“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

Idiotic question! But Dave asked it each day at Chicken Chute.

Calvin asked him to stop for years.

Dipping and breading, slipping into the fryer.

“Don’t get hot and bothered about it.” Dave said.

“I won’t,” thought Calvin, “but you will.”

In went the last piece of Dave.

It was late as I left the Riverwalk in San Antonio. I had just finished a long-delayed dinner at Big Rick’s Bacon-a-go-Go-GO! in the Pearl Brewery market. As I reached for my car keys, a voice called softly from under the overpass: “Hey, want to buy some imported wine?”

I let that comment pass over my ears under the overpass. Can’t help it; just like the wordplay. It was July. I am in a steamy area in 92 degrees where the air has congealed around my skin to lock in the stale residue of the day. Not exactly where I would look, or keep, wine. “What do you have?” I replied to the dusky concrete columns supporting a roadway like a forest of hard knocks.

“Chateau Petrus 1989 — $600 a case.”

The Holy Grail of wine finds slid off his lower lip opposite the cigarette angled on the left. Chateau Petrus, a Bordeaux, Pomerol region, THE Bordeaux of 1989 famous for its rating of 100 out of 100. Release price almost $400 a bottle and he was offering this gem at 50 bucks a cork.

“Show me,” I said as I sauntered over. “All I have is talk right now.”

He stepped into a bit more light, pulling a two-wheel rack with a cardboard case of wine. “I have a friend watching nearby, he’s got a gun, let’s keep this friendly.” His tone was cautious, but hungry.

“Hey, I’m all about peace and love.” I raised my arms a bit with hands plainly visible. “You are the one hiding in the dark. I just like wine.”

He relaxed a bit and reached down to draw out a bottle.

“No need,” I said as I snapped a handcuff on the extended paw. “Just slowly turn around and put your other hand behind your back.”

His eyes were wide and he seemed to tense. “Don’t do it, buddy, I’m with the police,” I said. “Running will just make you tired when I book you.” I did not worry about the friend guarding him. If there were anyone, it was his girlfriend, who by now would have made her way elsewhere.

I read him, bagged and tagged, sent him off with a mobile unit promising to come in and do the paper. Then I continued my now, much-delayed journey home.

This may sound fantastic to you, but there are people scamming people all the time. The wine turned out to be some screw-cap Australian red that they had swapped labels. Petrus did not use screw-tops in 1989, may never. It is a real global wine problem, may not happen that much but it really hurts the confidence of customers.
It’s like those e-mails you get from Senator Um-babab-waye that say if you will just give him your bank account number, he will send you enough money to buy New Mexico. He just wants his cut, like what is in your bank account right now. Oh, and he will get charge cards from the info and they will be in your name. So you will be cleaned out and owe money from here to Buffalo.

Same goes for those deals telling you that California will break off and sink in two weeks and my this is the perfect time to buy inexpensive, soon-to-be-oceanfront property just south of Reno.

If it sounds too good to be true, it is.

Portrait of Charlemagne

“Well, that is one of the few things that is redeeming about those blasted Moors,” Charlemagne said grudgingly. “Even the lowest of their cooks pays great attention to preparation. I wish my cooks would do as much when they prepare my dinner.”

We were discussing food offerings on the Spanish Campaign.  “So you have tried shish-ke-bab, your Majesty?  Perhaps some of your cooks are not so inept?”

I paused to see if I still had his attention and to try to determine whether I could expect an answer.  He was often distracted by the interlocking, revolving circles of military, political, religious, and financial advisors that created a daunting shield around him.

“Yes, I have, and no, they are not.  A woman that was in contact with the Moors seems to have a practical attitude toward making herself useful without regard to religious convictions.  While that may be a problem for her later, right now I am enjoying how she prepares recipes learned while the Moors were controlling this part of my Empire.”

He paused. Noting that the advisors had moved out of earshot, he continued.  “I had a couple of the cooks try to recreate shish-ke-bab and some other dishes, but their results were bland and tough.  They do not take the time to properly season and age the meat.  They also failed to clean the leeks well and I HATE the grit between the layers.”

“Your attention to detail should not be a surprise to me, your Majesty, but I am impressed that you have taken the time to evaluate the nuance of how to prepare the dish properly,” I remarked.

“I do not get much time alone as you might expect,” Charlemagne said, grinning. ” So I find that while dining I can at least have a private conversation with myself about the details of my repast.  So I have taken to comparing versions of specific dishes as a distraction.”

Impressed with this sharing of a personal nature, I encouraged him to continue.

“There are a few things to keep in mind for shish-ke-bab,” he said, warming to his subject.  “You have to season the meat; whether it is bull, or ox, or camel it needs some of those seeds, ’spices’ they call them, to wake it up.  I personally think that boar or pig would be good, but the Moors have some religious objections to that.  Secondly, the meat needs to be cut small enough to cook through in a short time so that it is ready before the vegetables on the skewer get burned.  Browned shallots are delicious, burned shallots are awful.  Third, you should oil the iron skewer so you can get the meat off without having to gnaw on it like a rib!”

Here, he paused for effect, as if to remind me that I really needed to remember that last part.

“Lastly, they make up a liquid to baste the whole thing while it cooks.  This is where you help the vegetables bring out their flavor and keep the meat from getting too dry.  There is a lot of olive oil in the mix and that makes the meat much more palatable.  We will have it tonight!”  He signaled to one of the people riding nearby and gave instructions.  “I might as well enjoy it now, none of them will remember how to fix it when we head home.”

“But surely you could have a scribe preserve your analysis of the recipe?” I urged.  “This could be an entirely new section of books for your library.”

“Pointless,” he sighed. “The scribes show no interest in food at all, so they could not be expected to prepare dishes competently. No other man would think of doing it, and the cooks are women — what hope could there be in trying to teach them to read?”

I discerned a finality to his evaluations, so I did not contest his conclusions. Cheerfully, I just asked about other foods he liked.

“Over the Alps, on the peninsula, they have lots of great stuff.  I guess it is a memory of the Romans.  The Huns just boil stuff, the Slavs at least cook with some wine — which helps. Otherwise, it’s mostly boring.”

“How about closer to home, any traditional favorites?” I asked.

“We do well with beans, like cassoulet.  But that is most of it. It is sad that I, the King of the Franks, have to say this but we need to get cooking ideas from other cultures.  Otherwise, all that will be remembered will be Franks and beans.”

As soon as I entered the kitchen I could tell there was unfinished business.  The pot was bubbling and the aroma was still of abused water.  Scorched, reduced, leaving a ring.

But there was time.

I grabbed the pot handle and had the same feeling that you get when you walk into a dark room and know you should’ve checked your southbound.  You know that your head will feel like a cabbage dropped from the top of the truck, but it’s too late.  I practiced a few dance steps while waving my hand to improve the circulation in the room.   I even sang a few lines of a tribal rhythm from central Africa. After exercising my hand by squeezing a few ice cubes, I got a towel and reached for the pot again.

The eggs were trailing bubbles like a deep-sea diver hunting for treasure and the breath from the bubbles was still sweet like a baby’s.  But I had to get moving now, before things went too far.  I took the pot to the sink and poured off the boiling sea around those calcium-crusted pearls, sending a message to the coffee grounds stuck in the trap to move on down the line.  I put what was left of the crushed ice in my hand in the pot and upped the ante with another handful.  After I ran a little water to chase the ice, I let the matter rest.

But I knew there was more to do.   It would have been easy to follow the crowd, not lead with my chin, and just contribute to harmony by integrating the salt and pepper.  But why go easy when it’s so much harder not to go easy.   Someday I’ll figure that one out. I lined up the mayo, Tabasco, mustard, and garlic like a DI preparing to fillet recruits.  I had to cut the mustard; it just didn’t travel in the same cadence.  The rest would work, if I got the garlic in the right frame of mind.  I smacked it with my knife before it could size up the situation and pulled the paper skin off like the cello from a pack of smokes.  I chopped it and dumped it into a bowl, used the mayo to hide the carnage, and the Tabasco on top was like a reminder that the garlic had been treated rough.  While stirring it together I walked back to the now firmly cold eggs. I set the mixture down and plunged my good hand into the icy depths.  Rapping and turning the egg in one hand, imitating a nervous dealer waiting with a new deck, I saw the white armor flex like the rough skin of a lizard and I took the pelt right off.  I gave more of the same to the other three, scooped the foursome up with the good hand and used my fingertips on the other to grab the bowl.   I sat at my desk and plunged one of the rubber cue balls into the soft pocket of goo.   Twisting the egg, like a painter with too full a brush, I got some of the sauce to ride along with the egg to the corner pocket waiting below my nose.  Wishing I had a beer, I reflected that I had done a good job.   I might not mean much in the big picture, but I never liked being photographed anyway.

William Shakespeare

“Pray, tell me what gustatory delight you have contrived to serve me this day. What manner of secrets does it hold, what layers of complexity to confound and enlighten, what decadence, with which to sate my palate?”

I hardly noticed the head tilted back, the flourish of the hand, the eyes lifted for divine guidance. “Will, it is called blackened redfish. The redfish is simply that, a fish. The blackening is where the magic lies.”

“Creatures from the water oft leave a pungency that can announce one’s arrival before sight says it’s so.” Shakespeare showed concern.

“This is very fresh fish, so most of that which makes you apprehensive is banished. This type of fish has to its credit a mildness that is coveted by those who harbor your concerns.” I saw that he softened his body, relaxing in the chair. “Plus,” I added, “even if it were a more lavishly flavored creature, like salmon, the intensity of the seasoning would keep things in balance.”

“Do you speak of garlic? While it has a pleasing flavor and can satisfy a need for depth in the simplest of fare, it can also foul the wind of discourse for days.”

He just loved to joust on any level, even if he had to make early assumptions so that he could make the path to the answer as convoluted as the trail of a snake.

“Yes, it has garlic. But I have told you before that eating some parsley after a meal will take care of that, and parsley is good for you, too.” He was almost laughing; he knew that he was getting me frustrated. He gave me a small concession in his reply.

“Your words are true, you have given me that very guidance and have been a champion of that blessed herb parsley. Tell me the man that dares to say your cure is false and I will make it a personal quest to show him for the fool that he portrays.”

Ah, my friend Will, always looking to segue to the next scene. “Good,” I reply. “Then the other ingredients assembled to complete the show on your table will be dealt with in like fashion. For the cast of your meal includes thyme, basil, oregano, and other additions, as well as a new seasoning called dried peppers.”

“A very large cast — can it be managed to create a pleasing whole? As to pepper, I am quite familiar with its heat and fruit qualities, though I had not heard the little black beads referred to as dried until now.” A very pleased countenance dissolved as he heard my reply.

“It is not that pepper of which I speak, though I agree to the ease of confusion. The pepper which I have labeled new was named for some resemblance in the way it can impart a sense of heat without fire, yet it is not of the same family. The pepper you refer to is a dried berry — the pepper I refer to is a fruit from the New World. When ripened, harvested, and dried, it makes a rich addition to any entrée.” Before I could continue, our dinner arrived.

Shakespeare looked at the blackened fillet, and I watched as his expressions shifted. At first, somewhat taken aback that the fish seemed to be very dark. On further inspection, his expression softened as he realized that the dish was not overcooked, that it was just the coating of fresh herbs that had darkened from the heat of the skillet. Then the sense of curiosity, always a part of him, took hold and drew him over the plate.

As he inhaled the aromas, I saw another evolution of expression. The first richly satisfying odors drawing him closer, the spicy pungency making his eyebrows rise slightly, then the desire as his brain assembled the information.

“I feel poised on the brink of dark excitement and adventure!” He spoke firmly, “I hope that the heralds trumpeting to my nostrils are backed by a well-directed show for my palate.” With that he reached for his flagon of wine. I reflected, as he drew a deep draught, that the wine was a simple and rough red with a small but pronounced sweetness. It was not what I wanted to sip of an evening, but might do well with the meal.

Finished with the flagon for now, he pulled his cutlery out of a bag on his hip and cut a bite from the fish. The classic contrast of dark outside-creamy white inside was enhanced by a puff of steam rising from the cut. Ever suspicious of seafood, he sniffed the bite in his spoon before allowing it into his mouth.

The third play of masks that he went through were a happy one at first flavors, a second of surprised concern as the heat of the cayenne pepper hit him, and, as he reached for the flagon, a relaxation as his palate adjusted to the level of spice. He picked up the flagon but paused before drinking.

“This is unlike anything I have experienced besides the applause of the crowd or the union with a woman one has fancied for a long time!”

Why couldn’t he just say it was as good as sex? Or had he?

“It still is bringing new flavors to me in the epilogue.” He was thoughtfully ruminating. “Yes, this is worthy of continued exploration.”

He then drank and saw how the sweetness in the wine doused much of the heat from the peppers, nodded to himself and continued to enjoy the meal.

I had to goad him just a little. “So I am forgiven the garlic in your meal?”

“I would never be so little as to demean the offerings of a well-intentioned friend. In truth, this is a fine diversion that I will not only cherish, but hope to return to as daily trials allow.”

I was feeling pretty good with this glowing recommendation until he added, “But knowing your penchant to push me into uncharted realms, I only accepted your invitation when we had a break between plays.”