Pulling the Ruggles out from Underneath Me

Ah the Heights. The new Rice Village. The New Montrose. The New... well, Heights. It's getting a lot continued attention. Lots of new places opening: bars, restaurants, trendy condos. You know the drill with neighborhood transition.

When 11th Street Cafe changed hands, I thought great! A Ruggles. Within walking distance. I was excited because my experience has always been good. This made the increase in traffic, the higher crime rate, and the obnoxious parking worth it. Well, almost.

Ah, such highs, such lows.

My first visit was close to when they opened. I thought, I'll cut some slack and give them a second try. It is, afterall, Ruggles. After my second visit, I thought: Does Ruggles know someone is using their name?

Either way, I won't go back.

For starters, the first visit. It was a dinner. My friend Chris and I got a booth. The music in that specific location was so loud neither of us could hear. I asked if someone could turn the music down. The answer was a shrug. Hmmm.... So I asked again. The server said, "Everyone says it's too loud." Imagine me raising my hand: Oooo. Oooo. I have solution.

We ended up moving to a new table, unsanctioned by the server. It was too loud. Plain and simple. And after asking twice, one would think that would suffice as reason to turn it down. It wasn't necessarily better, as the music was loud at that new table as well. Just, well, just making the point I guess.

The food was nondiscript. It wasn't great. It wasn't good. It wasn't memorable. I had a salad. I have it in my head that Ruggles is great for salads. It was, well, overpriced for mediocre. Now I think of Ruggles as being good, comforting food. Not so at this time. Then we got dessert--always a homerun, right? I got the strawberry cake. It was an excuse for pink food coloring in the cake. No strawberry flavor. I realize those desserts are shipped in, so that would be a company-wide issue. But was was unique to this location was that it had been sitting around for a while because it was that dry crumbly texture.

When Matt suggested that we go for breakfast one morning about six weeks later, I thought, "It's been a few weeks. I'm sure they're on their feet." We walked down there and got... you guessed it... the SAME EXACT TABLE. You know, the one with the too-loud music. Didn't change. Still too loud so imagine that blaring in the background of the story.

We sat down and ordered drinks from a guy who has a case of the mumbles. "WErjk ewlrkjwelkj lwetewlkjrtljwe?" "Drinks?" I asked, clarifying the waiter's mumble. "YES. Drinks," He barked. He walked away, and a woman, who appeared to be manager came and said, "Did someone take your order?" I said, "No, I--" She cut me off, "I'll get someone here right away." Before I could even open my mouth again, she turned and found Mumbles.

Our drinks arrived and we ordered. I got eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast. A fairly easy-going order. Matt got Huevos Rancheros. Mumbles said, "asltiu awerkitag alkfdgdfigu iewr?" I said, "I'm sorry?" He literally barked, "HOW DO YOU WANT YOUR EGGS?" Oh. Poached. He shlupped away.

A few minutes later, our orders were up. The manager lady was walking out with them. Now she'd been hovering around the entire time, bossing everyone around, snapping at customers. A waitress passed by her at that very moment and the manager told her, "Take these to that table." She nodded in our direction. The waitress whined, "But that's not my tay-bul." The manager said, "Well it's not my table. Take them." She shoved the plates at her. "But I have to get something for my tay-bul." The manager got even more aggressive: "This isn't my job." Um, taking care of customers isn't the restaurant manager's job? Really?

Our food was slammed on the table and she said, "Do you need anything else?" I said, feeling sheepish since it wasn't her table, "My toast?" She said, "That comes with toast?" Um, "Yes?" I felt bad asking for what I ordered. I mean, how dare I?

The food: cold. Not just lukewarm, cold. The bacon was that over cooked type where it's so hard it crumbles apart just picking it up. It was impossible to chew. It was not crispy, it was crunch. Hard and cruncy. The eggs were sitting in a puddle of water and the scalloped potatoes (yes, for breakfast) were separating. Grease pooling at the bottom and cream curdling on the top. It was absolutely disgusting. Foul. Matt's huevos were cleverly designed, but the eggs were watery and cold. I couldn't even both to take a bite. If the food had been even remotely edible, it would have been salvaged.

I don't see any reason to go back. Truly, someone could tell me they're great, they've improved, they've fixed the problem. I would still never go back. I am a paying customer. I shouldn't be barked at by the server. I shouldn't watch a fight over who throws my food at me.

Getting Down with the Down House

It's been awhile. I know. It's not because I haven't wanted to blog. And it's not because I haven't been eating. The Gap is well aware of the fact that I am stuffing my face with such intensity that I go up a pants size often enough to keep them recession-proof.

No, I... I...I... moved to Austin. It was temporary. I swear. And I didn't even like it there. It wasn't meant to be long term. I promised to stay only three years. I did. Now I am back. I got a PhD, or most of it, anyway, and now I am back.

The good news: there are so many wonderful restaurants that I get to talk about. And what about all those losers that are no longer around? Fun too! I can even delete a post or two. Naaaah.

Anyway, here's the dish. And I mean dish, literally.

Go to the Down House. It's just south of 19Th street on Yale in the Heights. Yep. Delish. And that's not just the beer goggles talking.

I went first with my friend Chris. (Hi Chris.)We had an amazing breakfast. I was a bit unsure. I thought the kitsch was cute and all. It's like a 1940s speakeasy sort of thing. The staff is dressed in vests, old timey dresses, use books to distribute checks, and have one awesome drink menu with all the classics you hear about. (More to come... hang in there.)

Chris was telling me about his non-date that was coming up, when I spied, yes, wait for it... pulled pork hash. Who does that? Well, Down House for one, if I may answer my own question. But that was amazing dish. It was perfectly cooked potato, and the nice unctuous flavors that pulled pork can bring to a dish like that. There were eggs on top, I am guessing. I mean, I was so focused on the meat and potato that I could hardly tell you any more.

Except when Chris took a moment to scratch his nose. That's when I dove in, uninvited, into his plate of goodness. He had a breakfast sandwich: eggs, cheese, tomato. Also, a winner. I don't know if the breakfast menu is set, I think it might be. I know the dinner menu is not.

So a few days later when my Huz and I decided to go for dinner, I said, hey, how about Down House.

In his usual grouch he said, "What do they have, grrr."

"I don't know. I think they change their menu, like every day."

"Grr."

When we got there, he loosened up a little. I think the different atmosphere/speakeasy gig threw him off. Whew.

When we sat down, immediately, do not pass go, I encouraged him to have a cocktail. But the choices were so vast and awesome that it was hard to decide. That's why you have a waitress my friend. She coached us both. What do you like. At the same time The Huz said, "dry" and I said, "girlie". I ended up with a sloe gin fizz after debating about a Tom Collins, an Old Fashion, and a Pimms Cup as potential winners. The Huz: a something that burned the hair follicles off the inside of my nose. They made these drinks the old fashioned way, or perhaps the right way. Either way you want to look at it, it's slow. My drink took a few minutes to get to the table-- but it was worth the wait as the foam that was the whole point of the drink was perfect. Fluffy and pink.

We had to join the club, as in, they ran our license, we signed a paper, then got our drinks. So we're in the club. I guess a drinking club is as good as any.

For dinner, I was right, they had a daily menu. We had the appetizer quesedillas and the sea bass sliders. Yep. Tiny sea bass, expertly marinaded, beautifully plated, and quickly snarfed down. The quesedillas had that pulled pork, some salsa, and a side of green avocado and deathly hot pepper.

I am not one to turn a dessert away, so we got the chocolate creme brulee with chipotle pepper in it. It was a genius move. The pepper did a lovely burn and the dessert was a delight. We both had another cocktail, but again: dry and fruity.

I approached the topic lightly: "What did you think?"

The Huz: "I would totally come back."

Whew.

And it's a good thing. Because in short, go. It's worth it. They have a wonderful staff, the place is cute, the seating is comfortable.

Non-Food Blog... Sorry.

The first few days in our new neighborhood (in the house Matt and I are renting) were filled with some pretty crazy moments. I was worried about living near Airline in the far east "Heights" area. At times, it reminded me of the area I grew up in. Sometimes, we'd come out and the gas would be siphoned out of the tank. Other days, blissful ice cream runs were interruped by a smackdown on the front lawn. You just never knew what was coming on 19th Ave. I had a feeling Louise St. might be a similar experience.

First there was Leopard Lady. This was the woman living in the garage apartment behind the house. She was an anorexic, smoking, drinking, cussing, 50-something biker who walked around in assless leather chaps (nothing underneath except skivvies) and leopard print halter tops. Hence the name, leopard lady. Within a week she was evicted for the following offenses:

• A trash heap in the driveway that measured 20' long x 10' wide x 8' high (filled with shoes, chairs, shower curtains, books, games, dried flowers, jeans, and every other kind of shit you can think of). Picture Granny from the Beverly Hillbillies. This is what Leopard Lady looked like when she sat atop her heap and help court with her fellow biker friends.


• Letting her rotwiler Elvis shit all over the lawn and not picking it up. I imagine Elivs was nice, but my paralyzing fear of dogs always got the better of me.


• Blasting music in the wee hours and having rucous sex in the driveway outside our kitchen window. Good for her, yes, it was. We all heard just how good it was.


• Kicking the dog across the street named Bumpy (keep reading).


• Flaunting her M16 machine gun. All I could picture was a Guns and Ammo wall calendar with her picture on it.

• Failing to pay the first month's rent.

About a week after we moved in, there was a knock on the door. It was 3 AM. I shook Matt.

"Someone's at the door." I started hauling myself out of bed, and forgot that Matt has his ear plugs in. I guess I snore.

"Shabashamsha shasha, whasha."

"Matt," I say sternly. "Get up. There's someone here." By now, I am padding do the door.

"What's going on? I can't hear you." He's a real champ in a crisis, this one.

"Matt," now I am yelling. "The police are here. Get up."

I opened the door and the police officer said, "Ma'am, I hope I am not disturbing you." Um, no, no, not at all? Just sleeping. "Is that your silver car out there? We just arrested someone for breaking into it." He steps back and motions to a guy sprawled out over a car. They're fisking him and removing multiple handguns.

No, I explain, that's Leopard Lady's car and shit in the drive. They head up to the garage, but ask me to hang on while they investigate. Matt shuffles out rubbing his eyes, "What's going on?" For the next 30 minutes, we watched then recover the stash, hidden in some bushes. They took away the gentleman and we all went back to sleep. The next morning, we learned the police were alerted by the man living across the street.

You see, the neighborhood is just that, a hood. There are some well groomed areas and we were ushered into the home with open arms. On Matt's first visit to the house, he'd not even walked from the car to the house when he was accosted by who we later learned was Mrs. Garcia's grandson (perhaps an MS-13 flunkie). Mrs. Garcia lives in the house directly across the street and has for the last 50 years. Grandson ran across the street with a yippy chihuahua at his heels to inform Matt of the rules of the block, which included no black people and no selling of hard drugs. Yes folks, home sweet home. (For clarification, yes, black people can visit, and no marijuana is not a hard drug.) He also told Matt that he lives in the Galleria and has four children by four different women. This was also the man sitting outside watching as a theif rifled through Leopard Lady's trash heap.

The chihuahua yipping at his heels belonged to Mrs. G, Bumpy. He was not leashed nor neutered and we were to be careful as he often stood in the street. It's impossible to see him in a rear-view mirrow. (He's a stud chihuahua, so he's very valuable. He stands in the middle of the street day and night barking incessantly, with these huge, gigantic doggie balls. It's absolutely repugnant. When I see the dog from behind, all I can see are these balls that are actually the same size as Elvis's. No wonder he's a stud.)

The day after the trash heap break-in, I had the afternoon alone in the house. Rather than unpacking, I was trying to nap. It was an unsuccessful venture what with waking up to Elvis's antics of crawling under the house and barking incessantly. My heart stopped each time, as my fear of dogs is a reflex action. Another attmept to nap was short-circuited by the blaring of... was that brass instruments? Yes, yes it was.

I peeked out the window, but I knew I would need a better view of what was transpiring. With my protective anti-Elvis Maglight in hand, I saw there was a five-piece mariachi band in full regalia at Mrs. G's house. Sombreros, silver-studded pants, ruffley shirts. Apparently, she was turing 75 and they were having a fiesta. (I pieced this information together as a result of the two 4 foot tall balloons: one a 7 another a 5. I'm quick like that.) This was thrilling. They were playing away, people were dancing and clapping. This was fun. This was my hood, people! I bounced along to the music, waved to Mrs. Garcia and to Grandson. I kept saying to myself, look interested, maybe they'll invite you over for some beer and tamales. I knew they would have tres leches. Alas, they simply waved back. After the Mexican Hat Dance number, I went in a little broken hearted.

In short, the welcome to the neighborhood was, well unique. And memorable. Viva la Bumpy.