Shady Shower Scene

Listen dude at the YMCA, you know what’s not cool? I walk into the shower and you’re already in there finishing up. You walk out, then come back in and start showering again. What the hell is up with that?

I guess I should explain to some of you women who are spoiled by your gyms with these separate shower stalls and privacy and what not. The men’s showers at the YMCA — or the ones in New York that I’ve been to — are basically you’re standard-issue prison showers. Shower heads poking out of the walls, hand-soap dispensers next to them and signs that say, “PLEASE NO SHAVING IN THE SHOWER.” Now, you’d think that in a civilized country, such a sign would be unnecessary. But you know who didn’t pay heed to that sign? The old fart in there two weeks ago with a razor and a pair of scissors TRIMMING HIS NUT SACK!

Now, maybe a good citizen would have told him something, but me? If I’m standing naked with no shoes on, I’m not saying shit to a man with scissors and a razor. You never know what could happen. Especially an old man like that. He could corner you and tell you sad stories about his life for the next hour (which is the biggest risk at the Vanderbilt YMCA in Manhattan).

For what it’s worth, the standard-issue prison shower is preferable to the showers in the men’s locker room at Tiger Schulmann Mixed Martial Arts in Manhattan. Not only do you not have stalls, but the shower heads branch out from poles in the middle of the room so that you have to face each other when showering. (That is, back in the day, when the showers actually worked. I tried to go back to my karate days in December and it seemed there was one functioning shower head — and that was the subject of a water rights dispute between the local roach population and a mold colony.)

Anyway, carry on. And behave yourselves in the shower.

Running Toe

After a fine Italian dinner and a Salty Pimp from Big Gay Ice Cream, I returned home last night, sterilized a safety pin and jabbed it under the middle toe of my left foot, unleashing a little flood of toe juice. Blood and water. Nothing to barf over.

It seems I’ve a bit of a case of runner’s toe. Unlike most other runners who write about it, I’m not going to post a photo of my gnarly feet. The fact is, the two toes so afflicted don’t look that bad. Other runners’ toenails turn dark black and fall off. My turned a light shade of purple.
Continue reading “Running Toe”

Barbecue Trials: No. 1

After receiving a charcoal basket and two new digital thermometers, I’d finally reached the breaking point. I’d intended to wait until the convection plate I’d ordered arrived, but I couldn’t take it any longer. Yesterday, I fired up the smoker.

Initially, I’d planned to just throw charcoal and chips into the fire box and get a feel for how the basket affected things, learn the heat zones and heat differentials. While in the grocery store yesterday morning, I told myself if I could find a cheap, trimmed brisket, I’d toss that on, as I also wanted to experiment with temps higher than 250 and try out the so-called Texas Crutch. But no luck on the brisket. So I picked up a 5.6 pound piece of pork shoulder.
Continue reading “Barbecue Trials: No. 1”

Barbecue in Park Slope: Fort Reno

I’ve been driving myself crazy lately by ordering bits and pieces to modify my smoker while I wait for the weather to warm up. And also by going to barbecue websites to pick up tips and secrets for better barbecue, particularly brisket. Last year’s first attempts at brisket went better than expected, but I’m still not getting it to the point where it comes thisclose to falling apart. It seems my problem may have been not letting it rest. I’m also getting suspicious of the whole low-and-slow thing. Whereas most cue bibles will tell you to keep it under 275, seems the good folks down in Lockhart stay well above 300 and achieve superior flavor in a shorter amount of time. We shall find out.

But in the meantime, I’ve been wanting to eat barbecue. Plenty of options in Manhattan, with Hill Country leading the pack. Then last week, I learned (from TNT buddy Rachel) of Fort Reno here in Park Slope, a five-minute walk from my house.

I’ll admit that a number of things about Rachel’s review had me skeptical going in, namely her mention of hipsters, handle-bar mustaches and that photo of sauce-slathered ribs she posted. Anyone who knows me knows I’m anti-hipster and pretty damn anti-sauce.

But we would have to see for ourselves, so last night Cara and I went.

Fort Reno IS small. And if it were a waiter-service place I might have turned right around and walked out. Can’t stand tiny restaurants. But it’s a counter-service joint, which moves things along quickly (and possibly chases off some folks who aren’t accustomed to such a scene). The tables were full, so we grabbed a couple seats at the bar, which was being manned by, yes, a guy with a handle-bar mustache.

Drinks are ordered from the bar tender, food from a separate counter. We went with brisket, pulled pork, ribs and a handful of sides.

Fort Reno isn’t necessarily going to please hardcore barbecue enthusiasts. The restaurants website mentioned that the meat is “smoked and braised”–and that braising is definitely in evidence with the pulled pork and the brisket, the latter of which was so tender, it was verging on pot roast. That’s not to say they weren’t delicious. Both items were.

And I turned out liking the ribs the best. Yes, they’d been sauced, but it was just the right amount. (If anyone remembers Biscuit, formerly of Flatbush Ave. and then of the cursed spot on Fifth Ave., those guys drowned their ribs in sauce). The ribs at Fort Reno were also done the right way: They had just the right amount of pull. (Barbecue nerd note: According to Kansas City Barbecue Society standards, ribs are NOT supposed to fall off the bone.)

The thing was, the sauce was necessary as most of the meat came up short in the smoked department. Perhaps it’s the result of using electric smokers in such a small place and not wanting to choke everyone to death. Or perhaps the folks running the show know their audience and that audience might not like heavy smoke flavors.

Again, this is basically picking a nit. The meats were well seasoned and well cooked, as were the sides (mac n’ cheese, baked beans and cornbread). There certainly wasn’t much left after we were done with the plate.

Now about that handle-bar mustachioed gent behind the bar. His name was Dan and he was a hell of a nice guy. And I’m not just saying that because he got us pretty hammered on a fine collection of cocktails.

If you like a good cocktail, I can’t recommend this place enough. I’m no expert on mixed drinks, but I’d put Dan up against Clover Club and Prime Meats (which is high praise from me). I’m not going to write 500 words noting hints of that balanced against note of this because I don’t know what I’m talking about. I just know what I like, and all of the cocktails we tried at Fort Reno (and we went through half the menu I think), I liked.

Bonus points for the place having a neighborhood feel. At only three-months old, a number of regulars were stopping by for take-out orders or to chat with Dan–and with us. It’s a friendly place.

Will we be going back? Hell to the yes. This despite my own backyard smoker and the eventual opening of a Dinosaur Barbecue in Park Slope. The food was delicious, the cocktails excellent and the atmosphere welcoming.

Should you go? Most definitely.

From the running files

Eight 400M “sprints” xup the North Hill. Oh, the things I saw on this one.

For the poets: Pink petals piled into drifts, pollen powdered over the cars, allergy sufferers saying, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT ALREADY?!?

For the weirdos: A man taking his dog for a walk. Said man was also on a unicycle and juggling while doing this. Multitasking.

Managed to do 8 400s with very slow recoveries down the hill. Right hamstring started tightening up at the end, but screw it. It’s not the boss of me (yet).

I just copied and pasted this from Garmin Connect. First column is actual speed. Last column is pace per mile (was too lazy to delete). Obviously need to work on recovery time here. Wind was blowing pretty hard by the end.

1 1:45.6 0.25 7:03
2 3:34.1 0.25 14:17
3 1:54.7 0.25 7:39
4 3:54.9 0.25 15:39
5 1:49.6 0.25 7:19
6 4:16.8 0.25 17:08
7 1:52.9 0.25 7:32
8 4:51.9 0.25 19:28
9 1:53.1 0.25 7:32
10 4:32.5 0.25 18:10
11 1:53.1 0.25 7:32
12 5:14.7 0.25 20:59
13 2:00.1 0.25 8:01
14 4:17.3 0.25 17:09
15 1:52.6 0.25 7:31
16 4:46.5 0.25 19:27

It’s “All of A Sudden” not “All of THE Sudden”

There are right ways to do things and wrong ways to do things. This is the wrong way to do things.

“All of THE sudden, there it was.”

I don’t know where you people are picking this up from. Perhaps you’ve hopped in a time machine and gone back to the 1500s recently.

But the correct idiomatic phrase in English is “All of a sudden.”

So just stop it. Drives me crazy.

Tip-Toeing Toward the Barefoot Church

Yesterday, while running out of Prospect Park, I spied a man running into it, half a leash length behind his yellow lab. The man had no shoes on.

I am not saying to you that he was wearing Vibrams Fivefingers or Adidas adiPure or even Merrel Trail Gloves. I’m saying that the top of the man’s pasty white feet were glowing in the early morning light while his soles padded across the pavement.

I wasn’t immediately repulsed by this.
Continue reading “Tip-Toeing Toward the Barefoot Church”