While stewing (more like constipating) over my latent blog entry, "The Case Against Food Porn" (let me give you a taste: "I balled Salman Rushdie! Have you heard of him?"), I've done several things worthy of note, including passing on various complimentary wine tastings and consuming escargot. The overnight in the wine country always works out great for K and I, as it did for that couple in the room above, who balled for hours starting very early in the morning. (Now that I've used that expression twice, you won't see me dribble it out again.) "Good on ya!" I say.
I enjoyed the escargot with puff pastry and parsley foam at Santé, which manages to live up to the breathless marketing and reviews. Great prep and execution on the dishes, impeccable service, fine linens. Also a divine room with my kind of music -- swinging hard bop without the vocals. Too bad the cheese course is too rich for my blood these days. (This is what happens when you put a scale in the men's room at the spa.)
If anyone else has had snails, would love to trade notes. Yet the most memorable meal was in nearby Glen Ellen, with its more downscale family atmosphere and a few flies here and there. I had the Sonoman, which is the grilled turkey sandwich on really dark whole-wheat bread with Vella peppers and onions, plated with a hefty mixed-green salad. You know how some places put their dressings in those little plastic cups? Have you ever had dressing out of there that not only held the right proportion of oil and vinegar and spices, but also had the right tartness and peppery bite? I know my sandwiches and salads, and everything on this plate was delicious.
K and I just hung out after eating and read a couple of newspapers. Staff didn't even blink. Hey, Rachael Ray digs it too. Swing by next time you're up there.
12/10/08
Teed Off: A dump that serves osso buco
It's not quite 8pm on Tuesday night, and the bartender is screaming. People are cupping their hands to their ears so that they can hear him screaming. They are screaming back at the bartender. No one can hear anybody talking, because all they can hear is a steady stream of classic and contemporary hip-hop, played at near-club volume. Run-DMC, Warren G, Ludacris, repeat. ("I got ho's in different area codes!") Laz is screaming, Lash is screaming, and I am screaming.
Welcome to the Tee Off Bar & Grill, an inelegant tavern on a forgotten block of the Outer Richmond. A long-shuttered Albertsons stands across the street, where the remains of a disused Safeway crumbled for years. Elsewhere on the block are a sweet cafe with a pleasant backyard, a sushi joint favored by the Lefferts crew but not so much by me, a dry cleaner that prides itself on Internet service, a moderately expensive Middle Eastern place whose doorstep I have never darkened, a hybrid Burmese-Thai place that outshines Burma SuperStar without the wait, and a Chinese restaurant you don't need to hear about. Wait, is there still a bait-and-tackle shop too?
The buzz has grown for the Tee Off out here in the 121, mostly thanks to its impending appearance on the Food Network's Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. ("We're going to be on the Food Network soon," says the bartender, "I think probably next month." The other bartender told me the same thing in September.) Whenever it actually happens, the Tee will qualify for the last of the three titular traits -- ripped barstool covers with fluff coming out, years-old graffiti in the men's room, beer-impregnated carpet, warped pool cues. There's a seven-foot-long table in the back that has only one chair, because they've stored a couple of large television sets underneath it. Inertia rules the day.
And yet, the bartender uses the word "sous-chef" to describe a fellow employee. On this particular night, the wipe-off whiteboard menu features seared pork tenderloin with wild rice, mushroom pizza, ribeye and porterhouse steaks, battered mushrooms, a pulled pork sandwich and osso buco, in addition to burgers, mac & cheese and other traditional bar fare. In a memorable turn, they offered a kangaroo entree a few weeks ago, and risotto regularly turns up too.
We get pints of Poppy Jasper, a malty ale from Morgan Hill's El Toro Brewing Co. that's apparently named for some local rocks. The Tee knows its market: well-selected microbrews, and yellow American lagers with hipster appeal. The tapsman doesn't even bother to wipe down the bar in front of us. It's all right.
My pulled pork sandwich arrives in about 20 minutes. It's huge, served on a sourdough roll with fresh greens, sliced Roma tomatoes, pickles and white onion sitting on the side. Crisp, seasoned shoestring fries are all over the plate. They haven't slathered my sandwich in barbecue sauce, but have helpfully provided a cardboard six-pack holder with hot sauce and other condiment options. It's a little fatty, entirely satisfying, and costs $9. BroGo's burger has deep-fried onion rings piled on top, and looks equally strong, priced at $11. I'll leave it to the others to describe their fungus-topped pizza, since I still avoid that kingdom.
*
As satisfying as my meal was, I had to get out of there. Two hours of punishing beats are a bit much, no matter how finely I'm treating my palate, and at least one of the locals in the back seemed like he was ready for trouble. (In perhaps ten prior visits, spread out over my nine years in the hood, I've seen people get dragged out of there twice.) Also, it was 52 degrees outside, and 58 degrees inside the bar. People were sitting around drinking whiskey in parkas and scarves. When I returned to my frugally-heated 66-degree home, it felt like an oven. Bet the Tee is warm in the kitchen, though -- that's where the action is.
Welcome to the Tee Off Bar & Grill, an inelegant tavern on a forgotten block of the Outer Richmond. A long-shuttered Albertsons stands across the street, where the remains of a disused Safeway crumbled for years. Elsewhere on the block are a sweet cafe with a pleasant backyard, a sushi joint favored by the Lefferts crew but not so much by me, a dry cleaner that prides itself on Internet service, a moderately expensive Middle Eastern place whose doorstep I have never darkened, a hybrid Burmese-Thai place that outshines Burma SuperStar without the wait, and a Chinese restaurant you don't need to hear about. Wait, is there still a bait-and-tackle shop too?
The buzz has grown for the Tee Off out here in the 121, mostly thanks to its impending appearance on the Food Network's Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. ("We're going to be on the Food Network soon," says the bartender, "I think probably next month." The other bartender told me the same thing in September.) Whenever it actually happens, the Tee will qualify for the last of the three titular traits -- ripped barstool covers with fluff coming out, years-old graffiti in the men's room, beer-impregnated carpet, warped pool cues. There's a seven-foot-long table in the back that has only one chair, because they've stored a couple of large television sets underneath it. Inertia rules the day.
And yet, the bartender uses the word "sous-chef" to describe a fellow employee. On this particular night, the wipe-off whiteboard menu features seared pork tenderloin with wild rice, mushroom pizza, ribeye and porterhouse steaks, battered mushrooms, a pulled pork sandwich and osso buco, in addition to burgers, mac & cheese and other traditional bar fare. In a memorable turn, they offered a kangaroo entree a few weeks ago, and risotto regularly turns up too.
We get pints of Poppy Jasper, a malty ale from Morgan Hill's El Toro Brewing Co. that's apparently named for some local rocks. The Tee knows its market: well-selected microbrews, and yellow American lagers with hipster appeal. The tapsman doesn't even bother to wipe down the bar in front of us. It's all right.
My pulled pork sandwich arrives in about 20 minutes. It's huge, served on a sourdough roll with fresh greens, sliced Roma tomatoes, pickles and white onion sitting on the side. Crisp, seasoned shoestring fries are all over the plate. They haven't slathered my sandwich in barbecue sauce, but have helpfully provided a cardboard six-pack holder with hot sauce and other condiment options. It's a little fatty, entirely satisfying, and costs $9. BroGo's burger has deep-fried onion rings piled on top, and looks equally strong, priced at $11. I'll leave it to the others to describe their fungus-topped pizza, since I still avoid that kingdom.
*
As satisfying as my meal was, I had to get out of there. Two hours of punishing beats are a bit much, no matter how finely I'm treating my palate, and at least one of the locals in the back seemed like he was ready for trouble. (In perhaps ten prior visits, spread out over my nine years in the hood, I've seen people get dragged out of there twice.) Also, it was 52 degrees outside, and 58 degrees inside the bar. People were sitting around drinking whiskey in parkas and scarves. When I returned to my frugally-heated 66-degree home, it felt like an oven. Bet the Tee is warm in the kitchen, though -- that's where the action is.
11/27/08
For the Contentment of Coffey
A colleague and guest Bistrovian has been bugging me for a miniburger/slider recipe, as if I've even come close to getting it right. Don't you know by now that I've been a late bloomer my whole life? Anywhere, here's the download:
You want to get some meat. I've done two experiments, one with two kinds of ground sirloin (half the regular stuff, the other half grass-fed), and the other with half chuck (yes, the fatty kind, cheaper) and half sirloin (grass-fed, more spendy). It varied the second time because the butcher refused to accept that a flavorful burger could be done without some fat. Now that I've tried them both, I can't say which I like more. Give me a couple more years.
Where was I? Oh yes, you get a good pound or two of quality beef together. Season it with some salt (if you're ready to cook), fresh ground pepper, a few squirts of soy sauce, a dollop of teriyaki, a dash of cumin, a couple cloves of finely chopped garlic. What else? Worcesteshire sauce. Why the hodgepodge? Well, because you want lots of flavor in a small package. Knead.
Make little meatballs in the palms of your hands, a bunch of them, and put them on a cutting board or broad dish. Then, and this is key, you want to press down on the meatball and flatten it. Trial and error will help you see whether your meatball should be smaller or larger, and whether your minipatties should be thinner or thicker.
Cook 'em as you'd cook any burger, in a pan right on the stove. I'm sure they would brown nicely in a George Foreman; I have a panini press, but I haven't tried them in there. Set them aside until you're ready to assemble, because now you want to make a little sauce.
In the same pan you've made the burgers, turn the heat back on and pour in some red wine. Then add a bit of butter and, if you have them, chopped shallots. Scrape a few browned bits from the bottom and let the booze reduce. When you have a consistency you like (a little runny is good), transfer your sauce into a small bowl.
For the buns, I recommend brioche from the Bay Boulangerie. They're a little much, but they're so delicious and just the right size. (Whole Foods and such stock them, but sometimes not the tiny ones.) Cut them in half (keep track of the pairs) and toast them a bit.
Assembly: Line a few buns up on a counter or working surface. If you like mayo, start by spreading some on the bottom of the top caps. Take the cooked minipatties and place them on the lower half of the brioche. With a spoon, ladle a little wine sauce on the meat. Add a slice of Roma tomato, and you're done. I'm open to suggestions on presentation.
You want to get some meat. I've done two experiments, one with two kinds of ground sirloin (half the regular stuff, the other half grass-fed), and the other with half chuck (yes, the fatty kind, cheaper) and half sirloin (grass-fed, more spendy). It varied the second time because the butcher refused to accept that a flavorful burger could be done without some fat. Now that I've tried them both, I can't say which I like more. Give me a couple more years.
Where was I? Oh yes, you get a good pound or two of quality beef together. Season it with some salt (if you're ready to cook), fresh ground pepper, a few squirts of soy sauce, a dollop of teriyaki, a dash of cumin, a couple cloves of finely chopped garlic. What else? Worcesteshire sauce. Why the hodgepodge? Well, because you want lots of flavor in a small package. Knead.
Make little meatballs in the palms of your hands, a bunch of them, and put them on a cutting board or broad dish. Then, and this is key, you want to press down on the meatball and flatten it. Trial and error will help you see whether your meatball should be smaller or larger, and whether your minipatties should be thinner or thicker.
Cook 'em as you'd cook any burger, in a pan right on the stove. I'm sure they would brown nicely in a George Foreman; I have a panini press, but I haven't tried them in there. Set them aside until you're ready to assemble, because now you want to make a little sauce.
In the same pan you've made the burgers, turn the heat back on and pour in some red wine. Then add a bit of butter and, if you have them, chopped shallots. Scrape a few browned bits from the bottom and let the booze reduce. When you have a consistency you like (a little runny is good), transfer your sauce into a small bowl.
For the buns, I recommend brioche from the Bay Boulangerie. They're a little much, but they're so delicious and just the right size. (Whole Foods and such stock them, but sometimes not the tiny ones.) Cut them in half (keep track of the pairs) and toast them a bit.
Assembly: Line a few buns up on a counter or working surface. If you like mayo, start by spreading some on the bottom of the top caps. Take the cooked minipatties and place them on the lower half of the brioche. With a spoon, ladle a little wine sauce on the meat. Add a slice of Roma tomato, and you're done. I'm open to suggestions on presentation.
11/8/08
So Little Pimm's, So Little Time
The lovely lady's getting her hairs done, which means that after braving the rain for the dry cleaner and then the markets (stuffed peppers a la Diva due for dinner), it was time to put on some records (My Morning Jacket, Jonathan Richman, Ray Barretto, Bruce Cockburn, Charlie Parker & Miles Davis), reflect a bit about the early episodes of "Mad Men," make a drink, watch the puddles.
Summer is not here and it's interesting that peering into the liquor cabinet, first thinking Manhattan, I wondered whether there was something I could do with the couple fingers of Pimm's I had in there courtesy of BrO and his spring cleaning years ago. The bottle cap still has the price from Astor Wine & Spirits, $10.39. The powers of the Internets were then summoned, with more than a dozen recipes coming up.
After texting Jomo I had a drink idea: make two! It's a good opportunity to use some of the barware, glassware and a clipboard. Here I have each recipe and tasting:
Pimm's Turbo
1 oz. gin (I used Plymouth)
1 oz. Pimm's
4 oz. Limonata by San Pellegrino
Put ice cubes in a red-wine glass or goblet, and add ingredients. Garnish with a lemon twist. (Use a channel knife.)
Melanie Pimm's
2/3 oz. Scotch (I used TJ's blended)
1-1/2 oz. Pimm's
1/3 oz. lemon juice
5 oz. Limonata by San Pellegrino
Put ice in a highball or Collins glass, and add ingredients. Garnish with a thin lemon wedge.
Now the comparison: The Turbo is all swinging London, smooth sipping and easy living, perhaps the very essence of cocktail time. In a way, one could say, it bears any burden, meets any hardship to assure the survival and success of liberty, at any price. But the Melanie, with its darker shade as well as greater body and complexity given the blended Scotch and extra citrus, captures more of the "Here's That Rainy Day" mood. Off to the puddles.
Summer is not here and it's interesting that peering into the liquor cabinet, first thinking Manhattan, I wondered whether there was something I could do with the couple fingers of Pimm's I had in there courtesy of BrO and his spring cleaning years ago. The bottle cap still has the price from Astor Wine & Spirits, $10.39. The powers of the Internets were then summoned, with more than a dozen recipes coming up. After texting Jomo I had a drink idea: make two! It's a good opportunity to use some of the barware, glassware and a clipboard. Here I have each recipe and tasting:
Pimm's Turbo
1 oz. gin (I used Plymouth)
1 oz. Pimm's
4 oz. Limonata by San Pellegrino
Put ice cubes in a red-wine glass or goblet, and add ingredients. Garnish with a lemon twist. (Use a channel knife.)
Melanie Pimm's
2/3 oz. Scotch (I used TJ's blended)
1-1/2 oz. Pimm's
1/3 oz. lemon juice
5 oz. Limonata by San Pellegrino
Put ice in a highball or Collins glass, and add ingredients. Garnish with a thin lemon wedge.
Now the comparison: The Turbo is all swinging London, smooth sipping and easy living, perhaps the very essence of cocktail time. In a way, one could say, it bears any burden, meets any hardship to assure the survival and success of liberty, at any price. But the Melanie, with its darker shade as well as greater body and complexity given the blended Scotch and extra citrus, captures more of the "Here's That Rainy Day" mood. Off to the puddles.
10/23/08
Don't Drink Long Island Iced Teas, Even If You Have To
El Gran Ron weighs in on a fussily ordered he had, yes, at our Perbacco:
> As Luis Bunuel (and I) would respond, it is crucial to use only uncrushed, whole ice cubes in making martinis and to place them and the gin only into a shaker, not some beaker. Stirred martinis -- often and wrongly stirred in a beaker so as not to "bruise" the gin -- are for ignorant and often pretentious pussies. Gin does no bruise, but it does improve in lip-smacking "dryness" when served very, very cold and as undiluted as possible by (yech) water from (ugh) crushed ice. Martinis are serious business, not slushies. Moreover, the shaker should be agitated (without beating the ice to death and cracking it) for some several minutes. at which point the martini should be poured into an already chilled martini glass. We'll leave the choice and application of types of vermouth and olives, onions or other delicacies to be served within the martini for another time.
I hope you don't take offense, Antonio Luis, but that slick bartender at Perbacco, who you seemed to know by name [this would be Scott -AL] and vice-versa, did not make a good, not even a decent, martini, I am sad to tell you, despite the fact that he tried twice. If he focused less on his fancy hand-job routines in making drinks and various other showoff flim-flam behind bar and more time reading and studying and understanding what a good martini is and how to make one, he might be salvageable; though frankly he seems to too vain and hubristic to me to ever be a good bartender, whose major attributes have to be a total absence of needless flash and filagree and a basic, openly expressed sense of humility and compassion.
So, in the slightly altered advice of Abe Polonsky, I would encourage you not to give up and come to a false understanding before you have to. If you ever get any crushed ice in your martini, the putz behind the bar has flim-flammed you with fency hand jobs into believing that he knows what he's doing. The only defense is to know more and better than he does.
As ever,
El Gran Ron
> As Luis Bunuel (and I) would respond, it is crucial to use only uncrushed, whole ice cubes in making martinis and to place them and the gin only into a shaker, not some beaker. Stirred martinis -- often and wrongly stirred in a beaker so as not to "bruise" the gin -- are for ignorant and often pretentious pussies. Gin does no bruise, but it does improve in lip-smacking "dryness" when served very, very cold and as undiluted as possible by (yech) water from (ugh) crushed ice. Martinis are serious business, not slushies. Moreover, the shaker should be agitated (without beating the ice to death and cracking it) for some several minutes. at which point the martini should be poured into an already chilled martini glass. We'll leave the choice and application of types of vermouth and olives, onions or other delicacies to be served within the martini for another time.
I hope you don't take offense, Antonio Luis, but that slick bartender at Perbacco, who you seemed to know by name [this would be Scott -AL] and vice-versa, did not make a good, not even a decent, martini, I am sad to tell you, despite the fact that he tried twice. If he focused less on his fancy hand-job routines in making drinks and various other showoff flim-flam behind bar and more time reading and studying and understanding what a good martini is and how to make one, he might be salvageable; though frankly he seems to too vain and hubristic to me to ever be a good bartender, whose major attributes have to be a total absence of needless flash and filagree and a basic, openly expressed sense of humility and compassion.
So, in the slightly altered advice of Abe Polonsky, I would encourage you not to give up and come to a false understanding before you have to. If you ever get any crushed ice in your martini, the putz behind the bar has flim-flammed you with fency hand jobs into believing that he knows what he's doing. The only defense is to know more and better than he does.
As ever,
El Gran Ron
10/13/08
Lucky Star
No matter how hard I try, I can't stop eating. K has learned to schedule activities around a meal. "We're meeting so-and-so at 11 and then we can walk to the lunch spot. OK?" I nod and begin daydreaming.
This time our walk brought us to B Star, which I believe is an outgrowth of the still hugely popular Burma Superstar a block over. Haven't been there in a decade, and I'm sure it's still quite good.
But the mojo I think is now at B Star. I couldn't quite figure out what to get, which is something that happens, like, never. Should I have a soft-shell po' boy or the mango salsa tacos? Can one eat too much soft-shell crab, or too many tacos? (I still drool at the memory of the crab I had on our honeymoon in Maryland, pulled out of the water 15 feet from my table the minute I ordered it. Then there was the taco stand, rather a taco lot, at Santa Monica and Vermont in L.A., which had the handwritten sign in Spanish that said, and I'm paraphrasing, "Please bear with us. We are working to comply with the city health department." Everything there was $1.)
K had the French toast with Nutella and strawberries.
I had the pork belly with white beans and bok choy.
I asked for a bit of Sriracha. Not even a grain of jasmine rice was left over.
Lunch or brunch or what have you, we won't be doing Q. We're not ready to splurge on Philippe's Clementine. The B is our shiny new thing.
This time our walk brought us to B Star, which I believe is an outgrowth of the still hugely popular Burma Superstar a block over. Haven't been there in a decade, and I'm sure it's still quite good.
But the mojo I think is now at B Star. I couldn't quite figure out what to get, which is something that happens, like, never. Should I have a soft-shell po' boy or the mango salsa tacos? Can one eat too much soft-shell crab, or too many tacos? (I still drool at the memory of the crab I had on our honeymoon in Maryland, pulled out of the water 15 feet from my table the minute I ordered it. Then there was the taco stand, rather a taco lot, at Santa Monica and Vermont in L.A., which had the handwritten sign in Spanish that said, and I'm paraphrasing, "Please bear with us. We are working to comply with the city health department." Everything there was $1.)
K had the French toast with Nutella and strawberries.
I had the pork belly with white beans and bok choy.
I asked for a bit of Sriracha. Not even a grain of jasmine rice was left over.
Lunch or brunch or what have you, we won't be doing Q. We're not ready to splurge on Philippe's Clementine. The B is our shiny new thing.
10/7/08
Around the Neighborhood with 80 Bucks
While I scrounge around to remember what the lovely, saucy, superknowledgeable ladies brought me at Beretta (like the charred radicchio with ... ), I give you my tab from Kabuto. Yes, I was warned about Kabuto, stuck sort of nowhere a few blocks off Park Presidio. But do I ever listen?
1849 Oysters, 2 pieces (oyster, uni, quail egg, tobiko): $10
Abalone, 2 pieces: $10
Akamutsu (snapper?), 2 pieces: $10
CeViChe (flash-fried seaweed, halibut, salsa), 2 pieces: $5
Escolar, 2 pieces: $6
Shima Aji (like butter), 2 pieces: $7
Osumimono (clear soup): $4
Wakame (seaweed and greens salad): $5
Asahi, black: $5
Hojicha (green tea, free refills): $2
That adds up to $64, and tax is about $5, and I tipped too (imagine) so there you go. It's perhaps my most expensive single meal, and have to say one of the best. See you there during the next boom.
1849 Oysters, 2 pieces (oyster, uni, quail egg, tobiko): $10
Abalone, 2 pieces: $10
Akamutsu (snapper?), 2 pieces: $10
CeViChe (flash-fried seaweed, halibut, salsa), 2 pieces: $5
Escolar, 2 pieces: $6
Shima Aji (like butter), 2 pieces: $7
Osumimono (clear soup): $4
Wakame (seaweed and greens salad): $5
Asahi, black: $5
Hojicha (green tea, free refills): $2
That adds up to $64, and tax is about $5, and I tipped too (imagine) so there you go. It's perhaps my most expensive single meal, and have to say one of the best. See you there during the next boom.
9/19/08
Recipe: John McCain’s Alphabet Soup
The fawning food press and popular books like "The United States of Arugula" love name-checking the big shots like Daniel Boulud and Jean-Georges Vongerichten. Not name-checked are those like Ivan Arias, who basically are cheated out of the equivalent of a tab for two at the swanky eateries where they work as much as 60 hours a week. This smacks of grotesque since these chef-owners often give away free dinners to their BFFs as a matter of doing business.
http://tinyurl.com/4rro5q
Here’s how we know what’s going on: The lawyer for the restaurateurs picks up campaign talking points and blames the patchwork of antiquated rules and regulations. Also the trial lawyers.
Tip of the hat to my Latin brothers.
http://tinyurl.com/4rro5q
Here’s how we know what’s going on: The lawyer for the restaurateurs picks up campaign talking points and blames the patchwork of antiquated rules and regulations. Also the trial lawyers.
Tip of the hat to my Latin brothers.
9/11/08
Recipe: Pork Chile Verde
What the hell? K and I are now past the halfway point in her pregnancy and I can't find my keys or remember anything anymore. No, I'm not going to get an iPhone and make it all better. I'll run down some of the treats I still have notes on from Fat City:
• Oysters, wild mushroom salad and golden-beet ravioli with Hahn Estates pinot, at Bin 36.
• Oyster shooters with quail egg, and the "hye roller," at Meiji. Earlier I got attitude at the wine bar two doors down. Too bad for them.
8-12 fresh Anaheim peppers
2-3 pounds trimmed boneless pork shoulder, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 big onion
4-6 cloves of garlic
1 can El Pato jalapeño sauce
Start by firing the peppers. In batches, put two or three peppers directly on the stove burners, turned on full blast, with tongs. As you blacken them up, shift them into a ziplock bag to cool. (Do them in batches so you don't end up with lots of soiled bags.) Peel them by hand, without fretting over each speck of black. Set them on cutting boards to seed and chop finely.
In a big, heavy braising pot, heat up some oil. Brown the pork well, letting some of the juices evaporate. Scoop everything out to make your sofrito. Sauté the onion, then add the chilies and seasonings like salt, pepper, chili powder, a little oregano and cumin. Throw in the garlic for a minute until it's aromatic. Then add El Pato and stir to reduce a bit.
Add the pork and 4 cups of water. Turn the heat to medium and cover to bring to a boil. Once it's hot and bubbly, take the cover off and simmer for 3 hours until the meat's fork-tender. Serve with rice or just with chopped red onion and cilantro. Serves all your friends by the time you and everyone else is well into Negronis.
Bonus tip: Get the same amount of tomatillos as peppers. Take the papery skin off and pop them in boiling water for 10 minutes. Pulse them in a blender or that little pulse thing and add them to the sofrito with the chopped chilies.
• Oysters, wild mushroom salad and golden-beet ravioli with Hahn Estates pinot, at Bin 36.
• Oyster shooters with quail egg, and the "hye roller," at Meiji. Earlier I got attitude at the wine bar two doors down. Too bad for them.
8-12 fresh Anaheim peppers
2-3 pounds trimmed boneless pork shoulder, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 big onion
4-6 cloves of garlic
1 can El Pato jalapeño sauce
Start by firing the peppers. In batches, put two or three peppers directly on the stove burners, turned on full blast, with tongs. As you blacken them up, shift them into a ziplock bag to cool. (Do them in batches so you don't end up with lots of soiled bags.) Peel them by hand, without fretting over each speck of black. Set them on cutting boards to seed and chop finely.
In a big, heavy braising pot, heat up some oil. Brown the pork well, letting some of the juices evaporate. Scoop everything out to make your sofrito. Sauté the onion, then add the chilies and seasonings like salt, pepper, chili powder, a little oregano and cumin. Throw in the garlic for a minute until it's aromatic. Then add El Pato and stir to reduce a bit.
Add the pork and 4 cups of water. Turn the heat to medium and cover to bring to a boil. Once it's hot and bubbly, take the cover off and simmer for 3 hours until the meat's fork-tender. Serve with rice or just with chopped red onion and cilantro. Serves all your friends by the time you and everyone else is well into Negronis.
Bonus tip: Get the same amount of tomatillos as peppers. Take the papery skin off and pop them in boiling water for 10 minutes. Pulse them in a blender or that little pulse thing and add them to the sofrito with the chopped chilies.
8/11/08
Coffey from Cabo
My colleague and freelance Bistro blogger Michelle sends this pic, from Mariscos Mazatlán in downtown Cabo San Lucas. It's the seafood platter for two, or should I say at least two.
8/3/08
Fat City, II
We had a Tuesday night devoted for destination dining followed by improv theater, but the dinner was far more stimulating than the stagework, even though the hype and expectations were higher about the eatery. I suppose some purists avoid the rooms overseen by A-list chefs, as if they are somehow tainted. ("Nobody goes there, it's too crowded" is kinda the idea.) There's also the pitfall of not getting seated and getting attitude for not being so-and-so. Let me report that Rick Bayless and his Frontera Grill aren't bothering with shortcuts in the kitchen or short shrift at the front of the house. The place is mobbed, even at 6 on a Tuesday, but we arrived without a reservation and were greeted and seated in minutes. Maybe it's the Chicago nice.
Bayless has even thought through the aperitifs, including one based on hibiscus that also takes soda and bitters. For starters he's letting people go at all the shellfish and ceviche they can stomach, as well as making some Mexican mainstays small and scrumptious. We shared the sopes, which are English muffins of corn masa made tiny, tiny and topped with braised beef and roasted tomatoes.
My main course was the birria, or shredded goat meat, along with some fixins for tacos, just like if you were at a barbecue or outdoor party. K had mesquite-grillled chicken for her tacos. ("It was like the whole village was in there," she recalls. "I could taste the whole freaking village.")
My sister-in-law says that she's been eating rice and beans her whole life, and that she doesn't need them wrapped up in a tortilla. With high-quality ingredients, seasoning and preparation, you also don't need to drown everything in refried beans and melted cheese. On behalf of the whole freaking village, a big thank you to everyone at Frontera.
Bayless has even thought through the aperitifs, including one based on hibiscus that also takes soda and bitters. For starters he's letting people go at all the shellfish and ceviche they can stomach, as well as making some Mexican mainstays small and scrumptious. We shared the sopes, which are English muffins of corn masa made tiny, tiny and topped with braised beef and roasted tomatoes.
My main course was the birria, or shredded goat meat, along with some fixins for tacos, just like if you were at a barbecue or outdoor party. K had mesquite-grillled chicken for her tacos. ("It was like the whole village was in there," she recalls. "I could taste the whole freaking village.")
My sister-in-law says that she's been eating rice and beans her whole life, and that she doesn't need them wrapped up in a tortilla. With high-quality ingredients, seasoning and preparation, you also don't need to drown everything in refried beans and melted cheese. On behalf of the whole freaking village, a big thank you to everyone at Frontera.
7/28/08
Fat City, I
I come not to berate Chicago, but to praise it. Maybe at this point in my 30s the years are flying by and the food is just getting way better everywhere without you noticing it outside your bubble. I had many excellent evening eats in the broad-shouldered town.
Kicking it off right Saturday night on Michigan Ave., we were pointed to The Gage and escorted without a reservation or any such thing past the bar and booths into a dining room. A little secluded, but that changed in short order. People were coming out to eat, and the room warmed up. Table neighbors ask about appetizers. I couldn't resist and started with the Scotch egg, which is hard-boiled egg stuffed into ground sausage, then breaded and deep-fried.
What really kicked it up a notch were the mustards, a touch of hot Dijon on the top and six inches away on the rectangular plate, a generous helping of deli mustard. Also, what's the point of getting on a plane if you're not dipping into something regional, unhealthy and delicious? Don't forget to pair with beer. (Pic at right purloined off someone's Flickr.)
Skipping ahead a bit -- the menu is organized as firsts, seconds, thirds, etc. -- I then savored the salad of braised rabbit, which is something Ward Little could do at South Park Cafe or any of the other bistros hitting all the right notes. This was perfect, with some morsels tender and some others a little crackled, tossed with frisee and another green I can't remember because I was forking at it so fast.
K went for The Gage burger, which at $16 is more than the regular one, but the difference isn't six bucks but sirloin instead of ground chuck. The bowl of fries was enough for three, maybe four people, and were perfect. We even got a little Indian-spiced gravy to dip in.
My main course was a special, grilled striped bass, and this was reminiscent of Evvia, only sauced a little spicier, paired with a big pour of a Vin de Pays d'Oc pinot. Big success, like Chicago in general.
The place is a bit hidden across from Millennium Park, and works even if you just want to watch the game and nosh at the bar. A couple of nights I thought I'd pop back in for a Negroni, but as usual I got distracted elsewhere. More to come.
Kicking it off right Saturday night on Michigan Ave., we were pointed to The Gage and escorted without a reservation or any such thing past the bar and booths into a dining room. A little secluded, but that changed in short order. People were coming out to eat, and the room warmed up. Table neighbors ask about appetizers. I couldn't resist and started with the Scotch egg, which is hard-boiled egg stuffed into ground sausage, then breaded and deep-fried.
What really kicked it up a notch were the mustards, a touch of hot Dijon on the top and six inches away on the rectangular plate, a generous helping of deli mustard. Also, what's the point of getting on a plane if you're not dipping into something regional, unhealthy and delicious? Don't forget to pair with beer. (Pic at right purloined off someone's Flickr.)Skipping ahead a bit -- the menu is organized as firsts, seconds, thirds, etc. -- I then savored the salad of braised rabbit, which is something Ward Little could do at South Park Cafe or any of the other bistros hitting all the right notes. This was perfect, with some morsels tender and some others a little crackled, tossed with frisee and another green I can't remember because I was forking at it so fast.
K went for The Gage burger, which at $16 is more than the regular one, but the difference isn't six bucks but sirloin instead of ground chuck. The bowl of fries was enough for three, maybe four people, and were perfect. We even got a little Indian-spiced gravy to dip in.
My main course was a special, grilled striped bass, and this was reminiscent of Evvia, only sauced a little spicier, paired with a big pour of a Vin de Pays d'Oc pinot. Big success, like Chicago in general.
The place is a bit hidden across from Millennium Park, and works even if you just want to watch the game and nosh at the bar. A couple of nights I thought I'd pop back in for a Negroni, but as usual I got distracted elsewhere. More to come.
7/16/08
An Americano Classic
Negronis at Perbacco, poured with Right gin, Carpano Antica and the company of Jomo. Pic is purloined from something called L.A. Splash.
UPDATE: For the Perbacco-perfect Negroni, taper off the Campari a bit instead of equal parts of the three ingredients.
7/14/08
City Sitting Room. Village Parlor. Group Home
Town Hall is a step removed or cut from the same cloth as Salt House, from the same partnership, which means it's like Salt House but different. (My mom had the buttermilk fried chicken. Can you get much more regional American? You can. I tried a couple barbecue places in Lockhart, Texas on the same day -- in fact for the same meal. Variety's a beautiful thing.)
Rambling aside (and when someone else is paying with this particular partnership, one rambles), the highlight aside from the Caliza was my entree, which was better than anything else anyone had: the roast quail. It's plated with clams on their shell, tiny balls of chorizo, a mash of purple potatoes, peas, Italian parsley and a drizzle of Meyer lemon. This is fine fine dining. So many ingredients, colors and textures, and it succeeds. What region of America is this? Maybe a bunch of them -- all of them in the same meal. Variety's too much of a wonderful thing.
Rambling aside (and when someone else is paying with this particular partnership, one rambles), the highlight aside from the Caliza was my entree, which was better than anything else anyone had: the roast quail. It's plated with clams on their shell, tiny balls of chorizo, a mash of purple potatoes, peas, Italian parsley and a drizzle of Meyer lemon. This is fine fine dining. So many ingredients, colors and textures, and it succeeds. What region of America is this? Maybe a bunch of them -- all of them in the same meal. Variety's too much of a wonderful thing.
7/9/08
Scenes from the Class Struggle
Had a whole post concept going earlier, but got stymied. In the interim there's this:
http://tinyurl.com/5wb5gt
The real content is in the comments. My favorite:
> "If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. If you can’t afford it, you should have asked. Didn’t mother teach you *anything*?"
http://tinyurl.com/5wb5gt
The real content is in the comments. My favorite:
> "If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. If you can’t afford it, you should have asked. Didn’t mother teach you *anything*?"
6/14/08
DIY Dim Sum, of sorts
I've lived in the western environs for six years and am still bumping into funky nooks. After a little shopping in Stonestown, I pull off Sunset onto Noriega, because somewhere on there lies the Kingdom of Dumpling. Sure enough, past the Safeway with rooftop parking and countless budget restaurants, there it is, next to Boomerang Cocktail Lounge. (People apparently smoke in there. Elbo?)
I literally jog in and stop in front of the line of top-loading fridges filled with bags of frozen goodness, some of which has been made that day and is ready to steam. I'm immediately attended to and walked through a purchase --- what needs steaming, boiling or simply a quick nuke. Quite a few things are recognizable from my brunches and lunches, even the sesame balls for dessert, though I'm not sure if those are for steaming, boiling or a quick nuking. They even have a couple kinds of buns and pot stickers.
For two big bags of pork dumplings, a flat of a dozen fresh Shanghai-style pork and ginger dim-sum pieces and four Chinese vegetable buns, the tally is about $22. I run home and steam the first half-dozen Shanghai dumplings in the double boiler for 7 minutes; the next batch will go in for 6.
Dumplings seem like a great thing to have on hand for weekend brunches, weeknight meals or even tasty snacks. No need to commit to a whole sit-down scene. (The Kingdom also has a restaurant, my salesperson tells me, handing me a card. It's on Taraval between 27th and 28th.) Why doesn't someone open a bunch of dim sum bars with a quick-service counter? Beats me. I'll have to hop down to Noriega more often.
I literally jog in and stop in front of the line of top-loading fridges filled with bags of frozen goodness, some of which has been made that day and is ready to steam. I'm immediately attended to and walked through a purchase --- what needs steaming, boiling or simply a quick nuke. Quite a few things are recognizable from my brunches and lunches, even the sesame balls for dessert, though I'm not sure if those are for steaming, boiling or a quick nuking. They even have a couple kinds of buns and pot stickers.
For two big bags of pork dumplings, a flat of a dozen fresh Shanghai-style pork and ginger dim-sum pieces and four Chinese vegetable buns, the tally is about $22. I run home and steam the first half-dozen Shanghai dumplings in the double boiler for 7 minutes; the next batch will go in for 6.
Dumplings seem like a great thing to have on hand for weekend brunches, weeknight meals or even tasty snacks. No need to commit to a whole sit-down scene. (The Kingdom also has a restaurant, my salesperson tells me, handing me a card. It's on Taraval between 27th and 28th.) Why doesn't someone open a bunch of dim sum bars with a quick-service counter? Beats me. I'll have to hop down to Noriega more often.
6/11/08
Laz & Lash: Satiating South of Market
From: Laz
To: Lash
Ah yes, the red-rice with toasted coriander. Kristen had that. But it's not just coriander that's in there; there's also some lemon zest, and perhaps more. I see your point about the magic of the chef, and I want to add something else. Camargue red rice is indeed a pretty foodie ingredient, but there's that imagination with the lemon and the seasoning and the other grilled veg that complement the ramekin-size serving.
The dish looks like something that came together as a staff meal, or as a clean-out-the-fridge thing on a lazy Monday. People eat lots of rice, but that plate brings in other elements in a certain way that speaks to what South Park's doing right. Consider my entree, going backwards: red cabbage, lentils, porcini mushroom, duck breast. Most home cooks have at least two, maybe three of those ingredients on hand in general (if not the red cabbage, then maybe Napa; if not lentils, then cannellini). Add a little bacon or pancetta -- you always have some of that, don't you? -- and bam! You're on your way. The protein almost seems incidental.
But it takes a trip to South Park for me to figure this out, because in my own kitchen the recipe repertoire gets trod repeatedly. Isn't that why most people head out, to be turned on, along with some spice magic?
-----Original Message-----
To: Laz
From: Lash
Spice magic is in fact a product of good forward thinking. I think that's what you're saying. If so, perhaps it's the kitchen corollary to the old saw that you make your own luck.
What we don't see is the 10 times (100? 1,000?) that Ward made the Camargue rice plate and said nope, this ain't gonna make it. Perhaps he hit it on the nose on the first try, but more likely he spent hours in the lab over his bunsen burner. It's a nice story, anyway.
Which bring us to your final point: getting off the recipe treadmill. Funny, but my advice to you goes back to spice magic. Find something you've never or rarely cooked with. One of my discoveries was zataar -- discovered, in fact, in the back of my spice nook, where it had been sitting unused for years, which probably means I'll be doubly impressed once I start working with a fresh batch. Anyhoo, I started with the zataar and wondered what I could do with it.
That led to a round of experimentation: unadulterated, a dry rub on meats. Or mixed into yogurt as a raita flavoring or as a tandoori-ish coating for roasted or broiled meats. Or mixed into salad dressings.
Recently the spice du jour is cumin. I wrote about it re: turkey burgers, but we've been schprinkling it in many places. Oh, behave!
To: Lash
Ah yes, the red-rice with toasted coriander. Kristen had that. But it's not just coriander that's in there; there's also some lemon zest, and perhaps more. I see your point about the magic of the chef, and I want to add something else. Camargue red rice is indeed a pretty foodie ingredient, but there's that imagination with the lemon and the seasoning and the other grilled veg that complement the ramekin-size serving.
The dish looks like something that came together as a staff meal, or as a clean-out-the-fridge thing on a lazy Monday. People eat lots of rice, but that plate brings in other elements in a certain way that speaks to what South Park's doing right. Consider my entree, going backwards: red cabbage, lentils, porcini mushroom, duck breast. Most home cooks have at least two, maybe three of those ingredients on hand in general (if not the red cabbage, then maybe Napa; if not lentils, then cannellini). Add a little bacon or pancetta -- you always have some of that, don't you? -- and bam! You're on your way. The protein almost seems incidental.
But it takes a trip to South Park for me to figure this out, because in my own kitchen the recipe repertoire gets trod repeatedly. Isn't that why most people head out, to be turned on, along with some spice magic?
-----Original Message-----
To: Laz
From: Lash
Spice magic is in fact a product of good forward thinking. I think that's what you're saying. If so, perhaps it's the kitchen corollary to the old saw that you make your own luck.
What we don't see is the 10 times (100? 1,000?) that Ward made the Camargue rice plate and said nope, this ain't gonna make it. Perhaps he hit it on the nose on the first try, but more likely he spent hours in the lab over his bunsen burner. It's a nice story, anyway.
Which bring us to your final point: getting off the recipe treadmill. Funny, but my advice to you goes back to spice magic. Find something you've never or rarely cooked with. One of my discoveries was zataar -- discovered, in fact, in the back of my spice nook, where it had been sitting unused for years, which probably means I'll be doubly impressed once I start working with a fresh batch. Anyhoo, I started with the zataar and wondered what I could do with it.
That led to a round of experimentation: unadulterated, a dry rub on meats. Or mixed into yogurt as a raita flavoring or as a tandoori-ish coating for roasted or broiled meats. Or mixed into salad dressings.
Recently the spice du jour is cumin. I wrote about it re: turkey burgers, but we've been schprinkling it in many places. Oh, behave!
5/28/08
Do You Want to Know a Turkey Burger Secret?
Ground turkey is now a staple in our household, for pasta sauces, for lasagna, for meatloaf, but most satisfyingly, for burgers. Mmmm, burgers. Such a pleasure with grilled onions, perhaps mushrooms, and a melted slice of sharp cheddar or goat gouda.
No matter how hard I've tried to doctor the turkey patties -- worcestershire sauce, chopped onion, mustard, salt, pepper, teriyaki, you name it -- I've never quite overcome ground turkey's tragic flaw. It's bland. It's even a bit cardboardish. It's relatively umami-less, even when gussied up with classic umami additives like soy or worcestershire. The lack isn't enough to deter me from eating turkey burgers, but there's always been the nagging feeling that they could be better. (And that they don't taste as good as beef.)
No more. I've figured it out. The secret ingredient is cumin, the spice that reminds many of a hippie pad because of the slight tinge of, I hate to say this, but it's true -- body odor. Never mind that. A generous sprinkle into the raw meat, along with your other favorite flavorings, and the turkey loses its turkeyness. (And used in a poultice, it relieves swelling of the breasts and testicles, according to this site.)
I wonder if the chemistry of cumin is related to beef or perhaps more deeply related to umami than other spices. A cursory search on cumin and glutamates and umami doesn't reveal anything solid. Maybe it's just that the redolence of cumin reminds me, Proustianly, of childhood ground-beef taco nights. Feel free to add to this nascent body of research...
By the way, here's another take on the Bistro Hugo "Yuck?" concept: TGRWT, ie, "They go really well together."
No matter how hard I've tried to doctor the turkey patties -- worcestershire sauce, chopped onion, mustard, salt, pepper, teriyaki, you name it -- I've never quite overcome ground turkey's tragic flaw. It's bland. It's even a bit cardboardish. It's relatively umami-less, even when gussied up with classic umami additives like soy or worcestershire. The lack isn't enough to deter me from eating turkey burgers, but there's always been the nagging feeling that they could be better. (And that they don't taste as good as beef.)
No more. I've figured it out. The secret ingredient is cumin, the spice that reminds many of a hippie pad because of the slight tinge of, I hate to say this, but it's true -- body odor. Never mind that. A generous sprinkle into the raw meat, along with your other favorite flavorings, and the turkey loses its turkeyness. (And used in a poultice, it relieves swelling of the breasts and testicles, according to this site.)
I wonder if the chemistry of cumin is related to beef or perhaps more deeply related to umami than other spices. A cursory search on cumin and glutamates and umami doesn't reveal anything solid. Maybe it's just that the redolence of cumin reminds me, Proustianly, of childhood ground-beef taco nights. Feel free to add to this nascent body of research...
By the way, here's another take on the Bistro Hugo "Yuck?" concept: TGRWT, ie, "They go really well together."
5/27/08
Guest Star Turn, or El Pollo Loco
[Allow me to introduce my cool-headed and epicurean colleague, Michelle Coffey, with a recipe. -A]
Blood(less) Orange Chicken
I like cooking with blood oranges, but I've had enough accidents involving my finger and a slicer to make me disproportionately squeamish at the sight of the peeled and sectioned fruit. For this chicken masterpiece, I have a smart workaround that involves freshly squeezed orange juice (a la carton!).
So, Sunday is my trash-bag day, the day I rip apart the fridge and dispose of gamy meat, rotting fruit, brown greens, mayonnaise and salad dressing that was best in '05, etc. This otherwise peaceful weekend day makes Mr. Coffey very, very nervous as I have been known to barbarically and cold-heartedly toss out his jar of (debatably) empty salsa, his tiny army of expired low-fat yogurt cups and most recently, his skunky band of decomposing shrimp that I argue were no longer edible.
Sunday is also the day I find things that are edible but likely will not survive another day, and I pool everything together into something that passes as delicious. This week's findings: a white onion on the brink of green, garlic that is sprouting a green shoot, leftover lemons and Mr. Coffey's martini olives. United as one is a pleasant blend of sour and sweet, though a sloppy mixture that is not on the photogenic side, so maybe best on a night you are not aiming to impress.
4 chicken thighs with bone in, skin on
2 teaspoons olive oil
3 large garlic cloves, minced
1 white onion, sliced
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1 cup orange juice
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1/3 cup pitted green olives, chopped
Side note: Mr. Coffey likes his green olives in his vodka martini, but not in his chicken, so eliminate if you feel the same.
Preparation: Season chicken with salt and pepper. In a skillet over medium-high heat, brown chicken, then remove from skillet. Pour out all but one tablespoon of fat. Reduce heat to moderate. Add garlic, onion to the skillet. Cook until golden. Stir in cumin, orange juice, lemon juice and salt and pepper. Add chicken. Add olives (or not). Simmer for 25 minutes.
Blood(less) Orange Chicken
I like cooking with blood oranges, but I've had enough accidents involving my finger and a slicer to make me disproportionately squeamish at the sight of the peeled and sectioned fruit. For this chicken masterpiece, I have a smart workaround that involves freshly squeezed orange juice (a la carton!).
So, Sunday is my trash-bag day, the day I rip apart the fridge and dispose of gamy meat, rotting fruit, brown greens, mayonnaise and salad dressing that was best in '05, etc. This otherwise peaceful weekend day makes Mr. Coffey very, very nervous as I have been known to barbarically and cold-heartedly toss out his jar of (debatably) empty salsa, his tiny army of expired low-fat yogurt cups and most recently, his skunky band of decomposing shrimp that I argue were no longer edible.
Sunday is also the day I find things that are edible but likely will not survive another day, and I pool everything together into something that passes as delicious. This week's findings: a white onion on the brink of green, garlic that is sprouting a green shoot, leftover lemons and Mr. Coffey's martini olives. United as one is a pleasant blend of sour and sweet, though a sloppy mixture that is not on the photogenic side, so maybe best on a night you are not aiming to impress.
4 chicken thighs with bone in, skin on
2 teaspoons olive oil
3 large garlic cloves, minced
1 white onion, sliced
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1 cup orange juice
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1/3 cup pitted green olives, chopped
Side note: Mr. Coffey likes his green olives in his vodka martini, but not in his chicken, so eliminate if you feel the same.
Preparation: Season chicken with salt and pepper. In a skillet over medium-high heat, brown chicken, then remove from skillet. Pour out all but one tablespoon of fat. Reduce heat to moderate. Add garlic, onion to the skillet. Cook until golden. Stir in cumin, orange juice, lemon juice and salt and pepper. Add chicken. Add olives (or not). Simmer for 25 minutes.
The Simple Pleasure of Lunch at Home
* turkey and goat gouda sandwich, melted, on lightly toasted wheat sourdough
* cold soba with sliced cucumber, feta and rice vinegar
* a chilled, crisp grannysmith apple
* a half cup of reheated coffee
* cold soba with sliced cucumber, feta and rice vinegar
* a chilled, crisp grannysmith apple
* a half cup of reheated coffee
5/19/08
Greek to Me
Fleeing the fog and the Bay to Breakers mess (a disaster for the city environmentally and possibly lethal to anyone in alcoholic recovery), K and I headed to the South Bay to dip in a pool. Wading in the 80-plus degree heat, no clouds in the sky, Kristen tells me she wants some Greek food. I love it when she says "I want some Greek food."
Right before six we walk right in to Evvia, which I now realize is the Palo Alto sister to the a-little-stuffy Kokkari here in the city. No way I'd ever have wandered to the Jackson Square place in a shlightly shweaty T-shirt and faded black jeans, but by tucking it in I was making a gesture toward being presentable in Nerdsville. The hostess didn't even blink and sat us down straight away.
Quickly, the starters: lentil soup for the lady, grilled octopus with roasted red peppers and olives in a frisee salad for me. Fabulous, and a nice pairing to a dry glass of Santorini white. The main courses did not falter: souvlaki for K, and a grilled branzino with lemon, olive oil and braised greens for A -- A for Atkins.
The fish was perfectly cooked and delicious; never mind the bones when it's this good. But what are the greens, I asked, chard? No, said the Latino busser, es horta. What's horta? Well, the waiter elaborated, it's a spinach-like Mediterranean green that's grown on spec for the restaurant in Watsonville. Hot damn!
For dessert, we had the baklava, and this time it was done right.
Evvia and Kokkari ain't cheap, as everybody knows (about $50 a person), but the room is convivial, service is excellent and the kitchen knows what it serves and why. An excellent ending to a Sunday in the sun.
Right before six we walk right in to Evvia, which I now realize is the Palo Alto sister to the a-little-stuffy Kokkari here in the city. No way I'd ever have wandered to the Jackson Square place in a shlightly shweaty T-shirt and faded black jeans, but by tucking it in I was making a gesture toward being presentable in Nerdsville. The hostess didn't even blink and sat us down straight away.
Quickly, the starters: lentil soup for the lady, grilled octopus with roasted red peppers and olives in a frisee salad for me. Fabulous, and a nice pairing to a dry glass of Santorini white. The main courses did not falter: souvlaki for K, and a grilled branzino with lemon, olive oil and braised greens for A -- A for Atkins.
The fish was perfectly cooked and delicious; never mind the bones when it's this good. But what are the greens, I asked, chard? No, said the Latino busser, es horta. What's horta? Well, the waiter elaborated, it's a spinach-like Mediterranean green that's grown on spec for the restaurant in Watsonville. Hot damn!
For dessert, we had the baklava, and this time it was done right.
Evvia and Kokkari ain't cheap, as everybody knows (about $50 a person), but the room is convivial, service is excellent and the kitchen knows what it serves and why. An excellent ending to a Sunday in the sun.
5/12/08
Sol Food: Update
It's been about six months since we hit Sol Food in San Rafael, and quickly let me report that the music's still loud, the beans are the bomb, the plantains flash-fried and the letter from Angelo about the color scheme remains in its place on the menu box outside. It's not like no one sees it; queues still stretch out the door.
So it raises an interesting question: Who woulda thought that there would be enough of a market in Marin, of all places, for P-Rican bistec, pork, chicken and plantains? I don't believe it's simply the reasonable prices; San Rafaelers can spend more. (There also are no liquor sales, not even beer and wine, one of the solid profit centers of any eatery.) It must be the casual and welcoming environment -- you come in and order at counter and food comes and then you eat. You can bring kids and take half of your plate home. No big fuss, and that's refreshing.
So it raises an interesting question: Who woulda thought that there would be enough of a market in Marin, of all places, for P-Rican bistec, pork, chicken and plantains? I don't believe it's simply the reasonable prices; San Rafaelers can spend more. (There also are no liquor sales, not even beer and wine, one of the solid profit centers of any eatery.) It must be the casual and welcoming environment -- you come in and order at counter and food comes and then you eat. You can bring kids and take half of your plate home. No big fuss, and that's refreshing.
5/1/08
Post-production pick-me-up
El Jomo and I went down to Mountain View for an afternoon shoot and then shot back to the city to go over the video. The work session quickly adjourned to Perbacco, where we got to sample of couple of newish things. (So old-fashioned.)
First there was the roasted red and gold beets with arugula and Castelmagno cheese, and then came the seared squid with bean puree and lemon. (Tasted like Meyer lemon, but the online menu says preserved lemon.) Damn if they weren't dynamite. The highlight involved the bartender Scott, of course, and his improvised set of connected straws for Jomo to slurp some of my Ligurian white.
First there was the roasted red and gold beets with arugula and Castelmagno cheese, and then came the seared squid with bean puree and lemon. (Tasted like Meyer lemon, but the online menu says preserved lemon.) Damn if they weren't dynamite. The highlight involved the bartender Scott, of course, and his improvised set of connected straws for Jomo to slurp some of my Ligurian white.
4/30/08
Laz & Lash: Satiating South of Market
-----Original Message-----
From: Laz
Sent: Wednesday, April 30, 2008 12:05 AM
To: Lash
Subject: South Park Cafe
For the second or maybe third time in memory, El Lefty again graciously invited your blogger, El Gran Laz, to the House of Mays (now sans Bonds, and depending on the rotation, no Blowout Zito), and after the requisite rendezvous at Perbacco we were perched at the counter of South Park Cafe for another excellent series of degustations -- and so influential was this last seating that I brought the wife back the very next night to sample the plates.
Now I'm struck with this idea that chef Ward Little at South Park has been doing his thing for some time now; I remember first seeing it 10 years ago, after the neighborhood was well on its way to transformation. (Apparently the area used to be a good place to ditch a stolen car or score some dope.) But like good sex with your steady, something about dining there seems invigorating every time. What and how is this? Lash and I will pass some comments by email, which I'll pop up here.
Let me start with some general thoughts: First, the scale of South Park Cafe may very well be perfect. With 10 to 15 tables, the staff doesn't have to travel very far to make their rounds. You're just as comfy at the counter or on the banquette. The lights hang from the ceiling, but not too low yet not too high. As for the back of the house, there seems to be enough room around the stove and grill for a couple of cooks, although I haven't seen what's called the cold station, much less the prep.
Second, don't mess with the best. If you can sell a top-notch steak and frites, the freshest salads with select bits of pig and dynamite desserts along with an eclectic set of wines and other beverages in a laid-back room, why gussy up with gimmicks and attitude? Your regulars probably keep coming because there's a dearth, to be blunt, of the bullshit they deal with elsewhere.
Last point: Maybe it's the bits of pig. The appetizing terrine (which sounds delicious even if you don't remember what it is, like profiterole) had some, as did the lentils and cabbage in my roast duck entree.
ELM, how does this sit with you?
Original Message:
-----------------
From: Lash
Sent: Wed, 30 Apr 2008 15:21:30
To: Laz
The South Park always sits well with me. I'm there several times a year during baseball season. Sitting at the bar for a martini, a glass of red and a light shared dinner is my favorite pregame ritual, and I've never had a bad meal. Never. I don't think I've ever had a bad dish, not even one that was well intentioned but went wrong.
Think about that. How is it possible to get it right, every single time? Am I just extraordinarily lucky? Perhaps, but the old saw about making your own luck holds sway here. You've hit upon some of the reasons: the room, its scale and its warm lack of pretension set the mood; one tends to be more forgiving when completely in one's element. (Though I've never had to be forgiving.)
The menu is rock-solid and simple, although many of the dishes are deceptively simple. Take the red-rice salad we ordered: rice and grilled vegetables. How often do you spend $16 or whatever it was on a large ramekin-sized mound of rice and a modest helping of grilled veggies, wipe the plate clean and feel like an honored guest? Ward's trick with the rice: just enough ground coriander seed.
Side note: Have you ever bitten into a coriander seed? It's overwhelming and nauseating. It's not just spice; it's a glimpse into the pure essence of spice, and it's far too much for a human being to handle. To bring that down to acceptable levels yet keep it so obviously, strongly coriander, is a magician's trick, in my book.
What did you have when you returned with your Lovely and Talented?
From: Laz
Sent: Wednesday, April 30, 2008 12:05 AM
To: Lash
Subject: South Park Cafe
For the second or maybe third time in memory, El Lefty again graciously invited your blogger, El Gran Laz, to the House of Mays (now sans Bonds, and depending on the rotation, no Blowout Zito), and after the requisite rendezvous at Perbacco we were perched at the counter of South Park Cafe for another excellent series of degustations -- and so influential was this last seating that I brought the wife back the very next night to sample the plates.
Now I'm struck with this idea that chef Ward Little at South Park has been doing his thing for some time now; I remember first seeing it 10 years ago, after the neighborhood was well on its way to transformation. (Apparently the area used to be a good place to ditch a stolen car or score some dope.) But like good sex with your steady, something about dining there seems invigorating every time. What and how is this? Lash and I will pass some comments by email, which I'll pop up here.
Let me start with some general thoughts: First, the scale of South Park Cafe may very well be perfect. With 10 to 15 tables, the staff doesn't have to travel very far to make their rounds. You're just as comfy at the counter or on the banquette. The lights hang from the ceiling, but not too low yet not too high. As for the back of the house, there seems to be enough room around the stove and grill for a couple of cooks, although I haven't seen what's called the cold station, much less the prep.
Second, don't mess with the best. If you can sell a top-notch steak and frites, the freshest salads with select bits of pig and dynamite desserts along with an eclectic set of wines and other beverages in a laid-back room, why gussy up with gimmicks and attitude? Your regulars probably keep coming because there's a dearth, to be blunt, of the bullshit they deal with elsewhere.
Last point: Maybe it's the bits of pig. The appetizing terrine (which sounds delicious even if you don't remember what it is, like profiterole) had some, as did the lentils and cabbage in my roast duck entree.
ELM, how does this sit with you?
Original Message:
-----------------
From: Lash
Sent: Wed, 30 Apr 2008 15:21:30
To: Laz
The South Park always sits well with me. I'm there several times a year during baseball season. Sitting at the bar for a martini, a glass of red and a light shared dinner is my favorite pregame ritual, and I've never had a bad meal. Never. I don't think I've ever had a bad dish, not even one that was well intentioned but went wrong.
Think about that. How is it possible to get it right, every single time? Am I just extraordinarily lucky? Perhaps, but the old saw about making your own luck holds sway here. You've hit upon some of the reasons: the room, its scale and its warm lack of pretension set the mood; one tends to be more forgiving when completely in one's element. (Though I've never had to be forgiving.)
The menu is rock-solid and simple, although many of the dishes are deceptively simple. Take the red-rice salad we ordered: rice and grilled vegetables. How often do you spend $16 or whatever it was on a large ramekin-sized mound of rice and a modest helping of grilled veggies, wipe the plate clean and feel like an honored guest? Ward's trick with the rice: just enough ground coriander seed.
Side note: Have you ever bitten into a coriander seed? It's overwhelming and nauseating. It's not just spice; it's a glimpse into the pure essence of spice, and it's far too much for a human being to handle. To bring that down to acceptable levels yet keep it so obviously, strongly coriander, is a magician's trick, in my book.
What did you have when you returned with your Lovely and Talented?
4/6/08
Where's the Geek Love?
I’m coming to this whole subject quite late, but that’s what happens when you work Sundays and have a chance to catch up. (Credit goes to Valleywag.)
Apparently, a lot of geeks have noticed that coffeehouses have started bitching about overhead like wages and rent. The coffee people have added it all up in Excel or even Google Docs, imagine, to figure out they need to make $100 an hour in sales so people can do their Bedouin thing on somebody else’s couch and connection instead of a cubicle.
I love this: "Coffee? Commodity retail has such low margins! Get a business plan and sell something else. Like private space so we can take a meeting."
Apparently, a lot of geeks have noticed that coffeehouses have started bitching about overhead like wages and rent. The coffee people have added it all up in Excel or even Google Docs, imagine, to figure out they need to make $100 an hour in sales so people can do their Bedouin thing on somebody else’s couch and connection instead of a cubicle.
I love this: "Coffee? Commodity retail has such low margins! Get a business plan and sell something else. Like private space so we can take a meeting."
3/26/08
Greens Party
I love ordering beets and turnips from the box, not just because the root veg goes great cut into chunks, brushed with olive oil, salt, pepper and a bit of cider vinegar, then roasted for 30 minutes; but also because they arrive with their greens attached. Here's what we did with a whole mess of turnip greens tonight.
3/24/08
Looking in on Water Bar
I'm waiting for my subprime portfolio to re-adjust before I open my wallet at the new outrageously priced Waterbar. Let's hope you pay for more than just the view when you spend $29 for their "version of fish and chips" -- their words, not mine. The view is spectacular, as shown in this promo photo from their Web site.
Here's the view from the outside in, snapped on a recent stroll up the Embarcadero.
Here's the view from the outside in, snapped on a recent stroll up the Embarcadero.
Yuck? The Okratini
Sophisticates put all manner of pickled things in their gin; why not Texas-style brined okra? It didn't quite have the toothsomeness of an olive or the crunch of a pearl onion, but lo, it wasn't bad. Behold.
3/22/08
Pasta for Lunch, Atkins for Dinner
After making more than enough gemelli for a nice couple of lunches, it was time to cut the carbs. Good thing the city still has outstanding, reasonably priced eateries to go along with those fortunate to have no-questions-asked expense accounts. (Thanks go to the gang of Jomo, and also to The Prisoner.)
With folks in tow, it was time to make another restaurant selection and reservation, and given that their palates lean mostly Italian, it was time to visit Jackson Fillmore Trattoria again. I ate there once, ages ago, and remembered it as a good place to take parents. I actually made this patronizing observation to my old man at another local Italian place, and he took more than slight offense, especially since he was paying. But not only is he over it now, he's also onto something about how unique places like Jackson Fillmore are in San Francisco.
Jackson Fillmore's unique because it's near the corner of Jackson and Fillmore in a somewhat nondescript storefront, yes, and because the food is drop-dead dynamite at a midrange price. All of our entrees were less than $20 and most of the starters peaked at less than half that and everybody got knocked out. Chicken king Phil (the dad) had half a roast bird in what was described as a Sicilian style, and it was no ordinary poulet roti -- this was moist and succulent even in the breast. My big score was getting the pan-fried pork chops with fried herbs, served on greens. Great texture with pork and the herbs, and no starch!
As good as our main courses were, we couldn't stop talking about the starter the waiter recommended, carpaccio di zucchini, julienned zuch with pecorino and toasted almonds. Nobody ever had anything like it and probably won't find it anywhere else. Our guy also tipped me to a fine glass of tempranillo. We hope to be back soon, while it's still catering to schnooks and their parents.
With folks in tow, it was time to make another restaurant selection and reservation, and given that their palates lean mostly Italian, it was time to visit Jackson Fillmore Trattoria again. I ate there once, ages ago, and remembered it as a good place to take parents. I actually made this patronizing observation to my old man at another local Italian place, and he took more than slight offense, especially since he was paying. But not only is he over it now, he's also onto something about how unique places like Jackson Fillmore are in San Francisco.
Jackson Fillmore's unique because it's near the corner of Jackson and Fillmore in a somewhat nondescript storefront, yes, and because the food is drop-dead dynamite at a midrange price. All of our entrees were less than $20 and most of the starters peaked at less than half that and everybody got knocked out. Chicken king Phil (the dad) had half a roast bird in what was described as a Sicilian style, and it was no ordinary poulet roti -- this was moist and succulent even in the breast. My big score was getting the pan-fried pork chops with fried herbs, served on greens. Great texture with pork and the herbs, and no starch!
As good as our main courses were, we couldn't stop talking about the starter the waiter recommended, carpaccio di zucchini, julienned zuch with pecorino and toasted almonds. Nobody ever had anything like it and probably won't find it anywhere else. Our guy also tipped me to a fine glass of tempranillo. We hope to be back soon, while it's still catering to schnooks and their parents.
3/19/08
Recipe: Seek and Ye Shall Find Pasta
The beauty of home cooking is the improvisation. Take white mushrooms on the edge of freshness + dried mushrooms well soaked + leftover broccoli + red onion and ... I get my umami on.
Round strip of pancetta, chopped
Half a red onion, sliced
Shallot and couple cloves of garlic, chopped
Handful of dried mushrooms, prepped (see below)
Handful of fresh mushrooms, sliced
Tomato, chopped
Steamed broccoli spears
Half a jar of TJ's marinara
Half a bag of gemelli
The dried-mushroom thing sounds like a pain in the ass, but the payoff is lots of delicious broth. Put some dried fungus in a bowl and then cover them with boiling water from the tea kettle to reconstitute. In about 20-30 minutes, you want to strain this using a cheesecloth or paper towel, saving all the liquid in another bowl for later. In between jobs, there's prep.
In a large sauté pan with hot olive oil, brown the pancetta a bit. Then add the onion and shallot and soften them up. Throw in the formerly dried mushrooms as well as the fresh ones, and season with some herbs and salt and pepper. Once those cook down a bit, add the tomato, and a little later toss in garlic. Then you're ready for the sauce. To really clean out the jar, use the mushroom broth; cap and shake, and pour in. Lower the heat. Once it's reduced, add the broccoli to bring the florets to temperature.
Cook your pasta till al dente; this doesn't take too long. Strain and finish cooking it in the sauté pan with the sauce. Stir well with some fresh or frozen basil, if you have it. Plate onto a warm pasta bowl; top with fresh grated Parmesan and red-pepper flakes. Pay yourself $14.95 + tax and tip.
Round strip of pancetta, chopped
Half a red onion, sliced
Shallot and couple cloves of garlic, chopped
Handful of dried mushrooms, prepped (see below)
Handful of fresh mushrooms, sliced
Tomato, chopped
Steamed broccoli spears
Half a jar of TJ's marinara
Half a bag of gemelli
The dried-mushroom thing sounds like a pain in the ass, but the payoff is lots of delicious broth. Put some dried fungus in a bowl and then cover them with boiling water from the tea kettle to reconstitute. In about 20-30 minutes, you want to strain this using a cheesecloth or paper towel, saving all the liquid in another bowl for later. In between jobs, there's prep.
In a large sauté pan with hot olive oil, brown the pancetta a bit. Then add the onion and shallot and soften them up. Throw in the formerly dried mushrooms as well as the fresh ones, and season with some herbs and salt and pepper. Once those cook down a bit, add the tomato, and a little later toss in garlic. Then you're ready for the sauce. To really clean out the jar, use the mushroom broth; cap and shake, and pour in. Lower the heat. Once it's reduced, add the broccoli to bring the florets to temperature.
Cook your pasta till al dente; this doesn't take too long. Strain and finish cooking it in the sauté pan with the sauce. Stir well with some fresh or frozen basil, if you have it. Plate onto a warm pasta bowl; top with fresh grated Parmesan and red-pepper flakes. Pay yourself $14.95 + tax and tip.
3/11/08
Use the Body, Now You Want My Soul
By popular request I am putting a thought together on body sushi, which appears to be the latest fad in theme dining.
(The theme of themes is in and of itself one of my least favorite things with food, but then again I’m pretty religious in my idealization of the whole process. To wit: Chicken is best eaten with your hands. When approaching pho, take the soup spoon in the left and grip the chopsticks with the right, or vice versa. The grand, non-negotiable order of the universe should be Champagne and shellfish first, then a Caesar and then your main course. Butcher-block paper on the tabletop is to be kept smooth, not curled up by arms and elbows, with doodling welcome. Most people do without the parenthetical graf and just say this is anal. Fine.)
I sent the story to the attention of the main Lefty Bistroan because I wondered whether people were so understimulated that they have to eat off naked people to get excited about something, or whether the guys on the business side were looking for a quick way to rack up the tabs. Then as I was gorging on Spitzer stories, the answer appeared in the aptly titled Wealth Report column of the Wall Street Journal. Here’s why the megawealthy want high-class hookers:
> The most popular reason was “unique experiences” (71%), followed by “higher-quality experiences” (57%). Conventional wisdom says that the rich visit escorts to avoid messy breakups or extra demands for cash. But the study shows otherwise: “No strings attached” ranked last as a reason.
As they say in the service industry, enjoy.
(The theme of themes is in and of itself one of my least favorite things with food, but then again I’m pretty religious in my idealization of the whole process. To wit: Chicken is best eaten with your hands. When approaching pho, take the soup spoon in the left and grip the chopsticks with the right, or vice versa. The grand, non-negotiable order of the universe should be Champagne and shellfish first, then a Caesar and then your main course. Butcher-block paper on the tabletop is to be kept smooth, not curled up by arms and elbows, with doodling welcome. Most people do without the parenthetical graf and just say this is anal. Fine.)
I sent the story to the attention of the main Lefty Bistroan because I wondered whether people were so understimulated that they have to eat off naked people to get excited about something, or whether the guys on the business side were looking for a quick way to rack up the tabs. Then as I was gorging on Spitzer stories, the answer appeared in the aptly titled Wealth Report column of the Wall Street Journal. Here’s why the megawealthy want high-class hookers:
> The most popular reason was “unique experiences” (71%), followed by “higher-quality experiences” (57%). Conventional wisdom says that the rich visit escorts to avoid messy breakups or extra demands for cash. But the study shows otherwise: “No strings attached” ranked last as a reason.
As they say in the service industry, enjoy.
2/27/08
TJ's New Product Roundup
The past few months we've road-tested a few new products (or new to us) from Trader Joe's. A quick review:
* White bean hummus: It's a nice break from regular hummus, which is always in the Bistro fridge. But it comes topped with a cloying layer of olive oil and sun--dried tomatoes that's hard to avoid. Grade: C+
* Cherry-granola cookies: I used to be indifferent about dessert. Sure, a bite of ice cream or a biscotto would be nice, I would say, but do I need it? Nah. Until now. The cherry-granola cookies are crunchy and moist at the same time, an addictive balance of rich molasses and tart cherry chunks. Grade: A
* No-boil lasagna noodles: Finally. TJ's always carried other fresh pasta options, why not lasagna? Grade: B
* Fage Greek-style yogurt: Thick and creamy, just like I remember eating at a beachfront cafe on Santorini after sleeping all night on the beach. (Those were the days.) One slight difference: the lady of the Bistro demands no-fat, so we get the no-fat. Not nearly as rich, but the texture is about the same. Grade: B+
* White bean hummus: It's a nice break from regular hummus, which is always in the Bistro fridge. But it comes topped with a cloying layer of olive oil and sun--dried tomatoes that's hard to avoid. Grade: C+
* Cherry-granola cookies: I used to be indifferent about dessert. Sure, a bite of ice cream or a biscotto would be nice, I would say, but do I need it? Nah. Until now. The cherry-granola cookies are crunchy and moist at the same time, an addictive balance of rich molasses and tart cherry chunks. Grade: A
* No-boil lasagna noodles: Finally. TJ's always carried other fresh pasta options, why not lasagna? Grade: B
* Fage Greek-style yogurt: Thick and creamy, just like I remember eating at a beachfront cafe on Santorini after sleeping all night on the beach. (Those were the days.) One slight difference: the lady of the Bistro demands no-fat, so we get the no-fat. Not nearly as rich, but the texture is about the same. Grade: B+
2/26/08
The Audi Sportscar Food Experience
What do adrenaline-addled guys do after gunning 420-horsepower, all-wheel drive V-8 sport sedans around a Nascar track for three hours in the rain? Stop for lunch, of course.
Audi did it right: spice-crusted pork loin sliced to order, lightly roasted winter veggies like zucchini, eggplant, squash and red onion, baby greens with goat cheese, a little mashed potatoes -- nothing too heavy. We were all wide-eyed and wired from skidding around the turns and keeping up with the instructors in the lead car, so the five of us sat at a too-small table and shot the shit, taking breaks to eat. Dessert nibbles were mini chocolate-chip cookies and three kinds of brownie bites: coconut macaroon, white-chocolate frosting and double-decadent chocolate. A bit of kicking back with bottled water, and then back into the cars.
Buy me a drink and set the timer on, and I'll blab about this as much as you'll tolerate. Let me just say that if you look at the track graphic and check out turn 6, it's a bend that winds down seven stories, and the car can hug that like it's on rails. (9a is a chicane. Special transit-geek points if you know what that is.) The best feeling is when you pull off the track and Nico the born-in-France, raised-in-Brazil professional driver comes over and says you're up to speed.
Audi did it right: spice-crusted pork loin sliced to order, lightly roasted winter veggies like zucchini, eggplant, squash and red onion, baby greens with goat cheese, a little mashed potatoes -- nothing too heavy. We were all wide-eyed and wired from skidding around the turns and keeping up with the instructors in the lead car, so the five of us sat at a too-small table and shot the shit, taking breaks to eat. Dessert nibbles were mini chocolate-chip cookies and three kinds of brownie bites: coconut macaroon, white-chocolate frosting and double-decadent chocolate. A bit of kicking back with bottled water, and then back into the cars.Buy me a drink and set the timer on, and I'll blab about this as much as you'll tolerate. Let me just say that if you look at the track graphic and check out turn 6, it's a bend that winds down seven stories, and the car can hug that like it's on rails. (9a is a chicane. Special transit-geek points if you know what that is.) The best feeling is when you pull off the track and Nico the born-in-France, raised-in-Brazil professional driver comes over and says you're up to speed.
2/23/08
"Item! Been to 21 and Le Cirque?"
The Jackie Harveyish headline above is funny, because ... because I think it is, anyway. Raymond Sokolov's latest column in the Wall Street Journal, "Bay Watch," isn't funny, and not just because I think it isn't, but because it's plain crap writing that should have been spiked, yesterday or in 1998 or whenever.
Sokolov -- oops, sorry, he says "We" -- "didn't expect to be wowed at Aqua [...] where we had an acceptable lunch a few years back and remember it only as less boring than our dining companions." (Maybe one companion resisted the urge to say "Waiter? Bring me the lobster bisque so I can pour it down this guy's pants." "We'll" never know.) Then there's blah blah blah about venerable Aqua chef's "cutting-edge mix of militantly San Francisco foods," foie gras, abalone, pork belly, chanterelles, this and that. It's like dashing through Whole Foods! Maybe the Journal should send a reporter out shopping.
Skipping his bit about Ame, "an experiment in japonaiserie," the piece jumps to that hot new place, have you heard of it? Boulevard's emphasis is on "local ingredients and basic techniques with a twist." It's a very short graf, even with the deconstruction of the suckling pig from Manteca.
The East Bay vs. West Bay premise is tired and dorky, the "survival guide" approach is spurious except for those on expense accounts and the Wall Street Journal reveals itself, again, to be completely out of its element on this kind of coverage. Next time just call it Frisco so the rest of us can skip and enjoy Perbacco in peace.
Sokolov -- oops, sorry, he says "We" -- "didn't expect to be wowed at Aqua [...] where we had an acceptable lunch a few years back and remember it only as less boring than our dining companions." (Maybe one companion resisted the urge to say "Waiter? Bring me the lobster bisque so I can pour it down this guy's pants." "We'll" never know.) Then there's blah blah blah about venerable Aqua chef's "cutting-edge mix of militantly San Francisco foods," foie gras, abalone, pork belly, chanterelles, this and that. It's like dashing through Whole Foods! Maybe the Journal should send a reporter out shopping.
Skipping his bit about Ame, "an experiment in japonaiserie," the piece jumps to that hot new place, have you heard of it? Boulevard's emphasis is on "local ingredients and basic techniques with a twist." It's a very short graf, even with the deconstruction of the suckling pig from Manteca.
The East Bay vs. West Bay premise is tired and dorky, the "survival guide" approach is spurious except for those on expense accounts and the Wall Street Journal reveals itself, again, to be completely out of its element on this kind of coverage. Next time just call it Frisco so the rest of us can skip and enjoy Perbacco in peace.
2/22/08
You Call it Heparin, I Call it Sausage
The tainted heparin (blood-thinner) from pharma company Baxter has everyone in a tizzy. The WSJ sent a reporter to a heparin-extraction plant in China. Source material: pig intestines. And as one photo caption in this series explains, what doesn't turn into heparin is saved for sausage casings.
The captions say the stuff coming out of the intestines is "pulp." Is that a typo? Shouldn't it be "poop"?
2/20/08
Recipe: Italian Egg Rolls
This is adapted from, um, Dom DeLuise:
Slice up a couple of eggplants, lengthwise, into thin slices, no more than 1/4 inch thick. (Save the odds and ends. See below.) Put them down on cutting boards or something and sweat them out with salt for about 10 minutes. In the meantime, prep your station: Beat a couple of eggs, and get your bread crumbs on a plate. Grease a couple of cookie sheets. Preheat the oven to 350.
Dab the moisture off the eggplants with a paper towel, and then take the slices one by one and dredge them in egg and then in bread crumbs and lay them on the cookie sheets. Once they're all done, pop them in the oven for 15 minutes so they get tender.
Take what's left of your setup and bread the odds and ends; you'll fry these as a appetizer for later or save them for sandwiches.
Mix 15 ounces or so of ricotta in a bowl with some fresh-cut parsley. I also added a chopped garlic clove and cracked in some fresh pepper. Slice up a half-pound ball of mozzarella, again in thin slices. I used fresh mozz, since that's what they had at 22nd and Irving.
Now that you've gone through the prep, you're ready to assemble. Put a bit of cheese on a slice of baked eggplant, and top with a spoonful of ricotta. Roll it up and place it seam side down in a baking pan. When you've got them all rolled up and nestled, ladle some marinara sauce on top. (You have some of that marinara you made last time, don't you?) Grate a little Parmesan or whatnot on top and pop the pan or pans back in the hot oven for 30 minutes.
At the end of the evening, you won't exactly look like Dom, but you'll be well sated so you can do all the dishes.
Slice up a couple of eggplants, lengthwise, into thin slices, no more than 1/4 inch thick. (Save the odds and ends. See below.) Put them down on cutting boards or something and sweat them out with salt for about 10 minutes. In the meantime, prep your station: Beat a couple of eggs, and get your bread crumbs on a plate. Grease a couple of cookie sheets. Preheat the oven to 350.
Dab the moisture off the eggplants with a paper towel, and then take the slices one by one and dredge them in egg and then in bread crumbs and lay them on the cookie sheets. Once they're all done, pop them in the oven for 15 minutes so they get tender.
Take what's left of your setup and bread the odds and ends; you'll fry these as a appetizer for later or save them for sandwiches.Mix 15 ounces or so of ricotta in a bowl with some fresh-cut parsley. I also added a chopped garlic clove and cracked in some fresh pepper. Slice up a half-pound ball of mozzarella, again in thin slices. I used fresh mozz, since that's what they had at 22nd and Irving.
Now that you've gone through the prep, you're ready to assemble. Put a bit of cheese on a slice of baked eggplant, and top with a spoonful of ricotta. Roll it up and place it seam side down in a baking pan. When you've got them all rolled up and nestled, ladle some marinara sauce on top. (You have some of that marinara you made last time, don't you?) Grate a little Parmesan or whatnot on top and pop the pan or pans back in the hot oven for 30 minutes.
At the end of the evening, you won't exactly look like Dom, but you'll be well sated so you can do all the dishes.
2/13/08
Do Everyone a Favor, Dude: Dine Alone
> Jennifer Esposito, 28, an image consultant who lives in Rye Brook, N.Y., lived for four years with a man who ate only pizza, noodles with butter and the occasional baked potato.
Either give this woman a medal, or take away her meds.
Either give this woman a medal, or take away her meds.
2/5/08
Postcard from the Edge of a Waffle Breakfast
From Bistro friend Paul Festa's Southern film-screening tour:
Click here to read the whole post, complete with sly Louis Prima reference.
Breakfast was at the Waffle House. The signage was so getto [sic!] that I was sure I had chosen a local favorite, but I wasn’t ten minutes in my cream-colored PT Cruiser (the gayest car in South Carolina and George combined!) when I saw another, and then another, and soon I realized that I had breakfasted at the iHOP of the south.
Click here to read the whole post, complete with sly Louis Prima reference.
2/4/08
Pizza Photo of the Week
You asked for it, you got it: pesto sausage, crimini mushrooms, and the United States of arugula.
Yuck? Pickles and Kool-Aid
This is less a "Yuck?" and more of a "Yuck!", combined with a sober acknowledgment that our little United States of Arugula isn't feeding the souls or any other part of the underclass. In places like the Sunnydale projects, people have trouble finding a market with fresh produce -- if they can get out of the apartment at all, as a story in today's Chron relates.
The finished products are placed on the table next to a tub of licorice and a jar of pickles soaking in Kool-Aid, another popular snack in Sunnydale's underground stores. As if he heard the oven buzzer, a young boy stops in and asks Sandy if she made cupcakes yet. He gives her 50 cents and she drops it into a black ceramic jar on her kitchen counter.
2/2/08
Review: Salt House/SF/USA
My current read is David Kamp's "The United States of Arugula," which is broadly about the emergence of our national cuisine due to the vim and vigor of the Great Gourmets (Beard, Claiborne, Child, et al.) and grand capitalism trailing gustatory trends. "So, you want baby greens? You want Scharffen Berger? You can have it all."
Where a place like, say, Zuni has been pointing this way all along, a place like Salt House in the financial district, I'd say, no longer has to genuflect toward France or Italy. We've come a long way, baby, and Rupert's paying.
With shellfish so fresh and rabbit so tender and a wine list so versatile, the Old World never really goes away, but it's like a culinary Obama moment, where the California or continental cuisines are day-old definitions. Striped bass with red cabbage and chorizo? Fine. Parsnip soup? It's wintertime. Fulton Valley chicken and fingerlings? You're welcome.
Great lighting, warm furniture to offset the cool-glass picture windows, attentive and informed service, a little loud but a lot of fun. Perfect portions. Homemade cookies.
Now going for two years, you've got to hand it to the management -- not just for keeping the expense-account crowds coming, but for finding the foodie sweet spot and serving it up. If the Fanch is reading, maybe she can talk about the partners running this show (along with Town Hall). They've got it dialed in.
Where a place like, say, Zuni has been pointing this way all along, a place like Salt House in the financial district, I'd say, no longer has to genuflect toward France or Italy. We've come a long way, baby, and Rupert's paying.
With shellfish so fresh and rabbit so tender and a wine list so versatile, the Old World never really goes away, but it's like a culinary Obama moment, where the California or continental cuisines are day-old definitions. Striped bass with red cabbage and chorizo? Fine. Parsnip soup? It's wintertime. Fulton Valley chicken and fingerlings? You're welcome.
Great lighting, warm furniture to offset the cool-glass picture windows, attentive and informed service, a little loud but a lot of fun. Perfect portions. Homemade cookies.
Now going for two years, you've got to hand it to the management -- not just for keeping the expense-account crowds coming, but for finding the foodie sweet spot and serving it up. If the Fanch is reading, maybe she can talk about the partners running this show (along with Town Hall). They've got it dialed in.
1/30/08
Stack 'Em High
This goes against everything I went over in the last post, and maybe the last couple of posts. But I would be among those eager to do this, for the sake of doing something incredible. I also like to eat with my hands.
Look at the sheer enormity of meat in this picture. Also note the bottle of Dr. Pepper next to the cans of acetylene fuel. Is that for flavoring, or to keep the cooks awake while they wield those machetes?
The only thing you have to wonder is what kind of beer they put out, and who has to drive home.
Look at the sheer enormity of meat in this picture. Also note the bottle of Dr. Pepper next to the cans of acetylene fuel. Is that for flavoring, or to keep the cooks awake while they wield those machetes?The only thing you have to wonder is what kind of beer they put out, and who has to drive home.
1/29/08
Mostly Plants
K recently dazzled me with two big pans of lasagna, a food memory now slightly tinged by the fact that it had two pounds of the red stuff. Today I have to pat myself on the midsection, because except for two tiny, tiny slices of smoked ham I had a meatless day.
Lunch was at Wildflower, spendy and toothsome as always, and for dinner I scrounged around the fridge for the last of mushrooms and celery to sauté, tossing in a clove of garlic at the end. Meantime I prepped the assembly: First the tortillas, then the brie, smoked cheddar, ham, spinach new from the TJ's bag. Topped the stack with the veg, and in the same pan folded in the two torts.
Five minutes later, a flip. Five minutes later, they sit on a plate, and I scoop out half an avocado on 'em. Finish with some salsa from a jar, and feed.
Lunch was at Wildflower, spendy and toothsome as always, and for dinner I scrounged around the fridge for the last of mushrooms and celery to sauté, tossing in a clove of garlic at the end. Meantime I prepped the assembly: First the tortillas, then the brie, smoked cheddar, ham, spinach new from the TJ's bag. Topped the stack with the veg, and in the same pan folded in the two torts.
Five minutes later, a flip. Five minutes later, they sit on a plate, and I scoop out half an avocado on 'em. Finish with some salsa from a jar, and feed.
The Reds
Whew! Now we've gotta push back on the other red flesh besides tuna. This food blog is going to to turn into a guilt blog by the time I'm done.
here's a money quote that dovetails with my "send the marketplace a message" mantra:
> If price spikes don’t change eating habits, perhaps the combination of deforestation, pollution, climate change, starvation, heart disease and animal cruelty will gradually encourage the simple daily act of eating more plants and fewer animals.
I heard long ago that Harris Ranch had 100,000 head of cattle, and now the New York Times backs me up.
here's a money quote that dovetails with my "send the marketplace a message" mantra:
> If price spikes don’t change eating habits, perhaps the combination of deforestation, pollution, climate change, starvation, heart disease and animal cruelty will gradually encourage the simple daily act of eating more plants and fewer animals.
I heard long ago that Harris Ranch had 100,000 head of cattle, and now the New York Times backs me up.
Bistro East, Part 3
I'm a bit remiss in finishing the report of our trip to New York. The weekend got off to a rousing start when I met a certain ex-Kazakh gentleman Thursday eve at the venerable Knickerbocker Bar & Grill on University. We sat at the bar and kibbitzed with the harried bartendress, ate guinea-hen quesadillas (really), and ordered something like a few martinis. Whatever the final count, it was enough to prompt the 'tendress to offer us, unprovoked, a drink on the house.
By 8.30 my friend was piling into a cab to get to his next social engagement. I staggered back to the in-laws and tried to pretend to be half-sober. My cover was blown a couple hours later when Da Fanch opened the bathroom door and found me kneeling in prayer to the porcelain goddess.
The next day, work at the Madison Ave. headquarters of the Singular Capitalist was a bit rough. My head cleared a bit after a dash through the rain and lunch at a hot-pot pho joint on 32nd St. with my editor.
By evening, I was raring to go. After a tour of the Gray Lady's new armoire, my Riv-eting companion and I hit the West Village, which probably means a lot less today than it did, say, 25 years ago. We found a darling little spot run by Venezuelans, Flor's Kitchen, which was fairly cheap and down-home enough to serve gristly but super-flavorful steak and greasy but super-flavorful arepas. Just like Hugo's mama used to make it.
The culinary highlight of the trip, however, was served not at a restaurant but Saturday night in my in-laws' dining room. Cousins of Da Fanch brought venison from their upstate farm. We salted and peppered several steaks, seared them and finished them in a hot oven. It was meat the way off-duty chefs eat it: hot, browned outside, red inside, with a pan sauce that's half red wine and half blood. Chew on that for a while.
I've actually left out a few interesting meals, but like me after 10 days in New York, this post has had enough.
1/23/08
1/22/08
Parental Pizza
My first homemade pizza since parenthood -- no easy feat because of the logistics of rolling out the dough, heating the oven full-blast, and thus the kitchen, for an hour, and the general mess -- and it came out quite well. It helped that I was home alone tonight. Toppings: marinated white anchovies, slivers of roasted red peppers, and white onion. Damn.
1/18/08
Aziza Night
K and I popped into our neighborhood destination restaurant for a couple of the seven seats at the bar for a little drink and bite. In the middle of doing two of the things we enjoy best and two of the things our friends enjoy best, inspiration strikes. But first the rundown:
Kristen has her glass of sparkling rosé. I start with the gin ginger, a typically Azizan concoction. Imagine categorizing your liquors, then pairing them with fruit or what have you that can be muddled or infused. My mix starts with muddled ginger and squirts of lemon/verbena, then a healthy pour of Beefeater and some simple syrup. It's iced, shaken, served. Delicious.
For the nosh, we share the usual delicacy, grilled flatbreads with spreads: roasted eggplant, yogurt dill and now chickpea, a novel variation. Feeling toothsome, I go for the sardines. They are arranged in a star patten in an enormous, round pasta plate, filleted and grilled, atop lentils, chopped peppers and fennel. I don't say a thing until I scoop up the very last dash.
So I'm making an executive decision: Alex and Jomo, mark your calendars and tell your sweethearts that I'm taking everybody out to dinner the weekend of Sept. 27-28. Table is for six. No excuses or contingencies. Final date is TK, and it'll be my treat.
Kristen has her glass of sparkling rosé. I start with the gin ginger, a typically Azizan concoction. Imagine categorizing your liquors, then pairing them with fruit or what have you that can be muddled or infused. My mix starts with muddled ginger and squirts of lemon/verbena, then a healthy pour of Beefeater and some simple syrup. It's iced, shaken, served. Delicious. For the nosh, we share the usual delicacy, grilled flatbreads with spreads: roasted eggplant, yogurt dill and now chickpea, a novel variation. Feeling toothsome, I go for the sardines. They are arranged in a star patten in an enormous, round pasta plate, filleted and grilled, atop lentils, chopped peppers and fennel. I don't say a thing until I scoop up the very last dash.
So I'm making an executive decision: Alex and Jomo, mark your calendars and tell your sweethearts that I'm taking everybody out to dinner the weekend of Sept. 27-28. Table is for six. No excuses or contingencies. Final date is TK, and it'll be my treat.
1/17/08
Bistro East, Part 2: Otto
No way we could spend a week in New York and read Heat (full review later) without darkening one of Mario Batali's doors. So with Da Fanch's gourmand cousins in town from Norwich, all seven of us walked over to Otto, his pizza place.
In Heat, Buford reports that Batali took many weeks, maybe months to get the pizzas, cooked on a flattop griddle, not in an oven, to the point where customers stopped sending them back. ("There were complaints. They were too spongy. They were undercooked. They weren't crispy. You couldn't cut them with a knife. Joe wasn't sleeping: 'Everyone is suddenly a fucking pizza expert.'" - p.160)
We didn't send ours back, though we didn't think they were oh so molto. I had the bottarga and fennel; Fanch had the mushroom. We liked the crust; we liked the sauce; but both toppings were too salty, the mushrooms unpleasantly so. I fretted: perhaps they're supposed to be salty, and we're not eating them with the right appetizers, or something. Perhaps we're not good enough.
This was crazy talk, of course. Someone in the kitchen had a heavy hand with the salt. Period.
Everything else was top-notch. The apps came in large ramekins and several went around the table. All delicious, especially the cold lentils, the octopus, and the eggplant caponatina, all redolent of late-night outdoor Mediterranean dinners eaten ad hoc, dish by dish at the proprietor's whim.
The waiter showed great patience as we maneuvered the Schnoodle's stroller through a maze of tables, and again as certain members of our party took interminable amounts of time to decide what to order. We also had internal disagreements about the wine selection -- what seemed like hundreds of Italian wines to choose from, none less than $35 a bottle, and none of us knew a thing about them. The waiter was unflappable. He recommended a bottle, not cheap, and damn if he didn't match it to our criteria. We ordered a second bottle.
Stuffed to the gills, we ordered a couple desserts anyway: the olive oil and ricotta coppettas (coppette?). Olive oil gelato at first sounds like a candidate for a Yuck?, but it was sublime. Gotta get the A-Ron to put it on his menu at the next Page Street party.
One complaint, other than the pizza, was the noise level. I was sitting under a speaker, and the music, a mix of guitar rock and Brit-pop that might well have been streaming right from Mario's iPod, kept changing volume level with songs getting cut off in the middle. I know it's a pizzeria, but at these prices, the kids in the kitchen shouldn't be fighting over the stereo.
Coming soon, part 3 (mistakenly advertised in the last post as Part 2): Revenge of the Beefeater, a Venezuelan hideaway, and Oh! Deer.
1/14/08
Blue Fin?
We all know about the king of ska, but here we're talking about the end of the king of sushi. Take my word for it or take Bob Simon's, but the marketplace has to, has to push/pull back on the supply chain.
We don't need every other restaurant opening on Geary to serve raw fish. We will run out, without a doubt.
We don't need every other restaurant opening on Geary to serve raw fish. We will run out, without a doubt.
1/12/08
Bistro East, Part 1
Greetings from Gotham. (And photo by cpzhao -- click here to see more!)
Showing off the Monkeypants to friends and family has been a nonstop endeavor and no easy feat. We knew that from the get-go when, waiting for our delayed flight to board at SFO last Friday, the captain came out to the gate to say it was some of the worst weather he'd ever seen in his career. He also said the grounds crew couldn't even load baggage because they worried the wind would rip the cargo door from its hinges. Oh, and Lila was completely congested with her first-ever cold.
We finally made it with nary a scratch (not even a peep from Lila despite the congestion and pressure) and settled into bed Chez Fancher before midnight local time. Less than 24 hours later, true to form, we were stuffing ourselves at the Saigon Grill on University between 11th and 12th Sts. There were seven adults, one rambunctious toddler, and our Miss Monkeypants, and we all ordered a dish plus a few more. Plus a couple bowls of soup because, hey, it's winter and we all had colds.
Somehow it all disappeared. We have a major difference of opinion, however, as to the quality. I'm feeling magnanimous. I thought it was pretty good. Perhaps I was dazzled by the quantity and the friendliness of the staff who accomodated our requests for stroller parking, a booster seat, and a small plate of plain egg noodles for 2-year-old Ezra. The Fanch begs to differ: "It sucked," she said, which, when pressed to explain, she upgraded to "really really mediocre."
A few nights later we left La Monkeypants with her grandparents for our first date night. Nervous as we were, we went all of two blocks away to a swanky tapas place, Alta. Lovely room, adventurous, extensive menu, but then there was Dean.
Dean was the first waiter who addressed us (though others later would bring dishes and take follow-on orders), and he was an idiot. "Excuse me," I asked, pointing to one of the menu items, Danish Pork Ribs roasted with kecap manis & coriander. "What's kecap manis?"
"It's the stuff it gets roasted with that makes it kinda sticky," was roughly his explanation. Not very descriptive, I thought, but I moved on.
"What's 'fideos vermicelli'? I don't know what fideos means."
"I dunno," said Dean. "I'll go ask."
He came back a while later and said, "Some kind of pasta."
I formulated how to proceed, and Dean -- a very busy man -- started to turn. "Um..."
"What?" he said. Not "Yes?" or "Sorry" or "Pardon me." "What."
"I figured that from the 'vermicelli' part," I said. "But I don't know what fideos means."
I think he shrugged and walked away. I was too stunned to think clearly. It was the most unprofessional act in a nice restaurant I'd ever seen. I wondered if he was the half-retarded son of the owner. There could be no other explanation.
The food was good, the Spanish Manhattan was one of the few $10 drinks I've ever felt was worth it, and the tapas were often spectacular and never dull except for the avocado relleno with crabmeat and shrimp. Silly us: to New Yorkers an entire avocado artfully sliced and stuffed with spicy seafood salad is $11 worth of exotic in January. To Californians, it's an easy 4-pack mesh bag at Trader Joe's.
The Fanch was so appalled with Dean, that a $50-per-person meal could be served by such a dolt, she mentioned him to the maitre'd on the way out. How did we know his name? On my way back from the loo at one point, I passed him trying to chat up one of the waitresses outside the kitchen. She was adding up a check and was barely listening, but another waiter passed by and said with a little passive-aggressive laugh, "Get back to work, Dean."
Part 2: Revenge of the Beefeater, a Venezuelan hideaway, and Oh! Deer
1/10/08
Kirin Chicken
Either it was boot camp Tuesday or the guy sitting behind me on the bus Wednesday, but by noon Thursday I was pretty much toast from a cold. The Limited brought me all the way back to where I started the day, 25th and Geary, and woozy as I was I was not going to pass on Kirin.
The room is a few notches above lots of other Chinese places, with a mix of incandescents and CFLs instead of factory-floor fluorescent tubes, but the brown carpet has got to go. At any rate, I beelined for the lunch special won-ton soup with shredded chicken. The shredded chicken is in fact a nice mix of light and dark meat julienned with the cleaver, piled atop of a steaming heap of won tons and choy sum in broth. A couple dashes of hot chili and you have what the doctor would order.
p.s. Chinese cuisine of the Kirin type goes in and out of favor with people -- whether it's the grease, quality of ingredients, dining experience, whatever. I understand, at the same time that I recognize it as a little picky. This is soup, rice plates, vegetables whipped in a wok in a flash. In my condition, how could I endure anything else?
The room is a few notches above lots of other Chinese places, with a mix of incandescents and CFLs instead of factory-floor fluorescent tubes, but the brown carpet has got to go. At any rate, I beelined for the lunch special won-ton soup with shredded chicken. The shredded chicken is in fact a nice mix of light and dark meat julienned with the cleaver, piled atop of a steaming heap of won tons and choy sum in broth. A couple dashes of hot chili and you have what the doctor would order.
p.s. Chinese cuisine of the Kirin type goes in and out of favor with people -- whether it's the grease, quality of ingredients, dining experience, whatever. I understand, at the same time that I recognize it as a little picky. This is soup, rice plates, vegetables whipped in a wok in a flash. In my condition, how could I endure anything else?
1/2/08
Cioppino Secret
New Year's Eve dinner with my dad, stepmother and their friends in Santa Rosa: the featured meal, their NYE tradition, was a hearty cioppino. Why so good? The chef let us in on a little secret: crab butter. No, it's not a flavored dairy item. I had to google around a bit to figure it out.
1/1/08
California-Arizona Travel and Life
The banana bread mix from TJ's is in the oven and I'm due for Satchmo's red beans and rice at Elbo's at 4, so here are some quick road-trip notes.
Foodies and winos, you know this is a wonderful state. In Palm Springs, of all places, I got turned on to a knockout Galician white. (Fanch, take note.) In Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo, the wine bars were on par, if not better, than any place anywhere else. On the other side of the epicurean coin, there's something to be said about the comforting sameness of Mexican restaurants.
The best table salsa was that place on Rosedale in Bakersfield, although the joint in Parker, Ariz., across the Colorado River had a nice mix in its salsa bar. (All beverages also clocked in at 96 ounces. No wonder ... O, you know.) Tacos came hard and soft. El Rancho de Tía Rosa in Mesa, Ariz., took the cake for its succulent meats and also appears to be the most consistently crowded, for good reason.
The biggest hit were the rib-eye "sliders" at Intermezzo, the wine bar I found wandering in the Paseo off State Street in Santa Barbara. Biggest flop was the Caesar at the Parker Palm Springs (purloined pic of porte cochere is above), which I tell everybody is Merv's old place, although the management did email me asking for feedback. Now they've got it.
Foodies and winos, you know this is a wonderful state. In Palm Springs, of all places, I got turned on to a knockout Galician white. (Fanch, take note.) In Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo, the wine bars were on par, if not better, than any place anywhere else. On the other side of the epicurean coin, there's something to be said about the comforting sameness of Mexican restaurants. The best table salsa was that place on Rosedale in Bakersfield, although the joint in Parker, Ariz., across the Colorado River had a nice mix in its salsa bar. (All beverages also clocked in at 96 ounces. No wonder ... O, you know.) Tacos came hard and soft. El Rancho de Tía Rosa in Mesa, Ariz., took the cake for its succulent meats and also appears to be the most consistently crowded, for good reason.
The biggest hit were the rib-eye "sliders" at Intermezzo, the wine bar I found wandering in the Paseo off State Street in Santa Barbara. Biggest flop was the Caesar at the Parker Palm Springs (purloined pic of porte cochere is above), which I tell everybody is Merv's old place, although the management did email me asking for feedback. Now they've got it.
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