Episode 42: Globetrekking Rocker

Concert in the Desert
Timbuctou stood as a synonym for "the back of beyond" when most of us were growing up.
Our teachers spelled it "Timbuktu" or something like that, but in whatever formulation, none of us, including the teachers, I suspect, knew where that distant city was.
It's in Mali, an impoverished nation at the southern edge of the Sahara, below Algeria. For eight years, a five-day concert has been held in the sandy arid emptiness outside that fabled city. Fulani and Tuareg tribesmen on camelback attend, as do other natives and outsiders who come to make and attend to music.
The country has endured frequent outbreaks of violence over the centuries, in border battles and invasions, internal ethnic conflicts, and with the French colonialists from whom they gained independence in 1960. Tuaregs (there are several spellings of the name) were known as fierce warriors even before they formed the spine of the Berber shock troops that invaded Spain in 711 AD.
Most of Mali's people are Muslim, but here, Tuareg men shroud their heads and faces in layers of dark blue cloth, while the women are unveiled.
Thousands attended the concert, living in tents, under a blistering sun and a chill moon. Water was the beverage of choice and food was mostly couscous with a few slivers of goat meat, serving four thousand attendees. Five of those animals were available at the start of festivities. Days were marked almost as much by their diminishing number as by the music.
We know all this because we know Chris Brokaw. He was in the desert as part of a band called Dirt Music. Chris is in constant demand as a lead guitarist and sometime drummer, performing with many bands as well as on his solo albums. Between extended trips to most of the continents, from Sydney to Moscow to Lujbljana, he has composed scores for indie films, written dozens of songs, and is in discussions for possible publication of his photographs. He is eternally on the move, making a living doing exactly what he wants to do.
But he calls, he writes, and he stops by whenever he returns from yet another city, another country. A tour of our house takes in mementos he has brought us - a nesting doll from Russia, a ceramic plate from Spain, a brass nutcracker from England in the form of a woman, an Aboriginal bowl from Australia, a gold-on-black rubbing of a French tombstone. And this last time, he brought us a fan from Mali, in the shape of woven headdress on a carved wooden figure.
Mostly, that is, he stays in touch, a parental wish not always fulfilled. Chris is funny, creative, and thoughtful. I'm immensely pleased to know him.
He's a good son.

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From The Big Oyster by Mark Kurlansky, writing about the monster bivalves of the 19th Century New York estuary:

"In truth nobody really wanted to eat a foot-long oyster. British novelist William Makepeace Thackeray complained that eating an American oyster was 'like eating a baby'."

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Eating Out: Manhattan
On our way to see Chris perform at Radio City Music Hall and on a later trip to take in the Flamenco Festival at City Center, we stepped into Alfredo's (4 W. 49th St., 212-397-0100) for cocktails. The staff is cheerful and accommodating, drinks are complemented by plates of peppery marinated olives and chunks of Pecorino cheese. When the mood strikes, they pass around slices of paper-thin margarita pizza. Huge blowups of Al Hirschfeld caricatures comprise most of the decor. Zagat gives the food a ho-hum rating, which I can't confirm either way, but the bar is a happy place and they give a generous pour.
Six of us met on a busy Friday night at Madangsui (35 W. 35th St., 212-564-9333), a new Korean barbeque joint. Our friend Young-Ju agreed to guide us through the menu, and in no time there were over twenty plates and platters crowding our table, barely leaving room for the hot grill in the middle of the table. Young-Ju diligently identified each dish barely ahead of the rest of us making the food disappear. It was all madly flavorful and diverse, not least the strips of marinated skirt steak cooked over the grill. The check averaged out to about $40, almost a bargain in a Manhattan context.
On Valentine's Day, I chose a restaurant that was new to me - District (130 W 48th St., 212-485-2999) in the the boutique Hotel Muse.The menu is of the fusion New American variety, which might have been special ten or fifteen years ago. Among the possibilities are baby octopus with puttanesca salad and poached red snapper with pine nuts and marinated figs. Execution was of average competence for a kitchen of modest aspiration, but don't rush right out and make a reservation. Think of it as a back-up possibility before or after the theater.
Of an entirely different order was our choice for celebration of Geezer's 73rd (ick) b'day. We are long-time admirers of uber-restaurateur Danny Meyer - as are most NY foodies - and his most extravagant outing to date is Eleven Madison Park (11 Madison Ave., 212-889-0905). He took over the ground floor of the ostentatious headquarters of an over-reaching insurance company. The space is no less than 38-feet from floor to ceiling, with giant floral displays at the entry and beyond (right). Reception is friendly and correct, the waitstaff both gracious and confident in their knowledge of the menu and none of them are a bit hovering or obsequious. The meal proceeds from a plate of artful one-bite nibbles to an amuse-bouche of foamy parsnip and ginger soup. They set the stage for such unusual but unweird fabrications as potato gnocchi with shrimp and black truffles. We skipped dessert in favor of cheese samplings, which included a three-milk Italian La Tur, a French Tomme de L'Ariege, and a wedge of Echo Mountain, an Oregon blue combining raw cow and goat's milk. That called for a 20-year-old tawny port. It was all flawless, from door to tab. Of course, it all came to over $350, but in a town where $500 dinners-for-one are no longer exceptional, that's not such a stretch for a memorable celebration.

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Why Americans Are Fat: Tradition
From The Big Oyster, describing a celebratory mid-19th Century banquet in New York:

"The first course consisted of three soups, including oyster 'potage', and fish - trout, bass, and shad - all products of the Hudson River. The second course offered six different cold dishes, including oysters in aspic, as well as roasted sirloin, saddle of mutton, goose, veal, turkeys, and capons - note the plural - and a choice of five boiled meats, including boiled turkey with oyster sauce and stewed terrapin.
At last the entrees arrived, which included a total of nineteen dishes including 'Oyster Pies'. Next was the game course, all from New York's woodlands: wild turkey, canvasback ducks, venison, and bear. This was followed by the fourth course, twelve desserts and six decorative pyramids. The last course was nuts and fruit."

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Cevisli Biber
Roasted Pepper & Walnut Spread
Chris is an eager eater, and we have an ongoing enthusiasm for the foods of Arab and Muslim countries, and he liked this concoction. It's a Turkish paste of sweet peppers and walnuts meant to be spread on pita triangles. The garlic is raw and strong, so you might want to cut the number of cloves in half. Prepare it a couple of hours before serving, for it tends to get sludgy after a night in the fridge. The recipe is from The New Book of Middle Eastern Food by Claudia Roden.
Serves 8.

4 large red sweet (bell) peppers
1 cup finely chopped walnuts
4 cloves minced garlic
Salt to taste
Juice of one lemon
1 tablespoon olive oil
One-quarter tablespoon hot pepper flakes

Cut the peppers into quarters. Remove the ribs and seeds. Roast the pepper quarters under the broiler until the skins blacken and blister. Place them in a closed paper bag or a saucepan with a tight cover and sweat. After they cool enough to handle, peel off the skin.
Place the peppers in a food processor and blend to a creamy paste. Add the rest of the ingredients and blend briefly, enough to mix well.

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Episode 41: "Perfectus Interruptus"

That's what Boston Globe sportswriter Dan Shaughnessy called the end of the New England Patriots' almost-perfect season in the Super Bowl. Geezer has been a Giants fan since they won the championship in 1956, and he's been wallowing in this latest afterglow since Sunday night. I've seen The Play at least forty times, but when Eli (up there on the right) rips away from three Patriots to whip a 35-yard pass to Tyree(on the left), who catches it against his helmet, chills still wriggle up my spine.
My son, the computer genius, and I can't get enough of the retelling of the game, easily the biggest upset of the decade, scanning the Internet by the hour for more. A Lowell (MA) paper put out a day-after edition headlined "18 and Uh-Oh".
The same Globe columnist wrote: "The Patriots lost the Super Bowl. It is an alternate universe. It does not compute. It's like hearing Tony Bennett singing, "I Left My Heart in Ashtabula" or seeing a photo of Mitt Romney with his hair messed up."

Delicious.

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"Too much success is not wholly desirable; an occasional beating is good for men - and nations,"
- Alfred Thayer Mahan, 1897

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I'm Not Leaving
Life is way too interesting, especially these days. There's the Super Bowl (next year: Manning v. Manning?), and then there's this campaign. The Democrats had the best lineup Geez can remember and I would happily have voted for any of the top four, with few reservations. Now that the slate is down to two, though, it's time to choose. Some questions and observations about Hillary:
*After all those 35 years of experience, she finally "found her voice" in New Hampshire a few weeks ago?
*She did many admirable works in those 35 years, especially in service of children. Why doesn't she give us details, instead of simply parroting "35 years" over and over?
*She can bob and weave all she wants, but the fact is she voted for the war in Iraq. Her published policy to bring it to an end is to keep a substantial force in that devastated country until 2013! And even then, she'd leave troops there afterwards for an indefinite period. Is she that hot to show us how tough she'll be?
*Finally - and this may be just the projection of one long-married old guy - but she has a way of responding to issues that is guaranteed to drive boys and men up the wall from the day they start understanding words.
She has called Obama "naive and irresponsible" for saying he'd speak to adversaries without prior assurances of progress. When cracks like that and worse from her pending co-president angered Obama enough to fight back at one debate, she smiled that smug maternal smile and said he was "just frustrated". Hillary, he wasn't frustrated, he was pissed off!
That passive-aggressive tone is familiar to every man who has ever co-habited with a woman. It manifests itself when she says sweetly, a block away from their driveway, "Shouldn't we get directions?" And especially when she utters the most dreaded phrase in the language:
"We have to talk."
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Geezer's Indispensable Movie Guide
With Oscars on the way, we've checked out most of the major flicks under consideration. (Two of the perks of retirement are discounted senior tickets and catching the first Tuesday show. Much of the time , we have the entire theater to ourselves.) My takes:

No Country For Old Men**** is a Coen Brothers bloodbath, riveting, brutal and uncompromising. I liked it. It felt real, right down to the ambiguous ending that annoyed some reviewers. The Spanish actor who plays the killer serves up the most chilling portrayal in recent memory.
Charlie Wilson's War **shows off Tom Hanks' graceful slip into middle age. He plays a real-life politician, a womanizer and drinker and all-around playboy who gets caught up in the plight of Afganistan at the time of the Russian occupation. Much of the dialog and situation is hilarious, some of it painful. Philip Seymour Hoffman plays a C.I.A. operative with his customary intelligence.
Michael Clayton***isn't doing much box office. It's too adult. Only one murder and one explosion. George Clooney, who got way more than his share of looks and intelligence when those were handed out, plays a fixer for a major New York law firm. He doesn't try cases, he smooths over difficulties in which favored clients and fellow partners embroil themselves. It's essentially a legal thriller, professionally constructed, with uniformly capable acting.
Atonement*is severely over-praised. It is essentially a weepy chick flick as might be produced by Masterpiece Theatre. It contrasts gorgeous scenes of the upper-crust English countryside with the clamorous events of the Dunkirk evacuation in the second World War. There are no complaints with the photography, settings, or acting. But the script/director insists on a back-and-forth structure of continuous "Four Months Later", "Two Weeks Earlier", "Three Years After" that is both maddening and unnecessary. The coda is as depressing as these things get.
There Will Be Blood**stars Daniel Day-Lewis, who is, as we know, a powerful actor who elevates any film in which he appears. He has the role of an oilman in the early decades of exploration of the 20th Century. His character is ruthless and unbending in pursuit of his goal - making money. He professes to love his adopted son, but with the kind of shaky commitment that pulls him into frequent compromises. At the end, despite a good exit line, viewers have to wonder what was the point of making the film.
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