A Little Bit Country and A Little Bit Rock-n-Roll! - UK

I'm sitting on the train out of London heading up to Milton Keynes. Blue sky, sunny, a little cold but nice.

There's a dude across from me with the side of his head shaved and a pony tail.
He's wearing wild black and white loafers with black and red checkerboard socks. Rock-n-Roll! I love English rockers. It reminds me of the glory days of college and the bleeding edge of punk rock and new wave.

I took a walk to the Chelsea district of London the other morning to find the infamous Kings Road. I was at ground zero for the punk rock movement. I stood looking at the storefront that used to be Malcolm McLaren & Vivienne Westwood's shop called SEX. It soon spawned the Sex Pistols and the rest is history. It's now a vacuum cleaner store or something!

Back out the window, the country side is GREEN. The train beats out a repetitive rhythm matched by the visual repetition of green fields, village, pub, green fields, village, pub. The patterns are interrupted with cool little canals that carve up the countryside. Evenly peppered across the landscape are little canal boat communities of 10 or so boats. The canal boats are long skinny affairs and people actually live on the boats. European's live in smaller spaces than we do but wow, this would be a bit cramped.

I like how England is settled. There isn't the sprawl we have. There are beautiful little villages, closely settled with houses and townhouses check to jowl with a High Street (Business District) full of shops and the inevitable and inviting pub. The edge of town is literally the edge of town. The same is true for a big city like London. When you get to the edge of London (which is 40 square miles!) the city stops abruptly and there's a field with horses. That was an incredible view for my American eyes.

In between the villages are ancient farm houses and country pubs surrounded with a smattering of outbuildings and trees, dirt lanes and gates. Farmers walk the fields in their wellington boots, old men fish the canals and on the lonely country roads, framed by hedgerows, little European cars and tractors wait at crossings as we pass.

After the day's work is done I find myself at a canal side pub with a huge deck out the back. We sit under outdoor patio heaters as the canal recedes into the horizon before us. Just past the deck is a verdant green lawn that leads down to the canal. Trees line the left of the canal and to the right open fields glisten with dew and a hovering layer of mist.

I order Guinea Game Hen. Tastes like chicken...pretty good. I always try to eat the local indigenous species but truth be told I try not to order beef in the UK to avoid Mad Cow disease. (Hopefully my brain doesn't rot when I'm old)

After a couple pints of London Pride my brain rots anyway...but in a good way.

Ta ta for now.

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New York country

May 26th, 2005

Last time I was hanging in a New York Country Song my Uncle John was dead. We had always had great adventures with Uncle John and our cousins so there was no question about going to his funeral. Afterwards me and Unca Dan went to his house, a rambling broken down federal style farm house at the end of a Steven King road. There was a HUGE barn across from the house and a children of the corn field surrounding everything. Big as an ocean, with a star filled sky covering everything like a blanket. All told, very cool and comforting...very Uncle John-ish.

After hanging with the extended family for a while we found ourselves at a roadhouse, drinking drafts, listening to Molly Hatchet, Lynyrd Skynyrd and eating pickled eggs. I'll never forget those eggs for as long as I live! God they were bad! Sour and cardboard-ish.

Naturally, that was a great time! Hanging with my bro. Telling stories of Uncle John, Bernie & Timmy; spinning straw to gold, crushing coal into diamonds, molding Kodak moments into my mind.

Fog City - San Francisco

Fog City Diner on a decidedly non foggy night in San Francisco was the right choice tonight. I just walked 45 minutes along the Embarcadero from 3rd St in SOMA taking in the fading light reflecting off the bay and watching the Bay Bridge twinkling to life. I kept an eye out looking for the right place for a respite from the day's grind. Hot and hungry I was lured in by the gleaming polished chrome facade and shining neon sign of the Fog City Diner. Soon I had a perfectly cold glass of Anchor Steam beer and a menu.

Seated at the bar I struck up a great conversation with a law professor in town from Washington D.C. about photography. He was going to see a Hiroshi Sugimoto photography show at the DeYoung Museum. We talked about composition and abstraction, and the talent to see a picture and create art where others don't. I reflected about Ansel Adams and Annie Leibowitz and all the great photographs I try to create myself.

The Fog City Diner is not a diner in the traditional food sense. It's a beautifully detailed restaurant with a dark wood and arched beadboard ceiling. The bar is an underlit marble top with a polished chrome ceiling and a chrome and mirrored back wall. The walls are dark polished wood and the floor is a beautiful tile framed with a checkerboard pattern. It has the feel of a luxury club car from the twenties. The waiters and chefs all wear white chef's coats.

People don't come too look at the surroundings though. It's the food that's the magnet. I had chipotle crusted pork tenderloins with grilled asparagus and roasted corn coulis along with a salad of butter lettuces with spiced walnuts, pears and blue cheese. Not that I don't appreciate an open faced turkey sandwich or a burger and fries but yeah, this is not your "fathers" diner.

Maya, the San Francisco treat

It's 7:00 PM PST but 10:00PM my time as I just flew to San Francisco and I'm still operating on east coast time. I'm starving! I'm headed to Third and Mission in SOMA. I saw a write up for a restaurant named Maya. I took a great course on meso-american culture in college which left me fascinated with Olmec, Aztec and Mayan culture. I love their art and cuisine and when I look at Mexicans I find myself picking out the Mayans with their flat foreheads that smoothly arc into their prominent noses. But to be honest the write up about the celebrity chef and his flavor infused food is what really made the attraction.

Famished and shaky I order a Margarita Oro - Tequila , lime juice with a float of grand marnier. It's perfect. I try not to chug the drink while I place my order.

Horn accented mexican pop music fills the room as I look around from my bar side perch. The restaurant is decorated with milled woodwork, carved wooden mirrors and doors, mexican tile and adobe colored walls. All the furniture is carved wood too or floral iron and the place is accented with contemporary hip lighting. It's almost cool but there's something a little too antiseptic about it. Not that I cared. The salted rim on my glass and the sweet and sour tastes in my mouth satisfied all my current needs.

My order arrives. Napoleon de jitomate - Red and yellow vine ripe tomatoes in a garden leaf and black bean salad with cilantro vinaigrette and a ball of deep fried goat cheese on top! ...and the goat cheese is still warm. Wow, it's really good. I'm sooo happy. Soon my Tacos de puntas de filete arrives. They're chili verde corn tortillas with beer marinated beef, tomato salsa and a black bean mole with slice of avocado on top. I vacillate between the two. My eyes were probably rolling back in my head as I ate and grunted my approval with every bite. Finishing the food and margarita I wish I could have had a cigarette, said "it was good for me" and rolled over and went to sleep.

Mucho bueno Maya. Not bad for a quick bite to eat on a Monday night.

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Boulevard - San Francisco

San Francisco; 1 Mission St. -

I made my way to the waterfront thinking I was going to partake of the fruits of the Ferry Building but ended up at Boulevard instead. What a fantastic restaurant. It's a beautiful art nouveau designed restaurant in classic carved and bent dark woods and swirling tile mosaics. Barreled ceilings and floral lighting set the ambiance for perfect French food. I sat at the "food bar" which is a bar that overlooks the chefs kitchen and watched the choreographed dance of the line chefs as they grilled, saute'd, sauced, garnished, foamed, cupped and plated food. I luxuriated with my sour dough french bread and glass of Cotes du Rhone. Sated and settled my lamb entre' arrives cooked medium rare. A melt in your mouth masterpiece, with mini potatoes, peas and onions.

I talk to my fellow food bar neighbor, a German from Munich. "Of course you should come to Munich he says". Just book six months in advance for Oktoberfest to make sure you get a good room. We discuss restaurants, Russians, east west reunification, how hot it is in Phoenix versus San Francisco, Ludwig's castle, our dinners, Leipzig, BMW, and all things German. I stop short of getting him to write an official letter to Molly inviting to her to Deutschland and explaining that not everyone in Germany is a Nazi, ex-Nazi or genetically infected by Nazi-ism.

It's always when you least expect it that an experience leaves an impression. That was my second time at Boulevard so I didn't expect to record this dinner but Boulevard is an impressive place. In the true definition of the word it has impressed it's memory into my brain.

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Walk Interrupted - San Francisco

San Francisco - As I'm walking at the southern end of Powell St I'm lost in my own thoughts, coffee in hand, thinking how much it looks like Melbourne Australia with it's four and five story masonry buildings and rows of trees lining the sidewalk. All and all it's a mellow, cool, fog filled morning. I have my jacket zipped up and pull my ball cap on as I motor towards the office. But my tranquility is broken as I turn the corner on Market St. It's like someone flipped on the freak switch! A black homeless man with a knit cap and overcoat is bellowing a rant for the whole world to hear. It echoes off the canyon of buildings and jolts me from my morning quiet. I duck down a side street to break the cacophony and I'm knocked back by a welders spark, blinding, shocking. Whoa. I turn around and head back to Third St. BANG, an ambulance plows into a little red sports car. A 50-ish professional gets out of his little car and a pony tailed old hippie gets out of the ambulance to hash it out. I back into the recessed doorway of an establishment called Eddie Rickenbackers to watch the scene unfold. As they point and look and shake their heads I turn and peer into Eddie Rickenbackers and scan left to right. I see a bar/restaurant with classic and vintage motorcycles hanging from the ceiling....and "what the F" my heart jumps again at the sight of a fat old man splayed out in a wheelchair on an oxygen tank! That scared the hell out of me! A live human being hooked up to life support at 7:00 AM in a bar. Yikes! Who was this guy? What the hell is he doing there? Was he in trouble? Was he the owner. Was he the night maintenance man who overworked himself? ...and at the same time I'm wondering to myself why would anybody in their right mind sit under a 2000lb motorcycle for dinner in an earthquake zone! Then I think maybe I should send the hippy ambulance driver to Eddie Rickenbackers to help the guy on oxygen! All these thoughts come at once. In real time I recoil, quickly. Very quickly. What the hell was that about? I better get off the streets and into the office. I hope the workday doesn't repeat the street theater I'm involved with this morning...although my Lead Programmer just called and said he won't be in for a planned 10:00AM conference call. I wonder, is it a full moon or something?

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San Francisco vignettes

Morning cleaners spray down the empty sidewalks, the distant echo of seagulls and the close chatter of birds fill my ears. The azure sky brilliant over the fresh morning. A glint of steel flashes across the my face as an elder Japanese man in Yuerba Buena park practices Tai Chi routines with a 3' sword. Is that even legal?

Night time in Concord. The sun is setting and the sky is coloring through shades of orange, red and green showering a glow on the barren and pine spotted hills. It's a beauty lost on a man alone, no shared eyes or minds to celebrate and share the gift.

Sipping drinks at sidewalk seating, watching the world go by is one of life's pleasures. I've sat on Newbury Street in Boston, I've sat at pub tables in London, I've luxuriated in cafes in Paris and this morning I sit at Cafe Expresso at the corner of Powell and Sutter in San Francisco. It's a Italian style cafe with Parisian style seating on the sidewalk. I sit in shadow as the sun casts its angled light on the passing cable cars, passengers photographing me like a zoo animal. Tourists and businessmen make their angled way up Powell towards me by the red draped entrance to the Sir Francis Drake as if the curtain has opened for their daily show. It's five minutes to eight. Almost time to make my entrance too.
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