Genius Loci 2: Scubber's Wings, A slice of Buffalo on Wolf Road

Confession: In moments of weakness and withdrawal, Agnes and I have been know to frequent Buffalo Wild Wings and make pronouncements like, “These are just as good as the wings Upstate or at Duff’s or Anchor Bar.”

Forgive us Father, for we know not what we say.

In my defense, the wings at Buffalo Wild Wings are decent, passable examples of the wing making art, but they are not as good as the wings found in Upstate, NY, let alone the real deal from The City of Good Neighbors.

I blame distance, both spatial and chronological.  I am certain that if a profit were involved, the science-y software engineer types at Google could develop an algorithm to prove that the farther one gets from a given place and instance of consuming a given food or beverage or rock and roll show for that matter, the easier it becomes to fool you with decent approximations, passable examples or the band Creed.

Plus, real deal wing joints do not need to be told:

1. what type of sauce (other than a particular Scoville unit preference) to put on the wings they make for there is but one true sauce: cayenne pepper, mediated with butter, occasionally and allowably tinged with wing joint specific spices,

2. to fry the wings until they are actually and thoroughly cooked which results in a crisp skin and tender meat that readily separates from the bone.  At lesser wing establishments (LWEs,) one must ensure this practice by ordering the wings “extra crispy,”

3. to put the right amount of sauce on the wings they serve.  You will have to order “extra sauce” at an LWE in order to receive a closer approximation of a true wing experience and that lovable, end of meal challenge of consuming the “swimmers” at the bottom of the service device.  Having soaked for 20-30 in the pooled cayenne sauce, these wings are the true measure of one’s wing consuming mettle.  I firmly believe that the consuming of “swimmers” at Duff’s should involve the awarding of medals and a celebratory parade for the hearty soul who consumed these beasts in their highest numbers, yes yes!

4. I am saying this for the last time, the demon mucus also known as ranch dressing is for fucking salad.  It should never, ever be offered as a wing dipping sauce alternative to bleu cheese dressing.  There is a special place reserved in Hell for the person that started offering this God forsaken dipping sauce option for chicken wings.

Clearly, I have gone the long way ‘round the mountain to get to my point: Scubber’s Wings, 186 Wolf Road, Albany, NY is indeed a real deal wing joint offering perfect examples of the wing making arts: crisp, cayenne saucy wings, with bleu cheese dressing and a sufficient number of “swimmers” so as to make my heart sing with joy. 

And, truth told, a beef on weck that might compete with the legendary Schwabl’s just outside Flour City.  But then again, it has been awhile since I visited Schwabl’s so I better hold my tongue until I can verify that hypothesis through empiricism, field work and direct observation. 

I do not want to fall into the close approximation, passable example trap again.

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The new Steve-Eats serial: genius loci

In an episode of Treasuresof New York about Columbia University I watched recently on PBS, the architect Renzo Piano mentioned the desire of the school’s administration to account for the genius loci of the surrounding Harlem community when designing the buildings for the university’s new campus.  He went on to give his brief definition, “The genius of the place.”

So during this week I have been thinking about genius loci as it relates to all things food and by coincidence/confluence I also caught the Burgundy episode of Huang’s World on the new ViceLand network in which Eddie Huang discussed terroir the French, more BV familiar version of genius loci.

My conclusions:

1. Even if we take into account that the programming I watch trends toward the educational (Agnes calls them “Steve Shows,”) rather than say the mindlessness of most reality television or the toxic, intellectual fungus of Fox News, I watch too much television,
2. I will borrow the term genius loci (I hope the Romans won’t mind) for the title of a new serial here at Steve-Eats to encompass the genius of place in its myriad variation.  In our little endeavor, place can mean restaurant, farm stand, deli, bodega, city, world region and its genius its food, beverage, people, atmosphere or je ne sais quoi that makes it unique and appealing,
3. I really should apologize for the number of italicized words in this post.  So smug, so elitist.  Is this a food blog entry or Master Thesis you jackass?

Rather than further, boring explication let’s get to it with the first installment of genius loci: grilled oysters and Riga Black Balsam at Darkhorse Restaurant, East Main Street, Riverhead, NY.

I’ll be honest, I do not frequent Darkhorse.  Our relationship is challenged.  How do I best explain it?  Maybe the best comparison is dating.  Perhaps you meet someone, you get along sort of, but you do not really hit it off, but for a reason you cannot quite put your mind around, you keep trying.  You sense there is something there only to find more disappointment the next time you meet, but that does not preclude trying again and again and again…

So there’s that, but now there are the grilled oysters which until our most recent visit, we had never, to our subsequent shame ordered.  In fact it took a well traveled out of town guest to put us on the path to possible reconciliation (thanks LM!)  Indeed, they were perfect: local briny shellfish deliciousness teased with butter and a hint of smoke and sufficient reason in and of themselves for a return engagement.

The other reason I find my way back to Darkhorse on occasion: Riga Black Balsam.  It is likely that Darkhorse is the only establishment in the greater expanse of Long Island that has this Latvian aperitif on offer. 

When I first saw it high on the third shelf, appearing to be (in its resplendently sexy black bottle lettered in gold) more decoration than active pour, I was forced in shock, amazement and genuine disbelief to ask, “Is there anything in that bottle?  Or is it just there for decoration?”

The bartender then had to admit, “I have never poured it.  I will have to check.”

Riga Black Balsam is an acquired taste children.  As Agnes once said, “It smells like dirt.  I am not drinking that.”  Her advice is sound and I am certainly not advocating its consumption unless one appreciates earthy (a euphemism for smells like or tastes like dirt,) herbaceous aperitifs that were originally concocted (before the advent of antibiotics) as medicinal tinctures. If that is your boat, by all means hop the hell on it is an interesting sail.

For me, Riga Black Balsam has come represent the weird weaving confluences of Life, of friendship, of loss and unless you buy a bottle and split it with me, that is all that I am saying about that.

And so ends the first installment of genius loci: grilled oysters and Riga Black Balsam at Darkhorse Restaurant. 

Sorry for all of the fucking italics.

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A brief discussion: Tacos vs. Tack-O’s

First the definitions:

Tacos:  Slices of meaty Mexican deliciousness redolent of cilantro, radish, chopped onion served on doubled soft, hot corn tortillas.  The myriad meat choice reflecting a whatever is on hand, leftover ethos: carnitas, tongue, goat or beef tripe, pig’s ears and for the children carne asada or chicken.

Tack-Os:  Are the Americanized version of non-variable composition: fried tack-O shells made from corn tortiLLas, shredded cheese of your choosing (this where your creativity can really shine: pepper jack anyone?  Oolala,) chopped tomatoes, shredded iceberg lettuce and watery diffuse taco sauce squeezed carefully from plastico-alumino hybrid pouch/packet device.  Please be advised that the term tack-O is appropriated from Family Guy.  It’s worth watching the clip for the sake of research and a better understanding of the term itself.  Go ahead, I’ll wait.

So of course, what now follows (based on other foodie (I fucking hate that word) reading you’ve done,) is an exultation of the original and a denigrating debasement of the Americanized riff on Mexican soul food.  So there’s no reason to read on right?  Never were you so wrong gentle reader!  They’re both fucking awesome.  So Ha!

Tacos are of course awesome.  Funky, filling, flavor bombs reflective of the extensive amount of care, time and effort involved in converting various and sundry nasty bits and leftovers into comestible ecstasy.  The result is a perfect fast food lunch or quick dinner and a sound alternative to the ubiquitous burger and fries.

But Tack-Os are equally awesome.  Miniature time travelling devices that will transport you back to the 1970's and if you get really creative like tossing in, Oh I don’t know cilantro, radish and chopped onion or avocado or sour cream you have on your hands a fusion of time, place and culture that might fairly make your head spin.

One more thing, I think it’s high time for Yum! Brands to change the name of it’s Tex-Mex food franchises to Tack-O Bell.  Those are NOT fucking tacos dude!   

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The Wonder Working Power of "Yes"...

Two quick stories:

1. Yesterday I took Agnes to one of our local diners.  I wanted to share with her a recent delicious discovery made with the benevolent assistance of a co-worker’s recommendation.  It’s a daily special of grilled pita beneath Greek salad studded with your choice of grilled shrimp, chicken or marinated skirt steak.  Its magnificence lay both in its simplicity and in combining the shrimp with a side of the grilled skirt steak for a miniature Mediterranean lunch appropriate version of surf and turf. 

However, as I reviewed the menu it was pretty clear that the special was only available as part of the weekly menu.  I was disappointed, but figured I would see if they could accommodate a special request.  Unfortunately, the waitress advised that the pita salad was only available during the week and the closest option they could offer during the weekend was their filet mignon with a small Greek side salad. 

By the time I figured in a side of grilled shrimp I was looking at an $80 bill for the two of us and while tangentially similar, any BV knows that the mildly flavored, tender filet was not a real match for the gamier, toothsome skirt steak and would in truth bear little actual resemblance to the special in question.  Needless to say, our attention turned to other more “lunch priced” options.

2. One of my associates in all things BV is on a business trip in Dallas.  He is having lunch and killing time at a nice restaurant waiting for his next flight and he texts me: “This place has a ham tasting.  Five hams from across country.  I’ll be getting that shortly!”  I am excited by a flight tasting of five hams from across the country, but my friend is GF (medically related, not a fad diet, so shut the fuck up) so the prospect of finding something intriguing on a menu not involving the GF trinity of beef, bacon or lamb no doubt possesses a specific brand of excitement.  Later in the day I asked after the ham tasting, “NG,” comes the response, “Menu changed mid-day for dinner.  Missed it by 45 minutes.  I asked, bartender said no dice.”  I was probably more disappointed than he was.

Onward to the meat of the matter so that you can get back to binge watching whatever great television serial is currently holding sway in your life.  

The ham incident sparked a conversation between my friend and I about “yes."  In our business, we say yes all the time.  We say “yes,” when it is easier and likely beneficial for the businesses we represent to say “no.”  We say “yes” to things after mumbling to ourselves, “I cannot believe that this asshole is asking me for this.”  To borrow, the old U.S. Army tag, we say “yes” more times before 10AM, than that waitress or bartender says all day.  And frankly neither of us is directly involved with the service industry like these two professionals whose business should involve “yes” every five minutes or so.

These two servers had the ability to take it upon themselves and say “yes” OR requested a minute, taken a brief stroll and asked the chef/head cook/owner for an accommodation because we all know the truth: 

In my case, it’s a diner.  They had all of the requisite ingredients available to make the pita salad special in question and I was in no way expecting them to do so at the discounted price.  I would have paid full boat, plus a nuisance fee and the standard asshole tax for that matter.  It was an attainable “ask.”

In the instance of my friend, the restaurant did not run out of the five different hams from across the country or the bartender would have said, “I’m sorry we just sold out of that.”  They may have been moved from a prep area to cold storage, but the hams were available for sale.  So again a totally attainable “ask.”

I want to be clear.  These two service professionals did nothing wrong and this is not meant as an indictment.  In fact, they may very well have been adhering to company policy in the process of saying “no,” but consider that in this Internet day and age your “no” can be and often is broadcast in the space and two minutes it takes to bang out a scathing, poorly written  diatribe on one of the innumerable trashy Internet food gossip sites (I refuse to say or use  the words “food review website”) on a cellular telephonic device. 

For the business owner, would it not be better if that almost instantaneous feedback were positive?  Beyond that you and your business stood to benefit from the word of mouth that would have been generated by saying“yes.” 

“Hey man, if you’re ever in Dallas or on the East End of Long Island, be sure to check out this joint.  They’ll take care of you.  Check out the ham tasting or the miniature Mediterranean lunch appropriate version of surf and turf.  It’s the best.”

And from a purely selfish standpoint, those service professionals would have seen a good tip (BV’s never punish staff, even for “bad” service) transition into a story about the time they received an awesome EFing tip because I said “yes” to a pain in the ass who wanted the ham tasting after lunch hours were over.

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