Sunday, July 13, 2014


Never thought I'd see the day. May even qualify as a harbinger of The End. But after a round at McMenamin's last Thursday, Karen's found her sport. But the skinny jeans don't work, and they're kind of out of place. It could all be a ruse, just another excuse for shopping, but I'll roll with it.

Thanks for dropping off the clubs, Dad & Sharon!

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Blood Cake and Rarebit

This is the stuff. Fergus composes his dishes around the good bits: heart, kidney, fried belly fat. It's all encased in coagulated blood, with a fried egg on top, and it is awesome. Like, last meal on earth awesome. If this sounds awful to you, or if it's not on your weird and pretentious diet plan, you, my friend, are hereby consigned to Olive Garden and microwaveable Trader Joe burritos for the rest of your existence.

(Interesting fact: a plurality of Americans describe Olive Garden as "a quality purveyor of authentic Italian food." You can look it up. Meanwhile, something in me has died.)

Meanwhile: rarebit. Nothing more than the sharpest, most flavorful cheese toast ever devised. On in-house bread. Who would argue with that? (Well, vegans, but they're only the best proof we have that aliens exist and are here among us.)

First, a Look at the Menu

Fergus is known as the master of blood and guts cookery. Read Bourdain's journals. What's surprising is that this is not a temple of meat; it's a proper, old-school pub. In white. With a formal dining room. And it's own bakery. And a carefully curated and cultivated selection of everything.

And it's cheap.

Dieties of Food

I have waited seven years to be here.

In that regard, it's been a more difficult endeavor than getting a table at the French Laundry. But one waits, and waits, and waits, a Gila monster in the sun, hungry, patient, consigned.

If you don't know the story of Fergus Henderson, and even if you do food the wrong way (do you eat to live? or live to eat?), it's inspiring. Let's go inside, shall we?