Road Trip Number 7 Half Moon Bay and Moraga

     After we left Big Horace and Coffee Mia, we turned away from the sea and visited the agricultural area east of the Coast Mountains.  We meandered thru that part of the country exploring, commenting on the beauty, the super-efficient farms, the orchards, the vineyards.  This truly may be the breadbasket of the nation.  We took a spectacular back road across the mountains and came out on the coast at Half Moon Bay, where we found a little beach park and enjoyed the strawberries I mentioned earlier.



Wayne, supporting the artistic symbol of Half Moon Bay.  Evidently, pigeons have no respect for art.



     We left Half Moon Bay, crossed the narrow peninsula between the Pacific Ocean and San Francisco Bay and drove thru San Mateo.  All of this travel was on freeways, which were mostly elevated above the city.  Eventually, we crossed the Bay on a seven mile bridge which, I guess, should be called a causeway.   This took us to the city of Hayward, where our freeway merged with two other freeways and veered north, toward Oakland.



     When you live seventy five years you learn a lot of things, but bladder control is not one of them.  All that coffee and all those freeways left me in a terrible condition and I pleaded for Wayne to find a place and pull over, which would make it necessary for us to get off the freeway.  Wayne, in his “Let’s run the blacktop” mode, was reluctant to do that.

     I said, with some emotion, “Wayne, in about two minutes, I’m going to have to pee.  I can do that anywhere you choose—either in a public restroom somewhere, behind a convenient bush or on these fancy leather seats.  If the Queen of England joins us and sits in the back seat having tea, I will still have to pee.  She will not be amused.   It is no longer up to me.”  Wayne pulled off at the next exit.

     I climbed back into Wayne’s truck and took my usual position, riding shotgun.  It is amazing how much more detail I saw as we drove along.   I was no longer-----preoccupied.  I looked at the map to best figure our route and discovered a road thru the mountains directly into Moraga.  That road would offer two desirable results--it would cut about forty miles off our trip and get us away from the freeway.

     Sheppard Canyon Road appeared to intersect the access road of our freeway and go directly over the mountains to Moraga.  Wayne and I decided to go that way and took the appropriate exit.  We stayed on the access road and Wayne pulled into a station.  “Do we need gas?” I asked.

     “No. I thought you might want to use the facilities.”  Wayne said.  He was learning.  Since I didn’t, he decided he might as well.  There were several locals standing around—two of them worked at the station which also sold tires and did mechanic work---the others seemed to be spectators.  I decided to visit with them while Wayne took care of his business.   I didn’t really need directions, but it was a convenient way to start a conversation.



     “According to the map I have in there, Sheppard Canyon Road is up here about four blocks on the right.  Is that a good way to get to Moraga?”  I asked the fellow who seemed to be in charge.  His Exxon uniform shirt said “Bill” over the pocket.

     “You are lucky you stopped and asked!” Bill said.  “Sheppard Canyon Road don’t come all the way down here, like the map shows.  It stops about six blocks up the hill—you need to turn right on Wheeler Street and just stay on it.  It will all of a sudden become Sheppard Canyon and go right in the back way to Moraga.  I used to work over in Moraga at a tire store--broke into this business over there.”

     “That’s funny,” I said.  “We met a guy this morning over in Marina who used to run a tire store in Moraga.”

     “You gotta be talking about Big Horace Mercurio!   I worked for him for three years over there.  I hear he has a Deli or Café or something like that in Marina.  He’s a good ole boy---for an Italian!” 

      The hair on the back of my neck was standing straight up.  It was eerie--over seven million people in the Bay Area and in one day I randomly met two who had worked together at the same tire store in Moraga---several years ago.

     Bill was right.  We would have never found our road from that map.  We turned on Wheeler and, sure enough, in about a mile, it became Sheppard Canyon Road.  In a few minutes, we were in the forest primeval.  The road curved and switched back and narrowed.   It was very strange—even though we were in the center of the densely populated Bay Area, the road started to feel like a mountain road in the wilds of Colorado.  We were climbing in a forest--there were gigantic Pine and Fir trees, but no houses that I could see---we passed occasional secluded driveways protected by electric gates.  I am sure we were in a very exclusive neighborhood.  We passed a small private school, and then had the road to ourselves for several miles.  We climbed over the ridge and started down the other side. 

     Soon the road widened, straightened, and curbs appeared on either side.  We passed an Exxon station.  Wayne was suddenly very serious.  “Do you need to stop?” he asked. 



Wild Turkey and Coke

     I don't generally do this, but I want to always keep you folks under the big top, so to speak.  This happened yesterday morning between Kerrville and Fredericksburg, so I thought I would keep you all up to date on the "breaking" news.  To those of you who like Wild Turkey and Coca Cola, and I know there are not many of you, this gives it a whole new meaning to the phrase.

     I do know a couple of guys who like Crown Royal and Diet Coke, but don't worry Wayne or Rogers--I won't tell anyone. 



Wild Turkey and Coca Cola



Weird Happenings in a Lubbock Cotton Field

     In a cotton field outside Lubbock, adjacent to a spreading mesquite bush, the local smithy stands.  His brow is wet with honest sweat.  You’d be sweating too, if you had to stand next to that flaming forge all day, hammering on a piece of hot iron.  For the last eight months, the roar of the bellows and sound of a small sledge have echoed through the lonely cotton fields around his shop.    

     He runs a large and sinewy hand through his long, crisp, black hair and keeps on hammering.  No wonder that dude has muscles in his brawny arms.  They’re probably strong as iron bands.  What is he hammering on?  Everyone knows nothing ever happens in Lubbock, so what on earth is going on here?  Why is it going on now?  I knew weird stuff was going to start happening---this is leap year.

World Championship Barbeque Cookoff---Houston---Number Four

The first time I ever saw a “World Championship Barbeque Cook Off” we had gone to the rodeo with Hugh and Susie.  Hugh had been invited to stop by a “little barbeque booth” somewhere on the north end of the Astrodome parking lot, and we decided to go there before the rodeo. In the far northeastern corner of the lot, about a dozen “teams” had set up camp and were busy smoking meat, drinking beer, playing country music, and having fun.

There was a small group of visitors, including ourselves, who strolled from booth to booth, just soaking up the atmosphere. Everyone invited us into their area, forced a cold beer, a chunk of brisket, or a sausage wrap into our hands and said something like, “How do you like that brisket? Cooked it fourteen hours over Bullnut, the finest cooking wood in East Texas.” Or “Try some of this here sausage. Made it myself, last fall.” The evening was clear and crisp for Houston, even in February. The music, the barbeque, the aromas, and the people all blended together, and mesquite smoke permeated the whole scene. The sun went down, and we never made it to the rodeo. We were hooked.

Rules were few back then. Sort of, “You give us two hundred and fifty dollars, and don’t ruin our parking lot, and we’ll let you have a forty foot square “booth.” Get in here Thursday or Friday, judging will be Sunday, and you clean it up and get out of here by dark Monday. We mean broom clean, too, boys.”

As quickly as Hugh and I could get a team together, which didn't take long, we started in the “World Championship Barbeque Cook Off” business. Now understand that this is not a real profitable business. Five or six of us would chip in and pay the entry fee, buy about forty cases of  beer, a few dozen briskets, some chickens, sausage, ice, cokes, whiskey, assorted bar supplies, utensils, plates, napkins, and several bales of hay for seating.  We’d get a trailer mounted barbeque pit, some tables and chairs, a flat bed truck (for the band), a generator, some lights, a motor home, two Porta Cans, and a cord or so of mesquite wood.

 Friday morning, we’d all show up out there with tools and lumber and build our booth. Someone would cook up a bunch of fajitas and smoked sausage for “camp meat,” and we’d eat them with tortillas and picante sauce while we worked. By mid-afternoon we were set up, and had brisket and chickens on the pit, beans on the butane stove, potato salad, jalapenos, pickles, onions, and “light” bread on the side. Friday night was usually spent just working out the kinks in the system and our cooking equipment, visiting with other teams or friends that dropped by, and looking at the people. The “people” we looked at, incidentally, were mostly female, and many of them were spectacular. I’m not sure why a happening like this seems to attract a disproportionate number of very attractive women, but it always seems to be that way. You won’t hear me squawking about it.

Saturday, the pace quickens. Each team is assigned a committeeman to coordinate its efforts, enforce the rules, and monitor the cooking of the contest meat. For several years, our committeeman was a girl, a nice looking blonde C.P.A. She was responsible for about three teams, and worked closely with each of them. We could cook about anything we wanted back then, and the only rule was that it be fresh and raw twenty four hours before the judging. The chief cook would arrange for the monitor to come by and tag the meat anytime after noon Saturday.

Tagging the meat was a simple process. The monitor provided a numbered strap of metal and a special pair of pliers to fasten it. I’ve seen the same kind of straps used to seal box cars or truck boxes on eighteen wheelers. They pull the numbered strap through the meat, slide on a small metal sphere, and crimp it together with the special pliers. The meat can then be put back in a cooler, marinated, or thrown on the grill, the monitor doesn’t care. When the meat is cooked and ready, the strap will still be attached, and the number will be checked before the meat is sliced.

While that little drama is unfolding, the rest of the team is busy, getting ready for serious partying. Friends, relatives, employees, and customers of team members have been dropping by all day, having a beer, Bloody Mary, scotch, or just a coke or iced tea. They nibble on fajitas, shrimp, quail, chicken breasts, catfish fillets, rib eye steaks, or whatever else might be on the grill. The range of food is fantastic, the more unusual or exotic, the better. Rattlesnake, alligator, or armadillo were not uncommon. Some Cajuns had a big fry pot set up, and were constantly deep frying whole turkeys. That was about the only recognizable thing those guys served.

By mid-afternoon Saturday, Western bands are setting up, some are already playing, people are strolling around, all the booths are complete and making smoke, color is everywhere. Almost every booth is adorned with  flags of some sort. American and Texas banners are most popular, but many other states, several foreign countries, colleges, universities, corporations, and cities are all represented. Corporate logos are plastered in every conceivable place, and the team names run from the sublime to the ridiculous.  We were the “Jalapeno Pickers” one year.  I tried to get “Jalapeno Peckers” past the thought police, but it didn’t work.

I better stop now.  I don’t want to bore you and these things get pretty long if I don’t exert some discipline..  I know, I know.  Why start now?

Mysterious Goings-On in Lubbock

     Out on the High Plains, about a mile south of 98th street in Lubbock, there is a mystery.  On moonlight nights, across the lonesome cotton fields, the intermittent noise of a blacksmith's hammer pierces the otherwise comfortable silence of the prairie.   The hammer punctuates the roar of the giant bellows as it provides oxygen to the hungry forge.  The solitary smithy works endlessly, fashioning something from white-hot iron.  Everyone knows that nothing ever happens in Lubbock.  What on earth could possibly be going on?

Serious Barbeque Number Three

As most of you know, I wrote these articles in 1996, but, as the Scotch advertisement says, “The good things in life stay that way.”  I don’t mind recycling them.  Toward the end of this episode, there will be some references to my friends in Wichita Falls and the planned assault on the Hotter’n Hell Hundred.  Rest assured that we did gather for those festivities and, for a bunch of old farts, did quite well.  The poem I wrote that year is included in a previous post to this blog.  The verse at the end of this installment just didn’t fit, so I just let it dangle here.  Us poets can do that stuff.

            This was to be the third and final installment of my “Serious Barbeque Trilogy”. Well, it may have to be a “Serious Barbeque Quardrupility”, or “Pentarupility” or something. I think I may just write until I run out of something to say about Barbeque.

I have been doing constant research on barbeque joints around the state, and it sure is hard to do that, and still try to get in shape for the Hotter’n Hell Hundred. To compare barbeque, we must establish some standards. I will use brisket, because most everyone this side of the Sabine River serves it, and I can easily establish standards. As with everything else I put in these letters, this is not meant to be the “only” way, or the “best” way or even an “easy” way. It is, purely and simply, the way I do it. You can do it different, and it will still be as good as mine or maybe even better. That’s great. Send me your method.

I think barbeque should be made with cheap cuts of meat. Brisket is cheap. I brought one for seventy-seven cents a pound just last week. Do not trim a brisket before it’s cooked. Do not buy a trimmed brisket. Take a whole, untrimmed brisket, about ten to twelve pounds, cover it with a good barbeque rub, and put it, fat side up, on a covered pit with a remote mesquite fire at about 200° to 225°. Let it smoke for ten to twelve hours, and control the heat. Don’t let it go above 225° or below 200°. When it’s done, wrap it in foil, put it in an insulated chest, oven, on the grill away from the fire, or otherwise keep it warm until serving time.

Slicing a brisket is as important to the finished product as cooking it. It should be sliced, across grain, and immediately served. I do it this way: Trim the fat from the top and bottom of the brisket, and around the edges. You will discover two “plates” of lean meat, with a horizontal layer of fat between them. Separate them, and trim the fat off each of them.  As they are separated, you’ll see a thick vein near one edge. Trim it out. You should now have two irregular rectangles of lean meat, about one to one and a half inches thick. Look at them and you can see the grain lines of the meat. (You will still have some fat in a few places, but that’s fine, don’t let it bother you.) Slice off a one quarter inch slice of meat from each rectangle, being careful to cut perpendicular to the grain lines. Lay the two slices flat and look at them. One will be fine grained and smooth, with almost no fat. The other will have little rivers of fat running through it, in a pattern that resembles the grain of alligator leather. Both should be very tender, but firm, with a maroon smoke ring about one eighth inch wide at the perimeter. They will be pink when sliced, but quickly turn a gray color when exposed to the air.

Line up the grain lines of each piece of meat, and put the alligatored one on top. Then slice though both pieces, staying perpendicular to the grain lines, and cutting two slices at once, from one eighth to one quarter inch thick. (Not thicker than one quarter inch, and never with grain.) Each person will be served four to six slices, half from the top cut and half from the bottom cut. Sauce can be added at serving time, or served on the side.

This method will allow each person and equal amount of moist (alligatored top cut) and dry (bottom cut) brisket. It will not give anyone too much of either. The thin slices will keep the meat from being too stringy, and sticking in between everyone’s teeth. (As will the cross grain cutting method)  It should be noted that some people prefer the top cut or the bottom cut only.  By all means, give them what they want.  That’s one of the benefits of slicing the meat as it is served.



I felt we needed a picture.  This one came from the Bob Wills Bash in Turkey.  The Wok is actually a plow blade.



The time and temperature discipline will get the meat done, but not overcooked. Too quick will make it tough, and too hot or too long will dry it out. Overcooked brisket will not slice properly, and will be stringy or tough or both. A lot of commercial barbeque will seem to “grow” as you chew it. You’ll take a bite, start to chew, and the meat will seem to swell up as you chew it. This indicates either bottom cut only cooked too much, or both cuts, cooked way too much.

As I mentioned earlier, the Hotter’n Hell Hundred is almost upon us. I am still trying to get into one hundred mile condition, and can now guarantee that I will go one mile for each year of my life, and probably one to grow on. In any case, at about three p.m. on August 24, 1996, I plan to cross the finish line in downtown Wichita Falls. Keith Cecil, Bill Hallmark, and Charles Flowers will be there, and any of the rest of you who care to show up are welcome. The distance is not important, the effort is.

Friday night at Neil and Manor McMullen’s home, we will have the annual McLaughlin Super-Carb Pasta Dinner. Later that night, or possibly Saturday night, we’ll have the “Neil and Manon McMullen National Invitational Poetry Symposium” I hear that Flowers will do, “The Cremation of Sam McGee”, and due to many requests, I will not do “The Face on the Barroom Floor”. I may write an original poem for the occasion. I’ve already go one verse, and I guess I’ll share it with you.

“We took our dates to drive-ins,
  Later we met them in bars.

  We all had hot rods back then
  and some of us even had cars.”                                 

We’ll have a good time, celebrating our first sixty years. You all ought to come join us. I promise I’ll get back to serious barbeque next time, I just got carried away, thinking about the Ride.

Road Trip Number Six--Marina and Big Horace



Strange Cactus-like succulent now growing on my front porch

      Six AM in Marina, California, is not a busy time so we decided to walk down to a taco stand we’d noticed and get some breakfast.  It was closed until ten am, so we went another block to a convenience store to look for breakfast tacos.  They had some of those frozen things with opaque packaging, so you have to buy it to see what it is—the truth being that if you knew what it was, you wouldn’t dare buy it.  I was grousing around the glass-doored freezer when I heard Wayne talking—he had found an audience—surprise, surprise!

     “We’re on a sort of bucket list road trip here,” Wayne was saying to a tall fireman whose polished name plate said “J. Lundgren.” “We’re just running the blacktop, heading up the road to Oregon to see my brother.”

     The fireman—he was some kind of officer-- uniform sharply creased in a military fashion, spit shined shoes, polished brass, the works--said, “Well, what a fine time of the year to do it.  The weather is great this time of year.  Looks like you two are having a good time.”

     “Yeah, but we’re having trouble finding a breakfast taco.  Don’t you all have those here in California?  Hell, they’re on every corner in Texas and you’ve got at least as many Hispanic folks as we do!”

     J. Lundgren said, “You need to go over to my cousin’s place.  It’s just a few blocks from here and he has a breakfast burrito you won’t believe!  He’s an Italian—my cousin by marriage—but he’s all right and makes a great burrito.  Place called “Coffee Mia.”  You can’t miss it—just around the corner and down the block.” 

     Both Wayne and I were intrigued—we came on this trip to discover new places and meet new people.  J. Lundgren gave us detailed instructions and insisted it was an easy walk to Coffee Mia.  Just to be safe, we went back to the motel and got the truck.  Thirty minutes and about two miles later, we pulled up to a strip center with Coffee Mia occupying the front corner space.  There were a couple of tile tables and a few scattered chairs out front on the sidewalk.

     Inside, there were several small tables to the front and left of the space, near the big windows.  All down the right side was a glass counter filled with pastries, pies and a few cakes.  The entire wall behind the counter was covered with a giant menu.  Between the counter and the menu, there was a mousey little lady and a big Italian guy.  The lady took the orders and the Italian did the cooking.  From the menu, it was a combination bakery, Deli, Bistro, Coffee shop, Italian restaurant, Mexican restaurant and neighborhood café, all in one.  There were travel posters on the walls and a chalkboard with daily specials.

     I was discussing the choices of coffee with the mousey little girl when I heard Wayne, who had gone directly to the big Italian, engage in conversation.

     “We’re on a sort of bucket list road trip here,” Wayne said.

     “Well, God love you!” boomed Horace, the Italian.  I knew we were in the right place.

     “A fireman we met told us about this place.” I said.

     “Oh!  That’s Kona Jack.  We call him that because he always wants Kona Coffee.  He’s not Italian, but he’s all right.  Married my wife’s niece.”

     Wayne ordered the breakfast burrito—I hesitated, because it sounded like more than I should be eating, even on vacation.  I decided to order oatmeal.

     “What, you are gonna eat oatmeal when the world’s greatest burrito is on the menu?  What kind of deal is that?” Wayne chided.

     “Maybe he knows that we also serve the world’s greatest oatmeal.”  Pointed out Horace. “What’s the next stop on your odyssey?”

     “I have some friends in Moraga, if you know where that is.  We’ll spend the night with them tonight.”  I answered.

     “Moraga, huh?  Of course I know where it is!  I once ran a tire store in Moraga—beautiful little town.  Saint Mary’s University is there.”  We talked some more while Horace prepared our food.

     The oatmeal was really good.  Not instant and not micro-waved.  Steel cut oats, probably Irish, and cooked long and slow, so that it was rich and smooth and creamy.  Horace gave me my choice of about six different fresh fruits for topping—I chose fresh strawberries and bananas and it was delicious.

     Coffee Mia is open six days a week, from 4:30 AM until 6 PM, and Horace is there all the time.  He gets there at Four AM and leaves at Seven PM and does the rest of his life during his free time.  We had a nice visit with him.  I admire his work ethic and thoroughly enjoyed his restaurant—you can find out about it if you Google “Coffee Mia—Marina, California.”  I still wish I’d had that burrito.  You had to see it to believe it.

     To me, Horace epitomizes the type of person who makes this country great—he demonstrates the ability, ambition, courage and adaptability that have built this nation.  It is interesting that Kona Jack Lundgren thinks Horace is all right, in spite of the fact that he is Italian, and Horace thinks Lundgren is all right, even though he is not Italian… they are both American.   At the risk of sounding silly, I have to admit they make me proud.  They could have grown up in Lubbock.