A good dinner … and a recollection about dining out in Fort Worth

Jordan, Christian, and the French onion dip

Jordan, Christian, and I had dinner at Walloon’s tonight (for out-of-towners, that’s a new seafood restaurant that has gotten a lot of buzz—so much so that Megan in Austin told me she’d heard good things about it). The occasion was Christian’s birthday—which was way back in early August, but we had never gotten around to celebrating. The dinner was a joint gift from Jordan and me.

The birthday boy enjoyed it a lot—and so did we. The restaurant is in a restored bank area, complete with a vault. Christian told me there was a table in the vault, but I was sure I’d feel claustrophobic. Instead we had a nice table by the windows, where I could gawk in admiration at the tin ceiling, old fixtures, and grand columns. It was restoration well done, so that the old and the new blended perfectly. Our table was either really old or a good faux job—wood with a raised pattern. I’m not remembering the floor, but I think it was those old, tiny tiles.

Our waiter, Marco, was charming and efficient but not the hovering kind. We started with an appetizer of French onion dip which was subtly different from the familiar dry soup/sour cream mix we all know. Both Jordan and I had the lobster roll—stuffed with plenty of lobster filling in a delicious sauce. So good, but so rich. It came with fries, which we both swore we wouldn’t eat—they were delicious too. Christian, who came to salmon late in life, wanted to try the roast salmon to see how it differed from what we cook at home. Big difference: it came on a rich (there’s that word again) bed of creamed corn, leeks, zucchini, and dill. I know how good it was because he gifted me with the zucchini—may he never realize what he’s missing by not eating squash!

We absolutely didn’t need dessert, so we ordered one chocolate mousse with three spoons. Again, so rich, but so good. We let Christian eat most of it, but I will say chocolate mousse is one dessert that tempts me.

We came home, overfed and happy. I admit I had to have an evening nap. It wasn’t the two glasses of wine—it was all that heavy food.

Earlier today I was emailing back and forth with the neighbor who does restaurant reviews for our HOA newsletter, which I edit. We both commented on the number of new restaurants and the variety of really outstanding dining experiences now available in Fort Worth, and that got me reminiscing about the past. I moved here in the early Sixties, and in those days if you wanted to go out for an upscale, celebratory dinner, there were two choices: the Carriage House and the Swiss House. I never went to the Swiss House until much later when it had moved and was on a downhill slide.

But my ex and I were regulars at the Carriage House, so much so that we were always seated in the back room which was sort of a private club. In those days, you had to be a member to order a drink, so lots of restaurants sold memberships for a dollar or so. The walls of that room in the Carriage House sported lovely, mostly tasteful paintings of nude women. I’m not sure if that was a fetish of Mac who owned the place or not, but I remember the night we decided our two oldest children were ready for a nice dinner followed by a Gilbert & Sullivan performance. In the private room, their eyes bugged out at those paintings.

There was a waiter named Chad, who would see me come in the door and say, “Dover sole and spinach.” It was my standard dinner (I still love it to this day.) If a patron had a birthday, the waiters would gather and sing “Happy Birthday.” Joel, my then-husband, knew I hated such public attention, so of course he took me there on my birthday—with his mother visiting from the Bronx. The waiters sang, I was embarrassed, Joel was grinning, and his mother kept repeating, “Judy, dear, such a considerate husband you have.” I wasn’t sure which one of them to kick first.

Gradually the dining scene in Fort Worth changed. The House of Mole was almost as upscale as the original two, and when the owners (who included an osteopathic physician we knew) sold it, it became Mac’s House. Yep, McIntosh from the Carriage House. My oldest son, Colin, went to work as a busboy at Mac’s House for his first job, and we all learned to love Mac’s salad and Wash’s fries (Wash was the dishwasher). Never could duplicate either one. And one of the next on the scene was the Merrimac, a river-front restaurant managed by Mac’s son-in-law. It was the first place I ever had ranch dressing.

Those glory days and those restaurants are long gone, and while I love the many choices we have today, I miss the familiarity, the small world sense of those old places and the people we knew there. Another memory to cling to.

Food on my mind (when isn’t it?)

 

Texas caviar

Tonight I had dinner with Carol, Kathie, and Subie, longtime friends who celebrate birthdays together—Carol and I both have July birthdays. Carol chose Fixe for supper, a choice I was reluctant about. But I put on my good-girl manners, and away we went. It was delightful. Fixe is rightfully known for biscuits—crisp crust, heavenly soft on the inside, served with butter, honey, and strawberry preserves. Of course for the rest of the meal my hands felt slightly sticky from the honey, but it was worth it. I had deviled eggs—three eggs with a dab of trout roe, good but not great, and a “Little Gem” salad which was delicious. Plenty of supper for me, and I enjoyed every bite. Of course, the camaraderie with old friends made the meal special, and it was a pleasant evening.

As always I had some misgivings about logistics—afraid I would have to walk too far, etc. But it was smooth. Subie let us out at a ramp right by the restaurant door, and I felt that both coming and going I walked with comfort and self-confidence. A real boost to my ego, after a flub with the family on Sunday. A thoroughly enjoyable evening. With tonight and last weekend, I am convinced I must get out of the cottage more often, though as I write I hear the locusts singing their song of hot weather to come. Nonetheless, I can do it—and I must.

While food is on my mind, I read a list of foods that are trendy on TikTok, and I must admit as a foodie I was appalled. I am not a TikTok fan, so this was all a surprise to me, but it came on Kitchn, the daily foodie newsletter that is one of the highlights of my morning email. Today, it has an article about irresistible TikTok recipes. I won’t comment on all, but here are a few that caught my eye.

Cowboy butter: A mixture of butter, lemon, herbs, and spices melted together for an easy compound butter dipping sauce for steak, vegetables, or bread. It looked like all grease to me in the picture, but the article raved about it adding flavor to everything from steak to vegetables and bread. I can’t imagine dipping a good steak in something so taste-disguising, but maybe it’s worth it. I might try that one sometime.

Blueberry cookies: they are a stunning shade of purple, and much as I love blueberries and, as an alum and retiree I have emotions about TCU’s purple, I don’t think I can do purple cookies.

Kool-Aid pickles: I don’t care if the colors are refreshing and the taste is a combination of sweet and sour, I just can’t get past the Kool-Aid of my childhood. No, thanks.

Buffalo-ranch butter board: Let it be said, loud and clear, that I love butter, I adore it. My kids have been known to say, “Have a little cracker with your butter, Mom.” But I tried a butter board, and I just couldn’t do it. I cannot believe that adding hot sauce, ranch seasoning, and scallions is going to make it any better.

Sushi bake – if you like sushi, why in heaven’s name would you turn it into a rich, hearty casserole. The two—sushi and casserole—are poles apart, and never shall they meet. At least not in my kitchen.

Pasta chip for dipping: You cook pasta, like bow ties, drain, cover with oil, season with Parmesan, garlic powder, and red pepper flakes, and bake until crisp and golden. Then use to dip in Rangoon sauce and other delicacies. Maybe healthier than chips? I don’t know. Color this one a maybe.

Cowboy caviar: okay this one is familiar, a spin-off on Helen Corbitt’s Texas caviar recipe. It just adds more things—and doesn’t have the black-eyed peas but instead has black beans, corn, bell peppers, etc. But the principle of marinated vegetables is the same. I just think Corbitt’s original recipe is better.

So there you have it—a lovely dinner, and a bunch of oddball recipes. If you really want to try any of them, I’m sure you can google them.

Bon appetit! No, that’s wrong. Too sophisticated! Y’all enjoy!

A birthday dinner and some thoughts on Herschel Walker

 

My Scottish dinnerware

Lovely birthday dinner tonight for Subie. Recently the group of four who celebrate birthdays together had a belated dinner for a September birthday, and someone said, “We might as well celebrate Subie’s December birthday too.” We did, but Subie later told me that a December birthday meant all her life her birthday celebration was combined with something else. She wanted just one time to have a party that was all about her. So Jordan and I decided to give it to her!

Dinner was served on some dinner plates I didn’t know I had. When I downsized from house to cottage, I must have given away four sets of china. But the other day Jordan surprised me by pulling out the plaid plates I had—I just assumed they too were gone. They aren’t really Christmas-y and they aren’t the MacBain plaid (the clan I belong to) but they are close on both counts, and I was thrilled to see them in use again. But then I realized she had only brought out eight salad plates. A little investigation revealed that the dinner plates and matching mugs are on Colin’s closet shelf in Tomball. He has promised to bring them next time he comes, and I will ask Jordan to make room for them. It makes me incredibly happy to have them back.

We had a delicious dinner and a jolly gathering. Without exception, I would cook for a dear friend’s birthday—except tonight. Jon Bonnell’s roadside warriors’ dinner last night was tenderloin Stroganoff, green beans, salad, rolls, and brownies. We ordered a double batch, and still have half left over. It was so good—and so easy. Jordan had thrown her back out, but Christian was wonderful about cleaning the kitchen. I just did the last little bit, and all is in order for Zenaida to clean tomorrow.

In an abrupt change of subject, Herschel Walker is on my mind this evening, maybe because I just read a brilliant line by former President Barack Obama to the effect that Walker is talking to Georgians about issue that really matter to them, like whether it is better to be a wolf or a werewolf. Obama said that was a debate he’d had with himself too—when he was seven years old!

More likely, Walker is on my mind because I read Republicans do not now send him out without a handler—Lindsey Graham, Rick Scott, or Ted Cruz (the idea of those three as handlers or pillars of respectability sends me into howling laughter). These men know that they are shamefully using Walker.

Regardless of lack of qualification and violent history plus probably tax fraud, they picked a sports hero who would, they hoped, appeal to black Georgia voters. They are so desperate for that Senate seat they will do anything to get it, without thinking of the chaos Walker could cause in the Senate. I am appalled by their lack of concern for the operation of our government, but I am also really upset at the way they would use another human being. If he loses the election, which of course I hope he will, he may be surprised at how quickly all these “friends” drop him.

Every time you think Republican moral standard could go no lower, they surprise us.

And on that note, good night, sweet dreams, and pray for Raphael Warnock to triumph on Tuesday.

Yet another day older

 

 My drawn-out birthday kind of hit its peak yesterday with the arrival of my four children, four of my seven grands (I had all the boys and none of the girls), and a wonderful b’day dinner last night. We had all talked all week about chores, and I had a list of things that needed doing around the cottage—the bulb replaced in the outdoor light, the filters in my a/c cleaned, some computer things. All got done, plus lots of visiting.

Ford, Kegan, Eden, Sawyer, and Jacob

The four boys—all so different in character and interests—enjoy being together, and when I see them trooping in and out of the house, in single file, I am reminded of that classic picture, much imitated, of the Beatles crossing the street. When not out doing whatever boys do once they have a car, they closet themselves in the back TV room at the house and spend but a bare few minutes with adults. Last night they went to a late movie, came home and turned on another movie. Jordan found couch spots for all four, and Colin and Lisa got Jacob’s bed. Here’s a picture of the boys, with their cousin Eden, taken a year ago. They’ve grown in so many ways in that one year, including taller.

My friends Jean and Renee joined us for dinner and were a hit with my four kids, who described them later as “interesting” and “good friends for you.” The menu was what I used to request as a kid: cold turkey (smoked, although I grew up on fresh), marinated vegetables, and potato salad. Poor Jordan labored long and hard over the potato salad Friday night—the first batch she’d ever made—and she nailed it. Her version of County Line potato salad was perfection. I did the vegetables (much easier than potato salad), and Christian got the turkey. For dessert? My favorite has moved from Black Forest Cake to chocolate mousse cake. Rich, but oh so good.

We lingered over cake, just as they all say, “hanging out.” About ten o’clock, I decided it was time for Sophie and me to go to the cottage. I intended to read a bit after I brushed my teeth and got into pjs, but there came Jordan, Megan, and Lisa, wine in hand. So we had a late-night girls’ talk. Lovely way to end a lovely day.

But my determination to count my blessings took a real hit during the night. Sophie does not go out during the night. She may get me up early in the morning, but she hasn’t needed to go out in the middle of the night for some time. I can tell the difference between, “I want to go out and chase squirrels and play,” and “I need to use the restroom now.” At two-thirty, her dance of clicking nails told me it was the latter, and I let her out. She disappeared into the shadows and was gone—for twenty-five minutes. I called and did everything I know except venturing into the dark overgrown strip between our house and the neighbors. Finally, I called Colin—no answer. Then I called Christian, then Jordan, and finally Colin again. He said, “Just a minute,” and hung up. Of course, that’s when Sophie came trotting onto the patio.

But she had to go out again at three-thirty and at four-thirty, so I thought she caught whatever stomach bug Cricket has had. Both times though she came right away after doing her business. And then she slept until I got up at 8:45. She didn’t ask for breakfast, and I didn’t offer it, figuring her stomach needed to settle. She's subdued today, and I'll call the vet first thing in the morning.

Pitiful Sophie

I decided in retrospect that the blessing was that at eighty-four I am fit and able enough to take care of a dog who needs to go out three times in the wee hours. When Sawyer came in this morning, he asked if I felt a year older and I told him, “No difference. And that’s good thing.” And the blessings are my family, my friends, my dog, my work, my health--even if sometimes the latter seems a bit iffy to others.

Have a happy week everyone.

Sophie has a new friend

 

Pierre, looking very dignified

Sophie had a gentleman caller tonight, and I’m afraid she’s smitten. His name is Pierre, but no, he’s not a Frenchman. He an Aussiedoodle. He's a bit younger than she—almost a year compared to her ten years. In essence, he's a big, goofy teenager and, as his owner says, sometimes quite clumsy. And he’s about half again as large as Sophie is and probably still growing a bit. But he’s a gentleman. And Sophie did not try to boss him or pull her diva act. They played, chased, and had a grand time.

Pierre belongs to Christian’s college friend, Gary, and they hail from Dallas. Gary may be old friends with Jordan and Christian, but he and I are bonded by a love of dogs, a love of retro food—he likes my chicken Divan and tuna casserole, and a passion for liberal politics. It’s a nice friendship.

Tonight was Jordan’s birthday dinner plus the Chicken Divan I’d been promising Gary. The birthday part was great—ten people, salmon spread, meatballs, a green salad, a fruit salad, and tiny ice cream cones. But the main dish, the chicken I’d cooked for Gary, was a disappointment, at least to me though others liked it. I think the problem was doubling the recipe to serve twelve instead of six. Instead of meat bathed in a rich sauce, we got broccoli in sauce (almost like cheese broccoli soup) and chicken without much sauce. Gary’s suggestion, which I like, is to do it next time with thighs—or I have done it with rotisserie chicken and that might be the answer. But now I have to cook it again to prove that I can do it. But a single recipe.

I had thought I had a good lesson in quantity cooking this morning. I sauteed thirteen pieces of sliced chicken breast—a whole lot easier than pounding halves. Then I cooked three large packages of broccoli. Then I made the sauce. In the late afternoon, I put all three together, and apparently that’s where it went amuck. Except maybe it stayed in the oven too long? Anyway I was a bit disappointed.

Next time, Gary gets Tuna Florentine, and we will not have any other guests, though tonight’s was a jolly gathering of a very few of Jordan’s good friends, my friend Jean, Gary, Jordan, Christian, and me. All people I’m fond of, and the conversation was lively.

Like yesterday, it was another day when I had not given myself another chore except to cook the Chicken Divan—and I could snatch moments at my computer, while the various components were cooking. Tonight, though the dishes are all done and put away and the kitchen is clean, I cannot say I have written a word until this blog. That’s been a thread on a blog I follow: is writing work or pleasure? I finally decided that for me the two aspects are so intertwined I can’t separate them. Writing is what I do, it’s my job, and some days it’s drudgery; but some days it is a pure joy, and I’m not sure how to distinguish the two. Maybe I don’t have to.

I haven’t written much this past week and won’t in the coming week, at least at first. This week, it’s been medical appointments and cooking. I’m glad to say the medical appointments have all come out well, with small, minor concerns that we’ll overlook in a woman of my age. And until tonight the cooking came out well—yesterday’s corned beef dinner and the salmon spread served tonight more than saved my reputation. I would love to get back to writing Monday morning, but alas! I have an eye appointment Monday, and—dread! —a root canal Tuesday morning. After that, it’s back to work, but I think I will have to re-read the work-in-progress (Finding Florence, which was until recently, Irene Keeps a Secret). I need to reassess the whole thing.

A note about corned beef: did you know they don’t eat corned beef in Ireland? Or New England. It’s called a boiled beef dinner, with boiled brisket, cabbage, potatoes, onions, and carrots. That doesn’t work for me for a couple of reasons: if I splurge and buy a brisket, I want it cooked long and slow on the grill or in the oven. If I want a boiled dinner, I want the seasonings of corned beef (plus the pickling spices, vinegar, salt and pepper and sugar and, most importantly, ale that I added to it). The corned beef dinner is thought to be a blending of kosher and Irish traditions, which would logically trace back to the days of immigrants in the tenements of New York. A tidbit of history you may not care about, but I find fascinating.

Slainté!

A lazy morning, a lovely evening

Antipasto

Saturday morning, and I was reluctant to get up. Let Sophie out early and headed back to bed, but she is ever quicker than I am, and we disagreed about who should get the warm spot I’d just vacated. I won, and she pouted off to the living room. By 8:30 I was browsing the news but reluctant to face the chores I’d laid out last night—cooking chicken for tomorrow night’s casserole and making a batch of oatmeal/raisin cookie dough, since Jacob said he loves those cookies.

About ten-thirty, I took Jordan to meet a friend to watch the TCU/Baylor game—managed to avoid the traffic jam by going back streets. Some will tell you I’m the queen of back streets in south and west Fort Worth—my preferred routes, which always makes me think of an older friend, many years ago, who tut-tutted at me that a straight line was the shortest distance between two points. She didn’t think about traffic jams and stoplights.

Back home I dug in and spent the rest of the morning doing those chores—by one o’clock I had the kitchen clean, cookie dough and cooked chicken in the fridge, and lunch eaten. Prowled the New York Times Cooking Community Facebook page—what do you say to a woman who begins a post with “I hate hamburger. So bland and tasteless,” and then asks for recipes. I wouldn’t dare make a suggestion. Printed off a full color picture of a charcuterie platter with all  the ingredients labeled—good guide for us sometime, since Jordan and I loved to do those platters. And I even jotted down some good Christmas ideas and found a bright red outfit I think I want. I reluctantly parted this fall with the red plaid velvet shirt I’ve worn every Christmas Eve for years. Nap time!

Tonight, Jordan, Christian, and  I went to a lovely dinner party to celebrate the seventieth birthday of the husband of my Canadian daughter (explanation for those who don’t know: Sue and her two children, now well grown but young then, lived next door to me for several years; she moved on, bought a house, fell in love with a guy from California and enticed him to Fort Worth; she calls me her Fort Worth mom because her mom is far away in Ottawa, Ontario). We absolutely adore Teddy and were honored to be able to celebrate with him. I'm only sorry we didn't get a picture of him. He did single me out as the only person in the room a year older than him, and I reminded him it's a bit more than one year.

Dinner was at Nonna Tata, a tiny charming restaurant that serves country Italian food and seats at most 22—that’s how many there were tonight.  Wonderful food—antipasto, two pasta dishes, salad, rosemary bread, chicken and capers in what seemed like a yogurt sauce and was absolutely delicious, and an apple something for dessert. Great food, twice as much as I needed, and that much wine too. Good company, and a happy atmosphere. Lovely evening.

Pooches on the patio

Left to right: Jay with Santiago, the retired guide dog;; Christian with their two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels
Phil, with Porter the brand new guide dog; center, Jacob with my Sophie

With eight people and five dogs, it was definitely pooches on the patio night at my house as we celebrated neighbor Jay's birthday. The dogs love their evenings in the back yard with everyone on the deck except Jacob who plays with them, throws the ball, climbs on the dog house and then retires to the kitchen to love Santiago. Santiago is nine and just retired as Phil's guide dog. If you think about it, most of our dogs spend their days pretty much sleeping; working dogs spend their days working, and they tire out. Santiago likes nothing more than to sleep on the cold stone floor, and Jacob loves to oblige by getting down there with that gentle giant.
Porter, the new guide dog, is two years old, fresh out of training, and has been in his new home about four days. He visited last night and ran and played with Sophie--she'd been waiting for someone with more energy than Santiago. Sometimes she'd bark at him because he wouldn't play with her, so Porter is just right. They run, chase balls and have a wonderful time, with Sophie all the time making her growling noises.
The two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels are another story--quiet dogs, not interested in running and playing, thank you. They'd much prefer to sit on a lap. Without that alternative, they sit right close to the people's feet. Sophie finds them a little boring too, and I think they find her a bit intimidating. She is twice their size and has much more energy than they do.
Jay even picked the menu for his birthday dinner--a casserole of rice with cream of mushroom and celery soups, dry onion soup, and chicken. I almost blew it because I thought, "Oh, a chicken casserole, bake for an hour at most." Luckily about four I looked at the recipe and found it was to bake for two hours. It was really good, chicken most and tender and the rice delicious. I don't like to use prepared foods much but this was worth it. We had green peas, which Jay loves and most of my family won't eat, and salad. Jordan was already to bake a cake but Jay wanted store-bought brownies, the kind with thin frosting. Jacob of course had to help him blow out the candles. All in all, it was a delightful evening with much hilarity. And I think the presence of five dogs made it even better.
The irony was that the birthday boy, who loves dogs, didn't bring his two. We haven't yet tried to socialize them with "the pack" and may not ever.