On Food & The Art of the Up Sell | Morgan City, Louisiana

April  2012

We spend the night at a truck stop with an adjoining hamburger joint. It is a cavernous space bathed in pink neon lighting illuminating black & white booths. It has the prerequisite 1950’s nostalgia hanging from the walls and an enormous soda fountain counter wrapped around the kitchen like a fist. I have to remind myself I’m in Cajun country and not in California. My server is a robust African American woman with tenacious training in the art of the up-sell. She walks me through the menu of burger choices with such enthusiasm and detail that I am led to upgrading my burger’s ounces, mushrooms, bacon, upscaling my cheese, my fries are curled and made from sweet potatoes to bring the meal to San Francisco prices. I don’t mind a bit, that’s how good she is. The burger comes and it isn’t overdone and of reasonable size. This is the mainstream American measure of a burger outside of San Francisco. It isn’t some amazing Frisco-foraged-find like a kobe beef slider with fried dandelion leaves and French tarragon goat cheese. (I just made that up, call it the Asian Frogman.)

The food scene in San Francisco believes in the basic gospel of the trinity: Organic, Local, and Sustainable. But like any religion it’s the fundamentalists that get the attention. These folks specialize in urban grown, raw, slow cooked, vibrational, foraged, small batch, entrepreneur bred, and a host of other micro attentive endeavors.  Restaurants race to invent the new mashup of ethnic cuisines with reinvented foraged delectables that have been infused with something of pedigree. Here there are no refugees from the Dinner Wars with San Francisco becoming the Vatican of Food and Alice Waters as Pope.  I’m a former foodie practitioner who would rather be served than serve these days. I enjoy documenting how far the SF food fever has flung across the country and am amazed even more to land somewhere it hasn’t yet grazed.

Before I’m even halfway through my burger, I meet my server’s questioning but optimistic smile with an approving nod and she laughs and says “Well we ain’t world famous, fer nothing!  You should try our chocolate milkshake, its outta of this world, you want M&M’s on that?”

Austin TX

-->

Headed out of the Truck Stop for Austin. This sleeping in truck stops is economical but not for your sleep.  At times there have been gurgling Mac trucks idling next to Foxy Brown the whole night. My needs have gotten smaller and my tolerance is high, as long as I have a bathroom, fill my thermos with hot water and sleep in a safer place than a rest stop.

In the AM, I'm heading east on 10 and have 6 hours to get to Austin. The plan is to rendezvous with Ian and Jill, a couple I met briefly in SF.

Crossing Texas in April, the wildflowers make the highway a colorful blur as the desert gives way to lush vegetation and the rolling hills are painted thick with purple and yellow. “Yaw Missy, it’s the right time of year to cross Texas.” A local drawled to me.  This is a fertile area and far from West Texas landscape. I pull into a little town called Fredericksburg settled by Germans. Hence the wineries, beer gardens, galleries and home furnishing stores line the streets of this small town. I’m craving a beer but resist the delay of my Austin arrival by forgoing the Beer Garden temptation. Driving on, we come to President Johnson’s hometown, where they have renamed everything Johnson. Heard the presidential library was excellent but still trying to make time. 

I find myself a $12 a night accommodation in Austin at the Pecan Grove RV Park. It’s nestled in Barton Springs and looks like I’ve found the place that Austin folk go to unwind. The park is lush with rolling hills, picnic tables, a public swimming hole and hiking trails. I park the van, shower, and rendezvous with Jill and Ian at of all places, a beer garden in the newly developed part of Austin, by the airport. Diesel sits under the picnic table and acknowledges every plate of food that gets passed over his head. Jill is a writer and editor for American Fiction, a small non-profit and is working with the SF folks of Litquake for Austin’s version of the literary festival.  Ian is a computer programmer, and an accomplished musician. In retelling my Marfa experience he blurts out that he knows Solange, Beyonnce’s sister.  He sold her a song for one of her albums and she remixed it to end up in one of her movies. Small creative class here in Texas or at least they all know each other. Later Ian would take me around to the Red River Street scene and we would check out three different bars all with live music.

My first day in Austin starts with Jill’s recommendations. I head out to find the bookstore, Domy that she thought I would like and found myself lost and driving by her other recommendation: Wally Workman Gallery. A woman smoking out of the gallery window greets me and I think I love her for that transgression. We discuss Ian Shultz’s work and she tells me he shows in San Francisco. Wally Workman, and that is her name, gave me the tour of her gallery and recommendations on other galleries to check out. Loved Ian Shultz’s large expressionist strokes of his paintings and hope to catch a show of his in San Francisco.

Finding my way to the other side of town, I enter Domy Books. A “creative space” and bookstore. Graphic Novels, self-published writers, a great art show and an event schedule for live readings. Russell, the proprietor loved Diesel and when he heard our story, was eager to give me tips on Austin and where to go. He knew Tim from the bookstore in Marfa and I was beginning to think I am in this network of fascinating people that are conspiring to keep me in their web.  From there we headed out on Russell’s tips. On South Congress we hit the food truck and shop scene. A beautiful airstream ablaze with Hey Cupcake met me with a greedy eye. Musicians lugging equipment to their next gig. Dogs and more dogs, in the bookstores and in a beautiful vintage/object d’art junk shop.

It’s getting close to sunset and I take my leftover lunch from Magnolia Café and hike it down to the South Congress Bridge. There is a crowd forming for the spectacle of the flight of Bats that emerges every evening to feed. By 8pm the nocturnal creatures finally leave their roost and if it weren’t for the red searchlights from the tour boats on the river, one might not see them at all. Apparently, other times of the year make for better viewing.

My first foray into the Austin nightclub scene is to “The Broken Spoke”. Russell recommended it, as it’s a classic real deal Texas Honky Tonk nightclub with live music and two-step dancing. I enter the hall and there is a cover, the woman drawls, “You alone, honey? You gonna dance with men that ask?” I nodded and stuttered something about not knowing how to 2 step. She motions me to go on in, free of charge. I find a table with a woman in full western glitzy outfit. I sit really close to the band as they are tight and pulling me in with every twang on their guitar. Watching the dancing was like watching a free for all interpretation of the 2 step. There were college kids throwing their partners through the air and a ninety-year-old couple moving evenly and smartly through the crowd. Another middle aged man had a swing partner who put them all to shame. The band was tight and the dancers interpreted their music with a Honky Tonk glee. The band introduces the woman sitting with me as she used to play with them. Her voice roars out of this little woman with fantastic clarity and she takes the house down. I’m blushing with that instant fan feeling when she comes back down to sit with me. Jane has her own band now and we have a drink together while her new found fans come up and congratulate her on her fine voice.

Closing my first Austin bar and its only Tuesday.

THE DEPARTURE

THE DEPARTURE

January 26 – February 1, 2012
San Francisco - New Mexico

Packing furiously, then pensively, take a break and have a drink with a friend. Run errands, collect money, and pay bills. Up till 12:30 the night before, just walking stuff to the van from the loft back and forth a million times.  I was methodical but it was never ending. I figured, in the end, I’d sleep in and not do the 6am departure. Why hurry? I have six days to get to New Mexico. 

This is the second road test Foxy Brown gets before the big road trip in April. Her first test was last summer’s excursion in New Mexico, Utah and Nevada for two months, which she managed beautifully for a 1983 Chevy. She is outfitted with a bed, an extra battery to power my office and lights. Two skylights that are rimmed in gold shag rug. With only 50K miles on her she has a long life ahead of her for a child of the 70's.

I’m packing for cold and hot climates; I’m packing a completely functional field kitchen and a complete office. My office entails a laptop, iphone, two backup drives, keyboard, mouse, headphones, speakers, camera, tax files, files, resource books, and blank DVDs. The artwork that will make the trip is the Amusement Architecture series and the few paintings I have done of Maine. I’ll take the raw canvas and lay it on the floor of the van and cover it with a canvas tarp then a rug. I strap in all the paintings that fit along the wall behind the drivers seat. The framed prints of the Birds On a Wire are boxed and bagged and go into the Cargo box on the roof.

For the last time, I take Diesel to Heron’s Head to walk along the bay. I am hyper sensitive about Diesel getting into trouble the day before we leave, as we can’t afford the time or money for a vet visit. Last summer, he wiped out on a run the day we were leaving New Mexico. The poor boy had to travel with stitches and see a vet in Las Vegas to get them out.  But he deserves to get off leash and run a bit along the sea to stretch his legs that will not be stretch for the next couple of days in the van. Of course on our walk, a skank punk girl is walking her aggressive pit bull ahead of us. I slow down but she stops altogether to let her dog run through the wetlands. She then releashs him and he strains and slobbers bloody hell when we pass. Upon our return walk back down the path she has him again off leash. This time I yell to her to releash him so we can pass. She yells back, “ he’s okay, it will be fine.” As the pit bull is charging us with fiendish menace, I stand between Diesel and Satan’s muscle coming our way. I lower myself to brace for impact and yell No! The growling gristle stops at the force of my voice and stands uncertain but still growling and barking in protest. Sensing I have the upper hand I take a threatening step towards it and yell Go! It backs off a little and skank girl comes up and tells me it will be fine as she puts canine warrior on a leash. I’m amazed that Diesel was completely indifferent to this exchange and thrilled the vet bill has been thwarted.  Now is a good time to hit the road.

Base Camp at Joshua Tree

We are finally on the road at 10 am. I’ve got tons of audio books lined up, new music and all my podcasts up to date. But the whistle of my little triangle window that doesn’t fully clasp shut, drowns out my new speakers. Put that on the fix list. Stopped in a truck stop and slept the first night. Made Joshua Tree National Park the next day. Camped there for two beautiful nights then drove down to the strange and faded glory of the Salton Sea area. Stayed over night at a truck stop in Yuma and headed for Tucson in the AM. The next night I stayed with childhood friend, Jill Plotner, she lives in Tucson and found me on Facebook last year. We reconnected last June on my way down to New Mexico. We laughed at old pictures of us at 10 or 11 years old climbing the rocks of Mount Desert Island, Maine. This time, I got to meet her husband and wonderful 21-year-old daughter. 

Picnic at White Sands

On the road again the next morning and took RT 10 down to Las Cruces to stayed at another truck stop. Love the truck stops- free overnight stays, safe, free hot water, showers and nice bathrooms. I text my location to a number of friends who don't think so highly of truck stops. In the AM, we head east and stop at White Sands National Monument…sand dunes from another planet. It’s brilliant white talcum powder sand that looks like snow and boasts the first nuclear bomb exploded here. Well, exploded way north of the Park, but it does border a still active military shooting range. Wonderfully strange New Mexico, we have arrived! We break for a picnic while Diesel finally got to stretch his legs with a run through the dunes.

We arrive in Corrales , New Mexico at 7pm and Sara, my host, is waiting to show me her home, the gallery and my wing of the old adobe. I will be living in this fabulous estate for the next two months as the Artist-In-Residence.