoffensive, decent everyday quaff, but not that distinctive. Apparently, this stuff is made by F.X. Matt in Utica, NY, where Saranac and Utica Club are also made.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Phoenix, Day Three
Sunday was finally a classic Arizona day. It was still chilly in the morning, but the sky was a deep, clear blue with nary a cloud visible, and the sun was already blinding at 8:00 a.m. In the morning, we met M., the artistic director of the Downtown Chamber Series, for breakfast at Palletta, on the North-Western edge of downtown. Palletta has opened since we moved, and, according to M., is evidence of the continuing revival of the downtown area, even in the face of the sluggish economy. The restaurant was very cool. It was located in a large, old (1920s vintage) house with a big yard, and most of the tables were outdoors. The food was excellent – hearty, but far more interesting and less greasy than typical American breakfast fare. J., in particular, hit the jackpot – sweet potato pancakes with mascarpone cream. They were light, fluffy, sweet but not cloying, and absolutely delicious. The coffee was some of the best I've had in a long time, and the place is also apparently known for their large selection of organic teas served in big vintage teapots that you can sip all morning.
Being here I couldn't help contemplate the contrasts that Phoenix offers, now even more than when J. and I lived here. As spacious and comfortable as our friends' house in Chandler is (their patio in particular, tiny by Arizona standards and shockingly pool-less, is the Platonic ideal of a patio for me), I do not like the uniform sterility of the outlying parts of the area today any more than I did five years ago. Endless miles of pink stucco houses, barely six feet apart, corralled into gated communities with equally pink walls separating them from arrow-straight six-lane thoroughfares, each major intersection dominated by four standard-issue strip malls. The areas surrounding downtown, however, is a completely different story. It has always been full of old houses (built in the teens and twenties, mostly) with amazing amounts of character, each one unique, and most of them small enough to be manageable even for a die-hard apartment dweller like me. A handful of random highrises look completely out of place but only add to the mosaic-like character of the neighborhoods. The problem, even as recently as five years ago, was that that's all there was. There was no street life to speak of. You had to get in the car to buy a quart of milk, and unless you were willing to drive a fair distance, you ended up buying the milk at a rather frightening-looking convenience store in a dilapidated gas station. In may areas, the houses were separated by large, empty, wind-blown lots that were beyond creepy at night. A few apartment complexes downtown, built when downtown still had a trace of a pulse, remained, their residents not inspiring confidence, to put it mildly.
All this started to change, very slowly, right around 2002-2003 as Phoenix was reluctantly swept into the reurbanization/gentrification movement that an increasing number of American cities was embracing. A few condo complexes started to go up along Central Ave., intrepid non-conformists like M. bought and restored some old houses, and a few trailblazing businesses like Portland's started to make a cautious foray into the wasteland surrounding downtown. Happily, the momentum continued. Phoenix is still a far cry from a truly vibrant, walkable city, and to be honest, I have my doubts that something like that can be created effectively from scratch, but I must admit I feel chastened – the areas surrounding downtown Phoenix seem like a very attractive place to live today, and hopefully, with the opening of the light rail and more construction, will continue to improve.
M. caught us up on his frenzied life. The Chamber Series was a major topic of discussion, and while it is demanding tons of his energy, it seems to be going really well. He lectured a bit on the importance of keeping it small and simple, and of having realistic expectations for its success. I found his discussion of the challenges of attracting audiences interesting. He is, of course, enthused about the revival of the downtown area, but concerned that as more money is being poured in, and more luxurious housing gets built, its denizens will not necessarily increase his pool of potential concert attendees. “Condo people,” in his words, “do not go to classical concerts. They've been raised on U2. They watch DVDs on their fancy entertainment systems. They might go see the Nutcracker at Christmas time.” I thought that he was being a little too simplistic by saying that, and that he was falling victim to the demographic compartmentalization in which the marketers he claims to dislike so much routinely engage. More generally, though M. is one of the most optimistic, energetic and positive-thinking people I know, I got a sense that he was feeling overwhelmed and frustrated. Between his regular job playing for the Phoenix Symphony, the Chamber Series, which he still does mostly single-handedly, and raising two kids with his wife who works only occasionally, he feels chronically short on both time and money.
Our plans for the rest of the day called for hiking in the Supersition Mountains. When we got back to C.&S.'s house, however, S. informed us that there was a marathon taking place in the very area where we were going to hike, so we had to resort to Plan B – Camelback Mountain. Camelback is right in the middle of Phoenix and features two trails to the top, both relatively challenging. It is perpetually crowded, but it does offer Southwestern hiking in microcosm without having to drive far, and as beautiful as true Arizona wilderness is, the views of Phoenix (and, unfortunately, its smog) from the top are something to behold, too. S. stayed behind as she still wasn't feeling well, and the three of us set out for the mountain. By the time we got there, the morning crowd had come and gone, and while there was still a lot of people, it was manageable. The weather held beautifully. The whole trail is only about five miles round-trip, but with a 2700-foot elevation change, the last third of it scrambling up some serious boulders, it's more fun than most five-mile trails offer. There is little point in describing the hike mile by mile, suffice it to say we loved every second of it. The hike also offerred the only meaningful wildlife sighting of the entire trip – two adorable desert hares, unfazed by groups of noisy hikers, munching on fresh grass at the foot of the mountain.
Back at the house and cleaned up, we whiled away a couple of hours on the patio over a beer before heading to dinner. It was great to have some of the local beers again. You would think that in this day and age, in a consumerist furnace that is the US, every product would be available everywhere. Nothing could be further from the truth when it comes to microbrewed beers. Antiquated liquor laws and an arcane system of distributors makes many excellent beers unavailable in many parts of the country. Add to that truly local breweries that do not produce enough to sell outside their immediate surroundings, and every city of any size has its own little world of artisan beers, some of them amazingly delicious and utterly unique. In the event, C. had two of my favorites in his fridge – 1554 Black Ale from New Belgium Brewing Company in Ft. Collins, CO, and the Kilt Lifter from Phoenix's own Four Peaks Brewery. Neither is available East of the Mississippi. The 1554 stuff, in particular, is fantastic – nominally Belgian-style (Belgian yeast and secondary fermentation in the bottle), it is actually a style onto itself – pitch-black, yeasty like a good Belgian but with a heady all-American dose of hops. The Kilt Lifter is less intimidating but no less delicious – ostensibly a Scottish-style ale, it is lighter and more refreshing than classics like Bellhaven or McEwan's – perfect for sitting on C.&S.'s patio, listening to their burbling fountain and soaking up the last warm rays of the Arizona winter sun.
Our main motivation for coming to Phoenix was, of course, to see friends. But of all the things on this trip not directly related to people, our dinner on Sunday has to take the cake (though no cake was actually consumed). We went to Richardson's, a New Mexico-style Southwestern restaurant off of 16th Street that is hands-down our favorite restaurant in the entire Phoenix area. New Mexico, Santa Fe in particular, has a distinctive style of Southwestern cuisine – superficially similar to Tex-Mex, it is actually utterly unique once you get to know it. Most of the dishes rely heavily on fresh chiles grown near Deming and Hatch, NM. It is the only regional cuisine that I have not been able to find outside of its native habitat – in fact, Arizona is about as far from Santa Fe as it gets. When done well, as it is at Richardson's, it is ridiculously good.
Richardson's menu is extensive, and they always feature several specials on the large chalkboards. Those tend to be the more creative, “gourmet” entrees – nut-crusted fish and such – but there is really no reason to go beyond the basics, printed right on the paper placemats. One of our favorites has always been posole – a pork and hominy stew that has its origins as a celebration dish in the Southern parts of Mexico. Richardson's version is perfect. It is clearly done the way it should be – stewed slowly for many hours, with no shortcuts. The pork is amazingly tender, and the thick, rich sauce of red chile and tomato has the perfect amount of heat and smokiness to it. J. ordered a bowl on Sunday – it was as good as we remembered it. I almost went for a bowl of posole myself, but opted for the chiles rellenos – two large roasted green chiles, stuffed with cheese and deliciously tender pork similar to that in the posole. I remember seeing the chiles being roasted in New Mexico years ago – it is usually done in large steel mesh drums with mesquite fires underneath. I don't know if Richardson's has one of those in the back, but my chiles tasted authentic – tender but firm enough to retain their shape, with a deep, smoky, peppery flavor. The cheese used for the stuffing was excellent as well. Even the best Tex-Mex restaurants can't seem to avoid gloppy, rubbery cheese, but Richardson's does it somehow – my cheese was perfectly white and oozed out of the chiles as a thick liquid, not clumps. The whole assembly was served with the classic New Mexico red chile sauce – thick, flavorful and quite hot – and a side of pinto beans that were actually good, not the refried gunk that passes for beans in so many restaurants. C. opted for a more “modern” dish – stuffed chicken breast – that he gave high marks. It came with one of Richardson's signature sides – green chile potatoes. They look like regular mashed potatoes, but they do taste strongly of green chile. Quite good. S., being a somewhat picky eater, played it safe with a chicken quesadilla, but I'm sure that even something as prosaic as that was delicious in the hands of Richardson's chefs. The wine list was actually quite extensive and interesting, but this was beer cuisine through and through, and we went with Anchor Steam that Richardson's had on draft.
From here, it was, unfortunately, time to wind down the trip. The following morning, C. and S. went to work while J. and I drove to the airport, returned the car, and flew home on another amazingly on-schedule, trouble-free flight.
Being here I couldn't help contemplate the contrasts that Phoenix offers, now even more than when J. and I lived here. As spacious and comfortable as our friends' house in Chandler is (their patio in particular, tiny by Arizona standards and shockingly pool-less, is the Platonic ideal of a patio for me), I do not like the uniform sterility of the outlying parts of the area today any more than I did five years ago. Endless miles of pink stucco houses, barely six feet apart, corralled into gated communities with equally pink walls separating them from arrow-straight six-lane thoroughfares, each major intersection dominated by four standard-issue strip malls. The areas surrounding downtown, however, is a completely different story. It has always been full of old houses (built in the teens and twenties, mostly) with amazing amounts of character, each one unique, and most of them small enough to be manageable even for a die-hard apartment dweller like me. A handful of random highrises look completely out of place but only add to the mosaic-like character of the neighborhoods. The problem, even as recently as five years ago, was that that's all there was. There was no street life to speak of. You had to get in the car to buy a quart of milk, and unless you were willing to drive a fair distance, you ended up buying the milk at a rather frightening-looking convenience store in a dilapidated gas station. In may areas, the houses were separated by large, empty, wind-blown lots that were beyond creepy at night. A few apartment complexes downtown, built when downtown still had a trace of a pulse, remained, their residents not inspiring confidence, to put it mildly.
All this started to change, very slowly, right around 2002-2003 as Phoenix was reluctantly swept into the reurbanization/gentrification movement that an increasing number of American cities was embracing. A few condo complexes started to go up along Central Ave., intrepid non-conformists like M. bought and restored some old houses, and a few trailblazing businesses like Portland's started to make a cautious foray into the wasteland surrounding downtown. Happily, the momentum continued. Phoenix is still a far cry from a truly vibrant, walkable city, and to be honest, I have my doubts that something like that can be created effectively from scratch, but I must admit I feel chastened – the areas surrounding downtown Phoenix seem like a very attractive place to live today, and hopefully, with the opening of the light rail and more construction, will continue to improve.
M. caught us up on his frenzied life. The Chamber Series was a major topic of discussion, and while it is demanding tons of his energy, it seems to be going really well. He lectured a bit on the importance of keeping it small and simple, and of having realistic expectations for its success. I found his discussion of the challenges of attracting audiences interesting. He is, of course, enthused about the revival of the downtown area, but concerned that as more money is being poured in, and more luxurious housing gets built, its denizens will not necessarily increase his pool of potential concert attendees. “Condo people,” in his words, “do not go to classical concerts. They've been raised on U2. They watch DVDs on their fancy entertainment systems. They might go see the Nutcracker at Christmas time.” I thought that he was being a little too simplistic by saying that, and that he was falling victim to the demographic compartmentalization in which the marketers he claims to dislike so much routinely engage. More generally, though M. is one of the most optimistic, energetic and positive-thinking people I know, I got a sense that he was feeling overwhelmed and frustrated. Between his regular job playing for the Phoenix Symphony, the Chamber Series, which he still does mostly single-handedly, and raising two kids with his wife who works only occasionally, he feels chronically short on both time and money.
Our plans for the rest of the day called for hiking in the Supersition Mountains. When we got back to C.&S.'s house, however, S. informed us that there was a marathon taking place in the very area where we were going to hike, so we had to resort to Plan B – Camelback Mountain. Camelback is right in the middle of Phoenix and features two trails to the top, both relatively challenging. It is perpetually crowded, but it does offer Southwestern hiking in microcosm without having to drive far, and as beautiful as true Arizona wilderness is, the views of Phoenix (and, unfortunately, its smog) from the top are something to behold, too. S. stayed behind as she still wasn't feeling well, and the three of us set out for the mountain. By the time we got there, the morning crowd had come and gone, and while there was still a lot of people, it was manageable. The weather held beautifully. The whole trail is only about five miles round-trip, but with a 2700-foot elevation change, the last third of it scrambling up some serious boulders, it's more fun than most five-mile trails offer. There is little point in describing the hike mile by mile, suffice it to say we loved every second of it. The hike also offerred the only meaningful wildlife sighting of the entire trip – two adorable desert hares, unfazed by groups of noisy hikers, munching on fresh grass at the foot of the mountain.
Photo courtesy of C.
Back at the house and cleaned up, we whiled away a couple of hours on the patio over a beer before heading to dinner. It was great to have some of the local beers again. You would think that in this day and age, in a consumerist furnace that is the US, every product would be available everywhere. Nothing could be further from the truth when it comes to microbrewed beers. Antiquated liquor laws and an arcane system of distributors makes many excellent beers unavailable in many parts of the country. Add to that truly local breweries that do not produce enough to sell outside their immediate surroundings, and every city of any size has its own little world of artisan beers, some of them amazingly delicious and utterly unique. In the event, C. had two of my favorites in his fridge – 1554 Black Ale from New Belgium Brewing Company in Ft. Collins, CO, and the Kilt Lifter from Phoenix's own Four Peaks Brewery. Neither is available East of the Mississippi. The 1554 stuff, in particular, is fantastic – nominally Belgian-style (Belgian yeast and secondary fermentation in the bottle), it is actually a style onto itself – pitch-black, yeasty like a good Belgian but with a heady all-American dose of hops. The Kilt Lifter is less intimidating but no less delicious – ostensibly a Scottish-style ale, it is lighter and more refreshing than classics like Bellhaven or McEwan's – perfect for sitting on C.&S.'s patio, listening to their burbling fountain and soaking up the last warm rays of the Arizona winter sun.
Our main motivation for coming to Phoenix was, of course, to see friends. But of all the things on this trip not directly related to people, our dinner on Sunday has to take the cake (though no cake was actually consumed). We went to Richardson's, a New Mexico-style Southwestern restaurant off of 16th Street that is hands-down our favorite restaurant in the entire Phoenix area. New Mexico, Santa Fe in particular, has a distinctive style of Southwestern cuisine – superficially similar to Tex-Mex, it is actually utterly unique once you get to know it. Most of the dishes rely heavily on fresh chiles grown near Deming and Hatch, NM. It is the only regional cuisine that I have not been able to find outside of its native habitat – in fact, Arizona is about as far from Santa Fe as it gets. When done well, as it is at Richardson's, it is ridiculously good.
Richardson's menu is extensive, and they always feature several specials on the large chalkboards. Those tend to be the more creative, “gourmet” entrees – nut-crusted fish and such – but there is really no reason to go beyond the basics, printed right on the paper placemats. One of our favorites has always been posole – a pork and hominy stew that has its origins as a celebration dish in the Southern parts of Mexico. Richardson's version is perfect. It is clearly done the way it should be – stewed slowly for many hours, with no shortcuts. The pork is amazingly tender, and the thick, rich sauce of red chile and tomato has the perfect amount of heat and smokiness to it. J. ordered a bowl on Sunday – it was as good as we remembered it. I almost went for a bowl of posole myself, but opted for the chiles rellenos – two large roasted green chiles, stuffed with cheese and deliciously tender pork similar to that in the posole. I remember seeing the chiles being roasted in New Mexico years ago – it is usually done in large steel mesh drums with mesquite fires underneath. I don't know if Richardson's has one of those in the back, but my chiles tasted authentic – tender but firm enough to retain their shape, with a deep, smoky, peppery flavor. The cheese used for the stuffing was excellent as well. Even the best Tex-Mex restaurants can't seem to avoid gloppy, rubbery cheese, but Richardson's does it somehow – my cheese was perfectly white and oozed out of the chiles as a thick liquid, not clumps. The whole assembly was served with the classic New Mexico red chile sauce – thick, flavorful and quite hot – and a side of pinto beans that were actually good, not the refried gunk that passes for beans in so many restaurants. C. opted for a more “modern” dish – stuffed chicken breast – that he gave high marks. It came with one of Richardson's signature sides – green chile potatoes. They look like regular mashed potatoes, but they do taste strongly of green chile. Quite good. S., being a somewhat picky eater, played it safe with a chicken quesadilla, but I'm sure that even something as prosaic as that was delicious in the hands of Richardson's chefs. The wine list was actually quite extensive and interesting, but this was beer cuisine through and through, and we went with Anchor Steam that Richardson's had on draft.
From here, it was, unfortunately, time to wind down the trip. The following morning, C. and S. went to work while J. and I drove to the airport, returned the car, and flew home on another amazingly on-schedule, trouble-free flight.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Phoenix, Day Two
Saturday morning found us somewhat rested and refreshed, but disappointed that though the rain had stopped, it was 48 degrees and overcast. Determined to take advantage of Arizona weather even though there wasn't much to take advantage of, I spent an hour or so on our friends' patio, wearing a fleece vest, my hands wrapped around a mug of hot coffee, reading. Eventually, everyone else got themselves out of bed and we headed to breakfast at Great Harvest Bread Company in Tempe.
Like Pita Jungle, Great Harvest has a bit of a latter-day California counterculture vibe, makes a lot of whole-grain and fruit breads, and is known for its community involvement. Their crowning achievement, however, and the main reason we found ourselves there Saturday morning, is the Savannah Bar – a soft, chewy, cookie-like whole wheat crust topped with tons of fresh fruit, nuts, oats, and heaven knows what else. It sounds more “good-for-you” than “good” on paper, but it is actually the best of both worlds – sweet and rich-tasting, yet nutritious enough to fuel you for a few hours. I should have asked if Great Harvest was willing to share the recipe.
The sun had made a brief appearance while we were on our way to breakfast, but now it had become cloudy again. Sunday's forecast, for what little it was worth, was more promising, so we postponed our original plan – a hike in the Superstition Mountains – and headed instead to the Desert Botanical Garden. The Garden is a far cry from faceless rows of plants annotated with plaques in cryptic Latin. Instead, it is a stretch of Sonoran Desert, full of many varieties of cactus, ocotillo, palo verde and other plants native to the Southwest US and most of Mexico. Surprisingly green for a desert ecosystem, it was made even more lush by the recent rains. The succulents were plump and the tiny desert grasses that normally lie dormant until they get enough water to sprout covered the ground underneath with a vibrant, deep emerald green. Although technically we had a month of winter left, a few impatient ocotillos were showing the beginnings of their flowers. We walked around, chatting a bit, taking in the landscape and enjoying the air that, thanks to the rains, was spectacularly clean (normally the smog in Phoenix is frightening). The only disappointment was the lack of wildlife. In the past, we had seen lizards of every size and color at the Garden, including, once, a three-footer that hissed and changed colors at passers-by, but evidently it was still too cool and damp for them, so we had to content ourselves with a flock of fat Gambel's Quails hanging out by the snack bar.
By the time we left the Garden, the sun came out for good and we finally felt like we were in Arizona. We headed to Old Town Scottsdale, a tourist trap par excellence redeemed by its performing arts center and a beautiful park. J. wanted to see the Old Adobe Mission – a church, not old in the grand scheme of things (built 1933), that most recently served as rehearsal space for the Scottsdale Symphony Orchestra, of which J. was a member. Good thing we did – turns out that shortly after we moved, a group of volunteers started a major restoration project for the Mission. It is nowhere close to completion, but according to J. (I had never seen the interior in its former guise), it already looks vastly different than it used to. The most interesting part was the stained glass windows (PDF). They are the 1933 originals that for several decades have been languishing in the garage or a rapidly aging local gentleman. Had a few more years passed, they may have been lost forever. As it is, they have been cleaned and installed in their original locations. They are quite beautiful in an understated way – the designs mostly blue and yellow, befitting their desert environment, but even without the deep greens and reds of traditional Gothic styles, they stand out against the stark white of the walls.
After seeing the mission, we walked around a bit, had a snack at the Grapevine, an old Scottsdale institution with a giant rooftop patio, then headed back. We had plans to meet our friend Jane (not her real name) and her husband for dinner at Portland's – another old favorite – downtown. Originally, it was going to be all of us – I was eager to have Jane meet C. as they are both graphics designers by trade. Unfortunately, S. was feeling under the weather, so she and C. stayed behind while J. and I headed downtown.
I have fond memories associated with Portland's – I remember when it first opened, and J. and I became semi-regulars quickly. Downtown Phoenix was just beginning to rouse itself from a forty-year slumber, and aside from generic chain hotels, Portland's was the only place where you could eat and drink after concerts and plays at downtown theatres. It was run by the trio of Michelle, who worked the front of the house, her husband in the kitchen, and her younger brother Rick at the bar. Rick was a consummate wine and beer geek and a hell of a nice guy. He knew he had a captive audience and every time we showed up he not only had a story about some exciting new wine he had discovered, but usually had a sample for us to taste. He left around the time we moved, but Michelle (and presumably her husband) is still there. On Saturday, she met us with a vague “you look familiar” expression on her face and we reintroduced ourselves.
When it first opened, Portland's hit on a successful balance of creative, New American cuisine, and staples that a non-foodie wouldn't turn down. On this occasion, Jane, her husband, and J. all went for the latter (pizza and pasta), but I couldn't resist the ostrich tenderloin. It became briefly fashionable to ranch ostriches in Arizona some years ago, and apparently enough are still grown to supply local restaurants. This one was delicious – the meat was fairly dry, but extremely tender, and had a distinctive flavor that wasn't similar to anything else I know. It definitely did not taste like chicken. Portland's served it over polenta, finished with a cherry-red-wine sauce. The polenta was a bit gloppy, but otherwise everything was delicious, including the gulf shrimp appetizer we started with. The only disappointment, ironically, was the wine. Jane insisted on having some Pure Evil cab from Australia just because of the name, and even though it was available by the glass, we figured what the hell, and ordered a bottle for the table. It wasn't bad in an objective sense, but was more than a little thin and astringent for my taste, with not nearly enough fruit. A pity – wines are Portland's forte, and I am sure something much better was lurking on their list.
During dinner, Jane caught us up on the goings-on in their life, and in Phoenix in general. They talked about their house in Mesa, which they affectionately call their money pit, the biker bar parking lot it abuts and the things that go on there on Saturday nights, and how the Mesa police department is underfunded because Mesa is the only major city in the US without a property tax. Jane is full of dry sarcasm that I love in people, and hearing her and her husband talk about these things was quite amusing, but a part of me couldn't help wondering why they chose to live it every day. Surely there must be something about their neighborhood that attracted them there besides their 1981 cinder-block ranch with leaking pipes in the bathroom and revving Harleys next door. Jane's husband gave us an update on Arizona State, where he teaches on an adjunct basis in addition to his job at the Arizona Republic. The short of it is it's growing like a weed. In addition to the main campus in Tempe, which is growing steadily Eastward (we saw several large new buildings and even an entirely new street on our way to Chandler the day before), it is all but taking over downtown Phoenix. Several major new buildings have gone up along Central Ave., and apparently work is in progress to turn a couple of old hotels into dorms.
Inevitably, the conversation turned to the largest project Phoenix has experienced in decades – the light rail. There were rumors of it back in 2003 when we still lived there, but Phoenix seemed so opposed to mass transit at its very core that my reaction at the time was “I'll believe when I see it.” Well, I saw it. It is almost done, and it's scheduled to open in December of this year. It consists of a single long line that runs from the Mesa/Tempe border in the East, through ASU, downtown Tempe, West on Washington Street, past the airport, into downtown Phoenix, north on Central Ave. to Camelback Rd., then West again to Crisstown Mall. About 25 miles to start. There are vague plans for additional lines in the future. I am somewhat skeptical that Phoenix as a whole will embrace it – even Phoenicians who believe in mass transit in the abstract are too attached to their cars in practice, I think – but just the fact that it is happening it great. Smog and traffic will choke Phoenix if water shortages don't, even with the rail in place, but just having an alternative to driving, especially for ASU students having to travel between campuses, is going to go a long way towards making Phoenix a more livable city.
After dinner, we lingered over coffee, discussed Jane and her husband's upcoming trip to China, and made some very vague plans to have them come visit us in DC. J. and I then drove back to Chandler.
Like Pita Jungle, Great Harvest has a bit of a latter-day California counterculture vibe, makes a lot of whole-grain and fruit breads, and is known for its community involvement. Their crowning achievement, however, and the main reason we found ourselves there Saturday morning, is the Savannah Bar – a soft, chewy, cookie-like whole wheat crust topped with tons of fresh fruit, nuts, oats, and heaven knows what else. It sounds more “good-for-you” than “good” on paper, but it is actually the best of both worlds – sweet and rich-tasting, yet nutritious enough to fuel you for a few hours. I should have asked if Great Harvest was willing to share the recipe.
The sun had made a brief appearance while we were on our way to breakfast, but now it had become cloudy again. Sunday's forecast, for what little it was worth, was more promising, so we postponed our original plan – a hike in the Superstition Mountains – and headed instead to the Desert Botanical Garden. The Garden is a far cry from faceless rows of plants annotated with plaques in cryptic Latin. Instead, it is a stretch of Sonoran Desert, full of many varieties of cactus, ocotillo, palo verde and other plants native to the Southwest US and most of Mexico. Surprisingly green for a desert ecosystem, it was made even more lush by the recent rains. The succulents were plump and the tiny desert grasses that normally lie dormant until they get enough water to sprout covered the ground underneath with a vibrant, deep emerald green. Although technically we had a month of winter left, a few impatient ocotillos were showing the beginnings of their flowers. We walked around, chatting a bit, taking in the landscape and enjoying the air that, thanks to the rains, was spectacularly clean (normally the smog in Phoenix is frightening). The only disappointment was the lack of wildlife. In the past, we had seen lizards of every size and color at the Garden, including, once, a three-footer that hissed and changed colors at passers-by, but evidently it was still too cool and damp for them, so we had to content ourselves with a flock of fat Gambel's Quails hanging out by the snack bar.
By the time we left the Garden, the sun came out for good and we finally felt like we were in Arizona. We headed to Old Town Scottsdale, a tourist trap par excellence redeemed by its performing arts center and a beautiful park. J. wanted to see the Old Adobe Mission – a church, not old in the grand scheme of things (built 1933), that most recently served as rehearsal space for the Scottsdale Symphony Orchestra, of which J. was a member. Good thing we did – turns out that shortly after we moved, a group of volunteers started a major restoration project for the Mission. It is nowhere close to completion, but according to J. (I had never seen the interior in its former guise), it already looks vastly different than it used to. The most interesting part was the stained glass windows (PDF). They are the 1933 originals that for several decades have been languishing in the garage or a rapidly aging local gentleman. Had a few more years passed, they may have been lost forever. As it is, they have been cleaned and installed in their original locations. They are quite beautiful in an understated way – the designs mostly blue and yellow, befitting their desert environment, but even without the deep greens and reds of traditional Gothic styles, they stand out against the stark white of the walls.
After seeing the mission, we walked around a bit, had a snack at the Grapevine, an old Scottsdale institution with a giant rooftop patio, then headed back. We had plans to meet our friend Jane (not her real name) and her husband for dinner at Portland's – another old favorite – downtown. Originally, it was going to be all of us – I was eager to have Jane meet C. as they are both graphics designers by trade. Unfortunately, S. was feeling under the weather, so she and C. stayed behind while J. and I headed downtown.
I have fond memories associated with Portland's – I remember when it first opened, and J. and I became semi-regulars quickly. Downtown Phoenix was just beginning to rouse itself from a forty-year slumber, and aside from generic chain hotels, Portland's was the only place where you could eat and drink after concerts and plays at downtown theatres. It was run by the trio of Michelle, who worked the front of the house, her husband in the kitchen, and her younger brother Rick at the bar. Rick was a consummate wine and beer geek and a hell of a nice guy. He knew he had a captive audience and every time we showed up he not only had a story about some exciting new wine he had discovered, but usually had a sample for us to taste. He left around the time we moved, but Michelle (and presumably her husband) is still there. On Saturday, she met us with a vague “you look familiar” expression on her face and we reintroduced ourselves.
When it first opened, Portland's hit on a successful balance of creative, New American cuisine, and staples that a non-foodie wouldn't turn down. On this occasion, Jane, her husband, and J. all went for the latter (pizza and pasta), but I couldn't resist the ostrich tenderloin. It became briefly fashionable to ranch ostriches in Arizona some years ago, and apparently enough are still grown to supply local restaurants. This one was delicious – the meat was fairly dry, but extremely tender, and had a distinctive flavor that wasn't similar to anything else I know. It definitely did not taste like chicken. Portland's served it over polenta, finished with a cherry-red-wine sauce. The polenta was a bit gloppy, but otherwise everything was delicious, including the gulf shrimp appetizer we started with. The only disappointment, ironically, was the wine. Jane insisted on having some Pure Evil cab from Australia just because of the name, and even though it was available by the glass, we figured what the hell, and ordered a bottle for the table. It wasn't bad in an objective sense, but was more than a little thin and astringent for my taste, with not nearly enough fruit. A pity – wines are Portland's forte, and I am sure something much better was lurking on their list.
During dinner, Jane caught us up on the goings-on in their life, and in Phoenix in general. They talked about their house in Mesa, which they affectionately call their money pit, the biker bar parking lot it abuts and the things that go on there on Saturday nights, and how the Mesa police department is underfunded because Mesa is the only major city in the US without a property tax. Jane is full of dry sarcasm that I love in people, and hearing her and her husband talk about these things was quite amusing, but a part of me couldn't help wondering why they chose to live it every day. Surely there must be something about their neighborhood that attracted them there besides their 1981 cinder-block ranch with leaking pipes in the bathroom and revving Harleys next door. Jane's husband gave us an update on Arizona State, where he teaches on an adjunct basis in addition to his job at the Arizona Republic. The short of it is it's growing like a weed. In addition to the main campus in Tempe, which is growing steadily Eastward (we saw several large new buildings and even an entirely new street on our way to Chandler the day before), it is all but taking over downtown Phoenix. Several major new buildings have gone up along Central Ave., and apparently work is in progress to turn a couple of old hotels into dorms.
Inevitably, the conversation turned to the largest project Phoenix has experienced in decades – the light rail. There were rumors of it back in 2003 when we still lived there, but Phoenix seemed so opposed to mass transit at its very core that my reaction at the time was “I'll believe when I see it.” Well, I saw it. It is almost done, and it's scheduled to open in December of this year. It consists of a single long line that runs from the Mesa/Tempe border in the East, through ASU, downtown Tempe, West on Washington Street, past the airport, into downtown Phoenix, north on Central Ave. to Camelback Rd., then West again to Crisstown Mall. About 25 miles to start. There are vague plans for additional lines in the future. I am somewhat skeptical that Phoenix as a whole will embrace it – even Phoenicians who believe in mass transit in the abstract are too attached to their cars in practice, I think – but just the fact that it is happening it great. Smog and traffic will choke Phoenix if water shortages don't, even with the rail in place, but just having an alternative to driving, especially for ASU students having to travel between campuses, is going to go a long way towards making Phoenix a more livable city.
After dinner, we lingered over coffee, discussed Jane and her husband's upcoming trip to China, and made some very vague plans to have them come visit us in DC. J. and I then drove back to Chandler.
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