How the Irish Bred Pub Saved Sequestration

When we think of civilized peoples and foods the Greeks, Italians, French and Chinese come quickly to mind. The Irish, on the other hand, are wild, feckless, charming, morose, repressed and corrupt, but not especially civilized. After all, they believe in Leprechauns and Notre Dame football. If we strain to think of "Irish civilization," no image appears, no Fertile Crescent or Indus Valley, no brooding bust of Beethoven. The simplest Greek restaurateur will name his establishment "Parthenon," thus linking himself to an imagined ancestral culture. A semi literate restaurateur of Sicilian origin will give pride of place to his plaster copy of Michelangelo's David, and so assert his presumed Renaissance ties. But an Irish businessman is far more likely to name his concern "O'Brien's" or "Irish Bred Pub," foregoing all attempts to link themselves to anything but the concept of Guinness Stout.

Ireland is a little island at the edge of Europe that has known neither Renaissance nor Enlightenment.  It is a country which in some ways is a Third World country with a Stone Age culture. However, other than saving western literature by copying the manuscripts of great works by hand in the dark ages, Ireland has had one other moment of unblemished glory: As restaurant after restaurant failed in downtown Montgomery a/k/a "the Gump," as all through the city matted, unwashed barbarians descended on the remains of hole's in the wall, looting artifacts and burning menus, the Irish Bred Pub owners, who apparently were just learning to construct a restaurant, took up the great labor of building a true pub in downtown Montgomery and plastering upon the walls thereof everything they could lay their hands on. As such, the owners of the Irish Bred Pub saved the Gump from sequestration or, at least, the fear thereof.

Picture a beautiful sunny and crisp Sunday in the Gump on March 3, 2013.  Our government, as our politicians bleated, had just self-destructed by imposing upon itself draconian and apocalyptic cuts that would soon cause commercial planes to crash into each other, bears in national parks to starve from the lack of tourist picnic baskets and our military to force women into combat. As you would expect, after the predictions of doom and gloom surrounding sequestration, the already prone to drink repressed Irishman in me, was lamenting my failure to convert all my assets into gold bullion and waiting for the sky to fall. After all, we Irishmen have an abiding sense of tragedy which sustains us through temporary periods of joy.

However, on my way to catch up at work on that same Sunday afternoon, I came upon an oasis on the corner of a deserted block of Dexter Avenue which was open and thriving with a lunch crowd serious about drinking and eating despite the reported impending collapse of our economy.  Yes, acting on intelligence from Squeak and the GGPs (see prior post)  I threw my morose mood aside and, after easily finding a place to park not far away, pulled upon the door to the Irish Bred Pub and stepped into a world where sequestration did not seem so daunting.

At 12 noon on Sundays at the Irish Bred Pub they begin to pour drinks of all kinds.  Guinness, Jameson, Car Bombs, Irish Coffee, Bailey's, Bushmills and, we hope, even the Middleton. The walls of this cozy three-story bar/restaurant are adorned with memorabilia, flat screens showing Tottenham v. Arsenal (English thugs), and Irish sayings galore.  The one that caught my eye as poignantly appropriate: "A politician should always think twice before he says nothing."  Of course, we Irish are a very fair people because we never speak well of one another. Unfortunately, our U.S. politicians are very unfair people because they only speak well of those who agree with them.  Or so says I.

Even the tartar sauce was good (and I do not like tartar sauce).

With a dark and tan Guinness at the ready and a large portion of fish and chips (with slaw) on my plate I struggled to muddle through the various viewpoints that had spewed from by Telly over the past through days.  Fortunately, the only thing on in the Irish Bred Pub was American basketball and English football so I could actually think for myself. The fish was delicious. 

Says I to myself, you know, says I, that if I only had to cut 3% from my budget over the next year I doubt I would miss anything too important. And if, as it appears, that was really only a cut of 3% from the growth of my income over the next year i.e. living without a raise this year, then I am pretty sure I could manage.  Problem is that nobody in Washington wants to lead us right now.  Indeed that is sad but it is definitely not the end of western civilization. It is only the beginning of sequestration.  And, says I, I and my friends at the Irish Bred Pub will survive sequestration.  Now, says I, if we could only get our leaders to become Irishmen.

A Nincompotpourri of Nincompoopery

We are declining as a society into a bunch of nincompoops. A recent article in The Washington Post documents how supposedly educated and successful people can accomplish a trifecta of nincompoopery such as (1) leaving their lights on; (2) with keys in the car; (3) with the engine running. (Well, "at least the battery won't run down...."). Well, so you say Missy.

Before embarking on my diatribe for today I must give credit where it is due. The idea for this little column was sparked by an article by Gene Weingarten that bears reading. You can find it here.

So, here's the secret poop of the nimh...

My brush with malevolent nincompoopery occurred at the Gump's exclusive Bushwood Country Club & Snobatorium. There, for years, one of the main attractions was the art of making cocktails as practiced by one known only as "Reggie." Famous Gump-wide for his performances at weddings, bat mitzvahs, receptions and parties of all ilk, Reggie was THE bartender you hunted and waited in line to be served by. When the nouveau riche and slightly tipsy MA mom would ask for a "light" vodka and water, Reggie would always smile and say: "Sorry ma'am, I just pour 'em, I don't weigh 'em," as he poured and the glass runneth over with the water of life. When the pleasantly intoxicated captain of industry would ask for "a half Scotch and Water" good ole Reggie would reply: "Sir, I failed fractions" as he handed the chocolate-brown glass back to the patron. Reggie, the world will someday acknowledge, was the reason we have the word "Reggied."



All in all, for years Reggie was the hero of the drinking class at Bushwood. His "fair pours" were legendary and the oil of much conversation. Why, it was once suggested that if Reggie served the leaders of the Middle East at a cocktail party we would have world peace by morning or, at least a real good start for Hangover III. Perhaps a slight exaggeration. The point is that members and guests at Bushwood received a more than fair quantity of their favorite adult beverage at the hands of Reggie. Things were, as some say, ducky. Extremely ducky. Leave well enough alone I say.

Enter the nincompoopery of one of our most brilliant and well-educated medical professionals in the Gump. A person trained at one of the finest medical schools in the country and in whose hands many have entrusted their most vital of organs. This "Dr. Sunshine" (as we will call him) has multiplied buffoonery times nincompoopery to produce a nincompotpourri of nincompoopery. This brilliant example of one of the Gump's finest families thought that because Reggie was so generous in his pours that he, the eminent Dr. Sunshine, was entitled to expect everyone at Bushwood with a bottle of whiskey in their hand to provide the same "fair" service as the Master. Accordingly, this paragon of judgment required another server to pour a drink approximating one poured by Reggie and was "outraged" when he was charged for a "double" (a triple would have been more accurate).

It gets worse.

Not satisfied with berating the innocent wait-staffer who presented a drink poured to exact specifications and/or from a jigger, this mental giant decided to bring the issue to the attention of management i.e. the one some call "the man." As anyone with a modicum of sense would understand, once confronted with the issue regarding the size of drinks the manager of Bushwood had to decree that all drinks be poured uniformly at the mandated 1 1/4 ounce amount with a jigger. Suddenly, the Picasso of the Pour, the Wagner of Vodka was forced to confine his art to the constraints of a precisely engineered amount, much to the dismay of the innocent drinkers who depend so much upon the artistry of Reggie, their bartender, guru and, when necessary, their ride home.

What makes this nincompoopery even more notable is that the perpetrator of this affront to the "League of Justice" (the self-named group of roguish ne'er-do-wells who inhabit the place), had no "bleeping" idea that his complaints to management would result in the opposite effect he intended. Now we all suffer equally, thanks to a Republican who hates socialism. I say man (masquerading as buffoon), unhand my bartender!

Where now can a gentleman of the Gump go to find a friendly, heavy-handed bartender who dispenses wisdom as generously as Jameson? Woe is me. Woe are we.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the new restaurant in the A&P development in No-Clo will provide relief. I suppose I should share that "Roux" will be opening for business June 1 (yes, I have stumbled into something topical). I, of course, have been invited to the pre-opening reception and, if I am able, I promise that one of the LITG regulars will report shortly thereafter (I hope I never become too lazy to tell others what to do). Until then, I shall see you at the Pine Bar on Mondays and wherever Reggie serves without the constraints of "the man."

For now, I must bid you adieu as I drown my sorrows at the loss of a fair pour at Bushwood and contemplate the depths of nincompoopery to which we have, as a people, sunk. Woe are we all. Woe are we all.

"It was a 'Dark and Stormy' night..." at Ham & High

[12/1/2011: Ed. Note official word is that City Grill is moving their operation soon to the Ham and High location. So long Pimm's No. 1 Cup! :(] 

Whoops....Sparky would be mad.

These are what I meant....and yes I did have three.

Those of you who have been to Bermuda numerous times like I have will no doubt recall the favorite drink of the locals which they call the "Dark and Stormy."  The "Dark and Stormy" is a concoction of Goslings' ginger beer and dark rum.  At the Swizzle Inn you can drink them all day and "stagger out."

When I owned property in Bermuda--before the 1980s crash--I developed a taste for the good ole "Dark and Stormy." Alas, you just cannot find a good one in the Gump, at least I thought. That was until I took an heiress to Ham and High for dinner at Hampstead Saturday evening on what had been a dark and stormy afternoon of much-needed rain. Well, for accuracy's sake I should say that her chauffeur drove us in her Bentley.  But I did fully intend to pay if the need arose.

I had ordered my usual Jameson on the rocks and while the waitress was hunting it up I discovered on the back of my menu that they served a "H & H Dark and Stormy" with real Bermuda Goslings Black Seal Dark Rum. When the waitress returned to give the "bad news" that they were out of the Jameson, I advised her that was in fact good news because what I really wanted was the "Dark and Stormy" ... times three of course.

The heiress raised an eyebrow for a moment and ordered her usual glass of Riesling.  At this point in my life I could care less what she thought about my order. She is already well aware of my financial misfortune and had noticed I had become quite slow to the wallet when the tab arrives.  Sort of like a legislator.

When my drinks arrived I was pleased to see them authentically presented (but for the slice of lemon) and well mixed.  As I sipped my first one or two my mind floated back to my frolics with a gay divorcee twenty-five years ago (or so) on the pastel sands of the Pink Beach Club where I recall they served the most marvelous English breakfasts in our suite (until her ex-husband canceled her credit cards).  It was particularly troubling because all of my cards were maxed out at the time. But I, as usual, digress.

As you can imagine, by the middle of the second cocktail I was in my usual fabulous humor and ready to tackle the specialty of the house: Pork Osso Bucco. Yes, I said "pork" (not veal) Osso Bucco.

An volcanic island of Pork Osso Bucco with Dark and Stormy No. 3 in background.

The Oakview Farms pork shank was served, as you can see, on a bed of cheddar grits with garlic, mirepoix, and natural jus.  Thats "gravy" for those of you in P-Vegas. I won't even try to explain mirepoix to the rabble in Elmore County except you can see the mirepoix covering the pork.

And a nice piece of pork it was.  It was butter beast. No knives were necessary and it was delicious!  Did I mention it was tender?

For $20 or so U.S. dollars it was quite a meal. The service was slow but that was by design as this place touts its "Slow Food" logo. I do believe it is affiliated with The Village Kitchen on Old-Clo.  I gathered that from the fact that they also had another gentleman's drink (Pimms No. 1 Cup) on the menu. In any event, this is not a place to come when you are in a hurry to make your Harry Potter movie. It is a place to come when you want to savor a long dinner with a rich heiress with a platinum or titanium or iridium or Black American Express Card. Oh, I do love the smell of money, black plastic and pork osso bucco.

Very impressed with Ham & High overall.  Easy for me to recommend to those of you living outside the Gump or those who do not mind the 20-minute drive from the Gump (even if you have to actually man the wheel).  A stop by the "Tipping Point" before or after the meal is also recommended.

I give it three of four "Dark and Stormys" (yes there was a fourth back at her place :)"

Cheers! CNA.

How the Irish Saved Western Civilization...and Whiskey Making

St. Patty wondering if you can make whiskey from a shamrock (he actually wore blue you know).

On St. Patrick's day I dined at the Gumpwood CC and Snobatorium where they served an very fine Irish Whiskey dinner. On the menu was a wedge with Jameson Blue Cheese followed by a corned-beef brisket simmered in Jameson Irish Whiskey. Both were positively superb. During the dinner we sampled 12 and 18-year-old Jameson and a single-malt Michael Collins. Dessert was a divine chocolate cheesecake served with hot Irish coffee. After dinner I enjoyed Arturo Fuente 8-5-8 cigars and a ride in a new Porsche Panamera S which was unfortunately not mine. Why am I telling you all this?

Because, my dear, we would be speaking Arabic now but for our dear Irish ancestors and their perchance for copying and hiding historical manuscripts along with making what we now know as Irish Whiskey from barley, yeast and water.

Being a decayed Irish gentleman and our resident snob, I offer the following history lesson as a public service to those of you protestants who wrongfully drink Scotch out of ignorance or spite.

You all probably know that between the fall of Rome and the rise of medieval Europe Irish monks hid the famous manuscripts from Rome and Greece, as well as the new testament from the mongol hordes during the dark ages.  They also copied them adding beautiful illustrations by hand.  My alma mater, Trinity College in Dublin, is the home of the Book of Kells which is one of the earliest such preserved copies of the New Testament. Most copies of historical manuscripts that we have were saved from destruction by the Irish monks.  By the way, the St. Patrick we celebrated today was the former slave who lead the scribes who copied the thousands of Greco-Roman and Judeo-Christian manuscripts which served as the repositories for our culture. Without their brave and devoted service, there is no saying what we would be boring our schoolchildren with today nor what language we would be jibberbabbering. But enough about that,  on to my personal favorite: The Story of Irish Whiskey!

In the middle ages there were over 1,300 distilleries in Ireland making whiskey.  By the end of the 19th century, Catherine the Great of Russia confirmed the general belief at that time that Irish Whiskey was the finest whiskey in the entire world.  Unfortunately, because of prohibition in the U.S. and elsewhere, most of the distilleries in Ireland failed and due to our dust-up with Britain, Irish products were banned from England during WWII so that the American G.I.s were only allowed to drink that disgustingly peaty and smokey product from Scotland.  Hence, millions of G.I.s returned to the U.S. with a taste for Scotch unaware that a finer and smoother whiskey was available across the Irish sea.

Today, there are only three distilleries in Ireland and only one is still owned by an Irishman. Bushmills Distillery (located in Northern Ireland and not something any respectable Catholic Irishman would drink) is the protestant distillery. Middleton (Jameson) Distillery in County Cork serves the good Catholics. The Cooley Distillery in County Louth is still Irish owned and produces the brand Michael Collins, who was a leader in the Irish rebellion which lead to Irish independence from Britain in 1921. The English would call him a terrorist but he is revered in the Republic of Ireland. Michael Collins is generally less-expensive than Jameson or Bushmills and is now available in our state-run liquor dispensaries oddly called ABC Stores.

Scotch and Irish Whiskey are made with exactly the same ingredients. But because Irish Whiskey is made with barley that is mostly* malted in gas-fired ovens (i.e. not fueled with that smelly peat-moss), it has a smoother and less smokey taste. Most Scotch drinkers given a choice and a blind taste test would choose any blended Irish Whiskey over any blended Scotch, I mean those with functioning taste buds would.

*The single-malt Michael Collins is "slightly peated."

If you are currently a Scotch drinker and take nothing from this post I trust you will show some humanity and gratitude for the hard work of St. Patrick and his monks and put in an order at your favorite pub for a spot of the finest whiskey in the world.  And that would be a spot of the Irish Whiskey!

Happy St. Patty's day to the lot of you! Sláinte! (Cheers!).

Martinis, Chicken Salad and Scotch: A Gentleman at Lunch

[Ed. Note: The Montgomery Brewing Company is "closed for rennovations." However, it does not look llike any work is going on there and we are beginning to doubt the "See You Soon" sign after two months of outward non-activity.]

No Toby, you can't have any you old sot!

With the market in the crapper, oil spoiling beach vacations and investment portfolios all askew, a gentleman must adapt to his decaying circumstances--at least with respect to lunch. In lieu of pork loin and truffles,  bangers and mash at the local public house may have to be considered.  However, I say a gentleman can eat and drink well on a reduced budget if one has some imagination (and a bottle of 18-year-old Scotch in the office).  Wednesday, for example, yours truly was able to enjoy a fine lunch and get slightly banjaxed at the same time for a reasonable ("sustainable") price.  The secret is to order the "Mama Netties" chicken salad from The Montgomery Brewing Co. and to chase it with some fine Glenlivet.http://www.theglenlivet.com/  You can order the salad as a sandwhich but I prefer it on a bed of fresh greens with a roll and fruit. Very good for remaining fit and trim.  Of course, the secret is the quality of the scotch (I usually prerfer my Jameson) which also numbs the hunger pangs and allows one to avoid the bread with empty calories.

With a slight buzz about your work may suffer but if you cap off the evening with Chophouse VY martinis from their crackerjack bar staff you will wake up with a headache but a few pounds lighter. Probably bad for the liver though. Despite being a little sharp set, sipping a fine martini and bantering with the late crowd that often fills the quaint little Chophouse bar (including Bud Skinner and Ben the chef) creates a mellow mood and conversational tone where most of the problems of the world can be quickly solved with the flick of an olive.

A civilised luncheon. Cheers!

Incidentally, I have noticed that more and more Gumpers are paying attention to the World Cup football being broadcast at this time. At my office I thought a major deal had been closed from all the screaming the other day. Come to find out it was just a few chaps in an office watching the U.S. score a goal to tie a match at the 92nd minute. You would have thought they were English football fans the way they caterwauled in the hallway.  Very refreshing.  Hope it portends a growth in football popularity in the states as opposed to the armored wankerball one sees everywhere in the fall.

Along those lines, I hope the popularity of my Momma Netties Chicken Salad and Scotch lunch special catches on.  Just tell Chris Ellis (the friendly proprietor) that Lunch in the Gump sent you and you want the barely legal Scotch.

Cheers!

CNA, MP

Bama Bistro with Coratio Sauce!!

Bama Bistro to Go!

Back where I come from we sometimes eat fish for breakfast. I know my fish. Also, given my problems with gout, I have had to cut back on my extravagant lunch habits and my consumption of carbohydrates. These two ideas collided today with the idea of trying "Bama Bistro" again but, this time, ordering the grilled Tilapia. I hate to brag, but I believe I out-ordered the entire Gump today. That means you Whig in a Blanket! And, as a convenience, I ordered it to go so I could dine alone on my private lunch patio deep in the cool depths of the Gump.

This is what greeted me when I opened the Styrofoam:

Shown on my personal dining patio (doesn't everyone have one?). Fancy tablecloth not included.

When you order the grilled Tilapia from Bama Bistro and Chef Coratio is behind the grill, you are going to get a freshly grilled piece of fish AND a made from scratch buttery sauce with Tarragon (?) that rivals anything I have had in a while. For my sake, due to the low-carb diet, Chef C omitted the rice and substituted collards (with real ham hocks) and green beans, both of which were NOT from a can. Being a legal alien, I am not really sure what a ham hock is so I took a picture:

A "hock"

If you do not like "hocks" in your collards, go to an all you can eat buffet where the collards are poured out of gallon-size cans. To me, a hock in your collards or beans means "home cooked."

The price for this feast (with diet beverage) was just around $8 with tax. Well below the Tojo line. I would recommend calling ahead, however, because the entree really is cooked to order and it takes a few minutes to prepare. But today I enjoyed a nice chat with the patrons while waiting and learned a lot about why representing women in domestic relations cases is a pain in the.....(but that is a whole different story).

But while waiting I did learn some good news: Bama Bistro now has a liquor license and serves breakfast (for $3.99)! I love a nice tot of Jameson with my fried eggs don't you? To top it off, they are talking about opening on weekends too.

Bama Bistro's phone number is (334) 240-6938. It is located at 15 Commerce St. next to ServisFirst Bank (the old Colonial Bunker).

They are truly locally owned and deserve our seal of approval (which is a surprised-looking carp):

No offense Cornbread.