Night of the Invertebrates

July 27-28

The hotel had a book in the lobby with information about Buffalo-area restaurants.

So on Tuesday, our last full day in town, while the laundry was turning in the washer down the hall, I took a closer look at a place that seemed promising. 

It had snails on the menu. That alone is enough to get me to drive eight or nines miles for dinner. 

Besides, the place was called Hutch’s, and—who knows?—I could be helping out a distant cousin.

So we finished the laundry. Joanna, who used to work in a family laundry business, did the folding, and I found that I still remember how to iron a shirt. I’ve been leaving my shirts to the care of the professionals for years now and wasn’t sure I could remember how to handle the job. 

I had sweated through one of my button-downs during our foray to the falls and City Hall on Monday and wouldn’t have a chance to have it cleaned before the end of our ride. 

All right, I’ve washed and ironed shirts before. So I tried it again. 

The room had a Conair steam iron that leaked water from time to time. A few passes of the hot iron evaporates that. OK. Sleeves, yoke, front, back, back, front. Oops. Missed something. Sleeve again. Done. 

Domesticity just isn’t my strong suit. So when I held up that shirt and no part of it was burned, I felt like a medalist.

Then Joanna and I went to dinner. Hutch’s is easy to find—I-290 West to Delaware Avenue southbound. There’s a traffic circle just past of the restaurant, probably put in so when you miss Hutch’s it’s easy to turn around and come back to the driveway for the parking lot.

I know it’s convenient because I tested it.

I had to have the snails, and it turned out to be a night to eat creatures without backbones: Soft-shell crabs were in season.

Joanna and I split a half dozen snails. They were done in garlic and butter, but they were dressed with bread crumbs, too. Very nice. I put extra butter on the dish when it arrived to stretch out the experience. 

Extra butter on escargot was a tip given to me by a bartender at the old Les Halles on Park Avenue, not far from my old office in New York.

It gives you more to dip your bread in after you’ve eaten all the snails.

Les Halles was the restaurant where Anthony Bourdain used to work. When he became a writer and TV celebrity, he was listed by the bistro as executive chef. Now, both he and Les Halles are gone.

The appetizer of soft-shell crab was coated in panko bread crumbs and pan-fried. It was delicious, as we expected. Soft-shell crab also has a place in Cantonese cuisine, so Joanna was familiar with it. But this was the first time she had it prepared in a different way.

We shared an entree of two more crabs in a cream sauce with new potatoes, string beans, and sweet red peppers.

We had it all with a white wine from Chateau Turcaud that was listed as a Cabernet Sauvignon. (Editor’s note: This is an error. Harry often mixes up his “sauvignons.” The issue is clarified below, in the July 29 e-mail exchange between Harry and Larry.) 

I tried to learn more about it online, but all I could find was a blend under that label that had Cab Sauvignon in it. The official appellation is “Entre Deux Mers.” Maybe Larry can add more information.

In any event, it was one of the most flavorful whites I have tasted. Joanna liked it too. She went through almost half a glass of it.

We checked out of Buffalo on Wednesday morning and headed more or less north to Fort Niagara.

It’s in Fort Niagara State Park, which also has a swimming pool and other attractions on the shore of Lake Ontario. Although it’s in a state park, the fort itself has been maintained by a private non-profit organization since the 1930s or earlier.

I was there on my first trip to this area. It’s funny. When you’re eight years old a place seems bigger. 

The fort has a colorful history.

According to a guide, the original parts, like the main building, earthworks, and powder magazine, were built by the French. They asked the Seneca if they could build something on the point where the Niagara River enters Lake Ontario. The Seneca said no way.

Not taking no way as an answer, they asked the Seneca’s neighbors, the Onandaga. May we build a peace house on the point to encourage trade among the peoples of the region?

Sounds good. Sure.

So the French built the main building, which today is called the French Castle. When the Seneca saw it, we were told, they were outraged. It was clearly a fortress, made of stone, with various defensive features, including overhanging dormers from which hot water or maybe rocks could be poured onto attackers. Even the well was indoors. Not very open-handed.

The Seneca and Onandaga were both members of the same club, the Iroquois Confederacy. So the Seneca had to abide by the decision.

That was in the late 1600s. And the French held the point for about 70 years.

In 1759, about the time that “The Last of the Mohicans” was set, the British laid siege to the fort. It took them three weeks and an ambush of a relief column, but they finally took over.

Then comes the Revolution. 

When that was over, the Treaty of Paris said the fort was on the U.S. side of the Niagara River. The Brits, being sore losers, didn’t actually hand it over for almost 20 years. It has been safe for most of us to go there since then.

Well, not during the War of 1812, but I don’t want to go into that.

We got there in time to see a crew of re-enactors load and fire a cannon. They tell you ahead of time to protect your ears. As promised, “It will be loud, and you will like it.”

The Google directions to our next stop, in Batavia, were interrupted by a detour sign that sent us nowhere. Did the signs disappear? No, they were just placed facing away from the road. 

Instead of bearing southwest toward Batavia, we wound up going northwest to New York Highway 18, which follows the shore of Lake Ontario.

I put on the flashers and pulled off the highway. We threw out the Google directions and went to a map. NY 18 East would take me to NY 98 South, which went straight to Batavia.

All right: go straight, make a right; that’s all. No shortcuts, no bullshit. My kind of directions.

But it seemed like forever on 18 E. Did I miss the turn?

We stopped at Lakeside Beach State Park. I put the map on the hood of the car. Luck was on our side. We hadn’t missed anything and were almost to the turn.

NY 98 South brought us to Albion. Are we going in alphabetical order, Joanna asked.

Then we entered Barre. Seems so.

The town of Elba, which came next, screwed that up, but then we came to Batavia.

I was waiting at a light and thinking about how to find our hotel when Joanna looked out her side window and said, “There’s a La Quinta over there.”

It wasn’t just any La Quinta. It was our La Quinta. Joanna to the rescue again.

According to TripAdvisor, we were less than a mile from the No. 1 restaurant in Batavia, Alex’s Place.

It was one of my favorite cuisines—damned good bar food. 

Joanna had a roasted half chicken, very savory. I had a couple of local brews with my grilled shrimp, barbecued beans, and Mexican corn.

Eli Fish Brewing’s Great Flakes, billed as a session New York IPA, at 5 percent ABV, was made with all New York ingredients. A sniff at first didn’t detect much fragrance, but—surprise! surprise!—it packed a hell of a lot of flavor. There was a taint of citrus and an unusual aftertaste of salt. 

It’s made in Batavia and may not be sold anywhere else, but let me tell you just in case, ale drinkers, if you see it, take it.

My second was 42 North Borderland IPA. Brewed near Buffalo, it carries just under 7 percent ABV. It has a sharp edge, which is nice, and a touch of grapefruit. Another very good one.

On the way home we stopped at a Tops supermarket where I found another six cans of Big Ditch Hayburner. I told you about that one.

That brings us up to date.

Good night, all, and God bless.

And don’t always trust your Google Maps.

Harry

July 29

Hi Grasshopper,

Entres Deux Mers is an interesting AOP (appellation) in Bordeaux that I believe is only for white wine. And while I didn't feel like Googling it, I think the "Deux Mers" are actually two rivers, the Gironde and another river (Dordogne maybe) that I forget. Google to confirm.

The wine would be a small step up from the more generic Bordeaux AOP, which is rarely white,  and it includes mostly inexpensive wines.

While I guess it's technically possible to make white wine from Cabernet, it's rarely, if ever done. And I can't imagine it would be permitted in this AOP. Clearly, a mistake in the description you read. 

Examples I have seen and sampled are generally a blend dominated by Sauvignon Blanc with Semillion to round it out. This is the classic blend for dry whites in Bordeaux.

Because of the warmer climate moderated by the proximity to the Atlantic Ocean and the addition of Semillon, the Sauvignon Blanc flavor is less pungent, sharp and "cat pissy" than it is in wines from further north and inland in the Loire valley.

It's always fun to enjoy a new discovery.

Larry

July 29

Oh, what a typo.

The grape was Sauvignon Blanc. 

My only excuse is that I was half in the bag at the time I typed it.

Thanks for the lowdown on the appellation, Sensei.

Grasshopper

Shuffle Off

July 25-26

The 25th was a Sabbath, so we largely made it a day of rest.

The biggest project was to follow the shore of Lake Erie for a couple of hours to reach Buffalo.

We checked into La Quinta in Amherst, a suburb of Buffalo, shortly before two in the afternoon, and after all the intense excitement of Jamestown—old TV shows, a walk around the block, and so forth—we decided to take it easy.

The biggest adventure of the day was dinner. Joanna asked one of the family who run the hotel about places to eat. He suggested one of his favorites, Roma, which serves Thai and Burmese food.

I don’t know how the place got that name. I forgot to ask. 

It’s a friendly, family-run eatery in a little strip mall. It has the feeling almost of a neighborhood pizza parlor.

In addition to traditional Thai and Burmese dishes, Roma also serves sushi. So we started with a couple of vegetarian rolls.

Vegetables can be hard to get on the road. So the rolls were especially good.

I was having a hard time deciding which curry to choose. Thai has several, red, yellow, green, Penang. They are a family of flavors, all subtly different.

The owner, whose name I learned later is Sinlin, suggested something altogether different, Burmese curry. That was new to me, so I had to try it.

After Sinlin assured me that it was a traditional way to have it, I opted for the version with goat. 

How hot did I want that? One, two, three or four stars hot? Well, the extremes are risky. Too little heat, and you may miss out on the experience. Too much, and you may miss out because all you may feel is the heat. And you might end up in a hospital.

I decided to be conservative and opted for two stars. To be safe, my order included white rice and tea. When it comes to anodynes for chile on the tongue, those two will go a long way to soothe you. Cheese and milk are the best, by the way, but they weren’t on the menu.

Joanna ordered fried rice with chicken and vegetables. It came as a huge mound of food with a fried egg on top. 

There was one ingredient in there that we never did identify. It looked like a miniature chick pea, about one size bigger than the garden sweet peas that were also in the mix. It was a bit starchier, though.

My goat curry had a mix of flavors that was new to me. It was definitely not like Thai or Indian. One of the strongest flavors was cardamom. Recipes for Burmese curry online call for garam masala, a mix of spices, often with cardamom as a leading ingredient.

Two stars hot was a lucky choice. I put a lot of the rice into the curry, and saved some to eat plain at the end. I drank two or three cups of tea. Even my lips were burning.

Back at the hotel I had energy enough to watch TV for a while and then went to sleep. I was too lazy even to drink a beer.

It has been almost three years since I’ve visited Pigeon Forge in Tennessee. I haven’t been on a Jersey boardwalk for a long while, either.

Needless to say, I’m overdue for some All-American kitsch.  So there I was a few weeks ago planning a trip that would cross the Southern Tier of New York. 

Niagara Falls? Slowly I turned—north. Step by step. I couldn’t help it.

Like the cast of “42nd Street,” I would shuffle off to Buffalo.

I saw the falls and some of the surrounding attractions years ago. No, decades ago. I may have been eight at the time. I remember the boardwalk feel, that curious mix of the slapdash and bizarre.

What I didn’t remember is the fine state park, which doesn’t clip you for anything, except maybe a parking fee.

The lot was full when we got there, and we found a municipal parking deck a couple of short blocks away. We parked on Level Four. 

The elevators weren’t working, so we walked down six flights to the street.

As we walked to the park entrance, I was hit by that sense of deja vu. I had experienced this many times, from the Mannekin Pis in Brussels to the Jersey shore, the redundant arrays of T-shirt shops, the junk hawkers, young couples, families with kids, a busload of Amish speaking Plattdeutsch.

But the thing that took me straight back to the boardwalk was the unmistakable aroma of rancid frying oil wafting on the air. 

Right across the street from all this hustle is a quiet green park, with shade and a visitor center. Joanna read somewhere that it is the oldest state park in the country. 

There is an observation deck that looks like a bridge to nowhere. It reminded Joanna of the remaining part of the broken bridge at Avignon, where we danced one afternoon,

The steps were jammed by people waiting to get up to the deck. I’m too old to waste time like that. Besides, standing on the ground at Prospect Point is spectacular enough.

The sun was shining on the mist coming up from Horseshoe Falls. As we were driving into town, we could see that mist, clustered like the smoke of a factory fire, from at least a mile away.

The falls nearer to Prospect Point, American and Bridal Veil Falls, were under clouds of fog.

This big drop is the main reason they had to build the Erie Canal. It was the only way to get the cargo of Great Lakes shipping to the Atlantic. I guess ships built on the lakes stayed on the lakes. Cargo came down in barges pulled by mules.

It was a pleasant stroll to the sound of water rushing to the edge where it fell to crash on rocks. So we wandered around the park and took pictures of water 

and rocks 

and Canada.

Then we walked back to the car. The whole time I was dreading the climb to Level Four. 

I actually made it, though, without too much delay and without passing out. 

As we drove out of the parking garage, a few raindrops landed on the windshield. By the time we came to the end of the block there was a downpour. I had to stop to let panicked tourists cross the street to the shelter of an awning.

We have been staying in a wasteland of suburban sprawl. 

It would be nice to see what the city part of the City of Buffalo looks like, so we went from Niagara Falls to Buffalo’s city hall, which is billed as an Art Deco gem. 

It is that. 

The building was dedicated in 1932, the city’s centennial.

It has a central tower 28 stories high, flanked by two shorter towers. The entry is a Classical-looking colonnade topped by a sandstone frieze that is an allegory of commerce. The city is personified in the center as a sibyl with an open book.

The lobby is the same generation as the Chrysler and Empire State Buildings in New York. Murals are filled with statuesque figures. Looming giants in stone represent modern ideals. Elevator doors are decorated with Egyptian motifs. Meanwhile the lobby suggests a Roman basilica set in the 1930s idea of the Space Age. Buck Rogers meets King Tut and Marc Antony.

I’m a dedicated Art Deco fan. 

We went up to the 13th floor to see the Council Chamber. We couldn’t get in, but could get a good view of the skylight, which was the big draw in the first place.

It’s a golden sunburst that reminds me of Bernini’s Holy Ghost window at St. Peter’s.

Across the street from City Hall is a plaza with an obelisk, a memorial to William McKinley, who was shot at the Buffalo Exposition in 1901 and died a week later in the city.

Another popular skyscraper in town is the Liberty Building, a few blocks away. It dominates the skyline looking west from City Hall, and judging from the artwork in the hotel, seems to be a favorite subject for photographers.

When we returned to La Quinta, I had gone a long time without food and wanted red meat for dinner. The best we could find nearby was an Outback Steakhouse franchise. 

It was OK. The beer selection was disappointing, though. I settled on a house brand called Bloomin’ Blond Ale, which supposedly “was made for steak.” 

Meh.

But we had stopped earlier at a supermarket on the way back from City Hall. I found something good and local, Big Ditch Hayburner American IPA, “proudly brewed in the Electric District of Downtown Buffalo, New York.”

It’s named for the Erie Canal mules. It runs a little over 7 percent ABV. It’s sharply hopped. It has good malt, but isn’t sweet.

A great dessert.

I’m coming up on —no, just passed 1500 words.

Time to sign off and open another Hayburner. 

Good night, all.

Harry