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September 16 2008
Still basking in the afterglow from a short trip out to San Diego to visit good friends Ed and Jen, I hunted up an email from Ed from last summer. A California 25 year California State Lifeguard, he’s always got a great story in his back pocket.
Last Friday, Ed, Jen and my wife and I took his RV up to Cardiff-by-the-Sea for some beach side sunset watching and some wine before hitting the Chart House for a great dinner. My tasting notes aren’t all that important, but the 1994 Cakebread Merlot, with notes of black cherry, black raspberry, Dr. Pepper, dust, black olive and sage was made all the more enjoyable by a spirited re-telling of the below story.
This is why I befriend cool people in cool places—his stories beats the pants off my stories and, well, Cardiff beats the pants off suburban Indianapolis, IN, too. But, we have a grrrrreat cost of living.
Ed and the Moray Eel by Ed Vodrazka
*Editors Note* Story takes place in San Diego at a stretch of state owned beach just south of Torrey Pines. And, if I’m not mistaken Black’s Beach is a clothing optional beach where dudes go into standing, statuesque full repose.
Last week someone caught a Moray Eel near Black’s Beach, then dumped it in a small pool in the tide pool area…the thing would have soon died…thus I was summoned to help. With an anxious crowd of 20 gathering, I got into the pool with the 4-foot serpent to “rescue him”.
The image that was in the forefront of my mind was the video I had been sent the previous month. It was of a French diver who was being filmed while he was feeding hot dogs to a similar-looking Moray Eel. All was fine until he ran out of dogs before the Morey was “full”. When the Frenchman opened his hands to show the eel there was nothing left, the Moray simply chomped his jaws squarely around the Frenchman’s thumb. The filmmaker captured the unfolding drama of the man’s underwater screams and the flowing stream of blood rising in the salt water. Then suddenly the film stopped…the next image was the Frenchman in his hotel room some days later, holding up a stubby little joint where his thumb used to be.
Anyways, that image was in my mind when I carefully managed to coax my own Moray successfully into a laundry basket (all I could find on short notice). My hero status soon abated and the cheers quickly died when I realized that the Morey had a substantial fishhook (with line) embedded deep in his mouth (past those shiny white teeth). Clearly, my Buddhist conscience would not allow me to go with my initial plan of quickly flopping him back into the sea while I could turn and address the adoring crowd.
I brought him back to the shade of the jeep while, unfortunately the crowd had now grown to over 50 (did I mention it was Memorial Day?). I cannot remember ever reading the directions for fish hook removal from a live Morey Eel in any of our Lifeguard Manuals…so sort of had to “wing it”. A high-strung woman stood uncomfortably close to me and decided to point out (loudly) a helpful little nugget of insight…stating “his teeth are huge!”
I grabbed a pair of pliers and tried to hold the Morey down on the sand for the extraction…but in a second, I discovered a major problem…No sooner than I tried hold the eel’s head down on the sand; I discovered that how incredibly strong they are. While securing the “business end” of the creature, he immediately wrapped his entire body around my forearm so tightly that we had instantly reversed roles…I felt every muscle in my forearm being squeezed…he had now become the “holder” and I the “holdee”. Once my forearm was adequately secured, he simply levered his slimy head out of my paltry grip…and despite my attempt to hold that eel with all my strength, he effortlessly slithered his head free of my hand. Oddly, in that instant the phrase “slippery as an eel” popped into my mind and I realized that I was clearly in way over my head. In the next nano-second, “securing the thing” now became the last thing I wanted to do…and “releasing” the serpent became a far more desirable goal. However, he would not let go of me. There was his mouth, all agape with those white teeth glaring at me. At this point in the action the high-strung woman who, for some reason had crowded even closer to me, decided (in an apparent attempt to calm me down) to scream “LOOK OUT FOR THE TEETH!!!” at around 700 decibels. As if my awareness could be ANYWHERE ELSE besides on those teeth. I made a fist to protect my fingers to minimize the chances that he might mistake them for a hot dog and shook my arm as if it was on fire. Suffice to say it was not my most graceful moment. While I continued to fling my arm wildly, my mind flashed on my beautiful Collings guitar at home…and I hoped that I would get through this ordeal with the ability to play it again one day with all ten of my digits.
By the grace of Neptune, he released me and fell back onto the sand. The disappointed crowd watched the flop dismount which marked the end of the first round of our encounter. The score: Moray -1, Lifeguard - 0.
Now I love wildlife as much as the next guy, but I’ll admit that at that point I seriously considered kicking the friggin’ eel back into the surf line to let him work out his little “fishhook dilemma” on his own. My compassion surfaced, as I knew that he could not eat with that thing in, and if I did not get it out, he would certainly die. And, more to the point, the crowd had grown even larger and now included several amazed children who stood in awe of me. I could not let them see what a wuss I was…(even though I will admit to you that I am).
With the eel staring up at me defiantly waiting my opening move of round #2, I had a rare moment of intelligent thought. I knew I was not going to try the “slimy slip grab” maneuver again. Instead, I grabbed a hand full of sand and covered him with it. He was still unbelievably strong and still pretty damned slimy, but at least now the luster of his slime had been somewhat abated. In truth, he no longer looked like the deadly “finger killer” that I had perceived him to be. Now, covered with a healthy dusting of beach sand, he looked little more ferocious than a breaded veal cutlet.
We entered back into the scrum for round two…and he still had plenty of slimy strength. The fight was considerable. It was my 160 pounds of middle aged pudge versus his 5 pounds of pure, unbridled muscle ripping, lean, mean, venomous, rip your face off by your lips, torqued and loaded snake-like tension maxed, piss and vinegar.
Well, it was not pretty and it was not smooth but in the end, I stepped away breathing hard, with a generous helping of slime from my fingertips up to my biceps…but he had flopped back onto the sand with the majority of his orophaynx intact. And, more importantly in my right hand was a pair of pliers that held a partially bent, rust stained, #3 fishhook. The crowd, of course went wild.
Seconds later I flopped the eel back in the surf line where he slithered through the inside waves to reunite with his eel-kin. I am sure his version of the story will be a little bit different…but trust me, I have witnesses…I won. Regardless, the eel was free to return to a far more normal life. The one thing we would most certainly agree upon is that we’d both happy to never see each other again.
September 15 2008
I can recount my extreme eating events on one hand. There was the Double Bypass Burger at the Vortex in Atlanta, Hot Chicken in Nashville and a 2 lb lobster tail this past Saturday.
Now, before you mention that 2 lb lobsters are not that big of a deal, please let me note that this was a 2 lb tail off what had to have been at least a 9 lb Pacific spiny lobster.
Assuredly, lobster tails do not come this big very often and they do not come this big when they are hand caught by a friend. Pacific spiny lobsters do not particularly like to be caught, either—by hand or by trap. They are much fiercer creatures than their East Coast brethren are. To wit, check out the armor on that guy below.
My wife and I visited dear friends in San Diego this past weekend. We go out annually and it is always a chance to recharge the batteries—no cell phone, no laptop, and no blogging.
I get a kick out of my friend, a state lifeguard, who free dives for spiny lobsters every year and he, presumably, gets a kick out of a Midwesterner, who, well, does not free dive for spiny lobsters. Trust me, I get the better end of the deal.
Ed and Jen always roll out the red carpet, but giving me proprietary right to the lobster hand caught last September about 300 feet off the shoreline at Torrey Pines State Park in San Diego was something, particularly when the other lobster tails at the table were of the more normal 8 oz. variety. I felt like C-3PO at the end of Return of the Jedi.
The irony is, this lobster with Ed, and all of my other extreme eating adventures, wine always plays a minor player on the dining stage; perhaps a step backwards for overall gustatory pleasure, but with good reason.
With my gigantic lobster on Saturday night, I willfully and gleefully drank a Rabbit Ridge Vortex – a red blend. No chardonnay here, the wine not a great match to the seafood, but do you think I cared for a second as I powered through this exercise in extreme eating? Not for a second. This wine thing with Ed, something of a wine mentor to me, is almost a game – how much can he and I dork out on wine, yet be completely utterly free of pretense. Hence the red wine with lobster, drunk out of a coffee mug. Overall, it helps me stay grounded and I appreciate that.
With cholesterol racing through my veins, I drank my red wine with pleasure and the notion that never again will I ever eat a lobster tail that big and it will not be because of lack desire, it will be because of price.
Thanks go out to Ed and Jen for a sublime time and wonderful hospitality.
*Updated* Check out the gargantuan portion on the plate. Some 72 hrs. later, I still think my heart is chugging through all of that cholesterol.
September 8 2008
What would you do if somebody dropped $500 in your lap and made you spend the money?
Most of us would head to the wine shop (or online) and spend the money on some vinous goodness.
Today, I am wishing I had my money back.
Earlier this Summer I signed up for the Court of Master Sommelier Introductory Course & Exam held in Indianapolis, IN today and tomorrow.
The cost—just $500 dollars and two days off work. It seemed doable at the time.
However, as I got closer to the time, with an out of town trip scheduled at the end of this week (and the promise of a 1994 Duckhorn Cabernet) to visit friends, work obligations seemed too pressing to break away.
A couple of things I hate about this circumstance:
• I hate the notion that I deem my work more important than my personal life
• I hate the fact that I completely just kissed $500 away for a non-refundable class
• I hate the fact that I won’t be able to nail the certification and give myself a credential
But, mostly, I hate losing $500 bucks that I will never see again.
Instead, I wish I would have called an audible a couple of weeks back, received at least a partial refund and then spent that money on some wine.
The class syllabus would have had me going through a good foundation of wine basics (and, frankly, a lot of stuff that my California-centric knowledge base could use):
• Viticulture
• AOC rules
• Bordeaux
• Loire Valley
• Alsace
• Rhone Valley
• Burgundy
• Languedoc-Roussillon
• Southwest France
• Champagne (including sparkling wine production techniques)
• Spain
• Portugal
• Italy
• Germany
… and every other major wine producing area in the world.
Alas, I am left with my Oxford Companion to Wine as my solace, my wallet a touch emptier.
Don’t tell my wife (who in holding up her matrimonial duties is mildly annoyed that I have wasted $500), but I think I’m going to go buy a ½ case of vino from Alsace, Austria, the Rhone Valley and Italy (Piedmont) as the salve to my wallet hurt – I have a California knowledge base, and what could be more American than spending money as a reward for losing money? I think a sage calls this, “throwing good money after bad.”
I pose the question to you – if you have been given $500 bucks for wine, from what area would you buy?
September 6 2008
The good news is that if you’re a wine lover and a college football fan, as I am, you have twice the reason to love this time of year.
Today, the first weekend in September, is the best time of the year. Period.
The perfect day for me? Good wine and a Notre Dame victory. Go Irish!
September 4 2008
So, I tune into the Republican National Convention last night to see what a 44 year-old attractive, archconservative, gun-totin’, female Governor, with an infant son, a husband who wins snowmobile races and a teen daughter who is pregnant, a self-styled Hockey Mom, who believes global warming isn’t man made and that drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge seems like a dandy idea, has to say as the VP candidate on the Republican ticket.
And then I hear her talking about energy independence and the wild-eyed, pasty young white dudes and blue hairs in the crowd start getting rowdy and chanting “Drill baby, drill!” in regards to exploring oil in Alaska.
And, while I’m no politico, and stay somewhat neutral to both camps, I’m thinking to myself are these people friggin’ nuts? If these people aren’t nuts, they have to be drunk.
Sure enough, I think they were plied with some wine to loosen them up prior to Rudy Giuliani’s speech. Again, I’m not political, but I think the hook needs to come for Giuliani from stage right ... enough with the 9/11 glory mongering.
A quick bit of research led me to this special wine for all of the RNC convention-goers. A 2001 for a Chardonnay, too. Methinks nobody will notice that its probably a nice straw amber color at this point.
But, last nights events make a whole lot more sense now. Too much wine leads to social lubrication and some crazy cheers like, “Drill, baby, Drill.”
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