The Streets of San
Antonio
Pirate Press
March 2018
At the end of 2017, I had a week’s vacation to either use or
lose. And since Mississippi’s weather was being predictably inhospitable with
lots of rain, we decided to flee to nicer climates. Late December/early January
is not a particularly ideal time for traveling as much of the country is
blanketed in wintery temperatures. We accepted this, and then subsequently
debated on a destination since there wasn’t much within a day’s travel that we
hadn’t already visited. After we ate at our first In-N-Out Burger in Dallas last
Spring, my daughter had made it no secret how badly she wanted to return there. And I certainly couldn’t argue with their prices, as a hamburger was just
$2.15 and a side of fries only $1.65. Alternatively, at Five Guys, which
In-N-Out is most commonly compared to, a hamburger retails for $5.39 and fries
are $2.99. However, the real obstacle to eating at In-N-Out obviously wasn’t the
price, but rather the distance required to reach one. Whereas Five Guys is
located in every state, In-N-Out is only in six mostly western states: Arizona,
California, Nevada, Oregon, Texas and Utah. And they didn’t even open the first
Texas location until 2011, a move which had been in the works for a decade.
Also, unlike most fast food companies which try to expand as fast as possible,
In-N-Out is extremely conservative and has vowed to never go
public or franchise its restaurants. As such, the deliberately slow expansion
has been dictated by the company’s fresh food ethos which ensures there are no
refrigerators or microwaves and nothing is ever frozen. The hurdle in
accomplishing this means that every new location requires a dedicated processing
plant and distribution facility. Therefore, given my
daughter’s desire for In-N-Out and my ambition to always see the Alamo, we
arbitrarily agreed on San Antonio.
So with the daunting ten hour drive ahead of
us, we left bright and early (perhaps a little too early for my daughter, who’s
fond of sleeping until noon) the day after Christmas. My plan was not to stop
until Sulphur, Louisiana, which would be around lunchtime and roughly half-way.
The intention for stopping in this obscure mining town was to eat at an
automotive-themed restaurant I’d always read about. I joked with my wife that
Sulphur was located between neighboring cities of Arsenic and Cyanide, but I
don’t think she believed me. In truth, it was lethal hydrogen sulfide that wiped
out hundreds during the early failed attempts at mining in the 1880s. And as it
were, we arrived almost exactly 123 years after sulphur was first successfully
mined on Christmas Eve 1894. With a population of 20,000 that’s barely increased
in forty years, Sulphur is not a place I’d intentionally return to. Despite
that, it houses the only Brimstone Museum that I’ve ever come across. But since we were on a tight schedule, I had to bypass it in favor of the one thing
we stopped for: Quaker Steak and Lube.
As the name implies, Quaker Steak and Lube is
a play on Quaker State motor oil and all things automotive-related. The logo and
building were both intentionally designed in the same vintage checkerboard
white-and-green color scheme of the motor oil when the chain was founded in
1974. I’d often heard of its popularity around car shows, but aside from two
rural Louisiana locations, the next closest was either Clearwater, Florida or
Columbia, South Carolina. And given the limited food choices in Sulphur, you’d
think a Quaker Steak would be a slam-dunk, but such was not the case. Nope, it
boasted some of the worst reviews I’d ever seen on TripAdvisor, being ranked a
lowly 47th out of 53 restaurants, behind even such perennial underachievers as
McDonalds, Taco Bell and Waffle House. And as we pulled in, I began
to see why: The outside sign wasn’t on and there was a
piece of paper taped to the door stating they were closed. However, the door was
unlocked and I discovered that the sign was leftover from Christmas with no one
bothering to remove it. My worries were
starting to stack up like
a pile of dirty dishes, but we were seated
promptly and those were the only speed bumps in an otherwise enjoyable meal.
It’s said that you eat with your eyes as much as your mouth (hence the
popularity of “breastaurants” like Hooters and Twin Peaks) so I wondered how to
quantify the additional pleasure derived from dining under a new Mosiac Black
Metallic Camaro SS? My wife is the Queen of Chicken Wings, so I tried my best to
talk her into trying the “Triple Atomic Wing Challenge”. However, she quickly
declined when she saw that a medical release form was required and that the
wings were rated at 500,000 on the Scoville Heat Index. In comparison, the spicy
Tabasco pepper sauce from nearby Avery Island was rated at a middling 5,000, or
just 1% of the heat of the Triple Atomic Wings! In the men’s bathroom were
several autographed photos of Playboy playmates, though none I recognized with
their clothes on. However, Quaker Steak’s Steakburger was the tastiest burger
I’d eat on the trip. The half-pound of ground sirloin was cooked perfectly and
was quite an upgrade from typical ground beef burgers. Granted, I was slightly
crestfallen to experience the hamburger high-water mark on the first stop of the
trip, but what a way to kick it off!
Our next stop was roughly two-hours later at
the brand new Buc-ee’s in Katy, right outside Houston. If you’ve ever travelled
through Texas, you know it’s your constitutional duty to visit at least one
Buc-ee’s. Distinguished by the beaver-branded mascot, it’s located at the Cane
Island Parkway and is a massive 50,000 sq.ft. supercenter with 100 fuel pumps.
And at 225 ft. long, it also boasts the world’s largest and longest car wash.
Inside, there was thousands of Buc-ee’s merchandise to choose from,
whether it was sunglasses, stuffed animals or the popular, albeit
unappetizingly-named, beaver nuggets. Of course, the enormity and selection also
drew a lot of curiosity seekers and the general chaos reminded of navigating
Penn Station in NYC. Finally, there’s word that a Buc-ee’s is coming this year
to Foley at the junction between Interstate 10 and the
Baldwin Beach Express. Given that it will snag a lot of tourists visiting the
new OWA theme park, it should do gangbusters business!
Initially, our trip to San Antonio was
projected to take 10 hours, but that didn’t portend the heavy traffic delays
outside Houston or the multiple ice, fog and rain we encountered. All of these
issues conspired to slow us considerably, inflating our total travel time to an
exhausting twelve hours. But it was only after we had entered, and escaped,
several time-sapping traffic snarls on I-10 that I began to question the reason
for the holdups. In each instance, I looked for evidence of an accident or other
event that could have triggered our setback, but I never found one. Digging
deeper, I found the most basic explanation for this phenomenon is that
people just don’t know how to drive! Granted, this rudimentary
conclusion may sound as obvious as stating the sky is blue, but it turns out
there’s actually some scientific evidence behind it. If you’re like me, and have
ever angrily announced “That idiot can’t drive!” before furiously swerving out
and passing a dawdling fellow motorist, you might feel somewhat justified by
what I’ve discovered: The technical term that can be applied to this behavior is
“Emergent Property” and it’s when any group cohesively conjoins to act and move
as one. Fire ants are a good example of this if you’ve ever disturbed one of
their nests. Thousands angrily pour out within a few seconds, yet they never
seem to experience any issues running into each other. Nope, the high-speed
efficiency in which they uniformly scale and being stinging en masse is
astounding. But as it turns out, humans apparently aren’t as evolved as insects
when it comes to bilateral control, which is maintaining the same distance from
the object in front of you, as well as the object behind you. Unfortunately,
this control is what’s needed for an effective Emergent Property. Without it,
you have many cars all travelling at different speeds creating, for lack of a
better term, one giant clusterf**k. And that’s precisely what we had to deal
with multiple times on our way to San Antonio.
The next morning, we ventured roughly 30
miles north to Natural Bridge Caverns and discovered Texas Hill Country. We were
so far out that cell reception was spotty and all we saw was miles and miles of
Oak Savanna grasslands and the occasional longhorn cattle. And literally carved out of the limestone and granite
foothills was Natural Bridge Caverns. The actual caverns, the oldest in the
state of Texas, were originally discovered by four plundering college students
in 1960 who were likely looking for some hidden place to turn on, tune in, and drop out. However, much like Walt Disney
built a theme park on swampland, the enterprising landowner turned it into a
tourist destination with such things available today as an Animal Safari, a Bat
Colony Exhibit, a Zip-Line Course, Gem/Fossil Mining, a Maze, and even an eatery
and gift shop.
But despite the
thirty-degree weather, it was clear that the freezing temps did little to
discourage the throngs of gawkers. The tours left every fifteen minutes, and the
one in front of us was only composed of five people, so I was hoping for a
similar number in our party. However, when our turn was called, our line was
fully thirty people deep, including one young couple who deemed it a good idea
to bring a newborn. Our first stop was the inspiration for the name which is a
60-ft. innate limestone arch that stretches across the cavern’s
vestibule. Remarkably, it was formed when the surrounding material collapsed
around it, leaving it suspended. We stopped for pictures and my daughter fired
off a dozen shots from her Christmas present, a new Nikon camera. With its 20
megapixel lens and 28x optical zoom, I was suddenly too ashamed to use my wimpy
iPhone camera so I sheepishly slid it into my pocket. It was at this moment, as
our group was all milling about, shivering and try to stay warm, that I begin to
notice our tour guides were dressed as if there was a Texas heat-wave. Both the
male and female employees had on shorts and t-shirts, and I did a double-take to
make certain I hadn’t hit my head on a low-hanging stalactite and was
hallucinating. Sure enough, I pulled up my weather app and the temperature
confirmed it was 32 degrees with a wind-chill in the 20s. Even my Canada Goose
jacket, which was specifically designed for Arctic winters, was fighting a
losing battle against the brutal cold.
The "Natural Bridge" of Natural Bridge Caverns
But as we passed the entrance and
started the long walk in, I immediately understood why. The caverns maintain a
constant temperature of 70 degrees year-round, so it was suddenly as comfortable
as if we’d stepped into a mountain lodge with a roaring fireplace. However, what
I wasn’t prepared for was the 99% humidity which immediately fogged up my
daughter’s camera and instantly draped a sticky, wet blanket over us. Prior to
the tour, we’d been admonished to wear shoes with ample traction and I could
certainly see why: The ever-present moisture created an environment that was
slicker than Astroglide. Having to use the handrails constantly, I felt like a
decrepit ninety year-old man, but at the same time, I had no desire to plummet
200 feet to the craggy bottom below. It was also not a good place for anyone
who’s the least bit claustrophobic. Initially, Victoria started to panic,
worrying about an earthquake and us being trapped. But as the breathtaking,
natural splendor unfolded, it distracted her and she was able to enjoy it.
Indeed, the environment was as
awe-inspiring as anything I’d ever witnessed, and looked completely alien
compared to our normal, daily surroundings. For lack of a better description, it
reminded me a lot of the surface of Mars that I’d explored in the latest
Doom game. But unlike that uninhabitable atmosphere, our guide informed
us that there was evidence of the cavern being used by both early man and
animal. He stated that a 7,000 year-old human tooth was discovered, as well as
the jawbone and femur from an extinct species of black bear. Fortunately, we
didn’t encounter any bears, or have to use the rudimentary arrowheads and spears
that were also found, but it was the perfect example of a place that time had
forgotten.
As we continued our trek downward, we were admonished to not use
our camera flashes or make any loud noises, as the sonic vibrations could loosen
the terrain. So, it was naturally at this point that the unwelcome infant began
screaming at the top of its tiny lungs. The employees did their best to remain
composed and speak over the wailing baby, but it was obvious that they were also
displeased with the parents’ decision to bring it along. Throughout our
underground exploration, the prevailing characteristic of the caverns was Flowstones, which is where water oozes down the walls or along the
floors, creating layered deposits of calcite
and other limestone-influenced substances. There was no natural order to these
Flowstones, as some were tiny and others were huge, but to me they all resembled
partially melted candles. And, because the substance was so foreign, there was
an overwhelming urge to touch them, simply to associate a tactile sensation with
the bizarre visage. However, since the caverns were a registered National
Natural Landmark, we were expressly forbidden from touching or removing
anything, and failing to heed that was a felony! At one point in the
darkness, I started to slip and, without thinking, instinctively grabbed a wall
to steady myself. Immediately, I jerked my hand back fearfully aware of the
consequences, but it thankfully appeared that no one noticed. Yet, the taboo
experience was fleeting and highly disappointing, as the exotic formations felt
no different that the pedestrian rocks and stones I’d found in my driveway. I
suppose there was some greater, ecumenical lesson to be learned from that, but I
clearly didn’t have time for it. Later on, both my wife and daughter confided
that they also had separate incidents whereby they inadvertently clutched the
various structures, and we all shared a furtive
chuckle.
While there
were clearly many mysteries about the caverns, there was no doubt that the four
lads who discovered them were hardcore science-fiction geeks. Apparently raised
on a steady mid-century diet of fantasy novels and space-age futurism, they
christened the rooms with some pretty outlandish names. One ominous area was
known as “Grendel’s Canyon”, a reference to the horrific ogre in “Beowulf”.
Imaginative terms for other vast areas included the “Valley of the Fallen Lords”
and “Castle of the White Giants”. Like looking at clouds, the amorphous
architecture was open to each individual’s interpretation, and some made more
sense than others. Designating a huge stalagmite pillar as “The King’s Throne”
wasn’t a stretch by any means, nor was my personal favorite “Pluto’s Anteroom”, a
sinister-looking spot cleverly alluding to the entrance of the underworld.
Our final
destination in the caverns was a pool of water known as “Emerald Lake” and our
chaperone estimated that it was around 3 million years old. The refraction of light filtering through the liquid is what gave it
such a beautiful, albeit otherworldly, green color. I struggled to recall any
other water I’ve ever seen that was as mesmerizing, and the closest I could
recall was the shores of Nassau, in the Bahamas. That said, those Caribbean seas
were decidedly more blue, a color that Emerald lake is almost completely devoid
of.
Reluctantly, we began the arduous 200-foot ascent back to daylight
but my wife wasn’t so sure she could make it. Convalescing from a severe strain
of Type B influenza that saw her bedridden for nearly a week, her stamina had
been crippled by the virus. Despite a maximum dosage of antibiotics, she still wasn’t
fully recovered and literally had to take it one step at a time. Fortunately, in
2005, nearly a quarter-mile was drilled out, making for a straight exit to the
surface. However, the cylindrical metal hallway leading to our salvation looked
like it could have come straight from the volcanic lair of a Bond super villain.
Luckily, we didn’t encounter anyone with a facial scar or white Persian cat
attempting to detain us, since my wife was in no condition to put up a fight
while my daughter and I hastily fled.
Once outside and no longer
being warmed by the Earth’s core, we begin pulling on our jackets and coats as
furiously as we shed them earlier. Going from a sweaty 70 degrees to an icy 30
degrees instantly is the most dramatic natural temperature shift we’ve ever
experienced.
Our next stop was
ostensibly the whole reason we came to Texas, so my daughter could eat at
In-N-Out. Given our remote location, and several frustrating “Searching For
Network” error messages, it took a couple minutes for our GPS app,
Waze, to orient itself before we were on our way. We started using
Waze for our trip to Disney in 2015, and it has since become
indispensible. As Karl Malden would advise, we don’t leave home without it. Not
only is it essential for driving in new locations, but the crowd-sourced alerts
for police are also quite handy. It’s even warned us about live animals on the
highway, potholes, and re-routed us around traffic jams. The only caveat is
that, despite software improvements, it can still drain a fully-charged iPhone
in thirty minutes. For that reason, I always try to leave it plugged in unless
another device takes priority.
Following that, we
navigated to the second most important place of our trip, the Alamo. It was
right in the middle of downtown, as if San Antonio was built around it, so it
was reasonably easy to find. However, not unlike New Orleans, parking was also
scarce and expensive. After much frustration, we finally discovered a
reasonably close parking lot that had a vacant space, even if we were gouged $20
for three hours. Despite the viciously cold temperatures, we walked the couple
blocks to the Alamo and noticed a lengthy line, like vagrants waiting to take
refuge in a shelter. That aside, it was pretty amazing to see it in person. But
contrary to local school kids who are required to take two years of Texas
history, I didn’t know that the Alamo was more than the singular building which
typically represents it. Indeed, the structure is actually a chapel, and is
referred to as the “Shrine of Texas Liberty”. During our visit, it was simply
called “The Shrine” and although it was free to enter, no photography was
allowed. I also learned that the Alamo name was likely derived from a grove of nearby cottonwood trees, known in Spanish as
“Alamo”.
Despite being built from locally-quarried limestone in 1744, the
Shrine was largely unchanged from that time period. It was thirty feet tall and
sixty feet wide, and the inside was divided into several smaller rooms. In one,
we even spotted a cannon left over from the Battle for Texas in 1836. But given
the small size, it only took us a couple minutes to tour it, so we headed
outside to see the other areas of the Alamo. Next door, there was an exhibit
with a line nearly as long as for the Shrine, so I was curious to see what it
was about. Over the people’s heads, all I could see was the name “Bowie” and I
wondered to my wife if it was some sort of tribute to the musician David Bowie?
Once again, illustrating my ignorance of the Lone Star state’s storied past, it
never occurred to me that it was about James Bowie and his famous knife. After a
manageable wait, we were allowed in and thankfully didn't have to pay $2,500 per ticket. It turns out, Bowie was quite the frontiersman and made a sizable
fortune dealing in real estate and slavery. Of course, he didn’t come by all
that without a few shady deals, and one business venture culminated with him
being shot and wounded by a disgruntled rival. That spurred his older brother,
Rezin, to present him with a large butcher knife for just such instances. A year
later, despite being shot twice and stabbed multiple times in an ambush, he
successfully managed to hold off his attackers with the knife. The notoriety
Bowie and his knife gained from surviving the encounter inspired others to begin
asking for their own “Bowie Knife” and the legend was born. Unfortunately, those tales are now used to
promote tourism, because nothing preserves history like little Alamo-shaped
animal crackers and made-in-China key chains.
For dinner, I booked reservations at the Chart House in the Tower of the Americas, a 750-ft. tall obelisk built to
celebrate the 1968 World’s Fair. As it loomed above the San Antonio skyline, it
was easy to spot, but the closer we got the more my wife and daughter expressed
trepidation about the glass elevator ride to the top. Indeed, standing under it
and looking straight up was quite an imposing sight. However, I joked with
Victoria that it would probably be the only time she would ever have been both
200 feet underground and 750 feet above the ground in the same day. But as it
turned out, the actual waiting for the elevator was the worst part. I don’t know
if they had Quasimodo hoisting the elevators up and down the tower, but we
waited almost thirty minutes before one was available. And of all the revolving
observation towers we’ve patronized, this one was the highest and visually
seemed the least stable- a tall, spindly spire with an elliptical restaurant at
the top. It looked like a strong gust of wind could blow it over, but amazingly,
my wife and I agreed that once at the top, it actually felt the most secure.
Despite that, there was no denying that the real attraction was the spectacular
view, not the overpriced entrees. Although we’d have been royally screwed if a
fire or other calamity occurred, there was just something so serene about gazing
down on all the bustling traffic and twinkling lights of San Antonio.
The View of San Antonio from 750-ft.
Of course, San Antonio has become so commercialized that I alluded to it as the Gatlinburg of Texas. It has all
the popular hallmarks, such as a Guinness World Records Museum,
Rainforest Café, and even a Ripley’s Believe it or Not!
Odditorium. Obviously, my twelve year-old daughter was the target
demographic for those trappings and we were subsequently dragged into all of
them. And while I’ve found all the Ripley’s to be mostly the same, there was a “Haunted Adventure” experience that was new. Essentially, it was a walk-through spook house and my daughter was determined to do it. Despite my protests, I
knew it wouldn’t end well since she was frightened by even the elevator ride the
night before.
It began with a creepy climb to the second floor in a rusty
conveyor cage before we were discharged in front of a bloody door. The reason we
were there and why we had to walk through the rooms was thinner than a porno’s
plot, so I didn’t ask any questions. Instead, I just followed the twisting path
and—somehow—had been unanimously voted to lead the way. Behind me was Amanda and
Victoria, and another family with two younger daughters. Granted, I’ve been in
very few haunted houses because when the Fair comes to town, I’d rather spend my
money on the rides. But, the walkway was deliberately dark, and the only
occasional illumination came from the flashing strobes which were accompanied by
all sorts of horrific screams and eerie noises. As best I could tell, it was
modeled after an insane asylum and I was enjoying every step of it. It really
looked like I’d stepped into one of my video games. Conversely, Victoria was
seriously regretting her decision and was literally trying to climb Amanda.
There were a couple times when people jumped out at us, or ran past, but most of
it was props and special effects that were meant to be disturbing. At the very
end, a huge dinosaur head popped out. I know it was supposed to be terrifying,
but I had trouble reconciling what a dinosaur was supposedly doing in an insane
asylum? Regardless, I had a blast, even if Victoria was in tears and had wanted
to leave after the first jump-scare.
We started off the next morning with a
visit to The Shops at La Cantera, a 1,300,000-sq.-ft. open-air lifestyle center
that featured such extravagant stores as Tiffany & Co., Louis Vuitton and
Rolex. La Cantera is loosely translated as “The Quarry” and it was a stunning
tribute to conspicuous consumption. Reflecting local Southwestern influences,
the shopping center cohesively blended commerce with the existing landscape to
preserve as much of the natural terrain as possible. The end result was a
dazzling maze of limestone and granite paseos, punctuated by various fountains
and vegetation native to Texas. Thankfully, it was pretty vacant, so we were
able to roam the area virtually unmolested. Naturally, Amanda and I left
empty-handed, but Victoria racked up with purchases from her two most beloved
clothing stores, Forever 21 and Urban Outfitters. A pre-teen spendthrift, only
she can rationalize saving money by spending it!
Ferrari of San Antonio was 2.5
miles north of La Cantera, but given the traffic and their small inventory I
ogled online, I made the executive decision to pass on it. Family commitments
between Christmas and New Year’s meant that we only had two full days in San
Antonio, so I wanted to make the most of them. It should also be noted that
despite it’s size (1.5M population) San Antonio certainly wasn’t a supercar town.
Although we covered a lot of ground during our time there, I didn’t even see the
first Porsche, must less a Ferrari or Lamborghini. But like missing the fancy,
limited-edition Aperta at Ferrari of Atlanta last Fall, I similarly was a couple
weeks early for a rare 1995 F50 that showed up. With just 49 built for the U.S.
(Out of 349 worldwide), it’s an extraordinarily scarce model, even by Ferrari
standards. Utilizing a naturally-aspirated V-12 derived from Alain Prost's 1990
Formula One race car and a six-speed manual
transmission, it was the end of an era for Ferrari supercars. Later examples,
like the Enzo and LaFerrari, employed newer technologies like automatic
gearboxes and hybrid batteries that was less-desirable to prancing horse
purists. Today, a pristine F50 can command upwards of $4 million, nearly ten
times it’s original $495,000 sticker price.
F50 at Ferrari of San Antonio, January 2018
Posing with an F50 in Orlando, September 2009
Lunch was Amanda’s favorite spot, Earl of Sandwich, a restaurant
nearly as elusive for us as In-N-Out. Even I don’t want to eat a hamburger
everyday for lunch, so the submarine sandwich offered us some variety. And
unlike the commercial aspects of many fast food offerings, there’s actually some
legitimate history behind the name. It’s appellated after The 4th Earl of
Sandwich, who popularized the sandwich in Great Britain and Ireland in the 18th
century, and is now run by Orlando Montagu, the younger son of The 11th Earl of
Sandwich. The original location opened in Disney World in 2004, and was
ambitiously forecast at the time by Montagu as expanding to 1,000 stores within
five years. Unfortunately, 14 years later and they’re only up to 31 stores, so
they have a ways to go. Despite that, we’ve managed to dine at four distinct
ones (Atlanta, New York, Orlando and San Antonio) and as you’d imagine, they’re
all reflections of their location: The Georgia store is situated in a dying
luxury mall, the NYC restaurant is cramped and claustrophobic, the Florida
franchise is fancy but overcrowded, and the Texas outpost is isolated and
remote. Amanda always gets the “Holiday Turkey” which
amazingly, is available year-round and consists of turkey, cornbread stuffing,
turkey gravy, cranberry sauce and mayonnaise. However, I’m a bit more
traditional so I stuck with the “Earl’s Club” which consists of turkey, bacon, swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato and special sauce.
Afterwards, we drove to the Riverwalk, a
commercialized 2.5-mile section of the San Antonio river that winds through
downtown. It was originally created nearly 100 years
earlier, in 1921, after a deadly flood killed 50 people. The intention was to
control the flood by building an upstream dam and bypassing
a prominent bend of the river in that area. Since that time, restaurants and
shopping have steadily built up on the riverbanks, and now attract over 10
million visitors each year. It’s admittedly one of the most scenic emporiums
I’ve ever visited, but unfortunately felt like all 10 million tourists were
there as well. Amanda and I seem to have an uncanny knack for picking vacations
during major sporting events we’re unaware of. We’ve made the past mistakes of
visiting New Orleans during the Final 4 championships and Super Bowl, and even
Daytona Beach during the infamous Harley Davidson Bike Week. As such, we had no
idea that the one day we visited, it was the Alamo Bowl college football game
between Stanford and Texas Christian University (TCU). Naturally, there were
throngs of rabid fans representing each team, and I could clearly relate to
Stanford’s maroon color for their Cardinal mascot. However, Texas Christian’s
purple horned frog was a bizarre choice, and seemed like something a TCU alumni
might witness after consuming a large quantity of hallucinogenic mushrooms.
Regardless, there were so many TCU supporters that I eventually began referring
to them simply as horny frogs.
And there was no shortage
of said horny frogs in line for the same Riverwalk river cruise we’d planned to
take, thereby exponentially extending the already insufferable wait time.
Fortunately, since the army of frogs were travelling in large groups, there was
an opening for the three of us on one boat that allowed us to bypass most of the
line. As we departed, the glum looks on their collective faces, many of whom had
already waited over an hour, was quite uplifting. With varying expressions of
contempt, desperation and failure, they seemed like castaways forever marooned
on a deserted island as our tiny skiff sailed to freedom.
However, the river cruise
was also quite the racket, as they have 43 boats that can depart every 15-20
minutes with each full boat hauling in around $900 in ticket sales. Even so,
they’re electric and eco-friendly, with none of the noise or exhaust fumes from
conventional outboard motors. Our tour guide was entertaining and very
knowledgeable, dispensing esoteric info that we otherwise wouldn’t have been
privy to. For instance, she pointed out an area where Sandra Bullock filmed a
scene from Miss Congeniality (one of my wife’s most cherished movies)
and also educated us that San Antonio was largely the first air-conditioned city
in America. Sadly, our river cruise was over too soon, but as we pulled back in,
I was thrilled to see that the line of impatient customers was even longer. Like
the video game where the snake gobbles the food, the seemingly endless chain of
people was continuing to grow, twisting down and around the Riverwalk path.
The first air-conditioned hospital in the U.S.
Unfortunately, the crowds in general had
also swollen considerably, and as it got later, became more restless. Seeking
refuge, we ducked into a Yard House restaurant in the Rivercenter Mall. Owned by
Landry’s, the same parent of the Tower of Americas restaurant, we expected a
nice casual dinner. But as we were seated, it dawned on us that maybe it wasn’t
a good idea to patronize an establishment that advertised
the world's largest
selection of draft
beer while simultaneously broadcasting the Alamo Bowl on dozens
of flat-screen TVs. Indeed, the noise level inside the restaurant was such that
I’ve been to quieter rock concerts. A unanimous consensus was reached and we
hastily left, looking for greener (and calmer) pastures. I remembered seeing a Morton’s restaurant listed at the Riverwalk, so we decided to seek culinary
asylum there. Ironically, it was also a Landry’s property, but the previous time
I’d eaten at the one in Biloxi, I wasn’t particularly impressed. However, I was
still on their email list, and they had been bombarding me with notifications
about their seasonal Holiday Special of a 10 oz. Snake River Farms Wagyu steak,
so I was intrigued. Of course, we must have passed every restaurant in the
Riverwalk twice (Margaritaville, Ruth’s Chris, etc.) trying to find it, all to
no avail. Eventually, we discovered it on the backside of the mall, at the end
of a hallway tucked in the corner. For such a nice place, it sure had a lousy
location! I pleaded our case to the hostess and apologized for not having
reservations, explaining that we were tourists from out of town. Mercifully,
they arranged accommodations for us and we even scored a great booth in the
process. I understood that there would be a hefty financial penalty for our
decision to dine there, but we all agreed that it was worth it to escape the
chaos.
Snake River Farms is one
of the preeminent producers of American Wagyu, a cross-breeding of Japanese Kobe
and U.S. Black Angus. Located in Boise, Idaho, they’ve been churning out premium
mid-western beef since 1968. I first tried some of their hybrid beef in 2003 at
The Port House in Beau Rivage. It was good then, and I was anxious to see how it
was 14 years later. For the majority of American consumers, domestic Kobe
strikes a good balance of availability and affordability. Unlike genuine Japanese Wagyu,
which is only available at nine North American restaurants and typically costs
around $350 per pound, domestic Kobe is much easier to obtain and fetches just $75 per pound. Despite that, the Snake River Farms steak was very good, but
nowhere close to real Japanese Wagyu. Even so, the dinner and service was well
worth the premium to enjoy a quiet meal where we didn’t have to yell to be
heard.
The next morning, we left
for the lengthy slog back to Mississippi. Departing the serenity of Stone Oak, it
wasn’t long before we were again embroiled in Texas’ omnipresent motorway
madness. Although the speed limit was 75 mph, you would never know it as
motorists furiously passed on either side of us. For those angry, impatient
individuals, I coined an endearing term-- Passholes. But the funny thing was,
no matter how much the Passholes jockeyed back and forth, swerving into the
right lane and then back into the left, highway congestion was such that they
never made it very far ahead. And in many cases, they even fell further behind
than if they had committed to one lane and simply stayed there.
Still, a lunatic few
were dead-set on challenging the tidal flow of traffic. Proving that driving
recklessly doesn’t require anything but a questionable lack of
self-preservation, one unnamed individual topped the list of Texas speeders in
2017 by hitting 181 mph on a 2012 Honda CBR1000 motorcycle. The second spot went to a silver 2012 Dodge Challenger SRT8 that managed 160 mph in a 55
zone. Amazingly, no exotic cars like Ferraris or Lamborghinis made the Top 20
list, although a black 2014 BMW i8 came
in at #14 for 143 mph in an 80 zone. Otherwise, and contrary to popular opinion,
exotic cars owners are not the speed-crazed fiends they’re publicly vilified
for. Yet, commanding 13 out of the 20 spots, motorcyclists are ironically the
ones most likely to be caught breaking traffic laws.
As for automobiles, a survey by insurance.com cited that the most ticketed
sports car was the Nissan 350Z, of which one in every three owners (32.5%)
reported getting a citation. Of course, that’s no real revelation as, and I’m
being charitable here, it’s a car typically driven by douchebags. Conversely,
the least ticketed sports car was the Alfa Romeo 4C at 12.5%. However, with just
over 1000 in the entire U.S., you’d think the car would be largely invisible. As
for the subcompact segment, the Mini Cooper S garnered the most traffic offenses
with 26.7%, while my Saturn scored a lower 23.9%. Finally, our Santa Fe that we
were travelling in, ranked a stealthy 18.2%.
We made it back to Houston
by noon and detoured to Elevation Burger, an establishment recently heralded as
the #1 burger chain by Men’s Health magazine. As the only fast food company
serving 100% USDA organic beef, I couldn’t wait to try it. However, the horrific
Houston gridlock instantly reminded us why we hadn’t been back since 2004. But
unlike most fast casual places, Elevation Burger was not anchored in a mall or
shopping center, but was isolated on a street corner. Thankfully, we were the
only ones there, or otherwise we would have had to park on a residential street.
Inside, it could have passed for a Taco Bell, but the prices sure didn’t. For
three organic burgers, fries and drinks, it was $40. Still, this was a unique
opportunity so I justified it. However, while the bun and condiments were fresh,
the lean organic beef was dry and didn’t have much flavor. Sadly, the organic
ground beef we buy at Costco produces much better burgers at a fraction of the
price. After all was said and done, it was undoubtedly the most disappointing
meal of the trip.
Five hours later, we
pulled into New Orleans where I had the opportunity to try some locally-raised
Louisiana Wagyu. Given my exposure the night before to Snake River Farms’ Wagyu,
I was curious to see how it compared. Brasa Churrasqueria is
a Brazilian steakhouse that just opened last summer in “Old Metairie”.
Bifurcated by Interstate 10 which divides old and new Metairie, Brasa resides in
a quaint, tree-lined area located five minutes south of “New Metairie’s”
imbroglio of endless shopping centers and car dealerships. It was a refreshing
change, and looked like we’d stepped into a Norman Rockwell painting of 1950
Americana. But shattering the illusion was an eatery next door named “Mark
Twain’s Pizza Landing” leaving me to ponder if the prolific Southern author even
ate pizza? Granted, he’s been posthumously remembered for a lot of things, but I
don’t believe the Italian delicacy was one of them.
Nevertheless, the
inside of Brasa was short on décor, but long on charm, offering cozy tables and
white tablecloth dining. However, the real star was the Raines Wagyu, raised in
nearby Monroe, Louisiana. The beef was the result of mixing
full-blood Japanese Wagyu bulls with domestic red Angus that’s never fed any
antibiotics or hormones. As for the Louisiana Wagyu, it was good, but no better
than Morton’s Snake River Farms. The downfall of domestic Wagyu seems to be the
lack of intense marbling that’s so prominent in Japanese cattle. Without it, the
distinct richness and flavor that is Kobe beef’s defining quality is missing.
Even so, we mutually agreed that the meal at Brasa was good enough to warrant a
second visit.
I've been accused, perhaps accurately, of gastro-tourism. That is, travelling primarily for the opportunity of trying new cuisines. That notwithstanding, we enjoyed our abbreviated trip to San Antonio, even
though it included a lot of frustrating traffic and crowds. But if any of our
recent trips are an indication, it looks like those annoyances are here to
stay!
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