They didn't teach this in college

Now, my life has never been stuff that would make the cover of Rolling Stone. Or even the cover of Atlantic Monthly. Or even the Duke alumni magazine. But since moving to Seattle I'd say that my sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyle has been dialed back even more. Which is why I have a blog that is filled with stories about various tomato based products.

Sadly, I have another story to add to the list. This one involves gazpacho. When my folks were in town last weekend we ate at a place that had, arguably, the best gazpacho I've ever had. As I gazpacho craftsman I respected the texture and ability to balance the sweetness of tomatoes with just a hint of spiciness. The fact that they also threw in a hunk of crab meat and some sort of guacamole-type foam was just pure overkill (in the "oh my is that good" kind of way, like frosting on a donut is overkill, but overkill you appreciate). The gazpacho used heirloom tomatoes, and since I had seen some good looking heirlooms in the store I decided to try it for myself.

Well, the short story is that the gazpacho turned out okay. I tried some different things this time (red wine vs. balsamic vinegar, less olive oil, no bread in the blender, no straining, basil and green onion instead of cilantro), and none seemed terrible. The problem is that after slicing the garlic and jalapeno I rubbed my eye. Didn't think much of it. And then 30 seconds later I felt pretty much the worst searing pain I've ever felt.

At least since I did this while camping before college in 1995.

On the camping trip there was a really beautiful girl who blew in my eye until the burning stopped. I didn't have one of those handy here in Seattle, so I ran into the shower and stuck my head in while getting undressed so I could really get into the shower. After about 5 minutes the pain went from Terrible to Bad, and after another five minutes it was down to Uncomfortable. I only thought I was going to be blind for 20 minutes or so.

All in all, it was probably best that Huan wasn't here for that because A) it would be embarrassing to do that in front of someone and B) it would have been incredibly uncomfortable to ask him to blow in my eye. One of us would have had to move to Shanghai.

Viva Costco Salsa!

When I arrived in DC last Friday I went to have lunch with some ex-coworkers. Sadly, most of them bailed, so I ended up with a man-date with my friend Steve... he blabbered on about some sort of InterWebs business he is starting. The tension broke when my friend Kathy stopped by the restaurant. She brought a gift.

The only salsa worth stealing.

Sadly, la salsa del dios needs to be refrigerated, so I couldn't take it back home to Seattle. Instead I brought it to the little BBQ I attended on Thursday night on my friend Kate's roofdeck. I wondered whether others would think the salsa worthy of the praise I've given it... so I was pleasantly surprised to find that a group of just 7 people at the entire jar. This isn't one of those tiny Tostitos jars either... it's a pretty big container. Now, since this was a pre-dinner appetizer it's entirely possible that people were just hungry and would have eaten anything. But I like to think that they were appreciating how good the salsa was.

Salsa redux

Huan and I have become somewhat infamous amongst the Harvard MBA/Microsoft crowd out here for our salsa exploit back in February. It's nice to make your mark early on... now everyone is terrified we're going to walk out of their party with their wedding china.

Anyways, I was at a (mostly Microsoft) BBQ on Derby Day with my friends Pat, Krim, and Cathy. We were standing around on the patio trying to huddle for warmth. Cathy brought over a plate of various snack items... some cheese, some chips, smoked salmon, and some salsa. I didn't recognize it by sight, but as soon as the salsa hit my taste buds I knew its origin. Within seconds the beautiful concoction of tomatoes and onions and cilantro and other goodies was coursing down my throat. I was in heaven. I'm quite sure my eyes rolled back in my head.

It was the Costco salsa.

Pat's a blog reader and so he pretty quickly caught on that we were dealing with the salsa of the gods. I don't remember if anyone encouraged me to try and sneak some out of the party, but I had met the hosts (who were quite nice), and guilt quickly convinced me to leave the salsa be.

But if I'm at another party with an anonymous host... the salsa is fair game. I've got a rep.

Salsa Roadie

Generally when one sees a red plastic Solo cup in the vicinity of a beer pong party one expects said cup to be filled with a frothy beverage. When said cup is then taken out of the party (potentially to another party, or to a Brazilian steak house, for example), that cup becomes a Roadie.

Rarely does one encounter a Roadie filled with salsa. But that's exactly what happened this past Saturday.

Tyler H. invited Huan and I to some party thrown by Microsoft and HBS folks. It was actually quite a bit of fun... good people, mostly decent beer, great music, and inarguably the best salsa I've ever had. It was also the best salsa that Huan has ever had, so when I asked how much I had to pay him to take the leftover salsa home with us, the price was more than affordable: $1. After depositing the salsa in the cup, the following conversation took place (this is approximate/completely made up):

Host: Um, what's in the cup?
Huan: Your salsa. It's the best salsa I've ever had.
Host: I can see that. And you're taking it home?
Huan: Yes.
Host: [silence... he was obviously ready for the party to end, and not just because of us]
Huan: I mean, you got it as Costco*, so it probably comes in gallon jars, right?
Host: No, it comes in regular size bottles. I guess I'll have to get more.

We then went home. To commemorate the occasion, I took the following picture of the Salsa Roadie at 2:08am**:


* If anyone has a Costco membership and wants to send us a care package, we'd gladly accept. I prefer medium spice.

** Sadly, we lacked chips, so we couldn't actually enjoy the salsa roadie until Sunday afternoon.