Posts by Lawrence:

Eating Authors: Lee French

Written on October 9th, 2017 by
Categories: Plugs
Lee French

Though this blog series appears bright and early every Monday morning, I often put the individual pieces to bed days before they’ll post. Not so today’s installment. Rather, I’ve just returned from a phenomenal weekend at Capclave, one that began early Friday morning and only ended when I arrived back home, weary but quite contented on Sunday afternoon.

And it was at just such a time and in just such a state, that I realized “whoops, I hadn’t prepared the next EATING AUTHORS. Fortunately, this week’s guest, Lee French, had already long since sent me her most memorable meal.

Lee’s the author of assorted books, likely most known for the Maze Beset Trilogy, and The Greatest Sin series (the fifth book of which, A Curse of Memories, came out last summer), but has also written other works, some set in her fantasy world of Ilauri.

Right about now I suspect she’s organizing and preparing for the madness of NaNoWriMo, some three weeks away, because she generously serves as a Municipal Liaison for the Olympia region in Washington state.

Oh, and she also bikes.

LMS: Welcome, Lee. What’s your most memorable meal?

LF: A slice of berry pie, a scoop of ice cream, and a banana at 7am. The banana made it a respectable breakfast. I sat alone on a hilltop, surrounded by a thousand people, in bright, warm sunshine and a light breeze. Thin plastic sheets covered a herd of aluminum picnic tables assembled to accommodate the endlessly shifting crowd inside a volunteer fire department station. Others nearby enjoyed more traditional breakfast fare in the form of pancakes, eggs, sausages, and fruit. The view beyond the horde, the tractors, and the haybales revealed the bumpy, hilly terrain of northeast Iowa, thick with trees and stubbornly terraced fields, sprawling houses, and winding roads. The small town with a name I don’t remember had collected a small army of friendly residents to serve and sell us the food.

The Fallen

The best meal ever happened on the final day of Ragbrai XLVI, the 44th iteration of the Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa. Every year in late July, as many as twenty thousand cyclists descend upon Iowa. Like a plague of locusts, we sweep across the state, from the Missouri to the Mississippi in seven days, and devour every kind of food and drink we can find, leaving a trail of money and memories in our wake. The ride is a carnival on two wheels. Beer, pie, bacon, and corn fill the air and our bellies. Water rains from sprinklers and temporary fountains set up for us. Sometimes, it’s over 100 degrees. Sometimes, it’s under 30. Every day is a minimum of fifty miles.

This meal, though, wasn’t just a meal. It was a Moment. Number 44 was my fifth time riding. Thousands of miles of training led to it. Hundreds of hours of sweat and aching muscles led to it. Dozens of mad, endorphin-incited grins led to it. It’s the best worst vacation I’ve ever taken. Like thousands of other lunatics, I keep going back for more punishment.

Ragbrai is awful. I camp, which I hate. I ride, which is grueling and painful because it takes six to eight hours to get from one town to the next. I train, which takes time away from things I like doing more. I eat, which involves shoving copious quantities of food into my food-hole to avoid exhaustion, not the more pleasant savoring of delicious things. I sunburn, which happens because I’m fair-skinned and sometimes miss spots or forget to reapply in a timely fashion.

Girls Can't Be Knights

I’ve battled heat exhaustion and hypothermia, ridden through rain, hail, tornado warnings, and clouds of flying bugs. I’ve evaded disastrous crashes by pure luck. I’ve leaned against my bike and cried for how hard it was that day. I’ve been insulted for my girth while wearing my Ragbrai XL jersey (Extra Large, get it? Hilarious.). I’ve put on wet clothes at 5:30am in 40 degree weather because I had nothing dry to wear. I’ve had to stop because suncreen ran into my eyes and temporarily blinded me. I’ve gotten food poisoning.

Once, I blacked out while assembling my tent. Another time, I fell over because my pedal clip got stuck and scraped the heck out of my hand, knee, and elbow. There are no words for the peculiar pain of the posterior caused by prolonged contact with a bicycle seat.

At least one person dies on the ride every year, and it could be me. And we use porta-potties for a week straight.

But then, I’ve also seen the orange and pink of sunrise on my bike with no excuse not to stop and enjoy it. Strangers talk to strangers and we remind each other that, no matter what we see on the news or internet, people are mostly decent and kind. Libraries in small towns have excellent people. Nothing beats the joy of conquering a steep hill without getting off the bike to walk. I make jokes and we’re all too tired and spent not to laugh. Some of the landscape in Iowa is amazing. The sheer volume of endorphins is the most amazing high imaginable. The simple joy of an unexpected real toilet takes you by surprise the first time you feel it.

Dragons In Pieces

Also, you can eat things like a slice of chocolate covered frozen cheesecake on a stick and feel no remorse. Biking requires calories. Lots of calories.

Many people bring friends or family with them and ride together. My first year, I went with a group of people I had nothing in common with. Every subsequent year, I’ve gone alone. Which is why I had a Moment that morning on that hill.

Knowing that Ragbrai would probably be my last — chronic knee problems plus increasing professional obligations have made it more and more challenging every year — I paused to savor the last morning, covered from head to toe in UV clothing and sunscreen. The pie tasted like freedom and victory. I did a thing for me and me alone. No one else got a say in whether I did the thing or not. No one else trained for me. No one else climbed the hills for me. No one else took care of my bike for me. No one else drove me out there, and no one else would drive me back.

Thanks, Lee. There is no pie, no taste, as exquisite as embracing the power of your own choices.

Next Monday: Another author and another meal!


Eating Authors: Bo Balder

Written on October 2nd, 2017 by
Categories: Plugs
Bo Balder

This week’s EATING AUTHORS guest is Bo Balder, a member of Codex, the online writing community we know and love. Bo also lives in the Netherlands, and so I never expected to actually meet her. But of course that was before this past summer’s world science fiction convention in Helsinki, and the rest as they say is history!

Bo is primarily a short story writer — and perhaps you’ve seen her work in such venues as Clarkesworld or F&SF — but she’s also written a novel, The Wan, which takes on the challenges of what happens when humans reach another world but forget their own history and technology, amidst a hostile and alien biosystem. The solution embraced by one of the book’s main characters managed to both delight and horrify me at the same time, giving new meaning to the old phrase, “you are what you eat.”

LMS: Welcome, Bo. Share the where and why and what of your most memorable meal,

BB: The restaurant was a tottery wooden shack reached after driving down from the cliffs of Bretagne, France, to the seaside. The sea in question was the Atlantic, reaching far inland with a probing finger that would flood by high tide and become mud flats at low tide.

It was low tide. We pulled off our shoes and went reconnoitering over the muddy sea bottom. We learned how oysters are farmed (in sacks on racks). We saw a French family sprinkle salt over holes in the mud and capture the razor shells that came questing up. They put them in a plastic bag, already half full, and told us they were planning to eat them that evening. I vowed to try them if the restaurant had any.

We cleaned our feet as best we could (sea bottom is sticky, blackish mud) and entered the restaurant. The lobby was a big open room, with a shallow pool in the middle, with dozens of kinds of fish and shellfish in wooden crates for sale. Apparently the restaurant doubled as fish market… We wended our way through to the dining room.

It was full of large French families waiting for food. Luckily we had reserved a table ahead — my husband grew up in Brussels, which is a good thing, because although I have some French, it’s not phone proof. His is…

The Wan

We were seated at one end of a long narrow table and got a menu and a small bowl of appetizers: periwinkles, accompanied by a winkling implement to get the little suckers out of their shells. They had an intense, dark, almost liquorish-like taste. Interesting, for sure, but not in large quantities.

Then the lobster bib arrived. The waiter tied the sleeved, lap-length bib around my husband’s neck and behind his back and proceeded to lay down something like a hammer and tongs. I was glad I’d chosen the oysters, I knew I wouldn’t have to open them myself.

While we waited for the food to arrive, the other tables started getting served. Huge platters of seafood got carried in, and not just for the large parties. A five-pound heap of everything that swims in the sea was set down for an elderly couple and they set out to devour it. I wished I’d chosen a huge variety of food like that! I wished I could eat that much… What is it with French people that they can eat like that and only gain a little bit of middle-aged spread?

After my lobster bisque, my half dozen of the famed ridged oysters of the region, the “Creuse de Belon” were absolutely delicious, superfresh and salty, not even needing pepper or lemon. My husband destroyed the lobster with all his might until his platter looked like a red and pink striped bomb site.

The food was simply prepared, but so fresh and so good that I could eat there every week. Too bad it’s a ten-hour drive from home…

Thanks, Bo. Having “gone pescatarian” a few months ago, I’m paying much more attention to author meals involving seafood. I still don’t understand the appeal of oysters though.

Next Monday: Another author and another meal!


My Tentative Capclave 2017 Schedule

Written on September 27th, 2017 by
Categories: News

It’s nearly time once again for one of my favorite small conventions, Capclave.

Even though I was just in Maryland over the weekend (for the awesome Baltimore Book Festival!), I’m very excited to be going back, and not just because it means another stop off at the Elkton Waffle House along the way (though, seriously, that is a huge draw).

For me, Capclave is always a welcome combination of connecting with old friends and enjoying serious conversations with people who want to talk about books. And hey, if the books they’re talking about include one or more of mine, so much the better.

This year’s ConChair has just sent out the schedules. You’ll find mine below (the better to stalk me).

Friday, October 6th
3:00 p.m. | Frederick | “Holy Shuftik!” He Cried.
How does an author create a distinctive language for characters in the future or in a different world and keep it understandable to the reader? What’s the right balance between creating language and making sure the reader can figure it out without a dictionary appendix to the story?
with Jeanne Adams (M) and John Skovron

4:00 p.m. | Seneca | Hypnotism: Reality vs. Fiction
If you’re getting sleeeepy, don’t come to this item. I’ll give a talk on how hypnotism really works vs. how it is portrayed in fiction and on screen.

Saturday, October 7th
12:00 p.m. | Bethesda | Reading
I’ve been paired with the incredible James Morrow for an hour of reading. He’ll start at noon, and hand off to me at 12:30pm. I have no idea what Jim will be reading, but I expect to read to you from the new Amazing Conroy novella, Barry’s Deal (coming out from NobleFusion Press at the end of October).
with James Morrow

4:00 p.m. | Frederick | Anthology Builder
So you want to edit and publish an anthology. How do the stories get picked? How do you come up with a theme? What sells and what doesn’t? How do authors produce readable fiction in the straitjacket of an original themed anthology? How do you properly curate your anthology?
with Neil Clarke, Ron Garner, Joshua Palmatier (M), and Darrell Schweitzer

7:30 p.m. | Rockville/Potomac | Mass Signing and Awards
For many, the highlight of Capclave is the mass autographing session, followed by the awards ceremony to award the WSFA Small Press Award and the BSFS Amateur Writers Contest winners. This is a great chance to get all the things signed and to celebrate some of the best of small press short fiction.
with everyone!

Sunday, October 8th
10:00 a.m. | Rockville/Potomac | Abusing Authors
Panelists answer whatever questions the audience has on writing, editing, character development, agents, and others. Includes many non-writer-parts-of-being-a-writer, such as being your own boss, setting schedules, and so on.
with Sarah Avery, Scott Edelman, Will McIntosh (M), Ian Randal Strock, and Michael Ventrella

If you’ve never been to Capclave, you owe it to yourself to come and experience its glory. And if you have, you’ve probably already booked your hotel room and paid your registration. Either way, I look forward to seeing you there.

Eating Authors: JY Yang

Written on September 25th, 2017 by
Categories: Plugs
JY Yang

Regular readers of my work know that I’m very “old school” in my approach to writing speculative fiction. At some level this is doubtless shaped an unconscious attempt to recreate the “sense of wonder” from the stories and novels that I imprinted on in my youth. But tempus fugit, and just as the world around me has changed, my reading tastes have changed as well. I still very much enjoy reading that “classic” style in my SF, but there’s so much more out there now, stories from new voices with compellingly different backgrounds and world views and life experiences that have molded their fiction. And fortunately, there are markets that are bringing these works to readers, places like Light Speed Magazine and Uncanny Magazine and Clarkesworld.

This week’s EATING AUTHOR’s guest is a prime example of what I’m talking about. JY Yang writes from the experience of a journalist, a scientist, and an editor taking on issues of gender, race, and class. Their two novella Tensorate Series comes out tomorrow from, and J has described it as “a melange of everything I wanted to see in epic fantasy: Adventure, romance, martial magic, megafauna.” And it won’t end there, as two additional novellas in the series are already scheduled for publication.

I’m not usually one to invoke the hackneyed “if you read only one book this year” line, but I’m tempted to here. Except, I’d amend it to tell you to read both of these novellas. The real question is, how do you decide which to read first?

LMS: Welcome, JY. Tell me about a memorable thing you’ve eaten.

JY: This is about salmiakki.

I went to the recent Worldcon that was held in Helsinki, Finland. Now, the two things they tell you when you are about to go to Finland are 1) saunas, do the sauna thing, and 2) you should eat salmiakki. Now, the Wikipedia page for salmiakki, or salty liquorice, has this to say about this particular Nordic delicacy, citations and all:

Salty liquorice, also known as salmiak or salmiakki (in Finland), is a variety of liquorice flavoured with ammonium chloride, common in the Nordic countries, the Netherlands, and northern Germany. Ammonium chloride gives salty liquorice an astringent, salty taste (hence the name), which has been described as “tongue-numbing” and “almost-stinging”. Salty liquorice is an acquired taste and people not familiar with ammonium chloride might find the taste physically overwhelming and unlikeable.

Waiting on a Bright Moon

You know when they put “acquired taste” in the first paragraph of the Wiki page that it’s got to be something special. I mean, I come from Southeast Asia, land of the durian, and the Wiki page for that only mentions that some people think it tastes objectionable in the third paragraph. What a food needs to do to tastebuds in order to have that information moved right to the opening, I can’t even guess.

So I was in Finland, and salmiakki was a thing that you could get at candy stands, which sold these footlong sticks of liquorice in various flavours. I have a rapacious sweet tooth, and I can chow through my body weight in candy in an astonishingly small amount of time. In Stockholm the week before Worldcon, my friend Grace and I each bought five sticks of liquorice in a bag from a stall by the marina, in an assortment of fruity flavours. By the end of the day I had demolished all but one stick of candy, while Grace had barely finished her first. She was impressed, and when I say “impressed” I really mean “mildly horrified.”

Well. You can imagine that I was tempted by the candy stall that was parked right outside the dealers’ room at Worldcon. Because I was. But everytime I looked at the tantalising, tar-black laces of salmiakki, I would remember the immortal words of my friend Lara, who had tasted salmiakki before. “It’s like eating a concentrated tablet of cat piss.”

I don’t have cats. I’ve helped a friend catsit while they were away for winter break. I am familiar with that particular tang. I was really not committing myself to eating an entire foot of candy that tasted like that. So: hard pass.

Worldcon rolled on. Every time I passed by the candy stand, I cast a furtive glance, then remembered the noxious fumes that rose from my friend’s litterbox. And quickly moved on.

The Black Tides of Heaven

It was now Sunday, the last day of the convention. I was hanging out with my agent sibling Alex Wells and their friend Corina. We were outside the convention center checking out the Viking blacksmiths, who were these rugged, shirtless Finnish men clad in scraps of fur and leather, stoking fires and swinging metal implements. Kind of like Mad Max, but Nordic. Our interest was purely in the knives and metal jewelry they were selling, of course. So while we were, ahem, examining their wares, I noticed that Corina was eating some kind of candy out of a clear bag.

I asked: “Is that… salmiakki?”

“It is,” she said.

“It’s disgusting,” Alex added, with the rawness of someone who’d tried some and did not come away unscathed.

I looked at the candy Corina was holding. My brain, that wretched little imp, was thinking: You can’t leave Finland without tasting this stuff. You need to know what its like. Just one bite. How bad can it be?

I looked at Corina again. She seemed fine eating this stuff. Pretty cheerful, in fact. If it was like swallowing cat piss, she wasn’t showing it.

I said: “…can I try some?”

As Alex frowned at my folly, Corina tore a chunk off the stick and handed it to me. It was soft. Malleable. I put it in my mouth.

I chewed. It was actually salty. Like it said on the lid. It was weird, having this texture between my teeth I associated with something sweet or tangy, and having it taste like the ocean. But not really. The saltiness was very mild. Gentle. It came with a slight whiff of ammonia, barely even noticeable.

The Red Threads of Fortune

Still, I was waiting for the shit to hit the fan. It had to be coming, like the way wasabi lets you think hey it’s not so bad after all, before punching right through the roof of your mouth and into your braincase. At some point, I was sure, the salmiakki would unleash its ammoniac power into my hapless being.

I continued chewing. Alex and Corina watched me carefully.

Nothing happened. I blinked. Was this it? Was this the entirety of what salmiakki tasted like?

“It’s… not bad?” I ventured, my voice lifted by disbelief. I chewed some more. No, this was definitely great. It was soft and chewy without being cloying, the taste of salt light in my mouth and the notes of ammonia somehow cleansing. “I… I actually like this.”

And I did. It was great. I wanted more.

Corina’s smile was a little smug as she held out more of the candy to me.

Alex said: “I’m disowning both of you.”

Anyway, that’s my story of eating salmiakki in Finland. I don’t think there’s a moral to it, except maybe “don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, because it may surprise you”. Or “tastebuds, what are they, we’ll never know”. One thing I do know, though:

Durian is delicious. I will fight you over it.

Thanks, JY. I had a similar experience with that licorice booth outside the dealers’ room. It took days, but I finally succumbed. So glad I did!

Next Monday: Another author and another meal!


Eating Authors: Mark J. Engels

Written on September 18th, 2017 by
Categories: Plugs
Mark Engels

I’ve spent much of this past week revising Barry’s Deal, the new Amazing Conroy novella that will be coming from NobleFusion Press late next month. In addition to Conroy and Reggie, the story features the return of everyone’s (or at least my) favorite gambler, LeftJohn Mocker, as well as the return of Angela “Gel” Colson, last seen in the first novella, Barry’s Tale. I’ve been doing a lot of writing in 2017 but not a lot of publishing, so this will be a very welcome release.

Needless to say (though I just did), working on this novella has had my brain full of furry critters. Sounds like potential for a segue into this week’s EATING AUTHORS guest, right? Absolutely, because this week we have Mark Engels, whose debut novel, Always Gray in Winter, came out just last month from Thurston Howl Publications, and as you might infer from the name of the publisher, Mark’s novel is anthropomorphic fiction! It’s got shapeshifters, but if you’re not familiar with furry fiction, you’re in for a very different ride!

Speaking of rides, Mark’s a railroader. He’s worked as an electrical engineer, designing signal and comm systems for railroads. As if that wasn’t cool enough, he began writing articles for the transit industry trade magazines. Somewhere along the way that morphed (see what I did there?) into werecats, and here we are. And expect Mark to stay in this place for a while as he admits there are at least two, maybe three (maybe more?) books he’ll need to write to fully tell the story he’s begun.

LMS: Welcome, Mark. Tell me about your most memorable meal.

MJE: One memorable occasion comes to mind from the late 90s, not long after I’d moved to the Twin Cities from my native Michigan. A couple weeks later a co-worked spotted a tiny model next to my computer monitor. We became fast friends after he identified it as Guardian-mode Veritech as featured in Harmony Gold’s Robotech TV series. Shared interests in Japanese anime and manga kindled our interests other Japanese cultural aspects, especially cuisine.

I was raised in a meat-and-potatoes household. College had expanded my culinary horizons, however, and now living in the Big City for the first time I was eager to Try All the Things. So was my friend Kristopher, having come from rural Wisconsin. And St. Paul was more than happy to accommodate us. A sushi restaurant in the heart of downtown named Sakura became our de facto haunt. At that time one could still request booth seating around a low table featuring tatami mats. Kristopher and I did so often enough to brand us as regulars. Having come to enjoy nearly everything on both the nigiri and maki menus, one evening as we strode past Sensei on our way to our usual booth Kristopher told him “surprise us.”

Always Gray in Winter

Partway through our third bottle of sake, our server plunked down a boatful of some of the finest sushi you ever saw. At the bow sat a pair of amaebi (which I would later come to know as “sweet shrimp.”) Beside them were the prawns’ heads, deep fried in potato starch and poised with their walking legs facing each other. As if they were fighting.


I don’t remember who grabbed his chopsticks first. I do recall Kristopher and I animating our prawns in mortal combat to the amusement of those seated across the aisle from our booth. Upon realizing we were the center of attention, we shrugged and popped the shrimp heads into our mouths.

“Wait! You not supposed to eat that!”

Our server’s admonishment froze us both mid-bite. The wide-eyed look on Kristopher’s face conveyed my same thoughts: Are fried shrimp heads friggin’ poisonous or something? Will we both have the screaming heebie-jeebies tomorrow? She managed to make it to our table before she lost it, howling with laughter at the joke she’d sprang on us. Fellow diners all around joined in. Once over our initial bout of self-consciousness—and after swallowing our shrimp heads—we laughed along until our server brought us another bottle of sake. On the house for being such good sports, natch.

I’ve learned in the decades since amaebi is commonly served much the same way. Kristopher and I have come together many times between then and now to eat sushi, though never again to such fanfare. And with much more moderate sake consumption, too, which suits me quite fine. Though our culinary comedy helped inspire a scene in my paranormal sci-fi thriller about the modern day remnant of an ancient clan of werecats. When Tommy welcomes his wayward twin sister Pawly home to Chicago for a Polish/Korean mixed family reunion, he learns the hard way making pie-iron pierogi one ought not mistake kimchi for sauerkraut.

Thanks, Mark. You know, I have never understood the fascination with eating the head of whatever protein source is on your plate. No shrimp heads for me. And don’t even get me started on crawfish!

Next Monday: Another author and another meal!


Eating Authors: Russell Davis

Written on September 11th, 2017 by
Categories: Plugs
Russell Davis

If things go as planned, about the time this week’s installment of EATING AUTHORS posts, I’ll be sending in the completed revisions of the BARSquel to my editor. And I do so with both relief and regret. Sequels are tough, particularly when the first book in the series was something I’d been mulling over for more nearly three decades and this book came together, from conception to completion, in a couple years. I think fans of BARSK will like this one even more, though you’ll have to wait until next summer to judge for yourself. It definitely replaces it’s predecessor as the best thing I’ve ever written. Which is how it should be, but man, I am exhausted! And alas, no rest for me, as I need to jump back into writing mode and finish the revisions on the new Amazing Conroy novella so that publisher has it in time to release next month. And after that I have two collaborations, a game proposal, and another novel or clamoring for my attention before month’s end.

I don’t expect any sympathy for the abundance of writing awaiting me. It just means that I’m moving further along that continuum from dilettante (where I don’t think I’ve been for some years) to working writer (which is how I like to think of myself). And that’s a good thing. That’s also about as good a segue as I’m going to get to introducing this week’s guest, Russell Davis.

I’m really happy to say that I’ve known Russell for years, but I can’t say I know him well and we’ve only met face to face a few times. It all began while he was the president of Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and I was stepping up to take over as the organization’s Election Officer. I continued in that role for about eight years and under several other SFWA presidents, but working under Russell gave me my first glimpse of how that particular sausage gets made and I was impressed by the attention and thought that I saw going into his decisions. It was a great introduction to my own service to the organization, and over the years I’ve come to appreciate it more and more.

On the other hand, it took forever to get him here, so no more flattering words for him!

If you’re not familiar with his name, there’s still a very good chance you’re read him anyway, because not only is Russell the very definition of a working writer (see, there’s the segue connection!), he’s also a master of disguise, or at least of pseudonyms. You can find him writing under such names as David Cian (Transformers novels among other things), Garrett Dylan (spy novels), Jenna Solitaire (the Daughter of Destiny series), Christopher Tracy (TV movie novelizations) and several more. It’s inspiring. But then, that’s just how he rolls.

LMS: Welcome, Russell. What’s the best meal you can remember?

RD: This is an incredibly difficult question for me to answer, which perhaps explains why I’ve struggled with responding to the ever-patient Lawrence with my reply. It’s difficult because I grew up in the restaurant business, from the time I was eight and taking trash out of the kitchen of the Holiday Inn where my mom worked for $1/can until I was in my late 20’s, and finally escaped. Mostly. Sort of. That’s a long and different story, but the point is that I’ve eaten out in a lot of really excellent restaurants, and I’m no slouch in the kitchen, which means I’ve had quite a few meals at home that were pretty damn fine, too. And there’s been any number of memorable meals at the homes of friends and relatives, where the food was good and the mood celebratory.

So… picking the best one? Not so easy.

Murder Ink

I could tell you about my mom’s slow-roasted English prime rib, or her pheasant stroganoff – both of which we had one year when I was hosting a Super Bowl party. There was a sort of pot-luck brunch I recall where everyone had to eat standing up because the entire table was covered with food and a Bloody Mary bar that looked like it was straight out of a magazine. There was a lunch at my first WorldCon, when I sat with George R.R. Martin and he let me pick his brain for about forty-five minutes on world building in fantasy novels. There was one, really excellent meal and company, at the Fairmont in San Francisco, where I learned that Bob Silverberg knows almost as much about wine as I do (though he’d tell you the opposite), and that Len Wein can draw a Batman on the back of a bar napkin (which I still have, framed, and I’m not giving it back, no matter what). That was the night I learned about Mary Robinette Kowal’s voice talents, which she could use to make a really good living, if she ever decided that writing and puppetry weren’t working out. (Seriously, she could launch her own “I’ll record your voice mail message,” business and make serious bank.)

And isn’t that the trick, really? The best meal sort of implies the best food, but sometimes, what makes the meal is the company, even when the food is, at best, forgettable. I’ve been in the publishing industry for a long time, and have had the pleasure of sharing meals and drinks with people I long admired, and some have even become friends. There are fine memories there that I’ll no doubt be mining for many years to come.

But the best meal… forced to pick, the one that really stands out to me was at Harrah’s Steak House in Reno, Nevada. I ate there several times over the years I lived in Nevada, including on my wedding night. But in order to understand what made Harrah’s special, you must understand that before I ever went there, I met the head server at a gourmet coffee house event and he personally invited me to come to the restaurant. His name was Bong. James Bong.

No, I’m not kidding.

The Twilight Zone: A Gathering of Shadows

Bong had been at Harrah’s for years – we’re talking decades here – and had served many celebrities and VIP’s. One evening while we were there, I met Jim Kelly, the great Buffalo Bills quarterback. The restaurant itself is on the bottom floor of Harrah’s casino, and you’d think it would be noisy, but it’s not. The exterior walls are soundproofed – you can’t hear so much as a slot machine – and the booths are constructed of heavy, padded leather that wraps around the table, ensuring a sense of privacy that an open table never does. The regular evening host was a man named Michael, who remembered us by name on our second visit, after Bong introduced us when we came in for that first meal. Part of a great dining experience is the service, and great service is almost priceless when it comes to having an unforgettable dinner. The service and atmosphere at Harrah’s was always first rate.

So, the particular night I’m thinking of was intended to be a quiet date night, celebrating our third anniversary. What happened instead was a dinner experience I’ll never forget. As usual, Michael remembered us and ensured we were seated at a booth, and Bong remembered that I drink Jack Daniel’s on the rocks and had one at the table before I even ordered it.

Our menu selections that night were as follows:
Appetizer: Steakhouse Ravioli
Soup: Lobster Bisque (and if you ever go there, have the bisque – it’s amazing)
Salad: Tableside prepared Caesar Salad
Entrée: Tableside Flambéed Steak Diane
Desert: Crème Brulee

Now, all of that sounds fine – and it was – but what really made the night was the wine and after dinner drinks. Oh, and the group of people sitting at an open table next to ours.

Knowing that I was a bit of a wine snob, Bong had set aside a bottle of Duckhorn Merlot for us – I think it was a 2006 – and it was outstanding. And not too long after we’d cracked the bottle, the table next to us found out we were celebrating our anniversary, and we all shared a toast. Then we started passing wine bottles back and forth, because they had an excellent wine, too. The conversation was friendly, and our two-table group sort of took over one little corner of that dining room. Servers came and went, food appeared and disappeared, laughter among strangers with very little in common except the meal we were all enjoying – and sharing without any hesitation at all.

After dinner, came one of Harrah’s specialties: Café Diablo. This is an alcoholic coffee drink prepared tableside. It consists of several different liquors, orange peel, cloves, and coffee, and if you want to see it for yourself, there’s a video on YouTube. I’m a little bit in love with it, and I’d have it far too often if it was easily accessible, so it’s probably a good thing that it isn’t.

The End of All Seasons

As the evening wound down, I realized that there was wine left in most of the bottles and the other table had also ordered Café Diablo, so there was plenty to go around. I quietly suggested an idea to my wife and the other table, and everyone agreed to my plan. I called Bong and Michael over and requested that they bring glasses and cups for themselves and the service staff so that they, too, could share in the moment and as a thank you for their service. Not too long after that, there must have been close to a dozen service staff standing around our two tables, drinking and laughing and talking with us.

Finally, the check came and when I looked at it, I realized that there must have been some kind of error. There was no charge for our wine, our Café Diablo, or our dessert. I stepped up to the host station and asked Michael and he smiled and said the wine had been paid for by the table next to us, and the Café Diablo and dessert was on the house – gifts for our anniversary. I was taken aback by the generosity. On our way out, we thanked the other table and the service staff profusely, but there wasn’t a single sign of hesitation or regret at the cost.

So, why is this dinner so very special in my memory? Because the food was excellent, the service was outstanding, the atmosphere flawless… but the company, the experience of enjoying a meal with total strangers who had no expectation of us other than to have a good night, was worth every penny we spent. Anniversaries are special, of course, and those dinners I mentioned before… I’ll never forget them, either. But often, as writers and publishers and editors and whatever other “public” hats we wear, we sit down to dinner with our friends and colleagues and there are expectations: of what we’ll say or do or talk about, and of who we are in relationship to the industry we work in or each other. It’s rarely spoken aloud, but it exists nonetheless.

For one night, my wife and I went to a fancy meal, celebrated our anniversary, and had a great time and an excellent meal, and those were the only expectations we had to meet. We didn’t exchange names with the people sitting next to us; we didn’t compare ourselves to each other. We simply enjoyed all aspects of it, and returned home… utterly and completely satisfied. There’s no better meal than that.

Thanks, Russell. You know, I’ve never had a cup of coffee in my life, and never been tempted to, until now. If we’re ever in Las Vegas together, I think I’d join you for a cup of Café Diablo without hesitation.

Next Monday: Another author and another meal!

author photo by Richard Man


Eating Authors: Mike Reeves-McMillan

Written on September 4th, 2017 by
Categories: Plugs
Mike Reeves-McMillan

Here in the USA, today, Labor Day, marks the official end of summer and never mind that the solstice is still more than two weeks away. And yet, where I live autumn is already rearing its head and I’m seeing leaves turning and cool weather. Confusing stuff, but as the fall is my favorite season and usually races by too fast I’m happy to have it arrive.

I’m spending most of September doing novel and novella revisions, with only a single travel exception. For those of you in the greater Baltimore area, you can find me on programming at the Baltimore Book Festival. It’s a great way to spend the weekend, though I’ll only be there on Saturday the 23rd. Come on by.

And speaking of travel, this week EATING AUTHORS heads to the southern hemisphere to introduce you to Mike Reeves-McMillan. No doubt all the opening remarks about summer fading into autumn is a bit confusing to him, but it can’t be helped.

Sadly, I’ve never actually crossed paths with Mike, which is a shame because the number of genre authors who are also hypnotherapists is a very small club indeed and surely we should all go out to eat together. Mike’s popular Gryphon Clerks (the latest volume, Mister Bucket for Assembly features food and food preparation as major political issues) began as a self-published effort but has since been picked up by small press Digital Fiction. He also writes the contemporary urban fantasy series Auckland Allies (proudly set in his hometown) as well as delightful sword-and-sorcery heist capers found in his Hand of the Trickster series.

LMS: Welcome, Mike. Tell me what stands out as your most memorable meal?

MR-M: I’ve had a few memorable meals. Several of them were when I travelled for work to Malaysia, over 20 years ago. I had chili squid on rice for breakfast at the very nice hotel the company had put me up in (because when you’re in Malaysia, why not?), much to the confusion of one of the other westerners staying there. And on the first day, as lunchtime approached, the local guy who I was working with said, hesitantly, “I suppose you’ll want western food for lunch?”

“Oh, no,” I said, “I love Asian food. It’s what I eat at home.”

Hand of the Trickster

Turns out that was exactly the right thing to say, because Malaysians are very proud of their cuisine — rightly so. Kuala Lumpur turned out to be a cultural crossroads, where I could eat a different country’s food each day. We ate at a Japanese place where the food came past on a circular conveyor belt, with the plates colour-coded according to the price, and you just lifted off what you wanted and then took your coloured plates up to the cashier at the end to pay. We ate at a street stall where an extremely elderly Chinese woman was spit-roasting the most delicious chickens I’ve ever tasted with some kind of amazing marinade. We ate at an Indian restaurant in the sort of setting where a stray cat with a broken tail wanders past and stops to beg for food as you eat streetside. It was all delicious (and, despite my occasional qualms, I got away without food poisoning).

But I’ve eaten some memorable meals in Auckland, New Zealand, where I live, as well.

One of them was memorable because I didn’t listen to the Indian waiter when he warned me that ordering vindaloo “hot” was not something he himself would do. That was more of an experience than it was a meal, and taught me an important lesson about listening to your waiter. Also about vindaloo.

Mister Bucket for Assembly

My most memorable recent meal was at the Jervois Steakhouse, a high-end steak restaurant owned by one of the judges on the New Zealand version of Masterchef. We found out about it because my wife is addicted to food shows, especially the Masterchefs. (The Australian one is our favourite, which is almost blasphemy in New Zealand; but the amateur cooks who go on it are just at such a high level of skill, and the judges make it a warm and positive show while still retaining the drama. It makes Masterchef USA look a bit sick, to be honest.)

Anyway, when the company I worked for at the time gave me a budget to go out to dinner and celebrate working for them for 15 years, I took my wife and my oldest friend to Jervois Steakhouse.

If I’d been spending my own money, I wouldn’t have ordered the $32 starter of tempura oysters, but I’m glad I did. Sweet, fresh oysters in a light, delicious batter, and not the least bit greasy. Mmmm. I’d order them again like a shot.

Now I want lunch.

Thanks, Mike. You remind me that one of the best meals in my life was in New Zealand, specially prepared for me by the chef at Te Papa. Glory days.

Next Monday: Another author and another meal!


Eating Authors: Nancy Jane Moore

Written on August 28th, 2017 by
Categories: Plugs
Nancy Jane Moore

As August winds down things are starting to get back to normal. Or to put it another way, my whacky sleep cycle has returned and I’m more overwhelmed with projects than ever! But then, these are good problems to have (well, the whole sleep thing, not so much, but the other one, yeah).

To close off this month, EATING AUTHORS returns once more to that amazing author cooperative, Book View Cafe, to feature as this week’s guest one of its founding members, Nancy Jane Moore.

I first discovered Nancy’s work in the pages of Polyphony 5 more than a decade ago, and I continue to delight in it. If you like strong feminist themes in your science fiction you should definitely give her a read!

LMS: Welcome, Nancy. So what stands out as your most memorable meal?

NJM: Coming up with just one memorable meal is quite a challenge. I love to eat. According to my father I came home from the hospital hungry and I’ve been asking what’s for dinner ever since.

The Weave

But a meal last fall on our road trip up the California Coast en (slow) route to Eugene, Oregon, for the Tiptree Symposium honoring Ursula K. Le Guin gets my vote these days.

We left Oakland midday, and took back roads from San Rafael until we were north of Point Reyes National Seashore. Route 1 isn’t so heavily traveled there, so we lazed along up to Jenner, where we splurged on a room that overlooked the water.

Jenner’s not a big town, and most of it is one side or the other of Route 1. We walked up the highway about a half mile to the River’s End restaurant. It was dark by then, but if we looked hard we could see the Russian River flowing into the Pacific out the restaurant window.


I ordered oysters on the half shell. I had something else – a nice salad, as I recall – and a glass of wine, but it was the oysters that made this memorable. Fresh caught oysters from Tomales Bay, a few miles to the south. Small oysters, with a deep dusky flavor, not quite smoky, but rich and dark. Without a doubt, they were the best oysters I’ve ever eaten in my life, and I’ve been eating oysters since I was six years old.

There was a special sauce for them, one I’m sure the chef was justifiably proud of, but it wasn’t necessary. You didn’t want to hide that taste; you wanted to savor every bite of it.

My sweetheart doesn’t like oysters. He ate a hamburger. But he really enjoyed watching me eat them.

The rest of our trip up the coast was also memorable – driving through redwoods and staring out at the Pacific. We ate well several times that trip, but the first night was the best.

Thanks, Nancy. You remind me that sometimes the best thing about a meal can be watching how much someone else enjoys it.

Next Monday: Another author and another meal!