Lazy Days, Vacations, and Sweet Corn

Originally published July 7, 2015 – Since I’m headed off on vacation for two weeks, I hope you’ll allow me the liberty to cheat a bit on this week’s post.  I’d like to share one of my favorite new recipes, something that will come in handy on summer weekends.

It’s a pretty simple recipe, but with great results – Charred Corn on the Cob with Compound Butter (liberally adapted from an episode of Cook’s Country).  And you might even get a chuckle or two as you read along.  It’s intended for a charcoal grill, but I suppose gas would work, although I haven’t done it that way.

Shuck your corn, while the briquettes heat up.  If you’re not familiar with starting a fire, please see “To Build a Fire,” by Jack London (

It doesn’t really matter how many briquettes you use, as I assume you’re cooking the corn along with burgers, steaks, or other flame-kissed animal protein deliciousness. More than one briquette, fewer than the whole bag. Unless it’s a small bag.

Set them on fire using your favorite method: matches, road flare, Zippo, chimney, toxic lighter fluid whose petrolatum-based flames will take years off your family’s lives (hey, it’s your call), napalm, flamethrower, whatever.

Once the coals are hot, put the ears of corn directly on the grill grate, over a hot spot on the grill. Cover, don’t cover, really doesn’t matter. Just get the ears over some hot flame/coals. Leave ’em alone for a bit.

Go back inside, and grab a stick of softened butter, which you sat out on the counter earlier. What? You didn’t set the butter out to soften? But I said we’re making compound butter. How did you think that was going to happen? The butter fairy? Wow, I’m not sure you’re ready for this recipe. Sit down over there and think about your life decisions for a moment.

Or, pop it in the microwave on high for 10-15 seconds, just long enough to soften — NOT MELT — the butter. Place the softened butter in a small bowl, and combine with some herbs: equal parts tarragon, basil, parsley, etc. Those three work really well, but it’s up to you. Fresh is better, but dried works too. Put enough in that you can see herb in every bit of the butter. Mix it up; should look kinda green.

Back to the grill. Rotate the ears of corn a third of a turn or so, moving the charred side up.

Back inside – grab a 13 x 9 or larger pan (size depends on how much corn you’re cooking). 13 x 9 will handle 6-8 ears. If you’re cooking all the corn in Kansas, you’ll need a bigger pan. Use a disposable if you’re too lazy to wash it after. If not, aluminum is fine.

Glass will work, but will probably get REALLY messy. So if your wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/life partner/significant other/posslq has a favorite Corning Ware pan handed down from great great grandma Corning, you may want to re-think your choice.

Anyways, however you decide, you now are in possession of a pan. Depending on how long this internal debate and external decision took you (longer for indecisive ones who didn’t put the butter out to soften), you may have turned your charred corn into tragically burnt corn, and have to start over.

However, if you are a Master and Commander, and decisively grabbed that darn pan, you’re still on schedule. Plop that big ol’ blob of compound butter right in the middle of that pan. Grab a roll of aluminum foil, grab the pan, and head back out to the grill.

Your corn is now nicely charred on two of its three sides . . .

Really, you’re gonna make me say it?

Fine, rotate the corn another third of a turn, so the remaining uncharred side can join its happily-blackened family of kernels.

Once the corn has sufficiently blackened on each side, start pulling the corn off the grill. Give it a quick turn through the compound butter in the pan, and push it off to one side of the pan.

Do this for all the corn, so the pan is full, and each ear is happily glistening with herbaceous butter. Cover the pan with the foil, tightly.

Put the pan back on the grill, on the cooler side. Use the hot side for whatever animal protein, hardy tofu (LOL – tofu!!), or gluten-free vegan bean burger (seriously, stop–you’re killin’ me) you plan to serve.

While your carnivorous feast cooks to medium-rare or medium (the only two real options), the corn will be steaming in that herb butter, and the moisture the heat has caused the kernels to expel (corn spit — funny).

Once you’ve finished grilling, take the entire pan of corn off the grill. Take it back inside. CAREFULLY peel back the foil. Superheated steam will come out. Having your flesh in the way will offer further medium-rare dining options for the carnivores in your house, or zombies marauding through the ‘hood, so you might want to keep your fingers at some distance.

Or poke a few holes in the top of the foil so the steam escapes first, then peel it back.

While wearing a fluorescent safety vest, you gormless ninny.

Saddle up, peel it back, and deal with the consequences.

The corn will smell tasty enough to attract crows from three states over. It will be charred, tender, and glistening with butter and bits of herbaceous deliciousness.

You have choices: right off the cob in the traditional manner, or sheared from the cob, like alpaca from your favorite llama, for oldsters with dentures, or youngsters presently wearing dental appliances I paid for.

If you have leftovers, charred corn salsa is wonderful, although not a recipe I’ll be covering here today.

Ditto charred corn chowder, with bacon, leeks, and potatoes.

Hey, that gives me an idea . . .


What’s Your Passion?

Originally published July 27, 2015 – You’ve heard the quote a thousand times, “Find something you love to do and you’ll never have to work a day in your life.”  To the best of my research, a quote from Harvey Mackay, author of Beware the Naked Man Who Offers You His Shirt.

We all have jobs.  Some of us have jobs we love.  Some of us have jobs we are passionate about.  Rarely does anyone have a job that IS their passion.

While watching the Brickyard 400 NASCAR event yesterday, I was thinking about this.  The network was showing a feed of Roger Penske, atop the garage, watching the track as one of his drivers, Joey Logano, was preparing for the green-white-checkered sprint to the finish (Joey ultimately finished second to Kyle Busch).

It’s well known that racing is Roger Penske’s passion.  He’s a legendary competitor in both NASCAR and IRL circles, and his 16 wins at Indy tops all owners.  But it’s not his day job–it’s “just” what he does on weekends.

For me, it’s photography.

I started out as the school yearbook photographer, shooting (horrible) black and white 35mm photos, either wasting film in poorly-focused shots, or destroying good shots in the darkroom.

I used a school advisor-provided metal body Canon that weighed about 10 lbs., even before attaching the dumbbell-sized telephoto lens.  Between the lens shake from trying to hold 15 lbs. of camera equipment on a moving target (usually a basketball player), and the poor focus from my uncorrected myopia, every shot was an adventure.  Looking back, I’m amazed there were enough decent shots to fill out the pages.

(And no, this isn’t where I’ll be posting a blurry, black and white shot of someone with feathered hair, too short shorts, and over the calf striped tube socks driving to the hoop.  Besides, you just pictured it in your mind anyways.)

But if you’re passionate about something, you keep at it.

You try harder.

You practice.

You learn from others.

You read how to get better.

You get glasses.

You burn through film, looking for that perfect shot.

You upgrade your equipment.

You curse the digital revolution, as you just learned a level of competency with your film camera (still a Canon, although lighter).

You fail.

Over and over.  Thousands of shots:  blurred, out of focus, out of frame.

You keep learning, from small successes along the way.

But mostly from the failures.

You keep climbing.

Because it’s your passion.

You flirt with the other brand

You buy one, hate it, go back to Canon.

You upgrade to a digital set-up.

You study the work of betters:  Adams, Mapplethorpe, Avedon, Leibovitz.

You try to develop your eye.

You get Lasik.

You shoot thousands of shots.

You delete thousands of shots, because your standards are now higher.

You thank God for digital.

You refuse to Photoshop.

You shoot outside your comfort zone, literally hanging ten over a thousand foot drop at Horseshoe Bend in Arizona, because it’s the only way to get the iconic shot.

You get the shot.

You upgrade again, because now you NEED to.

You meet an architect on a flight to New Orleans.  He asks why you “take pictures.”  You instinctively respond, “Because it’s how I see the world.”

You have an epiphany, realizing it’s true.

You shoot your daughters’ marching band competitions.  You focus on them through the telephoto lens, and through the magic of mirrors and magnification,  you really SEE them.

You keep shooting – every vacation, every business trip.

You have some kind of camera everywhere you go.

You shoot circuses, car shows, iguanas, elephants, mountains, canyons, and flowers.

You shoot a 1,700-lb. bull stomping a 160-lb. cowboy.

You do this for the better part of four decades.

And you think “I’ve found what I love.”




1)  All photos copyright 2015 by Tim Flucht ; all rights reserved.  2)  The site only allows low-res uploads.  3)  What do you call a group of butterflies?  I had to look it up after shooting these.  4)  You can find Mr. Mackay’s books here:  5)  A flutter of butterflies, or 6) A kaleidoscope of butterflies.

Serendipitous Sushi

Originally published August 11, 2015 – “Occurring or discovered by chance in a happy or beneficial way,” is Google’s definition of serendipitous, and it’s a good description for last evening.

I stopped off at one of my favorite local restaurants, Izakaya Sanpei, on Joy Road in Canton, MI.  Izakaya is a Japanese restaurant, and while I have never traveled to Japan, the food seems authentic (meaning, it may be, but I’m not qualified to say so).

I sat at the sushi bar, rather than a table, and in short order, was working my way through a plate of shumai (shrimp dumplings) and a bowl of tempura soba.

But that’s not what this post is about.  I mean, the food was great, the dumplings small bits of seafood deliciousness, the tempura perfectly light, topping a bowl filled with rich broth and buckwheat noodles.  The food is always good at Izakaya; that’s why I eat there.

But tonight?  Well, tonight I saw something different.

About halfway through my soba, I noticed the sushi chef preparing a very large bowl.  He had a wonderful arrangement of fish, a large seashell, a flower, lemon slices, and other garnishes arranged around the bowl.  When he poured a bit of water into the bowl, it began smoking, overflowing the bowl, creeping across the counter.

I snapped a quick photo as the waitress was carrying it away, then started to talk to the chef about its preparation.  I found it was their special of the day, fresh aji (small Japanese mackerel) and fresh conch.

Fortunately, as we were talking, two more orders came in.  I was able to watch him prepare the entire dish, beginning with filleting the aji, and bracing it with chunks of cucumber.








Once that was completed, he took the ahi meat, and mixed it with chopped vegetables, perhaps gobo (burdock root) and perhaps jalapeno, creating a fresh fish salad.  He then arranged the salad on the fish, and garnished with scallions.

He then took the conch shell, rolled a ball of wasabi paste, and used that to stabilize the shell, now next to the fish/salad combination in the bowl.  Pulling a whole conch from the chiller, he began cutting thick slices of the conch, arraying them across the shell.  I thought the thickness of the slices a bit unusual, as conch is usually pretty tough.








With a few more garnishes, the dish was finished.  He poured water over the dry ice, and the presentation was complete:  a beautiful sashimi dish, artfully arranged, with special effects to take it over the top.

I complimented chef on his work, as the owner came over to join our conversation.

I was pleased to meet Harold Kim, owner of the restaurant.  We talked about the unusual preparation.  Mr. Kim told me he wanted to serve very authentic food, and sushi needs to be more than just rolls.  He had interviewed Chef Sang J. Kim, and they shared a desire to serve more traditional Japanese cuisine.

The menu is already extensive, but there is now a second menu of Japanese appetizers (you have to ask), for those desiring more of the traditional experience of small shared plates, drinks, and conversation.

They also have arranged to provide local tastes to their Japanese clientele, or to those who wish to enjoy similar delicacies.  So they’re eating “local”, but “local” is home, not the restaurant location.  Doing so requires a long supply chain.

Each Wednesday, they receive a “mystery box”.  Flown directly from Japan, the box contains fresh local fish.  Mr. Kim receives an email with a picture of the fish as it is crated for the flight (the first notification of what type of fish he will receive), and it arrives in Detroit twelve hours later, less than a day out of the local (Japanese) waters.

The fish is served fresh on Wednesday evening, and is gone by Thursday afternoon.

I mentioned the conch, and the thicker slices I had noticed.  Mr. Kim told me that Chef Kim does not prepare the conch in the traditional method, which does toughen the meat, and requires thinner slices.  Because his method does not toughen the conch, the thicker slices are still enjoyable to eat (similar to the hamachi you see in the top photo, my dessert for the evening.

There are also plans to expand a bit more into yakatori, Japanese charcoal-grilled skewers (Raku, in Las Vegas, is an outstanding example of this genre –  While he cannot offer the 100 or more varieties offered in an authentic yakatori grill (more than 20 of chicken alone:  thigh, skin, breast, hearts, livers, etc), Mr. Kim does want to offer a few more.  Again, for smaller shared dishes, and communal conversation.

It was a very enjoyable evening, at a wonderful restaurant, learning more about sushi and Japanese tradition, such as the sushi press in the photo below.  It’s used to press the seasoned rice into rectangles, rather than the hand-formed mounds one usually sees.

I was looking for a delicious meal, but found a master’s course in sashimi. Serendipitous, indeed!


Six Photos; Six Stories

Originally published August 24, 2015 – Photo #1 – Horseshoe Bend, outside of Page, AZ.

At the top of the column, that’s the iconic shot of Horseshoe Bend, just outside of Page, Arizona.  The Bend is a meander (isn’t that a great word?  And technically correct!) in the Colorado River, one of the most photographed shots along the waterway.

To take this photo, you need two things:  first, a wide angle lens, one that can encompass the entirety of the scene in front of you.  Second, you’ll need to stand absolutely on the edge of a 1,000-ft. drop.  No guard rail, no fence, no nothin’!  Just you, the edge, your tootsies dangling over the drop, and constant prayers there isn’t a stiff breeze in your immediate future.

And, if you’re like me, you’ll have to take several shots.  Shaky hands really blur the shot (heights are not really my thing).

Photo #2 – SEMA Show, Las Vegas, NV.

The SEMA show is one of my favorite events of the year.  I’ve been fortunate enough to attend for several years, and one of my friends, John Waraniak, does a great job with a track on Technology and Connected Vehicles.  It’s a “can’t miss” if you’re out there.

As you can imagine, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of cars to see.  And I have hundreds of those photos.  However, for this shot, I saw the reflection on her glasses, and snapped off the shot.  She is one of the booth ladies manning –is that an oxymoron? — the Galpin Auto Sports display (if memory serves).

To get the shot, I broke one of my rules.  Before photographing someone, I used to always ask permission, even in a public place.  It seems polite.

However, what I’ve found is that people stiffen up once you ask, or you might miss a shot or moment.  So now, I take the shot, and ask permission later.  I show the photo to them, and usually take one or two more.  But they rarely match the candid shot.

Does anyone else have this issue?  How do you deal with it?

Photo #3 – Miravalles Volcano, Costa Rica

Admittedly, a cheat, with a series of three photos, rather than one shot.  However, I was pretty happy with the detail in these.

On our second vacation in Costa Rica, we took a day trip to the hot springs at the inactive Miravalles Volcano.  The trip features a rain forest hike to three waterfalls, crossing some swinging, swaying cable bridges, then a trip through the geothermally-heated features:  steam room, hot springs, mud baths, etc.

But the finale!  A concrete waterslide, probably 1,000 feet long, winding down the mountainside.  The start features a giant cistern, which is filled to the top.  You sit down in the U-shaped concrete slide, wearing a helmet, and an inner tube.

The inner tube is crammed over your shoulders.  It’s there to keep your head off the concrete, and your arms pinned to your sides, as dry, rough concrete (the side of the slide) is not kind to skin or bone, and I have the scar to prove it.

Once you’re lined up, they open the cistern, and several hundred gallons of water hit you and your tube, launching you down the side, feeling very much like a champagne cork.

The slide twists and turns, always accelerating downward, feeling very out of control.  You end up in a large pool at the bottom.  Depending on survival rates, and impulse control, you can hike back up top and do it again.

These photos are two of my kids, Sammy (she’s the one holding her nose) and Drew, at the bottom of the slide, as they hit the pool.

Bonus Shot – Monkey Head Rock, Gulf of Papagayo, Costa Rica

The only photo in the group shot with Nikon, a candid portrait of my daughter, Kat, as we were aboard a small boat, on our scuba trip.  It was her second time diving.

It’s my favorite shot of her, as it perfectly captures her personality.

Photo #4 – Guanacaste, Costa Rica

Our first trip to Costa Rica included a stay at the Hilton Papagayo Resort and Spa (no longer a Hilton, as of 2/15).  This was a beautiful property directly on the Gulf of Papagayo, on the Pacific side of the country.

The resort grounds were beautiful, with wonderful tropical landscaping, and beautiful flowers throughout.

Since I usually wake early on vacation, and the rest of my family does not, I usually grab my camera and roll out quietly.  I’ll spend an hour or two photographing whatever I can.  On this vacation, that usually included iguanas, coatis, the occasional howler monkey, and lots of flowers.

In this case, the plant was still dripping from an early-morning shower.

Bonus Photo – Hilltop overlooking the Gulf of Papagayo
Drew and I took an evening hike, looking for a few good shots.  When we got to the top of the hill, two gentlemen were there, watching the sunset.

They had the right idea – it was spectacular.

Drew was mesmerized, and I snapped off a quick shot.

Photo #5 – Tucson Rodeo, Tucson, AZ

Ever wonder what it feels like to have 1,700 lbs. of angry bull stomp on your chest?

Yeah, me neither.

But this cowboy can tell ya.  He got thrown about 3 seconds into his ride, and before the bullfighters (no longer rodeo clowns, I found out) could get to him, El Toro decided to stomp him for good measure.

Fortunately, this cowboy wears a helmet (some bull riders still wear just a cowboy hat), and a protective vest.  So he was able to limp away after this, with a few cracked ribs to remember it by.

Bonus Shots

Shortly into another ride, after getting thrown, the cowboy was down on the ground.

The bull was angry and aggressive, looking to even the score.

The bullfighter threw himself between the two foes, buying time for the cowboy to get clear, by distracting it with a new target.

This is NOT a still life study – the bullfighter ran through, putting his hand on the bull’s head to keep a bit of distance, as the bull was charging the cowboy.

The cowboy scrambled to safety.

By the way, to show how tough/stupid/brave/all three the bullfighters are:  if you look on the right side of his ball cap, you can see the edge of a bandage.  The previous day, while guarding a rider, he was gored by a bull, and almost lost his ear.  He was back doing his job the following day, with his ear stitched back on, covered by a large bandage.

Here’s the moment it all starts.  The gate man yanks the gate open, the bull charges from the pen, and the rider holds on for eight seconds, if he’s lucky.

What happens if the gate man doesn’t get out of the way in time?

He ends up with a right leg that bends in two spots.  He did make it over the wall to (relative safety), and was taken to a local hospital.

He was in the ambulance with a busted thigh, as I was walking out of the rodeo.  I stopped and showed him this picture; I figured he earned it.

He said something along the lines of, “Well, it ain’t sposed to bend that way, is it?” and laughed.

Rodeo people are TOUGH.

Photo #6 – Upper Antelope Canyon, Navajo Reservation, outside Page, AZ

Upper Antelope Canyon is one of the most beautiful spots in the world.  Formed by eons of wind and water erosion, the canyon is presently about 120-ft. deep.  Located on the Navajo Reservation outside of Page, AZ, the canyon is considered a sacred place.  To tour the site, you must use a Navajo guide.

This shot is of The Cathedral, one of the larger rooms in the canyon.  If you look at the right center of the photo, you can see the bear that guards the room.

Shots in the canyon are long exposures, 30 seconds or more.  The wider your lens, the happier you will be with the final shots.

You have to shoot on a tripod to avoid blurring the shot, but the colors are amazing.  This photo hasn’t been retouched; that’s really what it looks like.

It was humbling to be in the midst of so much beauty.  Our small group was led by Pat, a Navajo who has probably forgotten more about photography than I will ever learn.  He was an incredible guide, helping us capture great shots.

Bonus Shot

Still in the canyon, looking at The Candlestick.

I hope you like the photos and stories.  If you did, please leave a comment, and feel free to share this post with others.


Hunting for a Moment

Originally published March 7, 2016 – I wake without the alarm, eyes suddenly wide open.

I turn to look at the clock.  It’s 4:34 a.m.

Time to go.

15 minutes later, I’m out the door of the hotel.  The pre-dawn air is cold and crisp.  The nearly-full moon shines down from a clear sky.

I climb behind the wheel of my rented 4Runner and fire the ignition.

I turn right out of the drive, heading away from civilization.  In a few miles, I’ve left it all behind.

My headlights carve a bright tunnel, and I chase them, accelerating along the familiar path.

I look down at the speedometer:  80 MPH.

Seems about right; I’ve got to get there in time.

I see the turn coming up, and slow.  I make the 90-degree left, and leave familiarity behind.

I speed across the deserted landscape.  Miles roll under my wheels.

I have yet to see another vehicle.

I sense, rather than see, the cliff walls rise around me.  I feel them close in, narrowing the path.

I check the time:  5:17.

I drive faster.  It won’t wait for me, and today’s my last chance.

I pass a sign indicating I’m nearing my destination.  My pulse quickens, and I run through the routine in my mind, preparing for the shot.

The road begins to rise, and I slow, navigating the unknown switchback turns.  While I cannot see them, I know dangerous drops lurk nearby.

The 4Runner is responsive, matching the hairpins smoothly.

I keep driving, passing signs marking altitude – 4,000 ft.

5,000 ft.

6,000 ft.  Still the road rises.

Another series of switchbacks.

I’m rushing now, pushing the SUV harder, using both lanes of the road.  It doesn’t matter; I’m all alone.  The seat shifts beneath me, as I fight through the turns, racing ever closer.

My breathing quickens, from altitude and excitement.

5:32.  Almost there–hurry!

I see the sign, and turn sharply into the lot.  I see two other vehicles; I know why they’re here.

I park, slam the shift into park.

Opening the tailgate, I grab my gear.  It’s awkward, but I don it quickly.

I have to be quiet.

I have to be quick.  There’s no time left.

I leave the vehicle locked, and stride toward my goal, flicking on my headlamp.

I’ve never walked this trail before, so I move carefully, picking out the markers.  The trail is packed sand and slickrock.

I move with almost no sound, approaching my mark.

As I descend along the trail, I become aware of faint voices.  I slow my pace, steady my breathing.

For the first time, I notice the cold.  It’s 24 degrees, and my light jacket offers little protection.

I take the last few steps, and I’m there.

I quietly set up.  My hands are numb from the cold, and ordinary tasks are awkward.  I fumble with the clips and fasteners.

I adjust the settings, and check my position.  Pre-dawn light begins to pale the eastern sky.

I’ve been planning this for four months.

I’ve driven hundreds of miles to get to this precise spot.

I wait.

And as the sun rises in the east, I exhale, hold my breath, and take the shot.

Mesa Arch, sunrise, at Canyonlands National Park, Moab, Utah.

Detroit’s Biggest Ham (Sandwich)

Originally published March 24, 2016 – “Can I get some mayo?”

“No.  Mustard, pickles, cheese.”

“No Miracle Whip?”

“No.  Mustard is better for you!”

So says Mike Muftari, 67, the owner of Mike’s Famous Ham Place, on Michigan Avenue in Detroit. Mike has been here since 1974, along with his wife, Yrvet, serving up some of the best food in Detroit.

Think about it. How many times have you visited a restaurant and been confronted by a multiple-page menu, with four different ethnic cuisines, and prices that would fund a trip to any of the countries in question?  And how often is that food great?

Not often.

There’s a limited menu at Mike’s Famous Ham Place. You can order a ham sandwich, one of two soups, or a plate of ham, eggs, and toast.  There’s usually two pies for dessert, and the usual soft drinks.  That’s it.

So there’s probably no reason to go, unless you’re craving some ham.

If you are, that’s the perfect reason to go. And for 42 years, people have been coming to Mike’s.

The prices are quite reasonable, as you can see, and the menu is largely unchanged from when Mike bought the place back in 1974.

Mike emigrated from Albania in 1973.  His first job was in a more upscale restaurant in Farmington Hills.  It didn’t take long for him to realize that wasn’t for him.  So with two partners, Mike bought this little restaurant in Detroit.

Located on Michigan Avenue, just a bit west of the Midtown renewal, Mike and Yrvet have been serving up great sandwiches and soup for 4 decades (Mike eventually bought out both of his partners), an amazing accomplishment given the failure rate of restaurants.  It’s also amazing considering the changes that have taken place in the neighborhood through the decades.
I’d guess the decor hasn’t changed much in that time.  There are two counters, one facing the grill, and one facing the Avenue.  It’s safe to say Mike’s had an “open kitchen” concept before it ever was a concept.

The ham in question is a whole ham, still warm from the oven, and charred on the outside.  It’s sweet, salty, and incredibly juicy.  Mike carves thick slices for the sandwiches, which come in two sizes:  regular, or large.  You can get the sandwich with any combination of cheese, pickles, or mustard.

But no mayo.

The ham is delicious, and is also prominent in the two homemade soups, split pea or bean.  Both are a bargain, and frankly, enough for a light(er) lunch.


Fast food chain Wendy’s used to advertise their chili as having as much meat as their quarter-pound single.  Mike’s soups can probably raise that claim a bit.

A bowl is served on a plate, and the bowl so completely filled that a little almost always slops over onto the plate.  For some reason, this seems completely right, proof you have been given your full and fair measure of soup.

And if Mike likes you, he’ll even hand you a chip of ham on the way in, a quick carve off the crust.  It’s the best part, the charred burnt flavor contrasting with the sweetness of the pork.

But don’t tell him I told you . . .







Mike’s Famous Ham Place is located at 3700 Michigan Avenue, Detroit.  Open daily from 7 a.m. – 3 p.m.  Closed Sundays.

Eating at the Top

Originally published June 8, 2016 – Iridescence continues to be the standard for fine dining in the city of Detroit. Yes, there are newer restaurants. Yes, there are the restaurants of the moment. But none have continued the standard of excellence set by Iridescence, as evinced by their streak of AAA 4 Diamond awards.

We held a large group dinner (18 people) at Iridescence this past weekend. Arrangements were made with David Brown, the manager, for appetizers and champagne to be waiting, and a special menu was provided. I’ve had the pleasure of working with David on a few dinners now, and he is eminently professional, and always delivers top-notch results.

We were ushered into the wine room, where a wonderful table was set: an amazing charcuterie board, Caprese skewers, and an hors d’oeuvres of steak tartare, horseradish crema, and a potato chip. Chelsea and Oretha greeted us with trays holding flutes of champagne. Our group enjoyed the elegant atmosphere, and the delicious appetizers.

After an interval, we were ushered to our table. We had chosen a menu of two soup choices, two salad choices, and five entrees. Most popular were the lobster bisque, an orange bowl of rich, creamy lobster flavor, with the hidden prize of a nugget of what I believe was butter-poached lobster in the bottom of the bowl. This soup was so good we shared tastes with others at the table.

The wedge salad was another popular choice. It was a slight twist on the classic preparation, which in a lesser restaurant can be as simple as a 1/4 head of iceberg, with a dollop of bottled Thousand Island dressing. Not the case here, as the side of tomatoes, the house-made dressing, and the generous topping of bacon combined to elevate this option.

Of the entrees, I chose the spring pea risotto, with black truffles. A good risotto is a thing of joy and comfort, and this was an exceptional version: creamy, the rice cooked till a bit of bite remained, generously topped with truffle. The cheese and fungi were in balance, with neither overpowering the other.

Another guest ordered the filet, a 1 1/2 – 2″ thick cut that claimed to be 10 ounces, but looked larger. She had ordered it rare, and the steak was perfect: a hard sear crusting the outside, with nearly the entire center a deep red hue. She proclaimed it cooked to perfection.

The Bento Box was a very popular choice, ordered by 5 or 6 of our guests. Comprised of crispy tuna, shrimp tempura, seared sea bass, an amazing ceviche, and a couple of other surprises, this was a seafood feast of flavor. Each section was expertly prepared, an overall light meal with bright, full flavors. Several of the guests called out the ceviche as the star of the box, and this is a dish I would love to see added to the menu as an appetizer. I would order it every time I walked in!

For dessert, a cake had been prepared, a white cake: moist, light, tasty, not overly sweet. It was a great ending to the meal.

Service throughout the evening was stellar. Oretha and Chelsea took wonderful care of us. Frankly, front of house at Iridescence has always been a strength. What was great to see on this visit was the outstanding food from Chef Rutkowski’s kitchen. The menu has been updated with more imaginative choices (the bento box!), and the appetizer side remains where Iridescence, well, shines. One could certainly make an interesting evening simply treating the appetizers as small plates, and splitting a number of the choices.

Regardless of your choice, Iridescence always serves up an elegant evening. The service, cuisine, and view remain at the top of the Detroit dining scene.

Howler Monkeys, Leaf Blowers, and Conference Calls

Originally published July 11, 2016 – I just returned from ten days of vacation in Costa Rica.  We stayed at a wonderful all-inclusive resort located on Playa Conchal, touted as the most beautiful beach in Costa Rica.

And who am I to argue?

Unbeknownst to us, our rooms were located along the main Howler Monkey commuter line.  That is, twice daily the mango trees next to our veranda filled with a troop of twenty to thirty Howlers, feeding, howling, and posing for pictures taken by vacationing logisticians.

For those of you that haven’t had the chance to hear a Howler in person, they are the loudest land animal, topping out at around 130 decibels (jet engines are 140 db).  They sound like demons welcoming tortured souls to the gates of hell.  Here’s a link to audio recorded by a traveler in Mexico:

For ten days, that was my wake-up call.  About 6 a.m., the male howlers would start hooting, working up to their full blown howls.  By then, I was wide awake!  I’d grab my camera and head out to see what I could shoot that morning.

To my amusement, I found the monkeys were usually talkative in the morning:  if I hooted and howled at them, they’d usually respond.  And I could  usually get some good pictures.

Now, Dr. Doolittle I’m not, so I’m not sure if I was picking a fight, giving directions to the beach, or asking for a date.  But I like the shots I was able to get.

However,  what was most engrossing was in the late morning, when the grounds crew would come by, using leafblowers to clear the walkways.  The roar of the leafblowers infuriated the monkeys!

The monkeys would become highly agitated, screaming at the leafblowers.  They would roar and howl, screaming their anger at the groundskeepers, who had heard it all before, and wore headphones to dampen the din.

And after twenty or thirty minutes, when their work was completed, the groundskeepers would turn off their leafblowers, and move on to their next job.

The howlers, satisfied their mad howling had accomplished much, fell silent, and went back to eating their mangoes.

And I, convinced I had just observed the perfect metaphor for most office conference calls, went back inside to jot down my thoughts.

Loud English

Originally published July 25, 2016 – “There are (those) whose passports should be stamped NOT VALID OUTSIDE THE CONTINENTAL LIMITS OF THE USA.”

So wrote one of my favorite authors, the late John D. MacDonald, in The Turquoise Lament, published in 1973.

Having just returned from Costa Rica, I can confirm that is still a valid premise.

Two incidents really brought this home.

The first was when we were dining in the French restaurant at our resort.  We were seated next to an American family of four, who were already working on their salads.  They were having a typical family vacation dinner conversation:  what we did today, what we’re doing tomorrow, what sis did to irritate brother, etc.

As we ordered our dinner, the waitstaff was serving them their entrees.

Three of the four had ordered the lamb chops, delivered in two racks of three bones each.  They appeared to have been ordered well-done, judging from the overall charred look of the meat.

As the plates arrived, the son, who appeared to be in his early twenties, picked up a rack with his right hand, and began gnawing the meat off the bones.  His mother briefly chided him, perfunctorily and without conviction.

He paid her no mind, and continued tearing with his teeth, tearing the overcooked meat off the bones.

I was trying to make an excuse for this in my mind, when he brought his left hand up, and began picking his nose.  Rack of lamb in the right hand; left hand buried knuckle deep in his nostril.

It was amazing.

Just then, the waiter appeared, apparently to ask how the entrees were.  However, he took one look, spun, and walked away.

I did the same, focusing on my table, and doing my best to ignore the next table, while mentally making the fifty buck “Caddyshack” bet with myself.

The second incident was later at night, a few days later.  I was walking back from one of the shows, when I saw an older woman standing by a golf cart, speaking loudly to the driver, a maintenance worker.  He was responding in Spanish, and looked a bit desperate.

She was speaking Loud English with a Texas drawl, and was clearly both irritated, and three sheets to the wind.

I asked if I could be of assistance.

She turned to me, attempted to focus on me, and said, “I’m trying to get THIS MAN to take me home!”  Evidently, she had tired of waiting for the official shuttle, and had confronted the maintenance worker for a ride back to her building (probably a 3-block walk).

I said, “Well ma’am, I’m not sure you’re his type!”


Blank stare from Ms. Texas, as she swayed like a palm tree in the breeze (all my best lines are wasted).

I explained the maintenance worker isn’t allowed to shuttle guests, but I’d be happy to walk her back to her building.

She wasn’t having it–it was imperative that, despite the language gap, the maintenance worker drive her to her building, right now!  “I want a ride to my building!” she loudly repeated to the worker.

Just then, one of the shuttles pulled up, saving all of us from further disagreement.  I helped her onto the shuttle, told the driver her building number, and watched them pull away.

The maintenance worker gave me an emphatic “Muchas gracias!” and headed off to his duties.

As I walked back to my building, I tried to remember where exactly I had first heard the quote “They don’t speak Loud English either!”

Also still a valid premise.

The Most Fun You Can Have for a Nickel

Originally published August 31, 2016 – I’m eating dinner at Big Al’s Hamburgers at the Junction, in Kaban, UT, after a full day of hiking and photography, including a trip to Horseshoe Bend, pictured above.

Big Al’s is a throwback, the kind of local restaurant every town in middle America used to have.  Whether it’s named Ye Olde Malt Shoppe, The Max, or Al’s Drive In, every small town had one of these.  Sadly, most are now gone, overtaken by Arches, Kings, and Castles.

But Big Al’s endures, with it’s menu of burgers, dogs, fries, and shakes.  As I’m spooning down my raspberry shake (too thick to sip), the place is taken over by a flock of high school kids. Makes sense, since it’s mostly staffed by teenagers.

The kids are talking about the usual, but then one of them mentions something unusual: there’s a nickel in the toilet in the men’s restroom. Much discussion ensues about why the nickel won’t flush, and how long it’s been in there (everyone agrees at least a week). The girl who works there even mentions someone sending her a SnapChat of the famous nickel.

They keep talking, and I finish my shake.

Since it’s 74 miles back to Page, AZ, where I’m spending the night, I figure a pit stop is in order. I head to the men’s room, which has only a toilet.

Sure enough, there’s a nickel in the toilet.

As I’m washing my hands, an idea occurs to me. I frantically search my pockets – pennies, quarters, a dime – yes! One nickel.

I turn the tap back on, and soak the nickel. And my right hand.

Dripping water, I leave the bathroom. The teenage girl at the counter looks my way, sees me leaving the bathroom, then looks away.

I walk over to her, standing behind the stainless steel counter, and I lean over it, and SLAP! that nickel down on the counter. Water splashes across the counter, some drops hitting her. I let go of the nickel, and slide my hand back to my side of the counter, leaving a wet trail.

She looks at me, as though I am very odd.

I look down at the nickel, look up at her, and say, “I took care of that – and here I made air quotes, with water dripping from my right hand – “plumbing problem”.

She looks at me uncomprehendingly, then I see her start to get it. I wink at her, turn, and walk from the building. As the door closes behind me, I hear her scream “Oh MY GAWD! GRRRRRRrrooooooos!”

I climb in my car, and leave the fine citizens of Kaban behind.

I laughed the whole way back.

That’s the most fun I’ve ever had for a nickel.