In Medias Res

A FEW YEARS ago I came back from a trip to glorious Cali with a huge and abiding craving for the terrific Mexican food I had had on the trip, and I went an entire year eating virtually nothing but Mexican style food. I don't see that happening again, but today's lunch is an example of the sort of thing I might have done during that era. The emapanadalettes here are a species of Don Miguel product, the likes of which we have not seen in these parts in many a year, and as such are agreeably mediocre: the factory floor interpretation of what kind of food you might get in a Mexican restaurant. I have often made the case that the reason "Mexican" food is so popular in America is that it's the sort of thing which, when done badly, is still pretty good. (See: Taco Bell.) This layout has the advantage of including hand-made guacamole, doctored black refritos, and sour cream. (EVERYTHING is better with sour cream.)

The beer of the day is a longer story. New Belgium's Fat Tire Ale has been enormously popular around these parts for the last year or so. My initial take on the stuff was that it's gourmet beer for non-gourmet-beer drinkers, which was clearly snobby and wrong. Still, there does seem to be a low note, a body note, that seems to be missing from it, giving it a slightly sweet undertone. Meanwhile, I had heard that they make an IPA, but I had yet to get my hands on it. This I got from a specialty store earlier this week. I opened one prior to sitting down at the spread, and the initial response was the same: missing that low body note, and seemed, perplexingly for an IPA, almost sweet.

Let's have a closer look at that label, shall we? IPA's are supposed to be over-hopped, and thus bitter, although many American versions (often called California style) are hopped in such a way as to produce a high, flowery top note (which I quite like, by the way). This seemed to be reaching for such a high note, but without the heaviness to the body notes, didn't seem to be sustaining it. Then I coupled it with the lunch, which I have decided to call Almuerzo del Arador, which is what my utterly unreliable Spanish-English dictionary suggests would the the analog for Ploughman's Lunch,+ and all kinds of whacky low notes came out-- chocolate, caramel, coffee, toffee, and on and on-- making that flowery top note sparkle like the last blast in a Maynard Ferguson trumpet solo.

Ahem. Gee, Jim. Obscure much?


The film of the day most certainly is not this. It most certainly wasn't last night. I don't recall specifically whether it was myself or the Wifey who put this in the queue,* but the other day it arrived in the mail, and last night we tried to watch it. It's baaaaaaaaaaaaad. Bad bad bad bad bad. Stoooopid bad. Mr. Yuck bad. We watched fully half of it, waiting for it to stop being stooopid, but the point at which Amelia Erhart referred to Our Hero's eyes as "cheaters . . . " Well, I corrected her: "Cheaters are glasses." The Wifey turned to me and said "Nearly forty minutes into this, and that's what you have to complain about?" That was it. Back it goes.

Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad.


The film of the day also is not this. I saw my Woody Allen flicks in entirely the wrong order, staring with Sleeper, continuing years later with Manhattan, later catching Zelig, and then finally catching up with Take The Money And Run, and then this. People went gaga for it at the time, thinking it's combination of social and political satire was smart and savvy, but the fact is it's wildly uneven, only sporadically funny, and actually pretty damned mean spirited. Years on, watching this, it's easier to believe that the man would turn out to be a self-important pederast with a fellatio fixation.

This is the film of the day. As any long time reader would know~ I am a fan of HBO productions, especially thier historical dramas. They tend to get most things right, and better still, they tend to capture the feeling of certain times and events right, or at least they seem to. In this, Brendan Gleeson does a fantastic job of capturing Churchill as a man, and the writer (writers? not sure) lifted about 60% of his dialogue from established historical quotes. And lemme just say this: Len Cariou as Roosevelt! Yee-owza, man! Not only is it good to see the old geezer get work, it feels good just to say it. Len Cariou as Roosevelt. Why didn't someone think of that sooner?

So do I recommend it? I've said it before: even if it's not "authentic" Mexican food, if you like it, eat it. This took an awful lot of work to make it worthwhile, but in the end, it was worth it. Your results may vary. It's important to see a bad movie, or at least part of a bad movie, now and then, if for nothing else than just to remind you of what a bad movie feels like. Never, EVER trust Woody Allen or listen to anything he says. (Except the bit in Zelig about baseball, that was genius.) You can watch HBO films or not. For me they are valuable as interpretations of history, except for that Rome garbage, but if you've read your history properly, and in this day and age, nothing says you have, no offense intended, you're not really missing much.

But, damn, man. Len Cariou as Roosevelt. Worth the entire damned trip.

*The Wifey put it in the queue, but I'm not admitting it, because I love her that much.

+And the little empanada bites I am calling "res," as said useless dictionary insists that "res de arador" means "ploughshares." Thus, at long last, the reason for the cockameme title to this piece.

~As if there were such a beast.