Wine before noon, a little too soon

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

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

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 When I first moved there, you couldn't buy liquor on Sundays (that law was repealed in 2003).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

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

This way is better.

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

Watch it wiggle

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

Apple crisp

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

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

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

Mary Q's Apple Crisp

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

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

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

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

Back to school

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

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

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

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

Cow town

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

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

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

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

Favorite food-related fainting stories #2

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

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

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

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

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

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

Favorite food-related fainting stories #1

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

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

Can you see where this is going?

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

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

Regrets, I've had a few

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's a pretty short list, considering.

Tagged and tagging

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's in a name

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

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

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

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

Yolo Tengo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.