One of the perks of being a road warrior is sampling new restaurants in whatever city I’m visiting.  I have a steadfast rule  … no chains, ever.  I used to travel with a guy who would insist on eating at godforsaken places like Chili’s or Bennigan’s simply because he was “familiar with the menu”.  After a lengthy, heated conversation where I enlightened him on the importance of patronizing local businesses, he had a change of heart.

If I’m with my crew, we always try to find the weirdest, most-out-of-the-way place.  A true Mom and Pop joint.  We’ll drive to a sketchy part of town just because we heard a rumor about a phenomenal vegetarian restaurant.  We’ll argue about which Indian eatery to try based on their menu offerings.  I’ve become quite the connoisseur of eating out.  My waistline can confirm this.

Last night, I hung out with my best friend Dre and her husband.  Her hubby suggested a swank restaurant in Sacramento called Grange.  It’s attached to an even swankier hotel, The Citizen, which helped inspire a renaissance in the downtown area.  Given that I visit SacTown 4-5 times a year, it was strange I’d never dined there.

It’s always a good sign when the executive chef happens to be milling around out front and offers you suggestions on what to get.  Grange is a flesh-eaters paradise.  I had a rib eye the size of my head last night – complimented with a rich blue cheese béarnaise, spinach and gnocchi.  I thought I had died and gone to carnivore heaven.  So did Dre’s hubby – who scored perfectly executed pork chops.  The menu changes almost weekly which helps ensure diners are always treated to exquisite new recipes.  The waiter suggested an impossibly blissful bottle of Chardonnay to go along with our meal, DuMol Russian River.   (Yes, I know … red meat = red wine … don’t judge me.)

There’s something to be said about the dining out experience.  For a foodie like me, it’s hard to beat a great meal with friends – complete with sparkling conversation.  The perfect finish was the chef’s gourmet Butterscotch pudding.  Somebody tell me again why I’ve never eaten here?  I think I’ve reached Nirvana.

Popularity: 4% [?]

When I was growing up, my mom worked as a credit manager for a well-known spice conglomerate.   Every day after school, I’d catch a quick whiff of her and instantly know what spice they were processing at the plant.  Even though she worked in a separate building from the factory, she’d still, uh, bring work home with her.

Black pepper days were the worst, she’d say.  She’d complain she was coated in a fine layer of pepper dust.  I always despised when they were packaging curry at the plant.   In small doses, it’s fine.   Otherwise … blech!  Curry permeates and then permanently invades any airspace.   The aroma (read that: smell) would tend to linger on, near or around my mom no matter how many showers she took or spritzes of perfume she’d spray.  To this day, my dad can’t be near the smell of curry without cringing.

Sometimes Mom had a spring in her step.  Those were vanilla extract or lemon verbena days.  She liked working there and made some good friends over the years.  And sure there were a lot of perks – like free spices from time to time.  Or random test recipes that somehow included 46 different spices in varying amounts.

I am forever adding spices to every dish I make.  It reminds me of my mom.  I don’t know if she would be proud … or appalled.  For instance … this morning’s oatmeal had a dash of ginger, a sprinkle of nutmeg, a healthy dose of cinnamon and a light dusting of something called Pumpkin Pie spice.

A tasteless meal is the work of the devil. I simply cannot handle bland food.   Call me Emeril – because it must have a kick.  Or else.  I think my mom’s palate has changed over the years – and not for the better.  She can cook up a storm, but rarely anything with a lot of spice in it anymore.   Case in point, even though she probably has a lifetime supply of cumin, she refuses to so much as try it.   One time my mom and I had a full blown argument about how much garlic I put in a dish.   She will, however, add a sprinkle of paprika to her deviled eggs though – so I know she’s still get a little boom in her bada bing.

So here’s to every chef or chef-in-training out there who goes a little nutty with the nutmeg or psycho with the saffron.  More power to you.  And if you have any ideas how to breathe  new life into my mom’s meatloaf … lemme know.  I’d be eternally grateful.

Popularity: 2% [?]