Rick's Cafe Boatyard-- Incredible Ambiance, Underwhelming Food

I'm not in the mood to be funny, so suffice to say that the title above says it all.  You may stop reading now and I won't be bothered in the slightest-- The only joke I have ready to incorporate into this blog entry is in incredibly poor taste when you consider that we went to Rick's Cafe Boatyard, 4050 Dandy Trail in Indy right after attending the funeral of a family member.  Linda had a great sense of humor, though, so she probably wouldn't be offended if I put the joke in, unlike much of the family... sorry folks!  Anyway, because of that event we were like an atheist at his own funeral-- all dressed up with nowhere to go.  (Get it? Huh? Huh?)  So, I wanted to  eat somewhere we would feel more comfortable formally dressed since that doesn't happen very often. 

Rick's seem to fill the bill, what with it's beautiful locale overlooking a marina on Eagle Creek Reservoir, a blue and white sort of expanded Cape Cod-style building with white cathedral ceilings inside along with white exposed beams.  The woodwork in the dining room is exquisite, and the brass railings of the room dividers were all decorated with lighted garlands and wreaths for Christmas. There is valet parking available during the busy season, as well as outdoor dining and live entertainment.  The servers were attentive and the food came out very quickly. Here ends the good part.

The Little Woman and I ordered off the lunch menu.  We shared the Rico's Dip appetizer, a sort of Southwest-style layered dip of a few chicken chunks, Jack cheese, green onions, tomatoes, and (I think) some cilantro. with tortilla chips for dipping and a small cup of salsa on the side.  The ingredients were fresh, but it could have used more flavor, like jalapenos, banana peppers, I dunno, something.  Then the lunch entrees came:  TLW's Fish and Chips were edible but kind of a disaster.  The tasteless armored coating on the fillets required a knife to penetrate in order to reach the actual fish.  She opened them up and scooped out what little fish was inside the same way she would've eaten a baked potato.  Her fries had been blanched-- cooked on the outside but soggy and almost raw on the inside.  My Louisiana Blackened Catfish was cooked well, but there was so much seasoning on it that it formed a solid coating on the top of the fillet and was reeeally salty, but not so much that I couldn't eat it.  

I will say the Shrimp Etoufee Rice upon which my catfish rested was well-seasoned and quite tasty, and our pitcher of Winter Sangria was delicious although not terribly potent, alcohol-wise.  Overall, the food was borderline okay but well below the quality you'd expect from a $$$ establishment. Maybe the atmosphere and live entertainment will be enough to bring us back in the Springtime? Hmm... I dunno.

Iona's Maywood Tavern: Welcome to the Time Machine!

It's also just called The Maywood Tavern, there at Maywood Road and S. Tibbs Avenue, but there is still a sign on the front that says "Iona's" which I'm told was done for Iona the owner on her birthday back before she passed.  I'm pretty sure the scene that greeted us upon entering the old country store-type front door was much the same as it would've been in, say, 1962, except for the addition of a couple of flat-screen TVs and some semi-modern refrigerators they use to cool the beer and wine these days (no booze or draft).  My Louisville peeps might be surprised to see that in an old Indianapolis tavern the walls are curiously adorned with a lot of old Falls City and Oertel's 92 Beer promotional items. Music was provided by FM radio from an old stereo system that looked like the one I bought for my dorm room in the '70s, but there are new speakers so it sounded really good, if you like old Rock 'n Roll.

The lady behind the bar was quite cordial, but you get the impression they don't get many strangers coming in.  In keeping with its anachronistic atmosphere the place is cash only, so when we handed her the money she made change out of a 100+ year-old National cash register.  She said NCR has several times offered to buy the register, but the Freunds said no deal.

I LOVE THIS PLACE!  They appear to have a loyal constituency of regulars, so it might be fun to come in when they're busy, whenever that is.  It's not really a night life venue, though, since their hours are something like 10 a.m. to 8 p.m., so if you go, GO EARLY, like my bedtime.  CHEERS!

Turchetti's Salumeria: Go for the experience more than the food.

Turchetti's Salumeria is on Prospect Street in the heart of Fountain Square and is part of the area's gentrification.  I'm probably using the term incorrectly, but to me it is one of many new "hipster" places there, elegant spaces where young urban professionals with more money than they know what to do with can go to spend it on very fine but pretentious and expensive food and drink.  Turchetti's (pronounced like TurKETy's) is sort of unusual in that one side of the business is a meat market with somewhat regular hours while the other is a sort of delicatessen/cafe with variable open/closed times. (Visit Turchettis.com for the list).  

We'd already eaten lunch, but the menu featured a number of deli-type dishes and appetizers ranging from 3 halves of Deviled Eggs for $5 up to sandwich or charcuterie plates just under $20.  The deli has a full bar, and TLW had a $7 glass of wine while I had a well-drink Gin & Tonic for $4, which ain't outrageous but not cheap, either.  We did order a Turchetti Tour sampler, which is 2 slices each of 5 different sausages for $12, including a form of pepperoni that was quite tasty.  The only problem was the slices were beyond paper thin-- I mean, you could see the grain of the charcuterie board through them!  We could have wadded up all 10 slices together and swallowed them without knowing we'd eaten anything.

It was a rather entertaining experience, overall.   Just watching the eclectic customers and employees was a little show in itself.  Our server/bartender was very friendly and courteous, which belied her short hair (not Sinnead O'Connor short but Dennis Quaid short), underarm hair that really should have been braided, and large cobra tattoo on her back.  We stopped in the meat market on the way out and saw many tasty-looking meats, although the sausages in which I was interested were sold at $6.50 to $8 per QUARTER POUND.  From this, as a $$ guy, I would say Turchetti's is someplace where everyone should go... once. 

Indy's Famous Pancake House - Breakfast/Lunch with a Latin Flair.

The first thing you notice about Indy's Famous Pancake House, 8028 S. Emerson Avenue in the same strip mall center as Ritter's Frozen Custard, The Tailgate Bar & Grill, Mexico City Grill, The Healthy Food Cafe, and Sushi Club, is that it has a HUGE menu-- literally.  It's like 10 pages of glossy 11" x 17" cards printed on both sides with lots of photographs of food.  When the server came back to the table with our drinks and we told her we needed a few minutes to look at the menu, she kind of smirked when she said "I understand.  It's a BIG menu!", half-chuckling at the obvious double entente.  

It's a simple little place that has all the traditional breakfast and lunch dishes, but there are a bunch of Mexican-style items as well, including several desserts.  They also have a number of booze drinks, including Mimosas and Bloody Marys-- perfect for that "hair of the dog" breakfast to kill a hangover, right?  The Little Woman had a Ham, Egg, and Cheese Croissant sandwich and I ordered Enchiladas Suizas: Both dishes were surprisingly delicious.  The croissant was so fresh, light, and flaky I thought it could be home-made, and the Enchiladas were tastier than most other Mexican restaurant dishes.  They were not the kind of pastry shell I'm used to, just corn tortillas rolled and filled with chorizo, eggs, and potatoes and covered with a spicy green salsa and a white sauce that tasted like queso and sour cream combined-- YUM!

To top it off, the price of breakfast was well within the $$ range-- enough to make an old cheapskate like me cry tears of happiness... or was that the heat from the salsa?  Anyway, I liked it very much.  iVamanos!

Teotihuacan Trouble- A Mexican Culinary Misadventure

This is a true story I usually wind up telling at parties.  It's not really a restaurant review, although perhaps is is a cautionary tale for anyone about to visit Mexico....

Several years ago, the city paid me and about 20 volunteer employees from my department and one other to learn Spanish  8 hours a week over 10 weeks, then participate in a 10-day lock-in immersion where we spoke only Spanish to each other.  The final part of the course was a 26-day trip to the state of Hidalgo, Mexico (paid partially by fundraisers).  We were the first group to go, and the officials hosting us in Hidalgo treated us like visiting dignitaries:  We traveled around the state in two large passenger vans and one Chevy Suburban, greeting local officials in each town at luncheons and dinners, visiting tourist attractions and sometimes assisting with some charitable work projects.

We stayed pretty busy most of the time, but about half-way through our stay there were a couple of weekends off, one of which involved an optional 65-mile trip to see Teotihuacan, the ruins of an ancient Pre-Columbian city, which included temples and two giant edifices, the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon.  By the time we reached the visitor center we all had been riding quite a while and needed to go to the restroom.  I waited my turn and then stepped up to a urinal, which is when bad things began to happen. 

All during our time there, several of my colleagues had fallen ill with Montezuma's Revenge, severe gastric disturbances with vomiting, diarrhea, or both, sometimes with a low-grade fever.  I had been lucky, though.  I'd tried not drinking the water but ya just can't do any good brushing your teeth with Coca-Cola.  By the end of the first week I had given up trying to avoid catching a bug and was eating and drinking pretty much everything they put before us, and up to this weekend I had not had the slightest problem.

While using that urinal, however, I suddenly developed a severe gurgling percolating kind of feeling in my midsection, a rolling rumbly in my tumbly that I had not experienced before and was so loud the guy at the urinal next to me violated the usual man protocol and looked over at me as if to say "You okay there, bud?"  I soon felt the need to break wind in a big, BIG way.  It was an urgent need, so what the heck, we were in a restroom anyway, so I gave up trying to hold it in and just cut loose with it.  Comedian Donny Baker once said that the human sphincter is the one part of the body that can tell the difference between a liquid, solid, and gas but sometimes makes mistakes.  His words rang in my ears as I felt something more than just methane escaping through my rear hatchl!  It was not obvious exactly what it was, though, so I would require further investigation to see if any real damage had been done.

I finished my stand-up business and walked across the restroom to a toilet stall and locked myself inside. At that point I had never heard the term "shart", although I was certainly familiar with the concept and its sometimes embarrassing consequences. Being extremely worried because I was wearing WHITE shorts, I hurriedly dropped trow, but discovered they were perfectly intact!  Breathing a sigh of relief, I then pulled my boxer briefs down enough to examine their interior-- and was horrified by the sight, a gruesome display of dark-toned earth colors for which there was no readily available solution. My briefs were a toxic total loss and were in need of immediate disposal.

Fortunately for me, most Mexican septic systems are not substantial enough to accommodate toilet paper, so there are small trash cans provided for its disposal in every toilet stall.  I carefully removed my still clean shorts and then VERY carefully removed the destroyed briefs..  I dropped them in the trashcan, cleaned myself up and re-dressed in order to continue on into the archaeological park.

Having dodged a bullet, or so I thought, I was feeling pretty good about the situation.  I felt even better when I found that the absence of underwear provided a certain breeziness as I walked, which was great for Mexico on a warm Spring day.  I optimistically approached the Pyramid of the Sun and began easily climbing the small steps formed by row after row of what appeared to be small bricks. The climb was rather easy and the view quite impressive, so much so that I barely noticed that the last three steps  to the top of the pyramid were much taller than all the others, including the last one which about twice as high as a regular stair step back home.  

The firspt two tall steps were no problem but that last one was a doozie.  I lifted my left leg way up and planted my foot on the top step, having to stretch to do so and as I launched the rest of my body upward the crotch of my nice white shorts ripped apart with a loud tearing noise that I thought should have been audible to all of my fellow tourists. Dammit!  Of the things to happen in the same day! Glancing around, however, I saw that no one appeared to notice.  Whew!  That was a relief, at least, but now I pondered how was I going to get back down all those danged steps without showing my junk to everyone coming up?

While I agonized over my dilemma, I couldn't help but take in the amazing view of the valley and the ancient ruins.  The additional breeze blowing through my tattered crotch was actually quite soothing, so I lost myself in rapt appreciation of the sight until a particularly strong gust of wind reminded me I was still in trouble.  When I felt I'd put it off as long as I could, I stood at the edge of the steps, put my legs as close together as possible and hoped for the best as I prepared to make the descent.  

It was at that moment that a woman in our party approached me and said that she was a little afraid of heights, and would it be okay if she put her hand on my shoulder as we descended the steps. “Sure, lady, whatever, I have my own problems” I thought, but “Sure, no problem!” is what I said.  Now, I later saw this same woman rappel down a 200-foot vertical cliff like she'd been doing it all her life, but maybe the prospect of having no rope to hang onto and tripping down a thousand nearly vertical steps was another matter for her.  At any rate, we descended quite slowly, with my legs burning slightly form the friction generated by being held together so tightly as we stepped.  “Oh, you're being so careful!” she said cheerily.  “You have no idea...” I said.

We parted upon reaching the bottom, and, emboldened by the fact that no one passing us the other way seemed to have noticed the condition of my pants, I proceeded across the valley toward the smaller (I thought) Pyramid of the Moon.  I fought off the attacks of numerous trinket hucksters, each one calling “...but Senor, I can make you a great deal!” as I left them in my wake.  None of even the grumpiest of them had made any remarks about my shorts, and I was REALLY enjoying the feel of the breeze on such a warm day, so I figured I was good to go.

I climbed the 800 or so steps with confidence, although I did devote at least some attention to keeping my legs together.  It was turning out to be a great day after all, and as I got to the top to enjoy the view I saw two pretty women, Australian by their accented English, also taking in the sights.  Recently separated and about to complete a messy divorce, I was pondering whether to chat them up when two of my companions coming up from below me yelled “HEY, DID YOU RIP OUT YOUR SHORTS?! DUDE, YOU BETTER GO CHANGE CLOTHES!”

D'oh!  From the heat rising in my face I could tell that it had turned the same shade of red as the shirt I was wearing.  It's a wonder I didn't trip, bounce and roll down the steps as I made a panicked sprint for the bottom of the pyramid while trying to keep my legs clenched together.  I bowled over several of the  kitsch mongers who didn't get out of the way fast enough as I bolted across the valley to the parking lot. I had our driver, Omar, let me into the shotgun seat of the Suburban.  I sat as demurely as my grandmother and pulled the remnants of my shorts together to cover my nether regions while I anxiously waited for the rest of the group to return. 

It actually wasn't long before everyone loaded up and we pulled out onto the highway for the hour-long trip back to Pachuca.  After the period of embarrassed anxiety I'd just been through, it was nice to be able to relax knowing that there would be no further exposure incidents. It was a warm, sunny day, and as the Suburban rolled down the road I began to doze....  Some time later I was startled awake by a static filled broadcast from Omar's CB radio:  although my Spanish was much improved, I just barely made out that the tour-group leader had decided we would stop at a well-known roadside restaurant for dinner on the way back.

It was then that I noticed the warmth of the Sun shining down upon a part of my anatomy upon which it had never shown before.  I looked down and saw that my legs had become parted, as was the fabric of my shorts.  Every semi driver we passed had likely been able to see a part of me that had only been exposed to my soon to be ex-wife and a few unlucky fellow middle school students in the shower after gym class.  I happened to glance over at Omar, of whose sexual orientation we were not certain (not that there's anything wrong with that) and thought I saw him checking out my exposure out of the corner of his eye, but decided it was probably just my own exaggerated apprehension about the matter.

As we pulled into the restaurant parking lot, I had just about decided I'd have to stay in the car the whole time when it suddenly dawned on me that I'd left my shaving kit/toiletries bag in the back cargo area of the Suburban, and it contained a pair of swim trunks! When Omar unlocked the doors, I ran around to open the tailgate and grab the kit before he locked up to go in the restaurant.  As I rounded the rear of the SUV with bag in hand, my shorts flapping in the breeze, I was greeted by Omar holding the driver-side rear door open.  “You can change in here!” he said brightly.  I guess he'd seen more than I thought.

Everyone in our group was much amused by the story, especially a few days later when we were staying in a missionary workers' dormitory in the tiny town of Calnali.  The proprietors had a movie projector and a bootleg DVD of the movie Along Came Polly, which at that time was still in theaters in the US.  We were all enjoying the film together when one of the characters says to another “We have to go.  I just SHARTED....”  The group all turned as one person, looked at me and hooted “THAT'S YOU!”  I tried my best to grin and say that they were all very funny, but the heat in may face told me my embarrassment was showing.

We later flew home on a Sunday. The Friday before that was payday, so I called a guy in my office to leave my check in my desk so I could put it in the night deposit at the bank (as I said, this was a few years ago).  I was using a pre-paid phone card that I would probably never need again, so I spent its remaining minutes telling my colleague the funny but embarrassing “shart” story.  We had a big laugh about it until the phone minutes ran out and we were disconnected.

Sunday night I got off the plane, dusted off the car I'd parked 26 days earlier, and drove to the office.  Surprisingly, there was a supervisor and a couple of other employees there working late, and as I passed the open office door there was a burst of laughter.  As I continued down the hall the supervisor called after me “Hey! Did everything COME OUT ALRIGHT in Mexico?  BWAHAHAHAAA!....”  My office buddy had apparently told the story to some other folks, who then dragged other people in to hear him tell it, and they in turn brought still others to hear it again, and again.  ...And that is how for several months afterwards I was known around the office, and City Hall, simply as “Shart Boy”. 

The Fish Stand: I wanted to love it, but....

The Little Woman and I stopped for lunch at The Fish Stand in Seymour, Indiana while on the way to Louisville for the weekend. It's a dumpy little place in an old building, but that's part of its charm, really. The smell of deep frying assaults (or serenades) your nostrils as you approach, although the little dining room was relatively free of that aroma.  It has 6 tables, I think, and 4 or 5 stools at a counter toward the back.  The staff is friendly and they appeared to be doing a big Friday lunch business, with several folks lined up for carry-out orders.  The place sells just about every kind of deep-fried seafood you can imagine, including Clam Chowder Bites(?) as well as a fried Pork Tenderloin sandwich and Fried Green Beans. 

TLW is not much of a fish lover but bravely agreed to try the Small Pollock meal, while I had the Friday special Shrimp Dinner.  Both came with fries, hush puppies, and coleslaw, and I also had an order of Crab Cakes.  The food came out quickly and was cheerfully delivered to our table.  We asked if they had lemon for our iced tea, and the lady brought a grocery store-sized bottle of ReaLemon juice and politely asked if that would be okay.  The tea was pretty good with it, really, just like at home.

The shrimp were okay but were like you get at a cafeteria or other place that doesn't serve much seafood-- butterflied and with a heavy, hard breading that sort of masks the flavor of the shrimp. TLW's pollock had a weird, kind of chalky taste which she attributed to undercooking that made the coating taste like batter instead of breading.  Maybe due to being swamped with lunch orders they rushed things a bit, maybe? I dunno, but we were on the road and didn't have time to complain. The coleslaw was not to my taste, either, but that's one of those foods like potato salad or mac 'n cheese that are a matter of personal taste.  It was made with mayonnaise and was thickly creamy without the slightest hint of sweetness, but YOU might like it that way, right?  It certainly seemed fresh, anyway.
On the positive side, the crab cakes were not lump crab but Bader meat (hope I spelled that right), but heck, what do ya expect for $2?   They were delicious, too, nicely seasoned, as were the crinkle-cut, perfectly cooked fries.  The hush puppies, of all things, were maybe the best I've had-- sweet cornbread with lots of onion and seasoned nicely.  All in all, it wasn't a bad meal, it just wasn't the deep-fried gold I was hoping for... The price, to me, was very cheap compared to what we get charged in the Big Ol' Burg of Indy, so there was that, too.  I'm a $$ kinda guy, so the $ meal kinda made up for some of it's shortcomings.

Lastly, and because this is a blog of experiences and not strictly restaurant reviews, I will tell ya that TLW was throwing up all the next day and 2 more days while I who am "Vomit-free Since '93" had problems with the OTHER end of the digestive tract a day later for 2 days.  We certainly can't blame The Fish Stand since we ate at a restaurant (Eddie Merlot's) in Louisville that night and the bartender gave us chunks of pineapple that had been soaked in vodka for 23 days to make their own pineapple liqueur, so who knows what was the cause of our discomfort.

Taqueria Garibaldi in San Antonio: Simple Tex-Mex Done Right!

I was on vacation in San Antonio, so I know very little about Taqueria Garibaldi, 5299 Walzem Road.  If you Google the name, there are several establishments with the same name throughout the southwest, but they don't appear connected-- it may be one of those common commercial names for a particular type of business, like La Posada for hotels or China Garden for restaurants. If my ignorance offends you, let me antagonize you some more by asking this question: Why is Mexican food so much better in San Antonio than in Indianapolis? 

I mean, there are Hispanic folks running most of the Mexican places in Indy, and I see Hispanic people eating in them, but why are Indy's joints so freaking cookie-cutter similar, and why don't they make food with the same rich flavor as in SA?  We had Mexican food 4 times the week we were there (because SA has so many other culinary options as well): twice from small taquerias, one finer-dining restaurant, and one large local fast-food chain.  All of them were better than any I've had in Indy, with the exception of maybe El Sol de Tala on Washington Street and in Union Station, both of which (I think) are closed now.  

I wonder if perhaps the places in Indy are more constrained by having to serve healthier food and eschew some of the tastier traditional ingredients, like lard, maybe?  Whatever it is that makes it better in SA, Taqueria Garibaldi has it.  It's a simple little free-standing building on the edge of a row of strip malls, and it has an Old-World kind of appearance with a tree-shaded outdoor dining area for the rare occasions the temperature drops below 90 degrees (this was not one of those days).  It may have even been a former Taco Bell that's been remodeled and had heavy carved Mexican style furniture and décor added.  The Little Woman and I had breakfast there-- I think she had breakfast tacos and I had the Garibaldi Omelet with refried beans on the side.  Both were DEEEEElicious:  the beans, especially, had a rich, smoky flavor that I've never experienced in Indy, where the beans and rice are usually very, very bland and seem to be an afterthought.  The crowning glory for this $$ guy is the prices at Taqueria Garibaldi were in the LOW $ category.  iINCREIBLE!

Whit's Inn Revisited, and Revisited, and Revisited....

I just wanted to update my review of Whit's Inn at 1020  N. US31 in Whiteland, IN from a couple of years ago just in case someone might still read it....  Whit's is not the place it once was: it's much, much better.  Mr. Profanity is gone, and whether he was the owner or just a regular customer, his influence on Whit's constituents has dissipated.  It is now owned by Tim Whitaker (the original owner) and the Clark brothers, sharp guys who have upgraded the décor, including an overhead door that opens out onto a nice new outdoor patio, which works great when the weather is nice and/or they have live music, which is pretty often.  Their pub grub is very good and they regularly have events involving barbecue smokers and other special items. The drink prices are decent and those, too, are subject to frequent specials. Disclaimer: I repeated "revisited" so much in the title above because we are semi-regulars there now.

Whit's is in Johnson County, so smoking is still allowed, although their ventilation seems to keep the clouds away to some degree.  Bars and profanity always seem to go hand-in-hand, but at Whit's it is no longer the spectator sport it once was, and that's a GOOD thing, D*MMIT!

We're BACK, BABY! -- The Bracken Store & Ice House

It was pointed out to me that I haven't posted anything here for quite a while. I've been writing little capsule reviews on Trip Advisor, Facebook, and Google Maps, but those aren't really worth the effort because they fade into history quite quickly, so screw 'em!

Anyway, The Little Woman and I stumbled on The Bracken Store & Ice House (apparently known to locals simply as "The Bracken") just before heading to the airport to leave San Antonio, or we would have visited more than once while we were there, we liked it so much (sorry to take all the suspense out of it for ya,  I'm not on House Hunters, y'know).  Our hosts there had spoken quite highly of the place, but we hadn't been looking for it, just taking a ride to see a little bit of the area before leaving, but then VOILA! there it was, a tumble-down little building that looks like one on the set of every Western movie you've ever seen.  Bracken is a dusty little town on the northeast edge of the San Antonio area that grew up around the railroad, and indeed there was a BNSF locomotive idling across the street.  I half-expected the train crew to be inside the business, but if they were they must have been hiding in the back room because there were just 2 older gentlemen and the beertender in sight inside.

Inside is a clean, cozy, and nicely air-conditioned space (a fantastic find on a 100-degree day) with a large bar with taps for 5 or 6 kinds of draft beer, behind which was a huge array of beverage coolers that contained almost every brand of bottle beer you could ever want, and wine, too! (No booze, though.)  The beertender was a handsome woman whose good looks belied her real age, and she gave us fast and friendly service.  There were maybe 4 TVs and one pool table with a comfy row of old theatre seats for the players, sharing space with an ancient pinball-like baseball machine that takes quarters.  Out back there is large rear patio that is partly covered, where they have live music 3 or 4 nightss a week. On those nights there is a food truck there, too, which I'm told sells some killer grub. Sundays they also have Chicken Sh*t Bingo, a cage with the floor marked off into squares and a live chicken that picks the squares by, well, see the title of the game.  All in all this place is freakin' GEM that we would be in often if we lived nearby, and if you get tired of it you can walk over to the Hangin' Tree Saloon next door and play shuffleboard, or go bowling at the alleys across the street where the old dance hall used to be.  !Vamanos!