Sexy Pleasure: Cock in Wine

When I was a kid, Sunday dinner—always ready around 1 pm, but in contrast to weekday dinners, you could eat whenever you wanted—alternated between pot roast with potatoes, carrots, and onions, and what I believe my mother called “standing roast,” which did not include vegetables. The former was a juicy horizontal slab, the latter a tightly grained vertical monument. Both were delicious, better than steak, barbecued ribs, hot dogs, or fried chicken, which—apostasy!—I’ve never much cared for (feh! all that greasy skin).

When I think about my mother’s Sunday standards, I realize that unlike Piaf, I cannot claim to have no regrets. My mother died when I was 29, and I’m sorry that I never learned how to make my favorite childhood dishes while she was alive.

Happily, one finds one’s way to the larger world, where I was introduced to a new favorite that never appeared on my family’s dinner table and may never have shown up on any dinner table in Atwater, California, during the 50s and 60s. Or come to think of it, maybe it did. The French girl down street, the one with the mustache who aspired to the convent, would likely have been familiar with coq au vin, variously translated as "chicken stew" (Nigel Slater in The Observer), "rooster with wine" (Wikepedia), and adding an assumed adjective, "chicken in red wine" (Julia Child, The Way To Cook).

I’ve been ordering coq au vin at restaurants and attempting it on my own for 25 years nearly, with uneven results. Whether dining out or dining in, I have never tasted a version as delicious and inspiring as that served by Mrs. R. Paige Donhauser (like the quadratic equation in Billy Collins’s celebrated poem, “Forgetfulness,” Mrs. Donhauser’s first name has packed its bag) in her country house in East Chatham, New York. Mrs. Donhauser’s son was a college classmate of my ex, and he used to invite us up for the weekend from time to time. She was Belgian, which may explain her scowl the single time I offered to help in the kitchen. The glory of her version of coq au vin was its richness of taste, the perfect consistency of the sauce, and undeniably, the enchantment of feasting in the dining room of a creaky 18th-century upstate farmhouse set amid rolling woodsy hills that looked as if they had changed little in 200 years.

Last weekend, Dan and I had six friends over for a Sunday dinner—at 6, not 1 pm. I made coq au vin (recipe below) and it turned out pretty well. It was a casual evening, and I was flattered when Alex shot up and declared, “We need more sauce! Is there something I can put it in?” Naturally, I listened for compliments on my cooking and was not disappointed. I clucked approvingly to myself after dinner when I noticed that all the bread—two loaves, one a sweet baguette, the other ciabatta, both heated in the oven before serving—had been entirely consumed, evidence of rampant sauce-sopping. I joined in the accolades for Dan’s dessert, a rhubarb cobbler topped with homemade vanilla ice cream.

Our dinner was a social and gustatory success.

But I’m no Mrs. R. Paige Donhauser. My coq au vin, though improved from efforts in other decades, was decent, tasty, appreciated, but not memorable. While I don’t ever expect to equal Mrs. Donhauser’s achievement, I do want to move in that direction.

So I’ve been reading up, and there seem to be several key opportunities for my future efforts:

• Use more wine
My recipe, a simplified version from Martha Stewart’s monthly digest, Everyday Food—a useful source, by-the-way, of accessible recipes—calls for a cup and a half, but most recipes call for more, up to a full bottle.

• Use good wine
Shyamala tells us, “Don’t cook with wine you wouldn’t drink.” Sure. But I drink a lot of cheap wine. Not bad wine, mind, just ordinaire. And that’s what I used in last Sunday’s coq au vin. Next time, I’ll reach for “a loud, inky Beaujolais,” as Nigel Slater recommends in The Observer or more broadly, “young red wine (zinfandel, Mâcon, or Chianti type)” as Julia instructs in The Way To Cook. Julia further allows for the option of 1/3 cup good brandy. Slater echoes this suggestion, advising 2 Tbs cognac.

• The pros seem to agree: The older the bird, the better the sauce. As Wikipedia, explains, “Older roosters are traditionally used because they contain a lot of connective tissue, which creates a richer broth when cooked.” And maybe, use the whole bird, not just thighs, as Martha in her role as the siren of simplicity, recommends. Further, Martha calls for skinless, bone-in chicken. Neither Julia nor Joy advocates going skinless. And then there’s the question alluded to in the quote above: Rooster or hen? I recall that when a culinarily gifted friend made coq au vin for a dinner party I attended several years ago, he used a rooster. He had to special-order it from a Mexican butcher in the Mission, pay extra, and drive across town to pick it up. I would do this too, if I knew for sure it was sine qua non. But it’s not this friend’s coq au vin I dream of, it’s Mrs. R. Paige Donhauser’s, and I have a feeling that her chicken was store-bought and shrink-wrapped.

• Use fresh pearl onions, the kind you have to peel yourself, rather than chopped whole onions. Or does it matter? I used chopped red onion, but next time, I'll parboil and peel the pearls. If nothing else, they’re decorativ—quaint if not piquant.

• Most recipes, but not Julia’s, call for carrots, and I agree: Carrots are a boon to this dish. And most call for mushrooms, which Martha eliminates. (Note: I did use mushrooms for my coq au vin, but I think I could’ve used more.)

• During her lifetime, Julia consistently advocated using only imported bay leaves regardless of what savory comestible you’re concocting. Though California born, she emphatically rejects leaves from Umbellularia californica, our native and lavishly abundant bay laurel (called Oregon myrtle one state north). I always have a sprig of dried local bay leaves handy, collected on one of my hikes, and have resisted her “prejudice,” as I’ve thought of it. But maybe it’s my prejudice that’s the problem. All the recipes call for thyme, though they diverge regarding fresh vs. dried or avoid taking a stand altogether.

• My edition of The Joy of Cooking (1975) informs me that “Abroad, in country places where chickens are locally butchered, the blood is often kept and added to the gravy at the last minute as thickener. After this addition, the sauce is not allowed to boil. Here in America, this effect is imitated by adding caramel coloring.” I’m dubious. I’ll bet the newest edition of Joy doesn’t include this augmentation. But sauce thickness is important and I suspect that part of the dreamy richness I recall from Mrs. R. Paige Donhauser’s coq au vin is related to a sauce thicker than I achieved. My recipe and others rely on flour. But Julia calls for beurre manié, "1 1/2 Tbs each flour and softened butter blended to a paste."

• All coq au vin recipes call for bacon or a similar ingredient. I use smoked slab bacon, though a version that claims minimum chemical adulteration. Julia warns that whether you use slab bacon or salt pork, you must blanch it to “remove its salt as well as its smoky flavor, which would permeate the rest of the food,” something I assumed was an enhancement. Joy cites only salt pork, not bacon, and makes no mention of blanching. I’ve never blanched bacon in my life and have little experience with salt pork. Nigel Slater, an advocate for staying true to traditional versions of the classics, is the most extreme, noting that “it just isn't coq au vin without some fat, juicy strips of green bacon. The rashers with which the British are obsessed are too thin—if they don't burn, they'll disintegrate. What you need is a solid lump that you can cut into thick strips. Pancetta will do nicely.”

~ ~ ~

Obviously, since the experts diverge in key respects, further experimentation is called for. Unless, that is, I get the call from an older, mellower Mrs. R. Paige Donhauser. In my delicious fantasy, she not only invites me to dinner, but allows me to hang out in the kitchen. I take notes, a digital picture or two, and promise not to get in the way.

~ ~ ~

Chicken Braised in Wine
from Everyday Food, January 2007

Listed as Coq au Vin in cookbooks and on restaurant menus, the name of this hearty French dish may sound fancy, but it’s simply chicken cooked in red wine.

- 3 fresh thyme springs
- 5 flat-leaf parsley sprigs
- 1 bay leaf
- 3 slices bacon, cut into pieces
- 12 bone-in, skinless chicken thighs, about 4 pounds total (att’n: SKINLESS!)
- coarse salt and ground pepper
- 1 large onion, chopped
- 6 medium carrots, sliced crosswise
- 2 garlic cloves, minced
- 2 tablespoons tomato paste
- 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
- 1 1/2 cups dry red wine, such as a Pinot Noir or French Burgundy
- 1 can (14.5 ounces) reduced-sodium chicken broth

1. Using cotton kitchen twine, tie thyme, parsley, and bay leaf into a bundle; set aside.

2. Heat a Dutch oven or 50quart heavy pot with a lid over medium-low. Add bacon; cook until browned, about 10 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer to a paper-towel-lined plate to drain (leave bacon fat in pot).

3. Raise heat to medium-high. Season chicken generously with salt and pepper. Working in three batches to avoid crowding, brown chicken about 4 minutes per side. Transfer to a plate; set aside.

4. Add onion, carrots, and garlic to pot. Cook until onion softens, about 4 minutes. Stir in tomato paste and flour; cook 1 minute.

5. Add wine, broth, chicken, and herb bundle. Bring to a boil; cover, and reduce to a simmer. Cook 10 minutes; uncover, and simmer until chicken is cooked through, about 10 minutes. Remove and discard herb bundle; stir in bacon. Serve with steamed new potatoes tossed with parsley.

The Pig Dig

Chron outdoor writer Paul McHugh goes pig hunting.

Review: Gialina Pizzeria

We continue the pizza theme. In the gray summer fog we seek the comfort of the pie.

Da Fanch read in Sunset Mag about a new place in Glen Park, Gialina. From the menu to the no-reservation policy, it seemed at first blush a Pizzetta 211 copycat. We arrived at 6:30 on Saturday eve and had to wait 45 minutes for a table, but they do take cell numbers and will call you when your table is ready.

We soon discovered other differences:

1) Many more tables. Unfortunately, they're squeezed into a narrow room, and squeezed uncomfortably together. Mr. Loud Cackling Laugh at the party-of-eight table across from us made people turn and stare several times.

2) The pizza's not as good. It's pretty good, but not Pizzetta good. Slightly thicker crust, first of all. We split two: Italian sausage/dandelion greens, and a puttanesca. The sausage/greens came with fontina cheese, a bad arrangement, as its strength overwhelmed the delicately bitter greens and the sweet, mild sausage. The puttanesca was better, but I wasn't thrilled with the tomato sauce. It also lacked cheese, which wasn't clear from the description on the menu. We were able to sample a third pie when the couple at the next table left without their left-over box. I ran out to find them, to no avail. The waitress said, "We'll just throw it away. Why don't you take it?" Quick thinking. The leftover slices were a simple marinara and a salami. Again, tasty but nothing to justify the haut-pizza prices.

3) More menu and pizza choices. I loved our two appetizers: caramelized cauliflower on polenta that was charred on the outside, with a nice crunch, and a salad with sour cherries and almonds and fantastic goat cheese. There was also a non-pizza entree, a roast chicken that one reviewer raved about.

Prices were not different than Pizzetta. Dinner for two (including two glasses of wine) plus tip: $70.

One nugget to keep in mind: The place gets crazy busy from 5:30 to 8 when the young family crowd packs it and take-out orders keep the kitchen buzzing. But by 8 p.m., half the tables were empty and the waitress said there's usually a lull around that time. Better yet: go to Pizzetta.

Wine: Robert Hall Recall

As they say in the NFL, upon further review...I'm going to retract my support for Robert Hall's Rhone De Robles. Another bottle of the '04, when compared to other bottles at our dinner last night Chez BrO, was weak. Its main feature was a steady sweetness that quickly grew boring. I'm not sure how I found the original bottle so worthy. I need help.

A much better buy was the Laurier 2004 Cab that Paul n James discovered at the Tower Mollystone's. Five bucks and drinkable, though no world-beater.

We also learned our lesson about decanting. The wine Tony brought -- Cimicky? Anthony, can you refresh our memories? -- started out twangy and grassy but soon mellowed into a wonderful bottle. When it doubt, air it out.

Review: A Place Where We Can Be Free

It's cause for celebration, or at least moderate excitement, when another decent place to eat opens in the far western precincts. I don't expect fine dining out here; as you know, I'm way more into quality cheap eats anyway. That's why I was happy to discover The Pizza Place On Noriega, an as-yet-signless outpost on the corner of 46th Avenue, just down the block from La Playa Taqueria. It's only two weeks old.

I was greeted by a sturdy blonde wooden bar near the front door, and was handed a paper menu from a cylinder sitting on it by one of the Place's two employees. One other person was waiting for pizza; the rest of the place was empty, save for someone painting one of the bathrooms. The menu didn't say there were slices available, but there were: $2.50 for cheese, plus 50¢ for the first topping and a quarter apiece for the rest. Combo deals as usual; whole pies start around $15.

I ordered a Greek slice (homeboy!), and five minutes later I received what amounted to a thin-crust slice of pizza with a small Greek side salad piled on top (olives, red onions, whole basil leaves, feta). The crust had an audible crunch to it, and the tomato sauce mingled tart and sweet elements. Best of all, they didn't overdo the queso.

I liked it so much that I stayed for another slice with pepperoni. This one was a little greasier, but still satisfying. I chose the knife-and-fork strategy for both, and if I could recommend one thing to the Place, I'd ask them to get sharper knives.

The Place is big enough to seat about 30 patrons at once. They've got about four or five microbrew beers on tap, plus a couple more in bottles and cans; there's also a very short list of red and white wines, and salads and buffalo wings are on the menu as well. It took awhile to get two slices of carry-out pizza (for my roommate), but he was pleased with the results.

I'd compare the pie with that of Pizzetta 211, but the Place is going for something a little more populist. It's still a weird enough joint that it fits right into the Outer Sunset, but I'm definitely looking forward to future meals there.

You Want Wine? Have I Got Wine

> Last year, Two Buck Chuck — available only in the Trader Joe's grocery chain and priced at $1.99 in California, hence its nickname — accounted for at least 8 percent of California wine sold in-state ...

http://tinyurl.com/2mnera

Dry Creek Redux

A little birdie told me this weekend that the Dry Creek Kitchen is in trouble. Not so surprising with the constant disappointment we keep hearing, not just from this bloggership but several others we know and love. Since they won their Michelin star, a new chef has taken over, and the locals are abuzz how long the star shall remain affixed.

Wine: Robert Hall Rhone de Robles

Before going further, please note: I'd love to see more wine reviews, even if just a few lines long. If you open a bottle and have anything to say, let everyone know. A few quick notes, the price, thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Onward...

So I'm meandering my way through TJ's last week, digging "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" on the satellite radio and circling back and again past the quesadilla samples, when I realize we're out of rosso back at the Bistro. I'm skeptical of Joe's wine selection, and I've gotten bad advice from wearers of Hawaiian shirts often enough to forego all confidence in their wine expertise, but I ask anyway. It helps that the guy in the wine aisle is just about the oldest TJ's employee I've ever seen: thinning hair, gray beard and moustache, wiry build. I give him my criteria: no fruit bombs, please; good with BBQ meats of all types; and up to $10, maybe a bit more if it's justified. He leads me straight to the Robert Hall 2004 Rhone de Robles.

Robles, as in Paso, as in Central Coast. $10.99, and well worth it. I went back tonight and only found the 2005. We'll see how it compares.

Sazeracelicious

Somehow, every few months, I find myself having drinks at the Redwood Room in the Clift Hotel. I never set out with it as my destination; I just end up there. It seems to have become the default après-ski establishment for a certain circle of my friends when we're in the neighborhood. I simultaneously like the Starckian décor and find it tries a bit too hard, and the crowd can tend toward the B&T — a couple of friends and I were once asked by an apparent bridesmaid whether we were wearing boxers and if so could she have them (I leave you to speculate on our response) — but whatever. It's comfortable and convenient and the cocktails are decent.

Last night was one of those nights, and I thereby discovered a reason why you might, with intent, want to pay the place a visit: They make an echt Sazerac, using Old Overholt, Herbsaint and Peychaud's. For some peculiar reason, they want to serve it on the rocks, but you will, of course, order it up.

Warning: You may find it difficult to stop at one.

Review: South Park Cafe

A recipe for a perfect night on the town: a bar seat at the South Park Cafe, a martini as the evening light fades through the leaves of the trees outside, doors and transoms open to the breeze, a selection of appetizers, perhaps an entree or two split between me and my dining partners, all followed with a warm night game at Mays Field which the Giants win, led by one of their young aces on the mound.

That's what happened Tuesday. The menu at the South Park doesn't change much, and why should it? I've never had a disappointing item there. In ten-plus years, I've never had a disappointing bite. Exaggeration? Absolutely not. The portions are not large, the prices are not cheap. But every flavor is well-considered, every dish its own world to explore, and the $50 one easily drops there -- an $8-10 app, a $20 entree, and two $8 drinks (OK, three) -- feels a bargain compared to so many of this city's self-important eateries.

The South Park has had the same red wines on offer by the glass for as long as I can remember. For lighter fare, the Mark West pinot noir is unbeatable: silky, warm and slightly tart. I had two glasses with the beef daube; one of the best stews I've ever tasted.

Dry Creek Kitchen, Confidential

My dear friends, San Francisco family and real-estate aficionados Ron and Roz were going to have us over for a seder, but schedules and responsibilities thwarted the party plan. In a burst of menschness, I let them know I could treat them, in the City or in Sonoma, wherever they wished.

A couple of gentle reminders later, Ron starts to work the phone Friday and finds a table for Saturday evening at a place that's peripherally been on my list: the Dry Creek Kitchen in the Hotel Healdsburg. I call ahead myself and ask about the dress code and corkage. I'm definitely looking forward to it.


The stakes in Sonoma are a bit high, not just because of nearby Napa but also because of places like the Harmony restaurant in the Ledson Hotel on Sonoma's town square. Dry Creek Kitchen has a reputation because it's from a name in the business, Charlie Palmer. That's him at left.

I'm told over the phone that the scene is "business casual" and that as long as the wine you bring is from the county, there's no corkage. That's an awesome touch, I think. What a note of confidence, a great way to get people to think about local wine.

So what to make of dinner? The main courses and a couple of other things miss. Dry Creek comes up short, CP.

The room, where the big money went, is beautiful. Columns sweep into the ceiling, and at one point I thought of the TWA terminal at JFK. The windows draw in evening light that fades into candlelight from the tables. There's also this cute vase for breadsticks, and a small potted plant of thyme. We shed our four bottles of wine from the Trader Joe's bag -- one sparkling (Korbel Blanc de Noirs), a chardonnay (Belvedere) and two reds (a Peterson zin and a Hop Kiln blend of syrah and grenache) -- and have the first two opened right away.

The Korbel, which K and I picked up after a quick tasting on the way back from a hike in Guerneville, has a touch of sweetness and a nice gold hue that goes great with the starters: two ahi tuna tartares for R&R, a cannelini bean and smoked tomato soup for Kristen and a special one for myself. I'm having the housemade tagliatelle with winecaps, morels, ramps (Jomo, remember these from Perbacco?) and asparagus entree as an appetizer, an off-menu improvisation I learned from my dad.

Everything is going well. I do have to ask for a flute refill, and also for cracked pepper to finish my pasta primi. The tuna tartare is creamy and the avocado relish doesn't bowl everything over, even though it's rich. It's good. The broth for the soup, poured separately on the beans at table, is full of flavor, although K isn't into the caramelized bay scallops. I try them and not sure they're warranted. Maybe an Anaheim pepper in a very thin dice would have worked? Charlie?

My pasta is fine; not sure if I can tell this tagliatelle from spaghettini. I love looking at the shapes and colors, and there are mouthfuls of mushrooms and seasonal asparagus. My favorite thing is the plate: Think of a smooth, white LP with a bowl popped out of the center label. The transition to the red bottles also happens seamlessly. They're opened early on, and the Peterson zin gets decanted. (Hop Kiln did advise having its blend otherwise sit for 20-30 minutes.)

The comments on the entrees (check 'em out) are average, except for Ron's Wagyu steak, called excellent. Roz has the duck, K has the salmon and I got trout. The presentation is knockout, especially the skin of the trout fried into a thin cracker on half a filet, then a layer of green chard, then the other half of the filet on white watercress. Ron's russet-potato fries are stacked like Lincoln logs, at right angles. But again, three out of four reviews come in as just adequate.

Roz, who's been spoiled by Aaron and Del Monte Meats, doesn't think her duck breast is that special. I try it and agree. She also reports her "cassoulet" was overly salty. (Knowing her palate, that means too salty.) Kristen isn't doing cartwheels, although her salmon pieces in miso look beautiful.

I'm not overwhelmed, either. The cracker novelty wears off quick, the so-called bacon roasted beets are a bit bland, and how come I can't cut this chard that well with this knife I have for the fish? The fish: It's fine, rendering itself as trout. The best part, though, is the watercress and "pesto."

Our wines, all acquired at reasonable prices, pair well. I do have to reach over to the nearby counter and refill my glass a couple of times. The waiter did notice eventually.

Desserts, which included cappuccino crème brulee and a chocolate peanut-butter bar, become popular. I barely get a forkful once they go around Kristen. It's an up-note ending to a $300 evening, with $40 tacked on for corkage on two bottles.

Weren't Sonoma wines supposed to be comped corkage? Only two per table, our waiter says. Why weren't we told that over the phone? Two bottles are standard, he replies. (Hey, the charge is reasonable, given that we had chilled bottles, employed a decanter and used different glassware. Just let us know, mkay?)

Next time I'm around the square and feeling saucy, I may visit again and enjoy drinks and starters. There's even something of a scene with live jazz and couches in the lounge across the courtyard. Yet I want to ask, Charlie Palmer, even for seasoned food nuts like ourselves, shouldn't there have been more standouts? The setting and presentation are in place, but doesn't that raise the bar for what you actually taste, and for what you think you're getting?

It's your name out there.

Review: Blue Water Grill

I'm a few days late with this one, but for the record, the Blue Water Grill on Union Square in NYC is definitely a place to go with an editor who's paying your way. My share of the damage: two martinis, a wild mushroom maki (six pieces), two single pieces of unremarkable nigiri, and a small asparagus-leek soup. My patron of the arts had a grilled tuna steak, very rare, a few oysters, and two martinis as well. Would anyone like to venture a guess as to the price, not including tip?

A new new thing: twice in New York I was asked if I wanted my martini up or on the rocks. On the rocks? Doesn't that disqualify the beverage from being a martini?

Review(s): Gotham Falafel

Dateline NYC, baby. The world tour continues. Two lunches of note so far, both with colleagues from The Daily Capitalist:

1) Sahara's, a charming Turkish place on 2nd Ave. between 28/29. We each chose from the prix fixe menu: a choice of one app, one salad, and one entree, $13. All the veggies were fresh, down to the chopped parsley in the tabouleh, and the fried bits, such as my zucchini fritters and falafel, were light and crispy. I was impressed, and you all know I don't say that lightly. I also appreciated the menu that went a bit beyond the typical Mid-East fare: calf's liver, okra, etc. to complement the traditional dishes. Lots of veg options, too, which my colleague appreciated.

2) Kalustyan's, a revered specialty food shop on Lexington. They have a Middle Eastern deli on the second floor with a few barebones tables. I could eat the fava beans in tomato sauce all day. I had a veggie combo: beans, spinach sauteed with pine nuts, and Israeli (aka pearl) couscous with chick peas. My colleague had the cured beef sandwich on pita. The goods on sale in the shop were vast and varied. Check the inventory on the Web site. If I lived here I'd shop at Kalustyan's every day.

Next episode: Seeing and being seen with A Tall Handsome Man at the Blue Water Grill.

Bloomingfood

Dateline: Bloomington, Ind., home of my sister the folklore grad student and her engineer fiance. A few things to report on the culinary front:

* Befitting a liberal college town smack in the middle of one of the reddest states in the union, the Saturday farmer's market had plenty of fresh greens (mustard greens, arugula, beautiful heads of lettuce, herbs), two grumpy alte kackers making kettle corn, a dairy-and-egg stand with Biblical passages on the product labels, a sign-up booth for Obama '08, and a guy selling beer bratwurst at 9 am. I went for the bratwurst (kraut, sweet peppers, French's mustard). Then I went for the BBQ chicken tamal two booths down (topped with a homemade tomatillo sauce). Then I couldn't resist a bag of cracked black walnuts ($3).

The Biblical dairy stand had a sign that read "Cow shares available." I asked the blond fresh-faced man what that meant. Selling raw milk is illegal, but if you own the cow -- or a share of the cow -- you can do whatever you want with the milk, even drink it unpasteurized, the way God intended. Clever, eh?

* The best restaurant in town, Tallent, was the site of our dinner Thursday night. Just my sister and I, we decided to share everything and, befitting our foodieness and over-education, got down to giving it all a full-court critique. The waiter realized what he was in for early on when, asking if our salt cod cakes were good, we said "Yes, but could you tell us what the herb is that gives the accompanying garnish a slight taste of anise?" (Can you guess? A hint: it wasn't fennel.) He stuttered a bit, backed up a few steps, and said he'd ask the kitchen.

When ordering main courses, I couldn't decide between the halibut with local morels and fiddleheads and the lamb platter. My sister said, well, if you've never had morels, you really should, and so I did. The waiter heard all this, but when my halibut arrived, there were no morels to be found. So....where are the morels? I asked the waiter. He mumbled something about the kitchen running out, but only having enough to use for garnish on the other dishes, and I said, geez, that was sort of the reason I ordered the dish. Which, being privy to the earlier conversation, he knew full well. He wandered away without any resolution.

A couple bites into my halibut, a waitress who seemed to have more authority came over and apologized. The kitchen had apparently forgotten to tell the wait staff about the lack of morels, perhaps true, perhaps covering our waiter's ass. She comped the halibut dish and let me order something else gratis.

I went for the steak frites (appetizer portion).

I appreciated Tallent's efforts: local and sustainable ingredients whenever possible, creative yet unpretentious twists to nearly every dish, friendly service and a wonderful warm room. But $25-to-35 entrees demand scrutiny, and if things don't add up, you've done your diners a disservice.

* If you're ever in Bloomington, eat breakfast at the Runcible Spoon.

* Today my sister is grilling in the backyard, but afterwards we'll wander a few blocks to the local winery and sample the fruit wines.

* Best meal of the weekend: tie goes to two dishes, both by my sister. 1) Shrimp and hearts-of-palm salad. 2) Baked phyllo triangles stuffed with zucchini, goat cheese and roasted pine nuts. With luck, she'll join us Bistrovians soon and grace us with her recipes.

* Answer to the fennel question: it was French tarragon.

Adesso, Perbacco

As readers of this space know, I've had a thing for the spendy place downtown. As Jomo knows all too well, I finally was able to sit at table and partake. I report, you decide if it's a mash note.

During a hectic work week, I had planned on just after-work drinks with the lovely Kristen, before she headed off to the dining room beyond the bar with her fellow personal-finance staffers. (We bumped into da Fanch on the way in, and I'm proud to say that she has now seen the mysterious Jomo in person. Not to be confused with Mysterious Jomo.) But the pretty ornery personal-finance editor wouldn't have any of it: No way I was leaving.

At least three times I excused myself. He insisted he was buying me dinner. Actually, the company was buying, and interestingly, there was an extra spot. I'm still writing him a thank-you note.

There were nine of us in total, and we were at the far end upstairs, but we were not alone the whole night. The waiter pointed our evening's host to the super Tuscans on the wine list, and suggested several appetizers. I counted two waiters in shirts and ties, a woman who walks the floor and helps with wine and assorted runners pouring, clearing, checking.


We began with hamachi crudo, large serving plates of house salumi with pork paté (SFGate photo here), fritto misto, salt cod in a brandade style with crostini and the absolutely dynamite burata, which is folded soft cheeses that make a sort of pillow. I must be missing something, but I did note how divine the homemade rolls were -- warm, toothsome, a little sour and dusted with a touch of flour. I can't remember the last time I ate a dinner roll.

Then for our second courses, I had the salad of so-called little gems, which are like baby Romaine leaves. Burton, sitting across from me, insisted I have some of his octopus, which was bore a slight char from the grill. I'm having that when I go back.

My main dish was the Berkshire pork chop with borlotti beans, braised red chard and roasted tomatoes. It was a plump piece of pig patterned with a crosshatch from the grill, and it was perhaps the best-prepared chop I've ever had. The color within was similar to that of a flatiron steak ordered medium, and other than a little fat trimming, all of it was delectable.

For dessert, I paired homemade hazelnut cookies with a Vino Santo, and the cookies blew everyone away. Their looks were deceiving, because they seemed so rich but were so light to the touch.

On the way out later, I ask Umberto, the omniscient force on the floor at Perbacco, about the dish. "We start with a superior product," he said, and then comes the brining. As I said, Umberto knows.

We also had a little chat about the china cups for the servings of gelato, molded to have a slight dent to look and feel like Dixie cups. Umberto said that when they saw them, they thought they were the coolest.

Perbacco has staked out something people like -- upscale Italian -- and brings it with both barrels but none of the haute attitude. Burton did mention that the reservation was quite difficult to negotiate. Note for next time: Sample the five-hour pork sugo and/or roasted veal ragout. Maybe I can talk the parents into it, now that summer's coming. Also, study the wine list, since it's likely I'll be buying, as soon as the raise or Uncle Rupert comes through. I promise, Umberto.

The Ramjet of Pepper Grinders

I was going to take the rather unexpected step of writing in praise of paper pepper packets -- I've traditionally been morally opposed to pre-ground pepper, but during a recent lunch at my desk without a grinder available, I discovered that the stuff isn't so bad, it's better than nothing, the packaging typically has a somewhat retro charm (and it's recyclable!) -- and the alliteration is cute -- but I came up with something better.

Do you know what a ramjet is? It's a high-speed jet engine that, in contrast to a normal jet engine, contains neither a compressor nor a turbine. It's therefore simpler: The geometry of the thing is sufficient to sustain the processes that make it go.

Last holiday season, my mother stuffed a little pepper grinder into my stocking. I was initially attracted by the aesthetics of it: all stainless steel and industrial-looking. I discovered that it's really no more than a piston. A plug, which you pump with your thumb, moves thru a hole at the bottom of a larger cylinder. Where the plug and cylinder rub against each other, the plug is textured like the surface of an iron file. A chamber higher up in the cylinder holds the peppercorns. They get drawn into the gap between the plug and the cylinder, are crushed et voilà. A spring returns the plug to its resting position when you release it with your thumb.

The mechanism is thus much simpler than a traditional grinder but it's elegant and it works. It wouldn't do for a lot of grinding, and those with BlackBerry thumb should stay away, but it's a nifty little gadget nonetheless. Although I haven't tested this hypothesis yet, I suspect it would be less likely to gum up with softer peppercorns (for example, green or red) than traditional grinders, a problem I've had in the past.

And it's just the right size to find a place on my desk at work. Paper pepper packets, we were like two ships passing in the night.

Many Apples Olives

I'm in Many Apples (Anthony's epithet for Minneapolis). Last night, some coworkers and I had dinner at 112 Eatery in the Warehouse District.

Someone ordered an appetizer that consisted of olives served alongside candied nuts. The olives had a subtle taste of anise. Intriguing combination. I couldn't tell what the source of it was. Fennel? Might be interesting to experiment with a hint of sambuca or other anise-y ingredient.

Happy Hour on the Wolfgang Puck Express

While the eclectic lady is several floors upstairs shaking her head at the styles and price tags, I'm down in Macy's Cellar to see if I can find a cheap-ass splatter screen. $20 for an Oxo? Too much. I'm going to try Chinatown.

Since I'm here, and there's no telling whether K's trying anything on, I sidle up to Wolfgang Puck's sushi bar. First thing I notice: "Happy Hour / Monday - Friday / 5 - close / Sushi Rolls 1/2 price." Score.

I order the freshwater eel and avocado, along with the yellowtail and green onion. 12 pieces of sushi, $7 with tip. (Also I notice that miso soup is $2; beer pints are $3 to $4.) Just as I'm polishing off the pickled ginger, Kristen taps my shoulder and lets me know she's getting a cookie across the food court. "Wait for me," I say, paying.

By the time I look up she's already at the cookie counter. She buys me the Mexican chocolate chip, which has cinnamon. I love her so.

No need to elaborate on the ambience or the warmth of the staff. ("I'm tired. I need a new job," I heard the head waiter exclaim. Join the club, buddy.) What could you possibly expect? It's pretty good and fresh and you're in the basement of Macy's, undermining Wolfgang Puck by hitting happy hour. Check it out before theater or while waiting for the ladies.

On Bacon Shrimp Fried Rice

Theory

Googling my leftovers, I came across this recipe for bacon shrimp fried rice.

After some pondering, I concluded that I'm uncomfortable with all these ingredients being thrown into the pan together.

I can see the shrimp and bacon together.

I'd be content with a separate complement of steamed broccoli.

The rice, also, could be on its own.

The mushrooms are the unknown. They could go with the shrimp/bacon (probably my preference, although they should be minced, not sliced) or with the rice.

A premise of my critique is that the ingredients should not all be chopped into small pieces. Too much noise and not enough signal.

You can't have too many actors on-stage unless they're organized into clear groupings, patterns and hierarchies (cf. Balanchine). Without, it's just a mob scene.

Praxis

Serve the bacon and shrimp sauté on top of a bed of fried rice (use the mushrooms in the rice after all). Steamed broccoli goes on the side. Be artful, as always.

Bacon and shrimp sauté: bacon, minced onion, shrimp, soy sauce, sherry.

Fried rice: onion, garlic, mushroom, egg, rice, sugar, salt.

La Zuppa

Feeling a little under the weather and as always overbooking the to-do list for the evening (always thwarted, of course, by unforeseen events like a sink-spout malfunction, which now is on Saturday's to-do list), it's time to pull the quart of TJ's tomato and red pepper soup from the earthquake-food stash. After a quick swing by the natural store (a stopgap) for pricey low-sodium, no-MSG chicken stock, I get back in the kitchen and slice some zucchini and dice some shallots.

I saute these in olive oil, then mix in the soup and stock. While that's coming to temperature, I've got some polenta slices browning in a cast-iron skillet. Once the soup boils a bit, I throw in some almost-done turkey meatballs that I'd set aside from making big pasta over the weekend. It's now or never for these guys.

Once everything's done, I pop in a couple of cubes of frozen basil, again from TJ's, to finish the soup. I ladle out healthy scoops into pasta bowls, place the round polenta slices (did I mention the polenta is TJ's?) in the middle and grate some Pecorino at table. Main-course soup in about 20 minutes. I'm exhausted.

Pizza My Combo

Tonight's toppings at the Bistro Hugo: arugula, crimini mushrooms, French country ham, and red spring onion. Best ever? C'est possible.

Mangez Le Couscous!

Gather 'round the tagine, kids. I've got an easy couscous recipe, which we tested on Elbo last night. He gave it the classic Bonanos Thumbs-Up And Belly-Rub, so we must have done something right.

We used two recipes, one for vegetarian couscous, a second for Moroccan kefta (meatballs).

Print those out if you wish and make the following changes, as I did, or try your own.

For the couscous:

Instead of zucchini, I used asparagus.
Instead of vegetable broth, I used chicken broth.
Instead of 3 tomatoes, I used half a can of TJ's peeled unsalted tomatoes.
I added most of a can of chickpeas, drained and rinsed. I added them toward the end to keep them firm.

I also found the spices generally lacking, so I added more. You can do much of this adjustment at the end when you've removed the veggies and you're reducing the remaining liquid to a sauce.

For the kefta:

Instead of ground lamb, I used ground turkey.
Instead of ground ginger, I grated fresh ginger.
I added a few dashes of worcestershire sauce and 1/2 teaspoon of dried crushed mint. Mint is good.

It's also good to let the meat mixture sit for a few hours in the fridge before cooking. Let the flavors combine.

We put the kefta in a pan under the broiler. They took longer to cook than advertised, but keep a close eye on them. Once they start to brown on one side, they'll go quickly, so turn them over to get brown on the other side. They'll also release a lot of liquid, so use a tall-sided pan that won't slosh over the rim. We did not use skewers -- they were fine sitting on the floor of the pan, which we spritzed with olive oil spray.

Tip for couscous: you can use water, but the more broth you substitute for water, the better the couscous. If you want to add things to the couscous -- green onion, walnuts, raisins, currants -- do so after it's cooked. You don't want soggy nuts, believe me.

Yogurt Curry Makes the World Go Round

Here's a wonderful way to escape the chicken-again blues. Make a marinade of plain yogurt, spice up with curry powder, and let the chicken soak in it for an hour. Adjust the flavor of the marinade as you see fit. I like squeezing in a clove of garlic, a generous amount of lemon zest (instead of juice, so it doesn't curdle or water down the yogurt), salt, pepper, perhaps a shake of paprika and a dash of worcestershire, and a lot of dried crushed mint. Make sure you get the right flavor BEFORE you dunk the chicken.

Pre-heat oven to 400, arrange the pieces on foil, bake until nearly done. Half-way through, flip the birds and spoon on more yogurt sauce, assuming you have some left over. When they're almost ready, spoon a bit more sauce on them and pop in the broiler for a few minutes.

Even if they overcook a bit, they remain juicy thanks to the yogurt.

Finger Lickin

I'm setting myself up for a charge of hypocrisy. Here it comes. Duck!

Chicken, actually. I think drumsticks are fun, and only one week after I bitterly complain about infantile mashed potatoes. I prefer inconsistency to hypocrisy.

Inspired by how goddamn cheap they are ($2 for a pack of 5 at TJ's), I bought two packs. Emily had two ideas:

1) Egged then breaded with a corn meal-flour-spice-herb mixture. The proportions, roughly: 1 c corn meal, 1 c flour, salt and pepper, assortment of dried herbs, a few red pepper flakes, garlic powder and a tablespoon of finely grated parm.

2) Marinated in a soy-Asian glaze: soy, rice vinegar, sherry (the recipe called for mirin), grated ginger and finely minced garlic. Maybe a squeeze of lemon. Add or subtract as taste requires.

Both were very good at first, but the faux fried chicken got soggy quickly. Nonetheless a drumstick dinner was a great change of pace. Next time, we bust out the pomegranate-mint glaze.

There's not much to it but to concoct whatever breading or marinade you like. With a liquid marinade, the 'sticks can soak for hours. Then line them up on a large oiled oven sheet. Preheat to 450. Start them there for a few minutes, then reduce heat to 400. Check them after 30; they make take a bit longer.

Something bene to nota: One must be vigilant buying the TJ's house brand chicken parts. On a few occasions I've opened the packages to find a strong odor. Buy only the most recently packed. Or better yet, go for the kosher brands, though they may not offer drumstick-only packs.

Latitude and Longitude

After so many years of living and now visiting my home island, you wonder when you'll bump into a local version of seared ahi tuna and Caesar salad. Well, the time finally has arrived.

We've seen the same thing in K's hometown of Bethlehem, Pa.: People flee to the big city and sweat it out in the kitchens, working their way up until they say, "Hey, maybe we should try this at home." Granted, Aguadilla and Isabela, P.R. are a lot farther than Bethlehem to Bouley and the Flatiron district, but you get the idea. When people tire of Moravian sugar cakes and apple butter, they want Alice Waters' stuff.

Restaurant 18'67" (check your GPS) is cut from the same cloth. K and I did split a Caesar to start, and then I was reminded of my dad's favorite saying: You're still in Puerto Rico. I asked for cracked pepper, and the waitress spaced it out and went back to her station to add up some tabs. I flagged the other server on the floor, who brought a pepper shaker from another table, because no, they didn't have a spice mill for the salad. Why am I not surprised?

The wife changed the pace from the rice and beans with linguine with pesto and beurre blanc. Beurre blanc! I had braised pork loin stuffed with chorizo sausage in guava sauce, along with rice and beans. (I don't see a reason to change the pace. The pork was tender, the guava not too sweet and pink beans as good here as they are everywhere else, including Vangy's.) It was a Tuesday, which means it's two entrees for $20 -- a steal. No wonder it's crowded with surfers and gringo ex-pats.

The place is funny: Looks like they took over some retail space, complete with the track lighting and acoustic tile, next to a Chinese restaurant. They put a kitchen in back and a cut a door for an adjacent bar. The manager (could be the owner) wears a newsboy's cap. Pool games were 50 cents and there were drunk barflies on both nights we visited. I think I heard some Nirvana. I thought of my favorite chiperos, Alex and Elbo.

Review: Q

A neighborhood standby that for several years I've shied away from. Now I know why. As I well remember, the noise level is unacceptable. The acoustics are not good to begin with, but the staff compounds the problem by playing The Clash (a fine band) and Cake (also fun, but not when I'm trying to hear and chew at the same time).

I was impressed by the waitress's wine help. I asked for something red, dry, not too "fruit-forward" (her words) to go with my fish. She had a couple ideas, and I don't think she was faking it. The one I chose didn't appeal to me, unfortunately, but I'll let that slide. I'm no expert.

For a comfort joint, the food was lackluster. Chili-crusted mahi on corn 'n' black bean cakes: nice idea. Tiny portion. Too fussy and kind of bland. The snow peas on the side were cold. Ugh. The Fanch's steak was undercooked; it happens. She sent it back with no protest from the waitress. She was the best part of the meal.

Another complaint, which is no fault of Q, per se, more just a cranky rant in general: Mashed potatoes are the culinary equivalent of adults talking about their favorite cartoons. Grow up, for God's sake. For $50, the Fanch and I walked away a little dyspeptic.

I haven't had a good restaurant meal in a while, and I grow weary.

Review: Ciao, Bella

Skipping here a bit away from my report from the Caribbean to report from a busy corner of Geary, the one in the Inner Richmond just down from Nizario's with a Burger King on one corner, a Toyota dealer on another and a Kragen across the street. Kristen and I were going to eat downtown but didn't want to wander to North Beach and deal. We had settled on Italian, and I'll admit that I obsessed about where to go closer to the western neighborhoods. Bella was the best I could come up with, and K had even hit it before. Worth an official visit.

Maybe my skepticism was healthy, but it wasn't on the mark. Readers will recall that I go easy on the starches, but we each had fresh ravioli that knocked our socks off.

We sat sidesaddle on a banquette and watched traffic roll westward in the late light with something sparkling, as is our wont. The prosecco rosé was of a grapefruit color like the Handley I used to get shipped over from Mendo County, like the flower floating in a glass goblet on the table next to the tea light in the brandy snifter. The location is interesting, to say the least, and the Chron makes note of this in its two reviews. How many times have I staggered in two doors up the block for a slice but never checked out the corner? What of the parking gods, gracious or hellacious? If we weren't on public transit, it's likely we wouldn't have landed here.

Anyway, the small antipasto plate was good for two, with roasted eggplant, zucchini, cured salumi, a little fresh mozzarella and some dark olives, and for $3 more I bet the large would be a nice nosh for four.

I leaned toward the specials, which are listed on a separate page. Should I have the veal lasagna or the Vin Santo-braised short ribs? Looking for something lighter, I tried the lobster ravioli with tomato-cream sauce. K had the chicken ravioli in tomatoes and basil, off the regular menu (both $15).

The entrees were light, perfectly seasoned, very well paired with the prosecco, without the heaviness of butter or anything else. The tomato-cream sauce, sometimes known as the rossini, lets you have the best of both worlds, but instead of pinkish my plate showed some of the robustness of the beverage and the flower on the table, but not as much intensity as the tomatoes on Kristen's dish, which distinctly was made with chicken but also not dry or bland or overdone. Two versions of ravioli, both flawless, soft as pillows and handing the flavor to the fillings.

We had the hostess and a waiter checking in on us, fetching us fresh drinks and also comping us zabaglione with berries, mint, cinnamon and demi spoons. That was very nice. Without tip, the tab was $75.

For those who say that I'm fastidious and find fault with everything, even a nearly perfect dining experience, I know you're waiting so I won't disappoint: The table needed shimming.

Next post: latitude and longitude.

El Pescador

I imagine if you grew up in New York City that for special gatherings and family occasions you trek down to the delicatessen, or maybe in Los Angeles or San Francisco there's a particular dim sum place the folks like. Where I grew up, a town that I now describe as the Perth of Puerto Rico (this gets a laugh every time), the trip was to the Southwest coast to an area known as Joyuda, where there still are more than 40 restaurants serving slight variations of the same things.

Think of seafood places from Maine down to Maryland. Sure, each one has something a little different, but there are few surprises or standouts.

In Joyuda, there's one place called Brisas that brings out a plate of stewed rice with everything. Raítos was famous for its empanadilla fritters, which are like empanadas, only bigger, more bad for you and meant to be eaten with your hands. Since K and I were on the Northwest coast, a little research brought up Mesón Gastronómico El Pescador (sorry, no URL) on the waterfront of Isabela.

Now this place may have had basically the same menu available on Puerto Rican coasts everywhere -- white fishes like snapper, shellfish like lobster, rice and beans, plantains -- El Pescador distinguished itself by executing each dish and course perfectly, no misses, save for one, but let me begin to explain.

A seafood dinner in Puerto Rico means you kick off with ice-cold beer (a considerate, efficient wait staff knows this, and tonight was no exception) and with some appetizers, the fried kind. My Medalla, brewed in my hometown of Mayagüez, came out with a frosty mug as I put in our starters: bolitas de mero and arañitas. The former are fish croquettes, most likely grouper lightly battered, and the latter are bundles of shredded plantain that I believe are double-fried, dipped in a salt-water bath in between for extra crispiness. The "little spiders" usually are the size of a half-dollar, but these were quite a bit larger than that, but I assure you that they didn't last.

The bolitas had exactly the right texture and hints of the sea; I'm pretty sure grouper lends itself best to this. You dip them in a Frenchy dressing, and you understand the true sense of an appetizer. The coolness, dryness and carbonation of the brew is a near-unbeatable pairing. You settle down a little bit and look around the room; someone's painted an oil of the life-size fisherman sculpture that's out in front. There are some clippings here and there; the Mesón has gotten some press, along with the kiosks that dot the small waterfront. The dive across the square offers clams, oysters, fluorescent lights and video poker. It's cute, tropical, very Puerto Rico. The waitress clears appetizer plates and asks if I want another beer. Yes, I do. Here come the small green salads with a slice of tomato and cucumber, more Frenchy dressing.


For our main courses, I am having a fillet of snapper with mojo entomatado, in the Creole style with tomatoes, peppers and onions. It's something I've enjoyed many, many times and still do, although I vary it slightly from time to time. (Notice the pattern? Next time I'm getting the whole snapper, which was featured in a newspaper clipping and looked dynamite.) K ventures for the chicken breast, which is a steal at $10.98, but I'm a little apprehensive.

A: "Are you sure you want the chicken?"

K: "There's no salmon."

A: "I know, but there's shrimp, lobster ... other fish ... um ... OK ... fine."

Let's get this chicken out of the way. It's a breast, pounded flat and then grilled till done, seasoned with maybe a little salt and nothing else. Kristen calls it a pancake. (In a later deconstruction, we realize that swordfish would have been one acceptable salmon sub.) She makes a couple of stabs at it, and we end up taking it home to snack between resort breakfasts and knockout dinners. God bless her, K digs into her rice and beans and tostones.

Now for the snapper, known here as chillo: It's like the New York strip of seafood entrees. It can be had a million ways and I can't remember seeing it wrecked. Wonderful with lemon and butter, breaded, baked or broiled, with chimichurri or the mojo, it's soft and delicate, the fish of fishes, yielding gently to the fork like the steaks in Nebraska or Montana or wherever, where you find your place setting don't include a knife, except the shorty for the butter.

So there you have the welcome-home combo: fish in Creole sauce, rice and beans, fried plantains, cold beer. (Mr. Chicken, the staple in every American pot, is a scratch. Sea bass my ass, we'll spot the richer swimmers next time.)

Dessert is the house specialty: el nido, or "the nest," a strawberry coated in chocolate, cookie crumbs and crushed almonds, sitting in a tiny pastry shell. K approves. We'll be back.

Next post: latitude and longitude.

In the House with Mama Vangy

After five hours on one plane, missing the quick layover in Miami (funky jet stream) and waiting three more for the next jump to San Juan, then flying almost three hours before undertaking the two-hour, white-knuckle drive on the autopista to Mayagüez, it was time for some Vangy food. Mmhm. Food's cooking.

The first day's menu featured arroz con pollo con habichuelas, pretty self-explanatory. We also got bacalao, which is salt codfish, and viandas, the assorted, yamlike, starchy tubers that you dress with Spanish olive oil. My aunt Jossette also made guineos en almibar, which are ripe bananas in nectar. No idea why this dish is that popular, but it is very sweet and goes with an otherwise salty cuisine.

There also was the requisite mixed salad, and as an appetizer one of Vangy's "secretaries" fried up some surullitos, or sticks of cornmeal. No doubt in my mind why these are popular, especially with a cervecita, a can of Bud or Coors Light or whatever that's eight or 10 ounces (not too much, stays cold).

A few days later, we're back. For a change of pace, there's arroz con gandules, or pigeon peas. The main event is pasteles, tamale-like bundles made with plantain or yucca masa and stuffed with chicken, olives and finely chopped onions, peppers, raisins, love. (If you're having yucca, they're more savory and come in a beautiful sunshine-yellow color, as opposed to the smokiness and dark, exotic tone of the maduro masa. ) Today's "secretary" also had some boneless beef ribs. You know, in case the pasteles weren't enough.


For sides, green-plantain tostones (shown in their glorious fry) also came out with some more salad. There wasn't much difference between these two meals in terms of authenticity or taste, but for some reason the second time I couldn't stop eating. Kristen's eyes got really big as I put away three pasteles, most of the ribs, spoonfuls of the stewed gandules that had small balls of plantain thrown in.

Vangy also told Kristen that she needed to learn to have beer with her Puerto Rican food -- the best advice on record from a grandmother-in-law.

Next post: el pescado.

Buffaloed

A quick recommendation: Almost as good as TJ's frozen buffalo burgers are the chili-lime chicken burgers. Not bad in a pinch. However, stay away from the salmon burgers and the turkey burgers with embedded bits of corn and peas.

User-Generated Discontent, redux

I say redux as a shorthand to say "You read it here first." Turns out the Chron had this big story while I was away on frigging food bloggers having all this fun being more than a little annoying.

Looks like the Fifth and Mission gang whiffed at the First Rule of Cyberspace, which is recognizing that people who spend at least a dozen hours a day glued to computers want more than anything to be recognized. Now the fur is flying in the most tiresome and predictable way. “We ARE important! How dare some restauraeur dish like that? I’ll never eat at that place, ever!”

One thing I’d like more than anything is for people who say they’ve never been so offended and will never spend their dollars here or there, ever, to actually stick to their pledges and stay home, in front of their computers. That way I and restaurant staffers everywhere can relax. The market for dining out is big and forgiving enough.

In a future post, I'll relate my favorite restaurant story, from the Pijp in Amsterdam -- one that would never have happened, ever, if I hadn't been such a mensch.

Back like Plumpjack

After nine days of letting the hair down with the little lady, K and I went to get cleaned up and then got a little snack at Pizza Inferno, that place on Sutter and Fillmore, which actually wasn't bad at all.

The place, full of lively color with a couple of flat screens (tonight featuring the NCAA final), specializes in square pizzas that could be a little thinner and crisper, but let me assure you that they are lightly sauced and that the ingredients are fresh and toothsome. (You can also just have some olive oil brushed on.) The tap also featured Arrogant Bastard Ale from a brewery I've never even heard of. (Turns out during weekdays they have a happy hour on pints and pitchers, as well as a two-for-one pizza deal until 6:30.)

K and I split a salad and a fancy veggie with artichoke hearts, Roma tomatoes, roasted peppers and maybe other goodies, and you think that it's not enough food, but it is. The highlight was the vinaigrette on the salad, Knockout, probably the best I've had. The waiter even said as much when we ordered.

Rest assured that I've got quite a bit to report from my excellent, excellent meals abroad. Stay tuned.

Review: La Vie

I've waited a couple weeks to write this one up, which should tell you something right there.

Uh-oh.

I liked certain things. Ingredients were crisp, fresh, light. But two problems overwhelmed the smaller positives. First, the terrible service. Our waiter did the egregious head-turn a couple times when we signalled for his attention. Trust me, I was a waiter. I know the move. The joint was busy, but not that busy. We had to ask for several things -- water, an extra fork, this or that condiment -- more than once before they arrived.

The second neg was the cost, not justified by the quality, especially in a town with plenty of decent options for cheap Viet. I don't remember offhand the prices, but they were at least the level of Le Soleil without the creativity of that menu, the attention of the staff, or the loving care put into Le Soleil's recent makeover.

Here's where price and service converged to ill effect: It being crab season, and there being five of us, we wanted to rip one apart. "Is one enough?" we asked the waiter? "Mmm, I think at least two," he said. "Two for five people." OK, we said, and started to debate which two flavors (garlic, black bean, salt and pepper, tamarind, etc). Offhand I asked, "By the way, how much per crab?"

The waiter shifted his weight and looked a bit disappointed. "Thirty-eight dollars."

Right. Two for five people. Mmkay. He botched the upsell and pissed off the customer in the process. With the other dishes we were ordering, one crab was plenty, and he knew it. Sorry, but I won't go back. C'est la vie.

Product Placement: TJ's Dry Rub

Da Fanch and I have been devoted to making our own dry rub -- for food, dammit! Come on. This is a family blog. We found a recipe for "Iraqi spice mix" in a Middle Eastern cookbook that required the purchase of many different powders and other things that need to be pulverized. The result is an excellent, pungent rub for all kinds of meats, and I recommend it to anyone with time and a mortar and pestle. A Cuisinart will also do.

Second best: the TJ's "Steak & Chop Grill & Broil" mix, found in the spice rack. It's damn good, it's not too salty, and it has dried lemon zest, a nice touch. Start with it, then doctor it as you see fit. I like to add a little cinammon, especially for pork and chicken served with a couscous sprinkled with walnuts and raisins. Allahu akbar!

Pan Latin? ¡'Perate!

Say what we will about the New York Times and the particular strained relationship we have with it, but one of the best things about it (I think) is that eventually the paper gets around to nailing something right on the head, and then that’s done and over with.

Today it is the article on Latin supermarkets. First let’s get to the beans:

> A walk through the dried-bean aisle at Rancho Liborio in a case in point. There are pintos, both the larger, speckled brown ones preferred by Mexicans and the smaller, lighter-colored ones used in Peru. Pink beans appeal to Puerto Ricans, and black beans to Cubans, Guatemalans and Brazilians.

Pink! As I’ve been telling everyone my whole life, those are my favorite. Now let’s do the spice:

> Attracting Hispanic shoppers is a delicate business, according to Juan Guillermo Tornoe, who runs Hispanic Trending, a market research company in Austin, Texas. Buyers for big chains will often go to Hispanic food trade shows, order everything in sight and then wonder why their efforts to market to Latinos fail. “Well, what are you buying?” he said. “Are you buying hot sauce and expecting to sell it to Cubans?”

Yeah! Most Cubans don’t eat spicy, and in fact their food (at least in Cuba) is rather bland. Is that not what they told you at Cha Cha Cha?

I also love that there's a photo of an obese lady ladling an almost certainly sweetened agua fresca.

So thank you, Bill Keller. But no tres leches for you, Judy Miller.

Making Legumes? Cry Fowl

Wanna give a special shout to some of my favorite sauces for sofrito: ¡El Pato!

For the lentils on Saturday, I threw in a tiny jar of the jalapeño-tomato sauce (I usually use the tomato-chile, in the yellow can) to the saute and let it reduce just a little bit. Then I added the lentils, diced potatoes and a lot of chicken broth and water. That's why they tasted so good.

Now I need to get over the lamb.

Best Food in the (NL) West

According to 42-year-old baseball veteran Steve Finley, it's San Francisco, hands-down:

"There's such an eclectic mix of restaurants in that city," he said. "It's a mini-New York. Sushi. Steak. Italian. Whatever you want, you can find a small cubbyhole somewhere to find really, really good food. You name it, it's fantastic."

User-Generated Discontent

Much has been made of "The Wisdom of Crowds," the counterintuitive thesis and book that says the masses aren't necessarily asses after all. I'm sure you're already familiar with the work and with James Surowiecki's column in the New Yorker, so I won't drill down, but here's an interesting factoid from Bookmarks magazine's review, off Amazon: "The TV studio audience of 'Who Wants to Be a Millionaire' guesses correctly 91 percent of the time, compared with 'experts' who guess only 65 percent correctly." Other than in game shows, mmk, I understand from Amazon's Publishers Weekly blurb that such wisdom comes also comes into play "driving in traffic, maximizing stock-market performance, voting for political candidates, navigating busy sidewalks, tracking SARS and designing Internet search engines like Google."

Ah, the Internet, this vessel of compulsion, productivity and desire. I blog and comment and this site and a few others in bursts of all three to share, get up to speed, connect. A foodie forum such as this one involves a crowd -- a small, self-selected group of adorable semi-obsessives -- and I am here to give and take. Wise crowds, PW synthesizes, "need (1) diversity of opinion; (2) independence of members from one another; (3) decentralization; and (4) a good method for aggregating opinions." Isn't this essentially what the Web delivers? Is Surowiecki rehashing some geek's thesis about the power of the Net? That's so 1995!

The last 10-12 years have seen an explosion of online services, and a whole era devoted to funny fundamentals and paradigm shifts that justified not only a lot of content for the crowd, but also a lot more writers, editors, designers, engineers, business developers (still figuring that one out) and executives. (At the time, this was good for me. I got to work with interesting people, get paid and make something I found valuable. It was even better for the execs, who were in the exalted position of having little or no idea what they were doing, while understanding nevertheless that they would make out no matter what.) All of us were slated to develop content and put it out there for people. One of my favorite online destinations called itself Slate, its founder explaining that the Web was this blank thing they were going to pour stuff into or something like that.

But the crowd was not to be held back. Why pay frustrated college graduates to do digests in between sneaker shopping and snacking? People are so eager to talk about the things they're thinking and doing. The business plans basically wrote themselves; I'm just not sure about the bottom line.

Throwing your hat in with the crowd is weird when you already have more than 100 reviews, as one writer remarks (scroll to March 5 entry), for a place that's only been open four months. Even more unsettling is absence of irony or self-criticism in the dozens and dozens of comments for every venue for hospitality, even if visited but once. Yes, this is America, where we're assured of being good consumers by virtue of spending good money dining and drinking and carrying on. Then we run home, spark up our computers and profess the following: "So nasty," or maybe "It’s tasty."

Whether the shallot vinaigrette, chili dog or piece of shit can be differently nasty or tasty seems to be beside the point. The primary motivation is to be a critic, to put your particular perspective into the mix with countless other takes. Even if we grant that more than 100 reviews (Perbacco, my first Google alert) in total contain everything a person would want to know about a place, it’s 100% irrelevant to someone who personally appreciates what it is and what it does. Less than 10 user reviews is too small a sample, and the signal to noise ratio starts to get muddy at more than 40. So much for diversity of opinion. (One more work-related rant. I once had to copy edit thousands of blurbs on East Bay and wine-country eateries, as well as on food and wine pairings. After about 100, I had no appetite for anything at all. It became a blur of spurious suggestions: "Try the curry chicken, skip the chicken curry.")

What's the crowd raving about? The impulses to share and connect that I've copped to above could be symptomatic of something else. (A way to have your cake after eating it?) Besides, with half of the meals eaten away from home, I don’t think people have a case for puffing themselves up just for making the big decision to sit down somewhere. In fact, it’s a little naïve.

Restaurateur Danny Meyer, who’s gone from gathering recipes to writing a business book, doesn’t tell his staff to put the customer first; the customer is sometimes wrong, even in America. He advises his people to put each other first.

Think about the regulars at several places and what happens when they pop in, whether it's Zuni or Yo-Yo's. These folks don't hit the Yahoo boards or Yelp to get the poop; they know. The staff knows them, says hi and shares a little cheer. (It’s one of the ways the 80/20 rule manifests itself, where 20% of the clientele is more or less 80% of the business.) One-timers will be tended to right after. It's the difference between walking the busy sidewalk and wandering into the busy sidewalk cafe.

Review: Pres a Vi

This generation needs an Eisenhower, someone to sound the alarm about the growing threat of the small-plates/wine-bar complex. You know the scam: $13 dollar "large bites" and $8 glasses of wine, prices justified not by size of portion but by words per menu description. When a single salad is "blended," "layered" and "finished," it's time to stand up and speak truth to power.

Which brings us to Pres a Vi, a new place tucked into one corner of the Lucas Empire in the Presidio that seemed as good a lunch destination as any after a long walk at Crissy Field. The menu at first was inviting. Nothing over $15, with several dishes (including burgers and sausage sandwiches) arrayed together in what seemed a reasonably priced entree division. Turned out it was all small plates. "And what about the burgers? Are they like this?" I asked the waiter, making my fingers into a circle the size of a Kennedy half-dollar.

"No, the burgers are full size," he replied.

So, confusion right off the bat. That made me go down the list and ask, "What about this? And this?"

We started with potato wedges ("roasted," "fried" and "tossed") that were dry and mealy on the inside. More annoyingly, they had a name, "Jo-Jos." We also split an order of grilled asparagus named "Delta Grass" that tasted amazingly like grilled asparagus.

The next round were the non-entree entrees: tuna tatiki, Korean BBQ-style beef, and rock shrimp risotto. The tuna was raw but a bit chewy, not supple, with a lot of fussy stuff on top. The other two dishes were fine but damn small for their prices.

We ended with a beet salad named "Roasted Beet Salad," easy enough to figure out, but surprises lurked within. The description included "onion ring," which I thought was rings of raw or perhaps pickled onion. In fact it was an Onion Ring, a rather large one: breaded, deep-fried, and topped with the aforementioned beets. I did not expect and did not want a deep-fried onion ring with my beet salad. It was not cheeky or post-modern or retro; it was wrong.

So was the bill: $80 for three people, with only one of us (me) drinking alcohol (a $6 Anchor Steam draft). And the service: weird. Overly attentive, as they tried to clean the table of crumbs after each round and kept asking us how we were "doing," but in that California spacey way. And the feng shui: the room sucked all the energy out of the space, for some strange reason. Fanch pointed out the window sills were just slightly above eye level, making it difficult to look out at the nice view of the Palace of Fine Arts.

Kinda Fresh Pasta

I believe we've tried all the "fresh" ravioli options at Trader Joe's. As fresh as pasta can be after sitting in airtight plastic in a cooler for God knows how many days.

And I'm not talking about the jumbo-sized, which fall apart too easily, but the regular, um, ravioli-sized. Here's how I rank them, 1 being tops:

1) mushroom
2) pesto
3) lobster
4) walnut 'n' gorgonzola

Am I forgetting any?

And look what I found.

I Propose a Roast

One idea that I've been kicking around for a while: People like talking about their favorite things to eat and of course their favorite places to get it, which is of course completely subjective and not portable to others.

So you loved it when they comped you a dozen oysters at Globe. Or that you were accommodated with utmost kindness and consideration by everyone at Delfina. But in this human world, every kitchen has an off night. Sometimes the staff brings you the wrong dish, and you ask whether it's the right dish. "Yes!" the server says, and splits. That's the way it goes, and it doesn't go the same way for everybody. Who the hell cares anyway?

Oh yeah, so my idea is: Let's find San Francisco's absolute worst places to eat. (This is along the lines of my "food is disgusting" rant.) I'd like to try some and make mental notes of what's wrong. Who knows, maybe a few things will come out right. But basically I'm curious how screwed up things can get and how this can possibly be allowed to pass.

Any suggestions, other than the obvious tourist traps?

UPDATE: Here's a start. The Chron allows you to search by rating, serving up 13 crappy places to eat.

Review: Viet Not So Much

Elbo and I went to fill our Noise Pop prescription Friday night, but per doctor's orders we had to take our medicine on a full stomach.

(Here's a full review of the show.)

To comply, I suggested something from the Viet offerings down Larkin Street. Pagolac, where I have supped before, had a line nearly out the door, and Turtle Tower was closed for what looked like a thorough disinfecting. That left Mangosteen, on the corner of Larkin and Eddy with a view of the rockstar-friendly Phoenix Hotel and the crackhead-friendly purveyors of mirth who scuttled back and forth on the sidewalk.

The interior was encouraging: mild tropical colors and materials -- Elbo particularly liked the lazy bamboo wall fan -- made me think these folks had all the right ideas. Then the food came. It wasn't bad, per se. Limp perhaps is a better word.

A mango salad had less-than-fresh lettuce and extremely bland dressing, not to mention too few mango slices. My pho ga was also dull even when plied with green chili slices and basil leaves. Elbo's tofu curry was pleasant but not very interesting.

All this was confirmed the next day, underscored even, when The Fanch said, "Oh, Mangosteen. I've been there before. It was terrible." Now she tells me.

With so many other Viet options in Little Saigon, there's no need to give them a second chance.

Pre-Theater Tip Check: Back Bar at Grand Cafe

The Hotel Monaco still packs in a crowd before the shows, as Kristen and I confirmed last night. We walk in and poke around, but head back toward the dining room past the wood-fired oven to the rear bar area, where there's quick service.

We split a mushroom pizza topped with arugula, which was delicious but not as crispy-crusty as it's done at Pizzetta. I couldn't resist a couple of oysters (I think they were kumamotos) with a big glass of Bass. They knocked my socks off.

Except for the trashed tourist the next stool over who wouldn't stop offering food to the staff in broken Spanish, we were happy.

Signs of the Coming Gastro-Apocalypse

Sheesh! This was supposed to be a good-food, good-news blog. Now all this:

First, as Michael Pollan said at a food symposium at Berkeley a few years ago (E.L.M., thanks for driving), all the country’s bees are sick. So what do we do to pollinate crops? Breed more selectively to make more of the little fellas, even though that can make colonies more vulnerable to disease. Then what? Import some other buzzers from elsewhere, which inevitably leads to the spread of diseases that makes all the bees sick. Mmmk.

Out-of-control growth isn’t only on the producer side. Frigging
Whole Foods is struggling so hard to keep up with a sector it helped create, as well as the customers it carved out for itself against TJ’s and even Safeway that it’s stocking rotten produce at premium prices. You can say the same thing about Home Depot: Piss off enough people and it’ll be painful bringing them back. I’ll take on the five aisles of holistic health crap another day.

At least Frank B had a good time tossing salad in his swanky New York steak-house tour.

UPDATE: The grain market's abuzz, so to speak, over the bee thing.

Habichuated

Tell me how you like your beans, and I’ll tell you where you’re from. Frijoles negros? Let’s discuss it over daiquiris at El Floridita. Pintos? The first course will probably be pozole. In Puerto Rico, black beans are only for soup, and white beans are pretty popular, but will always be a step down from gandules guisados, also known as pigeon peas or pois Congo, and on the C-list compared with the real deal, habichuelas coloradas or rosadas, reds or pinks.

I’ve gone through most of the methods, dried or canned, with a sofrito (the Creole saute of onions, garlic, tomatoes and sweet peppers) or without, and I’m happy to share all of them with you, but there’s one mainstay that has to, has to be in the stew: pork. The vegan trip won’t impart that flavor and feel, or hold everything together. (Louis Armstrong fans already know, as we know.)

So: Take a long, fatty strip of bacon or even a cut slice of pancetta and pop it into a pot of soaked beans set to boil. Leave it in there for three hours. Then go ahead and brown some diced bacon or salt pork in a pan and start your sofrito with the drippings. Chop up some peppers (pasilla, Anaheim, yellow jalapeños, whatever you have), throw in a couple of spoonfuls of tomato paste. Also check out those little cans of El Pato tomato sauce they have at Latin markets.

Soften the beans for hours, then stir in the sofrito and add salt. If they don't come out perfect, remember that they’ll be better the next day and then the day after that.

The starch basically becomes an afterthought. I'll take red beans and rice any day instead of rice and beans, and no, I don't need them wrapped up in a tortilla.

A Hint of Mint

Welcome back to the occasional series, Sugo on Hugo. It's been at least a year since returning to the cozy, rainy-night basics of a sugo sauce ladeled over a toothsome pasta. The idea behind sugo is just minced meat. No veggies, no music, no veggies, no veggies, except for the onion and garlic chopped extremely fine. Tonight we chose lean ground beef, 5% fat, with the longer threads of the grind broken up with a wooden spoon as it was sauteeing. Don't give me no lumpy sugo, pal.

A large handful of red pepper flakes and a generous pinch of brown sugar later, it still needed something. Ah-ha: dried mint leaves, pulled from the stalks, ripped into small pieces but not pulverized. The more the better: I didn't really measure.

Fabulous. Beef and mint and dried red pepper, just what the doctor ordered as the hailstorms pinged the kitchen window and the thunder shook the fusilli.

King and Chief Probably Had a Big Beef

There's a running food fight between N.Y. Times food critic Frank Bruni and restaurateur Jeffrey Chodorow, whose new Manhattan steakhouse, Kobe Club, Bruni skewered recently.

Chodorow responded with a $40,000 ad in the Times, forcing Bruni to actually go out and buy the paper instead of reading it online. (Hey, shouldn't he get a free subscription?)

Best quote from another star chef: "If Frank Bruni had poorly reviewed one of my restaurants, I might have pulled a Tonya Harding and broken his kneecaps. I’d have thought, Dude, I’ve gotta do something."

Did I just write "star chef"? I apologize. You may now slap me across the face with a raw turbot fillet 39-foot Colossal Squid.

Calamari, Anyone?

I hear they're a bit tough when they're 39 feet long.

Adventures in Kefir

Mac, a friend of the family, Duchampian champion and all-around intense dude, gave me half his yogurt starter the other day. It looks like enlarged, slightly yellow cottage cheese, or from the other end of the telescope, very small misshapen lumps of mozzarella. Making yogurt from the starter is a rather complicated process that requires boiling milk, hand-held thermometers, and ice baths, so I've followed Mac's lead and made kefir -- basically, soured milk.

I pour milk over the starter curds, seal it up tight in a screw-top travel mug, and let it sit out for 8 to 12 hours. The curds float to the top, the scent is reminiscent of an Afghani goatherd's leather slippers, and it's ready to be strained through a colander.

The curds go back into the travel mug for the next round. If kept in the fridge, they stay dormant. Otherwise, they grow like mad, like Tribbles. Or Gremlins. Or bacteria, which is what they are.

Yes, it's an acquired taste. If you like the sour yogurt drinks usually flavored with nothing but mint and salt and available at most Middle Eastern places, you'll like my version. Also good: throwing it into a blender with a banana, a tablespoon of honey and/or maple syrup, and fresh mint. Call ahead and I'll have a batch ready for you.

Al's Cioppino

I've learned many things in the kitchen of Roz, but perhaps my favorite is cioppino, the San Franciscan seafood stew. There really is no recipe, per se, but as a shortcut you can start with this one and adjust liberally. Here are my tweaks:

* Dice carrots, celery and potato, each equal to about 1 cup. Add them when you add the bell pepper and saute.

* Salmon works nicely instead of the snapper or halibut. Avoid farmed salmon if possible.

* If you can't find fresh clams, use a can of minced clams.

* Seafood stock is better than bottled clam juice.

* Substitute white wine for the red.

From Perbacco to Taco

Readers of this space, all three of us, will note that I tend to scour my work environs pretty well for all sorts to eat, since by nature I'm easily bored and restive. A couple of things have been hitting it right on the nose recently, and the first of course is the newest and hottest place on the megaexpensive restaurant row of the Financial district, Perbacco.

Suffice it to say that my wife, on unpaid book leave, is on Perbacco watch, and in her own nice way has conveyed that it's a sometimes treat, like foie gras or mofongo. I understand and agree; adding appetizers to your assortment of drinks means the tab's going to hit three digits in short order, so it's hard to eat while enjoying hard-to-find Carpano Antica and other alcohols in a swank but impressively laid-back scene. The booths there at the bar are up for the taking, and even though it's sometimes just my art director and myself, we're never asked to make room or even leave when we're just gabbing.

I love Perbacco, though I've never had an formal meal there. It will become one of those things I'll eventually get around to one of these years.

Years ago, dear readers, when the Industry Standard was produced out of its Pacific Street office, we could have used a taco truck. I've been prowling around the area pretty frequently since, but it seems sometime in the last year or so, a couple of guys pulled into the parking lot at Sansome and Pacific and have never left.

This is the real L.A. thing, with the couple of tables and chairs under the awning, at L.A. prices -- at $1.50 for your old-school taco (meat, beans, hot sauce). They even throw in free jalapeños. I totally stumbled into it on the way to El Zorro on Columbus and am a bit beside myself. I'll have a further review forthwith.