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Saturday, September 27, 2014.
The Yat Pack Invades Mandeville. Impastato's Cellars Fills Up.[/title]
A token hour-long radio show keeps the continuity going, but it's just a matter of time before I become a voice on the scheduling room floor as regards the Saturday WWL gig. After that, I won't be heard on Saturdays for months. Just as well. I need to take off at least three of them for my retreat, Thanksgiving, and Jude's wedding. A busy but wonderful fall season lies ahead.
Mary Ann sees that the Yat Pack is performing at the Mandeville Trailhead this evening. A relic of the railroad that used to pass through the town, the trailhead has become the center for weekend celebration in recent times, with the farmer's market by day and musical events in early evening.
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The Yat Pack performs for a nice crowd in Mandeville.[/caption]
Both the Marys are big fans of the Yat Pack. Mary Leigh has come out and said that she thinks Tim Shirah--the younger of the two singers who front the nine-piece band--is quite the handsome blade. (The Boy acts miffed by this, but I don't think he has anything to worry about.)
I claim to be the Yat Pack's first fan. I saw them at one of their first appearances, in a now-defunct Mandeville restaurant that Andrew Jaeger used to run. They were just figuring out their repertoire then, but I thought I saw something interesting in the idea of these two guys--neither of whom is old enough to remember Frank Sinatra and his ilk in the day. I'm just barely old enough myself, but they let me join the act for a few songs that night. Next time I ran into them, a year or so later, the act had gelled and they were getting attention.
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Dancing and The Yat Pack.[/caption]
Now they can fill all the green space at the Mandeville meeting place, leaving room only for a dance floor. That was kept busy with people in their sixties and seventies and just as many little kids dancing better than I can. Mary Ann, who loves such wholesome Americana, is delighted.
The Pack does a two-hour set as darkness falls on the trailhead. (Imagine a Sons of the Pioneers song in the background now.) The rest of the Cool Water Ranch gang is ready for chuck. For that, we adjourn to Impastato's Cellars in Madisonville. The place is jammed, but it's approaching eight o'clock, and most of the diners were at their ends of their 6 p.m. suppers.
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Shrimp au gratin at Impastato's Cellars.[/caption]
Everybody at the table but me protests that he or she wants only a little supper. I call their bluff and ask for the big appetizer of shrimp au gratin, which I know will be mostly devoured by the time it comes back to me. The young couple went through a pile of cheese ravioli with red sauce. For me, Italian sausage and capellini. Is it just me, but is the amount of anise flavor in Italian sausage diminishing every day? (I think the answer may be, yes, it is just me.)
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Impastato Cellars. Madisonville: 240 Highway 22 E. 985-845-4445. [/title]
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Sunday, September 28, 2014.
Blackened Ribs. Some Like It That Way, But. . . [/title]
We awaken to a darkish sky that remains overcast all day, then sends a well-timed, large, mild shower over our precincts. That holds up just long enough for me to make one lap of the ranch with the dogs before we started getting unambiguously washed out.
Mary Ann wants to grill pork ribs. Her recent attempts to cook on the Big Green Egg were hampered by anemic heat, owing to her not wanting to bother shoveling out the ashes from her last overloading of the pit. Today she has the opposite problem. The fire is roaring when she asks me to check on it. By that time, the upside of the ribs are at 200 degrees, a good 40 degrees higher than ideal. The bottoms are burned black. They aren't as bad as they look. . . but they look inedible to me. This is, however, the way Mary Ann likes to cook everything. Way overcooked for me, but I had three ribs anyway.
I spend an hour writing a long letter to a woman interested in writing restaurant reviews for NOMenu. I have looked for someone to help me out with that insuperable task for years. She seems to be serious, and has done a bit of that sort of work. Best of all, her favorite kinds of restaurants are the ones about which I am least enthusiastic. But there has never been another voice in this publication except mine, for thirty-seven years.
The rest of the daylight hours go into compiling the Thanksgiving page for the NOMenu.com website. I have a hard time finding more than fifty restaurants that I feel good about recommending to those who want a real Thanksgiving dinner. But that's a lot more than anyone else will publish, and I am already getting thanks from readers.
Written by Tom Fitzmorris October 06, 2014 12:01 in
