murky Coffee

Apparently, it doesn't take much to make news these days. Below, find reproduced the text of a letter I wrote to these murky Coffee dudes in response to the links also reproduced below:

http://murkycoffee.com/
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/07/16/AR2008071602018.html


To Whom It May Concern:

Right now, the phrase "bourbon varietal from a particular coffee" is rolling around in my mind like Rip Van Winkle's bowling balls. You clowns are the most effete cocksure "artists" since Jeff Koons bamboozled that rich dude into buying the porcelain statue of "Michael Jackson with Bubbles."

The "tack" employed by your teenaged barista was wholly unacceptable, even in the face of a loutish, dickish customer. It's "really not cool" to pour espresso on ice? What is this, a Phil Lesh acid smokeout? Just explain that murky doesn't recommend that approach for whatever reasons of artistry you folks have contrived to invent.

Here's why. I like beer. I think people should take beer more seriously. But I also enjoy drinking Miller High Life. And Stroh's. And Schaefer. And Schlitz. And Coor's Banquet Beer. I'm sorry, because these pedestrian choices would make me so "uncool" in the eyes of those master artist brewers who supersaturate their beers with hops and inappropriate citrus cheesecake flavors. But sometimes you just want a beer. Or in the case of that asshole Jeff, a lot of caffeine.

If you want only to serve the art connoisseur crowd, I hear there's lots of museums in Washington (don't ask how I know, but between you and me, I lived there, and once patronized your olde shoppe). Take up residence next to the Agnes Martins near Dupont Circle and start slinging $8 joe (the real fulfillment of any coffee artist's dream!

Cheers,

JCB

City Without Soul

Many people will try to tell you that New York City has lost its "edge." I used to think that this position had merit. After all, it is hard to argue against the existence of the ineffable. When people try to define "edge," it usually comes out that they're describing a cheaper, grimier, more dangerous city.

To the extent that this "edge" is supposed to have substance, I reject wholesale the notion that New Yorkers in 2008 are a less creative class than their counterparts of twenty years ago. To say otherwise is to vastly overestimate the cultural contributions of the chalk scribbling junkie Brat Pack generation. Let's think about it:

1) The music scene. This mostly featured people like James Chance who obscured poor technique by forcibly assaulting their instruments. James Chance was the kind of guy who insulted his audience by subjecting "the 99.4% of you idiots who live in the past" to unlistenable covers of "Jailhouse Rock." Other notable innovations include bands like Anthrax, "house music," and morons like Lydia Lunch, who among other things, pioneered the "ironic cover song" fad. Check out her 1991 EP, Don't Fear the Reaper, for more.

Take a quick listen to Russ Ballard's "New York Groove." If "edge" means men in makeup prowling around the old Gaseteria station on Houston Street terrorizing old ladies with "fistfuls of dollars," and yelling phrases at each other like "who cares about tomorrow?!" then I guess New York had it.

2) The art scene. Jenny Holzer hijacked the Newsday Building in Times Square so that the ticker read "ABUSE OF POWER COMES AS NO SURPRISE." Julian Schnabel has now parlayed his career as overrated painter of the 1980s into a career as "extravagantly overrated" (New York Times) director of "films" in the 2000s. Over 4,000 unique instances of "overrated" and "Julian Schnabel" on Google. That says it all about this self-indulgent exemplar of the talentless 1980s. Oh, and Jeff Koons. He sold "Michael Jackson and Bubbles" for millions of dollars. Once again, kitsch masquerading as highbrow.

3) The movie scene. Ghostbusters is a great movie. But it shouldn't be high on any list of an entire decade's best movies.

Always Too Much

A few years ago, while perusing my younger brother's CD collection, I noticed something peculiar. It would be a bit overwrought to say that my discovery of "The Essential Luther Vandross" on his shelf made me question whether we're related. But finding out that a teenager grooves on Luther is pretty puzzling. Luther has a voice like foam shaving cream. And he's a major contributor to the genre of music that I deride as "wind chime soul."

When I heard the DJ on XM Channel 62 yesterday calling "Never Too Much" the "hit that made everyone know and talk about Luther Vandross," I was confused. How, I thought, do Luther's fans distinguish that song from any of the dozens of others in his catalog? The Vandross tunes I've heard all sound, without exception, as though Luther is singing with his mouth shut, while grinning. The band supplies the mush.

It was a visit to Little House on Clinton yesterday afternoon that brought back this wave of memories and associations. I probably sat through a dozen songs. The edgiest was "Waterfalls" by TLC. I don't know why this music bothered me so much; oftentimes at ethnic restaurants, I'm assaulted by music so loud I feel as though I'm inside the bell of the trumpet. Perhaps it's the fact that I like soul music; the R&B pap on Suite 62 is close in theory to what I like, but substantively, so, so far off.

I wouldn't say that listening to Ne-Yo ruined my meal at Little House on Clinton. But it's probably telling that it's the first thing that comes to mind. As for the food itself, pretty good. Nothing that would inspire me to return to the intersection of Clinton and Myrtle Avenues. But enough that I'd consider dropping in for the chicken and waffles combo if I happened to be in the area.

The mini waffles are definitely the highlight. They're made well in the nice presses, with what seems to be a whole wheat batter. There's a little more sophistication of taste than you get with the standard issue diner Belgian waffle.

The chicken, while better than adequate, is the missing link. I so rarely eat fried chicken that it's important that it be good when I do. Probably nothing can touch the iteration offered up by Mitchell's on Vanderbilt Ave. But it should be possible to arrive in that ballpark without too much effort.

Little House on Clinton does a nice job making a tasty batter, though not quite spicy or distinguishable enough. But it's too much, and it overwhelms the flavor of the stringy meat within. On the plus side, the Armor All coating ensures that the chicken is actually pretty moist.

I think I'll give Little House an 8. It's tough being a one-dish place. You've really got to nail the one dish.

Little House on Clinton
Clinton Ave., @ Myrtle Ave.
Cash Only
Food: 8
Decor: 6
Service: 10

Four wings and four mini waffles: $7.99

Isaac Hayes, by Raymond Carver

So we sat down to enjoy Isaac Hayes last evening because that's what we thought we were going to do. Isaac is a bit dissipated, but he's 66. The first hint of trouble was the three double-decker synthesizers. If we were seeing Genesis on tour in 1981, that would be good. But when you're seeing the man who used to sing on top of the Bar-Kays and Booker T & the MGs, it's worrisome. Even more worrisome was the mustached Lothario who sprinted out behind the bongos while Isaac was helped to his seat. He looked like the kind of man who might approach a woman at the bar and ask if she knew that he played the bongos. His long, wavy hair glistened under the stage lights.

Then Isaac muttered his way through a few B-sides from the Polydor years. Those were the years when he collaborated with a washed-up Millie Jackson. Let's say I was Paul Rodgers of Free and Bad Company. You'd better believe that I'd sprint out on stage and sing "Bad Company" and "All Right Now" immediately.

Meanwhile, those synths were making brassy sounds. The guy in the middle favored a sort of wind chime glissando sound. He made that sound several times, irrespective of the mood or moment of the song. He had kind of a dopey grin on his face. He was jazzed to be playing with Isaac Hayes. Maybe that's why he kept glissando-ing his way through songs.

So, sure, he played "Walk on By" and "Shaft" at the end. Maybe they should have just shown the last 15 minutes of Wattstax on a large drop-screen projector.

Blood and Guts (and Conch)

Regular readers of this site will remember that I spent six months in France in the winter and spring of 2002. It was with some trepidation that I quit America. After all, I'd heard that the expression "haute couture" had originated in France. In brief, I was worried that I wasn't sophisticated or clever enough to appreciate the rich layers of refinement that I'd surely encounter in Toulouse and Paris.

I needn't have worried; nearly the first thing I saw upon my arrival at Charles de Gaulle was a naked man bathing at a sink in the lavatory of the TGV waiting room. My first meal in France (a late night omelette in Toulouse) was interrupted by a drunken street brawl that spilled into my cafe. When Mr S. and I visited this same cafe five months later, we were drawn into conversation with two shabbily dressed gentlemen who'd recently been released from jail. These men attempted to entertain us with "magic tricks," examples of which included:

1) Drinking numberless bottles of Fischer beer

2) Extinguishing cigarettes on their tongues

3) Extinguishing cigarettes on their forearms

4) Making euro coins "disappear" in our ears

5) Crumpling napkins up until they vaguely resembled jungle animals

Needless to say, I was quickly disabused of any lingering concerns that I wasn't good enough for France. In fact, I was surprised to find many things in France that suggested a low baseline level of gentility and taste. Here are five things I saw there that I'd never seen before:

1) Socialist Majorities

2) Dreadlocked, Homeless Jugglers

3) University Student "Strikes"

4) Big McDonalds "Le Big" Burger

5) Blood Sausage, Cooked in Blood

The inclusion of item #5 clearly obviates the need for a longer list. I'd heard French cuisine described with such words as "rich," "delicious" and "orgasmic." Why, then, was this boudin noir such a delicacy? Was it to suggest that an ordinary sausage isn't sufficiently disgusting in its contents? It's perverse logic, but perhaps the French think it hardly a stretch to drink blood (more for me, please!) when they're already eating intestinal casing, capillaries, "recovered" meat, etc.

I should confess that for all my bad-mouthing, I've actually eaten boudin noir. Twice. I brought with me to France a cavalier attitude. Above all, I didn't want to be seen as just another American. I made necessary revisions to this policy as events warranted (I opted, for instance, to go for cow in my hamburger in Nice, rather than horse), but for the most part, I wanted to do as the French did. I wasn't a huge fan of the sausage, but maybe it was just the fact that the pigs I ate had been kept on a strict sodium-only diet. In any event, the sausage, didn't subject me to nausea or undue discomfort.

In most places, I'd imagine that intrepidity helps one's cause. After all, if you've already had to eat rabbits, goose fat and frogs, what's the harm in having one more gross-out story to tell your friends? My classmates in France seemed to have oodles of fun buying overpriced American clothing in Europe, so I was kind of stuck in the blood-drinking camp, anyway.

After my visit to Full Kee's Restaurant in Chinatown yesterday, I'd have reservations about adopting a similar attitude on any potential trips to China. I've read that the Chinese are fond of strange foodstuffs. The problem with traditional Chinese cuisine is that menu items are chosen almost exlusively for their purported enhancing effect on virility, intelligence and endurance. The taste factor generally seems to be only a mild inducement to consumption. How else to explain monkey brains and pangolin?

Well, Full Kee's doesn't quite go to those lengths, but rest assured, the point is made. At first blush, the menu appears to be fairly tame. It's only when you turn to the "Delicacies Dishes" insert that things get a little wild. I was tempted to sample "Duck's Blood Sauteed with Ginger and Scallion." But that dish seemed a bit reliant on the raw ingredients, so I kept looking. "Pig skin with sauteed pig's intestines"? Getting closer.

I eventually opted for "Fried Conch with Green Peppers," which was predictably delicious. The texture of conch meat is a cross between squid and mussel. There's no unpleasant fishy taste, and the flavor's generally pretty consistent with squid or octopus. If you take your chances with the hot sauce provided on the table, you may find yourself tempted to run to the bathroom, and drink directly from the faucet, as I nearly did.

I'll need to go back with a companion, so that we can sample one of the more exotic dishes. But Full Kee's really won me over on atmosphere. It's a restaurant on two levels, whose decoration is exclusively reliant on the use of mirrors. This creates the effect of a restaurant on sixteen levels. Every square inch of unmirrored wall space is painted a dull mustard yellow. Full Kee's soup bar is at the front of the restaurant. This counter is constructed entirely of aluminum. Behind it sits a man who makes noodles and dumplings at lightning speed. He mutters while he works, seemingly inducing the wheaten delicacies to make themselves even faster. After every fifty dumplings, the man leaps to his feet to fill twenty-five bowls of soup. He speaks to his broth cauldron, as well. When it comes time to fish out the requisite vegetables for each soup portion (boiling away in another cauldron), he employs a long spoon and becomes yet more animated. He reels in broccoli rabe stalks as though they were sea bass.

The waitstaff also earn high marks. One threesome of tourists was properly chastised by the lead waiter for taking too long to arrive at their table: "You want to eat? Then move faster! Faster!" When a man next to me attempted to order tripe, this same waitress assumed the role of kindly schoolteacher: "You want tripe? You never had tripe? You want to try tripe? No! Bad for your mouth! Bad for your taste!" When a man at another table requested water, the waitress sprinted back with a pitcher, which she placed on the table in front of him: "You want more water now? Pour!"

I ate my meal quickly, and asked for the check. Everyone else I'd seen had received a rice candy with their check, as well as a fortune cookie. My check came with only the cookie. When I asked the hostess about the seeming oversight, she shook her head impatiently.

"You have one candy when you come in. I saw you eat!"

Full Kee's Restaurant
H St., @ 5th, Chinatown

Food: 89
Atmosphere: 95
Service: 53/100 [Again the split rating system for those readers more comfortable with the conventional definitions of "good service"]