BASEBALL AND BBQ!

To our valued guests*, both 'Stones will be closed on Memorial Day Monday, 5/28

If you are looking for us, we are fixin' to go hog wild at either The Red Sox game root, root, rooting with a cold brew at hand, OR down yonder at Sweet Cheeks BBQ on Boylston St, hoe'ing down on some bad-ass BBQ.  If you haven't been...GREAT spot.  All the right things are happening there: Great BBQ, great beer and drinks, local support, "never ever" commodity beef, all kinds of re purposed design and, oh by the way, white bread...Keepin' it real.

I reckon' you know it's right when the cole slaw and collard greens kick ass!  Just sayin'

*We would invite all of YOU, our amazing customers, but Fenway did not have a billion open seats!  

 If you have ever read the popular blog (now book?) “The shit my father says”, albeit funny, in the world of quotable, it is the exact opposite of what I would write about “Big Jim.”  Something more like “The ap-cray my father-in-law shares.”  Some of these classics leave you flabbergasted--shaking your head, and often looking for some furher clarity.  He has one gem after another; When he is not quoting Kipling or Frost or Wadsworth. 

 Here are a few from only one week of vacation.. Enjoy.

“That guy was a horses molly”  (code for, well, arse)  Followed by;
“Had he said anything more, we would have been at loggerheads”

“She’s a hot sketch” which is quite different than:
“She looked like the wreck of the Hesparus”

“I hate the buggers”  (actually a compliment, referencing an atttactive woman, and then
from the side of his mouth, just above a whisper..)
“Perhaps an older man?”

On toast...
“He’s a casper milk toast”
“It' as warm as toast”

“I took a Dixie” and “I almost bought the farm that time”

“Be right back fellas.  I’m going to shed a tear”
(Which is not wholly different, but much more specific than)
“I’m going to see a man about a horse”

(To my mother-in-law, who provides quiet oversight and conscience…)
“Well, It’s not better for me if I do not like it”

And while telling a story…
“The Spanish Armada’s boat sank and they infiltrated Ireland.”  Followed by:
“That must be why I like the Flamenco”

And a few more...

“They were all full of donkey dust”

“He got out of there like a raped ape”

"The best relationship between boss and employee is when one man never mentions it, and the other never forgets it”

“That would be enough to frost your garters”

“For cripes sake”

 This year, for the 1st time ever, we served over 1,000 in the same day.  Both restaurants did nearly 400 brunches, and Moonstones just recorded a record breaking week after 4 years--then broke the new record one week later!  Great stuff.

And, of course, how does that happen?  Managers and chefs and a staff of nearly 100 bust their ass!  Yesterday morning I walked into Moonstones at 7am with fresh bagels for the staff (Bagel Alley, Nashua...the very best bagels north of Brooklyn, south of heaven!) and there was sous-chef Tiffani Natisnky blasting WBCN (or was it WAAF?) getting the place set up by herself.  As humble as Tiffani is, when I asked "You alone?" She said, yes, "but all those guys worked late."  Though a statement of fact, truth is, you don't need a whole lot more than Tiffani to get the thing staged.  She rocks.

Over at Cobblestones half an hour later, the staff was "business as usual", setting up for our 19th consecutive Mother's Day Brunch.  That's right...next year...#20.  (No wonder I felt so old last night...after spending half the time as the staff, doing 10% as much!!)

All and all, it was  a great day with hundreds of thrilled customers and only a few "temporarily misplaced reservations" and disappointed guests--one who did not accept the "Too busy for menu changes" policy that was put in place .  This policy was to serve the greater good of the whole--as when you are serving hundreds of guests, the "picky eaters" tend to mess things up for the rest.  When I tried to explain this to Mr. "all I can eat is poached eggs", that we didn't even have poaching liquid simmering, he replied "If I have to, I will go back there and show the chefs how to do poached eggs."  For his own safety--the chef's tolerance level was tested on this day--I discouraged his trip to the kitchen and told him we would figure something out.

We did.

"Sir, how was your dinner?" I asked.  "It was ok" he replied without eye contact or a smile, as he walked towards the bathroom.

I immediately walked to Jan Johnson, one of our very best servers, and demanded (asked sweetly) "Did you have any issues with Table #26?"  Jan said no, but he did leave her only 10% indicating maybe something went wrong.

So, I went to the manager, Cody Weber.  "Cody, when that dude comes out of the bathroom and heads for the door, inquire again, how everything was, and seek information"

Cody did so.  Same conversation.  Cody pressed: "Is there something we could have done better sir?" (Seriously...we WANT to know these things) "No" he said, and walked past Cody, out the door.

At that second, his wife/date who he had also ignored, and left behind, turned to Cody and said "Everything was fine.  Really"

So, here's what we think-- Maybe she refused to share her pie.  He got pissed.  He sulked.  He reverted to one word answers like a grumpy 6 year old.  He stiffed the waitress.

There's a name for that guy...

(Stay tuned!  Days at the food show, nights out in Chicago, with many restaurant folk, makes for some good stories.  They are being written "any day")

Hey...What's one of the many ways you know you are hanging with a bunch of restaurant professionals?  Answer: The topic continues to return to "Is that good for the gout?"

4:15pm Unsuccessful. 5:00pm Text message--"maybe one more for the Tequila dinner. Is that ok?" 6:00pm 12 people arrive at the restaurant "A table for 12. We are from PUMA" 6:02pm The 12 people are seated at the table reserved for "PUMA". 6:15pm The restaurant is PACKED, standing room only. All seats taken. 6:30pm 12 people walk in and state "We have a reservation for 12 under PUMA" 6:35pm General manager explains the mix up--and the reservation for 12 has no table, but "we will seat you as soon as possible" 6:36pm 10 people are understanding, "that guy" asks for free drinks, and the one "lady" who made the reservation glares menacingly at management--and keeps stare going for the next two hours. 6:45pm Displaced group is seated, given many complimentary appetizers, a round of free drinks, way too many apologies, and over the top attentive service. 7:00pm A "walk in group of "20 to 30" looks for seating. Or service. 7:15pm The walk in group... walks out. 8:00pm "She" is STILL staring at management, or ignoring attempts to be attentive and helpful--what's the word I am looking for here...? 8:01pm I fantasize about grabbing "she" by the back of the shirt and walking her to the door, with a final kick in the... 8:15pm The food at the dinner is delicious...and I wonder why I committed to not drinking. 10:00pm I observe all of the people who have been drinking at the tequila dinner, having a great time of course, but am satisfied with my decision. 11:00pm Catching up on American Idol.

So, although NYC seems so far away after only two weeks, I had to share our night out revolved around my little brother's birthday!

He, after accommodating an entourage of family members for his birthday—trying to coordinate a large table in Manhatttan on a Saturday night for parents, cousins, 3 crazy wives of varying degrees, and 3 children under the age of 11—we ended up at Joe’s Italian East Side Restaurant (or something like that), largely because of the meatballs that were featured on Drive throughs, Diners and Dives (or something like that) and because they had a vegan menu (For crazy wife #1)

Drama ensued, as it always does when my family congregates—too much noise, shouting at the waiter, mumbling under the breath, one correcting another’s behavior, more mumbling, someone dipped their bread in somebody elses sauce, the heavy drinker who is no longer drinking yet kept making comments like “can you put some vodka in that”, more corrected behavior, more mumbling, food flying as “some of us” speak with their mouth full—you get the picture? Not even close you do!

Two hours later--after two whiny kids were removed (one who actually reached tears—mostly from all the spittle-spray—flying his way [side note-- crazy wife #2 theorized after "dad and the boys" left, that dad was pinching son under the table so he could use the tears as an excuse to “get the kids back to the hotel”. As I said..just a theory]

Anyways...after all was spit and done, and after the always necessary strategizing-- the cool kids (My brother, wife-Kathy, cousin-now-NYC restaurant manager-Nate, and I) snuck away from the bedlam—“hug, hug, kiss kiss, this was great”—and booked it deeper into the East Village. (I can say "East Village" without fear, because my brother won’t read this blog—as he is too busy managing crazy—but otherwise, he would likely correct my definition of neighborhood. He WOULD roll his eyes up and say something like “No dude, that was the Lower East Side. The East Village begins north of…”

But here’s the punch line. Dave is always finding cool, hidden gems in the City, the places YOU would never, ever see, if you didn’t have a brother living in Manhattan. We walked for 10 minutes (tops) past packed bars and bustling streets, and into (“wtf?”) a hot dog “café” of sorts. Down 5 stairs…double line…packed with 20 somethings ordering a variety of the only thing on the overhead menu—Hot dogs. What’s he up to now? Criff’s Hot dogs? "Dude, we just ate dinner"

As we followed reservedly, Dave led us to the left of the back of the hot dog line—to the phone booth. (Old school style, collapsing door) We stood in a short line by his side, as he collapsed the door and picked up the receiver. He dialed. He said something into the receiver and…....voila! The opposite wall of the phone booth popped open and we were led directly to a plush-velvety booth, in low lighting, with cool music, and surrounded by 50 other “in the know” cool-like that cats—sipping on crafted cocktails like Spice Trader, Rosemary’s Society, For Peat’s Sake and Mezcal Mule.

This secret space, known as “Don’t Tell” was the perfect way to end a long and hectic day—tucked into a corner, protected from crowds and more noise by a 5ft door-woman who protected the password and turned one unreserved guest after another away and back into the hot-dog jungle. Finally and completely relaxed, happy to be tucked into a quiet, dark and sexy corner with each other and no "noise", though obviously not hungry, we looked over the menu anyway. Hotdogs.

Just got home from a “New York Minute” of a NYC weekend. Brother Dave’s birthday.

Arrive Saturday night, depart Monday afternoon and cover miles in between. The amazing part about my weekends “home” is that I never know what to choose to write about afterwards.

This time is no different.

I could talk about how cliché staying in Times Square is, except that when you are with two nephews, 11 and 9, who have never bathed in the neon before, it’s like being a little kid all over again yourself. Wide eyes and open mouths. What a gas.

I could talk about my brother (or his crazy-ass wife) or my adorable, charming, so-good nephew-by-blood, Lucky. It was my younger brother’s birthday, and the inspiration for the trip. (Damn he’s getting old)

I could talk about how challenging it is to get 14 family members together for a birthday dinner in Manhattan, at a small Italian restaurant—and come even close to making everybody happy.

I could talk about one of the 14, my cousin Nate, who has followed a restaurant path that began with me in Lowell, then Chelmsford, then back to the biggest restaurant group in his hometown of Baltimore, and now, with one of the fastest growing restaurant groups in New York City—and Union Square’s Blue Water Grill! That’s right…my cousing now lives near my brother in NYC. How jealous am I, writing about that shit from Tyngsboro!

I could talk about now having beaucoup hook-ups in The Big Apple, and how my eldest daughter—rockin her own restaurant mojo all up in Chicago—called her ex college roommate (called, texted, whatever), the head Maitre D’ @ Mialino—located in the exlusive Grammercy Park Hotel and owned by NYC restaurant super-star-come-author (and my hero) Danny Mayer—To score us reservations on our 2nd night there…

OR…

I could talk about my crazy-ass family, and how 14 people in one evening around one table, can create so much weirdness, tension, foolishness and crying-nephews. (Seriously, it was reported by crazy sister in law #1 that she thinks the lad had “a nervous breakdown.” Yea, that could be fun. Maybe next blog…I have to remember…when I mentioned this on the drive home, and I was told “No, you can’t be one of those writers who throws his family under the bus”, whether or not I made any promises….hmmm…

Stay tuned.

Here's the thing. After too many months of listening to my many foodie-friends discuss all the places they travel to, in order to have Sunday brunch, the light went off. "No one around here does a great brunch" Diners are a dime-a-dozen, and I love them dearly. But the only real Sunday brunch around here, that I could think of anyway, was a huge disappointment the only time I ever went there. Cold food warm, warm food cold, and at least one thing old/going bad. Not cool.

So, we made the decision, knowing how good we would be, to roll the dice-- knowing how much it would sting to ask restaurant staff to get up early on Sundays. (Seriously, we do many things well. But, as a rule, we don't do early. We don't do Sunday mornings.)

Before writing up a proposed menu, I used FB to ask our bajillion foodie friends "What would you like to see on the menu?" There was good feedback. But the best of all? Lisa T, one of our most beloved friends and avid brunch-road-tripper suggested... "Red Velvet Pancakes." Fuhgeddaboudit. (That's New York speak for "Are you kidding me?" Or, "Holy Cow" if you are from New Hampshire!)

I passed the suggestion along to the Chef, who, in my creative mind, raised one eyebrow all John Belushi like, and then did what he does. He got busy. (He never looks busy by the way. It is a remarkable mind that never, ever looks pressed, yet turns out one amazing dish after another!)

"Beet juice" he discovered, makes the original red velvet recipe red, though in our chemically-altered world, most have compromised by being satisfied with red food coloring for their red velvet applications.

Then, not butter for MY chef. Not whipped cream. No. Mascarpone Cheese. I'm not kidding. If butter and whipped cream hooked up and had a fat little baby? Mascarpone Cheese would be it's name. F'n amazing.

Then, even though I may have whined a little bit "Chef, do you KNOW how expensive real maple syrup is" his response was, naturally... "I don't give a fuck. We are not serving that shitty, supermarket, flavored corn syrup crap on any pancake we make...ever." (OK, I am not positive he said those exact words out loud, but, I guaranty that is what he was thinking, eyebrows up)

So, here we are. Red, white, melting, oozing, natural...and I could write all day, and post all day, and buy giant flashing signs RED...VELVET...PANCAKES : RED...VELVET...PANCAKES : RED...VELVET...PANCAKES....but until YOU sit down and sip on a Mimosa for a few minutes, before putting a mouthful of this ridiculous shit in your mouth...

This is no promotion. Come if you want to. It's a free country. Just sayin'