DUCK, DUCK, GOOSE, WAFFLE

Goose & waffles, with poached egg and goosey giblet gravy.

I’ve had chicken & waffles.

I’ve had duck & waffles.

And now, I can happily announce that I’ve had goose & waffles.

Chicken & waffles is a dish with a long Southern pedigree, most notably within the African-American community. (It also, apparently, was also a favorite dish in Pennsylvania Dutch country, owing to its popularity among tourists there.) Typically, it consists of your basic breakfast waffle - think Waffle House - decorated with syrup and butter, served with a few hunks of tasty Southern-fried chicken alongside it. Nice.

A few months ago, I had an upscale version in one of those modern Southern locavore places: duck confit served atop a waffle. Savory and mind-bendingly tasty, it was. (To me, “duck confit” are magic words that will attract me to a menu item like white on rice.)

So much for the backstory.

Yesterday - New Year’s Day - Dee wanted a special breakfast. Pancakes? No, not pancakes. Waffles! (I love making waffles, even though I do it but rarely these days.) And so, the waffle iron was brought forth and waffles were produced in abundance. There were leftovers. What to do?

That is when the proverbial light bulb flashed on above Mister Debonair’s pointy, colander-clad  head. Goose!

Lovely, yummy goose. It’s what duck wants to be when it grows up. It’s what turkeys worship from afar. It’s what the lowly chicken can only aspire to be in the World to Come. Ahhh, goose. Wonderful goose. And having roasted one of these noble fowl only a few days ago, I had tucked away a plastic sack of Goose Remnants in the fridge. It was an easy matter to carve off a few beautiful medium-rare slices from one of the legs, perfect for crisping up in our carbon-steel skillet.

Not only was there goose, there was giblet gravy made from (of course) the bird’s gizzard, heart, neck, and liver, along with stock simmered down from the carcass. And thanks to its surface depressions, AKA Syrup-Traps, a waffle makes an excellent Gravy Conveyance Device. That was what converted what would have been a merely exceptional breakfast dish into one that was Food Network-worthy. Topping the whole affair with a poached egg - the ultimate hipster decoration - didn’t hurt one bit.

Yeah, I ate it. I ate the whole fucking thing. Mister Debonair could do no less.

2015 - AVE ATQUE VALE

A good year is like a good cocktail - containing the right balance of sweet, sour, and bitter. Pictured: the Aviation.

Today is the last day of 2015.

Forty years ago, on this very day, I met Dee - and less than two years later, we would be husband and wife. The story of our first meeting is entertaining enough in its own right that it merits its own post, but that it took place has led to our mutual histories being what they are today. Despite - or perhaps because of - all the water that has gone under the bridge since then, I cannot imagine not having met her. Our two daughters would probably agree.  

Every year leaves a slightly different impression when one looks at it in the rear-view mirror - rolls it around on the tongue, so to speak - and as each calendar year surges to its inexorable close I always pause to savor its aftertaste, its peculiar blend of tastes and aromas. Years are like cocktails, I suppose: The best ones always have multiple layers of flavor. Months of sweetness are punctuated by dark, sour times, and once in a while an intense attention-grabbing moment of bitter grief comes along.

Leave it to Mister Debonair to work through his year-end maudlin moments by using bartending analogies. But, hey, it works. Let’s go with it...

We sit at the Great Cosmic Bar every year, and we order up our Tipple o’Life. Give us a sweet year, we say... but we don’t really mean it. (Would you order a simple syrup and soda on the rocks at a real-world cocktail bar?) It doesn’t matter what we ask for, though, because what we are served is what we’d get if we said, “Ohhh, the hell with it. Surprise me.” It’s always a surprise.

So let’s pick apart the waning year’s recipe, shall we? A warm base liquor of family and friends to provide a mellow and yet mildly intoxicating backdrop. Happy moments for sweetness. Throw in a disappointment here and a miscommunication there to provide acid notes: Unalloyed sweetness can be cloying. Then there are the bitters, the ingredient without which no cocktail is truly complete. Illness. Death. Pain. Loss. Without them, the sweetness becomes sameness. It loses its savor.

Most of us think we would be perfectly happy doing without all of that grief and suffering. Just give me a Kool-Aid, please! (Without the extra Jonestown touch.) So what if it’s a kid’s drink?

Cocktails, though - drinks for grown-ups - have bitters.

Proportions matter. You use a jigger for most cocktail ingredients. You use a dropper for bitters.

That’s because bitters are tricky. Strong. Too much, and what should be subtlety becomes intolerably in-your-face. And yet, without them, a cocktail is lifeless. Dull.

May your 2016 be the perfect draught for you, Esteemed Reader - the ideal proportion of base, sweetener, acid, and bitter. And may the Big Guy who mixeth your Cosmic Cocktail refrain from squeezing that bitters dropper too hard.

Happy New Year!

MURPH

Several of my former confederates at the Great Corporate Salt Mine got together for a holiday luncheon at one of the local burger palaces. About two-thirds of the group is currently retired; the ratio would have been closer to 50:50 working vs. retired, except for the fact that the ones that are still actively employed were too busy doing useful work than to lollygag at lunch.

Seeing the old gang was pleasant enough, but it did not fill me with nostalgic yearning for the Salt Mine. This did not surprise me.

As we prepared to leave, one of the fellows announced, “I’m going to pay Mrs. Murphy a visit.” It didn’t take a great leap of imagination for Mr. Debonair to suss out what he meant: He was going to visit the restroom. The phrase was clearly an alternative to the ever-popular “I’m going to see a man about a horse,” a way of quietly announcing that you will be absent for a few minutes on a personal errand that does not require more specific description in polite company. (For this purpose, one could also simply say, “Please excuse me for a moment,” but where’s the poetry in that?)

Interesting turn of phrase, that. I wonder what it says about Mrs. Murphy.

And now I have an entirely new theory as to who threw the frog in Mrs. Murphy’s chowder.

A COCKTAIL FOR THE MAN ABOUT TOWN

Boulevardier cocktail, presented in a vintage etched-glass coupe.

The fine fellow you see pictured above is a Boulevardier.

I first learned of his existence some months back, in an evening out with Houston Steve and our respective brides.  I had two... and that would have been enough all by themselves.  (Alas, we followed those up with a few Provençal Martinis after we arrived at our house.  Splendid days.)

If you combine gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth in a cocktail glass, you get a Negroni.  Swap out the gin for bourbon, and you have a Boulevardier: literally, a “man about town.”  What better tipple for Mister Debonair?

Boulevardier

1½ ounces bourbon
1 ounce Campari
1 ounce sweet vermouth

Combine with ice in a shaker; stir well and strain into a cocktail glass.  Garnish with a cherry.

When I made my Boulevardier, I used Knob Creek single barrel reserve bourbon, a ferociously potent base.  For the vermouth, I selected Carpano Antica Formula, made with a recipe that dates back to the eighteenth century.  And Campari is, of course, in a category by itself: With a squirt of soda water and a squeeze of lime, it’s SWMBO’s favorite apéritif.

It is, indeed, a perfect cocktail for the Man about Town.  And that’s no Boulshit.

MISTER DEBONAIR’S USEFUL TIPS AND TRICKS

One of my Esteemed Readers recently posed the question: Have you ever dropped your cell phone in the toilet?  And what did you do to fix it?

Now, let it be said that Mister Debonair does not generally offer tech support.  Nor does he involve himself in matters that are best left to “Hints from Heloise.”  It is unseemly.  Nevertheless, if someone has taken the time to reach out, as it were, who is Mister Debonair to withhold a helping hand?

In the event one has suffered the tragedy of dropping a cell phone in the Water Closet, the first order of business is to fish it out... which will be a task with varying degrees of unpleasantness, depending upon how much, ahem, business has been transacted prior to Phone-Droppage.

Immediately rinse the phone under cool running water, for reasons both obvious and subtle.  You must remove any substances that might act as electrolytes... and, of course, any Toilet-Cooties, assuming you wish to ever use the phone again.

Now set the phone in a bowl of uncooked rice overnight. Thanks to its hygroscopic properties, the rice acts as an absorbent, soaking up most of the water (and, one hopes, most of the Toilet-Cooties.)  In the morning, take the phone out and attempt to turn it on. If it works, feel free to use it, although, on account of the aforementioned Toilet-Cooties, you may wish henceforth to hold it at a discreet distance from your face.  If it does not work, a visit to your local Cell Phone Purveyor may be in order.

Do not eat the rice.  (Do I even need to mention this?)

Even better, take the “ounce of prevention” route and do not use your phone while you are using the Water Closet. Who the hell wants to listen to you dropping the kids off at the pool, anyway?

MR. DEBONAIR’S SHAVING CREAM SERAGLIO

In Days of Old, kings, whenever they were feeling the slightest bit randy, would select a young lady from their hareems with whom to spend a pleasant evening committing Unmentionable Activities.  Presumably, the benefits of variety outweighed the disadvantages of expense and aggravation.

Your old friend Mr. Debonair was thinking about that fine old institution this morning as he visited his own personal hareem.

Women?  Is Mr. Debonair polygamous?

Perish the thought.  There is only one woman - nay, lady - for Mr. Debonair, and that would be, of course, the redoubtable Ms. Dee.

No: I speak of my collection of various creams and soaps, all devoted exclusively to the daily ritual of rasage, the scraping of little bitty hairs from where they grow on my face.  It’s my Shaving Cream Seraglio, and every day I get to decide which of its occupants will grace my Facial Follicles.

Being Mr. Debonair, I tend to use high-end shaving products.  The bargain-priced aerosol can of Barbasol is not my style.  It’s not that my face requires special Fancy-Pants treatment; it’s simply that I like to make necessary daily rituals as pleasant as possible.  (Which is why I also prefer single-malt mouthwash.)  Not only that, but I have found, over the course of years, that the more pricey shaving soaps often are more economical on a cost-per-shave basis, owing to their enhanced lubricative properties.

One of my favorites is Kiehl’s White Eagle Ultimate Brushless Shave Cream.  The slightly medicinal menthol-camphor aroma is not for everybody, but I find it cooling and refreshing.  The 2.5 ounce tube is just right for travel - the only problem is the opaque tube, which always keeps you guessing as to just how much is left in it.

Bath and Body Works carries an excellent product: C. O. Bigelow Premium Shave Cream with Eucalyptus and Menthol. It’s made by the same folks who make Proraso, that snazzy Italian shaving cream that comes in a tube, and near as I can tell this is the exact same stuff.  A honkin’ big 5.2 ounce tube lists for $10, but if you catch one of B&BW’s frequent BOGO sales you’re looking at paying all of five simoleons for an eighteen month’s supply - the stuff is just that efficient.  As with the Kiehl’s cream, a (very) little goes a long, long way.  But unlike the Kiehl’s White Eagle, the Bigelow goop comes in an aluminium tube just as toothpaste used to do back in the old days.  It is very easy to see how much is left in the tube at any given time, particularly if one is (like Mr. Debonair) scrupulous about carefully flattening the tube and rolling it up from bottom to top.  (Squishing the middle of the tube is nekulturny.)

Both of the above products are brushless shave creams that I typically apply with the tips of the fingers.  Once in a while, however, I want a more tactile shaving experience, one that involves a brush.  For that I crack open the Crabtree and Evelyn Sandalwood Shave Soap, conveniently and elegantly packaged in its own little wooden bowl.  It’s relatively pricey at $22, but it lasts for what seems an eternity... especially when used in rotation with the other members of my Shaving Cream Seraglio.  I don’t know if I purchased it for the bowl or for its pleasant aroma of sandalwood, but it provides a nice counterpoint to the others both in fragrance and method of use.

Which of them is best?  Why, that is ever so much like asking an Oriental Potentate which of the members of his hareem he prefers.  And of course, the correct answer is the same in both cases: “All of them... but it may be best if one enjoys only one on any given day.”  Thus sayeth Mr. Debonair.

Update: One of the comments on this post was left by one mantic59, who styles himself the Shave Tutor and is apparently some sort of wet-shave guru with several YouTube videos to his credit. (Here’s one.)  His real name, incidentally, is Mark Herro, and he also has a blog - Sharpologist - devoted to the manly art of shaving.  But here’s what I really like about Mr. Herro: He is the exact opposite of a comment spammer, having left a comment that was pertinent to the content of the blog post to which it was attached, with no links save for one to his (unavailable) Google profile.  He did not comment as an exercise in self-promotion, rather, simply to add to the discussion.  Mr. Herro is an honorable blogger - and he takes shaving very seriously.  Take a few minutes to check out his videos; it is time well spent.  (Unless you use one of those execrable electric razors, in which case shame on you.)

DINNER WITH MISTER DEBONAIR

My Esteemed Readers will often ask me, “Mister Debonair, how should I go about the business of impressing a Special Someone?”

This is a timely question, because I found myself in that exact situation only yesterday. It was SWMBO’s birthday, and I wanted to celebrate the occasion in an appropriately festive, yet romantic, manner. Most people would choose to spring for an expensive feed at some intimate boîte... but I am not most people. No, this occasion demanded something with a certain je ne sais quoi.

As I thought about options for the evening, I remembered a time long ago, back in the earliest days of our relationship, when I fixed a home-cooked meal for the young lady who would eventually become The Missus. Then, as now, I believed that an elegant meal, personally and painstakingly prepared in the Home Kitchen, is far more impressive and romantic than anything you could get at a restaurant. (That, and you need not worry about tipping the surly waitstaff for expectorating in your mashed potatoes.) Then, unlike now, I believed that SWMBO would enjoy the exact same foods I do, including lamb.

After over thirty-five years, I am still a believer in the grace and elegance of a home-cooked meal. But I know better than to serve leg of lamb to the Missus, who would sooner pound nails into her skull with a ball-peen hammer than eat of the tender, wooly beast.

No: the evening’s menu would be simple, yet appetizing... and fully acceptable to She Who Must Be Obeyed. No lamb. No duck. No dark meat chicken. No goat cheese. No excessively frizzy lettuce, raw onions, or beets.

I opted for hanger steak, a flavorsome, yet relatively lean cut of beef, which I pan-seared and served with sautéed shallots and a red wine reduction. Accompanying this was a salad of vine-ripened tomatoes with fresh basil, a sprinkling of fines herbes, a splash of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and a light dusting of Balinese sea salt. By way of a vegetable, I roasted off some Brussels sprouts and dressed them with chopped capers and preserved lemon.

The drinky part of the meal was a lovely 2007 Mandolin pinot noir.

We dined by the light of candles, the two of us, and SWMBO’s grey-blue eyes reflected their soft glow, just as they did in the days when we first met. I don’t know whether the dinner impressed her - but she still impresses the hell out of me.

So take Mister Debonair’s advice: If you want to make a big romantic splash with that Special Someone, get out your pots and pans... and don’t forget the candlesticks! (I’d rethink the Brussels sprouts, though. Nothing will kill a Romantic Evening faster than a bellyful of Fart Balls.)

ON MEN AND MONKEYSUITS

My friend Phreddy was looking at Facebook a couple of days ago and saw a photograph of me wearing a tuxedo. “For why you got on the monkey suit?” he asked.

Monkey suit, indeed. Monkey suit is a venerable slang term for a tuxedo, a term that is also used by some to refer to any uniform. And that makes sense, because a tuxedo - any kind of formal dress, really - is a sort of uniform.

Somewhere in the bowels of Chez Elisson there is a photograph of Yours Truly at my high school Junior Prom, a model of nerdish elegance in my rented white dinner jacket. (It was the custom at our high school, back then, for young men to wear a white dinner jacket to Junior Prom, a “standard” black tuxedo to Senior Prom.) That was, as it surely is for many adolescents even now, my first experience with formalwear.

Technically, Black Tie - a tuxedo or white dinner jacket - is semi-formal dress. (The term “Formal Dress” refers to White Tie, of which more later.) But semi-formal or formal, it was a whole different world compared to the normal “dress-up clothes” with which I was familiar.

A shirt with French cuffs was no big deal, but a pleated-front shirt with studs in lieu of buttons - that was new to me. The trousers with a satin side seam, and the braces to hold them up, also new. Ditto the shiny patent leather shoes and this mysterious contraption called the “cummerbund.” And a bow tie was something I hadn’t worn since grade school.

But somehow, I managed to put the whole thing together, and the effect was (so they tell me) quite dashing as I escorted my diminutive (but well-endowed) prom date around town over the course of the evening. (How dashing a young gentleman can be while being ferried about on his date by his father is a question better left to another occasion.)

Over the years, I had infrequent occasion to wear any sort of formal clothing... and it’s probably just as well. At my wedding, I wore what then seemed wonderfully elegant and today seems completely ridiculous: an off-white tailcoat trimmed with brown lapels, matching trousers with brown side seam, white ruffled (!) shirt, and brown bow tie and cummerbund. Yeef. My only excuse was that it was the 1970’s, a decade packed with sartorial horrors. (At least I never owned a leisure suit.)

As time went on, however, I began to understand that, at least in formalwear, the ephemeral fashions of the day were not the point. Formal clothing is designed to flatter the wearer in a hundred subtle ways, as well as to provide a contrasting background against which a Feminine Companion might better shine in her own finery. Now I favor the more traditional look, a peak-lapel black wool tuxedo jacket with grosgrain silk lapel facing. And when I wear it, I truly feel like Mister Debonair.

If you really want to be Mister Debonair, however, you have to deal with the strict rules of White Tie, the highest order of male civilian attire. Unlike Black Tie, for which there is plenty of leeway for self-expression, there are stylistic forms that must be followed lest one look like a total boob at a state dinner or (extremely) formal wedding. I’ve never dipped my toe into the waters of Full Dress formality, but it would be wonderful to have an excuse to do so at least once in my lifetime. Until then, Black Tie will needs be debonair enough.