After a somewhat clandestine gallivant about New York City, I have regain a bearing on my geocentric heading. Given a period of time to research and contemplate the workings of some of the top dining destinations, I have come away with a great deal of technique and valuable information.

While many would label my fortunate acquisition of time a vacation, this academic sabbatical was not wasted on any luxury of relaxation. With great thanks to the eleemosynary kindness of many, both knowingly charitable and not, I’ve been gifted with an inoculation of a culture that I have craved and an immersion in a culture that I respect. The adventure of food, theatre, music, exploration, fashion and literature was a constant incursion in my itinerary that required little more than welcome attention to capitalize upon. I don’t need to be another soapbox speaker on the greatness of the city.

A thanks to all the virtuosos that welcomed me into their kitchens.

To help me remember my experiences: Eleven Madison Park, Corton, Daniel, Cafe Boulud, Le Bernardin, Del Posto, Lupa, Brushstroke, Tocqueville and a few more.

As the cycle of work syncopates and I find myself with time, it is my responsibility to make adequate use of that luxury. Given a month, a day, or an hour; ‘waste not, want not’ as it is said. Somewhere along this trek, I absorbed the notion to push wherever and whenever I could. Trussed with my disdain for affectation in those of the ‘big fish in the small pond’ breed, I’ve made a pilgrimage to this nation’s “oceanic waters.” If you don’t measure yourself up against the best in the world, at any time in history, I feel that you would be wasting your time and maybe even your existence.

Though the ultimate goal isn’t clear, that doesn’t excuse me from moving forward. Better you, better world. When I finally decide what needs to be done, I’ll have the tools to execute.

This time, we get gold.

It is with great confidence that this year’s Bocuse Team USA is the one to take the United States to the podium in the coming Bocuse D’or Competition in Lyon 2013. The overwhelming enthusiasm and support for Chef Richard Rosendale and his commis, Corey Siegel were apparent at this year’s qualifying competition at the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park as their kitchen was inundated throughout the five hour competition with white coats and cameras.

While at the Bocuse press conference, the International Bocuse Association announced that, along with the two proteins to be announced six months before the competition in Lyon, this coming event will be slightly altered to introduce some more excitement and suspense. A recipe will be presented to the contestants and they will be required to incorporate this into their platters. While this is certainly a change from the original rules from the competition’s inception 25 years ago, no one is better prepared for any and all hip checks than Richard Rosendale and Corey Siegel.

Here’s a great article with more details.

Boom. Here I am, pursuing one of my many dreams. After a twenty-two hour trek to the wild and wonderful state, I’ve settled into a dumpy joint that I’ve increasingly come to dig as the days go by. This quaint little apartment comes complete with ambient radiator heating, grit-textured walls accomplished by a single coat of dangerously high, lead-based dollar store paint, and floors with grades as inconsistent as those of found on the line marked Spanish 2 on my high school report card. In short, I arrived, I dropped off my things, I went to church, I immediately went to work, I unpacked, and am, as intended, writing my noise to keep the brain steeped in some sort of creative juice.

Now, I’m fairly certain that few, if anyone at all, have any insight as to my view on religion but it’s obvious that I’m no avid, churchgoing man. However, devout as I was to the pursuit of getting here, I was, for obvious reasons, reluctant to tell my grandparents where I was headed. And when I did, I gave them not but a couple weeks to take in the information and try to get me to stay in town to become a doctor. Seeing as I had practically packed my vehicle and was ready to jet, there was little they could do, and so, as their only wish, obligated me to hit the house of the holy pop pop with some sort of consistency.

Now, this was not something but everything of an imposition, and while I was unenthusiastic, I felt that this was the only thing I could slash have given to my grandparents aside from trouble and worry. So I buckled down, buckled up and headed the local location of praise and forgiveness and, as I would throughout my Christian-born life, took my seat in the pew furthest from the alter. Which, as an aside, got me wondering, where these pews and alters and oversized, nonflammable crosses are coming from. Is there a bi-monthly catalog sent out from the church supply warehouse company with offices in some armpit state but with factories located in Laos? I really hope that the six to eight year old sweatshop workers that hand applique these moo moo garbs called robes are non-denominational.

Anyway, this service being Ash Wednesday, I decided to give a listen to the pastor and gave some effort to take in the sermon at large. To paraphrase, since I think every Ash Ketchum gotta ash ‘em all Wednesday discourse is the same, a discourse many found on my collegiate campus failed to incorporate, you don’t brag about being religious or fasting or anything of that sort because it’s just lame; wise words I can identify with. So in light of my commitment in that dude upstairs, which is an odd reference because I’m sure there’s some 300 pound retired bouncer living above me likely to fall into my living quarters at any given moment, I have decided that it best to not be on the constant whine about my life on the hot line. If you really want to know about what I’m doing, give me a ring or we can grab a drink in four.

However, I will say that this job is fairly intense given the three days I’ve been on, and I can only assume that it will get all the more difficult. I’ll have to take the time to thank my previous head chef for running the only kitchen I’ve worked in to be a damn good prep for the weeds I’ll get myself in on and down the line. For the little time I’ve dedicated to what a majority regard as a lifelong pursuit, I’m feeling a bit more comfortable than the next new guy, who is more qualified on paper, is looking. The orchestra should be interrupting me soon but I’d also like to thank everyone that supported my ambition and took the time to see my off all proper.

So this will be my mark as the beginning of a significant changing point in my life; where I go from dreaming to achieving. Whether I go back to church however, is another matter.

Growing up in a major city in Texas often gives you an odd, senseless, sort of pride. The type of pride that, without much rationale, allows you to claim that other major Texas cities are inferior to your own. Dallas? That uncontrollable disease of urban sprawl with a lesser Galleria than that of Houston? Houston? The city that is a travesty of transportation and is covered by a visible dome of smog and pollution? Etc.

However, what brings all the bickering boys and beautiful babies together is an equally sparse respect for the substantial portion of land that is West Texas. I could only wish that this discourse is a contradiction to the assumed, but, West Texas is damn boring. A boring that I had to endure for more than half of my day. Why?

What was an ephemeral interest in pocket billiards early on in my life has now seemingly turned into a lifelong infatuation with the sport, in all its forms. Early in my game, while learning the moves, I inevitably combined my private affair of billiards with my main-squeeze vice of collecting and produced a financially draining hobby of cue collecting. Having touched upon the production cue offerings, I only wanted better equipment and finally ventured into custom cue land. With some forum grazing and a fair amount reading, though unfair to my academic studies at the time, I came to find what still stands as my favorite cue. Though I’ve played with many names and shot with much more, I can’t help but love my Sugartree. Though the criteria for what constitutes a proper cue is endlessly debatable, I find conversational solace that a great cue, like the ST, only makes you love the game more.

So, since that cue, I’ve always wanted to be a cue builder. I wanted to give the joy to others that was given to me by a 58 inch, full-spliced piece of bocote, cocobolo, and maple. Though he would never admit it, I introduced my friend, Joseph Tsai to the world of cue makers outside of the one he frequented, and his inevitably adoration to Eric Crisp of Sugartree cues sprouted from there. A year later, I get a call from Joseph telling me that he’s befriended Eric and that Mr. Crisp would have us for a week to show us around the shop and whatnot. Insert my no less than overly ecstatic response and you have the reason for what is more of a pilgrimage to Alamogordo, New Mexico.

I often try to find the allure and charm in most things but I was given little chance to enjoy the flat, drab xeriscape. So, unless you can find thirteen hours of enchantment in dry, withering shrubs and an array of dead critters by the roadside, I suggest you find someone else to drive and you sleep through the cinematic equivalent of television static called West Texas.

As the melodic twang of Jack Johnson’s guitar resonates through the hillside, a mother proudly grasps the hand of her son. Her smile is as wide as he is tall. The two glance happily toward one another as they stride toward a pergola adorned with plumes of white blossoms and crystal. The son’s father follows carrying a dignified yet equally tender demeanor.

The Austin sun has set but the gloaming light fills the calming air of Villa Antonia. Below the sky dotted with slow-drifting clouds, groomsmen and bridesmaids align themselves in front of the villa’s guests. Two innocent, winsome young girls trail behind as they carefully flail soft red petals to their sides.

As the wedding party falls into place, the bride makes her appearance. Her father accompanies her beaming through his salt and pepper mustache and beard. With a beauty surpassed by none and a smile as radiant as the summer sun, she glides toward her groom. Her long, angelic veil floats just above a lavish but poised bow cradled in luscious folds of ivory.

The ceremony begins with the prose of the priest; punctual and passionate. As his words fall onto the couple’s ears, their eyes, hands, and hearts are locked. The bride’s thumb tenderly strokes the groom’s fingers and they smile. The priest poses a question, to which the groom replies with unexpected confidence, “I DO,” and the bride responds with the same. The priest then requests for the groom to repeat his words. As he does, his voice quavers. His emotions sweep through the guests; surprisingly uncharacteristic, yet so engulfed with warmth.

And whether she was carefully tucking her hair behind her ear or gracefully wiping a tear from her cheek, the sister of the bride couldn’t hide the happiness she felt for her sibling.

The light disappears, fading from a fitting, maroon hue to a warm, dusky evening. The man holds his hand out toward his wife. They join together and gradually step in rhythm on the wooden floor. As pink lights, family, and friends circle the two, they gaze into one another’s eyes and secretly whisper three simple, deep words. Smiling, they shake their heads in disbelief at their current state. Seven years up until today. Only those seven years before eternity.

To Blake and Ali.

(both via jakandjil)

Killer kicks on him, wish I could see what up on her. Clearly using his metro ticket to head to MMM. I’ll let him off on the bottom button rule and you should forgive me for posting this up being as old as it is.

Luckily, this past Saturday, I was able to sneak away from my peers (they went to La Baule, a beach destination near Nantes), for a short rendezvous with the lady of recent interest. I am aware that I and hopefully others, will find that, to a point, a girl becomes much more appealing and that much more attractive after you are given a glimpse into the deeper facets of her life. You can insert the generic analogy of wine and its characteristic appreciation over time here, and however novel that rarely is, given that this is France, I’ll offer a vino metaphor of my own.

I believe that it isn’t uncommon to to better appreciate a wine having known its origins. A large portion of wine marketing can be attributed to the vineyard visit and why wouldn’t it? When you’re able to walk down the rows of vines and follow the rootstock to the grape and the grape to the bottle, and converse with the maker, whom speaks with enthusiasm about her craft or whose eyes glimmer with each curious question you may have in store. How is that not a great bottle to bring home to the parents? How wouldn’t that be better than walking through your local, corporate grocery store and in passing, see a bottle with an attractive label and take her home, pop her open, and chug away? Microcosm for sex? You bet.

Not that Paris and I got that far that day. Being on my own, I was able to go at a pace that is rarely tolerable to most. My boy Will Lee and I did a number on the New York fashion attractions but this lone journey really did hit the spot. I had a hefty laundry list of places to visit and shop and, as I had hoped, led me to find some unique Parisian stops that I may not have found otherwise.

Just to name a few, Surface 2 Air Paris,  jean shop Royal Cheese and sister store Blue Cheese, Ugly Home, E. Dehillerin, Paris’ oldest (200 years) professional kitchenware shop filled with gorgeous hand-hammered copper wares,  and Kiliwatch, a trendy vintages store that I’m sure my friend Gloria P. Cheng would have very much enjoyed/slayed.

This run-in with Paris was a small adventure that I would gladly repeat. I hear it’s conventional to get a good night kiss on date three. I’ll be crossing my fingers.

Walking down a shopping avenue engulfed in the tourists diffused from the nearby monuments, we cross the charming cafes and restaurants. Two rows of manicured trees line the sidewalk. The walkway closest to the shops accommodate the window shoppers and other ephemeral pedestrians. The area enclosed by trees are scattered with outdoor seating for the culinary pit stops. Each a rectangular area surrounded by wooden, rectangular planters housing herbaceous plants and cone-trimmed toy trees and the entire area covered by a simple, steel structure. The basket woven chairs cast in modern contours are sparsely occupied by well-dressed, elderly regulars catching up on one another’s lives. The sky is clear, the sun hidden by a singular cloud, and the wind breathes softly to the south.

My international peers seem to favor a wardrobe without loud hues or loud exclamations of brand affiliation and this holds a truth in regards to their shoes as well. The majority wear, so pleasingly to my eye, plimsole styled shoes in mute, understated colours. This is a trend that I am seeing all the more and a trend that I see in my present, pedestrian acquisitions. To those with a discerning taste, the lack of vibrant colors direct the attention to a shoe’s silhouette, construction, proportions and material qualities. These being characteristics that are regrettably overlooked in the zeitgeist of affordable footwear. The familiarity in play on classic models of Chuck Taylors and plimsoles are reminiscent of the 1970’s era play on Helvetica and its many modified variations and a welcome one at that.

Many brands I’ve discovered here are of a poor, under-representation stateside. Italian brand Superga is quite popular here in France and I’ve become enamored with their famous 2750 Classic, which was originally intended to be a court shoe. The company brand has similarities tied to that of Converse with the worn-in, almost tattered look that you must acquire with consistent wear.

And with Converse and Vans, both with roots in America, leading the way in classic shoes and an east coast, west coast rivalry, I would hope that Superga and Kawasaki (not to be confused with Kawasaki Heavy Industries) lead the European market with a north Europe, south Europe rivalry. Kawasaki is a Danish company with one shoe model that holds the title of best selling shoe in Denmark and with a look that I and resident Parisians are captivated by.

Though I’ve become a fan of these heritage shoe models, this may be a misguided view of the future of mainstream sneaker wear, but there are a number of young brands out, such as generic man, that are creating thoughtful kicks for a new generation of adults. And I know that Common Projects are still hot right now.