Taking a break from the monotony that has been the last three days of cleaning by myself (ok, not totally, I did get a killer tattoo this morning) I left to find something to eat. Someplace where the staff is friendly (I might get part of my tab comped), I thought, and where there is someone to talk to for a while. Driving by my first choice I didn't see the cars of my favorite conversationalists so I rolled on. At my second choice I stopped and went in and sat at the bar and the bartender immediately popped open a cold Bud Light for me. Nice...if I drank Bud Light, plus I didn't recognize the cook. Plan B scratched, I finished my "beer" and even though she refused to charge me, I tipped the bartender enough to cover the beer and the tip as she did feel bad about giving me bottled water. Choice number three (possibly four, I was craving KFC a few hours before all this) looked promising, and the new cook has been doing a pretty good job the past couple of times I've been in. As I walked in the bartender was already opening a Corona for me and as I sat I scanned the room and noted that there wasn't anyone in view that I didn't want to talk to...I'll take it. I ordered a burger and settled in watching CNN. Then it happened, SOMEONE TO TALK TO sat next to me. He is an acquaintance I've know for years, not really a friend, but friendly enough, it could be a hell of a lot worse. Until he started in about the news, the president, the world, and then, as if all that wasn't bad enough, he had to start in on the French. I'm not a hardcore Francophile, but how the hell can you not like folks with over 200 kinds of cheese...and the breads...and the wine...and butter in fucking everything, and I've gotten tired of the bad rap they've had since they had the balls to stand up to pretty much everyone else in the world and say that maybe attacking Iraq wasn't quite the best idea we've ever had, so I bristled a little. He was quiet for a minute, until the pirate story came back on. "Oughta just sink that fucker, teach 'em a lesson," he said as I considered asking for my food to go. "Haulin' anything that's worth a shit?" "Just food...and crew of twenty," I answered. "Fuck 'em, that's what we get for helping people." "The French navy has killed more pirates than we have." "Hmmmph, oughta just send a bunch of rednecks over there, we'd know how to handle them folks." In a wondrous example of my late-found ability to shut the hell up when saying something would lead to all kinds of fun and excitement, I did not mention that the military was still taking volunteers if he was truly interested in showing the boys and girls already over there how to "handle them folks." Several of my ex-bosses, a handful of attorneys and at least two judges would have been amazed. "Yeah," I muttered, hoping this would shut him up. It didn't, but being a business owner himself, he asked the inevitable, "How's your place doin'." "Slow but ok, you?" "Same, ain't nobody buildin' shit." I built a really nice one this morning, but I kept this information to myself. This led to an acceptable conversation in which we both bitched about banks, credit, car loans, and the joys of home ownership. I told him that my first priority for bills is the bank that once bailed me out when they probably should have walked away. He told me that his is his child support. "Shit sucks," my neighbor noted. "Yep, shit sucks," I agreed. Not totally though, I thought as I finished off my fries, they finally hired someone who knows how to cook a potato.
Listening: Roosevelt Sykes' Honeydripper’s Ball Reading: Bon Appetit May ‘09. Charcuterie; The Craft of Salting, Smoking, and Curing by Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn Eating: Two egg omelet with mozzarella and green chile with a side of Advil Drinking: Water. Lots and lots of water Feeling: Like hammered dog shit.
It is becoming clear to me that I need to quit drinking. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal if I just drank a couple of beers and stopped, but it’s that stopping thing that throws it for me. It is easier for me to not drink at all than it is for me to stop once I’ve started. I have become a country song. Maybe it’s the hangover talking, if it is I wish it would quiet down some…and turn off the lights.
Sunday morning is starting off slowly…actually it’s just after noon now…after what was the slowest Saturday ever, less than a thousand bucks. That would be great on a Tuesday, but on a Saturday that just plain sucks. I had planned on closing this week and meeting my sister and brother-in-law at our parents' place in Oklahoma for a few days, but upon balancing out the books the other day saw that we would be short a couple grand of where we needed to be to still pay the bills.
Easy enough, I thought, just stay open through the weekend…then my business debit card number got loose on the internet somehow and a bunch of charges started coming in that I wasn’t making. More of a nuisance than anything, but it has caused a hell of a mess.
So, trip home is postponed, my sister and I talked the other day and we’re shooting for mid-May now, it’s a pain in the ass trying to get everyone time off at the same time, she’s a manager at a lake resort in Kentucky and Mom and Dad both still work and when the kids are out of school that’s when all of us are at our busiest with work…and…and…and…
The new place is coming along slowly, Brett’s pretty much going to be over there from now on though and won’t have any duties at the café so things should pick up. We need to replace the flooring in the kitchen and some other light construction/destruction, and do some painting, probably a week’s worth of work, and nail down the rest of the menu. The spinach and mushroom enchiladas in tomatillo sauce turned out really, really well and Brett did chicken in green mole that was also really good. Took a couple of days on that one to get it where we wanted it, not to mention tracking down a couple of the ingredients, but it’s there now.
We might be calling the new place Paso Por Aqui, which translates as "pass this way," from the title of a western which appeared in the Saturday Evening Post in 1926. The story is by New Mexican Eugene Manlove Rhodes, and much of it takes place in our area of the state.
At the top (if anyone knows how to put pics somewhere besides the top of the post please tell me how) are some pics of the place when it was the Greenhouse Cafe to give you an idea of what it looks like, I'll try to get some new ones soon. Really.
I’m thinking green chile cheesecake and a chocolate tart with Cajeta (a goat’s milk caramel from Mexico) as the desserts. We did the cheesecake here a couple of times and it was flippin’ great, I love that sweet/heat combination.
I also got a small meat grinder to try some sausage recipes, I'd like to start doing some of what we use in house along with smoking some of our own meats, so I'll let you know how that goes as well.
Now, I'm going to open my bottle of bubbly water and turn out the light. See ya!