Pigskin Pursuit

Auburn vs Alabama: The Iron Bowl

2011-12-18T20:46:00.011-06:00

Instead of watching kickoff of the LSU versus Arkansas match up on the Friday after Thanksgiving, I was boarding Southwest Flight 132 for Birmingham, Alabama – the Pittsburgh of the South. Shortly after wheels hit BHM tarmac, I shoehorn myself into rented wheels for the weekend, a silver Chevy Cobalt. My 6’2” frame presses cozily into the tiny car and I hit the road for the two hour jaunt down to Auburn.

I’m in town for the Iron Bowl, the annual contest between Auburn University and the University of Alabama. Easily one of the most heated rivalries in all of sports, the intensity was recently featured on an hour long ESPN documentary “Roll Tide/War Eagle”. Devoid of any professional sports, the entire state of Alabama is defined by this annual showdown, embedded into its very culture. Brothers fight, spouses squabble. Lines are drawn, and sides are chosen. Everyone has a stake. Apathy is not an option. The pinnacle of college football fervor, this game had been atop my bucket list for years. This weekend, I was finally going to be a part of it.

Making my way Southeast out of Birmingham on highway 280, the roads are thick with Friday evening traffic all heading the same direction, crimson or orange team flags flapping from car windows as they pass. Hungry from the plane ride, I make a pit stop in Alexander City, pulling into an abandoned strip mall for a barbecue joint tucked discreetly into a dark corner. Sho Nuff’ BBQ (yes, that’s the real name), with roots dating back to 1990, was founded when owner Gerald Atchison opened up a small concession trailer beside his bait shop. Once the demand for BBQ took off, Gerald abandoned the bait shop business for smokier pastures, moving into this larger location in the dilapidated Alexander City Shopping Center. Despite the charming story, the barbecue is underwhelming. I shovel down a few mouthfuls of the dry chopped pork and fried okra before hitting the road again.

After another hour I arrive in Auburn, promptly pulling into Mike & Ed’s BBQ. In addition to another round of uninspired pork, I’m there to meet Tim, a senior in the Animal Science program. I’d found him a few weeks ago on Craigslist offering up his student ID for 100 bucks. There are no paper tickets issued to students at Auburn. Instead, the magnetic strips on the plastic ID cards are swept at the entrance gates, checking off the students electronic account. A transaction like this requires a bit of mutual trust. I’m forking over $100 cash for the ID, hoping the light turns green when the agent swipes it at the turnstile. If the light blinks red, I’m left with a worthless piece of plastic. On the other hand, Tim is entrusting me with his entire student account, hoping I bring the ID on Sunday morning, lest he get nailed with a $60 replacement fee. After trading a few pleasantries, we agree to the exchange, setting up Sunday morning for the return. I fork over a stack of crisp twenties, admiring the slick, glossy plastic; my pass to one of the toughest tickets in college football.

After a night in the rickety Super 8 in Opelika, I wake up early for a quick BBQ breakfast at Byrons Smokehouse before heading into campus. The smell of smoke wafts throughout the restaurant, and I ogle the ribs emerging in great charred slabs from the brick pit.

“I’ll have the half slab of ribs plate” I request to the cheerful counter girl, noting a “starving college student” tip cup strategically placed next to the register.

“I can’t sell you ribs yet”. She replies, matter of factly.

“Excuse me? I just saw two guys walk out of here with bags of ribs to go”.

“Yes, those were call in orders for take out. We’re only serving take out right now for BBQ. You can have eggs if you want”.

“Okay, I’ll half a half slab of ribs for takeout” I reply, ignoring the egg suggestion and attempting to thwart their silly rule.

“I can’t sell you a half slab right now, the minimum order is two pounds”.

“Two pounds is the minimum order for ribs in here?”

“No, we sell half slabs for lunch.”

“Well when do you start serving lunch?”

“10:30”

I glance at the watch a few ticks past 8:30, my patience wears thin.

“So let me get this straight. You’re selling ribs right now, I want some, but you won’t sell them to me unless I order two pounds. But if I come back in two hours, then you would sell them to me in a half slab just like I want them?”

“Ummm, yeah I guess…”

“That’s stupid.” I retort.

Frustrated from our little exchange, I motion the manger over. Surely an agreeable, take charge fellow with a grease stained apron would understand my case, scold the insubordinate cashier and order her to get this man some ribs. Instead, he repeats the same inane policy speech as the waitress. It takes a brave man to get between me and some BBQ, some would say foolhardy. For a moment, the thought of a choke slam flashes through my mind, leaving the hapless pitmaster lying in a broken pile of plastic trays and Styrofoam plates. Instead, dumbfounded and defeated, I settle for a few eggs, leaving the tip jar as barren as I found it. Shoveling the eggs down begrudgingly, I hustle to the Auburn campus shortly afterwards and tuck the Cobalt into a free spot on a side street.

Walking over to campus, my first stop is Toomer Drug, a drugstore in operation since 1896, and the anchor of Toomer’s Corner. I fall into the serpentine line for one of their signature fresh lemonades, splashed over crushed ice and served in a Styrofoam cup in true southern fashion. Across the street the two iconic Toomers Live Oaks stand meekly. Swarmed by admiring fans with cameras in tow, a few lingering strands of toilet paper hang from the last Auburn victory on the outstretched limbs of the great trees. The trees are smaller than they look on TV, perhaps 35 feet at the top of the crown, but bear the magnificence and history of ancient Oaks. Sadly, they are visibly withering, dying from the widely publicized dose of “Spike 80” tebuthiuron poison that a lunatic Alabama fan doused them with last year.

I stroll through the pristine Auburn campus, patches of grass claimed with ribbons of orange surveying tape mark out the tailgating plots. Blue and orange tents are erected, spread out across the manicured lawn beneath Samford Hall, the icon of Auburn University. A few trails of blue smoke begin spiraling into the damp morning air while Auburn and Alabama fans co-mingle warmly, huddling around table spreads and flat screen televisions. The rivalry is bitter, but cordial. Free of the vulgarity that pervades their Big 10 counterparts. Though cheering for opposing sides, there is a solidarity shared among all Alabamians, shored by the past two BCS National Championship victories of each school. Above all rivalries, Southern dignity and decorum prevails.

Kickoff still a few hours away, I circle around the Southwest corner of Jordan Hare Stadium assuming a place in the mob of fans already stacked ten deep for “Tiger Walk”, the famed entrance of the Auburn football team on their march into the stadium. Many other schools have since duplicated such a greeting for the players, though Auburn claims to have invented it. Within thirty minutes, the street is mobbed with 10,000 Auburn fans flanking both sides of the roped gauntlet, exchanging shouts of “War Eagle” as the marching band bellows away. During the procession, I munch on a BBQ pork sandwich from the Fat Boys BBQ Trailer, the best cue’ I’d find all weekend.

Shortly after the final brassy notes sound, I scramble to the black iron gates of the student entrance, filing in behind the orange and blue herd. With nary a glance from the ushers, I slide the glossy plastic credentials through the card reader, the light flashing a few pulses of triumphant green. Wedging into a spot in the thirtieth row, I find a seat next to a few amicable coeds draped in short dresses, their hair and makeup primped, neatly presented in typical SEC fashion. The kickoff clock buried at 90:00, players are still warming up in t-shirts and shorts. The student section entertains itself by snatching footballs from the Alabama kicker thumping them through the uprights during warm up. Each time one falls into the stands, the students toss it back and upwards, progressively higher until it is flung victoriously out of the stadium, to the delight of thousands of cheers.

A while later, Nova, the seventh Golden Eagle of Auburn University takes its customary pre game flight around the stadium, the outstretched wings of the magnificent raptor signaling the crowd to its feet. One of the best pre game traditions in all of college football, the eagle is the inspiration for Auburn’s battle cry “War Eagle”, a greeting exchanged by alumni everywhere. Unfortunately that would be the energy high for the day in the raucous student section around me. Without Heisman winner Cam Newton this year, the Auburn attack floundered against the suffocating Alabama defense, barely managing 100 yards of total offense on the day. Alabama pounded the ball unmercifully. Heisman hopeful Trent Richardson trotted for 203 yards as the Crimson Tide cruised to a 42-14 win. For the third year in a row, the home team has lost this fierce rivalry. Regardless of the dominance on the field, the Auburn student section stayed in the fight. Boisterously cheering on their feet for all four quarters, it’s one of the better student sections I have encountered, and certainly worth the price of admission.

Waking up on Sunday morning, I have one final, critical stop to make; Momma Goldbergs Deli. Atop any list of Auburn recommendations from my esteemed alumni friends, Momma’s has been a staple of the Auburn campus since 1976, reflected in the worn, rough sawn pine floors and walls strewn with grainy team photos. A simple menu of deli sandwiches, I order up the signature “Momma’s Love” sandwich, a classic combo of roast beef, ham and turkey. More importantly, the sandwich is paired with a side of “Momma’s Nachos”, a universal must-do from any Auburn alum, and come free of charge with an Iron Bowl ticket stub. Watching intently, the counter girl plucks a fresh bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos directly from the rack, disappearing for a moment before they reemerge as the iconic gooey Auburn delicacy. Brilliant in their simplicity, I don’t know why the concept of Dorito inspired nachos hasn’t taken hold in sports bars across the country.

A few minutes after my meal, I get a raspy phone call from Tim to arrange the return of his leased student ID. We meet in the same Mike & Ed’s parking lot, empty on a Sunday morning. Tim arrives disheveled, haggard after a solid shift the day before. With partial envy of the carefree life on an undergrad, I hand the ID back to him. Next time around, I think I might have to join him for a few cocktails.

Leaving town that Sunday morning I drive back down Magnolia Street, the sidewalks humming with folks dressed in their Sunday best, emptying out of the brick arches of St. Dunstans Episcopal Church. The moment reveals a symbolic clarity of life in Alabama: Saturdays are for football, Sundays are for church. Just pick your side accordingly…

Thanks to my colleague Megan, for a handful of great recommendations and her insider SEC knowledge.

Special thanks to my friends Russ and Alan, both diehard Auburn alums who each gave me fistfuls of amazing recommendations. Hopefully one of these years I can meet both of you in Auburn and hoist a few alongside you. Until then, WDE!!!

Illinois vs Wisconsin

2011-11-30T20:31:00.007-06:00

This late in the season motivation starts to wane. While the thrill of an Alabama or Auburn game on the calendar invariably rouses the sprits, not all road trips bring the same mystique. A trip to Illinois, a perennial middling Big 10 contender in late November felt more like obligation, and a dismal and rainy weather forecast did nothing to allay the gloom. This was one of those weeks that the magnetic pull of my 47” flat screen and a fine piece of beef on the smoker were hard to resist. Nevertheless, I took to the roads early on Saturday for a day trip out to Champaign for one of the Fighting Illini’s eight, yes eight, home games this season.

After a few trips across it this season, the entire state of Illinois has quickly vaulted itself into one of the worst driving states in the country in my opinion, ranking slightly behind Connecticut. Every interstate a seemingly perpetual construction zone, the highways littered with blinking orange road barrels and grooved stretches of ripped up blacktop. The grassy medians are riddled with overzealous Illinois State Troopers, serving the all important public interest of preventing motorists from speeding across untold miles of fallow cornfields. I jot down a mental note to take the Amtrak to Northwestern next year, although contemporary rail travel is hardly any less painful.

Arriving in Champaign a few hours before kickoff and bit peckish, I naturally park myself onto a stool amidst the shimmering stainless steel of Merry Ann’s Diner on the western edge of the UI campus. A greasy, 24 hour staple of Illinois undergrads, the menu even features an offering known as the “Hangover Stack”, a mountain of hash browns, eggs, cheese and meat all smothered in sausage gravy. I opt for more classic diner fare, the house made corned beef hash with a few eggs cracked over it. Bellied up to the linoleum counter, I watch the short order cooks tag team my order, precisely scraping across the cooktop. Not more than three minutes later the piping hot plate is tossed in front of me, along with an economical seven dollar check. Refreshing to find a real diner alive and well in central Illinois.

After breakfast I shuffle around the tailgating area for a while, nosing through a few of the set ups and admiring a couple of the decked out game day rigs that I find. In every school tailgating lot you’ll inevitably find an array of unique gameday jalopies, Illinois proving no exception. I am always curious, however, what the owners do with these vehicles the other 358 days of the year when not tailgating. While it would certainly be nice to own a bright blue and orange Ford school bus solely dedicated to the art of fall football revelry, I’m not sure I’d want to look at the eyesore parked in my driveway for the rest of the year…

Wandering over to the stadium, finding tickets proves an easy task. Mobbed by scalpers and ticket holders the minute I lift a lone finger into the air, I nab a seat in the second row on the forty yard line for thirty bucks – half face value. Built in 1923, Memorial Stadium is one of the oldest stadiums in college football, originally dedicated to the Illinois men and women who died during World War 1. I stand admiring the classical architecture, each of the 200 Indiana limestone columns surrounding the red brick façade bear the names of those soldiers. This tribute, coupled with classical square lines, give the venue a monumental feel, unique within the college football landscape.

Settling into my seat, the frigid aluminum benches suck the warmth out of me. A woman in front came prepared. Cocooned so tightly in a handful of fleece snuggies, she can’t even rise to her feet during the national anthem. I’m forced to flag down the hot chocolate vendor for a warmer. Six bucks later I huddle around a grey plastic mug, admiring the student section as they dance and jump around. It’s a pretty raucous atmosphere up there, the students on their feet the entire contest leading coordinated cheers. Despite great seats, I’m surrounded by fogies and families, many of whom seem unaware a football game is occurring.

Despite the aloof crowd, the Fighting Illini come out swinging, belting the Badgers on the chin to take an early 14-0 lead in the second quarter. For a moment, embattled Illini coach Ron Zoon breathes a sigh of relief, hoping to hold onto his job for another year. Dazed, but not out, the Badgers come out of the locker room in the second half and resume their typical bulldozing ground game. Running back Montee Ball rumbles for 224 yards and a pair of touchdowns, stating his case for Heisman consideration. The Badgers cruise to a solid 28-17 win.

On the way home I take a detour, veering slightly off course to Springfield, Illinois to try another unique regional delicacy known as the “Horseshoe” sandwich. Similar to the “Hot Brown” eaten earlier this year in Louisville, the “Horseshoe” lives exclusively in the Springfield area and is traditionally comprised of thick toast piled with meat, french fries and slathered in cheese. While some variation is found between restaurants, I decide on a buffalo chicken horseshoe, the house specialty at the Irish themed D’Arcy’s Pint. The quivering mess arrives moments later, layers of tangy, salty goodness smothered with D’Arcy’s gooey white cheese sauce. The woman next to me nibbling on a salad gasps, wondering aloud if I’ll be able to finish it. I do. It’s greasy, indulgent and guilty. Perfect after a blustery fall day in Champaign. So heavy is the horseshoe, I almost consider stopping for coffee on my ride home. Fortunately, good taste prevails and I zip home in time to catch a few late west coast games on the flat screen after all…

Missouri vs Texas - The full "COMO" experience...

2011-11-22T20:33:00.009-06:00

The alarm clock starts it’s frenzied dance at 6:00AM sharp, pulling me grudgingly out of a seven hour coma from a heavy Italian meal at Cunetto’s the night before. I move to wrangle my friend Pat off the couch, but he’s already awake, eager for his annual pilgrimage back to Columbia. A friend from Dallas and die hard Mizzou fan, he’d flown in the night before for the final Texas Longhorn matchup against the Tigers. We’d picked this game earlier in the summer expecting it to have late season Big 12 implications, but only Texas came into the contest ranked at #16. With a blasphemous 11:00 AM kickoff, we hustled into the Jetta early for the quick two hour jaunt out to “Como”, as the locals colloquially refer to Columbia, Missouri.

After parking, we immediately head to Harpo’s, a landmark pub in Columbia found on any “best of” list of college sports bars. Decked out in an array of Tigers memorabilia, Harpo’s is mecca for returning Mizzou fans. In additionl to the usual grub and swill, the place is famous for keeping a stash of hacksaws on hand for big Mizzou contests. When the Tigers knock of a top ranked opponent, as they did last year against Oklahoma, fans tear down the goalposts and drag them 12 blocks back to the pub. The bright yellow pipes are then sliced up as fan keepsakes, with a few larger chunks remaining to adorn the walls of the bar. Surveying those storied walls, I order up a hearty breakfast: Guinness. Pat opts for his customary Bud Light. They go down surprisingly smooth for the early hour.

After a few cold ones, we head around the corner to Booches Billiard Hall. Occupying the same Columbia storefront since 1884, Booches is a preserved relic of pool hall splendor from a bygone era. Fixed stools line the ancient wooden bar, and scores of dusty black and white Mizzou football photos bask in the amber neon glow of an old Stag beer sign. Six plastic covered billiard tables precisely set and leveled fill the cavernous space, the floor worn through into rings around them, ground down from eons of cockeyed pool sharks lining up their next shot. Rows of custom cues line the wall like maple ramparts, each nested into its own numbered holder, safely secured with tiny brass locks.

Entering Booches for the first time is like stepping into Fenway Park or Notre Dame Stadium, there is a palpable connection to history in these yellowed walls. A connection to our fathers and grandfathers. To our roots. It is, respectfully, one of the most enduringly authentic places I have encountered on my travels.

Settling into a few of the creaky wooden chairs, the Booches waitress recites the menu gruffly; “We have burgers and chili”. We opt for a couple of cheeseburgers apiece, guzzling a few bottles of Stag lager during the thirty minute wait. When finally ready, the burgers are delivered unceremoniously; tossed onto the table on a single sheet of wax paper each. No plates. No silverware. No pretension. Sized in between a slider and regular burger, two is the perfect number for Booches’ signature fare. Delightfully greasy and indulgent, with the perfect ratio of burger to bun, they prove worthy of their lofty reputation. Booches has certainly had plenty of years to perfect their craft. We relax with a few more cold Stags, soaking in the experience for a few minutes.

With kickoff fast approaching, we begrudgingly drag ourselves out of Booches and make the trek over to Memorial Stadium. We bought our tickets the night before from a connection Pat had made online, 65 bucks apiece for a couple of 50 yard line seats. Squeezing into our seats shortly after the national anthem, a brisk wind howls through the stadium. It’s going to be a big day on the ground, we surmise.

The game starts out high tempo, both offenses marching speedily downfield against reeling defenses. After the initial onslaught, however, the contest slows and both teams settle into a sloppy defensive standoff. The crowd at Mizzou wavers between restless and aloof, rising to their feet on only a handful of occasions, the entire place oddly quiet for such a big game. A strange feeling settles over the atmosphere in “The Zou”. With a mediocre record and imminent departure for the greener pastures of the SEC in 2012, Mizzou fans are noticeably disenchanted. Despite a handy 17-5 victory over the Longhorns on the day, their first since 1997, the crowd listlessly empties from Faurot Field. The goalposts remain proudly upright and intact.

Following the game we make our way over to the tailgating lots to meet up with a few of Pat’s friends. The wind whips through the parking lots, jostling tents and upturning a few tables. Most cars speed off, only the dedicated remain. We mill around until the cold gets the better of us, then load up the cars and retreat to the glow of Shakespeare pizza downtown, huddling into the warmth.

A favorite reunion place for Mizzou grads, fans wait up to two hours on gameday for their handmade Shakespeare pie. Six of us cram into one of the lone open oak booths, downing a few pitchers before the hot, bubbling pizzas are set onto a wire rack in the middle of the table. Loaded with cheese and luxuriously thick slabs of pepperoni, we descend on the pies like vultures on carrion. Bellies satisfied after a long day, it’s time to hit the robust Mizzou nightlife. We take our party onto the bustling sidewalks, and bravely into the “Como” night we go…

Special thanks to my good friend Pat for giving me the full tour of the Missouri experience, can't wait to hit a handful of Tiger SEC games with you next year!

Alabama vs LSU - Game of the Century...

2011-11-17T23:58:00.010-06:00

It’s happened only 22 times in the history of college football. A #1 meeting a #2 in a regular season game is an exceedingly rare event on the gridiron, the last occurrence in 2006 when Ohio State downed Michigan in a 42-39 barnburner. For you trivia buffs, Notre Dame has been featured in 9 of these clashes, the most by any team.

Despite their recent dominance, however, the SEC has never fielded the meeting of a #1 versus #2 game within the conference. Alabama versus LSU would not only be a historic match up in that regard, but given their dominance thus far this year, a defacto National Championship in many respects. With a game of this magnitude coming into the picture, there was never any question that I had to find my way into Bryant Denny stadium to witness it first hand.

Finding tickets would be a different story altogether. The student section would be the thrumming heart of the whole decadent affair, and precisely where I needed to be. I researched student ticket policy, and, for nearly a month, scoured Craigslist for students willing to upgrade their tickets to general admission for an $85 fee. Against my usual policy of scalping tickets off the street, I had learned a valuable lesson about student ticket supplies drying up for big games in Wisconsin earlier this year, and this was far from a usual contest. The piece of mind of having tickets in hand was worth the premium.

With some patience, I found a bargain for $200 bucks. Most were posted considerably higher than that, with some fetching $600 on Stubhub. Completing the transaction over Paypal, my elusive prize arrived next day air the week before kickoff. Tracking another ticket down for Dylan, my cohort in this adventure, proved a bit more challenging. Fifty emails and texts later, I tentatively locked one down for $280 with a girl who agreed to meet us in a Publix grocery store parking lot at 8am on game day to complete the exchange. Naturally, she overslept, showing up in sweatpants at 9:30 groggily rubbing her eyes and apologizing profusely.

The Friday flight down to Birmingham is cramped, as all Southwest flights are, and I settle in beside one of the few purple garbed LSU fans. Glancing down, I notice a massive LSU 2003 National Championship ring glowing on his hand. At about 5’8” and 150 lbs, the ring seems curiously out of place, so I ask him about it. A die hard LSU fan and retired private investigator, J.R. forked over $5,000 for the bejeweled trinket, originally belonging to former wide receiver Blain Bech. Cut from the same adventurous cloth as myself, J.R. now travels the country chasing huge sporting events along with his son, and was actually in attendance at the same LSU versus Florida game in Baton Rouge that I had hit back in 2009.

Stepping off the plane, Dylan greets me at the airport like a limo driver. A lifelong best friend, this is his first trip to the deep South. I toss my gear into the silver Chrysler 250 he’d rented, and we speed off into downtown Birmingham. An urbanite Manhattan resident, it’s Dylan’s first time behind the wheel of a car in over a year. The rust shows a bit as he nervously shifts across lanes, but it brings back memories of a few white knuckled rides we’d had growing up, navigating our way through New England blizzards crammed into his tiny VW Golf. After logging a few thousand miles behind the tiller this year, it feels good to be in the passenger seat for a change.

After picking up our ticket from the red eyed sophomore the morning of the game, we roll down University Avenue in the shadow of Bryant Denny Stadium, the sidewalks already humming with houndstooth. Massive white columned fraternity houses line the streets, pledges setting loudspeakers out on the manicured laws in preparation for the day. Other fans set up tents and satellite TV’s, claiming any piece of unoccupied grass they can find.

We hit the Waysider for breakfast, an Alabama institution, and wait forty five minutes before squeezing into a table in the cramped space. The food is hearty and filling, noted by their homemade biscuits. Wearing my Notre Dame sweatshirt in the brisk morning air, I’m chided by a few Alabama fans sarcastically inquiring if I’m lost. The LSU fans get it a little bit harder. The waitress silences the entire restaurant when the purple fans sit down, leading the entire house in a drawn out, communal “Rolllllllllllll Tide!!!” After the razzing, the Tiger fans are appeased with a frosted cake ball, a polite treat presented in good natured Southern fashion. Next to us a few fans work out a ticket deal, $650 for a pair of nosebleeds….

Peeling out of the Waysider parking lot, there is little time to digest, as we immediately head to Archibalds BBQ over the river in Northport. Breakfast followed by a barbecue chaser. I’d called the day before for their hours, planning our arrival as they unlocked the doors at 10:30 am to skip the lines.

An obscure concrete block shanty in the middle of a neighborhood, Archibalds is a quintessential ramshackle southern BBQ joint. A few Alabama fans wonder aloud how I’d even found the place. With only four stools lining the cramped, smoky interior, we take our brown bagged prize to the picnic tables outside. Unwrapping greasy butcher paper, the comforting waft of ribs and sliced pork greet my nose, accompanied by a styrofoam cup of spicy orange sauce, a generous stack of white bread and nothing more. Despite a full breakfast only 30 minutes before, my appetite roars to life. We devour the food as handfuls of fans began lining up at the entrance, thankful to have arrived early.

Following our second breakfast, we park at Tuscaloosa Central High School for twenty bucks and meet up with my friends Kevin and Lindsey who had also made the trip down from Saint Louis. They’re in Tuscaloosa for the game visiting their friend Caitlyn, a fellow STL native and Alabama senior hosting a tailgate for this epic contest.

It’s one of those perfect afternoons for tailgating – sunny, warm and surrounded by great people. We drop our case of Coors Light in the cooler and get the day underway, easing into a few cold ones before more serious drinking games start. Easily distracted by a plume of smoke, I intently observe Caitlyns father delicately rolling a few sausages across a charcoal grill. An experienced grill master, he’s already offered up some flawless ribs, and later in the afternoon would unveil a foil tray heaped with beef tenderloin that almost reduced me to tears.

Around 4pm, a full three hours ahead of kickoff, we begin preparations for the stadium. Filling handfuls of collapsible clear plastic flasks with rum and vodka, they are concealed beneath layers of clothing, hidden from the obligatory security pat down. Surreptitiously mixed with a few stadium sodas, we’ve got enough booze to party well into the third quarter. I stuff my pockets with a few extra walking beers, and we hit Paul W. Bryant Drive.

The scene outside the student gates at Bryant Denny is a borderline riot. A few thousand students mob the entrance, and we push our way into the din. The gates don’t open until two hours before kickoff, so we mill around the chaos waiting. The ground is littered with empty beer cans and liquor nips crunching underfoot, we crack a few cold ones waiting for the black iron gates to part. A cheer breaks out when they are finally flung open, we rush through the turnstiles like throngs of human cattle. The plan pays off, we find a row of open seats 20 rows up from the field in the student section behind the endzone, up close and personal to all the action. Those arriving later would find themselves in the second deck, or higher.

Two hours before kickoff and the first deck of the student section is completely full. The rest of the stadium still empty, we watch the players running pre game drills in t-shirts and mesh shorts. They practice footwork and long snaps, we sip rum and cokes. The anticipation hangs in the air like a haze, growing thicker with each minute ticking off the pre game clock. A few cocktails later, “Sweet Home Alabama” pumps in over the radio and the pack takes its feet. Tens of thousands of crimson and white pom poms shake to the music, the crowd growing louder and more restless by the second. Kickoff is a few minutes away.

After all the planning, hunting and preparation the moment is finally here. 100,000 screaming bodies hang echoing on the edge of frenzy, waiting until ball is finally thumped high into the Alabama night air.

Both of these teams play beautiful football. No flash. No glamour. No superfluities. They win by attrition. Like boa constrictors, they squeeze the air from their prey with suffocating defense, tightening the grip with each desperate gasp. The offenses grind away methodically, punishing adversaries with bone crushing rush attacks. By brute force of will, Alabama and LSU methodically pound their opponents into submission. They don’t win by scoring more points, they win by breaking your spirit. Dominance in its most animalistic form…

The game played to this legendary billing. For four straight quarters the two juggernauts exchange blows like a pair of heavyweight prize fighters trading their best haymakers. Neither flinch. Neither yield an inch without blood sacrifice. And with the score knotted at 6 each after four quarters, neither one breaks. There are no touchdowns, no defensive lapses. The entire contest teases the precarious edge of euphoria, but never crosses over it. It’s tense, loud, thrilling. We yell ourselves hoarse when the Bama’ defense digs their heels in, the power of 100,000 collective voices willing them to victory.

In overtime the Tide eventually stumble, they don’t fall nor break, just slip ever so slightly. But that slip is all it takes. LSU kicks a chip shot field goal through the uprights in overtime, the equivalent of winning a 15 round title fight by split decision, skating away with a 9-6 victory.

Exhausted and defeated, we file solemnly out of Bryant Denny Stadium. A disappointing outcome to be sure, but a once in a lifetime experience. Quite simply the best of what college football has to offer…

Thanks to my friends Kevin and Lindsay, it was great to travel down to Tuscaloosa with you guys and made the experience all the more enjoyable. We need to plan out a few more games next year!

Thanks to Caitlyn and her parents for the amazing tailgate and wonderful hospitality. Very much appreciated, and hope to meet up with you for the Iron Bowl in a few weeks.

Special thanks to my friend Dylan. Always good to pry you out of NYC for a little adventure, and let me know when you are ready for the next one. Always a blast man.

Archibalds BBQ - The other Tuscaloosa legend...

2011-11-17T20:05:00.003-06:00

The Waysider - Bama' Breakfast...

2011-11-17T19:46:00.005-06:00

Indiana vs Northwestern – Fall bliss in Bloomington…

2011-11-09T21:48:00.009-06:00

Filing out of the Runcible Spoon with a distended belly, it was, as they say, a great day for a good stretch of the legs. It was a pristine and crisp fall morning in Bloomington, one of the quintessential college towns in the country. I fell in line with the crimson herd shuffling along the sidewalk on Indiana Avenue for a leisurely stroll up to Memorial Stadium. The Halloween contingent was out in full festive force, many students garbed in garish and clichéd costumes, toting boxes of beer alongside. Predictably, a couple of bearded “Allen” from the Hangover characters passed by one another, chest bumping in their baby bjorns.

At the approach to Memorial Stadium a sea of lush grass parking lots open up, flooded with cars parked beneath the hardwood canopy overhead. Dotted with massive oaks and maples ablaze in full autumn splendor, tents and grills smoking away beneath, the Indiana tailgating scene in late October is magnificent. The picturesque fall backdrop was eerily reminiscent of the infamous Grove at Ole Miss, minus the opulence and Southern mannerisms of course.

Heading further east on 17^th street towards Woodlawn, the tailgating scene takes on a decidedly more rowdy atmosphere. Thousands of students were jammed into a muddy field, packed in tighter than an all night rave, the ground littered with empty solo cups and aluminum cans. A handful of trucks were scattered haphazardly throughout the mob, loaded over the sideboards with beer, doors flung wide open with hip hop music bumping away. Naturally, the Bloomington cops were perched around the perimeter like eagles scanning for prey, glassing the riot for brawlers or the unruly. They had a gated tent set up nearby as ad hoc drunk tank, a couple of cherub faced undergrads sat handcuffed, whimpering dejectedly in metal folding chairs as they were processed.

I’ve seen a lot of tailgating in my travels, but nothing as dense and intense as this particular student scene at IU. With that level of raucousness, it’s no small wonder why most of them never make it into the stadium.

With game time approaching, I sauntered across the street and swooped up a quick ticket for twenty bucks. With the uninspiring IU vs Northwestern matchup, the scalpers put up little fuss at the negotiating table. As I walked past the west side of Memorial Stadium, displayed on the concrete stood a couple of WW2 era anti aircraft guns and a towering ship mast draped with Big 10 flags. It turns out the mainmast came from the decommissioned USS Indiana, a South Dakota class Battleship that served in the Pacific theater of the war, and now enshrines the football stadium.

Predictably, the game itself was a side note on the day. Similar to Kentucky, Indiana fans make it clear that basketball is the real season in Bloomington. The stadium barely filled up halfway, and I retreated back a row to spread out across a row of cushioned seats left unoccupied. The PA tried to pump some energy into the aloof crowd, belting out an exaggerated “First down Hoooooooooosiers” after Indiana moved the chains, punctuated by a brassy military band march straight out of the inspection scene from The Dirty Dozen. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to will the Hoosiers to a victory on this day, in typical Big 10 doormat fashion they were drubbed by the Wildcats 59-38.

Interestingly, Indiana was the first venue I have been to that doesn’t have a tawdry school mascot dancing around on the sidelines. It was refreshing to see a school that doesn’t feel compelled to send a giant inflatable “Hoosier” costume fumbling away behind the bench.

Following the game, I took a leisurely stroll around the IU campus, reputed to be one of the more picturesque campuses in the Big 10. Decked out in resplendent fall color, the classic gothic architecture and iconic Indiana limestone are the standard for collegiate campus architecture. Football aside, Indiana University in the late fall is a magnificent place to visit, and Bloomington one of the all time great college towns.

Special thanks to my friends Gordon and Ken, both esteemed IU alums, for their excellent recommendations during my Bloomington experience.

The Little Zagreb - That's a spicy meat-a-ball!

2011-11-02T22:28:00.004-05:00

“Order the garlic rolls, the spicy meatballs and the petite filet. Don’t get the full size filet, it’s just not as good. Use a full pad of butter for each of the garlic rolls, and get sour cream with the spicy meatballs, you’ll need it. I know it sounds weird, but trust me.”

My recommendation to the Little Zagreb came with those precise directions courtesy of my friend, and loyal Hoosier alum, Gordon. While many folks might bristle at blindly following such a directive, I tend to be grateful for informed recommendations. When those recommendations include house made meatballs and tender slabs of beef, little additional persuasion is needed. I repeated Gordon’s words verbatim to Katie, the cheerful waitress, before she even got a chance to hand me the menu. She ratified my decisive selections and tottered into the kitchen, menu in hand.

Glancing around the interior, the Little Zagreb is simple and unadorned. Pine paneled walls display a handful of bright crimson Indiana banners, a few IU basketball team pictures and red and white checkered tablecloths tie the rest of the unpretentious décor together. My order arrived a few minutes later, full family sized portions plunked imposingly on the table. Katie snickered at all the food in front of me, sarcastically plopping a “to go” box on the table before I even started. She would later return that same box to waitress station, empty and defeated. Learning the hard way that my appetite is nothing to be trifled with…

The garlic rolls were bursting with salty garlic, and, in a subtle act of brilliance, had been toasted on the grill before serving, picking up a hint of charcoal flavor. The spicy meatballs lived up to their fiery reputation. A healthy dose of cayenne pepper was the only secret Katie was willing to reveal, but the heat kept me dunking them in sour cream and reaching for the water glass regularly. Finally the filet arrived, perfectly medium rare, tender, and gently seasoned to perfection. The steaks here are imparted with a robust charcoal flavor from the open flame grill, a technique that forms the elusive and prized crust on a properly charred steak.

It’s not a cheap meal, to be sure, and expect to pay full steak dinner prices. But Janko’s Little Zagreb is a place not to be missed in Bloomington, and if you find yourself there now, you won’t even need a menu…

Special thanks to Ken and Gordon for the insider tip on the Little Zagreb, in addition to a handful of other recommendations in Bloomington that I hope to visit next time around…

Runcible Spoon - Irish Breakfast in Bloomington

2011-11-02T22:16:00.005-05:00

Walking up to the Runcible Spoon on 6^th Street in downtown Bloomington, it looks like any other house lining the side street. A simple cottage in a residential neighborhood, a perennial garden out front and a flagstone patio, the “Spoon” has occupied the same converted home since 1976. An Irishman greeted me inside the door with a warm “What kin I do fer’ ya?” Not exactly the greeting I was expecting to find in Bloomington, Indiana but it turns out the guy was the owner Matt O’Neill, who has resettled to the Midwest from the mother land. He guided me to a small open table beside the aromatic coffee bar in what used to be the kitchen. A quick inspection of the bathroom revealed a cast iron bathtub still in place, now filled to the brim with water and plants, having been repurposed as a fish tank.

After a long ride, I ordered up a massive breakfast. Inspired by the Irish roots, I opted for eggs benedict, adding in side orders of extra eggs, home fries and, true to form, corned beef hash. Despite the influx of homecoming weekend business, my order arrived quickly. The bennie’ was pretty straightforward diner fare; a bit disappointing because based on the ambience I expected a more artisan spin. Thankfully, the corned beef hash delivered. It was packed with tender, real chunks of salty corned beef, and a far more crafted version than its factory canned cousin.

Although satisfying, the Runcible Spoon really isn’t my regular cup of tea. It was a bit too bohemian (read hippy) for my taste. While the food is pretty good, it’s also quite pricey, and my hefty breakfast tallied well over 20 bucks. I’m still puzzled how some of the ragamuffins that traipsed in and out of the place could afford it. Many readers might appreciate a place with a few dozen kinds of home roasted, 100% organic, free trade coffees, delicately sipped in eclectic mugs. And if that’s your thing, you should visit. But in the kinds of joints that I frequent, there is only one kind of coffee; black coffee. It comes in a white mug, and, if you ask the surly waitress nicely enough you might get a pack of sugar and some tepid cream with it. Not that I drink that hideous liquid of course, but it highlights my point.

Notre Dame vs USC

2011-10-31T23:04:00.004-05:00

I generally don’t write much about Notre Dame home games, for obvious reasons. It’s an impossible task for me to capture it subjectively, and because I have spent so much time there, it’s difficult to convey the story through the eyes of a newcomer.

Despite the thorough drubbing on the field, however, an embarrassing and painful loss to USC, the trip last week was particularly special for me. For the first time, my mother made the pilgrimage out to the promised land of South Bend. Although loyally following the Irish on TV for many years and proudly displaying the myriad of Irish fan gear I had bestowed upon her for several Christmas’s, this would be her first visit to Notre Dame.

As one of my friends eloquently put it; you only get to take your mom to her first Notre Dame game once. The entire weekend was truly a blessing, and I was fortunate to finally share this experience, and what make the place so special for me, with my mother.

Love you Mom.

Special thanks to Andrew and Julia as always, for their hospitality and putting on a first class tailgate. Looking forward to a couple of adventures next fall with you guys…first round is on me in Dublin.

Also, thanks to my new friend and loyal follower of the blog, Ron, for the ticket help and cold beers. Great to finally meet up with you Ron, and look forward to our paths crossing again in the future!

Fat Shirley’s in South Bend – The end of an era…

2011-10-30T20:11:00.001-05:00

The smell of grease and cigarettes hovers in the low yellowed ceilings like a fog. The galley counter is cramped, and patrons straddle spinning vinyl stools waiting. Stainless steel flashes behind the counter, a few corners covered with grime – looks like it’s been there for about twenty years. Who cares when the coffee is strong. Drunk chatter fills the air, interrupted by the sizzle of the grill, fatty strips of bacon popping away. Students slur clumsily about politics, turning green as they struggle to finish a midnight meal. The early old timers huddle around black coffees, jabbering on about local gossip, or such and such “dumb son of a bitch”.

Barb, the short order cook, goes about her work efficiently, turning only to holler at a couple of drunks getting mouthy with the young waitress. They assume their places, returning to silence. There’s a certain authority to a middle aged woman working the graveyard shift waving a greasy masons trowel. She goes back to her work, ladling butter onto the cooktop for the next order. Everything gets cooked in butter here; eggs, potatoes, even the bacon. It sits melted in a steel tray on the grill, refreshed every few minutes with another yellow brick.

My roommate and I watch our breakfasts being cooked, strips of bacon dancing away in the heavy handed butter. I ordered the “Truckers Special”; three eggs, toast, bacon and a pile of home fries. All of it cost four bucks. Paid for up front and in cash only, per the faded paint menu board posted bluntly above the grill. Probably the only place left in America you can get a full breakfast cooked to order, flip the cashier a five dollar bill, and leave with change. With the clock tilting towards 4AM we shuffle the 100 yards home from the diner, stripping on the porch before entering the tiny bungalow we’re renting. The stench of cigarettes and grease is so strong we don’t dare bring the clothes in the house, leaving them to air outside in the cool fall morning air.

Depending on who you talk to in South Bend, that iconic 24 hour diner was known as “Fat Shirley’s” to some, and the “Gag and Heave” to others. Officially, the name was the White House Restaurant, and stories like the above were the typical ending to weekend nights during my tenure in South Bend. I rubbed elbows with a few Notre Dame Football players there, and a truck once hit the building while I was eating. Once I was sure the rickety structure wasn’t coming down, I resumed the assault on my potatoes.

Unfortunately, however, the restaurant as I knew it closed down a couple years ago. After shutting the doors for a while, it has now been reopened as Jeannie’s House. It’s no longer 24 hours, the prices went up a bit, and there are a couple new faces in the room. Fresh pine paneling abounds inside, the ceiling is a crisp new white along with a myriad of updated cosmetics. The whole place it just feels – new. Different. You’re even allowed to use your cell phone now…

Trying to dredge up some memories, I trudged back in there on the Sunday morning after the game. While the glory in Notre Dame Stadium continues to fade, so to does the aura of Fat Shirley’s. Sure the food was fine at “Jeannie’s”, and still relatively cheap, so I have nothing to complain about. But it just didn’t feel the same anymore. Maybe I needed a few dozen beers to really appreciate it, or maybe some things are just better left to memory…

Rest in peace Fat Shirley’s.

(Sadly, I don’t have any pictures of the old place…)

Polito's Meatball Subs - Still perfect...

2011-10-27T22:48:00.004-05:00

I wrote extensively about the virtues of the meatball sub at Polito’s two years ago HERE. With changes afoot seemingly around every corner of South Bend, I’m happy to report that is not the case at Polito’s.

The meatball subs here remain the same gooey treasures they were two years ago, overflowing with spiced meat and mozzarella. Untarnished by the meddling hands of change, they’re worth the trip every time. I don’t know why this place even has a menu...

Iowa vs Northwestern – Striped Out…

2011-10-24T23:16:00.005-05:00

Originally scheduled for a Penn State trip this weekend, some last minute cancellations sent me rifling through the schedule for a last second substitute. Fortunately, the Hawkeyes were in town, and another premier Big 10 school would be a more than suitable alternative. The magnetic allure of Iowa came calling once again.

Highway 61 beckoned, the same route north I had taken earlier this year to Iowa State. In a month, the rolling hills of southern Iowa had turned from green to gold, the corn frayed and exhausted, pleading for the mercy of the scythe. It was harvest season now, stout combines carving great swaths into the landscape, billowing clouds of chaff behind like a yellow mist. Eighteen wheelers awaited on the edges of the fields, the bounty hauled off and deposited into countless steel corn bins gleaming across the Iowa landscape.

Rolling into Iowa City, I park a half mile or so east of town, beyond the metered parking and expensive garages, squeezing into a free street space across from College Green Park. Curiously, a couple dozen tents are pitched in the small grassy patch, the gazebo cocooned in plastic, and boxes of food stacked neatly nearby. Evidently the “Occupy” movement has gained a foothold in Iowa City. The 99% are everywhere it seems…

I meet up with an old friend, Holly, and we shuffle down the crowded sidewalk towards Kinnick Stadium. Behind the field, we roam up and down Melrose Street, the bustling heart of the Hawkeye tailgating scene. Food vendors line the sidewalks with trails of blue charcoal smoke spiraling into the sky. Tacos, burgers, and brats are some of the typical fare offered, but “big ass Turkey legs” are the signature item Iowa is known for. After two lunches, I regretfully have to decline. Up and down Melrose both sides of the street are swarmed with yellow and black fans spilling out of party houses. Cars, trucks, busses and tents are crammed onto the tiny lawns for a pre game block party, the atmosphere festive and robust.

Eventually, I snatch up a quick ticket outside the stadium on the 30 yard line. Despite a lackluster matchup with Northwestern, tickets are in surprisingly short supply and the security guards annoyingly overzealous. They hassle me about my small string backpack, the same one I have carried unobstructed into well over 40 stadiums, by citing some nonsensical “rule” that seems to pervade a lot of stadium security these days. I disappear behind a bus, put on the few extra layers and whistle past security, promptly returning the contents to my bag moments later as I head towards my seat.

Emerging from the portal, I had unknowingly fallen into a “stripe out” game at Kinnick Stadium. In a unique show of Hawkeye solidarity, 70,000 fans color coordinate their outfits dependent upon the section. Alternating entire sections of yellow and black, the crowd forms “stripe” patterns in the stands, an effect few other fan bases would be able to pull of with such dazzling precision. I’m one of the few who didn’t get the memo, my black fleece a shameful eyesore among the ocean of yellow around me.

Additionally, for this particular contest, each seat was issued a paper placard, held aloft during a pregame ceremony that decked the stadium in two unique patterns.

Unfortunately, tonight there was no flyover to accompany that patriotic pattern or Star Spangled banner after the Iowa 25^th Flying Training Squadron had been reprimanded for their stunt last year. During the 2010 Ohio State game, the group channeled their inner “Top Gun” and quite literally buzzed a mere 16 feet over the press box, a maneuver which cost the lead pilot his military career. If you ask me, he should have been promoted. The closer the better in my opinion…

I spent the entire game seated next to a friendly guy named Eric and a few of his buddies cramped alongside into the tight rows of Kinnick Stadium. A lifelong Hawkeye fan and alum, Eric schooled me in the finer points of Iowa football, noting some of the players to watch and exchanging a few road trip stories during the breaks. A dedicated follower, he flies in from Atlanta for every home game, and catches a few select road games whenever possible. I can only imagine the toil of being an ardent Big 10 nut living in the heart of SEC country. It’s always pleasant to have knowledgeable seat mates, and Eric’s hospitality made the night that much more enjoyable.

On the field, the Hawkeyes prevailed, but struggled to put the plucky Wildcats away. Iowa never delivered a knockout blow to put the contest out of reach, allowing Northwestern to remain close the entire contest, finishing with a tenuous 41-31 victory. With the brisk Iowa night settling in after the final whistle, I left impressed by the Iowa experience. It’s a quintessential Big 10 atmosphere; a festive and robust college town, hard hitting fundamental football and ardent, knowledgeable fan base. All the right ingredients for a great experience, and next time I’ll be sure to pack a yellow shirt too…

Thanks to my friend Holly for meeting up and saying hello on such short notice in Iowa City, maybe next time I'll give you more than 12 hours notice and we can make an entire day of it.

Special thanks to my friend Allison for her thorough list of all the hot spots in Iowa City, and a run down of the gameday attractions around Kinnick. You made my first visit to Hawkeye nation a great one, and certainly left me ready to head back for more!

Hamburg Inn #2 - #1 in my breakfast book…

2011-10-20T22:47:00.005-05:00

Originally founded in the mid 1930’s, the Hamburg Inn #2 was one of three different burger joints (#1 and #3 have since closed) opened up in Iowa City by the Panther Brothers, and has grown to landmark status since that time. In addition to being an Iowa City icon, Hamburg #2 has garnered national celebrity with their “Coffee Bean Caucus” for presidential election cycles. During the Iowa Caucuses, visitors to the ‘Burg are allotted coffee beans to drop into mason jars with selected candidates names on them. Many presidential nominees have visited the Hamburg Inn to garner Iowan support, claiming such noteworthy visitors as Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton.

Despite its namesake, I was told by a handful of reputable sources that breakfast was the real attraction at the Hamburg Inn #2. As such, I lined up an early Sunday morning visit to avoid the church crowds piling in after service. What I discovered may be one of the best breakfast encounters I’ve ever had.

Putting the aforementioned partisan politics aside, I was there to sample their breakfast lineup, but a glance at the menu quickly diverted my attention to a featured menu item called the “Pie Shake”. Deceptively simple, the “pie shake” is simply a standard milkshake made with your choice of a slab of their homemade pie tossed in. Somehow, I had made it 32 years on this planet without so much as hearing of a Pie Shake, never mind trying one, and my sheltered existence was about to be turned on its face.

Despite the tempting array of various fruit pies, I opted for the Red Velvet “Cake” Shake, which, according to the waitress, was one of their best sellers. It arrived a few minutes later, flecked pink in color topped with whipped cream and a cherry, filled into a tall sundae glass, the remaining contents loaded into the accompanying steel mixing cup. And quite simply, it was glorious. As a purveyor of shakes, this was absolute Red Velvety perfection in a glass. Whatever your predispositions about proper breakfast fare may be, anytime of day would be appropriate for one of these, and only a chump would opt for coffee instead.

The breakfast itself was equally indulgent and delicious. Opting for a traditional corned beef hash and eggs, I was awarded an extra chicken fried steak after a mix up by the waitress. Oddly, I didn’t protest. Traditional and simple, there is a subtle art to a basic breakfast. The hash had a crispy crust browned to perfection, while the chicken fried steak had a crunchy battered shell giving way to fork tender pounded steak inside. I alternated savory bites of salty breakfast meats with sips of the creamy sweet red velvet shake. It was everything that you could want from a simple, old school diner breakfast. Nothing more, nothing less.

In the end, the Hamburg Inn #2 is about as close to breakfast perfection as you can get. It’s rich in history and has all the authentic charm of a quintessential main street café’. During that history, they’ve had time to master the basics – the food is unpretentious yet perfectly prepared, free of any superfluous adornment. Finally, the “Pie Shakes” are one of America’s great undiscovered food secrets. If I were running for President, they would be decreed mandatory fare on every diner menu from coast to coast. I’m sure even ole Bubba Clinton and Ronald Reagan could agree on that platform…

Hamburg Inn #2 Website

The Airliner - Touching down in Iowa City...

2011-10-20T20:59:00.004-05:00

Most great college towns have one. An institutional bar that has been around for eons and serves as a beacon for all returning students and alumni to congregate, reliving the glory of their undergraduate revelry. At Iowa, that bar is the Airliner. A 67 year old relic that has marked the passage of time for generations of Hawkeyes. Since 1944 they have been slinging beers and dishing out their renowned pizza, and I wandered my way through the Pedestrian Mall to give it a try.

In a nod to history, the Airliner is located directly across the street from the Pentacrest, a historic collection of five neo classical buildings found on the National Register of Historic places. The centerpiece building being the gold topped dome of the old Iowa State Capitol, rising out of the pristinely manicured lawns. While waiting for my table, I watched a girl getting her wedding pictures taken among the classical stone columns, dress draped across the granite steps.

Given the wait for a table, an expectation you should be prepared for on a game day, I killed a few minutes at the bar with a couple pints of Leinenkugels. While I may draw the ire of my Midwest friends for this, Leinenkugels may be one of the most overrated beers around. They tend to be weakly flavored, and overly dependent on superfluous fruit additives. Contrasted to the craft Blackhawk Stout from Court Avenue Brewing that I had next door at Shorts Burger, the Leinenkugels was meek and watery. Hardly discernible from Miller Lite.

After settling into a table, my buffalo chicken pizza arrived in short order, the handmade “Airliner” crust piled with cheese and chicken. With the exception of the crust, perfectly crisped but still buttery and pliable, the pizza was pretty straightforward – as one would expect.

While the Airliner is an Iowa City landmark rich in tradition, to a newcomer you would never know it. Extensive renovations have been made to the interior, varnish and fresh paint abound, erasing some of the worn charm that comes from decades of use. From what I could tell, the only original piece remaining is the iconic stained glass mural of a biplane. Regardless, yellow and black sweatshirts were piled into every corner, patrons of all ages enjoying some pre-game festivities, connected in the spirit of Hawkeye Football. It’s just one of those places you have to go.

Airliner Website

Shorts Burger & Shine - Going Local in Iowa...

2011-10-19T22:19:00.005-05:00

Although not as heralded as Iowa City landmarks like the Airliner and Hamburg Inn #2, Shorts Burger and Shine turned up as a place of interest during my research. Located a few steps north on Clinton Street in the shadow of the Airliner, it has quickly become one of the more reputable burger joints amidst the mass of pubs nested into the Pedestrian Mall area.

With a dedication to local foods and beers, Shorts features an impressive array of taps lining the dark bar inside. All the draughts are exclusively Iowa breweries; Millstream, Mad House and Old Man River to name a few – none of which I had heard of either. With a burger on the way, I opted for the darkest beer in the house – a Blackhawk Stout from the Court Avenue Brewing Company located a stones throw down the road in Des Moines. Pouring like motor oil out of the tap, the robust Oatmeal Stout was laden with roasted chocolate notes, and paired nicely with a spicy burger.

Appropriately, those burgers are sourced locally as well. 26.5 miles to be exact, they are shipped in from Ed Smith Farms in Columbus Junction, as Shorts proudly displays on their menu. The patties are never frozen, the buns baked locally, and the fries hand cut. Although slightly overcooked, the burger was well formed and heavy handed with the bacon (always a good thing). The fries were crispy golden brown, and expertly cooked. I salute any dedication to local foods and craft beers, and Shorts Burger and Shine is no exception. The burgers are solid, and the beers are far better than their watered down mass produced brethren you’ll find at most of the other taps in town.

Shorts Website

Texas vs Oklahoma – Red River Rivalry

2011-10-17T22:23:00.005-05:00

There are a handful of questions that I never say no to.

Would you like bacon on that?

Another beer?

Do you want to join Kimberly and I for Texas versus Oklahoma, we have 2^nd row tickets on the 50 yard line?

The last query was posed by my friend Jared a few weeks ago, and a quick glance at my schedule revealed I had originally scheduled a game at Northwestern. As exciting as a trip to Evanston sounded, getting another chance to witness one of the greatest rivalries in College Football sounded far more enticing. Chicago dogs and deep dish pizza would have to wait, and by the end of the weekend I would answer “yes” to all three of the questions posed above.

A few clicks of the mouse later, and onto a Southwest 737 I stepped for a cramped Friday night flight into the Big D. Jared greeted me at the clustered terminal outside Love Field, an unspoiled tribute to vintage 1980’s décor. Fighting our way out of airport traffic we headed 40 minutes north to Frisco, a northern suburb of Dallas well beyond the bright shiny lights of downtown. Land of minivans and mini malls, we contemplated a trip to Bed Bath and Beyond before agreeing beer sounded like a more palatable choice.

Held annually at the Texas State Fairgrounds, the Red River Rivalry; rebranded from the former “Red River Shootout” in a knee jerk PC response to gun violence, is easily one of the biggest rivalries in College Football. The dazzling spectacle of “Big Tex” is the perfect backdrop for the contest, as the unbridled frenzy in the stands is matched only by the indulgence and gluttony of the fair itself, considered the largest fair in the United States. In addition to the usual games, rides and exhibition halls, in true Texan fashion, deep fried foods are a staple of the fair experience. Vendors proffer their battered creations in every corner, ranging from usual favorites like onion rings and dough, to exotic deep fried specialties like Twinkies, smores, peanut butter and jelly, bacon, butter (yes deep fried butter), coca cola and even beer.

The Red River Rivalry is one of the few occasions where a neutral site actually works for the better. While I am a staunch traditionalist, maintaining that virtually all college football games be hosted on campuses, Texas vs. OU weekend may as well be a national holiday in Dallas. Located equidistantly three hours from each respective campus, fans from both schools are able to meet in the middle and partake in the revelry each season. The entire city of Dallas draws sides, as the streets flood with fans from each squad, crowding into every bar and restaurant in town draped in affiliated team colors. A few squabbles break out here and there as they are likely to do, but as a whole, the city is one giant party for the entire weekend.

Fighting some early Saturday morning traffic, we navigated our way into the fairgrounds, jostling amongst the mixed crowd of burnt orange and crimson. Along the sidewalk a few cleverly sarcastic Texas fans taunted Oklahoma visitors with a Toby Keith CD attached to a string, dragging the case along the ground like trolled fishing bait. Not sure how many bites they got, but it drew plenty of chuckles. We had time for only a few early morning beers, as the contest kicks off promptly at 11AM, presumably to prevent the two fan bases from getting completely saturated. Braving the mob stacked outside the entrance, as older stadiums are apt to have, we slowly shuffled our way into the ancient Cotton Bowl with 96,000 others. Descending down another thirty rows or so, we assumed our seats in the 3rd row, right on the Maginot line delineating the Texas/OU divide, rubbing shoulders against a few visored Crimson admirers.

Despite its magnitude, one of the big misconceptions about the game is crowd noise, which is considerably quieter than a typical home environment for either of these two schools. The ticket distribution is split 50/50 between the two, with a perfect line of demarcation separating the burnt orange fans from the crimson at the 50 yard line. This split creates a unique dynamic within the stadium, for at any given time only half the stadium is cheering, while the other half stands hushed (or heckling) in frustration.

Texas proved the quieter side on this day, as the Sooners put up the most lopsided score since 2003. They dominated the Longhorns on both sides of the ball, Texas compounding their mistakes by shuffling quarterbacks and coughing up five turnovers en route to a 55-17 drubbing. Midway through the third quarter, the North side of the stadium began heading for the exits. Jared and Kimberly, both ardent Texas supporters had soon seen enough as well, and they pried me from the ringside seats for some cold refreshment as the clock skipped into the 4^th quarter.

Navigating our way through the various food vendors I bypassed the iconic corn dogs and funnel cake, bee lining for a post game snack fit for a Viking. For 18 State Fair coupons, or nine bucks according to the latest FOREX exchange rates, I walked away with a smoked turkey leg the size of a forearm. Salty, smoky and certainly hefty, it was soon paired with a Firemans #4 Blonde Ale from Real Ale Brewing Company. Meat and beer, the timeless combination and perfect post game snack before our retreat back north among the reckless Central Expressway traffic. Now we just have to swing into Bed Bath and Beyond for a quick stop…

Special thanks as always to my friends Jared and Kimberly, always great to catch a Texas game with you guys, and perhaps the Horns' will fare better next year. Can't wait until our next Burnt Orange adventure...

Wisconsin vs Nebraska - Fear and Loathing in Madison...

2011-10-13T22:16:00.008-05:00

After a week of work travel in Dallas, I wrangle out of bed scarcely after 5AM on a Saturday morning, groggily drive to DFW airport and catch the red eye flight into Madison. What follows is 16 hours of drinking and depravity by four dudes with some Wisconsin football peppered in. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before…

Dan and Maxwell greet me at the airport smiling. A few quick handshakes and backslaps later, I toss my gear into the back of Dan’s silver Tacoma and we purposefully navigate our way into downtown Madison. The leaves are just starting to show shades of color, and hordes of joggers navigate uprooted concrete sidewalks beneath the hardwood canopy overhead. Crisp and clear, it’s a pristine fall morning in Wisconsin. The spirit of Big 10 football hangs in the air over Lake Mendota like a mist.

We circle the block once near a parking garage, looking for the fourth and final member of our squad; Alex. A strange figure hobbles to the corner of the sidewalk and flags the truck down, it’s Alex, sporting a wispy punters mustache, garbed in some kind of Payne Stewart inspired outfit. He had suggested over email to dress in something red and outlandish, but a red cardigan and flat cap are well beyond my sartorial inventory. Admiring his outfit, we park the truck in the adjacent garage and get the day underway.

Scarcely fifteen feet away from the truck Alex stops us as if we’ve forgotten something important. I pat down my pockets, reassured I have the essentials, and look around perplexed. Alex disappears between two parked cars and emerges moments later with four bottles of Smirnoff Ice and a mustachioed grin. We’ve just been Iced. Well before noon.

“Icing” as it’s known in the parlance of our times, requires those who have been presented with an unexpected Smirnoff Ice, to guzzle the entire offering in a single sip. The three of us are obligated, and though technically not required, Alex joins us for sport. Clanking them together, we hoist the bottles and start choking down the sugary liquid. At 11am the lemony malt liquor swallows like battery acid. I finish mine first, but I’ve got a few years experience on these whippersnappers, and it’s a dubious race to win.

It’s going to be a beautiful mess of a day, I note to myself.

The first stop of the day brings us to a local pub in the shadow of the State Capitol called the Old Fashioned. Featuring some inspired locally sourced foods and an impressive selection of microbrews, I opt for a classic choice instead; Schlitz. Despite a love for beer, microbrews are not conducive to all day drinking, and I know I have a long shift in front of me.

A few others bravely order Bloody Mary’s. In true Wisconsin fashion they are heavily ornamented with a eclectic selection of pickles, eggs, cheese curds, beef jerky and accompanied by a beer chaser. As I’ve learned before, Bloody Mary’s are an art form in Wisconsin, the goal of which seems to be to amass as large and random a pile of crap onto your glass as possible. The taste for which I have yet to acquire. But the Schlitzes are going down smooth and the waitress keeps them fresh.

What follows for the next couple of hours is an increasingly hazy string of bars, pubs and porch parties, each stop taking us on a winding route progressively closer to Camp Randall Stadium. Our crew swells to fifteen or so friends, acquaintances, brothers, cousins and wives. After frequenting the bar upstairs, we tumble into the Church Key Liquor store and grab a few thirty packs to tote along, paired with a flask of Vodka for good measure. Opting for the local brew, Milwaukee’s Best Light proves an economical choice at ten bucks a rack. We’re hauling enough booze down the sidewalk for an entire platoon, but on a football Saturday in Madison this hardly draws a raised eyebrow. A few Nebraska fan hurl insults out the windows of a bus, a couple of polite Badger “cheers” are exchanged back.

Around 5:30 or so, we make our way over to Camp Randall to start hunting for tickets. We’re targeting an area known as Breeze Terrace, a street bordering the western edge of the Stadium lined with three story party houses straight out of Animal House. The ramshackle houses are bursting with throngs of inebriated undegrads, parking lots flooded with a sea of red outfits. These should be the most fertile hunting grounds for cheap student tickets.

We comb the backyards, porches and patios asking around for tickets, targeting the tipsiest scholars we can find like lions pouncing on wounded gazelles. Passing through a few dank basements we continue our search. Black lights illuminate glowing beer pong tables surrounded by teetering coeds, the shadowy caverns and smell of rancid beer reminds me of my wilder days. I’m five years too old to be here. Okay, maybe ten.

An hour and several beers later, we’re approached by a girl offering her student ticket up for $100 bucks. I fork the cash over quickly, it’s the first ticket we’ve found for less than two hundred and I don’t want some Cornhusker to swoop in during a negotiation. A few minutes later, Maxwell snags one from a girl wearing a tiara barely able to stand. He talked her out of it for eighty bucks, evidently those MBA negotiation skills classes paid off. With the clock closing in on kickoff, we press on as dusk settles, scouring every corner of Breeze Terrace for two more tickets.

I’ve traveled to many college football games, and I’ve never seen tickets this sparse, especially student tickets. Remarkably, the streets are picked clean. Some presumably snatched up by Nebraska fans, but most were simply being used by students wanting to witness one of the biggest games ever hosted in Camp Randall. I couldn’t fault them for that.

A few minutes after kickoff and still empty handed on the street, we decide to part ways with Alex and Dan. Maxwell and I head into the stadium while they continue the search for a few straggling ticket holders, promising to meet up with us once they get inside. Unfortunately, we wouldn’t see them again until after the game, and they would never get in.

Though our tickets issued at the gate read Row 65, I wedge us in somewhere around Row 30 directly behind the endzone. When the student section is this jammed, you need to make your own space, and jostling a few wispy sophomores proves an easy task. On a brisk Saturday night the crucible of Camp Randall boils with excitement, students frenzied and screaming around us, a few Nebraska fans dressed in black quietly scattered about.

Energized by the home crowd, the Badgers make quick work of the Huskers, the game all but decided by the time “Jump Around” blares through the loudspeakers at the start of the 4^th quarter. The stands quivering under the weight of 20,000 bodies rhythmically bobbing, the House of Pain classic may be the most exciting two minutes in any College Football stadium. Much has been said about Wisconsin claiming the best student section experience in the country (which I wrote about extensively two years ago HERE) After the chaos of the Nebraska game on this night, I wholeheartedly concur.

Following the game, we meet Alex and Dan and pick right up where we left off, but their lead is visible. Cracking a few fresh cans at Union Terrace, we gradually wander our way back over to State Street wobbling along the sidewalks. Stashing our beer under an unoccupied porch, we duck into Ian’s Pizza, a Madison landmark. Braving the 20 minute line, our group cues up for a couple slices of their signature macaroni and cheese pizza. We chew through the greasy delight hurriedly, heading out back to finish our dwindling beer supply. A handful of fireman show up in a wail of sirens, dousing the remnants of a dumpster fire while we mill around like King of the Hill characters, guzzling the final watery Milwaukee’s Best cans in an alley.

Capping off the night we stumble into the last bar, the name lost to memory, but chosen because it had the shortest line and the strongest cocktails. Gin ends up in my hand, a horrible decision most times, and especially now. My stomach groans with every sip, fortunately the others look just as rough. Eventually, we call it quits and stumble our way out a few minutes before closing to beat the cab lines, the yellow chariots prove hard to wrangle in these parts.

Staggering along the sidewalk, we circle the monolithic State Capitol, the polished Bethel White Vermont granite ghostly bathed in chalky under lighting. Occasionally propping each other up, the night ends there in Madison in the early morning hours. Almost time for for a fresh round of Bloody Mary’s…

Special thanks to Alex W. and Tori for graciously allowing us to crash at your place. It takes some fortitude to let our crew into your house in such a state, but I really appreciate the hospitality.

Thanks to Alex S., Maxwell and Dan for yet another turbulent adventure. I’m already excited for whatever we have on the calendar next, but this one will be tough to top. Alex especially for playing tour guide on the day despite a limp, and arranging such a phenomenal experience in Madison!

Washington vs Cal – I’m on A Boat!

2011-10-10T22:06:00.005-05:00

Crossing West over the Evergreen Floating Bridge on Route 520, the silhouette of Husky Stadium emerges in the distance cloaked in a light morning fog. Rising out of Lake Washington like two coiled cobras, the hulking steel grandstands gleam with flecks of early morning sunlight. I’m on my way to Husky Stadium, home of the Washington Huskies, a venue reputed to be one of the loudest in the country. Given the massive flanking metal roofs, the reflective acoustics would support this claim. In a 1992 night game against Nebraska, the crowd noise reached 130 decibels, officially the loudest college football game on record - a level above the threshold for pain.

It’s a pristine morning in Seattle, the sun breaks through quickly and a light breeze rolls in off the bay. Despite the ample side streets surrounding the Washington campus, I’m forced to pay for parking. The neighborhoods are canvassed with parking ordinances for game days, a clever money making scheme for the University. After reluctantly forking over my $15 parking donation, I wander through a few of the larger stadium lots, the smell of tailgate wafting through the morning air. It’s a robust atmosphere in the lots, the usual flood of purple tents, smoking grills and spreads, but that’s not what I’m looking for.

The real tailgating scene Washington is famous for occurs on the water behind the stadium in Lake Washington. The Huskies are host to a unique college football experience known as “Sailgating”. Scores of boats motor in before games, lashing themselves together to form a giant tailgating flotilla of fiberglass and chrome. Grill smoke wafts between the rows of boats, and satellite TV’s pump out a few east coast games. Cops donned in orange life jackets patrol the docks, making sure nobody gets out of control, but it’s a pretty relaxed scene. A few of them munch on some burgers, sounds like a pretty choice detail to me.

I chatted up the owner of the “Big Dawg”, an impressive 60 footer, and one of the largest yachts in the fleet. Owned by a local excavating company mogul, we exchanged a few stories as they grilled up some fresh pacific oysters. Not your average meager bites, these oysters were huge meaty offerings, served with traditional cocktail sauce. I shamelessly downed a handful of them.

After my fill on the docks, I circled around the stadium and snapped up a quick ticket on the 50 yard line for forty bucks or so. I opted for the upper deck this time, strategically positioned in the middle of the acoustic throng that Husky Stadium is known for. With a pristine sunny afternoon, and gentle breeze coming in off the water there was an overt calm in the stands.

The game turned out a bit quieter than I had hoped for. Though Cal is a premier PAC 12 opponent, the place never quite filled up, and endzone seats were nearly barren except for the band. It’s been that way for the last ten years or so from what I gather, as the Huskies struggle to recapture their former grandeur. The noise pumped up a few times on key plays, booming off the corrugated metal roof, but it still wasn’t the ear splitting hubbub that I came to hear. The game was actually a rather exciting one, coming down to the last drive where the Huskies held on for a hard fought 31-23 win amidst a rather aloof crowd.

True to form, however, Husky Stadium is a magnificent backdrop for college football. Sailgating on the water, an imposing facility and tradition rich program are all the right ingredients for a true Saturday classic. I’d love to return one day for a few more oysters on the half-shell, and a night game against a premier opponent when the grandstands really start shaking…

Beth's Cafe - Quantity vs. Quality

2011-10-10T21:47:00.006-05:00

“Beth’s Café, happiest place on earth” the waiter snapped into the phone. Tattoos crawled up the sides of his arms and the phone sunk into a haggard beard as he spoke. The short order cook was similarly ink adorned, although clean shaven, sporting a few extra facial piercings as he slapped away on the cook top.

If you’re looking for a hygienic, sterilized breakfast joint with cute accoutrements and a delicate brunch - keep looking. The service here is gruff but efficient, and the walls are plastered with crayon drawings. The portions, however, are epic. In the eternal struggle between quantity versus quality, Beth’s Café has thrust their chips firmly into the quantity ring, which naturally landed them a feature on Man vs. Food. Dishing out breakfast classics to Seattle's finest 24 hours a day, 7 days a week since 1954, it’s an equally cherished favorite among the late night drunk and early morning work crowds.

I opted for a booth, glanced over the menu and settled on one of their legendary omelettes. A check to the ego, I opted for some corned beef hash and the “small” omelette, prepared with a meager six eggs. The large comes with twelve, and according to the menu, and there is no prize for finishing it.

The food was dropped on the table a few minutes later, a giant pile of quivering eggs atop a layer of hash browns. True to its reputation, the portions are simply massive. The hash browns are even “all you can eat”, but I didn’t have the fortitude to consider more than one round. The food itself is fair at best. While the portions are ample, the hash browns are straight out of the freezer, the hash dropped from a can, and there is a generous dousing with the butter ladle atop all the food that made it excessively greasy. It’s also not that cheap, as my total bill came in over fifteen bucks.

But if you’re a man of large appetite, or coming off an all night bender looking for a greasy mess at 3AM, Beth’s Café would indeed be the “happiest place on Earth” for you…

Alabama vs North Texas - Roll Tide Roll!

2011-10-06T22:31:00.006-05:00

Some places call for brevity. Alabama football is one of them. Easily one of the most highly regarded programs in the history of College Football, tradition and history linger in every corner of Tuscaloosa.

I may write more at a future date, but pictures should suffice for now.

Mississippi State vs LSU – More Cowbell!

2011-10-06T22:12:00.005-05:00

Despite what Ole Miss fans would tell you, there is another premier college football program to be found in the state of Mississippi. Although those of the Oxford ilk may not have many positive things to say about their Starkville brethren, for the last couple of years the Mississippi State Bulldogs have fielded the more competitive team in the Magnolia State. Naturally, I wanted to investigate the game day experience there first hand.

With lofty preseason expectations and a top 20 ranking, the Bulldogs Thursday night game against LSU made for the perfect opener for an SEC weekend doubleheader, so I penciled this one in early in the season with a Saturday chaser in Tuscaloosa. Joining me on the long weekend journey would be my father, whose only previous experience south of the Mason Dixon line was his annual winter pilgrimage to Florida. An SEC night tilt in Starkville would be a perfect induction into the real south.

Swallowing my pride and ponying up twenty bucks for some closer parking, we hustled into campus quickly, making our way over to Davis Wade stadium to fetch a few tickets before kickoff. From the outside, the stadium is a far more imposing venue than its 56,000 capacity would belie, the soaring grandstands towering above the adjacent brick architecture. Although LSU would be the biggest opponent this year, we snapped up a couple of tickets for less than the $50 face value and marched into the North endzone passing in front of the imposing student section on our way to our seats.

The most predominant feature of any Mississippi State game is, of course, the cowbells. A tradition tracing it’s roots back to the 1930’s when a cow accidentally wandered onto the field during a rivalry game against Ole Miss. Mississippi State went on to win the game, and inspired by the power of the cowbell, fans began bringing their own ringers to games and welding handles onto them for better performance. The tradition survived even after the SEC banned the bells in 1974, as fans continued to sneak them in. In 2010, that ban was finally lifted, recognized by the SEC as a unique tradition, and today Bulldog fans are free to “ring responsibly” during time-outs and after MSU scores. They are kindly reminded of their cowbell responsibilities by a handful of jumbotron reminders, along with a pre game announcement by head coach Dan Mullen.

The clanging cacophony of cowbells in Davis Wade must be experienced first hand to fully grasp the magnitude of this racket. During critical breaks, there may be as many as 40,000 fists thrust into the air rattling away, cowbells echoing throughout the stadium in unison. It creates a thunderous, head splitting din that makes it nearly impossible to focus, never mind communicate in any fashion.

Unfortunately, all that clatter wasn’t enough on this night, as the Bulldogs fell short to LSU 19-6. In typical Tiger fashion, the LSU defense was absolutely stifling, punishing the MSU quarterback and giving their punter an exhausting hip flexor workout. Mississippi State was fortunate to even manage the two meager field goals they were able to chip in. Regardless of the outcome, there are worse ways to spend a pleasant Thursday night amidst the bedlam of SEC football with your father in the seat next to you.

Special thanks to my father for joining me on a fantastic weekend in Mississippi and Alabama. Always great to share any ballgame with Dad, and look forward to more future journeys together! We’ll see what’s in store next year for us…

Blue City Cafe - Memphis BBQ on Beale...

2011-10-04T22:46:00.007-05:00

On the return trip back through Memphis on Sunday, the exhaustion of a two game Southern road trip weekend was starting to take its toll. After dropping Dad off at the airport for an early morning flight, I had time for one last meal in Memphis before making the final charge back home to Saint Louis. Though tempted to simply pull back into the BBQ Shop after an epic Thursday visit and order up a few slabs of their ribs, there were still a handful of places on my Memphis list to check off.

After exchanging a few texts with my friend Joe, a former Memphis resident and fellow BBQ aficionado, he pointed me in the direction of the Blues City Café on infamous Beale Street. Besides Joe, Blues City has an impressive list of accolades, having been featured on various food shows and magazines.

I found street parking a few steps away from Beale, and casually wandered down the street waiting for the doors to open at 11AM. Beale is one of the main nightlife streets in Memphis, often drawing comparisons to Bourbon Street in New Orleans. On an early Sunday morning the thoroughfare still reeked of the party the night before, garbage lined the sidewalks and shopkeepers were out hosing off their sections of the concrete. Reservations began to creep in about BBQ in such an obvious tourist area.

Once the doors opened, I walked into the empty restaurant and settled into a plush vinyl booth. There were a handful of offerings on the menu, but ribs were the only barbecue option. After my dubious encounters with beef the entire weekend, ribs were the only option I was interested in anyway.

The ribs arrived quickly, with a pile of french fries and a few other sides filling out the plate. Despite my initial reservations, and the touristy location, the ribs had all the hallmarks of some excellent cue’. They had a well developed crust on the outside, sliding easily off the bone to reveal the pink smoky meat beneath. Although there could have been more depth to the smoke profile (given the location I’m guessing its an exclusively gas fired smoker), and they didn’t share quite the same fanfare as the BBQ Shop ribs, this was still skilled BBQ by any measure. Certainly worth a stop if you find yourself wandering down Beale Street in Memphis, just be sure to arrive a bit later in the afternoon once they’ve hosed the place down a bit…

http://www.bluescitycafe.com/

Dreamland BBQ - The Other Alabama Legend...

2011-10-04T22:31:00.005-05:00

Poll anyone wearing khakis and a crimson polo for the one place in Tuscaloosa that you absolutely must try before leaving, and the inevitable answer will be Dreamland BBQ. The original location on Jug Factory Road in Jerusalem Heights, specifically, typifies the kind of ramshackle Southern BBQ joint that lives in American folklore. Dating back to 1958, when John “Big Daddy” Bishop first opened its doors, Dreamland has become an institution in Tuscaloosa, and little has changed in the original location since that time.

Alabama paraphernalia adorns the walls inside, the interior dark and dimly lit, punctuated with a few neon beer signs and flat screen TV’s flashing the current SEC matchup. Hungry patrons draped in shades of crimson and houndstooth huddle around tables with generous slabs of ribs, piles of picked bones and stacks of pristine white bread.

Well aware of its iconic status, I planned our arrival early, strolling through the doors at about 11am on a Saturday morning, and we slid effortlessly into a corner table. Others arriving later would face a daunting line stacked up in the parking lot. The perky waitress recited the elegantly simple menu aloud: “We have ribs and sausage.”

“I guess we’ll have both” I replied, saluting the simplicity of choice at Dreamland.

Risking the wrath of some of my Alabama friends, on an objective level, the actual BBQ here resides somewhere closer to average. The ribs chewed a little hard, and tasted closer to grilled rather than slow smoked. The sausage was fairly standard grocery store fare, but a dip in the spicy sauce actually perked it up a bit. The reality is that given the massive influx of customers during a home game weekend, Dreamland is simply challenged to churn out as much food as possible to feed all those hungry appetites. It simply wouldn’t be possible to turn out that much food, and sustain the highest level of quality.

The real allure of a place like Dreamland, however, lies not in the actual food on the table, but in the tradition and heritage lining the walls. Generations of Alabama fans have eaten here, gathered around a table with friends, family and strangers, and broken white bread and ribs together. There’s a generational and sentimental attachment to a place like Dreamland that transcends regular food, sometimes the magic of barbecue lies in the timeless way it brings people together. Dreamland embodies that amongst the Crimson Tide faithful, and we were fortunate to share a piece of it on a Football Saturday in Tuscaloosa.

http://www.dreamlandbbq.com/Default.aspx

Little Dooey BBQ in Starkville

2011-10-04T22:19:00.005-05:00

Despite being a formidable Southern college town, barbecue options in Starkville are actually somewhat limited. Only a handful of places show up on a google search, one of which includes Applebee’s. As much as I enjoy pizza shooters and jalapeno blasters, real barbecue was the only option we were looking for on a Friday afternoon.

Fortunately, the Little Dooey has been dishing out barbecue and southern food in Starkville since 1985, and it’s the place to stop for a bite if you’re in town for the Bulldogs. We pulled up to the rickety building, encouraged by the giant iron pit proudly displayed out front. A couple ESPN banners hung from the rafters, and an ancient Coca Cola chest sat on the trodden plywood floor. The menu is broad, featuring a slew of barbecue offerings along with assorted other Southern options like catfish and fried sides.

I opted for a three meat plate, featuring ribs, pulled pork and beef brisket, accompanied by a pile of deep fried okra. The food arrived a few minutes later, flopping over the sides of the flimsy paper plate. A quick visual inspection and a couple bites confirmed that the cue’ here was mediocre. All of the meats lacked smokiness, the pulled pork was especially dry and stringy. Ribs were soggy and flopping off the bone, presumably from too much time under a heat lamp. The brisket was barely discernible as beef, and confirmed my position that one should stick with pork exclusively for BBQ in the South.

In all, I expected more from the Little Dooey. It was the day after a game, so there wasn’t a massive influx of people to feed. The worn little building has a certain Southern charm to it, and with a rusty iron smoker decorating the front my expectations ran high. Unfortunately the food just didn’t deliver. Maybe they ought to fire up that old iron pit and breath some new life into the barbecue here, or maybe next time I ought to try the fried catfish instead…

http://www.littledooey.com/index.htm

BBQ Shop in Memphis - Gettin' Sauced...

2011-10-03T22:28:00.008-05:00

Hot off the runway, I slung my fathers bag into the back seat of the car and sped back North into Memphis for a quick BBQ lunch. We were under the gun to get into Starkville before kickoff, and this would be his only chance to sample legendary Memphis Barbecue. According to the discerning taste buds of my friends Merritt and Dave, if you had one stop in Memphis, BBQ Shop was the one to make.

Walking down the sidewalk, a gleam spread across Dad’s face, the telltale aroma of BBQ wafting through the air as we approached. Sliding into a table we placed our orders, opting for a sampling of the pulled pork, brisket and signature ribs that are the foundation of Memphis barbecue. Given my usual aversion to all forms of obfuscating sauces, I prepared my usual request for dry ribs with sauce on the side. Through experience, this is the only accurate barometer for evaluating regional nuances in barbecue skill.

“I’d like that whole order dry please. Sauce on the side.” I explained politely in my customary fashion. Dad cringed, gun-shy about how a cleaver wielding southern pitmaster in the back might receive my blasphemous demand. He’d been in the South for all of fifteen minutes, and I was about to drag him into a spat about regional barbecue preferences. I’ve made this simple request dozens of times, usually to little resistance.

Not so this time.

“The ribs come with sauce”. The waiter explained, brushing away my request.

“I know. I want them dry, please, sauce on the side”.

“Where are you from?” He inquired raising an eyebrow, dumbfounded at such an outlandish affront.

“Texas. We like our barbecue dry.”

“Well you’re in Memphis and we serve them with sauce here”.

“No thanks. Make it dry. But I’ll try your sauce on the side.” I responded curtly, beginning to lose my patience.

“Listen, we’ve won awards for our sauce. I don’t want you to leave here without trying them the way they are supposed to be.”

I stared back blankly. I’ve heard the “award winning” spiel before. I searched his face for weakness, waiting for him to flinch first.

“Tell you what” he responded “I’ll meet you in the middle. We’ll make half of em’ dry for you, and we’ll put sauce on the other half. That way you can try them both ways. Sound fair?”

“Let’s do it.” I relented. I’d never had someone protest this vehemently, so perhaps there was something special about this sauce. With all that fuss, there had better be.

Our food arrived a few minutes later, and with eager appetites we dug in ferociously. The pulled pork was fairly standard, albeit a touch on the dry side and thirsting for a bit of sauce. Beef brisket was forgettable, having been chopped and losing the moisture that a properly sliced brisket would retain. As I would stubbornly learn the rest of the weekend, a properly cooked brisket eludes Southern barbecue joints. For all the accolades of their pork barbecue, I wouldn’t bother ordering beef in this part of the country again. They just don’t seem to grasp it.

The ribs, on the other hand, were a different story. Having eaten as much barbecue as I have at this point, there are very few instances where I am genuinely surprised. There are even fewer where that surprise is for the better. This was one of those rare instances where I was not only surprised, but completely blown away by something magical.

These ribs were absolutely phenomenal. Quite literally some of the best I have ever had – anywhere. Ever.

They were expertly cooked, showing a fat pink smoke ring and pulling effortlessly from the bone. The sticky sweetness of the sauce perfectly complemented the deep smoke profile permeating the pork. The sauce here is deftly applied to the meat, not slathered on carelessly. The ribs are then finished in the smoker for a few minutes, so the sauce melds perfectly with the ribs. Notes of brown sugar and cinnamon offset the saltiness, applied in just the right proportion to work together. One of those elusive instances where all the ingredients complement each other harmoniously.

Simply put, these are in the Top 5 ribs I have ever eaten. Period. (You can email me for the other four.)

I saluted the waiter on the way out, tipping him generously, and thanking him for the unusual display of fortitude in his product. If I’m ever within a few hours of Memphis again, I’ll be returning for these ribs alone. And I won’t be protesting the sauce the next time around…

Special thanks to my friends Merritt and Dave for their recommendation of BBQ Shop in Memphis. It’s a daunting task to send BBQ recommendations my way, but they offered up an entire list of Tennessee BBQ joints to try, and highlighted this one as not to be missed. Walk-off homerun on this one guys, absolutely perfect food. Now I can’t wait to visit you in Nashville for more!

Posts are coming soon...

2011-09-26T23:28:00.002-05:00

I'm a bit behind right now. Between games and work, I have been traveling continuously for the past two weeks, and will be on the road yet again this week. I'll do my best to get caught up, but I want to do justice to the trips to Mississippi State, Alabama, and Washington.

This weekend will take me on the road again to Wisconsin, facing off against Nebraska in their first Big 10 contest. I picked this game early in the spring expecting it to be an epic matchup, and with ESPN Gameday now making the voyage to Madison, this contest is living up to its billing. Between the rabid fans in Madison, and the well known travel exploits of Nebraska fans, this should be one of the toughest tickets all year...

Stay tuned for some more changes to the schedule in the coming weeks, I'll be subbing in a couple of new destinations that you won't want to miss...

Kentucky vs Central Michigan - Sunny Saturday in Horse Country...

2011-09-14T22:37:00.004-05:00

Driving east on Interstate 64 out of Louisville on an early Saturday morning, the change in geography starts becoming more pronounced. The stretching plains of the Midwest gradually start undulating into the far western foothills of the Appalachians. The highway bridges a few ravines now, and bisects great rock cuts carved into the Kentucky Limestone. I’m entering Bluegrass Country, the picturesque rolling hills bordered by long sections of split plank horse fence. Thoroughbreds graze on the wet morning grass, while I graze on a few sunflower seeds and motor on into Lexington.

I bypass the twenty dollar ripoff parking in front of a few houses, circling a few side streets until I shoehorn into an open spot along an empty curb. Rap music pumps out of an open window in the house out front, and beer cans litter the garden. A few more houses down, some students are milling around the yard clutching beers, tossing a Frisbee at a PVC pipe planted in the ground. Chalk up another new drinking game I am unfamiliar with.

It’s my first SEC game of the season, if you could call it that. Kentucky fans would be quick to tell you that real athletics on campus don’t start until basketball season, football is just a warmup. Though still certainly an SEC school, there is a different feel on campus than some of the other traditional SEC powerhouses that I have visited. It’s a decidedly more relaxed atmosphere. Still plenty of tailgating and revelry, but without the unbridled passion of a place like LSU for instance.

I mill around the stadium for a few minutes, dickering with the scalpers, chuckling at some of the prices they demand for a Kentucky versus Central Michigan ticket. I find a scraggly kid in a hoodie instead, pawning his uncles’ tickets. Twenty bucks later and I hustle into Commonwealth Stadium to catch the opening ceremonies.

It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon for football, eighty degrees or so and sunny. I’ve got some extra room on the aluminum bleachers next to me, so I spread out a bit and relax. Central Michigan jumps out to a surprising early lead, stifling Kentucky in the first half and taking a 13-6 lead at halftime. But the Wildcats don’t fold. Finding their rhythm on offense, they score three touchdowns in the second half, one of them an electric 87 yard run by Josh Clemons and cruise to a 27-13 comeback win.

Sunburnt from the unobstructed afternoon sun, I wander out of the stadium after the final whistle and pick my way down side streets to my car. A couple of those same students are passed out on the porch now, hoodies pulled tight over their slouched heads. All is right in Lexington on a College Football Saturday…

Louisville vs Florida International - Cardinals Grounded

2011-09-14T22:12:00.005-05:00

Posts will be short this week, since I’ll be on the road in a few days and don’t want to get backlogged this early in the season.

Louisville was a Friday night game during my Bluegrass State doubleheader weekend, and I hustled into the stadium shortly after kickoff, delayed by an impromptu bridge closure into the city of Louisville. Expecting a typical Louisville game, I readied myself for a flurry of offense, porous defense, and final score in the 55-45 range.

Instead, the Cardinals looked meek the entire contest. Floundering on offense, and being physically dominated by the visitors from Florida International University (FIU), Louisville packed little punch under the Friday night lights of Papa John Cardinal Stadium, eventually falling to FIU 24-17 in front of a crowd of 47,228. The win for the Panthers was actually their first over a team from a BCS conference, not exactly a ringing endorsement for the oft maligned Big East.

I spent the second half of the game seated next to a great guy named Tom and his wife. Tom was a Kentucky grad, his wife a Louisville grad, which I’m sure makes for an interesting dynamic during basketball season. A local businessman, Tom and I spent the better part of the second half chatting about some of the Louisville sports traditions, and the pricey stadium renovations that have recently added a grandstand to the East side. Basketball season, he assured me, was the real season to see a few games in Kentucky.

One interesting nuance about Papa John Cardinal Stadium were the Coors beer trailers located throughout the concourse. For those of you uninitiated to the world of college football, this is actually quite an oddity, as ALL of the stadiums I have been to thus far do not allow the sale of alcohol at College Football games – including bowl games. As I learned, Cardinal Stadium technically isn’t located on University of Louisville grounds, as such they are free to sell beer, much to the delight of the fans on this particularly drab night.

Hot Brown Sandwich - The Louisville Legend

2011-09-13T22:45:00.005-05:00

There are a handful of towns across the country known for having a signature sandwich, a dish that likely started as an oddity, and has now become an icon for that particular city. The cheese steak in Philadelphia and Italian Beef in Chicago are a few of the obvious examples that come to mind. In Louisville, that offering is known as the Hot Brown Sandwich. While it may sound like something out of the Urban Dictionary, the Hot Brown is one of those elusive cultural standalones that I seek out during my travels. Epic sandwiches are a challenge I simply can’t resist.

Ground zero for the Hot Brown, as I discovered, is the opulent Brown Hotel located in the heart of downtown Louisville. The hefty offering is served open faced on toast points, consisting of roast turkey slathered in Mornay (cheese) sauce, and topped with a couple slices of crisp bacon. Its origins can be traced back to 1923, when chef Fred Schmidt made the sandwich for late night party goers, looking for an after hours snack. It has since become a staple throughout the city of Louisville, but there is something to be said for the original.

Carving into a few bites of my Hot Brown in the classically appointed Brown Hotel, harkens images of a 1920’s flapper scene. Surrounded by marble and ornate frescoes, it’s like being transported back into an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. Gooey, indulgent and greasily satisfying, you might say that the Hot Brown sandwich is the original drunk food. Eating one at the Brown is like connecting with our hard drinking forefathers…

Hot Brown Sandwich History

Old Hickory Pit - Owensboro, the other BBQ Mecca...

2011-09-13T22:28:00.006-05:00

When it comes to premier barbecue geographies in the US, places like Memphis, Kansas City, Texas or North Carolina immediately come to mind. While Owensboro, Kentucky, located a stones throw from the southern Indiana border might not typically be associated with that list, the city prides itself on being a barbecue hotbed. Putting their pits to the test meant trying at least one of two stalwart locations in the city: Moonlite Barbecue or Old Hickory Pit Barbecue.

Normally, I would have opted for both, but since Moonlite observes limited hours on Sundays, the Old Hickory Pit became my only option for a late Sunday lunch on the drive back to St. Louis.

Pulling up to the building offered some encouragement, as a sizeable wood pile was stacked up along the rear walls, always a leading indicator of proper barbecue. Settling into a booth in the dark wood paneled interior, I ordered up the usual brisket and ribs along with a few newcomers to by barbecue adventures; bbq mutton and burgoo. Mutton is a specialty of the Owensboro area, so a sampling was in order. Burgoo is a regional side dish, a stew made with various meats, corn and okra along with a handful of other mystery ingredients and spices. It was reminiscent of Brunswick Stew, often found in older North Carolina BBQ joints.

Unlike the delicate butcher block slicing of Texas barbecue joints, or the raspy electric knife found at Snow’s Barbecue, Old Hickory pit takes their slicing to an entirely new level. Hearing the whine of power equipment, I shuffled over to the kitchen area to find the servers carving up my order in a band saw. Intimidating, and over the top. I love it.

I’m happy to report that there is a dedication to the craft here at Old Hickory Pit worthy of it’s long standing tradition in Owenboro. The meats are smoked with care, both the ribs and brisket enjoying well defined smoke rings and a deep smoke flavor throughout. They had dried a bit, likely from sitting out too long, but the deft hand of the pitmaster still shone through. BBQ mutton was fork tender, but I simply don’t have much of a taste for mutton. They gamey flavor of the meat simply overpowers the smoke, and I’d likely not order it on a return trip. The burgoo was hearty side dish, with a touch of heat to it that would make for a perfect winter meal by itself.

In all, Owensboro was a worthy detour on the ride back. While I’d have to sample a few other joints in the city before giving it more praise, Old Hickory Pit was a great introduction to the barbecue capitol of Kentucky!

Wagners Pharmacy

2011-09-13T22:13:00.005-05:00

In the shadow of Churchill Downs racetrack, quite literally across the street from the entrance, sits a little pharmacy that has been in operation since 1922. Wagners Pharmacy is a legend in Louisville, and nary a horse racing fan hasn’t walked through their doors at some time or another. Scenes from the recent movie “Secretariat” were filmed at Wagners, and the walls are adorned with an archive of black and white Kentucky Derby photos.

With the height of racing season over for the year, I eased into Wagners early on a Saturday morning and took a gander over the traditional, unpretentious breakfast menu. A few regulars sipped their coffee a few stools down from me, exchanging stories with the waitresses about the Louisville tailgating scene the night before. I gazed around, curious at all the racing paraphernalia, admiring the history in the walls.

I ordered up a simple breakfast, some eggs over easy with ham, then watched eagerly as the lady at the grill scraped the cook top clean and cracked a few white eggs onto the hot griddle. A few minutes later, she plopped my breakfast onto a paper plate and slid it across the counter in front of me. Paper plates were an odd choice I thought, perhaps they just didn’t feel like doing dishes yet. Paper doesn’t have quite the same satisfying scratch sound when you scrape a fork across it, but with the ample portion of ham on my plate, I had little to complain about.

Settling up, I hopped into the car for the morning ride out to Lexington…

Wagners Pharmacy Website

Field Of Dreams: "Is this Heaven? No. It's Iowa."

2011-09-11T22:19:00.005-05:00

I was going to write a long winded post about Field of Dreams in Dyersville, Iowa, but no amount of words can possibly do this place justice. To any baseball fan, there is something magical about Field of Dreams, a spirit of something intrinsic, something fundamental. It’s a moving experience.

Simply beyond my ability to capture – I’ll defer instead to James Earl Jones (Terrence Mann) quote from the movie.

“Ray, people will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say. It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack. And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.”

Or the Moonlight Graham quote (Moonlight Graham was based on a real person):

“Well, you know I... I never got to bat in the major leagues. I would have liked to have had that chance. Just once. To stare down a big league pitcher. To stare him down, and just as he goes into his windup, wink. Make him think you know something he doesn't. That's what I wish for. Chance to squint at a sky so blue that it hurts your eyes just to look at it. To feel the tingling in your arm as you connect with the ball. To run the bases - stretch a double into a triple, and flop face-first into third, wrap your arms around the bag. That's my wish, Ray Kinsella. That's my wish. And is there enough magic out there in the moonlight to make this dream come true”

I salute the Lansing Family – the owners of the farm and field for keeping this place pristine, non commercialized, and completely free and open to the public.

And rest assured, I slammed a few into the corn during my time in the batters box…

The Grove Cafe - Proprietary Pancakes

2011-09-08T22:24:00.005-05:00

I had to have breakfast at least once during my trip to Iowa, and fortunately there is a little downtown café along Main Street in Ames that has been dishing out the classics since 1949. The Grove Café would be the perfect morning fill up prior to my run out to Field Of Dreams, and they were rumored to serve up some rather legendary pancakes.

John and I sauntered in early on Sunday morning to beat the game day after crowds, took an obligatory glance at the menu, and promptly ordered up traditional egg breakfasts. I also tossed in one of their famous pancakes with some peach preserves to see what all the fuss was about.

A few minutes later the food arrived, simply and efficiently, and my picture taking soon drew the attention of the owner Larry. I was curious to hear about the trade secret to these renown pancakes. They are nearly a full inch thick, yet incredibly fluffy, and have a deeper orange hue to them and some spice notes that I couldn’t quite key in on. Certainly distinguishable from your typical Bisquik sawdust pucks at a regular diner, I figured Larry might be willing to impart some of that pancake wisdom to a polite stranger.

I figured wrong.

Although extremely friendly and welcoming to an out of towner, Larry was pretty tight lipped about the secret sauce in his pancakes. Evidently, when he bought the place some years ago, the pancake recipe came with the building, and he’s not about to give it away. To this day, it stands as a closely guarded company secret that only a select handful of people know about.

Perhaps the mysteriously addicting pancakes add to the allure and intrigue of the Grove Café, but the food stands on its own. And breakfast always seems to taste better in a Main Street café…

Iowa State vs Northern Iowa - Cyclone Sirens Wail

2011-09-08T21:39:00.006-05:00

After meeting up with John and consolidating vehicles, we hustled over to the tailgating scene outside Jack Trice Stadium hoping the rain would hold off for a few more hours. With the stadium surrounded by a sea of parking, Iowa State has a robust tailgating atmosphere, punctuated by colorful red and yellow tents, RV’s and converted school busses decked with red striping. Shuffling through the parking lots, the aroma of charcoal smoke wafted through the air, that delightful harbinger of fall afternoon festivities.

After a quick search, we met up with John’s friend Derick and his family, who may be some of the most die hard Cyclone fans in Ames. The entire family decked head to toe in full red and yellow regalia, they warmly welcomed us to their tent, offering up all manner of tailgate favorites and sharing some of the understated Cyclone passion and tradition. Derick himself has earned quite a reputation in the stadium for routinely smuggling in a vuvuzela, one of those plastic noisemakers that sounds like a pack of angry hornets.

“Doesn’t security confiscate it”? I asked inquisitively.

“Oh yeah. Pretty much every week. But I go pick it up after the game, and bring it right back in next game” Derick responded matter of factly.

I saluted the dedication to their craft, and watched curiously as Derick and a friend went about the elaborate subterfuge of hiding the horns beneath their shorts and track jackets. (Hint: the collapsible versions of vuvuzelas are far easier to camouflage). After watching the Iowa State marching band pass through the parking lot, that was the signal for John and I to make our way over to the entrance gates.

(I would find out later that during this game security tried snatching the vuvuzelas once again from Derick and his cohorts. The security tactics backfired, however, when this caused such an uproar among fans in the section that they started booing security, and actively chanting the horns be returned. This ruckus attracted the attention of police and state troopers who entered the section – taking up Dericks cause, and ordering security personnel to return the vuvuzelas to their rightful owners. The horns happily sounding for the remainder of the game in Jack Trice.

I give credit to those Troopers for doing the right thing and making an exception for the horns – it’s little nuances like this that make up the subtle traditions unique to College Football. Policy need not exist in a vacuum.)

Entering Jack Trice Stadium, we were greeted with the ominous wail of tornado sirens as part of the pre game introduction for the Cyclones. Given the menacing black clouds perched above, John wondered aloud what would happen if there were an actual tornado. Unfazed, we proceed to a couple of spots against the rail in the lawn sections of the stadium corners.

The Stadium was named in honor of Jack Trice, the first African American athlete in Iowa State history. Trice’s legacy is a rather unfortunate one, as he died from injuries sustained during his first and only college football game against Minnesota in 1923. As a result of various student led campaigns throughout the years, the stadium was finally recognized officially as Jack Trice Stadium in 1997. Today it stands as the only Division 1 stadium named after an African American. (Astute readers of the blog will recall that last year we attended a game at Eddie Robinson Stadium at Grambling State University – technically Grambling is Division 1-AA)

The game itself was a tale of two halves. A complete snooze fest in the first half, both teams struggled to put together any momentum, routinely coughing the ball up and giving the Northern Iowa fans something to cheer for. It wasn’t until late in the fourth quarter that a fury of scoring perked fans out of their slumber. Trailing by six, the Cyclones stuffed in a touchdown with 4:30 left to take the lead 14-13. On the first play from scrimmage for Northern Iowa, however, they completed an 80 yard score to regain the lead 19-14, silencing the Iowa State crowd before their prior celebration had even settled down. Showing remarkable resolve, the Cyclones took the ball with 4:17 remaining and engineered a drive the length of the field – capped off with a touchdown score with only 40 ticks left on the clock. Holding on for the victory, the Cyclones snuck away with their first win of the season in an electrifying finish, regaled by the chorus of 54,672 fans and the shrill wail of the tornado siren.

Nothing like a little excitement to kick off the 2011 season…

Thanks to Derick and his family for the hospitality at the tailgate, and the entertainment. Next time I'll be sure not to eat 6lbs of meat before showing up...

Special thanks to my friend John, it's always great to catch up and conquer a few epic meals. Appreciate the hospitality for the weekend, and hope to catch you again this year somewhere. Glad I could be on hand with you to witness your first ever Iowa State game, maybe this will get you back to your alma mater for more...

Hickory Park - Barbecue in Iowa?

2011-09-08T21:23:00.004-05:00

Iowa isn’t exactly what you would call a hotbed for barbecue, and when it comes to barbecue joints in Ames, pickings are rather slim. As I have come to expect from recent life in the Midwest, I temper my expectations when it comes to proper cue’ in these parts. Hickory Park, however, was a welcome reprieve from the strip of chain restaurants pervading downtown Ames, so I was eager to sample what the city had to offer.

The recommendation for Hickory Park came courtesy of my friend John, an Iowa State alum whom I spent a summer with in North Carolina. As such, he’d developed some savvy taste buds during our time in Raleigh, as we ate our way through some of the best swine in the BBQ laden Tarheel State. This experience, coupled with his prolific appetite, meant we were in for quite a feast.

Hickory Park as I learned, is an institution in Ames. Cavernous inside, the restaurant has been in operation since 1970 and shuffles hundreds of patrons over at a time. Typically, mass popularity and proper barbecue do not coexist. My skepticism was raised even further when the waitress couldn’t tell me what kind of wood they smoked with – not exactly a stumper when “Hickory” is on the sign out front…

Regardless, John and I rolled the dice and promptly ordered up the sampler platter featuring the full array of their offerings. A tray arrived a few minutes later, weighed down with hefty portions of chicken, ribs, brisket, sausage and pork.

To my surprise, the ribs were actually well prepared. Although a touch on the dry side (excusable given the busy weekend traffic), they were well smoked throughout and pulled easily from the bone. Chicken was equally satisfying, with beautiful color on the lightly seasoned skin. While the brisket showed signs of care, with a nice reddish smoke ring around the edge, it had been trimmed prior to cooking and perhaps spent a bit of time under a heat lamp and left to dry out far to long.

In the end, by Midwest standards, Hickory Park actually dishes out some pretty decent BBQ. It’s a game day institution in Ames, and one of the few non chain options in town, so certainly worthy of a stop next time you are in Ames. Finally, the portion sizes are approved by John himself, a truly rare honor, so rest assured you will not be leaving hungry…

Maid Rite - Just about right...

2011-09-08T21:04:00.004-05:00

One of the oldest franchises in the U.S., Maid Rite is a quick serve chain unique to the upper Midwest with about 70 locations scattered throughout the area. They have been dishing out their signature “loose meat” sandwiches since 1926, and this particular location in Marshalltown has been in continuous operation since 1928. Little has changed in that time, as the menu has remained blindingly simple throughout the years, consisting of little more than a single beef sandwich option, drinks and shakes.

Stepping into the Marshalltown Maid Rite is a journey to a bygone era. Stools surround a U-Shaped vinyl counter, and the service is quick and efficient. Waiting customers line up against the windows, hovering over diners, poised to pounce on abandoned seats. At least half of the business caters to takeout orders too, I quickly surmise. I witness handfuls of standing patrons yelling out orders, scurrying off moments later with grease stained white paper bags tucked beneath their arms. Wanting the full serve experience, I straddled an open stool and flagged down the counter waitress in the midst of her busy hum.

The sandwiches are simple fare, little more than spiced ground beef scooped out of some kind of giant hot box, and piled onto a soft white bun. I ordered mine with the works, which included cheese, onion, pickles and mustard. After unwrapping the greasy paper and diving in, the taste was remarkably similar to a fast food cheeseburger – which is basically what Maid Rite is. It’s not going to change your life, but it’s a timeless classic in Marshalltown and for $3.75, pretty hard to beat.

Coffee Cup Cafe

2011-09-08T20:56:00.005-05:00

After a five hour morning ride, I eased into the town of Sully, Iowa with an appetite for a late breakfast or early lunch, depending on the mood of the cook. Massive steel grain bins marked the end of the street, and I circled the grassy town square before parking. With a population scarcely over 900 people, pulling up to the curb with Texas plates drew a couple of raised brows from the two old timers settled into a bench out front. Donned in faded denim overalls, they chatted back and forth about the weather, one of them cradling a tiny white West Highland Terrier, oddly out of place in this otherwise quintessential Midwestern archetype.

“Are you fellas the valet”? I chided, approaching the door.

“Sure. Toss me your keys.” One of them shot back with a grin.

Returning the sarcasm, I double clicked my alarm dramatically and proceeded on into the tiny café. Originally built in 1917, the Coffe Cup Café has been a staple in Sully for nearly a century. The location as it stands now was built in 1970 after a handful of different fires and owners throughout the years, but the attention to home made classics remains.

On the recommendation of the waitress, I ordered up their staple hot beef sandwich. It arrived a few moments later, a tower of tender, slow cooked beef piled between two extra thick slices of white bread. The whole creation smothered in savory brown gravy, this was a fork only event (no knife needed).

Between the Texas plates and curious picture taking, the owner made a special trip out of the kitchen to say hello and chat for a few minutes. Despite normally eschewing dessert, during our short conversation she did a remarkable job of selling me on a slice of their home made pies. Made daily, completely from scratch, the Coffee Cup has garnered national recognition for some of their pies. With strawberries in season, and a fresh batch acquired from a few miles away, I opted for the strawberry pie. Remarkably fresh and simple, the flaky crust gave way effortlessly and the pie soon disappeared.

Unfortunately for you, they don’t mail order their pies (and yes I asked). So if you want a slice for yourself, you’ll have to make the trip to Sully on your own. And it might be worth it for the pie alone…

Beginnings...

2011-09-07T20:48:00.006-05:00

Still dark, the early morning air is cool with the onset of September. I creak open the door and settle into the dusty seat of my Jetta, heaving my travel pack onto the passenger side within easy reach. Rubbing the weariness from heavy eyes, I wait a few seconds before cranking the tiny diesel over. The familiar chug and rattle percolates throughout the cabin and a spin of the radio dial searches for some morning jabber for background noise.

Cup holders on the dash beckon for a steaming cup of coffee, but I only take water. I picked up a fifteen pack case from the gas station for $3.99 the night before. The flimsy plastic bottles so thin they crinkle like aluminum foil, and I’m nervous they’ll explode all over the floor. Never did understand the allure of that black liquid. As a rule, coffee drinkers make terrible road trippers. Always fussing for their next fix, you inevitably have to pull over again twenty minutes later so they can relieve the borrowed fluid.

Creeping out of the parking garage, I lope onto the highway, thick yellow lines sparkling in the half moon glow of headlamps. Ribbons of blacktop and a season full of new adventure await. Into the morning black I go.

I make my way north on Highway 61 skirting the winding edge of the Mississippi River and passing through Hannibal, Missouri a couple hours later; birthplace of Mark Twain. The orange glow of sunrise streams in through the passenger window now, the roads remain silent. I turn the radio off in deference.

Eventually, the broad valleys of Missouri give way to the soft rolling hills of Southern Iowa. Great glaciers carved these valleys into the scarred plains, the hills the remnants of sediment deposits left behind as the ice retreated North. Erratic boulders the size of Volkswagens dot the edges of fields, abandoned by the glaciers to later be wrestled out of the way by early settlers.

Today, broad swaths of corn stretch across the undulating landscape as far as the eye can see. Oceans of gold tassels sway rhythmically in the wind, flamboyant seed company signs demarcating the different plots. Pioneer. Champion. The corn is high now, with harvest a few short weeks away. The blacktop walled on both sides by endless green pickets disappearing over the next rise.

A new odyssey begins…

2011 College Football schedule is up!

2011-08-27T08:52:00.000-05:00

With the season only a week around the corner, it's time to unveil the 2011 schedule!

There is a great variety of games on here, and with my new St. Louis locale I will be plunging further into the ranks of the Big 10 and SEC. I've chosen a handful of marquis matchups, and strangely, there will be a lot of night games this year as many teams look to increase their TV ratings. Right now the schedule stands at a modest 16 games in all, although I may add a few surprises during the season. As always, the schedule may change a bit throughout the year as I reserve the right to call an audible on any given week and veer off course to a different destination.

Sept 3rd: Iowa State (Northern Iowa)
Sept 9th: Louisville (FIU)
Sept 10th: Kentucky (Central Michigan)
Sept 15th: Mississippi State (LSU)
Sept 17th: Alabama (North Texas)
Sept 24th: Minnesota (North Dakota St.)
Oct 1st: Wisconsin (Nebraska)
Oct 8th: Northwestern (Michigan)
Oct 15th: Tennessee (LSU)
Oct 22nd: Notre Dame (USC)
Oct 29th: Indiana (Northwestern)
Nov 5th: Iowa (Michigan)
Nov 12th: Missouri (Texas)
Nov 19th: Illinois (Wisconsin)
Nov 26th: Auburn (Alabama)
Dec 3rd: Big 10 Championship (Indianapolis)

I want to hear your thoughts. Send me some ideas and recommendations for any of the places above, and of course if you would like to meet up in person, drop me a note!

7 Days and counting...

Let the planning begin...

2011-04-03T20:56:00.003-05:00

It's never to early to start thinking about next year, and based on some feedback I've received here is the list of teams that may be on the docket... All of these are reachable from St. Louis, or have been prearranged with some of my cohorts.

Higher Priority:

Minnesota

Iowa

Iowa State

Missouri

Mississippi State

Auburn

Northwestern

Illinois

Indiana

Kentucky

Louisville

Vanderbilt

Tennessee

Cincinnatti

Notre Dame

Army

Wisconsin

Ole Miss

Alabama

Time Allowing:

Memphis

Arkansas State

Middle Tennessee

Northern Illinois

Western Kentucky

Tulsa

Thoughts? Suggestions? Let me hear them...

The Pigskin Pursuit has moved!!!

2011-02-13T20:58:00.002-06:00

A new career opportunity has taken me to the great city of St. Louis!!!

Though I am still getting settled here, I wanted to involve some of my readers in the planning process for next year. It is certainly bittersweet leaving my beloved Texas, and all the incredible College Football and Barbecue that the state claims. Though rest assured, I will be back for plenty of visits. However, the city of St. Louis and broader Missouri is no slouch either, and I'm already excited about a completely blank canvas of new venues, teams and BBQ joints to explore.

I already have three games on the schedule for next year, but the rest are still a blank canvas and I'm looking for suggestions from my new location.

2011 Proposed Schedule
October 15th: Tennessee (LSU)
October 22nd: Notre Dame (USC)
November 26th: Auburn (Alabama)

As such, I would love to hear from some folks out there about ideas, schools and teams for next year. Geographically, within a six hour radius, St. Louis offers access to three big conferences: The Big 12, The Big Ten and the SEC along with a handful of other schools. I want to hear from you!

So please email or comment on this post with your suggestions on interesting places for the Pigskin Pursuit to head next year!

Cotton Bowl: Texas A&M vs LSU

2011-01-25T20:52:00.006-06:00

Unlike the Poinsettia and Armed Forces Bowls that I attended recently, the Cotton Bowl Classic represents one of the most historic and prestigious Bowl Games in College Football. Tracing its roots back to 1937, the Cotton Bowl is the 5^th oldest Bowl Game in the country, predated only by the Rose Bowl (1901), Sugar Bowl (1934), Orange Bowl (1934), and Sun Bowl (1934). Together, these five bowls represent the core of traditional Bowl games, although both the Sun and Cotton have recently found themselves excluded from the BCS. Traditionally, the Cotton Bowl Classic features a Big 12 team versus an SEC opponent, and this years contest would represent the 75^th playing of the game.

Interestingly, however, for the first time in its history the 2011 Cotton Bowl Classic would be a bit of a misnomer. During the last seventy five years, the game has been played in its namesake stadium the “Cotton Bowl” itself, an eighty year old facility occupying the Texas State Fairgrounds in Dallas. With the arrival of the new Jerry Jones inspired Cowboy Stadium monstrosity in Arlington, however, the game has been moved to this sparkling new location replete with sushi, Grey Goose and glow stick worthy décor. Perhaps AT&T ought to consider dropping the word “classic” from the game title.

Despite being outside of the prestigious and lucrative BCS bowls, the Cotton Bowl was easily one of the more intriguing Bowl match ups of the season this year. As you have read on this blog before, both Texas A&M and LSU are two of the most revered game day atmospheres in the College Football landscape, and they each represent some of the most ardent fan bases in the game. While it certainly doesn’t equal the intrigue and prestige of the Connecticut versus Oklahoma Fiesta Bowl match up, I relished the opportunity to witness a clash between two of my favorite adopted College Football squads.

Joining me on the day were a handful of old friends Bryce and Jared, along with a newcomer, though big follower of the Pigskin Pursuit – Merritt. Luckily in town for work, Merritt had rushed out to the local Wal-Mart to procure herself an LSU t-shirt in a show of SEC solidarity (much to the chagrin of her bruised Alabama undergrad pride). The rest of us had opted for Aggie maroon, since we are in the Lone Star state after all.

Prior to the game, we met up with Kipper again for some tailgating festivities amongst the wafting aroma of his dual pit trailer. Enamored with his barbecue, I came to find out that Kipper in fact competes in regional barbecue competitions and has garnered a couple of first prizes on his chicken. On this day, however, I couldn’t take my eyes of the mouthwatering Turducken that he smoked, stuffed with a Cajun inspired crawfish and shrimp dressing. An enticing culinary nod to the two squads taking the field on the day, it was every bit as delicious as it looked.

On the carpet, the Aggies came out firing first, jumping out to a 10-0 lead amidst a shocked Tiger defense. The potent Aggie offense was rolling, and audible high pitched whoops flooded Jerryworld. The celebration was to be short lived, however, as the LSU defense stiffened up and the gears started turning on their unpredictable offense. Erratic quarterback Jordan Jefferson took the lead, connecting on one of three touchdowns on the day with receiver Terrence Toliver. Jefferson, who had been benched a handful of times this season, really found his stride in this game, using his agility to elude capture on several occasions. The Aggie defense simply could not make a big third down stop, giving up a handful of agonizing third down conversions longer than ten yards. Celebrated A&M quarterback Ryan Tannehill, a converted wide receiver who had reeled off five straight wins for the Aggies, was uncharacteristically inaccurate, tossing three interceptions at critical times. In the end, LSU walked away with a convincing 41-24 win, and Bryce and I remained after the game amidst hordes of purple and gold clad admirers vociferously belting out “Neck” in celebration.

This was a fantastic matchup between two classic College Football teams worthy of the Cotton Bowl heritage. While LSU may have prevailed on this night, both teams are going to be interesting to watch next year. They both feature a bevy of underclass starters, and should find themselves atop the rankings next season. Though I need little convincing to go watch either Texas A&M or LSU play…

This marks the end of the Pigskin Pursuit for 2011! It’s been a pretty wild 19 game ride that has taken me from coast to coast this year. But be sure to stay tuned for some more updates, and a sneak peek at what’s in store for 2011! There are some big surprises on the horizon and you’ll want a preview…

Thanks to my friends Brian and Federico for helping me find tickets to this game, it’s a shame you guys couldn’t join, but we’ll certainly catch up for a few games next year.

Thanks for Merritt for diligently following and finally being able to join me on the Pigskin Pursuit! Hopefully we can find our way down to Tuscaloosa next year.

Special thanks to Bryce and Jared for meeting up with me for yet another stop on the Pigskin Pursuit. Always a pleasure to have you guys along, and the tradition will continue in 2011!