Image: Katharine Shilcutt

Little Serow in Washington D.C., where I had my first encounter with nose-clearing Northern Thai food.

Last year, I had the privilege of eating at Little Serow in Washington D.C. with a group of fellow journalists at the annual Association of Food Journalists conference. I say "privilege" because I know just how lucky I was to get a seat at the subterranean restaurant that seats only 28 people at a time, all of whom line up on the street above by at least 4 p.m. every day in hopes of snagging an elusive spot. The Northern Thai restaurant run by award-winning chef Johnny Monis and wife Anne Marler doesn't take reservations, and the meals aren't quick affairs. They're egalitarian in this way—even more so when you consider that each night's seven-course dinner is only $45.

Little Serow afforded some of the best service, beer, and—most importantly—food I'd ever had, in Houston or D.C. or anywhere else. It was one of those meals that sticks with you, seared into your memory—thanks in no small part to the fiery dishes themselves. I'd never tasted heat applied in such broad yet masterful strokes; I'd never been in such pain yet keen for more. Every successive layer of spice was different, and it accomplished what much spicy food does not: the molten Northern Thai spices actually managed to enhance the flavors of the crispy rice salad called khao tod and the corn-based com tam. It certainly wasn't the overly sweet pad see ew or red curry I was accustomed to back home.

Som tam with corn and catfish tom kha with galangal and kaffir lime served family-style at Little Serow.

Back home in Houston, my boyfriend and I lamented our lack of dining options when it came to aggressively spiced and flavored Thai food. He'd fallen ass over teakettle for Little Serow too, and the closest we were able to get was Vieng Thai, long respected as Houston's best Thai restaurant. Even then, though, I'd have to constantly prod the wait staff to stop holding back on the heat. My boyfriend eventually gave up and went back to ordering sweet, peanut-laced massamun curry.

Then, a silver lining emerged: a pop-up dinner a few weeks ago at D&T Drive Inn called "Midnight Sticky Rice," a portend of things to come. Fishmonger P.J. Stoops, famous for promoting bycatch—previously known as simply "trash fish"—in local restaurants and markets had teamed up with Down House executive chef Benjy Mason and former Feast chef Richard Knight for a two-night Northern Thai dinner service at the icehouse. The three cooked curried pork shank, marinated raw shrimp in a spicy peanut dressing, fried fish and topped it with Thai herbs, and wrapped curried goat brains in banana leaves for huge crowds both nights. Each night, the brains sold out first.

Spicy fried catfish at Vieng Thai, tied with Asia Market as the best place to set your tongue on fire in Houston.

On the first night of the dinner, one of my dining buddies—the normally quiet Alex Vassilakidis from the Eatsie Boys—put his fork down between bites of a spicy fried egg salad and said, "You know, this never would have happened in Houston a few years ago." This meal of fiery Northern Thai dishes in a modern icehouse in a solidly working-class Hispanic neighborhood, with the brains as the first item to go. We weren't surrounded by the tightly-knit bubble of foodies who were once omnipresent at every pop-up dinner or adventurous restaurant; we were surrounded by average Joe Houstonians of every stripe, and no one was wondering where the pad thai was on the menu. It was one of those sea change moments that gives you pause for the briefest moment to appreciate how far we've come and ponder where we're headed.

P.J. Stoops, Benjy Mason, and Richard Knight must certainly appreciate how far we've come as well, as the trio announced yesterday that they're opening their own Northern Thai restaurant next door to the previously reported Hunky Dory in the Heights. Foreign Correspondence, as the new restaurant will be called, may or may not be Houston's answer to Little Serow, but it hardly matters either way. It's not a response to a restaurant in another city; Foreign Correspondence is an organic outgrowth of our own changing palates and broadening interests. It's a response to the way in which Houston continues to evolve as a dining scene and a response to those—chefs and diners both—who demand to be challenged.

Crispy pig ears (rear) and Thai sausage at the Midnight Sticky Rice pop-up dinner.

And most importantly, Foreign Correspondence will seat nearly 10 times more people than Little Serow. Because if there's one possible thing that will never change about Houston, it's our refusal to queue up for anything other than barbecue.

The "Ham of the Day" at Provisions was Serrano when I stopped by for lunch the other day. The Spanish ham has a lighter, looser texture than most of the Italian hams. I like it a lot.

In Europe, fine ham is served by itself or as an ingredient in a dish. Americans are accustomed to eating ham on a sandwich. The ham of the day plate at P&P is the perfect marriage of the two traditions. The flavor of the ham isn't disguised by a lot of bread, but the rye aioli underneath and the dried mustard sprinkled over top provides the signature mustard, mayo and rye flavors. Food writers for publications from Bon Appetit to Southern Living have marvelled over the way this reimagined ham on rye jogs your food memories.

"How do you make rye aioli?" I asked chef Seth Seigel-Gardner. You bake rye bread, toast slices of it until its very dry and then grind it in a food processor until it's powdery, he told me. Then you make aioli and add the rye dust. And the dried mustard? It's just good whole grain mustard spread on a sheet and baked in the oven until it dries out, the chef explained. 

It's not a lot of complicated cooking science that makes the dish fun—it's the play on the imagination.

Voodoo Queen is quite literally everything Moon Tower Inn is not, despite being run by the same duo of East End visionaries: Evan Shannon and Brandon Young.

Voodoo Queen
322 Milby
facebook.com/liquorandladies

There is no indoor seating at Moon Tower Inn, which is essentially a modern version of a classic Texas icehouse; there is no outdoor seating at Voodoo Queen save a small smoking patio. There are no cocktails served at Moon Tower Inn, only beer; you can get a few beers at Voodoo Queen—"The Broke Hipster," for example, gets you a Schlitz and a shot of whisky for $6—but the main draw here is cocktails. Frozen cocktails, even, which you'd certainly never find amidst the rows of taps at Moon Tower. And where Moon Tower Inn serves primarily burgers and hot dogs, Voodoo Queen—in keeping with its part-New Orleans, part-Tiki theme—serves po' boys.

At Moon Tower, the spread of acreage that's half backyard, half icehouse hosts a firepit and a few games of horseshoes. At Voodoo Queen, you can pick between Galaga, a pool table, and a couple of electronic darts setups. At Moon Tower Inn, they control the music. At Voodoo Queen, a well-stocked jukebox features everything from Merle Haggard to Black Sabbath and lets you set the tone. The only place the two watering holes converge is in their clientele, which is a scruffy blend of Second Ward residents and the aforementioned broke hipsters.

On my first visit to Voodoo Queen last week, when the bar had just barely opened its doors, I felt like I was watching Stefon—Bill Hader's bizarre nightlife authority character from SNL—describe the ultimate hipster bar. "This place has it all," I heard Stefon slur in my head. "Broken pinball machines; Penus Coladas, which is this thing where you put shots of Fireball whisky in piña coladas; popcorn makers; black lights; aquariums; Beetlejuice murals; mermaids hanging from glasses; homeless bike messengers dancing in a corner; and a red neon light on the ceiling of the women's restroom that flashes GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS until you have a seizure."

I ran into nearly every character I've ever interacted with that night: a guy who I once got into an argument with on Twitter because I thought he'd given his cat a stupid name (Noam Chompsky...c'mon); a guy I once had a drunken discussion with about the intersection of metaphysics and beer cheese queso; the crust-punk who used to live next door and had a half-pipe in his living room; my landlord, whom I once found in our parking lot cutting a piece of crown molding with a circular saw on his lap; a friend who had moderate success in an early 2000s pop-punk band, the T-shirt of which my boyfriend had fortuitiously changed out of right before we hit Voodoo Queen (too close to the Gutter rule for comfort); my old cubiclemate at the Houston Press; my replacement at the Houston Press; and a close call with an ex who still hates me.

In short, I loved it.

Voodoo Queen isn't for everyone. Hell, it's not even necessarily for its own clientele, one of whom already managed to destroy the flashing GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS sign in the ladies' room. A depressed-sounding Young took to Facebook to lament the destruction, writing: "Just cause you are ugly and no one will take you to 'pound town,' doesn't mean you should bust our neon girl." Needless to say, the crowd can be a little rough. But therein lies the charm. No one could ever accuse Young and Shannon of attempting to gentrify their Second Ward surrounds.

Yet Voodoo Queen manages to appeal to a diverse crowd: area residents who once knew the spot as a casual beer joint attached to a laundromat, hipsters in search of cheap PBRs and a hint of sleaze, and humps like me who can't resist the allure of a massive frozen daiquiri made with Bacardi 151 for only $10 because we're usually close to broke but still want to drink like kings and queens. (As the drink menu states, be careful—these jet-fueled cocktails aren't for amateurs.)

And in keeping with the grand Moon Tower tradition of gleeful antagonism, Young and Shannon are perfectly content to let the public know their bar isn't for everyone—including regulars at competing bars. The day of its grand opening last week, Young posted on Voodoo Queen's Facebook page: "We will be open tonight at 10 p.m., serving everything Anvil and Pastry War do not."

The Napoli at Westheimer and Voss is one of six locations of the Houston-based Italian restaurant chain. | via Google Maps

According to a probable cause report filed Wednesday by the Houston Police Department, Zackery Ray Alolabi, a.k.a. “Papa Zack,” the owner of the popular Original Napoli Italian Restaurant chain, might be an even worse boss than Bruce Molzan (allegedly) was at Ruggles.

The report states that on July 19, at a home or home-office near the Galleria, Alolabi was highly intoxicated and tried to kiss and made other advances toward a female employee for much of the day. Finally, according to the report, he attempted to rape her. In the struggle, her shorts and belt were torn, but the woman managed to push him away and make her escape.

Ray “Papa Zack" Alolabi in a publicity shot for Napoli.

Unbeknownst to them both, the alleged victim’s ex-husband heard much of the attack through a live cellphone sitting on the woman’s desk. The ex would later tell cops that he heard the woman yell words to the effect of “Stop! Get away! Don’t do that!” before the line went dead.

The woman contacted her brother, a long-time employee of Alolabi’s, who hastened to the scene and brought police in his wake. They quickly took note of the woman’s torn belt and shorts, a light bruise on her right leg and Alolabi’s drunken state. In her subsequent interview with police, they found several more bruises, injuries “consistent with a physical struggle.”

A witness – a current Alolabi employee – told police that Papa Zack had long been in the habit of sexually harassing her and other employees over the years and that this latest development was no surprise.

Alolabi says that the woman he is alleged to have assaulted is lying about the whole thing. The evidence was “staged,” he claims. In the report he also says that the belt must have ripped because it was "old" (police and the woman say it was new) and that the shorts were torn as “a fashion statement.”

Yes, he really said that…

Investigating officer C. Weiche of HPD wasn't buying it.  “…(T)he shorts were torn in such a way that they would not be acceptable to wear in public,” he wrote.

Napoli Pizza has six locations: Meyerland, Copperfield, Pasadena, the Richmond Strip, Westchase and the Energy Corridor. There are some interesting tidbits in the Yelp reviews.

Alolabi is currently free on $5,000 bond and has not yet hired an attorney. He is charged with attempted sexual assault, a third-degree felony punishable by two to ten years in prison and a $10,000 fine.  The case is listed as "inactive" in Harris County Court records; we have a call in to them for further explanation.

The $14 Texans burger at the official sports bar of the Houston Texans is made of "our signature house blend of brisket & short rib from Creekstone Farms and topped with pepperjack, roasted red peppers, blue corn tortilla strips and garlic aioli," according to the menu. Just the thing for hungry fans waiting for the Texans to kick off the season opener in Seattle at 9:20 p.m. our time.

If you were dying to try the Houston Texans Grille's deep-fried cheeseburger that I wrote about in Houstonia's Burger Issue, sorry, it has been removed from the menu. So was the Knife-and-Fork burger, an open-faced hamburger sandwich which might have been awesome if it came with New Orleans brown gravy instead of industrial demi-glace.

But the intriguing Bangkok burger is still on the menu. Made with ground pork, sweet and spicy Asian sauce, fried potato straws, carrots, avocado, and wasabi mayo, it sells for $11.

The Nickel Sandwich Grill may be known for its barbecue and smoked boudin, but I'm here to tell you today that the actual sandwiches themselves shouldn't be overlooked—namely the catfish po'boy and the old-fashioned cheeseburger. Both come with your choice of onion rings or french fries for less than $6 each. The onion rings (above) are amazing—thick slices of sweet onion in a sturdy, crunchy batter that doesn't crumble or fall apart with the first bite—so understand that when I say the fries are even better, that means the fries are out of this world.

The Nickel Sandwich Grill
5601 Lyons Ave
713-674-8020 ‎

They're hand-cut from skin-on potatoes, as thick and substantial as those onion rings, then fried until crispy outside yet still soft and starchy inside. They're liberally coated with salt and Cajun seasoning that tastes a little like Tony Chachere's, to the point where ketchup is rendered moot, a crass interloper. They're scorching hot when The Nickel scoops them out of the fryer and into your bag; waiting for them to cool off is something best accomplished by taking your food to-go, parking the bag safely away from arm's reach while you head back home or to work. (Also, there's no A/C in the small dining room off The Nickel's big kitchen, so taking your food to go also ensures you won't be sweating into your po-boy.)

If you're a fan of the burger at Guy's Meat Market or Chief's Cajun Snack Shack, you'll love the smoky flavor the barbecue joint imparts into its beef patties. Who needs smoky bacon when the burger itself tastes like a rack of champion ribs? But for my money, I prefer The Nickel's catfish po-boy—the same sandwich I've been ordering for going on three years now.

As with its perfectly battered onion rings, the catfish is given a generous coating of batter—cornmeal, in this case—that clings neatly to each delicate, flaky bite of fish as you crunch your way through. It's served on a hunk of French bread that's crusty outside, soft inside, and positively dripping with tartar sauce. If the crunch of the fried catfish itself isn't enough, the dill pickle and red onion slices add to the textural joy of chomping your way through one of these beasts (which I've still never managed to finish on my own).

The Nickel gets busy at lunch, so prepare to wait for your order at peak hours. I prefer to order at the outside window rather than inside the sweltering kitchen; the front porch area out there is also the best place to sit and listen to neighborhood gossip and goings-on. And when fall finally hits, you can stop taking your food to-go and enjoy it at The Nickel itself, which usually has a funky soundtrack perfect for po-boys piped through its stereo system and plenty of cheap beers in the cooler to wash it all down with.

From what my Twitter and Facebook feeds told me when I woke up this morning, it was a nailbiter of a game last night when the Houston Texans played the San Diego Chargers in the first match-up of the season.

Today, loyal Texans fans are getting their rewards in at least two ways: lording it over all the non-believers (once again, according to my clogged up social media streams) and free snacks from local businesses.

Here's where to get your free "The Texans Won, Holy Crap!" stuff today from those Texans-supporting businesses:

Goro & Gun

The downtown ramen shop/watering hole is selling Texas beers for 50 percent off all day. "Tomorrow you may get a free Cherry limeade @sonicdrive_in," Goro & Gun owner Joshua Martinez wrote last night on Twitter. "We will be doing 1/2 priced Texas brews for the win. Way To Go Texans!"

Sonic Drive-In

For the duration of the season, participating Sonic Drive-Ins will be giving away one free 20-ounce Texans Slush per customer the Tuesday after a Texans win. Wondering what a Texans Slush is? Us too: it's apparently a cranberry-cherry blend in Texans Battle Red.

Sprinkles Cupcakes

Today only, buy one cupcake at Sprinkles and get one free when you whisper "touchdown" at the register. That is not at all creepy for the person behind the counter, I'm sure.

Crave Cupcakes

The Houston-based cupcakery is giving away free cupcakes of its own today between 4 and 6 p.m. with the purchase of a drink (and a limit of one cupcake per customer).

Know of any other deals today? Let us—and your fellow readers—know in the comments section below. 

The giant, lucious leek and pork dumplings at San Dong Snacks, next to Jasmine Vietnamese Restaurant on Bellaire, bring back a lot of memories. When I first arrived in Houston, self-described "Ethnic Food Explorer" Jay Francis volunteered to show me around.

San Dong Noodle House
9938 Bellaire Blvd.
713-988-8802 

Our first meeting was supposed to take place at the tiny noodle shop called San Tong Snacks, which was located in what is now the Metropole Center on Bellaire. When we arrived, a sign on the door said the restaurant was closed for vacation. Jay and I ate Taiwanese food at a restaurant nearby.

But I returned to San Tong Snacks again and again. I was blown away by the dumplings, the springy housemade noodles in dark beef soup, and the noodles in soup with fermented vegetables. In fact, just about everything on the short menu was a hit.

Then the restaurant moved to its current location and changed its name to San Dong Noodle House. The first five times I tried to go there, the doors were locked. I was beginning to think the restaurant had gone out of business. I tried again last week, and lo and behold, everything was exactly like it used to be—the same grouchy lady behind the counter, the same tattered menus, the same get-your-own bowl, spoons, chopsticks, and water arrangement. And, just as before, the soup, noodles, and dumplings were excellent.

I have never been so happy to receive such crappy service.

Vegan doesn't mean boring at Green Seed Vegan, where this tempeh jerk sandwich is inexpensive and delicious. | Photo by Flickr user mollyjade

It’s lunchtime, and, if you’re a broke college student like I am, your lunch options depend on what's in your pockets. Since you can’t buy lunch with lint (I’ve tried), I know of a few places near the University of Houston that serves up great lunches for $7 or less.

While there are plenty of options on campus, it’s easy to exhaust those options if you're on campus all the time. Instead, venture 10 minutes to Wheeler and Almeda to a little green building on the corner, Green Seed Vegan (4320 Almeda Rd., 713-487-8346). Known as Houston’s first vegan food truck, Green Seed Vegan's permanent restaurant location opened just last year. Nearly all its sandwiches are $7 or less.

It’s a great place for lunch with a couple of friends. Try the Zen sandwich, a panini with neat layers of lemongrass garbanzo, carrots, jalapeños, lemongrass aioli, cilantro, and arugula.  It’s flavorful, crunchy, and hot. So delicious, in fact, I forgot to snap a pic before chowing down.

For best results at Sparkle, call ahead. The burgers are grilled to order and can take a while to cook. | Photo by Flickr user Robert Kimberly

But to get a monstrous helping of meat, Sparkle Hamburger Spot (1515 Dowling St., 713-225-8044) is the place. A hand-formed, disfigured, juicy, Creole seasoned patty that almost reminds me of my uncle’s burgers on the grill—almost, because those patties are no doubt some of the thickest patties hands can hold. While massive, they only take a nip out of your pockets. All its burgers are basically less than $7, which makes Sparkle a paradise for a burger junkie.

If you’re not craving meat or a drive to Green Seed Vegan, take a six minute bus or bike ride to the corner of Dowling and Holman to Doshi House (3419 Dowling St., 713-528-0060). An art gallery turned coffee shop, Doshi House offers a great atmosphere for a study break and lunch. Its most popular sandwich, Mumbai Streets, combines spicy and sweet with Thai flavors, mushy fried plantains with crispy wheat bread, crunchy cucumbers, and hummus.

If you're able to splurge, take a whole bean pie from Conscious Cafe back to your fellow broke, hungry students and be a hero. | Photo by Katharine Shilcutt

If you feel up for a six minute walk (or a three minute drive) from campus, Conscious Cafe (2612 Scott St., 713-658-9191) has a sandwich menu with everything less than $7. While its Gourmet Salmon Burger is an ideal simple lunch, you can’t go there without trying a slice of the sweet, creamy, cinnamon-y bean pie. A combination of a slice of pie and a cup of rooibos (red) tea makes for a perfect snack for a study break.

Directly across Elgin from campus is Hoang Sandwich (3509 Elgin St., 713-658-9242). Its menu is dense with pocket-friendly, stomach-stuffing options. Just across Scott from Hoang is Cream Burger (3481 Elgin St., 713-659-7660) where you can get a homestyle burger and Frito pie for $7—if that much. Of course, one of Houston’s landmark restaurants, Frenchy’s (6102 Scott St., 713-741-2700), offers several inexpensive combinations of its famous crispy, Creole, salty chicken.

Maybe tomorrow, instead of circling the UC Satellite for a different taste for your buck, drop into one of these restaurants for deliciousness that will satisfy both your stomach and your wallet.

"That looks like the stuff they serve at Mozelle's," my coworker John Lomax piped up as he read a blog post I'd written on the catfish po-boys at The Nickel. My ears perked up. Was this the same Mozelle's where Lomax found the delicious boudin that he'd brought back to the office to share? One in the same, he confirmed. "It's right down the street," he continued. My lunch plans for the day were set.

Mozelle's Cajun Seafood Market
126 Heights Blvd.
713-861-6686
www.mozellescajunmarket.com

Mozelle's Cajun Seafood Market opened a week ago in the old strip center on Heights Blvd. next door to the Art Car Museum—light years away in demeanor and dishes from the series of chain restaurants that are opening in grim procession just across the street on both Heights and Yale. Wingstop, Jimmy John's, Corner Bakery, Taco Cabana, Chipotle, Starbucks...all useful, in their way, yet lacking the individual soul and character that's more representative of the Heights area.

Thankfully, Mozelle's has soul to spare. The moment I walked in, a friendly woman behind the cash register grabbed me in a semi-bear hug, exclaiming: "You're new here! Let me give you the five-cent tour. You got five cents to spare, sugar?"

She walked me around the large space, which looked like the resulting lovechild of Revival Market just up the street and Tony's Seafood & Deli in Baton Rouge. Mozelle's sells prepared food from its steam table as well as a small but significant selection of fresh seafood, frozen Cajun specialties including crawfish pie and alligator boudin, and all the groceries necessary to make your own Louisiana-style feast at home—even beer and wine. Pretty much the only thing Mozelle's doesn't have, in fact, are tables and chairs for eating in; everything here is to-go.

I gawked at the enormous "colossal" shrimp in the seafood case, asking if I could get a picture of the monsters. My tour guide lifted up the glass on the case to let me get a better shot, laughing: "You never seen nothing like this before!" Fresh off the boat from Freeport, she said, the shrimp were as big as a grown man's hand.

Over at the steam table, they let me sample so much food that I had to stop before I was too full for lunch. Crawfish etouffee, jambalaya, seafood gumbo, crawfish bread, sausage and okra stew, Cajun butter-boiled shrimp—all of it was so good I had a tough time deciding which to get in my lunch plate. I finally settled on the etouffee and the sausage and okra stew, which both run for $11 and come with two sides: your choice of green beans, corn, broccoli-cheese casserole, or collard greens.

Lord knows we have enough Cajun restaurants to go around in Houston, but it's been ages since I had Cajun food this finely flavored and with this much attention given to even the simplest sides, like the buttered and spiced corn and green beans.

The etouffee wasn't the goopy, cornstarch-laden junk found in Cajun chain restaurants but thickened instead with a blonde, nutty roux that was studded with thick crawfish tails. The sausage and okra stew was similarly thick with hunks of spicy andouille sausage, the okra still bright green and snappy. Nothing here was overcooked, overdone, or underflavored; it was a breath of fresh air compared to the poor, pallid Cajun examples often trudged out elsewhere.

I'll be back soon to try the po-boys Lomax raved about, and to pick up some boudin balls and crawfish bread to round out the starchy meal of my dreams. I only wish I could eat my lunch at Mozelle's—both to bask in the warmth of the people who run it, and to prevent my coworkers from stealing any of that delicious boudin.

The appetizer plate at Bistro Des Arts features a generous slice of chef Georges Guy's duck confit pate en croute surrounded by little piles of salad. I liked the potato and tuna combo a lot. A bottle of mustard dressing was served on the side. Manager Monique Guy recommended a glass of Muscadet. She came over to my table and chatted a while.

Bistro Des Arts has been open for two months now, and business is slow. There was no one else in the restaurant on Monday at one in the afternoon.

Georges Guy has retired from more restaurants that I can count. He left Bistro Provence to his son; his daugher-in-law Genevieve Guy runs it now. He retired from Chez Georges, in the building where Feast was located, for several years.

Bistro Des Arts
12102 Westheimer
281-597-1122
bistrodesartshouston.com

Then he came out of retirement to open La Brocante Cafe on Kirkwood just south of Westheimer. At that charming little spot, Monique sold antiques and Georges cooked French classics. It closed when Georges was diagnosed with cancer.

The couple moved home to Provence so Georges could recover from years of treatment. They were supposed to open a bed and breakfast, but Monique told me that they returned to Houston after getting into a lawsuit with their French contractor. And so Georges has come out of retirement again, this time in an ambitious 80-seat restaurant and wine bar in the former location of Mumbai Spice on Westheimer near Kirkwood.

For the main course, I got poulet maringo en feuillete, translated as natural chicken pie marengo on the menu. Chicken marengo is a dish that was invented by Napolean's chef—typically, chicken sauteed in olive oil with garlic and tomatoes.

At Cafe Des Arts, it was an individual-sized oval baking dish filled with chicken chunks and vegetables in an olive oil, garlic, and tomato sauce covered with a feuillete, or pastry shell. The dish was pleasant but underseasoned—I liked the unadvertised appetizer plate better than the main course.

The three-course lunch was priced at $17 and included dessert. I went for the baba au rhum cake, which came topped with whipped cream and raspberries. It was delicious, but extremely rich.

When I asked chef Guy what kind of food he is cooking these days, he replied, "I am trying to keep it simple." But he said that old habits die hard. Searching for words to explain himself in his broken English, he made one of those observations that's meant to be matter-of-fact, but ends up sounding profound:

"Simple is difficult."

So I stumbled upon the following notice in the September 22, 1838 edition of the Telegraph and Texas Register, the Houston-based broadsheet that was then the paper of record for the Republic of Texas.

Image: Louisiana Foods

A prime Texas oyster.

"You must be fined," said the alderman, "for selling oysters in a month that has no R in it."  "Please your honor," replied the oysterman. "I spell it OR, OR-G-U-S-T. August." The man was excused. 

Cornpone humor aside, it set me to wondering about the origins of the R Rule. Little did I know I had just punched my ticket to Ancient Rome.

Houstonia food editor Robb Walsh, author of Sex, Death and Oysters: A Half-Shell Lover's World Tour,  says that the R Rule is very flawed here in subtropical Houston, as a few of our R months feature subprime and potentially lethal bivalves.  

Thanks to the vibriobacterium, which thrives in the 90-degree bathwater that's out there now, Texas oysters are more dangerous in September than just about any other month. As the water temperature falls below 65 degrees, the vibrio slinks away to wherever vibrio go when it's too cold. Meanwhile, the oysters start accumulating tasty glycogen to insulate themselves from the cold. The more of that juicy, sweet opaque glycogen, the fatter and tastier the oyster. Walsh says that his rule of thumb for prime half-shell enjoyment in these parts is between Christmas and Easter. 

Now that's what we're talkin' 'bout

"Summer oysters are like winter tomatoes," Walsh said. "If you are absolutely dying for one, fine, go ahead, but don't expect much." 

The taboo goes all the way back to Roman times, and no less an authority than Cicero became obsessed with the R Month Taboo, and even went do far as to pen De Ostreis, a heavily-researched treatise on the subject.

Cicero wondered why the taboo had been in place for the 400 years preceding his birth in 106 BC, when at one time the Roman lower classes slurped oysters safely all the year round. His investigation turned up the following conclusions, nicely summarized by Michael C. Hild (who in turn summarized a 19th Century New York Times article).

Take it away, Inspector Cicero...

Cicero goes Columbo on the R Month Mystery.

• Wealthy Romans retired to the beach during the summer months, while the masses stayed home.
• Seeking volume sales afforded by the hordes of Roman unwashed in the big city, coastal oystermen sent the best of their haul to town. The elites were served the scraps, which were often "unwholesome," to put it delicately. 
  Awful oysters. Imagine them with sulphate of copper too.
• To make matters worse, these coastal oystermen liked to try to conceal the rancid tang of these nasty oysters with sulphate of copper, "a most objectionable condiment."
• Lots of elites got sick. 
• Therefore, they decreed that R-month oysters should be banned for all, and they were, for everybody in every province of the Empire. 

Thank you Inspector Cicero, you are dismissed...

Roman law then prevailed over much of Europe, and even though water temperatures were quite different in the Roman province of Britannia than they were in the Mediterranean, Britons became just as fearful of non-R Month oysters as Spaniards and Romans.

In the millennia since, it became an across-the-board taboo in Western culture and jumped the Atlantic with the Europeans. Some states have adopted laws against the consumption of non-R months oysters, as we saw in the corny example that sent me tumbling me into this rotten oyster-strewn Roman rabbithole.

In the end it appears, the Romans did was enact a universal solution to their own provincial problem.

Roman oysters probably were not totally safe in the warmest of the non-R months, as they have a fairly balmy climate by European standards. However, as evidenced by the masses of working folk who ate them year-round with little or no ill-effect, the vast bulk of the dangers came most likely from the rancid refuse the elites were being served at the beach rather than vibrio or some other oyster-borne bacterium. 

What's more, Walsh points out that it's peak oyster season from Cape Cod north to the Canadian Maritimes right now. The water is already below 65, and the oysters are getting plump. On the other hand, by the time January rolls around, many of the best oyster beds in the Great White North will be encased in ice, and the oysters will be withering away inside their shells. 

So some regions only get a couple of prime R months right at the end of summer and beginning of fall, and others, like us, should wait out the first three of the R Months and some of April. 

Unless you want cooked oysters, which are always safe, and as Walsh points out, always delicious when charred at Gilhooley's.

Image: Katharine Shilcutt

The Iron Sommelier trophy (top left) looms as large as the Stanley Cup; Cathy Nguyen (bottom left) poured at last year's event.

The Iron Sommelier competition was once a bi-annual event, showcasing the wine programs of various restaurants around town and the portfolios of local distributors, all culminating in a grand competition for the title of—you guessed it—Iron Sommelier. No more, though, as the event has grown so large and so popular that it's now held every year at The Houstonian Hotel, Club & Spa. This year's Iron Sommelier will take place on Thursday, September 26, from 6 to 10 p.m.; tickets are still on sale, but will likely sell out soon.

Iron Sommelier
Sep 26, 6 to 10 p.m.
$150-15,000
The Houstonian Hotel, Club & Spa
111 N. Post Oak Ln.
713-807-0191

The grand event still pours plenty of wine each year, however, and still benefits the Periwinkle Foundation, an organization devoted to helping children and young adults recover after battling cancer. There's also an auction component, which helps to raise funds in addition to the ticket price of the event, and Houstonian chef Neal Cox is preparing food pairings for each of the wines sampled at the grand tasting.

But the big fun is in the VIP Grand Tasting room, where the Iron Sommelier competition itself takes place. This is where 10 of the city's best sommeliers face off to see who has the best showmanship, presentation, and breadth of knowledge when it comes to presenting and pouring a glass of wine. Each sommelier takes the competition deadly seriously, bringing in rare or unusual wines to present to a panel of judges, such as last year's barnacle-crusted Abissi Bisson spumanti—only six bottles of which made it from their undersea home off the shore of Liguria, Italy—poured by Mike Sammons of 13 Celsius.

Legendary wine expert Guy Stout (top right) is one of Texas's few Master Sommeliers; Mike Sammons of 13 Celsius competed in last year's Iron Sommelier competition in the VIP Grand Tasting room.

Last year, it was Ben Roberts of Masraff's who took home the grand Iron Sommelier prize, while Christian Varas of River Oaks Country Club received the People's Choice award for his showmanship in the ballroom where the general admission tastings of the night took place, where he poured several different wines selected for their savory umami flavor.

This year, participating sommeliers hoping to take home the big prizes are:

• Ron Brandani of Carrabba's on Kirby
• Adele Corrigan of 13 Celsius
• Kevin Kenyon of The Houstonian
• Steven McDonald of Pappas Bros. Steakhouse
• Cathy Nguyen of Mark's American Cuisine
• Ben Roberts of Masraff's
• Jason Sherman of Brennan's of Houston
• Evan Turner of Helen: Greek Food & Wine
• Christian Varas of River Oaks Countr Club
• James Watkins of Américas and Churrascos

Steven McDonald was runner up for the Iron Sommelier trophy last year. Will he take the prize home this year, or will a dark horse emerge to claim the throne? Find out on September 26.

Chicken pho sounds like it would be bland compared to beef pho, so I was skeptical when my friend Katharine Shilcutt talked me into joining her at Pho Ga Dakao, a Vietnamese restaurant on Bellaire that specializes in chicken noodle soup. I was very glad I tagged along, though—the flavor of the chicken broth here is extraordinary. Katharine told me they only use free-range chickens.

Pho Ga Dakao
11778 Bellaire Blvd.
281-879-5899

You can get the soup with plain, ordinary chicken meat if you want. It comes with a condiment plate that includes limes, basil, bean sprouts, sawtooth herb (culantro), and a ginger sauce. Sriracha, hoisin, and fish suace are customary additions.

If you want something a little more adventurous, order the item called "Dakao chicken rice noodle soup special" on the menu. You will get a large bowl of soup with white and dark meat, hearts, gizzards, tripe, and unborn chicken eggs. It's sort of like a chicken innard stew.

Either way you get the stunning broth, which is just as complex as beef pho broth, though the spices are slightly different. Chicken pho broth calls for star anise, cinnnamon and ginger, just like beef pho. But it also calls for a lot of cloves, with are studded into an onion. The spices are wrapped in cheesecloth and later removed and discarded along with the clove-studded onions—a familiar French technique. Refrigerating the broth overnight and discarding the grease that solidifies on top is a recommended step.

Here's a photo-illustrated recipe from Wandering Chopsticks.

I first beheld the $18 Bloody Mary at Mojeaux's on a friend's Facebook page. The photo was a bit blurry, so I couldn't quite make out the full assortment of garnishes on top. It looked like a slider was tilting off to one side amidst all the madness, and that's all I really needed to know. I had to witness this creation in person, with the same urge one feels to drive all the way to wilds of South Dakota to gawk at some dead men's faces carved into a granite cliff.

Mojeaux's
2024 Rusk
713-222-6656
www.mojeauxsld.com

Mojeaux's is a the new Cajun-themed "drinkery" which recently replaced Corksoaker's next door to Lucky's and Little Woodrow's in the East End. I'd heard that Mojeaux's served something called "Zydeco brunch," so I gathered my crack team of brunchers—including one Cajun—and headed down last Sunday morning.

Mojeaux's doesn't open until 11 a.m. and the food it serves for brunch is confusing. There's no kitchen, so the entire brunch menu is served from chafing dishes on a makeshift buffet. It's not a help-yourself set-up, either. You are seated in Mojeaux's rather nice dining room filled with rather lovely tables and chairs and given a menu to order from. Then you get microwaved sausages and biscuits on Styrofoam plates with plastic utensils. (This photo is a lie.) Coffee came in a tiny Styrofoam cup with another wee Styrofoam cup of powdered creamer.

I would not recommend eating brunch at Mojeaux's. And by the time I finished eating, I was wary of ordering the Bloody Mary. But you don't drive all the way to the Black Hills and turn around before you see Mount Rushmore.

It took a good 10 minutes for the bartender to make my Bloody Mary, but the wait was worth it. The garnish went way beyond vegetables; a Jimmy Dean-looking sausage biscuit with cheese crowned the giant 20-ounce mug. Crowded into the glass alongside it were cubes of cheese, pearl onions, cherry tomatoes, banana peppers, pickled okra, a stalk of celery, a Slim Jim, and one rosy shrimp.

None of the garnishes would have mattered, however, had the drink itself been bland. It was not. The mix was just spicy enough to be interesting, but not so filled with horseradish or hot sauce that you needed a Kleenex for your runny nose and watering eyes. Was it worth $18? For the sheer novelty factor, yes—although I'd be loathe to pay $18 for the experience all over again. If you were on your way to the Dynamo stadium next door, I might recommend coming in for a restorative mimosa or Bloody Mary before the game.

My friends were even less convinced, especially the Cajun. "I feel like I'm in a nice restaurant," she said, eyeing the place, "but also at a trashy family member's house, eating in their garage," she finished, picking up her Stryofoam plate for emphasis and pointing out the distinct lack of Cajun-ness in the "Zydeco brunch" menu of biscuits and gravy, omelets, and eggs Benedict. The Jimmy Dean sausage biscuit atop the Bloody Mary was tough and unappetizing, roughly par for the course with the rest of our food that morning, although it didn't stop me from enjoying the cocktail or the company.

A few days later, I posted a link to a new Cajun seafood market, Mozelle's, to the Cajun's Facebook page. "I can't wait to take you here," I wrote.

"I just got emotional at my desk reading this," the Cajun quickly replied. "This could totally make up for whatever the hell Sunday was."

In April 2006, a crabber named Craig Ray took me out on his Carolina skiff to check out the crab harvest. We were crabbing Keith Lake between Port Arthur and Sabine Pass, and I was blown away by how many big crabs were coming out of the water. The size of crabs is very important to chefs and consumers because the big ones yield a lot of meat and the little ones can be more trouble than they are worth.

Crabs have to measure five inches from "point to point" (from one side spike to the other) to be legally harvested. #1 jimmies (males) measure at least 5 1/2 inches from the tip of one spike to the other. There are various names for larger sizes, including jumbo crabs and colossal crabs.

On Craig Ray's boat, the big males were going into one crate and the small crabs were going into another. "Where can I get big crabs like this?" I asked, holding up a monster from the #1 crab box.

"Maryland," Craig Ray responded. He explained that he got top dollar for his big crabs from a local distributor that shipped them to Maryland. "They are paying $60 a dozen for crabs in Maryland crab houses," Ray told me. "Nobody in Texas is going to pay those kind of prices." Ray sold the little crabs to local customers, including Sartin's in Nederland. I first wrote about Texas crabbers selling their best crabs to Maryland wholesalers in Crab Man, an article about Doug Sartin in the Houston Press that appeared in 2006.

People like to believe that the seafood they eat in waterfront restaurants comes from the nearest body of water. And they feel defrauded when they discover it didn't. Maryland Your Crab is a Lie was the headline of a recent article in Slate.

Seafood distributor Jim Gossen explained to me that the incredible demand for live crab in Maryland and the escalating prices long ago doomed the Texas and Louisiana crab-picking business. You need a lot of big crabs to survive in the jumbo lump crab meat business. And the only way to get big crabs affordably in Texas is to own your boats. Ther's one crab-picking plant in Port Arthur and several more in Louisiana and Alabama, but for the most part, Gulf Coast picking houses couldn't compete, so they went out of business.

In my seafood salad story The Strange Case of the Disappearing Gulf Crab, I bemoaned the fact that nearly all the lump crabmeat in Houston seafood restaurants is now imported—while in fact, Texas is still producing plenty of crab.

But I reported that the Chesapeake Bay crab harvest was 600,000 pounds and the Texas harvest was around 3 million pounds. While both of those numbers are accurate, their comparison is not. The Texas figure was for live crab. The Chesapeake Bay actually harvested somewhere around 80 million pounds of live crab—and 600,000 pounds of lump crabmeat. My apologies for any confusion, and thanks to seafood man P.J. Stoops for pointing out the mistake and Steven Vilnit at the Maryland Department of Natural Resources for helping me sort the numbers out.

Here's another statistic from Vilnit: while the Chesapeake Bay produces the aforementioned 600,000 pounds of lump crabmeat annually, the United States imports some 40 million pounds of lump crabmeat a year.

If you're familiar with Catalina Coffee, the first thing you'll notice about Mercantile—the new coffee shop in Rice Village from Catlalina owner Max Gonzalez—is how drastically different it is from its big sister on Washington Avenue. Catalina Coffee is the brooding, sensitive, bookish older sister, while Mercantile is the peppy younger sister who wears Ralph Lauren and daydreams about horses and joins a sorority in college yet is no less intelligent or passionate than her sibling.

Mercantile
5407 Morningside Dr.
832-740-4494
mercantilehouston.com

The tone isn't the only thing different about Mercantile. Whereas Catalina is a "serious" coffee shop with only a few scant baked goods to snack on and rows of seating inside and out, the better to sit and contemplate your cortado with, Mercantile is only part coffee shop. The majority of the cafe's footprint is devoted to its grocery items, in keeping with Mercantile's aim to be Rice Village's very own bodega.

This isn't your average New York City bodega, of course, but a rather upscale Houston version. Yes, there's fresh produce and loaves of bread (from Angela's Oven, the local bakery which also supplies Catalina with its scones and croissants) and quarts of milk from the Mill-King dairy outside Waco. But there's also gourmet pasta, four-packs of Fentiman's soda, jars of Rao's pasta sauce, and a selection of hot sauces from Houston's own Bravado Spice Co. Yes, you can do some significant grocery shopping here—but it will cost you, and the selection is [purposefully] limited.

I've been told the carefully curated grocery section will grow over time, and that Mercantile is actively seeking suggestions from shoppers as to what goods it should carry. It reminds me, in its own way, of a Rice Village version of Revival Market minus the prepared foods and the butcher case. (There are cheeses and cured meats for sale at Mercantile, however.)

From behind the oval-shaped counter that sits in the middle of the store, Mercantile's capable baristas will whip you up anything from a latte to a flat white, as good as anything you'll find at Catalina. And although there's no seating inside, ample outdoor seating on the sidewalk is flanked by potted plants and provides a lovely view onto one of Rice Village's most heavily-trafficked areas, across from Torchy's Tacos and just down the street from The Ginger Man and other popular pubs. Foot traffic should ensure Mercantile's success as a coffee shop alone, as options in the area have always been limited, and the pretty patio is attractive enough to pull people in from blocks away.

The white-washed walls and weather-worn woods inside Mercantile make the place feel incredibly cool and inviting while it's still slightly muggy and hot outside, and I can only imagine the patio is going to get comfortably crowded as Houston finally enters its long-awaited fall with a long-needed Rice Village coffee shop.

Until recently, the only things preventing me from putting on 50 pounds of lobster weight were the 25-mile round trip from my house to Maine-ly Sandwiches and the lack of desire to go shopping for new fat pants. In essence, laziness was preventing me from getting fat. Now that Maine-ly Sandwiches has opened a second location just down the street from my home and office, I need to keep reminding myself now more than ever just how hideous clothes-shopping is: those tiny fitting rooms! Those itchy tags! Those flourescent lights! Having to take your shoes off and stand barefoot on gross carpet that's probably never been cleaned!

Maine-ly Sandwiches
3310 South Shepherd
713-942-2150
mainelysandwiches.com

Otherwise, I'd be at Maine-ly Sandwiches every single day, gorging not only on the lobster rolls that have made Buddy Charity's family-run sandwich shop famous, but on the cold cut hoagies and whoopie pies that are just as strong an attraction.

There's something remarkable about opening a small, independent sandwich shop on Houston's far-flung northside and proving popular enough to open a second location a year later—and in one of the city's hottest real estate markets, no less. Charity saw an unfilled niche in Houston, and the Maine native stepped up to the plate with New England-style lobster rolls, clam chowder, and other specialties that plenty of ex-pats hadn't been able to get in Houston on the regular prior to Maine-ly Sandwiches opening in the winter of 2012.

His first shop on the North Freeway was small—the size of your average Subway—and had only a very basic kitchen set-up. No fryers, no griddles, no big ovens. The new location, which opened at the end of August in the old Sugarbaby's Cupcakes space, has it all. Charity intends to use it eventually, perhaps serving french fries or crab cakes down the line.

For now, however, they're enjoying the extra space to spread out and seat nearly three times the amount of guests. You still order at the counter, meaning Maine-ly Sandwiches is still super-casual—as it should be—and the decor is still "cheeky coastal," meaning it's all giant photos of Maine coastline and lighthouses and life preservers hanging from the walls but all in good, deliberately over-the-top fun. (Either way, it's certainly better than the aggressively twee decor that was housed in the cupcake shop.)

Most importantly, the lobster rolls are as good as ever: griddled buns hot and buttered, spilling over with lump lobster meat in a sweet, tangy mayonnaise dressing with the barest bit of black pepper on top. Some may grumble about the price—nearly $10 for a half-roll, nearly $20 for a full lobster roll—but it's all a matter of perspective. You'll pay $16 for a roll at the Clam Shack in Kennebunkport—called the best lobster roll in America—that's right in between a half- and full-sized roll; you'll pay $25 for the same size roll at Neptune Oyster House in Boston. All things considered, I think $10 is a steal.

But if lobster rolls aren't your thing, you should still consider Maine-ly as a great alternative to giant chain sandwich shops; the cold cut sandwiches and hoagies here are consistently terrific, and are between $5 and $6 for a 12-inch sandwich filled with fresh meat, cheese, and vegetables. (Keep your sloppy $5 footlongs, Subway.) I'm also pleased to report that Maine-ly is baking fresh batches of whoopie pies every single day, including new flavors like Fluffernutter (a chocolate pie with peanut butter filling) and Blueberry Spice (my current favorite, with a blueberry filling sandwiched between two enormous spiced oatmeal pies).

Luckily, those whoopie pies keep well, allowing me to enjoy one small pie over the course of a few days. Otherwise, between the desserts and the buttery lobster rolls, shopping for new [stretchy] pants would be inevitable.

In a city awash in pepper sauce, the dark dried chile salsa served at El Hidalguense on Long Point stands out as one of most intriguing. The secret to the richly flavored puree is the chile rayado of Hidalgo, one of Mexico's most interesting peppers. It has a fleshy dried chile flavor like an ancho, but with a chocolate-like bitterness and a subtle smokiness. The owner of El Hidalguense told me he gets a big batch of the dried peppers brought up from Hidalgo every two weeks.

Rayado means "rayed" in Spanish—a better translation might be "striped." In its green form, the chile rayado looks like a broad-shouldered jalapeño. As it ripens and turns red, it develops long striations—these are the "rays" that the name alludes to. The rays are most evident as the chile begins to dry.

The drying process is assisted by placing the chiles in a brick barbecue where they're stirred in deep pans over a wood fire until they turn dark brown. In the process, they acquire an aroma of woodsmoke that is pleasant without being as intense as a chipotle. Get over to El Hidaguense and see for yourself. 

And here's a 10-minute video illustrating the chile rayado process:

Image: Victoriaczechs.org

Victoria might not be the prettiest town in South Texas but its culture is one of the most fascinating, perched as it is where Bohemian Texas meets Mexican Texas: it's equal parts pivo and barbacoa.

This Sunday the region's Czech community takes center stage Sunday, September 22, with their 28th annual Czech Heritage Festival at the Victoria Community Center, 2905 E. North St.  (The fest runs from 10 a.m. to 7:30 p.m., unless you want to get there early enough to attend Czech/English Mass at Our Lady of Victoria Cathedral at 9 a.m. Admission is $7, free for those under 15.)

There will be beer and wine—for the eighth year, home brewers and vintners will be showcasing their wares.

There will be polka, courtesy of Fritz Hodde and Fabulous Six, the Red Ravens, and the Shiner Hobo Band, which has existed off-and-on for almost 100 years. (There have been some line-up changes in that span, obviously.)

Image: Courtesy Shiner Hobo Band

The Shiner Hobo Band in 1957

There will be kolaches and chicken noodle soup on offer all day, and sausage wraps in the afternoon. Beginning at 11 a.m.,  $8 will get you a plate of almond-crusted pork loin and all the fixings.

There will be Tarok. What's Tarok, you ask. It's a Middle European bid-and-trump card game played on a deck adapted from tarot cards. Texas's state Tarok champ will be crowned at this fest and walk away with the lion's share of the $400 in prizes along with bragging rights.

All that plus a raffle, a pastry wheel, arts and crafts, and 2013 Miss Texas Czech-Slovak Queen Jennifer Koll and her Little Sister Faith Wenck.

For more info click here or call Marjorie Matula at 361-575-0820.