Riding Out Hurricane Irene at GianMarcos in the H'wood.

 Did any of you share a sick thought while watching the ubiquitous Weather Channel reporters trying to explain why it was foolish for listeners to brave the high winds and storm surge of Hurrican Irene while they stood a few yards from the surf hunched over like Quasimodo in the wind gusts?




"Only a fool or a brave weathercaster would go out in this storm...." (TWC's Jim Cantore shows us which direction not to spit.)

 

I thought for a second: Wouldn't it be very ironic if a stray piece of building material would fly from the side of the screen and conk Jim Cantore on the head during one of these now staple shots of him in his LL Bean attire buffeted by hurricane winds? Not kill him, mind you, just shut him up about staying indoors. A show of hands? I thought so. There are more of we sicko's than we care to admit. Especially the guy who mooned the entire nation in the background as some Weather Channel reporter tried to scare everyone to not do what he was in fact doing at the time: Standing near a beach as a hurricane was coming ashore.

"As you can see the storm is...WTF!!" (Wheeeeee!)

Which, logically, brings me to Lunch in the Gump. We have, for years now, warned you all about leaving the Gump to go "over the wall" into the nether worlds beyond the bypass for lunch just a stridently as the nerdy meteorologists at The Weather Channel harp on evacuating or staying "in your safe place." Yet, you have no doubt noted that we, as they do, often break our own rules to visit exceptional places like Spring House or Chez Fonfon or The Wishbone Cafe or to wander like a fool out into hurricane force winds.

I must admit that I too have ventured outside the safety of our little Gump-world recently. However, I had a good reason: A desire for fine Northern Italian food served in casual but white table-cloth restaurant where you do not have to use a bathroom the size of a cheap RV's water closet. The name Corsino's may come to mind because they have a cramped W.C. and grungy tables but they most certainly do not serve Northern Italian food.

Indeed, do any of you remember when the Gump had a really good local Northern Italian restaurant? I recall a very fine Northern Italian restaurant in the basement of the Downtowner with a chef named Ferrari but the name of the restaurant I cannot recall. More recently I remember Del'Amalia which was located where India Palace is now. I miss them both very much. They both served high quality and authentic Northern Italian food with excellent service and interesting wine lists. Why they closed I will never understand. I think they were ahead of their time for the Gump.

Unfortunately, to enjoy high-end non-chain Italian cuisine at a white table cloth restaurant with apron- clad waiters today you have to go north to the Hwood i.e. Homewood. So the other day, while I was in the Ham getting some required Continuing Legal Education and being lectured by young whippersnapperlawyers with 15 years of experience regaling me with information I have known for 30 years. (It was not even worth asking questions that would embarrass them.) So as the lecturer droned on, I checked Urban Spoon and found some pretty uniform and high recommendations for a place in Homewood named GianMarcos. I decided then and there to go out into the storm to try a place I could not enjoy in the safety of the Gump.

Rather than stay for a presentation on the ridiculous tax breaks offered film companies in Alabama, I snuck out early and, with the aid of my talking car's navigation system, found the nondescript little place located amid a very quaint little neighborhood in South Homewood.

Parking was a challenge even though I arrived around 11:45 a.m.. I entered the cozy bar area and noted the ample selections of Scotch behind the bar and the accolades from local magazines on the wall. When I entered the dining area to the right I saw the open kitchen on the left and a dark room with about 20 tables to the right. The place had the ambiance of Michael's Table (which is a good thing). Tall draped windows served as a backdrop to the candle lit tables and open kitchen-where servers stood awaiting the plates of food verses the food getting cold waiting for servers. Their motto at Gian Marcos is "People wait for pasta. Pasta does not wait for people." Incidentally, the name is a combination of the first names of the owners and operators: Brothers Giani and Marco Respinto. They are not from Millbrook.

Once at the entrance to the seating area I was quickly greeted by a professional waiter in a shirt and tie who sat me and brought me a basket of fresh Italian bread. A carafe of olive oil was already on the table along with the lunch menu.

The choices were many: A cheese selection, a prosciutto selection, pastas and sandwiches. I chose a sandwich with sausage, onions on Italian bread. Delicious! Wish I had the vocab to describe or the memory to remember all the ingredients. Left my phone in the car and could not get a picture. You will just have to trust me on this one.

And trust me on this: They only serve lunch on Wednesdays through Fridays and at night, a reservation is highly recommended.

So until the Gump attracts a quality Northern Italian restaurant I will occasionally ignore my own advice and venture into the dangerous storm that is Birmingham traffic--until a sign blows into my head or some texting "Ham"ster rear ends me. 

"Jucy Lucy" Get to the OR STAT!

[Ed note: 2/21/13: Olive Room is no more.]

My friend and surgeon about dropped his forceps into the operative field when the nurse told him The Olive Room was now open for lunch during the week. After gaining his composure (and retrieving the instrument) I heard him through the drug induced haze say "My God woman get someone over there Stat and get me whatever is the first entree on the menu! Chop chop!"

That was the last thing I remember....I dreamt of Olive Room duck breasts on the wing. They were in a formation that resembled a giant fork. On the ground was an army of giblets firing salvos of chutney which exploded into flack clouds of dark gravy winging some of the breasts and sending them tumbling to plates of homemade mashed potatoes covering the ground. They kept coming in waves, waves of duck breasts....delicious Olive Room duck breasts on the wing....

I awoke in the recovery room, sans reproductive capabilities, and smelled something gloriously meaty and good. I noticed my doctor buddy eating something with his back to me in the corner of the room while he toyed with his stock portfolio on his iPad. I was hungry despite the anesthetic. "What is it?" I mumbled causing him to turn, his face covered with a cheesy sheen. I noticed globules of yellow American cheese splattered all over his green scrubs. He swallowed hard and said with a silly grin, "Why it's a Juicy Lucy."

A juicy what? I knew my doctor friend had a weakness for nurses on the side but had he now fallen to consorting with common street whores? How disgust...ing, er...wait, is he talking about something he was eating right then and there?

Not this Juicy Lucy.....

I must have appeared confused because Doc swiveled his chair to display a half-eaten cheeseurger. Or was it a cheeseburger? No, wait. There was something wrong or different about it. Was it....? Yes! It was a hamburger filled with melted gooey cheese on the inside of the burger.

....THIS Jucy Lucy.

Wow! Now they have thought of everything. I mean, we sent astronauts to the moon in 1969, but it took us until the 1990s to put wheels on luggage and until 2011 to put the cheese inside our burgers. Why, the simple genius of it?

All I could rasp was "Where did that come from?"

"Well," he garbled before swallowing, "that is certainly a matter of intense controversy, especially in Minneapolis. You see, there are two bars, one called Matt's and the other the 5-8 which are across the street from each other and which both claim to be the originator. The 5-8 Bar calls theirs the 'Jucy Lucy' and Matt's lists theirs as the 'Juicy Lucy.' At the 5-8 Bar they wear T-Shirts that say 'Jucy Lucy' on the front and 'If its spelled right you are in the wrong place!' on the back."

"You had time to order lunch from Minnesota during my operation?" I asked. "How long was I out?"

He chuckled. "No, silly silly Shadow Pup. You won't believe it but they serve these at The Olive Room for lunch now," he grinned with cheese on his chin. "And it was only nine bucks with fries and a sOda!" (He emphasized the 'o' to sound like a Yankee from Fargo).

I almost feinted. My favorite fine dining restaurant was now open for lunch and it served what appeared to be a major breakthrough in gastronomy! Had I died and gone to Heaven....?
I heard a muffled burp. I came back from the bright light and gathered my senses.

"What else do they offer at lunch?" I asked.

"There are Cuban sandwiches, Korean quesadillas, chicken salads...a bunch of stuff all for the same price: Nine bucks. It's the bomb!" Then he turned to devour the rest of his Juicy Lucy leaving me longing for a trip to the Olive Room for lunch, soreness in my nether regions notwithstanding. As I slowly recovered my senses I began to long to be discharged. "I can't wait to get to the Olive Room STAT," I muttered.

Doc smiled again, "If you do be careful because the cheese center can explode in your mouth like molten lava and if it does you will want to get to the REAL OR stat!"

As I drifted off into a natural sleep my last thought was 'what will they think of next?"

Arrggh! Olive Room is closed

Yumyum at Chez Fonfon in the Hamham.



What is a Fonfon anyway?

Pardon me, but I simply must gush about a recent trip I made with the Heiress up to visit her daughter where we enjoyed a fine meal at Chez Fonfon in Five Points in Birmingham. I sincerely hope I will not loose my posting privileges by straying outside of our normal gastronomic boundaries, but I was so greatly impressed with the French country style decor and menu that I can highly recommend the establishment if you MUST find yourself outside of the Gump for dinner. 

In my case, as is usual in my circumstances, it was a MUST that I accepted the "invitation" from the Heiress a/k/a "She Who Must Be Obeyed" to travel to Birmingham to take her grown daughter to dinner to celebrate her daughter's birthday. Having no better prospects (other than to play Whist with Whiggin Blanquet at the Beauvoir Club) and knowing that a refusal would result in long-lasting financial repercussions, I outwardly said "Of Course My Dear" while inwardly fearing an evening of chitter-chatter over a bland meal in a crowded restaurant. The thought of also making conversation during the drive up and back was doubly daunting.

As we were driven up to Birmingham seated in the rear section of her new Equus, I inquired as to the selection for the evening.  The heiress stated that her daughter a/k/a the Princess,  had chosen Chez Fonfon, which, she added, is a sister establishment to Highlands Bar & Grill and La Bottega. Of course, having heard of Highlands, my interest was milked until she tersely added: "Of course you know they do not take reservations."

"You don't say," I added calmly while internally saying "Oh shit."  You see, being a man of former means who could at one time command the best table at the finest restaurants in Dublin or New York with a snap of my finger, I grow rather impatient in the cues comprised of common folk who have the nerve of thinking you wish to converse with them while waiting for a table.  I also knew that, if the restaurant was as fine as The Princess reported, my evening in Birmingham would be extended to almost intolerable lengths such that I would miss my cherished bedtime back in the Gump.

However, after my experience at Chez Fonfon, I can unequivocally state it was all worth it.

The valet parking, which is a must, was seamless. We arrived around 6 p.m. and found the place just filling up.  The decor reminded me of one of my all-time favorites in New Orleans (Galatoires of course) and I was delighted to see three open spots at the bar where we could imbibe as we waited.  I noted they had my hometown whiskey (Jameson) but I opted for a Vodka martini with a twist of lemon as the ladies took their martinis dirty with olives.  It is a wonder to enjoy a properly made martini with ice crushed by hand by a bartender in a bow tie, white shirt, black vest and apron with no visible tattoos.

Our table was ready in about 20 minutes.  After our initial drink orders were taken, a fresh french bread basket with real butter was presented as we pondered the specials.  I chose the steak frites prepared medium rare (only heathens or trailer park trash order fine meat overcooked) which came with a salad with a light vinaigrette dressing.  Very nice with a bottle of French white burgundy wine and especially fine when the Heiress was picking up the tab.

Surprisingly, although I expected to see a hefty tab as I snuck a glance at the bill as the Heiress pulled out her fashionable purse to retrieve her titanium credit card, I was stunned that the price for the meal for three with wine was less than $60 per person. 

Of course, I have no recollection of anything discussed over the dinner table between the women.  They mentioned something about the chef being trained somewhere trendy and the source of the beef being eco-something but, as is my normal custom, I paid little attention while managing to look attentive.  I know my place as an appendage on the Heiresses arm.  Sort of like a parrot on the shoulder of a pirate. (Thank goodness the Heiress cannot use a computer and read this post eh?)

The trip back to Montgomery was more pleasant than usual as the Heiress napped.  Having some time to myself to actually think, during the drive I vowed to share my experience with you our loyal readers.  Again, I say, if you have to be in that city to the north full of bad drivers on impossible roads, do take the time to try Chez Fonfon for lunch or dinner. You will not be disappointed.

Postscript Added August 17, 2011: Well, apparently someone (and I suspect my arch nemesis Whiggin Blanquet is the culprit) thought it would be humorous to print out this blog post and mail it to the Heiress in an unmarked envelope. The result has been that I have been advised by the Heiress that our relationship (such as it was) is now "El Finito." Alas, I will miss her.... (Well, I'd better not say what).  In any event I am now a free Irish 60ish gentleman looking for companionship, erudite conversation, fine wine and food. If you are interested and not from Northern Ireland and not English, send a picture of your liquor cabinet or wine cellar to chasenallpots@gmail.com and I will try to get back to you. Cheers!

Dreamland and The Vast Chicken-Wing Conspiracy

Eating messy barbecue used to be fun...

Well, because the evidence is all in and the jury is sequestered and deliberating my fate, I thought it would be safe to break my lawyer-induced silence and comment upon a true but un-prosecuted conspiracy that affects many members of Gump society: The Ruined Tie Conspiracy between The Locker Room and Dreamland.

I would contend that the existence of a nefarious and collusive agreement between an exclusive men's clothing store selling expensive silk ties and an iconic barbecue restaurant serving messy foods is more compelling than the idea that an extra spring-roll would garner a favorable lunch review on the world's most popular blog about Lunch in the Gump.  Recognizing my inherent bias as to one versus the other, here is my case:

Exhibit A:    A "Best of Class" Robert Talbott tie from The Locker Room in the colors which my lawyer's jury consultant said I had to buy to wear with my suit at the trial.  It cost $135 and must be dry-cleaned if it becomes soiled, assuming it can be cleaned at all.



An innocent and unsuspecting Talbott tie from TLR. Note the "I am not a crook" color scheme.

These ties are available, to my knowledge, at only one men's store in the Gump. It is a store frequented by many of the most powerful people in the city. The Locker Room is, perhaps, the finest men's store in the city. It is certainly one of the most expensive. They only sell the best.

Exhibit B:  The split smoked sausage hot dog covered in slaw, caramelized onions and Dreamland sauce.  I couldn't take a picture because my cell phone was still locked up at the courthouse, but here is a "staged" Dreamland photo which, suspiciously I would say, omits all the messy stuff that makes it nearly impossible to handle and devour without creating a hail of fatty grease.



A pair of benign appearing sausages laying in wait for a silk tie to ruin (an actual picture of the split sausages taken from the website appears at right).

 A court could take judicial notice and all menfolk know that there is a force of nature loosely referred to as Tie-Grease Attraction (or "TGA") which describes the irresistible force drawing any stray droplet of greasy food to the most expensive nearby men's neck ware.  In fact, the more expensive the ties the stronger the attraction to the messy Dreamland barbecue sauce that ruins them. It's sort of like the attraction of tornadoes to mobile home parks.

Therefore, it is no coincidence that since Dreamland opened in the Alley, sales of Robert Talbott ties at The Locker Room have quadrupled. And if you dig a little deeper you will discover that the records establishing the formation of The Locker Room are filed in the very same state official's office as those harboring the incorporation papers of Dreamland of Montgomery.  What are the odds that two business entities, supposedly owned by different persons, would store important business documents at the same office of the Secretary of State of Alabama?  I told you it was suspicious.  Add to this the fact that both businesses have business licenses filed in the same drawer at City Hall.  Put this all together and you should not be surprised to know that the owner of The Locker Room was seen lunching with the owner of Dreamland, according to unnamed sources.  Coincidence? Hardly.



In my unfortunate case the results were, as you would expect, that devouring a delicious $6.50 Dreamland split sausage hot dog with fries and slaw resulted in the destruction of a beautiful $135 silky green tie unless I wear it with a vest to cover the spot(s).  I never wear vests. Vests are for persons who shop at western wear outlets. Not yours truly.

Did I hear you mutter: "Bib?"

Yes, they have "bibs" available for those wearing cutoff blue jeans and wife-beater t-shirts or high schoolers on prom night. Dreamland does have tacky plastic logo bibs with plastic ties that make you look ridiculous.  But no falsely-accused businessman from a trailer park like myself would be caught dead with a plastic bib tied around my neck as if I had no concept on how to eat barbecue without a messy face.  But note they do not encourage the use of bibs nor do they warn you to wear one. It's all part of the conspiracy, the vast barbecued chicken-wing conspiracy played out again in green silk. They know you will not wear the bibs but they have them so you wish you had.





Don't these teenagers look happy in their prom night bibs? (Note the stain on the sleeve)



Using a bib to protect your laptop?  Genius!

The evidence is a clear there is some sort of a link between The Locker Room and Dreamland. At least the evidence is a lot more clear than the evidence against me in the Blogger Corruption trial. All I can add is wish me luck and wear a bib when eating at Dreamland when you have on your TLR finery. You have been warned.

[Ed Note: For the story behind the Blogger Corruption trial of Cornbread Carp see our prior post on the subject. On August 11, 2011, the jury acquitted him on all counts! He is now free to bottom-feed to his heart's desire.]