Quite A Year

A man sits at a cafe table enjoying a leisurely repast. Entering his fifties, he revels in the knowledge that a new venture has been more stimulating than he could have imagined. He gazes about and winks at a lady writing in a notebook at a nearby table. She gives him a look that has more than a hint of a scoff to it. Turning to his lunch guest, a well dressed Tradly man, he raises his glass to toast the success of the venture. As he savors his Calvados, the man sees a charming young woman dressed in Petunia Pink Lily Pulitzer talking excitedly with her extremely bright and well-mannered daughter at another table while just beyond them an artist and baker takes a break from his exhausting day to share a glass of Bordeaux with a large group of friends while they plot creative bedlam.

A barely warm breeze drifts across the table dappled with shade as the man considers a bite of dessert. He can hear the happy tones of a librarian dressed in cashmere as she talks to another young woman, heading for graduate school, who is on holiday from her demanding humanitarian work in Africa. Profiteroles arrive accompanied by strong black coffee. A gentleman in a heavy tweed jacket strolls into the cafe and takes an open spot at the bar, where he is joined in conversation of the merits of Brooks Brothers by a dapper man with an easy and elegant air about him. At the other end of the bar, a friendly debate occurs between a man from Nashville transplanted to New York and a former bachelor from Hawaii about which Miles Davis album was the most significant. Observing all these marvelous people, the fifty-ish man feels humbled and very fortunate to be in their company. Anticipating a lingering and hefty afternoon, he orders a another Calvados and ponders where he might have dinner. His Tradly companion suggests one of a seemingly endless catalog of perfect restaurants, then rises and strolls off in the company of a beautiful and strikingly tall woman. The man sips his brandy and smiles...

One year ago I took a table in this cyber-cafe to see what, if anything, I would find here. What I found was an amazing current of creativity flowing from other writers in the blogosphere. This current refreshes, inspires and stimulates me artistically every day. I found a diversion from, and a stimulant to, my workday life. And, if I may be so bold, I found many wonderful new friends. Thanks for stopping by day by day. Your visits and comments mean a tremendous amount to me.

I cannot wait to see what is on the menu for the next twelve months. I hope that every one of you comes along for the ride...

P.S. I apologize to all of my blogfriends that I could not work into the narrative. I had to stop and get this posted on time! ML

Epic Ads: The Dashing Couple

I love this ad. And everything about the lady. Is she whispering a secret formula? The combination to a safe? A little joke? Her room number? That she will have her driver beat him senseless if he touches her arm with the cigar ash? What do you think?

Epic Bookshelf: Daylight Noir

We go west,” she said, “through the Beverly Hills and then father on.”
I let the clutch in and drifted around the corner to go south to Sunset.
Dolores got one of her long brown cigarettes out.
“Did you bring a gun?” she asked.

I have always had a thing for Los Angeles. Not modern L.A. Old school, Raymond Chandler era L.A. Especially Beverly Hills. Which I like a LOT, even now. Particularly when I am dining at La Dolce Vita or drinking in the lobby bar of the almost inordinately swanky Beverly Hilton. Or doing both at Morton's on Melrose, while it lived.

I have never placed a volume on the Epic Bookshelf without having read it, but I am doing so now. Photographer Catherine Corman has put together what appears to be a marvelous selection of black and white photos of L.A. based upon Chandler's books. The Paris Review currently has an Epic piece by Jonathan Lethem integrating Corman's photos with Chandler's text. A sample from Lethem's article is found above. Ms. Corman's web site for the book has a wide selection of samples of what we will find when it is released on October 31. I plan on having my own copy of Daylight Noir on that very day. You will find me reading it at the Beverly Hilton bar. Bring a gun.

Epic Dentistry

This is one of the most hilarious bits from one of the most hilarious film series of all time. My Dad did not like movies much and he REALLY did not like comedians. But he would sit and watch Peter Sellers in The Pink Panther movies and laugh until he cried.

My contacts with dentistry caused me to cry for years for other reasons. No need to go into the horrific details here. Suffice to say, a visit to my latest dentist yesterday was a stout test for even a devoted Epic. And they don't even have a little tank of laughing gas to share like "Dr. Schultz" in the video clip. Not even a Martini. Not even a shot of Cuervo. Nada.

I mention all this only to say that if you keep yourself focused on the correct things, you can dredge up Epic gifts in the most unlikely places. Like the dentist chair. The first thing I realized is that I really LIKE this dentist. Dr. J exudes such an aura of competence and concern that the hapless patient cannot help but feel at ease. Laughing gas or no. Also, my dentist seems absolutely thrilled when she finishes working on your tooth and you tell her it feels great. I mean, she just BEAMS. Almost like she would do this every day for (gasp) nothing. Frankly, I cannot imagine working as a dentist all day, peering into the mouths of people like me. This lady is a very good example to me in my professional dealings with others. If only she had a bar in the office...

The second gift I found while in the chair was a little sign I saw when I managed to swivel my skull at an oblique angle for some purpose. No, I was not flinching or retching. In any event, the little chrome bar sat on a side table and read...

"What would you attempt if you knew you could not fail"?

I put the quote in a sort of peach tone because all of these dentist's offices today are adopting a "Tooth Spa" ambiance with pale pastel colors and the sort of music you would expect to hear in a surf-side massage tent in Tahiti. Without the nice lady cranking a tooth out of your jaw, of course. After reading this little sign, I was struck by its simple and powerful message. If the effort and target of the attempt are the same, then the only thing holding us back is fear of failing. So pick up the bat. Swing it. Hit or miss. Go there. Write it. Sing. Paint. Blog. Carve. Do the best darn expense ledger ever written. Whatever YOU love to do. Forget the failure part. Swing the bat.

Later, I learned that my new dentist was a dental file clerk in her first job. Then put herself through school to be a dental hygienist. She was so into the work, had such aptitude, and did such a fine job that the dentist she worked for paid for her to go to dental school. And look at her now. Absolutely in love with her profession. And passing that excitement along to all of us that come her way. Good for the older dentist that sent her on her path. And so very good for her.

"What would you attempt if you knew you could not fail?". What would you?

Drum Room Nocturne

Late night, Kansas City. Last week, I was strolling through the Drum Room bar at the President Hotel one evening en route to dinner. My progress was arrested by fine music being produced by a jazz trio set up in a corner of the room. I knew as soon as I saw them that they were my sort of combo. Experienced players with some years of service. In tuxedos. With a single, fairly worn, band stand bearing the leader's name. Skip Hawkins. Playing with a keyboardist and a base. Mr. Hawkins played flute, sax AND clarinet. Very well.

Sometimes, great music can alter your entire plan. Especially when it is not expected. I had seen nothing to indicate that there would be live music in the Drum Room that night. I just sort of walked out in front of it, as it were. But the sound was so good, it caused me to do something I rarely do. I ate dinner at the bar and sat there the rest of the evening. Typical for a bar show, there was at times a pretty full house and at times nobody there but me. I think the combo played five sets and I was the audience for two of them. During one of those two sets, I sipped my martini and wondered...who is more of a romantic, the musicians playing so well to an empty room, or the one guy at the bar listening all night?

I never did reach a conclusion. The evening was summed up by another patron of the bar who said to his date at one point "This is great music. These guys don't just PLAY music, they MAKE music." A rather valid distinction it seemed to me. Of people plying a craft. In a room at times occupied only by an itinerant storyteller. As the night grew longer and more indigo. Illuminated by the Drum Room sign just above the corner window.

Mr. Hawkins playing another room in 2002. From IATUL.org.

Son Of A Gun

Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me oh my oh

Me gotta go pole the pirogue down the bayou

My Yvonne, the sweetest one, me oh my oh

Son of a gun, we'll have good fun on the bayou

---"Jambalaya (On The Bayou)", by Hank Williams...

Joie de Vivre: (n) a delight in being alive; carefree enjoyment of living.

Marching orders for the day: Put yourself in a rental car and drive MANY hours. Upland. To a place you have never been. In broiling hot weather. If it is not storming. Sit in a conference room for ten hours a day. For four days. Awash in a mentally stultifying topic of conversation. You'll find yourself in Bayou Country. A Yankee boy wandering among Cajuns, left to his own devices.

Such was how I found myself resident for several days in Lafayette, Louisiana. I always wanted to explore Acadiana, but this area of the South is so far out of the way from places I usually go that I had no previous opportunity. Now, opportunity was abundant to say the least.

Driving in to Lafayette from the Interstate, it becomes immediately apparent that the area has seen better days. I pondered when those days may have been. The first few miles are even a little daunting for the solo traveller. All anxiety was dispelled upon my arrival at the Lafayette Hilton which is situated on the shores of Bayou Teche. Down stream from the Hilton a few miles is the site of the Bayou Teche Black Bear and Birding Festival. Which I am making a point to attend next year. In any event, the facade of the Lafayette Hilton is a welcoming one...

As is the lobby...

Off to the right, out of view in this picture of the lobby, is a set of wooden doors which conceal the hotel lounge. More of this in a moment. The first thing you notice when you enter the hotel is significant. Everyone who works there is genuinely happy to see you. Enthusiastic, even. About their hotel and about their town. They seem very happy to be able to share this enthusiasm with you. I found to my delight that this excitement permeates the Lafayette area.

But first, food. I did not come to Cajun Country to eat at the chain steak joint down the street. I came for outstanding Cajun [NOT, as is often explained, "New Orleans Creole"] food. I found it in abundance. Everywhere...

Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a file gumbo

'Cause tonight I'm gonna see my ma cher amio

Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be gay-oh

Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the bayou...

In diners. In white table cloth restaurants. In the hotel. In hot plate counters at gas stations. People in Cajun Country LOVE to eat. And they love to share their local cuisine with you. It is not at all unusual to ignite a friendly (although heated) debate between fellow gas station patrons about where the best crawfish etoufee could be consumed. And not at all unusual for the debate to conclude with invitations for the Yankee traveller to go along on an expedition to find out for himself. One day of the business meeting opened with the hostess bringing in huge trays of jambalaya, boudin (white, blood sausage) and some form of deeply vanilla and spice flavored doughnuts. Add a big mug of black chicory coffee from the Community company and you have a nice light breakfast to start any sort of morning. The wonderful lady providing this feast would not even let us pay our share. Another indication of the warmth of the people of the area.

To paraphrase the band Grand Funk Railroad..."This fine lady, she had a plan. She was out to feed the boys in the band...". To this end, she gave me directions to her favorite Cajun restaurant. In her home town of Henderson, Louisiana. A mere twenty minutes farther into the country. And, ultimately, worth every moment of the drive. The sign on the wall says "Robin's" but you call it "Ro-Ban's"...

They don't have a web site. I don't think they even advertise. But take my word. Get in a car right now and drive to Henderson, Louisiana for Chef Robin's food. You will find yourself trying to come up with schemes and stratagems to stay right there. In the dining room. For a LONG time.

I thought the place was closed when I pulled into the parking lot. The door was open. Lights were on. A very nice lady with a fantastic accent welcomed my intrepid companion and me, showed us a table with a crisp white butcher paper top, generally adopted us, and gave us a menu with so many fine sounding choices that it made us weak. Well, weaker. We were somewhat starving from the drive over from Lafayette at the end of the business day. The hostess/waitress/adoptive mother was the first clue this was an AUTHENTIC and fine establishment. The menu was the second. The third was the iced pilsner glass that came with my Budweiser. Imagine this covered in frozen crystals and full of beer...

Simple perfection. And the precursor to an outstanding meal. (Note to the reader: The following rendition of menu items is a composite of what was eaten by me and by my Intrepid Dining Companion. Should any of my medical team be reading this post, they need not worry.) Salad with either crawfish, shrimp or Andouille sausage on top. Or all three. Crawfish boulettes (sort of like hushpuppies with crawfish meat inside). Crawfish file gumbo. The meal was a series of one unbelievable dish after another, but the highlight was crawfish pie smothered with etoufee. Well, almost. The highlight of the meal was home-made Tabasco/vanilla ice cream. Even after the glories of everything we had tried up to that point, I eyed the menu entry of "Home made Tabasco ice cream" with suspicion as an obvious sop to wide eyed tourists. The one bite I had was enough to prove me wrong. It was ice cream of the highest caliber, deeply creamy and vanilla with the flavor of Tabasco laced into it in some mystical, up-Bayou manner that teased your senses until it BIT you just a little. Unbelievable. Amazing. I have no idea how many tries it took Chef Robin to perfect this recipe but he should be applauded for the effort. I have never tasted anything quite like it. The most amazing thing was that during our meal only two other people came in to eat. Of course it was a Tuesday. On Wednesday there were a few more dinner patrons. On Thursday, a few more. On Friday for lunch, only a few.

Even though I would have gladly eaten every meal at Robin's during this trip, I felt obliged (and convinced by one of the gas station dining advocates) to try another local legend for my last night's dinner. Prejean's. Prejean's has a web site. And a gift shop. And signs outside advertising dog kennels available for the convenience of diners presumably just in from hunting. Or who travel with kennelish dogs. Do not be put off by the gift shop or anything else. Prejean's was also a wonderful dining experience...

They have a great atmosphere. Very welcoming staff. Live Cajun music every night. Great prices. Prejean's is also a fabulous place. And they have a full bar from which you can see and hear the bands play. If you love Cajun food and music as I do, then you will love Prejean's. I decided on the only entree that made any sense under the circumstances. Stuffed alligator tail. I am not a tremendously bold diner. (Tripe? No thank you. I brought my own stomach lining, thanks. I don't need another one.) I was made brave, however, by my surroundings, by the wonderful music being produced by the combo on stage, and by just a wee dram of Jack Daniels'. The dish was delicious. The alligator tail was firm, yet tender, white meat and the simple, fresh corn served along with it was outstanding as well. Plus, I have to admit that eating something that would eat ME if it had the chance was sort of a rush. Or, that may have been Mr. Daniels' idea. I'll have to ask him. Anyhow, my dining experiences in Lafayette were singularly outstanding and left me looking forward to a return trip.

But, as return readers will attest, my travel experiences are not limited to the table, fork and knife. The glass also plays its important role. Thursday evening at the Lafayette Hilton lounge looks like this when the bar opens at about four in the afternoon...

Pretty average stuff. Nothing, other than the very friendly staff, to write home about. Until about 10:00 in the evening. When dance night begins.

Thibodeaux, Fontainbleau, the place is buzzin'

Kinfolk come to see Yvonne by the dozen

Dress in style, go hog wild, me oh my oh

Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the bayou.

The Intrepid Dining Companion and I were relaxing having a nightcap and chatting with the waitress when she asked..."So...are y'all going to stay for dance night? It is REALLY something to see..."

How could we leave at that point? A few minutes later, the place filled with couples of every age. All dressed in nice clothes of different styles. Obviously out for a night on the town. Circa Lafayette Hilton. The disc jockey (who has a REAL name...Stan... not one like "Mixmeister S") began playing all sorts of (non-disco) dance music from swing to bayou Cajun. EVERYONE could dance. And dance well. Not the usual shuffling about you typically see. I asked if they were all in some sort of dancing club and the waitress (by then elevated to the title of "Exalted Bearer of Amber Beverages") assured us that they were just ordinary citizens out for a good time. It was a delight to watch. Couples in their teens. Couples in their eighties. Everything in between. Mixing. Mingling. Laughing. Drinking a bit. Dancing a LOT. The dance floor was full for every song. I was very thankful to be there. I did not think such a scene still existed, on this continent anyhow. I watched until the last couple left the floor. I would have paid for a ticket for the next Thursday night. It was that much fun. The E.B.O.A.B told me that people around there "just like to go out and dance and have fun". Indeed.

In his wonderful book "Time Was Soft There", Jeremy Mercer posits that certain towns tend to be populated with people who possess a diminished thirst for living while those whose passions and dreams run deeper rapidly depart for glamorous places like New York or Paris where they can find fulfillment. I immediately embraced this notion based upon places I had lived. And live. But in Lafayette, I learned that Mercer's theory is wrong, at least if universally applied. Here, in an out of the way place, seemingly economically depressed, with jobs lost or in peril for years, people speak of life as a festival, a fais do do (Cajun dance party), a feast, a concert. A celebration. And they live that way too. Here, in Lafayette, people drink deeply from the cup of life every day and they will share that cup at the drop of a hat. Even with a wandering Yankee. There is great food. A bit, or more, to drink. Friendly smiles. And, every Thursday night, the folks of Lafayette put their troubles on the shelf and they come out to dance.

Go to this place. Or find a place like it. Refill your cup. Soon.

Hank Williams. A man who knew how to dress. How to write a song. And how to point the way to very good times.

Tequila Day

Many people have a Bad Liquor Experience. Of that subcategory of humanity, a surprising number have a story that centers on tequila. A very nice lady of my acquaintance had such a horrid experience with tequila that she will not mention either the experience OR the word "tequila". Ever.

Fortunately, I have no BLE. Well. One. After one longish weekend in New Orleans some years ago which featured a VERY long evening at Pat O'Briens, I will never have another Hurricane again. I will never even have red Hawaiian Punch again. Not ever. If there is ever the need to torture me to get important information, you can put away the needles, water boards and dental tools. Just waft a paper cup of red H.P. under my nose and I WILL TELL ALL I KNOW. You get the idea. But I digress. I am thankful that I have no such experience or story involving tequila.

I love tequila. This love may be due in large part to the fact that I began drinking it late in life, thus avoiding the seemingly common trap of consuming a gallon or so of "tequila" with a name like "Pit Bull Agave" purchased at a waterfront drive-through liquor window. I love Jose Cuervo. I love 1800. I love Cabo Wabo. I have not had any others and I really see no need to try them. But I would. Tequila makes you a little more dusty and tough than you were before. Like a character in Robert Rodriguez' Once Upon A Time in Mexico...

You have to drink tequila in the proper sort of place. For example, there is an old painted-cement-block joint called Tony's in Panama City, Florida that has great steaks and classic Mexican food. Served in a suitably dim series of little rooms connected to a great bar. If suitably provoked by some tedious business detail or monstrous courtroom defeat, one can sit in the semi-darkness at Tony's and restore yourself with outstanding carne asada. Accompanied by Cuervo doubles. At ten in the morning. Or so I hear. Nothing like it to redirect the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and turn them to an outbound course. If you need a jump start in the right direction, consider the classic anthem by The Ventures...

Today is National Tequila Day. What a day! Dedicated solely to tequila! Just the day to sit in a dark corner at Tony's with a small rocks glass in your hand containing amber liquid distilled from a cactus. Liquid that becomes a mystical elixir. After two or three. Then, as the shadows lengthen, a one-handed man who drove into town from Nevada in a 1976 white Cadillac Eldorado convertible will walk in. With a mysterious message just for you.

Such is the power and majesty of tequila. And of National Tequila Day. It is highly stimulative of the imagination and transforms every man and woman into a person of intrigue...as long as you do NOT let it provide you a Bad Liquor Experience. For that, I take no responsibility.

Addendum: I just learned that tomorrow is National SCOTCH day!! Will I recover from tequila day in time???