My Bloody Valentine

My Bloody Valentine Cocktail

In the late '80s,  I worked as an outside insurance adjuster in the DC/ Northern Virginia/ Maryland land of congestion.  Traffic was criminal and I spent 10 hour days in a butt ugly light blue Nissan Sentra --  Not exactly what I had in mind when the boss promised a 'company car.'  With only an AM/FM radio, music choices were mostly country, Christian or Barry White.  I finally found an alternative station out of Annapolis that could just make it to Manassas before it was rolled over by, 'Three Rusty Nails.'

I was a sponge soaking up new sounds and bands out of Annapolis.  The Feelies did a cover of Patti Smith's, 'Dancing Barefoot' that this one dj played over and over but never identified.  I finally recorded it on my company, 'Olympus micro cassette' and played it for a kid at an alternative music store in Alexandria.

My Bloody Valentine, a band MIA in most everyone's vocabulary in Northern Virginia,  had huge play on the Annapolis station.  Again, like the Feelies, they were a unique sound, but they were a tad more more popular and every once in a while I'd hear them while eating crab at the Quarter Deck in Arlington or throwing back beers at the Tune In on the Hill.

I wanted to do a cocktail for Valentine's Day and I really liked the Negroni that uses Prosecco instead of gin.  Along the same lines, I replaced the Prosecco with Blood Orange soda and while it's not a requirement,  a couple shakes of Regan's Orange bitters really rounds this cocktail out.  It's more  refreshing than boozy.  Bitter, but quaffable.  I first used a martini glass but the Golf Foxtrot inherited a dozen or so coupes from her grandmother and while I'm not a big "colored glass" guy, they do pair well with the bloody red.  

2 oz Aperol or Campari
3/4 oz Sweet Vermouth
4 oz Blood Orange Soda
2 shakes Regan Orange Bitters

Add ice and stir until very cold.  Strain into a coupe.  Maybe throw in a Whitman's Sampler for her.  I gave one to a stripper on Valentine's Day in 1977.  I was driving a '68 Dodge Charger and pulled into the parking lot behind behind the Suzy Wong Club when a cop...

A Stirring Story

Crate&Barrel Martini Pitcher

My mother hired me to tend bar for a party in her home the Summer between my leaving the Army and starting college.  It was mostly opening beer bottles, pouring white wine and sloshing together the occasional G&T or V&T.

A neighbor, who had flown B-17s in WWII, dated Suzanne Pleshette and wrote for Esquire in the late '50s, approached my bar in the kitchen, flashed his brilliant smile and asked for a gin martini. For years, I had made martinis for the Old Man. That  consisted of taking a bottle of Beefeater and a martini glass out of the freezer, filling the glass with syrupy chilled gin and adding a couple olives. It was how the old man liked it -- It was how I liked it.

I explain to Bernie there's no gin in the freezer and he scoffs, "You don't make martinis with frozen gin." I'm guessing Bernie was in his early sixties then. "Got a pitcher?" We find the appropriate mid 20th century Danish glass vessel and set to work. Bernie pours eight ounces of gin, adds a teaspoon of dry Vermouth and throws in a couple handfuls of ice.

Etsy Italian Martini Pitcher

I volunteer my unsolicited wisdom of 22 years, "Stirred, not shaken? I never understood that. Doesn't get cold enough. I'd rather just have it out of the freezer." Bernie stir's the pitcher with a glass rod, "The gin needs the dilution from the ice," Bernie says while the ice sounds like the high keys of a piano. I shake my head, "Bernie, this could take years." Bernie looks surprised, "You have someplace to go?" "No," I admit, "Not at ten bucks an hour." Bernie asks if I've decided my major. "English," I say proudly.

The glass rod continues counter clockwise. Bernie stares into the pitcher, smiles and looks up at me, "I was an English major." Bernie pauses and stirs...I'll tell you a story every English major should know. Sadly, most don't. Lost to time, I guess." "Sure," I say and wonder if this is when Bernie'll tell me how he planked Suzanne Pleshette.

"So," Bernie stirs, "Oscar Wilde was released from a prison in Reading after serving a couple years for sodomy. Everyone knew it was with Alfred Douglas, the son of the Marquess of Queensberry." "The boxing Queensberry?" I ask. Bernie stirs and nods, "Mmmm, Alfred was known among his friends as Bosie. His father, the Marquess, had it in for Wilde. Set Wilde up - although in the trial it was Wilde who put himself in jail." "Really?" I say, lost in the pentameter of the glass rod.

Slope Martini Pitcher

"It's true," Bernie says. "Wilde's released in the late afternoon and since London's almost a day away by coach, he looked for a hotel room in town.  Everywhere he went, once he signed the register, he was told to leave. He drags himself into a tiny inn and explains to the innkeeper, "Look, I'm Oscar Wilde. I have served two years hard labor for my crime, I've learned my lesson and have turned over a new leaf. I've been turned away from every inn and am desperate for a room. Would you help me, sir?" The pitcher frosts with the chill of ice as Bernie maintains his stirring cadence."

"So what did the innkeeper do?" I ask. Bernie smiles, "What could he do? He rings for a page and instructs the young man to carry Wilde's bags to his room. Wilde thanks the innkeeper and follows the young man up the stairs. Five minutes go by and no page.  Then 10, 15. Finally, a half hour later the page still hasn't returned. The innkeeper trudges up the stairs and knocks on Wilde's door. No answer." Juniper wafts around our heads and it whets my appetite like garlic hitting hot olive oil.

Orrefors Martini Pitcher

"You do have olives?" Bernie asks. "Sure," I grab a Manzanilla bottle from the fridge. Bernie hums to himself while I open the olive jar and ask, "So, no answer at the door?" I bring Bernie back from some place far away. I'm guessing he's with Suzanne Pleshette. I know I'd be. "No answer at the door. So the innkeeper pulls out a key, opens the door and there's Wilde, stark naked in bed with the page, also naked. The innkeeper, shocked, says, 'Mr Wilde! You assured me you had turned over a new leaf!' Wilde looks up at the innkeeper and says, 'And I promise I will, sir - - Just as soon as I get to the bottom of this page.'"

You probably had to have been an English major to appreciate this -- but every man should have his own martini pitcher and stirring story. 

Support Your Local Bartender

"Human beings are at their best in bars." Alec Waugh.

The Bartender... I've known a few. Some more intimate than others. I have a standing rule with the profession. Don't drink to an excess in their presence. If I do manage to get over served, I leave immediately. I want to to come back and be welcomed, and frankly, I don't think anything leaves a bad memory more than a drunk in a bar.

If a woman tries to pick you up at the bar it's always best to leave with her. Even if you just take her to her door. Your bartender doesn't have to know and you don't have to tell him. But he'll remember when you return. He doesn't want to know anything and it would be bad form to bring it up. Instead, he'll grab the bar in fornt of you with both hands and smile, "Whadaya have?" And that's all that needs to be said about that.


Do not tell your bartender how to make a drink. Either in conversation or on anything as vulgar as the other side of your business card. If your barman is incapable, suck up what he fixed and order an idiot proof beer or glass of wine. Hopefully you'll be picked up and can leave immediately.

Do not make a meal of the nut dish. One bowl and no more than two. Same to be said for martini olives. Only women ask for more than three. Besides, you can't afford to lose that much displacement.

Get to know your barman. His past, his loves, his hopes. Often this works far better than over tipping... except in NYC. A bartender at the Union League in Philadelphia took me to a strip club where we bonded over red heads. What he called, "Strawberry Shortcake."  I rarely received a free drink but he always took good care of me. I took a bar maid to a black tie charity auction in Chicago. She became a warehouse of free drinks. So much so I stopped going for fear she'd be fired.

Never forget a good bartender. In 1985, I went to Harry's Bar in Philadelphia and had one of the best gin martinis of my life. I returned to the city 16 yrs later and mentioned the bar, sadly closed, to a local who told me,  "He's at the Liberty Place Westin now." I went to the Westin and there he was. "Murray, you're the only reason I came back to this goddamn city." Murray, like any man, is proud of his work and a sincere compliment goes a long way.

If you can tell a story-- tell it to the bartender. It can't be long. And it has to be your story. Not a joke. For instance, the bartender suggests a double Johnny Walker Blue and you reply, "That's like saying there goes a really good looking nun." Somebody at the bar says, "Well, that's his tale of woe" and you reply, "Sadly, there's a lot more woe than there is tail in this world." Your bartender may have heard these but they're used as simple exclamation points.

Conversation is key. I mean, why would you even be in a bar unless you wanted to converse? Which is when we're really at our best.

My Fantasy Tavern

Not necessarily famous or a tavern

Less than an hour from Famous Jim's...

In the town of Coatesville,

With a interesting parking lot

and plenty of views...

Is The Whip Tavern

Not so big

But snug...

and warm.

Like the best taverns are.

 Tucked in.

A real tavern is hard to find.  Make no mistake about it. In a world of hyped up ersatz with insipid beer and food owned by mysterious LLCs, it only seems right to celebrate finding something real. I stumbled on The Whip in Coatesville, PA and remember it being praised by Andy of The Main Line Sportsman.   Sitting in a corner by a fire I wondered what it is about a good tavern that sets it apart from a bar.

A roaring fire helps but there's more.  There's serenity in the horsey art. Familiarity in simple wooden stools. Softness in the light -- I almost feel like I'm being tucked in.  I can sit here and look off into space forever sipping a pint rather than guzzling.  Not that I like drinkinig alone but friends in a good tavern are a distraction.  I might miss some navel gazing insight of self awareness as I relax with myself.

A tavern has a lot in common with an English pub. It's really not the place for martinis or cosmopolitans or the attitude those cocktails come with.  Whenever I'm in a good country tavern...I like to think of myself as a farmer. Not a big farm.  Something small and about a mile away.  I have two pints and walk home... careful to  keep a distance from passing carriages.  Gravel crunches under my boots as I take out a pocket watch and figure the walk'll take a half hour or so. I put the watch back in my overalls, shove my hands in pockets and breathe in the honeysuckle of Chester County.

Stout for Summer

Dry Irish Stout

The Light Stout
 
A fanatic of Brooklyn's Black Chocolate Stout -- I was pretty skeptical about their Dry Irish Stout.  As good as Chocolate Stout is, and it's amazingly good,  the alcohol clocks in at 10% a bottle while adding 300 calories.  Fat and drunk is no way to go through life... or dinner.

Dry Irish is a very dry stout.  Bone-like, and if you like dry white Burgundy, Manzanilla Sherry or dry Scotch, you'll connect to this in a big way. I've never been a dry beer guy but this stout manages to deliver some decent mouth feel with each sip.  Granted, it's not Chocolate Stout, but at 117 calories, that's seven more than Natty Light, it's a great compromise. At 4.2% alcohol it's considered a "session" beer.  That's where you sit around with a bunch of guys, drink beer and tell lies for hours while staying sober enough to remember what you lied about.

I've mentioned my friend in Florida who only buys beer on sale. It usually works out to porter and stout in Summer -- Pilsner and weiss during Winter.   For the same reason, I'm hoping Dry Irish will go on sale this Summer.  It's light enough for a basket of steamed Old Bay shrimp or a nice piece of grilled Salmon.  Stout enough for pulled pork BBQ or marinated flank steak.

Here's where I usually tell you that, by being a contrarian, you can score this stuff for spit. Sorry.  It's $12 a six pack.  I can get a 30 pack of Natty Light in New Jersey for $15.  Maybe someone's trying to tell me to drink less but better.  Or, if you're coming over to my place...now you know what to bring.  Beer enthusiast details found here.

The Cold & the Soul: Emilio Ballato

Cab drivers love this weather. Bitter cold but bright without snow or ice. A wind comes around a corner and slaps me in my face and wallet. Easily walked blocks a couple weeks ago turn into, "Are you fucking kidding me?" I hail a cab, jump in and tell the driver, "It's just a few blocks but I'll make it worth your while."

I learned to take the good with the bad in this weather after 20 years in Chicago. It didn't matter how warm you dressed, it was gonna hurt. Brain freeze headaches. Frost bitten ears. Toes and fingers, despite the cashmere, feeling like they were falling off one by one --

But the city is beautiful in this bright Arctic light. Buildings look taller - harder - steadier. Unlike Summer's undulating heat mixing with hot dog water from a cart and a smell coming up from a subway vent that's so bad -- you don't wanna know what it is. You'll walk the five blocks because you can. Heat is annoying but it's not out to hunt you down and kill like Winter.

Soft living in southern places didn't prepare me for Chicago. Just before moving, a buddy looked at my gloves, "You'll have to get rid of those." "Why," I asked, spreading my fine black leather fingers of  lined Brooks Brothers cashmere. "Because," he said, "Those are not Chicago gloves - They're pussy East Coast gloves." He was right.

I walked east on Houston and just before Mott there was a black wrought iron sign looking like something from Europe circa 1780. Severe and purposeful, it's magic worked. Peaking my curiosity, I look at the building it's attached to and see a restaurant window with fat gold script spelling out, "Emilio Ballato."

There's a picture from the '60s over the menu with a recognizable Warhol in line behind an unrecognizable taller man with his back to the camera. A man stops next to me and tells me it's a wonderful place and that I have to try it. He smiles and moves on, like he did his good deed for the day. I shout 'thanks' to his back and frame the photo of Warhol in my camera. I snap the pic and another man stops and tells me what a great place it is and adds that the man's back belongs to Jimi Hendrix.

A minute later, as I peek between the letters and see a long room filled with picture frames and a thick air of years, a woman walks by and without stopping shouts, "It's great." New Yorkers are certainly food and restaurant proud, but this isn't Atlanta or Denver where unsolicited advice to strangers on the street is considered normal and, y'all, friendly.' "Purdy bad weather, huh? Well, you know what they say about Denver -- If you don't like the weather - just wait a few minutes...a ha ha ha..."

I get home and there's a message on the answering machine from The Nephew who's in town from Chicago and looking to buy the Golf Foxtrot (GF) and myself dinner. I get him on the horn and tell him my Ballato story. He tells me he's game... but not to shoot him. A ha ha ha...

Despite having to hang up our own coats, there's a warmness to Ballato I saw from outside. Narrow, but not too close. It's honest looking. Nothing 'Olive Tree' about it. In fact, just saying 'Olive Tree' in this place should be completely horrifying to every civilized guy on earth. We're given some decent tasting tap water and a basket filled with a prosciutto stuffed bread. The Nephew orders a Montepulciano that's earthy and strong while I bogart the bread basket.

We start with grilled octopus. Long sexy lengths of tentacled brilliance tasting more like July than January. Green hunks of Broccoli di Rape, all garlicky with squeezed lemon, join the fork with the octopus. Granted, an Umbrian white would have been my choice but at this point I really don't care, keep my mouth shut and happily drink my red.

Unrushed, the three of us polish off the appetizers and wine. It's here some mention of my discipline must be made. Had I any, I would happily have ended dinner at this point. However, I didn't and three entrees came out and were served so we could share. Two pastas, Spaghetti alla Puttanesca and Tagliatelle alla Bolognese along with a pounded and breaded veal. All of it consumed with a lighter Primitivo from Puglia.

I have a friend from Chicago who told me, "The food's not very good at the Cheesecake Factory but there's lots of it." Just mentioning Cheesecake Factory here should be completely horrifying to every civilized guy reading this but... I do it to make a point. Ballato has that something indescribable and that's so damned hard to fake. Along with the perfect pasta... the veal... was average. Just okay. But who cares. Everything about Ballato was magical.

The three of us huddled in the back of a cab for the long ride up Broadway. The Nephew and GF chatted of work and rents and NYC challenges while I looked out the window and thought of how everything in this city comes at such a high price. The price of living, working and fighting for every scrap. It ain't easy, but I've never seen so much magic anywhere else. As far as values go -- Emilio Ballato's magic comes at a small price. Even more so if your nephew pays and... you can skip the pasta. I've said this many times before and I'll say it again, I may not be able to smoke, drink or screw much longer -- But you gotta eat and there's no city in the world I'd rather do it in.

Vive L' Ecosse

The Ambassador Magazine, 1957 -  Unmitigated Brilliance

St Andrew's Burns Night, 140 West 46th Street -  Unmitigated Bargain

A Man of the Tablecloth

Stewart Voegtlin has been hoisted around here on a number of occasions. His writing is ballsy, introspective, straight shooting and damned funny. We have a lot in common. I wish I could say it was our writing but it's more like our waist size and inseam. He did an interview with film maker Joe York for Oxford American Magazine and you can catch it along with some of Joe's short films here. Above, I posted a nice little film about a Thanksgiving squirrel hunt.

I'm not big on squirrel but this takes me back to 1968 and North Carolina. My mother's family'd set out a long table of food in the kitchen every Sunday. They'd cover it with a table cloth and as folks came and went during the day, they'd lift a plaid corner and help themselves to a spoonful of sweet potatoes, slices of cold country ham or, my favorite, a big wet slop of banana pudding.

In Stewart's interview, York explains the connection of food and how it relates us to a place. All of us. Regardless of where we're from. It's a wonderful contrast to sitting in a Starbucks, sucking on a latte, picking at a cardboard scone and reading this on your iPad while ignoring everyone around you.

That's not a criticism. I do it too.  It's just how it is, but it helps to believe that no matter how bad shit gets with increasing isolation in our world,  food is our savior. Instead of kneeling in a pew on a Sunday -- I'd rather lift a table cloth with Voegtlin.

The Friday Belt: Corked on Mezcal

Vida Mezcal ($36) from Del Maguey

El Bebida:
There wasn't a worm in the bottle and I didn't get stinking drunk and wind up with a dead donkey in a ditch. Although, it could've happened. Vida ($36) is considered entry level Mezcal.  I consider it a huge value. Firstly, I like that Mezcal is smokey. If you like Islay single malt or back bacon or smoked almonds or Lapsang Souchong tea, this, my friend, is the stuff for you... and most certainly for me. It's like drinking a Cuban cigar.

Two - I discovered Mescal only recently -- It was about the time I started pissing everyone off. Kidding.  I've been pissing off folks for years. I saw John Huston's 'Under the Volcano' and was both terrified and awed  (Awed is such a better word than awesome) by the main character, a complete pile of whale shit played by Albert Finney. As we used to say in the Airborne, "Nothing's lower than whale shit."

Three- Because of the single malt smokiness, I tried Mezcal as a Rob Roy.  Didn't work. I also tried it with  Campari, sweet and dry vermouth and too many tequlla recepies to mention.  I think it's best sipped straight with a big plate of Puerco Pibil and a couple beers as a chaser. Keep your consumption to that and you'll be awarded with increased clarity of vision.  Drink too much and you'll wind up in a ditch with a donkey.




"A dish so good, you might get wacked just for making it." Robert Rodriguez

Cork belt ($40) from Cork Design

El Cinturón:

As a kid living in El Paso, my family would go into Juarez all the time. This was long before it turned into a war zone. I remember eating tacos from street vendors.  Hand made corn tortillas, beef, cilantro, diced raw onion and a squeeze of lime juice.  That was it and it still is.

I remember the Mexican men wearing belts that were cowboy in origin and the leather was always a light tan. These belts were a real contrast against blue jeans. Many miles from Juarez, a couple ladies in Fernandina Beach, FL are making belts and lots of other stuff outta cork.  I love the color of cork and this belt takes me back to those days in Juarez.  I'm gonna suggest they look at making a belt with a detachable buckle.  That would open up all kinds of possibilities.

It's nice to know cork is fire resistant 'cause if you drink enough Vida Mezcal your belt might catch on fire...

Pee Wee, Cowboy Curtis & Oeufs en Cocotte

Jambi: One pair of cowboy boots coming up! What size?

Cowboy Curtis: Uh, size 12, double E.

Pee-wee: Boy, big feet.

Cowboy Curtis: Well, ya know what they say.

Pee-wee: No. What?

Cowboy Curtis: For big feet, big boots!

I imagine most of you entitled snots were sitting on the floor in diapers with a piece of Zwieback sticking out of your drooling little mouth when this episode of Pee Wee's Playhouse aired back in November of 1986. I was in bed with a hangover and a woman old enough to be your mother. Not my mother. Your mother.

That's what some of your parents were doing in 1986. Laying in bed nursing hangovers and watching Pee Wee and Cowboy Curtis talk about wieners and big feet. I wonder how many obnoxious style bloggers were conceived during this episode? My spark was squeezed out while Jonathan Winters did 'Boys of Spring' on Jack Paar.



It's Saturday or Sunday morning. Hell, it can be Monday morning if you're highly evolved. You wake up with a throbbing head next to last night's first date. And lets say you wanna stay. It happens. You not only wanna stay...you want to make an impression. Especially if you didn't do so well last night. It happens...to you. Not to me.

Oeufs en Cocotte, my friend. It sounds (ee-noof en coe-kot) a helluva lot better than pancakes and bacon and it's a whole lot easier to make. Ask your host if they have any ramekins. Most women and all gay men have at least two. Four is better. Then tell them to go back to sleep.



If you find Stouffer's creamed spinach in the freezer then you're cooking with gas. That's an old expression, cooking with gas. You may be cooking with electric or, if you're Foster Huntington, with Sterno. Whatever, it's best to microwave the creamed spinach (4-5 minutes) then pour the whole bag into two (or four) ramekins. This is a real 'wing it' kind of recipe. No hard and fast rules. You can butter the ramekin or not. You can use herbs, onions, cheese, bacon, white truffle oil, tuna...anything you want although it helps if you use breakfasty stuff.


Crack one egg over whatever you placed in the bottom of the ramekin and place the ramekins in a sauce pan of boiling water. Mark Bittman leaves the boiling water out. Why? Because his cook books suck, that's why. You gotta have the boiling water step or, if you just stick the ramekins in an oven, you're gonna get oeufs en cocotte hard as a hockey puck. It happens...especially to Mark Bittman


Transfer the ramekins in boiling water to a 400 degree oven and set your timer for 8-10 minutes. The real luxury here is the softness of the eggs. Sexy is a good word. I recommend taking a tray of ramekins back to bed and presenting them to your new best friend, perhaps with a warm blowy whisper in their ear, "ee-noof en ko-kot." You can explain what cocotte means afterwards.

Contradian London: The Client & The Guinea

The Guinea Grill, 30 Bruton Place, Mayfair


"You're my beast of burden, Tinseth." He said Tinseth with a 'z' instead of an 's' and it always annoyed me. "I'm what?" I asked. "My donkey. You do my heavy lifting, mate." And I did. I was also well compensated for it. He was my biggest client and he was and is a friend. I'm proud to say he invited me to his wedding... both of them.


The Lamb Tavern, 10-12 Leadenhall Market


Holding pints, we stood outside the Lamb Pub in Leadenhall Market. He asked about another client of mine and a competitor of his. I lit a Silk Cut and spit a stream of disgusted smoke at his chalk striped shoulder. "How would you feel if they asked me the same question about you?" He laughed,"I suspect they already have," and took a sip of beer. We pause to watch a beautiful broker in high heels and a mini skirt walk drunkenly past us, her nail head heels slipping dangerously between the cobble stones.


The Tintin Shop, 35 Floral St, Covent Garden


I turned to him and, as he watched the broker stumble away from us, he said, "You're not being very forthcoming, Tinzzzzeth." The mother fucker had stones. And luck. He also suffered through a political incorrectness that took no prisoners at Lloyd's. His mother was English and his father Malaysian. We all had nick names. I picked up Tintin never realizing how lucky I was. His was the Slant Eyed Rice Monger.

The client didn't give a shit. He made millions and made others millions. A couple years ago we sat on the beach together a day after his second wedding. He asked why I was wasting my time writing and suggested I get back to a career I hated. He would help me and there were a lot of things he could do. I tell him I've dreamed of writing, 'tick, follow tock' for 30 years... and that I pass. I add we're probably still friends because he's no longer the client.



The Lloyd's of London Shop, 1 Lime Street


22 years ago, we had our first dinner in London at the Guinea. A pub/steak house that was smaller than a match box and was banging 12 on the virile meter with men tucked into Savile Row suits, Hermes swathed collars and tiny dining rooms. A loud American, with two quiet Brits, sat next to us. The American spoke from his diaphragm, like a drill sergeant or a trader at the Chicago Merc. Thunderous and more so when he asked the client, "WOULD YOU MIND NOT SMOKING WHILE I'M EATING."


Politically Incorrect Silk Cut Ad from the '70s


With elbows on the table, the client held the cigarette in one hand loosely folded over the other, and slowly turned to the American, "Yes, actually. I do mind if I don't smoke while you're eating." The client turns to me and says, "He isn't in America anymore," adding, "How is it, Tinzzzeth, that you Americans can eat mean little salads with iced tea in no smoking sections?" I laugh as quietly as I can and hear the American asking his waiter for a table in the no smoking section. "I'm sorry," says the waiter. "We don't have a no smoking section."

Contradian London: Fried Up

I've flown first, business and coach and always arrive in London feeling the same way. Like nails on a chalk board.



At 32, I was picked by the company president to handle the servicing and sales of London business. In large part, I believe, because of my off-the-menu dessert request for vanilla ice milk and Twinkees at Aunt Fanny's Cabin outside Atlanta during a business dinner with 20 insurance buying Catholic priests. The lead underwriter from Lloyd's termed their liability policy, "The Buggering Bishop's Program" just before adding an intentional acts exclusion.



The president was loaded with tips what with 30 years of international travel under his surcingle. He advised me to resist all temptation to sleep when arriving, as early in the morning as possible, and to stay up as late as possible, at least until 9 or 10 PM. Exhausted, you sleep through the first night without interruption and are thrown into a sleep pattern consistent with the GMT time zone for the rest of your stay. It really works. It's also really hard to do.

I spent countless nights wide awake in bed. Frustrated, I walked the streets around St James Place at 3 AM peering into windows of John Lobb, Harvie & Hudson, New & Lingwood, Davidoff... I walked by stone walls 300 years old, ran my hand along the shell and lime only to be distracted by drunks leaving a private club and piling into black cabs with their engine valve echos ticking away down the empty street.


It took a while before I had the discipline to avoid bed at 9 AM and walk the streets in the light of day. An incentive was the perfect fry up, Full Monty or the Full English breakfast as it's known. Fried eggs, back bacon, blood sausages, a grilled tomato, fried mushrooms and, "...you want the beans, yeah?" "No, I'll skip the beans." I say as I pull a purple Silk Cut from a freshly opened packet of 15. "You don't want the beans?" the waiter says adding, "Have you tried them?"

I light my first cigarette in four months and notice my hand shaking. "Uh, yeah...I'll pass." I take a drag along with some sulfur from a Swan and inhale deep. The chalk board scratching intensifies as my head seems to roll off my shoulders. I flick an ash into the orange plastic ashtray and wonder why I'm smoking. All those smoke free days in the states down the toilet -- which is what they call it here instead of a bathroom. "Is there a bath in the room, mate?" "No, I guess not." "Well then don't call it a bathroom. It's a bloody toilet."

In London less than two hours and I'm lighting up, greasing up and frying up. These early morning Saturday patrols for a Caff are usually hit and miss. I've had some amazing fry ups but my favorite will include white toast fried in back bacon grease. A good Caff is tiny joint with a handful of tables and while a very good fry up at Blake's Hotel will set you back twenty pounds or more - - A Caff or the Fox and Anchor will get the job done under ten quid.


Still, the memories I recall with the crystal vividness of a Mezcal buzz are those wandering the streets at oh-dark-thirty. Alone and wide awake to the noises and smells as shoe heels tap out my steps against cobble stones. One night, I actually wished I could die and be buried in London... just so I could be a permanent resident -- Thanks, in part, to all those fry ups.