Rickster "The Original Non-Elite Elite" Q.'s Profile

I have to admit that I enjoy an adult beverage every now and then. (Okay, it is a little more "now," and a little less "then.")

And, I also must confess that it's been more than a few years since I attempted to sneak into a bar with a forged identification. (Matter of fact, I can't remember if I ever tried to gain entry into an adult establishment when I wasn't totally legal.)

And, one of the downsides of sliding a little bit more into the mature side of life is finding a drinking establishment that caters to a diverse clientele. People that know me can attest that I've never been a great respecter of age. But, I'm not (and never have been) a fan of joints where puking is a competitive sport. (And, yes, I can still probably drink you under the proverbial table. And, nope, I'm not proud of that fact.)

Yep, it's a total bitch getting a tad older.

Unfortunately, Dallas is sparse on places that have an uber cool factor, but can bring 'em in across the spectrum of ethnicity, gender, profession, and age.

Now, I have to say, when I want to quaff one or two after a long day, you won't find me trying to find a bud or two to tag along. Matter of fact, I'm one of those types that prefers to wander into my watering holes solo--and nope, not to scam on chicks (that train has long left the station and she ain't a comin' back)--but to practice my favorite hobby--that being a social anthropologist of sorts, studying the habits of our fair species when sucking down 120 proof.

And, when I do, one of my favorite stomping grounds where I can catch faces across the social spectrum is The Loon. Yep, on the right night, The Loon provides plenty of opportunities to master my hobby while still enjoying a tasty beverage.

After my years of careful analysis and research in peddlers of libations, such as The Loon, I've come up a with a list of observations about patrons visiting their favorite barkeep:

1. Guys and women--if they're young enough to call you "pops" or "mom," please--Don't. Even. Try. While you might think that you're still happenin'--you really look like a damn and pathetic fool. And, at worse, a creepy (but maybe legal) pedophile of sorts.

And the same thing is true in reverse. If that younger dude or dudette is saddling up to you trying to get their groove thang on, trust me, it's really not your charming personality or killer a** that is the object of their affection. Men, it's more likely the potential contents of your wallet which entices a few extra beats of their heart. And ladies, you're probably just a tad easier than that twenty-six year-old a few bar stools down.

2. Dudes, are you really that desperate where you have to triple or quadruple-team one single chick sitting at the bar? I really don't think that all four of you are going to get lucky with the same girl.

3. And women, tell me what are the attractive qualities about that guy groping you at the bar who has Ed Hardy stenciled from head-to-toe, shouts 30 decibels higher than anyone else in the joint, and in general, is just one giant prick? The best I can ascertain, it must be that lingering, instinctual urge, dating back many tens of thousands of years, to date a Neanderthal.

4. And guys, if the bar already has 90% dudes in the joint when you enter and you are obviously on the female prowl, your chances are not going to improve by making it 93%.

5. Ladies, despite what that cute dude at the bar just told you, it's almost a sure bet that he didn't win the Gatorade 500 that day at the Texas Motor Speedway.

Yep, I gotta admit that The Loon represents a most excellent Petri dish for my experiments on male and female social behavior in an adult beverage setting.

And, if you want a stout drink and some good people watchin,' might I suggest The Loon?

Sometime back in the nineties, a long-forgotten date introduced me to the joys of Louie's.  At that time, it was located in a somewhat sketchy neighborhood on Henderson.   While it had the flavors of being a somewhat divey joint , it didn't quite pass muster as a true dive since too many of the patrons were just a tad too cool (like moi) for it to qualify for the hard-core dive bar scene.

While my date at that time didn't make the grade for inclusion in my continued rotation, Louie's certainly did.  And over the years, I've been a regular inhabitant of the broken stools that dined Louie's bar.  Sometimes I was in for a pizza; other times, it was just a Jack-on-the rocks after a long and hellacious day.

So, needless to say, Louie's has been one of my favorite joints in the Big D for well over a decade.

Shortly after my near-death experience earlier this year (and I'm not joking) and in the midst of my post-accident recovery, I heard that Louie's was going to be on Diners, Drive-in's and Dives.
 
"Oh, shit," thought I, as I eyed my wheelchair and took great pity on myself.  So, needless to say, it was some months since that terrible day where I had the opportunity to visit Louie's once again.

So, a few months back, when the body started to heal a tad, I made the pilgrimage to Louie's for one more magical pizza.

I must say, I was shocked.  Despite going in on a late weekday night, a hostess was in place busily taking names for a very full Louie's--something I had never seen given the night and time of the week.  Mystified, I asked one of my fellow barstool patrons, "What the eff is going on in here?"

"You didn't hear?" said he, "Louie's was on DD&D."

I snatched my pizza and left.  I don't do well in a so-called dive-bar circus.

I let a few months go by until I tried Louie's again.  This time, on a Sunday night near 7 PM.  And on this particular night, much like the last, people were fighting for a parking spot where just a few years earlier, few would be seen on the street on that day and time of the night.

When I walked in, the joint was packed--and again, the hostess manned the door telling folks there was a wait for a table.  WTF?

I took a seat at the bar and ordered my time-honored Jack-on-the-Rocks (along with my pizza to-go), and within a few moments I noticed someone sitting at the bar next to me.  I turned and looked.  Yep-- next to me at Louie's bar waiting for table (which  at once-upon-a-time one of the coolest joints in Dallas), was--with her parents-- a thirteen-year-old girl.   I'm sorry, I just don't know why, but I don't enjoy getting a buzz on sitting next to a thirteen-year-old at a bar.

And as I waited for my pizza, families filled the joint from places like Waco and Anna, a few donned in their monster-truck tees and white Reebock's, happily enduring their own pilgrimage to the Big D, describing with mystical reverence how they saw Louie's on DD&D.

I'm sorry, Louie's.
 
Despite our close association of probably hundreds of times, I'll never be back.  You've rejected your hard core regulars for a little Tee-Vee fame.

And, by the way, while your pizza might not blow serious chunks, it's no longer that special pie I once loved.  

Matter of fact, in a pinch, I think the Red Baron will do just fine.

While some Halloween nights are more frightful than others, I wasn't exactly prepared for the horrors which unfolded this past Saturday night.

Staying true to my long-honored tradition, I once again hosted a séance hoping to make some contact with the recently departed. In past years, due to my skills with the Ouija board, I've been rewarded with a bitchin' martini recipe from W.C. Fields, a post-mortem knock-down-and-drag-out between Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and learning the final whereabouts of Amelia Earhart, revealed directly from the horse's mouth. (Don't ask.)

Unfortunately, none of these former glories were to be experienced on this particular Halloween. While this year's theme was reaching out to dead rock stars who left these mortal bounds through causes outside of substance abuse, my friend, Alistair, insisted that we attempt to contact Fatty Arbuckle of silent film fame. Convinced that Alistair had succumbed to a bad case of psychotic-tinged reefer madness, he was banished to car duty for ferrying strawberry wine coolers from Tom Thumb.

Once the séance was underway, I made the awful discovery that my new Platinum Harry Houdini Limited Edition Ouija board was somehow bereft of a "Yes" answer on the printed board. So, throughout our session during the night, the spirits were utterly confused and, by default, had to provide "No" answers to virtually all of my questions.

The one exception was Jerry Garcia (who kept using the alias of "Cherry"--real funny, Jerry) who claimed that he and Janis Joplin were on their way to Branson, Missouri to catch a little Andy Williams.

Finally, after two hours of frustration, we gave up and headed for a late night dinner at Abacus.

I must say, that I can't count the number of times that I've supped at Abacus. Soon after their opening back in the late nineties, I've been a semi-regular. Abacus has served as the setting throughout the years of many a first date, a number of business meetings, late night martinis at the bar, and Saturday night outings with the SO.

So, after my disastrous run-in with Jerry-Cherry and crew, it was just the ticket to finish off a bad Halloween.

After the obligatory lobster-shooters, I treated myself to the crispy-seared red snapper. As always, the food was signature Dallas fine-dining. A real treat, without the trick, to finish off a a not-so-scary Halloween.

The only drawback was a few of my lobster shooters had somehow disappeared during the evening.

I still can't decide whether it was Jerry or Janis who had the late night munchies from beyond.

In my life, there's been few people, things, places, or eateries that truly light my fuse.

Don't get me wrong, I'm really not a Debbie Downer--there are many things that I like. But there are a select few where I would do my best imitation of Gene Kelly doing a little Dancin' in the Rain.

Despite slumming there many hundreds of times, a night of hitting the bars and clubs in lower Manhattan still makes my heart skip a beat or two. Or give me a day on a beach in St. Barts with a few bottles or five of good French red wine, bread, and cheeses--so I can gaze out across the cobalt-blue expanse of the Caribbean--and you'll make my life complete.

Or put me behind the wheel of jet-black Corvette ZR-1, decked out in leather, and I'll be grinning from proverbial ear-to-ear.

And when it comes to restaurants, however, there are a rarefied few that do the magical trick for me. Yes, I am a foodie. And, perhaps, over the years of being wined-and-dined, I've developed a snobbish attitude of sorts--but I suppose that happens anytime one really gets into something they truly love.

My select love for certain restaurants may or may not coincide with that of the so-called critics. But, I can count on both of my hands the restaurants across the globe that I truly think are special.

And for some reason--whether justified or not--here in Dallas, we've become infatuated with Lola the Restaurant for some time now. While many folks rave about the regular dining room, we've become major fans of the tasting room.

But, alas ... Lola is closing. So, we ventured there one last time this past week. For me, it was like experiencing the combined closing episodes of Seinfeld, M*A*S*H , and the Girls Next Door.

(Sniff)

Lola...I just can't quit you!

WARNING! IF YOU LOVE THIS PLACE, STOP READING NOW!

(I'm warning you. I don't want anyone to bust one of their precious carotid arteries. Please, if you are a fan of this joint, just avert your eyes and continue along on your merry way.)

Can you say "bleh?" Repeat after me, "B-L-E-H."

I remember many, many moons ago, back when I lived in the suburbia wasteland dominated by the landscape of chain restaurants, that one of my neighbors at that time was salivating like a silly little pup of Pavlov over the prospect of dining at the new chain eatery du jour of that time--Outback Steakhouse.

One day, that neighbor, Marvis, caught me out mowing my front yard, back when I was Mr. Domestic Man.

"Rickster," he said, "You and the missus need to join me and the missus this Friday, at that new Aus-trail-ian place where they cook stuff out on the barbee--just like Crocodile Dundee."

"You mean Outback?" said I.

"Damn tootin," replied Marvis. "Shee-it. I have been dreamin' about havin' one of them there bloomin' onions."

Well, that next Friday night at 7 PM, my SO at that time (and moi) accompanied Marvis and his SO--Mabel--to Outback to sample a little 'roo on a stick. But first, we were told that the wait was over 2 hours. While I wanted to get the Hell out of the joint, (perhaps to enjoy a little--my favorite at the time--Waffle House) my neighbor, Marvis, was not about to be deterred in his quest for a baseball steak and a bloomin' onion.

So, someplace close to 9:30, after over two and one-half hours of waiting we finally were rewarded with our bloomin' onions and some truly sub-par steaks. My verdict at that time? People clearly must be sheeple to wait and eat food that was indisputably inferior to what they could get elsewhere.

This week, after a really hellacious two months of heavy-duty work responsibilities, my SO and I headed out to Tillman's after a nearly nine-month absence. Our first visit or two soon after they opened were very good. Most enjoyable, If I say so myself.

But on our recent visit? Tillman's has obviously succumbed to the siren's song of popularity where service and food has turned to something worse than my unfortunate trip to Outback.

We were seated at 8 PM. By 8:36 (no exaggeration)--we had completed the complimentary popcorn and peanuts, cocktails, appetizers, salads, wine, AND finished our main course. If you didn't catch that--THIRTY-SIX EFFING MINUTES to finish a full meal including appetizers through the main course. It was like an "I Love Lucy" production factory. Once a course was finished, the next course appeared within a few magical seconds. (I guess that's necessary when there are over 50 people waiting to be seated.) I challenge y'all to find and have a normal sit-down weekday lunch (other than at Mickey D's) that quickly.

BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!

My main course, the salmon, was nearly inedible since it was so raw and--yes--mushy. Now, that would have been fine if it was sushi grade salmon, but this was just a cold and mushy uneatable mess.

But, sadly, it doesn't matter much---since once a restaurant develops a reputation of a certain merit, the sheeple continue to beat down the doors, no matter how rushed the service and lacking the food might be.

There's got to be a jingle someplace in this tragedy of a wasted night.

** Hello Sheeple? Yes, you Sheeple!

Why do you dither and wither with crap?

Is it because of the simple?

Yes, the simple---who claim sad vittles and service is trendy?

Sorry Sheeple. Not me, Sheeple.

I've been burned--yes, burned.

And I'd rather go wine and dine at Wendy's. **

Okay, I'm cheating a tad here.

While this is a review about Samar, it's not about the restaurant experience.  Actually, it's a review of their Grand Opening preview bash.  And since there was nothing "normal" about the event--that being, what you'd likely see when you visit the joint for a meal--I can't tell you what it's really going to be like.

But, what I can tell you is that Samar is bound to be a pretty popular eatery.   Why so?  Samar is yet another creation of Stephan Pyles, who has had a long lineage of see-and-be-seen restaurants in Dallas for over several decades.  And, from the huge crush of humanity that attended the Grand Opening preview, I'd wager my eighty-nine year-old Aunt Mabel that Samar is going to be a tough ticket on a weekend--and weekday.

The Rickster has been a cheerleader of SP digs for many years.  My ugly mug has been a regular at every one of his restaurants since the late eighties.  And, as a matter of fact, the SO and I somewhat sealed the deal in our early relationship over a long, and very expensive dinner at Aquaknox, a now shuttered SP restaurant on Knox Street back in the early 2000s.

Samar will be slinging small plates inspired by the cuisines of Morocco, Middle-East, India and Spain.  However, at the Grand Opening preview, the offerings were somewhat limited and served-up hors d'oeuvres style, along with a small buffet type bar.  While we enjoyed the fare that we tasted, I can't really give a fair review given the small mouthfuls eaten while balancing a cocktail or glass of vino.

As for the bash itself?  Nearly one-thousand people attended, making it a damn crowded scene.  However, lots of fun people watching to be sure.  (Given the amount of finger-pointing and snickering in my general direction during the evening, it appears that I was on the giving end of entertaining a few folks.)
 
From what I could tell, most of the crowd was hard-core foodies and SP devotees.  And, every once in a while, some high-profile characters were hanging out and gaggling in my general vicinity.

The high points?  Red carpet entrance.  Free-flowing wine. A very visible and accommodating SP, who apparently recognized us from our many visits to his joints.  Belly-dancing action.  Hookahs.
 
Did I mention wine?

While we got a little taste of Samar, I'm sure it will be placed in our regular rotation, as I've done with every SP joint dating back to Routh Street Cafe.

I'm just hoping they keep the belly dancers.

It's rad.

(My obligatory one line review.)

Once in what one might typically call the proverbial "blue moon," I stumble across a former SO (or member of a past frequent dater club) of many years ago.

After a few minutes of awkward to and fro, more often than not, I think, "What the eff was I thinking back in the day?"

For many of these past relationships, I thought the object of my affection was the cat's meow at that particular time.  For some of these women, not only did I want to saunter down the aisle to the alter, but I also yearned that they be the mother of a future crumb-snatcher or two.  But, with the advantage of Father Time and a flurry of additional relationships, I later realized that my obsession in those distant and dark days was nothing more than an ill-fated, and reckless obsession.

Thank the Lord above.

Now, the same can be said about some of my fav restaurants back in those days.  For the dwindling number of joints that are still around today, there are a select few that continue to hold special favor in my book as we are now approaching 2010.

Take, for instance, Truluck's.

Back in the nineties, I was a frequent flyer in the old Fog City Diner, before it became Truluck's.  It was the scene of many a dinner about town in the Big D. After Fog City Diner closed and became Truluck's in the late nineties, it continued on as one of my favorite joints to hit after a long day of work for a late night dinner, or maybe even, a drink or two.

Truluck's was the frequent scene of many a first date, business lunch or dinner, and on a few occasions, wishing in the dawn of a new year.

But, for some reason, over the past five to six years, my visits to Truluck's have become few and far between.  The other night, when my SO was on the road for a business trip, I decided to hit Truluck's for a little solo-action dinner at the bar.

My overall verdict?

Decidedly meh.

The bar service, despite it being a slow bar night, was spotty.  My server was often preoccupied visiting with one or two of the other patrons.  There is nothing more disturbing that to order a fifty-to-sixty dollar meal at the bar and be basically ignored.

I had a house salad and the sushi-grade seared tuna. Both were passable, but lifeless.  The tuna was dull and flaccid.  It didn't offer the firmness that I expect from a high-quality seared tuna meal.

It was one of the dinners that I was happy to get the Hell out of Dodge.

So, why have I become so jaded with the memory of Truluck's?  Have I become more sophisticated in my taste or appreciation of finer dining?  Or is it that Truluck's has become fickle and a little too wanton with its affections over the years with countless casual diners?

I don't know.  But, I keep coming back to one thought.

"What the eff was I thinking?"

I've always loved Italy and the Italian people. While I don't speak nor understand Italian, I find the language exquisite.  Seemingly simple and rather pedestrian words in the English language are somehow transformed into something romantic--perhaps even intriguing--when translated into Italian.  Some of my favorite Italian words include pomodoro, amore, affascinante, aurora, and, of course, everybody's favorite--fellatio.

One of the more memorable trips in my life was a journey nearly a decade ago to Rome and Tuscany.  Since I'm a history nut, I was fascinated with sights such as the Coliseum, Pantheon, and the Roman Forum.  But, I loved strolling and dining in the narrow streets and Piazzas.  I've always yearned to return, but unfortunately, since my trip at that time involved a SO other than the one I currently have, my (hopefully) permanent, but foolishly jealous SO has affirmed long ago that she will never step foot within the boundaries of Italy .

Silly girl.

So, these days, I have to get my Italy fix through cheap Chianti, boxed Gino's pizza, the antics of my friend, Mario, and, of course, the Italian restaurants here in the Big D.

Not so many nights ago, we returned to one of our favorite semi-Italian joints, Café Italia.  While we have supped there many times over the years, we haven't made an appearance for quite some time.  (Don't ask me the reason why---perhaps Alzheimer's has started to take hold.)

We started with a little Mussels Marinara.  I've always been a sucker for Mussels, ever since I had a big bucket in a little café within the Piazza Navona in Rome.  I chased this with a Tomato Caprese salad, and for my main course, the Ancho Chile Salmon.

It was a perfect night; the food was terrific--even if it wasn't all that authentic--and the service was just right, as Gina Bambalina Goldilocks would say.

Now, I don't know whether I'll ever make it back to Trevi Fountain or the Spanish Steps again, but if I don't, I'll continue to chomp on some cheap microwave pizza and give joints like Café Italia a whirl.

I am a man that requires constant stimulation.

Some say, with complete justification, that I am a card-carrying ADDJ--Attention Deficient Disorder Junkie.  I abhor the mundane; the thread-worn; the tried-and-true.  Like, put me on a roller coaster and throw away the key.

Few people know this, but I actually coined the popular phrase, "Familiarity breeds contempt."   Matter of fact, I pretty much have contempt for everything and anything in my life that I encounter more than a few times---my '62 Lincoln, that bizarre image staring back at me from the mirror, and even my new invisible dog that I affectionately call, "Where are you?"

(Luckily, I don't have such feelings for my SO.  Of course, for some strange reason, my lethargy never seems to be an issue given that naughty nurse get up she wears on Mondays. Tuesdays are reserved for the wild cowgirl number.  Wednesdays, of course, ... uhhhmm....okay, never mind.)

My low threshold for boredom extends to my dining choices.  These days, there are few places in town that I can stomach more than a few visits.  I'm always in the chase for something new, unusual, and ready to tingle my senses.   Unfortunately, many of the new chowhouses that hit the Big D are nothing more than sorry retreads of a dozen other restaurants that dot our fair city.  If you want to see my head explode, just tell me that we're going to have "new American" at the latest joint to hit the city.  I can assure you, it won't be pretty.

Years ago, dismayed at the lack of truly innovative dining choices in the Big D, one of my best buds, Buzz, and myself made an ill-fated foray into the world of fine dining.  Noting that there were no local restaurants specializing in the fare of the Republic of Kiribati, we opened---with much fanfare--- our high-end destination restaurant right off of Central, aptly named Breadfruit Palace.  Unfortunately, for some strange reason, Dallas wasn't quite ready for the visionary concept of Breadfruit fare fused with the dishes of Catalonia.

So you can imagine that I have a dalliance with any restaurant that is slightly off the proverbial beaten path of Asian fusion, Tex-Mex, and that dreaded new American.

A few weeks ago, we headed off to Victory Park to sample the fares of Medina Oven and Bar.  Since Medina bills itself as a purveyor in the styles of Moroccan and Mediterranean flavor, I was more than excited that I wouldn't be relegated to a tedious night over a sleepy Salmon dish.

We went on a Saturday night and Medina was suprisingly empty.  It's a small and intimate space tucked into the vista of Victory Park.  A downside was the entrance to the restaurant; one had to walk pass tables to get to the small bar or to your seat.

The menu is much like the physical space of the restaurant; it's small and intimate.  We started with the hummus.  Hummus is an odd type of comfort food for me; and Medina's hummus was a great way to start our adventure into Moroccan fare.  I followed with the Medina salad which was a cut above the normal pre-entree salads I otherwise normally order; capturing the essence of the restaurant's theme.  I finished off with the Marrakesh Chicken Breast.  My entrée was flavorful, perfectly accented with spices, shallots, olives, and a saffron sauce.

Medina is an example of the type of the restaurant that manages to keep my boredom at bay.

Given that joints like Medina appear to be popping up with more frequency lately, I'm now wondering if Dallas is ready for a Breadfruit Casserole Supreme.