I Brake for Food

Yeah, I'm a foodie. We've covered this before. Anyway, here are a few of our vacation noshes worth noting. I will continue to update this particular page as I Pac-Man my way through the heartland, so please check back.

Eat My Pasty, Panama City Beach

Weird name. Great little place for English food. I obviously went for the namesake pasty. A traditional Cornish one too, not a new age, Jamaican Jerk or seafood abomination. Bonus points for not serving trendy craft beers either, just tried and true English varieties. I scored a Boddngtons could have probably had an Old Speckled Hen. Maybe next time. The fries (er, chips) were also perfect. The picture doesn't do them justice, but they were double fried in the English tradition, which yields a super crunchy exterior and a fluffy interior. I've only had similarly prepared chips in maybe two or three places in the states. Even the stupid little tub of slaw was a cut above. I love this place. If I wasn't already married, I would have proposed to it (although if I find a similar one when we get to Utah, I guess I still could).













David's New Orleans Style Cafe & Sno-balls, Panama City Beach

The name is longer than the building. So was the line inside. Good reason too. This place has a cult following, and although I'm generally of the Groucho Marx, "I wouldn't belong to any group that would have someone like me as a member" mentality, you can sign me up for this one. I'll gladly drink the Kool-aid. I love muffaletta, and this place had a pretty decent version. They also seemed to make some pretty impressive po' boys. On the other hand, I have no idea what a sno-ball is, but there was a line for them. And although I never want to go back to Panama in general, I may have to just so I can find out.

Saw's BBQ, Birmingham, Alabama

I was aware of this small little cluster of BBQ outlets, but I don't remember how. Maybe I had a vision. Anyway, when people are willing to stand in line in a hot, crowded store front about the size of a tool shed, you might just be on to something. We decided to have our BBQ slathered over a baked potato about the size of a toddler's head. Good call.

El Rancho Grande, Tulsa, OK

Any time you can find a restaurant that has been in continuous operation for at least a half century, go there. This aging, urban eatery on Tulsa's well-worn south side served traditional Tex-Mex, surprisingly spicy salsa, and the requisite margaritas. Also, the A/C apparently doesn't have an "off" switch. If you need something more than that, you're dead to me.

Chicken burrito with salsa verde, jalapenos, and my undying gratitude.

The Cascades Bar, The Stanley Hotel, Estes Park, Colorado
Yeah, it's the stupid, touristy bar from The Shining, and they totally sellout by having a "Redrum" Runner on the menu, but it is also a beautiful, 100-year-old bar that employs bartenders who are highly skilled (and perhaps a tad curt, in that suppressed, effete way, that comes from masking their reaction to sub-optimal vocational choices). I basically consumed the entire first section of the drink menu, and they were all exceptionally designed and executed versions of cocktail classics. It's pricey, but what isn't. Treat yourself. Oh, and don't ask about Lloyd.

Gabby's Summer Place, Orofino, ID

A number of years ago, a herd of us went out to Fargo to visit previously-appearing-in-this-blog, Tom, Tess and John (the Baptist). Tom is a helluva cook, and he made us a big, "thanks for coming all this way," family dinner. When someone asked him whether it was hard to make as much homemade pasta as he did, he said something to the effect of, "If someone makes you any amount of homemade pasta, it's because they REALLY love you." 

Point being, it's not an easy task.

Vanna, tell them what they've won.

I guess my niece must really love us, because she insisted on making us homemade pasta our first night in Orofino. Like me, Gabrielle is a consummate foodie. (Come to think of it, considering her general disdain for people and her propensity to day drink, she might very well be me. Weird.) Anyway, although she was critical of her own creation (all the best cooks are), the rest of us had no problem bellying up to the pasta bowl for seconds and then inhaling her homemade French Silk pie. (I was expecting to see moose in Idaho, but homemade mousse really shocked the shit out of me.) I wish I took a picture of the dessert, but I think I may have mentioned the whole "inhaling" thing. 

So, if you find yourself in Orofino, you are not particularly annoying, and you are willing to maybe trade a vat of margaritas, Gabby's Summer Place is highly recommended.

Starky’s Authentic Americana

Bozeman, Montana

In general, Bozeman annoyed the shit out of me. Nestled in a mountain pass somewhere between Montana and even more Montana, the pretentious little berg of Bozeman is an out of character, veneered downtown full of shops offering non-GMO chai tea, Asian fusion, and fire-coaled, gourmet pizzas. In short, Bozeman has all the frontier authenticity of Anaheim, California. Yet somehow we managed to navigate our way through the tchotchke sniffing packs of Lululemon abusing, over-funded and under-stimulated house wives enjoying yet another wine-fueled, girl’s weekend and plopped our pedestrian asses into a booth at Starkys a block off Main. 

Yes, true to the neighborhood, the menu was chock full of the nauseatingly trendy, socially conscious adjectives du jour like sustainable, locally sourced, and (shudder) vegan friendly, but in spite of that, the dishes were designed by someone who actually likes food and not by a committee of hippies with digestion issues. We enjoyed a delicious burger, fish tacos and a goat cheese based appetizer that, albeit gluten free, warmed the cockles of my Bozeman jaded heart. If you find yourself in Bozeman, I’m sorry, but Starky’s would be a good place to refuel and plot your escape. 

Onward and Upward!

With Starbucks in hand, we bid adieu to Florida’s gritty panhandle and pointed the minivan toward Alabama to meet up with family, avoid meeting up with tropical storm Alberto, eat BBQ, and try to prevent getting the song, “Sweet Home Alabama,” lodged in our brains like a parasitic deer tick (I even heard a choir version on the gospel station once). Since we have a statistically significant number of family members who have relocated to Alabama, this wasn’t exactly virgin territory for us, but we did get a chance to experience a lot more of the state than we typically do during one of our more surgically precise strikes in Huntsville. 

To be honest, I don't love Alabama, but I don’t hate it either. To me, it’s basically the soy milk of states: usable as a last resort, but otherwise unnecessary. Additionally, it was good to see family and also be reminded that there are places even more humid than Florida. 

My parents stay in Alabama because of the low cost of living. I get that (I really, really get that now that we live in Naples). They have a 30 acre farm with barns, buildings and city trash collection, and, because they are seniors, their annual property taxes are less than five dollars. I shit you not, that’s not a typo (or tick-induced fever talking). Five Frikken Dollars!

One thing $5 doesn’t buy you in Alabama, though, is zoning laws. Apparently you can inhabit or do business out of any structure (complete or partial, built or on wheels) just about anywhere you damn well please. For a closet anal retentive who used to color coordinate his Lego communities, this drives me nuts! 

We saw Helen Keller's house, which,
if you think about it,
is more than she ever did.

Million dollar plantations adjacent to mutant, hybrid trailer and plywood “compounds” adjacent to inhabited pole barn/meth labs adjacent to modest subdivisions adjacent to mud wrestling dinner clubs...oh, the humanity! 

An aerial view of any Alabama municipality is basically Dolly Parton’s “Coat of Many Colors” interpreted geographically. It is master land planning as performed by a hippie, incense reeking, middle-school art teacher, and it’s the visual equivalent of chewing on tin foil. 

I wonder how much a difference $10 would make.

First Leg, Part 2

Somewhere between the nude Denny's and Panama City, we waited out a torrential rainstorm in Tallahassee. I think it's Florida's capital. It doesn't matter. It's not like voting matters anymore.

Tallahassee was a pleasant surprise. It's a college town. It reminded me of Chattanooga or Ann Arbor, but then again what college town doesn't? 

Tallahassee has a very hip, reclaimed railroad district that is now a thriving art scene. It is unlike just about any I have ever seen before, and I am severely bummed the weather kept us from exploring it further. We will return.

When we got to Panama City, we did not find nearly the depth of artistic expressions (tattoo parlors notwithstanding), but it wasn't completely void of photo opportunities.

Then the Sunshine State probably wasn't your best choice.
My brother.

The Department of Redundancy Department.

And grammar is not just a(n) suggestion.

Don't really need anything more than my confederate flag mounted next to Old Glory. Wait, what's that sign say?

 Oh, irony, thy name is Panama City Beach.

First Leg, Part 1

Having spent the past few months by the pool in Naples recharging our batteries, Wife and I decided that we were rested enough to easily conquer the 9-hour distance from Naples to Panama City Beach in one day. If you've never been to PCB, think the sophistication of Centerline, Michigan but with a sunburn...a blistering, infected sunburn. On second thought, it's probably best not to think about it at all. So why'd we go? Well, why does anyone subject themselves to armpit vacation destinations?

Family. 

(As a matter of fact, family is going to be a major theme of this entire trip, so this may quickly devolve into a horror blog. Proceed with caution.)

The trip from Naples to Panama is a long, hot, damp and mostly flat affair. When I was a Michigan kid, the entire state of Florida equaled Disney World, plain and simple. After high school, I equated Florida with Daytona Beach and spring break (still basically Disney World, but for my liver). The reality, however, is that Florida is just another very large state in the deep south, and unless you are lucky enough to live along one of its high-income and Walgreen's dotted coastlines or insulated in one of the resorts run by the anthropomorphic mouse, the bulk of it is culturally and socio-economically equivalent to rural Mississippi. In short, it's a nice place to drive fast through.

On the advice of our sister, Rita, we decided to stop and stretch our legs somewhere in Florida's vast interior in a little town named Micanopy. I don't know how to pronounce that exactly, but we decided on something like 'My can of pee,' mostly because it also describes the smell of the musty, antique-shop driven economy there. As a bonus, the highway exit for Micanopy was also shared with another Florida cultural gem that we were introduced to through its many billboards en-route.

The Cafe Risque, as proudly stated on their website, is like a "Denny's or a Waffle House, but with a twist!" (Way to set the bar high!) The twist, of course, being that the waitresses are completely nude. Titillation aside, I can't help but consider the unsettling connotation this brings to the phrase, "Excuse me, miss, but there's a hair in my soup," I also have to question exactly what caliber of nude bodies are being employed from the depressed, rural surroundings that undoubtedly place high on teenage pregnancy lists. On the other hand, beauty knows no specific archetype, and I guess the argument could be made that a Caesar salad is way more authentic when served by someone with a visible, sagging Cesarean scar.

Needless to say, Wife decided we weren't stopping there, and we ate snacks from our cooler instead.

Lift Off

"You think you hate it now, but wait until you drive it."

Having bounced around a few continents, we definitely know a thing or two about the value of economy packing. However, being ground-bound this time and having the “luxury” of the Sport Queen Family Truckster at our disposal, we decided to take full advantage of our cross country expedition and use it to further de-clutter our lives by dropping off unwanted/unneeded possessions of ours to all of our relatives from Florida to Idaho. 

Basically, we are the Johnny Appleseeds of garage sale type shit, depositing unwanted collections of winter clothing, DVD players, and extra yard tools all over the great ‘murican countryside, and I suspect our minivan will be getting significantly better gas mileage once it is empty and we point it back toward home. Until then, we are forced to travel north like mobile hoarders (which really should be the name of a new A&E series, and they should pay me for pointing that out).

Coming soon to a garage near you!

We didn't even bother with suitcases. We just heaved our clothes into laundry baskets and made sure we had enough wine and liquor to at least get us through the southern dry counties. We're classy that way!

No Abroads Allowed

Okay, so it's been a while.

Miss me?

I have.

Last September, our trip was supposed to be Spain. This summer was supposed to be the Azores. It seemed blog opportunities were falling from the sky like manna (or Chinese space stations). Sadly, life events imposed their game-changing plans, and now that the dust has settled, Wife and I find ourselves retired, tanner, thinner, and still a little gobsmacked over the bipolar-like whipsaw of it all. 

The details of why we remained intercontinental-ly castrated are unimportant within the context of this blog, but suffice it to say that it's hard to keep wanderlust from expressing itself. And although next year we will be undoubtedly flashing the passports again, the current reality is now a 6-week road trip through a significant chunk of the homeland.

Yeah, I know it's not abroad, but in many ways its every bit as foreign. Follow along and judge for yourself...