Friday, January 13, 2017


Rochelt fruit brandies are so wonderful I’m positive they can heal wounds inflicted by mythical creatures that would otherwise be lethal. Got a super-infected Cajun Werewolf bite on your leg? Tell the Loup Garou to fuck off to its stupid face as it runs from the dawn. Pour half an ounce of Rochelt Elderberry on the bite, cover it in gauze and go about your business. Not only will you survive and not be turned, but you'll feel rested and alert. Are vampires tearing your city apart? Is society descending into chaos as they storm police headquarters, feeding on the brave men and women who dared to stay behind? Conventional ammunition is useless- the creatures heal immediately. Mix a little agar with your Rochelt, and use the tip of a small knife to scoop the solidified Rochelt into the concave tip of your hollow-point bullets. If you run, you can make it to battle in time to turn the tide. Kick the door in, and shoot a vampire in the face with a .45 caliber bullet laced with Rochelt Gravenstein apple brandy. As their body burns, it smells like sweet, juicy cider. Take back your city.

Look at this fucking bottle. Keep looking. Never stop looking.
They’re ground up jewels that you can drink. They’re promises of a better tomorrow from fairy godmothers. These brandies shouldn’t exist, and it breaks my heart every time I hold those perfect bottles in my hands and smell the impossibly dense and smooth liquor inside. What is it with those perfect bottle tops? Are they keys? Am I even ready to see what’s behind the doors they open? I am not ready. I will never be ready and it’s not going to stop me from going through.

The hideous expense of selecting perfectly ripe fruit from dozens of growers captivates my imagination. These raspberries aren’t perfect enough for our brandy production but we made you this decent raspberry cobbler. You’d take a bite and weep, knowing that the Rochelt family discarded more decadent fruit than you’ve ever actually tasted. Did the pie make you sad? No, you choke out between sobs. It was to touch true happiness, if for but a second.

To say they taste like their distillate base fruit doesn’t feel accurate. This is hyper real cherry flavor. If actual cherries tasted like Rochelt Morello Cherry brandy, people would be invading countries when they find out they have vast untapped cherry orchards. “No war for cherries”, the college students would chant during their useless demonstrations. Halliburton would lead the cherry orchard service industry, and receive decadent government contracts to grow and enrich cherries to simply be evaluated by Rochelt, with no guarantee they will be accepted. The ebb and flow of cherry production would drive the global economy, and the fate of the human race.

How many cherries go into making just 375ml of brandy? We don’t know for sure, but scientists estimate it’s between 300 and 400 quadrillion cherries per bottle. It's a big number.

I get the suspicion beings from a higher plane of existence left this stuff in our crappy universe on accident. It just doesn’t make sense. I’m not bringing this hypothesis to the theoretical physics community though, because I try not to question good things. Is it expensive? Yes- it’s frighteningly expensive. But give it a break; shipping costs get wacky when your perfect, ethereal brandy has to pass through the fucking Stargate unharmed.

I’ve been thinking a lot about inter-dimensional travel lately. Specifically, I wonder how long I could steal wine and liquor allocations from myself and my peers in alternate realities before they come hunting for me in my home dimension. I think there was a Jet Li movie about something like that (it had more to do with kung-fu than wine buying).

Walking the warehouse of every possible world
Rochelt though. It’s one of those things I get up for in the morning. The excitement of new alcohols is literally the only thing that carries me forward in life. Working in a bar, wearing pants, being nice to people and not biting them, getting haircuts somewhat regularly- it’s all to one end.

I’m very lucky to have a job that gives me the ability to obtain rare and exotic stuff like Rochelt. It’s a once in a lifetime beverage, and I only bought one bottle for Public Services. Anvil and Eight Row flint bought all four bottles that were offered to Texas, and in hindsight I feel slightly cowardly for not having gone all in. I’m not sweating it. We’ll bring the hammer down next time. Those places are still selling them, at really incredible prices.

Rochelt is truly magnificent. I’m so grateful to have glimpsed its sublime beauty. Find it if you can. Steal it from yourself on the other side. Run from your fate as long as you can, as long as there is more brandy to drink.

Rochelt is imported to the US by PM Spirits.

Friday, September 9, 2016


The Court of Master Sommeliers exams are broken up into three components: theory (a written or verbal exam), Blind tasting (up to six wines), and a service exam.

My favorite part of every wine exam or competition is the service component. Here the proctors will simulate an actual dining room scenario during which a candidate will have to safely and correctly open sparkling wine, decant red wine, serve liquors and other tasks- all while answering questions about other products. The harder the test or competition, the more intense and complex the scenarios become. At the highest levels (like the Master Sommelier exam) it’s almost impossible to know what you’re going to have to deal with. At that level, nothing is given away- everything is designed to cripple you with pressure.

It’s been years since I got to participate in a service exam, but looking back- I can definitely say the menu at Public Services is written with an ugly service exam in mind. Although it’s not exactly a balanced list, it does boast outrageous breadth so that we can be put through a completely different ringer of questions every day.

But even that’s not enough for me. I sometimes fantasize about creating a more extreme test that folds in classic action movie scenarios into service. You need to serve a magnum of obscure tete de cuvee to three different tables from cover while your proctor is across the room emptying a fully automatic Saiga-12 shotgun in your direction, barking questions about sake. Who makes Noble Cuvee? What is taruzake? What is the term for undiluted sake? To avoid gunfire originating behind you, move in a zigzag pattern. Don't forget to polish your glassware. Don't forget to line your tray. Use smoke grenades to obscure the aim of the proctor.

You’d walk up to your proctor before the exam, they check your tools, they check to make sure your fingernails have been trimmed, then they hand you a small black case. “In case you’re exposed to VX gas over the course of this service exam, you’ll need to inject this antidote directly into your heart.” They demonstrate by depressing a button, which causes a 5-inch wide-gauge needle to shoot out like a switchblade. “You’ll have about ten seconds after exposure before irreversible nerve damage sets in and you’ll be paralyzed- so don’t hesitate to inject yourself if the event that the maître d’ alerts you to gas. After that, you’ll need to assist any other surviving candidates.” You walk into the room and all the proctors are wearing gasmasks. Little green ampoules of VX are scattered all over the floor. Do you have any questions before we begin?

Chef says my writing reads like a Michael Bay movie.

Or perhaps we could do a scenario where you sign up for your exam to happen over a six-month period. You won’t know when it’s going to happen until a black bag is thrown over your head and you’re dragged out of the local wine bar into a black van. You come to in a cargo plane with several other candidates flying over the South China Sea. Once at the drop zone, three of you will be kicked out the back of the plane to chase two parachutes that your proctor has tossed out. Get the heavier of the two candidates into the parachutes and then get the third one to wrap their arms through the straps. Your job is to land on the Eleonora Mærsk, an E-class cargo ship. Once (if) you’ve landed, you need to seek out a container that houses three pallets of wine. You will have to determine which pallet would have the highest resale value at auction, and protect said pallet from the pirates that are currently raiding the ship. Ideally, have the candidate who violently dislocated their arms from clinging to a parachute improperly do the work in the container while the other two provide cover fire- if you’ve been detected. Moving quickly and quietly are the keys to passing here. Once you’ve chosen the pallet, secure the skyhook to it and activate the beacon. This will turn the plane around to extract you and the wine. If you are unable to hitch a ride on the pallet as its lifted off the ship, you will have one small additional task: slaughter all the pirates and pilot the ship to dry land.

Please manually disgorge this bottle of Movia Puro sparkling wine into this bucket of water. The only catch is that the bucket is full of nitroglycerin, not water. Also don’t get too close to the windows: because there are snipers. Snipers turn on laser sights at this stage in the exam, so you at least have some sort of idea if you’re about to get shot. In the real world it’s worth noting you will have no warning.

Remember gang, silencers must be used for all gun battles on the floor- the second the guest experience is compromised by the sound of gunfire, the fourth wall is broken and the careful performance of great service evaporates. It’s not an automatic fail to discharge a weapon without a suppressor during a service exam, but it’s a pretty hard gaffe to recover from, point-wise. But remember: “work in recovery”. Make sure to catch your hot brass as it ejects- you lose a point if it hits the ground or a table. In certain situations swords can provide a quiet, more elegant form of deadly force during service. TEXSOM could use double-action only, cowboy-style revolvers during service exams to add a distinctive Texan flair to the already challenging competition they hold at the Las Colinas Four Seasons. Is it so hard to imagine the Master Somms wearing Colt Peacemakers in addition to boots and beltbuckles?

It doesn’t feel that far-fetched to me. I’m all about elite, shadowy organizations with specialized skillsets. I adore the idea of getting a bunch of Navy SEALS and SAS folks together with MSs and MWs to create this truly horrific exam. Surely there’s something both groups have to learn from each other. You know what would make the MS outfit look even cooler? Kevlar and NVGs. 

I'm basically suggesting we turn Bravo's Uncorked into a sommelier version of The Running Man. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't want to see that. You can't. 

And I'm sorry if all of this is disturbing to you but these visions, these flights of fancy enter my brain whether I want them to or not. I don’t know how much control other people have over their imaginations, but mine is an HD television that I can never turn off. If you catch me staring off in the distance on a particular Saturday evening at the bar, know that I am in a helicopter trying to cut myself out of my seatbelt as the cabin fills with freezing seawater and burning engine fuel. Using my legs to try and kick the glass out of the sliding door, Joe Spellman is over the speakers, asking what wine style uses the Clavelin bottle, what it’s capacity is, and why. Maybe if I’m having a particularly juicy day my imagination will throw in an ex-girlfriend or two (still buckled in, silently watching me with hard eyes, even as freezing water goes over her head). I’m constantly escaping downed helicopters. I have never flown in one in real life, and its going to scare the shit out of me whenever I do. Vin Jaune and Chateau Chalon go in Clavelins. My mind at least does me the favor of imaging Joe Spellman is the guy walking me through a deadly service exam because he is a very nice guy and I immediately feel comfortable around him.

That’s actually one of the ultimate fucked-up service exams right there- your most emotionally charged exes as your proctors for the exam, with their new mates, who are more attractive and successful than you. While you’re decanting 97 La Pergola Torte, they’re playing grab-ass and smooching each other, arguing about which gelato stand was the best during their vacation in Rome. They’re taking selfies. If you look up from decanting to wish (out loud) that they would just fuck off for five seconds, you will lose a ton of points. Don’t look up.

There’s a moral somewhere in here somewhere, a lesson to be gleaned from all this nonsense and I’m getting to it. Picture yours truly narrating the service component walkthrough. I’d be digging around in an open chest wound and a bloody white tee. This is where I would look at the camera and say,

“The court teaches us to always work in recovery. You’re inevitably going to make mistakes and experience setbacks on the floor. How one responds to a mistake is what sets the pros apart from the amateurs. Can you recover with grace and poise, or will you let it rattle you, and reverberate throughout the rest of your service?”

I’m jabbing a pair of forceps into my chest, fishing for a bullet.

“Decanters full of irreplaceable wine will break open and spill on irreplaceable clothing. TCA will infect the last bottle of birth-year wine your most important regular was pining for. Your chef will change the dish you have to pair with right after you receive ten cases of wine that was perfect with the dish before they covered it with red molé.  And you will incur flesh wounds in your personal life that will make you want to snap in your professional life, and kill the next person who asks you ‘if you have any real absinthe, bro’.”

I tug on the forceps and remove a black talon hollow point that has bloomed into a star pattern, and I cough up a little bit of blood.

“Just remember to remain calm in the face of being knocked off balance, and set to work correcting it immediately. Throw linen over the spill, and get a fresh bottle. Offer to pay for the dry cleaning. Divert that wine you can’t pair into your by-the-glass program. Surround yourself with positive influences and try not to do anything terribly stupid in response to external stressors. Do not let it affect your work. But actually kill that dude who won’t shut up about real absinthe, he sucks.”

I drop the bullet into a little pan and it goes tink.

Realistically though, the MS exam is already one of the hardest tests in the world, it doesn’t need live-fire exercises or nerve gas added into it. However I do wish they used more dramatic service prompts. Let’s take it out with one that’s been in my head for a while:

Alright (candidate name), I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you- an ancient truce has been broken. There is a war being waged in the shadows, and it pains me greatly to say that my team and I have failed. We were unable to stop our enemies at the Arcand occult society from activating the device buried deep beneath the earth’s crust and frankly we’re just trying to enjoy the time we have left on this world.

*look at your watch and sigh*

Which, by my calculations is one hour. Money is of no object to us, because currency is about to become literally useless in a world where monsters roam the streets feeding on the starving, terrified survivors of the impending apocalypse. Anyway, which of the following champagnes is the most expensive on your list?

-Pierre Peters “Les Chetillons” Blanc de Blancs 1999      

-Bollinger Vieilles Vignes Françaises Blanc de Noirs 1999   

-Krug Rose MV

-Salon “Cuvee S” Blanc de Blanc 1999  

Ideally at this point something would start trying to break down the door, making guttural screeching and howling noises. “Hurry up. We’re thirsty and we’re all about to die”.

Thank your lucky stars I will never get to design an exam.

Sunday, August 21, 2016


I have no strong emotional connection to the meal. Brunch is just coincidentally a good time for me to share a food thing with people I care about.

But I feel like brunch brings out the worst in people- the guests, the front of house and back of house. It’s a nightmare of a shift and many people know this, inside and outside of the industry.

I feel it’s negative radiation wash over me the second I walk in the door and I think that we are the only ones that deserve to be here. Everyone else is here so they can be the worst version of themselves with impunity and torment a captive service staff. Everywhere guests are getting huffy because they have to wait, servers are pouring coffee into orange juice on accident because they might still be drunk. Stuff is getting overcooked, people are ordering drinks by snapping their fingers at servers and everyone is insane with rage and dying from fatigue. The whole room is about to blow. I already struggle to relax in bars and restaurants, but this is another level. I am a dog on the fourth of July. Everything is exploding around me and I am shaking, trying to remain calm and act normal. Just act normal!

The freewheeling hysterical energy of brunch turns me against my fellow man so fast I feel like I’m going to grow horns and bite someone. Brunch is one of those microcosms of humanity that might make an alien race want to exterminate us. I wouldn’t blame them. I’m sitting down to brunch; I’m part of the problem.

Don’t get me started on the roving band. I can feel them, stalking us as they slink through the restaurant like jungle cats inching toward us in the underbrush, ready to sing happy birthday. They know we don’t want the attention, and it makes them hungrier to annihilate our sense of comfort. A predator will always lust for the chase- so too does my refusal to make eye contact with the band excite them to come play a song just for me. It looks cool when they’re serenading someone else’s table. But when I can feel them approaching my table my brain dumps buckets of fight or flight chemicals into my mind and I’m breathing hard and sweating profusely, on the verge of a heart attack. I suppose I could just sternly be like please do not play music at my table for the love of fuck I am so tired and I will puke blood on you if you make me the center of attention. But I can’t say that. They’re on us now, they’re asking if it’s a special occasion and I’m like somehow we’re still alive so we’re celebrating. I don’t protest because they’re in the service industry too. They are also hustling, and I have to respect that. Tip them. If I think about it critically, I’m pretty sure plenty of people see me walking to the table and think not this fucking guy. I can pick my own wine, nerd.

Then I sit down and remember something important: it’s noon and I can start drinking immediately. I can, and will order many different drinks. Mimosas are for children- I would like an absinthe frappe. I would like coffee with Romepope. I would like a Berliner Weisse with fruit liqueur in it. I would like more coffee but this time in milkshake form. I would like a bottle of Huet sparkling Vouvray. I would like a Tom Collins with a float of Chartreuse. I would like an Orval out of an Orval glass (I want to live in the perfect, airy foam). I want a glass of cask strength whisky neat because I woke up thirty minutes ago and I still hate myself. I would like a Michelada, with a shrimp in it if that option is available. I would like a grasshopper with Branca Menta. I would like a bottle of preposterously cold Keller Limestone Kabinett Riesling. I would like a Ramos gin fizz and I would like a Reissdorf Kolsch to drink while you shake it. I want chicory coffee.  I want shots of Strega for us and everyone sitting at least 10 feet around us. I want a mango lassi.  

I want Toki highballs and I would like you to make sure we never run out of them for even a second. I would like a bloody mary with Tapatio 110 tequila in it and a gunpowder rim. I would like a watermelon full of unpasteurized sake. I would like a shot of Laurent Cazottes Pear Eau-de-Vie. I want Guy Breton Morgon in a magnum and I want it on ice- yes- I want all the wine we drink during this meal to be cold, and I want it served in Zalto burgundy stems.  I un-sarcastically desire a Harvey Wallbanger with fresh squeezed, fluffy orange juice. I would like an Underberg and a straw. I would like a glass of Vichy Catalan with a slice of exotic fruit in it (very exotic, I’m talking rambutans n’ shit). I’m sorry about what I said about mimosas earlier- I’d like a mimosa but please throw a splash of herbsaint in it, we’re not cowards here. I want a bourbon milk punch. I want a glass of chilled Rare Wine Co Sercial Madeira. I want a kombucha but like, pour some gin in it? I want a chocolate egg cream.  I want Tempier Bandol rose. Fino En Rama from Montilla-Moriles. A flagon of Cà phê sữa đá. Brandy Alexanders. Cantillon gueuze. Imperial Dragonwell green tea. D’Esperance Armagnac. And a Topo Chico.

I am prepared to spend all of my money.

Before I know it, I am peering through a joyful forest of beverages on the table, and I feel alive. I feel restored by ordering alcohol like a child. This is brunch; I can do whatever I want. I can take my pants off. I can pick up babies, toss them 30 feet in the air and catch them- they will love it. I can run on water. I can step on the white tiles that I know to be lava.

I am literally invincible.

And the food! Brunch food cuts all the crap and answers the pressing question- how much would you like of whatever you want? I can’t eat cake for lunch without looking crazy, but I can eat French toast at brunch and nobody feels like they have to call protective services on my pancreas. I can eat French toast as simply a side accompaniment to a plate that is brown-pink with four types of animal proteins and fried food slung across it. I personally aim for my main brunch course to be mostly brown in color. The more vibrant shades should come from alcohol, which by the final savory dish I’ve ideally consumed much of.

To my knowledge only Cuchara, Hugo’s, and Caracol serve hot chocolate and churros at brunch. This is a travesty: hot chocolate and Churro’s should be served at every meal, by every restaurant. My life is ruined every time I’m at a brunch that has decided to cruelly omit churros from my Sunday afternoon bacchanal. By the time I’ve learned that Churros are not an option, my id is already completely on fire and I’m considering breaking into the chef’s house at night with a machete. Sitting on the foot of their bed and waking them up by hissing something reasonable like what gives you the fucking right to deny me churros.

But seriously, like Pete Wells’ brilliant treatise on Thanksgiving, the most important ingredient at brunch, is excess. So fuck it, order an ounce of caviar to smear on your waffle. Order a whole lobe of foie gras. You get that cheesecake milkshake, and you pour some Elijah Craig 18 year in it. Because you could be dead tomorrow. You are here, right now, at brunch and you need to make everyone jealous of how hard you live. You need to take a fucking stand against the rigamarole of this world. You need to kiss madness on the mouth and laugh in the face of death because the time is now. It is brunch.

I talk a lot of shit about it, but the vulgar hedonism of brunch wins me over every time. I leave the establishment tipsy, sluggish with food, marching in a straight line towards the nearest couch. There, I will die. I will sink into a Mariana trench of satisfaction, deeper than the deepest K-hole. I will wrap myself in my comforter and forget about how bad I am being in charge of something. I will forget every dumbass thing I’ve ever said to a beautiful woman. I will forget every time I jacked up a wine pairing and it actually got served to a guest. I will for a brief moment, stop comparing myself to everyone and everything. I will turn off the giant, glowing doomsday device that hums ominously in my basement to save for another day. I will not open the gateway to hell, not today.

I will just exist. I will be a peaceful, warm little chicken tender wrapped in very soft Italian blankets. I have no idea what happens after this moment. I never do.

Monday, September 21, 2015

Pâte de Fruit

I am often a curmudgeon on my days off. I adore my line of work, and am un-sarcastically living my dream. That being said, sometimes the act of working a full week on the floor of the bar leaves me feeling spent emotionally.

It takes something out of the ordinary to bring me back to reality. Nothing expensive or lavish, just a little thing to treat myself.

This Tuesday I was beat down, but feeling better after Julie and I had Guadalupana for lunch. I was feeling better, but I needed something else.

I needed candy.

Not just any candy, but candy made by the brightest minds of our generation. I needed candy made with the bleeding edge of science that pushes the limits of deliciousness into unimaginable higher planes of epicurean enlightenment.

I am not talking about drugs.

Just admit it: candy is fucking great. Everyone in the world has had a moment where they felt down, someone gave you something sweet, and you felt better. When you’re a little kid, you don’t have the resources to get candy yourself, you have to beg. But as an adult, saying to yourself “I’m going to get in my car for the sole purpose of getting candy”, is just exhilarating. What kind of candy do you want? You’re a grownup, and you can get any candy you feel like. I am done begging for candy. I’ve spent 12 years of my life in the service industry so that when I feel like it, I can obtain the most horrifyingly delicious candy the world has ever seen. Candy you’d be scared to speak it’s name aloud. Candy that would make my younger self weep uncontrollably from the crushing and incomprehensible satisfaction it would cause.

Legally speaking I am considered a grownup.

I had to think hard for the candy I wanted most in the world. Price? No object. Caloric value? Sky is the limit. Rarity? I’m prepared to get on an airplane for the right nugget of sugar. I’ll say it again: I am a grownup, and I will have candy. My mental well being is at stake here, and I will pull a knife on a stranger if it means getting the perfect bite of candy.

Luckily Common Bond was just right down the street.

I knew they had sweet stuff but it took a second for me to remember: an instagram photo of Christine Au packaging one of my favorite things in the whole goddamn universe.

I wanted Pate de Fruit.

When I first started formally working with Justin and Karen, Karen’s Mignardises always fascinated me. Mignardises are like dessert dessert, a smaller, more final sweet thing after your actual dessert. This is how I came to love Caneles (tiny little cakes that taste good as fuck), and this is how I came to love Pate de Fruit. What is Pate de Fruit? It literally translates to “fruit paste”, a vulgar phrase to denote what is essentially a tiny, edible happy feeling. When I first discovered this, I would receive one every year or so, whenever Karen felt like making them. Now that there’s nothing to regulate my consumption, I’m in danger from choking to death from eating them too fast- like a puppy.

Pate de Fruit will make you throw your gummi bears in the trash.

The fastest analogy I can use to describe Pate de Fruit is really, really good gummi. People are weird and devoted to certain types of gummi: bears, worms, sharks, brite crawlers, peachy-O’s, etc. Pate de Fruit doesn’t need to take the form of cute animal or even a novel shape beyond just a block. It’s just a fucking block. It tastes so good that it doesn’t have time to try and catch your attention with a fun shape. Pate de Fruit knows that it is delicious, and doesn’t need your validation. I see a bag of brite crawlers and I pity their zany desperation.

All confection shops should be legally forced to sell Pate de Fruit.

They had two flavors: Blood Orange Vanilla, and Peach Vanilla. They taste like hyperreal expressions of their base fruit. Like a nuclear holocaust of peach goodness, its interior transparent like a jewel, with tiny black flecks of real vanilla pulp. This is so much better than one of my childhood gummi favorites, Peachy-O’s that I fantasize about breaking into the Ferrara Candy CEO’s house in the night, and threating them with a machete. I imagine I’d only be able to hiss rhetorical accusations like “Who do you think you are?” and “What gives you the right?”. I bite into the blood orange pate de fruits, and they’re so good I can’t even picture my gummi revenge fantasy anymore. I’m just going to eat candy with Julie in this refreshingly chilly bakery until I slip into a diabetic coma. At this point, Brad Wilcox will brew a pot of strong, spicy black tea, and pour it on my face to revive me. There will be no need to summon the paramedics.

I cannot overstate the unreal decadence of Pate de Fruit.

I refuse to believe that humans invented Pate de Fruit without the help of aliens or perhaps time travel. It just doesn’t make sense. The perfection of its squishy texture, the bracing clarity of fruit flavor. People say things like, “thing X is so tasty it feels wrong.” But I actually fear for my safety when I eat it. It feels like candy that only royalty would have access to. As I make my way through the box, I mentally prepare for a SWAT team to kick down the door, taser me, throw a black bag over my head and drag me to a dungeon where I’d waste away. The Pate de Fruits would be brought back to their rightful owner, some Russian oligarch on a yacht with his shirt unbuttoned, breathing heavily. It never happens, and I sigh with relief through a mouthful of candy.

Pate de Fruit is not expensive.

The true price of an object is how much someone is willing to pay for it. In my case, Pate de Fruit is extremely valuable since I’m willing to kill for them. This was never necessary, as Common bond sells a smartly packaged little box for five dollars. Five dollars is a steal for what those ten perfect little blocks of pleasure hold for your mouth. To get more enjoyment out of such a small container you will have to buy drugs.

Say no to drugs.

Isn’t that what mignardises (and thus, pate de fruits) are about anyway? Because you can’t deal with dinner coming to a screeching halt after dessert, we create another, smaller dessert. It feels like escapism to me- I don’t want this meal to end, please keep bringing me candies, I’m not ready to return to the wasteland of reality. Surely I’m not the first person to ask: what’s to stop us from having something after the mignardises? Why do we waste time on Mignardises that are not Pate de Fruit? How are other sweets considered superior? Can you put alcohol in Pate de Fruit? Would we be able to air drop crates full of Pate de Fruit in wartorn regions of the globe to promote peace?

I don’t have the answers to these questions. The world is full of mysteries. Go to Common Bond and eat their Pate de Fruit.

Monday, January 13, 2014


A while back, my friend Wiley asked me if I could pen a political manifesto for him. I didn't get as far as a full-fledged manifesto, but hopefully this letter convinces you to donate to his cause. You would probably know him from his street art projects all over Houston.

Dear Resident,

The world is a cruel and hideous place. What remains of our cherished democracy is run by special interests and corrupt politicians. Perhaps its impossible to imagine a human left alive who has retained their integrity, one who hasn’t been seduced into selling their principles for money or power. Many of us have forgotten the promise of the American dream, and we are taunted by its caricature in our children’s social studies textbooks. Sometimes it’s enough to drive a good person completely insane. I beseech you to take that pistol out of your mouth, friend. There is a beacon of hope in the gloom, and his name is Wiley.

 Wiley has arrived to bring America back to its former glory.  Wiley hates problems and will eradicate them with a vengeance. Wiley is a legendary peacemaker and team builder. He will roll up his sleeves and confidently do away with whatever is upsetting you at this exact moment. Wiley will clean up your neighborhood and drive the drug dealers out. Unless you like drugs, in which case Wiley will use taxpayer money to give you drugs for free. Wiley will create a complex and beautiful bureaucratic system to satisfy drug lovers and opponents simultaneously. Maybe you don’t see how it could be possible, because you do not possess the staggering genius that Wiley wields like a giant golden samurai sword, gleaming in the sun. Wiley will make sure you do not feel self conscious about being less intelligent than he is. He will give you a hypoallergenic puppy and you will forget why you are upset.

Do you hang your head in shame at the sick, twisted future you’ve created for your children? Wiley will make it better. He will drink the poison from the rivers, and breathe deep the smog blanketing your impossible, sprawling metropolis. He will consume your mistakes, and excrete precious metals that have great scientific utility. Or in the case of the smog, Wiley will exhale a decadent cloud of potpourri that will also cure asthma in chronic sufferers. Wiley’s body chemistry doesn’t work like yours. Scientists aren’t entirely sure what Wiley is, but what is clear to us is that he is thousands of years old, and smells like freshly cut cucumbers at all times.

Wiley despises war, unless you like war, then Wiley is totally into war. Wiley will wipe the Middle East off the face of the earth in a nuclear holocaust. Or he could bring the war torn peoples together under the same roof, and host an imperial banquet, where enemies would throw their arms around each other, feast on otherworldly delights, and sing ancient drinking songs well into the morning- with a newfound understanding of love and compassion for their fellow man. Or he could create a virus that kills incredibly specific swaths of the human race. Wiley could engineer a virus that kills only people with blonde hair, or a nerve gas that only paralyzes Christians. People would vomit in horror and disgust at the ease and speed with which Wiley could end the human race. Or they would totally ask for his quiche recipe at a church fundraiser in a poor third world neighborhood. Wiley would build playgrounds with the money he raised from puppet shows and Baklava eating contests at this church fundraiser. Wiley’s humanitarian efforts would make the Peace Corps look like a fucking joke. Or he would go down in history as the most horrifying and insane mass murderer that walked the earth. It’s really whatever you want.

Wiley is a family man, and a man of god. Whichever god you worship, that is the one that Wiley grew up with. He was married to his wife in the church you’ve attended your entire life. Don’t get him wrong- Wiley respects all religious beliefs. But your traditions are the ones he holds closest to his heart. Wiley’s family is perfect, and closely resembles yours. Your kids don’t have time to love Wiley more than you, because they’re busy playing with the hypoallergenic Labradoodle that Wiley gave you. Even if they were self aware enough to know that they should abandon you for Wiley, Wiley would lovingly explain that normal people (you) need love too.

America needs Wiley. The world needs America to need Wiley. It is said that Wiley is the nucleus of the universe, and that all creation revolves around and originates from him. Wiley will lower your taxes, unless you would prefer that he raise them. Wiley will immediately raise your taxes, if that is what you desire.

Please vote for Wiley. Please also make a donation at our website Break into your parent’s house and steal their jewelry so that you might pawn it, and donate that money as well. Once you have emptied your bank accounts and exhausted all of your material options, please consider having sex with strangers for money that you would immediately donate to a VoteWiley representative standing outside the dirty motel room you now live in. Please also donate blood. Your blood, your children’s blood, even that drifter passed out by the dumpster (nobody will miss him). Wiley also accepts blood plasma, locks of hair longer than ten (10) inches, bone marrow, sperm, eggs, teeth in good condition, and large patches of human skin, if fresh.

In certain circumstances you may be asked to carry out tasks for Wiley under cover of darkness against his opponents. A VoteWiley representative will supply you with a security guard uniform, a duplicate keycard, and a silenced pistol. If you are captured, please use the cyanide pill that a VoteWiley representative has surgically implanted in the roof of your mouth while you were last sleeping. Under no circumstances are you to be captured alive. Please be careful as you help us build America as Wiley sees it.

Can you picture the opulence of Wiley’s America? If you concentrate hard, perhaps you can see the mountains of treasure that you will dreamily lounge on.  Can you see your palace that you purchased in cash earned from an unprecedented economic boom? Can you feel the warm glow of accomplishment, from knowing you played a role in ushering a new era of prosperity? Imagine the riot of joy as Wiley walks out onto the court and pitches the first ball of the sportsmatch to celebrate the oncoming eternal utopia! Can you hear the wails of the doubters, the naysayers, as they sob uncontrollably, digging their own graves at gunpoint? Isn’t it beautiful?

Vote for Wiley.

-Justin Vann
Senior Campaign Manager for VoteWiley

Saturday, January 4, 2014


            The world is being torn apart, as far as you can tell from twitter. In Cairo, the streets are drenched in gallons of blood, spent shell casings, and the dead. Far away from the horror in Egypt, you swerve to avoid killing a bicycle courier in the rain, and you spill painfully hot coffee on your inner thigh. You can tell it was brewed too hot, a pity considering this is Esmeralda Gesha that the roaster would be furious to know was being mistreated. You’re on your way to a big wine tasting. Perhaps it’s the coffee that’s making your heart race, but you know better.

The notion of interacting with hundreds of other wine professionals is making you feel nauseous.

            It fills you with dull panic, with a gentle hum of anxiety. You come to a stoplight and look at the beautiful flowers the city planted in the median. You note the attention to detail, right down to the crushed oyster shells that surround the flowerbed. You would never know that the landscaping company gets much of their products from overseas. The crushed oyster shells came from Sudan, but they aren’t actually oyster shells. They’re human teeth. You will never learn this truth, because you’re counting the syllables in your boilerplate answer to “Hey man how’s it going?”

            In the hotel ballroom, salespeople will grab you and enthusiastically drag you to a table full of their wine, the way a coyote might drag a mortally wounded, struggling calf. You HAVE to try this Manzanilla Pasada. This petillant Naturel Pineau D’Aunis. This Carbonic Macerated Nerello Mascalese. You will try them, and you will let them talk to you about the slope of the vineyards. They will tell you the story of the soil, the majesty of great tangled roots stretching infinitely into the earth for a drop of water, for a sense of place. They make this wine sustainably, responsibly. They let the earth guide their hand, and coo into their ear softly. When our earth mother has made physiological ripeness known to us, the vineyard workers gently pluck the grapes under cover of darkness, and gently wipe the dew away. They set only the finest clusters in ancient hand-woven baskets, gently.

            The national sales manager for a company that sells wine with cute animal names like “Wild Weasel” and “Sidewinder” will pause, choking on tears, on the beauty, the enormity of it all. You too will choke on your true feelings, and out of respect, you will not express them. The truth is you don’t care.

            The truth is that you only care about what produces results. If dumping boiling hot liquid mercury into the soil made the wine taste better you would do it. If you had to stick a dagger in a baby goat’s heart and pull it out to worship Satan at the stroke of midnight to save the grapes of champagne from the bitter frost of January, you’d do it. Bull’s blood was once used to filter particle matter out of red wine. Why stop there? We use the blood of our vineyard management team. Every year we bleed them out, and bury them, dying but still alive in the vineyard. Their weak death throes till the soil and allow for better aeration and drainage. The cycle of life is complete, and all that is left after centuries, is their teeth.

            You have terrible visions.  You have impulses that rise up inside of you, which you haven’t acted on, thanks to what is left of your self-control.

            You friend asks, Hey man, how’s it going? Great! I just came back from Barolo; a distributor paid for the entire trip and set my itinerary, because I sold three pallets of their second label, the one with the parrot on it. Anyway get this, I hired some manual laborers to help me salt the vineyards of the top five Barolo producers. Nothing will grow in those soils for a millennia! I got em good! Your friend will be speechless in horror, because they aren’t exactly sure what the top five vineyards in Barolo are. Not knowing the answer to a question is very shameful in your world.

            Are you going to take your next big test? What level are you? You answer something like Oh I’m a class C. You’re staring at something in the distance, and your friend is visibly flustered, is that a new system? Is that the new beer test? Mixology perhaps? I mean previous spirit exams were more focused on base ingredients, but is this more uh, mixing-centric? You remember a time when it all mattered to you this much. But now you are jaded and losing it, and this is where you wish you could just rip your dick off, limp and bloody, and hand it to them without an ounce of formality. And you would just cryptically mutter, mixology. Here are my mutilated genitals, mixology.

            You slither over to a table of California reds, the winemaker is telling you that this wine spent 18 months in new French oak, in house cooperage of course. You decide to act out, and you widen your eyes and almost shout THAT SOUNDS EXPENSIVE I’M PRETTY SURE I CAN’T AFFORD IT. You back away slowly, in mock horror. The winemaker is pleading with you; it gets down to 40 dollars a bottle by the glass.

            In your head, you’re burning down the biggest distributor warehouses, full of pallets of wine they’re either aggressively incentivized to sell, or small parcels of actual good wine that they didn’t know they had in stock anyway. It's not anyone's fault, this is just how it has to work you say, as you would place huge cans of gasoline strategically. You breathe deep in the ballroom and smile, imagining the smell of a burning warehouse full of wine. Picture a great spire of black smoke rising up from the warehouse. You imagine a swarm of police cruisers surrounding you in the parking lot and you greet the police with terrible news. Some of our stock has been heat damaged, check your orders carefully!

            You’re fantasizing about storming a dining room with a machete, snatching away iPad wine lists, and smashing them on the corner of tables. Hey asshole! I was reading that! I was looking at a map of Vosne-Romanee motherfucker, what gives you the right? You powerwalk towards the angry guest, and you’re gibbering apologies. What where you thinking with all this violence? Here you say, try this instead. You grab their hands and clasp them around a flashbang grenade, after suavely removing the spoon. This is a token of my appreciation. Please enjoy.

            You’re never going to get your moment of angry indulgence; you’ll never receive catharsis. Are you sure that your industry is broken? You seem to be the only one here that hasn’t moved in 30 minutes, you’re the only one flushed and sweating, with heart palpitations. What are you missing? Maybe you should become a brand ambassador for a liquor company. Maybe you should become a mercenary for KBR. Maybe you should stick your finger down your throat and vomit on the guy who is making sure everyone who comes to his table knows that this particular rose dessert wine is known as an “LPR”. Before he can say “liquid panty remover” you would grab him by his thin, fashionable tie, and vomit blood on him.

            A little girl holding an AK-47 is rummaging through the ruins of Muammar Gaddafi’s palace in Libya. She finds a bottle of 2001 chateau Pavie. Does she understand what it is? You are not there to explain to her that 2001 is drinking REALLY well right now. If you were there, you could help decant the wine (which is mostly Merlot, with a healthy dose of Cab Franc) into a decanter or a filthy broken coffee cup. You could tell her how the wine was recently upgrade from Premier Grand Cru Classe B to preimer grand cru classe A, a huge honor. Maybe she would be crying because at the age of five, she had been robbed of any semblance of childhood, the only reminder of happier days is a cookie monster flashlight duct-taped to her AK-47. You would lean in and comfort her, telling her that everyone knew Pavie was pretty much a class A, and she should feel better knowing that it is now formally recognized as such.

            None of this can happen though, because you are being slowly crippled by anxiety at this wine tasting in a large air conditioned hotel in North America.

Saturday, December 7, 2013

Brass Knuckles

Today I bought a sensibly priced set of brass knuckles at a gun show in lieu of buying an AR-15 like I wanted to. Legally speaking it’s a solid brass paperweight that coincidentally resembles a controlled melee weapon. They feel nice on my hand, and much to my delight, I can hold a glass of wine with the same hand. A glass of 2013 Valdespino en rama sherry is the same color as the brass now, I worry that the delicate aromatics of this fragile wine are already starting to die, in step with its deepening in color. As an experiment, I transfer the glass of wine to my right hand and with my left (brass-knuckled) fist I punch my bedroom door as hard as I can. It leaves a satisfying indentation that confirms brass knuckles are really dangerous. To an outside observer this probably looks pretty crazy, but in my defense the landlord says he’s going to demolish our duplex after we move out. It’s a miracle we don’t start throwing axes through the walls, being the way we are.

I feel like the brass knuckles are quickly becoming one of those objects that will meaningfully punctuate this point in my life. Other seemingly pointless and dangerous objects serve as bookmarks in my story: the blowtorch, the saber, the flare gun. What exactly do these knuckles represent, that is the question.