I’m dragging Kathy to Dee-troit tonight to see Dylan at the Fillmore (yes, we have one in Detroit). Jakob, that is, with his Wallflowers friends. Hard to think of them as an oldies group, but it’s been over 25 years since I checked “Bringing Down the Horse” out of the library, taped it, then played it to death. Checking setlist.fm (1), they’re still playin’ those tunes! Can’t wait to check out the audience. We’ll drive it home with one headlight (2).
Hafta have a nice pic of Jakob Dylan in his youth. Handsome boy, but ya gotta believe his dad nailed some pretty choice women. Maybe he didn’t inherit all his dad’s lyrical gifts, but he sure can rock!
Hard to believe as I watch temps plunge into the 40s and snowflakes cast for tomorrow that a week and a half ago we had that warm California sun at our backs as we headed into a week at the beach in La Jolla. Kathy and I fell in love with that place during my winter ’17 UCSD sabbatical, particularly the rocky beach just down the street from our place: Windansea. Nearly every evening we’d walk the 4 blocks down, sit on a bench or a rock, bag with wine and other provisions, and watch the sun set over the Pacific. Several of you reading this might remember the many sunset shots I sent you. We try to get back as often as we can afford it, usually twice a year. We seek to get as close to the beach as possible, but somehow “steps to the beach” in the listing turns into at least a block or two. Closer than my Gravilla sabbatical bungalow, but still not optimal. Not being right on the beach means that at some time you must pack it up and go home, leaving those crashing waves behind. But our past two times out, Kathy has scored places on the beach, and those waves are with us all night. This latest was the best yet, an old wooden chalet with a great deck, big windows, and a straight shot from the deck through the dining room into the bedroom, so that surf music was muffled not one iota. Why we happened to go out when we did relates to the the other love that grew during our ’17 stay, that for a church. I’m not sure what caught our eye about La Jolla Presbyterian (“LS Pres”(1)), but we quickly became regulars, particularly attracted by the pastor, Rev. Dr. Paul Cunningham. A Fresno kid, he never put on airs from his Princeton Doctorate of Divinity, and was as real as they come. And what an ace at exegesis. His sermons stirred the mind as well as the soul. When we found out after coming home we could attend services virtually, we did regularly, mostly pulling away from our local church. Whenever we visited LJ, we tried to make sure to include a Sunday so we could attend LJ Pres in person. When Pastor Paul began to announce Holy Week plans for this year, we decided to spend that week in LJ. I won’t regale you with details except to say it was very much worth it. Highlight was Easter sunrise service at the built-in-1915 organ pavilion in Balboa Park
Except for the churchy things, we didn’t do much. Nearly every day we took the 3-mile round trip hike up the beach into the Village for lunch at El Pescador plus a little provision shopping and back. For you whose Spanish might be a little rusty, “pescador” translates as “fisherman”, and most of the fare behind the counters had been swimming in the Pacific the previous day. Should you not be adventurous enough to take some prey home, they’d cook it up for you, expertly. Grocery store Von’s (now “Provisions”)(2) and wine warehouse BevMo (3) were nearby, so we could fill our backpacks and seek out the bench for the #30 bus stop and take our booty down La Jolla Ave to Rosemont, where it was a couple blocks downhill to our place. And of course you eat outside at Pescador jn that glorious LJ sun. But after that activity we took our cue from the seals on the rocks at the Cove, eating, sleeping, grunting, occassionally changing positions, and emitting waste.
All right by the beach, of course. While LJ has many fine establishments at which to eat and drink, to go to one would mean to leave the beach! Thus was born the “let’s eat home” approach, which served us well throughout our stay. The VRBO had a decent kitchen with a gas stove, but no grill on the premises. I now include a digital thermometer in our “survival” kit. I’ve learned enough from using one at home that good meat shouldn’t be left to guesswork. Our gas stove had a broiler. Radiant heat from above, radiant heat from below, what’s the difference? Not much, I proved with our first night dinner, a nice one of the NY strips I’d scored on sale at Von’s. 3 ½’ on a side, probe to 1300 internal temp, beautiful. Believe we had purple Mexican asparagus on the side, and a nice red blend. How much would a meal like that have cost in one of LJ’s tony establishments? Dinner II required some foraging. I’d stumbled into a great little butcher shop (Buck’s) on a previous trip, and it took Yelp to find it again. But Buck’s on Fay had the choice big veal chops I was craving. I gently coaxed those babies to 1450 internal temp before uncorking the pinot my wine pairing guide said this more delicate meat should join. Maybe regular asparagus this time, but who cares about the vegetables? Next night our friend Ken, host for my sabbatical and good friend from long before then, was coming over. I had something a little different rolling around my brain, and here’s what I threw together:
They were a hit. I used yellowtail as that was what Pescador had, but I think any fish could substitute. Just don’t cook it too much.
Kathy and I would have one last dinner by the beach. Back to the steaks we went, as we had but one left from our original trio. Meat should never be the sideshow, but the perfectly cooked 1300 steaks had to stand up to a topping and a side. I’d toyed with the topping before, doctored it up a bit for this occasion, and here it is:
Then the side. This started as a Thanksgiving dinner staple, but has spread. No matter what the season, you can always get Brussels sprouts, and cooked like this, they’re always a hit:
Ah. The morning after that dinner was time to begin packing up. But this time on the beach reawakened Kathy’s long dormant LJ real estate bug. The realtor who had helped us with our current rental was eager to show us some other properties. He knew our narrow set of parameters and came up with a place a block north of us: modern condo unit with a curved face. Of course, Kathy fell in love with the place. Big and open, with an big curved deck staring down Windansea beach. Not on the market yet, but maybe available for monthly rent.
If only the two of us could move more books! You folks put there, go to Amazon and place some orders (5,6)
But we eventually had to leave paradise for northern California, where family and friends reside. The Pescadaro clan was all there, unfair to ask mother Janet to feed ‘em all. So we went down the coast to the Costanoa Lodge (7). Needless to say, a good time was had by all.
We finished up in Petaluma, visiting my Barnes buddy Dave, who usually runs a 5:31 PM Friday “Safety Meeting” in a back room of his friend Jim Maselli’s hardware store, instead took the show on the road to a local distillery yet to register on Yelp. The booze, food, and comradery were fabulous, but the next morning found us with still enough energy to negotiate the trip to San Jose Mineta. We knew the way. Even though we were happy to be California Fleein’ (8), we knew we’d be back, just like Arnold says (9).
Sure, I’ve liked to drink since age 16, have done it regularly, and maybe stepped it up a bit since COVID like so many others. But when old best friends take notice, and suggest changes, maybe it’s time to pay attention. Eric is almost my size and has a goofy sick sense of humor that exceeds even mine. We were inseparable in high school and have remained friends ever since, despite Eric’s travels chasing bank compliance problems. It’s been a joy since he moved back to Ada, near Grand Rapids, about a decade ago and stayed put. With 3 children, (at least) 5 grandchildren, there’s little time for Grandpa Eric to socialize. When his wife of over 40 years Jean (I was their best man) died last spring, Eric, after a mourning period, emerged with a new honey, Kathy, a former U of M clinical psychologist. It was a date at the Red Hawk with them in Ann Arbor that prompted Eric’s observations and suggestions
As Eric said : “Needless to say seeing an only marginally coherent Bob scarfing down appetizers in a manner that would have raised the eyebrows of a caveman was discerning.”
To which I replied:
Every now and then, you emerge to show you really are my best friend and not just another goofy very tall guy with similar interests and sick sense of humor whom I enjoy hanging out with. I still remember the Abraham Lincoln letter from high school when you expressed concern over my weekly beer excursions with Shorty, Shutesie, and Jerry Mayes. Of course, you followed along the same path of debauchery not long after which I took to label you hypocrite in my mind, not that you ever stopped being a friend. We both emerged from all that nonsense to have pretty successful careers and you with the wonderful family but me just with a wonderful wife. I’ve loved the effects of alcohol ever since tasting it in that bar near the White House that Pecker Paul took me, Sam, Linda Darai, Pam Burns, and Jeannie Van Allsburg on that fateful domestic exchange trip winter of ’69. It didn’t take long upon return to the ‘burg to arrange dial-a-beer and my drinking buddy mates. Several months into it Johnny Mac called me into his office to confront me with his knowledge I’d been going out on a drunk every weekend and wanted to know why. I told him I liked it, kept doing it, and kept getting straight As, so he didn’t bother me any more, at least about that. My habit never affected my job performance, and only only once drew any attention, when a fat nurse told my chief she smelled liquor on my breath as we ascended the elevator to clinic one Monday morning (totally false). I had a DUI while helping teach a course in Maryland in ’94. When I got caught up into the whole opioid over prescribing thing, as part of my rehabilitation they threw me into a state program mainly designed for impaired physicians. Total abstinence was required. Every morning, I’d have to dial a number to see if I had to submit a random pee test at employee health. The tests could detect any exposure to alcohol within the previous 5 days. I couldn’t even use hand sanitizer as the absorbed alcohol would turn my test positive. I figured out I could still get a beer if I went on vacation and quaffed more than 5 days before my return to AA. Those were magical times. After 7 months of this, my Case Manager called me to say they determined alcohol was not part of my problem and I could cease the abstinence and random pee tests. I’d stay a total of 2 years in that program, but only having to put up with the required counseling and reporting. So I drink because I enjoy it. A lot. Connecting with my bio parents has been revealing. Dad (Dick Ike) liked his beer, but took a dim view on our Barton Lake excesses. My bio-mom is half Irish and loves alcohol in all forms but is no lush. One of my bio sisters has had several DUIs. Bio-dad was a bon vivant who was especially fond of wine. He and my mom met while carousing in the bars of Pt. Austin after the war. We gather by his grave in Toronto yearly to pour a little of his favorite pinot over, consuming the rest ourselves. So it’s in my genes, doncha know. But I’m becoming aware of the consequences of my habit. I’m disgusted with the 50# beer gut that came on when my knee arthritis knocked out from under me those daily 4 mile walks that had been keeping it down. I think you know of my bipolar diagnosis (established ~2000) and the lithium keeps me out of the gutter but my motor often runs high, so I think the alcohol is a bit of self medication there . “A doctor who treats himself has a fool for a patient” – Osler. But I pay: naps when I’d rather keep going, hangovers (but n-acetyl cysteine is great!), and embarrassments to friends and loved ones. So, you’re right. It’s time to cool it. I’ll see what I can do.
PS. Kathy’s abstinence was mainly weight-control related. But she was a little concerned about all she was downing. Her folks were wine and martini loving bon vivants, so we both sort of have that.
PSS. Curiously, marijuana has not been hard to kick. After my 12/23/14 bike injury, I qualified for a Michigan Marihuana card. While I enjoyed the high so familiar from my college days, it didn’t do too much for my pain. I have quite a stock of “edibles” (like Hooch likes), but don’t indulge anymore as they always make me lose half a day. There’s too much going on in my life in which I want to participate and I don’t want to miss out
Kathy’s learned to trust my judgement with Ark bookings. While mostly I just sign up for our old faves, now and then I’ll slip in someone I’ve only heard about. Worth taking a flyer. So, it was with last Friday’s Sonny Landreth and Cindy Cashdollar. I scrutinize the Ark schedule far in advance so as to get good tickets. When I spotted these two last winter I jumped at the chance. I knew Sonny was a Southern rock guitar hero, and Cindy was a member of the original Asleep at the Wheel. I probably watched her perform back in the day when everyone in the Wheel was about the same age and they bopped around Ann Arbor, usually sharing a bill with Commander Cody and his Lost Planet Airmen. Kathy of course knew nothing of Sonny and Cindy, although she likes AATW. I have a Sonny CD “South of I-10”, his 4th from an output of 13 ’81-’20 (1), which I played for her.
Pretty upbeat and a little hard. As for Cindy, I’m almost as insufferable talking about the Wheel as I am for Commander Cody. Remember, Ray Benson formed AATW in 1970 inspired by Commander Cody, who showed you could sell old country to hippies. Of course, the Wheel over the years has been sustained by big Ray’s vision and the many talented musicians he’s gotten to play with him. The originals were easily replaced, including Cindy. But she’s had a marvelous career, pretty much country royalty, taking her proficiency on flat stringed instruments (pedal steel, dobro, flattop) to back up legends Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, and Lyle Lovett while winning 5 Grammys as a member of the Wheel (2). After the Wheel, she’s been enlisted by Ryan Adams, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, Dave Alvin, John Sebastian, Rod Stewart, Albert Lee, Marcia Ball, Roy Block, Jorma Kaukonen, Leon Redbone, BeauSoleil, Peter Rown, Amy Helm, and on and on. It doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful and has retained her looks.
From the way the artists took the stage, you’d think some sort of folkie concert was coming. Tall, skinny bespectled Sonny looking like the guitar nerd he is sitting stage right, then the surprisingly beautiful Cindy wafting in to his left. No pedal steel in sight. Darn. Well, it’s hard to get those things into the overhead bin. She’d acquit herself on flattop and dobro. Once set, it really looked like a recital. After some quiet humorous words from both of them, they tore into it. This wasn’t gonna be no recital! (Full disclosure. The pics I took didn’t come out so I kyped this off the net).
Man, did they make some sound. Sonny sometimes sounded like he was playing 3 guitars at once. Oh, and he can sing, too. I never imagined you could make a rhythm section from a dobro and flattop, but it sounded like she had a full drum kit up there. With an opening number like “Blues Attack” (3), you knew they weren’t going to just ease into this thing. Sonny and Cindy started this tour in March, and from Setlist.fm, it looks like they’ve been following the same setlist. This one is from their show at the Thunderbird Café in Pittsburgh March 26 (4). One of the beauties of setlist.fm is that each song listed is linked to an audio file of that same song, so you can click your way through the whole concert. High points for me were “Black Top Run” (5), revving up the middle of the set, and a slide guitar fest from the old blues number “Prodigal Son” (6), which kicked off their encore.
Sonny’s roots are in the swamps of deep southern Louisiana, apprenticing with zydeco king Clifton Chenier’s Red Hot Louisiana Band, among others. His music has been called “swamp music”, zydeco, and Cajun. All those influences are there, to be sure, but they’re only a starting point for Sonny, always the experimenter. He’s dandy with the slide, but does much else with a guitar, even going acoustic sometimes. Yes, he’s a brilliant guitarist from the deep south, but this ain’t “Southern rock”. You’ll not mistake a Sonny Landreth concert for Alabama or Lynard Skynard. He’s been nominated for 2 Grammys and Eric Clapton says, “Sonny Landreth is probably the most underestimated musician on the planet, and also probably one of the most advanced.” (1)
Cindy has what looks like a beautiful new album out, which of course I ordered (7). “Waltz for Abilene” welcomes as guests many who have played with her over the years, including Albert Lee, Rory Block, Sonny (of course), Jake Langley, Ray Benson, Derek O’Brien, Mike Flanigin, Omar Kent Dykes, long tall Marcia Ball, and Arlen Roth. I can hardly wait.
Cindy and Sonny began playing together many years ago in what started as a sometime thing. Over the years it’s become regular, and I can’t wait for them to roll through town again. Heck, since Kathy and I are always looking for an excuse for a little trip, I’ll be scrutinizing their schedules to see where else they might be playing. Just another Black Top Run.
I’ve had the joy recently of reopening a relationship with a dear woman who was nurse to my intern at Barnes over 40 years ago. She was married (still is), and thus one of the few St. Louis skirts I didn’t chase. In a recent text exchange, she mentioned how she didn’t like sports very much, not liking dates she had with jocks. I had to counter with how much I did, and wrote her the following:
Kathy and I are big on sports. She was quite the jock, lettering in 3 sports in college and attaining Division III All-America in swimming (backstroke). Me not so much but I played HS football, basketball, and golf, and ran cross-country. I got a HS varsity letter in golf. Intramural basketball in college and med school. Curiously, neither of us was ever injured, except for an ankle sprain here and there. I’ve got a way cool varsity jacket I hope to show off at my Bulldogs’ home opener next Tuesday. Our season football tickets go back to the early 60s when Kathy’s orthopod dad got them for helping to recruit Ohio boys to come to Michigan. We’ve had season basketball tickets since early in the Beilein era. Weekly joys during the football and basketball seasons besides the games are the U of M Club of Ann Arbor Coaches’ luncheons at Weber’s, and in basketball season we add evening Monday sessions of Inside Michigan Basketball from Pretzel Bell where Kathy’s buddy Brian Boesch interviews Michigan’s basketball coaches for a radio show. Kathy got named to the board of the U ofM Club and now has the assignment to corral the coaches of “non revenue sports” to come speak. So now we’re taking in more their matches. So I think that UofM sports are a huge part of our bond to AA. So, there’s something we don’t have in common. Young jocks tend to be pretty self absorbed, but we’ve met some gems among them. At U of M, the jocks are expected to go to class and succeed, so the way they balance the demands of academics and sport can be impressive. Kathy had jocks in her class (more women than men), and several sought and attained med school. Michigan ex-jocks tend to do well in the real world based on their competitive nature, experience with working as part of a team, and having the discipline necessary to excel both in the classroom and on the playing field. Go Blue!
It was my dear late Aunt Dorie (1) who first introduced me to the joys of what we now call mid-century modern furniture (2). Those days, it was called Danish Modern. Aunt Dorie had a few choice teak pieces (now in my living room) and took me to House of Denmark in Troy to see many more. I was smitten. That House of Denmark went out of business, but one survived in St. Louis (seemingly the only place they survived (3)) and I visited it frequently during my internship and residency at Barnes. When I finally got a real paycheck from my full-time post-residency moonlighting in July of 82, I went in and bought that Ekornes Stressless Recliner that had been beckoning by their front door, and in which I had taken a sample sit every time I visited. I later bought a stereo cabinet and bedroom furniture there, all of which survive today. It was that recliner that brought me into our present story.
You never know what you’ll find on e-bay. And one day I found another Ekornes Stressless Recliner, this one in blue leather. I couldn’t resist. There would be a place for it. When it arrived, there were some flaws. Up against my ’82 piece, there were some flaws there too, mostly wear and fading. Looking for someone who could effect the necessary improvements, I came across Bar (for “Barbara”) in Chicago who took on Scandinavian leather furniture for a living (4). After a prolonged effort, stretched out by COVID, she returned to me two like new chairs. I am eternally grateful.
Then, like I said, you never know what you’ll find on e-Bay. I decided that a nice stool would complement our living room teak credenza, someplace to sit while sorting through the files there. The plastic milk crate we were using wasn’t too classy, and certainly not mid-century modern. What I stumbled on was so perfect it made my eyes roll back: Danish, mid-60s, solid teak (you don’t see that anymore!).
So, I plunked down the large amount of cash they asked, and awaited arrival. It was perfect beyond words. I knew nothing of its history then, except for the funny Danish name of its designer, but was very happy with my purchase. It served well and looked oh-so-cool in its home at the edge of the credenza by the hallway. I bought mine used, but as of 2006 you could get a new one from Furiosa in Kolding (phone 75 50 88 87), a design shop run by one of Hundevad’s former employees (5). Price then: 3660 Danish Kroners ($532.67 by today’s exchange rates. You could fly there round trip from DTW and have plenty of Kroners left over for what I paid for my stool!). Not sure that 2006 model was made out of solid teak. Still worth every penny, regardless, especially with what I’ve learned recently.
Then tragedy struck. Trying to lift my 6’6” 270# frame off the seat, I put a hand on the leather seat itself rather than the teak bar supporting it. One of the leather tabs to the teak bar ripped. There are 5 such tabs on each side, so the seat held up for a while. But a later venture found me ripping the remaining 4 on one side and that was that.
It took me a while even to seek help for the situation. Surely, I wanted my heirloom restored. Local solutions were not forthcoming, as the leather furniture restorer with whom we’ve done business before said there was nothing he could do. I sought out businesses in the region that dealt with thicker leather, like saddle purveyors, but couldn’t get a response. As a last ditch, I turned to Bar. If she couldn’t fix such a thing, she’d have some advice. The e-mail happened to land on her birthday, and she was happy to hear from me. She said the repair was beyond what she did, but offered 3 outfits that could take in on, 2 in LA (6,7) and one in NJ (8). I was in touch with all that day and got quick responses. All wanted to know a little more about the piece, so I dug in and told them, as follows:
If you’re curious about the piece to be repaired, it was made in Denmark in the 60s, called a Poul Hundevad ”Guldhøj” Folding Stool. Poul Hundevad was a Dane born in 1917, trained as a carpenter and had his own furniture shop until he turned to design in the early 60s (9). He became a renowned designer (in circles that recognize such things) and is responsible for many of the mid-century modern teak pieces I love so much. “Guldhøj” translates to “gold rush”, so I suspect prospectors took along stools like this to sit on as they panned for gold. Mr. Hundevad did not design this particular stool. A tag on the underneath of the seat – in 4 languages – says a stool like this was found in a “grave-hole” in Vamdrup, coincidently where Hundevad was born, a small town in Southern Denmark on the Jutland peninsula. The grave dated to the early bronze age, ~1350 BC. No wonder the leather tore! I’m counting on the repairmen to produce a piece that can give me another several millennia of service.
So, I can’t imagine a more impossibly cool stool.
One of the potential repairers had me chasing my own leather “half-hides”, which would be necessary to replace the seat. He’d excitedly found some on e-Bay that might work, but in the color I wanted, none were available in that size. But e-Bay does offer some interesting possibilities.
I offered to the LA repairman he could leave the tail in for effect.
But as I write this, I seek to gather up the broken off parts then bubble wrap this thing to an inch of its life. Then it’s off to LA, to be refurbished amongst the furniture of the stars. Once home, I promise to sit on it with proper reverence.
Readers of this blog probably appreciate I’m not above giving shameless plugs to my works in other media. I suppose this is another. I suspect I pushed my very first book here 2 years ago, but time has passed and I thought that book needed work, so here it is in its second edition. First published May ‘21, the second edition is out at 2304 words and a mere 24 pages in this new edition, it’s still more a pamphlet than a book, but Amazon doesn’t have that category. I stopped writing when I had all I had to say about the incident in question. I still think it’s a powerful story, something that happened in October of ’68 and shook my little community. No one who was alive in the area then has forgotten it, although many still wish to. My little book, first published May ’21 and then second edition 3/10/23 describes a tragic car-train accident that killed 2 of my classmates and 3 other Vicksburg boys then the effect all of it it had on my community, which was profound, as you might imagine. Hardly an enticing lead, but the emotion is deep and the writing is heartfelt. Looks like you can get it for free (at least to me) on Amazon/Kindle (1)
We all love that cuppa joe first thing in the morning, or several, and maybe throughout the day. That was me when I was working. But for the past 3 and a half years caffeine has been just a pleasant occasional distraction. Maybe that job wasn’t so stimulating after all.
But nowadays a simple cuppa just isn’t enough. Ever since Howard Schultz started rolling Starbucks over us in ’87 (1), that brew’s gotta swim with some fuzzy milk. Never mind his coffee is swill, overpriced and overroasted – burn, baby, burn! – with way too many preciously named varieties to choose from. The die is cast: latté or cappuccino, please! And if you’ve tried to order one of the latter in a proper coffee shop, you’ll realize ol’ Howard has supersized that drink from the dainty cup of dessert beverage those monks intended. You can’t get a cup of coffee for a dime anymore, maybe a buck. But count on wasting the better part of a 5-spot for one of those milky numbers. It can add up. Every list I’ve seen from a financial counselor advising ways to save money lists cutting out, or cutting back on, Starbucks.
But I love my lattés, a lot! Well, it’s just coffee – anyone can make that – and milk – easily foamed with some simple equipment. In my house, we’re on our second espresso maker/frother. The first, a Krups, set us back ~$200 and served us well for many years. For Valentine’s Day 2008, I was looking for something special for my cappuccino loving sweetheart. I splurged and bought a Rancilio Silvia M. You can get one on Whole Latte Love (WLL) for less than 900 bucks (2). It’s been well worth it. It’s still going strong, needing only a little tinkering now and then. I get my sweetie out of bed every morning by carrying to her the nice big triple cappuccino I’ve just made.
She loves it and I swear the practice lets me get away with all sorts of other stuff. I like ‘em too, making myself one maybe once a week. If that model’s not to your liking, Whole Latte Love has 371 others from 21 manufacturers ranging from Bezzera to Rocket Espresso. Prices run from $49 to $9400, with many on sale (3)! If you want to take a flyer on slightly used, there’s e-Bay, with over 9500 listings (4).
The other good coffee capital investment is a proper grinder. We’re on our 4th or 5th, finally graduating from Krups when we got one when we bought our Rancilio. I know you can buy coffee already ground, or ground at the store, but you can’t beat the freshly ground bean, its many freshly jagged edges having minimal time to hydrate. We love our Baraza Virtuoso. If you’re noticing something about the names so far, you’ll know which country takes their coffee molto seriamente. . The machine is very simple, just a hopper, adjustable burr grinder, and the spilt ground tray.
The burr has needed attention a time or two, but WLL has helped Kathy diagnose the problem, sent her the necessary part, and talked her through the repair process. Today’s Virtuoso has added a timer and will run you 250 bucks (5). As with espresso machines, WLL offers variety, with 193 models from 20 different manufacturers, ranging from Baratza to Yama, costing from 170 to 900 bucks (6). Of course, once you’ve set up your fancy expensive home coffee shop operation, you’ll not want just any beans. Best to identify a local roaster and get those beans as fresh as possible. We’re fortunate to have two of those in Tree Town, and we are friends with the owners of both. Dave and wife Nic’s Mighty Good Coffee has been at it since 2006 (7). Nic was an AA in my Division for a while as Dave was getting things off the ground. Tall, pretty, and funny, I was sad when she left. John started RoosRoast a year before Dave (8). Both also run coffee shops in town. We prefer Dave’s Espresso 46 and David’s Dark Decaf for espresso drinks and John’s rotating Small Batch single origin varieties for regular coffee.
The stuff is not cheap, with Dave’s 12 oz bags running $14.69 and 12 ounces of John’s running $14-$17 depending on variety. But well worth it. Neither Kathy nor I are the coffee hounds we were when we were working. One maybe two preparations a day, tops, but always pure pleasure from first smell to last sip.
We decided to run the numbers recently. Figuring five bucks a pop on the capp, conservatively estimating 6/week, 50 weeks a year (we don’t take our machine on the road), we’d be spending $1500/year for an equivalent amount of cappuccino from a coffee shop. By this past Valentine’s day, we’d been doing this 15 years. That’s $22,500, excluding interest. With the Rancilio and grinder costing a little over a grand total, how’s that for ROI? Of course, there are materials costs for each preparation. I use 23 grams of beans to make 3 shots (all at once) for Kathy’s triple capp. With 28.349521 grams/ounce, that’s 0.81 oz per preparation. With Dave’s beans costing $14.69/12 oz, that’s $1.22/oz, or 99¢/capp. Call it a buck to make it easier. Then there’s the milk, of course. At my last trip to Busch’s, a gallon of skim cost $4.49. I half-fill the frother pitcher, strictly by eyeball. I measured it today for the first time, just for this piece. Comes to a full cup, almost exactly. With 16 cups to a gallon, I’m spending 28¢ for the frothy component of Kathy’s capp. So the materials cost of a triple capp is $1.28. How much did you pay for that last Starbuck’s again? Taking it back to that ROI calculation, the 4500 triple caps brewed from Valentine’s Day 2008 to Valentine’s Day this year, if we’d paid Biden ’23 era prices, cost $5700, or $16,800 less than store bought. That Rancilio and Virtuoso are still looking like a pretty good investment.
There are 2 other – much less expensive – pieces of equipment that I find essential to the way I brew coffee. Actually, now 3. The first is a digital scale. Now, I’ve been accused of being an anal retentive chef (9). But I took to measuring beans as I was getting tired of struggling with the portafilter. That’s the device that holds the basket that holds the grounds that you screw onto the espresso machine for it to pump steam and water through to make that shot. Somehow, the scoop would often give me just a little too much, begetting the portafilter struggle dance, cursing the machine , scraping off some grounds, trying again, repeating until I finally got the damned thing on. I found that scoop and beans weighing 32 grams gave me a perfect fit. The scoop weighs 9 grams, but I don’t go through the tare process. You can get a decent scale for less than 12 bucks on Amazon (10). With many other kitchen and postal applications, you’ll be glad you bought one. Then there’s the water kettle. C’mon, you say, how hard can it be to boil water? But if you’re pouring boiling water over grounds, you’re burning them a bit. Do you want your coffee to taste like Starbucks? I know, we’ve been talking about espresso machines, which handle all that heating automatically, but if you’re doing regular old drip coffee, or using the neat little apparatus I’ll be telling you about shortly, you’re in charge of the water going over the grounds. The Coffee Brewing Handbook published by the Specialty Coffee Association states that a water extraction temperature of 92–96 °C (1980F-2050F) is optimal for drip coffee (11). However, scientists in the department of Food Science at UC Davis assessed coffee qualities drip brewed with water at 870C (1890F), 900C(1940F), and 930C(1990F) and found that coffee brewed at 870C retained all the qualities of coffee brewed at higher temperatures, recommending using the coolest temperature as the resultant cuppa is less likely to scald (12). I actually heat the water only to 1750F. Tea should be brewed at even lower temperatures, varying according to type of tea (13). So having an apparatus to heat water to a selected temperature, rather than just boiling is, is advantageous to the meticulous brewer. Amazon has 6 pages at 48/page and 22 on the last page (there were some dupes, you do the math) ranging from a little more than 20 bucks to some high end numbers well into 4 figures (14). I like my minimalist Consori just fine, which set me back a little over 50 bucks (15).
A late addition to my coffee side gadgets is my hand tamper. I made plenty of espressos without one, but what I make now using my tamper is better and much more consistent batch-to-batch. There are many forms of hand tampers – WLL has 136 tamping tools from 21 different manufactures arranging from Asso Coffee to WLL itself, priced 24 to 190 bucks (16). My little Espro cost me 90 bucks, perfectly fits my 58 mm basket, has some nice heft, and clicks once pressure applied to the grounds reaches 30#/PSI. Not all tamping tools have this feature. Why do this? Tamping removes gaps and air pockets between the coffee grinds, creates a tight seal around the edges of the portafilter and when done correctly, creates a flat and even bed of coffee for the water to through, promoting an even extraction of flavor (17). With the pressure feedback, you do it the same every time. Whether you buy a tamper with or without the pressure option, be sure it will fit snugly in the diameter of the basket in your portafilter. A single press on the grinds is what you want, not multiple daubs. Espresso makers often come with cheap simple tampers, but they do tend to fit.
If you want to get real cheap, here’s what you do. Buy yourself an AeroPress, a simple apparatus that makes a shot of coffee by having you pour the ground coffee in a cylinder, followed by hot water, stirring, then pushing a plunger down that forces that mix through a paper filter (18). Not exactly a shot of espresso, but pretty darn close. I’ve been making triple capps for my sweetie by grinding those 23 grams of beans that would have one into the portafilter basket and dumping them into the AeroPress cylinder. Then you get yourself a frother, whose spinning blades whip up some foamy milk. Combine the two and there’s your latte, or cappuccino if you really whip up the milk. An AeroPress costs about 35 bucks, and frothers can be had for less than that (19). Take care shopping for milk frothers, as there are hand-held stirrers that also list in that category, but really don’t do the trick and are messy.
One beauty of this system is you can take it into the office, where if you’ve got a way to boil water and keep milk cool, you’ve got all your ingredients. It’s what my sweetie did for years, although in place of the AeroPress she had a Keurig.
As Thomas Jefferson said “Coffee is the favorite drink of the civilized world” (20). I hope my calculations and demonstrations have shown you a way to stay civilized without going broke.
11. Lingle TR. The Coffee Brewing Handbook: A Systematic Guide to Coffee Preparation. Santa Ana: Specialty Coffee Association of America, 2011.
12. Batali ME, Ristenpart WD, & Guinard JX. Brew temperature, at fixed brew strength and extraction, has little impact on the sensory profile of drip brew coffee. Sci Rep 10, 16450 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-020-73341-4
Is it March already? Seems like only yesterday that Kathy and I were ushering in the New Year in a basement bar in Edinburgh. We’d made the trip mainly to take in Hogemany, the Scots’ New Year’s Eve blowout that’s been going on for over 450 years (1). But as we awaited the trip, Jimmy Harbaugh’s boys beat Ohio State, won the Big 10 Championship, and earned a spot in the College Football Playoff, all for the 2nd year in a row. A big part of our last minute pre-trip planning became a frantic search for a bar there that would be showing our Fiesta Bowl contest with the Horned Frogs of TCU. Chris, owner of the Globe Bar on Niddry (2), assured me that if they could not find a channel showing the game that he’d stream it and put it on a big screen for us. He apologized that he wouldn’t be putting the sound on, as the rest of the patrons would have other priorities. Fine for us, so we packed in a much less anxious mood.
We were supposed to make the trip last year, booking in January 2021 after I first learned about Hogemanay as I was researching the 12 days of Christmas (3).
The fėte grew up after Mary Queen of Scots, in 1561, forbid her subjects from celebrating Christmas, as she deemed it too pagan. We took in a little of that celebration, drinking and chatting with strangers in one of the many outdoor booze, food, and music outfits set up for the night. But we had to break and get ready for the 10 PM game, finding the little alley of Niddry. Looked pretty great when we found it. They’d even painted it maize-and-blue for us!
Chris was magnanimous, happy to see us, bearing a beard and wearing a kilt over his well-earned (I’m sure) gut. He showed us to our table by a nice big screen. We raised the average age in the bar considerably, but the Scottish kids were all friendly and inquisitive. Some of them even cheered along with us. It was a silly game, with the team making many uncharacteristic mistakes but almost digging themselves out of a big hole at the end, falling just short. They played their best ball when we stepped outside at midnight to see the fireworks and hear the bag pipes, somehow having 14 more points on the board when we finally sat back down.
Chris had made arrangements for a taxi to take us back to our place north of town, so we hung around with the kids till 2 AM, when our taxi was supposed to arrive. Chris was evidently safety-minded, as he protected his patrons from hangovers and alcohol poisoning but putting a minimum amount in his drinks. We’d have bought a bottle of champagne had Michigan won, but dodged another bullet there. The 2 AM taxi never showed, so we joined the line on High Street and waited in the rain for over an hour till it became out turn to get to South Queensferry. Between the excitement of the game and the fact our biological clocks were still on Eastern time, we weren’t tired. But we each paid for that soaking by coming down with a cold the next day, which lingered so long and racked our chests so much I’m pretty sure it was COVID. Neither of us had been vaxxed, as if that would have made a difference! The cabbie managed to find the bat-cave alley to our place, easy to find as the owners still had their Christmas lights up. South Queensferry is so called as Saint Margaret of Scotland is believed to have established a ferry at this point for pilgrims on their way north to St Andrews. It stands at the Firth of Forth, the Firth a finger of a fjord that comes in from the North Sea. The River Forth is one of several that feeds it. Lovely bridges traverse it, viewed beautifully from our digs.
We woke up early enough the next day to see from our living room window locals gathering on the beach for Loony Dook (4). This ritual allows intrepid Scots to dive into the frigid waters of the Firth to prove their mettle. Announced by a gun blast and bagpipes, the start was no mystery. Fortunately, no ambulances announced themselves thereafter. Walking to breakfast, we ran into a few of the participants along the road, and none seemed the worse for wear. Tough people, these Scots.
South Queensferry is the charming neighborhood around it. Trails, once mastered, lead right to the local pub and adjacent restaurants. Such were the charms of this place we found little reason to venture back to downtown Edinburgh.
It all starts with a great pub, and there we were
We scarfed down a shephard’s pie and were happy. Later, we wandered through on a Sunday and were surprised to find the place packed. They weren’t citing the catechism. They had one of those exquisite urinals of which I am so taken
We were later rewarded by excellent breakfasts (including haggis with our “full Scottish”):
That speckled patty to the lower left is haggis. Quite good when you ignore its offal and sheep’s stomach origins.
There was excellent Indian to be had at Queen’s Spice (5) and up the street and down a bit was superb seafood at The Boat House (6).
Not that we neglected Edinburgh. We trekked in by bus (trains were on strike) and took in Edinburgh Castle. Perched high on a rock, getting there is quite a climb. But it’s huge and impressive, and you can imagine the advantage of all the guns pointed down. A memorial to their war dead was moving, and a glance at the royal jewels – guarded by an armed uniformed officer – was worth the look.
Then based on recommendations from several, we set out to see the Queen’s Yacht. The Britannia has sank anchor in Leith since it was decommissioned 12/11/97 (7). It’s been maintained shipshape and I’m told they still hold state dinners there suitable to the Queen’s standards. Afterwards, I asked my high finance buddy in London if he could get me into one of those parties.
After our tour, we moseyed up and found a bar suited to the lugs dragging up stuff from the docks. We had a fine time, and no one asked us for our teamster card. Thank you Jimmy Hoffa.
Home after that was gathering together for the return trip. It was an exhausting trip. We didn’t do much last day but pack, and stare out the window. We were pleased our Uber driver could find us up our cul-de-sac. Our driver was from the area and regaled us with local tales.
Our flight home through Newark was pretty smooth, and we slept through days once home. 10 days was barely enough rest as we pushed off for Florida on the 16th. Such are the travails of the retired.
Those tiny bubbles sure make a beverage a treat, don’t they? Carbonation’s a big part of the appeal of many favorites, but you can only drink so much beer, Coke, 7-Up and champagne. You can even put those bubbles in plain water and make a product. LaCroix, a brand of the National Beverage Company (did you know their NASDAQ symbol is FIZZ?), in the 52 weeks ending 5/15/22, sold $549,444,493 of the stuff (1). LaCroix’s been around since’ 81, launched by a beer company (G. Heileman of LaCrosse WI, brewers of Old Style and Blatz), showing what an artsy-fartsy logo can do for brand consciousness (2). However, despite its place on the sales perch, LaCroix may not be America’s favorite sparkling water any more, with Pellegrino (from the Alps!), besting it in a recent survey (3). Turns out they don’t even have the #1 spot on the sales perch, as they were outsold by Sparkling Ice and Private Label.
You won’t find any “Private Label” on the shelves. They affix a label they design according to the customer’s suggestion (4). Remember that for your next party!
There are many others in this game now (5). We Americans aren’t the only suckers for fuzzy water, with the global sparkling water industry expected to reach a value of $67 billion by 2030.
At our Busch’s on Plymouth in Ann Arbor, a 12 pack of unflavored LaCroix will run you $6.49. With 72 oz in a 6-pack, that’s 9¢/oz. Then you’ve got that can to get rid of. Gretch neither takes nor gives a dime for those. When I lived in St. Louis in the early 80s and emptied many a can (not sparkling water), there was no container deposit law. There was, however, a place that would buy aluminum scrap, so I’d take over a garbage bag full periodically and come home with a few bucks. Right now, the average price for aluminum pop can scrap is $0.23/pound (6). A pop can (same as a LaCroix can) weighs half an ounce, thus netting you 23/32 = 0.72¢/can. So, to get a buck, you’ll have to drain 139 cans, almost 6 cases.
So, that love for fuzzy water comes at a cost. Might there be a way around it? Living in a desert, the Israelis have always found clever things to do with water. They draw and desalinate 75% of their drinking water from the Mediterranean Sea (7). When it came to having some fun with the water they’d got, they didn’t turn off those big brains.
With SodaStream, it was the case of those brains recognizing a good invention, buying it, and moving production to Israel, where it now does over a billion dollars a year in worldwide business (8). The device was invented in 1903 by a Brit, George Gilbey, who made most of his fortune distilling gin, and was sold as a plaything for the upper class. In ’55 a household model was introduced and became very popular in England. The design is very simple: CO2 from a pressurized cannister is fed through a control valve to a sturdy water bottle screwed onto the machine. Adequacy of the fill is marked when a “grunt” replaces the “fizz”. A tight cap assures pressure is maintained and the water remains fizzy in the fridge. Those wishing some flavor in their fizz can chose from an array of syrups (9). The only cost after buying the machine is refilling or replacing the CO2 cannister. Many hardware stores have exchange programs, and mail in service is available. SodaStream helpfully has provided a directory to both (10). SodaStream machines can had for about 90 bucks on Amazon (11), cheaper on eBay, of course. Here’s ours:
The 130L cannister, which means half as many trips to the hardware store, is no longer vended directly by SodaStream, but is available on Amazon (12).
A 60L cannister will carbonate 15 gallons of water. That’s 160 cans of LaCroix. SodaStream will sell you a new full cannister for 15 bucks then tack on another 15 for shipping. After that, you mail in your empty and they send you a full. Hardware store exchange costs are much less. But even at the top end, you’re getting 160 cans of fuzzy water for 30 bucks, a little over a nickel a can, 32¢ a 6-pack, $1.28 a case. With a new SodaStream going for about 90 bucks on Amazon (10), it’ll take 90 fills of their special 1L carbonating bottles to make back your purchase price, based on highest end CO2 replacement costs. The bottles are another cost. We rotate 4 through our refrigerator as we go through the stuff so fast. They’re not cheap – see this deal of 2 for 25 bucks (13) – but don’t try to use something else. It’ll neither handle the pressure nor hold the charge.
A few years back, while happy with the machine we were tiring of all the trips to the hardware store. SodaStream discontinued a larger cannister that of course required fewer trips. Whether it was the notion or the doohickey, we found another (and cheaper) way. Key to the operation is the doohickey, which screws one end onto a conventional 5 pound CO2 tank, like you might have to run your Corney keg, and the other – valve in between – to the empty 60L cannister (14).
It’s a slow process, good for an overnight, and of course it eventually empties the large cannister, which holds 5# of CO2, 1215 L, equivalent to 20 ¼ 60L cannisters. So, each 5# cannister will carbonate the equivalent of 3,240 cans of LaCroix. Since each 5# cannister has its tare weight etched on the side, you can use your bathroom scale to determine how close you are to empty.
We “refill” ours at the welding supply place south of town, actually just a swap out. Costs $28.32 after taxes. Figuring SodaStream will charge almost 30 buck to refill their little 60L cannister, it’s quite a deal. If you want some more math, that 5# cannister holds 20 ¼ 60L aliquots, so $1.40 for each 60L. The setup is a little cumbersome, but it gives the sunroom off the kitchen a little “industrial” look, and that’s always cool. Foreground and right in the crate is the 130L cannister, with the 60L in the background.
And now for the final exam. Here at Busch’s today were the prices on 3 popular fuzzy waters (actually, they were all on sale, but those never last).
LaCroix: $6.49/12 pack 12 oz cans)
Polar Ice: $1.59/L
Pellegrino: $1.94/25.3oz
Let’s start by converting them to 12oz equivalents.
LaCroix: 54.1¢
Polar Ice: 56.4¢
Pellegrino: 92¢
Given that a 60L cannister of SodaStream CO2 will carbonate 160 12oz can equivalents, what would you spend at the store for this amount? As you compare, remember that 60L of CO2 will cost as much as $30 from SodaStream or as little as $1.40 if you use the 5# cannister refill system.
LaCroix: $86.56
Polar Ice: $90.24
Pellegrino: $147.20
With the high-end CO2 cost at 30 bucks, and with homemade welding supply refill at $1.40, I think you can see the advantage. The capital costs ($90 for the SodaStream, $20 for the CO2 charger hookup) can be recouped quickly. Once again, math wins out. So, get yourself a SodaStream and watch FIZZ plummet on the NASDAQ!
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