Waitman

Some years ago, we stayed just down the road in Vacqueyras. I think you may understate the coolness of the market at Vaison La Romaine, which I believe no less than Patricia Wells calls it her favorite in Provence. The trip wine threats of Gigondas, Vacquers and Beames de Venice are all with 10 kilometers of each other (I think) if you can pull yourself away from the better-known Chateau NdPs, and Beames de Venice has a public pool where you can relax after a hot Provencal day marketing and drinking and where gentlemen will be required to rent Speedos if they did not bring a pair.

Last time I was in France, we drove up from protestant stronghold of Uzes (subdued by Richelieu himself) and stayed just outside of Florac, in Cocures, for three days, knocking around the back-country: discovering but not reading Robert Lewis Stevenson's book, kayaking through the Gorges du Tarn and eating at the town's two Bib Gourmand restaurants. It is indeed a beautiful and austere region and I am very keen to get back and eat chestnuts -- especially now that your expertise is available on line.

Pretty sure that Roma was at 3411 Connecticut, because when you cut through the Firehook bakery that's there now, from the alley, you pass through the old Roma patio. Also -- and I could be mistaken -- I'm pretty sure that Nam Viet and Roma coexisted for a while.

Long as you're sidelining as copy editor, help James with the difference between "every day" and "everyday," as well.

Don't we need a catchy slogan? "Ventworms Unite" or something?

I like real estate porn as much as anyone who's ever glanced at the Long Island Sound estates and 5 bdrm pre-war co-ops on offer in the back pages of the New York Times Magazine. I like food porn, not surprisingly. I'm a male; it's a given that I like porn porn, especially if shot in a 5 bdrm pre-war with props including small vineyard Champagne and dark chocolate. But, what I really like is France porn: from the glossy, shot-on-film works of Dumas and Hugo to the frankly feminine suggestive scribblings of MFK Fischer to Peter Mayle's pulpy 50 Shades of Provence. And so, when I found out that I was going to Peter Mayle country, my heart beat a little faster and my (digestive) juices flowed. I was going home. I confess, I've read that stupid book, with its equal-opportunity condescension towards local peasants and visiting Brits and soul-sapping first world problems maybe nine or ten times. I stumble across it while trying to disappear one of the many piles of books that spring up like new hills along a fault line in random places in my house on a cold February afternoon when warm red wines aren't making the sun shine for me, start in on the first chapter and find myself hooked again. So, shoot me. I was more or less roped into this -- admittedly,there have been more challenging ropings -- a group scene during which, in some senses, my worst fears were realized (kind of a conservative crew and a lot of boring music on the bad stereo). And I did not select the location. I'd never even heard of the village, and did not know that we were to be plopped down walking distance from Peter Mayle's home village of Menerbes until I got back to my home after the Big Reveal and Googled Oppede-le-Vieux. I was worried about the tourists and groupies (despite being one). But I was happy. After driving up from Marseille, we ended up the first night eating in Menerbes, at Les Saveurs du Gourmands, which is #1 for the town on Trip Adviser. This ranking is based "“ I would guess "“ on the reviews of people who have read Mayle's book but never eaten a decent French meal (Michelin doesn't bother to list it). I don't remember much except for the overcooked fowl of some sort drenched in buerre blanc, a random chocolate thing for dessert and my friend trying to foist her pasta on me under the guise that she wasn't that hungry. A pleasant enough room and good service, but really more a place to take the monied and unadventurous than anything else "“ a bit of a low point. The next day, after exploring the market at Isle sur la Sorgue en balade -- and scoring some "antique" absinthe spoons at the brocante -- we dropped into the Michelin Bib Gourmande (high value, menu under 31 euros for three courses) La Balade Des Saveurs. Busy on market day, service was a touch relaxed in a room that looked like it could be rented for a bridal shower at a mid-scale chain hotel (the terasse was unavailable due to the market) but the meal was tasty "“ particularly the trout and the pea soup -- and a relative bargain. Also they were polite when I broke a liter bottle of olive oil on their floor, perhaps because the plastic bag captured most of it. Bummer given the quality of the oil. I was out the door before they figured out that I'd broken the soap dispenser in the bathroom trying to fix it, as well. A bad day for Franco-American relations.. A market like Isle sur la Sorgue has a high souvenir content and a high grocery-store greens and vegetables content. And a troubling amount of the bread sucks. But there's always a gang of cheeses and charcuterie, and we scored good bread and excellent olive oil (sigh) and some salt cod for later in the week and a gang of cepes (aka porcini), which were in season, for about $12/lb, which was sweet. Unfortunately, when we got home after the bullfights in Cavaillon we had to share them with our housemates who had discovered too late that finding food in rural France on a Sunday evening can be tough, and who literally surrounded us zombie-like as we go out of the car, moaning "did you bring back anything to eat." It was our mushrooms or our brains, I think. Our next dinner lifted us from the fungal forest floor to the starry heights above Bonnieux, at the 2-star Bastide de Capalongue. We chose the discount Menu Aux Quatre vents "“ a steal at €140 (actually not as bad as it looks given the inclusion of tax and tip) "“ and worked our way through six or so mostly prim and intellectual courses. Service was flawless, of course, though the décor and attitude and costumes combined to take the edge of the formality of the food and service. I will say that the mushroom course (in late September, mushroom courses apparently spring up around Provence like mushrooms springing up around Provence) was the single greatest mushroom dish I have ever eaten. Given that every cook I came across on the trip (including me) was working with them, chef Eduard Loubet's tart (really, just an attractively arranged pile of slices on a bit to pastry) with hazelnut jus, served with a cepe veloute stood head and shoulders above the others, bringing the flavor to an explosive intensity. But then, there were marinated anchovies on a plate of almond milk with a quenelle of eggplant "caviar" and a couple of cubes of an undistinguished white Spanish melon. It looked impressive. Or at least modern. It's in his cookbook. But no one ingredient seemed to dance as well with any other on the palate as well as they did on the plate. By the time we got to the rack of exquisite lamb served simply in a lovely clear reduction, I kind of ached for the anti-intellectual potato gratin "de ma grand mere" with its creamy, starchy goodness, that accompanied the chops. I like eating at restaurants like this. I learn a lot, I see where things are going, and it's always interesting to see what a talented chef can do, even if you don't love it. And, let there be no doubt, it's good eating. But once a trip is enough. I'd skip the Cavaillon market, unless you need to pick up something at the last moment for a kayak trip beneath the Pont du Gard (quite fun). After a tough day of cycling through Provence on rented bikes ("tough" being a relative term, here, we weren't shoveling coal or in the office) we decided we needed to catch a sunset atop one of the numerous hilltop villages in the neighborhood, and chose Gordes. Simply put, there are few better places anywhere to watch the sun set than from the terrace bar of La Bastide de Gordes, particularly, I suppose, on evenings when you're not sitting within earshot of a group of Americans saying things like "a goddam 5-star hotel and they don't have a bartender that knows how to make a decent martini." Also, particularly if you don't mind paying €19 for an Americano (wine was about €9). (France: one minute, you're getting quite drinkable wine for six bucks a bottle, the next you're paying 25 bucks for a drink.) It was worth it. We skipped the restaurant, which was expensive and empty, and all the places on the hilltop, which all looked like horrid tourist joints, and followed the signs down the hill to the restaurant at the Hotel de Carcarille, another one of those unfortunately decorated but high-value spots. it was first time I've ever had kidneys, and they were quite good (and tasted a bit like sweetbreads and not at all like piss), while madame had scallops. Madam la Patronne was exceptionally friendly, especially given our awful French and limited spending (a plat, a menu and just three glasses of wine) and the dining room was populated (thinly, but energetically) with locals. Very good karma all around. One morning we zinged around the mountains to the market at Aix-en-Provence,about an hour away, where we had good luck rounding up the season's last heirloom tomatoes and fresh scallops with roe (!) for a dinner we were cooking for our housemates. We didn't buy bread there, though, because just west of Menerbes, between the two entrances to Oppede on the D3 there is a brilliant wood-fired boulangerie run by a baker who looks like he learned how to bake on work release after taking a tire iron to a couple of drunks who were messing with his woman or maybe, worse, rooting against Olympique Marseille. Many kinds of excellent bread, croissants that crunch against your teeth and melt against your tongue and the irresistible "sachristie" which seemed like sweetened puff pastry twisted into a sort of rope and baked crisp before being dusted with sugar. Best bread this trip. Go there. We spent the last day bicycling "“ and touring both the Musee de Tire-Bouchon and the Musee de la Boulangerie -- and ended up lunching on one of those side streets that are main drags in old French towns like Apt and stumbling into L'Intramurous, (120/124 Rue de la Republique). We found the food good (a lasagna-ish thing), the owner delightful -- he quite enjoyed explaining in Frenglish that "cagole" is more than just the name of a Marseille beer -- and, when we ducked inside to the loo, the interior brilliantly knick-knacker-ish. Not fine dining, but good fun, and charming enough to have been featured in a couple of French glossies. Warning, though: when looking for a website (none that I can find), I stumbled across TripAdvisor and the reviews range from "our best experience in Provence" to "My only bad experience in Provence." Many hours after leaving Apt, figuring that our legs might be good for one last hill, we decided to conquer Menerbes which, despite its nearness, we hadn't been to since that first memorably forgettable dinner. While climbing up a narrow (aren't they all?) street towards the centre-ville I saw it on my right "“ whether I remembered the name from some bit of fan fiction or the description from the book I'd read so many times, I don't know. But I knew. I spun my bike around and after we finally found something to chain them to we walked back down. It was perfect. Newsstand on one side, crotchety locals in the tiny bar up front ignoring the spectacular view in back and, in the back, semi-clueless Anglophones on the terasse, trying to soak up the golden sunlight on the vineyards below while keeping bored children in line"¦. It was The Bar de Progres, Peter Mayle's "local" from Year in Provence. The view was great, the beer was cold, and my trip was complete.

H Mart yes. Yes Mart no.

Why would the Le Moulin de Loumarin be in Bonnieux? Actually, since his cookbook is in the kitchen of the Mas de Bastide de Moulin d'Oliviers, where we are staying, I happen to know that Eduard Loubet of Moulin de Loumarin moved his 2-star operation to the Bastide de Capelogue, when his mother bought the luxury hotel (at the top of the village -- spectacular views) and restaurant, though he still owns the Moulin. I think I'nm driving through Loumarin tomorrow -- thanks for the Camus tip.

Ate in a Michelin 2-star in Bonnieux, Vaucluse Monday night. CityZen is better. (This also applies to the French Laundry, but I find the current trend in French fine dining so precise and austere that it loses me to some extent. It's like a modern art installation: an intellectual achievement but too often lacking in soul. EZ brings a French-like precision to his cooking, but he colors outside the lines just enough to make his dishes as emotionally satisfying as they are intellectually challenging. And, I'd like to think that he'd never pair marinated anchovies with almond milk. ) On a clear day you can see Mt. Ventoux from here.

Both my time as a server on the DC bar scene and as an occasional visitor to Memorial Stadium were the late 70s and early 80s, and I can confirm that we used to put away a frightening quantity of Irish Mist, and that Natty Boh was the prefered beverage of the Earl Weaver era.

Follow this thread about a certain prominent politician's visit to a certain prominent hamburglar. But, speaking of strawmen (and red herrings), this avoids the central issue of whether Todd had a legitimate point. I actually suspect that he considered it relevant because the evidence that they were armchairing is that they ate the food off their rice, they way they eat dinner at home, in their armchairs, watching cricket and laughing about the potential partitioning of the British Isle -- jJust as it would have been relevant to underscore their Italian-ness if they'd requested it be served on capellini.

Having seen people in this forum get all uppity over other people who order their beef well done or commit some other culinary error, I'm not sure that I can get too upset with Todd for holding this out as an example of how not to explore another culture's cuisine (which it is). All of us foodies snicker about the (possibly mythical) American who goes to dinner in Paris and asks for ketchup, or stays here and complains that the middle of their DOC pizza in soggy. He has a point, however inartfully made, and I suspect that if he'd said "Midwestern tourists" instead of "Indians," we'd all snicker along with him in our superior sort of way. He did seem to be a little dyspeptic today, though.

A delayed posting, but I wanted to suggest that seafood aficionados drop by for a cocktail and a bite of the new Red Crab dish, made from an odd sort of crab that somewhat resembles a King Crab and abides in 500 feet of water a ways off the Virginia Coast. As I recall, some guy tried to sell it to them frozen to ETR and Derek and maybe Tom kicked his ass and Julien talked to some fisherman named Noah, who was willing it bring it in fresh. Anyway, it's tasty stuff and watching your friends try to spear the meat out of the spidery legs after a couple of martinis is kind of fun. But I really posted this because I have a beef with Derek. You see, once when I was young restless and had no circus to run off to, I became an Presidential Campaign Advance Guy, traveling the small towns of swing states with a bag of audio cable and an eye for the local girls. It was a lot like being in rock and roll band one hot single from success: we were rich enough to cover the bar tabs, energetic enough to work bizarre hours on little sleep, wild enough (and good enough) to have great stories to tell (over and over and over again, in retrospect) and dumb enough to think we were changing the world. It was a great time, yielding good friends and a couple of odd habits that even today evoke fond memories. One of those habits was leaving each town behind with a shot of whiskey at the airport bar -- even if it meant pulling the stools off the bar somewhere around breakfast time -- before my friends flew off to their next events and I flew off to mine. The whiskey became Irish and then, more specifically, Jameson when a friend objected to Protestant whiskey (ie Bushmill's). So Jameson is closely identified in my mind with close friends, a great era, and a happy morning buzz. It's important to me. So, imaging my heartache when I read this: "Every douchebag in the world started drinking Jameson," says Derek Brown.... "It's like one of those things where you're like, "˜I don't know. Do I want to be drinking Jameson if that guy's drinking Jameson? Because that guy has date rape and vomit written all over him, and I'm not into that.'" How can I drink Jameson, especially at 10AM in a strange airport, now that I know Derek and the world will look at me as I throw it back and think "date rape and vomit"? A treasured part of my mis-spent youth has been stolen away by Derek Brown. I will get him for that. (Tom Brown, who correctly observes in the same article that "Jameson is a breakfast whiskey," will be spared.)

(Damn you, Lori! I thought I was going to be the first!) A friend and I rolled into Staunton about 7:30 the night after Lori and --perhaps because of the rain -- found an almost deserted restaurant on an almost deserted street -- a real noir night just off a scruffy intersection near the four-lane. From the outside the Shack looks like the sort of spot that would serve grit-centered breakfast specials and dubious fried chicken (undiscovered genius or poisoning risk?) at lunchtime to construction workers, less-Epicurean locals and the guys at a nearby auto body shop. Inside -- well, it doesn't look much different until the details start to come into focus. The distinctive percussion of a restaurant kitchen at work (unlike the staccato clang of a diner's spatula on the griddle); the subdued lighting and the small staff it illuminates; the shoulder-high stripe of old photos of the chef's in-laws that circle the restaurant (its chief decor), depicting a local family that apparently weathered the joys, sorrows and various challenges of pre-digital photography and 70s styles with enough panache to pull a talented chef from the canyons of New York back to the Shenandoah Valley. Service was relaxed, direct and candid ("if you're already into heirloom tomatoes, the salad may not be that special"), and our waiter carried himself with such relaxed authority you felt that he could make anything he needed to happen (not that we had any odd requests) and when he announced that the glass of wine I'd mistakenly ordered would go great with the lamb (the next course), I believed him. Our menu was vastly different from Lori's -- impressive, given what I assume is the challenge of scoring so many ingredients when you're only accepting deliveries large enough for a 29-seat joint -- and offered five apps,four entrees and a pair of desserts. We eventually settled on two variations of the menu: my friend ordered three savory courses for a fin over the $45 standard three-course cost and I went for the four course, $55 menu. The snapper with cherries, fennel and soy sauce lees served as a fresh twist to the now-common raw fish starter. Speaking of the commonplace, we had mussels and eggplant which were rendered somehow uncommon by the Vietnamese coriander (a quick Googling confirms my suspicion this is at best a very distant cousin -- different orders, phylum, etc -- to cilantro/coriander) that seemed to add more complexity than you'd expect -- not just when you took the time to brochette one between the eggplant and a mussel, but also when you just dipped the toasted ciabatta in the broth. I said to Laura that the squid ink fettuccine with pureed parsley would be a bit bland without the uni and she tartly replied that it did have the uni and that perfectly cooked pasta that light was far more rare than maybe I remembered (particularly in my own kitchen) so maybe I should just shut up about that. The entrees were like the kind of stuff that French Grandmas made legendary before they mediocre cooks made them cliches: imagine being there at the birth of Boeuf Bourguignon or pot-au-feu. All that patient, painstaking technique and those extraordinary ingredients hidden super-hero-like behind the mask of a simple stew, comprising something that elevates the palate and sticks to the ribs. Anyway, that's what the beef cheeks reminded me of, but I may be getting carried away in penance for disrespecting the pasta. And sticks of butter and heads of roasted garlic are no longer sufficiently OTT for my mashed potatoes: I must have marrow. And throw some chanterelles and gremolata into the mix, while you're at it I was quite keen on the lamb sausage 'n' shank, as well. Sausages that brought a bit of heat to the game, a square of crisp shank sufficiently tender inside you sort of expected it to ooze onto the plate like a ripe Pont l'Eveque whose rind has been pierced and an eggplant puree whose -- now that I think about it -- (relative) austerity sat well with the (relatively) rich meat, plus two buds of okra that I shoved to the side because I've always hated okra, and pickled cherry tomatoes for fun. Sweet corn pudding with moussed bittersweet choco, cubed nectarine and lime was another understated treat -- a touch off-beat and more memorable for it. When it was over, Laura declared it -- with perhaps a touch of hyperbole -- "the best restaurant you've ever taken me to," which is no small praise, given dinners at Alinea, CityZen and (perhaps more relevant) Rose's Luxury in the last six months. When it was over, we also had a brief chat with Ian, who is struggling to balance the fact that people now drive hundreds of miles just to eat at his shack with no guarantee that they'll get a table with the fact that he'd like to make sure the neighbors can still wedge their way into a restaurant so tiny that even one reservation no-show can really fuck the books for the night. Even I sympathized, despite my dislike of no reservations policies -- perhaps because we didn't have to wait (I'm self-centered like that), and perhaps because he seemed like just about the nicest guy I've ever stumbled across in a restaurant kitchen. All told, the damage came to a scant $177 -- though we drank far less wine than we would have in the old days -- and that included the T-shirt I can wear to the farmers market to show how goddam cool I am, and two rolls of Smarties, which are available (along with Mary Janes and couple other small sweets) at the register in lieu of mignardise. Maybe next week I'll do a test whereby at 5PM I head south to Staunton and a friend hops the Metro to Barracks Row at the same time. Be curious to see who eats first -- and who eats best. ETA: We didn't pay a ton of attention to the wine list which struck me as brief, well-chosen and reasonably priced. Also, when I called beforehand to discuss timing strategy, the friendly lady on the phone suggested arriving before 5PM or after 7:30, and said that they'd never turned a table away (though I wouldn't want to push it) and that they now have space to sip wine outside while you wait.

So, any hints for Grand Rapids, besides drink the beer?* Their restaurant week looks a little frightening, though I'm pleased that Applebee's is participating. * The U.S. Rowing Master's National regatta touts the on-site beer garden. The hosts are sponsoring microbrewery tours (15 in the city limits!). The first half of the "Things to Do In Grand Rapid" web page is devoted to beer. And, in case you were wondering, Grand Rapids is Beer City USA. It's too bad I have to actually race while I'm there.

With all due respect to Johnb, Wintzell's is quite awful and should be avoided at all costs. We did drive pass Lambert's, which has a huge sign advertising its website, www.throwedrolls.com. Down around Gulf Shores, there are a number or barbecue places, which we did not get a chance to try but future travelers should note that they all looked pretty decent (ir, wood fires going) and are likely better than any regular restaurant food. We did, however, get some fresh off the boat shrimp -- there are a cluster of outlets just north of "town", Captain Billy's apparently being the best known but if you head toward Billy's you can follow the signs to the others. The Royal Reds were excellent. It does kind of ruin you for for frozen shrimp, though.

That only confirms the low opinion we downtowners have of those misguided country folk.

Due to bad planning and fatigue, we did not make it out to Annandale to Kogiya until the waitlist was about three hours long, and a drive-by at Yechon revealed hungry Korean families spilling into the parking lot. So we pulled into the 7-11 next door trying to figure out if there was a Koream joint nearby that was lousy enough not to be crowded but good enough to eat at, when when the proverbial light bulb appeared overhead and we said "Isn't RJ's new place opening this weekend? And, where the fuck is 'Northern Virginia's Mosaic District, anyway?' (And, ultimately, "since when does 'mosaic' mean a 'soulless [except for...] fake 'urban' district composed of mass-produced chain stores?'") Turns out that the MD is six minutes by iPhone from the 7-11 next to Yechon, or twenty minutes via the more creative route we selected after we missed our exit on the Beltway, and just around the corner from Great Wall. Whoever had answered the phone at Gypsy Soul wasn't entirely encouraging, promising only appetizers, so we entered with limited expectations. The place is large, sleek without being cold (and further warmed as the night went by, by exceptional service) and centered on a truncated U-shaped bar (think long base and short arms) that embraces an open kitchen. The tables were virtually empty, the bar was virtually full, and behind the line in what I remember as being a slightly elevated cooking space, rogue maestro RJ Cooper was conducting a staff that seemed almost to outnumber the patrons. Turns out that his bad luck was our good luck: an errant coffee station installer had drilled through a water line, forcing cancellation of a friends and family dinner (my invitation to which had apparently been lost in the mail). So, when the water came back on at 8PM, the riff-raff was allowed in and we parked ourselves at the bar, scored a couple of glasses of Cali Viogner and looked over an abbreviated menu that did, despite small expectations, guide us into the land of the large plates. Briefly, the could-have-been-boring Bibb salad was curiously refreshing, tarted up just enough to be interesting without obscuring the chlorophyllic goodness that's often lost in the mix. I quite enjoyed the steak tartar, sort of a heavier-than-usual mustard prep (I'm sure RJ will correct me if I get this wrong) served with a bit of grilled romaine that had been lightly Caesared and garnished with a couple of high-end anchovies and a little Parm. Made me wonder why steak tartar isn't served with a Caesar Salad all the time, instead of those frites? Get that rich-tart thing going. Shrimp and grits were awesome. One suspects that RJ cheated by adding a stick of butter to every cup of grits, but it was hard do object as I was trying to steal as much crustacean-candy as possible from my friend's plate and she was trying to fend me off with a fork. Kudos to her -- despite her selfishness -- for pulling out "Frogmore Stew" to describe the what the menu at that time described as "Grouper Cheeks with Stuff" (or something like that) (btw, I note that the menu now actually calls it "Frogmore Stew") and what I thought was localized Bouillabaisse variation. It was, of course, not so much a Frogmore reproduction as a riff on that traditional recipe, which marries corn and potatoes to a spicy broth and shrimp (thank you, Mr. Google). Here it was a dish that came out of the Low Country via Marseilles, picked up grouper cheeks, saffron and clams (and toast with a killer rouille) without losing its New World starches, and landed in front of me topped by a metal dome which released a captivating vapor upon its removal. Spicy but refined, French and 'merican, I would kill for a bowl of it right now. I should mention that Rogue's frighteningly intense pastry chef is also helming the cold kitchen at GS, and I ate all of my milk chocolate pudding with caramelized bananas and rosemary peanuts and half of my friend's, so there's that, too. For a menu whipped up on the spot after the water came on, it was immensely satisfying. RJ looked a little beat up, but he and his crew turned in an outstanding effort under challenging conditions. Our meal was "simple," probably deceptively so; the menu on line now looks both longer an more elaborate. But a first glance suggests food that -- like ours, Saturday night -- is almost "hearty," but enhanced by the deft touch, unexpected ingredients (marrow with sea urchin) and attention to detail that marks R24. There's no question that I'm already in RJ's camp, so add grains of salt as you will. But I'd head over now -- even if the bar, coffee station and other less vital bits and pieces haven't quite congealed -- before half of Northern Virginia is trying to eat there. In two weeks, people are going to be staring at the lines out the door and saying, "damn, we should have gotten here earlier. I guess we'll just have to grab some Korean instead."

Any recco's in downtown Mobile or the Greater Gulf Breeze region? Not so much interested in decent yuppie heirloom tomato/grass-fed pork chops places as we have those here -- regional cuisine is always worth a gamble. Party includes one pescatarian and one 12-year-old of limited adventurousness, so a decent seafood shack would fit the bill. Also, should I call the vacation "Alabama Getaway" or "Going Mobile" when I write my unpublishable travel section article on it?

I like that Don can take a punch. And throw one.

So, which retailer has a decent selection of non-dessert half-bottles so that when I do the thing of finishing whatever bottle of wine gets opened (often, mind you, with a friend) I feel a little more energetic in the morning because it's a much smaller bottle?

Well, my suggestion -- partially supported by this scientific survey -- that limiting it to a baking contest would limit the number of potential participants, and possibly skew it towards women, was disregarded. Why? Because they wanted to do it the same way they did it last year.

Having an discussion and would love to hear educated guesses by this educated group viz the following questions: 1) What percent of people who "cook" seriously, "bake" seriously? Some people are definitely big bakers, and you rarely see them spending hours reducing a stock, spatchcocking a chicken or smoking home-cured bacon. Others -- like me -- spend a lot of time on the range top but - while they can bake competently in a pinch -- just don't see it a a primary focus. I suppose there is a third group that is culinary ambidextrous. Given a free Saturday afternoon, they're equally likely to embark on a bouf Bourguignon or a batch of brioche. Just for funsies, what do thing the distribution of fairly serious home cook (defined these days by someone who cooks their own food for a pot-luck or bake sale rather than going to Trader Joe's)? 2) Among bakers, what would you guess gender ratio is? More men, more women, or roughly equal numbers? Thanks.

I think that if you took menus from 50 random but decent restaurants in the DC area, cut them up so that each individual dish was a small slip of paper and threw them into one of those large round mesh cylinders with a crank -- the ones with a trap door through which the winner's name is drawn -- spun it and and then began drawing individual dishes out one at a time, you would find many things used (and abused) far more often than blue cheese. The aforementioned kale tops the list, along with Brussels sprouts and beets. Then check calamari, tuna tartar, bacon, sweet potatoes (yecch), cilantro... You have a blue cheese problem. Could be worse. Regarding the iceberg salad thing, I've always thought it funny that my father's favorite appetizer circa 1968 -- which always grossed me out -- has re-emerged as a hip staple. Of course, he also wore Wayfarers -- he worked briefly for Bausch and Lomb -- which I thought were unbelievably ugly in the age of wire-frames. Now I own a pair. And, as long as I'm shirking work, let me add that my favorite TV night dinner is delivery pizza recrisped on the pizza stone to an audible crunch, topped with fresh arugula drenched with "quality" blue cheese dressing. Second favorite is chicken wings, but with the dressing tarted up with crumbles of artisanal grocery store blue. I have a blue cheese problem, too. Just a different kind. PS: Tanks to everyone for not spelling it "bleu" cheese.