Rio’s Brazilian and Luke’s Inside Out

By Sierra Shear

I first experienced Brazilian food during the movie Bridesmaids, where a very familiar scene unfolded; a woman convinced her friends to go to a hidden restaurant with authentic and cheap ethnic food. The Melissas and I had the same discussion many times in D.C. and continue to here in Austin. We’ve never been hit by the affliction that overcame the women in the movie, but have ventured to our fair share of hole-in-the-wall, maybe kind of questionable, but delicious establishments.

Melissa B and I made our way to Rio’s Brazilian Café a few weeks ago, a tiny restaurant in a residential neighborhood on the east side. The building is painted bright green and yellow and features a drive-up window, which we found unusual for a joint that runs at such a leisurely place. It seemed more like they converted an old liquor store or gas station into an eatery. Respect.

This place wasn’t sketchy in its cleanliness or smell – which, in my opinion, are the usual tip-offs to a dining experience that might not end well. However, it did have its quirks. All the waiters looked like skinny, hipster versions of Fabio. Their hair varied in length, but they had the same mannerisms and seemed to move at the same, not particularly deliberate pace. Ultimately, we found it fascinating that the owners were able to hire matching waiters.

To start we ordered the cheese bread. It’s gluten-free and people freak out about it on Yelp. It’s more than rave; this bread has a cult-like following. Melissa and I liked it, but both found it a bit more gelatinous in texture than we would call bread. Tasty and cheesy, but misnamed.

We both tried one of the salgadinhos, which were very similar to empanadas filled “with sautéed shrimp, garlic, tomato, onion, and green pepper, then rolled in bread crumbs.” They were good, simple, and about as filling as a taco. A spinach salad with walnuts, beets, and apples completed the meal. It was fresh and could easily be made at home, but it was satisfying.

Later that week, Josh and I ventured down to south Lamar to try a trailer called Luke’s Inside Out. Guy Fieri, the host of my favorite show Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives and the subject of my favorite New York Times restaurant review ever, visited the trailer and made them famous for a rabbit sandwich. As a former bunny owner, I opted out of trying the hare and we instead ordered barbacoa nachos with mango on shrimp chips and the spicy Szechuan fried chick sandwich. Both were delicious.

Trailer                                                                        Barbacoa Nachos

SANDWICH, obviously

Friday rolled around and it was finally time for my weekly lunch with Cooper. While always pleasant, sometimes these lunches end up happening at three or four in the afternoon. Cooper’s a busy guy, and I’m just over here watching West Wing until my eyes start to water. I can really only watch so much Netflix until I start feeling bad about myself, so I decided to be proactive and stave off my mid-day hunger by cooking until he had time to pick me up. This might sound counter-intuitive, but it works.

I decided to make Alton Brown’s Overnight Cinnamon Rolls recipe. I wanted something that would be good for breakfast and that I could keep in the fridge and bake the next day before going on a pilgrimage to see the Alamo. It was a labor-intensive recipe that would take me a while to prepare and used up a lot of ingredients I had lying around. Not that I needed to convince you, but I thought it was a pretty great idea.

It was. After about 20 hours of rising and kneading and steam proofing (a first for me – you put an overnight dough in the oven over a pan of boiling water, and it again doubles in size), the rolls came out perfectly. They smelled so good that even a few of my friends on the Paleo diet couldn’t resist them, which was the biggest compliment of all.

Strip Malls in Vegas

By Sierra Shear

Cooper insisted that we try an all-you-can-eat sushi place for brunch in Vegas. That statement contained a myriad of contradictions, which initially caused me to shy away from the idea of driving to a shady strip mall in the middle of the desert to eat raw fish. The idea of all-you-can-eat sushi brought to mind images of a Chinese buffet full of picked over lukewarm California Rolls and rubbery salmon atop of freezing cold rice. Something about sushi before noon felt un-kosher.

I backed down after fifteen minutes of bargaining, which is code for someone gave me a piece of chocolate so I decided to let it go. For once I was very happy that I was wrong. The place was awesome.

We arrived at a strip mall about 20 minutes off the Strip. Squeezed between an Asian foot massage parlor and a Walgreens sat our destination, Yama Sushi. The restaurant is tiny, with ten or fifteen small tables and a sushi bar, and to our surprise was packed when we arrived right before noon.

I saw no buffets or heating lamps. Most of the customers were regulars without menus and simply ordering “the usual.” From some strategic eves dropping I learned that the restaurant became really popular and crowded over the last year, which displeased the locals and inspired the owners of the restaurant to look into conquering the massage parlor next door.

The four of us sat at the sushi bar. One of three or four sushi chefs behind the counter greeted us and asked us what we would like to try. Confounded, we asked how the “all-you-can-eat” aspect worked. It was simple. You order a couple of pieces at a time, he makes them, and you eat them. Sometimes he goes rogue, making delightful, surprise creations.

The fish was fresh, the rice delicate, and the atmosphere fun. The pictures below show our collective damage. $20.99 per person.

 

The night before this adventure, we visited another sketchy strip mall in search of a good meal. We found Lotus Thai in a dark shopping center, recognizable only by its own sign and the fifteen people waiting for tables outside the door. It’s a place for locals and tourists with both classic and creative Thai dishes.

Our meal was good. Most of the difference between good and great was self-imposed by ordering kind of “weird” stuff. This curry without coconut milk took some getting used to.

 Cooper ordered raw shrimp because it seemed like the rebellious thing to do. We ate them with a little bit of chili and lime, which brought out a soft sea flavor. Kind of good, but once is probably enough.

 We try yellow curry and pad thai at every Thai restaurant we visit. They’re almost always good and trying the same dish at many places allows you to do a fair comparison. Lotus Thai delivered excellent renditions of both.

The dessert, however, was a surprise and the highlight of the night. The mango served with coconut sticky rice paired a slight tanginess of fruit with creamy, sweet rice. The smooth mango and grainy rice were a perfect match. And I rarely like desserts without chocolate, so that’s saying something. A sweet end to a perfect vacation.

Other great things include:

Scottsdale, AZ at Cafe Monarch

Austin, TX at Cafe Monarch

Philadelphia, PA

Quinoa porridge, who knew you were so good?

 

 

Italy.

By Sierra Shear

My friend Elisabeth gently reminded me the other day that, while pork cutlets and lattes were interesting, I needed to write about Melissa and my Italian experience. I’ve been putting it off, watching West Wing and Girls and drinking margaritas with Elisabeth, but I finally decided that it’s time to share. Unfortunately my inspiration came while reading the ever fascinating article “Acquisition Reform and the Evolution of the US Weapons Market” for my Defense Policy class. I justify this transgression like the other bouts of procrastination I’ve suffered from lately – I’m just resting my brain for law school.

During this time of relaxation, I’ve found time to mourn the fact that I will probably not eat pizza quite as good as the pie we found in Naples for a very long time. Naples itself, however, is another story. I must preface my ode to Antica Pizzeria da Michele by saying we risked our lives to find the restaurant. Perhaps an exaggeration, but Naples was not what Melissa or I expected. And I heard it was a dump, strictly speaking.

I arrived with low expectations; I was cautioned away from staying in Naples and after stepping off the train, I immediately understood why. Melissa likes to compare it to Newark, but worse because it’s not in America and we couldn’t even understand what the people were saying.

We started charting territory and making our way to the restaurant, passing dirty buildings, people selling VHS players and knock-off everything, and vendors selling something that looked suspiciously close to a churro. After 20 minutes of wandering, we felt sufficiently uncomfortable and hailed a cab.

Antica Pizzeria da Michele is a hole in the wall. An old man in a white lab coat presides over the small white tiled restaurant with a visible giant oven in the back and some simple tables in the front. He sells three types of pizza – marinara, with tomato sauce, olive oil, garlic, margarita with tomato sauce, mozzarella and basil, and double cheese margarita, which is self explanatory. He offers Coke, water, and beer to quench your thirst.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We shared a double mozzarella and a marinara. This was hands-down, 100%, easy decision my favorite meal of the trip and the best pizza I have ever eaten. The marinara was my favorite. The cheese-free pizza shined with the tang of tomatoes and the richness of the olive oil. With high-quality fresh ingredients, the simple flavor stood out in all its perfection.

Together, the pizzas added up to 9 Euros. Never mind, Naples is awesome.

While I am confident in my decision that the pizza in Naples is the best, Melissa insists that the pie at Gusta Pizza in Florence was better. And I can’t say she is wrong. It was amazing too. We tried a classic margarita, our favorite, and one with a thin spicy Italian sausage. We sat at a communal table across from a French couple, who worked through their pizzas with perfect posture and precise use of a fork and knife. Our style of attack was organic by comparison. 15 Euros.

We concluded the trip in Rome. We decided that we wanted to end on a high note, and by that we meant the place with the best food. On our first night in the city we decided to go to a small family run restaurant called Ristochicco.

The dad runs the kitchen and his son runs the front of the house, giving mini lectures on the history of Roman and Italian food, advice on what to order, and general entertainment. As soon as we sat down 12 nuns and a couple of priests walked in sporting North Face jackets embroidered with the name of their church. This tipped us off; these sweatshirts were uniquely American. Soon we heard a distinctive Philadelphia accent and knew we would chat with them by the end of the night.

Alex, who runs the front of the house, ordered for us. We told him we wanted what was good (and fairly cheap wine). He asked if we were hungry, which we were but later we decided that really he should have asked if we’d eaten in the past 2 days considering the amount of food he ordered for us. But, I’m glad he didn’t. Feasting was fun.

Our first course was a combination of classic Roman starters, with three or four kinds ham, fried vegetables, fresh and creamy mozzarella with tapenade, and other cheeses.

Two pasta dishes arrived after the first course – a carbonara, with egg, pancetta, cream sauce and another pasta with cream sauce, rigatoni, carrots, and ground sausage – essentially two amazing versions of the same thing. We totally overdid it, on the wine and the food, but it was worth it for the taste and a great story with a best friend.

During dinner we struck up conversation with the nuns, who concluded the night by offering us tickets to see the Pope during Mass on Sunday. We immediately accepted and two days later found ourselves in St. Peter’s Basilica surrounded by devoted Catholics from around the world and a few fascinated tourists like ourselves.

We hiked the three miles to the church during the wee hours of the morning and arrived just in time (an hour early) to find a seat near the back. We watched and listened to the service, lost but interested. Melissa instagramed a picture of the Pope entering the sanctuary and we called it a day.

Having skipped breakfast to get to the church early, we started on the next two and a half miles of our journey into a residential part of Rome. My friend Dan, who I met two years ago during a summer in Washington D.C., spent a semester in Rome and recommended Da Felice. It’s a well-priced neighborhood restaurant that serves classic Roman dishes, including a famous cacio e pepe. Most patrons didn’t even need menus, and order the usual or something that the waiter told them was part of the menu that day.

(comes with parmesan on top, which they mix into the olive oil and pepper at the table)

The meal was amazing. We split the pasta, the artichokes, and the award-winning tiramisu. The total for each of us was less than 15 Euro, an insanely good deal for a gourmet meal.

 (yeah, kind of awkward that I only instagram some of these)

We liked it so much we ended up back in the same place the next day. On our second visit, we were famished after losing track of time and direction, which was a blessing in disguise because we decided to each get our own pasta.

 There are not words to speak highly enough of the amatriciana (below), another Roman classic with tomato sauce and pancetta.

Somehow after a week we tired of pasta and pizza. Luckily, by that time we were set to return to the US. As we touched down in Newark, I wanted the pizza again already.

 

The Nosh-market

By Sierra Shear

Returning to Oklahoma seemed strangely similar to the adventures my friend Preston departs on to return to Dallas from the Democratic Republic of Congo. After seven flights and a number of stops in cities that have names consisting of 90% consonants, Preston arrives at DFW. Oddly enough, going back to Oklahoma from Rome is providing me with a schlep of nearly (but definitely not quite) the same proportion. Today, Preston told me it was because we were both flying into 3^rd world countries. What a good Texan.

As Melissa accompanied me on the first three of my five flight journey home (Rome to Berlin to Frankfurt to Newark to St. Louis to Oklahoma City), we began discussing our favorite everything of the trip.

Vienna was our favorite city. It was actually so wonderful that it overcame being the only place that we were scammed during our three week adventure, when we bought classical music tickets from a guy dressed up as an ambiguous mixture of Mozart and Hapsburg era soldier. In our defense we paid about ¼ of the asking price, but the concert was of high school production value.

We resuscitated the night with café lattes and cake. Vienna is the Mecca for coffee and pastries. It’s the home of the Sacher torte (serious chocolate cake), the apple strudel (single serving apple pie), and hundreds of other delicious native sweets. Add a wealth of Hapsburg history, the Spanish Riding School, and an emphasis on efficiency, and how could this not be a dominant city?

Our favorite dessert was the vanilla bread pudding at Café Diglas, a house special of the historic café near Mozart’s house. Sweet and savory, warm and soft. Literal perfection.

I say favorite with certainty, but we did not come easily to that decision. The Sacher torte and apple strudel at Hotel Sacher epitomized deliciousness in their categories, as did the maroniblute (hazelnut mouse and chocolate cup) at Café Mozart. Even the cheese Danish at the place in the train station defined flakiness and buttery sweetness.

Melissa became the expert on the café lattes that accompanied the pastries. She awarded Café Museum, another established purveyor of the artful form of espresso and milk, best café latte.

Despite our desire to subsist on a diet of caffeine and sweets, we did occasionally have to eat what my mom calls “real food.” At Café Diglas, we shared two excellent omelets – one with salmon and dill cheese, the other with spinach and cheese. Are those French fries…? Yes, and they rocked.

We also tried goulash, a traditional spiced beef stew, and Weiner schnitzel, a fried pounded pork cutlet. The goulash at Café Mozart was incredible, with an almost southwestern flavor. The Weiner schnitzel tasted like pretty good fried chicken.

While we loved the cafés, our guidebooks insisted that we check out the Naschmarkt, an giant open air food market that happened to be 20 feet from our hotel. We went for breakfast one day and I chose a sampling of Mediterranean vegetables for my first meal. Melissa gave me judgment eyes, but the Mediterranean snacks were fresh and authentic.

Lattes and cake only added to Vienna’s overall charm. Music, history, and art fill the city. We visited the Spanish Riding School, Schonbrun Palace, the Sisi Museum, the Albertina, and a long list of other sites. And try to resist this.

Munchin’ in München

By Sierra Shear

As snow drifted down upon our respective homelands of New Jersey and Oklahoma, Melissa and I strolled around Munich, Germany today in nearly 60 degree weather. We thought that traveling north to Europe would increase our chances of experiencing a white Christmas, but apparently climate change decided to kick in and switch things up a bit.

The absence of snow didn’t bother us. First, we haven’t seen the sun in almost week, which is charming until you become vitamin D deficient. Second, walking around and going to museums is infinitely more pleasant when a bitingly cold European gale is not hitting you in the face.

We ended the day with a traditional Chinese feast, hauling the American Jewish tradition 5,000 miles across the Atlantic Ocean. China Restaurant was on the second floor of a building and upon walking in, we could’ve been anywhere in America. The smells and décor were the same, as was the massive menu, except this one included English, German, and Chinese translations. The hostess and waitress both had an incredible grasp of English.

The food arrived shockingly fast, as it usually does at Chinese restaurants. They rolled it across the room on a cart and the “Ten Vegetables” and “Noodles with Vegetables” soon satiated our cravings.

While we did have to take a break from German food for Christmas, we tried the regional cuisine in Berlin and Munich. On our first day in Berlin we stopped in a beer garden across from the famous synagogue. Melissa and I felt delirious after being awake for more than a day, but forced ourselves to stay up to beat jet lag (spoiler alert: we dominated it, staying up until 9:30 PM).

We ordered a dish for two with currywurst, cheese, horseradish, and a few vegetables. Currywurst, a Berlin speciality, is a sausage sprinkled with curry powder and doused with tomato sauce (ketchup-ish). It’s pretty greasy and pretty good. We didn’t really want it again, but needed to try it at least once.

In Berlin we also tried gluwiein, a hot spiced wine sold at the seasonal Christmas markets. Sweet and warm, I would put it below hot cocoa in deliciousness but above actual red wine. We also tried the German version of funnel cake that the vendors were aggressively peddling. It was filled with chocolate. It’s really not possible for something that looks like this to taste bad.

While sipping our mugs at market, a 60’s and 70’s music American cover band began to play and we danced the rest of the night away (until they were firmly kicked off stage at 10 PM) with our new German acquaintances.

We found an even more delicious and warming drink at the Augistaner Beer Garden, where Melissa tried the medium brew from a fresh tapped keg and I tried the wheat beer. The selection was different from menus in the US, where in Germany many beer gardens are associated with one brand. The options for beers at Augistaner were light, medium light, dark, and wheat.

 Both of our drinks were excellent. A couple of pretzels and some traditional cheese spread called obazda, essentially a smoother form of pimento cheese, completed the experience.

A few days later we tried another brand of beer at the famous Hofbrahaus in Munich. It was packed on Christmas Eve, and we finally (after ten minutes of searching the massive cavernous room) found a couple of spots between a couple tourists from Taiwan and some locals. Melissa tried the original brew, which only comes in denominations of one liter, and I tried the wheat beer. To accompany our drinks, we felt compelled to try the traditional Bavarian boiled white veal sausage. The locals showed us the proper way to prepare and eat it. It was pretty alright at the time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We preferred the beer at Augistaner, but the pretzel at Hofbrahaus was softer and unbeatable in taste and size. Here is a picture where you can tell how big it is compared to my face.

Our experience at Hofbrahaus contrasted our other meal that day, a brunch at Dallmayr. Dallmayr sells fine prepared foods, including meat, cheese, fish, pastries, and everything else. We shared a “Dallmayr Breakfast” in the café. It first arrived as a tea party with a complicated tea system with a time for me and a coffee pot and accompaniments for Melissa. The breakfast itself came with the highest quality bread, cream cheese, butter, cantaloupe, ham, salami, and prosciutto. Sharing was an easy and very affordable way to try an expensive restaurant. 

 

We finished the meal by splitting one of their famous apple strudel. It was not too sweet, and the crust was thin and flakey. I give this pastry 100% endorsement; it’s famous for a reason.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Awkward Lobster

By Sierra Shear

 

Does this picture remind you of your bar or bat mitzvah? Probably not, but it should. It’s a picture of Nelly circa “Grillz” (maybe you know that, I didn’t until I Googled him). He produced some epic dance tracks for tweens in the early 2000s, many of which were featured at our bar and bat mitzvahs. Air Force Ones and Country Grammar took center stage at the celebrations of entry into adulthood.

Inevitability, groups of boys and girls (separate) stood dancing on the extreme ends of the rented dance floor, enjoying the latest quasi-appropriate musical hits. Sometimes there were glow-in-the-dark necklaces, balloons, or dads doing the moonwalk, but mostly there was simple, awkward fun.

Or, at least that’s how it went for me.

Nelly recently reappeared in my life in an equally strange situation. Austin hosted its first annual Formula One race this year. Concerts accompanied the heavily European race; Nelly and Enrique Iglesias headlined Saturday night.

Predictably, in a city known for Austin City Limits, South by Southwest, and a serious food truck scene, the ex-Top 40 stars had trouble selling tickets. Actually, that’s an understatement. They didn’t even sell enough tickets to legitimize putting on a concert and the Formula One staff began begging people to take handfuls of tickets. My friend Evan took a stack, and he, my friend Maya, and I decided to check out the show.

We arrived and walked straight into the concert. No one asked for tickets. A giant hall full of 14 to 15 year old Enrique fans. We were by far the tallest people there. This would have been a great advantage at a normal concert, but it was so easy to walk up to the stage that we didn’t even get to take pleasure in being able to see over the underlings. Talk about awkward. And really weirdly fun. Very similar to a bar or bat mitzvah.

Two days ago, I walked into what could have been another potentially awkward situation involving a couple of Jews. I met my good friend Ilana in Cambridge, MA for brunch during a family visit to my dad’s hometown. Ilana and I bonded during our summer after sophomore year when we both interned and lived in DC. We visited all the classic DC sites while punctuating our stay wit a few of our own creative activities, including pre-July 4^th on the Mall Chinese food and borrowing out neighbors oven racks to cool batches of chocolate chip cookies.

An hour and a half long brunch after a nearly two year hiatus from seeing each other could have revealed that we built a temporary friendship around mutual appreciation for the Lincoln Memorial. Instead we picked up right where we left off, and jumped right into a lively discussion of our mutual dislike of LSAT preparation and the 2,500 other things a Canadian from Toronto and an Oklahoman living in Texas have in common.

Ilana recommended Café Luna, a small, local restaurant with an extensive, but complex brunch menu. I tried the lobster and avocado omelet, which was excellent. Ilana decided on the mac ‘n cheese with lobster, another good choice. Prices were reasonable, especially after being used to the affordability of dining out in Austin.

After a lame attempt at resisting our waiter’s suggestion, we also tried the apple cider mimosas. Seasonal perfection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nelly photo from: http://www.google.com/imgres?hl=en&sa=X&tbo=d&biw=1260&bih=679&tbm=isch&tbnid=KHTVqeigOQcteM:&imgrefurl=http://www.last.fm/music/Nelly&docid=mMCm7M5hyTw4cM&imgurl=http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/_/4919098/Nelly%252Bphoto2.jpg&w=402&h=402&ei=yQ2rUNfjEIOmqgH9_4GQDQ&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=180&vpy=79&dur=495&hovh=186&hovw=186&tx=85&ty=97&sig=106781061519210814994&page=1&tbnh=137&tbnw=137&start=0&ndsp=25&ved=1t:429,r:1,s:0,i:156

Mr. Romney, meet your edible equal

By Sierra Shear

The election is finally over. It looks like I won’t be forced to perform the harrowing task of peeling the semi-obnoxious Obama bumper stickers off my computer. Half a bottle of Goo-Gone is generally needed to remove the stuff that the paraphernalia leave on your computer, and then you’re still stuck with a giant (clean) white patch underneath the decal that hasn’t seen the light of day in months.

This is the smallest problem that anyone could possibly have, but I didn’t want to rehash all the other benefits of Obama’s victory, like, you know, health care.

During the campaign, the media and the public made some ridiculous comparisons. They likened Governor Romney to a robber baron and President Obama to a Nazi. What’s an election without a Nazi comparison? Luckily, John Stewart broke down the matter to put to rest any confusion between the health care law and the Storm Troopers.

Neither candidate, however, was compared to mediocre Korean food. I am about to change that. Congratulations Mr. Romney; I bet this is a first for youCooper and I decided to try a Korean restaurant on North Lamar last Thursday, less by choice than default. We were driving up Lamar, discounting places that we already tried until we came upon the shopping center with the sketchy, yet awesome karaoke spot that closes at 4 am. We pulled in and checked out the first business we saw. It looked like a restaurant, but we couldn’t be because the sign was in Korean. Cooper walked in and turned around. Something was not right.

We walked across the parking lot to another restaurant with pictures of food on the windows and a sign in both Korean and English that read “Rockin Rice.” Honestly, the name was totally unappealing but we at this point we were impatient in no state to judge a book by its cover. The inside was “cute” and one other table was occupied. It smelled pretty good. Most importantly, Coop didn’t turn and run immediately upon entering.

Here is where Mr. Romney comes into play. Like the Republicans, Cooper and I were hungry for something different.  In addition we, like the GOP, did not realize how unappealing mediocrity could be.

Our dol sat bibimbap (sizzling pot with rice, vegetables, and beef) fell short of expectations, too oily and not very hot. Similarly, Mr. Romney was neither conservative nor moderate (or maybe he was both, quite a moving target that one) and fulfilled few Republicans ideas of an ideal candidate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Voters found it difficult to discern the “real Romney” from the contradictory, or at best inconsistent, rhetoric of his campaign. Cooper and I had equal trouble understanding why there was seaweed in our bowls – not the usual kind of salty sweet yummy edible seaweed, but the slippery kind that you run into in the lake that gets between your toes and makes you shudder. If you’re from the south (not Virginia), you know what I’m taking about. It’s bad.

The meal and the candidate both ended up being super average, which doesn’t cut it for a restaurant or a politician.

On a lighter note, my family discovered a new culinary gem out toward Fredricksbug on Highway 71. Jack Allen’s Kitchen, the brain child of one of Z Tejas’ old head chefs, serves delicious new American/southwestern food at reasonable price. The restaurant is also a fun destination a few miles outside of town. We went for dinner, but I hear that brunch is also a hit.

Romney picture courtesy of http://www.google.com/imgres?um=1&hl=en&sa=N&tbo=d&biw=1260&bih=679&tbm=isch&tbnid=9PkR9wXBZgSHyM:&imgrefurl=http://www.biography.com/people/mitt-romney-241055&docid=1BzBBKG6OtOPcM&imgurl=http://www.biography.com/imported/images/Biography/Images/Profiles/R/Mitt-Romney-241055-4-402.jpg&w=402&h=402&ei=hX6iUPDxBNSDqQHinYCYDw&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=481&vpy=176&dur=1107&hovh=224&hovw=224&tx=106&ty=133&sig=106781061519210814994&page=1&tbnh=146&tbnw=141&start=0&ndsp=20&ved=1t:429,r:2,s:0,i:160.