No Country for Broken Men

 

But don't the megamillionaire Cardinals qualify as the one percenters?



"Yeah. We won."



For some, inexplicable reason, this year’s edition of the postseason proved particularly exhausting. It was long, from the rain delays and cancellations of the Tigers-Rangers ALCS to the cancellations of the World Series, to the emotional, surreal and ultimately heartbreaking (if you signed on to the Texas camp) events of the forever famous Game 6. During the morning of Game 7, I realized I was as done in as the Texas Rangers, with about the same chance of winning.



Sheinin wasn't the only broken man on this trip



When the World Series finally ended, with the St. Louis Cardinals putting the Rangers out of their misery with a resounding 6-2, Game 7 coronation, the bizarre nature of American professional sports reached its merciful conclusion. The new chic in the game is the on-field celebration, which means the journalists begin to make their way down into the tunnel leading onto the field, joined by well-wishers and baseball officials, wives, children and family of the winners. In short center field is the podium, where the World Series trophy is presented. Just a few short years ago, all of this ceremony took place in the home clubhouse, and now walking into the open space of a baseball diamond with 50,000 people in delirium just added to the weirdness.

 

"And then there was this  guy, who wouldn't get out of the shot."



For the purpose of news gathering, the ceremonies are generally useless. The responses are the same, from the speechifying speechless (“This is such an incredible feeling…”) to the vindicated, falsely aggrieved (“No one gave us a chance. Only the 25 guys in this room believed…”) to the quintessential Pujols (“Nah, man. I’m not talking right now.”). Still, it is best to keep one’s eyes open. It’s the best way to spot the unusual, like the guy in the sunglasses (The Cardinals won the title and were celebrating at roughly 10:15 pm, CST) dressed in a full St. Louis Cardinals game uniform, trying to get close to the championship celebration, especially the trophy. He was arrested quickly and ushered out of the stadium, my favorite commentary coming from a woman who worked at the stadium, who said, “All these people celebrating, and his ass is going to spend the night in jail.”



Diary of a jackass





The Rangers clubhouse was appropriately somber and as I made it upstairs quickly to write my last words of the World Series, it was only fitting to begin to assess the end of the St. Louis experiment. It was, on balance, a split-decision.





The Glamorous Life...what a dump

 There were the lows: the Hyatt Regency at the Arch in St. Louis is, by far, perhaps the worst big-city Hyatt in America. The old Hyatt, at Union Station (now a Marriott), was one of the consolations of coming to a city with which I don’t generally connect. Even that consolation has been stripped.

The hotel is perfectly located. The Arch (which you can actually enter and climb) was situated right outside my room, but inside, well, was another story.

1) On the 17th floor, as I was in the Regency Club to grab some yogurt, orange juice, cranberry juice and grapefruit juice (yes, all three), a man stood just inside the door, blocking the way. "I wouldn't go out there, if I were you," he said to me. "There's a bat in the hallway." I peered out the door, where a staffer told me I could come out. And lo, a bat whipped around the corner, flying amok, dive- bombing staff and guests alike. “Don’t worry, sir,” the hotel staffer said, with a mop in his hand “we’re trying to git ‘im.” A mop? A mop to catch a killer?




"We're tryin' to git 'im"



"Oh, and you get to meet the players, too?"

2) With the water turned off, the sink in the bathroom flooded, cloudy yellowish water gushing from the bottom of the drain up into the room, overflowing the sink, filling the bathroom floor with water. As the hotel maintenance man observed, “I think there’s a backup somewhere.”



Not good, but hardly the end of the world. America has gone soft, if this be the epitome of discomfort. For refuge, however, St. Louis did well in the restaurant department. Last Wednesday’s rainout provided an opportunity to try the Lucas Park Grille (1234 Washington Avenue. www.lucasparkgrille.com), and it served us well, even if one of my companions, Dave Sheinin of the Washington Post _ a flagship member of the road dining group _ grew weary of the labor-intensive nature of The Carpaccio Files. Before taking a photo of our three appetizers _ the arugula and artichoke dip, crispy fried calamari with sweet lime and hot pepper sauce and the Angel Acres mini-burgers _ Sheinin groused that the photographing was “tedious” and “tired.”

The strain of the postseason was clearly starting to show. “At the very least,” he said with uncharacteristic sharpness, “take pictures of your food only. Damn, man.” It couldn’t have been clearer that he wanted to go home. One daughter was going to be a princess for Halloween, his other daughter a watermelon. Having missed Halloween several times because of the World Series, I understood. I missed my son as a pirate, Darth Vader (in honor of his Papa: “Join me and we can end this destructive conflict and bring order to the galaxy!”), as well as a fireman. Dave Sheinin is as committed to the art of gastronomy as any person I know, and his frustration was apparent. After three weeks on the road, it was time to go home. No wonder during the final two games of the World Series, he referred to himself as a “broken man.” For a man who enjoys the dining experience, note this recent St. Louis exchange, courtesy of Blackberry Messenger:



HB: “You out tonight? Where do we wanna go?”

DS: “I don’t care. I really don’t care anymore.”





And this one:

HB: Looks like no rainout, though…now all we need is Wash to prove his shit ain’t limited.

DS: “You hearing play ball?”

HB: “Fuck. Rained out.

DS: “Fuck.”

HB: “Where we eating?”

DS: “Lucas Street Grille.”

DS: “I think I’m gonna beat the shit out of a piano tonight.”

HB: “Damn, don’t be transferring. Piano did nothing to you. Make music, not war.”







Goat cheese? check. Duck? check. Quinoa? No!

 

Sidecar up with Hennessey, please. Sugared rim.

 Dinner was solid, if not dynamic. My choice of cocktail was a sidecar up, sugared rim, for an entree the Pan-seared Maple Leaf Farms duck breast, served with goat cheese and lavender cream, roasted garlic duck jus, quinoa and spinach.

My love of duck led me to carelessness. I didn’t know what quinoa was, and had I paid closer attention, I would have asked. I know now that it is a grain cultivated in the Andes, considered to contain many positive health benefits, and despite its longevity (one source dates it back to 3,000 B.C.), it tasted like couscous to me, which I don’t like.

Nevertheless, the duck was prepared medium rare, to my specifications and the cuts were succulent and not overly fatty, which is a constant fear with duck. The dessert was a raspberry cheesecake, which made me feel better, if not the table. On balance, the meal was fine, and our surprise companion, Tyler Kepner of the New York Times, improved the evening, as the Broken Man Sheinin looked outside periodically and said, “Damn, it’s not even raining. There should be a game tonight.”



Note to CJ Wilson and imposters everywhere: here lyeth a real ace...



The Cardinals won the World Series and the baseball year was over. No more flooded sinks and no more bats, and no more of the brusque and surly Pujols, although I’ll miss Lance Berkman, who was terrific on the big stage, on and off the field. “When you’re dreaming about hitting a home run in the World Series as a little kid,” Berkman said after his Game 6 heroics, “you’re not thinking that if you fail there’s a room full of reporters waiting to call you a choking dog.”

Walking back amongst the hometown revelers, amongst drunks and broken bottles and blaring horns, it was obvious my emotional and physical tank were emptying, but the two offerings in St. Louis, Dominic’s on the Hill and Lucas Park, accorded themselves nicely, and my mood improved. I remembered that I had taken a photo of the Occupy St. Louis camp, which deserved respect as well as a pic of the plaque and statue of Bob Gibson. I didn’t expect to see one of Curt Flood, but he was never too far from my thoughts.

 The last photo of St. Louis was of the street sign for Dred Scott Way, named after the slave who sued unsuccessfully for his freedom because, under the Constitution, no person born of African descent, free or slave was to be considered a citizen of the United States. That picture, with the majestic Arch in the background, was taken with pride, and served as the final act before packing, sleeping for 75 minutes and heading to the airport. There was nothing else to say. It is always good to leave a town on a good note.