PBR & "Presentism"

True historians deplore the application of current values to the words and deeds of historical figures. They call such sloppy and lazy thinking "Presentism." Persons with such a view of history tend to discount our founders because of the compromises they made in the context of the times they lived. I am no professional historian, but I feel sort of the same way when I order a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and an observer asks: "You drink that?" (The 'that' pronounced with two syllables).

What could possibly the connection between discounting, for example, the legacy of Abraham Lincoln because he believed in repatriating former slaves to Africa and discounting the quality and flavor of a PBR because today it is a "cheap" beer? Well, if you believe the present view that PBR is the hipster equivalent of "Fatty Natty," only a short history lesson can connect the dots for you.

Back in the day the history of PBR was a case study at the prestigious Harvard Business School used to teach the value of branding. The lesson it taught: Do not screw around with a formula that made your brand the most popular product in your market just to save a few cents per unit in production costs.  The lesson I also see is to avoid "Presentism."

You may know that Pabst was the blue ribbon beer winner at the World's Fair in 1893.  But you may not know that until the 1970s it was considered a premium beer with sales that exceeded Budweiser. In fact, Pabst reached its production apex in 1978 after which it suffered a precipitous decline that has taken years to reverse.  So what happened?

They screwed with success.

Like "New Coke" which came later, the managers of the Pabst brand changed their formula to make production a little cheaper. It was, after all, the most expensive mass produced beer to brew. The change had something to do with buying grains with lower sugar content. The effect however was devastating. The once strong and popular premium brand quickly lost market share and, more importantly, respect as a premium lager.

You also probably do not know that after it was clear the formula change was a bad idea, the company returned to their original ingredients and lowered the price to try to attract former fans back to the brand.  Sales did go up, never to the high of 1978, but the perspective that it was now a "cheap" beer remained.

To most applying a "presentist" view of the product, that has not changed. But recent beer history tells us the PBR has won medals as one of the best American lagers at least 12 times since 1990. It won the World Beer Cup as a "Premium Lager" in 2006.  Once hard to find, you can savor this premium draft beer on tap for ridiculously low prices at Buds. Bottles and cans of PBR are staples at The Pine Bar and Capitol Oyster Bar. Those iconic 16-oz "Tall Boys" are available at El Rey, LeRoy and The Midtown Pizza kitchen.

So though I have been accused of bringing PBR to parties because it was the only beer others would not pinch from the community coolers and that "Bud" snob Cornbread Carp once declared it was the only beer he would not drink, history and my own taste buds have taught me to stick with my favorite beer because it has a premium taste for a "Natty Light" price.

The moral, if you pay attention to history, is that Lincoln is still a great president and PBR is still a great beer.  Rampant "presentism" is truly a lazy and false way to evaluate history. Thankfully, PBR is still around to defend its brand. But "Honest Abe" has to depend on honest and persistent historians.

Let's all raise a cold PBR to him.

"Ever notice how you come across something once in a while you shouldn't have messed with? That's my PBR."

Dr. Strangreek or: How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Tomatoes

Clemenceau once said "Lunch is too important to leave to the Chefs."

He may also have said that "Financial matters are far too important to leave to the Greeks." We certainly have been bombarded over the past months with the impending Greek debt crisis that, as appears at the moment, has been kicked down the road a few more years as the Greeks try to implement austerity goals imposed by the Germans they have already failed to meet one or two times before. I have struggled to make sense out of the fear of Greece pulling out of the Eurozone that has caused the Heiress (yes, I am still seeing her occasionally) and others in the investment class to be all a twitter about the fluctuations in their IRA accounts. The fear mongers had us, and even those of us of meager wealth, all living in fear of something called the "ripple effect" that could supposedly be caused by a very small economy like Greece collapsing. Remember Cyprus not too long ago? I was beginning to wonder what kind of mischief the high-spending socialist Greeks were going to get into and how it was going to affect us here behind the safety of the bypass in the Gump.

After intensive study I came to some tentative conclusions. First, the Greeks have a social security system that is unsustainable (I mean worse than ours). Retirement at 55? Really? Second, way too many of the Greeks work for the government and all of them belong to a union. Third, they have 25% unemployment despite that (or because of it). So I can tell you I have realized that the Greeks as a nation are pretty bad at running a government or paying their bills. They compounded their problems when they made some recent bad choices in a socialist leader and an "OXI" (No) vote as to a bailout plan (and then got stuck with a deal that was worse). Damn Germans.

But there is one thing I know for sure about the Greeks: They have some of the best food in the world.  Exhibit A is yours truly. Let me explain.

Since I was a boy in Ireland and until May 2015 (a span of about 60 years) I had never NEVER ever even once tasted or eaten a raw tomato. Ketchup and salsa was fine, but a sliced or cubed tomato was consistently removed from every hamburger or salad presented to me by the chefs of Dublin or the Gump. I was Chase "Hold the Tomatoes" Allpots. I know some of you understand where I was on the question of tomatoes.  I see you picking them off your sandwiches.

So what changed?

The answer is: Greece.  More specifically, the Greek salad as served in Athens and Thessaloniki, Greece.

You see the Heiress--who is one-quarter Greek--decreed that I could accompany her in May 2015 to a Papanikolau family reunion in Palouri, Greece (on the Kassandra Peninsula) where she would meet her cousins for the first time and introduce me as her "male friend" or 'fi le mou' in Greek. Since I had never been to Greece, we were flying first class and, most importantly, she was paying for everything, I gracefully accepted. Bait a trap with a free trip to Greece with a handsome woman and you will catch ole Chase every time.

After arriving in Athens and before departing by train to Thessaloniki, we spent a few days at the Hotel Electra (separate rooms of course) near Syntagma Square where the Greek Parliament meets and where you saw all the demonstrations on CNN. While the Heiress was off shopping in the Plaka district under the Acropolis, I was left to my own devices to stroll up and down Ermou Street where during lunch time I took a turn over to Metropoleos Street and came upon a restaurant on Monastiraki Square named Thanassis. There, for some unexplained reason I ordered the same salad I saw on a table next to me oddly called a "Greek" salad.

This is what a Greek salad looks like.

The observant of you will immediately note the lack of any lettuce whatsoever. And that block of white stuff sprinkled with olive oil and spices is feta or goat cheese. No thousand island or blue cheese dressing, just olive oil and vinegar sprinkled over tomatoes, peppers, olives, cucumbers and onions.  Why I decided to eat all of it cannot be explained any more than one can explain why the Greeks think other countries should continue to pay them to retire early.  But I did eat the tomatoes along with everything else and proceeded to fall in LOVE with tomatoes and Greek salads. On my birthday I had another salad in Athens while the house band played "Sweet Home Alabama" on their Bouzouki's.

Another Greek salad with a jug of wine. Opa!

My obsession with Greek salads exceeded my desire to own one of their little goats. Thankfully, I was not allowed to bring one home. Also, thankfully, my new found love of tomatoes followed me home to the states after the Athens ATMs stopped giving the Heiress her Euros.

My Big Fat Greek Adventure and the Greek crisis is over and my life is changed: I have learned to stop worrying about Greece and love tomatoes. Like Dr. Strangelove, who was German, learned to love the bomb.

For more Greek food porn check out: Our Big Fab Greek Adventure. 

The History of the Biscuit in the Gump

It was hsssing and shaking its little arms at me....

[Ed note: On July 15, 2015, the Montgomery Biscuits were featured in NBC's Today Show.  The Cornbread Carp received none of the credit.]

Back one morning in 2002 when I was still drinking against the advice of my probation officer, I awoke to this one-horned demon biscuit with soulless dark eyes and a butter pat for a tongue.  In his mouth was a link sausage playing dead like a grey seal. It was his only defense. As I recoiled in disbelief my eyes focused and I inhaled the smell of cookies (doesn't the devil smell like cookies?). The only thing I knew to do when confronted with abject fear or the possibility that someone may be injured in an epic fail is, of course, to reach for an iPhone and snap off a picture to post on social media hoping for more "likes" if, of course, I survived the encounter with this flaky equivalent of a Great Martha White.

Soon enough I regained full consciousness and realized that this little fellow was actually a small token of love from Tuffy a/k/a "She Who Must Be Obeyed."  False alarm. Move along. Monkey's dead, shows over I thought.  I laughed off my temporary panic and then enjoyed devouring the little devil biscuit and washing it down with a Screwdriver. If God had not meant for us to like bread and meat, He would not have made pigs so tasty.  Actually, he tasted very good as far as I could tell in my condition but in a few days I forgot about all about the incident and the biscuit. Such is the fog of drink.

That was until early 2004. By then I had completed my probation and kicked vodka to the curb.  I had a regular job and Tuffy was no longer on my ass all the time.  Funny how that works: Drink less=wife likes you more.  I guess that might not be great if your wife is a Biggest Loser "two-bagger" but in my case its alright. Good actually.

Well, given that I had time to actually relax and read the newspaper in the morning I recall one morning reading that a group had been chosen to bring a AA baseball franchise back to the Gump (we had not had a team since the 1980s) and we were going to have a new stadium right downtown in the old Southern Railway building which had once housed Yankee prisoners of war.  I read they were soliciting team names and that the person with the winning idea would win a years supply of bratwurst.  I was engaged. I was all in.

I was awash with ideas.  The Riverrats, Grays, Senators, Gumps, Sliders, Gump Busters, Marchers, Dexters, Pork Chops, etc.  But nothing had that ring to it.  I was a fan of the old Rebels and the newer "Wings" but those names were dated or taken.  My sobriety had robbed me of my creativity and I wanted that bratwurst.

I knew I would have to leave the wagon to come up with inspiration since we have not yet legalized weed in Alabama.

So, truth be told, I visited the master mixologist known throughout the Gump only as "Reggie" or "Reg." (In his world last names are for chumps).  Knowing I was not in drinking shape I asked Reg to pour me a "light one."  "I don't weigh 'em," said Reggie.  "Just pour me a half a drink then," I suggested.  He smiled and said without a pause, "I flunked fractions."  After the vodka displaced all the water he handed me what could accurately be described as a pentadruple and I began the process of freeing brain cells to help me come up with a name---the name. Word to the wise:  One Reggie, Two Reggie's, Three Reggies: Floor.

I have been cursed to have a total recall of bad evenings in the past.  You know, those horrible times when your body is completely drunk and useless but your brain is recording all your buffoonery for posterity. However, on this occasion I was blessed with welcome amnesia. But somehow, when I gathered my wits my phone had on the screen--for some unknown and unknowable reason--the picture of the 2002 biscuit that had almost scared me out of my wits.  My drinking buddy--whose name will be changed to protect the ignorant--was still railing on about how a minor league team was doomed to failure in Montgomery and that he would bet me $100 they would leave under the cover of midnight in three years.  He had apparently found the angry biscuit photo and was laughing, why they will probably come up with some lame name like "Cornbread" or "Biscuits" or some other stupid name.

Well, it sunk in for a minute and I made the bet.  Then, when I was able, I sent in my idea for a team name to the new ownership, an idea born of a love for baseball and vodka, not really hoping it would be selected but knowing only that it was original as hell.

I am back on the wagon now and well, the rest is history as they say.  Here was the mascot selected:

A perfect match down to the butter pat tongue

Yes, there were scoffers. "The dumbest minor league team name in history," some said.  But they sold more merchandise than any other minor league team in history and remain the best AA franchise in the country.  While the credit goes to Dickson & Meyers who are terrific owners, I'd like to think that I had a little to do with what has become one of the most popular team names and most appropriate name for a team from the Gump: The Biscuits! By the way, the food at the ballpark is great all you Lunch in the Gumpers.

I, of course, collected on my bet and think of that big dufus who bet me the Biscuits would be gone by now every time I pick up my season tickets for Montgomery Biscuits Baseball.  Play ball!!!! Schwing bratter, bratter, bratter, schwiiing!















[Ed. Note: I am pretty sure this is an April Fool's joke.  The Carp was not recognized by the Biscuits front office as the originator of the name of the team. And, if he had unlimited access to Bratwurst, he would have exploded long ago.  Nice picture though.]

March Madness in Montgomery...in March

This March has ushered in a greater than usual amount of Madness in the Gump. Especially in the restaurant trade.  According to our Montgomery Advertiser, restaurants were lining up to peacefully open new locations within the historic heart-shaped environs of the Gump.  Why, in our new downtown Foshee development, we see Island Delight, Cuco's and Mama Goldberg's joining the Irish Bred Pub on Dexter.  Happy St. Patty's day by the way to our Irish brethren who marched in Dublin for freedom from British Rule only to be gunned down by machine guns in a stadium in the first "Bloody Sunday."

Up in No-Clo everyone is buzzing about the new Kudzu Noodle Bar and rumors of franchising for them abound ala Zoe's, Chicken Salad Chick and Maki Fresh.  Love those Asian wings bro.

A dramatization of the famous Noodle March projected on the wall at Kudzu. 

Good stuff in there.

The Red Phone to the bar next door in case you have to wait or to reach Chairman Meow.

Then of course we all are geeked up about filling out our brackets for the NCAA basketball tournament featuring not a single mens team any of us care much about. This one looks like a shoo-in for the Kentucky Blue Grass.  And  now they have dumped their PETA un-friendly and endangered species of Wildcat mascot, we can all watch the ASU women complete as we feed our carnivore cats tuna flavored tofu. But if I were you, I would watch out for those pesky Wisconsin Badgers.  Badgers are not endangered you know.

A state trooper rustles up some Oklahoma SAE's to get them out of the Gump (Will we ever not have "a long way to go"?)

Last but not least we have been host to some pretty important historic March marches which caused some of our finer restaurants (Central) to be bought out by big wigs.  Bet it was an eye-opening experience for the wait staff when guys with badges started giving them those "voluntary" background checks. (Thankfully my ankle bracelet did not go off).  I am sure everyone's papers were in order and anyone whose papers were not did not show up for work.   Could all the ruckus have been because the guests were a present/former president or just some run of the mill Senators/Congressmen? In any event, whomever it was I heard they raved about Chef Leo's fare.  Did they learn about him on LITG by chance?  Not likely but as Randy Newman sings in Harps and Angels: "You never know". Our little blog does get a few hits from D.C.

 See reviews in YELP.

No Decent Cubans Up Here?

The photo from Ybor City that started it all.

Current events concerning the recognition of Cuba after 50 years of embargo have encouraged me to break my silence about the harmful effects US policy may have had upon this country. You see, I fancy myself a connoisseur of the Cuban.  As a young man in Panama City I was spoiled by easy access to the 2 for $1 Cubans sold from a small stand on the main drag.  These were wonders to behold. Thin slices of "meat" and cheese surrounded by fresh and thin bread with little or no condiments.  They were lovingly made and sold by a refugee Cuban family and were manna from heaven to a working man with a voracious tapeworm.

This was a decade after the Bay of Pigs fiasco and in at least one northwest Florida city (What? you thought I was talking about Central America?) you could find at least one place that could produce an authentic Cuba sandwich. Alas, when I matriculated to the Gump in the 60s, after an exhaustive search for anything approaching the Cuban sandwich of my past, I gave up and relegated myself to the next best thing: the Combination sandwich from Pasquales, the Sahara and finally Corsinos.

The Grand Opening of the Sahara--forerunner of Corsinos--where you could get a Combo sandwich in lieu of a Cuban.

But fast forward under forty years of embargo.  Our brave secretary of state and Vietnam war hero John Kerry now says the embargo harmed America more than Cuba just like building the Berlin Wall hurt East Germany more than the West. Well, as ridiculous as that may sound, there is at least one instance where the embargo hurt the US more than Cuba: We have no decent Cubans up here in the Gump.  Good maybe.  But all the great ones are in Florida.

My brother--a foppish dandy named Basil--has retired with his wife to an upscale "seniors" community near Tampa.  He knows that every time I visit I have to go to the original Columbia restaurant in Ybor City for my Cuban fix. Of course, there they include salami along with the traditional ham and sliced pork which is sometimes called the Tampa variation.  But the mix of Swiss cheese and pickles on the thinly sliced Cuban bread makes a visit to the Columbia a must for me.

There have been heroic attempts to develop Cuban sandwiches here in the Gump and we thank all of those who tried. We mentioned the decent Cuban sandwich at The Wagon Wheel in our very first post back in 2009. That year we reviewed the better Cuban at The Wishbone Cafe. In 2011 we mentioned the ill-conceived Cuban "pannini" at the now-defunct Alley Deli. We explored the "Torta Cubana" at the Latino Super Market Taqueria y Restaurant but--as should be plain--that is not a Cuban sandwich but a Central American sexist parody of Cuban women. In 2012 we thought we finally had hit it big with the Cuban sandwich from the Cantina in the Alley. Unfortunately, the owner died soon after it opened and they closed down. Even the old Olive Room had a fairly good Cuban on the lunch menu back when it was a going concern. Recently, we noted the Ricky Ricardo Cuban Sandwich at Chappy's as a good effort.

But something, perhaps as says John Kerry (Vietnam war hero), was lacking because of the embargo? Were we too many generations removed from real Cuban sandwiches to replicate the originals here in the Gump?

I, obviously, do not pretend to know or understand how the exercise of presidential fiat resulting in the normalization of relations with Cuba will play out. But now with all the uproar concerning the unilateral executive action taken regarding Cuba without Congressional approval aside, I am somewhat hopeful that the normalization of relations with Cuba will eventually lead to the availability of Cuban cigars and authentic Cuban sandwiches in the Gump that will rival the Columbia or Las Olas Cafe on South Beach.

To land this plane let me tell you that it was ironic that today, the dawning of a new age in U.S./Cuban relations, my brother decided to torture me with a text and picture of his Cuban sandwich and 1905 salad from the original Columbia restaurant.  To which I thoughtlessly replied, "We just don't have any decent Cubans up here."  After sending that text I chuckled to myself that someone might take that the wrong way....

Luncheon Dust-Up at Gumpwood CC Proves that Apes Evolved from Club Members

Gumpwood f/k/a MCC: Scene of the Great Poking Incident of 2014

Now that our local Snobatorium located at the terminus of Fairview Avenue is no longer restricted, I have greatly enjoyed many a lunch there at the "Captains Table" in the "Men's Grill" with the manly men at my same station in life.  The  lunch buffet there is truly a thing of culinary beauty reasonably priced. (Aha, the connection to a Lunch in the Gump theme). The conversation is keen, spirited and conservative.  But, as we have previously noted in a prior post, lunch at Gumpwood CC can sometimes involve unabashed buffoonery and perhaps even an occasional kerfuffle. However, the correspondence from the participants in a recent dust-up have documented events so bizarre that acknowledging they occurred at your club would embarrass even the low-born members of what used to be called Bonnie Crest Country Club (soon to be a Wal-Mart) and perhaps even the usual rabble at Sundown East-home of "The Beast."

The protagonists--long time members of Gumpwood and the legal profession (I suppose I now use that term pejoratively)--were former members of the same law firm. One of them, as you will recall from a previous post, has the grace and tact of a Honey Badger. The other has an ego that can fill any room. It has been said they deserved each other as partners. In any event, apparently on Oct. 1, 2014, these two bull moose had to be separated by a Marine staffer after some harsh and profane words were exchanged.  (One wag lamented that instead of separating them the Marine should have furnished each man a trenching tool.) However, due to the Marine's quick and brave action a true altercation was avoided and one would have hoped that when the dust settled these two attorneys would shake hands and make up.

Of course, for one to hope for a civilized resolution of hostilities between these two "gentlemen" it would require complete amnesia of their past history. For in truth, the end of physical hostilities was only the beginning of a bizarre display of literary buffoonery the likes of which Gumpwood has never before seen.

First came the account from the alleged victim of the Honey Badger.  It was written upon his formal law firm letterhead to the president of Gumpwood. It was by and large a blow by blow account of the events written without a hint of embarrassment. After naming all the witnesses to the dust-up, the author recounted that as he returned to the table with a plate of food the Honey Badger yelled: "You Mother F*er don't you ever send me a letter like you sent me or I am going to whip your ass!." Incorrectly thinking it was a joke the victim ignored the Honey Badger. But that only enraged the Honey Badger who pointed his boney finger yelling "You Mother F*er" while charging to the end of the table. The Badger then invited the author to "go outside so I can whip your ass right now."

At this point, perhaps, I should remind you that these two stalwarts of the legal profession are not 17 or 7 but each about 70 years old.

Here I will simply quote the victim:

"Everyone in the room watched (Honey Badger's) tirade. It is well know that (the Honey Badger) carries a pistol in his car and I am now highly nervous at how I am going to be able to use the facilities where I have been going for 40 years. I am over 70, diabetic and have had a triple bypass.  I do not intend to have my life end at Gumpwood Country Club being assaulted by (the Honey Badger), a known bully and blow hard."

The victim ended his correspondence with a plea to the good judgment of the club president as to how to address the "assault" of the Honey Badger ("I actually think his finger poked me in the chest.")  Although criminal charges were considered, the victim developed some modicum of judgment and decided not to press charges because it would only drag his witness friends further into the middle of  "this absurdity."

One would like to also assume the victim's letter was not intended for public consumption.  Not so with the response of the Honey Badger who, after apparently mulling over whether to respond for a few days, on Oct. 7 set the tone of his letter to the club president in the second sentence when he replied with accusations of unethical and deceitful conduct. This letter, and the letter to which it responds, began circulating the internet shortly after Oct. 7.

It got even more personal. The victim's appeal to sympathy due to his age and medical problems carried no weight with the Honey Badger: "I am so sorry [the victim] is a diabetic and I suggest he quit stuffing his fat little toady face and get in shape.  [The victim] being 70 means nothing to me. I am 71 and have chosen not to deteriorate into an amoeba-shaped squid."

The above statements appeared on the letterhead of the same law firm in which the victim had previously been a partner.

Having thoroughly insulted his victim, the Honey Badger went on to essentially agree with every fact set forth by the victim EXCEPT the "poking" claim. While admitting he had about all he could take from "this limaceous cretin," the Honey Badger emphatically denied touching the cretin because: "I learned a long time ago to never put one's hand in garbage."

"See here you limaceous cretin!"

The one bright light in all of this came in the form of an anonymous "editorial" in the "Montgomery Egadvertiser." The editorial first reminded the reader of the famous Scopes "Monkey Trial" of 1925 which escalated the long standing debate between creationists and evolutionists.  The editorial noted:

"In an ironic twist, a related matter was partially and inadvertently settled during the first week of October in the Men's Grill at the Gumpwood Country Club in Montgomery, Alabama. Two septuagenarian members, while not addressing the question of whether man evolved from monkeys, did prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt that, in at least two instances, monkeys did certainly evolve from human beings. This episode also provides empirical evidence that not having the oxygen level set high enough on your CPAP machine will assuredly result in irreversible brain damage. Furthermore, it debunked the belief that there is no way that the food in the Men's Grill could ever be made any more unappetizing. Spectators report that the events of that day were reminiscent of scenes at the old Copa Club on a Saturday Night at closing time during the 70's. "

The gratuitous dig at the food in the Men's Grill was, in my opinion, a cheap shot but the other observations are spot on.

Our anonymous author concluded:

"Well no one can envy the Gumpwood Board of Directors who will have to mediate this dispute. It's kind of like trying to choose the cleanest sheet in the Ebola Clinic in Liberia."

Did I mention Gumpwood is having a membership drive?

Unused name tags at Montgomery County Bar Association Holiday Party

LSU Gumbeaux vs. The Florida Citrus: LITG's Solution to Offensive Team Names

It all started with this "Tree" mascot for Stanford.

There are two prevailing themes currently circulating the sports pages: (1) Domestic violence and (2) Politically incorrect team names.  What have we learned about the Ray Rice situation?  Take the stairs?  Of course not!  What we have learned is that emotion leads us to a rush to judgment and suspends our belief in important concepts such as due process. We at LITG cannot help you make sense of that problem.  Seems we repeat the mistake almost every two years.  Hello Ferguson Missouri.

However, as to the second topic, we at LITG believe we are uniquely situated to offer thoughtful suggestions for how SEC teams ought to be re-named.  After all, we all live in the city with the most politically correct, popular and food-based sports team name in the country: Why that would be our very own Montgomery Biscuits.  Sure, some thought it was a dumb name that really came out of left field. But it has proven to be a marketing home run.  The name flows off the tongue like soft butter off a hot flaky biscuit.

So here goes.  To avoid future controversy such as that recently endured by the embarrassing name change at Ole Miss, we at LITG offer the following suggestions for how our SEC football teams can avoid the poor publicity that caused the Stanford Indians to change their name to the Cardinal (with a dopey "Tree" mascot) and which currently dogs the Washington football team and the Cleveland baseball club.

First, let's note that only three SEC teams have marginally acceptable names which only need mascotectomys:  Alabama, Tennessee and Texas A&M.  As for Bama, you cannot get less objectionable than to reference a color and the natural movement of the ocean.  While to Auburn fans it reminds them of more like a bowel movement, Crimson Tide can stay.  However, their emaciated post-gastric bypass elephant mascot has got to go.  After all, elephants are endangered and should not be exploited by a state that has not had anything resembling elephants walk its turf since prehistoric times if then. Our LITG suggested replacement mascot: “The Swirl.”  You know, like the swirl on the top of an ice cream cone from Dairy Q only this one would be Crimson.

Another SEC team that can keep its current team name is the Tennessee Volunteers.  I know you older readers think that the intended reference of “Volunteers” to fight the rebellious civil war is inappropriate.  However, so few readers actually recognize that civil war connection that UT can pass off their name as a reference to community organizers.  Again, their mascots--a guy dressed in a coonskin cap with a flintlock or that droopy eared dog--have got to go.  We at LITG suggest they be replaced with a character named Jack Daniel who wanders around the field acting drunk and hollaring obscenities--like most UT fans.

The third and final acceptable team name is owned by the Aggies of Texas A & M.  What a great ecologically friendly name?  Now the militaristic cadet corps and the firing of cannon has got to stop. And, instead of poor "Lassie" the collie who almost got run over by a receiver pushed out of bounds, their mascot should be changed to something like an solar powered tractor or a maroon hoe. The latter could be named: “Hoey.”

Now those are behind us, it is time for real work. Simply put, we have to remove all references to animals with violent tendencies.  How sick is it to have a mascot that represents illegal cock fighting. The current South Carolina mascot –“Cocky”—has metal spurs on his feet which can only be used to harm other poultry.  The gamecock also looks like it is on steroids which is another big no-no. Of course, there is also the existing sexual innuendo issue.  What father doesn’t wince to see a blonde co-ed yell “Go Cocks” into the camera while ESPN pans the crowd. Accordingly, we offer South Carolina the chance to change their name to “The Low Country Boils.”  Their mascot? Either a corncob, a red potato or a large red butt pimple named "Cobber."

Next we come to the Arkansas team. Wild boar are an environmental problem anywhere they roam and they smell awful. Why have a team name that represents swine? No way. Razorbacks have to go.  The LITG alternative: “The Arkansas First Cousins.” As a replacement we offer a LITG-inspired mascot they can be happy with: A Pork Rind.  If that reference is too edgy, they could opt for a pasty white banjo player with vitamin deficiencies named “Deliverance.”  When Arkansas goes on defense they can play "dueling banjos."

Now as for the two Bulldogs schools, both Georgia and MSU have simply got to stop their abuse of English bulldogs by putting them on bags of ice and encircling their necks with spiked collars. Indeed, one of them almost bit an Auburn player in a futile desire to be free of the leash.  These PETA and safety issues make it clear “Bulldogs” have to go.  As for Georgia the natural name should be “The Silver Peaches” which rhymes with “Silver Breeches.” Their on-field mascot: “The Pit.” This year "Pit" could wear a frowney face.

As for Mississippi State we at LITG suggest they keep their stupid cowbells but rename themselves the "Belles" with their actual mascot being Belle of Beauty and the Beast. Random? Yes. If you have a better idea please post a comment.

Clearly the SEC has way too many Tigers. Not only are they endangered, but they—like the elephant—have never lived in the US South.  Tigers are a completely inappropriate team name and, in the case of Mike at LSU,  tigers are serious accidents waiting to happen. Remember the Siegfriedand Roy disaster? Unless you want to see another “Tigersicle” incident there can be no Tiger names or mascots. Our LITG-themed substitutes?  We believe Auburn should  take a page out of Don Henley's song "Sunset Grill" and change their name to the "Auburn Skies."  That poor eagle has to be retired.  Its replacement, a beautiful “Ginger Girl” named "Audrie."  LSU should  obviously change its name to the “Gumbeauxs” with its mascot being the “Purple Okra.” Finally, Missouri should be called the "Sliders" with a snow pea named “Show Me” as the mascot. I could not come up with a food associated with Missouri. Missourians can't either.

The  Fighting Okra

Wildcats are no better than Tigers as team names go.  Kentucky has the perfect LITG-themed name ready and market-tested: The Kentucky Fried Chickens.  But chickens should not be fried any more than razorback pigs should rotate on a spit at their opponent's tail gate parties. Instead, Kentucky should call themselves the "Blue Grass" which should also become more popular as marijuana is legalized throughout the country.  Their mascot: A Joint named “Colonel High.”

What about the Gators? How could you have a more insensitive name? Overhunted and endangered for wallet and shoe leather, alligators should not be exploited by the University of Florida in the name of armored wankerball.  A better food-based alternative is there for the easy picking: “The Florida Citrus.” With that as their name, Florida could choose from a variety of fruit mascots. Our choice: “The Cutie.”

And then there is Vanderbilt.  Yes, they are still technically in the SEC.  But they currently have a militaristic name--Commodores--because they are named for a raging capitalist benefactor: Cornelius Vanderbilt.  They need to ditch the naval references and adopt something like: “The Golden Showers.”  Their mascot could be a golden urinal named “Pee Wee.”

Last, but not least we come back to Ole Miss, a team that has already struggled to rid themselves of a politically incorrect mascot and name issue and behaved badly. We know that instead of Rebels they chose "Black Bears." Really? Admiral Ackbar of Star Wars was a better idea.  Bears are endangered also and some are brown. The University of Mississippi needs to go back to the drawing board. To compliment their favorite cheer and best team sport: “Hoddy Toddy,” we suggest they use the name: "Hotties" with their mascot being any Ole Miss co-ed in the history department.

So there you have it.  Problem solved.  On any given Saturday in the not too distant future the Auburn Skies will battle the Georgia Silver Peaches or the LSU Gumbeauxs will take on the Arkansas First Cousins in contests that will not raise the hackles of Marlowe Thomas or anyone connected with PETA.  No one will be offended except maybe those expecting to see some hard-nosed SEC wankerball.  As my old coach would say: "Pin your ears back! Bow your neck and get in there and kick those Cuties in the navel!"

Best Mascot Ever... but he's taken.

Lunch in the Gump has gone to the dogs!

"Psst. They have seafood in a gas station. Pass it on"

To: Current Lunch in the Gump Facebook Administrators:

We, and we know who we are, formed our snarky little Lunch in the Gump blog with a loose recipe of a cup of promotion of local restaurants, a half-cup of commentary on current events, a tablespoon of actual food reviews and a pinch of satire.  The goal was to entertain but not lower the IQ of our readers…measurably… while writing the social history of Montgomery, Alabama from 2009 to 2013. 

Unfortunately we could not leave well enough alone. One of us, and I cannot remember which one (but I am sure Obama or Bush or Karl Rove had some hand in it), thought it might be good to start a companion Facebook page because at the time Facebook was a hot poop IPO that claimed billions of users.  The fact we figured out a way we could maintain our anonymity and use our blogspot nom de plume’s to create fictitious characters like Shadow Pup on Facebook, was also a plus.  It was also FREE.  Well, sure enough, we rocked along for a few years with our usual 20 or so hits on the blog every day unless we had a new post and once or twice a week someone would ask to join the Facebook page where all we did was promote the blog.  We even got some thoughtful comments from our readers, like George.  Our primary reward was to be in crowds where someone would occasionally ask if we had read a “Lunch in the Gump” post on their favorite restaurant.  At such times we could smugly smile and feign ignorance while we listened to someone try to explain what we were trying to do to us, the chefs of irony.  

Our initial recipe was to us like a warm chocolate cookie right out of the oven.  Then something happened. It wasn’t sudden like Alien popping out of that English actor’s stomach or Jason popping up behind you with a hockey mask on.  It was insidiously gradual like global warming and, like everyone else, we blame it on you…and global warming…and Obama or Bush.  You could say we have our own laziness to blame but that would be insensitive.  The fact is that once we hit about 2000 members we both got tired of having to cull “Join Requests” from people from Italy who then tried to sell us ugly shoes.  So, foolishly, we turned it into a “closed” group and shared administration rights  with you two yahoos.  We did not understand that “closed” meant more people could join.  Our mistake.  Now our warm little tart of a Facebook page has gone viral and the recipe has morphed into something else altogether.

We blame you. You let in everybody with a pulse and a Facebook account.  Now it appears the “membership” is approaching 4,000, there are a hundred posts a day asking: “I’m hungry. What should I eat?” It has turned into a lunch crisis helpline: "Help me, I have to eat something and I have forgotten how to chew."  Reading these cries for help has not only cost me by gag reflex but I have experienced the temporarily loss of my ability to read while reading some of these inane posts on the Facebook page. What's next: Reviews of water fountains and public restrooms?  Really?

Yes, there is occasionally very good information about new restaurants that most would have missed. There is some intelligent banter.  But the Facebook page is a now a rogue recipe with a mind of its own spoken in one liners.  We are afraid that our warm fried pork chop has turned into Frankenstein and beans. There is even talk of making money from LITG and shows on local TV about the “founders” but we—the founders—are not on the screen. The Facebook page is lowering our IQs and contributing to global warming.  Why shouldn’t we put it in the compactor before we contract Facebook poisoning? I ask you, what is the socially redeeming purpose of Lunch in the Gump now that it has become as vapid as Entertainment Tonight?

Sincerely,

Darla Jean Pupanovich

a/k/a and a/k/c registered as Shadow Pup

Bidgood Bob - Back from the Joint and Hungrier Than Hell (sort of a Corsino's review)

Bama Bing right after the "Incident"

Forgive me Gumpers, for I have sinned. It has been about three years since my last post. You may recall back in the summer of 2010 when I nailed my ex-pal Bama Bing between the eyes with a stray golf ball and put him into a three-month coma. While poor Bing was out, Auburn's football team went undefeated on its way to a national championship. Also during this period the vapid, narcissistic laptop thief Cam Newton won the Heisman trophy, the Republicans pulled off a relatively bloodless coup and overthrew the State of Alabama and I... well, I had this sort of a thing with Bing's wife.

Apparently the risen Bing took offense at me, his best friend, looking after Ramona while he was out cold for a whole football season. Who knew Bing would pull through? Well anyway, once Bing started getting up and around he started raising hell about marital fidelity, betrayal and lawyers, and the next thing you know he's talking about getting a divorce from Ramona. Ordinarily this would have worked out fine and dandy for me, but it turns out that Bing still had a big pile of dough left over from all the no-bid contracts he racked up during the Siegelman administration, and Ramona (who has many fine qualities but marital fidelity ain't one of them) had signed a pre-nup that was going to leave her with nothing but a dented Lexus and twenty bucks if Bing could prove adultery.

Since Ramona didn't have the good sense to take down all the Facebook pictures of our trips to Vegas and the Pine Lake Motel out on 231, Bing had us dead to rights. We were left with no other choice but to kill him.

How to go about it, though? Old pal Tojo Yamamoto offered to take Bing out with the Stomach Claw (Tojo's signature move). Since I merely wanted Bing out of the picture before he got a chance to re-write his will, and had no desire for him to die a slow, agonizing Stomach Claw death, I held my giant Japanese rassler friend at bay.

Getting to Bama Bing was going to be difficult. He had his guard up and was surrounded by goons at all times. My trusted consigliere Chase N. Allpots, a harmless foppish dandy at first appearance but blessed with a cunning mind, approached Bing's people with the offer of a meeting to "iron out our differences." Allpots set the meeting on Bing's turf, at an old-school family-owned Italian place called Corsino's on the north side of No-Clo. Prior to the meeting, fellow Gumper Fat Clemenza snuck into Corsino's and stashed a .38 snub behind one of the old-fashioned toilets (you know, the kind with the pull-down chain) in the Corsino's men's room.

I was picked up by one of Bing's cronies, a corrupt Irish precinct captain from the MPD. Capt. O'Herlihy, or whatever his name was, patted me down before we entered Corsino's. There sat Bama Bing in the back of the joint, a steaming veal parm before him on the red-checkered tablecloth. Bing turned to O'Whatshisname and told him we'd be speaking Italian for the remainder of the sit-down. I excused myself to hit the bathroom, prompting a worried look from Bing. "He's clean," said O'Shaughnessy, or whatever his name was, already into his second whisky.

The pistol was right where Clemenza said it would be. I took a few deep breaths and splashed some water on my face. Emerging from the men's room I walked right up to Bing and unloaded three rounds, then turned to the drunken overgrown corrupt Irish police captain and gave him the last three.

Well, I missed all six shots, then ran outside where Shadow Pup was supposed to be waiting in the getaway car, but he was across Court Street sniffing some stray french poodle's butt. So the plan to get out of town and hop a freighter to Sicily with the lovely and talented Ramona was shot, so to speak. Thanks to the shitty .38 Clemenza hid for me I got 15 years for attempted murder (and got fined 25 bucks for discharging a firearm in the city limits of the Gump). Thanks to Alabama's absurdly overcrowded prisons, I got out today.

Where did I go? Corsino's of course, for a Combo Sandwich and a Dago Salad. They can get away with calling it a "Dago Salad," I guess, because one of the owners might be Italian. Why is it OK for the folks at Corsino's to call it a Dago Salad, but if I yelled out, "Yo! Hey Dagos! You Dagos make a damn fine salad," that would be insensitive. But I digress, as usual. This is a food blog, so remember, the Combo Sandwich and a Dago Salad at Corsino's is one of the best lunches in this here Gump.

Oh, almost forgot. Bama Bing and Ramona patched things up and have lived happily ever after.

I am glad to be back, although I have another one of those ankle bracelets and can't go outside the bypass without the blessing of my PO. Again.

 

Apocolyst Gump

What with all the turmoil in the world, sabre rattling, disasters and planes dropping from the sky one cannot help but this may be the beginning of the Apocalypse.  I mean, at this particular time we have:  (1) War in the Ukraine including a Malaysian civilian airliner shot from the sky; (2) Civil war in Iraq with the Sunni attacking the Shiite (which has never happened before except a few hundred times); (3) War in the Gaza strip between Israel and Hamas (again not unprecedented); (4) A still missing Malaysian airliner in the Indian Ocean; (5) An Ebola outbreak in Africa (6) A plane crash in Mail, Ethiopia, (7) A border crisis; and (8) Earthquakes in China. Even "traditional" societal mores have been falling like dominoes at a pace never before seen.  Heck, at the current rate of social change, Alabama will soon allow gay marriages, gambling and marijuana sales. Dogs and cats living together will be next.  It's really only a matter of time isn't it? Some even suggest our President should be impeached as the Antichrist. Woe, dismay and worry abound. Other than the gloomy news, there is very little news at all.  No wonder all I watch are Doomsday Preppers and The Food Network.

Which, as always, leads me to thinking about Lunch in the Gump.  Assuming the impending collapse of society and the decay of our lunch system as we now know it, I have been thinking about where I would eat while the food was still fresh and hot and then work my way through the remaining restaurants until I have to start foraging. Then I think about the order of animals I would like on a spit as they are literally eaten out of existence. In other words, where would the food disappear from Gump restaurants first and what would be the last animal eaten before we hit "The Road" and start looking at our husky friends and seeing beefsteak.

Think about it, tomorrow the economic system collapses under runaway inflation and your money is no good but you have some 9 mm ammunition or other useful stuff to barter. Where do you do lunch knowing that they will not be open long before they run out of food and other supplies? You need to plan and make a list: Apoca-list Gump!

For me making that list is tough.  Where would I go first?   Right now I would go to Derk's first, give him 10 rounds for his pistol and have a good ole fried pork chop, some squash casserole and spicy cornbread chased by a still-cool bottle of fine pinot grigio. After all, he won the first and now defunct BCS Lunch Bowl championship and the most recent head-to-head survey challenge on the Lunch in the Gump Facebook Page.  I figure the Derk's lunch counter is adequately protected with butcher knives to hold out for a few hours if they gave the hungry zombies bottles of wine or used the bottles as clubs.  If True were still open for lunch, I would stop by there before bugging out but, alas, they are only open for dinner so I would have to just fondly remember by last terrific pork chop and pinot noir there with friends.

After Derk's was eventually overrun by hungry zombies, I would drive my SUV through the mob at full speed and travel over to Michael's Table for some of their Schnitzel and another glass of now room temperature white.  Don't know what I could barter they would care about but some of my fishing lures might interest the chef.  Some may say the best move would be Bud's on the theory that not even the Zombies could find it.  However, I say move downtown and then north to the largest water supply: Lake Martin.

An artist's conception of apocalypse-crazed zombie chile poblano seeking revenge.

 I would stay at Michael's until the ditch behind Zelda Place filled with hungry Chile Poblanos seeking revenge on the patrons of nearby La Zona Rosa.  I would then duck in to Chicken Salad Chick and see if they would "sell me" at gunpoint a quart of their regular chicken salad needed seriously "TO GO" before the Poblano's overrun the area.  Failing that I would rev up the SUV, now covered with blood and gore, and head for Central downtown squishing hundreds of Poblanos along the way.  There I would feast on what was left of Chef Leo's calamari, assuming it was still fresh.

Of course, by this time the sea food at Capital Oyster Bar would be quickly losing its shell-food life and may have to be avoided although it would be temptingly close to the relative safety of the Alabama river which is full of all sorts of questionably palatable river life.  Zombies do not swim although they can walk along the bottom of the river and pop up on the other side.  It is important to treat the river shoreline like a wildebeest expecting crocodiles would.

With my "bug-out" kit full of chicken salad and 9 mm rounds beside me I would then head up to Lake Martin to a secret spot on the water where deer seem to abound. I would think the dams would halt the underwater march of zombies north from the Gump.   But then again, the march from Georgia south perhaps would cause a pile up against the structure. Let the Georgia Zombie War begin!

After cleaning out the deer I would move to the squirrels, then the raccoons and foxes all the while fishing hard for crappie and bass.  I would eventually move on to the polite little chipmunks and then the various birds hitting my feeder.  When that supply was exhausted, I suppose it would be time to give up--even if armadillos were plentiful.  I mean, if you look in the mirror or your reflection in a stream and see yourself eating an armadillo, it may be time to go to..... McDonalds?

Seriously, things have got to get better soon or we will all be fighting over the last shipment of Chicken McNuggets so infused with preservatives that they will last 50 years without refrigeration as we all speak Russian or Arabic.   What is Russian for a Chicken McNugget anyway? Цыпленок McСамородок. This is pronounced: Cureetza McCrapeeza.  Somehow that sounds right. Things at that point could not get any worse.

Pray for Some International Sanity and Stay Hungry My Friends!  Remember our Motto:

 

The Law of Unintended Sandwiches

In 1936 Meyer R. Schkolnick n.k.a Robert K. Merton published a paper titled: "The Unanticipated Consequences of Purposive Social Action" in which he tried to analyze the unintended negative consequences that often result from deliberate attempts to cause positive social change.  Now related to "Murphy's Law", the "Law of Unintended Consequences" is often utilized to remind us of the hubris that humans can fully control the world around us.

Which of course brings me to the subject of sandwiches in Montgomery, Alabama, a.k.a (affectionately know as) the "Gump" (for you newbies).  Our loyal following on our Facebook page (see the link to the right) has been chattering about a chain know as Jimmy Johns coming to Old Cloverdale in the Gump.  However, as you Old Montgomerians know, the corner of Narrow Lane and Carter Hill Road is not in Old Cloverdale and is known as the old Chevron station now known as the old Moody Tire location. (Isn't it quaint how we natives refer to locations as what they used to be as if we are still living in the past?)  The relevant question I had upon learning of this encroachment was how in the world one would be able to get into or out of the parking lot of Jimmy Johns when it is located smack dab in the middle of the most F*ed-Up intersection even the most well-meaning of traffic engineers never could have possibly intended. (My exhibit A is the turn lane on Carter Hill headed out of town which allows you to go by the cars waiting for the straight arrow and then beat the cars going straight onto Carter Hill).  I thought that when they added the Sonic drive-in to the mix it would only be a matter of time before a waitress roller skated into that spaghetti junction with a load of tater tots causing a chain reaction accident startling a golfer teeing off of No. 8 at MCC and causing them to shank a shot through the glass door at Martin's and into a pile of cornbread.  As if things could not get worse, now they open a fast-food sandwich shop with a drive through lane, hoards of hungry hungry hippos and dozens of delivery drivers ready to bolt into traffic with a Vito sub destined for the tummy of someone too lazy to open a jar of mayonnaise.

The intent was--as we find on their web page--to distinguish Jimmy Johns from the rest because "it's honest, it's damn good, it's damn fast, at a decent price." To paraphrase, it appears they intended to make our lives easier by providing convenient access to decent sandwiches at fair prices. The unintended consequence is that they further screwed up an already disastrous intersection with the result being that I could not get near the place during lunch hour and settled for an average tasting sandwich after stressful encounters with traffic.

I have learned that when you have to serve hundreds of sandwiches in a very short time at "fair" prices, it is almost impossible to serve truly great sandwiches regardless of your good intentions.  That is sort of why we founded Lunch in the Gump: to support local places that make our sandwiches to order in groups of two or three at a time to be consumed at a table with friends or, at least, comrades in cuisine.

Which, finally brings me to the real reason for this particular post.   After trying several fine "fast food" sandwich places in the Gump--like Jimmy Johns--I have to submit that I believe I have located the absolutely best lunch sub-like sandwich in the entire Gump from the River Regions to West Shorter.  I know that such a claim will evoke howls of protest from devotees of various very good local establishments, but today I confirmed that what my gullet had been craving for weeks was in fact the real deal.  What is this sandwich you ask?

The Intended Consequence of Ordering a Combo.

For me, right now the best non-hamburger sandwich you can buy in this area is the Combo sandwich at Corsinos. When Corsino's says "combo" they do not mean it comes with fries and a drink.  They mean a combination of various Italian meats and cheeses. The bread is like the bread they use in New Orleans for Po'Boys. Warmed just lightly with thin-sliced Italian meats and provolone cheese topped with shredded lettuce and tomato. It looks too large for one person to eat but it is so good I have rarely seen anyone attempt to take 1/2 home.  Given the even light use of mayo that would probably not be a good idea anyway for these sandwiches travel about as well as a Hamburger King cheeseburger. For anyone who does not love one of these sandwiches I will give you a refund of your Lunch in the Gump subscription. Just remember its cash only at Corsinos.

The intended consequence of diving into a Dago Salad (do you see a smiley face in that bowl?)  

To make it even more wonderful, you should try the sandwich with the (Politically Incorrect) antipasto which comes with Italian dressing, olives, cheese and lettuce.  I'd love to show you a picture but I ate it before I thought about writing about it.

The moral here: Take your time for lunch and enjoy a hand-made, one at a time, sandwich at a hometown icon like Corsinos.  Its an intended consequence of taking your time to make something special.