On To Canada

First sight of Victoria

for maximum coherence, read all the posts from this trip in order, starting with THIS ONE. 

After meeting everybody at the airport, and trying to park my car in the wrong long-term lot, we finally got away. We drove up to Port Angeles, where we caught the ferry to Victoria, on Vancouver Island in British Columbia.  Cleared customs easily and located our hotel with no trouble. Victoria is a very manageable size, and though we are well out of downtown, it's only a matter of blocks from the hotel to the center of activity. We unpacked and headed out for dinner at a new English pub (because the Persian place we wanted to go to was already closed).

On our first full day, we hit all the highlights of the city: the provincial capitol building;

Miniature World; 

diorama of the battle of Bastogne

the Bug Zoo;

and Craigdarroch Castle, home of western Canada's greatest robber-baron.

We spent a good deal of time walking around, including lunch at a hot dog stand that virtually doesn't exist, and dinner at a locavore place that was pretty good. I would say more, but (a) the pictures more or less tell the entire story, and (2) I'm too tired.

I think the only thing I would particularly want to single out, that's not represented by the pictures, is the truly outstanding job done by a "floor supervisor" named Adriana at Craigdarroch Castle. Of all the employees I've encountered at any tourist site in any city on any continent, she is undoubtedly the most interesting, knowledgeable and entertaining, not to mention vivacious. What would have been a self-guided tour of perhaps an hour in an interesting old house became a truly enlightening and fascinating three hours. She's an argument in favour of human cloning: with more like her, more people would want to know more about history and architecture, and that can only be a boon to society.

Sleepless in Seattle

for maximum coherence, read all the posts from this trip in order, starting with THIS ONE.

Not a clever title, I know, but I thought it was appropriate Saturday night, about one in the morning when I left downtown Seattle to return to my dingy hotel room in Sea-Tac. I went downtown with the idea of taking some night pictures of deserted streets, but (A) my camera battery died and the spare was back in the hotel room; and (B) the streets weren't deserted. Turns out downtown is a happening place in these parts. There are clubs and crowds and more street-people than you can shake a stick at, much as you'd like to. I saw the Gum Wall and the ferris wheel and the Space Needle (from a distance) and had a yakisoba hot dog from a food truck; got into a conversation with the guy behind me in line and now, of course, we're like Best Friends Forever. He and I walked around for a couple of hours and talked until I couldn't stay awake any longer and went back to Sea-Tac.

My plan for Sunday was to go first up to Snoqualmie Falls, then come back to the hotel and do my laundry. Big day. I got as far as the parking lot before deciding it was too cold and wet to go up in the mountains for lousy pictures of a beautiful waterfall, so I surfed the web for a while. Then my new friend Mick (a southern boy, from Mississippi, who used to live in New Orleans, so we had lots to talk about) called and invited me back into the city. Met him on the street corner where we'd said goodnight and he took me up to Pike Market for a newspaper and Ranier cherries and a cabbage (he also likes to cook, so that's more we have to talk about) and, of course, coffee (drinkable; what a pleasant surprise, though he had to make fun of me for just ordering regular coffee), and then we went up to his apartment, on the 24th floor of a building right by the art museum (gorgeous view; wish I'd thought to take the camera with me then, though it hadn't occurred to me until just now that I could have taken pictures of it. If you lean waaaaay out and look left you can see the Space Needle), and we sat out on his balcony and ate cherries and talked for a while. Then I went back to Sea-Tac and did my laundry. Big day. Big day.

magnolia

Yesterday I drove my Western Washington loop, going through all the remaining counties in that part of the state. Along the way I saw the state capitol complex at Olympia, where I was surprised to see magnolia trees. Not big ones, but successful ones, with big blossoms just starting to come out. The capitol building itself is mostly unadorned. The dome seems too large for the building, but not too out of proportion. The office buildings surrounding it are designed in such a way that they all seem very small, though they're not, really. Inside, the building is remarkably plain compared to every other statehouse I've ever been in: understated. The best thing about it is that I was made to feel welcome there. Nobody made me walk through a metal detector, nobody insisted on seeing identification or logging me into some kind of mock-security register of Potential Terrorists Come To Bring Down Western Civilisation. Not at all like the statehouse in Kentucky, for example, where I refused to go in because of all the asinine rigamarole they demanded. The only questions anyone asked me were (1) what's my zip code (for the tourism statistics) and (2) "Can I help you find something?"

Star hydrangea

My next stop was in North Aberdeen, out near the coast, at the Kurt Cobain Landing, a half-assed memorial to the late grunge rocker thrown together at a spot where he used to hang out under a bridge when he was a kid. I'm not a big Nirvana fan, but there aren't many things out on the fringe of America to use as an excuse to visit those counties. The Landing has a sculpture of an electric guitar and some quotes from The Great One on signs and walls; the best part was the easel, empty, labelled "Kurt's Air Guitar."

Willapa NWR

Followed US 101 south from there to Cape Disappointment State Park, near the mouth of the Columbia River. I have a couple of theories about why it's called that. The park has some nice views of the beach (called Long Beach, "the longest driveable beach in the world" at 27 miles), and two decrepit old disfunctional lighthouses, and, of course, views of the mouth of the great river.

decrepit lighthouse A

decrepit lighthouse B

not Long Beach

After that, it was a scenic drive up the Columbia to the freeway that brought me back to Seattle. I did get one clear glimpse of Mt St Helens (which, on my previous visit to this area, had been entirely shrouded in fog), but when I got closer it was hidden behind lower intervening hills; and later, as I approached Seattle, Mt Ranier stood out clear, though getting a picture of it was a real challenge, since the only clear shots were from the freeway. I finally gave up and settled for a picture with a bunch of phone lines in the way.

Forest Fires Force Flexibility

for maximum coherence, read all the posts from this trip in order, starting with THIS ONE. 

So it turns out that the forest fires I mentioned as causing the sky to be smoky in yesterday's post are right astride the routes I planned to take through the state of Washington tomorrow, and all the roads I'd planned to use are closed indefinitely. And this in a part of the world where there are no alternative routes to speak of. So I spent some time last night figuring out how to deal with it, and decided I would continue on my original plan until I reached Sandpoint, Idaho this evening, then cut down to Spokane and head on in to Seattle, getting there a few hours earlier than planned.

I got about 12 miles from Great Falls before the incredible acridity of the air forced me to put the top up, despite the wonderful temperature; and even with the top up, the stench was still unbearable and the visibility was so reduced that mountains a few miles away appeared ghostlike in the haze. I pulled off the road and got out the maps and decided that I would just cut south, to get out of the smoke, and head west on the freeway. The freeway! Yecch! But that's what I did, the upshot being that I got to Seattle (Sea-Tac, actually) today, and now have three nights here instead of two. Also, since so many people have evacuated central Washington (and come here, apparently), all the cheap hotels I'd been looking at on line have now disappeared, and where before I was looking at about $60/night, I'm now paying just over $100. Probably for the same hotel, which is all but full. Every cloud has a silver lining; this cloud of smoke has a silver lining for hoteliers west of the fires.

Need I mention that there was nothing worth stopping to take a picture of along the way? (I did, actually, take one photograph, of a wildfire on top of a low mountain, but I haven't uploaded it yet & probably won't until another day.

Now I have to figure out what to do with myself for two full days here. (I do have a plan of sorts.)

2014 Condo Week pre-trip, days 4 & 5

for maximum coherence, read all the posts from this trip in order, starting with THIS ONE. 

 

The day before yesterday, when I had checked into my motel in Valentine, Nebraska, I started the car to drive down to my room, and it made an odd noise. Sounded kind of serious. Yesterday morning, when I started it up again, it made the same noise, only worse. Uh-oh. You know a Jag is the prettiest car you'll ever see broken down by the side of the road, so we Jag owners tend to worry about noises.

I pulled into a gas station nearby to fill it up, and when I started it again, I heard that same noise, even worse.  Okay, I thought, I ain't a-gonna find anybody in Valentine, Nebraska who knows much about Jaguars, so I will just pray nothing breaks until I get to a bigger place.

fields in summer,
Rosebud Indian Reservation

Stopped for breakfast on the Rosebud reservation, and when I re-started the car, there was that noise again, and even worse. Sounded like a loud grinding noise. Stopped almost immediately, though, as it did each time.

Next stop was in Murdo, South Dakota for the Pioneer Auto Museum. An interesting collection of vehicles (along with toys and miscellaneous memorabilia, much like Elmer's Auto Museum in Wisconsin, which I saw a few weeks ago) slowly rotting away in dust and rust.

a '58 Ford hardtop-convertible

'65 Impala, one of my favourite cars

The horse-collar that doomed the car

a truly significant vehicle, the '38 Chrysler Airflow
Look at the condition this thing is kept in.

the first solar-powered vehicle,
poorly kept

I thought I could find someone who might have some idea about my problem at an automotive museum, but no. So I went on, intending to stop at the Minuteman Missile Nat'l Historic Site before heading over to hike in the Badlands, but along the way decided (after hearing the same horrible noise on starting up at the museum) to go on to Wall, a fairly sizeable town that might have an appropriate resource. I stopped at Wall Drugs (which is a sight in itself -- a city block of tourist attractions of all sorts, from western art to playgrounds to, well, a drugstore) and got directions to the one "pretty good" mechanic in town, but when I started the car, it made no odd noise 

At that point I realized the noise I'd been hearing is the noise you hear when you keep the ignition key turned too long after the engine has engaged. 

What a relief! And don't I feel stupid.

So I went in the back entrance to Badlands National Park. Stopped at a few overlooks, then got out at the Castle Trailhead for a short hike of an hour or so. Brought my water in a canteen and my safari hat and my walking stick just for this experience. 

The Castle Trail is 5 miles long. I obviously wasn't going to hike the whole distance, especially since, though it was only about 88 degrees, it felt like 105. I wandered around for about an hour, thinking there surely must be some kind of trail markers out there, but none were visible beyond a single red plastic pole near the start. Eventually I gave up on finding the trail --- it's all open country there, and you can see hundreds of yards in most directions, except where there's a small bluff or outcropping of rock. Headed back to the trail head, and as I came around the last little bluff, I saw a second red trail marker. It is not visible from the first red trail marker, and the ground is so hard and open that there is no indication of the path from one marker to the next.

Badlands National Park

Seems like they ought to do something about that.

Pulled into Rapid, where I had a hotel reservation, around 5:30, except that I'd gained an hour for the time change (I thought the time zone boundary was the state line). Could have gone another 3 or 4 hours, but for that paid reservation.  So no reservation for tonight, but I made it to Great Falls, Montana, after driving Spearfish Canyon, and

Spearfish Canyon, South Dakota

a detour to Red Lodge and Absarokee (to get a couple of new counties in southeastern Montana) and found a motel with no problem. Lucky me.

The air in Montana is thick with smoke from some forest fires somewhere; a couple of people told me they just started this morning and already the smoke has covered half of this huge state.

No idea what this is.It stands next to Hwy 87 in Montana

Day 3 of the 2014 Condo Week Pre-Trip

 for maximum coherence, read all the posts from this trip in order, starting with THIS ONE.

 

Drove up from Kansas into Nebraska today. This is the part of the country people think of when they hear the term "Flyover Country" but it's actually quite pretty, in a sedate sort of way. First stop was in Gothenburg, Nebraska, where there's an old Pony Express station that was relocated to a city park and restored. Nice little tidbit of American history. Always surprising how the pony express fixes itself into the national consciousness, even though it only lasted a few months. The three originators of the idea went bankrupt after 9 months of service, but the people who would later create Wells Fargo took it over and operated it at some profit for a further 9 months (by cutting the price of mail by 80%, which vastly increased volume and thus revenue), until the telegraph lines were completed coast-to-coast; at which point it became moot.

Just north of the tiny town of Arnold, Nebraska (where I made a short detour for the sole purpose of visiting Logan County), the northbound highway ended, but a city street that becomes a county road runs north. I took that. A couple of miles along, the road suddenly (and I mean suddenly) rises into the Sand Hills, several hundred feet higher and starkly gorgeous: rolling grass-covered hills with deep valleys, vistas in every direction. This goes on mile after mile (especially along the route I took), with only a few small towns to interrupt.  I wouldn't mind living in a place like this, if it never got colder than it was today (60 degrees when I left Kansas, 70 by late afternoon), or hotter. But that's pretty unlikely.

East of Valentine, Nebraska, I went out to see Smith Falls, the highest in the state. You reach it by 15 miles of good road under construction, followed by 4 miles of washboard gravel road, which must keep a lot of people away. The web site for the park claims the height of the falls to be 63', but there's a certain amount of unnecessary puffery in that. The main cataract, where a stream cascades off a cliff in a fascinating bell shape, is only about 30 feet high. The rest of the advertised height is made up of an unimpressive series of small cataracts dribbling away into the Niobrara River, a couple of hundred yards downstream. If they were bigger you might call them rapids.

see the other pictures

Still, it's a beautiful sight. The water on the left side of the falls courses down the rock in small sheets; in the middle, it falls through space in a bridal-veil cascade that spreads wide as it comes down; while on the right, the water is funneled into a sort of flume that gushes out and down, so the three parts of the falls seem to all be moving at different speeds. They all flow into a basin at the bottom and a stream carries it along to the nearby river. The whole falls is contained within a circular hole in the sandstone, making it seem utterly remote from the world. Certainly worth the drive, even if I didn't get a new county by going there.

This Year's Second Big Trip

Condo Week is coming! Condo Week is coming!

Yes, this year's Condo Week will be in Blaine, Washington, just across the border from the Great White North, and I'm already on my way. I left San Antonio yesterday, drove up the freeway (yecch) all day to spend a Monday night in Oklahoma City. (I had to put the top up when it hit 95 degrees; it topped out at 104. Today, by contrast, it never hit 80.)

Several years ago, Oklahoma City did some advertising that made it seem the kind of place I might like to spend a weekend in, so this trip started with a test of that idea. I think now that I'm cured of my desire to spend several days there.  The most interesting thing I saw was the pedestrian bridge across Interstate 40, which connects a large park on the south side of the freeway to what I hope is the seediest area of downtown. The old Union Station, now used for the city's Parking Division, sits at the north end of the bridge, but beyond that are about six blocks of absolute waste before you get to downtown proper.

Note the truck on top
of the self-storage place

From there it was off to Bricktown, an entertainment district in the corner of downtown between two freeways. It seems to be a recently renovated area where they've dug a canal in imitation of
San Antonio's River Walk. Looks like they bought all the old-style river barges when SA upgraded some years back. Maybe in 20 years it will be nicer, but it seems right now to be a shamelessly and pathetically commercial endeavour with none of the charm that makes the Paseo del Rio such an attraction. With luck, though, local businesses (as opposed to the national chains) will move in to give it a uniquely Oklahoma flavour that it now lacks. Right now it's more like a Las Vegas-style mall spread along a fake river.


The thing that most struck me was a sign I saw in a small grassy area next to one of the new upscale apartments just north of Bricktown. There's something radically wrong with the nanny attitudes of a place when they post signs that forbid letting your dog poop on the grass. I think next time I come to Oklahoma City I will save up my dog's output for a couple of weeks, and deposit it along the sidewalks in that area.

Early Tuesday I was out of the hotel, planning to spend a couple of hours hiking in Red Rock Canyon, about an hour west of town. A pretty place: you descend sharply on a tightly curving road until you're in a small forested canyon between sandstone walls. Unfortunately, the only trail in the park, Rough Horsetail Trail, was closed because of flood damage, so I only spent about half an hour in the park.


Then it was up to Liberal, Kansas, where I saw the Land of Oz, which, to be honest, was not worth stopping for. It's the kind of tourist attraction that gives small towns their reputation for being lame. It actually is lame, though I'm sure Liberal is a nice place to live.

From there I went up to Monument Rocks, possibly the country's best-kept secret. I was there a couple of years ago with a friend; this time I spent about an hour wandering around the hoodoos by myself, not another soul in sight. The sky, this time, was more dramatic, and it was later in the day (and much cooler!). I loved it, and took way too many pictures (most of which can be seen in the online album).

And if anybody (besides me) is keeping track, today I went through the last two unvisited counties in Kansas. Tomorrow I'm off to see a Pony Express station and the Highest Waterfall in Nebraska. And I should go through six new counties in that state this trip.

Only 5th?

Winzer Stube
516 2nd Street
Hudson, Wisconsin

Near my house in San Antonio is a taquería that was once selected, by a supposedly reputable national food magazine, as the Best Taco House in America. Most of us taco aficionados in that part of the world didn't even consider it the best taco house on that street, let alone in the country; so I have some personal experience that leads me to question the value and significance of such titles. Now I come to the pleasant little burg of Hudson, Wisconsin, and find this German restaurant claiming, with almost unbelievable pride, the title of 5th Best German Restaurant in America. My lord, they even print it on the check! They never say who, exactly, awarded them this title, but it doesn't really matter. The point is, they believe it, and they are proud of it.

What's that mean?

Me, I'm not so sure. I think they might be shortchanging themselves. Admittedly, I haven't been to the higher-ranked German restaurants; don't even know where they are. I'm only sure that there ain't one back home, because I've been to all the better German restaurants there (and San Antonio is a city with a strong German heritage that most outsiders are unaware of), and none of them comes close to Winzer Stube for quality food, ambience and authentic German-style service. 

For starters, there's the location in the cellar of a building in the quaintly gentrified center of Hudson, a town with the youthful exuberance of trendy parts of Minneapolis but without the traffic. You open the street door and are faced, unexpectedly, with two staircases, one going up, one down. After a moment's uncertainty, you notice a sign indicating your objective is down. Very much a rathskeller feel. You enter the bar room, a long bar fading off into the distance, a few tables on a raised platform to the right. Posts and bracing emphasize the underground feel. From that vantage point you don't realize there's more to the dining area, and an aura of charm settles around you; a feeling that lasts even when you notice how much larger the space actually is.

We were settled at our table and presented with cards showing the daily specials, a bound drinks list, and menus elegantly printed on scrolls. They list an interesting and mouthwatering collection of foods for every course, making choosing a meal here one of the toughest restaurant decisions I've had to face in quite a while. In the end, I went with a cup of Hungarian goulash, followed by Schlemmertopf "Weiskirchen". My tablemate chose the cream of mushroom soup with his entrée of Koenigsberger Klopse, translated simply as "meatballs." What prodigious pleasure lay behind that mundane word!

But I'm getting ahead of myself (and if I keep this up I will have to put off writing to go heat up the leftovers in the fridge downstairs). First, the soups.

The goulash was delicious. Thick. Meaty. Seasoned, with paprika and caraway. I want more. It was, though, not the best choice as a first course. I probably would have been better off having a lighter soup, just enough to whet the appetite. But I'm glad I tried it nonetheless. My friend's cream of mushroom soup would have been a better choice, for example. Despite being made largely from cream and butter, it was a light broth with excellent, even delicate flavour and remarkable body. Both soups were nicely complemented by a heavy German bread.

I don't know what "schlemmertopf" means, but suspect it means something like "pot" or "saucepan." Tells you nothing about what's in it. Hiding inside (it actually is served in a covered saucepan) are several thick, exquisitely seasoned and grilled chunks of beef tenderloin, a great many thick slices of fresh sautéed mushrooms, and a smattering of spaetzle, those thick German noodles that my Italian relatives would jealously dismiss as mere artless dumplings. All this was lightly coated with a surprisingly light cream sauce. (That surprising lightness seems to be a theme here, doesn't it? Maybe that's because it goes against the reputation of German cuisine.)

The schlemmertopf would have been the highlight of any other meal I've ever had in a German restaurant, in the US or abroad. But in this case it was overshadowed by my friend's meatballs. The dish consists of four large balls of pork and beef in a cream-and-capers sauce, served with parslied potatoes. These things were incomparable. The seasoning of the dish was impeccable, and the sauce was rich and (here's that word again) light. The meatballs were cooked through without the least bit of rubberiness or crusting. All in all, a magnificent accomplishment that, sadly, is not on the regular menu. 

The service here was, as I said earlier, authentically German. That can be a double-edged sword, perhaps, as the Germans are not noted for their cheerful, easy manner.* It may be that the waitstaff here are not of the cheerily bubbly sort that is expected in American restaurants; but it was polite, effective, attentive and prompt, leaving me with nothing to complain about.

Nothing, that is, but the up-charge of $1.50 for the choice of goulash as my soup. My dish came with choice of soup or salad, and the goulash is listed as a soup on the menu, so I would expect it to be available at the same price as any other soup. At the very least, I would expect to be told that there would be an additional charge, but was not. A small grumble, really just enough to satisfy my curmudgeonly urges, but a valid one. 

I feel better, and not just for having said that; also for having nipped down to the kitchen during the writing of this for a bit of that leftover schlemmertopf Weiskirchen. Mmmm. 

* In Germany, I once met a man in the tourist business in Latvia who told me that in his home town of Riga, "We get a lot of German tourists. You can always tell them from the others, because they never smile."

Grandma Lives!

Audie's Restaurant
314 North Nicolet
Mackinaw City, Michigan

We opted for dinner at this local family-style place at the recommendation of our hotelier. The ambience is middle-class-comfortable, clean and well-maintained, not the least bit pretentious or trendy. Solid and reliable, I suppose,  are the adjectives they're going for, and they succeed.

They have a full bar, and my driving obligations for the near term consisted only of the three-block trek along near-deserted streets, so my friend Kirby went for a vodka martini (yes, yes, I know: if it's not gin it's not a martini. Pace, fellow curmudgeons), while I did the beer thing. Since they actually carry my favourite brand (Killian's Irish Red, in case anybody's looking to supply my wants), it put me in a rare good mood.

The menu carries all the usual stuff for this type of restaurant, although the heavy presence of smelt and whitefish is a local thing. Those breeds of fish are, along with midges, the main foodstuffs produced locally. Kirby chose chicken primavera, one of the day's specials, while I picked lasagna after being assured that it was made in-house.

The house salad I got as a first course didn't bode well for the evening's experience. Not that anything was wrong with it; it was just ordinary salad mix pulled by the handful from a big plastic bag, then decorated with a sprinkle of cheddar cheese and a couple of rings of red onion so it would look, you know, like they really made the effort back in the kitchen. The honey mustard dressing on the side was thick and tangy, and the salad ingredients were reasonably fresh, so it gets a passing grade. (Kirby got a trip to the salad bar with his meal, and fussed about having to do the work himself while I got mine delivered. He has been learning to grouse from me for several years now.) The rolls served with the salads barely pass, being the kind that come in a big pan, are heated in the kitchen, and dry out as quickly as they cool.

What's that mean?

The chicken primavera was a little heavy on the alfredo sauce, but otherwise somewhere between good and superior. Lots of vegetables -- asparagus, cauliflower, mushrooms, squash and green beans -- mixed with rotini underlay a nicely grilled chicken breast. It was served with a heavily buttered slice of garlic bread, and nearly proved to be too much for one person to eat.

But the star attraction (in addition to excellent service overall) was the lasagna. I would not have expected to find a lasagna in an out-of-the-way burg like Mackinaw City, Michigan, that could rival my grandmother's excellent, excellent version, but there it is. A large bowl of noodles still al dente despite who knows how long warming in the kitchen, interspersed with layers of cheese and meat and topped with a tomato-based sauce that was seasoned to shocking perfection. Magnifico! And it was such a large portion that I have enough for a second meal, although the lack of a refrigerator in my motel room probably will defeat that plan, and it will go to waste with my fullest regrets. Unless I eat it now....

The prices were pretty good, even by my miserly South-Texas standards: entrées are ten bucks or less, and drinks prices are moderate.  All in all, a solid three and a half chili peppers out of five.

Still --- STILL That Good!

Mike's In The Village
Bulverde Town Square
Bulverde, Texas

(a couple of miles west of US 281, on FM 1863)

This place is just not to be beaten. It may not be the only place serving food I rate at 5 chili peppers out of 5 (I don't know; maybe it is), but it's certainly the only place that's gotten that rating out of me three times: in my original blog post in December 2010, and in an update on Urbanspoon two years later. 

What's that mean?

Last night's great treats were, after the obligatory cup of outstanding chicken-and-sausage gumbo,  a perfectly cooked filet mignon with garlic mashed potatoes and green beans (or, as the waitress called them, "haricots verts green beans," unaware of the redundancy, kind of like those people who give us "shrimp scampi"); and a chicken breast, lightly breaded, pan-fried, then stuffed with tomato, mozzarella, herbs and a lovingly thin slice of prosciutto before being roasted. Fit for the gods, it was, a heavenly state helped by the bed of cappelini beneath it.

Köln cathedral

On this occasion, the entire experience of dinner at Mike's In The Village was improved (insofar as that was possible) by the offer of a beer, made by a new-ish brewery in Boerne, called "Denim-Hosen." The drinks card described this beer as being in the Koelsch style, and ever since I discovered that type of beer a couple of years ago, it has been a clear favorite for me. Sadly, though, Koelsch beer is only made in Cologne, Germany, and only sold in the establishments that manufacture it. But the promise of the advertising was too great to be ignored or resisted; and while the first sip managed to excite vague memory, by the bottom of the first glass I could imagine myself stepping back into the fabulous reconstructed cathedral; by the end of the second I was halfway through a tour of the city's Brauereien. If I wasn't driving, I may have finished the trip.

Almost a Trip Down Memory Lane

Christie's
6029 Westheimer, between Fountain View and Voss
Houston

There used to be a Christie's restaurant on Broadway, in San Antonio. I only went there a couple of times, and it's been gone for many, many years; but everybody seems to remember it fondly.  It has the distinction of being like the Alamo: a well-loved place that people seldom went to. 

The Christie's restaurant in Houston, last survivor of a once-thriving chain, embodies everything that made the old S.A. location so popular: a clean, large, traditional dining room, with cloth table coverings, a menu full of long-time favorite dishes, and a swarm of staff keeping each customer supplied with everything they expect in a good restaurant and each place unobtrusively cleared. It's nice, I think, that a restaurant doesn't cut staff in order to save a few bucks. The quality of service is well worth the relatively slight premium in prices.

We chose this place mostly from a sense of nostalgia, and were rewarded with a pleasant meal at a reasonable price in a comfortable setting. I had the beluche, a snapper fillet topped with mushrooms, shrimp and crab in a light wine sauce. Rick chose the shrimp combination, a dish of fried and stuffed shrimp, with french fries and onion rings. 

Both meals were introduced by unremarkable dinner salads of fresh lettuce with a few classic additions: a little shredded carrot, a wedge of tomato, a handful of croutons; and bread, meaning a couple of hot crusty rolls with butter. This portion of the meal could stand some improvement: I think, for example, that an interesting selection of breads puts a diner in a receptive and mellow mood; and the bit of extra labour that would be needed to compile a more interesting salad would pay as many dividends as the smartly-staffed dining room. But Christie's hesitates to do too much updating, lest they upset their base of regular customers. Maybe a wise choice; I don't know.

The beluche was excellent. The fillet was perfectly cooked, a mark of some artistry in the kitchen (one that I can only achieve myself when the microwave is working properly, which it hasn't been for some time). Christie's kitchen manages it on an old-fashioned grill; I doubt there is a microwave in their kitchen at all. The sauce over it was, as I said, subtle. Rick, who had been noshing on his shrimp, thought it bland, while I thought it was extraordinary. After trying his shrimp, I could see why he couldn't appreciate the beluche without a thorough cleansing of the palate. 

What's that mean?

His shrimp were nicely done, though the light batters used on both the fried and stuffed shrimp seemed unusually sweet. These morsels, cooked in a traditional manner, couldn't compare for interest with the fried shrimp he had eaten the previous night at a nearby Thai restaurant, but they were masterpieces of their type. The stuffed shrimp were particularly impressive, with a nice mix of seafood in a pleasantly textured cornmeal coat. The fries were mere filler, having no merit to speak of, and the onion rings were a tremendous disappointment, being large and crunchy-looking but soft and mealy in the actual consumption.

My sides were steamed broccoli (ordered as an add-on) and a baked potato. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the broccoli was just steamed, not coated with some unnecessary oil or other fat for the table. It was a reasonably large serving of good-quality fresh broccoli, one large stem and a second bunch of florets, a genuine "serving." The potato (cooked in a real oven, not the microwave) was evenly done, large enough to satisfy without being one of those steroidal creations found at more au courant restaurants. The generosity of toppings was extraordinary as well, and included fresh-cut green onion in lieu of a sprinkle of bottled chives; a large dollop of fresh butter, an equally large dollop of sour cream, and an even larger portion of fancy-shredded cheddar cheese.  I don't usually let such toppings go to waste, but there was just so much that I had to leave some behind.

All in all,  a good place for seafood.

The Pleasures of Home

Something I'm reminded of very forcefully: Nothing can make you happier to live in San Antonio than spending a few hours in Houston traffic.

Made Me Laugh

I was just browsing through a web site of economist jokes, and found one that I thought worth repeating:

Three econometricians went out hunting, and came across a large deer. The first econometrician fired, but missed, by a meter to the left. The second econometrician fired, but also missed, by a meter to the right. The third econometrician didn't fire, but shouted in triumph, "We got it! We got it!"