Uncategorized

It has been brought to my attention that every BBQ pitmaster must give his smoker a name.

Well…my smoker doesn’t have a name. But I’m opening the floor for suggestions.

There are no restrictions as to the gender or raunchiness of the name. The person submitting the winning entry will be treated to a multi-course BBQ dinner that may or may not include Haggis Churros, but will surely include one or more wee drams of Cardhu whisky. Oh yeah…airplane tickets are not included.

If *nobody* suggests a name, then I will choose it. How? By writing the names of the sixteen of you who regularly post Comments to this blog (i.e., Ang, Mausi, Beep, Granny Jo, Lady Di, Euro-Trac, Hippo, Big Finn, Franje, ChicagoKarl, Fran, GC, Harsh, KickShoe, Iron Man and The Original CowPie) on separate pieces of paper, dumping them into a hat, and drawing one.

That’s right. Unless somebody comes up with a clever suggestion, I’m going to name my smoker after one of you. You don’t want that to happen, do you?

I was Hashing in arctic conditions near Madrid last weekend, when the conversation turned to Scotland.

I mentioned to a fellow Hasher named “The Godmother” how much I enjoyed my first taste of haggis during a recent trip to Edinburgh, and she stopped in her tracks.

“Haggis?!” she said. “Why…I have a can of it in my car. I’ll get it for you.”

The Godmother, I should mention, is married to a Scot—although, to be honest, that still doesn’t strike me as a satisfactory explanation for having a can of haggis in the trunk. But I’m not one for splitting hairs.

And so it was that I drove home a few hours later with a can of Grant’s Traditional Recipe Haggis sitting prettily in the passenger seat of my car.

I haven’t eaten it yet. Haggis should be served with a “wee dram,” and my basement bar is currently out of Scotch whisky (I’ll plead the 5th on that one). So I’ve chosen to wait until my next liquor run before breaking out the can-opener.

But that hasn’t stopped me from scrutinizing the label on the can. And let me tell ya…there’s some “attention-grabbing” text on that label. For example:

Pretty much speaks for itself, no?

But there’s more! Turn the can 180 degrees, and you’ll find the following cooking preparation tip:

So apparently, neither dumping the can’s contents into a pot nor scooping them out with a spoon are feasible options. To prepare a can of haggis, the chef must use the Play-doh Fun Factory method.

This may not explain why a can of haggis was in The Godmother’s trunk last weekend, but it certainly explains why there isn’t one now.

Just a quick, late-night note from your smokey-smelling Virtual Tapas Bartender. The Weber Bullet has struck again…and this time, the victims were chickens.

Well…you have to admit that it’s a nicer photo than that of an aging exhibitionist contortionist.

Are you a Scotch whisky idiot?

I was a Scotch whisky idiot a few weeks ago. But then I dedicated myself to minutes and minutes of diligent research and analysis. And now…I’m a whisky imbecile.

And you can an imbecile, too!

Just boogie on down to The Spirit World
—Seattle’s most boozilicious new e-zine—and check out my latest contribution. All you have to do is click here.

Now, laddies and lassies…go forth and fortify!

Here is a conversation that I overheard at Bar Gema this morning.

Well…at least he can tell his wife that he tried.

Meals, booze and cross-dressing aren’t the only reasons why I look forward to my employer’s annual EMEA sales conference. There’s also the sympathetic colleagues who keep me well-fed with foods from their home countries.

Last year, it was vodka and kielbasa smuggled into Malta by my amigo from Warsaw. This year, it was Scandinavia’s turn

Jesper—another Viking friend from Copenhagen—arrived in Edinburgh bearing the holy trinity of Danish gastronomy: herring, Aquavit and a dense, brown bread mix.

A few drops of Aquavit remain, but the herring and bread are now just a happy memory.

It just goes to show you. Whether you’re Danish or Polish, there’s a little Italian grandmother inside all of us.

Thanks, Jesper! Ingen svag vine.

It’s January, and that can mean only one thing—the annual Europe/Middle East/Africa (EMEA) Sales Conference.

And this year, my employer—Acme Low Carb Tongue-Depressors, Inc.—held it in a new location. Look at the photo on the left. Can you guess where? Can ya? Can ya?

No! Not in a Catholic High School! It was in Edinburgh, Scotland.

That’s me on the left, and my boss—who, despite my ruining the finish on his desktop with a hot pizza in 1998, graciously gave me permission to publish this photo—on the right.

At the risk of being called a brown-noser, this year’s conference was far and away the best I’ve attended. In fact, it was better than many of my past vacations.

Sure, the conference was full of technical presentations, goofy new buzzwords (e.g., “proofability,” “changing fact,” “learnings” and my personal favorite, “best of breed”) and skull-crushing hangovers. But there were three things that made this year’s conference especially memorable: kilts, whisky and haggis.

First, the kilts. For the awards ceremony dinner, Acme rented traditional Scottish attire for all of the men. It was my first time in a kilt, and I must say…I liked it! Kilts are warm and comfy, and they come with a little goat-skin purse (called a “sporran”) that holds your wallet, mobile phone and whisky flask. All in all, it was a helluva sight…100+ newly-enlightened men—from locations as diverse as the US, Finland and Lebanon—dressed in kilts and strutting around like peacocks. Not one embarassed soul in the lot.

This shouldn’t have been surprizing. When you think about it logically, it makes far more sense for a man to wear a skirt than a woman. Men do, after all, have certain design features that make them more susceptible to being squeezed, pinched or chafed by the inseam of a pair of pants. And I don’t need to mention the unique danger that a carelessly tugged zipper presents.

The only downside to wearing a kilt is the logistical challenge posed by the inevitable wee-wee break. Three hands are needed to manage this task. I now understand why women go to the bathroom in pairs.

The second highlight of the conference was the Scotch whisky. No, that’s not a cultural stereotype. Scotch whisky is, in fact, as bountiful in Edinburgh as is Dr. Pepper in Galveston. The menu in our hotel bar sported at least forty different brands. And all of them were single malt.

The third highlight was haggis. Haggis is a black, peppery mixture of sheep’s heart, liver, lungs, kidneys, spices and oats that’s stuffed into a sheep’s intestine and cooked. The photo on the left shows the plate of haggis that I was served. It was an exciting event in my life. Haggis is one of two disgusting foods (the other being durian) that, for years, I’ve been dying to eat. It was worth the wait. Haggis is great stuff!

What a trip! What a country! I should’ve known that Scotland had more to offer than the Bay City Rollers.

There’s a new e-zine in town…and I’ll be a contributor to it. It’s called “The Spirit World,” and you can check it out here.

No, no, no…it’s not an e-zine dedicated to contacting the ghost of Elvis. That would be silly. Elvis is still alive.

It is, rather, dedicated to the wonderful world of liquor…and all the fun stuff you can do with it.

Regular features will include mixology, craft beers, cooking with liquor, drinks around the world and “happy hour at home.” I will be contributing as often as inspiration strikes. My first post is now on-line, and you can find it here.

The Spirit World’s cuddly and capable Editor is our friend Brenda from Culinary Fool.

Hey Brenda…thanks for giving me the opportunity to write-off my bar bills as a business expense!