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.
4/25/07
4/24/07
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.
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.
4/18/07
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.
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.
4/16/07
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.
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.
4/12/07
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.
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.
4/11/07
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.
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.
4/9/07
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.
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.
4/7/07
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.
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.
4/3/07
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.
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.
4/2/07
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.
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.
3/22/07
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.
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!
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!
3/21/07
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.
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.
3/19/07
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.
3/15/07
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."
"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."
3/12/07
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.
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.
3/10/07
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.
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.
3/9/07
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.
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.
3/7/07
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.
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.
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