Berkeley bound

One of the best things about moving to a new place is that constant sense of discovery. On weekends we like to take our bikes -- by car, ferry, or BART-- to some new town or neighborhood and spend the day exploring. Last Sunday, we did a Berkeley tour.

There were a few places I'd been eager to visit: Kermit Lynch's wine store, the Cheese Board, Breads of India, and some non-foodie shops and sights. Won't bore you with those.

I had read Lynch's excellent wine travelogue Adventures on the Wine Route, purchased two years ago at a tiny wine shop in St. Johnsbury, VT, and I was secretly hoping to get a glimpse of the man, even though I know he lives in France part of the year. Can't believe it took me six months to do this, but it's just such a nuisance to drive to Berkeley on weekends with all the bridge traffic. Now I was prepared: Bike, backpack, and willing legs for the schlepping. Counting down the addresses, I saw the barn-like building up ahead. Turned the corner, holding my breath, and...they're closed Sundays.

Next stop: the Cheese Board, the legendary collective that was there at the beginning of the Berkeley food revolution. A quick search for directions informed us that they, too, are closed on Sundays. See what happens when you give the workers a say? No wine and cheese for the hedonists.

Bravely onward. Now we were hungry. Breads of India, was open, God bless 'em. We ordered tandoori salmon and a vegetable curry (the menu changes daily), plus garlic naan. Wow. I honestly think that fish was the best tandoori I have ever had. Maybe the best salmon I've ever had. The naan lived up to its top billing. Even the raita was great. Plus, everything had that wonderful new-discovery smell. And so the day was saved.

Corked

Can you explain to me why a restaurant would charge a $10 corkage fee when they don't have a liquor license and don't even uncork the wine for you?

That was the story last night at Mangosteen, a new restaurant in the Tenderloin that's had a buzzy (though not boozy) opening: mostly enthusiastic reporting in the Chronicle and lots of foodie chatter.

My friend T met me there, toting a bottle of wine. I was wary, given the day's wine drinking, but I said I'd have half a glass. T asked the waitress for an corkscrew. The waitress came back with it, saying she'd have to charge us $10 for, "uh, bringing the wine."
"But you don't have a liquor license, right?" I asked.
"Right," she said.
"So it's not like we're drinking our own wine instead of drinking your wine."
"Right," she said.
"So why charge us for bringing something you don't have?"
"It's for the opening of the bottle."
"But you didn't open it for us. We opened it."
"Um, let me call my boss."

When the food arrived, we went ahead and opened the bottle, since our waitress had disappeared and we weren't getting any water. Then the bill arrived, with a $10 "appetizer" tacked on. We paid it, but for the first time in my life, I didn't leave a tip.

Looking back, I'm not sure it was the right way to handle it. The service was really bad, surcharge aside. Still, they did bring the food to the table, and probably should've gotten a token 10% just for that. It was just a lousy experience, and we were pissed off by the end.

Wine before noon, a little too soon

I am the tiniest bit, ahem, buzzed at the moment, having just bellied up to the tasting table at work. I always feel a little bamboozled when I drink before 3pm. We're working on a "shockingly perfect wine pairings" piece, matching some down-market foods with nice (but not too expensive) wines. The results are fun and surprising, but I can't spill the beans. We know where that leads.

I can't say we drink a lot at work (and we do spit). But it came as a shock. We're drinking? At work? In the middle of the day? And not getting fired? But then I realized, duh. We're in the West. They make wine here. We write about it.

You don't realize how much you've absorbed the values of one place until you leave it, and I see Boston's puritanical streak more vividly now. When I first moved there, you couldn't buy liquor on Sundays (that law was repealed in 2003). And I didn't realize what a New Englander I was until I came here, where every supermarket has at least three wine aisles, and found it--to my chagrin--kinda shocking.

I enjoyed wine in Boston. I am Italian, after all. Gotta, um, represent. But on some, nearly inaudible level, the glass came with a voice that said, "Ah, partaking of the demon liquor, are ye?"

This way is better.

(and I keep having to go back and edit this piece. Blame the demon.)

Watch it wiggle

Check it out: A San Francisco artist named Elizabeth Hickok (who, incidentally, also moved here from Boston), has sculpted the city out of jello.

Apple crisp

My mom called from Connecticut a few weeks ago to say she was making her first apple crisp of the season. Wouldn't it be great if we could teleport? Best of both worlds: California and Mom's apple crisp. Of course, the technology would be appropriated by Silicon Valley and I wouldn't be able to afford it. And then you'd have the porous border problem. Maybe jetpacks.

This is an apple crisp worth traveling for. No Cali-hippie granola topping, more like a sweet biscuity crust drizzled with butter and cinnamon. It was my grandma Mary's recipe, clipped from a 1940s women's magazine. I found the original copy in a ziplock bag a couple of months before she died. The paper feels like worn silk and barely holds together, but I like keeping it in the bag with the others, the ones that became family standards, and the ones she set aside for some future day. "Your grandma Rose was the good cook," she'd say. But this is the recipe I make most.

With an old-fashioned apple peeper/corer, you can get it prepped in about 20 minutes. Bake it while you eat dinner, then serve hot with poured cream or vanilla ice cream.

Mary Q's Apple Crisp

1 dozen apples, peeled and sliced 1/3 inch thick (I like to mix Braeburns and Granny Smiths)
2 cups all-purpose flour
1-1/4 cups sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
10 tablespoons butter
2 teaspoons cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350°. Melt butter over low heat; set aside.

Mix dry ingredients in bowl. Drop in eggs and mix with a fork until crumbly (the mixture will look like streusel).

Spread sliced apples in a 9x13-inch baking dish. Distribute topping over apples, then drizzle with butter. Sprinkle cinnamon to cover. Bake 45 minutes, or until topping is golden brown and filling bubbles.

Back to school

I was invited to a lunch at Delfina yesterday celebrating the publication of The Niman Ranch Cookbook. Bill Niman was there with his wife Nicolette Hahn, an environmental lawyer, along with Bill’s co-author Janet Fletcher and assorted folks from Ten Speed Press. We munched on all kinds o’ meat: grilled lamb chops with rosemary salt, roasted suckling pig, beef carpaccio, and bacon-laced pizzas.

At one point, Nicolette mentioned an op-ed piece she was trying to get published. It was about animal feed, and how most of us don’t know what’s going into the chain at the early stages. The Times had published her op-eds before, but no one wanted this one.

Which got me thinking about how little we know, or even care, about the food we eat. For all my rhapsodizing about all things organic and artisanal, and all the visits to the farmers’ market, whenever I try to think or write seriously about our food system, I trip over huge gaps of understanding. I know that the growth of Niman Ranch is a Good Thing (setting aside questions of carnivorism). Five hundred independent family farms are now raising cattle, pigs, and sheep according to Niman’s protocols. If places like Burger Joint and Chipotle are buying the meat, and people are willing to pay a little more for them, then that makes the world a better place, right? That’s easy.

But that’s also a little shallow for someone who calls herself a food writer. Food is a big subject to tackle: history, cooking techniques, ingredients, wine. A life-long pursuit. But this stuff is important, and I need to launch this part of my education in earnest. Anyone have any recommendations? Favorite books?

Cow town

I went down to Valencia Street on Saturday night to take in the Lit Crawl, San Francisco's own version of a Boston-style bar crawl, with cafes and bookstores replacing the bars and published writers replacing the guy in the corner playing a strummy version of "Take It Easy." Actually, some of the readings were held in bars, but no one was doing shots that I could see.

After the readings, I wanted to take Scott to Belden Place, which has a real "Roman Holiday" charm at night, with all the outdoor tables and the lights strung across the alley. We were hungry though, and Burger Joint was right across the street.

Like many San Francisco restaurants, Burger Joint trumpets its use of Niman Ranch beef and free-range chicken. And it's nice to start a burger meal feeling virtuous, because that's a feeling you'll want to remember once the french fries kick in.

As for the food, it was certainly better than your average diner burger. But our burgers were juicy to the point of sogginess, soaking the bun, our hands, and several napkins. Fries were very good -- puffed and steaming inside, crispy outside. But Joe's Cable Car is still tops in my book.

Favorite food-related fainting stories #2

Thanks to folks who have weighed in on the soup story. I believe the fainting episode was brought on by a pre-existing condition and not by the soup itself. But it somehow seems funnier that she did pass out during the soup course as opposed to, say, dessert.

None of my own personal fainting tales are quite as funny. They tend to happen in doctor’s offices, bedrooms, or, as Scott witnessed last February, on the top floor of our house in Boston during a snowstorm. I have one fuzzy memory of being carried out in a special strap-in chair and hearing a fireman say, “Watch it guys, those steps are wicked slippery.”

That particular faint was brought on by a stomach virus, high fever, and lack of food and water. But I recently met a woman who faints when she eats too much food. Something about a big dinner and a couple of glasses of wine can knock her for a loop.

One of the most memorable episodes happened in Hawaii, where she was on vacation with her husband. By coincidence, they ran into his ex-fiancée at the hotel’s pool. The relationship had ended years before, and the ex was actually there on her honeymoon. But still. They did their awkward greetings and introductions and -- to show there were no hard feelings -- agreed to meet later for dinner.

Dinner itself was tense, but uneventful. Forced into the role of The Woman He Picked Over Me Even Though I’m Fine Now, my friend ate and drank more than was probably advisable. They finished dinner and paid the bill, and then they went for a little stroll.

The fainting, when it happened, was complete. Out by the pool, she had only the presence of mind to lie down when she felt it coming on. I think there was a little bit of convulsing, which is pretty common and not necessarily serious. And when she came to, she was so weak she couldn’t stand, or even sit up. The resort had to send a golf cart out to carry her back to the room. They lifted her into the back, bent her knees so she’d fit, and her husband got in front. They rode off, waving weakly. They never saw the ex again.

Favorite food-related fainting stories #1

I'm an occasional fainter, and I sure enjoy a good fainting tale. Nothing intterupts ho-hum polite society better than passing out cold. Here's a new one:

This woman I work with lives in a very social neighborhood: block parties, barbecues, movie nights. As these things go, she became closer to some neighbors than others. She wanted to invite her new friends over for dinner, but she worried what would happen if the others found out. "Oh hell," she finally decided, "It's not like they'll ever know."

Can you see where this is going?

One of her guests passed out during the soup course. The hostess knew the woman had a heart condition, so she called 911. Fast on the heels of the call came 2 amblulances, 4 fire trucks, 8 paramedics...and every single other neighbor, all gathered in her living room, looking at the abandoned dinner table.

The fainting victim was fine, but as for my friend's social standing, it's touch and go.

Regrets, I've had a few

Went for a long bike ride around the city yesterday. Over Diamond Heights and down to the Marina to take in the air show, then off to the Presidio and the Great American Highway. It was a perfect San Francisco day: cloudless and temperate. Your body never has to work very hard to keep a steady temperature here.

Before the air show, we biked to Chestnut St. in the Marina, dodging SUVs and Bugaboo strollers, looking for lunch. Does the Marina really exist in this city? Such a pretty spot by the water, but now I know why my old college friend got very quiet when, early in our housing search, I announced that I wanted to live there. It's hard to get past the impression that everyone is a recent graduate of the exact same college.

Scott got excited, though, when he saw Andale Taqueria, where he had eaten once, years ago. "Oh, this place is great!" he said. A few bites into his fish taco, his shoulders sagged and he announced dejectedly, "I guess this only seemed good because I hadn't been to La Corneta yet."

We haven't had many bad meals here, but there have been some clunkers. Here's my list of outright failures and minor disappointments:

Flat-out bad meals
1) Andale Taqueria
2) Shalimar (last mention, I promise)
3) Bistro Zinc - 2 bad meals, actually, because I didn't want to believe it the first time)

Places I just expected to like more
1) Yank Sing dim sum - this feels like sacrilege, but I was only wowed by the soup dumplings
2) Alice's Chinese restaurant, Noe Valley - great flavor, too oily
3) Manresa, Los Gatos - I can only believe that it was an off night. Too many great reviews elsewhere.
4) Pauline's Pizza - Did I miss something? I loved the Indian toppings, but the crust was your basic puffy Greek-style bread.

That's a pretty short list, considering.

Tagged and tagging

Mona tagged me last week, and I'm finally following through. Here are the instructions:

"It's the 23/5 meme. The blogger tagged has to go to their 23rd post, find the 5th sentence, and then write something interesting about it on their blog."

So here's Calforniaeating 23:5-6:
"I have two things to say about that. One: Yes, it's true that the blog's a bit uh, sunny."

This post chronicles the last gasp of my raging homesickness. I was responding to feedback my friends had given me about the blog: "It sounds like your life is a series of wine dinners and trips to Sonoma!" they protested. And I was pointing out that, though I was actually unhappy at the time, I wasn't sure how personal I want to get here.

The way I see it, there are three types of posts:

1) Info that's useful/interesting to anyone (restaurant and travel tips, and, if I was stupid, work gossip/bitching)
2) Stuff that's interesting to family and friends (daily events, observations, musings, and Clio news)
3) Stuff that may only be interesting to me (long musings about How I Feel and, uh, Clio news)

Haven't made much progress in figuring that stuff out. Meantime, I'm going to tag some other suckers. You're on McPolack, FeedandSupply, Cuarentayuno, and Carolyn Tillie!

What's in a name

Found a terrific Indian restaurant called Chutney right across from Shalimar (of regretted memory) at Jones and Ofarrell. Great Lamb Vindaloo and Baigan Bartha, and decent breads (puffy and slightly charred - yum - but a little bland). Cheap, too.

So thank God the place is called Chutney and not Chutney's, because I can't stand restaurants named in after a food product in the possessive form. Portobello's and Thyme's and Calamari's...ugh. Normally I don't believe in cultivating silly prejudices, especially where food is concerned. But this just sticks in my craw.

So I'm wondering if there's anyone out there with equally random quirks. Not snobby quirks ("Ugh, the waiter called them g'nokeys. Idiot."). Quirky quirks.

Heading home now to bake some challah. Happy New Year!