Good food and good times in Cowtown

Megan and me at Bowie House
The fetish necklace was my nod to western wear 

My oldest daughter, an Austin lawyer, had business in Fort Worth Thursday and stayed over a couple of nights so we could have some together time. As it happens Jordan was out of town on a business trip, so she missed the good times and we missed her. Thursday nigh I had plans to go to 61 Osteria, an Italian restaurant downtown, with friends, so we decided when Megan was through with her day, she’d just meet us there. I told her it was in a bank building—but oops!  I told her the wrong bank, and she walked all over downtown in high heels.

The restaurant had a happy hour special with great price on wine and tiny snacks—I don’t eat olives so was pretty much out of that. But we ordered—a cheese and meat platter, focaccia, a polenta dish, and an artichoke hearts dish. The kind of food I would never fix—in truth, I was a bit intimidated by the complexity of the menu and nature of the offering—this was definitely not your spaghetti and meatballs in a red sauce kind of Italian restaurant. The décor in the bar is Fifties moderne, sleek and clean, with too tiny tables. The food was delicious, but what intrigued me all evening was the view. A wall of windows looked west, so I watched the sun go from gold to pink to flame and then, almost suddenly, gray. To one side was Burnett Park, a two-acre urban park in the midst of downtown that features the iconic statue of a man with a briefcase. The statue is fifty feet tall, weighs 24,000 lbs. and is made of brushed aluminum with the figure of the man cut out of the piece of aluminum. After dark, trees in the park are lit with ever-changing colors. Megan said she couldn’t believe I was going downtown, me who has always avoided the center of the city as much as I could. I loved being there.

Man with a briefcase

Megan and I both had work to do Friday, but by evening we stopped for a glass of wine with Christian and then headed off for dinner at Bowie House, a new boutique hotel and Auberge property with a well-planned, consistent western image—not flashy western but more low key. We had reservations at the restaurant, Bricks and Horses. Where to begin with the hotel? From reading, I knew that it has an unusual art collection. 400 pieces from the private collection of the wealthy horsewoman behind the hotel project. Young men in western garb and the required Stetson roaming the foyer and bar area may have been subtle security but their main function seemed to be seeing to the guests comfort. The minute we were through the door, one such man directed us to the ramp for my transport chair. The furnishings are heavy and dark, with echoes of the culture of the American west everywhere—cowboys, native Americans, cattle, and buffalo in paintings and sculpture. Dress for men was boots and jeans, and for women mostly boots and short skirts. I was the only mobility challenged person in the entire place and easily the oldest.

We had one of those long slow dinners, with nice breaks between courses. At Megan’s choice, we started with tuna tartare and then moved to Caesar salad. For an entrée, I had lobster Thermidor and she, a filet with a side of cauliflower casserole. Our dessert was a gussied-up banana split in a croissant shell. Finally, just before ten, we headed home.

Megan was having a difficult time backing my transport chair over the metal band between sliding glass doors at the exit (If she had gone forward she would have likely pitched me headfirst onto the concrete) when I heard a man say, “Here, hold my hand.” And I did. He was a middle-aged, cowboy type, and while he had a firm hold on my hand, his pal helped Megan lift the chair over the offending metal. Then as they got into their SUV they called out, “We’re going to Billy Bob’s. Want to go dancing?” That quick bit of help made a great impression on me, after an evening of everyone seeing to it that we were comfortable and being careful and respectful of my wheelchair. In a world rife with hate and anger and cruelty, Fort Worth is still a friendly city. With wonderful opportunities for good food and good times.

Tonight for supper I have leftover lobster Thermidor. Life is good.

Mother’s Day whirlwind

 

Happy Mother’s Day to all—birth mothers, adoptive mothers, stepmothers, surrogate mothers, yes—even mothers-in-law. I fit in more than one of those categories, and in my long life I have had several mother figures whose memories today leave me filled with awe and gratitude. Mothering, I’ve decided, is what Ron DeSantis would call “woke”—simply the willingness to care for others, to nurture. So cheers—and pots of flowers or special dinners or whatever—to all those “other mothers.”

This weekend I was on the receiving end of Mother’s Day thanks to my two daughters—and it was a whirlwind of a weekend. Megan arrived Friday, having ridden the Vonlane executive bus from Austin, and, after much planning and changing of minds, we had Cobb salad for dinner. Before I knew it, it was midnight—we had talked the night away.

Last night, Megan said to me, “I feel like all I did today was eat, drink, and hang out.” She was exactly right, though we started the morning (eleven o’clock is a start for my girls on Saturday) with a visit to my brother in the rehab facility. First time the girls had seen him in a long time, and there was lots of laughter.

Then on to Quince, the new restaurant on the river. I had heard both good and bad reports on it. Jordan had recently been to the mother restaurant in San Miguel and was eager to go back. And Megan was excited because Quince will be opening just blocks from her house in Austin. They loved it. I had a good salad of charred peaches, tomato, and burrata but much of the menu was too spicy for me (just cannot do spicy!) or had shrimp (I’m allergic). Several dinner entrees seemed to fit my taste more, and I’ll look forward to a dinner trip. It’s a lovely, bright space.

Home for a nap, and then a clothes modelling session. While I slept the girls bought me what seemed like an entire new wardrobe, and I had to try it all on. Of course I had to wear one new outfit for dinner. We went to Grace, the restaurant in the Omni Hotel. It’s not at all new, but I had never been, always considered it beyond my grasp. Megan is good about teaching me to spurge, and we had a lovely meal—steak for her, Diver scallops on tiny potato cakes for Jordan and me. And an inventive side of roasted onion with bacon and blue cheese. Impeccable service, interesting décor, and a great place for people watching. Megan said more than once, “Mom, you’re not paying attention,” and I said I was too busy watching the scene.

Some happy encounters during dinner: we were discussing the dessert menu (before we ordered so we’d know if we should save room) and Megan read off cookies and milk. A little boy at the next table, maybe four years old, leaned over and said, “You can dip the cookies in the milk,” and proceeded to demonstrate. His party left and was replaced by one with a younger boy, maybe eighteen months. When the adults at his table raised a toast, he joined them with his sippy cup. I saw it, mentioned it to the girls, and the child turned around and toasted with Megan. Finally, an older gentleman (well, not as old as I am) stopped by the table to wish me Happy Mother’s Day. No, we did not know him, but he told the girls, “You are almost as lovely as your mother.” Now there’s a charmer! And those are the kind of things that make me love living in Fort Worth.

My clean and neat closet

Christian's perfect
Egg Benedict

Today started with Eggs Benedict that Christian fixed on Jordan’s request—it was his first try to poach eggs and to make Hollandaise. He nailed both—perfection! But the big gift of the day was my closet—the girls totally cleaned it out. Six and a half years ago, they had just moved everything from house to cottage—the goal was to get it in place. I’ve never sorted it since, can’t reach the high hanging bar. They were
ruthless about discards—stains, too small, too dated, and out it went. Megan color- coordinated the hanging things (amazing how many red tops I have, which she thinks she is mostly responsible for). Tonight I have a neat, orderly closet and my dresser is piled high with discards. A huge Mother’s Day gift, and I am grateful.

closet discards

Megan has gone to Austin, but we will have one last celebration: roast salmon, smashed potatoes, and shredded Brussel sprouts. Then, tomorrow, it’s back to routine, but it has been a wonderful weekend, and I am feeling most blessed and grateful.

Growing older day by day

Birthday orchid from Jordan and Christian
chosen for the pale yellow walls in the cottage.

If you extend your birthday beyond the actual date, does that accelerate the rate of aging? I certainly hope not, because that’s what I seem to be doing. My actual birthday on Friday was low key—I worked, as did everyone in the family. But Jordan insisted on dinner in the house at the dining table, with roses, good china, and all that. The menu, at my choice, was hamburgers and salad. Christian grills the world’s best hamburgers, and Jordan makes a killer blue cheese salad. For dessert, good moist chocolate brownies.

Yesterday was again a workday, but son Jamie and Eden arrived from Frisco about five o’clock. Eden is the youngest of Jame’s two girls, a rising sophomore at UCLA, brilliant and beautiful—very California looking with long bare legs and a bare midriff. She’s a sweet softie an has always had a special place in my heart. This was my chance to see her before she goes back to school next weekend.

We intended to go out to dinner, though I had mentioned a little hesitation because of rampant covid—I have so many friends with it, all of them vaccinated and boosted. Jamie reluctantly agreed to a patio, but I doubt many restaurants are opening their patios these days with the heat. Long story short, without advance reservations, we couldn’t find an open table. Jamie was amazed at the change in his hometown where it used to be you could drop in anywhere and get a table. Times are a-changing in Cowtown bigtime.

We ended ordering take-out from Bonnell’s, so all three of us piled in the car for the drive, with Eden at the wheel (it was her car). Since she doesn’t know the city at all we have to navigate for her, but it was fun. Honestly, I feel like a recluse, but I so seldom leave the cottage that I was amazed at all the changes I saw. Like a little kid, I’d say, “That’s new!” and “That wasn’t there,” and “Look at that!” Much of what I saw was new residential, some of it so very good, and some not so good. Why are they building so many white houses these days?

Jordan was at an office retreat, and Christian had gone to pick up Jacob in Plano, so we had tons of food—Jamie’s eyes have always been bigger than his stomach, since he was a little kid. Christian and Jacob came home about eight, and we all had a laughing visit.

Tonight, Subie and Phil came for happy hour before they take off for month in their cabin in the Pecos Mountains, where it’s cool and raining. I’m happy for them, and I now Phil is always at his most easy happiness in those mountains where he spent part of his growing-up years. But we will miss them. We fixed pickle snacks which are suddenly all over the internet, but we didn’t get them crispy. Just grated cheese in a mini muffin cup, a pickle slice, and a bit more cheese. I think the problem was that it called for a non-stick pan and, thinking the one Jordan brought me was not that, I sprayer it with Pam. After I washed it tonight, I think it is indeed non-stick.

At the last minute, Jordan and Christian had to make an emergency run to the airport so we tabled the chop suey Jordan was going to help me make. I will do the prep and Christian will cook it tomorrow. Meantime I fixed myself a supper that would not fly with my family, but it was so good I ate every bite. Artisan toast with garlic, butter, tomato slices, sardines, and onion slices, drizzled with olive oil and lemon.

My sardine supper.
Honest if you look closely, there are sardines under all those sweet onions.

But wait! My birthday isn’t over! That aging process goes on—next weekend, most of the family will gather, and I’m excited as always to have all my chickens in one coop (bad metaphor I think, but I will be glad to have them all at home). We’ve been hashing out menus and so on, but I believe it will be the dinner I used to request as a child for my summer birthday: sliced cold turkey (some among us will have to heat theirs, but I love cold meat), potato salad, and marinated vegetables. And chocolate mousse cake.

Meanwhile, tomorrow is back to work. I am plowing through Helen Corbitt entries on the Portal to Texas History—a wonderful resource, but Helen has 134 pages of entries. Good friend Carol, an archivist, is teaching me streamlined ways to winnow them down. I learn so much about computers with every project. This one seems particularly tough—tell me it’s not my aging brain!

Have a happy week, everyone.

Birthdy flowers for my desk.

Some books you might find interesting

 

In West Fort Worth, we have two iconic shopping malls—Hulen and Ridgmar. Because it is closer and a bit smaller, with stores I liked, Hulen was my mall of choice. Doesn’t that sound funny now? I have lots of memories of trailing kids through the department stores and up those twisting stairs. Perhaps the worst was the time Jordan, maybe five or six, decided to climb through the railing on the second level—and there she was, hanging outside in space. People rushed to her in alarm, but I had the sense to say, “Please leave her alone.” Then I spoke softly to her, and she, not at all flustered, climbed over the railing to land safely on the floor at my feet. I’m not sure today I could be that sanguine.

When they were teens, three of my four wanted to “hang out” at the mall (I can’t remember that Colin ever did), an event that I let happen but not without strict instructions and a lot of trepidation on my part. I’m not sure what I thought would happen, but probably I was convinced food courts were dens of iniquity with pedophiles lurking in every corner. And there was the time Jamie, just old enough to ride his moped around town (remember mopeds? How could I forget?), rode his to Hulen Mall (quite likely against my rules) and while he was inside, doing that dreadful hanging out, it was stolen. At something like one o’clock the next morning, we got a call from the police that the moped had been found abandoned at a gas station on the South Freeway. It was a bitterly cold, icy night, but we went out there—I imagine I took all the kids because there is safety in numbers, even if they are young. But we finally decided Jamie could not ride it home in those conditions. We secured it at the gas station and went back the next day.

So no, my memories of Hulen Mall are not good, and I haven’t been there in years—I’m pretty much an online shopper these days, and I understand the good shops have deserted the mall and it is sort of a ghost town. Same for Ridgmar Mall of which I have fewer memories, except for Neiman Marcus where I loved to eat lunch and a strange little restaurant—I forget the name—run by a friend. Nope, I am not a mall person.

Still I was interested today to read a review of Meet Me at the Fountain: An Inside History of the Mall. Author Andrea Lange considers the history of the mall, from the 1950s, when it was the nirvana of suburban shoppers, up to today when it is considered dead. But her text questions the predictions of demise, pointing out that malls continually reinvent themselves. She deals of course with nationally known ones—the Mall of America in Minnesota and North Park in Dallas (I was never as crazy about it as my kids). If you’ve lived through the mall era, you might find the book of interest.

Another book Fort Worthians might particularly like but one with a universal message is Carry-Out, Carry-On: A Year in the Life of a Texas Chef, by locally renowned chef and farm-to-table advocate Jon Bonnell. During the heigh of pandemic, Bonnell’s restaurant, bearing his name, flourished by providing family to-go meals for which customers lined up as early as three o’clock in the afternoon. Bonnell’s is strategically located on a bypass highway and with a good flow to its parking lot, both of which Bonnell says enabled his success. His downtown restaurant, Waters, did not fare so well, which he attributes to difficult access and traffic patterns and a reluctance of folks to go downtown. Bonnell’s book is essentially a story of perseverance despite hardships, disappointments, unbelievable difficulties. It speaks not just to restauranteurs but to all of us who survived pandemic—and might well have to do so again in the future. Jon Bonnell was determined to come out of pandemic on a positive note—and he did. Go eat his food, read his book. He’s a special kind of chef and person.

In spite of the subjects of deserted malls and pandemic-stressed restaurants, these books made me think once again what a great place to live Fort Worth is. But even if you’re not from my city, you’ll find some nuggets on them.

 

 

Fall is in the air

My gorgeous daughters
in a very blue light

It may be 95 as I write, at four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, but this morning as I waited for the teakettle to sing to me, I stared out the window, watching several leaves drift slowly out of the trees. I think it is supposed to turn much cooler tomorrow. With my usual bad sense of timing, I made a pot of chili for supper. I offered to change the menu, suggested meatloaf, but Christian opted for the chili. It’s Cincinnati chili, sometimes known as Skyline, and is a real departure for me. Curious? You can read about it in “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” this coming Thursday.

It’s been a quiet weekend. Jordan has gone to Austin for a belated celebration of Megan’s 50^th with some of M’s girlfriends. She plans to stay over tonight and return in the morning. Early Saturday morning, we had joint mammogram appointments—sort of like mother-and-daughter dresses but not quite. At her insistence, we went to the clinic she has used for years. I had never been there. Made a mental note to dig out my insurance card—and that was the last time I thought about it until I walked in the clinic door. They would not take my word that I would call in the information. I had to reschedule, which bummed me out because I’d gotten up earlier than usual to be there—and the new appointment is even earlier on a Saturday.

I don’t get out much, as everyone knows, so I was truly impressed at the social distancing respect I saw. When any woman walked through the clinic doors, she stood back, waiting until the patient at the desk had moved away and the receptionist motioned. I did not see one person without a mask. If everyone would follow these two guidelines, we’d squash this damn virus. Makes me so angry at the whole darn Republican party, though I know there are a few mask wearers among them. Still, trump is the worst, and why is Lindsey Graham refusing to be tested?

Quarantine hit me in another way today. For more years than I care to count, I have belonged to a monthly breakfast group called the “Book Ladies” (we’d have welcomed men, but none seemed inclined to join us). We have not met since March, and today’s reminder said that the café where we normally meet is open for inside service. But like a chorus, all of us said we are not ready to eat in a restaurant. Online we don’t get the good exchange of book news that we always shared.

I miss restaurant meals. Food never tastes as good when it travels from the restaurant to home, and we have pretty much decided we like what we fix at home better. Christian, Jacob, and I had take-out last night, courtesy Jean, but that was mostly so we could eat on the patio and share a meal with Jean. It’s not restaurant food I miss—it’s the sharing of meals, the fellowship that implies. How to put that feeling into words is much on my mind because I will be on a Zoom panel this week about culinary mysteries at Bouchercon, the annual huge fan con which has had to go virtual this year. I’m struggling to say succinctly why I am turning more and more to food writing—and I know it somehow has to do with caring and sharing. I don’t think I’ll get all Biblical and talk about loaves and fishes, but there is a spiritual element to it.

And, for me, that’s one good thing about quarantine. We eat together as a family most night—the Burtons come to the cottage. Either I have made supper, or they bring it. I was pretty good at planning meals for one—and there are some things they won’t eat that I would like to fix for me. But that’s all outweighed by the sense of family we get in sharing meals. My mom always told me all things work to some good end, and perhaps that is the good she would see in quarantine.

Sweet dreams, all!

Taking part in life

Busy days

I knew it was a busy week, but I didn’t realize quite how bad until I got up one morning and discovered the breakfast dishes from the day before still in the sink! And then there was the day I took a nap, woke with a start and wondered, “Why am I in bed? Did I forget to get up this morning?” Some weeks go by without my feeling that I am engaged with the world. This week was definitely the opposite, and I loved it.

Part of what kept me busy and distracted, of course, was the impeachment hearings. I wouldn’t say I was glued to every word—I tend to wait for summaries I trust. But I kept it on, watched the way people talked and held themselves, and listened intently only occasionally. I am in awe of the quiet, calm professionalism of the career people from the state department, and I am mightily impressed that women made such a strong showing. Maria Yovanovitch, Jennifer Williams, Laura Cooper, and Fiona Hill were unflappable, knowledgeable, self-confident, quite a contrast to the sloppy posture and presentation of their Republican antagonists. I saw a cartoon depicting Devin Nunes as Dopey, Gym Jordan (somebody buy him a jacket!) as Sleazy, and Castor, the Republican lawyer, as Sleepy—he was slouched so far down in his chair, he was almost horizontal. Not a pose that bespeaks alert intelligence. In fact, I read somewhere that he elicited damning information, on trump, from people he questioned.

The men were no less remarkable—confident, knowledgeable, unshakeable. Bill Taylor got most of the accolades, but I was impressed by David Holmes. He seemed almost amused by and a little disdainful of some of his interrogators. All in all, it was quite a show. The question is now, what next? Republicans are crowing that they will never abandon trump—they apparently recognize his guilt but don’t care. Will they hold firm when push comes to shove? Will they take into account the various signs that indicate trump and his cronies are Russian puppets, the abandonment of the Kurds being he most blatant. The Ukraine affair may easily be tied to Russia too—just listen again to Dr. Hill’s testimony.

My week beyond watching TV was one of sociability—lunches at Black Rooster and Nonna Tata, where I discovered that my favorite dish, braseola, is still available if no longer on the menu; dinner at the Tavern, where I discovered my good friend Betty does not eat artichokes, even grilled and slathered in butter and lemon. Last night, while Jordan went to a work event in Dallas, Christian and I went to a Connections Dinner at church. The point is to get members to dine and visit with new faces. At our table there was only one face new to me, but the others were people I rarely talk to more than to say “Good morning” on Sundays, so it was fun. The food was delicious, prepared by Louise Lamensdorf, formerly of Bistro Louise (there are perks to belonging to UCC and Louise’s occasional dinners are one of them). It was a beef stew kind of dish but with distinctive seasoning, a little bit sweet and sour, and a wonderful vegetable and white bean soup. I believe she said the dishes were Tuscan.

So today, chilly and wet in the morning, was a perfect day to stay home and regroup. I did odds and ends at my desk—how did I get so many of them? And began to get things together to go to Tomball for Thanksgiving. I’ll go Sunday and be gone most of the week, leaving behind Jordan and Christian to host their first big holiday meal. Oops, no—I remember that we had Alter Christmas at their house  in Hulen Bend one year, but it was a long time ago.

And tonight, it’s me, a copy of Food & Wine, and a new cozy mystery. Life is good.

A lovely weekend

Sophie is hyped to have all the people and an extra dog around and showing her

excitement by acting like a crazy wild thing, leaping from lap to lap, running 

in circles, chasing the other dogs. Pure dog happiness

My blogging schedule—and every other schedule if I had one—is way off but for such a good reason. My Megan has come from Austin, bringing Brandon, Sawyer and Ford. I’d love to say the only reason they came is to see me, but there’s that little matter of the TCU/Texas game which is where they are right now. Megan is a loyal Frog fan, but both she and Brandon went to UT for law school, and he persists in cheering for the orange. Sawyer doesn’t care,  I don’t think, but Ford has long cheered for all things purple. Jacob remains ever loyal to his dad’s alma mater, Baylor, but is decked out today in a TCU hoodie.

Jordan and I started out the weekend early yesterday by treating ourselves to lunch at Press Café, a place I like a lot but have a couple of problems with. The menu is interesting, the food good (I really like the deconstructed tuna salad), but they don’t take reservations. Every nice evening that I long to sit outside, it’s too crowded. And inside is unbearably noisy. We went at eleven which seems to be the perfect hour between breakfast and lunch service—got a table right away and could hear each other. It was cold outside, but still lovely to sit inside by the windows and look out at trees and grass—and a huge fire in a barrel—rather than other buildings.

It's a weekend of feasting. The Austin family had to wait for Sawyer to get out of school at 4:30 but they hit the road immediately and were here just before eight. We thought the traffic might be bad because of the game, but not so. We rushed off to Pacific Table where we were seated at a booth I didn’t even know existed—tucked away behind the bar, at the very back of the restaurant. Just right for the six of us (Jordan and Christian had another event), and it was much quieter than the front of the restaurant. We came home to celebrate Ford’s thirteenth birthday with chocolate cake—and new TCU gear for Jacob and the Austin boys.

Today I went with Jordan to drop the football fans as close to the stadium as we could get. Traffic was horrible, and Jordan got a scolding from a policeman at the first corner where we tried to let them out. Then we went to McKinlay’s to pick up lunch—not as easy as it sounds, though we lucked into a “to go” parking spot. I waited in the car while Jordan went in—thirty minutes later she emerged. I amused myself by watching people and cars—they are scary drivers in the University Village parking lot—and by reading a novel on my phone.

While everyone was at the game—Jordan and Christian are watching at a friend’s house—I napped, just to keep straight my record of having done nothing constructive today. Tonight, the ritual dinner at Joe T. Garcia’s. For my family, it truly is a ritual. Jordan tells me we’ll sit outside so I can hear—while I freeze to death, although at five o’clock, it’s pleasant enough I have the door open. A last bit of fall.

Penny wise and pound foolish

I had dinner with a good friend tonight who wishes to remain anonymous—you’ll see why in a minute. Whereas I’ll order a chardonnay label that I like, she will often choose whatever is on the happy hour menu—often not a chardonnay. Tonight she asked the wait person what the house wine was and ordered that. Thinking I wouldn’t be a complete pain about it I agreed. She took one sip, looked at me, and said, “This isn’t very good chardonnay.” I told her I was never trusting her about the house wine again. When the bill came, we found out why it was the house choice: $3.75 a glass.

Reminded me of another friend who travels frequently and extensively, domestically and abroad. When we met for dinner recently, she insisted we had to go early enough for happy hour prices. And when we asked where everyone had parked, she revealed that she had refused a place almost in front of the restaurant because you had to pay there—so she walked a couple of blocks.

Excuse me, folks. I’m not rich, but I am old enough that I want a good glass of chardonnay and a convenient parking place. Call me extravagant if you want.

This has been a quiet week. Last week was full of social occasions—dinners out, guests at the cottage. This week, I have been home for four days, and for three of them Jordan’s sporadic appearances provided my only adult company. It’s okay because I have worked—my neighborhood newsletter took a lot of time!—and read and kept up with the unbelievable politics of our country. Enough to keep anyone occupied, but I was glad to go to supper tonight with someone whose company I really enjoy (bad wine or not).

Speaking of restaurants, my food-loving friends in Fort Worth will be sad to know that Terra on Crockett closed, a longtime Mediterranean restaurant. The couple of times I had dinner there were okay but not great, but at lunch they had an outstanding Mediterranean buffet—pricey, but really good. The turnover of restaurants on Crockett is amazing—and includes Patrizio’s which I still mourn though it’s been gone a while.

On the home front, Sophie had a spa day today. Bless WhiskerWashers who bring their portable salon to the house. Sophie’s special groomer is a man I know as Bobo. When I once told him we had to be careful because she’ll run given the chance, he—a large man and not young—said, “Then we’ll have to be really careful, because I can’t chase her.” Sophie is always excited to see him, and I have to say his kind manner brightens my day. As for Sophie running, yeah, she’d take a clear chance if she got it, but she’s less interested and less devious these days. Maybe as she ages, she realizes she has a darn good deal here. Tonight, her coat is soft, and she smells clean and wonderful. Won’t last, but it’s nice now.

I am having a great time on the NYTimes Cooking Community Facebook page—recipes, queries, comments, even such odd questions as “What’s your guilty pleasure in food?” See my Gourmet on a Hot Plate blog tomorrow for my answer to that. But I am delighted that I feel comfortable enough on the Facebook page to contribute—like the woman who asked what she could do with several tins of anchovies. My answer: make spaghetti sauce, make Caesar salad, put them in everything you can think of—they add an earthy flavor, and no one says, “Yuck! They’re anchovies in this.” They can’t tell.

My takeaway line from that page today: Bay leaves are the dryer sheets of the kitchen. Seriously, have you ever left them out of a stew? And did you notice a difference? I doubt it. I think they’re often so stale they do little for flavor. My anonymous dinner companion tonight pointed out that they do keep bugs out of your flour if you tape them inside the container.

Rain tomorrow. What joy! I hope it really happens.

Gastronomic adventures and life’s little annoyances

Jordan and I had an adventure today. We ate lunch at the Taste Project, an innovative restaurant where you pay what you think your meal was worth—or whatever you can afford. It’s been open about a year now, and I know many in Fort Worth have discovered it before we did.

Located in the burgeoning South Main Street development, the restaurant is industrial modern inside, clean and bright. Volunteers greeted us at the door, telling us how glad they were that we had come. We were early and had no trouble getting a table, but the restaurant began to fill up quickly. We shared an absolutely delicious lamb burger on an obviously house-made bun and a small plate of caprese bites—and were too full for dessert.

We overpaid generously, because it looked to us like some other customers might not pay or would underpay. Probably I was making snap judgments. but then again, I realize for some that lunch might be the only meal, let alone good meal, of the day.

Two caveats: don’t over-order, because no doggie bags are offered or allowed. And get there early or be prepared to walk. As far as we could tell there is no off-street parking and street parking is limited.

The people who greet you, the wait staff, and many of the kitchen staff are volunteers—perhaps that’s why they’re so cheerful. But they were all beyond pleasant. It looked to me like they had more volunteers than they needed, but if you’re looking for a good place to share your time, I suggest you call them. I would if it weren’t for my walker.

A couple of night’s ago friends and I had a delightful light supper at Winslow’s Wine Café. Winslow’s is popular, which means it’s noisy—so despite a relatively warm evening, we elected to sit outside. Under a shade cover, with fans blowing on us, it was quite pleasant—except for the flies that kept dive-bombing us. We actually had three wine drownings, but the waiter was pleasant about bringing us fresh glasses of wine. And we splurged—white chocolate mousse with a dark chocolate ganache for dessert.

I had one of those annoying phone calls the other day—time to renew my property insurance so they needed proof that my alarm system is active. The monthly fee is automatically deducted, so I didn’t have a bill to send. I went online and found in almost three years I haven’t set up an account yet. To do that, I had to supply a verbal password—which, of course, I had no idea about. And to bypass that, I had to tell the operator, the names and phone numbers of two people on my emergency call list. I completely went through all the children before I landed on the right ones. The operator I was talking with was short on patience but long on background noise, which only made it worse.

Finally though I had an account, and I called the insurance office to ask what I needed tosend them. “Just take a screen shot,’ the young woman said. Confession: I don’t know how to take a screen shot. She hooted and said, “Neither do I, and I’m married to an IT guy.” We finally bumbled around the web site until I fund an insurance certificate I could download as a PDF and send to her. When she emailed, “Got it!” I wrote back and said, “That loud noise you heard was my sigh of relief, clear across town.” She replied, “Glad you clarified. I was wondering what that noise was.” Doing business with someone like her makes up for the impatient lady with the security company. Win some, lose som.

Restaurant memories

Star Café on West Exchange in the Stockyards

I’ve been having lots of fun reading Lost Restaurants of Fort Worth by Celestina Blok. My ex- and I arrived in Fort Worth in 1965 and for several years were dead broke. But when he finished his surgical residency and I finished my graduate studies at TCU, we were able to step out on the town a bit.

We ate at the Carriage House most frequently. I remember a favorite waiter—Chad, a tall, thin man with a big Afro. When he saw me come in, he’d say, “Dover sole and spinach,” and he was right. That was what I wanted every time. The waiters used to serenade birthday customers, and I remember once when Joel told them it was my birthday. They sang to me, much to my embarrassment, while Joel’s mother kept saying, “Judy dear, such a considerate husband you have.” I was seriously thinking about strangling him when we got home.

A few years pass, and we took our two oldest children for their first night out—I think dinner was to be followed by a performance of Gilbert & Sullivan’s H.M.S. Pinafore and I now have no memory of how indignant the two younger ones must have been to be left behind. We ate, as always, in the back room where Mac had lined the walls with pictures of nudes. The kids could hardly eat they were so busy surreptitiously glancing at the art. And then there was the time we took my parents—my Scottish father was appalled that Joel spent $40 on a bottle of wine; Dad could hardly drink it.

We ate at Mac’s House frequently enough to be considered regulars—and I even did after our divorce. Colin, my oldest, worked there as a bus boy in high school, and we all have fond memories of Mac’s salad—the recipe is in the book. I also remember the Christmas Eve we all had brandy ices and went straight home to bed instead, as we intended, to the late church service.

The book solves another puzzle for me: for years I’ve wondered why the name Steve’s is embedded in tile in the sidewalk near the back of Lucille’s. In a charming passage, Steve Murrin, Jr., talks about the restaurant his dad, Steve, Sr., had in that spot. The feature was ham sandwiches, and a big part of his business came from people who had been hired to drive used cars to California, where there was a good market for them. They were given lunch money and stopped at Steve’s on their way down Highway 80.

I barely remember the Farmer’s Daughter on South University, a steak and prime rib house fashioned after a northern California fancy restaurant and owned by the man who also owned the Cattleman’s. What I remember best was that after its heyday they used to have wet T-shirt contests, and all the guys would gather to wait for their girls to emerge from the bar. I better remember the London House on Camp Bowie where I first saw—and loved—the concept of a salad bar. Later, the Steak and Ale chain picked up on the idea.

Other memories came flooding back—Theo’s Saddle & Sirloin Inn, supposedly the place that introduced calf fries—can you even get them these days? They also served a delicious sauerkraut soup—I remember taking a suitor there who was horrified that I would eat that. And the cafeterias—remember when Jetton’s introduced the new concept of food stations rather than one long line?

There are places in the book that I never ate and wish I had—Neil Hosper’s Cross Keys and Jimmy Dip’s, the Richelieu Grill where legend has it the famous chili recipe was written on the wall. When the building was demolished, someone saved that piece of plaster wall.

This slim book makes you appreciate what a rich restaurant heritage Fort Worth has. The last chapter is devoted to longtime restaurants that are still feeding us—and they include some of my favorites: Angelo’s Barbecue (who can forget the moth-eaten bear?) and Carshon’s Delicatessen where I still lunch frequently, the Paris Coffee Shop and Joe T. Garcia’s. But where is the Star Café, supposedly the longest continually open restaurant in the city?

Read and enjoy—and then go to the Star for what Bud Kennedy says is the best chicken-fried steak in town.

Happy to be home

December 28, 2018

Sophie and I had a wonderful, terrific, marvelous week in Tomball—okay, except for the dogfight which maybe taught her she is not invincible nor is she the biggest kid on the block. But she loved being in the middle of an active household, where she was on constant alert lest she miss something. Tonight, we are happy to be home in the cottage, which is pretty dull and quiet.

Colin, Kegan, Sophie, and I left Tomball just before 10:30 this morning. A glorious day for a drive. There had been heavy rains throughout Central and South Texas Wednesday night—as usual I heard the thunder but not the rain, but in the morning the lake was really high, and the lowest portion of the patio was under water. This morning, with bright skies and blazing sun, we saw water everywhere—stock tanks were overflowing and creeks had burst their banks. At some points on Highway 6, around Marlin, there were sudden new lakes lapping the road on either side. I’ve seen it before on that stretch of highway, but it always surprises me. The road from College Station to Waco is one I traveled so often for sales meetings when I was working that I have all the landmarks memorized. I particularly love going through Calvert, that funky town full of old shops and antiques and falling down buildings.

We met Jordan and Jacob in Waco at a place my kids all rave about but where I had never been before. A tiny hole-in-the-wall with outdoor seating, so we could take Sophie. Called the Health Camp, it’s everything but. What it is, is greasy hamburgers. Through a mix-up we got a BLT for Colin, but I knew he had his taste buds ready for a cheeseburger, and I didn’t, so we traded. It was one of those sandwiches grilled on the outside so that everything about it is greasy, and some of the bacon was undercooked. It is not, however, the kind of place where you call the maître d’ and complain about your food. Kegan got a chili/cheese dog which I would not have known how to attack—he waded in and did a credible job on it. The best thing about the experience was the milkshakes—Jordan and Jacob had chocolate, Colin had strawberry, and Kegan had cookies ‘n cream. Being a novice, I didn’t know to order a milkshake, but I tasted, and they were thick and creamy and good.

An aside: when I was a kid there was an ice cream parlor (those shops we unfortunately don’t have anymore) about eight blocks from our house. They served milkshakes so thick the straw stood straight up in them. My mom would sometimes give my friend Eleanor Lee and me money for shakes for lunch, and we rode our bikes up to 53rd Street—a busy commercial street. Being allowed to do that was a big deal, and the shakes were the best thing we’d ever eat—or so we thought. A win/win deal. Today’s didn’t quite meet that standard, but they were good.

Health Camp is on the roundabout with the old Elite Café, that Waco traditional landmark. I had heard that Chip and Joanna Gaines had bought it, and today, lo and behold! It had a sign boasting, “The Magnolia Table.” Next time through Waco I’m going to lobby for that, but I may be unsuccessful. My family is really sold on the greasy spoon hamburgers.

Jordan, Jacob, Sophie and I got to Fort Worth a little after 3:30, and Jacob had a 4:00 p.m. orthodontist appointment, so Sophie and I got to sit in the car for half an hour. It was okay. She was a bit anxious; I calmly read emails. Jacob got the worst of the deal because something on his braces had broken and had to be repaired.

And then, before 5:00 p.m., we were home. I’ve turned on my Christmas lights and started unpacking, but I’m going to have a late version of my afternoon nap and then worry about dinner. My cupboard is pretty bare.

What wonderful Christmas memories I brought home with me. And now, on to the New Year.

Chicken Fried Steak and Lessons in Grocery Shopping

You wouldn’t think after all these years I’d need a lesson in grocery shopping, but what I got today was at least a reminder. Last week I didn’t get to what I call a “regular” grocery store. I did curbside pickup at Central Market, but you don’t buy toilet paper or paper towels or the like there. So I had a long list of “household goods,” including some over-the-counter medications, such as a probiotic—darned expensive. The bill was, to my still-in-the-sixties mind, astronomical.

But Jordan and I had a good time, figuring what we needed for the holidays, planning dishes. Of course, there are a lot of things I want to make but time is running too short and who would eat them. On my list: taco salad, using the Chuy’s lime/cilantro dressing I made as a dip last week (we’ll probably have that for supper Monday night); Mac’s Salad, since we stopped at Michael’s today and bought containers of the dressing (Jordan got in the car and said one word: “Expensive!”). But then today I saw a recipe for sausage/gruyere balls—a twist on the ones I’ve always made with cheddar. Sounds delicious.

It’s amazing how much money and how many things one person living alone has on a grocery list. I tell myself it’s because I cook a lot—it’s a rare recipe that I can resist—and I cook once or twice a week for the family.

Even leaving Tom Thumb and Michael’s, we weren’t through. Went to Local Foods Kitchen for take-out for our lunch. A shrimp salad for Jordan (I am so frustrated that somewhere in life I developed a shrimp allergy, probably because I gorged on them). Tuna and a beet/orange  salad for my lunch, and shepherd’s pie for supper. It’s one place where the shepherd’s pie truly tastes homemade—not of preservatives, not of mass production. And the tuna was good—I’ve been off tuna for a while, but I liked this a lot.

And I still have a curbside pick-up order for Central Market tomorrow. Please tell me it’s the holidays.

I frequently check a Facebook page called Fort Worth Memories and History (please don’t sign up—you have to apply) because I enjoy some of the reminiscences, like do you remember the old Cross Keys Restaurant. Today I even asked if anyone remembers Papa John’s on 28^th Street? But someone asked for recommendations for chicken-fried steak, and I wanted to scream, “No, don’t do that again!” This morning when I turned on my computer there were 113 recommendations, and they’ve kept coming all day. And we just did this a couple of months ago. Pay attention people and don’t repeat the queries! I wish the moderator would not sanction such an inquiry again for a year.

I haven’t counted but I’d say West Side Café on Camp Bowie is the winner, but there have been some odd choices—a Cajun café, a bistro, places you’d never go for CFS. I remain firm in my conviction that the Star Café on West Exchange has the best ever. I may be prejudiced—friends of mine own it, and I spent a lot of Saturday nights running the cash register.  But the CFS is great—good tender meat, lots of crisp crust, and delicious gravy. And the atmosphere is great—Cowtown kitsch. I love the place. It’s on my bucket list for after the holidays, and we have several friends who want to go, so we may descend on them with a large party.

Meantime have a happy holiday weekend.  We dodged the high winds and just got a bit of rain, and I think it’s to be fair weather this weekend. Can you believe how fast December is flying by?

Chicken-fried steak and doctors

Today is National Chicken-fried Steak Day. What? You missed it? I used to know a man who insisted that the word steak was redundant. All you had to say, he claimed, was “Chicken-fried.” I always wondered what would happen if he ordered that way at my favorite Star Café and they brought him chicken-fried chicken.

There’s a local Facebook page that features memories of Fort Worth, and today someone asked about favorite chicken-fried steak. The trouble with that question is twofold: it rolls around so often, it’s repetitive. Seems to me we just listed our favorites. And by far the most votes go to Mary’s Café in Strawn—a bit of a drive from Fort Worth and today one woman said she had the toughest piece of meat ever there. But the other winner is always Massey’s, a beloved down-home restaurant that has been out of business for at least fifteen years. What’s the sense of naming that? It doesn’t tell us where to go today for good CFS. As an aside, on Fridays Massey’s used to serve salmon patties, and I loved them.

As for CFS, my favorite is the Star Café, and Fort Worth Star-Telegram writer and food critic Bud Kennedy always rates it highly. Yes, of course I’m prejudiced—good friends own it. But it is still the most mouth-watering, tender CFS. The breading sticks to the meat, and the gravy has legs. Try it sometime. Individually battered, not frozen, pre-cut pieces of meat. All fresh and all good.

Otherwise today was a doctor day. I had an 11:00 appointment with the cornea specialist who claimed, way back in January, that I would have to have cornea replacement surgery after my surgery to fish out the wandering lens. But my vision has been so good, I was prepared to stand my ground and say no more surgery. I needn’t have bothered. She practically did a happy dance over the improvement of my eyes, said I probably only need over-the-counter readers. My vision is 20/40 in both eyes. Hooray! The surgeon dismissed me to go back to my regular eye doctor and I feel like a great burden has been lifted.

Poor Jordan did not fare so well in the doctor’s office. She has a stomach bug for which they gave her medications and recommended isolation. Poor Christian said, “But I’ve already kissed her this morning.” Last I heard tonight she does not feel a whole lot better. And the worst of it is that this weekend is her 25^th high school reunion. They were to go to the football game tonight and a dinner tomorrow night. I am really sorry for her—and hoping none of the rest of us get it. I hesitate to check on her because I don’t want to wake her.

Beautiful weather coming this weekend—in the low 80s and sunny. Just perfect. Enjoy!

The cane, the walker, and the dog

Yesterday after lunch I was struggling with the restaurant doors so I could leave (Mary had gone to get the car), when one of the wait staff rushed to help me, apologetic because he’d been at the other end of the restaurant when he saw me. He told me his grandmother is in a wheelchair and he’s recently been taking her around. He was surprised at how hard it is to go a lot of places, though he said I probably already knew that. We chatted for a moment, and I thanked him. I appreciated his open friendliness more than I can say.

Truly, that’s the reaction my walker elicits from most people—genuine courtesy and caring, a willingness to open doors and wait patiently for me, a smile, a friendly word of reassurance. Most people are genuinely good, and I’m more convinced of it every day.

But I’ve had some experiences that made me think wait staff in some restaurants don’t want the reputation of their establishment touched by the handicapped. It’s not chi chi or whatever. Recently friend Nancy and I went to an upscale wine bar. She, who had a knee replacement yesterday, was on a cane and walked with obvious difficulty and pain. I was on my walker. Next day she emailed me that she was still chuckling over the dismayed looks that greeted us when we entered, and I recalled that our waiter was more than a bit patronizing—when he paid attention to us.

One night not long before that I went to a new Mexican place at Clearfork, the now “place to be” in West Fort Worth, with Subie and Phil. While Subie parked the car, Phil and I went in, me on the walker and he with Porter, his seeing-eye dog. Again, those astounded looks on the staff faces. I explained that we had a reservation. After a moment’s confusion, they said, “Here take this table.” It was one right next to the door and in the bar area rather than the main dining section. And it was noisy.

Subie has more chutzpah than I. She immediately announced it was unacceptable and sought out a staff person, who said, “Well, if you’d had a reservation.” Subie held firm and told her we did. Eventually we were moved to the main dining area, where carpet softened the sound. Subie said matter-of-factly, “It’s the dog. Happens all the time.” That “troublesome” dog, Porter, crawled under the table, and you’d never have known he was there the whole meal.

Those two incidents, so different from the reception I’m used to, stuck in my mind. I’m not sure what to make of them, except that maybe restaurants ought to do a lot better about giving their staffs sensitivity training. I have been with Subie and Phil when hostesses tried to turn them away because of the dog, apparently unaware of the ADA rules.

There was the time, however, that Subie and Phil got up and left Pacific Table without giving me my walker. The host, who was standing nearby, said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.” I asked if they’d feed me, and he said for sure. Of course, Subie and Phil barely made it to the door before they had that “Oops” moment. But it shows some restaurant staff have their hearts and heads in the right places.

I do keep a list of places I won’t go again and won’t recommend to friends. And Jordan really wants to write a blog—well, dictate it to me—about the lack of accessibility in Fort Worth. Our pet peeve: a restaurant which has a nice, long ramp—of herringbone brick. I challenge you to take a walker up a herringbone brick walkway. And in a lot of restaurants, the restrooms are not accessible.

Seeing the world from behind a walker gives you a whole new vision. I’m not crying “Poor me.” Far from it. I lead a full and active life, with my walker. But I think the world could do a lot better.

Cemetery pictures, a quick giveaway, and a Mexican supper

Cemetery pictures don’t often make good blog illustrations, but this one is special to me. It shows the gravestones of my father and sister at St. Jude Cemetery in Oakville, Ontario. I’ve talked to someone in the city office responsible for the cemetery, and she tells me the graves will be well maintained when I get there—right now they need some attention. She also sent me a map of the cemetery, so I can easily find the plot. My detective work continues.

            Who says book giveaways are old hat? I discovered a “Set up a Giveaway” link on the Amazon page for Murder at the Blue Plate Cafe. Clicked on it out of curiosity but wasn’t quite prepared to have to pay full price for five ebook copies. Still, Amazon is clever, and they know how to hook you in. Soon I was busily filling in the details to give away five copies, one to each fifth person to respond (the method they recommend). The site confirmed the giveaway was live about two this afternoon.

Those who know me know that two o’clock is about the time I take an afternoon nap, a luxury I’ve become addicted to in retirement. And that’s where I headed when I got the confirmation email. I thought I’d publicize the giveaway after my nap, which often lasts an hour.

But I woke up to another email that told me the giveaway was closed. All five copies had been given away, so Amazon was busily spreading the word while I snoozed. I’d love to know how. If anyone reading this got an email or something, please let me know. I hadn’t expected to spend the money, as I said, but it may have been great marketing, depending on how many people Amazon notified. The notice I got had a link to the giveaway which, in turn had a link to “Learn more about Judy Alter,” so maybe some new readers saw my name and books.

I chose to give that book away to publicize the new Blue Plate Café Mystery, Murder at the Bus Depot. My thought was to interest readers in the series in general as a way of leading them to the new book. I just never got a chance to say it. Thanks to Lois Winston for that train of thought. Lois thought up the anthology, Sleuthing Women: Ten First-in-a-Series Mysteries, put it together (including my Skeleton in a Dead Space), and marketed it. It’s done great but will go away April 30. Here’s a buy link if you want to take advantage of this great bargain before it disappears forever: https://tinyurl.com/y882o7zw

Haven’t read the first in the Blue Plate Cafe series, Murder at the Blue Plate Café? Not to worry. I’m working on making it free, and it is already free on several platforms. But Amazon moves slowly on such things. I’ll keep trying. Then I’ll leisurely publicize it. The ways of Amazon are sometimes devious, but I’m still a fan.

This is not the week for me to complain about being alone in the cottage. I’ve been out to supper with friends four nights in a row. Tonight, with Subie and Phil, I tried the new Mexican restaurant at Clearfork, Mesero. The evening started off badly when they seated us at a table in the bar area—too noisy for both Phil and me. We asked to be moved, and when we were put in the main section of the dining area, with carpet on the floor, the noise level was much more manageable. Subie was quite sure they seated us in that less desirable, out-of-the-way spot because we had Phil’s service dog with us. My chicken enchiladas with white crema sauce were attractively presented and really good but so rich. I have ¾ of an enchilada in the fridge for lunch tomorrow. A pleasant, early evening.

The Overwhelmed Blogger

Make new friends, but keep the old; Those are silver, these are gold

I’ve missed a couple of nights of blogging, maybe more, and I think it’s in part because this has been an overwhelming week nationally. When I did blog, it was mostly out of outrage, and I apologize for that—sort of. I am weary of people who won’t speak out for their beliefs because they don’t want to offend someone.

On a more pleasant note, this has been a week to treasure old friends. One night three friends and I went to dinner at a restaurant some distance away—we were chef-chasing, because one of us really liked this chef at another location. The restaurant experience was not good—the waiter spilled ice water on two of my friends, the waitress confessed that she didn’t like the chicken fried steak (well trained staff), they forgot the happy hour prices, etc. Food was okay, not great, but we’ll not make that trek again.

The evening was rescued by the fun of being together. I’ve known these ladies close to thirty years, at a guess. I first me one of them, and she introduced the second. Meantime I was already long friends with the third. Now they are all fast friends with me and with each other. It’s a joy when you bring people together. We laugh, we talk about serious matters, we enjoy, and we go home refreshed.

Next day I had lunch with a forty-year friend. As I wrote in the blog earlier, the lunch was marred at least for me by a strong political difference, but there is still the tie of shared experiences, a past of years that cannot be erased. When I brought my first child home from the adoption agency and didn’t know a thing about caring for babies, she left her child with her mom and came to help me. Our children grew up together. We saw each other through many personal ups and downs. Today’s polarizing politics can’t undo those ties, thank goodness.

Ethnic dining was on my agenda this week too. Betty, my weekly dining companion of some twenty-five years, and I went to Tokyo Café, always a favorite. I discovered something new to me on the menu—a Bao Bun. Essentially smoked brisket wrapped in dough, baked, and served with a wonderful teriyaki sauce. The next day neighbor Mary (a relatively new friend of say five or six years but still valued) and I went to King Tut, and I enjoyed sambosa with cucumber sauce and tabbouleh. Hadn’t been there in a long time.

Tonight, a reunion with old friends, both, like me, the ex-wives of osteopathic physicians. I see one of them from time to time, after a space of many years, but hadn’t seen the other in years. Talk about old friends! I’ve known these ladies since probably the mid-to-late seventies. We had great fun talking about old times and catching up on the present and children and grandchildren. Yeah, we talked about those ex-husbands a bit too, but there was lots of laughter and little regret.

I am fortunate to have had so many friends last a lifetime, and I count my blessings every day.