loa may tinh | education sector |
AFTER covering baseball for six years, after visiting every major-league outpost in the sport's vast empire, I've learned a few things.
The author's haunts have included the Flying Biscuit Cafe, in Atlanta, for its turkey meatloaf. More Photos »
By BEN SHPIGEL
Published: April 3, 2012
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I know where to find marvelous Mexican food in Milwaukee, super sushi in Toronto and juicy bison burgers in Baltimore. This did not happen by accident. Unearthing a destination's culinary charms became a challenge, if not a mission, and certainly a point of pride.
The rhythms of a baseball season, particularly its preponderance of night games, meant that many meals — more than I'd care to count — were scarfed down in a rush, at airports and in press boxes. Lunch, then, became something to savor, a time to decompress and relax, and for that hour or so I was determined to eat something tasty, and to take whatever time was needed to hunt down that one special source.
I know this doesn't square with the popular image of the sports reporter: an Oscar Madison type who subsists on hot dogs and popcorn. And I wasn't always a foodie, having grown up in a Philadelphia suburb where diversifying your palate meant taking out Chinese food instead of Italian. My wife still credits herself with introducing me to sushi and feta cheese.
But the extended road trips so common in baseball gave me a rare opportunity to visit new places and sample the local flavors. My exploration, at bottom, was born of a desire to immerse myself in my surroundings, to blend in as a local. That meant eating as if I belonged.
Now, as another opening day approaches and I'm no longer covering the Mets or the Yankees (having been reassigned last summer to reporting on the Jets), some of my fondest memories are as much about the meals as the games.
I scouted options far ahead, keeping a file of possibilities on my cellphone. The list was populated by favorites in cities where I once lived (Atlanta and Dallas), suggestions from friends and family, and places featured on Food Network programs like "The Best Thing I Ever Ate" and "Diners, Drive-ins and Dives."
Ballplayers often provided a tip or two, though for dinner at least, they tended to head straight for the nearest steakhouse. They could afford it on their per diem of more than $90. I scoured Chowhound and Yelp . I perused menus online. I used Open Table to gauge a restaurant's popularity.
But I made a rule of never asking a hotel concierge for a recommendation. The thrill, I believed, lay in the hunt. At least if I stumbled, it was my fault alone.
In some cities, a rental car was necessary, and not a bad idea, either. Driving a few miles for brisket tacos at Gloria's in Dallas, or the crab and avocado omelet at the Beachcomber in Newport Beach, Calif., seemed a noble decision in retrospect.
The more I traveled, the more I associated cities with certain restaurants, and anticipated each reunion. Boston meant a date (or two) with the Benny — spicy Vietnamese grilled chicken with mint-coriander mayo and vegetables on a hard baguette — at Parish Cafe , a sandwich-lover's utopia on Boylston Street that was recommended by a colleague.
Back in Philadelphia, I relied on Marathon — particularly its create-your-own Control Freak salads — to satisfy my hunger. And no trip to Atlanta, where I went to college, was complete without some turkey meatloaf and the namesake treat at the Flying Biscuit Cafe , so light and fluffy that it, well, flies off your plate.
When friends describe me as a walking Zagat guide (usually in Zagat style, as an "omnivore's omnibus" with "encyclopedic" knowledge of places that "always hit the spot"), I demur because it's not true. I know just enough restaurants to get by.
For ballplayers, so much of their success depends on their routines and comfort levels, and the same is true for the reporters who hopscotch the country writing about them. If I could latch on to one reliable restaurant in an unfamiliar city, as I did at Hell's Kitchen during my single journey to Minneapolis two Octobers ago, I considered it a triumph. And when an old standby closed, as the venerable Rocky Mountain Diner in Denver did last year, I grieved.
I never encountered that problem in San Francisco, a city best explored on a full stomach. From my hotel in Union Square, I would run through Chinatown and North Beach and on through Fisherman's Wharf, building an appetite with an arduous climb up Taylor Street. The reward was lunch at the Slanted Door , a Vietnamese restaurant in the Ferry Building with a menu as dazzling as its views of the Bay Bridge. Two words: shaking beef. Two more words: chicken claypot.
I sought to recreate that energized feeling in every city, with varying degrees of success. I almost always managed in Seattle. Regardless of how late I had finished writing the night before, I would drag myself out of bed by 8 a.m. to reacquaint myself with that spectacular city, beginning with a mile-and-a-half jaunt to my breakfast spot, Portage Bay Cafe in the South Lake Union neighborhood.
Exactly how I came to discover it remains a mystery to me. All that matters is that I did, for now I think about its organic apple and whole-wheat pancakes (and the free trip to the toppings bar, a bounty of fresh fruits and nuts) more than any sane person should. Does a sane person store a photo of pancakes on his phone?
To walk it off before the first pitch, I would meander toward the waterfront and up to Pike Place Market , where I stocked up on a local treasure, Rainier cherries, to munch on during the game. Often, I would pick up a sandwich for lunch — if not at Salumi , the salumeria operated by Mario Batali's parents, then at Tat's Delicatessen , which won my affection by selling Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets , a Philadelphia delicacy.
Seattle had one more surprise in store: its glittering ballpark, Safeco Field , which offered more choices than the buffet at the Bellagio: pork tortas and gyros, crepes and Caesar salads. Ballpark concessions also don't get much better than those at AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants — with a carvery that serves up sandwiches with freshly sliced meats, like turkey and brisket; appetizers (tomato-and-mozzarella skewers), and desserts.
Despite my desire to roam around a city, there was nothing like a great restaurant near the stadium. For my money, there's a tie in this category: Tin Fish , in San Diego, just a few grilled swordfish tacos from Petco Park; and Lola , in Cleveland, which I had known from a Food Network segment long before I got there. One dish — spiced beef brisket with cumin Greek yogurt on flatbread — won me over, and my effusive praise spawned a legion of disciples.
In October, when Jason Zillo, the Yankees' director of media relations, named his newborn daughter Lola, a buddy sent me a text message saying something like, "I can't believe Z named her after your favorite restaurant." Derek Jeter must have heard about it, too. Last July, we spotted him enjoying a quiet lunch there with his father.
If you spend enough time around the players, the conversation invariably drifts to food, especially in a superior eating town like Chicago. On a lazy morning in August 2007 before one of those blessed day games at Wrigley Field, Cliff Floyd, a genial former Met who had joined his hometown Cubs, raved to a few reporters about an Italian joint, La Scarola .
We were told to ask for Armando, so we did. I don't remember what I ate that night, but I do recall walking out and waving to Mets pitcher Tom Glavine, who was enjoying a late dinner with some friends and family. The next night, perhaps powered by capellini fra diavolo, Glavine won his 300th game .
As for my milestones, they have been far more modest: just good meals around the baseball circuit. Somewhat sadly, my new beat, football, doesn't offer the same chances to steep in the food culture of one place. The games are one-off, not a series, and my trips tend to last two days, not two cities.
But covering the National Football League does dangle an intriguing array of destinations, a few of which I have never explored. As it happens, two such cities — Jacksonville, Fla., and Nashville — appear on the Jets' road schedule for the coming season. I have a few ideas in mind, but I'm open to suggestions.
