Viva Sport! And Chelada!

Can't Promise You the World - Drivin' N' Cryin' (mp3)

When I turned on SportsCenter tonight, I fully expected a lead story about some level of steeplechase accomplishment never before imagined. Like, maybe one of the horses actually flew. Wednesday, June 23, should go down in American sports as one of the most randomly awesome and improbable days in its storied history, a day when a stunning percentage of our citizenry actually gave enough of a shit about soccer and tennis to waste water cooler time and barstool time discussing them.

GOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLL!!!!

In the morning, the US soccer team decided to prove every last soccer-hater wrong by delivering a match that had every possible bit of drama and tension one could hope for in sport, capped off by the kind of mind-boggling end-of-game finish that required multiple replays and heavy rubbing of eyes just to accept its reality. The US? Score in the waning injury time minutes of the World Cup?? Inconceivable!!

One of the best reasons to love sports is not to admire skill or physique, but because it provides us with the fodder for conversation and togetherness that doesn't involve phrases like "oil spill" or "Middle East conflict." To be in a bar -- or let's just call it a "pub" when we're watching soccer -- for the most dramatic World Cup match in the un-storied history of US futbol was an honor, an exquisite privilege. This pub is of modest size, accommodates folks of all political persuasions, and serves tasty vittles. It even had a special order of Cheladas* on ice for the bleary-eyed idiots who felt courageous.

In a town like Chattanooga, few sporting moments can so thoroughly unite everyone in a bar as international competition, and few international competitions get spirited and devoted viewers in America quite like the World Cup. (Oh, don't we all miss the days when we could cheer on Ted Turner's yachts in the America's Cup...)

Come to think of it, why is it always a CUP? Shouldn't we call it a "grail"? Doesn't that sound so much more kick-ass? "The World Grail." I need to patent that one before someone else gets rich off it.

Anyway, a local news station had a videographer stationed at the pub where the BOTG crew, along with several family members and co-workers, watched the game. Although neither of us are stars in this video, we have cameo appearances, and it gives you a sense of just how awesome the experience of watching the match in a packed pub can be:



[NOTE: If you've never met me before, then... um... I'm the guy in the had and red shirt who raises his hands up at the bar right at the beginning of the video.]

A THREE-DAY TENNIS MATCH...?

As the day progressed, and the thrill of America's successful snatch of victory from the razor-jaws of defeat began to soften a bit, another story started bubbling into conversations both online and around offices. Two no-name dudes at Wimbledon were engaged in the Longest Tennis Match in History.

I just followed this story in text form from my office. Friends were texting me updates to the score -- 43-44!! 51-51!! 57-56!! -- and more people were piling onto the curiosity bandwagon as the day went on. In some sense, the fascination here was not with the sport and not with the players, but with the mere spectacle. It's sport's version of The Bearded Lady, a freakish oddity from which your eyes cannot reasonably turn away.

And it will continue. Tomorrow morning. The third calendar date over which this one single match has progressed.

Sports can indeed be awesome. Even shit like steeplechase.

* -- "Chelada" is just the fancy way to say "Poor Man's Bloody Mary."

The Beautiful Simplicy of Rome (or how I learned to love the Wal-Mart)

Dean Martin--"That's Amore" (mp3)

In the 60 days or so since I've returned from Rome, I have yet to track down a cup of coffee to match the get-it-anywhere kind of everyday stuff I was drinking in Rome. Oh, I've tried. Panera, Dunkin' Donuts, Starbucks, my house, with coffee I've bought here, with coffee my daughter brought to me from Italy. Tried my best, but just can't do it. I even bought us an espresso machine for Christmas (everyone was drinking coffee in Italy!) in hopes of making my own "Cafe Americano," but even that hasn't been very satisfying.

C'est la vie. This isn't about what Italians can do that we can't.

I have been roasting tomatoes with great success this winter. It's very simple really. You buy up a bunch of Roma tomatoes, slice them in half, put them on a baking sheet, sprinkle them with salt, and put them in a 200 degree oven for 6-10 hours. It's hard to be exact without knowing the size of the tomatoes. But it isn't like you have to keep watching them or anything (though I'd check them after about 6 hours). You'll smell them roasting. A tomato smell will infuse your house.

Roasting tomatoes is about concentrating flavor. It's not about turning them into an oven version of sun-dried tomatoes, those leathery things that you pay a fortune for in gourmet supermarkets. Roasted tomatoes are much, much better.

You take them out of the oven when they still have a bit of plumpness to them. They may be down to about half of their original size, but they will still have some juice in them. When you take them out, you chop them up coarsely, toss them with some olive oil, maybe a little pepper, then put them in a bowl, cover them and refrigerate them, and you have the basis for any number of delicious, healthy meals waiting for you.

While you're boiling pasta, put your oven-roasted tomatoes in a food processor until they're fairly smooth, maybe heat them a little in the microwave and you've got an immediate pasta sauce that's far better than anything you'd pour out of a jar. Grate a little parmesan over the top of your dish, salad and bread, and you've got a quick, homemade, middle-of-the-workweek supper.

Here's where Rome comes into play.

One of the best pizzas, out of many great pizzas, that I had in Rome consisted of nothing but crust and tomatoes. That's right--no pile of cheese, no salty pepperonis, no combo of more ingredients than you can count. Just a good crust and a tomato sauce. And within the sauce itself, the same simplicity--no oregano, no basil, no chopped this or sauteed that, just tomatoes, a bit of olive oil, a bit of salt. But good tomatoes. Really good tomatoes.

Because the beautiful simplicity of eating in Rome is not fancy preparations or layers of flavor. It's about the ingredients, and when you have good ingredients, you don't have to do much to them.

Here's where Wal-Mart comes into play.

I've fought Wal-Mart forever, probably still should. But when you walk in there and they have a huge bin of Roma tomatoes for $1/lb. and everywhere else you see those same tomatoes, they go for about $2.24/lb. or more, it's hard not to stock up.

And what's more surprising, Wal-Mart has a better crust to make a Roman street pizza than just about anywhere in town. Yeah, I like to make my own pizza dough. But not all the time. And some of you never do. Well, the "Thin Pizza Crust--Napoli Style," one of the Signature Flatbreads made by the bakery at Wal-Mart is one of the few authentic, all-natural crusts that you can buy in this city. And it is certainly the cheapest. And the thinnest. Forget Boboli or Pilsbury or any of that kind of crap crust with enough preservatives in it to give it a shelf life of 2 years and no particular connection to anything resembling real pizza.

So you wanna do like the Romans even though you're not in Rome? Spread your Wal-Mart crust with your oven-roasted tomatoes, chopped or pureed to your liking, maybe drizzle a little olive oil and a little sea salt over the top. I've been known to put a few sliced mushrooms on top, maybe even a bit of grated parmesan. Bake it at 450 degrees for about 8 minutes. Cut it into strips.

Have a glass of a light Pinot Grigio with it. Take a bite. Close your eyes. Taste tomatoes and sun. Put on Dean Martin. Forget the winter blues.

Rat Pack member Dean Martin is available at Itunes.