I think I've been here.
Saturday, September 18, 2005
On the road the next day by ten, glad that I saw people, but once again glad to get the hell out of Eugene.
I have always liked Ashland, both times I spent there. Mostly it’s the allure of New Sammy’s Cowboy Bistro that keeps Ashland alive in the back of my brain as a place I would like to devote time to. I have never been there, but thanks to the testimony of friends and every article I have been able to find about it, I want to eat there before I die. Instead, with an overheated dog that needs a break from the road, and a belly still trying to recover from whatever the hell it was that I ate in Eugene, I wind up at a breakfast joint downtown.
This may sound heretical, but I am really tired of chefs that tell you the names of the farmers that produced each discrete ingredient of an item listed on the menu and then do the producers the disservice of cooking up crap. If I were farmer John of Laughing Head Cheese Farm I would be pissed off if restaurant X couldn’t make a decent Huevos con Chorizo with the remnants of a pig whose life I took with my own hands. There is really something to be said for anonymity when every twobit hack realizes that attaching a place and person to the source of the food will sell the item regardless of how poorly the dish is executed. My dog gets most of the plate, a decision I made that haunts me for the rest of the ride. My hair stands upright when I alight the car in Berkeley, the windows never less than a 6 inch crack the rest of the drive.
Needing a place to plug in my computer to figure out where I am staying exactly, I go to a brew pub. When I ask for a beer suggstion, the bartender tells me where they source their water. I ask if they have Olympia, explaining away the raised eyebrows with “It’s the water.”
On the road the next day by ten, glad that I saw people, but once again glad to get the hell out of Eugene.
I have always liked Ashland, both times I spent there. Mostly it’s the allure of New Sammy’s Cowboy Bistro that keeps Ashland alive in the back of my brain as a place I would like to devote time to. I have never been there, but thanks to the testimony of friends and every article I have been able to find about it, I want to eat there before I die. Instead, with an overheated dog that needs a break from the road, and a belly still trying to recover from whatever the hell it was that I ate in Eugene, I wind up at a breakfast joint downtown.
This may sound heretical, but I am really tired of chefs that tell you the names of the farmers that produced each discrete ingredient of an item listed on the menu and then do the producers the disservice of cooking up crap. If I were farmer John of Laughing Head Cheese Farm I would be pissed off if restaurant X couldn’t make a decent Huevos con Chorizo with the remnants of a pig whose life I took with my own hands. There is really something to be said for anonymity when every twobit hack realizes that attaching a place and person to the source of the food will sell the item regardless of how poorly the dish is executed. My dog gets most of the plate, a decision I made that haunts me for the rest of the ride. My hair stands upright when I alight the car in Berkeley, the windows never less than a 6 inch crack the rest of the drive.
Needing a place to plug in my computer to figure out where I am staying exactly, I go to a brew pub. When I ask for a beer suggstion, the bartender tells me where they source their water. I ask if they have Olympia, explaining away the raised eyebrows with “It’s the water.”
posted by Jassmond at 11:30 PM
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