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For the wine lover, not the student, Ralph Steadman’s Untrodden Grapes is the prime choice. Wine books are often predictable, but, happily, this is one great gonzo exception. Steadman, most famous as the man who made Hunter Thompson’s fits of Fear and Loathing visible as ink blots and scathing caricatures, is in fact a seasoned wine taster (this is at least his third wine book) and a scout for the Oddbins wine chain. Untrodden Grapes is a combination of wine-inspired art (the Tempranilla varietal is portrayed as a lanky, disgruntled bull with grapes hanging from either horn), irresistibly rude and/or affectionate portraits of different wine regions (Basque women with brusque mustaches, winery dogs, bouquet-sniffing baboons), and photo-collages. There are also more serious discussions of terroir and vignettes of visits to wineries that Steadman and his patient wife Anna have made in search of both sensual pleasure and winemakers of artistic integrity. Steadman might be seen as a sort of anti-Robert Parker; at least, he’s anti-ratings. His complaint is clear from the introduction: Wine is now a finely modulated shelf product, a multifarious and endless gathering together of sameness. Variety of the idiosyncratic kind is rare. These are not critical postcards from the edge but a cri de coeur, a call to arms for individuality and the right sort of idiosyncrasy and, along the way, an explanation of why Jack Nicholson would make an intriguing wine.

Eve Zibart is a restaurant critic for The Washington Post.

 

For the wine lover, not the student, Ralph Steadman’s Untrodden Grapes is the prime choice. Wine books are often predictable, but, happily, this is one great gonzo exception. Steadman, most famous as the man who made Hunter Thompson’s fits of Fear and Loathing visible as ink blots and scathing caricatures, is in fact a seasoned […]

Sidle up to the bar, order a shot of your favorite whiskey, trade friendly greetings and engage in some warm chatter, then listen transfixed as Rosie Schaap, a kind of Irish bard, regales you with tales of the bars in her life, the regulars with whom she has hoisted a few or closed down the place, the moments of love and affection she’s experienced, and the enduring freedom to be herself that “being a woman at home in a bar culture” brings.

In Drinking With Men, Schaap, a cracking good storyteller, takes us along on her journey as she comes of age, follows her heart, falls in and out of love and discovers who she’s meant to be. From sitting on the bar car (at 15 years old) on the Metro-North train, where she discovers her kind of people—commuters drinking enough to get a little buzzed, telling dirty jokes and smoking—through her years as a Deadhead in search of freedom, and into her college and grad school years, when she finds a local bar that serves as more of a community than her college and where the regulars become like family to her, Schaap gets “another kind of education altogether” in the bars she frequents.

Some expand her horizons: Puffy’s is “a protracted, whiskey-soaked lesson in art history and New York culture, a repository of downtown lore and legend.” Some offer a lesson she’d rather not learn: At Else’s in Montreal, she begins to understand that “self-reinvention has a cost, and it is high, and it is terrible.” Each bar teaches her something about the world she loves to inhabit: “There are loud bars where conversation is not a priority. . . . There are quiet bars, lit low and engineered for tête-à-têtes. And at the Man of Kent, which was neither of these things, but a place both brightly festive and undeniably civilized . . . I started to understand, with greater clarity than ever, how to behave in a bar.”

Schaap delivers an affectionate and loving tribute to the bars she has known—with names as varied as Grogan’s Castle Lounge, The Pig, Good World and The Liquor Store—as well as to the many fellow regulars with whom she has become lifelong friends over a pint or a shot.

Sidle up to the bar, order a shot of your favorite whiskey, trade friendly greetings and engage in some warm chatter, then listen transfixed as Rosie Schaap, a kind of Irish bard, regales you with tales of the bars in her life, the regulars with whom she has hoisted a few or closed down the […]

This winter marks the 100th anniversary season of the “greatest survival story in the history of exploration” you’ve probably never heard of. Fans of Antarctic exploration know well the stories of Robert Scott’s tragic attainment of the South Pole in 1912, or Ernest Shackleton’s two ice-bound years on the Endurance. If we’ve overlooked Douglas Mawson’s 1912-1913 Australasian Antarctic Expedition, perhaps that’s because—as author David Roberts proposes—the expedition was Australian and scientific in purpose, not British and heroically single-minded.

Roberts, the respected author of more than 20 books on climbing and exploration, turns his attention in Alone on the Ice to the relatively unknown survival story of Douglas Mawson. Setting out to explore more than 2,000 miles of the Antarctic coast closest to Australia, Mawson’s team survived two Antarctic winters while establishing the first radio towers linking the remote continent to the rest of the world. The suspense of the story, however, lies in the remarkable survival of Mawson himself.

After building a small hut as base camp on Cape Denison, Mawson and his men set out in small sledging teams to explore and map the area and gather rock samples. Roberts’ storytelling is taut and suspenseful as he brings the reader into the almost unimaginable hardships of Antarctic travel. Although the men brought dogs with them to pull the heavy sledges, the uneven ice and fierce wind ensured that the men hauled as much as the dogs. Surviving mostly on hoosh—a high-calorie mixture of pemmican, biscuit and water—the men eventually amplified this near-starvation diet with dog-meat.

Mawson’s two sledgemates died out in the field: One tumbled into a crevasse with sledge and dogs, and the other may have succumbed to the toxic diet of dog’s liver. One hundred miles away from the base hut, alone and starving, Mawson himself fell into a crevasse, his fall arrested, providentially, by the sledge. Dangling from a rope, too exhausted to climb up to the surface, Mawson considered giving up. The story of how he managed to extract himself from the glacier and miraculously make it back to the hut is a stunning testament to human endurance.

David Roberts is a master story­teller and adventure historian, and Alone on the Ice succeeds in being both suspenseful and well researched. Even better, this story has a happy ending.

This winter marks the 100th anniversary season of the “greatest survival story in the history of exploration” you’ve probably never heard of. Fans of Antarctic exploration know well the stories of Robert Scott’s tragic attainment of the South Pole in 1912, or Ernest Shackleton’s two ice-bound years on the Endurance. If we’ve overlooked Douglas Mawson’s […]
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What do Tom Cruise, John Travolta, Nicole Kidman, Katie Holmes and Kirstie Alley have in common? Yes, they are all celebrities. But they have also been linked to the Church of Scientology, a controversial religion that some critics call a cult. And there are plenty of juicy stories about these and other celebrities in Lawrence Wright’s Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood, and the Prison of Belief.

The book is an in-depth examination of a mysterious, murky religion that, despite its relatively small membership, “plays an outsize role in the cast of new religions,” says Wright. The Church of Scientology attracts a lot of attention by aggressively courting celebrities. In Going Clear, we read of Cruise being recruited by the church, and how his girlfriends and wives, Kidman and Holmes among them, are indoctrinated, only to later leave Cruise, and Scientology, behind. Then there is Travolta, who displays his devotion to Scientology by starring in the movie Battlefield Earth, based on the science fiction novel of the same name by Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard.

Going Clear is much more than a celebrity tell-all, however. Wright is a gifted writer for The New Yorker, whose deep and thorough reporting won him the Pulitzer Prize for The Looming Tower, an investigation of al-??Qaeda and 9/11. Going Clear doesn’t simply recast stories about celebrities and Scientology, but takes us inside the organization via interviews with former church members and through research that most notably includes the writings of Hubbard.

We learn how this mildly successful sci-fi writer became an overnight sensation in 1950 when he published Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health. The self-help book explained how humans can improve their lives by ridding themselves of painful memories and emotions buried in the subconscious. The book became a bestseller and inspired Hubbard to establish the Church of Scientology. Wright describes how a seemingly plausible self-improvement theory became more complicated when Hubbard began hooking church members up to an E-Meter—tin cans affixed to the ears, with wires running to an electrical conductor—in an attempt to release the bad thoughts inside the brain. And we learn that Hubbard, who always had a fascination with Hollywood, made a conscious effort to attract movie stars to Scientology in order to boost its profile.

If you have been intrigued by the exploits of Cruise, Travolta and other celebrities with Scientology ties, or have ever wondered what the religion is all about, then Going Clear is a must-read. Wright treats the subject with intelligence, objectivity and careful research, making it the definitive book on the history and practice of Scientology.

What do Tom Cruise, John Travolta, Nicole Kidman, Katie Holmes and Kirstie Alley have in common? Yes, they are all celebrities. But they have also been linked to the Church of Scientology, a controversial religion that some critics call a cult. And there are plenty of juicy stories about these and other celebrities in Lawrence […]
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Fresh Off the Boat, the new memoir by rising culinary star Eddie Huang, is one roller coaster of a ride. Written with headlong ferocity, the book takes us from Huang’s early Taiwanese taste bud revelations (“Soup dumplings, sitcoms, one-night stands—good ones leave you wanting more”) to the establishment of his restaurant Baohaus, a realization of his vision for a youth-culture-oriented hot spot in the East Village where no one would “kick you out, call the cops, or serve you shitty 7-Eleven pressed Cubans.”

But it isn’t a swift or easy ride; like many bright, talented, angry and angst-filled young people, Huang struggles to discover and embody his authentic self—a struggle compounded by his Asian upbringing in American culture. He vows to “detox” his identity and cleanse it of everything he doesn’t consciously want or choose. But the fight isn’t only internal; he takes it to the streets, is constantly in trouble and hopscotches through five schools in seven years. At 13 he was already hustling, “running NCAA pools, taking bets on NFL games and selling porno,” and by the time he’s in college it’s skirmishes with the law. One night, the situation gets out of hand and there’s a trip to Orlando’s 33rd Street Jail, and a conviction. Rather than “sit at home on felony parole,” Huang takes a hiatus to Taiwan for a while, where he is relatively free and able to contemplate his future.

By the time he returns, he’s on a mission: finding a place for himself in the world, “or making one.” Food is a lifelong interest, but before Baohaus materializes, Huang “samples” many other venues: hip hop, law school and stand-up comedy among them. But “the sky broke and everything was clear” once he knew he was going to open a restaurant—one that specialized in Taiwanese gua bao and, even more importantly, one that would be the manifestation of his “friends, family, and memories.”

Though much of Huang’s writing is raw and intense, there are dollops of tenderness and zen-like wisdom when he writes about someone or something he loves, such as his mother, his grandmother or well-prepared food: “The best dishes have depth without doing too much. It’s not about rounding up all the seasonal ingredients you can find, it’s about paying close attention to the ones you already have.”

Like the dishes he describes as “jumping off the plate,” Huang’s memoir jumps off the page. Its flavors are “big, deep, kid-dynamite-Mike-Tyson-knock-you-out-of-the-box” intense and will leave you wanting more!

Fresh Off the Boat, the new memoir by rising culinary star Eddie Huang, is one roller coaster of a ride. Written with headlong ferocity, the book takes us from Huang’s early Taiwanese taste bud revelations (“Soup dumplings, sitcoms, one-night stands—good ones leave you wanting more”) to the establishment of his restaurant Baohaus, a realization of […]
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Throughout U.S. history, presidents and vice presidents usually have not been close to each other. One has all the power of his office; the other does not. That invariably leads to many opportunities for misunderstandings, slights and mistrust. The mix is especially difficult if the president is an elder statesman and the symbol of victory in World War II, known to the public as being “above politics,” and the vice president is an ambitious young politician with a reputation as a ruthless campaigner.

Such is the situation Jeffrey Frank explores in Ike and Dick: Portrait of a Strange Political Marriage. “There was never a real breach, there was, rather, a fluctuating level of discomfort,” he writes. Dwight Eisenhower’s attitude toward Richard Nixon ranged from “mild disdain to hesitant respect.” Yet their relationship continued—especially through the marriage of Nixon’s daughter, Julie, and Eisenhower’s grandson, David—until Ike’s death in 1969, shortly after Nixon was elected president.

Exactly how their coupling as a political team began is something of a mystery. No one present in the Chicago hotel room where Nixon was chosen by Republican Party leaders seems to have a clear memory of what happened. Eisenhower seems to have taken a back seat in the selection process. Until his own nomination, Eisenhower did not realize that he would need to name a vice-presidential candidate. Three years later, when he was asked about his role in the VP choice, he replied that he wrote down the names of five or six younger men he admired, including Nixon, and said to Republican Party leaders that any of them would be acceptable to him.

The two men barely knew each other, but Nixon understood that any hard partisan campaigning would be up to him while Ike remained, as much as possible, above the fray. This was to remain the pattern throughout their two terms in office, and it affected how the public regarded them. In addition, Ike used Nixon for such unpleasant tasks as firing his chief of staff, Sherman Adams, who had become the focus of a scandal.

Nixon pointed out much later that Ike was “a far more complex and devious man than most people realized.” This first became apparent to Nixon during the initial campaign when reports of a “Secret Nixon Fund,” supported by millionaires, came to light, and Eisenhower did not rush to the defense of his running mate. It was not until the generally positive reaction to Nixon’s nationally televised “Checkers” speech to explain himself that Ike expressed his support.

Frank devotes a revelatory chapter to the circumstances surrounding the speech. Shortly before he went on the air, Nixon was told that “all of Eisenhower’s top advisers” wanted him to end his remarks by submitting his resignation to Ike. Nixon came to understand that this “suggestion” was what Ike also wanted. Nixon refused, and after that neither man felt he could completely trust the other.

Nixon craved Ike’s approval, though, and the maneuvering between the two men to achieve their individual objectives runs throughout the book. Once in office, Ike made lists of other men who would make good vice presidents, and raised questions—both publicly and privately—about Nixon’s suitability for the presidency. In 1955, even before Eisenhower had decided to run for re-election, he proposed that Nixon accept a cabinet position in a new administration. And in 1956, he did nothing to stop the effort to replace Nixon on the Republican ticket.

This lively narrative touches on various personalities whose relationships with Nixon were particularly important. He became close to John Foster Dulles, the secretary of state, who tried to give Nixon a larger role in the administration. Nixon was the one major official at the time who made a special effort to meet regularly with black leaders. He had been on friendly terms with Martin Luther King Jr. for several years when, in 1960, during the run-up to the presidential election, King was arrested after a civil rights demonstration and sentenced to prison in Georgia. Yet when Coretta Scott King contacted both presidential campaigns for help, it was John F. Kennedy who returned her call and helped to obtain her husband’s release. Nixon said he had “frequently counseled with Dr. King and [had] a great respect for him,” but he did not want to make what he called “a grandstand play.”

Anyone interested in U.S. politics will enjoy Jeffrey Frank’s absorbing tale of two very different men and their turbulent relationship.

Throughout U.S. history, presidents and vice presidents usually have not been close to each other. One has all the power of his office; the other does not. That invariably leads to many opportunities for misunderstandings, slights and mistrust. The mix is especially difficult if the president is an elder statesman and the symbol of victory […]

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