[title type="h5"]Monday, June 16, 2014.
Against The Grain. Frostop.
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I still need a haircut. If I wait until tomorrow, I will be in the weeds all day. I have to show up looking decent for the photographer early Wednesday.
But it's Monday. I wonder if all barbershops still close on that day, as the union required when I first began getting my hair cut by a pro. I learn the answer with my first call, a shop in old Covington with the manly name "The Lions' Den." I should come right over, they say. As soon as the radio show ends, I do.
A young man undoes the disaster of my last haircut, elsewhere a few months ago. He starts by sort of mowing it. Any other time, I would have registered shock, but it is what needs to be done today. Soon enough, I am cleaned up. The only issue--a minor one I don't notice until I get home--is a little bit of a combover. But I don't comb it over, so no harm is done.
This is the first time in my life I have a Monday haircut. It's also the first time I am asked to sign a release before they start work.
Mary Ann has something to do across the lake today, and tells me to get dinner on my own. Besides, she adds, she is really, no kidding, abstaining from food. I don't know why I bother with questioning such strategies. But women don't want advice. Not from a man, anyway, and certainly not from a husband. But maybe someone else will read this and benefit from it.
MA circles around parking lots to find a space marginally closer to the front door. My idea--one I have practiced for at least forty years--is to park my car immediately, in the space farthest from the entrance. First off, it saves the time of sitting there waiting for someone with a "good" space to pull out. Second, it gives one a little extra exercise. This sagacity falls on deaf ears. My daughter concurs with my wife, calling my strategy the kind of thing Dad would say, and then rolling her eyes.
What I really want for lunch was a plate of red beans and rice. But I wind up at the Frostop on Causeway Boulevard in Covington. It's a renaissance Frostop, a franchise that was in decline for decades, suddenly become cool again. The rotating frozen mug in neon is still outside. A caller months ago alerted me to very good roast beef poor boys coming from this unlikely vendor. Indeed, I had two or three of them and found them as good as advertised.
[caption id="attachment_37652" align="alignnone" width="400"]
Roast beef poor boy.[/caption]
I am less happy with today's sample. The beef is tender and the gravy tasty. They don't seem to have any way of toasting the poor boy bread. They really ought to get some kind of oven for that. French bread not warm or crisp has a way of stretching instead of tearing at the teeth, forcing one to pull the sandwich harder to obtain a bite. But pulling harder means squeezing the sandwich harder, too--and here comes the avalanche of lettuce, pickles, beef and gravy, onto the plate.
This is compounded by the way the beef is sliced. To do their work, muscles have to be tough in the direction of the pull. To defeat that, the cook must slice meat across the grain, which not only makes the beef much tenderer, but also, I believe, releases more flavor.
This is a hard sandwich to eat, nearly disintegrated past the halfway point. It's disappointing to get something that's almost great, save for one easily-remedied problem.
[title type="h5"]Frostop. Covington: 2807 N US Highway 190. 985-400-5200. [/title]
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[title type="h5"]Tuesday, June 17, 2014.
Something Else To Write. Uchi Sushi. Flat At Crossover Six.
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The daily routine for days on which I go into town for the radio show is in a reassuring groove. After the show ends, I take a nap on the floor of my office for about twenty minutes. That's just enough for my brain to repair the damage done by my talking into a microphone for three hours.
Refreshed, I resume writing. Two weeks ago I began a semi-novel that's been on my mind for years. It's about something that comes across as very peculiar when I explain it to people. For that reason, and because I can't afford to give the project more than spare time, I'm not telling anybody about it. Another reason: there's a good chance I may abort the book as soon as I exhaust the thoughts that motivate me to write it. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened.
Dinner at Uchi Sushi. This is the spot on Causeway Boulevard in Metairie where the original Little Tokyo thrived for twenty-five years. That outfit moved during the past year up the boulevard to West Napoleon. The old place is being managed by a longtime Little Tokyo sushi chef who goes by the name of Johnny. Everybody there is his friend, and a regular customer. Except me. I haven't been here in years, mainly because of its consistency. I don't go often to restaurants that never change. I don't need to.
The premises look better than I remember. The food, always excellent during the Little Tokyo years, maintains that standard. I begin with the clear soup, nice and hot. (I'm running into a lot of lukewarm Japanese soups lately. Is it just me?)
[caption id="attachment_42754" align="alignnone" width="480"]
Burning Man roll at Ochi Sushi.[/caption]
Then an order of asparagus sushi, followed by a Burning Man roll. The latter is generous with the salmon, tuna, and avocado, the working parts of the colorful roll. The amount of rice is minimal. This thing is big enough to be a meal unto itself.
My original plan was to have another couple of orders of nigiri. But I also ask for beef gyoza. A hand-made sign inside the door recommends it, noting that it is spicy. I would not learn that first hand: they are out of beef gyoza. How about the pork version, then? Good, but as usual it is almost identical to the item served under that name in nearly every other Japanese restaurant in town.
I struck out for home, thinking about how overly full I feel every time I eat sushi. And that from ordering about two-thirds what I once did. A friend told me a few weeks ago that it's norma for one's appetite and weight to shrink of their own accord past a certain age. It sounds like a good thing, but I wonder what kind of trouble that will be for me as time goes on.
At around the five-mile post on the Causeway, I changed lanes. When the wheel ran over one of the reflective markers glued to the center of the roadway, I registered too hard a bump. I was pretty sure I knew the bad news that comes next. It is two miles to the next turnaround. When I change lanes again to take the crossover, I hit another bump with the same hard-on-hard jolt. That finishes the tire, now flopping around helplessly on the rim.
Last time I had a flat on the Causeway, an emergency truck came out and fixed it for free. But that service isn't available at eight in the evening. There was nothing for it but to see if I could remember how to change a tire. I haven't had to in ten years. I jack the car all the way before noticing that the jack is upside down. But I have the lug nuts already loose and the spare sitting there waiting, so I just have to be a little careful.
By the time the Causeway cop comes to check on me (he is delayed by a guy who ran out of gas), I am just about finished. I must say it makes me feel like a man for a change. I get fewer and fewer bits of evidence about that with each passing year.
[title type="h5"]Uchi Sushi. Metairie: 1521 Causeway Blvd. 504-309-4253. [/title]
Written by Tom Fitzmorris June 24, 2014 12:01 in
