London – Day 3

Do you ever wake up, convinced the dream you were just having was real? That your emergence into consciousness is simply a continuation of what you’ve been experiencing in dreamland?

Happened to me that morning. I’d been dreaming about the Generalissimo, his counterpart, and a hundred of their loony friends. At some point I’d gone to lay my head down while they played Twister in my room. Then I opened my eyes. And there they were. In my room. Beyond the locked door with the security bolt securely in place.

“Wakey, wakey!” the Generalissimo cried. Worst alarm clock ever. “We are burning daylight!”

I pulled the pillow from under my head and tried to smother myself. Didn’t work.

******

They wanted food, so we went down the street to a pub called the Marquis of Granby. We were the first customers of the day, and if the look on the bartender’s face was any indication, hopefully her last.

“Five English breakfasts!” el Capitán yelled.

“Okaaaaaay,” she said.

My four companions went to a booth, sat, and began playing “I spy with my little eye.” Except they weren’t limiting themselves to things they could actually see, but things they’d actually spied. As in cloak and dagger.

“Is it brown with a funny hat?!” la Capitán asked.

“Indeed!” the Generalissimo said.

“Is it Muammar al-Gaddafi?”

“Indeed!”

I went over to the bar. “I need a pint of Guinness.”

“It’s only ten in the morning,” she replied.

I looked back at my table.

“Is it something less sane than me?!” the Generalissima asked.

“Indeed!” el Capitán said.

“Is it Kim Jong Il?!”

“Indeed!”

I looked back at the bartender. “Better make that two pints.”

She nodded.

“Is it something pink?!” la Capitán asked.

“Indeed!” el Capitán said.

“Is it the Generalissimo’s winter thong?!”

“Indeed!”

I shook my head. “And I’ll need a third one in a to-go cup.”

******

We had but one destination on our schedule that day: the British Museum. If you’ve never been, then you should go. It’s one of the finest storehouses of plundered antiquities anywhere.

My memory of the museum didn’t match up to its current splendor. I remembered dark rooms with simple plaques on them denoting which of the three dozen mummies stacked along the walls I was staring at. Now it’s a state of the art facility teeming with people who believe the “Do Not Touch” signs don’t apply to them.

“Come my good friends!” the Generalissimo said as we stood outside the south entrance. “I will lead the way!”

And so he did. We started upstairs with the Egyptian mummies, spent some quality time with the ancient Greeks, and ended up on a fruitless search for the Lindow Man (he was on loan to another museum). Bummer. I sorta like the bog man.


“See here, my pet?” the Generalissimo said to his counterpart. He pointed to a piece of Babylonian art. “This sheep represents man’s quest for leadership against the forces of tyranny.”

“It’s a goat, sir, not a sheep,” I said.

“Is not!”

“Is.”

“Is not!”

“It says to right—”


“Does not!” He slammed his palm against the description so I couldn’t see it.

I rubbed my temples and walked off on my own. I went downstairs and wandered around the Assyrians and the pilfered bits of the Parthenon. Saw the Rosetta Stone (the actual rock, not the language software). I was just about to go find a nice place to hide from my cohorts when I heard him.

“And on your right you will see a fresco! It is magnificent!”

The Generalissimo marched my way, leading not only his counterpart and the Capitáns, but a group of two hundred tourists.

He wrapped his knuckles against the glass surrounding the Rosetta Stone. The tourists surrounded him, fighting one another for a better view. Normally in a situation like that, the Generalissimo would pontificate about his time at the Alamo. But not this time.


“The famed Rosetta Stone! Brought down from the Temple Mount by Moses himself in 1492! Given to him by God! Translated by the famed American linguist Joseph Smith! It details Noah’s long journey through the Suez Canal on his way down into the bowels of hell, and his triumphant return from the forces of darkness, marshaled against him by itinerant hippies! I salute him!”

He saluted. The Generalissima saluted. The Capitáns saluted. Then the tourists, now numbering close to five hundred, drawn to his voice like flies to a bug zapper, saluted.

I needed another beer. Stat.

******

We went upstairs for high tea. I’d done high tea at the Empress Hotel in Victoria, British Columbia. My wife, my father-in-law, and I sat in plush chairs and snacked on finger foods while savoring a half dozen pots of tea custom crafted for the hotel while a man played the grand piano behind us. An experience I have every intention of repeating the next time we hit Victoria.

But never again at the British Museum. Oh, the sandwiches were fine, the desserts were acceptable, and the tea was, um, tea. That wasn’t the problem.

“Salúd!” the Generalissima yelled. They clanked their china cups to the horror of everyone seated near us.

I tried to sink a little deeper into my chair. The British Museum didn’t believe in air conditioning, so drinking hot tea in the unventilated upstairs level of a building on one of the hottest days of the year seemed like a bad idea.

“You should try one of these!” the Generalissimo said, picking up the last mini pudding and tossing it back. He stuck his tongue into the shot glass to get every last smudge from the inner surface. El Capitán played with his sandwich, pretending it was a boat. He made little foghorn noises as he sailed the high seas. And by high seas, I mean he was high for all to see.

“So,” I said to him, “you’re Italian?”

He pulled his “ship” into the port of his “mouth.” “Aye!”

“But you’ve got a Scottish accent.”

“Aye!”

“And your name is Spanish.”

“Aye! Look! Another ship is about to take to the water! La Capitán! Fetch my hip waders!”

“Indeed!” she said.

“Indeed!” the Generalissimos said in unison.

Then all four of them picked up a sandwich triangle and made motorboat noises in four different languages.

I grabbed the nearest waiter. “Check?”

******

We hit Harrods on the way home. As a writer, I sorta got left behind when we walked through the pen department (yes, they have an entire room dedicated to writing instruments, and another for the stuff you write on). I drooled over a £5,000 pen I’d only seen in magazines. I had on shorts and a t-shirt with a picture of Albert Einstein proclaiming, “Viva la relativity!” The guys behind the counter in their pressed suits and no sense of humor steered me toward the cheaper end of the room, so as to keep me from scaring off the paying customers.

I met the others upstairs in the oyster bar. They were doing sliders, one every three seconds for at least five minutes. I lost track of how many they ate. The crowd cheered them on.

I wandered off. They might be a while. I found myself in the candy room (I’m sure there’s an actual name for the room, but I couldn’t have cared less). Harrods is an institution, and everyone who enjoys going there for its calming effect on them should be institutionalized. Don’t get me wrong; the place is impressive. But at a certain point you go into sensory overload and just want to escape.

And I tried. But before I could, a crowd of inebriated Germans blocked my path. I looked for another route. Cut left, into the bakery. That’s when I saw it, resting on a wire shelf all alone. Six inches in diameter, with a creamy center and a few lines of frosting drizzled over the top. The last cheese Danish of the day at Harrods.

“I see it too, young Thurman,” the Generalissimo said from over my shoulder. “Quickly, before one of these German devils absconds with it from beneath our watchful gaze.”

And so I did.

London - Day 2

I knocked on their door at ten sharp. The Generalissima let me in. She’d changed into what I like to think of as her lounge wear: jeans and a frilly white blouse with a plunging neckline not usually seen outside of bad porn. The Generalissimo was on the bed, asleep, in his jeans and jacket, topped off with his eponymous jacket and the helmet. And of course, the mustache.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” I asked.

“What! When! Where!” The Generalissimo leapt out of bed, head jerking side to side as he searched for danger.

“It’s just me, sir. You can relax.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.”

“Indeed! Come! Let us continue the adventure! Elsewhere!”

And with that, he was gone. I caught up to both of them at the elevators. They stood, facing the windows.

“That building over there, my pet,” the Generalissimo said, “that is where those ne’er-do-wells of the British Secret Intelligence Service spend their days, coming up with daring adventures for their top agent—a Mr. Bond—to go into the field to deal with. You remember him, do you not my love?”

I really hoped he was talking to his counterpart.

“Indeed!” she said. I looked out the window. Sure enough, we had a nice view of MI-6 headquarters across the Thames. Reminded me of Amazon.com’s headquarters in Seattle.

We got into the elevator.

“Doors...opening,” the elevator voice said. Very British. Very female.

“Glad she cleared that up,” I mumbled.

“Doors...closing—doors opening.”

A beefy paw stuck through the doors. They began to open, and the Capitáns got in.

“Oh, goody,” I said.

“Greetings, my comrades in the good fight!” el Capitán said. He had on his summer uniform, which looked a lot like the Generalissimo’s, only tan. Come to think of it, there was a bit of a family resemblance between the two. A little creepy if you ask me.

“Doors...closing.” And this time they actually did.

******

It’d been fourteen years since I was last in London. Oh, what a trip that was. Twenty college kids spending spring break on another continent with a lower drinking age and a burning desire to see the world. Well, except for me. I missed a lot, as I was so busy avoiding my then girlfriend that I only saw the few things I wanted to see, like a soccer game at Wembley and the McLaren dealership on Park Lane (the only one they ever had, as they only made a hundred or so F1s in total).

This time would be different. While I wouldn’t mind losing my four nutjob companions, chances were better than even they’d know some good places to see. The Generalissimo spent many months here with the SAS back when he was young and not insane, and the Generalissima was originally French, and so she spent her free time in London every time her homeland got invaded by German tourists.

We decided to start off with a pleasant double-decker bus tour of the town. We sat up top, with the sun beating down on us like we’d said something about its sister. We saw the big sights, including Tower Bridge, the London Eye, and even the new Ferrari store on Regent Street. Which was all well and good, until we heard the sirens.

“Evil is coming!” el Capitán yelled.

The Generalissimo stood. “It is time, my good friends! Come! We must assist these brave officers in their time of need!”

The bus swerved as three red BMWs outfitted with London Metro’s Specialist Firearms Command colors (aka CO19) blasted by, sirens at full wail. I looked up. The Generalissimos and the Capitáns were gone. Just like that. I heard someone scream below. I looked over the railing. The sunglassed avengers (all four of them) were commandeering a taxi and giving chase.

I shook my head. A part of me hoped they’d forget where they parked the hotel. Maybe let me sleep in the next day.

******

I was at the pub for all of five minutes before they popped in. I’d had a Super-chilled Guinness (I was told they took an inferior version of Guinness and brought it down to 1or 2 degrees Celsius so no one would notice) and was well on my way toward polishing off a second when I felt someone sitting next to me.

“Did you miss us?!” the Generalissimo said. He grabbed my glass and finished it off for me. How sweet.

“Um, no?” I said.

“I am feeling a mite peckish!” la Capitán screamed. I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to get her a menu, so I stood to get one. Then they all stood.

“I think I can handle this,” I said.

“We are the Three Musketeers!” el Capitán yelled.

“But there’s five of us,” I pointed out.

He scratched his head. I think I may have broken him.

“Twenty-five steps!” the Generalissimo cried. He liked to tell me how many steps ahead of him I was at any given moment. Apparently I was regressing.

“We have reservations!” the Generalissima said. She’d changed, again, this time into a polka dot mini skirt and a t-shirt that claimed she was “With stupid.” I couldn’t have agreed more.

******

Tas is a small chain of restaurants specializing in Turkish fare. The closest one was on The Cut near the Southwark Tube stop. The room was packed when we arrived, filled with a hundred noisy guests out for a night on the town. El Capitán went to the desk.

“How many, sir?” the woman asked.

“Five!”

The hostess looked us over. They’d decided on formal attire for the evening, which meant for once I was underdressed. I’d put on pants, of course, and a nice button down shirt that went with my eyes. They’d gone with full dress uniforms and all their medals. They clanked as they marched in unison own the street. Even the local skinheads avoided us.

The hostess looked around the restaurant. I saw a table near the back, which is where I thought she was taking us until she reached the stairs and led us to the basement. The white walls and matching tables seemed somewhat sterile. She took us to the corner and had us sit.

“I will order for all of us!” the Generalissima said before the hostess could leave.

“Um,” she said. “I’ll send the sever over—”

“We will have the three course meal! This one!” She pointed to the Aslan menu option that included humus (it was humus), enginar (an artichoke dish that I couldn’t stop eating), dolma (stuffed grape leaves, which were to die for), cacik (cucumber yogurt, which was about what you’d expect), zeytin yagli patlican (eggplant in oil, which I thought was good but that the Generalissima refused to touch), felafel (which were magnificent), and a main course of grilled lamb, chicken, and kofte (minced lamb with spices).

The four of them drank like fish and rehashed old battles. Pretty sure a few of the wars they were going on about happened in the late seventeenth century. And Prussia hadn’t existed in almost a century. Yeah, yeah, I know that it wasn’t officially gone until 1947, but let’s be honest; World War I was when it stopped being relevant. Can I please continue? Thanks.

Full of good wine and equally excessive food, my four companions stopped talking, leaned back, and started snoring. The server brought the check to me. I grumbled, paid the bill, then magically the four of them woke up. We went back to the hotel, and I crawled into bed, vowing to get the hell away from them at my earliest opportunity.

London - Day 1

“You should come! It will be glorious!”

He had to be kidding. Much as I wanted to take an all expenses paid trip to London, the last thing I wanted to do was spend the week with him.

“And the Generalissima will be accompanying us! You two don’t spend enough time together! She’s been meaning to speak to you about that!”

Goody.

Which is how I found myself on a non-stop flight from Seattle to London on British Airways. The Generalissima was nowhere to be found. The Generalissimo took the window seat, and I took the aisle. The open spot between us was actually his seat, but he liked watching the clouds and telling me what they looked like.

“That one is a flamingo eating a doughnut!”

I tried to get comfortable, but British Airways seemed to think that coach seats should be the same size as the ones you used in second grade. No amount of adjusting it would make me fit properly.

I slept through a good portion of the flight, but the Generalissimo did not. Periodically I’d awake to the sounds of the flight attendants yelling at him to, “Sit the hell down, sir.” His counterpart, the Generalissima, eventually came down for breakfast. Apparently she’d been flying the plane. Explained the barrel roll over Greenland.

“I ordered you a special meal!” the Generalissimo said to me.

“Oh, goody.” The attendant handed me a tray filled with the same prepackaged food that everyone else was getting. I cocked an eyebrow at the Generalissimo.

“It’s fine! You’ll like it!”

“It’s a piece of bread, a cup of coffee, an wet nap.”

“Indubitably!”

I ate. The coffee was foul; there’s no other word for it. Bitter, sour, and made from what I assumed to be overcooked coffee beans that had already been used at least once.

“How was your breakfast?!” he asked. I think he was smiling under that mustache. No real way to tell.

“It was...” How does one describe something so bland as to defy description? “It was fine.” It wasn’t even related to fine.

The Generalissima came on the PA and scared the hell out of the other passengers with her talk of “villainous customs forms” and the need to be “forever vigilant when dealing with those wretched gnomes at baggage claim.” I wasn’t paying much attention, because for the first time since I was twelve, I was feeling somewhat motion sick. Then it occurred to me: I wasn’t motion sick. The Generalissimo’s special meal wasn’t agreeing with me. Not even a little.

“It is okay to be green, young Thurman!” the Generalissimo cried.

I reached for a baggie. Not a second too soon. Note to self: British Airways is to food poisoning as Nemo’s is to carrot cake. Unexpected and most foul.

******

I took a second baggie with me from the plane. If it weren’t for that nice young woman who claimed to be a physician sitting near me, I might not have made it. The Generalissimo generously offered to get my bags, on the condition that I rent the car.

“We’re not renting a car,” I said.

The man’s mouth fell open. “How can this be? Do you not want to experience driving on the wrong side of the road?”

“Not right now.”

He shrugged. I went to the machine and got three one-way tickets on the Tube. He arrived ten minutes later with the bags and the Generalissima, who’d changed out of her flight suit and into a skintight purple one-piece that I was pretty sure she’d made herself. I looked away. Not an image I wanted in my head if at all possible.

******

Our hotel was the City Inn Westminster, just a few blocks from Westminster Abbey and Parliament. We popped out of the ground with our bags and walked. The temperatures were in the low eighties, which wasn’t agreeing with my Pacific Northwest acclimation.

The City Inn was a nice enough place, but the first thing I noticed when we got to our room was the lack of a clock. Apparently the British don’t need to know what time it is. Bully for them. The Generalissimo and his counterpart were staying next door. We agreed to meet in two hours to get some dinner, not that my stomach was all that thrilled with the idea.

I tried to get some rest. Lasted all of five minutes before I heard the shouting next door. Then banging on the wall. It was rhythmic. I almost went over to find out what the heck they were up to, but then I heard the Generalissima moan. May have been the Generalissimo. All I know is I put my earplugs in and went to bed.

******

The walk to the Westminster Tube station was...uneventful, so long as you don’t count a few thousand people staring at a crazy man in a leather helmet wearing his mirrored sunglasses at night. In that case, it was quite the event. The cops guarding the street entrance to Parliament lost their composure as we passed, which was nothing compared to what happened next.

“El Capitán!”

“Generalissimo!”

I looked up from the guidebook I’d been cowering behind. Ten feet in front of us stood a man and woman. Took me a few seconds to come to grips with it all. The man wore a beige dress uniform. She had on the matching flight suit. I guessed they were the Italian equivalent of my traveling companions, even though his bright red shock of hair (and the matching goatee) had me thinking they were Scottish. You can understand my confusion, as his accent was also Scottish.

They saluted. The crowds on the street took many steps back. Smart move. I even took a few back.

“Young Thurman!” the Generalissimo said once he released his salute. “I would like to introduce you to our good friends! El Capitán!”

“A pleasure!” El Capitán barked. He held out his hand. I took it. He squeezed it, shook it up and down once, then let go. Very German, really.

“And this is his counterpart, La Capitán!”

“Buon giorno!” She came over, gave me a hug, and tried to bite my ear.

“Um....” I disengaged as quickly as possible.

“Are you in town for long!” the Generalissimo said after he explained my presence.

“A week!” el Capitán said.

“Indeed! As are we!”

“Where are you staying!”

“The City Inn!”

“As are we!”

“Ah, crap,” I said.

******

We had dim sum for dinner. El Capitán apparently named one of his cats Dim Sum, believing that all pets should be named after food.

“Just in case we find ourselves fighting the ultimate battle!” he cried. “If the provisions run dry, and it becomes necessary to eat our pets, it will be easier if they are not named Fluffy, but Taco Salad!”

“Okay...” I said. Not sure what the proper response is to something like that.

“What is on your agenda, Generalissimo!”

“We have much to discover about this fair land! About its culture! Its plentiful bounty of historical insignificance!”

“Indeed!”

They raised their glasses in salute to one another. I ate another pork bun and tried to blend into the wall. Didn’t work.

And so the adventure began. Seven days, six nights. And apparently, two additional fruit loops to share it with. I wasn’t sure if this was gonna be fun, or something else. On the plus side, I was pretty sure my stomach was done making deposits in the toilet. For now.

Pioneer Bakery cheese Danish

Doughy instead of flakey. A balance of sweet and sour. A folded pastry with two problems that keep it from the title fight.

The Pioneer Bakery of Puyallup, Washington, is one of those little places you’d miss if you blinked. That would be your loss, because they’ve got a few tricks up their sleeves that make me want to go back. The Generalissimo and I aren’t ones to turn up our noses at local bakeries; we tend to prefer them, actually. There’s a place in D.C. that makes these—

“Just get on with it!”

“Yes, sir.” The Generalissimo hasn’t had his daily dose of caffeine, or lithium, or whatever the hell it is that—

“The Danish!”

“Right.” The bread is just that: bread. Most Danishes go for a flakey crust that peels away when provoked. This one didn’t. It was a little off-putting at first, but the flavor was dead on. Its glaring problem was with moisture content. When eaten as a whole, the moisture was less of an issue, but on its own, the bread crumbled around the edges.

Then came the frosting. Buttery goodness laced with sugar. I’ve tasted few Danish frostings that were its equal.

The filling had the right balance of tart and sweet, with a consistency that reminded me of homemade whipped cream. “Hey, did I ever tell you that a friend of mine in high school nicknamed me Whip?”

“No!”

“It was because of—”

“We do not need to hear the sordid escapades from your misspent youth, young Thurman! On with the review!”

“Right.” Like he’s never gone on some tangent about what he and the Generalissima did the previous night in the back of her Citroën DS convertible.

“You asked me how my evening went!”

Anyway, the cheese Danish’s filling was almost perfect, but there just wasn’t enough of it. And for $2.45, more wouldn’t be out of line.

Overall, it was fantastic, which made up for some of its shortfalls. Not the best Danish out there, but definitely on my list of places to stop when I’m in the area.

A-

A Taste of Eden cheese Danish

“Why have we stopped here, young Thurman?” the Generalissimo asked.

“Here” was the Puyallup Farmer’s Market. And we’d stopped because the Generalissimo once again forgot his counterpart’s birthday, and was in need of some fresh flowers to rectify the situation. Of course he’d forgotten that, too.

While I went through the fresh tulips, searching for a nice dozen to get her, the Generalissimo wandered off. I didn’t bother trying to keep track o him; I’d hear the screams of young children soon enough. Or so I thought.

“Young Thurman! Come quick! I have found a situation that requires immediate dispensation!”

“Crap.” I put the flowers back, gave the man at the booth my humblest apologies, and followed the sunglassed avenger of righteousness inside the pavilion.

“Here!” he said. I followed his pointed finger to a small display near the west wall selling bread products. He forced his way to the front of the line, knocking over untold civilians in his haste. “Excuse me, fine citizens! I must ask your acquiescence in this matter! At once!” He thrust a finger at the display case. “Two cheese Danishes, fine sir! To go!”

“You dragged me over here for Danishes? Are you nuts?”

“Four out of five dentists say yes!”

A Taste of Eden Bakeries out of Rochester, Washington, makes artisan breads and assorted baked goods, including a cheese Danish. I’ve definitely had better, but I’ve also had much worse. The bread was excellent, lacking just a bit of moisture to be a solid A in my book. This may have been caused by our late arrival to the farmer’s market, and the warm, dry day. Earlier in the morning, and they might have been better. The frosting was good. Not great, but good. Same with the filling, which came in a generous dollop that I approved of.

The one problem that seemed to permeate this effort was flavor: it had very little. The filling had a slight tartness, but not enough. No lemon that I detected. No special spice to entice me to have another. No flair, given freely by the baker as a sign of his or her expertise. A culinary signature that labeled the Danish as theirs and theirs alone.

I don’t want you to think I disliked this Danish; far from it. It was a solid Danish by any measurement. But when one is searching for the best of the best, one continues looking after a Danish such as this.

Good enough for most folks, but not enough to take the crown.

B+

Vendange White Zinfandel

I like White Zinfandel. It’s easy to drink, goes well with just about anything, and is hard to screw up.

And so it goes with our current test subject. Vendange’s White Zinfandel came in a 500ml container, rated at 11% alcohol. It had no year listed, so its vintage is up for grabs. The packaging was small, which was good, because it was easier to fit in my fridge than any other wine I’ve purchased. It was also cheap ($6).

“Tell them about the legs!” the Generalissimo insisted.

“What legs?”

“The legs! You have to do the swirly thingy with the glass, then you look at the legs!”

I swirled the glass. “I don’t see anything.”

“You’re doing it wrong!” He snatched the glass from my hand and gave it a swirl, spilling large quantities of wine on my carpet. Again.

“Did you see any legs?” I asked.

“No! It is an amputee!”

“Did you take the right pill this morning?”

“Yes! Several!”

The box said that their White Zinfandel “is delicately fruity with crisp notes of strawberry.” And for once, I actually tasted something on the box. Hurray! I tasted strawberries! Very sour, very old strawberries! Amazing. My only real annoyance: the aftertaste was a little bitter, which is out of character for a White Zin. Like I know what the hell I’m talking about or something.

“It is from California, that state of oenological significance and erudite introspection!”

“Huh?”

“It tastes like butter!”

“It does not.”

“Does too!”

“Are you supposed to drink alcohol with those pills?”

“What pills?!”

“The ones you took this morning.”

“I can’t feel my lips!”

I sighed. This had happened before. “I’ll call the Generalissima. Maybe she can give you a lift to the ER.”

“No! She will be most displeased! I promised to take her tasting this time, but I forgot!”

“Blame me.”

He damn near cried. “Do you...do you really mean it?”

“Of course. What’s the worst thing she could do to me?”

“Would you like the whole list?”

“Tell me while I finish off this box of wine.”

“But you have not given it a grade!” He was back in his yelling groove. Goody.

I shrugged. “Two thumbs up?”

“And a pair of mustaches! And a partridge in a pear tree!”

Yeah, what he said.

Nemo's Carrot Cake

I know, I know, we don’t normally taste things outside of the cheese Danish realm, but I was hungry, and the Generalissimo took the only cheese Danish we found at the Chevron station. And as he isn’t one to share, I took what I could find.

I love carrot cake. When done right, it can be a religious experience. My grandmother, for example, could open the megachurch dedicated to carrot cake. Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker might be able to open a local parish of some sort by comparison.

Nemo’s...they might be that guy on the street corner, ranting about the coming apocalypse while scaring away all the tourists. It’s not that Nemo’s heart is in the wrong place, just that they didn’t put it into this cake.

The bread is plenty moist; possibly the moistest I’ve ever come across. The bits of carrot and walnut are very tiny, almost to the point where they blend fully into the rest of the bread. The flavor’s okay, but I’m not going to call and ask for the recipe.

The frosting is the one bright spot here. As carrot cake uses cream cheese frosting, I figured we could give them a chance to prove themselves. And this frosting doesn’t disappoint. Much. The volume is good, the texture is fine, and the sweetness is more than adequate, but it’s missing the tartness that you expect in something like this. Where’s the lemon zest? Where’s the cinnamon?

I tried to get the sunglassed one to take a bite, but he growled, said something unkind about my hair, and got back to driving faster than the cop chasing us thought to be prudent.

So, you’ll just have to live with my evaluation. And my grade.
C+

Green Path’s 2006 Chardonnay

“I thought we discussed this!” the Generalissimo said. “It is not a box!”

“Sure it is. See?” I squeezed the box, sloshing some of Green Path’s 2006 Chardonnay out of the spout and onto my shirt. I’d love to tell you that was the first time that had happened that night, but...

“It is the color of the last sample I gave to the fine physicians at the free clinic!”

“Why were you at the free clinic?”

“Give me the glass!” He took a gulp. Then another. He continued until the glass was empty. “Superb! But it is not from a real box!” He slammed the glass to the ground, shattering what was once my favorite wine goblet. Maybe goblet is a stretch. It was a Snoopy mug I got at the thrift store when I was in college. Still.

“But it’s organic, sir.” He loves the organic. He believes that pesticides are responsible for his chronic kidney stones, as well as the voices he hears in his head. I wasn’t gonna be the one to tell him otherwise.

“Organic? Indeed?” He picked up the box.

“And it’s got a screw top. You love screw tops.”

“It is true! I love them!” To prove this, he unscrewed the top. Then he screwed it back on. Then off. Then on. Off. On. Rinse. Repeat. His mustache got all twitchy with joy.

“Read what it says on the side,” I suggested. He loves reading the sides of boxes. Buy the man a box of Fruity Pebbles, give him a pencil, and he’ll spend hours trying to figure out a puzzle designed for eight-year-olds.

“It says here that Green Path wines are made to satisfy the most discerning wine buyer!”

“You’re a discerning wine buyer. Is it up to your standards?”

“Is what up to my standards?!”

“The wine in your hands.”

“No idea!”

I took the box from him. The container says that the Chardonnay, “displays ripe nectarine characters with vibrant notes of tropical fruit salad.” Sure. All I tasted was cheap wine. It goes on to say that, “It’s a superbly balanced wine that fills the mouth with flavor and has a lingering finish.”

It filled my mouth, alright, but just because it’s got flavor doesn’t make it good. Same with the lingering part. Morning breath lingers. My ex-girlfriend lingered. That creepy guy who hangs out by the elementary school lingers.

I found the wine to be palatable, with a crisp intro, followed by a hug of intense wine flavor, followed by a quick reach-around of burn as it went down my throat. But as none of you care what I thought of the wine, I decided to ask the expert. Again.

“Is this a wine you’d recommend to our discerning readers?”

He shrugged, then tipped the box upside-down, emptying its contents into his gullet. I couldn’t tell if he was swallowing or gurgling or possibly training himself to resist waterboarding. When he finished, he tossed the box aside.

“So?” I asked.

“So what?!”

“The wine you nimrod! The wine! How was it!”

“What wine?”

“GAAAAAAA!”

2009 BMW M3 sedan

Oh. My. God.

A friend of the family owned the previous generation M3, and he once took me for a spin. I’d been in BMWs before, but this was the kind of car you dreamt about when you were sixteen and thinking about your perfect ride. The lines were clean, the convertible top was very cool, and it sounded like it wanted to kill you if it got the chance, just for fun. The power was awesome, bordering on insane.

The border is now gone. The new M3 is not only insane, but thrilled to death about it.

I’ve driven a few cars with this kind of power. My dad’s 1969 Pontiac Firebird. A fire truck. Yep, that’s the whole list.

There’s a reason they don’t give sixteen-year-olds a car like this. I’ve never been to the far side of seventy so quickly, short of an amusement park ride. The engine wound all the way out to eight-thousand RPM like it wondered what the hell I’d been waiting for. First gear is way too short, so short that it makes me question why they bothered. It’s got enough oomph to get going in second gear all day long (I know; I tried). But it’s how that power gets to the wheels that puts a smile on your face and a stiffy in your shorts.

The power is smooth, from way down low to way too high. The clutch was a thing of beauty; not too hard, not too soft, just the way Goldilocks likes it. The brakes were nothing spectacular, but then again, I never really had to stomp on them. The whole car is balanced on a razor’s edge. Explains the lacerations.

I’ve read a few dozen articles over the years about how composed the M3s have always been, how linear their responses are to your every whim. I always assumed they were kidding. They weren’t. The M3 is about the best car I’ve ever driven. I hit a turn marked “25 MPH” at around fifty, tagged the apex, and hammered the gas in third until we were cruising at something north of seventy-five. It absorbed bumps and ignored the ruts. And it did all of this with the suspension set to “Comfort.”

The trunk is big enough for two and a half bodies, so long as you don’t mind stretching to retrieve whichever body goes in first. The driving position is perfect. The rear seats are tight, and headroom is almost nonexistent for someone in my height range (6’1”), but if you’ve got kids, they’ll fit just fine. And they’ll love you for it. Our tester had the base cloth seats, which I didn’t particularly care for. And in a car that costs this much ($65,000 or so), they should use quality fabrics, not the stuff you find on folding lawn furniture.

The controls are where the M3’s story takes a wrong turn. One word: iDrive. Even the stripped down version is needlessly complicated. When the dealer brought the car around, he spent a full forty seconds going through the menus, making sure we were all set to go. Granted, the M3 will make short work of that lost time, but whatever happened to good old-fashioned buttons? They got the job done, and without having to make sure my reading glasses were on.

Also, the Generalissimo wanted me to add that there is no wagon version, for which he will never forgive BMW. They make a Touring version of the M5, but they don’t import it to the US. Our loss.

Sedan, coupe, convertible, I don’t care. I want an M3. I need one. So do you.

A

The Generalissimo looked left. He looked right. We were clear for take-off.

And yet we didn’t move.

“Is there a problem, sir?” I asked.

“No! No problem!”

“Then why are we still sitting here?”

“No reason!”

“Um...we need to test this car. Actually, you need to test this car.”

“I am!”

“You’re not.”

“I am pacing myself!”

I sighed. I was afraid of this. He’d been in the passenger seat while I drove the M3 sedan around town for twenty minutes, whooping and hollering as we went. I think I may have scared him at one point, only because he made the sign of the cross and began muttering to himself in Greek.

“If you’re afraid this is too much car for you—”

“Never!” He peeled out, cutting off a school bus and making rude noises with the tires. If my driving scared him, then I had no adequate way to describe what his driving was doing to me. I just closed my eyes and prayed for deliverance.

“This is fun! We should get one of these! We can leave it at the Ant Hill and release it from it cage when the forces of villainy are once again marshaling their strength!”

“Or we could not cut off the nice man in the cement truck!”

“That’s the spirit! I salute you!” He saluted.

I grabbed the wheel. Good thing, too, because he’d been in the middle of drifting us through a major intersection, tires aflame, small children screaming, baked good running in fear for their lives. When he took his hands off the wheel, it unwound, sending us hurtling toward a fuel truck. He held the salute; I’ll give him that. I forced the wheel hard left, just as we nearly clipped a few thousand gallons of the good stuff.

“Thank you for your assistance! I salute you!”

“Ah, crap.” He didn’t take his foot off the gas, so I had to steer from the passenger seat as we accelerated toward yet another truck, this time a nice pretty green one with a sign letting me know it was full of HCl. Ah, sweet hydrochloric acid. We entered the freeway. The back end tried to come around, but the Generalissimo released his salute and took control. Third gear. Fourth. The M3 pulled us toward triple digits so hard I could feel my heart hammering against my spinal column.

“Can we go back yet?” I said. Begged is closer to the truth.

“Never!” He downshifted, tapped the brakes, and sent us sideways across three lanes of traffic until we were in the carpool lane. Then, he stood on the gas. “Carpooling is my way of thanking Mother Nature for her plentiful bounty! Like bacon!”

“Where exactly are we going?”

“Who cares!” Another shift, another kick in the pants.

Man, what a car.