Florida panhandle eats.

On the heels of a rainout at FSU, I had dinner at the bar at Cypress, a fine-dining restaurant in downtown Tallahassee. I decided to go tapas-style and order three starters as my meal, two of which were excellent.

I began with the salad special, local organic baby spinach with red onion, goat cheese, and candied pecans, served with a poppyseed vinaigrette and topped with duck confit. I left a few poppyseeds. The duck confit was outstanding – not that I’ve ever had bad duck confit – while the spinach leaves were very fresh and unbelievably green. All the dish lacked was a little heat, because it hit so many other dimensions of flavor, from the sweetness of the pecans to the tang/acidity of the cheese and the vinaigrette to the slight bitterness in the spinach.

The second dish was a blue crab cake tower, with two crab cakes, each sitting on a tostone, then stacked on top of each other, with a jicama-melon salsa on top and a smoked onion-jalapeño tartar sauce on the bottom. The crab cakes weren’t made from lump meat, but that would be my only real complaint, as they still had great crab flavor and a red pepper kick, which was nicely complemented by the creaminess of the sauce and the faint sweetness of the melons in the salsa. The tostones were sort of irrelevant, since it required a lot of work to cut them into manageable pieces.

The last dish was a pecan-crusted quail which turned out to be a pecan-battered quail, and it was the one disappointment of the evening. The interior of the quail was undercooked, and while I know that game is typically served medium-rare, I find quail that’s cooked less than medium to be gamey in texture and flavor. The accompaniments lacked the balance of the earlier dishes, and the smoked tomato vinaigrette and sweet pickle relish created a rather low pH for the dish as a whole.

I loved the food but was most impressed by the little things at Cypress. They make their own breads in-house every morning; my bread basket had two miniature buttermilk biscuits as well as two pieces of a fantastic sponge bread, with a perfect crust and very soft interior. Because I said it was my first time at the restaurant, I received a “gift from the kitchen,” a watermelon shooter with diced heirloom strawberries and a hint of mint in the liquid. And most impressively, even though I didn’t complain at all about the quail, the bartender, Grant, took it off of my bill because he noticed how much food I left on the dish after practically licking the previous two plates clean. It was an unnecessary step but indicative of an awareness of the importance of customer service.

• I stayed in the Fort Walton Beach area Friday night after seeing a game in Niceville and got takeout from a little Thai place in Fort Walton called Thai House. The kitchen had just closed but they were willing to make me some pad thai to go, but I’m sorry to report that it had zero taste. I was a little put off when I discovered that it had no heat; I was asked how spicy I’d like it, and I said, “Just a little bit,” after which the woman who took my order said, “Mild.” That’s not the same thing to me, and what I got was mild, not a little bit spicy.
• On the drive from Niceville to Tallahassee, there ain’t much for lunch, so I stopped at a Sonny’s BBQ, which is a chain of Q joints I’ve seen all over Florida. Don’t waste your time. Their “signature” baby-back ribs had no flavor whatsoever, while the BBQ beans were almost as blah, and the corn bread was sickeningly sweet. The only acceptable item was the fried okra, straight out of the fryer with a crispy crust made with stone-ground cornmeal.
• I hit Paschal’s in the Atlanta airport for Sunday breakfast. I ordered their chicken hash, which is more of a stew with onions and chicken stock thickened with some form of starch, although it was pretty good even if it wasn’t really a hash. The main problem was the service, as the waitress screwed up two parts of my order, and the coffee, which was what my cousins in Italy call acqua sporca – dirty water, which I could see through when I held the glass mug up to the light.

TV tonight.

I’ve been slacking – had a TV hit this afternoon on ESPNEWS – but I’ll be on again during the 7 pm hour on Pregame, also on ESPNEWS. I also appeared on the Mike Tirico Show today, which you can hear via ESPNradio.com.

E.L. Doctorow on Ragtime.

Just wanted to throw up a link to a Q&A with E.L. Doctorow from New York magazine on how he wrote Ragtime. That novel appears on the TIME 100 and is one of the best reads on the list, evoking turn-of-the-century America with crisp language and the use of actual historical figures. It’s a serious work that also manages to be a page-turner.

ESPNEWS today.

I’ll be on The Hot List today at 4:20 pm EDT. I should be on again at some point on Tuesday afternoon, but we haven’t fixed a time yet.

Kafka on the Shore.

Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami’s most recent novel, wasn’t quite the masterpiece that its predecessor, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, was, but it’s still in the upper echelon of contemporary novels I’ve read.

Murakami’s narrative is split into two, although we know from the start that they will converge near the book’s conclusion. The first narrative, told in the first person, is the story of a fifteen-year-old boy who runs away from home for reasons that are never entirely clear and adopts the pseudonym of Kafka Tamura. Kafka flees to the city of Takamatsu, on the island of Shikoku, largely because there’s a library there to which he is inexplicably drawn. The second narrative, told in the third person, follows a sixty-year-old simpleton named Nakata who can talk to cats and who is either a mystic or a pawn of mystical forces. Kafka is, to some degree, on a quest to find the mother who abandoned him and his father when he was four years old. Nakata ends up committing a crime he doesn’t understand that may have involved an out-of-body experience … and this just skims the surface of the events in the book.

Like The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Kafka on the Shore is a mind-bender with plenty of magical realism and dreamlike passages. And like its predecessor, it has one scene of very graphic violence (this time against animals, not that that’s much easier to tolerate) and lots of slightly awkward descriptions of sex, although confused sexuality is a major theme in the novel, perhaps as a subset of the larger theme of confused identity. Murakami also raises questions about independence and fate, but like any skilled writer, offers little in the way of set answers other than a few platitudes in the book’s closing pages.

What I particularly enjoy about Murakami’s writing is the way he makes coincidence and fate a part of the novel without allowing the characters to ignore it. They’re either amazed by the coincidences, or are pondering whether it’s fate or Fate at work. Even the magical realism elements get mixed reactions, with some characters unfazed but a few always there to offer some double-u-tee-eff thoughts on the matter.

Next up: We’ve had Paolo Coelho’s The Alchemist for some time, and I’ve even brought it on a few trips, but never got around to actually reading it.

Naked Lunch.

William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch is on the TIME 100, but I have to admit I’m hard-pressed to explain its presence there. I suppose it was highly influential in its day, judging by the number of band and book names I found within its pages (as well as the name of a defunct Massachusetts company, Thinking Machines). From my vantage point today, however, its intended window into drug addiction and the attendant delusions and paranoia seem overdone, and the violent sexual content that fill the middle third of the novel are just gratuitously disgusting while at the same time managing the unusual trick of being boring.

The book starts out as the disjointed narrative of a well-educated heroin addict who’s fleeing from something, although we don’t find out what until the book’s end. With no obvious transition, we’re shifted into the Interzone, a dystopian North African city populated by deviants, addicts, and at least one Josef Mengele-type doctor, leading to a barrage of stories about orgies and murders, often at the same time, all told in deliberately explicit language reminiscent of the way that kids curse when they’ve learned that certain words are bad and start inserting them at random throughout their speech. There’s an obvious anti-consumerist, anti-conformist message somewhere under the text, but it’s half-formed and is left on the floor under the bodily fluids Burroughs pours all over his text.

If Naked Lunch has a saving grace, it’s that Burroughs could spin a phrase, from the insightful witticism (“Citizens who want to be utterly humiliated and degraded – so many people do, nowadays, hoping to jump the gun”) to inspired silliness (“where they are referred to the We Don’t Want to Hear About It Department”). He was also capable of extending his humor over longer passages, such as the story within the story about a man whose anus learns to eat and then speak, after which it takes over the man’s body. The story implies a question of whether we as individuals are anything more than consumers (and waste producers) within the global ecosystem – reminding me of Robert Rankin’s references to humans as “meat” in The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse– but it’s a floating island of sense within a larger sea of verbal sewage.

Next up: Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore.

Pittsburgh radio tomorrow.

I just checked my ESPN mailbag, and the one new message was addressed, “dear mr gammons.” How flattering.

Anyway, I’ll be on ESPN 1250 AM in Pittsburgh tomorrow morning at 10:40 am with Joe Starkey.

Quick hit – Paschal’s at ATL.

So I’m in travel limbo here, waiting at Atlanta-Hartsfield on a connection that’s already delayed 90 minutes, which will mean I’ll be lucky to get to tonight’s high school game in time for the first pitch, but it did give me time for a proper lunch. I went to the Paschal’s full-service location in Terminal C, and by the depressed standard of airport food, it’s off the charts.

Paschal’s is an Atlanta institution, so applying my philosophy to always start with a signature dish when possible, I went with the fried chicken, getting sides of green beans and black-eyed peas. The dinner comes with a generic house salad and two mini-corn muffins for $9.95. The best part of the meal, unsurprisingly, was the corn muffins, made with stone-ground meal and little sugar, containing plenty of fat (I’m assuming butter, but it could have had some bacon fat mixed in). The fried chicken – a quarter-white, which was a small disappointment because I assumed it would be a quarter-dark – was perfectly cooked, not a bit dry, with a slightly salty crust that didn’t lose its crunch even after ten minutes. The black-eyed peas were delicious but I expected bits of salt pork or ham hock in the mix; the green beans were unremarkable. I also liked the sweet iced tea, even though I normally hate it because it’s too damn sweet. (I take my iced tea unsweetened with a squeeze of lemon.) This sweet tea was too damn sweet, but the flavor of the tea reminded me of Thai iced tea without the sweetened condensed milk. Total bill including a 20% tip was $15.20. I believe there is at least one other Paschal’s location, by the ticketing counters before security, and there may be more in other terminals.

My only real complaint is that the food took a long time to arrive, since airport restaurants tend to move quickly, but I suppose that’s the price of getting true fried chicken.

The 13th Element + the return of KlawChat.

Phosphorus is highly toxic and flammable, forms compounds that explode on contact with oxygen, is the key ingredient in detergents and nerve gases, and is absolutely essential to life. It’s good fodder for what amounts to a biography of a chemical element, and John Emsley’s The 13th Element: The Sordid Tale of Murder, Fire, and Phosphorus is an excellent read.

Emsley focuses on four areas of phosphorus’ story: Its early history and manufacture, its valuable commercial uses, its less benevolent uses in explosives and chemical weapons, and its environmental reputation (not entirely deserved). The narrative is a bit clunky, and Emsley tends to veer off into list mode, rattling off a number of famous murder/poisoning cases involving phosphorus in one of the book’s later chapters, and one chapter seldom connects to the next. But most of the book is highly readable, with some of the more technical content siphoned off into sidebars, and it was news to me that phosphorus’s rap for causing eutrophication wasn’t entirely fair, and the history of phosphorus’ use in chemical weapons, including nerve gas, is sadly relevant today.

I’ve got a 1 pm chat today on ESPN.com, and you can also hear a few minutes with me on today’s Baseball Today podcast.

On race and baseball.

This BP Unfiltered post from Kevin Goldstein is a must read.

My own experiences inside the game did, unfortunately, expose me to some of that unpleasant side of human behavior as well, and I was glad to see Kevin address it head on as he did.