Hands down, the best place in town in the Paleteria Michoacana. If I had another set of hands to put down, I’d say, true dat, hands down for Eva and Salvador, the owners of this fine establishment. Tonight, on our way back from the town plaza, we stopped in for a chat and a paleta. I had the lime; the young lady had the guava. Everything perfectly in season, perfectly formed, no artificial flavors, sweeteners or colorings. Popsicles….just the way god intended them to be. Salvador was sleeping and Eva was minding the store.
Tony Soprano may believe that “remember when is the lowest form of conversation” and, truth to tell, he’s probably right, but I’m not sure that that goes equally for “back in the day” or “used to be” as conversational forms. Suffice to say, back in the day, Salvador gave me one of the nicest culinary gifts I’ve ever received. He mentioned it to me the other day as I was biting into a chili mango paleta, one of his most recent concoctions.
Long years ago, I spent a (second) summer here before beginning graduate school with the rationale firmly in mind that I was actually here working. Namely, reading the suggested summer reading list prior to beginning actual coursework in September. The summer reading list was actually just a single book from each of the 15 or so faculty members who went through the trouble to submit something. Dutifully, I went to Cody’s, Moe’s and Green Apple and found as many as I could, tossed them into a bag with a pair of shorts, a few t shirts and a pair of swim trunks and off I flew. I’d sit in the shade at Gabino’s during the day, eating shrimp ceviche, swimming and reading Freud, the neo Freudians, the post Freudians, Jung, Lacan and others. It was odd to have one’s head filled with these arcane psychological concepts while gazing out at the sea, contemplating the varieties of the color blue.
I was so taken by the summer bounty in the market and having no kitchen or any way to prepare food on my own, I had to rely on the kindness and patience of strangers to prepare a few choice items. One evening, sitting out with Salvador in front of his little paleta stand watching the lightning illuminate the sky, the conversation took a turn to our favorite foods. I mentioned that I was a big fan of the Spanish dish, gazpacho and wondered why, with all the ingredients plentiful and readily at hand, why no one was making any in town. As I mused a bit further, I wondered why no one had ever thought to create a gazpacho flavored paleta…This, I thought, would combine the best of all worlds, the cool icy portability of a popsicle with the healthful qualities of easily half one’s daily requirement of fresh fruits and vegetables. Amiably humoring me, I’m sure, Salvador agreed as I ordered up my 5th paleta of the day. I’ll admit it readily; I was an addict back then. I white knuckled it and quit on my own. I can handle just a few a day now and am not much the worse for wear. I’ve done it before, so I know I can quit anytime I want. I just don’t want to right now. Anyway, on my way out to the beach the next morning, Salvador beckoned me over to his freezer where he proudly displayed his wares…and his new creation, the gazpacho popsicle ! An entire flat of 42 of them, gleaming red in the freezer case. They were delicious and spicy, and as it turned out, not a very popular item at all. So unpopular, in fact, that Salvador had to take them out of the freezer case and put them in the back of the shop, for every time I ordered one, one of the townies would become incensed, practically wanting to punch me for ordering such a thing that has NO BUSINESS BEING IN A PALETA…DO YOU HEAR ME, AMIGO? It got so scary out there, that I had to order with just a nod of my head. I’m sure that Salvador never feared for his life the way I did, but he never did make a second batch, either. Today, I stick to the traditional flavors: guava, lime, cantaloupe and coconut. There isn’t anything better in town.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
The Rains
Yesterday the rains began. It has been a dry season around here and despite the fact that all the vegetation looks bright green to me, everyone tells me that things are dry. Very dry. Try visiting California if you want to see dry, I think to tell them, keeping my mouth shut as I remember that I am a guest here.
When the rains, it pours. I know, I know, it’s trite, but trite is true for a reason, you know. Yes, tautologically speaking, because it’s true. The rain just comes down in buckets and everyone who has been out on the streets or in the plaza runs for cover under one of the many overhangs that can be found in the town. Folks just wait it out, standing there next to each other, chatting and becoming new best friends. You couldn’t ask for a better time. The sky brightens with lightning then comes the crash of thunder, followed by a renewed surge of rain. If you are lucky enough to be near the Paleteria Michoacana (popsicle shop), you can chat with the amiable Salvador and his wife Eva to pass the time while eating a frozen fresh fruit concoction that will send you into a seventh heaven. I’ll note here that you can find a Paleteria Michoacana in Vallejo on Broadway just before getting to Tennessee, more or less across from what used to be Pluto’s. It’s not the same, but the paletas are pretty delicious, nonetheless.
This morning, when logging in to the internet to post, I discovered that Blogger logs you in to the closest network, which is, as you might expect, in Spanish. Add to that the relatively slow connection speed, and we have a situation wherein the uploading of pictures is difficult at best and downright impossible practically speaking.
Last night we went to Cenaduria Led-Mar, a venerable lunch place on the plaza that has only recently begun to serve dinners. I’m surprised by how many dinner house have closed here in town, but then again, I’m always surprised at how few choices there are for dinner. I had the chicken tacos while my dining and traveling companion had the pork taquitos. What was not to like about sitting under an umbrella munching crispy taco things slathered in Salsa Huichol, the local hot sauce, watching the rain come down? Under such conditions, even the lowliest meal will taste delicious. The beers are ice cold and arrive at your table with the merest flick of a finger. I’m glad this isn’t an auction where I’d be obligated to buy the entire town by this point.
When the rains, it pours. I know, I know, it’s trite, but trite is true for a reason, you know. Yes, tautologically speaking, because it’s true. The rain just comes down in buckets and everyone who has been out on the streets or in the plaza runs for cover under one of the many overhangs that can be found in the town. Folks just wait it out, standing there next to each other, chatting and becoming new best friends. You couldn’t ask for a better time. The sky brightens with lightning then comes the crash of thunder, followed by a renewed surge of rain. If you are lucky enough to be near the Paleteria Michoacana (popsicle shop), you can chat with the amiable Salvador and his wife Eva to pass the time while eating a frozen fresh fruit concoction that will send you into a seventh heaven. I’ll note here that you can find a Paleteria Michoacana in Vallejo on Broadway just before getting to Tennessee, more or less across from what used to be Pluto’s. It’s not the same, but the paletas are pretty delicious, nonetheless.
This morning, when logging in to the internet to post, I discovered that Blogger logs you in to the closest network, which is, as you might expect, in Spanish. Add to that the relatively slow connection speed, and we have a situation wherein the uploading of pictures is difficult at best and downright impossible practically speaking.
Last night we went to Cenaduria Led-Mar, a venerable lunch place on the plaza that has only recently begun to serve dinners. I’m surprised by how many dinner house have closed here in town, but then again, I’m always surprised at how few choices there are for dinner. I had the chicken tacos while my dining and traveling companion had the pork taquitos. What was not to like about sitting under an umbrella munching crispy taco things slathered in Salsa Huichol, the local hot sauce, watching the rain come down? Under such conditions, even the lowliest meal will taste delicious. The beers are ice cold and arrive at your table with the merest flick of a finger. I’m glad this isn’t an auction where I’d be obligated to buy the entire town by this point.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Wherein the Eater Goes South
M.G. Vallejo, the namesake of our little town here, was a pretty famous dude. Known for being a most famous general, he actually never lived in our town proper, but just a few miles away in what is now Petaluma. Like all good Spanish Generals at that time, our founding colonialist most likely came from Spain by ship by way of Mexico. One of my all time favorite Spanish Colonialists has been up for sainthood for quite a number of years now, his entry into the canon thwarted only by a failure to confirm a single miracle…if crossing the Atlantic and rounding the Cape of Good Hope in a rickety wooden ship with hand drawn maps, no GPS and limited fresh water and food the mid 1500’s doesn’t count, then nothing Mother Theresa ever did should count. Apologies to all you Mother Theresa fans out there, but that’s just the way I feel about it. Anyway, stepping down from the pulpit, I decided to visit the place it all began, the town where Fray (soon to be Saint) Junipero Serra first set foot in the New World, opening the door to all the yummy Mexican food that we’ve enjoyed so much over the past few weeks, San Blas, Mexico.
I’ll admit that I’m pretty well known here, and, unlike many of the minor celebrities who walk the town, I’ve never spent a single night in the jail here. Part of my celebrity, such as it is, stems from the night that I decided to climb to the top of the bell tower on the old church in the town square. One of the locals mentioned to me in an offhand way one evening that there was a special relic that had been placed in a brick at the top of the tower. It had been covered by plaster for 150 years or more and now that the plaster had been flaking off, it was visible once again. Those who were able to touch the relic were assured some great benefit in their lives. Count me in, I thought, as I plotted how exactly I would see this relic. Spending some quality time with the mentally challenged family who runs Viejano’s bar seemed like an excellent idea. Closing time seemed to come rather early that night, so when the doors shut me out and I found myself in the center of the plaza gazing up at the full moon behind the tower, listening to the bell strike a single note. Seeing the iron rungs stuck into the side of the tower, I began to climb, looking up only, not daring at all to look down. Time flies when you’re having fun, but so too, do bats. Just a couple of points to consider before I continue.
1. Iron stuck into the side of a building in a coastal town rusts.
2. The longer it stays there, the more it rusts and the weaker it becomes.
3. Wiggly rungs at 75 feet above sea level do not inspire confidence in one’s future.
4. Bats do not like to be swatted at when they’re flying around.
5. Bats are afraid of the sound of crows.
By the time I reached the top of the tower and was looking around for the relic, holding on for dear life with a single hand as I swept my free hand over the masonry work, hoping to feel a crucifix or something, the bats came swooping in. Was I near their nest? Did mama bat think that I was trying to snatch her young? The swatting did not make them any happier and I was certain that the high pitched sound they were making was a definite call for reinforcements. Not to be outdone by what I considered at the time to be an inferior mammal, I began cawing like a crow. This had the beneficial effects of both scaring off the bats and distracting me from my dawning realization that I suffer with paralyzing acrophobia.
Having not found the relic or any sign thereof, I turned my attentions to getting back to sea level. As I turned to survey the plaza and reassess my route down the tower, I noticed that I had attracted something of a crowd in the plaza, the nightowls and drunks who had come to see what a crow could possibly be doing in the middle of the night. Although I did manage to bend one of the iron rungs, I didn’t actually break it or cause much serious damage to the old church. For those care about these things, the church is immortalized in the poem “The Bells of San Blas” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Shaking, I stepped onto the plaza, greeted by scattered applause, cat calls, and overly friendly drunken backslaps. I had earned myself a new name: El Cuervo, the crow. By morning, news had spread through the town and it seemed that there wasn’t anyone who didn’t know.
I was more than happy to make it out to Gabino’s at the beach, just as I did today, to enjoy a plate of the most delicious shrimp ceviche this side of anywhere. I’m convinced that God speaks through Gabino to produce such a heavenly delicacy. Ceviche’s on me today, Crow, he said winking.
I’ll admit that I’m pretty well known here, and, unlike many of the minor celebrities who walk the town, I’ve never spent a single night in the jail here. Part of my celebrity, such as it is, stems from the night that I decided to climb to the top of the bell tower on the old church in the town square. One of the locals mentioned to me in an offhand way one evening that there was a special relic that had been placed in a brick at the top of the tower. It had been covered by plaster for 150 years or more and now that the plaster had been flaking off, it was visible once again. Those who were able to touch the relic were assured some great benefit in their lives. Count me in, I thought, as I plotted how exactly I would see this relic. Spending some quality time with the mentally challenged family who runs Viejano’s bar seemed like an excellent idea. Closing time seemed to come rather early that night, so when the doors shut me out and I found myself in the center of the plaza gazing up at the full moon behind the tower, listening to the bell strike a single note. Seeing the iron rungs stuck into the side of the tower, I began to climb, looking up only, not daring at all to look down. Time flies when you’re having fun, but so too, do bats. Just a couple of points to consider before I continue.
1. Iron stuck into the side of a building in a coastal town rusts.
2. The longer it stays there, the more it rusts and the weaker it becomes.
3. Wiggly rungs at 75 feet above sea level do not inspire confidence in one’s future.
4. Bats do not like to be swatted at when they’re flying around.
5. Bats are afraid of the sound of crows.
By the time I reached the top of the tower and was looking around for the relic, holding on for dear life with a single hand as I swept my free hand over the masonry work, hoping to feel a crucifix or something, the bats came swooping in. Was I near their nest? Did mama bat think that I was trying to snatch her young? The swatting did not make them any happier and I was certain that the high pitched sound they were making was a definite call for reinforcements. Not to be outdone by what I considered at the time to be an inferior mammal, I began cawing like a crow. This had the beneficial effects of both scaring off the bats and distracting me from my dawning realization that I suffer with paralyzing acrophobia.
Having not found the relic or any sign thereof, I turned my attentions to getting back to sea level. As I turned to survey the plaza and reassess my route down the tower, I noticed that I had attracted something of a crowd in the plaza, the nightowls and drunks who had come to see what a crow could possibly be doing in the middle of the night. Although I did manage to bend one of the iron rungs, I didn’t actually break it or cause much serious damage to the old church. For those care about these things, the church is immortalized in the poem “The Bells of San Blas” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Shaking, I stepped onto the plaza, greeted by scattered applause, cat calls, and overly friendly drunken backslaps. I had earned myself a new name: El Cuervo, the crow. By morning, news had spread through the town and it seemed that there wasn’t anyone who didn’t know.
I was more than happy to make it out to Gabino’s at the beach, just as I did today, to enjoy a plate of the most delicious shrimp ceviche this side of anywhere. I’m convinced that God speaks through Gabino to produce such a heavenly delicacy. Ceviche’s on me today, Crow, he said winking.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Sac's Tasty Hot Dogs
Sometimes there comes a time when you have to break out of your food box, throw caution to the wind and take the plunge into the steaming waters of Hot Dogville. Today’s disclaimer is that I don’t really like hot dogs very much, and, to extend the truth just a bit further into the tmi sphere, I often come down with a head cold after eating a hot dog or sausage shaped food item. But one thing I do like is a surprise, particularly when it's a pleasant surprise.
The Process:
Sac’s. I’ve been waiting for S day for weeks now just for the opportunity to write the word Sac over and over. It’s a deliciously nasty word, one that feels puerile on the tongue. Lung is another such word for me, evoking horror, disgust and ultimately a shimmer of delight. Tuna and I tried in vain to enlist some of the other colleagues to venture out of their own taco shells and Popeyes' boxes and order up something from Sac's. No matter, the two of us were on a mission. So, we climbed into my tiny little car and sped off towards the other side of town for a peek at Sac's. Imagine our delight when we arrived and saw a line outside the door and halfway around the smallish building. The line was, in a word or two, representative of the melting pot of America. The vast masses of heterogeneous people were here, in line, just to pick up a dog or two. America's National Food. I was definitely feeling a bit better about this. By the time we made it to the counter to place our order, I was wanting one of everything.
The Chow:
The claim is 100% beef and I believe 'em. Sac's claims tasty and boy, oh boy, are they right. (I can't believe that I'm actually raving about a hot dog, but it really was delicious.) I had the regular, basic dog with relish, ketchup and mustard. Tuna opted for one with cheese. And, he ordered the Spicy Dog. He said it was really good, and I believe him. I also believe the rumor that he found a little piece of something crunchy in it and later in the day had passed a hoof. No matter, the food was great and the service fantastic. I'd go back in a second.
The Wrap:
A dark horse is still a horse and I'm really glad that the hot dogs are 100 % beef.
The Rating: 4.5 out of 5.
The Process:
Sac’s. I’ve been waiting for S day for weeks now just for the opportunity to write the word Sac over and over. It’s a deliciously nasty word, one that feels puerile on the tongue. Lung is another such word for me, evoking horror, disgust and ultimately a shimmer of delight. Tuna and I tried in vain to enlist some of the other colleagues to venture out of their own taco shells and Popeyes' boxes and order up something from Sac's. No matter, the two of us were on a mission. So, we climbed into my tiny little car and sped off towards the other side of town for a peek at Sac's. Imagine our delight when we arrived and saw a line outside the door and halfway around the smallish building. The line was, in a word or two, representative of the melting pot of America. The vast masses of heterogeneous people were here, in line, just to pick up a dog or two. America's National Food. I was definitely feeling a bit better about this. By the time we made it to the counter to place our order, I was wanting one of everything.
The Chow:
The claim is 100% beef and I believe 'em. Sac's claims tasty and boy, oh boy, are they right. (I can't believe that I'm actually raving about a hot dog, but it really was delicious.) I had the regular, basic dog with relish, ketchup and mustard. Tuna opted for one with cheese. And, he ordered the Spicy Dog. He said it was really good, and I believe him. I also believe the rumor that he found a little piece of something crunchy in it and later in the day had passed a hoof. No matter, the food was great and the service fantastic. I'd go back in a second.
The Wrap:
A dark horse is still a horse and I'm really glad that the hot dogs are 100 % beef.
The Rating: 4.5 out of 5.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Take Out Tacos Jalisco for a Taste Treat on T Day
One of my favorite lunches here in town is the Tacos Jalisco truck on Broadway, just down the street from what used to be First Hospital and across the street from Vallejo High. The lines have significantly diminished since the lunchtime lockdown at both facilities. No longer are you waiting behind Sally Schizophrenic who is hallucinating tiny creatures crawling out of her burrito or the gang of four high school sweeties who are paying for a single burrito with an assortment of dimes, nickles and pennies scrounged together out of their purses and pockets.
The Process:
Who’s in the house? Our own Dr. J is in the house, or I should say back in the house. After something of a sabbatical, our friend and colleague Dr. J has returned from distant lands, bearing…caramels. YUM ! Hula Girl and I ran into him at the truck, confirming our thoughts that he's wanting to make a low key re-entry. The taco truck is hardly low key, however, since it is the the see and be seen place. Dr. J was sighted talking to the affable maitre d, Victor, who is, coincidentally, a local artist whose photographs can be seen at Georgina's Cafe, the Vallejo Artist's Guild, or on his own website, alejandrophoto. Anyway, the taco truck is a slam dunk choice that finds ready agreement amongst the kids.
The Chow:
When you’re wanting a fast, inexpensive taco or burrito, this is your go to place. Tacos are served open faced with your choice of meats. Jalisco is an authentic place, so an order of tacos de lengua or cabeza are not out of the question. Oaxacan style grasshopper tacos are not on the menu, c'mon, there's serious state pride going on here. I usually order the vegetarian burrito with the hot sauce and it is consistently good. Filled with some rice, whole beans, lettuce, cheese and some sour cream, it is a veritable meal in a tube. Some folks order the Jinny, a meat filled extravaganza served with a string. Your choice of tortillas includes chili, tomato, spinach, plain, and probably something else which I've forgotten.
The Wrap:
Solid, dependable, consistent burritos and tacos. Top of the charts.
The Rating: 3 out of 5.
The Process:
Who’s in the house? Our own Dr. J is in the house, or I should say back in the house. After something of a sabbatical, our friend and colleague Dr. J has returned from distant lands, bearing…caramels. YUM ! Hula Girl and I ran into him at the truck, confirming our thoughts that he's wanting to make a low key re-entry. The taco truck is hardly low key, however, since it is the the see and be seen place. Dr. J was sighted talking to the affable maitre d, Victor, who is, coincidentally, a local artist whose photographs can be seen at Georgina's Cafe, the Vallejo Artist's Guild, or on his own website, alejandrophoto. Anyway, the taco truck is a slam dunk choice that finds ready agreement amongst the kids.
The Chow:
When you’re wanting a fast, inexpensive taco or burrito, this is your go to place. Tacos are served open faced with your choice of meats. Jalisco is an authentic place, so an order of tacos de lengua or cabeza are not out of the question. Oaxacan style grasshopper tacos are not on the menu, c'mon, there's serious state pride going on here. I usually order the vegetarian burrito with the hot sauce and it is consistently good. Filled with some rice, whole beans, lettuce, cheese and some sour cream, it is a veritable meal in a tube. Some folks order the Jinny, a meat filled extravaganza served with a string. Your choice of tortillas includes chili, tomato, spinach, plain, and probably something else which I've forgotten.
The Wrap:
Solid, dependable, consistent burritos and tacos. Top of the charts.
The Rating: 3 out of 5.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
R is for Rickshaw
Epi-Curious' Law #1: The quality and taste of a meal is inversely proportional to the weight of the portion served.
Corollary A: If you are given a free sample and it tastes bad, don't actually purchase the bad food based on feelings of guilt or obligation.
Tuna, Hula Girl and I braved the parking lot and the spillover from the Hobo Village to visit The Rickshaw, Oriental Express Dining. 15 years ago I reviewed Rickshaw for a different publication, saying something like "so what if it's a little greasy...It's cheap, close and filling!" Like a hooker down on her luck, the years and the guests have not been kind to Rickshaw. It's still close, filling and relatively cheap, and now more than a little greasy and absolutely inedible.
The Process:
Corollary A: If you are given a free sample and it tastes bad, don't actually purchase the bad food based on feelings of guilt or obligation.
Tuna, Hula Girl and I braved the parking lot and the spillover from the Hobo Village to visit The Rickshaw, Oriental Express Dining. 15 years ago I reviewed Rickshaw for a different publication, saying something like "so what if it's a little greasy...It's cheap, close and filling!" Like a hooker down on her luck, the years and the guests have not been kind to Rickshaw. It's still close, filling and relatively cheap, and now more than a little greasy and absolutely inedible.
The Process:
What can I say? Rickshaw is close, really close to the office. It's one of two places within walking distance, the other being a chain pizza place. We don't eat there very often, I'd venture to say the last time I set foot in there was easily four years ago when Doc was just beginning his Atkins diet kick and would order up the half pig of BBQ pork. He swore by the stuff...I swore at it. But now, I'm the guy who can't even fit into his own pants and Doc has dropped a few sizes and looks, frankly, HOT! Hands off, ladies, he's taken.
The Chow:
Greasy, fetid, nasty tasting. At nine bites, Tuna ate more of his meal than anyone else. I had two bites and Hula Girl had five. I probably would have eaten a bit more, but once Hula Girl started in on how the rice smelled and tasted (recall the hooker mentioned earlier and think feet) I just couldn't stomach another bite. Faced with pan after pan of fried items, I thought I'd play it safe and go with the Sweet and Sour Pork. Wrong. Very wrong. I'm definitely off of pork and have no desire to partake of the pig anytime soon. Hula Girl chose the Ginger Chicken which sounds nice and tasty...but wasn't. I wasn't going to put it my mouth after Hula Girl talked all kinds of trash about it. That'd just be dumb. I was over by the office window photographing the food while Hula Girl was tucking into her meal. After a couple of bites of rice, the descriptions started coming fast and furious, and I could taste every horrible flavor...and then some.
The Wrap:
The lowest rating ever should say it all. Three tenths of a point. Blech. I'd rather starve than have to eat there again.
The Rating: .3 out of 5.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Q is for Quiz - NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOs
I have a horrible aversion to chain restaurants. Call me picky, call me a food snob, call me a picky food snob, just don’t call me to dine in one of these soul-less hell holes. Q came up and, in the service of art and fair open mindedness, and under great duress, I consented to dine at Quizno’s, a chain sandwich shop.
The Process:
With dejection, I picked up the phone and placed our order. I made the grave mistake of going onto the Quizno’s website to take a look at the menu. Of course, the one thing that I thought that I could actually eat, the scrambled egg and bacon sandwich, was the one thing they did not serve…Shades of the infamous Fortune Cookie Meal at Pink Dawn detailed a few posts back. No fit this time. I just tried to go with the flow and order something that I might be able to eat. I’m pretty much convinced that Quiznos is serving the poison meat, so one has to be wary.
Poison Meat
OK, OK, I know that the poison meat thing is just in my own head, along with about a million other phobic ideas, but it still makes it really hard to eat weird looking meat based foods. I keep hearing Reagan’s voice repeating that poison meat phrase over and over and over again until I’m nearly ready to drop dead.
The Chow:
The chow is reason one not to visit Quiznos. You’d have to work pretty hard to convince me that I’d need anymore reasons than just the one to forgo another visit. I ordered a bacon and egg sandwich and what came was two pieces of toasted roll with a thin spread of mayo/mustard, about a tablespoonful of chopped boiled egg and a similar about of chopped bacon. I wouldn’t call it a sandwich and I wouldn’t call it lunch. Even Tuna, who usually loves Quiznos, was put off by the sogginess of the beef brisket sandwich. Hula Girl had something with a Hawaiian Island flavor…The Pineapple Poi Sub which was, predictably, gluey, bad tasting and soggy.
The Wrap:
Bread with salt and flavorings does not a sandwich make. The Earl himself is spinning in his grave.
The Rating: 2.0 out of 5.
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