Boise....the land of taters.

Arriving to Boise last night and driving the 38 miles to Mountain Home, ID I thought about how this whole area is a total waste land of tumble weed and dust. However, that mindset changed today after driving back to Boise and exploring the town. Given the commute from my hotel (on the outskirts of Boise) to Mountain Home was absolutely barren with literally nothing between mountain ranges with the exception of some cows. My mind wandered...what could I possibly do for fun this week while in the land of potatoes and livestock....raid a potato pasture, cow tipping? Nah…My next idea was much more satisfying. I noticed that the copious amount of cows in the valley were not milk cows! This must mean that this area may serve some damn good steak.
After meeting with a work client, they suggested that I go to the restaurant Angell's. However, their suggestion was not steak, but rather elk. Hmmm elk, I've never had elk, although Mrs. Palin raves about it. So, I venture into town and do a mapping of the city to gain my bearings and never find the aforementioned restaurant until taking the town on foot. It was rather elusive, but not as elusive as the elk on the menu. Absolute bummer, no freaking elk! However, my assumption of steak filled menus proves true. They had steak of all kinds; however I ordered my staple, filet mignon. Now, this restaurant is absolutely one of the classiest places to dine in all of Boise and they offer to serve there steak several ways, including 'blue'. BLUE?! Yes, blue, this is a style of steak basically served to the customer straight off the cow. Albeit, I consider myself to be rather the adventurist, I opt for my steak to be medium. Absolutely lovely, no disappointment here; it was served with wild rice which had almonds and dried fruit in it, the other side was hardy steamed vegetables which offset my late night fast food binge the night prior. It was a wonderful first real meal of the trip, and of course to have paired this fantastic meal with an appropriate beverage of the fermented grape variety, a Syrah from Columbia Valley, WA made it above satisfactory. I figured since that my next stop on my journey is in Washington State's wine country; I'd better give it a go. It matched the meal very nicely and did not disappoint even though the wine varieties from the region sometimes have its quality criticized.
Onward….as I stroll through the ghost town of Boise, it is spring break and a Monday, I come across a hotel bar called Chandlers. Looks like a classy joint and somewhere that may have a wine list worthwhile to look consider. As I belly up to the bar for a night cap…I say this because, due to the higher elevation the one glass of Syrah I had with dinner was amazingly starting to hit my rather hard. Shake it off. Shake it off. Ok…wine list. The wine list was actually okay, rather filled with the typical wines that one would find at a decent restaurant, nothing from the Northwest United States worth trying, so I settle on a Malbec from Argentina. Regardless of the surprisingly mediocre wine list the night gets interesting. As I am sitting there minding my own business scanning the crowd and wondering why girls 20 years younger than their dinner partner are scattered around the restaurant…although I may be criticized for thinking this way, but these old men (we’re talking late 70s) must have deep pockets and prescribed extra strong Viagra to hold on to these women. Regardless…well done lads, decent pulls for being born in the prohibition era, my hat goes off to you. (Disgusting visual) Three sips in to my Malbec a couple sits down next to me. This couple was a lot closer in age. The guy looked like a typical hipster, just like the other ones I was seeing around the town of Boise, but I do what any other curious individual would do…I eavesdrop. After listening in for quite some time, I realize that this hipster was no local. It was actually the Owatonna, MN native and lead singer of the band Owl City, Adam Young. Disappointed that him and his missus were very quiet and really kept to themselves, I leave Chandlers soon after they do and return to my hotel room and after a quick Google search, it appears that Owl City is performing tomorrow, Tuesday 30 March, at the Knitting Factory. It appears that I may have something fun and interesting to do tomorrow. Should be a good show, if I can score some tix! Idaho, so far, so good. For now, it is time to lay my head down and get some shut-eye...let’s see what the rest of the trip has in store.

An omen of death?

Day two in the dismal town of Scranton, PA delivered a combination of pleasure and disappointment.

As the whistle blew and I scampered out of work for the day, I felt an urge that I couldn’t identify, that is, until I got in my rental and out came from the speakers, Beautiful Day by U2. An ironic tune to have come on since the weather in Eastern PA is crap. Nevertheless, listening to the Irish band rock out helped me find what I was craving, an Irish pub. As if I was a mosquito on a hot summer night; these establishments are my neon light. I have always been drawn to the Irish pub. I go ahead and pull out my life tool (aka blackberry), something that I probably couldn’t function without, and Google search for an Irish pub. After quickly noticing that Scranton nearly has one on every corner, I sought out one that had some positive reviews. Eureka, The Banshee, deriving from the Gaelic ‘bean sídhe.’ If I was to open an Irish pub, I would likely not consider a name such as this, since that folks will want to eat your food and as folklore has it, a Banshee is an omen of death a messenger from the other-side. I wouldn’t want my restaurants name to be relating to death when I am trying to grow my bottom line by selling food. Nevertheless, I take my life in my hands and enter through the doors.

The building was probably built at the turn of the century and as I take off my sunglasses and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark room I begin to see the wonderful wood work; stained glass windows; couches arranged near a roaring fire; an amazing beer list and a menu that would rival the thickness of the King James Bible.

Note: As Gordon Ramsey says, always be wary of an establishment that has a large menu. Large menus often lead to food being less than fresh, pre-ordered, and reheated for consumption. May as well just go to Mickey D’s, pick up a sixer and call it an evening….although that’s not my style. I digress…

As I belly up to the bar I quickly make friends with the bartender. A middle aged man that seems to know everyone by name (insert: Gary Potnoy and Judy Hart Angelo’s early eighties hit song, “where everyone knows your name”) the talk quickly moves to questions surrounded by my presence in this town and why I ended up at The Banshee. I give him the 30k foot level explanation and move on to ask about the happenings around town, the upcoming St. Paddy’s Day parade, and of course the weather. The typical small chat continues and other locals join in on our conversation and share some laughs. Some very nice people in Scranton, so nice that I forgot to order a damn beer!

The beer list is an amazing one with a wide collection of both domestic craft brews and international cornerstones. I go with a Sam Smith Winter Welcome. For those of you that have not tried this beer, it is fantastic and I recommend giving it a go.
Zulu time strikes noon, and like clockwork, the bartender looks for his up-sale by offering me the menu. Given the size of the menu, it is no wonder the bartender walks with a limp. I open the menu and give it a good read through, taking several breaks to continue drinking my cold beer. I figured I would have to keep a good pace with my sips; otherwise the beer would turn warm therein disappointing my taste buds. This is actually a suitable rationale given the novel I was reading. Some time passes and I end up going with the bartender’s favorite, crab cakes.

As the bartender limps his way over to my spot at the bar I get a good look at the crab cakes and overall presentation of the plate. For those of you who know this already, forgive me for insulting your intelligence, but when food comes to your table, or in my case, barstool; it should satisfy all of your senses and not only sense of taste. The Banshee has done well, so far. As I begin to cut into my crab cake, I see that it has been deep fried (disgusting) and then I’m wondering where the fuck is my crab!?!? Crab cakes are to have crab in them, if I’m not mistaken, and I do not believe I am. This was all filler and no crab. As I sit there and steaming over the poor quality of my food, I come to two realizations: (1) The damn bastard, Gordon Ramsey was correct in his theory of large menus; and (2) never order crab cakes from a restaurant that is located over a 125 miles from an ocean.

The crab cake ended up wearing me down. I never thought of myself as a quitter, but I quit this crab cake. Staring disappointment in the face, I do as any real man would do, wash down my disappointment with something I know will not disappoint, Victory’s Hop Devil. For those of you out there that enjoy a hopped up bad ass beer that makes your asshole pucker, this beer is for you. It’s amazing. Thank God for this rebound, otherwise The Banshee was an absolute waste of my time. But as Bill Shakespeare says, “let’s not burden our remembrance with a heaviness that's gone.” The Banshee was a nice place for a few sips of the liquid that saved the world from Irish, but not so much for food.

First night in the Scranton area...not disappointed.

Scranton: The “Electric City”: dubbed this title in 1887 when the city successfully pioneered Pennsylvania’s first trolley line. Also, dubbed; Scranton: land of Pennsylvanians with New York accents.

After growing up in Erie, PA I am beginning to realize that there is a gravitational pull toward the state, as fore I cannot seem to escape being pulled back North to the ‘state of independence.’ Rolling into Dunmore, PA (a suburb of Scranton) I quickly realized that this is yet another Pennsylvanian town that its streets change names every quarter mile making following any sort of contemporary mapping technology nearly impossible. Regardless of being handcuffed by the lack of street signs and the limited accuracy of Google maps, I’ve arrived at the Sleep Inn nestled away in an industrial park off highway 81. Following the necessary hotel ‘check-in’ procedures, I do my business (nearly getting sucked down the toilet, yikes!...it works! Exhilarating.) I proceed to the recommended neighborhood grill/bar called The Loading Dock.

Driving through the Industrial Park, I find The Loading Dock, docked behind the ECO furniture store…classy. Strolling from my rental car to the restaurant I see a congregation outside the door of the establishment, as I come closer to the door I’m realizing that there is no line to get in this famous local joint, but rather a crew just following Big Ed’s 2008 CIAA law; prohibiting smoking inside public areas and workplaces. Seeing that there was about a baker’s dozen lingering in the cold, made me wonder if there was actually going to be any patron’s inside. I was not disappointed. I entered, the music seized, everyone stopped what they were doing and watched me as I took my place at the bar. I prefer sitting at the bar when traveling alone, it makes me feel less alone. I am sitting there next to my fellow businessmen, road warriors, and the occasional hitch-hiker all of whom is seeking something to stop them from spitting a sweater and maybe fill their stomach. I give the room a good look, decide not to sit next to someone that fits the profile of a serial killer and order myself a beer. I am fairly impressed with their offerings, seeing that they have a decent variety of imports and craft beers ranging from Dog Fish Head 90 Minute IPA to Delirium Tremens. Not too bad for a restaurant connected to the back of a furniture distribution center. I order an Ommegeddon Abbey Ale, delish. Sitting there watching Georgetown Univ. basketball team get slammed by WVU, I decide to take a look at menu. This is an easy decision. Big cursive letters indicate that I must order their signature NY strip steak.

Impressed with the steak, I am less impressed with the mashed potatoes that seemingly came from a box of Hungry Jack; a wee bit powdery. Being the mash potato connoisseur that I am, I am still amazed that my internal criticism of the smashed root was distracted by my eavesdropping of the surrounding conversation. A fellow around the corner of the bar was from Erie! Ahhh a fellow Erie-ite, again…that damn gravitational pull. However, this was the least shocking thing that I was witnessing. The Pepsi drinking 18 wheeler driver/ Navy vet was explaining to anyone that would listen that he was a beer geek. Drinking a Pepsi? Really? More shockingly, he was going on about Straub being one of America’s best beers. I hear this as I sip on my lovely Belgium Ale and resist spitting it back up (that would be a terrible waste), WHAT! STRAUB!? I go on to listen to this intriguing man. His next admission is likely a cardinal sin in Ireland: he puts salt in his Guinness and then goes on to be evangelical about this practice. That’d be ten Hail Mary’s.

I nearly walk out in disgust…but decide to take a detour, head call, my head is now clear. My Mother always said; if you can’t think of anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Well Mom, you should be very pleased. It took every bone in my body to not say anything to the neighboring “beer snob;” moron, ruining a perfectly good Guinness.
Dessert: I go ahead and order a 90 Minute as I scan the room.
Without going on much more of a tangent and going on about my perception of Scranton’s demography and how it still puzzles me how fit birds in power-suits are smitten over grease monkeys and cut-off t-shirt wearing dudes. Perhaps arranged marriages? Nah…this aint India. I cannot imagine what these folks must have in common, but to be a fly on their wall would be priceless.

I will conclude with the best line of the evening from the Navy Vet/ Beer Snob: “Light beer is like having sex in a canoe. It’s near water.”