Sal DeTraglia

…but some times, you just gotta sin a little.

Regular readers of this blog know that my trips to Chicago mean one thing–gluttony!

Indeed, it’s amazing that I’m not clinically obese, given the typical itinerary of my visits to the new world.

My Christmas 2006 visit was no exception. I ate so many things from so many different restaurants, stands and greasy spoons that I’d surely bore my readership to tears if I attempted to describe these exploits in detail.

So, I’ll just mention the two highlights (i.e., those above and beyond my already well-documented Christmas and New Years Eve pig-outs).

The first highlight involved–quite predictably–Q.

My law school roommate, Tony Soju, and I pillaged my favorite of all Chicago Q joints–The Smoke Daddy, at 1804 W. Division Street. [TBF…take note!!!]

Pictured above are the two protagonsists seated at a booth in Smoke Daddy.

And here’s what we ate!

On the left, we have a Ribs Sampler–containing equal parts baby backs, spares and rib tips. Sides were cole slaw and baked beans. On the right, we have The BBQ Sampler–which proudly sports brisket, pulled pork, cole slaw and sweet potato fries. We split both plates between us and–with some pain and to our waitress’s amazement–ate everything!

That was highlight #1. Here is #2.

Tony, Jai (my longtime high school and weight-lifting buddy) and I went to Sushi Station in Rolling Meadows, IL to snarf an ocean of raw fish. [TBF…take note!!!]

Behind us you can see Sushi Station’s conveyor belt of sushi. It’s pretty much an oval track running the length of a long, narrow, three-sided bar. The conveyor belt is covered with a plastic encasement. Each seat at the bar has its own door to the conveyor belt. When the sushi of your dreams is passing before your eyes, just lift the door, pull out your plate, and close the door.

Here we see Tony and Jai. I had to take the picture, because the waiter never returned as promised to take it for us. He must’ve been Spanish.

Each time you take a plate of sushi, you stack it. Plates are color-coated by price. Pink plates hold $2 sushi, blue plates $3, etc. At the end of the night, the waitress comes, counts your plates and calculates your tab. It’s a task that would require me 45 minutes and a Kray supercomputer.

BTW…what you see above is around $100 worth of sushi plates. Boys will be boys.

Tony informed that a sushi meal should end with a bowl of noodles. He should know these things. He is, after all, married to a Japanese woman. So, I had no choice but to toe the Nippon line.

And boy-oh-boy, am I glad that I did! Why? Because of all Japanese dishes, noodles are my favorite.

I’ve had a special affinity for Japanese noodle dishes (not to mention, raw eggs!) since I first watched the movie “Tampopo“–which is a surreal, 1985 Japanese film about the search for the perfect bowl of Ramen noodles.

There were no Ramen at Sushi Station. Ramen, after all, is for truck drivers.

But Sushi Station does have Udon noodles. And the photo above shows the bowl of Udon noodles–with an outrageously flavorful bonito broth, a slice of fish cake and a tempura shrimp–that met a quick and violent demise just minutes after I grabbed hold of that spoon.

The sushi was great, but the Udon was the highlight for me.

And, now…I’m back in Spain. Wondering what, where and how much I’ll eat during my next trip to Chicago.

I don’t know the answer, but you’ll be the first to find out.

Now that you’ve all recovered from the shock of my Christmas Eve, I feel that you’re ready to learn about New Years Eve. As you might’ve expected, it involved another big family meal.

FrankenFeet and my sister had other plans, so the family unit was somewhat reduced that night. However, Arm and Butt made a triumphant return to my parent’s party palace for the event. And, courtesy of Amtrak because she’s afraid to fly, so did my Grandmother.

We started off with crab cakes–using the left-over crab meat from Christmas Eve. The recipe is from Cooks Illustrated, and is a keeper. I’ve made it for each of the last several years. It is accompanied by a sauce of mayo, chipotle peppers, lime juice and garlic. I went heavy on the chipotle this year. Why? Because there ain’t much chipotle in Spain.

The main course was a rack of lamb, and a bunch of lamb chops as thick as my thigh. I grilled them rare. Big Mamma and Butt sent theirs back to the Weber (as they do every year) because they don’t like their meat “raw.”

Grandma had pork chops. She doesn’t like lamb. It’s too “spicy.”

Here we see the dinner guests, sans Arm.

Here we see Arm…the Cajun.

Here we see the entire layout. Clockwise from top–(a) grilled portobello mushrooms; (b) lamb (“raw!!!”); (c) Trader Joe’s risotto with asparagus; (d) white beans with tomatoes, garlic, scallions and thyme (I winged that one); (e) sauteed grape tomatoes with garlic and parsely; (f) asparagus; and (g) fennel bulb braised in white wine.

Big Mamma made apple pie for dessert. At midnight NY time, we ate twelve grapes in twelve seconds (a tradition in Spain) and got toasted–I mean, we toasted–with glasses of Sambuca and coffee beans.

Our next big holiday meal will be Groundhog Day. Believe me, you DON’T want to know.

So…you’re probably wondering what I did for Christmas Eve.

In a word, “EATING!”

My parents always host Christmas Eve, and it’s not exactly a somber affair.

This year, the debauchery started at 4pm and ended at 11:30pm. We were sixteen for dinner; nineteen for appetizers. Aside from my parents and I, there were my brother FrankenFeet and his family, my sister and hers, FrankenFeet’s step-daughter and her fiance, family friends “Arm & Butt” from my parents’ ski club, Arm’s daughter, and a few other drop-in’s and drop-out’s.

Before we begin, I’d like you to click on the YouTube video above and keep the music rolling as you read the rest of this post.

Done it? Ok, good. Then let’s begin.

You’ll recall that a few weeks ago, I posted a photo of my daughter asleep on the sofa with Fino–the bigger and sexier of my two cats.

Little did I suspect the outpouring of lust for that big hunka chinchilla-soft fur and bulging muscle-mass.

So overwhelming was the global infatuation with Fino, that I was strong-armed by the desperate masses to write a stand-alone post about him. Far be it from me to deprive the masses–desperate or otherwise.

Fino was born on September 8, 1997 in the Tonkatykes cattery in Lansing, Michigan.

His full name, as registered with The Cat Fanciers’ Association, Inc., is “Tonkatykes Fino La Ina.”

He is the son of “Kipkat White Knight of Tonkatykes” (father) and “CH Tonkatykes Rising Star” (mother). Perhaps you saw his parents in the off-Broadway production of “Cats on a Hot Tin Roof.”

He is a pure-bred Tonkinese; which is, more or less, a mixture of Siamese and Burmese.

Fino never graduated from college, but he is a long-standing member of the Local 3420 Pipefitters’ Union. He is also certified fishmonger, a third degree black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and former bass guitarist for the rock band, “Moby Grape.”

Aside from his Michigan birthplace, Fino has lived in Oak Park, IL, Barcelona and (now) Castilla-LaMancha.

Healthwise, I can make two interesting disclosures about Fino.

First, a veterinarian once told me that he was unlikely to live beyond the next few months because of some unpronouncable virus that turned-up in his blood test. That was in 1997.

Second, no veterinarian has ever–EVER–heard his heartbeat. No…it’s not because his heartbeat is weak or irregular. Rather, it’s because his purring–which can only be compared with the growl of a Harley-Davidson exhaust pipe–drowns-out every other sound that’s filtered through the stethoscope.

Yes, Fino is one helluva happy cat. In fact…were it not for his meticulous use the litter box, I might question whether he were a cat at all. He’s more like a dog.

He comes when called. He refuses to leave when asked. If you’re ever looking for Fino, you need only take a step and will surely find him underneath your foot–a habit that will eventually cost me either a lawsuit or a broken hip.

If you sit on my sofa, he will be on your lap within three seconds. He will be on your chest within four. His left ear will be in your left eye within six.

Make no mistake–this boy lives to make love. And if you should ever visit, then he *will* make love to YOU–whether you want it, or not.

That’s why I call him, “The Love Machine.”

And if you listen closely to his deep, buttery, baritone purrrrrr–you, like I, will come to believe that Fino is more than just a cat.

He is the reincarnation of Barry White.

You need to understand a few things about Spanish Christmas traditions to fully appreciate the poem. Specifically, that Christmas (and the arrival of Santa Claus/Father Christmas/Papa Noel) isn’t the huge event for kids in Spain that it is elsewhere.

Rather, Spanish kids get the majority of their gifts from–and thus, save the vast, vast majority of their enthusiasm for–the Three Wise Men (aka, Los Reyes Magos). Three Wise Men’s Day takes place on January 6 (i.e., the Epiphany).

And, so..with that background in mind, I give you your slightly recycled 2007 Christmas poem.

YOUR EXPAT BLOGGER’S CHRISTMAS POEM.

T’was the night before Christmas
And all throughout Spain
Towns were dry, scorched and dusty
Another year without rain.

Water bottles were placed
By the doorstep with care
Although nobody seems to know
Why thery’re put there.

The Spaniards were nestled
All snug in their beds
A day’s intake of brandy
Left dull pains in their heads.

I sat at my Apple
Filled with dread; feeling blue
Yet another damn holiday
With NOTHING to do.

When outside the house
There arose such a clatter
Could it be those damn goats?
Spreading more fecal matter?

I ran to the window
Threw open the pane
T’was a man dressed in red
With a bushy, white mane.

He said, “My name is Santa”
“And I’m ready to scream!”
He seemed to be suffering
From low self-esteem.

He said, “The children of Spain”
“Don’t give a hoot about me!”
“They only want those Three Wise Men”
“I feel as small as a flea.”

I said, “Calm down, my friend”
“There’s no reason to bleed”
“A little re-branding”
“Is all that you need.”

I put my hand on his shoulder
And gave it a pet
And said, “I’ll go fetch my razor”
“Drink some chilled Freixinet.”

With a wave of my hand
And some shave cream to match
I trimmed his beard down
To a funky soul patch.

Then we drove to Madrid
To meet a biker I knew
I said, “My friend here’s in need of”
“A “Keep on Truckin’” tatoo.”

A half hour later
His bicep was glowing
He looked in the mirror
And his face seemed all-knowing.

With a confident swagger
He walked into a park
And seized children’s attention
With a loud, mighty bark.

He said, “Listen up children!”
“Or I’ll give you a punch!”
“The fat man’s in town!”
“He eats Wise Men for lunch!”

The children were frightened
Yet they thought he seemed cool
Then they sat on his knees
As he sat on a stool.

With eyes like milk-saucers
Kids looked up to his face
“I’ll bet you’ve dated Madonna”
“And even got to third base!”

When the children disbanded
He wore a Cheshire Cat-grin
“So it’s true that it’s marketing”
“That makes the world spin.”

Then he rose to his feet
Donned Armani sunglasses
He puffed out his chest
And turned his back to the masses.

With a newly-found vigor
He hopped into his sleigh
And said, “From this day forward”
“Spain does Christmas *my* way.”

“There’ll be no more Roscón!”
“No more Wise Men parades!”
“The *true* Christmas ‘El Gordo’ ”
“Stands before you in shades.”

As he flew out of sight
I swear I heard him squeal
“Merry Christmas to all!”
“And to Sal…a BOOK DEAL!”

[This poem is dedicated to my fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Bailey. No, no, no…he’s not dead. But he is the original silly Christmas poet.]

It happened last December, and now it has happened again.

Call me a buzzkill, but I think that I’d rather eat mincemeat than personify it.