"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.

Tony, death, and a pretty good lamb chop....

Gateway to the West. City of Death

Arriving in St. Louis for Game 6 carried a temporary moment of dread. I was hoping for a quick series, hoping that it would end in Texas, averting a return to a city I do not particularly like. I have my reasons.



I don't like the Cardinals. My experience with this franchise has never particularly been positive. It really has little to do with the team. Bob Gibson (along with Jackie Robinson, Sandy Koufax and Willie Mays) is high on my list of favorite players I never saw play. So is Curt Flood.

The problem is the manager, Tony La Russa. He and I are not warm. He probably does not remember this but he introduced me into the sportswriting game thusly.

The date was Sunday, Sept. 19, 1993. I was 24 years old, sent to cover an Oakland A’s-Chicago White Sox game for the Oakland Tribune to spell John Hickey, the regular beat writer. I only remember two things about the game.

Dennis Eckersley entered a 1-1 game in the ninth and gave up a two-run home run to Robin Ventura.

I wrote a story, saying that Eckersley lost the game, but the Tribune headline read, “Eck blows another save, A’s lose.”

Naturally, entering a tie-game is NOT a save situation. I was betrayed by my own paper on my first day on the job. As fate would have it, I was sent out the very next night, to cover A’s-Royals, the first big-league start of touted phenom Todd Van Poppel.

Before the game, La Russa was in his office fuming. Numerous veteran writers were there: Frank Blackman and Ray Ratto of the San Francisco Examiner, Pedro Gomez of the San Jose Mercury News, David Bush of the San Francisco Chronicle. I stood in the corner.

La Russa focused on Blackman, holding up my story. “You see the shit I have to put up with, Frank? You see? Where’s Hickey? This is bullshit.”

Moments later, La Russa noticed the byline was not Hickey’s but mine.

“Howard Bryant? Who the fuck is Howard Bryant?”

I raised my hand, and said, “Tony, the story’s right. The story didn’t say it was a save situation.”

La Russa ignored me, and continued on, with Blackman playing a willing straight man. “You see, Frank? This is the kind of shit I put up with every day.”

La Russa continued to embarrass me with his false outrage. Finally, Pedro Gomez interrupted and said, “Tony, you know we don’t write the headlines. Leave the kid alone.” Welcome to the big leagues, Howard Fucking Bryant.



Twelve years later, during the height of the Steroid Era, it would be La Russa and I would clash again, this time when we both appeared on 60 Minutes in February 2005, and again in 2009 during an hour and 10 minute phone clash over a column I wrote asking why La Russa defended the disgraced Mark McGwire more than McGwire defended himself.

La Russa and my final clash came last year, when McGwire completed his deception-as-redemption tour, finally admitting the worst-kept secret since Liberace’s homosexuality: Mark McGwire used steroids after all. “La Russa called me, and we went at it again, him asking me if “I believed in forgiveness” and how I could “be so sure McGwire would be not a positive influence.” I told him neither was not nearly as relevant to me as my question for him: “why is McGwire the one who gets to say he’s sorry after lying for all these years and collecting roughly $75 million in career salary?” We agreed to disagree, but only after La Russa said to me, “I have respect for you. I didn’t think you had the guts to call me back. Most people in your industry wouldn’t.”

Having made peace with La Russa, I hopped in a cab for Game 6, and headed for downtown, the Hyatt at the Arch, formerly the old Adams Mark Hotel. We leave the tollgate at Lambert Airport and the cab driver made a wicked, erratic screech onto the freeway. I put my seatbelt on.

Shortly into the drive, he is swerving into the right lane. I look in the driver’s rearview mirror to see his eyes fluttering, his head nodding to the left. He straightened slightly, only to fall completely asleep.

I yell at him. “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m good. I’m good.” What an uninspiring way to check out…Finally, we get to the hotel, and I say to this menace, "You need to get some sleep." He responds, "I got it. I got it."

That said, Tony and the napping cabbie notwithstanding, St. Louis deserved the opportunity for redemption, and Dominic’s seemed to be the perfect starting place. The restaurant is old-school, one of those elegant establishments with crisp white tablecloths with only a few diners. And of course, it was irresistible to quote a few lines from the ill-fated Turk, Solozzo, from The Godfather ("You give me too much credit, kid. I'm the hunted one."). We took a round table near the front of the restaurant and the entrée of choice was the veal T-Bone chop with truffles sauce, fingerling potatoes with carrots and zucchini.

"Try the veal. It's the best in the city." 

The choice was solid, an upgrade over a competent carpaccio appetizer. Having missed the Sidney Street Café meal before Game 1, I was satisfied that Dominic’s compensated.

That was, until our waiters, Bruno and his wife Ryan, took our plates away and Dave Sheinin of the Washington Post said, “I’m sorry, but Sidney Street blows this place away.”

Tenderloin Carpaccio

Consistent with the rules of engagement, there was a carpaccio on the menu, so I ordered it, and it was classic: wafer-thin and delicate, albeit a bit heavy on the olive oil. It was a welcome recovery from the disappointing beef carpaccio at Bern's in Tampa, which required a knife (an instant disqualification).

We added two more appetizers: artichoke with shrimp and spinach, which turned out to be a mystery plate because no one at the table recalled the shrimp (Mark Kriegel ate it, leaving the table with artichoke), and the steak alla tartara, which was rich and competent, but could not measure up to the tuna tartare with avocado and caviar from Ozumo in San Francisco.

Still, the appetizers received a solid B+...after eating poorly in Detroit, and dreading St. Louis, Dominic's was restoring my faith.
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Dominic's on the Hill, St. Louis

In the visitor's dugout at Rangers Ballpark in Arlington, between peppering him with questions about the efficacy (or lack thereof) of back-loaded contracts (Alex Rodriguez, six years, $143 million) and the odds of retaining Albert Pujols (market price versus the "iconic factor"), St. Louis Cardinals Vice President and General Manager John Mozeliak offered up his favorite restaurant in the city. Hands went up enthusiastically for the Sidney Street Cafe (www.sidneystreetcafe.com). Mine did not, for when the boys arrived at Sidney Street last week before Game 1 of the World Series, I was lodged at the Hyatt at the Arch (the grimmest of Hyatts), loaded up on NyQuil eating chicken noodle soup.

Mozeliak acknowledged Sidney Street but preferred Dominic's on the Hill (www.dominicsrestaurant.com), and on Tuesday night, we took him up on his suggestion...
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Swinging and missing in D-Town



Comerica Park before ALCS Game 5



I was wrong about Detroit. I have a friend who likes me to repeat when I say I'm wrong, just to hear me admit a second time that I was wrong. That says something...

People would ask me which cities I dreaded the most. I would usually say, in order, "Detroit, Cleveland, Houston..." I based this opinion on old data. In the old days, when I covered both the Oakland A's and the New York Yankees, downtown Detroit was essentially devoid of hotels. There was the Atheneum, the Doubletree and the Ren Center. I stayed at Hyatt Hotels, which meant Dearborn. 

Dearborn meant driving to old Tiger Stadium. Outside of the late-night run to White Castle along Michigan Avenue, it meant driving everywhere _ from the airport to the hotel to the ballpark _ and nothing seemed particularly convenient. 

AND...since I don't really like Greek food so much, it was a terrible food town. How many times, I ask, can one go to Fishbones?

 Before arriving Tuesday for the ALCS, I hadn't been to Detroit since 2002, and in the nearly 10 years since, things have changed for the business traveler. The Westin Book Cadillac hotel is solid, even more so because of Michael Symon's Roast (http://www.roastdetroit.com/), Slow's barbecue (http://www.slowsbarbq.com/) and a place I was willing to take _ trying to branch out _ a Greek flyer on, Pegasus (http://www.pegasustavernas.com/index2.html). Suddenly, there were food options AND I could walk to Comerica Park. Things were looking up...

Great baseball. No food. Box lunches. What kind of destiny is that?

Until they weren't...Two years ago, I had vowed to wake up earlier, to manage my mornings and afternoons to factor in ample time for lunch, to avoid the dreaded postseason box lunches and ballpark food. ("This is your body on cheese fries"). I had vowed to be better.

No chance. Sunday's rainout in Texas wiped out Monday's off-day in Detroit which wiped out the one free night for dinner (buh-bye, Roast!). Tuesday was a night game, Wednesday's rain delay wiped out the 4:19 p.m. start (the game started as 6:30 and went 11, yes, 11 innings) and any chance of a late dinner and by Thursday, with an outside chance at a 9 p.m. dinner at Roast, I had been beaten down, lost my mojo.

Detroit was there for me, and I failed it....but there is good news. D-town is off the list, replaced heartily by St. Louis...  

Ground Rules (or are they?)

Rules are not made to be broken. Rules are made to be adhered to, they are made to provide a structure, an ethic, a framework. The rules of The Carpaccio Files are simple:
1) No Chains: Here is a perfect example of the ambiguity and classist nature of the rule. Clearly, this rule has never been followed. Nobu (http://www.noburestaurants.com/), with 24 locations worldwide ranging from Waikiki to Budapest, clearly qualifies as a chain. Yet Nobu 57 has been featured on these pages (I hope so, since I was at Nobu 57 last year). Roy's (http://www.roysrestaurant.com/), has multiple locations across eight states. I have been to Roy's in Kauai, San Francisco, New York, Tampa, Newport Beach, Calif, and Philadelphia. Where, I ask is the enforcement of this "rule?"

2) No revisits, except for quality control purposes: My boy Brian Murphy (http://twitter.com/knbrmurph) asked me a long time ago, "can you vouch?" meaning was I willing to use the credit of my good name. Therefore, if I'm going to recommend a place, it is my personal responsibility to make sure I'm vouching for quality, hence repeat visits to Fang (San Francisco), Bern's (Tampa), Oishii (Boston). I put my name on the line for these establishments.

3) If beef carpaccio is on the menu, it must be ordered:  Naturally. Why else name the blog carpaccio in the first place?


How, then, can we explain the constant violation of rule number 1? The simple answer must be "class." TGI Fridays is a chain, as is Houlihan's, Olive Garden and Nobu. The difference is that one (Nobu) is so spectacular and exclusive that it doesn't feel like a chain. The difference is clearly class based. Perhaps the rule should be revised to say no "bad chains." Or maybe I should just be consistent...