Reprint from Lunch in the Gump. Without permission. Screw them.

First, let's get one thing straight. Well, a few things straight. (1) I like to catch fish by the boatload. (2) I like to shoot multiple species of ducks. (3) I like classic cocktails, expertly built, with loving care, by professionals. (4) I like to gamble in proper casinos, not amongst pensioners playing nickel machines in "bingo" joints. (5) I like great music played by sweaty-ass musicians in smoky-ass bars who care more about how they sound than how they look. (6) When I say, "Hey, how about showing me those ta-tas," I like having better than a 50-50 chance of actually getting to see 'em.  (7) I like carefree natives who have nice boats, talk funny and who are full of shit. (8) I like having an active Powerball lotto ticket in my billfold at all times (it comforts me).  And (9) I like great food cooked in the creole/cajun style.

By my count, that's 9 out of my top 10* favorite things and I can only think of one place in the whole world where you can score "9" on the Bidgood Bob Pleasure Meter over a three-day weekend without having to cross any state lines or break any laws... and that squishy little slice of heaven is called THE GREAT STATE OF LOUISIANA. 

Next to Pine Bar on Cloverdale Rd...

make a night of it.

Now, unfortunately, the economy being what it is I can't just drop what I'm doing and haul ass to the Bayou State every time I get the urge for something that tastes good, sounds funny or ends in an "X." That's why I'm delighted to report that the Gump Guinea Pigs survived, the full review is complete and the verdict is in. Make a reservation, get your ass to Roux and wallow in it, baby.

First things first: They don't call me "Bidgood Bob the Gumbo Snob" just because I went to a couple of Sugar Bowls when I was in college. I am a student and protege of Chef John Folse and LITG's own Whig in a Blanket, who has taught me the art of the roux and the science of great gumbo for over two decades. When I tell you that Roux owner/chef David Dickensauge knows gumbo, this is not idle praise and I'm not kissing his ass just to get a free bowl (although I wouldn't dare want to hurt David's feelings by refusing one). Fresh lump crabmeat, claws, shrimp, oysters... done just right and about the color of a grocery sack. Keep your hands off the hot sauce... it don't need nothin' else on it nor in it.

Here's the deal... every time I've been to Roux I had the gumbo, and I truly can't remember if they put any rice in there or not (I was drinking all three times). Be that as it may, they certainly didn't use a big wad of rice to make the gumbo go farther or to pad the profit margins. As I remember, with that much seafood there wasn't much room for starch.

Oh, one more thing about the Roux gumbo -- there's no okra in it, which is fine by me because I never liked the slimy little bastards anyway.

We are pretty sure Roux is rapidly getting through the early-stage jitters service-wise, but there are sure to be horror stories from any new restaurant's baby steps. My favorite from Roux's opening week came from a pal who ordered a Mojito, which arrived from the bar "dirty," with four olives and some olive juice instead of lime juice and fresh mint leaves.  Well, not wanting to be an ass about the whole thing he drank it anyway, kinda liked it, ordered another (made it a double, extra dirty), drank that one, then ran next door to the Pine Bar and mashed his bare butt cheeks up against the window, to the delight of the sophisticated clientele there.

Anyway, last Friday night Roux was jam-packed when Reginald McLucid, Doc NBA and I took our sport-model precious adorables out for drinks & dinner & more drinks (in that order). Even though we were a tad late and roaming around like a herd of cats after pre-gaming at the aforesaid Pine Bar, the Roux wait staff still pretty much hit it out of the park. They let us meander, kept our drinks full and all-in-all managed real well on a hectic night.

Cool salad on a hot night.

The food? Oh, yes. Almost forgot about that. In addition to the aforementioned gumbo, among other things we had Devils on Horseback, Alabama Watermelon Salad (see right), fried oysters and crab claws. That was just the appetizers. For dinner we had Seared Romesco Scallops (with macquechoux, a favorite of mine), BBQ Shrimp, something called "Chicken Mar I Muntanya" and some other stuff I can't remember. They have a prime rib that they cook on the rib, then slice, then rub with some top secret concoction, then sear. Damn. We all shared and nobody bitched about the food, service, portion size or price (like I said, though, we were hitting the booze pretty hard and were mostly agreeable).

Roux BBQ Shrimp. Lobsters, more like it.

Note on the Roux BBQ Shrimp (shown at left). This is nothing like the very excellent BBQ Shrimp served at Jubilee Seafood, one of our all-time Gump favorites. The Roux BBQ Shrimp is more like the classic New Orleans dish (nothing even remotely "barbecued" about it) made famous at Pascal's Manale, with massive fresh shrimp and this sauce that's, well, let me tell you about the sauce... I wanted to tell the waiter, "Looka here, you need to bring me about five loaves of french bread and get all these people out of here, because I am about to take off my shirt and sop up every drop of this sauce that's in the room right now." I wanted to, but I didn't.

Then consider the "shrimp." I really can't believe the lucky shrimper didn't have those big boys mounted. They must have put up one hell of a fight. If I ever landed a shrimp that size you can bet your ass he'd be over my mantel. Hard to believe they were so tender.

Excellent coffee and beignets topped it all off. We left happy and eased back to the Pine Bar for nightcaps. There we joined in the cosmopolitan atmosphere of sidewalk dining, drinking and conviviality on a starlit summer night among the beautiful people, not a one of whom was aware of our status as fairly recent parolees.

Overall a very nice night in this here Gump.

* My other favorite you can do pretty much anywhere there's a golf course.  

Bidgood Bob Review from Lunch in the Gump

So anyway, this morning the GumpPhone lights up and as usual it's the Cornbread Carp. Apparently one of the Guinea Pigs went to the new Cantina Tortilla Grill* in the Alley last week and lived to tell about it, so the Carp (who always gets his way) decreed that the Cantina was cleared for a full review by Lunch in the Gump.

Like so many redneck tragedies that start out "hold my beer and watch this shit," today's LITG review doesn't end well, and something tells me that a particular Guinea Pig, the one they call "Squeak," is going to lose his job over this. Yes, his furry little head is going to roll.

A gentle giant, when properly fed.

Thinking everything was safe, I grabbed my old pal Tojo Yamamoto and set off up Commerce Street to the Alley so we could check out our newest Mex joint. As loyal LITG readers know, Tojo is a man of very few words, and absolutely no articles, conjunctions or linking verbs. Tojo would sooner disembowel himself with a dull samurai sword than utter the words "and" or "the," or use a complete sentence, or speak in anything but the present tense, or refer to himself in the first person. But maybe that's why we all like Tojo so much... he uses his mouth as an insertion point for food and not for blathering on and on about meaningless crap like the rest of us do.

"Tojo hungry," he said. That's about all you're ever going to get out of Tojo.

We made our way past the intimidating pastel pink facade of the Rushton Stakely firm, walking in the middle of the street due to the never-ending sidewalk construction between there and the posh offices of 2WR Architects & Partyboys, LLC. This particular sidewalk project has been going on for so long that many of us downtowners wonder if it isn't really the Outer Loop, or a super-colliding superconductor, or maybe pyramids they're building. But I digress, as always.

Cantina is stylish & tasty, but over

the Tojo Line, pricewise.

Tojo was smiling, bowing to everybody and rubbing his impressive belly in anticipation as we entered the very stylish Cantina. He looked around. He sniffed the aroma. "Tojo like," he said. The Carp, Shadow Pup and Norm Peterson were already there and gave us the protocol. At Cantina, you order at the bar first, then find a seat and they bring your food out to you, pronto.

Tojo pondered the menu and as you might imagine, he was drawn to the category "Big Plates." His eyes narrowed at the $10.95 price tag, somewhat over the Tojo Line, but we all knew what was happening. If you bait a trap with something called "Big Plates" you will catch Tojo every time.

The big man ordered Cilantro Chicken from the "Big Plates" part of the menu. The dish was described as cilantro-marinated chicken breast with roasted corn, poblano peppers and saffron rice. Tojo was all over it. With tea and tax, Tojo's lunch tab came to $13.97, but since it came from the "Big Plates" category, he shrugged and forked over the dough.

About this time we all felt a strange rumbling, and the whole Cantina began to vibrate, as if a freight train was making its way through the Alley. Before the Cantina's patrons could panic, though, Tojo put them at ease. "Tojo miss breakfast, stomach empty," he said. We were relieved there wasn't a seismic event occurring in the Alley, but worried nevertheless because none of us had ever known our large Asian friend to miss a meal under any circumstances. Our boy was really hungry.

Luckily (or so we thought) they got the food out quickly and the gang dug into their excellent tacos, cuban sandwiches, garlic fries and such... but Tojo was crestfallen. Yep, it was a "Big Plate" all right. Big enough that the puny little dab of food on that plate looked like the Hawaiian Islands sitting in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, as seen from the moon.

Visibly distressed, Tojo looked around the Cantina in hopes that a server would bring the rest of his lunch but alas, it was what it was... a scrawny little boneless Paris Hilton chicken breast sitting on top of a couple spoonfuls of rice with a little canned corn and maybe six or seven small bites of bell pepper thrown in.

Running out of options, Tojo had no choice but to immediately ingest the Cilantro Chicken, a process which took maybe ten seconds. But the rumbling didn't subside. Near panic, Tojo ran back to the counter (to the extent Tojo can "run") and ordered chips and salsa. With tax, that was $3.30 more! DIOS MIO!! Three bucks for chips and salsa in a place called "Cantina?" Tojo was out-of-pocket $17.27 and hadn't even replenished the 300 calories he had burned walking his big ass two blocks up Commerce Street to get there in the first place.

Tojo went pale and his eyes rolled back into his head, then he slumped over. The Cantina fell silent, except for the lingering tremors of Tojo's hunger pangs and Shadow Pup's incessant yipping. The paramedics were on the scene in a flash, but damn if they didn't have to call in a second unit because it took two gurneys to get Tojo out of there.

One particularly quick-thinking paramedic ran down the Alley to Saza's and commandeered somebody's Rigatoni Bolognese (the $16 dinner portion, I think) and was force-feeding Tojo as they wheeled him out to the ambulance. Also, one of Jerry Kyser's crew happened by with a refrigerator dolly and helped load him up.

Anyway, Tojo appeared to be coming around when the ambulance pulled away on Commerce Street, narrowly missing a gaggle of Beasley Allen secretaries who were walking in the middle of the street because the sidewalk can't seem to get paved in two year's time. Sheesh, you can put a man on the moon but you can't pave a half block of sidewalk so that legal secretaries don't get run over by paramedics hauling ass to keep a Japanese rassler from starving to death.

Oh, and if anybody has seen "Squeak," tell him he needs to see Bidgood Bob ASAP.

* Footnote: Seriously, Cantina is a great addition to the Alley. The food was excellent, the decor is as cool as the other side of the pillow, it's fast and they should do a great business once the liquor license comes through. They need to work on portion size relative to price, in our opinion, or maybe it's just the early-stage baby steps. We'll be back... next time for margaritas, drunk-talk and secretary-chasing. 

Also, Tojo is recovering nicely. Luckily, Chris' Hot Dogs, Scott Street Deli and Hamburger King were all on the way to Jackson Hospital and it looks like our boy will be okay. The only problem was Blue Cross, which balked at Tojo's dietary needs... at first.

The Gump Loses a Good One, a Visit to Hank's Grave, a Tale From the Crypt, Hate for the NCAA, a Recipe for Nick Fairley and Other Useless Crap for the New Year

Hamburger King

A good friend of mine told me recently that his New Year’s resolution was to be unpredictable, to try new and exciting things in 2011. 

“So, you’re going to skydive, go bungee-jumping, that sort of thing?” I asked him.

“No, I was thinking along the lines of maybe trying a hot dog at Hamburger King,” he said, "maybe the pot roast at Martin's, a steak at Jubilee Seafood. You know, mix it up a bit." 

I thought that was real funny, until I read a few days later that Pat Harrison, longtime owner of Hamburger King, had passed away at 66.

I never knew Mr. Harrison. Never even introduced myself to him because every time I saw him he was running wide-open, constructing impossibly perfect hamburgers one after another for an endless stream of loyal and happy customers. No time to chit-chat with me.

Hamburger King is a wonderful place. It’s too crowded and noisy to discuss anything much more important than the weather, or maybe the asking price of Auburn’s new five-star recruit. But it’s a great place to belly up to the counter, visit with a nice cross-section of fellow hamburger connoisseurs and watch an American family do what American families do.

We will sure miss Mr. Harrison.

Here's a link to a Lunch in the Gump review of this magnificent slice of heaven: 

PUNCH HERE

Change Your Luck at Hank’s

Back in late 2009 another good friend of mine (not the hotdog-starved daredevil referenced above) told me he thought I needed a change of luck. Having tried collard greens and black-eyed peas year after year to no avail, and lacking the funds to cross the Atlantic and kiss the Blarney Stone, I decided to take his advice and pay homage at the grave of Hank Williams.

A year ago, on the frosty morning of January 1, 2010 (the 57^th anniversary of Hank’s death in 1953) I went and had a nip of whiskey at the legend’s final resting place. I even got caught up in the wreath-laying ceremony and met fans from all over the country. Damn, I thought. Tourism.

Anyway, 2010 had its ups and downs like all years but at least business was a lot better and I backed that slobbering-ass wolf a few steps away from the door. So on this New Year’s Day I braved the rain and led a small entourage over to Oakwood Cemetery and repeated the process for 2011. Hell, I figured it couldn’t hurt.

An Unrelated Hank Reference

A little research on Hank revealed that his nom de plume “Luke the Drifter” was an alias used for Christian music and readings Hank recorded against the advice of Nashville record execs. What a remarkable name, Luke the Drifter… like some mysterious character from a Clint Eastwood western, or a feared hit-man from over in Jersey.

I remember a neighbor who used to live across the street from my in-laws had a big, fine-looking chocolate Labrador retriever named Luke. The neighbors called him “Luke the Drifter” because he used to roam the neighborhood at all hours of the day and night, presumably in search of female companionship.

He was a quiet dog...

Luke was a pleasant, very social dog beloved by the neighborhood’s children and adults alike. But when Luke’s owners moved a few years later the new neighbors cleaned several years’ worth of leaves from Luke’s kennel and found a few dozen cat skeletons in there. Seems Luke the Drifter was a serial cat killer living right there amongst us. You just never know.


The NCAA is Dead

Well, the Sugar Bowl is mercifully over and maybe we won’t hear much more about the Ohio State Boy Scouts selling their jerseys and bowl bling in exchange for cash and great deals on tats.


Their punishment? An all-expenses-paid jet-out to the Quarter. Suspensions next year, unless the tattooed bling merchants are already in the NFL. Laissez les bons temps rouler! 


If you are an Alabama fan, like me, and have become used to the NCAA’s regulatory jackboot on your neck, like I have, then this recent turn of events should set your blood boiling. Seems like only yesterday a group of Bama football players were suspended for several games for getting textbooks for their friends. Not hookers and blow, mind you, not even free tattoos, but textbooks… little reservoirs of knowledge and wisdom. Sheesh.

BCS Prediction

I don’t really have much to add. Don’t see how Oregon can slow Cameron down, not even the least bit. Auburn’s defense will stop the Ducks two or three times. Auburn wins, 56-33.

A Recipe for Nick Fairley

First -- and this is the important part -- make sure the Duck is dead. Marinate the breasts overnight in some decent red wine and Dale’s sauce, stuff them with cream cheese and jalapeno peppers, wrap them in a couple of strips of bacon each and grill them real slow on a low charcoal fire. Serves one. Thank me later.

Big Thanks to the War Eagle Nation

Auburn fans apparently liked the last column, “Bama Fan Wakes from Three-Month Coma.” That blog post, see below, just went over 10,000 page views since December 8. Almost 4,000 people saw the column the first day alone (my previous record was a whopping 35!). We are working on the sequel now, but first have to see how many Bama fans take their own lives if Auburn wins. This Internet thing may catch on.