South Pine Cafe Omelet Review located in Nevada City, California

I glance up at a woman who sits down at the table next to us.  She has a look that could easy blend into any line at the grocery store, pass through airport security, and possibly teach a Sunday school.  I smile at her and return to the joys of my South Pine Cafe Omelet.

This particular omelet delights my palette with mushrooms, spinach, red onions, corn salsa, jack cheese topped with red/green pesto.  Despite the delicious taste of the pesto my eyes keep looking at the woman.  What about her holds my attention.  She has a middle class put together appearance.  It not like she’s is wearing a midwestern militia patch.  She laughs and engages in friendly banter.  Then my eyes become fixated on the stack of napkins by her plate.

That’s it the napkins!  How odd for a person who looks so well adjusted to need such a huge pile of napkins.  Obviously she’s on a date with her life skills coach mastering the technique of public breakfast edict.

I whisper to Veronica, “Check out the pile of napkins.  A stack that large requires a big mess.  Watch out at any moment she may start pouring ketchup all over her face or hurl bits of omelet at the other tables.”  As I say this I pretend to hide behind Veronica’s back dodging chunks of egg.

Veronica laughs, “I guess we’ll see.  Did you know my mouth to hand eye coordination is so advanced that I wager I only need to use a half a napkin from start to finish?”

I didn’t make the wager.  Veronica is so clean that she can go four days without taking a shower.

6 cups of coffee, 2 clean plates and a half used napkin later the woman across from us finishes without incident.  She takes the pile of napkins and tosses them on her plate. To my disappoint I look at Veronica, “Let’s go.  That was anticlimactic.  I don’t understand why the woman across from us tries to pass her self off as mentally challenged?”

That afternoon as I sit naked with my toes in the Yuba River and reflect upon the pile of napkins.  I wonder how much of the environment is destroyed out of fear and paranoia of a ketchup dribble.  Why don’t people simply use a napkin as they dribble.  One napkin at a time?  Does the madness end with the napkin?  What about sanitary napkins?  What about adult incontence pads?  7% of landfill waste is attributed to adult diapers.

It saddens me to observe the woman at the restaurant toss perfectly good napkins but it disturbs me more to think she might daily put on a precautionary adult diaper then throws it away because she’s afraid some poo might dribble out of her ass onto her pants.

Click on this link to learn more about adult diapers and how worms can eat a diaper.
http://www.treehugger.com/clean-technology/adult-diapers-clog-landfills-too.html

South Pine Cafe
Nevada City, California
110 South Pine Street
Nevada City, CA 95959
530.265.0260
Hours:
8am – 3pm 7 days a week

The Kneadery located in Ketchum, Idaho

Angry bear wants to eat omelet eaters

While eating an omelet I face a mean looking bear with arms extended, menacing claws and a snarl that shows off large human eating size teeth.  I’m not afraid of a dead bear it’s just unnerving to be in a restaurant with an animal that looks like it wants to kill me in body and probably in spirit.  Maybe a slice of Kneedery’s organic Bigwood sourdough bread on top of the bears head followed by a tomato and lettuce would take the edge off.  The restaurant buzzes like a hive.  The server is polite but engages in short direct menu related talk.  I figure this isn’t the time to present my bear sandwich thought.  Instead I choose another chair at the table that faces this dowey eyed dead cow.  There that’s much better.

The Kneadery
260 Leadville Ave
Ketchum, Idaho

SE Asia Omelet Zine featuring eateries in Thailand, Cambodia, Laos now available

In 2010, Bangkok Books began distributing You Can’t Hide an Elephant in an Omelet as an e-book.  Tara Blackmore from Broken Pencil has this to say about the book:  “What a neat concept this book offers: essays and stories about omelettes and cuisine from around the world. This particular issue offers experiences from Thailand, Laos, and Cambodia.

Part restaurant review, part tour guide, this book offers pure entertainment in eloquent language that can be enjoyed by just about everyone.

Written like a memoir (the good kind), the book offers a glimpse into foreign food production, consumption and a healthy dose of social interaction and culture shock as well. It’s an objective look at travel and all it entails, offering tips and advice on how to get by. It also gives descriptions of local cuisine that can either repulse you or attract you, so reading it while hungry is a bad idea.

This book is well worth the money. Rich with well-worded descriptions and beautiful photos, this zine will satisfy the reader who has either travel-curiosity or no idea what to make for dinner (which, of course, would be omelettes).”

FOR THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN WANTING TO READ A CLEVERLY WRITTEN BOOK ABOUT EATING OMELETS IN SOUTH EAST ASIA HERE’S YOUR OPPORTUNITY.

Click on one of the below links to purchase a copy:

Ipad
Android
Kindle
Bangkok Books

Front Cover

Sample Page

Back Cover

Tunnel Ends Cafe and Espresso located in Whittier, Alaska

Plenty of Parking for Vehicles and and Boats

Despite being surrounded on three sides by mountains and the other side by ocean, Whittier, Alaska happens to be one of the most car friendly towns in the nation. Not even the world’s best driver can navigate the mountains surrounding Whittier, but not to be bested by nature, a vehicle lover can drive through a 2.5 long tunnel into a city mostly paved in parking lots.

Nestled between parking spaces is the Tunnel Ends Cafe and Espresso. Finding this little eatery is like discovering an organic honey crisp apple among the candy bars, chips, soda and other such food staples at obese super markets. Biting into the sweet juiciness of the apple, I get distracted by a woman in grey sweat pants who doesn’t seem to notice her anatomically correct camel toe or the loud Black Eyed Peas ring tone coming from her duffel bag sized purse. I see her move a hand towards her lower regions and I think, “Thank god, she’s going to pick up the phone or adjust her sweats.” She does neither but snaps her thong. She seems too engaged in trying to discover the greater price value between a six-pack or liter of soda.

delicious omelet

At the omelet cafe, large trucks as unflattering as the sweat pants pull up next to the cafe to refuel. When the truck engine begins to rumble, the exhaust spews out smells and burps that make me realize just how hurt Uncle LeRoy must have been to subject himself to carbon monoxide poisoning. Cough Cough

Bless poor Uncle Leroy

Tasting the spirit of fall in the apple at the grocery store takes me back to autumn bicycle rides with a crispness in the air, reds and oranges in the trees, and the Boise River slowing down to a crawl.

The omelet has the same effects. Soon we are back enjoying the omelet and listening to Tanguy’s vivid description of France. Click here to learn more about CouchSurfing Tanguy.

Boise, Idaho: Merritt’s Country Cafe (video)

Click here to watch.

Traveler Brandon Follett is delighted to find a greasy cure for homesickness at Merritt’s.

Red Feather Lounge located in Boise, Idaho

Chirp, Chirp!!!!!!!

Thomas Paul at the Red Feather Lounge.

With the outbreaks of salmonella and e-coli, some eaters are starting to question the quality of veggies and meat sold in restaurants.  People are curious to know if the beef stuck between their teeth was fed too much corn and had to be dragged into the slaughterhouse by a chain wrapped around an ankle or did the cow finish its last meal of green grass, then skip with a smile to its death like in a Disney cartoon.

At Red Feather Lounge, the menu boasts fresh ingredients backed up by a list of farms at the bottom of the menu where the restaurant purchased the vegetables and eggs to make my delicious Huevos Rancheros. While digesting the Morning Owl Farm duck eggs, I start to ponder the question – which came first, the chicken or the cage?

Most birds that I have been introduced to have names like Chipper the parakeet, or Henrietta and Karl the lovebirds.  These birds live in cages, and after the newness wears off, seem to annoy their owners who have to selflessly feed and clean their cages with only the thanks of a helpless little bird in a cage to gawk upon.

I don’t quite understand the fascination with the caged bird.  I can understand the corporate farmers with their beakless small caged birds because money can make any crime bearable for the majority.  As I consider the question of non-capitalist bird owners, my thoughts float away to the zoo.  I envision a couple on a date:

A man looks at the zoo birds.  “I wish I could have one of those bald eagles in a really small cage on my night stand, do you?”

The woman replies, “Yes.”

The man grabs her hand and says, “How do you feel about going back to my love nest?  You can meet my lovebirds.  I named them Joy and Happiness.  Even though they are lovebirds, I keep Joy and Happiness in separate cages across the room because I like surround sound.  For dinner I’ll prepare foie gras.  We’ll stuff ourselves ‘til our stomachs become as bloated as a goose’s liver.  Afterwards, I’ll put on my yellow Big Bird outfit.  You can tie me up and ruffle my feathers.  I want to be your lovebird.  Chirp, CHIRP!!!”

The woman, “Okay.”

Not realizing his date likes to pretend she’s an insane cat named Sylvester who kills birds for pleasure, the next morning the man makes omelets more slowly than usual. He hobbles over to the refrigerator and takes out a white styrofoam container of eggs.  With pride he opens up the container containing the aryan eggs.  He looks at her with excited eyes, “I figured you would spend the night so I bought an 18 pack.”  As he cracks the eggs, he recites his poem.

“Millions of hens raised for their eggs
spending their lives in battery cages
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
no blue ribbons for these laying hens

seven or eight birds to a cage
not enough room to turn or spread a wing
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
beakless and stressed is a look that never wins

no thoughts of blue ribbons for these laying hens
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
beakless and stressed is a look that never wins
tier upon tier in hu-u-ge warehouses

I love the machine that provides the means
to force chickens to produce cheap eggs
stacked tier upon tier in huge warehouses
not enough room to turn or spread a wing”

The woman starts to purr and rub herself against the counter.  The man stops singing.

She is now on all fours crawling toward him, meowing.  He turns off the stove.

Flapping his arms like a chicken, he runs to the bedroom to put on his yellow Big Bird outfit, yelling, “CHIRP! CHIRP!!!”

Morning Owl Farm ducks

The Mission Inn Hotel and Spa located in Riverside, California

A Couple, a President, and Me

Conversing in their kitchen while making omelets, a couple in Redlands, California agree their current church is an unsuitable place to worship God. Some people go to church to express their style in designer clothes, fancy cars, and pockets full of the latest electronic gadgets. The couple has style but not in the typical consumer sense. They decide to approach the pastor about the matter.

They say, “Pastor, do you mind if we eat omelets while you preach? We would really like to praise the Lord with our omelet style and show off how blessed we our with fresh eggs and imported fancy cheeses from Europe.”

The pastor did not want anything to do with these omelet Christians. He remembers the story about his great-grandfather, Pastor Harold, who caved in to the automobile Christians who wanted to come to church with their cars. Soon the automobile Christians outnumbered the horse, foot, and trolley Christians. In fact, as space issues arose, the automobile Christians voted to stop converting the heathens, building larger parking lots instead of a larger church.

To the atheist, this might seem like an odd, nonsensical start to an omelet review. However, one of the key components to Christ worship is the place of worship. A person who worships Christ without a proper place to kneel is like a duck without water. It was this integral part of worship that led the couple to the Mission Inn in Riverside, California.

The story of the Mission Inn Hotel and Spa begins in 1876. The Inn was primarily a hotel and spa until 1910 when the St. Cecilia Chapel and catacombs were built. Today the Mission Inn consists of a swanky chapel and four restaurants that combine the freshest and finest ingredients to make anyone’s dinning experience memorable.

The Mission Inn boasts visits by eight U.S. presidents. Of these, William Howard Taft was by far the largest. When Amy and I sat in his chair, we felt like little babies sitting in the backseat of a suburban. The only spatial relationship I have to Taft is Taft Street in Boise, Idaho. His street isn’t any larger then the two-lane Jefferson or Adams. To be true to its name, Taft Street really needs to be a six-lane street with a wide turning lane in the middle.

The last presidential portrait hanging on the wall is George W. Bush. I don’t know how much George W. Bush cares about fresh ingredients. He never mentions his love of organic local fresh vegetables only his dislike of terrorists because they want to eat Americans. If he did value fresh food, I’m sure he would turn part of the White House lawn into a vegetable garden and would declare war on global warming. His first stance would be to proclaim that all chairs or boards used in water board torture be made of 100% recycled material. To conserve water, his torture victims would be choked on gray water or out of date milk. The water or milk coughed up from the torture victims lungs will be used to hydrate the office plants. To ease Americans’ minds about the new torture technique, Bush would call the treatment, “Watering the Office Plants.”

My personal view of the Mission Inn Hotel and Spa: The restaurant offers a fantastic omelet experience! I would like to first mention that I worked at an establishment whose chef threw daily temper tantrums behind the swinging kitchen door. I’m now a fan of the open kitchen.

As you can see from the photo, the Inn takes the open kitchen to a fun level. A guest walks up to the chef, decides what she’d like on her omelet, and watches the chef go to work. Not only does the guest have the pleasure of seeing the fresh omelet ingredients but also gets to watch skillfully quick hands and enjoy the chef’s witty banter. While eating the omelet, roaming musicians will stop and grace your omelet eating with beautiful music. The Mission Inn Hotel and Spa gets four stars based on a delicious omelet, live music, and polite chefs.

Cricket Cafe located in Portland, Oregon

Jesus tastes mmmm good

At the Cricket Café in Portland, Oregon, I have to keep pulling myself upright. The slick booth and gravity keep dragging me to the floor. I’m suffering from the indulgence of a night out on the town. The hangover has rendered me almost speechless, and I can only stare at my friend, Eric, across the table.

The only thought my mind is willing to contemplate: ‘What the hell was I doing last night?’ I’m too old to be living this lifestyle. My throat is sore, nasal passages burn, head hurts, and stomach feels queasy. The omelet is good but bed sounds better. I should be feeling upbeat and happy about trying fake sausage in my omelet for the first time.

I am not a god-fearing individual, but an odd thing takes place at the Cricket Café that many Christians claim can happen in moments like these. I hear the door open and look up to see an angel. The woman does not have large angel wings but large breasts and a t-shirt that reads “Jesus.”

I never had faith in the divine, but the way I’m feeling I’m willing to take a chance on the idea that Jesus might use angel breasts and silkscreen to speak to me. I decide to open my heart and listen for Jesus’s soft voice. This is what I hear:
“Brandon, I want you to become a disciple of consumer Jesus. Everything you purchase must be in my name. This includes everything from automobiles to plastic toys and ashtrays.”

All of a sudden, I see a flash of light and these images.

I feel like the Apostle Paul thrown off his horse.
“Jesus, I will give my life to your ministry of consumerism. Lord, can I do more than just max out my credit card in your name?”

Jesus appears in a business suit. “Yes, son, you can help me with my specialty food line. I need a product as popular as cheap fast food hamburgers and tastes as good as bacon. I want you to promote my new line of food on Earthworm Envy. Here’s my idea based loosely around that fake sausage in your omelet. You eat a fake pig. Why not eat a fake Jesus?”

He opens his Last Supper lunch box and pulls out some drawings. One drawing shows a stick figure cutting Jesus open with a fork and knife. Another shows Jesus’s open chest cavity with little lambs inside wearing dollar sign necklaces. In the last drawing, a stick figure has a little lamb on his fork and says, “Jesus tastes like lamb.”

Jesus proudly proclaims, “I was the first to promote fake meat. Do you remember my words at the Last Supper? Take this bread and eat it, for this is my flesh.” He straightens his tie, raises his arms and continues, “Consumer Jesus disciples and heathens need Jesus fake meat. There’s a lot of evil and money to be made in this world, and if I can’t be in the sinners’ hearts, then at least I’ll be in their bellies! Can I get an Amen?”

Poof! Jesus disappears and my body quivers. I feel rejuvenated and bounce up and down in the booth like a young 22-year-old with a hangover drinking Red Bull. I eat the rest of my omelet with a glow and start muttering, “Amen, Jesus is my CEO and he tastes mmmm good!”

Palmer Cafe located in Stanley, Idaho

Hallelujah, Processed Food

photo taken at Sawtooth Fish Hatchery

While pedaling to lower Stanley, Idaho for an omelet, my eyes keep following the Salmon River. Right now, a majority of the Fish and Game salmon are returning to the fish hatchery. This is a remarkable feat because they float all the way to the big wide Pacific Ocean, and then for some reason, they decide to swim all the way back to where they are born in these large cement bathtubs.

A person can identify a fish hatchery salmon from a native salmon because the Fish and Game make sure to exclude the adipose fin from their salmon.

Cruising past the fish hatchery with my eyes still focused on the river, I see a bald eagle sitting on a post. We both happen to be looking at the same stretch of river. I feel bad for it because this week the Fish and Game have stopped stocking the Salmon River with rainbow trout for the season. I suppose it’s time for the eagle to fly south where it’s warm and where the rivers are stocked year round. Taking a closer look at the bald eagle, I notice it has all of its body parts. I don’t think the eagle was hatched by the Fish and Game. I yell at the bird, “Shoo, shoo, fly to Alabama where it’s warm.”

Our eyes meet, but I don’t think the eagle understands. It remains sitting on the post. I suppose we are too different to connect. The eagle has mom and dad eagle parents; I have mom and dad human parents. With so many animals and fish bred in captivity, I bet test-tube babies can commune more naturally with nature, both being conceived in a similar sort of scientifically engineered environment. If I were a test-tube baby, I would want my animal spirit to be a Fish and Game hatched salmon. Like the fish hatchery salmon, when I have lived a full life, I will feel a tug on my heart and crawl to a rest home to die. Like the farm raised salmon in the grocery store, when I die, someone will come along and add some pink to my cheeks so that I may look presentable at my funeral.

I arrive at lower Stanley in time for breakfast. Choosing a restaurant in lower Stanley is easy because it does not have sprawl like upper Stanley. The town has to compete for space with Highway 75 in the middle, mountains to one side, and the Salmon River to the other.

The restaurant I choose, Palmer’s Café, is adjacent to a whitewater rafting company. I notice the person next to me eating pancakes off of disposable breakfast ware. His snow-white fork and knife do not have a smudge. His clean silverware a reminder that my hands are dirty. I get up to use the bathroom.

The men’s room is shared between the café and raft company. On the wall there are pictures of rafters in unsafe floating situations.

I think it odd that a raft company would voluntarily post pictures of possible drownings. The only other time I saw this odd advertising was in Thailand. The cigarette companies have to place a picture showing the consequences of smoking. So while lighting up, you get to admire tubes coming out of someone’s mouth and nose. The person looks like they could have lung cancer. I don’t think this form of advertising has slowed down the smokers or rafters. Teenagers and young adults love to flirt with death in the form of smoke and water filling the lungs.

The bathroom looks as if it hasn’t been cleaned for a while. The smudge of poop on the toilet leads me to this conclusion. To add to my horror, the soap dispenser does not have any soap.

The dirty bathroom reminds me of Anthony Bourdain’s cleanliness comments in Kitchen Confidential:
“I won’t eat in a restaurant with filthy bathrooms. This isn’t a hard call. They let you see the bathrooms. If the restaurant can’t be bothered to replace the puck in the urinal or keep the toilets and floors clean, then just imagine what their refrigeration and work spaces look like. Bathrooms are relatively easy to clean. Kitchens are not. In fact, if you see the chef sitting unshaven at the bar, with a dirty apron on, one finger halfway up his nose, you can assume he’s not handling your food any better behind closed doors. Your waiter looks like he just woke up under a bridge? If management allows him to wander out on the floor looking like that, God knows what they’re doing to your shrimp!”

Despite agreeing with Mr. Bourdain that poop on the toilet seat should raise a red flag, I have already ordered my food and I’m hungry enough to risk an afternoon of being sick. Don’t get me wrong, thoughts of dirty fingers touching my omelet scare me. I calm myself by visualizing latex-gloved fingers cracking eggs, American cheese protected by plastic wrap, beans spooned out of a freshly opened can, and salsa squeezed out of a tube. I can’t believe I’m saying out loud, “Thank god for processed food!”

Here comes my omelet on a paper plate. Oh, fuck. It looks fresh.

Somewhere in Cambodia (short film)

I’m eating a Cambodian-style fried egg omelet when I hear an oink-oink…

click photo to watch short film