Trust me, this is....

Despite the uncertainties arising from the Fiscal Cliff debate, I decided to treat myself and my Latin lover Rufio to a dinner at True in the happening No-Clo district of the Gump this past Friday where we enjoyed  great service (thanks Chris), reasonably priced and decent house wines by the glass, and a tasty--although slightly chewy--prime rib for me and a delicious grilled snapper on a bed of mushroom puree and Brussels sprouts for Rufie.  I know, Whiggin Blanquet, that mushrooms are not precious truffles, but Rufio purred with surprised delight at the flavor of the puree as if they were cooked with a fine truffle oil. Indeed, my nose, which has saved a few of the LITG members from suspicious smelling entrees, detected the hint of truffle coming from Rufio's plate on the other side of the table.

Of course the place--formerly known as Roux--is run by James Beard Award Nominee Chef & Owner Wesley True who brings his national talent to Montgomery. After working for John Currence at City Grocery, Marcus Samuelson at NYC's Aquavit, Wesley has brought TRUE from Mobile to Montgomery.

True has an adventurous cuisine and a gypsy heart, sort of like me.  Chicken and syrup on waffles, Elk burgers and lamb meatloaf are among the current dinner selections.  Interesting and fun food combinations to be sure.  It is no coincidence that man's best friend cannot talk, but at least we can blog and you can take this to the bark: True is an interesting dining experience.

I mean, other than a slight disappointment with a cut of meat not up to very good restaurant standards a/k/a "Butter Beast," Rufie and I had a terrific experience at a reasonable price i.e. $50 a pooch.  After the meal a nightcap at the dog-friendly Pine Bar water bowl next door put an enjoyable exclamation point on a fine evening for some humble hounds in the good ole Gump.

So verily I say: Try True and enjoy.

"Nobody knows the truffles I've seen...." or The Trouble with Truffles.

Truffles have twidges

The rumors of the death of our blog are exaggerated. I personally admit, however, to being distracted for months by my introduction, at an advanced age, to real fresh white truffles from Italy and the resulting obsession they have created.  I have been the victim of a delicious distraction from the important work which is blogging about lunch in the Gump. Why, most of my retorts to statements about the "fiscal cliff" are usually: "What does this have to do with truffles?" or "How will this affect the cost of truffles?" or "Can truffles be grown at the bottom of cliffs?" While it is somewhat of a blessing to be addicted to something so rare and expensive that a high-level "Statey" could never afford enough to ever need rehab, the realization that there are no restaurants in the Gump actually serving them does bring on the need for excessive amounts of Rye Whiskey and maudlin recollections of "American Pie." Such is a life of perpetual trade-offs.

Scallops, black garlic, "truffle" and mushroom risotto at La Jolla.

This post is not only about truffles, but about a dinner at La Jolla where they purport to serve "Pan-Seared New Bedford Scallops with Black Garlic, Truffle and Mushroom Risotto" for less than $30.  I was a little skeptical. After all, truffles are the most expensive food in the world.  They cost up to $3,600 a pound.  So, although a part of an over-large group of loud locals, I specifically asked the waiter whether the dish "really" involved truffles.  I was assured that it did and that the truffles cost $50 per oz. I decided to put my doubts aside, and order the scallops.

Now, had I not just returned from San. Gimignano in Tuscany, perhaps the meal would have fooled me. It was quite good and certainly worth the price. But, once you have tasted a dish cooked with fresh white truffles from Italy or France, you are unmanned and ruined.  Nothing else tastes like truffles.

"The Trouble with Truffles" which aired on 60-Minutes in January 2012, laid out the scandal which is the infiltration of Chinese and Oregon truffle knock-offs into American cuisine.  I would wager that the "truffles" used for my dish were not Italian or French white or black truffles but rather were the relatively tasteless variety from China or Oregon.

And don't get me started on truffle oils.  Although I have heard that oils from Urbani or Antica are genuine and a great way to introduce yourself to cooking with truffle flavor, many so-called  "natural" truffle oils are usually not made from real truffles but from chemical recombinations derived from one of the main components found in real truffles.  High price is also no guarantee of the use of real quality truffles.


Truffle hunting dog before a truffle hunt with an interesting band of truffladours

How can I write of truffles without paying homage to the talented beasts that find them?  Allpots used to bore me with his whiskey-infused memories of his pet truffle-hunting pig Mortimer.  Not any more.  Not since my senses were awakened. But I will tell you that the pigs are no longer the hunter of choice for serious truffle-hunting.  Why you ask? Well, the same reason one should never trust me to hunt them: The pigs eat them unless you stop them immediately when they locate a truffle.  Very intelligent reaction I say. Dogs, on the other hand, although less intelligent have great noses and can be trained not to bother the truffles. Indeed, there is a 'Truffle Hunting Dogs' website in the U.S. for dogs "worth their weight in gold."

Preparing a young Gumpund Shedder for a hunt.

You may also find it interesting to know that by far the best truffle hunters in the world are a breed which originated in our area.  Indeed, the noble Gumpund Shedder*--a breed of which our own Shadow Pup belongs--has shown terrific abilities to find truffles without damaging them.  Apparently, it has something to do with spending their young puppy weeks in the Humane Shelter that gives them a sensitive nose.

So now you know a little more about truffles than you knew before you stumbled upon this blog.  If you ever enjoy the real thing, you will savor true truffle joy not to mention that you can have fun with the word "truffle" because it sounds funny and rhymes with trouble.  Trouble indeed is what you will have if you enjoy truffles too much for, at the very least, you will risk plunging over the "fiscal cliff."

As for me, see you at the bottom of the cliff.....

Whiggin a/k/a "Whiggy B in the Velvet Undershorts"

*Shortened version of the full name: American Gump Pound Shedding Mutter.

Atypical Luncheon Conversation Between Gumpy Old Men at Roux (with apologies to Saki).

[Alas, they were too late. Roux is now True.  The silver lining is that True--and I dined there last evening--is hitting on all cylinders. I enjoyed my lamb loaf with sweet potatoes and I normally don't eat sweet potatoes. Ed. 10/20/2012]

The Archives Office clock reached eleven with the respectful unobtrusiveness of one whose mission in life is to be ignored until 4:59 p.m.  Without so much as a “Tah” to his assistant, our career management level Statey, one Whiggin Blanquet, rose from his calculations of his DROP payment at his faux-wood desk, grasped his walking stick and strode out the door to his near-by reserved parking spot. He quickly drove off toward his favorite lunch spot in Cloverdale—Roux—where he was to be treated to lunch and to a rare conversation with his foil/counterpart, one Chase N. Allpots, the decayed gentleman from Ireland.

“I’m starving,” Whiggin Blanquet announced, making an effort to sit down gracefully and read the menu at the same time.

“So I gathered,” said his Irish host, “from the fact that you were nearly punctual.  Perhaps I ought to have told you that I am now on an Atkins diet.  In your absence I’ve ordered two bowls of gumbo and rice without the rice and a truffle pasta salad without the truffles and pasta. I hope you don’t mind.”

Blanquet pretended afterwards that he did not go white above the collar line for a fraction of a second before he realized Allpots was trying to make a joke.  He was saved when he saw the waiter approaching with two cups of gumbo with rice piled above the rim and his favorite truffle pasta salad that he one day hoped would be named for his boyhood pet and beloved truffle-hunting piglet: Mortimer. (For a prior post mentioning dear Mortimer, click here.)

This little pig could hunt

Whiggin Blanquet breathed a sign of relief.

“All the same,” Blanquet said, “you ought not to joke about such things. There really are such Atkins people.  I’ve known people who’ve met them. To think of all the adorable things there are to eat at this restaurant and in the world and then to order and go through life munching tofu and being proud of it.”

“These Atkins people are like the Flagellants of the Middle Ages, who went about mortifying themselves,” Allpots sniffed.

“They had some excuse,” Blanquet said. “They did it to save their immortal souls, didn’t they? But as for these Atkins dieters, you needn’t tell me that a man who doesn’t love pasta and bread and truffles has got a soul, or a stomach either.  He’s simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.”

Blanquet and Allpots relapsed for a few golden moments into tender intimacies with a succession of rapidly disappearing shrimp and truffles.

“I think shrimp and truffles are more beautiful than any religion,” Blanquet resumed presently. “They not only forgive our unkindness to them; they justify it, they incite us to go on being perfectly horrid to them.  Once they arrive at the lunch-table they seem to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the thing. There’s nothing in Christianity or Buddhism that quite matches the unselfishness of a shrimp or a truffle.  Do you like my new tie? I’m wearing it for the first time today.”

“It looks like a great many others that I have seen lately, only worse,” said Allpots.  “And you really should try to avoid marginalizing religions by comparing them to shrimp or truffles.”

“Touche,” said Whiggen Blanquet once again mindful that the skin-flint Allpots was actually treating him to lunch for a change.  “To what do I owe the honor of this fine occasion?”

Allpots became apparently serious and lowered his voice saying: “We may not agree on much—or even enjoy each other’s company for that matter—but we do agree on one thing: Roux for lunch.  And those of us with the sense to know True Banh Mi from a Taco Bell burrito must patronize our fine lunch spots to keep them here when we need a Shrimp Ceasar Po’boy or Tuna “Nicoise” Salad with a Pimm’s Cup.”

Dear me, Blanquet thought to himself, Allpots has found something worth supporting with his purse and the old boy had a point.

“Well then, “ said Blanquet finishing off the last bit of pasta, “I shall show my support for the cause by ordering one of those divine Shrimp Caesar Po’Boys and a Vodka martini.”

Allpots wiped the trace of gumbo and the beginnings of a smile from his lips, and slowly lowered his dexter eyelid.  Which, being interpreted, probably meant, “Not on my tab.”

(For info on Saki: http://www.online-literature.com/hh-munro/)

It Takes a Village...Kitchen, Pimm's Cup and Truffle Fries

[Ed Note: On Tax Day 4/18/2011, this was in the window of the Village Kitchen]

What new restaurant will replace Village Kitchen?

While not expecting a dining experience on the level of Galatoire’s nor a tuxedo clad maître’ d to snap for my seating, I did hear tell of a new local bill of fare in my Cloverdale hometown that would suit my discerning tastes. I am delighted to note that The Village Kitchen is located next door to my very own club in Old Cloverdale, and attempting to remain anonymous during my maiden visit, I fetched my big nose and glasses from the glove box of my Benz, donned and entered to dine alone as usual, hopefully undisturbed by the rabble that frequent places like Derk’s down the street.

I was promptly greeted by a pair of young respectably dressed young men (one with “highlights” in his hair) who honored my request of seating in a corner near a curtain for privacy. While I found no white table cloths, I did take notice of the substantial renovations that the new owners had accomplished. My aging ears (due no doubt to listening to the Nessum Dorma at extreme levels on the headphones) were pleased to be exposed to merely a conversational level of background clatter, substantial chairs with soft white leather seats and matching tufted leather, button appointed wall coverings behind booth and bench seating. Being the sentimental Gumperdale curmudgeon that I am, I took particular note of the prominent, appropriate display of an old sign from “The Great A & P Tea Company” reminding all patrons of the importance of days past. While the tables were ghastly topped in replaceable brown paper coverings, I took an editorial note that this was probably out of expedience and corrections to be made forth with. Properly seated I did see that each table was appointed with a small delightful potted red-tipped jade plant, obviously placed to draw the eye away from the brown paper.

I received my menu from Summer, a delightful oddly named waitress, who proceeded to guide me through options, noting that Butternut Squash was the soup de jour and opining that it was very good. (Looking through my disguise, I remembered that I was undercover I refrained from instructing her that I would be the judge of that). Summer (that odd name again), did tell me that the libations were on the other side of the menu. I turned the page and located the “Cloverdale Pimm’s Cup”. Pimms, Gruet Sparkling Wine, ginger syrup & cucumber. I sat upright and ordered two. A Pimm’s Cup, A PIMM’S CUP,
A P I M M ‘ S C U P !!!!! In the GUMP! Who would have ever imagined that?

Apologies.

Now the problem. No sooner than my Pimms arrived, I glanced to my right and saw that crass Chase N. Allpots and his driver, the obnoxious Fat Clemenza, coming through the door. Irish and Italians, together, The Horror. I grumbled and slumped below my Pimms and kept a watchful and discreet eye on these two decayed fellows.

As usual, Pots and Clemenza were already sauced. They were also speaking louder than necessary in the newly decorated and quieter surroundings of The Village Kitchen.

A different waitress politely served them their libations: Allpots, already reeking of gin and true to his nature, ordered the “Mind Your Elders” (made with fine Hendricks Gin and Elderflower syrup). Clemenza ordered something Italian called “The Capistrano (Woodford Reserve, Vermouth and Bitters). I finished my Pimm’s Cup and quietly ordered a glass of Cain Cuve Nv6 which was a creamy little cab with good legs.

Summer quietly interrupted my surveillance to ask if I was ready to order. I was. It would be the Roasted Chicken “Cobb” Salad ($11) for me. She reminded me that the soup of the day on Thursday was “Butternut Squash” ($3 Cup). I told Summer I would give it a go.

After Summer departed I turned my attention back to the rouges’ gallery nearby. I overheard Clemenza order the Village Patty Melt ($10)(grilled fresh-ground beef on house-made rye, Russian dressing, caramelized onions and swiss cheese). For his side order he requested Truffled-Parmesan Fries ($3). The thought of truffles took me back to my childhood pet piglet--Mortimer who could find a truffle in a snow storm. Alas, while daydreaming I did not catch Allpots’ order.

My cup of “Butternut Squash” soup appeared as if it had wafted on air. A small but fair portion of orange-butter bisque. It was so buttery good, it would make Linda Richman swoon and call Barbara Streisand. Yes she would. The soup was delicious enough to make me forget the babbling idiots nearby and forget to mind the fake moustache. No matter. No one noticed.

A Buttery Butter Bisque.

Summer removed the vanquished soup promptly and it was only a short time before my Cobb salad arrived. The greens and tomatoes were grown locally. I do not know the origins of the chicken but it was just enough to quench my appetite yet not so much that I felt a pang of guilt. Any guilt I felt was quelled by a sip of the cab. The crumbled blue cheese, egg, tomato, avocado, bacon and red onion vinaigrette melded with the wine and satisfied the palate. It was a salad best savored over fine conversation with a beautiful creamy woman with long legs—like my Cain Cuve.

The Village Kitchen Cobb Salad.

Alas, I had no beautiful nor interesting company. And I could not quit listening to the babbling coming from Allpots and Clemenza about wagers on what Allpots calls “armoured wankerball.” Apparently there is some contest this weekend between a university in Alabama and some Florida reptiles. I only caught something about an 8 point line. Sounds like a heavy line but alligators can be rather large I guess. I really have no idea what all that means but I did notice that Clemenza enjoyed every bit of his patty melt and those truffle fries. I should have ordered some myself. I do so miss Mortimer.

Since the Great Recession is now officially over and I needed to remain hidden until Allpots and Clemenza left, I splurged with some of The Village Kitchen’s “Award Winning Cheesecake” ($5). They must have worked very fast to achieve that award since they just opened yesterday. In any event, whether it was award-winning or not, it was made at the restaurant and it was rich and delicious. I was very glad to have ordered it.

Finally, as I finished my cheesecake, Allpots and Clemenza paid their tab (supposedly) and departed. They seemed very pleased with the entire package and themselves. They were chattering on about how they liked the décor, the service and the food so much, they would be back. Thankfully, they never saw me.

While the Village Kitchen advertises its pride in "Slow Food," the service was anything but while the food tasted like something that had been made that day with hours of preparation.

Drat, I thought. I feel the same way about this remarkable place. It is certainly fit for a gentleman at lunch. If they return often, I may have to actually talk to them at some point. After all, there are not that many places where a gentleman can find truffle parmesan fries and a Pimm’s No. 1 Cup. Regardless, I shall return to The Village Kitchen if they can keep up the level of food and service I experienced today. I give it four swizzles.

Cheerio.