Welcome to The Epic! I am launching this blog as a manifesto for and a guide to living well. The title and motto of the blog are taken from the Epicureans, at least some of whom believed in the notion that not one minute of the future was guaranteed to them and that as a result they had the duty to live life to its fullest every moment.
I believe in discovering fun and pleasurable things wherever I find myself each day and I am told I have a knack for unearthing them. My hope is that by sharing in my pleasures and some of my ways of finding them you will begin to collect all the riches that lie in the moments of your life. They are there. Take them! All our lives should be.....Epic.
In my job the days are malleable. Monday does not have to be Monday. Tuesday is usually Monday. After a particularly hefty weekend, Wednesday is Monday.
As it was that day. When Eleanor called from behind the bar downstairs to tell me there was a fellow wanting to see me. About a job, not a bill. Or some pesky lawsuit. Eleanor chooses her words carefully, being one of that sort of bartender with a degree from Columbia. When she says that a "fellow" is downstairs, then I know it translates to "well-heeled paying customer". And that I should pay immediate attention.
I put on what was left of the black linen suit I had been wearing that weekend and a fresh tropical weight white shirt with small black dots on it. Shoved my bare feet into an ancient pair of pale green Gucci loafers and made my way down to the French Quarter bar that serves as my office. That was when I met her father.
I walked past the storage room and entered the back of the dark bar. I narrowed my eyes. It always surprises me that my eyes still take time to adjust to dimly lit rooms after all the time I have spent in them. I saw a man in his sixties, a decade older than me, dressed superbly in a tailored pale blue tropical weight suit with a pink and blue rep tie and a dazzling white shirt. I just knew that his double cuffs were fixed with silk knots. I was right. One pink, one blue. He looked like one of my old partners at C******. Maybe a wills and trusts specialist.
We sat at my "desk". The back corner table. He ordered chicory coffee with cream. I had a double Powers, neat. What struck me most about him, other than his really nice clothes, was how tall he was. And how worried. He had the feel about him of recent defeat. A pale cloud of sadness that blended seamlessly into the humid scent of a New Orleans morning. Before I could ask, he told me.
I heard you could find someone for me.
I can do that.
How much would it cost for you to find my daughter?
It doesn't cost that much to find someone. The expensive part is afterward. And that part depends on what you want done after I find her.
All I want is for you to deliver a letter to her.
I eyed him over the rim of the heavy rocks glass as I took a sip of my whisky.
There are lots of people that deliver mail for a living. Professionals. Why not let me find her and then just send a letter to her?
Because I want to know...
If she's alive?
...what she looks like now.
He had last seen her in Miami, three years before. They were on a family vacation at the beach. She was twenty then. There had been a row about an older man she was seeing. Then a note on a bed stand. Then, nothing.
Why didn't you search for your daughter then?
I did. And I found her. In Maracaibo. She was there of her own free will. And she refused to return. That was the last I saw of her. You'll need to start there.
There are certain words that cause every man to flinch. Inside, where it counts most. For young men the words are usually something like "tequila" or "pregnant". For men my age they are usually a woman's name. Or the name of a city. Maracaibo, for example. My memories of three days in the second largest Venezuelan city were brief, dark and violent. And those were the images I could recall at all.
He must have seen something in my face. Something that caused him to say he knew that Maracaibo would be a challenging starting point.
I know. I've had business there before.
Successful business, I assume?
Successful for one of the parties involved, yes.
He pushed three envelopes to me across the table. The first was of immediate interest because it contained a thick stack of money. The second was sealed. Actually sealed with wax. Hadn't seen that in years. About two hundred years.
As I thumbed the edges of the bills, he asked if the fee was correct. I knew it was because Eleanor would have told him the amount before he got there. She must have known the job involved what she called "Southern Travel" because it was a lot of money. Enough to keep even a fellow of my tastes and vices going for a couple of months.
The third envelope was also open. I pulled out a sheet of engraved note paper with her name, birth date and some other basic information on it. There was a photo clipped behind the sheet. Face portrait. Expensive studio. Black and white, no makeup, striped blouse. High cheekbones. Dimpled chin. Wide, clear eyes. The most strikingly beautiful face I had ever seen. I stared at her. And I immediately felt sad. That her father was here. Having to talk to me. Because I am always the last option. The choice for people who have run out of choices. I felt that my chances of delivering the sealed letter were somehow slim.
We shook hands and he left. I downed the rest of the whisky and paid Eleanor my rent for a month. Then she made me a red bean omelet with butter loaded grits. A pile of toast with the bitter marmalade she made herself. Since I was now "engaged" as she put it she added a stick of hot Andouille sausage to the plate. She also brought me a big mug of the chicory coffee with another hit of Powers in it.
I ate slowly and considered my strategy. I would have to go to Miami and then fly down from there. I would book a room at the Fontainbleau for recuperation after I got back. That would give me some forward target anyhow. The problem was the photo. I couldn't stop looking at it. She had one of those faces that you see for a moment on the street that make you feel bitterly alone.
I finished my meal, kissed Eleanor on the tip of the nose, and went upstairs to pack.
There is that one particular day. When the sun is hot enough. The day long enough. The linen suit crinkled enough. The day when, in the words of an old pal, "you just have to put what matters in a paper sack and head south". As far as you can go. Physically or metaphysically.
On that day, I declare it Rum Season. The season continues as long as it is needed. Or required. You can have a "Rum Diary" Rum Season. If you are on the run. But if you merely need to get to a dark bar in a tropical spot, the Daiquiri is just the ticket.
2 oz. white rum
1/2 oz lime juice
1 teaspoon fine sugar
Shaken with ice and strained into a cocktail glass.
Garnish with a slice of lime.
Slightly tart. Smooth. With a rum kick. Perhaps the most elegant warm weather cocktail. No. Not warm weather. Sultry weather. The sort of weather when Hem drank them in the Keys. As did David Niven in Bermuda. And Ian Fleming in Jamaica. Men who knew things. Back before the blendermeisters fouled everything up. One sip and you are transported to a cooler place. In many ways. Don't be surprised if, after two or three, a fellow wearing vintage Ray Ban Clubmasters steps into the dark room where you are sitting. He will walk over, sit down, and hand you an envelope. Whether you open it is up to you. But you are drinking a Daiquiri. You'll open it.
My dad. A golf professional. World traveler. Hunter. Fisherman. Restaurateur. Example. Father. He would have been 88 today. He didn't make it to 80. When I was eight, he wrote me a birthday letter that says "remember to use every second of every minute of every hour of every day to the very fullest". I'm trying Dad. I'm trying.
If recent wine history has taught us anything, it is that drinking even decent Cabernet for the person confined by an average budget has become tedious, if not downright impossible. One after another sub-mediocre, rushed to market, inexpensive Cab had left me abandoning the wine in favor of fairly priced blends and pinot noirs. Except when on my expense account, that is. Like almost everyone else. Anyone can drink great Cabernet on an expense account.
This Fathers' Day I received two cases of mixed bottles of red wine from the Future Rock Star and the Irish Redhead. Certainly the best Fathers' Day gift ever. One of the bottles was a 2009 Black Opal Australian Cabernet. Which I opened yesterday.
I must say, this was an outstanding bottle. Great scent, great deep ruby color. I drank half the bottle the first day and I loved it. Then I put my vacuum cork thing in it and drank the rest today. What was enjoyable yesterday today was simply outstanding! Flavors in multiple layers from oak to pepper to cherry to whatever else a wine expert might taste. And you can buy this wine routinely for under ten dollars a bottle!!
If you have given up on a nice Cabernet that you can afford to drink at home, this is the wine for you. I recommend it wholeheartedly. Cheers!
Half the day on Wednesday. All day for Independence Day on Thursday. All day yesterday. And today thus far. This has been the "holiday" look out my kitchen window. No fireworks. No golf. No outside anything. Flood warnings. Potentially a bit tedious, even for a subtropical Epic. But then again...
Cheese Straws, Movies, Reading, Coffee, Cheese Straws, Hanging Out with the Future Rock Star and the Irish Redhead and various Papillion and Shepherd dogs, Gin Martinis, Bryan Ferry's superb new album The Jazz Age, Spanish Wine, Cheese Straws, Cooking random dishes, Pegu Club Cocktails, Cheese Straws...
One of the best Independence Day holidays of all time.
There are times when I really crave a tuna steak. When I do, and I am pressed for time, I like to make Epic Tuna Au Poivre at Au Citron. Even my son the Future Rock Star loves this dish. I warn you though, my photos of it look lousy. The actual finished product is really good.
Start by greasing up a small cast iron fry pan with olive oil. In a pinch, a good pie pan will do. Set the oven at about 350 or use the broiler. Get a nice piece of tuna steak and wash it off well then pat it dry with paper towels...this is a very nice piece I got from the local grocer...
You don't need fancy spices for this dish...just a pepper grinder, and dried orange or lemon peel, or both depending on how tropical you feel...
Sometimes I feel like melting butter, most times I am trying to be fat conscious when I make this healthy dinner so I use butter substitute. Since I am not cooking the fish in the butter, it doesn't matter if you use the substitute and it tastes fine to me. Let it stay out to get to room temperature. Of course you need sea salt...
Personally, I can't tell the difference between types of salt, but this comes in a cool grinder and it makes me feel like more of a chef. As the stove heats up, crank some salt, coarse ground pepper, and citrus peel onto the tuna...
A glass of nice Sauvignon Blanc or Cotes Du Rhone right about here can't hurt things.
Then put the tuna into the oven and cook it as long as you like it cooked. In the meantime, swill some more wine and pour a nice pool of the "butter" onto your serving plate and grind more pepper and citrus peel onto it. A few dots of lemon juice in this pool doesn't hurt either...
Drink some more wine. When the tuna is cooked the way you prefer, carefully lay the steak on top of your pool of "butter". Et Voila...
Add some sauteed spinach that you could have been making and some mashed potatoes and you are ready to dine in Epic style. The "butter" sauce is a perfect compliment to the peppery/citrusy tuna steak. Along with more of that open bottle of wine, of course. Hey, this meal is healthy enough...you may as well have a nice bottle to go along with it. Enjoy!!
In my early 60s, widower, father and itinerant storyteller. I am a putative jazz singer, poet and novelist, dedicated to mining every minute of life for the veins of pleasure they contain. My motto is "Dum Vivimus, Vivamus"..."While we Live--LET US LIVE".