Noisy Balloonist Blog is the apprentice

This one is mine. Click the image for a Facebook photo gallery.

• BMC SLX01 Race Master carbon-aluminum frameset
• Torelli Bormio Ultra-Lite wheels with ceramic bearings
• Full SRAM Force  gruppo: 50-34 compact crank mated to an 11-25 cassette
• 3T stem and Ergonova Pro handlebars
• BMC carbon “Streampost” under a Selle Italia Prolink Light Gel Flow saddle
• Vittoria Diamante Pro tires
• Speedplay Zero pedals
• Garmin Edge 500 ANT+ compatible GPS cycle computer

I was a little hasty when I referred to the Race Master as BMC’s merciless dominatrix. There is love and fury here, to be sure, but this is about commitment rather than subjugation. A full ride report is forthcoming and there’s still some build work to be completed—note the uncut steerer tube. My bars were dropped at the suggestion of ex-pro (Paris-Roubaix!) BMC rep Soren. More on him later, and thanks for bib shorts!

After much deliberation, she is called Nahual.

Making friends dumpster-side in Westwood. Translation:

Good afternoon! Are you American? I’m Japanese!
Good afternoon! You bet I’m American! Who are you?

Retro Facebook wall in West L.A.

I’m working on some text for a friend’s forthcoming web project. This image was supplied to me:

Friend and I had the following chat:

1:53 PM BEN: that copy work for you?
2:03 PM GR: it did. Thanks. I sent it over to P to get her feedback.
2:06 PM BEN: cool
2:07 PM GR: I think we might use the last line on promos.
2:07 PM BEN: nice
2:07 PM BEN: i sorta thought it would lend itself to some visual flourishes…
2:09 PM BEN: who is that poor very hungry girl wearing the bondage t-shirt?
2:10 PM GR: a mannequin.
2:10 PM BEN: shit
2:10 PM BEN: you
2:10 PM BEN: are right
2:10 PM GR: hehehe
2:11 PM BEN: if it wasnt for her removable hands…
2:11 PM GR: it’s ok. You are not the first to make that mistake.
2:12 PM BEN: fucking sexy deceptive mannequins…
2:12 PM GR: hahaha

I recounted this conversation to another friend:

2:19 PM NE: you thought it was real?
2:19 PM NE: hahahahahahhaha
2:19 PM NE: loser
2:19 PM NE: hahahahahahhahahaha

Truth in advertising spotted at The Winehouse, West Los Angeles.

Once there was an egg. Two eggs to be precise, and a jigger of cream, three tablespoons of butter (one clarified), olive oil, minced shallot, fresh sage and tarragon and chive, Savennieres white wine, two kinds of salt, cracked pepper, a handful of whole sage for frying, Capricho de Cabra (whim of the goat) cheese, some baguette and the nucleus of all this French fussiness, wild-caught chanterelle mushrooms. Trim any discolored or woody stems and reserve for another use; prayer comes to mind.

Omelette mise en place. Baguette, olive oil and butter are MIA.

Sage pairs exceedingly well with mushrooms.

This formula is the result of numerous two-egg experiments, roughly the tenth iteration of something informally called the Provençal Omelette. Such a generic name indicates more of a paradigm than a specific recipe: some veggie—summer squash, blanched spinach or mushrooms are perfect—sautéed with shallot and herbs and filed away within a golden envelope of egg. For classification purposes then, I’ll call this a Chanterelle Omelette, Omelette Gusteau or possibly the Expense Account Omelette.

Chanterelle omelette with grilled bread and fried sage.

Dressing the garnish with grey salt.

The finished dish was so richly lubricated I could have slid the entire thing down my throat without swallowing, like an anaconda. Classical French egg preparations demand fat because a properly cooked egg is a barely cooked egg. Silken, pale yellow and absolutely tender, the protein is only coaxed toward doneness; it’s more a suggestion of cooking than the actual application of heat. Butter and cream enhance mouthfeel and preserve moisture while insulating the egg from the heat of the pan. Were a technique invented, likely involving a super-conducting supercollider, to keep egg liquid while maintaining a desired shape, chefs from Calvados to Aix-en-Provence would trade their Escoffier to possess it.

Your basic button mushroom will do wonderfully with egg, but the chanterelle is an accessible luxury-class mushie, dense and rich with a flavor like roasted duck. This savory pleasure can be had at modest expense compared to rarefied shrooms like morels, porcini, matsutake and the god-emperor of fungi, the truffle. Mute and invisible to all but the most reverent hunters, wild mushrooms are the monks of the culinary landscape. They are ascribed divine properties in and out of the kitchen. Watch the mushroom tent at any farmers’ market. Some passerby only stare; their unwillingness to approach acknowledges the presence of the remarkable. The mycophiles, on the other hand, can’t help but caress the product and raise it to their nostrils, breathing greedily as the vendor shoots them a canny smile. It’s like making contact.

Foraged chanterelles.

Stewed in butter.

Decadent package.