Twin Peaks (Scottsdale, AZ)

When looking at a restaurant, it is my natural tendency to search for something deeper….a story, an idea, or a metaphor.  But in the case of Twin Peaks, I’m going to be completely superficial and state the obvious: the restaurant is staffed by an amazing cadre of highly accomplished theoretical physicists and academicians.  

Go to their website, and this fact is evident.  I, myself, didn’t believe it.  I thought it was just bullshit from the marketing team….”yeah, yeah, yeah, customers will flock to us and empty their wallets if we only hire theoretical physicists.  Let’s get Stephen Hawking as our spokesperson.  Guys love brains.”  

So I decided to test them. 

Upon being greeted at their media opening (yes, I ate and drank for free but can you blame me for wanting to surround myself with so many great intellectual minds?), my dad and I took our seats and I pulled this out of my pocket: 

And without hesitation, Jen, our server who I recognized from the MIT alumni magazine, shrugged her shoulders and said “How stupid do you think I am?  This is a table of transcendental equations, useful in boundary value and eigenvalue problems.  What else ya got for me?”  

To further punctuate their intellectual superiority, even the bathrooms have explicit instructions on how to use them, perfect for a Neanderthal like me.  On the men’s restroom door:  “Stand to Pee.”  On the women’s, “Sit to Pee.”  So THAT’S how I do it!  Thanks Twin Peaks! 

Obviously, this presented a huge problem for me.  There had to be something more to Twin Peaks’ success than its crack team of academic decathletes/servers.  And then it occurred to me:  “Hey, wait, all the servers seem to have superhuman breasts.  I think I am starting to see a theme!”  Why couldn’t the corporate office have made this more obvious in their marketing materials?  Surely men like boobs.  We all love cold beer.  And bar food?  Fuck yeah.  Flirty, friendly servers? Bring it on! 

What an amazing recipe for success.  They should flaunt it!  Servers who are simultaneously fluent in Weierstrass’ Factorization Theorem AND sassy enough to offer you a “Dirty Blonde” or “Knotty Brunette” when you walk in…and punctuate it by asking you if you want said beer in “Girl” or “Man” size. 

There is no other way to say it:  Twin Peaks is Fucking Brilliant.  

That’s it!  While we may love to satiate our minds with heady academic stuff, get outside your comfort zone every now and then and you might realize that hanging out with boobalicious blondes and brunettes (I wish there were redheads….freckly ones) can be pretty damn satisfying, especially when they bring you cold beer, fried food, and there are lots of televisions.  It was a revelation to me. 

“Man” sized beers are served in tall frosted mugs, as they should be.  Beer is never served above freezing temperature; in fact, there is a thermometer on the wall that constantly displays the keg temperature in real-time. I don’t think I ever saw it go above 32 degrees but, then again, I was a little distracted by the brainpower in the room.  Can you blame me? 

Our server strongly suggested the fried mozzarella sticks, something I would never have thought to order otherwise.  And, surprisingly, they were pretty damn good.  She told me that they hand-batter every order and don’t cook them until they’re ordered.  The result was a chunk of fried cheese that was gooey – not chewy – and tasted like cheese, not latex.  I recommend it.  

Chicken Wings, a bar food staple, were less successful but still better than many I’ve had.  I prefer a crispier exterior on my wings, and Twin Peaks’ didn’t have much of a crunch despite a nice flavor.  

 

Dessert?  They’ve got that covered too.  We enjoyed a Blonde Brownie Sundae because, seriously, what goes better with beer and boobs than ice cream? 

Twin Peaks is about fun.  It’s light-hearted, relaxed and completely devoid of attitude. Even my friend’s shrimp and steak skewers looked remarkably good, and were properly cooked to temperature.  

So, if your wife or girlfriend frowns at you going to a place like Twin Peaks, then you need to find a new wife or girlfriend because yours is clearly insecure about her intellectual prowess.  Oh yeah, and then there’s the whole boob thing. 

My only real complaint?  I left craving a tall, cold glass of milk...from the "tap."  It's brain food.

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Twin Peaks

8787 East Frank Lloyd Wright Blvd

Scottsdale, AZ 85259

480-483-0921

www.twinpeaksrestaurant.com

www.twitter.com/twinpeaksgirl

Whale is the new Kale

Whale Milk.  I don’t know why this idea didn’t come to me sooner.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been spending all my time working on genetically engineering an all-dark-meat chicken. But, whatever the reason, you heard it here first:  Whale Milk is going to be HUGE in 2012.  Last year was all about Kale.  2012 is all about the Whale.  And I'm not talking about those Hollywood pussy whales - - Shamu, Free Willy and the like - - I'm talking real whales, with street ocean cred.  Humpacks, Baleens, Narwhals.

Before you get your Greenpeace panties in a bunch, I’m not talking about killing whales.  That would be as wrong as teaching your kid to perfect his t-ball swing on innocent baby harp seals.  I love whales.  They’re majestic, peaceful, innocent, and they deserve to be protected.  But like your mother a whale is a mammal which, according to my seventh grade biology class, means that it produces milk.  So it would seem to me that their mammary glands are a gigantic untapped resource when it comes to milk. I’m guessing that whale boobs make a LOT of milk. 

According to various marine biology websites, whale milk is excreted through slits along their bodies and has the highest percentage of fat among all mammals.  Its consistency is akin to toothpaste.  And, I’m sure, far more delicious. 

Think of the possibilities:  whale yogurt, whale cheese, whale ice cream (hellooooo Sweet Republic, you are late to the game on this one) and baby formula made from whale milk. 

It’s a renewable resource and it’s not that hard to milk a whale.  I suggest the coast of San Diego (or make a vacation of it and go to Hawaii) when the whales are migrating, grab a snorkel, and cozy-up to one of these gentle giants.  Massage it gently, and go for its teat.  The high viscosity makes it easy to collect in a plastic bag, even while swimming in the ocean.  Not that I know from experience, but it’s pretty obvious. 

I’ve lamented before about the overuse of buzzwords like “farm to table,” “locavore,” and “organic.”  Kale, a thoroughly pathetic vegetable, is now cool.  Quinoa is showing up on menus everywhere, despite the fact that no one can pronounce it correctly.  Free Range…..well fuck that….it’s doesn’t get more free range than a migrating whale.

Jump on the bandwagon early. Once this catches on (and it WILL catch on), every girl whale will already be taken.  It will be impossible to find a whale that doesn’t already have a milker swimming next to it.  Prices will rise.  It’s simple supply and demand. 

Whale is the New Kale.  Live it. Learn it. Love it. 

You’re welcome.

EricRocksOut?

As someone recently mentioned on Twitter, this blog is currently covered in about three inches of dust.  I’m having a hard time getting excited about writing about food, and restaurants in particular, as I have so many other hobbies and interests continually occupying my limited mental bandwidth. 

One of them, in case you didn’t know, is music.  

I started playing the drums when I was five years old.  My parents got me one drum lesson for my fifth birthday, probably assuming that I’d quickly lose interest and they wouldn’t have to put up with the sound of banging drums in their house. Little did they know that it would probably be the most expensive gift they ever bought me, because that one lesson turned into weekly drum lessons for the following thirteen years.  Add the cost of band trips, studio-quality drums, and hauling my drum gear around to performances and I bet they wished they never gave-in to my birthday wish.  Life would have been a lot easier for them if I chosen the flute, instead. 

Music is a very personal thing for me.  Although I consider myself to be fairly accomplished when it comes to being a drummer, I’ve always been shy about it.  When people see my drums they always say “play something for me,” and my reaction has always been to squirm and change the subject.  Like writing, playing the drums (and music in general) has always been something that, first and foremost, I do for myself.  Very few things bring me the same sense of satisfaction and exhilaration that I get from carefully choosing a playlist and playing the drums for a few hours.  Playing well is immensely rewarding.  I guess that applies to anything, really. 

“Good Music” is a relative term, subject to the listener’s tastes.  The only thing I know for sure is that, for the most part, the music my wife listens to is NOT good music.  I can find beauty in just about every musical genre except hip-hop.  I’ve always felt that when I build my dream home, in lieu of a home theater I’ll build a music listening room with an incredible sound system, my musical library, and a single chair in the middle of the room situated for perfect acoustics.  

EricEatsOut.com isn’t going to morph into EricRocksOut.com.  But I am thinking about using my small corner of the ether to write about more than just food.  I have opinions, and this is my place to share them. For me, it’s about the process of expression through writing and music has been on my mind lately.  I need to get serious about playing the drums again, but it’s very challenging to find like minded musicians who play purely for the love of playing.  Everyone either wants to play gigs and try to “make it” as a musician, or they’re complete hacks who aren’t dedicated to the craft.  

My son has been taking guitar and piano lessons for the last year; he is five years old.  As you may already know, he has a very rare chromosomal abnormality and we were told when he was five months of age that he would never walk or talk.  Well, he both walks and talks (sometimes too much) and music has been an integral part of his life since early-on.  Music as therapy works; if seeing the recent 20/20 report about Gabrielle Giffords won’t convince you of that then nothing will.  Music stimulates parts of the brain that nothing else can reach, in ways that nothing else can approach.  As Curt Smith once said to me via twitter, “music is a powerful thing.”  Simple but true.  Music moves me on a very deep level; sometimes I think I hear things in a particular song that no one else is hearing…the subtlety of a bass line, the interplay among the rhythm section, the silkiness of a flugelhorn.  

I’m not sure where to go with this, but my question is this:  what music moves you?  What song resonates deep within you?  Why?

Why is music a language that, quite often, is far more powerful than words?

I've said it before and I'll probably say it again, but I'm getting serious about music.  Again.

Miscellaneous Ramblings

In general, my approach to life has always been “if it isn’t fun anymore, stop doing it.”  Of course, there are always exceptions, and we all do things that aren’t fun because we have to…bills need to be paid, diapers need to be changed, the lawn needs to be mowed in July. 

But when it comes to hobbies – and this blog is purely a hobby – the notion that “it feels like work” is the kiss of death.  And I’m starting to wonder if I’m peering out at the Grim Reaper. 

I never professed to be a “foodie”…a term that I still cannot define.  I eat…just like all of us do.  I like some foods better than others, and think that I have a better-than-average ability to convey my experiences into words.  People either get my fucked-up sense of humor, or they don’t.  There are a lot of people out there – with or without blogs – that know a hell of a lot more about food and cooking than I.   That’s for sure.  If anything, I make a point of underscoring the fact that I am not a Food Elitist.  I like the tacos at Jack-in-the-Box, and I sometimes crave a Mexican Pizza from Taco Bell.

However, the phenomenon of “food as pop culture” has accelerated so quickly that it isn’t enough to say you like something.  You have to justify why.  And then you inevitably fall into the debate of “is Food X authentic” or “did they source Ingredient Y from the northernmost quadrant of a farm at a certain altitude which was farmed using organic batshit as a fertilizer” or, even worse, “I tried 49 other restaurants of said cuisine and 37 of them are way better than the one you wrote about.”

Truth be told, I don’t really give a shit. 

I guess my perspective is colored by the fact that this is a hobby for me.  It’s a hobby that costs me money.  If it was a revenue-stream, it would lose its appeal because I’d have to worry about advertisers, profit and loss, and other business matters.  I’d have to worry about making other people happy.  For me, a “hobby” is about making me happy…not anyone else.  I play the drums because it brings me a deep sense of satisfaction to play well; I fly airplanes because it is an all-encompassing physical and intellectual escape from reality.  Yet, I’m not sure why I write this blog.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want validation….to be “accepted” by the pros that I admire.  I definitely did.  There was a time when I would have loved to be a paid food critic.  But I don’t any more.  I’d hate to have a deadline, I’d hate to have my work edited (and possibly diluted) by someone else and, more than anything, I’d hate to fight the perpetual conflict of interest between appeasing one’s inner-muse and keeping advertisers or managers or anyone else happy.  Fuck ‘em.  Sometimes there is beauty and sanctity in selfishness.

So, if I truly don’t give a shit, why am I writing this?  Because being “a food blogger” means that you’ll inevitably be classified as “one of the food bloggers” and I’m just not that comfortable with that label.  Metaphorically, I’m squirming.  It’s not that I am better, or worse, than any of my colleagues.  I just don’t like where “the hobby” is headed.  More and more, I'm being told by restaurants and publicists that my unwillingness to come to an event is refreshing; that it's nice to see some ethics in an otherwise generally unethical business.

“Mainstream Publications” want to use blogger-written content as their own revenue-generating tool, which gives legitimacy to bloggers, some of whom lack ethics.  If I’m just one person with a blog and Wally World wants to advertise with me, but I really think Wally World sucks, am I able to say what I really feel about Wally World without regard for the potential economic impact to my blog?  I don’t even want the temptation.  And why would I want to be lumped into that group?  Maybe there is a way, but I don't know how someone can still be ethical while taking money from the same people they write about.  And being ethical - and credible - is important to me. 

As many of my peers have wisely noted, the “dialogue” about food has shifted away from sites like Chowhound and on to Twitter.  It’s much harder to moderate Twitter.  When someone tweets that a restaurant or product is great, how do I know that they don’t represent that restaurant, or aren’t being somehow compensated?  140 characters don’t provide much space for a disclaimer. 

So, the whole “food blogging” thing is starting to make me feel dirty.  And not dirty in a “I want to lick foie gras from the small-of-your-back” kind of dirty.  That’s MY kind of dirty.

I’m curious.  In your opinion, what makes a good food blog?  Why do you read this particular blog?  What does it do well, and what does it fail at? 

Who “does it right?”

Is it worth giving a shit?

AZ Restaurant Week: My Picks

Apparently, if you write about food, have an interest in food, or eat food every now and then, you’re required to write a blog entry about your top “picks” for Arizona Restaurant Week.  Candidly, I’m not a big Restaurant Week guy because I generally prefer eating off the “regular” menu.  However, it’s hard to deny that Arizona Restaurant Week is a great incentive to try a restaurant that otherwise might not be in your regular rotation. 

Never wanting to be left out of the “cool crowd,” I’m playing along.  Without further adieu, here are my top picks: 

Don and Charlie’s

This place is a classic by Arizona – or any other - standards. The atmosphere is warm, the food is timeless, and they have the best BBQ ribs in town, not to mention a complimentary chopped liver platter that puts even the best Jewish Delis to shame.  One of the things I adore about Don and Charlie’s is that couples are usually seated side-by-side.  It’s an  old-school practice and incredibly charming. 

I recommend the following: 

Baked Spinach and Artichoke Dip with freshly made tortilla chips

Full Slab of BBQ Back Ribs

Hot Fudge Sundae (order it with extra sauce) 

Café Bink

Admittedly, I’m turned on by French food.  When you combine the talents of Amy and Kevin Binkley, you end up with Bistro fare done to a very high standard.  Now that the weather is cooling off, it’s a great time to enjoy their gorgeous patio with views of Carefree. 

The menu consists of:

Vichyssoise

Red Wine Braised Duck Leg

Chocolate Mousse 

Local Bistro

Gwen Ashley Walters did a great review of Local Bistro in Phoenix Magazine, and I echo her sentiments.  Simply put: I love this place.  Uncomplicated food, fresh ingredients, high culinary standards and a bustling atmosphere.  Bonus: it’s close to my house, but don’t’ stalk me. 

My picks:

Farm Salad

Papardelle Bolognese: veal, pork, beef & light tomato ragu

Pannacotta 

Geordie’s Restaurant at The Wrigley Mansion

I haven’t dined at The Wrigley Mansion since the late 1980s, but I was there recently for an event and reminded of what a beautiful property it is.  Now that Paola Embry is overseeing the operation, with culinary guidance from Christopher Gross, I’m hopeful that The Wrigley Mansion will become a destination for great classic dining.  Caveat: I haven’t tried any of the items on the Restaurant Week menu, but I’m strongly in favor of revitalizing an Arizona legend.  (Bonus points if you can successfully join “The Wrigley Club” which involves having sex in the same room that Mr. Wrigley did, although I’ve been told that the patio is preferred for its better view.  No comment as to whether Mrs. EricEatsOut and I are members.) 

I suggest:

Corn bisque with wild mushrooms, truffle oil, chili powder

Crispy pork belly salad with watercress, grapes, goat cheese, citrus dressing

Pan roasted halibut with white bean stew and romesco sauce

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There you have it.  Specifics on the menus, availability and locations can be found at www.arizonarestaurantweek.com

Now that I posted this, am I one of the cool kids?  Come on, everybody’s doing it.