Toby Keith's I Love This Bar and Grill

Fancy, delicately-crafted culinary delights Toby Keith's I Love This Bar and Grill does not make. The beer comes in mason jars and the food is fried. It's pretty straightforward, there are rotating be-sequined saddles instead of disco balls, and our lunch-time conversation included trying to decide whether a neighboring couple were meth or coke addicts. This, of course, just added to the charm because their erractic-ness was just another distraction in the huge, open space, along with the neon lights, the bar with real cowboys sitting at them, and the murals on the walls.

An ideal drinking landscape: a mural of the Eagles' album Hotel California, the American flag, and a neon outline of Oklahoma.

We couldn't decide on the appetizer so we got two: chips and salsa (a fresh pico de gallo) and, well, "fries." This time, calf fries, "a cowboy classic." Of course, a hand-breaded and deep fried classic with spicy, horseradish cocktail sauce.

On the right, sliced, breaded, and fried calf testicles. I'm eating them more frequently than I'm getting Starbucks lattes these days.

One fried item at Toby Keith's certainly wasn't enough, so I ordered up myself some fried catfish, fried okra and cowboy caviar (black eyed peas, simmered with crispy bacon and red onions). Beans, okra, and catfish rank among WalMart, Sonic, and Kansas City BBQ as my favorite things from the Midwest. And what an appropriate atmosphere--the longhorn skull above the door was hung the only appropriate way: upside down.
Mom got a hamburger...with freedom fries. The food wasn't so hot, but we still loved it.

Stella

Oklahoma restaurants excel at things related to meat and Marlon Brandon, I determined today, quite capably. Yesterday we lunched at Stella Modern Italian Cuisine, a gem with a small, clever menu and situated in a renovated automobile garage. And, as mentioned before, this particular Italian restaurant in Oklahoma City has a penchant for serving fine meats and inspiring diners (or maybe just my family) to groan its name in our best A Streetcar Named Desire voice.

The interior, Bouchon-like (again, apologize for self-referencing), is adorned with sketches of fine Italian architecture. The prints are hung on facades over the exposed brink. It's charming, simple, classic, but very comfortable. I ordered a delicious (perhaps more importantly, large) glass of red wine from the barbera grape that actually had a bouquet. Bouquet in wine to me had always met what you smell when your nose invades a wine glass but this wine fragrantly ornamented our table.

We were served a continuous stream of warm bread from Prairie Thunder Bakery, where we had lunched before, that's down the street. And that's olive oil with whole cloves of roasted garlic. We were tempted to eat it by the spoonful.

The parade of beautiful meat products began. First, we ordered the selection of cured meats, olives, mustard and toast. The olives were intimidatingly meaty, the chorizo (right) was flavorful and slightly spicy, and the meat at the bottom, bresola, tasted homey like Christmas, with hints of cinnamon.
I had a delicious cup of pureed asparagus, with what I guess was red pepper oil, which was refreshing but unexpectedly substantive.
My poor dad got a delicious salad of spring beans and beets (three types!), with avocado and gorgonzola cheese. He finds one fourth of those items revolting (the gorgonzola), so after its surgical removal, I think it was a bit more palatable.
Lunch was penne pasta with a simmered beef ragout. I'll note, since we weren't sure while ordering, that ragout's basic method of preparation involves slow cooking over a low heat, but there is not a requisite need for meet to have a ragout. Also, the word comes from the French ragoûter, to revive the taste (merci Wikipedia).

Aesthetically, I think my dad's pappardelle pasta with seasonal mushrooms, fresh sausage, and red wine, was a bit more visually complex. And the cheese was concentrated for easier extraction this time.
The portions, being Italian size, made dessert a more appealing option. We ordered tiramisu, which was the only minor disappointment of the afternoon. The whipped cream and marscapone were delicious, but there were no ladyfingers, only a rather stiff cake. And the cake wasn't bathed in espresso. It had a flavor of espresso, but tiramisu shouldn't deviate from its form unless those deviations create something much better. We would have been just as happy with a spoonful of olive oil instead.

Cattleman's Steakhouse

Cattleman's Steakhouse was on the list of places to go to before my trip. It embodies everything about Oklahoma food that is commendable: good service, good food, and simple execution. Plus, the charm is undeniable.

Cattleman's is located in the Historic Stockyards City area of Oklahoma City. Cattleman's open in 1910 and claims to be the oldest continuously operating restaurant in Oklahoma City. It's situated among boots stores (including Little Joe's, where I bought mine), a saddlery, and Langston's, the oldest Western Wear store in Oklahoma.

On the sidewalk outside Cattleman's

Note the cupholder.

We started off with Bud Light and lamb fries. These were neither the home fries or gravy fries with which I thought they could be identifiable.

Delicious sliced and fried lamb testicles

If you find that disgusting, just focus on the handsome back-lit cowboy and the happy diner below him

We each got salads. They were incredibly simple: iceberg lettuce, purple cabbage, and one cherry tomato, but with their delicious creamy garlic dressing. I could have been starving because I had seaweed and jicama for lunch, but it seemed genuinely delicious.

Cattleman's is adorned with sketches of famous Westerners like Randolph Scott and..another Oklahoma politician who wears a cowboy hat.

And the steak was just a steak: a deliciously juicy ribeye with a bit of au jus and a baked potato. And yeast rolls.

Charming.

105 Degrees

Dear nature goddesses, sprites, fairies, organic hippie chefs, and pretentious smoothie makers: I'm still hungry. I know it's not entirely nice to levy ad hominem attacks at raw food chefs or the types of personalities I associate them with (I lump them in with nymphs and elves and other nonsensical, not-reasonably-grounded-in-reality personalities). Today, my parents and I went to 105 Degrees, "Oklahoma's Premiere Raw and Living Foods Destination." For a variety of reasons, it was mediocre to downright disappointing. The prevailing indicator of its mediocrity was the overwhelming ethos of superiority permeating the entire mediocre place. Bad service, poor, pretentious food, badly spiced drinks and dishes. Aesthetically pleasing, yes, but not remotely substantive or creatively or capably crafted food.

Despite my equating the craft of raw food production with Lord of the Rings mythology and card games adolescent boys play for hours, I admire it. Two of my most memorable meals in San Francisco were at either raw food or vegetarian establishments. There, the food, not the restaurant was virtuous.

My dad and I first ordered bloody mary's made of tomato, horseradish, fresh cracked pepper, and sake. The premise was irresistible, but the execution was elementary. The drinks were complemented with caraway seeds but there were so many, it tasted like a tomato juice/caraway seed smoothie. I was already a bit grumpy and had the gall to ask the waiter why my dad and I didn't get the fancy flourish of the celery greenery in our drinks like the lady at the table over did. Classic childishness, but the tone had been set.

We ordered the red corn nachos, with salsa, guacamole, red pepper cheese, and micro cilantro as an appetizer. Micro herbs aside, it was good. The "chips" were thin crackers and were served among a very delicious guacamole and pico de gallo (not salsa) and spreadable cheese. I didn't let the irony of its similarity to Easy Cheese occupy my thoughts for too long, for my own sanity.

I got my entree, which was ridiculous. A place that serves both micro herbs and foam as an accompaniment ceases to be useful or rational to me. My entree, the Macro, had neither micro herbs or foam but instead featured (and none of the waiters could properly explain the composition): wilted sesame spinach (with sesame oil and seeds), sweet "coconut rice" (coconut meat and jicama), hijiki (seaweed with a tahini dressing), "kimchee," tofu pieces, and tamari almonds.

It was beautiful and the tofu, almonds, and spinach were delicious, but those would be hard to mess up as they are essentially their basic essence. The "rice" was dry. The "kimchee" was just pickled red cabbage. That's like calling cool whip on instant pudding a souffle. It had none of the complexity of kimchee, a Korean dish of fermented cabbage with varying proportions of garlic, onion, ginger, and sometimes cucumber. The seaweed was not interesting. I ate only half of my not-very-full dish and my waiter was not curious why.

My dad ordered the Asian Chopped Salad, with Napa cabbage, watercress, mango, chili, ginger, and sesame sticks. It was beautiful but heavy on the cabbage.

My mom ordered the Tropical Fruit Crepe with mango, pineapple, bananas, agave, and mint. Her's was in fact delicious.

But probably not as the delicious Sonic Chili Dogs that will comprise lunch #2 later today.

Biergarten Haus

My neighbor Steve and I trekked (via Jeep) to H Street NE last night. This is no simple task. We avoided street violence, communicable diseases, road blocks, errant bicyclists, bad signage, tickets, and all manner of sketchy characters to arrive at what may be one of if not the only biergarten in DC.

Sandwiched in a block prominently featuring wig shops, fried chicken in-and-out joints, and liquor stores, it's a surprising location for a venue featuring beer wenches, accordion players, and schnitzel eating. But, it worked.

The draught taps at Biergarten Haus were out (they ran out of CO2), so things were looking grim until we snagged a table for two. As is obvious, tables for two are typically the most sought-after in a restaurant but in a biergarten, apparently it's the table for eight that's in high demand. Our table, a large barrel, and seats, surprisingly comfortable stools that dipped, were hospitable and our vantage point was ideal: out in the covered tent, near but not too close to the singing accordion player, in close proximity of the screens showing a baseball game and just off the main thoroughfare to see the clientele. It was charming: it had the real feel of a biergarten with all the quick service you'd expect from an American place.

First, we got laugenbrezel, three traditional Bavarian pretzel rolls with beer cheese and mustard. This was served, I think, as the beers were being delivered. Germans have such a great, carb-loving culture.

I had Erdinger Kristall Weiß, what Steve explained to me was lighter than a heiffeweissen. And frankly, more fun to say.
Steve ordered an intimidatingly dark beer.
The clientele and staff were fascinating. Our very vivacious waiter came over and asked if I was taking pictures of the food. I steeled myself for some nonsensical comment about the chef's preference diners simply eat and not photograph their food. Instead her question was, "are you posting them on Facebook?" Despite the ubiquity of most of my life having some representation on Facebook, I politely told her I have a food blog. "Anything I know?" she asked, to which I scoffed. Novel-like, semi-dramatically. This will be a story I'll include in my memoirs later when I make it big.

The beers were terrific and I learned how to properly Prost (saying Prost, clinking steins, hitting the table and then drinking up). Dinner was also incredible too: we each got schnitzel.

It was expansive. I had weirnerschitzel, sauerkraut (made with apples, bacon, and onions), and Kartoffelsalat (warm potato salad). Steve had schnitzel, but with spaetzle and red cabbage. Prost!

2941

Tammy and I went to the 6th best restaurant in the city last week. And it's in excellent company: five above was a restaurant so good it didn't permit photography (the waitress said it was the chef's preference, but he seemed to think it was proprietary food art) and three above an exquisite restaurant down the street where I first discovered ox tail and pork belly. These restaurants don't kid around and they're almost all in sophisticated neighborhoods, situated in dignified urban landscape.

2941 was in a corporate office park and while I was expecting tables of reminiscently-1980s deal-making, be-suited business people with shoulder pads, it had a delightfully quiet, spacious, thoughtfully-designed dining room overlooking mature trees and a small lake. It really was ridiculously nice.

Neither one of us were exceptionally skilled at night-time photograph taking, but thankfully 2941 used the 6th best photographer in city to capture the outside of the dining room:

So we began. Tammy is the much more talented, sophisticated foodie and ordered a bottle of red wine. It was delightful and it even got its own table (see in the far left).

I was enraptured by the bread: French; small rolls with kalamata olives and sea salt; and thin slices from a loaf with chocolate and cherries.

Then things started getting serious. We got an amuse-bouche, which to me anymore is almost like winning a small lottery cash prize. Something you didn't expect but is a welcome delight. This lottery was cantaloupe soup with ginger and a bit of cantaloupe foam. I always thought foam only existed on Top Chef, not in real life.

Yet more rapture.Tammy and I are high rollers so we got foie gras. And I was happy to indulge Tammy, foie gras eater in exile, who lives in a delicacy-eschewing place like California that denies its residents quality organ meat derivative. The chef was kind enough to divide our foies gras onto two separate dishes so we could independently craft perfectly-proportioned bites of Hudson Valley foie gras, a slice of roasted peach, and a praline brioche. Here is the dignified shot:

And here's the one that makes you celebrate gavage:
Tammy ordered the roasted duck breast with bing cherries, long beans, and Vidalia onion. It was obscenely good, tender, flavorful and responsibly rich.

I had steelhead, gnocchi (we were way confused because it was more akin to a polenta/pudding/custard cake) with greens and tomatillo atop, served over a red pepper sauce. There were other foreign words involved, but I don't remember.

They were both delicious. Now, this is why I like Tammy. She took this photo and volunteered that the bathroom was "just ok." I later agreed. Granted, they had an original Salvador Dali sculpture out in the courtyard, but he sort of looked funny.

We ordered dessert and because we had been just a little unimpressed with the bathroom, the dessert compensated by sporting gold flakes. Because why wouldn't it.

We had ordered the Maker's Mark Whiskey Baba, brioche soaked in Maker's Mark bourbon and served with Tahitian vanilla cream, maple pecans, and an aspic or gelatin we couldn't place (at the bottom).

Tammy correctly observed that poor little brioche could have been soaked a bit longer. And, to the waiter, that a creation of the pastry chef's had been featured on Washingtonian's cover this year (the waiter wasn't sure). Seemed a bit incongruous.

We had worked out way through three courses and a bottle of wine when we got more amuse-bouches: a pistachio nougat on the left, something a bit too rich in the middle, and a blueberry/lemon tartlet with meringue on the right.

When we ran out of food to delight at, we delighted at the beautiful lights:
And the lights in the window's reflection:
And as an ideal photo opportunity after a remarkable meal: