Happy Birthday, Pappy!

My grandfather, bad dude, WWII Navy veteran, and dancer extrordianaire hit 85 years on the odometer today. Happy birthday, Pappy!

When I visited Tuscaloosa, Pappy and I shared a few vodka and orange juices to end the evenings. I convinced Pappy to try out Tito's Hand Made Vodka because it's made in my lovely home town of Austin. This vodka tasted amazingly great, and I think Pappy was converted. In honor of Pappy's birthday, I would like to rename a cocktail.

The Pappy
2 ounces Tito's Handmade Texas Vodka
5 ounces fresh orange juice
Pour over ice cubes, mix, and drink, preferably with an awesome grandparent.

Best cocktail ever.

Exciting Update

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We pick it up today.

King of Pizza

As I surveyed the cast of motley characters seated at the long row of tables I felt a tinge of pity. I could see the intense stares and hopeful looks on their faces. Some were just there for fun, for a free meal, or for the ironic humor that can be found in something as campy as an eating contest. Most of these tattooed,neck-bearded hipsters bore grave looks of intense concentration. Their eyes were on the $350 first prize. They actually believed they had a chance to win. Such a pity.

When they heard about the Stony's Pizza Eating contest at Emo's downtown, I can imagine the reaction. "I can do this! I can win the $350! Eating pizza is a slam dunk. I've been doing it all my life. I just ate a whole Totino's party pizza. Dude, I'm gonna win this!"

They didn't realize that the contest was already over. They had no way of knowing that a weapon of pizza destruction was entering. How could they possible know that they were up against a seasoned eater with mandibles of steel, lightning quick gastric reflexes, and a belly deeper than Loch Ness?

My friend Chris is this unstoppable eater. As the three-time defending champion of the Home Slice pizza contest, Chris has experience on the big stage. He has developed and honed his tactics, drawing from influences like professional eaters Joey Chestnut and Takeru Kobyashi. Eating pizza is his business, and business has been very good.

With another pizza-eating crown and $350 cash on the line, no paunchy pretender was going to waltz into Emo's and win this. Not in Austin, Texas. Not in Chompy's house. They were in for shock and awe, gustation-style. They would soon know just how far away they were from the big time.

The final countdown wound down, and the 13 minute contest began. With the background music inexplicably muted, a nervous silence filled the space. As the eaters tore into their first slices, I could actually hear crusts ripping and sauce squashing. Adding to the strangeness of this dark windowless space (normally a dive bar / music venue of questionable repute) was the red lighting over the stage.

In the early stages of the contest, I could not discern an early leader. This field of 20 contained some solid eaters after all. Shannon, Stephanie, Patrick, and I watched as Chris attacked his first large pizza using his familiar technique. Each crust is quickly decapitated from the body of the slice and dunked in water to soften it. Chris then rips the remainder of the slice into roughly bite-sized pizza. There is an economy of motion with parallel work flows and a reduction of the impact of the main bottleneck in the process, the chewing and swallowing.

The tomato tinted water was churning and splashing as Chris began dunking crusts. It was like watching an enraged crocodile savaging a gazelle in the shallow edge of an African watering hole.

At the seven minute mark, there was still no clear leader. Suddenly, with 2 slices remaining in the first pizza, Chris hit the afterburner button. Things were about to get real for the other competitors. They were reaching the normal bounds of human pizza consumption, their stomaches sending alarming signals of fullness to their brains. This wasn't easy or fun any more. The chewing slowed down, and many of the competitors paused between bites, perhaps reconsidering the wisdom of proceeding.

The pace in the peloton slackened. Yet, Chris kept inexorably accelerating. The seventh and eighth slices fell effortlessly. The conclusion became inevitable when the judges delivered another half pizza to Chris. Several competitors openly stared in disbelief that he had already finished his first large pie.

The crowd took notice. Yells rang out. "Khaki hat guy is killing it! He's like a jedi!" "He's like a freaking python!" In the last 4 minutes, 3 more large slices fell. Even with a comfortable 2+ slice lead on the field, Chris finished with a mouth-cramming "chipmunk" gambit to maximize his results. Message sent. Chris was crowned undisputed Stony's Pizza / Emo's pizza eating champion.

As for the new champion? As he accepted congratulations from the other competitors, and even Ghostface Killa (of Wu Tang fame), Chris polished off another slice of pizza for good measure.

We All Scream

Bathtime in May

I'm a trustworthy guy..

There we sat in the lion's den. We were waiting in a tiny gray cubicle set off to the side of the Ford showroom. Enticed by the siren song of a shiny new family hauler with room for our giant baby with accoutrements and with an air conditioner that can actually stand up to the 104 degree inferno that we call home, we had come to test drive a Ford Flex.

After the drive, we started the old familiar dance. Our very affable salesman was jotting down what options and colors we were interested in. He asked for my cell phone number, and I got nervous. I didn't want to start getting sales calls at all hours of the day. He quickly moved to reassure me.

That's when Mikey stepped in.

Here's the scene as best I can recall:
Salesman: No, I won't be calling you all the time. I just want to let you know if we have the car you want, and given this Clunker Credit madness, our stock is moving pretty fast.
Me: Ok, that's fair enough.
Salesman: I'm a trustworthy guy, and……

At that exact moment, Michael smiled his huge toothy grin at the salesman and dramatically shook his head side to side…NO. Mikey was saying, "No, sir, I do not believe you are trustworthy. I might be only 9 months old, but I know all about car salesmen." All conversation stopped and we just laughed. Kids say and do the darnedest things.

Food Tour of Tuscaloosa: The Waysider

The best food comes out of old converted houses. There's something about the creaking wooden floors, the aging fixtures, and the inevitable well-worn seating that makes the food taste better. The Waysider, a Tuscaloosa institution for breakfast since before recorded history, is such a place.

My grandfather and I navigated our way through the old red brick buildings of downtown Tuscaloosa, over the river and along a bank of railroad tracks to find The Waysider. My body was crying out for a big breakfast and hot coffee, as beers and a giant shrimp poboy from the Cypress Inn on the Black Warrior River the night before had left me a little worse for wear.

I worried about a long wait for a table. Earning accolades from Esquire Magazine as a Top 50 breakfast joint probably wouldn't discourage the crowds from swamping this little Tuscaloosa gem.

Fortunately, on this off-peak Friday morning we were able to breeze right into the old red and white house to take a seat in the, ehem, cozy, dining room. By cozy, I mean that the tables are wedged in a Tetris-like arrangement that requires serious diligence in navigating.

Getting seated at a famous restaurant without a wait surprised me. This is something great about Tuscaloosa. It hasn't yet been overrun by foodies and food bloggers like my home town of Austin. A hidden gem remains that way and doesn't get oversaturated with fans.

In keeping with Tuscaloosa city ordinance 4.2.10, every square inch of the Waysider's walls is covered with Alabama football memorabilia. Daniel Moore's ubiquitous prints of great moments in Alabama gridiron history hold a place of honor. The steely painted gazes of dozens of Gene Stallings and Bear Bryants inspired me to eat like a champion.

As for the food, I came looking for a real-deal Southern breakfast, and I found it. I had two fried eggs, bacon, grits, fresh biscuits, and red-eye sausage gravy for a ludicrous $4.85. My eggs and bacon were just fine, but you can get these anywhere. It was the deep south, by golly you're in Dixieland, portion of the meal in the grits, the biscuits, and the gravy that made this special.

I might lose my Alabama card for saying this, but I've never loved grits. Grits have always been a gritty, gloppy, flavorless placeholder for me; a blank canvas that nobody bothered to paint. These grits were graced with the presence of butter, salt, and, I swear, some bacon grease, that elevated them. I've been transformed. I'm a grits man now.

The biscuits came out piping hot in a connected pod of four. They featured a flaky, al dente exterior with a soft, steaming interior. While they tasted great, their primary purpose was as a Gravy Delivery Vehicle for the sausage gravy. Sitting here more than 500 miles from the Waysider, I nearly weep when I think of that gravy. It was so peppery, spicy, and thick with little chunks of sausage. A cardiologist would warn against the dangers of such a gravy, but I swear that instead of damaging my body, it was fortifying me; spackling cracks and regrouting loose tiles.

The Waysider serves up Southern breakfast at its finest. If I had to lodge one complaint it would be that their breakfast made it nearly impossible for me to eat lunch that day. In fact, leaving the Waysider, I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to eat again.

Nick's in the Sticks

There are scattered moments in this life when everything falls into place. You are in exactly the right place at the right time, and it feels great.

I don't know if it was the first few sips of my jet fuel-esque beverage that was beginning to course through my veins. It might have been the classic weathered décor of an honest, authentic dive restaurant. Maybe it was the fact that I was having dinner with my grandpa, Pappy Duncan. Just us two guys out for a steak and some conversation. It could have been the primal joy in eating a well-cooked ribeye. I'm not sure what it was, but it was darn good.

A few minutes earlier, we had been headed down a dark two lane road on the outskirts of Tuscaloosa. Nick's Original Filet House (colloquially known as Nicks in the Sticks) would be our destination. Doubt crept into my mind. There's no way there could be a restaurant out here. There's nothing out here at all except for darkness and the yellow lines in the middle of the road.

Then, out of the darkness, I saw a sign. Well, to be precise, I saw a lack of a sign. It was the empty metal frame that contained Nick's restaurant sign until some tornado or freak storm blew it away years ago. They never replaced it. The empty metal frame works just fine, and it is a fitting welcome.

Imagine one of those sad television commercials pleading for just 35 cents a day to help save the life of a child. Picture the footage of lean-to hovels and cinder block houses with murky puddles of water or dusty gravel. That's about what Nick's In the Sticks looks like at first glance. I kid. It's not that bad, but you get the idea.

The ambiance inside is that of an old bar or maybe a VFW Post. There's aging wood panelling everywhere, and, as is the custom in these parts, the walls are covered in Alabama football memorabilia and paintings. The ten tables were all jammed packed. It was pretty loud in there as the small room practically thrummed with a happy, boisterous energy.

I suspected that Nicodemus might have something to do with the atmosphere. The Nicodemus is the signature cocktail at Nick's, and the word on the internet is that this is a potent concoction. As a looked around at the other tables, I could see many of them festooned with styrofoam cups filled with red punch topped with a cherry. I nervously ordered one when the waiter stopped by. I was a little surprised when he asked to see my I.D.. This must be some drink! If he asks me to sign a waiver, then I might have to rethink my order.



Pappy and I then ordered our steaks. He had the bacon-wrapped filet with baked potato. I ordered the biggest thing I could find, the ribeye with onion rings. The food was delicious. I could tell that my ribeye wasn't a high-falootin dry-aged, organically farmed piece of prime beef. It had character, it had seasoning, and it was cooked to the medium rare I asked for. The onion rings were some of the best I've ever had: sweet with a thick buttermilk batter.

I will admit that the Nicodemus had gone to work on my physiology. I felt warm, happy, and quite hungry. I was really enjoying the atmosphere. I was chatting with pappy and peering around at the Daniel Moore Alabama football prints. These realistic paintings capture great moments in Alabama football history and feature names like, "The Kick", "Rebirth in the Swamp", and "Goal Line Stand." Pappy was telling me about the last time he had been to Nick's. It was 25 years ago, and the table he sat at was right next to ours. Maybe in the light of day in some blind taste test, I might not be overwhelmed by the experience like I was, but everything combined for an awesome night.

We wrapped up our dinner and went up to the bar to pay. There's no cash register or touch-screen computer here. You just point at your table, and the owner adds up your bill by hand in pencil. Ah, Nick's. As we headed back out into the dark Alabama night, I looked back at the little brick building with the aged red and white awning. That was definitely the right meal, at the right place, at the right time.