Biscottis Restaurant, Jacksonville Florida

 

Jacksonville Florida, by area, is the largest city in the United States.  Can’t be true?  Hey, I seldom lie and when I do it’s not about something as important as this!

 

And Jacksonville has an array of restaurants that rivals cities of the same size….yes, that was a stab at humor.  But, J-town does have some very suitable eating establishments and the other night, my faithful companion joined me for a night out, complete with meal and libations.  She was the evening’s chauffeur, so for her, libation was singular.  A joyous evening to be savored for the best part of two hours at one of our new favorite restaurants, Biscottis. 

 

The young lady at the entrance, who took my name and found us suitable seating, was a good introduction to the tone of the restaurant.  She was polite, dressed nicely, and did her duties efficiently.  In short, a delight.

Our server on this evening was Will, who recited the menu, with full details of how each dish was prepared.  He listened carefully to our tastes and interests and when he brought the dishes, they lived up to his superlatives, from the excellent perfect Manhattan and wine selection, to the crab and artichoke appetizer, to the bruschetta (another appetizer) to the wonderful salads:  Thai with marinated chicken slices, and another with sliced skirt steak over greens.

 

I ran through the order rather quickly, in contrast to our languid consumption, inspired by the beautiful presentation.  The photos will give you a better idea than my descriptions, but I do need to add some high notes about the designs and flavors.   We’ll get to the restaurant’s atmosphere further down.

The Bruschetta came as a warm loaf, partially sliced, with mozzarella in between slices and delightfully marinated tomatoes strewn over the top.  The bread was soft instead of the usual crisped slices, but that only made it a new and lovely adventure in Italian tastes.

 

The crab and artichoke dip came with untoasted slices of another style of bread, also delicious.  A quick note:  At Biscottis, all baking is done in house and done well!!!

 

The salads were lightly seasoned, highlighting the proteins and the greens.  Let it be known, we ate slowly, savoring each bite and politely sharing with each other, amid envious eyes and comments of  “I should have ordered that.”

Now a note about the atmosphere.  The small, but tasteful bar is so well done, it reminds me of the darkly paneled and subdued lighting of bars we’ve visited in Italy.  Delightfully dark and intimate.  Have to make time to sit at the bar next time we visit. And the rest of the restaurant is calming and so well designed.  A beautifully tiled floor, such well-accomplished artwork, and comfortingly toned walls.

 

But, folks, that ain’t all!  We finished with sharing a croissant bread pudding, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.   This is the all-consuming type of dessert that even banishes fond memories of your teenage, backseat dalliances. 

As “Arnuld” did not famously say,  W’re comin’ back, y’all!

Younger Next Year: A guide to living like 50 until you’re 80 and beyond

 

Younger Next Year: A guide to living like 50 until you’re 80 and beyond

 

The books are separated by sex into two volumes, which I call: Studly Once More, and Back in a Bikini.

 

Here’s the premise, shamelessly plagiarized from the book jacket: Younger Next Year is about how men (and women) can turn back their biological clocks.  How they can become functionally younger every year for years to come, and continue to live with vitality and grace into their eighties and beyond.  How they can avoid 70 percent of the decay and eliminate 50 percent of the injuries and illnesses associated with getting older.

 

Sadly, it does not cover how to down beer faster than a teenager at a keg party.  Nor will young men swoon over your luscious bod.  Well, maybe they will after the keg party.

 

The authors are Chris Crowley, a normal guy (70 years old) following the precepts and concepts of the book, and Henry S. Lodge, M.D., a board certified internist whose name you’ll find on many surveys of best doctors in New York, America, and the world.

 

Chris’ journey begins with a trip to Dr. Lodge for a routine checkup.  He’s in fairly good shape, but a little overweight.  Dr. Lodge is pleased, generally speaking.  Doctors are never completely pleased and usually for good reasons.  My father once asked and answered a rhetorical question:  Why the hell am I going for a checkup?  The doc’s just going to tell me to lose weight and get more exercise!  Yes, he was pissed at the doctor!

 

Dr. Lodge avoided the usual and approached Chris in a positive way.  …basically, can be as athletic, vigorous, and alert as you were at fifty until you’re eighty or older.

 

Yeah, but HOW?

 

The doc continued:  Hard to summarize, but there are three things: Exercise. Nutrition. Commitment.

 

Doc, I need some details!

 

Do hard exercisse six days a week, and on two of those days also do strength training.  A closer look at “hard exercise” doesn’t mean an unmanageable Olympic effort, but it does mean swimming, biking, or numerous other ways that get your heart rate up.  And it also means the dedication to do it six days a week.

 

There’s another interesting concept at play. With two authors coming at it from both doctor and patient directions, Younger Next Year promotes positive, interesting and understandable perceptions.   Doctor Lodge covers the physiological and anatomical details of resetting your “age clock,” while Chris (who lost 40 pounds, by the way) walks you through the “regular guy” reality of resetting your life and having fun doing it.

 

Two words give you the concept:  Stay Active!  But those two words are so broad that without getting the full explanation, motivation, and coaching that Younger Next Year gives, they float around loosely in a cloud, leaving you to settle back, have another beer and promise yourself you’ll think about it, as soon as you have nothing better to do. 

 

How to break the inertia and stay motivated?  Pick out exercise(s) you enjoy and look forward to.  Take the slow approach. Listen to your body and let it tell you when you’re ready to pick up the pace. Keep going!  It’s going to get better!

 

What Younger Next Year really tells you is YOU CAN DO IT and what it gives you is a doable plan.

 

In short order, you’ll notice how proper diet and exercise leaves you with more pep and a brighter outlook, improves creativity, and makes you more aware of life’s possibilities?  Ready for that?  Well, buy Younger Next Year before you order anything else from Amazon.

 

It’ill pump up your motivation, and I’m telling you, you’ll feel younger next year.

Taters and Yams

Sweet ‘Taters and Yams

 

After I published the fabulous recipe for sweet potato bread, but way before the accolades rolled in from my three faithful readers, a stern voice from across the room suggested the article was not complete and neglected to dwell on points of interest, such as sweet potatoes versus yams, their origins and history, how each should be prepared, along with brilliant recipe suggestions.  Only surprise was that she didn’t also desire that I write the history of the Irish potato famine and a through discussion of why the Brits call baked potatoes, jacket potatoes.

 

 Sweet Potato Bread Recipe

 

Normally I would mount a cogent counter proposal, emphasizing her whiny complains, but her ladyship, armed with set and pouty lips, had already turned her attention to her historical novel, Lord Eagerly and the Unstable Stable Girl, no doubt a riveting tale of lost lands and awkwardly inconvenient virginity.  I had no doubt that no matter my argument, my tale of tasty tubers would lack the depths to which Lord Eagerly would stoop. 

 

So, after being verbally assaulted by a mob of one, I return to Sweet ‘Taters and Yams.

 

Because I’m now left in a feisty, combative mood, I begin with a statement I hear often: Sweet potatoes and yams are the same.  

 

To that, I shake my trembling fist and bellow:  THEY ARE NOT! 

 

But, have faith, my faithful readers who perpetually search for truth and justice, I shall lead you to the promised land.

 

A quick glimpse at the photos, which I went out of my way to provide, clearly show the yam has a red skin and white flesh, while the sweet potato has brown skin looking almost like bark, and bright orange flesh.  Also the sweet potato has pointed ends, while the yam is more rounded, like a baking potato.

 

In fact, yams and sweet potatoes come from different families and originated from different parts of the globe, with yams coming from Africa and Asia, with the name, yam, comes from an African word, “nayami.”  

 

Yams are in the same family as the Lily.  Most yams are still grown in the southern and western parts of Africa and there are about 150 varieties. A rather startling fact:  yams can grow to be three feet long.  Can you dig it?

 

Sweet potatoes originated in South America, but have spread all over the globe, and at present there are over 1200 varieties.  Unlike yams, sweet potatoes belong to the Morning Glory family.

 

And the confusion goes on.  In Southeast Asia, the taro is often called a yam and in New Zealand there is the oca tuber that looks similar to turmeric and is called a yam or a New Zealand yam.

 

In Japan, there’s a purple-fleshed sweet potato that is incorrectly called a yam.  One look at the shape and you’ll know it’s a sweet potato.  By the way, the Japanese and especially the Okinawans make candy and ice cream from the purple flesh sweet potato.  Delicious!

But, then comes the question, do yams or sweet potatoes have anything in common with baking potatoes?  The only connection is that they are tubers.  Potatoes belong to the nightshade family, which includes tomatoes, peppers, tobacco and many more.

 

So, now my suddenly ‘famished for information’ readers pound their fists and scream (between sips of beer):  What is a tuber? Where do potatoes come from?  Why are they sometimes called spuds????

 

Slow down!  One useless piece of information at a time, please!

 

Tubers grow in the earth, under the plant, whether it’s potato, sweet potato, or yam.  They are energy storage cells, used by the plant to promote new growth.

 

The answer to the next two questions are related.  Potatoes also come from South America and were called spuds possibly because the name is similar to that of a spade used centuries ago to plant and maybe harvest potatoes.

 

You’ll just have to consult Herr Google or your traditional family recipe book for more sweet potato concoctions.  Yams?  In Africa they roast ‘em and finding them in the U.S. is a hit or miss proposition.  But, hey, they mostly taste about the same.

 

By the way, why the confusion over sweet potatoes and yams?  Any answer is a guess at best, but the confusion is great enough that the USDA requires that anything labeled yam, must also include the label sweet potato.  More blah, blah from the so-called minds of bureaucrats. 

 

Now, from across the room comes yet another request.  I’ll get right to it after I finish my Jim Beam….not the glass, the bottle. 

 

Suggestions if you have a burning desire to know more:

 

https://carnegiemnh.org/potatoes-sweet-potatoes-yams-whats-difference/

 

https://dpi.wi.gov/sites/default/files/imce/school-nutrition/pdf/fact-sheet-yam.pdf

 

https://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2013/01/22/169980441/how-the-sweet-potato-crossed-the-pacific-before-columbus

The Village Inn and Pub, St Simons Island, Georgia

 

Just mention the word ‘island’ and scenes as clear as photographs float through my frequently idle brain: Palm trees, soft sea breezes, sandy beaches, the redolence of freshly fried seafood, the brininess of gray oysters on the half shell, resting on shaved ice, meeting new friends in bikinis.  Gives me pause.  Women my age do not wear bikinis as a rule, or even as an afterthought.   Even a two-piece is chancy.  From middle age on, too many women lose confidence in their beauty, if you ask me, which no one has.

 

Enough Bikini talk for now, but not island talk.  One island specifically:  St Simons Island, one of a chain of islands along the south Georgia coast, known as the Golden Isles.

 

If you or your friends don’t own a piece of the island, ya gotta find some cute accommodations that inspire you to relax, cast your cares under the bed and exchange that sheepish grin for an all knowing smile.  I found just the place in St Simons, an adults only  (don’t get your hopes up tooooo high, anyone 16 and up is welcome), boutique hotel, nestled in the heart of town, yet hidden in the trees, offering a feeling of serene exclusivity.  The Village Inn and Pub.  There are so many pluses to this Inn that I feel like a calculator:  Wonderful rooms, with the housekeeper, Conception, at hand to keep everything pristine, and a staff that is so cordially friendly and can give you tips on where to dine and where to shop and what to see.  Nor can I forget the pub’s wonderfully cozy bar, featuring a happy hour from 5 to 7 p.m.  To top it off, at check in, you’ll be given coupons for $3 off your first drink……and guess what, the house wines are delicious and at HH, a generous pour of wine costs $3!

So you’ve found a wonderfully restful place to stay, and restaurants such as Georgia Sea Grill at a short walk, almost in front of the Inn.  Now all you need to do is find some things to do, and St Simons has plenty of those.  Don’t you dare miss historically fascinating Fort Frederica!

Now for some more bikini talk. The swimsuit grabbed its name from the Pacific Ocean’s Bikini Atoll in the Marshall island chain, where the U.S. conducted nuclear weapons tests from 1946 to 1958.

 

Perhaps the heat of a nuclear blast is what inspired French designer, Louis Réard to introduce his scanty swimwear at a popular Parisian swimming pool, le Piscine Molitor.  Two-piece suits came out in the 1930s, but Réard’s offering pared the two-piece down enough to barely hide the mountain range and the shag carpet, and from the looks of things, it’s still shrinking faster than a cube of sugar in a rainstorm. When you visit today’s summer beaches, be prepared to feel like an eager, amateur gynecologist. And when you do, don’t forget Atoll you so!

 

Now let’s get back to St Simons….or at least I will!

 

The Village Inn and Pub

Fort Frederica

Sweet Potato Bread, Quick and Easy

 

Sweet Potato Bread, Quick and Easy 

 

As my faithful readers know, all three of you, I do quick and easy a lot, mainly because I’m as impatient as a man opening Champagne on his wedding night. “For god’s sake, honey, drink faster or this bed is gonna get soggy!”

 

Now my mind is well off the subject…let’s see…..oh yeah, Sweet Potato Bread.  I found this recipe on the Internet, but as many of my commanders noticed during my time in the service, I seldom follow orders as written.  Same with recipes.  Same with spousal …..oh, hell, back to bread.

 

First off, this bread is not sweet, but it is flavorful, and since some Internet doctor, somewhere, sometime, said sweet potatoes are healthy, it must be so.  I’m waiting and searching desperately for the same news about whiskey.  The bastards are taking their sweet time!

 

NOTE:  When I say ‘QUICK AND EASY,’ I’m talking about the prep time and the execution.  Since the recipe uses yeast, it does take a little bit of time to rise, but much less than many breads.

 

Sweet Potato Bread 

(I use a food processor)

 

Ingredients:

 

4 cups bread flour (I prefer King Arthurs, the inventor of the round table.  Took him many knights to figure it out.)

1.5 cups of baked, peeled, and mashed sweet potato (If you use canned, beware.  Lots of water and often sweetened)

1 tablespoon salt

1 package yeast

1.25 cups very warm water

Oil or another vegetable oil

Extra flour for dusting

 

Puttin’ it together

 

Put the dry ingredients in the food processor and pulse a couple of time to mix.  

 

Add the mashed sweet potato to the processor and mix well.

 

Add the very warm water and mix until the dough pulls away from the sides of the food processor bowl.  Too sticky?  Add another small portion of flour, carefully. Remix.

 

Turn the dough out on a well-floured surface, spread it out flatly and fold one end up and over like you’re making a thick taco, Do the same with the other end.  Turn the dough 90 degrees and fold again in the same manner. Form the dough into a bowl shape, oil it well and place it in a large, well greased or oiled bowl.  Cover.  Put it in a warm spot (I put it in my oven, with the oven light on.)

 

Allow it to rise two hours or a bit more.

 

Remove it from the oven and keep it covered.

 

Place a Dutch oven (with the lid on) in the baking oven and heat to 450 degrees.

 

When the baking oven reaches 450, remove the Dutch oven (Careful, this baby is hot!).  Put the dough in the Dutch oven, put on the lid and slide it in the oven for 25 minutes.  (I also add a tray with water on the bottom rack of the baking oven. Steam helps the bread to rise.)

 

At the end of 25 minutes, remove the lid from the Dutch oven, and add more water to the lower tray if necessary.  

 

Bake for another 15 minutes.

 

Remove the bread from the Dutch oven and place it on a cooling rack.  

 

While the bread cools, pop the cork on the Champagne and remind your honey to drink faster!

 

 

Count von TwoThreeFour

 

Having slipped silently into my backyard time machine, I pressed forward to the 18^th Century and found myself seated at a garden table with Count von TwoThreeFour, sipping a fragrant 1745 Chateau de Pew. He wasn’t that surprised to see me.  After introductions I began asking him depth defying questions, exploring the mind of this 18^th Century scion.

 

Me, translated:  Count, I am so sorry you have to employ an interpreter, but my 18^th Century Hungarian is as rusty as your wife’s chastity belt.

 

Count: Ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho.  Now I shall have you dismembered with the tools of my angry blacksmith.

 

Guards moved smartly in my direction.

 

Me:  I’m afraid there must be some mistake.  

 

I begged the interpreter to rapidly translate that phrase again?

 

Translator:  You said your Hungarian is as rusty as his wife’s chastity belt and she must be inclined to have too much whiskey!

 

Me:  No!  No! You misunderstood.   Tell him, what I said was my Hungarian host is as trustworthy as a his wife’s sagacity and then I held up my glass and asked for another belt of my host’s perfectly refined libation.

 

After a hasty reinterpretation, the shamefaced interpreter was dragged away by two hearty guards the size of water buffalos, carrying sabers of finely honed Damascus steel.  

 

Another, rather nervous interpreter was dragged across the lawn and plopped in a chair by the same guards, his face as sheepishly expressive as a dog being given a full syringe of wake-me-not.  His breeches appeared rather damp, the dark stain dripping down into his silk stockings.

 

Me:  What happened to the first interpreter?

 

New Interpreter:  He has become a unicorn.

 

Me:  You mean a eunuch?

 

New interpreter looks blank:  Is there a differencing? I am thinking not so far.

 

The third interpreter looked even more sheepish.

 

Me:  Another eunuch? 

 

Interpreter III:  Oh, no sir, only his babbling tongue was removed.  He will still be permitted to do the dance of the quivering snake. 

 

No doubt he is quivering already.

 

Me:  I hesitate to ask, but what do you do for entertainment, Count?

 

Count:  We have many diversions.  Droshky racing is my favorite.

 

Me:  You refer to the small carriages pulled by two stallions?

 

Count:  You certainly know your droshkies.

 

He spoke with a lisp so deep it sounded as if his tongue was permanently attached to a long string of rusty S-es, unlike the unfortunate second interpreter, who now had to rely on inspiration from a chattering chambermaid.

 

Count:  We used to race them through the fields of cabbage.

 

Me:  Didn’t the serfs complain?

 

Count:  Not after a few were taught a lesson which none survived.

 

He said it as if he’d told his gardener to mow the grass.

 

Count:  After that, the serfs organized a cheering section, lined up, waving flags and shouting at the tops of their lungs.  Oh, yes, the droshky races have become famous throughout the land!

 

Me:  Hate to change the subject.  What do you hear from Marcella, the Asiatic beauty?

 

Count:  She left me after the accident with the donkey.

 

I gave him my blank stare.

 

He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, these things happen.

 

Count:  Under cover of darkness, she crept into the stables during the donkey’s breeding season.  A horrible accident.  Apparently, it was more than she could take. (he shrugged again) I didn’t think that was possible.

 

Anyway, she married the Grand Duke of Russo and raises Irish Wolfhounds.  Shears them like sheep and sells the wool.  If she’s having one of her moods, she also sells the meat and skins.

 

Several of her serfs escaped and joined our enthusiastic droshky cheering section.

 

Me:  Any other sporting events?

 

Count:  Oh yes, of course.  There’s the serf-flogging-and-quick-step wager, as well as the serf-racing-through-the-forest shooting event, and of course the divorce-or-die competition, and the race-you-to-the-guillotine-through-the-swamp competitive swim meet.  Last one in each heat gets the chop. That’s one of my personal favorites, topped off with who-got-the-poisoned-cup-of-Champagne after party.

 

Me:  Sounds like there’s the specter of death connecting these sports.

 

Count:  Certainly not.  There’s a nail-the-tail-on-the-braying donkey, drunk and blindfolded.  I get a kick out of that one.  Not to mention the guess-whose-daughter-I-shall- deflower-next extravaganza.  Last year, the parents of Zelda-the-Double Wide’s parents stood up, did a dosie-doe and offered a toast when she won.

 

Me:  What’s the next humorous event on the calendar?

 

Count:  I’ll have to check, but I’m thinking about a new one.  Perhaps, rope-the-nosey-interviewer-in-the-muck rodeo and accompanying tie-him-to-the-stake comedy roast.

 

Fortunately, my time machine was warmed up and ready.

Garden Street Bistro

 

Garden Street Restaurant, Fernandina Beach, Florida

 

 

A quick note:  If you’re not close to northeastern Florida, why read an article on a small restaurant in a town far from where you live?  Many reasons, not including the inspiring prose: Opening your eyes to small, bistros near you.  Ideas to expand your at-home kitchen repertoires.  Reasons to visit Fernandina well beyond the culinary. So jump right in and let your imagination fly!  Well, maybe a glass of wine or two, first.

 

 

Fernandina Beach, the major city on Amelia Island, has a motto:  This Is My Happy Place.  Hard to disagree.  When warmer weather arrives, so do the tourists, and not just for the fine beaches, but also for the pre-COVID-19 extravaganzas, such as the Concours d’Elegance (May 2021), a fabulous and expansive showing of classic and exotic and unbelievably expensive cars, the nationally known Shrimp Festival, and the Christmas time Charles Dickens Festival. Then there are other lesser affairs, including what I call the wine-shop-around, when businesses on Centre Street are open late and wine flows freely, and art nights, when galleries stay open late.

Concours d'Elegance

 

There are bookstores and restaurants with views of the ocean, so I wasn’t totally surprised to find a breakfast nook on 3^rd street a few streets from the port.  What did surprise me was that the Garden Street Bistro (GSB) turned out to be a sans pareil breakfast treasure!

Yes, the GSB offers the usual eggs, bacon, toast, and pancakes, if that’s your bent.  But, they also showcase breakfasts that are taste-changing events.

 

My companion and I decided to ignore the usual, to scramble up the tree of adventure and catch a tasty view from a high culinary limb.  For me, it was the grits bowl and for my chicken fancying partner, it was Florentine chicken breast with pan-fried potatoes and a small bowl of well seasoned and lightly sautéed Brussels sprouts.

When you enter the GSB, check your prejudgments about breakfast and flavor at the door.  The Florentine chicken was well cooked and juicy, smothered with white cheese, wilted fresh spinach, and sautéed fresh tomatoes.

 

Don’t let me hear you say you don’t like Brussels sprouts until you’ve tasted these.  And don’t even whisper, “This ain’t no breakfast,” you chicken biscuit breakfast fanatics!

 

Best to shy away from the ‘usual,’ and treat ‘monotony’ as a mental disorder, especially when the GSB is nearby and standing ready to broaden your taste buds’ horizons.

 

But, by now my three faithful readers are whining. “How ‘bout the damn grits bowl??? That’s what I call breakfast!”  Well, in the case of the grits bowl at the GSB, you’re right and wrong.  Their version is a bow to tradition, like wearing a swimming suit to the pool, but adding a top hat and tails.  These grits are lightly cheesy, but with savory sausage gravy pooled in the middle, and decked out with scrambled eggs, bits of cheese and crumbled bacon on top, served in a bowl that could feed two or three, even if they were ravenous.

Ok, I’ve given my trusty three the bare bones, but what matters most is the taste.  Rest assured that when it comes to book reviews and recipes and restaurants, I do not write about things I don’t like.  I write about things that touch my foolishly romantic and hungry heart.

 

The owner and chef, Max Gonzales, hits every note, with verve and clarity.  Our breakfast was so generously delicious it registered on the culinary Richter scale.  

 

The atmosphere at Garden Street Bistro is quietly calming and the service is superb.  Our waitress knew exactly how to carefully serve the dishes and how to be chatty and informative when describing the menu, and how to back off and let us eat with the serenity we enjoy, interrupting only briefly to refill our mugs of steaming coffee.

The Garden Street Bistro is not just for breakfast and we must return to try their burgers and pizzas.  Meanwhile, I encourage having a napkin handy while you drool over their web site!

 

Garden Street Bistro

 

See, didn’t I tell you about giving free rein to your imagination??? I do not often lie and then it’s for the best of reasons.  Well, also for self-protection.