California Eating

Update

2009-03-03T13:48:00.000-08:00

So I launched my New England Eating blog with every good intention of tracking the food scene here. Oh, the fun we'd have on the back roads of Vermont! And then I found out that we were expecting this little guy. And, to be honest, all food sounded pretty bad to me for a few months there.

Just when I started to eat again, my employer announced that I was now obligated to blog for them. For free! And I was blogged out.

This is just a lengthy way of saying that I'm sorry for the bait and switch (if you clicked on the link, that is). And, also, that all is well here in Boston.

UPDATE 7/1/09: I'm back! Come see me at the new New England Eating blog.

Come to my new blog!

2007-08-13T15:09:00.001-07:00

New England Eating

All's well that ends

2007-07-19T11:13:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-03T18:16:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-11T19:17:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-01T14:25:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-28T17:46:00.001-07:00

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

2007-05-23T19:32:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-21T18:56:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-18T14:47:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-18T11:36:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-15T18:47:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-11T15:41:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-18T18:34:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-17T16:25:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-13T10:18:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-12T16:49:00.000-07:00

This is for friends and family back home.

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

The list, once more

2007-04-09T16:21:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-06T07:42:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-05T17:21:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-28T08:59:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-22T09:07:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-19T18:00:00.000-07:00

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

2007-02-16T17:35:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-02-11T15:00:00.000-08:00

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

2007-02-07T09:59:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-02-02T09:50:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-22T11:03:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-17T11:26:00.000-08:00

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.

Progress

2006-09-18T15:48:00.000-07:00

Apple varieties in our house thanks to the Ferry Plaza farmers' market:
1) Pink Pearl (yay!)
2) Melrose
3) Rhode Island Greening
4) Granny Smith
5) Gravenstein
6) Connell Red
7) Cortland
8) Empire
9) Jonathan
10) Philo Gold
11) Arkansas Sweet?
12) Bramley Seedling
13) Ashmead's Kernel...
...and one or two others I can't remember at the moment. Scott made little sticker labels for each apple so we can keep track. I'm tasting and taking notes, trying to create a comprehensive apple comparison chart.

Meanwhile, I did the first round of testing on an apple challah recipe. The loaves came out looking really beautiful, as seen here. But I took them out of the oven too soon. The insides were still soft, which made them collapse, and putting them back in the oven couldn't do anything at that point to restore the shape. But I like this general idea: you roll the bread up like a cinnamon bun, rather than braiding it. I'll try it again with a little less egg and oil, and cook it at a lower temperature. Hopefully that'll solve the problem.

Land of enchantment

2006-09-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

We were in New Mexico recently, where I lived for a couple of years in my twenties. It was beautiful, restorative, delicious, and unbelievably green. They've had more rain than usual this summer -- more than the ground can absorb, actually, so there have been problems with flooding. But it was also edenic. Imagine that dramatic landscape in shades of sage and grass and blue. Every time you turn around, your mouth drops.
One of the best moments was returning to Leona's of Chimayo for lunch. If you ever make it to New Mexico, do not miss the opportunity to eat there. Fantastic carne adovada, great tamales, fresh tortillas, and Leona herself, surrounded by grandkids.
Even though Leona's is a destination restaurant with a popular mail-order business on the side, it's still run out of the same little ramshackle stand next to the Sanctuario. You'd still get wet if a hard rain came down at the right angle. Not much seems to change in New Mexico, and that's a nice thing.

Pleasures of the flesh

2006-09-06T12:17:00.000-07:00

So here's an apple you probably won't find on the east coast: the Pink Pearl. Isn't it pretty? Like the Gravenstein, it's a summer variety, which means we're now at the tail end of the season. Sigh.

The breed is popular with apple enthusiasts, but because it bruises easily and doesn't keep well in storage, it never made it to the supermarket shelves.

To make matters worse, Pink Pearls are homely on the outside, with dull yellow-brown, faintly blushing skin and an uneven conical shape. I almost skipped over them at the farmers market myself. But they have a secret: inside, they're positively vampy, with shockingly pink, sweet-tart flesh. Even the blooms are bright pink. The fruit is crisp and tastes of raspberries and lemon custard. In fact, I baked some Pink Pearls in a galette with raspberries and they were a natural pairing.

The first Pink Pearl was hybridized in Northern California in 1944 from another red-fleshed variety called "Surprise," which, in turn, probably descended from an ancient breed of red-fleshed Turksh crabapples. "Surprise" apples were beautiful, but sour; a plant breeder named Albert Etter came up with with Pink Pearl as a way to breed more sweetness into them. So I'm giving thanks to him and to the farmers who keep these heirlooms in circulation.

Never a dull moment

2006-09-04T17:22:00.000-07:00

We have been living through interesting times this past month. Remember that proverb, "May you live in interesting times"? Apparently Robert Kennedy quoted this "ancient Chinese curse" in a speech in South Africa in 1966. Only it turns out that there is no such curse, or at least, not in China. The only known Chinese proverb related to this sentiment reads, "It's better to be a dog in a peaceful time than be a man in a chaotic period." I'm sure it sounds more graceful in its original tongue.

Anyway, we've weathered some interesting times in recent weeks, most poignantly with the recent and much-too-soon death of Scott's uncle Ron Magram, who had a lot to teach us all about finding meaning in difficult times.

We've emerged in relatively good shape, and last week I got some very exciting news indeed. Remember that book proposal that I mentioned? Well, if all goes according to plan, my first cookbook -- everything you ever wanted to know about apples and more (that's not the title) -- will be published in Fall, 2008 by W.W. Norton. If it goes a little slower than that, it'll be more like Fall, 2009.

My editor (I have an editor!) has encouraged me to not worry too much about the dates at the moment, but I've been diving in these past couple of weeks. Hence this photo. It's an apple Dutch baby pancake I made this morning. Good (and pretty, no?), but too much flour in the batter. I think I'll get it right in the second round. There's also some cinnamon rice pudding with apple compote in the fridge. I need to figure out some sort of food distribution scheme because it's piling up.

From here on out I'm going to use this blog as a journal to record what I'm learning as I work on the book. This project is going to take a while and the incline of the road ahead is daunting from this angle. Especially since I'll be writing this on the side (though not in secret). Bird by bird, as they say. Or, in my case, apple pie by apple pie. This is the good side of "interesting."

Hell's is Heaven

2006-07-06T13:07:00.000-07:00

I feel like a very lucky bunny because I got to spend this past weekend at one of the most beautiful spots in the West: Boulder, Utah. Or, more specifically, the Hell's Backbone Grill, a small restaurant right on the edge of the Escalante National Monument.

The story of this place is so great that even the condensed version draws you in: Two friends from Flagstaff, Blake and Jen, who divide their time between catering gigs and cooking on river rafting expeditions, decide to open a restaurant. Blake is a Buddhist, and they agree to run the place by the principles of Right Livelihood, with organic, place-based cuisine and an emphasis on local ingredients. Fair wages, recycling, all that good stuff.

Just one catch: The restaurant they find is in a tiny town in the middle of a wilderness, 4 1/2-hours from Salt Lake City, the nearest grocery store more than an hour away. There are 100 or so residents in Boulder, and most of them are devout Mormon ranchers. At first, no one will apply for the jobs they've advertised. And they can't get a liquor license.

They try reaching out. They meet with the town council, listen respectfully, and throw an ice cream social for the whole town on 4th of July. Six years later, the restaurant is thriving. After a slow start, they've become an integral part of the community (and finally have that license). Now they draw their own fan base to the town (during my stay, I met people from L.A., San Francisco, and Australia). Most importantly, they make the best biscuits I have ever had in my life.

I can't wait to go back. For more of the story (and the biscuit recipe), buy this.

...but we make no claims about boogers

2006-07-05T16:14:00.000-07:00

Spotted on the menu this past weekend at Prather Ranch's booth in the Ferry Plaza market.

This could become a habit

2006-06-30T10:05:00.000-07:00

I've been razzed about my former Myst fixation (which really is embarassing, actually). And I've been razzed for my love of "Starting Over" (which I am now totally over). But I take pride in my new obsession: Kombucha! Fermented tea leaves with fruit juice. Get 'em while they're hot, folks!

Scott thinks they taste like straight cider vinegar*. I think they taste like a fizzy, fruity, mild vinegar-y blend. There's a difference. The company claims they're a potent detox formula, and I do find that my energy level is higher when I drink them. But mostly, as I try to progressively wean myself off of sugar, I just like the way they taste.

And I'm not the only one. I bought my first bottle on a whim at Whole Foods. Then I noticed one of our photo editors drinking one. And she said that the other photo editor drinks them, too. And yesterday at the store, a woman saw them in my cart and said, "Oooh, where did you find those?? I can't stop drinking them!"

Which begs the question: Do they put crack in these things, or am I just living in California?

*In my original post, I wrote that Scott said they taste like puke, but he took exception to that characterization. "They're not that bad," he said.

Green

2006-06-20T15:24:00.000-07:00

Nothing to do with food, but I've been meaning to share this quote by Wallace Stegner from a 1972 essay called "Thoughts in a Dry Land."

To appreciate the West, he said, "you have to get over the color green." I love that. "You have to quit associating beauty with gardens and lawns," he said. "You have to get used to an inhuman scale."

I was on the East Coast last week, and to my unacclimated eye it almost seemed like being underwater, with all that humid air and the waving trees. We spent a week on Martha's Vineyard and I cooked lobster, bacon-wrapped scallops, strawberry-rhubarb pie, grilled salmon, garlic shrimp, and strawberry shortcake. There's nothing better than the cooking you can do on vacation.

Now we're back and San Francisco is undergoing a surprise heat wave. I would've expected fog by now, but last night it was hot. We drove up to Twin Peaks with our neighbors Marilyn and Meredith and watched the solstice sun go down with about 100 other people. It was a Southern California sunset like you see on 1970s album covers: blue ocean with a glowing band of red, orange, pink, and yellow above it. The whole city was glowing pink and sparklingly clear, and there was just a thin whisp of fog drifting in under the Golden Gate. A night like this almost never happens here. It felt like one of those moments that you look back on later as a harbinger of good things to come.

When we got home, Meredith served papardelle topped with cabbage, fennel, halibut, and parsley-lemon butter. I was so content I fell asleep on their couch.

Back at it

2006-06-20T11:12:00.000-07:00

I've heard from some nice folks who have been stopping by the blog and wondering about this two-month-long silence. My excuse is that I was working on a book proposal and learning how to knit. Both projects are going reasonably well but I've been "tied up". Yowza! Thanks, folks, I'll be here all weekend...

I also had a bout of viral meningitis which, while bizarre and extremely uncomfortable, was never life-threatening. On my sickbed, I tooled around with the following essay. There are themes of contamination, no doubt brought on by my inflamed meninges.

Here goes:

There comes a moment in every cook’s life when she has to choose between the sanitary thing and the necessary thing. Between risking disease and risking failure. It’s a gut decision, made in the half-second before anyone notices. I made that call on a June day in 2000. It has been my dirty little secret ever since.

Back then, my husband, Scott, and I were in what I think of as the “stealth campaigning” phase of our courtship, well past early dating and nowhere near engagement. As his birthday approached, I decided to bake a masterpiece. A “don’t let this one get away” birthday cake. I planned the party–a group tailgate at our favorite drive-in movie theater–and even called it a potluck so I could focus on my home-baked persuasion.

At the time, I lived in a not-so-former tenement building in Boston’s North End. The rent was cheap and we were afraid to make demands, so I ignored the unfinished bathroom and uninsulated walls. I tuned out the decrepit center hallway with its crumbling walls and its ancient and very slippery terrazzo stairs. I hardly thought of the hallway at all, except to reassure horrified first-time visitors that “it really gets much nicer once you come inside.” I went without air conditioning and baked cakes on hot summer afternoons.

And so I passed four dreamy hours on the appointed day making a golden butter layers with a chocolate ganache center and a creamy crown of chocolate buttercream. I cooled each layer in the refrigerator and cooled my wrists in glasses of ice water. I hummed and daydreamed and wrote our names in frosting. I spent so many sweltering, dreamy hours that, by the time Scott arrived to pick me up, I was running 30 minutes late.

Making your boyfriend late for his own party was not the behavior of a Keeper, and, by the set of his jaw, I could see that Scott knew this. He appeared to be ruminating on that very fact. So I went into fifth gear, grabbed the candles and matches and pillows, threw the cake into a Tupperware cake carrier which wasn’t sealing quite right but no matter, and raced out the door and down the steps, and...

I slipped. I caught my balance, but it was too late. Out flew the cake, a flying cake, slippery with heat, looping through two-and-a-half slow-motion flips and landing, face-down, on the floor. I saw it resting in a thin layer of dust motes, plaster chips, and cat hair.

I saw Scott staring at it, too dumbfounded to react. But I had to act. I slid the cake off the floor and onto the plate. The top layer was cracked, but salvageable. It had absorbed the impact for the bottom layer, which was unharmed. I had two seconds to decide. I thought of arriving, late and cakeless to the party. I thought of four wasted hours, and failing at my one task. I couldn’t lose this cake.

I ran back up to the apartment and ransacked the cupboards. There had to be frosting. My old roommate ate frosting for dinner. There had to be–and there was! Glorious, year-old chocolate frosting in a dusty purple canister. Beautiful, creamy, shelf-stable, chocolate cement! I scraped off all the contaminated buttercream, scanned the cake for little pebbles and hairs, slathered on the canned frosting, sealed the Tupperware carrier, and ran back down the stairs in two minutes flat.

Scott didn’t ask any questions. When we arrived, we saw that our friends had parked in a long row of cars and set out a dinner of cucumber salad, couscous, teriyaki chicken wings, and plenty of cold beer. The sun went down and we watched “Chicken Run,” reconsidering the wings. So I brought out the cake, confessing nothing, just lighting the candles and listening for a telltale crunch. But no one noticed anything amiss. Or if they did, they kept quiet. When the movie was over, we go out of our cars and stared at the stars. Scott said it was a great birthday.

In paradise

2006-04-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Antigua! We are far afield this week, vacationing in celebration of Mom and Dad's 40th anniversary. Yesterday: tandoori snapper in St. Maarten, today: vegetable roti at Roti King in St. John's. We went for a hike this morning in the Wallings Conservation Area, where our guide pointed out banana trees, almond trees, soursop bushes, mango trees, lemongrass plants, and bay leaf trees. Have you ever smelled a just-picked lemongrass blade or bay leaf? It's something right out of paradise, and it makes the store-bought stuff seem positively anemic.

The food on our ship favors quantity over quality as expected, but the salads aren't bad. Last night we met a waiter who says the boat's executive chef is from India and if we came back, he'd hook us up with some really good curry. Fingers crossed. Meanwhile, I'm taking plenty of photos, and I'll have lots to post when I get back.

This bud's for you

2006-03-27T16:31:00.000-08:00

Let's take a look at how our figgy little friend is doing.

Looks like he'll be ready by June! Yes, Spring is here. On the other hand, when I last checked around mid-day, it was exactly one degree warmer in Boston than it was here. So there.

How a bill becomes a law

2006-03-21T18:39:00.000-08:00

Spent about six hours in the test kitchen today. I'm on my fifth iteration of a marinated shrimp recipe for the July issue of Sunset, and I'm pretty sure it'll need a couple more tries to get it exactly right. You want reliable recipes? Come to us.

Developing a recipe happens in two phases here. First, the writer comes up with her idea (and it's just us girls here), ingredient list, and a method, then cooks it over and over until it's done. Each time, the whole team tastes and weighs in. Next, the writer sends the text to a fellow editor for a once-over on correct recipe style.

When it comes back, the writer hands the recipe over to one of our group of freelance retesters, who prepare it exactly as written, thus serving as stand-ins for the readers. They're not allowed to improvise or correct, and so they identify your blind spots: the things that you thought you had hashed out or made clear, but didn't.

Very few food magazines make use of this step. And with all the times a retester has pointed out the holes in my own work, I've come to see how critical it is.

Soup to nuts, the process can take anywhere from a week to a month, and it's not unusual for any given recipe that we run to be made ten or fifteen times before it goes in the magazine. I fear this is one of those times. I'll be sure to post this shrimpy thorn in my side as soon as it comes out.

Boldface names

2006-03-19T08:39:00.000-08:00

One of the confusing perks of working in the media is party invites. A PR firm sends you an invitation to some benefit dinner without making it clear if it's a publicity thing (i.e. free), or an opportunity to buy a ticket. You might want to go, but what kind of jerk calls the amfAR to ask, "Can you comp me?" Publishing salaries will never furnish your membership in the Young Friends of the Met, but if a non-profit is giving you a free meal, that's a little less money for the charity. So I usually don't go.

But every so often the invite comes at the last minute, and you can safely assume that they're just looking to fill some unsold seats. Or, it's clear that there's PR value for them in having some media present.

Such was the case last night, when I found myself at a benefit for San Francisco State's International Center for the Arts, trying to play it cool at the sight of Michael Baryshnikov eating short ribs one table away. Alaksandr Petrovsky, one table away! My Nutcracker prince! Nikolai Rodchenko, tormented Bolshoi defector in "White Nights," who must overcome his pride and beg his lover, "Hyelp me!" in a way so stirring to my pubescent imagination that I wasted years thinking tortured men were romantic. Alas, none of them could really be hyelped.

Anyway, I played it cool. And I'm happy to report that Baryshnikov's wife, Lisa Rinehart, though beautiful and an ex-dancer, is very smart-seeming and relatively age-appropriate. According to the PR rep, they have three children and live in "the country," which, in New Yorkese, probably means Connecticut or the Hudson River Valley. Though they both appeared to be having a fine time (he was seated next to Alice Waters, who was fantastically animated in his presence), they were both very light eaters and left before dessert was served.

A shame. The food was by Marcus Samuelsson of Aquavit, and it was extraordinary. Let's set aside the question of flying a New York chef in to San Francisco to cook for a local cause: the expense, the out-of-joint noses. I have wanted to try Samuelsson's food for years, and I couldn't have been happier. Smoked salmon with celeriac salad; molten foie gras; arctic char with duck tongue salad (mercifully relieved of its chewy cartillage center); short ribs with a sweet potato tart; and green apple sorbet with white chocolate mousse and fenel cream. It was the perfect menu for an event like this: interesting, without being overly challenging, but laced with one really exotic ingredient for bragging rights. Most of all, it was just so delicious. I had chills.

Taco Rabanne

2006-03-15T17:01:00.000-08:00

Me likes the tacos. Let's just establish that upfront. Tacos + Me = BF 4 EVER.

And my hunt for the king of tacos has been snowballing of late. A rigorous, peer-reviewed process. Not complete, by any stretch. But performed with enthusiasm, and a good attitude.

So while the quest continues, I want to announce a new plateau, if not a peak. An apex?

El Huarache Loco*, at the Alemany market. The unsexy market. Saturdays, from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. Order the Mexico City-style tacos, which are good enough that I'm hoping that a certain native son will get his butt out here to try them already. They serve another Mexico City signature, the namesake Huarache: fresh sandal-shaped masa tortillas topped with salsa verde, cheese, meat, nopal salad, and crema.

Now, I'm no fool**. I realize that having to go to a farmer's market on Saturdays to find thse tacos gives them a certain Chowhoundian appeal. There's nothing a Chowhounder likes better than some obscure dish that's available for just one hour each week, and across town, because that's when the sister of the owner drives in from Lodi and she's the only one who knows how to make it, idiot.

But these really are terrific.

Even better, El Hurache's owner, Veronica Salazar, got her start through La Cocina, a very inspiring SF non-profit that helps women start their own food businesses by providing affordable commercial kitchen space, business training, and moral support. I love the food coming out of La Cocina (I'll devote a post to it in coming days).

* I love that the name means "The crazy sandal."

** My imaginary factchecker demands a clarification: I am, not infrequently, a fool about many things, including daytime reality TV. I do, however, try to be smart about my food.

More Mendocino finds

2006-03-14T10:20:00.000-08:00

Did I mention that the drive to Mendocino is a bugger? First, it's twisty-turny, which means my only recourse is to do all the driving myself (or invest in a car with better handling). Extreme carsickness makes me want to die. Really, just give it up and expire.

Second, the trip from San Francisco is neatly divided into two parts: an endless, often clogged highway, and the aforementioned twisty-turny part. You crawl across one finish line only to find the second leg of the race.

Still, it is so pretty. Especially Route 182, from Sonoma to the coast. You switchback over the hills, now bright green with the rain, then coast down through wine country into the redwoods, which lead you to the churning ocean. Along the way, you can stop at Schramsberg vineyards, makers of excellent California sparklers, or buy a sack of apples and some apple balsamic vinegar from the Apple Farm in Philo. But you must always stop at Gowan's Oak Tree produce stand for the crispy apple chips. They're like potato chips, but thicker and more delicate. "Are these fried?" I asked the salesgirl. No, she said, they freeze the apples to dry them out. I bit in, and my taste buds went to Toontown. Zing! Pow! Wow! I raced out to the car with two bags. "Are these fried?" Scott asked. "No," I cried, "They're a miracle!"

We are now in the second half of Dungeness crab season and a great time has been had by all. I didn't think I'd find crustacean love beyond the Maine lobster, but Mama's got a brand new crab. We had these these fantastic Dungeness tacos at Sharon's by the Sea in Noyo Harbor, where the crab boats come in each day to deposit their catch. Sharon piles an Asian fusion-y slaw on top of the meat, which is what you see here. Those are homemade potato chips on the right.

Bread heaven

2006-03-09T16:10:00.000-08:00

I had a getting-to-know-you visit today with my new doctor. This being San Francisco, I filled out a lengthy questionnaire about my health history, my relationships, my feelings, and my food habits. She gave me great advice, and told me it never hurts to try accupuncture. I wanted to say, "Really? It never hurts?" But I bet she gets that all the time.

One of the questionnaire items had me listing foods that I crave and foods that are comforting. That would be "bread," and "bread." And I found the most fantastic bread up in Mendocino last weekend at Café Beaujolais. Best I've had so far, and that's saying something.

The breads are baked in a wood-fired oven and sold out of a little window on the side of a cottage. Couldn't be more charming. And they are the moistest, crustiest, most flavorful loaves. We bought a fougasse and a levain, and it took some willpower to not devour them on the 4-hour drive home. In the rain, with no lunch.

So here's the question: Now that we've found it, is it...hmm, excessive to do an 8-hour round-trip just for the bread?

Spamalot

2006-03-09T13:28:00.000-08:00

Mmmmmm.....meat cupcakes. Could I even make this up? A friend linked me to this recipe on the Hormel website. "Thought it might make a great element in a story on emetics or something along those lines," she said.

I love the yellow ribbon. It says, "Sure, you can dress up your canned pig's ass as a teatime dainty. But don't forget the troops, eating theirs straight out of the can."

Catch-up

2006-03-01T15:42:00.000-08:00

So back in May, after we had been here for just a month or so, I wrote this post about mental maps and the challenge of learning a new city.

I'd feel like San Francisco was really home, I said, when I knew the following:

1) A good pizza place that delivers
2) Sushi within walking distance
3) Ice cream within walking distance that's just far enough away
4) A brunch place where you don't have to stand in line
5) Dim Sum, ibid
6) That place you recommend to visitors
7) That place with the young chef who just needs one good review
8) The place with the rice pudding
9) An Indian restaurant with puffy breads
10) The place where you meet friends for drinks
11) The place that becomes "your place."

So here's a progress report:

1) Pizza: The one decent delivery place we've found so far is Pizza Express. We'd like to do better.

2) Sushi: Success! Deep Sushi is a mere ten-minute walk away.

3) Ice cream that's just far enough away: That would be Mitchell's.

4) Brunch, no line: In San Francisco? Impossible. But if you get up early, you can sneak into Tartine.

5) Dim Sum: I can't believe I said "ibid." Anyway, it's City View, before 10:30 a.m..

6) Where to send visitors: That's easy. Everybody loves the Ferry Building.

7) The young chef: Can't say enough good things about Dennis Leary at Canteen.

8) Rice pudding: Help! We haven't found any good rice pudding yet...

9) Puffy Indian breads: Of the places we've tried so far, Naan n' Chutney is the puffiest.

10) Place to meet for drinks: That would require me to actually meet friends for drinks. Seriously, we'd all rather eat.

11) The place that becomes "your place": Aw, that's cute. Can't say we've found The One. But nothing beats Saturday mornings at the farmers market with Scott.

Bud

2006-02-28T12:27:00.000-08:00

For anyone looking for some sign of spring, here's a baby fig on the tree outside our test kitchen.

Fig buds in February. This is all wrong. And so nice.

Enchilada day

2006-02-23T13:48:00.000-08:00

Doesn't that sound like a good day? We're making enchiladas seven different ways for a possible story, and it looks like I will be having a plain salad for dinner.

The smell in the kitchen brings back memories of my hopeless waitressing days in Albuquerque. I liked to hide out in the kitchen, where one of the cooks let me fry tortilla chips. He always called me "mujer," and I thought he was flirting with me until I looked up the word.

One day he said, "What are you?"
"What do you mean, 'What am I?'"
"Are you Mexican? White? Spanish?"
"I'm Italian."
"Oh," he nodded, getting back to his quesadilla. "You're half-white."

Tagged, willing, and able

2006-02-06T17:54:00.000-08:00

McPolack got me! Who can resist McPolack? She's fabulous. Here goes:

Four Jobs I've Had
1. Tobacco leaf stringer-upper -- a right of passage for the children of the Connecticut River Valley. I can still feel the inky gum on my forearms. Enjoy your cigar.
2. Frozen hamster brain slicer - neurobiology lab, Junior year.
3. Hopeless waitress
4. Dillard's salesgirl (men's deptartment...want some Sansabelts?)

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over
1. Amadeus
2. Room with a View
3. Annie Hall
4. It's a Wonderful Life/ White Christmas

Four Places I've Lived
1. Boston, MA
2. Albuquerque, NM
3. Peterborough, NH
4. Windsor, CT

Four TV Shows I Love
1. Starting Over (That's two plugs! Watch the ratings rise...)
2. Lost
3. CBS Sunday Morning
4. Simpsons

Five places I've vacationed (these are some favorites):
1. California coast (Big Sur & Pt. Reyes)
2. Welfleet
3. Positano
4. Bermuda ('cuz it was my honeymoon and we sat next to Seal and Heidi Klum at lunch)
5. Key West

Five of my favorite dishes:
1. Grandma's apple crisp
2. The braised pork with cognac, prunes, sage, and walnuts I made on Saturday from Gordon Hammersley's Bistro Cooking at Home.
3. The fluffy gnocchi with cream sauce and shaved white truffles I once had at No. 9 Park.
4. A good piece of fresh walnut bread with a smear of soft-ripened cheese and fresh figs.
5. As McPolack said, anything homemade with love and care.

Four sites I visit daily:
1. Friends' blogs
2. Gawker
3. Epicurious
4. Google

Five places I would rather be right now:
1. Hmmm...in a house perched on a hill in Big Sur...
2. ...with Scott and Clio...
3. ...and my niece and nephew...
4. ...and friends...
5. ...and sister and parents and in-laws. But now it's getting crowded. So everyone has their own house, but you can walk between the houses. But they don't just barge in. And my niece and nephew sleep with my sister and her husband every other night so we can get some rest. And everyone has their own car because it's a nightmare trying to coordinate everyone. And my friends have the party house that they share, but they don't mind that we have the little cottage with the best view and the hot tub because we organized the whole thing. And better restaurants in town, and a free pass to use the hot tubs at Esalen without having to get the creepy naked group massage.

Four bloggers I am tagging:
I'm burning through my list here! Any volunteers?

What's in a name #2

2006-02-01T20:44:00.000-08:00

Growing up in New England, most of the Italians I knew were from Sicily, Calabria, Abruzzo, Naples. For all sorts of reasons, Italian-Americans from the South tended to settle in the Northeast. Meanwhile, my family, on both sides, came from the North...Piacenza and the hill towns around Tortona in Piemonte. Somehow, we ended up in Connecticut.

So it wasn't until I was in my mid-twenties that I met another Traverso who wasn't a direct relative. It was a snowy night at a dinner party in Boston, and she was from Argentina. My family tells a story about my great-grandmother Severina who came to this country via Geona. There were two boats at that port the day she left: one heading to New York, the other to Buenos Aires. Severina chose New York and made her way to Plymouth, Massachusetts where she cooked for the men who were digging the Cape Cod Canal. After she had saved up enough money, she went back to Italy to retrieve her husband and three sons. Perhaps that Argentine woman and I were long-lost cousins, but her great-grandmother had taken the other boat.

Anyway, I digress. My point is: no Traversos. So you can imagine my delight when I learned that there was a semi-famous Italian specialty market in Santa Rosa with my very same name. In fact, people have often said, upon meeting me, "Oh, Traverso as in Traverso's?" No, I didn't think so, I said, but inside I felt the thrill of belonging, if only by association.

I finally stopped by the shop a few weeks ago. The store has been open since 1922, and is run by George Traverso and his son Michael, who represent the 3rd and 4th generations, respectively. We compared family histories enough to determine that we're not cousins, though their ancestors came from an area near Genoa and did live in Hartford for a brief period. But we had a nice chat, and they gave me a cap and a t-shirt to take home. I like to put on the shirt and dance around Scott shouting, "Traversos rule the world!"

I have to admit, though: I was hoping to find a relation. In my heart of hearts, I wanted cousins and uncles and Sunday dinners. In our family line, I'm the last Traverso. The ranks have thinned on the east coast...wouldn't it be nice to find a batch of long-lost relations out here? Instead, I went looking for family and all I got was a t-shirt.

But it's a nice shirt. And the fact is, I have a big family. It's just made up of Kirsners and Vogels and Roehls and Clios now. "Resisting change doesn't recapture the past," as the saying goes. "It loses the future."

Sundance, snow pants

2006-01-30T19:17:00.000-08:00

Spent most of last week at Sundance, working on a travel story, watching "films," turning 35, doing a little skiing, and a fair amount of eating.

35 is big. Not old, but big. No more pretending to be in your post-grad years. No more playing young and stupid when you mess up. MTV doesn't want you anymore (fine, it was never that good anyway, we were going in different directions). Looking ahead to something that looks different from the last 15 years.

But on to the festival. A quick recap:

Celebrity sightings: Maggie Gyllenhaal (prettier in person), Justin Timberlake (shorter in person, but aren't they always?), some guy from Metallica (just what you'd expect).

Favorite movie: American Blackout (Hey, turns out one person can make a difference!)

Restaurants visited: Zoom, Chimayo, Chez Betty. Chimayo was the favorite, but I gotta say, when you live in San Francisco, you're grading on a curve most everwhere else.

Yikes, does that mean I've become one of them?

Better latte than never

2006-01-10T11:00:00.000-08:00

Behold the best chai latte I've ever had. It's from the Pine Cone Diner in lovely Point Reyes Station.

What made it so good? No added sugar, so you can control the sweetness; just the right amount of spice and heat; and a nice crown of foam. Surprising how hard it is to find that, even here in latte land.

Photo: Kirsner's cell phone

Local favorites

2006-01-09T15:24:00.000-08:00

One of the great thrills of going back home was the chance to visit two of my old haunts in Cambridge. The first, Formaggio Kitchen, is the former employer of Jessica from Feed and Supply, and still the best cheese shop I know. Hi-Rise Bakery is a source of superior breads, pastries, and jams, and an employer of comically grumpy and disaffected art students.

I love Formaggio not just for its good looks and jaw-dropping selection. It's the cheese cave underneath the store, where all the little live things are allowed to come to their peak ripeness before they hit the floor. With that kind of care, you're always assured that the Abbaye de Belloc for which you shell out $22/lb. for will be so good, you'll only need to eat a little bit at a time. Thereby resolving your ambivalence about paying $22 for a hunk of cheese.

As for Hi-Rise, I love them for their brichoe, their jam, and their jam-filled brioche. And the shrimp salad. The cookies and cakes and pies are also buttery and tender, but I save my calories for the jam and bread.

Hi-Rise's big downside, or charm, depending on how you look at is, lies in the subduction zone of the cash register, where cranky staff meets entitled customer. This is the great risk of doing business in places like Cambridge, and I'm not sure there's much to be done about it. The millionaire, NPR-listening, gluten-sensitive buyers believe they are each more special than the next. They struggle to share the big "family table" in the middle of the store. No room! Too many exceptional people! Meanwhile, the art students fail to conceal their contempt. And I silently project I'm not one of them, really while I order a jam-filled brioche, but with the apricot-lime jam, please, not the raspberry. No, not the apricot-lemon, the apricot-lime, 'cause I really like what the lime does to the...oh, uh, thank you.

What I did on my winter vacation

2006-01-05T19:04:00.000-08:00

Just got back from a tour of Connecticut, New York, and Massachusetts. We never spent more than 2 nights in any one place, but I got to visit my hometown (that's the defunct 99-cent movie theater in the photo), Lenox, Stockbridge, Cambridge. I love that cold, dark, snowy little corner of the world.

When I lived in New Mexico in the mid-90's, I must have flown home for the holidays. I just don't remember it. But what a pleasure this time. The plane came in low over the farmland that borders Bradley Airport and looking down, I saw large snowy fields bordered by maples, each with a little lighted farmhouse in the center and snow on the roof. And, just because the scene was so perfect, I'm going to say there was smoke coming out of those chimneys. "Look!" I said. "it's New England!"

When we got down to the little baggage claim, we saw crowds of families greeting their arrivals. Rosy cheeks, laughter, embraces. Mom and Dad in the crowd. Sometimes life forgets itself and hands you your own Capra moment. The trick is to stop and take it in. And then remember it, when you're back in your quiet office, two weeks and 3000 miles away.

Brandy's dandy

2005-12-25T16:56:00.001-08:00

Here's the product of this year's holiday craft binge: cranberry and pomegranate cordials. I mixed the liquor; Scott made the labels.

The recipe is simple, and comes courtesy of Molly W.: 6 cups cheap red wine, 5 cups sugar, one bag of cranberries. Simmer together until cranberries pop. Cool to room temperature, then refrigerate for a few days to let berries steep. Strain, stir in 3 cups brandy, then bottle.

For the pomegranate mix, I used white wine, a mix of POM juice and fruit, and a little less sugar. Unfortunately, I wasn't measuring as I did this, so you'll have to wing that one.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Happy holidays

2005-12-19T11:02:00.000-08:00

Here's a photo of the croquembouche that Jessica of Feed and Supply served at her Christmas party last night. It was stunning, and nothing's more fun than pulling your very own creampuff off a sugary tower.

Jessica is the most relaxed host I know. Where I'm always racing around at the last second ("Plates! We need plates to eat on!"), Jessica comes to the door smiling and serene, even when she has a little bit of cooking to do. I always leave her house feeling contented and cared for. Isn't that a nice gift?

Here's a photo of J's tree, just to give this place some sparkle...

But enough about you

2005-12-14T14:24:00.000-08:00

Apartment number one tagged me a couple of days ago, and I've been remiss. Here are the rules:

Post 10 weird and random facts about yourself, then at the end, list the names of 5 more ~~suckers~~ bloggers.

I do enjoy a good meme. Here goes:

1. I hate overhead lighting.

2. I like to cultivate a handful of quirks like #1.

3. Not that I made them up, but I'm not doing much to get over them, either.

4. I TiVo Starting Over every day, and when Scott's out of town, I watch it for hours.

5. I was in the cast of the first American musical to tour China.

6. I love Cream of Wheat.

7. If I had to choose between a 7-course wine dinner and a drive-in movie, I'd take the drive-in every time. A 4-course dinner? It's a toss-up.

8. I think all desserts should have salt.

9. Mark Bittman is my culinary role model.

10. Some day, I want to sell pies out of a reconditioned ice cream truck.

Now I'm tagging:
McPolack Inc.
Feed and Supply
cuarentayuno
Mona's Apple
and Rachael of Fresh Catering

The buck stops where?

2005-12-13T18:29:00.000-08:00

I went to Mijita for the first time this Sunday and tried their signature quesadilla Mijita, a thick, fresh, handmade corn tortilla stuffed with Mexican cheeses, chiles, and epazote, then folded up like a calzone and cooked on the griddle. It came with a fabulous sweet-smoky-tangy tomato salsa and good guacamole. More than any dish I've had in San Francisco so far, this captured those hot earth flavors that I love in Mexican cooking. And Traci Des Jardins makes a point of sourcing local produce and using organic meats. Great view of the Bay, too. The price: About $25 for lunch for two: 2 tacos, a quesadilla, beans, and two aguas frescas. And the quesadilla was overkill, really. We were stuffed.

Then I stumbed across Mijita's reviews on Yelp.com. Reviews ran mixed-to-negative, which was surprising, but maybe there are consistency problems. What did shock me is that 14 out of 22 reviews complained about the prices. "Waaaaay overpriced," one said. "Too pricey," said another. Then the capper: "There's no reason for a taco to cost $5."

Wha?

WTF?

Don't mean to get all soap-boxy, but this stupidity is hard to take, especially from San Franciscans. I bet half these folks read Fast Food Nation and boycotted McDonald's for ethical reasons. But don't take away their cheap burritos! Mexican food isn't supposed to actually cost money. Forget what it takes to make a profit on a $3 super taco.

Everybody needs a little time away

2005-12-12T18:27:00.000-08:00

Wow. Ten days since my last post. Sometimes you just need a break, you know? Especially when you think about food for a living. My friend Julia calls it "being fooded out."

My other excuse is that we had my sister's family here for ten days. We did all sorts of fun things, very little of which was food-related, thanks to my niece and nephew. Unless you count the cotton candy at Disneyland.

But last night I made a really nice pan-roasted monkfish on mushroom ragout. Here's the recipe:

I minced 4 cloves of garlic and 4 shallots, finely chopped 1 yellow onion, and diced 3 portabella mushroom caps and about 5 large chanterelles. Then I rendered 3 diced strips of thick-cut bacon (I like Niman Ranch) over medium heat until browned. Removed the meat, but left the fat, increased the heat to medium-high, and browned the garlic, shallots, onion, and mushrooms. Added a bay leaf and a handful of halved pear tomatoes. Seasoned with salt and pepper, Portuguese allspice and a tiny bit of regular allspice. When everything was nicely caramelized, I deglazed with a little chicken stock.

In a separate pan over medium-high heat, I seared the salt-and-pepper-sprinkled monkfish in a little olive oil, then roasted it at 425 for 7 minutes. Took it out, realized that wasn't enough time, and put it back in for another 5. Took it out, realized it still wasn't enough time, and put it back for 4 more.

The monkfish looked a little pale on the ragout, so I sprinkled it with some dried tomato powder that my mom had given me. Pretty! Unfortunately, I didn't manage to pull out the camera before we dove in. But this is a photo of the lovely Masút Pinot Noir I drank with it. This is a small biodynamic winery in Mendocino County founded by Robert Fetzer (yes, that Fetzer). If you can get your hands on a bottle (about $32), you'll be happy indeed. As my boss said when she tried it today, "This is true Pinot Noir."

The olive project: Week 2

2005-12-02T13:43:00.000-08:00

The olives are now in their fourth day of the more concentrated brine. All in all, they've been in the mix for 12 days. Just 78 more to go!

Sorry for the poor quality of the photo. Didn't have time to use the camera, so I used my cell phone. But you can se that some are still purple, some are green, and some are turning a nice shade of brown.

Favorite food-related fainting stories #3

2005-12-01T11:35:00.000-08:00

My apologies: This is probably the most unappetizing post I'll ever write. But the fainting stories were such a hit, and this one really is funny.

Remember the woman who faints when she eats too much?

We’ll call her Katy. Being a fainter, she has a few good stories up her sleeve. This is one of my favorites:

Katy and her husband were at a wedding in Vermont last July. It was perfect: a beautiful meadow, mountains in the background, bridesmaids in cornflower blue, and a line of tuxedoed groomsmen, including the bride’s younger brother.

So baby brother had been out drinking with the guys the night before, and had skipped breakfast that morning. Naughty brother! (That's the food connection, btw).

Suddenly, standing up for the groom began to seem like a very tall order indeed. The bride’s parents watched as he turned green and began to sway. By the time he actually hit the ground, they were ready. They raced in, propped him up, and dragged him to a chair in the front row.

Flustered, but determined, the young couple resumed their vows.

That’s when the dry heaves began.

Overwhelmed by all those tequila shots, baby brother’s system was doing its damnedest to shake off the poison. But the well was dry, so all he could do was put his head between his knees and roar.

Now the entire wedding party was beginning to look pale. So the bride’s father did what had to be done, and dragged baby brother off across the meadow. The wedding resumed, and the couple got hitched without another hitch. But the caterers couldn't help noticing that the guests were unusually restrained at the buffet line.

Family-style

2005-11-29T13:42:00.000-08:00

First, the bad news: I didn't make it to Calle Ocho, or to Mosaico, or even to Joe's. The Murphy's Law of family visits is that no matter how much of a food nerd you are, you'll never eat at the fabulous restaurants in any town where your family lives.

Which is fine. I had my arepa, I had a tasty shrimp salad at a dockside spot in Aventura, and we had lots of cheesy fun at The Melting Pot in West Alligatorville (ok, outer Kendall). Sometimes it's nice to take a break from the la-la food scene, or even the chowhound scene, for that matter. We did share a terrific caramel apple from this spot at the Broward County Fair. But poor Broward County. It's a sorry day when your county's ag fair doesn't have enough actual agriculture left to fill a party tent. Just a bunch of sad rabbits and some agitated chickens.

Miami? Nice...

2005-11-21T09:34:00.000-08:00

Big goings-on this week: Californiaeating is off to Miami to visit the in-laws.

Miami, land of tropical fruits, arepa carts, and t-shirt suits. I love Miami. I even love the in-laws. But since Scott does not come from a family of cooks (kitchens are more of a decorative element for them), we'll be having a catered turkey dinner by the beach. This kinda goes against all that is holy for New Englanders and food nerds, but I had my fill of Thanksgiving food this summer, so I can roll with it. And they sure know how to throw a party.

Anyone have any Miami restaurant recs? We've been to Norman's and Joe's. But we still haven't made it over to Calle Ocho in all these years. This time, I want some good Cuban and Caribbean food.

Olive me, olive you

2005-11-16T12:54:00.000-08:00

I bought some really beautiful olives this weekend at the farmer's market (at $10 for 2 pounds. Suckaa!). But better to get soaked by the hippie farmers than by Monsanto.

Anyone have advice to share about brining them? I'm planning to go the standard salt/garlic/chilies/peppercorn/bay leaf route, but I'd love some input. Anyone ever done an oil cure?

Sicko

2005-11-13T16:52:00.000-08:00

What are the chances? All my happy plans for this weekend have been felled by a double whammy of biking accident and stomach flu.

Yesterday, coasting down the final (steep) hill after a ride around the city, I hit the brakes too suddenly and went flying over the front of my bike. Thankfully, no major injuries, aside from a badly banged-up knee (I'm dragging that leg around the house like Igor) and some bruises.

Then, this morning I woke up to a gory case of stomach flu: fever, more aches, and...you can imagine. Scott comes in every so often to make sure I'm drinking my liquids (he's acting on prior experience), and he and our friend Grady have stepped in to do my share of the cooking for a movie screening that our neighbors are hosting tonight. The party will go on, while I comfort myself with saltines and ginger ale.

Our neighbor Meredith is a chef, so she's doing most of the work: braised beef with a pepper relish and biscuits; arugula, grapefruit, and avodaco salad; broccolini; and persimmon pudding with vanilla ice cream. Our contribution is a vegetarian butternut squash lasagne (this being San Francsico, it's the veggie alternative).

Grady is cooking as I type. What a treat it is to sit and read while someone prepares dinner in the next room. I can smell the sqash roasting, the garlic and the rosemary. It's Sunday night, my fever is going down, and the world feels very cozy, if a little achy still.

[Note: Scott says I soft-pedaled my description of the accident. Watching me fly through the air, he thought he was facing young widowerhood (that's a real word, I checked). But I come from good peasant stock. My people have been falling off horses for generations.]

Zuni tunes

2005-11-09T15:17:00.000-08:00

Title-writing skills continue to deteriorate here at California Eating...

Last night we went back to Zuni Cafe to celebrate the arrival of G, a real food lover and former Boston compatriot. Some places, like Zuni and Chez Panisse, make me feel like a pilgrim worshiping at the sacred sites. California looms so large in your consciousness when you're living on the east coast and studying American food, and I still feel a little thrill when I try the signature dishes.

One classic, the house-cured anchovies, was everything I'd hoped it would be. Anchovies walk that fine line between the sublime and the foul, but these were fantastic. No oily-fishy residue here. Just a rich briny wallop in a tiny little tender package.

The roast chicken was also perfect, but the bread salad underneath was soggy with oil. It went way beyond unctuousness to something closer to greasy. Eh, it was probably just an off night.

I do have one other criticism, though, which remains constant with every visit: Could the staff please act just a little happy to have you there? They may as well introduce themselves with, "My name is Jeffrey, I'll be your waiter tonight, and I couldn't give two shits about it."

But I'll be back, because it's just that good...

The other CIA

2005-11-08T13:37:00.000-08:00

Do you find that taking a couple of days out of the office almost isn't worth it because of all the work you have to make up? That's where I am right now. But I wanted to jot down some quick observations from the Worlds of Flavor conference I just attended at the CIA Greystone campus.

1) The CIA must have done some mad fund-raising because that place is swank. The stone buildings, the gardens, the platters and platters of Spanish cheeses and crab and wild mushrooms. The wine. It's so...well, it's so Napa.

2) The last week of October and first week of November may be the prettiest time of year to visit the valley. The vines changed color overnight, and the valley floor was all gold and red. And the sun was set at a lower angle, so the light never got washed out like it does in the summer. The olives were ripe, too (I took that photo on the grounds of the Krug winery).

3) I have to get to Marnee Thai as soon as possible. Chef /owner Chaiwatt Siriyan was a guest speaker (here he is giving a demo class), and his food was phenomenal. Great Thai food has that same heady perfumey quality as Indian food, but it's so bright and refreshing. I have been trying to recreate eggplant in green curry (I'll post the recipe when I get it right).

4. Every night, the conference organizers turned the huge barrell room into an international night market lined with booths featuring the foods of Spain, Mexico, India, Viet Nam, Thailand, Turkey, Persia, and North Africa. It was extraordinary (though packed, with nowhere to stand -- a recurring theme). The food was prepared by a battery of chefs who were flown in to speak and cook at the conference. I'm still craving a dessert from the Thailand booth: little bannana leaf packets stuffed with a sweet rice flour and coconut milk dough surrounding a caramelized coconut center.

5. For a man who spends his time traveling the world to eat at fancy restaurants, R.W. Apple is a pissy and impatient grump. This is the second time I've heard him speak at a conference, and the second time I've watched him bully and embarrass audience members who take too long to pose their questions or forget to say their names first.

If you get to have this kind of fun for a living, you have a moral obligation to at least be pleasant.

Napa time

2005-11-03T07:24:00.000-08:00

What a silly title. Sorry about that.

But I am heading up to Napa today for the CIA's annual "Worlds of Flavor" conference. Here's their description:

Each year, the Worlds of Flavor International Conference & Festival transforms the Napa Valley campus into an amazing crossroads of world food and culture. More than 50 leading chefs, cooks, cookbook authors, and other culinary experts from Latin America, the Mediterranean, and Asia as well as from across the United States will head up the prestigious guest faculty at this CIA anniversary event.

Over the last 15 years, American menus–and the chefs and operators who create them–have undergone a profound, even revolutionary transformation. For most of our culinary history, we have been largely tethered to Northern European traditions–with France often representing the gold standard in fine dining–while a host of “ethnic flavors” beckoned our palates from the fringes of the industry. In the late 80s and early 90s, however, what we now call “world cuisine” started to catch the imagination of American consumers and the dining public.
First it was broader interest in regional Italian flavors, then a collective grasp of the larger Mediterranean, then regional Mexican and other Latin flavors. Next, fascination with an expanded range of Asian flavors emerged, from China and Japan to Southeast Asia and India–and finally we have now come to a “tipping point” that represents a remaking of the American culinary landscape. Once we thought it was sensible to rank the world's cuisines, but today we see a more level playing field with many cultures contributing brilliant ideas to the world table. Whereas before we thought of “American cuisine” and “American food” asbeing separate from other cuisines of the world (the latter often referred to as “ethnic foods” or “international foods”), we now increasingly think of American food as world food.

Doesn't that sound fun? These are the moments when I think, This is my job? How in the world did I finagle that?

I'm also happy to see that, with the term "world food," the good folks at the CIA have come up with an alternative to "ethnic," which is such a ridiculous bit of imperialist residue. As if some group (Brits? The French?) are the standard-bearers of humanity. No, French food is ethnic food, too. Anyway, I'm preaching to the choir.

I'll try to post any interesting news from the conference.

Berkeley bound

2005-10-28T12:49:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-26T15:58:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-25T13:13:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-24T09:29:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-21T10:59:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-19T14:07:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-17T11:04:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-14T11:18:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-11T16:58:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-10T09:20:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-06T11:02:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-04T17:15:00.000-07:00

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!

Yolo Tengo

2005-09-30T17:06:00.000-07:00

I don't have time to write a proper post, but I just got back from a press trip to Yolo County (Northeast of Napa), and I'm feeling inspired. This must be what Sonoma was like 20 years ago. We met organic farmers at Full Belly Farm (check out their Hoes Down harvest festival this weekend), Good Humus Farm, and Capay Fruits and Vegetables. These are the people who are doing the work of revolutionizing our food chain. Their commitment to this life and this cause, and their innovation and resourcefulness...they're the real stars of the food world.

We also had a fantastic lunch cooked by Rachael Levine, chef at R.H. Phillips Winery. It's worth a trek out to the Dunnigan Hills just to try her wine pairing dinners.

We're off to Point Reyes this weekend to celebrate our first anniversary. I'm so excited that I'll start gushing, so I'll just stop here.

We are the champions, maybe

2005-09-26T10:04:00.000-07:00

Walking back from a truly awful dinner at Shalimar (darn you, Zagats!), I saw this sidewalk sign outside Foley's Irish House:

"We have probably the best Bloody Mary in San Francisco!"

Mister Tamarine man

2005-09-23T10:53:00.000-07:00

I don't go out to for lunch very often. There's usually something tasty coming out of the test kitchen at work, even now that we're finished with that theater of gluttony known as the Thanksgiving Recipe Contest.

Furthermore, I'm under the impression that, with the exception of Manresa in Los Gatos, the Peninsula isn't really a restaurant Mecca. There are some very good places, like Jessie Cool's restaurants, Flea Street Café and jZcool Eats in Menlo. But with most of the others, you're grading on a curve.

Then we went to Tamarine in Palo Alto. Now here's a contemporary Vietnamese restaurant that gives The Slanted Door a run for its money. Executive chef Tammy Huynh has a serious talent for mixing big flavors that run the entire spectrum of sweet, salty, aromatic, bitter, and sour. Like a finely tuned stereo equalizer, she can turn up the volume without losing the balance.

Menu highlights: Papaya salad with dried sesame beef and basil; hoi an beef (lemongrass beef, mint, cilantro, and lettuce stuffed into a rice noodle roll); Tamarine prawns; and, to complete the beef troika, a perfect shaking beef that even surpasses the version served up at Slanted Door.

Tamarine falls short on service, and its sleek, pleasant dining room can't compete with the Door's dramatic bayside space. But it's also a lot easier to get a reservation.

Been there, done that

2005-09-19T18:23:00.000-07:00

The Chronicle recently published a story called "Culinary Pioneers: from Acme Bread to Zuni Cafe, how the Bay Area has shaped how America eats." It goes through its list of sourdough bread, mesclun greens, farmer's markets, American goat cheese...all culinary innovations which were either invented or popularized here. Important, claim-to-fame stuff. And not a single trend or item of note since 1985.

San Francisco is resting on its laurels.

Now, a little history lesson is fine. And everything they say about the food out here is true. It's better--or, at least, the raw ingredients are better--than just about anywhere else in the country. As I said before, San Franciscans are blessed with the expectation that they shouldn't have to settle for anything less than fresh, ripe, healthy, delicious food. It'll take me years to hit all the fantastic restaurants I hope to visit here. And I'm finally feeling like I have a big old crush on this city.

But I don't feel the raw energy that you find in other American towns. In Denver and Boston and Minneapolis they're redefining the regional cuisine and discovering all their local treasures. Even Portland, Maine feels more ambitious right now.

But how could it be otherwise? Much of the work has already been done here. It started here. So San Francsico's restaurants have been trumpeting "fresh, local, seasonal (and organic whenever possible)" for a couple of decades. And what's next? And does there need to be a "next"? Perhaps we have reached a glorious plateau.

Or, maybe the next step is to make this food available to people who can't afford Chez Panisse and the Ferry Building Marketplace. Maybe the next generation of innovators will work in restaurants that charge $10 or less. Maybe one day you won't have to be rich to eat well.

And if we can't have that anytime soon, then I'll look to the next wave of fusion cuisine. Tallula in the Castro marries Indian flavors and French technique. You can buy Indian ice cream at the Bombay Ice Creamery, and Indian pizza at Zante and Pauline's. Vancouver, B.C. seems to be bubbling over with Asian-Latin-European hybrids. So perhaps the next step is to shed our French-dominated food heirarchies, finally ban the term "ethnic food," and embrace a new vision of a global food culture.

For now, I'd just like to see the conversation take a less self-satisfied turn.

Good frickin' chicken

2005-09-15T14:40:00.000-07:00

Haven't put many recipes up lately, but this month's issue of Sunset has a tasty Sunday dinner menu that I developed back in May. And, if I do say so myself, it's good stuff: jicama sticks and green beans served with an avocado-mint dip; a whole chicken rubbed with garlic and spices and cooked over indirect heat on the grill; little foil packs filled with sweet potatoes, red onion, spices, and lime, also grilled; and an apple crisp that you (surprise) also "bake" over indirect heat on the (you guessed it) grill.

The full set of recipes is here, but you may need a password to get in. Just in case, here's the chicken recipe for your enjoyment:

Spice-Rubbed Smoke-Roasted Chicken

1 cup (about 3 oz.) hickory, mesquite, or applewood chips (optional)
12 cloves garlic, peeled
1 tablespoon chili powder
1/3 cup chopped fresh thyme leaves
1/3 cup chopped fresh rosemary leaves
1/4 cup olive oil
1 tablespoon salt
1 tablespoon fresh-ground pepper
1 chicken (4 to 5 lb.)

1. In a medium bowl, cover wood chips (if using) in water. Let soak at least 30 minutes; drain just before using.

2. In a food processor, combine garlic, chili powder, thyme, rosemary, olive oil, salt, and pepper. Process until mixture forms a paste.

3. Rinse chicken inside and out; pat dry. Press down on the breastbone of the chicken to flatten the bird slightly; rub the paste evenly over all the skin.

4. Prepare your grill for indirect heat. The temperature inside your grill should be between 350° and 400° (insert a long-stemmed thermometer through lid vent to measure temperature). If using a gas grill, place all the chips in the metal smoking box or in a foil pan directly on the heat in a corner. If using a charcoal grill, scatter half of the wood chips over the coals.

5. Place the chicken over the drip pan, breast side down. Cover barbecue with lid. If using a charcoal grill, adjust vents so that they're open halfway. Cook 40 minutes, then turn the chicken over (if using charcoal, scatter another 20 briquets over coals, along with the remaining wood chips). Cover barbecue again.

6. Continue cooking chicken until a thermometer inserted through the thickest part of breast to bone reaches 170°, about 40 minutes longer. Transfer to a board or platter and let rest 10 minutes under a tent of foil. Carve to serve.

Serves 6.

Cheese n' stuff

2005-09-09T17:13:00.000-07:00

Hot damn, I've got breaking news!

Well, for a food writer.

This morning, at the Association of Food Journalists conference in San Francisco, I sampled a cheese that hasn't yet hit the market. And it's made by Cowgirl Creamery. And it's really, really good. In Northern California, that qualifies as news, man.

It's called Farallon (after the Farallon Islands), and it's a very soft, bloomy-rind cheese. Starting with fromage blanc, they stir in some crème fraîche, form it into little patty cakes, and then innoculate the cakes with candida and some other flora I didn't manage to transcribe. They bloom and ripen for about a week and Voilà! A delicate, fresh, creamy, perfect little button. With some fresh berries, or honey and figs, this would be your new favorite cheese. Look for it in stores by the end of the month.

You heard it here first, folks.

Speaking of cheese, I also got to meet Laura Chenel today. My new hero.

Let them eat cake

2005-09-06T10:05:00.000-07:00

A little off-topic here, but please do your part to spread Barbara Bush's words of wisdom on the plight of the hurricane survivors stranded at the Houston Astrodome:

"And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this--this (she chuckles slightly) is working very well for them."

Burger Heaven

2005-08-28T11:10:00.000-07:00

Operation Embrace San Francisco got off to a swinging start on Friday with a visit to Joe's Cable Car with Jessica and Sarah.

This little diner has tremendous wattage, and it looked like a great, neon beacon down at the southern end of Mission St. on a foggy night. A large yellow sign on the roof announced, "Joe grinds his own fresh chuck daily," which is impressive, since fresh-ground beef is generally considered the key to a good burger (also impressive because the only thing I grind daily is my teeth). And the menu promises equal satisfaction. "We ask a lot of questions that help us to fully satisfy your stay at Joe’s. Please order your ground steak burger the way you would like your steak cooked. Your patience is appreciated and well worth the wait. Don’t worry - same day service! All of our fresh ground steak beef burgers are served open faced for your inspection...Following food critics’ testing method, slice off a small piece of the patty without bread, taste it and come to your own conclusion."

So I was already in love with Joe's before the food arrived. We split a 6 oz. Fresh Ground Beef Steak with grilled onions on a sesame seed bun, and it was tasty and cooked right to order. With all that fresh grinding, it wasn't as densely packed as commercial burgers are. Instead, it was tender and moist. Sadly, sides (fries and onion rings) were merely average, but milkshakes were superlative. They're made with Bud's Ice Cream, a SF classic which is now produced in Thailand? Anyway, we'll be back. It's hard to imagine a more cheerful spot, with all the neon and Christmas lights and a little animatronic stuffed ape that makes kissy noises at you when you walk in the door.

Swimming

2005-08-24T12:30:00.000-07:00

One of my oldest friends go married last weekend in Vermont, so we flew back home for a whirlwind tour of the North Country and Boston. Home, home...yes, that still feels like home.

A few of the friends we saw mentioned this blog. Specifically, that I'm making my life sound like a blur of wine tastings and restaurants and la-la-sweetness. I have two things to say about that. One: Yes, it's true that the blog's a bit uh, sunny. I still can't figure out whether I'm trying to worm my way into the Food Blog Club--all food and nothing but the food, with the occasional food-related travelogue or childhood memory thrown in--or whether I'm creating an online journal of my California life. And if it's the former, I don't want to get too personal. If it's the latter, then I should password-protect this thing. I need some more time to figure out what I want it to be.

Oh, and second: It's actually really nice when people trust you enough to tell you the truth. Yes, kindly, of course.

So in the interest of honesty, I'll say that life has not, in fact, been a bowl of (local, seasonal, organic) cherries. I'll spare you the details, which may or may not involve crying into my steamed dumplings at Taipei on Clement St., but I haven't been this homesick since Camp Timber Trails. We didn't leave Boston because we were unhappy...we left because we were so happy that it made us ballsy. There are far worse places to be homesick than San Francisco. But there was also a lot to leave behind, a home and a community, and I have been feeling decidedly unballsy of late.

I went for a midnight swim in Caspian Lake on Friday night. My friend B, the bride, wanted to do a little mikveh-style ritual with her close friends, so we sat around her on the dock and gave her our blessings for a happy marriage. Then we all got in the water. A cold breeze was blowing and the lake was about as warm as a lake in Northern Vermont can ever be at midnight. I was halfway in, shivering and wet, trying to go under slowly, when I realized that the dock was too far away to go back without getting even more chilled. "It's warmer once you're in the water," B called out hopefully. So I dove in and after a minute of agony, it did get better.

And that, metaphorically, is just about where I am right now: In water up to my waist, too far in to go back, holding on to the idea of the warm shore. And the only way it's going to get better is if I dive in and start swimming.

Fireflies

2005-08-04T10:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I talked with a woman at work who had just returned from a vacation in upstate New York. She said that the weather was oppressively hot and humid, but it was nice to go out at night without a sweater on. I said I missed that too, along with the lush green you get in a place where the growing season is so short. So much life happens there in just six months. And fireflies. You don't get fireflies here.

When I got home, I ran into my neighbor, Meredith, a chef who, coincidentally, moved here from Boston about 10 years ago. She and her partner are the kind of neighbors who show up when your moving truck arrives and say, "How can we help?" At first, we didn't even know what to do with that. Do we pay them? Send them flowers? We had incredible neighbors in Boston, but moving help? C'mon. Then we figured out that in some parts of the world, this is considered normal. We're starting to get the hang of it.

Anyway, Meredith and I were both spouseless for dinner, so we decided to go out. I let her pick, since she's always coming up with something new and interesting. "We'll go to Firefly," she said.

I had heard of Firefly. It made the Chronicle's "Top 100 Restaurants" list, and it's not too far from where we live. It's a neighborhoody kind of place set at the end of the 24th St. commercial district in Noe Valley. A comfortable, cottagey room with a fanciful canopy ceiling, soft lighting, and (relatively) affordable prices. The waitstaff know many of the customers by name, and the room has an easy, affable feel.

Firefly's menu takes American comfort favorites, like fried chicken, and polishes them up, working in Asian flavors here and there. Nothing fancy, but carefully crafted, with excellent ingredients... the kind of place where everything on the menu looks irresistible. We split the potstickers, which were filled with sweet shrimp, scallops, and big chunks of crispy water chestnuts, along with an order of romano beans topped with candied lemon peel and a few drops of truffle oil (restraint gratefully aknowledged). For the main course, Meredith had the fried chicken and I tried the tender ribs which were thickly glazed and served with slaw, spoonbread, and beans. It was too rich to eat all at once, but delicious.

Too full for dessert, we strolled down 24th St. and looked in all the brightly lit shop windows. It got me thinking again of summer nights back home. I grew up near the Connecticut River and on June nights the damp fields along the river were lit up with those fireflies. You could go for a walk in the woods at midnight and find your way by their light, just like something out of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Here there are no actual, live fireflies. But something about the fog and the pretty displays gave me a very happy, almost wonderous feeling. Turns out this city can seem magical, too, in its own way.

Bad blogger

2005-07-31T10:24:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I last posted. This was a heavy travel month with some freelancing thrown in, so I've been short on free time. I took two trips to Phoenix during the record heat wave, and I can now confirm that Pizzeria Bianco is so popular that people still queue up 40 minutes before the doors open even when it's 114 degrees outside (the temperature at which it begins to hurt to breathe). Was it worth the wait? As much as it was worth waiting in the snow for an hour to get into Sally's Apizza in New Haven last December. Poor Scott was sick for two weeks after that stunt. But it was good pizza!

Yesterday, I judged the cooking competition at the Gilroy Garlic Festival. And I want to go on record to say that there's nothing so terribly weird about garlic ice cream. Think of caramelized onions. Sweet and oniony. We like them. Garlic ice cream is sweet and oniny, too. Sure, it's no Ciao Bella apricot sorbet (new obsession), but you gotta give credit to the person who actually developed that recipe. It took courage. And stamina, probably.

All that and a side of Thai

2005-07-14T15:20:00.000-07:00

The King of Thai Noodle House at 639 Clement St. in San Francisco is as good as everyone said it was. Go figure. They're famous for their duck noodle soup, and true to form, the broth was rich and meaty and just slightly sweet.

We slurped up the fat rice noodles stir-fried with beef and ginger...all the addictive appeal of ramen, but real food. Plus, each table had a Lazy Susan loaded with condiments, and there's nothing more fun than playing with condiments. And setting aside the condiments for a moment, why did the Lazy Susan go out of fashion, anyway?

For dessert: coconut sticky rice served with perfect, ripe mango slices, which caused us to joust with our chopsticks for the last bite.

Paradise found

2005-07-11T11:36:00.000-07:00

We finally made it to Big Sur last weekend, back to Deetjen's Big Sur Inn. If there's a more beautiful place in this country, I have yet to find it.

Deetjen's, for those who haven't heard of it (and I like to pretend that I have readers who are not immediate family or friends), is a rustic little inn with a cult following. It was founded in the 1930s by "Grandpa" Deetjen, a Norweigan immigrant who settled in the area right around the time they built Highway 1. Apparently, Grampy was on the run from the Norweigan authorities, and I'm personally grateful that he decided to hide out here. He built little cabins in the redwoods all over the property, added on through the 40s and 50s, and the place has changed very little since then. Rooms still lack televisions or phones or even locks on the doors, walls are paper-thin, and most rooms share bathrooms. It's a very wabi-sabi kind of place, and while all this going-without might bother me in another context, here it just makes you feel all the more unplugged and transported. We first came here in 1999, and it has that camp-like appeal of being the one place where the world seems consistent and peaceful and safe.

If the morning is warm and sunny, you can eat breakfast on a stone patio off the main building and look up at the steep hillside planted with roses (Deetjen's is big on little paths that lead to hidden gardens). I ordered the Huevos Rancheros that Ate Manhattan (actually, there were just called "Huevos Rancheros"). But you can see that they were impressive. That's my arm in the photo, for scale. The pancakes are also great.

My other great food find was a little tray of fresh dates sold at an organic farm stand along the highway. The farmer told me that they're grown up near Santa Cruz (another win for Santa Cruz!), and that she can't get her kids to stop eating them. The flavor and texture remind me of dulce de leche crossed with cooked sweet potatoes, and I'm with those kids: I'll take them over candy just about any day. Here's a photo of Scott holding two dates with a view of the Point Sur Lighthouse in back.

Note: If you do visit Deetjen's, check out the journals in the rooms. People tend to get very personal, and it makes for great reading.

No, not that spam

2005-07-07T17:02:00.000-07:00

Today, my Yahoo account received spam with this subject line:

"We sell all things cervix"

Imagining the offer: "Cervix watches! Cervix snoglobes! Buy now, low price for you!"

I have a backlog of food stuff to write about, including a recent trip to Big Sur. Just too much work this week. Will return (with photos) shortly...

A civilized breakfast

2005-06-29T14:14:00.000-07:00

I've found a grown-up alternative to the toasted-Wonder-bread-with-ricotta-and-grape-jelly breakfast that I loved to love as a child.

1 slice rustic walnut bread, toasted

topped with:

2 tablespoons fromage blanc
2 teaspoons honey

Fast, easy, yum.

See you later, frialator

2005-06-27T12:49:00.000-07:00

I have often thought, since we moved to San Francisco, that the city looks like a place out of a child's drawing, with its exaggerated landscape and ornate houses and bright flowers. Even the people look like the cast of Free to Be You and Me.

And then there's Santa Cruz, where we spent the day on Saturday. If ever a town was not merely drawn, but designed by a child, this is it. Who else would line the town beach with an arcade and a boardwalk/amusement park? "It's like all the best of California condensed into one place," Scott marveled. It should have been named Happyville, and I can't believe the grownups let this one through.

Our personal source of childlike delight came in the form of a deep-fried Twinkie that we bought on the boardwalk. This was a first for us (surprising, given our love of carnival food) and I’m happy to say it was better than I had expected. I thought the Twinkies would break down into something oozy and chemical in the cooking, but the result was rich and almost buttery. Mmmm...twinkies. Score one for deep-fried everything.

After a ride on the Hurricane, a really violent rollercoaster which left us feeling dizzy and old, we drove up to Bonny Doon's tasting room, 8 miles north of town. I love this place. Whereas Roshambo's anti-wine-snob posturing left me cold, I find Bonny Doon's quirky approach totally charming. And the wines are delicous. I took home some bottles of the Pacific Rim Chenin Blanc—a light, aromatic white—and their signature Rhone blend, Le Cigare Volant, along with a bottle of the Cardinal Zin. After tasting 6 or 7 wines, we still felt a little dizzy, but old no more.

Our last food stop was at Fambrini's Farm Fresh Produce for some $.99/lb apricots. I've had apricot jam on the brain lately, as I miss the apricot-lime preserves from Hi Rise Bakery in Cambridge. I'm going to try to recreate the recipe sometime this week; I'll let you know how it goes. Starting with discount apricots might not have been the best idea. Blame it on the rollercoaster.

Oink

2005-06-24T08:45:00.000-07:00

Oink pretty much sums up my work life of late. Sunset received thousands of submissions to its Thanksgiving recipe contest (prize: a $50,000 kitchen redo). A panel of screeners, all former editors, narrowed that batch down, and then we're choosing which recipes make it to testing. That's a lot of recipes to taste. We have a team of recipe testers to do the cooking--if we didn't, the magazine would never get done--but there's still the matter of eating.

The testers are a jolly bunch--home cooks who we normally employ on a freelance basis to come in and test drive the recipes that we develop. They're stand-ins for our readers, and the questions and problems that they identify help us insure that the recipes work. Now, with the contest, they're in the kitchen cooking up a storm all day, every day. It reminds me of holiday mornings when my grandmother and aunts would be in the kitchen chopping and chatting by the time I woke up. Only this is a Groundhog Day-style repeat loop, where every morning is the holiday morning. For the first couple of days, I sat down at the tasting table singing, "It's the most wonderful time of the year, la-la-la...," and Linda said, "Just you wait."

She was right.

Anyway, speaking of Oink, I took Scott to Memphis Millie's on Haight St. on Wednesday night for his birthday. He loves his barbecue, and Minnie's has received high praise from lots of magazines, including Gourmet and Sunset.

I want to go back there one more time to get a better take, but on first impression, I'd say that if you really like smoke, this is your place. The meat is intensely flavored. Me, I like a little more sweetness in the crust, and Millie's flavors are all base notes. Unless, of course, you add the sauces, which are all terrific. So we're going to go back to try their pulled pork, which will probably ring my bell more than the ribs and brisket did.

A Cake to Bake

2005-06-22T10:03:00.000-07:00

My husband's birthday falls one day after my father's. Not sure if that's evidence of some unresolved Electra Complex on my part, or if it just means that good men tend to be born around the longest day of the year. But in practical terms, it means I have birthdays on the brain and lots of presents to buy. And cakes to bake.

Scott is a respectably adventurous eater, but he's not a chowhound or a foodie. Instead, he's what I'd call a good sport. And that's just fine with me. He reminds me that other hobbies can be interesting, too. Like art, or drive-in movies.

And when he says he just wants a simple, old-fashioned yellow birthday cake with chocolate frosting, I say, "Where's my butter, sugar?" No, I don't say that. But I do make the cake.

This is, hands-down, the most delicious cake recipe I have yet to bake. It's from Shirley Corriher's Cookwise (only slightly modified).

If Dante had invented nine circles of heaven, this recipe would be her FastPass to the top. If I was a movie producer, I'd buy the rights and make it into a movie. On top of that, Shirley an awfully nice lady who spends a lot of time answering phone calls from stymied cooks all over the country.

Double this recipe if you want two layers.

Basic Moist Sweet Cake

Yield: 1 layer

Ingredients:

1-1/2 cups cake flour
1-1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 stick cold unsalted butter
1-1/3 cup sugar, placed in the freezer to chill
1/3 cup vegetable oil
2 large eggs at room temperature
3 large egg yolks at room temperature
1/2 cup buttermilk at room temperature
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 350°. Line a cake pan with parchment paper, grease the bottom and sides with butter, and sprinkle with flour. Toss out the excess and set aside.

Sift together dry ingredients so that the baking powder is evenly dispersed. Chill your bowl and beaters. Beat the hard butter in the chilled bowl for three to four minutes, then gradually pour in chilled sugar. Beat for another three to four minutes until well-blended and very fluffy (a total of eight minutes).

Add oil to butter and sugar mixture, then blend. Add eggs and yolks and beat very lightly on a low speed. Too much beating after adding the eggs will produce a tough crust. Add the buttermilk and vanilla and blend lightly. Fold in sifted dry ingredients.
Pour the batter into the prepared cake pan, then bake for 35 minutes, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean.