For all that I complain about the state of food in Albany, there is one perpetual bright spot on the landscape. And that is the region’s marvelous taverns.
There is no equal to these establishments on the West coast. Perhaps the closest match would be California’s Hofbräus. But that comparison doesn’t do the tavern justice. On some level they share an aesthetic, and probably a similar history, despite their difference in geography. But it is geography that I think really shaped the institution of the tavern.
Upstate New York is cold. And its winter is long, dark and bleak. The antidote to these inhospitable living conditions is the warmth and conviviality of the tavern. Almost every neighborhood can lay claim to at least one tavern, and it’s a gathering place. Bodies make warmth. It’s a place for people to eat hearty portions of comforting food at reasonable prices. And it’s a place for people to imbibe and rekindle their spirits.
If you are from around these parts, you know all of this. Maybe you will care to read my love letter to the institution. But if you live beyond the Capital District, you should read about what we do well out in this corner of the world.
I’m not the most manly man. I’ve never been into cars or sports. I do not own any tools, and I cannot fix things. The great outdoors has little appeal to me. And I am very satisfied with my monogamous marriage.
That is not to say I do not have any manly interests. I have always enjoyed action movies, and will watch just about anything with Bruce Willis (another handsome bald man). Videogames have been a part of my life since the invention of the Atari 2600. And I have never picked up an issue of Playboy for the articles.
Truth be told these are the few exceptions in an otherwise not-so-manly lifestyle.
So perhaps I’m not the best person to be declaring what should or should not be manly. But that’s not going to stop me.
Tuesday, January 26 was an awesome day. I was up in Saratoga Springs and tried my first slices of Pope’s pizza. Then I attended an amazing seminar and tasting of New York craft distillers. Later that evening I participated in the judging of the best wings in the Capital Region at the Times Union’s headquarters.
They had us sign documents that prohibited participants from blogging about the event until after the story ran in the paper. If you want to see how it all turned out, and see some pictures of the Profussor in action, the article ran yesterday and can be viewed here.
Beyond the tasting itself, I was excited to finally get to meet Ruth Fantasia, the predominant restaurant critic in the region, in person. Superfan Sarah M. wondered, “Ruth Fantasia eats her wings with a fork, yes?”
And having met her I cannot tell you, simply because none of the Times Union staff was on the panel of judges. Ruth was a gracious hostess, and I salute her bravery for inviting my participation.
Now let’s discuss this judge’s perspective on the proceedings and the results.
Kitchen tools can really take over one’s life. After many diligent years of shopping, I can safely say that I now possess everything I need to have a happy life in the kitchen.
That’s not to say that I have everything I want. But we have a rule:
When a new must-have object comes in, another one goes out.
Recently I inherited my grandfather’s prized chocolate malted machine. To accommodate the new addition in the small-appliance corner of our kitchen counter, the automatic bread maker had to go. Sadly the bread machine is now relegated to the garage, where it can be called upon as needed. But a few chocolate malts, a mango lassi or two, and some monkey milk from the new machine help to wash away the sadness.
When my daughter was born, I was struck by the need for another kitchen tool. And while Mrs. Fussy met it with some initial skepticism, this appliance has become a favorite of ours. It is our chest freezer.
Coming from an advertising background the Super Bowl has a special place in my heart. Part of my enjoyment on game day comes from keeping a running tally of the ads, complete with the break it ran in and the position that it held. For example, if Doritos ran their giant mouse ad, and if it were the first commercial of the third commercial break, it would be coded as 3A. I have mentioned before that I’m a bit of a numbers geek.
This list gets long. And more importantly it gets messy. By the end of the game, my papers are splattered with buffalo sauce, blue cheese, and pizza grease. Sometimes there may be a bit of ketchup or barbecue sauce. Also after four quarters of washing down spicy and fatty food with beer, my penmanship slips awfully close to illegibility.
You may get the picture that it’s not just my list that is a mess.
Every year I say this is the last time I’m going to do this. I say, “I’m getting older and my body just can’t handle it anymore.” When the game is over, there is the Profussor, stuck on the couch. The belt has long since been loosened. The button has been opened. Going to sleep would be nice, but I’m much too full and bloated to sleep.
The truth is that the game had a special place in my heart even before I was in the business. And it has always been about the food.
I love food but I hate what’s been done to it. There are so many issues regarding food that I would like to help move forward. But in my mind, the low-hanging fruit has always been moving people away from farmed Atlantic salmon to wild Alaskan salmon.
The inhumanity of factory-farmed meat, the widespread and unlabeled use of GMOs in our food supply, and the persistent creep of chemicals into what we eat all seem too big and overwhelming to tackle.
But last week there was a significant development in the move away from farmed Atlantic salmon. Thank you, Albany Jane for bringing it to my attention. Target, the mass market retailer with over 1,700 stores in 49 states and over $60 billion in annual revenue, made a startling announcement.
Target Eliminates Farmed Salmon From All Target Stores.
It’s not so much that I abandoned writing the semi-regular Ask the Profussor posts, but there has been a lot going on, and I’ve had plenty of other things to talk about.
Luckily sometimes, someone asks such a good question, I need to stop and write an equally good answer. This time it was a new reader named Elyse. And while I’m doing that, I will also try and catch up on all the unanswered questions since the last installment of AskTP.
If for some reason after today your question remains unanswered, I assure you it was a terrible oversight. Please feel free to contact me directly or publicly chide me in the comments. Either way. I just want to make sure everyone’s questions get answered.
Without further ado, here is what Elyse had to say:
I am puzzled and disturbed by your love for Chipotle. Their sustainability model is excellent, but it doesn’t make up for the way their food tastes, or rather, doesn’t taste. It is totally bland. I’d expect higher standards of Mexican food from someone who spent some time in California! Did you forget what it’s supposed to taste like?
The restaurant wine ordering ritual is terribly misunderstood. And I think it causes a lot of needless anxiety for those unfamiliar with the custom. There are only two things the diner needs to do in this little dance. The first is to confirm that the bottle brought to the table is the bottle that was ordered. The second is to assess if the wine has gone bad.
You do not need to make a pronouncement on the vintage. You do not need to smell the cork. You do not need to expound on the bouquet and flavor profile of the wine.
There are some early telltale signs of a brewing problem inside the bottle. Wine streaks on the label, a brittle or moldy cork, or a brownish tinge to the color of the wine may indicate the wine was improperly stored. But ultimately it comes down to how the wine smells and how it tastes.
And here’s the problem. Too many people do not know corked wine when they taste it.
New York is known for a lot of things. Rye whiskey probably is somewhere around page six, if it makes the list at all. Hopefully this will soon change.
While at the craft-distilled spirits tasting and seminar this past week, I got to try two fantastic rye whiskeys. One is made by Tuthilltown Spirits (a little to the south outside of Poughkeepsie), and the other is made by Finger Lakes Distilling (on the southeastern side of Seneca Lake).
While they are both blazing the trail of bringing craft distilling back to New York State, these two operations couldn’t be more different. I got to speak with each of the distillers, and they approach their whiskey from two opposing perspectives. Ralph Erenzo at Tuthilltown embraces the inconsistency of the batch system. Thomas Earl McKenzie at FLD believes in the importance of maintaining consistency from batch to batch.
And I have to say, when you reach the price point of Tuthilltown, inconsistency might be a bit hard to swallow. Their 375ml bottles, close to the size of a soda can, retail for about $45. That is the equivalent of a $90 bottle of booze. People buy them, and I understand why. But the FLD rye is magnificent and a steal at half the price.
Mr. McKenzie sent me home with a bottle of his rye, which has given me a lot more time and focus to evaluate it.
