MEANDERINGS – by Peter Rocchio

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We’re back!
Eight days in Texas and I’m in need of rehabilitation. Bill and I have returned to his home, Weatherford, just twenty five miles due west of Ft. Worth for thirty seven years now and wouldn’t you think I would have come to understand the cultural divide between Texas and just about everyone else. Well, I haven’t! This trip was particularly jolting.
Being a blue person in a red state shouldn’t be all that difficult but Texas is more than just being red – it’s red neck and as things would have it – I’m blue blood (so to speak). Mixing red and blue give us – you guessed it – purple.  Purple as in bruised – emotionally, politically and culturally.  Where do I start?

We have become accustomed, even here in Orlando to the urbane acceptance of being gay and us as a gay couple.  There is no feeling here that we must be discreet or closeted   - maybe not demonstrative but that wouldn’t be in the best of taste anyway.  In Texas there is no sense of urbanity – not even in Dallas. The Texas style is one of compulsive, totally pervasive uber-butch. Boots and guns and pickup trucks are merely the blatant manifestation of this.  It is the more insidious which creates unease.  They speak in code – I don’t.  There is a language for putting down everyone who is ethnically, religiously or geographically different or when all else fails, they simply dismiss the person with "damned Yankee" regardless where he or she might be from.

Are all Texans so insecure and have such low self-esteem that they must believe that everyone is a rung of the ladder below them? It would appear so.  What is it about education, music, the arts and fine food that is so threatening as to require blanket denigration? The great columnist of the Ft. Worth Star Telegram, Molly Ivens has made a career of covering the Texas state legislature and revels in pointing out the cultural perversity of those in charge. She affectionately refers to all of them as, sumbitches and the Bushes as shrubs.  She manages to survive this vast wasteland by living in the only habitable place in the state – Austin. (The city currently has a campaign underway entitled – Keep Austin Weird). Now that’s a place to live.

Anyway, Bill told me thirty-seven years ago, when we were returning for a visit, that if I decided to do some cooking I shouldn’t expect to find any butter or heavy cream in the supermarket.  I laughed. He was right. Only margarine and no cream.  Well, all these years later they do have butter and heavy cream but a visit to the new Cracker Barrel caused me to sigh, "Welcome to Texas".  I asked the server for some well-done English muffin with my scrambled eggs. "We have no English muffins" she replied. "Ok, then let me have some rye toast, well done". "We don’t have no rye bread" was the grammatically defective response.  Bill's reaction was, "Peter, this is Texas.  English Muffins and rye bread are too sophisticated for them".  When we got to Bill's sister's house I asked her if she ever bought English Muffins or rye bread and was told, "no, never".  When we stopped at Ft. Worth's famous barbeque restaurant, Angelo's, I looked up at the menu board and there it was, at the bottom of the Sandwiches it said, "Rye bread $.45 extra".

You don’t have to be in Texas for very long to realize why George W. is so popular there.  He embodies everything they stand for.  He’s not too bright, not sophisticated, doesn't speak well, was a rounder in his younger days, wears jeans and boots and drives a pickup truck, was a west Texas oil man and owner of a baseball team.

So be advised, caveat emptor, entering the lone star state could be dangerous to your well being!

Along that note – have you seen the bumper sticker showing up around town that says, "If you can read this – you're not the President"?

Have you heard, there's a gay restaurant in town?  On Mills Avenue just south of Virginia Avenue is 'FRIENDS'.  The place, the food, the décor and the servers need to read a handbook on what is expected of a stereotypical gay.  Knowing food, savvy to tasteful, décor and always charming.  'FRIENDS' needs an infusion of all of these.  The décor/ambience is early trailer park.  The menu is too broad and in some instances too demanding for the kitchen and gay friendly/charming not at all.  The food wasn't terrible, except for the lamb chops which were charred lumps of indiscernible meat.  When one of our party asked the server for some mustard for his sandwich he was brought an industrial sized plastic bottle of yellow mustard (ugh!) which was in fact empty.  More homestyle food, meatloaf,  pork chops, fried chicken mashed potatoes, etc. would I believe be more welcomed and for heavens sake, buy a reostat!

After much anticipation we dined at LUMA on Park Avenue, Winter Park. The deep pockets of Brent France of NASCAR showed.  The space, on the ground floor of the Bank of America building is stunning. Dramatic use of stainless steel, glass and fabric give the restaurant a Manhattan-like ambiance (If you can, take a look at the private dining room down the wine-bottle lined staircase  - it's gorgeous). I said , "all the food had to be was, on a scale of one to ten, a seven to succeed”. After dinner I would place it the food somewhere between a six and a seven.  There were far too many mistakes for a restaurant at this price point (moderately expensive). They served a plate of whole fish with no bone plate and an order of steamed mussels again without a place for the discarded shells.  Each course was delivered with the unacceptable, food auction, "who ordered the fish? Which one of you guys ordered the chicken?", etc. the desserts didn't stand up to their effective presentation.  The Coffee and Doughnuts (donut holes served with three dipping sauces was totally boring and the Key Lime Tart was beautifully presented with shards of meringue but lacked the bite one would expect from key limes.

So many restaurants, shows, movies and friends to see – when I’m King the days will be lengthened and the weekends extended.

Ciao for now!

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