SLC Eats: Tulie Bakery

Tulie Bakery, one of the finest establishments in Salt Lake City.

Tulie Bakery, one of the finest establishments in Salt Lake City.

Compared to New York City and Boulder, Colorado, my two previous places of residence, Salt Lake City’s choice dining options are, for the most part, few and far between — a handful of jewels scattered in a gravel pit. The gravel, in this case, is the mostly bland urban and suburban neighborhoods, strip malls, chain establishments, and restaurants with the moto: “Quantity over quality.” To find the treasure, you have to go a-hunting. Which is good and bad. Good because it makes the moment of discovery all the more satisfying. And bad because it means extensive research and car (or bicycle, if you’re into that kind of thing) mileage is required to find the really killer spots. (In the future, I plan to blog about more of the places I’ve discovered to eat, drink, and be merry in Salt Lake City.)

One of the first gems I discovered upon moving to Salt Lake two years ago is the Tulie Bakery, on the edge of the trendy 9th and 9th neighborhood. Winner of many awards and recognitions, I was surprised to find that few of my friends, who have lived here for years or even their entire lives, had been to Tulie. Admittedly, you might not stumble across it if you didn’t know it was there. Tulie sits in a suburban setting, along one of Salt Lake’s extra-wide landing strips roadways. You could easily visit the excellent Café Trio (680 South 900 East; triodining.com), which occupies the corner real estate a few doors down, and not notice its glass façade.

Keep your hands out of the cookie jars.

Keep your hands out of the cookie jars.

The French-inspired Tulie is approaching its fourth year in business and continues to draw crowds to its clean, well-lighted, rustic/modern interior. The usual suspects at the bakery comprise a relatively diverse mixture of young parents with smartly dressed toddlers, well-off empty nesters, the obligatory foodie hipsters, and a random smattering of difficult-to-classify individuals willing to pay a premium for the “pure, high-quality ingredients that flow seamlessly with the decor,” as it says on the Tulie website.

A mild crowd for a Saturday morning at Tulie.

A mild crowd for a Saturday morning at Tulie.

According to their menu, the Tulie Bakery has five core culinary offerings: breakfast pastry, hot pressed sandwiches, pastry ( for other times of the day, I gather), cakes, and the catch-all “cupcakes, cookies, and bars.” Of these, I have found the breakfast pastry to be the most superlative. Everything I have tried, from the morning bun to the pain au chocolat to the crème fraîche coffee cake has been worthy of recommendation.

Yes, everything is good — great even — but floating above it all, like a plate of ethereal, golden, powder-caked balloons, are the beignets, which are baked only on the weekends, at some time around 8 or 9 in the morning. Sold individually or in sets of four, these French-style (via New Orleans) “donuts” bear hardly any resemblance to their denser, tire-shaped cousins. I have missed the “golden hour” — from when the beignets come out of the oven to the time they sell out — on several occasions, which never ceases to fill me with disappointment. Another plus, and one that richly compliments the beignets: Tulie Bakery has trained their employees to pull excellent espresso drinks.

Tulie's famous beignets, fresh from the oven.

Tulie’s famous beignets, fresh from the oven.

Yes, the sandwiches, cakes, pastries, cookies and tarts really are among the best in Salt Lake City. Personal preference will vary, but there is no denying that the overall quality of the food at Tulie is second to none. Were I a wealthy man, I might stop in every day, but dietary and pecuniary limitations restrict me to weekly visits. That’s just enough to leave me always wanting more, which, I think, is really the way it ought be to allow for maximum appreciation of any food this good.

Tulie Bakery is located at 863 East 700 South, in Salt Lake City, Utah. Contact information, hours of operation, a complete menu, and more can be found at their website: www.tuliebakery.com.

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[Vid] Nikon D800 Macro Test – Insects in the Front Yard

Shot with a D800 and a Nikon 105mm f2.8 Micro lens.

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Photo Friday: Nikon D800 Time-Lapse and Some Birds

Just playing with the D800 some more. So far, I continue to be impressed. Two things on my wish list (and, it sounds like, everyone else’s wish list, too): 1) faster frame rate and 2) smaller RAW image size option. Anyway, minor nits. Of course, now that the D600 looks like a real option on the horizon, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll regret having dropped $3000 on an FX camera when I could have gotten a $1500 FX camera with many of the same features. Ah well, the best cure for inklings of camera-buyer’s remorse is to use the tool to create some cool work.

The following images were captured during last weekend’s Living Traditions cultural festival in downtown Salt Lake City. Strangely, I took most of my favorite images that day at small pop-up tent with a few guys and a bunch of birds, located near the festival entrance. I’m not sure what the booth was all about, but the birds were fascinating to observe.

But FIRST… here is a (somewhat underexposed) time-lapse video straight out of the D800. The camera’s automatic time-lapse function captured the images and stitched them together, in camera, into a .mov file. Pretty slick! For you pros out there, it probably makes more sense to capture hi-res .jpg files with the interval shooting mode and then create your own animation in Quicktime Pro, but for fun projects, this is a very neat little feature.

A parrot outside the Living Traditions Festival in Salt Lake City.

A parrot outside the Living Traditions Festival in Salt Lake City.

A fuzzy young owl.

A fuzzy young owl.

Dancers at the Living Traditions festival.

Dancers at the Living Traditions festival.

The falcon cannot hear the falconer.

The falcon cannot hear the falconer.

Baby birds waiting to be fed.

Baby birds waiting to be fed.

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Can You Cold-Brew Coffee With A French Press?

A French press.

A French press.

A little while back, I posted a blog and video about using the Toddy Coffee System to make iced coffee. With the Toddy System, you steep coarsely ground coffee in water for 12 hours and then drain the coffee through a very fine, fibrous filter. The result is a potent coffee concentrate that is low in acid — you dilute it with water and can drink it over ice or heated in a microwave. Either way, the system does the trick. I tend to prefer Toddy-made iced coffee to most coffee shop iced coffee, since it’s less bitter but still seems to contain full caffeine content.

I was intrigued, however, when a few readers mentioned the idea of using a French press to “cold-brew” coffee in this way. With a French press, if you’re not familiar, you put coffee grounds into a central chamber, pour in hot water, and then after a few minutes depress a plunger that pushes the grounds to the bottom, leaving you with hot coffee. Substitute hot water with cold and let the grounds sit for 12 hours instead of three minutes, and, in theory, the French press should do the same thing as the Toddy system. However, after a few weeks of French press cold-brewed coffee, I’ve concluded that the Toddy system is better for cold-brewing coffee in two important ways:

1) It’s sedimentary, dear Watson - The round, tightly knit woven filters used in the Toddy system catch nearly every particle of sediment from the coffee grounds. The metal mesh filter of the French press, with its larger openings and imperfect seal with the sides of the container, allowed fine particulates to enter the final product, even with coarsely ground coffee. Not the end or the world, but if you’ve ever swilled a silty final draught of coffee from the bottom of a cup, you know how it can set your teeth on edge.

2) If a little iced coffee is good, more is better - I’m not one to go with quantity when quality is on the line, but in this case, the capacious brewing container of the Toddy system allows me to cold-brew a large amount of high-quality concentrate at once, meaning my supply lasts one to two weeks, depending on how frequently I need a coffee fix. My French press made less than half the concentrate of the Toddy, so I was making batches more frequently. If you have a massive French press (which you probably don’t), then I guess this isn’t a problem for you, and you have only a little sediment to worry about.

The Toddy System

The Toddy System

The verdict: If you’re an iced coffee lover and you plan to drink the stuff daily  (or if you have an issue with acid, which, according to Toddy, a lot of people do), then you should just bite the bullet and get the Toddy system, even though it costs $40. The high volume and low sediment make it superior to a French press for the purpose of cold-brewing coffee. Plus it comes with a nice, lidded glass carafe.

Important note: I don’t work for Toddy and I bought their product with my own money and of my own accord. I did, however, shatter the glass carafe and ruin a brewing container by trying to push the filter out with a butter knife, thereby nicking the drainage hole, which in turn ruined the seal with the rubber stopper. Replacing these items doubled the cost of the Toddy system. Still, I would recommend it, with the caveat that it’s kinda breaky…

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Photo Friday: Welcoming the D800

Succulent on the coffee table. Shot with a Nikon 105mm f2.8 Micro at 1/60 sec, f3.2.

Succulent on the coffee table. Left is the full, right is a 100% crop. Notice how unobtrusive the grain is in the crop, despite the fact that it was shot at ISO1250. Shot with a Nikon 105mm f2.8 Micro at 1/60 sec, f3.2 (click to see a larger version).

I just picked up a Nikon D800 from Pictureline, one of the best camera shops I’ve been to and certainly the finest shop in Utah. I have been shooting test frames around the house, and so far I’m impressed. The dynamic range, noise at high (1250) ISO, autofocus, overall usability, and overall image quality are superb.

I had to download a RAW update for Photoshop, and still can’t seem to get things working with Lightroom (I think I have to buy an upgrade), but I was able to open and pixel pick through a couple dozen images. They are definitely superior to the shots from my old D700, and far better than those of the D7000 I shoot with now. I’m anxious to get this thing out and capture the Salt Lake Valley and surrounding Utah landscapes, which deserve every iota of the D800′s 36mp full-frame sensor power.

So far, the only thing that I am not pleased with is the Live View feature. When you zoom in to focus on an image, the view is very noisy. I have read about this as a possible problem to be solved with a firmware update. Hope it doesn’t prove to be a problem down the line… Until then, here’s a quick example of the detail you can get out of the D800.

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[Video] Petzl RocTrip China

Last year, I went to China for the Petzl RocTrip. It was one of the most memorable trips I’ve ever taken, mostly because Chinese culture is so different from that of the West, especially in Gétu Hé, the tiny, rustic farming town where the RocTrip took place. As always, Petzl produced an amazing video about the trip. I wish I could say I was more involved with this production. Still, I feel a certain sense of pride working for a company that values and supports such adventures and such artistic endeavors. The video, with its musical integration, is pretty unique in the climbing mediaverse. Check it out:

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Seven Deadly Sprays

7 deadly sprays

spray n, v : Self-aggrandizing logorrhea (n). To “elevate” one’s standing in the community by prattling on loudly about one’s skills, connections, and accomplishments (v).
— from Climbing Dictionary: Mountaineering Slang, Terms, Neologisms, and Lingoby Matt Samet

As a form of pride, “spray” is a good old-fashioned Biblical sin. In fact, spray is the worst kind of pride: the blowhard, boasting kind. Still, I seek not to condemn ye, for I, too, have sinned. I believe there is nary a climber among us who has not, at some time or other, sprayed about him or herself. The urge to spray is so ingrained in our egos that even when we attempt to consciously restrain ourselves, we still end up spraying in some roundabout way. A little spray squirts out between the cracks in our resolve, as it were, and lingers in the air like a bit of swamp gas that everyone smells, but no one wants to mention.

Spray, you see, appeals to the weakest self. The self that cannot bear to let it go unmentioned how good it is at something, even when it is perfectly clear that no one cares. In that, it is a most natural human transgression. To care about climbing and not spray is, indeed, a rare thing. In fact, to achieve a truly sprayless state, in which one does not even feel troubled by the urge to spray, one must achieve some level of enlightenment. Likely, much meditation and a monastic lifestyle are required.

So do you mean to say that every time I mention a grade, I’m spraying? you might ask. No, I would answer. Don’t be fatuous. Talking about grades is fine if you are genuinely trying to get or give useful information. For example, if someone were to ask you, “What are some good, mellow 5.8s at that crag,” that would not be spray. And if you were to respond, “Well, there’s a really sweet 5.9 called Anemone of the State, but I think it’s soft for the grade, and it eats up gear,” you would not be spraying. But if you then went on to describe the rad crux of your 5.12+ project at the same crag, miming each and every move, you would be spraying, as you would then be serving only your ego-master, and not the needs of the good-natured climber looking for a fun 5.8.

If you have ever described yourself as a climber, you have probably committed the sin of spraying. If you don’t believe me, read through the following list of Seven Deadly Sprays and then reevaluate. If, in the end, you do count yourself a sinner, say a 10 “Hail Mary”s and a “How’s your father” and call me in the morning.

1. Simple Spray - When you are up front about your spraying, you can either seem more honest or more clueless, depending on the circumstance. Most people know that spray is inherently crass, so they try to cover it up or lessen its severity. Simple Sprayers will come right out and start talking grades with strangers and not see anything wrong with it. “How hard do you climb, man?” they might ask, unprompted, across the table at Miguel’s Pizza. Or they might walk up to you at Rifle and simply blurt out, “I did that climb. It wasn’t too hard.” It’s a strange thing when this happens, as you can’t help but wonder if the person is being ironic, like a hipster telling you that he painted a mustache on his fixie before anyone else in Williamsburg. Still, there are those certain persons who haven’t yet understood, or by dint of neurological disorder are unable to understand, that spray is nothing to be upfront about.

2. Self-Effacing Spray - This deceptive “anti-spray” operates on the principles of reverse psychology. The Self-Effacing Sprayer downplays his own accomplishments to a fault, but somehow manages to slip in the spray anyway. “It took me forever to send that route! I’m such a fatass,” he’ll say of some 5.14 crimps-on-a-roof nightmare that no one you know can even hangdog to the anchors. Then he’ll proclaim he’s “so weak” because he “hasn’t been climbing at all, lately,” and then proceed to burn you off your project (see No. 6, below). To add insult to injury, he’ll play down his success with some meaningless platitude like, “Oh man, that was a tough one! I only sent it because it was my style.” OK, thanks. Dick.

3. Off-Hand Spray - This stealthy spray is slipped in as an aside but almost never goes unnoticed. Most climbers are so attuned to the scent of spray that even the merest droplet of the stuff emits an odor like a wombat in heat. An example of Offhand Spray might be, “My shoulder didn’t bother me too much, but I wasn’t climbing anything harder than V8, so I wasn’t really putting too much strain on it…” Or when two people are discussing a particular crag, one Off-Hand Sprayer might mention a notoriously hard route there and say something like, “When I climbed [insert notoriously hard route name here], it felt a little soft. But whatever the grade, it’s a classic!” No bigs… just making conversation.

4. Spray by Association - This is a form of name dropping. The implication of SbA is that you climb with hard-ass mofos, so you must be a hard-ass mofo, too. “Tommy and me were out bouldering in RMNP… I did this one problem that he fell off of! It was a total fluke, totally my style, but still, it was pretty sick.” By Tommy, this sprayer means Tommy Caldwell, all-around super-badass. And by demonstrating his ability to climb something that Caldwell did not, the sprayer is implying that he is a real-deal rock climber. Of course, this Sprayer by Association probably failed to mention that Caldwell had just cut off his index finger and was climbing with a hangover while wearing bedroom slippers. But hey, a send’s a send.

5. Serious Spray - This is the type of spray that two unabashed sprayers engage in when they’ve both decided that spray is fine because they’re just saying what everyone else is thinking, anyway. “So did you think that route was really 5.13?” one guy would say. “No way man, that was a 5.12 — I warmed up on that shit… and I usually have to give 5.13 a couple of tries,” the other would say. Serious stuff.

6. Physical Spray – Also known as giving “the burn off,” Physical Spray requires no words. Instead, a Physical Sprayer watches another climber putting serious effort into a route or problem the sprayer already has wired, waits until the flailing climber is done, and immediately hops on and cruises the route. Campusing someone’s project while they watch or sending it in your Five Tennies are particularly egregious forms of this classic jerk move. To add insult to injury, after engaging in Physical Spray, the sprayer can then proffer unrequested beta (Spray-ta) to the sprayee: “You see what I did there at the third bolt? I don’t cross like you do; I bump. It’s way easier that way. Try that and you’ll get it next time, dood, for shizzle.”

7. Spray Lording - The Spray Lord is like a Serious-Sprayer on meth. He not only doesn’t see what’s wrong with spray, but he also fails understand why he shouldn’t psychologically dominate the crag or gym with his loud, opinionated spray-down sessions, in which he gives people unsolicited beta, name drops, downgrades classic routes, and generally makes sure everyone around him knows how hard he climbs and what he thinks of all the other punters he’s ever met. A Spray Lord is easily capable of ruining your day at the crag, and lives a life of misguided elitism, completely missing the point that the strongest rock climber in the world is still just a rock climber.

There are surely other types of spray. Feel free to add the sprays you’ve observed or perpetrated in the comments below.

– The Blockhead Lord

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Photo Friday: Living Creatures

As an aspiring photographer, science and nature lover, and generally curious fellow, I find few things more fascinating and aesthetic than the forms of living creatures. They are at once alien and familiar. A strange mirror, they show us something of ourselves we are quick to forget.

Look at the frog, with its smooth, glistening folds of skin — can you not see some obtuse hint at our own origins? Look at the long muscles of its leg, not so unlike our own quadriceps. Look at the bulge of the belly, the short, chubby forelimbs; do they not remind of that rotund man at the gas station with his tight watchband and straining shirt? Regard the wide-set eyes and broad mouth; are they really so different from ours? View a frog from head on, add a jaunty hat and a pair of spectacles and what do you have? The gent you passed on the street the other day, grinning with a distant look in his eye.

The deer, the grasshopper, the squirrel, the snail, the giraffe… they are our not our charges; they are our brethren. They eat, mate, seek shelter from the elements and from predators. Had they only the words, can you imagine they would express sentiments so different from our own? But as they cannot speak, the best we can do is observe them closely and learn the lessens their ancestors have been teaching our ancestors for time immemorial.

A frog at a birthday party in New York.

A frog at a birthday party in New York.

Male deer in suburban Boulder, Colorado.

Male deer in suburban Boulder, Colorado.

A grasshopper in my yard in Salt Lake City, Utah.

A grasshopper in my yard in Salt Lake City, Utah.

A mother squirrel looking for her baby, who fell from a tree in suburban Boulder, Colorado.

A mother squirrel looking for her baby, who fell from a tree in suburban Boulder, Colorado.

A snail on my dinner plate, or Ce n'est pas dîner.

A snail on my dinner plate, or Ce n’est pas dîner.

A giraffe in the Denver Zoo.

A giraffe in the Denver Zoo.

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[Vid] Aerial Video Rig Tracks Sasha DiGiulian Climbing Era Vella

Behold, a new entry on the list of rad shooting rigs allowing climbing videographers to capture the vertical (or beyond-vertical) act in ways they could never quite capture it before.

The Sea to Sky Cable Cam is a portable camera rig that allows a video camera to travel up and down on rope tracks while an operator controls tilting and panning with a remote control. The Sea to Sky crew has used rigs of this sort to shoot a variety of action sports. Most recently, as you can see in the video below, to follow Sasha DiGiulian up Era Vella a 9a/5.14d in Margalef, Spain. (Unconfirmed: “Era vella” means “old threshing floor” in Catalan, according to one poster on Climbing Narc.)

Big Up Productions worked closely with Matt Maddaloni of Sea to Sky to develop the climbing-specific rig used to shoot this footage, which will be edited into one of the videos of the upcoming Reel Rock Film Tour.

Sasha DiGiulian on Era Vella

Sasha DiGiulian on Era Vella (9a/5.14d) Margalef, Spain. Keith Ladzinski photo.

This isn’t a new invention. The NFL, for example, has been using Skycams for years, but it is an early use in the climbing world. And, of course, due to the hard-to-access nature of rock climbs, it is a welcome addition, allowing for some very smooth, otherworldly perspectives on the act of climbing.

In the past, says Josh Lowell of Big Up Productions, his team has used pulley systems to haul a camera operator up overhanging walls, meanwhile dreaming of an unmanned system that could be operated remotely. So Big Up brought Maddaloni out to Spain to help shoot DiGiulian, and also Chris Sharma and Adam Ondra, who were working a 5.15c project in Oliana together. “It took a lot of experimenting to figure out what worked and what didn’t work,” says Lowell, but he’s enthusiastic about the footage, describing it as “long, continuous, single shots of the best climbers in the world trying the hardest route in the world … the camera silently tracking along with them the whole way.” Sounds good.

Not long ago, I wrote about the use of helicopter drone rigs to produce similar birds-eye shots. We can only assume that as climbing grows, along with demand for high-production-value climbing media, we we see more of these floating and flying perspectives and more of these ingenious techniques for capturing them.

Sea to Sky Cam at Kokanee Crankworx

A horizontal Sea to Sky Cam at Kokanee Crankworx

Of course, fancy shots do not a good video make — ultimately, it is the story and the characters that pull us into any movie. Judging by their previous track record, however, the folks at Big Up and the Reel Rock Tour will not disappoint on this front, either.

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The Doodanglies of Spring

I’m walking my blue heeler, Bodhi, through the serene grass and pavement matrix of our Salt Lake City suburb, when some creature issues a short, high cry from up above. It’s a mysterious call that could well have come from some denizen of a distant, cacophonous rainforest, but here it is a lone, wild voice against the ticking and hissing of sprinklers and the lawnmower’s drone.

I’ve heard this vocalization before and know what it means. I scan my surroundings and within seconds I spot them: a family of California quail, teardrop shaped puffs of grey strutting around in someone’s front yard, pecking the ground in search of seeds and shoots. My fiancée has given these beautiful birds, with their scale-patterned feathers, rust-brown caps, and white-limned black faces, the name “doodangly” birds, after their flapper-era black head plumes that wiggle with every step. It’s now the only way I refer them in conversation, leading to much confusion.

The family — a mother and six chicks — putters onto the sidewalk just as their high lookout, perched on a roof peak a few houses down, detects my presence and issues his warning. They hasten into a single-file formation and hightail it away from me, legs swinging in a blur, road-runner style. Doodanglies almost never fly unless startled at close distance. They opt instead for more pedestrian means of locomotion and can move surprisingly fast over open terrain.

The family ducks into a driveway and behind a little rise of grass. I stand and watch, waiting to see if they’ll reemerge, and they do. I’ve noticed that these strange little terrestrial birds are seldom dissuaded from their course. They scramble whenever a human, cat, or car comes too close, but soon, with caution, pluck back towards their original course. Like pigeons and doves, they are well adapted to the grid-paved wilderness of the burbs.

Every spring, the doodanglies begin to show themselves in the Salt Lake valley. They are my favorite local nature sprites, embodiments of some ancient energy that humans have been endeavoring to bury in layers of concrete, glass, and metal for the past hundred-odd years. The doodanglies appear first in pairs, but soon in families. Their chicks are precocial, meaning they’re ready to roll straight out of the shell. Still, the parentals shepherd them closely when they’re on the move. It is common quail practice to have one scout posted up on a fencepost or tree branch, watching for threats like Bodhi and me. Of course, we’re not really a threat (or at least, I’m not), but they don’t give us the benefit of the doubt, and I don’t blame them.

If I’m lucky, I’ll make doodangly sightings every day, when I’m out walking my dog or running. Their simple, wild presence in the spaces between our houses and our cars, like that of the baroque, green-armored grasshopper or the flashing, iridescent hummingbird, reminds me of the way the world once was, and still is in our ever-shrinking preserves of  natural places. It reminds me that no matter how far “above” nature we try to arrange ourselves, we are and always will be a part of it. As Emerson says in his essay “Nature,” “The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable.” He could just as well have said  ”man and the birds.” It reminds me that we humans, the rich and the poor among us, must make a life for ourselves one day, one year at a time, just like the doodanglies, plucking towards the future powered by an innate stubbornness that I can only see as nature’s beautiful, irrational argument against the chaos of the universe.

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