Wasting pitches and top creations

"Caesar IS home."

Decompressing from the postseason and a terrific baseball season, I recall vivid snatches of conversations; the handful of times during the postseason that Texas Rangers manager Ron Washington lamented that his pitchers have not yet learned how to waste a pitch, a shortcoming that eventually cost them a world championship as big hits by Miguel Cabrera, Victor Martinez, John Jay and most importantly, David Freese would all come on two-strike pitches; standing near the visitor's dugout with Jim Leyland, listening to him talk baseball, the uncomfortable eye on Mark McGwire during the World Series as he stood by the batting cage, one Paul Bunyan and now, forever disgraced, the smallest man on Earth; listening to CC Sabathia try to tell me down at Tropicana Field that The Rise of the Planet of the Apes was a "great movie."




Boulevard: A candidate for contraction?

 The ground rules suggest, also, for the true growth of the gastronomic pusuits, caution must fall secondary to daring. The great restaurants _ Bob's (Ft. Worth, Texas), Nobu 57 (New York City), Oishii Boston (Boston), and the great Boulevard (San Francisco)  _ cannot become the reliable anchors they are. Relying on the old standbys will lend itself to laziness and complacency, the two great foes of creativity, the great foes of progress. We may have to say goodbye.




Nieman Rib chop with mushroom risotto cake, Boulevard, SF

 

Therefore, certain restaurants will have to be voluntarily retired in favor of new pursuits, new adventures, new risk, and hopefully, new rewards. It will be a difficult list, one for another day. Today, however, is for celebration of some of the best creations of 2011:

Strawberry shortcake with caramel kettle corn, Ten01, Portland, OR



Crab and Tuna Tower, Met Bar, Dallas




Lobster with fried clams and light wasabi sauce, The Spiced Pear, Newport, RI




Dohyo (Tuna Tartare with avocado, scallion and caviar), Ozumo



There will be difficult choices to make, especially in San Francisco where Ozumo (161 Steuart Street. http://www.ozumo.com/) will be hard to say goodbye to. It is consistently excellent, artfully executed both on the plate and aesthetically, a haven also, for the beautiful people (if you happen to like beautiful people). However, we know what Ozumo can do. We know it's there. That will have to be enough.

Civilizations may rise and fall, but Fang will never be contracted...

However, Fang (660 Howard Street. http://www.fangrestaurant.com/) will never be on any Carpaccio contraction list. Not only is it an original staple of my time in San Francisco, dating back to the first House of Nanking visit in October 1991, not only is it the meeting place for the SF HB+Brian Murphy lunch, but it is simply too good to be willfully ignored.







"I have a number in mind."



"She's so fine, there's no telling where my money went."

 During the noise and chatter and envy of the World Series, two broken men drank at an empty bar called Mosaic on Washington Ave in St. Louis (http://www.mosaictapas.com/). What I remember about our bartender, Diana,  was that she was very tall, dressed in black wearing a mock turtleneck, like one of Robert Palmer’s music video girls of the 1980s. She was going to Game 6. For free. She secured her chops in gorgeous by answering my question, “Are you six feet tall?” with an easy and confident “Yes.”




"That's my steak, Valance."



This is what broken men do. They close down bars. They ask inane questions of people who are trying to work, people trying to make a living. They talk about all the things they will never do with such conviction that one must assume they are drunk. During the World Series, Dave Sheinin and I were two broken men.


Maybe, I said to Dave, it was time to chuck the whole thing. We've been on the road enough. The business is changing. Our group was dwindling. Danny Graziano now covers football. Jeff Blair is now, an international radio star up in Toronto. Our dinner quorum, once a proud, muscular three to four, is down to two, Sheinin and me, with a possible dash of Amy K. Nelson, herself in transition. We’ve begun to recruit new members into our gastronomic pursuits, as Joe Lemire and Ben Reiter of Sports Illustrated joined us at Bob’s, the formidable Ft. Worth steak house before Game 3 of the World Series, but maybe, just maybe, our time has passed. Check, please.

After all, the number of players I’ve covered from their first day in the big leagues to their last was once zero, and is now growing (Mark Mulder, the possibly retiring Eric Chavez, and Miguel Tejada). Time waits for no man, so perhaps the message being sent while we sat grimly at Mosaic wasn’t how awful the World Series travel was this year, but that the game was up.



Bob's: A fine choice for  a group in transition



I had asked Dave a question early on during the ALCS about why he could so easily switch between Starwood hotels and Marriotts when the accumulation of hotel points, not the pursuit of money or Pulitzer, is the real why we exist. He said calmly, “Well, I’m lifetime platinum at Marriott, so I can be more selective….”

Lifetime platinum? That means top-tier for the rest of your life.


As a loyal member of the Hyatt hotel program, I hadn’t even considered my status with the company. I knew my Hyatt Gold Passport tiers like children knew the alphabet:

1) Gold: Just by signing your name.

2) Platinum: Five stays or 15 nights during the calendar year

3) Diamond: 25 stays or 50 nights during the calendar year



During regular years, I usually reach Diamond status, not by stays, but by night, after night, four night in Cleveland at the Arcade, a week at the Hyatt Newporter, my home away from home at the Grand in San Francisco. What do I get for spending at least 50 nights of my life a year at a Hyatt property, more familiar with the wings and quesadilla than what's in my own cabinets? You get suite upgrades, free internet, guaranteed check-in and a welcome amenity upon check in (usually a bottle of wine or two beers, or juices, and a platter of fruit, antipasti or, if you’re at the Ft. Lauderdale Pier 66, a chicken salad sandwich, oddly), but I had never inquired about lifetime diamond…These elegances, one must convince himself, are worth the nights in St. Louis.



The next morning I called Hyatt Gold Passport, and the lovely representative told my about the grade of the mountain I must climb. Yes, the Hyatt has a Lifetime tier, and yes, she would be happy to tell me the terms and conditions.

1) 10 years of Diamond status. Unlike the Baseball Writers Association of America, where one must serve for 10 consecutive years in order to receive a lifetime vote for the Baseball Hall of Fame, Hyatt does not require its diamond service to be consecutive. Since my first stay at a Hyatt, the Grand Hyatt New York, on April 9, 1998, I was told I’ve already reached my 10-year Diamond Level. Step One, satisfied.



2) 1,000,000 lifetime base Hyatt points.

That's one million lifetime Hyatt points...

I took a quick look at my statement and realized that, with more than 820,000 lifetime points I was not far away…UNTIL, my lovely representative informed me that that 1,000,000 tier must be base points, meaning points only accrued on a dollar-for-dollar basis -- no bonus points or matching or double points allowed.



That means one must spend $1,000,000 at Hyatt hotels to reach Lifetime Diamond status. I was disappointed when I was informed that I am 465,000 base points away from the Diamond summit, which breaks down roughly to eight more years. My lovely representative also informed me that there are, in the history or mankind, only "about 10,000 Lifetime Diamond members." More incentive!

Now, I do have a number in mind...and it's 1,000,000

The next day, as we entered the field at Busch Stadium, I informed Mr. Sheinin that, indeed I had become George Clooney in Up in the Air, that I “had a number in mind” and would not leave the traveling life or the Carpaccio Files until the goal had been met, which meant spending $465,000 over the next several years. I haven’t worked in an office since 1997, and had already calculated that I have spent the equivalent of 1.8 years of my life in Hyatt hotels. The broken man was now reassembled. He had a goal. Dave seemed relieved.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave me out here,” he said.

“Nope. I just can’t quit you.”

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.