Emerging from the spiral...

  Once, I used to write in my journal daily. I had many things to say, usually from about 38,000 feet traveling from one city to the next as life on the baseball beat dictates. One day, the journal writing stopped, not because I was more mature or more together; indeed life has only grown more complicated even as it has gotten better.

 The reason was because I had run out of words. Book writing killed journal writing because I have a certain number of words in me over a given time. How David Foster Wallace wrote "Infinite Jest" is beyond me.

Book writing, long-form ESPN writing and column writing seemed also to kill blog writing. Jeff Pearlman is a machine, writing books and blogs prolifically and with style. I, alas, am but a man.
A man, whoever is coming out of the abyss. There are words again, and this emergence promises to be sustained. Having written exactly one blog post in the last 18 months is embarrassing, yes, but another factor for the disappearance of the Carpaccio Files must be confronted: taking pictures of food has only been eclipsed by the selfie for sheer obnoxiousness. In bad economies, with friends losing jobs, with Gaza being destroyed and cops (still) killing black people, a photo of a Gorgonzola rib-eye from Roast seemed pretentious at best and at worst, colossally insensitive. If you're going to look like an asshole, at least let it be inadvertent...of course, being an asshole usually consists of some premeditation.

Still I do love art and food is often art, and here is a place to discuss an appreciate that art. Facebook is gone for me. If I cannot stand selfies of toes in sand no one should be subject to photos of my next sidecar...

Whoever comes here, however, is doing so because they love the art of food and the discussions of food and the magic of food (despite the deep disappointments that spurred HB rule no. 1: Never experiment when you're hungry).

A weekend in Boston for Sox-Royals landed me downtown, at Legal Crossing on the corner of Washington and Avenue de Lafayette. Legal may have, because of its popularity and expansion seemed like the McDonalds of Boston seafood, but the quality of the fried oysters far surpassed a Filet o' Fish...

Fried oysters with aioli...

After oysters, Fenway...A very Boston afternoon...

The weekend progressed with stops at an old standby, the sturdy Fleming's in Park Square. Yes, Fleming's is a direct violation of HB Rule No. 2: No chain restaurants, but like Roy's each rule has its exceptions. Capital Grille, while clearly overpriced, is another one.

Zocalo, on Stanhope, nestled on a side street between the South End and Back Bay, was a the Sunday spot and it didn't move me as it should have. A new tequila bar with chuletas de puerco on the menu should have been consistent with my "never experiment when you're hungry" edict, but because it was a new place, I could not vouch. 

The chuletas, like Zocalo, wasn't a complete failure, because the food was generally good despite the deafening noise of the lunch crowd. At the very least, it, like most things in life, deserves a second chance.

That, obviously, is an overcooked pork chop with spinach and mashed potato underneath...