FOREIGN LUXURIES

A discussion about Mint Juleps inevitably brought up what was perceived as my "anti-Southern" bias. Which I took pains to point out was not actually a bias against the South or its people, but just one facet of my overall bias against everything to the east of Yerba Buena Island. And their pizza. One of the things that ex-pats from Back East keep bringing up, so that we're sick of hearing it, is how New York or Chicago or East Podunk pizza is different and so much better.

Boys, pizza is important to you. Go home.

Yeah, okay, I'll admit that what is sold as "California Pizza" is pretty damned vile. But the only two locations I know of in San Francisco sell that shit to tourists, and suburbanites who work in the downtown. Many of whom are from so far to the east of Yerba Buena Island that the world ends there.


Southern cooking is, on the whole, far better than pizza.

Years ago, while doing a credit check on a new customer of the company for which I worked, I also looked up the town where they were located. Which sounded lovely. Four actual seasons, hilly terrain, a diverse population that included Asians and Chinese restaurants, plus bookstores and galleries. And, apparently, the fattest most heart-disease-ridden citizenry of the entire country. The overweight heartland.
And we Americans tend towards pudge.
Clogged arteries.


Our need for total gratification means bacon and cheese on everything, and mammaries larger than the rest of the world combined.
As our president says, "yuuge".

All breast pattie, and a pretentious remoulade.
Plus extra bacon and cheese.
Double stacked.

The pipe shown above illustrates restraint. It is not American. Comes from a place where they eat herring. And where bacon and cheese topping is rare. Although when I last visited my brother in Utrecht, we ate at a restaurant where they offered, as an exotic specialty, "Hawaian Porkchops" (!), with, as you probably guessed, a slice of pineapple on top. And melted cheese.
When I asked them to add some bacon, they looked at me funny.
Probably the most uncivilized thing they had ever heard.

I'm rather glad that isn't available here.
But we do have Hawaiian Pizza.
For East Coasters.
Mostly.


It was still distinctly foggy when I went for my early walk today. Auntie with the pistachio coloured hat was already out doing her daily exercise, grumpy uncle was slowly doddering up and down Larkin Street, and many dogs were pooing. The tobacco in my pipe had a mere touch of Burley, but was mostly Red Virginia with a trace of Perique. First pipe of the morning, after strong coffee. Sheer heaven.

If I lived in a place where pizza is the be-all and end-all, I probably would have been mugged, or assaulted by the cops while outside.
Or slipped on stale pizza.


BTW: The East Coast states start at the Nevada border.


As an afterthought, dinner last night was grilled Italian sausages with a sploodge of Sriracha (a vegetable) over stirfried mustard greens, Kwan Miao wheat noodles with garlic, washed down with a strong cup of tea.

Followed by a long satisfying smoke.
All American tobaccos.

California, sadly, does not grow tobacco.
It has to come from back East.
Beyond Yerba Buena.
Pizzastan.

TOBACCO INDEX


==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================