…not about food. but it’s about art, and that’s kind of like food.

There’s something magical for me about the little area of Houston that is home to the Rothko Chapel, the Menil Collection, and the Cy Twombly Gallery. I grew up in Houston, and went on field trips to this area about once every four years. Now, I go alone. It’s like rereading a favorite book years later: new layers of appreciation are formed from increased understanding.

The Rothko Chapel itself is a postmodern structure, while Rothko is traditionally described as an abstract expressionist. The artworks in the Rothko Chapel, three triptychs and one singular painting, are Mark Rothko’s last paintings before his suicide. Coming into the small, dark building from the blinding, suffocating Houston heat is somewhat eerie. Sweat dampened skin and clothing are instantly chilled by powerful air conditioning. That cool moistness mixes with silence, stone brick floors and the blackness of the dark paintings to create a cave-like atmosphere. Until eyes adjust. Then, the black isn’t black, it becomes shades of colors that layer for varying degrees of light. Their depth seems swimmable. The Chapel is calm, peaceful. It evokes contemplation and, through the tragedy of Rothko’s suicide, a desire for hope. Elemental, yet complex.

I can’t say something about liking or disliking this place. It has been in my life for so long, become attached to so many emotions and memories. A metaphysical existence, removed from concreteness despite its concrete form. I remember not liking it, I remember thinking it was dismal and gloomy. I’ve cried there, overwhelmed with sadness or beauty. But the memories blur, they’re a painting that seems black but is really a combination of everything.

table for one.

Vespaio, Thursday, 7:03 pm.

I prefer to ‘test’ restaurants by eating alone at the bar. Having worked in restaurants, I know that one-tops are the most mistreated minority. Hostesess can be oh so brutal, with their ‘just you?’ and ‘only one?’s. Waiters tend to ignore their single diners.

7:36  Empty wine glass, no food menu. I do not mind. In life, I am extremely impatient. When dining out, waiting is preferred. In fact, speed irks me. If I order something and it’s sitting in front of me less than five  minutes later, I am slightly alarmed. Was this dish pre-made? Do you have a bowl of tartare back there, waiting to be scooped onto a plate? Pardon my french, but ick. (At this point, please note that I do not order salads. And I do know that there are certain dishes to which the five minute time frame does not apply.)

7:39 I feel that when I am one of six people at the bar, you should remember which wine I am drinking. I’ve already had a glass of it, so no I do not remember what it’s called. It’s the unoffensive, drinkable one. Barely tart, not too sweet; currant.

7:44 I can fall in love with a place based purely on menu vocabulary. “Just made mozzarella,” makes me almost want to order caprese. I like to order the simplest thing on the menu (as long as it isn’t a salad). Particularly if I’m feeling extra critical. I also like to order the most unique dish. I think a meal of both dishes can describe the chef with uncanny accuracy.

7:46 The woman seated next to me is wearing entirely too much perfume. I can taste it in my wine, hints of mushroom and Chance by Chanel. I fear for the integrity of my meal. Luckily, I eat at the bar. Luckily, women like that wait for tables.

7:51 DUCK TWO WAYS: a rillette, perfectly balanced. Smokey, sweet, sour, savory. As a former vegetarian, I am thankful for duck every day. Was there ever another creature both so adorable and delicious? A pate: smooth like ice cream, with bits of crunch like the kind of ice cream you make by shaking a ziplock baggie of ingredients. Almost too delicate, as it is easily overpowered when combined with the toast points and pickle/onion/mustard. Pate is the dessert of meats, the grand chocolate torte that must be ordered 45 minutes in advance. Indulgent, creamy, sinful.

8:10 Silence. Reflection. Check, please.

i’m going to hell.

…and here’s why:

I discovered thisiswhyyourefat.com this morning. Coincidentally, my roommate came home with a box of krispie kreme doughnuts.

I took three of those doughnuts, and cut them in half.

I sliced a red onion. Caramelized it. (1)

I boiled 1/4 c. of homemade peach jam with 1 TBS of diced pickled jalapenos and 2 TBS butter. (2)

I sliced wedges of Cowgirl Creamery Triple Cream Brie, Snow White goat’s milk cheddar, and cream cheese. (3)

I pan fried each doughnut (stuffed with the above three items) in 1/4 c. of butter.

I stacked these stuffed doughnuts.

I poached an egg, then placed it on top of said stack.

I topped the poached egg with more cream cheese, drizzled honey on it, then sprinkled it with powdered sugar.

There was also a beverage.

1 banana

1 c. ice

1/2 c. whole milk

2 c. bluebell homemade vanilla bean ice cream

1/2  c. espresso

1/4 c. coffee liquor

1/4 c. banana liquor

You should come too. We can have a party.

P.S. If I could do it all again I’d add maple cream cheese icing and bacon.

Frankly, I just can’t help myself.

I’d like to start my first restaurant review blog with a warning: I was raised by the punniest man alive. Wait, make that two warnings: I can’t help but love cuteness. As disgusting as it may be, I am going to gush all over Frank. It is adorable. It is so cute I want to wrap it in a pink fuzzy blanket and cuddle with it. While watching Disney cartoons. With the sad parts cut out.

You may remember it starting with cupcakes. Hey Cupcake! here,  Sugar Mama’s there, and Polkadots somewhere in the middle. A five-year-old’s dessert of choice, gone gourmet. These days, a lot of Austin eateries have taken hold of this thread and pulled out some very unique versions of food traditionally confined to a lunchbox.

Of course, we’ve seen the Chipotle White Cheddar Macaroni and Truffle Rosemary Fries offered at Trio (and similar spins on those childhood favorites pretty much everywhere), but my new favorite food joint specializes in a dish you’re not likely to spot on the menu at any steakhouse.

Not only does Frank live in the most adorable space in all of Austin (the old Starlite building) but hot dog have they got some scrumptious… hot dogs.

I started with the CANADIAN WAFFLE POUTINE: pleasantly salty brown gravy over firm yet giving cheese curds on a nest of crisp waffle fries. Belly-warming, like mashed potatoes. Then, WAFFLE FRY NACHOS. You know how when you’re at a music festival, and you’re sweaty and starving and have to miss some music to wait in line for 27 minutes and then when you get to the front of the line the vendor is sold out of what you had been looking forward to so you end up getting something else that just turn out to be soggy and disappointing? Frank’s WAFFLE FRY NACHOS are like the opposite of that. They are exactly what you were wishing for the whole 27 minutes of the line. They taste just as good as they look, crunchy fries topped with a mess of sloppy deliciousness; exactly like nachos are supposed to be. I was most excited for my first dog, the JACKALOPE (antelope and rabbit sausage, huckleberry compote, sriracha aioli, applewood smoked cheddar). It, of course, disappointed me greatly. Maybe my expectations were too high, maybe it’s no one’s fault. Or maybe it was the stringy, inconsistent texture of the frank; the surprising lack of flavor in the sriracha aioli; the bland compote that had a distinct scooped-from-the-jar consistency. The applewood smoked cheddar was tangy and moist with just a touch of aromatic smokyness. ROSEMARY’S PIGGY (housemade pork rosemary garlic sausage, roaster pepper bacon bleu cheese slaw, toasted pecan mayo) had well-balanced flavor. The rosemary was not over powering and the garlic was discreet. The slaw was timid. The pecan mayo was sweet and tangy. Overall, interesting, but I’m not craving another. Lastly, I had a PLAIN DOG with jalapeno slices and cheese. The hot pink dog was juicy. The bun was warm and doughy. My first bite was crisp and nostalgic; perfect.

If I were less gluttonous, I would portray my love of Frank as purely sausage-driven.  However, since I am not, I will admit that every meal deserves both drink and dessert. Or, in the case of my meal at Frank, four drinks. One of which served as dessert.

The RED HEADED STRANGER is a bite of a sandwich with extra spicy salsa. Meaty and just a little sweet, heavy-handed with horseradish and garlic. Despite taste buds engulfed in flames, I did not put down my mason jar once. My GINGER CHERRY LIMEADE was thirst-quenching. It is soft and sweet, a flower girl in the Frank slaughterhouse. My waitress recommended the SUMMER SODA, which was excellent. Sweet and mellow vanilla with tangy grapefruit, almost like a creamsicle. My meal ended with a TRIPLE CROWN. The bacon flavor was more subtle than in the RED HEADED STRANGER, and with the ginger ale and lemon juice it reminded me more of a whiskey sour. It did have a bit of Saturday-morning hangover aftertaste: bacon and oj to cure too many whiskey shots. But that’s not a complaint.

So what do gourmet hot dogs mean? Culinarily speaking, of course. Next up: lunchables by Mario Batali?

important to read out loud (for the rhythm)

people (the right people) have a very intimate relationship with food. it is, inherently, “dirty”: moist, delicate nibbles of a peach panna cotta. the briney slurp of a raw, throbbing oyster. a hunk of chewy steak, dark pink and dripping. even a clove of garlic (perhaps nature’s most unromantic flavor) is, once you break the husk’s seal, a vulnerable crescent of crisp flesh filled with heat. the sensuality of food is incomparable. it gratifies, it fulfills, it satiates and it can render one incapacitated.