Since I've been terrible about posting recently I figure I'll make up for lost time. Here's one I started writing three weeks ago while I was in Miami for work.
Eating lost its flare a while ago. I rarely feel hungry. At the end of the day I could care less about dinner. In my own mind I eat some form of bread and cheese all day long and nearly exclusively and that's all food is anymore...bread (ciabatta, multigrain, Stirato, hominy...) and cheese (chedder, pepper jack, smoked gouda). Even while eating sauteed veggies and a grain (usually quinoa) I feel like I'm eating bread and cheese. That's my own fault, but somehow it clouds everything that enters my mouth or mind. Even last Sunday as I was eating a "Mustafa Salad" from the Chai House, basically a bowl of vegan hippie birdseed-- mixed greens, falafel, sunflower seeds and a smattering of other veggies bits--if I'd closed my eyes it would have been bread and cheese. Same goes for the various other restaurant meals I've had recently including two grilled calamari salads, minestrone soup, a thai smorgesboard, and potato pancakes. All of it...bread and cheese, bread and cheese, more bread and cheese.
So the last twenty four hours have been a big breakthrough. I'm in Miami and can't say that my appetite has come back in a raging way but I've been eating Cuban food and that's what it tastes like. Last night I poached dinner from Cafe Versailles, the well-known, local Cuban haunt and quasi chain with an outpost in the airport. First of all, I love feeling pressured to speak Spanish, and I really didn't even need to at Versailles but the atmosphere just begs for it. Male waiters dressed like penguins weave in and out of the lady waitresses dressed in unflattering green pants suits. Y toda la gente esta charlando rapido. I headed to the back to the take out counter which was also the grill station where a man was churning out order upon order of empanadas made with Bacalao (cod), spinach and cheese, and chicken. And mammoth batches of crispy plantain chips. I ordered Dolphin fish a la plancha that came with a side of yellow rice and platanos maduros, sweet fried plantains that I would course the world twice around for. I also ordered a side of black beans. And the whole mess came with an oily bag of grilled white bread toasts drizzled in butter. Each bite was a gift in that none of it tasted like cheese and the oily toasts were waylaid in favor of every other tasty nibble in front of me. Dinner ran me about $12, it could have easily fed two. I had to force myself to eat half of it and then left it out overnight on the dresser of my hotel room. I ate some of the plaintains cold for breakfast. They really weren't as good day two but I was still reveling in the no-cheese flavor.
The Changing face of the Farmers Market
I'm a huge supporter of Farmers Markets. The air always buzzes with the best kind of positive calm. Canvas bags in hand, looks of pride on the faces of the folks who actually remembered to bring them out of the house...for once. Seattle has a number of fantastic markets and each of my weeks is filled with anticipation about my Saturdays and Sundays and the occasional seasonal Thursday when I get to chat with my favorite farmers and survey the bounty. I'm a loyalist in all things so my first Farmers Market affection began in Magnolia when my parents and I stumbled onto the row of stalls in the community center parking lot. Looking back on that day we bought two relatively terribly things: a pumpernickle bread that left everything to be desired and a cabernet cheese that was so forgettable, I've forgotten what type of cheese it purported to be. Both were bad yet the experience lifted my spirit and that became the Saturday market that I went to all summer and into the fall until it ended in early November. It was at this market where I made friends with "Buck" the seller for Alvarez farms who shoots plastic bags at the shoppers and shouts about the price of corn and hands out handfuls of organic peanuts for grazers to snack on while picking through the produce.
Buck is a far cry from the typically dreamy, healthy looking farm boys and girls who so romantically sell the image of the farmers market to the yuppy attendees. He is rough around the edges, with a hint of white trash, and defies all definitions of the organic oriented, environmentally conscious types who gladly shell out $4 for a single heirloom tomato. Buck is the new face of the Farmers Market; the exciting possibility that conceptions of organics are reaching beyond the privileged and guilt ladden upper classes. Buck is overweight, Buck has bad teeth, Buck has ugly tattoos of hearts and eagles, Buck flirts shamelessly with everyone, Buck talks fast, Buck is abrassive. Buck is also incredibly knowledgeable about the flavor profiles of each of the twelve or more types of peppers he sells. He has a culinary degree and gives advice on recipes to use for each of the five or more types of potatoes on display. Alvarez farms has provided me produce all summer and fall. And as winter approaches I've found myself growing anxious as their bounty has changed and shrunk. But I've also found that it's making me think about what it means to eat seasonally and I find I'm not compelled to run to the grocery store now that tomatoes are no longer in season.
In fact, I've stopped going to the grocery store all together. At this point there is nothing I can't get at the Farmers Market that I want. And I like the challenge of continuing to eat healthy and responsibly as the seasons change. I have my egg man from Ricksen Farms who planted 40 acres of comfry because he is trying to feed his chickens the most balanced diet that will also produce the most appealing egg flavor. My salmon people at Loki who make sure I have a stock of smoked and pickled salmon every week. Tiny Farms who gave me plums and peaches all summer and then apples through the fall. Tall Grass Bakery makes the most killer hominy bread (actually the same people with the wretched pumpernickle, I learned my lesson once and haven't gotten back on that train since). In addition to my bevy of cheese makers (Washington has fabulous sustainably made cheese), purveyors of pickled things (asparagus, green beans etc.), flower growers and jewelry makers.
The Farmers Market has been my best ally in Seattle. It's where I offset my accumulated guilt for my 9-5 promotion of an industry that is suffocating small farms and small businesses. It has reinforced my interest in supporting those who are invested in sustainability practices the intimacy of food production and the gratification of being one of the few willing to keep dealing in cash on an interpersonal level.
And with that I leave you with this link...(play spot the Coca-Cola) as a little food for thought.
Buck is a far cry from the typically dreamy, healthy looking farm boys and girls who so romantically sell the image of the farmers market to the yuppy attendees. He is rough around the edges, with a hint of white trash, and defies all definitions of the organic oriented, environmentally conscious types who gladly shell out $4 for a single heirloom tomato. Buck is the new face of the Farmers Market; the exciting possibility that conceptions of organics are reaching beyond the privileged and guilt ladden upper classes. Buck is overweight, Buck has bad teeth, Buck has ugly tattoos of hearts and eagles, Buck flirts shamelessly with everyone, Buck talks fast, Buck is abrassive. Buck is also incredibly knowledgeable about the flavor profiles of each of the twelve or more types of peppers he sells. He has a culinary degree and gives advice on recipes to use for each of the five or more types of potatoes on display. Alvarez farms has provided me produce all summer and fall. And as winter approaches I've found myself growing anxious as their bounty has changed and shrunk. But I've also found that it's making me think about what it means to eat seasonally and I find I'm not compelled to run to the grocery store now that tomatoes are no longer in season.
In fact, I've stopped going to the grocery store all together. At this point there is nothing I can't get at the Farmers Market that I want. And I like the challenge of continuing to eat healthy and responsibly as the seasons change. I have my egg man from Ricksen Farms who planted 40 acres of comfry because he is trying to feed his chickens the most balanced diet that will also produce the most appealing egg flavor. My salmon people at Loki who make sure I have a stock of smoked and pickled salmon every week. Tiny Farms who gave me plums and peaches all summer and then apples through the fall. Tall Grass Bakery makes the most killer hominy bread (actually the same people with the wretched pumpernickle, I learned my lesson once and haven't gotten back on that train since). In addition to my bevy of cheese makers (Washington has fabulous sustainably made cheese), purveyors of pickled things (asparagus, green beans etc.), flower growers and jewelry makers.
The Farmers Market has been my best ally in Seattle. It's where I offset my accumulated guilt for my 9-5 promotion of an industry that is suffocating small farms and small businesses. It has reinforced my interest in supporting those who are invested in sustainability practices the intimacy of food production and the gratification of being one of the few willing to keep dealing in cash on an interpersonal level.
And with that I leave you with this link...(play spot the Coca-Cola) as a little food for thought.
Settling In and Eating Out
A while back, an internal memo written by Starbucks chairman Howard Schultz leaked into the public. In essence he said that Starbucks had lost its way. That's basically how I feel about this blog. I have neglected it after noticing that my last few posts were going a little flat. My writing drifted from a well-crafted, artisan level cup of coffee, to an espresso drafted from an automatic machine. Push a button and the post showed up but without the added level of intimacy; my devotion was diminishing. So I took a break and collected my thoughts. The downtime was not exactly relaxing. Since my last post I made the decision to accept a full time job up here, found an apartment, bought a car and mentally adjusted to the prospect of staying here indefinitely. Throughout this transitional whirlwind I have attempted to determine what my "passion for food" really is about.
Before making the decision to stay here in Seattle I went to great lengths to try to find a way back to the Bay Area. I even cold-contacted the tablehopper. If you are privy to the Bay Area food scene you will agree that this woman has her ear to the ground and knows the ins and outs of the moving and shaking from farm to kitchen and kitchen to table. She sends out a weekly newsletter which I have been loyally reading since about the time she began. She makes herself very accessible to her public and does a service called "Tip Please" where you can write her to get a restaurant recommendation. You say, "I'm planning a birthday for my roommate and ten friends, we need a good sushi spot." She might say "Go to Sushi B (B is for Bistro)". Her only request is that after you go, you hit her back and tell her what you thought. Anyway, I reached out to her in a moment of rock-bottom desperation during which I was trying to rationalize returning to the ever-resplendent Bay Area without an equally legitimate job prospect. This woman is so down to earth and so approachable and considerate it floored me. So for that, and because I just think she and the newsletter are great, I'm going to encourage you to subscribe.
Now, let's talk about food since I think straying from that intention is at the heart of my problems with these recent posts. As you know, I'm a brunch fanatic. Though brunch, as god intended it, ought to be shared among good friends and serve to soothe a mediocre to quite heady hangover. The rub is that until this point I didn't have many friends in Seattle impacting both the likelihood of sharing a meal with friends as well as engaging in the kind of behavior that resulted in a hangover. Thus, not much brunching has really taken place for me. I've had two weekends of friends coupled with two weekends of drinking and the result was my discovery of my new favorite weekend brunch spot. Indeed, I found a place so tasty I actually went twice-- two days in a row. And as I write this I'm still digesting some fantastically tasty Migas compliments of Portage Bay (42nd Ave NE and Roosevelt).
Portage Bay: An open kitchen mingles with the neo-industrial architecture of this cozy little b-fast nook. A wall of south facing floor to ceiling windows looks out on the weather-permitting outdoor dining area. The space feels open and inviting despite the crowds that mingle around the door and entry-way. Located in the University District PB draws a mixed crowd of college students and cross-towners alike. Many arguments can be made for the appeal of this place: the nearly all locally sourced and mostly organic menu, the reasonable prices, or (and this is clearly the only real argument) the "breakfast bar". It's all about the breakfast bar. Running lengthwise along the counter top of the open kitchen, large glass bowls brim with fresh fruit: blackberries, raspberries, huckleberries, lingonberries, strawberries, peaches, pears. As well as butter, whipped cream, and Vermont maple syrup. Many of the dishes on the menu like Bananas Foster French toast with all natural challah bread from Great Harvest Bakery topped with Myer's rum brown sugar caramel sauce and sauteed organic/fair trade bananas come with a trip (or 3 or 7) to the breakfast bar. But don't think they aren't expecting that: the b-fast bar comes with the encouraging reminder "Remember, please take all you want, but eat all you take." If you aren't feeling like a glutton you can incorporate the breakfast bar into a lighter route. I've heard the Chai and organic vanilla soy milk steel cut oatmeal with your choice of toppings from the breakfast bar is quite a hit. If the breakfast bar doesn't serve as enough inspiration, a host of other tasty dishes will likely call your name. Perhaps a Benedict: Spicy black black bean-pancetta cakes, homemade organic cornbread, with our house-smoked tomato and saffron sauce. Or one of their heartwarming hashes: Grilled organic vegetables including red onion, celery, red, yellow and green peppers, red potatoes, sweet potatoes and fresh herbs. Topped with three organic scrambled eggs, all natural whole-wheat toast, and your choice of all-natural corned beef, House smoked wild salmon, chicken-basil sausage, sautéed mushrooms. And if a more traditional omelette suits your fancy perhaps you'd enjoy the not so traditional: Oregon Country Beef flatiron steak omelette folded with St. Andre Triple Cream Brie and topped with a selection of wild and cultivated sautéed mushrooms. Hungry yet?
On my first morning at Portage Bay the sun was almost shining which gives Seattlites the feeling that they ought to dine outdoors. The wait for four of us was only 20ish minutes, during which our appetites built as large beautifully assembled plates of blintzes and pancakes sailed passed us.
My second morning there, the next day, the weather had returned to the ever-typical Seattle funk and the waiting crowd on the sidewalk was large and milled about in the same sweet anticipation that I did. Although informed of a 45 minute wait for Katie and I, we managed to snake two places at the corner bar tucked away by the bathrooms. Though removed from the main dining room, it does have a quaint view of the cold/waiting crowd outside. Three minutes later menus were in our hands and the difficult process of choosing another dish had begun.
Though I love food and love breakfast it's rare for me to feel compelled to try almost everything on the menu. I feel that way about Protage Bay. I could go back daily until I'd tasted the whole business.
They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I'll take it a step further to say good breakfast is the most important meal to have in a city you are trying to call home.
Before making the decision to stay here in Seattle I went to great lengths to try to find a way back to the Bay Area. I even cold-contacted the tablehopper. If you are privy to the Bay Area food scene you will agree that this woman has her ear to the ground and knows the ins and outs of the moving and shaking from farm to kitchen and kitchen to table. She sends out a weekly newsletter which I have been loyally reading since about the time she began. She makes herself very accessible to her public and does a service called "Tip Please" where you can write her to get a restaurant recommendation. You say, "I'm planning a birthday for my roommate and ten friends, we need a good sushi spot." She might say "Go to Sushi B (B is for Bistro)". Her only request is that after you go, you hit her back and tell her what you thought. Anyway, I reached out to her in a moment of rock-bottom desperation during which I was trying to rationalize returning to the ever-resplendent Bay Area without an equally legitimate job prospect. This woman is so down to earth and so approachable and considerate it floored me. So for that, and because I just think she and the newsletter are great, I'm going to encourage you to subscribe.
Now, let's talk about food since I think straying from that intention is at the heart of my problems with these recent posts. As you know, I'm a brunch fanatic. Though brunch, as god intended it, ought to be shared among good friends and serve to soothe a mediocre to quite heady hangover. The rub is that until this point I didn't have many friends in Seattle impacting both the likelihood of sharing a meal with friends as well as engaging in the kind of behavior that resulted in a hangover. Thus, not much brunching has really taken place for me. I've had two weekends of friends coupled with two weekends of drinking and the result was my discovery of my new favorite weekend brunch spot. Indeed, I found a place so tasty I actually went twice-- two days in a row. And as I write this I'm still digesting some fantastically tasty Migas compliments of Portage Bay (42nd Ave NE and Roosevelt).
Portage Bay: An open kitchen mingles with the neo-industrial architecture of this cozy little b-fast nook. A wall of south facing floor to ceiling windows looks out on the weather-permitting outdoor dining area. The space feels open and inviting despite the crowds that mingle around the door and entry-way. Located in the University District PB draws a mixed crowd of college students and cross-towners alike. Many arguments can be made for the appeal of this place: the nearly all locally sourced and mostly organic menu, the reasonable prices, or (and this is clearly the only real argument) the "breakfast bar". It's all about the breakfast bar. Running lengthwise along the counter top of the open kitchen, large glass bowls brim with fresh fruit: blackberries, raspberries, huckleberries, lingonberries, strawberries, peaches, pears. As well as butter, whipped cream, and Vermont maple syrup. Many of the dishes on the menu like Bananas Foster French toast with all natural challah bread from Great Harvest Bakery topped with Myer's rum brown sugar caramel sauce and sauteed organic/fair trade bananas come with a trip (or 3 or 7) to the breakfast bar. But don't think they aren't expecting that: the b-fast bar comes with the encouraging reminder "Remember, please take all you want, but eat all you take." If you aren't feeling like a glutton you can incorporate the breakfast bar into a lighter route. I've heard the Chai and organic vanilla soy milk steel cut oatmeal with your choice of toppings from the breakfast bar is quite a hit. If the breakfast bar doesn't serve as enough inspiration, a host of other tasty dishes will likely call your name. Perhaps a Benedict: Spicy black black bean-pancetta cakes, homemade organic cornbread, with our house-smoked tomato and saffron sauce. Or one of their heartwarming hashes: Grilled organic vegetables including red onion, celery, red, yellow and green peppers, red potatoes, sweet potatoes and fresh herbs. Topped with three organic scrambled eggs, all natural whole-wheat toast, and your choice of all-natural corned beef, House smoked wild salmon, chicken-basil sausage, sautéed mushrooms. And if a more traditional omelette suits your fancy perhaps you'd enjoy the not so traditional: Oregon Country Beef flatiron steak omelette folded with St. Andre Triple Cream Brie and topped with a selection of wild and cultivated sautéed mushrooms. Hungry yet?
On my first morning at Portage Bay the sun was almost shining which gives Seattlites the feeling that they ought to dine outdoors. The wait for four of us was only 20ish minutes, during which our appetites built as large beautifully assembled plates of blintzes and pancakes sailed passed us.
My second morning there, the next day, the weather had returned to the ever-typical Seattle funk and the waiting crowd on the sidewalk was large and milled about in the same sweet anticipation that I did. Although informed of a 45 minute wait for Katie and I, we managed to snake two places at the corner bar tucked away by the bathrooms. Though removed from the main dining room, it does have a quaint view of the cold/waiting crowd outside. Three minutes later menus were in our hands and the difficult process of choosing another dish had begun.
Though I love food and love breakfast it's rare for me to feel compelled to try almost everything on the menu. I feel that way about Protage Bay. I could go back daily until I'd tasted the whole business.
They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I'll take it a step further to say good breakfast is the most important meal to have in a city you are trying to call home.
Culinary Achievements and Allergic Reactions
I haven't abandoned this. Worry not, kind friends (er--mostly family).
I just got back from a weekend in New York. Not just any social romp mind you, but for the specific purpose of witnessing the marriage of one of my most adored cousins, Nick. I did myself the service of arriving one day early so I could get a little friend time. And as per usual my heart was lighter after seeing the shiny faces of my friendlies.
I've written about the Chelsea Market before. And sure enough, while staying in Chelsea there was no way I wasn't going to pay it a visit. In good form Sage let us cook at her place and I had the distinct privilege of my brother in tow so I got excited and decided I'd cook. It's been a while since I've cooked. I don't really do it ever in Seattle and what I do for work mostly involves assembly as all of our ingredients are RTU (industry speak for Ready To Use). So there we are, in Chelsea, on a sort of beautiful day. It was actually blustery with scattered showers but I was pleased as punch to be there and to be hanging out with my brother. Thus the revisionist historian will take over and we'll just say it was a balmy 73, not a cloud in the sky and a warm breeze was softly playing tag with us. My brother suggested we make fresh pasta for dinner which naturally lead me to fast track it to the specialty Italian store...whose name I really ought to know but don't.
After lengthy stops in both Italy (can I just call it that and you can you not judge me, please?) and the Produce Exchange, conveniently located close to one another in the great fish tank of Chelsea Market, we headed home with our bounty: fresh basil, pinenuts, garlic, a wedge of Parmesan, chili pepper flakes, spinach, strawberries, feta, onions, Italian peeled tomatoes, capers, kalamata olives, anchovy fillets, fresh pasta.
Dinner was--if you haven't solved the puzzle on your own:
Salad. Spinach, sliced strawberries, diced red onions, and crumbled feta lightly dressed with an orange marmalade balsamic vinaigrette.
Fresh Pasta with two sauces.
Pesto. Traditional with basil, pinenuts, olive oil, Parmesan cheese, a splash of balsamic -- you raise your eyebrows but acid is KEY to all great things, I'm telling you.
One Sicilian number. Owing its flavor to anchovies, capers, kalamata olives, tomatoes, garlic, chili pepper flakes, and yes a splash of balsamic.
I have been reading Heat by Bill Buford. The retelling of his time spent as "kitchen bitch" to Mario Batali owner of Babbo and Po among other known establishments. Not to mention a regular on Iron Chef America and the host of the once regularly programmed Molto Mario on the Food Network. Heat was a gift from a former attorney co-worker, quite a thoughtful one at that, as I ventured away from law to pursue what has become this odd little preoccupation with food . It took me almost four months to pick it up but it really couldn't be more timely as I am presently struggling with my own feelings of wanting to narrow my food learning while feeling simultaneously stupid and over qualified in competing moments with the job. Anyway, there are many little lessons peppered throughout Buford's tale, not the least of which is Mario's belief that fresh pasta is the main attraction and sauce the side-car (grossly simplified lesson-- read the book yourself.)
In no uncertain terms, dinner was a success. I tend not to give people enough credit for their eating habits, perhaps in large part because Starbucks' food customers are such an uninspired bunch, but it was great to be cooking for friends who were compelled to get down with my experimental anchovy sauce. And there weren't a lot of leftovers which always makes a cook happy.
Just to give credit to the meal I didn't create: dessert were cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery. For how famous that place is I only have one word: Overrated. And to be more specific: get a new frosting recipe and a little extra moisture in your cake wouldn't hurt either.
Anyway, I slept cozy on a nest of four ottomans and woke up Saturday to an interesting discovery: the bottom left quadrant of my lip was swollen and about the size of my thumb. My first reaction was that I'd been bitten in the face by an invisible rodent. But there was no pain anywhere. It was just fat. This was shocking for many reasons. 1) I am not allergic to anything, I have a sensitivity to sulfites and mild lactose intolerance-- otherwise, I've really got nothing. I can snort grass, dust mites, pollen, and peanuts and none would be the wiser yet here I was with a fat lip and nothing identifiably as the cause. So what did I do? I went and woke up my friend Vicki, asleep in the next room, who is a recent finisher of her first year at UCSF medical. Vicki determined it was an allergic reaction (juxtapose this to my brother's response "what invisible person hit you in the face?") advised me to ice and take a Benedryl. In my head all I've got is, "perfect, fly in for the family wedding, look like I spent the morning having a root canal." But blessed be those educated in medicine, two and a half hours later, during a fantastic brunch at Good my fat lip was normal size.
So I'm playing this all back in my head. What was the ingredient that I used in my own cooking that gave me a fat lip?...am I going to develop late onset food allergies?...is this the beginning of an ironic end to my food loving career?...will it come back at an even less convenient time? (What would be a less convenient time? Perhaps while I'm giving an important speech about how allergies really are just a sign of weakness and completely psychosomatic.)
I'll still be inclined to eat all those things with gusto, particularly that anchovy sauce, man that was some tasty business. But I will keep one eye on my own lips to see if the swelling returns.
I just got back from a weekend in New York. Not just any social romp mind you, but for the specific purpose of witnessing the marriage of one of my most adored cousins, Nick. I did myself the service of arriving one day early so I could get a little friend time. And as per usual my heart was lighter after seeing the shiny faces of my friendlies.
I've written about the Chelsea Market before. And sure enough, while staying in Chelsea there was no way I wasn't going to pay it a visit. In good form Sage let us cook at her place and I had the distinct privilege of my brother in tow so I got excited and decided I'd cook. It's been a while since I've cooked. I don't really do it ever in Seattle and what I do for work mostly involves assembly as all of our ingredients are RTU (industry speak for Ready To Use). So there we are, in Chelsea, on a sort of beautiful day. It was actually blustery with scattered showers but I was pleased as punch to be there and to be hanging out with my brother. Thus the revisionist historian will take over and we'll just say it was a balmy 73, not a cloud in the sky and a warm breeze was softly playing tag with us. My brother suggested we make fresh pasta for dinner which naturally lead me to fast track it to the specialty Italian store...whose name I really ought to know but don't.
After lengthy stops in both Italy (can I just call it that and you can you not judge me, please?) and the Produce Exchange, conveniently located close to one another in the great fish tank of Chelsea Market, we headed home with our bounty: fresh basil, pinenuts, garlic, a wedge of Parmesan, chili pepper flakes, spinach, strawberries, feta, onions, Italian peeled tomatoes, capers, kalamata olives, anchovy fillets, fresh pasta.
Dinner was--if you haven't solved the puzzle on your own:
Salad. Spinach, sliced strawberries, diced red onions, and crumbled feta lightly dressed with an orange marmalade balsamic vinaigrette.
Fresh Pasta with two sauces.
Pesto. Traditional with basil, pinenuts, olive oil, Parmesan cheese, a splash of balsamic -- you raise your eyebrows but acid is KEY to all great things, I'm telling you.
One Sicilian number. Owing its flavor to anchovies, capers, kalamata olives, tomatoes, garlic, chili pepper flakes, and yes a splash of balsamic.
I have been reading Heat by Bill Buford. The retelling of his time spent as "kitchen bitch" to Mario Batali owner of Babbo and Po among other known establishments. Not to mention a regular on Iron Chef America and the host of the once regularly programmed Molto Mario on the Food Network. Heat was a gift from a former attorney co-worker, quite a thoughtful one at that, as I ventured away from law to pursue what has become this odd little preoccupation with food . It took me almost four months to pick it up but it really couldn't be more timely as I am presently struggling with my own feelings of wanting to narrow my food learning while feeling simultaneously stupid and over qualified in competing moments with the job. Anyway, there are many little lessons peppered throughout Buford's tale, not the least of which is Mario's belief that fresh pasta is the main attraction and sauce the side-car (grossly simplified lesson-- read the book yourself.)
In no uncertain terms, dinner was a success. I tend not to give people enough credit for their eating habits, perhaps in large part because Starbucks' food customers are such an uninspired bunch, but it was great to be cooking for friends who were compelled to get down with my experimental anchovy sauce. And there weren't a lot of leftovers which always makes a cook happy.
Just to give credit to the meal I didn't create: dessert were cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery. For how famous that place is I only have one word: Overrated. And to be more specific: get a new frosting recipe and a little extra moisture in your cake wouldn't hurt either.
Anyway, I slept cozy on a nest of four ottomans and woke up Saturday to an interesting discovery: the bottom left quadrant of my lip was swollen and about the size of my thumb. My first reaction was that I'd been bitten in the face by an invisible rodent. But there was no pain anywhere. It was just fat. This was shocking for many reasons. 1) I am not allergic to anything, I have a sensitivity to sulfites and mild lactose intolerance-- otherwise, I've really got nothing. I can snort grass, dust mites, pollen, and peanuts and none would be the wiser yet here I was with a fat lip and nothing identifiably as the cause. So what did I do? I went and woke up my friend Vicki, asleep in the next room, who is a recent finisher of her first year at UCSF medical. Vicki determined it was an allergic reaction (juxtapose this to my brother's response "what invisible person hit you in the face?") advised me to ice and take a Benedryl. In my head all I've got is, "perfect, fly in for the family wedding, look like I spent the morning having a root canal." But blessed be those educated in medicine, two and a half hours later, during a fantastic brunch at Good my fat lip was normal size.
So I'm playing this all back in my head. What was the ingredient that I used in my own cooking that gave me a fat lip?...am I going to develop late onset food allergies?...is this the beginning of an ironic end to my food loving career?...will it come back at an even less convenient time? (What would be a less convenient time? Perhaps while I'm giving an important speech about how allergies really are just a sign of weakness and completely psychosomatic.)
I'll still be inclined to eat all those things with gusto, particularly that anchovy sauce, man that was some tasty business. But I will keep one eye on my own lips to see if the swelling returns.
The Public Arena
It blows my mind that people I don't know read my blog (sometimes I'm impressed anyone reads it). It hasn't ceased feeling self-indulgent though I suppose food and induglence are closely linked so maybe in some small way that makes it okay.
Needless to say, a while back I received an e-mail from a woman who is an author and sommelier. She got my e-mail from Claire (of Trippingonwords) who is such a savvy blogger she actually has an e-mail address related to her endeavors. Claire passed my e-mail along and thus, this connection was made. Her name is Natalie Maclean and among winning James Beard writing awards and other things she has a very hip website where she discusses this and that and offers a pretty radical service: she pairs wine and food for you. You can enter a food or enter a wine and she breaks it down and breaks it out and then has recipes using complementary ingredients to your wine choice. Brilliant.
It took me a few months to check it out (because I was in denial that a legitimate person who contact me about linking to her site) but I like it and will happily endorse the gal and kick her down my obviously robust readership.
Play around here.
Needless to say, a while back I received an e-mail from a woman who is an author and sommelier. She got my e-mail from Claire (of Trippingonwords) who is such a savvy blogger she actually has an e-mail address related to her endeavors. Claire passed my e-mail along and thus, this connection was made. Her name is Natalie Maclean and among winning James Beard writing awards and other things she has a very hip website where she discusses this and that and offers a pretty radical service: she pairs wine and food for you. You can enter a food or enter a wine and she breaks it down and breaks it out and then has recipes using complementary ingredients to your wine choice. Brilliant.
It took me a few months to check it out (because I was in denial that a legitimate person who contact me about linking to her site) but I like it and will happily endorse the gal and kick her down my obviously robust readership.
Play around here.
Forbidden Fruits
It's 5:25am and I'm sitting on the floor near my gate at Bangkok's international airport a tupperware open on my lap. With quasi clean hands I'm picking at juicy pieces of mango and gobs of sticky coconut rice, a travel snack Visra sweetly packed for me before I headed away from the Vichit-Vadakan house. It was the perfect end to a perfect trip peppered with moments distinguished easily by the fruits we were eating at the time.
I arrived in Bangkok fiending for Rambutan. It is perhaps my favorite tropical fruit and not terribly easy to come by in the U.S. (outside of a can-- which I've never actually tried). When I arrived at Visra's kitchen at midnight there was a bowl brimming with my gems- which at their freshest look like ruby and lime colored Kushballs. Their skin is leathery; in more patient moments easily punctured with a fruit knife but in my excitement a blunt fingernail did the trick. I dug into the middle, split the skin into two halves and popped out the fruit. The interior of a Rambutan looks like a large peeled green grape and it has a dark seed, resemling an almond in it's center. The skin of the seed is a little bitter but the fruit is translucent, succlent, faintly sweet. I inhaled one then another and then exhaled a deeply. It felt like I'd been subconsiously waiting for this moment for a lifetime. Yet only five years had passed.
Over the course of the trip we indulged in fruit daily. Some were the basic basics: cantalope, watermelon, and honey dew. Some were still easy to come by anywhere but tasted better there: papaya, lychees, pineapple, and mango (made better by coconut sticky rice). Then there were the lesser known wonders: mangosteens that look like perfectly round golfball sized eggplants complete with the darling green leaves and stems. The skin is woody and when punctured seeps a deep crimson juice. The secret to mangosteens is on their underbelly. Turn one upside down before cutting into it and a flowerlike bellybutton reveals how many sections the fruit will contain. Inside the flesh is white and pulply and sweet with little hard dark seeds studded throughout. Rose Apple which is spongy like a quince and has the look of a pear from the skin but whose inside resembles an apple. It's crunchy with very citrusy notes. I had forgotten how much I loved eating these. A plate of slices were kept in the fridge and the cool pieces were refreshing. Custard Apple has a knobby exterior, like a cross between Durian and fish scales. The inside is white, sweet, pulpy-- really pulpy-- it is aptly named. The inside does in fact resemble custard. I ate Durian twice, which was one more time than I ate it on my first trip. Durian is sort of a mystery to me. I did an art project in college about it. The assignment was to do a study of something that challenged you. Durian challanges me. It's smell is so jarring that it's illegal in some places. Importing is very difficult. There is lots of lore about Durian. College students whose roommates called the building manager because it smelled like there was a gas leak. At it's best it smells like onions and papaya mixed together. At it's worse it smells like sweat and socks and vomit. You need to eat it at the right moment. It's skin looks like an armadillo and it's about the size of a full sized human's head. If I lived in Thailand I think I could learn to love it. For now I'm happy tasting it once every five years.
Then there were the fruits that I had for the first time: Long Kong's that look similar to a lychee, with the same sandy colored outside with a round whitish fruit in the center. I'm not sure what to compare it to. It wasn't overly sweet, it's flesh was more sturdy than pulpy. Elephant's Ear fruit which I can't say too much about because we found it in our path while hiking in Kaoh Yai. Our guide picked it up and split it open before I saw what it was. It came in two sections (like ears) was whitish, with seeds, it had a woody flavor. I didn't love it, but that might of had to do with it carrying a lot of jungle flavor from the nearby leeches and elephant tracks. Salas were another first time fruit. The are reddish and a very peculiar shape. If a red two inch snake ate a two inch goat it might look like this fruit. It has two tapered ends and a fat middle section though not the least bit symmetrical. And the skin has a very pungent odor. The fruit again is white, pulpy and has dark seeds. A lot of hand washing was required by this fruit. I had to wash my hands after opening each one because the scent distracted from the flavor, which interestingly enough was unrelated. It could be argued that the fruit itself was dirty, we did buy it at a street market at a table next to the pig's head table. The pig's head looked a little defeated by the heat and the vendor was lazily waving at the swarm of several hundred flies that was hovering about the pig's facial orifices.
I love Thailand for many reasons: the people are friendly, the country is beautiful, a surprise storm can hit as you step onto a pier and as you run it will soak you entirely yet only on your left side. The food you buy for $.15 is often better then restaurant food (Chumpohn street market vs. Emporium Food Court or Chinese Business Man restaurant). But I think of the fruit, just the fruit, and my mouth waters.
If someone can figure out how to import rambutans legally (and getting them won't require going to New York City) -- call me.
I arrived in Bangkok fiending for Rambutan. It is perhaps my favorite tropical fruit and not terribly easy to come by in the U.S. (outside of a can-- which I've never actually tried). When I arrived at Visra's kitchen at midnight there was a bowl brimming with my gems- which at their freshest look like ruby and lime colored Kushballs. Their skin is leathery; in more patient moments easily punctured with a fruit knife but in my excitement a blunt fingernail did the trick. I dug into the middle, split the skin into two halves and popped out the fruit. The interior of a Rambutan looks like a large peeled green grape and it has a dark seed, resemling an almond in it's center. The skin of the seed is a little bitter but the fruit is translucent, succlent, faintly sweet. I inhaled one then another and then exhaled a deeply. It felt like I'd been subconsiously waiting for this moment for a lifetime. Yet only five years had passed.
Over the course of the trip we indulged in fruit daily. Some were the basic basics: cantalope, watermelon, and honey dew. Some were still easy to come by anywhere but tasted better there: papaya, lychees, pineapple, and mango (made better by coconut sticky rice). Then there were the lesser known wonders: mangosteens that look like perfectly round golfball sized eggplants complete with the darling green leaves and stems. The skin is woody and when punctured seeps a deep crimson juice. The secret to mangosteens is on their underbelly. Turn one upside down before cutting into it and a flowerlike bellybutton reveals how many sections the fruit will contain. Inside the flesh is white and pulply and sweet with little hard dark seeds studded throughout. Rose Apple which is spongy like a quince and has the look of a pear from the skin but whose inside resembles an apple. It's crunchy with very citrusy notes. I had forgotten how much I loved eating these. A plate of slices were kept in the fridge and the cool pieces were refreshing. Custard Apple has a knobby exterior, like a cross between Durian and fish scales. The inside is white, sweet, pulpy-- really pulpy-- it is aptly named. The inside does in fact resemble custard. I ate Durian twice, which was one more time than I ate it on my first trip. Durian is sort of a mystery to me. I did an art project in college about it. The assignment was to do a study of something that challenged you. Durian challanges me. It's smell is so jarring that it's illegal in some places. Importing is very difficult. There is lots of lore about Durian. College students whose roommates called the building manager because it smelled like there was a gas leak. At it's best it smells like onions and papaya mixed together. At it's worse it smells like sweat and socks and vomit. You need to eat it at the right moment. It's skin looks like an armadillo and it's about the size of a full sized human's head. If I lived in Thailand I think I could learn to love it. For now I'm happy tasting it once every five years.
Then there were the fruits that I had for the first time: Long Kong's that look similar to a lychee, with the same sandy colored outside with a round whitish fruit in the center. I'm not sure what to compare it to. It wasn't overly sweet, it's flesh was more sturdy than pulpy. Elephant's Ear fruit which I can't say too much about because we found it in our path while hiking in Kaoh Yai. Our guide picked it up and split it open before I saw what it was. It came in two sections (like ears) was whitish, with seeds, it had a woody flavor. I didn't love it, but that might of had to do with it carrying a lot of jungle flavor from the nearby leeches and elephant tracks. Salas were another first time fruit. The are reddish and a very peculiar shape. If a red two inch snake ate a two inch goat it might look like this fruit. It has two tapered ends and a fat middle section though not the least bit symmetrical. And the skin has a very pungent odor. The fruit again is white, pulpy and has dark seeds. A lot of hand washing was required by this fruit. I had to wash my hands after opening each one because the scent distracted from the flavor, which interestingly enough was unrelated. It could be argued that the fruit itself was dirty, we did buy it at a street market at a table next to the pig's head table. The pig's head looked a little defeated by the heat and the vendor was lazily waving at the swarm of several hundred flies that was hovering about the pig's facial orifices.
I love Thailand for many reasons: the people are friendly, the country is beautiful, a surprise storm can hit as you step onto a pier and as you run it will soak you entirely yet only on your left side. The food you buy for $.15 is often better then restaurant food (Chumpohn street market vs. Emporium Food Court or Chinese Business Man restaurant). But I think of the fruit, just the fruit, and my mouth waters.
If someone can figure out how to import rambutans legally (and getting them won't require going to New York City) -- call me.
Father Knows Best
A year ago this Sunday I was at home. I spent the weekend basking in North Coast glory with my family and a few friends: attending the Wine & Beer Festival, climbing trees in Montgomery Woods, hiking the Waterfall trail, and of course, being in the presence of dear old Pop long enough to appreciate him on Father's Day before he and Ma took their act to the Fireman's Chicken Dinner-- an annual event in the not so urban jungle of Comptche. This year I'm about as far as I've ever been from Pop as his Hallmark day approaches. And I won't be near a phone on Sunday to call him and tell him I think he is a magnificent guy. Thereby I'm defaulting and paying homage here, since my father might actually be my most loyal reader.
I routinely credit a number of sources for helping shape my food "sensibilities". Really though, Pop has been formative above all others. He shares my passion for food: we trade cookbooks (he's more of a beautiful photo guy, whereas I love the written word) and recipes, and thoughts on foods we've tried recently. He dictated my eating patterns from when I was just a wee thing. My childhood mind's eye is seared with the memory of my father leaning over our kitchen sink filleting a whole Albacore that he bought-- fresh caught-- directly from the fishermen at the dock in Fort Bragg. Moments later the naked raw fish would appear on a large cutting board rough cut into his notable "Savage Sashimi" rounds. Pop appreciates the sensual aesthetic of having a legitimate mouthful of food; traditional sized sashimi pieces really aren't big enough. The four of us would sit on the floor of our living room, chopsticks in hand, pulling straight from the board and popping the pearly chunks whole into our mouth. In fact, he generally excels in the seafood department: the man can grill a perfect, glistening, ruby-hued fillet of Salmon tucked under sweet and spicy layers of Mendocino mustard and chives. He serves it with salad greens and veggies from our garden and white corn on the cob, kernels bursting with sweetness. This is the go-to summer meal and one my brother and I will drive home for from nearly anywhere.
Pop is also known far and wide for his skills behind the brunch buffet. A friend of my brother's once observed that he has an A List and a B List menu. If it's A List prepare to enjoy the following: bagels and lox with goat cream cheese; scrambled eggs; fruit salad; chicken apple sausage glazed in orange juice; pancakes studded with oats and served with homemade preserves that on any given day could be blackberry, plum, and/or concord grape, all grown on the property; crudites to dip into his legendary pesto (made with basil, parsley, or green garlic all from the garden); and a spread of bread and cheeses. If it's a B List morning you may only see fruit salad, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and sausage. A List or B List, it's good to be on the list. Nothing is better than waking up and wandering sleepily into the kitchen on the morning of one of these brunches. There are usually flowers on the table (clipped that morning by Pop), a full carafe of coffee, and Pop is standing over the stove--dishtowel flung over his shoulder--skillfully conducting the symphony between several well loved cast iron pans.
He loves soups and breads, good cheeses, and baked goods. I didn't love pizza as a kid, but Pop made a wicked calzone. He'd fill it to bursting with mozzarella or ricotta and sauteed spinach and onions. The crust would be golden brown and he'd pull it from the oven right as the insides began to seep from their pocket seams and bubble onto the bottom of pan. A quick poke with a fork would release a glorious puff of aromatic steam. The meal would inevitably end with scorched tongues and roofs of mouths as we weren't patient enough to wait for the heavenly pockets to cool.
Pop keeps a lot of items in rotation, and for the most part, I don't duplicate any of them very well....except one. My eggplant Parmesan rivals his and this fact makes me overwhelmingly proud. It's my go-to dish. One of the few that I could do, maybe, with my eyes closed (the kitchen would be messy but I'm thinking it's possible). For all intents and purposes, it actually isn't Eggplant Parmesan as there is no actual Parm used. Provolone is the preferred cheese, which adds a delicious smokey flavor. I also make tomato sauce from scratch, a recipe that began being perfected in high school when every Friday my buddies would get together and make pasta. Michaela was really the head chef, her family is Italian, and most of us just stood around and watched her. Occasionally she let me chop something, but not all that often. After years of watching her make sauce I picked up a number of tricks and now make a decent one of my own. Below is the recipe for Pop's Eggplant Provolone in honor of Sunday's big day and my recipe for Tomato Sauce in honor of Pop who continuously inspires me to stay passionate about the world of food. Happy Father's Day, Pop!!! You know I love you.
Pop's Eggplant Provolone
Ingredients:
1 1/2 medium eggplants
2 eggs
1/4 C milk
1+ C Italian breadcrumbs
4-6 T Olive Oil
3/4 lb sliced Provolone
2 1/2 Quarts Tomato Sauce (recipe follows)
9x11 baking dish
Aluminum Foil
Preheat oven to 375 degrees
Slice eggplants into 1/4"-3/8" rounds (you will end up needing around 15 slices as their sizes will vary. I generally take my six largest slices for the bottom layer of the pan).
Place eggplant slices in a single layer on a plate or in a dish with just under 1/4" of water. Microwave eggplants for 3 minutes until softened. Repeat in batches until all eggplant pieces are heated.
While eggplants are heating, crack eggs into a shallow bowl and add milk. Beat until milk evenly mixes throughout.
Pour breadcrumbs into another shallow bowl.
Using a fork dunk eggplant slices into egg mixture until both sides are coated.
Take eggplant and lay onto breadcrumbs making sure both sides get covered in crumbs.
In a large sauce pan, heat 3+ T of olive oil over medium-high heat. The bottom of the pan should be generously coated with oil. Make sure not to burn the oil. It should be hot but not smoking. I generally test my oil temp by throwing a SMALL pinch of breadcrumbs into the pan. They should being frying immediately if the oil is hot enough.
Place breaded eggplant slices into pan. Poke with a fork and flip once after first side begins to color.
Pull the browned eggplant slices from the pan and stack on a plate. The eggplant will likely soak up most of the oil and you'll want to add more if it begins to burn.
When eggplant slices are all cooked allow them to cool on the plate for a moment.
Tomato Sauce:
2 T Olive Oil
salt to taste
pepper to taste
2 T Italian Spices
1/4 t red pepper flakes
1 small yellow onion, diced uniformly
6-8 white mushrooms, caps cleaned and stems removed, sliced evenly
1/2-3/4 small can tomato paste
1 1/2 T water
1 can organic Fire Roasted Diced Tomatoes
1 can organic diced tomatoes in juice (if tomatoes are in season use 6-8 medium to large fresh tomatoes in place of canned and a generous pinch of powdered Lapsang Souchong black tea to get a hint of smokiness)
3/4-1 C red table wine
2 Cloves Garlic, finely chopped
1 C fresh basil leaves, stems removed
1 - 2 T Balsamic vinegar (to taste)
Heat olive oil in a large sauce pan over medium heat.
Add onions, Italian spices, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper, saute onions with spices until translucent. Add the mushrooms and saute until they glisten and soften. Take out half the tomato paste from the can and mix in a bowl with 1.5 tablespoons water to thin. Add the thinned paste to the pan and stir so onions and mushrooms are lightly coated. Let cook for just under a minute, stirring frequently. Add canned tomatoes. Add red wine, it should change color to purpleish. Let simmer for 20 minutes stirring and smelling often. Towards the end of the simmer cycle add garlic. Let it cook for a minute or two to soften. Add the basil. I tear the leaves into the pan but whole leaves work fine. Add the balsamic vinegar and a pinch of salt. Cook until basil wilts (about one minute). Turn off heat and let sauce sit in the pan and cool.
Assembly:
Pour on a thin layer of sauce to cover the bottom of the baking dish.
Add a single layer of eggplants.
Add another thin layer of sauce.
Lay down a layer of cheese slices so eggplants and sauce are completely covered.
Repeat all steps (beginning with another thin layer of sauce) until pan is close to full (usually requires two layers).
If you feel compelled you can sprinkle the top with grated Asiago.It browns well and adds nice texture.
Cover dish with foil and stick in the oven. Depending on how hot your oven is, the timing may vary slightly. Generally this dish cooks for around 1 hour and 15 minutes. Remove foil after one hour to brown the top and cook for the remaining time.
Pull from oven and allow 7-10 minutes to cool. There will be a lot of liquid in the pan and cooling allows it to firm.
I routinely credit a number of sources for helping shape my food "sensibilities". Really though, Pop has been formative above all others. He shares my passion for food: we trade cookbooks (he's more of a beautiful photo guy, whereas I love the written word) and recipes, and thoughts on foods we've tried recently. He dictated my eating patterns from when I was just a wee thing. My childhood mind's eye is seared with the memory of my father leaning over our kitchen sink filleting a whole Albacore that he bought-- fresh caught-- directly from the fishermen at the dock in Fort Bragg. Moments later the naked raw fish would appear on a large cutting board rough cut into his notable "Savage Sashimi" rounds. Pop appreciates the sensual aesthetic of having a legitimate mouthful of food; traditional sized sashimi pieces really aren't big enough. The four of us would sit on the floor of our living room, chopsticks in hand, pulling straight from the board and popping the pearly chunks whole into our mouth. In fact, he generally excels in the seafood department: the man can grill a perfect, glistening, ruby-hued fillet of Salmon tucked under sweet and spicy layers of Mendocino mustard and chives. He serves it with salad greens and veggies from our garden and white corn on the cob, kernels bursting with sweetness. This is the go-to summer meal and one my brother and I will drive home for from nearly anywhere.
Pop is also known far and wide for his skills behind the brunch buffet. A friend of my brother's once observed that he has an A List and a B List menu. If it's A List prepare to enjoy the following: bagels and lox with goat cream cheese; scrambled eggs; fruit salad; chicken apple sausage glazed in orange juice; pancakes studded with oats and served with homemade preserves that on any given day could be blackberry, plum, and/or concord grape, all grown on the property; crudites to dip into his legendary pesto (made with basil, parsley, or green garlic all from the garden); and a spread of bread and cheeses. If it's a B List morning you may only see fruit salad, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and sausage. A List or B List, it's good to be on the list. Nothing is better than waking up and wandering sleepily into the kitchen on the morning of one of these brunches. There are usually flowers on the table (clipped that morning by Pop), a full carafe of coffee, and Pop is standing over the stove--dishtowel flung over his shoulder--skillfully conducting the symphony between several well loved cast iron pans.
He loves soups and breads, good cheeses, and baked goods. I didn't love pizza as a kid, but Pop made a wicked calzone. He'd fill it to bursting with mozzarella or ricotta and sauteed spinach and onions. The crust would be golden brown and he'd pull it from the oven right as the insides began to seep from their pocket seams and bubble onto the bottom of pan. A quick poke with a fork would release a glorious puff of aromatic steam. The meal would inevitably end with scorched tongues and roofs of mouths as we weren't patient enough to wait for the heavenly pockets to cool.
Pop keeps a lot of items in rotation, and for the most part, I don't duplicate any of them very well....except one. My eggplant Parmesan rivals his and this fact makes me overwhelmingly proud. It's my go-to dish. One of the few that I could do, maybe, with my eyes closed (the kitchen would be messy but I'm thinking it's possible). For all intents and purposes, it actually isn't Eggplant Parmesan as there is no actual Parm used. Provolone is the preferred cheese, which adds a delicious smokey flavor. I also make tomato sauce from scratch, a recipe that began being perfected in high school when every Friday my buddies would get together and make pasta. Michaela was really the head chef, her family is Italian, and most of us just stood around and watched her. Occasionally she let me chop something, but not all that often. After years of watching her make sauce I picked up a number of tricks and now make a decent one of my own. Below is the recipe for Pop's Eggplant Provolone in honor of Sunday's big day and my recipe for Tomato Sauce in honor of Pop who continuously inspires me to stay passionate about the world of food. Happy Father's Day, Pop!!! You know I love you.
Pop's Eggplant Provolone
Ingredients:
1 1/2 medium eggplants
2 eggs
1/4 C milk
1+ C Italian breadcrumbs
4-6 T Olive Oil
3/4 lb sliced Provolone
2 1/2 Quarts Tomato Sauce (recipe follows)
9x11 baking dish
Aluminum Foil
Preheat oven to 375 degrees
Slice eggplants into 1/4"-3/8" rounds (you will end up needing around 15 slices as their sizes will vary. I generally take my six largest slices for the bottom layer of the pan).
Place eggplant slices in a single layer on a plate or in a dish with just under 1/4" of water. Microwave eggplants for 3 minutes until softened. Repeat in batches until all eggplant pieces are heated.
While eggplants are heating, crack eggs into a shallow bowl and add milk. Beat until milk evenly mixes throughout.
Pour breadcrumbs into another shallow bowl.
Using a fork dunk eggplant slices into egg mixture until both sides are coated.
Take eggplant and lay onto breadcrumbs making sure both sides get covered in crumbs.
In a large sauce pan, heat 3+ T of olive oil over medium-high heat. The bottom of the pan should be generously coated with oil. Make sure not to burn the oil. It should be hot but not smoking. I generally test my oil temp by throwing a SMALL pinch of breadcrumbs into the pan. They should being frying immediately if the oil is hot enough.
Place breaded eggplant slices into pan. Poke with a fork and flip once after first side begins to color.
Pull the browned eggplant slices from the pan and stack on a plate. The eggplant will likely soak up most of the oil and you'll want to add more if it begins to burn.
When eggplant slices are all cooked allow them to cool on the plate for a moment.
Tomato Sauce:
2 T Olive Oil
salt to taste
pepper to taste
2 T Italian Spices
1/4 t red pepper flakes
1 small yellow onion, diced uniformly
6-8 white mushrooms, caps cleaned and stems removed, sliced evenly
1/2-3/4 small can tomato paste
1 1/2 T water
1 can organic Fire Roasted Diced Tomatoes
1 can organic diced tomatoes in juice (if tomatoes are in season use 6-8 medium to large fresh tomatoes in place of canned and a generous pinch of powdered Lapsang Souchong black tea to get a hint of smokiness)
3/4-1 C red table wine
2 Cloves Garlic, finely chopped
1 C fresh basil leaves, stems removed
1 - 2 T Balsamic vinegar (to taste)
Heat olive oil in a large sauce pan over medium heat.
Add onions, Italian spices, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper, saute onions with spices until translucent. Add the mushrooms and saute until they glisten and soften. Take out half the tomato paste from the can and mix in a bowl with 1.5 tablespoons water to thin. Add the thinned paste to the pan and stir so onions and mushrooms are lightly coated. Let cook for just under a minute, stirring frequently. Add canned tomatoes. Add red wine, it should change color to purpleish. Let simmer for 20 minutes stirring and smelling often. Towards the end of the simmer cycle add garlic. Let it cook for a minute or two to soften. Add the basil. I tear the leaves into the pan but whole leaves work fine. Add the balsamic vinegar and a pinch of salt. Cook until basil wilts (about one minute). Turn off heat and let sauce sit in the pan and cool.
Assembly:
Pour on a thin layer of sauce to cover the bottom of the baking dish.
Add a single layer of eggplants.
Add another thin layer of sauce.
Lay down a layer of cheese slices so eggplants and sauce are completely covered.
Repeat all steps (beginning with another thin layer of sauce) until pan is close to full (usually requires two layers).
If you feel compelled you can sprinkle the top with grated Asiago.It browns well and adds nice texture.
Cover dish with foil and stick in the oven. Depending on how hot your oven is, the timing may vary slightly. Generally this dish cooks for around 1 hour and 15 minutes. Remove foil after one hour to brown the top and cook for the remaining time.
Pull from oven and allow 7-10 minutes to cool. There will be a lot of liquid in the pan and cooling allows it to firm.
Tom Douglas: Godfather of Seattle Culinary
The office has changed a lot in the last few days. Three new people have come on board since my arrival. This means that I am a defacto authority-- which is humorous beyond belief-- and that I am acutely aware of my role changing. Needless to say, last night I went to my second dinner with the team and this time around I was not the newest member, which felt good.
After many hours of meetings we decided to get dinner at Tom Douglas' new endeavor Serious Pie. Tom Douglas is like the big deal chef in Seattle. Everyone cares about this man. I should probably learn something about him, other than his name, but I haven't yet. I have often wondered why successful cooks often venture into the pizza realm. In San Francisco we got Nicky's Pizza, from Nick of Nick's Crispy Tacos, and although he sold it to New York Pizza it was the same intention I'm sure. Pizza is fantastic in its most basic and simple form. With a good crust, most pizza is magical. Which is why I find it so irritating that Chefs (with a capital 'C') feel compelled to "raise the bar" with white truffle oil. P.S. White truffle oil-- kind of 2006 but I'm not sure Seattle has gotten the memo. Serious Pie is THAT kind of spot.
Anyway, like Nicky's Pizza, Little Star and other well known, well loved pie spots, Serious Pie is small and can really only fits 20ish people. Our party of seven was given a wait time of one and a half hours. This wouldn't have been a big deal necessarily but came as a particularly big blow because we had all just sat in an hour of Mariners traffic to get across town. We were kind of spent, and while not really hungry (because we'd been in eating meetings all day) ready to sit down and eat.
Around the corner was Dahlia Lounge-- also a Tom Douglas venture. The folks in our party knew it by experience and reputation. I got to the restaurant before the others (after driving through three stadium parking lots and, at certain points in the gridlock, in the opposite direction I was trying to go just so I could feel like I was moving) and was charged with relocating our group. Bottom line, and long story short, we ended up at Palace Kitchen-- also a Tom Douglas venture-- after calling Lola and Etta's, all located within a few blocks, and all...Tom Douglas ventures. You see the theme here; the man is the Seattle restaurant scene.
If I talked in depth about the dishes we ordered you'd be blind from looking at your screen and my fingers would be bleeding from typing. So I'll do a little list with minimal commentary.
Starters:
1) Goat Cheese and Lavender Fondue accompanied by char grilled bread chunks, and sliced apple. The lavender was subtle. The char grilled bread was out of this world.
2) A wedge of Humboldt Fog sharing a plate with blanched almonds, sliced apples, and a few artisan crackers. Can't go wrong with Humboldt.
3) White asparagus cooked with Wala Wala onions, truffle oil, and covered in crispy golden shoestring potato frites. White asparagus is always delicious, as long as it isn't deviously overcooked, which this wasn't.
4) "Plin" ravioli with roasted pork and chard. Adorned with shaved Parmesan, likely traces of truffle oil though I'm not 100% sure about that. "Plin" refers to the particular cut of the ravioli. Rather than the traditional large squares, the plate was filled with small rectangles, maybe 3/8" by 1", stuffed ever-so-carefully. I actually tasted one because they were so damn cute. I dissected it to take the pork out but there was so little there and it was so well internalized by the pasta that it was a bit of a lost cause. Tasty bite.
Salads:
1) Caesar. Effectively a romaine heart slathered in their tangy dressing, and sprinkled with angel-fine shredded Parmesan. A truly respectable take on this salad.
2) Arugula. It was great to see an arugula salad made with something other than its baby self. I'd almost forgotten just how peppery mature arugula is. This particularly green was so mature in fact, it was flowering and its little blossoms studded the salad. It was dressed classically with lemon juice and more angel-fine Parm. Nice.
Entrees:
1) Trout. Cooked in lemon and more truffle oil. Served whole, with its skin and eyes, on its own plate. Accompanied by an additional split dish of Yukon gold mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus. Radical. The trout was succulent and flaky. If you screw up mash potatoes you should be taken out back and punched in the eye socket, they did it right. No complaints.
2) House-made papardelle with rapini and black cod "meatballs" (quotations as appeared on menu), in a Wala Wala onion broth. The meatballs were more of a crab cake consistancy. The papardelle was excellent. I could have eaten this to excess. I rarely eat pasta so when I eat good pasta it always seems even better than it should.
3) Falafal plate. Five falafal, below-average pita, below-average tzatziki, unremarkable hummous, a forgettable cucumber and onion salad. I'm not sure why this was on their menu. Tom, if you are such an ace, you should know better, my man.
Dessert:
1) Coconut creme pie with white chocolate shavings. The amazing thing is that while I got to enjoy some of this fantastic slice of pie last night, there are actually 10 miniature versions of the same one in my kitchen as we speak. Chris just came home from a photography awards event, catered by the ever intrepid TD, and managed to nab a boxful of the pint size beauties. The real winning element was the flakiness of the pie crust combined with the ethereal lightness of the creme, the toasted coconut wasn't half bad either (though I'll never love white chocolate. It's a bit like white truffle oil-- over played, under whelming).
2) (Which should actually be noted as 2-4 because we got the shrunken versions of Palace's remaining desserts, though they did arrive on a single plate).
A) Rhubarb Float. This was really interesting, though I am undecided as to whether or not I actually "liked" it. It was a leeeetle scoop of rhubarb ice cream, which I am a fan of, in a leeetle glass filled with hibiscus infused muscato, which was interesting and so floral that I couldn't decided if I wanted to dunk my nose in it, or put it in my mouth. But the scent did transport me to Hawaii and that was a plus.
B) Cherry ice cream sundae. Two cold, pitted cherries covered in slightly tart cherry ice cream under an upside down dark chocolate cone. A good take on something I would never have ordered.
C) Chocolate toffee something. I know the menu said toffee. But I'm still confused about this. Four connected squares of chocolate which the waitress promised were studded with pretzel crumbs. Errrr...toffee? Couldn't find the pretzels, wasn't sad to have missed them, definitely tasted like espresso beans. Felt pretty ambivalent.
All this was washed down by a tasty Tempranillo, which I think is my favorite wine of the moment.
I'll admit, this Tom Douglas probably knows what he is doing. Palace Kitchen was respectable. I have a feeling I'll be under the roof of many other ventures of his, even without trying, even when trying not to. The man is the Godfather of Seattle Culinary. Hey, that's cool Tom, knock yourself out: just not with falafel plates.
After many hours of meetings we decided to get dinner at Tom Douglas' new endeavor Serious Pie. Tom Douglas is like the big deal chef in Seattle. Everyone cares about this man. I should probably learn something about him, other than his name, but I haven't yet. I have often wondered why successful cooks often venture into the pizza realm. In San Francisco we got Nicky's Pizza, from Nick of Nick's Crispy Tacos, and although he sold it to New York Pizza it was the same intention I'm sure. Pizza is fantastic in its most basic and simple form. With a good crust, most pizza is magical. Which is why I find it so irritating that Chefs (with a capital 'C') feel compelled to "raise the bar" with white truffle oil. P.S. White truffle oil-- kind of 2006 but I'm not sure Seattle has gotten the memo. Serious Pie is THAT kind of spot.
Anyway, like Nicky's Pizza, Little Star and other well known, well loved pie spots, Serious Pie is small and can really only fits 20ish people. Our party of seven was given a wait time of one and a half hours. This wouldn't have been a big deal necessarily but came as a particularly big blow because we had all just sat in an hour of Mariners traffic to get across town. We were kind of spent, and while not really hungry (because we'd been in eating meetings all day) ready to sit down and eat.
Around the corner was Dahlia Lounge-- also a Tom Douglas venture. The folks in our party knew it by experience and reputation. I got to the restaurant before the others (after driving through three stadium parking lots and, at certain points in the gridlock, in the opposite direction I was trying to go just so I could feel like I was moving) and was charged with relocating our group. Bottom line, and long story short, we ended up at Palace Kitchen-- also a Tom Douglas venture-- after calling Lola and Etta's, all located within a few blocks, and all...Tom Douglas ventures. You see the theme here; the man is the Seattle restaurant scene.
If I talked in depth about the dishes we ordered you'd be blind from looking at your screen and my fingers would be bleeding from typing. So I'll do a little list with minimal commentary.
Starters:
1) Goat Cheese and Lavender Fondue accompanied by char grilled bread chunks, and sliced apple. The lavender was subtle. The char grilled bread was out of this world.
2) A wedge of Humboldt Fog sharing a plate with blanched almonds, sliced apples, and a few artisan crackers. Can't go wrong with Humboldt.
3) White asparagus cooked with Wala Wala onions, truffle oil, and covered in crispy golden shoestring potato frites. White asparagus is always delicious, as long as it isn't deviously overcooked, which this wasn't.
4) "Plin" ravioli with roasted pork and chard. Adorned with shaved Parmesan, likely traces of truffle oil though I'm not 100% sure about that. "Plin" refers to the particular cut of the ravioli. Rather than the traditional large squares, the plate was filled with small rectangles, maybe 3/8" by 1", stuffed ever-so-carefully. I actually tasted one because they were so damn cute. I dissected it to take the pork out but there was so little there and it was so well internalized by the pasta that it was a bit of a lost cause. Tasty bite.
Salads:
1) Caesar. Effectively a romaine heart slathered in their tangy dressing, and sprinkled with angel-fine shredded Parmesan. A truly respectable take on this salad.
2) Arugula. It was great to see an arugula salad made with something other than its baby self. I'd almost forgotten just how peppery mature arugula is. This particularly green was so mature in fact, it was flowering and its little blossoms studded the salad. It was dressed classically with lemon juice and more angel-fine Parm. Nice.
Entrees:
1) Trout. Cooked in lemon and more truffle oil. Served whole, with its skin and eyes, on its own plate. Accompanied by an additional split dish of Yukon gold mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus. Radical. The trout was succulent and flaky. If you screw up mash potatoes you should be taken out back and punched in the eye socket, they did it right. No complaints.
2) House-made papardelle with rapini and black cod "meatballs" (quotations as appeared on menu), in a Wala Wala onion broth. The meatballs were more of a crab cake consistancy. The papardelle was excellent. I could have eaten this to excess. I rarely eat pasta so when I eat good pasta it always seems even better than it should.
3) Falafal plate. Five falafal, below-average pita, below-average tzatziki, unremarkable hummous, a forgettable cucumber and onion salad. I'm not sure why this was on their menu. Tom, if you are such an ace, you should know better, my man.
Dessert:
1) Coconut creme pie with white chocolate shavings. The amazing thing is that while I got to enjoy some of this fantastic slice of pie last night, there are actually 10 miniature versions of the same one in my kitchen as we speak. Chris just came home from a photography awards event, catered by the ever intrepid TD, and managed to nab a boxful of the pint size beauties. The real winning element was the flakiness of the pie crust combined with the ethereal lightness of the creme, the toasted coconut wasn't half bad either (though I'll never love white chocolate. It's a bit like white truffle oil-- over played, under whelming).
2) (Which should actually be noted as 2-4 because we got the shrunken versions of Palace's remaining desserts, though they did arrive on a single plate).
A) Rhubarb Float. This was really interesting, though I am undecided as to whether or not I actually "liked" it. It was a leeeetle scoop of rhubarb ice cream, which I am a fan of, in a leeetle glass filled with hibiscus infused muscato, which was interesting and so floral that I couldn't decided if I wanted to dunk my nose in it, or put it in my mouth. But the scent did transport me to Hawaii and that was a plus.
B) Cherry ice cream sundae. Two cold, pitted cherries covered in slightly tart cherry ice cream under an upside down dark chocolate cone. A good take on something I would never have ordered.
C) Chocolate toffee something. I know the menu said toffee. But I'm still confused about this. Four connected squares of chocolate which the waitress promised were studded with pretzel crumbs. Errrr...toffee? Couldn't find the pretzels, wasn't sad to have missed them, definitely tasted like espresso beans. Felt pretty ambivalent.
All this was washed down by a tasty Tempranillo, which I think is my favorite wine of the moment.
I'll admit, this Tom Douglas probably knows what he is doing. Palace Kitchen was respectable. I have a feeling I'll be under the roof of many other ventures of his, even without trying, even when trying not to. The man is the Godfather of Seattle Culinary. Hey, that's cool Tom, knock yourself out: just not with falafel plates.
Little to Say, Less to Eat
I'm shaming all of you, I know. I have been lazy, and distracted, and non-blog oriented. I realize that part of it has to do with a weekend disinterest in food. I deal in food all day long so when I'm not at work my concerns and attention lie elsewhere. I eat when food runs into me. Which seems to happen more often if beer has run into me (as was the case on Sunday at the Folk Life Festival where Kettle Korn, Falafal, and Nachos all ran into me in a span of a few hours-- kind of incredible that my intestines weren't affected by the trifecta fusion cuisine-- but delve deeper: those things are actually exactly the same, corn and beans cooked in oil. Amazing, no?). To further highlight what I'm talking about I'll give you my eating during the last twenty four hours. Please bear in mind that I have a cold, which is also contributing to a non-interest-- for those not in the know, food isn't quite as fun when you can't smell or taste it. So it goes:
Yesterday: I got to work, rummaged in the fridge and happened upon a peach yogurt (a flavor I loathe) and some bags of sample granola that have been open for a few weeks now. In theory a good combo, but hating the yogurt flavor and eating it with stale granola really doesn't do much for a person. I treated myself to Bahn Mai for lunch which never fails to impress. I went sailing at Duck Dodge after work thus dinner was a big Red Stripe, a Full Sail and some chips and guacamole (I use that term generously as it was the generic version of Imo which means the first four ingredients are dairy products and oil, then it moves to a long list of preservatives, and finally some green coloring-- nary a listing for avocado). I ate three grape tomatoes when I got home and had a slice of the insanely good beer cheese I bought for Chris and Randy at the Pike Place Cheese Festival at some point last week. The beer cheese really tastes like eating cheese while drinking beer, which may seem weird until you think about having a one stop fondue experience, and then it makes tremendous sense. In case you find yourself pining for beer cheese you can take a gander here.
Today: Went to work (after blowing about a half gallon of snot out of my nose) and interestingly enough, didn't really want any yogurt. Had the foresight to bring a Thai Kitchen soup with me. It's funny. I've had this Thai Soup sitting in my bedroom since I moved here. It was one of the reminders of life in San Francisco. Given I was sick and soup seemed appropriate, I thought I'd have it for lunch. No no, I ate it at 7:35 this morning when I was more or less craving a salt lick. It was fantastic...although having eaten lunch for breakfast I was at a little bit of a loss when elevensies rolled around. I went fridge diving again and came up with a sample pack of hummus, a whole wheat tortilla, a yellow bell pepper, shredded cabbage, shredded carrots, peperoncinis, and Parmesan cheese. I mean, on paper, that experience of a single fridge dive resulting in such splendor seems ideal. But you have to understand that what I listed was pretty much exactly everything in the fridge (minus yesterday's peach yogurt). Because that's the way things are. We keep in our fridge exactly what we need. Which means, the same food will be there tomorrow. I could either eat exactly that, or drink from an unlabeled gallon jar of Caesar dressing (which also happened to be in there but which I deigned not to mention). So now I'm back home, which is ironically the place I eat the least. Especially interesting is that Chris and Randy don't keep chocolate in the house, which is I think a lifetime first. In the beginning it was kind of hard to deal with, but true to all that diet literature, once it isn't around and you stop eating it, you cease craving it. It's kind of liberating not to be a slave to the dark stuff.
And this is what I'm talking about. My food life on the day to day, is quite uninteresting right now. Although as I write this, I'm realizing you might be thinking "Wow, that's more than I eat in a week" or "Save some for the starving children in Somalia." Perspective is everything, friend, and for me this is highly uninspired. Food is feeling less about eating and more about thinking. Which is probably good in the long run. But are you better off for having read this? Doubtful. And am I better off for having written it? Unlikely. I wouldn't say this is the beginning of the end of the Assassin, merely a moderate period of hibernating. I promise that the next entry, whenever it happens, will be more compelling. In the interim, if you are interested in finding out what people in Chicago are eating this season, you should think about stopping here.
Yesterday: I got to work, rummaged in the fridge and happened upon a peach yogurt (a flavor I loathe) and some bags of sample granola that have been open for a few weeks now. In theory a good combo, but hating the yogurt flavor and eating it with stale granola really doesn't do much for a person. I treated myself to Bahn Mai for lunch which never fails to impress. I went sailing at Duck Dodge after work thus dinner was a big Red Stripe, a Full Sail and some chips and guacamole (I use that term generously as it was the generic version of Imo which means the first four ingredients are dairy products and oil, then it moves to a long list of preservatives, and finally some green coloring-- nary a listing for avocado). I ate three grape tomatoes when I got home and had a slice of the insanely good beer cheese I bought for Chris and Randy at the Pike Place Cheese Festival at some point last week. The beer cheese really tastes like eating cheese while drinking beer, which may seem weird until you think about having a one stop fondue experience, and then it makes tremendous sense. In case you find yourself pining for beer cheese you can take a gander here.
Today: Went to work (after blowing about a half gallon of snot out of my nose) and interestingly enough, didn't really want any yogurt. Had the foresight to bring a Thai Kitchen soup with me. It's funny. I've had this Thai Soup sitting in my bedroom since I moved here. It was one of the reminders of life in San Francisco. Given I was sick and soup seemed appropriate, I thought I'd have it for lunch. No no, I ate it at 7:35 this morning when I was more or less craving a salt lick. It was fantastic...although having eaten lunch for breakfast I was at a little bit of a loss when elevensies rolled around. I went fridge diving again and came up with a sample pack of hummus, a whole wheat tortilla, a yellow bell pepper, shredded cabbage, shredded carrots, peperoncinis, and Parmesan cheese. I mean, on paper, that experience of a single fridge dive resulting in such splendor seems ideal. But you have to understand that what I listed was pretty much exactly everything in the fridge (minus yesterday's peach yogurt). Because that's the way things are. We keep in our fridge exactly what we need. Which means, the same food will be there tomorrow. I could either eat exactly that, or drink from an unlabeled gallon jar of Caesar dressing (which also happened to be in there but which I deigned not to mention). So now I'm back home, which is ironically the place I eat the least. Especially interesting is that Chris and Randy don't keep chocolate in the house, which is I think a lifetime first. In the beginning it was kind of hard to deal with, but true to all that diet literature, once it isn't around and you stop eating it, you cease craving it. It's kind of liberating not to be a slave to the dark stuff.
And this is what I'm talking about. My food life on the day to day, is quite uninteresting right now. Although as I write this, I'm realizing you might be thinking "Wow, that's more than I eat in a week" or "Save some for the starving children in Somalia." Perspective is everything, friend, and for me this is highly uninspired. Food is feeling less about eating and more about thinking. Which is probably good in the long run. But are you better off for having read this? Doubtful. And am I better off for having written it? Unlikely. I wouldn't say this is the beginning of the end of the Assassin, merely a moderate period of hibernating. I promise that the next entry, whenever it happens, will be more compelling. In the interim, if you are interested in finding out what people in Chicago are eating this season, you should think about stopping here.
S is for Seattle and its Sandwiches
I would maintain that sandwiches are in my top five foods. This is not my first time addressing this theme. In a previous post I gushed about Cicil's, my most favorite sandwich stall in downtown San Francisco. In truth, my recently adopted job requirement of eating and making an overwhelming amount of sandwiches has perhaps muted their novelty slightly. Yet, the call of a good sandwich still tugs at my heart strings and probably always will.
Seattle, it turns out, is a sandwich Garden of Eden. Two astonishingly delicious sandwiches have spiraled down towards my belly during these last few weeks and their memory makes my mouth water and my belly glow from the inside out.
1) Act One: Bahn Mai, Pho Cylo. 1st and Lander.
There is a vibrant Vietnamese restaurant scene here. Pho is on many, many corners. It helps that I work near the International District (most of which is of some Asian bend) but because there are glittering signs declaring "BEST PHO EVER IN THE WORLD RIGHT HERE" on so many blocks, it makes a skeptic out of even the biggest Pho enthusiast. As a non-meater (did I just make that up? ever notice that meat and eater share a lot of letters?...yesssss), I'm not actually a Pho devotee but where there are Pho joints it turns out Vietnamese sandwiches, called Bahn Mai, often trail closely behind. My appreciation for Vietnamese sandwiches is easily credited to my parents. On many of their numerous trips to San Francisco (long before I lived there) they made a point of stopping at their favorite Vietnamese sandwich place on 9th and Irving. In retrospect I'm not sure it was their favorite, it was just the one they knew about, knew how to get to, and was easily accessible, and then they decided it was good enough, great even, to never need to find another one. My new boss is a legitimate Bahn Mai enthusiast. And he tipped me off that great ones could be found just a few blocks from our office. On a day that really just required a fine Bahn Mai, I struck out to see if I could somehow get some kind of a porkless mock-up. Leave it to these progressive Pacific Northwesters, my eyes immediately settled on Vegetarian Bahn Mai; same business but with tofu instead of pork. This sandwich arrived rightfully warm, the bread was a spectacularly crispy french roll, the sandwich was laden with thin strips of tofu braised in that indescribable sauce that smacks of soy, fish, perhaps a bit of suger and chili. It's guts were a heady mix of shredded carrots, cilantro (which I know belongs in there but still makes me gag-- more on my enzymatic shortcomings later), and sliced chilies. Damn, that's a good Sam.
2) Act Two: Caribbean Tofu, Paseos. Fremont btw. 42nd and 43rd.
I have a buddy up here who I sailed with in college and who is now in medical school at U Dub. He is a fabulous human, a native Seattlite (can I just call him a Satellite?) and in the know about many things. I picked him up en route to a Cinco de Mayo/Kentucky Derby party during which I lost $10 on a stupid horse that I was sure would win...thanks Tiago...you are a terrible galloper, enjoy the glue factory. Andy says we have to make a stop at the Caribbean sandwich place before we go to Ballard. I have no idea what's in a Caribbean sandwich, I assume meat-- Andy confirms. Then follows with "hmmmm....I'm pretty sure they have something non-meat. You eat seafood. Maybe shrimp..." then he pulls out his phone and calls. I already love this place because it is a sandwich joint outside of the U District that is good enough for Andy to keep in his phone. He calls and asks what non-meat things they have. "Tofu...and shrimp." Then he places our order for us. We fight heinous traffic to get to Fremont. We arrive thirty five minutes after our sandwiches were supposed to be ready. There is a crowd of folks congregating outside of this little red house emitting drool-worthy smells of sauteed onions. We walk inside and directly up to the counter. There are two sandwiches waiting for us. The few tables inside are filled. The cashier is a kid--eh maybe twenty years old. His eyes are huge, he is throwing money around, looking up for a second, making sure sandwiches are getting into the right hands. There a four or five people bustling around a griddle behind him. It's hotter than hell in there. We leave the sandwiches wrapped up until we get to our friends' house. The hope being that whatever essence of warmth that remained inside the bread might still be in tact. When we actually get around to eating them (after placing bets and getting tall cups of mint juleps) they are in surprisingly good shape. Right off the bat I arrive at this conclusion: these sandwiches are not good date food. There is no way to stay clean, no way to keep it out of the spaces between your teeth, off your face, lap, or shirt. You have to make-out with this sandwich to get to it at all. It's big and bulky and overflowing. It's a thousand calorie sandwich-- unless it's more than that-- which is possible. Note to self, wait until a third or maybe fifth date before engaging in this circus act. There are mounds of caramelized onions, melty cheese, tofu braised in some kind of jerk sauce, unidentified seasoning, lettuce that is "wilted" to put it kindly. I think some tomatoes, definitely a mayonnaise blend (ordinarily not my favorite but it definitely worked here) and jalapenos. This sandwich is dope: literally and figuratively. If I wasn't concerned about my girlish figure I would probably make a habit out of it.
In other news, god bless the internet for sparing no piece of hard-to-find fact. After my last entry about Nana and Zaidee I consulted with my brother and hyper-pondered about what that delicious short-lived animal cereal actually was. My brother, who is way more tech savvy than me, was skeptical that I would be able to figure it out online given I had no concrete information other than "animal cereal". I narrowed it down by adding the search term "80's animal cereal". This brilliant query led me to a site that had known 80's cereals alphabetized. The problem was that each letter had its own page, and I had no idea what the cereal was called. So I just started at A. After a few minutes I found it. I'm thinking of writing Post a letter and seeing if they would put out a limited edition box for my twenty fifth birthday (which happened two months ago...shhhhh).
So things have been good. Good sandwiches, good cereal re-discovery. Good times. S is for sandwiches, and if I were illiterate I'd say S was for cereal too.
Seattle, it turns out, is a sandwich Garden of Eden. Two astonishingly delicious sandwiches have spiraled down towards my belly during these last few weeks and their memory makes my mouth water and my belly glow from the inside out.
1) Act One: Bahn Mai, Pho Cylo. 1st and Lander.
There is a vibrant Vietnamese restaurant scene here. Pho is on many, many corners. It helps that I work near the International District (most of which is of some Asian bend) but because there are glittering signs declaring "BEST PHO EVER IN THE WORLD RIGHT HERE" on so many blocks, it makes a skeptic out of even the biggest Pho enthusiast. As a non-meater (did I just make that up? ever notice that meat and eater share a lot of letters?...yesssss), I'm not actually a Pho devotee but where there are Pho joints it turns out Vietnamese sandwiches, called Bahn Mai, often trail closely behind. My appreciation for Vietnamese sandwiches is easily credited to my parents. On many of their numerous trips to San Francisco (long before I lived there) they made a point of stopping at their favorite Vietnamese sandwich place on 9th and Irving. In retrospect I'm not sure it was their favorite, it was just the one they knew about, knew how to get to, and was easily accessible, and then they decided it was good enough, great even, to never need to find another one. My new boss is a legitimate Bahn Mai enthusiast. And he tipped me off that great ones could be found just a few blocks from our office. On a day that really just required a fine Bahn Mai, I struck out to see if I could somehow get some kind of a porkless mock-up. Leave it to these progressive Pacific Northwesters, my eyes immediately settled on Vegetarian Bahn Mai; same business but with tofu instead of pork. This sandwich arrived rightfully warm, the bread was a spectacularly crispy french roll, the sandwich was laden with thin strips of tofu braised in that indescribable sauce that smacks of soy, fish, perhaps a bit of suger and chili. It's guts were a heady mix of shredded carrots, cilantro (which I know belongs in there but still makes me gag-- more on my enzymatic shortcomings later), and sliced chilies. Damn, that's a good Sam.
2) Act Two: Caribbean Tofu, Paseos. Fremont btw. 42nd and 43rd.
I have a buddy up here who I sailed with in college and who is now in medical school at U Dub. He is a fabulous human, a native Seattlite (can I just call him a Satellite?) and in the know about many things. I picked him up en route to a Cinco de Mayo/Kentucky Derby party during which I lost $10 on a stupid horse that I was sure would win...thanks Tiago...you are a terrible galloper, enjoy the glue factory. Andy says we have to make a stop at the Caribbean sandwich place before we go to Ballard. I have no idea what's in a Caribbean sandwich, I assume meat-- Andy confirms. Then follows with "hmmmm....I'm pretty sure they have something non-meat. You eat seafood. Maybe shrimp..." then he pulls out his phone and calls. I already love this place because it is a sandwich joint outside of the U District that is good enough for Andy to keep in his phone. He calls and asks what non-meat things they have. "Tofu...and shrimp." Then he places our order for us. We fight heinous traffic to get to Fremont. We arrive thirty five minutes after our sandwiches were supposed to be ready. There is a crowd of folks congregating outside of this little red house emitting drool-worthy smells of sauteed onions. We walk inside and directly up to the counter. There are two sandwiches waiting for us. The few tables inside are filled. The cashier is a kid--eh maybe twenty years old. His eyes are huge, he is throwing money around, looking up for a second, making sure sandwiches are getting into the right hands. There a four or five people bustling around a griddle behind him. It's hotter than hell in there. We leave the sandwiches wrapped up until we get to our friends' house. The hope being that whatever essence of warmth that remained inside the bread might still be in tact. When we actually get around to eating them (after placing bets and getting tall cups of mint juleps) they are in surprisingly good shape. Right off the bat I arrive at this conclusion: these sandwiches are not good date food. There is no way to stay clean, no way to keep it out of the spaces between your teeth, off your face, lap, or shirt. You have to make-out with this sandwich to get to it at all. It's big and bulky and overflowing. It's a thousand calorie sandwich-- unless it's more than that-- which is possible. Note to self, wait until a third or maybe fifth date before engaging in this circus act. There are mounds of caramelized onions, melty cheese, tofu braised in some kind of jerk sauce, unidentified seasoning, lettuce that is "wilted" to put it kindly. I think some tomatoes, definitely a mayonnaise blend (ordinarily not my favorite but it definitely worked here) and jalapenos. This sandwich is dope: literally and figuratively. If I wasn't concerned about my girlish figure I would probably make a habit out of it.
In other news, god bless the internet for sparing no piece of hard-to-find fact. After my last entry about Nana and Zaidee I consulted with my brother and hyper-pondered about what that delicious short-lived animal cereal actually was. My brother, who is way more tech savvy than me, was skeptical that I would be able to figure it out online given I had no concrete information other than "animal cereal". I narrowed it down by adding the search term "80's animal cereal". This brilliant query led me to a site that had known 80's cereals alphabetized. The problem was that each letter had its own page, and I had no idea what the cereal was called. So I just started at A. After a few minutes I found it. I'm thinking of writing Post a letter and seeing if they would put out a limited edition box for my twenty fifth birthday (which happened two months ago...shhhhh).
So things have been good. Good sandwiches, good cereal re-discovery. Good times. S is for sandwiches, and if I were illiterate I'd say S was for cereal too.
Sixty Years of Perfect Pairings
May 7th was my grandparents' 60th anniversary. What an incredible milestone. In the twenty five years that I've been witness to their love for one another, I've never seen it waver or change. I sent them a card that likened their partnership to other great partnerships in this world. Most of the card's offerings were food related and it led me to ponder how food has played a role in my relationship with them.
Throughout my life, my family has gathered together in December at my grandparents apartment in Miami. These vacations always began with a phone call and my Nana asking what kind of cereal my brother and I wanted. This was the greatest phone call of the year, not because I cared about cereal in particular (although there was this incredible kind of cereal shaped like animals that only existed for a few years and could only be found in the Winn Dixie on Key Biscayne), but because it meant that it was on her consciousness to stock her kitchen with all the things she knew I liked and couldn't easily get in our small town in Northern California: bialis, lox, pickled herring, smoked whitefish, corn rye, green tomatoes.
Ironically, when I was really young, I thought eating was a burden. But the Miami apartment was always a food mecca. There, even things I didn't like I ate, and loved. Pizza and American cheese topped my list of feared and disliked foods, yet Nana made the BEST English muffin pizza and I'd come in from a swim at the pool and munch ecstatically. (For the remaining 11 months of the year you couldn't get me near the stuff.) I learned to love many foods in Miami: grapefruit that my grandfather ate for breakfast simply cut in half around its swollen belly. When I was really little I always wanted to sprinkle sugar on mine, but overtime I learned to like it the way he ate it; even today, it's one of my favorite fruits. I also learned to dress my salad only with balsamic vinegar just like Zaidee did every night. Growing up, I always knew this about my mother: when she would go to the movie theater as a child and all the other kids her age would order ice cream or candy from the concession counter, she would ask for a pickle. Like my mother, I have an affinity for the sour, salty and briny. I can stand with a jar of peperoncinis and eat them one after another until the jar is gone. Genetics is an amazing thing this way, perhaps I got my taste preference from my mother, more likely I inherited it straight from my grandfather, just as she did.
There are many foods I will always associate with my grandparents' inviting dinner table: Sweet potatoes, roasted in the oven and served steaming, whole or in half, with their syrup sticking to their skin. Chocolate bobka, warmed lightly so the fluffy dough meshed with the barely melting chocolate. Even though I stopped eating meat years ago, I still think fondly on Nana's duck, fricassee, chopped liver, and brisket. My little fingers getting greasy as I picked around my plate.
On most nights Nana cooks dinner. Zaidee always eats happily, never complaining about the way this or that is cooked. Maybe it's because after sixty years Nana knows just how Zaidee likes it, maybe it's because after sixty years they both like it the same way. Maybe it's because the food Nana cooks is made with so much love it's nearly impossible to dislike. I learned to eat under my grandparents' watchful and loving eyes. I developed my palette in large part because of how they stocked their fridge and fed me between rowdy bouts at the beach or general mischief with my cousins.
Even now, living in urban areas where all kind of food is accessible to me, I find that certain things don't taste as good as they do in their kitchen. Green tomatoes are never better than straight from the jar, my fork staked through it's middle, juices dripping into the sink, my bathing suit dripping onto Nana's kitchen floor. I can't imagine my life without my Miami food. I can't imagine Miami food without my grandparents. Grapefruit and Balsamic vinegar, bobka and sweet potatoes, bialis and smoked whitefish, American cheese and English muffins, Nana and Zaidee. Sixty years of perfect pairings, here's to many more...
Throughout my life, my family has gathered together in December at my grandparents apartment in Miami. These vacations always began with a phone call and my Nana asking what kind of cereal my brother and I wanted. This was the greatest phone call of the year, not because I cared about cereal in particular (although there was this incredible kind of cereal shaped like animals that only existed for a few years and could only be found in the Winn Dixie on Key Biscayne), but because it meant that it was on her consciousness to stock her kitchen with all the things she knew I liked and couldn't easily get in our small town in Northern California: bialis, lox, pickled herring, smoked whitefish, corn rye, green tomatoes.
Ironically, when I was really young, I thought eating was a burden. But the Miami apartment was always a food mecca. There, even things I didn't like I ate, and loved. Pizza and American cheese topped my list of feared and disliked foods, yet Nana made the BEST English muffin pizza and I'd come in from a swim at the pool and munch ecstatically. (For the remaining 11 months of the year you couldn't get me near the stuff.) I learned to love many foods in Miami: grapefruit that my grandfather ate for breakfast simply cut in half around its swollen belly. When I was really little I always wanted to sprinkle sugar on mine, but overtime I learned to like it the way he ate it; even today, it's one of my favorite fruits. I also learned to dress my salad only with balsamic vinegar just like Zaidee did every night. Growing up, I always knew this about my mother: when she would go to the movie theater as a child and all the other kids her age would order ice cream or candy from the concession counter, she would ask for a pickle. Like my mother, I have an affinity for the sour, salty and briny. I can stand with a jar of peperoncinis and eat them one after another until the jar is gone. Genetics is an amazing thing this way, perhaps I got my taste preference from my mother, more likely I inherited it straight from my grandfather, just as she did.
There are many foods I will always associate with my grandparents' inviting dinner table: Sweet potatoes, roasted in the oven and served steaming, whole or in half, with their syrup sticking to their skin. Chocolate bobka, warmed lightly so the fluffy dough meshed with the barely melting chocolate. Even though I stopped eating meat years ago, I still think fondly on Nana's duck, fricassee, chopped liver, and brisket. My little fingers getting greasy as I picked around my plate.
On most nights Nana cooks dinner. Zaidee always eats happily, never complaining about the way this or that is cooked. Maybe it's because after sixty years Nana knows just how Zaidee likes it, maybe it's because after sixty years they both like it the same way. Maybe it's because the food Nana cooks is made with so much love it's nearly impossible to dislike. I learned to eat under my grandparents' watchful and loving eyes. I developed my palette in large part because of how they stocked their fridge and fed me between rowdy bouts at the beach or general mischief with my cousins.
Even now, living in urban areas where all kind of food is accessible to me, I find that certain things don't taste as good as they do in their kitchen. Green tomatoes are never better than straight from the jar, my fork staked through it's middle, juices dripping into the sink, my bathing suit dripping onto Nana's kitchen floor. I can't imagine my life without my Miami food. I can't imagine Miami food without my grandparents. Grapefruit and Balsamic vinegar, bobka and sweet potatoes, bialis and smoked whitefish, American cheese and English muffins, Nana and Zaidee. Sixty years of perfect pairings, here's to many more...
Treats and Deets
I don't have an overwhelming amount to say on the food front. I spent the day doing procurement type work. Calling vendors and discussing products and specs and just how quickly we can get samples. It is kind of amazing though. If you have a contract with a vendor (and in some cases even if you don't) and you say "I want 5 lbs of sweet potatoes sent to this address" the sales rep not only says "okay" they overnight FedEx it to you-- for free. It's pretty amazing. On tap for a Monday delivery are two #10 cans (weighing in at 6.5 lbs each) of marinated mushrooms. That's a ton of marinated mushrooms and that is actually my fault. I asked for the weight of the sample size of mushrooms in ounces. He said "it's a #10 can...so...6.5". Me being the retail consumer that I am I assume, naively, that he means 6.5 oz. I even write an e-mail to our chefs saying that two 6.5 oz cans of mushrooms will be arriving shortly. Imagine my surprise as I'm reviewing specs and discover that the cans are 6.5 POUNDS each. That's a pretty big error by me. Thankfully A) it was free B) the people around these parts probably didn't even read the e-mail I wrote C) they are all very forgiving. These kinds of mistakes are better made in quantities of low number ounces to low number pounds rather than on large scale procurement whereby we might move 3,000 lbs a week of something like corn.
In non-food oriented news, I've been going running at Greenlake a fair amount. And just for the sake of diversity I'd like to discuss some of the regulars that I have seen because they are quite a group...albeit not attractive, as is the gold standard in this city...but highly dynamice. (I know what you are thinking "Wow, Kitchen Assassin, that is incredibly rude". Actually my friends, do a Google search. That is common knowledge among the rest of the world and even some locals. I didn't come up with it on my own, I just happen to agree.)
1) Old St. Nick. This guy is the reincarnate of a more svelte Santa. Same white hair, same white beard. He walks around the lake wearing a smock with red lettering that reads "Spanish Lessons". I'm wondering if he is wearing it because he is looking for lessons or because he gives them or because the smock is a nice way to keep cool. Today I saw him sitting down on a bench with a young guy. I slowed down my pace in an attempt to determine if they were speaking Spanish-- when I passed, the young guy was saying "ooooohhh" not indicative of much. This will require more investigating.
2) Husky Guy. He is not husky, but his dog is. Everytime I've seen him he is wearing all navy blue and is hanging out with his snow white husky. Once he was just sitting on a bench; the enormous dog draped over him. He looked pretty chilled out and so did his pooch. I dig him. He and his pup make a good team.
3) Roller Boogie. So along with some of the other more sweeping generalizations I could make about Seattle, I'd have to say this city loves its rollerblades. I don't get this at all but I'm trying not to judge and thankfully the people don't wear neon spandex while doing their shuffle. However, there is this fella at Greenlake who is a large black man who roller blades with his iPod. This is not abnormal except that he dances while he blades. At some point I'll have to ask him what he listens to because he looks so sublimely happy while he does his triple step-side kick-shuffle that I want whatever he's got...except for the blades. I don't really want those.
As I write this I am standing in the kitchen. Randy is over my right shoulder making beer. The Mariners game is on in the background-- in the distance you can hear the trains whistling by. All is peaceful in Seattle.
In non-food oriented news, I've been going running at Greenlake a fair amount. And just for the sake of diversity I'd like to discuss some of the regulars that I have seen because they are quite a group...albeit not attractive, as is the gold standard in this city...but highly dynamice. (I know what you are thinking "Wow, Kitchen Assassin, that is incredibly rude". Actually my friends, do a Google search. That is common knowledge among the rest of the world and even some locals. I didn't come up with it on my own, I just happen to agree.)
1) Old St. Nick. This guy is the reincarnate of a more svelte Santa. Same white hair, same white beard. He walks around the lake wearing a smock with red lettering that reads "Spanish Lessons". I'm wondering if he is wearing it because he is looking for lessons or because he gives them or because the smock is a nice way to keep cool. Today I saw him sitting down on a bench with a young guy. I slowed down my pace in an attempt to determine if they were speaking Spanish-- when I passed, the young guy was saying "ooooohhh" not indicative of much. This will require more investigating.
2) Husky Guy. He is not husky, but his dog is. Everytime I've seen him he is wearing all navy blue and is hanging out with his snow white husky. Once he was just sitting on a bench; the enormous dog draped over him. He looked pretty chilled out and so did his pooch. I dig him. He and his pup make a good team.
3) Roller Boogie. So along with some of the other more sweeping generalizations I could make about Seattle, I'd have to say this city loves its rollerblades. I don't get this at all but I'm trying not to judge and thankfully the people don't wear neon spandex while doing their shuffle. However, there is this fella at Greenlake who is a large black man who roller blades with his iPod. This is not abnormal except that he dances while he blades. At some point I'll have to ask him what he listens to because he looks so sublimely happy while he does his triple step-side kick-shuffle that I want whatever he's got...except for the blades. I don't really want those.
As I write this I am standing in the kitchen. Randy is over my right shoulder making beer. The Mariners game is on in the background-- in the distance you can hear the trains whistling by. All is peaceful in Seattle.
There are only two ways to go, my friend: Anorexia or Blubber
WHY MY NEW JOB IS AWESOME:
At 9:30am my boss and I are hovering over three open containers of sushi, a dish with soy glazed sea eel, a plate of bara sushi rice and the bag of peas that inspired all the rest of these purchases. Papers in hand, we are discussing the wording for a document I'm preparing that outlines the proper technique for dicing a bell pepper.
Three hours later, I am in a meeting, sampling $100 worth of salads and sandwiches picked up from a local market. We are debating the merits of one pasta shape over another, what makes a Waldorf appealing (or not), which cuisines qualify as "hot" and according to whom.
Six hours later I am at a meeting at Steelhead Diner, a brand new Pike Place restaurant. We order the following: all but one of the side items on the menu, three appetizers, three salads, and three entrees. Just to see if I can, here's what I believe we are eating: A Caesar salad, a house salad (served in a hollowed bowl of iceberg with a thousand island type dressing, loaded with sprouts, egg, bacon, blue cheese (let's call it a trumped up Cobb)), an organic baby green salad with your typical spiced nuts and cranberries. Beet tartare (heavy to the horseradish), a beef carpaccio, spring rolls. A pulled pork sandwich, Kasu Cod, Risotto. Hominy cakes (deep fried cream of wheat triangles), red beans and rice, smothered collard greens, french fries with cheese curds and gravy, arugula pesto fettuccine, asparagus, I feel like I'm missing one...Fear not, we won't pass on dessert. Apple pan dowdy with cinnamon ice cream, Meyer lemon cake, pecan chocolate pie, and lavender creme brulee. And then two bottles of wine because good god, why not?
This is amazing...until it gets grotesque. There are plenty of leftovers, which I have no desire to look at ever ever again.
WHY MY NEW JOB IS IRONIC:
I left San Francisco, where I had my own office with a couch, two computers, plants, and almost ALMOST a full Bay view. My salary was enough to easily get by on. I had flexible hours. My co-workers were low key and respectful of space.
As of Monday I joined the ranks of Cube monkeys everywhere. I'm not technically making any money (still have yet to see any employment paperwork although supposedly I'll be having a regular, albeit small, salary), I get to the office at 7:00am (which requires getting in the car at 6:40am) and usually leave around 6:00pm unless, like last night, we have dinner until 10:30. I work with three men who have been known to swear like sailors, hum, whistle, drum on their desks (all while taking a call on speaker phone) and generally just hover in and out of all six of the cubes which are on top of each other.
Yet yet...
I LOVE IT. I absolutely love it. And I would do it for free. I get to debate ideas, plausibility, ingredients, suppliers, write operating procedures, eat. Everything I eat is justified as "research". I think perhaps it could get old but I think I'm more likely to die of cholesterol induced heart disease before that happens.
So, I'll have to be diligent about exercising, which I've been pretty good about. I've been running around Greenlake after work before I go home. That's just dazzling right now, all the apple and cherry trees are blooming and their blossoms are littering the street and flying about in the breeze. Pink and white little snow flurries everywhere. And I'll have to learn that NOT eating everything in front of me is okay-- even required, if I am to live through this experience. It comes in fits and starts. My first two days there was no food, the second two was non-stop. I'll begin to understand the balance. But already, after only four days I get why chef's finish their shifts and want nothing more than a bag of Fritos and a cigarette. I'll either end up hating food or get fat as a whale.
Either way, it won't be for nothing.
At 9:30am my boss and I are hovering over three open containers of sushi, a dish with soy glazed sea eel, a plate of bara sushi rice and the bag of peas that inspired all the rest of these purchases. Papers in hand, we are discussing the wording for a document I'm preparing that outlines the proper technique for dicing a bell pepper.
Three hours later, I am in a meeting, sampling $100 worth of salads and sandwiches picked up from a local market. We are debating the merits of one pasta shape over another, what makes a Waldorf appealing (or not), which cuisines qualify as "hot" and according to whom.
Six hours later I am at a meeting at Steelhead Diner, a brand new Pike Place restaurant. We order the following: all but one of the side items on the menu, three appetizers, three salads, and three entrees. Just to see if I can, here's what I believe we are eating: A Caesar salad, a house salad (served in a hollowed bowl of iceberg with a thousand island type dressing, loaded with sprouts, egg, bacon, blue cheese (let's call it a trumped up Cobb)), an organic baby green salad with your typical spiced nuts and cranberries. Beet tartare (heavy to the horseradish), a beef carpaccio, spring rolls. A pulled pork sandwich, Kasu Cod, Risotto. Hominy cakes (deep fried cream of wheat triangles), red beans and rice, smothered collard greens, french fries with cheese curds and gravy, arugula pesto fettuccine, asparagus, I feel like I'm missing one...Fear not, we won't pass on dessert. Apple pan dowdy with cinnamon ice cream, Meyer lemon cake, pecan chocolate pie, and lavender creme brulee. And then two bottles of wine because good god, why not?
This is amazing...until it gets grotesque. There are plenty of leftovers, which I have no desire to look at ever ever again.
WHY MY NEW JOB IS IRONIC:
I left San Francisco, where I had my own office with a couch, two computers, plants, and almost ALMOST a full Bay view. My salary was enough to easily get by on. I had flexible hours. My co-workers were low key and respectful of space.
As of Monday I joined the ranks of Cube monkeys everywhere. I'm not technically making any money (still have yet to see any employment paperwork although supposedly I'll be having a regular, albeit small, salary), I get to the office at 7:00am (which requires getting in the car at 6:40am) and usually leave around 6:00pm unless, like last night, we have dinner until 10:30. I work with three men who have been known to swear like sailors, hum, whistle, drum on their desks (all while taking a call on speaker phone) and generally just hover in and out of all six of the cubes which are on top of each other.
Yet yet...
I LOVE IT. I absolutely love it. And I would do it for free. I get to debate ideas, plausibility, ingredients, suppliers, write operating procedures, eat. Everything I eat is justified as "research". I think perhaps it could get old but I think I'm more likely to die of cholesterol induced heart disease before that happens.
So, I'll have to be diligent about exercising, which I've been pretty good about. I've been running around Greenlake after work before I go home. That's just dazzling right now, all the apple and cherry trees are blooming and their blossoms are littering the street and flying about in the breeze. Pink and white little snow flurries everywhere. And I'll have to learn that NOT eating everything in front of me is okay-- even required, if I am to live through this experience. It comes in fits and starts. My first two days there was no food, the second two was non-stop. I'll begin to understand the balance. But already, after only four days I get why chef's finish their shifts and want nothing more than a bag of Fritos and a cigarette. I'll either end up hating food or get fat as a whale.
Either way, it won't be for nothing.
Where our food comes from
These days it's all about farm to table, buying locally, acting sustainably. We've raised our collective consciousness about the people behind the land that provides us crisp lettuce, crunchy carrots, tender beef; Farmers Markets are everywhere. But what about the big middle monster? The animal we all love to hate: The Factory. We can bad-mouth factories all day long, thanks to the investigative journalism that revealed the likes of huge shoe and clothing retailers with poor labor practices. For most of us, the word "factory" conjures up images of roaring machines, conveyor belts, miserable working environments, poor compensation. But how often do you actually see a factory? Me personally? Only once when I was visiting my cousin's bathing suit manufacturing warehouse in New York City (before it relocated to the Dominican Republic) when I was eight years old. And I hung out in his office, I vaguely remember the industrial lighting, that's about it.
This past Wednesday I spent a shift working alongside the men and women (mostly women) that make up the labor corp responsible for Starbucks refrigerated food that gets distributed throughout the Northern California region and Reno. I was shocked to discover that all of it is made by a group of approximately 55 people. There are very few machines in the plant. Everything, from slicing bread and prepping ingredients, to affixing nutrition labels and "use by" stickers, is done by human hands; and the precision is mind blowing.
I showed up for work with the others at 6:00am. The warehouse is kept at a balmy 38 degrees. Thankfully I was warned and joined the ranks of other snowball looking folks with confidence. My first placement of the morning was helping the team of three people that are responsible for all the chicken salad sandwiches. That's right, three people assemble all of those, and this includes the person that is wrapping them in cellophane. The ingredients are carefully measured out, everything is weighed and recorded. I was doing well at the chicken salad line, those sandwiches are quick to assemble in entirety and in spite of the fact that I was given directions in Chinese (a language in which I am not fluent, or proficient, or functional in anyway) I was holding my own. Sadly, I wasn't there for long. And I'd like to say that at 6:45 my confidence was left at that table and not really regained during the remainder of my 8.5 hour shift. My next placement was at the Petite Turkey and Ham line and here's when the trouble began. The turkey and ham sandwiches are more complex, there are several moving parts that occur before their assembly is complete. This time it was a team of four that got them to their packaged state.
First off the petite rolls were split in half, one side was lightly spread with chive mayonnaise and a one ounce slice of mozzarella was affixed to the other side. Then the bread was slid to me where I placed a one ounce slice of ham, folded into rough quarters on top of the cheese. The bread was then slid onto the turkey-tomatoes-lettuce, sandwich-closer who placed the sandwich on the large sheet and moved it on to the packager. That's right...all I did was put the ham on; and it was damn hard. The ham is sliced but is just thawed. Between my numb finger tips, the glove liners and latex gloves over that, I'd be hard pressed to say I was very nimble or lithe with my hands. The ham stuck together, it seeped ham juice, it nauseated me at that hour of the day. But I bested adversity. My speed improved when I got less obsessed with quartering the ham artfully. My directions on this line were in English and consisted solely of the elderly Chinese woman on mayonnaise duty diligently yelling "Move!" every minute or so if I didn't fully utilize the space on the table. An hour passed. Eventually I moved into adding ham and turkey. Then the lady that was our sandwich "closer" got pulled off our line to something else and it was just me and the Mayo Queen who didn't appreciate my "slow and steady" attitude about separating the ham. All of the sudden I found myself doing ham, turkey, lettuce, tomato, closing the sandwich and adding it to the sandwich pyramid being built on our sheet. The pace slowed, then Mayo Queen vanished, then I was doing the sandwiches entirely on my own. You can imagine how well that went. If per chance you were privileged with eating a Petite Ham and Turkey on Thursday, you might have noticed the ratios were a little off, or you might have tasted the anxiety that those sandwiches were burdened with as I glanced around frantically hoping that some sympathetic person would jump on my line and help me out. No such luck. Eventually the foreperson, who thought I was being trained for my first day of a long career there, pulled me off the line and moved me to the parfait area.
All of the parfaits in NorCal are made by a team of ten people. The parfait is probably one of the least complicated items made, yet the saying "many hands make light work" was first stated in reference to the parfait line. My role was opening yogurt containers and emptying them into a big vat. I would estimate I opened around 700, two pound containers. At one point I got a little ahead and attempted to jump in and help the girl that was filling cups with strawberries, yogurt and granola (funny that the actual parfaits themselves are made by two people and it requires eight others to do everything else: emptying yogurt, labeling cups, putting on lids, packaging). I offered to scoop the strawberries. When done right it goes something like this: dip the three ounce ice cream scoop into the vat of strawberries and syrup, empty into the cup. Seems easy. My line companion was a Spanish speaker who didn't know I could manage in that language and attempted to help me out in English. After I filled four cups she stopped me, "My friend. Theees- okay." She picks up a cup she filled before I offered my "services" and points. "Theees- no good." She picks up a cup I just filled that is over the first line and has strawberry juice all over the cup's walls. There is a high level of precision required to get the strawberries into the cup. First, you have to ever so slightly UNDERfill the ice cream scoop, then you have to release to scoop into the cup at the slightest angle so that you don't get the splash factor. This young lady gave me the benefit of the doubt and allowed to me try again a few times before finally shaking her head and demoting me back to the yogurt station. I spent the next 4.5 hours opening vanilla yogurt.
I could obviously comment at length about the social and demographic nuances of the situation or the other food-related activities going on around me. But I'd like to leave something to the imagination. The biggest thing that surprised me was that EVERYTHING was done by hand by a relatively small group of people. My friend asked the obvious crucial question: "Given what you saw, would you be more or less likely to eat food from Starbucks?" Unequivocally, I would say more likely. They maintain a high level of care with the way they handle the food, everything is well-covered, well-chilled, the facility is incredibly clean, the people are great at what they do and everything, EVERYTHING, goes through their hands. With all the emphasis on farm to table, we forget the middle monster, who maybe isn't quite as big a monster after all. These folks took pride in their jobs and were highly proficient. Their supervisors were mindful, the workers were free to use the restroom when they needed to, there were pre-set breaks with snacks provided, lunch was provided. I do not envy them their position but by the same token, it really wasn't the "monster" I always imagined. Perhaps Flying Food's production units are anomalies. If that is the case, I am certainly thankful to have fallen in with them.
This past Wednesday I spent a shift working alongside the men and women (mostly women) that make up the labor corp responsible for Starbucks refrigerated food that gets distributed throughout the Northern California region and Reno. I was shocked to discover that all of it is made by a group of approximately 55 people. There are very few machines in the plant. Everything, from slicing bread and prepping ingredients, to affixing nutrition labels and "use by" stickers, is done by human hands; and the precision is mind blowing.
I showed up for work with the others at 6:00am. The warehouse is kept at a balmy 38 degrees. Thankfully I was warned and joined the ranks of other snowball looking folks with confidence. My first placement of the morning was helping the team of three people that are responsible for all the chicken salad sandwiches. That's right, three people assemble all of those, and this includes the person that is wrapping them in cellophane. The ingredients are carefully measured out, everything is weighed and recorded. I was doing well at the chicken salad line, those sandwiches are quick to assemble in entirety and in spite of the fact that I was given directions in Chinese (a language in which I am not fluent, or proficient, or functional in anyway) I was holding my own. Sadly, I wasn't there for long. And I'd like to say that at 6:45 my confidence was left at that table and not really regained during the remainder of my 8.5 hour shift. My next placement was at the Petite Turkey and Ham line and here's when the trouble began. The turkey and ham sandwiches are more complex, there are several moving parts that occur before their assembly is complete. This time it was a team of four that got them to their packaged state.
First off the petite rolls were split in half, one side was lightly spread with chive mayonnaise and a one ounce slice of mozzarella was affixed to the other side. Then the bread was slid to me where I placed a one ounce slice of ham, folded into rough quarters on top of the cheese. The bread was then slid onto the turkey-tomatoes-lettuce, sandwich-closer who placed the sandwich on the large sheet and moved it on to the packager. That's right...all I did was put the ham on; and it was damn hard. The ham is sliced but is just thawed. Between my numb finger tips, the glove liners and latex gloves over that, I'd be hard pressed to say I was very nimble or lithe with my hands. The ham stuck together, it seeped ham juice, it nauseated me at that hour of the day. But I bested adversity. My speed improved when I got less obsessed with quartering the ham artfully. My directions on this line were in English and consisted solely of the elderly Chinese woman on mayonnaise duty diligently yelling "Move!" every minute or so if I didn't fully utilize the space on the table. An hour passed. Eventually I moved into adding ham and turkey. Then the lady that was our sandwich "closer" got pulled off our line to something else and it was just me and the Mayo Queen who didn't appreciate my "slow and steady" attitude about separating the ham. All of the sudden I found myself doing ham, turkey, lettuce, tomato, closing the sandwich and adding it to the sandwich pyramid being built on our sheet. The pace slowed, then Mayo Queen vanished, then I was doing the sandwiches entirely on my own. You can imagine how well that went. If per chance you were privileged with eating a Petite Ham and Turkey on Thursday, you might have noticed the ratios were a little off, or you might have tasted the anxiety that those sandwiches were burdened with as I glanced around frantically hoping that some sympathetic person would jump on my line and help me out. No such luck. Eventually the foreperson, who thought I was being trained for my first day of a long career there, pulled me off the line and moved me to the parfait area.
All of the parfaits in NorCal are made by a team of ten people. The parfait is probably one of the least complicated items made, yet the saying "many hands make light work" was first stated in reference to the parfait line. My role was opening yogurt containers and emptying them into a big vat. I would estimate I opened around 700, two pound containers. At one point I got a little ahead and attempted to jump in and help the girl that was filling cups with strawberries, yogurt and granola (funny that the actual parfaits themselves are made by two people and it requires eight others to do everything else: emptying yogurt, labeling cups, putting on lids, packaging). I offered to scoop the strawberries. When done right it goes something like this: dip the three ounce ice cream scoop into the vat of strawberries and syrup, empty into the cup. Seems easy. My line companion was a Spanish speaker who didn't know I could manage in that language and attempted to help me out in English. After I filled four cups she stopped me, "My friend. Theees- okay." She picks up a cup she filled before I offered my "services" and points. "Theees- no good." She picks up a cup I just filled that is over the first line and has strawberry juice all over the cup's walls. There is a high level of precision required to get the strawberries into the cup. First, you have to ever so slightly UNDERfill the ice cream scoop, then you have to release to scoop into the cup at the slightest angle so that you don't get the splash factor. This young lady gave me the benefit of the doubt and allowed to me try again a few times before finally shaking her head and demoting me back to the yogurt station. I spent the next 4.5 hours opening vanilla yogurt.
I could obviously comment at length about the social and demographic nuances of the situation or the other food-related activities going on around me. But I'd like to leave something to the imagination. The biggest thing that surprised me was that EVERYTHING was done by hand by a relatively small group of people. My friend asked the obvious crucial question: "Given what you saw, would you be more or less likely to eat food from Starbucks?" Unequivocally, I would say more likely. They maintain a high level of care with the way they handle the food, everything is well-covered, well-chilled, the facility is incredibly clean, the people are great at what they do and everything, EVERYTHING, goes through their hands. With all the emphasis on farm to table, we forget the middle monster, who maybe isn't quite as big a monster after all. These folks took pride in their jobs and were highly proficient. Their supervisors were mindful, the workers were free to use the restroom when they needed to, there were pre-set breaks with snacks provided, lunch was provided. I do not envy them their position but by the same token, it really wasn't the "monster" I always imagined. Perhaps Flying Food's production units are anomalies. If that is the case, I am certainly thankful to have fallen in with them.
Small potatoes
They say my generation has a problem. We grew up with reality TV and thus are all expecting to be discovered for our multitude of "talents" without really having to work for it. Our overwhelming sense of entitlement is shameful at best and yet, not wholly unwarranted.
With little more than my dimples to thank, I have been offered a paid internship with a food consulting company. (Just kidding, I'd like to think my articulated and overwhelming passion for all things food has a little something to do with it as well.) Once an airline food provider, Flying Food Group is now responsible for the take away refrigerated items at Starbucks. The refreshing parfaits? Thank Flying Food. The tuna sandwich that employs the protective moisture barrier of lettuce? Flying Food is the genius behind that too. My role there will be assisting the research and development chef as he comes up with innovative ideas and rolls out new products. Creative meets kitchen, just my cup of tea.
I'll be honest. I wasn't really "discovered". I have Katie's aunt Nancy to thank for this. Even more so than discovery it appears that connections make the world go round. I'm incredibly grateful to have made this one. The twist to all of this tasty d-lite (East Coasters, you like that?) is that I will be starting on April 23rd...in Seattle. Some of you know that I live in San Francisco. Which, while also beginning with the letter 'S' is not actually the same city. Sure enough I will be moving out of my amazing apartment, away from my amazing roommates and many good friends, towards what I hope will be an incredible learning experience that will confirm that this insanity about food is justified.
I imagine I'll keep writing here; although chances are it won't be quite the outlet it has been. I hear Seattle has a pretty vibrant food scene and if any of you have great ideas about what you would like to find at a Starbucks walk-up counter, you just comment away and I'll pass it onto the R&D guru.
Thanks for your support thus far. If you are in Seattle and in need of a restaurant recommendation, give me until May 10th to get the lay of the land, then holler. If you are from Seattle or in Seattle now and know a thing or two, do tell my friend, do tell.
With little more than my dimples to thank, I have been offered a paid internship with a food consulting company. (Just kidding, I'd like to think my articulated and overwhelming passion for all things food has a little something to do with it as well.) Once an airline food provider, Flying Food Group is now responsible for the take away refrigerated items at Starbucks. The refreshing parfaits? Thank Flying Food. The tuna sandwich that employs the protective moisture barrier of lettuce? Flying Food is the genius behind that too. My role there will be assisting the research and development chef as he comes up with innovative ideas and rolls out new products. Creative meets kitchen, just my cup of tea.
I'll be honest. I wasn't really "discovered". I have Katie's aunt Nancy to thank for this. Even more so than discovery it appears that connections make the world go round. I'm incredibly grateful to have made this one. The twist to all of this tasty d-lite (East Coasters, you like that?) is that I will be starting on April 23rd...in Seattle. Some of you know that I live in San Francisco. Which, while also beginning with the letter 'S' is not actually the same city. Sure enough I will be moving out of my amazing apartment, away from my amazing roommates and many good friends, towards what I hope will be an incredible learning experience that will confirm that this insanity about food is justified.
I imagine I'll keep writing here; although chances are it won't be quite the outlet it has been. I hear Seattle has a pretty vibrant food scene and if any of you have great ideas about what you would like to find at a Starbucks walk-up counter, you just comment away and I'll pass it onto the R&D guru.
Thanks for your support thus far. If you are in Seattle and in need of a restaurant recommendation, give me until May 10th to get the lay of the land, then holler. If you are from Seattle or in Seattle now and know a thing or two, do tell my friend, do tell.
On adulthood and authenticity
My day began at 6:00am as I approached SFO to engage in one of the most trademarked signs of adult activity: the commuter flight. Recently I've been thinking a lot about my own conceptions of adulthood. My twenty fifth birthday is upon me. The quarter century is a landmark; others have said that at twenty five they finally realized that their actions had consequences. So perhaps it's fitting that on the near eve of this significant transition, I attempted to live out a personal dream. Other food writers have covered this topic before. It has been mind opening for many of them: ordering the chef's menu at a reputable Japanese restaurant.
The New Otani is located in Little Tokyo, on a block with very little else (it is possible that the hotel itself makes up the bulk of this neighborhood). I was eating with two co-workers, one of whom was my dining partner a few weeks ago when I had my first taste of Toro. The hotel has a reputation for authenticity and their garden level restaurant Thousand Cranes expressed just that.
I visited Japan as a thirteen year old and it was one of the more memorable trips I've ever taken. I dodged the Aum Shinrikyo subway bombers, had my suitcase rescued from a landslide, and sat on my first self-warming toilet seat. Japan was a land of innovation and possibility. But even more than these quirks was the impression left by its food and its ambiance: elegant and austere.
When I walked into Thousand Cranes I was immediately transported back to my memories of that country. A simple blond wood paneled ceiling reflected amber light around the room in clean lines. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on a zen-like garden. Shallow pools contained by rolling blue tiles, waterfalls, and magenta bougainvillea. Three private tatami rooms framed the open dining area and were filled with groups of shoeless dinners, legs oragamied around a low table. The dining room was being attended to by older women shuffling about in traditional kimonos. The room was occupied by diners with one identifying characteristic: they were all Japanese and that's all they were speaking.
My romantic vision of how this night of nights would play out involves being lead by the hand to a table and told in a soothing way I would be taken care of. To say the least that's not how it went down. We grappled with the menu and I found myself feeling overwhelmed and homesick in the same way you feel when your tired brain is inundated with the unfamiliar. In its rarity it was refreshing.
Our waitress was distinguished in an elderly way and her English was limited. Each question we asked got an answer that was mostly unintelligible but delivered with such a soft politeness it was forgivable. But it quickly became clear that this was a place where it helped to seem knowledgeable, and not ask questions if it could be helped. When I ordered the tasting menu it was actually a moment of defeat. I didn't feel capable of deciding for myself but also was acutely aware that this was the kind of place that treated non-Japanese as just that. Not to mention that is was Monday and you know what they say about eating sushi on Mondays...
The chef's menu provided eleven dishes in total. And for purposes of length I'm simply going to list them in the order they appeared:
The first tray was brought out with four small dishes. One was a cucumber salad with seaweed, salmon roe, and miso dressing. Resting in that same dish was a rectangle of steamed egg in tri-colored Neapolitan formation: pink, white, and yellow. Another was a custardy square of tofu with a small dab of wasabi in a warm ginger broth. Another one had buttery dayboat scallops with mushrooms. And the last was two single bite teriyaki structures: one with mushroom and chicken and the other with eggplant and chicken. When that tray cleared a small soup bowl filled with a clear clam soup appeared. This was briny and studded with oysters, a clam shell, an enlarged tapioca ball, and sprigs of tender watercress. Following it was sashimi: yellowtail, tuna, and halibut. Then a single two ounce piece of mackerel, flash fried in a splash of soy sauce. Then five single pieces of tempura: asparagus, red pepper, white fish, almond crusted shrimp, and an unidentified colorful cluster which with my best guess I'll offer a blend of white fish, seaweed, mushrooms, and red pepper (but I'll emphasize that that is a guess). When that dish was cleared, four glistening pieces of nagiri arrived, two of halibut and the others of tuna. Lastly another small soup bowl with thin soba noodles, a dark salty broth and sprinkled with dainty light green scallions. The meal ended with green tea ice cream and a single pirouette cookie resting upright in the scoop.
In spite of this being my dream, it wasn't that amazing. The wasabi, although sweeter and grainier than most, didn't seem earth shatteringly fresh. The yellowtail was the hands down stand-out and the cucumber salad was exceptionally interesting. The rest was sort of so-so. Much of it seemed lukewarm, even if it wasn't. We can blame it on a case of Sushi Mondays or that we were stupid white folks, or that the restaurant was having an off-night a theory that is strengthened by what occurred during our meal at a neighboring table....
Across the restaurant idling in a sea of suited business men sat five women spanning three generations. Two were elderly, one was middle aged, and two were probably late twenties. They were an average looking bunch dressed plainly. I hadn't noticed them until I realized that one of them was throwing up into a plastic bag at the table. The Japanese are an understated group and the mere fact that this woman could manage to throw up at the table and not come off as disgusting or offensive was mind boggling. I hate throwing up, I always have. I get upset when other people do it. Vomit has no place anywhere-- let alone in public, let alone in a restaurant, let alone at a table. This woman achieved all three and I continued eating, while watching her. It was a true first. Other people might have guessed that she had food poisoning. Or that she was drunk. Or that she was bulimic. I would wager that none of these were true. I think it was a fluke. And I'll leave it at that.
Needless to say, on the eve of my twenty fifth birthday, I am not prepared to check this experience off the "dreams I have" list. Which perhaps also keeps me from gaining one more notch on the old belt of adulthood. I'm not sure that I'd recommend the place. In spite of the oddness of the experience, it felt real and I really appreciated that. But I want the food to be better and unless I can convey myself as belonging in such an authentic environment, I'm not sure I'll get my wish.
The New Otani is located in Little Tokyo, on a block with very little else (it is possible that the hotel itself makes up the bulk of this neighborhood). I was eating with two co-workers, one of whom was my dining partner a few weeks ago when I had my first taste of Toro. The hotel has a reputation for authenticity and their garden level restaurant Thousand Cranes expressed just that.
I visited Japan as a thirteen year old and it was one of the more memorable trips I've ever taken. I dodged the Aum Shinrikyo subway bombers, had my suitcase rescued from a landslide, and sat on my first self-warming toilet seat. Japan was a land of innovation and possibility. But even more than these quirks was the impression left by its food and its ambiance: elegant and austere.
When I walked into Thousand Cranes I was immediately transported back to my memories of that country. A simple blond wood paneled ceiling reflected amber light around the room in clean lines. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on a zen-like garden. Shallow pools contained by rolling blue tiles, waterfalls, and magenta bougainvillea. Three private tatami rooms framed the open dining area and were filled with groups of shoeless dinners, legs oragamied around a low table. The dining room was being attended to by older women shuffling about in traditional kimonos. The room was occupied by diners with one identifying characteristic: they were all Japanese and that's all they were speaking.
My romantic vision of how this night of nights would play out involves being lead by the hand to a table and told in a soothing way I would be taken care of. To say the least that's not how it went down. We grappled with the menu and I found myself feeling overwhelmed and homesick in the same way you feel when your tired brain is inundated with the unfamiliar. In its rarity it was refreshing.
Our waitress was distinguished in an elderly way and her English was limited. Each question we asked got an answer that was mostly unintelligible but delivered with such a soft politeness it was forgivable. But it quickly became clear that this was a place where it helped to seem knowledgeable, and not ask questions if it could be helped. When I ordered the tasting menu it was actually a moment of defeat. I didn't feel capable of deciding for myself but also was acutely aware that this was the kind of place that treated non-Japanese as just that. Not to mention that is was Monday and you know what they say about eating sushi on Mondays...
The chef's menu provided eleven dishes in total. And for purposes of length I'm simply going to list them in the order they appeared:
The first tray was brought out with four small dishes. One was a cucumber salad with seaweed, salmon roe, and miso dressing. Resting in that same dish was a rectangle of steamed egg in tri-colored Neapolitan formation: pink, white, and yellow. Another was a custardy square of tofu with a small dab of wasabi in a warm ginger broth. Another one had buttery dayboat scallops with mushrooms. And the last was two single bite teriyaki structures: one with mushroom and chicken and the other with eggplant and chicken. When that tray cleared a small soup bowl filled with a clear clam soup appeared. This was briny and studded with oysters, a clam shell, an enlarged tapioca ball, and sprigs of tender watercress. Following it was sashimi: yellowtail, tuna, and halibut. Then a single two ounce piece of mackerel, flash fried in a splash of soy sauce. Then five single pieces of tempura: asparagus, red pepper, white fish, almond crusted shrimp, and an unidentified colorful cluster which with my best guess I'll offer a blend of white fish, seaweed, mushrooms, and red pepper (but I'll emphasize that that is a guess). When that dish was cleared, four glistening pieces of nagiri arrived, two of halibut and the others of tuna. Lastly another small soup bowl with thin soba noodles, a dark salty broth and sprinkled with dainty light green scallions. The meal ended with green tea ice cream and a single pirouette cookie resting upright in the scoop.
In spite of this being my dream, it wasn't that amazing. The wasabi, although sweeter and grainier than most, didn't seem earth shatteringly fresh. The yellowtail was the hands down stand-out and the cucumber salad was exceptionally interesting. The rest was sort of so-so. Much of it seemed lukewarm, even if it wasn't. We can blame it on a case of Sushi Mondays or that we were stupid white folks, or that the restaurant was having an off-night a theory that is strengthened by what occurred during our meal at a neighboring table....
Across the restaurant idling in a sea of suited business men sat five women spanning three generations. Two were elderly, one was middle aged, and two were probably late twenties. They were an average looking bunch dressed plainly. I hadn't noticed them until I realized that one of them was throwing up into a plastic bag at the table. The Japanese are an understated group and the mere fact that this woman could manage to throw up at the table and not come off as disgusting or offensive was mind boggling. I hate throwing up, I always have. I get upset when other people do it. Vomit has no place anywhere-- let alone in public, let alone in a restaurant, let alone at a table. This woman achieved all three and I continued eating, while watching her. It was a true first. Other people might have guessed that she had food poisoning. Or that she was drunk. Or that she was bulimic. I would wager that none of these were true. I think it was a fluke. And I'll leave it at that.
Needless to say, on the eve of my twenty fifth birthday, I am not prepared to check this experience off the "dreams I have" list. Which perhaps also keeps me from gaining one more notch on the old belt of adulthood. I'm not sure that I'd recommend the place. In spite of the oddness of the experience, it felt real and I really appreciated that. But I want the food to be better and unless I can convey myself as belonging in such an authentic environment, I'm not sure I'll get my wish.
From Trans Fats to Gumbo
A few days ago I began writing a quasi-academic post about natural foods inspired by tropical trail mix I purchased in the airport in Phoenix and an article by Michael Pollen that my mother sent me. I've been wrestling with it for a little while now, searching for the point I'm trying to make.
One aspect is that for the most part I am pro-organic and pro-natural foods. I find non-organic eggs particularly appalling. This is chiefly due to one unfortunate moment when I was cracking a couple and ended up with five yolks and two whites-- you do the math there. Needless to say, henceforth we became an organic egg household.
Another aspect is that I'm trying to wrap my head around the trans fat aversion movement. New York's recent trans fat ban begs the question: how does one monitor such a thing? Will there be a Trans Fat Czar? And what will the change really mean? Reminding us of the sketch on Conan O'Brian where men were lounging in a trans fat speakeasy. Furthermore, I make a delicious biscuit, but I know their success has everything to do with the vegetable shortening I use. So I find myself at a crossroads...
But really, this post isn't about the natural foods movement at all. It's about the meal I ate last night at Elite Cafe because I also just had my leftovers for lunch and the lapse in time did not affect them in the slightest. De-licious.
Interestingly enough, the evening began with a terrible cocktail. I ordered a Hendrix and tonic, which tends to be my go-to. If you aren't familiar, you really should take a second to inform yourself. Hendrix is cucumber infused. It's got a clean, crisp taste. When served properly, the traditional lime is replaced by a few slices of cucumber set adrift to play pinball with the ice in the glass. The bartender poured Hendrix, I know that, I made him show me the bottle. The lime was a little, shall we say, out of date but that did not excuse the pervasive flavor of-- I don't even know-- I think the tonic must have been bad. The barkeep added an extra splash of Hendrix after I made a salty face and that helped the situation slightly. But the overall mood was light and the night was warm and breezy, so the memory of that bad cocktail was soon lost.
When I find myself on repeat visits to restaurants I usually make an attempt to vary my ordering pattern. But I have to say, the seafood gumbo at Elite is so unbelievably good there just isn't any way NOT to order it. I think they must know that though because they actually have three sizes you can order. I ordered the middle size which will easily feed two people and which is why I had the total pleasure of eating it last night and today. The gumbo is studded with every scum eating bivalve in the tidepools. Scallops, oysters, clams, mussels, shrimp...I don't even know. It's all in there, it's all awesome. The gumbo is in a rich dark brown broth which isn't too briny, impressive given that it's made with fish stock and has tons of little sea critters playing tag inside. And then there are red and green peppers along for the ride and of course the requisite rice.
Elite is famous for its biscuits. I'm being a snob, it's a totally fine biscuit, but it's not light and fluffy. It's more dense, a little sweeter and eh--just not my personal biscuit ideal. The thing is, the woman that makes biscuits there launched her own biscuit business. So in this particular case I think I may have gotten a bad biscuit on my first visit or I'm just going against the grain.
We drank a bottle of Frog's Leap Zinfandel with our meal. I'm a fan of Frog's Leap and for a California Zin it wasn't too jammy and had good structure. It went swimmingly with the gumbo. And there some deviled eggs. You can order them in the three, six, or nine range I believe. I'm not a huge deviled egg person. I think these would be considered great on the deviled egg scale. They certainly were pleasant to look at. The little fluted yolks were finely dusted with paprika.
Dessert hit the spot. Apple crisp with cinnamon ice cream. I just really loved baked treats. I LOVE apple crisp. Unless you have no hands and don't know salt from sugar, apple crisp is hard to wreck. The cinnamon ice cream (which I'd like to think was made in-house, although it probably wasn't) was subtle. Definitely not dominated by the cinnamon. It tasted like vanilla and was overpowered by the crisp but I could see little flecks in it, so I doubt they were lying.
I hear Elite has a good brunch. Never have been but in light of the notice I recently gave to my job, it looks like I will have a lot more time on my hands very shortly. I'll let you know if I go.
One aspect is that for the most part I am pro-organic and pro-natural foods. I find non-organic eggs particularly appalling. This is chiefly due to one unfortunate moment when I was cracking a couple and ended up with five yolks and two whites-- you do the math there. Needless to say, henceforth we became an organic egg household.
Another aspect is that I'm trying to wrap my head around the trans fat aversion movement. New York's recent trans fat ban begs the question: how does one monitor such a thing? Will there be a Trans Fat Czar? And what will the change really mean? Reminding us of the sketch on Conan O'Brian where men were lounging in a trans fat speakeasy. Furthermore, I make a delicious biscuit, but I know their success has everything to do with the vegetable shortening I use. So I find myself at a crossroads...
But really, this post isn't about the natural foods movement at all. It's about the meal I ate last night at Elite Cafe because I also just had my leftovers for lunch and the lapse in time did not affect them in the slightest. De-licious.
Interestingly enough, the evening began with a terrible cocktail. I ordered a Hendrix and tonic, which tends to be my go-to. If you aren't familiar, you really should take a second to inform yourself. Hendrix is cucumber infused. It's got a clean, crisp taste. When served properly, the traditional lime is replaced by a few slices of cucumber set adrift to play pinball with the ice in the glass. The bartender poured Hendrix, I know that, I made him show me the bottle. The lime was a little, shall we say, out of date but that did not excuse the pervasive flavor of-- I don't even know-- I think the tonic must have been bad. The barkeep added an extra splash of Hendrix after I made a salty face and that helped the situation slightly. But the overall mood was light and the night was warm and breezy, so the memory of that bad cocktail was soon lost.
When I find myself on repeat visits to restaurants I usually make an attempt to vary my ordering pattern. But I have to say, the seafood gumbo at Elite is so unbelievably good there just isn't any way NOT to order it. I think they must know that though because they actually have three sizes you can order. I ordered the middle size which will easily feed two people and which is why I had the total pleasure of eating it last night and today. The gumbo is studded with every scum eating bivalve in the tidepools. Scallops, oysters, clams, mussels, shrimp...I don't even know. It's all in there, it's all awesome. The gumbo is in a rich dark brown broth which isn't too briny, impressive given that it's made with fish stock and has tons of little sea critters playing tag inside. And then there are red and green peppers along for the ride and of course the requisite rice.
Elite is famous for its biscuits. I'm being a snob, it's a totally fine biscuit, but it's not light and fluffy. It's more dense, a little sweeter and eh--just not my personal biscuit ideal. The thing is, the woman that makes biscuits there launched her own biscuit business. So in this particular case I think I may have gotten a bad biscuit on my first visit or I'm just going against the grain.
We drank a bottle of Frog's Leap Zinfandel with our meal. I'm a fan of Frog's Leap and for a California Zin it wasn't too jammy and had good structure. It went swimmingly with the gumbo. And there some deviled eggs. You can order them in the three, six, or nine range I believe. I'm not a huge deviled egg person. I think these would be considered great on the deviled egg scale. They certainly were pleasant to look at. The little fluted yolks were finely dusted with paprika.
Dessert hit the spot. Apple crisp with cinnamon ice cream. I just really loved baked treats. I LOVE apple crisp. Unless you have no hands and don't know salt from sugar, apple crisp is hard to wreck. The cinnamon ice cream (which I'd like to think was made in-house, although it probably wasn't) was subtle. Definitely not dominated by the cinnamon. It tasted like vanilla and was overpowered by the crisp but I could see little flecks in it, so I doubt they were lying.
I hear Elite has a good brunch. Never have been but in light of the notice I recently gave to my job, it looks like I will have a lot more time on my hands very shortly. I'll let you know if I go.
Bonita Applebaum or My Beautiful Bum in the Big Apple
I've been in New York, I just got home. I was preparing to do a week in food review. It was going to be a mundane list of meals and the places I ate them. I started writing it a few days ago-- still in the midst of my journey-- and realized it was not the least bit dynamic. I'm not trying to punish you with an index written in lukewarm language. Thus, this is a story of what happened on Monday.
Late in the morning I rallied myself off the couch and into many many layers--as New York has demonstrated that it has no rational weather patterns--and walked two frigid blocks, through the vestibule, and into that incredible tunnel of culinary inspiration that is Chelsea Market. The home of such delights as Bowery Kitchen Supply, Sarabeth bakery, and some other little store with specialty gourmet things (like chocolate fig balls: maybe a little counter intuitive but highly charming) made most impressive by its abundant samples laying about. At noonish I slyly snacked on cracked pieces of thin crispy cheese wafers, a chocolate oattie something (hybrid oatmeal cookie biscuit) and half of a cocoa truffle. We'll call that breakfast.
I walked in and out of every single store getting the lay of the land and when I got to the end of the tunnel, happened upon the entrance to the Food Network Studio. Not sure why I walked in. I walked up to the counter and the woman said "Hi" and I sort of froze because I realized I had no purpose standing right in front of her.
"Hi. I....uh...I'm just visiting. So this is the studio, huh? Is anything being recorded today?" "Emeril is taping now on the 6th floor, he's taping again at 4:00. If you want to come back at 3:00 I can check if there are any stand bye tickets."
"How much are tickets?" "They're free." (Let's pause for a moment and recognize that I know nothing about TV but really NOTHING about TV involving studio audiences. She looked at me like I'd just asked if people use umbrellas in the snow-- which I did ask a friend before my trip. My friend made me feel like I grew up blindfolded in a sunny meadow and so did this woman.) "Oh, um, okay thanks." Let me be clear here, I don't care about Emeril. I think he's kind of creepy. I don't watch his show, it annoys me that he says"Bam!" all the time and if Doc and the rest of the band weren't so hip, I really wouldn't care at all. I walked out of the studio and my thoughts returned to the first real meal of the day.
After much indecisive meandering, I walked into Lobster Place and settled on a small Cajun Crab soup that was simmering in a row of sailor style castiron crock pots boasting scallop and corn chowder, lobster bisque, and New England clam chowder. I went to get in line pondering how else I might augment the soup and found myself taunted by a glistening seaweed salad. At some point I'd like to do research as to how these seaweed salads that appear to be made fresh in enlightened grocery stores around the country all manage to look and taste identical. Three types of seaweed in a shimmering tangle studded with a sprinkle of sesame seeds and those perfect little flecks of red chilies. I used to have a textural aversion to seaweed salad, but it's grown on me. We won't mention the obvious thing here which is that Cajun Crab soup and Seaweed Salad have minimal ethnic overlap (cheers to fusion cuisine).
I settled at one of the tables lining the market's main artery and laid out my picnic in front of me. It was a large table and pretty soon some guys who appeared to work for the building sat down. There was much Spanish banter, I was reading and eating and not paying much mind. But then this random Caribbean guy in a nice suit sat down and without any words pulled a box out of a small brown paper bag. Out of the box popped the obvious: a flossy Rolex watch. Mr. Caribbean showed it to one of the guys sitting with me. Here's what's going on in my head: "This is New York, shady business abounds in this city. I wonder if this is a black market for watches...weird." Then I just blatantly stared at the exchange because I grew up blindfolded in a sunny meadow and have no social graces. Guy handed the watch back, then the two start chatting. Turned out it wasn't a watch deal. Mr. Caribbean said to Guy: "I have two VIP tickets to the 4:00 taping of Emeril, you want to go?" Guy: "I'm working." Cue meaningful eye contact by Assassin because I am the queen of poignant timing. Mr. Caribbean looks at me: "Oh, do you want them?" Me: "Uh, I mean, I dunno. What exactly is going on?" (I've learned it pays to look bashful rather than desperate-- why I'm not applying to grad school to get a Masters Degree in Hustle and Freebies I cannot say.)
Let's cut to the important part: Gao and I end up in the second row in the center of those cocktail tables for two that line the front side of Emeril's counter. I'll tell you right now, the only real VIP area on the set are the granite counter tops positioned on the sides and behind the counter. Those folks get it all; those tables tend to be reserved for guests on the show or executive producers. We were sitting in the JV VIP area but regardless. Little secrets to let you in on: the audience is primed before the show by a quasi comedian. I found her more amusing than Emeril whose candor made me, rather unfortunately, picture him in an "intimate" situation making pillow talk. "Aw, yeah babe." The audience is encouraged to "go crazy" when a woman waves a black and white stick but for the most part the audience goes crazy without prompting. "And then we'll add the garlic" (Audience applauds fervently.) On commercial breaks, the band doesn't usually continue to play. Instead, the studio bumps mainstream rap and R&B at a level way too loud for its largely middle-aged, mostly non-native New Yorker crowd. If you are in the second row of tables, you shouldn't expect to get anything. And if, per chance, you do get food you can't eat it until the break is over. This means it's likely lukewarm when you take your first bite. And Emeril actually cooks very little on his show. Most of it goes on in the test kitchen which, when you are waiting around in the VIP holding area, you are forbidden from going near. Another lesser known fact is that Emeril really likes kids (for reasons that escape me completely) and he invites them up during breaks and gives them ice cream that he keeps stocked in a large fridge on the stage. The little brats next to me were snacking on those pre-packaged M&M ice cream cones and Gao and I were just sitting, trying to send telepathic messages to the stage hands to give us tasty snacks being prepared by the man himself. After much cutesy smiling and a little face time from the camera man (who actually knelt beside us with a huge camera inches from our faces and whispered "Focus on Emeril, look interested, stay focused, gooood") we were awarded one of the two plates that ever made it to the second row of VIP tables. It was Rigatoni with a mushroom Gorgonzola sauce studded with chunks of beef. I'll be honest, it was alright but didn't change my life and naturally I just picked my way around the beef. Here's the weirdest part of the food situation. The stage hands continually remind the audience that it is unlikely they will be getting food but if by chance they do get it, they should share with their neighbors. Am I wrong in thinking that's pretty gross? The people in front of us got one of the first dishes and after taking a few bites offered us the plate. These people looked nice and clean enough but I couldn't help myself, I didn't want to share spaghetti with two random folks in front of me. When Gao and I got our plate we took a couple bites and then offered it to the family on our left, trying to play by the rules, but thinking they would have a similar reaction-- nope, they took it. Different strokes for different folks.
Ultimately, we were in the studio for about three hours total; it was a fairly unforgettable experience. That's what I love about New York. On any given street corner you are as likely to see Parker Posey or Mo Rocha as you are a woman with a little dog in a designer sweater. And if you are in the right place at the right time, making doe eyes at Mr. Caribbean, you might just find yourself eating rigatoni from Emeril's hand.
Late in the morning I rallied myself off the couch and into many many layers--as New York has demonstrated that it has no rational weather patterns--and walked two frigid blocks, through the vestibule, and into that incredible tunnel of culinary inspiration that is Chelsea Market. The home of such delights as Bowery Kitchen Supply, Sarabeth bakery, and some other little store with specialty gourmet things (like chocolate fig balls: maybe a little counter intuitive but highly charming) made most impressive by its abundant samples laying about. At noonish I slyly snacked on cracked pieces of thin crispy cheese wafers, a chocolate oattie something (hybrid oatmeal cookie biscuit) and half of a cocoa truffle. We'll call that breakfast.
I walked in and out of every single store getting the lay of the land and when I got to the end of the tunnel, happened upon the entrance to the Food Network Studio. Not sure why I walked in. I walked up to the counter and the woman said "Hi" and I sort of froze because I realized I had no purpose standing right in front of her.
"Hi. I....uh...I'm just visiting. So this is the studio, huh? Is anything being recorded today?" "Emeril is taping now on the 6th floor, he's taping again at 4:00. If you want to come back at 3:00 I can check if there are any stand bye tickets."
"How much are tickets?" "They're free." (Let's pause for a moment and recognize that I know nothing about TV but really NOTHING about TV involving studio audiences. She looked at me like I'd just asked if people use umbrellas in the snow-- which I did ask a friend before my trip. My friend made me feel like I grew up blindfolded in a sunny meadow and so did this woman.) "Oh, um, okay thanks." Let me be clear here, I don't care about Emeril. I think he's kind of creepy. I don't watch his show, it annoys me that he says"Bam!" all the time and if Doc and the rest of the band weren't so hip, I really wouldn't care at all. I walked out of the studio and my thoughts returned to the first real meal of the day.
After much indecisive meandering, I walked into Lobster Place and settled on a small Cajun Crab soup that was simmering in a row of sailor style castiron crock pots boasting scallop and corn chowder, lobster bisque, and New England clam chowder. I went to get in line pondering how else I might augment the soup and found myself taunted by a glistening seaweed salad. At some point I'd like to do research as to how these seaweed salads that appear to be made fresh in enlightened grocery stores around the country all manage to look and taste identical. Three types of seaweed in a shimmering tangle studded with a sprinkle of sesame seeds and those perfect little flecks of red chilies. I used to have a textural aversion to seaweed salad, but it's grown on me. We won't mention the obvious thing here which is that Cajun Crab soup and Seaweed Salad have minimal ethnic overlap (cheers to fusion cuisine).
I settled at one of the tables lining the market's main artery and laid out my picnic in front of me. It was a large table and pretty soon some guys who appeared to work for the building sat down. There was much Spanish banter, I was reading and eating and not paying much mind. But then this random Caribbean guy in a nice suit sat down and without any words pulled a box out of a small brown paper bag. Out of the box popped the obvious: a flossy Rolex watch. Mr. Caribbean showed it to one of the guys sitting with me. Here's what's going on in my head: "This is New York, shady business abounds in this city. I wonder if this is a black market for watches...weird." Then I just blatantly stared at the exchange because I grew up blindfolded in a sunny meadow and have no social graces. Guy handed the watch back, then the two start chatting. Turned out it wasn't a watch deal. Mr. Caribbean said to Guy: "I have two VIP tickets to the 4:00 taping of Emeril, you want to go?" Guy: "I'm working." Cue meaningful eye contact by Assassin because I am the queen of poignant timing. Mr. Caribbean looks at me: "Oh, do you want them?" Me: "Uh, I mean, I dunno. What exactly is going on?" (I've learned it pays to look bashful rather than desperate-- why I'm not applying to grad school to get a Masters Degree in Hustle and Freebies I cannot say.)
Let's cut to the important part: Gao and I end up in the second row in the center of those cocktail tables for two that line the front side of Emeril's counter. I'll tell you right now, the only real VIP area on the set are the granite counter tops positioned on the sides and behind the counter. Those folks get it all; those tables tend to be reserved for guests on the show or executive producers. We were sitting in the JV VIP area but regardless. Little secrets to let you in on: the audience is primed before the show by a quasi comedian. I found her more amusing than Emeril whose candor made me, rather unfortunately, picture him in an "intimate" situation making pillow talk. "Aw, yeah babe." The audience is encouraged to "go crazy" when a woman waves a black and white stick but for the most part the audience goes crazy without prompting. "And then we'll add the garlic" (Audience applauds fervently.) On commercial breaks, the band doesn't usually continue to play. Instead, the studio bumps mainstream rap and R&B at a level way too loud for its largely middle-aged, mostly non-native New Yorker crowd. If you are in the second row of tables, you shouldn't expect to get anything. And if, per chance, you do get food you can't eat it until the break is over. This means it's likely lukewarm when you take your first bite. And Emeril actually cooks very little on his show. Most of it goes on in the test kitchen which, when you are waiting around in the VIP holding area, you are forbidden from going near. Another lesser known fact is that Emeril really likes kids (for reasons that escape me completely) and he invites them up during breaks and gives them ice cream that he keeps stocked in a large fridge on the stage. The little brats next to me were snacking on those pre-packaged M&M ice cream cones and Gao and I were just sitting, trying to send telepathic messages to the stage hands to give us tasty snacks being prepared by the man himself. After much cutesy smiling and a little face time from the camera man (who actually knelt beside us with a huge camera inches from our faces and whispered "Focus on Emeril, look interested, stay focused, gooood") we were awarded one of the two plates that ever made it to the second row of VIP tables. It was Rigatoni with a mushroom Gorgonzola sauce studded with chunks of beef. I'll be honest, it was alright but didn't change my life and naturally I just picked my way around the beef. Here's the weirdest part of the food situation. The stage hands continually remind the audience that it is unlikely they will be getting food but if by chance they do get it, they should share with their neighbors. Am I wrong in thinking that's pretty gross? The people in front of us got one of the first dishes and after taking a few bites offered us the plate. These people looked nice and clean enough but I couldn't help myself, I didn't want to share spaghetti with two random folks in front of me. When Gao and I got our plate we took a couple bites and then offered it to the family on our left, trying to play by the rules, but thinking they would have a similar reaction-- nope, they took it. Different strokes for different folks.
Ultimately, we were in the studio for about three hours total; it was a fairly unforgettable experience. That's what I love about New York. On any given street corner you are as likely to see Parker Posey or Mo Rocha as you are a woman with a little dog in a designer sweater. And if you are in the right place at the right time, making doe eyes at Mr. Caribbean, you might just find yourself eating rigatoni from Emeril's hand.
Undisputed Facts
Q: What distinguishes a good burrito?
A: A tortilla steamer.
Q: What distinguishes a good sandwich?
A: A toaster oven.
I consider myself a sandwich connoisseur and up until recently held that the hands down best sandwich place (perhaps on the planet but certainly in San Francisco) was Lucca's Delicatessen on Chestnut St. Working on the Embarcadero I've had the opportunity to sample many a neighborhood sandwich. Mastrelli's, an Italian Deli in the Ferry Building, is overpriced for being average. Taylor's Refresher, a diner style eatery also in the Ferry Building, has a reasonable Ahi Tuna sandwich though the special sauce is excessive to the point of distraction. Specialties (a Financial District chain from which we frequently get lunches for office meetings) is decent and fairly priced but no one and I mean *NO ONE* holds a candle to Cicil's.
Although this is slightly off topic (off piste, if you will) Cicil's also excels in the salad department. Their spring salad is second to none: spring mix, perfectly grilled thin slices of eggplant, zucchini, roasted red pepper, avocado, cucumbers, and feta. The dressing is always on the side because these people are enlightened. And that little ditty is mammoth yet only costs you $5.25. My other favorite is the Cactus salad boasting: romaine, cotija cheese, salsa, cactus (nopales--true story) crispy tortilla strips, avocado, black beans, and mango vinaigrette. It's spiked with a mere $5.50 price tag. I know what you are thinking "Assassin, this sounds too good to be true." Oh my friends, you wish; this bastion of nirvana is maybe fifty feet from my building...suckers.
But I digress, sandwiches are the issue at hand and here's how it goes: you order whatever it is your heart desires, let's say for a minute it's prosciutto. I for one have never had it but I trust these people blindly. So you order prosciutto and, first things first, you pick your bread. If you are lucky they won't be out of ciabatta-- but they sometimes are and fear not, they have every other kind of bread you want. They take your bread, cut it in half and throw both sides under the womb-like warmth of their toaster over. They also cloak one side with cheese (on the prosciutto sandwich it's fresh mozzarella) which means when they start to assemble this wonder they are already two legs above the rest: building on a foundation of warm melty cheese and warm toasty bread. (Enlightened bunch, am I wrong?) So then your toasty bread and melty cheese gets adorned with the following: prosciutto, roasted zucchini and bell pepper, mixed greens, avocado and olive oil. Yes, you read that right, avocado is a standard sandwich addition-- no extra cost. You know what this sandwich runs you? $5.25.
I have a snobby palette, as we well know, and I like to role play Small Dictator when I order. My custom delight is the Garden sandwich with tuna. The Garden sandwich tops out at $4.75 and tuna is $1.50 extra but this bank breaker (at $6.25) is worth every penny. Their tuna is mixed with fresh herbs and is light on the mayo; it never looks creepy and oxidized in its container. The Garden sandwich is pretty much the spring salad (all that grilled veggie action) plus melted provolone on the warm toasty bread. And then if you are me you have the advantage of the tasty tuna as well. I'm usually pretty good about bringing lunch to work--not blowing my hard earned dollars midday, but anytime you put an offer of Cicil's in front of me I will be like puddy in your hand. It's funny, when I think about what I would do if I left my job, I factor in periodic return trips to visit these folks. If I ever do get around to leaving I'll probably write them a letter (I've hugged them before but I'd like my sentiments to be emblazoned for life on a plaque or something.)
If you really really want the best sandwich in SF, you have to make your way to 101 Spear St. B-5 (that's the stall number). It's easy to overlook since it occupies a small station on the walkway between Spear and Steuart just outside of Rincon Center (to be technical it's really on the Steuart side of things). You would be a fool not to try your hardest to fill your belly there... and when you go, tell them I love them.
A: A tortilla steamer.
Q: What distinguishes a good sandwich?
A: A toaster oven.
I consider myself a sandwich connoisseur and up until recently held that the hands down best sandwich place (perhaps on the planet but certainly in San Francisco) was Lucca's Delicatessen on Chestnut St. Working on the Embarcadero I've had the opportunity to sample many a neighborhood sandwich. Mastrelli's, an Italian Deli in the Ferry Building, is overpriced for being average. Taylor's Refresher, a diner style eatery also in the Ferry Building, has a reasonable Ahi Tuna sandwich though the special sauce is excessive to the point of distraction. Specialties (a Financial District chain from which we frequently get lunches for office meetings) is decent and fairly priced but no one and I mean *NO ONE* holds a candle to Cicil's.
Although this is slightly off topic (off piste, if you will) Cicil's also excels in the salad department. Their spring salad is second to none: spring mix, perfectly grilled thin slices of eggplant, zucchini, roasted red pepper, avocado, cucumbers, and feta. The dressing is always on the side because these people are enlightened. And that little ditty is mammoth yet only costs you $5.25. My other favorite is the Cactus salad boasting: romaine, cotija cheese, salsa, cactus (nopales--true story) crispy tortilla strips, avocado, black beans, and mango vinaigrette. It's spiked with a mere $5.50 price tag. I know what you are thinking "Assassin, this sounds too good to be true." Oh my friends, you wish; this bastion of nirvana is maybe fifty feet from my building...suckers.
But I digress, sandwiches are the issue at hand and here's how it goes: you order whatever it is your heart desires, let's say for a minute it's prosciutto. I for one have never had it but I trust these people blindly. So you order prosciutto and, first things first, you pick your bread. If you are lucky they won't be out of ciabatta-- but they sometimes are and fear not, they have every other kind of bread you want. They take your bread, cut it in half and throw both sides under the womb-like warmth of their toaster over. They also cloak one side with cheese (on the prosciutto sandwich it's fresh mozzarella) which means when they start to assemble this wonder they are already two legs above the rest: building on a foundation of warm melty cheese and warm toasty bread. (Enlightened bunch, am I wrong?) So then your toasty bread and melty cheese gets adorned with the following: prosciutto, roasted zucchini and bell pepper, mixed greens, avocado and olive oil. Yes, you read that right, avocado is a standard sandwich addition-- no extra cost. You know what this sandwich runs you? $5.25.
I have a snobby palette, as we well know, and I like to role play Small Dictator when I order. My custom delight is the Garden sandwich with tuna. The Garden sandwich tops out at $4.75 and tuna is $1.50 extra but this bank breaker (at $6.25) is worth every penny. Their tuna is mixed with fresh herbs and is light on the mayo; it never looks creepy and oxidized in its container. The Garden sandwich is pretty much the spring salad (all that grilled veggie action) plus melted provolone on the warm toasty bread. And then if you are me you have the advantage of the tasty tuna as well. I'm usually pretty good about bringing lunch to work--not blowing my hard earned dollars midday, but anytime you put an offer of Cicil's in front of me I will be like puddy in your hand. It's funny, when I think about what I would do if I left my job, I factor in periodic return trips to visit these folks. If I ever do get around to leaving I'll probably write them a letter (I've hugged them before but I'd like my sentiments to be emblazoned for life on a plaque or something.)
If you really really want the best sandwich in SF, you have to make your way to 101 Spear St. B-5 (that's the stall number). It's easy to overlook since it occupies a small station on the walkway between Spear and Steuart just outside of Rincon Center (to be technical it's really on the Steuart side of things). You would be a fool not to try your hardest to fill your belly there... and when you go, tell them I love them.
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