Stanford vs Arizona – Doubling up in the Bay Area…

Rust colored masts emerge in the distance, piercing thick early morning fog, soaring into a crystal blue sky above.  Thin strands of cable drape gracefully from the stacked towers, woven into steel webs, shrouded in white mist rolling off the bay. Gawking at an engineering marvel, fumbling for my camera, and dodging eighteen wheelers, now isn’t the time for multi tasking behind the wheel.  It’s my first trip across the Golden Gate Bridge, and I’m swerving like an asshole in six lanes of traffic.

It’s a brilliant Saturday morning in San Francisco, and I pick my way South down highway 101 to Palo Alto for the front end of a Pac 12 doubleheader.  Stanford has a noon kickoff today against Arizona, and, following that, I’ll shoot up to Berkeley for a night game with the Golden Bears of Cal.
Stopping only once, I grab breakfast at the Palo Alto Creamery downtown.  Occupying the same street corner since 1923, it’s a throwback diner, gleaming with stainless steel and dishing out traditional breakfast fare.  Though the feel is classic, the prices are contemporary Californian, I gaspingly shell out twenty five bucks for some eggs and a chocolate shake.

I find free parking on a side street, throw on my best crimson polo and head over to the Stanford Campus.  Passing by a Trader Joe’s and upscale designer furniture store, the socio economic status of the school is evident.  Built by railroad tycoon Leland Stanford, the campus is exquisite, easily among the finest in the country and befitting a school of Ivy caliber.  Circling around Palm Drive, I ascend slate steps onto the pristine main quad, surrounded by the symbolic battery of arched promenades.  Blonde colored Stanford Sandstone, quarried from the nearby Santa Teresa Hills, shimmers flecks of gold in the morning sun.  The stalwart Romanesque stone buildings are connected by airy arcades, all capped in red clay tiles, typical of California mission style. It’s a magnificent campus, which, coupled with the reputation of the school, commands reverence.

With kickoff fast approaching, I drag myself away from the resplendent architecture, and trot towards the stadium.  It’s homecoming weekend at Stanford, and I pick through white tents and rows of catered buffet lines.  Nametags abound, along with class years ’62, ’72 etc.  The older the class, the nicer the food and wine.  True Stanford tailgating, however, I discover across street from the stadium.  Shaded beneath a grove of majestic Eucalyptus trees, the Cardinal faithful lay their spreads out.  Emerging from the trunks of boxy Mercedes G-Wagon’s and sleek silver Porsche Cayenne’s, elaborate picnics are set on tablecloths, complete with Napa wines and artisan cheeses.  Welcome to Palo Alto.

Tickets prove easy. For forty bucks I land a choice seat staring down the 50, a great view given the cozy confines of Stanford Stadium.  The Leland Stanford Junior University Marching Band (or LSJUMB), a disheveled collection of rag tag musicians, take the field for pre-game ceremonies.  For those unfamiliar, the LSJUMB is one of the more unorthodox and controversial bands in the college landscape, having been banned from several campuses over the years for profane, offensive hijinks.  An alumni friend once described the band as “doing whatever entertains them (the band), without giving a damn what the audience wants or thinks”.    Entirely student led, the “band” eschews uniforms in favor of hobo couture, sloppily dressed in costume, drag, and button festooned fishing hats.  They avoid traditional band music, formal marches and almost any discernible organization whatsoever.  It’s like an Occupy protest with brass.

On the field, it’s a contrast of styles.  On one side stands the head butting Stanford style, a hard nosed, physical gauntlet cut from the mold of former head coach Jim Harbaugh.  Opposing them are the revamped Arizona Wildcats, powered by a quick tempo, run and gun offense, the hallmark of new head coach Rich Rodriguez.  Surprisingly, Arizona lures the conservative Cardinal into a shootout.  Against an imposing front seven of the Stanford defense, the Arizona aerial attack takes to the skies, throwing for nearly 500 yards on the day.  Stanford chews up the turf, feeding the ball to clydesdale tailback Stephen Taylor and connecting deep play action passes to massive tight end Levine Toilolo.  With over 1200 yards of total offense, the game is a track meet.  Holding a comfortable 48-34 lead with only 9:00 remaining, the Arizona squad sputters.  Brutalized by four quarters of a Stanford grind, they give up two touchdowns in the final six minutes to let the Cardinal knot the score at 48, sending the contest into overtime.  In the extra frame, the Wildcats are exhausted, squandering their only opportunity with a costly interception.  Stanford pounds in a 21 yard rushing touchdown, winning the contest with an exclamation point.

After the nailbiting finish, I hustle out of Stanford Stadium, elbowing my way through the crimson herd to get on the road quickly.  I’ve got the tail end of a doubleheader to hit up at Cal Berkeley, and the California traffic gods can be merciless to those in a rush…
Continue to Cal post here…

Full Clickable Gallery Below

Smoque BBQ – Where there’s smoque, there’s good cue’…

On Smoque BBQ, Daniel Vaughn writes “This is the closest thing to true Texas Style BBQ that I’ve found outside of Texas.”  With time for only one lunch in Chicago, my barbecue destination was quickly settled on his words alone.

Vaughn is a man that knows barbecue. As the proprietor of Full Custom Gospel BBQ, he’s catalogued a compendium of over 500 in person reviews of joints throughout the state of Texas and beyond.  And while I’ve been following his smoky footsteps for quite a few years now, his recent list of accolades, including an appearance on Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations”, has elevated him to a national authority on the subject.   While he doesn’t travel outside of Texas often (and frankly, I don’t know why any true BBQ fan would) when he does, you better pay attention.  I’ve counted on Daniel’s recommendations for a number of years now, and with this upcoming trip to Chicago in my sights, his website was the first place I checked for some proper cue’.  Once again, Daniels expertise did not disappoint.

Walking into to Smoque, the aroma of a proper BBQ joint tingles the nose.  Smoke wafts through the air, permeating clothes and pores alike, and the sweet smell of pork stirs my appetite.  Taking only an obligatory glance at the chalk menu board, I place my order for the “holy trinity” of traditional Texas barbecue: sausage, pork ribs and brisket.  Through years of experience, these are the three best barometers for evaluating the mettle of a proper pitmaster.  After watching a few plates prepared with sauce, I recoil in my customary fashion, instructing the counter girl not to sauce my order.  Given Smoque’s anti sauce manifesto (read here) I’m surprised this step is required.  Handing me my ticket number, I remind her one more time not to sauce me, just to be safe.

I watch the cook staff while I wait, delicately slicing orders in the open kitchen, Smoque clearly takes pride in their work.  A moment later my order arrives, the three meats arranged neatly on a wax paper lined aluminum tray.  An individual serving of house made mac & cheese and baked beans round out the feast, even the sides are given proper attention here.  As I dig in, the sausage has a familiar flavor profile to it. Imported from Rudy Mikeska’s in Taylor, Texas it has the spice and snap of true Texas sausage.  Sweet smoky ribs pulled from the bone with only the slightest of tugs, the St. Louis cut yielding gobs of porky goodness.  The brisket, however, I hoarded.  Like a child setting dessert aside greedily for the end of the meal, I rationed bites of brisket, savoring each morsel. Without a trip to Texas scheduled this season, it might be my only chance for some proper brisket. Tender fatty cuts from the point end had a crisp jet black bark, giving way to luxurious smoked beefy velvet.

This is, quite simply, the best brisket I have ever had outside of Texas.

There are precious few places anywhere in the country that show mastery over several kinds of protein.  There are even fewer still that exist outside of Texas.  Having visited, I can now add Smoque to that elite, short list of places.  If you’re ever in Chicago craving BBQ, your only question should be where to eat third?  Because the first two places better be Smoque.
Click here for Full Custom Gospel BBQ
Click here for Smoque BBQ

Full clickable gallery of Smoque pictures below.

Northwestern vs. Indiana – Big Cat Country…

It’s Saturday morning in the Windy City, and finally feels like fall.  A refreshing crisp is the air, and I don a hooded sweatshirt over my purple t-shirt in preparation for the trip to Northwestern.  It’s an 11am start time, one of those awful byproducts of maximizing television exposure.  Weary fans barely have enough time for a cup of coffee, never mind anything heavier, before herding into the stadium for a morning kickoff.  The way the Big 10 is playing this year, early kickoffs might be the only games fans choose to watch before flipping over to the afternoon SEC or Pac 12 matchups.

I catch a ride to the Fullerton red line stop on the “El”, the elevated local train system in Chicago.  For $2.25 I can ride it all the way up to Evanston from downtown, and I press into the silver car as it rattles to a stop.  Urban dwellers are quick to glamorize the joys of public transportation, but a few minutes on the train remind me why I don’t miss it.  A few vagrants lie across the seats, and the entire car wafts an enticing aroma of old socks mixed with rancid ethnic food.  It rumbles agonizingly slow on the elevated tracks, stopping altogether at random intervals for no apparent reason.

Winding through the Chicago skyline, the train gradually swells at each stop with an array of purple and crimson shirts.  Nearing Evanston, it’s packed to standing capacity. The contrast between the two fan bases is stark.  Older Northwestern alums tote paper bags of neatly placed organic groceries, while younger Indiana alums carry Styrofoam coolers packed with unnaturally colorful bum wine, trading sips of cheap rum from a disposable plastic flask.  A few of them squabble with each other about the contest ahead, which, given the traditional football prowess of both schools, is comical to say the least.

After nearly an hour on the train, I cover the ten miles to the Central Street stop, the same pace as a casual jog.  I emerge from the station with scarcely an hour before kickoff.  It’s a beautiful day for college football in Evanston. Crisp weather, brilliant blue sky and leaves arching over the street are just starting to turn the first shades of autumn gold.

I cue up for breakfast at Mustard’s Last Stand, a hot dog joint in the shadow of Ryan Field.  Dishing out Chicago fare since 1969, the walls are covered with old football photos and a fading white menu board.  I opt for an armful of classics, a chocolate shake, hot dog with the works, and an Italian beef sandwich – with the bun dipped in the au jous of course.  Like all traditional Chicago dogs, the poppy seed bun is overflowing with tomatoes, a pickle slice, sweet peppers, slather of yellow mustard, an all beef frank, and a gentle shake of celery salt.  Ketchup, the prevailing beacon of bad taste, is refreshingly absent from the entire establishment in true Chicago fashion.  The Italian beef sandwich proves underwhelming and plain, but the chocolate shake here is a true star.  Hand dipped from tubs of chocolate ice cream, it’s blended with syrup and whole milk, served in a Dixie cup, the icy treat just thick enough to tug through a straw.
 
After my power breakfast, I walk past a few ambitious tailgaters in the gravel lot next to Ryan Field, scooping up a quick ticket on the 50 yard line for twenty bucks.  The scalper tries to put up a fight, but when he’s holding an inch thick stack of tickets in his hand, it’s hard to be persuasive.  Built in 1926, Ryan is one of the oldest stadiums in the Big 10, and entering through the concrete arches it echoes that classic feel.  At only 47,000 capacity it’s also the smallest stadium in the Big 10, and only about 2/3 of the place was full on this early Saturday morning, despite the unblemished 4-0 record of the Wildcats.

Following the opening kickoff, The Hoosiers are caught off guard in the opening half, as the Northwestern blitzkrieg explodes for 314 yards, jumping out to a 20-0 lead heading into the locker room.  The crowd grows aloof with the easy first frame, relaxing on the aluminum bleachers, chatting about classic cars and corporate strategy.  But Indiana battles back in the second half, reeling off 21 3^rd quarter points, forcing the NU fans to their feet once again on key third down defensive stands.  Surprisingly, the contest proves to be an exciting shootout.  Eventually, late in the 4^th quarter the Cats put the game away, punching in a touchdown with five minutes left on the clock.  Though the 44-29 win is convincing, the 704 yards of total offense – a school record – is sure to raise an eyebrow from some of the elder statesman of the conference.  With a 5-0 record and abnormally weak Big 10 play this year, the door is open for a Wildcat surprise season.

After the game, I brave the “El” once again, then cab it over to Smoque Barbecue, and sink my teeth into the best brisket I’ve had outside of Texas. (read the full review here)   Bellied up on barbecue in the late afternoon, it’s time for the real entertainment of the day; Oktoberfest.  I return to a houseful of lederhosen garbed friends where a keg of imported Hofbrauhaus and authentic Bavarian pretzels await as we flip channels through a few of the SEC games.  A few hours later, we stumble onto a hired trolley for the night, reveling through downtown Chicago in a handful of traditional German bars like Prost!.  Sloshing huge mugs of molasses colored Spaten Optimator and passing sips of the massive two liter “das boots” full of lager, it’s a fine nightcap to a nice little Saturday.

Truthfully, the trip to Northwestern was more about spending a weekend in Chicago with friends, and checking one more Big 10 school off the list.  While they may have sporadic bouts of historical success, Northwestern is not a traditional football powerhouse and the game day environment is pretty tame.  Like any major metropolitan area, college football takes a back seat to the professional teams in town, and the Bears are certainly the kings of the gridiron in Chicago.  But a pristine day of fall weather watching a few helmets pop is never a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon, or morning for that matter, especially with an Oktoberfest chaser…

(Full Clickable gallery below)