Come to my new blog!

New England Eating

All's well that ends

A couple of weeks ago, after the moving truck pulled away with all of our earthly belongings, we took a trip up to Seattle and Vancouver for one last hurrah. We had great meals at (going from south to north) Tilth, The Oyster Bar, and Vij's. We grazed among the food stalls of the Granville Public Market (highlight: Oyama Sausage Co.). We also tried the dim sum at Sun Sui Wah, which, sad to say, didn't quite meet expectations. It was perfectly good, but no more so than anything I've had in San Francisco. We had heard so much talk about Vancouver's world-class dim sum that I was anticipating dumplings like the ones I'd once had in Canton (during the Reagan administration!). No such luck.

We flew back to San Francisco on Thursday. On Saturday, we closed the door our our California adventure and boarded a plane. It's such a sad thing, leaving. California already feels like another lifetime.

But arriving has its comforts. As I get settled back into my home turf, I'm going to start keeping a new blog, New England Eating, so head over there if you've found these posts useful or interesting. I may still post here occasionally as we make return visits. But it's time to close this page.

Wow. What an adventure it was.

Bake a cake

The biggest highlight of the past month, food-wise, was having the opportunity to make a wedding cake for a stranger. Well, a friend of a friend.

I was introduced to T, the bride, through a friend at Sunset. T lives in Boston, and our mutual friend thought we'd hit it off. We exchanged "let's have coffee" emails and that was that, until she emailed me for some restaurant recommendations. She and her fiancé had decided to elope to San Francisco. Where should they go for dinner afterward? Oh, and they both have the same birthday, June 26, so their wedding day was also going to be their joint birthday.

Who wouldn't find that plan at least a little bit romantic and inspiring? Actually, I know several people, but they just came out of divorces, and I don't blame them. Once you see the flip side of something, it's hard to get caught up in the flourishes. But meanwhile, I had a bunch of time on my hands. So I said "Go to Quince or Fleur de Lys. And hey! Let me make you a wedding cake."

After I hit "send", it occurred to me that this was the sort of offer that scares people. It could certainly read as an odd, vaguely inappropriate idea to propose to a stranger. I wondered if she'd worry that saying "yes" obliged her to, I dunno, be my best friend for life. There was a good chance she'd just thank me for the recommendations and politely ignore the cake part. But she got it.

The cake was made up of two layers, with each layer split and filled. Based on the couple's favorite flavors, I made a tres-leches layer cake for the bottom section, then put a simple chiffon cake with lemon-mango filling (really just store-bought mango butter doctored with lemon juice) on top. I frosted the whole thing with whipped cream and covered my mistakes with roses. It was my first wedding cake and I'm no master. But man, it was fun (that's the bride with the just-delivered cake). It's an honor when the food you cook can have a place of importance in someone's life.

Saying goodbye

I've been avoiding the blog because it meant talking about The End, which inevitably led to maudlin thoughts and sentimental ruminations that I should probably keep to myself. But here we are, the day before we fly home. Empty house, full heart.

A couple of weeks ago, we went for a walk at my favorite spot in the Marin Headlands. It was a shockingly clear day, a rare event in July. To the west, we could look far out to a fogless sea, and, to the south, see the bright city stacked up on its seven hills. It was so beautiful. I can't think of another town that compares to this, and yet after two-plus years, it's now clear to me now that I'm a Bostonian by nature. For whatever reason, I love New England in a way that goes down to my bones. It speaks to why so many creation myths have us popping out of the ground. That sense of place is a physical experience.

In my last post, I had promised news about some job interviews I did back in June. Now that I've been OK'd to go public, I'm happy to report that as of next week, I'll be the new food editor of Boston Magazine. It's a fantastic job–to dig around my favorite city, tracking restaurants, purveyors, and food trends–and I can't imagine a better time to take on this charge. So much growth, so much to cover. I just hope I'll do the city justice. There's also a satisfying full-circle geometry in this move, since it was at Boston that I got my start in magazines back in 1998. It's where I met Scott. So that's two good reasons for being a loyal employee. I'm chomping at the bit.

Still here

So much catching up to do, but this freelance life is busier than I had expected. I'm in Boston once more for some job interviews. I hope I'll have good news to share about that in the coming weeks. Meantime, I'm also working on a story for 7x7 Magazine about the gourmet/artisan food economy. It's awfully fun. I had forgotten how much I missed reporting.

I promise to earn my keep very soon with restaurant recommendations and a joke or two...

Unemployed

It's been a hectic week, mostly because Wednesday was my last day at Sunset. We don't move until mid-July, but I need to do some work on the book, which includes a couple of trips up to Washington and Mendocino. I've also picked up some freelance assignments, and I'm relishing this freedom to work in a t-shirt, with a cat in my lap.

In honor of my departure, Margo, my boss, organized a goodbye lunch featuring some of my recipes. I managed to get through the day without crying. Meanwhile, Scott and I had a great Memorial Day weekend in Sonoma, with so much wonderful food that I'll need to devote a separate post to it. After I get some work done...

This is important

It takes just a moment to ask Congress for a Farm Bill that supports healthy, affordable, locally-grown food. The existing bill subsidizes monoculture at the expense of family farms and hurts poor farmers in developing countries.

Sighting

Last night, we returned to Quince for another birthday*. They certainly are the go-to place for special occasions. Given the number of candlelit desserts that make their way out of the kitchen, it's a wonder the staff can muster such enthusiasm each time. Kudos to the management. The service really is perfect.

Dinner was excellent, as always, especially the pici pasta with fiddlehead ferns and pancetta. I thought my salad (asparagus, cucumber, radish, and green almonds) could have used one rich element for contrast. Green almonds are light and fresh, with the soft texture of grapes. The ones in my salad had been lightly pickled, so they were crunchy, more like cucumber flesh. A light sprinkling of cheese or hard-cooked egg, or even roasted almonds, would've been nice.

The highlight of the night, though, was spotting Jacques Pepin at the table behind us. I don't know him, but I've met him at conferences and I'm always impressed with how warmly he welcomes strangers and fans. A true gentleman, and a Renaissance man. If you haven't read his memoir, The Apprentice, add it to your summer reading list.

*Happy Birthday, Marilyn!

Savoring

It's a gorgeous evening. Looking out from our living room window, I can see the valley of Glen Park backed by the steep ridge of Miraloma Park. Across the street, a cluster of Cordyline trees is blooming, and the air is just misty enough that the lowering sun shoots the whole scene with gold light. Lately, when coming across a view or a setting that seems so typically Californian, I can't help but stop and take it all in. It's so beautiful here.

There have been some great meals of late. I discovered that Pizzaiolo, in Oakland, has the Best Pizza in the Bay Area. If only we'd met sooner! It'll have to be a summer fling. Of course, I still love Gialina, but Pizzaiolo's crust was even more flavorful, and the Margherita pizza was as good as any I've had in Italy.

Last night, we paid our first visit to a new Peruvian spot, Piqueo's, in Bernal Heights. Peruvian food is an incredible mash-up of Incan, Italian, Japanese, African, Spanish, and Cantonese flavors. With each wave of immigrants, the cuisine expanded. Consider our favorite dish from Piqueo's small plates menu: the Pobrecito, a highly seasoned white bean and rice cake topped with plaintains and a fried egg. Where did that combination come from? Everywhere.

I haven't studied Peruvian food in enough depth to hold forth on it here, but when I eat it I often find myself craving more aromatic notes, such as you find in Southeast Asian cooking. Flavors like basil, mint, lemongrass, cinnamon. Peruvian food has such range, but the flavors tend to be quite earthy: vinegar, sofrito, sharp heat, corn, and soy. But I suspect there's more to it than that. Maybe the Peruvian food cooked in American restaurants represents only one or two regions. It'll be interesting to find out.

We also discovered a great wine bargain with our dinner: a 2004 Viña Rey "70 Barricas" Tempranillo for just $28. It had all the lightness and fruit of a good pinot noir, with plenty of acidity to hold up against the rich dishes.

Referred

Every so often, I like to check my site statistics to see how people find their way to this blog. Often it's through a Google search. Something like, "Eating in California," or "Best pizza San Francisco."

Today, however, I found something different. A Google search for the following:

"cool smooth people who are hot photos"


Dear reader, I have failed you.

The best cake

I edited a story in this month's issue of Sunset about Doña Tomás restaurant in Oakland. It's just a simple party menu, but these recipes were some of my favorite yet: garlicky shrimp-cilantro tacos, crisp chicken tacos, beet and orange salad, and tres leches cake.

That last recipe is so unbelievably good that I'm copying it here in the hope that someone will make it. We were literally making up reasons to keep retesting it ("Uh, let's see if the whipped cream sets up differently on an overcast day." "Did you weigh the raspberries?"). Forget any mushy, too-sweet tres leches cakes you may have had. This is more like a dulce de leche cake. And who doesn't like that?

The method is simple: Bake the cake (a foolproof genoise), split it in half, soak with the three-milk syrup (condensed milk, goat's milk, and cream cooked down until thick and caramelized), and layer with whipped cream and raspberries. It's easier than you'd expect. And it tastes best when made a day or two ahead of time. It's my new birthday/holiday/dinner party standby.

Tres leches cake with raspberries

For cake:
6 large eggs
1 cup granulated sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
6 tablespoons melted butter

For tres leches sauce:
1 can (12 oz.) evaporated goat milk (see Notes)
6 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 tablespoons corn syrup
1 stick cinnamon (about 2 in.)
1/8 teaspoon baking soda mixed with 2 tsp. water
2/3 cup canned sweetened condensed milk
1 1/4 cups whipping cream

For filling and frosting:
1 3/4 cups raspberries
1 1/2 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 cups whipping cream
2 teaspoons vanilla
1/2 cup powdered sugar

Preparation

1. Preheat oven to 350°; position rack in center of oven. Butter and flour a 9-in.-wide cake pan (at least 2 in. deep) with removable rim; set aside.

2. Make cake: select a large stainless steel bowl (at least 10-cup capacity) that can nest comfortably in a large pot. Fill pot halfway with water and bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce heat to a gentle simmer. In bowl, combine eggs and sugar. Set bowl over water; with a handheld mixer, beat eggs and sugar at high speed until pale and thick enough to fall from a spoon in a wide ribbon, about 10 minutes.

3. Remove bowl from heat. Shake flour through a sieve over egg mixture and fold in gently. Add melted butter and fold in gently until no streaks remain. Scrape batter into prepared pan. Bake on center rack until cake is evenly browned, just begins to pull from pan sides, and springs back when lightly touched in the center, about 40 minutes. Set pan on a cooling rack and let cool at least 10 minutes. Run a thin knife between pan and rim. Remove rim and let cake cool completely.

4. Make tres leches sauce: In a large pot (at least 6-qt. capacity) over high heat, combine goat milk, sugar, corn syrup, and cinnamon stick. Bring mixture to a boil. Stir in baking soda mixture (sauce will foam up) and reduce heat to medium. Simmer, stirring occasionally, until sauce turns a caramel color and reduces to 3/4 cup, 10 to 12 minutes.

5. Remove sauce from heat; discard cinnamon stick, and stir in condensed milk and whipping cream. Use warm (see Notes).

6. With a long, serrated knife, cut cake in half horizontally. Leave bottom half on cake pan bottom. Lift off cake top and set, cut side down, on a flat plate.

7. Put cake bottom (with pan base) on a wire rack set over a rimmed baking sheet. Poke cake bottom all over with a toothpick, being careful not to poke all the way through. Slowly spoon enough warm tres leches sauce (about 1 cup) over cake bottom to saturate well but not cause it to ooze. Let stand until cool, about 10 minutes.

8. Make filling: Reserve several raspberries to go on top of the cake, then put remaining fruit in a bowl and mix gently with granulated sugar. Set aside. In a chilled bowl, use a mixer to whip cream until it holds soft peaks and is thick enough to spread. Add vanilla and powdered sugar; mix well.

9. Scoop about 1 1/3 cups whipped cream onto cake bottom and spread level to edge. Dot with sugared raspberries, pushing them down into cream. Carefully set cake top, cut side down, onto cake bottom and neatly align. Poke top all over with a toothpick as before, then slowly spoon about 1 cup tres leches sauce evenly over cake top to saturate well. Smoothly frost top and sides of cake with remaining whipped cream; transfer to a clean serving plate. Cover cake without touching (invert a large bowl over it) and chill at least 2 hours. Cover and chill raspberries if held longer than 2 hours. Cover and chill remaining tres leches sauce.

10. Uncover cake and decorate with reserved raspberries. Serve with remaining tres leches sauce.

Makes 10 to 12 servings

Chef: Thomas Schnetz

In praise of excess

Hot diggity! Cherry season has begun. This past weekend, I bought 2 pounds of Brooks from Frog Hollow Farm* and another pound of Tulare. Scott thought this was excessive, but did the cherries last until Monday? No. I have eaten cherries to the point of self-injury. No other food has this effect. To put it in analogy form:

"Amy is to cherries" as...

a) Bush is to privacy
b) "Lost" is to narrative
c) Cats are to catnip

Answer in my next post. Meanwhile, I'm sure cherries are chock full of antioxidants or somesuch. It's not like I'm eating Pringles, right?

There's plenty of other good produce in the market, too. Last night, I steamed some asparagus, fava beans, and baby artichokes and made a lazy aioli with store-bought mayonnaise and leftover basil vinaigrette. All green! So simple and delicious.

*Scott, my birthday and Valentine's day are very close together.

The long goodbye

It has been a busy couple of weeks, with a recent whirlwind trip back East to visit with family and do some pre-move groundwork. It was good, and strange. More on that later.

Around here, I've been trying to cram in as many restaurant visits as possible. I've enjoyed terrific meals at Dottie's True Blue Café (best breakfast in the city), Antica Trattoria (Wow, real Italian, not Cal-Ital!), and Pescheria (Noe Valley's charming--as if that needs to be said--Italian fish house). San Francisco sure loves Italian.

I would have really enjoyed my meal at Maverick if the dining room didn't hit junior-high-cafeteria decibels. Seriously folks, there's no reason it has to be that loud. Stick some foam under the damn tables.

As for going home, I'm fully in the "What have we done?" phase of cross-country relocation. Not that I don't know, fundamentally, that it's the right thing. Not that I'm not excited about many, many things. Not that I don't love the energy of the New England food scene. But I'm also well aware of everything we're leaving behind. I want to spend every spare moment at the farmers market and drive every back road of Sonoma between now and July. A Boston friend recently said, "Don't worry. The restaurants here are really good. It's just the shopping that sucks." Except during the growing season, of course. And there's Formaggio, which is wonderful (though they certainly haven't embraced the localvore trend. I saw Flemish strawberries for sale at about $9/lb). There's the great seafood and cheese (again with the cheese!). And Vermont. And Wellfleet! But it's an adjustment. Like going back to your childhood home and finding it a little bit smaller than you had remembered.

Cheese, please

Ever since we decided to move back home, our friends and colleagues have responded with understanding murmurings about the importance of family, the value in having given it a shot, the cost of real estate. People have been kind and we appreciate it. We've made friends out here who we'll miss terribly. And I think it's a safe bet that about half of them think we're nuts. To be able to live out here and do work that you enjoy...and to choose to leave it? In exchange for Boston winters? Why would any sane person do that?

As I've been saying a lot lately, family trumps food. And even weather. But the food thing does pain me. I've grown accustomed to year-round farmers markets, strawberries in March, tomatoes in October, persimmons in November, green grass in January. I'm remembering one very sorry excuse for a persimmon that I saw in a fancy Boston produce market last December. I fear the ennui (and bloat) of being separated from all these remarkable farm-fresh fruits and vegetables.

But, on an optimistic note, I just thumbed through some press materials for Jeff Roberts's Atlas of American Artisan Cheese (June 2007: Chelsea Green Press. $35), and it gives me hope. In his definitive list of all the artisan cheesemakers in the West, Roberts lists 86. That includes all the producers in California, Washington, Oregon, Hawaii, Alaska, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Utah, Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming. Meanwhile, in little bitty New England (that's Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut to you westerners), there are 84! If you add New York state, that brings the total to 119.

This does nothing for my waistline. But it does wonders for my spirits.

Two roads diverged

We finally made it to Fish on Friday night for dinner. This was our fourth attempt, the previous three having been felled by our bad timing, their funky hours (they close at 8:30), and a temporary closure last year. But we made one final attempt because my dear friend Kristen is in town and a trip to Sausalito seemed like a good way to close out the week.

We weren't disappointed. I love fish restaurants that do the thinking for you by sourcing from sustainable fisheries. It's nice to be able to settle into a lazy dinner feeling virtuous. The harborside location is lovely, especially at dusk when the bay and the sky reach that identical shade of blue.

We started with fat spears of asparagus tossed in garlicky Green Goddess dressing. Why do we ever settle for skinny asparagus sticks at this time of year? These were so sweet and juicy. I also had house-made pasta topped with grilled hamachi. Very simple and good, toothsome and a bit buttery-smoky, but my coworker insists I should have had the crab roll. Eh, next time. Kristen had the fish tacos: no complaints. And Scott had seared, bacon-wrapped ahi, which disappeared before I remembered to ask him for a bite. He assures me it was delicious.

The restaurant only takes cash, so come prepared.

That makes one less restaurant on our list of places we've failed to try, but not for lack of trying. Scott still hasn't made it to Canteen, though I have. Too few tables, and they fill up early. I never call Town Hall in time to get a reservation, though Scott did go to a work lunch there. And Pizzetta 211 seems to be closed every time I make it to the Richmond (which must always be on Mondays and Tuesdays).

We need to get on this list because, well, time is running out. We're moving back to Boston this summer.

I love California. I especially love the food. But we love our families more. And it turns out that living 3000 miles away from all of them just doesn't work as a long-term arrangement.

The move will likely happen in early to mid-July. There's a lot of eating to do before then and I'll be writing up a storm in the meantime. After that? I'll likely go back to tracking the New England scene with my newly-Californicated taste. You might want to avoid me in that first winter back. I've seen the produce and it's not pretty.

Carmel

At the end of their recent extended visit, my parents requested a trip to Carmel, where they've been spending the occasional weekend since the late 1960s. Not much has changed since then, which is what they love about it.

Carmel is charming. Its beach is one of the prettiest in the state, and the faux English country cottages that line the side streets give it a cozy village air. But even the most most modest cottages now sell for north of $1 million, so behind its quaint veneer this former art colony is really an exclusive magnet for wealthy retired golfers.

Perhaps this explains why so many of Carmel's restaurants seem cast from earlier decades. Like a septuagenarian who decides that she's tired of redecorating the living room every decade, Carmel has settled into a contented peace with its familiar, if slightly out-of-date, offerings. There are exceptions: Bouchée and its sister restaurant Luca will both look familiar to fans of contemporary California cuisine. But many favorite spots seem anachronistic.

That's not a criticism. We were all pretty well charmed by it. At Flying Fish Grill, we had excellent seafood prepared California-Japanese fusion style. With its wood-paneled room and slightly retro preparations (almond-crusted bass, fried wonton chips), Flying Fish had an early-90s feel. But it worked.

The Little Swiss Cafe goes even further back. This small, family-run breakfast and lunch spot serves homemade blintzes, apple strudel, liver and onions, "low calorie ground steak," and stuffed tomatoes. Scott said that the blintzes were the best he'd ever had. And we were all taken with the panoramic fresco (that's a panel in the photo above) of the Dutch countryside in the back dining room. Go check it out. It's a work in progress, and the artist, André Balyon, has recently started adding trompe l'oeil effects, such as a painted nail on one wall and a piece of duck tape on another.

My boys

This is for friends and family back home.

Ok, ok. Enough with the cat. Back to the food...

The list, once more

Every year at this time, I like to revisit a challenge I set for myself when we first arrived in April, 2005. I made a list of all the foods that seemed essential to a happy urban life. I figured I'd feel at home in San Francisco once I knew where to find each of them.

Last year's answers are here. But seasons change, feelings change.

So true. Maybe my answers have changed, too?

Let's see...

1) A good pizza place that delivers

Aha! Now that the wonderful Gialina has opened just a few blocks away, who needs delivery?

2) Sushi within walking distance

Eh. Still Deep Sushi. Still pretty good. Still overrun with Bugaboo strollers.

3) Ice cream within walking distance that's just far enough away

Mitchell's is still very, very good. But if we walk just a bit further we can make it to the new Bi-Rite Creamery for some excellent salted caramel ice cream. I tip my hat to them: They knew that we were all suckers for the word "creamery".

4) A brunch place where you don't have to stand in line

My house. Seriously, it's impossible everywhere else.

5) Dim Sum, ibid

Ugh. Once more, I'm horrified that I said "ibid". I leave the original phrasing here to shame myself into never using it again. And I suggest getting to Ton Kiang early to beat the crowds. I'm also going to try to check out Joy Luck Palace this weekend. Will let you now what we find.

6) That place you recommend to visitors

Three: Slanted Door, Quince, and Bacar. With any of them, you'll leave feeling that you've had a proper San Francisco dining experience. Bacar might not be in quite the same league, but it's a crowd-pleaser with a great wine list and it's pretty easy to score a table.

I always send weekend visitors to the Ferry Plaza market because, you know, we live in a cult. And if Saturday night reservations are hard to come by, I'd send them to the food court at the Westfield Centre downtown because you can get Slanted Door food on demand and you won't see another mall food court like it.

7) That place with the young chef who just needs one good review

In a city with so many food writers, I'm beginning to question whether anything remains to be discovered. But down in Big Sur, the Big Sur Bakery and Restaurant is serving fantastic made-from-scratch food all day long, from their perfect jelly donuts in the morning to smoky wood-grilled wild salmon with succotash at night. And they're not getting nearly enough credit or attention.

8) The place with the rice pudding

Whole Foods in Palo Alto. Seriously, it's pretty good. Otherwise, it's my house once again, where I'm working on a terrific cinnamon rice pudding with apple compote for the book.

9) An Indian restaurant with puffy breads

Spice Hut in Menlo Park (and Newark, Sunnyvale, and San Jose). It's a chain!

10) The place where you meet friends for drinks

I'm in a retro mood, so I'd say the Tonga Room or Top of the Mark.

11) The place that becomes "your place."

It's not a restaurant. It's all of Big Sur. Whenever I'm there, I feel like I'm living my California dream.


p.s. Many of you (my mother-in-law) have asked how the kitten is doing. He's doing well. So well that the little 3-lb. pipsqueak has usurped 18-lb. Clio as the alpha. I can't begin to explain it, though I do wonder if things might change once Elijah is old enough for a certain little snip-and-tuck?

Twin Farms

Here's a story I wrote quite a while ago for Yankee about New England's most expensive top-secret inn. They finally published it a couple of months ago and I see that it's available online.

Miami redux

Just got back from Miami, where we celebrated Passover with my in-laws. There is a brief window this time of year in South Florida when the weather is just warm enough, just humid enough, just breezy enough. At night, the air smells like trumpet flowers. So despite the traffic and the sprawl and that ridiculous airport, I had a lovely time.

And you know what else? I like gefilte fish. All the Ashkenazis at the table turned up their noses, but I would've had seconds if I hadn't eaten so many matzo balls. My sister-in-law thinks I eat them to prove that I'm not anti-semitic, but the affection is genuine.

We also ate at Michy's. It was my second time, and, sad to say, not as good as the first. The dining room is so bold and sexy, with blue and orange walls and vintage mix-and-match dining room chairs painted glossy white (come to think of it, everything is sexy in Miami once you get close enough to the beach). But two of the lightbulbs in the chandelier above our table had burned out, which, in such a cheerful room, cast an oddly sad shadow. Our blue cheese and ham croquetas, so salty and sharp the first time, had lost their kick and oozed out into a bland, creamy puddle. The menu hadn't changed much since last summer and the overall impression was one of fatigue brought on by repetition.

On the plus side, it was a thrill to eat that ancient form of gazpacho made with bread, almonds, and grapes (Try it: It's quite easy to make and it never fails to wow a crowd).

The day before we flew back, we were adopted by a young kitten who followed Scott and his mother home from a walk. He was tiny and affectionate and seemed worth the trouble of paying for re-booked flights and last-minute vet appointments. Sometime we are inspired to do nonsensical things. It being Passover, we named him Elijah.

Quince wins

San Franciscans are categorical about food. We're like the shop clerks in High Fidelity, only our nerdy lists tend toward "Top 3 dim sum spots outside of Chinatown," "Most authentic taco," and "Best cootie-free hot dogs."

Yes, we are very fascinating.

One category, though, has left me stumped and frustrated: "What's your favorite restaurant?" Seems like an easy question, but I've found myself muttering something about oh, I like different places for different things and the food's so good at Zuni but the service is bad and Incanto is really good if you're not spooked by offal, CAV is a great wine bar, Universal Cafe is sort of the classic San Francisco restaurant, Spice Hut in Menlo Park has good Indian food and...

Well, no more. I have a favorite! I finally made it to Quince.

We had a perfect meal. I'm not overstating here. It was my mother's birthday and the staff nailed every detail. The greeting at the door ("Yes, your table is right here"), the personalized menu ("March 26, 2007 -- Happy Birthday Elaine"), the perfect Lillet cocktail, the fresh flowers, the little warm rolls. Quince is polished and warm, a well-oiled machine that accommodates improvisation and quiet moments of pleasure. It's Pac Heights elegance without fussiness. Swept along in comfort, you're fully primed to savor the food.

And the food! Cauliflower sformato, like a dense soufflé or mousse, was enriched with parmesan, an earthy-airy game of tag. There was a salad with the sweetest pixie tangerines and blood oranges layered with watercress and pistachio. Agnolotti dal plin were tiny little pasta purses stuffed with ground veal, pork, and rabbit. Three bites in, I was high on umami.

We ordered the cheese course. We had dessert (Mom's served with a slender candle) and blood orange tea. We talked and laughed and slowly landed. They brought our coats, pulled the car out front, and we smiled, sighed, and left.

It was a splurge. But the bill was an even $200. For three people, on a night of such happy indulgence, I can't complain.

Oooh, that smell

I went to Rainbow House of Customer Service the other day (motto: "We don't bag your groceries on principle!"). Actually, it's a great store, just unfriendly.

I also find it wonderfully odoriferous, and that's not a euphemism for stinky. Rainbow has the same slightly sweet, earthy smell that all natural foods co-ops have, and I'm trying to tease apart the components. My best guesses are below, but if any of you are out there, please vote! I'm serious about this.

One part bulk local honey
One part cheddar cheese
One part carob (do people still eat that?)
One part cardboard
One part something grassy-grainy. Groats? Quinoa? Spelt?
One part cedar bath products
One part crystal deodorant sticks (okay not really)
One part bok choy
One part unsulfured dried apricots

The question of Chez Panisse

When I meet new people, I'm often reminded that my job can sound pretty living-the-dream-ish.

"You get paid to write about food?" they ask. "How do I get that job?"

What they're thinking is that I spend my evenings eating free meals in restaurants, then roll in to work at noon to dash off a few hundred sparkling words. In reality, I never dash off sparkling words and I rarely eat free meals. I have a long commute and spend most of my time at a desk trying to edit other people's words to preserve their style while also fitting the story to the magazine. It's a balancing act. There's a lot of typing and filing and detail managing and scheduling. When I'm not doing that, I'm in the test kitchen trying to get my recipes to work. That can be really, really fun. But it can also be frustrating. Why did the pork shoulder take 8 hours to cook today? It only took 5 hours yesterday. We can't give a "5 to 8 hour" time range. So we do it again the next day, all day. And again. Some recipes just take a while to get the kinks out. Sometimes I tear my hair out.

Oh, poor me. No, this is not to complain. I like my job very much. What I mean to say is that, at the end of the day, you know, work is work. You have to perform. And there isn't any job out there (is there?) that takes you to some perfect, unearthly non-job realm. Once you accept that, you can make the most of what you have. That's why I feel compelled to explain all this to strangers, if they're interested. Most aren't. They're probably perfectly happy with their jobs and just making conversation. But sometimes I need to remind myself.

And there is plenty to be grateful for. Case in point, a recent night that lived up to all my food writer fantasies. It was a dinner at Chez Panisse, hosted by Chronicle Books to celebrate the release of A Pig in Provence by Georgeanne Brennan.

Events like these can really blow my brain. I don't go to many of them, mostly for a lack of invitations. Also, Bay Area foodie types have to wrestle with all kinds of "dime a dozen" anxieties. I know I do. So there's the attempt to out-groovy each other at gatherings. One look at the crowd brought out my most prim and disapproving inner New Englander. Oh you all think you're so special with your embroidered tops and your berets, going on about the extra daylight and how Sonoma is just like Provence. I'll show you by wearing this cheap and unremarkable sweater. And furthermore, I vacation in Maine, where you can't swim in the ocean cause it's THAT COLD. And we eat food from cans and casseroles made with French Onion dip.

Actually, that last part isn't true. Maine is beautiful, but I'm a Cape Cod person. But the point is...what was it? Oh, that you have to find your way.

Of course, once I started talking to the nattily attired folks at this party, they were lovely. And really interesting! The food world attracts true humanists in the best sense. Liberal Arts types who were never able to pick a proper major and so chose a field that lets them dabble in history, science, and the arts. Food people usually have good stories to tell, and they can be warm and wonderfully carpe diem about life.

So it was a swell evening, once I got over myself.

But I am left with one question: How does Chez Panisse get away with doing just one menu every night? You show up, they hand you a short and beautifully illustrated list of four or five courses, and that's what you eat. No choices. Just one menu.

Now, I do understand that the restaurant is ground zero for the California Cuisine movement. I appreciate that they did it first and that we have them to thank for supporting the early goat cheese makers and baby lettuce growers who went on to become Laura Chenel and Chino Farm. What would we be without them? I am on my knees and bowing at the altar, believe me.

But this is a restaurant that attracts some of the most talented young chefs in the country. Their alumni go on to do great things. So couldn't they, I dunno, juggle a coupla different dishes? Is it just a charming conceit?

I question whether it's so charming anymore. It's one thing when Chez Panisse was just a little cafe with a former Montessori school teacher and some friends banging out dinner every night. But how long does one rest on one's laurels when other players have taken the ball and run? I know, I know, the café has a regular menu, but the main restaurant is the marquee player.

Ah, I don't know. Fact is, the meal was wonderful. It is always wonderful. The service is perfect. And when I think of the ten most memorable meals that I've had since moving here, two of them happened there. I may try to resist the Chez Panisse mystique, but I have to admit that there is a sort of alchemy that happens in that dining room. People become their most charming, contented, big-hearted selves. Maybe that happens best when we're not choosing and debating and I'll-split-this-with-you-if-you-get-the-ravioli bargaining.

Valentines, with pita

Love was in the air last week. I was talking with a friend about marriage. Specifically, happy marriages. I was saying how much of it is luck. She said, "What about you? What about what you did to make your luck?"

I don't have an answer for that. It reads to me like the cockiness that precedes the swift kick in the ass. So I keep my head down, feeling grateful for this solid, delicate thing. I don't look too far ahead and fear even talking about it too much.

I was looking ahead, though, on Wednesday night, while we were having dinner at Mijana in Burlingame. They make their own fresh pita, and I knew Scott would appreciate that. Only later did we appreciate what a stroke of genius it is to head out of the city for dinner on February 14. Easy parking, easy reservations, no attitude, no inflation.

We were sitting on the banquettes eating pita (crisp outside, soft inside) and great falafel (crisp outside, soft inside) and savory beef kebab (tender all over). I noticed a group in the corner, 3 couples, early 50s. The men were clustered on one side of the table and the women sat opposite, leaning in to each other and away from the men. It was like a junior high dance. Everyone was having fun. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, laughing. It was a holiday gathering, just not a romantic one.

It's a silly holiday, of course. But...is it possible to avoid the "oh you again" sinkhole? I have this allergy to couples who refer to each other as "this one," as in, "This one spends so much time on the toilet, I had it engraved!" No, we hope for Alice and Calvin, not Alice and Ralph.

Zuni or not Zuni? That is the question.

It's hard for me to say this, but I think I'm done with Zuni. For now, at least.

This is a big deal (for me). I have long counted the restaurant as one of the best reasons to live in San Francisco. I love everything about Jody Rodgers' approach to food. Her love of ingredients, her perfect technique, her fluency in all things local and seasonal. Just when I think I know something about food, I look at her menu and come across a dozen things I've never seen before.

Her cookbook is the best one in my collection, the one book I'm committed to cooking through in its entirety. If you were trying to learn great technique and could buy only one book, I'd tell you to get that one.

But I am so tired of having every perfect meal bruised by bad service. So I'm giving it up for a while.

Last night, we went in for a celebratory dinner. Our friend Jessica has just landed an amazing new job, and another friend Julia was visiting from New York. There were 5 of us: not a small group, but not a logistical challenge, either. We were happy and a bit more spendy, a server's dream. Ours was friendly (and to be fair, they've gotten much friendlier of late), but we had to repeat our orders three times before she got it all down (and she still forgot an appetizer). We had to ask for water twice, and we didn't get it until halfway through the meal.

These are small points, I know, but this is an expensive restaurant. And my experience has been that it's consistently disappointing in many small ways. I can't get over the disconnect between the level of care that goes into the food and the lack of care expressed by the servers. Two weeks ago, I went for my birthday and our server disappeared for so long that we had to flag down the busser for drinks, for refills, for clearing, for dessert menus, and for the check. I'm fine with doing that at a casual place, when I'm not paying $100 for dinner. A girl has her limits.

So that's that.

But...uh, I've only been there one time for brunch. Maybe the daytime staff is better?

Excuses, excuses

We went to dinner at House of Nanking Monday night with our friend Rob, who's in town from Boston. Rob is a hard-core food nerd, the sort of person who will fly to Japan to try a restaurant. Next to him, I'm devotionless. Then again, Rob makes more money than I do.

Rob loves House of Nanking, and so do I. Some people–mostly blowhard Chowhound types–sneer and call it a tourist trap. But if you're coming from any place other than LA, New York, or Vancouver, this seems like exceptional Chinese food, brighter and more layered, and yes, somewhat Californicated. I love the fresh herbs and the fried sweet potatoes and the squid with vinegar sauce.

So it was a great meal, except for, well, me. You know how when you think you've probably offended someone, but you're not sure, you end up looking for ways to apologize without actually apologizing? That would be our dinner.

Rob got married last May in Las Vegas. We flew out for the wedding, but on the way out, I felt a cold coming on. By the next morning, I was feverish, aching, stiff-necked, and acutely sensitive to light. One long 6 a.m. trip to a walk-in clinic later, all we knew is that I probably didn't have bacterial meningitis. But they didn't know what it was.

I went straight to bed, dragged myself out for the ceremony, and left halfway through the reception. Photos show me glassy-eyed and bloated. Every step sent shooting pains up my back. I sent Scott out for the after-party and stayed in bed for another 24 hours until I swallowed a handful of Motrin and stumbled out once more for a pre-scheduled interview with a chef I was hoping to profile in Sunset.

If you ever find yourself driving down the Sunset Strip at night wearing dark shades to shield your eyes from the light, you'll be a Man, my son! No, actually, you'll know that Las Vegas is just about the worst place to be sick with light-sensitivity. But the chef had set aside his one day off to meet with me. He had invited other chefs over for a barbecue, just so I could talk to them. I couldn't miss it.

Unfortunately, Rob and Anna had scheduled a casual "farewell dinner" for their guests at the same time. And Scott, who is typically such a loyal, savvy, wise man, told them that I couldn't make it, not because I was in bed with the typhoid, but because I had to go "hang out with a chef." Maybe he said I had an interview. But he definitely didn't explain how bad it was, how much effort it took for me to make the appointment, how I really had no business being out of bed and around other people. So it looked like I was blowing them off, at their wedding.

Hence my greeting to Rob the other night: "Hey! It's so good to see you! Gosh, I think I haven't seen you since your wedding when I was so sick! Remember that, honey? The viral meningitis I had?"

During dinner: "So how's Anna? Oh, that's so cool that you're going back to Vegas for your anniversary! Maybe we could meet you there. Because I'd really love to finally get to enjoy the city, since I was so sick the last time we were there and really couldn't do anything except go to your wedding and do that interview that I was required to do. For work."

On departing: "Hey, it was so good to see you again. Let us know about Vegas! I'd love to be able to go there when I'm not sick and really celebrate with you guys."

Hot tub, check. Chardonnay, check. Smooth jazz, check.

Before we moved out here, a friend made a point to warn me about California h0t tub parties. She had spent a year in San Francisco during the dot-com boom and said that most of the cocktail parties she went to usually ended with a bunch of n@ked people in a hot tub.

Huh.

We haven't been to any n@ked hot tub p@rties (though, to be fair, we haven't been to that many parties). But we suddenly have a hot tub at our disposal and we hosted our own little party last night. For 2 other people, with clothes.

How did we get a real California hot tub? My parents–who are retired and like to escape the New England winter–are subletting an apartment here through the end of March. They arrive in a couple of weeks. That apartment comes with a backyard hot tub and a wet bar, and it's empty for now. Can you say "party house"?

Actually, our idea of a party house is to tiptoe around the apartment, careful not to drip water on the wood floors, while hooting "Party house!" just loud enough to get a rush without alerting the neighbors upstairs. We drank some Prosecco and ate microwaved gyoza from the freezer, then kicked back in the tub until we saw three big raccoons hulking across the yard. The house is on the Mission side of Noe Valley, so we figured that these were Mission raccoons and not to be messed with. We tried making scary noises: "Hey! Pfft! Shoo! Shhhht! Ffft!" We wondered if they'd try to get in. "I'll hold them under the water until they die," Scott said.

Eventually the raccoons got bored with us and went over the fence to bother someone else. Maybe find a real n@ked hot tub party. We got out and went back to our house with some pizzas from Gialina, my favorite new place.

Front porch

We met up with friends last Thursday for dinner at The Front Porch, a newish Caribbean/Soul Food restaurant in the Outer Mission, which is just a 20-minute walk from our house.

We didn't have a reservation (only large parties get those), and were told to expect a 45-minute wait. The crowd was mostly twentysomething, lots of Mission Youth and budding yuppies. It was noisy and crowded and my first thought was, "I'm too old for this."

Yes, too old. This year, my imminent birthday feels like the brick wall in one of those car crash tests. I guess that makes me the dummy? Or the car? In either case, it's clear to me that I've exchanged one phase of life for another. The upsides? Some more stability. Better understanding. We don't have to feel silly about enjoying our dinner-and-Cranium nights. We can take vacations that I couldn't swing 8 years ago. But these thirtysomething birthdays have their own challenges. We begin to face our fears of middle age, and try to forgive ourselves for not hitting all the marks we thought we'd have hit by now.

I was ruminating along these lines when our friends showed up. "Let's go in to the bar." said D, who is not facing a birthday and isn't too worried about her age. And so we stood around, cocktails in hand (can't remember the name, but mine was cider, lemon, pomegranate and very good), like we had every right to be there. Of course we did. Silly me. We weren't even the oldest people in the room.

As for the food, the fried chicken was good, but not my favorite. Though juicy and crisp, it lacked flavor. I like my chicken quite salty and peppery, with a bit of buttermilk tang. This was milder.

I did love the creamy grits with crab, lemon, scallion, and chiles. A good dish for sharing, since it's so rich. But very comforting on a chilly winter night.

Aloha

Long time, no blog. Turns out that "write about the book while also writing the book" plan was too meta for me. Instead, I'm going to go back to a more general approach. This is just a little online journal, after all.

So...now that it feels like winter, even in California, let's pay a visit to the islands, shall we? Scott and I spent the holidays in Hawaii, specifically Oahu, Kauai, and Maui. I now take you to Mama's Fish House in Pa'ia, Maui.


This is the view from the dining room. Someone recently told me, "The thing about Hawaii is that it delivers." It's true. It's everything I had hoped it would be, and how often does that happen?



This was my lunch, the Pua Me Hua Hana special: Mahimahi sautéed in coconut milk, Kalua pig, grilled banana, Molokai purple sweet potatoes, poi, tropical fruit (lilikoi, papaya, star fruit, mango, rambutan), and fresh coconut. All that, and I didn't have to sit through a bad luau. I even liked the poi, which should be familiar to anyone who grew up eating Cream of Wheat. Same pleasant, slightly bland, slightly creamy profile, but smoother.