Front Burner

Move over $7 cupcake, stand aside luxury gelato, because there’s a new kid in the galaxy of boutique lickables: the gourmet popsicle.

I recently shot a brilliant garden program for urban youth in downtown Durham, NC. They told me that Loco Pops buys some of the herbs they grow for use in their eclectic popsicles. I had never heard of this place and rushed over immediately following the shoot. 

I found a simple storefront with a licking bench outside and a couple freezer display cases at the counter inside. The options included small, medium or large selected from the cream-based side of the white-board menu or the ice-based side. Considering it was nearly cocktail hour, I bought a Mighty Mojito. I discovered it to be non-alcoholic, a good idea considering the amount of children wandering around my knees with various liquid colors dripping off their chins. The Mojito was sharply limey and tart, not too sweet. Next up, Mango Chile, also from the ice-based side. The mango’s meatiness made it creamier and more rich than the mojito, and the chile kicked in just in time toward the bottom of the stick. My friend went with Lavender, perhaps sourced from the SEEDS farm nearby. It tasted like a sweet bouquet touched by Provencal sunshine – whatever that means. It was excellent.

Food can get stuck in your head as easily as a 1984 pop song (“Time After Time”? Ha, gotcha!). In the middle of a long, two-day climb in the eastern Sierra Nevada Mountains, I had visions more tasty than tune-y.

Highway 395 from Reno, Nevada south almost to Los Angeles is big on sunshine, hot springs, mountains, and sagebrush, but small on good eats. Arguably the best in the whole 230-mile scenic stretch, the Whoa Nellie Deli hides within a standard-issue Tioga Gas Mart (aka Mobile Station), at the eastern base of the road that bisects Yosemite National Park. You’d expect Fritos and Gummi Bears, but co-owner Dennis Domaille holds nothing back. He built a professional trapeze next to the parking lot because he always loved the high-wire act (it was open to the public until a few years ago). Then he hired passing motorcyclist and San Diego native Matt “Tioga” Toomey as chef.

So as I climbed higher into the snowy mountains, I thought of what I’d order: Two soft flour tortillas wrapped around plump, lightly battered white fish strips, a perfect drizzle of special sauce, and homemade salsa, a mango margarita, frozen, and a slice of dense-yet-moist chocolate cake as big as my head. I’d be eating it soon, I told myself. Out there on the picnic table, bare feet on green grass, sun beating down just warm enough from above the jagged crest of mountains behind me. Mono Lake and its odd tufas down in the valley below.

We've been on the road lately, and have some great pictures to show for it. This gallery has my behind-the-scenes shots of our photographer at work with the staff of Cafe Reconcile in New Orleans.

Photo shoots, if you have never been on one before, are quite the operation. Some of the most seemingly simple shots can take hours of fiddling to perfect, and the number of people it takes to get the task done is similarly interesting. From what I've seen, it takes anywhere from 3 to 7 people to orchestrate the shoot: the photographer, photographer's assistant, story editor, prop stylist, food stylist, and any number of other assistants.

My first Front Burner entry involves Twizzlers. And later Doritos plus Budweiser. It’s a long story that begins with a slow, pinkly smooth sunset over South Dakota’s Badlands. It ends with a quiet, blue-green sunrise over grasslands. I’ll stick to the food part.

With night falling and the asphalt between me and the nearest town/anything, Rapid City, South Dakota, stretching fast behind me, my lack of food didn’t concern me. I was aiming straight for the tiny town of Scenic. The New York Times has cited the Old Longhorn Saloon as having the best burger and coldest beer in the middle of nowhere. As the sky turned from dark purple to a matrix of stars so dense it looked silver, I pulled the last Twizzler from the dashboard and imagined bellying up to the bar beside tattooed Tony and his biker gang who call the saloon their local watering hole. But Scenic was dark as I approached, including the Old Longhorn Saloon. Closed on Mondays. It was Monday.

It is somewhat difficult to see Sí coming up North Lombardi Street. The white building, with its two small windows and wooden door blends into the apartments of Richmond’s trendy Fan District. As I walked by, only the unassuming illuminated sign caught my eye.

I continued up the block to Kuba Kuba, where I fully expected to find a juicy hunk of mojo-marinated roast pork. It was New Year’s Eve, however, and Kuba Kuba was closed. I was glad their staff could enjoy the holiday with family and friends, but it was a bummer nonetheless.

Reeling, I remembered the white wall, the small windows, and the glowing Sí. I stood outside for a moment and read the menu. Tapas. Comparatively expensive (frequently mediocre) small-plates restaurants are everywhere right now and I am kind of over the concept, but it was getting late and the Scandinavian-modern decor and conversational buzz drew me in.

“OK. Let’s finish with something terrifying.”

“Terrifying?”

“Right. Really scary.”

The bartender put her hands on her hips, turned around, and inspected the sea of more than 1,000 beer bottles lining the refrigerated back wall. After a moment she laughs to herself and pulls one out.

“How does the end of the world sound?”

I love this. “Perfect.”

Pleased with her work, she placed a La Fin du Monde in front of me. It was indeed an excellent choice to end my meal at The Brickskeller. Located in the Dupont Circle neighborhood, one of Washington, D.C.’s nightlife hot spots, the dark pub boasts the world’s largest selection of beer.

Earlier I tasted a Grimbergen Belgian Blonde Ale with some of their delicious homemade chicken wings. The light, fruity golden ale stood its ground against the hot sauce, and the wings themselves were formidable - the combination of crisp breading and juicy meat would be pretty hard to beat.

The Urthel Hibernus Quentum Tripel Ale, from Belgium was a bit sweet paired with my Brick’s Ale Burger. The burger, seasoned with ale and caraway seeds, was nothing to write home about, either. When I go back, I’ll be sticking with the chicken wings and the blonde ale.