Open the doors and see all the people

Last evening, our friend Stephen came over to drink our beers, eat our pizza, and smoke our cigarettes. Conversation was a broken-in shoe, and Sam patiently listened while Stephen and I talked about poetry for a while. Then the conversation turned to hating the Brewers, gossiping about people we know, and kicking around ideas about the future. 

It was thoughtful and raucous. 

It was a comfortable mixture of the big and the small. 

It was an impious communion.

Jumping into the pool

 Sam and I had a great time together. Mussels, Natty, crab cake, Resurrections, very fresh old-water oysters, some things coated in Old Bay. I meant to pick up a couple of growlers of local beer, but with the joy over finding one of my favorite table wines at Beltway liquors, I forgot. We bootlegged a lot of Natty and quite a bit of cheap, good French wine, which is difficult to find in Nashville, comparatively. (I will buy anything with the words "flinty" or "mineral" or "slate" in the wine guy's description. If I can find something inexpensive with "a barnyard bouquet" in the nose, that's also going in my cart.) Sam had to prod me out the door.

I'm going back during Vanderbilt's fall break to revive some old academic connections, and I expect to go to a few of the places we missed this past week. 

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Being polite's an easy social habit to pick up in the South, and it smoothes life among strangers. In contrast, people in Baltimore don't expect to like you and don't feel the need to be polite, unless you're paying them to do something. Consequently, if you find yourself drinking on the same side of the bar with a bartender you just met—getting bartender drink prices and a royal drunk on—you have made a friend. 

In Baltimore, an exception to the politeness complex occurs at the pool table. Being cordial helps everyone control any aggro; otherwise, it can get ugly fast.

Any given pool player may choose a couple of play-for-pay tables to frequent. He learns the lay of a table, the bounce of the rail, the speed of the felt, and which cue is best. Newcomers discover their disadvantage quickly. Even if you can control the ball and understand the lay, you can still lose miserably.  

After Jamie and Bill's wedding, in full fancy-dress get-up, I played a game at an unfamiliar table, seeing that the players knew the table and expecting to lose. After the break, I used a subtle stroke to sink a ball in the side, and my competitor, Derrick, remarked, "Oh, look now, she's a shark." Typical pool banter, trying to slow a run. I replied, "Just because I'm in a dress and heels don't mean I'm a shark." Then I banked a ball into the corner, and we all laughed.

I lost by two balls, and I suspect he was being nice to me by letting me lose with a little dignity. But I got a couple of shots in that I was proud of, and we shook hands at the end of the game.  

Charm City

Yesterday, three hours in, I was overwhelmed. I'm homesick for Baltimore, even though I'm here right now. 

Nashville has a lot to offer. The contrast between the two cities is so sharp, it's impossible to draw comparisons. I had a 1 pound order of steamed mussels yesterday for the high price of $6, complimented by a couple of cans of Natty Boh. That's National Bohemian for those unfamiliar.

Baltimore is a dirty, dangerous city. I love it.

A souvenir from the Land of Pleasant Living:

Baltimore

Mobtown. Charm City. Rat City. The Greatest City in the World. The Murder Capital of the Country. The City that Reads. Get in on it. Believe. 

Eats

Some of my favorite dishes and meals are simple: real ice cream, which can have as few as four ingredients; an arugula salad with lemon vinaigrette, baguette, and wine; scrambled eggs; goat cheese and figs; crab cakes with remoulade; anything pommes; mussels with mignonette; steamed shrimp coated in Old Bay; a good, crusty NY strip. (It's a much longer list, but this time I'll exercise some restraint.)

Simplicity requires great technique and a good palate, however, and I've lost my touch a little after having cooked so little over the past several years. I don't think most of our friends in Nash know this, but I used to cook a lot, experimenting with new ingredients and approaches. The cookbook collection I cultivated in Baltimore began its slow transformation into mere theory during my first year at VU. No more time to prepare meals with courses or to host cocktail parties with several hors d'oeuvres. (Sometimes in the winter I crave bagna càuda, but who has the time?) The Pines' kitchen has little counter or storage space, so my favorite small appliances are out of reach and it's hard to keep all of the parts of, say, the ricer or the mandolin in the same place. 

Nostalgia wields a strong hand in any good memory, I realize. But thinking about our personal food microculture in B'more makes me conscious of how lucky we were: gas stove, space for the cuisinart, a Whole Foods a few blocks down and next door to the wine store, a selection of small specialty stores, like the Italian bakery up the street. (There was a bit of a language barrier between me and the couple who ran the bakery—they were recent emigrants—but it was always worth going and they usually threw in a couple of buttery, delicate, small cookies.) I look forward to going to Baltimore in August, and I hope we can hit some of these places or at least one of the markets. 

The inspiration for this post, as rangy as it seems, is the simple, delicious meal that Sam prepared for me last night: grilled steaks and vegetable kebabs; a green salad with olive oil, white wine vinegar, and flakes of parmesan; and a great Côtes du Rhône. Prosecco before dinner and GM after. I loved every minute of it. 

Because a birthday can be a personal New Year's Day, I'm resolving to give a greater effort to cooking and enjoying it during our last years in Nashville. Let's see how that goes.