Fish on Fish on Guac

As you can see, I'm trying to sort a lot of things out. I'm not committing to a habit of posting every two days but I can understand why I'm giving that impression. However, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to acknowledge that I had a big come up today. My phenomenal older brother, EZ, who has been helping me look like slightly less of a moron with technology for my entire life, got me a Christmas present: the domain name www.kitchenassassin.com. That foxy URL now takes you to this here page. This heads up could have been accomplished in an intimate mass e-mail but I wanted to make sure that credit was given more publicly and thus, he is now bronzed on the very blog he helped promote. EZ, you are my best brother; don't ever forget that.

On a different note, I just came home from two glorious days in Tahoe.

Man, I love that place. I eat a lot of eggs, eat a lot of snow, and generally have a great time without fail. I had the privilege of commuting with two favorites: Morty and Sage. I will dedicate the following words (which will be intentionally more brief than the previous posts) to those lovelies.

First, let's talk Sage. She is not only a wicked good herb used to make delicious brown butter for ravioli, she is also the reason that I discovered I liked homoingredient cooking. Homoingredient? Yes. Same on same. Last September, Sage was moonlighting as our fourth roommate. As a result we would often find tasty bars of Swiss chocolate and the occasional bag of Hawaiian tropical salt water taffy. One night we were graced by Sage's culinary flare in the memorable first taste of one of my new loves: fish on fish. The story goes (and Sage correct me if I'm wrong) she was in the grocery store talking shop with a fishmonger when a lovely older man passing by interjected a recipe about what to do with a mild white fish. It was a few weeks later that Sage brought Halibut with Lox Sauce into our lives. It's a little crazy that this is so easy and so delicious. But that is why she is sage counsel to be sought.

2 fish fillets (7ish oz each)
1/3 stick of butter (plus a bit extra to grease foil)
Juice from 1 medium-large lemon
6 oz lox
2 Tbl fresh dill (optional)
pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 400. Melt the butter in a pan then add the lemon juice. Spread the pieces of fish into a baking dish lined with lightly greased aluminum foil. Brush the fish with a bit of the lemon butter from the sauce pan. Bake the fish in the oven for 5-8 minutes (depending on the thickness and size of the fish). This is just a kick-start for the fish, it won't be done. While the fish is cooking, cut the lox into small pieces. Add the lox to the saucepan with the remaining lemon butter and saute for one minute or until the color begins to mute slightly. Add the fresh dill and season with pepper to taste. When the fish is lightly cooked spread the lox sauce generously over the top of the fish. Bake for an additional 4-5 minutes or until the fish is done.

What do you call a fish with no eyes? Fsssshhhhh. Delish.

And onto Morty (proud owner of a new Husky toolbelt. Mort is neither husky nor a tool and yet he looks pretty sharp, and does a nasty booty drop, with that belt on his person). As I mentioned in the first post, Bearman (same as Mort for those not in the know) is part of the reason this blog exists in the first place. And I have to say that I feel no small amount of pressure to impress him, or at the very least not waste his time with my amateur endeavors. Last night was a great team effort on the dinner front. We were dealing with assemble-your-own-burritos; the in-house Tahoe dinner second most popular to take-and-bake pizza. We had purchased some avocados with the intention of having them as a burrito filling option; I got inspired to make guacamole as my contribution to the meal. As a side note, I think there is collective community energy to have a guac-off. I know Em is ready to bring the Dubin family's secret recipe to the table and I think a few others could be persuaded to try their hands as well. Needless to say, last night's guac was rendered as such:

2 avocados
1 medium tomato
2.5 Tbl. diced red onion
juice from .5 lime
1 tsp. balsamic vinegar
1/3 tsp. salt
1-2 Tbl. Ashanti Louisiana Hot Sauce (this was what I could find at the store for $.79 but superior hot sauces should be substituted) depending on desired heat

Combine all ingredients then dominate with the tines of a fork to puree to the best of your manual ability.

The guacamole certainly was nice to look at so I dipped a chip for Bearman and asked that he do the first taste. The interaction went something like this:

[Chip into Bearman's mouth]
[Crunching]
[uncomfortable pause]
Bearman: "Nais...."
Me: "Is it okay?"
Bearman: "That might be some of the best guac I've ever had."

Morton Robert Bearman III, you are my muse.

F is for Farong

The word Farong, in Thai, roughly translates to Douchie/Clueless White Person. During my month-long stint in Thailand, I attempted to use this word often-- hoping that my demonstration of "local knowledge" would get me "in" with the locals. More likely, as soon as my back was turned, some smiley person who had witnessed my attempt to trade a handful of baht for delicious pineapple in a plastic bag or watched my brother repeatedly fail to kick-start his rented moped, would utter it under his or her breath in our direction. Rarely do we strive to be Farongs while traveling though sometimes it can't be helped. Even when we aren't traveling it can be difficult to avoid; I find myself feeling like a Farong in San Francisco with fair regularity.

One circumstance that lends itself easily to the momentary transformation into douchie whitehood is a server's response to our ordering off menus in ethnic restaurants. Not so long ago, I was eating at Le Colonial with a friend's family. When it came time to order, my friend's sister began "I'll have the....ker...gla...gai...pra...uh...prik...tom...um...." "The Mahi-mahi?" The waiter offered. I watched her instantaneous transformation from hip San Francisco scenester to Queen Farong. The experience served to reinforce my general rule: unless I'm mighty confident about what a dish is called and when I get the sense I will be silently ridiculed by the server, I usually opt for pointing or ordering by the English description.

Which brings me to last night and a uniquely non-Farong moment that happened in a cozy Cow Hollow hang called Benjarong. I was invited out to dinner by Jamie and her mom, Patrice. Jamie is generally a good source of restaurant knowledge, is good in the kitchen, and has good taste so I'm rarely disappointed when food is involved. She happened upon Benjarong, on an unassuming block of Lombard between Webster and Buchanan, earlier this month and last night was her third time eating there. I took it as a good sign.

I'll be the first to admit that I can be a pain-in-the-ass eater. I attribute this to my vegaquarian lifestyle and my moderate lactose intolerance as well as being a little snobby. Thai food in particular is one of the things I feel holier-than-thou about, stemming from my month with Visra as a tour guide and the cooking classes my brother and I took in Chiang Mai that gave us tips on curries and things. Yet, in a rare moment last night I felt an overwhelming sense of calm as I passed through the door. The walls were a mellow mustard except for one brick red wall in back and the lights cast a rosy glow around the room. It was warm but not to the point of igniting a womblike coma and it smelled faintly delightful without recalling ingredients searing in hot oil. Benajarong's kitchen felt tangibly close but not under my nose.

We didn't have a reservation but were seated promptly at a table in the window nook; water arrived immediately. There were two servers floating about the dining room. I say floating because their presence was almost ethereal. Like the restaurant's atmosphere both the man and woman attending to the floor were calm, soft spoken, low-key. After a few minutes our server came to take our order but we hadn't even glanced at the menu. He asked about drinks, three of us ordered glasses of the same wine and he gently suggested we order a bottle. Smart man. During this interaction Jamie had determined a few of her preferred starters. "We'll have the Keow Wan Roti and Tom Yum to start." No "Stupid Farong" eyes made by the server, or requests that she clarify or repeat the order, simply a gracious and affirming nod. Off floated the server only to re-appear mere moments later with our wine. Love the prompt, understated attention.

The roti arrived first. It came quartered on a simple porcelain plate. Each piece was topped with a single round of grilled eggplant and tomato. Accompanying this was a small dish of green curry. The curry was mild and complimented the flavor of the eggplant and tomato and the light and nearly flaky roti (which can be hard to achieve given that it's fried and often oily). When the last crumb of roti was off our plates, the dishes were whisked away and four perfect soup terrines with little lids were set in front of us. Our Tom Yum was as it should be, tart and sweet, with a hint of spiciness; plump prawns and lemongrass set afloat in an aromatic bath.

We collectively set Jamie to task ordering the rest of the meal since she'd so easily demonstrated her veteran status with the menu. She opted for Penang Curry and Prik-Khing Koong, prawns in a sweet chili sauce with green beans and bell peppers. I was doing an unnaturally good job of keeping quiet until we broached the issue of noodle dishes. The menu, which was noticeably short, only had three options for noodles, none of which were Pad Si Iew, my usual default.*** For most folks Pad Thai is the natural go-to and is the quintessential Farong choice. More importantly, it's actually quite difficult to make well, which means people think they like Thai food and always order Pad Thai but are usually eating a less than perfect permutation. It's not their fault, they just don't know better. I can't remember the last time I ordered Pad Thai and in a moment of doubt, expressed this to Jamie. She deferred to our server. "Would you recommend the Pad Thai?" "Oh yes." Our server's face actually lit up when he answered. And my reaction was that, in spite of his ethereal presence thus far, the word Farong had finally begun coursing through his head.

I can't pretend that during our time in Thailand my brother and I didn't attempt to single-handedly eat the country out of Pad Thai. I can tell you where it was best: two doors down from Master of the Wok (aka The Mole) where Visra took us to get an incomparable version served inside a paper-thin omelet shell. And where it was worst: at midnight in a bus-terminal on the way back from Koh Nang Yuan (although even then it was better than what you find here). When you haven't seen how green the grass can be, you just don't know. And it's not your fault, but it's why the word Farong exists.

Our three main dishes arrived simultaneously, with little lag time from the departure of our clean soup bowls. I eyed the Pad Thai suspiciously; it looked good. Three airy mounds of carrots and cabbage nestled alongside the pile of orange hued noodles, which did not appear oily or gluey. Sure enough it did not disappoint. I realized then that our server's reaction hadn't registered "Farong" on his face, he'd actually expressed sincere and warranted confidence in the dish. Love the guy. All four tenets of flavor represented themselves: sweet, sour, salty, and spicy. I'll admit the spiciness was almost negligible but if anything it was our fault for not specifying. The other two dishes were stand alones as well. The Penang was rich from the peanut sauce but not overbearing and the Prik-Khing was dignified, the green beans cooked perfectly and off-set by the surprise appearance of lightly fried strips of tofu. The portions were very appropriate and four of us were full with just a few leftovers at the end. ("Four? I thought you said it was Jamie and her mom?" It was, but the ever-resplendent Arthur was there too.)

Although we passed on dessert, our check arrived with four Tootsie pops. Patrice commented that the lollipop was a surprisingly refreshing way to end the meal. Perhaps a tribute to the Farong clientele? Perhaps. But more probably because these culinary geniuses determined it was a refreshing way to end the meal.

When I got home last night, I looked up Benjarong on Yelp to see what other folks had to say. An overwhelming majority gave glowing recommendations. Only one review stood out as markedly different. One guy, whose profile picture implied he was in his middle-fifties, was not pleased. He noted that the bathroom wasn't as clean as he wanted and what did that mean about the kitchen. The guy raises an interesting point and yet...I hope he burns in hell.

Benjarong you're in. Whack ass Yelp guy, go Windex your sink.




*** The Pad Si Iew craving is easily satisfied at King of Thai Noodle on 6th and Clement.

Immaculate mis-conception

I've been making excuses about why I won't start a blog for sometime now. Chiefly among these is that I think it's self-promotional and no one reads them anyway. The latter is usually true and in so far as the former is concerned, I suppose if the writing is garbage it's actually self-DEmotional and that I feel more comfortable with. However, given my aspiration of eventually becoming a food writer/consultant blogging is a natural first step and though I think it will take me a while to wholly embrace the process from it's unedited and banterific standpoint, it's possible that I might come to enjoy it.

The conversation that ultimately swayed me to take this final leap happened last night with my dear friend Morton Robert Bearman III. He and I were celebrating Christmas in the typically Jewish fashion: Chinese and a movie. Two topics dominated our dinner conversation, our futures and how terrible our food was. It is no small coincidence that from those loins this page was delivered. Between pot-stickers whose excessive doughiness could not be outshined by their gleaming coats of oil, we discussed that being a paralegal was not my calling and I asserted my affinity for food writing. Bearman suggested I start informally reviewing restaurants. I countered that I don't eat in restaurants often enough while skeptically eyeing his cashew chicken. The dish resembled the interior of a Hungary Man pot-pie complete with the colors of the Irish flag in small dice. He maintained it would still be worthwhile even if it was just once every two weeks. I looked at my House Vegetables with Bean Curd, it's glossy sheen implied it would be not so much spicy (specifically requested) as well lubricated. I resubmitted that I didn't eat in restaurants even that often. To be quite honest, that's probably not true. Particularly not now as I am spending my work weeks in Southern California, living in a hotel and eating chain restaurant food every night. And even when I am in the city my roommates and I get cravings for Star of India's Baingan Bharta far more often than once a month. But how many times can you review the same thing? That particular dish doesn't need a review, it needs a one liner: it's like heroin, be careful. As we walked out of the restaurant I still wasn't sold on the idea of starting this blog. Bearman cracked his fortune cookie open on the street, "Men don't fail. They cease trying." For final closure on a notably sub par meal, Bearman's comment was timely, "that's not even a fortune."

The final catalyst for this venture occurred mere moments ago while I was eating a lunch of leftovers from last night's disappointing meal. You might wonder why I would A) take home food that I disliked the first time I ate it B) eat it a second time even if the reason for taking the leftovers was the guilt I felt because there was so much of them. 30 minutes after punishing myself a second time, I'm wondering the same thing. Although I should note that the only thing that bothers me more than bad food is wasting food (although if this critic thing pans out I suspect I'll have to re-prioritize). It was the re-mix of this terrible meal that propelled The Kitchen Assassin into it's inception. How could I assault my stomach again inside of twenty four hours? I deserved to be punished. Easy answer: start the blog I've been resisting.

Like many other folks in my position the most limiting factor in my eating experience is money. And I'm not prepared to acquire a reputation this early on in the game as a critic who eats at low-end places and then writes candidly about how reprehensible they are. I'm cynical enough without trying; setting myself up to deliver cynical prose will not be terribly beneficial. So that leaves me in a bit of a pickle I guess...

Here's what I've deduced: this blog is going to be about food, though not necessarily restaurants and hence the name The Kitchen Assassin. To give myself more material, I figure I'll critique my own cooking. I like to cook and during my stint working at home would often make mutli-course meals for my housemates. To my credit I am pretty confident in the kitchen but as we know, confidence can't always substitute for ability. Also, lately I haven't been chefessing nearly as often and time constraints often trump the desire for variation-- though I do make an ass-kicking salad employing all but the kitchen sink. I'm hoping that the fear of nothing to say will inspire me to get back to the stove and thus regale you with tales of how I lead ingredients to their final resting place.

Welcome to The Kitchen Assassin. If this doesn't land me a fatty job as assistant to or replacement for Ruth Reichl or Jeffrey Steingarten I will consider myself a failure, though not for lack of trying.